#like say there's salt and pepper shakers that are labeled

[roseofhybrids]

you know what would be fun?

A puzzle game where you're given a bunch of different objects, magazines, books, food labels, et cetera, all with a made up language on them. Then, with just the objects you're given, you have to decipher how to read the conlang your only clues come from the pictures and contents of the items

say for example, the game gives you two cans they're different brands, but two of the words on the front of them match the game lets you open the cans, and inside you find that both are filled with tomato soup ergo, you can conclude that the shared words mean "tomato soup"

then you can take another can, this one only shares one word and is filled with vegetable soup. Therefore, that single word that all three cans share must mean "soup" and by process of elimination the other word means "tomato"

and the idea is you keep doing this with different words till you can fully translate everything

[snickerdoodlles]

Very Important Question about Vegas's Youtube era: how colorful is his cookware? Did Macau and Chay get him pink and green pineapple patterned mini-muffin trays?

Vegas's kitchen is so colorful. his kitchen looks like a cute kitchen pinterest board threw up all over it. nobody can tell if his aesthetic is retro or industrial or countryside or what, because it's this eclectic mishmash of individually cute instagram worthy things thrown together in a way that almost works but doesn't, because a proper pinterest board is always a hot fucking mess when taken in its entirety.

it first begins with items of whimsy. Macau shows Vegas a picture of a dinosaur ladle, Vegas says "what the fuck is that? father would never allow for those" and that alone manifests 12 of them in his shopping cart. feels very weird about it when they arrive and banishes the box of them to the forgotten corner of a cupboard. then Macau buys Pete his first pineapple jar. and like. it's a pineapple. that's all it is. Pete sticks it in Vegas's kitchen and Vegas is stuck staring at a ceramic pineapple that just looks like a pineapple, unable to figure out why it feels weird. Macau gets Pete a second pineapple jar, except this time it's also an owl face, and Vegas can't figure out why he wishes he was looking at that one instead of the regular pineapple one. he wants to hurl both of them at a wall so hard they leave a dent as they shatter. he wants to put them in a window where they'll be framed as the sun rises on them. he buys a spatula with a bee pattern on a whim all by himself and is so on edge about it for the next two weeks he whips welts onto (a very happy) Pete's back.

over the course of time, all of Vegas's kitchen supplies become items you'd expect to find on pinterest. bird salt and pepper shakers. cutely bland patterned jars labeled COFFEE and TEA. an industrial chic spice rack that sits under his cottagecore herb wall. highly specialized mini pans that make foods in special shapes. so many pastel pots and pans. at first Vegas is always saying stuff like "someone got that for me" or "my father would hate it." but it's not about that. later he's defiantly indifferent and daring about owning them at all. but it's not really about any of that either. it's really just...Vegas letting himself have cute things. things that would be called ~girly~ or ~ruin~ his image. there's actually several items he's just neutral about (like the soft pastel colors--not really his thing tbh! but a good pot is a good pot) or even sometimes dislikes (mini muffin trays = yay!, mini pans that only cook one(1) thing = frustration)-- but like. Vegas is allowed to have them. he's even fine to like them if he wants to. it doesn't matter that he has them. the image they paint of him doesn't matter. and that feeling of just owning cutesy, whimsical, or downright weird kitchen shit as he pleases without it being anything else is its own high for Vegas and his traumas ❤

[machihunnicutt]

HELLO!!! 14 or 21, if either of those speak to you???

HELLO!!! Loved both of these...tried to incorporate both:

14. being calmed by the familiar feeling of the other's body molding into theirs & 21. cuddles without doing anything else even though they have a bunch of things to do

“Are you hiding out in here?” BJ said. 

Hawkeye was sprawled, arms and legs out like a starfish, on their bed. He was wearing a pair of borrowed (stolen) running shorts, a sweaty t-shirt, and his tennis shoes, which were hanging off of the mattress. 

He poked his head up to look at BJ, standing in the doorway. 

“I don’t know where she gets all that energy from,” Hawkeye said: hushed, as if Erin could hear downstairs. 

She had the radio on, full blast, and just before BJ wandered off in search of Hawk, she’d been reorganizing the piles of toys she was keeping and the toys she was labeling with a rainbow assortment of price stickers, for the garage sale.

“She’s 13,” BJ said. 

“She accused me of being a hoarder,” Hawkeye said. 

“She’s going through a minimalist phase. It’ll pass,” BJ said.

Peg had enlisted Erin’s help in her spring cleaning endeavors, which had culminated in Erin’s first Mill Valley garage sale. Erin was always eager to assist, particularly with projects that allowed her to organize things or order people around. She liked taking money and making change. She liked selling fresh squeezed, super sour, best in town (her words) lemonade and making bargains and trades with her old baby dolls and jump ropes and clothes she’d outgrown. 

When they’d picked her up at the airport, for her summer visit, she’d recounted her escapades as a young entrepreneur and organizational savant with such animation, that BJ had agreed to let her host another sale at their house in Maine. He hadn’t thought about how much stuff they had and how many boxes and trash bags and superfluous pieces of furniture Erin would want to drag out onto the lawn and pepper with price tags.

Hawk wiggled to the right and patted the space beside him.

“You don’t think I’m a hoarder, do you?” Hawkeye said, as BJ stretched out beside him.

Hawkeye rolled on his side and pressed up against him, slinging one arm over BJ’s chest. He was warm, and still a little breathless. They fit together the way they always did: Hawkeye’s stomach flush with BJ’s ribs, his ankle hooked around BJ’s, his chin tucked over BJ’s shoulder, his eyes closed, and his nose pressed to the side of BJ’s neck. 

“I think you—have an exceptional eye for knick knacks,” BJ said.

“Useless knick knacks, that I hoard,” Hawkeye said.

“Don’t blame yourself. Knick knacks aren’t known for their utility,” BJ said.

Hawkeye laughed. This, too, was familiar: the buzzing, exultant, vibration of the sound. BJ laughed too, at his own joke. It was a chain reaction. It always was, when they were lying like this.

“Those salt and pepper shakers shaped like teddy bears are useful, and charming,” Hawkeye said.

They’d found them antiquing. Hawk said they reminded him of Radar. He’d carried them around the shop for half an hour, while they’d browsed. 

“Don’t tell me she wants to get rid of those,” BJ said.

Hawkeye pressed closer and kissed the underside of BJ’s jaw.

“She’s still working on the living room. I steered her away from the kitchen while you were going through all the crap in the garage,” he said.

“Oh, so the kitchen’s got all the treasures and the garage is full of my crap?” BJ said.

“Our crap,” Hawkeye said.

“Our crap,” BJ said, grinning. 

He could hear Erin downstairs, singing along to a Buddy Holly song at the top of her lungs. She’d wear herself out soon, he knew, and ask if they could go out for ice cream.

“I can talk to her, get her to tone it down a little. She gets very passionate about her projects,” BJ said.

“I love that about her. She gets that from you,” Hawkeye muttered: drowsy, muffled against BJ’s collarbone.

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t let her talk you into parting with things you don’t want to part with. She’s a reasonable kid,” BJ said.

A long pause. 

“Hawk? You awake?”

Hawkeye hummed. BJ looked down at the top of his head. He studied the sweat-damp tangle of his dark hair, streaked with silver. 

“A little decluttering is probably a good thing. I don’t have to hang onto everything for dear life anymore,” Hawkeye said. He relaxed his grip around BJ’s middle.

“That’s true. We’re sticking together, you and I. So’s our stuff,” BJ said.

“Our stuff,” Hawkeye said. He tipped his head back and looked up at BJ. “I like that it’s our stuff,” he said, voice soft.

There had been a time when there were very few objects by which BJ could remember Hawkeye. There had been a time when they were across the country from each other, and everything that belonged to the both of them, together, was stuffed in BJ’s old army trunk, under his bed, collecting dust. There had been a time when Hawk had very little of him: a shoebox full of letters, a couple fading photos, mismatched socks that had never been traded back. 

“So do I,” BJ said.

“Maybe we can introduce Erin to the joys of patronizing other people’s garage sales,” Hawkeye said.

“Peg will have my head if we send her home with an extra bag of nonsense,” BJ said.

“She can keep it here,” Hawkeye said.

“What about decluttering?” BJ said.

Hawkeye exhaled, with extra drama. “Everyone’s a critic,” he said.

“We should get up. We’ve got things to do,” BJ said.

Hawkeye kissed him, long and lazy.

“I’m plenty busy,” he said.

The volume of the music downstairs lowered, fractionally.

“Dad?” Erin called.

“Yeah, bug?” BJ said.

“I’m out of orange stickers,” she said.

“She’s out of orange stickers, Beej,” Hawkeye repeated, gravely.

“Maybe it’s time for an ice cream break,” BJ said.

Hawkeye sat up. His hair was mussed and his face was pink. He stretched, languidly, and yawned. BJ missed the sensation of Hawk’s skin against his.

He pressed his palm to BJ’s knee and squeezed. Sometimes BJ thought Hawk could read his mind. Maybe the feeling went both ways.

“Inspired idea,” Hawk said.

[recurringwriter]

oc smash or pass

tagged by @omgkalyppso! not sure who to tag so if you have an oc who uses a sword consider yourself tagged.

Rules: Include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. The “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idk).

BAYARD AND LEAL

picrew here

QUICK FACTS

PACKAGE DEAL

sure bay is married and not to leal but leal is like part of the partnership. they're red/green cavalier type shit

Age: older than rodrigue by 4 or so years

Gender: both are masc

Pronouns: he/him for each

Sexuality: some flavour of queer idk. trust the vibes

PROS: LOYAL*. Knightly! Muscular. Willing to Shield You With Their Bodies. what Bay lacks in social skills Leal makes up for in earnest charm. what Leal lacks in common sense Bay makes up for in practical thinking!

*loyalty is to rodrigue

CONS: Bayard does not know what a flirting is. Leal has nervous energy. Both have done risky things that endanger their own lives. Bay would probably be willing to endanger your life. Leal would not. Sometimes they bicker.

DETAILS:

they are great knights in the sense that they are armoured knights with BIG SHIELDS on horses. they are longtime friends and autistic/adhd solidarity at its finest. ketchup and mustard. novelty salt and pepper shakers. they are great knights in the sense that knights are great. they are good with their swords in the sense that. swords. you know what i'm saying. you know what i'm saying.

[ciaossu-imagines]

I have so, so incredibly many polyships within KHR! I’ve been lucky enough to write for a couple of them on this blog but couldn’t resist writing for more! I let the wheel pick for me because I just couldn’t choose myself, used this prompt here, and hope you guys will enjoy these Gokudera/Reader/Yamamoto polyship headcanons!

Who accidentally pushes a door instead of pulling/vice versa?

Okay, but I feel like, while almost everyone assumes Yamamoto would do this, Gokudera actually does it more often and gets really upset and embarrassed whenever it happens. Like, so flustered that he’ll just walk away from the door in shame and not go into the store or building if he can help it because he doesn’t want to have to face someone who just saw him do that.

Who doodles little hearts all over the desk with their initials inside them?

This one would have to be you. Gokudera thinks those things are kind of weird and tacky and too cutesy to do that (of course, that’s being said by the boy who definitely came up with a secret language and taught it to you and then, begrudgingly, to Yamamoto just so the three of you could have your own way to communicate without anyone else knowing what was being said). Yamamoto doesn’t really vandalize anything; he’s just too sweet to do that.

Who starts the tickle fights?

Yamamoto would love a partner who is ticklish. He loves hearing your laughter and seeing you smile and, if you are ticklish, he’ll get into tickle fights on your worst days, making you laugh and smile even when you think you can’t. He never takes it too far though and when you say stop, he always does. Gokudera is ticklish himself, but whoever tries to tickle him is either getting a foot or a fist to the face, thank you very much. Because tickling is agony to him, he won’t tickle a partner.

Who starts the pillow fights?

Both Yamamoto and Gokudera do! Yamamoto starts them with the intent of it being fun and goofy but, as with throwing anything, it’s probably best if you hit the floor when he tosses a pillow at you or find a solid surface to hide behind while retaliating! Gokudera never means to start pillow fights, but he does have a bad habit of chucking things around when annoyed and he’ll absentmindly toss a pillow at you or Yamamoto, since he knows the soft projectile won’t hurt, when he gets super annoyed with either of you. This often leads to pillow fights, though it’s never his intentions…but he’s over whatever annoyed him by the end of it.

Who falls asleep last, watching the other with a small affectionate smile?

Gokudera is a night owl. He falls asleep late, normally around one or two in the morning at the earliest and normally a bit later, especially around the changing of the seasons. While he normally uses this as alone time, he might head into bed, if you’re in the bed with him, just to lay there and be with you, watching you sleep and feeling just really comfortable and relaxed in those quiet moments.

Who mistakes salt for sugar?

It’s you or Gokudera. Not usually Gokudera though – his salt is in a box that’s clearly labelled because he hasn’t really found any salt and pepper shakers that he feels he really needs or that look too cool to pass on. Yamamoto always checks because of an unfortunate incident as a kid when he tried to cook for his father for the first time.

Who lets the microwave play the loud beeping sound at 1 a.m. in the morning?

Oh good lord, it’s Gokudera. Gokudera so hard and he just really doesn’t get the issue with it. No matter how many times it’s explained to him or how much he’s told that it pisses you off, it’s always that small thing he completely forgets about.

Who comes up with cheesy pick-up lines?

I feel like Gokudera did this at the beginning of the relationship, just because he’s so inexperienced and easily flustered by anything romantic. It also probably doesn’t help that, starting out, he kind of took his romantic advice from Shamal. The fact that his ‘smooth’ lines normally cracked you up instead of made you swoon made him stop using them pretty damn quickly, though.

Who rearranges the bookshelf in alphabetical order?

It’s not alphabetical order. It’s numeric order, based on publication date for books and release date for movies, music, and games. Gokudera’s mind just works best that way, it’s how he likes them, and he will start reorganizing other people’s things that way too if he spends enough time in their space.

Who licks the spoon when they’re baking brownies?

Gokudera is nowhere to be seen when baking brownies. He wants no part in that, largely thanks to the trauma he has around baking due to Bianchi. Yamamoto doesn’t like the texture of raw batter, so the spoon is always yours.

Who buys candles for dinners even though there’s no special occasion?

I feel like this is another romantic gesture suggested by movies and books and Shamal that Gokudera pulls out to try to be smooth. It works out a lot better than the pick-up lines.

Who draws little tattoos on the other with a pen?

It would have to be you. Gokudera tried it once but to say he’s not gifted artistically is an understatement and you were glad to wash it off. Even he admitted it wasn’t that great. Yamamoto doesn’t really see the point and he prefers not to mark on you or Gokudera or to have fake tattoos on him. Gokudera though – please feel free to draw fake tattoos all over him, especially if you’re artistic, because the man would love it and might even make some of your art permanent.

Who comes home with a new souvenir magnet every time they go on vacation?

While it’s probably not magnets unless you specifically request them, I feel like both of these men are honestly really good about remembering to get souvenirs from anywhere they travel, even if it’s just a couple towns away, not just for their friends and family but also for your household and for you.

Who convinces the other to fill out those couple surveys in the back of magazines?

I feel like Yamamoto is easiest to convince to do them and will humour you or Gokudera if either of you are doing them, but Gokudera would take them more seriously, even as he tsks and pretends he thinks that they’re stupid.

[timtrent]

The Live of my time

It was 1985 when it happened with Dr.Finkelstein.

    * * *

First I have to start in New York when I met Louis. We met on September 21, 1980. It was 9 days before my 21stbirthday. We met at a sex club in the meatpacking district called the Mineshaft. It was a very famous underground sex club at the time. It was the kind of club that men did not have takes off their clothes and there were lots of dark places to have sex with you clothes half-off. And they had ver. strict rules about what to wear, denim and leather, no dress pants, (once I had to go home and change clothes), no colognes, and no Le Costae shirts.  Nothing feminine or commercial labeled, except for maybe Harley Davidson. It was a three story club right in the heart of the district with dark cavernous wall a bar on the first floor a basement full of closet sized rooms, rooms with glory holes and a big center room with two three empty bathtubs (don’t ask me). 

“They are going to eat you alive.” The big burly guy in the flannel shirt at the front door said.

I went up to the bar and ordered a bud in a bottle. . I fooled around a little with a couple of guys. And then made the decent to the basement. It was dark and spooky like a kid’s spook house, but it was a sex spook hose. Guys glided by me shirtless, groping my groin and feeling my butt, I pushed my way thru the night of the living sexy dead and made my way to corner where thru the dim light coming from the staircase I could see what was going on. Men where having sex with each other mostly standing up on their knees., men were making out with poppers such up their noses and other guys were trying to join in with other guys having sex.

It was debauchery. It was so wrong. And yet it was so right for the time. It September was 1980 after all. 

I saw him standing in an abandoned closest with no door. He was just standing there. Well I think he was smoking a joint.  Our eyes locked. I moved closer to him and joined him in the hollowed out closet. We started making out heavy. And he reached for my belt buckle and undid my jeans. He gave me a blowjob right here. He came up and whispered in my year. “I do whatever you want,” He said.

OK” I whisper back just keep sucking.”

He sucked I came. I pulled up my pants ready to move on when our eyes locked again.

“Would you come my place I got some great pot?”

“Uh,” I said I just came and all wanted was to home. But there was something about him. I could barely see him but what the hell I was attracted t something and it wasn’t just his blowjob.

When we got out on the street it was raining and we hurried into a cab, which was one lined up around the block all these cabs knew of this underground place.  

“22nd between 7th and 8th.” He barked at the cab driver. I stared at him as he held my hand. He was dark. (I later found out he was Greek Armenian) He looked like a crow with slicked back rich black hair and the beak to go with it. He had a slightly pocked marked face, which let to him handsomeness. Some of his friend who always say he looked like Robert DeNiro although I never saw the resemblance. Nevertheless he was a catch. 

We entered his small railroad flat on the ground floor of the 20-unit tenement. He place was all done up like the 30’s and 40’s he had a cabinets full of all kinds of chochkees, every type of salt and pepper shaker that was made. Dice, ballerinas, dogs, cats you name it he had it. He had his apartment painted this Miami Pink color and I would usually think pink was a little much but, he make it work. He green and pink abstract drapes. Don’t get me wrong this was no faggy decorated place. This guy had class. And the place was beautiful.

So he smoked some more joints had some more sex and I spend the night. I was off in the morning to get back to my apartment I shared with my sister and her two lesbian lovers in Park Slope, Brooklyn. They were used to my sexual exploits and weren’t surprised by me staying out all night.

Just as I was getting dressed Louis asked if I wanted to come back tonight and have dinner. 

“Ok, sure, that would be nice. I answered.

He handed me a piece of torn paper.

“Here’s my address and my phone”

The next night I took the F train all the way from Brooklyn, which made allot of stops before arriving at 23rd and 6th. I could have chosen a better faster route but I still a little new to New York having just arrived there in June after by post college 3 month trek across Europe. I was so drowsy from the night before and the long train ride that I almost missed my stop.

I dragged myself up the dirty steps to the exit and walked down 6th to 22nd and then I was going to walk the ½ block or so to his apt for a date.

As I was walking, a big man grasped me from behind in the crux of his forearm, elbow and bicep around my neck. Another man punched me in the gut. 

“Give us your money or you a dead man.” Whispered the man grabbing my throat.

I gave them the $36 00 I had in my pocket.

Then the other guy took off my glasses and broke them and said, “Now where’s the rest you got hidden?”

When he slapped my face I came out of shock and realized I was being mugged! 

“That’s all I have I swear.” I cried out.

“You’re lying. Go down this alley with us come on.” The gripper said. 

I don’t know what happened but I am glad that he slapped me because I became aroused enough to break away from them and run down the street, God knows what they were going to do to me in the alley and I gave them all the money I had. Some people in New York at the time I later learned carried around  “Mugger money” separate from their wallet and would just had it over when they had more money in their billfolds.  I didn’t know that trick.

So I ran down the street, towards Louis’s place. Everything was a blur because I am somewhat nearsighted but I saw a young woman walking down the street toward the direction I had just come from.

“Don’t go down there I just got mugged. There are two black guys down there.” I yelled at her. She was quickly taken aback and stopped dead in her Capezios. 

“Huh?” Is all she could eek out? “Ah yea OK OK . Sure. Sure. She said as she scampered away back from whence she came without an ounce of concern for my well-being.

I rang Louis’s bell frantically. He answered the door all dressed up for a date- a vintage Hawaiian Rayon short sleeve shirt. Khaki pants and Huaraches. 

“Don’t wanna rush the seasons,” He would always say even if it were cold in September. Wait until the official date of each season before you dressed for the next. You had to abide by the Amy Vanderbilt rules of no white after Labor Day, No Velvet after February some etiquette book he tried to abide by. Funny how I still try to stick to that but a scaled down California version.

I broke down at the door sobbing

“I’ve just been mugged!” I cried out.

He took me in and comforted me and we had a little dinner in his dinky railroad with all his vintage kitchenware. It was impressive.  We talked into the night about Europe and languages and acting. Where I was from, what was I doing in New York? I found out he was a florist and a struggling actor. He loved the theatre and had every Playbill from since he saw his first Broadway show at 7. He was from New Jersey, he used to teach High School Drama for 7 years and decided to move to New York and try to be famous. He told me how great studying with Stella Adler and did a few plays and a couple of NYU student films and supported himself by doing flowers for Tavern on the Green and several other restaurants. 

. He gave me culture. I remember I would always take from his bookshelf and an autobiography of Jean Cocteau and read parts of it and relate to it and want to be him. I thought I could never date anyone who didn’t know who Cocteau was and Dada. (Years later I did date a man I though was the love of my life who had no clue of the French Avanti Garden world.)

OK. Here we are and we have sex and he invites me to sleep over. I ended up staying for almost seven years. He used to joke to our friends,            

“He’s the man who came to dinner AND STAYED!” He would cavort this line to anyone who mentioned any interest in how we met. .  Sometimes I thought he thought I still be a nothing living in Brooklyn if he hadn’t taken me under his wing. Truth was I was too afraid to even go outside for a few days after the mugging and we would rush to get a cab to get somewhere. The street scared me for while. Especially at night when we would come home from the theatre.

THAT’S one of the reasons it evolved that I moved in with him (and it being a $300 rent controlled apartment in Chelsea) He was 12 years older than me was 20 he was 32 and some of his friends didn’t approve and I had to earn my way through their dinner parties where at first they looked at me with a kind of wariness.. But I grew on them and age difference-nobody seemed to care. Sometimes people give you a look but it was 1980 and it was on between us.

On May 18, 1981, the New York Native, then America's most influential gay newspaper, published the first newspaper report on the disease that became known as AIDS. We it seemed were at the epicenter of the plague. But we made the most of our little railroad flat (one room goes into another and into another in a straight line) not allot of privacy but we were young, I was way young and he accommodated us and it was real cheap and right in Manhattan.  The sex.  Well, it only happened when he wanted it to. If I initiated it he would start giggling like a little girl. He would fuck me, cum in me, and then suck me off afterwards. That was it. He was a gentleman and always got me a warm washcloth as I sat to wipe the cum off my dick while I sat on the toilet waiting for the cum to void.  So I fucked around on him. I think he was monogamous but not me. I was a rabbit.  Bath houses, Sex Clubs, Back room bars, the Piers, Not Central Park I was too scared for that. But I was a mother fucking sex monger and he supposed just didn’t know it or looked the other way. 

So I started to go to therapy, a guy I tricked with gave me the name of this place called Madison Counseling. It was made up of 4 therapists each with their own patient load but every week they would have a sessions talking about their clients. So it was like having four shrinks helping you fix your problems. 

I wanted to see this woman Joan, who looked like mother earth in Upper East Side Chic but since a patient of hers recommended me already they all agreed that I would be assigned to Betty Zais. Betty looked like James Cagney in drag, She was short with like a English Bulldog build, a nose that looked like it had been scrunched into her face and kind of hunched over shoulders. But she always looked great and dresses in Chanel and wore full makeup, Every time I saw her it was though she had just been shopping and to the hairdresser. She makes the most of her not your normal features and was as darling as a character played by Claudette Colbert. And she started helping me. I didn’t tell her about the constant pot smoking we did back then, but she probably knew. I never told her or showed up stoned, sometimes I wish I did maybe it would make what I go thru now to stay sober easier. 

 After a couple of years of being telling her my problems with Louis, my sexual acting out and my day lying about everything to everyone. She told me it was time to tell my parents that I was gay. 

“No way.” I countered,  “They would disown me and I would never get over it.

For months we discussed it and I finally came around that it was the best thing to do. By now it was 1984 and the world was different then the morals of the 50’s and 60’s that they raised their eight kids with. The seventies kind of tore it all up but they did the best they could to be good Catholics. My father gave up drinking in 1980. My mother went back to work as a Dietian and their kids where all mostly grown and out of the house in Thousand Oaks, California. But how should I tell them? “Mom, Dad I’m gay.” Too much like a TV movie.  We decided on a way to say it that would out me without seeming cliché or dramatic. Some of my siblings knew and my outspoken, demon pot smoker told me=

“NO! They are going to freak out and cut you off. The church doesn’t even accept it and they go once week and they want us all to get married and have grandchildren, and you won’t be able to give them a kiss thinking you might give them AIDS!”

I could see her point but it keep nagging at me. Louis was what 36 now and still never told his parent in New Brunswick, New Jersey. They didn’t need to know. When his mother would call I would answer the phone as if I was a friend dropping by, who happened to and answer his phone!  She was old school New Jersey and wouldn’t even sleep in a hotel because it was not her regular bed. I had this bleak portrait of them eating dinner at the same time talking about the neighbors. I think his father was a Welder.

So Betty Zais and I rehearsed.  Betty would be them. We would switch. They were coming to New York to visit my stodgy Uncle Jerry, her brother who they were staying with on the Upper West Side and my wisecracking wild East Village artist actress, sister Aileen. I got tickets for us to see the Van Gogh Exhibit that was in town at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Aileen wouldn’t go above 14th street so it would just be My Uncle Jerry, Mom and Dad and me. I was to take them thru the show and then tell Uncle Jerry to go that there was something that I had to talk to my parent’s house and they would meet him back at his place on West 75th street.

It was Halloween that day I was 25. The three of them met me on the steps and we went thru the terrific exhibit. My mother got the audio follow along which was the readings placed on the walls next to the paintings’, talking out what was written with some extra commentary but I wanted to go at my own pace. Well I still moved along with the four of us sticking together from the lines of people. 

I came across the section on Gauguin and what an influence he had on Van Gogh when Vincent stayed with him in the tropics. As I was reading it alluded to something along the lines that they were lovers or something?  I saw the look on my mothers face when she heard that part and she stopped her recorder.

“Do you think that’s true what they said about Vincent and Paul being homosexuals?

“I almost blurted it out to her then but the way she said homosexuals stopped me dead its it track. Like they were Satanists who eat small children.

The exhibit was nearing its end and I was a nervous wreck. Finally we got outside to the crisp autumn morning air, which did nothing to snap me out of my anxiety. I feel terrified. 

Luckily Uncle Jerry was out of there first and I told him to go. He left oddly perky. I told them he went home already and I would lead them thru Central Park from the Eastside where the Museum was to the Westside to his place. They seemed ignorantly ok with that. They had no idea what I was going to do.

I was a fast walker and I kept them at a brisk pack thru the National Geographic pictorial of Central Park. My dad was huffing a bit being overweight at the time.

“This is quite the trek!” he exhaled,

“Yea, Tim slow down I got this damn artificial hip.” My Mom exclaimed

OK sorry! I’m just a fast walker.” I told them

But I kept briskly striding,

After about 10 minutes or so I turned around to see them and they were way back.

“Tim, wait we need to sit down.” My Mom yelled to me.

“Sorry you guys, I made my way ½ way back to where they where coming along. 

“Let’s go sit on the bench over there is has a great view.” I coerced.

“OK, just a minute.” My Dad was really out of breath,

“Awe!” My Mom expired catching her breath.

After a few minutes my dad goes,

“They’re having THAT parade downtown today?

I couldn’t answer just nodded and looked at the around. Finally after a couple of beats I stood up before them both on the green winding bench.

Here it goes.

“Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you…” I said shakily

“Is it bad? Mom asked,

“No.” I said unsteadily

There was this long pause and then this voice came out of me so deep, it was not my usual register.  It was like James Earl Jones deep or Fred Munster.

“I’ve been… I’ve been living with a man for the past four years,” I said like a foghorn.

Nothing was said for quite awhile after that pronouncement.

Finally my mother says,  “Are you happy?” But she says it with such forced sincerity its like she does when Grandma’s fruitcake arrives,

“Yes I’m happy,” I say like a new pair of shoes feel.

My dad picks at his nails and zips up his jacket.

“Well we kinda suspected.” My Mom says defeated

“Yeah, guess we knew we just didn’t want it to be true.”  My Dad mumbles out.

“Well everything ok then?” I say ending it.

“Yes!” They both say in quickly oddly in unison.

I walk them back slowly to Jerry’s place and there is an awkward silence but this euphoria is bubbling inside me.

“OK,” I hug them both. “Gotta go, Love You Both. Great seeing you again, Thanks for coming.” I walked down Columbus Ave like a brick had been lifted from my chest.

[bgw57]

bgw57

All Their Stuff

It didn't start with me - saving and hanging on to things. In fact I'd say I was at least a third generation pack rat on both sides of my family. And for this I am very grateful. I mean, it's fun having this stuff. And I think you can see by the volume and variety of it that a sort of family tradition developed, a way of looking at objects and especially documents of our daily lives, wherein collecting and saving them was just the normal thing to do. Ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, aka scrapbook items. Photos of course everyone saves, that is until the generation that doesn't comes along and donates them by the album full to their local thrift store. I volunteer at one, and have adopted a couple of those families, saving them from the dumpster. And we save documents, right? Tax returns, insurance documents, wills, deeds. And salt and pepper shakers.

These are some of the oldest things I have:

My father's mother's baby photo. Besse Grace Moore was born in 1883. There are not a lot of snapshots from the 19th century, which is when all my grandparents were born, although some of my grandmother's studio portraits were pretty candid seeming and casual.

Here she is in 1893, looking very calm and collected at 10. The hat. The ribbon everywhere. The Moores lived in and around Panora, and Guthrie Center, Iowa. I like this next one, which shows more personality that usual for photos of the time, or is that a misconception? Perhaps this is a holdover from the early days of photography - long exposures due to slower film, or plates.

Ah ha! It's from her I inherited my droopy left upper eye lid.

If I had to guess, I'd say the genetic aspect of my struggles with depression was something she and I shared. There's a sadness or loneliness in her expression here that she also hints at in her correspondence (yes, I have a lot of the letters she wrote to my parents). She's often on the verge of throwing a pity party. Ruth, her daughter-in-law, my mom, used to poke fun of Grandma's sadsack-ery, quoting a line supposedly common to her letters, "Thought surely I would hear from you today." I just now realized - I have those letters. I can find out, was my mom just doing Besse schtick?

I would love to hear the conversation around these outfits. Who's idea was it? Was it a local fashion? Did they make them themselves or have them made? I never knew my grandmother to be a seamstress but she died when I was 11, in 1968, so she may have given it up long before. Although again, in her letters and diaries I don't remember her talking about sewing, but there's much I have yet to read. She does go on and on about the gardening, canning, washing, ironing and all the other daily chores of an Iowa farm wife in the first half of the 20th century. Chores and the weather in fact are two of her favorite subjects.

Speaking of farms and farming - though now an old goat, I was once and briefly a goat hill. The buffalo plaid jacket became a thing thanks to the Grumpy Old Men movies. Ugh. As if Minnesota and Minnesotans needed anything more to be cute and smug about - they've now co-opted my grandfather's hunting jacket. That would be Grant Williams, husband to Besse above. I don't remember him as he died when I was just 2.5 but I love having his jacket, complete with a game pocket where you can put your dead animals. Don't worry, the pocket's interior is (or rather was) rubberized so the blood and guts rinse right off. I wish I could find a date and manufacturer but the labels are long gone. When I was a kid, at our house on E-as-in-easy-avenue, this jacket hung by the kitchen door. Someone had painted while wearing it and it was the coat your threw on in cold weather to take out the garbage, or better yet, burn the trash! Outside the picket fence, between it and the alley, was the 50 gallon drum with the to top cut out. It sat on cinder blocks and taking out the trash was definitely not a chore for this young pyromaniac.

One hot dry summer afternoon before I was old enough and Ruth did this chore, a burning phone bill or cast off mailing from RCA Record Club was sent aloft by the hot air above the burning barrel and, landing on a pine shrub, set it ablaze. Luckily, Mrs. A. of the perfect lawn next door, who often surveilled the Williams backyard from her kitchen window as she did the dishes, rushed to Ruth's aid brandishing one of her several garden hoses. That was a summer, for sure.

Compare this to the dark of an Iowa January evening - dark even before dinner, which is saying something when dinner is at 5:30 during Walter Cronkite. Ruth is watching me from our kitchen window. I'm 13 and lighting a fire so I guess it made sense. The barrel by this time is rusted and the bottom is mostly hole. Sometimes you have to tend the fire a bit, it's snowed and that doesn't help. I have a special stick to stir the flames. This trash load includes the contents of the bathroom wastebasket.

Now, I'm not athletic. I'm the last kid picked for every gym class team ever formed. But as I stand there in the snow in Grandpa's hunting jacket, watching the trash burn, I discover a flaming Kotex pad, now ball of fire and fallen through the hole at the bottom, makes the perfect puck to my suddenly hockey stick. It's almost meditative, batting the burning pad around, all sparkled over with red embers and flame on the snowy ground.

When come in for dinner, flushed with cold and pride at doing my chore, I don't know what to say to Mom when, embarrassed and cross, she attempts to scold me for doing something she's too prudish to describe. "That burning paper you were playing with," is as close as she can get. The quickest way out of this unpleasant moment is to deny everything and go wash my hands for supper.

To stretch this cooling off moment just a little further, I weigh myself. 110 pounds. Standing on that very same scale today, dressed, I weigh 159, including the hemp Adidas. Jim and Ruth bought the scale with King Korn stamps, and there is probably a partially filled book of those somewhere in all my stuff, too.

next time on All My Stuff - The Other Williamses

[movertoronto]

7 Cost-Effective Ways to Pack for Your Move

Pack it tight, pack it right, and you can save the tears that come with broken china or ballooning moving costs. These seven cost-effective packing tips from our movers and packers in Toronto will help you pack more into every box and help ensure your possessions make the journey in one piece.

7 Cost-Effective Ways to Pack for Your Move

Take it from an eight-time award-winning packing and moving company, packing right is half the battle! However, packing right does not have to be expensive. These seven tips will help you maximize space, minimize the risk of breakage, and keep moving costs in check.

Don’t Empty Out Your Drawers

Why are you taking things like clothing out of drawers and putting them in boxes when they are already in the perfect place? Leave non-fragile items like clothing, stuffed toys, and the like in drawers to save yourself some truck space (and packing materials).

Leave Clothes on Hangers

Following on from drawers, leaving clothes on hangars is a super-easy way to save yourself effort and space. Just put them in a large garbage bag or a specialized hanging box to prevent wrinkling and let your packing and moving company do the rest.

Use Boxes for the Little Things

Oddly, shaped items (you know, the salt and pepper shakers shaped like a London bus on your dining table) have a habit of taking up a lot of room. They also seem to find a way to get lost. Put everything in one box of “Everything Else” to make sure it says together and doesn’t waste space in other boxes.

Use Your Own Luggage

One of the biggest surprises for our movers and packers in Toronto is when people don’t fill up their own luggage for the move. Instead of transporting air in your suitcases, pack them tight and save money on packing boxes.

Get Packing Materials From a Packing and Moving Services Company

Getting packing supplies (boxes, packing tape, label makers, etc.) from the big box store is probably burning a hole in your wallet. Speak to your packing and moving services company; they likely have far more cost-effective packing materials (and probably specialized packaging, too). You may even get some packing materials free of charge from your Toronto movers.

“Nope, that’s not coming…”

Harden your heart and wave goodbye to items that you don’t need. Moves are a great time to evaluate whether you really need to keep that bright red pair of trousers from college (or pretty much anything else). Be objective and recycle, upcycle, or donate anything you can do without. Doing so will save you space in the truck and packing supplies.

Get Packing Services in Toronto for Fast, Cost-Effective Packing

Save yourself the sweat and tears of packing by calling professional packing services in Toronto. Our customers are always surprised at how efficiently our movers and packers in Toronto can pack things.

  Start Saving on Your Move with Our Movers and Packers in Toronto

Find out how we help individuals, businesses, and some of Canada’s biggest names save money while moving. Get a quote for your move in minutes or talk to our Toronto movers about your move by calling Rent-a-Son at 647-931-2154.

Source:https://rentason.ca/7-cost-effective-ways-to-pack-for-your-move/

[zooophagous]

Found a couple of salt and pepper shakers. They aren't a matched set but they were together in the antique mall so I like to say they found love in a hopeless place. The salt shaker label is pretty faded. Love me some uranium glass.

[rq-described]

hey is it ok if i ask for a bit of advice with writing ids? /gen. i've seen quite a few posts about people over-describing in their ids, and i have a feeling that i do that (i tend to overcomplicate everything i do skdsksjd). what kind of information is unnecessary in an id that i can try to cut out in future? thank you so much!

Hello! It’s totally okay to come to us with questions, we’re always happy to try and help!

To be completely honest this topic is something that a lot of us are still working on. The line between under and over-describing can be a bit hard to place, especially since it differs depending on the piece, and the person using the IDs. It’s impossible to make it perfect for everyone, but here are some tricks we’ve found helpful.

1) Ask yourself what the purpose of the piece is.

Art showing off a character design will have very different priorities than a comic or a meme. A drawing of a character just standing in a cool outfit suggests more in depth descriptions of their design whereas a long action filled comic should center the action or dialogue. Trying to describe characters and actions in the same part when a piece has multiple characters and/or significant action will often bog it down.

For example writing:

"X enters the room. They have blonde hair and pale freckled skin, and they wear a sweater vest over a white collared shirt and a pair of dangly cherry earrings. They are drawn from the waist up. They say to Y, 'What’s up?'"

doesn’t flow as well as writing:

“X enters the room and says to Y, 'What’s up?’”

Understanding the purpose of the piece often means being succinct for the sake of comedic timing, too. Putting the punchline of a comic in the middle of a paragraph of description makes it less impactful than saving it until the end, and breaking up dialogue with several sentences describing a background or outfit means people may lose the thread of the comic.

This doesn’t necessarily mean you can’t describe the character design if you can find a way to significantly shorten the description or include it separately. We’ll go over one possible way of including them in the line breaks section.

2) When dealing with complex settings, backgrounds, or clusters of items, ask yourself what needs to be described individually, and what can be generalized.

Complex and/or cluttered surroundings can get incredibly wordy when describing each component as it’s own thing. If certain components are not individually important to the viewer’s understanding the piece, generalizing or sometimes even leaving them out can significantly cut down on words. For example, writing:

“A mahogany shelf sits above his head. On it sits a blue mug with a spoon sticking out, a ceramic container filled with utensils, and a set of salt and pepper shakers.”

is significantly wordier than writing:

“A shelf holding various utensils and kitchen items sits above his head.”

Sometimes you can bear to cut individual details entirely if they aren’t particularly relevant to understanding the image. For example, if describing a drawing of characters at the beach, and there’s a buoy in the ocean way out in the distance, you probably don’t need to describe it unless it plays an active role in the piece.

3) When describing the appearances of characters, keep in mind what features are important to understanding the artist’s depiction.

Certain aspects of a character’s appearance can say a lot about how the artist wants them to be interpreted. Things like body frame, hair and clothing style, and especially race can vary drastically by artist, and in result change how the character is understood.

Other things like eye color, nose shape, or specific body proportions often do not change the general understanding of the character, and can cause the character description to become bloated. They typically should not be included.

There are certainly exceptions to this however, for example, if a character has unnatural features like glowing eyes or a snout, it changes how the character is meant to be perceived and should be described.

4) Play around with line breaks.

Sometimes pieces are just too complex to avoid having a long description. In order to make sure all important details are included while also including action, consider breaking the description up into chunks. Putting the action first and then writing out the character designs allows the people who want to know what’s going on in the image but don’t particularly care about designs to skip to the next post after the first paragraph, while still providing the descriptions for the people who do.

5) Be aware of what your audience already knows.

When there’s a reasonable expectation that your audience might already know something, it’s okay to use some shorthand. This comes up often when describing memes.

For example, writing:

The Spiderman pointing at himself meme, where one Spiderman is labeled X and the other is labeled Y.

is much more succinct than writing:

A screencap of a cartoon. Two people in identical Spiderman costumes are standing in front of an NYPD vehicle, with one facing away from the viewer and one facing toward the viewer. They are both pointing at each other in identical poses. The Spiderman facing away from the viewer is labeled X in white text. The Spiderman facing toward the viewer is labeled Y in white text.

You’re writing for an audience of Tumblr users, so you can assume most Tumblr users are familiar with the meme. If they aren’t, you’ve given them enough information to look up more about it.

This is also something to consider when describing fanart. Most podcast characters by nature don’t have canonical appearances, so the choice of how to portray a character is often intentional on the part of the artist and something worth paying attention to when considering the purpose of a piece. This isn’t the case for all media, though, and re-describing characters with canonical appearances over and over again isn’t necessary unless those appearances differ significantly from the norm.

-

We hope this was able to help! If anyone sees this and would like to add anything, please feel free to do so, and as always, if you have any more questions, feel free to reach out.

~The Mods

[a-simple-imagine]

An Afterthought pt.2

Synopsis: Maeve shows up on your doorstep one night all sad and what not then leaves. Now it’s your turn to try and make amends. 

Pairing: Queen Maeve x fem!reader

Words: 4.1+

A/N - Did someone call for an angsty part 2 to a story i put out almost a year ago?? I got a fair few requests for this so here it is. I hope you enjoy it sorry if you don’t. request are open btw.

Warning - Swearing, violence and a very brief mention of zombies. 

Part 1 

Thoughts about Maeve are more frequent as of late. What was once just a passing thought as you spotted her face on magazine covers or painted on walls now became bothersome. What exactly had brought her to your doorstep that night? It had just been so unexpected. It left you so painfully curious for answers. There had to be more to the story. Not to mention, you also found yourself missing here once again: more so than before. A deep ache that came from an old forgotten wound that had begun to heal through time. A week had passed before you decided to do something stupid. It's amazing what you can find out online these days.

A bright sun sat high in the sky which left the air dry and you feeling warm. The hustle and bustle of city life was always your least favourite thing about living here and it was even worse today. Crowds of people stand behind a barrier that was maned by a few security guards. Did these people not having anything better to do than gawk at supes all day? You had basically scrubbed the internet to find out where she would be today which lead to a Twitter thread between someone called @MAEVESWIFE and @maelander who were talking about a vought commercial being shot outside the tower today. Queen Maeve and Homelander would both be there. But at least you personally knew here unlike these guys. It was kind of cool how many people idolised them. Working your way through the crowd, you earned some very dirty looks for trying to get to the front. Homelander and Maeve were in fact stood before a crew of people and a few cameras, smiling brightly and saying something you couldn't quite hear. Maeve seemingly spots you among the crowd so you wave a little. It was hard to figure out if she was happy or furious but she signals for a break and charged towards you. The crowd erupts with excitement as the Queen herself graces them with her presence and Homelander trails behind her. The woman offers nothing but polite smiles to the adoring fans as she takes your hand leading you along the length of the barrier and over to the threshold. It was safe to say that just about everyone who was still standing behind the security guards was very pissed off that you were getting special treatment.

"What are you doing here?" She growls through gritted teeth and a plastered on smile that disappears once you're out of view from prying eyes.

"I wanted to see you after-"

"Who's this?" You both turn to him and then back to each other.

"Oh my god, it's Homelander," You express, plastering on your brightest smile. Tall, Muscular with an award-winning smile. Bright blue eyes and silky blonde hair. The one and only Homelander walks up beside the two of you. It was almost humbling to be standing before the leader of the seven. He was so powerful- they both were and you were nothing short of ordinary.

"This is a closed set,"

Maeve didn't seem to know what to say exactly so you take it upon yourself to introduce yourself to him as her friend. Although you weren't even sure you could call yourself that at this point. It was a complicated relationship and considering you had broken up, it was the most appropriate label.

"Oh, She has never mentioned you,"

You're about to answer when Maeve takes your arm abruptly and pulls you away from the man. "Will you give us a second,"

A little confused, you give him a little wave goodbye paired with an awkward little smile. His eyes seem to trail after you but you think nothing of it.

"He's taller than expected," You muse aloud as attention falls back to your ex-girlfriend. Arms crossed over her chest and with a less than favourable expression on her face, it's pretty clear she isn't happy. Now she knows what it's like to have an ex show up unannounced.

"What do you want?" Maeve whisper yells at you. "I'm a little busy."

"I know just..." A quick glance to Homelander who had returned to his adoring fans. He had superhearing so you were pretty sure he could still hear you anyway. "after the other night I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine."

"If everything was fine you wouldn't show up on my doorstep." A casual shrug of your shoulders. Maeve may be able to fake a smile for the cameras but it was always pretty obvious to you when she was lying to you.

"I said I'm fine. You need to leave."

"Maeve," A soft sigh leaves your lips and you take her hand in yours; brushing your thumb over the back of her hand. "You can talk to me."

"Leave," She growls, pulling her hand away. "Please."

"We need to talk about the other night- you at least owe me that."

With a deep breath, Maeve turns on her heel and begins to walk away. "I'm busy,"

For a moment you just watched her walk away then jogged after her. "Then we can talk later- you could come by tonight? I'll even make dinner."

"Fine. Now leave."

This time you let her walk away and continue making her little advertisement. You wouldn't admit to her that you stuck around a little longer. Even got a chance to talk to Homelander a little before heading home. Chill dude, if not a little intimidating. Maybe it had been a stupid idea to invite your ex-girlfriend over for dinner but you wanted to get to the bottom of all this. You were actually a little nervous for her to arrive. Cooking had never been your specialty but you wanted everything to be perfect. A quick stop on the way home to buy groceries, you worked on dinner since getting home. pacing around as you waited for her to arrive. And waited. And waited. and waited. Lucky for the uneasy feeling that had settled in your stomach, Maeve didn't show up. It probably should have been expected. She had never been the most reliable person unless she was saving the world apparently.

A loud bang has you stirring awake before the sun. It was probably just the neighbours; a loud groan as you bury your face into the covers to go back to sleep. But the banging doesn't stop and you soon realise it's your door. Rolling over, you check your phone to see it's four in the morning. What could anyone want at this time in the morning? Dragging yourself from under the protection of the duvet, you cautiously head to the door. Peaking through the peephole to see... Queen Maeve. "Just give me a chance."

A chance? You weren't sure she deserved any more of those but you still unlock the door and pull it open. Glancing over her as she offers up a smile. Does she ever wear anything other than her armour? "Chances comes after nine am." You protest putting what little strength you had into trying to close the door. It was effortless on her end to keep it open.

"You invited me over, remember?"

"I invited you over for dinner, Maeve. No sane person has dinner at four in the morning."

"I forgot I had a team-up with Black Noir- Just let me in."

With a defeated sigh, you step aside and retire to the couch. Slumped down against the cushions, your head falls back as your eyes flutter closed. The click of your door infers she follows you inside.

"Tired?"

"Mhmm." You hum, nodding nonchalantly.

"Do you want me to make you some coffee?" Maeve suggests and again, you nod. She was familiar with the apartment so she knew where everything was but it still felt a little odd to have her wandering around with such familiarity. Who just shows up this early for a serious talk? A silence comes between the two of you. She may have attempted to keep the conversation going in between asking if you wanted coffee and delivering it to you but you didn't notice. Sitting up as a hand is gently placed against your shoulder, she hands over a large mug.

Blowing gently over the top before you take a tentative sip; warmth radiated from the liquid as it slips down your throat. Maeve joins you, perching on the edge of the couch as if she was ready to leave again. Maybe she was now regretting her decision to visit. You were kind of regretting opening the door instead of just going back to sleep instead. Since you were up anyway, might as well make the most of it.

"I can- I can make you breakfast or something if you want? Since you... missed dinner."

"Oh great, yeah," Maeve responds.

"What would you like? Cereal, toast, pancakes maybe?"

"Pancakes would be great." Of course, they would. She had to pick the option that required the most effort. You didn't mind making her something as much as you just didn't want to get up.

"Alright just... give me a moment to wake up."

"You won't wake up if you keep trying to go back to sleep," A snarky remark that earned her a small smile, your middle finger shoots up in response. The two of you just sit in silence together and every few seconds or so you'd take a sip of the coffee she made. It was all feeling a little awkward. Placing the mug down on the coffee table, you rise and get started on making breakfast. Maeve moves from the couch to the kitchen table, fiddling with the little salt and pepper shakers that always resided there. You don't know what to say and clearly, neither does she.

"So... how are things?" You question as you whisk the mixture together.

"I'm fine, I guess" She shrugs a little. You can't help but sigh a little. "What?"

"Nothing," you insist, grabbing the frying pan and place it over a medium heat; Adding a blob of butter and some oil. "If you don't want to talk Maeve then why did you bother to come over?"

Placing down the salt and pepper shaker with a clink, her attention falls to you. "because you asked."

"Yeah, I asked to talk about the other night. You were clearly messed up."

"Why is it so hard to believe I was just looking to fuck?"  It was really hard to believe but rather that you just knew it wasn't true. You were pretty sure Maeve had her choice of partners should she require one. So why come to your door?

"Because I'm not stupid" You pour the mixture into the pan with a satisfying sizzle. "I know you well enough to know that's bull."

"Maybe you don't know me as well as you thought."

Flipping the pancake over, you're taken back by her comment. Did you know Maeve as well as you thought? You had never expected her to just up and leave you one day and she did? She lived an entire superhero life that you knew nothing about. Maeve had always been pretty private when it came to that side of herself. You make another couple of pancakes before serving her up a plate.

"You aren't eating?"

"Too early," you return, taking up the seat opposite her. You watch as her fork pierce the surface of the pancake, cutting off a small piece and pop it into her mouth.

"Taste okay?"

"They're good," Mouth hidden behind the palm of her hand as she mumbled through her food. It lowered a moment later.  "I came over because my job is hard. I was the in the area, I was having a tough day."

"A tough day?" Getting any sort of details out of her was like pulling teeth. Why was she so reluctant to speak to you? If she didn't want to have this conversation she should have just no turned up like she hadn't for dinner. Would have saved the effort and you could be sleeping right now.

"Yeah,"

"That's that then." Hands slap against the table as you rise from the seat. No point in sticking around if this wasn't going anywhere.  "Case closed. When you're finished just leave the plate in the sink, I'm going back to bed."

"Seriously?"

"You woke me up at four am just to tell me you had a bad day. Shit, I have plenty of bad days, I don't show up at Vought tower." You start walking back towards your bedroom although your slow, hesitant even like you were just waiting for an excuse to turn back.

"I really was having a bad day," she repeats. "Really bad. And all I could think about was seeing you." And getting drunk, guess she just conveniently forgot about that part. There were many moments although brief where you were having a hard time and you thought about going to see Maeve. She used to be such a big part of your life it was almost an instinct to return to her for comfort. You never actually did obviously. As pathetic as her explanation was, it brought you back to the dining table. "Can I ask you something?"

"Depends."

"What's the worst thing you could ever imagine?"

"Huh?" What kind of question was that?

"Just answer it,"

Your mouth opens but no answer comes to mind at all. You were more curious about the reason behind it. It's too early for philosophical debates and it had nothing to do with anything you had been talking about. "uh, I don't know... post-apocalyptic zombie invasion, maybe?"

"Can you take this seriously?"

"I am," you huff. It was a stupid question anyway. "Zombies-"

"really freak you out, I remember." Strange thing to remember. It couldn't have come up in conversation often. It was a little funny the small things people remembered about each other. "I meant something that could actually happen though. I've seen some pretty fucked up shit."

"Like what?" She turns to you like she's about to say something but quickly stops herself. Continuing the eat the breakfast you so lovingly prepared. With the way she had been playing with her food, you suspected she no longer wanted it despite having hardly eaten any.

"Being a hero isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes I wish I could just live a normal life or whatever"

"Nothing glamorous about a normal life," You stifle a yawn. "I think I'd rather be adored by millions and save the day but we aren't all lucky enough to have powers."

"Lucky," A bitter laugh. "I wouldn't call myself lucky."

"You're being so weird." You comment, a quirked brow.

"I would rather be adored by one person who truly means it."

"Guess that's all anyone wants. Supe or not."

Her eyes meet yours for a few seconds before dropping. Did she mean you? There was no doubt you had feelings for the woman and very much still did. But you can't imagine it's anything compared to the weirdos who worship the ground she walks on. They obviously didn't really know her and vice versa but still. There was an element of pureness that came with being so dedicated to someone. "You never answered my question."

"I don't know Maeve it's too early..." You grumble. "Do you want me to say something like war or famine or something?"

"Not unless it's the truth."

Everyone wished for world peace. Everyone wanted to feed the hungry. House the homeless. Basic answers that any decent person would come up with. It lacked originality. It lacked feeling. Everyone would probably have a more personal reason."What's yours?"

"Something happening to you... because of me."

"Really? That's the worst thing you can think of?" Didn't she just say she had seen a lot of messed up stuff and yet her concern resided with you? What did she think would happen? And didn't a broken heart technically count as something happening because of her? Shifting in your seat, you lean down onto the table before you. Thinking of your own answer. The worst thing you could imagine?

"I answered," she shrugs but doesn't elaborate. "Now you go."

"I guess... finding out you died," Should you admit something like that? "You're the strongest person I know. I still... care for you. I'm not sure I would handle it well- Is that a better answer?"

"It's sufficient."

"Sufficient? I really don't know what you want from me Maeve? I don't know what the worst thing is, okay? I'm too tired for this shit."

She places her cutlery carefully on the plate, pushing out her seat. "I should go."

"Maeve?"

"I'll go, you can go back to bed. I don't even know why I came here."

"No. Stay. I wanna talk."

" Let's just forget this ever happened." Brushing herself off, Maeve heads back towards the door. This whole back and forth was growing awfully tiresome. Every time you thought you scratched the surface of her mask, there was a new layer underneath more impenetrable than the last. Maybe you should just let her go? It'd be easier. It was probably for the best too but when she had shown up at your door the other night, you realised just how much you still wanted this. Still wanted her. She may have left you one day without any explanation but seeing her for the first time in a long time had brushed all rational thought aside. You were in love with her even now. Tears brimmed your eyes whether it was due to tiredness or a flush of emotions, it was unclear.

"If you walk out that door I'm done," You declare as confidently as you can. Hoping your sadness was hidden amongst the dim light that filled the entire room. "Don't bother showing up on my doorstep when you have a shitty day." Maeve pauses with her hand on the doorknob but only for a second before twisting the handle and pulling open the door. "Maeve...  just tell me what's going on with you, please."

"Everything I have done to you was to protect you." Final words as she leaves. The door clicking behind her. To protect you? From what? What was she even talking about anymore. Anger bubbles deep inside you and you find yourself charging after her. Bursting out into the chilly hallway, you catch her in the corner of your eye. She was leaning against the wall just outside your apartment basking in the flicker of the corridor light.

"Protect me from what?" You wonder quietly, taking a wary step closer. "I don't understand."

"...Homelander." Voice but a whisper mumbled into the darkness. Homelander? The Homelander? Why would you need protection from him, you didn't even know him? Plus he was like a beloved superhero and the last time you checked, superheroes were the good guys.

"You're scared of... the world's greatest superhero?"

"Never meet your heroes."

"Aren't you two like friends? You even dated him. Why are you scared of him?" Another step closer, you lay your hand tenderly on her shoulder. An attempt to support her even if you didn't understand the situation. "He didn't seem so bad when I met him yesterday. I actually spoke with him after."

"You spoke after? Why?" Maeve snarled swiftly making you back away a little only for her hand to snap around your wrist. Cold fingertips apply a deep pressure to your skin as if it's taking everything in her not to press harder. You swallow hard, confused by her anger. "I told you to leave"

"It- it's not a big deal. He just wanted to know more about us," Even you can hear the panic in your voice as you struggle to get the words out. It was a little embarrassing, to say the least, but you'd never really experienced this side of Maeve before. Her anger had never really been directed towards you.

"And you told him?"

"Yeah. He took it pretty well actually, I was surprised. "

"How can you be so fucking stupid?" Her grasp begins to stiffen around your wrist. Maeve was strong, inhumanly so. If she wanted to she could break every one of your bones like it was nothing. That never used to bother you so much but in this instance, your own weakness had never been more apparent.

"Maeve," You struggle against her grip, a pleading look as you meet the brown of her eyes. "...You're scaring me,"

Those magic words seemed to break the spell that had come over her and Maeve released you in an instant. Regret washing off her face in record time. "I'm sorry, okay- I'm sorry," You take a step back; the other hand rubbing at the wrist she just let go off. "I didn't mean to- I wouldn't hurt you."

"I... let's just go back inside." It's hard to pretend that didn't just happen. That Maeve didn't almost crush your wrist for doing the wrong thing. But it wasn't her fault, right? She just isn't herself at the moment. Her emotions got the best of her when she found out you told Homelander about your relationship. Warily, you hold out your hand in offering. It's a little shakey but you just hope she doesn't notice as she takes your hand and you lead the way back into your apartment. Shutting the door behind the two of you, you return to the couch. Sat on either ends so you're as far away as possible without being on the floor, things are feeling a little awkward now. You can't help but focus on your wrist, the feeling of her hand still lingers in a ghostly embrace. "I'm sorry I told Homelander about us."

"You didn't know..."Maeve lets out a heavy sigh as she turns to face you. "Homelander is a monster. He's hurt people just for looking at me funny- "

"Oh." A little surprising to hear. You had always kind of suspected Homelander was a bit of an arsehole but not that he was inherently a bad person. He saves people after all. You've seen him save people. He was basically on the news every other day or in the newspaper or trending on Twitter. There was no evidence to supporting Maeve's theory but you also had no reason not to trust her. She had no reason to lie to you.

"He's done atrocious things. He's made me do atrocious things. I was trying to protect you from him- and from myself,"

"...Why are you telling me this now?" Couldn't she have just told you all this from the beginning? It still didn't explain why she had just shown up the other day either? Clearly, something had happened between her and Homelander at least that's what you gathered from the context.

"To keep you safe," Maeve returns. "So you'll stop hating me."

"I could never hate you," An offer of a faint smile that may or may not betray you. When she had first left you, you were so filled with hatred but it was so hard to stay angry at her. You didn't hate her anymore but you couldn't say you were simply over it now. "It's not your fault."

"It is though- I put you in this situation. I let those people die,"

"What are you talking about? What people?" Every time Maeve opened her mouth you grew slightly more confused and you didn't know how to help. Watching her with an inquisitive eye, you notice as a tear or two begins to glide down her rose-tinted cheeks. It was enough to bring your walls crashing down. Whatever she was talking about must be really affecting her for her to start crying. A hand reaches out only to pull back as you remember what happened last time. You take a deep breath, sitting up a little straighter.

"I should have stood up to him but I was scared."

"Scared of Homelander," You repeat. Still trying to process the information.

"I don't want to be a monster like him." Against your better judgement, this time you shuffle closer and entice her into a soothing hug. Holding onto her tightly like you never wanted to let go because frankly, you didn't. Maeve was warm, she was safe. You wanted to offer her that same sense of comfort even if it was impossible. You wanted to drown in her affection.

"You're not a monster, Maeve" The other woman melts into your caring touch, burying her face in the crook of your neck. You were so used to confident, super-strong Maeve that it was a little weird to have her be so vulnerable. Especially sober. But even your words weren't enough to trick your brain into quelling that twinge of fear that now resides in you. "Whatever's going on, I'm gonna help you get through it. I promise."

[newmusicmonthly]

2019

Hello,

Missed me?

No longer a monthly mailer – just another end of year round up.

On reflection, perhaps I’ve played it a bit safe this year, but I didn’t feel there was as much great music out there as in previous years.

Yes, I too use Google, so I have listened to all the end of year Best Of lists online, and so those artists not included just didn’t resonate with me this year.

I maintain ‘bad guy’ off Billie Eilish’s record sounds like a Super Mario bonus level (probably in a spooky dungeon)… which I suppose isn’t a bad thing. And I love Lana, but I just didn’t think the latest record was all that. And the same was true of Angel Olsen, Nick Cave, Kanye, Hot Chip… but don’t get me started on Bon Iver: avant-garde “Kum ba yah” at best (sorry Rob).

But then that’s part of the joy of music, variety and differing opinions… so please share yours! What have I overlooked? What should be revisited? Where in the depths of streaming services is that killer track from 2019?

For now, here is my list of songs, somewhat crowbarred into the monthly format (as mentioned, this email was once called New Music Monthly Mailer with five tracks a month, and surely we need some level of constancy and accountability this year).

Enjoy, or not – but please do share your own choice picks.

Merry Christmas.

R x  

NEW MUSIC 2019

JANUARY

Sharon Van Etten - Seventeen Just go and watch her performance from Glastonbury: https://youtu.be/BM6jn891seU Seriously, from 2:45, just fucking brilliant.

J.S. Ondara - Saying Goodbye Lovely acoustic number and a great voice that evokes Tracy Chapman. 

Basekou Kouyate, Ngoni ba - Kanto kelena (feat. Habib Koite) Malian ngoni master returns to acoustic roots.

Delicate Steve - Selfie of a Man Synthy silly catchy instrumental pop-rock.

Steve Gunn - Vagabond Guitar troubadour telling stories of solitude with unostentatious guitar tones.

FEBRUARY

Mara Balls - Ikävä ikävää Driving Finnish Doom-lite.

Julie Jacklin - Body A narrative masterclass, sombre and brooding, but also simmering and pulsating.

Strand of Oaks - Weird Ways Big widescreen rock, which builds into a gorgeous swirl of sound, with Timothy on fine yet reflective form, backed by the band of My Morning Jacket.

Crows - Hang Me High Long awaited debut from Idles approved band, loud fuzz Mary Chain / Dom Keller vibes.

Kel Assouf - Fransa Desert blues, with all the best Tuareg styling, but added beefy production.

MARCH

Nick Waterhouse - Man Leaves Town Mr Waterhouse and band well in the pocket.

Dave - Streatham Heavy beats and piano lines soundtrack story of growing up in SW16. 

Karen O, Danger Mouse - Turn The Light Danger Mouse brings the gentle disco grooves underneath Karen’s swooning vocals.

Small Feet - The Lake Down tempo reverb and echoes float throughout this woozy directionless jam. 

The Brian Jonestown Massacre - Tombes Oubliées BJM do what BJM do best... in French. 

APRIL

The Comet Is Coming - Summon The Fire How can you not move to this?!

W.H. Lung - Empty Room Great new band (c.f. mailer 2017!), and as I already included ‘Inspiration!’ this is my second favourite cut from a top album.

Josefin Öhrn + The Liberation - Feel The Sun Another great artist (championed back in 2016 I think you’ll find), spectral psych grooves.

Weyes Blood - Mirror Forever Great opening line, there’s a coldness but also strangely comforting.

Foxygen - News Now a lot people had fallen off the Foxygen wagon recently, including me, but this is catchy melody filled vibes, with a completely unexpected stonking T-Rex style groove that kicks in around the 3:30 minute mark

MAY

Lizzo – Juice Speaking of good vibes… I mean, again, just go watch the Glastonbury set: https://youtu.be/R9CTs1NsZRI.

Tyler, The Creator - EARFQUAKE Production values: A*, chances of not leaving… C-

The 100 Knights Orchestra - Soul Fugue Celebrating Daptone Records 100th RPM single, this special features every horn player the label has ever worked with, and it is glorious.

Death and Vanilla - A Flaw In The Iris Devendra Banhart vibes to begin, fazing in Mazzy Star style reverb and guitars.

Desert Sands - Are You There The best psychedelic space rock released… ever! 

JUNE

Rose City Band - Fog of Love Warm tones and laid back ambles, which has producer Ripley Johnson’s stamp all over it.

Madonnatron - Goodnight Little Empire Disco ditty extraordinaire.

The Black Keys - Lo/Hi Have you heard of ZZ Top? You have?

The Amazons - Doubt It Future rock heroes get dark.

Fat White Family, Parrot and Cocker Too - Feet - Parrot and Cocker Too Remix Gone for the remix version of this great track: what isn’t improved by added shakers and throbbing techno?

JULY

Michael Kiwanuka, Tom Misch - Money (with Tom Misch) The first of two Kiwanuka tracks in this list, but this was a standalone single, and has all the bubbly bass groove it was impossible not to include.

Drake, Rick Ross - Money In The Grave (Drake ft. Rock Ross) Speaking of money… bounce!

DOPE LEMON - Salt & Pepper Weird keys give way to J.J. Cale style guitar noodles, whilst Angus heaps on the druggy references adding to the meandering stoned atmosphere.

The Quiet Temple, Moon Duo - The Last Opium Den On Earth (Moon Duo Remix) Speaking of druggy… 12 minutes of acid psych jazz in the last opium den on earth.

Nev Cottee - Hello Stranger Cinematic and pastoral, but also searing

AUGUST

Palace - Running Wild Top class indie pop nugget with great simple guitar solo to end.

Kandodo 3 - Everything Green's Gone This definitely isn’t for everyone: think Nine Inch Nails soundtracks at their most impenetrable, if you can make it two thirds of the way through this 13 minute wig out, there are some great slide guitars.

Clairo – Bags Breakout bedroom pop with one of the hookiest melodies all year.

Mini Mansions - Works Every Time Behind the beat smooth grooves.

Death Hawks - Whisper Squelchy over produced 80s style pop bananas,

SEPTEMBER

Native Harrow - Can't Go On Like This Inevitable Laurel Canyon / Joni Mitchell comparisons on this retro analogue sound ballad.

Ty Segall - The Arms Ty does a rare acoustic number, and even throws in a rather tasteful mandolin line.

Pixx - Funsize Synth bleeps and beats disguise a Radiohead-esque creeping guitar line.

Sleater-Kinney - The Future Is Here Love the motorik dirge vibes here, underpin lovely vocal lines and melodies which remind us: the future is here, and we can’t go back.

Marika Hackman - i'm not where you are Great pop hooks and guitar lines.

OCTOBER

Dylan LeBlanc - Renegade I’m a big fan of LeBlanc and his retro stylings, and this track is super lilting 80s driving rock.

TOOL - Pneuma I struggled to get TOOL for a while, but this record and this track in particular is fucking phenomenal.

Lightning Dust - Devoted To Amber Webber and Joshua Wells’ solo project (previously of Black Mountain), conjure spectral dreamscapes.

Sturgill Simpson - Remember To Breathe Sturgill goes electronic rawk – and Tomoyasu Hotei wants his production back.

Michael Kiwanuka - Hero Here he is again, with the standout track from a truly brilliant album.

NOVEMBER

Kelsey Waldon - White Noise, White Lines Kentucky country groove rock.

WIVES - Waving Past Nirvana Churning fuzz rock underpins laconic loose vocals, cool.

Pumarosa - I See You Tense synth verses give way to soaring superb choruses.

Jaako Eine Kalevi - Dissolution Finnish synth pop architect doing a very good Matthew Dear impersonation. 

Warmduscher - Midnight Dipper “The offspring of a match made in hell between Fat White Family and Paranoid London” – full-on sleazy glam.

DECEMBER

Pond - Don't Look at the Sun (Or You'll Go Blind) – Live My favourite track the band perform live, now finally available on streaming.

Staff Benda Bilili - Jamais de la vie The famous Congolese street band return with tight uplifting grooves.

Khruangbin, Leon Bridges - Texas Sun Sit back, open a cold one, and enjoy (when summer comes back around).

Jimmy "Duck" Holmes - Catfish Blues Mississippi delta blues from the 72 year old Holmes, produced by Dan Auerbach.

Mikal Cronin - Show Me Long-time Ty Segall collaborator serves up some Tom Petty-esque soft rock.

[laissezferre]

theatre review: phantom of the opera, manila cast: jonathan roxmouth, meghan picerno, matt leisy

jonathan roxmouth as the phantom

jonathan roxmouth's phantom would best be described as "the phantom that you would get if you poured pepper labeled 'joj' and salt labeled 'ramin' in a single shaker, shook it til the control of one and the style of another mixed together, and pulled the cap so it could spew out something truly incredible". jonathan's voice is powerful and overwhelming but always in control. not a note was out of place. there were multiple points in the show when i just thought, "this is ridiculous, this is so good". he handles the role, at least vocally, with such care and control. he goes from booming to soothing and vice versa without much preparation, and he pulls it off. and i haven't even talked about his vibrato. after "music of the night", i just knew--this character, this tour, and the future of this show, is in good hands.

between singing and acting, jonathan is very much a singer. even when he's supposed to be screaming--or at parts when most phantoms have resorted to screaming--he's still singing, he's still holding that note.

jonathan's phantom and meghan's christine have a palpable chemistry. unlike my first viewing with carla and ian as the leads, jonathan's phantom gives raoul a run for his money. it's not exactly lnd-levels, but the phantom this time around had better chances. he really uses his height to loom over christine, and christine's reaction to him is this odd mix of fascination and terror.

if i have to have one gripe about jonathan, it would be his vulnerability, or lack thereof. the phantom acts so powerful in act 1, and i don't think he ever really got off that pedestal for act 2.  i felt like his energy and commitment fizzled out in act 2, and he was kind of going through the motions. while i was watching jonathan, i kept remembering ian jon bourg's phantom, and how he looked so utterly depleted by the end. ian was large but he looked so small when he curled in on himself, he didn't have anything more to give. i didn't feel that way about jonathan. my reaction towards him was more of "i'm sorry you didn't get the girl", instead of "i'm sorry these were the cards you were dealt, i'm sorry you've been alone for so long, i'm sorry you've never felt love".

meghan picerno as christine daae

i really love how meghan picerno thinks as she acts. you can almost see the speech bubbles floating above her head as the scene goes. every line has a corresponding expression on her face, and it's not the amateur acting kind, it's more of being always in the moment. right off the bat, you know that she's an intelligent christine. in the hannibal rehearsal when the backdrop falls and everyone's panicking, she stays very still while looking around the stage, thinking, assessing--and you get the feeling that christine daae has a good idea about who's fooling around in the opera house.

meghan puts that same thoughtfulness when it comes to her singing. everything has an intention behind it. her singing improves rapidly in "think of me", but when she gets to the cadenza she becomes uncertain, feels it out, and then goes for the money note. meghan has a solid range--her singing has power, and she's also able to tap that lower register to create solid low notes. i've also never heard "my soul began to soar" so sweetly. both meghan and jonathan are versatile and can sing powerfully when it's called for, and add variation when needed. sometimes though, the experimentation doesn't go very well. "wishing you were somehow here again" was a mix of singing, exclaiming, and gasping. just as you would get into the melody, she sing-speaks, and then breathes at unnatural points in the song.  i guess it would boil down to people's preferences and their tolerance for  "musical expression", but that part didn't work for me.

meghan wasn't kidding when she said in interviews that she wanted to portray christine as strong. she is so aggressive! matt leisy's raoul plays off of her, and because they're both imposing, it sometimes looks like they're well on their way to a domestic. in the rooftop scene, christine dominates the conversation. raoul is trying to comfort her and convince her it's not real, but christine is having none of it. her gestures were screaming "believe me! i'm not crazy!", and i genuinely thought that they were gonna have a row. this forcefulness doesn't just apply to raoul or to the phantom, it also applies to her father. normally in "wishing", christine sings about how she misses her father, but with meghan, i got the impression that she was frustrated and was beating herself up for still missing her father.

also, it may just be me reading into it too much, but i feel like meghan's christine doesn't take well to being comforted. she'll receive comfort, she'll allow herself to be patted and petted, but there will be no visible relief in the set of her shoulders. this kind of makes her seem cold, especially with raoul. in fact, christine doesn't even look at raoul much in the dressing room. instead, she's facing the audience as she reminisces about her childhood--this leads me to think that meghan's christine doesn't start out already smitten with raoul. the falling in love comes later in "all i ask of you" and christine becomes a very eager kisser and audibly sighs into the kiss.

meghan isn't a particularly graceful or playful christine. she's very serious and at times, physically rigid on stage. in il muto, i wanted badly to shake her and tell her, "girl, loosen up, you're supposed to be playing in a comedy". also, meghan didn't join the dancers in hannibal, and the few steps she did looked stiff. i don't know how much of her stiffness is intentional, if it's a manifestation of her fear of the phantom, because she really is terrified of the phantom to the point of paralysis. she's utterly terrified in the rooftop, in the masquerade, in "twisted every way"--in all those scenes there were moments where she bends over and becomes non-responsive to raoul's attempts at comfort.

but despite her fear, she's still able to go head-to-head with the phantom. she snaps and answers him angrily in the final lair. when she sang "it's in your soul that the true distortion lies", i thought she would follow with a growl. when she shields raoul from the phantom, they stare each other down, which is a sight to see because of their height difference, but she gives as good as she's got. she does soften a bit when the phantom allows them to leave. raoul is pulling her to go but she resists repeatedly--not in a “let me spend more time with him" way but in a "we can't leave him here!" way. while there was no chance that she was going to stay with the phantom, she still couldn’t help but be concerned for him.

matt leisy as raoul de chagny

i first saw matt leisy's raoul when he was sharing the stage with ian jon bourg and clara verdier, and i have to say, his portrayal there is startingly different from when he acts with meghan and jonathan. this time, his raoul is less commanding and more floundering. you can see how he's not in control of the situation and how frustrated he is for always being one step behind the phantom. this is not the calm, in-control, dignified raoul that we know. he's absolutely out of his depth and he's pissed. he's not whiny, but you can tell he's rattled. in "notes ii" when christine is already sitting on the chair and he's convincing her to be the bait, he's almost begging her, like it's him who will lose his mind if this doesn't end. and when christine refuses, he angrily goes off at the phantom.

despite that intensity, he never roughhouses christine, but it is sad to see that christine doesn't actively seek his comfort. that's why their "all i ask of you" isn't as dreamy and romantic. while christine does love raoul, it's the phantom who's able to evoke stronger reactions from her (more fear than desire, but still), and it's very much clear that this is christine and the phantom's show. matt, and his voice, disappears in the background. in "wandering child" when all three leads are on stage together, you can really feel that raoul is the third wheel in the scene, and his words are barely heard.

in "final lair" when christine kisses the phantom, matt's raoul looks away and closes his eyes, like he can't bear to see the love of his life kissing another man. i usually check where the phantom puts his hands during the kiss, but matt's turning away was so striking that i just had to look at him.

some other things

overall, i really liked this production and noticed a few things that i wasn't able to because i was sitting nearer this time. the broadway costumes are absolutely gorgeous. i really love the softness of the pink in the star princess costume. this is also the first time i paid attention to carlotta's hannibal skirt--it's as intricately designed as christine's and i prefer it's red-black-gold combination.

i zoned out during notes i and prima donna but don't i always.

there are also some cute blink-and-you-miss it moments. when christine is asked to sing, monsieur reyer is displeased and thinks they’re wasting time. when he says "from the beginning of the aria then", he shows christine the score and when she looks, he snaps it closed in her face. but after the performance, he is seen chatting with christine and he kisses her hand as he exits.

in the don juan rehearsal, christine and piangi also have a moment. when piangi is being scolded for not getting the melody right, christine mouths to him "you can do it". i'm not sure if piangi acknowledges it, but christine goes back to facing meg.

so... yeah, that’s how my evening went. this is the fourth time now that i’ve seen poto, and it’s just as magical as the first time i saw it seven years ago. there are classics, and there is poto, and there’s a reason that it’s managed to run as long as it has on broadway (les mis, i love u, but u have strayed from the path, padawan). it just has a strong sense of identity and no amount of watered down touring shows is going to misplace the brilliant original. the future of poto is bright, and with this cast, it is in good hands.

have a look at my other review: ian jon bourg, clara verdier, matt leisy

[buttercupsfrocks]

Hey, Tumblr, did you know that there’s an Interior Design Police as well as a Fashion Police?! Strangely neither did I until I stumbled upon a listicle entitled 75 Things No Woman Over 50 Should Own on the delusionarily titled bestlifeonline.com. There, along with the usual arbitrary selections of sartorial crimes against humanity, (tracky bottoms, skinny scarves, bolero jackets), were the following:-

Tapestries. (What, even if one designed and made them oneself, comme ça?)

Neon signs.

A piggy bank.

Novelty salt and pepper shakers, (Oops!)

A vinyl tablecloth. 

Novelty pillows. (Dang!)

A rolodex.

Indoor wicker furniture.

A lava lamp. (Who doesn’t love a lava lamp? Not this fully paid up B52s fan, I can assure you).

A dish of seashells.  (D’oh! Missed the memo again).

Framed autographs (yep, got one of those too).

Talk about random. And there’s more; much more. It appears I should have jettisoned my giant pin boards at least twenty years ago, along with my magnifying mirror, stuffed animals, coloured pens, fairy lights, frameless posters, cheap mismatched silverware, decorations based on cartoon characters, mismatched towels, striped wallpaper, tassels, and elaborate keychains. (They’d have a blue fit if they knew that one of my keychains has both a twiddly fake key and a tassel on it). In fact the entire website is little more than an endless litany of stuff you should feel ashamed about owning, wearing, and in some cases, even saying. Like I totes can’t say “totes” – me, a writer, who loves slang so much she has at least a bookshelf-and-a-half dedicated to it. I also can’t say: “OMG”,  “humblebrag”, “talk to the hand”, “fauxpology”, “sorry not sorry”, “I can’t even”, “as if”, “sus”, (a term in common UK parlance among people of all age groups for the duration of my lifetime), “ship”, (fuck you; Spuffy forever), and…wait for it…”adulting”, even though I plainly know a good deal more about doing it than the embarrassingly embarassable twelve year old ninny who probably wrote the article.

And still on the subjects of lists that give me the right royal pip, there’s thelist.com. 

“If you are familiar with Dr Martens, you are too old to wear them.” 

I’m sorry, what now?! 

“We know those Crocs and orthopaedic shoes are super comfy, but they're not doing you any favours. There's something to be said for smart, sensible footwear, but you don't have to sacrifice your style and give away your age just to save yourself a few blisters”.

Unless of course you suffer with any kind of condition that dictates you  have to wear fugly orthopaedic footwear, as numerous older people do. And blisters are the least of my problems, bub. Believe me the bunting and party hats come out when I can persuade anything approaching normal-looking footwear to accommodate my orthotics. Doc Martens are one of the precious few options available to me. I am, incidentally, feeling especially “salty” (another word my age precludes me from using), about this right now as, having discovered I can sometimes wear sandals with a moulded orthotic-like sole, these Office sandals... 

...which I genuinely love and desperately wanted to rock this summer, damn near crippled me when I tried them on. 

For all the blather about older women being able to cast off the shackles of convention and wear what we please, (or whatever the expert du jour thinks is within reason), the same unspoken assumptions that prevail in mainstream ladymedia are present in spades on these websites. Nobody reading could possibly be fat, or if they are they’re assumed to be fighting their poor beleaguered bodies unto death. The only chub ever alluded to, (albeit soto voce), is “middle aged spread”, but only the vestigial kind that can be miraculously rendered  invisible by the belting of an “unflattering” oversized garment in the middle. 

“Show off your curves by adding a cute belt to that dress or coat. It will accentuate your shape and let you still wear those comfortable items in your wardrobe without looking like you're wearing a muumuu.”

Never mind that I quite like wearing a muumuu, far from showing off my curves, belting any of my coats would make me look like the Albert Hall, which while undoubtably a Look, is not one I’m after.  

“Balance is important when it comes to crafting a stylish look. Wearing oversized clothing disrupts that delicate equilibrium and unintentionally ages you.”  

What. Ever. 

The hectoring never lets up. 

“There really is no such thing as grown up glitter when it comes to apparel, so it's best to accept that fact and avoid glittery tops, bottoms, and everything else!” 

“Dressing like the '80s or '90s can be fun for a party, but being attached to a trend from your youth can look tired and disconnected and therefore can make one age themselves.” 

“Large prints, especially on a tight clothing item like leggings, are an avoid-at-all-costs look. They are just too loud and aren't a piece that helps you look your best”

Among the ten items everyday.health.com bans me from wearing on account of my encroaching dotage are “too trendy denim”. Apparently I’m “not in my element” with it so my hard work was all for nought. Also verboten are oversized, overly decorated hobo bags, cheap unflattering underwear; (fat chance of finding cheap underwear in plus-sizes anyway though apparently I should do like the Sainted Gwyneth and wear Spanx under everything. Because she totally needs to and I so enjoy colic); and…wait for it…wait for it...  

...“loud accessories”. This includes, horror of horrors, plastic earrings, which apparently I forfeited the right to wear at 35. (Do they count vintage phenolic, bakelite, and lucite as plastic I wonder? Because if enough rich older women get dissuaded from wearing it I might actually be able to afford some instead of faking it). Instead I’m exhorted to make a... 

“Stunning Substitute: think quality and quantity. Limit yourself to one funky accessory per outfit – as long as it’s well-made. Think a leopard-print scarf, thin silver bangles or a gold clutch to dress up nice jeans and a simple top”. 

Yeah, no. And, by the way here’s a picture of Helen Mirren in quite the loudest plastic necklace I’ve ever seen which, as you can plainly see, ages her terribly. 

*snort*

Which brings me neatly to the subject of role models. Dame Helen comes up a lot. Here’s Harper’s Bazaar with some more:

“Pay close attention to the way women like Robin Wright, Julianne Moore, and Kristin Scott Thomas dress. And revel in the moment when you can justify shopping for labels like Céline, Calvin Klein, Jil Sander, and the Row — because not all sweaters are created equal. The Perfect Length (not too long, not Rihanna short), with the just-tantalizing-enough neckline, is more than worth the extra zeros”.  

Wow. So much nope to pick apart in just three sentences! 

Firstly, while I’m sure they’re all perfectly charming, I look nothing at all like any of these women, so why would I aspire to their style? Secondly, they have allllllll the extra zeros in their bank accounts while I have zero zeros. Thirdly, even if I could afford any of those labels, (a sweater from The Row costs well over a thousand quid by the way), why the love of little fluffy kittens would anyone think I want to dress like this?

I mean I know I like an oversized garment but I’m good with Monki, thanks. If that lot doesn’t say, “this was the only shit I could find to fit me”, I don’t know what does. And quite what the tiny, terminally haggard looking Olsen twins, who dreamed up the wretched label, would look like in any of this eye-bleedingly expensive folderol I shudder to think. You’d probably need to send in the fire brigade to find them in all that fabric, poor loves.

At its root shaming-as-entertainment is a tool for capitalism, both simple and complex. Feel mortified for owning something age inappropriate? Buy something new and more grown up, preferably at enormous expense. Or, if pay day’s too far off, invest in some garbage gossip rag and bitch about the state of those richer and more famous than you are. It’ll make you feel great for all of five minutes, then you can fill the emptiness that follows in its wake with some cheap fast fashion or cake. Even though cake is naughty and unclean and fast fashion is killing the environment; but hey that’s what diet books (kerching!) and gym memberships (kerching!) and ethical fashion, (with a cut-off size of 16), are for, right? 

Ironically, in yet another catalogue of grievous mistakes to make once you’re over forty, bestlifemyarse.com includes “neglecting your mental health” and “basing yourself-worth on what other people think”. But how the hell are women expected to do that under a constant barrage of opprobrium, not least since also included in the aforementioned list is “avoiding the scale”?

Tumblr, I put it to you that people are just as likely to buy stuff if they’re feeling good about themselves than if they’re feeling shite. I fucking love stuff but there has to be an alternative way to sell it that’s less damaging to our sanity and self esteem. That’s in part why fat women created their own media. But, the more it edges into the mainstream, the more it it puts the wind up advertisers and those who rely on their sponsorship. So now our message – the one about self acceptance and being able to live unrepentantly in the bodies we have – has been appropriated, de-fanged, and rebranded as “Body Positivity”, an ersatz movement intended to reassure average-sized women fretful they might be a little bit fat, with the added proviso, “as long as you’re healthy”, (i.e not fat). And while the net abounds with token examples of older lady bloggers granted the status of fashion maven, they’re all slender as reeds, and most of them are ex-models. Big fucking whoop. Meanwhile anyone of any age who is objectively fat is “promoting obesity” simply by expressing our personal style in public.

My collection of shells incidentally, includes some my mum brought me back from the Channel Islands when I was a child; a conch a friend dove for  in the Virgin Islands and presented me for my 19th birthday; several beauties that held pride of place in a late family friend’s study for decades; an abalone shell from New Zealand plucked from the beach by my Kiwi pal Di; a sand dollar from Ocean Beach in San Francisco given to me by my dear friend Jude who died of secondary breast cancer a few months before Jane did; some pebbles gathered with my friend Lesley in literal sub-zero temperatures on a completely deserted beach one not-so-flaming June up north, both of us in hysterics over the utter bleakness of it all, and a load more shells from the Pembrokeshire coast contributed by my friend Steve’s departed mum back in the 1980s. Even the bowl itself was given to me by Karen, whose parents found it in the attic of their new house and thought I might like it. It’s a veritable a lifetime in shells; a celebration of love and friendship spanning decades. In short it has meaning, which is a damned sight more than you can say for any of these wretched lists.

Rise above the buzzkill, Tumblr.

[gleekto]

One Night Love Affair (23/24)

Summary:  Kurt and Blaine never met in high school. They each finally make it to college, out of Ohio, to New York City - where they won’t be the only gay kid in the state. So when they meet at the first Queer NYADA mixer of the year in their freshman year of college, eager and hopeful has to be trumped by playing it cool (because whatever). Things move too fast (no big, it’s cool), and they’re left with pretending like it’s nothing (because everyone hooks up  - so what?).

One night and its aftermath.

One Night Love Affair

Athlete, Bury, Camera, Paper, Exclude, Feed, Gradual, House, Incident, Joke, Kidnap, Language, Momentum, Negligence, Orange, Pledge, Quantity, Realism, Stay, Transaction, Understand, Vegetarian

Part 23: Wire

By the time Friday rolls around, the chosen night for their first date, Kurt has already spent two nights, six lunch times, and four cafeteria dinners with Blaine. And they were even caught holding hands in Apples’ practice. In Kurt’s defense, they were not actually holding hands. They were sitting in the auditorium seats while Adam worked with the sopranos up at the front, and so what if their pinkies happened to overlap on the edges of their chairs? That’s hardly making out in public. Though by the way Jenny and Sarah squealed, you’d think they were sopranos too. Anyways, Kurt was feeling pretty good about the whole thing.

“We don’t really need a first date, you know. I mean, I think we’re kind of already - you know.” Kurt won’t be the one to put a label on it. But they don’t really need a first date.

“Of course we do,” Blaine smiles at him over their cafeteria french fries and squeezes his thigh under the table. “What kind of a boyfriend do you think I am?” Blaine obviously has no such qualms. But Kurt isn’t arguing.

So on Friday evening, Kurt puts on his tightest skinny jeans, an amazing cream diagonal cut half sweater and red button down underneath to complete the outfit. And his hair is perfection. As always.  “I love your style,” Blaine says when he sizes him up as they meet in the lobby of Kurt’s dorm. 

“Thank you,” Kurt smiles mischieviously. “Though I’m warning you, removing these jeans may be a tall order later on.”

“I’m up for the challenge,” Blaine smirks. Kurt’s sure he is. 

Blaine planned the evening. The Rent movie is playing at the campus rep theatre which Kurt agrees is perfect serendipity. They both saw the community theatre production in Lima years ago - where they might have met, but they didn’t. They talked about it on the night they actually met more than a month ago -  where they could have started something, but they didn’t. And now it’s here to ring in the actual beginning of something - which it isn’t. But they can call it their first date anyways.

“The theme is,” Blaine starts as they make their way into the theatre. “High school dates that never happened are better in college anyways.” Blaine planned a theme. Of course he did. They sit down, a popcorn between them to share. A movie, shared popcorn, a pizza dinner afterwards. A perfect cliche.

“Does that mean you’ve told your friends you’re going to try to make it to second base in the backseat of your parents’ car later?” Kurt whispers as the lights go down.

Blaine lets his fingers linger over Kurt’s in the buttery bag. “Third base. In your bed. All night.” Blaine breathes in his ear.

“What a player. I’m sure they’ll be impressed.” Kurt is impressed. The date is simple and obvious and appropriate to starving student budgets. But also Rent and the very thing they couldn’t have in high school - A date in all its ordinary glory. They hold hands the whole time. They sing Seasons of Love quietly under their breaths. And when Collins and Angel duet, Blaine leans over and kisses Kurt’s cheek. Completely corny but Kurt will never begrudge Blaine romantic sentimentality. He may be somewhat of a silly romantic himself.

They’re starving by the time they arrive at the pizza restaurant and Blaine, of course, thought ahead to make a reservation. “It’s Friday night on campus - we’d never get a seat otherwise,” Blaine explains and Kurt is impressed again. The waiter escorts them to their table and there is one long stemmed red rose placed at his seat. Very impressed.  

“You planned this?”

“That or the waiter is trying to steal my date,” Blaine dismisses in perfect false modesty. Kurt picks up the rose and smiles.

“I’ll have to tell him I’m taken.” Kurt is sure they must look like lovestruck teenagers with the way they’re staring at each other. Also on theme.

“Blaine! Kurt!” They’re snapped out of their puppy eyes’ daze to Sam’s excited voice as he walks in to the restaurant.

“It’s Sam,” Kurt says to Blaine questioningly.

“It is,” Blaine says back, equally confused. The door opens again. “And Tina. And Jen. And Scott. Look it’s half my dorm floor.” Blaine’s eyes go wide and apologetic.

“Did they wire tap you or something?” Kurt whispers under his breath.

“This is such a coincidence, guys! We can join you.” Sam takes up the table beside Blaine, who looks stricken, but Kurt laughs. Perhaps the campus pizza place isn’t a super secret hideaway.

“Yeah, join us. For sure,” Kurt smiles at Sam genuinely and Blaine gives him a look.

“Wait. You guys aren’t - I mean, I know you guys are - But this isn’t like a special pizza or something, is it?” Sam does clue in eventually.

“Well we were on a date,” Blaine says pointedly.

“We were,” Kurt affirms but mouths to Blaine “It’s okay.” He’s surprised that he means it.

“Shit. I am sorry, dude-Oh my god, there’s even a rose,” Sam starts.

“It’s okay. You can stay, really,” Blaine says to Sam but he’s looking at Kurt for confirmation.

“I’ve already got my rose, anyways,” Kurt nods. “And this way I can get all the inside scoop about Blaine.”

“Yes!” Tina claps her hands as she pulls up beside Kurt. “Has he told you that he flosses three times a day?” Tina stage whispers. Blaine rolls his eyes.

“That is a lot,” Kurt nods at Blaine.

“Are you complaining about my impeccable oral hygiene?” Blaine pings his straw wrapper at Kurt. who’s enjoying Blaine’s dorm mates’ enthusiasm for his quirks. Which is really enthusiasm for Blaine. Which Kurt can definitely appreciate.

“He plays piano at midnight.”

“He has a step stool to reach the top shelf in the closet.”

“He keeps a stash of juice boxes.”

“But you know what’s super weird?” Tina asks Kurt. “He somehow turns from dapper grandpa with admittedly classically handsome looks to like a freakishly sexy rock star when he sings.” 

Kurt smirks at Blaine knowingly. “You’ll have to perform for me one day.”

“Isn’t that how I won you over in the first place?”

“I think it was in the second place. But yes.” Blaine takes Kurt’s hand over the salt and pepper shakers and interlaces their fingers.

“Oh!” Sam slaps the table. “He has 43 bowties. 43.”

“43?” Kurt repeats and Blaine shrugs innocently.

“Maybe.”

After a dinner of too much perfectly greasy pizza and a reasonable amount of funny stories about Blaine (and a few about Sam too, for good measure), Blaine manages to politely decline going out drinking in favor of ‘turning in early’. 

“I know what that means,” Sam winks. 

“Genius,” Kurt says under his breath and Blaine laughs.

“Don’t wait up, Sam,” Blaine pats him on the shoulder, finally sending him on his merry way.

“You sure you didn’t mind all my friends crashing our date?” Blaine asks him genuinely. “I may have planned the rose, but the extra guests were not on the agenda.”

“It was perfect,” Kurt links his arm through Blaine’s as they make their way back to his dorm. “Group dates are very high school. Fits the theme.”

“That’s true,” Blaine agrees. “But still, it was meant to be an actual date.”

Kurt shakes his head. “There will be more dates. I believe you have another 42 bowties to show me, anyways.”

[consulalexander]

Vicious Velvet (Shadowhunters/Sweetbitter AU) 1/?

I know we’re feeling a lot of feels tonight, fandom, so hopefully this serves as a good distraction. This is my attempt at a TMI/Shadowhunters restaurant AU. Inspired by Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler— if you haven’t read it, especially if you’ve worked in the restaurant industry, GO READ IT.

Title from the song “High Hopes in Velvet” by The Cab.

Meshing inspirations from both the books and TV show into one because it’s fic and I can and because Alec will always be my precious BLUE EYED son. Malec, Clace, Sizzy and more feels galore.

I don’t own these characters. Try not to hate me after this.

  Part One

“For a moment, or a second, the pinched expressions of the cynical, world-weary, throat-cutting, miserable bastards we’ve all had to become disappears, when we’re confronted with something as simple as a plate of food.” — Anthony Bourdain

The Institute. The sign reads like a death sentence, like it’s judging her, creeping under her hot, flushed skin. It’s where many have gone to die, to be lost in the sea of scallops and truffles and demi-glacé, of boredeaux and top shelf whiskey and dim, flickering candles on heavy, expensive table clothes.

It’s her first day, and Clary Fray is positively terrified.

“Relax, you look like you’re constipated,” Simon Lewis, her best friend since the days of diapers and coloring on walls, says from behind her.

“Have you seen where you work?” Clary asks, still unmoving. “It makes Mordor look appealing.”

“Nah, that’s only Maryse, our resident Sauron. She’s always in her office, anyway, you’ll never see her.”

Clary doesn’t quite believe him. Simon’s only been working there for six months, but he seems to have forgotten the traumatic hour he spent, just like her, alone in a room with Maryse Lightwood, owner and manager of The Institute Bistro.

She’s still not sure how she landed this job, Simon’s good word be damned.

Simon pushes her forward toward the dark double doors.

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late,” he says.

It’s just another job, Clary. Woman the hell up.

Simon opens the front doors, ushering her inside. The restaurant is dimly lit; she can barely see her hand out in front of her as her eyes adjust from the bright sunlight outside. It’s empty save for the employees walking around in their perfectly pressed black clothes, getting everything ready to open.

A woman with a long, intricate blonde braid stands next to one of the closest tables to the door, filling a line of crystal salt and pepper shakers, expertly sweeping any spills off the immaculate red tablecloth and into her palm with a silver crumber.

“Hey, Lydia,” Simon calls to her. “Is Maryse in?”

The aforementioned Lydia looks up, eyeing Clary with interest. Clary squirms a little under her gaze; it’s hard, intrigued at her squeaky clean newness but laced with potential judgment.

She’s bordering on panic now. 

“No, not today, she had a meeting with the lawyers,” Lydia says, wiping her hands on the crisp black apron tied around her waist.

Simon steps back so he’s a hair behind Clary, nudging her forward gently.

“This is Clary, she’s the new host,” Simon says. “Clary, this is Lydia, one of the servers.”

Lydia sticks out her hand; her shake is firm, an iron vice around Clary’s hand.

“Nice to meet you,” she says officially. “Welcome to The Institute.”

Clary smiles, albeit a little wary. “Good to be here.”

Lydia leans forward, still gripping her hand, like she’s about to tell Clary a secret. 

“Pro tip,” she says, “get better shoes.”

Clary looks down at her worn black Converse and flushes to match her fiery hair.

“Tried to tell her but Fray’s a Converse addict,” Simon laughs, side-eyeing Clary. “She needs to go to shoe rehab. Can’t pry them from her cold dead hands.”

“They’re comfortable!” Clary retorts.

Normally, she’d laugh right along with him, but she’s no longer Simon’s confident best friend. She’s a vibrating bundle of nerves, her thoughts screaming fuck I knew I should’ve splurged on some stupid server shoes, of course it’s the first thing she notices, god I’m not going to fit here.

Simon gives Clary a look like she’s having a stroke, and clears his throat.

“Um, where’s Alec then?” he asks.

Lydia waves her hand vaguely, already back to the shakers.

“Somewhere in the wine cellar I think,” she says. “I heard yelling down there earlier.”

Simon grabs Clary’s arm and drags her toward the pristine bar, ducking behind the glossy mahogany counter and descending down a darkened stairwell in the back hallway. The door at the bottom screeches open, deafening, and then they’re in a modest cement-walled cellar, the musty air curling around them. Rows of wooden shelves line the walls and stand from floor to ceiling, bottles of varying sizes and dust accumulation stuffed in every crevice. Two large, industrial refrigerators dominate the back wall, displaying columns of white wine.

A man stands there with his back turned, writing in a small notebook.

“Hey, Alec,” Simon shouts, leading Clary over to him.

Alec turns, stowing the notebook in his back pocket. He’s incredibly tall, which only exacerbates Clary’s five feet two inches. His eyes are piercingly blue, making Clary somewhat uncomfortable in their fierceness, and the sleeves of his black dress shirt are pushed up to reveal black, swirling tattoos. A small, dangling silver earring in his left ear catches the dim light and sparkles, odd and delicate on his large frame.

He’d be handsome if he wasn’t scowling.

“Sorry to bug you,” Simon says hurriedly, “but Maryse isn’t here and Clary starts hosting today.”

Alec’s eyes flick over to Clary, narrowing at her in distrust. 

“I know, Mom told me she was starting today,” Alec says gruffly.

Mom?  

Suddenly, Clary realizes who this is. Alexander Lightwood, eldest son of Maryse and Robert Lightwood, assistant manager and bartender at The Institute and a general pain in Simon’s ass. Clary recalls countless agitated phone calls and emergency coffee runs these past six months, Simon consistently bitching about some entitled asshole named Alec who hated Simon for no real reason.

This asshole, apparently.

Alec grabs a bottle off the nearby shelf and points it at her.

“Should be a pretty typical Wednesday night,” he snaps. “Nothing too crazy. You’ll be shadowing Simon. Your job is to answer phones, take people to their seats, taking and calling reservations, and maintaining the flow of the restaurant. A monkey could do it. I’m bartending. Lydia, Maia, Jace and Helen are serving, try not the get in the way.”

He pulls the bottle away and gives her an obvious, stern once over, lips curling into a grimace when he spots her shoes.

“Uniform is all black, no jeans, no t-shirts, and lose the Converse next time.”

Alec walks up the stairs, the floorboards creaking under his feet. Clary stares after him, mouth ajar, before turning to Simon incredulously.

“Does he ever smile?” she asks.

Simon shrugs. “I’ve never seen it. He might not even know how.”

Clary sticks her tongue out at the direction Alec just went and follows Simon back up the stairs into the heart of the restaurant.

“You clock on in the kitchen,” Simon says.

She tails him down the steps (the and host station are on a platform, while the rest of the restaurant stretches out down a small flight of stairs) and through the vast main room, her feet springing on the plush blood  red carpeting.

Simon pushes past two massive steel doors in the back, gleaming like a looking glass. Suddenly, Clary’s immersed in the chaos of the kitchen as they prepare for the day.

Two men on the line, dressed in crisp black chef coats with blood red detailing on the cuffs and collar, are shouting at each other in Spanish. Hypnotic Latin bass thumps in the background from speakers mounted on the wall. A man with his hair tied back in a braid is swaying his hips to the beat, mixing something white in a large steel bowl.

People push past the doors at regular intervals, barely giving Simon and Clary a glance. They’re carrying buckets or trays or come in to shout something at one of the men before ducking back into the ether. It’s a controlled disaster; Clary doesn’t know where to look first.

“Into the fray, Fray,” Simon teases, leading her down the aisle between the doors and the first set of stainless steel counter tops. Clary rolls her eyes.

They head to the far back of the kitchen, toward a small door labeled “office”. The glass panes on the door are ancient with dust, the glass crawling toward the bottom of the window in ripples.

Simon turns the knob, and they step inside the office, illuminated by low desk lights. The space is lined with three different desks shoved against the walls. A large leather office chair takes the space in the middle of the desks, for easy access to each one. The amount of clutter overtaking the desks astounds Clary, who’s rather neat by nature: mountains of documents and files, recipe notes written in scrawling calligraphy, jars of unopened spices, boxes exploding with bubble wrap, scattered pens and various mugs. A laptop, sleek and shiny, is propped on a stack of cookbooks, opposite a large boxy computer that could’ve walked out of Clary’s childhood.

Simon leans over the mess, sweeping a multicolored silken scarf off the old keyboard and clocking himself in, before doing the same for Clary.

“Super easy to clock in,” he says, turning back to face her, “just find your name and type in your birthday.”

The office door bangs open dramatically, making Clary jump out of her skin. A man walks in, tall and lithe, jet black hair spiked high on his head and rings glittering on his fingers. A gentle smirk dances on his face, and he’s dressed in the same chef’s coat as the rest of the kitchen staff, with the added exception of shimmering thread woven throughout the coat.

“Hey, Magnus,” Simon says, awkwardly gesturing to Clary behind him. “This is my best friend Clary, our new host. Clary, this is our head chef Magnus.”

Magnus holds out his hand; the bracelets stacked on his wrist clang together as he moves. Clary’s mildly impressed with how perfectly accessorized he is.

“Pleasure,” he says, a vague, lilting accent dressing up his words. “Welcome aboard, biscuit.”

She shakes his hand, stunned into silence. Magnus doesn’t seem to mind-- if anything, he seems used to that reaction-- and grabs the scarf from the desk, tying it around his head to keep his hair back.

“Sherman,” he says, adjusting the knot of the head scarf. “Tell Jace if he sends back one more wagyu burger today because he forgot to put in the temp, I’ll wagyu him.”

It takes Clary a moment to realize he’s talking to Simon.

“Still not speaking?” Simon asks.

“Nope,” Magnus says, enunciating the ‘p’ with a loud pop. “Yesterday was unforgivable. Five burger. FIVE. Raphael almost threw a plate at him.”

“I wish he had,” Simon mutters to himself.

Clary raises her eyebrows at him. Magnus grabs a black, sparkling notebook from behind the laptop and pats Clary’s head as he breezes by.

“Good luck, gingersnap,” he says out the door. “Don’t forget, Simone!”

“Well, that was almost right,” Simon says with a good-natured smirk. 

That’s the thing about Simon. Nothing seems to faze him, like water off a duck’s back.

“Alright, Fray,” Simon says. “Let’s put you to work.”

**

Most people would say that irritation is Alexander Lightwood’s default setting. Those who truly know him, however, know the difference between normal, surly Alec and irate, pissed off Alec.

Today, he’s the latter.

He tries not the let work take over his life-- he really does. To be fair, he doesn’t have much of a life to speak of beyond work, but the point still stands. 

Unfortunately, when your parents/bosses are going through a nasty divorce, which takes over every single aspect of you and your siblings’ lives because nothing about your damn family is quiet or discreet, suddenly your attention is inundated with wine orders and staffing and reps and catering... all while steadfastly trying to avoid the splintering marriage infecting everything you do.

Alec pauses in stocking the bar and grimaces down at his phone, seeing the flood of passive aggressive texts from his mother. He slams the phone down on the bar top and puts his head in his hands, massaging his weary temples.

“Jace!” he calls.

He peeks through his fingers to see his best friend and adoptive brother bound toward him, sliding behind the bar with grace and sidling up to Alec. He leans against the counter, a picture of ease, his golden hair curling over his forehead in that just-rolled-out-of-bed surfer boy way, eyes shining.

His cheer only irritates Alec more.

He passes his phone over wordlessly, watching Jace’s expression morph into disdain as he reads. He wrinkles his nose.

“So, I take it the meeting didn’t go very well,” Jace says with a snort, handing Alec his phone back.

“That’s an understatement.”

Alec sighs, leaning his hips flush against the counter. He reaches up subconsciously toward his ear, fiddling with the small silver arrow charm dangling from the lobe.

“At this point, it’s just constant fighting over Max and the restaurant,” Alec says, frowning, eyeing Simon carrying the host sign to the door, the little redhead girl following at his heels. Jace watches the pair curiously, eyes trained on the redhead-- Clara? Cora? Alec can’t remember for the life of him-- with interest.

“Poor kid,” Jace says of their baby brother, still watching her and Simon set up the host station. “This can’t be good for him, witnessing all this fighting. We should just adopt him.”

Alec raises an eyebrow. “He’s already our brother.”

“Yeah, but if we adopt him then he won’t have to boomerang between Maryse and Robert, which I think everyone can agree is not good for his health and development. Besides, you know we’d be kickass parents.”

“I’m not going to be Max’s new dad, parenting you is enough work.”

Jace gasps dramatically. “You impugn my honor, sir. I’m wounded. Wounded!”

Alec rolls his eyes.

“Go impugn yourself,” he says, tugging on his earring again as he looks out over the hustle of the restaurant opening.

Jace turns away from the host station, looking at Alec. His eyes track Alec’s fingers, toying with the charm, and when Alec glances back at Jace, he’s met with a knowing grin that Alec is tempted to slap off his face.

“What?” Alec asks, annoyed.

“Nothing,” Jace says, still grinning. “I like the jewelry. Where’d you get it?”

Alec’s hand jerks away from the earring like its burned him, and glares venomously at Jace.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

Jace holds his hands up in surrender.

“What? I’m just admiring,” he says, all innocence. “It’s a good look for you. You should wear it more often-- oh wait, that’s right, you’ve been wearing it every day since your birthday.”

Alec rolls his eyes so hard he’s somewhat concerned they might fall out of his head.

“It’s easier to just leave it in,” he says, refusing to meet Jace’s eyes.

Jace’s grin turns lecherous.

“Sure that’s all you wanna leave in?” Jace says.

Alec hits him with a check presenter.

“Can you shut up?” he hisses, eyes darting around. “We’re at work!”

Jace snorts. “Yeah because no one knows about the raging hard on Magnus has for you. I just gotta ask-- why didn’t he get me a birthday present? Maybe I want some jewelry too.”

Alec hits him again, this time over his head, the leather of the check presenter making a violent smacking sound.

“Can you ask him where he got it at least? I wanna match,” Jace laughs, dancing away when Alec lunges at him.

Jace is saved from strangulation by a melodic voice ringing out from the kitchen doors.

“Alexander!”

Magnus.

Jace waggles his eyebrows at Alec, swinging around the bar and striding over to the host station before Alec can figure out what to throw at him. He heaves a long suffering sigh and turns around to see Magnus striding toward the bar. His usual head scarf, today a deep maroon with multicolored designs, is tied around his head and small gold hoops glint in his ears. Gold eyeliner flicks out in a sharp wing around his eyes, making them appear cat-like and complimenting his warm brown skin.

He’s stunning, as usual, and Alec has to fight to not seem noticeably affected by him.

“Yeah?” Alec says as Magnus approaches, eyes on his forehead because it’s the safest place for him to look.

“I’m short a box of sherry,” Magnus says, leaning against the bar and folding his arms on top of it. “Have you done the liquor order yet?”

Work. He wants to talk work. This, Alec can do. He meets Magnus’ eyes-- they’re glittering, a kaleidoscope of green and yellow that sucks him in a little too deep.

“Uh, no,” Alec says, trying to focus. “I mean, I’m doing it now.”

He holds up the notebook next to him as proof, littered with his illegible scrawl.

“I’ll put on another box and get them to credit it,” Alec says, all business.

Magnus cocks his head to the side, eyes fixated on the tattoo on Alec’s neck, peeking out from the stiff collar of his black button down. Alec had never thought much about tattoos until Jace came home on his eighteenth birthday with his first one, an elegant falcon stretching across his shoulder. Maryse and Robert had both freaked, screaming at Jace for how he would be presenting himself at the restaurant. Alec and Isabelle, Alec and Jace’s sister, had loved it. Alec remembers tracing it every chance he could with his eyes, back when he was still closeted and hating himself, when Jace stirred up someting more than just brotherly affection. He’d been fascinated by the dark lines racing through Jace’s golden skin, running his fingers over his own pale forearms at night and wondering what it would look like on him. 

He came out to his parents soon after that, followed by his first tattoo to erase the pain of his parents’ rejection. His tattoos are his response to pain, and he’s been getting at least one a year, if not more, ever since.

Magnus is still staring at his neck and Alec’s face heats up like a stove top.

“I bet Sebastian stole it,” Magnus jokes-- sort of. Sebastian, their closing prep cook/dishwasher, isn’t the most trustworthy person. Alec has it on good authority that he’s pilfering spices; the only reason Magnus hasn’t fire him is because he’s their fastest dishwasher.

Alec can’t stand the guy, and almost hopes Sebastian actually did steal the sherry so Magnus stops dancing around letting him go.

“Wouldn’t shock me,” Alec says, glancing down at the notebook and scribbling a case of sherry on the ordering chart.

Magnus watches him; Alec fidgets under his gaze and looks back up.

“Anything else?” he asks, desperate for Magnus to go back into the kitchen so he can breathe normally again.

Magnus shakes his head.

“Nope,” he says with a coy grin. “Just looking.”

Alec’s cheeks grow so hot eggs could fry on them. He sputters, feeling clumsy, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet.

Magnus laughs, like the tinkling of chimes, pushing himself up from his lazy slouch over the bar. He winks at Alec.

“Thanks, darling. Back to the dungeon I go,” he sings, spinning on his heels and sashaying back toward the kitchen’s double doors.

Alec watches him go, frozen, eyes hypnotized by Magnus’ hips swinging back and forth.

Goddamnit.

His phone buzzes, snapping Alec out of his stupor shamefacedly. He shakes his head like he’s getting rid of a fly and glances down at the screen.

MOM: I’m getting Max and coming in for dinner. I cannot be around your father. Reserve me a table and get out the merlot I like. Tell Magnus I’m not doing carbs, I want the spaghetti squash in place of the pasta in the bolognese. Did the Sonoma rep call yet? I need you to do payroll I won’t be able to this week with all these damn meetings, your father is impossible.

Alec’s head falls on the bar in despair. 

How he’s going to get through tonight, he has no idea. 

He lifts his head up like it’s an anvil and sighs, rolling his neck and relishing in the crack of his joints.

“Alright, it’s showtime,” he calls, looking toward Simon and nodding at him to flip the sign. “Let’s open.”