#alfred sung

[dozydawn]

Alfred Sung, 1988.

Model: Lisa Graham.

[rarepears]

I really want to see Sung Jinwoo and Alfred co-parenting a rebellious young Bruce Wayne. I dunno, the image of this all is really funny to me.

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

"Jason was the happy robin" this, "jason was the angry robin" that. Let's all be fully honest here Jason was the lonely robin

[sunnylolli]

hi lolli! I was wondering (if you haven't already) if you could listen to "natteravn" sung by ai america from the blog hcaivoices? I am a huge fan of your interpretation of alfred so I requested this for you💌 hope you don't mind❤️🙈

I LISTENED TO IT IN THE DISCORD SERVER, ANON, THE MAN IS FLUENT IN DANISH!!! WHICH I FIND SO IRONICALLY HILARIOUS, CONSIDERING THE DENMARK AI IS NOT 😭😭

Imagine Denmark finding out Alfred's Danish is FLUENT, I lost my MIND 😭😭😭

[betty-bourgeoisie]

Alasdair was always given the task of teaching Alfred and Matthew more artistic things like music and poetry so now both of them speak and sing in that 'I grew up singing puirt à beul' cadence

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

oh this guy's passing through for sure

[thebibliosphere]

Being in the Pennyworth fandom will have you googling shit like "How to fortify an umbrella against acid rain" to try and give a smidge of credibility to the storyline you're plotting.

Meanwhile, the official writers are just giving interviews like, "Yeah, the mad cultists who got turned into super weapons by a drug activated by a popular song sung by Alfred Pennyworth's pop star girlfriend survived the nuclear bomb that got dropped on London, so now there are these irradiated mutant cultists cannibals roaming the streets of London who go ballistic for 70s pop ballads. What do you mean, 'how did we plan to resolve that?'"

[darkstaria]

Yandere Superfam - Happy Father's Day!

It was Father's day semi recently, so I wrote this. Note: it is very important to me that every one who reads this understands that I didn't actually write this on Father's Day. I swear!

Oh, and I updated the soul animal au Taglist again, so hopefully I got everyone!

----

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" A voice sung to you, dragging you from the depths of oblivion you found solace in. The sound of opening curtains cut into you like a knife.

"Mmmghhh..." You attempted, keeping your eyes firmly closed against the rising sun blaring into your eyeballs. Couldn't he just go away? You stared blearily. Clark Kent, or rather, Superman was smiling, a beaming ray that burnt into you.

"Come on now, Sunshine. It's Father's Day! Aren't you excited to spend it with your dad?"

No, is what you wanted to say. But you bit the comment down as you often did. It never helped, not with Bruce, not with Clark. How unfair.

"You couldn't have let me sleep for a little longer?" You tried, almost whining. First they use ‘medicine’ to get you to sleep, then they force you to wake up early.

"Sorry but that won't be happening. We only have limited time with you today! We have to enjoy as much time together as we can before you go to Bruce's." He looked apologetic, but you doubted it. He never truly was.

Your life with Superman was an endless spiral of apologies, a litany of white lies hidden by a brilliant smile. A sun that shone so brightly, you almost forgot the burns.

You gave a little sigh, but acknowledged the futility of your actions. A few years of this and you let go of resisting the little things. It made things easier.

You got out of your bed, doing your best to ignore the fervent eyes that traced your every movement. You reached under your bed, pulling out his present from under your bed. It wasn't much of a hiding space, given that it was known by every person that lived in the house, but you appreciated that they let you have little things like this. Or pretended to, anyways.

“Here you go.” You thrust the present towards him, wanting to get it over with.

“That’s Bruce’s present.” He replied, with a slight smirk.

“Eh.. how?” You mumbled, looking down. “You peaked, didn't you!”

“No I didn't not. I just know the difference between your wrapping, and Alfred’s wrapping.”

You glanced down, noticing the immaculately decorated and wrapped present in your grasp. Whoops.

With a swift movement, you reached under your bed and grasped the other present, exchanging the two with a quick action. There was a visible difference in the two, Clark’s being much more shoddily wrapped.

“Forget about that.” You demanded. Trying to get him to ignore it, you pushed his actual present in his direction.

“Woah, hold on there.” He smiled. “Jon’s been waiting downstairs to give me his present too, you two have to do it together, remember.” He patted you on the back. “Come on!”

With your frustrated affirmation, the two of you went downstairs, immediately meeting the excited gazes of both Lois and Jon. Jon in particular was bouncing in his seat, clutching onto a bunch of gifts.

“Happy Father’s day!” He shouted, a beaming smile on his face. Clark chucked, patting Jon’s hair.

“Thank you Jon.” The two began a conversation about Jon’s gifts, and you swiftly became bored. Your eyes strayed away from the table, until you accidentally locked eyes with Lois. She smiled at you, a soft image of happiness. She was definitely the most subtle of the family. It even took you a few escape attempts before you realised she wasn't your ally. After that it became difficult to see her the same way.

“And what about you, sunshine?” A hand ruffled your hair, Clark interrupting your musings with a single gesture. You bit back a flinch.

“Ah yeah, this is my present… Dad.” You attempted to sound jovial. Judging by the smile on his face it had worked, but you weren't entirely sure if that was a result of your actions skills or his delusions.

“Thank you! Let’s see what you've made this year.” Clark took no time in unwrapping the gift. “Ah, another mug, and just look at this drawing, you get more creative every time.” He beamed. You felt like living in this household half the time entitled you to sunglasses.

Your gift wasn't anything fancy, just a simple mug with a terribly drawn face on it. The words ‘happy dad’ were written under the face, in sloppy handwriting.

Clark walked over to a cabinet, opening it up. In the cabinet lay another mug, this one lacking any drawing at all. Instead, it had the name Clark written on and drawn out, and the word Dad swiftly smudged on instead.

That mug was actually one of Clark’s old mugs, you had just stolen it upon learning that they had actually expected a gift from you on Father’s Day. You originally wrote Clark down, but soon realised that would be a mistake, crossing it out and writing Dad. Somehow, he loved it.

In all honesty, you couldn't complain. If you set the bar this low, you could easily up it the next year without having to put in much effort. As long as you were ‘creative’ Clark accepted anything, if it was from you. Maybe next year your mug drawing would be two drawings, instead of one. You dreaded the time when you'd eventually have to put actual effort into gifts. Surely, you'd have escaped before then.

“Come on kids!” Clark called out, drawing your attention back to him. “Let’s enjoy today as much as we can, before Sunshine has to go to Wayne Manor later.”

Jon pouted. “Do they really have to go? They went last year too. They already spent half their time at Wayne Manor as is.” He grumbled. Jon was more obvious in his possessiveness, something that occasionally ruffled the feathers of the Batfam. The tug of war between Jon and Damian was far too frequent, the memory of it making your shoulders ache a little.

“Now now Jon. Bruce is Sunshine’s father just as much as I am.”

Considering neither of them were your father, his statement was a little infuriating.

“What game are we going to play this time?” Your question was both an act of masochism and genuine interest. Feigning injuries never worked against two superhumans who could look into your very bone structure. Instead, you had come to find some enjoyment in watching Clark and Jon bumble about, trying to play fair in a competitive game wherein they viewed you as both weaker and fragile. It was actually a great method for venting your anger, as long as you weren't too overt about it.

If you accidentally hit them with a hockey stick a few times, or aimed a basketball to their face a little too much, it wasn't your fault! It's not like they could feel it anyway.

“It'll be tennis today.” Clark declared, receiving an excited Ooh in response from Jon.

Ah, tennis. A little harder to use, but very much still workable. If it was golf you'd be screwed.

Oh, wait but..

“How are we playing tennis with three people?” You questioned. Lois tended to stay out of your games, preferring to watch.

“I'll play against you and Jon. If any of Bruce’s family show up early again, then one of them can join in too.” Clark spoke cheerfully, but you knew it always bothered him a bit when they arrived too soon.

Clark and Bruce’s ‘shared custody’ of you wasn't always so amicable. At one point it was downright violent. Honestly if it weren't for the effects their efforts were having on you they'd have probably escalated into a war. They had come to an agreement since, but it always bothered them whenever it was infringed on in some form.

“Time to get going Sunshine! Jon’s already waiting for you!” An abrupt push to your back jolted you forward, giving you a small jump of shock. Ugh. You glared at Superman as he responded to your surprise with good natured laughter.

You slowly walked out into the field, Jon handing you a tennis racket, his smile gleaming like the sun.

You could only hope that Batman was a little calmer on Father’s Day.

[strangeshoepatrolbandit]

Brotherly Love Pt.5

J.T. D.W

Jason Todd x Al-Ghul/Wayne reader(platonic)Gender Neutral

Pt.[1][2][3][4]

Summary:Jason keeps finding ways to connect with you, Damian's a little jealous.

Warnings:Light fight scene, cigarette, a knife. (Also the pie recipe is a copy and paste from google)

~☆~

Bruce awoke with a fright, running down the stairs and down to the living area of the Manor. His short red robe riding up his thighs as he ran to try and find the cause of the loud bang he had heard.

"Hey, Bruce." Jason had lazily greeted, not taking his eyes off of the newspaper infront of him, hand scratching the top of Aces head.

"What was that sound?" The older man questioned, not even asking what Jason was doing at the Manor.

"You got new locks." Jason deadpanned whilst finally looking up at Bruce from where he sits.

"Why are you here?" Bruce finally asked.

"Waiting for Y/N, they sleep so much later than Demon spawn." Jason complained.

Bruce paused, thinking of what to say. He just knew he was glad Jason was finally coming around, and that you had a brother again, even if he isn't your actual blood brother.

"Can I borrow them for the day?" Jason asked, almost shy but Bruce knew better.

"Yeah, go wake them up." He told Jason, before patting his shoulder.

~☆~

"Y/Nnnnn.." Jason sung out, trying to wake you. You could feel the almost inhuman warmth radiating from his hand that rested on your shoulder.

"Y/Nnnnn.." The living dead man next to you sang again.

"What?" You moaned out, eyes stinging from the sleep wridden in them.

"Get dressed, were hangin' out." Jason informed, leaving a pat to the arm that his hand rested on.

~☆~

Jason ended up taking you to his apartment, asking you if Alfred had introduced you to his baking yet. Your answer left Jason at a loss for words, what do you mean Alfred hadn't introduced you to his infamous cookies, or his brownies?

"Well we may not be making his cookies, because he won't give me the recipe, but we will be making pie!" Jason exclaimed, a giddy grin resting on his face.

~☆~

The memories of rarely baking pies with Jason's mother when they had the supplies clouded his mind, how after her death it moved to baking with Alfred. Now as if it's some family tradition he's moved on to doing it with you, only this time he's the teacher.

Jason sprinkled flour onto his counter, before plopping half of the dough Alfred made for you to that morning on top of the thinly dusted surface.

"You ever baked?" Jason asked, his Gotham accent dripping in his word. You shook your head and Jason offered a smile whilst grabbing a rolling pin.

"Watch me." Jason's arms gripped the utensil, rolling over the dough just a bit so you could get the gist. His arm nudged against your own as he handed you the rolling pin so he could peel the apples for the filling. You delicately pushed down and rolled the dough into a thinner circle, Jason eyed you from where he stood peeling fruit so that he could tell you when it was thin enough.

"Alright, flour your hands." He whispered, walking back over to your side and taking the rolling pin. His hands peeled the edge of the dough off of the counter, before placing it onto your newly dusted hands. Jason placed a pie tin in front of you and helped you set the dough into it.

"Make sure it's tucked in." He instructed, pulling your wrist so that you could push the dough fully into the tin pan. You watched as Jason cut off the extra dough, and prick holes into the bottom with a fork before placing it into the oven.

"I'll peel the apples, you roll out the other half."

~☆~

Jason had peeled and cut all of the apples, now they were placed into a big bowl. The pre-baked crust had already been taken out of the oven, and all of the filling ingredients have already been measured.

Jason situated you infront of the bowl, handing you a spatula for mixing.

He handed you the sugar and the cinnamon to add to the bowl, pouring the flour himself. A spinkle of salt, and some nutmeg came afterwards, Jason poured in the little bit of lemon juice that came last.

"Stir gently." He whispered, watching as you mixed all of the ingredients into the apples.

Jason placed the pie tin infront of you once again, ordering you to spoon the ingredients into the crust-lined pan. Jason's fingers pinched the top layer of dough onto the top of the pie, before cutting a slit into the encasing. He placed tin foil onto the top of the pie, and placed it into the oven.

"Let's clean up." Jason spoke as he held up his hand for a high five, you stared at him for a moment before his opposite hand grabbed your wrist so he could guide your hand to meet his own.

~☆~

*After cleaning up*

"Okay, show me what you got."

"What?"

"Hit me."

Your fist came up without hesitation, aiming a blow below his sternum, his own hands grabbed at you before your fist collided with him. Jason moved quickly, prying a finger into your side, right under your ribcage. Your hand twisted from his grasp, and you landed a kick to his knee. Letting out a grunt in frustration he fell onto one knee. His hands wrapped around both of your legs before pulling you forward, letting you fall to your knees as well. Jason shot out an arm to grab you with, but you quickly caught his hand and got back onto your feet, rounding behind Jason's body so his arm was twisted behind himself.

The front door flying open alerted both of you, forcing you both to stand up in a correct fighting position.

"Hey!" A redheaded man yelled when he caught sight of the both of you.

Jason let out a sigh before wiping a hand over his face.

"Y/N, this is Roy." Jason introduced the redhead for you. The man stepped forward, shooting a hand out for you to take whilst a grin rested on his lips. You glanced at his hand, giving it a dissatisfied look before hesitantly taking it in your own.

As Roy dropped your hand he walked off into the kitchen, snooping around to see is he could find the food he smells.

"Whatcha' makin'?" He asked, neither you or Jason answered, only glancing at each other.

"Damian's more of the fighter, anyway." You shrugged, before walking off to follow Roy.

~☆~

You watched as Jason and Roy played a video game on Jason's TV. Your slice of pie that had previously been made was still being eaten by you, the two men that resided beside you and on the floor had already scarfed down their own slices.

You watched as their characters fought each other on the screen, your mind wondered, what if you and Damian were raised like this? What if the two of you were raised away from war? Gotham it's self had its own spike of violence but still nothing to what you and Damian were raised with. What if the two of you were "normal", raised playing video games, having sleepovers, playing catch with you father?

Part of you resented Talia for raising you the way she did, but another part of you loved her and thought about the times she actually acted like your mother. Like how when you were younger there were certain times when she would sit in her bed, you and Damian tucked on either side of her and she would read a book to you. She even had a painting that was made of you and your brother hanging on the wall of her quarters. But still, she raised you with all of that violence, training as the Al-Ghul heirs. Just because she was a little soft with you at times doesn't make her mother of the year.

~☆~

Before Jason dropped you back off at the Manor he cut a slice of pie and put it in a container with your name on it. Giving you firm instructions to immediately give it to Alfred, then he placed it into your bag.

"Y'know if you want more, call me." Jason told you, handing you the phone of yours that you didn't even know he had. "Roy's is in there too."

The redhead looked over at the sound of his name before throwing a smile and a peace sign.

"See ya' little dude." Roy bid goodbye as you passed him due to Jason pushing you out of the front door.

~☆~

After pulling up to the front of the Manor, Jason leaned on his motorcycle, a hand in his pockets, and the other holding his newly lit cigarette.

The two of you sat out there together, staring at the gothic chic Manor.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" You broke the silence, not ready to watch Jason leave. The taller man only snuffed his cigarette out and put on his helmet.

"Sorry, kid." Jason muttered as the threw a leg over his motorcycle and drove off.

~☆~

Alfred opened the door as soon as you reached the front steps, he always had this strange way of forming at the door before you could even knock. As he held a hand out for your backpack you reached in and handed him your slice of pie that Jason had given you.

"Dinner is set."

"Thank you, Alfred."

~☆~

You headed straight for the dining room, without even changing your clothes first. It's not that you were hungry, you Jason and Roy had snacked on things that you could've never eaten back with Ra's, you just didn't want to be alone yet.

Your socked feet dragged against the hardwood floors, Jason had woken you up too early for your liking. After your grandfather's death and coming to America you've indulged in some things you've never done before, like sleeping in.

Your hand grasped the wooden chair that came in a set with the dining table, after slumping in the chair you sluggishly filled up your plate with food. Both your father and brother had stopped their movement's as they watched your tired state.

"Woke up to early." You sighed, before giving Bruce a big smile, one that he returned.

"Did you have fun?" Bruce asked, cutting up a piece of his dinner.

"Yeah, we baked...an-and I watched him play video games!" You excitedly revealed, missing the expressionless face Damian watched you with.

~☆~

After dinner you started walking to the bathroom for a shower, then you could pass out. Footsteps could be heard walking in sync with your own, familiar footsteps, the ones you know all too well.

Damian pulled you to a stop with a firm grip to your arm, one that your sure will leave Red marks for the next few minutes.

"Why do you keep spending time with him?" He asked as his green eyes bore into your own. You watch as he quickly swallows, before chewing on the inside of his bottom lip.

"That's none of your concern." You hissed before yanking your arm out of his grip before walking off, leaving Damian standing in the empty hallway.

~☆~

Where are you from, or at least what time zone? Because I've noticed you guys are mostly active during 12-5 AM (my time). I promise that the next chapter will have action in it....just bear with me people...<3

Taglist:

@sanjanapm

@unofficial-jaytodd-wife

@morii-vx

@godknows-shetried

@wendds

@celestair

@lorosette

@knoxx-seresinbradshaw

@agent-nobody-knows

@5sos-wdw

@lil-baby-nor

@simligul

@luvly-writer

@neptunesdreams2007

@zonked-times

@i-3at-kidz

@myxticmoon

@xxgrimripp3rxx

@samstersv

@vanessa-boo

@greengarsstuff

@illya-roma

@luna025

@fruittiest-of-loops

@classymusicgalaxy

@randomlyappearingartist

@bluejay390

@venomsvl

@marvelworldlover

@ceshacat

@killercranberries

@hypnobanditprofessorhorse-blog

@greenkiki

@herascave

@cryinghotmess

@ladyagagaslefttoe

@b-barnes04

@theitchbbbb

@theclassicvinyldragon

@loxbbg

@tami123

@lunalixya

@randobeetlehouse

@1lovehotmoms

@esposadomd

@american-idiot21

@mildvalue506

@ziaphene

@cryinghotmess

@persephil

@ya-mya-22u

@lilylovelyxo

@soupasses

@dnarez

@mandyboolove

@scorpionmotordemon

@dangerous-girls-world

@darkfaethedestroyer

@violet2507

@urminebutidontwantyou

@d3m0nch1ld

@mxtokko

[adventuresofalgy]

It wasn't exactly wet, and it wasn't exactly cold. It wasn't even particularly windy, at least, not by the standards of the wild West Highlands. But it was grey, grey, grey… Just grey, grey, grey… And that was enough to dampen the spirits of anyone, even a daft fluffy bird.

Uncertain how to occupy himself on such a dreich day, Algy decided to profit from the dismal weather by catching up with his reading. He had been asleep for such a very long time that he was sure he had forgotten much of what he once remembered. Recalling some famous lines from The Taming of the Shrew:

No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en; In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

he selected a volume from his own personal set of poetry books, and settled down to study it.

The grass was still uncomfortably moist, and the garden was hushed and still. The bees had not bothered to come out today, to buzz about the hydrangea flowers which they normally loved, and the robin only trilled a few desultory notes from time to time and then stopped. But Algy was undeterred. Taking great care to keep his book away from the damp foliage, he opened it in the middle and read:

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed by the town, and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he set him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, The snake slipt under a spray, The hawk stood with the down on his beak And stared, with his foot on the prey And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away."

[Algy is reading the poem The Poet's Song by the 19th century English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson.]

[gotham-daydreams]

Has the reader in the Not series have ever seen made like a song for batman, maybe like a theme song for a kid’s show or a more personal song for batman hoping that he’ll notice how they dedicated a song for him and all he has done for the city of Gotham

Yes!! Definitely!

It's mentioned briefly somewhere in the series (or maybe in one of the asks? I'm not entirely sure-), but the reader has made songs for all of the members of the Batfam! There is just mention of Dick's song because it gets him going on the yandere train and such, and a mention of Jason's because it motivates him just enough to look for the reader. Though now that you mention it, I think it would be a neat detail that the reader has probably made multiple versions/renditions of the songs they've written and composed for the Batfam, because they wanted to be noticed that badly.

Though I think all songs at least have two versions of them that have both been written and composed. A 'public' version that the reader can play to other people or even at performances/concerts if they so choose, and a more 'personal' version that is more raw and fully shows how the reader feels/felt at the time of the song was written and originally sung. To which, such a version may only be played to close friends, or maybe even to themself because the song themselves are most likely more akin to vent songs.

I'd say that the reader has at least played all of the public versions of the songs they've written for the Batfam a few times. Be it during a performance (maybe even on that specific person's birthday, or some special occasion like father's day, to further add salt on the wound), or for a competition, or some other reason. With them also doing something similar to what they did with Dick- mention that they're playing a song that they wrote for that particular Batfam member, and hope that they come by to check it out.

Hell, in total at least each Batfam member (minus Alfred) has gotten three or four songs written about them from the reader. Two of those songs being explained above, but the other one/two is about the vigilante personas of that particular Batfam member. Which also may or may not have a public and personal version written and composed as well, hence the additional one or two.

For Batman/Bruce in particular, I can see the reader actually composing quite the bit of songs for him seeing as he is THE Batman, but also Gotham's White Knight/Prince.

For songs about Batman in particular, since that is the topic of the ask, I can see the reader taking inspiration from other tunes and melodies that other's have composed for the Dark Knight. Though they do sometimes make something entirely on their own, and that does sometimes land the piece being a bit more personal then they had intended.

The reader probably played a lot of those pieces when they were still playing during the night, so pretty early on in their musical career, but could anyone blame them? What a more perfect time could someone play a piece dedicated to the Dark Knight, then during the time he's up and about- most likely taking down criminals and doing what he usually does?

Even when the reader does play in the afternoons, usually the last song they'll play at the end of one of their longer shows, that go a little bit into the night, will be one they wrote about Batman. Though as time went on, they do eventually stop, and won't play a song they've written for Batman again unless specifically requested to do so.

Of course, they're efforts to get noticed by Batman/Bruce through the songs are in vain, and how does Bruce end up finding out about it instead? By reading the Reader's music journal, of course. Though I will say that he isn't quite aware of how many songs have been written, and how personal some of them can be, at the moment. No one is (except for maybe Alfred).

Tldr: Yes! The reader has written a song about Batman, and has played it a few times in hopes that he'd hear it, along with a few other songs that the reader has written and composed that are dedicated to Batman. However, his efforts were unfortunately in vain, and Bruce never even knew until the events of "Not Here."

[warnerswilsons]

I’m just imagining what would happen if the Batkids found the original Batman show from the ‘60s. I can picture them watching the show together, and Bruce doesn’t know until maybe Cass and Steph start singing the theme whenever he walks into a room.

The rest of the Batkids also do this, even going into multi-part harmonies for both the backing chords and the melody. I like to think that Jason and Tim would have a lot of fun with singing it. It doesn’t take long to convince Babs to join in, and she arguably does it more than most of the bats.

I can see Dick having quietly sung the theme on missions as a kid, and eventually secretly enjoying getting back into it.

Damian and Duke are some of the last to overtly join in, with Damian also having started by singing the theme under his breath, and not admitting to enjoying it, kind of like Dick. I feel like Duke would be more reluctant to join than anything else, but would join in with encouragement from the others.

In the end, Bruce thinks it’s Dick and Babs who showed everyone the show, but in reality, it was Alfred.

[solarpunkbusiness]

Part of a growing movement of Indigenous restaurants dedicated to reclaiming cultural heritage and educating the public, Cafe Ohlone opened in 2018 with the goal of bringing oṭṭoy (repair) to a place where the Ohlone were long denied sovereignty. Kickapoo chef Crystal Wahpepah runs Wahpepah’s Kitchen in Oakland, and there’s Mitsitam Cafe at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, DC.

“Indigenous foods are the original foods of this continent,” writes Sean Sherman, who helms Owamni in Minneapolis. “It’s important we recognize that and start celebrating those foods.”

Thousands of Ohlone once lived along California’s coast and inland in roughly 50 groups, but Spanish missionaries and 19th-century state-backed massacres fractured their communities and left some survivors in exile. Medina (East Bay Ohlone), who runs the cafe with his partner, Louis Trevino (Rumsen/Carmel Valley), notes that the Ohlone presence has endured despite the hardships: “Our culture is beautiful, and we have always been here.”

At Cafe Ohlone, traditional foods meet modern tastes, highlighting continuity and adaptation. The restaurant incorporates recordings, storytelling, and education into the dining experience. Medina, an Indigenous language activist fluent in Chochenyo, is a powerful orator who often enlightens diners about Ohlone traditions. When I stopped by in May for a sunny lunch on the patio, I appreciated the recorded sounds of crickets, birds, and Chochenyo songs sung by the tribe’s youngest and eldest members. My grandma, a We Wai Kai Nation member, would adore the multigenerational Chochenyo rendition of “Angel Baby.”

The cafe serves another role, too: an attempt by the university to atone for past wrongs. For much of a century, the adjacent anthropology museum housed a vast collection of Native artifacts and bones. As I walk by, I queasily remember Ishi, one of the last Yahi Tribe members, who lived in the museum and was made to fashion arrows at the behest of anthropology professor Alfred Kroeber. In 1925, Kroeber controversially declared the Ohlone people “extinct” in Handbook of the Indians of California. This led to the Ohlone Tribe losing its federal recognition, while the building housing the museum was later christened Kroeber Hall.

[the-radio-demon-blog]

Hello, Mr....

He looked in his notebook.

Mr. Alastor.

He returned his gaze back to eyes of interviewed demon.

It's nice to meet you in person. My name is Faust Gotsman, I am a correspondent for the radio station "Hell Today". If you don't mind, could you answer a couple of questions, wrote by me, my colleagues, and sent to us by our dear listeners?

He opened his notebook once again.

I will now read out all the questions, and you can answer them in any order convenient for you. Well, let's begin.

"Mr. Alastor, will you have an interview with the Ruler of Hell, His Highness Lucifer, on your radio station?"

" What is your favourite dish?"

" Mr. Alastor, could you tell me what helps you always keep your smile on your face?"

"Do you play sports? If yes, what kind? If not, what sport do you like best?"

And also, so to speak, a blitz part of our interview.

Apples or pears?

Favourite author?

Favourite movie?

Favourite song?

He looked up at Alastor with pen in his hand, waiting for answers. This chance should not be missed!

What a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gotsman! Quite a pleasure! Shakes the gentleman's hand. My, Hell's Today sounds like quite a radio station! Well, I usually don't cater to other stations but for now, I'll make an exception.

Hmm...you want to set up an interview between the Ruler of Hell and I? Well he is my floor mate, after all! It shouldn't be too hard!

My favorite dish? Ah, well, I have quite a nostalgic feeling about Jambalaya. However, venison is my favorite. Processed food is quite uncultured.

Tell you about what keeps a smile on my face? Ah, what an interesting question! I believe I've only shared that advice with our dear princess! I suppose its to keep my enemies guessing and to encourage my allies. And most importantly...it ensures that you are the one in control.

Well, I used to play sports when I was younger. Much, much, younger when I was a boy. Baseball was at its height in New Orleans however it required so many pieces to play. I found that I prefer soccer much more. I usually stray away from sports with a lot of contact but soccer is an exception. Soccer can be played with simply a large space and a ball. And it is quite an elegant sport if I say so myself.

I do have to say with the humans competition such as the EUROS and COPA happening, the hotel was been abuzz with excitement! As much as I detest those stupid picture boxes, they do have one advantage...to tune into the living world. Charlie isn't much of a fan but the free beer and the spacious living space allow new sinners to enjoy these competitions!

Apples or pears? Hmmm...I would say Apples. I would say they are more striking in color and it is a symbol of sin! Quite fitting, hm?

My favorite author? I would say F. Scott Fitzgerald. I did quite enjoy his book The Great Gatsby along with his other marvelous novels!

Ah, favorite movie. That's quite a question. Well, before Vox ruined technology. I would say even though I detest television I can admire Alfred Hitchcock's work! Picking just one would be troublesome for me but I shall give you three? How about that? Rear Window, Rebecca, and Strangers on a Train. All of them were quite thrilling and clever! I do enjoy Arsenic and Old Lace as well. Quite a classic!

Favorite song? Ah yes, my favorite subject! I would say for now...it does change...All the Things You Are sung by the wonderful Ella Fitzgerald!

I suppose that's the end of your little interview then! I appreciate your interest! Until next time, Mr. Gotsman! It is always a pleasure to see another radio station thriving in these trying times.

[beaft]

october 13th

happy friday the thirteenth, everyone! and to celebrate, here's that poem you probably read at school that one time! today's spooky poem is "the highwayman", a delightfully melodramatic ballad by alfred noyes. there's an analysis of it here and a sung version by loreena mckennit here. and once you've listened to that you can watch this, if you're so inclined.

THE HIGHWAYMAN

Part I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,    And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there    But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,    But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,    Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

Part II He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

—Alfred Noyes