#michael got the artist’s signature rose on his arm

[dreamings-free]

Louis, Oli and Michael getting inked by Ry Rogers aka Hellhabits backstage + Louis on stage in Birmingham 18/11/23

posted 31/12/23

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Evelyn Doyle

Basics

Full Name: Evelyn Rose Doyle

Birthday: April 22, 1984

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual

Powers: Wielder of the Flaming Sword granting her super strength, agility and healing, the gift of Sight (the ability to see one’s true form, i.e., a human’s soul or a magic’s creatures true face), and mastery of light magic

Appearance

Ethnicity: Irish

Skin Tone: Pale with freckles

Eye Color: Dark Blue

Hair Color: Light red

Hairstyle: Long and curly, usually pulled into a braid while on a mission, but otherwise down

Makeup: Natural

Build: Curvy and stronger than she looks

Height: 5’ 6’’

Style: Light colors favoring a girl next door aesthetic

Personality

General Personality Traits: Compassionate, Loyal, Self-Sacrificing

Strengths: Empathy, Determination, Reliability

Flaws: Stubborn, Self-Doubt, Narrow Minded

Habits And Mannerisms: She often fiddles with her neckless when she’s nervous or thinking, hums to herself, hair twirler

Secrets: Lost her virginity to when she was 17 to a boy from a different school, they weren’t even dating at the time; she felt so guilty after she didn’t tell anybody for years

Regrets: Allowing herself to be controlled by so many people for most of her life

Skills/Talents: Skilled artist, she likes to sketch and paint in her spare time, talented swordsman, can read Latin and speak Irish, and has a nice clear singing voice

Likes: 60s and 70s Rock, the smell of clean laundry, clear nights full of bright stars

Dislikes: Math with anything involving letters, dirty dishes left in the sink overnight, bullies

Guilty Pleasure: Playing music over the speakers late at night and dancing in the kitchen by herself

Defining Moment: The moment she realizes wasn’t chosen by the sword to strictly uphold the will of God. She is human and as a human, she has free will. The sword may have been gifted to her by God, but it is her choices that give it meaning and purpose. The sword is hers and no demon or angel can take it from her.

Relationships

Friends: Everybody on the Waverider, but she gets on best with Amaya, Sara, and Nate

Family: Michael Doyle (younger brother), Peter Doyle (father, deceased), Rebecca Doyle (mother), Ester Kelly (grandmother, deceased)

Enemies: Legion of Doom, Demons, and basically all the other baddies the Legends face

Rivals: More of a friendly rivalry with her brother when he starts dabbling in magic

Lovers: TBA (maybe John Constantine later, jury is still out)

Relationship Status: Single

Reputation: Mom friend of any given friend group she finds herself in, which unfortunately bleeds into her romantic relationships; has a tendency to attract men who are looking for a Mom rather than a girlfriend

Miscellaneous

Current Residence: The Waverider

Collections: Hair pins from different eras and countries across the timeline; she likes the artistry

Accent: Irish

Voice: Clear and soothing

Signature Quote: “Have a little faith.”

Song: TBA

Backstory

Evelyn was born to Rebecca and Peter Doyle on the border of Northern Ireland in 1984. Her family was decidedly Catholic, and raised her that way from an early age. She was a very loving child, ready to curl up with her parents and seeking their approval, which they gladly gave.

When she was five years old, her brother Michael was born. From the second they brought him home, Evelyn understood it was her duty to be his big sister. She helped feed and change him. She helped him to walk and to talk, and did her best to look out for him. This was widely encouraged by her mother, but her father tried not to put too much pressure on her. She was still his little girl, and he wanted her to make sure she was allowed to stay that way. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t last.

In 1992, her father was killed in a bombing. He wasn’t taking part in the protest, simply walking to work.

Her mother was left devastated, going essentially catatonic for a full year after. Their grandmother, Ester, came to live with them during this time. While she did look after them, and loved them dearly, it was clear her main objective was to look after her daughter.

Evelyn took over watching after Michael. She walked with him to and from school. She made breakfast and lunch boxes. She made sure he did his homework, and picked up around the house. She had a sense that she had to cause as few problems as possible for her mother and gran, and so did just that.

When her mother became more functional, their gran moved out of the house, but stuck close by. Still, her mother was never quite the same. She was often forgetful, and Evelyn was left to pick up the rest.

Michael didn’t make it easy. While he wasn’t a bad kid, and loved her like mad, he would often get in trouble at school. More than once he picked fights with bullies or would say something in class that would get him in trouble. Evelyn always covered for him, talking to the teacher, or erasing the messages the school sent before their mom listened to them.

Michael in turn, tried his best to look after his sister, usually in the form of trying to fight boys twice his size when they made on off color joke. Or nicking some candy from the corner market when she was having a bad day.

They continued like this until she was old enough to go to college. She entered wanting to get a degree in child psychology, with the idea of becoming a school consular or family therapist. However, she never got the chance. During her second year of grad school, her gran died leaving nobody to look after her mom.

She came back home with the idea that as soon as Michael was out of college and got a job she’d go back to school and finish her degree. So, she took a job in a customer service call center and helped look after her mom in the meantime.

She ended up staying there for six years as her brother tried and failed to land a secure job. He never seemed to be able to hold down a position for more than six months and would use the time in-between to run minor cons or commit petty theft. Evelyn soon became a regular face at the police station, continuously bailing him out for small time crimes. Eventually it became too much.

One night, after getting him out for breaking and entering, she let it all out, telling him how tired she is of him expecting her to hold the bag while he gets his life together. Michael didn’t take it lying down, countering that she expected him to drop everything to look after a woman who didn’t even raise them. They kept arguing until Evelyn stormed out, needing to clear her head.

Eventually she found herself at the local church, and took a place in the back to think and pray. As she did, an old man she didn’t recognized approached her. He was dressed as a priest, and Evelyn assumed he was new in town. He then asked her what she prayed for, and she explained the argument she had with her brother, and all that had led to it. The priest nodded and asked her if she resented God for putting her through these trials. She answered with confidence that God would not present her with any trial she could not overcome.

Pleased with her answer, the priest showed her to the back and to the hilt of a sword displayed beneath the crucifix. He instructed her to take the hilt. When she did, she was hit with a vision.

In the vision, an angel pulled her soul from her body and cast it into a fire, but rather than burn it shone brighter, extinguishing the flames. The angel then returned her soul, simply stating that she was satisfactory. She woke up on the floor of the church, the hilt of the sword now possessing a perfect bright blade.

The priest explained the sword was the famed Flaming Sword used to guard the garden of Eden. He said her story led him to believe she had all the qualities required of the wielder; faith, compassion, and sacrifice. The vision she had was the final test of her true self, which she had passed. He instructed her to follow the will of the sword, and said it would lead her to where she was needed most.

Armed with this new sense of purpose, Evelyn ran home and tried her best to explain to Michael what had happened.

Michael assumed she went mad and tried to get her calm enough to go to a doctor the next morning, but Evelyn refused. That night, she packed her bags left without a word.

She spent the next six months traveling from monastery to monastery gaining knowledge and instruction on how best to use the sword and the powers that came with it.

And it is in one of these monasteries, Rip Hunter finds her and asks if she would like to join him on his mission to save the future.

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Times Like These - LRH Chapter 5: Rosie loves a virgin, but we don’t need one passing out on her

"Do you think my bangs look uneven? I cut them myself at 3 last night because I couldn't sleep," Marianne had randomly burst into the shop, blurting out her words before she caught the look on her best friends face, and more specifically, the child sat by her side. "Lexi?"

Audrey nodded, pulling a bag from the back room that was stacked with various toys for her toddler. Jeremy had a family emergency, so the day care was shut and the only person she didn't particularly want to see her brother - who was the only one she trusted to watch her daughter - and his friends at the time being.

"Jer is closed, his mum again," Audrey informed her tall friend, watching as her face dropped.

"We going to see him after work?" She asked, already knowing the answer.

Audrey made a noise of agreement, "I'll get Mikey to watch Lex. He could use a catch up tonight I think."

Marianne put a hand on her friends shoulder, sending her a sympathetic look.

Her and Jeremy had been close for years, and his mother is like family to both of the girls. That's why the news of her accelerated Alzheimer's hit them all so hard.

Audrey's phone started ringing on the desk, causing the two elder females to jump. She didn't know the number, and it was the fourth time it had called this morning.

She was starting to get fed up of declining the calls. They didn't leave a voicemail, so she refused to call them back until they left one.

"Somebody's popular," Marianne laughed. "A gentleman caller, perhaps?"

"As if," the blue haired girl scoffed, patting her daughters hair. "The last thing I need is another male worming their way into my life and making it difficult. Possibly the only good thing to come from the last mess was this munchkin."

She pinched her daughters cheek, but the little girl payed no mind as she focused on smacking the doll she held into a toy car.

It was silent for a moment until Marianne raised a question thy was burning on her tongue, "think it could be him?"

Audrey's response was quick, and she snapped without intending to, "Don't bring it up, Annie. He made his choice, and I'm not letting him hurt us again."

The dark skinned girl nodded softly, her hair bouncing with the movement.

Audrey sighed, at herself more than anything as she pinched her brows with her fingers, "I'm sorry, Annie. It's been a long day already."

Her friend smiled at her. Marianne knew the difficult time Audrey was experiencing at the moment, so she made sure to not take the emotional outburst to heart. She knew her mind-hearted best friend would never take a harsh tone unless it was warranted, or she was stressed.

Or tired. Audrey was a monster when she was tired.

A bell dinged from the front of the stood, signaling a customer and Marianne groaned.

"I'll go deal with the human invader. Check back soon, ladies." She kissed both Audrey and Lexi on the cheeks before leaving the room.

This left the short girl to set her daughter up on the side of the room and prep her gun and needles. She kept them at a high enough level that Lexi wouldn't grab them, nor did she leave her daughter unattended in the tattooing room.

She busied herself with sketching a design that had been emailed through the day before. A detailed hummingbird.

She could only imagine the type of person who would want the delicate but intricate tattoo. She had some surprising clients before.

Older women getting detailed chest pieces, burly men receiving dainty ankle tattoos. She loved how tattoos could break  the stereotypical molds that people were forced into.

She herself was an example. A young, single mother who valued kindness and her education above everything but her daughter and her brother, yet was also building a museum of tattoos along her arms and collarbones, and piercings in various spots of her face and ears.

She was a walking contradiction of appearance vs personality and she loved it.

~~~~~

Luke didn't know what to expect as he left the cafe. He was frustrated at the situation, but mainly at the guilt that was swelling in his stomach.

He was not the kind to feel guilty for others. He simply had mode important things to do than worry about other people. Especially the short girl and her young daughter who found Luke more fascinating than he found her.

He didn't like kids. He only enjoyed being around his eldest brothers children. He could never see himself being the type to raise snotty, loud humans who needed food every few minutes and threw tantrums when they didn't get their way.

He was content with dealing with Calum.

Nevertheless, he felt horrible that he is the reason the pair are stuck in their less than enjoyable living situation, and he felt as if he needed to get rid of the guilt somehow.

The bell above the door chimed as he entered the tattoo parlor. The decor was unexpected, and seemed to resemble that of a 60's diner.

The waiting room was empty, and there were no staff members in the front area of the stood which did nothing to settle his growing nerves.

The walls were painted the colour red; not too vibrant, but not dull or dark. A nice matte finish that seemed to brighten the room and make it appear slightly bigger than it is. There were various neon signs on the wall, and drawings of classic cars and landscapes, all signed with a simple rose signature.

He couldn't help but admire the skill of the artist.

He waited for a few minutes, alternating between gnawing on the hoop through his lip, to running his long fingers through his hair that lay flat against his forehead.

He stopped styling it almost a year before, wanting a more mature look than the quiffed style he used to adorn.

His nerves were bubbling at this point. He was growing nervous at the idea of a permanent mark on his body, and at the level of pain it would cause.

Eventually, his frustration got the better of him and he slammed his palm on the small bell that rested on the counter top.

With haste, a tall dark skin girl made her way towards him from a hallway that led to the back of the store.

Marianne took a moment to survey the man in front of her, and she found herself wondering if the pissed off expression on his beautiful face was permanent, or one he chose to adopt in her fathers store.

"How may I help you?" She fixed him with a warm smile, waiting as his gaze trailed the length of her body with a teasing glance.

If he wasn't so full of nerves and annoyance, Luke would have tried to shoot his shot with the tall girl. For now, he simply wanted to get his tattoo and figure out a way to get rid of the guilt that was eating away at him.

"I have an appointment for 1, Luke Hemmings," his words were harsh and straight to the point. He didn't want to wait any longer than he already had, considering it was 5 minutes to 1.

"Ahh, the bird boy," she smirked and his brows furrowed deeper than that already were. "You ever had a tattoo before?"

He shook his head no, watching as she pulled a juice box from a fridge behind the counter and handed him a cookie.

"Eat and drink, reduces the risk of fainting from any pain. Rosie loves a virgin, but we don't need one passing out on her. I'll be with you soon," she took her leave, strutting down the back hallway, and Luke didn't try to hide the way he gazed at her backside in her blue skinny jeans.

Marianne pushes open the green door to Audrey's room, a soft knock on the door to signal her entrance.

"What's up, Annie?" She asked, adjusting her mask on her chin so that it can be easily pulled up when she starts tattooing.

"Your 1 o'clock is here. A virgin," she winks at her friend, holding her arms out to her goddaughter who coos.

"Tell your dad I said thank you for watching her," she tests her gun again, ensuring it is plugged in correctly. "If Jer was doing alright then I wouldn't need to bring her with me-"

Marianne tuts, cutting Audrey off, "nonsense! You know how much daddy and I love having this little squirt around!" She tickles the little girls stomach softly, laughing as she squeals in excitement. "I'll send him in for you."

"Thank you, love you!" Audrey calls after her friend, who leaves after gathering the toys for her toddler.

The blue haired girl busies herself with inspecting the sketch she finished printing for her client.

She was a perfectionist if ever she'd seen one, and considering her work is a permanent scar on a person, she was determined to make it as perfect as she could get it.

The door opens softly, and she hears Marianne instruct the man to take a seat on the chair.

"I'll get you to have a look at the design before I put ink to skin. Where did you want it?" She asks with her back towards the client.

She knew it was rude, but she wanted to quadruple check that everything was fine, as she pulled her mask up properly.

She shed her jacket, and Luke noticed the familiar tattoos on her upper arm.

"Uh, inner bicep," he answered, and Audrey couldn't pick at the moment where she had heard the voice from before.

"No worries! Lay back on the chair, take your shirt off if you need and put your arm out horizontally," she turned towards the client, her eyes still running over the hummingbird design.

Luke's eyes zeroed in on the familiar tattoos decorating the collarbones if the blue haired girl, and the guilt flared in his stomach again.

"Audrey?" He gaped. He didn't know what she did for a living, but he would have never guessed the young mother to work as a tattoo artist at Michael's favourite parlor.

"You," she whispered, anger and stress boiling in her throat again.

"Me," he answered, mimicking their conversation from that morning.

She immediately went into artist/client mode, leaving no room for personal conversation.

She handed him the design, not meeting his icy blue eyes.

"Given our personal history you can request somebody else to be your artist, although they will most likely draw up a new design. We tend to prefer our own work as it is easier to ink," her voice is quiet, and anybody could tell that she is nervous around the man.

He knew what he had to do to make the guilt go away. He wasn't doing it for her, he was doing it for himself. And maybe for her daughter. But mainly to halt the guilt making him sick to his stomach.

He had to draw his eyes away from the immaculate work he held in his hands. She had exceptional skill, and he found himself directing a bit of inward respect to the girl.

He cleared his throat as his eyes met her downcast ones, "Look, Aubrey-"

"Audrey," she corrected softly.

"Right, Audrey. What I said earlier, it was rude and I am so sorry about it," lies, he knew it. "And I would really like it if you and the kid took Ashton's old room."

He sounded skeptical, anybody could tell so he was intrigued to see how she would react to his unconvinced tone.

She quirked a brow at him, her mouth hidden by the light blue mask. "What? You're not going to be a dick about it now?"

He sent her a dirty look, setting his jaw, "no. I'm not going to be a dick about it. I shouldn't have been so rude. If anybody deserves somewhere new to love, it's you."

She was confused. She didn't know whether or not to trust the man who had previously proven, on multiple occasions, to be an asshole.

"I'll, um, I'll think about it," he nodded at her words. "Want to start the tattoo?"

He nodded softly, making sure to brush any remaining cookie from his face, "I love the design".

"Okay." She said softly, applying the transfer to his arm and loading her needles with ink. "if it hurts, please don't scream. I hate when clients do that."

He nodded curtly, clenching his teeth together when the burning sensation trailed through the skin of his bicep.

She was unsure about how to take Luke's words. He hadn't shown in any of the interactions they had had to be any kind of a nice guy, so she wondered what the ulterior motives were behind his actions.

He was a confusing man, and while she was interested to get to know more about him, she also needed to decide if she could stomach living with him and subjecting her daughter to a living environment with the difficult man.

As the needles got closer to his armpit, he let out a hiss of air like a balloon being let down and a string of curses left his lips as the burning intensified.

Audrey couldn't deny that she was grinning behind her mask.

"Wait, whose Rosie?" He asked through a clenched jaw.

[chloes-yellow-cup]

Nowish - Part 7

Bechloe. Staubrey. Bellas Squared/Stechlobree.

A story in which I convinced myself by accident that this could work. Let me try and convince you too.

Nowish Master Post  - Everything on one page.

A Shared Lifetime - All my fics

Recommended Mood Music on Spotify. Artistic license taken with song release years.

Note on the links: The ones about music lead to YouTube vids for fun. Rest are GIFs or links to whatever gift idea I have.

Bella Reunion 2017

~B~

Saturday, June 24th, 2017

Beca settled heavily into a chair. “Oh god, I don’t think I can dance anymore.” She had never been more thankful she’d decided to go with her sneakers for the reunion.

“What’s the matter, Shawshank? Married life making you slow?” Amy frowned and eyed her as Beca laid her head on the table for a second. “I’d have thought it would have taken a few more years for that to happen.”

“Unlike some people, I have been dancing for the last three hours.” Beca sat up and flagged down one of the wait staff and ordered a beer. “It’s now time to drink.”

Amy nodded sadly. “And turned you into an alcoholic. As expected.”

“What do you mea—Never mind.” Beca shook her head. “I know how this goes. You make weird statements and confuse me and I end up confessing something embarrassing by accident.”

“Aw, but that’s the fun part.” Amy sighed. “And without Bumper here, you know I need to keep distracted until I can get back to the hotel and-“

“Do not finish that sentence if you don’t want to wear my beer, Amy.”

“You don’t have your beer yet.”

“Damnit.”

“But I’ll take it easy on you. Don’t want you to get all worked up thinking about my sexy ass.”

Beca rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you, Amy.”

Amy slammed back the rest of her drink and pushed up out of her seat. “Time to see a man about a horse.”

Beca watched her walk away then looked back out at the dance floor, smiling at the rest of her Bellas. They were the biggest knot of people on the dance floor, though, surprisingly, not the loudest. The reunion this year was back at Barden, so there was a bigger than normal turnout, with many former members jumping at the chance to see their old stomping grounds.

Beca smiled as Legacy’s mom showed off her signature move which shifted to laughter when she noticed Emily standing to the side with a slightly horrified and embarrassed expression on her face when Chloe jumped next to her and copied it exactly. Katherine Junk was probably one of the coolest parents she had ever met, though Beca never wanted to make her mad after she’d heard about the chokehold over George Michael.

It was weird, being back on campus and not having to run off to class. Or rehearsal, she thought idly as Stacie and Aubrey swung past her line of sight. She had to admit, she sort of missed the radio station. Not the CD stacking part, but when Luke had finally let her DJ regularly her sophomore year. That she missed. She even, sort of but not really, missed Jesse and his movie chatter. They didn’t get to talk nearly often enough.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Cynthia Rose dropped down on her left and Beca smiled.

“Hey. Nothing, really. Just thinking of what it’s like being here and not having to…” her fingers waved through the air. “Rush anywhere. Do anything. Be…”

“Responsible? So tired you can’t see straight?” Cynthia Rose paused. “Not like that last was a problem for me, exactly.”

Beca nodded and laughed. “Exactly. Adulting is weird.” Her beer arrived and she dropped enough money on the tray to cover a generous tip. “They just… turn you loose. Like you’re just… ready. Done baking. Go forth into the world, young student.” She shook her head. “I so wasn’t ready.”

“You seemed to have landed on your feet.”

Beca smiled again, softer this time. “I got lucky.” Cynthia Rose snorted. “Not like that, perv.” But she grinned with her. “I knew I had you guys if I stumbled. Even if I’d had to do it without those 3 lunatics I drove across the country with. I knew I had support, even from my dad, there at the end.”

“Married life mellowed you, Becs.” Cynthia Rose told her. “This is the longest, most positive thing I have ever heard you say.”  Her expression turned sly. “Except when Stacie recited that speech you made to Aubrey on her birthday.” She laughed when Beca pushed on her shoulder.

 Beca picked at the label on her beer, but continued. “I also got lucky with my job. This could have been a lot harder than it was.” She sipped from her bottle. “Should have been harder. So, I’m grateful to all you aca-bitches for not kicking me to the curb when I was an insufferable…”

“Smart ass? Cynthia Rose raised an eyebrow. “Tiny dictator who made us all run laps when she was in a bad mood?”

“That all works.” Beca tipped her bottle at her. “Legacy always said her mom told her that kind of stuff all the time. ‘The Bellas will be your family.’ I was so glad that she wasn’t wrong. And that my… fear? That seems to fit my main emotion our senior year… didn’t cause us to lose the chance for upcoming generations to be Bellas.”

“Well, most of that was Muffgate, but… I get what you mean, though I didn’t think of that until we were at Worlds.” Cynthia Rose sat back in her chair. “I thought I knew. But it took seeing all the other Bellas there, ready to give their all for us, who almost lost it all over a stupid mistake, before I realized, really realized, what we had become.”

Beca said it with her. “Family.”

“That’s beautiful.”

Cynthia Rose and Beca both jumped at the new voice and looked to their left. Cynthia Rose put her hand on her heart. “Lilly! Jesus! Where did you come from, girl?!”

Beca tried to stop her own pulse from racing. “I’ve given up asking. She just kind of… appears.” It was also usually the only time Lilly’s voice was audible without leaning closer than you really wanted to. Lilly smiled, like she knew what Beca was thinking. ‘Oh god, have you been a mind reader all this time? I’m so sorry for all the dirty thoughts I have ever had about Chloe when you’re around!’

Lilly just stared at her before she looked away, saying something Beca couldn’t hear this time. She looked over at Cynthia Rose who was closer.

“She asked about TWA™ and if she showed up this year.” Her eyes cut right and looked back at Beca. “And then something about having plastic sheeting stashed in the basement at the Bella house if we need it.”

Beca swallowed hysterical laughter. “No, she’s not here. Stacie says it’s because she’s afraid of me. Apparently my rant that first year was noticed.”

Cynthia Rose cocked her head and gave Beca a Look. “It was in the middle of the bar, at full volume, after your fifth drink. You jumped on your chair and yelled - I’m going to paraphrase here – ‘Where is That Whore Alice™? Bitch is a hoor’ – which you totally pronounced that way, Becs – ‘and I’m going to punch her in the tits for being mean to my best friends for three years.’”

Beca smirked. “Yeah that. Stacie heard from Aubrey that it got around, and may have scared her off.”

“Good. Though, if you need some help.” Cynthia Rose leaned forward. “I know people.”

Beca growled. “To take out the trash? Psh, nah.”

“Trash?”

Beca looked up as Jessica and Ashley took seats across the table, Jessica smiling after her question. Before she could answer, arms wrapped around her neck. She wondered what it meant that she knew it was Stacie by the size of the boobs against the back of her head as a chin rested on the top of it. “If Beca’s talking about trash at a Bellas reunion, we’re talking about That Whore Alice™.”

Flo walked past Stacie and sat down at the table. “In my country, the man that bought her would be trying to get his goat back.”

Beca laughed then patted the arms looped in front of her. “Aw, Stace. You do get me.”

“Stop sweet talking me when our wives are out of earshot.” Beca felt Stacie jump after a sharp smacking sound. ”Oops.”

“Sweetie, stop sweet talking Beca when your wife walks into earshot.” Aubrey took the seat on Beca’s right. “You know it makes Beca adorably flustered.”

Stacie shrugged around Beca’s head. “She is cute when she’s flustered.”

Beca just grinned and watched as the rest of her Bellas found spots at the table, dragging over chairs as necessary. Amy came back with a half empty bottle of tequila and a stack of red Solo cups.

“Oh god, no. Amy. Not…” Beca trailed off as the rest of them cheered. “I mean. Yay.”

Stacie kissed her cheek. “C’mon Becs, it’ll be like old times.” She let Beca go and pulled a chair over beside Aubrey.

“If I puke in the bushes ‘like old times’ someone is going to pay.”  Beca noticed a look flash between Legacy and Cynthia Rose, whose eyebrow went up just a fraction. She hoped she’d remember to ask Legacy about it later but the outlook wasn’t good now that Amy was pouring ‘shots’ into the cups. They looked overly generous to be legitimately called ‘shots’.

“Don’t worry; I’ll hold your hair.” Chloe’s voice whispered in her ear before she settled herself on Beca’s lap, who immediately wound an arm around Chloe’s hip to hold her in place. “Again.”

“Thanks babe.”

As Amy passed out the drinks, Mrs. Junk (because really, Beca couldn’t call her anything else) came up. “Ooooh, tequila!” When Amy passed her a cup, she gave it to Legacy who gaped. “What? Don’t be shocked. You turn 21 soon enough. One won’t kill you.” The rest of the Bellas cheered as Amy poured another one for her. “I know this isn’t your first drop of alcohol, Em. I’m your mother, not blind.”

“It’s my first tequila?” Emily squeaked out. “If it helps?”

Once everyone had their cups, they all looked at Beca. She raised her glass, feeling love rising over her like a wave from all directions.

“Bellas for life!”

“BELLAS FOR LIFE!”

Beca shook her head and tossed the shot back, thinking that she almost didn’t have this in her life.

How stupid she’d been.

“Gross!” Emily stuck out her tongue. “Why would you ever…” She gulped the water her mother handed her.

How very lucky.

[impressivepress]

We Should Be Grateful Charlie Chaplin Made 'The Great Dictator' When He Did

Charlie Chaplin is understood to have confided to his friends that, had he known about the full horrors of the Nazi regime, he would probably not have got around to making The Great Dictator.

“There are things in our century that wipe away even the most poisonous smile from the face of the most passionate satirist,” wrote one of the 20th century’s foremost historians. He was referring to Karl Kraus, the great Austrian journalist-polemicist-satirist, whose book The Last Days of Mankind, written in the inter-war years, is a 20th-century classic.  When it came to lampooning National Socialism and Adolf Hitler, Kraus says, “nothing occurs to me”. A little later, he adds: “The word fell asleep when that world awoke.”

When the Holocaust became common knowledge, Chaplin must have also felt that his craft was inadequate to render Hitler’s world in any known cinematic genre – political satire or vaudeville, burlesque or tragedy. The Great Dictator was conceptualised and filmed when it was still possible to make fun of the Fuehrer.

Chaplin started shooting for the film in September 1939, just days after Germany invaded Poland. But he had been planning a movie on Hitler for years before that, and worked on his script through 1938-39. From Nazi newsreels, he had carefully studied Hitler’s mannerisms and the way he harangued large crowds. Chaplin also watched Leni Riefenstahl’s propaganda documentary Triumph of the Will (1935) several times over to make sure that he knew Nazi rituals well enough; his incredible talent for mimicry did the rest.

The film shoot took a little over six months. By the time Chaplin sat down to edit and add the music tracks, Hitler was overrunning Belgium and Holland while France was gently nudging itself into surrender. When The Great Dictator released in the US in October 1940, London was being carpet-bombed by the Luftwaffe, Neville Chamberlain had already made way for Churchill as the British prime minister and Warsaw’s Jews were being herded into the first ghettos run by the Nazis. However, the tone of the film had already been set before the active hostilities began. A tragedy loomed clearly enough then, but few thought yet that it was the Armageddon.

This perspective is important for understanding the satirical and political scope of Chaplin’s film. The ‘final solution of the Jewish problem’ was not only in the future, it had perhaps not begun to take shape as yet in even the most malevolent Nazi sensibility. Chaplin had set out to spoof the pompous bully who was absurd and arrogant, but not yet quite the hideous hangman history was to know him as. Hitler still regarded Mussolini with something of the awe that the disciple reserves for his mentor – this gave Chaplin the opportunity to flesh out a memorable love-hate-love relationship – and  Mussolini’s precipitous invasion of Greece, which annoyed Hitler no end, was not to happen before end-October 1940.

The Great Dictator can very well look a tad too light-hearted today; the fact that an uproariously funny story is being told around what can only be described as unmitigated evil can surprise its modern-day viewers. But it is undoubtedly a film true to its time.

And The Great Dictator is much more than a parody. It is a stirring denunciation of fascism’s core principles – xenophobia, intolerance, bigoted nationalism and anti-Semitism. It is funny, but its world is intrinsically violent. Hynkel is often nervous, even shy, but in the presence of his pretty secretary, his predatory instincts are aroused in a trice.  Holding her in a tight embrace, he digs his teeth into her neck with sudden vehemence, the whole act looking more like the tearing of flesh than love-making. The utter casualness with which he gives up his prey when the telephone buzzes suddenly makes the scene even more chilling.

Writing in Criterion, Michael Wood notes the effortlessness with which Chaplin shows us “how lethal the ludicrous can be”:

Nothing in the film is quite as frightening as the sight and sound of the ludicrous Hynkel casually ordering the execution of three thousand striking workers.

Chaplin plays around marvellously with this crossover between rollicking humour and unmixed horror. Wood has pointed out how the harmless barber waving a razor over the bare throat of a customer looks more murderous than Hynkel ever does in the film. But the masterly mixing of the strains of Johannes Brahms’ ‘Hungarian Dance no 5’ into this edge-of-the-seat scene adds that piquancy which is signature Chaplin.

Again, as the barber sets out on his first date with Hannah, the storm-troopers arrive to get him. A long shot shows the SS men approaching the couple from one end of the street. The barber stops dead, turns around and heads in the other direction nonchalantly, as though nothing was the matter. Another long shot captures another SS column closing in on him from the other direction. Now in panic, the barber scrambles for safety, running first this way and then that, and the camera pans back a long distance before an aerial shot shows him being swept up by an avalanche of burly SS men.

As masterful as the casual mixing of horror and humour is the blending of the ridiculous and the sublime in The Great Dictator. Gracefully, even tenderly, Hynkel performs the unforgettable balloon-ballet with Wagner’s ‘Lohengrin’ playing softly on the soundtrack. But then he slips on to a tabletop, and goes on bouncing the globe-balloon off his behind, with loving care, a dreamy, enchanted look frozen on his face. When finally he tries to get both his arms around the balloon, it bursts with a scream in his face.

Again, as the fugitive Schultz plots Hynkel’s assassination while sheltering in the ghetto, a serio-comic drama plays out around a noble enterprise. Each of the ‘volunteers’ (Schultz smartly rules himself out right at the beginning) pledges himself to the great project, but is aghast when he finds the fateful coin in his pie. The scene  soon turns into a boisterous farce.

The Nazis hated Chaplin, because they found his humour irreverent, subversive – hardly the kind that promoted the ‘wholesome family values’ so beloved of Hitler. In his 1931 trip to Berlin, Chaplin proved hugely popular in Germany and, though the Nazis did not like his spectacular success in all his public engagements, there was not much they could do at that point.

After Hitler rose to power, however, things changed dramatically for Chaplin, as they did for many other popular artists, German and non-German. In 1935, Goebbels banned The Gold Rush in Germany, presumably because the film ran counter to wholesome family entertainment. Even before that, in 1934, Goebbels had authorised the publication of a slanderous little book titled The Jews are Looking at You which, among other choice epithets, described Chaplin as “a disgusting Jewish acrobat” (Chaplin was not Jewish, though). Chaplin had seen the book, and it is safe to assume that his resolve to make a film around Nazism hardened because of it.

Given this background, he could hardly have chosen to play a part in the film that was non-Jewish. And Chaplin being Chaplin, he decided to deliver the coup de grace by playing Hitler as well. It must have been with grim satisfaction that he wrote into one of the opening credits of The Great Dictator words that dripped with irony: “Any resemblance between Hynkel the dictator and the Jewish barber is purely coincidental”. Of course, Chaplin wanted his audience to not look at the dictator and the barber through the same eyes. He expected the audience to laugh right through the film, but he hoped that while the viewers would laugh with the barber for the most part, they would laugh at Hynkel with derision, loathing and worse.

The Great Dictator represented another momentous event: it was Chaplin’s first ‘talkie’. (Modern Times in 1936 had a character screaming at people from a giant TV screen for a few moments, besides the inspired nonsense of the tramp’s song at the cabaret. But it remained a silent movie otherwise.) Chaplin seems to be exploring the enormous potential of his new ‘device’ with great relish here. Hynkel’s public speeches are pure genius. He speaks a mock German that bristles with coughs, sibilants, gutturals and splutters, with occasional identifiable words like sauerkraut (pickled cabbage) and schnitzel (fried meat slice) thrown in with  gusto. It is pure gibberish delivered at an extremely, feverishly high pitch – so much so that the microphone itself cringes on its stem.

In another scene, Hynkel dictates an official note to a typist in a matter-of-fact manner. He is speaking aloud while she is taking it down on her typewriter. When Hynkel spouts a long, solemn sentence, she knocks out just a couple of letters. But when he offers only a monosyllable, she types furiously for several lines, clanging the machine as she works it intently. Hynkel looks on, amazed, but she remains completely unruffled, business-like. This playing-off of sound against meaning is an idea that could only have occurred to someone who was transitioning  from silent to talking films, but it is hard to imagine anyone else picturising it as brilliantly as Chaplin.

The film’s last sequence, of the barber speaking as Hynkel to his victorious troops, is an audacious piece of cinematic thinking. The speech’s content is perched on the edge of mawkishness, and as it begins to crescendo, it sounds very nearly shrill. And yet, in the end, Chaplin pulls it off magnificently. The barber hesitates, approaches the microphone apprehensively, and begins speaking haltingly. As he does that, the frame slowly sheds its sharp focus, becomes somewhat bleary, over-exposed, fuzzy. As his speech gains in passion and force, the speaker himself is no longer very real himself, and as Hannah looks up to the sky, the screen is bathed in a soft, other-worldly light. This is neither Hynkel nor even the barber speaking here, but Chaplin himself stepping in to deliver his own message as the creator of the movie. Come to think of it, this could have been the only way The Great Dictator could have concluded.

For years before the film was made, cartoonists had exploited the quite remarkable resemblance of Chaplin’s moustache with Hitler’s. Chaplin was, of course, all too aware of it himself (which is why he thought of casting himself as the dictator). He knew that, with the minimum of effort, his face could be touched up to look like Hitler’s. And he also knew that the similarities stretched beyond their physiognomy: they were born within four days of each other – Chaplin on April 16, Hitler on 20, both in 1889; and both rose from poverty and neglect to power and prominence.

Did these similarities trouble Chaplin? Many believe they did, Chaplin’s own son telling us they actually haunted his father:

Dad could never think of Hitler except with a shudder, half of horror, half of fascination. “Just think,”’ he would say uneasily, “he’s the madman, I’m the comic. But it could have been the other way around.”

Of course Hitler was not only a madman. Nor was Chaplin merely a comic. But in The Great Dictator, the intersection of insanity and laughter produced a memorable movie. Chaplin says he couldn’t have made the film except in 1938-39. We are grateful that he made it when he did.

~

Anjan Basu · 16. Apr 2019.

[tinymixtapes]

Feature: 2017: Favorite 50 Songs

NOTE: Each day this week, we will share a new 10-track mix, which together represent 50 of our favorite songs from 2017. Today’s theme is “GYM,” mixed by Corrigan B. I have a reputation for being ruthlessly optimistic, which is why I typically hate this kind of shit: yearly ritual lamentations on things like racist soap commercials and weird presidential takedowns of professional football players; in retrospectives like this, it seems like we always group our collective grievances in odd numbers, truncating our listing of injustices for brevity and politeness. This approach — of remembering and marking a year like we’re scratching off days on a culturally misappropriated doom calendar — has always struck me as insincere and offensive, but then it ends, and it’s weird looking back at what we went through and what got us through. Another arbitrary amount of time has passed, and yet it really does feel heavy. Death is real. Words fail. Mask on. Fuck it, mask off! So we pick a song and close our eyes and turn it up. And what were we blaring this year that warped time’s mundane and oppressive rhythms? What mutterings slowed us down when we were spinning out of control? What sounds launched us through uncertainty and landed us somewhere a little more familiar, if even for just a few minutes? There was no high canon guiding our self-care other than what we needed, and aren’t we all a little less particular about what kind of noise lifts us up when we’re fumbling through our first yoga class at the GYM, screaming obscenities into the glowing rectangular VOID, remembering love and loss on the brisk face of the CLIFF, shuffling home through the ALLEY at night, driving away from it all in the COUPE? We don’t have EVERYTHING listed here, but for us, a lot of these tracks were EVERYTHING this year. So, in that spirit of dissolving hierarchies of taste, this list is not ranked; instead, here are five themed mixes of our Favorite Songs of 2017. How you interact with them is your choice: you can nod along, you can face the noise stoically, you can dance, you can laugh at some of our choices, and most importantly, no matter what anybody tells you, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. However you remember 2017, just know that you’re not alone, and don’t let a crotchety optimist like me tell you to smile through it all. Just pick a song and close your eyes and turn it up. You’ll know what to do when you hear it. –Jazz Scott --- PART 1: “GYM” mixed by Corrigan B --- Joe “Tail Lift” [Hessle Audio] Given its title, it was unsurprising that Joe’s “Tail Lift” was concerned with momentum. Like the piece of machinery it’s named after, “Tail Lift” was always pushing things upwards. Over the course of its nearly six-minute runtime, the track shook and shimmied, balancing chirps, whistles, chimes, and bells over an insistent, doubled beat that was constantly falling over and into itself. These propulsive movements were adorned, interrupted, and joined along the way by fellow sonic travelers drawn to the upbeat procession — children’s voices, glassy keys, miniature melodies — suffusing the track with a caffeinated, off-kilter mien. Dalliances with the weird were frequent here; cartoonish pops, drums, and squeaks bursting into view as the track underwent one of several mini-implosions, its parts falling to the ground before being picked up again, their order jumbled, soldered-together edges overflowing with molten metal. “Tail Lift” was the sonic embodiment of this aleatory backyard readymade: equal parts humorous, conceptual, and functional; archly constructed and strangely satisfying. –Rafael Lubner --- Lil B “Wasup Jojo” [BasedWorld] Feels like a track might be the wrong kind of unit for looking at something by Lil B. Like, look at scales of magnitudes, not at atoms. But on the other hand, everything in the universe is literally in everything else. And I mean that — all of the BasedWorld is in everything Lil B does, and when Black Ken, in its nostalgic Bay Area references, seemed like it was doing something out of reverence for “ancient history,” it turns out that those things were sucked into Lil B’s ambit too. He’s not referring to them; they refer to him from now on: “Wasup JoJo” — it’s a NODE, the busiest in the switchover. –Michael J --- Fever Ray “To the Moon and Back” [Mute] Fever Ray’s Karin Dreijer is so notorious for her enigmatic identity and arresting visuals that we often forget just how gifted a songwriter she is. “Hey, remember me/ I’ve been busy working like crazy,” she reminded us on “To the Moon and Back,” her first song of new music since 2009. A bouncy synth-pop jam more reminiscent of the playful Deep Cuts-era Knife material than Dreijer’s previous output under the Fever Ray alias, the song was crafted from a series of expertly layered synth lines that built to a orgasmic release, a tantalizing taste of what we had been missing. –Jeff Miller --- Nídia “Puro Tarraxo” [Príncipe Discos] I don’t get into aerobics, but half of Nídia’s kuduro beats could function as Zumba fodder. If you threw on “Puro Tarraxo” though, you were plain fucked. There was the semblance of slowed-down reggaeton in there, but it was too slow to follow properly; besides, every rhythmic element was either tripping on its time signatures or moshing with the others. It was the sound of getting down on the yoga mat for about 20 seconds before realizing you were waaay too out of shape for this, but holy shit everyone else is doing it so you’ve gotta keep going gotta keep going gotta keep going gotta keep *faints* –Baldr Eldursson --- FOOZOOL “AZAT” [Club Chai] Club Chai, a collective whose mission is to “[centre] diasporic narratives, women and trans artists, DJs, and producers,” is important. Club Chai Vol. 1, their first major release, put the Oakland-based label on the map, and co-founder FOOZOOL’s track “AZAT” was a diamond among its many gems. Effortlessly mixing an opera-backing sample with a gritty guitar lead, the track exemplified what Club Chai Vol. 1 is all about: dance tracks full of “how the hell did they think of that” moments. We’re already chomping on our nails in anticipation for volume 2. –Sam Tornow --- Kelly Lee Owens “Anxi.” (ft. Jenny Hval) [Smalltown Supersound] Have you ever wondered where those joggers go? You know, the ones you see every day on a routine? Oh, sure, they go in a loop: From start to end, a simple route with clearly defined points of direction. No deviation. No direction. But are they going somewhere? Do they even see anything on their path, observe the world around them? Are they even there? I think not. Joggers mechanize. They aren’t going anywhere. They’re fulfilling maintenance that has no bearing, no effect in the long term. They’ll break down eventually. What meaning will they have then? –Ze Pequeno --- DJ Hell “I Want U” [International Deejay Gigolo] Taken from Zukunftsmusik (the title of which is German for “music of the future”), DJ Hell’s “I Want U” is a song about fucking. Specifically, as is obvious from the track’s associated artwork lifted from legendary homoerotic fetish artist Touko Laaksonen (a.k.a. Tom of Finland), it’s about huge, strong men fucking, but the instrumental worked for anyone with genitals. This face-blast of industrial techno pumped harder than Louis C.K. in front of an aspiring female comic, but unlike Louis, this track won’t make you feel disgusting inside after the experience. “I Want U” was an affirmation, an ode to the bears among us. It fed all kinds of muscles. –Alan Ranta --- Lorde “Supercut” [Republic/Lava] Drunk as shit. Tumble, starfish, curl. In bed, not in love. Not in love, not in love. Say it without opening Instagram. Too late. Illuminated by neon at the dive. Rose light. Obsessed with it. And you, fuck. Remember yelling along to our favorite songs all summer while driving the hell out of town? Remember glittering my eyelids before the party? Remember wearing backless velvet? I tried getting over it. Promised I would. Hated it. Shit, we were radiant. Magic. I forget why it ended. The crush, the rush. The energy. I would do anything. Text me? Please? –Caroline Rayner --- Ariel Pink “Time to Live” [Mexican Summer] He’s one part Bowie, one part nonsense-babbling toddler; he has arguably released more #1 smash hits than anyone in history, but in a dearly departed genre. Here, Ariel Pink returned to the cassette-left-on-the-dashboard production style of his early work, fording two and a half minutes of wind tunnels and monsters before his Trump-era call to arms gained full force. There was a layer of absurdist comedy to his divinations and absolutist pronouncements, but he committed 110% — as we all must. He turned into Princess Ariel for the watery coda and headed home with another W. –water --- POBBLES “POBBLES” [PC Music] I’m still not sure what a POBBLE is, but I think I want to eat one. The hyperactive Tomagatchi/marshmallow hybrid was offensively PC Music and also possibly the end to human despair. Accompanied by a video that must have been a nightmare to animate, the collaboration between A. G. Cook and Always & Forever Computer Entertainment had enough juice to fry a battery. Where can I buy a POBBLE? Are they like pets? Should I water it? Whatever it is, I’m sure my dentist advises against it. –Sam Tornow Come back tomorrow for the “VOID” mix. http://j.mp/2nMtfLK