#and I brought 7 used off eBay

[kingofbr00klyn]

One of these days I’ll have a complete set 🥲

[babydollmarauders]

MEDIA MANAGEMENT — JACK HUGHES (PART SEVENTEEN)

previous: sixteen

next: eighteen

y/ndevils00

liked by jackhughes, siegenthaler34, and 151,308 others

y/ndevils00 HAPPY PLAYOFF GAME 4!!

YOUR NEW JERSEY DEVILS HAVE TIED THE SERIES!!

we kicked tonight off with a goal less than 2 minutes in from my uber-talented, phenomenal, absolutely flawless boyfie! YOU GO BABY!! I’M SO PROUD OF YOU! you’re making your very first playoffs your bitch!

bubs is fueled off the “boo”s he gets from rags fans when he has the puck, so he likes to rub it in their faces when he scores 😇 u-haula had to pull him away from the glass

we were the only ones on the board until 3rd period, when the ones who shall not be named scored and got the game tied :(

BUT that didn’t last long! because less than 7 minutes later, THE SWISS OF THE NIGHT, SIEGS SCORED! which brought us to lead the rags by one! PROUD OF YOU SWISS-MISS

and with less than 30 seconds on the clock, PALLY SCORED AN EMPTY NET GOAL!! which got us a 3-1 win!!

2 wins down, 2 more to go!

RAISE HELL, MY LOVES!

to finish this exciting post, look at my smiley baby after this fantastic win! 🥹

tagged jackhughes, siegenthaler34, and pally_18

user52 this is a very jack-centric post and i’m here for it!

pally_18 thank you for your endless support y/n!

y/ndevils00 always, pilates! 🫶

siegenthaler34 thank you y/n/n!

user90 smiley jack is so cute! 😭 thank you y/n for always feeding us!

user22 she always understands her role 🫡

lhughes_06 LET’S GO 🔥🔥

y/ndevils00 YEAHHH! score could’ve been 43-0 if you were on the ice 🤐

lhughes_06 that’s not….

jackhughes don’t bother. she’s set in her delusions

lhughes_06 @/jackhughes … okay

user48 y/n is luke’s biggest fan and it makes me so happy 😭

jackhughes thank you for being my biggest supporter and for letting me rant to you after games! i love you to pluto, sugar! ❤️

y/ndevils00 i’m always here darling! you’ll never get rid of me!

jackhughes that’s.. comforting

y/ndevils00 isn’t it?! i love you to pluto and back ☺️

_quinnhughes this was a great game! happy for you guys!

y/ndevils00 i’ve had such a blast sitting with you quinny! please never go back to canada!

canucks @/y/ndevils00 okay, you can’t have them all!

y/ndevils00 @/canucks i can and i WILL

john.marino97 dawson and i don’t get a feature tonight?! some best friend you are!

y/ndevils00 you were getting greedy with them. you needed to be humbled

dawson1417 @/y/ndevils00 even me?!

y/ndevils00 @/dawson1417 especially you 🤠

trevorzegras WOOO! so happy for you guys!! so glad i was there to see this!

y/ndevils00 i’m not.

trevorzegras is this still about the shirt? i found you a new one on ebay!

y/ndevils00 you stole my seat for third period.

trevorzegras i wanted to sit next to quinn! you were still right by him, just on the other side of me!

y/ndevils00 it wasn’t the same.

[cpunkwitch]

answering my questions p3

[pt: answering my questions p3]

part 1 (link), part 2 (link)

ask game 3 (link)

biggest inaccessible thing that angers you right now?

doors with round handles. fuck those door knobs im glad my bedroom door doesnt actually close so i dont have to use it.

2. something no one talks about that you wish had more discussion about how it could be more accessible?

windows. i dont ever see anyone talk about how windows (that are meant to be opened for air circulation etc) could be more accessible. the window i have i have to wrestle with in order to get it open in the summer, because of that i avoided it this summer and ended up not having ac

i get there are some windows that have the screen on the other side and the inside slides up, i prefer those, my sister has that in her room, but the locks and the act of opening the window itself is not easy or something everyone can do.

3. what are some good resources that help you out? any blogs or sites that really helped you out with a disability or gave you support?

a user on here actually suggested speech assistant to me, i dont remember who but i was able to find an aac for my phone thanks to a tumblr user. i dont really have anything else to respond with, my resources are actually kinda limited ^^;

i got my cane off amazon, thats really the only other thing i have.

4. if you have an aid, mobility or not, how did you get it and do you know any good places to get them at good prices?

unfortunately all i know is amazon because i dont have a way of using other sites. most other sites dont use stripe and paypal is a bitch to me. i know there was a post going around earlier to be put on a wait list for a free wheelchair i think? if anyone knows where that post is id like to reblog it again

best way to get things at a lower price though is if theyre used/2nd hand. theyre considered worth less than new ones as they've been used and probably worn in already, therein they arent in mint condition like newer ones, but theyre still good. i actually got my first two binders that way. (tbh i get most things that way)

i know you can find 2nd hand stuff on facebook groups/marketplace, Kijiji, ebay and similar sites but i dont fully trust most of them myself.

when it comes to aid's that are programs though, such as aac or screen readers, there are tonnes that are completely free or come with small monthly subs or in-app purchases that arent too pricey and a lot of sites and social apps have those built in now a days with stickers, emojis, gifs, text-to-speech options on devices and so on.

5. any programs you know of that are either easily accessible or make things more accessible?

aside from my answer in 4, i have asl bloom which is like duolingo for american sign language. if you wanna quickly learn some asl for free, asl bloom is great!

i mentioned i have speech assistant for an aac, i've excitedly posted a bit yesterday about using it for the first time in a classroom setting.

6. whats an aid that no one mentions being an aid? could be big or small

anything is an aid if it assists you. glasses, braces, screen readers, etc

i see plenty of people acknowledging that pictures, emojis etc are aids as well esp for the nonverbal, more so than i would see sometime in the past.

a lot of things that might not be considered socially acceptable can be aids too, plastic straws for example, esp bendy ones, but thats been talked about quite a lot since the pandemic and i hope to see that discussion continue until theyre finally brought back as the default.

things that i never-to-rarely see anyone mention as an aid of some sort though? aside from medication, creams and things for pain management, theres not much to come to mind.

7. any recent news that really pissed you off, like an accessibility being taken away?

there was something at the time of making that ask game but i no longer remember what. nothing recent that have to bring up, at least not right now.

8. any good news to share with the disabled community?

i am sorry to say i bring no news at all, good or bad, but i may have some at a later date. perhaps whenever i get that french aac update we can consider that good news

9. what are some helpful things in your town/city for cripples?

nothing special i can think of

10. what can your town/city improve on to help?

the fucking side walks

11. is there an accommodation you wish you had/could get/want more of?

if i had the money and was in a different situation, id get a shower chair, braces or compression gloves, a wheelchair etc.

typing programs like typist arent made with disabled people in mind and i wish they were, i make mistakes because im dyslexic and cant always control my stims and they score you on how many mistakes you make with no backspace option and you cant continue until you improve with the least amount to no mistakes. they should at least let you use the backspace.

i use typist for class and it pisses me off that i cant go back and fix my mistakes. not just typing either but writing classes in general that grade you on how many mistakes you make should consider and accommodate people with issues writing/typing. just giving them more time to work on an assignment is not much of an accomodation. tics, stims etc are all things that can effect a persons writing and its pretty unfair and ablest to think that everyone can just stop making mistakes with writing if they practice enough.

12. whats some discourse going around right now that you wish would stop?

non physically disabled / able bodied people claiming cripplepunk includes them. should never have been discourse to begin with the name itself should be fucking self explanatory and if you know anything about cripplepunk its that its FOR THE PHYSICALLY DISABLED

also transid/transx bullshit...

13. advice for people who are only just discovering theyre crippled?

its okay to be disabled, learning your physical limitations and general limitations with your body is actually a good thing.

youre not lazy, youre not unsightly, youre not gross, youre not creepy, youre a living being and you deserve the accessibility, accomodations and help you need or want. if youre thinking of getting assistance get it.

youre not taking anything away or hurting anything by calling yourself disabled and using aids if you think it helps you.

whatever you have hindering your physical functions does not define you nore is it the only trait about you but it is a part of you that comes with you. dont let anyone disrespect you over it, get/use what you need, its your body.

14. any questions for people who've been in the community a while?

what were things like when cripplepunk first started? how did it gain traction and popularity? how did you come across it and what was it like when you were new?

do you have any advice for people just joining cripplepunk and things to say about content creation for cpunk? is there content you wish to see more of or reoccur? what was content online like when you first joined disabled/crippled spaces?

15. ramble about your condition?

man i really need to book time with the chiropractor. my arthritis aches are in more than just my hands and wrists, i get really bad foot cramps, leg and ankle pain and i have seriously bad tension and stiffness in my neck, shoulders and back.

if i remember tomorrow i'll call them when i get home for lunch between classes. and see if i can book thursday afternoons

a lot of my condition comes from my moms side of the family, which is cool in theory, i like talking about that kinda thing, hereditary and genes n stuff interests me but because its my mom and i grew up in her shadow being referred to as her "mini me" and shit, it makes me pretty uncomfortable to know just how much like her i am and i cant get away from it. (and thats not even mentioning how uncomfortable i am being associated with one of my ab/sers(u) to such a degree)

16. rant about your environment?

i feel like thats a thing for an entire post on its own. i could rant about my home environment or my city.

17. if you have any aids, have you decorated and/or named them?

ive painted my cane and and trying to paint it again when i remember, have the time and spoons, but i havnt named it or added any attachments and i want to. suggestions are welcome!

18. tips for maintaining mobility aids of any?

as a cane user:

wash and sanitize the handle/grip and foot of your cane as frequently as you use it. especially if someone else has touched it and you've been outside with it and have allergies!

use paint sealer if you customize your cane and use masking tape on the parts of it that you arent customizing (handle, foot, joints if its foldable)

place it by the door but not next to the entrance or shoes so it doesnt get knocked over/kicked etc and so you remember to take it with you if youre an "out of sight out of mind" type of forgetful person like me.

crippled-pvp mentioned this before; place your cane under the seats/on the floor if youre in a car. its deadly otherwise.

19. anything that motivates you to leave your house even just for fresh air and a stretch?

coffee/snack runs. the garden on campus nearby. if it werent for close by things like that i'd see no point in leaving the house outside work/school. and maybe a few other things like painting in the back yard ig?

20. free space!

feel free to ask me questions, to clarify or elaborate/expand on something, my inbox is always open for a chat and anon is on for privacy of those who use side blogs or are too anxious to be off anon. anon is not on for hate/discourse.

[ID: banner reading "dni if... proship, transx/id, syscourse/discourse blog, anti-mspec lesbians/gays, anti-lesboy/turigirl more in pinned rentry. this blog is protected by the addams family, the de rolo family and co." in all black lowercase text. It has a grey cloud background. On the left is the De Rolo coat of arms with a cobweb in the top corner and symmetrically flipped on the right is the symbol of Vox Machina with the same cobweb in the bottom corner :End ID]

[the-new-hip-priest]

Go to your local charity/thrift/op shop! Even if you live in bumfuck nowhere, I promise you'll be surprised at what you can find. I have two favourite jackets that I'm often complimented on, and I got both of them from a little store ten minutes down the road. $15AUD for a proper leather biker jacket! One on them has a Bauhaus backpatch that I made by cutting up a 13 year old shirt, the other has a Milhaus backpatch that I knocked up myself on Paint. A lot of sp00py bands have fairly straightforward logos, too. Look them up on google images, convert the picture to black and white, and bam! You've got your own stencils. Print 'em off and go to town with a scalpel/stanley knife/cutter. If you fuck it up the first time, so what? Have another go. Hell, buy a plain black t-shirt from the op-shop and use it as dedicated patch material. I promise you don't need some inherent artistic skills, just go slow and enjoy it. And don't feel bad for doing the Cross and Cross-Bones Christian Death logo, it's a good start for when you're learning! In Australia, we also have stores we call 'two dollar shops'. This isn't to be taken as literally as Poundland for example (in so much as the items don't actually all cost two dollars, but I digress). These shops almost always have one fancy dress/costume aisle that has fishnets in every colour you can imagine. Grab some in your favourite colour, hack them with scissors, and safety-pin it to your sleeves. I'm pretty sure Killstar sells a piece that is literally just a t-shirt with two slashes through it, held together with safety pins. You could pay $40+ for that shirt, or grab a second-hand one and a packet of safety pins for about $7. Get some white-out or acrylic paint and get creative with spider webs and bats. You can bulk buy hundreds of studs from sites like ebay, and if you're working with leather, you can pick up an awl from your local hardware store for a few bucks. You don't to cough up for a stud press. Also, one of the best aspects is that it's your clothes. If you love Parálisis Permanente as well as Pusheen, go for it. Stick that little kitty somewhere! When I wanted some summer-appropriate shoes, I bought a cheap pair of sandals from K-Mart and a packet of toy spiders (alongside the studs I had left over from buying in bulk). I brought them home, got out the glue gun, and now I have cool, spikey, spidery sandals. I could've bought something similar from Dangerfield for about $70, but what's the point? They would've been the same basic quality as the sandals, and I can reattach anything that might fall off without the horrendous guilt that comes from knowing you paid good money for a poor-quality product. Wanna look like a horned demon/ess? All you need is a generic headband, a couple of toilet rolls/cardboard tubes, duct tape, acrylic paint, and hot glue - significantly cheaper than a $35 premade headband. Grab some black roses from a craft shop, if you're feeling fancy. I also strongly believe in donation karma. Is that The Cure shirt getting a bit too snug around the shoulders? Donate it. I promise the next time you come back to the store, you'll find something gorgeous exactly in your size. OP also acknowledged disability in regards to DIY. If you have a mate that finds it difficult to work with their hands, make them some patches! In the same vein, I have a friend who cannot move her lower body but is incredibly crafty and nimble with her hands. She's done some commission cross-stich for me in the past. Consider your options and support your local scene!

Actually I'll never forgive Punk Rave and Killstar and fast fashion brands for tricking people into thinking that being goth or punk or emo is expensive. Babygirl the only goth brand names you need to know are Rit, Good Will, Etsy, and Studs and Spikes, we used to shove safety pins through our ears and then they started selling earrings that look like safety pins for 15.99. We used to dye thrifted wedding dresses black and they started selling gothic gowns for 300 bucks. We used to put studs on boots we found in the back of the good will and they started making Demonias. DIY or die wasn't perfect it can be exclusionary to disabled people but whatever the fuck we've got going on right now is so much worse. It's not any more inclusive to the disabled and it is exclusionary to the people who made punk, to the people who made goth, to the people who made emo. If you've got the funds and you don't want to do diy pay someone else to do it for you but please let it be a small artist or a friend not some guy in a suit who's made it his business to gentrify punk. You can turn flats into platforms with flipflops, hotglue and gumption don't let anyone tell you different.

[psych---ologically-deranged]

psych commentary 2x03

SF, Chris Henze, KK, Andy Berman, JRr, DH. Six ppl, wow.

AB: Hi everyone, I'm Dick Chibbles & I wrote the episode KK: Kelly Kulchak, executive producer (in her normal way, as always, I love her sm, but she is sometimes too soft spoken for me to hear) Chris Henze Steve Franks JRr: I'm the guy that played Wyatt in Weird Science DH, in some fake bedroom voice: Dulé Hill, Actor. I'm trying to be professional, like Henze.

Thanks Doc! Glad they brought him back

"He was bit by a werewolf"

Why was it a SIX PAGE tease? (KK: it's usually two)

Lassiter doppelganger, they wanted this beautiful man to play ANYTHING so they kept trying to put him as a character

AB: I call him the "pectoral prince"

LDP stayed for the read-through of the next episode & read for Zapato

KK "Shawn is the only one in a comedy, everyone else is in a drama"

"He was like a little kid!" "& he was just as excited to hang with you"

Her new hair!

SF: Why shoot them in sequence?

Pam Per, mildred my beloved

SF: *fighting with The Powers That Be to keep Mildred* KK: The powers that be? You mean ME?

Mel D, smart man

KK: Do a music video with you [SF] doing lead & James & Dulé singing backup

JRr: Pull the opening titles off another show & use them for ours

"Is that TC flying a helicopter?"

An actual home depot

"This was the actor Mel Damski & Chris Henze came to fisticuffs over"

SF: There's a moment we'll tell to the listeners of the commentary track, all eight of them, Me: Me, my mom, my brother, my other brother... Where are the other four?

Montages <3

C Earnst Hearth, awesome name

Very tall actor, that's why he's sitting

Is there a story behind the name Garrison? AB: I should make something up CH: Your favourite female tennis player in the 80s AB: This is true AB: But now you just ruined a major sexual fantasy for me CH: I'm not the one who picked that name for him, you did! What does that say about you?

Yes, & yes! SF: Everyone do their version. Mine is ye~s, And Ye~e~s AB, nasally: yies, yies, &... Yie~s! KK: Dule would you like a tuna fish sandwich? DH: Yés, Yés!

Network: Why does he have a corn collection?

Movement! Andy's scripts are 18 pages longer but they come out the same size because he, just like in high school, he changes the margins & reduces the font sizes so you need a microscope to be able to read it Me too buddy, I have my writing in three columns size three. I have a draft/outline for one of my fictions in 4 columns at font 1. That google doc takes a While to load. Andy berman be like "it's ok because I put in shawn & gus talk very fast"

The music (& lassiter just Listening, intrigued)

LDP learned to do that with a quarter specifically for that shot

KK: [lassiter] has a Man Crush

JRr: Gus & I having a private conversation 7 inches away from everyone else

Grape eating contest???? (AB failed against Pamela, but won the pushup contest by two)

SF, lying: Andy printed off a bunch of the fake TV money & bought the crew gifts

*pinap upside down cake in easy bake oven) KK: This was questionable SF: Not to me CH: It was funny, just not necessary SF: We had to work really hard to get an easy bake oven up in Canada. *bidding war on Ebay*

"they don't have burritos up there"

"It's by a body of water" 'That's the best you could come up with?' KK: You've been WAITING to put that line in since season one SF: Everything is by a body of water Poor Dule hasn't had a line in this episode yet, too many other people Then again he can say things with just a look

Actually Pip *singular*

"personal crush on one of the hungarian residents"

Man crush to fisticuffs

the washer & drier Well I mean it IS european

Billy Zane

Duuude! *whispering on the commentary* SF: They just came up with an idea for episode five of season three "Oh dude that's genius!" *won't spoil it for us*

TO *tampering with evidence* LDP *picks it right up*

this is where the wait for it appears ig

Shawn Spencer ultimately super cool dude, but yet with Bianca, holding a pillow to your chest I was trying to score by appearing vulnerable & that scene turned into Wauwh

There's got to be nothing more fun for an actor than just kissing someone who's married & their spouse is sitting ten feet away on the stage

DH: why are is he holding that PILLOW like that? KK, crying: I don't know Dulé SF: He's nervous & it's protecting him who told Shawn THAT was the way to be cool & then try to get somewhere with a lady

I like that YOU are the Holly Hunter

"the silence, poor Kelly has to watch this" 'Kelly gets very uncomfortable when two human beings are kissing' KK *laughing awkwardly*

Mel Gibson, people

KK: Wakes up in the fetal position AB: I still want to know when Shawn put a t-shirt & boxers back on CH: He fell asleep crying in the fetal position so that's how he woke up. It's USA network Hanky Panky, we can't show the crying & the shower

*creepy horrible location right in the hotel* We just walked through some double doors & *shudders audibly* Suddenly we're in chop-me-up land We were expecting a banquet room...

Steve Franks line: we're lucky if our psychic doesn't lick the body

That's right, I totally DID wonder what the chief meant about the case being solved, like no it is More Complicated, not Solved

*the one with the flashlight back there*

AB: We don't need to see Corbin eating the pineapple upside down cake close up like that SF: There is more footage of Corbin eating that than you could imagine.

*same purple shirt*

AB: Don't you hate it when characters never repeat an outfit? KK: No?? Do you??? AF: Chris Henze never repeats a wardrobe in real life CH: What's embarrassing is that I HAVE that orange shirt SF: What's embarrassing is I didn't realize that shirt was orange KK: Is that the one where I said "let's put it on the ground & have a picnic?" SF, deadpan: no JRr: What a fun little thing for you to say though? KK: a nice little checkerboard JRr: It's cute KK: Nothing says "picnic" more than Chris Henze

KK: Ilike how there are people rolling by in skateboards & then there are just two guys hanging out in coats

JRr or AB: I think we should use this location more often, the exterior of the psych office. DH: I think we shouldn't, bcause that's in whiterock AB: That palm tree is being Blown Down

push-in HE DID DISAPPEAR FOR A SEC

Andy "Subtle" Berman

In Mildred's luggage there was supposed to be a bondage magazine with no reference to it, just a guy in leather on the front

"Shotgun"

DH: & if you watch, all this time I'm sitting in my trailer. I came out to the shot, saw how cold it was, & asked, "Mel? Am I in this shot? No? I'll be in my trailer. If you need me, call me.

KK: $240 000 an episode; Dule is in his trailer

AB: We had to put a curtain in the entrance because it's an ambulance jet: all that's there is a single stretcher

SF: We say this every episode, but we make this show on 45 dollars an episode *last episode he said $20, the a few before that he said $4, & the other day he said $200* Me: ... More or less yeah

Shawn, when getting kidnapped: I'm allergic to peanuts! SF: as if she's going to hand out snacks once they reach their cruising altitude

Adam Cohen & John Woodrard? I'm deaf, who are the composers?

"What is this?"

*Other things that fell out of the bag* AB: It could be more embarrassing, it could be something vibrating KK: Why would she leave her cell phone in her suitcase? AB: That's what it was CH: That's right

LDP went to the gym every morning before showing up to set

SF: This shot almost got cut out but Lou Diamond Phillips got so sad

AB: Look at that CH: & not a hair on the guy's body KK: I know it's so awesome SF: I spent an hour waxing him before this shot KK: I didn't know that was part of your job SF: I do it all

*James came out with no pants*

I want a 75 minute episode! Not just four minutes of deleted scenes! Give me ALL the deleted shots & extended scenes

[sluttycinderella]

Razorgate Part Two: The Thrilling Continuation

Welcome back guilt ridden cockroaches of the scorched earth, to this absolute madness! I've decided to make another post because a lot of people brought up some good points that I want to address and some damning new information has come to light in recent days. So let's get into it!

First of all, some of you pointed out that it's actually not that weird if Dan and Phil share a razor since their junks always touching each other anyway. I don't shave and I'm sure it's pretty obvious but I've never gotten to the point in a relationship where I'd be cohabitating with a partner so I have no frame of reference for this sort of thing. I appreciate all of you who had the courage to call me out on my bitchless ignorance.

Some of you also mentioned the hair cutting videos, which I can't believe I forgot to include! It really was a glaring oversight on my part, how dare I call myself a researcher! So let's do a good old fashioned razor analysis on both hair cutting videos.

Trying To Cut My Own Hair

In Phil's hair cutting video, he refers to this as a "professional barber [razor]" (he says lazor at first, oh philly...)

This is the Surker K9S which I don't think the company actually sells anymore as I could only find it available on Ebay:

But yeah it makes sense why even if they still own this one, which who can say if they kept it in the move, they wouldn't use it for their slits as it's fucking gigantic and would probably take their entire eyebrows off.

One thing of interest is that Phil says he bought the razor specifically for this video, meaning that either they didn't have the Manscaped razor at this time or he didn't feel it would be adequate to cut his hair with (probably the latter.)

I TRY TO GIVE DAN A HAIRCUT

The Surker K9S is once again the weapon of choice for Dan's hair as well.

So in both the hair cutting videos, there are no ball shavers present unfortunately.

The Smoking Gun

So originally when I watched the stream, I had sworn that when Dan left he came back in with two razors, one in each hand:

BUT, when he goes to sit down, he's only holding one

BUT! Then the lovely user @finding-you-in-any-world sent me this ask:

And I went back and watched the part of the stream they referenced (1:45:45) actually on 1080p this time because for some reason my laptop streams YouTube at 360p automatically, AND THERE ARE INDEED TWO RAZORS!!!!

You can see in the stream that Dan comes in holding two razors, then transfers both of them to one hand, then places both of them down! Let's watch it back in slow motion shall we?

So yes, Dan and Phil do indeed own two electric razors but since I've already regaled you all with far too much information about the first razor, I thought it only fair to do the same for our new challenger.

Now a quick Google image search has led me to believe that this is the Philips (teehee) Norelco Bodygroom 7100 which has since been discontinued. The product information page claims it's for "anywhere below the neck" so not quite as damning as the Manscaped one but still very clearly not a face shaver.

But how old is the Philips Norelco Bodygroom 7100 exactly? Well, we can't be 100% sure but I did find this ad from 2016 which both puts its release somewhere around 7 years ago and is also just kinda hilarious:

So yeah, Dan and Phil do indeed own at least two electric razors! And considering one is the most recent (and incredibly overpriced) Manscaped razor and the other one pre-dates the election of Donald Trump (and is also literally called Philips) I think we can guess with a lot of confidence whos is who's.

That's all for now! Thank you for being here with me once again to share in my brainrot and if there's anything I missed or stuff you want to add, please let me know!

Razorgate: an empirical, peer reviewed study*

*there is nothing genuinely scientific about this, it is merely a result of mental illness and unemployment.

So we all saw this right?

But after this bomb was dropped I began to get curious about the other slittenings. Did they use the same razor for all of them and no one had noticed? Do they actually own more than one razor? And if they don't, if this is truly the only phrazor, then I don't think I have to tell you that raises a lot of questions.

Firstly, I went back to where this all began, Phil's Birthday stream, to identify the razor that carved the very first slit and forever cemented itself as a part of herstory:

Now that is very clearly the Manscaped logo, no question about it. Here’s a high quality photo of the logo for comparison:

(You can also clearly see in the Twitter post that it says "Manscaped" across it but I like to double check my work and I also wanted to prove that they were both Manscaped)

And it's a good thing I did double check because OP made a CRITICAL ERROR in their post! They claim that the razor in question is the Lawn Mower 4.0 when in fact it's the Lawn Mower 5.0 Ultra! Unlike the PUNY, PATHETIC, UNMANLY 4.0, the Lawn Mower 5.0 Ultra comes with an interchangeable foil blade, a USB port, and a more advanced spotlight!

How could OP be so careless? Dan and Phil would never own an outdated razor! They require only the finest in ball shaving technology!

Also fun fact: The first appearance of the Lawn Mower 5.0 Ultra on the Manscaped YouTube channel falls right in between the dapg return announcement and their first video back so make of that what you will...I for one shall be sculpting my own hill out of the very earth itself, "Manscaped Sponsorship Hill", I encourage you all to join me.

So after spending far too long researching the intricacies of razors that shave an organ I don't even have, I now needed to check if it was the same razor being used in every slittening:

Here they are side by side for comparison, left is Phil’s birthday, middle is the We're All Doomed post-premiere, right is Dan’s birthday. Now it appears the WAD one is missing the logo but I'm going to go ahead and chalk that up to the poor quality of the clip I found (if anyone has a better version PLEASE hit me up so I can confirm my hypothesis). And considering the photo taken in the aftermath seems to show Phil holding the 5.0 Ultra:

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say it's the same thing.

“But,” I hear you shouting, “so what if Dan and Phil used the same razor for all the streams? They already said they only owned one razor so who cares?” Well this isn’t so much about proving that they’re the same razor as it is establishing a baseline. It’s hard to trust basically anything Dan and Phil say lately, what with piggate and the “pillow” bar and the fake view from the Phouse, knowing that they aren’t lying about only having one razor (to the best of our knowledge) is crucial in figuring out what exactly is going on. Remember, we’re doing science here.

And with that in mind: In my professional opinion, I can say that for all three slittenings, the Manscaped Lawn Mower 5.0 Ultra was the weapon of choice.

Sidenote: I went down a bit of a rabbit hole of Manscaped reviews during all of this and apparently Manscaped razors are kind of just a scam. This razor is $109 and they try to trick their customers into subscribing to their "Peak Hygiene Plan" which you don't actually need by offering a deceptive discount and hiding the terms where people aren't likely to see them. So yeah, fuck Manscaped and I for one think we should cancel Dan and Phil for not ethically consuming under capitalism.

But that's beside the point, we know that they indeed only have one razor and that that razor...is for balls. What does that tell us?

Conclusions

There are a multitude of conclusions one could jump to in the light of such a revelation, I shall display them in a convenient numbered list for your viewing pleasure:

One of them prefers to use straight (lol) razors to shave their...you know...I don't actually know if this is a thing people do or if it's even possible, people with balls please sound off in the comments, thank you

Only one of them actually shaves in which case I support them as an infamous pussy hair enthusiast (iykyk)

They share a razor (Please, God, no, that's actually disgusting)

Either way, this thing was on someone's balls and then it touched both their faces so I really hope they cleaned it properly!

Alright, so that whole exploration may have been a bit useless, it indeed only confirmed what we had already been told, but I spent literal hours comparing photos of ball hair trimmers and I'm not one to admit defeat. Consider yourselves peer reviewed, Dan and Phil, and maybe check out Beardscape instead! Apparently they have better, more comprehensive razors for the same price.

If anyone even more demon than me has any corroborating evidence (maybe of them using straight razors at any point or anything else razor related that they've said in the past) please let me know so I can take it into consideration! Thank you all for your time.

[incorrectbatfam]

I'm in a mood™ so i was wondering if you had any hcs of the batkids growing up together? (babydamibabydami)

I've done this before in this ask but I'm more than happy to add on!

(Also screw canon age gaps, I'm doing what feels right.)

Bruce, Talia, and Selina are all co-parents in a poly relationship

Duke likes to finger paint

Babs got a used accordion for fifteen bucks at a garage sale

Damian's first "real" food was Talia's rice pudding

Wayne Enterprises has an entire floor dedicated to looking after not just Bruce's, but all the employees' children. Carrie declared herself the "Queen of the Fourth Floor"

At one point Tim was getting bullied so Dick drove Cass, Jason, Harper, and Cullen to the bully's house in the middle of the night and the five of them stood outside their window with plague doctor masks chanting in Latin until the bully swore to lay off

Just like how Damian's first word was Jason's name, Damian's first steps were toward Jason after a bad day at school

Dick is lowkey jealous knowing he's not Damian's favorite sibling

Steph and Duke made a go-kart out of a red wagon, and that's how there's a Duke-shaped hole in the fence

Cass owns fifty water bottles but uses the same one every day

Bruce chaperoned Dick's junior prom

Selina gets each kid a cat on their birthday

Babs came to class late with coffee one time and the entire class now calls her the "Starbucks white girl"

There's an under-the-table vegetable swapping system at dinner, where the kids trade out the ones they don't like for the ones they do. The ones nobody wants are mashed up and given to Damian

Carrie is the champion nose-picker

Steph and Duke were born just a few hours apart at different hospitals, and are therefore known as the twins

Tim is not allowed to use chopsticks. Not even the little kiddie ones

Cullen once brought an entire head of lettuce to school as lunch

Bruce plays classical music around Damian, but Jason counteracts it with trashy punk rock

Bruce: "Studies say it helps babies grow intellectually"

Jason: "He's not supposed to grow, he's supposed to be our baby brother"

Duke likes cherry tomatoes over regular tomatoes because they're colorful

Harper got her motorcycle license before her driver's license (thanks to Kate)

Dick slices his string cheese. Wally bites into his. Babs is horrified by both

Nobody remembers the last time Bruce Wayne was seen not wearing a baby carrier

When Duke eats salads, he imagines he's a giant consuming an entire land (and the olives are people)

There's a five-year gap between Jason (age 12) and Tim (age 7). The reason is since Bruce adopted them in birth order when they were babies, he planned to stop at five kids, but then Jason got irrationally angry about being the youngest so Bruce got Tim and it all spiraled from there

Harper once melted an entire stick of butter and convinced Cullen to drink it

Dick once tried to sell Jason on eBay

Damian is very territorial. Nobody can touch his stuffed animals—even for washing—unless he gives them explicit permission

Tim once tried a cheese taste test with Damian, and that's how they learn Damian is lactose intolerant

Harper once bought thirty pounds of beef jerky online (she accidentally typed a 0 after the 3)

Talia helps Jason with Arabic homework

Damian produces the stinkiest farts

All WE employees get six months paid maternity/paternity leave

Tim and Kon got "married" on the playground with Jason as the officiant, Steph as the flower girl, and Duke as a ring bear (he dressed up as a bear and brought Ring Pops)

Steph and Duke are kept on child leashes when they go to the amusement park because they keep trying to get on rollercoasters they're too short for

Jason's also kept on a child leash, but that's because he tried to take the head off every costumed mascot at Disneyland

Even though the ingredients are the same, Dick inexplicably makes PB&Js better than everyone else

Kate can clear ten hot wings in sixty seconds

Bruce has appeared on the cover of more parenting and family magazines than celebrity and business ones combined

Instead of using her skills to hurt people, Talia uses them to protect her newfound family

Alfred secretly joined a senior citizens book club to brag about his grandchildren

Someone once said to Selina, "You know he's always gonna pay attention to kid kids first, right?" To which she replied, "I wouldn't have picked him if he didn't"

[vanosslirious]

BBS Dialogue Prompts #187

BBS Dialogue & Sentence Starter Prompts: [ 8 ]

SMII7Y

After all this time, the hammer finally gets some victims.

I think we just go up.

Somebody fuck that motherfucker up.

Stop trying to fuck me up, that’s my job.

Do you need help? It looks like you need help...I’ll help.

And my job is done, time to go.

Sorry...oh, not really though.

I didn’t think I could stab like that.

I appeared to have just murdered three people for no reason.

I don’t like people on horses.

It just came with the car, I bought it off EBay.

I’m sorry I made you walk!

I’m just going to keep you around 24/7.

If they come back around, tell them you were driving.

Good boy, I’m gonna go hide.

This is a great spot for a photo.

I don’t know if I signed up for this exactly.

Drop the toxicity.

God, I’m going to kiss you on the mouth!

Bro, kiss me.

MOO

What are you doing, stop!

I can see his truck from here.

I found it, I found the room.

Are you freaking kidding me!

Everything we dreamed of.

Yeah, that’s cool…

You just stole my joke.

I thought that one was dead.

I’m good with anything.

I won the practice one!

KRYOZ

Throw it away, love is cringe.

Who’s breaking fucking glass?

What do you mean it’s the wrong one?

What do you mean, you dumb fuck?

Did you see how close I was there, though.

I wanted to do it the same way.

What’s happening to me?

Shut up, literally shut the fuck up.

You missed, just reset.

We all did it at the same time.

H2ODELIRIOUS

I can stab and attack.

Oh my God, spikes.

How am I supposed to dodge that?

Back away, heathen!

That son-of-a-bitch tried to eat me.

Why is this a thing?

I don’t desperately need it.

You can’t let games defeat you.

Oh no, we’re being chased!

Do you think I don't see you.

ELILIKESRICE

I did not agree to getting stepped on.

Just get in the room.

I’m just going to run.

I don’t have anything to heal.

Is there a way out of here?

You don't need that cover.

Woah, woah, we have a runner!

I feared for my life.

He's got a gun.

How did he not die?

BYZE

You brought the devil with you tonight.

It’s something I cooked up.

I really need to organize these files.

I'm coming up, I want some smooches too!

They did it once and never again.

Oh, that didn't take him long to find, did it?

Why does it sound like someone’s hitting a bong, what’s that noise?

He’s talking to all three of us.

I want to see the tips!

I've seem them twice, but I want to see them again.

VANOSSGAMING

I did accidentally teleport.

That’s right, bitch, don’t you dare.

Give us some nice energy!

Oh, you are so close to dying though.

There’s so many.

Well, it could be worse.

That little bitch, he’s laughing at us.

What could it possibly give us?

I don’t know where we’re going.

At least stick around until his death.

WILDCAT

He hit the ground and died.

Well, he’s fucking dead now.

Yeah, I don’t care.

Oh, the one way over there.

Why do these guys hate us so much?

Let us have our fun, you fuckers.

I just saw it hit the ground.

I just Magnum’d him out of the sky.

I don’t know, but you killed six or seven.

Look out for the birds.

[wangxianficrecs]

Follower Recs

Stories I haven’t read yet, but clearly need to put on my ever-expanding List.

~*~

Welcome back queen [Thank you, it’s so lovely to be back!] if ur still doing follower recs I gotta recommend I would wait for a thousand years by bleuett it’s soooooooo good

[This one was actually recced to me by two different people, the other of whom said, “ Maybe I'm crying a little so I feel like a should recommend ‘I would wait for a thousand years’ by bleuett on ao3.”]... it’s def. on my List!

I would wait for a thousand years

by bleuett (T, 10k, wangxian)

Summary:  During the worst of winter, a traveler comes to stay at Lan Wangji's inn. He wears a red ribbon in his hair.

“Do you see the rabbit?” Wei Ying asks and points at the moon. “That’s the moon rabbit, he helps make Chang’e more immortality elixir. He keeps Chang’e company.”

“I do not wish the rabbit for company,” Lan Wangji says tightly. “You are the one I want by my side.”

“And I’m here, Lan Zhan. If you go to the moon, I’ll follow you, I’ll always be here now.”

~*~

I just read a great fic by aisthuu "every love story is a ghost story", didn't see it in your recs so wanted to recommend it! LWJ is a guqin composer and teacher, buys a cheap guqin off eBay which ends up being attached to WWX's spirit from canon era. It's bittersweet, LWJ deals with Lan's homophobia (implicit in a Lan way) and his feelings towards the ghost. This is author's only ao3 fic and honestly I don't remember how I stumbled upon it, but I'm happy I did and hope you will enjoy it too!  [I’ve recently read this one, and loved it!]

every love story is a ghost story

by aisthuu (M, 59k, wangxian, my bookmark)

Summary:  The man is in Lan Zhan’s bed. Did they—he begins to wonder, eyes trailing to where the man’s body lies under the blanket. Had Lan Zhan—?

Then the sleep-fog clears and Lan Zhan realizes that the young man isn’t quite opaque around the edges.

“You’re a spirit.”

The spirit narrows its eyes. “I’m so much more than that.”

(Lan Zhan buys a guqin off eBay for a suspiciously low price, only to find that it’s haunted. And now there’s a ghost in his bed.)

~*~

Ok so I absolutely have to rec "see you yesterday" by glyphic. It's a wip, but it's currently at 101k so there's a whole lot there, and it's terrible and wonderful and beautiful all at once. The way the backstory of canon events is adapted to the modern-with-cultivation setting is brilliant, and then there's the amnesia, and then there's the time loop. This fic lives permanently rent-free in my brain.

see you yesterday

by glyphic (M, 101k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary:  

Wei Ying 21:09 hey lan zhan what’s the weirdest way youve died

Lan Zhan 21:11 Falling encyclopedias.

Wei Ying 21:12 omg no way that’s so rude turning books against you???

Lan Zhan 21:13 A betrayal I will never forget.

On Halloween night, an exiled demonic cultivator and a Lan disciple get stuck in a time-loop, find each other, and try to figure it all out.

~*~

If you are looking for recs for yourself I absolutely love (the complete!) story Just as the Snow Melts by draechali on AO3. It's a canon divergence where everyone lives, even WWX! ~ @airmidcelt

Just as the Snow Melts

by draechaeli (T, 67k, wangxian)

Summary:  Like a snowy mountain top in spring the residents of the Burial Mounds trickled down the mountain and joined the flow of society.

“I went to the Burial Mounds,” Lan WangJi said.

“Ah, yeah… I’m sorry Lan Zhan,” replied Wei WuXian, “I hadn’t thought anyone would come to visit. I am still not sure how it happened; I brought A-Yuan to Yiling to play by the river and then ended up somehow teaching a bunch of children swimming and writing along with him.”

~*~

Hello! It's come to my attention that you have not as yet read Grandmaster of Meme-onic Cultivation! Please do! It's the only thing that gave me joy during 2020 😆 like proper belly laughs and disney villain style cackling. It is a wip, and it is long but so so worth it!! The author has reworked the entire canon through these message crystals and still conveys complex characters despite the tricky format. It's just so good!! Highly highly recommend it! ❤ ~ @theladypeartree  [Oh!  I’ve been subscribed to this one, and know that @swaglexander-the-great is a reliable provider of Hilarity, so I’m excited for it to be finished!]

Grandmaster of Meme-onic Cultivation 

by Hades_the_Blingking (T, 49k, wangxian, WIP)

Summary:  The Untamed universe is exactly the same, except everybody has magical crystals that have a suspiciously familiar messaging system. The story is pretty much the same as the show, except everyone lives!! (so minor changes).

or in which Wei WuXian tries his darndest to date Lan Zhan, Jiang Cheng possibly has a aneurysm, Jin ZiXuan is still the most awkward human alive, and Xue Yang makes me write some VERY cursed things. Written in chatfic format! :3

~*~

Chomrafy on AO3 deserves love and encouragement; she’s written a body of compact, poetic, and eloquent shortfics each of which can stand alone, but that comprise an intricately cross-referential and mostly internally-consistent universe. They’re grouped as chapters in works according to theme; for example, “in cupped hands” focuses upon Jin Ling and his second-generation baggage; “Departure in Autumn” portrays the last years of WWX’s first life. Follow the tag “Chomrafy’s MDZS shortfics.” [I don’t see this tag?]

in cupped hands

by chomrafy (G, 2k, wangxian)

Summary:  Of secrets, of futures, of love. A Jin Ling-centric collection of 200-word fics.

Ch.1: Jin Ling repays a debt (JL, JC, & WWX). Ch.2: Jin Ling and a ghost in the mirror. (JL & JYL) Ch.3: A matter of friends (JL & the other kids) Ch.4: In this house we don't keep dogs (JC & WWX) Ch.5: In the end, he remains silent (JL & uncles) Ch.6: A first night hunt, of sorts (JL & the other kids) Ch.7: Jin Ling, forgiving, forgetting (JL & LXC & JGY) Ch.8: Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling argue (JL, JC, & WWX) Ch.9: Jin Ling and his father (JL & JC) Ch.10: Jin Ling speaks up (JL, JC, & WWX) Ch.11: Jin Ling and a piece of home (JL, JC, & WWX)

Departure in Autumn

by chomrafy (not rated, 6k)

Summary:  Four perspectives. A steady march to the end.

Ch.1: Because if anything happens to them, Wen Qing would never be able to heal with these hands again. Ch.2: As long as this is still home, Jiang Yanli will wait as long as she needs to. Ch.3: Five times Jiang Cheng reaches for Wei Wuxian, one time he turns away. Ch.4: Whether the road is broad or narrow, bright or dark, they would have to keep walking. Wei Wuxian digs Wen Qing's grave.

~*~

Hello, hope all is going well. I don't have an ask, by I do have a recommendation. I read this fic a while ago and found it again. I just wanted to recommend this for everyone. Let me know what you think please. Thank you. [Oh!  This one’s in my To Read list, but  I’d forgotten about it.  Mmmm, fox!wwx and dragon!lwj.]

Ten miles of Lotus Flowers

by Yukirin_Snow

M, 274k, wangxian

Summary:  He was a mischievous fox spirit, wreaking havoc where he went, about to depart on a journey that would span centuries.

He was a heavenly prince, a proud dragon destined to ascend the throne to become emperor.

Neither expected their paths to collide over the span of three lives.

~*~

I forgot if it was your blog 😥 that recommended “Bestseller” (when Wei Wuxian writes the Xianxia cut-sleeve equivalent of Fifty Shades of Grey, based entirely on his experiences with Lan Wangji, he doesn’t expect it to become the next big hit) (https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528316/chapters/51318766)

But OMG IT WAS HILARIOUS!!! I LOVED IT!! And if it wasn’t your blog, I’m so sorry for how weird this sounds 😭😭😭😭 I just loved this fic so much that I have to tell it to someone 😢 [It’s on my List, but I haven’t read it yet!]

Bestseller

by pupeez4eva

M, 8k, wangxian

Summary:  He had written the book to prove a point. It was never supposed to be a big thing, and he certainly never intended for everyone — Jiang Cheng, Zewu-Jun, the Juniors, literally everyone— to be reading about his sex life.

Oh God, he definitely needed to make sure Lan Zhan didn’t find out about this.

(Or, when Wei Wuxian writes the Xianxia cut-sleeve equivalent of Fifty Shades of Grey, based entirely on his experiences with Lan Wangji, he doesn’t expect it to become the next big hit).

~*~

I’d like to rec On Your Marks, Get Set, Bake! by @blackwiresgrowonherhead

It’s one of my absolute favorites and I laughed out loud so many times when reading it

on your marks, get set, bake!

by BlackWiresOnHerHead

G, 41k, wei wuxian & juniors

Summary:  Jin Ling resumes thumping on the door to room 721, and the small collection of freshmen starts chanting “Senior Wei! Senior Wei! Senior Wei!” with increasing volume until finally Wei Wuxian opens the door.

“Yes?” he says with his widest, most innocent eyes.

“Senior Wei!” demands Lan Jingyi, shoving himself to the front of the group. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re a contestant on this year’s season of The Great Gusu Bake Off?!?”

--

Several months ago, college student Wei Wuxian secretly competed in the most popular reality show in the country. The show starts airing in the fall. The freshmen in his dorm collectively lose their minds.

~*~

If you're in the mood for v. short ridiculous fun fic, may I suggest My chain hits my chest/When I'm bangin' on the radio by x_los It's 2k modern cultivators AU, featuring WWX calling LWJ's sword Bitchin' [omg I’m laughing so hard] and I think it's more fun going in blind?

My chain hits my chest/When I'm bangin' on the radio

by x_los

T, 2k, wangxian

Summary:  Lan Wangji finds he doesn't even need to call for help for Wei Wuxian to come running.

[fridayfirefly]

Lost and Found [Part Eleven]

Masterlist | Ao3

Despite the fact that he didn't get to bed until 2 AM that morning, Damian still woke up at 6 AM with the sunrise. Sleep deprivation was the last worry on his mind when his Soulmate - beautiful, breathtaking Marinette - was sleeping just one hall down from him.

He met Alfred in the kitchen, already preparing for the meals of the day. The waffle batter was already mixed, coffee was already brewing, and butter was already softening on the counter. "Do you need any help preparing breakfast?"

Alfred shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, but I pride myself in my ability to keep this kitchen under control, no matter how many visitors we have. Besides, I'm sure you would rather spend your morning getting ready for your day with your Soulmate than in the kitchen with me."

Damian nodded. "I'll see you at breakfast, then."

"I look forward to meeting Miss Dupain-Cheng."

Damian left the kitchen and made his way to the gardens, thinking about the night before.

They had gotten back to the Manor at 1:30 AM, too late for the Parisian guests to meet the Wayne family. Damian walked Marinette to her room to let her get some rest, wishing all the while that they could stay up together until the sunrise. Rationally, he knew that Marinette needed her sleep, especially with the drastic time change, but his emotions refused to let her go so soon. However, logic won out in the end, and he kissed her cheek and wished her goodnight. As Damian walked Chloé to her room, taking over for Jason while his brother packed his bags back in his Gotham apartment, Damian asked Chloé for a favor. There was a certain plan he wanted to put into action, that he needed some assistance with. Chloé agreed to help him out and their plan was set: in the morning, Chloé would bring Marinette to her room so that the two girls could get ready together, while Damian brought to Marinette's room a vase of fresh-cut flowers and a handwritten letter asking to take her on a date.

Chloé called his plan "sickeningly romantic", but said it with the sort of wistful smile that made Damian send a text to Jason advising his brother to bring flowers for his own Soulmate. Maybe it was sickeningly romantic, Damian thought over the concept, but he knew that it wasn't a bad thing. Emotions had been difficult for him at first, growing up the way he did, but he now knew better than to try and hide that part of himself from Marinette.

Damian already picked out which flowers to cut days in advance, fragrant purple wisteria and delicate white roses, which he got from the garden before the morning dew had burned off of them. He placed them in the glass vase, arranging and re-arranging them the whole way up to Marinette's room. He knocked on the door, and when there was no reply, he nudged it open. A flash of red by the window caught his eyes, but by the time his eyes focused on the spot, nothing was there. Shrugging it off as a trick of the light, Damian placed the vase of flowers on her bedside table and set down the note beside it. The note, which despite its simplicity had taken several drafts to perfect, read: Dear Marinette, I hope you slept well last night. Breakfast will be served at 8:00 AM. With your permission, I would like to spend today showing you around the city. Once the wedding approaches, I'm certain that we will both be busier, so I would like to get as much time with you now as possible. Sincerely, your Soulmate, Damian

With his plan completed, Damian left the room to go get ready for his first day with Marinette. He quickly sent a text to Chloé, giving her the all-clear to let Marinette return to her room.

Damian had just gotten out of the shower when he saw a note sitting on his bathroom counter. In what was unmistakably Marinette's handwriting, Dear Damian, I would love to go on a date with you today. Sincerely, your Soulmate, Marinette.

Damian breathed out a sigh of relief as the lingering doubt that Marinette might have changed her mind in the last six hours faded away. It is a silly fear, one that Damian wasn't used to indulging in. However, Marinette seemed to bring out all the little human characteristics that the League of Shadows had trained out of him when he was young. A younger Damian would have hated Marinette for it, but in the present day, in the privacy of his room, Damian smiled and let the feeling of relief wash over him.

——————————————————————

Marinette, Chloé, and Nino were all at the dining room table with Jon when Damian entered the room. Marinette brightened up as soon as she saw him. "Damian!" If Damian thought that Marinette looked beautiful last night (which he did) with tangled hair and tired eyes from a seven-hour plane ride, she looked downright breathtaking that morning, in a pretty pale pink dress, with her hair done up in a bun, tendrils curling around her face.

"Good morning, Marinette. I hope you slept well."

"I slept great." A look of annoyance took over Marinette's face. "Even though someone woke me up early on someone else's orders." Marinette's expression shifted from indignation to a bright smile. "I did appreciate the flowers, though, so thank you for those."

"You're very welcome." Damian was pleased that she liked them. He was a little troubled by how intently he was watching her facial expression. "Concerning our date tonight-"

Damian was cut off by the sound of voices coming down the hallway. Richard walked in beside Babs in her wheelchair, the couple having a lively debate about what to do for their respective bachelor and bachelorette parties. "We have to hire one. How often in your life do you get the opportunity to hire a stripper?" argued Babs.

"Alright," conceded Richard, "We get one stripper, and we have him split time between both parties. Now onto decorations - I'm thinking we each pick the decorations for each other's parties, and then it's like a surprise when we get there. And I'm not only saying this because I found the best bachelorette decorations on eBay and I already placed a bid."

Chloé broke the silence that followed in the dining room, as a muffled laugh escaped the hand she had pressed over her mouth. "I'm sorry, but aren't you Waynes billionaires? Can't you afford to hire two strippers?"

"Not billionaires," Tim chimed in as he walked into the room with Connor. "Every time Bruce comes close to being a billionaire, he increases the wages of all Wayne Enterprise employees except for himself and donates a ton of money to charity."

"I suppose we could hire two strippers, but then what if one of them is better than the other. That wouldn't be fair," mused Barbara.

"We could have them switch halfway through, that way we each get the same experience," Richard added.

"How about, instead of arguing the logistics of strippers, you greet the Soulmates who just arrived last night?" asked Jon, with a tone of voice that very clearly demonstrated how absurd he felt their conversation was. Damian had spent too much time with Richard and Babs over the past few weeks of wedding planning - nothing that came out of their mouths phased him anymore.

"Oh, hello Soulmates of my brothers and Soulmate of my brother's Soulmate's brother. I'm Dick."

"Babs," said Babs with a wave.

"Tim."

"Conner."

Richard started pointing to each of the Parisians. "You must be Marinette, Damian's Soulmate. You're Nino, Jon's Soulmate. And you are..?"

"Chloé, my platonic Soulmate," said Jason as he walked into the room.

"I can introduce myself," snapped Chloé, glowering at Jason, who looked a bit sheepish as he sat down in the chair next to her.

Jason picked up his fork and waved it between Chloé and Marinette. "So you two know each other."

Marinette nodded. "We've all known each other since we were kids. Chloé, Nino, and I have been in the same class since maternelle - which you call kindergarten in America. We've been best friends for years now."

"Now that's a coincidence. Both sets of three Soulmates knew each other before they met up with their other halves." Richard nodded, looking the three Parisians up and down.

"Coincidence is putting it mildly. Statistically, it's incredibly improbable. I didn't run the numbers, but I'm sure if I did, it would be in the range of one in a trillion," Tim piped up.

"Good luck, I suppose," said Marinette with a shrug.

"Luck, coincidence, statistical improbability - call it whatever you want to call it. It's still mind-boggling that out of 7 billion people, you three - best friends who go to the same school - end up with Soulmates who are all family."

The conversation turned to other topics as the table waited for Bruce to arrive before they started breakfast. Richard got Marinette talking about her aspiring career as a designer, and it instantly brought Marinette out of her shell. Her passion and enthusiasm were contagious; Damian couldn't help but smile softly to himself as he watched her explain to Richard and Babs the inspiration behind her latest collection of dresses named The City of Lights, which incorporated elements of Parisian fashion throughout the ages, with a focus on finding innovative ways to incorporate light into the dresses. As Marinette was explaining in depth the pros and cons between tea candles and real candles (according to Marinette, an open flame near your hand-crafted creation is a very big con, but she felt so strongly against tea candle that she would rather her dress catch on fire than ruin the integrity of her design), Bruce walked in, wearing a bathrobe with the words World's Best Dad on the back, plaid flannel pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. Overall, he looked nothing like the intimidating Batman and everything like a regular Dad on a Saturday morning. Damian had to admit, it was a good strategy for putting their new houseguests at ease, especially Marinette and Chloé, who were meeting their Soulmates' father for the very first time.

"Good morning everyone," said Bruce. He grabbed his coffee mug off the counter, filled it to the brim, chugged it all in one go, then refilled it and took it to the table. "What's for breakfast?"

"Pancakes," Alfred replied as he walked in with a platter stacked full of them. "Please don't spill any syrup on the tablecloth, it's a pain to get out. And before you ask, yes, I am talking to you, Richard."

"One time," Richard grumbled. "You spill an entire bottle of syrup on the tablecloth one time, and suddenly that's all anyone remembers."

Marinette laughed. "I take it I'm not the clumsiest person at the table, then."

"I'm not clumsy. I'm just sporadically situationally unaware," Richard defended.

"Clumsy," teased Babs, flicking Richard's nose and stealing the last bite of pancake off his plate. They were so effortlessly domestic, affectionate with each other all the time in a way Damian was beginning to envy. Damian kept his expression still as he sat in internal shock at the realization that he was jealous of what Richard and Babs had together. Damian was a naturally private person; he had assumed he would despise public displays of affection. However, with Marinette, he could see the appeal. Marinette had flipped his whole worldview on its head. Now he wanted romantic outings and for everyone to know that she was his. It was a strange and foreign feeling, but deep down it felt right.

——————————————————————

As breakfast winded down, Damian offered to show Marinette around the house. The first place he took her was to the gardens. Damian knew that Marinette didn't like surprises all that much, so he planned on explaining to her exactly what they would be doing for their date.

"The gardens are so pretty!" exclaimed Marinette. "Is this where the wedding will be held?"

"Yes. The ceremony will be at the gazebo in the center of the rose garden."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," said Marinette with a soft smile on her face.

"For our date today, I was hoping I could show you around some of my favorite spots in the city. If you would rather stay at the Manor, I understand but-"

Marinette cut him off. "I would love that. I might need to change my shoes though." She gestured to the three-inch heels on her feet."

"I would advise bringing along a pair of good walking shoes. I would hate for you to get hurt."

"It would be a shame to break my ankle on our very first date," agreed Marinette. "I'll just go grab a change of shoes and my purse, and then we can go."

Damian smiled at her. "I'll wait for you here."

Damian watched Marinette leave, thinking of all his favorite things he could finally show her, and all of her smiles he could finally see.

Taglist: @fanboy7794 @mikantsume @hetalia-lover-is-here @howtoshuckatlife @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @redscarlet95 @derpingrainbow @friedchickening @melicmusicmagic @beautym3 @kunstner1 @shizukiryuu @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @crazylittlemunchkin @black-streak @darkshadowguardian @mystery-5-5 @trubel43 @fandomfan315 @vincentvangoose @royalchaoticfangirl @mooshoon @drama-queen-supreme @kae690 @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @zoerayne2426 @littleredrobinhoodlum @lunar-wolf-warrior @dani-ari @sam-spectra @be-happy-every-day-please @xxmadamjinxx @interobanginyourmom @northernbluetongue @eliza-bich @romanoff-queen @scribblinggraveyard @dur55 @jeminiikrystal @sassakitty @miss-mysterys-blog @aegyobutpsycho2 @pirats-pizzacanninibles @chaosace @pepelachanel @sturchling @amayakans @athenalovesredsblog @boxercity1

[amphtaminedreams]

Sitting Front Row at...(On a Budget Obvs): Lookbook no.15

Hey to anyone reading!

And welcome to my fave lookbook I’ve done in a longggg ass time! Yes, that’s partially because it involved making collages and doing the low effort work of scouring Vogue Runway for “research purposes”, but I promise, that statement wasn’t made out of COMPLETE laziness-I am super happy with it too. It’s been a good use of pre-part-lockdown-lift time in the interim between that brief period of Christmas celebrations and eateries finally fucking opening again because let’s be honest, I always knew I was gonna get distracted by oat milk vanilla lattes and veggie all day breakfasts once I could actually sit down with them at my fave local cafe. You could say I was very much operating on a self-imposed deadline.

The “what I would wear to sit front row at...[insert designer here]” TikTok/Instagram reel trend was something I wanted to get on board with ever since I first saw one and whilst the option of doing my own live action take-I really cannot bear the thought of having to edit footage of myself awkwardly attempting to sit nonchalantly in front of a camera for hours on end-was off the cards considering my complete lack of screen presence, I decided a Tumblr text post would work just as well, and if not even better in a way. Given the absence of the time limitations you face when you’re making a reel or a TikTok I thought it’d be cool to present the looks as part of a mini moodboard for each designer which adds a bit of context to each look even if you aren’t familiar with their past collections and establishes the general vibe of the brand I’m attempting to replicate. Not to sound snotty or as if I am the font of all knowledge on anything high fashion related but even with my amateur knowledge I noticed that as the video trend took off and was adopted by big name influencers, it became less about the average person putting their own personal spin on the aesthetic of the labels we can’t ordinarily afford and more about them building outfits that only vaguely resemble the general public perception of the brand around the real corresponding (and often gifted and thus inaccessible to someone who doesn’t makes thousands for a sponsored post) pieces they own SO I thought I’d take the trend back to its roots and get a bit resourceful. All that being said, in no particular order, here are the outfits I would wear to sit front row at Gucci, Vera Wang, Miu-Miu, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabbana, Brock Collection, Alexander McQueen, Etro, Burberry aaaand Saint Laurent based on their past collections and guess what? They didn’t cost a shit tonne of money :-)

-disclaimer: will include an asterisk before any new purchases if from a high street store though to be honest, I don’t think there are any, we shall see! I do include where I got old purchases from in case anyone wants to search anything on Depop/Ebay-

1. Saint Laurent (formerly Yves Saint Laurent)

-blazer from identityparty on Depop, pleather trousers from Zara, jewellery from Dolls Kill-

I know technically abbreviating Saint Laurent to YSL doesn’t really make much sense anymore given the brand’s name change in 2012, but I’ll always think of it as that in the same way I’ll always associate it with the slightly dishevelled yet simultaneously glitzy rock n’ roll aesthetic. The thing is, whilst YSL hasn’t done anything wildly out of the box for a long time, it’s rare they put a look on the runway that I wouldn’t wear; they never end up being a fashion week standout but the Parisienne take on grunge we’ve seen Anthony Vaccarello establish as his go-to will always have a place in my heart. 

2. Alexander McQueen

-embroidered leather jacket from Ebay (originally Topshop), harness from Amazon, dress from ASOS, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

Alexander McQueen is a brand that is pretty much universally liked, from the historically extravagant and groundbreaking shows the man himself put together to Sarah Burton’s more toned down but still beautiful collections. Obviously I didn’t attempt to do justice to the former, so I tried my hand at putting together a look inspired by Sarah’s blend of delicate femininity and nomadic edge, and it went...okay? Like it’s definitely not my favourite of all the looks because it does give off slightly cheap copycat vibes buuut outside of the context of this lookbook it’s cute.

3. Brock Collection

-boater hat from Ebay, midi skirt from morganogle on Depop, corset top from ownmode_, heels from amybeckett1, bag from Primark-

Brock isn’t as well known a brand as most of the others in this list but I adore everything Laura Vassar Brock does and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to try and channel the vision of one of the OG pioneers of the cottagecore vibe through my own wardrobe. I mean fr, this woman’s work as a steady provider of meadow photoshoot worthy dresses and corsets and skirts is v slept on and I will not stand for it. I will sit in front of a camera and then write a paragraph in my blog post begging anybody who reads to give LVB (an abbreviation I acknowledge is unlikely to catch on because Lisa Vanderpump anybody?) some form of acknowledgement for her services to period romance novel inspired moodboards everywhere.

4. Marc Jacobs

-coat from House of Sunny, white shirt from Retro World Camden, co-ord from Sugar Thrillz, bag from Poppy Lissiman-

If there’s one thing Marc Jacobs always does, it’s COMMITS. TO. HIS. THEME. I just KNOW he has a secret Pinterest with separate boards for every fashion era of the 20th century and he is putting those boards to good use providing us with collections that are as immersive as they are eclectic year in year out. 

5. Miu Miu

-beret from H&M, hair clips from H&M, jewellery from Primark, coat from mollyyemmaa on Depop, shirt from YesStyle, sweater vest from YesStyle, skirt from Depop, diamanté belt from Brandy Melville, shoes from Koi Vegan Footwear-

We all like to talk about Bratz dolls and Monster High dolls and Barbies as fashion inspo but can we all focus on Cabbage Patch dolls for two secs so as to acknowledge the fact that a Miu Miu collection is basically all their fits grown up? And made boujie as fuck? If I want my fix of Wes Anderson meets Scream Queens (what a combo) inspired outfits, if I want prissy and girlish but also glam, if I want to look like a bratty rich girl whose one redeeming quality is her eye for vintage clothes, I know where to look and that is the Miu Miu section of Vogue Runway. 

6. Vera Wang

-blazer as in no.1, velvet bralet from catdegaris on Depop, harness from Amazon, skirt from Ebay, knee high socks from Ebay, lace up boots from Ebay-

Vera Wang’s RTW aesthetic, a blend of the ethereal, ultra-feminine bridal designs she’s known for and British style punk rock influences, is something I feel has only become firmly established in recent years but it is everything I ever wanted and more. I always find myself trying to balance the part of me that loves everything girly and delicate and pretty and the part of me that would love to be in a biker gang and Vera’s collections are always an inspirational reminder of just how well it can be done.

7. Burberry

-coat from charity shop, suit from emmafisher3 on Depop, top from simranindia, shirt underneath from Zara, jewellery from ASOS-

Now I’m not gonna lie, I’m not the biggest fan of Burberry but there have been a few looks over the past few years I’ve really liked and as someone who owns numerous trench coats, high necks and way too much plaid, I thought it’d be an easy one to replicate. Plus, if you can count on Riccardo Tisci for nothing else you at least can rely on him giving you some layering inspo which is very much needed in a country where it literally just snowed in April and where my plans for today have just been cancelled because the iPhone weather app did a Karen Smith and didn’t predict rain for today right up until it started raining so thanks for that one British meteorologists. Your incompetence strikes again.

8. Etro

-corset from Urban Outfitters, vinyl trench coat from Topshop, boots from Ebay, black slip dress from kaoanaoleinik on Depop, fur trim afghan coat from louisemarcella-

Like with Brock Collection, Etro isn’t a hugely well known brand, but it is always one of my favourites-to add a spanner into the works of any attempts to cultivate a firm sense of personal style, I live for the ornate Bohemian look that Etro does so well just as much as I love both grungy and girly pieces, and so I really wanted to include a brand whose collections go down that route. It was a toss-up between this and Zimmerman, the flirtier, free spirit counterpart to the dark romance of Veronica Etro’s designs; her vision really shines through the most when it comes to the brand’s winter collections, imo, and given that I live in a country where winter or some weather state resembling it does seem to take up 70% of the year, I did decide on channelling her work rather than that of the equally talented Nicky and Simone Zimmermann this time round.

9. Dolce & Gabbana

-flower crown from ASOS, tiara from Amazon, earrings from YesStyle, dress from alicealderdice1 on Depop, opera gloves from Ebay, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-

D&G is a brand I felt really conflicted about doing-I don’t include their current collections in my fashion week reviews based on the actions of designers Stefano Gabbana and Domenico Dolce over the last few years because I don’t want to mitigate the collective effort of fashion critics to push them towards irrelevancy. Though people like to claim the brand has turned a corner since Lucio Di Rosa was brought on board as the manager of celebrity and VIP relations last year (they are as prolific a force on red carpet fashion as ever), we haven’t seen any real meaningful apologies or reparations made by Dolce and Gabbana themselves which once again leaves us in the all too familiar quandary of whether or not we can separate the art from the artist especially when it is far too much of a simplification to only credit the two men for their work given there’s a whole design team behind them. There are a LOT of shitty people working in fashion, the whole industry is a bit of a cesspit if we’re honest, but I don’t think that should stop us from at least being able to appreciate old collections if we make sure we aren’t engaging in any kind of promotion of current works whilst doing so. D&G are a brand of high highs and low lows, with looks that range from hideously ugly to showstoppingly beautiful in a single show-when the looks are good, they are GOOD-and their presence in the fashion world is most definitely felt whether we want it to be or not. It would just be shit to refuse to recognise the existence of some real iconic runway moments, the practical work that went into the ornate detail and opulence that helped cement D&Gs place in sartorial history, the styling that’s made goddesses and fairytale queens out of modern day women as they’ve glided down catwalks, the far more extravagant and, let’s be real, sexier version of our world D&G shows have transported us to in the past. Will I talk about D&G ever again? No, and if you Google the scandals their brand has faced over the past few years, there are more than enough reasons why, but just this once I did want to pay homage to some of the collections, the snippets of which I saw on my Tumblr dashboard back when I was about 13, that first got me into fashion.

10. Gucci

-fur coat from Topshop, clips from Zaful, glasses from Ebay, dress from gracewright246 on Depop, shirt from Boohoo, blazer from charity shop-

Now last but, if you ever read any of my fashion week reviews (the likelihood of someone actually having read one of them and reading this is incredibly, incredibly slim lol, I wouldn’t read me either) you’ll know, definitely not least, is Gucci because Alessandro Michele comes through every!! single!! time!!

The man is truly the king of quirky throwback maximalism and it hurts my heart that a lot of people seem to think of it only as a brand associated with ostentatious displays of wealth. Year after year since Michele was made creative director he has released purposeful, fully-fleshed out collections which unravel themselves to us on the runway like time capsules containing the belongings of the rich and whimsical and yes that can sometimes result in outfits which are *ahem* a bit mismatched but it doesn’t matter because through fashion he manages to take us to a vivid version of the past where people could dress as freely and lavishly as they wanted to, into the wardrobe of a person unaffected by the side-eyeing of others. You get the impression he doesn’t design so much as plays around with some kind of enchanted dress up box and takes inspiration from there and to give that impression is only a credit to his talent-to make outfits so kooky and extravagant look like they were meant to be takes a boldness and genuine love for clothes that I do tend to feel a lot of the big name designers have lost in the pursuit of profit and the necessary placating of the dying customer base that keeps that coming in. Of course I'm not for a second saying Gucci does not care about profit, but at the very least, they have on board a creative director who genuinely has fun with what they’re putting out there and wants to make a statement too and that really shows; you can rest on your laurels and sell tweed boucle jackets to rich old white women for eternity but nobody’s going to mention your brand name and the word groundbreaking in the same sentence ever again unless they’re talking about what it was a century ago, you know (mentioning no names...unless...did I hear someone say Chanel)? That feels like such a shady way to end, lol, but I’m sure said brand will survive-to be fair, they’ve been included in every other What I’d Wear to Sit Front Row At video I’ve seen so although I’m always slagging them off for doing the saaaaame thinggggg year after year, for that same reason their aesthetic is instantly recognisable and so will always be a source of imitation. There are obviously pros and cons to being a brand which constantly reinvents itself but I think it’s totally possible to do that whilst maintaining an overall mission, and Alessandro Michele’s work at Gucci demonstrates that with ease.

Anyway, if you got to here, thanks for reading! I know I’m super behind on this whole TikTok trend and I know a Tumblr post instead of a video is a bit of a cop out but all the real, physically awkward ones out there know that watching yourself back is excruciating lmao, so I hope this does the trick. After this, I’m gonna get back to the reviewing S/S21 collections post though knowing me I’ll probs take a few days to get back into that because I feel like since I left full-time education (RIP me going back in a few months) writing continuously like this for any longer than about 15 mins fries what brain cells I have left. Again, thank you for reading and if you are, sending many good vibes your way! Stay safe!

Lauren x

[salamangreatsunlightwolf]

Masked Singer Season 5 Review

I haven’t gotten to talk about The Masked Singer here in awhile, but season 5 left me with a lot to talk about after seeing how it nosedived this show into being DEAD television by the end of it.

I’m going to put it all past a read more for you here, because I have over 18000 characters in me to talk about how bad of a season this was apparently. There are also some thoughts about Season 3, and Season 4 (which I skipped reviewing because of how uninteresting it was, but boy did it’s bad qualities have a huge impact on Season 5).

So before I get to dissecting season 5 of the Masked Singer, I have to go back to moments of season 3, and a whole lot of season 4. Season 3 is where we start to see the first inkling of bad tropes occur that persist through season 5 to make it worse. It introduces really obviously weak performances that get the performer to skate by when they shouldn't, leading to the biggest upset I have with the season. Kandi Burruss really shouldn't have won season 3 in my honest opinion. within her first 5 performances, she had two clear duds; her cover of Shout!, and her cover of Man, I Feel Like A Woman. Both were covers that had questionable energy (Shout! less so, but Woman was absolutely unenergetic compared to Twain's original vocal performance), and the latter had a key change to the accompaniment that didn't lend any favors to the energy or vibrancy of the cover. I also need to put into context that what I think is Night Angel's worst performance (Woman) somehow won her a face-off round in season 3 (a forgotten show element from the last two seasons? wowie). Obviously I can say that Jesse McCartney should have won season 3 (I just think he had more consistent performances and output throughout the season), but that's a bit off course. What I really want to get to with Burruss cover of Woman is that it's for all intents and purposes just a middling cover. We'll see these happen more in seasons 4 and 5, but they pan out to usually axing off the contestant. Barring the element of Burruss actually getting eliminated, this is pretty much the first notable Punt Song in terms of performance quality. I want to establish the concept of the Punt Song because it plays a larger role in season 4, and season 5. I also need to establish another trope that season 4 introduced which also cursed season 5, which is excusing bad performances. It panned out so much worse in 4 than in 5, but for 4's sake, Chloe Kim should have been out from her first week. Her performance of Big Girls Don't Cry was weak and mildly sobby, but to the panel it's "emotional", and "it's okay, I'm sure you'll do better next week :)". This performance beat out Wendy Williams cover of Native New Yorker. Was that a great cover by Wendy? No, not really. However, whereas Chloe was a weak, sobbing mess on her first swing at bat, Wendy was bringing the comedy and entertainment factor and should have been safe on that alone. This show failure here is especially notable because having comedic factor in an otherwise bad performance actually pans out successfully in season 5, which makes me question the judges consistency in evaluation from season to season (to be fair though, the judges are Robin Thicke, Ken Jeong, Jenny McCarthy Whalberg, and Nicole Scherzinger. They're already a collective 3/4 of a middling joke). The last part of Season 4 I want to bring up is the usage of the term "taking us to church" in regards to it not only being a cursed term by the end of season 5, but also being a poor reflection on the judges evaluation skills. Look, I get it, this is a Fox competition at the end of the day, so it's obviously hokey pseudo sentimental faux entertainment tailored for white audiences, but don't say someone "took you to church" and then immediately axe them off after that. Yeah, I'm gonna say it; LeAnn Rimes shouldn't have won season 4. Was she bad? No! I just think Taylor Dane was better than her during the week where they axed off Taylor, especially after the panel said that she "took them to church". What did Dane lose to you ask? a somehow more intimate cover of a Billie Eilish song. Is that a bad thing? No, in fact it was pretty good, but I don't think it was good enough to beat what was probably the best performance of season 4. ------------------------------------- Anyways, all of those ramblings from seasons 3 and 4 aside, I'm finally getting to season 5. Yes, I know it took me almost 4000 characters to get here, but I really wanted to go off for a minute and preface the bubbling layers of garbage from the previous seasons that contribute to season 5's flatlining quality out of the gate. If you think a bevy of Punt Songs and poor evaluation amped up another level are all that season 5 has wrong with it, then prepare yourself, because it only gets so much more gimmicky. --- So I'm going to go about this week by week because this show basically was committing sins weekly by this point. So week 1, I'm sorry, but yes, I know seeing Kermit the Frog come out of a snail costume was very : 0 worthy, but Kermit shouldn't have lost that week! His performance wasn't even bad! So what did Kermit lose to anyway? Danny Trejo doing a bad, borderline comedic cover of Wild Thing. You couldn't ask for a more "go home uncle Frank! You're drunk!" performance, but we got it. The judges saw more of a comedy factor in the performance than they needed to see, and let that slip by while they just left Kermit to take the fall. Already not off to a great start (especially since Trejo's character is part funny and part cringey for basically pining after Jenny all season). --- Week 2 is where we get to the first big problem I have with this season, which is letting problematic celebrities be contestants. I'm just going to skirt by Caitlyn Jenner's performance and say that it was maybe a punt song, but to be fair, I don't have high hopes for Jenner having any real vocal prowess. I mean, her cover of Tik Tok sounded like your unamused uncle singing it during karaoke at a family party you barely remember when you were 12. That aside, I just want to point out that Caitlyn Jenner was on this show, immediately lost her first round, then went off to do Caitlyn Jenner things this year like try to become governor of California, and whatever else I forgot she got into the headlines for this week. I don't know the worst representation of a trans woman as a public figure (speaking from a trans woman's perspective) getting this big of a "haha, hehe, hi chum : )" spotlight on national television after everything she's done. Barf me out. --- Week 3 didn't matter too much. Trejo finally got booted after a second performance with bad vocals. However, I want to bring up week 3 for the structural change that it brought to the season that ultimately robbed it of some value. Prior to this season, we had 3 groups in seasons 3 and 4, groups A B and C. Starting in 5, we only have a group A and a group B, but now we have "wild cards". These are performers that get to slot into a groups set of performances for the week and stack against them to make even a "just-safe" performer look cannable. I know what you're probably thinking. "In a show where we're trying to see the gradual performance growth of a performer in order to gauge their consistency and quality, doesn't allowing a performer to come in weeks into the show give them the opportunity to progress further along in the competition with little to the no evaluation?" Yes. It does give them the opportunity, but we'll get to that problem when we get to Omarion's character of The Yeti. For right now though, I'm just going to say this. The wild card group really didn't have any reason to exist if they show could get literally 1 more performer this season (which they technically did). A and B were 5 members each. There are 4 wild cards. All you needed was literally one more regular performer, and the wild cards could have just been group C. This feels like the kind of resource scalping covered up as a fun gimmick that only a large corporation could do for why we have wild cards instead of a group C, but that's where we stand. --- Week 4 is notable for the same reason as week 2. Ugh, do I really have to say it? Yes, Logan Paul was also on this season of the Masked Singer. Yes, one of the problematic Paul brothers. Yes, especially my least favorite one because he's a big reason as to why my hobby of trading cards has had a huge boom for the worse. Yes, I'm going to blame the rise in scalper culture on Logan Paul. Yes, I'm going to blame eBay getting more anal about how every TCG single should be PSA/CCG/etc. graded on a listing on Logan Paul. I just don't like the guy. Why is he here? --- Week 5 is where this show starts to cement itself as dead television. So for those unaware, Nick Cannon, who usually hosts the Masked Singer, was absent for the first third of this season. Filling in for him was Niecy Nash. So where was Nick you ask? Why as a wildcard of course! Nick's wildcard performance was pretty meh all things considered (the only other thing that was meh that week was Nick Lachey's cover of 7 Years, but that's less on him and more on how 7 years is just a bad song for the pop music lexicon). However, Nick's unmasking is where the show really starts to be dead television this season. Before I even get to that, I just want to point out that the costume for Nick Cannon's character just looks absolutely atrocious by season 5 standards. The costume for the Bulldog barely looks like it holds to the standards of season 1 of this show! Anyways, back on track. Nick Cannon decides to pull a "trick" from season 4. Back in season 4, Mickey Rourke forcibly unmasked himself instead of getting voted off. Here, Nick Cannon pops in as a wildcard contestant after being MIA for 4 weeks, just to give a meh performance and then forcibly unmask himself for "shock value", and then be like "hey guys! :D" and resume hosting the show the following week. Eat me. --- Week 6 isn't too notable besides the fact that somehow one of the previous wildcards (Mark McGrath as Orca) somehow go integrated into group A as a member during the same week of them introducing another wildcard, Omarion's "The Yeti". I only bring this up because if they're going to integrate two wildcards into a week and already remove the specialty factor from one of them, then what was even the point of the gimmick? The show would have been better off mix and matching members from groups A and B each week for the performance lineup instead of muddying the group lineups with wildcard characters like this. --- Week 7 is upsetting to me. Two hour special. 8 Performances. Two people out. And who you may ask? Why, wildcard from previous weeks Bobby Brown who was given a super obvious punt song (that he did pretty well on salvaging on the back half of the performance), and Tamera Mowry, who gave a solid pop performance that week. I only bring up Mowry's performance because during that same week, Nick Lachey gave us all a very underwhelming, overly clean performance of Foo Fighters "The Pretender". This is really upsetting because the judge evaluation is extremely suspect here, as they were giving Mowry plenty of legitimate praise, while all they gave Lachey was "wow that was solid. haha ur such a rocker :^)". It's just really upsetting to see how the judges evaluation pans out, because for the record, Lachey won this season, and I honestly think he should have been punted this week. This is also coming from a week where Omarion gave us a cover of Justin Bieber's "Lonely", which is another song I hope desperately leaves the pop music lexicon, because like 7 years, it's a sentimental white boy ballad that just doesn't authentically resonate. --- Week 8 isn't super notable besides the show giving Tyrese Gibson a super obvious punt song, and wow, who would have guessed it, Tyrese Gibson was eliminated that week after being given a super obvious punt song. Zzz. --- Week 9 isn't super notable besides another upset to me. So this week, Hanson (who got eliminated) gave a pretty solid performance of "I'm Still Standing". So what did they lose to you ask? How about Jojo giving us a cover of Ed Sheeran's "Thinking Out Loud" with extremely questionable instrumental accompaniment. I can't remember exactly how I articulated it when I first watched it, but to put it in perspective, when LeAnn Rimes aimed for art, she succeeded. When Jojo aimed for art, it just left me confused. I honestly though Jojo should have gotten the boot here, but c'est la vie. --- Week 10 is where Omarion gets eliminated after being given a punt song (surprise). A middle energy performance of "Celebration" by Kool & The Gang isn't much to write home about, but I sometimes get suspicious of the behind the curtain politics of the show. The same week they give Omarion a super obvious punt song is also the second week in a row where Jojo gives us an artsy take on a song that nobody really knows. I'm not saying that Omarion's repertoire coordinator forced him into taking a punt song that week in order to let Jojo get to the finale, but. Wait, no, nevermind, that is what I'm saying. I feel bad for Omarion here. I do think it's pretty bollocks that Omarion basically got to come into the top 8 playoffs off of only one performance (which is a severe abuse of the wild card mechanic from the show producers), but they actually were trying to go for this neat character arc with the character of the "The Yeti" in the song choice. Like, the writers actually put some care into it, and then they give him a punt song on both a writing and performance level, and it just leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I also just remembered that week 10 is where Donnie Whalberg's character of Cluedle-Doo both performs and unmasks. Cluedle-Doo was another dead television gimmick for the season. See, all the characters get clue packages, but Cluedle-Doo will come in and block certain clues from being revealed to the judges, instead replacing them with clues provided by Doo himself. If that sounds annoying, that's because it is. More so when done by a character pompous attitude that does nothing but interfere. I do want to point out however that when I say that Donne performed, Donnie PERFORMED. There are no two ways about it, Donnie's cover of Return of the Mack was the best performance of this week. The only thing that even came close was the Chameleon. I don't need middling Kool & The Gang covers, I don't need art performances of songs I've never heard, and I don't need a Lewis Capaldi cover done by Nick Lachey (so much emotional white boy music this season. Gag me). I really think that Donnie should have been a regular contest, and I think that Nick Cannon should have been Cluedle-Doo as a gimmick character. It's more obvious, and it makes more sense. Obviously this leaves characters to create and fill slots for, but damnit, don't tease me with one of the best performances of the season just to let it whittle out like that. --- Alright, Week 11...the finale. There really isn't much to say, so I'm just going to cut right to it. I don't know what that cover of "Faithfully" Nick Lachey gave us was. There's an obvious problem with the Masked Singer where the short performance time makes slow burn ballads like faithfully translate poorly. As a result, the emotional arc of the performance feels stunted, and it's capped off with a declaration fest ending in one sustained note for "wow, I don't know anything about a good performance, but I'm easily impressed : 0" bait. This is clearly the weakest performance from the three tonight. Jojo's cover of "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?" by Michael Bolton is...better than what Nick Lachey gave us, but it has its own problems. The Bolton original earworms on you because of the anguish in Bolton's vocal tone. Jojo is too clean to give us even a smidge of anguish until after she's unmasked. That more forgivable though. I'm not going to forgive Jojo for littering an emotional ballad for multiple unnecessary pop diva vocal runs. They're not appropriate here for emotional flavor. They don't add anything musically. They just feel like a forced device from the executives perspective. They stand out in poor musical taste, and they really take away from what Jojo was trying to do in the chorus. Speaking of, the short form nature of the performances makes doing a double chorus with a key change from one chorus to the next feel like another arc stunt. Just bad direction right there. And finally, Wiz Khalifa as the Chameleon doing Gangsta's Paradise. I'm just gonna say it. Wiz Khalifa got robbed. Hip Hop performers tend to be pretty middling on the Masked Singer, with Bow Wow just beefing it at the end of season 3, and Busta Rhymes being unceremoniously eliminated week 1 of season 4. Wiz was different though. Wiz knew what he wanted to do with not only the character, but also with his performances. Chameleon was by far the most consistent and quality character of the season, with only one marginally middling performance during his run. Wiz's cover of Gangsta's Paradise isn't a masterclass in voice personality, but contextually for the show, it pushed more for what the character was trying to do right at the end where it counts, and the judges failed to evaluate that correctly. Wiz was actually doing sung parts that week. Wiz was engaging with the crowd and judges far more than Jojo and Nick were. Wiz even gave stage presence and his musical presence a real arc in this performance. On top of his already present cool swagger that he had on stage, this was easily the best performance of not only the finale, but also for the Chameleon. It's even up there for the best performances of the season. Giving Wiz third place for two C tier pop ballad performances shows a super evident lack of evaluation skills in the judges, and really reinforces the super obvious ballad bias the show has. --- So anyways, this has been a long one, but I think I got it all out there. Masked Singer season 5 really took the uninteresting quality level of Season 4 and just elevated it to being obvious and gimmicky on top of that. I've seen shows become dead television in my time, but this is a staggering nose dive into the realm of dead television. I "hope" Season 6 is "better" than this (if we even get one. This season might have been so gimmicky because the ratings could have sucked hard), but I'm certain it will be if this is the direction they opted for within just one season. Sorry to talk your ear off, but as someone who likes to think they know what good musical performance is in a context like this after being in many concerts in popular music contexts, this show has really not sustained itself as being "it", chief.

[rhetoricandlogic]

By: Catherynne M. Valente

Art by: Thais Leiros

Issue: 7 September 2020

9199 words                                                                                   

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Variations in Luminance

Big Edie was a useless piece of shit.

Johanna Telle found the most significant relationship of her life on a Saturday afternoon in late May, sitting on one of those excruciatingly handmade quilts crafty stay-at-homes used to make out of their precious baby’s old clothes and putting a deep, damp dent in the buttercup-infested lawn of 11 Buckthorn Drive, Ossining, New York. A four-pointed Arkansas Traveler star radiated out around her, each of the four diamond patches so exquisitely nailing the era of the quilter’s pax materna that Johanna pulled out her Leica and snapped a shot before the homeowners could stop her: The Pretenders, Captain Planet Says No Nukes, Got Milk? and a Hypercolor tee subjected, as so many had been, to the indignity of a commercial dryer until it finally gave up the thermochromic ghost, its worn cotton-poly blend permanently stuck on a sad blown-out pink.

And Big Edie in the middle, ugly as all the sins of man, with a box of Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: Second Edition modules on the eastern point of the compass, a mint condition Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Sewer Lair Playset to the west, a working laserdisc player up north, and down south, one beefy hardcase Samsonite in Executive Silver with a handwritten sign on it promising a complete set of signed first edition Danielle Steel hardbacks inside. A steal at $300, suitcase included.

Still life with late 80's/early 90's. Johanna loved it.

But she only had eyes for Big Edie. The absolute and utter trashbeast technological abortion winking up cheekily at her from within a nest of vanished childhoods.

She’d driven all the way out into the golden calcified time-bubble of the Hudson Valley after the ephemeral promises of an estate sale. The people here had so much money they never had to grow or change or evolve past the approximate epoch of their children’s most precocious years. That’s how Johanna had gotten a Hasselblad for $90 and a fake phone number a couple of years ago at a fuck-Gam-Gam-just-get-rid-of-this-junk free-for-all in Stonybrook. You just crossed your eyes and hoped the kids were the type to tell everyone who never asked that social media was a disease and didn’t sully themselves with Google or eBay.

This was clearly the case on that late-May Ossining afternoon. The card balanced against Big Edie’s case read:

Does Not Work. $50 OBO.

Johanna Telle smiled in the perfect post-processed sun. The EDC-55 ED-Beta Camcorder retailed for a cool $7700 in 1987. Just over sixteen grand in 2015 funbucks. It could produce over 550 lines of resolution in an age where high definition was barely even a phrase. Automatic iris control, dual 2-3 inch precision CCD imaging, Fujinon f1.7 range macro zoom, on-the-fly audio/video editing, capable of recording in hi-fi stereo and most impressively for its time, native video playback. Angular black and matte silver bug-ugly design. The last glorious 13.5-kilogram gasp of the Betamax world, still in its hardcase shell, that particular shade of tan that meant Serious Business for the Terminally 80's Man.

In digital terms, Big Edie was prehistoric. Big Edie was fucking Cretaceous. If there was a camera set up on a tripod to record what happened when the primordial soup stopped being polite and started getting real, Big Edie would have been a top-tier choice for the discerning prosumer.

Big Edie was archaeology.

Johanna whipped her faded seafoam-green hair to one side and hefted that machine corpse onto her dark brown shoulder. She was comically heavy. The weight of a dead world, its concerns long quieted.

Johanna Telle, when she was paying attention, when she was happy, in those moments when she was most definitively Johanna, saw down to the deeps of things. It was all she was really good at, in her estimation. She saw that world, le regime ancien, projected onto the back of her skull like a drive-in theater screen.

When she was little, she’d sat criss-cross applesauce in her mother’s lap in a kind of mute blue nirvana, watching a crew send an unmanned submersible in a metal cage down the icy miles to find the HMS Titanic. Before her father left them, before they lost the house, before the hundred little fatal cuts of getting from one end of childhood to the other. Long beams of light broke the black water of forgetting and scattered across that ghostly bow and found what had been lost. Impossibly lost. Forever. Johanna had barely been able to breathe. She knew herself then, in that terrifying way you know things when you are small. The warmth of her mother’s chest rose and fell behind her, an entire universe of protection and presence. A gentle little prick of the aquamarine pendant she always wore against Johanna’s scalp. The familiar smell of Pink Window, her mother’s signature Red Door knockoff, pulsing off her clavicle. The tinny voice of a rich man floating out of the blue ocean. Later, when the neighborhood kids played games on their unforgivably Spielbergian suburban streets, hollering I’m the Incredible Hulk or I’m the Pink Ranger or I’m Tenderheart Bear, Johanna would call out something nominally culturally appropriate but whisper the truth to herself, which never changed, no matter the game or the streets: I am the exterior lighting array on Robert Ballard’s Argo ROV unit.

Johanna put her eye to Big Edie’s viewfinder. The black cup pocked gently against her cheekbone. Such a nice feeling. Like holding a girl’s hand for the first time. She stared into inert darkness.

“It only takes these weird old tapes,” someone said from outside Edie’s warm lightless innards. A friendly, well-hydrated, nicely-brought-up male voice, full of solicitude, exhausted, heartbroken, hanging in there, like the orange kitten in the old poster.

Johanna didn’t look up. She amused herself picturing the kitten putting its paws on its hips and whistling regretfully through its sharp teeth at the $50 OBO paperweight before them. She suppressed her not-very-inner snob. Yes, dear, ED Super Beta II and III series cassettes. You can still get them, anywhere between $35 and $50 a pop. You can still get anything if you don’t care what it costs.

“There’s one stuck in there. Made a nasty sound when I tried to lever it out. I don’t have any others, though. Dad didn’t stick with this one for very long. I put his digital cameras around by the hydrangeas, way better. You want me to show you?”

“Does it turn on?”

“Nope. Well, not unless it’s a Tuesday and the moon is in Pisces and you’re standing on one foot or some shit. I keep the battery charged up, though. I heard you have to do that or it degrades. I’m Jeff, by the way.”

Of course you are. That’s what they always name soft orange kittens like you.

Johanna’s fingers slid down Big Edie’s flank and found the raised plastic goose-pimple that marked the power button as easily as a practiced accordionist settling onto C Major. She pointed the lens at the bereaved child of its former owner and hit the big red square.

A firehose of light white-watered through the generous 1.5” black and white viewfinder into her cerebral cortex. In the middle of it stood, not the hang in there kitten, but a tall handsome guy in his late twenties or early thirties. Big emotive eyes, tennis shorts, dark polo shirt, with a shimmer of beard-stubble six or seven hours deep, hair the cut and style of debate team and law school and firm handshakes and warm decades ahead in a secure center-right Senate seat.

A shard of glass punched through his chest. Black monochrome blood sheeted down over his shorts and his long, grey, summer-muscled legs. His neck whipped hard to the side, like he’d suddenly seen an old girlfriend and was about to call her name, but when he opened his mouth, a jet of dark liquid spurted onto the quilt of his so-loved childhood clothes. It cut across the white block-print Pretenders in a clean spattered line.

“What’s the verdict?” Jeff asked. That voice like a clean fingernail cut through Johanna’s attention. She yanked her face up off the viewfinder. Jeff’s fine blond eyebrows arched curiously before her in full color, waiting to find out if that old Betamax monster still had juice. If the moon was, in fact, in Pisces. He shoved his hands in the pockets of a paint-splattered pair of jeans.

Johanna glanced back down into Big Edie’s gullet. It was waiting down there, that death-image of silver and ichor.

“I like your shirt,” she said. The walls of her throat stuck together. Inside the camera, that charcoal polo dripped silent-film blood onto his new white tennis shoes. Outside, he wore a slim-cut celery-green tee with Newport Folk Festival 2010 stamped across his chest in a faux-rustic font. She could look back and forth between them. Back and forth. Black and white. Color. Black and white. Grey and green. Green and grey. And wet, dripping jet-onyx blood. All that faded thermochromicity blazing back onto the scene to react with the not live but definitely Memorex heat-death of Jeff from Ossining.

Big Edie went down for the count.

The image guttered out like a pilot light, a sound both grinding and whining shook through her, and she rather ungracefully peaced out.

“$30?”

“All yours,” Jeff grinned.

He took Johanna Telle’s money and strode off across the mown lawn, through the labyrinth of his late father’s obsessions, the sun on his shoulders as though it would never leave him.

Aliasing

It’s much easier to pry a stuck tape out of a machine when you’re not that bothered if you break it. Get a screwdriver and a Sharpie and believe in yourself. It came free with significant but impotent protest, trailing a tangled mess of ropy ED Supra Beta II behind it. Johanna wound the mistreated tape back through the cartridge with the pen the way kids would never do again, and she would have been perfectly content for the rest of her days on this maudlin, over-saturated planet if she could have said the stupid suburban sun got in her eyes and that’s all she really saw.

But Betamax tells no lies.

Johanna sat on the floor of her apartment like the kid from Poltergeist all grown up, heavily medicated, and a cog in the gig economy. A massive daisy chain of converter cables hooked Big Edie up to the living room flatscreen, each one coaxing the signal five or six years forward from 1987 to the slick shiny present day.

The reflected video image washed her face in color. A forgotten pleasure, like the taste of ancient Egyptian beer. You used to always see your shot in black and white when you looked through the viewfinder. You only got to see the colors when you reviewed the footage. Inside the camera was another planet. Color was a side effect of traveling from that world to this one. Step from Kansas into Oz, cross your fingers for fidelity, saturation, hue, hope those shoes still look as red as they did before you crammed them through a lens.

So. No more black and white artsy viewfinder image. Now it was straight outta Kodachrome. But this tape sat in Big Edie’s time-out box for thirty years. Chromatic degradation slipped and popped all over the image, sickly green blooms, hot orange halos, compression artefacts, uncanny edging that rimmed this and that object in weird chemical colors.

Johanna watched a factory-direct 70's mustache-dad with tennis socks up to God’s chin helping his small, yet unmistakably Jeff, son unwrap a record player on Christmas morning. Big Edie came standard automatic fade-in and fade-out, so everything transitioned elegantly, creating a subtle sense of deliberate editing where none truly existed. Fade to black, then a slow melt into a hopeless lacrosse game, small children running nowhere, hitting each other with sticks too big for them to hold properly.

Another bloom of darkness.

A school play, reedy, vulnerable pre-adolescent Jeff dressed as a cloud fringed with silver tinsel rain, twirling and twirling, technique-free, his arms stretched out. Then another and Johanna presumed this was Jeff’s mother, the maker of the T-shirt quilt, 80% Diane Keaton, 20% Shelley Duvall, a white-wine flush on her cheeks, smiling up at the man with the camera in frank, unguarded affection and not a little desire, her shoulders bare above a strapless summer dress the color of the hydrangeas she probably hadn’t even planted yet.

Such wildly un-special moments, clichés of heart-beggaring authenticity, carefully cut out of the flow of time and pasted into the future, selected for immortality for no particular reason, random access memories transfigured into light that cannot die—but can get stuck in a metal cage for want of a Sharpie and a flathead.

Time travel. The only real time travel, unnoticed and uncredited because it was so unbearably slow. In the present, you use this astonishing machine to freeze the past. And you send it to the future. One second per second.

The image cut to black and then it was 2015 and Jeff selling off a lifetime of his father’s lovingly dragon-hoarded objets d’American masculinity. Standing on a lawn with catalogue-ready light and dark green stripes in the grass. Talking not to the man who produced and directed his childhood but to Johanna. She can hear her own voice on the recording.

Does it turn on?

He makes a joke about the moon and tells her his name. Sitting alone in the dark, Johanna realizes he was flirting with her, and she has a second to wonder what his mustached father’s name was before the glass smashes through his sternum again and blood streams down to soak a just out-of-frame blanket stitched together from mass-marketed polyester and lost time.

Johanna ran the tape back. Then she watched it again.

Back. And again.

She was still doing it when the morning broke into her apartment without announcing itself.

Five weeks later, she’ll be down to two or three run-throughs a day. An article will swim across her feed.

Late Night Four-Car Pile Up on I-84 Leaves Two Dead, Seven Injured.

Jeffrey Havemeyer of Westchester County, NY, 34, remains in critical care.

Johanna will feel nothing. She’s seen it a thousand times already.

Overclocking

“Sit there,” Johanna tells her cousin’s daughter, pointing at a cracked leather barstool.

Anika is nineteen, in her second year at Columbia. She is everything Johanna is not: mentally stable, tall, good hair, vegan, grounded by parental encouragement and affection, prone to healthy relationships, able to commit to an exercise regimen. The twenty-first-century girl. Johanna has always found her fascinating. Scientifically. It’s like hanging out with an alien. Your whole ecosystem is based in carbon and abandonment and trash, and you just always assumed those were the essential building blocks of life, but it turns out they’re totally unnecessary and sentient beings can just as well be made out of palladium and love and sensible choices instead, look at this actual good person right here, you have the same nose.

Johanna’s arthritic Great Dane watches them coolly from his massive fluffy bed.

“Your hair looks like a badger,” Anika says.

It’s been some time since Ossining and quilt and the hydrangeas and what Johanna has come to think of as the glitch. Technical difficulties. Runtime error. It’s late summer. Sweat darkens Anika’s hairline under the expected carefully messy topknot. The boroughs are one long incessant screech of twelve million window-mounted air conditioners and the smell of warm garbage bags, round and shiny on every doorstep.

Seafoam green softheart mermaid look out; icicle-white collarbone-length brutalist bob with black tips in.

“I like to think of it as ermine. You know, royal cloaks and all that.”

“Did you know ermines are just regular stoats with their winter coats on?” Anika helpfully informs her. “Not special at all. Fancy weasels. Glam weasels.”

“That’s perfect. I myself am a decidedly unspecial glam weasel.”

Johanna adjusts the tripod under Big Edie. It took Johanna weeks to gut the old girl, order parts, and convince her that modern life truly was worth living. Nothing really wrong with her at all, other than the audio-visual equivalent of osteoporosis and a bad back. Johanna loved the work. Data was invisible now. Stored on sand, transferred on air, transcending physical form. Light talking to light. But not Big Edie. She was very visible. Gross and awkward and tangible. The girl would never be good as new again. But she was good enough.

“No you’re not, you’re amazing,” Anika says softly, and Johanna can hear the little girl she’s known in that grown-up, gonna-save-the-world-with-believing-it-can-be-saved voice.

Johanna ignores this obvious lie.

They’ve already done a few shots with the Hasselblad, the Leica, a couple with her phone. She doesn’t really know why she’s putting on a show. Anika wouldn’t question just sitting in front of an old Betamax camcorder for a few minutes and then heading off for Hungarian pastries and a good full-body-cleanse political rant. But it feels important that today has the appearance of a plausibly professional kind of thing. Not that Johanna is using her.

Which she is.

Johanna doesn’t have access to a lot of people at the moment. They find her offputting. Not user-friendly. An unintuitive interface. Carbon-based.

“Can you let the blinds down halfway?” she asks.

Anika does. Slats of August light and dark slash down her face and torso (like glass slicing through skin) like an old pre-lapsarian end-of-programming test screen. It would be a gorgeous shot even if the shot was the point.

“I mean it. This apartment, your work. Margot. Mapplethorpe.” The Great Dane’s floppy black ears perk up at the sound of his name. “I love it here. You’re living the dream.”

Johanna hesitates with her forefinger over the record button. God, she remembers how much she hated it when people told her college wasn’t the real world and she had no idea what it was like out there, as if studying and working full-time wasn’t more work and less fun than the barren salt flats of adulthood between your twenties and death. But she wanted badly to shovel the same shit for Anika now. The only way you could look at this place and see a dream was through a lens that had never touched reality.

This is fine, she tells herself. The Havemeyer Glitch is not a thing. Just a shill for Big Coincidence. It’s not like he died. And besides, nothing bad can ever happen to Anika. She is a palladium-based life form. So this is fine. It’s for science. You will take beautiful footage of your beautiful niece-once-removed, and buy her a walnut kolachi, and she will tell her mother what a nice time she had.

“Margot moved out last week,” Johanna says without emotion. Margot moved out three months ago. She left a purple brush in the bathroom. Long black hair still tangled up in it. Johanna can’t bring herself to move the last cells of Margot that exist in proximity to Johanna’s cells.

“Oh,” Anika replies gently. “So that’s why you changed your hair.”

Johanna hits record.

For eighty-seven seconds, the only thing Big Edie has to say is that Anika Telle was born for the camera, a portrait of her generation, artlessly artful, a corkscrew of loose dark hair hanging forward to catch the light, one grey bare leg tucked up beneath a billowy sack dress with small elephants printed on it, the other not quite long enough to touch the peeling floor. Her expression genuinely, infinitely, but entirely temporarily sad for the misfortunes of someone else. See? This is fine. Tell her to say something. Recite Shakespeare. Or Seinfeld.

Deep in Big Edie’s viewfinder, Anika’s left eye crumples in a wet gush of pearl and black. Her head rockets back, shrouded in mist. She coughs, gags, tears streaming from her remaining eye. She’s still sitting on the barstool in Johanna’s apartment with silvery botanical wallpaper behind her, the tall window, the August sun, the half-drawn blinds. But the Anika in the camera wears black leggings, a puffy black winter coat, a black surgical mask. White duct tape criss-crosses the back of her jacket to form the words: #NOJUSTICE. She’s older, the lingering baby softness in her jaw gone, her hair a buzzed undercut. The cords on her neck stand out as she runs, her face ruined, blind with pain, stumbling, looking over her shoulder as she bolts on the video feed from one end of the living room to the other. Out of nothing, a cop in riot gear steps out of Johanna’s kitchenette, grabs the back of Anika’s skull in one hand and shoves her down. Anika-in-black falls to her knees, sobbing, puking into her mask, holding one hand to the hole where her eye used to be, screaming silently into Johanna’s (Margot’s) red paisley rug.

Johanna yanks her head up out of the sucking desaturated pit of the camera.

Mapplethorpe snores loudly. Trucks beep in reverse outside the apartment building. Anika sighs softly, bored but not rude. She scratches a mosquito bite on her knee. “I really am sorry. I liked Margot. She was good for you, I think. Got you out of the house.”

All the blood has either rushed to or drained from Johanna’s head. She can’t tell which. All she can hear or feel is her own pulse slamming itself against her eardrums.

“Do you … want me to do something?” Anika asks uncertainly.

Johanna shuts the camera down quickly. The image at the bottom of the viewfinder clicks out of existence. She tries to talk, but there’s no talk to be found. Just the burning hot green-on-red afterimage of a crystal brown eye collapsing in its socket, over and over.

“Come on, Auntie J,” Anika says finally, hopping lightly off the stool and bending down, scratching Mapplethorpe between his spotted shoulder blades. “Dinner’s on me. Malaysian okay? Maps can have a curry puff, can’t you, baby?”

Test Pattern

An experiment that cannot be repeated is evidence of nothing.

Johanna establishes a beachhead in Owl’s Head Park. Back supported by a black walnut tree. Bare toes clenched in a sea of tiny white flowers and clover-infiltrated grass. Big Edie propped against her breastbone, lens stabilized by knees on either side. Mapplethorpe’s yellow lead loops around her ankle, but the big fellow has long passed his days of running off after unsuspecting children. He munches philosophically on a pricey organic broth-basted rawhide shaped like a braided ring.

She finds a target, hits the button, rolls footage for a few minutes, tracking them as they throw frisbees for far-inferior dogs or kick soccer balls or kiss on picnic blankets or drag giant wooden chess pieces across a giant board or just walk aimlessly, whatever Saturday afternoon moves them to do. She doesn’t look through the viewfinder into that hellworld of black and white. Just presses buttons.

Turn it on.

Shut it off.

Find someone new.

Repeat.

She chooses at random. No more Anikas. No one is special, or unspecial. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like. They’re just data. That man, that woman, that child, that set of twin babies, those skaters, that guy sleeping with a James Patterson book over his eyes. Compressed data to be converted later.

Johanna’s brain checks out and begins a speed run through the five stages of grief over the death of a reliable reality. Denial: you’re losing it, change up your medication, girl, it’s not real, it’s not anything, just a stupid old camera that you bought because you are stupid, at best it’s old footage coming through on an old tape.

Stop recording. New person. Girl in green skinny jeans with a sketchbook.

Anger: fuck this, fuck you, fuck estate sales, fuck Robert Ballard, fuck the Columbia School of Law, fuck sad elephant print fabric, fuck hydrangeas, fuck curry puffs that make my dog poop out his soul, fuck Betamax you dumb drooling obsolete idiot tech, fuck me, fuck my dad, fuck Jeff Havemeyer’s dad, fuck I-84, fuck Margot, fuck the linear flow of time, fuck everything, life is garbage and this is proof. Why is this happening to me?

Stop. Scan. Record. Lanky white-dude dreds fuckboy in a vest but no shirt.

Depression: Of course it’s happening to me, because I am garbage and this is proof, and whatever cosmic hazmat disposal dump site got its back end trapped in my camera would only open the gates to a warped maladjust like me.

Stop. Scan. Record. Old man on the bench with god-tier eyebrows and a yellow plastic sunflower in his lapel.

Bargaining: I’ll just watch this back tonight and whatever happens, afterward I’ll tip Big Edie in the bin and never tell anyone. And then I will straighten up and clean my apartment and go on Tinder and eat leafy greens five times a day and see Anika more often and make amends and buy an exercise bike. Okay, Elder AV Club Gods? Deal?

Stop. Scan. Record. Kid on a dirt bike with (elephants) puffins on her dress.

Acceptance.

Acceptance.

Acceptance is Johanna sitting cross-legged (criss-cross applesauce) on Mapplethorpe’s bed while he snoozes jowlfully on the couch. She braces herself for red slicks of gore and bone. For Jeff and Anika redux. Once is luck, two is coincidence, three is a pattern … or at least time to wake up and smell what your inevitable descent into psychosis is cooking.

But that’s not what Big Edie has for her.

Not entirely, anyway.

Entropic Coding

Gloppy August sunlight washes out the image. Everything is overexposed, too bright, unforgiving. His thin chest rises and falls with his breath. He watches a small blue and white bird hop nervously down the iron rail of his park bench. A cerulean warbler, Johanna notes with supreme irrelevance. Closer to him, then further away, then close again. He crumbles a crust of brown bread on his tweedy knee and waits knowingly. This goes on long enough that Johanna starts to relax. It isn’t going to happen again. The bird will give in, and eat, and Johanna’s life will resume the program already in progress.

Then the sunlight cools, then it darkens, then it is a dim nothing-watt lamp with a tacky early 60's cherry pattern on the shade. The branches of black oak and Dutch elm in Owl’s Head Park still reach into the frame like kids who’ve spotted a news crew, showing off in the background, dying to get on TV. But the bench and the octogenarian perched on it have become a mustard-colored corduroy sofa and a young man with his head in his hands. Vaguely Scandinavian mid-century wooden end tables bookend the couch. A clock with thin brass spikes radiating out around it ticks over a clearly decorative fireplace. Above the man hangs a proto-Bob Ross painting of standard-issue lake/pines/mountain/lonely boat in a dizzying array of shades from brown to brown. Children’s toys cover the floor. At least one boy and one girl. Maybe more. Wooden blocks, a rocking horse with yellow yarn hair, green plastic army men. Donald Duck and Bugs Bunny and Snoopy staring lifelessly at the ceiling in a triple rictus of frozen grimaces. A book of Connie Francis paper dolls with most of the smiling valium-glazed Connies already carefully cut out hiding under the formica coffee table. A Funflowers Vac-U-Form Maker-Pak Johanna recognizes from a box of crap her grandmother let her play with the year they had to live with her because, no matter how she tried to pretend it was an adventure, her mother had no options left. You squeezed out perfumed lucite goo into molds and made “Daffy Dills” and “Tuffy Tulips” that looked like crystals in the sun until you got bored and broke a vase just to get some attention. A Spirograph and stacks of spiralled paper, scattered across the avocado shag carpet like ticker tape after the parade has gone. Like mystic offerings before the massive, inert cabinet television that probably weighs more than everyone who lives here put together. The kinds of toys you lift off a flea market shelf with joy and reverence, despite the peeling paint and chipped edges and missing vital organs.

But these are all new.

A wind moves through Owl’s Head Park and dappled shadows in the jaundiced light of the living room move across the man, the sofa, the table, the TV, the toys, the cherry lampshade.

The man on the yellow sofa looks up.

He is so young. Perhaps thirty-five, perhaps not even that. His incredible, architectural eyebrows are dark brown now; he has all his hair. He’s still wearing a suit, but this one has wide lapels, no tie, a plaid pattern that will crown endcaps in Goodwill until the sun burns out. He looks exhausted. Someone’s been smoking all night and it was probably him. maybe not just him. Butts overflow a pink pearlescent ashtray under the cherry lamp. About a third have frosted coral lipstick prints glowing on their filters, each one fainter than the last.

Johanna braces herself for the shard of glass or the ruination of his eye or gunshot or gas leak, whatever is about to break this poor soul in half. Her heart rate spins up into the rhythm of a jet propeller carrying her into nothing and nowhere. Her stomach muscles clench for impact.

But: the man gets up. Wipes his palms on his wrinkled pants. Walks across the room. Stops. Bends down to pull one perfect yellow Vac-U-Form Funflower out of the pile of misshapen attempts. Slides it into his lapel. The man leaves the house. He closes the door behind him so gently it doesn’t even click. No sound at all until his car engine starts outside, and then that’s gone too.

In the margins of the image, the cerulean warbler flies off with a cry. The shadow of his little body flickers over the empty room.

Fade out.

Fade in on the girl in the green skinny jeans and peasant blouse lying with her sketchbook under the willow tree.

Johanna makes it five people and ten minutes sixteen seconds deep by the overlarge alarm-clock-style timestamp before she scrambles off the dog bed and shuts the whole rig off.

An hour later, she gets out of bed and pads back to the living room on tiptoe, as if afraid to wake Margot’s brush. Blue light washes her cheeks and her hands and her walls and Johanna doesn’t move until it’s over.

Then she hits rewind and starts over from the beginning.

Image Burn

Mapplethorpe makes it another year before turning his creaky back on that big dog life. Since Johanna got to keep him through the quiet post-apocalypse of their union, they agreed Margot could have his ashes.

She looks the same. Just the same. As if Margot stepped out of the day she left and into today with no interruption in continuity. Johanna knows that dress, the navy blue vintagey thing with white piping and a little too much room in the torso, but that she refused to take in or give up on, because at thirty-seven, she might still have some growing left in her.

“Your hair,” Margot says softly. She steps gingerly over the map of cables and playback devices that have replaced living breathing life for Johanna and sits uncomfortably in the old bisque-colored armchair (falls asleep re-reading Harry Potter in it during a snowstorm five years ago; Johanna drapes a crocheted blanket over her and squeezes the bare foot hanging over the overstuffed arm gently, fondly). She sits as though she is trying to hover, as thought it might burn her to stay.

“What about my hair?”

“It’s … shocking.”

“It’s my hair.”

“I assumed you would have gone puce or checkerboard by now. Your actual hair hasn’t seen the light of day since high school as far as I know.”

Johanna only dimly recalls that she used to care about things like wilding her hair. It seems like a fact about a stranger. Like something she would see on Big Edie and use to pinpoint a date.

They make small talk. Margot is leaving the city soon. She’s bought a house in Providence with her wife, two blows Johanna absorbs expressionlessly as a cascade of words concerning Victorian architectural flourishes and small, private ceremonies patter down around her ears like raindrops. Mrs. Margot was apparently called Juniper, because of course she was, bet you call her June-bug too, gross. She was joining the obstetrics team at Rhode Island Hospital. Margot would teach very well-scrubbed scions of the even-better scrubbed at a private prep academy in the fall. Plant heirloom squash. Adopt three-legged rescue Labradors.

What are Johanna’s plans? If she has a gallery show before September, Margot would love to come. Anyone new in her life? How is Anika?

Well, Marge, I plan to shoot weddings and graduations and bar mitzvahs in which the cakes have significantly more artistic value than my entire self until I die alone pitched face-first into my takeout massaman with no dog and no stomach lining and no friends except a magic camera, can I get you a 40%-off Pinnacle buttered-popcorn-flavor vodka straight up, because that’s where I am right now.

But she doesn’t say that. She would never say that.

Instead, she decides to ruin Margot’s life. And in that moment, she genuinely believes it’ll work.

“Can I show you something?” Johanna says.

“Of course. Always.” Margot brushes her hair out of her eyes, now and a hundred thousand times in that chair, in this light. “New work?” Miss M was always her first audience, first viewer, the only other eye she trusted.

“Sort of. Mostly I just want you to tell me I’m not crazy.” And she doesn’t realize how entirely true that is until it’s out of her mouth and loosed on the dusty air.

Margot frowns. “You don’t look well. I didn’t want to say. Are you still drinking?”

Johanna laughs bitterly as she flips through the input options on the flatscreen. “Why would I not be drinking? Drink is friend.” She shoves delivery detritus off the couch to make a space: receipts, plastic bags, black takeout containers, breath mints and fortune cookies and after-dinner toffees.

And they watch together. Side by side. Just the same. Like it is before. Like she will pick up her purple brush again tonight and run it through her hair and come to bed and tomorrow will be years ago and the film of them will run forward from the splice.

Rather, Margot watches. And Johanna watches Margot.

The colors waver on her face like she’s underwater, staring up at the parade of strangers fading in and out before her.

The old man/young man on the park bench and the mustard-corduroy sofa.

The girl in the green skinny jeans under the willow and sitting at a bistro table with fake electronic candles as a man walks in, says her name uncertainly, kisses her cheek, orders an old-fashioned.

The guy with white-boy dreds and a vest with no shirt steps off a bike path and into a gorgeous apartment in no way decorated by a man who would wear a vest with no shirt even once, all minimalist monochrome, and a woman in pajama pants and jade chip earrings sobbing get out get out not one more minute I’m done get out.

A kid in a Spider-Man hoodie swinging upside down from a jungle gym and lying on his couch, a teenager, playing Madden on XBox, yelling to an invisible mother that he’ll mow the lawn, yeah yeah, just one more game.

And worse. A boy’s face fades into his forties on the subway. He asks why he’s being pulled over. A gash blooms on his beautiful brown neck. A student drinking alone in a bar ages fifteen years and loses twenty pounds between sips of house red. She waits for someone with frantic energy and when somebody shows up, gives her a little wax paper packet, leaves her to it, her fingers start to turn the color of corpses on the wine glass. A volunteer museum docent grows red rings and bags around his eyes but loses his wrinkles. Somewhere between the Ancient Greeks and Mesopotamian pottery, gets out of a Camry, locks it, and runs toward an appointment, wholly unseeing the baby in the backseat, asleep in a puffy lavender knitted hat.

“What is this?” Margot says. “Glitch art? Datamoshing? Like Planes and Jacquemin? What program did you use? It’s really seamless.”

“No program.”

“What do you mean ‘no program’? This is a practical effect?” Johanna chuckles mirthlessly. The screen shimmers. “Where did you find all these actors?”

“No, look, you’re not seeing. You have to look. The calendar in the apartment. The clothes the girl in the bistro is wearing. Do you recognize any of the players in that Madden game?”

“You know I don’t care about sports. I wouldn’t recognize any player’s name five minutes after I heard it.”

“Okay, fine. The song on the radio when the guy gets stuck in traffic.” She pauses it, waits for Margot to catch up, to see the faint cursive 2026-At-A-Glance calendar on the inside of the pantry door in that perfect sleek flat, the unfamiliar controls on the car dash. “I’ve never heard that song. You’ve never heard that song. Because that song doesn’t exist, on any service, in any catalogue, anywhere.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Come on, you couldn’t possibly know that for certain, Jo.”

But Margot doesn’t see. Margot isn’t Robert Ballard’s submersible lighting array. She doesn’t know how to crawl into an image and live there. What she does glimpse in Johanna’s pleading eyes is the weight of time. Time she has spent searching for these things, for connections, hoping, honestly hoping, to find that song buried on some indie compilation CD with some revoltingly photoshopped jacket art and a discount sticker. And a thousand other objects like it. Books on televisions, limited edition toys, tie-widths, license plates, worse, more scattered, atomized, randomized information that never coalesced into anything but Johanna’s increasing silence and solitude. She vibrates so intensely it looks like she is sitting still.

And so, slowly, knowing how it sounds, hating how it sounds, Johanna explains about Big Edie as more strange moments unfold before the not-really-that-long-lost love of her life; naked bodies, and there are a lot of them, in embraces violent and lovely or both or neither, strangers meeting, over and over, in different clothes, different hairstyles, different seasons, a child abandoned in an airport in Reno, calling for her mother, surrounded by slot machines ringing in cherries and oranges, tears rolling down her face. And at the end of the reel, Jeff and his glass heart, Anika and her shattered eye, the long staircase into images that has become Johanna’s life.

Margot says nothing for some time. It is a terrible, sour nothing that lingers far too long in the air between them.

“So you think your camera shows … what? Death?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. But not always, not even often, really.”

“Then what if not that? The future? Like the calendar.”

“That’s closer, I think. Better. But at least a third of them are the past.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, the man in the living room is 1970. You can tell by the Updike book on top of the TV. That was the first edition cover, and it’s pristine. You can figure it out, sometimes. If you care about these things. If you know too much about garbage. And you know I know too much about garbage, M.”

Margot smiles faintly, but it is very faint.

“But also I went back to the park and talked to the guy. His name is Antony.” Johanna scratches at the back of her hand. “Antony left his family. In 1970. Just up and walked out on Grace, Walt, Irene, and Amelia, who he’d married when she was fucking seventeen. The proverbial running out for a pack of cigarettes. Left them like they were just … a skin he was molting.”

Margot looks for a way to shut it off, but Johanna doesn’t help her find it. Why should Margot get to turn away from it? Why should she escape?

“Fine,” she says coldly. “What is it then?”

Johanna takes a deep breath. “So whenever you transfer or transmit or store data, especially a lot of data, like audio or video or both, it gets compressed, and in the process, you lose a little bit of it. Maybe a lot, like MP3s were always straight garbage compactors for sound. Maybe only a little bit. Maybe so little you wouldn’t even notice. But in order to fit the storage device or the bandwidth, in order to save information or share it, you have to … you have to harm it. And that creates distortion. Halos. Noise. Warping. Busy regions in the image. Blocky deformations called quilting, and visual echoes called ghosts. They’re called compression artefacts, and that’s … that’s what I think these are. Distortions created by the present and everything else getting compressed, crushed into one stream. Halos and noise and warps and quilts and ghosts. A lot of words for damage. Just damage.

“But the answer is: I don’t really know what it does. Technically speaking, it’s a problem of parallax. Catastrophic parallax. A vast difference between the apparent object and the actual object. And for awhile, I thought it showed the worst day of your life. Which, odds are, for some percentage of people, is going to be the day you die. But not for everyone. Not for Antony. See, nothing ever went right for him after he left. Two more divorces and a dried-up retirement fund. Grandkids he isn’t allowed to meet. Lung cancer he picked up working a big gorgeous free man’s HVAC repair shop. But it took him almost his whole life to understand any of it. To process where he fucked up. What he lost when he thought he was barreling down the highway to a big gorgeous free man’s life. Big Edie knew it in an instant. She had his number faster than a speeding therapist, and that number was 1970. So it seemed to make enough sense. When I shot old people, Big Edie usually spat out the past. Young people mostly turned up older on playback. The future. That kid playing Madden. Madden 23, to be exact.” She points to him on the projection. The hole in his sock. The length of his hair. The name on the Patriots’ QB jersey.

“Do you actually expect me to believe your camera recorded something in 2023? Jo, come on. I’m really busy, and frankly, I’m not in the mood.”

“Just listen. Because then there was this. A wedding. Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel and Lucy Vaclavik.” She fast-forwards through scene after scene. Johanna can tell just the sheer number of them is starting to look bad on her, and the manic sizzle in her voice isn’t helping, but she can’t stop herself.

The creams and golds and pops of understated rose-shades of a high-end matrimonial spread flood the screen. The bride waves her lily-dripping bouquet in the air. The Hudson River throbs with sunset behind her. Her hair sparkles with carefully applied glitter. Eyeliner and brows that date her nuptials as surely as a library stamp. Her new husband, in a grey tux, bends down to kiss her expertly neutral-frosted lips and their unified families clap like a gentle river of approval. The picture flows smoothly to the edge of the frame. No ghostly picture-in-picture. No shadows cast from other places, other times.

Margot smiles politely. Johanna knows she is losing her (has lost her). “I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t either,” she confesses softly. “I shot this no differently than the others. But what you see is what I saw. What Big Edie saw. No parallax. No difference in images. I rolled tape and the wedding marched right through the lens and back out again and it was just a wedding, no more or less. Nothing else has been like that. And the next day we got right back to business-as-horrible. I couldn’t figure it out. Why was it special? What was different? The thing is … he killed her. It made the news for about thirty seconds in April. They found her in the woods in Connecticut. But, you know, hedge fund guys aren’t that good at forensics, even if they’re 100% current on all CSI franchises, so they caught him pretty fast. So maybe … maybe Big Edie doesn’t record the worst thing that ever happened to you. Maybe it’s something so much smaller than that. The moment when the worst thing that ever happens to you sees you coming. Turns toward you in the dark. I think, once she married him, he was always going to hurt her. Because that was in him, an egg or a seed or a tumor, whatever you want to call it, a future that no longer has the option of not happening. The flowchart flows until you meet that person at that conference and then there’s no more choose your own adventure, you’re going to fall in love and they’re going to bankrupt you or betray you or just … disappoint you until there’s nothing left but cynicism swirling around at the bottom of your heart like tea leaves. Or leave you in the woods in Connecticut. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a huge ugly regret machine. And mostly I will never understand these. What happened to the Madden kid or the girl in the bar or why getting stuck in traffic on that particular day was so important to that man’s whole trajectory, or any of them, because that stuff doesn’t come across the AP like Mrs. Vaclavik. They’re just moments, unconnected, pulled free of every other moment.”

The wedding fades out and the two women wince together as a man they do not know pushes a woman they have never met against a wall. Blood trickles down her temple where she hit a picture frame and she looks up at him with unbelieving eyes.

“Enough,” Margot says. She grabs the remote. Shuts it all down. Turns to Johanna and touches her face. Touches her. No one has touched Johanna in a year. It is an alien burn. It is Margot. It is the past and the future and death, stroking her hair and making enormous eyes at her while the constituent atoms of their dog look on from the coffee table.

“I miss you so much,” Johanna whispers, and wishes she could have thought of something better, more elegant, more memorable, but her need banishes pretty words.

“Don’t,” Margot answers with finality. The finality of Providence, Rhode Island and heirloom squash varietals and Harrington Preparatory School and June-Bug and poor Mapplethorpe in a box.

“What do you think?” She cannot help that either, the need for her approval, her regard, the perfect full absent moon of her gaze on Johanna’s work, Johanna’s self.

“Honey … I think you need help. This is … this is nothing, J. It’s a bunch of slice of life shots of nothing in particular and three or four gory jump-scares. You taped over some movie of the week with a lot of nonsense. And I’m supposed to believe it’s what, magic? It’s you stalking strangers. Listen to yourself. Catastrophic parallax? You’re manic, you need care.”

But Johanna can’t hear that. “Okay, but that’s just exactly what I mean. Do you know what catastrophe means? It’s Greek. It just means a turn. A turn down or a turn under or a turn inside. A turn away.”

“Jo, this is basically a conspiracy theorist wall and you’re unspooling more red yarn. This is not an X-File. This is you not coping. As usual.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ll show you. Just stand over there, I’ll shoot you for a few minutes, a few seconds, and you’ll see.” And what will Big Edie see? Margot leaving that hot, humid, unretrievable night, Margot packing up boxes for Providence, Margot right now, right here, telling Johanna she will never believe her? One of them, maybe, surely. What else was even possible?

“No,” Margot whispers firmly. “You don’t need me. And you definitely don’t need to ride that camera any harder. I’m not going to enable this. You just need help, baby. Professional help. That’s all. I have to go.”

“Wait—”

“I have to go.”

There is a disentangling, a hurry to go back, edit, remove even the idea that physical contact was made. Margot excuses herself to splash water on her face and Johanna sees herself in the mute black monitor, sees as the ex-moon of her night sees: a woman so thin her clothes don’t fit, who smells sour, whose hair hangs limp and unwashed, whose face has grown lines it didn’t have even a few weeks ago, degradation lines, juddering through the frame of her face.

Margot emerges awkwardly, chagrined, her familiar elfin face not one cell altered from the day she left, her voice echoing against every surface: I’m so fucking lonely, Jo, I’m lonely even when you’re here. Especially when you’re here. I’m lonely right the fuck now and I’m looking at you.

She holds up something in her hand. Something purple. Something precious.

“Forgot my brush,” she says softly.

And then she is gone.

Ghosts

Johanna puts it off for a long time.

Why bother? What use could it possibly be to her? What use is any of this? You couldn’t do one single thing with it. The shot was too tight to predict the future. Fight crime? Protect the innocent? No. The camera crowded the subject, an unbearable idiot intimacy that took away everything but the seeing itself.

But eventually, she was always going to do it.

Johanna watches herself on the flatscreen. Watches herself get up in Big Edie’s face. Fix the focus, back up to sit on the same barstool that held Anika all those ages ago, shifting awkwardly as she looks into the lens like an actor breaking the fourth wall.

She knows what she will see. She is calmly certain of it. She shouldn’t have bothered running the tape back for this little screening. She saw it the first time, when she was seven. When she was thirsty in the middle of the night and padded quietly out of her room to get a glass of water. Out of her room and past her father sitting alone in his armchair, the moonlight crawling in after him through the window, grasping at him just before he shot himself and her life … turned. There never was any hope for her. She was turned before she got one foot in the world. It wouldn’t be a prettier shot now.

The compression artefact burns out from the center of her nuclear-powered selfie. Her stomach muscles seize up the way they do when she just barely reaches the tipping point of a roller coaster and enters freefall, down the rails into her old house, the rugs, the stain on the ceiling, the off-kilter hang of her bedroom door. Her father’s face. Her mother’s soft snoring from the bedroom.

But that’s not what she sees.

No moonlight. No armchair. No 3 a.m. drink of water in a seven-year-old girl’s hand. It is just Johanna, seafoam green hair and all, walking on the lovely light and dark stripes of green on a lawn in Ossining, in sunlight direct from a photography lab, approaching a quilt made of old T-shirts and the objects it carries. She bends down and presses her warm thumb into the patch of Hypercolor shirt, waiting for the fabric to change color, to unsuffer the damage of too-constant exposure to the very thing that it was designed to react with, which of course it will not, can not, ever again.

Johanna touches her own face on the television, that seafoam green girl who still had Margot and Mapplethorpe and opinons about everything, that familiar face, yet better-fed and better-loved and almost obscenely untroubled. An ancient version of herself, suddenly unearthed at the bottom of the sea.

Finite State Machine

Johanna puts Big Edie up on Craigslist, all her specs laid out like a personal ad: enjoys long walks on the beach, getting lost in the rain, composite video output, and turning everything you point me at into an avant-garde film-school short. If you can’t handle me being haunted, you don’t deserve me being way more work than the camera app on your phone.

She lowballs the price. She means it. She can change her artefact. She can let it all go, like Margot said. Get care. Be normal. Cope. She can take that moment in Ossining and make it nothing. Make it just another random memory on a compilation tape of the decades fading in and out, like the little tinseled cloud boy turning and turning on his forgotten school stage, meaningless, untethered, beautiful and sad and without connection to anything before or after.

And then anyone could. The boy who doesn’t want to mow the lawn. The girl meeting that man at the bistro. Lucy Vaclavik. Antony. Jeff. Anika. Anyone. The long white beam of the Argo’s exterior lighting array sweeping through that dark and missing the great hulking skeleton in the blackness, brushing gently by, just barely, just by inches, finding nothing but open water.

She doesn’t answer a single query.

Six months later, Johanna doesn’t even remember what it’s like to leave the house without Big Edie. The pockets of her original-issue carrying case bulge with new tapes.

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

just once, just fucking once I would like to have a reasonably productive long weekend instead of spending most of it too stuck in decision paralysis to actually do much of anything until I reach a point where I feel like I could very well break down crying because I’m too overwhelmed with everything I need to do but I still don’t actually do most of it because the decision paralysis is a huge part of what makes me so fucking overwhelmed in the first place

like. right now probably the most urgent thing is a semi-complicated Etsy commission that the buyer would ideally receive by Dec. 10, which probably means sending it Dec. 7 at the absolute latest. so I should be working on that, right? but it’s going to take a while so it’s a time commitment, especially because it seems kind of pointless to get out a lot of messy supplies to only work on it for a few minutes. and I need to order parts for a different order--well, at least that’s quick. I also really need to reapply thermal paste to my CPU as soon as I can because I think the fan’s getting louder and that can’t be good for anything in there, and theoretically it won’t be that hard, but realistically I’m sure it’s going to take a while and I have to look up a little info on how to do it, first--and it involves my PC being out of commission while I’m working on it, so that’s not something I can do halfway. and while my PC’s open I really need to replace my dead hard drive, which wouldn’t be that hard except I want to install the new one alongside the old one so I can try to clone the dead one onto the new one, which will definitely take time on both the hardware and software sides of things, but it needs to happen sooner rather than later because, again, there’s a lot of stuff I can’t do until I get that done. and I need to send the recent invoices for Hazy’s dental appointment to pet insurance to see if they’ll pay anything, and that should be quick, but nothing ever stays simple. and, shit, I should really do some actual work this weekend because I didn’t get enough done before...and I still need to decide what to do about the vision therapy thing now that it’s clear the best they can do for me is a payment plan for like 36 expensive appointments, ugh. and ah shit I signed up for Yuletide and I’ve done almost nothing, and that’s due...Dec. 17? fuck, that reminds me, I gotta go get a new notebook from my room because I just finished this one, I mean that’s quick and easy but it also means I now have two notebooks that mostly aren’t typed up, which is bad because I can’t do anything with the contents until they’re typed up and of course they’re not backed up (unless I put them in my fireproof safe, and then I’d never get them typed), and typing those is going to take forever, and yeah I’ve been meaning to make it easier on myself by just doing like 15 minutes a day but I haven’t done that at all and they really need to get typed--and, well, I could just do a 15-minute stint, sure, but that seems silly when there’s so much that needs to be done--and, ugh, I’ve sorta been ignoring my email for the last three days and I need to go through that because otherwise I’m guaranteed to miss something I won’t want to miss, but that takes time and it’s going to mean opening up more tabs when there are already too many tabs open (there are always too many tabs open) and I need to deal with those too, and a good share of the emails are probably about Black Friday sales that I’ll probably want to do but that means more tabs and more decisions and shit there’s all that stuff in my Etsy cart that I should really buy sooner rather than later because sometimes Etsy stuff disappears or sells out and then I’ll be sad and frustrated with myself and also some of the things I want to buy are for gifts, which reminds me that I have almost no Christmas gifts yet for anybody, and my birthday is soon so I should probably make some kind of list myself but actually why am I focusing on that at all when the Georgia runoff elections that determine Senate control are in barely more than a month and I need to be writing letters/postcards to voters since I don’t want to phonebank and time zones actually make it really impractical anyway? I was going to do that in a reasonable way this time too, just a few letters a day like I meant to before, use up a lot of these stamps and stuff I still have--and ah fuck it’s been a while since I’ve called my own legislators about anything, I need to do that, that’s theoretically quick because voicemails cut me off at two minutes, although to be able to do that I also have to do at least a little research so I know what’s the most important thing to call about and what to say so that’s more tabs and more time, and I still haven’t fucking reposted the tiny little Endgame fix-it fic I wrote at the end of August, let alone finished anything since then

and I would, on some level, like to work on one of the many, many writing projects that is theoretically close to being done, or one of the recent ones I started because I foolishly and incorrectly thought it was something I could bang out quickly

and on some level I would also like to work on more stuff for Etsy that could be pre-made so it’s not another stress point when I get orders, especially because several things are holiday-specific and some wouldn’t even take that long, but I’d still be choosing to do those instead of more urgent things

and none of that even begins to touch other stuff, like my room that continues to be a disaster and I need to sort through my shit so I know whether I can relist my most popular Etsy item (if I even want to, which I don’t right now because stress), not to mention all the stuff I need to clear out by listing on eBay, and I could do at least one part of that (flatten the boxes I’ve saved for shipping) without committing to a week-long project but even that part would take a solid chunk of time that I should be spending on something more urgent

and we can’t even put up the fucking tree until I move some of my shit away from the spot where the tree goes, which is tough because a lot of it is from work or otherwise theoretically temporary stuff that doesn’t have an actual home, so that’s going to take a while, and then putting up the tree is also going to take a while, and my room is already a disaster so I’d need to clean in there to make room, which would take forever, and for that matter my areas of the living room are generally a disaster too, as always

and while I’m thinking about stuff I brought from work, let’s go back to how I need to do some work stuff because I’m lucky enough to have a decent job with good insurance that can be done from home and I’m still just like...kiiiiiiinda endangering that by not being a functional adult in general? which is at least partly because my brain is a dumpster fire that doesn’t seem to be improving (which is something else to worry about) but regardless of the cause I still have to do something about it? oh yes and speaking of the good insurance I’m kinda endangering by being a fuckup, haha sure hope this knot under my jaw doesn’t turn out to be...you know, the type of bad thing that a knot under the jaw could turn out to be! which is another very good reason I need to stop being a fuckup so I’m not maybe endangering the job that would pay for that, along with all my other medical issues! and also the entirety of our rent because my mom’s really high-risk and the only available jobs she’s qualified for aren’t safe for her to do!

and my knee hurts! and my elbow hurts! and my neck fucking hurts, my head and neck always hurt and I think I’ve been sleeping even worse than usual lately, partly because neck pain and partly just my body fucking hates me, it’s always a problem and I don’t know what to do about it anymore

and now it’s after 8:30 pm and obviously I’ve done none of this, and I’m still tired, and my head and neck still hurt, and there are still so many things I need to do but I can’t choose because the time-consuming things are the urgent ones but I don’t have the time or energy for them and choosing a specific thing (an urgent time-consuming thing, or a less urgent but much quicker thing) means actively choosing not to do one of the other things, and it’s all important, and I can’t fucking choose, and I’m pretty much at a point where I can continue running ever more painful and crazy-making circles in my brain trying to make myself decide something or I can say “fuck it” and do something that would be fun but not urgent or important at all, which I shouldn’t do, so for fuck’s sake I should just pick even one productive thing to do and then maybe let myself do something fun and then get to bed at a good time for fucking once but I still can’t fucking choose and I want to either cry, scream, or possibly hurt myself, and none of this is healthy or productive

and I think possibly my therapist is getting impatient with me for not making much progress and not really having specific goals for our sessions aside from “I hate that my brain is Like This and I want it to not be Like This and no I haven’t done most of the things you’ve suggested and no I don’t have a good reason why, I just want the meds to work so everything won’t be so fucking hard and yes I know that wouldn’t be something you could control even if it was in your wheelhouse, which it isn’t, but I get overwhelmed so fast and I know I need to do better and be better but I don’t know how”

and I wrote this instead of actually doing anything, apparently, because there was at least some chance that dumping it all out would make me feel better or help me see more clearly what I actually need to do, but I think I actually made myself feel worse by articulating just how overwhelmed I am, mostly by things that objectively aren’t actually that difficult or important.

and I still can’t fucking choose.

[etraytin]

Quarantine, Day 210

October 7

It is midnight and the kiddo is still not asleep, which is Not Ideal. He was sick again today, running a mild fever and blah throughout the day, though we did manage to break it around bedtime. I am a little concerned that this insomnia may be a thing with the medicine we're trying, but I hope not because it's really helping a lot. We had an adjustment period when he started taking ADHD medication too, so hopefully things will iron themselves out and he will sleep better. At least today was a much better and less stressful day than yesterday, so insomnia looks like reading books by flashlight instead of feeling terrible and upset. I got him six Big Nate books on eBay so he could read some real books without looking at them on a screen, and that is working out pretty well. 

Speaking of auctions, today I had what can only be described as an Exciting Misadventure. See, I love online-but-pick-up-in-person auctions, the sort where the auction is near you but all the bidding is online over the course of days. I have gotten a lot of good deals from auctions like this, since the audience is limited to people who live within driving distance and can pick up on the designated date and time. This week there was an auction to empty out a closed international food store down south of the bridge-tunnel, about an hour away from me. That's not too terrible a drive, so I bid on some stuff, got outbid on a lot of stuff, and scored a fantastic deal on a couple of brand new wood and metal dough scrapers. That was cool and awesome. 

But besides the restaurant and catering equipment, they were also auctioning off the store's remaining inventory. The store closed last year, and it looks like they removed what could still be sold retail and handled that separately, then auctioned off all the "lightly expired" food in large lots. I bid on a gondola of potato chips and pop tarts, then on a bunch of interesting varieties of pop, and on a couple shelves of pasta and sauces. I got outbid on all of it because I do not, as a rule, bid anywhere near what things are worth because I don't have much money. Once I was outbid on all those things, I was poking around on the site, wondering if I was going to make an hour's drive just for dough scrapers. I saw that there was one food lot that still didn't have any bids on it, for "assorted food on two pallets." In the picture it looked like this: 

I looked it over and thought "ooh, ramen and Takis and roasted seaweed, these are good things that we like! I bet I could fit all that in my minivan, and we can just give what we don't want to the food bank." I placed the minimum bid of ten dollars and won the auction. Now in my defense, those of you who already see what's about to happen, I kind of forgot how big a milk crate is. They look small in the picture! Those boxes look pretty reasonably sized too, right? Looking at that picture, you could, possibly, if you were me, not realize that those stacks are five freaking feet tall. You could also (and this is 100% not actually my fault) not look to the very leftmost edge of the photo and somehow intuit that this lot also includes something like four hundred jars of mayonnaise that just got cropped from the picture. If you did these things, you might, like me, be wholly unprepared for what you've just gotten yourself into. I didn't even bring a dolly, which in retrospect is good because I wouldn't have been able to fit it back into the car. 

A nice auction worker brought me back to my job lot, waited politely for me to finish gawking at the stack, and kindly offered to open the back warehouse door for me. Thank god. Even with that and my car pulled up close outside, this was a job and a half, especially when I was masked the whole time. (Everybody was being good about masks and pretty good about distance, which was nice.)  I immediately gave the mayonnaise up. If it wasn't in the picture I didn't buy it, and I'm not taking it. I cannot take it, or my car would be full of lightly expired mayonnaise instead of the stuff I actually wanted. Instead, I began triaging food, figuring out what I really wanted and what I could fit in my van. This is where moving so many times helped me out: I can fit a whole lot of stuff into that minivan! It took almost an hour, moving one or two boxes at a time, but I got my car absolutely packed full of foodstuffs. (Thank god I didn't win the auction for pop, at least takis and ramen don't weigh much!) Thus laden down, I headed out into end of day traffic, trying not to make any sharp turns or sudden stops, lest I end up with ten cases of takis in the front seat instead of the back. It was a looooong drive home. 

At home, I decided to just leave everything in the car for the moment and only took up a mesh clothes hamper I'd used to collect up all the loose bags of takis that weren't in boxes. I brought it inside and the kiddo's eyes got wide. "That's a lot of chips, mom!" All I could do was laaaaaugh... 

Anyway, tomorrow I will be spending some serious research time finding a nearby food bank that can use a lot of miscellaneous lightly expired international foods. We'll keep some of it, of course, and at ten dollars for the lot, keeping 10% would still be a bargain, but I have to get it out of my car! Nobody else can ride in it! 

[hippriestess]

Part 4 - I’ve Been Duped...

It was to be expected that some of those who brought us some of the less essential Fall releases would also respond to Smith's death. One of worst was the first to arrive and it came from perennial recyclers Secret Records; a repackaging of 10 live tracks from the 2002 “A Touch Sensitive” DVD – already reconfigured multiple times – on an LP titled, and this absolutely beggars belief, “Best Of” and credited to “The Fall & Mark E Smith”, a credit never once used on a release in Smith's lifetime (a few gig posters, yes but never a record). Released just 3 months after Smith's death for about £18-20, this received the derision it deserved and, judging from the number of copies for sale on Discogs and their current asking prices, it appears to have sold just a little more than fuck all.

But even this was overshadowed come March 2019 when Ozit/Dandelion released what has to be The Worst Fall Release Ever. Pressed into horrid orange vinyl, the contents of “Mark's Personal Holiday Tony Tapes” were staggeringly poor. Proudly labelled as “Non-Record-Store-Day Release” (was it turned down?) the record boasted just 8 tracks. The album tried to elide its rotten contents by calling all the tracks “Mark's Personal Holiday Tony Tapes”. Track 1 was a 6 minute version of “Last Nacht” from “I Am Kurious Oranj”. The released track doesn't actually feature within the 6 minutes so this is probably an outtake and therefore probably not owned by Beggars Banquet. There is a drop out lasting several seconds that has gone uncorrected and it's about 4 minutes longer than it needs to be, confirming the brevity of the version used in 1988 to be bob on. Tracks 2, 4, 6 and 8 are live tracks from 1981, all of which had already been released on the otherwise unimpressive “Northern Cream” DVD. What is barely credible is that tracks 3, 5 and 7 are also “Last Nacht” but not further alternates, rather being Track 1 cut into 2 minute pieces and simply repeated! Did they think we wouldn't notice?! Utterly awful, thoroughly exploitative and an absolute disgrace. They also stumped up a 30 minute DVD of MES being interviewed. This bore the thoroughly unappealing title “30 Minutes On A Manchester Slag Heap”. I only ever saw this for sale on eBay but a couple of clicks confirmed that it was Ozit/Dandelion product being sold by them through that channel. The cover was of a slag heap rather than of MES. Enough said.

OK, let's tidy up, what's next?

The immediate future sees 2 vinyl releases in the August “drop” of the now-staggered, socially-distanced RSD2020; a double LP of “[Austurbæjarbíó] - Reykjavík Live 1983” on the now inevitable splatter vinyl and a single LP of  “Cerebral Caustic” on multi-coloured “bonkers” (their word, absofuckinglutely not mine) splatter vinyl because of course it is. That's all for RSD this year, a move which represents far better judgement by the organisers. A studio album out of print on vinyl for 25 years and a properly sought after live release on the format for the first time? Yeah, that fits well with what RSD was meant to be back when we all queued up for a “Bury Pts 2 + 4” 7” in 2010.

Now, a fun wee question mark was raised over “CC” when the RSD website credited the release to Demon rather than Cherry Red. It appears Demon have the Permanent Records catalogue and have also announced clear vinyl reissues of “The Infotainment Scan”, “Middle Class Revolt”, “The Twenty-Seven Points” and, perhaps most interestingly, “The Post Nearly Man”, all on clear vinyl with expanded artwork from Pascal LeGras. It looks as though these are coming in under the £20 mark (£25 for T27P) and I reckon they'll be popular – I fancy nabbing MCR and TPNM myself. A bit of a downer that all of these, except, oddly, “The Post Nearly Man” were recently rescheduled from September 2020 to January 2021 but hey ho – probably Covid-related, much like everything else.

As for Cherry Red, whilst one report had it that “Are You Are Missing Winner” was next, they are finally releasing a 3CD/2LP edition of “Imperial Wax Solvent” in October. This includes the much-discussed original mix by Grant Showbiz and a previously unavailable live set from shortly after the album's original release. This is, basically, exactly what we wanted. Hurrah! Can't wait.

Thanks to the speculation re: AYAMW, there was a little disappointment in come quarters and I can certainly see a healthy audience for a straight single LP pressing of that as it was only ever available on a picture disc vinyl before. Here's hoping they won't go for a double splatter vinyl with unnecessary extras (“Where's The Fuckin' Taxi? Cunt” on vinyl? Come on, SPARE US).  

To yr present authors surprise, an expanded edition of “The Frenz Experiment” was announced for release by Beggars Banquet/Arkive in October. I had reckoned a new vinyl edition was likely as it was the only studio album on BB not yet afforded a new pressing and the addition of a second LP with various singles tracks was no surprise either, given that there are similar packages available for “TWAFW”, “TNSG” and “Bend Sinister”. A very pleasant surprise however is the inclusion of the group's Janice Long session from 1987, their only unreleased Radio 1 session. Also, “A Day In The Life” has been licenced for the this also (it was the only studio recording from the era missing from “5 Albums”). The Long session and “...Life” are only on the CD version. As such, this release very much follows the pattern of the “Bend Sinister” reissue from 2018 and is likely inspired by the near ecstatic reception and healthy sales that release enjoyed. Nice that the CD edition is £12 this time, having been more like £22 for “Bend Sinister”.

Let Them Eat Vinyl are responsible for the illustration...they are planning an almost ludicrous onslaught of Fall vinyl. Their website currently lists an almost unbelievable THIRTY ONE Fall LP releases for the three months running September to November. Thirty-one. Now – this includes “Interim” which is already on the shelves but it also includes the “Live From The Vaults” releases. It was assumed from the inclusion of two of these on Cherry Red's “Dragnet” 3CD box that these were part of the Fall Sound Archive deal that MES cut with CR in the years before his death which makes this a bit interesting. Also, LTEV are also claiming they will release “The Post-Nearly Man” on vinyl in October, which clashes with Demon's schedule – they originally had Smith and The Fall's albums for Permanent Records releases slated for reissue in September but all except TPNM have been moved. Meanwhile, “Cog Sinister” are about to release TPNM on CD! After being unavailable and highly prized for 2 decades, we're now set for 3 separate reissues within 2 months!  Anyway, the vast majority of the remaining LTEV are discs from the 2 “sets of ten (really eleven)” although also included are the excellent “I Am Pure As Oranj” and the first vinyl edition of “The Light User Syndrome” since its original release in 1996. Caveat Emptor, as the saying goes.

Narnack are also hinting that a 3LP “Fall Heads Roll” isn't too far off. Having teased this for a couple of years, Early in 2020, it was announced that the label was folding. This announcement was deleted and Narnack immediately moved on to asking fans to suggest what additional material could be added to this new version. Never one of their best, there would have to be some impressive outtakes to persuade yr persent scribe to cough up.  

Elsewhere, Phonogram have yet to succumb to new vinyl pressings of their albums, despite the prices fetched on the collectors market for these, especially “Code-Selfish”. This may be partly due to what seems to have been a relatively low take-up for their 6CD box set from 2017. Titled “The Fontana Years”, this was just the 2CD editions of the three albums from 2007 in a box. It therefore looked weak next to the “Singles 1978-2016” box set as well as providing nothing attractive to the faithful who already had them. It hit the shelves at £35-40 a time and, unsurprisingly, remained there and can now be scored for around £20.

The much requested expansion of “The Real New Fall LP” with the original, very different mix of the album has yet to appear. At last count, contractual wrangles between the UK and US were said to be in the way but who knows? If “Levitate” can reappear, surely this can too.

Of course, we never know what else the less-salubrious end of the market will have for us but we shall approach with due caution.

The cold reality: what we get now is all there is. Mark E Smith now exists for Fall fans on paper, on magnetic tape, on vinyl and in combinations of 0 and 1. A sad fact. But it is clear that the appetite for The Fall is, if anything, increasing. Hindsight is presenting The Fall in a particularly clear light. In such a stylised, filtered and carefully marketed world, full of covert strategies and manipulative messaging, The Fall are reassuringly flawed, human, real. Their jagged edges, their constant state of flux, their DIY presentation and their disinterest in convention draws in the curious. The quantity of music suits an insatiable, want-it-all-and-now culture and, having made their albums for the vinyl format as well as bringing us so many magnificent 3-4 minute singles, their music is almost perfectly suited to today's market place where vinyl albums mix with song-by-song streams. People who love to write about music always loved The Fall and it seems that this is every bit as true today as it was in the days when we never had to wait any more than a few months for a missive of some sort, be it an album, a single, a Peel session or even just an entertaining interview.

Given that The Beatles – the most lauded rock/pop act of all time - have finally reached a generation to whom their blithe optimism means absolutely nothing, it is impossible to say how anything in music will be regarded 20 years from now. But for now, at least, The Fall endure. Their vibrations remain intense and powerful. And we, the people, dance to the waves.

Nine out of ten? Nah. Ten out of ten. Top marks.