#jan 80

[lin-sterling]

yeah okay buddy we know everything is about birds with you, even your cute teeny gay purse has to have a bird on it

[80smovies]

[zeroaddzero]

Bruce Springsteen in Rotterdam on the Tunnel of Love Express tour, 1988. Photo by Jan Persson.

[tyger-land]

ᴊᴀɴ Šᴠᴀɴᴋᴍᴀᴊᴇʀ's 𝗔𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗲 1988

[driveintheaterofthemind]

Vintage Poster - Gremliny Rozrabiają (Gremlins) (Polish)

Art by Jan Mlodozeniec

Warner Brothers (1985)

[listranz]

[thatmetalheadswiftie]

motley crue being the face of glam metal will never not piss me off like… we had these divas but the music industry said “no, let’s make a group of talentless pedophiles and wife beaters the most popular glam band instead!”

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[vancruejovi]

Jan Kuehnemund 🎸

[evilhorse]

Arson Lord of Atlantis house ad (from Jonni Thunder A.K.A. Thunderbolt #2 circa April 1985)

[80smovies]

[sami--yaffa]

P!Hanoi Rocks x Reader

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

─── ⋆⋅🎸⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅🎩⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅🎤⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅🎸⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅🎸⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ –

Title: “Could Have Better Days”

Summary: Sucks to be stuck inside one nasty gloomy day instead of complaining about not going out or whatsoever. You and your boyfriends decide to spice things up with a game of ‘Never have I Ever’.

Parings: Michael monroe x Reader, Andy Mccoy x Reader, Nasty (Jan) x Reader, Sami yaffa x Reader, Razzle Dingley x Reader.

Word count: How do you count words. I don’t have the patience.

Warning: Alcohol, misspelling (youch..), Drinking, Weird questions, It’s Never Have I Ever, whatcha expect??, Crack Energy, One, maybe two, gets drunk, weed, cigs, any gender of your choice, cussing, Poly.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── 🎩🎤🎸🎸🎸─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Who know you would allegedly be dating those weird boys from Hanoi rocks?? How did this even happen?? Well that’s a question only you, can answer.

APRIL 15th, 1982. 11:45AM

The gloomiest day of Gloomy.

You couldn’t possibly blame others for not wanting to associate with society today. I mean, it’s pouring rain, rain. 

Theres nothing wrong with the rain, if you’re a rain lover. It’s just there was mud and ponds everywhere. Who wanna get their shoes wet over rain?? Nobody, I hope.

Out of boredom, all of you guys decide to watch TV, something random. 

Or that’s what you thought.

“A’right, who has my fuckin cig!” McCoy voiced, rushing down stairs. Noise could be heard as he came down rushing through the living room.

His black hat, red thin silky shirt, black pants and any other clothing item that caught his eye, making him stand out.

“Raz’ ya seen my cig mate?” Andy then leaned over the black couch where Sami, on Razzle’s left, Razzle in the middle, And Nasty all sat.

“Not at all mate! Have ya considered checking those pocket o’yours yeah?? $20 it’s n’ there” The drummer smirk in amusement, as he hold his ringed hand out that also resembled multi-colored nail polish on his fingers.

The questioned man then checked his pockets so eagerly, just to find the pack of cigs in there. He then pull them out as if it was a pocket knife.

Pulled one, and lit it. Smoke soon then fill the air as he inhaled the smoke and blew it in Sami’s face.

“You did that on purpose.” The bassist spoke, with a slight irritational frown.

Razzle and Andy then laughed in sync, also in amusement.  “Oh don’t be such a buzz killer. A little smoke won’t hurt.” Andy smirked as he then passed it to Razzle.

“Waiting’ for my $20..” Dingley spoke in a singing tune. 

“We didn’t shake on it, no?” A smirk could then form on Nasty’s face. Who’s been listening in the conversation along with Michael and Sami.

“Does that truly matter anyways?? $20 is $20.” 

“Where did you come from” 

“Where do I always come from??”

Razzle then side-eyed you in response. IT was his turn to blow the smoke in your face.

He did so, which caught of guard. When you was supposedly watching michael fix his blonde unique hair.

“Really??” You huffed as you crossed your arms.  “That’s what I said!!” Sami then chimed in, the same expression as you. It then go quiet. 

“What?” He then said. “And I’ll do it again” McCoy then laughed.

“Whatever” you and Sami say in unison.

APRIL 15th, 1982. 2:30PM

The rain began to take over heavier, leading thunderstorms here and there. Some catching you all off guard. 

Michael sits on the couch, above Nasty who’s sitting on the ground, letting Michael style his hair.

“Your hair is soft luv, what do you use??” The lead singer Asked the man.

“Water, shampoo and conditioner” 

“I know that, everybody does, hopefully but the brand ya use—“ He then get cut off.

“How about a game of Neva’ Have I Eva’ with booze mates!! With money or no?? Aye we can take shots! Maybe drink the whole bottle!! Who’s down!!”

The drummer then pace down stairs with a mischievous grin on his face, his cute deep dimples wearing it off. Making him look nothing but innocent.

“Booze sounds like too much” Nasty chimed in.

“Exactly, the last time we did it, we had to lock you n’ Andy in a room for almost 5 hours.” Michael groaned, like a mother scolding her children.

“No biggie, that was nothing!” 

“You literally broke the TV last time by tripping over Andy.” Sami then say as he was fixing his black messy hair in the mirror, not bothering to turn to face anybody.

“I second that.” You commented, with your feet kicked up on the table. Your mix matched socks wearing out.

“I don’t third that.” Andy walked into the living room, fixing his pants and later buckling his belt up again, that matches Razzle.

Razzle and Michael gave him a knowing look, as Sami, You, and Nasty, all looked disappointed.

“Can a man not take a piss yea??” 

“Sureeee” Razzle waved him off dragging the ‘Sure’ in a teasing matter.

“Fuck off” Andy then flip him off, as everybody else laughs.

“I guess we can play” Nasty stated. With two pig tails in his hair from Michael’s work.

“You look all cute don’t cha’” The proud, noisy drummer smiled.

“You look disturbing.” 

“When can you ever be nice” Michael and Sami both scold. Andy then shrug in response as he put out the cigarette he’s smoked again. The pack almost gone.

APRIL 15th, 1982. 5:04PM.

“Never have I ever, said the wrong thing at the wrong time.” Michael then questioned, his pink sunglasses glammin’.

Razzle, You, Sami and Andy all take shots. 

“I was drunk off m’ass okay?? An old man approached me and told me his wife was in the nursing home! And I winded up saying “congratulations mate!!” Out loud!” Dingley then confessed.

“Wow..” You chimed in. All four of you all, now taking shots.

“Jeez, this is strong.” Yaffa winced. 

Michael and Nasty then snicker. 

“Never have I ever gotten into a brawl.” 

Andy then take a shot, So did, of course. Razzle.

“You guys are something else” you spoke out loud.

“Some punk spilt beer on my clothes! I told him if he ever tries me again, I’m shoving the whole bottle up his ass. And that night the police got called.”

“Oh yea, then I had to come to the scene” Michael spoke, his blue eyes widening a little. He then raise his sunglasses up to set them on top of his frizzy hair. After, puckering his lips.

“Yea, shit was crazy!” 

“Alright, my turn” Sami cleared his throat.

“Neva’ Have I Eva’ kissed, dated, or slept with someone and kept it a secret?” He then exclaimed, setting down his card and looking around.

He himself, then take a shot, so has Michael, Nasty, let’s just say everyone.

“Mines was an On N’ Off relationship so” Andy waved liked it was nothing, then lighting a joint. 

“Oh? Same?” Monroe questioned a little.

“I never expected that to come from someone like you.” Stenfors provoked as he turned his head to Michael with an almost, shocked look.

Who would’ve knew Michael could have any girl he want?? Many thought he was guy, by his looks, or many mistakes him as a girl.

“I don’t think anybody did mate..” Razzle spoke, his words slurring as his cheeks flush due to being intoxicated.

“Jeez man you’re gone..” McCoy laughed at the sight. He was gone too, from being high AND drunk.

“Aye, Y/N luv, you should try this yea??” He then stick out the blunt their direction. With a confident smile.

You then shake you head no automatically, the drinks were enough, so why get high as well?? You’ll probably go crazy..

APRIL 15th, 1982. 5:20PM

Infact you are now. You’re now high and drunk off your ass, running around got nothing to lose. 

Razzle and Andy snickering in the background, as Michael shakes his head and get up to stop you from causing more chaos. Nasty and Sami watching with confusion and a straight face.

“I think it was a bad idea t’influence them with a joint.” Monroe confessed as he looked at the drummer and guitarist. His hair flowing the same direction.

“They seem alright to us, right Raz??” 

“Bloody hell they’re gone!” He lets out a dry mask.

Bottles smashing in the background could be heard, due to your antics. You then bounce and hop from couch or any other surface you can manage to land on without breaking a bone.

This has now became a cat and mouse chase between You and Michael.

You then take cover behind Nasty and Sami. Believing you couldn’t be found, which was a lie.

“A’right it’s time to go to bed yea??” Monroe then grabbed you.

“But whyyy..” You protested with a whine, then letting yourself fall to the floor.

“Out of every other days. You choose this day to be a crazy one.” Sami said as he raised his eyebrows, flipping his hair out of his face.

“Could have better days..”

“Key word, Could” Nasty chimed in, finishing his cigarette and putting it in the ash tray.

APRIL 15th, 1982. 11:56PM 

It is officially bed time for everybody. This day has been a tough one, for Michael Atleast, and maybe Sami. Who knows if Nasty was annoyed as well.

Everybody is slowly drifting off to sleep. First was Sami, Then Razzle, Then Nasty, Andy, You and lastly Michael.

Maybe you all could have better days without booze and going crazy.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──🎩🎤🎸🎸🎸

A/N: this was fun to write. Honestly. Hope you all like it, take care!

[tyger-land]

𝗙𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗛 + 𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗 1985

[animenostalgia]

You might remember hearing about Jan Scott-Frazier's amazing career as one of the first Americans to ever work full-time in Japan inside the anime industry. Years ago, she was on ANNCast, sharing stories of her adventures as an anime animator & director, and eventually becoming the President of the US branch of Production I-G. Now, sadly, she needs help. After being removed from the kidney donor list, she must now move into an assisted living facility, and needs help with her moving and medical expenses. If you can, consider donating a little to a true Anime Veteran! If you don't have the means to donate, please pass this along for others to see.

[terrence-silver]

I thought for Halloween spooky scariness it might be fun to ask a broad question that could apply to pretty much any of TIG's characters:

"What would a nightmare starring [insert name of TIG character here] look like?"

Is it a dark noncon? A hunt through the woods? Pure unadulterated stalking? YOU DECIDE... if you want to that is!

(my top characters of love to read about are, predictably, Cash, CK Terry and Valek, but any and all you feel like writing for would be amazing!)

---

― For Jan Valek, you dream of what seems like a distant funeral pyre. Or perhaps a burning stake. You don't quite see or deduce who's tied to it and set aflame amidst the silent crowd of hoods and robes but the shape seems eerily familiar, speaking to you with a voice you know. Almost seductive. Almost lulling. Beckoning. So tender. Like an old yet loving friend's re-assuring, inviting caress. You walk past the spectators on the foggy cobblestone square the and unto the burning, blackened wood stacked up high into a colossal, looming pile without blinking or even feeling any pain. Any sensations. Whoever's there in the center of the red inferno of crackling embers embraces you with both arms as the church bells on the forum strike noon. You feel strangely at home swallowed by the flames. Maybe this isn't such a nightmare after all?

― You're buried alive. You know you are. You're awake for it. Alive, when you rightfully shouldn't. You can breathe. Experience every sensation. Every vestige of claustrophobia. The fear. You realize your muffled cries will never be heard by anyone and that you'll undoubtedly die down here, choking due to lack of air. You even realize scratching the surface of your coffin is futile. That you're not getting out of here, from the oppressive, strangulating pitch blackness. Kicking, screaming and fighting it will get you nowhere, the same way when you feel a calm, focused hand reach out from beside you a grasp your fingers, you're fully aware they're Jack's. Jack Blaylock, Timothy Calloway is in there with you. You're in here together. Trapped for all eternity. You figure, that's exactly the way he'd like it too. Wouldn't surprise you if he personally orchestrated this himself.

― With Gus Travis, you live in a house floating on the cold sea. And it's much like any other suburban, family house, really. It has a fridge, and a kitchen, a living room, a bed, carpets, decorative throw pillows on the couch and all the mundane knick knacks, commonplace any family apartment should have, making you realize nothing's amiss --- nothing at all --- as you explore the winding corridors of your abode floating on the waves, your neighbor nobody in particular but the vast expanse of water, grey, not unlike the winter coastline before the stormy tempest. You hand your husband his slippers and a beer. Maybe set him up with lunch. You wash the dishes. Clean, polish and organize them, ever so diligent. This place, it has just about everything, except a front door and a way out, you realize too late as he's fucking you up against the wall.

― Cash? Well, there's eyes in your walls and they're everywhere. In every crack. Every corner. Every hidden nook and cranny. Like an infestation of bees nesting in the skeletal scaffolding of a cellar or a basement. They don't ever blink and they're blue. The light, icy cerulean type in shade. You know they're his eyes. How could you not? They're unmistakable. You're well acquainted with them by now because they don't never go away. You also know they belong to a face and not merely floating in the abyss, but it's not a visage you ever see, hidden behind layers of concrete and bricks he's observing behind of, like a veneer. He's always there, of course. Never closes his lids to rest or take a break. Watches you dress, undress, eat, sleep, shit, piss. Your world is a quiet world. A dark world. Never disturbed. Never shaken. But, you're never alone and that frightens you.

― Oh, a nightmare starring Terry McCain is positively Kafkaesque because the world is black and white --- entirely monochromatic --- like in an old detective movie and you realize the absurdity of it all even as it unfolds and as you're being effectively questioned in what's a stereotype of every interrogation room you've ever seen. Sharp light overhead, handcuffs around your wrists, a metal table, you and the Detective asking the questions. You don't know why or when, but a fellow uniformed colleague of his comes forth carrying an entree of meals even though you've never asked for anything and he has the mannerisms of a waiter in spite of his badge and nametag. The desk of your cross examination is littered with dishes and plates and a hand lights a candle between you and McCain. Someone pours you wine. What's happening?

― You're General Taligaro's bride but that part hardly constitutes the nightmare; it's the notion your matrimonial gown of ceremony consists of all the trinkets of his conquests --- your cape is made of the sown together scalps of all the virgins of the realm, your necklace human teeth, ears hang attached off of the belt that adorned the waistline of your dress like so many pearls, your bodice a boney ribcage held together with golden string and jewels; the spoils of so many wars --- you're a gruesome sight to behold as you're led to him to complete the ritual of union and you feel just as gruesome --- demonic --- all stickiness, blood, gore, stench and carnage. The picture of all of the backstabbing, machinations and kinslaying on display as he lifts up your veil adoringly, looking at you like you're the most beautiful, ravishing creature in all the kingdoms.

― There's a telegram you couldn't open for a week now and it frustrates you to no end. It sits there on the table like a silent yet harrowing obligation you can't shake off and no matter how much you may try, the envelope refuses to rip open, it refuses to be cut, scissors are like butter against its paper yielding no result and even gnawing on it with your own teeth like an animal doesn't help. Attempting to burn it is a useless endeavor too, almost like the damn thing's fireproof. You know these are news of Terry from overseas. You can tell by the official stamping and by who's delivered it to your doorstep. You know something bad has happened. You can feel it. But, your inability to do the laughably miniscule task of actually opening it, almost as if your hands had no strength in them whatsoever kills you.

― It's the 80's and you can tell by the front row of unhinged bleached perms and sharp shoulder pads lining the perimeters. It's a bidding. An auction. The subject of interest being a live human heart on display. You. You have no body. No arms. No legs. No head. Just a heart --- a beating, fully conscious organ on a pedestal in front of a crowd of hundreds on stage. Terry Silver's right there. Of course he is. Dressed to the nines, fully in his element, like he doesn't seem to be bothered at all you lack your basic physical attributes. Even in your nightmare, you think this is a very on the nose metaphor but it doesn't make your helpless predicament any more terrifying as the auction host slams his wooden gavel against the cathedra. Going once, going twice, sold --- somehow, perhaps unsurprisingly, Terry outbid the King of Burma for you, because of course he did. You're handed over lovingly to him like something he owns. He bites into you like an d'oeuvre.

― With old man Terry, you're attending an awkward party. Everyone's artificial, everyone's putting up a front and everything's an act. The social tension is hardly the worst of it, of course. Somewhere mid-mingling, you accompany him back inside of the manor away from the gaggle of the chipper crowd and into the nearest bedroom featuring a closet of immaculately organized suits that would put a high-end catalogue to shame. For some reason, he's decided to change his attire. In watching him undress and a firm lipped, stony faced assistant helping him into a new suit you also watch him peel off his own skin and throw it aside like a fleshy, useless rag promptly collected by a manservant until your Terry's nothing but red, gaping flesh and nerve endings. He walks out like that, practically flayed with you underarm and everyone smiles. They complement the host's wonderful finger food.

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]