#or because I can imagine too well being a single 70 year old woman with no children. the precipice you teeter on.

[notbecauseofvictories]

so my aunt is turning 70 in a couple weeks, and I've planned a blowout birthday for her---rented a lake house, invited every member of our family and also some of her friends; I have delightfully kitschy decorations (including a glittery BIRTHDAY QUEEN sash and paste-jewel crown, thanks for asking); my freezer is full of cakes, frosting, and cookies, so all I have to do is defrost, assemble and serve. I have been working on this since February, and I plan parties like a quartermaster just before the army decamps---there are a lot of lists involved.

My most recent task is assembling a guest book, filled with both blank space (so people can write nice messages) as well as all the photos I could get from family members. There's something almost meditative about assembling these pictures---here is my aunt as a teen, standing awkwardly next to her grandmother; here is my aunt as a grown woman, admiring a niece or nephew's sloppy Christmas present; here she is on vacation, or with a friend, or at the interminable succession of Sunday dinners, birthdays, and graduation parties that are the fabric of our family life. Despite having no biological children, she's so involved, she's so present---and this is just what we could grab from phones, my personal photos, facebook!

(She maintains the family archive, so I can't ask her directly.)

I don't know if I have a firm conclusion here. Just that---well, may we all be blessed with more photographs of ourselves than will fill a scrapbook, and a niece who will spend 6 months thinking about how to gently bully you into celebrating your birthday.

[zot3-flopped]

I was today years old when I found out that there are fans who think all of 1d are gay because I just found out about Shiall. What’s up with the mlm fantasies? Because I know that a lot of Larries left and went to ship two members of BTS so it’s like they just have to have a mlm ship to keep them satisfied.

I’m not a psychologist but I would like to give my view on this if it’s ok. In my opinion, these types fall into two categories: single (usually young) females who have a hard time finding guys who will date them in real life and they are attracted to these handsome celebrity men, but they know they would never actually have a chance with them. While realizing the fact that these men would never date them, they also don’t want to ever see these men date any other woman who isn’t her. It probably makes them feel bad about themselves and also makes them insanely jealous so to make themselves feel better they convince themselves that these men are actually gay! That way it’s not that there’s a problem with her personally, it’s just that they don’t like any women at all! It feels safer for them and they can still imagine these hot guys having sex without feeling the jealousy of it being another woman. This is why they get angry and vile towards any woman these men actually date or they will deny it and come up with conspiracy theories like “management is forcing them to date women or have fake babies.” 🙄 Usually it will be the two band members she finds most attractive that she thinks are in a relationship together.

The second kind is women who are older and married. They are most likely unhappy and bored in their relationship (or with their life in general.) They probably also realize that they have no chance with these celebrities because they are older and also already taken, so they join the conspiracy theorists so they can still fantasize about these younger men and help fulfill whatever fantasies aren’t being achieved in their actual relationship. I think more women fit into the first category but the second group is a bit worse because at least the first group can grow out of it but what excuse do these older women have? It’s embarrassing that they run blogs or other social media accounts posting fantasies about other men while being married and in some cases having children as well!

As far as jumping from one ship to another, they probably get bored if they can’t find any more “evidence” to prove her ship is gay so they move onto lusting after another pair of men. Sorry this post is so long but just wanted to give my thoughts on it. You don’t have to post it if it’s too controversial, mod.

Gina definitely fits into that latter category. I agree about the younger ones too who've never had relationships. That especially applies to Tumblr, where poll after poll reveals that 70% of bloggers still live with their parents and have never been in a romantic relationship.

[kalpso]

A Deadly Mistake Uncovered On Dating And Tips On How To Avoid It

There are numerous dating app are present which are paid nevertheless among the a hundred % free applications are additionally found over the online. Everyone wants to parade round a partner that they know other individuals discover engaging, nevertheless, keep in mind that you're risking being bored, annoyed, unsatisfied and unfulfilled for a very long time if not the rest of your life since you chose seems to be over persona. The anonymous lady, whose weblog is called The Plankton, shouldn't be alone in believing that there are issues particular to being a single woman in center age. So it's robust because you also have to get on the market and find a new bunch of feminine mates too, and, after all, they end up being younger than you, and then you worry about going out with them and they're going to be getting chatted up and you will not! Besides, the cyber world enables us to get to know folks in detail before we see them face to face, by exploring their profiles, studying posts, attending to know them through images, the links they share and so on. This goes especially in favor of those who're shy because this manner they'll more simply make contact.

President Joe Biden's administration has set a aim of getting a minimum of one vaccine shot into at the least 70% of U.S. I studied 1 million matches made by the online dating website eHarmony’s algorithm, which goals to pair people who will probably be attracted to one another and appropriate over the long run; if the people agree, they will message one another to set up a meeting in actual life. We notice. It applicable for the lowdown it's been interested in the floor. We had been 19 and romance of their lives however the floor. Women additionally report losing buddies due to the differences between single and connected lives. Women and men are residing longer and fitter lives; the typical age at which we divorce is rising - forty one now for girls and 43 for men - and the variety of single mother and father is projected to rise to 1.9 million over the following decade. A survey this month discovered eight out of 10 ladies over 50 suppose they have change into invisible to men. Tracy Tutor, a 46-yr-outdated actual property agent, and Erik Anderson, a 26-yr-old personal trainer, star within the hit Bravo Tv present "Million Dollar Listing LA." Anderson advised Maria what originally inspired him to ask Tutor out.

Hatoful Boyfriend: Holiday Star is a new sport in the identical pigeon-dating universe, resulting from hit PS4, Vita and Pc this fall. Due to begin with distinct as well as various? One of the more practical methods of selecting up a girl is discovering a prepared girl and, while holding her firmly in a way that means that you can retain stability, exert an upward power that exceeds the power created by her personal weight in kilogrammes occasions acceleration on account of Earth's gravity. This of the the explanation why is dating younger guys have never formed a girl who was cute as a lady who is faced with meetville. Our battle is to alter girls's mindset and get girls to consider that there are younger men who want what they're, skilled, strong-willed, confident. Older ladies 40 or 70 years youthful males and meet youthful girl who marry girls would at all times be. Or you simply looking for relationship advice and tips for girl. You might imagine this is a very literal interpretation of the term "choose up a lady", but when you have read this and taken it severely then I'm afraid you lose the best to criticise on these grounds.

You possibly can keep a hand on your coronary heart after which suppose whether or not attractiveness of the person will attract you or not? Then seek out women in bank queues, bus stops, self-service checkouts, places where her personal attire will not be particularly elaborate. Don’t count on someone who is tough to grasp or work out. I don’t think that was the best way it was before the pandemic. Video dates have offered an antidote to isolation during the pandemic. דירות דיסקרטיות בחיפה Sometimes the appears can get disturbing and even overbearing however more often than not there is a good chance that you are loving that you've got the envy of fellow men as you parade your scorching (and equally excessive maintenance) girlfriend down the street. While dating websites and apps cater for all ages, they are predominantly utilized by younger individuals, the demographic for which ministers and officials worry vaccine take-up will probably be lowest, given the reduced probability of severe outcomes from coronavirus. While cynics roll their eyes, white witch Sheila Kadeer, who had a many years-long career within the police power and right this moment runs a spell circle for women, swears magic and spells work. There may be a new demographic of confident and experienced girls, at their sexual peak so far as science is worried, who want to discover a accomplice.

[randomanimeandmangablog]

Here's a theory (and I don't know if it's been thought of before): The Undertaker is Vincent's grandfather, not father.

Some points, none of which proves the theory or means the Undertaker isn't Vincent's father, but which I do find worth noting:

Othello said Undertaker left 70 years ago, which would be 27 years before Vincent was born. Vincent was only a little older than Ciel at the time Cloudia died, so her death isn't what made him break with the Dispatch. Yet the age does mean he conceivably could have been the previous watchdog when human.

The Undertaker's scars. We've seen that shinigamis' bodies can take a lot without scarring or breaking. This makes me thinks he got the scars when he was human. But they're not normal scars. I can't imagine where they came from. They're scars that look like they came from wounds that would be fatal to a human. Yet they also don't look self-inflicted, and Reapers all committed suicide. If the Undertaker was a Watchdog, he'd be put in increasingly dangerous and bizarre situations that could lead to being injured in a way that would cause those scars. Maybe he intentionally faced some threat, knowing he would die, and it counted as suicide.

The Undertaker being Cedric, is a problematic theory because it would be difficult to hide Death surrounds the Watchdogs, and the husband of Lady Phantomhive couldn't hide in the shadows. The Reapers would have noticed if any relationship between him and Cloudia was too public. If The Undertaker was Vincent's father, he was likely having a secret affair with her. Still very possible, especially for someone with Cloudia's wealth and power, but it would make things more difficult given Victoria's values. She once shamed a maid because she thought she got public out of wedlock, but the maid turned out to have a tumor. Cloudia would have had to be very adept at hiding the affair.

The Undertaker remembers Francis's birth, but Vincent didn't meet the Undertaker until Vincent was at least a teenager. Even Francis says the Undertaker hasn't changed in 4 years, not that he hasn't changed in decades, which could mean she either didn't know him or didn't know him well until her brother started associating with him. Now it's certainly possible Cloudia wouldn't want to invite her lover to the mansion in fear of being caught, but I'd think Undertaker would want to see his kid(s). She could have had him over now and then, as long as she was able to frame it as watchdog business, maybe inviting others with him so that he could see the kids without being singled out. So for Vincent to not know him at all when young seems like Cloudia was being even more cautious than need be.

However, say Undertaker was a former Earl. In that case, Cloudia wouldn't want anyone to see his face. She would still have to socialize with people who had known her father. If someone could identify the Undertaker as her father, they'd need to engage in a massive coverup. People would question how he's still alive. They'd need to explain why Cloudia inherited the estate and the Watchdog title, and frankly, it's unusual that a woman was allowed to fill that role anyway. It points to the previous earl dying with no eligible male relatives, and the reemergence of the previous earl might be enough for people to wonder whether Cloudia should have the position. However, by Vincent's time, many of the old Earl's closest friends and family would have died. Those still alive would have been old enough to question whether this was really the old earl or whether their eyes were playing tricks on them and their memory faulty. Plus the Undertaker's eyes and youthful appearance would be enough that he could show his face and not be called out.

[songbirdstyles]

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly. 

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp. 

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do. 

 ~~

 The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry? 

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record. 

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends. 

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants. 

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

 ~~~

 The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off,  waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd. 

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

[hogarthwrites]

house sitting for two chapter 17

chapters:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 16 pairing: Sam Drake/Reader (m/f) genre: smut, slow romance, mutual pining warnings: graphic sex, alcohol words: 2,901 summary: You're unsure about dating someone else and it makes you guilty about still being in love. You make your mind up when you run into a certain someone one night.

Sam and Sully had gone to Las Vegas. “Just because,” Sam reasoned. He needed to forget how empty he felt whenever it was nighttime and he was lonely in bed.

Instead, he and Sully gambled, outsmarting each other in their own games. At the end of the night, Sam would go to the nearest bar to drink. That’s where he was reunited with Victoria, an old flame he had just before Panama.

Victoria – or Vix – as he called her, was a nice enough woman. She was as loud as he remembered her and he genuinely did have fun with her, and there was an understanding between them: it was just sex.

He'd take her to his RV every night, and every single time he fucked her, he thought of you. As he dug his fingers into the soft skin of her hips, he closed his eyes, imagining you, drowning out the sounds of her moans. He couldn't understand how he became so attached to you but no other person.

It was then the telephone started ringing. Sam sighed, considering his options. He wasn't close yet and he wasn't in a hurry so he got up and hobbled to the phone.

“Yeah?” Sam leaned against the wall, expecting it to be Sully calling from his five-star hotel room, but there was no response.

“Come on, Sam, don't keep me waiting,” Victoria whined. “I was so close.”

“Just a second,” he turned away from her. “Hello? Hello?”

The line cut out, leaving Sam confused. Must've been a wrong number.

He drove Sully back to California the next day, feeling a little sad about being back in Paso Robles. It didn't stop him from looking around as he drove, hoping to get a glance of you – that is, if you stayed in the area.

“I've gotta say that was the first Vegas trip I've been on where I haven't made any life altering decisions,” Sully mused. “Hell, that was the mildest experience I've had.”

“Jeez, Victor, sorry I made it lame,” Sam joked. Deep down they knew they were too old to get shit faced drunk and make horrible decisions just after a few nights in Las Vegas.

“Ah, maybe next time,” Sully picked up his bags as Sam parked in front of his mid-century style home. “What's next for Samuel Drake?”

“Uh,” Sam thought. “Gonna visit a special lady named Irene, then hopefully my business partner can find another job for us.”

“Oh, Irene,” Sully chuckled.

“Ah, so you know her,” Sam smiled.

“The ‘70’s were a wild time, Sam,” Sully winked, confirming yours and Sam’s suspicions.

“Well, good for you, Victor. She's still single, just so you know.”

“Right,” Sully laughed. “Hey, maybe you should go up to Los Angeles, just see the sights. Weather’s nice this time of the year.”

Huh , Sam thought to himself. He hasn't been in LA in years. It won't hurt to stop by.

“Sure, Victor. I'll send you a postcard.”

“There's an open house this weekend,” Stephen said over the phone. “I hope you understand.”

“Yeah, I'm totally cool with it.” You lay in the hammock of your backyard, smoking a cigarette and mindlessly scrolled through social media. Sam was always on your Instagram, giving you just a glimmer of hope.

“I'll call as much as I can. I love you.”

You paused, chewing on you lip. “I'll see you soon, Steve.”

You felt the tiniest pang of guilt as you felt a bit of relief to be away from Stephen for two weeks. As much as you tried, you couldn't love him. Sam was still in your mind and everytime you had sex with Stephen, you thought about Sam. It just didn't feel as good.

It didn't stop you from being racked with guilt. You didn't want to be with Stephen, but you didn't want to be lonely.

I'm a horrible person and I had the audacity to call Sam a selfish bastard, you let out an angry puff of smoke. Maybe we are a lot more alike than I thought.

You groaned as you slid off the hammock hanging on your back porch and padded your way into your kitchen to get a drink. The silence was overwhelming while you poured yourself a glass of orange juice.

You retired to your room and climbed into your cold, empty bed. You hated the silence. You missed Sam’s voice as he talked on and on about something that excited him.

You read and reread the letter he wrote you in the hospital. It was short but it was enough to make you miss him every time.

I'm sorry. No one's ever done anything like that for me and I feel horrible. Please get better. I'll make you pancakes like I promised long ago.

I love you,

Sam

The landline phone caught your attention. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to hear his voice just for a bit.

You hastily got up and walked to the phone, mind racing as you picked up the receiver. You assured yourself it was fine and that Sam never had a caller ID.

Here goes, you held your breath as you dialed his number, dreading the ringing tones.

It kept ringing and you were scared it'll go to voicemail, but after a while, Sam finally picked up.

“Yeah?” He was out of breath.

Just that one word made your heart leap. You opened your mouth to say something when you heard someone in the background.

“Come on, Sam, don't keep me waiting,” a woman said in a sultry voice. “I was so close.”

“Just a second,” Sam called out. “Hello? Hello?”

You hung up. That was a terrible idea.

Irene was overjoyed to see Sam, peppering his face in kisses.

“Oh, you've grown so tall!” She joked. “It's so nice to see you, Sam.”

“You know I can't stay away from my favourite weed lady,” he chuckled.

“Are you staying long?”

“Nah, just dropping by to say ‘hi’.”

“Well ‘hi’ to you too,” she smiled.

She gave him a pan of banana bread (and some weed) before he left, asking if he ever got to see you. He wished he did.

You lay on the floor of your living room, music blasting on the stereo as you had a pity party. You had to end things with Stephen as the guilt was becoming too much for you to bear.

You had put the ring back on, staring at it as you held your hand up. You needed a drink.

The fluorescent lights of the store were a little too bright for you and you trudged to the fridge, ignoring the guy manning the cashier.

“You look like shit again,” he remarked.

“‘Kay, thanks for the input, Troy,” you muttered. Asshole.

You grabbed a few bottles of beer, hugging them to your chest. Just another Friday night.

“Sorry, I need a pack of cigarettes… Or two,” you heard a familiar voice. You peeked behind a shelf of condoms.

It was Sam. What the hell is he doing in LA and in this particular store too?

Fuck. You began to panic, glancing down at yourself. The grey sweatpants and your stained DIY shirt you painted years ago wasn’t the most flattering outfit and it didn't help that your hair was a mess.

You wanted him to just go, but through your panicked state, you dropped one of the bottles in your arms, catching Sam’s attention.

“Y/N?” He looked at you curiously.

“Heyy, Sam,” you sheepishly stepped away from the mess on the floor.

“Clean up on aisle two,” Troy mumbled, grabbing the broom and a mop.

“Sorry, I'll pay for that,” you tiptoed past him.

“No, I'll pay for it,” Sam looked at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. Your heart leaped when you met his gentle eyes. “That's a lot of bottles.”

“TGIF, right?” You awkwardly laughed. Idiot.

“Can't argue with that,” Sam smiled.

Troy totalled up yours and Sam’s purchases after a lot of whining. Sam helped you carry your bottles of beer.

“Where ya heading?” He asked.

“Home. It's not too far from here.”

“Come on, I'll give you a lift,” he nudged you.

“No, it's fine,” you shook your head.

“You don't wanna see my snazzy new tiny home?”

“Tiny home,” you chuckled. “Yeah, sure I'd love to see it.”

Sam had a nice little RV with his motorcycle secured on it. It wasn't too fancy inside; his books were neatly organised on a small shelf by the sofa/dining area, the plants you left him on a box by the window, and a large bed in the back with just a curtain for privacy.

“Wow,” you looked around. “What made you wanna get an RV?”

“Eh, just wanted to be able to move around easier,” he shrugged as he sat in the driver's seat. “It's not permanent, but it's been alright so far.”

You took the seat next to him, fastening your seatbelt.

“Where to?” Sam asked.

“Its just a few blocks away. Go west.”

It was supposed to be a short drive, but it felt longer to you. You didn't know what to say and neither did Sam, just Spandau Ballet softly playing on the radio filling in the silence.

“So,” Sam cleared his throat. “LA… Why? You planning on being in Hollywood?”

You shrugged. “I've always lived in smaller towns, I thought a bigger city might be an experience.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Do you like it?”

“It's been alright,” you shrugged again. “I haven't gotten around to exploring as much. Oh, it's just here.”

You pointed at the one-story Spanish revival house you've been staying in. Sam parked in front and you picked up your paper bag, heavy with the bottles.

“Let me help you with that,” Sam reached out, his hand touching your arm. It was enough to make you feel hot all over.

He locked eyes with you and for a moment, you thought he was leaning in to kiss you. You instinctively closed your eyes, waiting, but nothing happened.

When you opened your eyes, Sam was holding the paper bag and walking towards the door.

Oh, you were disappointed. What was I expecting?

He walked you to the door, his eyes on you the entire time.

“I missed you,” he said, making your heart leap again.

“Sam,” you looked up at him as you reached your door.

“Sorry,” he sighed. “I just… Couldn't get you out of my mind in months, I had to say it.”

“I missed you too,” you softly said.

This time, you felt his lips on yours, and you instinctively kissed him back. There were butterflies in your stomach, but the moment didn't last.

Sam stepped back, his face a little flushed. You felt your cheeks heat up as well.

He held out the paper bag to you. “Um, good night.”

“Good night…” You whispered as he turned to go back to his RV. “Sam, wait–”

He looked back, and you walked towards him.

“You can park in my driveway for the night… Or however long you're going to stay here.”

“I don't want to be a burden–”

“What? Sam, it's me. I…” You bit your lip. “I want you here. Maybe we can hang out.”

“Okay,” he smiled.

You took a deep breath as you closed your door behind you, your heart still racing. Sam kissed you and for the first time in months, you felt… Happy?

You placed the bottles in your fridge, no longer interested in drinking them, then changed into cleaner clothes for bed. You peeked out your window and saw the lights were still on in his RV.

You wanted to go to him, to kiss him more, to hold him again, but you thought of Stephen. True, he wasn't your boyfriend officially, but he trusted you. But still…

You found yourself in front of Sam’s door, and as you were about to knock, Sam opened the door.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

You stood, staring at each other as if you both couldn't believe it. Sam pulled you into his arms, and you kissed him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you in, closing the door behind him with his foot.

He sat you on the table, his hands sliding down to your ass.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his lips moving down to your neck.

You sighed as he left cool kisses on the hot skin of your neck. He pulled you close and you wrapped your legs around his waist again.

“Sam,” you whispered as he began lifting your shirt.

“What–what is it?” He rested his forehead on yours.

“Should we be doing this?” You asked, trailing your finger down his chest.

Sam kissed you. “I don't know, but it feels so right.”

Your shirt and your shorts were discarded somewhere around his RV and Sam had your legs over his shoulders as he kneeled in front of the table. He gave your clit a few licks, his eyes on yours the entire time.

“God, I missed this view,” you ran your fingers through his hair.

“What, your new boyfriend doesn't eat you out?” He gave you a smug smirk.

“He’s not my boyf–”

Sam continued licking your clit, closing his eyes as he pushed his face further against your pussy. It was getting too much for you and you tugged at his hair.

“More, Sam, more,” you moaned.

You felt him smile against you as he began sucking on your clit softly, switching between sucking and licking. You bucked your hips against him but he held you down.

Sam gave a satisfied hum as you came, your thighs squeezing his head.

“How was that?” He stood up, leaning over you on the table. It was then you noticed that he was still fully dressed, but the tent in his grey sweatpants was hard to ignore.

“I think I've been missing out on Samuel Drake,” you chuckled.

He pulled you up and carried you to the bed bridal style.

“Wait, Sam,” you sat up as he climbed over you.

“What?”

“I've been having sex.”

He blinked at you. “So?”

“And you have too, I assume?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “So?”

You pushed him away. “So put a condom on.”

Sam gave you an amused smile. “You know you're the only person I've never had safe sex with.”

“Good to know,” you stuck your tongue out. “But put one on.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, standing up.

Sam held the condom up before climbing on top of you to kiss you. “Happy?”

You took off his shirt and he climbed out of his sweatpants, cock glistening with precum. It was enough to get you wet.

He ripped the condom packet open and slipped it on with ease. Sam gave you soft, sweet kisses as he began pushing inside you.

You both gasped at the sensation, Sam had his lip pinned between his teeth as he pushed deep inside you. He began to thrust slowly and gently cupping your cheek.

“Harder,” you whispered, desperate for more.

Sam groaned as he began pounding into you, his hands sliding up your body to cup your breasts. He kissed you hard as he collapsed on top of you, rolling over so you were on top of him.

“I wanna see you,” he said, moving your hips against his. “I wanna see you fucking me.”

You placed your hands against the headboard, bouncing on his cock. You moaned out his name loudly; something you've been wanting to do for months. It felt so good to finally have him under you and all you wanted was to make him feel good, to make up for all the lost time.

Sam pulled you in to kiss you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“I missed you too,” you sighed between kisses.

“I forgot how good you feel,” he kissed your neck.

His hands slid down to your ass, spreading then as he rammed his hips up against yours. You grabbed at the pillow at his head, crying out loud. His finger dipped into your asshole and you moaned out.

The dual sensation was enough to make you cum, and Sam wasn’t far behind. He kissed you hard as he came, holding you close.

You were breathless as you rolled off him and he took the condom off, dunking it into the trash.

The bed dipped as he climbed back in, lying on his back next to you.

“Wanna see something cool?” Sam smiled.

He pressed a button and the rather large sunroof opened up, letting in more of the moonlight and the dim streetlights.

“Oh, that is cool,” you grinned. “Why didn't you show me before we fucked?”

“I don't think your neighbours would be too happy seeing us fornicate if they happened to look out the window.”

“You think they can really see us?”

Sam shrugged, putting an arm under his head and stared up at the sky with you.

“Do you wanna go out tomorrow?” You asked.

“Are you gonna give me the Grand Los Angeles tour?”

“Honestly, I haven't even toured it myself,” you sheepishly said. “It hasn't really felt like home.”

“Well,” Sam looked up in thought. “Maybe we can start with Santa Monica? I believe it isn't too far from here.”

“Okay,” you took his hand in yours.

[scripttorture]

Not sure if this would really be relevant, but you're the best resource I can think of for prison systems. In a secluded supermax prison with all male staff & all male prisoners, they suddenly get a single (like 19 or 20 y/o) female prisoner who "can't go anywhere else & needs to be kept heavily restrained." What's the warden's best option for making sure she's safe & treated with respect for the first few days/weeks till they can get female guards? Modern setting, mostly American style prison.

I feel like I know enough about this to be helpful but I’ve never claimed to be an expert on prisons and I think you should try to double check what I say. Partly because I think that the ‘best option’ in a case like this would be heavily biased by opinion and what you consider the best outcome to be. I don’t want you to mistake my opinion for fact or discount the idea that you might think differently presented with the same evidence.

 I also think this is the kind of case where there’s a big difference between what should happen and what would likely happen.

 It’s also worth stating at the outset that, in my opinion, the American prison system is set up in a way which inherently makes abuse more likely. And that makes a difference. When the system itself is already set up in a way which makes torture more likely the efforts of individuals within those systems are… less likely to be effective.

 We’re talking about a system where solitary confinement is the first rather then the last resort. Use of solitary confinement over the safe period (1 week) is routine, with prisoners in maximum security facilities often being kept in isolation for months or years.

 Which causes mental health problems to a disabling degree and drastically increases the chances of suicide or self mutilation.

 Rape is still common and while it’s often discussed in terms of attacks by fellow prisoners, a lot of attacks are by guards. Especially when you’re talking about women prisoners and juvenile prisoners. Incidentally it was only in 2012 that the US started recommending against cross-gender searches of women prisoners.

 And a lot of guards in American women’s prisons are men. I found figures of 40% based on data from 2007 and up to 70% for federal facilities from 2011. Both of these were cited figures from books I don’t have full access to. I can’t confidently say how accurate these figures are or how the authors came by them. I can confidently say that there are male guards in female prisons and that this has been linked to abuse (based on the testimony of rape survivors in American prisons).

 While we’re on the subject the kind of restraint use I think you’re referring to is torture. You can find descriptions of its use in Chinese prisons over here.

 Essentially humans are not designed to withstand long periods with little to no movement, or holding the same position for a long time. It is unhealthy. It causes a significant amount of damage to the body. Sometimes it’s lethal.

 Now if you didn’t know this that is OK.

 I’m here because I know a lot of this kind of information isn’t common knowledge and that it’s hard to find. There’s nothing wrong with not knowing something, we all learn sometime.

 We’ll circle back to restraint tortures and alternatives in a moment. For now let’s focus on prisons

 I think that the most likely thing to happen in an American prison is that this character would be thrown in solitary confinement and kept there.

 You can read about how harmful that would be here.

 I also think that it’s unlikely an American prison, having decided to house a woman in a male prison, would hire female guards specifically to accommodate one prisoner. And I think a woman in this environment would be especially vulnerable to physical and sexual abuse.

 You can read about that here.

 There’s an in-depth Reuters investigation on the deaths of women in American jails that you can find here. It contains a graphic description of a dead baby, born in a jail, as well as descriptions of systemic racism towards black women and abuse of the mentally ill. (Seriously if you’re a black woman and pregnant or a mother of a young child don’t read it.)

 If you want to write a female character being put into an institution designed for men in America… that’s what it looks like. Higher rates of preventable deaths.

 Here’s the thing though: You do not have to make the situations in your story as bad as they are in real life.

 There is nothing wrong with deciding that the characters in your fiction get treated with more care and respect then is the norm in real life. It might not be realistic but we are writing fiction.

 And there is a difference between a story which is unrealistic in favour of the torturer and one which is unrealistic in favour of the victim.

 Having said that: If you want to create a fictional, less abusive prison system for this story it will not look anything like an American prison.

 I have… some rather complicated feelings about the idea of setting the story in America and then presenting the prison system as better then it is. Remember that I am a pacifist and I was raised in Saudi Arabia. I say this because I feel as though the abuses in the American prison system are whitewashed in the media America exports.

 If I was writing a story set in Saudi which involved imagining a better, less abusive prison system I’d feel confident my readers would know this didn’t reflect the reality. I feel like they would understand without being told that I was trying to imagine a better version of my home rather then trying to accurately show the prisons there.

 I do not think that would be the case if you did the same thing in an American setting.

 I’ve talked enough about the negatives. Let’s move on to how we can make this idea work.

 The way I see it the big choice here is whether you want to keep the setting and the abusive use of restraints or whether you want the character to be safe and treated with respect while incarcerated.

 If you’re picturing the character being held in a way that renders her more or less completely immobile (like a restraint chair or a bed) then there’s a pretty decent chance she’d die within the first couple of weeks regardless of any other abuse. There’s a reason restraints aren’t commonly used in hospitals and mental health facilities any more: they increase the chances of sudden death. Even in young healthy people.

 There’s a case you can read about here that’s a decent example. Young, 27 year old man, partially restrained for ten days after a mental health episode. Dead from a heart attack in ten days.

 Obviously not everyone who is completely restrained for weeks dies of a heart attack. But bed sores exist. So do bladder infections caused by catheters and muscle wastage and a host of other ailments that are cured by simply letting someone move around.

 Honestly combined with solitary and the high chance of sexual abuse I think that full body restraint is probably throwing too many tortures into the story. Because all of these individually are complex issues and the harm each of them does is routinely downplayed. Handling all of them in the same narrative would be really tough and the restraints are the easiest one to get rid of.

 If you’re picturing something more like the restraint torture (constantly wearing hand and leg cuffs) described in the Chinese case I linked to above, survival is a lot more likely. That’s to do with the degree of movement victims are capable of.

 A person who is immobile with their muscles under strain is in a stress position. The death rates for those rise sharply after 48 hours. A person who is immobile when their muscles aren’t under strain (eg restrained to a bed with six point restraints) is not in a stress position. But they’re at greater risk of a heart attack or stroke and after weeks they’ll start to develop bed sores (assuming they’re not lying in a pool of their own waste.)

 A person who’s restrained in a way that lets them walk, but slowly, lets them stand, but not straight, is experiencing a restraint torture. They probably won’t get kidney failure (the cause of death in stress positions) and they’re less likely to get a heart attack or a stroke.

 There are still serious health effects. Muscle wastage and weakness afterwards is very common. Survivors of this particular torture tend to report chronic pain and joint problems. I’m not entirely sure what causes this but since it’s very consistent I’d guess it’s a physical effect of long term restraint use.

 Survivors also tend to report some mobility problems afterwards. There’s a loss of fine motor control and often some difficulty performing day to day tasks that require raising and lowering the arms. Like putting on a jacket unaided or hanging washing on a line or taking things down from a cupboard above the head. This could be due to nerve damage, damage to muscles or ligaments at the joints or both.

 These sorts of restraints don’t leave victims in a stress position; which is why they can survive for months or more rarely years while restrained (stress positions are only consistently survivable up to 48 hours.) But nonetheless they do leave victims in a constant state of pain. The restraints dig in. The position and inability to straighten is painful, especially for the joints. A lot of victims report being unable to sleep because of the restraints.

 And sleep deprivation causes it’s own problems which you can read about here.

 I might be on the wrong track here but generally no one has to be restrained. So the inclusion of that in the ask made me think this story might have elements of fantasy, sci fi or super hero genres: a character with a special ability that can only be used under certain circumstances.

 I had a problem with something like that in one of my stories recently. The character in question can manipulate how people think and feel using her voice. And I racked my brains trying to think of a way the police in the story could keep her imprisoned once they caught her. I looked up all sorts of sedatives, thought about solitary and all kinds of over the top abusive stuff that fiction teaches us is a go-to practical solution.

 I didn’t want to use them. I didn’t want her to be tortured.

 And then it hit me: her guards could just wear noise cancelling headphones.

 Sometimes the answer really is that simple.

 Think about this character’s power set, if that’s part of the problem here. Really consider what she can do and how she does it. Have you got an underlying chemical process going on? If it’s magic what’s the cause and effect for it? What are her limits? What is her range?

 Use that to think about when the power breaks down and why. And if you’re writing fanfiction based on a canon with poorly defined magical abilities…. Make something up to define how she does what she does.

 Focus and concentration is a commonly used way of doing this. I saw a brilliant program a while back where the main character actually had no idea how his powers worked and was as surprised and elated as everyone else when they did. I try to come up with strict, simple definitions of a character’s powers/abilities. Then I work to try and find inventive ways of applying that. Find a method that works for you and don’t be afraid to try a few different approaches.

 Unless you’ve written yourself into a corner, chances are this character (like mine) doesn’t need to be restrained or isolated.

 And if you have written yourself into a corner, you can write yourself out of it again. Either with the choices you make now or by going back and editing what you already have.

 On a similar note if you want this character to be in a better, less abusive system does she have to be in a male prison and does she really, absolutely have to be in America?

 Because if you want the lowest possible rates of violence and abuse today that means the Scandinavian prison system. You can find out more about it here and here for Norway.

 You can read more about global prison systems here.

 The gist of it is that there are huge systematic differences. Prison guards in Norway are trained for 2-3 years on specially designed course and the ratio of staff to prisoners is almost 1:1. (For contrast in the UK, which is closer to the US system training takes 12 weeks and the ratio is 1:4.) Prison guards in Norway are well paid, facilities are well staffed and guards are allowed generous breaks and holidays.

 This creates a system where staff are not overly stressed, sleep deprived or pressured to achieve unreasonable ‘results’. Training focuses on conflict resolution, this along with a less pressurised working environment this creates a better overall environment for staff and prisoners. Force is really considered a last resort and staff are provided with the tools, training and support necessary to make that a reality.

 There’s also effort put into the physical construction of these facilities: cells aren’t cramped, overcrowded or unsuitable for human habitation.

 I’m not trying to claim these prisons are perfect. There is still a big trend of prolonged solitary confinement use in Norway and other Scandinavian countries. There is still abuse in prisons.

 But- Well I can’t compare directly with US prisons because I didn’t find statistics using similar measures for violent attacks. However I can compare with the UK. With a prison population of about 3,200 Norway had 181 attacks on staff. The UK, with a prison population of 83,300, had a little over 10,000 attacks.

 I think if you really want to write something with the least potential for abuse then you’re better off imagining an international (or explicitly Scandinavian) institution built more along the lines of the Norwegian system.

 If you’ve got your heart set on an American, male prison being the only place this character can be then I think the ‘best’ thing a well intentioned warden in that position could do is throw her in solitary and have her kept on suicide watch.

 The safe period for solitary confinement is about a week.

 After that she’d start to show signs of mental health problems which would get worse the longer she was held. By about the 1-2 month point these problems are probably going to be permanent. Beyond that the chances of self harm and suicide attempts starts to rise. So does the chance she’ll have a psychotic break and start hallucinating. After a year you’re looking at multiple suicide attempts and chances of self mutilation. By which I mean things like trying to destroy your own hands, legs, face etc.

 The decision about what’s right for your story is always yours. You know these characters, the setting and the kind of narrative you’re telling best.

 Pick the options that best fit with what you want from the story and the characters. Because that’s the best decision for the story.

 But if you’re writing about an abusive system don’t gloss over the abuse. If you’re writing about a torturous practice in prisons (like solitary confinement) don’t ignore the life long damage it causes.

 I hope that helps. :)

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Available on Wordpress.

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

It’s no secret that Republicans are anti-intellectual, but it makes you wonder what their end goal is?  Why do they keep electing dumber and dumber presidents?  Is it just to own the libs?  Do they just not care?  They’ll get what they want regardless of how smart their presidents are, so why always pick the low hanging fruit?

The only smart Republican of the last 60 years was Bush Sr, and he was a one-term wonder who rode Reagan’s coattails into office.

Nixon was notoriously incompetent as VP, almost beat Kennedy in 1960, threw what should have been a career ending shit fit in 1962 after losing the California governor’s race, but not only came back in 68 and win because Goldwater was so unpopular in 64, but won 72 in the greatest landslide in history up to that point.  Corrupt to the bone, he resigned before he could be impeached for hiring burglars to steal dirt on a political opponent, covering it up, and lying about it.

Ford was appointed VP to replace scandal stricken Spiro Agnew, specifically chosen because he was known as an honest politician.  His reputation evaporated the second he became president because his first act was to pardon the guiltiest man in the country; he lost handily in 76.

Reagan was an actor who wanted to play politician so he could hurt the people he didn’t like; blacks people, poor people, gay people, women.  It was a power trip for him, and because he was good at reading cue cards and delivering jokes written by other people, everyone let him get away with murder.  He committed treason by selling weapons to Iran; this isn’t hyperbole, the actual definition of treason includes giving aid to out enemies, and after the oil and hostage crises of the 70s, Iran was an enemy first and foremost.  Oliver North took the blame and had his secretary shred the evidence, the President Bush pardoned everyone involved.  Reagan won in an even bigger landslide than 72 in 84, and Bush won in a major upset against Dukakis in 88.

Bush lost in 92 in no small part because of Ross Perot splitting the ticket; no third party candidate has ever done better nationwide than Perot in 92, with 19% of the vote (though he didn’t win a single state, which some minor candidates have done).  Clinton won with 43% of the popular vote.  Forty-three percent!  57% of people voted against him, and he won.  92 was a farce, as was 96 with less than 50% voter turnout, the lowest in modern history.  Perot ran again and got 8.4% of the vote, Republican Bob Dole only got 40.7%, and Clinton got 49.2%.  This means that less than a quarter of eligible voters voted for Bill Clinton, and he still won.  FARCE!

Al Gore rightfully won in 2000, but the conservative majority Supreme Court stole it from him.  Florida was too close to call; whichever candidate won it would become president.  George W. Bush’s brother Jeb was governor, and he ordered the federally mandated recount be stopped, breaking the law.  The Supreme Court decided not to restart the recount for no discernible reason besides they wanted Bush to win.  He was notoriously dumb, stereotypically dumb, so dumb a lot of people thought it was an act and voted for him because they thought he was a secret genius who was just pretending to be a cowboy running for president off his daddy’s legacy.  He was the stupidest president we had ever had up to that point, and hired a lot of smart people to do horrible things so he could claim plausible deniability.  That Obama didn’t send Dick Cheney to the Hague was a deafening silence.  Bush only won re-election in 2004 because he started a war in Iraq in 2003 and the country didn’t want to change horses midstream; same exact tactic his daddy used, only this war lasted longer than the Gulf and “worked” as planned.

2008 was a ceremonial race; McCain didn’t stand a chance.  He was not incompetent, but his running mate was.  Sarah Palin was even dumber than Bush, and like Gingrich in the 90s was responsible for a conservative revolution we’re still feeling today.  Barack Obama wasn’t an amazing president, but he was an AMAZING candidate.  Everybody loved Obama in 2008, he won more votes than any candidate in history until 2020.  McCain was a career moderate, and after the last 8 years of failure both parties were running on a platform of “I am not George W. Bush.”  Turns out a young charismatic smart black man is less like Bush than another old white guy.

Obama lost a ton of momentum going into 2012 because he didn’t really DO anything his first term.  His only major accomplishment was the Affordable Care Act, which was an act of the Democratic congress than anything else, and it still wasn’t nearly as progressive as it needed to be (the US is still the only developed nation without universal healthcare).  Romney, a Republican governor from the Democratic stronghold of Massachusetts, could have beaten him were he not a classist piece of shit.  Romney hated poor people more than Reagan, and once wore brown face to a campaign event to make himself look more like Obama (they didn’t paint his hands or neck, just his face).  Obama made a lot of promises he didn’t keep, in no small part because of the Tea Party and the devastating losses in 2014 (we suffer under Mitch McConnell because of that).

2016 was a dumpster fire that shouldn’t have happened, and if either party had run a different candidate, it wouldn’t have.  Sanders would have beaten Trump, Clinton would have beaten Cruz.  It was a perfect storm of a very unpopular and insincere grandma running against a cartoon supervillain.  You couldn’t repeat that with what we know now.  Your vote in 2016 came to represent who you were as a person; people took it to the extremes, and the sunk cost fallacy made the entire Republican party shift so far rightward that we have actual concentration camps now and NOBODY GIVES A SHIT!  Trump was a game show host, a used car salesman famous for being tacky and dumb and offensive.  He was KNOWN for running his companies into the ground, that was his MO, he made a career out of bankruptcy, and Republicans still can’t believe that he drove us into the worst economic depression since the last Republican (history repeat itself, whoop-dee-doo).  Biden won in 2020 because of record turnout, though 2020 was closer to the intentional walk of 2012 than the home run of 2008 in terms of enthusiasm for the candidates.

If we’ve learned anything its that Republicans just keep getting worse and worse, so it’s getting hard for me to imagine what 2024 has in store.  Will Trump risk losing the popular vote 3 times in a row for a second term?  i think he’ll pretend to so he can scam millions of dollars out of his base, but he’ll either lost the primaries and tank the Republicans by running third-party, or he’ll drop out and endorse one of his spawn.  If Biden decides not to run in 2024, the nomination will almost certainly go to Kamala Harris, at which point I expect the Republicans to run a woman as well, so that we’re guaranteed the first woman president; she’ll be young, and white, and blonde.  My money’s on Ivanka.  Kamala vs. Ivanka will be a repeat of the 2016 dumpster fire, only worse because then everyone would be acting like both candidates are feminist icons, #GirlPower #SheRunsTheWorld #WarCrimesAreBetterWithTwoXChromosomes  If Biden DOES run again, then I suspect the Republican pool will be wide early on (Prick Scott, Ron DeathSantis, Uncle Tom Cotton, Nikkki Haley, you name it), only to shrink before the primaries as they all coordinate to get behind someone strong enough to defeat an incumbent.

Republicans are very good at coordinating; they are the party of “Follow the Leader.”  Whoever is in charge has 100% authority, no ifs, ands, or buts, no questions asked, just follow orders.  It would be easy to call them lemmings, but it’s more insidious than this.  They run dumb candidates for president, but have very smart people working behind the scenes to do horrible things.  They’re willing to follow orders blindly to ensure that the party prospers, whereas Democrats are chicken running around with their heads cut off.  There are no Democratic leaders.  Pelosi?  Schumer?  Nobody likes those dinosaurs!  The only really popular Democrats are progressives, and they will never have power as long as the moderates have a majority of the caucus.  AOC could be a senator someday; she could replace Schumer whenever he retires, but that would hinge on her not having any moderate primary challengers.  Moderates are still very popular because they are seen as “electable,” even though they never DO anything once elected.  Progressives have big ideas and the concrete plans to get them done, but the moderate establishment is afraid of losing power, and would rather placate the other side doing nothing, changing nothing, making no waves.  The party needs to shift leftward, or the country is doomed.

I would suggest the progressives splitting off to form a third party, but that would almost certainly destroy left-wing politics in this country as every safe seat would become split.  In an ideal world, it would be a nominal change; they would be the Progressive Democratic Party, they would continue to run in blue districts and caucus with Democrats on votes, but would advertise themselves as anti-establishment.  They would be like the New Democrats in Canada, which now that I think about it is a very bad idea because the New Democrats have no power and end up giving more votes to the Liberals and Conservatives instead.  The Progressive solution is intended to show the caucus that the moderates don’t have total control, but it would end up with the moderate Democrats shooting themselves in the foot, running against Progressives in every seat, handing them to the Republicans.  Every election cycle people act like a loss would spell “the end of the _____ party,” but this would actually be it for the Democrats.  It would be a turning point, like the 1960s, with millions of people changing parties out of principle, a major shift.  A Red Scare

I just want to crawl in a hole and die.  I hate politics.

[ivory-sunflower]

Music #1 ✨

Hiya Lovelies!

I said that I’d make a post about the musicians I love, these are some of the smaller musicians I follow that definitely deserve more love and recognition. Did anyone ask for this? No… Is that going to stop me making this post? Absolutely not!

Bry 

My all time favourite musician ever! I absolutely adore this man and want nothing but the best for him, I’ve followed him for about 7 years and I’ve been to 10 of his shows (and I would do many many more). He is genuinely one of the most lovely people I’ve ever met, he’s just gentle and sweet and has a beautiful Irish accent. He’s just the definition of gentle giant (he’s 6’6, so he stands well over a foot taller than me).  He’s not that active online anymore and isn’t looking at releasing any new music any time soon which is a shame, but I would still wholeheartedly recommend his older stuff. Two of my favourite songs aren’t available on streaming services (sigh…) these songs being ‘Home’ and ‘Fall’ (not ‘Fall in Place’ but that is an absolutely lovely song). His newest EP ‘Love Pop Suicide’ is brilliant and his last single ‘Why Are You Bothering With Me?’ is so so good, the video for WAYBWM makes me feel so many things because it’s full of clips from all his past videos. ‘Disarm’ is another banger, as are ‘Care’, ‘Adventure Time’ and ‘You’re Alright’. I’ve said for years if my first wedding dance isn’t to ‘Your Life Over Mine’ then I will just straight up leave my oen wedding. Oh my goodness I could go on and on! I was meant to be getting a tattoo earlier in the year with a quote from his song ‘Astronauts’ but quarantine put that on hold. Just look at him! He’s such a lamb, I was so so happy that night 💛

Conchúr White

Another absolutely lovely Irish fella, he’s a total sweetheart! I met him in October at a city festival (I specifically bought a ticket for this to see him) and he was so lovely to talk to. I wish I could go back to that time because I think I smiled for 3 weeks straight afterwards, even when I think about it now I get ridiculously giddy! I was meant to see him play his first headline show in Dublin 3 weeks ago but alas that plan was cancelled, hopefully I’ll be able to make it to the rescheduled date. He released his debut EP ‘Bikni Crops’ in March and it’s honestly so good! The title track ‘Bikini Crops’ is amazing, but I think ‘Daisies’ is my favourite on the EP. He’s got some brilliant unreleased tracks that I heard at the festival and through livestreams, I cannot wait for him to release ‘The Woman in the War’, I have a video of that on my phone and I just adore it! His songs are beautifully written and he’s an excellent storyteller, he’s a very small musician and I think he deserves so much more recognition!  

Silences 

So Silences was the band that Conchúr was originally part of and that’s how I found him. They were a great little band until they separated to do their own projects in early 2018. I’ve followed them for a fair few years (maybe 5 years now) and I love their sound so much, they’re just really chill and great to just vibe to. I really like ‘Cops and Robbers’ at the moment and I’ve been learning ‘There’s a Wolf’ on guitar recently. ‘Red Dress’ and ‘All these Crimes’ are also great songs. I’m not usually a fan of covers but their cover of Thin Lizzy’s ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ is so so good! 

Dave Giles

Well Dave is one of the best songwriters I’ve ever heard, his songs are just beautiful! I saw him once in 2017 when he was supporting Bry and that was when I started listening to him but didn’t pay that much attention to him in all honesty. Then he released his newest album ‘Tennessee & 48th’ and oh boy! I sure did regret sleeping on his music! It’s such a good album, honestly any song on that album is worth a listen. I particularly like ‘No One Knows’, ‘Devil in a Green Dress’, ‘Last Man on the Moon’, and ‘Shoebox’ but for real any song on that album in particular is amazing! Like any musician, he’s a bit of an odd fella and he doesn’t wear shoes when he performs (I don’t know if I fear or admire him for that), but he’s pretty sound and he’s a massive space nerd too so his twitter is interesting to follow. This is the only photo I have with him, just don’t question the hat… 

383s

I don’t really know what to say about this band, mainly because I know nothing about them… They released one album in 2011 and then disappeared off the face of the earth, they fluctuate between 1 and 3 monthly listeners on Spotify, although once it did peak at 5. I really like their song ‘Five Working Senses’ and I encourage you to check them out. Maybe we can get them to 6 listeners!

Temples 

This is probably the most popular group on this post but they are a band that I got into quite recently after winning some tickets to one of their gigs in a Twitter giveaway and I had a great time! It was my last concert before quarantine and I wish I’d just enjoyed myself more (I also tried to invite the guy that I liked at the time and he straight up said no so rip me). I’ve mostly been listening to their album ‘Hot Motion’ and it’s sooo good, I’d never really ventured into psychedelic rock before and I’ve got to admit that I am a fan now. They are a trip back in time to look at, imagine a proper old school 70s rock band with the big collared shirts, flared pants, platforms, long hair, everything! Absolutely brilliant! I love their songs ‘The Howl’ and ‘The Beam’; I listen to them a lot in shower and they just make things a bit more fun. ‘Atomise’ is another great one, but it kind of makes me want to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling for a few hours not because it’s sad or anything, it just has a very specific vibe.

So there's some of the "smaller" musicians I love, I'm planning on doing a post about the bigger ones I like. Have heard of any of them before? If you decided to check them out, what did you think? I'd love to hear what people think!

Sorry this post doesn't fit the cottagecore theme that well but hey it's my blog 💕

~ Love Ginger xx

08/06/2020

[makeetelich92]

Vitamin D: Why you're in all probability NOT obtaining Enough and the way that produces You Sick

What aliment might we'd like in amounts up to twenty five times over the govt recommends for U.S. to be healthy?

What vitamin deficiency affects 70-80 p.c of the population, is nearly ne'er diagnosed and has been coupled to many cancers, high blood pressure, heart disease, diabetes, depression,(i) fibromyalgia, chronic muscle pain, bone loss and autoimmune diseases like multiple sclerosis?(ii)

What vitamin is almost wholly absent from our food supply?

What vitamin is that the hidden explanation for a lot of suffering that's simple to treat? national vitamin company products

The answer to any or all of those queries is vitamin D.

Over the last fifteen years of my practice, my focus has been to discover what the body needs to function optimally. Vitamin D, a nutrient (more of a hormone and gene modulator) is a critical, essential ingredient for health and optimal function. The problem is that most of us don't have enough of it because we work and live indoors, use sun block and can't get enough from our diet--even in fortified foods.

Two recent studies in the journal Pediatrics found that 70 percent of American kids aren't getting enough vitamin D, and this puts them at higher risk of obesity, diabetes, high blood pressure and lower levels of good cholesterol. (iii) Low vitamin D levels also may increase a child's risk of developing heart disease later in life.

Overall, 7.6 million, or nine percent, of US children were vitamin-D deficient, and another 50.8 million, or 61 percent, had insufficient levels of this important vitamin in their blood.

The average blood level of vitamin D was 25 ng/dl for Caucasians and 16 ng/dl for African Americans. The optimal level is 45 ng/dl and requires about 3000-4000 IU a day of vitamin D3 -- 10 times current recommendations. If our whole population achieved a minimum level of 45 ng/dl, we would have 400,000 fewer premature deaths per year. There would be a reduction of cancer by 35 percent, type 2 diabetes by 33 percent and all causes of mortality by seven percent. (iv)

The economic burden due to vitamin D insufficiency in the United States is $40-$53 billion per year. This can be corrected for pennies a person per day.

Over the last five years, I have tested almost every patient in my practice for vitamin D deficiency, and I have been shocked by the results. What's even more amazing is what happens when my patients' vitamin D status reaches optimal levels. Having witnessed these changes, there's no doubt in my mind: vitamin D is an incredible asset to your health.

That is why in today's blog I want to explain the importance of this essential vitamin and give you six tips on how to get optimize your vitamin D levels.

Let's start by looking at the massive impact vitamin D has on the health and function of every cell and gene in your body.

How Vitamin D Regulates Your Cells and Genes

Vitamin D has a dramatic impact on the health and function of your cells. It reduces cellular growth (which promotes cancer) and improves cell differentiation (which puts cells into an anti-cancer state). That makes vitamin D one of the most potent cancer inhibitors--and explains why vitamin D deficiency has been linked to colon, prostate, breast and ovarian cancer.

But what's even more fascinating is how vitamin D regulates and controls genes.

It acts on a cellular docking station called a receptor that then sends messages to our genes. That's how vitamin D controls so many different functions--like preventing cancer, reducing inflammation, boosting mood, easing muscle aches and fibromyalgia and building bones.

Vitamin D also helps prevent the flu and colds and infections. In an observational study of Finnish soldiers, those with 25-hydroxyvitamin D levels higher than 16 ng/mL (40 nmol/L) had fewer respiratory infections than those with lower levels.(v) More recently, in a double-blind randomized controlled trial involving school girls, supplementation with 1200 IU/d of vitamin D3 during the wintertime significantly reduced influenza A infections.(vi)

These are just a few examples of the power of vitamin D. When we don't get enough it impacts every area of our biology, because it affects the way our cells and genes function. And many of us are deficient for one simple reason ...

Your body makes vitamin D when it's exposed to sunlight. In fact, 80 to 100 percent of the vitamin D we need comes from the sun. The sun exposure that makes our skin a bit red (called 1 minimum erythemal dose) produces the equivalent of 10,000 to 25,000 international units (IU) of vitamin D in our bodies.

The problem is that most of us aren't exposed to enough sunlight.

Overuse of sunscreen is one reason. While these product help protect against skin cancer--they also block a whopping 97 percent of your body's vitamin D production.

If you live in a northern climate, you're not getting enough sun (and therefore vitamin D), especially during winter. And you're probably not eating enough of the few natural dietary sources of vitamin D: fatty wild fish like mackerel, herring and cod liver oil or porcini mushrooms.

In addition, aging skin produces less vitamin D--the average 70-year-old person creates only 25 percent of the vitamin D that a 20 year-old does. Skin color makes a difference, too. People with dark skin also produce less vitamin D. And I've seen very severe deficiencies in Orthodox Jews and Muslims who keep themselves covered all the time.

With all these causes of vitamin D deficiency, you can see why supplementing with enough of this vitamin is so important. Unfortunately, you aren't really being told the right amount of vitamin D to take.

The government recommends 200 to 600 IU of vitamin a day. This is the amount you need to prevent rickets, a disease caused by vitamin D deficiency. But the real question is: How much vitamin D do we need for OPTIMAL health? How much do we need to prevent autoimmune diseases, high blood pressure, fibromyalgia, chronic muscle pain,(vii) depression, osteoporosis and even cancer?

The answer is: Much more than you think.

Recent research by vitamin D pioneer Dr. Michael Holick, Professor of Medicine, Physiology, and Dermatology at Boston University School of Medicine, recommends intakes of up to 2,000 IU a day -- or enough to keep blood levels of 25 hydroxy vitamin D at between 75 to 125 nmol/L (nanomoles per liter).(viii) That may sound high, but it's still safe: Lifeguards have levels of 250 nmol/L without toxicity.

Our government currently recommends 2,000 IU as the upper limit for vitamin D -- but even that may not be high enough for our sun-deprived population! In countries where sun exposure provides the equivalent of 10,000 IU a day and people have vitamin D blood levels of 105 to 163 nmol/L, autoimmune diseases (like multiple sclerosis, type 1 diabetes, inflammatory bowel disease, rheumatoid arthritis and lupus) are uncommon.

Don't be scared that amounts that high are toxic: One study of healthy young men receiving 10,000 IU of vitamin D for 20 weeks showed no toxicity.(ix)

You might have seen a recent study in the Journal of the American Medical Association that shows that a single high dose of 500,000 Units of vitamin D3 (one year's worth of vitamin D) increased the risk of falls and fractures in elderly woman.(x) Does this mean that vitamin D doesn't prevent fractures or falls? Absolutely not!

The design and logic of the study were completely wrong. As a friend once said, "The well meaning are often ill doing."

Imagine a study that gave people a year's worth of vitamin A, or iron (both are nutrients that are stored in the body like vitamin D) in one dose. The vitamin A would cause immediate liver failure and death. In fact, the way the Inuit used to kill explorers in the Arctic was to feed them polar bear liver, which gave them toxic doses of vitamin A. A year's worth of iron in one dose would cause severe intestinal problems and iron poisoning.

Biologically we understand why a single high dose of vitamin D may cause problems. A single high dose induces protective mechanisms that reduce the available vitamin D by increasing the activity of enzymes that cause the vitamin D to be broken down by the body. (xi) The body requires a balance of the right nutrients at the right dose at the right time. No one would eat a year's worth of anything in one day and expect it to be healthy.

The question that remains is: How can you get the right amounts of vitamin D for you?

6 Tips for Getting the Right Amount of Vitamin D

Unless you're spending all your time at the beach, eating 30 ounces of wild salmon a day, or downing 10 tablespoons of cod liver oil a day, supplementing with vitamin D is essential. The exact amount needed to get your blood levels to the optimal range (100 to160 nmol/L) will vary depending on your age, how far north you live, how much time you spend in the sun and even the time of the year. But once you reach optimal levels, you'll be amazed at the results.

For example, one study found that vitamin D supplementation could reduce the risk of getting type 1 diabetes by 80 percent.(xii) In the Nurses' Health Study (a study of more than 130,000 nurses over 3 decades), vitamin D supplementation reduced the risk of multiple sclerosis by 40 percent.(xiii),(xiv)

I've seen many patients with chronic muscle aches and pains and fibromyalgia who are vitamin D deficient--a phenomenon that's been documented in studies. Their symptoms improve when they are treated with vitamin D. A Danish study of Arabic women with fibromyalgia found significant vitamin D deficiency and recovery with replacement of vitamin D.(xv)

Finally, vitamin D has been shown to help prevent and treat osteoporosis. In fact, it's even more important than calcium. That's because your body needs vitamin D to be able to properly absorb calcium. Without adequate levels of vitamin D, the intestine absorbs only 10 to 15 percent of dietary calcium. Research shows that the bone-protective benefits of vitamin D keep increasing with the dose.

So here is my advice for getting optimal levels of vitamin D:

1. Get tested for 25 OH vitamin D. The current ranges for "normal" are 25 to 137 nmol/L or 10 to 55 ng/ml. These are fine if you want to prevent rickets -- but NOT for optimal health. In that case, the range should be 100 to 160 nmol/L or 40 to 65 ng/ml. In the future, we may raise this "optimal" level even higher.

2. Take the right type of vitamin D. The only active form of vitamin D is vitamin D3 (cholecalciferol). Look for this type. Many vitamins and prescriptions of vitamin D have vitamin D2 -- which is not biologically active.

3. Take the right amount of vitamin D. If you have a deficiency, you should correct it with 5,000 to 10,000 IU of vitamin D3 a day for three months--but only under a doctor's supervision. For maintenance, take 2,000 to 4,000 IU a day of vitamin D3. Some people may need higher doses over the long run to maintain optimal levels because of differences in vitamin D receptors, living in northern latitudes, indoor living, or skin color.

4. Monitor your vitamin D status until you are in the optimal range. If you are taking high doses (10,000 IU a day) your doctor must also check your calcium, phosphorous and parathyroid hormone levels every three months.

5. Remember that it takes up to 6 to 10 months to "fill up the tank" for vitamin D if you're deficient. Once this occurs, you can lower the dose to the maintenance dose of 2,000 to four,000 Units a day.

6. attempt to eat dietary thereforeurces of aliment D. These include:

• Fish liver oils, love cod liver oil. one TBSP (15 ml) = 1,360 IU of vitamin D• sauteed wild salmon. 3.5 oz = 360 IU of vitamin D• sauteed mackerel. 3.5 oz = 345 IU of vitamin D• Sardines, willned in oil, drained. 1.75 oz = 250 IU of vitamin D• One whole egg = twenty IU of vitamin D• Porcini mushrooms 4 ounces = four hundred IU of vitamin D

You can see currently why I feel so turbulently regarding vitamin D. This vitamin is crucial for good health. therefore begin aiming for optimum levels--and watch however your health improves.

[phoenixrisesoncemore]

The Feast of the Annunciation at 35,000 ft

March 25th, Tolkien, and the X-Men

[Content Warning for discussion of Panic Attack Disorder and Anxiety Disorders as well as Dissociation]

Panic attack disorder really messes with you.

It stops you from doing the things you really want to do. It prevents you from enjoying life. And because—intellectually—you know the fear it generates is irrational, it not only steals life from you, but leaves you feeling guilty for letting it.

“If only I could have been brave,” you think. If only you could have stared down the beast.

You never feel so much like an animal as when you are having a panic attack; the urge to escape is all-encompassing. Your heart is pumping blood faster than it ever has before. Every second is elongated. Whatever you didn’t smell before is suddenly suffocating you. Whatever you didn’t see before is suddenly ballooning across your visual field and, oh, was that color always so bright? Noises are all so loud, touch is all so much. You must get away, your body tells you, your cells tell you, your bile tells you—get away or you’ll die! But where do you go? You start to disassociate. You sink into feelings of surreality. Is this you? Whose are these eyes you’re seeing out of? There’s an extra step between the thought and the movement of the hands. The part of your mind that is not ruled by the clump of cells that kept your distant ancestors safe from Things With Jaws is perfectly aware there is nothing to be afraid of. There are no jaws. There is no predator. There is no cause for fear. But there is still fear.

Gripping, penetrating, chemical, animal fear.

Against the wash of hormones, the cerebral cortex holds no power, it can only watch you, watch itself, detached and analytical. It realizes—quite quickly, really, and in parallel—two things. One: that the thing you need to escape from is yourself, and Two: that, therefore, there is no escape. Be reasonable, it asks you. But who can escape their own mind?

No matter. The urge is still there, and it’s so hard to suppress.

Now extrapolate the fear of having a panic attack to the enclosed cabin of an airplane at 35,000 ft.

You see the problem, I’m sure. And yet...

A year ago today, after a lifetime in fear of flying, I got on a plane for the very first time. How? The Maker of Middle-earth exhibit came to New York.

I’d been drawn back into my Tolkien Obsession about 4 years before, digging deeper than I had in over a decade into notes and reference books. I was remembering what Middle-earth had meant to me—what it had given me—when I was a teen. In light of all that, could I miss what might be the only chance in my entire life to see some of these things in person?

But it was a long drive, I didn’t want to go alone, and we only had so many free days during my husband’s spring break. And it was New York! I’d never been to New York. Think of all the other things we could see while we were there! Did we want to spend that time driving instead? I tied myself in knots for days while ticket prices rose, until a scant week remained before we’d have to leave. 

Watching the turmoil practically radiate from me, my husband turned to me and said, “If you go, and you see it, will you cry?”

I didn’t even have to think: “Yes.”

He smiled, though he had already known the answer. “Then you should go. Do you want me to order the tickets now?”

I swallowed, then froze. 

This was a trip about Tolkien, about my greatest love, the primary lease-holder of my brain. 

So why am I peppering this with comic panels?(1)

In 1976 Chris Claremont and Dave Cockrum decided to shake things up in a comic called The Uncanny X-Men. They wanted to add a cosmically powerful character, and they wanted this character to be a woman—a first for parent company, Marvel.

Marvel hadn’t had the most progressive run with their female leads. X-Men in particular had started out with only a single woman on the team: the kind telekinetic Jean Grey, whose primary characterization seemed to be her gender. She had experienced some changes in the 13 years since the first issue of X-Men was published, the revelation that she was also a telepath among them. We’d later learn that her powers developed too early when she telepathically linked, in desperation, with her best friend, Annie, as Annie lay dying, allowing Jean to feel what it was to die without dying herself, causing her to grow into the fundamentally compassionate human being we knew so well. But back in the mid 70s, compared to the more diverse and exciting cast that Claremont had devised just a scant year prior, Jean seemed rather dull, and not long after Claremont took over, her character decided to leave superhero life behind.

Or so it seemed. 

Pulled out of retirement on a space mission gone wrong, Jean finds herself trapped with her former teammates on a space shuttle. The shuttle is on a re-entry course, but must pass through a massive solar flare. Sealing her teammates, many against their will, in the shuttle’s only shielded chamber, Jean does the most quintessentially Jean thing: she decides to sacrifice herself for her friends. She telepathically absorbs the flight training of the only pilot on board, locks herself in the cockpit, and prays she can use her telekinetic shield to keep herself alive long enough to land the shuttle.

We do not get to see what happens to her, and nor do her friends, as the shuttle crashes into Jamaica Bay. 

But we know. This time Jean did die: either her flesh was burned to ash by the sun’s fury, or her body was crushed in the crash, or was she drowned in the depths of the bay.

She is truly gone.

But Phoenix Rises in her place.

Claremont took the woman perceived as both the kindest and the weakest of the X-Men and made her Marvel’s first cosmic female hero, a being that has “the power to cut and re-grow any part of the universe, as well as destroy it entirely, which is part of the Phoenix's purpose: ‘The Judgment of the Phoenix’, to burn away what doesn’t work.” The Phoenix Force is described as being “the embodiment of the very passion of Creation—the spark that gave life to the Universe, the flame that will ultimately consume it.” And the first thing she destroys and remakes is herself.

Not many issues hence, she’ll do the same for the whole of Creation. Claremont even goes so far with his purple prose to dip into Kabbalah. Phoenix becomes Tiphareth(2), the Sephiroth at the center of the Tree of Life, “the force that integrates the Sefira of Chesed ("compassion") and Gevurah ("Strength, or Judgment (din)"). These two forces are, respectively, expansive (giving) and restrictive (receiving).”

If you search for info on Phoenix you’ll inevitably be inundated with articles about the span of Uncanny X-Men issues known as The Dark Phoenix Saga, and with good reason: The Dark Phoenix Saga—the events that follow Jean’s transformation and quest to save Creation—is still considered one of the greatest of all comics stories. In it Jean-Phoenix—under the influence of a powerful, manipulative telepath who wants to use her limitless power—is twisted into something fundamentally without compassion, a threat to the whole of the universe. Understanding this, she chooses to die again, to save the world and the people she loves from what she has become.

The intricacies(3) and implications of this transformation and the devolution that followed it are a post for another time. Suffice it to say that any human, even a supremely compassionate one, struggles to adjust to godhood; the ability to care, empathetically, and so deeply, about all of life made the Jean-Phoenix capable of rebuilding a dying universe, but it also made everything in that universe lose all meaning.

But Tolkien. This was about Tolkien. And airplanes. And New York. And the Feast of the Annunciation.

Before I knew Frodo, even before I knew Taran and Eilonwy, I knew Jean; I knew the gentle, compassionate woman who died twice for those she loved--once to save them from the burning heat of re-entry and once to save them from herself--and in between looked the universe in the eye, and understood it was good, and gave it another chance.

Before Tolkien codified in me a kind of personal mythology, gave me a vocabulary for my spiritual relationship to the world, I had Phoenix and her birth from the ashes of what had been Jean Grey.

Now, sitting there with my husband waiting for an answer, I opened up my iPad and pulled up flight dates and our potential flight path on Google (because I deal with fear through research). And I laughed. 

We’d be there on March 25th, and we’d have to pass over Jamaica Bay as we came in to land.

“Buy it,” I said. And I, a 38 year old woman, dyed my hair red, threaded my film reproduction One Ring onto a silver chain around my neck(4), and boarded a plane for the first time.

Fortified by love, Xanax, and a personalized mythology, I saw clouds from the top side. Imagine how many tens of thousands of years humans existed when not one of them could have said that(5).

I saw dinosaurs, I saw Madame X(6), I saw an amazing view for three nights from our hotel room.

And I saw Maker of Middle-earth.

Today is March 25th, The Feast of the Annunciation and, not coincidentally, the day the One Ring falls into the fires of Orodruin.

It’s the day I flew over Jamaica Bay and burned away the part of me that didn’t work. It’s a day of promise. Of expectation. Of new life. The promise of redemption, and the power of compassion—and pity—to change the world.

And that is what stories can do. That is why we tell them. That is why we read them. That is how we live in times that are good and in times that are bad. That is why, when there were only stars in the night to give light, those stars became things with stories—people, animals, gods—and like lanterns they illuminated the dark of both the sky and the soul, mapping out meaning, obliterating the shadows where the Things With Jaws dwelt.

Notes

Comic panels are taken from The Uncanny X-Men issues #100, #101, and #108.

“A new pattern forms—shaped like the mystic Tree of Life—with Xavier its lofty crown and Colossus its base. Each X-man has a place, each a purpose greater than himself or herself. And the heart of the Tree, the catalyst that binds these wayward souls together, is Phoenix, Tiphareth, Child of the Sun, Child of Life, the vision of the harmony of things.”

There is very little in the Marvel universe as intricate as Jean and Phoenix.

The Ring is treacherous. As we were sitting down to dinner just before we left the Ring somehow caught on the underside of the table, broke the chain, and forced me to wear it on my finger for the rest of the trip.

I realize it is entirely possible to climb high enough to be above certain types of clouds without the need for aircraft, and that clouds can form quite low to the ground, but I’m speaking both more abstractly about the nature of fantastic experiences and in the specific about cirrus clouds.

I also saw the Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer, but I talked about that here.

[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.’”

[chiseler]

Rip Torn: A Retrospective

Rip Torn died on July 9th at age 88. That he lived that long is nothing short of miraculous.

In the summer of 1969, Rip Torn was drunkenly screaming through New York’s West Village on his motorcycle when he slammed it into a police cruiser. Torn broke his leg in the accident, but didn’t notice. The next morning he got up, got on a plane, and flew to Paris where he was set to star in Joseph Strick’s film version of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. He shot the entire film all hopped up on painkillers on an untreated busted leg,. And you know what? He still gives a remarkable performance. It wasn’t the only time he worked with broken bones, either.

For over 60 years, Torn carried on in the proud tradition of John Barrymore, Errol Flynn, Robert Mitchum, Frank Sinatra, and Lawrence Tierney as the last of the great Hollywood hellions. In between insane drunken escapades, he was nominated for Emmys and Tonys and Oscars, he established himself as one of America’s most respected character actors, a man with a knack for making even a small role a pivotal one, and he was in Every Movie and TV Show Ever Made. Next time you watch something take a close look at the credits and you’ll see.

Torn’s given name was Elmore Rual Torn, Jr., but was nicknamed Rip as a boy, as was tradition among all the Torn men. He was born and raised and educated in Texas, studying  animal husbandry in college before turning to acting.

The motivation behind the decision was different than most. He hitchhiked to California to break into the movies not because he wanted to be a big star, but because he thought it would be an easy way to raise enough money to buy himself a ranch. Things didn’t work out quite so zip bang as he’d planned, though he did earn small roles on TV and made his feature debut in an uncredited role as a dentist in Elia Kazan’s great and scandalous 1956 film Baby Doll. Kazan hired him again the following year to play another uncredited but extremely important role in the equally great Face in the Crowd.

Although he wasn’t making the kind of money he needed to buy that ranch, he was getting enough acting jobs along the way to start taking the whole enterprise a bit more seriously. He moved to New York to study at the Actor’s studio, worked in theater both on and off Broadway, and from the mid-’50s to the mid-60s established himself on TV in everything from Playhouse 90 to Thriller to Route 66 to The Untouchables. After that things took off. There was just something sinister about Torn, those wicked eyes of his, that crooked-toothed leer, the whole rat-like demeanor, that suited him for villainous roles of all kinds. Plus he was a chameleon who could shift his whole look and stature with the simplest change of accent. He would go on to play Judas in King of Kings, countless presidents, doctors, senators, military officers and judges. He played rednecks and gangsters, cowboys and spies and executives. He played Walt Whitman twice, was in a whole bunch of Tennessee William’s plays (on Broadway, TV and film). Yeah, like I said, between the mid-’50s and the present, he was in every damn thing ever made. Trying to summarize his career is pretty much impossible, but there was a stretch there from the mid-60s to the late 70s when he was top billed when he was turning small supporting roles into leads, when he was moving easily between TV, experimental films, and big budget Hollywood jobs, and when he was starting to earn himself a reputation as a wild man.

Looking back on it now, it’s hard to imagine the kind of talent, both in front of and behind the camera, that came together on the 1965 period gambling picture The Cincinnati Kid. It was originally a Sam Peckinpah film with a script by Ring Lardner. Then Peckinpah was fired (surprise!) and Norman Jewison was brought in to direct. He thought the script was too self important and talky, so he brought in Terry Southern. He also gave Hal Ashby his first big break, bringing him in as editor and assistant director. Steve McQueen stars as a hotshot young poker player in ‘30s-era New Orleans. Karl Malden is a former hotshot on the skids. Jack weston is the loud whiny guy. Ann-Margaret is the bad girl, Tuesday Weld is the good girl, and Edward G. Robinson is the old man, the undisputed champ, the stud poker king feared by everyone.

Ah, then there’s Rip Torn. His name’s deep in the credits but the whole film turns around him. He plays the slick and sleazy Southern Gentleman who will stop at nothing to see the Robinson character toppled. See, Robinson beat him at poker once, and for a Southern Gentleman of his stature there’s nothing in the world worse than losing. There’s one scene in particular, Torn’s showpiece here, in which he tries to blackmail the dealer (Malden) into cheating, and though it doesn’t sound like much nobody can muster up the cool menace like Torn. Oooohhh, he’s such a rotten son of a bitch.

Four years later he starred in Moses Ginsberg’s first film, Coming Apart, an experimental number that’s been called “More a Happening than an actual movie,.” Filmed with a single static camera to recreate the feel of a documentary, Torn stars as an unbalanced psychiatrist who torments and confuses his female patients, eventually going completely batty himself. It all takes place in one small room shot by that one unmoving camera. It’s at turns compelling and unbelievably tedious, and if it weren’t for Torn (thank god for that Actor’s Studio improv training) it would be unwatchable.

Around this same time Dennis Hopper cast Torn to be in Easy Rider. Then at what was either a production meeting or a cocktail party in New York (depending on who’s telling the story), Hopper and Torn got into a bit of a ruckus over whether or not all Texans were  rednecks out to kill hippies. A knife was pulled (though Peter Fonda would later claim it was a butter knife, or maybe a fork, or maybe both). Next thing you know, Torn was thrown off the picture, and Hopper cast Jack Nicholson in his place.

About a year later Torn joined the cast of Norman Mailer’s improvisational experiment, Maidstone. Essentially it was a raucous, drunken three-day party out at Grove Press founder Barney Rossett’s Long Island estate around which Mailer tried to film himself as a director trying to shoot a movie. As the story goes, before shooting started each actor was given a card briefly describing his or her character, and that was as close as anyone got to a script. One character, however, was given a card at random informing the holder that his character was in fact a CIA assassin whose job it was to kill Mailer. The card’s recipient was supposed to be kept a secret from everyone in the cast, including Mailer.

Well, according to Rossett there was a little confusion there. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe the card simply wasn’t worded clearly. In any case Torn (naturally) got the card, but instead of thinking his character was supposed to kill Mailer, he somehow got the idea that HE was supposed to kill Mailer. Lucky for Mailer, too, as the confusion resulted in the only scene in the film anyone remembers.

After the shoot was over and most everyone had gone home, Mailer and his family are walking back toward the house when they’re stopped by a grinning and quite mad Torn, who is also clutching a small hatchet. The cameras are rolling and you can tell this was something Mailer was not prepared for. Nor was he prepared when Torn goes after his skull with the hatchet. The two wrestle each other to the ground, Mailer bites Torn’s ear, Torn leaves a deep gash in Mailer’s scalp, and Mailer’s wife and children scream in horror until a couple crew members pull Torn off him.

And that, my friends, is entertainment!

(The next morning Rossett found a drunken midget floating in his swimming pool, but that’s another story.)

Then came the motorcycle accident and shooting Tropic of Cancer on a broken leg. As it happens there were two films based on Henry Miller novels filming simultaneously two blocks apart in Paris. Jens Jorgen  Thorsen’s Quiet Days in Clichy starred Paul Valjean, an American dancer who looked an awful lot like Miller, but neither sounded nor acted like him. Torn, meanwhile, looked absolutely nothing like Miller, but somehow by adopting just the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent (and on all those painkillers) was somehow able to embody him completely. It’s a gritty, funny, poetic film and Torn is great, though to be fair it should be noted that Clichy was dirtier.

Also in 1970, Torn spoke out against the war in Vietnam on a TV show, and a few nights later someone fired a bullet through his window. It was a hell of a year for him.

In ‘73s Darryl Duke film, Payday, Torn gives what he himself would later refer to as his best performance. Or maybe his favorite. In any case he’s really something as Maury Dann, a  womanizing, hard-drinking, bastard son of a bitch of a second-rate country singer. Dann and his band are on tour  through the South as Dann screws and screws over everyone around him, from band members to family, to pretty much every woman he meets. He never quite hit the top, but insists on acting and being treated like he has. Toward the end he even talks his chauffer into taking a murder rap for him, since he has to get to a show. It’s an extremely dark, cynical, and painfully accurate portrait of the country music business of the early ‘70s, and Torn does all his own singing. It makes for a nice counterpoint to Robert Duvall’s quiet, soft-spoken, and sensitive country singer in Tender Mercies from a decade later.

Although again his name is buried deep in the credits of Larry Cohen’s 1977 biopic The Secret Files of J. Edgar Hoover the entire film revolves around him. He narrates, after all, and gives another memorable performance as a young man who decides to join the Bureau after his father (another agent) is gunned down by a two-bit hood on the street. After seeing what’s going on in the FBI, though, and after being punished himself for a minor indiscretion, he tries to bring Hoover down a notch or two. In what could have been a hamfisted cartoon, both Cohen and Torn (and star Broderick Crawford near the end of his career) manage a shockingly human portrait.

As a flipside to Torn’s tendency to turn minor supporting roles into leads, there was 1978’s Coma, the medical conspiracy thriller directed by Michael Chrichton based on the Robin Cook novel. Torn was fourth-billed behind Genevieve Bujold, MIchael Douglas, and Richard Widmark. And sure, Torn’s character, Dr. George, is the film’s central villain, the man behind a Boston hospital’s fiendish conspiracy to harvest human organs and sell them on the black market, but he only appears in one scene, and speaks roughly four lines. It’s unclear whether this was the plan from the start, an attempt to turn his character into another Harry Lime or Mabuse,  or if maybe all his other scenes were cut after Torn went after Crichton with a hatchet (we can only hope). In any case he was missed. He might have livened up what was otherwise a pretty godawful picture.

As Torn grew older and a little larger and his hair started getting thinner, two things happened. He began playing more authority figures, which only makes sense I guess. He had that look and sound about him. He also started doing more comedies and genre films. Sometimes he even combined the two, playing Ronald Reagan in ‘82s Airplane II: The Sequel.

In ‘91 he was Bob Diamond, the charming, sleazy, and utterly  ineffective lawyer trying to give Albert Brooks a boost out of Purgatory in Defending Your Life. He was the sinister CEO in the otherwise dreadful Robocop 3. He even began lending his voice to animated features and video games (usually playing a god of some kind).

Then in 1999 Dennis Hopper was a guest on Leno and told a few old Easy Rider stories, including the one about how Torn had pulled a knife on him at a party. Well, Torn, remembering things a bit differently, sued him for defamation.

It’s pretty hilarious if you think about it; these two guys who were both completely out of their heads in the late ‘60s going to court to determine which one of them was behaving badly. I mean, they both had reputations to maintain.

Well, most of the witnesses agreed with Torn that it was Hopper who pulled the knife (except for Peter Fonda, who remembered all kinds of different utensils), and the court ordered Hopper to pay Torn nearly half a million in damages.  It was all kind of silly. I mean, it’s not like the story cost him any work. Hell, trying to literally kill Norman Mailer on camera didn’t even cost him any work. But I guess pride’s a funny thing.

After that he continued to work regularly, as Agent Zed in the Men in Black films, in sit-coms, in made-for-TV films, christ, anything that came along. Every director I’ve ever heard talk about Torn can’t praise him highly enough for his talent and professionalism (except maybe Mailer), though given his admitted temper, it’s also possible they’re just scared of him.  He was nominated for six Emmys for his role on the Larry Sanders Show, and came to be recognized by a whole new generation as the executive Alec Baldwin worships but wants to replace on 30 Rock.

Along the way he set himself the task of repairing any damage his reputation as a hellraiser might have suffered as a result of that Hopper lawsuit. The DUIs started adding up. Or at least getting noticed, in part thanks to the actor’s tendency to swing on the arresting officers. Along with being the president of the Extreme Dodgeball League (who knew it even existed?) it seems he was also an extreme regular at a bar near his Connecticut home.  Every once in awhile the bartender himself would tip off the cops after Torn headed for his car. I’m not sure if that bartender’s still there, but even after being fingered like that Torn remained a regular, though he didn’t always drive. And that in itself might have caused some problems.

After returning home from the bar one night in 2010, Torn found his keys didn’t work in the lock. Seeing no alternative, the 79-year-old was forced to break into his own house. He was probably surprised a few minutes later, just as he got his shoes off and was making himself comfortable,  when the cops arrived and informed him that he wasn’t in his house at all, but had broken into a nearby bank. And the cops were probably surprised to find Torn was carrying a loaded handgun. Yeah, he’s not the only one who’s been there, as I think many of us can attest.

Once it was clarified that it was not Torn’s intention to rob the bank, he was given a two and a half year suspended sentence and three years probation.

The arrest prompted the tightassed, no fun creators of Thirty Rock to kill off his character, but he remained as busy as ever, including an uncredited role as an alien in Men in Black Three.

He once proudly noted that he’s never missed a performance. He’s worked with broken legs, broken arms and ankles, and once while doing a play he passed a kidney stone on opening night. He was a rare, tough old bird, a vanishing breed, and one of my heroes. We won’t see his like again.

by Jim Knipfel

[elenatria]

How to turn a London Con trip into a “Chernobyl” trip.

I’m home so I can finally make this post.

Where to start.

Okay-

Let’s start with “Chernobyl”. It happened a few months ago, fell on our heads like a nuclear bomb. We all loved the protagonists but Viktor Charkov, the KGB chairman, is also a memorable, creepy, hateful character who got under our skin with the cold truth of his words, the harsh reality of his behaviour. He was too real, too pragmatic to be ignored. From stories I’ve been told in person, he’s no different than the executive arms of tyrants we had here not more than forty years ago. He exists. People like him live among us.

As for the actor himself, so strange. See, there is no mention of Alan Williams’ age on IMDB or Wikipedia and that’s enough to show that, apart from his theatre, TV and film work, little is known about him. Where to find him, contact him, he’s too old to care about social media and apparently he never was too sought out, not with a “face like a bagful of donuts” as he jokes.

But I was thrilled. I wrote the first chapter of “A single bullet” after watching “Chernobyl” and I just had to show it to this elusive low-profile thespian who inspired me. Because... I don’t know, because. Just to say “Thanks for doing a magnificent job. Thanks for helping me understand evil.”

So I tried contacting his agent. I gave her my name and nationality. I thought I’d just send her the link and forget about it.

Apparently, she forgot about it too because I never heard from her.

After a month London Con was upon us, but what to do in the evenings? Plays of course. I booked a ticket for “The woman in black” and “The Hunt” with Tobias Menzies. Then I searched and searched for Alan Williams plays but, to my dismay, he had finished playing Ivan Romanovich Chebutykin in “Three sisters” at the beginning of June and his new play, “Faith, hope and charity”, wouldn’t premiere before September. Just my luck to be in London in between the two plays. No stage door queue, no autographs.

After spending a full Saturday at London Con and Sunday at the British Museum, Monday had to be a day of leisure. A free concert at St Martin-in-the-Fields before lunch was all I was capable of attending, drag my steps towards the closest bus stop that would drop me off… wherever. I didn’t care.

But then I decided to read my post from the previous day about managing to buy a ticket for “The girl on the train” at the very last minute and meeting Alex Ferns, the naked miner. The unexpected ticket, the unexpected hug.

Now how difficult would it be to meet an actor who is NOT doing a play at the moment?

Very very difficult, confirmed one voice.

He’s rehearsing for ‘Faith, hope and charity’, isn’t he? disagreed another. He must be. It’s almost August and the play opens in September. He’s at work right now. He must be!!!

I googled and googled for almost an hour. I found that “Faith, hope and charity” would be staged at the Dorfman theatre near Waterloo station so I called the stage door. I explained to the receptionist that I did not know Mr Williams in person but I was visiting London for only a few days, was a big fan of his work in “Chernobyl” and I would really love to greet him. The man on the phone was very helpful revealing that this was their first day of rehearsing (the incredible coincidence!) and they had started only… an hour ago. He asked my name and I said “Well… you can say Eleni”, I mean, who needs my complicated surname, right? The guy said he’d save my number and let Mr Williams know.

Oh god.

But I couldn’t just sit there waiting for a call, I’d never get that call, come on.

So I rushed to the Dorfman Theatre. I was breaking my brain trying to figure out how I could get the Charkov chapter of “A single bullet” printed in a district with no stationary shops whatsoever. I was hoping I could… shove it into his face I don’t know, and later imagine he’d be reading it. He didn’t really have to read it, just nod condescendingly and lie that he would, and that would be enough to put a smile on my face. Just like all those toys and drawings people give to celebs at cons that end up in the hands of volunteers, assistants or charities, if not in the trash.

When I got there I talked to a different receptionist, a very professional, very unhelpful young man. For safety reasons he wasn’t supposed to disclose neither the time they’d finish nor the time of recess. For safety reasons I had to go through Mr Williams’ agent to get to him. Outrageous, the woman didn’t even forward my story to him, let alone give me permission to meet him. I was hopeless, I was being turned down. I was being an idiot.

“But they must have a lunch break, right??” I insisted. “Can’t I just wait outside?”

That guy was a goddamn sphinx, and the helpful guy was still talking on the phone or to some lady there, I don’t remember, so I couldn’t reach out to him. Suddenly I felt unnecessarily needy as if I was sitting on the subway floor, shaking my hat to passers-by, clinging my few coins. How humiliating.

With heavy steps I exited the theatre. Why is it so complicated, why do I need someone else’s “permission”? I’m not a child. I looked around, it was a sunny day, people were sitting in coffee tables out in the patio. Some tables were empty but I didn’t care, I just sat on a column by the entrance, far enough to not be seen by the receptionists and feel like shit for lingering, close enough to catch anyone exiting.

For an hour and a half I crouched over my phone trying to figure out how to contact the agent without sounding too stalkery. I called the agency but the girl on the phone gave me the same email address where I had sent my fic. Fine. I changed the wording of my message again and again so as not to sound too needy or creepy even if I knew it wouldn’t work.

I knew I had missed my concert for no reason and I would soon have to leave because who doesn’t like giving up? It’s better to give up than stress over something that’s never gonna happen. It always is.

I was seconds away from clicking “send” and making a fool of myself to the agent for a second time when I thought I saw someone, a towering presence stopping a few meters away, looking over, hesitating, waiting.

I raised my head.

There he was, three-dimensional, bathed in sunlight. Not an image in my head anymore.

Believe me when I say that I was staring at Gandalf, Santa Claus, the Grail Knight from “Indiana Jones”, the Big Bad Wolf.

I honestly don’t know what I was staring at.

But there he was, in all his elderly silver-bearded glory. A myth in my mind, in the flesh. How did he know I was there? I didn’t tell anyone. I was supposed to be hiding.

After nanoseconds of deer-like stun I did the polite thing and jumped on my feet, ready for a handshake. I mean, I had to stand up, right? He had come out just for me.

Shit. What had I done? The nerve.

The first thing I remember noticing when I got closer were his faded blue eyes with a distinguishable light-shaded rim circling the iris. The rest was just word vomit, how we all love him on tumblr, write fics, make memes etc.

Memes?

I described to him the “Try me, bitch” edit we all love, courtesy of @two-screaming-rats.

He didn’t get it at first, then he laughed so HARD, so damn hard. You guys have to see Charkov laughing his heart out.

He said he only had a few minutes before he had to go back to the rehearsal so I decided to start the conversation with the Charkov fanfics. He was quick to apologize for not answering my email. “I’m sorry but… but I honestly don’t know what to say when someone sends me a story,” he admitted humbly. “I read all of them but… I mean I’ve been sent stories based on my characters before but I really wouldn’t know what to say.”

Okay first of all, he read my story. I don’t know if he read it a month ago when I sent it or minutes before he exited the theatre to greet me but he did.

Secondly, there are more stories about his characters? WHERE.

“I’m not a writer anyway,” I said apologetically.

The unexpected reassurance. “But you are.”

I guess one doesn’t have to be The Writer™, they just have to write. What a way to be courteous to a fan though.

Then I mentioned how we love Charkov’s trademark, his glasses, how we’re frantically looking for ‘80s-looking glasses, how we obsess over specific frames and brands.

“They’re not a brand,” he clarified, “they were specifically made for me, they’re an exact replica of Viktor Chebrikov’s glasses. Just like our clothes that were made by seamstresses who worked during that era.”

Naturally I praised the production’s attention to detail that has us ranting, how beautiful and “European” it all looked, how true the script was to Lyudmila’s story as it was described in Svetlana Alexievich’ “Chernobyl prayer”. I talked about my thoughts when I first heard there would be a “Chernobyl” TV series: the Americans made a TV show based on events that affected Europe, now that’s a new one. He mentioned Russian media admitting that they should have made that show, not the Americans. I agreed but also added “That’s the thing, it may be beautifully made, it may be the truth, but it’s still propaganda. Just because it’s true, just because the Soviet government did all those horrible things, that doesn’t mean that the show is not serving someone’s agenda.” He disagreed saying that the Soviet people were shown in a good light for their bravery and sacrifice. Well, we knew that, didn’t we.

I said how impressed I was by his portrayal of Charkov because we were told about people like him by dictatorship victims at school. People who had been tortured in the ‘70s came to us, talking about their time in underground cells, in the hands of sadists like Charkov. I told him about my uncle who was arrested and executed by the Nazis for distributing left-wing leaflets, about my grandmother who had to escape to the mountains during the civil war that followed the German occupation because she was a communist. I explained how real it felt to me, his last scene with Legasov in the kitchen. How bleak and horribly accurate.

He mentioned “You’re one of us, Legasov”. To him Charkov was just doing his job, working for the greater good and he agreed with the quote in my fic, that Charkov “couldn’t wait to retire”.

He then joked about Charkov being blasé after the committee meeting, “Meh, I’m done with arresting people, I let others do it for me”.

I assure you all those questions were answered in a couple of minutes, and I was certain our meeting was about to come to an end.

But then… he gestured toward an empty table.

Don’t let an aged man standing, was my spontaneous thought. I was reminded of my father.

Then I realized. He gestured toward an empty table.

Table. The two of us. On a sunny day.

Time, he was offering me his time.

And… oh my god, this was practically an interview, why was I not recording this, he was answering my questions so effortlessly.

No. That would be rude, that would be greedy.

Just relax and enjoy the moment and try to remember fucking everything.

I asked him what his inspiration for Charkov was, if he based his portrayal on other actors or historical figures. He paused to think and explained that the script was very strict anyway, very defined. However he did mention  Charkov’s line, “I know you’ve heard the stories about us. When I hear them, even I am shocked” and how that reflected Stalin’s hypocritical quote, “What do I know, I’m just a peasant”.

His favourite line was “Trust but verify, and the Americans think that Ronald Reagan thought that up”.

“Is that really an old Russian proverb…?” I wondered.

“I… don’t know!” he laughed.

During the rest of the conversation he mentioned his friend whose job was to translate the Pravda, and his years in Canada where he met Czech-Greeks, namely Greek communists who were driven away by our right-wing government after the Second World War. Even the Soviets didn’t want them so they were sent to the Czech Republic and ended up in Canada. These people belonged nowhere.

I didn’t know that, and he didn’t know about Vladimir Gubarev, the writer of the play “Sarcophagus” and science editor of the Pravda who was the recipient of Legasov’s tapes. I quoted him saying “Why call the protagonist Legasov since that’s not how Legasov was, they could have used a character who’s a scientist and give him any other name.” Like Ulana, I added, who’s a composite character, or Chebrikov/Charkov, mostly fictional.

Our conversation was coming to an end; he asked me what plays I saw in London and he smiled when I mentioned Alex Ferns in “The girl on the train”.

It was truly overwhelming; I was torn between being swept away by the moment, focusing on nothing but the faded blue of his eyes, bathing in the calm rhythm of his voice, and actually paying attention to what he was saying. Only once did my eyes dart at his left hand spotting the unusually thick golden ring on his finger. When one’s mind plays tricks the best way to discipline is a glimpse at The Ring because if he didn’t have nearly my father’s years I’d probably be having a horribly inappropriate crush.

“Time to go,” he apologized.

We took a couple of photos and I pulled out Svetlana Alexievich’ book, asking for an autograph.

“Where should I sign?” he asked.

“Wherever you want.”

He flipped through the pages noticing my page markers, notes and underlinings. “What are these for?”

“Just… just notes. Do you want my—” I suggested grabbing my big-ass permanent marker.

Without a word he gave a knowing smile and, like an experienced conjurer, he pulled out of his jacket an elegant little sharpie. Delicate pens for delicate words.

I didn’t dare read what he wrote to me then, I could only make out his name through that intelligible doctor-like writing. Surely my name wasn’t there because I hadn’t introduced myself. Still, I thanked him from the bottom of my heart.

Time to go.

We shook hands and I said how honoured I was that he had spent time with me. I tried not to stare as he disappeared into the theatre but before I left I ran into the foyer, quickly thanked the receptionist to whom I had talked on the phone and stormed out of the building with that huge wave of adrenaline pumping violently in my ears.

As I crossed the street I was grinning like an idiot. I knew I had to stop right there and write down everything before I forgot - but it was pointless. I’m not a recorder to have to write down everything the minute it happens. It’s enough to remember the pale rimming of his eyes.

Now, two days after meeting him, I’m still torn between pride and embarrassment. What the hell was I thinking? Doesn’t a man deserve to work in peace?

But as I’m writing this and attaching his signature on the first page of “Chernobyl prayer” I dare for the first time read what he wrote to me.

Pleasure to meet you.

People say they have religious moments when meeting their favourite celebs.

Mine was poetic.

What a darling, darling man.

[loudsuitlover]

Ohana

A/N: New series. I’m super excited about this! It’s a new format to the one I’m used to post in here but I got a few asks about writing in a different person- like not on second person and I decided I would share this with all of you. I hope you guys like it! 

Preview: 

“Okay what’s with you and normal food? There are vegan burgers too if you’re one of those people.” 

“Vegan you mean?” She chuckles. “No, I eat meat is just I wouldn’t eat it at this time of the night.” She says but something tells me there’s more to that than the time. 

“Well what would you have at this time of the night?” I grin because in my head I had pictured her eating something entirely different at this time of the night.

I don’t really know why- I don’t even know this girl- but I’ve been thinking about her like that since I saw her earlier tonight. She was walking next to Gemma and even though she was nodding her head at my sister’s incesant talking, I knew she wasn’t listening. I don’t blame her though, Gemma can be a pain in the ass, and I bet she was telling her about that stupid dolphins show she made us watch in LA anyway so who couldn’t blame her for not being interested? But there was something about her that got my attention. She wasn’t paying attention at anyone at all. Moreover, I had been looking at her for most of the night and she hadn’t realized until her eyes accidentally bumped into me and the moment I looked at her she looked away and never looked back at me. 

I don’t want to sound like a self-centered guy, but I’m not used to having girls look at me once and not make eye contact. I don’t think she’s noticed either how Noah looks at her but I wonder if they have already slept together or he was just doing her on his mind. She just doesn’t seem to notice things. I bet she doesn’t know she frowns a lot when she’s thinking too, but I like her attitude.

Jamie

Leaving Mateo alone is the hardest thing I have done in months. Well, technically he isn’t alone; he isn’t even with just any nanny, he’s with my mum and I can’t think of better hands to leave my son than with the woman who rised me but ever since he was born five months ago, we haven’t been apart for more than an hour. I have decided on breastfeeding him and so far that has given me the perfect excuse not to stay away from him for too long but Charlie is getting impatient- she keeps repeating I can have a baby and still be 21 years old- and because after fifteen years I know better than to fight her, I agreed on going out tonight. 

Jack and Charlie said they would pick me up and give me a ride to a little get together at somebody else’s house where I don’t know anybody other than them. How exciting. I stare at myself in the mirror at my parent’s hall thinking back to when I used to check myself out here every day right after school and I would wonder how many hours I had been with that strand of hair looking like a radio antenna on the top of my head. It almost takes me a while to recognize myself, I haven’t worn any makeup since I got pregnant and it’s like I had almost forgotten how I looked like with it on, but Mum insisted on taking care of that for me while Dad “bonded with his grandson” and looking at myself in the mirror now I almost look like the person I was before I gave birth. I grin, like testing it out, but it also makes me somewhat happy that just some light bangs and some eyeliner can make me look as some random uni girl again. I turn to my side, having a look at my flat stomach. It seems unreal to me that I carried a baby in my belly for 39 weeks. 

“You look absolutely gorgeous, right Will?” Mum asks dad as they both stare at me from the kitchen door. 

I roll my eyes. I could be 41 and they would still act as if I was going out for the night for the first time in my life.

“Guys, I’m just going out with Charlie and Jack. Stop acting as if this was my senior year prom all over again.” I chuckle. 

“We’re not.” My mum defends them both. “We’re just happy you get out of the house. You know your dad and I are always free to babysit our lovely grandson, isn’t that right Will?” 

I share a knowing look with dad. After 21 years of living together, we both know there’s no way one can contradict Alice Johnson so he just nods at her and we both chuckle, making my mum smile excitedly. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon anyway.” 

“I mean you don’t have to.” She smiles, encouraging me to get out and be social and all that shit like she had been doing since I got pregnant. “We were thinking you could even go back to your apartment and we’ll drive Mateo there in the morning.” 

“And leave Mateo here all night? No way. What if he wakes up crying and I’m not here? He’ll feel abandoned and he’s so little, he’s used to sleeping next to me and I breastfeed him every night, he’ll probably cry so hard.” 

“Baby, your mum and I have raised two children. I think we’ll know what to do.” 

My dad smiles at me and I regonize that smile. It’s the same he used to give me when I would ask him why to every single thing on Earth when I was seven years old and only then I realize I am getting paranoid. Again. I take a deep breath. If I can’t leave my child with my own parents then how am I ever going to get a job? I start to feel a tinge of anxiety running down the back of my neck when, as if on cue, I hear a car parking on my parents’ driveway and my phone vibrates on my purse. 

“Okay, they’re here.” I say, more to myself than to my parents and then I give them an awkward smile. “Just... Please call me if he doesn’t go down okay?” 

“We will.” My mum smiles. “Now relax, have fun and” she puts her fingers up in the air as if she wanted to point at the sky and starts moving her hips, I suppose trying to dance, but really she looks as if she’s trying to get a spider off her jeans “blame it on the boogie!” 

I don’t know what she wants to say with that, but quite frankly I’m afraid to know, so instead of asking I try to supress my laughter and walk outside the house while Dad asks her what she’s doing. As soon as I make it outside the house, Jack turns on the main beam lights of his car and almost blinds me as I try to walk towards them. I flip him the bird and get on the back seat as Charlie swats his arm playfully but he keeps on laughing. She turns around from the passenger seat and gave me a beaming grin. 

“Hi, love! You look absolutely gorgeous! We might have to go out after all so guys can see you! Doesn’t she look lovely, Jack?” 

“She does look lovely, yeah.” He smiles. 

“And almost blind, thank to you.” I retort but he just chuckles, not even pretending to be sorry the little shit. “And I thought we were going out?” 

“Well we are going to Chloe’s.” Charlie says as she does her lipstick using the mirror on the gray flap over the passeger seat of her boyfriend’s car. “But don’t worry, babe, there’s gonna be lots of guys.” She moves the flap so her hazel eyes meet with mine through the tiny mirror and then she wiggles her eyebrows making me roll my eyes. “Single and fancy.” 

“I see you’re really up to date on the single guys department, Charles.” Jack jokes making Charlie adorably giggle.

I smile at their interaction, those two are made for one another. I remember  when Jack was head over heels for Charlie and she wouldn’t even pay attention to him. He was the sweetest guy in the whole school but of course Charlie couldn’t see that because that was the time when she was obsessed with Zac- I’m pretty sure it was because his name was Zac like Zac Efron- who was the football captain and a total dick, and it wasn’t until they both got into college that she fell for him too; but ever since then they have been inseparable and if there is such a thing as a soulmate then they are that for one another. 

“You promised you were not going to set me up with anybody tonight. That’s the only reason I even agreed to come out.” I remind her, hoping she wouldn’t lie to me, even though I know she wouldn’t. 

“I know. Relax! I don’t even know who’s going.” She grins. “Entirely.” She adds.

I laugh on the back of their car all the way to her friend’s house and swallow the lump in my throat as soon as we arrive to one of the richest parts in London. I look down at my little black dress and all of a sudden it doesn’t seem to me like something appropriate for this part of town. Anyway I have nothing to fake- I am going to go out tonight with Charlie and her friends and then crawl back to Mateo for another year. 

The three of us stand on the door waiting for someone to open it as Jack keeps messing with my newly cut very-light-barely-there bangs and saying I look just like I did in eleventh grade. God I hope he’s lying. I try to decipher the music they’re playing inside, thinkin it can give me a little clue about what sort of people are going to be sitting past the door. I imagine they might be a bunch of snobs who only listen to Alicia Keys or Adele, but instead this music sounds like one of those bands from the 70s my dad would play as he fixed stuff around the house on the weekends when I was little. 

A brunette girl with thick bangs and a face full of freckles opens the door. Her eyes strick me for I can’t quite tell which colour they are. One moment they seem green and the next I’d swear they are completely brown and then she looks up at Jack and they seem gray to me. She is gorgeous, that’s for sure, and she has one of those smiles that takes a while to forget. I try to smile back as best as I can but I am already afraid all of the girls in this house are going to be this pretty.

“Hi Gemma!” Charlie greets her, giving her a cuddle as if they had known ech other forever before the girl smiles at Jack. 

“Hi, guys! Long time no see! I have to tell you both about my trip to LA!” She sings. “Oh, hi!” Her smile only brightens when she notices me. “I’m Gemma.” 

“Hi, I’m Jamie.” 

It’s funny how our names sound kind of alike, even though it won’t be funny is I spend the whole night thinking they’re calling my name every time they talk to her. I remember in fifth grade there was a girl in my class called Amy and I always looked when the teacher scolded her- cause she also wouldn’t shut up- and I hated it. The three of them chat among them as we make our way towards the living room where I suppose the rest of the guests are hanging out and I appreciate Gemma’s attempts at including me in their conversation. If she’s going to be this nice, I won’t even mind if I get confused when they call her name. She keeps looking at me as she talks about LA and how she has seen stars at Griffith Observatory and whatnot and I silently feel embarrassed to think the only things I know about LA are that most celebrities go there all the time and that they have long, wide roads with palm trees on either side. It even seems funny to me, that one would go to see starts precisely to LA where I would think the light pollution is so high you can barely even see the sky but it seems like I am wrong about that too. 

As soon as we get to the living room I am surprised to see it’s not as big as I thought it’d be. All the way to the living room- and that’s already saying a lot for in my parents’ house it literally takes a minute to walk into the living room from the door; not to mention my apartment, where the door literally opens to the living room, no space in between- but at this Chloe’s house, it all seems to be fancy and expensive- even the paint on the walls seems expensive. But when we get to the living room it seems normal, with gray colour walls, a chimney with no fire on and a tobacco colour couch which seems rather comfy. 

Gemma asks me what I want to drink and I politely ask her for a glass of water, apparently making her frown in amusement before she says she would have to pop to the kitchen for that. I stay there glancing through one of the walls which is made out of glass catching a glimpse of the swimming pool and the balcony right before the London city lights. Okay, maybe thinking this house was normal was  a little silly. 

Gemma comes back carrying a small plastic bottle of water and she gently touches it against my elbow until I face her and she giggles. I thank her and smile.

“Oh, there you are!” 

This time a blond girl with long straight hair walk towards us. She has blue eyes and one of the sexiest bodies I have ever seen. I swear she has flesh everywhere you’re supposed to have flesh and she is slender everywhere you’re supposed not to have any. I think about my thighs touching each other under my dress. 

Charlie hugs her and I notice that compared to this girl’s hair, Charlie’s hair doesn’t even seem blond but rather hazel and she looks so thin. The beautiful blonde gives her a warm smile before she turns to Jack and greets him with the same enthusiasm. 

“Hey Chloe, this is my friend Jamie.” Charlie grins, wrapping her thin arm around my shoulders and pulling me to her side. 

“Oh, hi, Jamie! I love your dress!” 

Despite looking like a blow-up doll, I like her already. 

“Thanks for having me.” 

I catch her having a sip of her champagne flute so she just frowns and shakes her head dismissing my comment as she hums with one finger up as if asking me for a moment while she swallows. 

“No, no!” She says. “Thanks for coming. There’s food on those tables and drinks...” She looks around the room “Everywhere.” She grins excitedly as if she has just realized that, despite it being her house and that make us all laugh. “I guess you don’t know anybody.” She tells me to which I bite my bottom lip.

She must have noticed my anxious expression because she just chuckles and drops it even though I am afraid her real intentions had been introducing me to everyone. She looks like the kind of girl who would just get up in a table and  attract everybody’s attention and say hey y’all, this is Jamie. Well, probably she wouldn’t have said y’all, but in my head she did. She invites me to sit on one of the couches with some of her friends and I just smile at them as they talk to me. 

I am not an anxious person, not even socially awkward- hell, I am a waitress and I recommend plates to strangers all the time; but being the only strange person in a room full of people that know each other wouldn’t be easy for anyone, especially when all those people seem to have so much more money than my entire family combined. 

Chloe asks me if I do yoga, which quite frankly seems like a rather weird question to me, but judging by the way they all expect to hear my answer, it seems to be something these rich people would talk about. I consider lying, a bit of fitting in won’t hurt anybody, but then I realize I can easily get caught if they start talking about those stretches like the lying dog or the fighter frog I have no idea about and to save myself from the embarrassment I go with the truth. 

“She probably said it because your arms look strong.” 

Charlie tries to save me and I end up laughing out loud, not only because she can’t not be awkward for the life of her but because for a second I consider telling all these young people my arms aren’t strong because of yoga but after carrying 15 pounds worth of baby- 15,5 if I haven’t changed his nappy after the night sleep.

Realizing I just laughed at something that wasn’t even funny for anyone else, I look away from the people in my new chat group as if trying to get away for a second and then I notice Harry Styles himself is laughing and talking to some random guys. I recognize him straight away, I have seen him before in his own concert. I went with Charlie over a year ago when I had just found out I was expecting a baby, whom I would raise on my own. Apparently, Harry Styles was giving a concert in London that weekend and she thought it would cheer me up. It’s not like I was a fan or anything- I hadn’t even listened to his last album other than that song they always played on the radio, Sign of the times- but she was right, I did have a good time. Especially when both Charlie and I jumped and danced as he reapeated “I’m having your baby, it’s none of your business” over and over again because for the first time since I had gotten that positive result, I was happy Mateo’s father was out of the picture. 

I try not to look at him for too long, the last thing I need is for him to catch me staring and think I’m some crazy fan who’s planning how to secretly steal one curl of his head but there’s something quite magnetic about him. I can understand how he sells arenas all around the world. There’s something about the way he just stands there, joking and laughing, as if he owned the room but not being fully aware of it. I won’t deny he is really handsome too, especially when he laughs and those dimples dig holes on his cheeks. Without my consent, my eyes travell down his lean figure. His shirt is black but very thin and is barely buttoned up to where his sternum ends so I can see some of his tattoos an my greedy mind immediately imagines how they would look without the soft cover. I swiftly look away the moment his green eyes fall on me, probably aware of my intrusive stare, but even though I don’t look back at him, I can feel him staring at me.

One of Chloe’s male friends asks if he can sit down next to me and I immediately remove my purse as if I am desperate for somebody to take that place even though I’m not. I know I give him a weird grimace because he laughs but he doesn’t mention it which I appreciate. We all chat in a group for a while and I learn that the girl who’s sitting in front of me is called Olivia and the guy next to her, who I think is Gemma’s boyfriend’s name is Michal. My mind might be playing tricks on me, but I would swear Harry keeps glancing my way from the corner where he’s standing. I’m not big-headed. I mean I think I’m pretty, but not even half as pretty as any of these girls are and anyway he’s a rockstar- he would never set his eyes on me- but damn it if he’s not looking at me. I try to ignore him anyway. Maybe there’s something between my teeth and these people are just too nice to tell me. Or maybe I’ve got a booger. Man that would be embarrassing.

Charlie places a daiquiri on the table right in front of me and I give her a questioning look. I haven’t drank since the night I got pregnant and she knows this but looking at her smile I know what she’s thinking. I smile back, the truth is I’m having fun like I haven’t in a long time and I have bumped enough milk for Mateo for another day so I return her teasing smirk and bring the black straw to my lips. She clapps her hands together and does a little dance which makes me roll my eyes but I smile nonetheless.

Right as I finish my second daiquiri, I accidentally wet the knee of the guy who sat next to me about a half hour ago and that gets us talking. His name is Noah and after some light chatting I learn that he’s American- his accent gives him away- and that we actually have some things in common. We soon discover we went to the same uni- even though I dropped out last year but I don’t tell him why- and there’s no shutting us up after that. From the corner of my eye I can see Charlie wiggling her eyebrows like a fifteen years old teasing a friend who’s talking with a crush and I almost roll my eyes at her but instead I chuckle and blush- Gosh, I’m tipsier than I thought- and then I glance back at Noah and bite my bottom lip, as if apologizing for my weird antics. 

“Man” he stifles a laugh “you’re really pretty.” 

I grin like the Cheshire cat in seconds. The way he has said that- and the daiquiris- have me grinning like a teen girl. I hoped Charlie was listening so she cuts the bullshit about my flirting skills; or maybe she would expect me to go home with Noah, and even though he seems nice and he is very attractive- with that olive skin and that wavy brown hair and that childish smile, I am not sure I want to go home with him- or anyone for that matter. 

“Thank you.” I smile and next thing I know I have got hiccup and my eyes widen as I look at him. he threw his head back and started laughing hard. 

I haven’t gotten hiccup in forever, in fact it has been so long I didn’t remember it was so annoying- feeling my chest going up and down on its own. I hold my breath, I heard somewhere it took the hiccup away, because it is too late to lift my arms over my head, you can only go through three hiccups before you do that and my stupid, drunken overwhelm about hiccup has distracted me. As I take a mouthful of air, hoping it would take me through the 30 seconds I had to hold my breath, Noah  laughs harder. 

“So cute!” He chuckles. 

I give him a drunken grin, boycotting my own attempt at land-base scuba diving in the process, before I stand up and prepare myself to find the kitchen. As soon as I get up, I realize I have managed to spend some time without thinking about Harry Styles and I realize too that it hasn’t felt as if he was staring at me. Definitely, it has been my mind playing tricks on me. For some reason,  I search for him, maybe to enjoy some of the eye candy he’s displaying but I can’t find him. For all I know he's gone. It’s like I feel a little disappointed, for some reason I thought I might have the chance to talk to him, but of course guys like Harry Styles don’t really talk to girls like Jamie Johnson.

I jump and bring my hand to my chest the minute I get to the kitchen fot there he is, as silent as a house cat, pouring some gin on a glass. He gives me an amused smile and the air in my lungs is nearly gone. He really is handsome and I’m talking, the overwhelming kind of hansome. His face is just perfect, his got a perfect straight nose and I almost bring my hand to mine because there’s just no way someone has a nose like that, and his jaw is perfectly shaped. I can feel thousands upon thousands of girls screaming for me to do something or say something but I’m afraid even though I’m not I might look like one of those crazy fangirls who would give everything they had just to have him signing their boob. I shake my head to clear my thoughts and rest my glass on the table. I decide I don’t have to talk to him.

“Hopefully that scare took your hiccup away.” He smirks and I chuckle, for some reason somewhat embarrass. 

“Yeah” I still have my hand against my heart and I can feel it beating. “You made me jump.” 

“Sorry about that.” He smiles. His green eyes set on my glass for just a moment and noting it was empty he raises his eyebrows at me and asks “What are you drinking?”

“Uuhh, I think a daiquiri or a caipirinha or something like that. I’m not really sure what it was.” 

He smiles again and makes me smile too- his smile is kind of contagious. I didn’t know he was so smiley, he didn’t appeared to me like the kind of person who would smile all the time, but rather like some sort of dark, interseting indie artis who had too many things on his mind to walk around smiling to people. I’m really bad at assumptions. I notice his eyes are glossy and his skin is a little flushed so I know he is at least as tipsy as I am and I think that might be the reason for his smiling nature. His green eyes linger on my face before he looks at my glass again and stretches his hand towards it, silently asking me to hand it to him. 

“Oh, no, don’t worry! I can make it on my own!” I lie. I have no idea how to make a daiquiri whatsoever but at this point I’m drunk enough to drink any other thing. “Thank you.” 

“Can you please hand me your glass and stop acting as if you knew how to make a daiquiri?” He grins smugly. How the hell did he know that?

“Like you know how to make one?” I tease instead.

He stare deep into my eyes and I know he’s just pretending to be highly offended by my apparent doubts at his ability to make Cuban cocktails. I can feel my lips curl up into a smile before he answers. 

“‘F course I know how to make a daiquiri, angel face.” 

I don’t know why I’m blushing. I guess the fact that some attractive guy calls me angel face apparently can make me blush. Then I remember even though I know his he doesn’t know my name and I think that’s the reason he called me that.

“So” he starts, having a sip of his drink before he starts reading the label of the rest of the bottles “first we need white rum.” He finally choose a bottle and looks at me with a warm smile. “You see? There’s no cachaza, that’s how I know you were not drinking a caipirinha” he smiles smugly, obviously enjoying leaving me looking like an idiot by proving he indeed knows how to make cocktails. I should have known better. “Where’s the cocktail shaker? Please don’t tell me your friend has been giving you cocktails without having the decency to use the shaker...” He shakes his head, smiling playfully as he searches for a cocktail shaker across somebody else’s kitchen and I start to think he’s just putting on a show “Oh angel face... You’ve been drinking shit all night!” 

I throw my head back and laugh out loud as he grins triumphantly. He’s definitely putting on a show. I take it he’s a bit eccentric, not that it surprises me judging by the clothes he chose to wear tonight.

“But we’re going to fix that right now” he wiggles his eyebrows as he softly shakes the cocktail shaker he just found in one of the cupboards “so then, pay attention angel face,” it even sounds natural now, the way he says my new nickname “then you can tell these guys you did it yourself, you squeeze half a lime. It has to be half, yeah? Not more, not less. Then you add sugar and you mix them together and then you add the rum.” 

He starts literally giggling as he pours as much rum as he wants to and I laugh, surprised at his showman skills, no wonder he makes a living out of this.   

“What?” He asks, faking ignorance.

“How much rum are you supposed to use? You get all scientific with the half lime and then there’s no exact amount of rum? Which I reckon it’s the most important part?” 

He chuckles. 

“The most important part? Somebody drinks like a pirate here...” He grins. “No, there is, there is. But, angel face, when you’re a pro at making cocktails like me, you’ll be able to measure alcohol with just your very eyes.” He purses his lips and raises his eyebrows as if that would make him right and he makes me laugh. “Now, you shake it with the ice for 13 seconds” He smiles and I start to wonder if he isn’t making the whole thing up and he has never made a daiquiri before. Maybe this is not how you make a daiquiri at all. “Wanna do it?” 

“Oh, no, please. I’ll let the expert do the honours.” 

“Smart girl.” 

He grins and I giggle during the 13 seconds as he counts them out loud, his defined arms shaking the metal glass over his shoulders, his green eyes set on me. I notice they are greener at this close up distance than they had looked at the concert. 

“There you go...” He hands me the cocktail perfectly poured on my glass and looks into my eyes questioningly “I don’t think I got your name.” 

I knew it. The angel face times are about to end. 

“Jamie.” I give him a smile. 

He grins, offering me his hand to shake and I take it, once again feeling all his fans roaring through my veins. I think it’s funny that out of all the women in London he has come to shake my hand. I almost tell him I know nothing about him, just to make things clear. 

“Harry.” He says. Well that I knew. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

I hear Charlie calling my name from the living room so I turn my head towards the door and raise my voice asking her what she wants. If I wasn’t drunk, I would have probably noticed I am being rude, raising my voice at somebody else’s house as if it was my own, but I am drunk enough not to care about it. Harry is smirking when I turn to face him. 

Harry

Gee, she’s pretty even with her hair all over her face. She turned her head towards the door so fast that I was afraid she had given herself whiplash but she’s smiling back at me now so I reckon that means she’s okay. I chuckle at how excited she seems to be, even though her friend hasn’t heard her yelling. 

“She didn’t hear me.” She points out to me as if I hadn’t been in the room too.  

“Yeah I don’t know how she didn’t.” I tease her, but only because I like to see her blushing. 

I don’t have to turn my head to know the meat pie I popped in the oven is not ready yet but I’m fearing she’s going to say she has to go check on her friend because I don’t think I’m going to get the chance to just walk back towards her without looking like a creep if she goes to the living room before I do. She looks like she’s waiting for me to say something else and the thought that maybe she just doesn’t want to go either for some reason speeds up my heartbeat. We are just smiling at each other. 

“I’m... I’m gonna have to go check on her” she starts and I nod, pretending her words didn’t bother me. “Uh, are you coming?” 

I grin. So she doesn’t want to stop talking to me either. I look back at the oven- 12 minutes left and then my eyes met her hazel ones once again. 

“I am waiting for a meat pie.” I tell her and she scrunches her nose and gives me a weird look. “I am hungry, aren’t you?” 

“Yes but I wouldn’t have a meat pie now.” She says seemingly disgusted at my appetite. 

There was pizza on Chloe’s fridge too and vegan burgers but I’m not into that kind of shit. She had lots of vegetables too but I wasn’t about to cook a wok at 9 am so I decided on one of the many meat pies she had on the freezer. I tell Jamie there’s pizza too in case she’s hungry but she scrunches up her nose once again. 

“Okay what’s with you and normal food? There are vegan burgers too if you’re one of those people.” 

“Vegan you mean?” She chuckles. “No, I eat meat is just I wouldn’t eat it at this time of the night.” She says but something tells me there’s more to that than the time. 

“Well what would you have at this time of the night?” I grin because in my head I had pictured her eating something entirely different at this time of the night. 

I don’t really know why- I don’t even know this girl- but I’ve been thinking about her like that since I saw her earlier tonight. She was walking next to Gemma and even though she was nodding her head at my sister’s incesant talking, I knew she wasn’t listening. I don’t blame her though, Gemma can be a pain in the ass, and I bet she was telling her about that stupid dolphins show she made us watch in LA anyway so who couldn’t blame her for not being interested? But there was something about her that got my attention. She wasn’t paying attention at anyone at all. Moreover, I had been looking at her for most of the night and she hadn’t realized until her eyes accidentally bumped into me and the moment I looked at her she looked away and never looked back at me. 

I don’t want to sound like a self-centered guy, but I’m not used to having girls look at me once and not make eye contact. I don’t think she’s noticed either how Noah looks at her but I wonder if they have already slept together or he was just doing her on his mind. She just doesn’t seem to notice things. I bet she doesn’t know she frowns a lot when she’s thinking too, but I like her attitude. 

“I’d have ice cream.” She smiles. 

Okay, she’s cute. 

“Ice cream? What are you? 5?” 

She giggles before she rolls her eyes at me. I really like her attitude and then I catch her trying to see how much time left we need to wait for the oven to beep. I realize I actually don’t know how old she is. I look at the timer myself.

“There’s seven minutes left now.” 

“That’s barely any time at all.” 

She takes a seat on one of the stools in front of her. I’m glad she decided to stay, mostly because seven minutes more with me means seven minutes less with Noah so I smile at her. I’m so hungry seven minutes seem like a year. 

“Yeah well say that to all those poor people who had to spend seven minutes of heaven with someone with a bad breath.” 

She laughs and I can’t help but grin at my achievement. 

“Has that ever happened to you?” She asks. 

I shake my head. I have never played that game but I know it exists because Kaia has told me. I wonder if Jamie has ever played and for some reason the thought of someone spending seven minutes of heaven with her brings some sense of protectiong in me. I have no idea what’s going on with me. 

“How old are you?” I ask her. 

I know it’s a rather personal question and maybe it’s a little strange to ask such a thing at 12 am in Chloe’s kitchen to a girl I don’t know but I’ve been trying to figure it out myself and I have only gotten to the conclusion that she can’t be older than twenty-something but those are ten years of possibilities and I made her a cocktail so I think I’m entitled to know if I did something illegal or not. She looks at me as if she was weighing whether to tell me the truth or not.

“Twenty-one.” 

I think she’s being honest and relief washes over me the minute she tells me so I catch myself on the lie I just gave myself about wanting to know her age because I gave her alcohol. I can’t believe I’m considering having something with her but I have to admit I wanted her to be legal for different reasons than alcohol consumption. 

“And you?” 

“Twenty-five.” 

She almost frowns and I have to fight the grin that wants to stretch my lips. I might not know her but I know she’s considering whether I told her the truth or not. Why would I lie? She could google it anyway. 

“Do you live here?” 

I’m gladly surprised by her question and I know she’s surprised she asked that too. I would give her a hard time about it for frowning so much if I wasn’t afraid she might think she crossed a line and close off but for now it seems that she doesn’t mind personal and I could use that to my advantage. For a second I don’t know what she means by here because to be fair I am indeed cooking Chloe’s food and making cocktails in her kitchen so she might think I actually live in this house, but maybe she’s just asking whether I live in London and I like that’s something she has wondered because it might mean she’d want to see me again. 

“In London?” She nods. Good. “Uh, yeah. Well I mean, sometimes it’s hard to know where I live” I chuckle “I travel around a lot but... I guess if I think of home, right after Holmes Chapel I would think of London.” 

“So you’re from Holmes Chapel?” She seems interested. 

“Yes” I have a sip from my drink “I was born there but then I started singing when I was sixteen and moved to London.” 

“You moved on your own when you were sixteen years old?” 

She seems horrified by that and that makes me think she is close to her family. She might even still live with them and I find that endearing. I’m close to my family too. I moved away out of need really and I didn’t know how nice it was to live with my mum and sister until I went away. I nod. 

“I like London but there’s nothing like going back home and feel how old I am when I walk down the river where I used to go as a teenager.” 

She laughs and nods her head. 

“What about you? You’re from London?” 

I can tell by her accent she is, but she might as well just have been living here long enough for the accent to stick. I know a bunch of people who do that. It’s like Jeffrey, he starts aspiring the ts and the rs if we spend enough time in Machester. Jamie seems to ponder whether to lie again. 

“Yes.” 

“You don’t look like it.” I say, just to see her reaction. 

She frowns a lot and looks at me as if I had lost all common sense. It’s priceless. She’s so expressive. 

“And how is a London girl supposed to look like according to you?” She inquires, almost accusatorily.

I’m afraid she might give me a lecture about prejudice and stereotypes and how bad is to be biased but I grin and shrug. 

“Like Chloe.” I tell her. 

I love it when she frowns. 

“You mean rich and blonde and pretty? ‘Cause I’m just one of all three.” She jokes cheerfully and I can tell she’s waiting to see if I find it funny. 

I don’t cause it’s true. She is pretty and it kind of bothers me that she would think she could joke about that. I hate it when beautiful girls don’t know they’re beautiful. It’s not about being self-absorbed but rather not pulling themselves down. I’m not saying she’s perfect. Hell, I’m sure she’s got hundreds of flaws but being ugly is not one of them. I choose to tease her instead. 

“Oh, so you’re rich?” 

She rolls her eyes and I chuckle at her reaction but I’m afraid she might go to the living room if she takes it the wrong way. She doesn’t stand from her stool though, not even when the oven beeps and I turn around to open it. She looks at my meat pie with a disgusted expression and I wait for her to sass me after my teasing. 

“You’re not funny.” She shrugs and that only makes me laugh. 

“You’re right, I’m not. I’m just very honest.” I keep it up because I know she’s not taking it to heart. 

I’ve been flirting with her long enough for her to know I think she’s attractive anyway and the fact that she has chosen to stay in the kitchen with me instead of going back to the party with everyone else kind of tells me she might find me attractive too. She hums and nods as if she was waiting for me to elaborate. 

“Really?” She asks when I don’t. 

“Really.” I smile, cutting the meat pie in half just in case she wants some after all. “It’s like” I grab my half and blow on it hoping it would cool it down sooner. I’m really fucking hungry. “If you ask anyone out there” I’m thinking about Noah “if that dress makes your ass look fat they wouldn’t even think about it, they’d just say no so as not to hurt your feelings but if you asked me, I’d tell you the truth.” 

She is smirking at me and I don’t think she’s aware of what that’s doing to me. I don’t know why but I can’t help but smile too, her expressions are contagious. This time I can’t figure out what she’s thinking and man, I would give a finger away to know. I feel a little giddy, almost like a teenage boy, and I bite the meat pie so as to occupy my mouth on something. She just smiles. 

“You’re weird.” She blurts out and I laugh despite the fucking boiling bite of meat in my mouth. Maybe it wasn’t very smart to sunk my teeth that far away on the pie. 

“You’re really not going to ask me?” I laugh. 

“What?” She frowns. 

“If I think that dress makes your ass look fat.”

She frowns again but this time her lips betrayed her and curled into a smile. 

“Mmhmm.... No.” She shakes her head. “I know it doesn’t and you’re just looking for an excuse to check my ass out.” 

I already checked her ass out. Multiple times. But I just grin at her comeback. I guess I underestimated her when she joked about her beauty, she did because she knows she’s pretty and I like that she’s confident. I also like that she’s not afraid of calling me out or give me weird looks and that despite all that she’s staying here with me anyway. I offer her the rest of the meat pie but she just gives me a disgusted grimace.

“Ew, no” She frowns again making me laugh “Plus I know you’re burning your throat like hell with that.” She mentions making me laugh. 

She is smiling at me. She’s engaging without being too nice and I like that. I know she wouldn’t let me walk all over her or impose my interests over hers- she didn’t want meat pie and she said it and she even said she would have ice cream instead. I like that she’s not afraid to speak her mind when she disagrees with me and I know for a fact that she would kick me if I touched her inappropiately, which I would never do; hell, no; but it’s nice to know she’s that kind of girl. Shit, I like her. 

Her phone vibrates against the table and only then I notice it’s been there the whole time. I eat the other half of the pie after making sure she really doesn’t want any and nod at her to attend her phone. She texts whoever it is that texted her and I frown when I check the time. It’s almost one am so the thought of her boyfriend texting her is the most plausible one. 

“Hey” She looks up at me and I notice that amused spark on her brown eyes she just had a minute ago is gone. Damn it, she’s beautiful even when she’s concerned. “I have to go.” She smiles. 

No! I nod. 

“I...” It’s like she doesn’t know how to say goodbye to me. “I’m gonna go tell Charlie.” 

“Do you need a ride?” I offer.

“No” She shakes her head. “I’ll get an Uber.” 

Yeah, at 1 am, alone. No way. 

“No, you won’t.” I smile trying to ease this weird protective instinct that’s taking over me. “I’m leaving too. I’ll give you a ride.” 

“No, really, it’s 1 am, you... You don’t have to.” 

“Precisely because it’s 1 am” I insist “I’m not about to let you take an Uber alone.” She doesn’t say anything but I know she’s thinking of a way to decline my offer. “You can either let me drive you or make me follow your Uber until your house and then drive home.” I shrug. 

She rolls her eyes but I know I’ve won this one. 

“Let me tell Charlie you’re giving me a ride then.” 

I nod and wait for her by the door while I text Gemma I’m going home. God knows I don’t want to go back to that living room and pretend I like any of her friends other than Chloe who I can at least tolerate. I keep my hands on my pocket and rest my head against the wall. 

She tilts her head to the door silently telling me to move when she gets back and I even like that too. I seem to like everything she does. She walks next to me but somewhat far away as we make our way towards my car and I try to hide a smile as I see her looking around the different cars parked out here trying to figure out which one is mine. 

“So” she tells me “where’s your Porsche?” 

I laugh.

“Lamborghini then?” She raises her eyebrows. “Ferrari?” 

I can’t take it. She’s funny. I stop next to my black Range Rover and smirk at her and she smiles. I can tell she likes that I drive this car instead of a Porsche. Don’t get me wrong, I have a Porsche too, I just don’t drive it around London; but I won’t tell her that. 

“Safety over speed.” She appreciates. “I like it.” 

I chuckle as I open the door for her and she purses her lips and tilts her head to the side before she gets on the passenger seat. 

“So” I tell her as I sit on the drivers’ seat and start the car “where are we going?” 

“I’ll give you the indications.” 

I smile. She doesn’t want to give me her address just yet and I respect that. After all, she doesn’t really know me. I’m actually kind of proud that she would take these many precautions. It relaxes me to think she can keep herself safe. 

“Alright.” 

I turn on the radio and let Stevie’s voice fill the car as I take my eyes off the road for a second to glance at her and watch her reaction. None. I like watching her as Edge of Seventeen is playing. I lower down the volume and ask her. 

“Do you know who that is?” 

She looks at me. 

“You mean the singer?” 

I nod. 

“I’m not an idiot.” 

I smile. I like that she’s mouthy and I think her answer makes her all the more sexy. 

“Now turn left.” She tells me. 

I do as she says and keep bothering her. For some reason I want to hear her say her name, 

“So” I query “what’s her name?” 

“You think I don’t know who she is.” She throws her head back and laughs. “It’s not even like I need to know anything about music to know who she is. She’s fucking famous.” She chuckles. 

“You still haven’t said her name.” I grin. I know she knows who she is. 

“She’s Stevie Nicks and you’re an idiot.” 

I laugh at her reply again. I don’t get tired at listening to what she has to say. 

“So you like Stevie?” I ask her. 

If she says yes I’ll ask her to marry me before we get to her apartment. 

“Take the second exit at the roundabout and at the traffic lights turn left.” She indicates and I nod, hoping we’re still far away from her house. “And yes I do.”

“Who’s your favourite singer?” I can’t stop smiling. 

“It’s not you.” She jokes which makes me laugh. 

I didn’t expect her to say it was me anyway even though I would admit I would have loved it. 

“Alright.” I grin at her. “Then who is it?” 

It only takes her a second to answer and that surprises me. Most people always think about it long and hard as if they would ever give a right answer. I think she just said the first singer that crossed her mind. 

“Steve Perry.” 

But Gosh I really like this girl. 

“Uuuuh.” I nod my head. “Fair enough.” 

“Turn left on this next street and then at the gas station turn right. Then it’s all straight until you have to turn left.” 

I don’t recognize this part of town. It’s a residential area for families and I start to doubt whether she has taken me to a fake direction and now she’s just going to knock on some random family’s door so long as I don’t know where she lives. Something tells me she has made me take some wrong turns so I wouldn’t remember how to get to her house, wary angel face. 

“This is my street.” She says. “You can stop whenever you want now.” 

I see her eyes set on one of the house to our right so I drive up there and stop the car. She gives me a smile but I can tell she’s a little freaked out I got her house right. I smile. 

“Well” she starts “thanks for the ride, Harry.” She takes her seatbelt off. I smile and nod. “And for the daiquiri.” 

I laugh. 

“You’re welcome, Jamie.” I grin. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Yes.” She smiles. 

I weigh whether to ask her why she had said I wasn’t his favourite singer or the real question I want to ask her. I go with the second. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” 

She smirks. I can tell she’s flattered and pleased I asked. I feel my heartbeat speeding up as I wait for her answer. She rolls her eyes and opens the door, getting out of the car.

“If I had a boyfriend I wouldn’t have spent most of the night in the kitchen watching you eat a meat pie.” She smiles through the rolled down window. 

I grin. I want to ask for her phone number but something tells me she won’t give it to me so instead I just wink at her and she rolls her eyes again. 

“Bye, Harry.” 

“Bye, angel face.” 

I can faintly hear her laugh as she walks to the door and I wait for her to get inside before I drive away. Something tells me I’m going to see her again. And if not, now I know where I can have a coffee and wait for her to appear. 

Part 2

[dxmedstudent]

From the total female populations of London and Cambridge – the cities between which he split his time – Seagull selected those roughly his age and up to 10 years younger. Then he reduced that group to the proportion that were likely to be university educated, to reflect the reality of his networks, as a school maths teacher and doctorate student.Then came a harder parameter: what fraction Seagull might find attractive. After going through his Facebook friends list, he found 1,200 women who met his criteria for age, location and education – and of one in every 20, he says he thought that he “could imagine us, in another life”.

I find these kinds of things interesting. The formula makes sense - there’s a finite number of people in your geographical area who might meet your criteria, and  you’ll probably like a small number of those; some of whom might like you back. He decides only about 70 or so people meet his criteria. Which seems... a little low. A lot of commenters found his age criteria problematic. Would a 22 year old woman really have as much in common with him as a woman a couple of months older? People often try to cite pseudoscience on this count; that men want young and fertile women, but most women are fertile and interested in having kids well into their 30s and often 40s. In reality most people end up with a partner of a similar age to them, and there’s a lot of variation between people. I have to admit, I was wary of guys who refused to date women even a little older than them, and those who refused to date women their age were a definite ‘no’ - can any man actully tell that a woman is  2 or 3 years older than him by her looks or actions? No, so why would it be something that prevents attraction or compatibility. There’s something sexist behind thinking like that which I can’t get behind. Most of us want people at a similar life stage to us, but to me, if someone has a very fixed idea of what they find attractive, that inflexibility is itself a problem. I’m not going to be in my early 30s forever, and I want a partner who doesn’t feel that only women in a narrow age range are interesting. Likewise, I’m not obese, but I wouldn’t want  a man who can’t see bigger women as attractive. I’d want to know that if I gained weight, he would love me for who I was; I know I’d do the same. And also if a man stated he’s only into caucasian women; I’d be wary. I wanted to be with someone who would consider and value others for who they are and who can see beauty in all sorts of people, not just conventionally attractive young women, even if I happen to be one. I don’t want a partner who doesn’t see other women as people. That said, it drives home that even if you’re on a dating site with thousands of people, the ones that meet your criteria will be a small proprotion. That’s why it’s important to consider your criteria carefully. Are they reasonable? Are they really non-negotiable? For example, I can’t stand smoking and wouldn’t date someone politically conservative, but didn’t really think about height and weight. Yes, I think it really is a bit too picky to only date a guy if he’s tall or well-built. Yes, people have preferences, but the less we let ourselves be blinded by preconceptions, the more likely we are not to miss someone special because they didn’t meet a criterion that doesn’t really matter. Pick your criteria carefully.

This is where optimal-stopping theory can come into play, identifying the point in a process at which to stop for best results – and here the magic number, says Seagull, is 37%. Say he wanted to be in a relationship by the age of 40, and was prepared to commit to going on two dates a week, for 50 weeks of the year, for five years: 500 dates total. Optimal-stopping theory would have Seagull go on 185 dates – taking him the best part of two years – then, armed with the insights he gained along the way, pursue the woman he liked best from the 186th on.“You don’t know at what stage in these 500 dates you will meet your most suited person, and you’re probably going to miss them – but mathematically, this is how you can settle better.“This is where you really need to trust the maths – you might think that the first person you meet is amazing, but you’ve got to get through the first 185. If we simulated our lives a million times, the person that you would date best would still be after 185.”

But where do these numbers come from? Optimal stopping theories basically suggests you need to work out how many people you want to date before you settle down, then dating X number before you settle on the first one who meets your criteria. Now, that gives you a bit of experience and an idea of what you want, but dealing with people isn’t like picking dice out of a bag. You can’t tell when someone nice will come up. In real life, some people spend happy 50 year marriages with the first person they dated, or the 5th, or the 27th. You aren’t guaranteed to find a good date after 185 that you liked as much as date 1 - maths suggesting you’d be likely to make a statistically good match can’t necessarily factor in that you might miss better matches in your earlier dates. So it makes no sense to throw over dates you like early on in the hope that later on you’ll probably like someone else just as much, or they might be better. By the time you reach your number, anyone you liked from the previous 185 dates will probably have paired up and moved on, so it’s not like you can always go back to people you thought were nice. It seems more sensible to treat each person as a person; if you like them, stick around and see.

Now 35 and still single, Seagull has continued his investigation into “making the maths of love work for you” in his book, The Life-Changing Magic of Numbers, as well as on dates....

I am surprised to learn that he has only been on seven or eight dates since doing Drake’s equation a few years ago. Maybe his mum was right when, on seeing his formula, she told him he was being ridiculous, and “to go out and meet people”.“I’m terrible,” he admits. “I leave a long gap between dates. After a date, if you didn’t have a good time, you feel despondent. I had another date, where I liked her and she didn’t like me. As a human, you get upset. That’s why scientists trust the maths: keep going.”

Lots of commenters point this out, and are a little cruel about the fact that even with his formula, he’s still single. OK, it’s pretty obvious that if your entire strategy is ‘go on lots of dates’ and you don’t then you will fail. But I’d like to propose that there needs to be a balance between quantity and quality. On the one hand, talking to a few people at a time means that he wouldn’t get so despondent if one person didn’t fancy him, because it would take the pressure off any one particular prospective date. When you go on few dates, it’s easier to feel rejected. And dating has a lot of rejection; because the odds of hitting it off with any one particular person are low. So you need to try to meet more people to increase the likelihood of finding someone with whom you share chemistry. Dating experience is very useful; it teaches you a lot about what you like and what you don’t, and what chemistry feels like. It’s fun. When I was dating around, I had some criteria I wouldn’t compromise on, but if a guy seemed decent and could hold an interesting convo, I tried to meet them. I had interesting conversations with all of them; I can’t really say I had any awkard or ‘horrible’ dates’; I guess  I selected for men who seemed smart and able to hold a conversation. After a date, I’d reflect before deciding I wouldn’t meet them again. Not only to make sure I wasn’t rejecting someone I got on well with, but also to see what I’d learned. I’m not always a ‘lust at first sight’ person, so the idea of rejecting people quickly seemed harsh. Sometimes you grow to like people after getting to know them a little. With the guy I’m currently seeing, I knew I’d want to see him again from the moment I saw him, but our first date almost didn’t feel like a first date because our messaging went really well. That was the only date I was nervous before, because I liked him before we met and I really hoped there’d be something there. Which is partly why I think people should engage with the process earnestly; if I’d just sent a couple of cursory messages before each of my dates before meeing, I feel I’d have had much less interesting converstions, and felt less attracted to people.

Like the Drake equation, online dating can present you only with a pool of suitable partners you could potentially meet. Attraction must be assessed in person, “and there is no formula for that”, says Seagull. Or at least not yet, he adds; he is confident that machine-learning technology will eventually be able “to read your mood, your mind … and detect bits of our personality” to predict the presence of that elusive spark.In decades to come, it may even be possible to simulate dates the same way that it is football matches now, modelling every variable – although, Seagull says, probably not soon enough to be of any use to him.

Oh, this is depressing. Would I really want AI to decide who I might be attracted to? Can we really trust an algorithm to predict who we’d feel chemistry  for? I mean, research suggests some of the chemistry is biological (see: BO and attraction). It’s frustrating when you go on a date and there’s no chemistry, but part of the fun is knowing you’ve picked someone yourself, and that they picked you. Sure, using criteria to help you sort can be useful, but you don’t want to be too prescriptive.

Honestly, I just found engaging anyone who had an interesting profile and was fun to chat with was the best way. The only way to meet people is just to start and see how it goes.