#leslie boone

[miriam-heddy]

I made this, because Lesley Boone as leader of the Aloha Girls was just so cool. Anyone else notice how freaking rare it is to see a fat woman on Hawaii Five-0?

[dannyreviews]

Golden Age of Hollywood Actors Born Before (And Including) 1936 Still Alive

This only includes actors that had at least one credited role in a Hollywood feature film or short up to 1959.

Elisabeth Waldo (b. 1918)

Caren Marsh Doll (b. 1919)

Patricia Wright (b. 1921)

Jacqueline White (b. 1922)

Annette Warren (b. 1922)

Ray Anthony (b. 1922)

Tommy Dix (b. 1923)

Eva Marie Saint (b. 1924)

Anne Vernon (b. 1924)

Maria Riva (b. 1924)

June Lockhart (b. 1925)

Lee Grant (b. 1925)

Peggy Webber (b. 1925)

Lise Bourdin (b. 1925)

Brigitte Auber (b. 1925)

Kerima (b. 1925)

Terry Kilburn (b. 1926) 

Marilyn Erskine (b. 1926)

Bambi Linn (b. 1926)

David Frankham (b. 1926)

Tommy Morton (b. 1926)

Jill Jarmyn (b. 1926)

Marilyn Knowlden (b. 1926)

Genevieve Page (b. 1927)

Donna Martell (b. 1927)

William Smithers (b. 1927)

Peter Walker (b. 1927)

H.M. Wynant (b. 1927)

Betty Harford (b. 1927)

Cora Sue Collins (b. 1927)

Marilyn Granas (b. 1927)

Ann Blyth (b. 1928)

Nancy Olson (b. 1928)

Peggy Dow (b. 1928)

Earl Holliman (b. 1928)

Kathleen Hughes (b. 1928)

Colleen Townsend (b. 1928)

Marion Ross (b. 1928)

Gaby Rodgers (b. 1928)

Jan Shepard (b. 1928)

Walter Maslow (b. 1928)

Tom Troupe (b. 1928)

Sidney Kibrick (b. 1928)

Garry Watson (b. 1928)

Fay Chaldecott (b. 1928)

Mark Rydell (b. 1929)

Terry Moore (b. 1929)

Vera Miles (b. 1929)

Ann Robinson (b. 1929)

Liseotte Pulver (b. 1929)

James Hong (b. 1929)

Rachel Ames (b. 1929)

Olga James (b. 1929)

Michael Forest (b. 1929)

Vikki Dougan (b. 1929)

Steve Terrell (b. 1929)

Margaret Kerry (b. 1929)

James Congdon (b. 1929)

Betsy Gay (b. 1929)

Jack Betts (b. 1929)

Clint Eastwood (b. 1930)

Joanne Woodward (b. 1930)

Mara Corday (b. 1930)

Nita Talbot (b. 1930)

Taina Elg (b. 1930)

Robert Wagner (b. 1930)

John Astin (b. 1930)

Tommy Cook (b. 1930)

Mary Costa (b. 1930)

Lois Smith (b. 1930)

Will Hutchins (b. 1930)

Peggy King (b. 1930)

Lynn Hamilton (b. 1930)

Don Burnett (b. 1930)

Clark Burroughs (b. 1930)

Robert Hinkle (b. 1930)

Sheila Connolly (b. 1930)

Barbara Bestar (b. 1930)

Rita Moreno (b. 1931)

Leslie Caron (b. 1931)

Carroll Baker (b. 1931)

William Shatner (b. 1931)

Mamie Van Doren (b. 1931)

Robert Colbert (b. 1931)

Barbara Eden (b. 1931)

Angie Dickinson (b. 1931)

Claire Bloom (b. 1931)

Marianne Koch (b. 1931)

Sylvia Lewis (b. 1931)

Carmen De Lavallade (b. 1931)

Zohra Lampert (b. 1931)

Michael Dante (b. 1931)

Ann McCrea (b. 1931)

Jack Grinnage (b. 1931)

Maralou Gray (b. 1931)

Billy Mindy (b. 1931)

Sugar Dawn (b. 1931)

Joanne Arnold (b. 1931)

Joel Grey (b. 1932)

George Chakiris (b. 1932)

Felicia Farr (b. 1932)

Abbe Lane (b. 1932)

Steve Rowland (b. 1932)

Jacqueline Beer (b. 1932)

Colleen Miller (b. 1932)

Joanne Gilbert (b. 1932)

Olive Moorefield (b. 1932)

Neile Adams (b. 1932)

Jacqueline Duval (b. 1932)

Edna May Wonnacott (b. 1932)

Richard Tyler (b. 1932)

Mickey Roth (b. 1932)

Leon Tyler (b. 1932)

Peggy McIntyre (b. 1932)

Christiane Martel (b. 1932)

Elsa Cardenas (b. 1932)

Claude Bessy (b. 1932)

Kim Novak (b. 1933)

Julie Newmar (b. 1933)

Debra Paget (b. 1933)

Constance Towers (b. 1933)

Joan Collins (b. 1933)

Kathleen Nolan (b. 1933)

Brett Halsey (b. 1933)

Robert Fuller (b. 1933)

Pat Crowley (b. 1933)

Barrie Chase (b. 1933)

Jackie Joseph (b. 1933)

Geoffrey Horne (b. 1933)

Tsai Chin (b. 1933)

Lita Milan (b. 1933)

Vera Day (b. 1933)

Diana Darrin (b. 1933)

Ziva Rodann (b. 1933)

Jeanette Sterke (b. 1933)

Marti Stevens (b. 1933)

Annette Dionne (b. 1933)

Cecile Dionne (b. 1933)

Johnny Russell (b. 1933)

Patti Hale (b. 1933)

Gary Clarke (b. 1933)

Shirley MacLaine (b. 1934) 

Sophia Loren (b. 1934)

Shirley Jones (b. 1934)

Russ Tamblyn (b. 1934)

Pat Boone (b. 1934)

Audrey Dalton (b. 1934)

Claude Jarman Jr. (b. 1934)

Tina Louise (b. 1934)

Karen Sharpe (b. 1934)

Joyce Van Patten (b. 1934)

May Britt (b. 1934)

Joby Baker (b. 1934)

Jamie Farr (b. 1934)

Myrna Hansen (b. 1934)

Priscilla Morgan (b. 1934)

Aki Aeong (b. 1934)

Robert Fields (b. 1934)

Dani Crayne (b. 1934)

Donnie Dunagan (b. 1934)

Richard Hall (b. 1934)

Charles Bates (b. 1934)

Marilyn Horne (b. 1934)

Marilee Earle (b. 1934)

Rod Dana (b. 1935) 

Pippa Scott (b. 1935)

Ruta Lee (b. 1935)

Barbara Bostock (b. 1935)

Johnny Mathis (b. 1935)

Leslie Parrish (b. 1935)

Salome Jens (b. 1935)

Yvonne Lime (b. 1935)

Jean Moorehead (b. 1935)

Marco Lopez (b. 1935)

Joyce Meadows (b. 1935)

Christopher Severn (b. 1935)

Richard Nichols (b. 1935)

Carol Coombs (b. 1935)

Nino Tempo (b. 1935)

Patricia Prest (b. 1935)

Dawn Bender (b. 1935)

John Considine (b. 1935)

Jerry Farber (b. 1935)

Clyde Willson (b. 1935)

Bob Burns (b. 1935)

Susan Kohner (b. 1936)

Millie Perkins (b. 1936)

Burt Brickenhoff (b. 1936)

Mason Alan Dinehart (b. 1936)

Anna Maria Alberghetti (b. 1936)

Lisa Davis (b. 1936)

Joan O'Brien (b. 1936)

Richard Harrison (b. 1936)

Tommy Ivo (b. 1936)

John Wilder (b. 1936)

Gary Conway (b. 1936)

Michael Chapin (b. 1936)

Carol Morris (b. 1936)

Fernando Alvarado (b. 1936)

[artiquar]

have I ever introduced my undead cowboy and his son

[gatutor]

Richard Boone-Leslie Caron "Madron" 1970, de Jerry Hopper.

[longlistshort]

Sculptures by Emily Sudd

Sculptures by Kyung Boon Oh

Work by Cheyann Washington

Photography by Kate Turning

Pictured above are some selections from Plateaus: Art That Resonates, a multisensory group exhibition at Art Share L.A. exploring the dualities of life that artists bring into their work.

From the gallery-

Art Share L.A. is pleased to present Plateaus: Art that Resonates a multidisciplinary and multisensory immersive art exhibition that explores dualities: art and craft, death and life, grief and love, and activity and stillness. These contrasts exist with an interdependent bond, reminding us that bonds are intrinsic and often intertwined partners. In multiple materials, processes, and scales, monument-like creations are revealed through thoughtful burnishing of passion.  The exhibition curated by Stacie B. London features seven visual artists: Amanda Maciel Antunes, Kyong Boon Oh, Hadley Holiday, Soojung Park, Emily Sudd, Kate Turning, and Cheyann Washington, along with additional contributions of ikebana by members of Sogestu Los Angeles, music by Rocco DeLuca, perfume by Lesli Wood (La Curie Eau de Parfume), and seating by Hunter Knight. Through a shared refinement of intentional experimentation with their mediums – acrylic panels, clay, glass, ink, photography, scent, sound, stone, thread, tree stumps, and wire– these artistic achievements reveal work that is brave, meditative, resilient, and vulnerable.

Our five senses inform our experiences and knowledge and assist us in ordering the world. In Plateaus: Art that Resonates the traditional forms of visual art of painting, photography, and sculpture are broadened to include aural art — via music and sound — and olfactory art. These multisensory and immersive pieces enhance the experience of viewing visual art and introduce additional dualities: sight with smell, smell with hearing, and hearing with sight. The expanded human experiences in an art gallery switch the expected experiences and invite the possibility of a familiar experience in a new way, or a breakthrough!

Breakthroughs often occur after long periods of what often seems like stagnation, or a plateau. It’s instinctual to want growth to be a continual upward trend, but instead it’s usually a series of long, flat periods (plateaus) of work with few visible results. Seemingly out of nowhere the plateau makes space for a breakthrough of creativity or growth—an intermittent moment when everything comes together. Instead of focusing on the result, it’s good to get comfortable in the plateau.

The artists and artisans of Plateaus: Art that Resonates use a broad range of approaches and techniques towards creative creations that are examples of how to grapple dualities, navigate the plateaus of life, and share breakthroughs that transmute our awareness of mortality into loving engagements with life and it’s contradictions and opposing perspectives that inspire and infuse life with meaning, immediacy, awareness, and appreciation.

Below are two of the ikebana created by members of Sogetsu Los Angeles.

This exhibition closes this Saturday (11/16) with a closing reception from 6-9 pm.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Horror Villains React to: Finding out that you're a Virgin

Warnings: Sexual References, horror villains being inconsiderate to your lack of experience, and horror villains being overly excited about your lack of experience

'I got this babe don't worry.' Will take care of you ^^ Whether that's because-

Sub-Category 1- Because they're experienced and Cocky: Inkubus and Jerry Dandridge.

Sub-Category 2- Because they're on Cloud 9 and have No Thoughts: Baby Firefly and Mickey Altieri.

Sub Category 3- Because they Love and Care about you ^^: Candyman, Lester Sinclair, Luda Mae Hewitt, Mayor Buckman, Pamela Voorhees, Roman Bridger, DBD! Deathslinger (He is a little bit Sub-Category 1 as well tho) and Vincent Sinclair (Not that he really knows what he's doing either... ).

'... Okay.' They... don't really react 😅 The chips will fall where they may... : Max Grief, Michael Myers (Godspeed), Rocco the Clown, and the Djinn.

'Ughhhh really? Fineee.' Experienced and Bummed that they have to take it Slow with you: Mrs Loomis, Harper Alexander, Jennifer Check, Kieran Wilcox, Patrick Bateman and Piper Shaw.

'Yeah yeah sure whatever you say I'll be gentle'. A.K.A the assholes who do not take you seriously: Animal the Cannibal, Billy Loomis, Bo Sinclair, Chop Top Sawyer, Dr Suave, Jill Roberts, Leslie Vernon, the Midnight Man, Otis B Driftwood (Liar), and Stu Macher (Overexcited little bastard).

'Oh you're a virgin?... Good.' They're about it- and its disconcerting to say the least!: Captain Spaulding, Chucky Lee Ray, Foxy, Freddy Krueger, Granny Boone, Mental Manny, Monty Hewitt, Pennywise, Sheriff Hoyt, DBD! Clown, and The Man (from Hush).

'Look we are figuring this out together- this is uncharted waters for the both of us- I dunno what I'm doing either here, so- uh- just give us a holler if something is not-quite-right.' Yeah... not super comforting 😅 But at least you're not alone?: Bubba Sawyer, Carrie White, Drayton Sawyer, Jason Voorhees, Jedidiah Sawyer, Stuart Lloyd (I'M SORRY. BUT THIS MAN HAS NEVER BEEN ON A DATE IN HIS ENTIRE LIFE), DBD! Huntress, the Taxidermist, and Thomas Hewitt.

[gnabnahcsworld]

Send this to 10 people, have them shuffle their playlist and post the first 10 songs that play

I kept forgetting to do this omg I’m so sorry love. But here we go:

Don’t fight the music- Virginia to Vegas

Glue song- beabadoobee

Unbeautiful- Leslie Roy

How could you- Mario

Body- Mino

Loved by you- Mali Music

Ghost town- Benson Boone

Light ur ass on fire- Busta rhymes and Pharell

We are young- G2 ft Jessi

No limit- Usher

Tagging anyone that’d like to join in. Also I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to inbox it or if I could just do it like this a tag ppl…

@torialefay @kurtcoblaine4ever @mamieishere @whatudowhennooneseesyou @aosmockingjay @skz-lover21 @sky00ung @escapetheshark

[kwebtv]

Jackie Ethel Joan: The Women of Camelot - NBC - March 4-5, 2001

Biographical Drama (2 episodes)

Running Time: 163 Minutes Total

Stars:

Jill Hennessy as Jackie Bouvier Kennedy

Lauren Holly as Ethel Skakel Kennedy

Leslie Stefanson as Joan Bennett Kennedy

Daniel Hugh Kelly as John F. Kennedy

Robert Knepper as Robert F. Kennedy

Matt Letscher as Ted Kennedy

Harve Presnell as Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.

Charmion King as Rose Kennedy

Wayne Best as George Smathers

Walker Boone as Steve Clark

Christopher Britton as Ted's Doctor

Catherine Bruce as Sister Mary Leo

Adam Cabral as John F. Kennedy Jr.

Thom Christopher as Aristotle Onassis

William Colgate as Richard Nixon

Beau Dunker as Ted Kennedy Jr.

David Eisner as Schiff

Greg Ellwand as Peter Wilson

Madison Fitzpatrick as Caroline Kennedy

Richard Fitzpatrick as Frank Peters

Linda Goranson as Lady Bird Johnson

Paul Thomas Gordon as Peter Lawford

Kate Hemblen as Joan's Nanny

Shannon Hile as Elaine Mitchell

Tom Howard as Lyndon B. Johnson

Jeno Huber as Prince Stanisław Albrecht Radziwiłł

Jamie Johnston as Young Patrick Kennedy

Geoff Kahnert as Sargent Shriver

Ray Kahnert Bobby's Priest

Tamsin Kelsey as Eunice Kennedy Shriver

Anne L'Espérance as Cathy

Sarah Lafleur as Marilyn Monroe

Shawn Lawrence as Alex Carter

Gene Mack as Rosey Grier

Louisa Martin as Maude Shaw

Kaya McGregor as Pat Kennedy

Nicole Michaux as Jean Ann Smith

Julia Pagel as Kathleen Kennedy

Rosemary Pate as Kara

Karl Pruner as Clinton Hill

Matt Sadowski as Joseph P. Kennedy II

Jeffrey Smith as Jim Ketchum

Joy Tanner as Lee Bouvier

Bruce Vavrina as Roger Mudd

Jonathan Whittaker as Lem Billings

Brad Wietersen as Stephen Edward Smith

[saleintothe90s]

497. The Pat Sajak Show, 1989-1990

Back in 2007, a friend had sent me all her old childhood tapes after she had digitized her copies to DVD. I then digitized the commercials to DVD. She had all the CBS prime time cartoons on tape from the late 80s, and I saw this promo for...The Pat Sajak Show?! I remember kinda giggling trying to picture a celebrity hanging out with Pat, because he was known for talking to the every man every day, his contestants on Wheel you know?

In January of 1989, the show premiered, unfortunately around the same time of another television legend:

(article)

Arsenio said in this article:

''My personality is a little easier than Dave's,'' Mr. Hall says. ''I'm just a nice guy. I don't know how to be any different. Let's just say that I'm a warmer version, a warmer brown-bread version of David Letterman. Call me the pumpernickel of late-night.'' 1

If Arsenio was Pumpernickel, then Pat was Wonder Bread compared to Arsenio:

Musical guests will include the likes of Debby Boone, Michael Feinstein, Alabama, the Commodores and the ubiquitous K. T. Oslin - far closer to the easy-listening center than Mr. Hall's. 1

Arsenio's first guests were Brooke Shields, Leslie Nielsen and Luther Vandross. Pat's? Chevy Chase, Joan Van Ark, The Judds, the Commissioner of Major League Baseball, and Michael Gross. I know you're reading that list like "dang, that's a lot of guests." And it was -- the show was a mind numbing 90 minutes long. Who, even in 1989 had the attention span late at night for that. It took me a second to realize why the show scheduled Joan Van Ark the first night, then I remembered she was on Knots Landing which was a big show for CBS back then. I have no clue why the Baseball Commissioner (Peter Ueberroth) was there. What an odd pick for the first night of your big deal nation wide major network late night talk show.

Unfortunately I can't find all of the first night! Just this 40 minute clip of assorted clips from the show.

/edit/

I found the whole episode with commercials!

Luv that plaid jacket. He pulled a Herbalife joke as his first joke! "now that I have you all here, I'd like to talk to you about something called ... Herbalife". Oh us anti-MLM girlies love that joke.

The majority of the clip is very painful. Pat's set is sad and beige, Pat's bandleader is awkward, I didn't even realize that his sidekick was his sidekick at first, I thought he was introducing his producer at first. Pat has too many pencils on his desk and Chevy Chase make fun of him for it.

To me, Michael Gross was the highlight of this clip. He also highlights how redic. a 90 minute show is, look at all the hands he has to shake! It looks more like a parody of a talk show.

Mr. Sajak asked Michael Gross of ''Family Ties'' what was going to happen to the Keatons in this, their last scheduled season. Mr. Gross: ''I hope they die in a plane crash.'' He later explained that he would not like to see them being brought back for phony reunions.  2

I found another full episode from April of 1989, and the audience just isn't with Pat through the monologue. He even told a suction cup car window Garfield joke and it bombed. Poor Pat.

Finally, Finally, in October of 1989, the show was reduced to an hour.

By March of 1990, Pat had a hipper, darker set. He didn't stand up for the monologue by then either. He was making Nest door bell jokes 25 years before Nest doorbell cameras were a thing! This is probably the latest episode of the show with Pat hosting that is on YouTube. Yes, "with Pat hosting". By 1990, Pat wasn't hosting the show on Fridays, he handed the show to a guest.

Pat wasn't even there for his last episode, Paul Rodriguez hosted. :

I don't want to get sentimental or nothing but let me just take the second to tell you that uh Pat Sajak uh is one of the nicest people I've ever had the opportunity to know and to meet I'm sure on behalf of his whole staff he'd like me to say how wonderful it was to be here and work with all of you in 15 months that you guys were on and it's terrific, and there is a tomorrow for him.

Facebook | Etsy | Retail History Blog | Twitter | YouTube Playlist | Random Post | Ko-fi donation | instagram / threads @thelastvcr​ | tik tok @ saleintothe90s

Oh hey, there's a sale going on at my Etsy right now til June 15th.

Meisler, Andy. “TELEVISION; Two TV Veterans March Into the Late-Night Fray.” The New York Times, January 1, 1989, sec. Arts. https://www.nytimes.com/1989/01/01/arts/television-two-tv-veterans-march-into-the-late-night-fray.html. https://archive.is/4CxFw

O’Connor, John J. “Review/Television; Late-Night Chitchat Additions: Pat Sajak and Arsenio Hall.” The New York Times, January 11, 1989, sec. Arts. https://www.nytimes.com/1989/01/11/arts/review-television-late-night-chitchat-additions-pat-sajak-and-arsenio-hall.html. https://archive.is/Z0vun

[allthebestcowboyshavedaddyissues]

try not to knock yourself out with all the choices

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Rooftop Meetings

by vividities When Two-Face almost beats a newly minted Robin to death, Bruce decides that the life of a vigilante is too dangerous for a kid. This becomes the catalyst for a series of events that leads twelve-year-old Dick Grayson down a much more dangerous path.  "Maybe he wore the armor of Robin because his parents wore the armor of dirt. Maybe he did love Gotham, in a way, because Robin was the same thing as love. And Gotham was the city where his parents took their last breaths. Gotham was the place they’d had their final flight. His time in Gotham was the longest he’d ever stayed in one place and, for the first time in his life, he felt sick to his stomach at the thought of leaving. He thought of his parents, wearing stage smiles as they walked out to their deaths. He thought of Bruce, all wrapped up in the shadows of himself. He thought of Alfred's stiff-backed posture and worried face. He thought of Leslie and all that she’d done for him. He thought of Batman and Robin and home... He turned and faced the sea.”  Words: 3078, Chapters: 1/12, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Robin (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: Gen Characters: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Leslie Thompkins, Boone (DCU), Shrike (DCU) Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Boone, More to be added!! - Relationship Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Robin Year One canon divergence, Dick Grayson is Robin, DICK GRAYSON IS ROBIN!!, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick Grayson's complicated relationship with his own legacy, The League of Assassins (DCU), Young Dick Grayson, BAMF Dick Grayson, (eventually) - Freeform, Also the rest of the Teen Titans will be here eventually, And Shiva but I won't tag her yet, Stick with me stick with me stick with me, Dick Grayson Has Abandonment Issues, and he almost becomes an assassin in this one via https://ift.tt/fp1QPMm

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: The Lighted Pull of Dreams by Abby Lynn Bogomolny

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/the-lighted-pull-of-dreams-by-abby-lynn-bogomolny/

In this extraordinary #poetry collection influenced by the moon’s silver luminosity, Abby Lynn Bogomolny elevates us with gorgeous images to “fill ourselves and fly.” Yet each boon is balanced by gravity. From her immigrant grandparents’ struggles to those of her own, she writes with heart and wit of vivid Brooklyn streets, the pine flats of Florida, and coastal California. If you thrive on words from a #female-centered perspective, one with a strong sense of place in lyrical rhythmic lines, The Lighted Pull of Dreams is a must read.

Abby Lynn Bogomolny is the editor of New to North America: Writing by US Immigrants, Their Children and Grandchildren and the author of poetry collections Nauseous in Paradise, Black of Moonlit Sea, and People Who Do Not Exist. Originally from Brooklyn, NY, she founded Burning Bush Publications and juried its poetry prize for a decade. After serving as Faculty in English with Santa Rosa Junior College for many years, she continues to write and stir the cultural soup in Northern California. www.abbypoetry.com

PRAISE FOR The Lighted Pull of Dreams by Abby Lynn Bogomolny

The Lighted Pull of Dreams spans the toughness of immigrant ancestors to personal coming-of-age, from Brooklyn streets to rural Florida to California fog, forests, and classrooms—all with quirk and grace. In this extraordinary collection, Abby Lynn Bogomolny’s poetry has come into its own—her voice both witty and spiritual, her forms traditional and experimental. She traces the labyrinths mothers and daughters walk around each other from birth until death. And at the core, an earthy spirituality of being emerges in the interstices of time and place. Open the cover and enjoy!!!

–Sharon Coleman, author of Paris Blinks and Half Circle, co-director of the Berkeley Poetry Festival, and instructor of Creative Writing at Berkeley City College.

The hovering intelligence, subtle humor, truth and trust of self-love. From free to formal verse. From New York walk-up to orange and redwood groves. Bogomolny grounds us with her tenacity mixed with vulnerability. Her herculean song shot through with light and its constant transformations and revelations. She is the poet who knows the gifts and complexities of her craft, lines lifting from all daily senses into, yes, that well-lit dream.

–Leslie Simon, author of The Divine Comic, Collisions and Transformations, and former Chair of Women’s Studies, City College of San Francisco.

The poems in Abby Lynn Bogomolny’s The Lighted Pull of Dreams offer the reader a fascinating range of voices and scenes, from a nighttime dream-flight over the redwood coast, Brooklyn brownstones along the East River, an imagined eighteenth century summer garden, orange and pecan groves beside a Florida farm house. We witness a classroom of students on their various journeys, the passing of a beloved mother, the rising of the moon on a pandemic night, filled with dark uncertainty. These are poems of mystery and longing, humor and wisdom, moments of intimacy and clarity “when we become what we came here to know.”

–Terry Ehret, author of Lucky Break and Night Sky Journey, and former Poet Laureate of Sonoma County

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry

[lilgraceandi]

Eventful Chinese New Year 🧧

On the first day evening, we drove up to Melaka, had potluck with the family and drove back to muar on the second day afternoon, it being a Sunday and we had duty in church. Grace happily stayed back in Melaka to spend more time with Ah Yee, Porpor and her cousins.

On the third day morning, we drove up again to Melaka, picked gracefully, Ah Yee and Porpor up, then headed to Semenyih. After a simple ceremony at Grandpa and Pa’s graves, we stayed the night at Ah Chim’s place in SS14. Ah Jek took us on a long walk to see a small but beautiful garden in their neighbourhood.

The next day, we visited Gideon, Evelyn and baby Giovanni before we met Jiu Jiu and relatives at Secret Recipe nearby. After lunch, we drove to his house to chit chat further. At about 3pm, we drove home, though at first ma wanted to visit David’s place.

The moment we reached and parked the car at Novo8, Leslie realised he had left his laptop in Jiu Jiu’s house! We were filled with disbelief! We didn’t want to drive back up, what with the traffic jam and our exhaustion.

So the next day at 5.30am, Leslie and I took the bus up to TBS (my first time). We then took the MRT/LRT to Jiu Jiu’s place, then managed to reach Melaka at 3pm. Then we visited Julie. Grace didn’t follow though because she wanted to watch TV with Ah Yee.

We spent one more night in Melaka and drove back to muar on Thursday morning. Phew!

On the first day evening, we drove up to Melaka, had potluck with the family and drove back to muar on the second day afternoon, it being a Sunday and we had duty in church. Grace happily stayed back in Melaka to spend more time with Ah Yee, Porpor and her cousins.

On the third day morning, we drove up again to Melaka, picked Grace, Ah Yee and Porpor up, then headed to Semenyih. After a simple ceremony at Grandpa and Pa’s graves, we stayed the night at Ah Chim’s place in SS14. Ah Jek took us on a long walk to see a small but beautiful garden in their neighbourhood.

The next day, we visited Gideon, Evelyn and baby Giovanni before we met Jiu Jiu and relatives at Secret Recipe nearby. After lunch, we drove to his house to chit chat further. At about 3pm, we drove home, though at first ma wanted to visit David’s place.

The moment we reached and parked the car at Novo8, Leslie realised he had left his laptop in Jiu Jiu’s house! We didn’t want to drive back up, what with the traffic jam and our exhaustion.

So the next day at 5.30am, Leslie and I took the bus up to TBS( my first time). We then took the MRT/LRT to Jiu Jiu’s place, then managed to reach Melaka at 3pm. Then we visited Julie at 4.30. Grace didn’t follow though because she wanted to watch TV with Ah Yee.

In the evening, Aaron and Alice came over for dinner and we had a nice time chatting and playing the hidden item puzzle book which we bought in Popular in kl. We spent one more night in Melaka and drove back to muar on Thursday morning. Phew!

Today I cleared the house, it being vacant for three days had accumulated a lot of dust and dried leaves. In the afternoon, Grace spent the afternoon with Ivana and they drew a funny comic.

Then at night, we attended Gabriel’s birthday party until 10pm. Grace had fun, although most of the kids were two years older than her. Pan Zi and Yew Boon really put in a lot of effort to organise the basketball themed party.

[legendsofamultishipper]

LOST Characters

Bold your favorites

Strike through your least favorites

Jack Shephard

Kate Austen

Hugo "Hurley" Reyes

John Locke

Jin-Soo Kwon

Sun-Hwa Kwon

Charlie Pace

Claire Littleton

James "Sawyer" Ford

Juliet Burke

Sayid Jarrah

Desmond Hume

Penelope "Penny" Widmore

Frank Lapidus

Daniel Faraday

Charlotte Lewis

Miles Straume

Richard Alpert

Benjamin Linus

Charles Widmore

Danielle Rousseau

Alex Rousseau

Rose Nadler

Bernard Nadler

Shannon Rutherford

Boone Carlyle

Ana Lucia Cortez

Elizabeth "Libby" Smith

Mr. Eko

Smoke Monster

Vincent the dog

Michael Dawson

Walt Lloyd

Ilana Verdansky

Tom Friendly

Pierre Chang

Naomi Dorrit

Ethan Rom

Phil

Eloise "Ellie" Hawking

Mikhail Bakunin

Leslie Arzt

Martin Keamy

Jacob

Anthony Cooper

Neil "Frogurt"

George Minkowski

Nikki & Paulo

Man in Black

(I included as many characters as I could think of. Feel free to add anyone else you want.)

[freakingoutthesquares]

Preaching From The Pulpit Words: Roy Wilkinson, Photographer: Karl Lang Taken from Sounds, 27 June 1987 Transcript: Acrylic Afternoons

Sheffield popsters Pulp are creating a haunting music which is virtually without peer in the Britain of 1987. We meet them on the eve of the release of their new LP 'Freaks'.

The album's called 'Freaks', for as the opening line proclaims, "Nature sometimes makes mistakes". There they are over there, and if you must avert your eyes, don't cover your ears because Pulp have a qualification for you. "These freaks we're talking about, they're just normal people gone a bit wrong. It's sad but don't bother crying: they still eat and drink and watch TV just like anyone else. And they smoke."

The freaks who populate this record's "ten stories about power, claustrophobia, suffocation and holding hands" are resolutely ordinary, characters you're far more likely to see through the front room windows than down at the fairground. In fact, far from being Pulp fictions, these blighted souls are very real: a lot of them play in the band, and if that sounds funny then that's alright, because Pulp are comic band. I know this because their singer and lyricist Jarvis Cocker told me: "A lot of our songs deal with fairly mundane things which are a bit over dramatised - it's a bit like a comic."

As well as being a bit like a comic, Pulp are a bit like a mixture of slapstick comedy and some understated macabre novels. I know this because I read it in a magazine. Then again, you should never believe what you read and in the light of Jarvis' claim that his namesake Joe once installed a gas fire at his house, it's difficult to know whether to believe him. The one thing you can safely say about Pulp is that they are out on a limb, one that may or may not be reconnected to a body with seven more and two heads.

Pulp are a Sheffield band and 'Freaks' is their second album, following 1983's long forgotten 'It' and a handful of singles, and houses their current 45, 'Master Of The Universe'. Pulp's core of Cocker and violinist/guitarist Russell Senior are creating a haunting music which is virtually without peer in the Britain of 1987, their nearest relatives being The Band Of Holy Joy. The similarities come with the way both have fostered a host of neglected styles (waltzes to crooning balladry), transmuted mundanity into a grotesque, projected an overriding mood of melancholy and drawn on a wealth of literary references.

Pulp have been compared to anything from Brecht to author Ian McEwan to Mills & Boon. Along with books they've been juxtaposed with buffoons, a pre-AIDS epidemic of jesters that includes Leslie Crowther, Peter Glaze and Charles Hawtrey. It's a curse the band have mixed feelings about. Jarvis: "All those references make us seem a bit contrived when hopefully it's quite raw, getting at emotional nerve endings. It's not as if we go, 'let's do a song about the latest novel we've read'. I don't mind people comparing us to Ian McEwan because I like his stuff (psycho sex dramas) but when someone says Charles Hawtrey (Carry On's bespectacled, ineffectual butt), you don't think 'cheers pal!'." Russell: "In Sheffield we get more 16-year-old kids at our concerts than we do post graduates in Cabaret Voltaire studies."

Pulp songs are direct, stripping emotions down to a naked unsightliness and then coating them with a pervading sense of gloom. "I've never been a very carefree adolescent," says Jarvis. "I wouldn't go out with me if I were you. All those types of songs are basically about one girl who I went out with and unfortunately it went from being quite an innocent thing to being a very traumatic thing without either of us knowing why. The freaks thing is like getting divorced from the rest of the world through something like that relationship. The other reason we called it 'Freaks' was because we always get called freaks, the escape party from One Flew Over A Cuckoo's Nest, stuff like that. When we play live, everybody dwells on the fact that I'm thin with specs, he (Russell) looks like Count Dracula, Candida (keyboards) although she's 23 looks 14, while Pete (Bass) looks like a football hooligan. We were always getting called freaks so we thought let's call the LP 'Freaks' just to... put two fingers up."

As far as Jarvis is concerned he's not an eccentric. Throughout our conversation he maintained a slightly resigned blank faced jocularity but keeps his speech prosaically direct, miles away from the contrivance that Pulp's press might lead you to expect of this 23-year-old with his long limbs and disgusting brown crimplene 'slacks' which terminate six inches short of his ankles: as does Russell, a slight man of 26 with a ghastly pallor and a down at heel clerkish air.

Nonetheless this pair's conversation does dispel a lot of Pulpish preconceptions. It does, that is, until you ask them what they do in their spare time. It seems that this pair have a sideline which is Dickensian enough to fit in with their public image. Get down on that Davenport for these two Arthur Negus' of rock are heavily into... antiques. "Antiques Roadshow is our favourite programme," says Russell. "Our ambition is to see one of our records on there. If you want any 50's art deco then Jarvis is your man. I like Italian 17th century paintings but I haven't been able to get hold of anything yet. That's what I'd eventually like to deal in because I like beautiful things. At the moment I can only afford ugly things."

Frustrated sensualists priced outside paradise, that's Pulp for you.

[wildroseofarran]

For Better or Worse, Part II || Captain Issott & Boone || December, 2021

Tristan: He would've wanted to kill him for the look on his mother's face alone.

Two weeks after Luke's visit with the private investigator, Tristan found himself sitting on a hotel balcony staring off at the horizon. The view was incredible but he wasn't really taking it in. All he could see--all he'd been able to see for days--was the look on his mother's face when he'd told her about the results of Dakota's investigation.

The DNA test confirmed it: Gideon Clare Boone was his biological father, the man who had impregnated Megan Seger in 1981 and left her to raise a child on her own.

A child that would turn out to be, to Tristan's devastation and Meg's bewilderment, a fucking merman.

And now here he was. Sitting in a hotel in Playa del Carmen, Mexico trying to work up the nerve to go see the man while trying desperately not to hurl.

Leslie: Leslie had made a point to distance himself from Meg during the ordeal. It wasn't his place to speak up and interrupt the whirlwind of emotion to process between herself and her son. Refusing to influence how she felt about the supernatural simply because he was a part of it. Instead, he busied himself by updating his passport, learning key phrases and possible responses in Spanish. An easy feat, thanks be to his fluency in Portuguese.

Something for them to practice together. His version of healthy distraction. But now they were in Mexico. First time. He wanted to sample local cuisine. Browse local markets. Something to occupy himself further. Give them something other than their reason for being here.

But they couldn't avoid reality for long. Leslie wouldn't allow it.

First, he would gently throw his pillow at Tristan's back.

"You're slowly pulling a Band-Aid."

Tristan: Tristan startled far more than a soft pillow warranted, providing evidence enough of how far his mind was wandering.

More than anything he wished they were here just for pleasure. An actual vacation was so much better than this.

He sighed and held it on his lap. “Worried I’ll see my breakfast again if I rip it off. Can’t seem to make myself move either. It’s like I’m glued to this chair.”

Leslie: "You can't walk backwards from this. You can mourn what was, but you can't go back, baby. I'm sorry you have a shitty father, but you don't have a shitty life."

Tristan: He shook his head. “No. I don’t have a shitty life. I have a damn good one. I’ve got a mama that did her best to raise me right. I’ve got a roof over my head and a job I enjoy.”

He stood and walked over to Leslie. “And the man I love and I have got two beautiful little girls. That’s a damn good life, and I’m proud of it.”

Leslie: "Then there's nothing he can say or do that'll change that. You already know the man he is. There'll be no surprises. We just need a few answers."

Tristan: Tristan shook his head. “Nothing he can say or do will change that,” he repeated in an effort to reassure himself. Knowing what he had and that whatever happened today wouldn't change it did make him feel better, but the dread was still there.

“I know what kind of man he is but not the man himself. He made sure of that when he took off and if we’re being honest, I don’t really want to know him. I’ve got a parent. I just want answers.”

Leslie: "Then that's what we're walking into. With that, there's nothing to be disappointed in. Your mother is waiting for you in Edenton."

Leslie leaned back, taking Tristan with him.

"Can always be tomorrow. Rip the band-aid off, or sex and food market."

Tristan: Although he nodded and smiled, there wasn't a doubt in Tristan's mind that there could still be very much to be disappointed in. His father could refuse to talk. He could've taken off at some point between Dakota's investigation and their arrival. He could take off the moment he saw them and disappear into the sea.

There was so much that could go so very wrong. He hoped it wouldn't, but he couldn't discount it.

Tristan smiled and shook his head for a third time. "Whole point of ripping off a band-aid is to get it over with. Let's go ahead and get it over with. 'Sides, much as I appreciate your confidence in me, I wouldn't be able to get it up right now, sweetheart."

Leslie: "You don't always have to be on top, you know." His smile was tempered. Even the playful nip at Tristan's face was delicately measured.

"Was hoping you'd want to get this over with. Sooner you see him, the sooner you can move to the next step."

Back to their feet, then. One more kiss for the road, cradling Tristan's jaw in both hands.

"Just gonna lock up some things and we'll go."

Tristan: The next step...

Just what the hell was that exactly? Damned if he knew.

He'd take that kiss gladly, promising Leslie another when they'd done what they had to do. He grabbed his bag from the closet and made sure Luke's file was inside, along with all of Dakota's surveillance photos and a few others he'd brought along just in case.

There would be no mistaking the man, and there would be no room for denial once he was found.

"The boat rental place is a ways away. I'll call the front desk so they can get us a taxi." Boat rentals. Another of many jobs related to the water.

Fitting, for a merman.

Leslie: "How's your Spanish?" Leslie asked, hands stuffed into his pockets. His Portuguese would play a crucial role, if Tristan had nothing to go on. Wouldn't be the first time Leslie would have to pretend. Never before in this setting.

Tristan: “Passable. Won’t win any awards but I can get by.”

Tristan called down to the front desk and, not wanting to wait in the room, took Leslie’s hand and led him downstairs.

He had the address of the boat rental place so finding it wouldn’t be a problem. The taxi driver probably thought they were just two more tourists out of many wanting a day out on the water.

Not that Tristan could even be in the water in public anymore. The man they were going to see had made sure of that.

When they arrived, he paid the driver and mumbled a thank you before getting out.

Leslie: Today, Leslie was easily led by the hand. He checked himself yet again for wallet, keys, and phone. He'd never left his passport in a hotel room before, and today was no exception. Perhaps once he mastered a better lock spell for safes.

This was Tristan's turn to lead. No more jokes, no more teasing to coax a smile. His intention to be nothing more than a quiet support beam while Tristan confronted his biological father.

Tristan/Boone: The boat rental shop was a tiny faded blue building with a rusted sign, barely noticeable among the sea of tourists and dozens of other rental places and stalls and shops up and down the road by the docks. A few people stopped to read a second sign with the hourly and day rates, but very few—if any—actually went inside, and no one was coming out.

He’s probably alone.

Tristan stared at the building and swallowed, limbs like jelly and heart beating a tattoo in his chest. This was it. After months of searching and waiting, after years of wondering, he was finally going to set eyes on the man that was his father.

He felt himself take Leslie’s hand and walk forward as if in a daze. He didn’t really feel the doorknob as he turned it or hear the little bell above it chime its welcome. The warmth of Leslie’s hand in his was the only thing confirming that this wasn’t a dream, until he saw him—

A burly man with a strong, bearded face and a mane of salt and pepper hair. This was Gideon Clare Boone.

His father.

The man turned to face them, nodding in greeting. And, gauging them to be American—or maybe Australian—said, “Folks here to rent a boat or some jet skis?”

Leslie: The man looked almost exactly as Leslie had imagined. Tristan, having never laid eyes upon his father, shouldered many similarities. If ever there was debate between nature versus nurture, Leslie knew once and for all the answer was both, slamming together at once.

His instinct was to speak. As much as he didn't want to shield his companion, just a moment longer would do no harm.

"Depends the price," he offered, making no effort to hide his blended accent.

Tristan/Boone: Ah. Gideon nodded to himself. Brits. Figured.

"Won't find better in town." His voice was surprisingly gentle and clear despite its depth. There might have been an accent there, or a combination of them even, but it was too light to distinguish. "How long are ya'll here for? I can offer you a weekly rate if--"

"Are you Gideon Boone?"

Gideon's easy polite smile froze as he turned to face Tristan, who seemed to have at last found his voice and was fixing the man with a cold stare.

"...Who's asking?" Subtly, he reached beneath the counter.

Leslie: Leslie took a single step backwards, his angle towards Gideon Boone somewhat sideways. It was a strategic and defensive stance, though his expression remained calm. His right hand, furthest from view, had become warm with Quintessence, index finger slowly circling, pointed at the floor. A gust spell in his arsenal, though the concern now was whether or not he could complete the ritual before something happened.

Tristan/Boone: Fortunately for him, Tristan had seen enough movies and had spent enough nights drinking in Charlie Brandt's sketchy dive to recognize what that little gesture meant.

Unfortunately for Gideon Boone, rather than have the intended intimidating effect, it just pissed Tristan right the hell off.

"What?" he sneered, nodding towards the counter. "You gonna shoot your own son?"

The question hit Boone like a bucket of ice water.

He froze once again, taking a minute to fully, properly look the guy over. When he'd been asked for by name he'd expected a debt collector or a bounty hunter or a pissed off jilted husband who'd joined forces with another pissed off jilted husband to confront him, but a son? His son?

Boone paled, and Tristan noticed.

"Coming back to you now, ain't it?" He left the comfort of Leslie's side and took a step closer. "'Bout forty years ago, Kitty Hawk? Woman with wavy blonde hair? Taught high school? Is it all coming back?"

"Now, wait--"

Another step. "Her name was Megan. Told you she was going to have your baby and you took off. Called, wrote, went to your place, you were nowhere to be fucking found."

"Look, man, you've got the wrong--"

"But before you took off like the dickless fucking coward you are, you forgot to tell her that the baby she was carrying was a fucking merman!"

Tristan dunked his arm in the fish tank on the counter and pulled it out again, revealing the shimmering iridescent scales on his skin. Some of the water that had splashed landed on Gideon's skin and had the exact same effect. Even their color was the same.

"Gonna tell me I have the wrong guy again?"

Leslie: There was a lot to take in. The shouting, body language, nuance of expression - but his world revolved around Boone. He had all the time in the world to discuss and comfort Tristan; not if the man was dead. One wrong move and his spell would throw his intended through the tattered excuse of a wall.

But, at least for the moment, he didn't seem required. Tristan had this planned, at least in appearance. Must have gone over his speech a hundred times, or perhaps an outline. Whatever had been prepared now felt like a burst dam, and well deserved.

For his part, he remained a statue.

Tristan/Boone: Boone had enough experience with debt collectors, bounty hunters, and pissed off husbands to be able to tell who was a real threat and who was more bark than bite. This guy? His--fuck, his son--absolutely did not fall into the second category. He was taking a swing if he got the chance.

There was a tiny part of him that was just a little bit proud of that. The part that wasn't looking to get decked.

The rest of his parts were trying to think on the fly. Even if he had wanted to deny anything or hide his skin, it was impossible. He'd been caught off guard.

"All right all right all right, look." Boone raised his hands defensively. "Why don't we all just caaaaalm the hell down. I'm tryin' to run a business here and I can't have anyone seeing shit they ain't supposed to. Why don't you come back later and--"

Tristan scoffed. "Are you fucking kidding me? You think I'm gonna give you a chance to skip town before I get what I came here for? How stupid do you think I am? We're gonna talk about this now."

He turned and stalked over the door, flipping the lock and the 'open' sign to the side that said 'closed'.

Leslie: Leslie took his eyes off Boone long enough to check for a secondary exit. Anywhere this man might run to slip away. Hell, an open window would probably be enough, if given the opportunity.

He didn't want to dismiss his loaded spell, but neither did he want to allow any chance of escape. The smallest silence was disturbed by a thick pop of his joints. Left hand raised and fingers painfully tense and kinked. A brief chill overwhelmed the room, gone as swiftly as it had appeared. This was all he could do; restraint and a single offensive.

Tristan/Boone: The rental shop was little more than a shack but it was larger than it appeared from the street. There was a beaded curtain back behind the right end of the counter that led to a room that doubled as a living space and office, beyond which there was another door that led to the outside.

Boone, however, wasn't thinking about any of that. He might have, though, if he hadn't felt that momentary chill and a crackle of something in the air that felt distinctly like magic.

It wasn't coming from his son; it was the other guy. Something told him that one would take a lot more than a swing if Boone made one wrong move.

Nothing for it then.

"All right all right, fine. You win. Come around ba--"

"Uh-uh."

Tristan interjected before Boone could take a step, going behind the counter and putting himself between his father and the doorway with the beaded curtain.

"What'd I just say? I'm not giving you a chance to escape out of here, I'm going first."

If there was another door or something back there, Tristan was going to make damn sure his father didn't get anywhere near it.

Leslie: Windows were no longer an option, but there was no need to explain himself. No need to make this man feel any more like a cornered animal. He was primed to strike defensively with any provocation, and while Leslie would not blame him, he also would not allow such action.

The readied fire in his hand, set to explode with a final flick of his fingers, warmed his skin uncomfortably, but still, he said nothing, waiting to follow behind and stand guard in the doorway.

Tristan/Boone: Boone felt more like a man being dragged to the gallows than a cornered animal but it all came down to the same thing. Couldn’t run forever.

“Fine, whatever you say,” he grumbled, following his son into the other room. “Wasn’t gonna try anything, geez.”

There were two doors in the room: one led outside and the other to a bathroom. Tristan locked the outside door and then planted himself in front of it. Boone might say he wouldn’t try anything but Tristan didn’t buy it.

He doubted Leslie did either.

For his part Boone just sighed and shook his head, taking a seat on the small couch against one wall.

“All right, you got me where you want me.” He turned to his son. “What do you want?”

Tristan gave him an incredulous look. “Are you serious? The hell do you think I want?”

Boone turned to the other guy. “Help me out here.”

Leslie: The witch took a breath, refusing the swallow the lump in his throat. It wasn't so unreasonable to give an answer, at least, one suitable to the situation, and the man on the couch.

"Pretend for the next thirty minutes you're Pinocchio. Or truth serum. Whatever gets you through this."

Tristan/Boone: “Yeah, Pinocchio.” Tristan stepped closer. “Except instead of your nose growing, I stick a fishing lure under your fingernails every time you tell a lie.”

Again Boone looked between them. It was almost as though he were watching some sort of deranged tennis match.

“Is he serious—are you serious?”

Leslie: Leslie looked at his beloved, doing his very best not to seem concerned in front of Boone. Not to give anything away and cause vulnerability. Never in a hundred years would he have expected those words out of that mouth. But this was his man. There would be no contradicting.

"You'll not find out if you just comply."

Tristan/Boone: Tempting as it was to keep his mouth shut, Boone knew when he was beat. He wasn't entirely sure if his son was the type to actually carry through a threat like that but the look in his eyes was tipping the scales toward 'yes' even if the other guy didn't look too sure.

"Fine, fine!" Boone raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Ask away. What do you wanna know?"

Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. "For starters, I wanna know how the hell I managed to live nearly thirty-nine years of my life without knowing what the fuck I am."

"Thirty-nine?" Boone repeated incredulously, regarding his son with utter shock and turning to the other guy for confirmation. "You're thirty-nine?"

Tristan scoffed. "What, didn't realize it had been nearly four goddamn decades since you walked out on my mother?"

Leslie: Hearing his age always startled Leslie as well but for a different reason. The man before him was strong, quick-witted, youthful. A year older. Perhaps two. Seven and a half years seemed too many.

It wasn't his place to say anything. No intervening. Nothing until Boone made an inappropriate move. His role was silence, if not intimidation. Tristan had plenty and to spare.

Tristan/Boone: No he damn well had not. Time was a son of a bitch.

"Fuck me running," Boone muttered, crossing the room before either of them could stop him. There was a bottle of tequila in his desk and he was going to take a swig or three whether they liked it or not. He needed it.

Thirty-nine years since Meg had come to him to tell him she was pregnant. Thirty-nine years since he'd packed up his shit and put Kitty Hawk in his rearview mirror. Thirty-nine years since he'd snuck into Meg's hospital room and seen that tiny little thing sleeping in a basinet beside his mother.

Thirty-nine goddamn fucking years.

"I'm waiting, Boone."

Boone turned to look at his son, at the tiny little thing who had grown into the pissed off man who was staring back at him. He took another swig of tequila.

"I hid it. When you were born...I went back to Kitty Hawk and..." Boone gestured vaguely.

"You hid it. What does that even mean? Did you take my abilities? Did you put a spell on me?"

Boone nodded.

Leslie: To the Wyld and Wyrm, he wanted to say something. Ask questions. Tristan would get to the question eventually. More like a statement. It must have already been on his mind. Boone knew this would happen. One day his son would appear, his abilities realized. Why bother delaying the inevitable?

Tristan/Boone: "Why?"

"So you wouldn't--fucking know! So Meg wouldn't know!"

"Don't you think at that point it was too little too fucking late?!" Tristan shouted. "You let her get pregnant!"

"That wasn't supposed--!"

"You let her get pregnant and you didn't tell her!"

"How the hell could I? You think it's easy to just tell people th--"

"No, I fucking don't, which is why it makes even less sense to me that you'd let me happen in the first place!"

Boone had no answer to that. He just drank more tequila.

Tristan shook his head in disgust. "If you were so goddamn worried about her knowing you should've done something about it when she was in time to get rid of me, not when I was already fucking born!"

Tristan unlocked the backdoor and threw it open, letting it slam shut as he stormed outside.

Leslie: Too late to realize his shoulders had tensed. Raised, even, without knowing. Shouting such as this was new to him, and made obvious by the quiet shock and confusion in his eyes.

Too many thoughts to organize, too many raw feelings he needed to process. What Tristan had said... he couldn't allow those statements to affect him.

The silence could only stretch for so long.

"Meg... is very open-minded," he said, gently. "You had to know that. Know she would do anything for her son. You... lost something you didn't have to."

Boone: "You're wrong." Boone was staring a hole into the wall. His voice had lost some of its energy, some of its fight. It was like the past forty years were hitting him all at once.

"All I did was let go of something that wasn't meant for me to begin with. I knew I wasn't cut out to have a kid. White picket fence and a station wagon and little league games weren't something I wanted."

Leslie: "He's a fisherman. He plays soccer on weekends. I told him what I am and he just... kept on as though I told him the weather. You ran away because of a picture that didn't have to be the picture. Is that all? Is that what all of your kind do? That's not Tristan."

Boone: A fisherman. That figured. The physical manifestations of what his son was may have been hidden with magic but, like love and poverty, there were some things you just couldn't hide. A merman was always going to yearn for the sea, even if he didn't know what he was.

But that wasn't what made Boone forfeit his staring contest with the wall and turn to look at the man he was speaking with.

"Is that his name? Tristan?"

Leslie: Leslie couldn't help but straighten as he was turned to. Despite all of his conflicting feelings, the man was older, and upon the pressing subject, an authority.

"You... You didn't even know his name? How could you just... "

Boone: "There was a little card with his name on it stuck to his bassinet in the hospital. Didn't bother to read it."

Boone returned to the couch with the bottle. "Didn't see the point in knowing the name of a kid I was never gonna see again. Just did what I went there to do and got out. How's that for father of the year, huh?"

He scoffed, drank again. "Still think I should've stuck around?"

Leslie: "A better version of you." There was no bite behind his words. On the contrary. Without intention, there was something almost childlike. His disbelief bordered on innocent. He had seen things, done terrible things, and still had the capacity to be astonished.

"But, if you were able to - you had to know this would happen."

Boone: "Ha! There ain't no better version, sport." Boone gestured sarcastically at himself. "This is it." The only version of him there was, and the only version he cared to be.

He shrugged. "The thought probably occurred to me at some point, couldn't say for sure."

Leslie: His eyes lowered to Boone's feet. The man didn't deserve eye contact.

"Merman, is that what you're called? I saw other names. We didn't know which... was correct."

Boone: Boone nodded as he drank again. At the pace he was going, he was well on his way to drunk.

Couldn’t happen soon enough.

“Yep. Merman’s what I’ve always used. There’s a few other things out there like me but they’re not exactly the same. There’s more to them. Me, I’m just straightforward half-man, half-fish.”

Leslie: Tristan needed his moment. Leslie would fill in the blanks in between. However long that would take.

"With a tail? Because he - when it happened, he just... nearly died. I want to know more."

Boone: “With a tail,” he confirmed with another nod. “And gills. He not have gills?”

Leslie: "That's all he had. And some - some scales."

Boone: “He still not have a tail?”

Leslie: "Took a while. A lot of patience, but, yes, he has one."

Boone: “Took a while, huh…” And he’d said that the first time, there had been only scales and gills. The magic hadn’t broken all at once, it had worn off gradually.

He shook his head. “Should’ve been permanent. I could deck that asshole magician.”

Leslie: "Could have been intentional," the witch nearly scoffed, "or he felt slighted."

Boone: “What right did he have to feel slighted? I should feel slighted, that little trick cost me fifteen grand.”

Leslie: "That's all?" said with offense in his tone.

Boone: “That’s not enough for you? Know how much money that was back then?”

Boone shook his head and emptied the bottle. There was another one here somewhere…

Leslie: The chill in his hand dissipated, but the fire ready to ignite in his other tingled, becoming uncomfortable to hold. He had to let the spell go, shaking his hand and flexing his fingers. He could restart on a dime if need be. This man was a disappointment, but he wasn't much of a threat. Not yet.

"To withhold someone from their nature, I don't see that very often. Not from honest, good people. I'd expect the kind of magician you found to be just that. A magician with parlor tricks."

Boone: At this point, Boone was too buzzed to care about the magic he could sense in the air. If this guy or his son wanted to try something let them; Boone just wanted to be drunk first.

“You gonna stand there and judge me now? Pah.” He waved a hand and began his search for more tequila. “I just did what I had to. I did it for Meg, you know.”

Leslie: "Why do you think Meg needed you to do anything?"

Boone: “Look, she wanted to have the kid all right?” Ah, there it was. Boone pulled a fresh bottle of tequila from a cabinet and opened it.

“Should’ve seen her face when she told me she was knocked up, all excited and imagining the station wagon and shit. All I did was make sure the kid turned out normal. I owed her that much, didn’t I? It was supposed to be permanent. She’d get a normal kid and I’d get to keep doing what I’ve always done. Everybody wins.”

Leslie: Leslie's eyes shut, but only for a moment. Still on high alert, he couldn't let his guard down, not with Tristan absent. He could only assume this conversation was between the two of them. Which was why he made no effort to hide the absolute disgust in his voice.

"Frankly, the easy way out never made anyone in this room very happy."

Boone: “The hell difference does it make now anyway?” Boone flopped back on the couch with his bottle, shaking his head all the while.

“He got forty good years, didn’t he? So did Meg. Now he just has to be careful about getting wet, what’s the big deal? Watch, when he shacks up with some girl and decides he wants to continue the species one day, he’ll be singing a different tune. I betcha dollars to donuts when that day comes, he’s gonna show up here again begging for that parlor trick.”

Leslie: Leslie's hands lowered altogether, gently falling to his thighs. His expression fell somewhere between dead and disappointed. There was nothing more in this world he needed than Tristan back in this room. An unwelcome tingle itched his fingertips.

What had been an innocuous voice had darkened, lowered. "Do you know what I am?"

Boone: Boone glanced over at his companion. He’d looked docile enough before but now he was starting to look as pissed as his son.

Just couldn’t fucking win today.

“I can guess,” he sighed, looking away again. “So what are you gonna do, huh? Avenge your buddy? Take a swing at an old man?”

Leslie: "I could castrate you," the witch said simply.

Boone: Now there was a threat Boone had heard before. A couple of times.

“And accomplish what exactly?”

Leslie: "Never doing this to another innocent family again, for starters."

Boone: “Way ahead of you, sport. Been shooting blanks since ‘86.”

Leslie: "You still have a sac."

Tristan/Boone: “So what, you’re gonna tear it off? Gonna tear my dick off, too?”

“There’s an idea.”

Tristan’s voice came just seconds before the back door opened again. With these thin walls, he’d managed to hear the last of what Boone had said.

Leslie: Leslie's chin lowered upon Tristan's return, eyes falling back to Boone's feet where he wanted them.

Tristan/Boone: Boone didn’t bother sitting up or saying anything, and it was just as well.

Tristan was done.

“Come on, Les,” he said softly, holding the door open for his love.

Leslie: His head raised, looking at Tristan questioningly. Only one question: are you certain? To have come all this way, to have left the room for the majority of it, leaving Leslie to ask the questions he probably hadn't heard. Was there nothing else Tristan wanted?

Tristan: Tristan could only give him a nod and a defeated look. Sometime between slamming the door and making the walk back he’d realized that there was no point in trying to have a conversation with his father. It wouldn’t turn back time or undo what had been done.

Coming here was more about needing a face to blame than anything else. Having gotten that didn’t make him feel any better.

Leslie had probably known that all along.

“There’s nothing for us here. Let’s go.”

Leslie: There was nothing that he could say to make this man feel guilt. If he had harbored any, his conscience was clear with forty years of normalcy. Saying they would never think of him again, that they felt sorry for him, nothing would harm this man. Nothing but physical pain, and Leslie couldn't bring himself to do it. Not unless this man raised a hand to the one beside him.

Without another word, he turned away.

Tristan/Boone: They almost made it. They’d decided to leave, to walk away from this place and this situation.

But Boone just couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“So that’s it, huh? Came alllll this way, went through alllll the trouble of tracking your old man down, and now you’re just gonna leave? Lemme tell you something.”

Boone took a huge swig of tequila and staggered to his feet, swaying as he pointed the bottle at Tristan and Leslie.

“I did you a favor. I gave you forty years where you didn’t have to worry about a goddamn fuckin’ thing and now here you are throwing it in my face. Think you would’ve gotten that without me? Ha!”

Another swig. “You get to stand there now because I made you normal. You got a chance because I gave it to you and the second you realize that and decide to put a couple brats in some girl you’re gonna come dragging your ass back here, begging me for the spell I used on you and I’ll tell you right now, it’s going to cost you a hell of a lot more than fifteen gra—”

Tristan’s fist would cut off the rest of whatever Boone had to say.

Leslie: Nonsense said only in his presence. There was no sense bringing this up again. Nothing but malice. Leslie would do nothing to stop him. Perhaps he would regret Tristan's catharsis in an hour, but in the moment, he did nothing but remain still, and quiet, and wait for Boone to rub his jaw before taking a breath.

"He has two perfect daughters, and there'll be no begging. I promise you."

Tristan/Boone: He was too drunk to see it coming but he wouldn’t take it personally. He’d been expecting the swing from the get-go. They were even now.

“I don’t swing that way anyway,” Tristan muttered, taking Leslie’s hand and leading him away.

It took a second for Boone’s inebriated brain to catch what Tristan had said and once he did, he scoffed.

“So much for normal then, eh?” he called after them, cackling. “Can’t blame that one on me, sonny boy! That one’s all Meg!”

The mocking laughter would follow them until they got a good ways away from the shop, at which point they would be passed by a national guard truck heading the way they’d come from.

Leslie: It was now that Leslie felt shame. He hadn't expected Tristan to take his hand, to make any indication of their relationship beyond a pissed-off friend. Just another needle in Tristan's spine, another laugh.

He squeezed his boyfriend's hand.

Tristan: Tristan squeezed back. The reaction hadn’t surprised him.

Why wouldn’t his father be a homophobic asshole on top of everything else?

“You okay?”

Leslie: "Don't ever say that again. Don't ever act like you wish you were never born. I never want to hear that again."

Tristan: He stopped, turning to Leslie and feeling a moment's confusion until he remembered what he'd said to Boone and realized how it must have sounded.

Tristan took Leslie's other hand and brought both to his lips. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Leslie: "I don't... want to talk about it here." He had brought it up, but he realized too late if they continued he'd shout, or fight tears.

Tristan: "Wanna go back to the hotel?"

Leslie: "Yes." All of this was for Tristan. There was nothing here he wanted.

Tristan: "Okay." He kissed Leslie's hands again and looked around for a taxi to hail.

They'd go back to the hotel, they'd talk, they'd have a nice meal later. Then, if Leslie wanted, they could go back home. They'd done what they'd come here to do.