#are they flipping their guitars because if so darn that's cool

[terubakudan]

NOCTURNAL BLOODLUST - Strike in fact (PV FULL)

[mc-lukanette]

Take Stocking In

For Marinette, it was no longer "Christmas Day." It was now officially dubbed, "Marinette Christmissed the Mark Completely Day."

She'd originally thought it'd be a great idea to surprise Luka with. When she heard that everyone was getting individual stockings together and placing anonymous gifts into each one, she saw an opportunity.

She'd wanted to respond to Luka's confession for a while, but the stocking was the perfect chance; she intended on writing an "I love you," on it, then signing it and placing it in his stocking. After all, only Luka would see the signature; no one else had to know that it wasn't an anonymous gift.

The problem? She'd forgotten to sign it. She presumed that she knew deep down that the gifts were meant to be anonymous, and thus forgotten her signature out of habit.

It was technically better than what had always happened with Adrien where she just straight-up forgot without reason, but still, come on! She couldn't even tell Luka that it was hers later since it'd be too late and thus wouldn't be special anymore.

Worse still was the fact that, when everyone had finally gotten together and sat in a circle, the order was decided by age: youngest first, oldest last, meaning that Luka was last and she was going to have to stew over her inevitable suffering for as long as possible.

As if that wasn't enough, when it was her turn, she knew which gift had been his. At first, it looked like a simple drawstring attachment to her purse, perhaps to carry a few small things, like lip balm or some batteries, but a quick feeling of the pink fabric confirmed that there was something inside. She'd waited until it was the next person's turn to get their stocking, then poked and prodded to feel the foreign object.

Her eyes had widened at the realization that it was a music player; one to replace her old one that she'd broken not too long ago. It was definitely out of the recommended price range for the gifts, which was probably why Luka had hidden it in something cheaper. Marinette shot Luka an offended pout over the action, and while he'd looked away from her, his grin was anything but innocent.

Darn that sweet boy and his part-time delivery money. It only made Marinette feel worse about her upcoming unsigned gift. With each person's passing turn, she started to delve into worst-case scenarios.

Maybe it didn't matter if she didn't sign it, because what if he didn't even like the gift anyway? What if he did like it, but didn't think her confession was enough or thought it was pathetic that she'd forgotten to even sign it? Heck, what if he'd gotten sick of waiting and didn't even love her anymore? Worse yet, what if he saw the 'I love you' and was hoping it was from someone else, and what if he actually went to that person and they reject him because they don't love him and then he finds out that the gift was from her and hates her forev—

"Alright! Luka's turn!" someone shouted out, snapping Marinette out of her thoughts. She looked over as Rose grabbed the last stocking on the table, the thick white trim decorated with glitter-y lettering (obviously done by Rose herself) that spelled out Luka's name.

Luka let out a polite "thanks" as Rose brought the stocking over to him. He took it, settling it into his lap and making sure it was steady before reaching inside.

Marinette held her breath, only able to watch as Luka riffled through the stocking, seeming to be leaving whatever he'd grab up to random chance.

But, of course, the first thing he pulled out was her gift. There were a few sounds of interests amongst the room, a few people leaning in to ask what it was.

Luka turned the square object in his hand, it being not far off from a minaudiere, though the hard outer case was decorated in a cotton-y fabric rather than beads or crystals. Marinette bit her bottom lip, noting the fascination in Luka's eyes as he reached to undo the clip that kept it closed.

It opened with a satisfying 'pop' sound, a tiny card fluttering out in the process. Luka caught it, but observed the inside of the case first. It was black and soft inside, small indentations evenly spaced apart that were shaped like rounded triangles.

A flash of recognition came to Luka's face. Briefly setting the card down on his leg, he reached into his chest pocket, pulling out the black guitar pick that he used so often. He looked between the guitar pick and the indentations, then slipped the pick inside one of them.

It was a perfect fit.

Juleka leaned over, muttering something about how "cool" it was, but Luka was oddly silent. Marinette fidgeted in trepidation, unsure as to whether that was a good thing or not.

Finally, Luka turned his attention to the card. He held it close to himself, possibly aware that the contents may be for his eyes only. He gave Juleka a glance, to which she backed off and gave him space.

Marinette quietly wished to be put out of her misery, but on the plus side, she'd been holding her breath the whole time so maybe she'd fall unconscious before she saw his reaction?

Luka opened the card slowly, eyes shifting just slightly as he read. Marinette forced herself to maintain a neutral face, especially as Luka's brows rose in surprise and the hand holding the card went stiff.

Luka's original appearance of calm faded, his measured movements suddenly gone. Without a word, he placed the card back inside the case and shut it. When Juleka opened her mouth to say something, he tossed her his stocking so he could stand up. A few called out to him in confusion, but it was like he was in a trance.

Marinette let out the breath she'd been holding as he walked across the room, right towards her. She blushed, inching back and briefly looking behind her in hopes that maybe there was something there that he'd been after instead.

She looked back at him when she heard him get down on his knees. The case was held tenderly against his chest while his other hand reached forward to rest on hers. Marinette went to say his name, but the intense look in his eyes made it too hard to speak.

She was only able to mouth out 'Lu—' before he leaned in and kissed her. Her already rigid body stiffened further, a stark contrast to how soft his lips were and how easily his hand gingerly squeezed hers in reassurance. People around them were either gasping or cheering quietly, which was when it finally registered with her that this was real and he was really kissing her.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her free hand moving upwards to rest on his cheek so she could stroke his face. The way he leaned into her assured her that he enjoyed it.

It took her a while to realize exactly how long they were kissing when someone vocalized in a whisper that they were "surprised they hadn't come up for air yet." At that, they both pulled away, either because they realized that they were actually out of air or it had just been embarrassing to hear someone say that.

"Ah—" Marinette paused, needing a moment to bring herself back to reality. She glanced down at the case Luka was holding, then back to his love-struck face. Lowering her hand from his cheek, she said, "I-I don't get it. I didn't sign it; how did you—?"

He cut her off with a chuckle. She blinked at him, confused, and he simply raised the hand he'd been touching to his face.

Giving her hand a kiss that made her heart do flips, he smiled and replied, "I'd know your work anywhere, Marinette."

"...Oh," she uttered, her already red face turning redder as she smiled. She couldn't let out anything coherent with him staring at her like that, so she simply shifted her hand in his until she could slip her fingers through his and press their palms together.

Someone in the circle cheered, "Wow, way to go, Marinette!" Then, after a pause, someone else added, "But how are we supposed to compete with that?!"

In response, both Luka and Marinette joined together in laughing, which gave a very clear answer to the question: they weren't.

[howtotrainyouragents]

Adrien Trying to Be Cool

Let’s talk about Adrien for a second. This kid is a famous model with a rich, world-famous fashion designer father, and he moonlights as a superhero. Objectively speaking, he’s a very cool kid. BUT imagine if Adrien doesn’t see it that way. After all, he isn’t into fashion, doesn’t care much for modeling, and no one knows that he’s Chat Noir. 

Take that all away, and you’ve got a fourteen year old boy who’s new to school and is gonna try way to hard to be cool. 

There’s the meme-loving, angsty side of trying to be cool

-Memes galore. Obscure ones, dank ones, this boy basically speaks in meme. He thinks he’s the funniest person in the entire gosh darn city. Most people have no idea what he’s saying

-Nathalie: *tries to use meme in an attempt to be supportive* Adrien: Ugggghhhh, Nathalie, that was from two weeks ago. Keep up

-He’s all over social media, posting silly videos of himself talking to the camera or goofing off in his giant room. He’s trying to recreate the best vines one vine at a time

-Nerd shirts or those sassy shirts like “I’m too cool for this” solely

-*Tries to drink black coffee because it’ll make him look cool* *Dies*  

-Tries to do weird stuff to his hair until some adult comes rushing in and removes his razor, hair dyes, and mohawk references 

Then there’s the into-cool-stuff side of trying to be cool

-Plagg and he have jam sessions in his room where they blast Jagged Stone and air guitar like maniacs around the entire room until Gabriel yells at them to stop

-Begs Nathalie to let him wear the new fashion trends. And not like the cool stuff that Gabriel would approve of. The weird fashion trends. “It’ll make me look cool!”  “Your father will literally kick us both out. Now go back and change.” “Everyone’s wearing it!” “Who’s everyone?” “..........Nino.” 

-Host the school’s fidget spinner championship games 

-Can do the water bottle flip 

-Filmed himself doing the blanket/pet surprise thing with Plagg, but that obviously didn’t work out 

-Obnoxious sunglasses

But then there’s the sweet side of trying to be cool

-He's the first person to comment on every single thing his classmates post. He aggressively loves and supports his friends 

-Owns all the newest video games and movies and will lend it out at a drop of hat. “Dude, I’ve been wanting to see this movie forever!” “Keep it. Do you want me to get the second one for you too? I can do that for you. I will do that right now.” 

-Someone is picking on one of the classmate:  “Hey, don’t pick on MY friend. *turns to person* I hope it’s okay if I said we’re friends. Are we friends? It’s okay if you don’t want to be. I’m not used to having friends.” 

-He really just wants their love and attention 

-Has blown up their class photo and hung it on his wall.

-In short, he and Nino are kings of trying way too hard to be cool. Alya just shakes her head going, “Boys...” Marinette is totally a sucker for it, but when the kid walks in an obnoxious outfit and finger guns, there’s only so much an aspiring fashion designer can take

[regrettablewritings]

How You Met AU: Poe Dameron

Lifted from this ship meme

You were an idiot. You were an idiot who bought into the beauty of eating in the courtyard of this San Franciscan café and now, for deciding to eat outside, you were going to die in this absurd heat. You sighed even though you immediately regretted feeling the subsequent warmth of your breath running over your skin. It was too late to take it all back, though: Judging by the constant glances you made at the windows of the actual establishment, Café Madrinna’s insides were now filled to capacity for the lunch rush. You tried not to whimper, gripping your ice-cold glass of water with the hopes of relief. Your friend, much to your envy and despair, appeared to be unaffected by the West Coast heat as she continued to chatter about the divine nature of the miniature quiches this place served. “ – and the spinach-cheese ones? To die for, (Y/N),” she went on, gesturing just as dramatically as her claim. You nodded half-heartedly, only partially paying attention. The other part was trying to focus on not passing out in public. If you couldn’t be in the A/C-cooled building, then the only other thing you wanted more was for a waiter to come by so you could request another cold drink, order your food, and get out of here as soon as possible.

Your friend’s voice carried on with the one-sided conversation, quickly blurring into little more than white noise. In fact, everything was beginning to fade from your focus due to you swearing that you were melting. It was therefore a bit of a wonder to you that one noise did make it through your disappearing interest. Though, not by much. After all, it’s hard to ignore the sound of a microphone screeching. You flinched, faintly hearing others “ooh” and hiss as they cringed. “Sorry! Sorry … Testing, testing. 1, 2, 1, 2,” a voice magnified by the mic said. You wanted to start whimpering but lacked the energy; the last thing you wanted was for yet another source of stimuli to overwhelm you. Plus, if somebody started to play music, it would require even more energy for you to speak up to the waiter. Wherever the hell they were. You were so filled with spite that you mustered just enough strength to turn your head. It lulled lazily on your neck and, had you thought about it, ultimately dampened whatever effect your annoyed glare could’ve provided. Not that it mattered: It didn’t last very long anyway. It couldn’t possibly hold its own once you saw exactly whom you were intended to direct your ire. He was cute, but not in a little boy sort of way. You couldn’t quite place it, but you supposed it had something to do with the lax demeanor he carried about himself. … But he also had a guitar with him as he sat on a stool before the mic. The frown threatened to make its way back onto your face. California Guy + Guitar = Memories of That One Asshole in the Quad at College Trying to Pick Up Chicks. Grabbing the mic, he greeted, “Afternoon, ladies and gents and other heavenly bodies,” he greeted. He offered a smile, revealing his crooked but nevertheless adorable teeth (how could teeth be adorable, you had no idea). “Anyway,” he said, getting into position, “here’s ‘Wonderwall.’” Oh, God, no! “Nah, I’m just kidding.” A handful of people chuckled. You nearly sighed with relief. “But seriously … Here goes something.” The sound of the strings being plucked proved to be anything but the nuisance you had expected them to be. In fact, the chords seemed to flow through the air like silk, curling in waves before caressing your ears. But it couldn’t compare to the smooth, almost husky voice with which the musician sang. “That certain night, the night we met, There was magic abroad in the air. There were angels dining at the Ritz And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.” Perhaps it was a heat-induced delirium, but part of you suspected the man’s voice of being supernatural: You no longer focused on the heat; in fact, you could barely determine if you were actually hot anymore. “I may be right and I may be wrong, But I’m perfectly willing to swear That when you turned and smiled at me, A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.” The way with which he delivered the lyrics seemed to serve as almost a portal, offering you an oasis to recuperate from. A balmy evening scene painted itself in your head, the man’s voice serving as both paintbrush and palette. You barely responded to your waiter as they finally came by your table (now of all times) to retrieve your orders. You dared yourself to not look away as you marveled how the man’s eyelashes fluttered with his perpetual bedroom eyes. Bedroom eyes that … were looking right at you. Sure enough, you could see the those dark eyes of his staring specifically at you. A stare so unbroken that you could see the warmth in those optics and be reminded of a cozy little nook where one could be gathered into a quilt and sleep in its cloth embrace. It was perhaps this observation that revived the heat in you. Only, instead of it being a painful, bodily heat beaten onto your skin by the sun, this heat seemed to stay specifically in your face and ears. Crud. It only worsened when the man, still staring at you, flashed you another crooked-toothed smile. Double crud! “The moon that lingered over London town – Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown …” With far too much ease, he lifted himself from his seat. He started walking slowly away from the designated performance spot, never once missing a beat. “How could he know we two were so in love? The whole darn world seemed … upside down!” His voice continued, appearing to be unaffected by the lack of microphone as his singing still rang throughout the dining area. That would have impressed you, had it not been for your heartbeat muting out almost everything. He was coming closer! To you! You could feel yourself panicking inside, eyes skittering about you in a fruitless attempt to locate an escape route. You glanced back up. He was ten feet away. Six feet. Four feet. Three. Two. “The streets of town were paved with stars It was such a romantic affair. And as we kissed and said goodnight, A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.” Oh, God. He was here. In front of you. On one knee, still playing along, voice still carried through that cute smile of his. His stare was still on you. Everybody’s stare was on you. Your friend gushed in her seat, fists balled into her cheats as she quietly geeked out at what was happening to you. You, on the other hand, were two-parts mortified, two-parts twelve seconds away from going your own gushing. Certainly, it was not good for your hatred of being the center of attention in a public space for you to be serenaded. But on the flip-side, you were being serenaded! This was the sort of stuff you’d only ever seen in movies or Youtube videos. This wasn’t the sort of stuff that happened to people like you! Or at least, that was what you’d thought before. But this man was proving otherwise as his fingers practically waltzed along the strings of his guitar, treating you to a wordless solo that brought a piece of your mind back to the night scene. It now included him in there, with those warm eyes and kissable smile. Holding hands, walking along the streets – that that gooey romantic stuff you tried your best not to get too caught up in. But, oh, he made it look and sound so wonderful! In fact, it was that same wonderful voice that gently pulled you back to reality on a high note – literally. “Aaaaand like an echo far away, A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square,” he crooned. Before he got up, he offered you quite possibly the smoothest wink you’d ever bore witness to. His fingers were still strumming as he slowly returned to his original placement. By the time you’d remembered to clap, the audience had already been holding applause for ten seconds. He took a small bow, glowing grin in place. He leaned into the microphone once more: “Thank you so much! Wow, uh … Okay, I’ll be taking a ten-minute break so . . . I guess hang tight!” His eyes didn’t return to you as he turned around and exited the outside. As much as you felt a little disappointed by this fact, you couldn’t blame him. ++++++ “What’s the matter? You haven’t eaten much …” Your friend nodded at your plate. You shook your head, “Nothing, it’s just – I’m pacing myself.” You directed a bite-sized piece in a circle with your fork. Your companion pursed her lips in doubt. “I’m calling bull on that,” she muttered, taking a bite of the quiche she’d been going on about all day. “I think I know the reason.” The delivery of that sentence threatened a chill to go down your spine; you knew what was coming. And sure enough, as you looked up, you were met with a taunting smirk. “Tummy in a tizzy? ‘Cause that cutie sang to you? Be still, your beating heart!” You attempted to glare through your blushing, aching face. “Quiet, you!” you hissed. You really didn’t want to hear this: Both because of embarrassment, but also because you just wanted to forget about that guy already. You wanted to scarf down your food, pack up, and leave this barbaric heat and never come back! … If only you could actually will yourself to eat – “Uh … Hey, excuse me? Sorry if I’m interrupted but –” Your friend’s eyes widened as she looked upwards of the tableside. You, on the other hand, dared not look for once: You knew exactly who it was. “Yeah, so, uh …” A sugar cookie with frosting decorated to resemble a sun was placed on your napkin. Okay, now you had to look. You mustered the courage to look at the musician, trying your best to appear calm and collected yet confused when in reality, you were inwardly flustered, nervous, and confused. The simple bite of his lip almost broke you. “I just wanted to apologize for earlier,” he said. “I usually work best when there’s a, you know, specific person in mind to sing for. But I realized a little too late it’s not everybody’s style so … Cookie.” You could swear you saw his cheeks hinting red. You regarded the cookie. “It’s … I mean, that was okay, you were only –” “No, it isn’t,” your friend cut in. You and the musician immediately looked at her, both your faces painted with perplexity. “What?” you uttered. Your friend just shook her head. “A cookie isn’t gonna cut it. The poor dear can’t even eat, you made her so nervous with that performance! In fact, I dare say you owe her an actual meal!” Your mouth dropped, eyes widening. What in the ever-living Hell was this binch doing?! Before you could recite exactly that, your friend practically shot up from her seat. “Lemme get out your way so that the two of you can talk this out. By the time I come back, I’d better hear the location, price range, everything about the date!” (At the utterance of “date”, you swore you could feel your heart drop through your abdomen.)  “For my approval, of course,” she added. Nothing and nobody could stop her from then leaving, practically frolicking into the café building. Leaving you and the man alone … He actually seemed mostly unfazed. He shrugged, “She’s got a point … This place has decent cookies, but that’s not exactly great compensation.” He plopped himself in the now free chair and scooched in. “I’m Poe, by the way,” he said, offering you his hand. You blinked. He … He was seriously okay with this?! Apparently so. “(Y/N),” you returned, accepting the handshake. It was warm, just like everything else about him. Only this time, you didn’t mind the heat as it surged through you, from your hand to your head.

[oneweekoneband]

Opera / A-Cha / Spy (2011/2012)

“Opera” has a sneaky little synth riff, a vaguely Gothic masquerade video, and is a catchy enough album track to get upgraded to a single for Japan. Except Heechul was in the military by then so Eunhyuk took over his lines, and Sungmin took over Eunhyuk’s lines, nicely duplicating his little squeak on “neomu yumyeonghaeseo da michyeodeul bonikka”/”nee ii nara hito nishiyouka”. Too bad they brought back the “three guys dance and everyone else just kneels” crap though. 

That’s three really solid songs off the Mr. Simple album, which is pretty darn good; there are more on that album, but I’m skipping them for time’s sake. So many good songs must be why the re-release single, “A-Cha,” is probably their most underwhelming-to-me single ever (the other competitor is “Spy”) despite the nifty desaturated Look Around You-esque visual styling and percussive vocals and swooping electric guitar riff. It’s not great on lyrics: Kyuhyun announces he is a love spider, a “sarang-ui spider,” to be specific, and Sungmin states that he is Don Quixote jumping bravely into her tornado. And this is a totally serious, straight-faced song. Just look at Sungmin’s sour expression as he flips those playing cards toward the camera. Or well, Sungmin has a bowl cut and that’s pretty bad too. This is really just not a good song for Sungmin overall, huh? Nobody even knows what “A-Cha” means! From context it means “oops,” as in “you’ll say a-cha when you realize you missed out on this hunka burnin’ love,” but judging by the making-of video, it is a nonsense word that somebody made up for this song. They mostly just hem and haw and make jokes about what it could possibly be, and eventually decide it is a mystery for the viewers to decipher. (I mean, the joking and banter is funny, but uh…) The dance has a lot of waving one’s palms around, as if a mime in a box, or as if washing a car.

I mostly dislike “SPY” because the “Get Smart” synth horn riff gets repetitive, the choreography isn’t super memorable and is focused more on looking cool and James Bond-like than on doing anything interesting (slalom-y motions on “na, na, na, nareul saranghan” excepted), and because an A2, as heard repeatedly in the verses, is out of the comfort zone of everyone in Super Junior, especially Ryeowook. (and because their hair looks crunchy with gel) (and because they demonstrate poor trigger discipline) (and because they spend too much time standing in t-pose) (but I do like “go kick it in the butt!”) As evidence that the A2 is not a good note for Super Junior, I submit this live-mic performance, in which the only one who I am confident didn’t just lip-sync his way through the verse is Kyuhyun, and he’s just barely able to reach the A2. That’s not to say that I’m mad at Super Junior for not hitting the notes; I’m mad at whoever thought it would be a good idea to make them sing those notes, in this key.

[existentialcowboy]

June in July

JUNE IN JULY

a Branford Perry story

by Stephen Brooke ©2017

I've seen drunken rednecks aplenty. They can't compare with June’s family.

I know Yankees aren’t all like that. Well, honestly, I’ve not seen enough drunken northerners to say. I only know that those Michiganders were, if not rowdier than your typical good ol’ boys, far less gracious.

No, no, I’m not putting down folks of the Yankee persuasion, you understand, but I've seen enough to suspect that there is a different attitude up north. Shoot, just look at how the tourists drive when they come down here!

I loved June. That’s a fact. So, I figured I had to at least tolerate her people for a few days of family reunion and Fourth of July barbecue. Love’s like that, y’know?

Almost from the day I met June Schiller, she talked about her family — her father, especially. Looking down on the whole affair, from a perch a few years higher, I can see that was a pretty darn clear danger signal. But I hadn’t had any experience with a Daddy’s girl back then. I was kind of dumb, I reckon.

But love’s like that, y’know? Yeah, I said that already.

I’m okay with my siblings but nothing like that. We dispersed in all directions and didn’t look back. As for gathering us for a reunion — well, good luck with that.

It was a Sunday afternoon — I usually spent Sundays at June’s place, over near Gainesville — when she called me to the computer. “This is the tee-shirt I designed for the reunion,” she told me. June, by the way, was a graphic designer. I liked that about her. I like creative people.

I like to think that I’m creative but let’s not get into that.

I looked over her shoulder at the screen and the rainbow logo she had created. “You have the colors in the wrong order,” I offered. “Remember ‘Roy G. Biv.’”

“Who’s that?”

“It stands for red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo-violet. I learned about Roy by watching Sesame Street.”

“Oh. Okay.” Was that a bit of pique in her voice? Maybe I should have just said it looked nice and offered no more. Maybe some of my friends would have called it ‘man-splaining.’ I’m full of useless information, anyway.

She never changed it, of course, and all the tee-shirts ended up with incorrect rainbows. I suppose no one but me ever minded nor even noticed. My tee still hangs in the back of my closet, a small white ghost to haunt me, if I choose to look at it now and again. I don’t wear it.

It wasn’t just a celebration of the Fourth, you see, or a family reunion. It was also June’s birthday and that of her father, both clustered around Independence Day. That’s pretty much my favorite time of the year, the heat of the summer, the days of swimming in the clear, cool springs that well up around Florida, the afternoons of thunderstorm, bringing fresh, electric air to the evenings.

It may also have been the happiest time in my life. I was thoroughly in love, in a way I had never been before, and spent as many of those summer nights as possible with my June. I would have moved in – the hell with my responsibilities – if she had been willing. Oh, all those warning signs were there; they had been from the start. I avoided looking at them.

The sassafras grew along June’s fence line, standing as slender sentinels of her pasture. Inside those fences were the big live oaks, old survivors amid the grass, jungle gyms for her goats. It was the dead wood that had fallen from them we gathered on more than one Saturday, for the bonfire she envisioned.

It was her vision, after all, though I supported it as I could. The canopy from my art shows was at her disposal for an outdoor family dinner, laid out on the folding tables we brought home in my truck from a garage sale one Saturday. And her extended family ate and drank and talked and it was all stuff I didn’t much care about, nor even understand some of the time. We spoke a different language and I’m not just talking about my southern accent.  

Still, I’ll always have pleasant enough memories of sitting around the huge bonfire, the one for which I spent those weeks dragging dead wood from her pastures, with the family, playing guitar and watching that bunch of pyromaniacs shoot off fireworks.  Taking them all to Ginny Springs so they could tube down the river. Listening to stories of people I didn’t know.

There are those who tell me I don’t know how to have a good time. They could be right.

Did I see it as wasted time? Did I resent it? It is possible, but there was too much else in my head to sort that out, right then. It’s possible June sensed it too. Maybe she could tell I didn’t much like her folks.

I mostly just sat at the outside of her family’s circle at the bonfire, listened some, drank a little. I’m not one to overdo that, nor did I share the joint that eventually made its way around. “I shouldn’t. I could lose my job,” said one cousin, or whatever he was, before taking a toke and passing it along. No, I didn’t fit here; it was only because of June I let myself be bored this way, attempted to be friendly — or at least pretended to be.

But then, love’s like that, as I said.

There were fireworks one or another had brought, or maybe more than one. It was just as illegal, whoever was responsible. Or irresponsible. They didn’t seem to care. Ragged drunken cheers rose with each sky rocket launched into the July night.

A rocket flashes and fades, a fire burns down to embers. Scattered plastic chairs, their plainness turned to ruddy chiaroscuro by the dying bonfire, threw dark paths upon her lawn, her fresh-mown fragrant lawn, beneath summer’s stars. Couple by lingering couple, our guests hugged and farewelled and welcomed me to the family before flipping on headlights and driving out of my life.

In the silent emptiness of then, I held June to me, both of us too exhausted, both a little too full of Sam Adams — her brother had brought a keg — to make love that July night. I think that is when we, too, began to say goodbye.

“Thanks, Bran, for all you’ve done,” she whispered. And I wondered whether it was worth it. I still do. Then, I also was headed home, into the darkness, toward the responsibilities of my life.

I can see from here that was the high point of my relationship with June. Yeah, it too some time for it to fizzle out and maybe I’ll get into that one of these days — into that whole downhill slope. Or maybe it’s better just to leave it all at this point.

Despite the time that has passed, despite everything, I find myself misting up a bit when I think about those days. Nostalgia? I suppose. Love? Maybe a part of me still loves her. I think a part of me always will. Nothing wrong with that. It would be far worse if she became just a memory that no longer meant anything.

Love really is like that, y’know?

[houndsocean-blog]

A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships ya dig

As you may have noticed, my last post was my first (hooray), and also I sat on it for a month. Not sure why, just hadn't gotten around to posting it until just a little while ago. Anyway, I’m here today, this evening, this year to discuss a KILLER album. As I scroll past my two, count em, two posts I am overwhelmed with the desire to dance, but at the same time I want to feel shit. Welcome to the world of The 1975.

Yes, the 1975 have a “following” of “teens” with their posters adorning the “minimalist bedroom” tours of plenty twinkly eyed youtubers, but these aren't real things. The 1975 have FANS. Since when did that become a bad thing? I’m off my soapbox, the soapbox I’m going to aptly name in the spirit of The 1975, “The Step Onto Which Our Feet are Cleaned and Our Rhetoric Dirtied.” How was that? Terrible? I know.

Okay. So this album comes with some hot ass anticipation. I was a late comer to this band but once I head the looping guitar of “Chocolate” from their first album The 1975  I was taken by how good the chorus was. Fast forward a few years and their next one comes out. It’s called I Like it When You Sleep For You are So Beautiful Yet So Unaware of It.  Does my soapbox joke translate better now? So I’m watching them perform songs from it on SNL and damn it I liked the song but I was annoyed by Matt Healy the lead singer. He has a very meandering and “rockstar” stage presence. I later realized I was annoyed only because I secretly wanted to be him.

I tell this to say that I wrote them off as something “not for me.” Side note: I get there are a lot of quotation marks and I’m sorry but also i’m just illustrating a “point.”

Fast even more forward and i’m riding in the car listening to the Sound Opinions podcast and a song plays. This song is fucking ear candy. A lite-house-ambient mix with just the most beautiful plinking sounds you ever did here. I wait for the host to tell me the answer to who this band is, and lo and behold it is none other than The 1975. What I was listening to was the title track to  I Like it When You Sleep. I was shamed. Here I was blowing off this band for absolutely superficial reasons. Needless to say I learned my lesson and dove into that album and discover the magic that was the tracks “The Sound” and ��This Must be My Dream” among other greats. So with this secret discovery I began singing the praises of the band to anyone who would listen. I began putting it on when I had too much to drink. I used it to keep me awake on long car rides. It was a jam.

So, I became a bit excited when I heard about their new album A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships. And the singles released leading up to it were fucking killer. One of the first I heard was Give Yourself a Try, an angular guitar driven ode to self love. I was immediately struck by the lyrics and the desire of Healy to ENCOURAGE. Damn does it feel good to be encouraged. That single was followed up later by Love it If We Made It. The power anthem of just everything. This song takes to task the headlines that have confronted us with little regard for our collective emotional health. “Thank you Kanye Very Cool,” “Rest in Peace Lil Peep” these are JABS. They fucking sting. Each phrase bringing back memories of adverse reactions, sadness and a general wtf. But, like the well-known Jesus Christ, there was more to come. The ticks of the synth fall away, a guitar builds and we are tumbled into a complete BOP. “I’d love it if we….. MADE IT” Healy yells over the forceful bump of the best use of a steel-drum synth mine ears have been blessed with. The ever-present 1975 choir brings an angelic feel, the guitar juts, Healy’s voice echoes just enough, and for a moment we are just fuckin dancing. I was so thankful for this, especially this year. This song exemplifies so much anxiety that many of us feel but also gives us a nice dose of joy.

I’m going to pause for a sec to explain a theory i’ve been thinking up of songs. Good songs are song that the artist MEANS. And when I say mean, I mean that even if it’s about the paint on a Lomborghini they fucking mean that shit. Great songs are ones where the artist means, and proposes a problem for us to join them in. They create a moment in time for us to understand. A room where we sit opposite them and see what they were dealing with when they wrote it. Truly Great songs: the artist means it, they’ve brought is into their problem and also GIVEN US A SOLUTION. “Love It If We Made It” Does these things. I know they mean it, I know exactly where they were mentally when they wrote it, and fuck it if we’re not gonna dance it off. Now, if that doesnt make a truly great song I have no idea what will.

Alright, pause over. I next heard the single TOOTIMETOOTIMETOOTIME. It’s a super comfortable bop with the cutest darn music video you ever did see. Bless yourself and give it a gander.

Alright. Then something happened. I heard the tune ”It's Not Living (If It's Not With You).” Y’all to say this song enraptured me was an understatement. I spent much of that night starting it over and over. Dancing my heart out. I danced from the imagined perspective of the lead singer, the guitarist and most importantly the backing choir. Fuck. That is what got me. The choir behind Healy gently glides a few octaves over him, and for the words “All, I do” Healy pulls back letting them shine. Oh to be a member of that choir for a day, a month, a life. To get to sing with them is my new dream. Anyway, besides providing a moment of escape this song just FEELS good. I heard in an interview Healy describing it as the most 1975 song the 1975 has ever put out. A scrap of hearsay I daresay I believe. Thank god(ess) for this song.  

Also the other single Sincerity is Scary was great but i’m ready to move on.

So, the day comes, the album is out. I hold off listening because I’m taking my hard earned money and going to the record store and getting it on vinyl.

So, I grab it and when I get home the time has come. I play this thing. It opens strong, a nice twisted and screwed version of their opening track that they’ve repeated a few times on other albums. The first few tracks are the singles i’ve heard plus a great track called “How To Draw / Petrichor,” I guess you could call it the mid-beginning suite of the album. It kind of sets up a sonic palette that previews what is to come. And it is beautiful.

Flip over to side two and “Love It If We Made It” begins. I think you know how I feel about that one.

At the end of this side is a banger. “I Like America and America Likes Me” is what it’s called. It is a perfect synthesis of trap high-hats and a pitched Healy voice that just is really something. Solid Gold. It’s like bubbling up from foamy water. Imagine if that Rosalía album cover was a song by Lorde. Imagine if Lorde had discovered Rae Sremmurd in 2009 and Pure Heroin was white with black letters instead of black with white letters. Imagine Bjork’s Unison but produced by Mike WiLL Made-it in 2017. It’s good shit. Period.

This is followed by “The Man Who Married a Robot / Love Theme,” a British Siri narration of a guy falling in love with the internet. It’s wild.

“Inside your Mind” opens with all the promise of a Beach House wave and ends with a repeated guitar lick that feels stadium sized; a clash of two things that I really like and are rad.

After that we pass “It's Not Living (If It's Not With You).” Yup, talked about that one. A fuckin jam.

“Surrounded by Heads and Bodies” is really good as well. Healy does harmonies in a wonderfully pleasing way and I enjoy it, but I did get a little tired at this point. Not gonna lie. “Mine”  is like a jazz standard and I really like it.

Finally the album ends with “I Always Wanna Die (Sometimes).” This is a stadium song. A concert closer if I ever did hear one. Damn it’s good. Healy shows just the perfect amount of restraint in the chorus that soars man. The opening chords sound like a Dixie Chicks song and quickly becomes so fucking British it’s amazing. This is something that 8th grade me would have EATEN up in long car rides. When the guitar drops at the pre chorus……. just enjoy folks. You’ve made it to the end of an incredible journey with this band. You’re bruised but it’s mainly from dancing. You’ve got a bit of a headache but if you sing hard enough it goes away and you just wanna hear him sing “I just aaalwaaays waaaaanna dieeeee” one more time! Dissolve into the strings, close your eyes. You made it through this damn year.

In some ways i’m mad at The 1975. They’ve captured something in their art that I want to express with mine one day. A melancholy that’s so heavy, yet joy that bursts through like it’s been smiling under the sad for a long, long time. I appreciate this album and will be bumping it for years to come.

If you’ve stuck around for this long through my thoughts on this album thanks for reading. I just love music and couldn't contain these feelings. Have a good one.