#always doing it in Hollywood style on track

[rootedinrevisions]

Worth More than Gold

SUMMARY: Glen Powell has asked you, his long-time friend and secret crush to be his date to the Golden Globes. The evening is filled with glitz, glamour, and the intoxicating spark of possibilities - both on the red carpet and behind the scene. And at the end of the day Glen may not have won the Golden Globe, but he just might have won something better—you.

A/N: Glen's look at the Golden Globes did things to me and gave me so many ideas. This will probably be the last fic I do for the GG and I'm going to try to get back on track with my WIPs and Requests.

As always I'd love to hear what you guys think! I love seeing your comments and reblogs! I seriously smile and get all giddy like a little kid when I get a notification from you guys so please let me know what I think.

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The hotel room was a whirlwind of chaos, a perfect reflection of Glen’s pre-event energy. The plush carpet was littered with tissue paper from a last-minute gift delivery, a shoe box sat abandoned near the bed, and the sleek black tie Glen had decided to forego tonight was somehow draped over a lampshade.

Glen himself was in the middle of the room, pacing in socks and dress pants, his phone pressed to his ear. “Listen, I’m just saying, Texas football isn’t a sport—it’s a religion,” he declared, his Texas drawl warming the edges of his words. “And if the Longhorns take the game against Ohio State this week, we’re coming for that national title.”

He paused, evidently listening to the journalist on the other end of the call, then grinned as he gestured animatedly with his free hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know you want to talk about the nomination. But did you see last weekend’s game? That last play in the second overtime?”

Across the room, you sat curled on the couch, scrolling through your phone but only half-paying attention to the screen. Watching Glen charm his way through an interview about his career or recent projects while managing to somehow steer the conversation to Texas football was nothing new.

“Cufflinks,” said Warren, the stylist ensuring Glen looked red-carpet ready. Warren stood to the side, arms crossed with the patience of someone who’d dealt with a dozen “Glen Powells” before.

“They’re in the pocket of your tux,” you called without looking up, your voice laced with playful exasperation. “Right where I told you I put them earlier.”

Glen froze mid-gesture, patting down his pants pocket first before moving to his jacket. When his fingers closed around the cufflinks, he shot you a sheepish grin. 

“You’re a lifesaver,” he mouthed, before turning his attention back to his call. “Listen, I gotta wrap this up. Can I call you tomorrow and we’ll finish this?” he asked the journalist.

With that, he hung up and turned to the room, raking a hand through his neatly-styled hair. “You believe this?” He said, grinning as he pocketed his phone. “I’m on deadline and trying to get out the door for one of the biggest nights of my life. And GQ wants to talk about…wardrobe and clothes and who I’m wearing.”

Warren arched a brow, adjusting the velvet Armani jacket on its hanger. “Wardrobe is why I’m here, Glen,” he said with a grin. “Now, if you could refrain from wrinkling this masterpiece, we might actually get you to the event looking like a winner.”

You snorted, rising from the couch. “Poor you,” you teased, brushing imaginary lint off your own shirt. “Must be so hard being adored by millions while wearing designer clothes.”

Glen rolled his eyes and snorted, stepping closer as the stylist fussed with his cummerbund. “Hey, I’m counting on you to keep me sane tonight,” he said, half-serious as he began to tug at the cuffs of his shirt. “You’re my buffer.”

“Buffer?” you repeated, arching a brow. “That’s what I’m here for? Not moral support—just as a human barrier between you and Hollywood?”

“Exactly,” he deadpanned, his grin widening. “You’re overqualified for the job, though.”

You stepped forward, brushing imaginary lint from his shirt, your fingers moving with practiced ease over the slick fabric. Glen watched you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Okay, be honest,” he said, tilting his chin slightly. “One button or two undone? What’s the vibe tonight?”

You paused, letting your gaze drop to the open collar of his shirt, catching a glimpse of the chest hair peeking out.

“One,” you said decisively, reaching up to fasten the second button. “Two buttons undone is too much chest hair. You’re going to a red carpet, not auditioning for a ‘70s cop show.”

He laughed, the rich sound filling the room as he placed his hands on his hips. “Hey, my chest hair is a crowd-pleaser,” he countered, feigning offense. “You don’t know how many compliments I’ve gotten on this chest.”

You rolled your eyes, holding back a laugh. “Please never say that to me again.”

He leaned in slightly, his grin widening. “Admit it. You’re just jealous you can’t pull this off.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting the collar of his shirt with a playful tug. “Oh, please. If I wanted to show off chest hair, I’d buy a faux-fur vest and call it a day.”

“Savage,” he said, clutching his chest as though you’d wounded him. “You’ve got jokes tonight, huh?”

“Somebody has to keep your ego in check,” you replied, stepping back to inspect your work. “And you make it so easy.”

Glen chuckled, shaking his head as he tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. “Well, I’ll have you know, Warren said I was rocking this look,” he said, gesturing toward the stylist, who was busy folding tissue paper into one of the garment bags.

Warren didn’t even look up. “Warren also said to stop touching your shirt or you’ll wrinkle it,” he replied dryly, earning a snort from you and an exaggerated groan from Glen.

“Fine,” Glen said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “No more touching. But if I get to the carpet and I’m not turning heads, I’m blaming you.”

“Oh, you’ll turn heads,” you said, crossing your arms and giving him a once-over. “If not for the suit, then definitely for whatever ridiculous sound bite you give on the carpet. You’re physically incapable of being boring, remember?”

He grinned, stepping closer so the space between you was almost nonexistent. “Is that a compliment?” he asked, his voice dipping slightly.

You tilted your head, refusing to let him win. “Don’t get used to it, Cowboy.”

“Ah, there it is,” he said, leaning back with a laugh. “The nickname. I knew it was coming.”

You shrugged. “If the boots fit…”

Glen slid the custom velvet Armani tux jacket over his broad shoulders, the deep midnight-black fabric catching the light in subtle, luxurious waves. He tugged at the lapels, ensuring everything was sitting perfectly, before stepping back with an air of casual confidence.

“Well?” he asked, doing a quick spin on his heels, arms spread out theatrically. “What do you think? Too much? Not enough?”

You leaned back slightly, arms crossed, pretending to appraise him critically, but your expression betrayed you. Your eyes swept over him, taking in every detail—the sharp tailoring that hugged his frame perfectly, the structured cut of the jacket emphasizing his frame, and the way the silk shirt beneath hinted at the faintest trail of chest hair.

The stylist had done a remarkable job on his hair, taming the usual tousled locks into something sleek yet effortlessly natural. And the stubble—God, the stubble. He hadn’t bothered to shave completely, leaving just enough scruff to lend him a rugged edge that, if you were honest, made him look even more attractive.

The all-black ensemble was a bold choice, but it worked. The mix of textures—the smooth silk of the shirt, the luxurious velvet of the jacket, and the matte sheen of the tailored trousers—created a look that was polished yet unmistakably Glen.

“You clean up nice,” you finally said, a teasing smile pulling at your lips as you took him in from head to toe. “I mean, you almost look like a proper gentleman.”

“Almost?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow as he turned back toward the mirror, pretending to check himself out.

“Well, the stubble kind of ruins the whole gentleman thing,” you quipped, biting back a laugh.

“Ruin it?” Glen turned to face you again, his voice dripping with mock offense. “The stubble is the pièce de résistance, thank you very much.” He ran a hand over his jaw, grinning when he saw the way your gaze briefly followed the movement.

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your composure. “Sure it is. But seriously, you look good, Glen. The best I’ve seen you look in a while.”

For a moment, his grin softened, and his eyes caught yours. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you replied, more sincerely this time. “You’re going to knock ‘em dead tonight.”

He held your gaze for a beat longer than usual, something unreadable flickering in his expression before he broke the moment with his signature charm. “Well, I have to. You’re the one who’ll have to be seen with me all night. Can’t embarrass you on your first red carpet.”

You glanced at the clock and froze. Less than an hour until you were supposed to be ready and out the door. Helping Glen finish getting ready had been fun—maybe a little too fun, you realized now, as time ticked away faster than you’d expected.

“I need to go get ready,” you said abruptly, stepping back and pointing toward the door.

Glen smirked, his hands casually adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. “Go on, Cinderella. Clock’s ticking.”

Without another word, you bolted for your room next door, already running through a mental checklist of what needed to happen to make yourself red carpet-ready in under an hour. Once inside, you kicked the door shut behind you and headed straight for the bathroom. Flicking on the light, you stared at your reflection in the mirror.

Okay. Hair. Makeup. Dress. You could do this. Right?

You pulled your hair loose from the lazy ponytail it had been in all day, raking your fingers through it and trying to decide if it would look better up or down. Your eyes darted to the neckline of the dress still hanging on the back of the closet door, but you didn’t have time to figure out how to make everything match. You groaned, pressing your hands to your face.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted your spiraling thoughts.

“Hello?” you called out, cautiously heading toward the door and cracking it open.

Standing there were two members of Glen’s glam squad—one holding a bag of makeup brushes and palettes, the other with a small suitcase of hair tools.

“Mr. Powell asked us to check on you,” the makeup artist said with a kind smile. “He thought you might be running behind.”

You blinked at them, momentarily speechless. “He... sent you?”

The hairstylist nodded. “He figured you might need a little help. Mind if we come in?”

You stepped aside to let them in, still processing Glen’s uncanny ability to predict you’d be panicking. “Sorry about the mess,” you admitted, glancing at the clock again. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Don’t worry,” the makeup artist said, already setting up her supplies on the bathroom counter. “We’ve got this. Can we see the dress? It’ll help us figure out the best look for you.”

You grabbed the garment bag from the closet and unzipped it, revealing the dress inside. You’d picked it out weeks ago, but standing there now, you suddenly second-guessed everything about it.

The hairstylist tilted his head thoughtfully, taking in the neckline and cut. “With this neckline, I’d suggest pulling your hair up—something elegant but not overdone. It’ll show off your shoulders and collarbone beautifully.”

You nodded, trusting his expertise. “That sounds perfect.”

“And for makeup,” the other stylist added, “we’ll keep it timeless—focus on your eyes, a little shimmer, and a soft lip. Nothing too bold, just enough to complement the dress and the hair.”

“Let’s do it,” you said, exhaling as you sat down.

With practiced efficiency, they got to work. The hairstylist began gathering your hair into an elegant style that framed your face while showcasing the neckline of the dress. Meanwhile, the makeup artist brushed soft gold tones onto your lids, added a touch of liner to define your eyes, and blended everything seamlessly. A quick swipe of lipstick finished the look.

You watched the transformation in the mirror, the tension slowly melting from your shoulders. By the time they stepped back to admire their handiwork, you felt like a completely different person.

“Done in thirty minutes, just like we promised,” the hairstylist said with a grin.

You stood, giving them both a grateful smile. “Thank you. Seriously, I wouldn’t have made it without you—or Glen, apparently.”

The makeup artist laughed. “He seemed pretty confident you’d need backup. Smart guy.”

“Yeah,” you said softly, thinking about his effortless charm and how much he looked out for you. “He really is.”

After the hairstylist and makeup artist left, you stood in front of the full-length mirror, a deep breath escaping your lips. You could do this.

You reached for the dress, still hanging from its garment bag, and carefully unzipped it. The soft fabric slid through your fingers as you pulled it off the hanger, feeling a flutter of nerves as you held it up in front of you.

The dress was simple, yet elegant, hugging every curve in a way that made you second-guess your choice. But it was beautiful.

With your heart racing a little, you slipped the dress on. You paused to glance at the mirror as you tugged the fabric up your body, hoping everything would fall into place.

But it didn’t.

The zipper snagged halfway up your lower back. You tugged a little harder, but it didn’t budge. Panic settled in your chest. You didn’t want to rip the fabric or make a scene, but there was no way to finish getting ready if you couldn’t zip the dress.

Your fingers fumbled for your phone, dialing Glen’s number before you could think twice. The seconds ticked by slowly, and your nerves only heightened with every ring.

“Hey, it’s me,” you said the moment he answered. Your voice trembled slightly despite your best efforts to sound calm. “I need help. The zipper on the dress is stuck, and I can’t get it up.”

“Don’t worry, I’m coming right over,” Glen’s voice was calm, reassuring. You could almost hear the smile in his tone.

The call ended quickly, and before you knew it, there was a soft knock at your door. You quickly pulled the front of the dress to your chest and peeked out, your eyes meeting Glen’s as you opened the door just a crack. His presence was as commanding as ever, but now, standing there, you felt exposed.

“Hey,” you greeted him, offering a sheepish smile.

“Hey,” he said softly, raising an eyebrow. “Need a hand?”

You nodded, opening the door wider for him to step inside.

As he entered, you turned, giving him full view of the situation. The dress clung tightly to your body, and you were sure your back looked exposed in the tight fabric. A slight blush crept across your cheeks as your fingers instinctively tugged at the fabric.

“Relax,” Glen said, his tone warm and teasing. He moved behind you and gently grasped the zipper. 

After a few tugs and a bit of effort, he managed to get it unstuck, smoothly pulling it the rest of the way up. The dress fit perfectly once it was zipped all the way.

Glen stepped back with a satisfied nod, patting your hip gently. “All good. You’re all set now.”

You took a deep breath, your nerves slightly eased but still there. With a nervous smile, you smoothed the front of your dress down, trying to calm yourself before glancing back at him.

“Do I look okay?” you asked quietly, suddenly unsure of how you appeared.

Glen gave you a slow once-over, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than you expected. Then, his lips curved into a soft smile.

“You look amazing,” he said, his voice steady and sincere. “Seriously. You’re going to steal the show tonight.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the tension in your chest easing. Glen’s words meant more than you realized, and as he gave you that smile, it felt like everything was finally falling into place.

Once you were fully ready, feeling the weight of the evening ahead, Glen offered you a reassuring smile as he adjusted his jacket one last time. He gave you a soft nod, signaling that it was time to go.

Together, you left the suite, the sound of your heels echoing in the hallway as you walked side by side toward the elevator. Glen pressed the button, standing close enough to be a silent but steady presence. You couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly he moved—like he was born to own every room he entered, even though his demeanor was always so grounded.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Glen stepped aside, letting you enter first. When you reached the lobby, the bustle of the hotel faded in comparison to the calm, quiet space Glen seemed to create around the two of you. He was the kind of person who moved with purpose, but never rushed—always thoughtful, always present.

As you made your way toward the entrance, he gave a quiet wave to a few people who greeted him, but he kept his focus on you, his hand close to your lower back as if guiding you through the crowd.

Outside, a sleek black car waited by the curb, the driver standing at attention. Glen held the door open for you with a courteous nod, his hand outstretched to assist you into the back seat.

You smiled, appreciating the little things—his attention to detail, the way he never made you feel like you were inconveniencing him. You slid into the seat, and as you did, Glen quickly followed, settling next to you with a quiet grace that was all him.

The driver closed the door, and the car began to move smoothly through the streets, the city lights reflecting off the tinted windows. The buzz of the evening began to settle into a comfortable rhythm, and Glen turned his attention to you with a soft look.

“You ready for this?” he asked, his tone light but sincere. He glanced down at your dress, the slight gleam in his eyes making you feel all the more seen. “You’re gonna turn heads tonight, no doubt about it.”

You smiled, trying to play it cool, but his words still made your stomach flutter. “I’m ready,” you said, your voice steady. 

The car glided through the streets, the hum of the engine and the soft clink of the streetlights outside giving you a sense of distance from the chaos of the night ahead. Your fingers nervously drummed on the fabric of your dress, your gaze flickering from the passing city lights to the reflection of yourself in the window.

Glen noticed the subtle tension in your posture and the way your fingers twitched, like they couldn’t quite settle. His sharp eyes, attuned to every little shift in your mood, moved over to you. He shifted closer, his hand reaching across the space between you with ease, brushing lightly over your fingers before gently taking your hand in his.

"You're going to be fine," he said, his voice low, teasing but gentle, as he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. His thumb brushed the back of your hand, smoothing away any remnants of tension. "Just smile and wave, Penguin. You’ve got this."

You couldn’t help but laugh at the nickname, the warmth of his hand in yours bringing a little bit of ease. “Penguin?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow, feeling the tension in your shoulders release with that soft chuckle.

He grinned at you, the kind of smile that melted any nervous edge. “Yeah, Penguin. You know—Madagascar. Smile and wave boys. Smile and wave.” He gave your hand a playful tug, the humor in his eyes lighting up.

You shook your head, but the tension you’d carried with you slowly began to melt. Glen had that way about him—without even trying, he made things feel easy, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. His confidence was infectious, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that you could pull this off.

The car hit a smooth turn, the soft hum of the tires filling the silence. You glanced at Glen, his easy grin still in place, his hand steady in yours. There was something about his presence—something grounding, comforting. Without thinking, you leaned your head against his shoulder, letting out a soft sigh as you let the last bits of tension drain away.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Glen glanced down at you, his expression softening. He didn’t move, didn’t shift away—he just stayed still, letting you rest there. His thumb continued its soothing motion across the back of your hand, and he tilted his head slightly toward yours.

"Anytime," he replied, his voice warm and steady. "You know I’ve got you."

For a moment, the world outside the car faded away. It was just the two of you, a quiet moment that reminded you why Glen was your best friend. His support, his calm energy—it was all you needed to take a deep breath and believe in yourself again.

As the car slowed to a stop, signaling your arrival at the red carpet, you felt ready. Maybe it was the way Glen always knew how to bring you back to yourself, or maybe it was just the fact that he was there beside you, exactly where he always seemed to be when you needed him most.

You stole a quick glance at Glen, catching the way his gaze softened as he looked back at you, his hand still comfortably wrapped around yours.

“Hey,” he said, the tone shifting just a little, serious but with the same undertone of care. “You’re gonna be great, okay? And if you need me to do anything, I’m right here. Just... be you.”

Glen gave your hand one last squeeze, a reassuring pressure that grounded you, and you suddenly felt like you could take on the world.

The driver opened the door, and the bright lights of the red carpet began to stretch ahead of you, already swirling with flashes and faces, the hum of excitement palpable in the air. Glen leaned toward you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing the smooth skin of your neck.

“You’re gonna shine tonight,” he said quietly, his voice filled with confidence, making you believe it for the first time.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, then flashed him a grin. “Thanks, Glen.”

He winked. “Anytime, Penguin. Let’s go make some memories.”

With that, you stepped out of the car, Glen’s hand still firmly in yours, ready to face whatever the night would bring—with him by your side, you felt ready for anything.

The roar of the red carpet hit you the moment you stepped out of the car. A wall of flashing lights and the constant hum of voices calling out names created a dizzying cacophony. For a second, you froze, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. The chaos seemed endless, but Glen’s steady hand on the small of your back was the anchor you needed.

“Stay close,” he said quietly, his voice warm and reassuring, almost lost in the noise. He guided you forward with a gentle pressure, his touch never faltering.

Reporters shouted his name, cameras clicked furiously, and fans called out from behind the barriers. Glen’s demeanor shifted effortlessly, the easy confidence you admired about him coming to life under the scrutiny. But even as he navigated the chaos like a pro, his focus never strayed far from you.

When a particularly eager photographer stepped too close, Glen instinctively pulled you in, lacing your arm through his. The motion was protective yet natural, as though he’d done it a thousand times before.

He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “You doing okay so far?”

You nodded, the nerves still simmering but far less overwhelming with Glen beside you. “Yeah. It’s just... a lot.”

He chuckled softly, his fingers giving your arm a light squeeze. “It’s always a lot. Just keep smiling and don’t trip. I’ve got the rest covered.”

Moments later, you were ushered to the line of reporters waiting for interviews. Glen kept you close, his hand returning to your back as he led you toward the first microphone. The journalist’s attention immediately shifted to him, questions about his latest project firing off one after another.

“This is Glen Powell, looking dapper as always! Who’s your stunning guest tonight?” one reporter asked, her eyes flicking to you with interest.

Glen grinned, that signature charm lighting up his face. “This,” he said, his voice full of pride, “is the best friend who keeps me sane.” He glanced at you, his expression softening as if to emphasize his words.

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks as the reporter laughed. “Keeping Glen Powell on track sounds like a full-time job!”

“You have no idea,” you replied, finding your confidence in the moment. Glen chuckled beside you, his presence like a shield against the overwhelming spotlight.

The interviews continued, with Glen effortlessly steering the attention toward his projects while making sure you felt included. Whenever he wasn’t speaking, his hand either rested lightly on your back or your arm stayed looped through his. The gesture was subtle, but it kept you grounded, a quiet reminder that you weren’t alone in this.

In a rare lull between interviews, Glen turned to you, his expression softening as the frenzy of the red carpet seemed to momentarily fade into the background.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, almost drowned out by the noise around you.

You looked up at him, your heart still racing from the whirlwind of the evening. 

“Hey,” you replied, a little breathless.

He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair that had fallen out of your updo from your face, his fingers lingering just slightly longer than necessary. His touch was light, yet it sent a wave of warmth through you. His eyes searched yours, the usual glint of mischief replaced with something quieter, more sincere. “You okay?”

The simple question held weight, as if he wasn’t just asking about the moment but something deeper. You nodded, your voice catching slightly as you said, “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

His lips quirked into a soft smile, his hand dropping back to his side, though the warmth of his touch seemed to linger. “Good. Can’t have my Penguin falling apart on me now.”

The moment hung between you, brief but charged with an unspoken connection that neither of you dared to address. Then the chaos of the red carpet surged back to life, pulling you both out of it.

“Ready to keep going?” Glen asked, his tone light again as he gestured toward the next line of reporters.

You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders, and smiled. “Let’s do it.”

With your arm resting gently on his, Glen led you forward, his confidence bolstering your own. And as the night unfolded, you realized that no matter how overwhelming the evening became, you’d be okay—with Glen by your side.

The ballroom was a masterpiece of elegance, bathed in soft, golden light with tables draped in white linens and adorned with extravagant floral centerpieces. Each table bore name cards in ornate calligraphy, indicating an impressive roster of directors, actors, and other Hollywood heavyweights.

Glen pulled out your chair for you before taking his seat beside you, leaning in briefly to whisper, “You’ve got this. Just be yourself.”

You looked at Glen with a soft smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Powell.”

Within moments, the table began filling with familiar faces. To your left sat Richard Linklater himself, his unassuming charm making you feel more at ease than you’d expected. Across the table, a notable actress you’d only ever seen on-screen chatted animatedly with Glen, who was effortlessly charismatic as always.

“Glen,” Richard said with a warm smile, his Texan drawl coming through as he gestured toward you. “You didn’t introduce me to your lovely guest.”

Glen straightened, the corners of his mouth tilting upward as he turned to you. “Richard, this is the best friend who keeps me sane—and who’s also had to deal with my Dazed and Confused impression far too many times.”

You laughed lightly, shaking Richard’s hand. “It’s true. If I hear him say, ‘Alright, alright, alright,’ one more time, I might disown him.”

Richard chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “A classic never dies, though, does it?”

“I suppose not,” you conceded with a grin.

The quick banter caught the attention of the others at the table, who joined the conversation with playful remarks of their own. You held your own with ease, even managing to get a genuine laugh out of the actress across from you after a comment about the absurdity of some press junket questions.

Glen, sitting beside you, watched the exchanges with a kind of quiet pride, his gaze lingering on you whenever you spoke. At one point, he leaned closer, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “You’re killing it. Remind me again—why am I not bringing you to all of these things?”

You smirked, taking a sip of water to hide the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “Because you know I’d upstage you.”

“Touché,” he said with a soft laugh, nudging your shoulder playfully.

As the dinner continued, Glen made sure to include you in every conversation, subtly steering the spotlight toward you when someone asked about his current projects. You found yourself talking about Glen’s work ethic and how he somehow managed to juggle it all without losing his sense of humor.

“Sounds like you know him pretty well,” Richard observed with a knowing smile.

“I sure hope so after I’ve put up with him for all these years,” you replied, glancing at Glen. “Someone has to keep him humble.”

The table erupted in laughter, and Glen shook his head, though the unmistakable warmth in his expression betrayed how much he loved every second of it.

When dessert was served—an artfully plated creation that was almost too pretty to eat—Glen leaned in once more, his tone playful but sincere. “See? Told you you’d be great.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, a smile tugging at your lips. “Not bad for someone who almost didn’t make it out of the hotel room.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening, “you belong here, you know.”

The weight of his words settled between you, a quiet affirmation that carried more meaning than the playful banter that had preceded it. You nodded, the nerves you’d been holding onto finally beginning to ease.

The awards show was nothing short of spectacular, a seamless blend of glamour, artistry, and showmanship. The host kept the audience entertained with clever quips and light-hearted jokes, while presenters took the stage to announce the winners in a variety of categories. The room buzzed with energy as names were called, winners delivered heartfelt speeches, and cameras panned over the crowd of celebrities.

Sitting beside Glen, you couldn’t help but notice how his leg bounced slightly under the table, a telltale sign of his nerves. Despite the outward appearance of ease he projected, you knew him well enough to see through it. Every now and then, his hand brushed his jawline, the slight stubble catching the light, as he glanced at the stage and back at you with an almost imperceptible smile.

You leaned closer to him during a quieter moment. “How are you holding up?” you asked softly, your voice barely audible over the applause filling the room.

“Better with you here,” he replied, his tone casual but sincere. The weight of his words sent a gentle warmth through you, grounding you as much as it did him.

As the night progressed, Glen laughed at the host’s jokes and applauded the winners, though you could feel his anticipation building as his category grew closer. 

The glitz and chatter around you seemed to blur as the presenter finally took the stage to announce the nominees for Best Performance by an Actor in a Motion Picture - Musical or Comedy. 

You felt Glen shift in his seat, his back straightening as his name was called alongside the other nominees. His hand brushed his thigh, and you noticed him take a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out slowly. Instinctively, you leaned in just enough so your shoulder lightly pressed against his, a silent reminder that you were right there with him.

The presenter opened the envelope, the seconds stretching impossibly long. “And the award goes to... Sebastian Stan!”

The room erupted into applause as Sebastian rose from his seat, making his way to the stage. You clapped along with everyone else, but the knot of disappointment in your chest was impossible to ignore. Letting out a small, defeated breath, you glanced over at Glen.

He was smiling politely, clapping for Sebastian, but you saw the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. The kind of flicker only someone who truly knew him could catch. Others at the table offered their own words of encouragement, but Glen only nodded politely, his attention still half-focused on the stage.

Without thinking, you leaned closer, your voice low and meant just for him. “You’re still the most talented guy in the room.”

You reached over, resting your hand gently on his knee under the table, offering him the kind of comfort words alone couldn’t provide. For a moment, his gaze dropped to your hand, then back to your face. A small, grateful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his hand briefly covered yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice soft but full of meaning.

Throughout the rest of the show, Glen leaned into your presence, subtly relying on you to keep him grounded. You noticed the way his body gradually relaxed, the tension in his shoulders easing as the night continued. 

When another winner gave a particularly heartfelt speech, Glen turned to you with a quiet chuckle. “At least I don’t have to worry about tripping on the way to the stage.”

You laughed softly, the sound drawing out a more genuine smile from him. “See? There’s always a silver lining.”

By the time the final award was announced and the audience began filtering out of the theater, Glen seemed more at ease. 

As the two of you stood to leave, he placed a hand on your back, guiding you through the crowd. “Thanks for keeping me sane tonight,” he said, his voice low but warm.

“Always,” you replied with a smile, feeling the unspoken connection between you deepen as the evening came to a close.

The after-party was everything you expected it to be: glamorous, extravagant, and a little overwhelming. The main Golden Globes after-party felt less like a celebration and more like a carefully orchestrated networking event. The room was packed with A-list celebrities, producers, directors, and journalists, each armed with a drink in one hand and a carefully curated smile.

Music thumped in the background, but it barely registered over the hum of conversations and the clinking of champagne glasses. Glen stayed by your side at first, introducing you to a few people here and there. You exchanged pleasantries with actors whose faces you recognized from the big screen and smiled politely at directors whose names you tried not to forget. 

But before long, Glen was pulled away, whisked from one conversation to the next like the star of the evening. You watched as he posed for pictures, his easy charm making every interaction look effortless. He’d glance back at you occasionally, offering a reassuring smile or a quick wink, but you could tell even he was beginning to feel the strain of the crowd.

You nursed a drink at the edge of the room, trying to stay out of the way while still keeping Glen in your sights. It was easy to lose track of time amidst the chaos, but the constant flow of strangers and small talk started to take its toll. The energy in the room felt electric and draining all at once, and you found yourself wishing for a quieter corner to catch your breath.

After what felt like hours, Glen appeared at your side, his hand lightly brushing your arm to get your attention. 

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the noise around you. “This is… a lot, huh?”

You nodded, letting out a small laugh. “It’s a little overwhelming. How are you holding up?”

“I’ve smiled so much tonight my face might be stuck this way,” he joked, though there was a hint of exhaustion in his eyes. He glanced around the room, then back at you. “What do you say we head to my party? I think I’ve shaken enough hands and posed for enough pictures to last a lifetime.”

The suggestion was like a lifeline, and you didn’t hesitate to agree. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Glen’s shoulders relaxed visibly at your answer, and he gave you a small, grateful smile. He offered you his arm, the gesture both protective and grounding as he guided you through the crowd toward the exit. Despite the noise and flashing cameras still lingering near the doorway, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief as you stepped out into the cool night air.

The car ride to the rooftop bar was quiet, a welcome change from the chaos of the Golden Globes after-party. Glen leaned back against the seat, his shirt now unbuttoned to a second button and the faintest hint of exhaustion in his expression.

You glanced at him, smiling softly. “You know, most people would just go to bed after a night like this. Not go to another party.”

Glen chuckled, his head turning toward you. “What can I say? I’m not most people.”

When the car pulled up to the rooftop bar, Glen stepped out first, turning back to offer you his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go see everyone.”

The rooftop bar was stunning, its perimeter lined with fairy lights that cast a warm, golden glow. The city skyline sparkled in the distance, and the faint hum of music drifted through the air. Glen had rented the entire space, and as the two of you stepped inside, you were greeted by the cheerful buzz of conversation.

His parents were the first to spot you, their faces lighting up as they hurried over to greet Glen with warm hugs and congratulations. 

His mom pulled you into an embrace as well, her voice filled with genuine affection. “You look stunning tonight, sweetheart. And thank you for taking care of our boy out there.”

“Always,” you replied with a smile, feeling the ease that came with being around Glen’s family.

You scanned the room and spotted Leslie, Glen’s younger sister, waving excitedly from across the bar. She was all smiles as she made her way over, throwing her arms around you in a hug. 

“It’s been forever!” she exclaimed, pulling back to give you a once-over. “You look amazing! And that dress—ugh, you’re killing me.”

“You’re one to talk,” you teased, taking in her own dress. “You look incredible.”

Glen was quickly pulled into conversations with friends and other guests, his charm and warmth on full display as he moved through the room. You stayed behind with Leslie, the two of you settling into a quieter corner of the bar.

“So,” you said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Tell me everything about the engagement. I need details.”

Leslie’s face lit up, and she launched into a detailed recounting of the proposal—how her fiancé had asked, the secret planning, how he included her friends and family in on the surprise. She showed you the ring, a design that perfectly suited her, and the two of you gushed over wedding plans.

“I’m thinking late spring,” Leslie said, twirling her glass of wine between her fingers. “Something outdoors, simple but elegant. Glen keeps trying to offer to pay for everything, but I want to keep it low-key.”

“That sounds perfect,” you said, smiling. “And knowing Glen, he’ll find a way to contribute whether you want him to or not.”

Leslie laughed, nodding. “Oh, I know. He’s the best, though. We’re lucky to have him.”

“Yeah, we really are.” Your gaze drifted across the room to where Glen was laughing with a small group of friends, his easy smile making your own lips curve upward. His hand was resting casually in the pocket of his suit pants.

“You’ve got that look again,” Leslie said, a teasing lilt in her tone.

You blinked, snapping your gaze back to her. “What look?”

She grinned knowingly and nudged your arm with her elbow. “The ‘I’m totally into Glen but I’ll never admit it’ look.”

Your eyes widened, heat rushing to your cheeks. “What? That’s ridiculous,” you said quickly, trying to laugh it off. “You’re crazy.”

“Uh-huh,” Leslie said, leaning back against the bar with a smirk. “Sure I am.”

You rolled your eyes, determined to brush off her teasing. “He’s my best friend, Les. That’s-” But before you could finish your sentence, Glen glanced over at the two of you. His eyes found yours across the room, and when he smiled—soft, warm, and undeniably genuine—you felt your words falter. 

You didn’t even realize you had stopped speaking until Leslie let out a low chuckle.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, barely containing her laughter. “You’ve got it bad.”

Realizing what just happened, you tore your gaze away from Glen, your face burning. 

“I do not,” you muttered, but the weak protest only made Leslie laugh harder.

She shook her head, her grin widening. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered. Honestly, I’ve suspected this for years, but that little moment right there? Total confirmation.”

“Okay, enough,” you said, waving your hands as if to physically push the conversation away. “Let’s focus less on your brother and my nonexistent love life. Let’s get back to your wedding.”

Leslie just smirked, clearly not buying your denial. “Fine, but for the record? He’s totally into you too.”

You gave Leslie a confused look, followed by a doubtful laugh. “Yeah, right?” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Leslie raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your self-doubt. “Why do you think he wouldn’t be into you?” she asked, crossing her arms as if she were gearing up to debate.

You sighed, glancing down at your drink. “I mean…look at him,” you said, gesturing vaguely in Glen’s direction. “He could have literally anyone he wants. Models, actresses, anyone. And I’m just…” You trailed off, shrugging.

Leslie tilted her head, studying you with a knowing smile. “Just what?” she pressed.

“Just me,” you finished weakly, feeling a little silly for saying it out loud.

Leslie let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Okay, first of all, that’s ridiculous. Second of all—” She paused, leaning in slightly for emphasis. “You’re the one he asked to be his date tonight. Not a model, not an actress, you.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the truth of her words. “That’s just because we’re friends,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Friends,” Leslie repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Right. Because friends definitely look at each other the way he looks at you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up again. “He does not look at me any type of way,” you insisted, but Leslie wasn’t buying it.

She smirked, nodding toward Glen, who was now making his way across the room in your direction.

“Sure he doesn’t,” she said, her voice teasing. “But just in case you’re still in denial, why don’t you pay attention when he gets over here? You’ll see what I mean.”

Before you could respond, Glen reached the two of you, his presence immediately drawing your attention. 

“Hey,” he said, flashing that easy smile of his. “Am I interrupting something, or can I steal her for a bit?”

Leslie’s grin widened as she gave you a pointed look. “Not at all,” she said sweetly, stepping aside. “She’s all yours.”

You shot her a subtle glare, but Leslie just winked at you before turning to join the rest of the group. As Glen’s attention shifted back to you, your heart did that annoying fluttery thing it always seemed to do when he was around.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze flicking over your face as if checking for any signs of discomfort.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a smile. “Just catching up with Leslie.”

“Good,” he said, his smile softening. “She’s been excited to see you. I think she’s secretly more interested in hanging out with you than me tonight.”

You laughed, the sound helping to ease the tension swirling in your chest. “Well, to be fair, I am pretty great,” you teased, falling back into your usual banter with him.

“Can’t argue with that,” Glen said, his tone light, but there was something in his eyes that lingered a little too long, something that made your breath catch just slightly.

The atmosphere shifted subtly as the music transitioned to something slower, a beat just mellow enough to set a softer, almost romantic mood. The chatter in the room seemed to quiet slightly, replaced by the rhythmic sway of the melody. Glen glanced toward the small dance floor, where a few of his friends were starting to pair off, and then turned back to you.

“Come on,” he said, extending a hand toward you, his smile warm and inviting.

You shook your head immediately, taking a small step back. “You know I don’t dance,” you reminded him, your voice firm but playful.

His grin only widened, clearly undeterred. “And you know I don’t take no for an answer,” he teased, stepping closer and gently taking your hand before you could protest further.

“Glen,” you said, a hint of exasperation in your tone, but he was already pulling you toward the dance floor.

“Relax,” he said with a laugh, glancing back at you. “I’ll lead. All you have to do is follow.”

You sighed in resignation, realizing there was no escaping this. When you reached the dance floor, you placed a hand on his shoulder, your fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his dress shirt. He wrapped an arm securely around your waist, pulling you just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“You’ve done this before,” he said lightly as he started to guide you to the rhythm of the music.

“Once or twice,” you admitted, though you still felt slightly self-conscious. “But I’m warning you—I’m not great at it.”

“You’re doing fine,” he assured you, his voice low and steady, as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Leslie standing by the bar. She was watching you with an unmistakable smirk, her arms crossed in triumph. When your eyes met hers, she gave you a knowing look, the kind that said, See? Told you so.

You rolled your eyes at her and shook your head, trying to silently tell her to knock it off. Glen noticed the exchange, his brow furrowing slightly as he glanced over at Leslie and then back down at you. 

“What am I missing?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, though your cheeks were already starting to warm.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, his tone teasing now. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Leslie’s just…being Leslie,” you said vaguely, hoping to leave it at that.

But Glen wasn’t letting it go. He tilted his head, a slow smile spreading across his face as realization started to dawn on him. 

“Wait a minute…” he said, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Is she messing with you about something?”

“Not really,” you said, trying to sound casual.

“Not really?” he repeated, clearly unconvinced. His eyes flicked back toward Leslie, who was now openly grinning at the two of you. “Oh, she’s definitely messing with you about something,” he said with a laugh.

You groaned, your head dropping slightly as you muttered, “I’m going to kill her.”

Glen chuckled, his hand on your waist giving a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he said, his tone playful but his smile soft.

For a moment, you forgot about Leslie entirely, your focus shifting back to Glen as you moved together in time with the music. His gaze lingered on you, his expression unexpectedly tender, and you felt your heart skip in a way that made you wonder if Leslie might actually have a point after all.

As the slower song faded out, you felt a moment of relief. But then the next song started, and your heart sank a little as the unmistakable notes of a love ballad filled the air. The kind that spoke of longing and intimacy, the kind that made you suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you were still in Glen’s arms.

You glanced up at him, your lips parting to excuse yourself, but before you could step away, his hand on your back shifted, a gentle but deliberate pressure that kept you in place.

“Stay,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Glen, I—” you started, already shaking your head. There was no way you could dance to a love song with your best friend. It felt too…loaded.

“Just one more,” he murmured, and when your eyes met his, whatever protest you had ready fell away. There was something in the way he looked at you—something unspoken but undeniable. It wasn’t just a friendly look. It was softer, deeper, and for a moment, it left you breathless.

You nodded, barely, and he smiled—just a small, private curve of his lips that made your stomach flip.

He pulled you just a little closer this time, close enough that your chest brushed against his. The hold on your back shifted, his hand sliding just slightly lower, resting at the curve where your back met your waist. It wasn’t inappropriate—just enough to feel a little less like friendship and a little more like something else.

Without thinking, you leaned into him, your cheek resting lightly against his chest. His warmth was comforting, grounding, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself get lost in the rhythm of the song and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You felt him tilt his head, the faintest brush of his cheek against the top of yours. It was such a small gesture, but it sent your heart into a quiet frenzy, a rhythm that seemed to echo in time with the music.

Neither of you said a word as you moved together, swaying gently to the melody. The first verse passed, then the chorus, and you couldn’t help but notice how natural it felt to be here, like the rest of the world had melted away.

The song came to an end, the final notes fading into a hum of conversation and clinking glasses around you. Glen didn’t move right away, and for a moment, neither did you. You stayed in his arms, feeling the warmth of his hand still pressed against your back, the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.

But then someone called his name from across the room, breaking the fragile bubble that had surrounded you both. Glen’s arm slipped away, though his hand lingered on your elbow for a second longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” he said softly, his eyes lingering on yours, as if reluctant to leave.

You nodded, offering a small smile, and watched as he crossed the room to greet a new arrival. The absence of his touch left you feeling untethered, a sudden awareness of just how much you’d let yourself melt into him during that dance.

Needing a moment to collect yourself—and maybe something stronger than a moment of quiet—you made your way to the bar. You ordered a glass of wine and took a steadying sip, trying to push the last few minutes out of your mind.

Of course, Leslie found you before you even made it halfway through your drink.

“So,” she started, leaning casually against the bar with an unmistakable smirk. “That was…something.”

You rolled your eyes, though you could feel the blush already creeping up your neck. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” she asked innocently, though her grin was anything but. “I’m just saying, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my brother look at someone like that. Or hold someone like that. Or—”

“Leslie,” you warned, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed your attempt at composure.

She laughed, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m just saying, for someone who insists she doesn’t dance, you looked awfully comfortable out there dancing with my brother.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you replied, taking another sip of your wine in a futile attempt to drown your nerves.

“Doesn’t it?” she countered, raising an eyebrow. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like something more.”

You shot her a sharp look, but she just shrugged, still grinning.

“Relax,” she said, nudging your arm playfully. “I’m not about to make a big announcement or anything. But if you don’t see it yet…” She trailed off, giving you a knowing look before gesturing subtly toward Glen, who was still across the room, laughing with a small group of friends.

You followed her gaze despite yourself, and your heart gave a traitorous little lurch at the sight of him. His smile was easy and charming, but every now and then, his eyes flicked toward the bar, as if checking to see if you were still there.

“See what I mean?” Leslie said softly, pulling your attention back to her.

You shook your head, trying to play it off. “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I?” she challenged, her tone light but her expression serious. “Because I’ve known Glen my whole life, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. So, maybe it’s time you stop convincing yourself it’s all in your head.”

Her words hit harder than you expected, and you found yourself speechless, staring down into your glass of wine as if it held the answers you were so desperately trying to avoid.

Leslie let the silence linger for a moment before giving your arm another playful nudge. “Just think about it, okay?”

And with that, she pushed off the bar and disappeared back into the crowd, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts—and the undeniable truth you were no longer sure you could ignore.

You stepped away from the bar, glass of wine in hand, and gravitated toward a quieter corner of the rooftop. The laughter and conversation from the party grew softer with every step, the music fading into a pleasant hum in the background. A gentle breeze brushed against your skin as you approached the railing, the Los Angeles skyline glittering like a sea of stars before you.

You leaned against the cool metal and took a slow sip of your wine, your thoughts drifting back to Leslie’s words. Was she onto something? No, she couldn’t be. Glen was your best friend, the one constant in your life through every twist and turn. You would know if he felt something for you… right?

But then again…

You sighed and rested your elbow on the railing, pressing your glass lightly to your lips. Leslie had known Glen her entire life. If anyone could read him, it was her. And the way she spoke—like she’d been holding onto this knowledge for a while—left you with an uncomfortable sense of doubt.

Could she be right? Could you really have missed something that big?

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled you from your thoughts. You looked over, expecting another party guest, but instead, you found Glen standing beside you. The velvet tuxedo jacket was now off, and his hair was a little mussed from probably running his hand through it one too many times, but his smile was warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning casually against the railing next to you. “You okay?”

You managed a small smile and nodded. “Yeah, just needed a breather.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze calm and steady, before arching a brow. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Leslie pestering you at the bar, would it?”

You rolled your eyes, though your lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “No.”

“Uh-huh,” Glen said, clearly not buying it. “Because Leslie may or may not have told me to come find you.”

Your heart gave a jolt, and you turned to look at him. “She what?”

“She didn’t say why,” Glen added quickly, holding up a hand as if to reassure you. “But… she said…enough.”

“Enough?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

He hesitated, his smile fading into something softer, something more sincere. “Enough to make me realize I’ve been putting this off for too long.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Glen stepped closer. His eyes searched yours, as though he were trying to gauge your reaction before saying anything else. 

“I wanted to thank you,” he said, his voice low. “For coming with me tonight. For being here for me—not just tonight, but always.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. There was something in his tone, in the way he looked at you, that made your heart beat just a little faster.

“And I need you to know,” he continued, taking another step closer, “how much you mean to me.”

The space between you was nearly nonexistent now, and for a moment, neither of you said a word. His eyes searched yours, his hand twitching at his side like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

You felt it then—that shift Leslie had hinted at, the one you’d been too afraid to fully acknowledge. This wasn’t just your best friend standing in front of you. This was Glen, the man who had been at your side for years, looking at you like you were the only person in the world.

He took a deep breath and leaned in slightly, pausing when your noses were almost touching. His eyes flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes, giving you a chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

Instead, you met his gaze, your heart thundering in your chest.

Glen’s tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and then his eyes fluttered shut as he raised a hand to your face. His palm was warm as it cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

You closed your eyes just as his lips found yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though he was afraid you might pull away. But when you didn’t, when you leaned into him and placed a hand lightly against his chest, he deepened the kiss, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer.

The world around you faded—the music, the laughter, the skyline. All that mattered was the way Glen’s lips moved against yours, the way he held you like he’d been waiting for this moment for far too long.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world seemed to hold its breath as you both stood there, processing what had just happened. Glen’s hand lingered on your cheek, his thumb tracing soft, absentminded circles against your skin. Your heart raced, the warmth of his touch grounding you in the surreal, breathtaking reality of the moment.

Finally, Glen broke the silence, his lips curving into that familiar, playful grin that always managed to put you at ease. “So…” he began, his tone light but his eyes still holding that intensity from before. “Does this mean you’ll let me take you to next year’s Globes too?”

The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, breaking the tension in the most perfect way. You shook your head, resting your forehead against his chest as a smile spread across your lips. “We’ll see if you behave, Cowboy.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest where your head rested. “Behave? I’m a perfect gentleman,” he said, his voice tinged with mock indignation.

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, arching a brow. “Oh, really? Perfect gentlemen don’t usually kiss their best friends on rooftops in the middle of a party.”

His grin widened as he shrugged, his hand still resting lightly on your waist. “Maybe I got tired of being just your best friend.”

Your breath caught again at the sincerity in his tone, the way his teasing words carried so much truth. Glen had always been charming, always quick with a joke or a flirtatious comment, but this felt different. This felt real.

You didn’t respond right away, unsure of what to say, but instead of pushing, Glen just smiled and leaned down to press a quick, gentle kiss to your forehead. And with that, he stepped back slightly, though his hand still lingered on your waist, as if to let you know that even with the space between you, he was still there, still yours.

You tilted your head back to look up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of hesitation, but all you saw was sincerity. The smile that still lingered on his lips wasn’t one of teasing; it was genuine, like he was relieved to have crossed that line with you.

“I don’t know what to say,” you confessed, your voice quieter than usual. “This is... a lot to take in, you know?”

Glen nodded, his thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of your dress, a small gesture that seemed to ground you. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I get it.” He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he added, “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His words sent a wave of warmth through you, and for a brief moment, you closed your eyes, letting yourself truly hear what he was saying. The uncertainty that had clouded your mind earlier began to dissipate, replaced by something far more powerful—trust.

“I just don’t want to mess things up, Glen,” you admitted, looking up at him again, your voice low but clear. “We’ve been friends for so long. I don’t want to lose that.”

His hand gently cupped your face, his thumb now tracing along your jawline as he spoke, his voice steady. “We won’t lose it,” he promised, his gaze never leaving yours. “I wouldn’t let that happen. We’re in this together, okay?”

You nodded, the sincerity in his words making your heart swell. “Okay,” you whispered, the word feeling like a vow in the quiet space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, as if the world had paused just for you two. It was peaceful, despite everything—the chaos of the party, the swirling emotions inside you. Glen was here, right in front of you, and he was offering you something more. Something you hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny.

Then, in the silence that followed, he grinned, that familiar playful glint returning to his eyes. “So, does this mean you’ll let me take you on a date?”

You tilted your head slightly, looking up at him, and couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes twinkled with excitement. He was waiting, his expression open and genuine, and suddenly, it didn’t feel like anything was uncertain anymore. The nerves, the doubts—they melted away in the warmth of his gaze.

"Yeah," you said softly, your voice filled with the quiet confidence that had come from years of friendship and, somehow, this unexpected moment. "I'd like that."

His smile deepened, and for a second, it was as if time stood still. He reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face, his hand lingering on your cheek.

Without another word, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a soft kiss. It wasn’t rushed, nor was it shy. It was everything you hadn’t known you needed.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours. You both stayed there for a moment, eyes closed, as if savoring the moment before the world could rush back in.

"Come on," Glen said, pulling you gently by the hand, “Let’s not keep everyone waiting.”

As he led you back toward the party, his fingers intertwined with yours, and the moment felt complete. You’d crossed the line, yes, but it was the best kind of line to cross—one that made you excited for whatever came next.

You shared one last look, a silent promise between you two, before re-entering the party, side by side, ready for whatever the night—and your future—held.

[rickybaby]

Daniel during FP2 | British Grand Prix at Silverstone Circuit | Photo by Rasid Necati Aslim/Anadolu via Getty Images

[caustinen]

omg i love how ur hollywood au is coming along, i need moreeeee

hii i’m so happy you like it!! here are some domestic headcannons requested by another user, it got hits of spiciness at times so hope that’s okay <3

hollywood au domestic headcanons 🦋

Bucky brings out a softer side from Gale who has been hardened by life and put up some walls when it came to intimacy/trusting others and their love, and he’s so thankful to have found someone who makes him see the world as a gentler place. Bucky is passionate with everything he does, but with Gale, he found new ways to put all that energy to in a positive, inspiring things that helps him along in other aspects of his life as well.

John loves buying Gale flowers and his / later their apartment is always filled with beautiful boquets that make it alive (I’d think Buck would have stylistic but quite simple/Scandinavian style home). Gale keeps telling him he doesn’t have to buy him anything but as long as he gets that soft smile to his face as John presents him with yet another bunch they will be coming in.

Another big thing for John is physical touch, he always has an arm around his boyfriends shoulders or waist. Gale on the other hand is a great listener and gives wonderful advice, countering John’s temperament. And while he’s more careful about physicality in public, he’s surprisingly clingy when they’re home by the two of them which John absolutely adores, he might never ask for closeness with his words but he’ll find ways to seek physcal touch in other ways. Both of them value quality time over everything.

They have to strategize their dates well which sometimes threatens to suck the romance out of it, but when they manage to work around it that makes it even more romantic. Night walks by Seine when they’re travelling in Europe, small local venue concerts where no one cares about them… The rarity of those moments give them extra spice.

That being said, they do love a quiet night in just as much. There’s comfort in having the world have them as completely separate individuals during the days, the nights are theirs to share.

They both love to read and often read great parts aloud for each other. John could listen to Gale read for hours, finding it easy to stay put unlike usually, even if Gale is barely aware he’s even there when he gets really into it.

Gale doesn’t particularly like going to parties and he sometimes worries John will get tired of him because he’s not as outgoing but John is actually really content, he can party with anyone but he can only have these moments of peace with Gale ❤️ It also helps to throw all eyes off them because like noted in the og post Bucky being photographed with others keeps media off track.

Gale’s office is a good place to meet — John being seen there is ”likely place for him to be” since he has business there, and Gale’s office has seen both date lunches as well as John being bent over his table (…he on the other hand prefers to have Gale against the big windows since they’re so high up no one can see.) The fact that they weren’t caught by anyone else but Curt (Gale’s client and Bucky’s best friend who already knew) is a miracle.

John actually told multiple stories about their adventures together/about Gale in general in interviews before they went public but they made a joke out of it because John always tells about him with ”my friend Buck and I…”. After the relationship goes public fans love going back and trying to find all the clues from over the years.

They travel a lot too between Bucky’s filming schedules, they’re both really into history and love to see different sights all over the world (at times it’s the easiest to hide in plain sight in busy tourist destinations). Sometimes John drags them to beach resorts too tho if Gale seems extra stressed out — he always protest and wants to rather do city vacations but he always ends up loving it anyway.

(Their honeymoon is in a summer house of their friend on a private island and they sure make the most of it despite being public at the time — the privacy feels even more inviting because of it)

They are sometimes forced to stay apart long periods of time if John is filming somewhere and Gale can’t leave LA because of work but they always call and text goodnight, and because of their busy professional lives the time they do spend together is always precious and they never guilt the other about having to be away, they have a similar understanding of the importance of their careers.

They also go to the gym together which isn’t always the greatest because they are 1) competitive af and 2) chronically horny for each other, and the display of physical strength/beauty can be dangerous. Espescially if they’ve been busy layely; espescially if John happens to be bulking up for an action film and Gale is torn between wanting out-bulk him or let him carry him away from there.

Gale couldn’t care less about watching sports (he does go to some games every once in a while for Bucky but he’s always bored out of his mind) but he loves playing them, and they sometimes manage to arrange some friendly soccer or baseball or tennis etc with other friends too.

I kind of referenced this in one of the instagram things but it would be fun to imagine Gale getting pretty creative when seeing Bucky in different costumes/roles, like maybe he wouldn’t mind John bringing the uniform home one day. Bucky sees himself in the costumes for months but Gale might only come to set once or twice and be Thinking Thoughts later when they get home about it too.

I also hc that this Bucky would be very into fashion and style and loves shopping while Gale couldn’t care less, he’s wearing suits to work and something simple on his free time but John keeps dragging him along and making him suffer for hours in malls and boutiques as he tries go get him to try something on. After their relationship goes public Gale wants to present himself well and thus starts to wear more bold looks (he doesn’t have to worry about getting attention anymore either, so it’s actually kind of fun). John thinks it’s so over because the little he was able to concentrate on these things before is GONE (thinking about that Bikeriders premier cropped jacket and wide pants, Bucky would be nosebleeding and staring while some poor media people try to interview him)

Imagining them cooking each other midnight dinners when the other has to work late and slow dancing, bare feet in pyjamas in the kitchen in each others embrace were the first two images that came to mind so we’ll end with them 🖤

hope you keep liking this stuff!!

linking the other additions in case you missed something: john’s insta / gale’s insta / media+friends instas / first meetings / first i love yous 💘

[voxaholic]

Character Info For My Bojack Inspired Human Au

Hollywood Losers Au

Val & Vox

-Hollywood’s messiest on and off couple of just about 20 years

-extremely codependent: Val makes messes, Vox cleans them up, that’s how they work

-Vox has a shit ton of spyware on all Val’s phones and a tracker on his car and it’s only partially out of insane possessiveness. Vox’s creepy bullshit has saved Val’s life on occasion 

-“Did you hide my fucking guns, Vox?” “Yes! And the fact that you’re even looking for them right now means I’m really glad I did!”

-Met on a set when Vox was still an actor and have been making each other miserable ever sense

-Gossip rags love them. Every piece of info about them is insane

-There are at least three twitter accounts keeping track of whether they are on or off again

-Neither of them would classify the relationship as abusive but from the outside observer, it definitely is

-Val is under the assumption that Vox is happy with their status quo and Vox is, until he isn’t 

-Velvette thinks one of them is going to end up killing the other eventually 

-they get into a lot of very physical fights. Vox usually comes out worse for wear

-see when a person with a disorganized attachment style and someone with an anxious attachment style get into a situationship…

Val

-43 but still lives and dresses like he’s in his early 20s

-semi washed-up actor that got his start on some sort of law and order-esque tv show

-has bleached and dyed his poor hair far beyond repair but it is still hanging in there somehow

-has had six PR managers quit on him over the last year and a half alone

-personal life goal is to do every drug once

-trying to fill the hole in his heart with hedonism. he thinks it’s working (it is not)

-self identified queer icon

-lots and lots of shallow acquaintances/fuck buddies, very few people he would consider close

-interested in the concept of a pet but every pet he’s ever had has either died of neglect or been taken in by Vox

-outward narcissism hides a deep yawning insecurity that he’s not even fully aware of

-self sabotages a lot

-likes to be taken care of and babied but only by Vox

-retweets his own callout posts on twitter (Vox deletes the retweets but screenshots exist)

-afraid of committing himself to anything

Vox

-45 and dresses like it

-greying early (he says it’s because of Val and Val thinks he’s joking. he isn’t)

-officially Val’s agent but also unofficially, his pr manager because every actual hired PR manager keeps quitting 

-a fake bitch who doesn’t give a shit about 99% of people

-unfortunately once he starts giving a shit about someone he can’t really stop giving a shit

-has run several financial scams

-has done so much white collar crime

-gotten Val off for so much shit, like really, so much fucking shit

-briefly a child actor. it ended badly 

-apathetic about most things outside of work but fakes it well enough 

-always has like 18 different side projects going

-wants to marry Val to finally get some sense of stability in their relationship

-a control freak who needs to know what Val is up to 24/7

-the one who cooks in the relationship. he’s not good at it and Val complains constantly about how bland his food is but he still eats it

-has a blue pitbull puppy named Vark who he loves like a son

-he’s THAT type of dog dad

[surrealisticduvet]

Album Review: Infinite Rider on the Big Dogma (1979)

What is it? 

Infinite Rider… on the Big… Dogma.

What?

With this album, I decided to go with the “write as you re-listen” method of reviewing, since I knew I had so much to say about many of the songs individually. I hope this is as half as enjoyable to read as it was to write. As always, please let me know if you have any comments or dissenting opinions, I would love to hear them!

Without further, or really any, ado, we have “Dance”, a frivolously thrilling and unusual new style from our Michael. I am always a little shocked by its usage here as an opener, so used to it being the outro to Elephant Parts, in which many Infinite Rider songs feature. The instrumentation is rich and complex, in stark contrast to the lyrics –  “All I wanna do is dance and have a good time”. In some ways it leaves you confused as to why this wasn’t a big radio hit - is it the way he sings it, almost ironic in its empty-headedness? Is it just his bad luck? The song is too short to let you ponder for long. 

Next, we have “Magic” – my main gripe with this song, unfortunately not a bug but a feature, is the kitschy way he sings some of the high notes (we know for a fact he can hit them without so much falsetto fanfare) but it does add to the subtle irony of the song. Hidden underneath that facade, buried in the full, sustained notes of the chorus, is his true capacity. This song has a bit of a festive undertone with the bells lightly jingling, adding to the feeling of, genuinely, magic. Once again, this song is expertly produced, musically (aside from the background vocals “do-do-dooing” which I think is sometimes overkill) - there are a lot of layers which prevent it from sounding like a cheap holiday commercial.

I completely stand by the belief that “Flying” is an Eagles parody. Listen to this, and then listen to something like “One of These Nights.” I maintain also that this song is at least a parody of something, with lyrics that are deceptively genuine at first before dipping into deep unseriousness, all sung as straight-faced as ever. The middle eight here is again just exquisite. I wish there was an instrumental of this track particularly, although his vocals are so good that I wouldn’t push too hard for it. This song sounds like it ought to be played to a packed arena, something almost on the same level, musically, as “Comfortably Numb.” As the song fades out, you get a bit of a better listen to the drum and rhythm section, which has a unique stylistic blend and flare that, once again, adds depth to what otherwise might be called a boring album. (Misguided Rateyourmusic users have called it his “most accessible” album [read: contemporary, standard-issue, basic! – more on this at the end] but I disagree, at the risk of sounding pretentious… Infinite Rider is a complex and borderline experimental album; it just so happened that he was experimenting with things that happened to be in popular music at the time.)

Much like taking songs from The Prison out of their context as a soundtrack in order to review them musically, it is critical to take “Tonite” out of the context of Elephant Parts, in which it is evergreen in its evocation of the special as a whole – they were literally made for each other. The lyrics are weird, for Michael - on a first listen, you’ll be a little put off by them, until you get to the bridge and chorus, which swings back to the sort of strangeness that you’re used to, and now the old Hollywood oddness from the beginning starts to make a little sense. Three for three, these songs have so much going on musically that you never have a chance to be bored or question his intentions. There’s expert use of a piano/synth solo here which in some ways really dates the album as being from the late 70s/early 80s but that’s what I like so no complaints here. As the song ramps up towards the end (nearly unrecognizable from the moderately paced introductory verse) Michael slips into a rougher tone and drives the whole thing home. Careful listeners will catch the “I’m still inside of a little glass tube - I’m still inside of this room” as it fades out; a tasteful callback to the final scene of Head (1968), or just a bit of before-its-time commentary on the effect of fame on an individual’s psyche? Infinite Rider gives you no time at all to chew and swallow thoughtfully - the next song is already upon us.

“Carioca” is the first and only real reprieve you’ll get on this album, and it is still a wonderful song. Much like “Rio,” this song is inspired by what we can assume to be Michael’s fond memories of seeing Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in Flying Down to Rio (1933). His ability to belt out a chorus shines here, supported by pleasant instrumentation. Take a breath while you can, because up next we have…

… “Cruisin’”. If you’ve heard any song from this album already, it’s probably this – and you’ve probably seen a little bit of the music video from Elephant Parts, too. The verses are low-key and casual, and the whole thing reeks of sun-tan oil and hot tarmac. Whether or not you consider this to be Michael’s coming-out party, it’s still a compelling song much in the style of something like the Traveling Wilbury’s “Tweeter and the Monkey Man.” On its own, the song is fairly middle-of-the-road; it’s the music video that really makes it pop, with visual cues lining up perfectly to the song and Michael’s own performance of it (in those sunglasses...) 

From “Cruisin’” we dive straight into “Factions,” perhaps more memorably titled in early versions as “The Daughter of Rock n' Roll.” He didn’t invent anything new with the song, but definitely proved that he could keep up with the times, musically. The things he does with his voice here are almost foreign, a tone and gravel that we’ve never heard from him before. The song itself is good, with clever lyrics and an interesting story, a classic Nesmithian take on the contemporary “rock ‘n’ roll song about rock ‘n’ roll.” It’s not at the top of the album for me, but any song that effectively uses and rhymes the word “Boogie” gets a free pass for me. 

Take another deep breath at the end of this one, because you’re about to experience what is possibly, maybe probably, my favorite song of his ever: “Light.” Immediately, he has dropped the ironic and performative vocal quirks, and is once again singing in his own sweet tenor, with just a few humorous dips to keep you guessing. This song effortlessly blends bleating saxophone solos with laid-back steely drum meanderings, quivering organ overtones, and a sturdy, pulsing bassline. The lyrics are simple, yet powerful – “but the light from the window is the brightest of all” among others. I find it interesting that the song is called not “lights” plural, but “Light,” singular, implying that these eclectic lights are all interconnected, blending together from and into one infinite form. Once you have seen the music video for this, you’ll never listen to the song without its dancer flashing and jumping through your mind, it’s truly mesmerizing and at times otherworldly – again, the visions of the dancer and Michael are melded together by the use of mirrors and cutaways to create a mind bending effect. “Light” clocks in at 3:21 and feels even shorter; it ends almost abruptly, with the sax trailing off. I usually have to listen to it at least a second time to really let it sink in. 

One Tumblr user has in the past posited that we should “kill Horserace and replace it with a second Light” (Surrealisticduvet, 2024), and I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment. Much like “The Other Room” is on From a Radio Engine to the Photon Wing, “Horserace”’s placement here is jarring, uncouth, and downright disrespectful to the rest of the album. Okay – now that I’ve gotten all that out of my system, let me explain why it just doesn’t work for me. While many songs on Infinite Rider have lyrics that are tongue-in-cheek, parodical, and dare I say intentionally silly, “Horserace” feels to me almost sloppy. Many words are rhymed with each other in such a way that it doesn’t feel intentional, meaning that by default it sounds amateurish. Michael here utilizes the same growl that he does on “Factions” and to some extent “Dance,” but it overpowers the track to the point where I had a hard time focusing on the music. (When I managed to, I confirmed to myself that it wasn’t as intricately crafted as any of the first 7 songs, and certainly not the last one we just listened to.) I’ve always said that even Michael’s worst songs are still worth listening to; such is not the case with “Horserace.” Listen to “Light” a second time and then hit that skip button.

“Capsule” is another one of those songs that Michael co-wrote with a few other people, and it is, dare I say, obvious. I like what he was trying to do, and the song sounds interesting, with a cool, jazzy swing. I don’t think it’s among his best work, either vocally or lyrically, and it’s a bit of a disappointing closer to an otherwise fast-paced and densely enjoyable album. 

I have to give a little shout out to the album’s outtakes, which I actually didn’t even know about until very recently. “Rollin’” is a real foot-tapper that takes his old song “Roll With the Flow” and revamps it in late-70’s radio-rock fashion with a “Mama Rocker”-style piano breakdown that sweeps up and down the keys. The whole song is pretty simple, but fun and effective, and I really like it. “Walkin’ in the Sand” is an interesting track, a true outtake in the sense that it breaks free from the one-word-title constraint he set for himself on this album. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard from him, ramping up his affinity for minor-keys to a new level, with a glaring bass riff like something from the Arctic Monkeys (sorry, I can’t think of a more period-appropriate comparison). I’d be curious about what he could do in this style if given a whole album to play with – but if all we ever got was this one song, I’m still thrilled. 

Conclusion:

I think Infinite Rider, despite being perhaps more well-known during its time than his other albums, is largely misunderstood. (To be fair, you have to have a very high IQ to enjoy his… oh, god, listen to me.) Some reviews call it his most accessible album, and laud his return into the sphere of pop music. I have a hard time explicitly agreeing with these assertions; I don’t think the album’s true intentions are as wholesome, simplistic, and popularity-seeking as some may claim. Much like The Prison was written as a soundtrack, Infinite Rider was written as a “video album” – to listen to “Magic” or “Cruisin’” on their own, without the music video, is to experience only half of the song. Even tracks which were not released with a visual component, I would argue, must still be considered within this context.

Critics also say that this album was overproduced and that there’s too much going on, instrumentally; this is just a difference of taste – I like an album you can listen to half a dozen times over and still hear something new. One amateur reviewer (my peer, I suppose) said that they appreciated the album since, despite its tongue-twisting title, it was easy to enjoy without having to crawl into Nesmith’s head to “get” it. Well, I guess I can’t argue with that – Infinite Rider’s appeal lies in the fact that to the casual listener, it is a good rock ‘n’ rollin’ time that ends after 38 minutes and 15 seconds; for anyone with enough time on their hands to dig a little deeper, rest assured that Michael will not disappoint.

[hcfiles]

How to promote an actor? Well, one way is through promoting his interests, life style and details of his personal life. But, that shouldn't be the main goal of his team and those personal details are not always true, created to entertain, sell a persona and keep his name in the media. Talent and other professional skills should be important. But, if you don't have those, nor an established name like Hugh Jackman, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, George Clooney, for example, you have to keep digging. So, he created an AVATAR, a fake persona, with some real characteristics, to sell his image and keep his name as news. Times are different now. And today, in Hollywood, talent is not enough. There was a time when movies were art and told great stories. Today, it's all about money. Any poor script may become a hit and any hot stuff, famous. The plot doesn't need to be great, it only needs a pretty face in good shape, a sex symbol to make people buy tickets. That's the kind of actor he is, from the new school, were all you need is to sell yourself as a hot stuff. Never seen efforts from his side searching for a nice plot, but for a role in which his physical image came first. So, he decided to sell himself as a sex symbol. And, it has been working for him, because, despite precedents, he always managed to keep an image. But, this image was destroyed by his own team and they are making a great effort trying to restore it. Meanwhile, concerning his acting career, what have we had, so far? A few cameos, small parts in insignificant movies and a lot, I mean A LOT of clickbait. For the last four years his team has promoted projects that turned out to be untrue. A lot of speculation around his name, but very little work. He got stuck in a circus that discredited his image, has been hiding from social media, only appearing when to sell a product and his management doesn't seem to be doing a good job for a very long time, focussing more on money rather than in achievements . And he has been having to do both jobs: act and manage his career. From time to time, they come up with a new clickbait. He's rumoured to star in many new projects, but in practice he hasn't had one. That's what it is. They are desperately trying to bring him back to track and arrange him a new iconic role, when meanwhile, there's nothing and he has established himself as the cameo boy. Why come up with new projects' rumours when Rosie Project, Bond, WH and Highlander rumours never resulted in close deals? What it seems is they are desperate to get him something, selling him as a cheap bitch, which makes him worth less as an actor.

[harveyguilleniconodelamoda]

Harvey on Fashion for Plus Sizes: "Let's Make It Available to All of Us!"

Harvey spoke to Charles Bright of GoldDerby last week on a webchat about What We Do In The Shadows ending, his voice acting career, and his incredible red carpet collaborations with Christian Siriano.

I want to do a full retrospective on this topic eventually, but that's somehow an even bigger undertaking than chronicling all of Guillermo's sweaters, so it may take a while. In the meantime, I've provided a write-up of the fashion portion of the chat below, along with some photos and additional fashion commentary from yours truly!

You can watch the full webchat here.

"Well you've got to remember that being a guy of size, not a lot of people or designers were willing to dress me," Harvey begins, in response to a question about his favorite red carpet look from the past two years. "And it's upsetting. It reminds me of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman going 'I've got money to spend in here!'"

Harvey has spoken before about how prior to 2022, he dressed himself for red carpet events, and sometimes even had to provide his own costumes on set when the costume department didn't have anything that fit him. This is a problem many plus sized entertainers have encountered over the years, even as conversations about body positivity and fat acceptance have become more prominent in public discourse.

Siriano deserves a lot of credit for his track record of breaking barriers in fashion, for getting on board with Harvey's vision, and for bringing some incredible, iconic, history-making looks to life. But Harvey had been slaying on red carpets for years before their collaboration began, often in looks he put together himself without the aid of a designer or stylist. His love of fashion is not new, and his sense of style has always been on point!

Hollywood has been extremely reluctant to be inclusive in this way, with the media often reacting to even one or two high profile plus sized celebrities with concern trolling about whether they're "glorifying obesity" just by existing as successful and talented people in larger bodies in the public eye. But just as with so many other aspects of his career, Harvey has simply carved out doors for himself when none were opening.

"People don't take a risk because they're afraid, right?" Harvey explains. "But you could be the first! I've been fortunate. Talking to Christian Siriano, I was getting ready for the Academy Awards and I had this vision of like...'I really want to do something different, and I know that you don't really dress guys. I want to find a happy medium where it's masculine, and a little feminine, but it's me,' and it just wasn't something that they usually do."

"But we collaborated and we had this idea of like, what if it was the 1920s, but I'm going in a style that's retro, so it's the Gilded Age. So my hair is 1922 but I'm giving a nod to the Gilded Age because that would be vintage back in 1922. And so that's how I got that idea, and then we got the whole tuxedo flare and whatnot."

The now-iconic tuxedo gown Harvey wore to the 2023 Oscars.

"Working with Christian has been great. After that I think Vogue ran it, and it got all this attention, and people were like 'woah! a plus size guy looking good in fashion' and I was like 'yeah, we are out here and there's a lot of us! And I feel like there's just not designers who are designing for us or making it available to us.'"

Harvey's red carpet look for the Oscars, as well as his look for the Vanity Fair after party, appeared on multiple best dressed lists. He was even declared the best dressed person on the Oscars red carpet by MsMojo.

"After that Christian and I became friends," Harvey says. "I hosted the GLAAD awards and he dressed me for that, and I was honored with an award in California and he dressed me for that...and so we've been collaborating on different outfits."

Harvey and Christian Siriano have now collaborated on ten different outfits for half a dozen events since the start of 2023, including most recently the 2024 Critic's Choice Awards in January (where he once again made it only best dressed lists, such as this one from TVInsider) and the Garfield movie premiere in May.

"The Met Gala last year was, I think, the cherry on top, because it was a kind of nod to Chanel with a tweed in pink. But [the gala] was also honoring Karl Lagerfeld, and to be in my body, and being a POC, and wearing pink--so still honoring but not forgetting, and also representing myself--was a nice collaboration, and I think that gown was really beautiful and I loved it."

Harvey's Met Gala ensemble was easily one of the most impressive of the night, managing to be both flawlessly on theme while also being a creative interpretation that critiqued the subject of the theme.

Harvey finishes up his thoughts on his red carpet style by saying he wants to continue working with Siriano, as well as other designers who are willing to take a chance with him.

"The payoff is, you know, like you said: people look to people in film and television to be inspired, and be like 'why can't I? I can wear that! Where can I get that?' You know? And it's like you should be able to get that. Let's make it available to all of us."

Sounds great to me, Harvey! And it's true.

On a personal note, Harvey's incredible style and confidence has definitely been an inspiration. He's spoken a few times about how he's had people tell him how watching him has given them more confidence in themselves, and I count myself among that number. I am so excited to see what the rest of 2024 holds for him, on and off the red carpet!

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

Meghan Markle Waves Goodbye To Her Rom-Com Dreams

We do? Rom-coms? I mean, yeah, it would be wonderful to have good movies again, of any genre. But with Meghan in charge, imagine the scripts she would commission. “When Harry Met Meghan, the Oppressed and Suicidal Actress.” “How to Lose a Prince in 10 Days.”  “10 Things I Hate About Kate.” “The Meghan Markle Story, Starring Meghan Markle.” 

That last one’s more of a tragicomedy than a rom-com, sorry. But I understand why she wants to make Julia Roberts-style romantic comedies. After all, just a few years ago, she was lurking on Hollywood Boulevard auditioning for her big break when a prince in an Aston Martin cruised by and whisked her away to his palace. She has lived a real-life Cinderella story. Only this one may not have quite the same ending.

Petty Woman: Meghan Markle Waves Goodbye To Her Rom-Com Dreams

BY: PEACHY KEENAN JULY 03, 2023

The latest chapter in the Meghan character arc is about the content she and hapless Harry are trying to pitch to their paymasters in Beverly Hills.

Not all fairy tales have happy endings, and for Princess Meghan the clock just chimed midnight and the spell has been broken. The coach is turning back into a pumpkin as we speak.

As a longtime Royal Family watcher, I admit to feeling shameless glee as I read the recent stories of Meghan and Harry striking out in Hollywood. It’s always fun to watch dire low-stakes predictions come true. Like many of you, I was appalled at the disrespect Meghan showed to her in-laws. Instead of respecting the Queen, Meghan, incredibly, seemed to be trying to compete with the Queen. She thought she was playing a game of “Survivor,” but she was the only one on the island who didn’t know how to make a fire.

A Long Way Down for the Duchess

For those not keeping track, Meghan and her nitwit ginger sidekick have been dropped by Spotify, reportedly losing half of the $50 million promised. She got $25 million for a measly 12 hours of a middling podcast featuring the richest and most famous women in the world complaining about how hard their lives are. Netflix is reportedly about to cut their $100 million deal short. They finished milking them dry of low-hanging tabloid family gossip, and just found out they have no Act 2.

Nothing is working out the way she dreamed it would. Meghan’s imagined billionaire lifestyle is turning into a mirage. Why? Because for some hilarious reason, the creative bigwigs in Hollywood believed Meghan when she promised that her and Harry would be able to provide oodles of monetizable entertainment content.  

I mean, yes, I am quite entertained by the spectacle, but schadenfreude is tough to monetize.

Meghan In Her Flop Era

Meghan’s predicament tells you everything about the people who run Hollywood. Imagine thinking that these two “f*cking grifters,” in the words of the Spotify exec who had to say no to Harry’s harebrained podcast ideas, would be a rich source of high-quality entertainment! 

I can’t help wondering how a D-list golddigger convinced these studio heads that her and the ginger mouth breather would somehow provide $150 million worth of streaming content. It turns out that they’re only good at providing piles of steaming content, if you know what I mean.

I suppose it’s true, as movie producer Jackie Trehorn tells the Dude in “The Big Lebowski,” standards have fallen in entertainment. Since the Sussexes first ditched their careers as legit royalty and started groping for ephemeral Hollywood royalty, my fellow Meghan hobbyists and I have enjoyed a goldmine of unintentional comedy. She’s the Benny Hill of pampered Montecito trophy wives, always running downhill chased by imaginary paparazzi. 

She’s been a source of delight since the early days when she was using a Sharpie to write inspirational messages on bananas to street prostitutes in England. “You are brave.” “You are loved.” Then the cringe-worthy trek through the thousand micro-aggressions she endured at the hands of her sister-in-law Catherine. Did she not realize everyone saw it for what it was: pure jealousy?

But now we come to the era of Meghan Markle, entertainment content creator. The latest chapter in the Meghan character arc is about the content she and hapless Harry are trying to pitch to their paymasters in Beverly Hills. It was clear that her long slide back into C-list obscurity had begun when I read an incredible tidbit in the trades earlier this year. Meghan was talking about her new content ideas she was working on for her “media production company.” See, it’s already funny! 

Meghan gushed to a Variety reporter: “For scripted, we want to think about how we can evolve from that same space and do something fun! It doesn’t always have to be so serious. Like a good rom-com. Don’t we miss them? I miss them so much. I’ve probably watched ‘When Harry Met Sally’ a million times. And all the Julia Roberts rom-coms. We need to see those again.”

We do? Rom-coms? I mean, yeah, it would be wonderful to have good movies again, of any genre. But with Meghan in charge, imagine the scripts she would commission. “When Harry Met Meghan, the Oppressed and Suicidal Actress.” “How to Lose a Prince in 10 Days.”  “10 Things I Hate About Kate.” “The Meghan Markle Story, Starring Meghan Markle.” 

That last one’s more of a tragicomedy than a rom-com, sorry. But I understand why she wants to make Julia Roberts-style romantic comedies. After all, just a few years ago, she was lurking on Hollywood Boulevard auditioning for her big break when a prince in an Aston Martin cruised by and whisked her away to his palace. She has lived a real-life Cinderella story. Only this one may not have quite the same ending.

As Jeremy Zimmer, the CEO of United Talent Agency, one of the largest Hollywood talent agencies dished during Cannes to every reporter within earshot: “It turns out that Meghan Markle wasn’t a great audio talent, or necessarily has some kind of talent. And you know, just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you’re good at something.” 

Ouch. I wonder if Jeremy Zimmer has seen the latest desperate pitch Meghan made to Netflix; a girlboss rom-com called “Bad Manners” starring … Miss Havisham. The show is “a prequel to Charles Dickens’s 1861 novel Great Expectations which will focus on the character Miss Havisham… [the show] aims to shine a feminist light on the spinster, showing her as a ‘strong woman living in a patriarchal society.’”

Who says comedy is dead? Sign me up for this one!

The article ends with the ominous “it is unclear whether the show will get a green light from Netflix.” 

Meghan is learning, finally, the hardest lesson of all: real royalty may be hereditary, but Hollywood royalty has to be earned. Popularity matters. Likeability, in the end, is the only currency that matters if you wear no crown.

Peachy Keenan is a senior contributor to The Federalist and a contributing editor and regular essayist for The American Mind, a publication of The Claremont Institute. She is the author of "Domestic Extremist: A Practical Guide to Winning the Culture War" (coming June 6 from Regnery). She also writes at peachykeenan.substack.com, and you can always find her on Twitter.

[georayn]

my perspective around the crippling yet warm loneliness of fallen angels (no spoilers)

一 Fallen Angels (1995), dir. Wong Kar-Wai

defining this movie is a challenging task. but, if I was to sum it up in one sentence, I guess it would be "corny and depressing romance so corny it becomes refreshing".

I remember Fallen Angels as the first movie I've watched when I decided to take the ritual of watching movies more seriously, and it was basically the first film I'd ever seen that doesn't follow the cookie-cutter hollywood format of the hero's journey (I believe that was around 2 years ago). that's why I have such an affection for this movie.

to this day (and maybe until the day I die) I am not a good movie critic, that's why this is not a well-formulated critique in any way lol. so yes, I may be very biased in the way I percieve this film, so because of this I will not get into much detail of its technical aspects or its issues, I will just try to convince you to watch it if you haven't yet :D

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firstly, I'd like to address an elephant in the room: this is a Wong Kar-Wai film, so it strongly follows his signature style; the surreal and dreamy coloring, jittery camerawork, mind boggling action sequences including the step-frame takes and so much more. but I'm sure you've noticed most of these aspects through other blogs, pinterest boards and tiktok edits, so I want to put more emphasis into his abilities of storytelling and his producing process.

I am not the biggest fan of saying things in the sort of "omg only this director/person could ever create this!", but it is undeniable that WKW's way of thinking is very unconventional. Cristopher Doyle, responsible for a lot of the movie's cinematography (and who is someone that worked with him in many other projects until 2004) says that WKW always tried to look for what the movie had to say, even if discarding parts of the script was necessary. what I admire the most about his work is the way his characters feel alive considering that the flesh of his films are the struggles and "boring" aspects of life. I reeaaally love the way he and his crew are able to make the "disposable" parts of life so interesting. of course, the action and story shifting segments are part of what gives meaning to everything, but the connections between them are what makes all of it worth watching and feeling the characters' emotions.

so, how does the story go? this is actually a tricky question haha. in case you are not familiar, Fallen Angels is directly attached to Chungking Express, another film by Kar-Wai released one year earlier (1994). WKW himself reveals that Chungking Express and Fallen Angels should have been published as one merged movie, but he ended up losing track of the project's length (also, in my opinion, you can watch FA before CE if you want to, it doesn't follow any particular order to me). Here is where his instinct-leading creative process really shines; it may seem impractical, however this project might be the pinacle of his love for cinema, considering it was a project made for "making himself comfortable with making movies again" after a prior not so self-fulfilling project.

"You try to cope with the mass audience, but in fact you are not doing something for them—I would be fighting with myself. I thought, I don’t have to make big films, I can make small films that I can be happy with. I can find my own audience. So I made Chungking Express with a very low budget, and we made the film very quickly, only six weeks from the idea to the edit" 一 Wong Kar-Wai for BOMB magazine, Winter 1998 issue.

considering the whole project, he explains that Chungking Express and Fallen Angels both revolve around the city of Hong Kong, yet in its different sides: the brightly lit and uneventful hustle of the daytime with CE, and the freezing, dark and crippling loneliness of the nighttime through FA.

with that said, in my opinion, neither is "more impactful" or "to be more considered" than the other; as WKW himself said, both are complementary to each other, and even the characters are interchangeable. however, I am here to talk about the rispid and desolating feeling of the "type of loneliness" depicted in Fallen Angels specifically, since it resonates more deeply with me and it might do the same to you if you're looking for big-neon-city anxiety.

一 Fallen Angels (1995), dir. Wong Kar-Wai

now onto the actual story. both movies are divided in 2 "main storylines", contributing to the perspective of interchangeable characters. in Fallen Angels, one of the sides has a more intense dynamic that follows a hitman and his agent, whilst the other follows the wobbly story of a mute man who ends up meeting a heartbroken woman who asks for his help on getting her revenge. this all may seem kind of non-sensical, but I believe that one of the film's most charming features is its ways of making people so unrelated as these characters become so connected and dependant of each other just because of life's randomness yet without making it feel forced.

also, I haven't even mentioned side characters and I think i'd be too dense and maybe annoying to get into the details of their importance (especially if you haven't seen the movie yet), but I guess I could say they are the ones who provoke and question the main ones' morals. here, WKW's characters are the most alive when they feel confused, uncomfortable, alarmed and tired because of the harsh metropolitan life (just like real people). with that, they find themselves in a constant fight with other people's morals and even their own.

this sense of desolation may be depressing at its core, but it also defines the familiar matter between all of these people, bringing a comfort-like yet melancholic sentiment to the situations that unravel; no one is truly right-minded but you always try to consider where they are coming from. they may do fucked up things but they pay the price to life itself.

this melancholy carries the story's events until its very end, and I just love it. of course I'd rather choose that we live in a world where everything is perfect and this comfort found in sadness is unrealistic, but considering the societies we live in, specially in big and poorly planned cities, I find this movie to be a memorable portrait of this misterious feeling of loving desolation.

I wish I was able to get into the details of each character more deeply, but I think that would break the purpose of the "no spoilers" promise I made & I think it's more fun for you to discover them by yourself when watching the film. however, I'd like to say that, even though I feel like everyone in the narrative is able to connect to one another, each one has their singularities, flaws and quirks, which makes the familiarities shared by all the more precious.

therefore, the events and personalities present in this film are incredibly rich and capable of conveying this specific feeling of constant fighting for survival and sanity in such a complex and harsh environment. sometimes the narrative follows the actual outbursts of these causes, but I believe that the true beauty of this movie lies in the moments of hopelessness and fatigue.

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I wish I was able to spark your interest in watching Fallen Angels! this movie is very meaningful to me and I've been interested in writing about it for some time now! the thing is, this is my very first blog post ever so it might end up being shitty and I just don't know it yet hah... it's okay though, I've been struggling with being able to talk about the things I like just because my brain thinks I can't do it, so I think this is a step forward on fixing this! :)

in case you watch the movie, please leave your thoughts here so you can share your perspective! I really want to know other people's opinions about the things I love, even if you don't like it as much!

thank you for reading, see you!!! <3

References:

Wong Kar-Wai for BOMB magazine, Winter 1998 issue: https://bombmagazine.org/articles/1998/01/01/wong-kar-wai-1/

Cristopher Doyle for IstoÉ, 19/03/2021 (in portuguese): https://istoe.com.br/cinema-pelo-olhar-de-christopher-doyle/

P.S: sorry for any English mistakes! you can correct me if you want, I appreciate the feedback!

[ceruleanmusings]

Big Time Double Date - Mickames

i don't really have anything to say about this one. just that this is one of my all time favorite btr eps. i wish they did more bottle episodes, or rather more episodes where everyone was all in one place with intertwining plots. also, jett was the best part of this episode hands down! i loved all his scenes!

@partiallypearl @raging-violets @witchofinterest @myloveforhergoeson

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Mickey heaved a sigh of relief when the broom closet door closed. She rested her back against it, eyes darting from side to side. The last thing she wanted was to get caught; she’d lose her job over this! Not that she really needed the job, being in a band tended to help with a lot of expenses but she wanted to keep it.

She loved picking up shifts at Chez Fancee when she wasn’t busy. Being in the thick of a dinner rush, creating delectable French cuisine, and providing a great experience and lasting memories for the guests gave her a rush nothing could touch. Performing onstage in front of thousands of people came close. And yet here she was putting it all on the line to make sure her friend had a great date.

They can’t say I don’t do anythin’ for ‘em!

“Katie, I love your style, but knocking him out was a little much I think,” Mickey commented when Katie rushed around the corner. A tree hat sat atop of her head, accompanied by leaves and fronds hanging off her clothes. If she stood still long enough people could mistake her for a plant.

“It’s just a dinner roll, he’ll be fine,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“If that knocked Henri out, I don’t think he will be,” Mickey said, glancing over her shoulder at the closed door. She didn’t have much time to think about Henri and his apparently compromised health or balance due to a hissing by her ear. Katie and Mickey both looked in the direction of the sound. A second later James popped his head around the corner, his short hair slicked to his head.

“Pssssssst!” he hissed again, louder.

“Keep a look out,” she told Katie. Katie gave her a thumbs up sign and Mickey rushed around the corner, glancing back to ensure the manager didn’t catch her. He was a nice guy, especially for giving her a shot with her unpredictable schedule. She didn’t want to ruin that. But then again, on the flipside, she didn’t want Carlos to have a bad date with Jennifer 3. Jennifer 3 was very nice once you got to know her. And Mickey had total hair envy when it came to Jennifer 3.

“Help!” James hissed once Mickey got within reach of her.

Mickey came to a stop, blinking rapidly while looking him up and down. “With…with what?” She asked because, well, it couldn’t be with how he looked. He looked good. James always looked good, but he looked good. She actively had to remind herself to keep her jaw from dropping. Her momma always said to never underestimate the power of a guy in a suit, and she was not kidding. With James’ slicked hair and his nice clothes, he looked as if he were ready to film scenes in an old Hollywood movie. The only thing missing was a cigar nestled between two fingers.

“The guys are here!” he replied, tugging the bottom of his tuxedo jacket.

Mickey made a face, shifting the tracks of her mind from James on the glossy pages of GQ to the issue at hand. God, she hoped he didn’t notice the heat pooling in her cheeks. “Which guys?”

“All of them! Kendall and Jazz are here with Kelly and…some guy—”

“Oh, that’s Owen!” Perking up, Mickey breathed easier. This was a safe topic. “He’s our UPS guy. They were supposed to be going somewhere el—”

“And Logan’s here with some girl who looks like him and Camille’s here with Jett!” James continued, his voice kicking up a notch.

“Okay, that’s not too bad. …I gotta ask her about that later but that’s not too bad.” Honestly, she could do better than Jett. And weren’t she and Logan just together that morning? Mickey made a mental note to ask Camille about this whole situation later. Her dramatics would certainly make the story interesting, and something told her she’d need a good story after a long night. But damn they were more topsy-turvy than a see-saw!

“Gustavo’s here too!”

Mickey gasped. “Oooh, that’s bad!”

“I know!” James cried out, fiddling with the untied bowtie hanging around his neck.

“He’s supposed to be watching his blood pressure,” Mickey continued.

“…That’s kind of not the point—gah!” The end of his sentence chopped off due to him tightening the bowtie loop around his neck. His eyes bulged and his tongue stuck out, his fingers scrambling for the loop knot he’d made. Seconds passed and red grew in his cheeks. “Mickey…Mickey, help!”

“Oh my god! Stop, stop, let me do it!” Mickey slapped his hands away and stepped closer, yanking the knot away from his neck. His chest heaved with his deep breath and she swallowed the lump rising, watching the fabric stretch across it. Focus! Gathering her wits, she pulled the bowtie apart, letting the two ends lie parallel to his neck. Smoothing the ends between her fingers, she took in a Cuda-scented breath through her nose and began to let her fingers fly in practiced ease. Doing her best to ignore the rise and fall of his chest, Mickey clicked her tongue. “You can tie a necktie, but you can’t tie a bowtie?”

“Mama Knight usually does it for me.”

The simple sincerity in his answer made her take pause, her fingers fumbling before they stilled. Nose wrinkling, she pulled the half-knot apart and started again. “That’s nice of her.”

“Yeah, she’s really cool.”

She gave the finished bowtie a few tugs making sure it held tight and smoothed her hands down his chest. His heart beat hard beneath her fingers. Her eyes flew open wide and her lips parted and pushed out a squeak before backing away, directing her eyes to the floor, dropping her arms to her sides. “Sorrysorrysorry!” Her apology slammed together, falling off her tongue faster than she could form the words. If James said anything she didn’t hear it, didn’t want to hear it. The further away she kept him, the better. In fact, she managed to form some semblance of a sentence, telling him she’d be right back, before rushing off. She ducked behind the host stand when her manager and a few servers walked by, carrying large trays. It was where she wanted to go anyway. She tugged the box of items that had been left behind by patrons, rummaging through it until she found what she needed. With a triumphant grin, she hurried back to James. Along the way she grabbed an extra apron from the entryway to the kitchen; it fluttered behind her like a cape.

“Okay, tie this around your waist,” she said, a little breathless, once she reached him. “Keep a booklet in your pocket to take orders.”

“I can’t take orders!” James said, doing as he was told. A few quick twists of his fingers and the apron lay against his waist. “I’m not an actual server!”

“I know, but you’re going to take Carlos and Jennifer’s orders. And by that, I mean it’s already written. I picked out the best dishes for them. Pretend to take their orders and bring the paper to me. I’ll make sure the food is perfect and out on time.”

“Oh.” James took the notebook out of the pocket and opened it up. “You have nice handwriting.”

“Thank you.” Mickey sucked in a breath, blinked, and got her mind back on the topic at hand. “Katie will be running interference. Check on them every now and then. If you need anything, I’ll be right behind those doors. Now, how’s your French?”

“Huh?”

“French. Do you know any French?”

James’s eyes lifted to the ceiling as he thought for a moment. When he looked back down, a light had ignited behind his eyes. “Voulez vous couch—”

“Stop it.” Mickey squeezed her eyes shut as she thrust out her palm, blocking his words.

James’s shoulders rounded. “Sorry.”

“Forever.”

“Got it.”

Honestly, why was that always someone’s first answer? They needed to get more material. Whatever. She had more things to worry about. Waving her hands in front of her, she wiped his slate clean. “Forget it. How’s your French accent?”

“Oui oui, hon hon, try ze baguette.”

Her eye twitched. “…Close enough. Just keep that up and keep your face hidden and we should be fine. Just, one more thing…” She reached upwards and he obediently leaned forward, moving in sync. She pressed a large, fake mustache against his top lip, keeping a firm hold for a few seconds. Once secure she slipped a pair of glasses over his nose and took a step back, looking at him with new eyes. It was so unfair he looked good in glasses too. Her big reading glasses probably would look good on him too, on her they made her look like a nerd. Well, she was a nerd to a degree, but the glasses didn’t help. She clapped her hands together, the sharp sound making James jump. “Okay, team, we’re all set! Remember, we’re doing this for Carlos.”

“Friendship powers, activate!” James announced, pointing a triumphant finger in the air.

“I’m not doing it this time,” Katie said with a shake of her head, making James pout. Mickey jumped in, easily executing the odd handshake James had come up with, doing her best to ignore the spark at her fingertips upon their hands touching. He’d been working on it for weeks, mostly with Carlos and sometimes with her, noting it’d only be brought out when they really needed it. And Carlos really needed them.

The group split up with James holding his arm up to his face, looking much like Batman with his cape draped up to his face. With a few quick flicks of her wrist, Mickey cuffed the sleeves of her dress shirt, only catching the smirk on Katie’s face at the last second. “You two looked cozy,” Katie all but sang.

“Shut up, Katie,” Mickey grumbled. “You’re the one who didn’t want to do the handshake.”

“Because it’s dumb. I don’t know why you encourage those idiots.”

“I’m beginning to wonder that myself.” Deep down Mickey knew. It was because they were fun, and they were her friends. Back home she only really had her sisters as friends. And, yeah, maybe they all came along just because of their connection to Kelly but she loved the guys. They made her life interesting. She wouldn’t have fun like this back on the East Coast. She and her sisters had their own kinds of adventures but the adventures she’d been having out here with them were on another level.

“Do you really think Jennifer 3 could be the girl for him?” Katie spoke up after a moment of silence.

“I think he’s trying hard,” Mickey said slowly, “and he shouldn’t have to try hard. So, as long as we get him relaxed, anything could happen.” She bit her lip, peering past Katie to see Carlos’ and Jennifer’s table nearby. “He’s very sweet. Any girl would be lucky to have someone like him. They just have to notice.”

Shrugging, Katie went to blend in with the plants. Mickey ran her hands over her hair, smoothing down any stray kinky curls, blowing out a breath. She caught James’ eye from across the room. He grinned and held up his hand, wiggling the shaka sign. Their secret way of communicating, checking if everything was okay. She smiled and waved the sign back.

If there was one thing she learned about being around them, everything would work out the way it needed to.

She may as well sit back and enjoy the ride.

[happinessismusic]

Several times throughout his performance last night, Blake Shelton held his arms wide open towards the audience, as if he wanted to give everyone a big bear hug, thanking them for the love, energy, and applause. This would be Shelton's sixth time on the rotating RodeoHouston stage, and his first time back in six years.

"I've been here a bunch of times" said Blake as he smiled wide to the crowd. "I try my best to soak up the experience every time!

It was a gorgeous evening for the opening night of RodeoHouston 2024. Guys and gals dressed in their best western outfits came out to see the rodeo, eat corn dogs and turkey legs, and see a great show. The paid attendance of last night's event was a respectable 59,461.

The set list began with the trio of "God's Country," "A Guy With A Girl," and "Neon Light." Shelton lives on the edge of several worlds: country and Hollywood, traditional and modern. He took a swig of his whiskey (or tequila) and raised his glass towards the crowd. "Let's have some real fun out here!"

It was then that Blake's wife made a surprise appearance. The superstar Gwen Stefani joined Shelton on stage for the duets "Nobody But You" and "Purple Irises." She looked like an angel dressed in a purple shawl with fringe, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. The country boy married the California girl, and now they make beautiful music together.

"I was holding on to that big secret, and it was so hard to not tell anybody!" confessed Shelton. "By the way, Houston..... You're welcome! That was my wife, Gwen Stefani!"

"Now let's play some of my old ones," he followed, continuing with "Ol' Red," "Austin," and "Honey Bee." Although Shelton is not quite on par with the great country music storytellers of the golden era, he is a talented songwriter, and sure can paint a pretty picture with his songs.

“Well look at that! They're doing the cell phone light thing that I like so much" he said during the song "Austin." That track was Shelton's first hit. "This is the song that got me here!"

Shelton's current tour is entitled "Back To The Honky Tonk," and which was most evident with his last songs of the night, "Hillbilly Bone" and "Boys Round Here".

"We all have a hillbilly bone down deep inside," sang Blake to the bluesy rock track. "You can't help but hollerin' YEE-HAW!" These lyrics definitely represent what Houston feels during Rodeo cook off and the 20 days of concerts that follow.

The track "Boys Round Here" has always been very humorous to me as it leans on a country rap motif that references the 2010 rap classic "Teach Me How To Dougie" by Cali Swag District.

“I love Texas!" proclaimed Shelton near the end of his set. "I love Houston and I love this place!"

He then hopped offstage and onto a black Ford F-150 and rode away into the belly of the arena.

What a great way to kick off the 2024 RodeoHouston season. The lineup is interesting and exciting this year, and we will be back a few more times for more music, more fun, and definitely more corn dogs!

[daisiesonafield-blog]

Review -After many a postponement, for the first time since his debut world tour in 2017, Grammy award winning artist Harry Styles touched down at Mt Smart Stadium, bringing Harry Styles: Love on Tour to Tāmaki Makaurau.

Released in 2022 and recently awarded Album of the Year at the 2023 Grammys, Harry's House, built in London by way of Hollywood, Malibu, and Wilshire, and engineered by the likes of Kid Harpoon, Tyler Johnson, and Samuel Witte has seen almost every major city of the world. It's only fitting that, at long last, Aotearoa finally got a taste of the artist's highest acclaimed album.

Decorated from head to toe in sequins, sparkles, cowboy hats and the coveted feather boas, punters, who had been lining up as early as two days before the concert itself, descended on Mt. Smart Stadium bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager to get as close to Styles as they possibly could. His charm, wit and general crowd interaction is a major selling point of the tour itself - something all 47,000 attendees were eager to get a taste of.

Aotearoa's own Ny Oh and Isle of Wight-based band Wet Leg opened the show, to a crowd that, although mixed in demographic, got behind every single beat. Seeing Wet Leg at Mt Smart was a bit of a big deal; the last time they were here, they performed to a sold-out Tuning Fork - a venue which can hold up to 300 people. Fast forward eight months, playing to a sold-out stadium, comprising a crowd who, for the most part, know every word to every song, is something to marvel at.

I always admire an artist who has an impeccable pre-show playlist - it shows that not only do they know their crowd well, but when done right, the right selection can show that they know the city, or in this case, country, well too. Classic tracks such as 'Best Song Ever' by One Direction and 'Bohemian Rhapsody' by Queen had the crowd doing vocal somersaults over one another, singing as loud as they could.

What took me by surprise was the addition of Poi E by Pātea Māori Club - released in 1983, sung entirely in te reo, now playing to a crowded stadium before Harry Styles of all people graced the stage. He knew his crowd, and where he was in the world, extremely well.

Styles is known for his on-stage outfits. Some are understated, some are extremely overstated, and most, if not all of them, end up being one of the main focal points of every performance. The last time he was in Aotearoa, he wore an all-black suit, assumingly paying homage to the All Blacks. Last night, he wore a short sleeve raglan tee with a bejewelled whale's tail adorning it, with a pair of purple dress pants. Not the most spectacular outfit compared to his recent Australia tour, but we'll take what we can get.

After all, fashion comes second when you're stood mere metres from One Direction's Golden Child.

It's always special when an artist comes to any given country and does more than just plays their show and jump on the next flight home. On his recent Australian tour, Styles immersed himself in the culture of the Aboriginal peoples of Australia, and his stop in Aotearoa was no exception.

At his first break in the show, Styles, who, earlier in the day, had spent time with Te Matatini finalists, Angitū, sang the start of 'Tūtira Mai Ngā Iwi' - written by Canon Wiremu Te Tau Huata in the 1950s.

The crowd, clearly stunned, sung the rest of the waiata back to him without hesitation while he danced around the stage. He continued to do this multiple times throughout the night, which kept the crowd on their toes. I was almost waiting for it to happen every time he got the chance to speak. At one point in the concert, he picked a Tino Rangatiratanga flag from the crowd, and put it on his mic stand - the flag found itself to be a permanent fixture on the stage for the rest of the night.

The moments of the concert I remember the most vividly seem to be the same at almost every one I go to; the times when the whole crowd is still, flashlights up, yelling the lyrics of the saddest songs back at the person singing them - and last night was no exception. At the end of the catwalk which spanned what felt like ten trillion miles, Styles performed 'Matilda', 'Little Freak', and 'Satellite' one after the other, and for all three songs, I've never heard a crowd with so much gusto.

Harry performed songs from across all three released bodies of work, such as 'Woman', to 'Golden', and even far back as a new rendition of One Direction's seminal hit, 'What Makes You Beautiful'. He even snuck in crowd-favourite unreleased weapon, 'Medicine' which went viral during the tour for his last album, Fine Line. During every song, the crowd didn't hold back. So much energy in one space - it was amazing to bear witness to.

It's crazy to think that, from Harry's end, there are 47,000 people in the same space as you are singing the words to the music you wrote back at you. Those moments stick with an artist - I feel as though they stick with the crowd for eternity.

Crowd interaction is paramount for an artist as big as Styles. Throughout his time as a solo performer, he's always placed a large emphasis on connecting with his crowds, and as he's grown, the interactions have only evolved to be more intense.

Last night was no exception. From pointing out a fan who had been throwing fruit at him (which then proceeded to him singing a two-minute-long song about people dressed as bananas, eggs, aubergines, so on and so forth), the singer, who encourages fans to bring signs with him to his shows, went back and forth with two fans. One, who allegedly sold their cats leg to be at the show, and the other, who was with her best friend going through a breakup. After finding out the now ex-boyfriend wasn't prioritising them, hence the breakup, he told the crowd to "not be a Michael, be a Romy!"

Styles also asked the crowd about the census, telling everyone that he too had filled it out prior to the show.

Finishing with crowd favourite, and aptly named, 'Kiwi', Styles had made the nights of 12-year-olds with their parents and mid-40-year-olds alike, as well as everyone in between. Harry Styles is truly an artist who transcends all levels of musical talent and incomparable wit, with a hint of charm that can't be matched.

The remnants of the 47,000 plus feather boas will live on the field of Mt Smart Stadium until Harry Styles makes his triumphant return to Aotearoa.

Admittedly, he doesn't actually know when that will be. All he knows is that he hopes it won't be too long.

[aizenat]

I’m at a point where my sympathy for women who choose to do that shit too is dwindling. I had this thought the other day about how everyone these days are so COMMERCIAL.

Everyone acts like they’re a model in a commercial. Gotta have perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect body, etc. And because of that, the rebellious spirit of youth is completely gone. Kids have always struggled to fit in and at least previous generations had fucking alternative subcultures to seek solace in. But that doesn’t exist today! Fucking marvel is calling Joe Locke in Agatha goth! Bitch where???!!!!!! Black eyeliner, nail polish, and a black hoodie over ripped jeans is not fucking goth! I feel like I’m in 2007 having the whole goth vs emo debate again! Like hello? If anyone wearing those things immediately made them goth then me and my friends in hs were super goth (we weren’t; we couldn’t even afford to dress like the emo kids we were lol)!

Kids don’t rebel anymore! They don’t sneak out to meet boys and girls. They don’t skip classes to smoke behind the football stands or hang out at the mall. They don’t read books their parents would clutch their pearls at. They don’t read dark and macabre shit like Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King. They don’t dye their hair black and take selfies licking knives or lying on train tracks with black and white filters over them. They don’t let their nail polish chip and let their vans get scuffed, and steal their parents’ liquor and shoplift from the drug store after school or loiter around stores until managers kick them out. They don’t steal each others boyfriends or get in screaming matches in the middle of the hallway. They don’t rebel in anyway that isn’t hyper consumeristic (Sephora kids) or melting down over not having their iPads.

And so they all have to be commercial. Bright eyed and marketable so brands will pick them to push their useless products. And this has trickled into celebrity culture too. Where are the rebellious nepo babies like the Osborne siblings with their filthy mouths and regular looking bodies in a sea of Hollywood skinny celebs? Where are the Pinks singing about not wanting to be a stupid girl? Where are the Ciaras with a tomboyish style so they can DANCE (other than twerking)? Fuck even Jeffree Star (MySpace era; not yt era) had an appeal at one point because he was an androgynous man with bright neon pink hair and eyebrows with emo makeup and styling.

This lack of rebellion means everyone gets in the industry and just falls in line. Fuck a rebel. A REAL rebel (if one of you mention that white girl from the Midwest with constant foot in mouth syndrome I will smite you with the power of 2000s linkin park, my chemical romance, and limp bizkit istg); everyone just has to be perfectly commercial. It’s why ice blew up despite being incredibly untalented.

And it’s why these girls enter the industry and just immediately be like “oooh lemme get plastic surgery so I can look like every other bbl having ig model/baddie these niggas wanna fuck; that’ll sell records!” Which is insane because female rappers marketing to women over marketing to men will go a LOT farther. So who are you doing it for? And don’t say yourself because you would love yourself if someone didn’t tell you not to. So who told you and why are you listening to them instead of going “you know what? I’m good as I am. Fuck you, I ain’t changing for a hater.” Yall rapping about opps and fucking getting cut open and starving and working out like crazy and taking ozempic and lying about it just to what? Hope some nigga in the industry will collab with you?

Ain’t no way fucking with fake tits and ass feels good. Ain’t no way that nose job helping you with your breath control. No way them veneers helping you eat better. Like be for real. The industry/society told you to conform and you did like sheep. It’s so hard to take the boss bitch/I’m that girl messages to heart when I don’t believe you. If someone told you you laughed weird, you’d change it. Someone told you a certain color looked bad on you, you’d stop wearing it. Someone says they hate your natural hair, you become addicted to the buss downs.

You’re literal sheep. Shepherd says go here and you say baa baa shepherd say less.

And then if someone calls this behavior out, people want to fight to the death for their right to conform to what society says without question. Fight to the death for their god given American right to buy products they don’t need and cosmetic surgeries they don’t need (and don’t know the long term effects and consequences of) with the lie of “I’m doing it for myself.”

No desire to redefine beauty standards by daring to be different. No interest in questioning why we as women are expected to do all this while men aren’t. Head empty other than a repeating mantra of how it’s for you, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting to spend thousands of dollars radically and fundamentally changing how you look. It’s totally not self hatred to the highest degree that you should be spending those thousands on therapy unpacking instead of plastic surgery. None of it. Just a dread of feeling like you HAVE to do it, it’s “maintenance,” but yet don’t question why you feel you HAVE to do it.

I need real rebels in music again. Tired of all the perfectly curated, well manicured, conformists masquerading as revolutionary. I need heavy metal and pop rock and messy hair and super thick eyeliner and girls wearing leather jackets over baggy tripp pants and band shirts back. I need rebellion back. I need girls who are willing to fight back against standards and say fuck you to anyone expecting them to change. I need the women who would gag at the idea of conforming to be like Britney back. I need the women rapping about Escalades (the Bentleys the hummers the Benz) instead of sucking dick and their fat asses. Give me Gwen Stefani and her Alice in wonderland esthetic trying to motivate herself talking about whatcha waiting for! Give me Ciara talking about sometimes I wish I could act like a boy. Give me Hayley screaming once a whore you’re nothing more I’m sorry that’ll never change. Give me a rock band singing so darken your clothes and strike a violent pose about the youth.

Fucking give me REBELLION. I need these modern girls to fucking get off their knees AND STAND THE FUCK UP.

[terrence-silver]

What would Terry’s reaction be to finding Beloved with another man?…

---

Of course his first instinct was to kill. Maim.

Avenge. Mainly himself.

Settle scores.

Achieve prime control by digging his fingers into your neck until your ligaments snapped in half and then deal with the lowlife punk schmuck you were shacked up with at The Montrose, downtown West Hollywood. Destroy their mediocre little life, one bit at a time until they begged for release he wouldn't give them. Margaret, by extension of his private investigators told him exactly where to find you. The location to where you were tracked. Followed, when you thought you were being clever, unseen, outsmarting everyone, never realizing his many eyes were always on you.

He takes the Rolls Royce there.

Has his chauffeur driving him out. The aesthetic choice was deliberate. He'd go down there calmly, in high style, a man of the world, well dressed, poised, like he was doing no more and no less than attending some high stakes business meeting. A conference. And he was, in a sense. Revenge was business and his business was revenge, today of all days, as he calmly strides of the stairs on the third floor, polished leather shoes against the floorboards, adjusting his golden cufflinks, the puzzled front desk receptionist at the dingy hotel eyeing him like he just saw the fucking Pope enter the venue premises. Yeah, it is simple as knocking on the door marked AB19 and you open, thinking he's room service undoubtedly, find yourself in a state of partial undress, wrapped in a bathrobe, looking pale. Terry was convinced it was a far greater fright to come face to face with him than being caught cheating. But he's cool, simply grabbing the door's frame from the top, using his height to his advantage once you try to close it shut in front of him and he strides past you with ease, looking for a chair to sit down on, inviting himself inside, never asking for permission, pulling a monogrammed silken handkerchief under himself as he does, sprawling it out, as not to get sullied, the keys to your room promptly tossed on a nearby end table with a metallic, resounding clamor that shook the foyer.

There's a creature on the bed, just like Terry knew there would be, rolled in post-coital bedsheets, looking even more befuddled than you were; an emotion clearly replaced by fear once the door shuts behind his stride and two realize you were just caught. What? Did he interrupt something? Terry crosses his legs, nonchalant. He would deal with this punk later. It would be a pleasure.

-"C'mon! Don't stop on my account."- He fishes a golden cigar box out of his inside pocket, ensuring that the suit he wore was the picture of flattery on him, looking for a cutter and a lighter, pushing the tobacco between his lips, nonplussed. He already broke half of the furniture back at the mansion earlier today when his detective handed him the photographs of you with this...thing, staring at him from the mattress, shaken. He got ahold of himself by the time he arrived here, hot waves of wrath rolling off of him until there was nothing left but stony determination. Now was the time to play his frosty disposition and play it masterfully. -"I wanna watch."- Terry utters that line like it was nothing at all, and it wasn't anything at all. He's watched people fuck before. People watched him fuck before too. He's just never watched someone that was his fuck someone else before, was all. That's why all his discipline is employed, never to show an emotion. Never show mercy. Not now.

-"Terry, I, how..."- You stutter uncomfortably, finally able to muster a word or two, still processing he was here at all. Least of all, that he was asking what he was asking.

-"I said, I wanna watch."-

He repeats, matter-of-factly, feeling himself grow icy cold at the idea his explicit order was being questioned at all, letting the smoke bellow out of his nostrils in floating circles, pointing a ring finger vaguely at the nobody fucktard you choose to do him in with. How your standards have fallen. You wanted to learn a thing or two about humiliation? Fair enough. Terry Silver was here to do the teaching. This would be one of many demonstrated lessons. The first one. The prologue. Round one in the ringer.

-"So? Put on a good live performance."-

He twirls his hand in the air for emphasis, relishing in your embarrassment, so thick he could practically cut it with a knife and eat it for breakfast with an entrée followed by the main course in the form of your bleeding heart, feeling his jaw tighten to the point he could imagine himself capable of biting through the concrete walls of the room filled with cold anger, eyes searching for an ashtray and in finding none, he simply allows the searing residue from his cigar to fall on the carpet along with a curtain of red embers. He could burn this whole place down and he'd be fully justified in doing so. But, no, Terry didn't deal in impulsive anger. Terry only got angry when he decided it was time to --- deciding when it was useful --- and now wasn't the time. He ironically needed to be perfectly level headed now. And so, he was.

-"Terry, listen, we can go outside and I can explain ---"-

You try desperately to placate him and your creature scurries nervously, collecting their shit from strewn over the floor, ready to run. Make a dash for it. -"I'll leave, man."- They make a pathetic attempt and fail. -"Bullshit you will. Class isn't dismissed and recess hasn't started."- Terry doesn't raise his voice, refusing to blink. Doesn't give anyone in the room the satisfaction of finding him affected and out of control. Instead, he adjusts himself and sinks deeper into the trusted old cuck chair --- of course every hotel had one, but this time, he tended to see it as the seat of command, pointing at the bed, refusing to address the creature personally, instead, doing it through you as mouthpiece, courier and vessel. -"You tell them, they'll be a good robot. Do exactly as programmed."- Terry instructs, never taking his eyes off of you. Sure, yes, he considered violence as his first incentive, but this? This was so much better. You wanted to be an adulterer and now it was your chance do to what an adulterer did best, with him as witness and coordinator, learning a lesson you'd never forget; that regardless what you did, you belonged to him. Now and always. -"And after you're done,"- He warns, wagging his finger. -"You'll pack all your crap up and you're coming home with me."- Disbelief. Terry reads disbelief in your eyes when faced with those words. Like a part of you thought that fucking someone else would finally liberate you from him as your last way out. That you'd get rid of him. That he'd be disgusted, angry and done with you to the degree you'd walk free, even if walking free came with certain amounts of pain stemming from his ire, truly showing how desperately you wanted freedom at any cost. If that was your reason behind tactically doing this then you were dead wrong --- you grossly miscalculated --- because giving you exactly what you wanted was too damn easy.

No.

You'd stay right where you belonged --- with him.

Denied of the very thing you were reaching for forever.

And Terry would enjoy that so much. That would be his revenge.

-"Chop-chop! Get to work."- Terry claps his hands, balancing his cigar between his index and middle finger, mustering a dry chuckle, feeling himself like spectator at the Kentucky Derby bidding on a race horse from the jam-packed audience, watching you exchange silently horrified glances with the schmuck on the bed who was still trying to figure out if this was real or an elaborate joke. Was no joke. Didn't you tell them about him? No? Terry wanted to watch you fuck the prick. He wanted it to last long. Torturously so. Terry wanted you to feel his gaze on you as you did, unable to escape. Feel every bit of discomfort, unease, objectification and suffering you could until you finally tapped the fuck out and found that this was only the beginning. That there was his car waiting downstairs and that you'd be going back with him. That you would pay for what you've done. That you'd realize what 'nothing is for free' really meant. That he would ensure your paid your dues for this betrayal with every inch of your being until it left a mark on your very soul. When you refuse to move, Terry decides, now's the time to raise his voice and his tone is laced with crude laughter as he does once both you and the shmuck nearly jump out of your skins. -"With conviction!"- Terry yells, as you reluctantly approach the bed, finally moving, even if it was at a snail's pace, wholly shaken and shivering. He smiles. Good. Perfect. This would hurt you, sure. But, no more than it would hurt him.

He takes another long, hard drag out of his cigar, filling the room with smoke.

[orchideous-nox]

🕯️,🥤,🧃,🍄,🍬,❄️,🏜️,🍅,🐝 and 🎨 for the writers truth or dare ask game < 3

it's 12:20am lets see if I can get through these by 1am lets goooo oh my god this is so many okay

🕯️- on a scale from 1 to 10, how much do you enjoy editing? why is that?

Like a 3, maybe a 4. The only part of editing I enjoy is that its the last step in the writing process and then I get to upload the fic, I just find it boring and lowkey stressful and 1 typo always makes it's way into the fic no matter what I do

🥤 - recommend an author or fanfic you love

okay I can't just keep saying Alex (but also yes I can, go check out heartnipnops on ao3) and I recently read "I adored you Madly, Extravagantly, Absurdly" by MiriamMT which I devoured like way too quickly so I'll go with that!

🧃 - share some personal lore you never posted about before

*gasp* KATIE LORE?! Okay eerrrmmm trying to think about what I have or haven't posted. I have a degree in Film Studies, I wrote my dissertation on representations of masculinity in Hollywood films of the 1990s with a focus on Robin Williams in Jumanji, Mrs Doubtfire and Good Will Hunting! That was a lot of fun to write and I can occasionally get pretentious about films from time to time. I am always down to talk films with people though

🍄 - share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

okay love this, I don't usually keep track of my hc's and don't want to revert back to my usual bottom barty and evan collects teeth bullshit.

It seems to have made it into my fics' canon that Barty’s phone screen is always smashed or cracked but I think Evan’s is pristine like he has a fucking bumper phone case incase he drops it, with a screen protector and if it gets the slightest scratch he gets frustrated and buys a new screen protector.

🍬 - post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character

Again, I don't want to just say bottom Barty again but that is a hill I'll die on. I think a fair amount of my opinions are relatively popular, or at least aren't unpopular.

Okay so I came back to this and I have nothing. Scouse Barty. Not an opinion, I'm here for it though.

❄️ - what's your dream theme/plot for a fic, and who would write it best

i shouldn't say too much about this but my lovely friend who sent me this ask, Alex, has a future fic on his masterlist that we have discussed extensively of like a stalkery and murdery Rosekiller fic that I'm very obsessed with and he knows this and I'm very excited for it because its all I could want in a Rosekiller fic. This also makes it sound like I only have 1 friend because I just talk about Alex.......oh well

🏜️ - what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

Oh my god Alex just ask me to suck your dick next time 😒 but seriously I love when people pick out quotes that they like or certain aspects of the fic such as loving the ship dynamic or my writing style.

🍅 - give yourself some constructive criticism on your own writing

I withdraw the dick sucking joke, me and my inflated ego hate you.

I think there are times I need to learn to be more concise. I don't have to give a whole life story in a smut fic and some brevity might do me some good if I can learn how to say more in less words.

🐝 - tag your biggest supporter(s) and say one nice thing about them

Oh my god seriously 🙄

Okay so my biggest support is @futurequibblerjournalist aka Alex who I have been continuously hyping up and roasting in the answers to the questions he asked me. He knows he's my biggest supporter and, like a wanker, wants me to inflate his ego.

I could say that Alex has correct opinions (because we share a lot of them) or that he's a great writer but I've already said that like twice in this post. But above all Alex is just one of the best people I know, over the last 5 months we've talked like every day extensively and on good days or bad days he has been a light for me like a sparkly fucking bitch I hate him and myself so much I'm going to throw up now brb

🎨 - link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

I'm resisting temptation to make this about Alex and his stupid fucking Cowboy Rosekiller art based on my Cowboy Rosekiller fic 🖕

Actually no, we're making this an Alex-fest because fuck you.

i love it. I love everything about it.

But I'm also going to include one that isn't from my fic

This art by @julesart04 revolutionised my love for Barty and inspired a movement for Barty’s whorish waist on my page

Okay it's 1:10am and I'm pretty sure Alex is about to declare me as a stalker and block me ✌️

[1001albumsrated]

#12: Machito - Kenya (1958)

Genre(s): Afro-Cuban, Latin Jazz, Cubop

Staying in the Afro-Cuban vein from the last entry in 1001 Albums, this time around we have Kenya, by Machito. As I mentioned in my Palo Congo review, this kind of music is a big blind spot for me. This is the second album on the list that I truly have never seen.

To my light understanding, Machito is a pretty big deal in this scene, and influenced many of the American jazz artists who took on some Latin trappings (there was an era where this sound was extremely trendy: see Miles Davis & Gil Evans' Sketches of Spain for a prime example of it done well).

Kenya, in contrast to Palo Congo, feels much more like jazz in a traditional sense, whereas Palo Congo seemed much closer its Afro-Cuban roots. Aside from the percussion, the rest of Machito's band is a fairly standard jazz orchestra, and plays with many of the American bebop trends and styles of the time in mind. That being said, these guys are anything but a schmaltzy big band. While the band is very tight and clearly well-composed and rehearsed, they pull no punches. When Machito puts the gas pedal down, it goes all the damn way down. The opening track, Wild Jungle, is a great example of the sort of blistering, frenetic energy the band can conjure.

This is an interesting listen, partially on account of how popular these sounds became in filmmaking in particular. These driving congo rhythms have soundtracked many a high speed chase scene over the years. The difference is, this is the *real thing*. There's a sincerity and authenticity here that the Hollywood imitators always seem to lack, a true driving energy behind the music. Add in some lightning fast bebop solos and you're in business. And even when they drop the tempo back for a song or two, there's still a powerful driving force behind the slinky lounge tunes on the disc.

Unfortunately, like Palo Congo, this album is long out of print (a situation that well predates the original 2005 release of 1001 Albums). Also, when doing some digging on the release history, I discovered that everything I'd read about this album to date really buried the lede that Cannonball fucking Adderley is on this thing. That explains the excellent sax solos. I'm surprised he didn't get some kind of callout on the cover. Anyways, I ended up listening in hi-res on Qobuz, and will be keeping an eye out for a copy of the album. Sonically, the recording is kinda rough. I'm not sure if the master that made it to streaming was a later generation tape copy, or if it was just rough to begin with (supposedly the version on Qobuz is a 2000 remaster, so it's fairly likely the original tapes were lost or damaged in the intervening 42 years). In particular, more dynamic moments often sound completely blown out. It's possible this is an artifact from later tape generations, or it's equally possible the engineer thought this would be some laid back Nelson Riddle sort of affair and just had his gains set too high. I'd be curious to hear an original if one ever crosses my path to see if those problems persist on it.

Regardless, sonic warts and all, this album is loads of fun. Again, like Palo Congo, I'm in no place to judge the historical or cultural significance of this one, but aesthetically it's a great listen and well-worth one of our hotly contested 1001 slots. Really pleased to have discovered this album.

Next time: the energy stays high with Little Richard's rock n roll landmark album, Here's Little Richard!