#St. Louis Local News

[we-re-always-alright]

so I accidentally watched like 5 episodes of Chicago PD while in Florida (while killing time) and so I was like ‘oh I like SVU, maybe this won’t be bad, seems like a good cop becoming corrupt story’ and nope. Nope. cannot do it. every other episode you’ve got two teams of 10 people each shooting up a city block with AKs on a typical Tuesday at noon for one drug dealer. they walk out dressed like they’re about to invade Kuwait as average detectives. based on this show, the city is always one bad afternoon from turning into mad max. and the writing is just bad for a procedural. like I live here. there are not gang shootouts in river north next to some of the most expensive restaurants in the city/country. the Michelin reviewers were not dodging bullets like it’s the matrix. not to mention these cops stop traffic violations all the time……..unrealistic.

[piratewithvigor]

Sometimes love is what happens between a middle aged dad (Canadian) and his pet trio of DJs from a Missouri radio station that he plays for a minimum of 6 hours every single day

[future-crab]

People in the US: find a protest for Rafah

I found out about my local protest too late to attend (I don't have a car and I live in an area with zero public transportation) so I thought I'd share this list of protests so that other people might be able to go to their's!

[ID:

February 12, 2024

AUSTIN, TEXAS | 5PM 1100 Congress

CHICAGO, IL | 4:30 PM Federal Plaza 230 Dearborn Ave

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON | 6 PM University of Washington Station

MANHATTAN, NY | 4 PM Union Square

SAINT LOUIS, MO | 2:30 PM @ Kirkwood Park 111 So. Geyser Rd.

February 13, 2024

SAN DIEGO, CA | 4:30 PM Federal Plaza

SAN FRANCISCO, CA | 5:30 PM Federal Building

ATLANTA, GA | 7 PM Israeli consulate

PHILADELPHIA, PA | 5:30 PM 1400 JFK Blvd

PITTSBURGH, PA | 5 PM 4100 Forbes Ave

HOUSTON, TX | 4 PM Houston City Hall

February 14, 2024

PHOENIX, AZ | 4 PM NE Corner of 7th St & McDowell Rd

WASHINGTON, DC | 2 PM Dupont Circle

February 15, 2024

AUSTIN, TX | 10 AM Austin City Hall, 301 2nd St

February 16, 2024

EAU CLAIRE, WI | 5 PM Corner of Hwy 93 and Golf Rd (Outside Hardee’s)

February 18, 2024

NEW ORLEANS, LA | 11:30 AM ARMSTRONG PARK

February 19, 2024

CHICAGO, IL | 11 AM Chicago History Museum, Children’s Fountain

February 25, 2024

SAINT PAUL, MN | 1 PM 1176 N Mississippi River Blvd, St. Paul, MN.

End ID.]

[camisoledadparis]

Richmond "Jimmie" Barthe (1909-1989) was an African-American sculptor and a key figure in the Harlem Renaissance in the 1930s. That he was also a gay man who expressed his orientation in his work is most likely why he fell into obscurity by the 1940s.

Much of his art depicted African-American men in sensual poses, often nude. Today, his work seems not that confrontational, but in a basically racist, sexually nervous America of the middle of the last century, it is remarkable that his work received the acclaim that it did.

Barthe was born to Creole parents in Bay St. Louis, Miss., and his art brought him out of poverty. A beautiful, bright boy, he was already winning awards for his drawings by the age of 12. Inspired by the neoclassical art he saw in the homes of the wealthy folks he worked for as a houseboy in New Orleans, he developed a lifelong interest in Greek and Roman mythology.

Funded by his local church, he attended school at the Art Institute of Chicago and began to have adult affairs with men who sometimes became patrons. He also had a brief affair with author and actor Richard Bruce Nugent, who was a cast member in Dubose Heyward's play Porgy.

In 1930 he relocated to New York and attended A'Leila Walker's "Dark Tower" gatherings, known as a venue where black and white men and women, often gay, mingled. The photographer and writer Carl Van Vechten was deeply involved with the black community of New York in the '30s and was an ardent supporter of Barthe's work. His reputation grew and his work was included in a 1935 exhibit of African-American art at the Museum of Modern Art.

He had success and fame. He even had a female patron who set up a trust for him that gave him the freedom to work without financial worries. But he was still an outsider in many ways. He was not a part of the white art world, and his uncompromising homosexuality kept him distanced somewhat from other artists of the Harlem Renaissance. His love life was a series of short affairs that never developed further.

Constantly searching for community, he moved to Jamaica only to find himself even more estranged from others. He fell into deep depression and mental illness. Commissions came sporadically, and he met them with varied results, teetering on the edge financially and emotionally.

In 1975 he moved to Pasadena, Calif., and a year later curators at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art included his work in "Two Centuries of Black American Art." The attention to his work, the growing respect of a younger audience to artists of the Harlem Renaissance, and the support of his friends brought Barthe stability once again. He lived out his later years as a treasured part of the art community, dying in Pasadena March 6, 1989.

(The Advocate)

[fairy-gothparent]

hi! i run a shop called Hearth Kvlt, with a focus on uplifting queer and leftist pagans - and i just launched my last shop update of the year!

featured in this update are

✨️ pre-orders for my zine, Dreaming of the Trancestors - exploring gender nonconformity and queerness in pre-Christian northwestern Europe

✨️ pre-orders for t-shirts and hoodies in sizes S-4X across several designs (10% from each sale will be donated to Metro Trans Umbrella Group, a local nonprofit org dedicated to empowering queer, trans, and gender nonconforming people in the St. Louis area)

✨️ restocking hand-dipped incense, plus introducing a new scent

as always, thank you all for your support - hope something strikes your fancy!

[cera-writes]

Heyo saw you were taking requests for Gambit and I'm deathly starved for content of our favorite cajun could I request something really fluffy maybe Remy taking us to the french quarter and going to cafe du monde for beignets and taking touristy pics in front of the st Louis just light hearted fun 😊 anyway love your writing and hope you keep it up!

I love this idea! I literally went to New Orleans again over the weekend and it's fresh off my memory so this was a fun idea to write <3 Pairing: Remy LeBeau x Reader Prompt: Remy shows reader a fun, cute time in the French Quarter.

A walk Around the Quarter

The air hung thick with the scent of chicory coffee and powdered sugar, drawing Remy LeBeau and you deeper into the bustling heart of the French Quarter. The vibrant hues of Creole cottages and wrought iron balconies blurred past as Remy, ever the charming guide, navigated the labyrinthine streets with practiced ease. Each corner turned revealed a new treasure: a hidden courtyard overflowing with blooming jasmine, a street musician coaxing soulful melodies from a weathered saxophone, the tantalizing aroma of Cajun spices wafting from an open doorway.

"Welcome, cher," Remy announced with a flourish as you both emerged into the sun-drenched plaza fronting the iconic St. Louis Cathedral. "The crown jewel of New Orleans, and the perfect backdrop for our first touristy snapshot."

He winked and produced a camera seemingly from thin air, capturing your smiles against the majestic facade. Then, with a playful tug, he led you towards your ultimate destination.

"Prepare yourself," Remy warned with a grin. "For a taste of pure, unadulterated bliss."

Cafe du Monde, a bastion of beignet-fueled delight, awaited. The air thrummed with the lively chatter of patrons and the rhythmic clatter of trays laden with the irresistible pastries. Remy secured a coveted table, its marble top already dusted with a generous layer of powdered sugar. A street performer, drawn by your laughter, serenaded you both with a jaunty tune on his accordion, adding a touch of whimsy to the already enchanting atmosphere.

"Three beignets, s'il vous plait," Remy requested with a practiced charm that had the waitress returning in record time.

The beignets arrived, a trio of golden-brown pillows, their airy centers promising a symphony of flavor. Remy, a connoisseur of the finer things, demonstrated the proper technique: a delicate pinch, a generous dip in the accompanying mound of powdered sugar, and a bite that elicited a satisfied sigh.

"C'est magnifique, non?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with delight.

The afternoon unfolded in a leisurely haze of powdered sugar and laughter. You strolled through Jackson Square, admiring the vibrant works of local artists, and paused to listen to the soulful melodies of a street musician. Remy, ever the entertainer, even tried his hand at juggling, much to the amusement of onlookers. A horse-drawn carriage clopped past, its passengers waving merrily, and Remy couldn't resist doffing his hat with a flourish.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the Quarter, Remy and you found yourselves back at the St. Louis Cathedral. The plaza was bathed in a soft, ethereal light, creating a scene of undeniable romance. The street lamps flickered to life, casting dancing shadows on the ancient walls, and the distant sound of jazz music drifted on the breeze.

"One last photo, cher?" Remy asked, his voice a low murmur.

He captured the moment, your silhouettes framed against the cathedral's illuminated spires.

"But the night is still young," Remy said with a wink. "Care to hear some real New Orleans music?"

He led you down a dimly lit alley, the sound of a saxophone growing louder with each step. You emerged into a smoky jazz club, the air pulsating with the rhythm of the music. Remy took your hand and led you to the dance floor, where you twirled and swayed to the infectious beat. The music wrapped around you, a tapestry of notes and emotions, and you lost yourself in the moment, in Remy's eyes, in the magic of the night.

As the final notes faded, Remy pulled you close. "Merci," he whispered, his voice husky with emotion. "For sharin' dis perfect day with Remy."

The French Quarter, with its vibrant tapestry of sights, sounds, and flavors, had woven its magic. And at its heart, amidst the beignets, laughter, and the rhythm of the jazz, a connection had blossomed, leaving a trail of unforgettable memories in its wake.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

You can’t shop your way out of a monopoly

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TUCSON (Mar 9-10), then SAN FRANCISCO (Mar 13), Anaheim, and more!

If you're running a business, you can either invest at being good at your business, or good at Google SEO. Choose the former and your customers will love you – but they won't be able to find you, thanks to the people who choose the latter. And if you're going to invest in top-notch SEO, why bother investing in quality at all?

For more than a decade, Google has promised that it would do something about "lead gens" – services that spoof Google into thinking that they are local businesses, pushing down legit firms on both regular search and Google Maps (these downranked businesses invested in quality, not SEO, remember). Search for a roofer, a plumber, an electrician, or a locksmith (especially a locksmith), and most or all of the results will be lead-gens. They'll take your call, pretend to be a local business, and then call up some half-qualified bozo to come out and charge you four times the going rate for substandard work:

https://www.nytimes.com/2016/01/31/business/fake-online-locksmiths-may-be-out-to-pick-your-pocket-too.html

Some of them just take your money and they "go back to the shop for a tool" and never return:

https://www.riverfronttimes.com/news/when-a-fake-business-used-a-real-st-louis-address-things-got-weird-32087998

Google has been promising to fix this since the late aughts, and to be fair, it's a little better. There was once a time when a map of Manhattan showed more locksmiths than taxis:

https://blumenthals.com/blog/2009/02/18/google-maps-proves-more-locksmiths-in-nyc-than-cabs/

But GMaps is trapped in the enshittification squeeze. On the one hand, the company wants to provide a good and reliable map. On the other hand, the company makes money selling "ads" that are actually payola, where a business can pay to get to the top of the listings or get displayed on the map itself. Zoom out of Google's map of central London and the highlighted landmarks are a hilarious mix of "organic" and paid listings: the British Museum, Buckingham Palace, the Barbican, the London Eye…and a random oral and maxillofacial clinic in the financial district:

https://twitter.com/dylanbeattie/status/1764711667663831455

Hell of a job "organizing the world's information and making it universally accessible and useful," Big G. Doubtless the average Londoner finds the presence of this clinic super helpful in orienting themselves relative to the map on their phone screens, and it's a real service to tourists hoping to hit all the major landmarks.

It's not just Maps users who'd noticed the rampant enshittification. Even the original design team is so horrified they're moved to speak out about the moral injury they experience seeing the product they worked so hard on turned into a giant pile of shit:

https://twitter.com/elizlaraki/status/1727351922254852182

Now, when it comes to locksmiths, I'm lucky. My neighborhood in Burbank includes the wonderful Golden State Lock and Safe, which has been in business since 1942:

https://www.goldenstatelock.com/

But you wouldn't know it from searching GMaps for a locksmith near me. That search turns up a long list of scams:

https://www.google.com/maps/search/locksmith/@34.1750451,-118.369948,14z/data=!3m1!4b1?entry=ttu

It also turns up plenty of Keyme machines – these are private-equity backed, self-serve key-cutting machines placed in grocery stores. Despite Keyme calling itself a "locksmith," it's just a badly secured, overcaptilized, enshittification-bound system for collecting and retaining shapefiles for the keys to millions of homes, cross-referenced with billing information that will make it easy for the eventual hackers to mass-produce keys for all those poor suckers' houses.

(Hilariously, Keyme claims to be an "AI" company):

https://www.businesswire.com/news/home/20200114005194/en/KeyMe-Raises-35-Million-to-Further-Its-Mission-of-Building-the-Premier-Locksmith-Services-Company-in-the-Nation

But despite the fact that you can literally see the Golden State storefront from Google Streetview, Google Maps claims to have no knowledge of it. Instead, Streetview labels Golden State "Keyme" – and displays a preview showing a locksmith using a tool to break into a jeep (I'd dearly love to know how the gadget next to the Slurpee machine at the 7-Eleven will drive itself to your jeep and unlock the door for you when you lose your keys):

https://www.google.com/maps/place/KeyMe+Locksmiths/@34.1752624,-118.3487531,3a,75y,350.19h,90.21t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1ssHrtqjqvgFir3NBauMy13Q!2e0!7i16384!8i8192!4m15!1m8!3m7!1s0x80c2959cd65dbb1b:0x4b3744cf87492a71!2sBurbank+Blvd+%26+N+Hollywood+Way,+Burbank,+CA+91505!3b1!8m2!3d34.1750025!4d-118.3493484!16s%2Fg%2F11f37_3lq8!3m5!1s0x80c2951cedbf4d39:0xe8ff9fd5872e66e9!8m2!3d34.1755176!4d-118.349!16s%2Fg%2F11mw7nr4fx?entry=ttu

It's pretty clear to me what's going on here. Keyme has hired some SEO creeps and/or paid off Google, flooding the zone with listings for its machines. Meanwhile, Golden State, being merely good at locksmithing, has lost the SEO wars. Perhaps Golden State could shift some of its emphasis from being good at locksmithing in order to get better at SEO, but this is a race that will always be won by the firm that puts the most into SEO, which will always be the firm that puts the least into quality.

Whenever I write about this stuff, people inevitably ask me which search engine they should use, if not Google?

And there's the rub.

Google used predatory pricing and anticompetitive mergers to acquire a 90% search market-share. The company spends more than $26b/year buying default position in every place where you might possibly encounter a new search engine. This created the "kill zone" – the VC's term of art for businesses that no one will invest in, because Google makes sure that no one will ever find out it exists:

https://www.theverge.com/23802382/search-engine-google-neeva-android

That's why the only serious competitor to Google is Bing, another Big Tech company (Bing is also the primary source of results on Duckduckgo, which is why DDG sometimes makes exceptions for Microsoft's privacy-invading tracking):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DuckDuckGo#Controversies

Google tells us that the quid-pro-quo of search monopolization is search excellence. The hundreds of billions it makes every year through monopoly control gives it the resources it needs to fight spammers and maintain search result quality. Anyone who's paid attention recently knows that this is bullshit: Google search quality is in free-fall, across all its products:

https://downloads.webis.de/publications/papers/bevendorff_2024a.pdf

But Google doesn't seem to think it has a problem. Rather than devoting all its available resources to fighting botshit, spam and scams, the company set $80 billion dollars alight last year with a stock buyback that was swiftly followed with 12,000 layoffs, followed by multiple subsequent rounds of layoffs:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/21/im-feeling-unlucky/#not-up-to-the-task

The scams that slip through Google's cracks are sometimes nefarious, but just as often they're decidedly amateurish, the kind of thing that Google could fix by throwing money at the problem, say, to validate that new ads for confirmed Google merchants come from the merchant's registered email addresses and go to the merchant's registered website:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

Search is a capital intensive business, and there are real returns to scale, as the UK Competition and Market Authority's excellent 2020 study describes:

https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/media/5fe4957c8fa8f56aeff87c12/Appendix_I_-_search_quality_v.3_WEB_.pdf

But Google doesn't seem to think that its search needs that $80 billion to fight the spamwars. That's the thing about monopolists, they get complacent. As Lily Tomlin's "Ernestine the AT&T operator" used to say, "We don't care, we don't have to, we're the phone company."

That's why I'm so excited about the DOJ Antitrust Division monopolization case against Google. Trusting one company to "organize the world's information and make it universally accessible and useful," was a failure:

https://www.justice.gov/opa/pr/justice-department-sues-google-monopolizing-digital-advertising-technologies

I understand why people want to know which search engine they should use instead of Google, and I get why, "There aren't any good search engines" is such an unsatisfactory answer. I understand why each fresh round of printer-company fuckery prompts people to ask "which printer should I get?" and I understand why "There are only six major printer companies and they're all suffering from end-stage enshittification" isn't what anyone wants to hear.

We want to be able to vote with our wallets, because it's so much faster and more convenient than voting with our ballots. But the vote-with-your-wallet election is rigged for the people with the thickest wallets. Try as hard as you'd like, you just can't shop your way out of a monopoly – that's like trying to recycle your way out of the climate emergency. Systemic problems need systemic solutions – not individual ones.

That's why the new antitrust matters so much. The answer to monopolies is to break up companies, block and unwind mergers, ban deceptive and unfair conduct. "Caveat emptor" is the scammer's motto. You shouldn't have to be an expert on lead gen scams to hire a locksmith without getting ripped off.

There are good products and services out there. Earlier this year, we decided to install a (non-networked) programmable pushbutton lock. I asked Deviant Ollam – whom I know from Defcon's Lockpicking Village – for a recommendation and he suggested the Schlage FE595:

https://www.schlage.com/en/home/products/FE595PLYFFFFLA.html

I liked it so much I bought another one for my office door. Eric from Golden State Lock and Safe installed it while I wrote this blog-post. It's great. I recommend both of 'em – 10/10, would do business again.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/05/the-map-is-not-the-territory/#vapor-locksmith

Image: alicia rae (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kehole_Red.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

--

Budhiargomiko (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Wasteland.jpg

CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/deed.en

[terribleinfluence-tour]

North America Timezones to UK BST Timezone Guide

This is just a quick guide to show start times in of Terrible Influence Shows while Dan and Phil are in North America converted to the time it will be in the UK.

I will at the end of this link to a world clock website too for your own conversions because the sheer amount of timezones I would need to cover is too many for one post!

This goes off the assumption that these shows start at 8pm local time and the M&G starts at 5pm (like the european leg did, if this changes or i worked it out wrong i will update this post)

This conversion will be BST until October 27th and after that it will become GMT which is an hour behind BST.

Dates and Times under the cut

Seattle 6* & 7 Oct - Portland 8 Oct - Vancouver 9 Oct - Oakland 11 Oct - Phoenix 13 Oct - San Diego 17 Oct - LA 18 Oct:

M&G - 1am BST

Show - 4am BST

*This M&G will likely start earlier

Salt Lake City 20 Oct - Denver 21 Oct:

M&G - 12am BST

Show - 3am BST

Kansas City 23 Oct - Grand Prairie Oct 24 - Austin 25 Oct:

M&G - 11pm BST

Show - 2am BST

St. Louis 27 Oct:

M&G - 10pm GMT

Show - 1am GMT

Detroit 28 Oct - Akron 29 Oct - Indianapolis 30 Oct:

M&G - 9pm GMT

Show - 12am GMT

Milwaukee 1 Nov - Minneapolis 2 Nov - Chicago 3 Nov:

M&G - 10pm GMT

Show - 1am GMT

Toronto 5 Nov - Philadelphia 8 Nov - New York 10 Nov - Tysons 11 & 12 Nov - Atlanta 14 Nov - Tampa 16 Nov - Orlando 17 Nov - Fort Lauderdale 18 Nov - Durham 20 Nov:

M&G - 9pm GMT

Show - 12am GMT

Nashville 21 Nov:

M&G - 10pm GMT

Show - 1am GMT

Boston 24 Nov - Reading 25 Nov - Red Bank 26 Nov:

M&G - 9pm GMT

Show - 12am GMT

World Clock:

[sirfrogsworth]

It was 1991. I was 10. And the other white kids at my Catholic elementary school started getting into rap. And I always thought if I did what my bullies did, they would bully me less. So I got a cassette tape of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch and the new "Hammer" album. He dropped the "MC" part of his name because he wanted to be taken more seriously as an artist and too many sketch comedy shows had made fun of parachute pants by that point.

So he was just Hammer.

Apparently I screwed up because they only liked the white rappers. Because they were all a bunch of little proto-racists. But that pretty much limited you to Marky Mark and Vanilla Ice. But I liked the way MC Hammer danced so I picked that out at the music shop.

Other things I tried to get on the good side of my bullies...

I learned how to play hockey (which I ended up really liking).

I had my parents get me a White Sox Starter hat. It had to be from that brand though. And despite being in St. Louis, it had to be the White Sox. For some reason it was cooler to root for a non-local team at the time. I guess that was the extent of edgy counterculture for 10 year olds.

I got shoes that had little air pumps in the tongue. You'd press a little basketball and it would inflate the top of your shoe.

Oh, and you had to get this Adidas jacket.

This was fun because it came in a bunch of colors but I got black just to be safe.

The Adidas jacket was my last attempt to get on the good side of my bullies. One of them took apart an ink pen and dropped it in my hood. I spent all day with it just jostling around and spreading ink everywhere. When I came home at night my mom noticed the entire hood was stained with ink. I cried my eyes out and she tried her best to clean it. And I think I got mad at her when she couldn't. I asked her to buy me a new jacket but I'm pretty sure they couldn't really afford to buy me that one to begin with. She assured me you couldn't even tell and no one would notice if I never used the hood. But the bully who did it knew and pointed it out the next day. And they all made fun of me for my ruined jacket.

I think it finally dawned on my tiny squishy brain that I would never appease these jerks no matter what I did. No matter how much I tried to fit in. And that's when I had the discussion with my parents to switch schools. They told me the only other option was public school. They worried there would be a lot more kids able to bully me. Because I was a weird kid and said weird things. But I wanted to try it. Plus, it probably saved them a bunch of money in tuition. My bullies all told me I was going to get stabbed because of the Black kids. But, in reality, it was the best decision I ever made.

It took me a little while to adjust. I had been so traumatized at my previous school that I had trouble controlling my emotions. So I would cry at the drop of a hat. And one of my teachers got upset with me because I'd cry if I got a bad grade or if I forgot my homework. One time my dog actually ate my homework and she didn't believe me and I cried, so my parents had to write a note for me.

But eventually I learned I was not actually a big weirdo as my bullies had said. I was funny. And I made people laugh. And they liked laughing. And it turns out, if you entertain people, they don't want to make fun of you anymore.

What was I talking about?

HAMMER!

Yes, that was my first CD.

And I liked 1 song on it.

Because Hammer got too serious and I wanted parachute pants.

[homeofhousechickens]

Yesterday, I went exploring abandoned fort ruins by this radioactive creek on a trail that is pretty popular.

This creek is infamous because of Mallinckrodt nuclear waste contamination. Mallinckrodt basically made a deal with the federal government to have exclusive rights to produce weapons-grade uranium. When the nuclear waste from the project was less profitable, then they thought it would be they dumped and transported the waste out on uncovered trucks to local landfill sites and left barrels along the creekside. The factory producing the uranium ended up contaminating the creek and the groundwater due to their actions.

There were no animals around when i was there, and the water smelled strongly like metal. It was weird because even in winter places like this usually have quite a few birds like at least some squirrels or sparrows, but there were none. I'm sure it's different during the other seasons but for an uncomfortably warm day it was very eerie.

Anyway the government has been cleaning the creek for decades but refuses to share how radioactive it is.

There are a few schools that are close to this creek and kids and residents who live near it have higher cancer rates.

Still, despite the evidence that this creek is dangerously radioactive from multiple different testing companies and the cancer statistics, our officials still deem this creek "safe." The company was never really punished for the dumping and mishandling of radioactive materials either in fact they company denies ever handling uranium despite the proof.

In my opinion, it's wild to me that people still swim in this creek during the summer, especially after I have gotten close enough to smell it.

Sources

Kite, A. (2024, February 21). Records reveal 75 years of government downplaying, ignoring risks of St. Louis radioactive waste. Missouri Independent. https://missouriindependent.com/2023/07/12/st-louis-radioactive-waste-records/

‘This is a moral failure.’ A Missouri community says leftover radioactive waste is making them sick. (2024, December 20). PBS News. https://www.pbs.org/newshour/health/after-decades-of-nuclear-waste-exposure-this-missouri-community-wants-action

“I was heartbroken”: Radioactive waste found at Jana Elementary School outside St. Louis. (2022, October 19). CBS News. https://www.cbsnews.com/news/radioactive-waste-found-jana-elementary-school-outside-st-louis/

[ratatatastic]

"At what point in the offseason did it hit you like, 'It's back to work time.' Like very soon and back at this grind again?" "I was looking at my phone or I was at breakfast or lunch or whatever, and it was July, almost 15th and I'm like, 'Oh my gosh! I only have like two months until training camp, I should probably start doing something!' So I started slowly working out that week, I had played in the golf tournament which was an amazing time and then the next week got back to St. Louis on Monday and started my summer training so it really was only like a couple weeks after. I really only took like two weeks just like most summers but, you know, I think I wouldn't have it any other way. You got to get used to those short summers." "Is there a lasting image to—from the moment that you guys won that Cup to today that looking back go, 'Man, that was incredible!' Or the one thing that defines what the summer was?" "It's hard to beat celebrating in the room after the game with your teammates, some of the coaches, and then the trainers, and management, and you know the guys that you really go through it all year with in these walls of this room—that was super, super fun. Then all the families came in after about an hour so we got to celebrate with all of our family and friends, our loved ones and everybody. So that's a memory that will stick out forever to me. And then just like the next few days around town with the Cup like it was—I mean, it was a blur but I remember every—like it was unbelievable what was going on! Just how much fun we were having and the smiles on everybody's faces, it was truly a week long party until the end of that parade so it was incredible week." "Now with the imprint of what you've done as a team, as an organisation, to win the Cup—does a day go by where a person doesn't come up to you and say, 'Hey, man! You guys—thanks for the Cup!' and 'How are you?' and the excitement—like things that maybe a couple years ago when you arrived, no one would say a thing or know a thing." "Yeah, I would say it's pretty much a 180 from when I came a couple years ago. It's been an incredible—I don't want to say turn around because when I came here people loved hockey, they were so excited and they knew we had a good team. We were knocking on the door and we were right there but ever since winning like it's been insane! Everyday people coming up, talking about it, you know 'What was your favourite memory?' 'What was it like after?' 'What was it like going into Game 7?' Just super like excited and happy. Like want to talk hockey and just like know us. It feels like, you know, I'm sure it's how like New York Yankees feel or you know when you're playing in Canada—I've played in Canada—it's a very similar vibe right now. Like people are just so jacked up around town so just go to do it again."

Chasing the Cup (WPLG Local 10) | 10.6.24 (x)

[petervintonjr]

"As black America approaches the 21st century, our capacity or our failure to build a solid bridge . . . of works will determine whether millions of young blacks already with us or yet unborn will cross over into the new century, or fall into the abyss."

Another name you almost certainly didn't know: M. (Moses) Carl Holman, civil rights activist, writer, and poet. Born in 1919 St. Louis, Holman showed an early gift for writing, and at the age of 19 won a scriptwriting award from a popular syndicated radio program. He graduated magna cum laude from Lincoln University and went on to acquire Master's degrees from the University of Chicago and from Yale. While at Yale he published his first collection of poems, and began regularly writing articles for various newspapers and magazines on income inequity, urban poverty, literacy, and other issues important to Black Americans. In 1962 he taught English at Clark College in Atlanta, giving him a front-row seat to key events in the earliest days of the civil rights movement. As some of his students participated in sit-ins and the Freedom Rides, he found himself appointed to the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, of which he eventually became deputy director in 1966.

In 1968 Ebony magazine named Holman as one of the 100 Most Influential Black Americans. That same year Holman published what is probably his best-known work: The Baptizin', a play which won first prize in the National Community Theater Festival. In addition to multiple collections of poems, Holman also published a definitive overview of the civil rights movement in the U.S., from 1965 to 1975.

Perhaps most significantly, in 1971 Holman was named Vice President of the National Urban Coalition. This organization had re-formed in 1967 in the wake of the so-called "long, hot summer" of racial strife and injustices. During this time Holman's singular talent for delivering quiet and polite, but still powerful, speeches came to the fore and he jumpstarted a great many local housing, education, job training, and economic development programs aimed at disadvantaged Black and Hispanic communities.

In his later years Holman forcefully addressed the issue of "dual literacy" for Black children --emphasizing that such students not only needed to be well-versed not only in the fundamentals such as reading, writing, and public speaking; but also in math, science, and technology. His 1988 obituary notes that Holman "had an uncanny ability to form a coalition out of the most diverse elements, and it was often said that the key to his ability to do this was the fact that he never appeared to have an agenda for himself."

(Teachers: Need some resources to engage your students this Black History Month? I'll send you a pile of these trading cards, no cost, no obligation. Just give me a mailing address and let me know how many students in your class. No strings attached, no censorship, no secret-relaying-of-names to Abbott or DeSantis or HuckaSanders.)

[la-femme-au-collier-vert]

Sources on Louisiana Voodoo

door in New Orleans by Jean-Marcel St. Jacques

For better or worse, (almost always downright wrong,) Louisiana Voodoo and Hoodoo are likely to come up in any depiction of the state of Louisiana. I’ve created a list of works on contemporary and historical Voodoo/Hoodoo for anyone who’d like to learn more about what this tradition is and is not (hint: it developed separately from Haitian Vodou which is its own thing) or would like to depict it in a non-stereotypical way. I’ve listed them in chronological order. Please keep a few things in mind. Almost all sources presented unfortunately have their biases. As ethnographies Hurston’s work no longer represent best practices in Anthropology, and has been suspected of embellishment and sensationalism on this topic. Additionally, the portrayal is of the religion as it was nearly 100 years ago- all traditions change over time. Likewise, Teish is extremely valuable for providing an inside view into the practice, but certain views, as on Ancient Egypt, may be offensive now. I have chosen to include the non-academic works by Alvarado and Filan for the research on historical Voodoo they did with regards to the Federal Writer’s Project that is not readily accessible, HOWEVER, this is NOT a guide to teach you to practice this closed tradition, and again some of the opinions are suspect- DO NOT use sage, which is part of Native practice and destroys local environments. I do not support every view expressed, but think even when wrong these sources present something to be learned about the way we treat culture.

*Start with Osbey, the shortest of the works. The works in bold are those I consider the best- many are primary sources. To compare Louisiana Voodoo with other traditions see the chapter on Haitian Vodou in Creole Religions of the Caribbean by Olmos and Paravinsi-Gebert. Additionally many songs and chants were originally in Louisiana Creole (different from the Louisiana French dialect), which is now severely endangered. You can study the language in Ti Liv Kreyol by Guillery-Chatman et. Al.

Le Petit Albert by Albertus Parvus Lucius (1706) grimoire widely circulated in France in the 18th century, brought to the colony & significantly impacted Hoodoo

Mules and Men by Zora Neale Hurston (1935)

Spirit World-Photographs & Journal: Pattern in the Expressive Folk Culture of Afro-American New Orleans by Michael P. Smith (1984)

Jambalaya: The Natural Woman's Book of Personal Charms and Practical Rituals by Luisah Teish (1985)

Eve’s Bayou (1997), film

Spiritual Merchants: Religion, Magic, and Commerce by Carolyn Morrow Long (2001)

A New Orleans Voodoo Priestess: The Legend and Reality of Marie Laveau by Carolyn Morrow Long (2006)

“Yoruba Influences on Haitian Vodou and New Orleans Voodoo” by Ina J. Fandrich (2007)

The New Orleans Voodoo Handbook by Kenaz Filan (2011)

“Why We Can’t Talk To You About Voodoo” by Brenda Marie Osbey (2011)

Mojo Workin': The Old African American Hoodoo System by Katrina Hazzard-Donald (2013)

The Tomb of Marie Laveau In St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 by Carolyn Morrow Long (2016)

Lemonade, visual album by Beyonce (2016)

How to Make Lemonade, book by Beyonce (2016)

“Work the Root: Black Feminism, Hoodoo Love Rituals, and Practices of Freedom” by Lyndsey Stewart (2017)

The Lemonade Reader edited by Kinitra D. Brooks and Kameelah L. Martin (2019)

The Magic of Marie Laveau by Denise Alvarado (2020)

In Our Mother’s Gardens (2021), documentary on Netflix, around 1 hour mark traditional offering to the ancestors by Dr. Zauditu-Selassie

“Playing the Bamboula” rhythm for honoring ancestors associated with historical Voodoo

Voodoo and Power: The Politics of Religion in New Orleans 1880-1940 by Kodi A. Roberts (2023)

The Marie Laveau Grimoire by Denise Alvarado (2024)

Voodoo: An African American Religion by Jeffrey E. Anderson (2024)

[readingsquotes]

"Ten years ago this August, a white police officer killed 18-year-old Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri. What happened on Canfield Drive that day sparked a nationwide movement to save Black lives, end police brutality, and make safety a reality for all people. As a registered nurse, pastor, and local activist, I spent over 400 days protesting alongside thousands of my fellow community members.

I will never forget the brutality we faced in response to our calls for humanity. Police used tear gas, pepper spray, rubber bullets, noise munitions, batons, shields, fists, and boots against us. The Missouri National Guard called us “enemy forces.” Our government labeled us “Black identity extremists.” Many politicians condemned us. Those of us on the front lines were traumatized, but we knew that time would prove we were on the right side of history — and it did. Time will prove the same for the students currently protesting across the country.

....

None of what protesters in Ferguson and at Columbia University have experienced is new — it’s happened hundreds of times throughout our history. It happened in Boston in 1770, when protesters supported independence from British rule. It happened in Pennsylvania in 1897, when mine workers demanded labor rights. It happened in Virginia in 1917, when protesters demanded equal rights for women. It happened in Selma in 1965, when protesters demanded civil rights for Black people. It happened in New York, Chicago, St. Louis, and elsewhere in 1968, when protesters demanded an end to the Vietnam War. And it happened in Washington, DC, and in communities all across our country in 2020, when protesters demanded an end to police brutality.

Behind every attempt to silence a protester is an idea that those in power don’t want people to hear, yet protest movements have been remarkably successful throughout our history. The women’s suffrage movement led to the ratification of the 19th Amendment despite opposition from those in power. The same is true of the Civil Rights movement, which culminated in the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and Voting Rights Act of 1965, and the youth-led nationwide protests that led to the end of the Vietnam War, and South African apartheid.

...During the Ferguson protests, a group of Palestinians visited us and taught us how to protect ourselves against tear gas. That moment opened my eyes to the connection between state-sanctioned violence at home and abroad.

..It’s time our government responded to popular social movements with an ear, instead of a boot.

[sleepanonymous]

This is a reminder to everyone in North America who is unable to get tickets for the pre-sale and general sale of Sleep Token’s Teeth of God tour. DO NOT buy resale tickets through third-party vendors like StubHub, Seat Geek, Vivid Seats, etc. Tickets for the Teeth of God tour are mobile-only and non-transferable. This means the seller will not be able to transfer the tickets you purchased from them. The only reliable way to purchase tickets to this tour is through Ticketmaster or your local venue’s ticketing system. Please protect yourself and do not get scammed. If you do not have tickets and need tickets, check out the list I’ve created below the cut. Once pre-sales/general sales are over, I’ll update this post with more links. For more context, check my post here.

Saturday, April 27 – Las Vegas, Nevada Sick New World Music Festival Purchase Tickets through Sick New World’s Website. Third-party sites and sellers can transfer mobile tickets.

Tuesday, April 30 – Phoenix, Arizona Arizona Financial Theatre 400 W Washington St, Phoenix, AZ 85003 (602) 379-2800 Purchase tickets resale through Ticketmaster.

Wednesday, May 1 – Albuquerque, New Mexico Revel Entertainment Center 4720 Alexander Blvd NE, Albuquerque, NM 87107 (505) 321-0406 Purchase tickets resale through Prekindle.

Friday, May 3 – Austin, Texas H-E-B Center 2100 Ave of the Stars, Cedar Park, TX 78613 (512) 600-5000 Purchase Tickets resale through Ticketmaster.

Saturday, May 4 – Dallas, Texas Toyota Music Factory 316 W Las Colinas Blvd., Irving, TX 75039 (469) 840-9730 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Monday, May 6 – Tampa, Florida Yuengling Center 12499 USF Bull Run Drive, Tampa, FL 33617 (813) 974-3111 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Tuesday, May 7 – Atlanta, Georgia Coca-Cola Roxy 800 Battery Ave SE #500, Atlanta, GA 30339 (470) 351-3866 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Wednesday, May 8 – Asheville, North Carolina ExploreAshville.com Arena 87 Haywood St, Asheville, NC 28801 (828) 259-5736 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Friday, May 10 – St. Louis, Missouri The Factory 17105 N Outer 40 Rd, Chesterfield, MO 63005 (314) 423-8500 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Sunday, May 12 – Morrison, Colorado Red Rocks Amphitheatre 18300 W Alameda Pkwy, Morrison, CO 80465 (720) 865-2494 Purchase Tickets through AXS. Third-party sites and sellers can transfer mobile tickets.

Tuesday May 14 – Des Moines, Iowa Vibrant Music Hall 2938 Grand Prairie Pkwy, Waukee, IA 50263 (515) 895-4980 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Wednesday, May 15 & Thursday, May 16 – Chicago, Illinois Salt Shed 1357 N Elston Ave, Chicago, IL 60642 (708) 967-2168 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster. Third-party sites and sellers can transfer mobile tickets.

Saturday, May 18 – Columbus, Ohio Sonic Temple Art & Music Festival Purchase Tickets through Sonic Temple’s Website. Third-party sites and sellers can transfer mobile tickets.

Sunday, May 19 – Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Petersen Events Center 3719 Terrace St, Pittsburgh, PA 15261 (412) 648-3054 Purchase Tickets through AXS.

Monday, May 20 – Philadelphia, Pennsylvania The Met 858 N Broad St, Philadelphia, PA 19130 (800) 653-8000 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Wednesday, May 22 – New York, New York Radio City Music Hall 1260 6th Ave, New York, NY 10020 (212) 465-6000 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster. Third-party sites and sellers can transfer mobile tickets.

Friday, May 24 – Boston, Massachusetts MGM Music Hall 2 Lansdowne St, Boston, MA 02215 (617) 488-7540 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Saturday, May 25 – Laval, Quebec Place Bell 1950 Rue Claude-Gagné, Laval, QC H7N 0E4, Canada (514) 492-1775 Purchase Tickets through Ticketmaster.

Monday, May 27 & Tuesday May 28– Toronto, Ontario Massey Hall 178 Victoria St, Toronto, ON M5B 1T7, Canada (416) 872-4255 Purchase Tickets through Massey Hall.

[quixoticall]

This Could Get Ugly Track 5: The Beginning of the End

Summary: It's 1983 and The Downsides need another lead singer and you just happen to need a band--it's a perfect match. The only issue? You have to pretend to be in a relationship with your bandmate, Steve Harrington, but you can't help but be drawn to the band's broody guitar player.

pairing: s.h. x fem!reader, e.m. x fem!reader, j.b. x n.w.,

warnings: ANGST, drinking, drug use, smut, oral and fingering f receiving, p in v sex, the Harringtons make an appearance.

a/n: It has been a while my loves! If you've been following me at all, you know I've had a rough month. I really, truly appreciate every single one of you who has reached out and checked in! I appreciate you! This chapter is extra long to make up for lost time and it contains smut. It's my first time writing smut, so hopefully, I did not disappoint.

wc: 11.2K

MASTERLIST🎸

PLAY PREVIOUS TRACK 🎵

APRIL 28th, 1984 PHILADELPHIA , PA—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

If you wanted to be technical about it, the whole thing started with Argyle.

The two of you were backstage, sitting outside the dressing rooms killing time during the opener—some local band that you weren’t previously familiar with.

You had always appreciated Argyle’s ability to be friendly with everyone and float above the tensions, that was the case especially now when things with the others seemed to have fallen apart a little.

You were sitting next to each other on the floor, backs against the wall, as you were running him through some of the songs that had made the preliminary list for the next album and asking for his input while he threw a bouncy ball against the opposite wall. You liked working with Argyle, he was out of the box, creative, and one of the most technically skilled band members. You had been sitting with him for only 30 minutes and he had already made one of your songs infinitely better.

“What’s the move tonight, dude?” he asks you, nonchalantly as you scribbled down some of his suggested changes.

You shrug in response, “I dunno, I might just go home and sleep after this, maybe work on the arrangements for this—” You wave your beat-up notebook in the air, and he scoffs.

“You like never come out with us anymore,” he exclaims, “I miss when we all used to party together, dude. Now you are all dropping like flies and it’s not as fun anymore!”

It was your turn to scoff at him, “Please, I was never the life of the party, Argyle, c’mon.”

“Are you kidding, dude? People would always show up in droves to see you. Plus, you’re like totally fun. Remember when you and Steve did karaoke in Austin and you both got on the bar? That was totally cool.”

You chuckle at the memory and concede, “Yeah, that was pretty fun, but you still have everyone else!”

“Well, you took my dude Eddie too,” he points out without malice.

“What do you mean?”

“He hasn’t come out since St. Louis—keeps saying he’s gonna stay in just in case you want to write with him.”

Of course, this is news to you. You hadn’t taken up Eddie’s offer to write together since he had spurned you in Missouri (and since he starred in a very vivid dream of yours). It wasn’t that you didn’t accept his apology (presented in the form of a ridiculously large flower bouquet) it was that thing would have been far too awkward at this point.

It wasn’t that you had a crush on him necessarily, you were pretty sure that mantle was still taken up by Steve to some extent, it was more that there was an undeniable sexual something between the two of you below the surface that your dreams had made obvious and you didn’t trust yourself to be alone in a room with him without wanting to rip his clothes off.

Obviously, giving in to your desires was a bad idea for a multitude of reasons but chiefly, because:

a. It would wreak havoc on the band.

b. You were certain Eddie wouldn’t reciprocate your advances.

But then… you had heard what Argyle had said.

“Wait, are you saying Eddie has been hanging out after shows just on the off chance that I may call him?” You confirm incredulously.

Argyle nods in response, “Yeah. Did you put a spell on him or something?”

“No,” you respond wryly, “I’m not that type of witch, I’m the bad kind of witch.”

“Well, you definitely did something to the dude, he’s been obsessing over whether or not you hate him and keeps trying to get me to ask.”

This takes you aback completely. Eddie caring so much what you thought of him that he’d be willing to ask Argyle, of all people to discreetly scope that out seems improbable so you continue to probe.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, he obviously thinks you’re pretty and he’s just been waiting around for you to call him up, and he cares a lot about what you think of him, which is weird because last time I checked he kinda hated you—no offense.”

“How do you know all this?” You ask, ignoring the offense.

“He told me, duh.”

“Have you told anyone else this?”

“No one else has asked,” Argyle says plaintively.

“Well, how about we keep all of this between the three of us, then?” You propose.

Before the drummer can confirm, the thundering applause signaling that the opening act had wrapped up cut the conversation off.

Neither of you has the chance to continue the discussion before being rushed onto stage by a harried and high-strung stage manager.

Without knowing, Argyle had invertedly changed the course of everything.

***

EDDIE: We were in Philly. It was a great show—probably one of the best of that tour. The audience was feeling us the opener was sick and we were just gelling for what felt like probably the first time. It was like we were all finally on the same wavelength if that makes sense. No more guessing what the next move was or fighting to keep up. It was like we were finally learning to trust each other.

***

The Philly show was electric, all the elements had come together perfectly. You and Steve were particularly reveling in it. You spent most of the night singing into the same microphone, lips inches from one another, your hand grasping the back of his neck, fingers carding through his hair, and eye contact unbreaking. At one point, you were certain by the way he had captured your bottom lip under the meat of his thumb, that he was going to lean in and kiss you on the mouth, a barrier that the two of you had managed to maintain this whole time.

The audience must have had a similar thought by the sounds of their cheers—a sound that seemed to have shaken both you and Steve from whatever spell you had been under because the next thing you know the pressure of his thumb was gone and his eyes were turned away from you and towards the crowd.

The rest of the show was spent similarly—the two of you toeing the line and the audience following your every move. It was easy to get addicted both to the applause and the intimacy.

After the encores were sung and the last bows were taken, though, Steve was back to barely being able to look at you.

The only time his gaze does flit to you, ever-briefly, is when you politely decline Argyle’s invitation to go out after the show.

“Come on dude, you said you would come if I looked at your song,” the drummer gives a half-hearted attempt at bargaining which only makes you giggle.

“I never said that Argyle,” and truly you hadn’t, “I said that I couldn’t go out because I had to make those changes you suggested.”

In response, Argyle begins to boo you, loudly and the others join in eagerly.

You roll your eyes playfully and bid goodbye to Argyle and the rest of the band when you part ways for the night and you notice that other than yourself, Eddie is the only one missing from the boisterous group but you try not to think too much on it.

Your efforts to push all thoughts of Eddie out of your mind seemed to have the opposite effect and it was like the thoughts themselves were digging their heels in and had found your mind to be a welcoming home.

You had made the song changes you had told Argyle you would and even tried to make some progress on your plethora of unfinished songs. As it turned out, you worked slower when you wrote alone.

You knew that as the remaining tour dates dwindled and the band’s return to LA drew closer, you eventually would have to approach Eddie again to write together. It was indisputable that whatever the two of you produced together was almost always better than what you accomplished alone.

How could you possibly approach him when you could barely look at him without dying of mortification? With Steve, at least, you could get some of the sexual energy out on stage, but with Eddie you didn’t have the same luxury and it stayed bottled up.

All of this, along with Argyle’s words from earlier in the evening made focusing nearly impossible and you gave up on writing all together, deciding to call it a night and head to bed. To your chagrin, the better part of the night was spent tossing and turning trying to evict the thoughts and ideas that had begun to formulate in your mind fueled by a lack of sleep, stress and desperation. And suddenly, you had an idea.

Admittedly, it was not a very good idea. It was actually probably a very bad idea. A ruinous idea even. And yet, you found yourself pulling the covers off yourself and stumbling into a pair of slippers, perplexed by your actions. You wondered, as you blearily shuffled down the identical hotel halls why you weren’t trying to talk yourself out of this idea—one that you were certain was going to change everything. Perhaps you were itching for a new thrill. Or maybe you were as selfish as everyone seemed to believe. Maybe it was the poison that had settled in your heart before you were old enough to know better, insisting that there was no other option for you. Or maybe you were giving yourself far too much credit and you were simply horny.

Whatever the reason, it brought you directly to Eddie Munson’s door.

***

EDDIE: I swear I thought I was dreaming when I saw her there, standing outside my door in this tiny pajama top and even tinier short. They had little cherries on them. I remember thinking they were so cute. Her hair was all a mess. I thought that was cute too.

After probably 5 minutes of us standing there in the doorway, I finally got my brain to work enough to invite her in. She seemed nervous at first. Sort of paced around the room, not saying anything for a while and then—I swear to God—she asks, “Do you want to sleep with me?” out of fucking nowhere. If I hadn’t been there myself, I would’ve never believed it. Hell, even telling you now, part of me thinks I made it up.

My brain short-circuited because I couldn’t even respond. I just stared at her with my jaw on the fucking floor, trying to remember what the signs of a stroke were.

***

“Are you serious?” Eddie spits out, voice hoarse with shock at your overly-direct question.

You nod, wordlessly, trying to ignore the panic that has begun to set in.

“Why?” he presses.

You shrug, which he doesn’t find sufficient because he nods along, trying to draw the reasons from you.

“We both like sex,” you explain, clumsily, “and I find you attractive and I think you find me attractive, too—” he nods feverishly at this—“so why not have some fun?”

You try to say this last part enticingly but aren’t sure you pulled it off until you see a flush play itself across his pretty features.

“Why me? Why not Harrington?”

Even though you had anticipated the question, you can’t help but steel yourself as you respond, “Because we like each other enough for it to be fun but not enough for either of us to get attached.”

You watched, with bated breath as the thoughts played out over Eddie’s features and when you see a flash of what could be hurt you entertain for the briefest moment, the idea that maybe someone could get hurt but the thought is pushed away as a lazy grin begins to spread over his face and a newfound cockiness color his features.

Suddenly, he is much closer, and the space between your two bodies draws thin.

“Now?” he asks.

“Yes, now,” you squeak out as he encroaches in on you, fingertips grazing the bare skin on your hips.

You take a step towards him, moving to stand flush against his hip, invitingly and weave a hand through his unruly bed head curls. You want him to know how much you want this—how much you’ve wanted this. It was inevitable really, there had always been a tension between the two of you. Whether it was the hot friction of dislike , the bold spark of creative partnership or the hot embers of sexual tension, the two of you burned for one another just the same.

He leans in for a kiss when your impatience gets the best of you and you rush to meet him halfway.

He tastes like cigarettes and cherries, a taste you revel in as his lips move languidly over yours. Suddenly, he takes your bottom lip between his teeth and lightly tugs, and a moan tumbles out of you.

“We can’t tell anyone,” you mutter into the kiss and it goes unacknowledged.

The cold of his rings meets your nipples through the thin fabric of your strappy pajama top and your body arches in response.

The kiss is broken you are left gasping for air. Eddie wastes no time in attaching his lips to your neck, his tongue tracing over your collarbone hotly.

The straps of your top are shucked of your shoulders and the fabric bunched down towards your middle and a trail of kisses following in its wake.

Your knees hit the edge of the bed, and the hands in your waist guide you down in a fluid motion.

Your eyes flutter as wet kisses are peppered over your breasts.

“Come on princess, let me hear those pretty noises,” Eddie murmurs into your skin, his hot breath covering you in goosebumps.

A heady moan escapes you, almost on command. It would’ve embarrassed you if you still had the decency to care.

A trail of kisses and suddenly Eddie is thumbing at the waistband of your shorts. You nod fervently when his eyes suddenly trail up to find you, but that’s not enough for him.

“Come on, baby,” he teases, “tell me what you want.”

You throw your head back in frustration and want and Eddie takes this lapse in response to run his hand sloppily over your clothed core.

“So wet,” he murmured, “so pretty.”

You let out a desperate laugh at this and his eyes are back on you, expectantly and any resistant you have dissipates.

“Touch me, please,” you sigh, half plea, half demand.

It’s not a hard sell because your shorts and underwear are gone in a flash and cold rings are pulling your thighs wide open.

You reach out towards Eddie’s curls for purchase, gently tugging him closer to your core, hoping he’d get the message.

A moment of clarity cuts through your haze and suddenly you’re pulling him up by his hair, forcing eye contact.

“No one can know,” you insists.

He’s all half-lidded eyes and dazed smile when he’s looking at you.

Leaning in to grab his jaw in your palm, you pull him close. This is important.

“Eddie, no one can know. Promise me,” you repeat again.

He nods in agreement, even though his expression leads you to believe you could’ve asked anything in that moment and he would’ve readily acquiesced.

“No one can know,” he affirms before hitching your body closer with a harsh tug on your thighs and disappearing in between your legs, mouth latching hotly to where you need him the most.

***

EDDIE: We started sleeping together that night. A no strings attached type thing. We had to keep it a secret. She didn’t want to hurt Harrington’s feelings which I understood. He was a good guy and anyone could tell he was head over heels for her.

And she was just… well, I guess she was just afraid. We were kind of the same in that way. Couldn’t hold onto anything without crushing it into dust.

***

MAY 1st, 1984–STATEN ISLAND, NY—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

Eddie’s hands are curled around your thighs, keeping your body balanced on the flimsy tour bus bathroom sink. His silver rings dig into the soft flesh of your thigh in a way that you are certain will leave bruises in their wake.

You have to be quiet, you know that. Even if the rest of the band had taken a quick pit stop between Philly and New York to explore the Staten Island Zoo and the likelihood of them coming back this early was low, it wasn’t non-existent . This left you stifling your own moans into the back of your hand as Eddie rocked into you languidly and delicious.

Your hand moved to steady itself behind you as he lets go of your left thigh and places the pad of his thumb on the soft flesh of your clit, causing you to forget nearly everything.

He seems to anticipate your next move though, because his mouth is quickly on yours, tongue gliding over your bottom lip and effectively keeping you quiet.

The angle of his hips meeting your core and his nimble fingers worked together to bring you closer to your release.

“I can feel it, baby, you’re close aren’t you?”

You nod feverishly, eyes screwed shut, “Yes, so good Eds. I’m gonna cum,” you manage to squeak out.

“C’mon pretty girl, look at me,” Eddie instructs firmly, but you can tell by the strain in his voice that he’s not too far behind, “wanna see you when you cum.”

You force your eyes open and he rewards you by pressing his unoccupied thumb into your bottom lip which you greedily take into your mouth.

Your release washes over you in a wave and you watch moments later as Eddie finds his own.

The two of you are left panting for a few moments as you try to steady yourselves. Once you find your bearings, you lower yourself from the sink and adjust the sundress that was so carelessly shucked to your hips and Eddie busies himself with disposing of the condom discreetly.

Turning to the bathroom mirror, you make an attempt at taming your haphazard hair and fixing your smudged lipstick before making a move for the door.

“Well, that was nice,” you offer before spilling into the tour bus’s common space.

“Wait,” Eddie cries out as he’s still adjusting his belt, “where are you going?”

You shrug nonchalantly in response but don’t turn around, “Back to the girls’ bus.”

“You don’t want to… you don’t want to stick around maybe? We could do some writing?” Eddie sounds out of breath when he asks but you chalk it up to the sex.

“Better not. It might look suspicious,” you explain as you take the stops down from the bus, two at a time.

“Right, wouldn’t want that,” Eddie squeaks out and you smile back at him, grateful for his understanding.

“See you later, Eds.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything back, but when you look back after having boarded your own bus, he’s still standing on the bottom step, eyes still on you.

***

EDDIE: Let’s get the record straight about something though, I didn’t steal her away from anyone. She is her own person first of all, not some thing to be stolen. And second of all, she came to me first. Not the other way around. And! She and Harrington weren’t even really seeing each other. So, other than the lying, it truthfully wasn’t that bad.

But then again, does the truth even matter? Especially now? After everything?

INTERVIEWER: It does to me and to you too, I think, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.

EDDIE: Has anyone ever told you you’re too smart for your own good?

***

MAY 3rd, 1984–NEW YORK CITY, NY—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

It was easy, really, to keep your fling with Eddie a secret from the rest of the band. Most of them were barely paying attention to what you were doing anyway.

Nancy and Jonathan were once again preoccupied with waiting by the phone to hear from Jonathan’s mother, Joyce. Will’s condition had once again worsen and the two were on high alert.

Robin and Steve were busy sightseeing and pointedly only talking to you when necessary. They weren’t hostile, per se, (or at least, Steve wasn’t) but they also made a point to not invite you to their outing. You want to tell them to be wary of the paps since the city is crawling with them in a matter akin to cockroaches but you know better than to try to tell Robin what to do.

Argyle, for his part, is in his own world.

The two of you were essentially in the clear barring rehearsals, shows and any stray public appearance. Still, you couldn’t help but want to take precautions.

***

EDDIE: She would never sleep over. You know, after. She was too worried about what would happen if Steve or anyone else went looking for her.

It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, she—we had made it very clear that this was a purely physical thing but, well, between you and me kid, I always knew it was never gonna be like that. At least not for me. I was in deep for way longer than I had realized.

***

Long, skilled fingers trace patterns along your naked spine. The movements are comforting, calming, you almost find yourself lulled to sleep. Except you know you shouldn’t—that you can’t.

Your eyes flutter open as you fight against the sleep that sets in. This isn’t your bed, you remind yourself, and you feel that in the brush of the sheets against your naked body that definitively do not feel like the sheets of your bed merely a few doors down. It’s a silly thought, truly, these sheets are probably the exact same as the ones on your bed and more so, you haven’t slept in your bed, a bed that is truly, strictly your own in years . Still, this does not feel quite right.

You will your body to stir, working actively against every nerve that is telling you not to move from the warm, comfortable haven you had found and the warm body next to you but you know better. This is a dance you’re familiar with: they ask you to stay but don’t really mean it and if they do it’s only to squeeze another quick fuck in.

“Why don’t you stay?” Eddie grumbles into your shoulder even though both of you already know the answer.

“What if someone comes looking for me, huh?” A question for a question, “it’ll be hard to explain to Hopper why I’m naked in your bed.”

“Bullshit. You’re one of the only ones Hopper doesn’t have to keep tabs on,” Eddie’s only partially playful in saying this.

“I miss my bed,” you rebut, plainly and the guitarist pouts in response.

“This is like the same bed, dude.”

“ ‘Dude’? You’ve been hanging out with Argyle way too much.”

“Whatever,” Eddie dismisses as his hand travels down along your spine to circle around the rise of your hip to the front of your body to pull you closer against his chest and you squeal.

His skilled fingers travel down to the apex of your legs and two of them swipe through your still-wet heat making you jolt. You’re still sensitive from earlier in the night and Eddie is using that to his advantage as he swipes over your clit.

You moan at the contact and your hips canter forward embarrassingly quickly.

“Don’t want to leave now, do you?” Eddie teases as he moves away from your clit to tease your entrance and you mewl in response. Before you know it a pair of lips are attached to your neck and two fingers are slowly, deliciously rocking in and out of your core. A hand moves up to grip Eddie by the hair as you moan.

“Just like that, please keep going.”

You feel Eddie’s length begin to harden against your back as his pace quickens and his thumb circles your clit bringing you closer to your third orgasm of the night.

“No fair,” you pant, as you feel a tightening in your lower stomach. “You can’t keep me around by giving me orgasms.”

He laughs at this, full-blown guffaws. “There’s no rule against it,” he says as his tongue slides over the shell of your ear. His fingers curl inside you and you gasp at the sudden pressure before succumbing to the feeling. Your release washes over you, unexpectedly and you cry out.

A few seconds reprieve give you a moment to come back to earth. You sigh contently feeling Eddie’s harden length against the swell of you ass.

It would be impolite to leave him hanging.

***

EDDIE: Not that I could complain about our arrangement.

***

You had fallen asleep. Accidentally, of course, but erroneously still. You realize this far too late as the harsh red numbers of the hotel room alarm clock blare at you angrily: 11:52 AM.

You scramble out of bed, covers flung in the process and you make a grab for your clothes that litter the floor. The sudden, frantic movement had inadvertently awoken the man sleeping next to you and you could hear the sleep in his voice as he tried to grasp the situation.

“Woah, woah where’s the fire, princess?”

“It’s nearly noon!” you respond, panic clear in your voice. “I accidentally fell asleep and now it’s almost noon!”

Your mind is overcome with worst case scenarios and conclusions that are easily jumped to as you imagine how this late morning can turn into your downfall.

Eddie tries valiantly to calm you down to no avail. You had done the one thing you said you never would: you stayed the night and now you didn’t know what to do with that other than panic and rush out the door half dressed and fully angered with yourself throwing a paltry goodbye to a very disoriented Eddie over your shoulder as you did so.

You try to fix your hair in the elevator along with your harried breath. Most of the band wake up late into the day, you try to remind yourself, especially after a night out.

It was not unusual to be walking the halls of your hotel room at this time, but you still felt overwhelmingly nervous walking back to your room in a way that you felt obviously gave away that you were coming back from a night of raunchy sex.

Your heart dropped to your stomach as the elevator doors slid open to reveal Steve Harrington waiting outside your door. This is what you were afraid of. Certainly one look at you and he’d know exactly what you were doing and probably with who and that would spell the end of the Downsides, you were sure of it.

You didn’t say anything as you exited the elevator and slowly made your way over, hoping to prolong the moment before everything came crumbling down as much as you could.

A few steps in and you had caught Steve’s attention. When he looked at you though, it wasn’t with anger or disappointment but with nerves.

***

STEVE: My parents moved around a lot after I left home. Indianapolis, Chicago, Phoenix in the winter and Bridgeport in the summer, you know, regular rich folks shit.

It’s not like I could ever go back home but when they heard the band was planning on making the stop they wanted me to visit them and they wanted me to bring my girlfriend to meet them.  I hadn’t wanted to ask then, things were kind of awkward between the two of us, but they kept insisting. It’s like they didn’t believe I could’ve bagged a girl like her and they were willing to call me on it. So, I had no other choice but to ask.

***

You understood where Steve was coming from, truly, your own parents were rich and demanding. Plus, something about seeing your fake boyfriend waiting at your door after a night sleeping with someone else really made you susceptible to his request.

And really, there wasn’t a universe where you would say no to a request from  Steve Harrington, so of course you were going to meet his parents.

***

MAY 6th, 1984–NEW YORK CITY, NY—30 ROCKEFELLER PLAZA

“So I heard you’re meeting the in-laws,” Eddie plops down in the makeup seat next to you

You’re backstage at The Nightly Show with Chris Palmer, getting ready for one of the few media appearances Hopper had managed to schedule during the band’s short stint in the city.

You can tell by the pinching between Eddie’s eyes and the snarl in his tone that he’s not in a good mood. You chock up his demeanor to the same thing that has dampened yours: the upcoming interview.

The lack of media appearances had been a welcomed change during the band’s time on the road and the adjustment back to them have been rocky. You, for one, are on edge at the idea of having to sit down with the smarmy, sexist, Chris Palmer who, on his late night show, had already taken a few swings at you for laughs and the thought of him having the chance to do so to your face, made you sick.

Which was why you barely responded to Eddie’s attempt t goading you and instead, shrug in response, tightly, “I guess.”

His eyes flit over you and his demeanor shift to one approximating concern. “Hey, you doing okay?” He moves closer, but not enough for it to be noticeable to anyone but you.

“Yeah,” you try to smile but it comes out a grimace, “just out of practice I guess.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I have an extra copy of Baldwin that I brought on accident if you want a distraction,” the book flashes in your periphery and this time your smile comes out genuine and unprompted.

While you can’t be one hundred percent certain, you’re familiar enough with the guitarist’s ways to know that this was no accident—he brought the book with you in mind.

You make a grab for it but have to keep yourself from leaning in for a hug at the risk of the others’ scrutiny and your makeup artist’s ire. Not knowing how else to communicate your appreciation, you give his shirt a quick—and hopefully discreet—tug.  He seems to catch your drift because his fingers graze yours purposefully as you move your hand away.

The brief touch shoots electricity through you.

“Thanks,” you murmur before watching him jaunt away to his spot between Argyle and Jonathan, both of your moods seemingly lifted, if only for a moment.

You’re grateful for the distraction although it barely keeps your attention and instead end up thumbing through the pages anxiously to the chagrin of your makeup artist who is clearly relieved to pass you onto hair once the final touches of lipstick are applied.

You thank her profusely before moving next door where, to the surprise of exactly no one, you’re sat next to Steve. Or at least you think it’s Steve you’re sat next to given how little you can see through the thick mass of hairspray clouding the air.

“They don’t call me ‘The Hair’ for nothing, right?” He says when you catch his eye through the fumes.

His hair stylists laughs a little too hard for your taste and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“I thought you hated that nickname,” you say, settling into your chair, ready to play your part as the doting girlfriend.

He shrugs nonchalantly, “there are worst things to be called.”

You scoff in response, your previous concerns regarding tonight’s host bubbling up again, “I am sure there are.”

Steve turns to you fully now, offering a charming apology to his stylist that leaves her a giggling puddle, and you can feel his eyes scanning you in assessment.

He suddenly reaches over to the vanity in front of him, “The vending machine in the hall is totally broke, it gave me four candy bars. Do you want one?”

You look over at the bars in his hand which he has fanned evenly and is waving as if they’re a wad of cash and you grab one out of his reach.

“These are my favorite,” you point out as you smooth a hand over the wrapper, remembering all the times you would raid the vending machines at venues or backstage before an interview for them.

“I know,” he says, impishly.

“Harrington, be straight with me, is the machine really broken or did you get me my favorite candy bar just to butter me up?”

He nods,  self-satisfied, like a little kid happy to be caught doing something that they’ll know they’ll get away with. Your joint hairstylists coo in adoration at your dotting “boyfriend” and you can’t help but roll your eyes affectionately.

“You seem a bit nervous,” he explains, “and candy usually helps.”

You exhale a laugh at this and admit that he’s right, “candy usually does help,” before nibbling on the bar carefully  for the sake of your lipstick.

“So, what’s up?” He asks after a beat, while the hairstylists are preoccupied cleaning their tools, “are you nervous about doing our thing again?”

He says the last part with an overly-dramatic eyebrow waggle and you giggle.

What do you mean?” You ask, avoiding his glance.

He almost rolls his eyes at this but catches himself, knowing better.

“You just seem off, like nervous almost? But not in the usual way you are nervous about interview, but like different. Normally you’re just nervous because you overthink it but now it’s like you’re dreading it.”

You snort at the way he saw right through you.

“It’s stupid but, Chris Palmer has made jokes about me in the past, you know, about my dating history and things like that and I’m not really looking forward to hearing what he has to say tonight,” you explain, bashfully.

“What do you mean? Do you and Chris know each other?”

“No,” you respond, shifting uncomfortably in your seat, “he just is, you know, one of those comedians who pokes fun at celebrities and he loves making fun of women who ‘get around’ or whatever and well, that was my reputation before you… and the band.”

You see realization dawn on Steve’s features, it’s almost like he doesn’t believe anyone could ever be mean to you.  Realization quickly turns to anger.

“And you think he’ll make fun of you tonight in the same way? In front of everyone?”

You shrug at this, “maybe, he’s not exactly known for taking it easy on his guests, but I’m used to it, it’s annoying though.”

Steve shakes his head aggressively at your dismissal and bolts up from his char, “No, I’m going to go talk to Hopper or something, have him tell Palmer’s people he needs to cool it or we won’t perform.”

He’s marching down the hall now, purposeful and quick. You make a beeline after him running ahead to cut him off.

“Woah, hey, Steve, you do not need to do that.” The last thing you want is the band being labeled as difficult to work with this early on.

Standing in front of him with your hands flat on his chest, you suddenly become very aware of all the eyes peaking out of the different green rooms to watch the exchange curiously, band mates and crew alike.

Steve grabs one of your hands lightly in his and gives it a tepid squeeze.

“I’m sorry but I am not sitting up there tonight and listening to anyone say anything bad about you.  That’s just not going to happen, okay? Please trust me, I won’t do anything crazy, I’ll just talk to Hopper and we’ll figure this out. I have your back, remember?”

You study his face as he says this and are caught up in the earnestness etched into every corner of it.

“Okay,” you finally say, softly and back away from his path, “thanks.”

And you watch him go.

***

STEVE: Hopper hadn’t known about the Palmer thing. He wouldn’t have booked us if he did. When I told him, he was pretty peeved and we immediately went to go talk to the stage manager—some smarmy  guy whose name I don’t remember.

Told us essentially, that it was no use, that Palmer wrote his own material fresh before each show.

Well, after that, Hopper and I track down Palmer in his dressing room and, you know, we give him a shake down.  Old school style. Like back when Hopper was on the force. … he did most of the shaking down, don’t get me wrong, I was definitely going to get in there, but he seemed to really enjoy it. Plus I had just gotten my hair done.

***

When Steve reappears in the green room half an hour later, Hopper is trailing him smiling giddily. 

Coming up to your side, Steve wraps an arm around your shoulders and leans into your hair to murmur, “We took care of it.”  The giant grin Hopper is sporting lets you know that they had and you exhale a sigh of relief, curling a hand against his bicep gratefully.

You spring back a few seconds later when you feel Eddie’s heavy gaze from the spot he occupied next to you, eyes boring into all the places your body is touching Steve’s.

You can sense Steve’s confusion at the lost contact but before anything else can be said or done, the stage manager appears to move escort the band to the sound stage saving you from having to navigate the complex social dynamic of interacting with your fake boyfriend who wants to be your real boyfriend and your band rival turned friend-with-benefits. Gratefully, you allow yourself to believe for the first time, that maybe luck would be on your side and tonight wouldn’t be so bad.

***

NANCY: Do I think Chris Palmer had a personal vendetta against her? No, not going into that night, anyway. I think he was just a misogynistic idiot who didn’t know what to do about a talented and beautiful woman who also did whatever she wanted.  His mind couldn’t wrap around that.

That was true for a lot of men back then. And now too.

JONATHAN: It felt like Chris had a personal vendetta against her.

***

The first half of the interview went well enough.

The band was welcomed with great fanfare and everyone filed towards the couches in the center of the stage next to the large mahogany desk Chris sat behind. You and Steve were, of course, together at the forefront and you could hear the collective cooing when he helped you down the platform.

The interview started out mild, questions about the tour and being on the road. Thankfully, Steve took the helm for most of them with the band weighing in throughout.

To your surprise, Chris directs his next question to you and Eddie.

“You two are the newest additions to the band, how has the transition been coming from working as a solo artist and from a band of a whole different genre to the Downsides and what made you want to make the change?”

The question was surprisingly insightful which took you a second to process and come up with an answer that wasn’t “Well, Chris, we were forced to join The Downsides at the risk of our careers ending completely.”

Eddie beats you to it, “The royalty checks are better than they are when you’re in a metal band for one—“ it takes the audience a second to realize this is a joke, but when they do the laugh pays off— “but honestly, I like the stability. What they don’t tell you, kids, is that too much rock and roll can be bad for you.” He says this part directly to the camera with a devilish grin.

“What about you?” Chris turns to you once the laughter subside, “do you miss being a free agent?”

You ignore how pointed that feels and smile in response.

“Not at all, the band has been super welcoming and there’s something really rewarding about working together to make something great happen.”

“Don’t miss your old duet partners at all?” The host needles.

“No, not really. At the risk of sounding cheesy Chris, I think I found my forever duet partner,” you punctuate your response with a pointed smile at Steve.

The audience eats your response  up but you can tell that Chris is not ready to let it go. Luckily for you, a well-timed commercial break saves you from further questioning.

When the cameras start rolling once more though and the segment is reintroduced, Chris flashes you a wolfish smile.

“So, does this mean you’ve settled down a bit more, now that you’re a one-duet partner type of gal?”

The question makes your throat run dry because you know that there’s another, much tricker question behind it.

“No, not at all. It’s nice to be a part of something,” you respond placidly.

Chris barely lets you finish before launching into, “well the press sure does miss writing about you! Did you know that, in the last year, you were one of the most mentioned stars on Subrosa, popping up a total of 65 times only rivaled by one Evelyn Hugo in 1967.”

You don’t really know what to say or where this is going but the feeling of dread in your stomach grows.

“In fact,” he continues, “why don’t we play a game that we cooked up with the help of your Subrosa mentions?”

Games were something Chris did with his guests pretty frequently and they varied in execution but in nature there was always something a bit embarrassing to them and tonight was no exception. But instead of going after the band as a whole, this game was targeted specifically at you .

It was a guessing game, “Simple enough,” Chris touted as his assistants bring out giant blown up headshots of various male celebrities, guess which of the men you had been involved with according to the media and which ones you hadn’t been. The joke of course was that you had been linked to all the men whose pictures had been provided.

The looks of shock on your bandmates’ faces perfectly countered the one of self-satisfaction painted on Chris’s smarmy face.

You felt Steve stiffen beside you, leg twitching as if he was getting ready to stand up and leave. Or punch Chris. Before he can, you place a stabilizing leg on his thigh and giving a squeeze. You didn’t want this to diverge into a fight and you refuse to let this vile man make a fool of you on live television.

“Well, this won’t do,” you smirk at Chris. “You only have half of my list out here, Chris! You’re missing quite a few other fellas. I thought you wanted to make this difficult.”

“Oh?” The host is clearly not expecting your response but has no choice to lean in since you clearly have the audience’s attention, “and who could we possibly be missing?”

“The crown prince of Monaco, for starters,” you respond, evenly, “and the entire Harlem Globetrotters ‘83 starting lineup—“ the crowd guffaws at your clear exaggeration, “—and most importantly, this guy,” you reach over to grab Steve’s chin and affectionately squeeze his face. At this, laughter turns into applause and from where you are sitting on the shared couch, you see Chris’s jaw tighten.

“Is there anyone who’s hasn’t made the list?” he cries, trying to turn the joke back on you.

“You, for starters,” you respond playfully, and then add before he can say anything, “but who knows? Maybe this band thing doesn’t work out and in a few years time I’ll become washed up and lower my standards and you and I can give it a shot.”

Before Chris can retort, Steve cuts in with an over-exaggerated, faux-jealous, “what about me?”  That kicks off a jokey bit of banter between the three of you that takes the show all the way up to comercial.

***

NANCY: There was a second part to the game.   

ROBIN: Yeah, that second thing was just mean. It was essentially the same premise as the first guessing game but instead of guessing different men she had been associated with, it was different nicknames she had been given by the media. They were not very nice names either, “Siren of the Strip”, “Heartbreak of Hollywood”, “Pop Music’s Maneater”, you get the gist.

Of course, like with the last “game” the joke was that it had been all is them.

***

The names had been a surprise.  You didn’t know how to react and neither did your bandmates although you’re pretty sure you can feel the heat from Eddie’s glare from the other end of the set.

Still, you kept your cool and  immediately admitted that all of them seemed familiar and instead turned the conversation into criticisms of each of the names, which was gaining too many laughs for Chris to try to stop it.

“See this one I don’t like at all,” you say, pointing to Malibu Minx that had been professionally printed on a giant poster board in newspaper font.

“Whys that?” The host asked wolfishly.

“Malibu Minx? Are you serious? Anyone with half a brain knows I’m from the Hills, not Malibu. Honestly, it’s a little insulting.”

“Come on, they can’t be that different,” Chris still plays along, even though your comment did not go where he wanted it to.

“Not at all! The Hills is where all the directors and actors live, Malibu is where divorced dads take their kids during their monthly weekend visits. It’s like, here on the east coast… well, I can’t think of an East Coast equivalent. Chris, help me out, where do you take your kids during your monthly visits?”

***

ROBIN: You should’ve seen his face when she said that.

NANCY: His first divorce had just gone public a few weeks prior. Guess it was still a sore spot. Not that he didn’t deserve it, he did, but he wasn’t used to his guests fighting back like that. The rest of the show was… tense and then after the show ended Palmer lost his cool.

STEVE: Honestly, I wanted to punch the guy since he brought out his stupid  little games, but I was willing to leave things as they were that night, especially after she had put Palmer in his place, but we get backstage after the show and he starts yelling at her about having “embarrassed” him or something like he hadn’t essentially called her a bunch of names on live tv. Before any of us could even do anything though, Hopper had him pinned against the wall, saying stuff like “I thought we had come to an agreement about the jokes, Palmer.”

He gave him a good shake down, you know how intimidating Hopper can be. Plus Chris looked like he had never been in a fight in his life so he was shaking in his boots immediately. Security had to come to get Hopper off of him and we were all thrown out after that.

ROBIN: Yeah, we were never asked back after that not that we would’ve gone back.It was a shame for him, really, that 1984 episode of The Nightly Show with Chris Palmer was one of the most viewed episodes in the ten years he was on the air.

***

You return to your hotel room in the early hours of the morning, after having gone for celebratory drinks with Hopper and the rest of the band.  Everyone had been thoroughly impressed with the way you had held your own against Chris and even previously-icy Robin seemed impressed and warmed by you.

You hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk to Eddie throughout the night, something about the undecipherable expression he wore most of the night had left you curious and you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe hearing your entire history splayed out like that in front of him and the rest of the world had soured you and he no longer wants anything to do with you.

As you’re getting ready for bed, the ringing coming from the hotel phone jolts you.

“Hello?” You breathe out, harried and confused into the handset.

“Hey, I didn’t wake you did I?” Eddie’s concerned question statics over the line.

“No,” you respond, relief coloring your tone, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, really, I was just thinking how hot it was when you told that dickbag off and I was wondering if you’d be up to me showing you that.”

“Showing me what, exactly?”

“Showing you how hot I think you are. If you’re up for it, of course?”

25 minutes later, with Eddie’s face buried messily in your pussy you’re near inching closer to release when you hear him muttering into the soft skin of your thigh while two of his skilled fingers begin pumping in an out of your tight heat.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, seeing you all hot and desperate to come on my fingers like this would make me think you are a minx.”

Hearing him call you that so low and growly, left you burning all over and you keen into his hands. Knowing his words had the intended effect, Eddie smirks into your thigh and speeds up his fingers.

“Only for you,” you respond once you can find your voice again.

Eddie give a low moan at this and in an instant he clamors up onto the bed and moves to replace his fingers with his dick.

“Say that again,” he challenges as he swipes his tip through your folds and you cry out.

“I’m a minx for you,” you nod along to what you’re saying, hoping that it makes him more eager to stop teasing and finally push inside you.

He does exactly as you hoped and pushes his hips into you hungrily, setting a punishing pace, “Only for me right?”

You nod along, fucked out and on the verge of coming agian, “Yes, only for you, Eddie.”

You don’t make it back to your hotel room that night either.

***

MAY 11TH, 1984–BRIDGEPORT, CT—THE UPSIDE DOWN TOUR

“Are you sure the’d still want to meet me?” You ask Steve one evening, brushing your hair standing in the doorway of the door that separated your hotel room from his.

“Yeah, of course! Why do you keep asking that? Wait… do you not want to meet them anymore? It’s okay if you don’t,” Steve is already trying to hide his disappointment.

“No,” you rush to correct as you follow the sound of his voice to the bathroom, “it’s not that at all it’s just that, well with all the Minx stuff in the news, I worry that maybe they won’t think I’m worthy of the Harrington brood or whatever.”

You’re of course referring to the drama that had followed the band’s appearance on the Chris Palmer show where Chris had given an interview to Subrosa after you had affectively embarrassed him on his own show calling the band talentless and you worthy of every bad name that the press could call you and more.

In response to the interview—and partially inspired by your encounter with Eddie following the interview— you had gotten the word ‘Minx’ embroidered on the back of your favorite suede jacket which you made sure to wear to all of your subsequent interviews and media appearances for the rest of the band’s time in New York.

“First of all,” Steve begins,  rubbing shaving cream over his chin “neither of my parents would ever dream of reading a gossip magazine and even if they did, they hate Chris Palmer, always said he was too ‘blue’ whatever that means. Plus, historically, dinners with my parents haven’t been the most enjoyable affairs, so having you there would really mean a lot to me.”

You smile understandingly at him through the mirror and suddenly the whole domesticity of it all strikes you. In another life, the two of you could’ve simply been a couple discussing meeting one another’s parents in the bathroom of a shitty apartment the two of you shared.

The fantasy is interrupted abruptly by a bright cacophony of knocks at your door.

“That must be Eddie,” you explained,  “he’s coming over to write.”

(He really was.)

With all the fucking the two of you had been doing, writing music had fallen to the wayside and as the end of the tour was insight and Murray’s quota of songs still not met, which meant you had to get writing.

You scramble over to your door and let Eddie in. He almost leans in for a kiss but catches himself when he notices the open door leading into Steve’s room where he is very much watching the interaction with prying eyes.

The two nod at each other in greeting. You linger in the middle between either sides the awkwardness tangible in the air. You look at Eddie’s urging eyes and then flash back to Steve whose puppy dog gaze and newly received information about his parents make you do something that is surprising even to yourself.

“Do you want to help us write, Steve?”

The situation is awkward at first, especially with the glares Eddie seems to shoot you and Steve’s shy insistence that he’s no good at writing music but eventually, after two bottles of wine, the tension subsides, at least a little.

Eddie and you had presented Steve with a few songs that were very close to done but just needed a bit more work on the melody hoping that maybe he had suggestions.

He scans over a song that Eddie had primarily written, “Wild Ride”. Steve had an idea for a rhythm that could match the song and before long, he and Eddie were fully invested, both of them bent over their guitars trying out the rhythm and shooting notes at each other. Arrangement  was definitely not your strong suit, however, you were more than happy to watch the two guitarists work

Steve was fascinatingly somber when it came to writing. He would play the notes over and over again until he found what came next, treating the whole thing like a puzzle that needed to be solved and running his hands through his hair when he was particularly stuck on something. His eyes would close while he was thinking, his lashes fluttering on his cheeks and then blinking open prettily when he had finally thought of a solution.

Eddie was much less delicate and would play around with notes, sometimes scrapping what he had all together and starting new. He tucked a pen behind his ear and was constantly scribbling and crossing out. When he focused on playing, his tongue would stick out from the corner of his mouth a bit.

They worked well together, never talked over each other, and were always willing to listen to what the other had come up with. As Eddie would write notes down in his notebook, Steve would lean in really close, so they were almost cheek to cheek looking down at the paper together. It almost seemed like they’d forgotten you were there and you were too busy refining some lackluster choruses to notice.

Eventually, they hit a wall in their writing and more drinks were ordered through room service, and soon the three of you are sprawled across your bed, drinking French 75s and watching a late night marathon of “Night Court”.

“Hey Harrington, you excited to see your folks soon?” Eddie asks during a comercial break.

You turn to look and see Steve grimace at the question. You know Eddie means well in asking, but the question ruffles Steve nonetheless.

“Not really. We were never really close on account of them sending me away to boarding school when I was eleven and then when we were together my dad’s favorite pastime was criticizing me and my mom’s was drinking,” Steve says, finally, “seeing them once a year is probably the most I can stand, honestly.”

A beat of silence settles over the group before Eddie finally speaks.

“Sorry to hear that man. If it makes you feel better, my folks weren’t exactly parents of the year either,” Eddie responds.

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, my uncle took me in. He’s a great guy. What about you, Princess? Were your parents the perfect image of love and support?”

You scoff. “Barely. I went back to their house right before the tour started, to get some of my things, and they thought I was breaking in and called the cops.”

“Well,” Eddie bristles, “looks like being a terrible parent can happen across all tax brackets, huh?”

“Yeah, we kinda got fucked over, a bit,” you say and the other two murmur in agreement.

The three of you stay silent for a bit, processing what had been shared and how to possibly move past such a heavy topic.

It’s Steve who finally breaks the silence, “Do you guys think Dan and Christine will ever get together?”

“Oh, yeah.” “Definitely.”

***

“This restaurant is obscenely nice,” you shift uncomfortable in your chair, taking in the surrounds and the unfamiliar unease of being somewhere where you felt out of place. Of course, you had grown up in fine dining establishments in California, but East Coast wealth seemed like a different beast entirely.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Robin huffs next to you, “but what else can you expect from Stan and Carolyn? They’re obsessed with letting everyone know how rich they are.”

She of course, had the advantage of knowing Steve’s parents after over a decade of friendship and it made sense that Steve, wanting as much of a buffer between himself and his parents during this dinner, had invited her along as well. So far, she had only been a little hostile towards you which was a personal victory.

The two of you spot Steve entering the restaurant at the same time along with two middle-aged companions that, based off resemblance alone, you knew were his parents.

Steve’s father had the same starkly defined chin and nose as his son, but none his face didn’t turn up into a natural smile like his son. He stood stately and stern, eyes surveying the room with little interest. His wife, Steve’s mother, was made up of refined, delicate features offset by the bright eyes that were clearly passed on to her son. Her entire outfit was meticulously perfect in a way that almost seemed artificial.

Steve introduces you with fanfare and pride that you don’t consider yourself worthy of but you smile along anyway and graciously shake Mr. Harrington’s hand and exchange dotted cheek kisses with Mrs. Harrington.

You exchange niceties and think to yourself maybe they won’t be so bad.

“Stan, Carolyn, it’s so nice to see you again,” Robin grits out through a tight smile.

Carolyn pats her on the shoulder in response and says,, “Please dear, call us Mr. and Mrs. Harrington. We’re out in public after all.”

***

ROBIN: Yeah, Carolyn and Stan hated me. It was like they could smell the gay on me. Or the poor. From the moment Steve had invited me over to spend spring break with them in the Hamptons they did not like me. They despised the idea of their son’s best friend being some scholarship kid whose parents were public school teachers. However bad they were to me though, they were far worse to Steve, which is why I ever even bothered going to these lunches. I didn’t want him to have to suffer through them alone.

***

“Sorry we’re late,” Mr. Harrington drawls as the three of them take their seats at the table, “our idiotic son forgot to bring cash for the valet.” His statement is punctuated by a mirthless laugh and you can tell by the matching expressions on Steve and Robin’s faces and the way Mrs. Harrington makes a grab for the bottle of wine on the table that this level of disparagement is normal for the Harrington household. You remember the comment Steve had made a few nights ago about his father’s favorite pastime

“Don’t worry,” you respond with a smooth smile, “we’re so used to having drivers back in LA—“ a lie “—I can see why Steve forgot about valet. Although, I’m sure you both know what that’s like.”

Mr. Harrington stalled. Everyone at the table—including you—knew that the Harringtons were nowhere near wealthy enough to afford personal drivers but if there was one thing insecure men, like Stan Harrington would never do is admit that they couldn’t afford something.

You were familiar with these types of ego games from your youth, although you took no pleasure in them.

Your youth was spent tucked into your mothers skirts during luncheons and tea and fashion fittings, listening as the women would eviscerate each other with laser-edge precision. If there was anything your mother had taught you was how to sow the seeds of insecurity in someone and although it did not come naturally, you could make an exception for Stan Harrington.

***

ROBIN: It was easy to forget most of the time that she came from money but damn, the way she handled Stan that night made me think that some politician was missing out on having her as their cutthroat third wife. It was like watching an artist paint or someone do sleight of hand magic. He would say something mean about Steve and she would just turn it right back around on him but she would be smiling and batting her eyes the entire time. Even with that though, it wasn’t an easy lunch to get through.

***

“It’s so nice that Stevie was able to make something of himself through his little music,” Carolyn fawns. She means well, for the most part, but the four glasses of wine she’s downed during the last twenty minutes makes her words come out just a tad but demeaning.

Her husband sneers in response, “You say that now, Carolyn, but soon he’ll be back here asking for a spot in the firm.”

“Hopefully not too soon,” you giggle in response running a hand alongside Steve’s arm, “the studio wants us recording our second album as soon as we get back and then we’ll be touring again and we’ll need him for that.”

“But darling, you can’t possibly expect to do that for the rest of your life,” Mrs. Harrington sighs, “eventually the two of you will want to settle down and have children, live a normal life.”

“Well, yeah Mom, but that’ll be a long time down the road—“

“Making music is our life, we don’t want to ever stop—“

You and Steve halt your explanation once you realize what the other is saying. The two of you exchange blank, confused looks and it’s not until Robin says, “I’m sure that they’ll decide what their next move is when the time comes. We still have plenty of time.” That the two of you jolt back into the conversation.

“Right,” you add, “plus with the royalties deal we just secured on this new album, we will be pretty stable financially.”

The rest of the lunch is spent fielding Mr. Harrington’s questions about financials and Mrs. Harrington’s questions about grandchildren. It’s exhausting but the three of you come out mostly unscathed.

The five of you part ways outside of the restaurant, and not a moment too soon. The wave of relief that washes over the three of you once the Harringtons have been sent on their way in a taxi is palpable.

You and Robin offer to buy Steve a drink for having survived the lunch and Steve offers to buy the two of you a drink as a thank you for playing roles in that. Soon, one drink each turns into multiple rounds of drinks spent recounting all the agonizing points of the lunch.

This leaves the three of you stumbling into your hotel in the early hours of the evening, completely and utterly drunk. You ride the elevator together, a mess of laughter and then bid goodbye to one another in front of Robin’s door. She’s ready to sleep off the drinking and you do not blame her.

This leaves you and Steve to stumble back to your joint rooms together.

“You know, seeing you today having dinner with my parents and my best friend almost made the whole thing feel real,” Steve says lowly, standing in your doorway.

“Steve don’t,” you plea softly.

“I just don’t get it,” he cries in response, “we would be so good together. We are good together: we have so much in common and we just make sense, everyone thinks so except for you. Just… tell me why wouldn’t you give us a shot?”

You’re in your room now, perched on the edge of the bed , teary eyes focused on everything in the room other than the man who stands in front of you.

“Steve that’s not fair. It’s just never going to work, why can’t you accept that?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” Steve blurts out, “and I know I may not be your first choice, but if you give me a chance I will prove that I’m good enough—“

“Steve, stop please don’t say that, you’re plenty good enough for anyone,” you stand now, to face him.

“Just not you,” he says devastated.

“No, listen, it’s not like that. I just, I don’t know if I can be with someone in the way that you want me to, okay? You want someone to eventually settle down with and I’m not that girl. I’m the fucking Minx for God’s sake not someone’s future wife. In another life maybe, we could’ve made each other very happy, who knows? But in this one, I can’t be what you want.”

The two of you stand there in silence for what feels like an eternity. Finally, Steve moves, walking past you to sit in your vanity chair.

“Is there someone else you have feelings for?” He asks, timidly.

“No, no,” you insist. “I told you, I don’t do that.”

He laughs mirthlessly in response, “I think you’re wrong about that. I think you’ll find someone, maybe not now or in a year or in five years, but eventually you will find someone and they will make you want to try and you will love them and I will have to watch you fall in love with them and we will both realize I was just not worth it.”

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