#not actually in a blockbuster i just need an image for the cover

[ellies-enrichment]

movie night picks

summary: Ellie & Joel look for something to watch for movie night

warnings: light strong language from everyone’s favorite uncle

word count: 1210

preview:

Every Friday there would be boxes set out on a table in the church full of movies for the people of Jackson to borrow and bring back the following week. Almost everyone in town had a DVD player and if someone was missing one, there would always be someone else who was willing to share. Ellie and Joel were given one by Tommy when they moved in and now every Friday morning Ellie would drag Joel down to the church for first-pick of the new movie selection

You never knew when new stuff would be added because it's all found while on patrol. If Jimmy went on patrol on Sunday and brought back 4 new movies, you wouldn't know until Friday. So it was important to Ellie that she was one of the first in line.

She sat down the movie she and Joel watched last week, his choice of some old western film, and started looking for a new movie. The western film wasn't bad but since she was sick last week and couldn't do stable duty, it made her miss Shimmer.

Joel stood behind her with his arms crossed, as he usually would, and started up a conversation with one of the other exhausted Jackson parents who got pulled away from their bed that morning.

"She made us watch that Barbie movie two weeks ago," the woman started, "She was tired of it within the first fifteen minutes."

Ellie took a quick glance over her shoulder to see what the woman looked like, then dropped her head back down to the movie box she was currently digging through.

"That's kids for ya," Joel replied and Ellie could suddenly feel his eyes on her. "She decided to watch The Ring while I was out on patrol about a month ago and–"

"Oh!" She quickly turned around and held up a DVD to Joel to get him to shut up, "What about this one?"

Joel took the movie from her, read the title of it, then handed it back. "No."

She frowned, reexamining the cover. Curtis and Viper 2. The cover was two guys, one had a sword. The description was a little vague but it seemed like a dumb action film. Joel loved these.

"Why?"

"Because it's your movie night," he nodded towards the boxes as a way to tell her to pick something else.

"Okay,” she turned around to look at the options again, then spun once more to face Joel. “I pick this," she held the case up again.

"No you don't.”

"Why not?"

"You're too young for that."

She dropped her hands to her sides, still holding onto the movie. He did not just tell her some cheesy action film was too mature for her.

"What's in this that I haven't already seen?" She sat the movie down on the table and crossed her arms.

"I'll explain when you're older."

She's 15 how much older does she need to–

"Is it dirty?" She raised her eyebrows, turning around to judge the cover again.

"No, it's just…” he looked around the church like he was searching for an excuse. “You wouldn't like it."

She sighed, putting the movie back in the box. She was confident she would like the movie but, for whatever reason, Joel was against it and she had to respect that. She planned on hounding him about it later until he told her why he was against it, but for now she had to find something he wouldn’t immediately veto.

She dug around for a few more minutes before coming up with a larger DVD case. She studied the front of it then turned around for Joel to see.

"No." He didn't even give her a chance to fully lift it up to him. 

"You can't say no to everything if it's my movie week."

"Do you even know what that is?" He pointed to the case and she flipped it around to look at it again.

It was some yellow square with holes in it. SpongeBob SquarePants was written across the front. 40 episodes, season 1…

"It's a cartoon," she shrugged. "It says PG."

"It's worse than The Ring."

She tilted her head and looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. "Is that your personal opinion?"

"Yes, it is." He nodded, taking the case from her. As he read over this nightmare choice, a grin appeared on his face. He looked up from the DVD and called for Tommy to come over from the other side of the church.

When Tommy walked up, Joel held the case out for him and immediately it was out of his hands and in Tommy’s. 

"No fuckin' way we got Spongebob," he opened it to make sure all the discs were present then closed it again, examining the front and back covers. "How the hell did we get this?"

Joel shrugged, not that Tommy was paying any attention to him. 

"You wanna come over and watch it?" Ellie offered, assuming if it was two vs one then she could get it. She’d figure out what it was about later.

Tommy looked between Joel and Ellie, handing the case over to her. "I'd love to," he smiled then turned towards Joel, his smile somehow getting bigger, "Just like old times."

Joel shook his head, stepping away from the movie table so Tommy and Ellie would follow and more people could get through. 

"What do you mean?" Ellie asked, following Joel out of the church and onto the street.

"Sarah and I used to watch it all the time. We'd leave Joel at the kitchen table the second the show started–"

"He's never been mature," Joel interrupted, taking the case back from Ellie so she wouldn't have to hold it as they walked back to the house.

"He hated it but he knew how much we liked it. I think the tradition of eatin' on the floor in front of the TV started with that show." 

"It started because you two would've rathered starve than miss a rerun." 

"I regret nothin'." Tommy shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

About halfway down the street the three of them came to a stop.

"So.. movie night tonight?” Ellie looked between the two of them.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Tommy nodded once before turning to Joel. "Want me to bring somethin'?"

"I've got a short patrol in about two hours. I should be back in time to cook."

Tommy waved him off, "I can bring somethin'." He turned around to start walking back towards the church. "I'll see y'all tonight."

On the way back to the house, Ellie took the case from Joel again to become familiar with the yellow sponge that was about to occupy her week. "Are you okay with this?" She looked up at him, trying to get an idea of how he feels through facial expression.

He nodded, looking back down at her. "Yeah, of course. I haven't seen Tommy so excited in a long time and I think you'd like it," he stared down at the smiling yellow figure. "He's got a God-awful voice though."

She laughed, holding up the case to try to imagine what voice could come from such a strange looking creation.

[oh-my-damn]

so you mean to tell me that chris evans is the only fabricated personality in Hollywood? because it's weird to me how we all agree that Hollywood actors are all pr-trained, like their public persona is just that...a persona for our entertainment, but somehow y'all jump from one Chris onto the next. Chris Pine isn't any better than Evans you know.. his public image is just as, or even more curated for the public than Evans'. At least Evans has let us know multiple times he's not the perfect guy he's been portrayed as; he's a normal guy with his positive and negative traits alike.

Has he? 🤔

When exactly do you feel like he's done that, nonnie?

Because I think, considering everything happening right now, that you need to have a look at what's been put out there and really look at it.

Usually when Chris talks about his "positive and negative traits", they're all traits that in the end, can be flipped around to actually benefit his image.

Not to mention all the shit they purposely cover up to the general public that's so easy to find if you care to look - like the drugs, the girls, the drinking, the partying. His inability to commit or stay in a long-term relationship.

This is your problem; you're still reading his interviews and thinking "he's telling the truth." If instead you flip it around and assume that anything he's supposed to be saying, where he knowingly says something he knows is being recorded, is not true or is in fact fabricated or polished, then the story changes a lot.

I am beyond sick and tired of anons coming in here to say "Chris wouldn't do that bc he has said in and interview once bla bla bla"

Do you not understand that whatever he's said in an interview does not matter because he said that knowing it was being recorded and would portray him in a specific light?

If anything, you should listen to the two podcasts where he gets drunker and drunker and starts being more of the true frat-bro fuckboy he is the more beer he has. One is with Anna Faris, the other is the one he did where they had to guess the movies (I can't remember the title but it was early Cap days before they reigned in his image). There's also the movie premiere of his huge blockbuster movie where he showed up drunk off his ass. Not to mention the D23 he showed up and was obviously fucked up on something and made out with a god damn microphone.

It's so easy to ignore if you believe the polished image but please look at everything else, man. Take those fucking binoculars off and look at everything there is surrounding that specific piece you want to look at.

I'm not saying he's a shitty person because of this, but what I am saying is that he is not the man we thought he was.

And you're right, that goes for everyone. But Chris Pine isn't out there dating racist women (in fact, he's dated WOC's, too) and he owns his shit. He's content with himself. He's a straight shooter. I respect him for that.

And either way. What the fuck do you care whether I like a different Chris better??? It's none of your fucking business whose picture I stare at or whose movies I watch.

Get a god damn grip.

[danielmoduleb2]

Filmmaking and AI (Final Full Essay)

In this this new era of film making it seems anyone can be a fil maker. Just typing in a sentence of what they want to see, and it would ‘magically’ appear out of thin air. This is where the technological advancement of AI is heading to where the process of film making should be easier to accomplish, but would that compromise the creative thinking of film makers such as myself essentially becoming lazy? Would it replace jobs as big corporation would need to employ people but invest in AI instead since it easier and would go on strike? AI seems frightening to the creative community, but I believe AI would not replace humans.

Since film making started in the late 19th century the process was gruelling. From only shooting black and white footage with no sound thus having to have a live band perform at the cinemas to give life to these films. The editing process was long since they used the linear method of editing, which involves arranging images and sounds in order. At the beginning, this did involve using scissors to splice the footage and then using tape to attach it in the correct order. This was until 1920 when the Moviola was invented making editing easier but still long. Until 50 years later when the tape recorders started appearing during the time when computers were beginning to advance. Eventually util the digital age where we can transfer files easily from hardware to hardware. We’ve seen in each era in retrospective how technology advancement has helped improve film making process. Why however does AI feels different?

AI has been used in many areas not just in the creative industry but when AI started becoming a ‘problem’ for creatives is when generated still images was created. Ethically this function was controversial as AI steals data from actual artists and essentially steal their artwork for a random person to type in and have an artwork that is the same. Because of this, AI was negatively looked upon from the get-go. Not only it looked ugly and unpolished, but they were no creativity to these images. Despite this these tools were used constantly even by me. In HNC (my first year) I used AI generated imagery to use for a book cover design.

Since overall, the reception was positive Google first announced the first video generated AI tool. Now 14 months later we now have Sora Open AI which right now isn’t available to the public, however they contacted Hollywood to allow fil makers to have early access and make short films. To me this thought is crazy since I already believe Hollywood is becoming to corporate and not allowing creativity to flourish as hard as before (when it comes to blockbusters). So now will Hollywood get rid of employees to make more cash grab movies?

Well looking at the history of film making, and AI I have concluded that AI will not replace anyone. When the internet first came it was controversial for people back then but now it is accepted and is instrumental to the process of film making. AI will be the same if it used as a tool not a replacement.

While I have always been attracted to film making because of the visuals, hence why I am more into music videos and moving image rather than just movies or tv shows, I know that narrative is the most important element of film making. Making something the audience can relate can only be achieved through a human making it. AI can’t understand human emotion or doesn’t have that experience to make a film that can be as emotional. If someone asked me to watch a film made by a human or AI, I would choose human because the authenticity is there. If Hollywood or other big film industry turn to AI film making, they will become bankrupt. To prove my point, I will analyse the AI short film Air head by shy kids.

Air Head is an AI movie is about a guy that has a ballon for a head. He monologues his identity crisis but, in the end, accepts it. This movie wasn’t enterally made by humans. First a human created the concept for the AI to visualise, but also the voice acting, and music was made by humans. Now AI properly isn’t as advance when it comes to making music out of thin air yet otherwise, they could have generated music for this short film and voice acting sounded robotic I originally thought it was AI.

So visually this movie is bland. It uses reference points to make a story because it doesn’t have the relatability to make this concept emotionally. There are many movies that have unrealistic concepts, but the audience can relate because the content in the movie has realism to it. This movie fails to emphasise this because AI is only projecting the data that it has gathered and not creatively thinking of and interesting idea.

Comparing this to another movie with a similar concept, Edward Scissor Hand, is night and day. From the colour grading, the acting, the emotions, Air Head possibly can create this because it can’t replace human talent. The movie Edward Scissor Hand is about an animated human that has scissors for hands. Edward is an outcast therefore however in the movie he falls in love with a girl and thus accepts his identity. Both Air head and Edward Scissor Hands have outcasts as main protagonists but what the latter movies does it takes use through a show does not tell journey that gives us time to sympathise with the main character and cheer him along. Air Head just tells us his issue and doesn’t give us any time to understand his character. Air head may be a short film, but other successful short films are able to tell gripping tales in the short time frame.

I believe AI should be used in post-production, specifically, editing. Right now, I am making my moving image video for my exhibition piece. A problem that I am facing is not being able to overlap. I you see my final footage (thus far) on Tumblr, you’ll see in the question section the video footage is in the back. I want the shape animation to be in the back but to do that I would have to rotoscope the footage for that to work. That would’ve been a long task that I don’t have the time for, so I just settled. If there was an I tool that can just rotoscope for me accurately it would’ve been easier. That example is what I mean when AI can be used as a tool to enhance to creative process does not replace it.

Overall, hard work pays off. Those that stand out in the film industry are the innovators that can be create and make moving tales. Since AI is here and it is not going away, I believe we should adapt to it. If I can be just as creative and use AI to enhance my projects that will push me further than someone who has is doing it traditionally.

So, to conclude this study I will evaluate AI authenticity by giving an AI generator the same brief I had for my artefact project. I made a short film based on my artefact which was an inhaler. Since I have asthma, this film is personal to me so can AI relate that. Also, can AI generate a more creative video than me. That is what I will assess.

[the-firebird69]

This is the team we look a little like it and we're bigger but faster stronger but this is what we look like and we have costumes that are almost identical these are iconic symbols in the united states. This is where our son grew up these are things that he knows he sees his characters coming to life and for what is very exciting to him it's over the top and he's isolated and not doing anything like it and it's going to be in so much shock that nobody would be able to talk to him we don't want this to continue do people are boneless little assholes and you're being complete jerks and they're going to be a problem you're going to have to leave what you're doing and saying is absurd we need to leave alone if you have a problem tomorrow accepting this idiotic device we're going to jam it down your throat meaning you are going to have to accept payment from him to send it back and they're going to kill you he knows that the label has a return system and you have them in there and you saw you do it you didn't even look at the number keep saying this stupid s*** to us and we're going to come pick you up and you won't be in any movie I don't know what your problem is or what's wrong with you you're going to learn because all your people will be dead and it's not the image that you want to uphold but it's too late isn't it

Not for you you're so arrogant we're actually very angry you're acting so badly you don't do anything you're populous is gone down probably tonight by 4% and pretty soon you'll be down to zero off Island and you won't be anybody cuz the island will go in minutes it's absurd what you say okay absurd you're you're completely wrong and really throughout the ages you've been wrong quite often so it's nothing new I guess

This is a coveted symbol. It's what we believe in it's how we behave it's how we act you do go outside the lines a bit and here we do a little bit too to cover it and it's nice to see how but we do value each other and we trust each other and we do work together all the time and we do protect each other at least you guys do that in the movies it is very intense emotionally you can't handle what's going on it's time to become friends again and you see what was wrong and who is doing it and you start going after them very hard in the in the movies you're fighting Max I need to do okay you would have done a lot better if you didn't just sit here harassing Us in him going along with Mac who wants to get rid of you that's absurd and you should be chastised and your agents of shield should reprimand you and tell you you have to get back to the training center so you don't huge assholes to everyone and your bums like when your version of Thor gets real fat and is drinking that's what he's doing now and that's all he's doing he's a waste of time you have to show the agency no shield going to the Betty Ford clinic to pull him out of there

Frank Castle hardcastle

It's quite a mouthful I'll tell you what though it's real it's supposed to be heroes and leaders and images for people who are yours instead you're s*** bums destroy yourself cuz you're idiot took oh no he got one program from the Giants and it was fed to him how absurd

Duke nukem Blockbuster

I don't care how many times you ask me Trump I'm the master programmer and you fell for his trick and it's an evil plot that JC has oddly enough we know about it and we did do it on purpose and you're a moron

Zues Hera

He said the above and I'm helping and you're absurd you're so absurd we have to get rid of you cuz you're just stupid yeah you Trump and you're going back to court and you have to go there every day or they going to go to a criminal court Hera

Do a lot to say we're going to announce more later he needs to get some rest but really you more luck are getting pounded in the cities your bases in the Western hemisphere are almost gone I think it's 80%. And that's what they're saying you're very large bases you have one left the rest are burning and will be blown soon your large bases in the Western hemisphere you have five left inside of I think 30 and the restaurant fire and half of them will be blown in moments you had about 300 medium and 200 are gone 50 or on fire and would be blown shortly and you're down to about 4 million small we anticipate you having 2 million tomorrow and that's it the rest will be gone just 2 million small bases if that others are attacking now and it's a huge group and you're still trying to attack the four groups and now you're trying to attack us so it's five pretty soon you'll probably trying to attack the max for decimating you and everybody else is sitting there you start attacking them you're morons we think you're going to lose 2% there and 2% in the cities and 2% attacking us that you might be down to around 5% or 6% by tomorrow morning and you'll probably still just keep diminishing try and run your terrorist plan and boy you trying to cut the fat that's what you say it is all the time and you're not respected and when you're doing the avengers movies you're trying to get devices to try and run your terrorist movie actually your plan and yeah it's no fun at all and it's not fun for us and your stupid as hell who told you why it wouldn't work and you're dumb

Olympus

They're like trillions of devices and we were the major Force disarming them and now you're going to talk about a few million if that as if it's going to be wicked easy and you are going after yourselves which is utter nonsense he also say that you're populist was stopping it I'm going to interview your own corks and tell you what they think of that they're busy playing video games

Zues Hera

We're out here dying so you can try and threaten everybody the stuff that wasn't working and we don't even know about it we thought he was not saying there's so many devices I started getting involved and I stopped there's a whole bunch of us that we're doing it we know what he's saying almost everybody was hit almost every device collected if not it wasn't working you people are nuts I'm sick of you you're so stupid program let me see there was you have and it's a trick and you're saying that all these it's just ucav program damn it all you're afraid to have it printed because it's not what it is no that's not what it is you're a loser and you're a liar bja you guys got screwed by JC and Mary you're going around screwing with everyone it is just the biggest embarrassment I've ever seen

A cork

[danny-chase]

Do you think that Tim saved Dick in a way? Because we see Dick getting better as he gets closer to Tim and healing and getting back into the family, and ig it’s Tim who initiated that.

I literally don't have a yes or no answer for this... like most things in the Batfam - it's complicated. (Following answer is informed by 90s-00s comics, i can't really speak for new52 because it just... has so many issues one of which being erasing the relationship between Dick and Tim for *checks note* no discernable reason other than possibly *checks note* Didio hates legacy characters and wants only bad things for them so he could have excuses to kill them off or cancel their comics... idk just a guess)

Warnings: for Bruce stans - just look away i'm about to bring up bits of canon you most likely don't like, for Dick stans - Devin Grayson's run is mentioned, for the lovely anon - i wrote an essay, hope you are prepared

Tim coming into the family gave Dick a reason to occasionally hang around Bruce and i'm not sure if this is an exaggeration or not but he did sort of save that relationship - but whether that was a good or bad thing at the time, i can't really say. For sure - it starts off good, Bruce is actually trying to be a good dad (he comes down to Blud to check on Dick, adopts him, trusts him with his own city, calls him for backup, etc.). But we also see throughout Bruce Wayne: Fugitive/Murderer how unhealthy the relationship between the two can be. Dick built his core values around Bruce - if Bruce had actually killed here it would have been devastating for Dick (he was pretty much on the verge of a mental breakdown simply because they couldn't find proof Bruce wasn't guilty). The two literally got in a fist fight during the arc because Bruce was being uncommunicative and Dick couldn't take it anymore, snapped, and punched him when Bruce said "Bruce Wayne is dead only Batman now" - this tied into Dick finally having the relief and validation of being adopted and he couldn't handle Bruce stripping himself (and by extension, his fatherhood of Dick) away. In this era of comics Bruce had gotten physical with Dick before (here's me venting like an annoyed loser), and here's a clip from Bruce Wayne Fugitive that i just, *sigh*, canon Bruce, my detested.

Now on the other hand - getting Dick involved in the batfam more doesn't just mean he was hanging out with Bruce. His relationship with Tim is pretty great and I can definitely see where it was healing for a while - but also - to give credit where credit is due, the healing he goes through during this era of comics can also be attributed to Barbara and the Titans (the fab five specifically). Wally literally joins the Titans to give Dick a "social life" (me - it's because he's gay and wants to spend more time with Dick, actually, screw you DC you know i'm right). Donna plays a major part in keeping Dick's emotional well being in check. So like everything was going fine - Dick was healing, spending more time with friends, spending a lot of time with people he loved, like Tim, except he was neglecting his health and not sleeping - but overall he was in fact, managing, and moving past the deaths of Jason and some of the other Titans. With the current Titans - he was a hardass (which like ~trauma~ so I understand), but like things were going relatively okay.

And then Donna and Lilith died. And hooof Donna dying was like really really bad for his mental health.

Teen Titans/Outsiders Secret Files (2003) #1

[Image ID: Dick sits in a room staring at a photo, the phone rings in the background, and he doesn't even acknowledge it, the voice mail plays: "I'm not here. Leave a message after the beep." The photo is shown closer in the next frame, it's of the five original Teen Titans - Roy kisses Donna on the cheek, tipping his hat his other hand making the okay sign, Donna has an arm around Roy, the other hand on Dick's shoulder, Garth proudly stands beaming with his hands on his hips, and Dick has both his arms around Wally's neck. Everyone is smiling in the photo. A voice plays over the answering machine: "Dick, it's Roy - pick up the phone... c'mon... please... I know you're there... just pick up. Dick, we need to talk... you can't just... please..." End ID]

For context - the previous page noted that this is Dick SIX WEEKS after Donna died. Usually Dick's the one who moves on quickly, but Donna dying broke him in a way nothing else had before - and that could be partly because he was still recovering from everyone else's death.

Up to this point, Dick had been healing and Tim was definitely a part of that, but then DC decided to throw the absolute book, bookshelf, and library at him. Reading Outsiders (2003) it's very clear he's very traumatized, and around the same time, Devin is literally whumping him like it's the whump Olympics, breaking him and Babs up, burning down his childhood home, blowing up his apartment complex (killing all but like two of his neighbors), he's literally sleeping on fire escapes using newspapers as covering because he has nothing, and the bad thing i don't like to think about (i'll let you know if you ask but that one needs lots of tw, but if you know where i'm going you know what it is already), Blockbuster is killed and he blames himself - and loses it over breaking Bruce's one rule, Bludhaven is nuked, and he pretty much tries to kill himself.

So basically, he was on the path to healing (with Tim as part of that) before he got absolutely destroyed (and almost killed off by Didio in one of the crisis). Tim in his own right, was also going through a lot in the meantime, his dad died, Steph died, Kon and Bart died, i don't remember what else happened and i haven't read that era of Robin yet. Things were good until they weren't anymore, and sometimes i think Dick would regret ever exposing Tim to the life they live, and questions whether he should have just sent Tim packing x2. They do get to spend a year together on a mental health cruise, but then Damian comes into the picture, Battle for the Cowl happens, and they have their falling out. But whatever happened on that cruise must have been really healing for Dick because he actually kind of rocks it in this era - he keeps things light with Damian, Alfred notes at one point how he makes things easy because he has lightness in him, and he patches things up with Tim - catching him in that panel of Red Robin - from there they kind of go back to normal, there's a lightness to the way they banter with each other (also here) and Tim returns the favor (from the Red Robin incident) by pulling Dick out of the water.

They've saved each other multiple times over (physically), and in both in the Black Mirror and Gates of Gotham, Tim helps out in a period where Dick is starting to fall apart from the pressure of holding things together for so long (something Tim might feel guilty for, because he did run away from Gotham on a wild goose chase for Bruce). In that period, it's really clear that Dick saves Tim (he reminds him in RR, that someone does actually care for him) and then Tim saves Dick from being torn apart by Gotham.

I should point out - Damian, while starting off as kind of a hinderance, does eventually start helping Dick as well. By the end of their relationship (before the New52 destroys everything i love), Dick has helped Damian grow emotionally, and through that process Dick probably finds meaning and value in their time together, probably a lot like he used to feel with Tim. And of course, physically, they've both saved each other multiple times by the end of the run.

So yeah. I think Dick finds meaning in growth in mentoring his younger brothers, and it's likely a healing process, that healing just has some twists and turns along the way, and sometimes, on bad days, he probably feels like maybe he shouldn't have intervened at all, but i think on most days, he's proud of what Tim's become.

...I hope this is coherent lmao

[andromedarune]

[Vampire!Leon/Witch!Reader] “A Night of Tricks and Treats” (Halloween Fic~!)

A/N: HAHA, I did it! It’s later than I wanted to post this, but it’s here! So enjoy the story that y’all voted for: A Vampire!Leon AU, with cute/fun elements, and a black dahlia thrown into the mix (along with other creative liberties). Thanks to everyone who voted on that poll - this one’s for you!

Vampire!Leon x Witch!Reader - “A Night of Tricks and Treats”

Word Count: ~3k

Rating: Teen (mild blood, reference to death, adult language, spooky stuff)

The third set of feverish knocks on your front door pulled a frustrated groan from your lips. You were finally drifting off to sleep when some rando decided to assault your door at some ungodly time in the night (or morning, since you checked your phone to see that it was a quarter past three). Pouted lips set on your face, you groggily slip out of bed, hardly bothering to grab the cardigan that you kept slung over your desk chair. Another fit of knocks was just starting up when you threw open the door, ready to say a few choice words to your unfortunate visitor.

But unfortunately for you, this wasn’t just any visitor.

“Hey, you’re awake!” Leon gave a cheery smile, oblivious as ever.

Ah. Maybe you should have put on some better clothes. But you’re already this far in - you decide to just play along like nothing’s wrong. Knowing him, you’d at least have a couple of minutes before the awkward sets in.

“Uh, yeah… You do realize it’s three in the morning, right?”

Leon shrugged.

“I’m aware, but it’s so much easier getting here at night. You have no idea how annoying paparazzi can be…” You sink in your hip a bit, watching his eyes flit down past your head for the briefest of moments. He tries to meet your gaze again, but the awkward smile twitching with some odd emotion that settled onto his face cues you in that he most definitely noticed.

The weather’s been oddly warm despite it already being autumn, so you were still wearing your summer pajamas. Which, of course, were a simple set of purple Wooloo PJs. Short-shorts that were baggy and comfy, a tank top that was equally baggy and comfy. Nothing scandalous, but definitely more revealing than what you normally wear.

You can practically hear the dial-up sounds going on in Leon’s mind as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, one hand tangling itself around a strand of that obnoxiously long purple hair, him just desperate to find something to distract himself with. It’s kind of fun to watch, actually.

“Did you need something?” you eventually sigh, crossing your arms over your chest as a hint of self-consciousness rumbles through your gut.

“A-ah, right!” he snaps out of it and lifts up his arm. Carefully pulling back the sleeve of his casual red hoodie, he reveals to you his forearm. A large, dark-colored burn covers most of the arm, even reaching down to his fingertips. You can’t help but wince, leaning forward for a closer look. “I, um, could use some of your help with this, if you don’t mind.”

“Again, really, Leon?” you can’t help but scold him a bit. He laughs, anyways. “This is the third time this month - one of these days there’s not gonna be much of you left to heal.”

He mutters a soft apology, but you’re still playing like you’re irritated with him and spin around into your living room. You don’t make it far before you realize that Leon’s still standing just before the threshold.

“Oh, right - you can come in.”

“Thanks,” Leon sighs in relief, still holding his arm with a smile.

Just like always, you guide him through your house, leading the significantly taller man down the halls towards a dark down just at the opposite end of your little cottage house. Expertly, you unlock the mystical mechanism that you yourself created (probably seven or eight years ago now? Man, how time flies) to reveal the ominous, shadowy basement. The two of you descend down the steps; you pass by a set of candles and light them with a snap of the fingers, a sight that surely puts stars in Leon’s eyes. He’s always been a sucker for parlor tricks like that.

Leon waddles over to the simple wooden chair you have waiting near the center of the room, taking a seat to watch as you tugged on your long black cloak (the one you made a habit to keep hanging down here for these very instances) and began pulling out various ingredients from one of the numerous cabinets that lined the upper walls of the room.

“Wish you’d just commit to being nocturnal, already,” you couldn’t help but sigh, checking the date you had written on the little jar of beeswax you were inspecting. “If you keep getting injured like this, your healing abilities might become permanently disabled.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m still champion,” he laughed, seeming more amused by your reaction than anything. “I can’t just step down for no reason.”

“Sure you can.” You climbed up onto a lower shelf to dig further into a cabinet. You left that jar of chamomile here somewhere. “Gym leaders do it all the time.”

“It’s different for champions. We’re the best of the best, the image of the ideal trainer for our region. Galar isn’t known for giving up, so that’s not an option I’m willing to consider.”

You almost settle for the bag of rosemary, only to quickly set it back in the cabinet. That would be bad, using rosemary on Leon. You were trying to heal him, here, not destroy the guy. You decide to check another cabinet.

“I know, I know, Mr. Unbeatable Champion. I’m just saying that it hasn’t even been a year since you’ve turned and now I’ve basically become your primary medical provider. And you don’t even pay me!”

“I pay you!” He whines a bit before pausing, no doubt trying to think of instances of proper “payment”. “I, um… Well, I’ll pay you back this time!”

You finally find the chamomile, and even stumble upon that jar of honey you were looking for earlier today (of course, they were both behind the several jars of cinnamon sticks). So you throw the man a perked eyebrow while walking over to your giant black cauldron, which rested within a rustic brick fireplace.

“Oh yeah? What have you, Good Sir Champion, have to offer to the likes of me?”

“Name your price and I’ll double it.”

You snicker, lighting the fire with a clap of the hands rather than snapping. You can barely catch Leon’s amazed smile from this far away. How is any of that exciting for someone like you, you can help but wonder. Champion, genuinely cool guy, recently-turned vampire… still gets amused at basic baby magic. Same ol’ Lee.

“Hm, that’s a bold offer, young man,” you muse, adding a dramatic raspiness that makes you sound like some aged witch from a shitty Blockbuster horror film. “A wise man would think twice before dealing with a witch~.”

“Please,” he snickered, “you still call me to catch baby Joltiks that wander into your house. Don’t even try.”

A playfully sour look from you spurs a booming fit of laughter from your old friend. You hide your smile by turning away, focusing more on getting some dandelions to add to the mix. A small bag of garlic slumps over in the cabinet, so of course you grab it and reveal it to the man. He instinctively leans back a bit, a nervous grin settling onto his face.

“Hey, maybe this’ll add some extra zing to your salve, huh?”

“Uh, n-no thanks…”

“That’s what I thought,” you cackle, tossing the garlic away. Thoroughly satisfied with what you have, you dump a shit-ton of beeswax into the cauldron, watching it slowly melt before adding in the other items. While all that boils away, you wander over to your other writing desk, skipping past your grimoire in favor of digging into a drawer. There, you retrieve a small glass vial and a bag of jumbo marshmallows; those in hand, you walk back over to where Leon resides.

“Time for the secret ingredient.”

“It’s not really a secret ingredient if I already know what it is,” he frowned.

“Shut up and open wide.”

He rolls his eyes a bit, but does as he’s told. If you didn’t already know the truth here, you might have not seen anything unhuman about his teeth. Overly white from years of meticulous care and likely bleaching or whitening strips (though the thought of Leon walking around at night with whitening strips on his teeth nearly made you choke on your spit), but otherwise normal-looking human teeth. However, you knew better, and peered a little closer to his canines. Sure enough, you could see it; a slight shimmer, something like seeing heat rising off the earth during the summer, wavy and hardly noticeable. You took a marshmallow in one hand, the vial in the other; expertly, you stabbed the treat into one fang and simultaneously propped up the vial against the other tooth. Leon flinched a bit (“It feels really weird,” he had told you one time, following the same procedure the night he needed a quick fix after accidentally grabbing one of his grandmother’s rosaries when cleaning up his mother’s house, “kinda like I’m spitting with my teeth. Yuck.”). In seconds, small spurts of a dark, sort-of maroon-colored liquid fills up most of the vial. You give it a few seconds more before pulling away, taking a moment to drain the liquid from the marshmallow before offering the remains to the champion. He childishly takes it with glee, stuffing it into his mouth with that stupid smile on his face (goddamn his smile was gorgeous, but it’s way easier to just say that it was stupid, instead).

With the last and most important ingredient, you return to your work, carefully pouring the vial’s sibylline contents into the concoction. You pick up the large wooden spoon that hangs over the fireplace and give a few generous stirs.

“Y’know,” you hear Leon’s footsteps creeping up behind you, keeping a slow, leisurely pace as he meanders around the room, “this really wasn’t the future I thought for us when we were kids.”

You exhale a chuckle from your nose. You almost say that you feel the same, but the fear of him inquiring further about what you did envision makes you choose a different set of words.

“Don’t even think about getting all Byronic on me,” you peered over your shoulder. He simply smiles at you - an even stupider smile - hands in his pockets as he slowly makes his way towards you. “I’m not going to listen to you moan and groan about your tragic fate for all eternity.”

He chuckles, something surprising soft instead of his regular bone-shattered laugh.

“Of course not. I’m just saying that I figured we’d be, y’know, doing other things.” You try not to think about what he could mean by that. “But I’m not really against this. I don’t think I would’ve found out about your little shop of horrors down here, otherwise.”

He’s got a good point there. Literally the only reason you admitted to your secret life as a decently skilled witch was the night he turned. You could still remember it all; he stumbled into your house, desperately holding his wound with that terrified look in his eye, as if he was looking at Death, itself. You’d never personally treated a victim of vampire’s night out (not a live one, anyway), but you did everything in your power to keep Leon alive. But you knew that it was nothing short of a miracle that he managed to wake up the next morning, having survived a night of literal death in slow-motion. Not so many victims were so fortunate to make it through the process, but like hell you were about to let your childhood friend die like that. So now he knew your secret, and you protected his. At least you didn’t have to worry about the two of you drifting apart any time soon, especially with him always forgetting basic vampyric flaws like sunlight all the time.

He settles beside you, offering a soft smile.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m really grateful to know someone like you. You’ve got better things to be doing, and yet you always make time to bring me back after I do something stupid again and again.”

You look into his eyes a moment too long before looking back into your task. The gooey mixture, now dyed a deep red, bubbled down below, seeming almost alive.

“You make it sound like I just started doing this. I’ve been patching you up since kindergarten.”

“Fair enough. But still… I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. So, thank you.”

He’s got that look in his eyes again, golden irises burning brighter than ever, and he’s far too close for you to be comfortable. So, logically, you look even deeper into your cauldron, grateful that the darkness of the room likely hides your ever-burning cheeks. Thankfully, the brew looks just about ready. You reach over and grab a small bowl from the table nearby, spooning some of the waxy goo into its hold.

From birth, it had been decided that you would carry on your mother’s family tradition of witchcraft. And you have - with much pride - and it’s become your greatest secret that would spell disaster should it be learned by the wrong people. You didn’t make many friends, but Leon’s dumb smile was so infectious that you were always drawn to him, even if he drove you bat-shit with his innocent antics. The two of you were close for so long, but after he became champion, things became a bit more strained. You figured that it wouldn’t be long before he forgot about you altogether - but then last year’s “incident” happened, and now a whole new understanding unknown to much of the world had formed between you both. You knew it was far too late to ever consider confessing any of your possible feelings for him (feelings of annoyance, you always told yourself - what an unfortunate lie that’s come to be), but now here you were, likely stuck as his clandestine nurse for the rest of your mortal life. And then what? You’d be reincarnated, would likely stumble upon memories of your past lives (such is the fate of those who take on the witch’s mantle), and see the man you once loved (or loathed, as you’d rather say) finding someone else to take care of him in your absence. For him, it’d hardly feel like a change. But for you, it’d truly be a fate beyond that of death or eternal damnation. You should be happy that he has a reason to stay with you for the rest of your life, but instead, all you can feel is a bitter aftertaste that you have no choice but to suffer through.

“I can’t say I believe in fate,” you shrug your shoulders, “but every now and then the stars align in such a way that has us thinking that God has a sense of humor.”

Leon chuckles again, but you don’t really know. He doesn’t really know what you’re referring to. Right?

You shuffle him back over to the chair, sitting him down and resting his arm across the armrest. As gentle as possible, you spread the salve across the burn area, letting it soak in a bit before applying a second coating that you massage into his skin. Leon watches with that dumb, stupid, bothersome smile of his; you make a point never to meet those eyes, not when you’re so close to him like this.

After a few minutes, you give an affirmative nod and pull back, inspecting the injury. Sure enough, it’s already starting to lighten up.

“Looks like we got power in the healing department,” you smirk. “You’re all ready to go, Good Sir Champion.”

“Not quite.” You must’ve made a weird face, because he’s quickly backtracking, rubbing the back of his neck with a laugh. “I mean, uh, I still have to pay you back double, right? You never said what kind of payment you want.”

You don’t like the way he phrased that. No, you hate the way he phrased that. It’s got your mind in all sorts of a jumble, now. So as quick as you can (before you accidentally say something stupid), you make up a response.

“Flowers.”

Okay that’s really fucking dumb.

Leon quirks his eyebrows at you, seeming amused once more.

“I, uh, I mean,” you stumble for words, hoping to dig yourself out of this hole you’ve thrown yourself into with one stupid word. “What I mean is… I’ve been looking for a specific set of flowers for this spell I’m working on, but they don’t really sell them in stores nearby. So, uh, yeah. Get me flowers.”

“Flowers? For a spell?”

“For a spell,” you affirm.

“Okay,” there’s a strange tone to his voice that you don’t really want to try and decipher, “I can do that. What, uh… what kind of flowers do you want - er, what kind do you need? For the spell?”

You run through a mental list of all the most non-romantic flowers you can think of. Unfortunately, you like flowers, so all of them kinda felt romantic. God fucking dammit.

“Uh… dahlia’s? Black dahlia’s - yeah, those’ll be good. For the spell.”

“Right, the spell,” he nods, glancing off to the side for a millisecond. “I think I can do that, yeah. For a second, I was kind of scared you were gonna make me get a bunch of super poisonous flowers. Not sure how I would explain that one to my bank.”

“Y-yeah, right.”

A brief (and awkward) silence settles over the two of you. Eventually, Leon moves to get up; you shuffle a few steps back to give him enough space to stretch.

“Well, thanks again for helping me - I feel a thousand times better. I swear, you’re a better doctor than, well, actual doctors.”

You smirk with a smidge of pride. “Magic is just a science that hasn’t been accepted yet. And it looks cooler, too.”

“Maybe you can teach me a few things, some time.”

You narrow your eyes at him, playfully glaring in such a way that has him laughing just at the sight of it.

“That’ll cost you more flowers, Lee - are you sure you’re ready for that?”

“I’ll buy you as many flowers as you want - any kind you want.”

You wait a minute for him to backtrack, or to say “For the spell” in a rushed manner like always. But that’s it, the end of the sentence. He just stands there, smiling in that stupid way evermore, eyes focused entirely on you.

It’s a look that you can hardly describe, the look in his eyes at that moment. It pulls something from your chest that you had spent years keeping locked up tight.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You don’t know what scares you more - the fact that you said that, or the fact that he grins even brighter.

You’re the witch here, and yet he’s the one trapping you in this terrible enthrallmetn that has you seeing stars with just that stupid-dumb smile of his. It’s hard to blame it on his status or his altered state of humanity when this has always been the case. No, that’s just the kind of person Leon has always been and (hopefully) always will be. And you would likely be stuck with this (gorgeous) idiot for the rest of your mortal life.

It’s got your heart beating faster - you can’t tell if it’s from fear or from excitement. Maybe both. Most likely both.

[twentiethcenturymoviesandtv]

A Creepy Christmas Cultural Conundrum: The Lasting Legacy of The Nightmare Before Christmas

A request by @lcvcdbyhim.

If you traveled back in time to the year 1993 and told someone that Tim Burton’s new stop-motion animated film, The Nightmare Before Christmas, was going to be the biggest holiday movie in for the next twenty years, they wouldn’t believe me.  They just wouldn’t.

Of all of the holiday films of the 90s, Christmas or Halloween, nothing comes close to the cultural giant that is The Nightmare Before Christmas.  Even family favorites like The Santa Clause or Home Alone don’t get nearly the attention and praise that this film has.  Every year, from Halloween through Christmas, stores are packed with shirts, wallets, keychains, sneakers, backpacks, banks, toys, clocks, jewelry, decorations and more, all covered with images of Jack Skellington, Sally, Oogie Boogie, Zero, and other characters and images from the film.  Even outside of the holiday months, the more merchandise-driven stores still dedicate an entire section to The Nightmare Before Christmas, putting it on the same level as franchises like Star Wars or the various superhero films.

The question is, why?

Why has The Nightmare Before Christmas’s imagery become nearly as recognizable as images of classic monsters like Dracula and the Frankenstein monster?  How is this oddball little movie fast approaching How The Grinch Stole Christmas and other classic Christmas specials in terms of popularity?

There has to be a larger reason that simply being available to be marketed for two holidays instead of one.  

Today, we’re going to be taking a look at The Nightmare Before Christmas in an attempt to figure out where all the hype came from, and more specifically, why it’s still so popular.

But first, we need a little background.

When The Nightmare Before Christmas was first released in 1993, it received modest critical acclaim and a decent opening.  Right in the middle of Disney’s Renaissance period, a throwback to stop-motion wasn’t really thought of as being quite on the same level as animated films like Aladdin and The Lion King.  As a result, the movie did okay, but just….okay.

So what happened?

Very simply, The Nightmare Before Christmas gained a cult following.  Very quickly.

In the years that followed, The Nightmare Before Christmas started being praised as one of the greats in the animated film category.  People started watching it for part of their holiday tradition, around both Halloween and Christmas, and the further we are away from that mediocre opening, it seems the more people laud it as a work of art.  Stores like Hot Topic started selling so much Nightmare merchandise that now the imagery from The Nightmare Before Christmas seems to be the face of a new goth/emo trend.  In fact, since the film’s release, the movie has been put on a rather bizarre pedestal, with some fans lavishing enormous amounts of praise on this movie.  In a way, it seems like disliking it is unheard of.

To return to our earlier question, why?  It doesn’t seem like anything special.  There have been other ‘weird’ stop-motion films, such as Corpse Bride or Coraline.  The characters and story are simplistic, almost childish at times.  The music is good, sure, but with all the hype around it, the movie can very much seem….overrated.

Once again: Why?

It all boils down to uniqueness.

In 1993, Tim Burton was still relatively new to audiences.  Directing since 1985, his biggest hits had been the likes of horror-comedy Beetlejuice, superhero blockbuster Batman, and drama flick Edward Scissorhands.  In other words, the world was still being introduced to the styles that we are currently familiar with: use of Johnny Depp, score by Danny Elfman, stripes, German Expressionism, and pale-skinned, dark haired, sunken-eyed outcast protagonists.  Thanks to the sheer number of Signature Style Burton-esque films, The Nightmare Before Christmas no longer seems like anything all that special in terms of style of film, but at the time, it was something very new, distinct, and different.

The same goes for the stop-motion aspect.

The stop-motion ‘weird’ films that we are the most familiar with: (Corpse Bride, James and the Giant Peach, Frankenweenie, ParaNorman) have all come after The Nightmare Before Christmas.  Before Nightmare, stop-motion’s biggest claim to fame were the Rankin/Bass Christmas specials.  The Nightmare Before Christmas revolutionized and reawakened the style of filmmaking and started a new form of animation that is being used since.  Once again, it all comes down to that uniqueness of the time, especially when it applies to the story.

The story of The Nightmare Before Christmas, despite its aforementioned simplicity, is a rather unique one.  The idea came to Burton while watching Halloween decorations come down at the same time Christmas decorations were being put up, and the movie is really all about the juxtaposition between the holidays.  Jack Skellington, the king of Halloweentown, is dissatisfied with the ‘same old thing’ and decides to try something new.  The ‘new thing’ that captivates his interest turns out to be another huge holiday: Christmas.  Full of excitement at this strange new holiday, Jack decides to get the person in charge of Christmas out of the way (Santa Claus) and take Christmas for himself, assigning the denizens of Halloweentown the tasks necessary to bring about the festive holiday.

Being from Halloweentown, of course, Jack doesn’t fully understand Christmas, despite his frantic attempts to do so, and in the end, Christmas is a disaster, thanks to his botched interpretation of what makes the holiday.  In the end, Jack learns not to meddle with things he doesn’t understand, and the movie ends at around 75 minutes.

As basic as it is, the idea of one holiday trying to do another is pretty creative, as is the way it is done.  The concept of holiday worlds, based on the special day is extremely interesting, and it’s executed well.  In fact, when looking at the film for what and when it was, The Nightmare Before Christmas was actually very creative in everything, characters, the visual look, the way it was done, story, even the music by Danny Elfman is very fitting to the story and characters, and it’s all very catchy.

When contextualized into the time period it was made in, The Nightmare Before Christmas, for all it may seem stale and overdone now, was fresh and unique, noteworthy for being something audiences haven’t seen before.  

There’s more to the intense popularity of this film than quirkiness, though.

What I said earlier about the film being basic?  That is actually a point in its favor.

One of the remarkable things about The Nightmare Before Christmas is that, for having a reasonably complex concept, it’s execution is very simple.  The story never makes itself more complicated than it has to be.  It’s very straightforward, with no plot twists or surprises for the audience.  The direction the story takes is predictable, but that’s by no means bad.  Not only is the story uncomplicated, but the meaning is as well.

It isn’t hard for people to understand Jack’s predicament, nor is it difficult for even the youngest kid to know that his endeavors to make Christmas are doomed to failure, because they pick up that Jack does not understand what he is trying to do.  He has the feeling right, but he has no constructive direction to take it, and with a lack of understanding, ends up creating a mess.

Jack’s enthusiasm is for the holiday spirit, and it’s contagious, no matter which holiday you consider.  By never trying to ‘explain’ the good feelings of the holidays and just letting them be, The Nightmare Before Christmas actually continues a trend that one wouldn’t think it has much to do with at all.

In my opinion, the hype behind The Nightmare Before Christmas, especially in the up-and-coming generations, is much the same reason that Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer is still talked about by the older generations.  The holiday feeling.

Jack experiences the joy of Christmas without knowing why.  Despite his best efforts, he cannot decipher the whys and wherefores of it, he just accepts that ‘just because I cannot see it doesn’t mean I can’t believe it!’.  This tone, this viewpoint towards the holiday of simply enjoying it, is reminiscent of Christmas specials like How the Grinch Stole Christmas or the Rankin/Bass stop-motion productions.  It evokes nostalgic feelings for the holiday.  The Nightmare Before Christmas is to the post 90s generation what the other animated Christmas specials were to the ones before it: the traditional, good-feelings, familiar celebration of the holiday.

Most importantly though, it’s a film that people enjoy watching.

With a unique concept, design, and execution, nostalgic feelings and holiday warmth, and it just being a generally fun, charming movie, it’s not really a true wonder why The Nightmare Before Christmas got as popular as it did.

Is it overhyped?  Yes.  

Does that make the movie itself any worse?  No.  It just means that audience expectations are affected by the culture around it, some for the better, some for the worse.

Of course, it’s not a movie for everybody.  Some will like it more than others.  Some might love it, some might hate it, and some might just be okay with it.  But that goes for any film.

The Nightmare Before Christmas is a cultural juggernaut, that’s for certain, and I doubt we’ll be seeing any fewer Oogie Boogie coin banks in the near future, but that’s more a reflection on the commercialism of film since 1977 (Thanks, George Lucas!) and how much people are willing to buy to reflect their tastes in film.  My point is, the movie is still popular enough that people buy stuff connected to it because they like it.

And that’s not a bad thing.  It’s a good movie, remarkably simple, but smart enough to hold up years later and continue to emotionally resonate with audiences.  It was something that no one had ever seen before at the time, and is packed full of enough distinctive style and imagery that it is still instantly recognizable as being from The Nightmare Before Christmas.  It’s an immensely popular film for a reason, and it’s not going away anytime soon.

Thank you all so much for reading!  If you have any thoughts, questions, comments, suggestions, or just want to say hi, feel free to leave them in the ask box, I’d love to hear from you.  I hope you guys enjoyed this article, and I hope to see you in the next one.

[desiraypark]

To Feel Something

Characters: Charlie Barber x Black Female Reader  Content: A little world and story building/back story; N*FW - smut in your classy LA home; new lovers; secret lovers. Word Count: 2,883

All clear. Read at 10:48pm. You’d been in a good mood. In fact, the last few months were amazing. You were riding the wave of your first movie in four years. There was Image Award buzz, Oscar buzz, Globe buzz - all kinds of buzz. The director was getting high praise, too. It was Charlie Barber’s call to cast you as the love interest in his debut film. You, a 35-year old Black woman you’d thought the world had forgotten about. He said he’d loved you in Whiskey and Herbs (the movie that immortalized you as a “star” almost fifteen years ago) and felt that you were perfect for his new project. 

You’d been in a handful of movies and television shows before that, but your role as Torey, the sexy-but-flighty Blockbuster employee in Whiskey and Herbs is what catapulted you to so-called superstardom. And it wasn’t even because the role was actually good (it was). All the world got to see your tits, and next thing you knew, you were on every red carpet and posing for magazines like King and Playboy. Famous designers were practically throwing their clothes and accessories at you, and you were on yachts, popping champagne with the best of them. 

Then, you’d married at 24, had a kid at 26, and were divorced at 29. By 30, you were being pushed out of the way to make room for the new “it” girl. Because in those days, there was always only room for just one. The phone had stopped ringing, and soon, your movies were going straight to DVD, instead of to the big screen. 

Now, you make most of your money doing stage plays, television guest spots, and even blogging from time to time. And you can’t leave out the conventions! Your role as Karla Rollins (aka Dragonfly), Hurricane Man’s “sassy” sidekick in the box office bomb, Hurricane Man, had a cult following. You’d need all the fingers in the world to count all of the photos of you in a blank spandex suit and creepy ass wings you’d signed. 

But even after all of that, someone remembered you and thought you were great. Most of the fans never left your side, but something about being sought out by a director gave your confidence a major boost. The Divorce was an indie-film set to go straight to LuHu. Of course, you were super excited to co-star in a movie that would end up on such a big platform, but life so far had taught you not get your hopes up. So, when the film premiered to rave reviews--especially for your performance--you felt the need to throw a little get-together. You invited close friends and industry friends--old and new. But no one who’d dropped you like a bad habit when your career went in decline. 

On the set of The Divorce, Charlie treated you like an A-list star. Not in a way like he gave you special treatment--but he asked for you and your co-star’s opinion. He made sure you were comfortable. It was the bare minimum, but it was more than any other director had done when you were actually at the top of the food chain. You and Charlie talked early in the gathering. Then, throughout the evening, you’d sneak glances at him, and he’d catch them. He’d sneak some at you, and you’d catch them. Caught glances turned into smiles--even when you were in your kitchen, telling your daughter “goodnight” over the phone. She was spending the night at her best friend’s house. Just as the night was winding down, you found that you didn’t want Charlie to leave. You wanted to be held, tonight. You wanted to feel something. So, you walked over to him while he was pouring himself some punch and asked if he could step out on the patio. He did, with his punch. As balmy as the air was, you still shuddered. You took your time.  “Charlie...would you like to spend the night?” is what you asked. And he said “yes”. He left the party when everyone else started to leave and parked somewhere, waiting for your text that everyone was gone. When he got it, he made his way back to the house...

____________________ You opened the door and he stood on the other side--a full moon behind him, his eyes patient. He slowly stepped inside, and you closed the door. When you turned around, he was looking you over with narrowed eyes. Then, he stepped in close and pressed his lips to yours. You fell weak to his touch and wrapped your arms around his neck. You slipped your tongue into his mouth, and he greeted it with his own, and let his hands fall to your waist. 

Charlie began to step forward, and you responded by stepping backward. You pulled your lips away, took his hand, and led him up your staircase. Your vintage Tiffany lamp was the only light on in your room. It filled the space with a warm, amber glow. Charlie pulled you in an embrace again and kissed you--drinking you in with passion and a hint of desperation. You stepped backward--pulling him with you by his shirt--until you fell on your mattress with him on top of you. 

You kicked off your pumps and wrapped your legs around his waist, and he created a trail of kisses along your jawline and onto your neck. Kisses turned into sucks that made you moan and sent heat between your thighs. Soon, you felt a hand slither up your thigh and under your dress. He rubbed his fingers against your right inner thigh and against the crotch of your G-string. Aroused by your arousal, he quickly stood up--taking his body heat and the scent of cologne with him.

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and retrieved a small gold square, then put his wallet back. As he unbutton his shirt, you reached for his belt and unbuckled it. You looked up at him, and he was smiling down at you. You blushed and removed the belt, unfastened the button, and as you tugged on his zipper, he’d dropped his shirt on the floor, revealing a black undershirt. You pulled down his pants and he stepped out of them. His dick was pressed against his boxer briefs, and you relieved it--peeling the briefs down just enough to make it pop out like a spring.

You grabbed the shaft and looked up. Charlie’s eyes met yours--his chest moving up and down. Air audibly left his nostrils. Without taking your eyes off him, you flicked your tongue against the head, then you wrapped your lips around it. Charlie let out a breath that almost sounded like a sigh of relief. You took more of him in your mouth every time you went down, until you had enough of him in to gag yourself. At the gagging, you pulled your lips away and watched the strings of saliva that clung to your lips and the head. You stroked the length, shining it up with your spit, then sucked him slow and tenderly. What your mouth didn’t cover, you stroked with your hand, and your eyes fell down to watch your own moves.

“Look back up at me. I want to see those pretty eyes,” Charlie said. His request turned you on and made you hum on over his length. You looked back up at him and he rubbed the palm of his hand against your cheek. Then, you picked up the pace. Charlie’s hand left your face and he threw his head back. “Fuck...” he mumbled. He looked back down and you were still gazing at him with suctioned cheeks and his stiff flesh disappearing and reappearing between your red lips. “Fuck...you’re amazing.” Charlie praised your skills as you exercise your jaws for a few more moments. You thought he would come right in your mouth when you began to squeeze and massage his balls. He moaned to the ceiling and held your face again. You realized that he really wanted to grab your hair--your perfect curls. So, you grabbed both of his hands and placed them on the sides of your head, and without hesitation, he held on tight and began to fuck your mouth.

“Tap my thigh if it’s too much, baby,” he said. He took his time at first--merely stroking your wet tongue with himself. Then, slow strokes turned into hard thrusts that made you gag and grip his thighs for supports. Your throat and your spit seemed to be in competition for who could make the most noise. When your eyes started to tear up, you tapped Charlie’s thighs, and he quickly pulled himself away. He stroked his dick and watched your chest move up and down as you caught your breath.

“I’m dying to taste that pussy, baby. Lie back for me,” he said. You scooted back some and fell against the mattress. Charlie got on his knees, grabbed your legs and pulled you back to the edge. He placed your legs over his shoulders, and lifted your dress some more. Cool air hit the puddle that lubricated every part of your pussy--the lips, the clit, the vagina. You were a leaking mess and Charlie was admiring it. He spread your lips apart with both hands, stared, and took in a deep breath. Then, he removed a hand, spread the lips with his thumb and index finger, and dipped his head inside. He licked a long, stripe over your folds with his flat tongue, then he flicked the pointed tip of it against your clit. “Uhhh...” you moaned, closing your eyes.  

Charlie licked and even took little nips at your folds. He savored your clit like it was apart of the evening’s dinner spread. Any juice that leaked out of you, he licked it up and let his tongue absorb it. You were a moaning and screeching mess--your thighs kept closing on his head and the soft fabric of your blanket melted in your palms. You lifted your head a little, and Charlie’s eyes met yours. Your head fell back against the mattress as shock-waves rippled through your body at the sight of his face in your pussy. Charlie wrapped his arms around your thighs, and you could feel his tresses brushing against them as he rotated his chin over your folds.

“Fuck...fuck...fuck...” you whimpered. 

Suddenly, you felt warm fingers slide into you. “Shit...” As he kept his mouth over you, Charlie stretched you open with his index and middle fingers. You lifted your body at the waist, took hold of his hair, and began to hump his face. As you smeared your wetness over his mouth, he made firm eye contact with you--the brown irises seeming to dare you to come in his mouth. He turned the pads of his fingers upward and rubbed “come hither” motions along the ridges at the top of your pussy.  “Ahh!” you squealed, trying to squirm away. He pressed his free hand against your waist and relentlessly attacked your soaking pussy. “I’m coming...” you whimpered. Charlie closed his eyes and didn’t skip a beat. He maintained the steady, fervent rhythm over and in your pussy until you fell apart over his mouth--rasping out a scream that you were sure the neighbors could hear. Your legs fell limp on his shoulders and Charlie ate you through the fall of your orgasm. 

He pulled his mouth away and while still knelt between your legs, he pulled off his undershirt. You sat up and pulled your black dress up and over your head, revealing a solid black bra - no lace or frills, just your pillowy bosom entangled in the smooth fabric. As you were pulling the dress off, Charlie had rose to his feet and pulled his boxer-briefs completely off. You unsnapped your bra and watched him pull off his dress socks, then reach on the bed for the condom. He opened the wrapper, pull out the rubber, and slid it onto his throbbing dick. Then, you scooted far back on the bed and opened your legs, impatiently waiting for Charlie to enter you. 

“Fuck,” he mumbled. “You look so fucking good...”

You blushed and bit your bottom lip. Then, he climbed on the bed, hovered on top of you, and peppered your face with kisses. You ran your fingers through his hair and felt the absence of his right arm beside you. Something smooth and stiff rubbed against your slit, then pushed through your core--stretching you open with a sting that burned so good. He withdrew some, then slipped back in, and with every forward movement, he pressed more of his length into you. “Just ram it into me, Charlie,” you said breathlessly. He smiled and heeded your command. 

He slammed all of his inches into your hungry pussy, making you moan loudly. Then, he picked up a steady rhythm and massaged your warm walls with his pulsing dick. He pressed his knees into your mattress and held your arms back over your head--digging into you just like you wanted. Like you needed.

“Yes, baby, yes...” you moaned in ecstasy.  “Does it feel good?” he asked. “Yes, baby...” you echoed, head in the clouds.

“Tell me how it feels...” “It feels good...it feels so fucking good...don’t stop..please, don’t stop.” Charlie whimpered and moaned just as much as you did, if not louder. He let go of your hands and held your left leg back, giving him room to dig deeper into you. You cursed and moaned and screamed under the weight of him, and pressed your fingers into the flesh of his back. 

“I want to ride you,” you blurted out. 

“You think you can handle it?” Charlie asked, still drilling into you.

“Yes, I can handle it,” you said through clenched teeth. You bit down on your bottom lip.

Charlie pulled out of you and mumbled a lusty “Fuck”. 

Then, he lied down beside you. You sat up, threw your leg over him and lifted your lower body. You lined him up at your entrance and sat down. With your hands resting against his torso, you bounced up and down--feeling every vein and every ridge of his dick gliding against your velvety insides. When you got a good motion, you were able to rotate your hips, and slide up to the tip--and crash back down. 

“Fuck, you’re making me feel so good, baby,” Charlie groaned. He grabbed your breasts and massaged them.

“You feel so good in me,” you moaned back. Charlie released your breasts, and with his thumb, he rubbed soft strokes against your exposed clit. The sensation made you throw your head back and bounce on him harder.

“That’s right,” he said. He smacked your ass. “Bounce on that shit. Just like that...” “Yes, baby. Smack my ass again...”

Charlie gave your cheek a hard smack in the same spot, making you groan. He rubbed the stinging flesh and held on to it.

“Does my pussy feel good?” you asked.

“Your pussy feels fucking amazing...”

“I think I’m gonna come again...” you said with a squeal.

Charlie groaned and rubbed deep, hard circles around your clit. You bounced a little faster and took him deeper as he rubbed your hot, throbbing bud. Then, you felt the rush over your body. You lowered yourself to take all of him in and maneuvered just enough to hit the spot.  “Fucckkkkk!” you cried out, as you gushed and squirted on over Charlie’s fingers and crotch. 

“Shit!” he shouted. You felt him thrust up into you a couple of times, but he stopped so you could rest your knees at his sides. Then he pulled you down flush with his chest. As you rested over him, he wrapped his arms around your waist and dipped into you with slow strokes. 

Charlie looked up at your sweaty face and its dazed expression.

“You okay?” he asked. You dropped your face onto his shoulder. 

“Yes...” you whimpered.

“I’m about to fuck you hard, baby. You ready for that?” he asked.

You reached up and rested your hands on Charlie’s shoulders, and he tightened his embrace around your waist. Then, he picked up the pace and pummeled your sweet, dripping core--making you squeal, groan, and slobber into his shoulder. He was thrusting so deep and fast, that you could feel and hear his balls slapping against your ass. Eventually, he slowed his pace, but kept fucking up into you with deep, shallow strokes. 

Charlie held you tight and sat up with you in his arms. Just when you lifted your head to see what he was doing, he’d placed you back on your back with your head at the foot of the bed. Next, he lifted your legs, crossed them at the ankles, and held them up. After he gave one of your Achilles tendons a kiss, he fucked into you again. The two of you moaned at the sensations of the angle. 

Soon, the position morphed into him resting between your legs once more and thrusting into you until you felt him tense up. The unmistakable heat filled your core. Charlie moaned and stroked his climax to its end. He stared into your eyes and initiated the evening’s final kiss.

[hjnsa]

An Interview With David Herlihy, Author of "Bicycle - The History"

David Herlihy's book, Bicycle: The History, was the sole book on bikes which came to the most unmistakable presentation remain at my neighborhood Barnes and Noble. Distributed in 2004, it has been a staggering achievement, carrying the historical backdrop of bikes to a huge number of individuals in a few unique dialects. The book is rich and brilliant, both in its photographs and its words.

I met David while I was in school during the 1980s. He was making a bit of additional money by purchasing delightful, marginally utilized street bicycles in Italy (DeRosas, Cinellis, Tommasinis and so forth) and afterward offering them at surprisingly reasonable costs to cyclists in the USA. This permitted him to enjoy his adoration for movement, play with great bikes, and welcome delight to individuals on the two sides of the Atlantic. On second thought, his books on cycling do essentially exactly the same things...

Q: Bicycle: The History was an enormous achievement. How has this achievement transformed you?

A: Thanks, Forbes. "Tremendous" is a family member (and exceptionally complimenting) term. Yet, in the event that I might gloat a little, since it turned out in fall 2004, Bicycle has sold more than 20,000 duplicates, for the most part hard covers. That is a beautiful thrilled figure for a book of this nature, distributed by a scholastic press. I'm certain it's much more than even Yale had expected. From what I hear, it's currently one of their untouched blockbusters (there are even releases out in Russian and Korean).

This is exceptionally satisfying, just like all the consideration it got in the press, remembering surveys for lofty distributions like The Economist and The New York Times Review of Books (I need to credit my splendid marketing specialist, Brenda King, for designing quite a bit of that). Most were very great and simple to process (a couple were less fulfilling, however I figured out how to get over them before long).

What's more, indeed, I savored my brief encounter with popularity. It was incredible fun visiting and advancing my book, regardless of whether I needed to cover my own costs generally. I delighted in giving slide talks and marking books, and meeting cycling aficionados, all things considered. One of my most significant minutes was at a bicycle show in Edison, New Jersey, where I had a table. After one person affirmed that I was indeed the creator, he sort of lost it. He had his image taken with me utilizing his phone. I felt like a hero.

Returning to reality a bit, I can't say that the book has fundamentally transformed me or way of life, essentially not yet. Be that as it may, it has been an extremely sure encounter and I think it has opened up new imaginative potential outcomes.

First off, it was an extraordinary alleviation and fulfillment to at long last transform 10 years in addition to of examination into something substantial that could give me some acknowledgment and really produce a little income to keep body and soul together (also assisting with paying for all that exploration, which incorporated various outings to Europe. Not that I'm requesting compassion, mind you!) And I should say, with all due respect, that a lot of my best material surfaced around the finish of my request. Had I distributed the book even a couple of years sooner, it basically would not have been as vivid or as rich.

In addition to the fact that i was ready to share many intriguing disclosures, I likewise had the opportunity to air some profoundly held feelings. I think there are a great deal of misinterpretations out there about bike history, particularly as to the innovation and early turn of events. The kick-impelled Draisine of 1817, specifically, was not a bike as such and, as it ended up, it didn't lead straightforwardly to the first bikes of the 1860s (however it was seemingly the essential motivation). I've likewise inferred that the Scottish need claims emerging during the blast of the late nineteenth century are questionable, best case scenario. Also, obviously the extraordinary commitment of Pierre Lallement, the first bike patentee, has for quite some time been eclipsed by the Michaux name, which similarly covered the job of the Oliviers, the genuine mechanical pioneers.

سكوترات كهربائية

In some sense it very well might be a losing fight to demand this load of focuses legends are obstinate things. In any case, presently I've spoken my tranquility and I can continue on to other energizing ventures with somewhat more monetary soundness and somewhat more validity and clout.

Q: What are some different activities you are chipping away at?

A: Over the previous few years, I've kept on giving talks to a great extent for different cycling gatherings and instructive projects. One month from now, for instance, I'll take an interest in a board conversation at the uncovering of the Major Taylor dedication in Worcester. What's more, on May 24 I'll give a discussion at the Museum of the City of New York. We're beginning to discuss assembling a show on the historical backdrop of cycling in New York, related to properly enough-Bike New York, (patrons of the yearly 5 boro ride that draws 30,000 cyclists).

I've likewise completed a few ventures with Velopress of late. I interpreted an extraordinary book on the historical backdrop of Paris Roubaix by the editors of l'Equipe. It's an excellent foot stool book with astounding photographs. Furthermore, I need to say the content is likewise very captivating! I additionally interpreted a book on the Alpe d'Huez stage by my old buddy Jean-Paul Vespini. It's turning out in half a month and I'm truly anticipating pawing through it. I just saw a few evidences and the photographs are eye-popping. Besides the creator worked really hard covering the historical backdrop of this marvel not just as a definitive stage in the Tour yet additionally as a beautiful social rendez-vous.

What's more, I just marked an agreement with Houghton Mifflin to compose a book on Frank Lenz. Exploring his captivating however failed to remember story has been my concentration for as long as couple of years and will keep on being so for a significant length of time.

دراجات هوائية

To sum up: in May 1892, on the cusp of the bike blast, Lenz set off from his old neighborhood of Pittsburgh to circle the globe on the most recent "wellbeing" bike with inflatable tires. Two years into his excursion, in the wake of intersection North America, Japan, China, Burma, India, and Persia, he bafflingly disappeared. Examiners later followed him past the Persian boundary, into Turkey and the premonition place where there is the Kurds. Unexpectedly, Outing magazine, Lenz's support, sent another American "globe girdler," William Sachtleben, to discover Lenz in any condition. It ended up being an extremely awful an ideal opportunity to visit Turkey, with slaughters of Armenians unfurling before his own eyes. Sachtleben himself was fortunate to get back alive. He immovably accepted he had settled the secret, however his inability to discover Lenz's bones or bike, or to get palatable feelings for homicide, left the matter putrefying. Lenz's crushed mother at last got a repayment from the Turkish government, yet his inheritance immediately blurred in the twentieth century as the public lost interest in the bike. I'll talk about Lenz's experience and character, and what persuaded him to go off on this risky experience. I'll likewise follow the excursion exhaustively, putting a positive twist on it. At long last, I'll seriously investigate Sachtleben's discoveries and attempt to sort out what truly befell poor Lenz.

افضل موقع بيع دراجات هوائية

Q: Do you actually have the opportunity to ride your bicycle?

A: I admit that I have the opportunity in principle. What's more, the bicycles. In any case, I don't do as much sporting riding as I ought to (and it shows, though it pains me to say so!). Of late, I've for the most part done coordinated rides every now and then. Bicycle New York has become a practice each May, and it's an impact. I likewise did part of Cycle Oregon a couple of years back, and a couple of other gathering rides from that point forward. Yet, generally I cycle in the Boston region, just to get around. I just procured another Bike Friday, which I actually need to gather. I hope to ride significantly more get-togethers. I might want to get once again into street riding, as well. In principle I could utilize one of my old Italian racers, yet I couldn't want anything more than to get something more contemporary. Also, perhaps a trail blazing bicycle as well. Had the opportunity to complete this book first, however, so I have some optional assets.

Q: Your book clarified that you love bikes. Do you cherish any one kind of bike more than others? Is there a specific sort of bike that is closest and dearest to your heart?

A: I'd need to say the exemplary light weight street bicycle with thin tires is as yet my top choice. But at the same time I'm into bikes as essential transportation, particularly during circumstances such as the present. The Bike Friday offers an incredible mix off both riding delight and reasonableness. I can't actually address mountain trekking as I've never truly enjoyed that game. In any case, I have companions who are truly into it, and I know some time or another I ought to truly check it out.

Q: You used to bring brilliant utilized street bicycles back from Italy. Do you actually have associations around there?

A: In principle, indeed, however I haven't purchased any bicycles around there in a long while. I spent various years in Italy growing up, I actually go one time each year. So I'm as yet conversant in the language. In the past I went routinely to the Milan career expo. Also, I found the opportunity to meet and meeting some incredible names like Cino Cinelli and Valentino Campagnolo, when I composed for Bicycle Guide. However, I haven't kept up my contacts in the bicycle business, though it pains me to mention it. Recently when I've gone over it's been really investigating, eating, visiting, and mingling. In a specific order, obviously.

دراجة هوائية رياضية

Q: Have bikes improved through their set of experiences? Or on the other hand were the old bike plans more down to earth than the plans for new bikes?

A: Well you can surely present the defense that the bike advanced in the second 50% of the nineteenth century, turning out to be progressively roadworthy and thus pragmatic in that sense. The first "boneshaker" of the 1860s was an honorable thought yet one in urgent need of material improvement. You could contend that its substitution, the armada however shaky high wheeler, took the idea off course, that is, away from reasonableness. All things considered, the first bike created a global uproar decisively in light of the fact that it should fill in as a reasonable "individuals' bother." And the high-wheeler, obviously, turned into a costly toy for athletic guys.

[theories-just-for-funzies]

“What’s the very worst thing you can do to your very best friends? Tell them your darkest secret, because if you tell them, and they decide they’d rather not know... You can’t take it back. You can’t unsay it. Once you’ve opened your heart, you can’t close it again.”

This is the second post I’m making about BBC Sherlock S4 (or anything about any fandom, really). You can find the first one here, the topic is almost the same. I’m really slow in writing down my theories in a way that is comprehensible by others, so I’m sorry if i don’t have a lot for the moment. Read this with the knowledge that I firmly believe in TJLC as explained by Rebekah on YouTube, and that S4 is not real as we see it, but is telling us what we need to know before they release S5 (or the special if that’ll come first) through unusual ways, TJLC style.

I think here Culverton smith is mirroring the writers, and his friends are the viewers. During the whole scene we have TONS of mirrored shots in the windows, most of it infact. In all of the previous seasons mirrors and character shots in mirrors were there to signal “hey this character is currently mirroring this other thing”, so idk it might be even this time??

Faith when she’s still drugged and tries to remember something about the conference, the first shot of her that we see, she’s in a mirror, even the desk reflect her image. Wander which part of the audience Faith is mirroring? Yeah, you guessed it. The tjlc fandom. The ones that analyze things. The ones that are questioning.

And the nurses? Idk, I’ve never seen a nurse that’s just putting an IV wearing a mask (unless under special circumstances of course), it never happens even when you’re taking blood samples, it just doesn’t ring right to me. So, who are the nurses? They’re people working for Culverton, they know what’s happening, they know what the solution is and what it does, they know how to administrate it, but they leave the room in the moment of confession. The nurses are mirroring BBC Sherlock’s crew.

If you’ve never worked on a set let me tell you: nobody, apart from the smallest possible amount of selected people, knows the whole picture, they can’t risk it, usually it’s just the writers, the producers, and most f the times the main actor; everyone else just knows the smallest informations to do their single job of adjusting the lights or hair for that single scene just like it’s written in their schedule.

So the crew knows partially what they’re doing, but they can’t speak, because their mouth is covered.

I’m thinking this is exactly the reason of S4. S4 is the memory drug. Everything made sense till now, tjlc was more and more evident, it was extremely obvious to everyone that johnlock was an actual thing, i mean just look at the sign of three, MY MOM THOUGHT THEY WERE CANONICALLY IN LOVE BEFORE I EVEN DID (at the time the fandom wasn’t the greatest so I avoided pretty much anything that wasn’t fan fictions or fan art, and just thought it was queer bait). Everything was super clever and well made. And then S4 came. A cheap Hollywood movie where nothing made sense and with john and sherlock great platonic friendship. And it was the last season so how could you not except what they already gave you and still want more, right?

Wrong. S4 is either complete bullshit or a distortion of what actually happens.

Culverton say that he can’t say his darkest secret because he can’t take it back, yet he does tell, and he does take it back.

The show does say that sherlock and john love each other (and are still pining) but S4 takes that back. You want the distorted version? Ok. Sherlock does explicitly says the words “i love you” in S4 to Molly in a physical mirror, a character’s mirror for John, whose description of the coffin perfectly fits John. The show does say that the writers aren’t stupid and aren’t making a tv show that’s just a blockbuster action movie, with cheap Hollywood effects and made up physic laws. Yet S4 takes that back.

The whole thing they kept saying in earlier seasons about “making history of television” and “making unprecedented things”? What unprecedented things? That was extreamely cheap cinematic, with really poor writings and a rip off of James Bond and classic horror movies. Nothing about S4 was memorable or relevant.

They already said everything they had to say (for the moment) but then they couldn’t leave the public waiting for another 6 years before S5 with all that hope and knowledge. Especially considering the fandom suspected even the phone\heart metaphor before ASiB even aired. Leave those people with the tiniest hope and you’d find your plans stripped naked for everyone to see in less than half of that hiatus. That’s really not Moffat style, he needs to give you hope, rip your heart open, surprise you leaving you gasping, only then he can make another plot twist and make everything super beautiful again and making you crying because it’s too many emotions.

So they said their things before S4, the fans that were still not sold on johnlock or didn’t want it canon were the friends who would rather not know, they went on with the brain washing of S4, and said “ok, we’re done here, nothing else to see, the show is finished, good night”. But just as with Faith’s story you can reconstruct if not all, part of what happened; because i don’t know if you noticed, but S4 doesn’t have a lot of plot holes, it is one single gigantic plot hole.

But what happens if they kill everyone just like Culverton Smith said? What happens if they make S4 so bad and destroy everything they said up until now with the show itself? What happens if the same people that were able to decode everything suddenly lost any faith because they were let down so much they just let the fandom die, and there was no one left to analyze what they were actually saying?

Everyone would forget all about TJLC and about how clever of a show it was. They would erase the whole show from people’s memories, letting it pass by like any other show that’s there to fill your Sunday evening.

Also there’s another thing that doesn’t sit right with me, although i don’t have any proof backing this up and am not sure of what I’m saying, it’s basically just speculation, but still. TD12 package:

obviously this drug doesn’t exist, the only thing i came across with that name is a percussion sound module, you’re welcome to make your own theories with this informations since i know absolutely nothing about music technology and am not the smartest tool in the shed when it comes to music theories or clues.

I presume TD12 it’s something along the line of saline solution, since Sherlock made that replacement himself later in the episde, my research (because i also have no knowledge about medical stuff) told me that saline solution has en expiration time of roughly 2 years. On the package we see that the expiration’s date is October 2018, so counting back, assuming Culverton got the drug shortly before doing his speach, the scene takes place somewhere around October 2016. Wander what happened in October 2016?

On BBC Sherlock official YouTube channel they release just one video: Sherlock Series 4 release date. Now. You might say I’m looking a little to much into it, but if you go check the release dates of the other YouTube videos you would see that they usually don’t post just one video per month, that’s the only one around that time period. Idk if you ask me it’s a lot of strange coincidences.

Anyway, in the scene he then says “these drip feeds will keep the drug in your blood streams at exactly the right levels. Nothing that is happening to you now will stay with you for more than a few minutes. I’m afraid that some of the memories you’ve had up to this point might also be... corrupted.”.

So the victims starting now, will continue to take the drug for the next idk 30 minutes???? But apparently some of the events preceding that moment can be “corrupted”. Translated: everything starting from October 2016 is fucked up because of the drug, not only that, but also some things from before that. I’m guessing the “drips” would be the little occasional posts or news??

Might I add the information that in December 2018 the escape room Sherlock the game is now opened? Like, i know it’s not October, maybe I’m just looking where i want to look, but... I genuinely don’t know, that’s why I’m sharing things, so that people with a more objective point of view can come and say to me “hey you’re not making any sense, what the fuck are you talking about”.

And overall, I’m not native English speaker, but I don’t think you say “corrupted” when talking about human memories. It sounds more something used in the context of digital memories, usually it’s files that gets corrupted, not human brain memories.

[davidmann95]

Hey David? Why is ours such a cruel and merciless God?

mirrorfalls said: (If you don't know what I'm talking about, your inbox should be filling up with more specific deets riiiiight about now.)

cheerfullynihilistic said: THE SNYDER CUT

Anonymous said: You don’t seem to think Superman’s public rep will take another beating from the Snyder Cut coming out. Honestly I thought you’d be way more upset than you seemed on Twitter.

Anonymous said: So uhh, against all thoughts and logic the Snyder cut is being released? Maybe as a mini series? Thoughts?

Anonymous said: SNYDER CUT!

Bullies. Jocks. Guys angrily asking if we know who their father is. Assorted dudebro nerd-oppressors of America:

You have failed us. You have failed us so hard. What else do we even keep you around for if not to head this shit off at the pass? Shame on you.

Okay, so seriously: I’m actually gonna put most bitching and moaning under a cut, because I know firsthand there are as many as several non-slavering maniacs out there who dug Man of Steel and Batman V Superman: Dawn of Justice and who are simply and entirely reasonably excited that they’re getting this movie after all. I don’t feel like throwing a wall of text at them shitting all over this, so I’ll lead off with I think some fairly even-handed commentary on the real-world circumstances here, rambling speculation regarding the production, and some cautious optimism about the actual movie/s. THEN I’ll get to what I imagine most of you are here to see.

So totally in a vacuum: this is a cool, good thing. I’m the notorious theatrical Justice League-liker, but at best it was a compromised product due to the original creator - who like it or not clearly had an incredibly ambitious personal vision for these characters and their world - suffering a horrific tragedy forcing him off the project, and leaving his final stamp on blockbuster culture and a world he’d devoted years of his life to a flop with his name on it when he couldn’t even truly call it his own anymore. At worst, said tragedy was taken advantage of by suits to ditch him in the home stretch so as to try and shove out something ostensibly more marketable. But now because of a...very loyal fanbase, the man’s getting the opportunity and resources to rise like a phoenix and see at least some of his vision through in a huge way. That’s pretty remarkable.

Not in a vacuum this is fucking horrifying. I’ve already seen folks poo-poohing the reflexive fears that this will ‘set a precedent’, and they were right enough that I deleted my initial tweet on the subject because I didn’t think I could express my own opinion with any nuance in the space of 280 characters. Yeah, nerd whining definitely shaped Rise of Skywalker (another movie I enjoyed in spite of the circumstances of its creation). Hell, Sonic the Hedgehog crunched its CGI team prior to unceremoniously firing them to redesign his model thanks to outcry. That’s already a market force, and just to be clear upfront, if we can’t agree the predominant mode of operation for #ReleaseTheSnyderCut has been a toxic nerd harassment campaign when they spammed posts memorializing deceased actors and chased Diane Nelson off Twitter, we’re not gonna be able to have this conversation. And director’s cuts are you may have noticed also already a thing. But this isn’t changing direction on a project that’s already going to exist no matter what, this is turning back 3 years later on a commercial flop and dumping tens of millions of dollars into it, explicitly in response to that harassment campaign. It’s not *actually* going back and, say, remaking The Last Jedi, but by god to the naked eye it’s gonna be as good as for plenty of fanboys, and probably to some shortsighted execs as well. This is a new thing, and in this context it is a very, very bad one. Hopefully one that won’t amount to anything.

As for the movie itself: what the hell is this thing going to end up being? I assume with this sort of cashola being pumped into it we’re not getting any slapdash greenscreen or storyboarded sequences, but four hours? Is it really just going to be an expanded and revised version of what we saw in theaters, or is this including content that would have been in the originally planned Justice Leagues 2 and 3? My understanding is that those were already compressed into a single Justice League 2 before plans collapsed altogether, were they maybe filming side-by-side and this’ll be the whole shebang? If not is Snyder going to hedge his bets and end this on a clean note, or keep it ending on a cliffhanger in hopes HBO will throw another $250 million his way to keep going? Does DC want to keep going? Would they give into fan pressure on releasing after all what was widely publicized as the first film of a duology or trilogy with dangling threads if they weren’t going to be at least watching the numbers to see the feasibility of returning to this in a bigger way? Not that I think WB execs would piss into Snyder’s mouth if he were dying of thirst at this point if he simply asked to be able to do Justice League 2, but if he floated that if they instead just give him a liiiiiiiitle more money he can finally deliver unto them their very own Avengers - one that they can work on even during quarantine since it’s mostly just VFX work left - and hey if it works out he’s got a sequel or two cued up and ready to go? Maybe they look at their scattered plans and say the hell with it and end up giving this a theatrical release and sequel with Snyder holding the reigns again if this ends up a killer app; stranger things have happened, if not many, and somehow this is already happening in the first place after all. Alternatively, if this succeeds, could they go “thanks and good on ya, totally do another, but it’s gonna be an HBO exclusive so you’re only getting a hundred million, figure it out”? Would Ben Affleck return? How much reshooting will he be willing to commit to even for this? And most importantly, since this is potentially going to be serialized as six ‘episodes’, will We Got This Covered count this as another ‘win’ since their bullshit rumor mill algorithm spit out “Justice League HBO TV show” recently?

As for the project itself: I ain’t subscribing to HBOMax for this bad boy, but once it becomes more widely available I can’t claim I won’t probably watch it. It’s basically a new movie about the Justice League, and if there’s anything I WOULD wanna see Zack Snyder do in the DCU, it’s the movie finally moving past pseudo-realism (aside from some of those dopey costumes) and leaning all the way into godlike superbeings bludgeoning each other through continents. I absolutely wanna see his aesthetic take on the Green Lantern Corps, and New Genesis, and time travel, and all the other weird promises of where his movies were going to go climaxing in a ridiculous super-war across all spacetime. It’s the same reason J.G. Jones was an exciting choice for Final Crisis before he had to leave, seeing a guy known for his work in an ultra-real grungy superhero style starting there and building up to seeing his version of absolutely wild cosmic spectacle. And no, to respond to one of the initial asks, I’m not worried about the impact on Superman. Everyone seems to have accepted this is its own distinct thing whether they like it or not, I think him getting to complete his ‘arc’ will quiet down many of the folks who like to yell at every other version as retro nonsense since now they’ll be able to be smug about having had the best take rather than pining for a lost finale, and I’m not interested in further Superman movies at the moment anyway with Superman & Lois in the pipe (which I was originally paranoid would be endangered by this when rumors first started floating, but if it’s been brewing since November then if they wanted to strike that down to ‘make room’ according to their Byzantine ever-shifting rules, they would have by now). Far as I’m concerned, as long as the other DC movies get to keep doing what they’re doing during and past this - even Pattinson in his corner, however that works - then totally let Snyder work out all his Wagnerian superhero bullshit for another flick or two. If nothing else, maybe we’ll learn what the hell that diagram up there is supposed to mean. And a plea I want to clarify upfront is wholeheartedly sincere: we’re already down the rabbit hole, so let Snyder to literally whatever he wants with his non-theatrically released Justice League. Zero input or veto power from outside parties. If he wants Flash to hang dong or Superman to say fuck or Batman to learn he’s Steppenwolf’s secret dad or Cyborg to learn he needs to eat babies to fuel his machine parts, let him go for it. Whole point is this is now his thing for people who want his thing.

Okay, beneath the cut the filter comes off, so go ahead if that’s your jam.

Hahahahahahaha this is gonna be such a fuckin’ shitshow you guys, Jesus Christ.

They’re giving the dude who did BvS and wants to make an Ayn Rand adaptation someday $30 million to take another crack at this monstrosity! 30 goddamn million smackaroos for four fucking hours of by many accounts roughly the same basic movie, except now presumably with what little coherency, fun, and clean character work the theatrical cut managed to pull off excised in return for weighty staring, ponderous pseudo-philosophical musings, hackneyed symbolism, aimless mythology teasing, and Steppenwolf I understand being decapitated by Wonder Woman at the end rather than taken back to Apokolips. I didn’t even spoiler mark that shit because don’t you dare pretend you care about the fate of Steppenwolf. I won’t have it.

I used to wonder if I was indeed missing the forest for the trees with these movies, that I was so inflexible in my personal image of these characters - even though I appreciate plenty of alternate takes on them and even some stories that bend or break what I consider their ‘rules’, just not these - that I was incapable of grasping or appreciating these films on their own merits as works of art using those archetypes in wildly different ways; even I could see there were good moments and interesting ideas on display despite seemingly failing to come together. No matter how much I personally deconstructed how and why it wasn’t working, I couldn’t do it to my own satisfaction to the point of stamping out that niggling little worry with how many folks whose opinions I respect love ‘em. Until I finally remembered that the Cadmus arc of Justice League Unlimited is totally the same basic story as BvS, centrally driven by an even worse take on Superman, and that’s still one of the best superhero stories of all time. These just stink by any merits, and while I think Justice League absolutely has the potential to be the most *entertaining* of the bunch, it’s not going to magically become *good* in the eleventh hour. Not to lift up Joss Whedon of all people as some kind of savior, I’m on the record that my love for Justice League as-is is some kind of inexplicable alchemical accident, but I promise that there is not going to be one single addition to this movie that’s going to make up for the removal of “Just save one person”.

Also I’m already not looking forward to dudes tweeting “whoa, he’s splitting it up into a serialized narrative, reflective of the sequential nature of the characters’ primitive native pictorial medium! Or mayhap in ode to the pulp film adventure serials which inspired those in turn! Even the Justice League children’s cartoon for dumb babies, which was itself...made up of episodes! That’s three references in the structure of the thing alone! The man’s operating on an entirely different level!” “God, isn’t it amazing how much better he understands the source material than you”, they shall say, about a man who I understand just very confidently referred to Doomsday in his livestream as having destroyed Krypton in the comics. Again, don’t you say they won’t, just the other day I saw folks tweeting they just realized that since Jor-El wears armor over his bodysuit that technically means Superman’s whole costume is underwear which means Snyder’s totally honoring that without putting him in ugly dumb red panties so checkmate, dorks.

(Okay, in fairness, I know Snyder was saying that’s his take on what happened to the moon in the past of the movies and maybe I only misheard that he thought that also happened in the comics, and it’s trivial information anyway. Still sucks though, that seeming out-of-nowhere Jax-Ur shoutout was like the one thing I liked about that otherwise interminable Krypton sequence. And why is there a second Doomsday? You did Death of Superman already!)

And further SPOILER thoughts below on the reported plots of 2 and 3:

It’s also an amazing, perfect sort of narrative synchronicity that the hypocrisy of Man of Steel in presenting Superman as a savior would (will?) be matched by the movies also rejecting that promise long-term. In there, Jor-El’s musings on the capacity of every living thing being capable of good, the closest the film has to a singular moral statement, are proven wrong when Zod has to be put down like a mad dog, and rather than the one who’ll bring us into the sun, Kal-El’s presence draws ruin from beyond the stars to our world. And again in BvS with Doomsday. And again in Justice League 1-3, where in spite of claims by Snydercutters that it’s okay for Superman to be a really lousy take on Superman because it’s totally supposed to take several movies after putting on the costume and calling himself Superman, including his own death and resurrection, for him to really, like, become Superman, man, he remains a liability to the end. His death lures in Steppenwolf, the Kryponian matrix in his genes is Darkseid’s goal, he becomes the villain of the first act of Justice League 3 - possibly of his own free will depending on which version you’ve heard about - and at the final showdown, it’s Batman who sacrifices himself to stop Darkseid and save the world and inspire the rise of superheroism, because Batman, you see, rules, whereas Superman, stay with me here, drools. A letdown given BvS was just about the one major story of the last 30 years to unambiguously conclude Superman is better than Batman, but not a shocker. None of what I understand goes down in these - iconography from the likes of Fourth World, Crisis on Infinite Earths, Death and Return of Superman, Rock of Ages, Final Crisis, and Injustice reused but stripped of all context and thematic weight that gives it meaning (even Injustice is built on the premise of having a ‘good’ Superman to contrast the dictator); Lois being the ‘key’ because of her connections to two men, one she married and one she bears; time travel that even by the very generous suspension of disbelief applied to it in a genre like this operates by two obviously completely different sets of rules in its only two uses, and is then used to write the entire second movie of the trilogy out of continuity in the first act of the third, making one and a half of these movies pointless - is shocking. It’s just more empty notions and unfulfilled promises offered up to a fanbase staking everything on the idea that all the tampering, all the wild swings, all the meandering, it’s all building UP to something, not possibly just a dude who doesn’t understand these characters but wanting to look very clever with them before building up to one more rad punch-up. So yes, make these movies. Let what can be gleaned from them as worthwhile be revealed, leave the rest of it up for examination to be judged as it deserves and let it, finally. Finally. Be done.

[emma-what-son]

(Echee post) Emma Watson criticises 'dangerously unhealthy' pressure on young women

Posted on March 30 2014

From theguardian.com March 2014 Emma Watson has criticised the "dangerously unhealthy" image projected by the fashion industry and said the pressure to look perfect has taken its toll on her. The actor has also described her doomed attempts to merge into the background as a student at an American university, where she found herself being trailed everywhere by British photographers. After the recent New York premiere of Noah, she tweeted a photograph of the array of cosmetics – and a guardian angel pin – that she said were essential aids to her flawless appearance, and another of herself in a backless dress captioned: "I did NOT wake up like this." The actress said she is better at taking criticism these days than she once was. "As a younger woman, that pressure got me down, but I've made my peace with it. With airbrushing and digital manipulation, fashion can project an unobtainable image that's dangerously unhealthy. I'm excited about the ageing process. I'm more interested in women who aren't perfect. They're more compelling." Watson became famous playing Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter movies and has been constantly in work since. She is about to start filming a thriller, Regression, by Alejandro Amenábar and is also trying to complete her degree at Brown University, Rhode Island. She enrolled in 2009 for what would have been a four year course, but has taken several breaks for film work, and spent a year studying at Oxford. "After Harry Potter, all that mattered was university," she said, in an interview with the Sunday Times. "It wasn't always easy to break down barriers, as having men from the British press following me with cameras didn't help my mission to integrate. The American press, by contrast, "afforded me so much privacy", but her fellow students recognised her at once. "On the first day, I walked into the canteen and everyone went completely silent and turned around to look at me. I had to say to myself 'it's OK, you can do this'. You just have to take a deep breath and gather your courage."

GUARDIAN COMMENTERS SAY: So something like this Burberry campaign she did a few years ago? Hypocrisy at its finest. She flaunts with the fashion industry and enjoys its perks all the time, but hops on the 'female beauty' bandwagon and enjoys a moan when it suits her. I'd find her socially conscientious pleas convincing if she hadn't profited in the hundreds of thousands (if not millions) from the big, bad, evil fashion/beauty industry. A few years ago, Emma Watson appeared in high-profile advertising companies for posh Paris fashion house L'ancome. I'm guessing she was handsomely remunerated for her 'work'. Certainly she was not forced into letting her photo shopped image be used to market expensive cosmetics and perfumes. Did she only discover how 'oppressive' the fashion industry is when L'ancome cancelled her lucrative contract? Ms Watson is essentially a third-rate actress, and her pronouncements on large and complex issues, such as the pressures on women, are so idiotically vapid that one is brought to conclude that she really can have very little aptitude for higher education. I mean, her comments are hardly indicative of an educated person, or even of a moderately literate or intelligent person. By the way, I understand that she spent a year at Oxford as a visiting and/or exchange student while enrolled at Brown. How come? She is a British national, and so by rights she should not have gone to Oxford on a visiting/exchange student programme, irrespective of whether she happens a student at an American university. If I am wrong about this, then I should like to have some explanation as to her status at Oxford, and how she came by it. Otherwise, I suppose that one might be forgiven for thinking that it is yet another case of a once respectable academic institutions bowing down before the false idols of celebrity and money. (This is quite apart from the fact that all that one has read about her since she began life as a student concerns her acting career, her modeling and her various boyfriends.) SOME COMMENTS FROM THE DM ARTICLE Notice how it's always people who are very aware of how attractive they are that babble on about how it's okay to have physical blemishes? I'd like to see an ugly person say the same thing. Only someone young, beautiful and with her whole life before her can say that, and mean it. Sometimes, her comments maKe her more stupid. Get lost and Wingardium Leviosa. What a daft thing to say. But, then again, this is coming from someone who can't seem to finish uni. I feel like I've aged about 10 years reading this article. Annoying girl. Not only annoying, but also pretentious and disingenuous. ^None of this is my words. It from commentators from two sites emma-what-son posted many more so check out her page

Here's what I think As for what she is saying about Brown it's a complete 180 from how she described it before 2013. In 2013 she started to elude to the fact it was not as great as she made it out to be. She gushed how wonderful her experiences had been to so many magazines. Now I think she's looking for pity and to have excuses why she never stayed at Brown. She preached how she was staying put. I am so fucking tired of having to post quote after quote proving my point with this when she lies time after time. She is not honest! What the truth is doesn't matter because she always lying. It's a constant thing with her. As for the pressures on women she is really a piece of work. The guardian commenters summed it up nicely. She had no problem attaching herself to Burberry and Lancôme. She's had no problem giving them praise and talking about fashion and make-up in just about every interview. That part where she talked about photo shopping and air brushing. Just wow! Did she see the Wonderland magazine she edited? Some photos it didn't even look like her. She'll continue allowing her image to be manipulated no matter what. She thinks she’s aging? She still looks 15 without all the make-up and photo shopping. Last year she was stopped at JFK because they thought she was a unaccompanied minor. Did you know one of the product she pushed when modeling for Lancôme was an anti-age cream? That's the dumbest comment in her entire interview. But really she's said this kind of stuff the last three years and most notably in 2011 where she had a various quotes about body image and being comfortable in your skin. I wont bore you with those quotes since I have before. She gets lauded for those comments and people place her in role model status but when you closely look at it they were just words that meant nothing at the time other than to make people think, “Emma is so anti-Hollywood!! She’s a role model for women and young girls” but meanwhile she never believed in any of it in the first place. At the time she said those things she was at a more healthier weight than she ever was. In 2011 you can tell she either stopped working out or ate more. I thought she looked her best then. Now she’s back to stick thin and even surpassed it a way IMO is unhealthy. She sending a bad message to women. From standard.co.uk July 2011, “She sees modeling as an extension of acting, in fact - just playing a role - but is conflicted about its demands. “I think the pressure the media and the fashion industry put on women to look a certain way is pretty intense. There’s a certain tyranny to trying to achieve that kind of beauty. I don’t know, I’m maybe not the best person to speak about this because I obviously completely adhere to it,” she laughs nervously. “ ^She really needs to start taking her own advice and quit being a judgmental hypocrite. Not just with this topic but everything she tends to speak out against that she does it herself. Recently she tweeted a photo of all this make-up and I posted this on my tumblr days ago

^Same phone in this photo is what they're using in the bottom photo that I also posted on tumblr She said something else recently (Sunday Times interview) that is just typical Emma. I covered this a few times. From emmawatsonbelgium.blogspot.be March 2014, "For someone who has starred in eight blockbuster movies and is worth an estimated £30m, she is endearingly modest about how green she felt leaving Harry Potter behind in 2011. Emerging from that magical machine was “really intimidating”, she says. “I’d done two tiny plays when I was, like, six and eight, but I wasn’t driven to act. I wasn’t doing Oscar acceptance speeches into a hairbrush." Yeah it might have no been a hairbrush but who knows she could be lying about that. She'd practice her speeches in mirrors. From telegraph.co.uk July 2007,  "Pauline is utterly obsessed with being an actress and I was just like that when I was younger. I dreamt of it. I practised speeches in front of mirrors. Whenever there was a part at school, I went for it. I was probably a bit of a show-off in the sense that any chance to get up and be seen, I did it. I was such a drama queen. I used to wail and moan and cry, and little things were blown up into being big things. I don't know how my parents stood it, really. I've grown up a bit. I've had to. I actually really want to be an actress, a proper actress who makes it her career. I'm always expecting to be found out and I thought, If I'm no good, now is the time to find out." She really wants people to think she all of a sudden wants to act. What I think is she is really trying to distance herself from her lack luster post Potter career by making it out like she now wants to act and that’s why she has no lead roles because her resume does not equal her hype. The last few years she’s separated herself from “always wanted to be an actress” to “I was not sure”. She’s being disingenuous as usual and people believe it. Plus she said she did modeling so directors and producers would look at her differently so that's why she used Burberry and Lancôme. And she did a course at RADA in 2008 so if she was not sure or didn't want to than why did she do these things? One more thing from the Sunday Times interview From emmawatsonbelgium.blogspot.be March 2014, "It’s about as close as she’ll get to revealing anything about her newest relationship, with Matt Janney, rugby hunk and Oxford’s most eligible bachelor. “I can’t comment on it, I’m sorry,” she says, suddenly jumping up and hastily bundling her things back into her bag, which has exploded across the sofa beside her. “I’m trying to keep my private life sacred, although I don’t want to lock myself up and never go out. So I guard it, because I don’t date people who are famous, and I don’t think it’s fair that, all of a sudden, intimate details of their personal life are public as a direct result of me. I find that so uncomfortable, and I wish there was a way I could protect those people, but it’s not in my control.” When I suggest her boyfriends are consenting adults, she looks worried. “But you don’t choose who to love, who you have feelings for, do you?” She throws her phone into her bag and retreats home to pack, as she’s flying to LA. Just a normal girl, then, off to present an Oscar."

So she can go to international magazines and complain she can't find a man or that men are intimidated by her? She had in the past before Will Adamowicz. It was in almost every one of her interviews for a few years. So she can use Matt Janney (this new guy) on a beach in a bikini PDA session as a publicity stunt to cover up her ex boyfriend being caught rolling coke bombs and also use him to product place an iPhone in Madrid but she wants to keep it private? And she doesn't date famous guys? What about Johnny Simmons (Young Neil) and George Craig (Front man for rock group One Night Only)?  If you can Google their name and you see them in movies or music videos, they're famous.

[rapeculturerealities]

Dee Rees was waiting outside a discreet home on a quiet street in Los Angeles on a warm day in June, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Arrest the President.” She led the way past her fragrant jasmine bushes, past a kidney-shaped pool, past a Great Dane the size of a tween into an intimate guesthouse that had been converted into a music studio. The walls were painted dark blue and nearly every spare inch of wall and floor held equipment: Fender guitars, synths, amps, speakers and keyboards. The floor was covered by so many power cords that they resembled an area rug. A recording of an off-key voice earnestly singing was playing loudly on a loop. Rees shot me a pained look. “I’m not a singer,” she said.

Nearby, standing at a microphone, the singer Santigold was humming along to Ree’s voice and mimicking the undulations until she knew them by heart. The musician Ray Brady, sitting at a computer nearby, cycled through a series of drum-machine sounds until they heard one they all liked, and Santigold started singing over it. The air-conditioner was off — it interfered with the quality of the recordings — and the air was dense with humidity that no one seemed bothered by.

Rees and Santigold were recording a series of demos for a big-screen futuristic opera titled “The Kyd’s Exquisite Follies.” The screenplay, which Rees had been working on for about a year, describes the journey of a young, black androgynous musician living in a small town who sets off for “It City” in search of stardom. “An outsized, sequin-spangled, sunglassed Cosmic Being leans into frame,” reads the description for the first scene. “It is Bootsy Collins if Bootsy was simultaneously tripping on acid, André 3000 and CBD Frosted Flakes with extra sugar.” Her mood board for the project features images from the cultural festival Afropunk and a dream cast of Erykah Badu, Beyoncé, Janelle Monáe and the R&B singer Syd. The whole thing almost sounded like a fantasy incubated deep in a Twitter thread, but Rees later told me that she was inspired to combine the cultural legacy of “The Wiz” with the grandeur of the “Star Wars” franchise to create a kid-friendly movie as canonical as her reference points. “I was like, ‘Where’s “The Wiz” for us, for our kids, for queer kids?’ ” she said.

Rees has been working toward this moment for nearly 10 years, assuredly moving from indie films into blockbuster cinema with the hope of establishing a creative freedom few directors attain. She is placing a thick spread of bets, in the hope that she will soon be able to play as boldly as she wants. Legacy, she told me, is her ultimate goal: “I want to create work that matters and lasts.”

At 43, Rees has already had the type of success that will outlast her. In 2011, she released her first feature film, “Pariah,” a lush coming-of-age drama about a young black woman named Alike grappling with both her sexuality and the world’s response to it. The movie won more than a dozen awards, including, most notably, the N.A.A.C.P. Image Award for Outstanding Motion Picture. Last year, the movie was included on IndieWire’s list of best films of the past decade, along with “Moonlight,” “Carol,” and “Call Me by Your Name” — movies that also feature queer narratives, though it’s worth noting that “Pariah” came out years before them. In 2017, she released her next feature film, “Mudbound,” a drama about the lives of a black family and a white family working the same plot of land in Mississippi in the 1940s. It garnered four Oscar nominations, including Best Adapted Screenplay, making her the first black woman to be nominated in the category. Her latest project, opening on Feb. 14 before streaming on Netflix, is her most Hollywood yet: Starring Anne Hathaway, Willem Dafoe and Ben Affleck, “The Last Thing He Wanted” is an adaptation of the 1996 Joan Didion novel about an American journalist investigating illicit arms sales to Central America during the Reagan administration. It is Rees’s attempt to demonstrate her range across scale, genre and star power.

But here in Los Angeles, her deepest professional desire was underway. Rees had already secured a producer for “Follies” in her longtime collaborator, Cassian Elwes, as well as a costume designer. Lucasfilm’s Industrial Light and Magic had signed on to create the visual effects. The next stage of the process was to produce a music sample that could be played for potential financiers, studio partners and distributors, to generate excitement for the project.

The main song she and Santigold were working on that afternoon was a duet between the hero, the Kyd, and an unseen entity offering support from afar. “The intention here is that the Universe is accompanying her, and she doesn’t realize it,” Rees informed the room, using her hands to show two entities orbiting around each other, the smaller one oblivious to the larger one. She described the song as a ballet, with choreography. The Universe is not a metaphor, she explained; it’s an actual character, a guiding light and love interest, which she imagined being played by Erykah Badu. The song lyrics included melancholic lines like “It was easier when no one was looking” and “People see you as they need you to be.”

Santi, as everyone in the room called her, finished singing one part and began recording another, in a lower intonation to indicate a different voice. She and Rees were building out the bones of a pivotal point in the narrative: The Kyd is reflecting on the isolation, loneliness and self-doubt that accompany a rise to stardom — feelings that Rees teased out from her own life experiences as a young director. They worked intently for nearly an hour this way, playing keyboard, looping drums, recording Santigold as she sang both parts, then pausing to get feedback. When Rees wasn’t feeling something, it was obvious: She remained silent but shook her head “no.” When she liked something, she bounced in her seat and offered affirmations like “that’s hot.”

Watching the two women work, I realized that Rees didn’t just have an idea for music, she had created an entire universe, writing all the songs, arranging the melodies and constructing a 3-D model in her head of the sets and landscape. To her, composing compelling songs and comedy numbers while grabbing milk at the bodega comes as effortlessly as directing some of the biggest actors working in Hollywood. Despite that, the biggest question about her career now is whether Hollywood will allow her the longevity she craves.

“I know this character,” Rees said at one point about the Kyd, though she might have been talking about her own journey as an artist so far. “That feeling of being trapped, wanting to be an artist, knowing the odds are against you and doing it anyway.”

A few weeks later, Rees was sitting in a small coffee shop in Harlem, not far from where she lives with her wife, the author Sarah M. Broom, who recently won a National Book Award for her memoir, “The Yellow House.” Rees had been stationed there for a while, talking to other regulars, reading the short-story collection “Heads of the Colored People,” by Nafissa Thompson-Spires, and working on her laptop. Rees is a minimalist: Everything about her has an understated elegance, from the twists in her hair to the black and camo Jordans that she likes to wear. That day, she was dressed in a tailored white-and-pink-dotted button-down shirt and carrying a backpack.

Rees told me that people often describe her success in the film industry as overnight, which feels dismissive of the years she spent hustling for “Pariah” and glosses over the years that she struggled to sell pilots and feature films since then. “I’ve spent 12 years slugging away,” she said. She’s quick to point out that most of her work has not made it to market.

Rees said her strategy is to work on “five things at once and see which one sticks.” Each time we talked, she was working on a new project. Once it was a television show about a black police officer in the South, set in the 1970s. Another time it was a potential collaboration with a black playwright. This is both a survival tactic designed to navigate the ever-changing tides of a mercurial entertainment industry and perhaps also a defense mechanism: better not to get too attached to a project that doesn’t get picked up. The gap years after “Pariah” taught her to be strategic.

“For me, everything still comes with a grain of salt,” she said. “I never trust if it’s going to happen until you see a grip truck pulling up.” Many black women who make a compelling, noteworthy debut never manage to make a second feature — think of Julie Dash or Leslie Harris, whose names you might not know but who are responsible for, respectively, the indie films “Daughters of the Dust” and “Just Another Girl on the I.R.T.” “It seemed like people wondered if that was a fluke,” she said about “Pariah.” After “Mudbound,” she felt that question of her directorial ability has been answered. “Now it’s just about, How much do I get to do?”

From Rees’s vantage, this is the time to be working as quickly and furiously as she possibly can to get all of her dream projects off the ground — not just “Follies” but also a lesbian horror film she plans to write with her wife and a sci-fi graphic novel that she can eventually adapt for the screen. “It’s a creator’s market,” she told me. “There are more canvases, and not just feature films. You can work online, you can make different kinds of TV. You can make your thing, and they’ll come to you.”

Rees was referring, in part, to streaming services, specifically Netflix, which financed and is distributing “The Last Thing He Wanted.” Over the past five years, Netflix has done the same for hundreds of original shows and movies, many of which are critically acclaimed and attract as much attention and accolades than the offerings from traditional movie studios. In 2019, Netflix released 60 films, and analysts estimate the company spends more than $8 billion on original content a year. “We’re not a 100-year-old studio or own intellectual property like Disney does,” Scott Stuber, the head of films at Netflix, told me. “We don’t have an archive or a library, so it’s very important strategically to get in business with filmmakers like Dee, Alfonso Cuarón, Martin Scorsese, and that is our differentiator.” Netflix’s elbowing into Hollywood has propelled other companies to follow suit, including Disney, Hulu, Apple and Amazon, all of which now produce exclusive streaming content. Netflix’s dominance is likely to be challenged in the coming years, but the company has already reshaped consumer standards, including the expectation that people can watch high-quality, Oscar-worthy first-run entertainment from the comfort of their couch.

To stay competitive, traditional studios now have to pay attention to what those services are doing and try to beat them at their own game. Many of the directors making the best material are coming from the indie world, Rees reminded me: Ryan Coogler, Ava DuVernay, Barry Jenkins. “And it’s not because of altruistic reasons but because of moneymaking reasons,” she said. “Studios are realizing it’s profitable to keep their eyes open. Netflix forced the rest of the industry to take more risks. The advantage for filmmakers is that they’re making it impossible for the rest of the industry to be dismissive or willfully ignorant, and they make the industry consider films and filmmakers that they might not have considered.”

Rees also pointed out the desire for content aimed specifically at black consumers, noting that studio heads and industry leaders were finally paying attention to the black appetite: “We’re the consumers and we’re the producers. And we’re saying: No more ‘Green Book.’ We’re not interested in that.” Though Rees tends to avoid social media and the internet, she sees them as levers for this radical change. “The gatekeepers can still modulate production, but they can’t modulate awareness in the same way,” she told me. “With that awareness comes a hunger, and it sustains a stable of artists.”

In the 1970s, Rees’s parents bought a home in a largely white neighborhood in Nashville. Her father was a police officer; her mother, a scientist at Vanderbilt University. When I first asked Rees to describe her childhood, she told me it was a “typical, boring suburban experience.” She was an only child who liked to lose herself in video games, “Garfield” comics and Choose Your Own Adventure books. The family was solidly middle class. “At the grocery store, it was my job to hold the calculator and calculate the grocery bill as we went along,” Rees recalled fondly.

But Rees’s “typical” childhood also included anecdotes about growing up adjacent to white people who questioned her family’s presence in their midst. Neighbors hung Confederate flags as curtains. Kids toilet papered their trees, prank rang the doorbell, ripped up the roses that her mother planted in a wagon wheel. People regularly tossed garbage in their yard as they drove or walked by. “It was my job to pick up that trash,” Rees said. “They always seemed to be looking at us like, ‘How can you be here, how can you have more than us?’ ” Rees’s father often parked his police car outside their home to “let people know not to [expletive] with us,” Rees said. “You were constantly bracing for it, preparing for it and trying not to let it provoke you, as it was meant to do.” These incidents, and the questions about belonging they raised, can be felt in all her films.

Rees graduated in 2000 from Florida A&M University with a master’s degree in business administration and worked in marketing for a series of health and beauty companies. Rees envisioned herself as Marcus Graham, one of the young black advertising professionals in the movie “Boomerang.” “I really thought I’d be working with people like Strangé,” she said, referring to the eccentric Grace Jones character who gives birth to a perfume bottle in a cosmetics commercial. None of the jobs lasted more than a year, but the detour was productive: She went on a commercial shoot for a client, Dr. Scholl’s, and followed the production assistant around out of curiosity. She was energized watching the work, prompting her to reconsider her career trajectory. She was accepted to New York University’s graduate film program in 2003.

Rees had never been to art school or even touched a camera. “I had no idea what I was doing,” she said. She struggled with the assignments, which often consisted of making short film experiments. “I failed and I failed hard,” she recalled. Her professors seemed to pay more attention to the better students. “It felt like an instant divestment of interest.” By the second semester, she was considering dropping out. “On the first day, they told us that ‘only two of you will make it,’ ” she said. “And I was not the one who seemed like they were going to make it. I was like, ‘This is a waste, it’s so expensive, I shouldn’t do this.’ ” At 27, she worried that she was too old to start a new career.

Rees confessed all her fears and insecurities to her girlfriend at the time, who told her: “O.K., so there’s only going to be two of you. That means you and who else?” The pep talk helped, as did the support from a few professors, including Spike Lee, who has served as the film program’s artistic director for nearly two decades. Lee was impressed by Rees’s storytelling abilities and her eye, which already felt uniquely her own — rare for anyone, but especially students. “In my experience, very few people have a style right off the jump,” he told me recently. “It’s something that you develop over time, and she had it. I never had any doubts about her being successful. I could see that she was going to do what she had to do to get where she wanted to get.”

She felt her work began to click when the assignments moved into documentary. “That is when I found myself and found my voice,” she told me. She took a trip to Liberia with her grandmother and the budding cinematographer Bradford Young. “It just felt like no one was looking, and I felt confident and was able to make the doc.” That film, “Eventual Salvation,” tells the story of her 80-year-old grandmother, Earnestine Smith, as she travels to Monrovia, where she lived for decades, and confronts the aftermath of a devastating civil war.

She loved imagining herself into the shoes of her subjects. “It helped me be a better director, because I could see that ‘Oh, if I’d gotten this shot, it would be a better dynamic, better storytelling through body language.’ ” Rees’s graduate thesis was a short film called “Pariah,” and the strength of the script landed her at Sundance Labs to incubate the short into a feature. Lee offered guidance, and Young, still unknown, drenched the film in the shimmering, richly colored patinas that he would later use in movies like “Arrival” and “Selma.”

While at N.Y.U., Rees shortened her name from Diandréa to Dee. She was establishing a boundary between herself and the world that to this day feels as if it safeguards her personal life. She was coming out as a lesbian, which at first, her parents chalked up to an “art-school thing,” Rees said. But once they realized she was truly in love with a woman, they imploded. Her mother came to New York to try to stage an intervention. Her father was embarrassed. “Nashville is superconservative and small, and I guess word was getting around,” Rees said. Neither parent spoke to her for some time, but both came to see a screening of “Pariah” in New York in 2011. The support in the room eased their worries, as did the affiliation with Sundance. “My life wasn’t a wreck, which somehow made it more acceptable for them,” Rees said.

A common theme threading through Rees’s projects is the way the world places limits on people and whether that destroys or liberates them. The moments in her movies at which her characters confront that existential dilemma are often extremely subtle, but powerful nonetheless. In “Bessie,” the 2015 HBO movie Rees made about the blues singer Bessie Smith, we see how Smith rebels against societal expectations in her sexual fluidity, hard drinking and even in her confrontation with the Ku Klux Klan at one of her shows. But the moment that is most revealing is Smith, played by Queen Latifah, sitting fully nude at a vanity, her body shining with oil, seeing herself surrounded by the trappings of fame but ultimately alone and aging. She’s facing the choices she has made and seemingly deciding whether she’ll make different ones tomorrow. In “Pariah,” it’s the spark of possibilities reflected in young Alike’s eyes as she watches a dancer slide down a pole to Khia’s pleasure anthem “My Neck, My Back” in a gay nightclub.

What is striking about Rees’s work is that even though none of her movies are explicitly autobiographical, she still finds ways to channel her life experiences into them. Embedded in “Mudbound,” for example, is the experience of her great-grandparents, who picked cotton, but it also reflects the amorality of racial violence and how a country can fight against it in a war, while still perpetuating it at home. At the center of “The Last Thing He Wanted” is a father-daughter relationship complicated by guilt and obligation, but it’s also a thriller whose main character is determined to expose government corruption.

Rees realized early in her career that as a female director working in Hollywood, she wouldn’t have the same liberty as, say, Richard Linklater or Noah Baumbach to explore the details of her life onscreen. Rees made compromises so that she could still work on the themes that interested her most. “When I first started out, I was like, ‘I’m not going to do adaptations,’ ” she told me. “I only want to do my own stuff, but I quickly realized that I couldn’t survive because of the time it takes to get people to want to do your original thing.”

In 2014, Cassian Elwes, a longtime Hollywood veteran who has produced such films as “Lee Daniels’ The Butler” and “Dallas Buyers Club,” found himself horrified after reading about the extreme gender imbalance prevalent in Hollywood movie making. Dr. Stacy L. Smith, a communications professor at the University of Southern California at Annenberg, has found that less than 5 percent of major Hollywood movies were directed by women. People of color were also dramatically underrepresented. (Those numbers have not fluctuated significantly in the years since.) Elwes was similarly shocked to read that most young white male directors make their sophomore projects not long after their first; most women of color take years. Many of them, unable to support themselves during that gap, give up.

Around this time, two young producers brought Elwes the script for “Mudbound.” He fell in love with it, and his mind drifted to “Pariah,” which he’d seen at Sundance. Elwes sent Rees the script. A few years earlier, Rees had wanted to adapt the novel “Home,” by Toni Morrison, to explore the paradox of freedom for black Americans returning home from overseas; now she realized she could inject that desire into “Mudbound.”

“He was the first producer who was just like, ‘It’s yours,’ ” Rees recalled. “It wasn’t exploitative or like you should be grateful. He was like, ‘Whatever you want to do, let’s work it out.’ He’s believed more in me than some producers of color.”

A movie like “Mudbound” could easily be saturated with simplistic Hollywood narratives about the resilience of black people and the restorative power of interracial friendships. But Rees was not afraid to show a world where some white people are evil and none will save the black characters. Rees first impression of the script was that it was “a little too sweet.” It featured music as the balm easing tension between the two families. Rees wrote more scenes explicitly featuring the Jackson family, including one around a dinner table where they discuss their dreams of purchasing their own parcel of land, only to be interrupted by the white landowner, who demands they come unload his truck. The film finds its own emphatic language for the spectral horror of white violence in America through quiet vignettes: The tight face of a well-dressed black man, riding in the back of a white man’s dusty pickup truck. The wet and swollen face of a white woman sobbing into the arms of a black matriarch, whose resignation and fatigue can be read in the set of her mouth.

Rachel Morrison, the film’s cinematographer, who received an Oscar nomination for the film, said she was drawn to Rees’s ability to “put the audience squarely in the main character,” she told me. For example, when filming Laura, a woman at a loss for who she is in the world, the shots feature her petite, wiry body dwarfed by the soggy terrain and gaping blue sky. Rees was “uncompromising in only the best ways,” Morrison said, in a tone rich with admiration. She recalled an instance where Rees wanted a shot looking through a screen door, from the outside world into a dark home. “It was a ton of work, balancing the bright sun and dark shadows, but I was like, ‘If it’s worth it to you, I’ll do it.’ ” It was worth it to Rees. Morrison spent close to an hour manipulating the set to capture what would amount to seconds of screen time. When Morrison saw the final cut, she realized the elegance of the shot and how beautifully it articulated the difference between the two families and the worlds they inhabit. “It’s one of my favorite shots in the film,” she said.

After they finished “Mudbound,” Rees told Elwes that she wanted to adapt the Joan Didion novel. He knew Didion’s agent and was able to option “The Last Thing He Wanted.” “We took it around to all the studios, and no one would deal with it,” she said. “Netflix jumped in and saved it. But it was hard in that way. You think because it’s Joan Didion, like, of course — but nope.”

Rees struggles not to take the studios’ lack of interest in her work personally. When I asked her how she rationalized their indifference, she took her time answering, clearly weighing how much of her inner thoughts about Hollywood she wanted to air in public, staring into her coffee all the while. “When stuff doesn’t make logical sense, to me, I go to a place where there’s only one thing that can explain this. You know what I mean?” She paused again, fiddling with her latte. “It feels like a double standard, and the double standard to me is race.”

I asked her how she coped with being so demonstrably talented as a filmmaker and yet feeling thwarted in her efforts at the same time. “The only refuge I have is to do more work, to be relentless and keep making and making, and hopefully, eventually I won’t have to continue to prove that I have the capabilities.” She felt this deeply when “Mudbound” was passed over by major studios, even though it resembled a Birney Imes photograph come to life and featured mesmerizing performances by Carey Mulligan and Rob Morgan. It eventually sold to Netflix, reportedly for $12.5 million, the largest deal to come out of Sundance in 2017. “I’ve learned to go where the love is and work with who wants to work with you,” she told me. “The thing you’re up against is not new. Since first grade, the moment you enter school, you’re up against racism. But it’s still stunning sometimes.”

What remains striking about Rees is that these challenges haven’t muted her ambition. Elwes repeatedly highlighted it. “It’s gigantic,” he said, marveling. “She could be knocking out independent movies all day long if she wanted to.” But instead, with something like “Follies,” she is trying to create a pop-cultural empire. “She’s building a world, and right now in Hollywood, most people are just making another version of a comic book or a sequel or a remake,” Elwes said. Her fearlessness and talent are why he immediately agreed to help her produce and finance her sci-fi opera after she floated the idea by him in a text message. He has been hustling to raise the $80 million or so that she needs to pull it off. “It’s not a slam dunk,” he said, “but whoever takes the risk will get the reward.”

Toward the end of our meeting at the coffee shop, Rees told me shyly — a rare mode for her — that her biggest dream is to work on a major feature-film trilogy, something even more audacious than “Follies.” “I want to have a world with a black woman at the center of it, who ends up leading a rebellion,” she said. “I want to create a whole new world rather than color in somebody else’s.” The trilogy Rees wants to build takes place in a dystopic time, a hellscape devastated by climate change and out-of-control social media where people have to meet a minimum “credit” rating in order to have a decent quality of life.

Rees hopes that “The Last Thing” will be a bridge between her past work and her larger ambitions. Unlike her previous films, “The Last Thing” is a fast-paced political thriller with car chases, shootouts and body counts that includes tight close-ups and impressionistic landscape shots. The effect is claustrophobic and dizzying — a departure from Rees’s previous, more linear work — and yet the audience remains, as Morrison reflected, squarely in the perspective of Elena McMahon, the journalist at the center of it, played by Anne Hathaway. As McMahon loses her moral compass, the viewer becomes disoriented, too, and unable to keep up with the revelations, which, at Sundance, caused many critics to pan the movie.

When I spoke with Rees by phone from Sundance, right after the first reviews came in, she sounded sanguine. Her film had been “trashed,” she said, “but I still believe in it.” Then her voice perked up as she proceeded to tell me the details of a few still unannounced deals she had inked since we last saw each other. From her perspective, it seemed, the critical response was a blip in what she plans to be a long career.

Rosie Perez, who portrays a photojournalist in “The Last Thing,” told me that the day she arrived on location in Puerto Rico to shoot the film, she immediately noticed Rees’s sharp intelligence but found her aloof. “I wasn’t sure if I was going to connect with her,” she said. When it came time to work, Rees was meticulous but hands off. She set up the scene, positioning the camera with her own hands at times, and then stepped away. “It freed us up to just act,” Perez said. “She lets you do your thing. But you have to trust that she’s doing hers, too.”

Once, after a scene, Rees called cut, and Perez asked Rees if she was sure they got the shot. “She looked at me and said, deadpan: ‘I wouldn’t have moved on if we didn’t.’ ” Perez, deep in recollection, let loose that famous laugh from deep in her nasal cavity. “I was like: ‘Got it. Let me shut the [expletive] up.’ ” Her admiration for Rees was cemented in that moment.

But that wasn’t all she got from Rees, Perez told me, recalling a scene in which she and her co-star, Anne Hathaway, are running to catch a plane, dodging gunfire. “Anne is running like Catwoman, sprinting toward the plane,” Perez said. “I felt like the older lady trying to keep up.” She mentioned this to Rees, who replied, “Well, that’s your character, isn’t it?” At first, Perez’s ego was bruised. But later, Rees told her, “I hired you because you’re a kick-ass actress and also because you have the courage to look like a grown-ass woman.” At the time, Perez was splitting her time on the set of the second season of Spike Lee’s “She’s Gotta Have It,” where she was guest-­starring as Mars Blackmon’s mother. Lee didn’t want Perez to wear a lot of makeup, and Perez initially balked. But her time with Rees adjusted her priorities: “I walked onto his set, and I was like ‘O.K.’ ” Working with Rees, she said, “gave me the confidence to do that.” That, she said, was Rees’s gift. “You have to let her be who she is, in order to see what she is trying to give you.”

[route22ny]

I grew up in the Bay Area at the height of AIDS panic, and all of that era’s sex paranoia remains burned into my brain, repurposed for Covid-19 and the act of commingling wet breath. A few weeks into this crisis, I found myself having a ten-foot-distant conversation with my neighbor Patty, both of us incredulous at people who still tried to talk to us in-tight face-to-face, like we weren't all suddenly barebacking reality with everyone they'd chit-chatted with that day and everyone in their lives, etc. Patty allowed that she should be able to strike people she considered a threat. I mentioned Florida's attitude toward this legal principle and firearms. I suggested she become militant. I tell that to a lot of people, but I attenuate the humor of it for the audience. I tell every teacher I know to strike.

There are more sirens now. It's hard to tell, because unlike New York, everything isn't quiet. Cars are out on the road—fewer, but enough that hearing a siren can still be vehicular idiocy and not a more sinister house call. But I still hear more of them.

I don’t know why Luke asked me to write about Coronavirus in Florida. I mostly stopped writing last year when a good friend dropped dead in front of his family. (Subscribe to my Substack—we don't update regularly!) Before that, I felt increasingly overborne by events. Things ground to a halt in 2019, but the machine began to break down long before. I ended the 2016 campaign periodically sitting under my desk, high, feeling secure because I wasn't writing anything stupid and feeling good because I was appropriately afraid of everything, but people thought I was exaggerating when I mentioned it.  

I wish I could say my seriousness about the novel coronavirus stems solely from believing in science and peer review and that I would take it seriously regardless, but my spouse is immunocompromised, and my father, who lives out in the Bay Area, had Covid-19, back in March or early April. He didn't tell us kids until he was out of the woods, but for days he had fevers over 103º. My stepmom, a former emergency room nurse, couldn't get him admitted anywhere, because he wasn't having respiratory problems. He woke up the same every day: It felt like someone had parked a Volkswagen on him.

We're supposed to say he's out of the woods. I'll believe that when he dies of old age, or something more reasonable that kills men in my family, like colon cancer or car accidents. Sometimes I think about him dropping dead like my friend, only from whatever post-Covid-19 effect triggers the brain’s forgetting to tell the lungs to breathe—or from the one that leads to storms of strokes, like a brain's blood vessels recreating the burning energies depicted on a CRISS ANGEL MINDFREAK poster. Then I wonder how I would die, or my wife, or my friend in Atlanta, or my brother. I think about drowning in open air, alone in a hissing world, and being incapable of saying the overdue apologies I ran out of time for.

After a while I realized that basically all Luke wanted was to hear from a coward living in the mismanaged kleptocracy of Florida, and the thing is, I can do that! I’m frightened right now!

I considered opening with, Every day I wake up frightened, to throw a fucking jolt into a piece about facing down a pandemic in a place where they have a paradise just for the cheeseburgers. But the joke is, I'm not wastin' away here in Coronaville. Sometimes I wake up and just have to pee, on the rare days when I don't wake up from the sensation of my son elbow-dropping my head because—how rude of me—it's 6:45 already.

In this respect, I am serene: My son and I exercise outside to burn off his energy, so I'm out in the sun for hours a day. I'm tanner, I've lost weight, and my phlegm feels looser. I grew a lushly indifferent goatee. My haircut looks like something that belongs on the gatefold cover of a concept album about a form of locomotion by a band named after geography. While the term "Lebowski Phase" has been applied to my appearance and to the fact that my leg injury and medical-marijuana prescription have collided with the reality of never having to drive anywhere again, I must insist that in many respects I have come to look like Jesus Christ. I am pro life and take no pleasure in reporting this.

As I have said, I am frequently awakened by my son, whose full name is My Beautiful Five-Year-Old Son Maitland. He is a treasure who spends quarantine within earshot of 24-hour news, regurgitating West Wing Democrat observations of mine with five-year-old precocity to harvest follows for Instagram. Maitland is an influencer already on record as supporting L’Oréal, opposing Medicare For All, and, when I first read him the shaggy start to this piece, he said, "Not a good look." He's a natural.

Waking up is violent but easy. The problem is everything after that. By the time I close my eyes, I'm not sure what I felt most on any given day—anger, sadness, impotence, a resentful churning need for vengeance, despair. Any one can seem like a day's dominant emotional dysfunction and then suddenly be overwhelmed by the dread that suffuses prolonged thought about the world outside.

I am one of the people who is Taking It Seriously. Seriously Taking It Seriously, though—not the people who say they're taking it seriously and then tell you about:

• Going to a recent indoor birthday party.

• Having a multi-course dinner at a fancy restaurant, "But it was okay because it was [extremely not-worth-a-life celebration]!"

• A full-contact playdate their kid had recently with two other children.

I abhor these people. I have an existential loathing of these people, and a granular scientific indictment. I enjoy reading new articles to learn new ways in which they are a danger to me. My apprehension is rich and exquisite. May their friends shun them, and may they be abandoned by their gods.

Sooner or later, every day, I think of the threats arrayed against me and my family. Each day, I see the most recent thing said by my governor, Ronald Fuckface DeSantis, in which he explicitly endorses and declares his intent to pursue actions that all available data say will kill Floridians by the thousands. Each day, I think about how, if I do so much as suggest fostering a free exchange of ideas about the proportional value of using every means to stop him, I will be arrested.

Every day, I bounce the "Evil or Moronic?" debate around my brain. I check in with an alumna buddy in Atlanta to see whose governor has shown more recent determination to murder his citizens. I gotta give Brian Kemp credit, because he's really holding his own. Naturally, this leads to wondering if either of them have a natural or acculturated advantage in terms of idiocy and malevolence. DeSantis' enrollment at Yale and Harvard and service in the military problematizes the idiocy narrative only for as long as it takes to remember all the people you've met who've gone to any of them and were dumber than dogshit. It would seem like fate to be murdered by an oaf, but I don't know that it's not merciful to at least be murdered purposefully rather than contemptuously and indolently.

Eventually, this leads to spending some time thinking about DeSantis as a kind of lethal bro angel. It's hard not to see his shitchyeah, brah, people are dyin', it's classic! expression and recognize that the state's chief executive resembles a lout you don't want to run into walking alone at FSU after a home loss. I prefer my jokes about the governor, but my friend David Roth nailed it when he said that DeSantis seemed like a person who would describe himself as “kind of a DUI guy.”

I know there's supposedly a culture war out there. There's a truck in my neighborhood with a Q sticker, and another with a Three-Percenter sticker, and there are more than a few neighbors of the "easily victimized white dude who owns a $50,000 truck he rarely takes off the pavement and who becomes physically belligerent when you correct him" variety, but there's a reason why you really only see “war” shit on YouTube. Few Americans are hostile to general safety protocols, and even fewer act out against them. I live where hate groups and old fashioned unaffiliated redneck trash drive in from the county to make a show of rebel flags, rolling coal and honking to intimidate protests, but people line up six feet apart at Home Depot, wear masks at Publix and get takeout at the pizza place outside without insisting on barging in. Most wars don’t need one side of them to be this manufactured.

Most of my friends and colleagues from this gig live in New York, so I've already sat through weeks of descriptions of streets silent except for ambulances, and I’ve already woken for weeks to the half-twilight of nightmares where friends died in a spare white hallway. There aren't a lot of surprises in store for Florida, and no images I can describe that would make you want to turn back now. It's like we're waiting for the rolling premiere of a franchise blockbuster. The dead won't really start packing them in for a few more weeks, but all the scariest shit hit YouTube when it opened in New York a thousand years ago. The coronavirus as an image, what it functionally is, as a horror, feels as familiar as the Scream mask, and the context that makes that scary as hell already feels dangerously been-and-gone, like an apprehension that Florida had for too long before the actual scare came.

There's a hope that all this will come to little again. Despite Governor DeSantis' refusal to take the initiative on shutting down the state until the last dollar was wrung from the last snowbird, the original shellacking never came. The Tampa Bay Times sampled smartphone data and concluded that Floridians overwhelmingly took the initiative to stay home, and they were aided in their quarantine process by the fact that Florida is car-dependent and atomized.

The heartbreaking realization, as you gradually run across more people who are Not Taking It Seriously or are Expressing Moronic Skepticism, is that for a month there about 80 percent of America was on board with doing the right thing. We, a people who suck at doing the right thing even for the wrong reasons, stood on the side of doing the harder thing if it helped people who weren't even us.

I really can't tell if I feel more anger than sadness at the fact that those who were meant to encourage us in safety, to serve us by offering difficult guidance, wasted our sacrifice and our trust. They squandered the patience given by a beggared and exhausted people. All they had to do was the right thing, and if they weren't sure what that was, they could have erred on the side of saving people’s lives and hoping it counted, and they failed.  

Instead, more people will die, and we'll be shut down again, and we will realize we are fundamentally unequipped for life with Covid-19. Florida is built on enclosed air-conditioned spaces: It's dependent on divorcing yourself from Florida as a climate and place. Asking Floridians to generate a public life under the unshielded rage of God’s angriest sun and baked from beneath by a sprawling pave-ocalypse requires asking them to rebel against everything their infrastructure has taught them for as long as they can remember. It is a car culture to the flesh and bone, and a restaurant relocating indoor tables to a road patio would park its diners inches away from eternity.

A picnic day like that is months off, again. It's time to go back inside and resume Inside Time. Inside Time melts away. I saw a headline around the Fourth of July, from the New York Times, that read, "In the Covid-19 Economy, You Can Have a Kid or a Job. You Can’t Have Both," and I remember seeing colleagues tweet, mmmm, so true, and, gets at something crucial we aren't talking about, and shit like that, and I was like, "Buddy, let's get in the DeLorean and visit March." I have nowhere to go, anyway, and all life is timeless.

We have no family in the area and have had no break. It's the three of us, like No Exit, but if most of the dialogue was the word "no" and a lot of stuff about poop and butts and farts, good guys and bad guys, and what Lego Star Wars would do, but with a lot of excruciated pleading for silence because Mom and Dad Are Working Right Now and We Love You Very Much but Jesus Christ Please Stop for the Love of God I Will Give You a Dollar If You Go in Your Room and Be Quiet and Play That Kindle App That Teaches You to Read That You Pay Attention to More Than Us Even Though I Would Read You a Fucking Novel If You'd Just Shut Up and Sit Still.

I'm resigned to staying in here until 2022. I’m screaming, but I will do it. I'm lucky in that I have access to a community pool and a neighborhood where my son and I can roam around on bikes and romp and look at water and birds and turtles. When we're lazy, we have a porch where we can feel nature without feeling exposed. We have a dependable (ok!!! haha!!!) income, and I can do irregularly scheduled work that allows me to be Parent rather than Employee. Exercise, meals and stories take up enough hours that I might as well lean into it.

But we’re lucky. We have a house and prescription mood-altering drugs and one thousand years of undersleep, but we are in less immediate danger than most. The state, almost reflexively, reaches out to open more doors even as Covid-19 blows past reopening benchmark after reopening benchmark.

The inexorable march for commerce doesn’t even come from malice in many cases; people in charge just don’t know how to do anything else but extort and scold people into working under any conditions, so long as it devours most of their time. All the exploitive principles are expected to work the same even if the world they built is fraudulent. We feed meat and the virus into the machines, irrespective of what the data says, and pray for rain. Watching Florida government on the state and local level is like watching two parents bring an alcoholic home after he got kicked out of rehab and deciding that the best course of action is leaving him with $5,000 in an apartment up the street from a dive bar and then going to Cancun for the week. It was on the calendar already, there wasn’t any choice, he looked very healthy at the time!

We have friends who are teachers, and we are scared for their spouses and kids. I don't know what Florida's plan for its teachers is other than to murder them. Again, I don't know if DeSantis is an idiot for flirting with giving enormous bipartisan sympathy to arguably the most effective labor group in the state, or a genius for flirting with finally eliminating a lobbying obstacle to conservative governance by simply liquidating its members as a class.

I worry if I start listing all the things I'm scared of, they'll never stop, but every day I see my son reach for something he should be able to reach for, and I either have a low-grade panic response and stifle it, or I have the panic response and yelp at him to get his attention and tell him to stop, startle him, and add another layer of gun-shy haunting to his day. I'm afraid he'll eventually become an animal in a Skinner Box in which all the buttons and levers are electrocuted, and there are no prizes.

I'm afraid that my son will always be emotionally arrested at two years behind the development of people the same age who had siblings in their house, or who, like many kids in my neighborhood, had parents who thought kids were invincible to Covid-19 and let them play with whomever they wanted. I worry that he may pay a price year after year even into adulthood because other kids got to practice socializing as we rode past. They got to hang out with people their own age and run around and do vitally stupid shit and say "butts" a lot, and he got look at me heartbroken and knowing empirically and epidemiologically that he couldn't play with his friends anymore but still needing to know why, and knowing that I couldn't tell him anything more sophisticated and anything less terrifying than, "So we don't get sick."

The other day he started crying and then screaming, "I hate the sickness! I hate the sickness!" repeating it in a higher and higher register, until he was up even past that piercing birdlike screech that prepubescent boys make whenever trying to sound like lasers or dinosaurs or squealing brakes. Every day I worry that I see another little bit of his capacity for happiness is dying—that the same awkward process of terror that took me from happy little kid to profoundly unhappy teen to scarred adult is even more rapidly at work, and each day another sparkling and joyous little light of childhood winks out in him, replaced by fear as a necessity of life.

I know that there is no plan for us. Conservatives don't want to be taxed or have their businesses lose money, so people are being kicked off unemployment and sent back to work with no test and trace protocols, irregular access to PPE, overwhelmed hospitals and often limited access to any care. We're doing all this as Florida blooms scarlet like paint being spilled into a mold shaped like the state. We're sending the men in the gasoline suits right at the heart of the fire.

It's a cruelly lazy little culling genocide of the working class, a Wall Street gamble that the blow to the labor force won't be more than a blip on the Dow and, a little recession aside, the One Percent will come out ten years later owning an even greater percentage of the United States. To the extent that there is a plan, that's the plan, and whether you land on the dead or the living part of any of those exchanges is more of a Your Problem than a Their Problem.

For now, it's enough to be hermits and hope the rest of Florida goes on strike by going inside and staying there and writing letters to representatives threatening to never come out. Cooking the same things, getting the same exercise in the same places, having the same awkward conversations on VOIP delay, and living every moment outside like we're three drinks in so we’re ready to get belligerent with anyone who is getting too close. Living every moment with some low-level neurasthenia that grows spine-deep and for the rest of our lives sends shuddering disequilibrium at the thought of air that never seems to move, hallways that lengthen without exits, and objects that seem both unavoidable and unclean. It’s fine. We’re all fine, here, now. How are you?

I feel a sudden Git Offa Mah Land thing about my son, a resolute commitment to homeschooling for the foreseeable future and to keeping the gummymint away. It sucks so much. I was so happy to send him to the public school just a few blocks away, instead of the shitty little charter schools nearby, but now that it’s Plague or Parents, he’s got his parents. Between us, he'll have access to 1.5 first-class educations. I still have my grandpa's service weapons from WWII, the last time America was in a war with fascism, when we took the opposing side. I'll empty a couple magazines into anyone who comes onto my property and tries to stop me from teaching my son critical race theory, Howard Zinn, and Leonard Levy's Jefferson and Civil Liberties: The Darker Side. I refuse to turn my back on the heritage of my youth, of watching thousands of hours of MASH, by refusing to wear a mask outside or in fact any time I am doing anything other than drinking gin that I made in a tent.

Outside, records fall and progress rolls on. A governor whose go-to pejorative for opponents of all ages and sexes is very likely still “queef” watches as even the president concedes that a Republican National Convention here would be too lethal, as the state repeatedly sets records for daily deaths, beats out all of Europe in terms of new daily cases, leads the nation in cases per day, then tries to set them again. And then, every day, our governor makes his ahegao-but-for-ethnic-cleansing face and psychotically clangs a bell indicating that Florida just became the 15,000 customer at Leadshoe Larry’s Kicked-in-the-Dick, and it’s time for all us lucky winners to line up and drop our pants.

Florida’s lethality is so tacky that it’s almost camp, but there is no satisfaction in being right about how wrong everything is. Nobody gets a prize for correctly guessing the surplus death toll. All you have to do is look someone else in the eye working in life under Covid.

I’m old now, so I have Humiliating Injury Syndrome (HIS), and somehow in the month between the Super Bowl and the pandemic, I tore a rotator cuff, a labrum, or both, by throwing a (mini!!!) football with friends. After four months, I broke down and went to get an MRI. I skulked down corridors and lurked in a corner of a waiting room, like playing spies with an opponent who was the air. Even the clean and modern fixtures felt miasmic and corrupted, like they were a parking garage in an Alan Pakula film.

Eventually a nurse emerged from an office, crinkled her brown eyes, waved and surprised me by asking after my family by name. She lives three blocks away from me and had hosted me at a party once. Later that day, as my car coasted down the approach to my house, I saw a garage door open and my neighbor’s son walk out on his way to his shift at the same grocery store that I treat emotionally like a Superfund site.

I thought about how much I unconsciously held my breath where they work, and how I unconsciously associate those places with poor choices. The danger of the world outside is so massive that I reflexively need to cordon off the threat into areas of blame and blamelessness. In a moment of crisis, years of conservative rhetorical conditioning in the discourse have taught me to reflexively pathologize those in harm’s way. There is less chaos if someone is at least responsible for something. There is less risk to me, if it turns out someone else’s epidemic is someone else’s fault.

But it is someone else’s fault. And it’s not some poor fucker doomed to sit in a box somewhere and accept paper money and hand metal money back and point at where toilets are, because that’s how he keeps the lights on. It’s not the person consigned to some life-sucking task that, on the best of days, is too humiliating and cruelly impoverished of purpose to ever be a reason why someone should die. It’s not the person around whom you hold your breath because you don’t know where they’ve been. It’s the person and people who put us all in position to suddenly feel like we’re suffocating together.

I hate that I sometimes unconsciously hold my breath around strangers, and I hate that they have heard it. I think of my neighbors, and of the workers on whom we’re dependent, and the permanent uncertain shortness of breath I feel, and I want every moment of their anxiety and mine gathered up and then rained on those who shepherded it into being, those who nurtured it and feasted on it, those who profited from it and were indifferent toward it. Those who consider themselves DUI guys and those who pay to elect them and give them sinecures and who are simply too rich to be arrested for boating under the influence anymore.

I think of how I hold my breath near good people and near vulnerable people in places I am wary of and that we all need to share, and I wonder if we will simply hold our breath for the rest of the year, and if we’ve bargained for standing near each other and holding it for all of the next. And I wish so eagerly that all our suspended futures and the air between us might catch at the throats of those who put us here. That justice for a man like Ron DeSantis might be a permanent and sucking terror: stuck always in an involuntary startled gasp at the sight of responsibility, afraid at the approach of every stranger, incapable of drawing a full and restful breath, and never knowing peace again.

Jeb Lund used to write about politics for Rolling Stone, The Guardian and Gawker, and a bunch of other places, and was the Spectacle of Trump Editor at 50 States of Blue. He and David Roth have a podcast about Hallmark original movies that is mostly funny and exasperated and not unkind, and it's not ultimately about the movies anyway. It's fine and people enjoy it. Don't make it weird. He also has a podcast where he watches every Dennis Quaid movie in a row. That is also completely normal.

Ok here’s me again with a couple more things.

You’ll want to read this in the New York Times today about a forthcoming documentary on ICE. After it was completed the filmmakers were apparently threatened with legal action by the agency over the inclusion of parts that made ICE look even worse than they already look doing literally everything else they do.

Some of the contentious scenes include ICE officers lying to immigrants to gain access to their homes and mocking them after taking them into custody. One shows an officer illegally picking the lock to an apartment building during a raid.

At town hall meetings captured on camera, agency spokesmen reassured the public that the organization’s focus was on arresting and deporting immigrants who had committed serious crimes. But the filmmakers observed numerous occasions in which officers expressed satisfaction after being told by supervisors to arrest as many people as possible, even those without criminal records.

“Start taking collaterals, man,” a supervisor in New York said over a speakerphone to an officer who was making street arrests as the filmmakers listened in. “I don’t care what you do, but bring at least two people,” he said.

Here’s one disgusting detail among many.

They followed Border Patrol tactical agents who took pride in rescuing migrants from deadly dehydration even as the agents acknowledged that their tactics were pushing the migrants further into harm’s way. They showed how the government had at times evaluated the success of its border policies based not only on the number of migrants apprehended, but on the number who died while crossing.

***

source:

https://luke.substack.com/p/all-they-had-to-do-was-the-right?utm_source=Brooklyn+Today&utm_campaign=dd6f63665c-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2020_07_28_01_15&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_1ba554d7d5-dd6f63665c-125128182

[atths--twice]

The Accidental Date

As Pendrell prepares for an evening out alone, he runs into someone he had not unanticipated.

This story was an idea I had for a while now. I adore Pendrell and his love and adoration of Scully, was so adorable. He always had her back and was too cute with his awkwardness when he was around her.

I hope you all enjoy this little story. ❤️ 

The theater was not crowded, not that he expected it to be. He did not think many people were interested in this movie, it not being a blockbuster or an overly popular subject. Despite that, he had been looking forward to seeing it. So much so in fact, he was quite early, and for the moment was one of only five people in the theater.

That was not a problem for him, as he was there alone and not waiting for anyone to join him. In fact, if it was only him in the theater, he would call it a win. The less people the better, as he was not exactly overly outgoing.

Grabbing a huge handful of popcorn, he chewed it thoughtfully, wondering how the plot of the movie would match to the book he had read and enjoyed for so long. A long pull from his drink cleared the popcorn from his mouth and quenched his thirst. As he was taking one more drink, he saw someone come into the theater who made him choke on his soda.

He blinked his eyes as he wiped his mouth, sure that his eyes were deceiving him. But as she got closer, he was sure it was truly her. The woman who had captured his attention more than any other and appeared in his dreams, both day and night.

Agent Dana Scully.

He kept staring at her, frozen in indecision as to what to say or do. She had not seen him yet and he was both hoping she would and praying she would not. Just as he became resolute in his decision to say nothing, she looked his way and did a double take. She froze and then smiled, changing direction and seat decision, heading toward him instead.

“Shit,” he muttered, his heart pounding as he stood up. She smiled as she walked up to him, her hand outstretched.

“Agent Pendrell, what a pleasure to see you,” she said, grasping his hand and covering it with her other one. “Not much of a crowd for this one, huh?” Letting go of his hand, she put her hands in her coat pockets, looking around the theater.

God, she smelled so good, his mind screamed at him. Not wanting to seem creepy, but also unable to stop himself, he looked her up and down, the image of her in casual clothes an overload to his senses.

Jeans. She was wearing dark jeans.

Nowhere in his images of her, had he thought of her wearing jeans, the idea seeming far too common for Dana Scully. But damn if she did not look amazing. A button up olive green sweater under her coat was so unlike the business suits she wore, he had to drag his eyes away, so as not to appear to be staring at her breasts.

He would never reduce her to those thoughts, at least not willingly. She was so much more than a beautiful face, although it was undeniable to anyone who was lucky enough to look at her.

“Agent Pendrell?”

“Sorry, what?”

She chuckled and took off her coat, laying it over her arm. He forced his eyes to stay on her face, as much as he wanted to look at the porcelain skin just revealed to him. She shook her head back, running her fingers through her hair.

“I asked if you were here with anyone, or if you would like some company?” She smiled and looked at him.

“No.”

“No, you’re not here with someone or no you would not like some company?” she asked, pursing her lips, and smiling in a way he had never seen before. He saw a dimple in her cheek and his heart stopped beating in his chest, then worked double time to catch up.

“I’m no, not. I’m not here with anyone, no,” he stuttered out, feeling like a complete doof. “I would like the company, yes.” She nodded and smiled, laying her coat over the seat in front of them and sat down.

“Agent Pendrell? Are you going to sit?” she asked and he heard the teasing in her voice. Looking down, he found her looking at him as she pulled up the sleeves of her sweater slightly.

“Yeah,” he said, sitting down quickly, his head spinning at the dramatic turn of events the last five minutes held. He had been alone, completely fine with it, and now he was sitting next to Agent Scully.

Jesus Christ, don’t act like an idiot, he admonished himself, aware of every move she made, sounds he heard, and the scent of her perfume, which was intoxicating. It was light and airy, not heavy like the one Agent Cowell wore sometimes that nearly choked him.

“So, did you read the book, or are you just interested in the movie?” she asked, crossing her legs and arms, turning her head to look at him.

God, her eyes are so blue.

“Read the book, yeah,” he stumbled. “A few times actually, it’s one of my favorites.”

“Me too." She smiled and he smiled back, when suddenly something occurred to him, and he stopped smiling.

“Is … is Agent Mulder … getting popcorn?” he asked, knowing it was too good to be true that he would have her undivided attention.

“Mulder?” She laughed. “No, he’s not here. He’s out doing … I don’t know, Mulder stuff. We have no cases and I’ve been looking forward to seeing this, regardless of the popularity of it. So today I decided to do it and now I’ve run into you.” She smiled and he grinned, knowing he would be spending the next couple of hours with her and her alone.

“I hope they don’t butcher the book. Nothing worse than seeing the little movie you’ve created as you’ve read, turned to shit on screen,” she said, and his eyes widened at her swearing before he grinned again.

“I feel the same,” he agreed and looked at her. “Did you not get anything to drink or eat?”

She sighed and then nodded, looking a little sheepish. “I usually scope out the theater first and then get something. I’ll go get it now before the show starts. Would you mind keeping an eye on my coat?” He nodded enthusiastically and she stood up with a smile. “Thanks. Be right back.” He watched her walk away, the sway of her hips nearly hypnotizing.

“Pull yourself together, you moron,” he said under his breath, shaking his head. His heart pounded, awaiting her return, both nervous and excited.

Within minutes, she was back with a small popcorn, a drink, and a box of licorice. “Hope you like red. I don’t do black licorice,” she said, opening the box and offering it to him. He gladly took one, willing to eat anything she offered, no matter if he did not like it. She smiled and took one too, eating it as the lights went down.

For two hours, the movie transported them into the book they both loved. They made comments to one another, sighing loudly with disappointment when it strayed from the original story, and smiling when it stayed on point.

As much as he enjoyed it, he would need to see it again, as his attention was not entirely on the movie. He was hyper aware of her arm brushing his, his fingers touching hers as he took another piece of licorice, and her breath smelling of popcorn and sweet candy as she leaned in close to speak to him. No chance would he remember everything about the movie, not while she sat beside him.

“Well,” she said, as the lights came back on and people began to leave the theater. “It wasn’t as terrible as I thought it might be, but there were things I wish they had added and also things I wish they had spent less time focusing on. But all in all, it was good. What did you think?” She asked as she stood up and put on her coat and gathered up her trash.

“Um, I’d say I agree. It was good, but definitely had some hits and misses,” he agreed, putting on his own coat and picking up his trash. “I liked the part in the library.”

“Oh, that was always my favorite part in the book, I’m so glad they left it pretty much exactly the same. It’s so romantic and also … for a library scene, it’s quite steamy,” she said looking at him and winking, before she turned and walked out of the aisle.

Steamy and romantic. Jesus, she was going to kill him, he thought, his heart racing.

He followed her out and down the few steps, where they dumped their trash as they passed the trash can. She put her hands in her pockets and kept walking as he fell in step beside her. As they made it to the lobby, he saw it was already dark out, the winter hours still upon them, and the threat of rain hanging in the air.

“I was disappointed with the end, I wish it would have been happier. I always felt the book was bittersweet, but it felt more happy than sad. To me anyway.” She shrugged as she opened the door. The wind whipped around them as they stepped outside and she brushed her hair from her face.

“It wasn’t just to you, I felt that as well. Happy is always better. But at the same time, sadness leads to happiness. If not, what’s the point of feeling that pain?” he said, with a shrug of his own. She stared at him and smiled slowly.

“You’re right. I just like to see the happiness in it all. Life is not always happy, I do know that, but … having hope is always better than not,” she said softly and he nodded. Her eyes had taken on a far off look and he wondered where she had gone. Taking a breath, she shook her head slightly, and smiled again.

“Looks like we’re going to get that rain they’ve been talking about all day,” she said, looking up at the sky. He kept his eyes on her and hummed his agreement. “Do you have plans right now?” His surprise must have shown because she laughed when she looked at him.

“N-n-n-no. No … no plans,” he said, tripping over his words.

“Would you like to get something to eat? A drink?” He nodded and she smiled. “How about that place over there? Tio Juana’s? I like that place and the name makes me laugh.” Nodding again, he followed her over.

They sat and talked, sharing nachos and a large margarita each between them. He loosened up as the alcohol helped his nervous tongue. She told him about a case they worked on and he felt his eyebrows raising throughout the whole thing. She and Agent Mulder had seen a lot of amazing things.

As she spoke, he watched her. He saw how she smiled when she mentioned Agent Mulder, heard how many times she said his name, and how she lit up differently when the subject was him and the work they did. He knew he had no chance with her, not when there was a man like Agent Mulder around.

He would hate Agent Mulder if he was not such a nice guy and obviously oblivious to her feelings toward him. Most likely of his own as well, judging by the way he had seen him watching her, gazing actually, though not that he blamed him.

“Ugh, I’m stuffed,” she said, drinking the last bit of her margarita. “Oh, look, it’s starting to rain. We should get going before it gets too bad.” She signaled the waiter and he nodded, bringing over their bill. Before he could make a move, she handed over her credit card, the waiter taking it and walking away.

“I could have gotten it,” he said, not wanting her to think he assumed she would pay. Waving him away, she ate one last chip.

“You can get the next one. Buy me a birthday drink and we’ll be even.” Her face showed the same shock his did and she closed her eyes.

“It’s your birthday soon?” he asked, already thinking of how he could celebrate it. She sighed and nodded.

“Next Sunday,” she said quietly, opening her eyes and looking at him. “Not sure we’ll be in town, but if we are, maybe we could grab a drink. And you’re buying.” He smiled and nodded, as the waiter came up and brought back her card. She signed the bill and stood up, stretching as she did.  

They walked out, staring at the rain, neither of them carrying an umbrella. She smiled at him and then stood close and kissed his cheek. Stunned was not a good enough word, but it was how he felt. Stunned and frozen.

“I had a fun time with you tonight, Agent Pendrell. Thank you.” She smiled and he nodded. Turning away, she headed out into the rain and walked quickly to her car.

“Sean,” he whispered, as he stared after her. “It’s Sean.”

________________

A week had gone by and he had his gift for Agent Scully ready, but kept debating whether or not he would give it to her. It was in his desk drawer, taunting him as it lay there. He knew she was in town, having seen her with Agent Mulder earlier in the hall. She had not seen him but he smiled as he remembered their dinner.

Looking in his desk drawer, he decided he would take it with him when he headed to the bar close to the bureau, the one where many agents went after work. He had seen Agent Mulder there alone, and also joined by Agent Scully many times.

When Agent Mulder was alone, women were constantly coming up to chat with him, but he kindly sent them on their way, never leaving with any of them. When Agent Scully was with him, they usually sat at a table in the middle of the bar, within sight of everyone, as though to prove a point. So many people assumed they were sleeping together, but he knew they could not be, not with the way he stared at her as she walked away.

He knew longing when he saw it.

The Headless Woman’s Pub was crowded, as usual. He took a seat at the bar, and saw them sitting close by in their usual spot. Not wanting to walk over with Agent Mulder around, he bided his time until he saw a chance to speak to her alone.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you …” Looking up, he saw waiters approaching their table, some kind of candles or sparklers on a cake. He could not see her face very well, the crowds of people getting in his way.

Finally having a clear view of them, he saw Agent Mulder holding out a box to her and her smile as she took it from him. More people got in the way and he missed what was in the box. A woman was now speaking to them, the conversation looking serious, and then they left, going who knows where. His shoulders slumped and he ordered a drink. Then another. And another.

Then a taxi, to be sure he made it home safely.

He knew she and Agent Mulder were helping with the downed plane case, but still he came to the bar every night in hopes she would come in and he could speak to her. For three nights he came in, spending too much money and getting far too drunk. This was the best place to catch her, he knew it. Work was not the place he wanted to give her the gift he had brought with him every night.

Sitting on the bar stool, his third beer in front of him, he looked up and saw a flash of red hair and knew it was her. He reached out quickly, needing to stop her.

“Hey! Birthday girl!” He heard himself shouting, too late to stop, but knowing he should.

“Agent Pendrell, how are you doing?” she answered with a strained smile.

The GIFT!  

“I, I have something for you. Where have you been?” he asked, feeling around for the box, realizing he had forgotten to take it from his desk drawer.

Idiot!

“I've been, uh, gone,” she replied.

“Oh. Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, seriously, trying to not sound so loud and drunk.

“No, you know what? That's okay. I'm with somebody.” She smiled and looked over to her usual spot.

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. Looking over and expecting to see Agent Mulder, he saw some guy he had never seen before.

Of course, he thought with a drunken chuckle. “Let me buy him a drink too,” he said, throwing up his hands.

“No, you know what? It's okay,” she said and he was not about to let his missed opportunity remain missed.

“No, no, no, I insist, I insist. Bartender, bartender!” he called out, rising to his feet.

“Yeah,” the bartender said as he walked over.

“Set me up with, uh, a couple of, uh, birthday girl drinks here,” he said, the room spinning slightly. “Can I have a couple of your finest beers, skip the glasses, and another one of these …”

“Sure thing,” the bartender said and walked away to grab them.

“So, I must have left your … oh,” he said, turning as he sat to wait and not finding Agent Scully. Looking behind him, he saw she had sat down with her new friend, and he sighed.

“No chance at all,” he said as he shook his head.

“Here you go, man,” the bartender said.

“Thank you, kind sir,” he said, standing to take the drinks. Picking up bottles of beer and a couple of glasses, he took them over to the table, maneuvering through the crowd of people. Almost to the table, he heard and saw Agent Scully, but was not registering what she was saying.

Turning to his right, he saw a man with a gun and then felt pain like he had never felt as he fell to the ground. Hot and searing, he realized he had been shot. He gagged, choking on blood, and he was certain he was going to die.

Then she was there.

“You're going to keep breathing, Pendrell. Do you hear me?” she said forcefully and he panted, gagging as he tried to nod. She ripped open his shirt and he knew it was bad by the look on her face.

And then she was gone, but quickly back again, pressing something into his chest, hard and exceedingly painful.

“We've got paramedics on the way,” she said, and he nodded, panting out his breaths. “You're going to the hospital. You're going to be okay. Look, we still haven't celebrated my birthday, Pendrell. I'm not going to let you off the hook like this.”

He laughed, wanting to believe her, needing to believe her, but the pain was overwhelming. Shallow breathing was all he could muster, unable to think of anything besides getting enough oxygen.

“This man has a puncture wound to his right lung. He needs to be intubated immediately." He heard her say and he found it hard to focus.

“He's an F.B.I. agent ... and he's not going to die.” It was the last thing he heard her say before they took him away.

It was cold outside, and then too hot in the ambulance. Words were said, too many words, things he did not understand. The sirens hurt his ears and the tube down his throat was painful. Everything was painful and he just wanted to sleep.

Closing his eyes, he thought of the blue of her eyes, the sweet smell of her perfume, the calming green of her sweater, and the sound of her laughter. He smiled as they stopped and he was shuttled into the hospital.

Lights, more words, and then nothing.

Only peace. No more pain.

_____________________

One week later

“Agent Scully?”

Scully turned as she heard her name called and saw a woman walking toward her with a sad smile on her face, a small box in her hands. “Agent Cowell. Hello,” Scully said, knowing who she was now and she sighed.

“I’m sorry … could we?” She gestured with her head to a large supply closet and Scully frowned. “Please.”

Nodding, she followed her inside. Once the door was closed, Agent Cowell, turned to her and gave her the same sad smile, setting the box on a shelf.

“I worked with Agent Pendrell and I knew him pretty well. I still can’t believe he’s gone.” She shook her head and closed her eyes briefly. “He was funny and goofy, but damn he was smart. He could work out problems and figure things out faster than anyone I’d ever seen. He never boasted of it, didn’t draw attention to himself, but he was amazing. He …” She stopped and covered her mouth.

Scully swallowed hard at the lump in her throat, remembering his blood on her hands, figuratively and literally. If they had gone somewhere else… if she had…

Instead of those thoughts, she remembered him drinking and laughing as they ate nachos. She thought of the look on his face when she kissed him good night.

“He always spoke highly of you. I think you knew he was quite taken with you,” Agent Cowell said as she smiled, wiping her tears, and Scully stared at her.

“Taken with me? No, I didn’t … I didn’t know that,” she said quietly, looking down, replaying their interactions. He had always been professional with her. Kind, sweet, and yes, a bit of a goof, he had helped her any time she asked. Sometimes dropping everything he was doing to … oh. Oh.

“I didn’t realize," she whispered and her eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, like I said, he thought highly of you,” she sighed, reaching over and taking the lid off the box. “I was going through his desk, and I found something for you.”

“Me?” Scully asked, looking up quickly.

“Yes.” She handed Scully a wrapped gift and smiled at her. Closing the box, she picked it up and nodded at Scully, before walking out of the supply closet.

Holding the gift in her hands, Scully let her tears fall, shaking her head. Her name was written on a card, in handwriting she recognized as Agent Pendrell’s. Running her fingers over the letters, she shook her head again and wiped at her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door, leaving the supply closet and heading for home.

Mulder would understand.

Walking into her apartment, she placed her keys on the dining room table, along with Agent Pendrell’s gift. Staring at it, she shook her head, and went to open a bottle of wine. No chance she could face this without a little liquid courage.

One glass in, she sat and took the card off the box. Opening it, she pulled out a small card with a drawing of a cake, but with the candles unlit. Frowning, she opened it to find a few simple lines written inside.

Because you should be the only thing shining brightly. Happy birthday.

Sean Pendrell

“Sean,” she whispered, knowing his first name at last. Sighing, she set it aside and opened the wrapping paper, careful not to rip or tear it.

Setting that aside as well, she opened the box and peeled back the green tissue paper. Tears filled her eyes as she found it was the book of the movie they had seen. Taking it out, she opened it to the first page and found it had been signed by the author.

To Sean

Thanks for reading

It was a book from his own personal library. Dog eared pages, stains from it being set down places, the spine worn in. It was a treasure and something he had loved very much. Shaking her head, tears falling unchecked, she thumbed through the pages, seeing which spots were his favorites.

Turning to the end of the book, she found the ticket for the day of the movie being used as a placeholder. On the last page, the last few lines were underlined and then a note had been added, in the neat scrawl of Agent Pendrell.

You said you liked to believe the ending was more hopeful than sad. When I got home, I reread the last few pages and though painful, it definitely holds the feeling of hope.

Pain hurts and bogs us down. But, the beauty it creates is worth it.

Always.

She ran her fingers over his words again, the pain of his death hurting, the beauty it would possibly create, far off and nowhere in sight. Putting the movie ticket back, she closed the book and put it back in the box with the card on top.

Pouring a small amount of wine, she lifted her glass and drank a toast to him, for the day they shared, the beauty buried in the aching pain, and for birthday drinks that were never shared.

“To Sean,” she whispered, tears shining in her eyes.

[queensofrap]

Cardi B in the March 2019 issue of Harper’s BAZAAR. QUEEN.

Cardi B Opens Up About Her "Rags to Riches" Cinderella Story

When Cardi B visits her favorite nail salon in the Bronx, she enters through a raggedy hallway covered with a rug emblazoned with the image of a $100 bill. The salon, which overlooks a bustling avenue of pizza shops, sports-gear superstores, and boutiques with weaves in 70 colors, is a temple to money, excess, and sexiness, symbolized in the application of nails that look like diamond-encrusted Buck knives. Portraits of two icons of pulchritude hang on the walls—namely, Marilyn Monroe and the very 2019 version of Marilyn: Cardi. 

With a posse that includes her dad, her half-sister, her half-brother, and two Drogosize bodyguards whose names I don’t catch but imagine to be Bulwark and Spear, Cardi, 26, heads toward a private side room. She surrenders her hands and feet to Jenny Bui, her sharp-tongued nail tech of more than half a decade, even back when she didn’t have the money to move out of this borough.

A tiny, makeup-less sprite in magenta leggings and a playful Moschino sweatshirt, Cardi talks about where she’s at today. On one hand, she says, “I feel like my life is a fairy tale and I’m a princess—rags to riches, people trying to sabotage,” she says. But she also complains fervently about being over the fairy-tale life and wanting peace and quiet. “Before, I cared about everything—relationship, gossip. Now I don’t feel like I have the time to please people,” she explains. “I don’t care about anything anymore—just my career and my kid.” What about money, the thing she raps about caring for quite a bit? “Well, I care about my career because of my money,” Cardi says, giving me a “c’mon, stupid” face.

“Before,” in this context, means before the tectonic shifts that have taken place in Cardi’s life in the past year: that she became a global superstar; relocated from New York to Atlanta to live with the charismatic rapper Offset, her new husband; gave birth to an unplanned but much loved daughter, Kulture Kiari, in July; then, five months later, after the drip-drip-drip of rumors about Offset’s infidelity, announced on Instagram that the marriage was over.

Today Cardi tells me that Offset has been to her apartment, but they haven’t seen each other and are “not really” talking, which is a bit hard to believe after she shows me videos of her gurgling baby on her iPhone and happens to scroll past a photo of Offset with a time stamp reading today. When I ask her if she’s getting back with Offset, I can almost hear her curious entourage, who have arranged themselves on sofas on the perimeter of the room, lean forward to catch the answer. For a moment, the only sound is Bui engaging in some hard-hat-level sanding and scraping of the star’s three-inch nails. Then Cardi says both, “I don’t think so,” and “Who knows? You never know, you can never tell,” neither of which is exactly a definitive answer.

I’ve interviewed dozens of pop stars, and Cardi, despite the massive entourage and the bear-claw-like nails, seems the most normal. She’s not the most down-to-earth or the most perfect, and she’s definitely not the least into social media, but she knows who she is and where she came from, and has somehow managed to keep expressing genuine emotions in the face of blockbuster success. And while her emotions can sometimes seem out of control, who hasn’t been there? We might not have screamed and thrown a shoe at Nicki Minaj at a Harper’s Bazaar event this past September (in retribution, Cardi has said, for various slights from Minaj, including liking a negative comment about her parenting skills), or allegedly ordered an attack on two female bartenders at a strip club visited by Offset (a judge issued orders of protection in December for the accusers), but we’ve all been mad as hell. And the unbearable cuteness and sexiness of Cardi, a raunchy L.O.L. doll, quickly erases those moments, drowning them in adorable high jinks.  

Leaving aside the fake nails and boob implants, with Cardi the artifice is in the artwork. In the space of less than a year, her music, videos, and fashion have made her a star of Lady Gaga proportions. She releases hit after hit; following last summer’s “I Like It,” the first Latin trap song to rise to number one on the Billboard Hot 100, with “Money,” a song, unsurprisingly, about money. In the video, she wears gorgeous clothes (she’s got “10 different looks and my looks all kill,” she raps), including outfits referencing Thierry Mugler, a gold bikini inspired by 1990s Lil’ Kim’s, and a custom Christian Cowan bodysuit fabricated from dozens of actual watches. She’s a post-Kardashian American superstar, a master of selfies, belfies, late-night Instagram videos, and all other manner of self-promotion— and also a creative genius. In 2019, no one needs to pick.  

Raised in the Bronx, Cardi was the naturally rebellious daughter of a Trinidadian-born cashier mother and a Dominican Republic–born cabdriver father. Her mother was strict. Nevertheless she joined the notorious Bloods gang, moved out of her mother’s home and in with a boyfriend and, finding herself broke, took a job as a cashier at a grocery store. To build a nest egg, she became a stripper. To build a bigger nest egg, she became a hot girl on social media. In 2015, she was cast as a lovable loudmouth on the VH1 reality show Love & Hip Hop: New York, then began releasing her own mixtapes. Her debut single, “Bodak Yellow,” went to the top of the charts, and it took her only one album to achieve escape velocity: Invasion of Privacy, arguably the best debut album from a female rapper since Lil’ Kim’s 1996 Hard Core. 

It’s an intense time for Cardi, now one of the biggest rappers—and one of the most famous women in the world—caring for an infant and dealing with a semi-estranged husband. Her answer is to be as real as she can. As much as she may imagine herself as a princess, she talks about admiring Meghan Markle for becoming a real one. “She must just be like, ‘Who am I?’” Cardi says, referring to Markle’s having to live by the royal family’s rules. Not being able to be herself would be the worst punishment for Cardi. 

Up and down, joy and pain, sunshine and rain—we’ve experienced all her days on her social media channels, where she posts close-up, emotional videos like an Instagram mime. She’s not your typical grasping celebrity, and doesn’t get off on endless adulation. “I work with somebody who gives me compliments all day, and I’m like, ‘Oh, my gosh, can you just stop?’” she says.   

Cardi’s fans have been so protective of her that when Offset broke in to her set at a concert, walking onstage with a $15,000 rolling floral display made of 2,000 roses that read TAKE ME BACK CARDI, they exploded on social media with anger over a man who refused to take a woman’s “no” at face value. (A backstage video showing one of Cardi’s reps escorting Offset to the stage did little to dim the outrage.)  

I ask if any family or friends influenced her decision to leave Offset. “No, I decided on my own,” she declares, looking me straight in the eye. “Nobody makes my decisions about my life but me.” Before they broke up, Offset begged Cardi to see a therapist. “I didn’t want to go to marriage counseling,” she says, in a firm tone of voice. “He suggested it, but it’s like, ‘I don’t want to go.’ There’s no counselor or nothing that could make me change my mind.”

Like many women who’ve experienced heartache and alleged infidelity, she seems caught between wanting to stay and leave. As Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in Eat Pray Love, Offset is “[her] lighthouse and [her] albatross in equal measure.” But Cardi also knows that dating new guys might be bizarre. “I have a kid, and I’m also famous,” she says quietly. “So I can’t just sleep with anybody. People talk. You know, if I date somebody in the industry, that’s another person in the industry. If I date somebody who is not in the industry, he might not understand my lifestyle.” Since the breakup, she’s been getting a ton of messages from guys but ignoring them. “It’s like, ‘Bro, why would you want to holler at me right away? You’re weird.’ If you think Imma automatically hop onto you after a marriage, that just means you think I’m a sleaze. And I’m not. I have a kid—I have to show an example.”

Bui, who has been listening intently to our interview while crafting Cardi’s nails, waves a hand and then interjects, “You’re so old-fashioned!”

“Jenny, just because I’m out there and very sexual doesn’t mean that I have to be whorish,” says Cardi. “I like to have sex. That doesn’t mean I have to have it with everybody.” She pauses, then adds, “Not that I judge women who want to have sex with the world.”

Done with her rant, Cardi turns her attention to her nails. “Damn, that’s sharp,” she says to Bui, whistling a little under her breath. “The polish will make them less sharp, right? Because we can’t forget about the baby.” Ignoring her, Bui says only, “Don’t move.”

Throughout our conversation, Cardi has been jiggling her leg up and down like a schoolkid. I ask her how long she’s had that habit. “Forever, and you know what? People always talk shit about it, but now it’s like, ‘Ha ha,’ because when I do it my daughter likes it,” she says.    

Despite the indelible image of Cardi breast-feeding in the “Money” video, wearing a black gown open at the bodice, she isn’t breast-feeding Kulture, whom she’s nicknamed KK. “It was too hard,” she explains. In fact, she spent most of the time after the baby was born in a haze of postpartum depression. “I thought I was going to avoid it,” Cardi says. “When I gave birth, the doctor told me about postpartum, and I was like, ‘Well, I’m doing good right now, I don’t think that’s going to happen.’ But out of nowhere, the world was heavy on my shoulders.”

Realizing that taking KK with her on the tour bus was unrealistic but unable to bear leaving her at home, Cardi dropped out of a lucrative tour with Bruno Mars. She started feeling better a couple of months after the baby was born, she says, and her mother has been helping out; Cardi hasn’t hired professional help because she isn’t sure she can trust anyone outside her family.

As a new mom, Cardi is still experiencing aches and pains. “For some reason, I still don’t feel like my body’s the same,” she says. “I feel like I don’t have my balance right yet. When it comes to heels, I’m not as good at walking anymore. I feel like I’m holding a weight on me. I don’t know why because I’m skinnier than I’ve ever been. But there’s an energy I haven’t gotten back yet that I had before I was pregnant. It’s just the weirdest thing.”

The baby is starting to help Cardi balance her emotions, though. “Sometimes I’ll see something online and it’ll piss me off, and then my baby will start crying or something, and it’s like, ‘You know what? I’ve got to deal with the milk. Forget this.’” She’s thinking about pulling back a little from social media. “I’ve noticed that every time you respond, you just make things worse, so I’m over it. I’m just over it. I really don’t need it, and sometimes it just brings chaos to my brain.” She adds, “I can stay off social media. I’ve been trying.” For months after KK was born, Cardi didn’t put pictures of her on social media, and certainly didn’t sell any to the tabloids. She says Offset wanted to put a picture up, but she was unsure.  

“As soon as she was born, one month in he was like, ‘She’s so beautiful. Watch how people gonna go crazy.’ ’Cause a lot of people were saying mean stuff, like that we don’t post her because she’s ugly. He was like, ‘I’m about to post my baby right now.’ But then we were very concerned because we were getting a lot of threats, so he said, ‘The world don’t even deserve to see her.’” Eventually Cardi wanted to put a photo up because “it’s really annoying and we don’t have a life. We have to hide her all the time. I can’t go to L.A. or Miami and walk down the beach with my baby. I want to go shopping with my baby. I want to take a stroll with my baby. Sometimes I feel bad for her because all she knows is the house.” But can’t you put on a baseball cap? I ask. Will people still recognize you? “Yeah,” she says. “It’s my nose.” 

Bui applies a final coat of purple paint on Cardi’s nails—a brief discussion ensues about whether the shade is the exact “baby purple” Cardi has requested—and then she talks about needing to get home to go to sleep. “I’ve got a big meeting in the morning in Boston,” Cardi says, nodding slowly. “Lots of money in Boston.” She begins horsing around with her six-year-old half-brother, ribbing him for being rebellious the way she used to be. “He’s a child of the corn!” she wails. “He’s just like me.” (Her half-sister adds, “Like you, sharp but sweet.”) Bui says she thought that when Cardi hit it big, she wouldn’t see her in the salon again. “I told her, ‘You’re going to forget about me,’ ” Bui says. “And she said, ‘Never.’”