#i’ve been told i look like janis joplin so if i try hard enough i can pretend like chelsea hotel 2 is about me??? maybe???

[cohendyke]

have to force myself to stop listening to my leonard cohen playlist not because it’s affecting my mood but because i keep thinking about how i’m never going to have a crazy one night stand that ends with me realizing i’m a lesbian but we try to make it work and it ends in heartbreak for the both of us shortly after and five years later he writes an amazing song about our love affair and it’s forever enshrined as one of the greatest songs ever. yeah i’m just so sad that never happened and never will

[motleycrueroadie]

Along for the Ride (pt. 4)

Thank you again to anyone that has been taking the time to read this! I love writing it!

One I Two I Three 

Tonight being Friday, I fully expected the diner to have more people than usual but I hadn’t expected to be sweating an hour and a half into my shift with no end in sight. Even though Tiff’s is on the Sunset Strip, we were not the “happening” place on Friday night. This coupled with the manager’s inability to pay anymore than he had to, meant that the diner was only ever manned by two people: a chef and a waitress. For some reason, Tiff’s was swarming with people tonight, so there were only a few booths that were vacant at this hour. I’ll chalk it up to the fact that everywhere else was occupied and I was blaring our prized jukebox with quarters that I got from tips. I needed a continuous loop of upbeat rock to get me through tonight.

 Despite the newcomers, there were a few regulars that came to the diner every weekend after the shows. My regulars were a group of teenagers, buzzed in every sense of the word, who came by consistently for greasy food to satisfy their munchies before stalking off into the night to do whatever it is they did. I would give them credit though, they tipped me well and had never caused trouble in the diner, so I always turned a blind eye to their underage drinking (they loved slipping vodka into their sodas). However,  I made sure they all had at least one glass of water before they left. I hadn’t seen them yet  tonight, so I was beginning to wonder what kind of trouble they had got themselves into. 

“Janis!” a slurring voice called out, exaggerating the N in my name. Looking over my shoulder as I grabbed some meals from the window, I realized I spoke too soon. My regulars were coming in the door and headed for their favourite booth. Daniel, the one who had called my name held the door open while the rest of his group entered. He haphazardly wandered over to the jukebox while I carried the food from the window over to a table. Placing their food down, Daniel called out “What do you want to listen to Janis? My treat, anything you want!” 

I had to laugh at the kid while I continued whizzing around the diner, he did this every time he came in. 

“You know what Danny boy, I’m feeling some ZZ Top tonight.” I said to him as I rang in someone’s bill on the cash register, “In particular, Tush.” He looked up from the jukebox, raising his eyebrows to indicate he had found some sort of “hidden message” in my request. 

“Not yours Danny boy, I might as well be your older sister.” He just nodded to himself, knowing I was right. Popping in the quarter, he headed back to his friends. 

“Poor kid thought he had a chance there didn’t he?” said a familiar voice. None other than Nikki Sixx was at the opposite end of the counter from me. 

Nikki must’ve noticed the sudden head turn in the direction of his voice, “Is that a look of surprise on your face Joplin? Did you forget I was coming?” I shook my head at him, reaching under the counter to grab a clean rag. 

“Didn’t hear you come in, rock star,” I said while turning on the tap and letting the cold water run over the rag. “I just can’t believe I missed you coming, what with that beautiful mess of a nose you’ve got going on.” Pointing at the dried blood mixed with fresh underneath his nose, he reached up to rub it with his hand. 

“I thought I cleaned it up,” he mumbled to himself as I handed him the rag. I lightly snickered at his comment as I motioned to a booth near the jukebox. 

“I’m a little backed up at the moment, so have a seat at the booth right there and I’ll come get some more details from you in a moment” he looked to where I was motioning and back at me nodding. I started to hand him a menu when he opened and closed his mouth before opening it again. 

“Do you have a newspaper?” I knitted my eyebrows together before replying, 

“There’s a stand near the entrance” He nodded to himself before taking the menu from my hand and heading over towards the newspaper stand. As I rounded the counter to head towards Danny and his group, two people walked in the door - a tall lanky young guy and a shorter gal. 

“Take a seat where you can find one and I’ll be with y’all in a moment!” I called out to them as I passed. 

“Well kids, will it be the regular order?” I asked as I reached their table, knowing the answer to my question already. Danny nodded to indicate a formal decision while the rest of them barely acknowledged my existence. I knew that if I was to try and take an order other than the regular, that it would be like herding cats. Instead of waiting to hear if there was any opposition, I winked at Danny while heading back towards Carlos to give orders and prep drinks. 

“I see your friend is back mija, he better not be looking for free food here too.” Carlos gave me a side eye while he focused on the grill. In response I rolled my eyes at him while starting on the drinks and grabbing menus for the new people that came in.

 Carlos was a little old fashioned in that he made assumptions based on appearance. He thinks that Nikki is a stray that I’ve brought in because I felt bad for him.  I don’t think I made that any better when I told him that I had been having Nikki over for dinner, but Carlos was a little wayward in his assumptions. He wasn’t wrong in thinking that Nikki was a stray, but I don’t think he realized that I was too. People only know as much as you tell them, and I don’t particularly enjoy being vulnerable around others, so I tend to keep some information close. Carlos and I had been working the night shift together since I started at the diner, so I trusted him with a tad more information,  enough so that he knew what I did outside the diner but that was it. I didn’t let Nikki this close into my life because I felt bad for him, I just related to him. Initially, all I had known was that Nikki and I were both out here on our own so I wanted to know him better, except I kept the wall up. Despite this, he was the one to initiate a deeper conversation by asking about my folks today. Nikki put me in a vulnerable state and I wanted to back out even though I knew it wasn’t an option. You can’t unshare what’s already been in the open. Nikki dove in head first to this new information by sharing his own vulnerability with me. Him and I were both strays, so how can you feel bad for each other? You don’t. You just let the other know they aren’t alone. Once you know you aren’t alone, you can be comfortable in the face of discomfort.

I returned to my table of regulars with their drinks in one hand, and a promise that their food would be out within the next 15 minutes. As I rounded the diner to head to the table of newcomers, I noticed one was missing. The tall, lanky boy. He wasn’t hard to miss considering his height and the fact that he was currently at Nikki’s booth. As I passed by, I glanced over my shoulder to see that Nikki wasn’t entirely thrilled with the conversation. Looking back over to the girl, I could tell she was a little annoyed with the situation so I slid into the booth across from her. This way she couldn’t continue to glare at her date.

“You plan on having something to eat tonight sweetheart? I’m sure it’s on his dime.” She looked at me now instead of through me. I watched her turn the idea over in her brain before shaking her head. 

“Can I at least get you something to drink?” I asked while she continued to look disappointed. 

“You know what? I would actually really love a root beer float.” I smiled up at her, liking her choice in drink. 

“I’ll see what I can do about getting your date back over here” I said while getting up before continuing, “That is, of course, if you would like him to come back?” She laughed at me while she nodded her head. 

“Yeah I would like it if he came back” I laughed with her as I moved along to the table with her date and Nikki in it. 

“Sixx, can I make the safe assumption that you would like a Jack and Coke to start off with?” Nikki looked up towards the sound of my voice while I approached the table, nodding as I stopped next to the lanky kid. 

“Can I get some blueberry pancakes?” was the greeting I received from the kid, who had yet to make a good impression on me. 

“Sweetheart, what’s your name?” I asked him as he looked up at me confused. If there was one thing I know from working in the service industry, it’s that sometimes people need to be reminded to use their manners. This kid looked to be around my age, so I was going to feed him the lesson straight. No pussy footing around. 

“Tommy” I smiled at this, a childish name that fit the youthful energy and forgetfulness. 

“Tommy, let me level with you” I lost the smile to communicate the severity of my next statement, “You ain’t getting those pancakes until you say please and when I bring them out, they’re going to the table where you’ve left your date.” He looked back over his shoulder to where his date was people watching out the window. Turning back to me he slouched his shoulders over a little bit, and I caught him glancing at the name tag. 

“I’m sorry Ms. Janis, would I be able to get some blueberry pancakes please?” I broke the stern look, smiling at him. 

“Of course you can Tommy, would you like some syrup brought to the table as well?” Tommy nodded adamantly while I looked over to Nikki. 

“Do you want any food to go with your JC?” 

“I would love an order of blueberry pancakes as well…..” He watches as I raise my eyebrow at him, I know that he’s teasing me but I’ll indulge it. “Oh did I forget to say please?” Flipping him off, I grab the menus from in front of the two of them. 

About an hour and a half had gone by before the diner was clear of everyone except Nikki. Tommy had returned to his date when I brought out his pancakes, but not before slipping a napkin across the table to Nikki. He tipped me well and even apologized again on his way out the door, to which I had only laughed and told him all was good.  Danny and the rest of the regulars pitched in a few quarters each so that I could continue playing tunes on the jukebox, and all stopped to compliment Nikki on the “kick-ass” show he put on tonight. After they had left, Nikki sat patiently looking through the newspaper while I made sure the tables were clear and sanitized. With an armful of the diner’s napkin holders and the other hand carrying a package of napkins, I sat in the booth opposite Nikki for my first opportunity to sit down since starting the shift. 

“A kick-ass show tonight?” I questioned while starting to refill the napkin holders. He nodded while motioning to the rag abandoned on the edge of the table. 

“Lead singer and I went at it in front of the crowd at the end of the set.” Pausing what I was doing and raising an eyebrow at him, I prompted him to keep talking. 

“We’ve been at each other’s throats for the past couple of weeks and I just snapped over him changing the order of the songs around.” Again, without saying a word he could gauge my reaction just from my face as I continued on with my tedious task. 

“Listen I know it sounds like some stupid ass shit, but it was just my boiling point you know?” I nodded knowing the feeling all too well. 

“So I take it, that’s the end of London then?” He nodded while sort of laughing to himself over the way it ended. Reaching across the table, I grabbed his empty glass and raised it up into the air for an impromptu toast. “To London!” I shouted in a god awful British accent while Nikki looked at me as if I was the one who walked in here tonight with a bloody nose. 

“Janis Jade! Quit being so damn loud!” yelled out Carlos from the kitchen window, where I knew he was peeling potatoes for the day shift. 

“What are you going to do now then?” I said, sliding the glass back across the table to him and stood to return the napkin holders to the table. 

“Well I grabbed a newspaper to start looking at the ads for new people, but a drummer arrived in front of me.” There weren’t too many people who had gone up to Nikki while he had been there, and knowing that Danny and his group hadn’t spoken to him for long enough to form a band, that left the lanky kid. The napkin I saw him slipping Nikki most likely had a phone number on it then. 

“Tommy offered to be your drummer?” 

“Didn’t you see the drumsticks the kid was carrying around?” He spoke with genuine disbelief that I hadn’t noticed this apparently great detail. 

“Wasn’t paying that much attention to him” Which was a truthful statement.

“That’s because you were too busy giving him an earful” Grabbing my cleaning rag off the main counter, I turned around and snapped it in Nikki’s direction. He moved further back into the booth while laughing. 

“Well he deserved it!” I said, pleading my defense.

“I’m not saying he didn’t, Ms. Janis” he said, snickering to himself at what Tommy had called me. Rolling my eyes I replied, “So you’re a bass player and you’ve got yourself a drummer. Now you need a guitar player and a lead singer at the minimum.” He nodded, holding up the newspaper to indicate that this was his starting place. I smiled at him, it was clear that this was what Nikki really loved to do. Without even skipping a beat, Nikki put London behind him in search of the next batch of people that would help him put out music. I could only hope that whoever ended up being his next band were people that he could be friends with. After all, music is great but it’s even better in good company. Inspired by this, I spoke without thinking, “Tell you what Sixx.” He looked interested. “Once you get this band of yours together, I will come to your first show.” Nikki sat up straighter at this comment.

“Really?” He asked, to which I nodded. He looked almost taken aback by this but his smirk quickly returned to his face. 

“Can I count on you to post our flyers in the window to promote the show?” I only laugh at him.

“Form the band first, then we’ll talk.”

Next Chapter 

[rogerina-deacon]

Candle In The Wind // Joe Mazzello x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Joe Mazzello x Fem!Reader Summary: After finding out your brother died of a heroin overdose, Joe helps you get through it. Warnings: A lot of sadness, a bit of angst, mentions of drug use (heroine, weed, cigarettes), mentions of death (specifically by overdosing), but a fluffy ending Word Count: 1296

(Gif via pinterest)

A/N: Hey guys, so this is a very self-indulgent fic. My brother recently passed due to an overdose, and it’s hitting me hard and I just wanted Joe to comfort me through it, so I wrote a fic based on it to cope. If any of you are either struggling with addiction or know someone who is, please get them help and make sure you check up on them. No matter how well they seem to be doing, please make sure they’re doing alright.

A/N 2: I just wanted to say why I titled it that way I did, since there isn't any mention of it during the fic. All day I’ve had the chorus to “Candle In The Wind” by Elton John stuck in my head, since it reminds me so much of my situation. My brother lived his life vulnerably, often times didn’t know who to turn to when he needed help, and he has been struggling for most of my life since I’m 13 years younger than him, so I never really knew him, and that’s just what’s described of Marilyn during the chorus. That song hits completely different to me now, at least during the chorus.

Shock. That was all you could feel - pure, stand-still shock. He was gone, the man you barely knew yet lived with for however many years was gone. When you got the call from your father, your heart sunk, though you didn’t cry. You couldn’t understand why you weren’t bawling your eyes out, cursing the world, but you weren’t. It didn’t seem real, bad things like this don’t happen to you, there’s always a happy ending. But it was real. Your brother was found dead in his room, hunched over, stiff and blue in the face. You could hear the pain in your father's voice as he told you the news, cursing the guy that sold his baby boy the dope, his baby boy that was just getting clean and was getting his life together.

You were out with Joe at an old friend of his’ house over Fourth of July Weekend when you got the call, and as soon as you finished talking to your dad you told him the news. You just stared at him, eyes wide with shock as you told him, your brain not registering it. But as soon as you said the words, tears started flowing freely as Joe enveloped you in his arms, holding you tight as your tears soaked his patriotic shirt.

“I can’t fucking believe it, Joe. He’s gone.” You said into his chest, voice breaking.

“We’ll fly out in the morning to your parents house, I’ll book our tickets when we get home baby.” He said, knowing you needed to be with them, especially with your father. He was probably the closest with your brother, and loved him more than life itself, so you knew you needed to be there for him, and you knew your sister would be doing the same. Thankfully she lived in the in-law apartment attached to your parents house, which was also where your brother was living as he got on his feet.

Joe told his friends that you two had to get going, and they understood and said their goodbyes to Joe while you waited for him in the passenger seat of his car. Your head was in your hands as you said “I love you, Y/B/N” over and over, hoping he could hear you, cause God knows you never said it enough to him. He was always so distant, his struggles happening at the same time as your own, which just so happened to be while you were growing up. You never really knew him, only remembering that he loved classic Nick cartoons and weed and had some disgusting habits that made you dislike him, like always trying to get something out of his throat and wearing his jeans so they landed under his ass. But he was your brother, so of course you loved him, no matter how much you rolled your eyes when he walked past you reeking of cigarettes.

The ride home was silent besides your crying, your head in your hand as Joe drove with one hand on the wheel and his other on your knee, squeezing to let you know that he’s there for you. When you finally got home, you made a beeline for the bedroom, plopping down on the bed and hugging the pillow as you cried. Joe sat down beside you and ordered one-way tickets to the airport closest to where your parents lived before placing his phone face-down on the bedside table, wanting to put all his attention into comforting you. When you stopped crying into the pillow, your moved to curl up into Joe’s side, your arms wrapped around his waist as you just laid thinking about everything, Joe’s arms wrapped around you, brushing along your sides.

“I can’t fucking believe it, Joe. I just can’t.” You said, staring blankly ahead of you.

“Neither can I, babe.” He agreed, placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“And he was doing so well, too. He was clean, just smoking pot and cigarettes, and he was even cutting down on the cigarettes. He was going to AA meetings, reconnecting with friends, even seeing this girl a bit. But he’s gone now.” You said in disbelief, wondering how he hid everything so well.

“My dad said he had a feeling last night, and he checked him all over for any needle marks. And he promised he would never do this to us. He promised.” You said as you started crying again.

“I don’t think he meant to, honey. Probably just underestimated his levels. He has been off it for a few months since he got out of jail, maybe he just got potent stuff, like Janis Joplin did.” He suggested, and you hoped he was right.

“It just takes a little bit of fentanyl mixed in to kill ya, and I swear if that dealer had mixed it I’ll have his ass hung on the flagpole by morning-”

“Babe, I’m sure they’ll catch the guy that sold it to him.” He assured, but you just scoffed.

“How? The guy probably used a burner, they switch them out every other day and throw them in the gutter once they switch over contacts. It’s like chasing a damn ghost.” You said, now more angry than upset.

“But he lost his license, right? So your mom would’ve known where he was when he got it.”

“Probably, but that doesn’t really mean shit. He could’ve gone after one of his meetings.”

“Well anyway, I’m so sorry babe. You shouldn’t have to go through this. But I’m here for you through all of this, okay?” He assured, and you nodded before muttering “Okay”, nuzzling your head further against his chest. You laid there for a few more minutes and you could feel the post-crying headache set in, the pain at the front of your brain hurting like hell, so you pressed your head harder against his chest for some form of relief.

“Need an aspirin? I can go grab you one if you want.” he suggested, and you nodded prompting him to get up and head into the bathroom connected to the bedroom to grab a few pills from the medicine cabinet. Walking back from the bathroom, he emerged with two pills and a glass of water in hand. Taking the pills and glass of water from him, you thanked him before downing them as he went over to the dresser to grab pajamas for you, which was just an old t-shirt of his, knowing that wearing his clothes always calms you down and comforts you. He just stripped down to his underwear since it was so hot for any more than that before climbing into bed with you, and you got changed as he just watched you.

“I love you, Y/N.” He said, feeling the need to tell you in that moment. You leaned back, into his arms and against his chest.

“I love you too, Joe.” You said, moving your head to look up at him. Leaning down, he placed a sweet, loving kiss to your lips, as if to confirm it.

“And he loves you, too.” He added, and you nodded, a sad smile on your face.

“I just hope he knows I love him, too.” You said, tears starting to well again.

“I’m sure he does, baby. I’m also sure that he would want you to get some sleep and be well rested for your flight in the morning, okay?” He said, kissing your forehead.

“Probably.” You confirmed, yawning as you snuggled closer into Joe, falling asleep in his arms as you remembered the good times you had with your brother, no matter how small they were, whispering a goodnight to Y/B/N as you drifted off to sleep.

------------------------------

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[jesusintheleast]

1978 Rolling Stones Interview

6/17/2019

Spring 2019, Mick Jagger recovering from heart surgery.

Advised to Postpone Upcoming 2019 American and Canadian Tour

Pray for Mick, Keith, Ronnie, Charlie, and Bill.

Can you believe it? The Rolling Stones are still very newsworthy.

Mick recently posted: "Thank you everyone for all your messages of support. I’m feeling much better now and on the mend—and also a huge thank you to all the hospital staff for doing a superb job."

And then in another post: “I’m so sorry to all our fans in America & Canada with tickets. I really hate letting you down like this. I’m devastated for having to postpone the tour but I will be working very hard to be back on stage as soon as I can. Once again, huge apologies to everyone.”

So with the Rolling Stones still very much in the news and even having a tour planned and then postponed due to Jagger’s heart surgery, I was prompted to reprint an old “rock-star” witness that Cornerstone Magazine ran back in the summer of 1978. It was my friend, Jon Trott, and myself who had the opportunity to meet up with a few of the Stones.

As you will see, we weren’t shy about sharing our faith. That was the way it was back then. We were “Jesus freaks” on a mission. And if you had asked me if I thought that the Stones could possibly be touring (or even alive!) in 2019, I would have answered, “No way.”

But then again, who am I? What do I know about the future of anyone? Not much, not anything really.

All I know is that I believe in II Peter 3:9: “The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise (of a day of judgment coming), as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.”

And so with those thoughts in mind, I invite you to listen in on the brief encounters we had with a few of the Stones back in 1978.

All of a sudden Jagger pulls up in his limo. He and his girlfriend get out and survey the whole setup. Everyone stands back in awe. He’s here.

A series of people casually file by making their adoration vocal. Seeing Jagger alone for a second, I walk up to him and blurt out, “Hey, Mick, you know Jesus loves you?” as I hand him a couple of tracts. He takes the literature and with a quick negative glance, takes off behind one of the trailers.

It was July 8, and we were backstage at the Rolling Stones concert at Soldier Field here in Chicago. After getting a quick witness to Mick Jagger, we continued to share with a few people who were a part of the Stones’ entourage. Amidst the trailers, small tents, the barbecuing, and the drinking, we had quite an eventful day. We knew the Lord had gotten us in, but was there going to be another chance to witness? All we could do was pray.

That night, the Stones showed up at a small club where Muddy Waters was playing, and we got another chance to talk to them. When the show was all over, they were whisked into a small dressing room in the back of the club. “Now you’ve got ten minutes,” the manager told us. “There’s a lot of people back there, and I’ve got to keep them moving in and out. So when I tell you you gotta go, you gotta go, OK?” “OK.”

So when we entered the dressing room, we knew didn’t have much time. We quickly took in the scene, which revealed a shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of about thirty in a small, dank, dressing room. Nearly everyone had a drink in their hand and the atmosphere was bubbling. Jagger was standing off a ways from Muddy Waters and the other Stones. I boldly approached him. “Hey, Mick, remember me? I was the guy who handed you a couple of tracts down at the concert today. What do you think?”

“I get them all the time. I don’t really get into tracts,” he said in his thick English accent.

“Well, anyway, do you know the Lord really loves you? He really cares about you?” While I continued telling him of God’s love for him, he started mumbling under his breath, “You can’t be telling me this. You can’t be telling me this. You can’t be telling me this.” All of a sudden, he looked up from his drink and threateningly blurted in a stage whisper, “Hey, aren’t you afraid the Lord will put a curse on you?” “It’s only the devil that’s going to put a curse on anyone,“ I replied. He sarcastically shrugged and said, “Oh.”

He didn’t want to continue our conversation, but it was crowded and while he was trying to get away, I leaned over and said, “You know something? The devil has a real hold on you, but the Lord can set you free!” He stopped for a second. He was stunned and acted like he couldn’t believe his ears. I added, “We really love you Mick, and we’ll be praying for you.” He slowly continued to mingle in the crowd and soon left.

Ronnie Wood was busy whooping it up. “Hey, you know the Lord really loves you?” I said. “Oh, yeah, I know He loves us all,” he said, very drunkenly. “Don’t you know that He wants us to live for Him? “ “Hey, man, I ain’t got time for that stuff. My life’s too messed up already without giving it to the Lord; it’s bad enough. That’ll make it worse. Besides, I’m having too much fun right now. I can’t think about that.”

“But, Ron, don’t you see that if we can’t get along with the Lord down here, we’re never going to get along with Him for eternity?” “Yeah, I see that,” he said hesitantly. “But hey, man, really, the Lord’s too heavy for me, man.” “Well, we really love you, Ronnie, do you know that?” “I know you do. I really do. And I have to admit, you really make me think. You kind of set me back about three steps.” “But really, don’t you ever get tired of this whole party scene?” He thought for a second, “No!” “Hey, by the way, where’s Bill Wyman, anyway?” “Oh, he’s back in the hotel, all whacked out.” “You know, Jesus does love you, and we’re all praying for you and we care about you.” He seemed to lighten up a little and said, “Hey, man, that’s cool, thanks a lot.”

Then I looked over at Keith Richards. He looked really out of it. He looked like he was on what they call a “mean drunk,” so I hesitated to go over to him. Charlie Watts was sitting off to the side, all by himself, so I went up to him.

“Hey, you know Jesus really loves you, Charlie. He wants you to be living for Him.” “Yeah, I know, “ he said casually. “Have you ever really received Him into your heart?” Thinking . . . ”I don’t know.” “Well, if you don’t know, then you haven’t.” “Hey, man, I’m doing alright.” “Yeah, but are you serving God? Is he number one in your life?” “No, I can’t say that.” “Well then, what is? Do you live for yourself?” “No.” “Other people then. You live for other people, right?” “That’s right.” “Well, that’s still wrong, you see, because the Lord wants to be number one. You see, it says in the Bible that you have to love the Lord your God with your heart, soul, mind, and body. Then other people come second.” “Hey, man “ Charlie said. “You know if Billy Preston was here, he ‘d be preaching to you.” “Yeah, I know. I talked with Billy Preston recently. Do you know he has a Gospel album out?” “Yeah.” I told him that we really did care about him and that we’d be praying for him. Finally, I turned back to see what Keith Richards was doing. He looked like he had lightened up a touch. I went over and butted into his conversation in a nice way. “Hey Keith, you know the Lord loves you.” He was stumbling around.

“Yeah, yeah, I know He cares about me,” he said cynically. “I just hope He cares about me enough to keep me out of prison.” (Richards was facing some criminal drug charges in Canada at the time.) “Well, you know something, Keith, even if you have to go to prison, He wants to be right there. He wants to help you out.” He seemed to turn bitter. “Hey, man, I don’t even want to talk about this anyway.” I told him Jesus really did care about him. I just wanted him to know that he had a bunch of people here in Chicago that would be praying for him. We witnessed to a few more people and then we felt it was time to split. As we were leaving, an old man, who was the chauffeur for the Stones, was having a rough time walking down the stairs. He was really blasted. So I offered to help him down. He refused. Then I said, “Jesus loves you.” He suddenly became enraged and, in a fury, hurled his glass down the stairs, where it shattered.

Looking back on the whole day, I couldn’t help but remember what it used to be like for me. I used to be an old Stones freak. My favorite band. I would have thought this was really great, to be backstage with the Stones, to go to a nightclub where they were at, and then get a chance to talk with them. That would have been heavy. But all during the day, I just couldn’t help feeling pity and sorrow. Even that afternoon, while they were playing, with sitting backstage, it seemed like the Lord was speaking to me, “Do you know that these guys could be dead in a week?” And then I thought of Lynyrd Skynard, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin.

Above all, I felt He showed me that these guys are really scared, and I’m sure that they have a lot of late nights when they curse the day that they were born. And when they sing, “I can’t get no satisfaction” ( ironically, it was their last song of the concert), I’m sure they mean it a lot more now than they did back when it was first released. What’s more, it seemed to me that these guys had lived their lives to the hilt for the devil. They went all out. And this is how we believers need to be living for the Lord. We need to be living all out. Let’s pray for the Stones. You never know what’s going on down in their hearts.

End of 1978 interview.

And now that we know that the Stones are still “rolling” can we still find it in our hearts to keep on praying for them? And so, that is what I’m asking you to do. Because remember what the Lord has said—that he’s not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. In fact the verse before this one tells us that God’s timing is not like our “timing” in our mind's comprehension. In fact, “With the Lord, a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.“ (II Peter 3:8b) So even though the Stones have been going for more than 50 years and say they want to keep on going, it’s really just a drop in the ocean of time. You just never know what might happen. And maybe we’ll never know if anything has ever happened in their relationship to God or not. Our lot is to pray for God’s mercy towards these folks. After all, he sure did show us a lot of mercy and grace, right? And we’re no more special than they are So this could be “The Last time” that the Stones and everyone living like they do (or wish they could) hear this message. Why? Because none of us know how much time we have left. And “Time” is definitely not on their side”… especially at their ages. And God says to us all: “In the time of my favor I heard you, and in the day of salvation I helped you.” I tell you, now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation.” (II Cor.6:2)

Thanks for stopping by.

Chris

[doctor-who-hears-a-horton]

A New Holiday (Ten x Rose)

Rating: General 

(Reminder that every piece of fanart made for me, I post.  I was given a couple back when I was on Wattpad and I always post them!)

Read it on AO3 here!

Rose convinces the Doctor to go to an American Thanksgiving with her, and he takes her to a place where he knows she'll have a good time.

Note:  In 2015 I wrote this, and I kept thinking about it, since today is Thanksgiving, so I thought I'd revamp it (add 900 words) and fix my mistakes to make it better and even fluffier! I hope you guys enjoy it! happy birthday to Doctor Who and Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate!

**********

She grinned happily at him and threw her arms out.  "Thanksgiving!"

His face was disbelieving at best.  He glared at her from around his side of the console, leaning one elbow down on it so he could look closely at her.  "Really, Rose?  All of time and space, literally anything in the universe, and you want to go to celebrate an American holiday?"

Instead of glorifying that particular remark with a response, she nodded, biting her tongue.  Then she decided to glorify it with a response anyway, because she really wanted to convince him.  "You know, Doctor, you're the one who always wants to get us involved in different cultures.  This one just happens to be American."

"But all they do is eat and watch sports that day!"  He whined.  "There is absolutely nothing interesting about Thanksgiving."

She furrowed her brows at him and took a step closer to him, "And they spend time with the people they care about most, and remember how lucky they are to have them." She said it with a raise of her eyebrows that seemed to make her point quite clear.

The Doctor had nothing to say to that, because of course, he knew exactly what she was getting at, and it turned out that he would very much like to spend time with her if they went to a Thanksgiving dinner.  He sighed, pretending to be put out.  "Yeah, alright," he said, and started flipping levers.  

"You've never done Thanksgiving, have you?"  She asked, grinning up at him.

"No," he replied, "I've never... I've never seen a need for it."

"And now?"  She tilted her head, creeping around to his side of the TARDIS.

He looked up at her and nodded slightly, not edging away from her.  His eyes were earnest when he nodded again, more defined this time.  "Now," he said firmly.

She bit her lip and nodded back at him, turning away slightly.  Usually, after the Doctor said something particularly sweet, she needed to give him space, or he would get spooked and bolt towards the library.  "So!" She spun back around, farther away from him now, and smiled at him,  "Do you know anyplace good to celebrate Thanksgiving?"

The Doctor made a non-committal sound in the back of his throat.  "You know, I think I'll leave it a surprise, but trust me, I'm sure you'll like it."

"You're that sure?" She asked.

"Oh, Rose Tyler, if I know anything about you, it's places I'm certain you'll like," he said, and he sounded so confident in it that Rose couldn't bring herself to tease him about it.  So, she sat herself on the jump seat and watched him pilot them to their destination, trying not to stare, and thinking about how thankful she was to have him.

***

After a not-so pleasant landing, the Doctor insisted Rose get her coat, which, she didn't fail to notice, looked like a black, feminine cut version of his Janis Joplin coat.  Keeping that particular thought to herself but still smiling, she did up some of the buttons and subconsciously reached for his hand.  He reached for hers right back and laced their fingers together, moving to give her his very best pinball grin.  She returned it, sure she looked just as ridiculous as he did.    

"Now, here we are," the Doctor said, bouncing on the balls of his feat as they exited the TARDIS, him pulling her along.  "Your Thanksgiving.  Oddly enough, it doesn't ever go away.  The tradition lives on until the Earth burns, and even when the humans split across the universe, there are still bits of it interwoven into society."  He waved his hand about a little bit in the air.  "All that... Joy you humans get from eating and spending time together, as you put it... It never really goes away."

Rose listened to his commentary as she took in all of the bits of futuristic Earth, cold but thrumming with activity, people with rosy cheeks strolling about and laughing together.  It struck her as odd how excited everyone was to sit down and eat, though she knew there was so much more behind it than just eating.  Did they even realize it any more, or were they past it?  

"So you never answered me, Doctor," she said casually, swinging their hands just a bit, "Where are we?"

"Why don't you tell me?" he asked her, and she all but rolled her eyes, knowing that he would say something like that.  The Doctor really did love to go about things the roundabout way.

"Earth," she said decisively, as she looked around at everything. "Not New Earth, we've only just been there.  So obviously, just plain old Earth. America."

"Brilliant," he said, a giant grin on his face.  "Go on."

"We're in the future, you can tell by the way everything's built, the structure of the buildings and stuff, right?  But I just don't know what century."  She looked at him pointedly, telling him she didn't want to guess any more.

"Excellent work," the Doctor said enthusiastically, pride showing through in his voice.  He tugged her closer to his side and turned her down to a more scenic road, though the houses were nowhere near suburbia.  She admired the amount of big windows and shocking white siding, tucking her head against his shoulder.  It was all so beautiful, to say the least.  

"Are you going to answer me?" Rose asked patiently, jostling his shoulder playfully after a moment of him not answering her.  

"You're almost right on the button," the Doctor said finally as he pulled her up to a nearly gaudy looking house and rang the doorbell soundly.  "Rose Tyler, welcome to 51st Century Earth."

"Wait... 51st Century?" Rose's eyes lit up with recognition, and the door flew open, revealing a very excited looking Jack Harkness.

"I could smell it in the air!" He exclaimed, sweeping Rose into a hug that made her wrench her hand from the Doctor's, much to his upset.  She giggled and clung to his neck, closing her eyes, reveling in being near her friend again.  He dropped her to the ground, kissing her firmly on the mouth before releasing her, making her giggle.  "Let me look at you," he said, squeezing her waist.

"Look the same as I did before, Jack," she rolled her eyes at him, even though she had sorely missed his teasing and happy personality.

"No, you've got a better haircut now," he tweaked her ear and turned to the Doctor.  "And a better date.  Hi, Doc."

Even the Doctor couldn't resist smiling at seeing his old friend.  The two men shook hands and the Doctor nodded.  "Hello, Jack.  It's good to see you."

The two of them shook hands, Jack beaming wildly.  He clapped his hands together once he pulled away. "Alright, we're just getting ready to eat, and I assumed somebody would be showing up, just knowing how you are and how Rose is.  There's plenty to eat."

Rose hopped a little in place, and Jack ushered them in, taking their coats and sending them off to the table.  The table was not occupied by Jack's family, but instead by plenty of his friends, men and women, alien and human.  It was a large table, and Rose was instantly accepted into the fold.  The Doctor was already well known in most circles, and the two of them found seats next to each other as Jack took the head of the table.

"Now," Jack addressed everyone at the table after everyone started settling down.  "All of you say something you're thankful for, and then we'll eat all this stuff."

The people at the table all chuckled at Jack's frankness.  All of them, whom the Doctor had assumed would be superficial people, said they were thankful for people, or love, or something else with so much depth that it surprised the Doctor.  Maybe people weren't be judged on their time and place, and 51st Century people were not as shallow as he had previously thought.  

It was the Doctor's turn all too quickly, and he found that he didn't have to think very hard about what he was thankful for. He reached over and took Rose's hand under the table.  She gave him a surprised look as he met her gaze.  He smiled softly.  "I'm thankful that I have Rose Tyler with me."

The smile that lit her face could've set any Christmas tree ablaze.  "I'm thankful the Doctor came back to ask me to come with him a second time."

The two of them sat, grinning like idiots for a moment, before Jack cut in.  "That's so sweet," he drawled, though he really was very pleased that the two of them were being so affectionate with each other.  "I'm thankful for all of you spending the holiday with me.  Go ahead, everyone, eat up!"

Reluctantly, the Doctor relinquished Rose's hand to eat the very classic Thanksgiving dinner that had been put together.  Soon, everyone at the table was talking like they had been friends for years, including Rose, who told stories about their adventures, and everyone stopped only when dinner and dessert were eaten and somebody let out a cry of delight.

"It's snowing!"

Rose practically burst out of the house with everyone else, wanting to see the snow that wasn't ash, and she stood with the rest of the guests in the middle of the street, coat forgone to feel every bit of the moment, no matter how cold.  

The Doctor followed her at a slower pace, unable to keep from watching her.  Her cheeks were pink and her eyes alight with excitement.  She had just finished spinning with one of the women they'd eaten with and had her arms outstretched into the flurry.  Pretty much unable to stop himself, he went to her and caught her hands before pulling her into a waltz through the street.  

He hummed loudly to her and, catching the tune, she picked it up, and they were doing very well until they started giggling, and she tipped her head forward onto his chest.  She could feel him laughing, and almost protested his release of her before his hands came up to cup her cheeks and tilted her head so she could look at him in the face.  He stroked her cheeks with his thumbs and gazed down at her, his eyes more open then she'd ever seen them.

"I meant it," he said, "I don't know what I'd do without you. I am... Very thankful for you, Rose Tyler."

"Me too," She said softly, her hands slowly lifting to grip his jacket at the waist.  

Without saying anything else, he lowered himself to kiss her.  They wrapped their arms around each other, holding against the cold.  After several perfect seconds, they broke apart slowly, their foreheads pressed together before she leaned back in to kiss him again, this time, tangling her hands in his hair.  He pulled her closer against him, daring himself to open his mouth against hers.  She squeezed her eyes shut tighter and held him closer, curling her fingers and wishing the moment would never end.

Unfortunately, it did, because she had to breathe, but she pulled him into a hug instead, needing to have him close.  

"Stay with me?"

"Course.  Forever."

"Well, it's about time, honestly," Jack said as he approached them, his arms crossed, but a huge smile on his face.  "They might as well get married now."

Neither the Doctor and Rose heard.  They were far too busy holding each other.

[rfsak2]

Cactus, Part Ia

I feel like this needed something more on the front end… like the beginning is super rushed. So I have devised a patch as it were… plus I needed some more Jamaica!Harry Hopefully you like it.

Cactus, Part Ia Summary: Here. Harry/Jamie Warnings: Nothing explicit.

“Good morning!”

She groaned, face against the table. “No, it isn’t. Don’t lie. Lying is not nice.”

He grinned. “Not a mornin’ person, love?”

She turned her head and glared at him, pretty blue eyes narrowed, before lifting herself off the tabletop just enough to sip silently at her tea. “Figures that you’d be a morning person.”

“It’s half-ten, love. I’m not sure it’s morning anymore.”

“But it’s the weekend! It’s morning until like 3 o’clock on the weekends.”

“Fair enough.” He pulled the chair out next to her, grinning as he sipped on his coffee. “Are you the kind of not-morning person that has no filter? Like if we play twenty questions, will you answer all of mine without really thinkin’ about them?”

“No.. I don’t think so.” She fought a smile off of her face. “I think I’m just angry in the morning.”

“Shame, that. Can we play anyways?”

She shrugged and sipped her tea. “Shoot.”

“Favorite color?”

“I pretty sure I can hear the ‘u’ in color when you speak.”

He chuckled. “Your accent isn’t what I expected if I’m honest.”

She smiled. “You can admit it. You expected me to sound like a cowboy, didn’t you? Shame on you for assumin’.”

“I admit it, I do.” He grinned. “Favorite color?”

“Green. Yours?”

“Pink.” He sipped at his coffee.

“Favorite song of all time?”

She grimaced. “Ooh… That’s hard. To play or to listen to?”

“Either… both?”

“Shit.” She curled one leg underneath her and he glimpsed a tattoo on her calf. “To play is easily Voodoo Child but honestly anything by Jimi Hendrix is fun to play. As shocking as it is… Metallica has some really difficult songs to play, so that’s fun.”

He chuckled. “That’s how you define fun to play? That is difficult?”

“Challenging.” She sipped her tea and made a face. “I let it get cold.”

She made to stand but he nabbed her cup and his. “I’ll get it. Milk and sugar?”

“Just milk.”

“I’m still listenin’!”

She laughed. “To listen to… Shit.”

“Favorite band then?”

She huffed. “That doesn’t make it easier.” He set her new tea in front to her, laughing. “Thank you.”

“No problem. So favorite band?”

“Janis Joplin, maybe? Jimi Hendrix? I also like the Eagles and the Mamas and Papas… I’m sure I’m missing something.”

He grinned. “So the 60s then? You like the 60s.”

“I do, I do.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing better than driving through the desert with the top down with Hotel California blaring.”

“Fair enough.”

“Now you have to answer.” She sipped her tea. “If you’re gonna ask hard questions, you gotta answer them too.”

“I like to play Bob Dylan.” He smiled. “I also like to cover songs that were never meant to be played on a guitar.”

“Good choices. Bob Dylan is a good one and who doesn’t love watching someone on an acoustic belt out Get Low?” She grinned. “It’s literally the best thing ever. I bow before someone who can sing ‘the sweat drops down these balls’ with a straight face.”

He laughed. “Right. OK. To listen to… I love Fleetwood Mac, the Stones and the Beatles, Bowie, everyone you said. Honestly I just love music.”

She smiled. “Did you always want to do music? Growing up, I mean?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m not sure I thought it was possible but I definitely wanted it. You?”

“Yeah, music was the only thing I ever really cared about.” She sipped her tea. “I didn’t play a sport or act or dance or anything like that, all I wanted was to make music.”

“Why music?”

“Meaning?”

He shrugged. “What was it about music that made you choose to dedicate your life to it?”

“I’m not sure it was a choice. It made sense to me when a lot didn’t.” She sipped her tea. “You?”

“Music was all I wanted. I think I enjoy making people feel the way I feel when I listen to good music.”

She smiled. “Which is?”

“Happy, I guess?” He may have been blushing, but she ignored it so he did too. “Safe, accepted?”

“Hmm.. that’s good. Pretty deep.” She smiled so he didn’t think she was being sarcastic and sipped her tea.

He shrugged. “How many tattoos do you have and where?”

“I’m up to ten maybe?”

Harry nodded. “But you like to go big.”

“I have a couple small ones.” She giggled. “But that’s the by-product of your brother doing all your tattoos, I guess.”

“Where are they? C’mon love, show me what ya got.”

She grinned. “Okie dokie. You’ve seen my lovely sleeve.” She held her arm out like she was modelling a product of some sort. “We’ve a lovely assortment of flowers for your viewing pleasure. I have a cactus, to remind me of home, some maple leaves because Ryan is a ginger and he reminds me of fall.” He snickered and she smiled. “I have an aloe plant on the underside somewhere because my brother Freddy is spiky, but soft and soothing on the inside. Bluebells for my brother Leo, some thyme for my brother Dante because I’ve known him forever. Also dogwood, for Jorge because I read somewhere that it used to symbolize stability. And then there’s a lot of filler.”

He laughed and traced his finger over the flower closest to her wrist. “What else?”

She turned her other arm toward him. On the underside of her bicep, there was a skull in brilliant color, elaborately decorated. “My sugar skull.”

“Sick.” He grinned. “I hadn’t seen that one.”

She pulled at the neckline of her shirt. “I have ‘this too shall pass’ along my collarbone. I think this one is probably my smallest tattoo.” She stood and he sat back to keep his eyes on her face. “I have a guitar along my left ribcage.” She lifted her shirt and he hummed appreciatively.

“It’s beautiful. How long did yeh sit for? It’s massive.”

She nodded. “A four hour and a three hour sitting.”

“Jesus.” He grimaced. “That hurt.”

She laughed. “It hurt like hell. I couldn’t stand up straight for a day after each sitting.”

He tapped her belly button ring. “Cute.”

“Thanks. I have a Texas with some yellow roses on this side and a stained-glass window above that.”

“Yellow Rose of Texas. Nice.” He smiled. “You like color.”

She nodded. “Yeah I do. I have an angel on this thigh, a rock on the other calf.” She twisted so he could see each.

“Why a rock? I mean it’s a very pretty, mossy rock, but why?”

“For my dad.” She smiled and toed off her sneaker and her sock on her right foot. “And a t-rex on this foot, cause I like dinosaurs.” Then she sat and, blushing, pulled off her other shoe and sock. “I also, embarrassingly, have ‘made for walking’ on the bottom of this foot.”

He laughed. “Why?”

“I lost a bet against my brother Dante and never let it be said that a Schwartz welched on a bet.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “That’s what my dad said when I tried to use him to get out of it.”

He fell back against his seat in a fit of giggles. “What was the bet?”

“That I wouldn’t climb a water tower. Come to find out, not only am I terrified of disappointing authority figures but also heights. Like ‘got half-way up the tower, had to be coaxed down by the Bexar County sheriff who found us then spent the next five minutes vomiting’ terrified.”

“Oh no!”

“Yeah… So not only did I have to get a stupid tattoo, I had to deal with the look of disappointed shock on my father’s face when the sheriff brought us home and my brother’s silent disapproval when I told him that I wanted it.” She laughed. “Fun times. Your turn. Also you have to tell me why you’d tattoo laurels on your stomach, pointing directly to your dick. That’s the first thing you need to explain.”

He grinned. “Yeah. I’m not sure I have a satisfactory explanation for that when you put it that way. Aside from I’d thought it’d look cool.”

“I mean it is cool and it’s hot, don’t really know why, but it is. I just need an explanation.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Thank you for your honesty.”

**

She laid out her beach towel and laid back, ready to simply relax out in the sunshine, maybe read a book. Harry walked over to her and whipped his t-shirt off, a cocky smirk on his face.

“Help wit’ m’sunscreen, love?”

She laughed and nodded. “Cliché much?”

He grinned and passed her the bottle. “Yeh’ll still help though? I’m available to help yeh as well, ‘course.”

She patted the towel in front of her. “Oh I just bet you are.”

He sat in front of her and she set to rubbing sunscreen onto his shoulders.

“Tit for tat, y’know.” He was looking over her shoulder at her when his eyes drifted down below her clavicle.

She snorted, pressing her forehead against his back. “You’re so bad.”

He chuckled. “I like yer swimsuit, by t’way.”

“I like yours too. Yellow suits you.”

He beamed over his shoulder at her. “Thank you, beautiful.”

When she had done his back and arms, he stood and held a hand out for her. “Oh. D’ya need me to do your chest too?”

He smiled, eyes hot on her. “Wouldn’t want t’get burned, love.”

She accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “Skin cancer is no joke.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “Indeed.”

She knew she was blushing, but the way his eyes lingered on her face, staring more than once at her lips, it was a bit hard to keep one’s composure.

When she had finished, she took a step back. His eyes snapped up to hers from where he looked like he had been trying to make out the shape of her nipples.

“Turn around.” She fought not to shiver, they were in public and this was definitely not the time.

His hands dwarfed her as they slid along her ribcage and, though his arms were plenty long enough, when he gently pulled her closer, she went without argument until she was close enough that she could feel his chest against the back of her head when he breathed.

He pressed his nose against her hair and it all felt too intimate for the simple task they were supposedly achieving. He rubbed sunscreen into the skin of her back then simply reached around her to rub it into her stomach, careful to make sure her tattoos were properly covered.

Wouldn’t do, to let all that color fade.

It felt more like an embrace than it ought and she took a deep, stuttering breath that she was sure he heard.

“Probably shouldn’t do your chest, love.”

His lips were against her ear and this time she did shiver and he grinned against her skin. He held up the bottle in her line of sight and she grabbed it with a frustrated sigh.

“Can I watch though?”

“Fuck you, Styles.”

He laughed. “Oh I wish you would.”

She turned and stuck her tongue out at him. “Flirt.”

He shook his head, looking maybe a little sad. “A man possessed, love.” He saluted and made for the water.

**

“Need help, querido?”

Harry grinned at her. “Can I trust you in the kitchen?”

She shot him side-eye and sniffed contemptuously. “I’ll have you know that my mother is a chef and a restaurateur. I have been well-trained.”

“Oh! Well, excuse me!”

“You are excused.”

He laughed and pointed at a pile of un-chopped vegetables. “I would love some help.”

She grabbed another cutting board and knife. “How do you want it?”

He leaned over and whispered, “Just about any way you’re willing to give it to me.”

“Well, then.” She blushed and knocked her hip against his, smiling, and grabbed a pepper. “I’m going to carve this one into a dinosaur.”

He snickered. “I’m sure that’s fine.”

“So what are we making? Cause dinosaurs may not be appropro.”

He nodded seriously. “Very wise. It’s a stir fry.”

She set to roughly chopping the vegetables. “Okay a panda then.”

“So your mom is a chef?”

Jamie nodded. “She owns four restaurants in San Antonio and is looking to open something up in Austin.”

“Wow…” He made an impressed face. “And your dad does what?”

“He’s a social worker.” She grinned. “My mom likes to tell people that she’s his sugar mama, that she funds his dreams and allows him to save all the children.”

He laughed. “That’s excellent.”

“What do your parents do?”

“My mum is a mum and my dad was in finance.” He cleared the broccoli from his cutting board into a big bowl. “What does que- quer-“

“Querido?”

“Yeah. That.” He nodded, grabbing a carrot. “You called your brother that when you talked to him on the phone. At least, I think you did. What does it mean?”

“I probably called him ‘hermano querido’. In that context, it meant ‘dear’ or ‘cherished’. So ‘dear brother.’” She smiled. “Alone, it’s more like ‘darling’.”

He smiled down at her and dropped a kiss on her head. ���Querido. I like that.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

**

“Havin’ fun, baby?”

“Yeah, it’s been a blast. It’s different process but in the best way.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s really collaborative, I guess?” She shrugged and brought her knees to her chest.

“We’re gonna start the movie, love.”

She turned over her shoulder and smiled at him. “Right. Momma, I gotta go. We’re gonna start a movie.”

“Alright, m’hija, talk to ya later.”

“That yer mum?” She nodded and he motioned for the phone. “Goodnight, Mrs. Schwartz.”

“Dios mio. Your voice is very deep.” She chuckled. “Are you Harry?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled at Jamie. “Your daughter is very talented.”

“Yes, she is. What are you watching?”

“The Proposal.”

“Excellent choice, m’hijo. I’ll let you get to it, then. Good night.”

“Good night.” He passed the phone back with a smile.

She shook her head at him. “Good night, Momma.”

“Good night, baby. Also, he sounds as attractive as he looks. Good God.”

She huffed. “If only you knew.”

“Make out with him for me.”

“What? Mother! That is so weird.”

“Is it?” She chuckled. “Bye, baby.”

“What did she say?”

She played dumb. “Hmm?”

He grinned. “You said ‘Mother!’ like she had said something scandalous.”

She shrugged. “That’s ah… privileged information.”

He made a face, nodding. “Fair enough. Mother-Daughter confidentiality.”

“Indeed.”

He threw his arm over her shoulder and led her back into the house. They settled in, Harry sitting in between her and Mitch and encouraging her to lean against him. She tucked herself into his side, head on his shoulder

Half-way through the movie, Mitch sighed. “I’m exhausted. Goin’ to bed.”

Harry nodded. “Dream of me!”

Mitch chuckled. “Always, bro!”

“Sweet dreams, Mitchy.”

Mitch grinned. “You too, Jamie-Wamie.”

Harry gathered her closer to him and then thought better of it. “Spoon with me?” He grinned down at her, enjoying the way the light from the TV played across her face.

She nodded and stood, allowing him to lay out on the couch, before joining him. Giggling as he cuddled her in as close as possible.

“Yes… this is what I want.” He kissed her shoulder.

She smiled and they lapsed back into silence, watching the rest of the movie, warm and comfortable.

When it had ended, they sat there, either one assuming the other had fallen asleep. She shifted and he tightened his arms around her.

“Are you awake?”

He nodded against her neck. “Have yeh ever been in love?”

She hummed and turned toward him. “I thought I was once, but I’m not so sure.”

He smiled softly and wrapped his arm tighter around her. “Wha’ happened?”

She shrugged. “I dated a guy in Nashville for about a year. One day he just came to me and said, ‘I’m not in love with you.’ And I kinda finished his sentence… like ‘anymore?’ and he just shrugged kinda helplessly. ‘No, I don’t think I ever loved you’.”

He made a face. “Was he cheatin’?”

She shook her head. “No he’s a nice guy, honestly. It was an easy break-up which is partially why I don’t think I ever really loved him. I honestly wasn’t that torn up about the relationship ending. I just couldn’t understand how someone could be in a relationship for that long without some sort of emotion at least. But maybe we were just existing in the same place. I guess I just felt a little unlovable is all.” She shrugged, with a self-deprecating smile. “That sounds horrible.”

“No, it’s not horrible. I can understand that feeling.” He cuddled her closer. “And yeh’re not unlovable, tha’s utter bollocks.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but sadly the facts speak for themselves. I’m not sure there is anything really captivating about me. I’m boring at best.” She tried for a cheeky smile but failed. She couldn’t think of someone who’d been able to coax this much out of her without even trying.

He shook his head. “Bull-shit. Calm and rational, yes, comfortin’ and easy to be around, but definitely not borin’.”

“I can think of a couple failed first dates that would say differently.”

“They’re idiots.” He made a noise deep in his chest, eyes fierce. “They are just assholes who can’t see women as individuals and just treat them like… fuckin’ porn tropes. Yeh are captivatin’, yeh are beautiful and yeh are so easy to love. Yeh light up any room y’enter, really yeh do. I’m honestly finding myself dreadin’ goin’ back to LA, because this is the most fun I’ve eva had recordin’.”

“Thank you. This has easily been my favorite recording session I’ve ever done.” She shifted closer to him. “And what do you mean you ‘understand the feeling?’ You’re Harry Bloody Styles.”

He smiled slightly, more an ironic quirk of his lip then an actual smile. “It’s not that easy to fall in love with me.”

Her brow furrowed and she shook her head. “No, it really is.”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s all media bull-shit, not reality.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, frowning down at him. “That’s not what I’m talking about. Like at all. I’m not talking about the swaggering Gucci-whore they make you out to be. I don’t know that person.” She leaned closer. “I don’t know how anyone with two brain cells that rub together occasionally can buy that shit. I’m talkin’ about the person I met here, who is sweet and kind and genuine. Who can rock a Hawaiian shirt and unironically enjoy all the weird stuff you like. The man who told me that he wanted to make music to make others happy, not to make money or make a name or even to express some higher meaning, but because he genuinely wants to make other people happy. That’s who I know and I am telling you it is very easy to fall in love with that man.”

He traced his eyes over her face, smiling quietly. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers lost in a cloud of tangled blonde curls. He was leaning in, eyes on her lips and intent but he stopped a hair’s breadth from her lips.

She swallowed and huffed out a short laugh. “Are you going to kiss me?”

“Should I?”

She sucked in a breath and shrugged. “I dunno. Should you?”

“I want te,” he breathed out, “God, I fuckin’ want te. Yeh’re so bloody beautiful.”

“Then please…”

He grinned and leaned forward, connecting their lips. She sighed, smiling against his mouth, and her fingers combed through his hair as he pulled her into his chest.

He wanted this to be slow, to savor her and this gift she was giving him. He didn’t want to rush, to make her feel caged in. He wanted her to understand, to get what he’d been trying to tell her earlier, what he’d been trying to convey since the first time he laid eyes on her, sipping tea out a cactus mug she took everywhere, and since he realized that he wanted to impress her, that he wanted her to be proud of their work here.

Proud of him.

But he got caught up. The taste of her mouth, she’d been sipping on tea since dinner, some fruity, iced concoction that lingered on her tongue, and it made this all seem surreal, now she tasted as sweet as he knew her to be and he almost laughed.

She shifted and he could feel her breasts against his chest, could feel the way her small hands clutched at him, dragging through her hair or massaging his shoulder. She gasped into his mouth and pressed her hips against his and suddenly, he was hovering over her, groaning into her mouth, one thigh between hers as he pressed everything he could against her, seeking as much contact as possible.

She slipped one hand under his shirt, nails that he knew to be painted bright yellow biting into his side, and he arched against her, grinding his hips into hers.

She pulled away gasping and he angled her head back, hand still in her hair, as he mouthed along her jaw, just sane enough to not mark her, to not give her something to explain tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

He pulled away and smiled down at her, while she tried to catch her breath. “Sorry, I went a bit mad.”

She chuckled. “No, it was fine. I was with you there.”

He kissed her again, chaste but lingering. “We should head to bed.”

She nodded. “To.. to sleep, yeah? Because having sex would probably not be a good idea.”

He nodded and sat up. “I agree. Not here.”

“Yeah, not here.”

Part I Up Next: Part II

[taytayize123]

Lost Country Heart

Lost Country Heart “Another vice, another call, another bed I shouldn't have crawled out of” Living in a small town has it’s perks, but it can also be very lonely. In my case, I don’t blend in with what's normal, meaning that people think there’s got to be something wrong with me when I’ve always been a little lost in life. My name’s Taylor, and I live in Owensboro, Kentucky. I’m a southern girl through and through, it runs deep in my blood. I don't have blonde hair, tanned legs, or a cute, little, petite frame, meaning I don't look like the girl country singers describe in their songs. When I look in the mirror, I see long, chocolate brown hair that develops natural blonde highlights in the summer, ever changing blue eyes that range from an icy clear blue, or a darker midnight blue, and pale pink lips that somehow always end up in a pout that curves into a smile. Growing up hasn’t always been easy for me. I have gone through a lot of emotional heartache that a child, or young adult, shouldn’t have to go through. For the longest time, I wondered if  anyone cared about how their actions affected me.  In my family, I have a wonderful mother who is one of my idols because she always taught me that no matter what, I need to use my voice and follow my dreams whatever they may entail. My dad is a very hardworking man: a real “keep working hard and you will receive great things in life” type of guy. He lives for his family and wife, which is something I have always admired since I was a little girl. I also have an older sister named Keala that’s eight years older than me. She’s strong willed, yet has a very caring heart. I have a backbone and I'm not scared of standing up to anyone because of that woman. I thank her for that every single day. When I was eleven, I really began to doubt I was good enough. I found out my sister was pregnant by her college boyfriend. It shocked me, because I knew the dreams she had of going to fashion design school. Sadly, these dreams were put on hold. Having to adjust to not being the “baby” in the family and everyone fawning over the new “bundle of joy” made me feel so insignificant, lonely, and uncared for. Six months after Keala had my nephew, my grandfather died from colon cancer. It ended up throwing me into this overwhelming sadness that felt like I was being swallowed up by a dark force that I couldn’t escape from. My saving grace was music; all different kinds ranging from R&B soul stuff to Rock n Roll and Country. I began singing at the age of fourteen in my school’s choir. For my audition,I choose to sing At Last by Etta James. I planted my feet like a tree trunk, gripped the microphone with my left hand so tight my knuckles turned white, and began singing with my eyes shut tightly. Once I finished, I opened my eyes to see my whole choir class cheering and clapping for me. Ever since, I just couldn’t stop. I remember when my teacher told me that I needed to sing and let my voice be heard. I decided that it wasn’t a choice: I had to let it out. When I started High School, I was so uncool and I had an awkward phase. I was sure no guy would ever notice me, and I was right up until my Sophomore year. I came back from summer vacation a totally different person. I had lost a little weight, learned how to dress properly, and actually did my hair and makeup. I finally had developed some major confidence, which is how I met my first boyfriend. His name was Sawyer and he was the quarterback of the football team. He was an all-American boy: he loved football, going muddin (driving big trucks through the mud), and sipping on a ice cold Bud Light. Seven months of dating floats by, when I found out he had been “hooking up” with another girl. I was beyond pissed. I jogged to my car so I didn’t cry at school.  On my way to the car, I passed a sign that read; “End Of The Year Talent Show May 25th!”. Instead of crying about Sawyer, I decided to have a little fun. In turn, I entered the show. The night of the show came and everyone in school showed up, including my family, my friends, and, of course, Sawyer. I peeked behind the curtain, feeling someone tap on my shoulder, telling me it’s time for me to go on. I walked on stage, grabbed the mic stand as the music starts. “Right now, he’s probably slow dancing with a bleach blonde tramp, Right now he’s ordering her some fruity little drink because she can’t shoot a whiskey, standing up behind her showing her how to shoot a combo.” Oh yes, I sang Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood to a full auditorium of people, including that cheating asshole of a boy. He then he proceeded to fast walk out of the place by the time I sang the last note. I showed him not to mess with me every again! After graduating, I choose to move out to Nashville to try my luck at becoming a professional singer. I used all the money I saved up working at this little diner in town. I got in my car and started the drive to my new home state, hoping that I could actually make a name for myself. When I got there, I  got myself a nice little apartment right next to the bars and clubs were where I had gigs around town almost every night. I got a job at a place called Honky Tonk Central. It was a huge, loud, and boisterous club that’s known for great live music. I worked as a bartender, until, one night, a nice looking gentleman walked over to the bar where I was pouring drinks. He noticed I happened to be singing along to She Talks To Angels by The Black Crowes ,which spilled through the big speakers above the bar. The man approached me, saying, “Hey, I heard you singing. I like your voice a lot, would you be interested in an opening slot on Friday night at the Bluebird Cafe?” I couldn’t believe what this man was saying. I was shocked, but beyond excited for this opportunity. The whole rest of the week, I was beyond nervous, trying to figure out what my set list was gonna look like, what outfit I’d wear, and praying to every musical god I have ever looked up to in life that this showcase was going to be a hit. Friday night came before I knew it. I showed up to the Bluebird, wearing a light-wash pair of skinny jeans, a white cotton 70’s inspired blouse, and a pair of cowboy boots. I also had my lucky diamond studs that were given to me by my grandmother just before she passed away. I knew she was there with me in spirit. I got up on stage, beginning my set for the night. I had chosen songs I personally like to listen to. They included Vice by Miranda Lambert, I’d Rather Go Blind by Etta James, Hard To Handle by The Black Crowes, and, to end my set, Piece Of My Heart by Janis Joplin. The last few lines of Piece Of My Heart flowed out of my mouth and the place enraptured into fits of cheering. I even received a standing ovation. I felt like I had won the lottery because all different kinds of greats in music have played at the Bluebird Cafe, and I had just played there too. I decided to go get a drink afterwards. While I sat down on the stool, the guitar player of the house band sat next to me, striking up a conversation. His name was Mason, he had chestnut brown hair and it wasn’t short or long but just enough to run your fingers through. He also had fluorescent green eyes, paired with a sweet smile. I ordered us two Bourbons on the rocks as we chatted about our musical influences, where we grew up, and how important the art of songwriting really is in this decade. One two many bourbons and whiskey shots later, we stumbled out of the club, arms latched onto each other. Mason was leading us to his place, which happened to be just down the street and around the corner. Once, we got there, he pushed me up against the wall as our lips interlocked together, my hands running through his soft hair as his hands ran down my waist to my butt, giving it a squeeze. I giggled, involuntarily breaking our kiss. I suggest we go to the bedroom. He takes my hand, walking me to his room, telling me to lay on the bed. I sit, kicking off my boots as he does the same. I lay down on the bed as I watched him begin to light candles and walk over to the record player. He picks out a record, placing the needle down. I smile when I hear the words of the song Miss You, by The Rolling Stones. This man was sure making the mood perfect. Crawling into bed, he quickly met my lips, beginning to make out. I pulled away, letting him remove my blouse as I took his white button down off, revealing his toned abs. Smiling, I watched his eyes widen as he noticed my ample cleavage displayed before him, earning a sexy smirk from him. He then takes off his jeans showing off a nicely sized package, causing my mouth to curve into an ‘o’ shape, persuading me to wiggle out of my jeans. I remove my bra, freeing my breasts. Mason removes his boxer briefs,  hooking his thumbs into my panties to slowly pull them down. We each spend some time pleasuring each other in many different ways, but the moment that he pushed himself inside me had me gasping for air. Moans slipped through both of our mouths, some of which were his name as well as profanities. I couldn’t believe that this man was making me feel this good. We fell asleep after making love for a few hours, listening to each others heartbeats becoming one cohesive beat. I wake up from sunlight that’s twinkling through his curtains, turning to my right to see this beautiful man sleeping next to me. His tanned skin lying upon my pale skin was a sight I never wanted to forget. I leaned off my side of the bed to reach into my bag for my phone, noticing I have a missed call from the guy who gave me the opening slot at the Bluebird Cafe. While I quietly tip toed into the bathroom, I called him back. He explains that the country musician, Frankie Ballard, needs an opening artist for his tour and he thinks I’d be perfect match for the gig. I accepted, learning that I leave tonight at 6pm. I walk back into the bedroom, picking up my things and writing a note on the pillow explaining everything, hoping he understood that I had to take this job. I left to go home to pack for the tour, and as 6pm rolls around, I board Frankie’s bus, wishing that I get a call from Mason. What a night!

[itsfinancethings]

October 26, 2019 at 07:00AM

On September 30, 1970, a reporter asked Janis Joplin to explain her fearless sexuality. “It seems to bother a lot of women’s lib people that you’re kind of so upfront sexually,” Village Voice writer Howard Smith told her. Joplin, by then accustomed to such criticism, responded: “I’m representing everything they said they want.… It’s sort of like: you are what you settle for.… You’re only as much as you settle for. If you don’t settle for that and you keep fighting it, you know, you’ll end up anything you want to be… I’m just doing what I wanted to and what feels right and not settling for bullshit and it worked. How can they be mad at that?”

Janis made it sound as if fighting the urge to settle was the most natural thing to her. But deep down inside there had always been the yearning for doing exactly that: getting the house, the white picket fence and the husband. They had been the middle-class hopes of her mother, Dorothy, who herself had fought hard for a life of stability in 1950s Port Arthur, Texas. Janis, her mother’s daughter, was often tormented about leaving that white picket fence behind. “I keep pushing so hard the dream/I keep tryin’ to make it right/Through another lonely day,” she sang in “Kozmic Blues.”

She was born a misfit—a tomboy, a painter, a girl who didn’t accept arbitrary boundaries, a girl with a big voice—but she never stopped wanting to belong. That’s why, years later at the age of 25, it had been so daring of her to leave behind the band that had launched her, Big Brother and the Holding Company. She had joined the group in San Francisco in June 1966 and two months later they were bunking communally in Marin County. Despite technical shortcomings as musicians, they were a dynamic live band with a solid following, and they correctly saw in Janis the element that would elevate them to status similar to their Haight-Ashbury scene-mates Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. Sure enough, Big Brother and the Holding Company broke big in June 1967 at the Monterey Pop Festival, signing with Dylan’s manager Albert Grossman, who secured a lucrative deal for them with Columbia Records.

But Joplin was beginning to feel again that part of her that would not settle. Her ambition ratcheted up. She looked more to her heroes Nina Simone and Etta James. Rather than shriek over Big Brother’s blaring psychedelic “freak rock,” Joplin longed to work her voice with more nuance, and explore soul and other musical genres; she envisioned keyboards, a horn section, more sophisticated tunes. In remarkable letters she wrote her parents, she explained, “I have to find the best musicians in the world & get together & work. There’ll be a whole lot of pressure because of the ‘vibes’ created by my leaving Big Brother & also by just how big I am now. So we’ve got to be just super when we start playing—but we will be.” To New York Times reporter Michael Lydon, she admitted: “I’m scared. I think, ‘It’s so close. Can I make it?’ If I fail, I’ll fail in front of the whole world. If I miss, I’ll never have a second chance on nothing. But I gotta risk it. I never hold back…” Anyone who really knew her would not have been surprised by her leap of faith. As a roughhousing tomboy in Port Arthur, she’d exhibited a fierce will not unlike that of her father, Seth, who led a double life as a Texaco engineer by day, and a cerebral bookworm and atheist by night. He and Dorothy adored their daughter, but their showdowns were legend—Janis refusing to do what she was told, damn the consequences. With adolescence came compulsive risk-taking; she was the female “mascot” among a group of outlier intellectual boys, a role that helped set a bold Joplin in motion.

Unlike her father, Joplin would not hide her defiance. She vocally opposed segregation in her high school, which made her a target of bullies and racists. She sought out the hard-to-find music of Lead Belly and Bessie Smith, sneaking out to juke joints with boys, and was accused of sleeping with her male companions. At 17, after a midnight ramble in New Orleans, she crashed her father’s car. She would soothe the shame with alcohol, the first drug on which she became dependent. And then she’d do it all again.

Joplin found temporary solace in traveling, which she’d been introduced to by Kerouac’s On the Road, a game-changer for her. Her first taste of freedom came at 19, when she briefly lived like a beatnik in Venice Beach, California, then hitchhiked alone to San Francisco, before hightailing it back to Texas. She soon cultivated an ardent following of fellow college students in Austin, who clamored to hear her sing blues, country, and folk with her first group, the Waller Creek Boys.

Forever restless, Joplin hitchhiked for the second time to San Francisco the day after her 20th birthday in 1963. Already writing songs and accompanying herself on an autoharp, she floored audiences in the Bay Area, gaining confidence and vocal skill, gig by gig. But after spending the summer of ’64 in New York’s Lower East Side, where she learned to play 12-string guitar, Joplin became addicted to methamphetamines. She returned to Port Arthur yet again, sobered up at the Joplin homestead, and attempted to renounce her life as an artist. But she could not resist opportunities to perform in Houston and Austin clubs, where her voice manifested ever more powerfully, an uncorked siren calling her away from the life of dutiful commuter student and sociology major at Beaumont’s Lamar Tech. At age 23, after sharing a bill in Austin with the 13th Floor Elevators, she split town for Haight-Ashbury yet again. When she wrote her parents to give them her whereabouts, she promised to stay clean.

In just over a year, she achieved much of what she thought she wanted, but chafed at the constraints of Big Brother. As she turned to heroin to soften anxiety and fears of rejection, her urge to rebel—even within the parameters of the counterculture—could not be reined in. “I’ve been doing it for 26 years,” she told the New York Times in 1969, conflating her age and her lifelong iconoclasm, “and all the people who were trying to compromise me are now coming to me, man. You better not compromise yourself, it’s all you got.… I’m a goddamn living example of that…. People aren’t supposed to be like me, sing like me, make out like me, drink like me, live like me, but now they’re paying me $50,000 a year for me to be like me. That’s what I hope I mean to those kids out there… that they can be themselves and win. You just have to start thinking that way, being that righteous with yourself, and you’ve won already.”

Joplin’s great champion Ellen Willis, a rare female rock critic of the era, worried for post-Big Brother Janis in the pages of The New Yorker. “Did Big Brother perhaps give her more than we realized?” she wrote. As often happens with performers, Joplin had to learn in public, so the initial answer to this question was a resounding maybe. Only three months after assembling her back-up players, Joplin was still finding her way, which showed in her two-night stand at New York’s Fillmore East. Joplin didn’t fall back on her usual over-the-top performance techniques, but modulated herself, doing the “kind of things that milk you rather than hammer you,” she said. Willis was one of the few critics who seemed to get it.

Rolling Stone’s Paul Nelson resolutely panned the shows, describing Joplin as “The Judy Garland of Rock” who “strangled the songs to death.” Six weeks later, when she performed back in San Francisco at Bill Graham’s Winterland, her “people” did not call for an encore—a first on her own turf. Afterwards in the dressing room, journalist John Bowers noted, “She is pale, as if in shock, saying, ‘San Francisco’s changed, man. Where are my people? They used to be so wild. I know I sang well! I know I did!’” One of her earliest fans, esteemed jazz critic Ralph J. Gleason, advised her in his San Francisco Chronicle column to “scrap this band and go right back to being a member of Big Brother if they’ll have her.”

Hurt but undaunted, Joplin continued to pursue her musical vision. She recorded her debut solo album, I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama!, its title alluding to a persistent existential dread her father had called “the Saturday night swindle.” She’d written new songs including “One Good Man,” a Bessie Smith blues update. Other material ranged from her adaptation of the Chantels’ “Maybe,” a favorite from her teen years, and Rodgers and Hart’s “Little Girl Blue,” inspired by the 1959 Nina Simone recording of the song. (Simone would later applaud Joplin’s version.)

The album debuted on Billboard on October 11, 1969, remained there for 28 weeks and gradually moved up to #5. Joplin’s aching original “Kozmic Blues” just missed the Top 40, hitting #41. Reviews were lukewarm, with Joplin, again, being taken to task—by male critics—for being “bent on becoming Aretha Franklin” and dumping Big Brother. An exception was an insightful Village Voice piece by Johanna Schier (later Johanna Hall, coauthor of the Pearl track, “Half Moon”), who wrote that Joplin “was singing stronger and better… The top of her range is more solid and her vocal control is maturing… She breaks through into greatness by anyone’s standards.” Backed by her Kozmic Blues Band, she would play the biggest venues of her career to date, including a sold-out concert on December 19 at Madison Square Garden.

Bettmann ArchiveJanis Joplin and her final group, the Full Tilt Boogie Band, perform at the Festival for Peace at Shea Stadium in August 1970.

The first year of her brief solo flight, Joplin headlined Woodstock, performing an hour-long set in the middle of the night, singing until her voice gave out. She made her debut on The Ed Sullivan Show and The Dick Cavett Show, appeared on the cover of Newsweek (the cover line: “The Rebirth of the Blues”), and toured Europe for the first time, a series of concerts garnering rapturous responses. At London’s Royal Albert Hall, she’d even managed to roust a sold-out, normally staid audience from their seats.

Joplin remained peripatetic, musically speaking, and driven. She’d learned to play and sing Kris Kristofferson’s “Me and Bobby McGee,” and the song opened new doors. Joplin sought a smaller, rootsier-sounding unit to bring it, and other material, to life. She would christen this group Full Tilt Boogie. With them, she would mature as a bandleader and co-producer of her recorded output, all gloriously evident on her final album, Pearl, and in footage of Joplin and Full Tilt Boogie’s live performances. Following her death during the Pearl sessions, on October 4, 1970, “Me and Bobby McGee” topped the charts for two weeks, and Pearl became the most commercially successful album of her career. Despite her kozmic blues and the critics’ initial discouragement, Joplin, of course, had refused to settle for anything less than traveling the road her music took her.

[thetravelling1]

T+8: The Lord was busy.

It was always part of the plan that I buy a car once I arrived, to greater facilitate touring - both to get to interviews, and to explore the country. This last week on foot (and with public transport) has been fine, but I’ve been overly dependent on the kindness of strangers (3/3 meetups I managed to cadge a lift back home) and the weather not being shit. Spoiler: It’s winter here.

So, when at the first meetup on Monday, Marty volunteered that he had a car or two available, it felt like fate. I had great success buying my last car off a friend (Thanks Khaleda - Nemo was awesome), and repeating that process would be great. The price was right - $1800 - and it seemed to do everything I wanted. The milometer was a bit high (241000) until I realised that that was kilometers!

The problem was that today when I did the online Vehicle Inspection Report, there was a claim of outstanding debt secured against the car. This created a flurry of activity between Marty and I - and to his credit, it all looks like it’s an administrative error on the part of an ex-owner’s finance company; by the end of the day, it looks like it’s going to get cleared.

However, in the interim period I had done some googling, based on the recommendation of my Landlady - she had used Turners Car Auctions before, and vouched for the process. The whole thing makes my spider sense twitch - there seemed like lots of ways it could theoretically bite me on the ass - but it piqued my curiosity sufficiently that I felt like I had to go, to see what was up.

I’d used their search engine to determine the 24 cars available for under $4k (not a hard limit for me, but I’d want to see a real stonker of a car to push above this!). Then I went through each of their Vehicle Condition Guides to determine the cars with actual faults. I’m no good with cars, so was happy to forsake a real potential bargain to instead see a car with nothing obviously wrong with it.

As I walked into the auction hall, nobody seemed to be that actively selling anything - the cars available for auction were dotted around a warehouse of cars not available for auction! It took a good 20 minutes before anybody pointed out that the Lot Numbers coincided with Parking Spaces only Some Of The Time, and I needed the Prospectus to determine where the cars actually were - and then another 20 minutes before anybody drew me a map detailing how the cars outside were parked (nobody was going to show me on account of the rain).

I did manage to look at all the cars available, cross off a few that looked manky and for the rest, work out my maximum price. I got up to the auction lounge early and strategically placed myself in the back corner of the room, to ensure minimum chance that me scratching my obligatory itch wasn’t taken as a bid. The room of 80 seats filled up with maybe a dozen people. And the auction began.

The cars I was seriously interested in weren’t until the second half of the auction, which gave me a good opportunity to compare predicted prices to actual sale prices. And I noticed a trend - they had trouble getting bids on anything, there wasn’t a lot of competition when bidding, and the final bids were just under 90% of the estimated low bid!

Now’s when a tricky set of thoughts come into my head:

I hadn’t really done enough research - not even looked inside the cars, let alone taken a test drive or had someone qualified look at it

There would be another auction the following week, and I could maybe invite an expert on car buying and do some proper legwork in

They are a professional auction house and had completed a basic checkup of the car - it wouldn’t be legit to sell me a car with “no faults” that I couldn’t drive off the lot

It’s very unlikely that the next auction would suddenly break this pattern, but if it did happen I’d kick myself

Two of the cars I’ve had a bit of an eye on have already been and gone, and sold for significantly less than my maximum price. I didn’t bid on those because they weren’t top of my list (mental note: next time, work out what is!)

They add a fee on to auctions, which tiers based on bid value. If I can win with a bid of less than $2k, I only pay $280 fee instead of $400. Every little helps

I promised myself that I wouldn’t get a rustbucket with an ominous creak again - my next car would be for the long haul. That’s part of commitment. What kind of car is one you can be proud of, and also less than $2k?

So yeah, when the Mercedes Benz A160 (a hatchback) came up and it was predicted to sell at $1500-$2500, I watched with interest. Nobody bid at $1500. The auctioneer started at $1200. I bit. I got outbid at $1400. I could have walked away. I didn’t. I bid $1500, and it stood.

I had just bought a car.

Then the weirdest thought popped into my head. Whenever you see a house on the market for significantly less than you expect, there’s only really one explanation. I wonder if it applied to cars too.

I wonder if there had ever been a murder in my car. 

I mean, probably not, right? That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that happens often. But still... if there had been... how would I know?

I fill in the paperwork and walk home (I hadn’t been told that the car came with 3 days of free insurance; that would have been useful!). I pop into an Irish pub that we’d visited before, and had the same beer and burger deal as we had had the last time. I grin inwardly as I sing Janis Joplin to myself, and find myself unsure whether Mercs are good because they never break or bad because replacement parts are expensive. I remind myself that if it were to break in a month, I’d have change from my original budget to try something else.

Then I get home and check out the cost for insurance. Y’see, I had a small prang (my fault entirely) back in the UK, and was not looking forwards to finding out what that did to my insurance. So I enter my details, and the total cost is... $146. For the year. That’s crazy cheap in UK terms. I may as well throw in a year’s breakdown cover for an extra $30, throw caution to the wind!

I’m still going to take it to a garage tomorrow, once it’s registered in my name and paid for. I’ve still got one eye on the worst case scenario. I just... don’t know where I could find a car exorcist, if that comes to pass.

[lalobalives]

*An essay a week in 2017*

I haven’t been able to write for days. For two long weeks, I haven’t been able to write anything beyond a few sentences. Fragments.

Something is shifting in me. This something is heavy and dark and painful. This something is necessary..but shit, it’s so much when we’re in the shifting.

“…Transformation has some very harrowing phases. This full moon will exaggerate all that gets in the way of the balance we need to strike . This full moon illuminates the truth that balance isn’t static.

“Balance is a constant state of recalibration.” Chani Nicholas: Today’s Full Moon in Libra: Beauty Bound 

Yesterday, on my deck, after hours on my couch, I wrote this:

There is a hole where my words are. In the hole lives grief. Stealth and quiet with the fury of winds that can destroy. Annihilate. It is warm in NYC. I am on my deck smelling and tasting spring. Wondering when these seeds will blossom like those on the tree that peek into my window. Just yesterday they were tight in their buds. Today they are busting green. Aflame like my envy.

My hands cannot grip a pen. Those lines on the page stare. I grab my phone. I finally rise from where my body has made indentations in the cushions. They rise slowly, searching for space to be full.

Me…I miss my brother.

***

Today, I went to The Women Writers of Color group’s final installment of this year’s Breakaway Writing Workshop Series. The featured artist was Yesenia Montilla, who led a generative writing workshop inspired by women writers of color. She had us read poems by Brigit Pegeen Kelly, Aracelis Girmay, Valzhyna Mort, Mary Oliver, Audre Lorde, Laurie Ann Guerrero, and Natalie Diaz. After each poem, she gave us prompts and had us write for ten minutes. It was magical and hard and wrenching and necessary. So fuckin necessary.

***

Yesenia started by talking about duende, the term Lorca is said to have stolen from the gypsies of Spain. Duende is the idea of creating art that comes from darkness, from the ground, from the connection of the bottom of the feet to the earth. It is art created from the body.

Lorca visited Harlem in the turn of the 20th century. That’s where he first heard blues, which he said was the closest thing to duende he’d ever heard.

Yesenia had us hear Kathleen Battle singing “Summertime” at the Met. Then she had us hear the Janis Joplin cover of the same song. 

The idea here is that there are two places an artist pulls from, and Battle and Joplin were examples of both.

Battle pulls from the ethereal. From the heavens. “A voice from God,” Yesenia said. 

Joplin pulls from the soles of her feet. Her voice is gravelly and gritty. She is tapping into her ache.

My discovery: I pull from my feet. From the mother that is earth. I pull from my pain, like Joplin. I listened to her sing as I typed this.

***

I bought a new journal at an art supply store steps away from Pratt where the workshop was held. I bought new pens. Paid $10 for a mechanical pencil. 10 fuckin dollars for a pencil?

I was inviting duende. Calling duende. I know that now.

Truth is I thought I’d left all my pens at home. I chastised myself on the train. If you know me, you know that I only write with the blue Pilot Precise V5. I found it in the fall of my freshman year at Columbia, back in ’93. I’ve been writing with it since. I thought: How can I write without my pen? I sulked. Then I thought: “I’ll find one.” Sure enough I did. Later, I found that I had brought a pen. It was tucked into The Body Keeps the Score, which I’ve been reading slowly and quietly, digesting the mirror it holds up, annotating it heavily.

***

Inspiration: “Song” by Brigit Pegeen Kelly

Prompt: Start writing using the few words of the poem: “Listen: there was…”

Listen: there was a girl lost in the woods lost in the spring the earth just beginning to burst with life… the wet of it a pungent, mossy smell in the girl’s nostrils… she searched for the hawk whose cry she heard loud through the canopy.. She thought she felt the whisper of a wing on her cheek, but when she turned, nothing was there… just trees and brambles and bushes not yet fully green but trying for life… reaching for it…

She walked on, this girl who was lost in the woods… she followed trails that had been made by the feet of souls long gone… they too lost… they too, searching…

She, this lost girl, stayed off the paved paths… she didn’t/doesn’t trust paths laid down by men… she needed to feel the dirty under her feet, she needed to be cut by the thorns that tore at her bare legs…

Listen: this girl who is lost, felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around quickly, “Who’s there?” she yelled. The wind shook the trees. A blossom, only days old and still trying for life, fell at her feet. She picked it up, sniffed its sweetness and walked on…

She came to a river. There, she stripped down to her underwear, and walked into the water. She felt something pull her head back, a soft tugging. “This is a baptism,” she thought, as the water rushed into her ears. She opened her eyes and saw her, blurry, hair dancing in the current. “Hija,” she mouthed, bubbles floating out of her mouth. The girl reached, cried out, “Mamá.” She swallowed water, gagged as she felt a push from the soles of her feet, pushing her body up so she could breathe…

When she came to, she was on the shore. Her dress back on her body. A garland of flowers on her head.

***

Inspiration: “Kingdom Animalia” by Aracelis Girmay

Prompt: How do we imagine loss? How do we process death? Start with a line from the poem: “One day, not today, not now, we will be gone from this earth…”

In the red woods where they took me that first day, when my brother died, I looked up at the trees, their long, hairy trunks… I learned that these trees entangle their roots with one another to keep themselves upright… These giants can’t be giant without other giants…

I think of my brother. I think of the last words he said to me: “You have to go write our stories, sis.”

I think of my second mom Millie, who when I told her on her death bed, “Millie, I think I wanna write a book,” she propped herself up on that arm that was perpetually swollen after the mastectomy, and said: “Pero negra, you’ve always been a writer.”

In some forests, trees keep stumps alive by feeding them sugar through their roots.

One day, I will be gone. I know this… I don’t want to. I think: “What will I leave my daughter?”

What did my brother leave me? Permission.

What did my Millie leave me? Validation.

What will I leave my nena? Stories. Love. The knowledge that I loved her like my mother couldn’t, wouldn’t love me…

I leave her knowing that she will hurt, she will ache, and with that, she can make sancocho that will/ can feed. She must gather her own viandas, herbs and meats to make her own sancocho. Mamá will leave her the broth.

***

Inspiration: “Belarusian I” by Valzhyna Mort

Prompts: This love loved to visit us… -or- I was born with… (An Argentinian poet wrote “I was born with red lipstick on…”)

I was born with sugar on my lips. Crystallized and syrupy, I was born with honey on my lips. But mommy was no bee. Mom was salt and glacier. Mom was too much vinagre in sofrito. Mommy was a love song on Super KQ — one of those corta venas ballads that she scream sang, her head thrown back, the King Pine scent snaking up her legs, underneath her bata… to where I came into the world… This girl who was born with honey on her lips.

But didn’t I tell you Mommy was no bee? She’d swat them away with her heavy, little hands. She’d go to their hives and snatch them out, her skin impervious to their sting. She pulled their wings off and cackled as they cried… scurrying over the earth they were made to fly over.

I am the girl born with honey on her lips to a mother who killed bees… I have spent my life trying to lick that honey off. To banish it from me. An exorcism… But bee killers smell honey from far away. Their sense of smell keen Iike a dog’s. They smell honey and think — kill, think — destroy.

These days I am building a hive for this honey on my lips that I was born with. I watch over it, tending and coddling. This hive. These lips…

***

Inspiration: “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver

Prompt: Think about forgiveness and accepting forgiveness. Who have you not forgiven? Imagine the day you forgive that someone. -or- A blue door appears in the room. You go through it…

(I didn’t want to think about forgiveness. I wanted to stay mad…so, of course, she who I have not forgiven showed up, despite my resistance.)

Blue door beckons and says: “Come.” The words like a growl, teeth clenched and grinding. It calls to me. I should be scared but I’m not. I was born with sugar on my lips, pero that was a front. Honey to hide the growl in my throat, the howl like the sirens that coaxed so many men to their deaths.

Beyond the door is a field, there are flowers of all variety and color, they sway in the soft wind. They are like whispers beneath my bare feet. I’m not surprised when I feel the roots start to tangle around my ankles. They pull at me. They snare. I look down and I see her– the weaver. She who I want to but can’t forgive. I grit my teeth, the siren crawls out of my throat. I want to whirlpool her.

I wonder how that happens — how you can go from loving someone and protecting them to wanting to destroy them. To curling your lips when you speak their name, and so you don’t. That poison doesn’t mix with your honey.

You think of the girl you were who invited betrayal and disloyalty because you didn’t love yourself. Couldn’t. This was before you grew to own that honey. And even now, some days, when the roots wrap around your ankles and pull, the thorns dig in and you begin to bleed, heavy drops beading into the earth. You let your skin be sacrifice. You drip honey into the open wounds. You call your siren back into the flower of your throat.

You look back at the blue door and smile. “Remember,” she whispers back at you. “Remember.”

***

Inspiration: “From the House of Yemanjá” by Audre Lorde

Prompt: Think of mother figures. Think of the gods and goddesses we worship. Write an open letter to him or her.

Diosa,

Mi madre is my alter and my abyss… Why did you give me this mother who could never love me? Was there no other way to teach me these lessons I need to learn in this lifetime? Could the lesson not be gentler?

Don’t answer that. I know.

I am one who learns through trials. I have to drag my body across fire stores, feel their scarring, ripping at my organs. This is the way for us girls born with honey on our lips. Pero, mamá, madre eres, why could you not gift me a mother who could love?

My mother is TNT. She is dynamite. She detonates and erupts. She destroys everything… but me. Me — she couldn’t. Me — I didn’t let her.

My mother whose body knows the claws of rape, who knows the fangs of hunger. My mother who has wished for death since she was 15 — my mother…

I sit like her One knee propped under my chin The other leg tucked underneath. I hum like her, absentmindedly, while I cook and clean and stare off, into nothing. Here, but not. I didn’t know this until I was 40, after having left her house at 13…

I carry my mother under my fingernails  like dirt… This woman who is TNT.

***

Yesenia gave us time to share one piece we’d produced that day. One writer, a beautiful young woman with a hoop in her nose and tattoos on her arms, prefaced her piece with: “This poem is about my mother. All my poems are about my mother.”

And I said “Yasss.” And I felt that shame and anger in my body move and subside…that exhaustion with the altar and abyss that is my mother.

Why the fuck do I always have to write about my mother?

***

I listened to Janis Joplin as I typed this. In the gravel that is her voice, I saw myself, this woman who pulls from her ache in her joints, from the earth, from the soles of her feet…

Today, duende pulled at the siren in my throat. Today, duende grabbed and yanked at my pen. Today I surrendered to duende, and I’m so glad that I did.

Thank you Yesenia Montilla. You be magic, sis. Word.

Relentless Files — Week 66 (#52essays2017 Week 13) *An essay a week in 2017* I haven’t been able to write for days. For two long weeks, I haven’t been able to write anything beyond a few sentences.

[tune-collective]

Thundercat's Style Is As Funky and Out There As His Music: Exclusive

Thundercat's Style Is As Funky and Out There As His Music: Exclusive

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  About 30 minutes into his set at Chicago’s Concord Music Hall, Stephen “Thundercat” Bruner drops both hands from the guitar resting on his chest as his keyboardist and drummer, too, take breaks from their early evening concert. He looks up at the adoring audience who sold out the venue on a frigid Saturday night in the windy city and asks, “You guys feeling good?” Screams, cheers, and applause confirm that they are, in fact, quite well. “That’s tight,” he says. The Los Angeles native is a day removed from releasing his thoughtful, star-studded (Pharrell Williams, Kenny Loggins, Kendrick Lamar) third full-length studio set, Drunk. 

Then he locks back into his music—a smooth, velvet-textured amalgam of jazz, soul, Hip-Hop, and funk partnered with lyrical content fit for both talking head social-political programs and inner-city barbershop dialogue. Each song he performs seemingly gets its own 30-second improvisational period before returning back to the realm of familiarity, stirring the crowd into a frenzy. As he’s bathed in green and blue spotlights, Drunk’s “Them Changes” earns the loudest cheers. He also sprinkles bits of Kendrick Lamar’s “Complexion” and “These Walls,” which he assisted in producing for the rapper’s critically acclaimed To Pimp a Butterfly album. 

In purple camouflage sweatpants, a black tee under a red lumberjack shirt, Thundercat, 32, was having a chill day in comparison to some of the louder pieces he’s been photographed wearing in the past. Wolf hats with ponchos. Blazers that recall Michael Jackson’s vintage regal vibes. Outfits so heavily stylized and exaggerated that they’d make sense on the characters of the ‘80s cartoon heroes he named himself after. He’s rocked it all. Prior to this show, the eccentric artist sat down with Billboard backstage to talk about what inspired Drunk, why Lamar’s verse on this album is special and his generally flamboyant style. 

What journey are you taking this listener on with Drunk? 

I’m observing and reporting what my experience as a musician has been ’til now. It’s such a weird thing to be a musician nowadays. If you’re not in a rock band, music doesn’t exist for a musician. You’re just a “session” musician. Nobody tells you that. So you wind up figuring it out. Somewhere between those lines, there’s this existence where you end up drinking. That goes for everyone that I’ve worked with. It’s part of the business. It’s something to talk about. It’s me telling a story from that perspective. 

I try not to think too hard about music. I like to see where it goes. I try not to give it a direction. I figure out what it is as it’s forming. I don’t have any goal in mind other than to make the best music I can. I always start with the bass [guitar]. Things get added, but it always starts with the bass. 

“Walk On By” has Hall & Oates nods to it musically. Would you say they’ve influenced you? 

Hall & Oates is everything. Fuck everything else. [Laughs] If it’s not Hall & Oates, it’s nothing. They’re a titan duo of songwriting. Being able to convey ideas through song, I had to learn that from different places. The best thing is knowing that there’s somebody out there who doesn’t know who they are, just so you can be like, “Sit your ass down and let me play you this.”  It’s timeless. They’re a major influence on my songwriting. As a bass player, that’s what comes easy to me—the bass playing. The songwriting, I didn’t fully understand what it meant. 

How’d you get comfortable as a vocalist? You essentially didn’t become an active singer until your late 20s. 

I’m looking at people like Beyonce and Trey Songz and Jamie Foxx—people that sing like they’ve got chicken all in their throat. I didn’t know where I was supposed to make sense. I would feel around it a bit. I would sing on other people’s albums, their backgrounds. And I’d ask, “Was it cool?” By the time we got to [sophomore album] Apocalypse, it was a weird moment for me. I was like, “I have to sing?” I had references and different things that made me feel comfortable, like, “I know I can do it.” But I didn’t know to what extent I could. I had to deal with people laughing at me. I had to deal with my friends telling me, “You can’t sing.” 

Really? 

Of course. I’m not going to name any names, but that was the honest criticism. And I could take it. But it wasn’t going to stop me. There was one time when I was in the studio and I’m recording vocals for Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly track, “These Walls”, and a few of my friends had never seen me sing before. I literally had to kick everyone out of the room, because it was weird. Someone told me I had to put Auto-Tune on my voice and I told them, “I am not that guy.” I had to find my comfort zone. Kendrick was comfortable. I usually just sing at home by myself with my bass. It was a process of having to open up. 

[readmore:7709000]

You have a great working relationship with Kendrick and he’s on “Walk on By.” What’s your favorite part of his verse? 

There’s one line where he says, “Immature and retarded is what you call me.” It was one of the things where when he said that, you felt that you understood the inner-workings of what we feel a lot of the time. You have these internal moments where you’re trying to figure it out. And Kendrick always has those moments in his verses where he’s speaking to a guy like me.

On his Unmastered, Untitled album, there’s a line where he asks, “Why you wanna see a good man with a broken heart?” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m thinking, “Yeah, why would that be your goal?” I love his ability to connect with that deeper part through music. And when he laid his verse to “Walk on By,” it immediately became this portrait. I was in shock and awe that he could see it. 

On “The Turn Down,” you sing about how trashed our world has become in different ways. There’s even a Captain Planet line.

That’s really how I feel. “What’s going on? Why can’t we all just see each other?” There’s a lot of amplified bullshit. Infinite, magnified bullshit. And it’s piling up. “Being Black” is always a thing. Even moving the Black thing to the side, two white people can’t even figure this world out. Nobody wants to make sense of the other. Nobody loves each other. Nobody really cares. Is that how this is supposed to happen?

“Show You The Way” features Michael McDonald and Kenny Loggins. Today, people still can still easily hear Michael’s husky soul voice and know it’s weight. But folks sleep on Kenny’s catalog of classics. Why was it important to have him on it? 

Kenny Loggins pours his heart and soul into the music he makes. He’ll take you with him through everything he’s going through, which is not easy. People don’t survive shit like that. We see it all the time. Like a Janis Joplin. Kenny’s still here. My favorite song of his is “Heart to Heart” [featuring and co-written by Michael McDonald]. You can tell he’s talking to someone. It’s too intimate. He takes you to where he’s at. Along with that, the music and the vocals are just jamming. I learned that from Kenny, along with people like Leon Ware. Good lord. 

Leon died yesterday and I know that he was someone you knew and worked with. Drunk’s “Tokyo” is inspired by you touring with him in Japan, right? 

It’s making me sad just thinking about it. You have these moments where you play in somebody’s band and the person leading is smart enough to show you the bigger picture. Leon Ware took me under his wing, man. He invited me into his life. I was a teenager and he took me to Japan for the first time. It was surreal. It was like playing with Marvin Gaye. I got a chance to see how he created and how his music affected who he made it for. I got a chance to play “I Want You” with Leon. I was 17 and crying on stage.

Up until his death, which is when my album came out, all I could ever talk about was that moment. I can’t even remember what happened yesterday. But I remember every day in Japan with Leon. It was magical. I talked to his son today. I had to tell his family that “I love you guys.” I wish I could have said something to him before he passed. It’s just the way of the world. “Tokyo,” as funny as it seems, was about that experience. It was bigger than life.

To take a turn, your style is super dynamic and out there. Let me show you what comes up when you search Goggle for “Thundercat” images… What would you say about this guy’s style if you weren’t him? 

[Laughs] I would think that he’s just wild as hell. Good god!

  A post shared by @thundercat_music on Dec 30, 2015 at 9:05am PST

  Is there any strategy to you getting dressed for a regular day or for stage? 

A lot of the time I’m in the moment with stuff. Sometimes to a fault. I’ll look at superheroes and comics and stuff and wonder, “why wouldn’t you dress like that if you could?” With fashion, I look at it as a way to express that. I don’t really pull any punches on it; otherwise you get caught up in this nexus of dressing like everyone else. Or finding something that’s a little above the standard. But to dress the way I’m really thinking? I do that. 

What are the cartoons you admire for their quality and style-wise? 

I’ve got some high standards when it comes to cartoons, man. There’s always Fist of the North Star. That’s one of my favorite all time movies. Quiet as it’s kept, that was the inspiration behind To Pimp a Butterfly from my perspective. And [my work on Flying Lotus’] You’re Dead! And [2015 EP] The Beyond / Where the Giants Roam. I’ve been watching that since I was a child religiously. I can quote the movie verbatim as it’s happening. It’s that amazing. 

Style-wise, it’s also amazing. I’d watch him and say to myself, “I want to be that guy!” There’s cross-play and character-based dressing up. And there’s a place between higher end fashion and what designers don’t want to admit they pulled inspiration from. You’ll see some shit come out from Gucci and be like, “Man, that’s straight off of Neon Genesis Evangelion.” And I know that. I’m always looking for that connection. I try to find my place in those pieces and try bring that vibe with me onstage. There have been times where I’ll freak my friends out because we’ll go to the store and I’ll go for the weird thing on display and they’ll be like, “You’re not going to do it, are you?” And I’ll be like, “You shouldn’t be here with me.” 

Where do you shop? 

A lot of my stuff is handmade. Or it’ll come from a boutique and be a one of four pieces.

What’s the oddest thing you’ve worn? 

The Native American garb is a very touchy subject and why musicians think they can appropriate culture. So something definitely my Native American headdress. I’m actually part Comanche. That’s in my blood. My family is from Detroit, Michigan and they were there. So just a slight bit off of my generations of Black, there are actually Native Americans. My great grandmother was named Prudence. She had all white hair. I have a picture of her next to her shotgun. Her husband was exiled for murder. He murdered someone because the man raped a woman. He committed an honor killing and was exiled for it. He was a Comanche. That’s why they couldn’t charge him the way they would charge a regular criminal. I never tell people, “I’m part Comanche!” 

  A post shared by @thundercat_music on Dec 30, 2015 at 8:59am PST

  But that would be the most controversial thing I’ve worn; a Native American headdress. Nobody ever tripped off of me wearing the wolf. But the chief headdress, that’s a thing where people go, “Who do you think you are?” And I try to respect that. Cultural appropriation is corny. Imitation is the biggest form of flattery a lot of the time. People forget that even with the dark past things come from, if it translates into good, you’ve got to be happy for that. Sometimes the timing is too soon.

Do you ever wear clothing to speak about the world’s issues—politics or humanity?

Yeah, man! I’m not very political. It’s nice to make a statement with something like a “Not My President” tee or something like that. It’s a way to identify with other people. But I’ve mostly been identifying with the earth through color tones. The things that you see in the world from that point. I look at animals and think, “Wow, that’s not fair! I just have one color and a bunch of moles.” And you see butterflies or cats and you’re like, “What the hell?” I’m identifying with them.  

This article originally appeared on: Billboard

http://tunecollective.com/2017/03/01/thundercats-style-is-as-funky-and-out-there-as-his-music-exclusive/