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[newbusinessideas]

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You must have seen many types of turf around you, people like to play cricket and football on them, let me tell you that in the last several years, their demand has continuously increased in the market. And there are two reasons behind the increase in demand, first of all, there are many people who love sports in our country. Secondly, whatever big metro cities are there, some construction has…

[rhys-writes-some-shit]

Learn to Take "No" for an Answer

Alastor x Reader (Queer-Platonic)

Alastor was often a busy man, but he always managed to keep tabs on you. The moment your heart rate started to increase, he could feel it. He’d stopped what he was doing immediately and went off to find you. The moment he saw you surrounded by Sinners, with Vox at the center, he was ready to initiate a massacre. 

But instead, he watched as you held your own, not once swaying from your opinions. 

Once you tackled Vox to the ground, though, Alastor knew he needed to step in. He knew you could definitely hold your own for now, but you were not powerful enough to combat Vox if he retaliated. He only wished he’d been able to watch you stab that knife through Vox’s throat…

A few minutes earlier...

Humming to yourself, you skillfully sidestepped a bloody corpse on the sidewalk. Sometimes all you needed was a nice walk to clear your head. Today, the walk improved your mood immensely. The only thing that could make it better was if Alastor started one of his broadcasts. You knew it was unlikely to happen, but that didn't stop you from glancing up at the speakers above the streets in hopes they'd turn on.

You passed by the VoxTek TV display, pausing to watch the news highlights. Another turf war on the other side of the city, an ad for some sort of imp hitman business, clips from the latest episode of Hell’s Next Top Idol. Anything owned by VoxTek wasn’t allowed in the hotel, which meant you didn’t have access to all the media you would’ve liked. Sometimes, watching the TV display was the closest thing you got. 

“Like what you see?” A tall figure suddenly appeared behind you. The small group of Sinners who’d also crowded around the TV display suddenly burst into exclamations and talking.

Turning around, you found yourself looking up at Vox's flatscreen face, causing you to grimace. 

“Oh, come now, don’t be like that. I expected better from Alastor’s little pet.” Vox was grinning slyly, arms behind his back with authority. “I have a proposition for you, sweetheart.”

“If you’re here to ask me to watch Al for you, the answer is ‘no.’” Glaring, you attempted to find a way out of the crowd circling around you and Vox, but the wall of Sinners had increased, becoming impenetrable.

Vox rolled his eyes. “Of course not, hot stuff. I’m not an idiot. Alastor doesn’t deserve you anyway.”

“Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t,” you shrugged. “Regardless, I really should be on my way.”

Even with that statement, the crowd of Sinners didn’t move. They were all watching Vox, enamored with the scene playing out in front of you. As your heart rate increased, you could only hope that Alastor would notice. 

“We should talk some more, sweetheart. You’re such a handsome little thing.” One of Vox’s hands reached towards your face, caressing your cheek. “If you ditched that old-fashioned prick and came with me instead, I think you’d find yourself much better off.”

Clenching your jaw, you angled your face out of Vox’s grasp. “I'm doing just fine as I am right now, thanks.” You made your voice cold, desperately trying to get your disinterest across. 

“Don’t be so sure.” Vox raised an artificial eyebrow. “I could give you more than Alastor ever could. Join me, and you can become one of Hell’s most powerful Overlords.”

The talking from the surrounding crowd grew louder, people taking pictures and recording the confrontation. The idea that Vox just asked to share his power with some random Sinner was crazy to the rest of the public. It wouldn’t take very long for word to travel all throughout Hell. The idea of your face plastered across cell phones and TV screens across the city made you nervous. Not to mention, you’d have to report to Vox, and he was an asshole. 

“I'm not interested,” you ground out, keeping your back straight to feign confidence. 

Vox scoffed. “Playing hard to get, are we?” He was grinning. “You look so fucking hot when you’re pissed off.”

Silently, you were begging someone, anyone, to come and rescue you. You couldn’t guarantee that you could keep your composure much longer. “I’m not interested,” you repeated, just as sternly. 

“Aww, are you mad, sweetheart?” Vox cooed mockingly. “Upset your owner isn’t here to save you? If you came with me, you’d never have to worry about being on your own.”

In a flash, your hands twitched and a knife was suddenly being held to Vox’s throat. You’d tackled him to the ground, the sharp blade reflecting your bright eyes. His eyes were wide, clearly not expecting you to retaliate.

“Call me sweetheart again and I’ll castrate you, you flat-faced fuck.”

“Oh my!” A dark shadow appeared behind you, quickly followed by Alastor’s tall figure. Despite his smile, you could clearly see he was just as pissed as you were. “Darling, is Vox bothering you?”

“Not anymore.” You pressed the knife closer to his neck, allowing a few droplets of blood to slide down the knife before withdrawing. Licking the blood off the blade, you gave Vox a dark grin. “You taste like battery acid. No wonder no one wants you.”

Alastor laughed heartily. “How true! Come along, my dear! Charlie is probably wondering where we are.” Placing your arm in his, you allowed Alastor to escort you away from the now-silent crowd. 

“I fucking hate that guy,” you snarled once you’d gotten a few blocks away.

“A nuisance, surely,” Alastor agreed. “I must say, you handled that wonderfully. Quite an entertaining display.”

Smiling lightly, you found yourself flushed at the compliment. “It was nothing. He just needed to learn to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Chuckling, Alastor matched your smile. “I’m sure you got the point along just fine, dearest. And if he didn’t…” Alastor’s face darkened, smile turning sinister. Now it was your turn to laugh, and that was how you walked into the hotel, giggling at each other like a couple of teenage girls.

[cosmica-galaxy]

Does Don Hookfang just like the mafia aesthetic or is he actually an organised crime ringleader? Also, is he wearing actual clothes or is it still all his own mimicry?

It's his own mimicry of Mafia Movies he used to watch before the collapse, they were his favorite. He's a Camera/TV hybrid, so he yearns for "pack living". He's the alpha of the group he reigns over and he has some notable underlings that respect and listen to him. Some camera mimics and other TV mimic hybrids like himself. They all share the mafia aesthetics because their leader, Don, thinks it makes them closer as a 'family', like in the movies. Also, he doesn't partake in crime necessarily. Crime really doesn't have holdings on the world like it used to...so it's more of a territory turf war kinda business. They make claims on territories and fight to keep their turf for their clan.

If they do hoard something that isn't drugs...then it would be sugar. I forgot to mention that TV mimics LOVE sugar. They obsess over the stuff! Other sweet stuff too! They love honey, sweeteners (artificial and genuine), and anything that else has a rich taste to it, like chocolate. If you gave a mimic some honeycomb/chocolate, they won't attack you and will let you pass through their territory unopposed. Give them a regular source of the stuff and you may find yourself with some loyal companions! Sugar is far more precious to them than drugs, so they actively fight for whatever is left in once-populated areas.

Those that grow sugar cane and other sweets, like honey, are revered and placed in high positions. Don, and his extended 'family', are some of the few that have managed to secure such delicacies. They live a mafia-like lifestyle, but they don't rely on crime like human mafias used to. They are more like...aggressive farmers. XD

I also like to envision that Don speaks with a Italian/city accent or a soft New York accent.

[titansturf]

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[astrophysicist-guitar-god]

After the cut, the Rolling Stone article that elicited a response from Roger, written on an airline motion-sickness bag.

Queen Holds Court in South America: On the road with rock's royal spectacle (x)

James Henke, June 11, 1981. Buenos Aires, Argentina

We are the champions – my friends And we’ll keep on fighting – till the end – We are the champions – We are the champions, No time for losers cause we are the champions – of the world – —Freddie Mercury, “We Are the Champions”*

It was to be the Big Event. Queen, coming off its most successful year ever, was setting out to conquer South America and wanted to make sure the whole world knew about it.

That, certainly, was no surprise. After all, this was the band that had made a career out of creating spectacles. A couple of years ago, for example, when they were launching a U.S. tour in support of their Jazz album, Queen threw a bash in New Orleans that featured snake charmers, strippers, transvestites and a naked fat lady who smoked cigarettes in her crotch.

The real surprise was that Queen – a group with a history of hostility toward the press – had agreed to do interviews and had invited journalists from the U.S., England, Spain, France and other countries to come along for the first shows.

So here I am at Ezeiza airport, outside Buenos Aires. The place looks like a military installation. Young, peach-fuzz-faced boys who can’t be more than sixteen or seventeen are stationed along the concourse that leads through customs into the baggage-claim area. They’re all in uniform: big black leather shit-kicking boots that reach halfway up the calves of their legs, and regulation tan pants, shirts and helmets. And they’re all armed with submachine guns.

In Argentina, the military – and terror – reigns supreme. According to Amnesty International, about 15,000 people have “disappeared” since 1976, when Juan Perón’s second wife and successor, Isabel, was thrown from power in a coup d’état. Since then, a guerrilla war has been waging between the dictatorship and opposition groups, mainly Perónists, and citizens have routinely been plucked off the streets or out of their homes, taken to secret detention camps and systematically brutalized. But as VS. Naipaul writes in his book The Return of Eva Perón, “Style is important in Argentina; and in the long-running guerrilla war – in spite of the real blood, the real torture – there has always been an element of machismo and public theatre.”

Editor’s picks

Amid the hubbub at customs, I notice a middle-aged man in gray – gray suit, gray tie, gray hair – making his way through the crowd, shouting something in Spanish. The only word I understand is Queen, and sure enough, he’s looking for us. He takes our passports, whisks us past the inspectors without so much as one bag being opened, and leads us upstairs to the bar for an early morning cerveza. He speaks little English, but there are two words he knows quite well. No matter what anyone asks for, his response is the same: “No problem.”

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

By the afternoon of day two, none of the writers has yet been introduced to any of the band members. We while away the time in the hotel bar, but in this country, where the annual inflation rate is around 100 percent, a bottle of beer costs the equivalent of twelve dollars, keeping us sober against our wills. Finally, Jim Beach, Queen’s business adviser, allows a few of us to attend the sound check at Velez Sarfield.

The Argentines have a rather nifty concept of crowd control, as I find out when I reach the stadium: a moat, about six feet wide and three feet deep, runs around the perimeter of the field and is filled with foul-smelling water and patrolled by dragonflies. Queen has brought its own artificial turf so that the promoters will allow people onto the field.

Up onstage, Queen – lead singer Freddie Mercury, guitarist Brian May, bassist John Deacon and drummer Roger Taylor – is rehearsing “Rock It (Prime Jive),” a track off The Game. And it sounds simply awful. The acoustics are horrendous in the 3500-seat stadium: there’s a thirty-second delay as the music drifts across the length of the field and reverberates off the scoreboard. Nor does the band’s musicianship seem inspired. The rhythm section is sloppy and sluggish; May’s guitar playing is limited to heavy-metal/hard-rock clichés and patented, though by now boring, harmonic lead breaks; Mercury’s singing is lackadaisical and without conviction.

Related

“They’re not even up to the par of some third-rate New Jersey bar band,” another writer comments to me, and indeed, I’m somewhat mystified about what it is that makes this group so popular.

When I return to Velez Sarfield that evening for the show, the stadium is swarming with kids – and cops. These are crusty, corpulent tough guys – not the boot-camp boys I saw at the airport. And it doesn’t take long to find out that they mean business. When one American writer snaps a photo of the twenty-odd billy-club-wielding policemen who are cordoning off the backstage area, he’s pinned against a government-owned Falcon and threatened at knife point with the loss of a finger until he yields his film. “No problem.” Sure.

“Un supergrupo numero uno,” the emcee anounces as the lights dim, and with a burst of smoke, Queen appears onstage and begins hammering out its anthem, “We Will Rock You.” Mercury – dressed in a white, sleeveless Superman T-shirt, red vinyl pants and a black vinyl jacket – frequently stops singing and dares the audience to carry the weight. And carry the weight they do: the fans seem to know all the lyrics throughout the 110-minute show – which, if for no. other reason, is impressive for the number of hits the group is able to offer up, such as “Keep Yourself Alive,” “Killer Queen,” “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “Fat Bottomed Girls” and “Bicycle Race.”

Though the band-audience interaction is remarkable, the crowd responds with such unquestioning devotion I get the feeling that if Freddie Mercury told them to shave their heads, they’d do it.

The musicianship still seems pedestrian, but what the group lacks in ability, it makes up for – at least to the fans’ satisfaction – in gimmickry. Smoke shrouds the stage at regular intervals; flash pots illuminate the audience at key moments and end the set. Compared to Kiss‘ fire-breathing antics, Queen’s use of special effects is in relative good taste, and after all, a Queen show is supposed to be a spectacle.

For the encore, the band reprises “We Will Rock You,” then bounds into “We Are the Champions.” Mercury, by this time wearing only a pair of black leather short shorts and a matching leather policeman’s hat, struts around the stage like some hybrid of Robert Plant and Peter Allen, climactically kicking over a speaker cabinet and bashing it with his microphone stand. Pretty ridiculous in this day and age, but the kids love it.

Indeed, Queen may be the first truly fascist rock band. The whole thing makes me wonder why anyone would indulge these creeps and their polluting ideas. —Dave Marsh in Rolling Stone

What do I think about critics? I think they’re a bunch of shits. —Freddie Mercury

Queen’s relationship with the music press has been about as cordial as the secret police’s relationship with the Argentine public. Even so, the band hasn’t exactly suffered from the continual pans of its records and shows: eight of its ten LPs have been certified gold (the exceptions are the Flash Gordon soundtrack and Queen II), and its last three studio efforts – News of the World, Jazz and The Game – have gone well over the million mark in sales.

“I have some very strong views of some of the things the press do, such as The Rolling Stone Record Guide,” Roger Taylor says, looking out his hotel-room window. It’s day four, and the long-promised interviews have finally been arranged. “Now, I’ve never read the book, but I saw an ad, and I thought, ‘What the fuck is someone doing bringing out a book like this? Who the hell are they to say what albums are good and what albums are bad?’ I think it’s entirely a personal choice.” (For the record, Queen didn’t fare too well in the book; four of the seven albums reviewed were awarded two stars, a designation that means “records that are artistically insubstantial, though not truly wretched.”)

The shots at Queen have not been fired by just the press, however. When the punks came to fame in England in the late Seventies, Queen was one of the groups most often singled out for attack. Taylor and John Deacon, the two band members who seem most attentive to musical trends, apparently feel some of the criticism was justified. “It gave us a kick up the ass,” Taylor says. “It was so angry, so different, so outrageous. We were recording News of the World in the same studio the Sex Pistols were recording their first album in. I mean, the first time I ever saw John Rotten, I was really shocked, cause I had never actually seen the whole thing in person. He sort of crystallized the whole punk attitude, and there’s no doubt about it, the guy had amazing charisma.”

If the band’s pomp-and-circumstance delivery has recently fallen into disfavor among the rough-and-ready New Wavers, it wasn’t really in vogue either when Queen inaugurated its grandiose stage presentation in the early Seventies. “That was the time of the supergroups, like Cream and Traffic,” Brian May explains, “and it was more the thing to get into your music and not worry about the audience. Then, for a period, it became very cool to do a show. Now, the wheel has turned again. But we just think that kind of show is part of being professional. People are giving you two hours of their time, so you have to give them everything for those two hours. We want every person to go away feeling he got his money’s worth, and we use every possible device to achieve that.”

From the beginning, Queen wanted to put on a show that would be different. “We had a joke that we wanted to be the biggest,” Taylor says. “It was a joke, but underneath, it really was true. Number one is much better than number two. And we’re still working at it.”

To accomplish this goal, Queen opted for an unusual route. Rather than work their butts off playing the club circuit – something Taylor and May had done without much success in a band called Smile – they chose to spend two years rehearsing while they were still in school. May nearly completed a Ph.D. in astronomy; Taylor has a degree in biology; Deacon, one in electronics; and Mercury, a diploma in illustration and design.

Mercury and Taylor supported the band by selling artwork at a stall in Kensington Market, and it wasn’t until 1973 that Queen released its first album and had enough money – thanks to record-company support – to take the kind of show they wanted to do on the road. The LP, titled Queen, gave the band its first hit single, “Keep Yourself Alive,” and set the stage for what was to come. As Roger Taylor says, “It’s been quite a fairy tale.”

I just hate this,” Freddie Mercury says, “especially when that thing’s on.” He points to my tape recorder, sits down across from me and lights up a Salem. “There came a point where I was misquoted all the time,” he continues, “and they had the piece written before they even started. I’m not afraid of criticism – I don’t want to come across as Goody Two Shoes all the time – but it’s been purely vindictive.” A deal’s a deal, however, and Mercury, obviously under some pressure from the other band members and their record company, had agreed to an interview. “So here I am with Rolling Stone,” he moans. “It’s like being forced to talk.”

Up close, Mercury is more petite than he looks onstage: he stands only a fraction of an inch under five feet ten and is relatively slender. His short-cropped hair and mustache are jet black, and his eyes are a piercing dark brown. In addition to being the group’s lead singer and one of its main songwriters, Mercury is also most responsible for Queen’s image. He’s known for his flamboyance and debauchery both onstage and off: at a birthday party a couple of years ago, for example, he swung naked from a chandelier, and on one of the band’s Japanese tours, bored with the tedium of playing night after night, he appeared onstage with a bunch of bananas atop his head.

“The Carmen Miranda of rock & roll,” he says, chuckling. “But what can I say? I’m a flamboyant personality. I like going out and having a good time. I’m just being me. The media pick up on certain things, and a lot of things get overexaggerated. I’m quite easy to get on with, really. I can be a real bitch at times, but that’s okay. I’m not that vicious. I use my influence. Why not? I’m not afraid to flaunt it.”

Thirty-four years old, Mercury was born Frederick Bulsara in what was then Zanzibar. His father was a British civil servant, and Freddie left home when he was seven to attend boarding school, first in India, then in England. “You learn to fend for yourself at an early age. I was quite rebellious, and my parents hated it. I grew out of living at home at an early age. But I just wanted the best. I wanted to be my own boss.”

Shifting around in his seat, Mercury tugs at his upper lip and reaches for his pack of Salems. “For a nonsmoker,” he jokes, “I smoke far too much.” He tells me he’s just purchased a house in London’s Kensington Park, complete with eight bedrooms and a massive studio with pillars and a gallery. “I can have minstrels play there,” he says with a laugh. “Very la-di-da, don’t you think?”

He’s having the mansion remodeled, which gave him cause recently to go on one of his celebrated shopping sprees. Just before their South American jaunt, Queen played five shows at the Budokan in Tokyo, and the promoter’s wife, a good friend of Freddie’s, arranged an excursion for the singer and his entourage through the largest department store. “I felt like Grace Kelly,” he recalls. “I got this huge Japanese bed, a lot of lacquer things and really nice hundred-year-old stuff. I think I spent a fortune, but I don’t know. The credit card pays for it.

“I like buying things on crazy impulses,” he continues. “I hate buying for investment. But I do like a lot of Oriental stuff; it’s intricate and delicate. I also like the cultural part of it, the way they do their gardens; they put a lot of thought into it. But I’m not into all the meditation crap, or those boring tea ceremonies. The raw fish, as well.”

Early on in his career, Mercury seemed bent on incorporating his interest in different cultures and art forms into Queen’s stage shows and music. “Mustapha,” off the Jazz album, was a miserable attempt at Arabic music, and at one point, Mercury told the British press he was “bringing ballet to the masses.”

“I went through this period where I thought I was making an impact on the fashion world,” he says, “then I thought, ‘Oh, grow up.’ And now, you see, I don’t take all this too seriously – I mean, I couldn’t be serious with the things I wear onstage. I have far more fun, and I enjoy it. It’s a great release. That’s what entertainment should be.”

He feels likewise about the band’s music. “It’s just pure escapism. It’s like going to see a film. People should just escape for a while, then they can go back to their problems. That’s the way all songs should be: you listen to them, then discard them like a used tampon. I don’t have any messages I’m trying to get across or anything.”

The forty-five minutes of interview time I’ve been allocated are rapidly drawing to a close, and publicist Howard Bloom knocks on the hotel-room door and tells us to wind things up. Mercury lights one last Salem. “You see,” he says, “you can tell I’m not very good at this. To be honest, I really don’t think I have much to say.”

A couple of years ago, Roger Taylor was doing about 145 miles an hour in his Ferrari on an alpine road in Germany when suddenly one of the chains went, the cooling system died and the car caught on fire. He managed to extinguish the flames just in time – there were about fifteen gallons of gas onboard. “Burned all my clothes to a cinder,” he recalls. “Another minute and it would have hit the tank and that would have been it. I would have been vaporized completely.”

Since then, Taylor hasn’t been quite as enamored of fast cars, but he still relishes the kind of lifestyle rock & roll has afforded him. In that sense, he’s probably closer in personality to Freddie Mercury than the other two band members. “Ah, yes,” he says when I bring up Queen’s rather decadent image. “I like that sort of thing. I like strip clubs and strippers and wild parties with naked women. Sounds wonderful. I’d love to own a whorehouse. Really, seriously. What a wonderful way to make a living.”

“Roger is very much in the tradition of the successful rock & roll musician,” John Deacon explains. “He wants the things that go with it, and it is what he really wanted to be. I’m sort of the opposite of that. It was never my burning ambition to be in a successful band. It has helped my confidence a bit, but it’s different things for different people. And we are four very different people.”

Offstage, while Taylor and Mercury are out carousing, Deacon frequently spends time with his wife and three kids. Though he may seem out of place in the flashy world of Queen, Deacon is actually the band’s stabilizing presence. He oversees much of the group’s business matters – Queen does not have an official manager; instead, it employs a coterie of advisers who leave final decisions to the band.

The disco hit “Another One Bites the Dust” is Deacon’s creation. “I’m the only one in the group, really, who likes American black music,” he tells me. “And with The Game, it was Freddie’s idea that instead of arguing over which songs to put on the album, we’d split it up: Freddie and Brian would have three tracks apiece, and Roger and myself would have two. But we had arguments over whether “Bites the Dust” should be a single. In the end, it began attracting a lot of attention on black stations and in discos, so the record company wanted us to put it out. But it would never have been chosen as a single by the group as a whole.”

Given his low-key personality, I wonder how Deacon feels about the image conveyed by Mercury. His answer is blunt: “Some of us hate it,” he says. “But that’s him and you can’t stop it. Like he did an interview in one of the English national papers, and it was all like, ‘We’re dripping with money, darlin‘,’ or, ‘What’s a mortgage?‘ Brian, for one, just hated it.”

Like Deacon, Brian May is quiet and tends to keep to himself. He, too, has brought his wife and child along. When not touring, he’s an avid gardener – “I’ve been known to be out there looking for slugs at one o’clock in the morning,” he says – and he tries to keep up with astronomy by reading journals and talking with his former university colleagues.

“I think it’s essential that you have things that you get into apart from music,” he says. “You have to maintain your balance.”

May seems to care the most about the group’s audience, and he supervises the fan club. “I think people can listen to some of our stuff and actually get something out of it spiritually, if I may be so bold,” he says. “I enjoy the fact that a lot of people have written to us and said that a particular song helped them when they were in a difficult situation. That’s a great feeling.”

All in all, the Big Event was a success. The attendance was staggering: in Sao Paulo, Brazil, the group played in front of 131,000 people one night and 120,000 the next. The press had also been good: one American writer even mentioned Queen’s shows at Velez Sarfield in the same breath as the Beatles’ at Shea Stadium.

Though this tour seemed rather tame compared with previous Queen endeavors, that probably says more about South American governments than it does about the band. When the group’s advance men first arrived in Buenos Aires, for instance, their backstage passes were seized briefly by customs officials, who deemed them pornographic (they depicted two nude women embracing).

But basically, things went smoothly – not unlike some master plan. That concept was brought up again and again when I discussed Queen with some of its associates. “They want to conquer the world” was how one person put it. For a group of this stature, a group that presumably has made enough money to last a lifetime, Queen maintains a very busy work schedule. After the release of The Game last June, the band did a major U.S. tour, recorded Flash Gordon and played some more dates in Europe and Britain. Then came the Japanese shows, the South American trek and a solo LP from Roger Taylor. This June they plan to begin work on another studio album, but before that comes out sometime next year, they will release a greatest-hits package (which reportedly will vary from country to country, depending on what songs have been hits in those areas).

Trending

Four years ago, in Queen’s last interview with Rolling Stone, Freddie Mercury said, “Our goal is to get to the top, obviously. We’re not there yet; nowhere near it. And I don’t want anybody to tell me I’m there either.” And the band still feels that way. When I asked them what they thought they’d be doing in five years, each member was convinced Queen would still be together, still reaching for something more. After all, you can’t conquer the world overnight.

This story is from the June 11th, 1981 issue of Rolling Stone.

[nenilein]

Every single unlockable Character Profile in Puyo Puyo Fever 2 (Screenshots and Translations) -PART 3

Go here for Part 2

Lexicon of Creatures

Profiles of the creatures of Primp Town. All contents were approved for public consumption by the subjects of the articles. One must first prove themself as worthy to the subjects of this volume to be allowed to browse it.

The Ocean Prince Born March 5th(Pisces)

Blood Type: 0 Special Skill: finding servants Favorite Thing: traveling incognito Least Favorite Thing: state business

A freedom-loving prince. Currently on the run from his personal attendant, hence why he chose to take this form.

(Translator's Note: Duplicate of his profile in the Boy's Lexicon. Guess His Majesty was too important for just one entry...)

Dongurigaeru (The Acorn Frog) Born March 31st(Aries)

Blood Type: AB Special Skill: rolling around Favorite Thing: whistling Least Favorite Thing: snakes

A common type of frog. Moves around quickly by rolling in its shell. Very difficult to catch.

The Onion Pixie Born September 29th(Libra)

Blood Type: ? Special Skill: playing tag Favorite Thing: Oniko Least Favorite Thing: Gogotte

A small youth of a race of imps. Targeted by Gogotte, who suddenly showed up in his peaceful forest turf.

(Translator's Note: His "special skill" is a pun. The game "tag" is called "Oni-gokku", so "The Oni's game" in Japanese, which fits with his name. The Manga/Anime Urusei Yatsura uses the same pun, btw.

Btw, Onion Pixie sharing his birthday with Klug is probably intentional, since early developer comments stated that a lot of Klug's insecurities come from how average and unremarkable he is in pretty much every single aspect. I suppose there is nothing more unremarkable than sharing your birthday with an onion-)

Oniko Born April 29th (Taurus)

Blood Type: ? Special Skill: making Onigiri Favorite Thing: Sig's hair Least Favorite Thing: her skirt blowing up

A small maiden from a race of imps. Even though she already has a romantic partner in Onion Pixie, she seems to be smitten with Sig now!

(Note: Another pun. "Onigiri". "Oni". Harhar-)

Baldanders Born November 23rd(Sagittarius)

Blood Type: B Special Skill: "shake, boy!" Favorite Thing: Feli Least Favorite Thing: being left home alone

A creature from another dimension that appeared by mistake during Feli's summoning practice. He's a needy boy who loves people.

Franken Kid Born February 1st(Aquarius)

Blood Type: 0 Special Skill: electrical engineering Favorite Thing: candy Weakness: cavities

The creation of Franken Dad, brought to life by lightning strike. Clever beyond his age.

Franken Dad Born February 11st(Aquarius)

Blood Type: 0 Special Skill: crafting Favorite Thing: lightning Weakness: loneliness

An artificial human, created by a scientist and brought to life by sorcery. Not especially smart.

(Translator's Note: Franken Dad not being smart seems to have been somewhat retconned as of Quest, when he seems to be just as capable and intelligent as his son, he just isn't verbal.)

The Hoho Bird Born December 5th(Sagittarius)

Blood Type: 0 Special Skill: Hoho Dynamic! Favorite Thing: The Peace of the Town Weakness: Moonless Nights

A large bird who has delusions of being a superhero. His eyesight is terrible, so he often crashes into objects.

(Translator's Note: Just like how Franken Dad's "Nonverbal=Not Smart" was retconned away, Hoho Bird's glasses also haven't been used for any punchlines since he's reappeared in Quest. I guess Sega probably realized ableism isn't funny some 10+ years ago- Thank goodness.)

Carbuncle Born ?/?

Blood Type: ? Special Skill: ? Favorite Thing: ? Weakness: ?

A yellow creature that came from another world alongside Arle. It wants to each curry.

Click here for PART 4 (Undead Lexicon)!

[nexttonaturalturf]

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[jonathantaylorthomas]

You think Taylor is going to write a letter to the NFL players association about artificial turf. TK is lucky that he didn’t get hurt worse

um no, that is completely not her business, the players's union should be handling this.

[yesyourstalker]

Neta: so I take the slices of carrot cake and I kind of put it together and they make a whole cake

Warabi: so what you're making a wedding cake out of frozen carrot cake that's been in your freezer for 2 years?

Neta: no! I hate carrot cake. I don't like the texture but whatever he wants I do for him. I don't even know if we're going to get married. Honestly, I don't think I want to get married anymore. I was married. It wasn't great at the time but what kind of settled made peace............. Wow! So as if she knew I was talking about her.

Warabi: I'm going on break

Neta: hey syl.

Sylvia: hey Net........ How are you

Neta: I'm alive and medicated. How's your eye?

Sylvia: you know it's still glass. How's your ear?

Neta: still gone. Hehehehe.... But really how are you?

Sylvia: I'm good alive and medicated I heheheh.... I'm actually doing great! I'm engaged!

Neta: That's amazing! Sylvia, finally marrying Rift. He seems like a good guy. Cirrina seems to like him.

Sylvia: yeah... Of course he can't replace her actual dad. How is she?

Neta: doing good. She's at a turf war game right now. She's been going frequently. I think she might want to be on a team maybe when she gets to high school.

Sylvia:hmmm You know I hate those things. All it does is just glorify war and romanticize the shit that we've been through....... I swear surface culture........they have no respect for anything. They treat everything like it's a game.

Neta: come on Syl lighting up. It's different up here.... It's......... *sigh* I don't know. I should feel the same way too, but seeing her play. Hanging around with friends and acting normal. Having a childhood....... I don't want to take me away from her like it was taking away from us....... Just seeing her smile and laugh and I can't take that away from my little girl.

Sylvia: *sigh* I guess you're right......... As long as she's safe and happy. How is surface world anyway?

Neta: It's good, I got tanner hehe.... It's great! I'm really happy up here.... Got a nice store. Working my own business....the apartments are kind of small but I don't think I'm going to be staying there for long.

Sylvia: you still seen that metalopod guy? Hehehehe you two look very happy. It's kind of weird seeing you in a magazine. Was not a good picture. Terrible angle.

Neta: they never get my good side............. It's complicated right now. It's not bad complicated....... It's kind of like a waiting game right now...... You should meet him you'd like him............ Do you ever think of coming up to the surface??

Sylvia: no, I'm not going back. It's too much for me. I only went up there for missions. That's all I associate it with now. Every time I'm up there my guard is up and everybody is a threat I-......I can't..... I'm sorry

Neta: I feel the same way about the bunkers.... I can't go back down there............ever.... Is it different down there since the war is over?

Sylvia: It's really different! I wouldn't even call them bunkers anymore. We have shops, we can legally purchase and enjoy surface media now! Better plumbing, better homes. We have nicer light panels now! Of course the nicer areas have glass! Apparently they're working with jelly-co installing glass sheets so we can actually see the sun without going out to the surface!...... Which honestly is ridiculous because glass is a lot cheaper than artificial sunlight

Neta: *pffth*........I guess they're still treating sunlight as a luxury now and not as a right........typical....

Sylvia: Don't try to make this political. We'll be here all day hehehe...... I just wanted to catch up and ask if I'm able to have Cirrina over for a week. It's next year to be at the wedding and maybe....... Do you want to come too?

Neta: I think we can arrange that to happen. She'd love to see you get married....... I don't know about me though. It may change of aesthetically but........... It will always be a prison for me.............*sigh*..... I-

Sylvia: I get it. I completely understand Neta............ This place was not kind to you or anyone at that time

Neta:...............*sigh*................ Maybe I'll try going down there for a visit........ I want to see what music they have I can put in my shop.

Sylvia: whenever you saaay........... Maybe I can try going to the surface just to see cirrina play....... I also want to see how small your apartment is.

Neta: hahahahah shut up. See I knew you were going to do this. You always have to make fun of me about something!

Sylvia:wah wah wah.......... you shut up! If you're coming underground you better wear something nice not ugly clothes they wear up to the surface. They're like walking billboards. It's tacky, everything has to be branded. It's crazy.

Neta: RIGHT???. We used to just take blank shirts and draw pictures and shit. These kids have to have name brands. Do you know how much Toni kensa cost? It's like 100Gs for a pair of black and white shoes not the sales price!

Sylvia: I'm telling you surface dwellers don't take anything seriously. They don't know the value of money. They don't know the value of anything they just-

Neta: I thought you said we weren't going to be political.

Sylvia: be quiet............ The baby's crying. I got to go. Bye Net.

Neta: I got to pick up cirrina and see you later syl........... She's getting married. Maybe I should reconsider..

Mahi: she sounds nice. I can run the store If you're going to be underground for a while.

Neta: yeah thanks no problem. It'll be next year I have enough time to prepare myself and just to ......... mahi.... Were you listening to my conversation?

Mahi: just snippets of it You're next to the cash register. I couldn't help it here.

Neta: no, not that part. The fact that you can understand it. When were you going to tell me you know octarian?

Mahi: You never asked.

Neta: ..................................

Mahi: also, if you don't like carrot cake, you can just like get spice cake which is like carrot cake without the carrots but similar flavor

Neta:.......... Go on your break. I can't. I can't deal with you right now. Hahaha You're ridiculous hehehe You knew everything I was saying? what if I was talking shit huh?

Mahi belongs to @fish-at-fish-fish-resort

[brownweaselpoetry]

Poison, Processing Out.

Late April and the flowers are really going for it now. The air is fragrant from artificially planted natives. I make my way from the edge of Skid Row to a favorite bench in Chinatown's only large green space. The rainy season has nourished then drowned much of the grass here. It's a flat park and while I have no doubt there are stormwater systems underfoot, the drainage just isn't meant for rains like I'm used to seeing. There's a precise patchwork of grafted turf, the pieces cut to size over the wide drowned areas. Some of the replacement grass has already dried, sun-cooked before their roots could grasp the soil underneath. The patchwork resolves itself or doesn't, always a work in progress. There is constant maintenance on this agreeable facsimile of the natural, its thorns and fangs plucked away. Men in tan uniforms trundle along the park paths on their Gators, speaking laconically.

It's the end of April and I'm missing Michigan. I said I didn't have a homestate for a while until my heart proved me a liar. My phone has an outdated weather widget. In this way I was informed it's not quite fifty degrees there. Not quite ninety here. I dream of the town I spent the first few years of my life, the images coming more insistently now that visiting has moved from the realm of impulse to endeavor. Transplanted. Thousands of miles of separation. I need to remind myself regularly of the size of California, the size of the United States. How many biomes away is that? Is there a climate classification that could quantify how alien my body feels, sweating in shorts and burdensome shirt?

When I visited my parents back home over Christmas break, we talked a lot. It's been easier to talk with them, both of them, the past few years. I was a pretty hurtful kid. I think my moderate demeanor is penance for that, baked now into my adult persona. Something I carry everywhere. I'm proud of it. Better for it. Mockingbirds seemingly swarm around the bench I'm writing on, perhaps thinking I'm one of those patrons of crumb and seed. A sparrow, having given it up, busies herself plucking young leaves from a nearby shrub.

Drove up to Midland on Christmas Day, 2020. It was the middle of the pandemic and I like everyone else was wading-drowning in lockdowns and mask mandates. Emily was out of state with friends in a rented faux-castle. Her ten-year Dungeons & Dragons anniversary. Quite a campaign. I decided to make a road trip out of the time alone, feeling untethered and adrift in my isolation. So I visited pure beautiful snow-hushed Midland and dream-walked through my old street, the old blue water tower at the end of the block as big as I remember. The castle-like children's park still appeared capable of leaving kids with splinters. But the wooden-bodied Tridge looked smaller. I walked its three spokes; let it carry me over the confluence of two rivers. It was something of an engineering marvel to a kid like me. Cute, in any event. The whole thing was frozen over when I last saw it, my moment in time stuck in another moment in time.

Colder now and 2022, I am in Michigan again. A stranger and home. I talk a bit about my memories of Midland, my frosted-rose-colored visit a couple years past. My parents listen but are hesitant. My dad remembers Midland as an adult, as another point on a long timeline of homes and homestates. Nothing so precious. He says it was a company town, everyone working for or else expected to work for the chemical company that bankrolls every lovely thing worth the grasp of memory. My parents did not work for that company and were thus determined not to be worth knowing. Dad says there were pews at Church for company men, their wives and children. And pews for the other people. We were the other people. I never realized. A gust of wind picks up and carries aloft some sweet scent and laughter like a single sensation.

When I was a little boy I remember being sensitive to the pulse of natural things. But now I wonder if I just internalized the stories my mom has told me, grafting her observations to my washed-out memories.  Mythologizing myself and the places I happened to be. I breathe in the seasons and exhale a sigh. I used to place my palm on the sticky bark of trees. A pagan-child ritual of union, myself and some tree planted and manicured for an ideal suburb, make-believing I could speak reassurances and praise to them. I love you. Keep growing until you break the sidewalk, okay? You're the prettiest tree. Thank you.

Closer to Christmas, my dad recalled the trees in Midland had strange sap. He remembered how so many trees in that town, planted in chemical-spill soil, did what they needed to keep themselves green and alive. The trees had black, tarlike sap. I said I didn't recall the sap but I think I do. I remember my slender black-sap palms, my fingers seeming to want to bind together. The need of a garden hose. Those trees were processing out the poison we raised them in. They were bleeding, sweating death so it didn't remain in their bodies. I thought sap was just black until a few years ago, its clarity being an aberrant form.

Some sentimental home locked in ice and memory. Weeping poison and I weeping for an illusion. Home is not a place I can return to. It has transformed, shed the carefully-structured lies and child-hopes I built for it. It has become itself, as Los Angeles has always been itself to me. Mom got upset when my older brother and I were laughing discussing poverty meals, comparing notes on the shit we ate to stay alive in that chasm between becoming an adult on paper and in actual fact. I ate raw rhubarb straight from the ground in Midland. It lit my tastebuds up. And at eighteen I ate entire Little Caesar's pizzas for five dollars. Just didn't know any better. She said she feels like a bad mother. But that isn't how I see it. Mom and dad did their best with me in the way I know I didn't reciprocate until much later.

Summer is too-quickly coming on and Los Angeles is home and will remain home until it is no longer. My parents are in Michigan with most of my family. And so my heart yearns for Michigan. Its patterns and cycles are of my kind. I could have been anywhere and felt this heartbreak. The cycles are not diminished by my knowing them.

[timelessbuilds]

Business Name: Timeless Builds

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[alwaysgreenturfazmesa]

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[bestorangecountyturf]

Debunking Common Myths About Artificial Turf

Artificial turf has come a long way from its early days as a cheap, unrealistic alternative to natural grass. Today, it’s not only a top choice for homeowners but also for businesses looking for low-maintenance, eco-friendly landscaping solutions. Despite its popularity, several myths persist, often discouraging people from exploring its true potential. In this article, we’ll set the record straight on some of the most common myths about synthetic grass and how modern advancements make it a versatile, durable, and visually appealing option for various outdoor spaces. This blog is originally published here: https://bestorangecountyturf.com/debunking-common-myths-about-artificial-turf/

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[alumatuma]

Choosing the Right Entrance Mats, Drainage Mats, and Carpet Flooring in Auckland, NZ

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