#pat reviews opera

[patreviewsopera]

Pat Reviews Opera is Back, Baby!

A lot of things have happened since the last time I reviewed an opera, which was, woah, over three years ago. That doesn't mean I have not been to the opera in that long. I just haven't written any reviews on them. My mind has been occupied elsewhere, both with changes in my private life, and... well... (gestures vaguely at the goings-on in this wretched war-ridden world).

Anyway!

Yesterday, I went to see Carmen at the Royal Swedish Opera. The same production as I've reviewed before. It's also where my icon is from. I loved it and had great fun, no notes!

Last time I was sitting right up front. Oh god, it was back in February 2020. Right before everything happened. Yesterday, too old and too graduated to qualify for the Opera's generous youth/student discount (50% off any seat), I sat high up and far from the stage, but equipped with these fancy opera glasses, that frankly cost more than I dare to admit.

And boy, did they elevate the experience! Not only did they do exactly what opera glasses are supposed to do, they're also really small and weigh next to nothing. They're going to be a steady companion to future shows. One of which is tomorrow!

Stay tuned for more reviews from yours truly.

[widevibratobitch]

my god. skinny people really just have like. No Idea huh just absolutely not a single clue lmao it's almost funny to watch fr but then id lie if i said i wouldn't fucking kill to be able to be that ignorant

[ulkaralakbarova]

The story of Florence Foster Jenkins, a New York heiress, who dreamed of becoming an opera singer, despite having a terrible singing voice. Credits: TheMovieDb. Film Cast: Florence Foster Jenkins: Meryl Streep St. Clair Bayfield: Hugh Grant Cosmé McMoon: Simon Helberg Kathleen Weatherley: Rebecca Ferguson Agnes Stark: Nina Arianda Phineas Stark: Stanley Townsend John Totten: Allan Corduner Earl Wilson: Christian McKay Carlo Edwards: David Haig Dr. Hermann: John Sessions Kitty: Brid Brennan Arturo Toscanini: John Kavanagh Mrs Vanderbilt: Pat Starr Mrs. James O’Flaherty: Maggie Steed Mrs Oscar Garmunder: Thelma Barlow Mrs EE Patterson: Liza Ross Baroness Le Feyre: Paola Dionisotti Mrs Patsy Snow: Rhoda Lewis Lily Pons: Aida Garifullina Augustus Corbin: David Mills Carlton Smith: David Menkin Cpl. Jones: Sid Phoenix Pvt. Smith: Tunji Kasim Orlando Adams: Carl Davis Microphone Engineer: Lloyd Hutchinson Elevator Operator: Richard Kilgour Ernest Ziegler: Jonathan Plowright Donaghy: Josh O’Connor Tallulah Bankhead: Nat Luurtsema Colonel: Ewan Stewart Gino: Cameron Cuffe News Vendor: John Guerrasio Edgar Booth Cunningham Jr: Elliot Levey Clifford B. Thornton III: Danny Mahoney Cole Porter: Mark Arnold Film Crew: Writer: Stephen Frears Director of Photography: Danny Cohen Screenplay: Nicholas Martin Producer: Michael Kuhn Producer: Tracey Seaward Editor: Valerio Bonelli Casting: Kathleen Chopin Casting: Leo Davis Casting: Lissy Holm Art Direction: Gareth Cousins Art Direction: Christopher Wyatt Production Design: Alan MacDonald Costume Design: Consolata Boyle Supervising Art Director: Patrick Rolfe Script Supervisor: Sue Hills Music Director: Terry Davies Music Editor: Stuart Morton Music Supervisor: Karen Elliott Assistant Costume Designer: Rosie Grant Costume Supervisor: Marion Weise Camera Operator: Iain Mackay Gaffer: Paul McGeachan Camera Operator: Lucy Bristow First Assistant Camera: Andrew Banwell First Assistant Camera: Iain Struthers Additional Camera: Jason Ewart Special Effects Supervisor: Manex Efrem Visual Effects Coordinator: Jenny King Visual Effects Producer: Noga Alon Stein Visual Effects Supervisor: Adam Gascoyne Visual Effects Editor: Edd Gamlin Sound Effects Editor: Phil Lee Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Dafydd Archard Sound Re-Recording Mixer: Mike Dowson Supervising Sound Editor: Becki Ponting Supervising Sound Editor: Ian Wilson Makeup Artist: J. Roy Helland Hairstylist: Anita Burger Hairstylist: Andrea Cracknell Hairstylist: Beverley Binda Makeup Designer: Daniel Phillips Makeup Artist: Karen Cohen Makeup Artist: Tahira Herold Wigmaker: Ray Marston Digital Intermediate: Rob Farris Digital Intermediate: Patrick Malone Digital Intermediate: Gemma McKeon First Assistant Editor: Karenjit Sahota Stunt Coordinator: Eunice Huthart Stunt Coordinator: Jo McLaren Assistant Art Director: Aoife Warren Original Music Composer: Alexandre Desplat Foley Artist: Andrea King Conceptual Design: Elo Soode Carpenter: Josh Wood Movie Reviews: Reno: **Nothing is greater than to have a supportive life partner by side.** I follow closely what films are announced and what are getting released. Sometimes its common that some films comes out without my knowledge, particularly non-Hollywood English language films. This British film was about a wealthy couple from the New York, especially the husband who tries his best to fulfill his seriously ill wife’s dream to be an opera singer. The problem is she’s not any good. Not just him, but everybody who is close to them and once laughed at her, try to understand them and give their support. But not all the occasion seems to remain the same. So on one such a big event, the disaster strikes and how it affects the couple is the rest of the tale to disclose. A very surprising film. I thought it was just a comedy like it brings small smiles on our face, but I laughed out loud on many occasions. This is definitely a right time, because I felt like it was a music and cinematic version of the American presidential candidate Don Trump. Yep, there not much difference, but still this ...

[daystar-daydreamer]

The Enemies of Jupiter my Caroline Lawrence

Category: Middle-grade

Genre: Historical drama

Rating: 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌑 4/5 stars

Recommended for: 7-10

Jonathan's father, Doctor Mordecai, is summoned to Rome to help the plague victims. The four young detectives are wanted too, as the Emperor Titus believes that they can find the mysterious enemy who seeks Rome's destruction.

Can the friends prevent disaster? And what is Jonathan's secret mission?

The Twelve Tasks of Flavia Gemina was… Mediocre (But it wasn’t as bad as Secrets of Vesuvius, so it gets a pat on the head for that!), so I’m just going to skip reviewing it. So onto the Enemies of Jupiter! 

As the series progresses, I can clearly see how the author’s improving. The characters are getting more fleshed out, the plot threads are more developed and connect with each other better, and the soap-opera elements are much less obnoxious. The story is about the kids trying to fix a prophecy to stop a plague going around Rome, and Jonathan in particular trying to set up a run-in between his parents. The story meanders sometimes, but it always comes back to those two central pillars, something which I found that previous books had struggled with. 

During this book, the emperor suspects that a fever sweeping through Rome is being caused by a prophecy about Prometheus, who was, in a way, the first doctor. So they investigated the doctors treating the plague, looking for the more arrogant ones - the ones who thought that were “one step down from Jupiter”. The doctor Nubia looked into, Diaulus, easily took the crown! She said that he thought he was one step up from Jupiter, which made me giggle. Lupus’s, Egnatius, thought that piss was a panacea. Yuck!

The climax, where Agathus, one of the emperor’s slaves, revealed himself to be trying to burn down all of Rome as revenge for what happened to Judea and forced Jonathan to help him was really exciting! I couldn’t stop reading as Jonathan tried to find a way to stop Agathus. And the ending where the fire started anyway had me on the edge of my seat. 

And poor Jonathan went and signed up to be a gladiator!

[aci32]

CANNIBAL CORPSE AND GORGUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey folks sorry for running 5 days late but better late than never, here's my 9th review of 2023: Cannibal Corpse and Gorguts!!!!!!! This was my 8th time seeing Cannibal Corpse as I saw them play a sold out show at Danforth Music Hall 10 months ago, which was 3 weeks before Walter Froebrich died so this was a bittersweet night since Cannibal Corpse was the last show I saw Walter at before his death. It was also the first time in 14 years I saw Cannibal Corpse at Rebel but it was then known as Sound Academy and it was when they were direct support for Hatebreed, and it was when CC blew Hatebreed clean off the stage.

Let's start the festivities!

By the time I arrived, Blood Incantation were finishing up their set and I remember they were nothing special when I saw them with Obituary and Immolation back in May.

After Blood Incantation it was time for GORGUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This was my 2nd time seeing them as I first saw them 9 years ago at Opera House when they were on the Decibel Tour where Carcass were the headliners and I remember Gorguts being awesome. They were incredible once again as they were kicking the ever loving shit out of Blood Incantation and hopefully someday when they return, they'll play a headlining show as they're absolutely incredible live. Here's their setlist:

1. Rottenatomy

2. Disincarnated

3. Bodily Corrupted

4. Considered Dead

5. Inoculated Life

6. Obscura

After Gorguts got off the stage, I went outside the smoking area to skip Mayhem's set as seeing them 3 times live was good enough for me especially seeing them play at Wacken Open Air 2017 when they played all of De Mysteriis Dom Satahanas from front to back since that's the album I like the best and I made a vow to myself "That's the final time I'm seeing Mayhem live because nothing tops this set" and I'm sticking with that vow because the 1st time I saw Mayhem live they were great, 2nd time they were boring, 3rd time they were boring but them playing all of De Mysteriis live salvaged their set for me. This was also the 3rd consecutive Rebel show where I skipped the direct support/1st co-headlining band as the previous two Rebel shows I went to which were Amon Amarth and Behemoth, Arch Enemy were on the bill both times and that was my queue to go out in the smoking area. It did feel great to get caught up with my friends.

After Mayhem it was time for the death metal juggernauts CANNIBAL CORPSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This was my 8th time seeing them and as I said earlier first time in 14 years seeing them at Rebel but back when it was known as Sound Academy, difference is 14 years ago they had Pat O'Brien in the lineup and this time around it's Erik Rutan on lead guitar. Also Corpsegrinder was funny once again with his in-between song banters as he said the following for the first one "I just heard somebody say 'Play something heavy' are your fucking ears working or not? I'll show you how heavy my fists are when I'm busting your skull. THAT'S RIGHT I'M FUCKIN PISSED OFF!!!! Listen I wouldn't hurt a soul, but you're a dumbass the same place they're having us. You obviously have no brains. But anyway, how the fuck are you doing besides Mr. Unheavy? It only takes a little bit to make me angry and yell at people. So this next song is for any one of you out there, except for Mr. Heavy because it's probably not good enough for ya. But it's for any of you out there who are probably interested in bangin' your fuckin' heads. TRY to keep up with me! You will FAIL MISERABLY, but you can still try, there is no harm in that. This is a fun little song, about SHOOTING BLOOD FROM YOUR COCK!!!!! IIIIIIIIII CUUUUUMMMMM BLOOOOOOODDDDD!!!!!" Then after Corpsegrinder finished headbanging at the beginning he yelled "I WIN!!!" Before he trolled the crowd with his last song spiel, he tried catching a stuffed animal being thrown at him and he said "Oh what a terrible catch I made" and my pal Stogie pointed out it was karma for him mocking people who dropped water bottles he would throw, but of course Corpsegrinder is not afraid to mock himself. Then he trolled the crowd before announcing "the last song" Stripped, Raped, and Strangled once again especially with him going " Wah, Wah, Wah, Wahhhhhhoh" and then he said before Hammer Smashed Face "I CAN'T HEAR YOUUUUUUUUUU" Here's their setlist:

1. Scourge of Iron

2. Blood Blind

3. Disfigured

4. Eviscerated Plague

5. Inhumane Harvest

6. Death Walking Terror

7. Chaos Horrific

8. I Cum Blood

9. Summoned for Sacrifice

10. Pounded Into Dust

11. Disposal of the Body

12. Pit of Zombies

13. Stripped, Raped, and Strangled

14. Hammer Smashed Face

Overall an awesome show, even though 1st and 3rd bands were hit and miss, and a great way to spend a Wednesday night and as always Rebel still sucks and blows.

HEAVY METAL FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[thebowerypresents]

Drive-By Truckers Leave Them Wanting More at Webster Hall on Friday

Drive-By Truckers – Webster Hall – February 21, 2020

For those paying attention, Drive-By Truckers have been shining a light on the deep wounds of America for more than 20 years. Led by master storytellers—and simpatico songwriting and musical partners—Patterson Hood and Mike Cooley, the band has an unimpeachable catalog of rough-edged heartland rock that owes just as much to Crazy Horse and the Replacements as it does to Lynryd Skynyrd. While the Truckers have made a stir with their casual Southern fans by calling out the hypocrisies of the Republican party and their inaction with the rising rate of senseless school shootings and race bating on their last album, 2016’s American Band, the five-piece doubled down on their art-depicts-our-shit-show-of-American-life muse with their newest album, The Unraveling. With such politically charged tracks as “Thoughts and Prayers” and “21st Century USA,” Hood and Cooley aren’t releasing any steam from the pressure valve, and they brought their tour in support of the new LP to a packed Webster Hall on Friday night.

When I interviewed Hood last year while the band was working on the album, he leveled with me regarding how his frustrations with the political direction of our country have started to dig inward resulting in a more personal set of songs than American Band. “It’s probably just coming to terms with this world that we’re in right now,” Hood told me. “It’s maybe not as blatantly political as the last album, but it’s definitely part of it. But a more, kind of personal slant of it, I guess. How do you explain this shit to your kids?” It was bound to hit Hood this way. After all, this is the guy who wrote the songs “Puttin’ People on the Moon” and “The Righteous Path.”

The Truckers dove right into the proceedings with Cooley’s “Made Up English Oceans” before moving on to some of the new album’s darker material with “Rosemary with a Bible and a Gun,” “Slow Ride Argument” and “Heroin Again”—each track direct with its subject matter, and like the best Drive-By Truckers songs, acts as uncomfortable but necessary ice breakers and hard pills to swallow. But while we’re mentioning the band’s need to shake up things lyrically, we should also discuss how hard they rock. No matter your political affiliation, you cannot deny the power of this band’s three-guitar assault of Hood, Cooley and multi-instrumentalist Jay Gonzalez, the surplus of riffs surrounding the messages being conveyed.

While Friday’s performance showcased much of The Unraveling, Drive-By Truckers dug deep with some of their most beloved songs, one of the three best Cooley-penned tunes, “Women Without Whiskey,” an early set highlight, before the one-two punch of Southern Rock Opera’s first two numbers, “Days of Graduation” into a particularly raucous rendition of “Ronnie and Neil.” There were only a few moments of preaching from Hood during the marathon-length show, the songs doing the actual sermonizing, but ahead of “Babies in Cages,” he mentioned that Jeremy Christian, who had stabbed multiple people (one of whom Hood loosely knew) on a train in Portland, Ore., was sentenced earlier in the day, and that although he was happy this horrible person was getting the time he deserved, Hood hoped Christian lived long enough to understand the error of his ways.

After hitting the 20-song mark, the Truckers treated the rapt crowd to a rousing cover of the Ramones’ “The KKK Took My Baby Away,” bassist Matt Patton handling lead vocals. From there on out it was all classics, including the bleak desperation of Hood’s “Lookout Mountain” and Cooley’s other two greatest songs, the love-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks duo of “Marry Me” and “Zip City.” Ditching the idea of an encore, Drive-By Truckers rocketed through the finish line at the end of their two-and-a-half-hour set with the Hood sing-along “Hell No, I Ain’t Happy.” The fire behind the pummeling riffs and Hood’s convictions were palpable, and at one point, Cooley and Gonzalez lifted their guitars in the air to slide their fret boards against each other’s to create a striking mix of distortion and feedback. As the lights came up, there was nothing left unsaid but, as always with the Truckers, plenty left not played. But that’s the trick: Leave ’em wanting more. —Pat King | @MrPatKing

[rainy-day-gracie]

To Lose a Bet

HELLO !!

This was a request for Spencer and Reader to be dating and have a bet going on who out of the team has figured it out. 

FILLED with fluff, and implied smut :) thank you for requesting, I had so much fun writing !! 

MASTERLIST

__

“I’m sure Hotch has already figured it out,” I joked to Spencer in the elevator. “He can see things through walls, everyone knows that.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t even know if Hotch really even cares if he does know… Who else do you think knows?”

“JJ knows something’s up, but she doesn’t think that we’re-” The elevator opened, making us in earshot of Garcia and Morgan who were deep in a compliment battle. I nodded my head, as if we were in the midst of a professional conversation. “So, yeah… I’ll let you know about those reports-”

Spencer huffed, playing along. “Yes, I’ll review them and get back to you… whenever.”

I tried to suppress a giggle as I heard Morgan pull Spencer aside by the elevator. “Man, do you know if YLN is single? Because a woman like that… there’s no way she’s single… is there?”

Garcia jumped in, adding to the conversation as I walked away. “I saw a hickey on her neck the other day, she tried to hide it but there’s only so much powder can do.”

I stopped by the water fountain, laughing into the faucet as I heard Spencer’s reply. “Um, I don’t know… I don’t know, if she’s single I mean, or about the hickey. Um, I’m getting coffee, you guys want any?”

Once in my office and my laughing fit had passed, I texted Spencer. 

You are one smooth dude

His reply made me laugh even harder. 

Don’t I know it? :)

__

Spencer dropped a stack of files in my office, a sticky note stuck on top. He put the files on my desk and left, a hint of a smile across his face. The sticky note was covered in Spencer’s chicken scratch handwriting. 

$200 to whoever is the closest My bet: Hotch, Rossi, Prentiss know Garcia, JJ, Morgan don’t know

Later that day, I was briefing the team on a new case in Seattle and slipped a note in his pants pocket as we left to board the jet. 

My bet:  Hotch, Rossi, Garcia know Morgan, JJ, Prentiss don’t know You’re on pretty boy :)

Spencer was determined to embarrass me on the jet. I could see it in his face, the twinkle in his eye. 

“Hey YLN, what were you saying about the new guy you’re seeing?” Spencer asked out of the blue while reviewing the case. 

The team was suddenly extremely uninterested in the case, paying close attention to the question Spencer had asked me. 

“Do you have a new man?” Prentiss asked, eyeing me closely. 

A smile came to my face, and I hit Spencer lightly on the arm beside me. “Reid, I told you that in a private conversation.”

Spencer just shrugged innocently. “Oops, forgot that part.”

“I knew you were seeing someone!” JJ said with a grin. “No single person smiles as much as you have in the last few months.”

I tried to hide the blush on my face by looking down at my files, thankfully saved by Garcia’s video call.

“Why is everyone smiling?” She asked, examining the faces of everyone on the jet. 

“YLN is just getting a little lovin’, that’s all.” Morgan replied, a smirk coming to his face. 

Garcia gasped, then furrowed her eyebrows in curiosity. “Who is he?”

Spencer looked over at me with a sly grin. “Yeah, who is he, YLN?”

I made a mental note to slap him when we were in private. “He is going to be a mystery man for now.”

The jet groaned in disappointment, and Spencer winked at me when no one was looking. 

I slipped him a note while Hotch was giving assignments. 

Prentiss didn’t know, Hotch and Rossi didn’t even blink Hope you have $200 to spare, genius

__

After solving the case in two days, Hotch agreed to let us have the night off and enjoy the city of Seattle. 

Spencer shot me a text as the team started to leave the police station. 

I think your stomach hurts. 

I furrowed my eyebrows, looking at him from across the room. He quickly explained, sending another text. 

I think your stomach hurts and you need me to drive you back to the hotel.

I tried not to laugh, faking a grimace as JJ walked past me. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah... my stomach just hurts really bad, probably something I ate.” I held my gut like it was hurting, and I saw Spencer coming up beside JJ. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t go out drinking with the team, we don’t want you do be sick,” JJ put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and Spencer spoke up. 

“I can drive you to the hotel, I didn’t really want to go out tonight anyway,” Spencer said, looking to me then back to JJ. I tried not to laugh at our stupid lie, JJ rubbing my shoulder like the mom she is. 

In no time at all, Spencer and I were in the SUV driving back to the hotel. 

We piled up in the room I was sharing with Prentiss, watching a stupid soap opera and drinking out of the mini bar. 

Two characters on the screen started having sex, their butts and boobs concealed by carefully placed furniture. 

“Do you wanna do that?” Spencer whispered in my ear, his arm resting across my shoulder.

I laughed at his question. “Wow... that was so smooth, Spencer.”

“So... is that a no?”

I swung my leg over his lap, straddling his hips. “When did I say that?”

Spencer laced his hands roughly in my hair, crashing my lips onto his. Drunk hookups were rarely any fun, but buzzed hookups were where it was at. 

His tongue pressed gently against mine at first, and he suddenly flipped us over to where his heart beat over mine on the bed. 

“We do have some time to kill before the team comes back,” Spencer murmured, his lips attaching to my neck. __

“What the hell?” A voice yelled, light from the hotel hallway illuminating the dark room. 

“Oh shit,” I murmured sleepily against Spencer’s bare chest, turning my head towards the voice. “Prentiss, you’re back?”

“You’re asking me the questions? Do either of you even have underwear on?” Prentiss stared at us tangled up in bed like she had we’d grown a third eye. 

“Nope,” Spencer answered before I could stop him. “We were both tired after... you know, so we just went to sleep.”

Prentiss just opened and closed her mouth, and JJ at that moment chose to join her in the doorway. 

“Oh my God, Garcia was right.” JJ said with raised eyebrows. 

I tried to understand what she had said in my sleepy brain. “Garcia was right about what?”

“That you two were dating, we had a bet going. Prentiss just thought you guys would drunkenly hook up, I thought you were just friends, and Garcia was totally convinced you were dating,” JJ said flatly. “Guess Garcia wins, since neither of you guys are drunk.”

I turned back to Spencer, who was staring at Prentiss and JJ with wide eyes. “I told you, pretty boy! I am so getting at 200 bucks!” __

Breakfast the next morning was... awkward to say the least. The team all sat around a table, eating the hotel breakfast in silence. Finally Morgan couldn’t take it anymore. “What’s going on? It can’t be just me getting weird vibes.”

Prentiss looked to Spencer and I across the table and smirked. “I found an... interesting view when I got back to my room last night.”

Morgan furrowed his eyebrows. “What was it?”

“Reid and YLN are dating, and they lost track of time last night, as you might say.”

Morgan was completely dumbfounded, looking from me to Spencer then back to me. 

“Close your mouth Morgan, you look like a fish. Those two have been dating since April.” Rossi said casually, taking a sip of his coffee. 

Hotch nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, but they’ve only been sleeping together since late June.”

I laughed hysterically at their comments, gaining the attention of the people around us. “How... did you... know that?” 

Rossi and Hotch just shrugged. “Profiling.”

I giggled, patting Spencer on the back next to me. “Oh wow... you officially owe me $200, genius.”

Spencer just down at his coffee with a blank expression. “This is the first time in my life I’ve ever lost a bet.”

TAG LIST : 

@squirrellover1967 @yomama-umbridge @vixengustin88 @tiktokslut @ sknnymnne

[hologramcowboy]

Late Night with Seth Meyers Review

Outfit: 😕/10

The Marcus special- poor tailoring, earth tones, and an outfit that should be cohesive but there’s something off about it that I just can’t quite put my finger on. I get that he’s Danneel’s friend, but maybe Jensen should go back to dressing himself and let Marcus use Danneel and the cast of The Winchesters as his mannequins/victims.

I love Seth Meyers, he’s a fantastic talk show host and an extremely witty, charming man. When I saw that Jensen was going to be on his show, I knew that if he couldn’t make Jensen look good in an interview then there’s just no hope for Jensen when it comes to press.

Seth did a fantastic job, this is the best interview Jensen has ever done. He was still nervous, but Seth is so engaging and charming that Jensen really shined and instead of sitting there giving the same three answers he was laughing and giving fun little anecdotes. I like that Seth talked about all of his career from the soap opera days to animated films because people (AAs) act like those are jobs to be ashamed of and they’re not! I also liked that he wasn’t trying to sell Danneel as the perfect wife/partner the way he has been in written interviews recently. No one wants to hear about your washed up wife Jensen, most people don’t even know she exists. A fantastic, Jensen centric interview about his work. There were some butthurt AAs in the comments complaining that he wasn’t getting enough applause, but we all know that those people don’t actually like Jensen and will never be pleased with anything he does. If you watch any of his three interviews, just watch this one and skip Live with Kelly & Ryan and Good Morning America.

I hated his outfit completely, those colors are awful on him and wash him out, wrong tones completely and that shirt aged him. Those awful shoes made an appearance again. Sorry, I have a problem with those, clearly. lol Marcus is not my type of stylist at all. He has no idea how to dress Jensen in a way that flatters his type of beauty and uniqueness. So instead of rating Jensen's outfit, I'll rate Marcus' on this one since he's the one who chose it: 0. One thing to note is Jensen told the story about the costume yet again, he's very repetitive, I also found his Kripke mention to be somewhat of a self pat on the back and the audience didn't even react as a result. You're right in acknowledging he felt more at ease and was able to express himself more which is always beautiful to see, like you noted, that's easy when the host is so fantastic. I too appreciate Seth and I also appreciate your posts, highly entertaining and high quality. I love how this post ultimately also reads as a commercial for Late Night with Seth Meyers. You surely already know this but I feel I should point out you have great talent when it comes to communication and writing so my guess is you either work in the entertainment business OR your job involves a lot of communication. Whichever it is, I hope you keep expressing yourself through writing and I also selfishly hope you send me the link to your blog or website if you have one.

Reference: X

Part I of III: X, Part II of III: X

[thinking-aromanticism]

Do allos really think that?

This is a post for the Carnival of Aros (August 2021). The prompt I chose is “What are some things you do to mitigate the impact of amatonormativity on yourself, such as with self-care practices?“

-

Encountering amatonormative sentiments in media can be deeply alienating. Whether it’s a casual comment or the basis of a whole plot, the idea that (committed, monogamous, sexual, man/woman) romantic relationships are necessary for human happiness can leave you feeling isolated, pitied, misunderstood, vilified, pressured, and more alone than ever. There are a lot of ways to react to process these feelings and the texts that inspire them. Critiquing or transforming the text through meta, headcanons, fanfiction, and other personal or community based reflection, walking away and not looking back, and talking through the feelings that the texts inspire. 

One particular question-critique that I see in a lot of aromantic discussions around media containing amatonormative sentiments is: do allos really believe this shit? They believe it, don’t they. Ugh, allos really believe this shit, huh.

But like, do they?

You may find it relieving to consider that a lot of the time the answer is no. Much of the time, you can find direct evidence for this in relation to specific media. Much of the rest of the time, you can extrapolate for yourself from general social attitudes and common analyses.

The Mirror Has Two Faces is a deeply amatonormative movie. A short summary: mathematics professor Gregory Larkin is tired of conventional relationships. He loses his professional focus and emotional composure in sexual relationships with romantic partners, but he wants company, connection, a person to be with. So he puts out a personal ad seeking a woman for a sexless relationship. This ad is answered by the sister of one Rose Morgan, an English professor at the same university whose unsupportive family and failed romantic affairs have left her feeling frumpy and alone. So pushed together, Rose and Gregory strike up an intellectual relationship, then marriage and cohabitation. She wants sex, he doesn’t. She gets a makeover, feels beautiful, leaves him, and the movie ends with him finally voicing the passionate love she wanted from him and them making out in the street while a neighbor sings opera off the balcony.

The movie casually equates sex, love, and romance. It supposes that a monogamous, sexual, romantic relationship between a man and a woman is the foundation for a happy life. It frames sexless romantic relationships as silly and doomed, and nonromantic sexual relationships as somewhere between impossible and cruel. It waffles a bit on whether achieving sexual desirability is a genuine antidote for low self esteem, but seems to suggest that it certainly couldn’t hurt.

Do allos really buy into this? Well, when it came out, reviewer Todd McCarthy called it “a very old-fashioned wish-fulfillment romantic comedy” and Edward Guthmann a "a silly affirmation fantasy.” Lisa Schwarzbaum claimed that “No modern romantic comedy could be more manufactured or … awful.” This wasn’t just a shitty movie. Barbra Streisand was praised for her appeal as a diva, and Lauren Bacall got a Golden Globe for best supporting actress. Culture writers in 1996, whether they liked the movie or not, consciously knew that this was a soppy, contrived plot cooked up for gay men to sigh over glamour shots of aging starlets and straight women to sigh over the idea of every family member and romantic interest in their lives lining up to apologize for not loving them in the right ways at the right time.

Granted, the reviews aren’t all so cynical, Roger Ebert of all people having opined that “it's rare to find a film that deals intelligently with issues of sex and love,” seemingly just because the movie addressed the concept of a relationship without sex. But in no small part, alloromantic-majority audiences recognize this movie as representing a scenario that is fun to think about but not reflective of real or ideal life.

Disney’s Beauty and the Beast is an amatonormative fairy tale - that alloromantic audiences frequently critique and that exists within a long textual tradition of likewise-critiqued adaptations of the same basic story, carrying differing and often complex messages about men, women, relationships, domesticity, threat, appearance, and love. If Disney doesn’t suit, why not investigate C. S. E. Cooney’s (NSFW, kinky, polyamorous) “Witch, Beast, Saint”, or some feminist film criticism? Learning the history of the story might inform, and give some better ground for understanding how the Beauty and the Beast tale has been produced and reproduced socially and how it functions as a romantic fantasy. Disney has also followed it up with multiple films about family, friendship, community, and culture, including films that have explicitly referenced the frequent feminist criticisms of romantic fairytales. Whether these films offer genuine insight into the problematics of the Disney ouvre is up for debate, but it shows that these criticisms are mainstream and that the empire of the Mouse has, at least performatively, turned away from such pat fare.

Amatonormativity in media is alienating and corny and makes for tired, unrealistic stories. And you are not alone in feeling that way! Your concerns are reflected in the mainstream, and there is plentiful, incisive criticism at every level of culture writing, academia, and blogging analyzing how amatonormative tropes set up unrealistic expectations, excuse toxic behavior, and create a social environment of romantic pressure.

When I read or watch or listen to media that features amatonormative, troubling representations of life and relationships, I think critically: what’s going on in these stories? Who is the intended audience? What is the author’s intent? Are these tropes that I’ve seen criticized before? By who? How frequently? What are the criticisms I’ve seen? What criticisms am I inclined to formulate? Based on my knowledge of popular and academic media analysis, how do I think others will react to this media? I look into professional reviews and fan discussions, and see what other people think. And much of the time, I find that other people are thinking critically too, and that other people have seen the cracks. I consider that many of these stories are meant to be compartmentalized as fantasy, and are produced specifically for audiences hungry for them.

Do alloromantics really believe in all this true love’s kiss, happily ever after stuff? I am comforted to come to the conclusion that the answer is, in large if not universal part, a hand-wobbling “well, what’s love anyway, it’s complicated, isn’t it?”

[ejzah]

A/N: This idea was originally suggested by @mashmaiden and is the next in a series about Deeks at FLETC, but deviates from canon. I put took me a very long time to figure out and I’m still not sure if I am fully happy with it.

In a previous fic, an instructor had asked Deeks to speak on his experience when he was tortured by Sidorov. Since this deals with some events from Descent/Ascension, there is mention of violence, trauma, and PTSD symptoms.

***

A Matter of Experience

Deeks let out a very long breath as he waited for other students to arrive. After a lot of consideration, he had decided to grant Flores’ “offer”. He still absolutely hated the idea, but he knew he was technically doing Flores a favor. Plus, Flores wasn’t wrong. Most of the current candidates had never experienced anything as traumatic as he had.

He hoped they never would.

The night before he’d spent a couple hours going over a rough draft of his presentation. Deeks had also covered some ground rules with Flores. Although he had no control over what questions his classmates would ask, he reserved the right to refuse to answer.

Pulling in another long breath, he closed his eye and rolled his neck a couple of times.

“You ok, Deeks?” Flores asked, actually looking concerned. He had an odd mixture of ruthlessness and deep understanding which didn’t necessarily work well together.

“Yeah, fine. I’m good.” He felt vaguely queasy and restless, but he wasn’t about to tell Flores that. “We never discussed what I should do if no one has questions,” he added. “Do you have a back up lecture?”

“Oh believe me, there’s always questions with this case. We’ll be lucky if we get out on time.” He seemed to realize that he sounded a little insensitive. “Based on what I’ve heard about you, you can handle this Deeks. But if you changed your mind, I won’t judge you.”

That strange feeling of embarrassment returned, but he didn’t have time to evaluate it or respond to Flores as other students started trickling in.

Deeks had purposely chosen a chair to the side and a few rows in where he wouldn’t be too obvious, but could get up without too much trouble. Flores gave them a couple minutes to settle and then walked to the front of the room.

“Good Morning, everyone. I hope you’re all managing your classes alright,” he said. “For today’s class we will be focusing on case study 9.”

He paused as the majority of the class flipped to the appropriate page. Deeks’ pulse pounded faintly in his ears and he swallowed twice, closing his eyes briefly. Even if the details weren’t burned into his memory, he’d reviewed the case, just to be sure he wasn’t caught off guard.

It was surprisingly straightforward, not overly gratuitous and Flores reviewed the details with surprising speed. There was no getting past the pictures though. They were graphic, nauseating. He knew the exact moment everyone saw them and heard someone behind him whisper his name.

When Flores ended the lecture, which was over much faster than Deeks would have liked, he nodded to Deeks and added,

“Now some of you may know that one of your colleagues was involved in this case and he was kind enough to agree to share his experiences with us.” Deeks stood up, joining Flores at the front of the room. “Please welcome Marty Deeks, former LAPD Detective.” Flores gave him what he guessed was supposed to be a supportive pat on the arm and then sat down a few feet away.

It was clear that many of the candidates hadn’t made the connection between him and the battered guy in their text book, but as he glanced around, realized that maybe half the class were watching him with the same strange reverence Omar, Jake, and Charlie had when they first met.

Clearing his throat, he pulled in yet another shallow breath and glanced down at the small stack of notecards in his hand, then stuffed them in his pocket.

“As, uh, Instructor Flores said, I’m Marty Deeks,” he started, pausing to clear his throat again. “But most people just call me Deeks. If any of you have spent more than a few minutes around me, you’ve probably figured out that I have a terrible habit of talking too much.”

A couple people chuckled, but most stayed silent, some looking curious, others intrigued, and a few, mainly Alan, outright suspicious. He’d expected some skepticism since, as usual, he didn’t fit into the mold they expected.

“Like it says in that case study, Agent Hanna and I were captured and held by a Russian arms dealer. They took turns torturing us-“ He swallowed harshly, holding back the shiver that crept up his spine and continued. “to gain information about a colleague who was undercover.

“They had us in separate rooms, but I could still see what they were doing to Agent Hanna. I couldn’t do anything though because I was bound to a chair. I could only watch as they electrocuted him and wait to see what else they had planned for me.”

Before he could continued, Alan raised his hand, his gaze almost defiant and angry as he waited for him to respond.

“Did you have a question?” Deeks asked mildly.

“What was it like?” he said, watching Deeks eagerly, and maybe with a touch of disbelief in his voice as he eyed him. “The case study mentioned that you experienced dental trauma, but it didn’t really go into detail.”

Flores started to intercede from behind him, but Deeks held up a hand, holding him back. If Alan wanted details, he could give him details. He’d avoided the guy as much as possible and put his arrogance and aggressiveness down to immaturity, but now Deeks was truly annoyed.

“No it’s ok.” He smiled tightly at Alan. “One guy shoved this metal device in my mouth so I couldn’t close it. Then Sidorov got out a drill and demanded to know the truth. The whole time I was lying my ass off, trying to keep it together even though I knew he was going to stick that thing in my mouth.”

His breath hitched a little as he felt the phantom pain of the drill bit obliterating his teeth. Someone swore under their breath and Deeks felt perverse satisfaction when Alan squirmed uncomfortably.

Forcing the memories back, he took a couple of slow breaths and then added,

“I ended up with multiple broken teeth, damage to my mandible, and shredded gums-so yeah, dental trauma as they so nicely put it.” Maybe that was going a step too far, but it seemed pointless and Flores had wanted them to know what it was really like. “It took years for me to stop flinching when I heard a drill or to make it through getting my teeth cleaned without almost knocking the hygienist’s lights out. To this day, it’s probably the single most horrific thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Everyone’s eyes were on him, the anticipation and tension almost tangible. A woman-he thought her name was possibly Maria-raised her hand and Deeks nodded for her to speak. Unlike some of her peers, she wasn’t staring at him like he was a particularly interesting soap opera.

“You said it took you years to get over the trauma,” she started a little hesitantly. “Exactly how long did it take?”

“I wish I could tell you that there’s a point when it no longer affects you, but it never really happens,” Deeks said with a gentle smile, sorry he couldn’t give her the answer she so clearly wanted. He saw her face fall and he realized just how young she was and probably pretty horrified at this point. “The memories and dreams and all the other symptoms can lessen over time. They never go away though. That trauma, those scars, they are with you forever.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do about it?” Another student asked, sounding annoyed and maybe a little scared. “If something like this happens to us, we just live with the trauma for the rest of our lives.”

Deeks shook his head.

“No, there’s a lot you can do. Go to therapy, let the people you love help you, and whatever you do, don’t isolate yourself.” A memory of eating bad takeout with Kensi when he was at his lowest point and added, “Whatever you do, don’t try to face if alone. Believe me, your friends and family will be everything.”

The questions continued for the remainder of the class and as Flores predicted, they went over by 15 minutes. Deeks was completely exhausted and a little shaky, but overall not as much as he had expected. He would probably pay the price for being so explicit about his injuries with a resurgence of nightmares.

“Nice work,” Instructor Flores complimented him as he was packing up his notes and untouched book. “I didn’t expect you to be that...open.”

Deeks grimaced, realizing that he’d basically taken over the class and gone completely off script from what they discussed.

“Sorry, I guess I got a little carried away.”

“No, you got the point across. And that’s what they needed.” Flores patted his arm and nodded his appreciation. “Thank you.”

Deeks left the room, intending to skip lunch and go straight to bed until his next class. Maybe he’d get in a quick call to Kensi. The sound of her voice sounded very appealing and comforting right now. He was about halfway down the hall when someone called out,

“Deeks!” He groaned, recognizing Alan’s distinctive voice and turned as he approached, not up for dealing with him at the moment. He stopped a couple feet from Deeks, eyeing him warily.

“Was Everything you said in there true?” he asked and Deeks rolled his eyes, huffing out an exasperated sigh.

“No, Alan. I just made it up so I could get free implants,” Deeks answered derisively. “Now are you done trying to intimidate me? Talking about the guys who drilled holes in my mouth is a little bit exhausted.”

Alan flinched, but didn’t back down.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you.” He glared at Deeks as though he’d done something wrong.

“So implying that I embellished a case to make myself sound better isn’t an insult?” Alan muttered a fairly creative curse under his breath and then said,

“I’m sorry for what I said the first time we met. I was wrong about you, ok?” He shook his head, jaw clenched like the words were almost painful for him to say. Looking at the ground, he admitted, “Look, I’m struggling with a lot of the courses.”

“And you’re telling this to the guy you hate because...?” Deeks asked, not overly surprised to hear that Alan wasn’t doing well. He’d heard quite a few stories about him clashing with instructors among other things.

“Because I need help and you seem to actually know what you’re doing,” Alan said bluntly, apparently past his embarrassment. “So what do I need to do?”

Deeks blinked at him for a second, resisting the urge to laugh. Even in a moment of crisis, the guy was still making demands.

“Well one thing that I always have to remind myself about is to not let yourself get cocky.“

Alan gave him an incredulous look and shook his head.

“What? That’s your expert advice? Don’t be cocky.”

“A piece of it. It’s easy to get full of yourself. I do it all the time, but there’s always room to grow. New things to learn,” Deeks told him with a shrug.

“What could you possibly have to learn?” Alan asked acerbically. “I’ve seen you in most of these classes and you don’t even break a sweat. It’s freaking annoying.”

Deeks actually did laugh then and nodded.

“I do have a lot of experience. Like you pointed out, I’m the old guy.” Alan didn’t look amused so he sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Look, if you want you can join the study sessions I have with some of other guys. But if you do, you need to lose the attitude because there’s not time for that.”

Alan clenched his jaw, but nodded in apparent agreement.

“I’ll think about it.” With that he turned abruptly, adding a terse, “Thanks.” As he walked away.

Deeks just watched him go, shaking his head, and glanced down at his watch. If he hurried he could maybe just squeeze in a half hour nap and the call to Kensi.

***

A/N: I know this one ends a little abruptly, but I figure I’ll be writing more in this series.

[richardnixonlibrary]

#Nixon50 #OTD 11/6/1971 First Lady Pat Nixon hosted a White House tour and tea for members of the Central Opera Service (COS), which was a department of the Metropolitan Opera National Council. The COS documented opera productions in the United States and collected review clippings from 1954 until 1990 when it was dissolved. The COS archive is held by the OPERA America organization. (Image: WHPO-7752-06, 10, 12)

[scotianostra]

On September 5th 1750, the poet Robert Fergusson was born in the Canongate in Edinburgh.

Although still relatively unknown, Fergusson was one of the most influential writers of his time despite dying at the tender age of 24, I wonder how many of you have maybe posed at his statue outside Cangate Kirkyard, but paid little attention to who he was?

Fergusson was brought up initially in Edinburgh but then moved to Dundee where he attended high school before being matriculated to the St Andrews University in 1765.

After the death of his father and completing his studies, the responsibility for supporting his mother fell upon Fergusson and he moved back to Edinburgh, taking up a post as a copyist. This caused some friction with his uncle as Fergusson had essentially rejected the excepted professions of the time such as lawyer or going into the church as a priest.

There is plenty of reason to believe that the young Fergusson had started developing his poetic sensibilities whilst at St Andrews, including beginning work on a play about Scottish brave-heart William Wallace. Moving to Edinburgh allowed Fergusson to get to known the writers and other artistic talent in the city, and he mixed largely in bohemian circles, befriending William Woods who managed some of the theatres there.

At the time, he also became friends with opera singer Tenducci who was touring the country with his company. This was when Fergusson was asked to produce Scottish songs for the Edinburgh section of the tour and marked his first published work. Buoyed by his success he began to produce satirical and pastoral poems for the Weekly Review that was run by Walter Ruddiman.

His initial offerings were traditional poems but it wasn’t long before Fergusson began writing verses that were considered more ‘Scots’. In 1772 he published The Draft Days which drew a good deal of attention and from then on he would submit poems in both English and the Scots dialect. His popularity also grew and in 1773 a collection of his work was published by Ruddiman which sold well enough for Fergusson to earn some money from his artistic endeavours.

Fergusson wrote his most well-known work, Auld Reekie, about this time and was confident enough of success to arrange to publish it himself. It was intended to be part of a much longer poem and provides an engaging and masterful portrait of Edinburgh at the time.

Unfortunately, Fergusson also suffered from bouts of depression and, if any further work was done on the poem it was probably destroyed by him in one of his darker moments.

Fergusson became a member of the famous Cape Club that would regularly meet in a local hostelry in the city. Each member of the club had a name and characteristic attached to them and drawings from the time show Fergusson as ‘Mr Precentor’.

Towards the middle of 1773, despite his growing success and popularity, Fergusson’s work grew a little darker and included Poem to the Memory of John Cunningham where he wrote about his fears of suffering a similar fate and ending up in a mental institution or asylum.

At the end of 1774, Fergusson suffered from an injury to his head and, though details are sketchy, did indeed end up in the Edinburgh equivalent of Bedlam. Two weeks later he was dead, at the tender age of 24, and had been buried in an unmarked plot in the city cemetery.

Now that may have been the end to the story and our fine Edinburgh poet may well have disappeared into obscurity if it weren't for Robert Burns arrived in Edinburgh in 1786, he made a pilgrimage to the Canongate kirkyard to pay his respects to the young man who had inspired his poetry and whose grave lay unmarked for 12 years since his death at the age of 24 in October 1774.

Had Robert Fergusson lived and written more than one slim volume of poems, Scotland might now have two national bards and celebrate Fergusson Night with a feast of his favourite seafood on September 5th, the date of the neglected poet's birth in 1750.

Burns himself acknowledged it long ago, when he paid for the headstone that now marks Fergusson's grave and composed a heartfelt inscription:

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompus lay,

No story'd urn nor animated bust;

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way

To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.

The pics are from one of my many visits to Canongate, I always try and pop in and pay my respects to the man.

From Auld Reekie.....

… Now morn, with bonny purpie-smiles,

Kisses the air-cock o’ St Giles;

Rakin their een, the servant lasses

Early begin their lies and clashes;

Ilk tells her friend o’ saddest distress,

That still she brooks frae scouling mistress;

And wi her joe in turnpike stair

She’d rather snuff the stinking air,

As be subjected to her tongue,

When justly censur’d in the wrong.

On stair wi tub, or pat in hand,

The barefoot housemaids loo to stand,

That antrin fock may ken how snell

Auld Reikie will at morning smell:

Then, with an inundation big as

The burn that ‘neath the Nore Loch Brig is,

They kindly shower Edina’s roses,

To quicken and regale our noses.

Now some for this, wi satire’s leesh,

Hae gien auld Edinburgh a creesh:

But without souring nocht is sweet;

The morning smells that hail our street

Prepare, and gently lead the way

To simmer canty, braw and gay;

Edina’s sons mair eithly share

Her spices and her dainties rare,

Than he that’s never yet been call’d

Aff frae his plaidie or his fauld.

Now stairhead critics, senseless fools,

Censure their aim, and pride their rules,

In Luckenbooths, wi glowring eye,

Their neighbour’s sma’est faults descry:

If ony loun should dander there,

Of aukward gate and foreign air,

They trace his steps, till they can tell

His pedigree as weel’s himsel …

[phroyd]

Rest In Peace, Alex! - Phroyd

Alex Trebek, who became known to generations of television viewers as the quintessential quizmaster, bringing an air of bookish politesse to the garish coli­seum of game shows as the longtime host of “Jeopardy!,” died Nov. 8 at 80.

The official “Jeopardy!” Twitter account announced the death without further details.

Mr. Trebek had suffered a series of health reversals in recent years, including two heart attacks and brain surgery, and was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 2019. He continued to host new episodes of his show until production was suspended in March because of the coronavirus pandemic, and then filmed socially distanced episodes that began airing Sept. 14.

For more than three decades, Mr. Trebek was a daily presence in millions of households, earning near-rabid loyalty for the intellectual challenge of his show, in which questions were presented as answers and answers were delivered in the form of questions. By the time of his death, “Jeopardy!” was one of the most popular and longest-lasting programs of its kind in TV history.

Mr. Trebek, the self-made son of a hotel chef, had no sequined co-presenter to match Vanna White on host Pat Sajak’s “Wheel of Fortune.” His show neither attracted nor allowed histrionics, no galloping, shrieking contestants such as those summoned to “Come on down!” on “The Price Is Right” with Bob Barker. Even the “Jeopardy!” theme song, one of the most recognizable jingles on television, was restrained in its dainty dings.

There was no “hot seat” like the chair for contestants on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” with Regis Philbin — a show that “Jeopardy!” purists disdained for its elementary subject matter and inflated prize money.

On “Jeopardy!” there were only questions and answers — or rather, answers and then questions — leavened by the briefest of banter before Mr. Trebek directed his three contestants back to business.

He became known, a reporter for the New Republic magazine once observed, for his “crisp enunciation, acrobatic inflections [and] hammy dignity” as he primly — and with precise pronunciation — relayed clues in categories such as “European Cuisine,” “U.S. Geography,” “Ballet and Opera,” “Potent Potables” and “Potpourri.”

“The folding type of this cooling device became accepted in China during the Ming dynasty,” Mr. Trebek might declaim, as competitors raced to buzz in with the reply, “What is a fan?”

“Jeopardy!” was the creation of singer and talk-show host Merv Griffin, whose TV empire also included “Wheel of Fortune” and “Dance Fever.” His wife, Julann Griffin, proposed the show’s conceit. If players provided questions instead of answers, she said, then “Jeopardy!” would be safe from the high-profile cheating scandals that plagued TV quiz shows in the 1950s.

The Griffin brainchild aired on NBC from 1964 to 1975, then returned as “The All New Jeopardy!” from 1978 to 1979, both times with the stately actor Art Fleming as host. Mr. Trebek took over when the show was revived in syndication in 1984, also serving during his first several seasons as producer.

Much like his program, Mr. Trebek indulged in few frills. He favored conservative suits. When he shaved his signature mustache in 2001 — “on a whim,” he said — his viewership erupted in titillation.

The most exuberant flourish about the show might have been the exclamation mark in the title. Mr. Trebek, for his part, emitted few if any exclamations as he led contestants through the first round of clues; then a second, higher-stakes round dubbed “Double Jeopardy!”; and then “Final Jeopardy!,” in which players could wager all or some of their earnings on a single stumper.

“My job,” he told the Associated Press in 2012, “is to provide the atmosphere and assistance to the contestants to get them to perform at their very best. And if I’m successful doing that, I will be perceived as a nice guy and the audience will think of me as being a bit of a star. But not if I try to steal the limelight! The stars of ‘Jeopardy!’ are the material and the contestants.”

(Perhaps the show’s greatest stars were Ken Jennings, who reigned over the grid for 74 shows in 2004, claiming $2.5 million in winnings, and Watson, the IBM computer that defeated Jennings and another champion, Brad Rutter, in 2011.)

Fans who attended tapings of the show received a rare insight into Mr. Trebek’s dry humor when he held forth with them during commercial breaks, cutting up about how he didn’t “like spending time with stupid people,” which resulted in his having “very few friends.” He often regaled the crowd with tales of his DIY home-improvement projects.

He said his breakfast consisted of a Snickers and Diet Pepsi, or a Milky Way and Diet Coke. And he was not always as staid as he might have seemed, once tearing his Achilles’ tendon when he chased a burglar from his hotel room in 2011.

But to most “Jeopardy!” viewers, Mr. Trebek was akin to a neighbor they saw every day without becoming intimately acquainted. In a tribute to Mr. Trebek after his cancer diagnosis was announced, Jennings affectionately described him as “a riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a Perry Ellis suit.” One of the few clues to his past was his slight Canadian accent.

George Alexander Trebek was born in Sudbury, Ontario, on July 22, 1940. His father was a Ukrainian immigrant, and his mother was French Canadian. In a memoir published in July, “The Answer Is . . . Reflections on My Life,” Mr. Trebek described a childhood marked by poverty and illness, including a painful form of rheumatism that he developed after falling into a frozen lake at age 7.

Mr. Trebek said that he considered becoming a priest but did not enjoy his experimentation with a vow of silence. “I was a very good student, but leaned more toward show business than anything else because I had a way of entertaining the class,” he told the Toronto Star. “I wasn’t the class clown, but always prominent — even when I was quiet.”

He said he was nearly expelled from boarding school and then dropped out of a military college after three days because he did not wish to subject himself to a buzz cut.

Mr. Trebek began working at the Canadian Broadcasting Corp. while studying philosophy at the University of Ottawa, where he graduated in 1961. As a broadcaster for radio and television, he delivered coverage in English and French, reported on news, weather and sports, and hosted “Reach for the Top,” a popular teen quiz show.

In 1973, Mr. Trebek came to the United States as host of “The Wizard of Odds,” a short-lived game show created by fellow Canadian Alan Thicke.

“It was canceled on a Friday, and I was disappointed, of course,” Mr. Trebek once said on “The Dan Patrick Show,” a sports talk program. “It was replaced the following Monday by a show called ‘High Rollers,’ which I also hosted. . . . After two and a half years, it was canceled, and it was replaced by another show which I hosted. So I have the either great honor or dubious honor of having replaced myself on three different occasions.”

Mr. Trebek, who became a U.S. citizen in 1998, also hosted shows including “Double Dare,” “The $128,000 Question” and “Battlestars.” He subbed for Chuck Woolery, Sajak’s predecessor on “Wheel of Fortune,” bringing him to the attention of Griffin. For a period Mr. Trebek hosted “Classic Concentration” and “To Tell the Truth” while also presiding over “Jeopardy!,” where he reportedly commanded $10 million a year.

As “Jeopardy!” host, Mr. Trebek participated in national contestant searches and shepherded the first teen, senior and celebrity tournaments. He also contributed clues, drawing from his knowledge in such arcane fields as oil drilling and bullfighting. He personally reviewed all clues before taping a show and claimed that he could answer about 65 percent of them correctly. If he judged one too difficult, he asked writers not to use it.

“I’ll say, ‘Nobody’s going to get this,’ ” he told the New York Times in a 2020 interview. “And they usually take my suggestions, because I view myself as every man.”

By the time Mr. Trebek completed 30 years as host, “Jeopardy!” reached 25 million viewers a week. His Emmys included a lifetime achievement award, and, in 2013, he ranked No. 8 in a Reader’s Digest poll of the most trusted people in America. Jimmy Carter, the highest-ranking president on the list, arrived at No. 24.

A ubiquitous presence in pop culture, Mr. Trebek appeared in the “Got milk?” advertising campaign, in films including “White Men Can’t Jump” (1992) and on television shows including “The Simpsons” and “The X-Files.” In a memorable episode of “Cheers,” Mr. Trebek welcomed as a contestant the postal carrier Cliff Clavin (John Ratzenberger), the sitcom’s most undesirable bachelor, in a round of “Jeopardy!” with categories including “beer,” “mothers and sons” and “celibacy.”

Mr. Trebek was spoofed on “Second City Television,” the Canadian TV sketch show, and “Saturday Night Live,” with comedian Will Ferrell, as his impersonator, barely containing his contempt for dimwitted contestants on “Celebrity Jeopardy!”

“I’ll take ‘Swords’ for $400,” Sean Connery, portrayed by Darrell Hammond, intoned in a Scottish accent when the category of clues was in fact “ ‘S’ Words.”

Mr. Trebek’s first marriage, to Elaine Callei, ended in divorce. In 1990, he married Jean Currivan. A complete list of survivors was not immediately available.

Little changed about “Jeopardy!” as the years wore on for the show, for Mr. Trebek and for fans. Newfangled topics, such as twerking, were occasionally introduced. Over time, contestants revealed themselves to be more familiar with Dan Brown, author of “The Da Vinci Code,” than with the English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, the New Republic noted. And Mr. Trebek was called upon to learn to rap to read certain clues.

But mainly the show stayed “comfortable, like an old pair of shoes,” Mr. Trebek once said. In its constancy, it became all the more comforting for the legions of fans who turned to “Jeopardy!” for its promise of clear right and wrong answers in a world where the matter of what is true was increasingly subjected to partisan debate.

“There’s a certain comfort that comes from knowing a fact,” Mr. Trebek told the Times in July. “The sun is up in the sky. There’s nothing you can say that’s going to change that. You can’t say, ‘The sun’s not up there, there’s no sky.’ There is reality, and there’s nothing wrong with accepting reality. It’s when you try to distort reality, to maneuver it into accommodating your particular point of view, your particular bigotry, your particular whatever — that’s when you run into problems.”

Phroyd

[thefoulbeast]

Monstrum Malum (Evil Monster)

It’s finally october!! U know what that means!! Aoextober!! I’ve been waiting to be able to post this hahhhahahaa… some good ole soft horror in the spirit of the month of scary… I’ll also put it up on ao3 soon…

Characters: Todou Saburota, That demon he had at first, Todou Homare (mentioned). Contents: Violence & gore, monsters, memory manipulation, surrealism (or is it derealisation? basically we got some weird stuff going on), elements of horror. Rating: Teen & up. Word count: 2 888.

__________

It’s all a little fuzzy, this far back in his memories…

According to family tradition, Saburota receives his temptaint at ten years old. It’s scary beyond belief – the sudden grotesque presences that await him at every turn.

There’s a thick black snake on the teacher’s desk that watches him, a cat with two heads and three tails and no skin that doesn’t meow as much as it yells, spidery, shadowy hands that wave at him from dark corners and alleyways, always beckoning closer in silent invitation.

The horrible sounds of screaming and crying at night he can’t drown out no matter what he tries to do.

He doesn’t understand how his father and brothers and – everyone, really- can just ignore it all, can just pretend like it’s all normal and okay.

Though, he supposes it’s not too implausible – their ability to ignore things is quite remarkable. One time they pretended he didn’t exist for a whole week – and honestly, he’d been questioning his existence himself by the end of it.

But the problem is these… demons. These ghosts and spectres that follow him and distract him and terrify him.

Saburota tries to focus on the page in front of him – a test in maths that he’s writing in pencil because his pen is bleeding red blood – an ever-growing puddle over the surface of his desk that never reaches his papers and drips over the edge with quiet plips.

The numbers in the problems tilt and tumble and his hands are tingling. But if he focuses just so- if he can keep them in his mind long enough, he can do this.

Pit-pat… Pit-pat…

The blood drips steadily down onto the floor. No one else notices it.

–

“Oh, come now! You’ll get used to it,” his aunt says when she sees him flinch back from a dark mass that covers the floor like a living carpet, undulating and scintillating and breathing.

She walks right over it, and the black sticks to the heels of her shiny beige pumps like tar – but she doesn’t even seem to notice-

“Come on, Saburota, let’s go,” she pulls him by the arm, stronger than he can dig his heels into the ground. The black thing is unpleasantly soft under his feet. He feels it writhe.

“Don’t be so obstinate, we’ll be late to the opera!” she huffs, exasperated, “Honestly, you’d think a boy your age would have some manners.”

The black clings to the bottom of their soles without end even after they’ve crossed all of it and are out on the street, spreading out from every point of contact their shoes make with the ground, melting together to form a winding, snakelike path.

“What show are we going to see?” he asks cautiously, trying to distract himself.

“Three dead men and the devil, of course” she answers haughtily, “Why, Saburota, it’s as if you’re trying to irritate me on purpose! You’re the one who wanted to go!”

He did?

“Oh, I remember now!” he says, but it’s a lie, it’s his mouth moving on its own, “I hope it’s as good as the reviews promise!” he says again, a giddy edge to the words- but they’re not his words.

“It will be,” his aunt answers with a mysterious sort of smile, her hand tightening around his wrist.

–

Saburota’s hiding under the bed, curled up in the dark. It seems like no matter how much he shrinks down; he still feels watched, still feels threatened. Feels like he’s not alone, like there’s something else inside him.

The door opens and footsteps make their way over to the bed – but they’re sharp, like knocking wood on wood, and so loud.

Saburota holds his breath when hooves come into view right in front of him. Fear is like a bird trapped in his chest, raging desperately against the bars of his ribs.

Whatever it is climbs up on his bed with an ominous sqeak of the springs and a decidedly animal huff.

“Oh, you’re already in bed, honey?” the voice of his mother speaks from the doorway. She all but floats over soundlessly. Her skin is deathly pale and dry beneath the hem of her nightgown.

“I’m scared, mommy,” the thing says in a voice that’s nowhere near Saburota’s own. “I think there’s a monster under my bed.”

“Monsters don’t exist, silly,” she coos, “but I’ll look and make sure for you, alright?”

She gets down on all fours and peers beneath the bed. Her unseeing eyes look straight at and through Saburota. Her face is as pale and bloodless as her feet and hands, a greenish-blueish tinge to her lips and eyelids.

“There’s nothing here, honey,” she says in her beautiful, sonorous voice. Her smile reveals her teeth that look much longer and sharper now that the gums have dried out and shrunk back.

Then she rises again and says, “Now, will you be a good boy and sleep? We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to be ready to do what has to be done.” She kisses the thing sweetly goodnight before leaving, footsteps as soundless as when she entered. The door closes behind her, and so disappears that last bit of illumination the room had.

The darkness left behind feels like it’s eating Saburota whole, encompassing him in a tight and claustrophobic space. He reaches out to prove the feeling wrong, but the darkness is smooth and solid against his hand, pushing up against it with incrementally increasing force.

“You don’t have much time left down there, do you?” the thing up on the bed asks, soft and sleepy. It yawns. “You know, God can’t see you anymore, and neither can most other things.”

The darkness pushes up against his skin, too tight to move, too tight to breathe.

–

They’re in the main hall. A soft record plays in the background, a gentle but somber croon accompanied by a saxophone and a cello.

“You know they don’t exist,” the shadow sitting across from Saburota at the dinner table says, “right?”

It’s gesturing at his family, where they’re chatting amongst themselves as they eat. At the other, farther end of the table – it’s farther than usual. The table is as long as the room as opposed to taking up just the center.

There are so many empty seats. So many set plates, untouched. Like there’s supposed to be a banquet, but no one’s shown up.

Saburota stares down at his plate. The soup is black and thick, and there’s the smooth off-white surface of a bone peeking out from beneath the surface.

He’s not particularly hungry.

“You’re wrong,” he tells the shadow quietly ad he pushes the plate away, and the damn thing laughs in response. It’s fuzzy and translucent, and smears in Saburota’s vision when it moves.

“Oh, my bad!” the shadow chortles and picks up a knife, and twirls it around the fingers of its hand; the gleaming facets of the blade catch red and orange lights from some strange and unknown source, “You’re the one who doesn’t exist, I meant to say. Easy mistake to make.”

Saburota feels goose bumps break out over his body. A cold gust of wind whistles over the edge of his collar, ruffling the back of his hair. He places one of his palms protectively over his nape, feeling unsafe.

The room is colourless now, and his family sounds all muffled - and the shadow is gone. He shivers, then takes a fortifying breath and reaches for the spoon again, hand trembling minutely.

Saburota lifts a spoonful of the simple noodle soup to his mouth hesitantly. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong with it, but… he’s just got this nagging worry that something isn’t right.

–

“I see right through you,” the creature says hotly in his ear, “you’re little more than smoke - a miasma leaking through the cracks of the skin you wear.”

Saburota stares at it through the mirror. It’s taller than him, wider than him, has horns like an ibex and hands like eagle claws, poised up in the air, talons glinting menacingly.

“Poor little Saburota,” it hisses, leaning in even closer, snake tongue peeking through its teeth on the ‘s’. “So damaged and twisted that no one could ever like you. You empty little puppet, you pathetic fucking piece of shit.”

Saburota shrugs at its words. They sound about right. It’s what he’s heard all his life, what he’s thought all his life. A truth confirmed over and over.

“You should bite them back for making you,” it says with a beastly leer, talons wrapping around his shoulders and digging in, drawing blood in small beads, “Make them regret your existence. Teach them what it means to hurt. You want to. You need to. I’ll help you. I’ll make you strong, I’ll make you dangerous.”

There’s a certain desperation to the thing’s words.

“Maybe someday,” Saburota murmurs, stepping forwards - out of the creature’s embrace towards the sink, heedless of the shallow wounds left behind by the drag of its talons. He needs to brush his teeth and get to bed.

The bathroom darkens and the walls and floor wobble dangerously, like light broken on the edge of water, like matter passing through the planes of a prism and coming out wrong.

“You’re ready,” the creature wails, upset at his coy evasions of what needs to be done.

“No, I’m-“ he stammers. God, everything here looks so fake it makes him nauseous. He needs to- he needs to set himself straight. Needs to recalibrate.

”I’m not ripe yet,” Saburota says gently, cautiously - looking at the beast without turning, eyes dark like the sky on the night of a new moon.

–

Father’s saying something to him. He looks angry. He’s gesticulating like crazy.

Saburota can’t hear it. The sound’s muted. Pure silence.

No, not pure… there’s something whispering in his ear. It takes a moment for him to understand what it’s saying…

Saburota feels a smile spread out over his face at the promises of violence, bloodshed, nasty ugly retribution-

The world seems sharper somehow. Like it’s come into focus after being blurry and vague for his entire life.

Saburota looks at his hands. He’s got claws – mean, nasty looking things, the kind that maim and rip and rend. When did that happen?

The little whispering voice giggles in his ear. I’ll give you this. I’ll give you this if you just let me-

–

“I’ve been cultivating you for years,” the thing says, looking down at him from its full height. The creature is menacing, attention catching, terrifying. “You’d be nothing without me. You’d be small and powerless and pathetic.”

Its arms wrap around his shoulders covetously, possessively. The talons sink into the flesh of Saburota’s deltoids like a butcher’s knife sinks into a hunk of meat.

“You’re all mine,” the thing whispers, opening its maw to reveal row upon dizzying row of teeth arranged in a beautiful rosette. Saburota touches a tooth and pricks his finger.

Blood red. Drops on the floor. He smears them with the toe of his shoe and suddenly realises.

Oh, what a clever thing. Had him really going for a while.

“No, I’m not,” Saburota says, something in his voice dark but… whistful and dreamy. “You did nice this time, I’ll give you that. Too bad you’re so slow with it all,” he says, and reality shifts.

Well, the not-reality shifts. Saburota’s holding the thing – a squirming little creature with a long leathery tail, smaller than ever and…

And perfect for eating.

–

He’s not afraid anymore. Despite the thing’s attempts – this particular memory remains unchanged, remains his fully. So far.

There’s carnage all around – his family, the house staff – mutilated sacks of meat, strewn about carelessly, all carved up and bled out.

Saburota can taste it – the metallic tang of something raw clinging to his palate, the edges of his teeth.

He knows what he did. He knows how he did it. But… he’d been too excited, too in-the-moment about it. It’s all a red haze in hindsight.

“Well, this was easier than expected,” he says, all light and happy and unburdened.

“You finally did it,” Homare says as she watches him from the top of the stairs, her face a blank mask.

“You’re free now,” Saburota says with a wide grin, “This power could be yours too, Homare.”

It slips off his tongue like a well-oiled phrase. This isn’t the first time he’s said this.

“Why won’t you let me out, Saburota?” she says in someone else’s voice. Shadows cling to her, making her larger and darker than what she is. The beast is here again, messing with his mind and senses. “Why must you deny me so? You can’t hold me down forever. I will claw my way out.”

The house is dark and crawling with black shapes and bugs the size of rats. Saburota feels his mood sour. That’s not right, that’s not what she really said.

Homare’s walking down the stairs towards him, heedless of the gore she steps in, looking at him like she wants him to burst open like an over-tense bulla.

“Kill yourself, Saburota, you worthless fucking heap,” the thing says, even if it’s Homare’s lips that move, “Getting all cocky and full of yourself. You will regret it. I will make you regret it.”

Saburota smiles lazily, “You’re just throwing a tantrum because I’m stronger than you. Tsk-tsk. You’d think that demons had more class than that.”

Saburota flicks open the zippo in his hand, and the smell of buthane hits him above the wet smell of fresh guts. His hands are shaking, his heart is racing. There’s a cacophonous screaming in his head above it all.

“Let me out, Saburota,” the thing says through Homare’s lips, low and thunderous and so angry, “Let me out and let me in for real.”

Saburota flicks the wheel and sparks the flame, looking right into Homare’s eyes where he sees it looking at him.

He drops the zippo carelessly, ignoring the beast’s words. This – all of this is his.

And he’s going to burn it all down.

–

Saburota wakes with a jolt that has the water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He’d dozed off again.

The nightmarish pictures of his dream fizzle out into the subconscious part of his brain. The phantasms are creeping upwards again, seeking to dig their claws into his more recent memories.

He sighs tiredly, rubbing a palm over his face. It had taken him too long to notice. Next time the demon might get him for good. He rests a palm over his stomach where he feels it like a hot, familiar weight in his gut. So small, so stubborn, so bothersome.

Saburota can’t remember his childhood clearly anymore, not the way it really was. His recollections are all twisted and maimed, cut up and pasted together into tid-bit horror stories and fantastical exaggerations, much like the dream had been.

It comes with being a demon eater. There’s a certain cost, a sacrifice he has to make in the form of his memories and occasionally, his personality. One can only hold on to darkness for so long until it grabs back.

Saburota barely ever sleeps anymore. Whenever he dreams, the distortions get worse and feel more real.

Realistically, he knows there wasn’t a dead man lying on the table and singing at Homare’s tenth birthday party… he knows that his mother died in childbirth when she had her last pregnancy, that he’d never heard her voice and had only ever seen her in pictures… but he can remember these delusions so very vividly it’s kind of scary.

“Your brain’s rotting…” He tells himself in a low voice. Then, he chuckles,” Heh, who knows if what’s left is even you anymore…” He pauses, moving his hand through the water, watching it slosh against the sides of the tub.

He’s awake, sure, but he still feels like he’s dreaming, like this isn’t reality. Another chuckle, a little more self-deprecating, “Good thing that won’t matter soon enough.”

Saburota sinks lower into the water so that his nose just above the surface. The water’s lukewarm now, so it doesn’t seep into his bones and muscles the way he wishes it would.

He’ll get out in a minute and get dressed and do things, but for now he just… ruminates. On what he is. On what he’s done.

He doesn’t regret his choices, but… sometimes he wonders what life would be like if he was… more normal. If he’d never clashed with his family the way he had… if he’d just…

Well, whatever. Those thoughts don’t lead anywhere.

He’s made it this far – that’s the only thing that matters. He just needs to pull through and do his part in getting the phoenix for the Illuminati. He’s been planning it for years now, sowing doubt and trust in the right places, and it’s finally so close he can taste it.

That’s his purpose now. That’s what’s important. He has a goal and a purpose, and he is needed. With that much, he’s satisfied.

As long as he does what he needs to do for the Illuminati, for The Commander, what happens to him afterwards doesn’t really matter…

[papermoonloveslucy]

BOTTOMS UP

April 13, 1934

Directed by David Butler 

Produced by Buddy G. DeSylva for 20th Century-Fox

Written by David Butler, Buddy G. DeSylva, and Sid Silvers

Choreography by Harold Hecht

Synopsis ~ Spencer Tracy stars as fast-buck promoter Smoothie King. Our hero's latest scam is to pass off Hollywood extra Wanda Gale (Pat Patterson) and forger Limey Brook (Herbert Mundin) as British nobility, getting both of them prestigious jobs at a movie studio. Eventually Wanda becomes a big star, falling out of love with Smoothie along the way in favor of her leading man Hal Reed (John Boles). But Smoothie takes it all in stride; after all, there's still a world full of chumps and suckers, ripe for fleecing.

CAST 

Spencer Tracy (’Smoothie’ King) won two Oscars and was nominated seven other times in his long career. This is his only musical.  He also appeared with Lucille Ball in Without Love (1945). 

John Boles (Hal Reed) also did Thousands Cheer (1943) with Lucille Ball).

Pat Paterson (Wanda Gale) was married to Charles Boyer. This is her only film with Lucille Ball. 

Herbert Mundin (Limey Brook) was an English-born actor making his only film with Lucille Ball. 

Sid Silvers (Spud Mosco) was also the co-writer of this film. This is his only movie with Lucille Ball. 

Harry Green (Louis Baer) makes his only film with Lucille Ball. 

Thelma Todd (Judith Marlowe)  was known as ‘The Ice Cream Blonde' and ‘Hot Toddy'. This is her only film with Lucille Ball. 

Robert E. O'Connor (Detective Rooney) went on to do five more films with Lucille Ball. 

Dell Henderson (Lane Worthing) went on to do five more films with Lucille Ball. 

Suzanne Kaaren (Secretary) makes her only screen appearance with Lucy. 

Douglas Wood (Baldwin) also appeared with Lucille Ball in Her Husband’s Affairs (1947). 

UNCREDITED CAST 

Lucille Ball* (Chorine) makes her eighth film since coming to Hollywood in 1933. 

Barbara Pepper* (Chorine) made six films with Lucille Ball, including her Lucy’s first, Roman Scandals (1933). The two became friends, and she was one of the first people Lucille Ball wanted for the role of Ethel Mertz after Bea Benadaret passed. Pepper’s drinking made her a risk for the network and sponsor, but she went on to make ten appearances on “I Love Lucy”. 

Chorines: Lee Auburn, Bonnie Bannon*, Lynn Bari, Dolores Casey*, Irene Coleman, Ann Darcy, Jean Gale*, June Gale, Sugar Geise, Betty Gordon, Jane Hamilton, Vivian Keefer*, Laura La Marr, Mary Lange*, Shirley Lloyd, Dona Massin, Ruth Moody, Vera Payton, Virginia Ray, Beverly Royde, Katharine Snell, Alice Stombs, Valerie Traxler

Party Guests:  Richard Carle,  Cecil Cunningham, Opal Ernie, Paul McVey, Ronald R. Rondell, Henry Roquemore, Loretta Rush, Larry Steers, Ferdinand Munier

Minor Roles: Peggy Beck, Georgia Clarke, Elizabeth Cooke, Patricia Dobbs, Dee Dowell, Jean Fursa, Kathryn Hankin, Betty Neitman, Ellen Thomas, Mildred Unger

* Goldwyn Girls on loan to Fox. As they are not in a Sam Goldwyn picture, they are not credited as Goldwyn Girls.

OTHERS

David Field (Reporter)

Allen Connor (Ticket Taker)

Walter Hardwick (Waiter)

Teddy Hart (Chorus Boy)

Samuel E. Hines (Bellboy)

Arthur Loft (Yes Man)

John T. Murray (Radio Announcer)

Ned Norton (Yes Man)

Frank O'Connor (Jack, Director)

Virginia Pine (Showgirl)

Sam Wolfe (Harmonica Player)

Ernest Wood (Hotel Clerk) 

Johnny Boyle (Dance Specialty)

SOUNDTRACK

“Little Did I Dream” by Harold Adamson and Burton Lane

“Turn on the Moon” by Harold Adamson and Burton Lane

“I'm Throwing My Love Away” by Harold Adamson and Burton Lane

“Waitin' at the Gate for Katy” by Richard A. Whiting and Gus Kahn

“Is I in Love? I Is” J. Russel Robinson

Opera Singer: I've always considered myself a virtuoso. 'Smoothie' King: I didn't ask about your morals.

Lucille Ball was paid $75 dollars a week when she was loaned out to Fox by RKO to make this film. She appears in the song “Waitin’ at the Gate for Katy.”

The film received a favorable review from The New York Times critic Mordaunt Hall, who called it "a neat, carefree piece of work, which is helped greatly by Spencer Tracy, Pat Paterson, an English actress who here makes her American picture bow; Herbert Mundin, Harry Green, and, to a lesser extent, by John Boles" and noted that it "has its full share of honest humor and also several tuneful songs." Nonetheless, it was a box office disappointment for Fox.