#both completely fine and in their lane with their masculinity

[zimt-deathnote]

the tank top brothers

(for those new here, this is post-canon Mello and his older brother Jakov)

i'm always always always struggling with post-canon Mello's hair, here's some honorable mentions, I especially love the buzzcut, buzzcut Mello rocks

[isitgintimeyet]

Just a Friend

Sorry you’ve had to wait a few more days. i had a much needed few days holiday in Devon. And I realised it was the first time since February that I’d travelled more than 20 miles from home!

Anyway, we’re on to chapter 7. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta.

Previous

AO3

Chapter 7: From Feedback to The Force

I can see it clearly in my mind’s eye. A converted barn, situated at the end of a leafy country lane, surrounded by fields full of cows and maybe a horse or two. Jamie’s office will be at one end— all exposed beams with classic mahogany and leather furniture. Perhaps chickens will be roaming around outside as tractors pull up to deliver vegetables straight from the neighbouring fields.

This image begins to fade as I follow my Sat nav instructions and take the next junction off the motorway. Country lanes look to be few and far between in this urban sprawl. Signposts along the tarmacked road point to a series of industrial estates. At the fourth such sign, I’m instructed to turn left and in three hundred yards will have reached my destination.

Having parked up, I make my way towards the large, uninspiring building which resembles some sort of aircraft hangar. Its grey concrete and corrugated iron walls match the overcast sky and the roughly surfaced car park. The only colour in this landscape is provided by the bright orange FraserFood logo emblazoned above the loading bays.

There’s a single door to the right with an intercom. I press it and wait a few seconds.

“Hello, there.” A cheery voice greets me. “Can I help ye?”

“Yes. Hello, I’ve an appointment with Ja— Mr. Fraser, Jamie. It’s Claire Beauchamp.”

“Aye, come on through. Jamie is expecting ye. Down the passage and third door on the left.”

I step into a long corridor, painted an unoriginal white. Fluorescent strip lights hanging from the ceiling cast a harsh brightness. The floor is covered with grey carpet tiles.—the same as in thousands of other working offices across the country.

What sets it apart and brings character to the otherwise anonymous environment is the artwork. Colourful photographs line the walls — a bowl of strawberries, their red glossiness accentuated by the white porcelain; a perfect corn on the cob, rivulets of melted butter flowing around the kernels; a plate of steaming tagliatelle, the parmesan shavings falling gently onto the pasta. Then, as I move further towards the office, the photographs change to a series of images that I instantly recognise, La Boqueria, one of the food markets in Barcelona.

I pause for a moment in front of a picture of one of the stalls selling spices. Strings of different chillies cascade down from the metal frame of the stall. The vibrancy of that market was intoxicating, the noise, the colours, the aromas. I remember wandering from stall to stall snacking on fat, juicy olives, slices of spiced ham and wedges of refreshing melon, just soaking up that atmosphere.

My stomach automatically rumbles at the memory just as Jamie steps into the corridor.

He laughs at this unconventional greeting. “And good day tae ye too. Ye found us alright then?”

“No problem. Sat nav brought me straight here. It’s—“ I stop myself before I say any more, but, as usual, my glass face gives me away.

“C’mon. What is it? It’s no’ what ye were expecting, is it?”

“No— yes—no. It’s fine. It’s just, well, I was expecting something more, er, rural… rustic, you know.”

He sighs, but I can tell that he’s not offended. “What, ye mean like on a farm? Wi’ chickens running around? And tractors bringing the vegetables straight from the fields?”

I nod, feeling not a little bit foolish.

“And down a wee winding country lane, that yer lumbering great vans and lorries have tae drive along? Wi’ no easy transport links fer all the deliveries? And having tae deal wi’ all the food hygiene standards in some great old barn?” He laughs. “Trust me, it may no’ be photogenic but it’s the best place fer the business.”

He takes my arm. “Let’s go intae ma office and I’ll make ye a cup of coffee.”

My stomach rumbles once more. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any of those lovely Spanish biscuits too, have you?”

*********

The display of colourful photographs continues in Jamie’s office. I don’t recognise the scenes, but, I’m guessing these are more local— fields of corn bordered by old drystone walls, hedgerows bursting with dark jewel-like brambles. I pause at a picture of an ancient stone mill, the calm water of the mill pond reflecting the rundown building perfectly.

“That’s a bonny picture, is it no’?” Jamie’s voice is low in my ear.

I turn around. He is standing behind me, gazing intently at the picture.

“It is. Where is it? I’m guessing it’s somewhere here in Scotland.”

“Aye, it’s the old mill at Lallybroch.”

“Where you grew up?”

He nods. “Generations of ma family used that mill tae grind flour fer them and their tenants. It’s empty inside now. The wheel has long since rotted away. Jenny and I would escape there whenever chores were tae be done. She took the photo, weel, most of the photos here actually.”

I study the photograph more closely. “She’s very talented as a photographer. Is that her job?”

“She’d love tae have done that, but once she married Ian and the bairns started appearing, she hasna got the time. Mebbe one day.”

He moves past me towards his desk and I catch a hint of his musky cologne. I find myself comparing it to the slightly synthetic cologne that Frank always favoured. I decide that Jamie’s is preferable. It’s more real, somehow, earthy and, well, more masculine.

“... does that sound ok?”  

I realise that whilst I was considering male scents, Jamie had been asking me a question. “Er, sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”

“Am I really that boring tae ye?” He laughs. “I said I would make ye a coffee and invite Rupert tae come in and join us. He’s our Head of Product Development. Will ye no’ take a seat?”

I sit down on one of the chairs arranged around a circular meeting table and take a good look at the office while Jamie makes a phone call. The walls and ceiling are the same uninspiring white, livened up by all the photographs. There’s a couple of framed photographs near Jamie’s chair that seem to be more personal. I’m too far away to be able to see clearly, but they look like children... his nephew and niece perhaps?

Jamie’s ‘L’ shaped desk is made of grey wood, as is a tall bookcase and this meeting table. Simple, but clearly a considered purchase, no haphazard grouping of random furniture. The desk itself is remarkably free from clutter— just a laptop with two huge screens and a black leather document wallet. The contrast to the clutter on the desks in my office and home couldn’t be greater. Not that my clutter isn’t important to me—a collection of pots and dishes from my uncle’s archaeological digs plus a paperweight and letter opener that I remember, as a young child, at my parents’ house. Then I realise, looking at the family portraits surrounding Jamie’s desk, that he doesn’t need to gather mementoes from the past. He has a living, breathing close knit family creating memories all the time.

I’m well aware that most of my friends have more of a family than I have, or have ever had, and generally I’m fine with that. But every now and again it hits me right in the gut—this pang of...not loneliness, but more of being disconnected, rootless.

Before I can dwell on this,  there’s a faint tap at the door. It opens immediately and a woman stands in the doorway.  She’s easily past retirement age, quite short and… is sturdy a polite descriptor? Well, short and ‘motherly’ in appearance.

She’s very smiley too. Her eyes crinkle as she grins broadly before speaking. “Jamie, lad. I’ve come tae see if ye both want a coffee. I dinna mind making it. And mebbe a few biscuits?”

Jamie steps away from his desk. “Ah, Mrs. Fitz, how d’ye always ken what I want? Coffee would be grand. And fer ye Claire?”

“Coffee, please. Lovely. White, no sugar. Thanks.”

She looks at me for a moment before Jamie makes the introduction. “ Claire, this is Mrs Fitz. She’s worked wi’ me since I started and I dinna ken what I’d do wi’out her.”

He reaches across and pats her arm gently.

“Mrs. Fitz, this is Claire, a friend of mine. She’s been trying out our Spanish dinner party menu and has come tae meet wi’ Rupert tae give him her opinions.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fitz.” I hold out my hand.

She takes it in both of hers. “And it’s lovely tae meet ye too, Claire.”

She turns away and heads out the door.

“Right-oh. Two coffees it is then,” she says clearly, then carries on muttering under her breath as she leaves. “Friends, is it, then? A bonny lass, sure enough…”

Jamie smiles apologetically. “Mrs. Fitz can be a bit, weel...she’s been working with me a long time. She’s like a second mother tae me…”

He leaves the sentence unfinished, but I know what he’s thinking. Why can’t people understand that we’re friends, that’s all?

*******

Rupert is a complete delight, but somehow not what I was expecting. He rushes into the office just as Jamie and I are drinking our coffees. Nearly as tall as Jamie but quite a bit broader with a large beard, like an overgrown teddy bear, and clad in a sweatshirt and baggy ill-fitting jeans, he looks as if he would be more at home on a rugby pitch rather than in a development kitchen. With Jamie now standing next to him, the office suddenly feels rather small.

Jamie makes the introductions and we settle once more around the table. Rupert places his notebook and pen on the table.

“Ye dinna mind if I take a biscuit or two, do ye?” He asks, with a smile. He knows how tasty they are.

Jamie and I shake our heads and Rupert reaches out and takes two in his large, fleshy hand. He starts to eat, sprinkling crumbs all over his notebook.

“Ye canna take me anywhere,” he says as he tries to sweep the crumbs into his hand.

Jamie laughs and playfully punches Rupert’s shoulder. “Weel, ye can… but only the once, mind.”

There’s an easy camaraderie between the two of them. I’m guessing that Jamie has worked with the same people for quite a while. It’s good to see.

Rupert swallows, picks up a tissue and wipes the stray crumbs from his beard.  “Right-oh. So, Claire, thanks fer doing this—“

“No, I should be thanking you. It was a great meal.”

“Weel, glad tae hear that, but I would appreciate any improvements we could make. Is there anything we need tae change?”

I’ve been racking my brains all the way here, trying to think of something constructive to say rather than just reeling off a list of compliments, nice as that would be for Rupert and Jamie. And, honestly, I don’t know what more I can add. The food was excellent, the wine matched perfectly and the olives were a thoughtful addition.

I tell them all this and Rupert solemnly notes it all down. Sitting there, side by side, elbows almost touching, they look for all the world like two proud parents being complimented on their child’s talents. But they have every right to be proud.

“And nothing else?” Rupert persists. “Nothing we could do better?”

“Well, a couple of tiny suggestions. Maybe a few more pictures with the recipes would help. I’m not the most gifted cook.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jamie trying to suppress a smile. He’s never seen me in the kitchen, maybe he’s imagining me as some sort of culinary disaster area. I vow to prove him wrong at some point.

“And,” I continue as Rupert scribbles in his notebook. “Perhaps add a couple of suggestions to complete the Spanish night. I made sangria to start the evening. Could you add a recipe for that?”

Rupert closes his notebook with a flourish. “Right then. Thank ye sae much fer that. Glad yer friends all enjoyed the food.”

He stands up, shifting the table as he does so.

“Weel, bye then, Claire. Lovely tae meet ye. Hope tae see ye again.” He shoots a quick look across at Jamie before leaving.

“Rupert’s a lovely guy,” I comment as the door shuts behind him.

“Aye, he is that,” Jamie shifts in his seat. “Listen, I need tae ask ye a favour.”

“Another one,” I joke. “Wasn’t the dinner party enough?”

I add a sigh, purely for dramatic effect.

“Ye can say no if ye want tae,” he continues. “But I was wondering… weel... Ian, that’s Jenny’s husband, his rugby club is having a charity dinner dance a week on Saturday. Jenny’s bought two tickets fer me and a plus one. D’ye fancy it? It would help me out of a wee bit of bother with ma sister.”

Now I’m intrigued about his “wee bit of bother” with Jenny. I don’t want to end up in the middle of some sibling squabble.

“How so?” I’m not giving an answer straight away. At least not until I know what the bother is.

“Jenny bought the two tickets fer me a couple of months ago. I think she was assuming I would bring Laoghaire. But ye ken what happened there. Anyways, she asked me yesterday about it, and ever so casually suggested I might bring Kelly— that was ma date the other night.”

The pattern of Rupert’s crumbs on the table appears to suddenly be of great interest to him. He studies them intently as he talks, his ears turning slightly pink as he does so.

“And?” I prompt him.

“And, I told Jenny that after Laoghaire and I broke up, I didna want tae disappoint her about the dinner and so I’d already asked ye tae come along. As a friend,” he hastily adds the last part.

So, what do I decide? I do love the opportunity to have a bit of a dance and rugby club dos are usually a bit of a laugh, in my experience. And of course, I know Jamie is offering as a friend, so I’m not worried about that.

“Why don’t you want to ask Kelly then?” I want the full story before I give him my answer.

“She’s a nice enough lass but I didna think we had any spark. Plus she was trying too hard. Fer example she asked me what films I liked, then when I told her, she was all ‘no way, they’re ma favourites too’.”

He adds gestures at this point, to demonstrate Kelly’s actions, one hand flapping excitedly, the other resting on my sleeve, lightly stroking through the fabric of my shirt. It feels—

“Apparently we have exactly the same taste in films, music, food, drinks, television and holidays,” he continues as he sits back and folds his arms.

“Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.” I joke. I can still feel the sensation of his hand on my arm.

He looks up at me and frowns. “I’m no’ joking. Ye would be helping me if ye came as ma plus one.”

“Ok then. I do know that I’m not on call. I can come and be your wingman, if you like. Just one question. What are your favourite films?”

“Star Wars.”

This wasn’t the answer I was expecting. He doesn’t seem like a typical fan. Maybe he has a dark side that I haven’t yet seen, with a secret stash of Star Wars figures and multiple light sabres.

“I’ve never watched any of them.” It’s true. I seem to be in the minority but I just don’t get the appeal.

“And I can tell from yer face exactly what ye think of them. But they’re classics, weel most of them, anyway,” he starts to enthuse.

I shake my head. I can’t see that he will ever convince me.

“Well, Sassenach, have I got a treat in store for you!”

And, worryingly, it seems that he’s up for the challenge.

[ducktracy]

178. i wanna be a sailor (1937)

release date: september 25th, 1937

series: merrie melodies

director: tex avery

starring: robert winkler (peter parrot), elvia allman (mother parrot), mel blanc (duck), berneice hansell (patrick parrot, patricia parrot), billy bletcher (father parrot)

though porky was established as a star by this point, his stardom was a lonely one indeed. gabby goat had come and gone as a failed experiment, petunia only had a handful of shorts left, and daffy wouldn’t be established as a sidekick until a year or two later. aside from the pig himself, warner bros. didn’t have a vast repertoire of characters to boast. but that didn’t stop them anyway.

perhaps “boast” is a bit too hyperbolic, but there’s a rather fascinating trend in the late ‘30’s of warner bros. advertising characters who ranged from minuscule to down right obscure. porky, petunia, gabby, and the early prototype of daffy are all reasonable characters to tote, but it got to the point where one-off characters such as petunia’s dog fluffnums, “sammy sparrow”, and peter parrot where toted around as well. this marks the debut of peter parrot who, despite only starring in this short, found his way onto ice cream packaging, publicity sheets, and even wall hangers.

so, what’s all the hubbub with this little parrot? the short, an unofficial sequel to i love to singa, chronicles peter’s wishes to follow in his footsteps and become a sailor, despite his mother’s pleas against him. peter sets off for shore anyhow, but quickly realizes that it isn’t a captain‘s life for him.

the short begins with mama parrot (voiced by the great elvia allman) teaching her children how to talk. specifically, how to cite the ever-appropriate “polly want a cracker.” berneice hansell voices the first two siblings, patrick and patricia, who both fumble over the sentence in cute, giggly, slow voices. avery loved to put hansell’s squeaky voice to use, specifically to test our patience to see how annoying and how long he could drag it out. both children manage to spit out the magic words, much to the approval of mama. the underscore of “we’re working our way through college” is a nice touch--one of my favorites!

in the averyverse, it’s common knowledge that the third attempt at a gag results in a mix-up, and here is no exception. mama drills our star, peter, (named patrick on his various mediums of advertisement) but to no avail. instead, he resists, robert winkler (who was one of the voices for scrappy over at the columbia studio) providing his vocals as he grovels “i don’t wanna cracker, see? i wanna be a sailor like me pop, see?”

pan over to reveal a framed portrait of dear old dad, clad in a sailor suit, bulging popeye arms and all. mama does not agree, and is quick to launch into a rant. “huh. like your pop! why, that sea-bearin’ homewrecker, that high-seas hitchhiker... a fine father he’s been, the sea-goin’ sob!” her rant segues into a flashback sequence, animated by the great irv spence. the layout and background of the newly-weds’ new abode in the canary islands is very pretty indeed, great contrast with the blues and the yellows of the moon/light from inside.

elvia allman’s deliveries are great as always--she doesn’t get nearly the same amount of buzz as the other female stars of warner bros. such as berneice hansell, sara berner, bea benaderet, and of course june foray. the fond trip down memory lane includes warm memories of the new mother feeding her infants, the atmosphere warm... and then we pan over to the father, allman’s narration now acidic and vitriolic as she hurls insults in conjunction with the animation--the “rum-soaked old seagull” is surrounded by a wall of empty bottles, pouring himself a hearty dosage of shots. 

irv spence’s animation of the father’s lumbering, drunken exit out of the house is great--i especially love the extra details such as the swirls and stars. just as allman mentions the father’s venture to hawaii (on account that he could never stay in one place), we get a moment of avery genius as pa shoves his face back in the door to interrupt the narration (voiced by billy bletcher): “no, ma, it was catalina!” allman’s bite that was so harsh earlier is completely absent as she corrects herself. “oh... oh, yes. set sail for catalina.”  

another great avery gag that would be reused in the smash hit red hot riding hood, another avery piece: ma fondly remembers how she would “burn a little light in the window.” cue a giant spotlight beaming out the window, sweeping the entire island. 

mama parrot tearfully ends her lecture, asking her son “now you don’t wanna be a sailor, do you?” wonderful comedic timing as a tearful, mournful peter wipes his eyes. after a few seconds of sniveling, he responds with a warbled “...yes!” 

“WHAAAAT!?” so taken aback by her son’s reaction, mama parrot faints, literally hanging by her toes from the bird cage as she dangles unconscious. thus provides the perfect escape for peter, who opts to take matters into his own hands. cue the similarities to i love to singa: estranged bird children leave their over-protective parents in order to pursue their dreams. 

there’s a wonderfully smooth transition between multi-plane pans here: close-up to peter haughtily stalking off, footsteps tinkering to the beat. the surroundings of his household melt away to reveal a pan of the outside, the momentum never halting, no breaks in the walk-cycle, just perfectly timed. VERY impressive! i’m always a fan of the multi-plane pans to begin with, but this in particular is very well executed. in the midst of peter’s angsty stewing, he bumps right into a spare barrel. suddenly, an idea hatches, and he lifts the barrel (cartoon physics!) as we fade out. 

fade back in to another multi-plane pan, this time of a pond. i love the lush, painterly look of the backgrounds in the late ‘30′s and early ‘40′s--daffy duck and egghead in particular has some divine color styling. this pan reminds me quite a bit of the backgrounds in that one, as we’ll explore relatively soon (8 more to go!)

peter has successfully crafted a makeshift ship out of his barrel, the perfect size for such a pint-sized parrot. cue the introduction of the archetypal annoying blabbermouth--warner bros. loved their blabbermouth characters. dizzy duck, a blabbermouth facsimile to a certain disney-owned duck, would be porky’s sidekick for a whopping two cartoons. friz freleng would play around with the trope in his little blabbermouse, and even chuck jones would refine his sweet, mellow character sniffles into a bonafide chatterbox. 

here, it’s a little yellow duck (who looks awfully similar to daffy’s next appearance in daffy duck and egghead), barraging peter with a number of questions. peter is quick to shut the duck up, closing his beak as he snarls “well, see, i’m buildin’ a boat, see!” his explanation, reused from egghead rides again, is “because, because, because... today, i am a man!”, a take of the same line used in bar mitzvahs. while there may be a disconnect between the catchphrase and audiences today, one can at least appreciate the vocal talents ingrained in the line--specifically, the squeaky, prepubescent “i am a man!” provided by mel blanc here. little duck is eager to tag along. peter agrees, but not before clamping a spare clothespin down on the duckling’s beak to shut him up. 

cue the song sequence, which is more talk-song-y than anything. irv spence provides some nice animation as the two climb onto deck, peter shoving a mop into the curious duckling’s grip (”all aboard! c’mon, by heck! your job will be to scrub the deck!”) while the song continues, peter peels a skull and crossbones off of a spare poison bottle (how safe!), using it as a flag. the up shot of the flag being raised is nice and dynamic, even if the timing is a little bloated.

the ship has set sail. after glowing at his makeshift sail (a pair of long underwear), peter directly addresses the audience, a nice reminder that tex avery is directing the short. “this picture’s kinda like mutiny on the county, [actually titled mutiny on the bounty] dont’cha think?” he pauses for a few beats before turning back to the audience, now with a glower: "or dont’cha?”

to assert his dominance and strong masculinity, peter pulls out a stick of licorice from his pocket, tearing off a bite as a makeshift glob of tobacco. the animation of him chewing (and thusly spitting) the tobacco has a nice sense of weight to it--the push and pull is strong. he hocks it up over the side of the ship, and, like all spitting gags, the piece of “tobacco” traverses through the bottom of the water and lands perfectly in a submerged spittoon.

self-satisfied, peter now opts to scale the crow’s nest, using his beak and feet to guide him along the way (woodblocks doing a nice job of synchronizing animation and music). suddenly, he does a take to something offscreen. a storm’s a-brewin’, as indicated by the lightning that literally spells out “BAM!” as it streaks past. experimenting with typography is always refreshing to see in the shorts, especially when the words themselves form works of art. 

just as quick as he was to leave the family, peter drops his tough-guy demeanor, panicking and running around his ducky first-mate, who’s still dutifully swabbing the poop deck. peter snaps the clothespin off of the duck’s mouth, ordering him to do something. cue rambling duck: “what for? i like the rain. i like the water.” as he rambles on, borderline incomprehensibly, avery strikes again to remind us of what he’s capable as the duck interjects to the audience (in an adult voice), “ain’t i the talkingest little guy?” even better is that he wastes no time launching back into his hyperactive rant about swimming in the water and splashing around.

to make matters worse, the button flap of the long underwear sail unbuttons, rendering the sail useless. the combination of the rain, music (william tell’s “the storm”, of course), and sound effects all blend together nicely. the “ocean” currents, now forming ferocious waves, look hilariously cartoonish and not at all believable, but what’s the fun if the waves were drawn with precise accuracy?

peter wrestles with the ship’s wheel, which is out of control. his efforts are futile—he ends up twirling around the wheel. elsewhere, we get another gag that would be reused time and time again: a bucket of paint spilling and pouring back into itself due to the rocking of the ship. the timing holds on just longer than it needs to for it to warrant any laughs, though i’m sure it was much more amusing to an audience in 1937 than now, especially if you’ve seen the gag over and over again like i have.

speaking of reused gags: the blabbermouth duck is just reveling in the rain, not at all bothered by the catastrophic events unfolding. this gag is taken from one of tex’s last cartoons from his previous job, making the walter lantz oswald cartoons at universal. more specifically, his 1933 picture five and dime (about the 1:33 mark.) nevertheless, back to warner bros., the little motif of “september in the rain” adds another layer to aid in appreciating the gag. 

in an attempt to haul an anchor, peter’s plan fails: instead, half of the ship is yanked off with the anchor, sending the ship down. the little duck is beside himself, willfully diving into the current to soak up those sweet white caps. peter does not share his ecstasy, nor his courage. instead, he cries for help, crying for his mother... which, miraculously, she hears. seems he wasn’t that far off from shore after all! the extra touch of peter lowering his voice to bellow “calling all cars, calling all cars!” (also used in i love to singa) is a great little humoristic touch. 

despite her previous harshness, a mother’s love prevails, and mama parrot takes off after her son. cue another great joke, one that’d probably be even more uproarious during a time when the song was popular: mama dashes through the rain, reassuring her son “I’M COMIN’! I’M COMIN’!” and, in an instant, she drops her panic to sing a few lines of "old black joe” to the audience. wonderful timing--tex’s fourth wall breaks in this one are definitely satisfying. 

peter continues to cry for help, even in the tune of “shave and a haircut” at one point, much to the disgust and contempt of the duck, who goes as far as to give him a black eye. clearly, he doesn’t think highly of his captain. maybe this is more like mutiny on the bounty than we thought! 

and, with that, the duck easily tosses peter ashore, snarling “ya big sissy!” before frolicking in the rain once more. while some of the ship scenes dragged in momentum, tex does create a strong suspension of disbelief: remember, they were in a pond, not a treacherous ocean!

mama reunites with her baby boy, swaddling him and cooing all the way. “now... you don’t want to be a sailor, do you?” if you believe we’re about to learn some sort of moral, remember what you’re watching here. peter sniffles, wiping his eyes, giving a few sobs before answering in a direct parallel to the beginning, “...yeeeeees!”

it’s two iris out gags in a row for tex. like the beginning, mama shrieks another “WHAAAAAT!?” and passes out from the shock, iris closing in on her. just then, the iris widens back up as mama pulls herself up to face the audience. she heaves a sigh, her tone surprisingly gentle as she asks “now what would you do with a child like that?” iris out for good.

thus puts an end to tex’s 1937 dry spell. tex was no stranger to the vices of burnout (been there!), and i suspect he may have suffered a bit of burnout throughout mid-1937, or, at the very least, have been at a crossroads in terms of where to go and who to please. he had some great momentum going—porky’s duck hunt would, of course, become monumental in animation significance, birthing daffy and a whole genre of characters with it (and you could argue it’s why we have bugs, too). and, despite the nastiness of the short (which is inexcusable), viewing the technicalities, uncle tom’s bungalow was rife with energy and wit as well. but, for awhile after, tex floundered: shorts like a sunbonnet blue completely lack the avery wit and charm. egghead rides again was enjoyable, porky’s garden tolerable, but none carried the momentum that these shorts once had. thankfully, this dry spell comes to an end after this short.

so, moving on: this is a short i’m neutral on. it still lacks the fervor and conviction of previous tex entries, but it isn’t dismal. it has some bits of greatness that could constitute a watch: elvia allman does a wonderful job as the mother—the “burning a light in the window” gag with the giant spotlight was great, as were the various fourth wall breaks. those in itself constitute a watch, but other than that, this short remains largely unremarkable, at least to me. some of the scenes drag in pacing, but that’s an easy verdict to make when you constantly compare to the speed of forthcoming avery cartoons (especially at mgm), where you miss an entire gag if you blink.

ultimately, i think you could go either way. watch it if you’re more devoted to animation like i am, or at least snoop around for some of the high points. however, you won’t be missing too much if you skip it for now. thankfully, better cartoons are ahead!

link! (pardon the title, it’s fake, but the print is good enough quality.)

[eyreguide]

The Sun and the Moon in Jane Eyre

(Art by Jane Freeman)

The symbolism of the sun and the moon in Jane Eyre is quite interesting to me.  I believe there have been many interpretive thoughts published on the topic - especially regarding the moon and femininity - but my thoughts on the subject run a little more specific to the characters of Jane and Rochester.  I feel like the moon and the sun represents the ideals of their romantic relationship in intriguing ways.

The Sun

“Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.” (Chapter IV)

The sun and the moon have traditionally symbolized the yin and the yang of dynamic relationships - with the sun embodying “masculine” qualities and the moon “feminine”.  It’s a very limited way of judging any of these constructs, but in Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë often represents Mr. Rochester by the sun, while Jane is represented by the moon.

The sun symbolically holds connotations of energy, determination, liveliness, and arrogance.  It represents force and the ego - elements that can easily be seen in Mr. Rochester’s character.  And it is something that Jane also finds appealing - an aspect of her personality that is not wanting exactly but not being sustained.  The quote “Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine” comes from early in the story - when Jane remarks that Bessie reading and singing to her brings a measure of happiness to her life at Gateshead she does not usually experience.  Here, Jane equates the sun with happiness, and it foreshadows Mr. Rochester’s place in her life.  

On her walk to post a letter in Hay for Mrs. Fairfax, Jane takes the opportunity to revel in nature, freedom, and sunshine as she “lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear behind them.” (Chapter XII)  Of course, this is the prelude to Jane and Rochester’s first encounter and sets the stage for them to meet when there is a “rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but brightening momentarily”. (Chapter XII)  A meeting of the sun and the moon.

The Moon

“Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with moonrise.” (Chapter XXIII)

The moon’s “feminine” symbolic qualities are often seen as delicate, soulful, passive, and insightful.  The moon reflects the sun so there is an aspect of reflection - on the past and on emotions.  

In Jane Eyre the moon can sometimes be a mother figure to Jane - as in this description of Miss Temple finding Jane and Helen:

“Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in through a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.” (Chapter VIII)

Also in Jane’s moment of suffering and grief after finding out about Bertha Mason - when in her dream the bright moon resolves into a white figure that tells Jane to “flee temptation”.  (Chapter XXVII)  There is often a rising, brightening, or waxing moon described when Jane is about to experience or do something important.  Jane first sees Mr. Rochester in the light of the moon on Hay Lane: “Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I could see him plainly.” (Chapter XII). 

The moon gets its own chance to shine and seems to predict significant things for Jane’s character - bringing her insight and nurturing qualities.  Something she posesses but also needs.  Her balance in the relationship with Rochester feeds off of the moon’s energies, especially because Mr. Rochester so emphatically denotes the sun’s forceful qualities. 

When Jane wants to see Mr. Rochester clearly, it seems she needs her element to do so. When Mr. Rochester proposes, she is doubtful of his feelings and says “Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.” (Chapter XXIII)  Many of the mysterious occurrences at Thornfield occur in the moonlight - obviously to enhance the shadowy Gothic angle of the story - but it is an opportunity for Jane to realize the truth and become perceptive.

Solar Eclipse

“What is the matter?” he asked; “all the sunshine is gone.” (Chapter XXIV)

During Jane and Rochester’s courtship, there are compelling and suggestive combinations of symbolism for the sun and the moon.  This indicates a true meeting of minds and as the story develops it shows what happens when the sun and the moon meet.  As in the case of the solar eclipse, the moon holds more “power” as it blocks the sun.  

Jane craves “the sunshine of feeling” (Chapter XXII) she receives from Mr. Rochester, and early in their relationship, Rochester seems to hold the most appeal and power as his kindness and geniality “warm[s] one like a fostering sunbeam.” (Chapter XVIII)  But in the scene where Jane finally gets to speak her mind and reveal her true feelings, the stage for the proposal is set with the moon coming into “modest” power:

“Where the sun had gone down in simple state—pure of the pomp of clouds—spread a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven.  The east had its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a casino and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon.” (Chapter XXIII)

Even Mr. Rochester acknowledges Jane’s power when he says the next day: “You glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal.” (Chapter XXIV)  And in one of my favorite moments in the book, Mr. Rochester quips with Adele that he will take Mademoiselle to live with him on the moon.

Yet the sun is not quite forgotten, as during their engagement, Mr. Rochester calls Jane a “little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips.” (Chapter XXIV)   And much later, while blind and maimed he claims that “All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane’s tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence.” (Chapter XXXVII)

Jane seems to reflect the sun now, and takes on some of it’s aspects of commanding energy now that she is with Mr. Rochester. Their love is built on a compatibility that brings together their individual traits in ways that complete each other.  They temper each other and reinforce the idea of the yin and yang - two contrary forces that are a complement to the other and illustrate interconnectedness in a romantic relationship.

“I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open: it soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no stars and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a moon.  I longed for thee, Janet!  (Chapter XXXVII)

[tmarie82]

Snatched

Pairing: Dr. Bryce Lahela x MC (Dr. Blake Reyes)

Book: Open Heart

Word Count: ~3,200

Rating: PG-13

Author’s Note: There really is no good excuse for this completely gratuitous and self-indulgent fic. I worked all weekend and needed to write something ‘easy’ and fun, and what’s more fun than a sweaty, half-naked Bryce Lahela?

I’ve long been convinced that our favorite scalpel jockey maintains his stellar physique with a strict CrossFit regimen, and since perhaps I myself have spent too much time ogling these fine masculine specimens at my local box (that’s what she said, @lizeboredom 😂), this fic (which turned out much longer than I meant it to) happened. I’m sorry, I had to do it … but I hope the vivid imagery will earn me your forgiveness.

Please let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list. You can find all of my fics in my Masterlist on my homepage.

~~~~~~~~~~

Buzz buzz. Blake stretched her arms over her head, her eyelids fluttering slightly open to find her room had already been infiltrated with mid-morning sunlight. Tucking her head back into the downy softness of her pillow, she allowed the drowsiness to seep in again and threaten to pull her back into its grasp when- Buzz buzz. This time she consciously rolled over, fumbling her hand along her nightstand until she found the thin rectangular electronic culprit guilty of awakening her on this glorious lazy Saturday. Grasping it in her palm she rolled to her back, unlocking the screen of her phone with a press of her thumb before placing it before her face. She blinked a few times as she focused on the screen … My God, did I really sleep until 9:37? After the initial shock wore off she opened her messages to find an unread one from Bryce.

Morning Sunshine 😉 I’m about to start at the comp and should be done by noon. Come by whenever you’re ready and we can grab lunch after.

Smiling at his note, Blake slowly moved to sit up in bed and type out a response. I’m up, I swear! I’ll be there before noon. Can’t wait to see you in action. Good luck xoxo 💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻

Buzz buzz. Bryce’s response flashed across her screen. 😉

Throwing her legs over to side of the bed, Blake dragged herself out of bed and shuffled towards the bathroom to brush her teeth and get ready. After months of training and weeks of not-so-subtly dropping references in conversation, today was the day of Bryce’s CrossFit competition at his box. Eeugh … Box. Why couldn’t CrossFitters just call their gyms what they were instead of a slightly sexual reference to the female anatomy?

Knowing how hard Bryce had been working, hitting the 5am class every morning and training after class for weeks, Blake was eager to finally witness him doing his thing in person. Every time he had attempted to explain the various Olympic lifts and physical movements she tended to zone out, the terms and lingo so foreign to her that it was like a different language. But seeing how excited he was every time it came up, how his eyes lit up like a little boy on his birthday, she couldn’t help but share in his enthusiasm. Not to mention, the things that his exercise routine had done to his body … nope, she was definitely not complaining about that.

An hour later Blake was showered, dressed, caffeinated and ready to go. Grabbing her purse and her keys on her way, she called out to her roommates as she walked out the door. “Later guys, I’m going to meet Bryce!”

“Have fun with the Crossfit cultists, Blake!” Elijah responded from the couch.

“If you come back with a new pair of booty shorts and knee socks I swear on all that is holy I will disown you.” She met Jackie’s smirking face peering around the corner from the kitchen.

Shaking her head, Blake opened the door to slip out. “Very funny. I’ll be sure to get an extra set for you.” She shot Jackie a wink and ducked out quickly before she caught any more flack from her supposed friends.

~~~

Walking through the front door of Crossfit Edenbrook, Blake found herself in the middle of some kind of ordered chaos. The bass thumped from the speakers hung high in the corners of the ceiling, the deep beat of hip hop music resonating through the airwaves. People lined the massive warehouse-style room, situated under the open air metal rafters atop large wooden boxes or sitting directly on the firm black foam floor. The spectators cheered loudly from their locations surrounding the competition floor in the middle of the room, taped off and divided into lanes for each competitor. Amidst the noise and the crowd, Blake couldn’t help but feel like she had just walked onto the set of Rocky during the final match-off.

Her eyes searched the room, scanning over some of the most physically fit human beings she had ever encountered in her entire life, until she found her own personal Adonis. Woah. Blake’s breath faltered when she locked eyes on Bryce, standing with three other athletes on the opposite side of the cavernous building. His long hair, which he hadn’t had time to get cut over the past month due to his intensive training schedule, was pulled back from his face in a sloppy knot at the crown of his head. Whether he had shown up in a shirt or not was a complete non-issue as she raked her eyes across his defined shoulders and chest and down over the ribbed muscles in his abdomen, his bare olive skin glistening under the bright lights with a thin sheen of sweat. Even the various accessories he was sporting gave him a little something extra in the sex appeal department, the knee sleeves hugging his toned calves and the fabric wrist wraps accenting the veiny curvature of his forearms. Damn … maybe I should have been more supportive of his training sooner.

Bryce must have felt the heat of her stare, instinctively turning his head in her direction to meet her eyes. He flashed her a wide grin, and Blake tried to stifle the blush in her cheeks as he maneuvered his way through the crowd to meet her. As he approached, she was pleasantly surprised to see that he looked even better the closer he got, the rosiness of his cheeks and excited twinkle in his eyes causing her stomach to do somersaults.

“Hey you.” He murmured as he pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, the dampness of sweat apparent when his skin grazed against hers. Despite keeping her at arms length, Blake could smell the sweet tang of sweat tinged with a musky masculine smell as he brushed his lips across her skin.

She smiled in return, her eyes flitting about the room with uncertainty. “So, this is your box?” She tried to suppress the laugh bubbling in the back of her throat, but was betrayed by mischievous look in her dark eyes that Bryce had come to recognize.

“Laugh all you want, but this place is so much more than a gym, yet without all the pretenses. The term ‘box’ just makes sense.” He stopped as he saw the amusement in Blake’s face while she bit her tongue, trying not to make any further sarcastic remarks. He rolled his eyes, placing his palm against the small of her back and leading her in the direction where he’d been standing. “Come on, I’m about to do my last wave. You can stand over here and watch.”

Blake allowed herself to be lead around the floor to the spot where Bryce had been before, occasionally looking up to glance at the athletes currently competing in the middle of the room. They seemed to be alternating between three exercises, first dropping to the floor and then jumping back up before hopping over a large weight on the floor. After so many times of these two motions, the athlete would grip the weight in both hands and essentially pull it from the ground to their hips to overhead in one swift movement. Then they’d drop it to the ground, grip it in both hands and do it again … over and over until it was time to go back to the floor jumpy move again. “Um, is that what you’re going to be doing?” She asked as they arrived at their destination, pointing a finger towards the competitors.

“Yeah, ascending reps of burpee bar jump-overs and snatches.” Bryce explained matter-of-factly.

Blake snorted audibly at his explanation, raising an eyebrow at him sardonically. “Excuse me, did you say ‘snatch’ without laughing, Bryce Lahela?”

Bryce merely shook his head, struggling to keep a straight face as he sighed with exasperation. “Mind out of the gutter, Reyes.” He poked her in the side playfully, then gestured towards the competitors. “A snatch is an Olympic weightlifting move where you pull the barbell from the floor all the way over your head and catch it in a squatting position. And yes, they should have picked a better name.”

“See, I knew your mind had been in the gutter way before mine.” She chuckled before turning her attention back to the athletes. “So how long are you supposed to do this?”

“This one is a 7 minute AMRAP and you-“

“An Amra-what?” Blake interjected, her eyebrows knitted in confusion.

Bryce laughed. “Sorry, I forgot about the lingo. An AMRAP. As many reps as possible. It means you do as much as you can before the time limit, which is 7 minutes in this case.”

She nodded in understanding, surveying the activity again until her eyes focused on the stack of weights lining each bar. “And how much weight is that? It looks heavy.”

“The weight for this one is 135 pounds.”

Despite the certainty in his tone, Blake tilted her head and waited for the joke. And when it didn’t come … “I’m sorry, you are planning to throw 135 pounds over your head repeatedly by choice? That’s how much I weigh!” Her eyes bugged out of her head.

Forgetting the sweat still lingering on his skin, Bryce hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her tight. He nuzzled his face against her neck, his voice gruff in her ear. “And if you remember, I was throwing you around in your room the other night quite easily.” Blake shivered at the memory, the feel of his fingers digging into her flesh as they defiled every surface within her bedroom just three nights ago. He chuckled low under his breath as he pulled back, a cocky smirk on his lips. “It’s all about skill and technique, and you should know that my technique is always exemplary.” He flashed her a wicked wink just as the buzzer sounded, the loud noise reverberating throughout the large room.

The next few minutes were chaotic, and Blake was thankful for the opportunity to steady her breathing after Bryce’s naughty insinuation. The competitors slowly picked themselves up off the floor where they’d collapsed and filed off the main floor to the outer ring of the room, each of them dripping in sweat and breathing heavily. One woman, a petite yet muscular brunette in booty shorts and knee socks with arms that vaguely resembled those of cartoon Popeye’s, caught a glimpse of Bryce and Blake and made her way over to them. “Lahela! Is this your lady friend you keep ditching us for?” She glanced up at Blake and caught her eye, shooting her a warm smile.

Blake thought she saw a tiny flush of pink tinge Bryce’s cheeks before he shifted to conduct introductions. “Hey Teresa, this is Blake. She’s a doctor over at Edenbrook with me. Blake, this is Teresa, another one of the 5am-ers.”

Teresa waved, her sweaty form maintaining a safe distance from the couple. “Sorry, I’d shake your hand but I don’t think you’d want that right now. It’s great to meet you, Blake.”

“It’s good to meet you too, Teresa.” Blake echoed, instantly feeling at ease with her new acquaintance. “So, how was it?” She asked, nodding towards the competition floor. “It looked pretty rough.”

“Ugh, yeah, it really was. Snatches and burpees, two of my least favorite moves. At least it wasn’t thrusters.” She shrugged nonchalantly, taking a swig from her water bottle, not noticing as Blake’s eyes widened at the last word.

Bryce laughed out loud at the look on Blake’s face, patting her on the back reassuringly. “Thrusters are another type of Crossfit movement. I guess I never really realized how bad all these names sounded to an outsider.”

“At least you can recognize it now so I don’t feel so bad.” Blake locked eyes with him, giving him a thankful smile.

Teresa stepped forward, patting Bryce on the shoulder as she brushed past him. “Well good luck out there Lahela, looks like you’re up.” She turned to Blake and gave her a small wave. “Glad to finally meet the woman who tamed this one.” She shoved a embarrassedly groaning Bryce aggressively in the arm. “Take care, Blake!”

“You too, Teresa!” Blake called after her, then turned to face her boyfriend. “Tamed you, huh? If this is tame, I’d hate to see you wild.” She gave him a playful smirk and squeezed his hand, her heart warmed by the way he returned it defenselessly and, for once, had no sarcastic retort. She pulled his arm gently and gestured towards the other competitors filing to their places. “You better get out there. I’ll watch from here.”

Bryce’s lips curled up into a slight grin as he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I’ll see you in seven minutes.” As he pulled away, Blake could see the affection sparkling deep within his dark eyes, making her whole body tingle with joy.

“Good luck.” She mouthed as he gently pulled away from her grasp. He held their stare as he took a few steps back before finally turning to move to his spot in the middle of the room.

Blake watched as Bryce settled himself in front of the heavy weighted barbell, shuffling his feet and taking deep breaths as he tightened the wraps around his wrists. The judges took their places before each contender, and shortly thereafter the head coach called out the countdown. Ten, nine, eight … Bryce steadied himself, bending down and gripping the bar with a wide grip, his eyes locked in place before him … four, three, two, ONE!!! He shrugged the barbell up to his hips as he stood upright quickly, then dropped to a squatting position as it soared overhead in one seamless motion. As soon as he stood upright he released the entire 135 pounds to the ground in front of him with a loud clatter, dropping his body to the floor and then hopping back up to smoothly jump over the barbell to the other side. Round one complete. He then bent over to grip the barbell and pulled it up over his head yet again, doing it twice this time before completing two burpees and two jumps.

Blake found herself mesmerized as she watched Bryce proceed, the combination of the clanging barbells, chatter and loud music doing little to distract her as he moved in steady, fluid motions with each rep. After a few rounds she began to pick up on the pattern and the muscles being used, admiring how they tensed and released in rhythmic waves. With each snatch (still a horrible name, but she was catching on at least), the definition in his abs would stiffen as he braced his torso to shrug the weights overhead, his shoulders and forearms tight as he gripped the bar in the air. With each burpee, the crease of his tricep would deepen as he pushed himself up off the floor, tiny drops of sweat trailing down his bare skin as he flew upright. Before each jump he’d crouch down low, the curve of his quads peeking out from underneath his shorts before his thick calves would propel him over the bar. Blake watched the scene over and over again, unsure whether the warmth in her cheeks was due to all the hot, sweaty bodies in the room or the visual foreplay she was witnessing on repeat. Bryce dropped to the floor again, hopping back up and wiping a sweaty tendril of hair from his brow before hopping over the bar, the image stoking something deep in Blake’s belly. Nevermind ... she was positive the heat she was feeling was 100% related to one specific hard body in the building.

Seven minutes flew by, the sound of the buzzer startling Blake from her hormone-induced trance as the time came to an end. She observed as Bryce finally halted his movements at the deafening noise, collapsing to the floor in exhaustion, the sweat-slicked skin of his chest rising and falling rapidly as he panted. When he was finally able to peel himself up off the floor, he sauntered slowly over to where she was standing, catching high fives and fist bumps from his friends along the way.

“Wow, that was incredible!” Blake squealed, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him tight. She immediately felt the comforting heat of his body pressed against hers, not even minding the dampness of her shirt as his sweat seeped through the layers of fabric.

Bryce chuckled breathlessly, still not quite recovered from his vigorous workout. “I’ll invite you every time if I get this type of enthusiasm.” He squeezed her tight, then pulled away to trail a finger across her cheek. “You can be my own personal cheerleader any day, Reyes.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I’m happy to be your cheerleader every day, Lahela.” She beamed up into his dark eyes, a soft smile upturning the corners of her lips.

“Awww, Reyes, bringing out the cheese …” Despite the playfulness in his tone, Blake recognized the emotion behind his stare. It was an emotion that mirrored her own, a confession not yet spoken out loud but communicated nonetheless. She allowed herself to melt into his touch as he cupped a palm against her cheek, guiding her lips to meet his in a soft kiss.

“Get a room, Lahela!”

“Aw, come on you guys!”

The heckles from the others surrounding them broke them from their blissful embrace, Bryce laughing as some of the guys smacked him on the back or shoved him in the shoulder when the pair separated. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough of these jackasses for today!” He called out the last sentence loudly, eliciting a few snickers from his friends again. As he glanced back down at her, he noticed the darkened fabric of sweat stains adorning her t-shirt. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry … I can loan you an extra t-shirt before we go grab lunch … “

“Do you really think I’m going to go out to lunch with you looking like a sweaty mess, Bryce Lahela?” Blake quipped, arching her brow to give him a challenging look. With a dramatic sigh and a shrug she laid out her proposal, feigned innocence in her tone. “I suppose we’ll just have to go back to your place and get you cleaned up in the shower.”

Bryce’s eyes flashed with mischief, one side of his mouth curled up in a crooked grin. “Whatever you think is best, Dr. Reyes. Although I may need some help in there … I’m pretty worn out.” He gave her his best come-hither eyes as they walked to the lockers and he retrieved his stuff, slipping a dry t-shirt on his upper body.

“I guess I shall have to make that sacrifice.” Blake sighed, leaning into his firm body as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “But only if you promise to teach me all about these thrusters …” she stifled a naughty giggle as her voice trailed off.

With a low growl Bryce squeezed her tighter, leaning down to whisper in a husky voice into her hair. “Have I told you how much I love it when you talk dirty?” Blake only smiled proudly, nuzzling in tighter to his side and allowing him to lead them through the crowd towards the exit.

END

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End Note: What’s amazing to me is that this is the tamer version of this story. I actually held back on all the horribly inappropriate Crossfit references for fear of boring you all. Hit me up if you ever want more 😉

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[theodorasutton]

Digital Anthropology and Formula 1

This blogpost starts with my entry to the DHL competition, which offers my own way into Formula 1, through the drama and personalities of the sport. After my entry, I’ve written my ideas for researching Formula 1 from the perspective of digital anthropology.

My Formula 1 Moment

A few months ago I entered a Formula 1 competition to describe my best F1 moment. I wrote a really heartfelt description and went to submit it, only to find out it was about 5 times too long. I cut it down, submitted, but knew it wasn’t any good. I decided to share the original version and describe my way into the sport which I absolutely never expected myself to like - here it is:

March, 2018. My boyfriend had been watching the Formula 1. The qualifying had ended, and now there was a press conference.

I had never been interested in sport, certainly not one that was so clinical and confusing as Formula 1. For me, all the drivers blurred into one, some seemed to wear red, others wore white, and all of them seemed strangely keen to wear logo embellished headgear. Here they were, three of them, herded behind some microphones, giving stilted answers to press questions. Distracted and on my phone, I was impatient for the end of the program so that we could watch something interesting. "I can assure you we don't have a party mode,” one of them was saying. "I used the same mode from Q2 to the end of Q3. There was no extra mode, no extra button I engaged in." "What were you doing before, then?” The guy in red asked him, taking a sip from his drink and smiling mischievously. "I was waiting to put a good lap in…” The guy in white said, “to wipe the smile off your face,” he added under his breath, with an extra dash of sass. Was he angry, or was he joking? It was hard to tell. The two of them seemed to be rigid with tension, but keen to put on a good show for the cameras. The guy in white patted the guy in red’s arm, insisting that he was only joking. The awkwardness was palpable, and the exchange had my full attention. The other guy in red, sitting on the right, however, seemed to be daydreaming. Who was this guy in white, who my boyfriend told me was winning everything? What planet had he landed from, that gave him the ability to win races with robotic precision? The guy in red with the mischievous smile seemed to be the underdog, and was endearing. The daydreaming one was pure comedy. “Do they have brawls in the bars after a race?” I asked. “I don’t know,” my boyfriend said. “I’m not sure they can drink. They have to maintain almost no body fat.” I frowned. “I hope the guy in red punches the guy in white,” I said. I envisioned him chucking TVs out of swanky hotel windows. I live for the drama. This was the moment that got me into Formula 1. For the first time I saw inside the machines that zoomed predictably around faraway racetracks. I started to realise that Formula 1 wasn’t just lap times, numbers on a screen, and a choice between hard or soft tyres; it was fundamentally about the people. There were egos, eye watering pay checks, glamorous locations, and a whole lot of pressure. There were feuds, confrontations, and tears. It wasn’t until much later that I realised the physical toll of driving a Formula 1 car, and the gym regime that accustomed drivers’ bodies to immense forces while going round the track. I had thought drivers were just pressing buttons inside a machine, but these were athletes putting their lives on the line. Lewis wasn’t always so sassy. He usually spoke with the measured words of a religious guru, emphasising gratitude and hard work. Meditating, praying, exercising, and listening to the right song before a race were apparently what helped him achieve his super-human results. We jubilantly listened to a Christina Aguilera where he was rumoured to perform a hilarious and cringeworthy rap. “Imagine all the other drivers teasing him with it,” I said. It took me a while to realise that Sebastian was a four-time world champion. His voice was low and disinterested while he gave clamouring journalists a run through of his race. In Bahrain, in 2019, Lewis seemed to make him spin on the track through pure intimidation. After races, we watched eagerly for the private moment when the top three drivers would meet in the break room, wipe the sweat off their faces, shake hands, and grimace after two hours of ruthless competition. Was the loser completely crushed? What would they say to one another now that they were face to face? But it was Kimi who became the most entertaining of the three from the press conference that day. Often giving nonsensical answers to journalists (that started with the sound “bwoah”) or pretending to not hear them, he, too, was mischievous and clearly hated any kind of ceremony that stopped him either driving very fast, or going home. His elusiveness made me increasingly curious, and I searched for entertaining stories, finding ones about him napping on piles of tyres, drunkenly diving off a stage with no crowd to catch him, or screaming “gloves and steering wheel!” to a bewildered pit crew. Since that moment in March 2018 I’ve learned more about what really makes Formula 1 tick. I’ll be honest, I still switch off when people start talking about technical specs. But I love to watch the drivers, team principles, and pundits, when they find a way to say everything with just a look in their eyes, or a quiet dig at a competitor. I love it when there’s gossip and wild predictions, and memes to be made. I never thought I would love a sport like I love Formula 1 now, but it was the people - and Lewis’ sass - that got me where I am now.

Digital Anthropology and Formula 1

Through getting my head around F1, I’ve unsurprisingly thought about it in terms of my own research into digital anthropology - or how technology is part of our social world today. I truly know nothing about sport, so I may be wrong, but it seems that F1 is the most technologically mediated sport there is. Rather than athletes who test their physical capabilities, the drivers’ abilities are mediated through a machine, which could be working well, or could be crawling round the track. That machine has been built from the ground up, bolt by bolt, by engineers constantly trying to improve on the vision of the four-wheeled vehicle. They don’t simply drive the same car at each race, it’s continuously evolving and being tinkered with by the team and its engineers in-between weekends.

F1 car aerodynamics Rather than watching the race directly, the teams themselves watch a row of television screens. For starters, the circuit is too big to see in one go, and the noises are too loud to expose your ears to. To experience F1, even for those participating, necessitates cameras and microphones and screens. But the teams are not only watching footage of the race, but endless numbers dancing in front of their eyes, listing speed for each sector, tyre wear, temperatures, and predictions. What secret software do they rely upon to give them an advantage over others - what algorithms are at work, invisibly measuring and shaping the race? Do they have the problem of too much data - data saturation or InfoObesity - where they can learn no more, or they struggle to store, protect, or analyse the information flying at them?

Renault’s Pit Wall, Singapore GP

Pit wall display screen, from Reddit

While the celebrity drivers of F1 plummet themselves around a track several centimetres away from the tarmac - sometimes losing up to 3 litres of water and 4kg in one race - F1 is equally a mathematical sport. This interplay of bodies and technology, personality and data, is fascinating. If I were to design a research project on F1, it would ask how these aspects of the sport are reconciled. What relationship do the teams have with their technology? Are strategies based more on digital information - “The computer says we should do this, so we’ll do it"? Or do they put their faith in people like Hamilton, knowing that his judgment in split seconds would prevail?

Masculinity and aggression would be important themes. Comparing Formula 1 to my limited knowledge of football or rugby, where frustration can be taken out with shouting, running, tumbling, or even brief fights, I wonder if F1 is more of a restrained, poised sport, played behind a veil of respectability, where resentment comes out not physically, but in catty, underhand plays, spies, cutting people out, or perhaps insistently pronouncing your name wrong. My suggestion that Hamilton might throw some TVs out of a window was an attempt to understand where that necessary frustration ends up. A clip of Ricciardo screaming with his helmet still on, Verstappen shoving Ocon, or Schumacher marching furiously up the pit lane towards Coulthard, pulls back the curtain. Behind the scenes, what dastardly behaviour lurks? I also wonder how the teams would take failure differently if they were all women. After both Red Bull cars were taken out of the same race, I remember saying to my boyfriend that “I wouldn’t want to be in a room full of those angry Red Bull workers.” When Haas repeatedly have outbursts on their radios, they seem to be transgressing an invisible rule of Formula 1, that anger is a private matter. What other invisible rules are there that shape team behaviour, and create friction between them?

Haas team principle Gunther Steiner’s outburst at Sochi, for which he was fined $7500

At the same time, while teams seem keen to control their presentation, moments of intense emotion, and authentic reactions of the drivers and pit crew, give fans something to go on. How does Formula 1 balance its primary purpose - the need to be entertaining, with the teams' clear desire to maintain professionalism and secrecy? In 2017, F1 released YouTube videos of the post race driver briefings, which featured drivers sat in rows like bored schoolboys. The videos are extremely entertaining, mostly due to the comedic camerawork and Grosjean attempting to get other drivers into trouble - but the uploads have since stopped, possibly because it was too much of an invasion into the meetings. Netflix’s 2019 series “Formula 1: Drive to Survive” gave us a behind the scenes look, and helped us meet the personalities in F1 and empathise with their stories and struggles. In the recent On The Marbles podcast, Lee McKenzie explains that one reason why AutoSport is going out of print is the on-brand messages from the teams are too bland and repetitive for the price of the magazine. My own entry to the DHL competition displays my feeling that the sport needs drama to continue. This tension plays out everywhere. As the stewards continue to penalise small errors in driving, they curtail more of the scrappy, fight-y racing that the drivers seem to enjoy as much as the spectators, resulting in races that are “boring” and “processional.” Rather than relying on printed interviews, fans may be turning to social media to connect more closely with the characters in the sport. Through Instagram, Reddit, and YouTube, fans create memes based on the funniest moments on and off track, some of which endure for months.

Left: A fan’s take on Haas’ “I think Ericsson hit us”. Right: The radio message to Kimi Raikkonen when his drink was not connected The McLaren driver Lando Norris, only 19 years old, posts stories on his Instagram most days, and welcomes the playful Internet world of memes and ridiculousness in a way that breaks with the usual “robotic monotony” of drivers. It turns out that in his spare time, when he’s not racing in real life, he enjoys racing Verstappen on a video game. In this way, through following them on Instagram, fans can see relationships between the drivers - in a recent example, Ricciardo and Leclerc teased each other on their own respective Instagram accounts during a shared flight. Technology is playing a role, then, not only in the broadcasting of sport, but in the way that fans can relate to F1 and its personalities, by viewing mundane and everyday moments that span much further than the race weekend. 

Left: Ricciardo’s selfie with sleeping teammate Verstappen Middle: Norris’ Instagram, teasing his teammate Sainz Right: Leclerc jokes about a misspelling of his name

Research Outline

Taking an academic view of Formula 1 Absolutely Totally Seriously, I would propose viewing it through the idea of Rationality. Rationality has come up in my work on digital detoxing, where in a “Disenchanted” modern world, we perceive that technological progress explains the world down to neat facts and figures. We can bend the world to our own ends, since everything becomes calculable. To act rationally would be to do things for the intended goal, without the need for guesswork or fate. 

Interpreting Formula 1 in these terms, the sport splits into its Rational and Irrational aspects. On the one hand, teams design machines using cutting edge technology, and sensors and numbers tell them how to optimise the car to be more likely to win. On the other hand, the teams are made of people, who are emotional, or rather irrational - who might in fact be the key ingredient for winning (like the magical je ne sais quoi of Lewis Hamilton or Ayrton Senna), or who might require motivating, might cause problems, or make mistakes. 

I would hypothesise that the teams themselves prefer a rational view of F1. They want everything to be predictable, structured, cool, calm and collected. However, in order to survive, in order to entertain, the sport requires Irrationality - drama, friction, emotion, personality. Also under this heading would be fate, luck, the driver’s own headspace and personal life. A research project of Formula 1 would look at how the teams manage tension between these two aspects - and I would aim to answer questions through an ethnography of team culture.

My research questions would be something like this. 

How do the teams incorporate digital technology into their work, and do Formula 1 teams rely more on technology, or on human skill? 

What norms are there around emotion in Formula 1, and how is emotion managed by the teams?

How do Formula 1 teams balance the need to be entertaining with the need to win, and how is social media changing their relationship to this?

I better get back to my thesis.

[starvinbohemian]

The T2 screenplay is trying to kill me. And since I’m rife with feels, I’m going to do a deep dive into John Hodge’s screenplay with my Mark/Simon shipper goggles firmly in place. (Although, I didn’t really need the goggles, because it’s all right there.) 

Interestingly, their relationship is both better and worse in the screenplay than it was in the film, with some interesting changes along the way. In a way, the script is less romantic about them and their relationship than the film ultimately became.  

Of course, the highlight: 

Veronika (in her own language): You know nothing. You understand nothing. You are quite clearly so in love with one another that I feel almost awkward even in your presence. Why do you pretend to hate each other so much when all you want is to be together? Instead of looking at me why don’t you just take your clothes off and get on with it.

Another:

Simon sits on a bench at the edge of a park. Looking this way and that, he does not hear Renton approach.

Renton: Brought him with you, have you?

Simon: I didn’t know.

Renton glares at him. There is no question of believing a single word of Simon’s bullshit. 

Simon: OK... OK... I may have, you know... heard something. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it--

Renton: May have heard something!

Simon: All right-- fuck it, I knew! I knew he was out. And I could have served you up to him on a plate any time I wanted to!

Renton: And I’m sure you were going to!

Simon: Yes! Yes, I was! I was looking forward to it!

Renton: I ought to fucking kill you.

They sit in hostile silence, each inwardly deciding whether to kiss or kill the other.

And another:

Renton and Simon are in old-married-couple mode. They are watching a film-- could be anything, an old Van Damme movie, a black-and-white classic, a documentary. There are cardboard pizza boxes, bottles of lager. They converse lazily while watching the film.

This is typical of John Hodge, who usually offers suggestions for what the characters are watching or listening to but with a big ‘eh whatever you want’ attached, which I like to think is because he’s so used to working with Danny Boyle by this point that he knows Danny will have stronger opinions about media choices than he will. Completely my own headcanon, but still.

They’re talking about Spud wanting to publish his stories-- the scene will later be chopped and moved to the end of the movie-- and Simon is feeling so comfortable that he answers his phone “cheerfully” without checking the caller ID. Simon. It’s Begbie, and we get to see Simon do some more of his dance to keep Begbie off Mark’s trail, adding to Begbie’s later accusation that Simon was stringing him along.

And:

Spud: Are you going to see Simon?

Renton affects to have barely considered the matter.

Renton: Simon? Uh... I don’t know... he’s probably busy...

Spud: Naw, you got see old Simon.

Renton: You know how it is-- time goes by--

Spud: -- be gutted not to see you.

Renton: --He and I, you know how it was, we sorted of drifted apart...

[This calls back to the original novel, where Mark and Simon are pretty explicitly done with each other by the end of the book: “He thinks about Sick Boy, and all the things they went through together. They had shared some good times, some awful times, but they had shared them. Sick Boy would recoup the cash; he was a born exploiter. It was the betrayal. He could see Sick Boy’s more-hurt-than-angry expression already. However, they had been drifting apart for years now. Their mutual antagonism, once a joke, a performance for the benefit of others, had slowly become, through being ritualised in that way, a mundane reality. It was better this way, Renton thought.”]

Spud: You and Simon was like that.

Checkmate.

Renton: Yeah. Like that.

Interesting, the “Your blood runs in my veins, Mark!” line was originally after Simon’s angry outburst at Mark for looking at his watch during Simon’s pitch/walk down memory lane, as opposed to before, which I think adds more emotional weight to the line because it’s said out of anger instead of emotional manipulation and therefore feels more “real.”

And I like this bit at the end: 

A beat. There is nothing to say. Renton and Simon look at one another. The feud is over. Simon starts the car.     

I’m glad the less romantic bits were either cut or softened for the film. Obviously lol. Because the script has a more cynical take on their relationship:

Renton: I look out on the world and I see strangers. And you... you are the... you have the distinction of being-- I don’t know... the least unfamiliar-- that’s it.

Simon: It’s better than nothing.

One of my favorite small bits in the movie was when Mark reassures Simon that his flat isn’t too messy, because it felt like a reminder that, underneath it all, they really are friends. But in the screenplay, it’s with an ulterior motive (the lack of which is precisely why I liked it in the film). The motive being Veronika of course: 

Simon: It’s not a mess, is it?

Renton sees no reason to correct his rival’s failings.

Renton: No. No, it’s just masculine.

The portrayals of the apartment and Simon in general in the film vs. the script are also interesting. The apartment looked fine to me in the film, and Simon as fastidious as ever with his nice clothes and attention paid to his personal appearance (bleaching his hair, straightening his cuffs, usually seen in his nice suits, etc.). Whereas, in the script, he’s described as fairly slovenly. He’s repeatedly introduced in scenes as slouching around in his “underwear,” and his apartment as “the most disgustingly untidy, food-and-booze-container strewn bachelor pit imaginable. Dirty laundry, sticky floors, nightmare kitchen, crusty bathroom.” That doesn’t feel like Simon to me, either in the movies or the books. I’m wondering if Miller and/or Boyle agreed with me and ignored those bits in the script, because the apartment never looks too messy to me, and even while in his “underwear,” Simon is wearing a sexy black tank top that matches his well-fitting black sweatpants. Vain, always.

Another interesting character bit: before Mark and Simon go into the Orangemen bar, the script describes Simon taking off a crucifix necklace he was wearing and handing it to Veronika, suggesting that he’s actually Catholic? I don’t remember that being a “Simon thing” from the books, and it definitely wasn’t in the first movie. After a re-watch of the scene, I noticed that you can see Miller reaching up to take off the necklace hidden beneath his shirt just as the script dictates, but the cut jumps ahead a few seconds before you ever see the necklace. You can also see the gold chain of the crucifix in other scenes when Simon’s being casual in his black tank top, but the cross part is hidden under the shirt. I wonder at both the inclusion and the exclusion.  

I think it’s pretty clear that Simon more or less gives up his plan of revenge against Mark (or at least temporarily forgets about it) after Mark returns to him and is finally honest with him. After all, whether he admits it to himself or not, what Simon really wants is to have Mark back. And he has him by that point, and I don’t think there’s any suggestion that Simon was planning to give him up until old habits assert themselves at the end and he plans to run off with Veronika and the money (and I really question whether he would have gone through with that, given the opportunity). I also don’t think that the film ever suggests that Simon is doing anything with Begbie other than protecting Mark. (I recall it being more nebulous in the book.) Another favorite moment of mine is when Simon tries to shield Mark even when Begbie aims a rifle at them. If that isn’t the height of love for Simon, I don’t know what is. Simon does save Mark from hanging to death in the script as he does in the film, but he doesn’t rush to do so and his first instinct is to try to save himself:

Simon: Frank, I can explain.

Begbie: You knew. Stringing me along, so you were.

Simon is moving towards Begbie, hoping to leave Renton isolated.

Simon: Honestly, please--

And suddenly Begbie strikes him across the side of the head with a tool he held in his hand.

I don’t really have to explain why I dislike that lol. Kinda dampens the bromance through-line when one of the romantic leads attempts to betray the other to save their own skin at the eleventh hour. Simon only comes across as protective in the film. I cannot stress enough that Simon, snake that he is, attempts to shield Mark with his own body. That’s not in the script.

On another note, the Trainspotting ladies get a bit short-changed. Gail lost a few scenes, including a good one with Mark, and it’s made clear that she still loves Spud and that they’re still technically married. I have an even stronger appreciation for Anjela Nedyalkova’s acting, because Veronika comes off as really flat and two-dimensional on the page without the charm she brings to the role. Poor Diane was a much bigger part of the movie, and the loss of her subplot with Mark is borderline criminal. She comes to his rescue more than once. You see the strength of her character, their unspoken bond, and you really get the tragedy of it that these two missed their shot:

Diane: I’m not stopping you. I’m not here for that. I’ll solve your problems and I’ll pick up the pieces and bring you in out of the cold, but I’m not going to stop you making a fool of yourself. That’s up to you.

Renton: Do you ever wonder--

Diane: No. I don’t.

Renton: I do. If you and me... if things had been different...

Diane: No, Mark: if you’d been different.

FEELS. But going back to Mark and Simon...

The through-line of the movie is their relationship, their bond. In the end, you see that they didn’t lose everything, because they still have each other. Finally have each other, thanks to Veronika removing the “opportunity” for betrayal. The temptations and trials are over, and they’re together in “old married couple mode.” When all of their characters are having their “moments” of reconciliation at the end of the film, Spud goes to Gail. Mark goes to his father. Simon thinks about Mark and the good times when they were children. For him, it was always about Mark. In the published script, Simon doesn’t think about Mark. He just dwells on the loss of his “dream” of the sauna and a future with Veronika. I prefer the movie ending.

[some-triangles]

PART 4

Utena has turned into a car.

I think it is incumbent on the viewer at this point to try to unravel both why this makes sense as a gesture and why it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Point 1: It’s a magical girl transformation sequence.  Ikuhara, having worked on Sailor Moon, knows all about this stuff.  The beats of a transformation sequence are as follows: upon activation of an arcane device, a girl loses all her clothes and emerges clad in fetish gear.  The ideal transformation sequence from a commercial perspective ends up with a girl wearing an outfit which appeals as much to young girls as it does to grown men.   As has previously been established, grown men like cars – but this car is hot pink, shaped like a uterus and is trying as hard as it can to be a horse.  Or two horses.   It is a “car” in the same sense that Sailor Moon is a “high school girl”.   It has been optimized to serve all of the needs of the academy at once.

Point 2:  What we are dramatizing here is the fact that despite her avowed wish to leave the academy Utena has still been socialized in patriarchy and therefore cannot fully transcend her status as a player of the academy’s game.   When she took Anthy’s hand and led her in the general direction of “out” she was still playing prince, saving the damsel in distress.  This gesture does not work because the academy owns it.   When she attempts it, she is revealed as what the academy forces her to be: an object.  An exciting, ambiguously-gendered object, admittedly, an object which is absolutely up to date and this year’s model, but an object that is nonetheless made to please a particular audience.  As long as Utena can still be the receptacle of male fantasy – as prince or princess – the story cannot work.

Point 3: Back in the old academy Anthy’s role in the final confrontation was to get stabbed a whole lot and lie in a coffin.   Of course, something important and transformative did take place there, and the gesture that changed the academy did come from Anthy in the end; but she didn’t look cool doing it.  Utena did all of the on-screen work.   If Anthy is retelling the story here she wants to emphasize that despite all of Utena’s princely self-sacrifice the most difficult thing anyone did in that room was reach out of that coffin.  She also wants to emphasize that she’s the top.

Akio killed himself earlier because he was unable to find his “key”.  He lost it when he realized that Anthy was, if not enjoying herself, at least tacitly “consenting” to what he had been doing to her, which was, as far as he was concerned, not nearly as hot as the whole drugged princess routine. Anthy, however, already has Utena’s key. Get it?  What we are emphasizing here, in case anyone got the wrong idea from the TV-mandated chasteness of the original series, is that queer desire is actually an integral part of the revolutionary moment.  Anthy is able to go through with this because she really, sincerely wants to fuck Utena’s brains out.

So Utena’s sex car is saved from rusting away from disuse.   The shadow puppet girls arrive to give Ikuhara’s old buddy Anno a shout-out and the race is on.

It’s worth considering whether there might have been a way to do the car metaphor without going full bananas zany with it – whether we might have found some kind of tonal harmony between Touga in the cabbage patch and Anthy in the driver’s seat.    It would probably not have worked but I would have loved to see an attempt.  As it is, the narrator has gone manic and we are flying, buddy, we are up in the clouds.

The shadow puppet girls (who apparently all have pink hair in this universe – emphasizing their artificiality, I suspect) complete their setup and a new challenger enters the race.

Shiori’s car looks kind of like Soundwave from Transformers.  I always liked Soundwave.  Her car is also considerably more phallic than Utena’s, having as it does a cycloptic bull for a figurehead.   Shiori is acting as an agent of the academy here simply by making this a race, rather than an obstacle course - the idea that only one special person gets to leave the academy at a time plays right into the prince/princess narrative.  It’s not a part of the story that Anthy particularly wants to dispel, either, which may be telling.

Shiori says the line of century, which I’m going to render literally for maximum effect: “It’s a big mistake to think that you were the only one who was able to turn into a car.”

Behind the bull Shiori is a big ol’ Chrysler station wagon with frilly upholstery. She underscores the crabs in a bucket motif by saying that only she is cool enough to do something as neat as escaping the world before crashing into a retaining wall and exploding in a completely unforced error, which makes sense when you consider that nobody’s driving her.

Anthy has a nasty sense of humor.

Next up are the thousand drone tanks of the world’s resentment.  The jokes are flying thick and fast now – the shadow puppet girls pick up the encroaching horde on a “vegetable scanner” which superimposes the danger on a picture of a salad, and the three filler dudes who were so fillery that I never mentioned them once in my recap of the original series show up with radar guns. The drone horde also makes a lot of really high-pitched honking sounds.  The director wants us to know that he knows that this is stupid.  The viewer may well ask what all that trauma from before was about, in that case, but there’s no time, the drones are attacking.

Utena’s chassis is effed up in much the same way that her uniform was back when she fought Touga that one time.  Like the opening theme says: “what I want is to find my place in life and my self-worth, taking who I've been up until today and heroically stripping her down until she's bare, like the roses whirling in freedom.”  Cast off that magical girl fetish gear, and be free!  And nude. While we continue to film you.  Trust us, it’s all very liberating.

Just as our heroes are about to be splatted by the biggest drone of them all, a tow hook shoots out from nowhere.  It’s our heroes’ friends!   Or… people who we can assume they made friends with, off screen, at some point!

Ikuhara shouting in the distance: “Oh, the whole bandminton game thing was too subtle for you, huh?  Need to have everything spelled out for you, huh? FINE”

They are driving Wakaba, a Jeep.  (The utility vehicle is truly the plain friend of the motorsports world.)  Explaining their presence, Juri says that high ideals attract noble companions. (I like overtly conceited Juri, and wish her incarnation from the original academy had had a little bit more of that going on.)  Miki tells Anthy that they will definitely follow her outside at some point.  I do not believe him.

The final challenge approaches.  It’s a giant Disney castle on wheels.

Thanks, Ikuhara.  I am beginning to see a Point 4 emerging to complement points 1 through 3 above, straight from the director: “If I make this as shiny, noisy and overt as possible, maybe you idiots will pay attention this time.”

The castle hoves massively into the lane in front of them as somewhere in the distance the bongo player goes nuts.   The shadow puppet girls implore Anthy to turn around and head back, but she’s not running anymore.  Suddenly, the car is wearing a dress.  Car Utena gets a secondary transformation - like, that wasn’t even her final form – like, you got your DBZ in my Sailor Moon, you got your Sailor Moon in my DBZ – like, we are now somehow even more uterus-shaped –

The extended dance mix of Rinbu Revolution starts playing, and let me just say that it is an incongruous choice for a car chase/demolition derby.  Anthy makes it through the castle, to general rejoicing, but there remains one final obstacle.

Point 5: to make all this masculine bullshit appear as silly as possible.

Akio tells Anthy that if she goes out there all she’s going to find is the end of the world.  Which is true, of course – the point of the whole castle palaver, the point of all this fetishizing of youth and innocence, is to keep death at bay.    If you can’t grow, you can’t die; but of course if you can’t grow, you can’t live, either. 

Akio tells Anthy to go back to being a living corpse.  (He can’t find his key, otherwise.)  Anthy tells him to fuck off so he squeezes them between some giant tank treads.

 Utena there, getting denuded again, of course.

Then this happens.

The prince is very, very dead.  The castle collapses in a hail of rose petals and eurodisco.  The shadow puppet girls lose their animating essence and become straw dolls named “Tenjou Utena” and “Himemiya Anthy.”  Cause they were puppets the whole time, see?

“Real” Anthy and “Real” Utena chat about how there are no roads in the outside world and so they will have to make one themselves.  They say this as they are literally driving on a road.   Still on screen and still being filmed, the two girls recline naked on a speeding motorcycle and make out, as you do once you have been freed from the male gaze.  

We end on a shot of another castle in the distance, which seems like a hopeful sign but should be the most ominous fucking thing in the world, if you’ve been paying attention.

The only possible conclusion is that they have not actually escaped.

In the end I can only interpret the last act of this movie as a titanic shrugging of the shoulders, an admission of a failure to envision what escape from this milieu actually looks like.  In this failure it invited other authors to take a crack at the same problem using the same kind of symbol language, which is how we got Madoka and its “let’s reframe choosing to be the Bride, who is still absolutely necessary to the functioning of the universe, as a revolutionary act in and of itself” thesis, among other things.   Ikuhara has a lot to answer for.

The problem of course is that a genuine escape from the academy should probably not be written by someone who has a vested interest in the academy’s continued existence; and so I think if anyone does end up writing the Utena story with an ending that works, it won’t be Ikuhara, or, not to put too fine a point on it, dudes generally.

Then again it’s possible that outside the academy there are things besides writing and rewriting the same old story to worry about.

[itscaptainyoulittlemaggot]

Journalistic Integrity

You’re a journalist trying to take down the perverted gymnast, Lance Tucker once and for all. But your plan goes awry and your ethics become compromised as he preys on your insecurities. (3,201 words; Lance Tucker x Reader; 18+, smut; Oral both giving and receiving; Manipulation; Self-esteem issues; Issues regarding lack of parental affection; Some readers will find this distressing to read).

This was it. The past two weeks of work had led up to this very evening. You were going to end Lance ‘the Fucker’ Tucker and his reign of misogyny once and for all.

A flurry of women on the nation’s gymnastics team had retired over the last year or so after they ended up pregnant. Girls with potential, a future. If this wasn’t coincidence enough, it happened to girls who happened to be linked to their coach, Lance Tucker. You knew you were on to something. You knew this would take down the loathsome Olympian once and for all.

Of course your intuition was correct. Over a two week period, you collected a slew of interviews with those former starlets who had their careers cut short. It all started with Maggie Townsend. Five different girls told tales of perversion and debauchery with Tucker.

Soon enough, you had enough evidence. Your story could stand on its own, you were sure. But journalism; it was a man’s game. Your editor suggested - insisted, rather - on balance for fear of damaging the gold medalist’s reputation. You had to hear it from Lance Tucker himself. You had to interview him.

It wasn’t too difficult to secure an interview with him. Under false pretence, he agreed to meet you at a local bar. For all he knew, you wanted to write about his achievements. He wasn’t exactly wrong.

You knew the drill, having interviewed more than a few perverts in your career. You could get all the answers you needed if you just looked the part, played dumb and then went for the money shot towards the end of the interview. At least, this was what you told yourself in the cab to the bar.

The truth was, Lance was gorgeous.

Damp, icy hands began smoothing themselves over imaginary creases on your dress; the dark fabric stretched taut over your curves. Your eyes were wedded to your foot, quickly bobbing away. You admired your heels. They added extra inches to your stature, allowing you to stare into his tar black soul on an even keel as you ruined him. A small comfort as you snapped back to reality at a red light.

Lance was notorious. You had to stay vigilant.

Rolling up to the bar, you felt a pit of unease form in your stomach.

Inside the decadent joint, you darted through the revellers to find Lance propping up the bar, martini in hand. His attire befitted his surroundings. He was striking. And you weren’t the only one aware of it, judging by the amount of attention he drew. But it wasn’t his finely tailored suit that drew you in as you approached him. He was imposing. Far taller than you had anticipated. When you were face to face, he loomed silently over you and placed an immobilising kiss on your cheek. You felt inches tall.

“Well ain’t you a picture,” he muttered in your ear.

You had to work overtime to maintain your composure as you introduced yourself. “Mr Tucker,” you began in a shaky voice, “I’m the reporter from The Times. Do you  mind if I record our conversation tonight?”

Lance lounged back on his stool cocking an eyebrow. “Relax, toots. We got all evening. You look like you could use a drink.”

”I-“ you began, only to be swiftly cut off by two slender fingers, beckoning the bartender.

Lance leaned into you. ”And call me Lance. Mr Tucker was my father. And he was an ass,“ he added.

You smiled uneasily. Lance was, indeed, an ass.

The bartender stood in front of you both awaiting your order.

”Tequila?“ He asked.

”Actually I don’t-“

”Two tequilas please,“ Lance confirmed to the bartender.

You quietly observed Lance as the man behind the bar bustled to get your drinks. The stench of his cologne was offensive to say the least. The sporty little wristwatch jarred with his swanky evening attire. He wore too much gel in his hair so his hairline stuck up proudly in greasy little peaks. And manspreading. You hated that too. 

You had come to two conclusions. One: Lance Tucker was so much more repulsive in person. Two: Lance Tucker was so much more handsome in person.

”Like what you see?“ Lance grinned, sliding a stout little glass towards you.

Compelled to tell the truth (kind of), you proudly declared: ”Actually, I think you’re vile.“

He was taken aback. Lance refused to accept that you, a woman, was immune to his charm. Taking a different approach, he dialled back his attitude. ”You don’t even know me,“ he said softly.

You choked on the mouthful of tequila. His eyes were piercing. How absurd.

He leaned into you again, repeating himself for effect: ”you don’t.“

You were incensed at this vile creature trying to pass himself off as a victim and was he trying to flirt with you? It was written all over your face but you had so much riding on tonight. You needed to keep calm. You plunged a hand into your bag and fumbled for your phone, buying yourself enough time to think of a response.

Bingo.

Pulling out your phone, you made your offering: ”why don’t we show my readers the real Lance Tucker, then?” Your voice was sickly sweet.

Lance tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed hard. “I don’t know who the fuck reads The Times, but ok.”

As Lance ordered two more tequilas, you set your phone on the counter and hit record, ready to grill the Olympian to within an inch of his existence.

“So, Lance,” you began with a nod, “let’s talk about your childhood.”

“Yeah, I mean I started gymnastics at the age of three. I-“

“Tell me about your parents, Lance?” you weren’t fooling around. You had done your research. His father fucked anything with a pulse while his mother ploughed all of her energy into crafting Lance’s career to a tee.  

Lance shot you a concerned look. “Why are you asking about my parents?”

“Well you wanted my readers to know the real you. I think they’d connect with you more if they knew about your tragic back story,” you pressed.

“Well there’s not much to tell,” he sighed, “my mom was your typical pushy parent. I was never good enough for her. Even after the gold. She’ll never be proud of me. I think she just hated men after what my father did… She always turned a blind eye. And then my father… when he wasn’t busy sleeping around with girls half my mom’s age, you know… Gymnastics isn’t all that masculine.” He was coy, his voice tinged with pain.

That was the first tiny steps towards the evidence you needed for your story. Somewhere in your stony heart though, you could relate to that. Your dad was an award winning journalist; overbearing but never praise giving. And your mother? She was just as bad. Her no boy rule during your teenage years had left a dent in your self-esteem causing you to latch on to any man who showed you the slightest bit of attention. But this wasn’t about you.

You gathered your thoughts and continued.

“So would it be accurate to assume that your insatiable need for female attention stems from your mother’s lack of affection? Or are you just a chip off the old block, like your father?” you asked.

You hit a nerve. He slammed glass down with a clatter. His eyes traveled your body up and down. His expression darkened, his tone defensive, “and whose attention are you trying to get?”

You backed up on your stool. Was Lance Tucker really that good at reading people?

He took your phone and stopped the recording. “You wouldn’t meet someone like me, dressed the way you are, if you weren’t expecting to gain something. Let’s be honest,” he smirked.

“I don’t you know what you’re talking about,” you said coldly.

Lance smirked: “You’re not the first reporter to try to get the drop on me. I’m guessing it all stems from your father, it always does.”

He hit you where it hurt. All these years you hid that insecurity behind big hair, tight dresses and red lipstick, taking down powerful men by flirting with them. It served you well but you hated yourself for it; you knew deep down you lacked real talent.

And now you sat, slightly buzzed from the tequila and slightly embarrassed, completely quiet. Your face was flushed and your mind was blank. Lance knew he had won. There was no way your story would make it to print now. You couldn’t fathom a response.

You snatched back your phone, holding it in folded arms.

“For what it’s worth though, you are, by far the most beautiful reporter to try it,” he drawled, leaning in close enough for the scent of lime to be burned into your nostrils. “I mean, I love gymnasts. They’re always so desperate for attention, for approval themselves. But I truly do love a girl with a little fire in her belly, you know? Like she has something to prove.”

Your inner monologue couldn’t keep quiet. He was definitely getting hit with a restraining order when this whole ordeal was over. “Can we just get back to the interview?” you asked.

As if by magic, the bartender set another two tequilas in front of you both. Lance picked his up. “One more and I’ll answer anything you want, Lois Lane.”

You nodded uneasily.

“I read your article with that crooked senator. You’re pretty good,” Lance said after a gulp.

“I thought you didn’t care too much for The Times?” you asked.

“I don’t. Girls like you belong on Fox News is all I’m saying. Brains and beauty,” he commented.

How original. It still sent heat pooling to your chest. “You’re lucky I’m not recording this,” you said rolling your eyes.

Your bravery was returning.

“So tell me more about this little power trip you’re on,” Lance sighed. He paused, resting his head on his hand, studying you. “Do you get off on ruining men’s lives?”

“Do you get off on impregnating 18 year olds?” you quipped not missing a beat.

Pleased with yourself, you downed your drink.

He hooked a leg around your stool and pulled you in so that your face was barely an inch from his. His eyes were blank pools of nothing. It was unnerving but you couldn’t stop yourself from being glued to them.

“Not as much as I get off on being worshipped like a god,” he snickered, “and I think all this tough girl bravado is a cover for what you really get off on.”

He was right. You weren’t sure if it was being talked down to like this, or if it was the tequila but you had already bridged the gap between yourself and Lance, the taste lime on Lance’s lips seared over your tongue. You felt the chill of a hand ghosting along your thigh, as you were pulled closer by another.

It wasn’t romantic and it sure as hell wasn’t pretty, but before you knew it, you were back at your apartment with Lance in tow.

He completely engulfed you, pressing you against your door, teeth and lips roaming over your neck leaving trails of red and purple in their wake.

“You’re a terrible fucking journalist,” Lance murmured, yanking the neckline of your dress lower, taking your bra with it, exposing one of your breasts.

“You’re a terrible fucking person,” you sighed, shivering as he bit down on your skin again.

Lance began moving lower, eventually ending up on his haunches. His strong, elegant hands pushed up the hem of your dress as he looked up at you. “That’s what they all say.”

Your mouth dropped open as the Olympian went to work between your legs.

Lance quickly snatched down your underwear, briefly smug at the damp spot that had formed on them. His tongue met your slick slit, lavishing it with long and languid strokes. Those strokes soon turned to ravenous sucking as he lapped your soft pink folds into his mouth. All the while his fingers left pale imprints on your hips, pulling you into him. Not that you needed him to. You were so overcome with need that you writhed over his mouth. You reached for the door frame to steady yourself.

Lance was completely wordless aside from satisfied moans as he coaxed timid sighs from you. Even though he eyed you intently, you could barely bring yourself to look at him. He loved the quiet girls the most.

You threw your head back, cursing abruptly, just as he traced a featherlight circle around your clit with his tongue. Then he began to pick up the pace, flicking the tip of his tongue over that little bundle of nerves.

But you really started to let loose when Lance slipped one, then two, fingers inside you. He began curling them forward, working in time with Lance’s mouth, stroking just the right spot inside you. You rolled your hips in response, howling in total ecstasy.

Just as your release was in sight, Lance tore his mouth away from you, his fingers still squelching away at your cunt. A needy whine escaped you.

“You wanna cum?” he taunted.

You couldn’t help but focus on the only contact your pussy was receiving. You bucked and squirmed as he slowly fingered you but it just wasn’t enough. “Yes please,” you sighed quietly, still not looking at him.

“I’m gonna need you to do a little something for me then,” he said rising to his feet.

You bit your lip, sinking back against the wall with his fingers still inside you. He loomed over you. He expected an answer.

You nodded.

He slipped his fingers away and sat himself down on the staircase, beckoning for you to kneel down in front of him. There was no love there; this was Lance Tucker in his element. “It’s not gonna suck itself,” he remarked.

He was absurd but it brought you to your knees all the same. You crawled to him.

“I’ll even get it outta my pants for you, here,” he said impatiently, undoing his zipper, his signature tattoo on display.

You wrapped a hand around his thick, veined shaft. Drawing your tongue over the underside of his, you tried to coat it with as much saliva as you could, catching salty little glimmers of precum as you went. You could understand now why so many women were just dying to fuck Lance Tucker as you eased as much of his cock into your mouth as you could possibly take. You gagged a little on the first pass as you struggled with his girth but you quickly acclimatised. He gave a contented groan as you settled into a steady rhythm, taking more and more of him each time and pumping a hand around whatever you couldn’t.

“Atta girl,” he cooed, “now look at me, I wanna see those beautiful eyes.”

His cock popped from your mouth leaving a thin thread of spit clinging to your lips. Through your lashes you looked up at him with glassy eyes. You began teasing his swollen tip with your tongue, dancing over it in swirls.

“That’s it,” he sighed, snaking his hands through your hair with a slight pressure, “keep going. Take it all the way down for me.”

Hesitantly, you began easing Lance’s cock back into your mouth, his hand still guiding your head further and further down until there wasn’t an inch left to take. You let out a muffled mewl in a mix of enjoyment and discomfort. And then his hand gripped your hair again.

Now he was in control of how you were using your mouth. Slowly pulling you up and down by your hair. He was never particularly rough, but your jaw ached. But still he lay, sprawled across your staircase, fucking himself with your mouth and making you wait.

Just when the pain was becoming unbearable, you got your first sign that Lance was nearing his climax. His breaths grew erratic, those low growls of his hitching in his throat. Not to mention his grip on your scalp had tightened substantially. He was nearly there. You could do this.

He continued to taunt you until the very end. “You gonna swallow every fucking drop?” he moaned, knowing full well you couldn’t answer through your mouthful of gold standard dick.

All you could muster was a quick, “mmmmf,” and widened eyes before great ropes of cum coated the back of your mouth and found their way down your throat.

You didn’t miss a drop. Partly because Lance made sure you didn’t.

When his grip loosened and you were free to catch your breath, you couldn’t help but see that same smirk playing on Lance’s lips.

Without a word he stood up and put his cock back in pants.

He wasn’t going to make good on his end of the bargain. This realisation dawned on you when he walked past you, two steps away from the door.

“Where are you going, Lance?” you asked, attempting to mask the need in your hoarse voice.

He paused, his back to you. “Did you honestly think I’d fuck you?” he asked with a laugh.

“What?” you questioned, the annoyance building in your tone.

“I had to make sure you didn’t publish your story. You know? The one you interviewed Maggie for?”

You never told him you interviewed Maggie or any of the other girls.

“But I-“ you began in protest.

“You can’t even quote me. You got too close to your source. It’d be unethical,” he sneered. Turning towards you, his last words were these: “If that journalism career doesn’t work out, I reckon you could make a lot of money giving head to the male gymnastics team though. How about that?”

And then he left.

The following morning you woke up. Your mouth was dry and your throat felt like broken glass. A pang of panic and a wave of shame washed over you as you remembered what you did the night before.

You compromised your integrity. Wasted two weeks of work. Had your source’s dick stuffed down your throat in your hallway.

Lance was right, you truly were a fucking terrible journalist.

You stretched your arm out towards your nightstand, picking up your phone and lazily looking through all of the interview files you had accrued over the course of researching your story.

Then you saw it. A second, longer, file from last night. It was four hours long. You couldn’t remember recording anything past Lance snatching your phone from you.

You scrambled upright and hit play on the file.

At first you heard the bustle of the bar. And then your conversation.

It was then that you realised you had unknowingly caught Lance’s admission.

But you couldn’t use it. It was unethical.

Plus you sucked his cock on your staircase. You were sure that was on the file too.

You skipped the file on. It was.

You were confronted with a dilemma that could secure your journalistic glory or finish it completely.

REQUESTS // MASTERLIST

Tags: @ceebeetumbles @lady-thor-foster @hisredhenley @almondbuttercup @daddysebastians @mrtinslydia 

[glassesofroses]

Limerence || Chapter 4

After the absolutely exhausting day of meetings, planning, and making coffee for herself so she could stay awake, Olivia finally dusted off her bag from this morning and started packing up her things. Phone, check; laptop, check; wallet, check; keys, check. She took one last look around her office to make sure she didn't forget anything like she normally would, yet today seemed okay. She closed her office door behind her with a soft thud and headed down the quiet hallways towards the elevator.

6:28 pm.

"Fuck," She whispered to herself, she was supposed to leave an hour ago to pick up Harrison.

She knew his friend's mother, Lacey, didn't mind much as her son was an angel but she still felt like she was overstepping her boundaries. Lacey was her second friend in Boston, years after Jeremy. They had met at parent-teacher conferences about two years ago as she was campaigning for more parents to sign up for the PTA. Though Olivia wasn't particularly interested or had the time, she still made the effort to at least try to go to the meetings and participate in her son's life. Lacey was absolutely ecstatic that someone was interested as they hadn't had a new member in a year and their quota of parents was running low. Olivia didn't become an honorary member but she would willingly help out whenever she could, keeping her schedule filled to the brim with things to accomplish.

She pulled into Lacey's short driveway and hustled to the front door, opening it with a slight knock on the door. Boys giggles echoed throughout the cozy home with the smell of garlic bread and spaghetti wafting down towards the entrance.

"Lacey, I'm here! I'm so sorry again about being late, I completely lost track of time!" Guilt practically sewed in her words.

Olivia's heels clicked onto the wooden floor and her child came into view playing video games. Olivia smiled and headed into the kitchen as she knew that's where Lacey would be, she always did love cooking.

"Lacey, so so sorry," She gushed, opening her arms to give a hug to the sauce covered woman.

"Don't even worry about it, Harry actually helped me today to clean the kitchen a little, sure I bribed him with some ice cream, but it's the action that counts," Lacey laughed, returning the hug before getting back to dinner.

"This is the last time, I promise," Olivia told her, sitting down to an already waiting glass of wine for her.

"You totally said that last time," She said non-accusingly.

"I think you know me a little too well," Olivia mumbled before taking a small sip of the red liquid in front of her.

"You guys know that you're welcome to stay for dinner right?" Lacey shouted over the hum of the kitchen fan.

"Would love to but I have a date with the man playing video games in the living room," Olivia shouted right back.

The front door opened once more, the sound of boots drawing nearer to make way to a tall man in the doorway. Lacey's husband, you could say he definitely looked like a younger version of Hugh Jackman, and who wouldn't want that? They both grinned at each other, and as if it was a romance movie, they ran into each other's arms in a loving embrace as if they hadn't seen each other in years. This was something Olivia wanted, true love. Lacey and her husband Max had a kind of relationship you would only see in Sarah Dessen novels.

"I think it's time to go before I see something I don't want to," Putting her drink down, barely touched, and stood up to stretch.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner? You're more than welcome to," Max said, his arm secure around his wife's waist.

Nodding her head, Olivia responded, "I'm positive, thank you though, will definitely take you up on the offer soon."

"Please do," Max smiled before turning back to his wife.

"Harrison! Let's go! We got a date with dinner!" Olivia shouted, heading towards the living room.

"Where are we going?" The game stopping immediately, something that rarely ever happens.

"Where do you want to go? Don't say sushi, we know what happened last time you had it." She smirked at her son.

"Bon Me?" He grinned, hurriedly getting off the couch, completely leaving his friend Jace.

"You really want to go there? Place with healthy food? Are you feeling okay? What did you eat today?" Jokingly putting the back of her hand on his forehead.

"I'm fine, I just want to go there." He shrugged, putting his backpack over his shoulder.

"Mhm, sure, you have another motive. But I won't complain, we haven't been there in a really long time and I'm craving noodles. Win-win." She dug her keys out of her purse once more and they were on their way, saying their goodbye's.

When the two got there it was nearly seven and the place was almost empty. Approaching the line they already knew what they wanted.

"Ali's pho and spicy ginger lemonade, please," Olivia smiled, knowing how hard the retail and food industry is.

"I'll just have the k-town throwdown and the un-Thai iced tea," Harrison grinned, learning from his mother how hard the retail and food industry is.

Olivia swore under her breath when she saw the tall drink of water walk through the door, "No fucking way."

"Mom, you have to put twenty-five cents in the swear jar now, it only goes towards a vacation to Cabo."

"First of all, you need to put ten dollars in the swear jar, and second the trip isn't to Cabo its to Paris and you know that." Ducking behind her son.

"What are you doing?" Harrisons eyes wide as people started looking at them.

"Chris Evans is here," She hissed in his ear, slowly bringing him towards the food pickup lane, "I knew we should have gotten the food to go."

"Chris Evans?" His face lit up, he looked around until he saw the hunk of meat standing in line behind a smaller man.

"Don't you work with him? Why are you hiding?" Harrison laughed, trying to turn around so she would be spotted.

Harrison knew damn well why. He knew that no one knew she had a son. It was purely for the social status of the workplace thing, being a woman was hard enough in a very masculine work environment, being outed as a single mother would be a lot harder for her.

"You're right, I'm an adult for Christ sake, I like him, I trust him...for the most part. I can do this," She whispered to herself, she turned around so she wouldn't be facing him and fixed herself upright as her name was being called. They headed to their table with food in hand. In Olivia's case, her hands were shaking, she knew he was looking at them. Oh god, she hoped he didn't think she was dating her kid, or babysitting him, that would be the worst.

Chris' head turned around to see if it was her, and he saw her with a very very much younger man, almost a boy. He scrunched his eyebrows together, he didn't recall her having a younger brother or a nephew. Maybe she was babysitting someone? He finished ordering and followed them to their table.

"Olivia?" Her head snapped up, face as red as a tomato.

It was happening.

[autobunch-blog]

2018 GMC Sierra Denali 1500 First Drive – Trucking Around Out West

TTAC recently spent some time out in rural Utah, where GMC was keen to show off the 2018 Sierra Denali’s capabilities in both towing and everyday driving. Does the soon-to-be-replaced luxury pickup have what it takes to get the job done? That depends on the options boxes, and which ones have been checked. (Full disclosure: GMC flew me to St. George, Utah and paid for hotel accommodation and meals. They also provided ATVs for riding in the sand dunes, and paid for entry into Zion National Park. I was also offered a Nike GMC baseball cap which I didn’t take, and some off-roading goggles which I did.) Ace of Base Perhaps surprisingly, GMC’s lineup of Denali testers were not all loaded to the max. In fact, only two of the six test vehicles had the big 6.2-liter V8 in them, while the rest made do with the base 5.3-liter engine. I know how the BB just hates when testing is of the high-zoot nature, so it was just fine when I was assigned the 5.3-equipped White Frost Tricoat Denali. No huge wheels, no Ultimate Package, no rear entertainment, no automatic step. Matthew Guy would be most pleased. The four-wheel drive tester’s only options were the metallic white paint ($995), sunroof ($995), and the trailer controller ($275). The destination charge of $1,295 brought this vehicle’s total price to $59,560. Let’s get going. Towing

GMC says 70 percent of Sierra 1500 owners tow with their truck, and 40 percent of them do it more than once a month. The automaker loaded up two Polaris RZR side-by-sides on the back of each truck, explained how to tow things without crashing, and sent us on our way to the Coral Pink Sand Dunes State Park.

On the road with between 5,000 and 6,000 pounds on the back, all testers were well within the Denali’s 9,100-pound tow rating. Though the trailer controller option was present, our trailer did not have brakes. Slowing for stops in a controlled and constant way wasn’t a problem, but having that sort of length behind the truck takes some getting used to (first-time tower, here). The 5.3-liter engine has been in the GMTs for generations now, and in present state has 355 horsepower and 383 lb-ft of torque, sent to an eight-speed automatic. For lower speeds around town, the additional weight behind didn’t pose a problem. But on any incline or highway situation, I found myself wishing for more power. A foot hard down was required on an entrance ramp with a moderate incline. In that moment, the thought of having the 6.2 in front of me was most appealing. Once up to speed, the rig felt stable and confident between the painted lines, even if the driver wasn’t. Lane keep assist will nudge the wheel in the correct direction if you go astray, but it’s not too invasive and can be switched off via a switch on the dash.

We made it to the dunes without incident, but I can’t see any serious towing owner selecting the 5.3 for regular hauling. Spend the ~$2,000 for the 6.2 and enjoy your Towing Stuff Lifestyle and a higher resale value down the road. Looking Around

The blocky, masculine looks of the Sierra Denali is a familiar sight on roads by now, and that hasn’t changed for the 2018 model year. New paint colors (silver and red) coat the squared-off fenders and straight lines. The pearled white paint made for a clean look (it’s the most expensive paint color), and is a shade GM has done well with across brands. Paint finish seemed good, with little to no visible orange peel.

HiD lamps light the way up front, and Altezza-style LED lights accompany the rear. Dropping the dampened tailgate to the short box reveals the standard spray-in bed liner. Our tester had polished 20-inch wheels, since those are the ones that don’t cost extra. The door handles feel solid, and pull with a reassuring action. Shutting the door from either side of it produces a nice, low thud. And now we’re indoors. Inside

The tester was equipped with the black leather interior option, though light brown “cocoa” leather is also available at no extra charge (would’ve been nice). Analog speedo and rev counters flank the instrument cluster’s center screen to display all the necessary information, which gets slightly reconfigured in tow mode to include a transmission temp gauge. I never wanted for more information in the Denali. On the tech front, navigation is standard and so are Android Auto and Apple CarPlay. There are also outlets of USB and regular variety, as well as wireless charging in the center console.

Buttons are where you’d expect, apart from the pedal adjustment in the center stack. It used to be on the door with the seat memory controls, which seems a more appropriate place. Everything you need is within reach and labeled in an understandable way. I found the seats comfortable and supportive, and both driver and passenger have many adjustments. Heat and ventilation arrive under your backside, though I wished for stronger ventilation. It wasn’t that hot, and not that sunny, and still the seat just felt room temperature ��€” never cool.

Materials in the cabin are varied and don’t all seem cut to the same standard. The leather on the seats is soft and perforated, and the thickly padded dash has a stitched leather appearance. But the graphite-color trim around the vents is hard plastic, and the soft touch door panels at the front don’t extend to the rear — hard plastic back there.

Though my elbow rested on a nicely padded rest in the door, when my hand grabbed for the interior handle it found two roughly cut pieces of plastic, a seam against the back of my fingers. Some similar roughness was on the edge of the door and cargo pocket areas. There is wood trim along the console, but it’s quite artificial, and a bit too glossy. I expect real wood in this class, or at least some faux-matte open pore look stuff. Time to retreat to the back seats.

Leg room back there is much better than older GMT generations, and I had several knee inches to spare with my 6 foot and 32″ inseam measurements. The rear seats are a bit too flat, too upright, and do not recline at all. Thigh support is on the short side, and after a couple of hours back there it got a bit uncomfortable. And hot, because there are no rear air vents. I sat and stared at the blank rear of the center console, where there were no vents, temperature controls, or heated seat buttons — all things I expected on a $60,000 truck. I did use the fold-out center armrest, which was located a bit too high. It also had two cup holders in it, which meant there was little padded room for any limbs to rest. Not Towing

Before sitting in the back, I spent a few hours driving up front, and this time there wasn’t a trailer. The 5.3-liter that’s been at GM for so long has been refined and honed over the generations, and its present NVH is laudable. Idling, it’s a whisper, and nothing is felt through the cabin. Once let loose from its trailer duties, the 5.3 Denali behaved in a much more appealing way. Acceleration was just fine if you pressed the pedal a bit, accompanied by a quiet engine grumble. Shifts from the 8AT were smooth, though I did notice a tendency to upshift a bit sooner than I’d prefer in highway circumstances, especially at slight grades. Unless the paddles are used (they’re there), it forces a stab of the throttle to initiate a kick-down of a couple of gears.

All Sierra Denalis come with GM’s Magnetic Ride Control suspension as standard, and it works. The ride felt controlled through twisty and sometimes narrow roads within Zion National Park, and the truck didn’t bound or ride harshly over the occasional cattle grates. Some of this should be credited to the taller sidewall present on the 20-inch wheels, as those chrome 22-inchers are going to punish when the going gets rough. At speed, wind and tire noise was minimal. Anyone who’s been in a truck of even 10 years ago would notice a marked difference in the amount of isolation here. Steering on the leather-stitched wheel was fairly light, and it was easy to place the truck where desired. As expected in this class, feedback from the wheel is suitably minimal.

Another unobtrusive feature was the cylinder deactivation. Under light loads and on flat grades, the 5.3 will switch off half the engine block and run as a V4. The only way this was perceptible was when the green “V4” logo came up on the dash. In fact, the engine had been running in 4-mode for probably two minutes before I noticed — completely seamless. And the deactivation needed to be there, because the trip computer reported that after 155 miles of mixed and fairly gentle driving (at an average speed of 37 miles per hour) fuel economy stood at 15 mpg. That’s at the low end of the EPA estimate of 15 city, 20 highway, and 17 combined. Overall, there’s a case to be made for this Ace of Base Sierra Denali. Said case makes sense for someone who doesn’t tow regularly, likes the present Denali styling and standard features, and doesn’t see the need for the 6.2-liter engine or the whiz-bang features of the $6,775 Ultimate Package. It’s a comfort and luxury truck for the seldom-towed path.

Bonus picture of these bighorn sheep, six of which walked right up behind me as I was taking pictures of the Sierra. Read the full article

[bruceeves]

“Work # 961: Six Works Seven Anecdotes”

When accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958, Harold Pinter said that “there are no real distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily true or false; it can be both true and false.” What I propose here is to engage with six works I created over the past three years, a series of works that are mash-ups of gay history, art history, and my history refracted through the mashed-up lens of image abutting image and text atop image. The resulting elements of ambiguity engage memory – not exclusively, but not insubstantially either – and neatly echo the lack of reliability between real/unreal true/false posited by Pinter. “Memory” as Mary Warnock would postulate “operates under perpetual tension: the only way to cope with life is to learn what to forget; the only way to feel one has an identity is to remember.”

  In 2007, after a months-long bout of self-doubt and self-recrimination, I decided to take a booth in the artist sector of the Folsom Fair North to decide once and for all whether or not to throw in the towel. I was interested in feedback more than anything. Aside from earning about 20 cents profit, the one thing I learned from my afternoon spent in Allan Gardens in downtown Toronto is that Leathermen, while supportive, are cheap, cheap, cheap . . .    With success and validation like that, I realized it would be stupid to give up so I resolved to stick around (much to the annoyance of some . . . they know who they are).

  Accepting “Salò: 120 Nights of Sodom” as its personal saviour, “Work # 864: The Nature of God” (2013) looked to Pier Paolo Pasolini’s 1975 enumeration of abuse of power, corruption, sadism, sexual perversity, and fascism as the first work in a series that explored the outer limits of masculine behaviour – a behaviour that is traditionally still expected of the boy before he can be considered fully a man. With titles like “Trailer Trash Terrorism”, “Behave Work Obey”, “Yes I Will Yes”, “Cell Block Bitch”, and “Shhh . . . (How to Conduct a Successful Interrogation – Lessons 1-20)” this is not a series of works intended for the faint of heart. What was done with this series was the antithesis of aestheticizing gleaming muscleboys or exploring the romanticism inherent in male bonding. “Work # 864: The Nature of God” allows that the rigour of discipline often morphs into the disciplinarian running amok. Notwithstanding the fact that this work has been described as ‘the water-boarding piece’ (which is an interpretation that I don’t dismiss), it is a multi-image cum-soaked force-feeding enacting either the predetermined choreography of some arcane sexual ritual or the resolution of cold-blooded revenge – that’s up for you to decide.  

  “Work # 900: (Endeavouring . . . )“ (2014) is masculine behaviour of a different sort – a mash-up of “Hercules Beating the Centaur Nessus” by Giambologna and a slightly abridged line lifted from “The Pickwick Papers“ by Charles Dickens. While it appears to be a meeting of an apple and an orange, the two parts making the whole have a lot in common. Giambologna (1529-1608) was a Flemish sculptor (born Jean Boulogne) based in Italy and celebrated for a Mannerist style of intellectual sophistication and conscious artificiality favouring compositional tension and instability over balance and clarity. It seemed logical to partner a Mannerist sculpture from 1599 with a comic novel from 1836. As in many other Dickens novels the main literary value is the often exaggerated personality traits of his characters. The abridged quote is from a scene when the perennial spinster Rachael Wardle is driven into a state of near-feverish excitement over her botched elopement. The two fragments – sculpture and text – taken together assume a different form of feverish instability by implying a post-modern conflicted relationship willfully engineered by Nancy-boy Nessus to force hunky he-man Herc into delivering the most satisfactorily masochistic pounding. “Work # 900: (Endeavouring . . . )“ could never be construed as a self-portrait. The only thing masochistic about me is my continual insistence on maintaining an art practice; and as far as what goes on, as they say, behind closed doors, I’m far too snotty and opinionated to be anyone’s slave.

  It was after much arguing that this work was finally exhibited as part of a self-described “queer” arts festival hosted by Artscape – a real estate monopoly that is the purveyor of postage-stamped sized “live/workspaces” and studios priced at levels geared to the 1% throughout Toronto – found this union of 16th century image with 19th century words simply beyond the pale for breached the organization’s (previously unknown) family-friendly guidelines . . .

  The fact that it even needs to be stated plainly that “according to the rules of my tribe, being 62 puts me 12 years past my best before date” strategically planted atop a photo of a hot torso in “Work # 904: Twelve Years a Ghost” (2014) should be indictment enough in exposing ageism as the last acceptable prejudice. I guess I must have touched a nerve when the piece was exhibited (by a curator old enough to known better) far enough away and high on a wall in the furthest back corner of the gallery . . . Fine, I’m a sixty-three year old, half lame, three-quarters deaf, widowed gay man with a cardiac condition, full dentures, horrible eyesight and rapidly developing cataracts; I acknowledge those facts. But that doesn’t make me, as is said in Yiddish, ein alter kocker – and old shitter!

  The scenario presented in “Work # 918: Ash [and] Tray” (2014), from the same series as “Work # 864: The Nature of God” and    

                dredged up from deep within my unconscious, was enacted several times over the course of one sultry evening at the Crash ‘n Burn in the summer of 1977. Toward the end of the line for the C’nB, the now fondly mythologized punk rock club brooding in the basement of its overlord the Centre for Experimental Art and Communication (CEAC), the crowd had become distressingly uptown (meaning north of Queen Street). Technically acting as the eyes and ears for the head office upstairs, the perpetrator of the heinous acts was me (drunk) and the instigator (drunker) was one Paul Bartlett (now deceased), a poor little rich boy with impossible-to-resolve daddy issues and (stupidly) the perpetrator’s soon to be boyfriend. That that sultry evening proved to be one of Mr. P.B.s more rational moments was soon to become apparent. That memory is both a weapon and a crutch led Jean Genet to claim that every man guards in himself his own particular wound. I don’t remember when the affair completely fell apart but I don’t think it lasted past that Christmas. To quote Francis Bacon, they say time heals, but I really wonder about that.”

  There’s nothing metaphorical in the least about the title of “Work # 943: Spider Web Sex Machine” (2015), it’s exactly what it says – two panels, one over the other; the top, a photograph of a spider’s web glinting in the sunlight and the bottom a no-nonsense advertising styled photograph of a sex machine. Discovering its existence of such a thing left me with the same sense of unease in not being entirely sure how this baroque contraption accommodates a human body as when I inspected close-up one of the pieces of fucking furniture custom-built for the future Edward VII. One assumes that Mr. Spider has gone out for beer and poppers because the web is as empty and inviting as the sex machine is peculiar and menacing.

  On March 28, 2016 I received the following email with the subject heading “Question about Work # 943“ from a fellow with residences in both Montreal and Berlin: “Hey There, You show a sex maschine [sic] in the Artworkt Nr 943 [sic] called Spider web sex machine' out of 2015. Do you know where to buy that machine from? [sic] maybe you can give me a website or a hint in what direction to go for more information about the machine.  Cant [sic] find any hint nowhere [sic] on the internet so far. Thanx a lot for your help. Greetz [sic] J___ B______ “. Two things came immediately to mind when I read this: 1) this is the first time I’ve ever been sent correspondence from a genuine pervert (cool!); and 2) both the deutchen grammaticus and the fractured syntax made my pants feel too tight. Of course I emailed him at once (!) with a couple of suggestions and that perhaps, if all else failed, he would be interested in purchasing the one-of-a-kind “Work # 943: Spider Web Sex Machine” (2015), which is a work of art . . .

  He never wrote back. Oh well. I tried.

  On an annual school trip to the Royal Ontario Museum before I had pubic hair, I recall lingering behind my other classmates when we got to the Greek and Roman galleries because of one sculpture in particular, a life-sized fragment of a man’s nether region with orange-sized testicles and globular glutes – feeling sweat and convinced I was the focus of knowing glances. I don’t think anyone noticed, but in my mind’s eye “Work # 956: David Was Horny” (2016) is how I imagined I looked staring up at David’s gigantic balls for the first time. It made me wonder whether or not male desire has really changed all that much from 1500 to the present, and while I have long delved into the question of the "gay sensibility", it’s never been either a trip down memory lane or a retreat into the stereotyped suck-and-fuck paradigm. I've positioned myself as an ironic spectator of this world of men ripped from the daily headlines where the 19th century notion of a romantic friendship has been kicked into the gutter. Herein lies the challenge: it is old news that the male body continues to be a provocation; but ironically, a critique of masculinity has gone largely unexplored, and embraces the proposition examined in much of my work that it should be possible to be simultaneously hot and sweaty and critical and detached. It is desirable – even exhilarating – to question the givens of our cultural baggage while at the same time allowing ourselves to be wrapped in its brawny arms.                                                                   Bruce Eves, April 2016

Bruce Eves is an artist living in Toronto. In past lives he was the assistant programming director of the Centre for Experimental Art and Communication (CEAC), art director of the New York Native and Christopher Street magazine, and the co-founder and chief archivist of the International Gay History Archive (now part of the Rare Books and Manuscript division of the New York Public Library).