#hi this song is primarily about cocaine

[dovakiinwitcher]

Batfamily As Interactions With My Own Siblings

- Call and response with quotes or song lyrics. Dick and/or Steph use this most often since most of their siblings are angsty (Jason, Tim, Damian, Cass), so this forces them to acknowledge them. To not respond is of the HIGHEST offense.

- Sometimes Damian, or Cass, will come flying out of nowhere to surprise attack one of their siblings. Frankly, all of them do this, but those two are most common. Poor Duke is always the most caught off guard, in spite of his powers.

- Tim is almost always the last one down for dinner. Sometimes, he doesn’t even come down until after everyone else has eaten. Alfred is always kind enough to leave a plate for him to reheat. One time, he found that plate on the floor beneath a laundry basket that was propped up by a stick, cartoon-trap style. His siblings were hiding around the corner, watching him intently.

- Jason sometimes gets distracted in the bathroom, picking at scabs or old scars on his face in the mirror. His siblings (particularly Damian) get really pissed if they've heard the toilet flush and still have to wait for ten minutes to use the bathroom. (Jason has pointed out that there are other bathrooms. This doesn't prevent him from getting yelled at.)

- Duke has been known to go on fierce literary rants to Jason. Most recently about a certain shitty book he had to read for school.

- Tim started a DnD campaign with Dick, Barbara, and Duke. The party got sidetracked going undercover as an "exterminator" company, and helping a poor milliner jumpstart her hat business (don't ask how those were related). Tim is scared that they may have completely forgotten their original quest.

- Sometimes Steph forgets who she's told something to, and will repeat information to people who've already heard this from her.

- Jason, on the other hand, will forget what he HAS been told by people, and infuriates people with his questions of things he's already "had this conversation about."

- Bruce has repeatedly told Damian that Batcow is not a house pet. Nonetheless, he's found Damian in his room reading a book to his cow several times.

- Dick and Jason have reenacted many YouTube videos on patrols, from quoting back and forth to one another, to performing dangerous parkour stunts.

- Damian once tried to strangle Jason after he won Unstable Unicorns by almost exclusively trolling Damian and preventing him from gaining a final unicorn five times in a row. In one game. Damian has still not forgiven him.

- Jason once offered Tim a hit of his cigarette. Dick later found out and flipped his shit.

- The kitchen is a hazardous place to be. The kids pretend to stab each other a lot.

- Jason communicates primarily through saying either "I'll kill you," or "I'd rather die." Although sometimes, when someone's talking (typically Steph or Dick), he'll randomly interject to say, "you're a [insert obscure twist of their words]."

- For example, Steph was once vacuuming the rug with a very old vacuum and said, "this vacuum would be terrible at cocaine." Jason replied from the couch, not looking up from his book, "you're a terrible cocaine vacuum."

- The siblings binged the Chernobyl HBO series in one night. Right off the bat, Damian went on a rant about how irresponsible the guy committing suicide was for not finding his cat a new home first and just leaving out food. He also had to leave the room during the dog part in later episodes. When Dick was sent to tell him it was over, he was found with his face buried in Titus and/or Ace's fur.

- On a lighter note, Jason commentated over many of the really heavy parts of that documentary, making it way funnier than it was supposed to be. Sometimes he genuinely argued with the TV.

- There is a quote book of obscure things they've said out of context. Here are some excerpts:

"Haha, losers, imagine having parents." - Jason

"And that's why child labor is good and justifiable." - Steph

"They really underestimate my stabbing abilities." - Damian

"This jacket is vegan leather. Which means I skinned a vegan and turned them into a jacket." - Cass

"That's how my brain works; it doesn't." - Tim

"But we're stressful together." - Dick

"As Thomas the Tank Engine once said: chuga chuga choo choo, I'm a sexy dinosaur." - Also Dick

"If you wouldn't have been killed by Nazis, are you even an interesting person?" - Duke

"Alright, shit pisser, let's rumble." - Jason

"Keep your rabid animal away from my crab legs." - Barbara

- Barbara has a tendency to play true crime podcasts while she works. People only ever seem to walk in during the weirdest parts. She doesn't feel the need to explain herself; she finds the looks on their faces hilarious.

- The household Alexa will respond to Dick unprompted, and it genuinely freaks him out. It doesn't do that for anyone else, and he thinks it's out to get him. This is why he has a Google at home in Blüdhaven instead.

- Jason isn't the most hygienic person, which concerns the family sometimes. Dick had learned that when he visits wherever Jason is living at the moment and "oops, forgets" his shampoo or body wash or whatever, Jason will end up using it. Jason has caught on, but will never openly admit that he's grateful for it.

- Dick will ruffle Damian's hair out of affection. Tim will do it to piss him off.

- Tim and Damian often kick each other without any other interaction. Bruce finds it troubling. Dick reminds him that he and Jason used to do the same thing (mainly Jason kicking Dick).

- When Tim and Steph play video games, it's not uncommon for Steph to hijack a car just to try to run Tim over while he tries to do side quests.

- Cass is the Super Smash Bros champion. And the Mario Kart champion. And tends to carry everyone when playing multi-player. Mostly because Steph tries to sabotage them at every corner, and only Cass is able to adapt.

I may do more of these, but I didn't want this to be TOO long.

[kirk]

hi im back again to say the pros and cons of breathing is driving me actually crazy like idek the timeline or lore or whatever of who was writing more lyrics at the time between pete and patrick and even though its probably primarily about someone else/a different situation, its making me think about early days p2 and like the way they used to fight... like pete pushing patrick to sing because he saw his talent but also patrick not being comfortable in the spotlight as much as pete and also being way less willng to talk about his emotions AND petes history of playing with voice and writing from both his and patricks perspective... and how that can feel stifling and controlling when you arent used to (or dont want to be receptive to) emotional intimacy... and the thought of that whole era of peteandpatrick where they were already connected to each other so strongly and had such an intense relationship (no matter how u defne relationship) but without healthy communication or boundaries and just being so young and feeling out of your depth in an intense scene...... anyway can u tell im such a patrick girl (gender neutral)

FUCK YES THE BIG TEXT IS BACK so glad you’re a committed to the bit girlie (gn) i respect that so much, you are my type of person fr… also thought id join you in solidarity of big text for a paragraph :-3

but also god ok yeah i have a whole p2 playlist that is full of fob (and a couple soul punk) songs that are like… p2 to me and pros and cons is DEFINITELY on there. for tttyg it would have been patrick writing the lyrics, however like you said patrick going into the spotlight to sing via pete’s encouragement, 100% is reflected. and how that feels for him especially being so young in such an intense scene. (and to take what you said about pete’s writing, he started writing from my heart bside. which coincidentally features its not a side effect of the cocaine… which is such a less talked about certified peterick banger to me LMFAO…) like. patrick being that young he obvs has all this teenage angst to write out but also it’s hard at that age to differentiate like… hate from love from respect to disdain or whatever and that’s why us peterick girlies can see such, well, Peterick(TM) in even songs like pros and cons cause it’s patrick’s teen perspective here, he is gonna feel a lot and understand like none of it except that it’s A LOT. and finding your literal other half soulmate crytophasis partner at that age (though not knowing it ofc) must’ve been like. Dear God What The Fuck Is Going On I Am Feeling So Much So Strongly This Must Be Anger (babygirl no i just don’t think you were used to being so known so easily). also just the verses in pros and cons are so.. idk to me window imagery is sooo peterick to me ugh… also to go on my own little tangent but you said ur a patrick girlie (gn) so i think you’re fine with this BUT genuinely smfs is my fave era already i cannot lie, it’s like that obsession flame has been lit again really hot and really strong, they are each other’s fucking wife guys hype men. silly rabbits. whatever but it’s HEALTHY it’s so good. and you can tell patrick is so free right now. like… the other day i got so weepy over him literally like. he’s the clear frontman now it’s… god i cant continue or i’ll start bawling i cannot lie x smfs era is so much for us patrick and peterick girlies

[septembersghost]

Review:

The title of Harry's House came before the actual album did, inspired by Hosono's House, the debut album of wildly influential Japanese pop singer Haruomi Hosono. Styles had heard the record during a visit to Japan and become enamored with the idea of naming an album "Harry's House", and more specifically building an album around the metaphor of a "house" representing his internal mind. Written and recorded primarily through 2020 and 2021, Harry's House is a product of Styles' pandemic musings, a collection of songs about love and life that all feel distinctly nostalgic. Even the happier tracks on the album carry notes of wistfulness, at times making it hard to tell whether a song is about a breakup or a current love.

Sonically, Harry's House moves beyond the 70's rock of Styles' first two albums and embraces the synths starting to emerge in Fine Line. The album is light and airy, with folk and funk influences adding a whimsical feel to the indie-pop of most of the songs. The opener, "Music For A Sushi Restaurant", welcomes us in with enthusiastic horns, and the groovy "Daydreaming" gives us a sample from The Brothers Johnson's "Ain't We Funkin' Now". It's a charming deviation from the often heavy-handed imitation of past artists on his early albums; while you can still see older music's influence on Styles he seems to be letting go of his need to be seen as a "serious" artist, and the result is a pleasant blend of pastiches that no longer feel like they're trying too hard.

Where Harry's House excels is also where it falters; it's good in a comfortable way, an easy listen made easier by the fact that there isn't anything quite innovative about it. Styles is taking other genres and sounds and presenting them to an audience that might not be aware of them in a pleasant, palatable way; that in itself is a talent, and one he has always been good at. But that is not something that will make you remembered. Harry's House is a good album. Harry Styles is a good artist. But it's clear he desires iconicism, wants his name up there with his idols, and for that you need more than just good music and great stage presence.

Sonically, Harry's House is great, boasting catchy melodies and strong production. The lyrics are where we see Styles start to stumble; they're cloyingly vague, giving the listener enough information about him to contract their own idea of him, but not enough to ruin whatever that idea may be. It's the same vagueness Styles has perpetuated throughout his entire career, keeping himself aloof enough to build mystery and let fans project their own fantasies of what they want him to be. But it's frustrating when that same aloofness extends past his interviews and media presence into his art. Harry's House feels at times like you're hearing about someone's life through whispers on the street; while you can piece together an idea of what's going on you still don't understand who they truly are.

The best written song on the album (and coincidentally, the only one with a female songwriter) is "Matilda", a lovely ode to leaving behind a family that mistreated you. "You don't have to be sorry for leaving and growing up" Styles croons over a bare guitar melody, in a voice that seems to insist he understands. While his lyrics can get jarringly cringey at points in the album ("cocaine/side boob/choke her with a sea view" in Keep Driving, "you hide the body all that yoga gave you" in Little Freak, and other trope-y descriptions of his female lovers that aim for sexy but land at awkward) it's moments like this that show his potential as a songwriter. He can articulate personal thoughts well when the song isn't necessarily about himself, but when writing about his personal life his desire for privacy hedges his lyrics into vague statements.

Despite the vagueness of a lot of the lyrics, there are snapshots of intriguing concepts throughout the album: "Harry you're no good alone/Why are you sittin' at home on the floor?/What kind of pills are you on?" Styles sings in "As It Was", the lead single and another highlight of the album. The mental health struggles and implied substance abuse issues seemingly referenced add a lot more dimension to his character, and would be a very interesting thing to explore, but they're never mentioned again. He hints at cracks in his idyllic life but gets too scared and shies away from fully discussing them. You can tell he wants to be vulnerable, and tell that even sharing what he's already shared about himself is a struggle, but at some point the lack of substance shifts from making Styles seem like a private person to making him seem like someone who just doesn't have anything interesting to say.

I think a lot about this quote from Styles' interview with Zane Lowe: "I think sometimes, with therapy as an example, you open a bunch of doors in your house that you didn't know existed. You find all these rooms you get to explore." Harry's House let the listeners into Styles' house, and in his mind that meant rummaging through these rooms with him. In reality, the rooms were roped off; the listeners could glimpse inside but see nothing more than a quick tableau of his life. You might be in Harry's House but it's a guided, polished tour, with everything you see still obsessively curated

This is something from reddit that explained my thoughts on album perfectly

while i do feel a closer and more real/human connection to the record than this review does - "Even the happier tracks on the album carry notes of wistfulness" this point especially is probably where i make a particular connection - this was an interesting read, thank you for sharing it!

[ina-shumelim]

You know I hate every pop star that I ever met

The pied piper came today Autograph, autograph to lead us away Out of the town behind the piper Over the cliff and into the river. (Chumbawamba: Rich Pop Stars Make Good Socialists, 1986)

English band Chumbawamba (1982–2012) are known primarily for getting knocked down, but getting up again to perform Tubthumping (1997), yet their discography can of course not be represented by just one song. Rooted in the punk scene, the anarchist ensemble was always political, wearing their explicitly expressed opinions on their sleeves. A specific concern of theirs was the political or societal engagement of successful musical artists, resulting in oftentimes harsh criticisms of the respective pop stars. Here, I will attempt to present a few of, not all!, these songs.

1. Charity, not change: How to Get Your Band on Television and Slag Aid

In keeping with the fashion for charity, not change, here’s our contribution – we’ve called it Slag Aid: For every pop star that we slag off today, a million pounds will be given away. (Chumbawamba: How to Get Your Band on Television, 1986)

1986’s How to Get Your Band on Television was clearly influenced by the Live Aid concerts the year before. The opener of Pictures of Starving Children Sell Records mocks a number of musicians involved with the concert: Paul McCartney and David Bowie are portrayed as money-hungry, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards as cocaine junkies, and Freddie Mercury is attacked for Queen’s 1984 performances in apartheid South Africa. In the finale, Cliff Richard, a “puritan saint come to bless our earth”, who curiously did not perform at Live Aid, but is known for other philanthropic endeavours, is nailed to a cross. Throughout the song, references are made to various British and American television shows.

A live version of the song, fittingly titled Slag Aid, was published on the live album Showbusiness! (1994). It features slight variations of the studio version’s verses, making mention of Axl Rose and Michael Jackson. Cliff Richard’s fate of crufixion is now instead endured by the Sex Pistols’ Johnny Rotten, with the final verse giving the title of his autobiography Rotten: No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs as “No McLaren, No Matlock, No Dignity”, mocking his difficult relationships with Sex Pistols manager Malcom McLaren and bassist Glen Matlock.

As is usual with Chumbawamba, How to Get Your Band on Television is quite on the nose about its intentions: While the focus lies on pop stars perceived as charitable, the real issue is what “we’ve been doing to the Third World for the past 400 years. That’s YOU and ME. You the viewers at home, me in the studio, the pop stars, everyone.��� Charity does not solve the issues created by the inherently unfair system of capitalism. And “the poor don’t want aid, they want control.” The topic of colonialism is thus continued in the final album’s final song Invasion. But, as both songs, agree, for now “the cycle of hungry children will keep on going round.”

2. Love me, I’m a liberal: Give the Anarchist a Cigarette and Love Me

“when the artist paints what the public demands, it is not art, but business.” (charles t sprading) … wealth, politics and embassy king size: we always suspected kings were small. (Give the Anarchist a Cigarette, liner notes)

1994’s Anarchy opens with a mockery of “Bobby” Dylan. The title of Give the Anarchist a Cigarette is based on a scene from the documentary Don’t Look Back (1967), in which his manager Albert Grossman tells Dylan that the papers had started calling him an anarchist: “Just ‘cause you don’t offer any solution.” Dylan responds: “An anarchist. Ugh. Gimme the cigarette, give the anarchist a cigarette!”

Well, Chumbawamba agreed with Dylan: They did not consider him an anarchist either. The verses of Give the Anarchist a Cigarette portray Dylan, known himself for his political and often mocking lyrics, as a “spoilt brat” who forgets “the times are changing”. The derisive verses are in stark contrast to the chorus which presents Chumbawamba’s take on political songwriting: “Nothing ever burns down by itself, every fire needs a little bit of help!”

A second song on Anarchy targets another, this time seemingly fictional, pop star: Love Me is performed from the perspective of a certain “Johnny Trabant”, a “voxpop evangelical liberal” who has taken a comfortable seat in the centre of the Political Compass: “I’m an anarchist, I’m the Antichrist, well sort of, not really.” An obvious reference to Phil Ochs’s Love Me, I’m a Liberal (1966), the song features various historical and pop culture references ranging from Stretch Armstrong to Víctor Jara as well as the amazing pun “deliver us from Elvis”.

According to an annotation on genius.com, Johnny Trabant is a pseudonym for Bono with the name being derived from U2’s making repeated use of East German Trabant cars—I cannot verify that, but it seems quite imaginable, especially considering Bono seems to have been on some kind of Chumbawamba hit list, making (involuntarily) appearances in All Fur Coat & No Knickers (2008) and on their Passenger List for Doomed Flight #1721 (2000).

Chumbawamba’s point of contention in Give the Anarchist a Cigarette and Love Me appears to be the same: Whether fairly or not, they perceive both Bob Dylan and “Johnny Trabant” as shady liberals and sell-outs, as rich pop stars who despite their political engagement do not make good socialists.

3. Naked and cold: Torturing James Hetfield

I don’t want it to stop. There’s a part of me that thinks, that’s kind of proud that, hey, they’ve chosen Metallica as something that’s, it’s going to affect them. And that’s what I want our music to do, I want it to affect people. (James Hetfield in a 2008 interview)

A 2003 BBC news report revealed that the US military was using music to torture Iraqi prisoners of war. Being played loudly and for many hours at a time, it allegedly served to keep prisoners disoriented and break their will. Among the songs used in this manner was Metallica’s Enter Sandman (1991). Now while Metallica’s Lars Ulrich and Kirk Hammett were apparently not quite happy about this, singer James Hetfield’s feelings were more ambiguous: Partly proud about representing “something that they don’t like, maybe freedom, aggression, I don’t know, freedom of speech”, he was also bummed about being “attached to some political statement” since “politics and music, at least for us, don’t mix.”

For Chumbawamba, on the other hand, politics and music were intrinsically connected: In Torturing James Hetfield (ABCDEFG, 2010), the tables have turnt on the Metallica vocalist and he finds himself tied up, “naked and cold”. Chumbawamba provide a set of speakers and try to make him talk by playing Simply Red to him, before pulling out the big guns: Being exposed to Chumbawamba’s Greatest Hits (there’s only one), he finally confesses: “It was Lars”–whatever it was that he’s done.

Torturing James Hetfield showcases Chumbawamba’s recipe of playful, positive sounds combined with anger-filled lyrics as perfected by them throughout the 2000s. It fits well into a discography committed to examining the relationship between politics and musics, sometimes harshly criticising artists and sometimes praising them.

[agentnico]

Cocaine Bear (2023) Review

It’s a bear - on cocaine!

Plot: After a 500-pound black bear consumes a significant amount of cocaine and embarks on a drug-fuelled rampage, an eccentric gathering of cops, criminals, tourists, and teenagers assemble in a Georgia forest.

Honestly, with that ridiculous title this movie only had three jobs - 1) have cocaine; 2) there be a bear; 3) the two combine together. Having seen the movie I can indeed confirm that there is a bear and it does a heck of a lot of cocaine. Like I’m saying this bear is destined to become a hero figure towards druggies all over the world. This bear snorts and eats and breathes cocaine like a champ! It really is a cocaine bear, and satisfyingly enough a kid character in the film even calls it as such. That being said even though primarily this is a cocaine bear, it also has a side hustle of being a murder bear! That’s right, this movie is overly gory, as you see lots of blood, limbs, human intestines and a lot of shocking deaths and the black bear mauls through human meat all in the name of finding another cocaine bag. As character motivations go, I could totally understand where the bear was coming from. The creature only recently discovered cocaine, and obviously enjoyed the high, and to my awareness the bear community lack addiction therapists and drug rehab centres, so the poor bear has zero to no knowledge of finding the support it needs. So its continuous need for more cocaine is perfectly acceptable. As for all its murderous actions? Okay, maybe it shouldn’t have been so aggressive, but look, folks do weird things when on drugs, so honestly can you even blame the bear? In fact this movie is a perfect lesson for kids to not do drugs, as these are the results. That being said there is actually a scene in this film where two kids try cocaine, and both children are completely fine afterward, so the drug lesson may be a bit vague. But to be honest a film titled Cocaine Bear doesn’t really promise many life lessons.

Aside from the titular bear, there are a decent bunch of human characters in the film, and yes, most of them serve to one purpose of falling victim to the bear rage, but overall I actually enjoyed spending time with these characters. They’re all really quirky and over-the-top, and it does feel like the movie exists in its own little detached universe. Not as extreme as Twin Peaks, however think more Wet Hot American Summer, where characters do things just cause. I’m reminded of Wet Hot American Summer as this movie literally opens with Jefferson Starship’s “Jane” song - a definite call-back to the 2001 comedy and its follow-up Netflix shows, and seeing as Cocaine Bear is directed by Elizabeth Banks who appears in that franchise, it all ties up nicely. Again though, the best moments in the film mostly rely upon the titular beast, however most of the cast manage to leave an amusing presence amidst the carnage. Stand outs include Alden Ehrenreich who is much more likeable here than he was as young Solo and his dysfunctional brotherly dynamic with O’Shea Jackson was very enjoyable; Christian Convery as the kid who is so deadpan about everything; character actress Margo Martindale (cheeky Bojack reference there) as the park ranger that exhibits qualities of a grand-nanny and also of course Ray Liotta in one of his final roles. I must admit, it was a bit uncomfortable seeing him at the end be a cause for some deadly intestinal gore only for a few seconds later for the end credits to roll with the statement “IN LOVING MEMORY OF RAY LIOTTA”. 

Shout-out also to Mark Mothersbaugh’s synthetic techno 80′s style music score that really amplified the quirky yet tense moments of the bear necessities, and overall I think Cocaine Bear is a super enjoyable horror comedy, however one that has its specific target audience. Honestly, the way you felt after seeing the movie trailer and hearing of this film’s title is the perfect judgement of if you will or will not get on this movie’s wavelength. Think Studio 666 from last year. I personally did, and am now very much looking forward to the sequel where Paddington shows up and his marmalade gets contaminated with cocaine, resulting in one hell of a party at the Brown residence.

Overall score: 7/10

[hayleysayshay]

(I did post some of this in a reblog but who checks that)

More ‘Scanlan was a one hit wonder modern au’

I also want to add that I have a very specific idea of what type of song Scanlan’s one hit wonder was. It would be called something like ‘Pop Dat Cherry’ and the single cover would be Scanlan lying on a bed with a pillow covering his junk and it’s played straight. It often makes ‘worst songs ever’ lists but it’s also the sort of song that millennials would play at a wedding that everyone cheers for and parties on the dance floor. Scanlan sometimes wishes that his better music would be more popular but is he ashamed of ‘pop dat cherry?’ Never.

I think Scanlan has a three album deal with the record label. His first album of r&b sex jams does ok because of the mega success of his single, but his next album is primarily fuelled by cocaine and doesn’t do nearly as well as his first. Scanlan has a breakdown and releases ‘A Bard’s lament’, an introspective singer-songwriter album about his personal struggles. It completely flops hard and he’s dropped by his label, but it gets good reviews and gains a cult following.

After writing a few hits for other singers and probs also relapsing into drug addictions and then going to rehab, he is allowed to release music under a new label but basically does the promotion himself. Then it just becomes random projects that Scanlan likes, like the EDM banger album, or the country album, or the hip hop album. His daughter’s who’s he’s recently connected with whose favourite music is emo/pop punk? Guess what he’s recently made an album of.

Scanlan wished that some of the happier music he releases after marries Pike would get the sort of critical attention that ‘A Bard’s lament’ got but you know angst gets attention. He releases an album called ‘I LOVE MY WIFE’ and ppl wonder if he’s in the shit and trying to get her back or something, but it really is just an album of very sappy love songs about how much he loves his wife.

[bastart13]

I’ve had a lot of fun recently coming with with female mercenary characters for TF2. I really liked where the concept art was going with making them all individual characters rather than simply “if the characters were women”

The design style is fantastic for distinct simplicity so I tried limiting myself to basic colours and shapes to make these

and I’m pretty confident they pass the silhouette test!

Character names/bios under the cut!

Heavy

Name: Marie Jarrett

Age: Mid 30s-40s

Height: 6’5

Nationality: American (Hawai’i)

Bio: Raised in Hawai’i, growing up she developed more and more drastic measures to fend off the tourists swarming her home. Land mines, electric gates, guard dogs, none could stop them for long until she picked up her trusty minigun to send her message. But even still, she hears the click of cameras in the night.

Eventually, she left her home to explore the world. Enthralled with the image of seeing different wonders across different countries, she’s always disappointed. She’s travelled every continent and still finds nothing that lives up to her expectations. No place, no person. She’s outgoing and open to new experiences, only she usually hates them.

Mercenary life is a great opportunity to earn money, see sights, meet new people and kill them after they don’t meet your expectations. She hates New Mexico and takes every opportunity to destroy the buildings and insult her employer’s tastes. She finds some people she tolerates within the mercenaries as she hasn’t yet visited where they live. However much she hides it, she has a deep, instinctual fear of the Engineer.

  Soldier

Name: Linda Smith

Age: Early 40s

Height: 5’10

Nationality: Canadian

Bio: Canada’s perfect woman… or so she claims. The star of war propaganda posters and clearly decided for the role because of her great tactical assets. She’s there to motivate people into the fight. To spread the glory of Canada and inspire her allies. She believes she has higher orders than anyone else she’s working for (ignoring the fact she hasn’t heard from them for a good few years) and is determined to follow them to the letter. She may have lost the letter but she remembers it good enough.

She represents the ideals of Canada: polite, friendly, apologetic, and pacifistic. None of these are contradicted by how she throws around rockets. That’s not what Canada means. She’s superior to everyone around her and graciously educates them on how to improve through example. She loves her French and British allies and will kindly tell the Americans how to be better.

She’s motivating and actually fairly competent, it’s just that competency might be misdirected. She’s damn good at rocket jumping, shooting her shotgun, and supporting her team, it’s just that you really need to get it in her head when she’s meant to be doing it.

Scout

Name: Patricia “Pat” Herald

Age: 50s-60s

Height: 5’4

Nationality: English

Bio: In her years, Patricia has learnt fear… and she’s learnt to laugh in its face. She wakes up at the crack of dawn, ready to leave at the drop of a hat, boots polished and laced the night before. Her years have taught her that with a gun and Jeremy by her side, she can survive!

The postal route of Appleby-in-Westmorland.

She’s been chased by geese, dogs, cows, elderly ladies, and when her postal route had her delivering post during the war, she developed a taste for blood. Nothing will stop her from delivering her post on time. Every day before 6am, every postbox will have their letters and parcels. One chucked across barbed wire, another house jumped over a river, another house miles into the country with dogs on her heels, she WILL get there and she’ll get there FAST.

But after a couple of decades, she needs a change of scenery, and the Gravels wars are just the holiday she’s needed. With her trusty black and white cat by her side (ignoring the yowling and scratches) she reckons it’ll be great time to enjoy herself.

Quotes: “Oh, hello, Human Jeremy.”

“Bloody fucking Ethel! Building her house out in the country… surrounded by bloody hills and rivers!”

Pyro

Name: Nikephoros Papadopoulos

Age: Late 20s

Height: 5’11

Nationality: Greek

Bio: Survival of the fittest. Nature gives and nature taketh away. If you’re not prepared for that, well, Pyro is more than happy to teach you the lesson. They embody the old values of the Greek gods: f*ck or fire. She indulges her every whim and unfortunately for the people around her it often involves arson.

One year for the Olympic games, she was given the noble title of torchbearer. On complete coincidence, the Olympics shifted to primarily water sports. Underwater sprints became the hot new trend!

She’s merry and chatty, never missing the opportunity to talk to other people about herself and her world view. She can’t wait to spread her gospel to help other people improve themselves (though she always gets a laugh out of those who go out screaming in the flames). She can’t help it if she has a sadistic side.

Engineer

Name: Mikawo Kojima

Age: Early 20s

Height: 5’0

Nationality: Japanese

Bio: Japan’s early-rising industrial revolutions in technology are best exemplified in Mikawo, a young upstart determined to rise to the top, learning everything she can and building the best of the best. Unfortunately, she’s never been the most creative but when you happen upon other people’s blueprints and happen to construct them first, what does it matter who came up with the “concept”?

At first, she appears to be every bit the quiet and demure young woman people expect, only when silk hides steel, that steel is a massive automatic sentry gun. She’s motivated by a distinct contempt for the people who get in her way. Especially those who try to be better than her. She enjoys the flexibility of English, especially the cusses, and she has no reservations about swearing up a storm, even if she still refuses to give a straight rejection, preferring instead to give a small “I’ll think about it.”

Quotes: “This GUN is fair use on your head!”

Demo

Name: Qingzhao Zeng

Age: Late 40s

Height: 5’3

Nationality: Chinese

Bio: The Zeng family has a long-standing family trade in demolitions and explosives, traced down the line all the way to the Song dynasty. Luckily, Qingzhao has sisters so, you know, it’s not all that important. She doesn’t even have to stop smoking and drinking. She hasn’t blown herself up (that much) so clearly, it’s working. Precision is for other people to worry about. She’s apathetic to a T, having seen everything. Measurements come from the heart. A pinch of gunpowder there, a splash of paint there.

Her family has a deep-seated rivalry with the DeGroots. Long ago in ancient China, a Zeng matriarch woke up in a cold sweat, a message from the stars to let them know of their Scottish rivals. Due to being a continent away from each other, the families have actually met each other only a handful of times, but the hatred needs to be kept up because, what if?

Turns out, Qingzhao has met Tavish even before finding employment under the Mann brothers. One drunken night, the two of them had a short, whirlwind friendship, sharing secrets and declaring each other to be their best friends. Luckily for them, they both forgot the night, merrily hating each other as tradition dictates. However, headaches and flashes of this terrible night haunt them both. Could they really get over centuries of hate and become friends?

Absolutely not.

Sniper

Name: Ansa Aaltonen

Age: 27

Height: 6’2

Nationality: Finnish

Bio: Snow. Sugar. Cocaine.  Her life is run by many white powders. Ansa is a professional sniper, with a sharp eye and a steady hand… when she isn’t also high as a kite, lost in the snowy wilderness of Finland and screeching to the sky. When you’re up in the dark and cold, you need something to give you a little pep in your step. It just so happens Ansa liked having a bit more pep than most.

She’s there for a THRILL. There’s nothing better to get your heart pumping at 200 beats per second than a good headshot, embracing the chill, and a hit of sugar. She no longer feels the cold or heat or even pain, shrugging it off until she collapses. It just makes her feel alive. She’s efficient, fast, and determined to get her kicks.

She has an unusual taste, living off fermented fish and tree bark. To most people around the Finnish wilderness, she’s nothing more than an urban legend, but she’s very real and she’s looking for some excitement, happily found in employment in the Gravel wars.

Spy

Name: Yvonne Pleshette [Real name N/A]

Age: 30s

Height: 5’8

Nationality: American (California)

Bio: The silver screen calls to his woman and she’s happy to answer. She trains herself to act in every possible role she can, having a wide range of accents, body languages, and backstories. To truly test herself, she gave up her identity long ago. Lately she’s been going by the name “Yvonne.”

The world of Hollywood is cutthroat and full of backstabbers so she learnt to cut throats and stab backs. While some people tell her the terms are metaphorical, nothing else has given her more roles. Living the mercenary life is simply gathering research for her roles (and earning some much-needed money in the process).

She presents herself as a classic film star, despite being a minor name at best, mostly because she’s always changing it. She has high standards but a cheapskate personality. She’s a bit of a bitch, happily criticising others, especially if they’re working with her. What can she say? She’s a diva.

[Slutshames other spy]

Quotes: “Ugh, actors these days, they know nothing about getting into character. They still have names.”

“’AHHHHH—’ Wait, no. Once more from the top. Scream in agony.”

Medic

Name: Susan Monks

Age: 30-40s

Height: 5’7

Nationality: American (New Jersey)

Bio: The American Healthcare system. Is there a more glorious sight? The exploitation of pain. The money. The debt. The fear it strikes into the entire population it’s designed to help. To Susan, there’s nothing better. She squeezes every last drop from the people she helps, working on a purely transactional lifestyle. She’ll never help someone unless she has all of their insurance information and the payment secure in her bank, and god forbid she ever accept help. It’s not like she can afford her own prices.

She’s very self-aware of her own corruption and proud of it, though she refuses to be exploited in the same way, suspicious of anything “free” but also doing her best not to pay for anything.

That said, she doesn’t much care for how good a job she does. In her eyes, asking for surgery is one thing. Asking for successful surgery is another. She has a variety of skills in both cosmetic and military medicine. She just wishes the license board would stop sending her “malpractice” letters. Ugh, stick to your own business. “Disappearing” all their messengers is becoming a pain.

Quotes: “Why get someone else to do something for you when you can scrounge a way to do it yourself?”

[nauseateddrive]

4 POEMS by Mark Young

Safe repairs

Repeated exposure to cocaine is a major cellular substrate for learning & memory; but in

inexperienced hands the brain fails to adapt. Without infection prevention & control guidance

it becomes a premodifying compound adjective that allows water ingress through your roof.

Material, materiel

A trapeze suddenly appears in front of me. I grasp the bar, swing up & over & around. A flügelhorn materializes at the highpoint of my arc. I pull it down to me & begin to play, the Cyndi Lauper song, Time After Time, but the way Miles used to do it. There’s a chord change in there, a high note − at that precise moment the basket of an hot-air balloon presents. I grasp its rails & haul myself aboard. Nothing left in front of me except the moon & that is obviously out of reach. Until, until. Until I remember an old bossa nova track from the sixties. ‘Fly me to the moon,’ I sing. & off we go.

Imported on 7/24

I am confronted by the law of the sea as I enter Death Valley. Neon signs replace the waves, grave markers indicate the direction of the tidal flow. They are all strong signs, but in conflict with the signals

given off by my smart- phone which is anything but. I strike out toward the ships on the horizon, only to discover mirages also serve to only stand & wait.

The misconception

that Democracy will bring about liberty accounts for around 30% of the total US foreign aid budget. The remainder goes to over- coming the dependence of Afghan farmers on opium poppy crops by setting up sweatshops to produce decals that reproduce real railroad signs & come printed on heavy gauge aluminum sheet stock.

Mark Young was born in New Zealand but now lives in a small town in North Queensland in Australia. He has been publishing poetry for more than sixty years, & is the author of around sixty books, primarily text poetry but also including speculative fiction, vispo, & art history. His most recent books are The Toast, from Luna Bisonte Prods, The Sasquatch Walks Among Us, from Sandy Press, & Songs to Come for the Salamander, Poems 2013-2021, selected & introduced by Thomas Fink, co-published by Meritage Press & Sandy Press.

[you-can-call-me-wanda]

Together

Pairing: Johnny Thunders x Reader

A/N: This is a sad one, so buckle up. The idea for this was for it to be based around the songs “Hell and You” and “Cocaine and Abel” by Amigo the Devil though I focused primarily on the latter. Instead of making this a traditional song fic, I instead used some of the lyrics as dialogue.

Warning: This story is focused on the topic of addiction. Please skip it if that will be upsetting or triggering for you.

“Johnny,” you said, nudging your boyfriend with your foot. “Johnny, wake up.”

“Mpfhh?”

“Come on,” you said, extending a hand to help him up. “The day’s already almost over.”

Johnny had been sleeping all day, recovering from another night out with “friends”.

He sighed tiredly as he opened his eyes and looked up at you standing over him.

“Johnny I can’t do this anymore,” you said with a sigh, running a hand through your hair as you helped him up off the floor.

This time he hadn’t even managed to stumble to the couch. He’d spent the night face down on the rug in the living room.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, already starting to get defensive as he stretched his back and adjusted his clothes. Sleeping on the floor hadn’t been the most comfortable choice.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly where this was going. He had noticed the looks you’d be giving him lately whenever the alcohol or the drugs were brought up. He saw the way you looked at him when he came home at night. He could tell you didn’t like what he was doing. He had seen this conversation coming for a while.

“You know what it means,” you said. You looked at the man in front of you and softened your tone. “I’m worried about you Johnny.”

“Babe, there’s nothing to be worried about,” he said, taking both of your hands in his, trying to reassure you. “I’m fine. Last night I went a bit too hard, but I’ve got it under control.”

You gazed down sorrowfully at his hands. You had been expecting him to say that.

“If you could see what I see, you wouldn’t be saying that,” you said sadly.

Johnny scoffed and pulled his hands away with yours. He was done having this conversation. You didn’t understand and he wasn’t going to explain it to you. His head hurt and he needed a beer.

“It’s just a bit of fun (Y/N),” he said. “You need to relax.”

“You’re going to kill yourself if this keeps going on,” you said, voice becoming stronger as you got more upset. Why wasn’t he understanding how bad this had all gotten?

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, dismissing you entirely and taking a step towards the kitchen

Tears of frustration began to well up in your eyes and you grabbed his arm to bring his attention back to you.

“Johnny, you have a problem,” you said. “I’m not saying this to upset you. I’m saying this because I love you.” You spoke earnestly trying to get him to understand.

“If you really loved me you would just let it go already!” he said, raising his voice and shrugging your hand off him.

“That’s not fair and you know it!” you yelled back, angry that he wouldn’t even think to insinuate you didn’t love him. Not after everything he was putting you through. “How dare you say I don’t love you?” you asked. “I’d rot in hell with you if you asked me to! I’d to anything for you and you know that better than anyone. You couldn’t name a single place I wouldn’t go with you, but you can’t so this one thing for me.”

Johnny surprised himself and you by staying to listen to your anger-fueled rant. He looked to floor as you spoke, refusing to meet your eyes.

Deep down, Johnny knew you were right, but he couldn’t face that yet. He didn’t want to face it yet. He wanted to stay there, in the dark comfort of all the pills and the drugs and the booze. He wanted to keep following the shadows even though he damn well knew that behind him was the light. He felt his chest get tight with emotion.

“I can’t,” Johnny said. “(Y/N), I-”

“Excuses will only do good if you’re waiting around to die Johnny,” you said bitterly, interrupting what excuses you knew were coming.

“I can’t do it (Y/N)!” he cried, voice cracking.

Everything was escalating. Neither of you had a grasp on it anymore.

“You can! Just have a little faith in yourself,” you pleaded.

“I’ve tried having faith!” he shouted back. “What is there to even have faith in, huh? You’ve said it yourself; I’m messed up.”

Tears fell down his face and you wanted more than anything to rush forward and take him in your arms, to hold him and whisper that things would be okay, but you stayed where you stood.

“I never said that,” you responded quietly.

“I can’t do it,” he whispered. “So please don’t ask me to.”

“You haven’t even tried,” you whispered, voice so low you don’t think Johnny even heard you.

“Fuck you,” he spat back, angered by that accusation. Of course he had tried. He realized that he was an addict. He realized it was too late to just stop. “You don’t know how hard this is.”

“Don’t I?” you argued back. “I’m the one who has to watch you fading away. I’m the one who has the see the love of my life slowly killing himself.”

You leaned back against the wall behind you and slid down to the ground, where you sat crying.

You were too emotional now to carry on with the conversation if this nasty fight could even be called that. This wasn’t how you wanted this conversation to go. You had wanted to make him believe he was better off without all the drugs, not make him upset. Perhaps you had gone about it all wrong, you wondered. Maybe it would have been better to let Johnny figure out that he had a problem in his own time. You were being too selfish with the whole thing, focusing on how this affected you more than him.

Meanwhile, Johnny was in his own head as well. He knew what he was doing was hurting you. It didn’t take an expert to see that. He didn’t want to hurt you, he just didn’t know how to make things better. He hated that you were crying, and he hated that it was his fault. This was all his fault.

“(Y/N)?” he asked smally, sitting down on the floor next you. His thigh pressed against yours, but besides that he made no move to touch you. He wasn’t sure if you wanted him to.

To Johnny’s relief, you immediately buried yourself into his side. His heart swelled at the idea that you might still love him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and you pressed your face into his neck. He could feel your tears against his skin. He hadn’t held you in so long.

“I’m sorry too,” you said, wiping your eyes and pulling away from him. “I’m not trying to turn away from you. I love you Johnny and I’m on your side. I’ll always be on your side.”

“I’m not proud of all the choices I’ve made for a lot of my life,” Johnny said, hugging you closer. “I’ve made you feel like hell.”

“I don’t want to make this about me,” you said, looking up at his face. “I’m sorry I haven’t been thinking about how hard this is for you too.”

He shook his head. “No, I need to stop being cruel to you just because I’m a coward myself.”

“That’s not true,” you said. “You’re not a coward.”

“But I’m scared,” he admitted.

“I am too,” you said, “but you don’t have to do this alone. I’m always going to be here for you.”

You needed to support him, you knew. He was the one in control of his actions ultimately, but maybe with you standing by his side, he’d have the courage to change. He’d be able to get away from all the drugs and he would be alright. He’d be back to the Johnny you knew and loved, the Johnny without the drugs. And maybe he’d come out of this all the better, stronger. You had to have hope. Yes, you would have enough hope for both him and you.

“We can do this,” you said, not sure if you speaking to him or yourself.

“Together?” he asked.

“Together.”

[notafraidofredyellowandblue]

MTV Masters 2004 Rammstein - thoughts

After doing the translation of the MTV Masters 2004 set, i was left with some lingering thoughts and miscellaneous rambles, so here goes.. ❣in no particular order.

Even though it was primarily a collection of snippets from other/older interviews and some making ofs, i liked how it was put together as a sort of "History of Rammstein up until now", too bad part 2 was missing.

Olli might be just as direct and outspoken as Paul, just not as eloquent, and not as bothered to try and get his opinion out (maybe should do a post on Olli alone...probably..).

The Mutter drama

very likely started with Richard (greatly helped with a bunch of cocaine), but after it also everyone says they didn't want to go on with the same type of music, but wanted to experiment...

afaik Richard is one of the more experimental of the band, so while at some point (understandably) they wanted Richard out, I think he was also needed for the new direction...a "can't live with him, can't live without" situation?

because of that shared feeling, i guess a bandcrisis was unavoidable at some point, and maybe it was brought to a head when it was and they worked through it...if it had lingered another few years maybe they'd have said "we've been doing this long enough now, let's quit"

the years after were better, but i think it's only in the recent 2 or 3 years that the band-together-vibe has really returned, but without the corset they all hated, good for them for hanging in all that time

Paul's occassionally shows his sunny smiles when saying a pointed or sharp remark. If you didn't understand the text you might think he just said something really cute, and all the while is dissing something or someone ☀️ not just a ball of sunshine, but one with stings..

Till often doesn't finish sentences, leaves part of it hanging in the air, starts his next thought. I could imagine he prefers to express himself in writing (his poetry and lyrics) instead of talking, especially talking with a journalist where he probably half expects to be misquoted anyway.

The parts about Germany are all the more interesting knowing that 15 years later they did a song on pretty much exact the topic as it is discussed here. I wouldn't be surprised they had rewatched these old interviews and then came up with using the theme for a song. I also agree that the nazi-era, apart from the atrocities and unspeakable harm it did to people, also very much crippled the germans with guilt, making it impossible to look further away in the past without linking it to the later nazi years (a lot of harmless things from before get a connotation it originally didn't have because the nazi era tainted it) and not being able to move on in the future because the guilt couldn't be let go. If only they'd ever do a 'making of' or interview about the song "Deutschland" i'd be very interested on their thoughts...but i don't have much hope anymore for that...

The scenes with Schneider and Paul on a couch, Paul telling Schneider he's the best actor, Schneider sort of embarrassed reacting and then Paul reconsidering and coming to the conclusion that he's not sure about actor Schneider and talking, but concluding he is really good at looking in certain directions 😁 that must be a prime example of Paulinist remarks, on the one hand cute and funny and generous, and then with one sentence basically pinpointing what Schneider can't do ☀️

Richard admitting having to be unhappy to "create" and sometimes creating drama to trigger that is very revealing, self-aware, unsettling and in a way very sad.. i hope he has come to terms better with it later in life and can also use music from a happier core (like when he writes songs for his children), but deep down, this is his drive and probably still is..

Love Paul's metaphores, he always has one (or three) at hand on any topic. When interviewed along bandmates he's quite restless though, moving around a lot..

Felt sad for Till when he talks about writting stuff off of his soul and afterwards "feeling a bit better, a tiny bit" I wanted to reach in and hug him ❣

At this point in time the Mutter drama is forgiven but not quite forgotten, I think especially Paul will be one to regularly have referred back to it in the first years after the crisis. At least the last couple of years it seems to have been really layed to rest (apart from maybe a little inside joke like old friends have).

Although I always think Schneider is the most levelheaded of the bunch, he does seem to occassionally not "get" what is going on, he seems occassionally vague. That too changed later on, nowadays he seems the most stabil one to interview (well, Flake as well but you can have Flake just reminisce old bandstories and don't have to ask questions 💓)

Schneider for that matter also seems to, by the time of the interview, still remember there was a crisis, but is starting to forget the details, that is probably for the better, no use rehashing everything, but i'd bet some of the others took longer..

Richard is very analytical about what happened and also imo very honest, like mentioning when in the early days they did something funny, that wasn't their intension and only later learned to laugh about themselves. Other people would just have twisted a story like, but he just says it as he thinks it was. He seems very much to say what he feels at the time (not that a next time he won't say something different, but then *that* is what he feels). This must probably also have gotten him into spots of trouble over the years.

Till just lights up (no not like that 😊) when he hears the pyro guys, next time someone manages to catch him for an interview they should just let him give a masterclass on pyrotechnics and ask the questions in between so he doesn't have to bother with the standard interview-situation and just do his own thing.

There is not a lot of Flake in these interviews, while we know now that Flake is actually one of the better storytellers, maybe he was used to let others do the talking at the time, or maybe he was strugling with his alcohol addiction that he talks about in his books and his happy to let tune out.

I think Richard once mentioned in a different interview that he likes to work in a team but isn't a teamplayer; what i take from these interview snippets that he loves the band and very much wants the band to be well.. later he wrote an Emigrate song for them (a band he doesn't tour with, afraid he'd like it better than Rammstein..😙 he a worrier at heart i think..).

Paul gets interviewed in various combinations with bandmates at the time, but i don't think from those years there is a combination of him and Richard. But much much later (2016), when they are interviewed together at the Rammstein in amerika premiere, they completely make up for it and have loads of fun. Ofcourse that's exactly the difference 10+ years can make, but good for them to have given it a shot and finding common ground after all (and even managing to be soft to eachother...aaaww those two 💕)

Schneider casually calling Paul 'Paulchen' as an endearing term and Paul not even batting an eye is very cute, but also shows that they regularly call him that (nothing much to do with his size imo)

Paul having the last word is probably typical, but what a sweet way to end this show, saying he really likes all of them, empasizing again 'really' and he is glad they are all still alive 💗 apart from that that is very cute, i also think they did worry about one or the other bandmate and their lifestyle (in keeping with the interview not naming names here) i hope that part of their wildness has mellowed down by now...the first remark also is a foresight to a 2017 interview with Paul where he mentions they have really nice chemistry at that time...so glad their bandlife did become better over the years.

All in all...the really are a 6-man-marriage...aren't they 💖

[artificialqueens]

Control, 1/3 (Katya/Manila) - Dartmouth420

Summary: All it took as the deal went south was a split second, a single gunshot, and then the incredibly stupid, impulsive decision to grab all the coke the guy had on the table and run. Now Katya and Manila need to get rid of a dangerous, truly incriminating amount of cocaine as fast as possible, as they rocket towards rock-bottom in Katya’s 1997 Volvo hatchback. Lesbian AU heist tale, Katya/Manila main, past (plot-relevant) Rajila & Trixya.

A/N: It’s darker and sadder than the summary makes it out to be. This story was inspired by the request for Katya/Manila chaos a few weeks ago, and some Lana Del Rey songs, but it got unhinged and angsty so PLEASE heed the content warnings. but other than that enjoy :)

CW: codependent relationship, drug use, drug addiction, off-screen gun violence, smut, semi-clothed sex, strap-ons, past abusive relationships, angst, unreliable narrator

PS: addiction is a very complex issue, and not something to be taken lightly in real life.

Part 1:

She doesn’t mind I have a flat broke-down life

In fact she says she thinks it’s what she might like about me

Admires me, the way I roll like a rolling stone

-Lana Del Rey, ‘Off To The Races’

It’s the cocaine, obviously.

Katya knows the cocaine is what’s fuelling these decisions. It’s not her fault.

The knowledge hadn’t stopped her from accompanying Manila anyway, as what was supposed to be their deal on enough coke to fuel a big party this weekend had gone sour and scary, and the guy had reached behind him for the gun in his waistband. But Manila had been faster, she’d pulled her piece out of her purse and shot the guy in a sudden explosion of noise.

On the couch in the living room in Manila’s tiny apartment, Katya rubs some coke onto her gums, and presses her fingers to her temples in an attempt to calm herself. Manila paces back and forth in front of the coffee table while Katya tries not to think about the shock in the dealer’s eyes, and his tattooed arm grasping at the bullet wound in his shoulder as he fell back. Is he dead? Maybe. Maybe not.

There are seven single-kilogram bricks of cocaine, one torn open at the corner, sitting in front of them on the coffee table, among the coffee-stained mugs and crumpled McDonald’s bags and the cheap paperback sci-fi novels that Katya likes.

Manila paces with her phone out, and her leather jacket open. She turns on her heel on one end of the stained carpet and makes a call, bringing the phone to her ear.

“Heyyy,” says Manila, drawing out the word.

Someone on the other end shouts Bitch, how did you get this number?! and Manila scrambles, “No wait no, Trinity, hear me out-“

There’s an audible beep, and Manila glares at the phone, angry.

“Okay, okay,” repeats Manila to herself, pacing back and forth, “We can get this under control.”

All the pacing is making Manila’s short dress ride up her thighs, drawing Katya’s eyes. Manila’s legs are easily her best feature. Well, her curly black hair is nice, too. Katya watches her nervously. It isn’t that she’s afraid of her, no, Katya loves her girlfriend. Obviously.

But Manila did just shoot the guy back there.

Katya had shrieked, her hands flying to her mouth, gazing in horror at Manila’s blank, shocked expression. They’d stared at each other for a split second, and then, completely without thinking, Katya had rushed for the drugs that sat on the table next to the man groaning on the floor, shoving the bricks of coke into her purse, Manila had arrived at the table a second later, and they’d rushed out and leapt into Katya’s 1997 Volvo hatchback and sped off as shouts echoed from the abandoned warehouse.

Katya drove like a madwoman back to Manila’s apartment, her scabby knuckles bright white on the steering wheel while in the passenger’s seat next to her Manila dragged in big gulps of air, trembling.

So, yeah. Here they are. Katya had known that Manila had a gun in her purse, just in case, but she hadn’t thought it would… well, come out. Of the purse.

“We need to sell it quick,” says Katya, keeping her voice as calm as possible, despite her rapidly beating heart. In the thrill of panic they’d broken into one of the bricks and done some lines, and were now both a bit twitchy. “We can’t- we can’t sit on this much. Fuck it’s so much money, I could really use it-”

“I know, me too,” replies Manila, taking her phone back out and scrolling. Her movements are rapid, nervous.

Katya glares down at the table, willing her whirring mind to think, and suddenly she misses Trixie. The breakup had been terrible, Katya had yelled and cried and threatened and begged Trixie to stay, but it was well over eight months ago and Katya should be over it. She isn’t. It’s like Trixie took her heart out of her chest when she left, and is still carrying it around with her. Katya has known Manila for a lot longer, from even before she met Trixie, and in the aftermath Manila was well, single (sort of) and there.

Katya has always been incapable of making good decisions. Even alright decisions. But she’s been trying to talk to Trixie again. It’s been going well. She hopes they’ll be back together by the end of the year.

Manila taps her phone, and then hits speaker, and the sound of it ringing echoes around her small apartment. Katya watches her. Manila paces, holding the phone out in her hand.

“Hello?” comes a deep, familiar voice.

“Latrice!” enthuses Manila, all smiles and joviality, “Hey girl, long time no chat!”

“Uh-huh, same to you, what’ve you got going on?”

The mild skepticism in Latrice’s voice is as well-hidden as Manila’s own manic edge. But maybe Latrice would be interested, and she’d buy a chunk of their sudden supply. Katya fidgets on the couch, reaching out and sinking her fingers into one of Manila’s old throw-pillows, the one with the fading print of Bettie Page posing with a whip.

“I’ve got, uh,” says Manila, speaking like she’s consciously trying to slow herself down, still pacing, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “I’ve got something you might like to buy.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“Ah, just a little something for a good time.”

“How much have you got?”

Latrice’s voice remains cautious-friendly, and Katya gets her hopes up for a second. Latrice is a local club owner, large-and-in-charge, friendly and easy-going, and primarily a legitimate business woman. But she sometimes dabbles in other kinds of purchases. Like they all do.

“Yeah, uh, a little more than I thought…” says Manila smoothly, with a chuckle, like it’s all a big joke. “Seven kilos.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Latrice?”

“I’m still here,” replies Latrice, but her tone is now suspicious, reticent.

“Mm,” says Manila, nodding to herself, “Okay, so you’re interested? Think you want to buy a brick? Or two?”

“Two kilos? Girl.”

“Don’t say it like that, you know how these things happen,” says Manila rapidly, trying to smooth it over.

“Seven kilos of coke doesn’t just happen, Manila.”

“Look we need to sell it fast-“

“You always need something, don’t you.“ Latrice’s tone is unimpressed, annoyed. "How many favours have I done for you over the years, and how many times have you disappeared when I needed you to have my back? See this is your problem-“ They’d all been good friends once, recalls Katya. Champagne and glitter and birthdays and club music and VIP lounges. Perhaps not so much anymore. “I don’t even want to know, I’m not getting involved-“

“Just let me expl- no- don’t you dare hang up on me!”

There’s a beep and the call drops.

Katya stands up, and walks the short few steps to the kitchen, chewing at her lip. Her gums are going numb. Who does she know that could buy this amount of stolen cocaine and very, very fast? She scrolls through her mental list of contacts and stares at the counter, at the crumbs brushed to the backstop.

“Well that sucks, why am I the one calling everybody-” mutters Manila from the living room, and then says louder, “Okay, okay, this isn’t a big deal. We’ve got choices, we’ve got options.”

Manila paces the living room again, tapping at her lips with her finger.

“What if we parcel it out and sell it at the club tonight?” suggests Katya, wriggling her hips as she bends over to look in the fridge, before glancing over her shoulder to see if Manila’s eyeing her ass in her jeans or not. Coke always makes her a little horny, which used to make Trixie unsettled. But Manila likes that about her.

Manila pauses in her pacing, watching Katya’s ass, and a little thrill shoots down Katya’s spine. There isn’t anything of interest in the fridge. Some carrot sticks, old milk, leftover pizza. Slimy spinach from Katya’s attempt to get something green into them both last week. Behind her, there’s a snort as Manila does another bump.

“Maybe- no, the first place they’ll check is the clubs and they’ll probably recognize us, but if we could get someone else to sell for us-“

Katya looks back at her, arching her back with a giggle and wiggling her ass. Her heart is soaring, she can’t help smiling, and there’s a manic edge underneath it. Her gums are numb, and her throat is tingling.

Something changes in Manila’s eyes and a smile spreads across her face.

Manila always makes Katya feel good, of course, but it’s a different kind of good than she’d had with Trixie. Trixie, with her big hair, her flannel shirts in the morning over her those little pink nightdresses, her dry humour. The way she didn’t always realize when she was being funny. Her observations. She used to make up silly songs for Katya, strumming away on her guitar while they sat on the balcony and Katya smiled and laughed and spilled her coffee, kicking her feet with how happy she was.

But Trixie had been able to walk away from it all because she had a goal. Katya and Manila haven’t had real goals in years.

Manila walks the short distance from the living room to the kitchen, eyes on Katya’s ass, hunger on her face. There’s an impulsive, high thrill in the air, that might be from the coke or the crime or both. Katya straightens, shutting the fridge.

Manila grasps her waist from behind, pushing Katya against the fridge and murmuring in her ear, “Gotcha, baby.”

Katya cackles and smiles and pushes her bony ass back into Manila’s body. But she likes it, the way that Manila manhandles her sometimes. It’s thrilling. She’s always had a thing for tall femme chicks with an aggressive streak. Trixie used to do the same thing, playful, until she started refusing to touch her at all.

Manila takes Katya’s upper arms and turns her around, bringing them both from the fridge to push Katya back against the counter and kiss her. Now this is going exactly where Katya wanted it to go, and it’s messy and frantic and maybe they’re both a lot high and a little scared. Lips meet teeth and tongues mingle, delicious.

“Get up on the counter,” orders Manila, breaking the kiss, and Katya obeys, hopping up with the help of her hands. She wraps her legs around Manila’s hips and they make out some more, Manila running her hands up Katya’s muscular back under her T-shirt, and Katya’s heart beats a little faster.

Katya tries her luck sneaking her hand between them and feeling up one of Manila’s not-particularly-impressive tits. Anyone involved with Trixie Mattel, even for a brief period of time, is ruined for all other breasts afterwards.

Manila bites Katya’s bottom lip in response, and the brief shot of pain goes straight to her pussy. Katya whines, and Manila goes from her lips to her neck, sucking the sensitive spot right below Katya’s jaw, and then she pulls back, hands fumbling on the button and fly of Katya’s jeans.

“Are they building jeans more complicated all of a sudden?” mutters Manila impatiently to herself as she works Katya’s fly open and Katya laughs, lifting herself up on her hands like the athlete she is- correction, once was, as Manila finally manages to get the fly down and pulls her jeans and underwear down to her knees.

Sitting back down ass naked on the counter is hilarious and Katya giggles, and then there’s the matter of working the jeans down to her ankles while Manila returns to Katya’s neck with a vengeance, kissing and sucking, and generally sending tingles up and down her spine. Manila roughly shoves Katya’s legs apart and drops to her knees.

And now it’s time for the best part and it’s the best part because, simply put, Manila might not be very smart (Trixie’s smarter than her despite her endless dumb blonde jokes) but Manila’s really fucking good at eating pussy.

Any dyke in Boston will tell you if you ask.

So Katya lets out this strangled gasp as Manila goes in with that fantastic mouth of hers, and Katya tangles her hands in that black curly hair and shivers and whines and tries to open her legs as wide as humanly possible without falling off the counter.

“Yes, god yes, ha, fuck-“ babbles Katya, caught up between gasps of laughter. She’s always been expressive.

The pressure builds as Katya rocks her hips, and Manila pushes fingers inside her and flicks her tongue over her clit in that way that makes Katya’s eyes roll back. Her head falls back and smacks against the cupboard behind her, and Katya throws one hand back to catch herself, scrambling to stay upright, as Manila holds her legs steady, in charge.

“Ow! Uh no, not you- oh fuck yes-”

It feels so good, it’s like a rollercoaster, building building building. Manila does that thing with her tongue again, glancing up to meet Katya’s eyes for a second, and Katya sees stars.

Two or three orgasms later, Manila stands up and leaves Katya gasping through the aftermath of the last one on her own. Wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, Manila leans in and captures Katya’s lips in a brief kiss.

“You want your turn?” says Katya, as her breath returns to normal. She hops off the counter, brushes the crumbs off her ass and pulls her underwear back up but doesn’t bother with her jeans yet, stepping out of them.

Manila nods. Manila’s turn is usually after Katya’s unless it’s one of those rare nights where Katya doesn’t want anything, doesn’t want to be touched at all, which happens sometimes. Trixie was always understanding, she was so loving, so patient. Manila is less so. But Katya has a lot less patience for her, too.

“Meet you in the bedroom,” says Manila, grabbing a lipstick-stained glass from the pile of dishes by the sink and filling it from the tap. To wash out the taste of pussy, Katya presumes.

Katya picks up her jeans and heads to the bathroom, pausing at the coffee table to cut out another line of blow and put it up her nose, while Manila does the same, except her trajectory is to the bedroom. As Katya washes her hands she stares into the mirror. Dark circles under her manic hazel eyes. Dryish lips. A weird pimple on her jaw that came out of nowhere. Straw-blonde hair up in a greasy top-knot. White T-shirt with Bob Ross on the front. But she’s wearing her favourite earrings, the ones that are dangly little plastic hands. Heh. Katya manages a smile. Those earrings always make her smile.

But what the fuck are they going to do with all that cocaine-

No time for that now, Katya breaks eye contact with herself and dries her hands, because it’s time to fuck Manila and fucking Manila is always an event.

In the bedroom, Manila has taken off her leather jacket but not her dress, and holds her phone in one hand, glaring down at it. She’s pushing forty but she still looks good and for a moment Katya just admires her figure in that short black lace nude illusion dress that hilariously doesn’t match her skin tone, and those long, fantastic legs.

They make eye contact across the room.

“Fuck me.”

It’s an order. Manila is always in control.

Katya crosses the room, leaning in to initiate the kiss. Softer this time, as Katya touches the back of Manila’s neck, and moves her bare legs against Manila’s own and eventually drops her hands down to grip her ass.

They stumble to the bed, and it only takes a quick confirmation for Katya to know what Manila wants. Katya’s on top of her, pressing her arms down, and pushing her thigh between Manila’s legs so she can grind on it. They furiously make out even as Katya’s gut is tightening, is reminding her, hey, you just saw this woman shoot a man-

As Manila’s breath gets heavier, Katya ignores the doubt and sits up and gets off the bed. Manila turns over, and slides herself back so that she’s bent over the edge of the bed, taking in a breath of anticipation. Her dress is riding up, and Katya can see the crotch of Manila’s plain blue cotton underwear. It’s damp.

Katya steps back and digs under the bed for her harness and strap-on, the one that she’s taken to leaving here. Hurriedly, Katya does up the leather harness and puts the dildo in place. It’s purple. Trixie used to wear it, and Katya would get on top and ride it enthusiastically, expressive, words of love and lust tumbling from her while Trixie gripped her thighs and smiled and fucked it up into her, her blonde hair splayed out on the mattress like a halo- Katya clicks it on to vibrate, angles it so that the end rests against her clit through her underwear and then gets down on her knees.

Manila props herself up on her elbows, and peers over her shoulder at Katya, her dark eyes intense and expecting. She licks her lips. It sends a jolt down Katya’s spine.

“Are you wet for me?” asks Katya in a filthy, half-joking tone.

“Why don’t you find out?’ replies Manila.

Katya decisively pushes Manila’s dress up to her waist and pulls her underwear down, and grabs her ass cheeks, squeezing, before running her knuckles across Manila’s pussy, to check. Manila sighs, and shuts her eyes. Katya isn’t sure who Manila’s imagining behind those eyelids, and she doesn’t ask. When Katya shuts her eyes it’s always Trixie.

On her lower back, Manila has a tramp stamp of the gemini symbol with a stylized little tail on the end. It’s ridiculous because as Katya knows well, Manila’s birthday is in October. Manila was getting it covered, redesigned into a monarch butterfly, but it’s half-done so only one side of it hosts a delicate orange wing.

She ran out of money for the other half.

Katya takes a moment to slips fingers into Manila and to stroke her clit and make sure she’s really ready, until Manila practically growls and looks back at her, widening her legs. She hates being teased. Well whatever, Katya’s not going to say no to fucking the pussy before her so she lubes up the gently vibrating strap-on, lines up and, because she’s a softie, slides it in gently, taking care.

She knows Manila doesn’t want her to take care, Manila wants her to slam it in and fuck her like she means it, but Katya learned to take care from Trixie and now she can’t (or won’t) unlearn it. Manila gasps, gripping the tangled, dirty sheets.

Katya snaps her hips forward, filling Manila and thrusting repeatedly, her hands on Manila’s hips, pressing her fingers into the crease where they’re bent.

Manila moans and curses, and Katya sets a good rhythm, because she knows it won’t take long. Manila pushes her ass back against Katya, and the sudden shift in movement makes Katya almost lose her balance again, arm reeling out to the side as she falls back on her heels, the strap-on sliding unceremoniously out of Manila.

“Oops,“ laughs Katya.

“Did you just fall?” says Manila glancing back at her, amused.

Katya giggles and Manila chuckles too, and maybe there’s a moment of love between them, for a split second. Katya gets back up and strokes the curve of Manila’s hip, then grabs it and fucks her hard, and Manila releases a passionate moan. The opposite end of the dildo rubs against Katya, and it feels nice, not enough to make her come again, but-

It’s all over fairly quickly, and as Manila arches her back and curses her way to a messy, satisfying finish.

And then there’s all the post-sex rituals to go though; Manila sitting up, slightly dazed, and pulling her dress down and wandering over to the bathroom. Katya unbuckling the harness, and listening to the water run. Manila returns for fresh underwear from the clean laundry basket by the bed that she hasn’t bothered to fold or put away, and then Katya goes to the bathroom to clean the dildo and comes back and tosses it back into the plastic bin under the bed with the harness, and the problem they’re faced with washes back over them.

They kiss briefly for the look of the thing, just because they’re supposed to afterwards or whatever, but maybe there’s some affection in it. Katya puts her jeans back on and then the fun’s over.

“Okay,” says Manila, pacing her bedroom as Katya sits cross-legged on the end of the bed, slumped, “Okay, who do we know?”

“Adore?”

“Amateur hour, no.”

“Violet?”

“She deals E and molly, she won’t touch coke.”

“Crystal?”

“Methyd? It’s in her fucking name, Katya-”

“Bob?”

“Moved to New York last I heard-“

“Alaska?”

“What? No. Fuck, I can’t believe Latrice is still mad at me-”

Katya’s list is over. Katya stares at the ugly carpet, and watches Manila pace. There’s another option that Katya hasn’t had the guts to bring up, until now.

“Your ex,” says Katya. Manila won’t stand to hear her name spoken aloud. It’s a ridiculous habit that Katya barely has the patience for.

“No-“

“She’s the only one with the buying capacity for this.”

“We’re not going to her.”

Katya throws up her hands, “If we sell this amount to anyone in the city she’ll know about it anyway!”

Manila stares at the dusty window.

“It’s not-“ begins Katya, and the hair stands up on the back of her neck and she releases a nervous giggle as the horrible possibility occurs to her, pointing to the bricks of cocaine on Manila’s coffee table in the other room, “That’s not hers, is it?”

“No,” says Manila abruptly, worry lining her face for a second, turning back to Katya, “No way, those weren’t her guys, she doesn’t hire guys like that. Those guys were fucking idiots. Besides, they'd’ve been ta-”

Katya breathes a sigh of relief, and Manila cuts herself off. There are two major gangs that run Boston’s underbelly, that bring in drugs and keep the crime organized. Katya’s on good terms with the north side guys, she knows a couple of them from way back and they don’t bother her. She works for them occasionally, when she’s gonna be short on rent. But Manila’s ex runs the other gang, and she’s powerful and dangerous.

The Gemini is not to be fucked with.

“Wait!” exclaims Manila, her eyes going wide and expressive for a moment, “What about your friend- your friend, what’s her name…?” Manila snaps her fingers frantically, as if to jog her memory.

Katya just looks at her, skeptical.

“Uh, uh,” says Manila, still snapping. “You know her, uh, she’s Laotian, short, great ass-“

“Jujubee?” says Katya, in complete disbelief.

“Yes!” says Manila, triumphantly. “Her.”

“No,” replies Katya, mouth twisting, “She’s not involved anymore, she said she’s getting sober and getting out-“

“Yeah whatever, everyone says they’re ‘getting sober and getting out.’ You said that.”

The words hurt. Katya looks down, drawing in a breath, the shame crushing her for a moment. Manila indulges all of Katya’s worst sides. Manila parties hard, she disappears and re-appears with new and better stories every time, she’s doesn’t get sad, she never gets tired, she encourages, she enables, she’s always in control, and it’s so, so hard to let go of her. Even when Trixie had given Katya the ultimatum.

Especially when Trixie had given her the ultimatum.

“Fuck,” says Katya, standing up and stalking back into the living room. “Fine, you wanna go hassle a dead end, whatever-“

“She’s not gonna be a dead end,” argues Manila, shrugging her leather jacket back on and following Katya, “I bet she still knows people who’ll buy. We have to shift at least some of this shit and quick, and maybe she’ll take it. We sell it to her on the cheap, she’s happy, we’re happy. Who cares what she does with it?”

Manila’s cynicism is so oddly pragmatic, so heavy. It’s crushing even Katya’s own cynicism, which is a weary weight to drag around. But it’s so hard for Katya to say no to Manila, saying no to Manila always comes with caveats.

“Fine,” agrees Katya, grinding her teeth, taking her phone out and firing off a quick text to Jujubee.

“Great,” replies Manila, and walks over to pick up the duffel bag next to the table, and begins shoving the neatly wrapped bricks of cocaine into it. She dumps some of the opened-up brick into a loose little ziplock baggie for easy access, rubs a bit on her gums, then puts the baggie into the duffel bag too.

There’s a sudden leak of noise as a car goes by outside, blasting music loud enough that Katya can hear the lyrics drift up into the apartment.

“Loving you forever can’t be wrong, even though you’re not here won’t move on-“

As quickly as the song arrives, it fades. Katya picks up her car keys, and wonders what Trixie’s up to right about now.

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

INXS biopic tells an all-too familiar story

by Grant Smithies for Sunday Star Times (2014)

PLENTY OF EXCESS: Luke Arnold says playing Michael Hutchence was a dream role.

He was, at the end of the day, a charismatic narcissist with a Jim Morrison complex. Arms spread wide like Jesus, leather pants painted on, a second-hand Jagger swagger and, according to one girlfriend, "the Taj Mahal of crotches."

Talent, too, of course. The boy spoke fluent Mandarin. And there's no denying Michael Hutchence could sing. “He was one of the greatest frontmen of all time,” reckons young Aussie actor Luke Arnold, who plays Hutchence in INXS: Never Tear Us Apart, a two-part mini-series kicking off this Thursday on TV3.

“People who knew Michael told me he made you feel like you were the only person in the room, whether you were talking to him at a party or he was singing in a huge stadium. He seemed to be a really creative, caring, inventive guy, at the start of his career, anyway. And he never dream of being a singer. He was this wannabe poet, and it was only because he became friends with a bunch of musicians at high school that he was suddenly thrown in front of a microphone.”

Arnold is in LA, taking a break from shooting another series. As he drives around looking for a place to park, he jokes that he was born to play Hutchence. “Oh, yeah! For me, this was a dream role. Even in high school, I'd joke that if I ever became an actor, this would be the role I'd be called on to play because of my long, curly hair. Whenever INXS came on at parties, I was on the dance floor, hamming it up. So yeah, it was weird that I really did end up playing him in this story.”

Said story will be very familiar, not just to INXS fans, but to anyone who's ever watched a rock & roll biopic. We meet a bunch of naive young dreamers practicing in the garage, with tiny audiences yawning into their pints when they play live and their parents wishing they'd get real jobs. Galvanized by the right frontman, they tour their arses off, build a respectable following, go apeshit when their first song comes on the tour van radio.

International stardom follows. Cue sudden wealth, pliant groupies, oceans of booze, snowfields of cocaine. After that- burnout, decline, death.

Comprising three brothers and assorted school friends, INXS started out as two Sydney pub rock bands with the resoundingly unpromising names of Doctor Dolphin and the Farriss Brothers. Once combined, they would eventually become Australia's answer to U2, filling stadiums around the world through the 80s and early 90s with their clipped and shiny dance-rock, selling 30 million records worldwide, playing to audiences exceeding 25 million people in over 50 countries.

Rich with period detail, Never Tear Us Apart rattles through a checklist of key moments. Blossoming friendships between band mates. Shabby assignations with Adam Ant's left-over groupies. Hutchence's turbulent affairs with Kylie Minogue, Bob Geldof's wife Paula Yates and Danish model Helena Christensen. A rapid-fire roll call of triumphs and turning points, shagathons and shouting matches, set against a backdrop of acid wash jeans and stringy mullets, with more bare breasts on display than Woodstock.

There is, sadly, little room for narrative complexity as the makers attempt to cram in every chronological event they considered half-interesting.

Arnold, however, is convincing in the lead role, capturing the sexual magnetism and brooding darkness of Hutchence. As he leaps in and out of the scratcher with assorted hot sheilas, some reviewers have also noted the actor is blessed with a “nice arse”.

“Ha! I'm glad to hear that. When your arse gets featured as much as it does in that show, you'd hope it might have a positive effect on people! But yeah, it's a great story. The first two-thirds is more fun, a rock star dream, but then Michael had a terrible bike accident in 1992 that injured his brain, and he was never the same after that. He lost his sense of taste and smell, and became much more moody and depressed. We didn't pull any punches with that side of him, but we also wanted to show there was a cause for it, rather than just fame sending his ego out of control.”

The mini-series is billed as “the ultimate story of sex, drugs and rock & roll”.

What other key themes would Arnold add? “I think it's primarily about friendship between a group of mates who are all going through strange and special times together. The story was gathered from the surviving members, and focuses on their camaraderie as they deal with the blessings and the curse of fame. They could have whitewashed over the bad bits, but I think it was very brave of the band to be so honest about the darker days towards the end.”

Of course, the end in question is well known. On November 22, 1997, Hutchence was found dead in his Sydney hotel room, aged 37. The coroner ruled he had committed suicide while severely depressed and under the influence of cocaine, Prozac, Valium and alcohol, though speculation persists that his death was an act of auto-erotic asphyxiation gone horribly wrong.

The film doesn't make a call one way or the other.

Depressed, angry, drunk and pilled-up, his career in decline, Hutchence is depicted in his hotel room, wracked with distress after discovering his British girlfriend, Paula Yates, and their daughter, Heavenly Hirani Tiger Lily, would not be joining him in Australia for Christmas. And then, fade to black.

“I'm really happy with how that was treated. When things happen like Michael's death, it can get ugly.”

“People soon can start throwing blame around. But the band made a good choice there, because they didn't pull any punches but also avoided becoming gratuitous with the darkest elements of the story. No one except Michael knows what really happened in his final hours in that hotel room, so we didn't need to go there. It's already tragic enough without some TV show trying to bump anything up for dramatic effect.”

INXS: Never Tear Us Apart airs 8.30pm on August 14 and 21 on TV3.

[omgthatdress]

How to make Cats a good movie.

I watched Cats, and once I got over the initial horror, I was actually pretty entertained and found myself enjoying the shit out of it. Like god bless it, for as nightmare-inducing as much as it was, Tom Hooper was clearly *committed* to his vision and you gotta give him credit for that. The scenery was actually really beautiful and the cinematography was frequently breathtaking. Like it really did have a lot of elements that really worked for it. But for every bit of genius, there was something terrible that the movie just couldn’t overcome. So let’s dive in.

First of all, you kind of have to understand Cats: the musical. It’s an adaptation of poems that T.S. Elliott of nihilistic lost generation fame wrote for his godchildren about cats. And the poetry is charming af and totally captures the nature of cats and why they’re so lovable. In the in the 1970s, Andrew Lloyd Webber did a shit ton of cocaine and decided to make a musical out of these poems. As a result, Cats has no plot. It’s a bunch of cats singing their songs about who they are and doing a lot of dancing. The thinnest of narrative devices is created with the “jellicle” ball and the deciding of which cat gets to ascend to heaven or some shit. So yeah. Cats is actually pretty controversial among theater nerds, it’s very much a you either love it or hate it thing. Is it stupid? Yes.  Is it going to make everyone happy? No. Does it lend itself well to film adaptation? fuck no. I get the feeling that Tom Hooper was really going for deep, meaningful poetic cinema here and trying to make another Les Mis (which was way overly long and ultimately sank under its own sheer weight as a movie and probably is better viewed as a play). I’m operating under the assumption that Hooper was going for ground-breaking cinema that would have made millions and swept up during awards season and cemented him as a legendary director and gone down in movie history, because every little detail of Cats is clearly meant for maximum impact. You kind of need to drop all expectations going into Cats, so once you’re there, you can have fun with it. So how do you make it a good film?

1. The HORRIBLE hyper-realistic cgi human-cat hybrids. YES, it’s a technical marvel, and the CGI artists who made it all deserve a ton of credit for the work they did. And I understand why the actors were kept in their human shapes: live dance is a huge part of what makes Cats work. One of the smart decisions made was hiring theater veterans for the filler roles in the cat chorus, so when you have the choreographed numbers, it’s really spectacular. It’s just the end result was way too uncanny valley and bizarre for any of the film’s good parts to ever rise above it. I think a minimalist approach would have actually worked best. Cat ears and simple costumes with clean lines that show off the dancer’s bodies. Go for the suggestion of cats, and kind of let the viewer’s imagination take over, and showcase the cat’s personality. A huge part of what I enjoyed was hearing the poetry and imagining these cats and how they all relate to cats I’ve known. The dance and the music helped heighten this experience, but hybrids kept reminding me of the joke: what do you get when you cross a human and a cat? An immediate cessation of funding and a stern rebuke from the ethics committee.

2. The schlocky, honestly amateurish attempts at slapstick humor. I’m gonna come out and say it and say that Hooper is pretty deeply entrenched in *dRaMa* and has no sense of how comedy works. There was a lot of added in comedic bits from Rebel Wilson and James Corden, and it was honestly terrible. I mean really, a crotch hit? That kind of lowbrow comedy is so crude and base that it’s actually really hard to pull it off well. Slapstick comedy actually lends itself to the whimsical tone, and slapstick done well can be utterly sublime, but Cats seemed satisfied that fat people falling over is the height of comedy and should be left at that. And a second note on the comedy? Weirdly fat-shame-y. A saw a post about how odd it is to see James Corden, who has been very frank about how he’s struggled with dieting and come to accept that his body is fat and can’t be made not fat, playing this role where fat is added to his body, his CGI vest strains at the buttons, and he’s literally stuffing his face with garbage. The theme of fat people as lazy, stupid, and slovenly carried over from Rebel Wilson’s role, in which she also plays a fat lazy cat who is leaned on heavily for comic relief. I know the role is about a fat cat, and gently laughing at a fat lazy cat who loves to eat is fine, but, speaking as a fat person myself, this felt like a gleeful exploitation of a nasty and cruel stereotype. James Corden and Rebel Wilson are both extraordinarily funny people who happen to be fat, and their comedic gifts were tremendously mis-used here, reducing them to simply two fat bodies to be laughed at.

3. Jennifer Hudson. She’s a talented actress who can sing and emote like a motherfucker. And emote she did. She was clearly GOING for that second Oscar. I really don’t want to call her performance bad. The same level of emotion, tears running and snot flowing, in another movie, would have been devastating (Hello, Viola Davis in Fences). But this isn’t Fences, it’s fucking Cats. You need a level of character depth and development that Cats doesn’t afford to make those tears hit. All the crying and misery was an odd maudlin and over-dramatic break in the fun and whimsy. With a subtler performance and a hint of self-awareness, it could have actually brought in an emotional anchor for this light-as-air film, but Cats doesn’t make any attempt at nuance, and as a result the scenes just hit you out of nowhere like a load of bricks. 

4. Francesca Hayward. Okay, before we go anywhere, I want to say that this girl is not un-talented. She’s the principal ballerina of the Royal Ballet, and has a very long list of ballets that she’s lead in. So it makes sense that she’d be hired for a role that’s primarily ballet. This girl is a really really great DANCER. But Cats was clearly trying to make an A-list actress out of her. They tried to make her into Florence Pugh, who has been acting for a while and is blowing up right now because she’s very talented. Like everything about Francesca’s role in the film said “This is a star-making role.” A new song was written just for her to sing as an addendum to Cats’s show-stopping signature song. But the song was just okay, it didn’t carry nearly the emotional weight or all-around beauty of “Memories,” and all in all felt wedged-in and totally unnecessary and really just felt like a grab at that “best original song” Oscar. Francesca’s voice is high, thin, and child-like. It’s not unpleasant, but next to the richness and depth of Jennifer Hudson’s voice, it crumbles, and it’s not the sort of voice that I want to seek out to listen to over and over again. As for her overall performance, she largely keeps the same look of wide-eyed wonder throughout her numerous close-ups, so much so that I found myself thinking of the the MST3K “dull surprise” sketch. But I don’t know if that’s really entirely her fault. There was an attempted romantic storyline with the magic cat, but again, because of the nature of Cats and its lack of real character development or depth, the chemistry fell flat. There really isn’t much of a chance to show off a lot of dramatic range, so to keep going back to her character, it kept reinforcing the one-notedness of her performance. Really, I just kept wanting to see Francesca dance. Ironically, I think they really blew an opportunity trying to make an A-list actress out of her. All she really need to make people want to see more of her is one spectacular dance number, but for some reason, she never really gets that show-stopping moment. 

5. Dignity? I guess this goes back to the whole CGI cat thing, but there were a lot of moments when I felt this tremendous wave of second-hand embarrassment hit me on behalf of the talented actors in this film. Watching Gandalf lap up milk from a saucer was a wholly uncomfortable experience, like come on, grant the great Ian McKellan some fucking DIGNITY here. Which goes back to whatI said earlier that a suggestion and interpretation of cats would have worked better than all-out just being a cat. Or it could again just be how much Cats just fails its attempts at comedy. But then again there was no fucking reason at all for Idris Elba to be that fucking NAKED. I guess they were trying to make him sexy? But his sexy smolder and just being Idris Elba wasn’t enough they had to make sure that we all saw his chiseled pecs and thick thighs. And then at the end when he’s dangling off of the rope of a hot air balloon and what’s supposed to be a funny scene, I think, I kept thinking “I’m so sorry this is happening to you, Idris.” 

There’s a bunch of other small, nit-picky things that I could go into. Those cockroaches would have worked so much better if they weren’t humans with an extra set of arms. Watching them get eaten was some horror movie shit. Taylor Swift’s Macavity song would have worked a lot better if the cat chorus full of cats we’ve gotten to know had sung it, but instead Taylor Swift is brought in as a new cat we don’t know whose only purpose is to sing the Macavity song? but of course a big oscar-bait movie needs to have that pop star that draws in the people who wouldn’t otherwise see it and making her a part of the cat chorus would have had her performing throughout the whole movie and she would have floundered the way pop stars tend to do when performing musical theater around a bunch of musical theater actors. So I guess I get why she was thrown in.

So.... yeah? Is there anyone else who found themselves enjoying it in spite of everything? I’m glad I have dogs and didn’t have to watch this mess with actual cats around me.

[bestsongby]

New Thoughts on Old Classics:

Hotel California, by the Eagles. 1976

Is it Essential? 

The Eagles (or, more specifically, Henley and Frey) were often viewed as cocaine-fueled El Lay misogynists. I think the cocaine-fueled and El Lay are indisputable, but is the misogynist tag a little unfair? Could be.

I’ve always been fascinated by Hotel California, the Eagles’ bazillion selling magnum opus, and how it plays with that perception in mind. 

Hotel California is the Eagles stretching their powers as far as the rubber band will allow before it snaps or loses its shape forever, which probably explains why their only subsequent release as an active band was the lackluster The Long Run, a collection of half-assed disco shuffles and by-the-numbers rockers. (aside from barely an Eagle Timothy B. Schmidt’s heartfelt soft rock gem “I Can’t Tell You Why,” and barely upright Eagle Joe Walsh’s catchy as fuck guitar rocker “In the City.”)

For what it’s worth, the stretched rubber band theory is one I apply to most great rock acts who spend any time working under the Album as Art theory of record making. (acknowledging that there have been many, many Not Great bands operating under this theory) The Beatles wisely realized they’d reached that point with Abbey Road, and packed it in before the slope slipped. The Stones began that climb with Beggar’s Banquet, and went from strength to strength until they reached their apex by plunging back down through the depths with Exile on Main St. The Kinks bucked the trend to some degree by releasing one pretty brilliant and one almost pretty brilliant album after their ultimate statement of intent, The Village Green Preservation Society. The Who…well, the Who never really got there. They fooled the world into believing Tommy was their Everest flag-planting, but the truth is Quadrophenia was a better album. All of which obscures the fact that the Who’s greatest album is Meaty, Beaty, Big and Bouncy, a perfect collection of classic singles, few of which managed to tickle the U.S. charts. 

And then there are the Loves (Forever Changes) and Zombies (Odessey & Oracle), who strayed outside their comfort zones long enough to produce single discs that stand up to the greatest of the Greatest, despite neither band ever really being truly among the Greatest. (and, yes, both bands were otherwise very, very good at times)

Whew. I digress.

Let’s start with this: Is Hotel California a great album?

I’d like to say it is, but it might not even be the Eagles’ best album. I think, assuming assessing a “best” of anything Eagles-related doesn’t make your stomach clench, an argument could be made for One of These Nights (the album that immediately preceded this one – which easily wins the battle of cover art, anyway). But Hotel California is the most Eagles of Eagles albums, and stands as the best summation of their moment in the sun. And, it marks that moment when tuneful music produced by strong personalities could dominate the American pop culture landscape like no other medium.

In hindsight, Hotel California, riding shotgun with Fleetwood Mac’s equally mammoth Rumours, stands as a signpost in a pivotal moment in pop culture’s de-evolution from artist-controlled playground to complete corporate takeover. The suits always knew there was money in the music, but, holy shit, this much money?

Hotel California is an arrogant, confident, pretentious, calculated work of fiction, and you can hum along to it. It’s dominated by Don Henley, but it’s the input of the other band members that prevents it from completely collapsing under its own weight.

So, in review, let’s start with the title track, which can almost definitely be tuned in somewhere on your terrestrial radio dial at this very moment.

“Hotel California” started as a killer guitar riff by lead guitarist Don Felder. (Fittingly, Felder, who primarily kept his head down and played the shit out of his guitar throughout the Eagles’ history, eventually became estranged from the band) Once Don Henley grafted his lyrics to the music, the song became the ultimate distillation of the Eagles’ Desert Cocaine Tableau. Most of the group’s biggest hits were pretty direct, lyrically. A woman either pissed them off, or a woman was invited to lay down in the desert with them. Or sometimes the women were left behind while the band wrote their own desperado inspired mythology. But the fragmented imagery in “Hotel California” could only really make sense if the listener has a straw permanently lodged up his nose. The Witchy Woman of the past becomes the hostess of a demonic hostel where pink champagne replaces wine and pretty boys dance endlessly in sweat drenched courtyards. It seems as if the Hotel California is a place to run to and to run from, and we’re pretty sure Henley is only lamenting the “mirrors on ceiling” because all of his coke is now going to wind up on the floor.

With all of that said, the interplay between the guitars is deathless, and even vague descriptions of driving through the desert at night are enough to conjure up personal imagery for anyone confused as to what “colitas” is (are?). (The fact that the Eagles played an acoustic version of this live is either proof that they’re assholes, or that, like Eric Clapton’s tedious acoustic return to “Layla,” they just don’t quite understand the reasons for their own success – Felder trumps Henley here, and that’s that)

With that out of the way, we catch our breath and listen to the gang take it down a notch (with the help of JD Souther – the Eagles were never lacking for talented SoCal co-conspirators, starting at the beginning with Jackson Browne) with “New Kid in Town,” which, damn it, is pretty unassailable, musically. It’s got hooks for days, lush production that never swamps the tune, and a sincere, understated vocal performance from Glenn Frey, backed by great group harmonies. What? The lyrics? Well, okay. The woman is doing him wrong (in the third person, for some reason – maybe it’s not manly to admit you’re the one being cuckolded?), and she’s not living up to her end of the bargain, and…

Okay, you get the point. It’s a Henley/Frey lyric.

“Life in the Fast Lane” (It’s interesting to note the band led the album off with Hotel California’s only three single releases – all smash hits, of course) kicks in next, and we’re reminded overtly of the cocaine. It’s a great radio rocker – guitar licks weaving in and out, featuring maybe the slickest production on the album, and Henley doesn’t spare the dude in the equation this time, letting us know that both parties are feeding each other’s sinful excesses (sex and drugs). It’s a tale as old as Los Angeles, and the spoken “are you with me so far” dropped in by Henley manages to insult the listener almost by accident. (yeah, we’re with you, Don! Sex and drugs go hand-in-hand with rock and roll, brother! Revelation!)

And then we roll into “Wasted Time.” In which Henley (boy, so far, this is really a Don disc more than a Glenn disc) strains to let the poor dumb broad who left him know that she’s done nothing but fuck up her love life by fucking the wrong dudes, and, most importantly, by leaving Henley. It’s definitely this type of sentiment that allows critics to glue the MYSOGYNY label on our heroes. It never occurs to Don that this girl might have made the right choice in leaving a dude who not only plods through an orchestrated piano ballad about the terrible decisions she’s made, but backs it up with an orchestral reprise to hammer the point home. (the reprise actually originally opened side two, just to make sure you couldn’t escape the sentiment by flipping over the album – the fucking Eagles led off side two of their biggest album with an orchestral reprise. Admire their balls)

The sequencing of Hotel California comes across as pretty messy in the era of the compact disc/digital album, with the “Wasted Time(s)” dropped right smack into the middle of things, and “Life in the Fast Lane” book-ending the song(s) with the next track up…

And it’s another Henley rocker (what demons was Frey battling in 1976 that allowed him to take such a backseat to his his white ‘fro-sporting partner?), “Victim of Love.” It’s a catchy rocker about…some poor dumb broad. I hate to harp on the cocaine, but how much of it was Stevie Nicks doing to think Henley was a fun dude to party with? Anyway, this one is another radio staple, despite never being released as a single. Truthfully, all the album really needed was “Life in the Fast Lane” to remind us the boys could rock a little. But here they slowed it down a notch in case you had trouble keeping up with them the first time. 

And then, out of nowhere, we’re dropped into Joe Walsh’s melancholy reflection on life, “Pretty Maids All in a Row.” I can’t say exactly what the Eagles were thinking when they pulled Walsh into the band (”Hey – this dude makes us look sober!”), but I’d be hard-pressed to believe they anticipated his first recorded contribution would be such a beautiful, naked sentiment, punctuated not with his trademark guitar rips, but by piano and synthesizer. It’s a jarring shift in tone, helping the album achieve an eclectic vibe it was struggling to achieve with Henley dominating the proceedings, and all the more powerful for it.

Anyway, great track. And it’s followed by another great track.

Backing up “Pretty Maids” is, for my money, the best track on the album, and one of the most overlooked songs in the band’s catalog. No coincidence it’s a Randy Meisner song. “Try and Love Again” is a soaring, hopeful rocker, punctuated by Meisner’s upper register, and some truly uplifting guitar soloing. It’s a mystery why this track wasn’t released as a single, unless Henley and Frey were still annoyed that Meisner’s “Take It to the Limit” was the band’s first number one single. But it’s the one track from the album I find myself revisiting most often, without apology. It’s also worth noting that while Meisner’s lyric is treading on self-pity, he’s not blaming a chick for his problems. 

At this point we’ve wound our way through a collection of hit singles, timeless riffs, and a couple of contributions from lesser used band members that stand up to the hits. It’s hard to say there’s a definite theme at play here, although California and Los Angeles are definite players on the scene. So it’s up to Henley, again, to hammer things home with the most pretentious track in the Eagles’ entire catalog.

“The Last Resort” answers the question, “What if Randy Newman didn’t have a sense of humor?” A confused history of California (and over seven minutes long, to punctuate its importance as a statement), complete with references to the “Red Man” and Malibu and all of those bright lights that sullied the landscape, presented by a group that pretty actively moved closer and closer to the neon the further their hitmaking prowess ascended. The song starts as a literal travelogue about a girl from Providence (”The one in Rhode Island”), and then slips into a reminder that California has really succeeded at excess, which is evidently a bad thing.

In the end, it’s all the preacher’s fault, anyway. One suspects that Henley (and Frey?) realized he wasn’t really headed toward any logical conclusions with this one, and the lesson we’re left with is that the missionaries traded the Red Man’s peace of mind and started us on the path toward…well…all of that cocaine and colitas, I guess. (it is a pretty tune, though)

And that’s it. Nine songs (split into ten tracks), three hit singles, and 38 million copies sold.

Is Hotel California essential? In terms of understanding the “evolution” of pop culture, it’s an essential landing point for those curious how Los Angeles went from acoustic canyon-dwelling hippie haven to the paranoid personal driveway for limos filled with coke-addled celebrities wearing sunglasses at midnight because the lights fuck with what’s left of their peripheral vision.

But in the battle of juggernaut Los Angeles pop albums, Rumours creams Hotel California because Fleetwood Mac can be heard shutting out the world and wrestling with their relationships while coincidentally at the peak of their songwriting and performing abilities, whereas the Eagles were trying to make statements without much to state. Rumours is essential. Hotel California sounds good when you’re not paying attention too closely. 

[rcncgaades]

↪ brief introduction to prudence eaton.

BASICS

full name: prudence camryn eaton.  nickname(s): prue, percy ( vastly preferred ). age: twenty-eight. date of birth: 19 october 1992. zodiac sign: libra. place of birth: blackpool, lancashire, england, united kingdom. ethnicity: white. nationality: british. gender: cis female. sexual orientation: homosexual. romantic orientation: homoromantic. religion: she was raised in a protestant household but her family was never all that tied to actively practicing religion and it was never something percy considered all that important to her day-to-day life. as an adult she’s definitely more agnostic leaning than anything. education: bachelors of science in zoology ( university of derby ), masters in biodiversity, evolution & conservation ( university college london ), dphil in zoology ( university of oxford ). occupation: research zoologist & wildlife photographer.  language(s) spoken: english ( primarily ), french, german, russian, polish ( learned to the point of being able to carry on conversations during research projects across continental europe ). accent: she has a thick and immediately apparent northern english accent. she hasn’t lived in the united states for a significant period of time and it doesn’t take anyone more than a word or two to realize percy isn’t american.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: amelia eve. hair color: blonde ( she dyes it brown on occasion but for the most part it’s blonde ). eye color: green.  height: 5′3″. weight: 120 lbs. build: slim, athletic. tattoos: an intricate tattoo of a lion on her back ( here ), a half sleeve flower themed tattoo on her left arm ( here ), a small tattoo on the inside of her right bicep of the sun rising/falling over the ocean inspired by a drawing her baby brother gave her when they were children ( here ). piercings: she has traditional ear piercings in her firsts and seconds, she has a nose ring in her left nostril; she had an eyebrow piercing for a long while but took it out when she began guest lecturing and occasionally teaching in earnest– it’s healed up since then. distinguishing characteristics: her accent, how bright and warm she is, her tattoos & piercings, how smart she is ( or so she’s been told by many, many people after speaking to them for all of five minutes ).

PERSONALITY

label: the adventurer. positive traits: adventurous, articulate, brilliant, charismatic, charming, compassionate, considerate, dedicated, earnest, empathetic, forgiving, genuine, hardworking, intuitive, loyal, passionate, sociable, sweet, warm. negative traits: ambitious, competitive, proud, sarcastic, stubborn. assertive, boisterous, excitable, haughty, obsessive, possessive, silly, superstitious. goals/desires: to make a positive impact on her community, to live a better life as an adult than she did as a child, to spend the rest of her life doing things she loves, to fall happily in love. fears: failure, proving to everyone where she grew up that she’s just as useless as they’d always claimed, disappointing her little brother, never seeing either of her brothers again, becoming anything like the worst parts of her parents. hobbies: spending time with her family, smoking ( both weed and tobacco cigarettes ), cooking, baking, gardening when she has the time to do it and the weather’s right for it, hiking, reading, doing research of almost any kind, spending time with her friends, going out– drinking, dancing, anything that lets her be social, watching nature documentaries, listening to podcasts, playing video games, learning new things, knitting, sex.   quirks: she talks with her hands extensively, she self-corrects out loud if she uses british slang for something rather than the american equivalent, she rarely raises her voice for any reason at all, she can rattle off her favorite animals and fun facts about them at any given moment with no preparation whatsoever, she almost always has some pop song or another stuck in her head and can be heard humming it until she remembers the words. likes: animals of all kinds, mystery novels, nature documentaries, david attenborough, expensive liquor, pot brownies, baked goods of almost every kind, horror movies, music, flowers, being around people, sex, flirting, star wars, most marvel movies, rpg based video games, podcasts, true crime documentaries, her little brother, being a chef, learning anything new, talking to people about things they’re passionate about, her adopted parents & family. dislikes: her older brother, her childhood, people who don’t respect her & the hard work that’s gone into getting her to where she is in life, dark chocolate, milk, toxic people, accidentally killing plants, being alone for long periods of time, boredom, people who pick fights just to pick fights, bigots.

FAMILY

father: simon james ‘sj’ garrick ( biological ). mark william eaton ( adopted ). mother: claire ophelia ashby ( biological ). rose katherine eaton née prescott ( adopted ). sibling(s): jack charles garrick ( older ) & thomas rupert eaton ( younger ). michael andrew eaton ( older, adopted ). pet(s): a bernese mountain dog named jason & an australian cattle dog named piper.  financial status: upper middle class.

BIOGRAPHY

( TW: teenage pregnancy, infidelity, drug use, overdose )

By all accounts— by every metric Percy could use to quantify the fact as an adult— Simon Garrick and Claire Ashby had never been ready to be parents. Was anyone ever really ready to be a parent? It was a question Percy had asked herself constantly as she’d gotten older but it had never been her place to judge– her parents hadn’t done her any favors but for at least some time they had tried to be present and helpful and Percy could never fault them for that. Blackpool– a seaside resort town on the English coast– had been home to Simon and Claire as long as they both could remember but they had remained strangers to one another until they met through a mutual friend when they were seventeen years old. The attraction had been immediate– a spark neither of them were prepared to deal with but allowed to catch and ignite the moment they met, an encounter that resulted in an unplanned pregnancy and a great deal of responsibility neither of them wanted staring them both in the face. Simon dropped out of sixth form promptly to begin working in earnest and provide for the family he certainly hadn’t expected to have but was willing to work to support nonetheless; Claire, after informing her parents, remained in school at her parents’ request though their relationship became strained from that moment on.

When Jack was born the couple was delighted— Simon took to being a father rather quickly and seemed to enjoy it while Claire was an absent mother at best in spite of Simon’s many attempts to help her feel more present in their son’s life. It was no secret to anyone at all that Claire was cheating on Simon with what was rumored to be every eligible man in Blackpool and though Simon was heartbroken by the rumors and the confidence he felt in their truthfulness– he never brought the issue up with Claire– choosing instead to look after their son and try to hold their family together as best he could. It was yet another accident that marked Claire’s second pregnancy when Jack was five and though Simon wasn’t even reasonably confident that the child was his he again prepared himself to be a father as best he possibly could. Percy was born on a cool October morning and from the moment she uttered her first cry her father was devoted to her and for the first time her mother dove headfirst into caring for both of her children with a zeal she’d never demonstrated prior.

Though they were on the poorer side they were happy for a great deal of Percy’s initial childhood and seemed to be primed to be that much happier when Claire found out she was pregnant with her third child when Percy was seven. It was yet more of the same in the Garrick-Ashby household until Tommy was around two and Claire eloped with a family friend and informed Simon plainly that she couldn’t handle being stuck in a dead end town with a dead end life and three children she hadn’t wanted in the first place. Simon was devastated but for the first year or two following Claire’s departure he managed to hold both himself and the family together rather well. Percy– already a brilliant girl intellectually and a spot of sunshine in the world as far as her father was concerned– began to help around the house to take some of the worry away from her father even going so far as to look after her baby brother whenever she wasn’t at school. Jack, who was sixteen, more or less stopped coming home and though Percy was aware he was essentially living with a friend’s across town she considered his absence in her life nothing short of abandonment and even as an adult holds a deep resentment towards him for that fact.

Things for the Garrick family began to unravel slowly— Simon began to spend what money he earned from work on cocaine and other drugs– he was still present and still loving but Percy found herself more and more becoming a parent to Tommy rather than a sister. When she was twelve Simon’s habits escalated to a rather expensive heroin addiction that Percy could hardly process, let alone deal with and though she tried her best to raise her brother and herself it was difficult for a child to raise another child. She was nearly thirteen when she came home from school with Tommy in tow to find their father had overdosed in their kitchen— an overdose that would, even after her frantic call to emergency services, eventually lead to his death. Without extended family to look after them and with Jack’s refusal to take on the responsibility of raising siblings he hardly knew both Percy and Tommy became wards of court.

Percy– already with a reputation for being a brilliant student– threw herself into her studies with that much more zeal as she and Tommy adjusted to life with their first foster family; her IQ was tested and she was placed into progressively more advanced courses until she was taking university classes part-time by the time she entered year eleven. Her foster parents supported her fully and there was frequent talk of adoption for both herself and Tommy— who was easily the most important person in her life bar none. She was very nearly eighteen by the time the adoption paperwork was processed and both she and Tommy were officially members of the Eaton family. Though she was reluctant to leave Tommy behind when she’d been his primary caregiver for so many years prior to being placed with their adoptive family it was the encouragement of her adoptive parents Mark and Rose that finally reassured Percy to the point of feeling comfortable applying to universities about as far away from Blackpool as she could get without leaving the country. Higher education was a world of splendor for Percy who had always been so fiercely curious and sharply intelligent– she finished her undergraduate degree six months earlier than most of his graduating class before moving on to study further.

Animals and zoology had been passions of hers from the moment she visited a zoo for the first time on an outing with her parents when she was still very young. She was fascinated by animals of all sorts and wanted to know everything about how to care for them and preserve the environments they called home. It seemed the logical choice for her to follow her chosen course of study as far as she could-- and when she was twenty-six she walked away from Cambridge with a degree in zoology to her name and several research positions made available to her over the whole of continental Europe and beyond if she chose to take them. Traveling across Europe to do the thing she loved more than anything in the world was a gift Percy had never had any inkling of taking advantage of and she eventually began to give guest lectures at universities in major cities near her work sites as well as develop a passion for photography she found delightful to explore when she was researching in far away countries she’d never imagined even seeing as a child. When her research positions drew closer to their deadlines and the projects she’d been working on were finalized she began to search for another place to call home-- eventually settling on Turtle Bay due largely in part to the fact that Tommy had found his way to the area for college and Percy couldn’t think of anything more delightful than doing work she loved with her little brother at her side-- even if the work is a bit more sporadic than she’d like-- she’s always been able to look on the bright side of things and she doesn’t see that changing.