#harriet records

[joanofarc]

jittery and wobbling, wimp factor 14 (1993).

you are the ice in my tea you hit me like caffeine i am jittery and wobbling

[laventadorn]

i’m now really into this idea that snape is too joyless and depressed to listen to or care about music (brought to you by my many years in the depression pit; we’re Project Projecting here) and as i was amusing myself with this miserable thought, my brain reminded me of this scene in star trek the next generation where geordi finds data sitting in his quarters staring at a blank screen “experiencing emptiness”

i misremembered it as music — it’s actually poetry. still works though — this is what snape could “listen” to.

harriet: mate that’s just….silence?

snape: you may experience the emptiness with me if you wish.

[morismentos]

surprisingly i didn’t have tooo much trouble with him, and some extra grimes for fun and then it kinda spiraled into beach party doodles

my hand writing is a bit messy because Car. so here’s what it say

[Jerry: We’re taking bets on who drowns first Pump: Um.]

[Patrick: Uh. Hey Hector what are you doing? Hector: Mf sand Fleas in my mmouth mhwatchm ptchoo]

[Jerry: Hey guys. Anemone. Who wants to lick it. Pump: ooooo Patrick: oooh i do Harriet: We’re dead, would we even feel it? Jerry: Doesn’t mean we can’t live a little.]

[brokehorrorfan]

Tarot's soundtrack is available on vinyl for $38 via Waxwork Records. Shipping in July, the score is composed by Joseph Bishara (Insidious, The Conjuring).

The 2xLP album is pressed on three-color vinyl. It's housed in a gatefold jacket with matte satin coating featuring art by creature designer Trevor Henderson, an 11x11 insert, and one of five tarot cards by Richard Wells.

[mywifeleftme]

364: Various Artists // Israfel

Israfel Various Artists 1997, Ape

A 1997 vinyl benefit compilation of mostly Middle American grindcore / powerviolence / emo acts, assembled in an edition of about 1000 by Bloomington-based DIY label Ape Records (active 1995 to 2002), in handmade sleeve with a recent release catalogue, a substantial zine, and a few priceless gag inserts (incl. YOUR HARDCORE SELL OUT DECODER RING). I’m not an aficionado of any of the genres Israfel covers by any means, but you’d have to be a real head to know most of these: in terms of notoriety, the Locust (who contribute a 47 second blast of lo-fi outrage) are basically Led Zeppelin compared to the rest of the acts, most of whom topped out with a couple of EPs and compilation appearances.

Of course, hearing music that would otherwise be basically lost to time is the appeal of taking a flyer on a comp like this. One of my favourite tracks is “Untitled” by Roanoke, VA’s the Weak Link Breaks, supposedly the first thing the band ever wrote (and, judging from their discography, nearly the last too). It begins with a very, very quiet spacy-Fugazi-style amble (the vocal harmonies couldn’t be more Ian and Guy) that explodes into a brief screamo-style D-beat section, and then some big heaving riffs that make me want to exaggeratedly lift and stomp my feet like a giant trying to keep his balance. I also dig Murfreesboro, TN’s Serotonin, an emo / post-hardcore act with a steely '80s shred band guitar tone who play like they want people in the pit to twirl around ecstatically instead of slam dancing. A lot of the other nasty yowling cat speedballs on Israfel don’t really catch my ear, but that’s okay—I’m weirdly proud of them 27 years after the fact for being themselves and getting out whatever they needed to get out through this violence.

The package’s tone is all over the place. The zine opens with a haunting description of the compilation’s beneficiaries, the family of a pair of little girls with spinal muscular atrophy (a common birth defect) whose condition worsened until they perished, leaving their parents distraught and financially ruined—and the 21-year-old compiler racked with guilt that he didn’t somehow do more to help. From there, it whips through his heterodox thoughts about the hardcore scene (despicably self-absorbed; unresponsive to requests from label operators); the state of emo (too abstract); the best way to bring about change (working within the capitalist system); rape (it’s bad; consent is black and white; can we stop litigating this in the scene?); calling the cops (fine to do); disrespecting the American flag (played out; tacky); and drinking/drug use (“when did self-destruction become rebellion?”). After he finishes up, each band (that got their artwork in on time anyway) gets a page to talk about themselves. This section is full of old school punk zine/leaflet treasures, with designs that mimic motel newspaper ads, postcards, messy handwritten perzines, and Xeroxed 7” grindcore sleeves.

It's funny reading his scornful words about pseudo-rebellious drunkards stumbling toward “the day when punk rock is shelved for an 8 hour workday, Budweiser, and television” and then finding his LinkedIn, where he describes himself as “driving omnichannel excellence” and as “whimsical (after coffee).” You wouldn’t believe it from the splenetic angst of the Israfel zine, but the guy seems like he turned out happy and normal, with a few kids and a successful career. I wonder how the 21-year-old would see the 48-year-old, if he’d call him a sell-out or feel relieved that things worked out; if the 48-year-old would pity his former self, or feel ashamed about losing his edge. More one-time zinesters and hardcore kids end up looking square from a distance than you’d think (I certainly do if you catch me during the workday), because you usually stop hearing about them when they drop out of the scene. For most, the quiet part of life is the larger portion by far. It’s your choice whether to embrace that, mourn it, or seek your own alternative. But if Israfel reminds us of nothing else, it’s the importance of having a good scream at least once in your life.

364/365

[luminaxplushie]

wanted to do that “my lair as a rainbow” thing i’ve seen going around

[thegabbonessoshow]

For tickets call: 412-339-0608

Show Description: On May 12th at 7pm & 9pm please join "3 Times Voted Best Comedian in Pittsburgh"Gab Bonesso as she returns to Arcade Comedy Theater to record her upcoming album tentatively titled Gab Bonesso: Manic Depressive. Gab is also a Nationally Awarded Mental Health Public Speaker and Children's Performer (the Josh and Gab Show). Throughout her career Gab has used comedy as a way to share her journey with mental health and to promote kindness in schools. Through her work with Josh Verbanets (Meeting of Important People front man), Gab started writing music and has been writing songs for the last decade. Her upcoming album will feature LIVE standup comedy, and original music that will be recorded in-studio. Gab is working with legendary Pittsburgh producer and musician Jake Hanner (Donora) on this project. The idea is to use both standup comedy, original music and other sounds to convey the mind of Gab Bonesso. Josh Verbanets is also working on this project as both a musician and producer. SOME STUFF FAMOUS PEOPLE HAVE SAID ABOUT GAB!!!! Gab Bonesso has been described as "the read deal and f**cking hilarious" by Curb Your Enthusiasm's Richard Lewis. Lizz Winstead (co-creator of the Daily Show) described Gab as a "Superstar". TJ Miller (Silicon Valley) said that Gab was, "an AMAZING alternative comedian and not just in Pittsburgh, like everywhere." Joining Gab on May 12th are Harriet Riley and Alan Olifson. Harriet Riley, a UK native, has become a recognizable presence in the Pittsburgh comedy scene. Harriet's wit, keen eye and hilarious humor about American culture is absolutely brilliant. She is one of the best hosts in Pittsburgh and can be seen every summer hosting the Milvale Music Festival. Gab is so excited to have Harriet joining her for this special night. Alan Olifson is an award-winning humor columnist, public radio commentator, comedian and regular host of Pittsburgh’s monthly Moth StorySLAMs. He created the acclaimed storytelling series WordPlay in his hometown of Los Angeles. He’s hosted storytelling events for conferences, schools and, believe it or not, bridal showers. His book, ManChild: My Life Without Adult Supervision, is now out on Six Gallery Press. Alan relocated to Pittsburgh with his wife and two children years ago but never tires of hearing people complain about “traffic.” Gab is a big fan of Alan and so happy to have him on the show!

[twistingtreeancestry]

J. Harley Garrett-Hyde

Today is my 3rd great-grandfather's 171st birthday, so allow me to introduce you to him!

Harley Hyde, as he seemed better known, was born on 13 Oct 1853 in Greenville County, South Carolina, USA to unknown parents. In a Genealogy.com forum from 2011, a man I'll name as R.T. alleged he was descended from Harley and his only known wife, Harriet C. Cobb. He claimed he received information from a conversation with Hattie E. B. Alexander in 1992. Hattie is the youngest child and only known daughter of Harriet and her second husband, Benjamin Valentine "Tiny" Alexander. According to R.T., Hattie revealed that Harley's birth surname was originally Garrett, but when one of Harley's parents was killed during the U.S. Civil War, he was taken in by his mother's family and assumed his mother's maiden and family name of Hyde. R.T. went on to mention a newspaper article from the Guntersville Democrat that detailed Harley was killed on 10 Dec 1889 in a steam boiler explosion. Another article a week later discussing Harley's land called him Harley Garrett.

While I couldn't locate the newspaper articles, I found a book published in 2016 by Robin Sterling titled People and Things from the Marshall County, Alabama, Guntersville Democrat 1880-1891.

Two entries stood out.

Since both of them lend hefty credence to R.T.'s accounts, I wanted to verify that this was, in fact, my 3rd great-grandfather.

What are the odds it could be someone else? I know, but you'd be surprised! I have a post about Lula Bell Adams, who's not only my great-grandmother but also the wife of Isaac Bales "Brov" Hyde Sr., the son of our very own Harley and Harriet Hyde.

Family trees, amirite?

The verification process began with a 1985 obituary for Lula Bell (Adams) Hyde Traffenstedt that could be personally authenticated. It mentions that she "died at the home of her daughter Dr. Mattie Hyde in Mobile" and later that "she went to visit her daughters Dr. Hyde and Mrs. Lillie Tipton".

Mattie Hyde delivered my mother into this world and was her great-aunt (my 2nd great-aunt). My mother spent many fun times with her and was admittedly spoiled rotten by Dr. Mattie. Lillie Belle (Hyde) Tipton was my great-grandmother. It also mentions another daughter, Bertha, whom my mother also knew, and a son named Robert.

With those links verified, I found a 1910 census that corroborates with the obituary. Isaac B. Hyde was listed as head of household and his wife was listed as Lula B., with their listed children being Bertha M., Lillie B., and Robert E. This census, along with census records from 1900 and 1920, ties Lula and her children to Isaac. I also found marriage records that prove Lula and Isaac were married on 22 Aug 1897 in Marshall County, Alabama, USA.

Next, I tracked down Isaac's death record to prove his parentage. Unfortunately, his father is listed as "DK" or "don't know", but his mother is listed as Harriett Garrett, and his children are listed as Robert, Mattie, Bertha, and Lillie. Even his [step]siblings were listed: Frank [Thomas Franklin] and Cobb [David Cobb] Alexander, and Hattie (Alexander) Mize [Maze].

It's certainly compelling evidence. If it wasn't enough, though, his obituary solidifies the information by again naming all of his children and stepsiblings. Many other records verify relationships between the Alexander children and their father Benjamin to Harriet(t) C. Cobb AKA Harriet(t) Garrett AKA Harriet(t) Hyde AKA Harriet(t) Alexander.

To authentically link Harriet to Harley, I looked at a census from 1880. The head of household is J. H. Garrett, whose wife is Harriett, and whose children are Walter and I.B. This led me to find a death certificate for William Walter Hyde, whose parents are listed as Harvey Hyde and Harriet Cob. Pretty close, but I like to be sure.

I dug around the internet until I finally found an obituary for a Mrs. Harriet C. Cobb-Hyde-Alexander, a definitive match if ever there was one! It names Harley Hyde as her first husband, who was "killed by an explosion of a steam boiler in December, 1889". To add to the gold mine, it also mentions their sons, W.W., I.B., and P.M. Hyde, Harriet's marriage to Benjamin and their children T.F. and D.C. Alexander and Hattie Alexander-Maze.

Sadly, I've yet to discover who Harley's parents were. Some records seem to indicate Harley's first initial, J., stood for Jacob, but I can't verify them. For now, my lineage through him back into the expanse of time remains a mystery, but I'm holding onto hope I'll figure out where he, and I, came from.

If you've read this far, I hope you've enjoyed getting to know Harley and letting his memory live for a few moments more.

Make sure to follow My Twisting Tree of Ancestry for more of my family stories and shares! Until next time, tell me about your mysterious relative!

[sinceileftyoublog]

Walter Etc. Live Show Review: 9/21, Subterranean, Chicago

Walter Etc.

BY KEITH MILLER

Last Saturday, on the downstairs stage of Chicago’s Subterranean, stood a California folk-punk band with a variety of names. As Walter Mitty and His Makeshift Orchestra, they were a traditionally acoustic outfit that, when playing live, tended to plug in. Nowadays, they haven’t broken up but fully embraced their electric side as Walter Etc. They’ve signed to SideOneDummy, toured Europe with Jeff Rosenstock, and opened for Slaughter Beach, Dog at legendary Joshua Tree honky tonk Pappy and Harriet's. Lead singer Dustin Hayes has made some seriously good connections. And now, with Pavement playing four miles south of Subterranean at Riot Fest in Douglass Park, Walter Etc. had nonetheless sold out a tight venue space in order to play 2014's Walter Mitty album Well Soon from cover to cover.

The space got tighter and more intimate as local opening bands What’s Vital and Sunday Cruise delivered their sets, thrilled to play a sold out show during Riot Fest weekend. (The latter especially took the stage with energy, humor, and stellar vocals. They were even kind enough to offer up their setlist, which reads like a poetic heartbroken letter to a meter maid.) But the audience was howling as Walter Etc. got on stage. Well Soon’s opening song, “Compersion,” didn’t exactly bring the house down, but it led into the fast-paced, existentialist “Post Graduation Oblivion,” a song that I--yes--played on repeat immediately after graduating college. Throughout the entire set, Hayes told jokes, laughed with the other band members, talked about the album's significance, and even dissed the slowest song on the album, “Chamomile”, all while keeping the show moving. After the last song came to an end, a track titled “Auntie Earth”, the band kept right on, playing tunes from Walter Mitty albums Overwhelmed and Underdressed and Cliche Definitions of Success. Though Walter Etc. played nothing from the albums released under their current name, the energy and attitude of a punk show was alive and vibrant.

I got a chance to meet Dustin Hayes briefly after the show. He and I have exchanged messages from time to time over Instagram, as we’re both fans of the author Larry McMurtry. I usually send him a message telling him about some new book I’ve read. As I wrote this review, I realized that I forgot to tell him to check out Terms of Endearment. Maybe he’s already read it. Who knows? Anyways, if you have a chance to see Walter Etc. on tour, definitely pop in and say hello. Either way, keep them on your radar. There’s talent and dedication in their sound, and they're a band you don’t want to sleep on.

Sunday Cruise setlist

[unproduciblesmackdown]

speaking of surprise connections when will cited playing mister maccabee in the christmas extravaganza as an inspiration / influence re: playing jimmy armstrong in the panic of ‘29 and did A Voice while doing so, perhaps suggesting a similar tack for jimmy

i was obviously rewatching the baby it’s cold outside wherein he was melvin cooterstein and had a moment like whaaat other character is this voice reminding me of

(answer below) (in case i dunno you want to go guess yourself lol)

mort havel of broadway whodunit escape from camp eerie =) the icon

[amywritesthings]

press four for more options. | part one.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin) Word Count: 4.6k Summary: After seeing your ex with his new girl at a work party, you take the not-so-smart advice from a friend to call a sex hotline to get over him. Your match? A baritone bossy dom named Levi.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - alternate universe (modern), slow burn, eventual smut, sex work, phone sex, dirty talk, dom!levi, light dom/sub Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

part two. | masterlist

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area.”

God, even the automated voice sounds porn-y.

A breathy feminine voice straight out of a 1975 VHS tape croons into the dead air of your small apartment bedroom, setting your nerves on edge.

God forbid the noise travels through the walls into your next-door neighbor's bedroom. Harriet and Miro do not need to hear what you’re up to this Friday evening.

Maybe, up to this Friday evening.

You haven’t decided yet, though one could argue that calling was half the battle.

Dressed head-to-toe in an emerald cocktail dress with a face full of tear-stricken makeup, you feel utterly ridiculous sitting at the foot of your bed — not even the edge of the mattress, but the goddamn floor.

Even your black heels, now scuffed from someone stepping on them on your way out to fetch a cab, remain dangling at your toes.

(As non-committal as your last relationship, ironically enough.)

The experts say don’t shit where you eat. Dating someone you work with typically goes up in flames as fast as a rogue wildfire — and you should have listened to all of the warning signs, but Porco Galliard had been so damn charming that you’d forgotten just about everything.

Including your dignity, apparently, since you seemed to conveniently forget the part where he has had an on-again, off-again relationship with Pieck Finger well before you got hired at this place.

Not exactly side chick behavior, since he technically didn’t cheat, but the sting of being second place before the race even started lingered deep.

(Didn’t you know? He always chooses Pieck. It’s just one of those things.)

Well, no missing that now.

Especially since the two of them were so cozy at the annual shareholder event — right in front of your fucking salad.

The event’s slated to end at eleven so you’ve been nursing a wild array of drinks since seven, with little breaks.

In retrospect, the napkin with scribbled chicken scratch that Annie Leonhart, your closest colleague, shoved into your hand in the midst of your brooding at the bar may have been a joke:

You need to loosen up. Call this stupid sex line and get that stick out of your ass.

She wasn’t kidding. 

Every muscle in your body is too taut, including your brain.

So you took a cab, stumbled into your apartment, and landed — here.

Your phone sits right in front of you next to one of your half-worn heels, on speaker at the lowest setting.

Maybe it’s best to let the pre-recording list the entire numerical menu.

Maybe it’ll deter you from pressing anything at all.

“If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

You tap the napkin carelessly against the stem of your glass of wine, contemplating exactly how Annie Leonhart managed to find the information for this service to begin with.

Did she already have a match?

Did she regularly call them to blow off some steam?

She's always so chill. It would make sense.

There’s a chance this is a nasty prank at your lowest moment, but you don’t think Annie cares enough about other people to plan such a masterful takedown. 

At the work event, she seemed pretty serious about the legitimacy of Scout Services Hotline, and honestly?

Even if you had been drinking all night at the event, you were going to need way more liquid courage to even consider trying your hand at calling a sex line to quell weekend loneliness.

So naturally, you opened a new bottle of wine.

At the first glass of wine, you still weren’t ready.

The second? The napkin sat adjacent to your laptop as you played compilations of sad break-up songs further aggravating your spiraling depression.

The third was the charm to get you to pick up the fucking phone to see what the fuss was all about.

“If you’re looking for someone specific — whether it’s the man, woman, or person of your dreams — press two.”

Tempting.

Your finger reaches out for the ‘2’ on your screen, but you wait it out.

“If you don’t have a preference for your delicious match, press three.”

“You could’ve done without the delicious part,” you mumble to yourself, picking up the glass of wine to take a generous sip. An involuntary grimace tugs at your cheeks.

“If you’re looking to speak with one of our representatives or need more assistance, press four for more options.”

For a solid five minutes you wait.

Contemplating.

Deciding.

You could press the red circle to hang up and go to bed.

It wouldn’t be the first time you rubbed one out and called it a night.

After all, what’s one more lonely weekend?

The spiel starts up again on a loop with the same seductive, breathy feminine voice.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest—”

You smash a button, but you’re not sure which one you’ve clicked.

Before you can lean over to see on your screen, a different feminine voice comes over the speaker.

It’s a little higher pitched than the menu screen voice, but it’s still inviting. Warm.

“Thank you for choosing the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking to Petra. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of the person I’m speaking to this evening?”

A name.

You should give a name that isn’t your real name.

But technically wouldn’t your name be on the credit card if you go through with this anyway?

“You can give a nickname, too, if that makes you feel better,” the woman named Petra adds as if she's a mind reader, breaking the running silence on your end of the line. “A lot of our clients like giving a fake name for security and anonymity.”

“Doesn’t that break once you put in your credit card information?” you blurt, not realizing the thought has spilled on your lips.

Petra laughs musically.

“Technically yes, but if you prefer to be called something, then we’ll be sure to add that to your profile. I take it it's your first time calling.”

Why are you doing this again?

“Painfully obvious, right?” you lament, staring down at the scribble on the napkin. 

Did Annie have a fake name with this service?

“Not painfully at all,” Petra promises. “It’s a learning curve. So what may I call you?”

Real or fake?

Committed or just testing the waters?

“Scarlet?” you suggest, wincing immediately at the on-the-nose literary reference.

Letters, passion, blah blah love — it’s about the only creative thing your wine-addled brain can muster.

“I like Scarlet,” she hums, and immediately your brain is set on fire.

Are you going to be seriously this easy?

“Are you female, male, non-binary, genderfluid, prefer not to say…?”

“Female.”

"Pronouns?"

"Um, she and her."

“And you’re over eighteen?”

“Definitely over eighteen.”

“Perfect. So, Scarlet — did you have a preference on who you wish to speak to today? If you have a fantasy you wish to fulfill, then I can select someone for you.”

You want to scream.

Neurons fire as you try to come up with a cool and collected answer, only to allow the elixir of truth on your tongue to spill the beans.

“Just someone who’s got their shit together, honestly.” You exhale an awkward laugh. “I don’t know. I’m just calling because — I mean, I know you don’t care, but I like… um, deep voices? Stronger voices. Honestly I have no idea what to—”

“I have just the person.”

You pause.

Blink.

But you didn’t even describe anyone, not really.

A voice, maybe, if they cater to kinks of that nature.

You can only imagine they do — it’s a sex hotline, for crying out loud.

“Wait, you do?”

“Mhm!” she perkily states. “Is a man alright for this evening?”

A man with a deep voice who allegedly has his pretend shit together.

Granted it isn’t the opposite of Porco, he’s fairly capable at his job and out living his life just fine, but maybe you were just looking for a copy.

(Or a clue.)

“A man is… fine,” you hesitate. “Wait, so when do I give you my credit card information? My friend hooked me up with this, um — I don’t know if you have her name or if I should even say it, I know there’s probably some confidentiality—”

“Hold that thought,” Petra interrupts cheerfully. “You get the first fifteen-minute session for free, actually — you called just in time before our first-timer coupon expires.”

You can’t hide your surprise.

“Really?”

“Really!”

Ha, your fucking luck.

“If you're enjoying the call, just tell your match and we can set up your card and keep it going. All we ask is that you take a survey after your session. Then you’ll be in our system with this phone number! We’ll never solicit you for calls, but it’ll make the process faster the next time should you call our hotline again.”

You drop your head back on your mattress, sighing heavily.

“...okay, yeah. That sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure.”

“Give me one moment, Scarlet,” Petra giggles.

You hear something shift on her side. 

Maybe she’s swiveling her chair. Are they located in an actual office building?

God, an office where people just do this for a living sounds larger than life.

“I’ll connect you with your match in a moment.”

Then the line cuts out to the opening notes to Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On, and you’re pretty sure you’re this close to chugging the rest of this bottle in one gulp.

“Is this seriously what you do on weekends, Annie?” you mumble to yourself, enduring the brutality of the waiting music while Petra connects you to your alleged match.

A man with a deep voice who has his shit together.

Is that even a real kink?

Has the bar really gotten that low?

Should you have described someone’s appearance? It wasn’t like it mattered over the phone.

As soon as it gets to the high note of the song, the line cuts again — silence.

Immediately you scramble to sit up taller, your hands fumbling to grab the phone from the floor.

You bring it up to your face, cupping the device in both palms to muffle the noise if it becomes downright pornographic in seconds.

Moment of truth.

With bated breath you wait — the person on the other line sighs, heavy and deep, before answering with the most nonchalant tone.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re speaking with Levi. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Holy fuck.

Immediately you forget your own voice listening to the hum of the receiver.

While you’ve only joked in passing that you have a voice kink, it’s screaming in neon lights here and now: this man’s voice may be monotone, but there is a growl to it. 

A rumbling.

At this very moment, you completely forget that this man is on speaker phone and you’ve just returned home from the worst work event in the world.

You don’t have an ex-boyfriend.

You don’t even know your home address.

You’re simply… existing, lips parted, taking in the sheer tingle rolling through your torso.

“You there?”

Right, you’re meant to talk back.

“Huh? Oh — yes! Yeah,” you recover poorly. “Hi. It’s, um, it’s Scarlet.”

“Mm, Scarlet… Scarlet, Scarlet, Scarlet…”

The way the name drags along his tongue nearly makes your mouth water. 

His voice — Levi — is smooth, like the velvet on your dress you’ve yet to take off.

“A pretty name for a pretty thing like you.” Something ruffles and Levi makes a small noise on the other end, likened to a cut-off hum. “Tell me what you look like, Scarlet.”

All you can do is stare at a chip in your wooden dresser directly across from you, listening to him speak.

“I’m…” 

What do you even say? 

How come you have to say anything at all? 

Can’t he just read a takeout menu to you and call it a night?

Before you can answer, there’s an amused huff. “Someone’s nervous.”

Your face turns — well, a certain shade of scarlet.

“Ha. Sorry, I’ve—”

“Never done this before?” he finishes for you.

How mortifying. 

“Is it that obvious?”

“It’s cute,” he relents, and you feel your face turn a degree hotter. “Don’t worry — I’ve been told I’m a great teacher, so you’re in good hands.”

“You’ll have your work cut out of you, trust me,” you breathe, feeling like you’ve been injected with an overdose of a truth serum. “Because I just got home from this stupid work event. My ex-boyfriend brought his new girlfriend — who also works with us — as his date — yay, me — except I feel like I was the side-piece-in-waiting for them. So he’s off getting laid and I’m calling a complete stranger on a random Friday because my work colleague recommended this phone sex hotline for a quick solution.”

Silence.

You blink twice as dread settles in your cut. You tap the phone off of speaker and push the device close to your ear, balancing it with your shoulder.

Did you scare him away? 

Was that too much of a depressive dump? 

You suddenly want to crawl under your bed frame and hide there forever.

But then — a gentle chuckle sounds from the other end of the line, and arousal shoots straight to your lower belly.

“Good thing all of the dirty talk is my job, then,” he muses. “You’re supposed to lay back and listen.”

“Listen?”

“Yeah, unless you weren’t looking to get bossed around.”

It isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever heard, that’s for sure.

“If I’m honest with you, Levi, I don’t know what I’m looking for,” you confess, running a hand down your face.

“Then let me figure it out for you. We have time.”

The man calling himself Levi pauses on the other end.

“Did you want to get fucked, Scarlet?”

Well, shit, he didn’t have to say it like that.

“Yes,” you blurt without thinking, then fumbling to recover. “I mean— Sorry, clearly I called thinking about sex, and your voice is extremely lovely and actually very hot—”

“Oh, you think so?” Levi interrupts, honey-smooth voice humming with amusement with that same hum that’s going to make you scream.

“Absolutely. Completely. Are you serious?” you sputter. “You’re like an ASMR wet dream.”

“A what?”

“A wet dream?”

“No, the other thing — ASMR?”

“Um, like when people make really niche quiet noises to a microphone with their mouths, and it gives you the tingly sensation in the back of your head.”

“Interesting,” Levi says. “So are you saying that’s what I do to you?”

For the umpteenth time, your brain blanks.

God, you could scream into your pillow.

If you weren’t so afraid you’d forget to mute your microphone first, then you already would be.

“Yes! — I mean, yes, but — wait, can we just pause this for a second?”

For a moment he doesn’t answer, but the tone of his voice shifts: still just as sultry, but with a hint of confusion and a dash of concern. 

“Of course. Is everything alright?”

No, this entire night is weird.

If you don’t say something, then this is going to just keep looping and wasting his time.

“Okay,” you start, mustering the courage to get through your speech, “I know I’m spoiling the first-caller coupon for a free call and I’m sorry, I’ll totally pay for the session since you’re great and sound insanely hot and I’m sure you’re amazing at your job, but I just…” 

You trail off, collecting your swimming thoughts.

“...I’m something like six or seven drinks in, I am craving potato chips, and I’d really like to just talk to someone for a few minutes.”

There.

It’s out in the open, your confession to the liminal altar.

You half-expect him to hang up rather than wasting his time with someone like you, but to your surprise, there is no click. No call ended. No new automated message.

“Six or seven is a lot,” he comments, and you can picture a brow furrow even if he doesn’t have a face. “Does this mean you handle your liquor, or is this a one-off rager?”

“I think I’m only still functioning because I ate my weight in dinner rolls at the party.”

“Do you have a glass or bottle of water near you?”

The switch up lessens the tension in your shoulder blades in an instant.

His voice is just as crooning, deep and inviting, but it’s nice to simply be asked.

“Nope.”

His voice sharply changes, authoritative and firm. “Then go get one.”

The demand does something to you. 

Without thinking twice you begin to rock up on your heels, standing at full height.

“Okay, Mr. Bossy.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks with a sprinkle of sarcasm. “Someone who has their shit together, if I read the notes right.”

“They write that stuff down?” you ask genuinely, minding your step as you pad barefoot across your apartment to your fridge.

“It’s your session,” he reminds softly. “We do whatever it is you want to do.”

“Even if it’s just to talk?”

“You’d be amazed at how many people call just to talk. Though I can’t say it’s my specialty.”

“No?”

“No. I’m not much of a small talker.”

The refrigerator door swings wide. “What’s your specialty, then?”

“Kink play, mostly. Dom and Sub. Guided masturbation. Edging. Making decisions for people who want to forget about making them for a while.”

One second the bottle of water is in your hand.

Next it’s on the floor.

“That’s, uh… a wide array of specialties,” you say. “And your rate, it’s…?”

“Not cheap.”

“Got it. So I’m really flubbing this free call.”

It’s small, but you hear a chuckle on the other end. “You said you wanted to talk, Scarlet, so we’re talking.”

Bending to grab your water bottle, you untwist the cap.

“Does this bother you, wasting your time talking?”

“You’re not wasting my time, Scarlet,” he says with such a promise that you almost believe it’s genuine. “You have a pretty voice, and you’re funny.”

“Shut up.”

“You do, and you are.”

“Uh-huh. And do you talk to a lot of people during your shifts?”

“That’s confidential.”

“So a lot.”

“Confidential.”

“And the length of calls,” you test, “are they hypothetically confidential, too?”

“It’s per minute, so.”

“Per minute?” you gawk. “Jesus, I’d go bankrupt talking to you.”

“Well, premium members receive bills per half hour,” he explains. “More bang for your buck.”

“Quite literally," you mumble. "And what’s a premium subscription get you?”

“Didn’t you check out the website before calling?”

“I told you I stumbled out of my cab and called the number on my napkin, Levi,” you chide. “I didn’t exactly do my research in my sexually frustrated state.”

“Fair, can’t blame you there.”

There’s something of a grunt on the other end, like he’s stretching his arms over his head.

Maybe he’s sitting in an office chair, too, going through the motions of his profession the same way the Petra lady had been.

You keep wanting to imagine what he’s doing on the other line, but you realize you haven’t asked the titular question yet.

“Hey, Levi?”

“Yeah, baby?”

It’s breathy, a roll of thunder in his tongue.

Instead of an office chair, you imagine a man lying on his bed.

Maybe his tie is half-done, hanging loosely around his neck.

Button-down open, exposing the planes of his chest; dress trousers unbuttoned and loose around his hips, so he can easily slide a hand—

Whoa.

You stop walking back to your bedroom and blink twice. “Oh, so you like pet names.”

Your face, in miraculous humiliation, grows another degree hotter at how amused he sounds with himself. “I never said that.”

“Sure,” Levi replies with a smirk to the concession. “What is it, Scarlet?”

(Maybe you’ll permanently change your name to Scarlet after tonight if it sounds this good on a man’s lips.)

You finally unzip the side of your dress and wiggle out, before finding a cozy spot in the middle of your mattress.

“How much time do I have left on this freebie?”

“Approximately three minutes.”

Time flies when you’re too busy gawking over someone’s voice, apparently.

“Can I ask what you look like?” you finally decide, playing along.

“I’m surprised it took you this long to ask,” Levi responds, returning to that same seductive tone he’d used when he first picked up the line. “Black hair, guess it’s a little shaggier than usual. Undercut.”

You squint to your ceiling. “I’m thinking of Dimitri from Anastasia right now but with black hair.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“You’ve seriously never seen Anastasia?”

“It’s a movie?”

“Oh my god, Levi, I’m so sorry for your childhood.”

“It’s an animated movie?” he scoffs. “Even worse.”

“You wound me,” you joke, pressing a hand over the cup of your beige bra. “What color are your eyes?”

“A gray-ish blue,” he tells you. “Sharp nose. High cheekbones. I’m a daily gym go-er, so I’m mostly lean muscle. I can probably pick you up, easily.”

So a fit man with an undercut hairstyle with gray-blue eyes and a relatively sharp face. 

Now you have a face to the image of a man lying on his bed, still in that button-down shirt and dress trousers.

His happy trail is probably dark, too, disappearing just under the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Or boxers?

Maybe nothing.

Your hand moves on its own accord to the waistband of your panties, toying with the fabric.

Contemplating.

Wondering if it’s wrong — when it really shouldn’t be wrong at all.

“You sound handsome,” you murmur. “I wouldn’t mind being picked up.”

“Wouldn’t be the only thing I’d do to you,” he flippantly states, and your brain blanks to pure putty. “You sound a little more winded than before. Doing alright over there, party animal?”

“It’s late,” you lie even when you damn well know you don’t have to lie. “Lots of drinking, first water of the night, lying down…”

“Better make it two waters before you fall asleep,” Levi states. “That’s an order, Scarlet.”

“Uh-huh.”

Your hand dips under your underwear, testing the waters.

But—

“Final sixty seconds,” he adds. “Any last words you want to get in before the line disconnects?”

“Only one minute left?” you protest, ripping your hand out of your underwear to pull the phone away from your ear.

14:02

So it really had been a fifteen-minute call.

God damnit.

Tapping the speaker icon once more, you stare at your phone and press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“What’s your extension?”

Because you have to know.

Even if you don’t call again, it’s a comfort to have it on hand.

Levi waits a moment before responding.

“Two-five-one-two.”

2512.

You swipe away from the call to quickly pull up your notes app, tapping the number down with a noted reminder: the guy with the hot voice!

“Are you going to call me again, Scarlet?”

You open your mouth, but you struggle with an answer.

(You only have a few seconds! Think, idiot, think!)

“I’m not sure if—”

Click.

“Hello? Levi?”

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. Please stay on the line for a quick two-minute survey so we can better serve your fantasies in the future.”

Out of time.

You drop your phone to your stomach and groan.

Instead of calling back, you close your eyes — and, not before long, fall asleep to a dream of only one voice.

.

.

— —

.

.

    Saturday is a wash.

You wake late, missing an invitation to brunch.

For the better half of the day, you wonder about him.

Levi.

Your arbitrary match that doesn't feel so arbitrary anymore.

(It's placebo effect, you tell yourself. They're supposed to make you feel wanted.)

Punishing yourself for your excessive liquor and stupid plans, you trudge to your local gym and do your best to stay focused on your workout.

Every nameless person with dark hair that walks past you on the sidewalk from your apartment; anyone could be him.

The man waiting in line at the coffee shop.

The man who accidentally walked into you while you were switching the song on your playlist at the crosswalk.

The man weight training in the corner of the room, fringe cascading down his face as he drips sweat.

You keep the napkin in your gym bag, then transfer it to your purse as you run errands.

You could call.

It isn’t like you’re strapped for cash at the moment.

Granted it’s very wish fulfillment and it isn’t like he’s actually into you, but the attention is nice.

Besides — you haven’t thought of your ex once since you woke up.

Annie texts you twice within ten minutes of each message, which is unheard for her.

 [A. LEONHART]: So? Did you call?

[A. LEONHART]: Hello, earth to moron. At least like my message to tell me you’re alive. I’m not being interviewed by Dateline for you.

(Ah, there she is. Classic Annie.)

 [YOU]: Yeah, I called. Not sure if it’s my thing.

[A. LEONHART]: Sometimes they match you with a dud. 2nd time’s the charm ;)

[YOU]: Do you ever use someone’s extension?

[A. LEONHART]: Duh. I’m a regular of one guy.

Okay, so she talks to a guy. Something grips your stomach as you type your reply.

 [YOU]: Can I ask his name?

[A. LEONHART]: Why, so we don’t eiffel tower this?

[YOU]: jfc annie

[A. LEONHART]: lmao his name is Bert

    So not Levi.

For some odd reason, you breathe a sigh of relief as you close out of your messages.

Maybe you're one of a million, but at least you're not sharing with Annie.

Once you return home from your errands, it's close to dinnertime.

You cook something simple for yourself, occasionally glancing over at your purse like you can x-ray vision through the fabric to see the napkin.

Then again, it isn’t like you actually need the napkin.

The number is already in your phone.

Pulling out your device, you set it on the kitchen counter and draw a slow, calculative inhale.

One more call can’t hurt.

Levi may not even be working.

Hell, he could be talking to someone else. 

A regular.

Several regulars.

For over five minutes you stare down at your most recent calls list, willing yourself to just get brave for one second to press the button.

(It isn’t like Porco’s going to call you.)

The soured thought propels your hand without thinking, fingertip pressing the green phone icon faster than you can think. 

You brace for the ringtone, fists balled tight on the cool kitchen surface.

“Thank you for calling the Scout Services Hotline. You’re only a dial away from your wildest fantasies with the sexiest singles near your area. If you already know your match’s extension, press one.”

You continue staring.

Are you really doing this?

It isn’t like it means anything, which is exactly what you need with the upcoming work week.

A distraction.

A very expensive distraction, but hey — you’ll avoid takeout for a few weeks.

How bad can it get?

“If you’re looking for someone specific —”

You press one.

.

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading part one of my zany little 'Sleepless in Seattle' modern au! This has been a bluesky idea for a while now, and I needed a little reprieve from my other angsty Levi longfic silver underground, so I hope you enjoyed the ride.

There will be actual smut in part two, but as a Reader!Writer I had the thought of 'would I be suave enough to do the first phone call flawlessly or totally waste my free coupon'? and this chapter was born, lol. I promise this is not Porco slander.

Thank you for likes, and even more love to those who choose to reblog this to help spread the word of this new series or reply in the comments. ilu xo

[joanofarc]

yr version of cool, mad planets (1997, 1999).

i’m tired of wanting what i don’t have fuck you for flaunting your version of cool

[bdk1902]

Jaune’s Type

“So, Fearless Leader.” Nora said to Jaune.

“Yeah, Nora?” He said, reading his book.

“What type of do girls do you like?”

“Type of girls?”

“Or men? I don’t judge. Just don’t be a bigot about it.”

“Nora, no. I’m straight.”

“Oh, okay! So which type of girls do you like?”

“Well, I’m into older women.”

“Oh like Velvet and Coco.”

“Way older.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

That’s when Jaune closed his book, and turns to his energetic teammate/friend.

“Because older women tends to be more mature, more experienced, and can handle more than just simple tasks. I love women that can be by my side both physically and emotionally. I want women, not little girls like Weiss, and Ruby.”

“I feel like you just offended both of them.”

“My point stands, Nora.”

“…You can just admit that you’re into girls that can Ara ara you.”

“I told you that in confidence!”

Unbeknownst to them, they were being recorded.

“So Jaune loves that type of women, huh?” Glynda Goodwitch heard through her Scroll, and texted her group.

“Ladies. We have a blonde cutie to seduce.”

——————————

Winter look at the message, and smiled.

“Sorry, sister. But I’m stealing your man. He’s into older mature women anyway. Mother, pack your bags! We’re going to Beacon!”

“I saw the message! Give me 5 minutes!”

——————————

“Sorry, Ruby. Mama’s going to ‘talk’ to your friend~.”

——————————

“Vernal, get your weapons. We’re going to Vale.”

——————————

“Emerald! Neo! We have a new mission!” (I imagine Emerald is in her early 20s, as well as Neo and Cinder.)

“Does it involves Jaune?”

“Yes.”

“Oh fuck yes.”

Neo pulls a sign. ‘Finally! We get to fuck a stud!’

——————————

“Harriet! We got a message!”

“I saw! And I’m not getting sloppy seconds, Elm! We’re going to Beacon!”

——————————

“Kali.”

“Sienna.”

They both look at their scrolls.

“I’ll disband the White Fang if you let me share.”

“Deal.” They both shook hands.

——————————

“Sorry, Oz. But I found a new stud~.” Salem smirked.

——————————

“…Why do I feel like I’m about to get fucked, both in a good and bad way?”

“You’re just imagining things.”

“Mr. Arc. Please head to the headmistress’s office.” Came from Ms Goodwitch’s voice announcing megaphone.

“…You were saying Nora?”

Nora shrugged.

[todaysdocument]

Letter from the National American Women Suffrage Association to Senator Charles Dick

Record Group 46: Records of the U.S. SenateSeries: Petitions and Related Documents That Were Presented, Read, or TabledFile Unit: Petitions and Memorials, Resolutions of State Legislatures, and Related Documents Which Were Tabled

[handwritten] Harriet Taylor Upton

National American Woman Suffrage Association.

MEMBER NATIONAL COUNCIL OF WOMEN.

Honorary President, Susan B. Anthony, 17 Madison Street, Rochester, N.Y.

[handwritten] 4

President, REV. ANNA HOWARD SHAW,

7443 Devon Street, Mt. Airy, Philadelphia, Pa.

Vice President at Large, CARRIE CHAPMAN CATT,

205 West 57th Street, New York City.

Corresponding Secretary, KATE M. GORDON,

1800 Pyrtania Street, New Orleans, La.

Recording Secretary, ALICE STONE BLACKWELL, 3 Park Street, Boston Mass.

Treasurer, HAPRIET TAYLOR UPTON [handwritten circle around name], Warren, Ohio.

Auditors {LAURA CLAY, Lexington, Ky.

CORA SMITH EATON, M.D., Masonic Temple, Minneapolis, Minn.

National Press Committee, ELNORA M. BABCOCK, Dunkirk, N.Y.

NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS, WARREN, OHIO. Nov. 17, 1904.

[stamp/seal partially illegible]

...grahical

UNION LABEL 2

...

Hon. Chas. Dick,

Akron, Ohio.

My dear sir;-

Well, now that the election is over and that

it was as much of a surprise to you as to any of us laymen,

I hope you can and will give your attention to a matter

about which I am writing. Please use our influence to have

the [begin handwritten underline] Territorial Committee strike out either the word sex [end handwritten underline]

in the clause of the Statehood Bill which classes women with

criminals and lunatics, or the whole paragraph. Some people

say if the word sex is stricken out it will foce the Ter

-ritories to consider the question of woman suffrage. Of

course I should not mourn if this were done, but I am not

asking the Territorial Committee to do anything so radical.

Territories have been admitted in the past without any such

clause, and, although it is true that we are politically

classed just this way, somehow it looks a little worse when

we see it in black and white. It is wonderful how stirred

up the conservative women, the club women, woman of missio-

ary societies and all that are over this action. I know

that if you reply to me that you will give this matter your

attention, you will do so. I am therefore not sending any

words in pressing you or in presenting any arguments to you.

Nobody knows better than you do that women of the great

southwest deserve something better than this classification.

Most truly yours,

[handwritten signature]

Harriet Taylor Upton

[garpond]

happy birthday to neil young here are some of my favorite things about him

-by the age of 20 he had owned 3 different used hearses, all of which experienced some form of extreme mechanical failure that caused him to have to get rid of them

-in buffalo springfield whenever he had to go out on a date with a girl he'd tell his friends about it beforehand so that they could interrupt the date to tell him he needed to be somewhere and was late so that he could be allowed to leave

-hated going in grocery stores because he would get overstimulated and have to leave

-didn't like how the first pressing of Comes A Time sounded so he bought 200,000 of the first copies of it and used them as shingles for a barn roof

-when one of his tour buses was destroyed (i forget how) he had it brought to his ranch and buried on the property like a beloved family pet

-his early ambition before music was to be a chicken farmer

-when he and carrie snodgress where dating she'd have a ton of people over sometimes and it gave him anxiety so one evening he decided to open the living room window and crawl out of it to get away from people instead of walking through the room to get to the door because apparently he couldn't wait that long and everyone saw it

-another time he randomly showed up at a neighbors' house and they didn't really know why he dropped in all of the sudden because he wasn't very social and it turns out it was because his manager had set up a meeting for him with the band America and he didn't want to do it so he was hiding

-during buffalo springfield he would hide in peoples closets a lot

-once he was guitar shopping with stephen stills and when he was offering on a guitar stephen offered more money on it to try and get it and it pissed him off so he started bidding higher to kick off a bidding war between then and once it was up to a ridiculous amount of money he just dropped it and was like ok you win lol ! and stephen had to pay an insane amount of money for it

-during one filmed interview with MTV or something he decided to fuck with them by adjusting the position of his hat super slightly every couple seconds so that when they cut the footage together and shifted things out of order it would look confusingly different every time

-during the recording of deja vu he lived by himself in a motel but he brought his 2 pet bush babies (named Harriet and Speedy) and they scared the shit out of Graham Nash

-gave a stranger he met like a week ago unrestricted access to his finances because the guy claimed he was going to help him buy a boat and the guy ended up stealing a couple thousand dollars

-during last buffalo springfield concert he was the only person who was not even remotely sad and on the way home jim messina was literally crying and neil was just like :] the whole way

-one year on his birthday at the ranch there was going to be a party and it was a tradition to have a bonfire at it so he went out into the woods to get sticks for it but somehow managed to grab a bunch of poison oak and it was used at the fire and after that he was not allowed to gather bonfire sticks anymore

-while filming the lincvolt documentary he met a trans woman and when he was interviewing her to ask for her opinion about the car she told him that what he was doing with it was a big change and he should probably ask for the car's permission to do it and he actually did do this later

-"everybodys rockin" originated as an r/maliciouscompliance type of project because while he was on geffen records Old Ways was rejected and the label asked for a "rock and roll album" and this was his response to that

-the infamous Eat A Peach incident

-there is much more but this is all i can come up with rn

[mybeingthere]

Phyllis Shafer, born 1958 in Buffalo, N.Y.

Phyllis Shafer’s lyrical landscapes, set in the high altitudes around Lake Tahoe and the deserts of Arizona, are a remarkable change from the urban world that the artist inhabited for most of her life. Shafer, who spent many years in New York and San Francisco, now paints her deepest feelings with accents of swirling, sensual cloud formations.

“I use the land as a metaphor for the human condition,” Shafer says, expressing admiration for how Native Americans have done so for centuries. “When I’m out there, I feel just like one more cactus or pine tree in the landscape. That’s where the soothing reassurances come from on a psychic level.”

From "Living Off the Land" by Harriet Modler