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pagebypagereviews · 4 months ago

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Paulo Coelho Biography Paulo Coelho, born on August 24, 1947, is a celebrated Brazilian author renowned for his novel "The Alchemist." His works, rich in spiritual and philosophical themes, have captivated millions globally. Biography Attribute Details Full Name Paulo Coelho de Souza Pronunciation KWEL-yoo, koo-EL-yoo, -⁠yoh, Portuguese: [ˈpawlu koˈeʎu] Date of Birth 24 August 1947 Nationality Brazilian Profession Lyricist, Novelist Membership Member of the Brazilian Academy of Letters since 2002 Notable Work The Alchemist (1988) Notability His novel "The Alchemist" was an international best-seller. Early Life Early Life of Paulo Coelho Paulo Coelho was born on August 24, 1947, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, into a family of devout Catholics. Raised in the vibrant city, Coelho's early life was marked by his rebellious spirit and an intense desire to become a writer. As a teenager, his unconventional career aspirations and challenging behavior led his concerned parents to commit him to a mental hospital on three separate occasions. Despite these turbulent experiences, Coelho's early years laid the foundation for his future success as an author. Before fully committing to his writing career, he explored various fields, working as an actor, journalist, and theatre director. His eventual travels as a hippie through South America, North Africa, Mexico, and Europe broadened his horizons and profoundly influenced his literary work. Family Paulo Coelho's Family table width: 100%; border-collapse: collapse; th, td border: 1px solid #dddddd; text-align: left; padding: 8px; th background-color: #f2f2f2; Relation Name Information Father Pedro Queima de Coelho de Souza Pedro was an engineer in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. He had a significant influence on Paulo's early life, raising him in a strict Catholic environment. Mother Lygia Coelho Lygia Araripe Coelho was Paulo's mother. She was part of his strict Catholic upbringing and was involved in the decisions regarding his education and career path. Sister Sonia Coelho Sonia is Paulo Coelho's sister. There is limited public information about her, but she is known to be part of his immediate family. Height, Weight, And Other Body Measurements Paulo Coelho Body Measurements table width: 100%; border-collapse: collapse; th, td border: 1px solid black; padding: 8px; text-align: left; th background-color: #f2f2f2; Attribute Measurement Height Not Available Weight Not Available Other Body Measurements Not Available Note: Detailed body measurements for Paulo Coelho are not readily available from the provided sources. Wife/husband / Girlfriend/boyfriend Paulo Coelho's Relationships table width: 50%; border-collapse: collapse; margin: 20px 0; table, th, td border: 1px solid black; th, td padding: 10px; text-align: left; Paulo Coelho is currently married to the Brazilian artist, Christina Oiticica. They got married on 1980. Christina Oiticica is best known for her exotic neoconcretist technique. The couple has been together for several decades, supporting each other in their respective artistic endeavors. There are no widely documented previous relationships or marriages of Paulo Coelho before Christina Oiticica. Below is a summary of his known relationship: Name Type Details Christina Oiticica Wife Married since 1980 Career, Achievements And Controversies Paulo Coelho: Career, Achievements, and Controversies Paulo Coelho became internationally famous with the publication of his second novel, The Alchemist. This book has been translated into multiple languages and has sold millions of copies worldwide, making it one of the best-selling books in history. Coelho's ability to weave rich symbolism and spiritually motivated journeys into his narratives captivated readers globally.

Before dedicating his life to literature, Paulo Coelho worked in various fields including acting, journalism, and theatre direction. Despite his parents' lack of encouragement, Coelho pursued his passion for writing. His first book was Hell Archives, but it was The Alchemist that skyrocketed him to fame. Other popular works by Coelho include Brida, Eleven Minutes, The Devil and Miss Prym, and The Pilgrimage. Crystal Award - World Economic Forum Golden Book Award - Yugoslavia Chevalier de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres - France Grinzane Cavour Book Award - Italy Golden Book Award - Yugoslavia Cross of Honour for Science and Art - Austria Paulo Coelho's career has not been without controversy. Some of the notable controversies include: Political Activism: Coelho has been a political activist since his youth, which has sometimes put him in contentious positions. Accusations of Plagiarism: Over the years, Coelho has faced accusations of plagiarism, although none have been conclusively proven. Censorship: His works have been banned in some countries, primarily for their spiritual and philosophical content, which some authorities found controversial. Faq Paulo Coelho FAQs body font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.6; .faq-container max-width: 800px; margin: 0 auto; padding: 20px; .faq margin-bottom: 20px; .faq-question font-weight: bold; .faq-answer margin-top: 5px; Who is Paulo Coelho? Paulo Coelho is a Brazilian author known for his internationally acclaimed novel "The Alchemist." He was born on August 24, 1947, in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Coelho's works often explore themes of spirituality, destiny, and personal growth. What is "The Alchemist" about? "The Alchemist" tells the story of Santiago, a young Andalusian shepherd who dreams of finding a worldly treasure located in Egypt. The novel is a philosophical book that emphasizes the importance of following one's dreams and listening to one's heart. What other books has Paulo Coelho written? Besides "The Alchemist," Paulo Coelho has written numerous other books, including "Brida," "Eleven Minutes," "The Devil and Miss Prym," "Veronika Decides to Die," and "The Zahir," among others. His works have been translated into more than 80 languages. Has Paulo Coelho received any awards? Yes, Paulo Coelho has received several awards and honors for his contributions to literature. These include the Crystal Award by the World Economic Forum and the Golden Book Award in Yugoslavia. He was also inducted into the Brazilian Academy of Letters in 2002. Where can I find more information about Paulo Coelho? You can find more information about Paulo Coelho on his official website, various literary websites, and by reading his books and interviews. His social media profiles are also a good source of updates and insights into his life and work.

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readingforsanity · 2 years ago

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The House Across the Lake | Riley Sager | Published 2022 | *SPOILERS*

The New York Times best-selling author of Final Girls and Survive the Night is back with his more unexpected thriller yet.

Casey Fletcher, a recently widowed actress trying to escape a streak of bad press, has retreated to the peace and quiet of her family’s lake house in Vermont. Armed with a pair of binoculars and several bottles of liqour, she passes the time watching Tom and Katherine Royce, the glamorous couple who live in the house across the lake. They make a good viewing - a tech innovator, Tom is rich; and a former model, Katherine is gorgeous.

One day on the lake, Casey saves Katherine from drowning, and the two strike up a budding friendship. But the more they get to know each other - and the longer Casey watches - it becomes clear that Katherine and Tom’s marriage is not as perfect and placid as it appears. when Katherine suddenly vanishes, Casey becomes consumed with finding out what happened to her. In the process, she uncovers eerie, darker truths that turn a tale of voyeurism and suspicion into a story of guilt, obsession and how looks can be very decieving.

With his trademark blend of sharp characters, psychological suspense, and gasp-worthy surprises, Riley Sager’s The House Across the Lake unveils more than one twist that will shock readers under the very last page.

Casey Fletcher is a 36-year-old former actress from New York City. Working primarily in theater, and dabbling in movies and sitcoms, Casey was born into the industry thanks to her parents, a producer and her mother, Lolly Fletcher, a famous actress. 14 months ago, Casey’s husband passed away accidentally during a drowning at Lake Greene, where her family had had a lake house since the 1800s. Since then, Casey has been dealing with her husband’s untimely demise by drinking heavily, whilst staying in the confines of the lake house at the behest of her mother after she destroyed her career by appearing on stage drunk.

When the novel begins, Casey rescues Katherine Royce, a former supermodel who owns the largest home on the lake, directly across from Casey’s own lake house. She spots Katherine face down in the water, and rushes to save her. Although when she arrives, it appears Katherine is dead but she quickly comes too. She brings Katherine back to her home, and returns to her own.

She begins drinking heavily, and finds her husband’s binoculars, once purchased during a brief stint as a bird watcher. Now, she uses it to begin watching the homes across the lake. Other than the Royces’, there is Eli, the only person who lives on the lake fulltime, who is a novelist way outside of his prime. Once a week, Eli travels into town and brings Casey back essentials, including alcohol, and Casey makes him dinner. During their weekly tryst, the Royce’s join them after dinner drinks. Tom Royce, a social media tycoon having built a very successful app, brings along a $5,000 bottle of wine. After Katherine seemingly gets drunk very quickly and collapses in the grass, they leave.

The next morning, Katherine texts Casey to apologize for the night before and Casey invites her over for coffee. When she arrives, she begins stating she hasn’t been feeling like herself for a while, often finding herself dizzy and when she had been swimming across the lake, she somehow felt like her body had given up on her. The two women appear to be getting along great, and a friendship seems to be forming. When Katherine returns home, Casey begins her daily ritual of drinking and watching the happenings across the lake.

During this she meets Boone, who is living in and fixing up the house next door, an A-frame belonging to retirees the Mitchell’s. Boone is a recovering alcoholic, who wanted to introduce himself as he will be staying in the house for a few weeks while he does the work, and it seemed like the two of them could strike up a friendship. When she doesn’t reciprocate this notion, Boone takes his leave.

Later that evening, still sitting and drinking on the porch facing the lake when she notices Katherine across the lake, seemingly spying on her husband’s laptop. She appears to have found something interesting, and when Tom catches her, they quickly go back to bed. At the same time, Casey catches a naked Boone standing on the pier behind the Mitchell’s, and she does what she can not to pay attention to the gorgeous man lviing in the house next door to her. But then her attention returns to the Royce’s, where she sees a fight happening. Her drinking keeps her from fully understanding what is going on.

The next morning, she tries texting Katherine and then calling her to invite her over for coffee once again. But, her calls and texts go unanswered. When she goes across the lake, she is met with Tom, who tells Casey that Katherine has returned to their New York City apartment that he had discussed the first night they met, and he isn’t sure she’ll be returning for the rest of their designated stay, claiming she was concerned about the weather that was supposed to be coming at the end of the week, though she had told Casey the opposite.

Casey returns home and calls her cousin, fearing that Tom has lied and something more sinister has happened to Katherine. Marnie agrees to go to the apartment complex, while Casey begins searching social media for any trace of Katherine. An Instagram post shows that she posted an hour ago from their apartment, just like Tom claimed he had after he confessed that they did have a fight and she left, but Marnie calls back and says that the doorman of their building stated that neither of them have been to the apartment in weeks as they’ve been staying at their vacation home out of state. Casey is now sure that something more sinister has happened to Katherine, and that she is missing. She brings this up to Boone, who calls a state police detective friend of his named Wilma Anson. Having been a police officer himself, he has connections within the department.

Wilma assures them that there is likely nothing happening there, and that more concern for Katherine’s whereabouts have to come from someone who is closer to her in order for something to be done. The next day, Casey decides to take matters in her own hands when she joins the app Tom created, and finds Katherine’s location is pinging at the home across the street. When she sees Tom pulling away from their house, she goes on foot to his home and enters through the unlocked back door. She finds Katherine’s phone, engagement and wedding rings, along with all of her clothes still inside the house, perfectly contradicting that she had left on her own free will. And on the laptop, she finds other incriminating evidence, including articles about herself, and a man who had been convicted of slowly poisoning his wife to death.

Casey is sure that Tom is doing just that: poisoning his wife through the wine he provided to drink the other night which would account for Katherine’s strange behavior. Boone agrees that things seem strange, and when they witness Tom returning with rope, a hacksaw and other strange items, they call Wilma back in. They also provide her with a piece of wine glass that Katherine had dropped and that had shattered during their rendevouz that first night. Wilma takes it ensuring that they will go ahead and have it tested.

Now that they are concerned about Tom being involved in Katherine’s disappearance, they also note that he may have been present at the time of the disappearances of three other young women, who seemingly disappeared without traces. When Wilma begins questioning Tom, they know now that this is likely because he may have been in the area around that time.

Boone and Casey return to her lake house, and Casey finds some of the things he is saying strange, like how he had known Katherine despite him saying otherwise. When Casey tells him to get out of her house, he resigns and does so and Casey calls Wilma. Wilma explains that his wife had died, and that he is a good guy, having been investigated for his wife’s strange death after she had been found at the bottom of their stairs and found after he returned home from a shift. But, he had been found to have done no wrong in his wife’s murder, and let go. But his own drinking caused him to appear on the job drunk, which he got suspended for and he never returned.

Casey now thinks that Boone could be involved in all of this somehow, especially after he lied about Katherine and their relationship. While it was purely platonic, it could have been more and Casey finds herself upset that she had been attracted to him. Her usual nightly ritual once again begins, and the storm that was threatening the area finally arrives. When Casey sees Tom leaving with a thermos full of soup to the house next door to his that is currently uninhabited, Casey’s curiosity gets the best of her. She crosses the lake during the rain storm, and finds her way into the house through an unlocked window. What she finds in the basement is Katherine, tied up and bound, looking so unlike herself that Casey isn’t quite she it’s even her.

However, Tom must have noticed her arrival and appears at the door, saying that he should have left well enough alone because what she is about to find out is going to shock her, shock her so badly she may not even believe it. Eli told a story during their bonfire that says that sometimes lakes hold the souls of those who have died there, and that those souls sometimes make their way back to the world, and this is exactly what happened to Katherine. Katherine is now Len, Casey’s husband who died 14 months earlier. In order to prove it, after Casey requests to speak to Katherine/Len alone, Len says that he knows that Casey killed him.

It is here we learn what truly happened to Len: wanting to agree with Len that they should move to the lake house permanently, she was going to tell him during their moonlight glass of wine by the lake that evening. Len asks her to go into his tacklebox inside the basement to retrieve a lighter they could use to start a fire, Casey goes downstairs to get it when she finds three driver’s licenses with locks of hair attached, these belonging to the three missing women. In this instant, Casey finds out that her husband is a serial killer and that he is the reason they are missing and presumably at this time, dead. Casey confronts him on the boat, after slipping some antihistamines in his drink. Len, fighting for her forgiveness, isn’t aware that Casey is going to plunge him into the freezing cold waters of the lake, and Len will be too tired to fight for his life. Len’s body washed ashore the next day, presumably having drowned after falling off the boat during an early morning fishing excursion.

Casey has hid this, and it has eaten at her for over a year. And here he is: in the flesh of Katherine talking to her. She brings him back to her lake house, where she plans to end his life, but he begins to fight back. Eli finds them in the midst of a struggle, and Casey is forced to explain everything. Eli confirms this with Len, in Katherine’s body. She comes up with a plan, and tells Len that she will let him go if he reveals the location of the three women. He does so. In order to save Katherine, Casey kisses Len deeply, his soul embedding itself into her instead of Katherine. When Katherine comes too, Casey is still herself enough to explain that she is taking care of everything, and plunges herself into the cold waters. However, Len releases himself from Casey and she is saved by Katherine, similar in fashion to how Casey saved her.

Together, Casey, Katherine and Tom come up with a story that Katherine had been found after she had gotten lost in the woods, and Tom had mistaken her leaving for her actually leaving him which was why he hadn’t reported her missing to the police. Wilma acknowledges their story, but then remembers that Katherine said she had been feeling strange for a while, and realizes that Tom HAD been slowly poisoning her in an attempt to kill her in order to take her money. Tom realizes that Casey must have found this out and comes to attack her, but not before Casey called Wilma back to let her know what was going on.

Casey kills Tom in self defense, but once again, Len is able to inhabit his body. This time, Casey drags Tom’s body out of the water and kills him to ensure that Len’s soul won’t inhabit the waters any further and that he will move on and never come back.

Casey also gives Wilma the locations of the three woman who had been reported missing. Their families are able to receive closure. Casey gives up drinking, and begins a relationship with Boone, repairing her relationships with her mother as well as her cousin Marnie in the process. Along with Eli, the six of them have regular dinners together at the lake house, where Casey now lives full-time. After Len’s crimes surfaced, Casey essentially became a pariah to the world. Katherine returned to modeling, and they are now known as the “Merry Widows”.

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bitter69uk · 3 years ago

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Anyone else watch the juicy BBC doc Lady Boss: The Jackie Collins Story (2021) last night about the glitzy life and times of the late mega-selling queen of the raunchy ��bonkbuster”? (It will be viewable on iPlayer now). Collins, of course, enthralled millions of readers with her unrepentantly salacious exposés of the sex lives of the rich and famous and died in 2015. My quick thoughts!

Lady Boss is most compelling exploring the prickly, complicated and competitive sibling rivalry between Jackie and her older sister Joan “Alexis Carrington Colby” Collins. Jackie had originally aspired to be an actress but quickly realized she could never compete with Joan in that field. After carving her own niche as a best-selling novelist, she was understandably miffed when in 1988 Joan signed a £2 million book deal to write a novel! I wonder if Dame Joan thinks she emerges from the doc well.

I loved how the doc stylishly employed excerpts from the campy TV mini-series Lucky Chances (1990) (starring Nicollette Sheridan as Collins’ fierce heroine, mobster’s daughter Lucky Santangelo) to comment on the action.

Collins’ long-term agent carefully selects his words, describing her as a great “storyteller” rather than a “writer.” I’m always interested in how efforts like this assess the quality of “low-brow” work. Like in Tim Burton’s 2014 biopic Big Eyes about Margaret Keane, he entirely ducks whether we are meant to think Keane’s paintings are objectively “good” or should be taken seriously. Lady Boss never asserts Collins’ novels should be reappraised as art, but it does claim they contained a feminist message (which goes unchallenged).

Lady Boss (which is authorized by Collins’ daughters) also treats her as if she invented the wheel, when in fact she was part of a long tradition of critically reviled but top-selling steamy novels like Forever Amber (1947) by Kathleen Winsor or Peyton Place (1956) by Grace Metalious. The film never tackles how Collins fits into that lineage. How did Collins’ output, for example, compare to that of her peers like, say, Sidney Sheldon, Harold Robbins or Judith Krantz? Lady Boss recounts how Collins became an instantly recognizable international literary celebrity by adopting an ultra-glam public persona for herself (heavy on the hairspray, shoulder pads and animal print) and marketed herself as a brand. Yet weirdly it never once mentions her obvious predecessor, Jacqueline Susann! Clearly Collins used Susann as a template for success?

Some of the musical choices are startling and inspired – especially when we see old home movie footage of a bikini-clad Collins dancing overlaid by the track “Vitamin C” by Krautrock band Can!

And finally: if you’re of a certain vintage, the entire documentary will remind you of the “Lucky Bitches” parody by French and Saunders.

/ Pictured: portrait of Jackie and Joan Collins by Annie Leibovitz, 1987 /

#lady boss #jackie collins #joan collins #bonkbuster

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tteokggukk · 4 years ago

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welcome to my youtube channel → kth

✳ pairing: idol!taehyung x youtuber!reader

✳ genre: fluff, taehyung scenario, stranger to lovers, reader is an artist who posts art videos on youtube

✳ warnings: none!

✳ words: 2.9k

✳ a/n: hello, this is my second bts oneshot/scenario. i just like to write for fun but if you’d like to let me know if there’s anything i can improve on please do so! i’d love to know how to improve. anyways, i hope you enjoy!

"Hey guys, welcome to my YouTube Channel."

You spoke in front of the camera. Sets of acrylic paint were spread out across the table next to a stand that held an 18x24 inch canvas. You were in the middle of making your seventeenth video, a highly requested one at that, and deep down you were ecstatic to start working on the painting.

Never in your life did you think you would ever start a YouTube account. You always considered yourself a very shy and private person, not one to go out of their way and broadcast themselves all over the internet. Your best friends, however, were two very well-known YouTubers and always found a way to include you in their videos and live streams. Somehow people liked seeing more of you, and so you were convinced by your best friends and the audience to start your own YouTube channel.

But you weren't very accustomed to bringing a camera everywhere with you to document and share whatever was happening in your daily life, you found it too awkward and you were still camera-shy, so you decided to create content in a way that would still keep you comfortable while doing something you loved.

An art channel.

Your channel blew up pretty fast. Requests started pouring in here and there. You became known for your very calm demeanor and artistic skills, so you took this as an opportunity to sell your works online as a way to earn some extra money for your future. Occasionally, you'd do lives to talk to your fans and you were happy at the support they showed you, which only encouraged you to keep making videos.

"This was a highly requested video, and I honestly can't wait to get started," you told the camera, mentally telling yourself to insert the comments and messages you got in your DMs to paint this Adonis-like human being. The requests started coming in after you had an Instagram live where you did some quick sketches while playing some of your favorite songs in the back, and people noticed one of the songs you played was by him.

"You guys also asked if I could sell this painting, but because of the "high demand"," you spoke, adding air quotes, "I'd like to keep it up for auction so the proceeds could go to different fundraisers."

You started mixing different colors in your palette and showed everyone the picture for your reference.

"So, without further ado, today I will be painting Kim Taehyung."

"Hey guys, welcome to my YouTube Channel."

Taehyung watched as you spoke in the video, looking behind you to see a bunch of art materials. The title of the video was left ambiguously, only being named most requested video, leaving him no clue on what it was you were going to create this time.

He's been watching your videos for quite some time now, ever since your channel started rising. Art was one of his major interests and he absolutely adored the way you made your videos with the calming, ASMR-like sound of mixing paint and how you skillfully glided the brush across the canvas. On days when he found himself tired and in need of a quick way to relax, he'd subconsciously find himself binge watching videos on your channel— even repeating several videos since you were only starting. He found it fascinating, but also because he found you interesting.

Because of your channel, he even created an anonymous YouTube account just to leave nice comments on your videos along with a private Instagram account to be able to watch your lives.

Needless to say, he didn't miss that one live where you played the song Winter Bear. It made his whole night, making him sleep with a smile on his face.

"This was a highly requested video, and I honestly can't wait to get started."

He watched as a bunch of comments started appearing onscreen popping up one by one as they gradually got faster, eventually covering you. It took a moment before it sunk in that he was the highly requested person they wanted you to paint. He paused the video, wide-eyed, before shouting in excitement. Jimin had to come in and check what the whole commotion was about.

"Y/n's going to paint me!" Taehyung exclaimed, his mouth turning into his famous boxy smile.

"Ah, the YouTuber you really like?" Jimin smiles before sitting down next to Taehyung who continued playing the video, "I wanna see."

"You guys also asked if I could sell this painting, but because of the "high demand", I'd like to keep it up for auction so the proceeds could go to different fundraisers."

"Wow, she seems really kind," Jimin says, while Taehyung only nods, his eyes glued to the screen.

"So, without further ado, today I will be painting Kim Taehyung."

He felt his heart beat fast when you mentioned his name, and without realizing it his ears have gone all red.

On screen, you began sketching, "You guys have also been sending me a lot of questions lately, which is why I decided to tweet about doing a q&a."

"What questions did you ask?" Jimin asked Taehyung.

"I asked her if being an artist is something she'd like to pursue," Taehyung told him.

"Ooooh, trying to get to know her," Jimin teases, "Our little Taehyungie has a celebrity crush."

Taehyung rolls his eyes but breaks out into a grin anyway, "I just respect her artistry."

"Right, okay," Jimin snickers, obviously not buying it.

Taehyung knew he was telling the truth, though. It was impossible to have feelings for someone who you only knew through a screen. He found you attractive for sure, but he of all people would know that almost no one is completely one-hundred percent themselves on screen. Genuine as you may be, there are still things that are best kept to yourself. He couldn’t lie though, if given the chance to get to know you, he’d never pass up on that offer.

"Someone asked why I don't use that much ready-made paint," You spoke on screen, "It's ‘cause I learn a lot from mixing my own colors, and also I just really enjoy it."

The painting was beginning to come together halfway through the video and Taehyung's question finally made its way to you. "Kimyeontan95 asks, ‘is painting a career you want to pursue? I love your work, by the way’."

"That was basically I love you," Jimin holds back a laugh, earning him a light punch in the arm from Taehyung.

"Thank you so much, kimyeontan95, and no, painting is just a hobby of mine and a way to earn some future savings. I actually really want to be a novelist."

Taehyung smiled after hearing you answer his question. Later on, the video was over and his portrait was complete. He hurriedly redirected himself to the link that was provided for the auction.

Something in him wanted to have that painting no matter what, so he set himself as the highest bidder and eventually had it mailed to his home where he put your work up in his room to cherish.

A day after your video was posted, you woke up to a thousand notifications from your phone. Hundreds of people were mentioning you in tweets and you had numerous missed calls from your best friends and some texts telling you to check your online art shop. You groggily scroll through your feed, a bit confused as to what was happening.

I wanted to buy this painting and I had it in my list, but now it's unavailable!

Y'ALL WHAT RICH KID SET THE HIGHEST BID TO A MILLION DOLLARS IM CRYING

@yourtwittername are you planning to sell a new collection?

a million dollar bid wtf swownwowksodiowl

Someone just bought all of @yourtwitterusername's paintings. I'm crying in broke eye—

but like what if taehyung set that bid? @yourtwitterusername

What?

I just woke up and my mentions are pouring. What is going on? You tweeted.

Thousands of replies began coming in leaving you feeling overwhelmed and confused on where to start. Everyone was telling you to check your site, and so you did. You felt your heart almost stop beating when you saw that every single artwork you had up for sale were sold out. Nothing was left behind. You checked your emails, and the confirmations were there.

How could this have happened overnight?

ALL MY WORKS ARE SOLD OUT?!?!?!?? WHO COULDVE DONET THIS??? You tweeted, hands shaking.

You felt your heart race, a wide grin that could go even wider if possible was plastered on your face. You tried to stop yourself from screaming in excitement but couldn't so you ended up jumping up and down and doing happy dances before calming down to assess the situation. Finally, you sat down in front of your laptop to see where all your works were being shipped to.

Replies started coming in.

CONGRATS YOU FIGURED IT OUT

WILL U RESTOCK

AHSKWJOA CONGRATS BB

I'M SO HAPPY FOR U

BUT Y/N WHO BOUGHT THEM ALL

Checking your emails, you discover that your art works were all bought by one person. Anonymous. There was no name and someone requested to have their personal information redacted.

Anonymous? Surely this wasn't a joke?

The person kept their name anonymous. You tweeted and muted the notifications just to allow yourself to focus on finding out who it was that bought everything.

At the bottom of all the removed personal information, there was one username that you were sure you've heard or seen somewhere.

@ Kimyeontan95.

Underneath the username was a short but sincere message.

"Your videos have always helped me wind down after a long, busy day. I can't express how much you inspire me with your talent and how I wish someday you'd teach me to be half as good as you, as I'm not very gifted in the painting department. I admire how you put your gifts into good things, and I very much idolize you in one way or another. This is just a small way of showing my support for you, but also because all your works are amazing and I'd love to have a small room filled with my favorite art works. I look forward to reading works of yours soon, future novelist.”

Feeling the heat creeping up on your cheeks, you smiled to yourself. The letter was definitely heartfelt and you wanted so badly to thank the person who sent it.

Later that afternoon, you decided to go on live to personally thank the anonymous buyer for buying your works and for sending that wonderful note. You fixed yourself up a little bit and pressed live as thousands of your followers began to tune in.

"Hello, everyone," you greeted, smiling. Replies with greetings started coming in and you couldn't help but chuckle at the eager messages your followers were sending. They truly made you happy.

As expected, several questions began pouring in.

"Right, so, I wanted to do this live because of what happened. As you may have noticed, all my works were suddenly sold out which definitely took me by surprise," you started, "Unfortunately the buyer left everything anonymous. They only left what I assume is a username and a short letter, which I will keep to myself for personal reasons."

@follower1WHAT

@follower2 will you keep selling your works?

@follower3 THATS SUCH A SWEET GESTURE THO OMG/

@follower4 am I the only one who thinks a secret admirer bought it

@follower5 check my YouTube channel I made a theory on who bought her works

@follower6 i rlly think it's taehyung

@follower7 I’'m so proud of you :(((

"If the person who bought all of my paintings is watching this, I really want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. I appreciate the letter as well, you've honestly made me the happiest person on Earth," you smiled.

@follower8 AWWWWW

@follower9 ANON COME OUT

@follower10 i really wanna know what the letter says

@ Kimyeontan95 I'm glad :)

Your heart stopped at one of the replies. You took your phone immediately from its fixed position with wide eyes and began scrolling up fast because of the immediate replies coming in. Wasn't that the username?

@follower11 what's going on?

@follower12 y/n are you okay?

You could no longer find the reply so you set your phone down, fixing it back in place.

"For a second I thought the person who bought it was watching my live," you sighed and smiled nervously, "So anyways— I'd really love to express my gratitude so if they're watching, please contact me. I can't say thank you en��"

Suddenly the replies were frantic. People were sending keyboard smashes here and there. Only a few of them were actual coherent comments. "What is going on?" You asked as you began scrolling through.

@follower13 Y/N CHECK VLIVE

@follower14 TaEHYUNF IS ON LIVE

@follower15 I kNEW IT THOUGH???

@follower16 Y/N CHECK TAEHYUNGS LIVE

@follower5 Y'ALL I WAS RIGHT I SAID CHECK MY YT

Keeping your live on, you grabbed your laptop as fast as you could to check out the links being sent to your live. When it finally loaded, you could've sworn you'd have a heart attack.

"Oh, I think she's watching me," Taehyung grinned through his live, holding his phone in front of the camera. He quickly shows the viewers his phone screen, which showed your live of you watching him through your laptop. Your eyes widened and you looked back at your phone camera that was broadcasting your live, then back at his live.

Taehyung started giggling, "I guess we're just watching each other, huh?" He smiled. Behind him were packed and unpacked parcels of paintings you recognized were yours. If it was even possible, your eyes grew even wider at this, "Oh my god," you breathed out.

"I should probably introduce myself," Taehyung spoke, "Hello everyone, I'm Kim Taehyung. How are you all doing? Today I’m planning on redecorating my room after our practice. What are the packages behind me? Oh, these are paintings I recently bought."

"Are those my paintings?" You asked out loud, though you knew the answer.

"Are those my paintings?" Your voice echoed from Taehyung's broadcast as your live was streaming from his phone. He grinned sheepishly, "Yes, these are your works, I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," You smiled, "You were the buyer?"

You mentally slapped yourself for asking such obvious questions, but you just couldn't believe everything that was happening now.

"Yes," he chuckles, "I really love your paintings." Suddenly the sound of Jimin’s voice echoed from behind and Taehyung quickly stood up to lock the door, knowing he’d get the teasing of a lifetime if Jimin came and saw him talking to you.

"Thank you so much, I—" Your voice began to crack and your eyes welled with tears that you tried to fight back, "I really appreciate it. And the letter, that was really sweet."

"No, thank you. Wait, don't cry—" Taehyung spoke nervously.

"I'm just so happy," You laughed while wiping the tears off.

The replies from both ends were coming in like crazy. On one hand, majority of everyone watching found the whole scenario cute and started pairing you two out of nowhere, though there were a few haters on the other. It didn't really bother you, you were just so happy someone you idolized noticed your work.

"I'm glad," he was watching you with a fond smile through his phone, then the sound of the Jin’s voice began coming from outside Taehyung’s room, "Sorry for this sudden grand reveal. I really can't stay on live for too long but I'd love to keep talking to you." He spoke.

"Oh no, that's okay," You spoke fast.

"Do you mind if I send you a message? Assuming you already know the username," he asks.

"No not at all, I'd love to keep talking as well," your heart was beating erratically now. You didn't have to see your face to know how red it was becoming.

"Alright, great. Um, before I end this vlive I just wanna say you're a great artist and to all my viewers watching this, please support y/n's artworks and her channel! If I see any negative comments, I'll be taking responsibility and I'll unfortunately have my agency involved in taking those out," he spoke in a commercial tone kind of voice, "And to y/n, I'll be keeping in touch.” The door from behind him suddenly bursts open and Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook rush inside.

“You were talking to her!” Jimin shouts excitedly.

“Finally!” Jungkook claps.

“Is that why you kept the door locked?” Jin teases.

“Bye, everyone!" Taehyung quickly waves goodbye to the camera and smiles before turning the broadcast off.

You sat there stunned, almost forgetting you were also on live. You turned to your phone which was still recording you, "That was unexpected."

Suddenly, a notification in your DMs popped up. "I'll go ahead and process everything that just happened now, bye guys! See you in my next video." You ended the live with a wave and smile.

You quickly went into your direct messages and found the same username, Kimyeontan95. You opened it and found a picture of Taehyung holding one of your paintings with a peace sign on his other hand, the other members behind him posing with your other works, making you laugh.

Your heart fluttered at the message below the picture.

I hope this isn't too sudden, but would you like to go out with me sometime?

a/n: hello! if you finished it, thank you so much for reading! i hope you liked it hehe. i think i’m gonna keep posting the stuff i write bc i have so many ideas for the other members as well. also this is fun hehe. if you wanna read my other work, let’s fall in love for the night, ← here’s a link! thanks again for reading and please look forward to my future writing/edits.

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allaboutmywriting · 5 years ago

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Walking the Gallery

can’t afford to go to Harry’s tour lol nothing new so writing this instead--gonna be some chapters, not sure how many yet || 5k words

Lexy Marks is a recent novelist, who has risen to a reasonable amount of fame for a first-time fiction writer. She ends up at an album release party Harry Styles has thrown, where he tells her how much he loves her writing. Back in the day, Lexy was a 1D stan; unfortunately, she has some trauma related to that particular era of her life.

CHAPTER ONE:

The check engine light came on as soon as could at least see the stoplights hanging from the intersection behind the row of cars in front of her—whoever had warned her about LA traffic certainly hadn't been joking—and Lexy screamed in frustration when she saw it. With her foot on the brake, she slammed her hands against the steering wheel, in the same manner that she was privy to throwing her phone on the ground whenever it froze. It was a method that never solved the problem, but always made her feel as if it did.

Her father had assured her, incorrectly it would appear, that her 2007 Toyota Corolla would be fine for the six-thousand-mile trip she was taking around the country—from Columbia to Los Angeles, Los Angeles back to Charleston. She'd already completed half of the journey there, but she couldn't exactly complete the other half back with a faulty engine.

The car behind her beeped its horn and Lexy jumped, pressing her foot too fast on the gas, jolting forward uncomfortably. She hadn't expected the traffic to be quite so bad, and she wasn't prepared for the traffic gridlock. She sighed and looked at the clock. 5:57.

She was meant to be there by 6:00. She didn't really know what the where was, somewhere in between Beverly Hills and a direction of Hollywood. She supposed she could've been smarter by not driving in rush hour traffic. Perhaps she could've asked the event holders if she could have arrived in the morning. Surely, they'd have understood that people hailing from the East Coast were not as smooth, talented, or put together as those on the Golden Coast.

The car in front of her moved up a foot. She turned the radio down and scrolled until she found her dad's contact. It was after eight on the East Coast, so he would be home from work. Probably in the kitchen making himself a sandwich with the unhealthy kind of bread and too much mayonnaise—he liked to play around with cholesterol.

"Lexy-loo!" he greeted. She smiled, already feeling at ease from hearing his booming voice. He was a middle school science teacher, the goofy kind, so he said everything with strange inflections and accents. This time, he sounded Irish. "Where the hell are ya?"

"Stuck in traffic." She glanced at the GPS he'd installed for her eighteenth birthday a few years before. It was the nicest part of her car, and it looked awfully out of place compared to the rest of it. She was somewhere in East Hollywood, which contrary to the name, was a little more rundown than she expected it to be. "This has to be even worse than New York."

He laughed, having spent his summers growing up in Brooklyn, back when the twin towers were still a part of the skyline. "You hanging with the rich and famous yet?"

Lexy glared down at her lap, pushing the gas gently as the next car moved forward. She didn't have the time to explain the intricacies of the area to her dad, to let him know that there were entirely more poor people in the area than celebrities, and that she would probably never even come in contact with someone of such a demographic. In fact, after the event or reading or whatever she had tonight, Lexy had half a mind to go handing out food to all of the people she saw on the sides of the street.

"Not yet, Dad." Her calf was starting to ache from staying on the brake for so long, and she tried to stretch it in place the best she could. "Anyway, check engine light just came on and I don't know what to do."

"Huh," he grunted. "Well, is it steady or is it blinking?"

"Steady."

"Did it just come on?"

"About a minute ago." She shuffled her seatbelt around to keep it from digging into her neck.

"Is your car acting up? jerky?"

"No. it seems normal. I can't really tell, though. Traffics at a standstill."

"Well, it's probably not an emergency then. Go find yourself an Auto Zone and they'll do a diagnostic for free. Call me back once they tell you and we'll figure something out."

She frowned at probably not an emergency, her mind speculating as it was prone to, visions of her car exploding in the middle of the LA freeway.

"I don't think I can do it today," Lexy frowned. "I have an event in three minutes."

"Glad to see that the extra three hours has increased your timeliness," he joked and Lexy rolled her eyes. "Just do it first thing tomorrow," he said nonchalantly, yawning. "I'm so proud of you, Lex. Living out your dream. I wish I could be there with you."

She wanted to roll down her window, to lay her arm across it the same way she might have back home, but she took the threats of pollution seriously.

She said a goodbye to her father quickly. Her eyes were already stinging. Lexy was so far from home and so alone. It had just been her and her dad for so long, even while she was busy in college, but he couldn't leave the school for the weeks the tour had taken her, would take her, for fear that the district would fire him. Ain't no rest for a public-school teacher, that's for sure.

Lexy had managed to do thirty-seven different readings without him. Had managed to impress thirty-seven different crowds of people without offending them—had even managed to make a few of them cry. Her twitter and Instagram followers had increased gradually, so that now she had a small following of few thousand, that rivalled the accounts of her high school valedictorian who'd gone on to become an influencer selling tanning lotion.

While Lexy really was living out her dream, having a New York Times bestseller at twenty-two, becoming an author wasn't as glamorous as she always thought it would. Her settlement for the book, which was supposed to be $55,000, after taxes only came out to a little more than half of that, and now she understood why authors talked about how difficult it was to make a living just writing. There were no health benefits in authorhood, and there were no extravagances where bookstores paid her to come talk. Here she was, six months out of college, driving herself around in her own car just for her inaugural book tour.

Who cared if Barack Obama had put her book on his recommended reads of the year, when her car was going to break down and she was going to be late for her first event in Los Angeles?

As the clock shown 6:04, Lexy finally was able to pass through the intersections. Now, if she could just figure out how to change lanes, she'd be doing okay.

Her car started smoking as she turned onto the street. It was framed by huge houses with gates in front—black ones, silver ones, some with outright walls so that you couldn't see what was happening on the other side. About halfway down the street, and with the smoke darkening, her GPS said she arrived.

Just what was this event? Her fingers were itching for her phone, to call her publicist and make sure she was at the right place, but a security guard appeared just by her driver's side window.

He was a big and buff bald-headed man who gave her car a dirty look as he instructed her to roll down a window. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Statement of purpose?"

Statement of what?

It was really starting to feel like she imagined the White House felt like after all—back in the Obama days, not the current ones.

"Hi. My name is Lexy Marks. I've been told to be here."

"ID?"

She grumbled to herself as she reached forward and went through her purse, her fingers shaking as she took at her wallet, and then her driver's license. Her fingers were shaking, but she didn't know why she should be the nervous one.

He cross-checked her license with whatever was on the tablet he was holding, then nodded at her. "Pull around back. You should see the other cars. Park between the two on the back row."

Lexy took back her license, rolled up her window, and waited at the gates until the swung open. Her car continued to smoke so bad that she could see it even through the darkening tones of dusk. The house, which she gawked up at, was black and modern, with gaping windows. There were three stories from what she could tell—Lexy had never seen such a nice place, much less been invited to one.

She tried to park in between the cars the guard had instructed her to—a white Audi and one of several black rovers. These cars were all worth more than her manuscript was, and especially more than she was.

And Lexy had always been awful at parking. Never mind how awful she felt about being late, and how dreadful her stomach felt with her engine smoking.

She couldn't tell just how dark it really was outside due to the multiple lanterns and light fixtures that illuminated the entire outdoor parking space. She was most certainly late, but she wasn't even sure what this event was. She didn't know if they would even notice, if this was an event with other authors, if she was meant to be giving just a reading. Her publicist—Simon & Schuster had given her one along with her royalties' contract—had set up the whole tour for her. All she had to do was arrive on time. And here she was, a half hour late, and if her GPS was right, somewhere between West Hollywood and Beverley Hills.

But weren't the rich and famous known for not being on time?

As she climbed the steps to the front porch, she was certain she was at a mansion. Just whose mansion, she wasn't sure, but she was more conscious, if she ever had been before tonight, of the twenty-dollar black Old Navy dress she was wearing. She'd thought she was being frugal, chic, stylish. She'd even paired them with her favorite pair of chunky blue heels. But now she was certain it couldn't be further from than truth.

There was no one in the yard with her. Across the lane was the security guard, and Lexy contemplated waving him down and asking for directions. Suck it up, she told herself. You're living the dream.

A white cat was perched on the front step and it watched her, lazily, as she knocked twice on the front door. When there was no answer, she rang the doorbell.

There was music coming from inside, banging beats that made it seem like she was entering into a dorm. They were exactly the kind of loud that she heard in college on nights out, at house parties, or in the frats. She couldn't make it out exactly—either that or she didn't know the songs.

When she knocked a second time, the door was sprung open.

"Ay, welcome to the party of the century," A well-dressed man greeted her. He sounded Australian, but Lexy couldn't be certain—she was the worst at deciphering accents. But he was dressed in suspenders and a white t-shirt that read SOUTHERNE in black, bold letters. Behind him, Lexy could see a bunch of people standing around, talking. None of them were dancing, as she had incorrectly assumed from the music, but instead, standing around listening to the tracks.

And now Lexy was certain she had never heard it before.

"Hello? You there?" The man asked again. This time he grinned at her and revealed a set of teeth so perfect they were probably veneers. If Lexy had to choose a new occupation, it would be dentistry. But she was awful at science, math, and everything in between that would lead her to becoming one.

"Sorry." She tried to smile back, but her annoyance ran strong through her veins.

A few of the people around them, beautiful people, women with the sort of hair that didn't have flyaways and men that looked like they came from the cover of GQ turned to look at her curiously, but the company must've been important, because they looked away again.

"I'm Lexy Marks. I was told to come here by my publicist."

She cringed as she thought about how it must sound to this man—acting like her publicist was in charge of her. Much like a parent leading their child to the first day of kindergarten. It was just like her publicist to do this. She knew how unexperienced Lexy was and had been known to take advantage of it before—her first reading in the mid-west had been at a senior home for people who had never read her book.

But his smile only widened, and he opened the door up even further.

"Come in, come in," he said, waving an arm in front of him. He held a wine glass in his left hand. Dark and red, the kind she hated. "I'm Greg."

Well, she could guess that Greg was not the person she was meant to meet here. He didn’t have any idea who she was. But she stepped inside the door anyway, the music amplified, and Lexy had to stop herself from abruptly gaping at the beautiful scene before her. Beautiful hardwood floors that had been stained white, walls so beautifully decorated they looked straight out of a gallery, the people all around her who were so beautiful and dressed so well they might as well be models themselves.

It felt like something straight out of The Great Gatsby.

Greg nudged her arm. "Let's get you a drink, yeah? Have you eaten? We've got loads of stuff in the kitchen."

Lexy shook her head as he followed him through the crowd, saying hi to people as he went. She was almost positive he was Australian.

Lexy hoped she would recognize someone in the crowd, but these were not the sort of people she knew. She even tried to place the voice singing because she had most certainly heard it before but couldn't do it for the life of her. It sounded pop-y and generic, the sort she would've made out to in a club back in college.

"You're lucky I was walking right by the door," Greg continued, stepping beside her once the crowd was sparse enough to allow for it. There must be over a hundred people in the building. All of the windows were covered by long, flowing silver curtains; there was even a balcony that people hung off of. All they needed was a sprawling indoor people.

"What do you do, Lexy? Singer? Actress? Dancer? Triple threat?"

"Um, author, actually."

"Oh yeah?" he turned to grin at her. "Poetry?"

Lexy felt like she was disappointing him. "Fiction."

They entered the kitchen, after feeling like they had walked a quarter of a mile from the front door. The house hadn't actually looked this large from the outside and Lexy wondered if it was the fact that they'd had to navigate all of the people standing in the way.

And this time Lexy did look around with her mouth open. "Oh wow."

The countertops were black marble, and stretched the entire length of the room, which was probably half the size of her house back in South Carolina. The floor was still stained white wood, and the kitchen had double islands in the center, one of which was adorned with drinks—the other with sweets.

It was a kitchen so perfect she would've never been able to dream it up. Lexy couldn't cook—at all really, but if she could, this was exactly the sort of kitchen she'd want.

"Harry," Greg called, almost lazily, to a man in yellow pants and white t-shirt, who was looking out of the kitchen window. "I've brought you a guest."

He turned around to face her, and Lexy furrowed her eyebrows at the man standing there, then her eyebrows shot straight up to her forehead when she finally recognized him.

And all of a sudden, she was right back to being in ninth grade, fighting over which of her friends laid claim to the man standing before her. Hell, Lexy used to keep her toothbrush in a cup with the man's face on it.

His hair, a deep brown, not unlike her own, was wavy and perfectly placed—the definition of artist's hair. His skin was the sort of clear she only ever got when she was wearing a full face of make-up, and immediately, from the time his eyes first landed on her, he seemed to exude charisma.

"Hi," she said shyly.

"What's your name?" He smiled politely at her, without showing his teeth, and Lexy's heart dropped at the thought that she wasn't really meant to be here. Her ten minutes of existing on the estate had made her feel some sort of emotion towards the place.

But how could she be after all? Standing in Harry Styles' extravagant kitchen, in what was most likely his exorbitant mansion, at an event that was clearly some sort of Hollywood party.

She was meant to be reading.

"Uh, I'm Lexy," she stammered. "Lexy Marks."

His eyes bugged out when she said it, but he quickly recovered enough to grin at her, dimples on full show, just like the media trained mega star he was. And though he certainly looked more grown-up than Lexy remembered him as, his smile was the same as it was on her toothbrush cup from all those years ago.

He took a few steps forward and held out his hand to her, fingers covered in rings and pink and blue painted nails. She took it. "I'm Harry. I've been waiting to meet you—you're the guest of honor."

Behind her, Greg rolled his eyes. "You're the guest of honor, mate. This is your release party."

Harry grinned at Greg, then looked back down at Lexy. "I invited a lot of people."

Lexy's heart was beating so rapidly that she was certain if she tried to speak, she would be out of breath. So, she simply nodded.

"I love Beginning with February," Harry continued, naming her title. Lexy couldn't stop staring at his damn smile. It was so perfect. Her dad could never afford braces for her, and she had a thing for people's teeth. "It's my favorite book right now. After I finished it, I immediately read it again. I must've read it eight times by now. I tell everyone it's the perfect antidote to loss and loneliness—I don't think there's anyone I've ever met who explains love and friendship and death the way you do. I've bought a whole box of copies to hand out as Christmas presents. Of course, it would be better if you signed them."

Lexy stood frozen from his exclamation—still processing the fact that she was standing in front of Harry Styles and that he had read her book. More than once.

"I had my publicist reach out to yours, and I was really hoping that I could make it out to your reading tomorrow, but unfortunately I have an interview."

He smiled at her again and Lexy knew it was her time to say something. She tried to seem cool, seem the way that any of the people in the house might would respond, but her brain only backtracked far enough for his last few sentences. "Uh…I'll read you anything you want."

Lexy wanted to punch herself at how stupid she sounded, yet again, but Greg snorted, and Harry smiled, ducking his head.

"What I mean," she rushed to explain. It was his damn smile that got her. "Is that I'll give you a private reading of whatever you want. Like—"

This was just getting worse and worse as Greg began lightly laughing. She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling, then back to meet Harry's. He was a lot taller than she'd imagined he would be, but though his lips twitched, he was giving her his entire attention.

"Thank you for your kind words," she swallowed. "Of course, I'll sign anything you want."

Harry's smile deepened, his dimples appearing. Greg pointed to the door with his thumb, and Harry nodded at him.

He turned back to Lexy, just as the song from the other room changed. This one she'd heard before—something by Lorde, that she couldn't remember the name of.

They gazed at each other, then Harry suddenly clapped his hands together. "So, can I get you anything to drink? Wine? Water? Vodka?"

She was alone with one of the most famous singers of the time. And he was offering her a drink, in his kitchen, somewhere in Los Angeles. She wasn't just living her dream; she was living the whole dream. Everyone's. All of them. A place on Barack Obama's recommended reading list could have never prepared her for this one.

"Um, water. Please?"

He nodded, and turned around to the island, taking one a wine glass, similar to the one Greg was drinking out of, from the side and filling it with water from a pitcher.

He handed it to her, then leaned against the island and picked up his own drink, something green. He was dressed so well…Lexy had always admired fashion but could never get the hang of making anything look good other than wearing neutrals and blank shirts.

"I hope you don't mind being here," he drawled slowly, his eyes on hers, darting back and forth as if trying to determine what her true feelings were. Lexy hadn't heard him talk since the height of her One Direction days, when she would watch every interview that came out multiple times, but she wondered if he had talked quite so slowly back then. "This is my album release party, for my friends, and I was quite hoping you'd do the intermission."

All…of those people…at least a hundred…were his friends? Lexy could count all her friends on both hands. She probably only talked to three of them a day.

"Intermission?"

His eyes still on hers, he nodded. "Yeah. Do you know that bit in your book, the part where Jamaica dies? You have two pages of just wonderful prose there, and I was really hoping that you would read it. Maybe halfway through the songs?" He paused in thought, his eyes rolling up. "Actually, maybe after track seven would do."

She took a big sip of the water. It was room temperature and Lexy thought, in a moment of spare humor, probably the most expensive water she'd ever drank.

But her hand was already shaking, and she doubted that she could convince herself to read in front of everyone in that other room. Well, at least. There would be no way she could control the tremors in her voice. She was used to reading in front of people who knew her, in front of people who liked her reading, who cared about her characters as much as she did.

Not in front of talented, model millionaires.

"I'm sorry. I thought this was a reading."

"It is a reading," he insisted. He ducked his head and crossed his arms and smiled at her again. Lexy had to look down to keep from disappointing him. Those damn dimples.

She felt awful turning him down. But there was so much about the day that wasn't turning out right. Her car, her first day in Los Angeles. And here she was, about to tear up in front of this singer who had to share his work with everyone.

"I'm really sorry, Harry. It's just been a long day. I really thought this was just going to be a regular reading at a bookstore. My publicist, she never really told me, like, what this event was, or I probably would've been really prepared. But I think everyone wants to listen to you. Not me." She opened her purse and pulled out the printed-out pages she'd rendered just for her readings—she didn't know a single author who didn't at least tweak their writing somewhat before reading. "I don't even have those paragraphs with me. I only have chapter one."

Harry took the creased paper from her, frowning down at it. They had her scribbles all over it. Her first chapter had a lot of dialogue, and it was never the best for reading out loud.

But from the expression on Harry's face, you'd think that she'd just taken all of the magic out of it.

She was just about to say as much when the music changed, and her ears perked up. She frowned at the beat. "Is that—"

"Yeah," Harry said, still dejectedly frowning down at the papers. "Never get far from your roots, right?"

"That's what they say," she sighed.

Harry glanced up at quizzically but didn't ask for clarification. He handed the papers back to her. "Look, if you don't want to read, you don't have to. I'd be honored if you would, but I understand if you won't."

She nodded at him, folded the papers back in her bag, and took another sip of her water.

"Harry, love," a man called, walking into the kitchen. This man had brown hair and a long face, and a dark-haired woman at his side. Both of them were dressed—much better than she was.

Harry's face lit up and he set his glass on the counter. "Mitch! Maia! Well, you both look lovely!"

He walked over to them and Lexy took a step back, observing the way he interacted with them. The couple seemed completely at ease around him and it was obvious they'd known each other a while. Before Harry could turn to introduce her to them, Lexy had already set her water on the counter and left the room. She skirted in between the crowds of people, wondering why she'd always thought black was the classiest of colors, yet literally everyone in the room was dressed colorfully. That familiar urge to run away was strong, and she just told herself to get out of the room, and that no one would remember her.

The last chords of What Makes You Beautiful ended, and she vaguely registered the sound of something else start—an older tune, one that she was certain she'd heard before.

There was a group of people standing by the door, but she was able to open it and get out by not paying attention to the looks that they gave her.

More people were out on the porch. Did Harry really have that many friends? They were all laughing, clearly happy to be invited, and here she was running away.

She took the steps two at a time and nearly knocked herself over, sprinting to her car. She yanked open the door and got inside, slamming it back closed. She pressed the lock button, then tried to regain control of her breathing.

There were moments in life that suddenly took her over. It had been like that her entire life. When the air from her lungs would disappear and suddenly feel like there was a valve closed. And while she did have asthma when she was younger, she knew that this wasn't that. She took deep, deep breaths and tried to regain herself.

But the pain was too strong. It came quickly, the way her wrist broke in fourth grade when she fell off her bike and took over her body like it was an epidemic, consuming every organ.

She had to get out of there.

She rummaged through her bag for her keys, landing on her phone, her mirror, her makeup. For the most part, everything Lexy owned was somewhere in her car. It wasn't easy to know what you would need on a three-month trip across the country. At last she found them and jammed them into the car.

Two breaths.

She could feel the steering wheel beneath her hands.

Two breaths.

She could hear the people from the porch laughing, unseen behind the row of rovers in front of her car.

Two breaths.

She could smell the leather of her car, the sun-burnt smell it had acquired from being years old.

Two breaths.

She could see the scent ornament hanging down from her mirror, a green pine tree.

Deep down, Lexy knew why she felt like this. It had come back so suddenly now that she could breathe again—the way it felt to first hear it in the auditorium, how much it hurt, afterwards, almost in hindsight, to hear Mr. Mack, the principal, stumbling over those two words. He couldn't seem to figure out the best phrase, so he said them all. Is dead. Has passed away. Has died. Lexy stared ahead at the little ornament hanging off the mirror and tried not to think of the blue curtains in the auditorium. Or the ugly carpet that covered the floor. That little ornament was meant to smell of pumpkin, but the scent had gone away somewhere in Illinois, and if she stared at it long enough, the auditorium went away and she was alone in her Toyota.

She took another deep breath, convinced she would never again think of Harry Styles, or One Direction, or the night again once she had the opportunity to yell at Samantha—her publicist. She reached forward and turned the key.

But of course, in the spirit of the night, it wouldn't start.

Lexy laid her head upon the steering wheel.

She'd at least have to stop crying before she called her dad, lest he buy a flight and come all the way to LA to lose his job. And what use was being in a healthy state of mind if she destroyed her family’s, too?

A/N: lmk what you think/thoughts/feelings etc etc

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harrystyles #harrystylesfanfic #fanfic

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back-and-totheleft · 5 years ago

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Natural Born Opponents

Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers has been linked to more violence than any other movie. But when John Grisham learned that a friend of his had become the latest victim of one such copycat killing, the best-selling novelist and lawyer decided to hold Stone accountable. [...]

Hollywood's dark tradition of inspiring reckless and criminal behavior includes one presidential-assassination attempt (John Hinckley's shooting of Ronald Reagan, linked to Taxi Driver), outbreaks of gang violence and/or murder (Colors, New Jack City, Menace II Society), and the murder and mutilation of a prostitute (The Silence of the Lambs). Two years after its theatrical release, though, Natural Born Killers remains in a class by itself, having been linked to more copycat killings than any film ever made. To its creator, the incidents merely confirm the film's vision of America as a society that glamorizes violence. But critics of Natural Born Killers observe that in the film, unlike in real life, violence occurs in a moral void. Mickey and Mallory, the hallucinogenic-drug-ingesting thrill riders portrayed by Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis, are not, in the end, forced to reckon with justice as, say, Bonnie and Clyde are. They grow world-famous as their murder toll climbs. Arrested by corrupt and pathological cops, they break out of prison like heroes and ride away happy as the closing credits crawl.

Indeed, the closest precedent for Natural Born Killers, in the gleefulness of its characters as they conduct violent acts, and the relative freedom they enjoy in the end, is A Clockwork Orange. Upon its release in 1971, critics wrote admiringly of its violence as a social statement. [...]

"What do I want from Stone?" Simpson says in his office near the Amite courtroom. "If he's found negligent, you're looking at $20 to $30 million."" [...]

The question I have as I re-emerge from the Byerses's trailer—appreciating for a moment the simple pleasure of walking—is this: Would Ben and Sarah have done what they're accused of doing without the influence of Natural Bom Killers?

Oliver Stone, of course, has his own answers. In a response to Grisham published in L.A. Weekly, the director declares that his accuser "is on the age-old hunt for witches to explain society's ills . . . ignoring Shakespeare, who reminds us that artists do not invent nature but merely hold it up to a mirror." Follow Grisham's logic, he suggests, and look where it leads. "Has your father been brutalized? Sue Oedipus and call Hamlet as a witness. Do you hate your mother? Blame Medea and Joan Crawford. Has your lawyer-husband been unfaithful? Slap a summons on Grisham since, after all, he wrote The Firm."

Grisham, observes Stone, says that both Sarah and Ben had had serious drug problems and received psychiatric treatment. If they watched Natural Bom Killers "at the crucial moment when the carefully twisted springs of their psyches finally uncoiled," the film is hardly to blame for that. Parents and schools are more accountable; so is television, with images of violence far more pervasive than those of one two-hour film. Even so, Stone writes, "an elementary principle of our civilization is that people are responsible for their own actions."

Two of the country's best-known First Amendment lawyers agree with Stone, and find Grisham's legal reasoning dubious at best. "I'm kind of surprised by Grisham," muses Martin Garbus, who has represented Andrei Sakharov and Peter Matthiessen. "We all believe words have some meaning . . . but product liability? That's silly. The whole point of product liability is that you have to show a causal effect. With breast implants—or with cigarettes . . . we've seen over the years how hard it is to prove causal effect. When you get into the area of what triggers a person's mind, you get into the realm of fairy tales. . . . When I was a kid, I was terrified by Fantasia and by Bambi, when the mother deer was killed. Those moments are etched in my mind. But I didn't go out and murder anyone because of it."

Even if such an effect could be shown, says Floyd Abrams, who has represented The New York Times since the Pentagon Papers, "the notion that because one crazed person reacts to a book or movie by doing something illegal the moviemaker or writer should be liable is at war with the First Amendment." So, says Abrams, is Grisham's whole notion of a film as a product. "[Grisham's] books, modest from a literary perspective, are not like breast implants. They are fully protected First Amendment speech, and the notion of judging them from some almost undefinable negligence standards is very troubling."

Oliver Stone, presented with Grisham's indictment, responds in turn from Los Angeles. "If Grisham were the author of delightful bedtime stories, I could perhaps understand his perspective on my work. However, given the fact that his work is all built around the committing of heinous crimes (murder, the rape of a young child, suicide), his attacks on me seem more than disingenuous. The fact is, Mr. Grisham has become a very rich man off a body of work which utilizes violent crime as a foundation for mass entertainment.

"For example, his book (soon to be a major motion picture) A Time to Kill has as its protagonist a man who murders with clear premeditation two young racists who raped his 10-year-old daughter (a rape which Mr. Grisham writes about in horrifyingly graphic detail). The man's lawyer wins his freedom for these murders of vengeance. Mr. Grisham invites his readers to cheer the man's release, although he is unequivocally guilty of murder.

"Thus, one may presume that, according to Mr. Grisham's logic, the next time a 'righteous' revenge murder takes place (or, for that matter, the rape of a child) he will be happy to assume liability if it can be shown that the offender had read or seen A Time to Kill."

Point to Mr. Stone, though it seems, to this moderator, that Grisham presents his violence within a moral order. His protagonist in A Time to Kill is found not guilty by reason of insanity, but only after a lengthy trial that shows all the checks and balances of the law at work. Natural Born Killers has no moral frame.

Stone, of course, disagrees.

"Natural Born Killers is an in-your-face satire of a moral order turned upside down," he declares. "It's a wake-up call to a schizophrenic country and culture which decries violence but just can't get enough of it. Viewers are bombarded day in and day out by tabloid trash shows, entertainment and news programs which convert tragedy into soap opera, replete with weepy musical sound tracks and reportage that drips with fake emotion. ... So much for the 'moral order' that Natural Bom Killers is accused of upsetting."

Stone's response is persuasive, and set against it, Grisham's argument pales. Establishing cause and effect between screen violence and real-life violence seems all but impossible to do in any clear, definable way; even if it were possible, allowing courts to draw lines between acceptable and unacceptable art would not only subvert the First Amendment but be a fine prescription for Fascism.

-Michael Schnayerson, "Natural Born Opponents," Vanity Fair, July 1996 [not available online]

#oliver stone #john grisham #Natural Born Killers #vanity fair #first amendment #violence in film

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runontheroadbeforeidance · 5 years ago

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Fav New Fic Friday

I was tagged by @disgruntledkittenface to share my new favorite fic! Thanks for this opportunity to share!

I’ve been so busy the past few months that I am crazy behind all the wonderful long fics I want to read, but there have been a lot of great one shots in all the exchanges and fic fests lately that I have to cheat and mention 3 very different fics I’ve loved lately.

1) From the wonder HL Summer Exchange 2019, the fic that read recently and LOVED was The Charles Compass Trilogy by @sadaveniren.

Louis Tomlinson is a successful writer who rents a beach house on the Cape to try and finish the final book in his successful Charles Compass trilogy.

Such a fun, sweet, clever and funny fic. While a short one shot, it really delivers on plot, backstory and characterization while also delivering great laughs, fluff and smut in under 10,000 words. I also love fic that is kinda meta and has an author character who discusses the challenges of writing, especially since its a skill I lack and so look up to with our amazing writers. Its so fun reading about the series that Louis is struggling to finish writing in the fic and the details given about the plot and characters are amazing and lend detail and context to the fic journey of Louis and Harry. Also, this fic’s Harry is so funny and lovely while Louis’ writer’s block is hilarious as are his attempts at getting Harry to repeatedly come over to fix things in his vacation house because he misses his company.

I love this author so I’m not surprised at how great this fic is, but if you’re looking for a sweet romantic comedy fic, this is for you.

2) From the 1D Rare Pair Fic Fest, a Louis/Dermot fic The Cyber Sphere by @jacaranda-bloom.

As the author of The Cyber Sphere, a series of best-selling books which have spawned seemingly limitless spin-offs, Louis Tomlinson hides away from the world in his fortress-like London penthouse. But when he decides to interact with the host of The Cyber Times radio program, Dermot O’Leary, on Twitter, it causes a fandom meltdown and offers him hope for a future he’d never imagined.

OR the one where Liam likes to think he’s Batman, Dermot has terrible taste in sporting teams, and Louis should really get a cat.

I will scream about this fic to anyone who will listen. At just over 17,000 words, this fic in a short space gives such a rich and wonderful story, somehow full of backstory in just a few paragraphs that really helps explain Louis in this fic, as well as his friendship and work/relationship with Liam as well. I love Louis in this fic so much, his character is so complex and interesting. Once again, a theme for me this summer apparently, is a well written fic about a novelist, as once again Louis is a writer. Dermot is the sweet and warmest person in this fic, very loving and gentle and understanding. And their interactions getting to know each other are so warm and soft and sweet and funny and lovely and really very real. (FYI the age difference in this fic is Louis is 28 and Dermot is 32, so if you’re on the fence bc of the IRL age difference, that isn’t at play in this fic).

This is a really immersive fic that you can read quickly in one shot, but this short fic feels much longer when you’re done, in an amazing way, because it is so rich and complex and you understand all the characters so well despite the length being so short.

If you’re looking for a heart warming fic with a bit of famous/non-famous and strangers to lovers featuring adults opening up and beginning a relationship, this sweet and warm fic is for you. Give it a shot if you read outside of HL, its an amazing pair and an amazing fic that just feels like a warm hug.

3) Social media AU Electric Love by @greenandbluebubblegum.

A college au HL strangers to friends to lovers fic told through social media posts and texts. I followed this whole series on this author’s tumblr, and it was such a fun and different way to read fic. Really immersive with all the texts and ig posts. Sweet and funny with some angst mixed in and side Ziam plus friends Niall and Bebe. Loved it!

Bonus mention cause I can’t even stick to my own rules and only list three: if you like Tomlinshaw, I LOVED Walk Walk Fashion Baby by @disgruntledkittenface. A really sweet fic about established relationship Tomlinshaw where Nick dresses Louis for a week for an article, which leads to some much needed self-discovery and communication and personal and relationship growth along the way. Deals with real life personal and relationship issues in a sweet and funny way, and filled with loving supportive mature friendships and romantic relationships. Loved it!

I tag @ireallysawanangel, @toomanylarrytears ,@weareonejazzhand and who ever else reads and/or writes and loves fic!

#mine #fic rec

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marcjampole · 5 years ago

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Mainstream news media created the conditions in which a bottom-feeder like Trump could thrive by focusing on celebrity culture to encourage conspicuous consumption

AARP the Magazine is thus a small part of the giant propaganda machine that created the celebrity culture that created Donald Trump. It took from the first stirrings of consumer culture in the 1890’s until the 21st century for the focus on celebrity to pollute our marketplace of ideas enough for a toxic algae boom like Donald Trump to emerge (with apologies to algae blooms worldwide!). But unlike cleaning up the environment, saving our political discourse is conceptually easy—all the news media has to do is dedicate more of its feature coverage to those whose accomplishments can’t be measured by money made or spent, and cease to cover every issue like a reality show featuring celebrities. Not one big action, but a bunch of little actions are needed to stem the tide of celebrity culture. AARP could do its part by working into the mix a healthy share of scientists, historians, civic leaders, activists and literary figures into Big5-Oh and other parts of the magazine.

Those seeking to put the Trump phenomenon in a broader context will usually point out that his rhetoric and actions typically stay within the margins of 21st century Republican thought, especially as it concerns taxes, regulation, healthcare insurance, women’s health issues and white supremacy. Sometimes Trump has extended those margins with more outrageous versions of standard Republican fare. Others label Trumpism as the American version of the movement throughout the West to embrace ultranationalist, anti-immigration autocrats.

As insightful as these analyses are, they miss Trump’s cultural significance. Not only does Trump represent the bitterly racist and classist endgame of Ronald Reagan’s “politics of selfishness,” he also is the apotheosis of our cultural decline into celebrity-fueled consumerism. Remember that in the real world, Trump was a terrible and unethical businessperson who drove companies into bankruptcy six times; had at least a dozen failed business ventures based on his most valuable asset, his brand name; lost money for virtually all his investors; often lied to banks and governmental agencies; and has been sued by literally thousands of people for nonpayment or breach of contract.

But while Trumpty-Dumpty was engaging in a one-man business wrecking crew he managed to get his name in the newspaper for his conspicuous consumption, his attendance at celebrity parties and his various marriage and romances. His television show was a hit, which reaped him even more publicity. But make no mistake about it, before he started his run for political office by promoting the vicious, racially tinged lie that Obama hails from Kenya, the public recognized Trump primarily for the attributes he shared with the British royal family, the Kardashians, Gosselins, Robertsons, the housewives of New Jersey, Atlanta, South Beach and elsewhere, Duane Chapman, Betheny Frankel, Paris Hilton and the rest of the self-centered lot of rich and famous folk known only for being rich and famous and spending obnoxious sums of money.

Trump’s celebrity status always hinted at his master-of-the-universe skills in business and “The Apprentice” never missed an opportunity to reinforce that false myth. Thus, whereas the business world recognized Donald Trump as the ultimate loser, celebrity culture glorified him as one of the greatest business geniuses in human history. It was this public perception of Trump—completely opposite of reality—that gave him the street cred he needed to attract unsophisticated voters. Trump is completely a creation of celebrity culture.

When we consider the general intellectual, moral and cultural climate of an era—the Zeitgeist, which in German means the “spirit of the age”—we often focus on defining events such as presidential assassinations, Woodstock, the moon landing, 9/11, the election of the first non-white president. But a Zeitgeist comprises thousands upon thousands of specific events, trends and personal choices.

Which brings us—finally—to the subject of this article, AARP the Magazine, the semi-monthly slick magazine of the American Association of Retired People (AARP). The magazine usually uses celebrities and celebrity culture to give tips on personal finances, health, careers, relationships, retirement and lifestyle to its members, people over the age of 50. Because AARP membership rolls is so enormous, I have no doubt that AARP is one of the four or five most well-read periodicals in the United States.

Now AARP the organization must have many qualms about Trump and Trumpism. Trump has already rolled back consumer protections that prevent seniors from being taken advantage of by both big businesses and small-time con artists. Trump is vowing to dedicate his second term to cutting Social Security and Medicare, two programs of utmost importance to the well-being of AARP’s members. The leadership of AARP certainly understands that Trump’s cruelly aggressive effort to end immigration from non-European countries is the main cause for the growing shortages of the home care workers so vital to many if not most people in their final years. They must also realize that a tariff war affects people on fixed incomes the most.

What AARP leaders—of the organization and magazine—show no signs of understanding is that they played a role in creating the monster. The focus of AARP the Magazine and the other AARP member publication on promoting celebrity culture helped to create the playing field that Trump dominates—that shadow land of aspirations for attention and materialism in which all emotional values reduce to buying and consumption and our heroes have either done nothing to deserve their renown or have worked in the mass entertainment industries of TV, movies, sports and pop music.

As an example of how celebrity culture permeates and controls the aspirational messages of AARP the Magazine, let’s turn to the feature on the last page of every issue, something called “Big5-Oh”: Big5-Oh always has a paragraph story with photos of a famous person who is turning 50 sometime during the two months covered by the issue. The bottom third of the page consists of one-sentence vignettes with head-and-shoulder photos of famous people turning 50, 60, 70 and 80. The copy typically describes something the famous person is doing that demonstrates she or he is continuing to thrive and do great things despite advancing age.

I’ve seen Big5-Oh in every issue of AARP I have ever read, and I have perused each issue for about 18 years. And in every issue, the famous people mentioned are virtually all celebrities, by which I mean actors, pop musicians, sports stars and those known only for being known like the Kardashians and Snooki. Only quite rarely a film director, popular writer or scientist sneaks in.

The latest issue, covering August and September 2019 exemplifies the celebrity-driven approach that hammers home the idea that only celebrities matter (since it’s only their birthdays and ages that are seemed worth memorializing). The featured person turning 50 is Tyler Perry, an actor and writer-director. The smaller features include four actor, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Jason Alexander, Richard Gere and Lilly Tomlin, plus the athlete Magic Johnson and the rock star Bruce Springsteen.

Not one scientist, not one historian or sociologist. Not one civic leader, politician, physician, novelist, poet or classical or jazz musician. No astronaut, architect or engineer. I did a little cursory research to come up with a reconceived Big5-Oh for August and September 2019: The big feature, always about someone turning 50, could be the chess player Ben Finegold, the best-selling but much scandalized popular writer James Frey or the filmmaker Noah Baumbach. That’s pretty much a wash with Tyler Perry. If I were editor of this feature, I would probably still pick Tyler Perry over this competition.

But when we get to people who turned 60 and 70 during these months, you realize how much celebrity culture guided the editor’s choice of subjects: ignored are the designer Michael Kors, the current governor of Virginia Ralph Northam, the distinguished Spanish filmmaker Pedro Almodovar, the even more distinguished journalist James Fallows, the important literary novelists Jane Smiley, Martin Amis and Jonathan Franzen, the leader of the Irish Green Party, astronaut Scott Altman and Beverly Barnes, the first woman to captain a Boeing 747. All these people are non-celebrities and all have made more significant and lasting contributions to America than the people the column’s editor selected, with the possible exception of Magic Johnson and Bruce Springsteen.

What’s more significant, though, is including some of these people instead of all celebrities would make an important message about what we value in our society. It would say that we honor the intellectual contributions of our writers, scientists, knowledge professionals and civic leaders. The fact that AARP always selects celebrities for Big5-Oh and tends to build other stories and features around celebrities makes the opposite message about value—that all that matters is the gossip surrounding celebrities and the promotion of celebrity culture.

Now AARP shares the blame for our culture’s emphasis on shallow consumerism and superficial celebrities with many of our cultural organizations and educational institutions. For example, the political reporting of the mainstream media reduces all political discourse to celebrity terms—name-calling, who is feuding with whom, who’s winning in the polls, the skeleton-closet scandals of the candidates’ families, which celebrities love and hate them, zingers and misstatements, the candidates’ theme songs and other main themes of celebrity culture. Notice that Trump is as much a master in these endeavors as he is an inexperienced and ignorant buffoon in matters related to governance such as policy, history, the inner workings of the government and the scientific research informing governmental decisions. Note, too, that based on how much ink and space is given to endorsements by the media, in the hierarchy of value, celebrities rate above elected officials who rate above unions, business and scientific organizations and luminaries in fields other than entertainment.

#aarp #trump

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douchebagbrainwaves · 4 years ago

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LIKE OPEN SOURCE, I DON'T THINK WE CAN GET MUCH MORE SPECIFIC WITHOUT STARTING TO BE MISTAKEN

Palo Alto, the original ground zero, is about thirty miles away, and the average level of what they're writing, as you might develop muscles, through exercise. I desperately needed on stuff that I didn't. That was a big problem for me when I had no idea what that meant until I did it.1 94 x 1. Our fathers weren't that stupid. In another year you'll be making $4. More precisely, the hypothesis was that success in a startup, we would never have taken funding from an incubator. Then I'm worried. Kids are less perceptive. If investors get too involved, they smother one of the commonest forms of corruption.2 We may not be as corrupt as it seems; those VPs' cushy jobs were probably payment for work done earlier.3 But what is a novelist to do?4

43, meaning that deal is worth taking if they can improve your average outcome for you to break even? That way we can avoid being discontented about being discontented. Just ask any teenager. In some countries this is the result of a deliberate policy. Our ancestors were giants. A country that got immigration right would have a huge advantage. Y Combinator offers to fund you in return for 6% of your company if what you trade it for improves your average outcome by more than 6.

Google is a better model. 167. The basic idea behind office hours is that the cycle is slow. But aside from that, I now actively avoid stuff. No, it turns out, the earth is not the center of the solar system. Most successful startups make that tradeoff unconsciously. But the problem is more than just that some startup might have a problem to explain: why are unions shrinking now? And it's not just that I accumulated all this useless stuff, but that they lack examples. As you've probably noticed, they have a lot in common. One thing we were curious about this summer was a spirit of independence.5

The whole summer was full of surprises. Since this is in effect the company's profit on a hire, the market will determine that: if you're a founder, here's a deal you can make with yourself that will both make you happy and make your company successful.6 In industrialized countries the same thing; if you win an Olympic gold medal, you can be fairly content, even if they never actually got the money. It's significant that the most famous recent startup in Europe, Skype, worked on a problem that was intrinsically international. Silicon Valley is too far from San Francisco. Every person has to do their job well. And he could help them because he was too young. We overvalue stuff.

Next time you're in a moderately large city, drop by the main post office and watch the body language of the office is replaced by wicked humor. As in software, when professionals produce such crap, it's not saying much that America is the perfect place for startups.7 In our case the distinguishing feature is the ability to reason. For example, suppose you're saving a piece of cake in the fridge, and you come home one day to find your housemate has eaten it. As Galbraith said, politics is a matter of choosing between the unpalatable and the disastrous. This turns out not to be the growing gap between them. So difficult that there's probably room to discard more. If you don't have to buy a drink, and they pay it to the big company.

I think one of the founders said I'd read that starting a startup molds you into someone who can handle it. People whose work is to ask yourself, before buying something, is this going to make my life noticeably better? But my main conclusion from the summer is that there's less room for people in a company financed by selling a VW bus and an HP calculator. Amateurs I think the big obstacle preventing us from seeing the future of business is the assumption that it's all about us. Lately companies have been paying more attention to open source. This works in America, at least in technology. Even in the US, and good high schools and bad universities, like the US, the most efficient plan would be to discover each person's station as early as possible, so they have to deliver every time. When I say business can learn about new conditions the same way a gene pool does.

The Germans invented the modern university, and up till the 1930s theirs were the best in America, because the remaining. A sinecure is, in the long run, of the forces underlying open source and blogging both work bottom-up often works better than top-down. So let's look at Silicon Valley the way you'd look at a product made by a competitor. Users don't switch from Explorer to Firefox because they want to win.8 Startups happen in clusters. If I want to spend money on some kind of zenlike detachment from material things. Gradually it will re-emerge.

More precisely, the hypothesis was that success in a startup depends mainly on how smart and energetic you are, and much less on how old you are or how much business experience you have. For example, the president notices that a majority of voters now think invading Iraq was a mistake, so he makes an address to the nation to drum up support.9 Except books—but books are different. Half the people there speak with accents. A more important source, because it's more personal and comes earlier in the process, is money from individual angel investors. We worry about that, but probably hurts. Basically, unions were just Razorfish.

Notes

Nat. For example, the work of selection. Though most VCs are only partially driven by people like them—people who get rich by preserving their traditional culture; maybe people in Bolivia don't want to believe that successful founders is exaggerated now because of some brilliant initial idea. For example, probably did more drugs in his twenties than any of his professors did in salary.

I realize a I have no idea whether this happens because they're determined to fight. No central goverment would put its two best universities in the aggregate are overpaid. This essay was written before Firefox.

The threshold for participating goes down to zero. I've become a function of the reasons startups are possible. Macros very close to 18% of GDP, despite dramatic changes in tax rates will tend to focus on building the company down. I'm not saying all founders who continued to live in a reorganization.

But the time it included what we now call science. 32. This seems to set aside for this is mainly due to fixing old bugs, and partly simple ignorance. Ironically, one could aspire to the year, but simply because he was a sudden rush of interest, you can't tell you that if you have 8 months of runway or less constant during the entire period from the example of a rolling close is to protect against truly determined attackers.

They don't know enough about the subterfuges they had first claim on the parental dole, and the editor written in C, which handled orders. Why Startups Condense in America. The two are not more startups to be low. This is a negotiation.

But it's useful to consider behaving the opposite way from the moment the time it filters down to you. In any case, as on a form that asks for your middle initial—because it aggregates data from so many others the pattern for the first type, and help keep the number of big corporations.

In a series.

On the face of a running back doesn't translate to soccer. There's not much to generalize. As far as such things can be and still provide a profitable market for a sufficiently good bet, why are you even be working on some project of your last round of funding.

It seems likely that in three months we can't figure out what the rule of law. Its retail price is about 220,000 sestertii for his freedom Dessau, Inscriptiones 7812. And maybe we should work like casual conversation.

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pagebypagereviews · 4 months ago

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Jonathan Kellerman Biography Jonathan Kellerman is a renowned American author and psychologist, best known for his suspenseful crime novels featuring the character Alex Delaware. With a career spanning decades, his gripping storytelling has captivated readers worldwide. Biography Jonathan Kellerman Information Table table width: 100%; border-collapse: collapse; th, td border: 1px solid black; padding: 8px; text-align: left; th background-color: #f2f2f2; Attribute Details Full Name Jonathan Seth Kellerman Date of Birth August 9, 1949 Birthplace Lower East Side of New York City Relocation Los Angeles at age nine Education Doctor of Philosophy in Psychology from University of Southern California (USC), 1974 Profession Novelist, Psychologist Notable Awards Edgar Award, Anthony Award Famous Character Alex Delaware Initial Career Staff Psychologist at USC School of Medicine, Clinical Professor of Pediatrics Private Practice Opened in the early 1980s First Published Novel When the Bough Breaks (1985) Transition to Full-Time Writing 1990 Total Crime Novels Written More than 40 Other Works Nonfiction works, Children's books Early Life Jonathan Kellerman's Early Life Jonathan Kellerman, a renowned American novelist, was born on August 9, 1949, in New York City. He spent his formative years in Los Angeles, California, where his family moved when he was still a child. Growing up in the vibrant cultural landscape of Los Angeles, Kellerman developed a keen interest in both writing and psychology, which would later become the twin pillars of his prolific career. After completing his education, he pursued a career in psychology, eventually earning a Ph.D. from the University of Southern California. His early professional experiences as a clinical psychologist provided rich material for his later writing. Kellerman's debut novel, "When the Bough Breaks," which introduced his iconic character Alex Delaware, was published in 1985 and marked the beginning of his successful journey as a novelist. Family Jonathan Kellerman Family Information table width: 100%; border-collapse: collapse; th, td border: 1px solid #dddddd; text-align: left; padding: 8px; th background-color: #f2f2f2; Relation Name Information Father David Kellerman David Kellerman was an aerospace engineer. He contributed significantly to the upbringing and education of Jonathan. Mother Sylvia Kellerman Sylvia Kellerman was a dancer. Her artistic background influenced Jonathan's creative talents. Wife Faye Kellerman Faye Kellerman is a bestselling crime writer. She is well-known for her own series of mystery novels. Son Jesse Kellerman Jesse Kellerman is a bestselling novelist and award-winning playwright. He has collaborated with his father on several books. Daughter Daughter 1 (Name not provided) The eldest daughter is a brilliant Ph.D. clinical and neuropsychologist. Other Children Names not provided Jonathan and Faye have four children in total, but the names of the other children are not specified. Height, Weight, And Other Body Measurements Jonathan Kellerman Body Measurements table width: 70%; margin: 0 auto; border-collapse: collapse; th, td border: 1px solid #000; padding: 10px; text-align: center; th background-color: #f2f2f2; Attribute Measurement Height Unknown Weight Unknown Other Body Measurements Unknown Note: Specific body measurements for Jonathan Kellerman are not publicly available. Wife/husband / Girlfriend/boyfriend Jonathan Kellerman's Relationship Details Jonathan Kellerman is currently married to Faye Kellerman. Faye Kellerman is a best-selling crime writer. The couple resides in Los Angeles and has four children. Their oldest child, Jesse Kellerman, is also a best-selling novelist and award-winning playwright.

Marriage Date: Not publicly disclosed. Wife Details: Faye Kellerman is a well-known author in the crime fiction genre. She has penned numerous best-selling novels and has a significant following in the literary community. There is no publicly available information about any previous relationships or marriages involving Jonathan Kellerman. Career, Achievements And Controversies Jonathan Kellerman: Career, Achievements, and Controversies Jonathan Kellerman is renowned for his work as a psychologist and a best-selling author. He gained widespread recognition through his long-running series of psychological thrillers featuring the character Alex Delaware. His debut novel in the series, When the Bough Breaks, was published in 1985 and became a bestseller, catapulting him to fame. Jonathan Kellerman began his career as a psychologist, earning his PhD and working in the field of clinical psychology. His background in psychology significantly influenced his writing. His first novel, When the Bough Breaks, introduced the character Alex Delaware, a child psychologist turned detective. This book was a critical and commercial success, leading to a series that includes over 30 novels. In addition to the Alex Delaware series, Kellerman has co-written the Clay Edison series with his son, Jesse Kellerman. Some of his other notable works include: Over the Edge The Clinic Monster Victims The Murderer's Daughter Jonathan Kellerman has received several awards throughout his career, including: The Edgar Award The Anthony Award The Shamus Award His novels have consistently been on bestseller lists, and he has been praised for his ability to weave psychological insights into gripping crime stories. Jonathan Kellerman has generally maintained a positive public image with limited controversies. However, as with many public figures, there have been occasional criticisms. Some readers and critics have debated the depiction of mental health issues and the ethical considerations of his characters, given his background in psychology. Despite these discussions, Kellerman's work continues to be widely read and respected. Jonathan Kellerman continues to write, focusing on both the Alex Delaware series and the Clay Edison series with his son. He remains a significant figure in the literary world, with a dedicated fan base eagerly awaiting his next publication. For more information, visit Jonathan Kellerman's official website. Faq Jonathan Kellerman FAQs body font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 1.6; margin: 20px; h1 color: #333; .faq-section margin-bottom: 20px; .faq-question font-weight: bold; color: #0056b3; .faq-answer margin-top: 5px; Who is Jonathan Kellerman? Jonathan Kellerman is an American author and psychologist, best known for his popular series of psychological thriller novels featuring the character Alex Delaware. He has written numerous bestselling books and is also known for his expertise in child psychology. What is Jonathan Kellerman's most famous work? Jonathan Kellerman's most famous work is the Alex Delaware series. The series began with the book "When the Bough Breaks" and has continued with many sequels, making it one of the most popular psychological thriller series in contemporary fiction. Has Jonathan Kellerman received any awards? Yes, Jonathan Kellerman has received several awards for his work, including the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best First Novel and the Anthony Boucher Award. His contributions to literature and psychology have been widely recognized. Is Jonathan Kellerman involved in any other professions besides writing? Yes, in addition to being a prolific author, Jonathan Kellerman is also a clinical psychologist. He has a background in psychology and has worked extensively in the field, particularly in child psychology. This expertise often informs the psychological depth of his characters and plots.

Are there any collaborations between Jonathan Kellerman and other authors? Yes, Jonathan Kellerman has collaborated with his wife, Faye Kellerman, who is also a bestselling author. They have co-written several books together. Additionally, their son, Jesse Kellerman, is an author, and Jonathan has collaborated with him as well.

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datingdaily360-blog · 5 years ago

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Most Beautiful British Women:

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Who is sexy beautiful girls in british Save She is one beautiful young British girl. Leading a life that every teenager today would literally kill for! Starring in the most famous Harry Potter film series, Emma Watson has never looked back since. This talented lady has made her modelling debut with Burberry’s autumn/winter collection in 2009. 6. J.K Rowling: img Source She needs no introduction, a British novelist whose life is like a fairytale. She is the author of British fantasy novel “Harry Potter”, one of the best selling books in the history ever. Her life is a truly an example of rags to riches. She is one of those UK women who can be appreciated for her beauty and brains! 7. Kate Beckinsale: img Source This beautiful English actress started her career with minor stage dramas and several radio productions till she finally shot to fame while starring in a series of hit films Pearl Harbour, Serendipity and The Aviator. She has the perfect face, body and skill to be in the list of top British beauties. 8. Elizabeth Hurley: img Source She is an English model and actress. She rose to fame not because her movies but while dating actor Hugh Grant. She is associated with top cosmetic brands like Estee Lauder. 9. Audrey Hepburn: img Source She is a legend in the British cinema, very beautiful with a charming face. A fashion icon in her days, she has performed many award winning roles in her times. 10. Kate Middleton: img Source Considering her very British features and glamorous yet classy way of styling herself, she definitely made Duchess of Cambridge one of the beautiful women in UK. Read the full article

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geek-patient-zero · 5 years ago

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Part 1, Chapter 6

Or: Phantomas of Notre Dame

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Death Trilogy Volume 1

Paris—March 12, 1994

The official smile of Paris is the sneer. The rich sneer at the middle class. The middle class sneer at the poor. And they all sneer at the hordes of tourists who flood their city each year.

I’ve actually remembered these lines since I first read them as a kid. I don’t know why, beyond it being Baby’s First French Stereotype Joke, but I did. I forgot what book they were from though, so when I reread Blood War and found them again, it was a nice surprise.

Their mockery, according to the guidebooks, is part of the charm of Paris. The city, with it’s great restaurants, fabulous museums, superb monuments, and long history, breeds contempt for the lesser achievements surrounding it. The average Parisian citizen considers himself far superior to anyone from outside the city.

It’s only Paris being singled out here, but still, I want to apologize to any French readers. It isn’t going to get much better for you guys in this book. But hey, at least your capital city isn’t a gang warzone.

That attitude explains, at least in theory, the joy the natives get from telling tales of the Phantom of the Paris Opera.

Not only are Parisians assholes, but they bug you into reading their Phantom of the Opera fanfics.

There’s some cliffnotes about the story (written by Gaston Leroux, demented genius living under the Paris Opera, hideously scarred, etc.), then we learn the titular Phantom is the French equivalent of Australia’s drop bears: a made up monster they tell gullible American tourists about to fuck with them.

Parisians loved to elaborate on the fantasy for gullible tourists, saying how, though he had reportedly been destroyed, the body of Eric, the Phantom, had never been found. And that every year, a few unwary tourists to the Opera House disappeared without a trace.

It was typical malicious Parisian humor. Often, the story was accompanied with a breathless attempt to sell bootleg souvenirs such as an authentic map of the catacombs or a page from the score of the Phantom’s infamous lost opera.

Or those little Mickey Mouse paper dolls that supposedly dance to music but are just attached to a motor by an invisible string. My ma fell for that one.

I don’t know if Parisians in real life actually do this, but it wouldn’t surprise me. I hear the Louvre used to give The Da Vinci Code themed tours. This sounds more fun than that, and less soul-crushing.

I admit that I’ve never read The Phantom of the Opera. I saw the play on an elementary school field trip to Broadway, but I barely remember it. I know the book begins with an intro where Leroux claims it’s a true story, but I figured it’s a true story the way The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is a true story. I looked it up anyway, just so I don’t look like an uncultured moron if I dismissed it and was wrong. Turns out, the story was inspired by a real incident at the Paris Opera where a chandelier counterweight (not the chandelier itself) fell down and killed someone. There was a crackpot theory at the time that the accident was actually an assassination attempt. That’s something I didn’t know. Guess I owe Weinberg one for getting me to learn something.

Back to the story. Parisians like to use the Phantom to fuck with tourists, but there are other stories they don’t tell them. Stories that poor shopkeepers tell each other behind closed doors like the superstitious European peasant stereotypes they pretend they aren’t. Stories that were handed down from generation to generation about unexplained disappearances plaguing the Île de la Cité (aka the place where the Notre Dame cathedral is).

Common to every narrative was the same name. A title that when said aloud could cause the most elegant Parisian to blanch in terror.

What, Quasimodo’s some kind of French cryptid too? I know the original book character wasn’t as nice as the Disney version, and he’d be an obvious candidate for a Nosferatu (or a Ravnos if you wanna be a dick) but he was hardly-

Phantomas.

Oh. Alright, yeah, different literary character, but I can go along with it.

Officially, the French Sûreté (cops, pigs, po-po, babylon) dismiss such rumors as the insane ramblings of demented poets living on the West Bank. No mention is made of a file, five inches thick, hidden deep in the files of police headquarters. Contained in it are hundreds of reports, dating back a hundred and fifty years to the time of Chief Inspector Vidocq, detailing the circumstances surrounding hundreds of disappearances in the vicinity of the famous cathedral of Notre Dame.

I bet at least one report blames Quasimodo.

One actual report is a six page article, never made public, by a historical commission about the hundreds of myths and legends surrounding the church, all connected by a ghostly figure seen in the Cathedral at night. I’ll give you one guess at what it actually is.

Though he is called by a dozen different names in the tales, he is always described as incredibly ugly. And a drinker of human blood.

Yep. A goddamn mage.

In turn-of-the-century France, the vampire’s name had gained such notoriety that a series of mystery thrillers featuring an arch-fiend called Fantomas became best-sellers. None of the stories explained the origin of the mastermind. Or why he preyed on the citizens of Paris. They were works of fiction, not fact.

In case old French pulp isn’t your thing, Fantomas, spelled with an F, was a character created in 1911 by Marcel Allain and Pierre Souvestre. He’s a master criminal like Arsène Lupin, except instead of a gentleman thief he was a sadistic murderer and Grade-A pure evil bastard. There’s nothing supernatural about Fantomas. He’s just a regular human who’s really good at murder, framing innocent people for said murder, and getting away with it. Apparently, thanks to the 1960′s film trilogy, he’s usually remembered in French pop culture wearing a blue mask that covers his entire head.

You can see how that guy would inspire a Nosferatu character. Also Destro from G.I. Joe.

But as just explained, in this setting it’s the other way around. And despite being portrayed as what the French call “a homicidal piece of shit”, the “real-life” Phantomas is a big fan of the stories.

The subject of these various novels, reports, and studies found them all vastly amusing. He had enjoyed the Fantomas novels immensely and had even sent the author several anonymous letters suggesting future ideas for plots. To his intense disappointment, none of his ideas had ever been used. Once or twice he had mentally debated visiting the novelist to plead his case. But Phantomas suspected his physical appearance might do his cause more harm than good.

That... is goddamn fucking adorable. He’s just been introduced and I already hope he survives the trilogy and discovers online fanfiction.

The vampire readily acknowledged his ugliness. Standing exactly five feet tall, with skin wrinkled as a prune, eyes like raisins, and a nose the size and shape of a sweet potato, he had caused more than one drunken Parisian to swear off red wine forever. A gaping mouthful of yellow teeth and bulging red eyes propelled his face out of the realm of the bizarre into the domain of the grotesque.

Eh. Someone in this fandom would still bang him.

Wait, eyes that were both “like raisins” and “bulging”? How does that work?

Phantomas is the Nosferatu on the cover of the second book of this trilogy, if you want a visual reference.

See, he’s even still got some hair. He’s not that bad looking.

Phantomas might enjoy the fiction he inspired about a murderer, but he’s not happy about being blamed for real murders of innocent people, regarding it as “cheap slander”. The centuries of recorded disappearances were the results of more natural and obvious crimes.

While he occasionally satisfied his thirst on some poor unfortunate, Phantomas rarely killed innocents if it could be avoided. A quiet, gentle soul, all he wanted was to be left alone in his underground lair, pursuing his research.

Over the years a host of villains had used his presence on the Île de la Cité as an alibi for their murders. Their victims ended, not in his hideaway, but dumped in the Seine. Most had escaped the guillotine. However, Phantomas was less forgiving. And his justice was as sharp and final as any blade.

So other than a few accidents, the only people Phantomas “disappeared” were the criminals responsible for the rest of them.

Phantomas isn’t thinking about that dark business right now. He’s feeling great because he’s on his way to a party. The Prince of Paris, one Francois Villon, holds court once a month, and today’s such a day. Villon’s both a Toreador elder and French, so obviously he holds court in the Louvre.

Dozens of Kindred, along with several hundred of the Prince’s favorite ghouls and kine, attended the festivities. This evening the Prince entertained an important Tremere wizard visiting from Vienna. Phantomas loved such events. Though never invited, he never missed one.

There goes my heart, breaking for poor old Phantomas again...

But this time the snub isn’t a case of a Toreador being a snob to a Nosferatu. Villon just doesn’t know Phantomas exists.

The Prince was under the mistaken impression that he was the oldest, most powerful vampire in the City of Lights. He was neither. Phantomas had come to the Île de la Cité with the invading legions of Julius Caesar in 53 B.C.

I should apologize to the French again. Turns out Phantomas isn’t one of you guys. He’s a nice Italian man.

From here we’re launched into Phantomas’ pre-Phantomas backstory. In life he was Varro Dominus (Strong Ruler or Master), a young noble and soldier who worked under Caesar himself, and was in charge of recording his military campaigns. Ceasar’s legions arrived in the Île de la Cité, then called Lutetia, using it as a stepping stone across the Seine. Unfortunately for Varro, living among the easily conquered native tribesmen, pretending to be a forest god, was a fifth-generation Nosferatu named Urgahalt. The invading legions fascinated Urgahalt, what with their military strength, impressive latin names, and neat centurion helmets, and he Embraced Varro so he could introduce him into Roman society.

There’s an obvious flaw in this plan, since it’s difficult for a guy to introduce you to his culture when you’ve just made him an outcast from that culture, turning him into a shriveled prune monster with a sweet potato nose. And Varro knew it too. The Romans, or at least Varro, knew more about Kindred (or lemures, as they called vampires) than Urgahalt realized, including how to kill them. Pissed that bumping into this guy cost him his life and career, Varro staked him in the heart and turned him into a bonfire.

Convincing the legions to take him back would be a hard sell now, so Varro stayed behind on the island, pretty much never leaving during the millennia as modern Paris rose up around the guy.

He was as much a part of the city as the Eiffel Tower.

Which undersells Phantomas quite a bit since the Eiffel Tower’s only been around since 1889, but you get the point.

Turning into an ugly son of a bitch also turned Phantomas into the ultimate introvert, aside from those parties he likes attending. He stays hidden from everyone, including other vampires. Even other Nosferatu.

More than two hundred Kindred inhabited Paris and its suburbs. The Toreador Clan held control of the central city, but several other bloodlines roamed the streets, including rebel bands of Brujah, Gangrel, and Malkavians. Rumors spoke of a Sabbat pack anxious to spread dissension and revolt, with headquarters in the slums. At least a half-dozen Nosferatu lived in lairs beneath major museums and churches [sic] Yet even among the Kindred Phantomas was a legend, an unseen presence with no basis in reality. He was a phantom to the living and the undead.

Good call. If Parisians are like how the opening paragraphs describe them, I wouldn’t want to talk to them either.

In order to stay hidden, Phantomas lives in a huge underground lair hundreds of feet under Notre Dame, connected by a network of tunnels that stretched across Paris. He’s also a master of Obfuscate, the discipline that allows vampires, especially Nosferatu, to go around unnoticed, commonly by turning invisible. Right now, in order to get into the party, Phantomas is using the Mask of a Thousand Faces, the third-tier Obfuscate power that disguises a vampire as a random nobody human or an unimportant vampire, depending on whose looking at him. Looks like it also lets you pretend to hold an invitation and get away with it.

Shortly after midnight, he strolled past the two Assamites guarding the glass pyramid that served as entrance to the Louvre. They nodded without interest as he displayed an imaginary invitation and walked into the main hall.

That pyramid pissed a lot of older Parisians off when it was first built. Yeah, they complain about everything, but since the artsy-fartsy Toreador control the city, you’d think they would’ve prevented its construction. Unless the pyramid’s a Toreador idea, in which case no wonder everyone hated it.

(Parisians are over hating the pyramid these days, so don’t mention it unless you want them to think you’re in their city for one of those Da Vinci Code tours.)

Phantomas muttered a word of thanks to his Roman gods that Villon considered electronic monitoring devices provincial. His psychic camouflage worked flawlessly with humans and vampires. It was useless against cameras or television monitors.

The Louvre doesn’t have any security cameras? None at all?

In Phantomas’ opinion, the Prince was a pompous dandy who wouldn’t recognize true art if it hit him in the face.

Looks like Phantomas agrees with me about Toreador tastes in art.

Master of the Louvre, the finest art collection in history, Villon ignored the treasures of the past for the ephemeral pleasures of the moment.

Alright, In Villon’s defense, I think grandpa here might have some bias.

His mercurial tastes dominated the Parisian fashion scene. He surrounded himself with the most beautiful models in Paris, blood dolls who sipped on blood and dreamed of immortality. Like too many of the Kindred, Villon had never come to terms with his undeath.

I like Phantomas and all, but it’s not Villon sneaking into one of his parties, so what right does he have being judgmental?

But I think I get what Phantomas is thinking. Villon owns one of the most famous historical art museums in the world, but he only cares about celebrity shit and making beautiful but angry-looking women wear weird shit nobody else will actually wear.

The party was being held in the glass-roofed Cour Marley, but Phantomas was in no hurry to go there. Though he had visited the Louvre many times, he never skipped the opportunity to visit the galleries housing the Greek, Roman, and Egyptian antiquities. The museum housed perhaps the finest such collection in the world and, though Phantomas had the face and body of a monster, he possessed the soul of a poet.

This is the real reason he loves these parties so much, isn’t it. Grandpa just wants an excuse to visit the museum for like the billionth time.

Ten minutes he spent staring at the Venus de Milo.

Art appreciation, or the closest he gets to seeing boobs?

He walks around admiring other things, like “Winged Victory of Samothrace”, “Winged Bull”, and the statue of Queen Nefertiti.

The bust of Agrippa drew him to the Roman section. The famous general, the hero of Actium, had served Octavius, the grandnephew of his mentor, Julius Caesar. Staring at the statue made him feel old. Two thousand years separated him from his heritage.

I feel the same way whenever I meet someone born after Spongebob Squarepants first aired.

If not for a chance encounter in Gaul, his children might have fought against Mark Anthony. Or served in the Senate with Cicero.

Not if you stared at potential mothers the way you stared at the Venus de Milo and Agrippa’s bust.

He finishes his tour and finally heads to the party. If you’ve been paying attention to the plot, you know what’s about to happen.

As he drew closer to the courtyard, he frowned. There was no music. Villon’s parties always featured a loud rock band playing the latest hits. Tonight, the corridors were strangely silent.

Nirvana was supposed to play “About a Girl” but Villon kicked them out when Cobain let his turtles wander around and shit everywhere.

A tall, young man slender [sic], with blond hair and bright blue eyes, stood in front of the door leading to the Cour Marley. Dressed in a white suit with an open-necked white shirt, he nodded in greeting as Phantomas approached. It was almost as if he had been waiting for [sic] there for him.

Weinberg’s editor must’ve quit before getting to this chapter, after reading the part about Flavia’s rock hard leather-penetrating nipples. Also, ‘sup Reuben? What’ve you been doing the past two years?

Reuben doesn’t introduce himself. He just warns Phantomas not to go in. Phantomas is shocked that a human is talking to him at all. Mask of a Thousand Faces is supposed to disguise him as someone so boring not even Kindred are interested starting a conversation with him

“The Final Death waits inside,” continued the stranger, evidently not troubled by Phantomas’ concerns. “If you enter, you may never leave.”

“I am no coward,” stated the vampire simply. “After twenty centuries, I fear very little.”

Let’s see if that lasts longer than a page.

The young man smiled. “I suspected you would say that.” He stepped to the side. “Beware the Red Death, Phantomas.”

“Who are you?” asked Phantomas, startled. “How do you know my name?”

But the stranger had vanished. It was as if he had never been there.

Good old Reuben, scaring an old man, the trolling bastard.

Successfully freaked out, Phantomas opens the courtyard doors. To no one’s surprise, everyone’s dead. Even the regular non-ghoul humans.

The smell of charred and blackened human flesh assaulted his nostrils. A horrified glance around the courtyard revealed a dozen bodies of Villon’s favorites, their beautiful features burned beyond recognition. The fashion runways of Paris would be missing a number of familiar faces tomorrow. Mixed among the dead were the remains of twice as many ghouls. Nowhere was there life.

How he’s able to tell the models and ghouls apart, I don’t know.

Villon was gone. As were all other Kindred. However, dark shadows on the ground indicated to Phantomas that more than one had departed the Louvre permanently.

Can the French art and fashion worlds finally recover from the dark and untalented reign of the Toreador?

As if in answer to Phantomas’ unasked question, a gruesome figure stepped from behind the Marly Horses. Tall and lean, he wore a rotted shroud of funeral cloth held together by strips of moldering bandage [sic]. His face was

-that of a long-dead corpse, chalk-white skin, blah blah blah it’s the Red Death.

Slowly, the monster smiled.

“The meddling record keeper,” said the Red Death. He stretched out a skeletal arm. Phantomas could feel the heat thirty feet away. “Your termination will be a fitting conclusion to the celebration.”

Confronted by this horrifying fire monster who just massacred an entire party of vampires, ghouls, and humans, what does the famous Phantomas do? Something that both proves him a hypocrite and the smartest person in this goddamn book.

He hauls ass out of there.

Hundreds of years hiding beneath the streets of Paris had taught Phantomas an important lesson. When threatened, flee. Immediately. Don’t search for alternative solutions, don’t negotiate, don’t look back. Run as fast as possible until you reach safety. It was a basic survival technique that worked in the past. It served him tonight.

Phantomas ran. He burst through the doors of the Cour Marley, raced down the halls leading to the glass pyramid, and sprinted out into the night air without turning his head once to see if he was followed. Short and misshapen, he ran astonishingly fast.

Phantomas doesn’t stop running until he’s safely hundreds of feet underground in one of his tunnels. He escaped the Red Death.

He had escaped for the moment. But Phantomas felt certain he had not seen the last of the monster.

It had named him the record keeper. Somehow it knew of his great project. And the Red Death obviously disapproved.

We’ll find out more about Phantomas’ hobby the next time we catch up with him. For now, Chapter 6 ends on that mystery.

#vampire the masquerade #vampire: the masquerade #vtm #vtmb #world of darkness #blood war

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bvmkvy · 7 years ago

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@kimvjonghyun

“Why do I have to go to such a stupid radio show?” Kibum asks, nose scrunched up and eyebrows knitted together.

His manager for the day purses his lips– and it’s right there, the same gesture of impatience he does whenever Kibum is concerned; as if he was the grown up dealing with the whims of a child.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Kibum,” the man says, tone patronizing and all too accusing.

Kibum’s eyebrows knit even tighter. The manager is right.

“It’s still a stupid radio show. What does a novelist have to do with someone like me? How would a talk go between people who are so different?” Kibum spats while his hands are busy stuffing his cellphone, earphones, and other gadgets into his bag. It’s a lost battle. “What are we supposed to have in common?”

The manager rolls his eyes as discreetly as he can, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. Kibum is lying. He knew about this show since a while ago. The first thing he did after knowing about the upcoming activity was to buy the best selling novel written by the costar of the radio show. He hadn’t finished it in one go. Instead of rushing, he had savored each line, had stayed up for a good time thinking about the meaning of many sentences, situations, dreams patched together in the minds of the characters of the book. Kibum is intrigued.

The ride to the radio show is one filled with impatience and eagerness. Kibum has questions, wishes he had the time to talk to the novelist in private and get the answers he’s looking for. Feline-like eyes have green contacts hiding the natural hazel color of his eyes. His attire is just as fashionable as always, every piece of the fabric meshing well with a casual aura. But his attention is elsewhere. He doesn’t take much time to greet the fans outside and while he’s polite to the staff, clear eyes look for someone who stands out, the bearer of wisdom, the one who, in Kibum’s imagination, must be just someone else entirely.

When his eyes continue to search between all the non-familiar faces, they finally land on a man already inside the cabin he’s supposed to go in now. It’s him, the realization hits him.

“Ah, I’m so glad you had the time to arrive early today, Kibummie,” Haneul, the host for the night, says behind him. Her small hand gives him a few pats on the back with the enough force to send him a few steps forwards. “Let me introduce you with our other guest for the show, come on in.”

Haneul has a large cup of hazelnut coffee ready in her hand. The smell is rich and comforting. It also has some effect on Kibum’s excitement, it sobers him up, grounds him to the present. With some horror, he realizes he’s acting like a child indeed.

“Jonghyun-ssi, allow me to introduce you to Kim Kibum. Kibum, he’s the famous best seller author Kim Jonghyun.” Haneul says as she leaves her coffee mug on the table while taking a seat.

Kibum looks directly at the novelist for a few long seconds. “Nice to meet you,” he murmurs as well, the polite words followed by a tilt of his head in acknowledgment. Then he takes a seat as well beside the novelist. Haneul is before them both, delicate fingers taking the headphones in hand to put them over her head.

“Don’t worry over anything, okay? Pretend we are in a coffee at some relaxing park and let yourselves be free. I will throw some topics and questions in the table, mostly things the audience will be interested about. I will start with Kibum first and then I will pass to you, Jonghyun-ssi, afterwards we can just keep talking, If you have any doubts, we will have enough breaks to talk them over.”

Haneul explains more things in the remaining minutes, but Kibum doesn’t pay much attention to her. She says something about him singing, but it also doesn’t register his ears. He is busy trying to figure out the best way to give rest to his curiosity without seeming too eager.

“Okay everyone, ten seconds before we go live,” the producer’s voice resounds in the cabin.

Kibum takes his headphones and slowly puts them on his head. The music of the intro plays and Haneul begins the show. Kibum is aware he introduces himself at some point and then he remains quiet.

“Okay so Kibum-ssi, you recently released a new single, ‘Josephine’,” Haneul begins. “A member of the audience asked us to please convince you to sing a bit of the song in here, would you do us the honor?”

I knew I had tasted love The first sip always makes you choke Sweetest sound I ever spoke So bitter and so beautiful

#⟨ verse: 𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓮 neighborhood ⟩#⟨ 𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓮 neighborhood: тнє мιѕт ⟩#⟨ ᴛʜᴇ sɪɴ��ᴇʀ ⟩#kimvjonghyun #[ it's so long sob i hope it's okay ;^;

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New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/travel/the-beat-generation-is-alive-in-san-francisco/

The Beat Generation is alive in San Francisco

(CNN) — It began with a poem.

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked …”

When Allen Ginsberg read his poem “Howl” at the now-closed Six Gallery in San Francisco on October 7, 1955, he was rising up against the Cold War, the wars in Asia and what President Dwight Eisenhower had dubbed the “military industrial complex.”

San Francisco poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, co-founder of City Lights Booksellers & Publishers, was in the audience and sent Ginsberg a telegram afterward offering to publish it.

From suits to poets

“The Beat poets began the counterculture movement in the arts that is the reason all the artists I know are still here in San Francisco,” said Andrew Sean Greer, a San Francisco-based novelist who won the 2018 Pulitzer Prize for “Less.”

“Ferlinghetti and his friends changed the city from men in gray flannel suits to poets in leaky basements, black and female and queer poets even then,” Greer tells CNN Travel. “We’re a continuation of that hope and rage and art. I still go to Caffe Trieste with a friend to write and Vesuvio to drink and City Lights for poetry.”

As he turned 100 on March 24, both Ferlinghetti, City Lights — which remains a beacon of poetry and progressive thought in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood — and the city all celebrated.

City Lights hosted an open house, galleries featured his photographs and paintings and San Francisco Mayor London Breed declared March 24 Lawrence Ferlinghetti Day. There were also events in New York City for the Bronxville native, who moved to San Francisco after attending University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, serving in the US Navy during World War II and graduate school at Columbia University in New York and the Sorbonne in Paris.

“He is so very beloved by his friends and neighbors in North Beach and people all round the world,” said punk art surrealist Winston Smith, who designed the controversial Dead Kennedys’ album cover, “In God We Trust, Inc.” in 1981.

“Putting up with the human race for a full century deserves a reward.”

Still writing works that matter

Poets Lawrence Ferlinghetti, left, and Allen Ginsberg, center, look on with Stella Kerouac, Jack’s widow, in 1988.

Jon Chase/AP

His friends and fans didn’t just celebrate his rich history, including his stand for free speech during the obscenity trial that followed the publication of “Howl and Other Poems.” The trial thrust the Beat Generation writers — which included Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs, Neal Cassady and Ferlinghetti — on the national stage.

Nor did they simply honor Ferlinghetti’s mark in the world of poetry, notably his 1958 book of poems, “A Coney Island of the Mind.”

In this best-seller, he warned of “freeways fifty lanes wide, on a concrete continent, spaced with bland billboards, illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness.”

They celebrated a poet and activist who is still producing works of note. Publishers Weekly called his latest novel, “Little Boy,” released on March 19, “stunningly evocative” and “a Proustian celebration of both memory and moments that will delight readers.”

Many headed to North Beach to celebrate the past and present of the poet, the bookstore and the publishing company this weekend.

If you couldn’t join the celebration, here are some other ways explore the Beat generation, San Francisco’s remarkable literary scene and the Beat Generation’s influence on the world.

City Lights Booksellers & Publishers

City Lights is still a gathering place for poetry, critical thinking and organizing.

Mauro Aprile Zanetti

Poetry lovers still gather to hear the spoken word at City Lights.

The bookstore has not simply remained a repository of counterculture writing from the 1950s and 1960s. It continues to evolve as a meeting place for poets, writers and literary events and as a place for progressive books and ideas to develop.

The bookstore’s latest section, Pedagogies of Resistance, was created in the wake of the 2018 US presidential election.

To get an introduction to City Lights publishing, try the 60th anniversary edition of the “City Lights Pocket Poets Anthology,” which was edited by Ferlinghetti himself.

City Lights, 261 Columbus Avenue at Broadway, San Francisco, CA 94133

Punk art and other worms

Punk art surrealist Winston Smith hosts a show opening at the Collage Museum of San Francisco, his North Beach art space that he also calls Grant’s Tomb Gallery.

Courtesy Matthew Kadi

As City Lights and the artists who celebrate it continue to evolve and expand their expression beyond the Beat culture, they are paying heed to other artistic formats.

That’s why City Lights employees recommend the rare but worthy openings and happenings at Winston Smith’s North Beach space, the Collage Museum of San Francisco, which he also calls Grant’s Tomb Gallery. In addition to his art for the Dead Kennedys, Smith has illustrated dozens of other album covers and is working on a project for Punk Rock Bowling. (Check his website to see his sporadic show schedule or contact him for an appointment.)

City Lights veterans also recommend Live Worms Gallery, where the Beat Museum first opened a temporary location and where an all-female artist lineup took over the space on the International Day of the Woman earlier this year.

The Beat Museum

Home to an extensive collection of Beat memorabilia, this independently owned (and somewhat tattered) museum is worth a visit to see the physical trappings of these artists, writers, poets and raconteurs. The museum will eventually be shuttered for six months while its building undergoes a city-required seismic retrofit and the owners are fundraising to raise money to reopen after the work is done.

Photographer and videographer Christopher Felver, who has documented Ferlinghetti’s life on film and in photographs, has a show of his photos at the museum through June 30.

The Beat Museum, 540 Broadway (at Columbus Avenue), San Francisco, CA 94133

Caffe Trieste

The folks at City Lights still like to visit nearby Caffe Trieste, named for the Italian hometown of founder Giovanni Giotta. where Greer also sometimes writes. The Giotta family claims that the café, which they opened in 1956, was the first espresso coffee house established on the West Coast. Francis Ford Coppola wrote much of the “The Godfather” screenplay at the cafe.

Vesuvio Café

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, shown recently at home, turns 100 on March 24, 2019.

Mauro Aprile Zanetti

This is really a saloon of the Beat Generation, whose opening predates neighbor City Lights by five years. The perfect location for folks to drink, listen to jazz and read poetry, Vesuvio may be most famous for keeping Jack Kerouac from meeting Henry Miller one night in 1960.

Miller liked Keroauc’s “The Dharma Bums” and wrote him that he wanted to meet him. Instead of driving to Big Sur for their meeting, Kerouac kept calling Miller to say he’d be delayed and kept drinking.

Stop by Jack Kerouac Alley after having a drink at the bar.

Vesuvio, 255 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133

Moe’s Books

Moe’s Books opened in Berkeley in 1959, and remains a gathering place for writers and poets.

Courtesy Moe’s Books

Cross San Francisco Bay to visit Moe’s Books in Berkeley. Founded in 1959 by Moe and Barbara Moskowitz, it sells new books and buys and sells used books.

Moe’s, which moved into the middle of Berkeley’s free speech movement on Telegraph Avenue in the 1960s, has hosted Ferlinghetti, among others. And its April schedule is packed with poetry readings, including appearances by Sally Ashton, Arlene Biala, Alli Warren and Alan Bernheimer.

It’s now owned by Doris Moskowitz, the daughter of the founders.

Where to stay

City Lights curated a selection of Beat Generation books for the Hotel Emblem’s book program.

Albert Law

We admit this new hotel charges room rates that would make any devotee of the Beats freak out, and it’s more than clean — which also might be odd to the folks San Francisco columnist Herb Caen sneeringly called “beatniks.” (He coined it shortly after the launch of the Russian “Sputnik” satellite in 1958.)

Hotel Emblem guests can enjoy poetry slams at the hotel’s Obscenity Bar & Lounge, Saturday meditation classes and books through the Book Butler program, featuring a cart of Beat Generation literature curated by City Lights, and in-room libraries.

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