#probably my favorite piece of art to come out of the 1970s

[theodoradove]

The advantage of rewatching Harold and Maude right before having to work on site for a few days is that every time I inch across the Dumbarton Bridge I mutter "possession of a stolen shovel" and crack myself up

[incorrectlumityquotes]

Why Amity fell for Luz: A Theory

Watching all the episodes of The Owl House and reviewing them brought back a lot of thoughts and feelings that I maybe forgot about. We all ship things and sometimes we do it for fun; sometimes for deeper reasons. I just started lumity because it reminded me of Diana & Akko from Little Witch Academia. I loved that show so much that I wanted more, and I thought it would be cool if Luz & Amity did something similar. I had no idea that it was going to go beyond that, so DAMN. To quote a talking science wolf, “For years we ask how, but we should ask why.” I mean, we saw how. But why? Well I can take a guess.

If we’re are going to start anywhere it’s going to be with the girl in question, Amity Blight.

As far as I know as of this typing, Amity Blight is a witchling from The Boiling Isles. She lives in Bonesboro at The Blight Manor estate with her parents and her siblings. She attends Hexside School of Magic and Demonics. Good for her.

Amity has an ambitious and competitive personality. She’s always striving to be better and be at the top of whatever she is doing. When she’s introduced in I Was a Teenage Abomination, she’s showing having great pride in being the top student in her abomination class. In Adventures in the Elements, she goes to The Knee in hopes of training to beat her siblings’ high score on the placement exam.

Amity also has a bit of a temper and gets annoyed easily. In I Was a Teenage Abomination, she sics her abominations on Willow and Luz just because she wasn’t named top student that day. In Enchanting Grom Fright, Amity snapped at the person she bumped into before realizing it was Luz. And later in the same episode, Amity beat up Hooty when he decided to get too close.

But she does have a soft sensitive side. She keeps a diary in her secret room in the library and even reads to kids in her free time. Amity also has a strong sense of integrity. She despises cheating (and cheaters) and feels guilt when she’s forced to break ties with Willow.

So why did someone like this fall for Luz of all people? (see above image)

Enter what I call my Shipping Theory of Compliments

The Shipping Theory of Compliments is that two characters would be shipped and sometimes canonically enter a romantic relationship based on their personalities complimenting each other and fulfilling elements they don’t have alone necessary to developing the character.

People like to use the image of a missing puzzle piece, but I don’t like that comparison because I think it’s a little inaccurate and I don’t like puzzles. Think of it more like the two pieces of the yin and yang coming together and then growing the circles of the opposite colors in them.

Something like that.

And it’s compliments, not opposites. When you think compliments, think more Star and Marco from Star vs the Forces of Evil. Star wants to go on a magical adventure. Marco also wants to go on a magic adventure. The difference is that Star goes in recklessly while Marco wants to plan it out a bit. They still have their adventure as oppose to Star’s opposite who wouldn’t want to go on a magical adventure. That sort of thing.

So how do Luz and Amity compliment each other?

Let’s start with that they have in common. Obvious stuff aside, they’re both training to become the best witches they can be. The difference comes that Luz is a human who has to learn magic via glyphs that she finds and Amity learns magic the “proper” way on The Boiling Isles. 

Luz and Amity are also both fans of The Good Witch Azura book series. Difference is that Luz is more open about her fandom while Amity tries to keep it a secret. Also petty thing but they’re both fan artists too, but I think Luz might be a better than Amity. But hey, her crosshatching is improving.

Luz and Amity are also (at the start of the series) both lonely people. Luz’s mom says that she doesn’t have any friends, and Amity doesn’t like her “friends.” The difference is that Luz reaches outward to ease her loneliness (being social and friendly, trying new things, etc.) while Amity reaches inward (keeping a diary, staying busy, having a secret spot, etc.). They both also use escapist fiction to ease their loneliness.

That’s all well and good, but now we get into the real speculative parts. 

...complimenting each other and fulfilling elements they don’t have alone necessary to developing the character.

When I was taking acting classes I was taught that the way you see people act is a persona based on their experiences on what it takes to survive and avoid physical, emotional and social death. So now we have to speculate based on what we were given on what emotional/social needs and wants has Amity not been getting before that she has with Luz.

First let me point you to another show called F is for Family. F is for Family is an adult animated sitcom on Netflix that follows a very dysfunctional family in the 1970s. These are legitimately bad characters, not in terms of being poorly written. What I’m saying is that these guys are assholes. But here’s where it gets interesting.

One of the characters is Kevin Murphy, the teenage son of the family. He’s a dim-witted wannabe rockstar who is always yelled at and put down by his parents throughout the entire series. However in season four Kevin meets Alice. Alice teaches Kevin that his favorite band is a big reference to Tolkien and gives him a copy of The Hobbit. They bond over their love of Lord of the Rings and get along really well. Alice calls him smart for being able to read all of Lord of the Rings over a few days and never puts him down. Even in the one time they did fight she never yelled at him or raised her voice which he found weird because he’s so used to being yelled at. Alice gave Kevin the emotional support he always wanted but never got from his family.

Using that as a backdrop, let’s go back to Amity.

Amity grew up with her parents making her do things she didn’t want to do, making choices for her. Amity wanted to be one way. Her parents wanted something else. Amity’s mother even dyes Amity’s hair green so it matches her siblings. Amity wanted to be friends with Willow. Amity’s parents wanted her to be friends with the mean kids. While Amity does work hard to be the best at what she’s doing, her parents also put pressure on her to make sure that she is at that level. 

Her siblings are another bag of awful. They constantly refer to her by an annoying nickname that I’m guessing has an embarrassing moment attached to it. They seem to live by a double standard that Amity despises. She has to work hard and follow the rules just to be accepted while they are naturally talented and break the rules with everyone still thinking that they’re perfect. 

Family is supposed to provide unconditional love except it looks like the love of the Blights is based on conditions. Nobody just likes Amity for who she is. She doesn’t have a friend.

Enter: the friendliest person she’s ever met

Amity has to struggle and work for the simplest things, even affection. Except when it comes to Luz. Luz is naturally friendly and positive. Amity doesn’t have to earn her kindness. Even when she’s bullied Luz before, Luz is always coming back with a smile. I suppose when you live life surrounded by jerks, you’ll want to hang out with the one person who’s always nice to you. Sort of.

Yes, Amity did think Luz was a bully for constantly getting her into trouble. But even at Covention and Lost in Language, Luz kept reaching out to her. This combined with Amity’s awareness of her own behavior is what convinced her to try to reach out in kind to Luz by the end of Lost in Language. “She’s trying to be nice to me, so I should try too,” I’m guessing is the mindset especially in Adventures in the Elements. And then...Luz continued to be nice to her which is kind of a big deal for Amity.

Let’s tally up what we have so far:

Luz and Amity have similar interests (The Good Witch Azura series, art, fiction, learning magic)

Luz and Amity have similar values (work ethic, disdain for cheating, protecting those closest to you, etc.)

Luz gives Amity the positivity and affection that Amity doesn’t normally get anywhere else

They still have differing personalities with Amity being more competitive and Luz having more of a live-and-let-live attitude.

Even with all these things in mind, why was Amity so scared to ask Luz to Grom?

Speculating again but my theory is that Amity wasn’t sure if Luz actually liked her or if Luz is just friendly because that’s how Luz is. Amity was scared of being rejected because she felt that maybe she was just reading the situation wrong. Luz is this ray of sunshine in her gray skies (if you’ll forgive the cliché). People like Amity always think of all the worst possibilities (I know because I do this too). Amity was probably thinking a bunch of what ifs. “What if Luz doesn’t actually like me? What if she’s just being friendly because she feels sorry for me? What if she has feelings for someone else? What if she never actually liked me? What if she’s straight?”

Luz is Amity’s first crush and it is scary as all hell to put yourself out there like that for the first time. She wasn’t expecting to get married at Grom night. She just wanted to dance with the girl she liked.

The dance at Grom was like confirmation for her that it could happen. Amity didn’t have to ask out Luz because Luz asked her. Being with Luz isn’t a pipedream. It’s a definite possibility. And we all know how she reacted to that idea.

Uh...she’ll be in her bunk.

While Luz and Amity aren’t together as of this typing, I believe it’s bound to happen. Until then, after The Lumity Trilogy, Amity knows that Luz is the girl she likes. 

tl;dr version

Amity fell for Luz because they have similar interests and values, their personalities differ in a compatible way and Luz provides Amity emotional needs and wants that she doesn’t get anywhere else.

Also, round eared girl pretty.

.

Thanks everyone for reading.

[aliveandfullofjoy]

So I was reading about the first Oscars ceremony, and it had a division between Outstanding Picture and Best Unique & Artistic Film, where Unique & Artistic was apparently meant to be an equal to Outstanding Picture but dedicated more for prestige artistic works. The next year, the two categories became one from then on, and Outstanding Picture was the only top prize. (If any of that is wrong, blame wikipedia.)

If the split had remained, and there was a more commercial-y movie top prize and a prestige art top prize, what are some notable movies that suddenly pick up wins?

okay wait........ this is a brilliant question and i am ashamed to say i’ve never really given it much thought until now.

idk if you’ve seen wings and sunrise but they’re both pretty great and they do represent wildly different kinds of filmmaking. while it’s safe to say Wings is the more commercial film, it has great craftsmanship behind it and it very clearly created the template for accessible, capital-i Important, and well-made best picture winners to come. 

and, full transparency, sunrise is one of my, like, top 15 favorite movies, so i’m hella biased, but that movie is a gorgeous and strange and thrilling piece of work. the title “unique and artistic film” is impossibly vague, but watching sunrise makes it very, very clear that it fits that bill for that category. and while we’ll, of course, never know what might have happened if that category had continued, it’s tempting to think that all the winners in unique and artistic film would be of sunrise’s calibre, but knowing the oscars... that’s clearly a fantasy, lol. while sunrise is a wildly inventive and artistic film, it’s important to remember that it was fully on the academy’s radar -- janet gaynor won best actress in part for her performance in the film, and it also won best cinematography. so while it’s tempting to think the academy would always recognize a truly unique and artistic achievement every year, in all likelihood, they probably wouldn’t stray too far from the movies that were already on their radar. 

so for this thought experiment!!

it’s probably safe to assume every best picture winner has to go in one of the two categories. there are only a handful of winners that stick out as maybe missing out on the big win in this new system, but only a handful. 

so uh. this is way more than you asked but i got hooked. here’s what i think might have happened if the two best picture categories had stuck around. as i was working through the years, it became clear to me that, unfortunately, in a lot of years, the unique and artistic film would likely end up going to the more overtly “prestigious” films, such as the song of bernadette or the life of emile zola, while their far better and more commercially viable rivals (casablanca for bernadette, the awful truth for zola) would win outstanding picture. the actual best picture winners have an asterisk next to them. what’s also interesting to consider is the importance of the best director category: most of the time, a split in picture and director will tell you what’s clearly the runner-up. those years, usually, give you a good sense of how the two awards would shake out.

Outstanding Picture / Unique and Artistic Film

1929: The Broadway Melody*; The Divine Lady 

1930: The Big House; All Quiet on the Western Front* 

1931: Cimarron*; Morocco 

1932: Grand Hotel*; Bad Girl

1933: Little Women; Cavalcade*

1934: It Happened One Night*; One Night of Love 

1935: The Informer; A Midsummer Night’s Dream (** this is one of the few years i think the actual BP winner, Mutiny on the Bounty, would miss out; The Informer was clearly the runner-up for BP with wins in director, actor, and screenplay, while Midsummer was seen as THE artistic triumph of the year, and with its historic write-in cinematography win, there was clearly a lot of passion for it)

1936: Mr. Deeds Goes to Town; The Great Ziegfeld*

1937: The Awful Truth; The Life of Emile Zola*

1938: You Can’t Take It With You*; Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Grand Illusion (** this one’s tough... Grand Illusion made history as the first non-english movie nominated for BP, and it clearly had a lot of support, but Snow White was such a monumental moment in Hollywood, and the academy clearly acknowledged that with its honorary award)

1939: Gone with the Wind*; The Wizard of Oz (** this is one of the first years with a clear runaway favorite for best picture, which makes guessing the way the other award would go very difficult! i’m leaning towards Oz purely because of its technical achievements, but i’m not confident about that choice at all.)

1940: Rebecca*; The Grapes of Wrath 

1941: How Green Was My Valley*; Citizen Kane

1942: Yankee Doodle Dandy; Mrs. Miniver*

1943: Casablanca*; The Song of Bernadette

1944: Going My Way*; Wilson

1945: The Bells of St. Mary’s; The Lost Weekend*

1946: The Best Years of Our Lives*; Henry V

1947: Gentleman’s Agreement*; A Double Life 

1948: The Treasure of the Sierra Madre; Hamlet*

1949: All the King’s Men*; The Heiress 

1950: All About Eve*; Sunset Boulevard

1951: A Place in the Sun; An American in Paris*

1952: The Greatest Show on Earth*; The Quiet Man 

1953: Roman Holiday; From Here to Eternity*

1954: The Country Girl; On the Waterfront*

1955: Marty*; Picnic

1956: Around the World in 80 Days*; Giant

1957: Peyton Place; The Bridge on the River Kwai

1958: The Defiant Ones; Gigi*

1959: The Diary of Anne Frank; Ben-Hur*

1960: Elmer Gantry; The Apartment*

1961: West Side Story*; Judgment at Nuremberg

1962: To Kill a Mockingbird; Lawrence of Arabia*

1963: Tom Jones*; 8½ 

1964: Mary Poppins; My Fair Lady*

1965: The Sound of Music*; Doctor Zhivago

1966: A Man for All Seasons*; Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

1967: In the Heat of the Night*; The Graduate

1968: Oliver!*; 2001: A Space Odyssey 

1969: Midnight Cowboy; Z 

1970: Airport; Patton*

1971: The French Connection*; The Last Picture Show

1972: The Godfather; Cabaret

1973: The Sting*; The Exorcist

1974: Chinatown; The Godfather, Part II

1975: Jaws; One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest*

1976: Rocky*; Network

1977: Star Wars; Annie Hall*

1978: Coming Home; The Deer Hunter*

1979: Kramer vs. Kramer*; All That Jazz

1980: Ordinary People*; Raging Bull

1981: Chariots of Fire*; Reds

1982: E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial; Gandhi*

1983: Terms of Endearment*; Fanny and Alexander

1984: Amadeus*; The Killing Fields

1985: Out of Africa*; Ran

1986: Platoon*; Blue Velvet

1987: Moonstruck; The Last Emperor*

1988: Rain Man*; Who Framed Roger Rabbit

1989: Driving Miss Daisy*; Born on the Fourth of July

1990: Ghost; Dances with Wolves*

1991: The Silence of the Lambs*; JFK

1992: Unforgiven*; Howards End 

1993: Schindler’s List*; The Piano 

1994: Forrest Gump*; Three Colors: Red 

1995: Braveheart*; Toy Story 

1996: Jerry Maguire; The English Patient*

1997: Titanic*; L.A. Confidential

1998: Shakespeare in Love*; Saving Private Ryan

1999: The Cider House Rules; American Beauty*

2000: Traffic; Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (** this is another year where i think the actual BP winner, Gladiator, might have missed out. it was a tight three-way race going into oscar night, and if there were two BP awards, i think this consensus might have settled, leaving Gladiator to go home with just actor and some tech awards.)

2001: A Beautiful Mind*; Mulholland Drive

2002: Chicago*; The Pianist

2003: Mystic River; The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King*

2004: Million Dollar Baby*; The Aviator

2005: Crash*; Brokeback Mountain

2006: The Departed*; Babel

2007: No Country for Old Men*; The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

2008: The Dark Knight; Slumdog Millionaire*

2009: The Hurt Locker*; Avatar

2010: The King’s Speech*; The Social Network

2011: The Artist*; The Tree of Life

2012: Argo*; Life of Pi

2013: 12 Years a Slave*; Gravity 

2014: Birdman*; Boyhood

2015: Spotlight*; The Revenant

2016: La La Land; Moonlight*

2017: Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri; The Shape of Water*

2018: Black Panther; Roma (** again, i think Green Book gets bumped out in this scenario, i think Black Panther is precisely the kind of movie that benefits from an award that’s seemingly more ~populist~ while Roma easily snags the unique & artistic prize)

2019: 1917; Parasite*

2020: The Father; Nomadland*

but of course i have no idea at all, and most of these are just my gut reactions lol. what a fun question!

[dreadnought-dear-captain]

Happy (Slightly Belated) Birthday, Baghdad Waltz!

*CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR BAGHDAD WALTZ UP TO CHAPTER 37*

I know these are stressful times right now, but I wanted to post a little something for BW’s third birthday on 3/13/2020 (and I’m a little late because I had a lot to say). THREE!! I cannot believe it. Truly, I cannot, but here we are. I know there are still a few stragglers hanging around from when I first started posting this story (extra hearts to you all), so many people who have come and gone and sometimes return again, and so many new people joining this crazy journey all the time. 

You are all so great, and you make it possible for me to keep writing this. I probably would have quit a long time ago without your support, because this shit has been quite hard to sustain sometimes. I know I am very bad at keeping up with comments and things, and I’m so sorry.  I am terrible with social media, too. People IRL will say the same thing about me. I am super old school and still talk on the phone with my friends. I KNOW. 

(Heyyyy Bayside High)

I’ve prepared a couple of things for BW’s birthday. First, a few statistics I thought I’d whip up. Then a few questions and answers about BW, both from myself and from my beloved beta, @pitchforkcentral86​. And I’m still trucking away diligently at chapter 38! I just have a few scenes to go. 

 -- BW Statistics -- 

---------------------------------------------

Words to date: 526,011

Chapters to date: 37

Shortest chapter: 3,821 words (Prologue)

Longest chapter: 31,395 words (Chapter 33)

Number of words per chapter: 12,530 (median), 14,257 (average) (note: the median is probably a better measure, since this is such an abnormal distribution - see below for the changes in chapter length over time)

Estimated total work to date: 2,890-3,120 hours (approx 18-20 hours/week). This includes writing, rewriting, editing, research, conversations with beta, outlining, and a small portion of the brainstorming. This is a conservative estimate and only includes a fraction of the ambient thinking I do about this story. And God, I do so much processing when I sleep! Perhaps I will be a BW “expert” -- estimated at around 10,000 hours I guess? -- by the time I am done with the story and all my revisions hahahahaaaaaa D: 

Money spent to date (estimated): $600-700. This includes books on various subject matter and writing craft, video access to therapy education resources, and other educational materials. This does not include the incalculable sum in lost productivity from thinking about BW when I’m supposed to be doing other things!

Most of you probably don’t know this, but @pitchforkcentral86​ is not just a beta reader. She is my partner in crime with BW. She knows my characters as well as I do, sometimes better. She helps me troubleshoot scenes, she tells me when my writing sucks, when my I’m not being true to my characters, when I’m not being real enough (sometimes when I’m being TOO real). She gives me porn inspiration and listens to me bitch and calls my bullshit and makes this story what it is. I really mean it - this story would not be nearly as good without her, and you can see how much better it gets once she starts to get involved around chapter 17. 

So I decided I would answer some silly little questions about BW. Just my own personal opinions about stuff! And asked @pitchforkcentral86​ to contribute as well. See below. 

What are my favorite scenes in BW and why? 

In no particular order: 

The 9/11 memory (Chapter 26): When Steve is in therapy with Hope remembering when Bucky returns from Ground Zero. This was one of the first times I experimented with writing in a sort of stream-of-consciousness way (though certainly not the last!). I have done several tweaks to it since the original version, texturing it more. It’s so rich in detail, visceral detail, little details about their relationship, pieces of Bucky’s past, clues about his alcoholism, the way he handles stress, his difficulties letting Steve in, the love Steve has for him, Bucky’s need to be loved and cared for and his aversion for it, it’s so, so rich. Gah. I love it. (GUH and @buckydunpun​’s ART - just murder me. Thanks.)

The Thor “breakup” scene (Chapter 28): This is the moment I think that many people realized Bucky is not a reliable narrator. Maybe they suspected it before, but this is when it’s very obviously apparent. His entire interpretation of his relationship with Thor is thrown into question. He built a rich fantasy about what they were, holding hands in the grass, all this bullshit, and he could actually say they were boyfriends, which makes complete sense because there were never any stakes. It was always surface. There was never any intimacy except as veteran/soldier friends who had sex, which is about as deep as Bucky can go anyway without getting utterly terrified. 

This is in such stark contrast to Steve, where there is actual intimacy, ongoing demand for more intimacy, and this relationship feels VERY real to Bucky, and it’s very frightening to him. And that’s why he runs from the term “boyfriend” with Steve. It’s all so real. It’s easy to engage with a fake boyfriend. But still, he didn’t deliberately realize he was doing this, so it was devastating to find out the truth of his own self-deception. And to hear that he’s not the kind of guy you settle with, he’s the guy you fuck… wow. But how can you really hate Thor? (I’m sure some of you can but…) He’s a nice guy. Even Bucky knows it. So he’s run from something good and real (Steve) to something good but false (Thor) and then he gets rejected from both. It’s horrible and so self-defeating and so quintessentially Bucky. I love it. 

A Close Second (Spent Brass fic): This whole side fic came together like a glorious dream. I love everything about it. It’s such a wonderful look into their relationship, into their dynamics, into their individual personalities, their idiosyncrasies, so much push-pull between them. Whispers of things that have happened to Bucky in the past, a lack of understanding from Steve, a desire to know, so much affection. Some good sex. I love this SB. But I love all the Spent Brass fics. They are so close to my heart. 

Honorable mention: Bucky’s masturbation scene during his bender (Chapter 32). I had an absolute BLAST writing this. Thanks to @pitchforkcentral86​ for proposing that Bucky’s core sexual/romantic desire is just to be kissed. Dayum. It all unfolded from there. 

Who is the character I think about the most? Bucky. I think because he’s got the most complex history and the most complicated psychology. He’s actually fairly rule-bound in terms of how he operates, but he’s got a lot of back story that explains how he became the way he is, and I spend a lot of time considering what happened to him and how he developed his self-image, his coping strategies, and his ideas about others and the world. I think a lot about his relationship with his parents. I think a LOT about bby Jamie. It’s not because Steve is not important or any less complex. But Bucky’s childhood experiences have shaped him in very specific ways, and I want to make sure that I represent them very thoughtfully. 

Who is my favorite character to write? Bucky. His voice and thought processes come to me more easily than Steve’s. Perhaps in part because of my personal penchant for the word “fuck.” I love writing his perspective, his preferences, his interpretations of situations. I love imagining the way he imagines the world. 

Who is my favorite supporting character? Winnie. I know she’s a very polarizing character, but I have so much affection for her. I think she’s a badass. She joined the military as a female officer back in the 1970s, which is incredible and rough. She kept her maiden name. This is a Southern conservative woman, an Air Force brat, raised by very conservative Southern people in a very conservative Pentecostal church, but she has always had an irrepressible rebellious, feminist badass streak in her even before she knew what feminism was. She might not even define herself as a feminist now. She has always done the best she can under very difficult circumstances, and she loves her kids, even though she sometimes sucks quite badly at mothering them. I love her for her imperfections. 

Favorite topic to research this year: I’ve been really enjoying researching emotionally focused couples therapy, which was developed by Sue Johnson, EdD. I’ve been watching therapy videos of couples going through this and having a wonderful time imaging Bucky and Steve going through something similar with Claire. I don’t think Claire is the strictest adherent to EFT, but I think she’s informed by it. It’s tough, because I’m very used to cognitive behavioral type therapies, so this one has been different to think about writing. I’ve also been really getting into reading about childhood sexual abuse and its effects on boys and men. It’s greatly helped my conceptualization of Bucky and Bucky and Steve’s relationship. I mean, it’s a grim topic, but there have been some fascinating threads in terms of understanding one’s self perception of sexual orientation, etc. and thinking about how Bucky would consider and contextualize his experiences. 

Am I more of a Steve or a Bucky? Hmm. I don’t strongly relate to either, but I think if I had to choose, I’m a bit more of a Steve. I’m pretty expressive of my affection and positive emotions, and I’ll complain about daily life things enough. However, when it comes to major life events that really bother me, I tend to err on the side of not processing them and turning my feelings into headaches and other physical afflictions. In other words, I’m a suppressor of major emotions and events. It’s FINE. I’m FINE. Nothing to see here. But I am definitely not as tidy as Steve, nor as smart, and definitely not as buff or hot. So that’s where most of our similarities end lol. I do eat a lot of tofu though. 

Who would I want to hang out with for a day? I initially thought Rikki, but like @pitchforkcentral86​, think she’s actually too cool and smart for me, and I would probably just make an ass out of myself. I think probably Elektra. I know, this is a left field answer, but it’s one day! To do whatever with anyone! I want to choose someone who’s going to make it worth my while. So many of the characters are either too busy, too rigid, too anxious, too conventional, etc. I would want to run around NYC with Elektra for the day and have drinks with her and Matt afterwards at some weird-ass underground bar. My more infield answer would probably be Hank. I want him to tell me gay stories about gay things. I want to see his apartment. I want to drink coffee with him. I want him to tell me about what the AIDS crisis was like for him. I want to hear about his relationship with Howard. I want all the shit that Bucky takes for granted every day. He can be my fairy godmother any day. 

Who would I want to be friends with? Probably Sharon. She’s one of the most reliable, loyal, and level-headed people in this world. She’s smart, she’s flexible, she rolls with things pretty well but also doesn’t take a ton of bullshit. She also has a good sense of humor about things. I feel like she’s someone I could call with my Zack Morris phone and talk with for hours about all sorts of things. We could also split a bottle of wine and talk some real shit. 

Wait - Why not Bucky or Steve? I don’t think these two are entirely likable, to be honest. They’re good humans, they mean well, but I don’t think they’re very well equipped in the friendship department.  I care about them very deeply (I hope that’s clear), but I don’t know if I’d want to be particularly close to either of them at this point in their lives. They’re both lacking in the skill and perspective to be good friends and partners, which is a major reason why they are in therapy. 

Who would I want to be my therapist - Hope, Bruce, Scott, or Claire? Claire. Given how much I suck at talking about the things that are really deeply bothering me, I think I would need an emotionally focused therapist who is going to dig in there and really get me to focus on all the emotions I’m trying to shove away. I would probably try to over-intellectualize everything and deflect, and I don’t think she’d let me get away with that. 

Okay, on to @pitchforkcentral86​~~~~~

What are my favorite scenes in BW and why? 

Oh boy. Well, this is a difficult question to answer since it feels like every chapter becomes a new favorite simply due to sheer amount of time spent planning and composing and revising and whining and complaining. And also my memory sucks. BUT, with that said, I think I would like to mention three scenes specifically:

1)      Bucky on deployment, cleaning a Humvee (Chapter 7), Steve standing nearby. This scene conveyed the tension of deployment and between Steve and Bucky so well, and, perhaps more importantly, built my respect towards Bucky as a competent, caring NCO (to that effect, the small scene in which we see Bucky the NCO on film telling all the little grunts to eat so they can become big and strong is another favorite).

2)      Beautiful Boy (Spent Brass), Steve’s memory from childhood with Sarah at the park, naming animals. I really don’t have a good reason other than that scene was so clear to me in my mind and was especially tender.

3)      Steve sleeping with Sharon in DC (Chapter 33). Honestly, it was just a great scene, and we had a really good time planning it out.

I can include many more, and certainly the ones Dread mentioned are favorites too, but I have to stop or this will just be a squeee fest.

Who is my favorite supporting character?

 Hank. His particular brand of honesty is extremely appealing to me, and I think Bucky secretly, or not so secretly, loves him too. And also Quill, just for shits and giggles because he is reliably there as an ice breaker, that lovable Mountain-Dew-drinking goof.  

Favorite topic to research this year: 

Well, I don’t do the research myself, but I spend many, many m-a-n-y hours listening to and conversing with Dread about all the things he’s delved into for this fic. So I guess maybe I’ll turn this question into favorite topic to discuss/conceptualize. In that respect, Bucky’s and Jack’s relationship has been by far the most intriguing, grueling, fascinating and difficult aspect of this fic to conceptualize – those were some of the best talks in the process. [Dreadnought edit: You will see much more of this in future chapters, folks!] And for a fun answer, planning out sex scenes is hilarious.

Am I more of a Steve or Bucky?

Bucky, no doubt. Sometimes it feels like Dread has climbed into my brain, found a horrible nugget of truth about me, and then put it into words coming out of Bucky’s mouth. Those moments are both wonderful and terrible in equal measure.

Who would I want to hang out with for a day?

For a whole day? Can it maybe be a coffee or, like, a quick lunch? I honestly don’t know… Neither Steve nor Bucky will be very good company, I think. Not in their current versions, anyways. Rikki is hella cool but she intimidates me, so, not her. Um.. Huh. Nope, don’t have an answer.

Who would I want to be friends with?

Probably Hank, again. He has a really good attitude. I’m starting to feel like not picking Steve/Bucky is selfish because it’s like “oh, they have too many issues and it won’t be fun”. But it’s also true! Friendship is reciprocal, and I really don’t think that’s where they’re at. (But I would have totally been dying to be friends with Steve in his bookshop days). 

Who would I want to be my therapist - Hope, Bruce, Scott, or Claire?

Hope or Claire. Both are no-nonsense competent therapists. But I think maybe Hope will be too put-together for me. So, yeah, probably Claire. 

-----------------------------

Okay, everyone. Back to the grind. I’ll update as soon as I can!  Remember to wash your hands with the fastidiousness of BW Steve Rogers. (And also remember to sing the “happy birthday fucking everyone” song, which should actually be sung TWICE or resentfully enough that it lasts 20 seconds.)

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Quiz: Which Desmond Hall Character Are You?

SPOILER WARNING FOR DESMOND HALL ARCS I AND II

Last week, I was going to work on finishing my next review, but then my muse pulled me aside and ordered me to write a Desmond Hall personality quiz while threatening me with a conjure doll and silver pin. Not every Desmond Hall character is in this quiz, only the ones that I thought would be the funniest to write. Enjoy!

1. You have just arrived at an ancient manor house enveloped in darkness that rests atop a sinister network of haunted caves. When you learn this, how do you react? A. Lie in bed for several days while writhing in agony. B. Accept it and keep myself busy while pining for my voodoo island home. C. Act insufferably smug, because soon the house will belong to me. D. Go search for creatures in the caves to alleviate my boredom and satisfy my compulsion to do random disturbing things. E. Barely react at all because the writers have forgotten that I have a personality. F. Swan around while talking to myself about how the manor looks like something out of a storybook. G. Wish that I could live there again, because I've been trapped in a trippy magical closet for months.

2. The daily newspaper arrives and the headline reads, "GIRL BRUTALLY MURDERED.” What is your response? A. Retreat to my bedchamber and panic loudly about how I hope no one discovers that I’m the murderer. B. Get the body buried and all evidence concealed. C. Observe a moment of silence for my former doxy, then promptly forget she ever existed. D. Cut out the photo of the victim's face, suspend it from a papier-mâché gallows tree, and display it prominently in the foyer. E. Feel moderately concerned for my safety, but not too much. My ghost boyfriend will protect me...maybe. F. Scheme to blackmail the killer into marrying me. G. Wonder, "Was that my brother again?"

3. Your hobbies include: A. Moping around the manor house in fancy suits and contorting my face as though trying unsuccessfully to relieve myself. B. Reciting dramatic monologues with bits of scenery caught between my teeth! C. Plotting murder, robbery, and the corruption of young maidens while sipping sherry. D. I wander. I visit. I'm here and there. I'm a kind of ghost of Desmond Hall. E. I used to enjoy rebelling, flouncing, and bickering, but I've lost my taste for those. Now I prefer hanging out with old people in a cottage that smells of strange spices. F. Talking to and stroking my sweet little snake. (By which I mean "reptile with no legs and a forked tongue." Get your mind out of the gutter.) G. Necromancy.

4. Your favorite foods include: A. Bubbly eggs cooked in champagne. Definitely not kippers. B. The cuisine of my native island, before the evil of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES made all the plants poisonous and killed all the animals! C. My spouse's hors d'oeuvres--but only when I don't have to eat them off the floor. D. Sugar, strawberries and cream, and the very best...*checks Teleprompter*...butter. E. Muffins laced with magical herbs. F. The delicious misery of the man who tried to strangle me and of all the other women who want him. G. I don't eat anymore. I'm a ghost. Food passes right through me--literally.

5. What turns you on? A. A lover who is unpredictable but not murderously crazy, and who likes to wear lacy nighties. B. I would not know! I have not felt those urges in three hundred years! C. Money. D. Anyone from my preferred gender who actually wants to spend time with me. E. A ghost who behaves like Edward Cullen. F. Jean Paul Desmond! He is the sexiest male character in the history of television. G. Submission and unquestioning devotion. Also, lesbians.

6. What is your signature look? A. Highly flattering mod suits combined with an unflattering combover. B. A long black Victorian dress. C. A stodgy gray/green suit, which is probably in desperate need of Febreze after being worn three days in a row. D. Turtlenecks. E. Bleached blonde hair and faddish early ‘70s fashions. F. Long pointed fingernails, false eyelashes, and a creepy grin. G. I once hung from the ceiling with my shirt torn open. Does that count?

7. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet. What is yours? A. Although I want to reach out and help the beautiful young women who come to me, instead my hands reach out to kill! B. I single-handedly cursed my employer's family by signing his grandfather’s (misspelled) name on a pledge to the Dark Lord. C. I am a black widower. D. I used to participate in necromancy rituals with my dear cousin. E. I stole a piece of my mother's jewelry and sold it at a pawn shop. F. I am a priestess of the Serpent God. G. Funny you should mention skeletons. My closet has a literal one hanging in it.

8. If you had to guess, which of these personages were you most likely in a past life? A. A freebooter possessed by the Devil. B. Myself. C. Henry Seewald--who looks exactly like a toddler version of me--transported back in time via the 49th hexagram. D. Someone named Claude. E. A young girl sacrificed by a priestess who looked like my mother. F. Ophelia, if she were real. G. My great-uncle with the same first name as me, who was allegedly disowned for being a poet.

9. Your favorite Dark Shadows character is: A. Barnabas Collins. B. Magda Rakosi. C. Nicholas Blair. D. David Collins. E. Carolyn Stoddard. F. Angelique Bouchard. G. Quentin Collins.

10. What from 1970 Dark Shadows do you believe was most likely inspired by Strange Paradise? A. The character of Judah Zachery, who is highly reminiscent of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES. B. The use of a retcon to completely change Angelique's backstory. C. The name Desmond Collins. D. The implied reincarnation in the Summer of '70 arc that (sadly) never got explored as much as it should have been. E. The subplot about Quentin falling in love with Daphne's ghost. F. The Leviathan cult's use of snake iconography. G. The carousel in Tad and Carrie's playroom.

If you answered mostly A, you are Jean Paul Desmond, richest man in the world and master of Desmond Hall. Tall, dark, and incredibly handsome in spite of his receding hairline, Jean Paul is the victim of two self-imposed curses, one of which causes him to strangle people when the Mark of Death appears on his hand (which is totally not a reflection of some repressed or hidden part of his personality, having formerly displayed megalomania and control freak tendencies on his island). When not under the effects of this curse, he is the living embodiment of charm and sweetness and attracts would-be partners like moths to a flame. Logically, the same must be true about you, because online personality quizzes are never wrong. ;)

If you answered mostly B, you are Raxl, daughter of the Priestess of the Serpent and winner of the Canadian 1969 and 1970 scenery-chewing contests. Far older than she looks, the Desmond family’s housekeeper may not be as loyal as she appears, depending on the whims of whomever wrote the plot outline for the final arc. She is an expert on all things occult and supernatural, from tarot cards to the Egyptian Key. Even after her retcon, she is awesome.

If you answered mostly C, you are Laslo Thaxton, husband of Ada (Desmond) Thaxton and master of Desmond Hall in the absence of Jean Paul and Philip. I would say that you are an unscrupulous, greedy Devil-worshiper like Laslo, but I’ve always hated those personality quizzes that make moral judgments about people just because they share some traits in common with the villain. Therefore, I’m just going to assume that you are most likely a decent person who only got Laslo because you happen to love money and Nicholas Blair.

If you answered mostly D, you are Cort Desmond, twenty-something cousin of Jean Paul and Philip. Eccentric and erratic but oh-so-adorable, Cort is a polarizing character loved by some fans for his good looks and (often unintentionally) funny lines, but hated by others for being somewhat of a spoiled brat. Like Hamlet whom he idolizes, he seeks justice for the death of his father, along with the inheritance his Dear Stepfather Laslo wants to steal from him.

If you answered mostly E, you are Holly Marshall--or, rather, what Holly has become since her creator Ian Martin left the show. Formerly a spitfire with a high IQ, a low boiling point, and a love for outdated slang, Holly has become a shell of her former self under the new writers. She spends more time unconscious and hypnotized than not; when she is conscious, she wastes her time pining after an unsuitable love interest who treats her like Edward treats Bella in Twilight. I hope this doesn’t describe you, because, if it does, you should seek help. Don’t be like Desmond Hall-era Holly!

If you answered mostly F, you are Agatha Pruitt, a young seamstress obsessed with Jean Paul. While the master of Desmond Hall has attracted many suitors, none are as strange or disturbing as Agatha, who blackmails him into letting her live at Desmond Hall after his failed murder attempt and proceeds to wreak havoc there along with the Serpent God (who may or may not be Raxl’s Great Serpent) whom she worships.

Finally, if you answered mostly G, you are Jean Paul’s brother, Philip Desmond (not to be confused with his cousin Philip Desmond, or either of the two Philippes des Mondes). A secretive figure largely mysterious even to his own brother, the handsome Philip dabbles in the dark arts and other mysteries, which ultimately leads to his disappearance into the caves beneath Desmondton and reappearance as a ghost. His character alignment is unclear--he may be evil, or just chaotic neutral--but one thing is clear: whoever messes with Philip has the Devil to pay.

[howaminotinthestrokesyet]

Behind The Album: Sticky Fingers

In April 1971, the Rolling Stones released their 12th studio album, Sticky Fingers. The recording of this album would mark new territory for the band in a lot of ways. Sticky Fingers would be the first album that had absolutely no participation from the late Brian Jones. This would be the first album released on their new label, Rolling Stones Records. The record would be the first major effort from new guitarist,Mick Taylor. He had participated on the previous album, but on a limited basis. The timing of the album was important as well because it would be the first major work from the band since the disaster at Altamont Speedway. Many things had changed in music since the new decade began.

An important factor that played a large part in the recording of the album was the fact that the band had tremendous tax issues at the time. They had learned that their manager Allen Klein had not been paying their taxes, even though he told them he was doing so. This meant that each member of the band owed quite a bit of money in back taxes to the government. Mick Jagger would later say, “I just didn’t think about taxes and no manager I ever had thought about it, even though they said they were going to make sure my taxes were paid. So after working for seven years I discovered nothing had been paid and I owed a fortune.” One of the first steps came in the band firing Allen Klein. Yet, this did little to minimize their money issues because unbeknownst to the band they had signed over copyrights in America to all their 1960’s material. Klein’s company Abkco Records now held ownership and received all royalties for their music. This financial catastrophe meant that they needed to release new music in order to make any money from the recordings. For this reason, Rolling Stones records was created to begin the process of getting the band out of debt. They needed to retain ownership of their music in order to maximize any kind of profit. After detaching themselves from Allen Klein, Prince Rupert Loewenstein was hired as the group's new financial manager. Looking back now, they finally found someone that would not rob them blind. Atlantic Records was hired to license all of their music, while Marshall Chess of Chess Records would handle the business side of the label. They seemed to trust his background as the president of a hardworking blues label more than anything else. There was a lot riding on this album financially for the band because if it did not sell, then things would go from bad to worse for each member personally.

The recording of Sticky Fingers actually began during their tour of the United States in 1969. They made a visit two muscle Shoals in Alabama because some of their favorite music was recorded there. During this time, the band recorded three songs, “Brown Sugar,” “Wild Horses,” and “You Gotta Move.” Keith Richards with later talk about those sessions in an interview. “The session] one of the easiest and rockingest sessions we’d ever done. I don’t think we’ve been quite so prolific… ever. Those sessions were as vital to me as any I’ve ever done. I mean, all the other stuff we did – ‘Beggars Banquet’, ‘Gimme Shelter’, ‘Street Fighting Man’, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash’ – I’ve always wondered that if we had cut them at Muscle Shoals, if they might have been a little bit funkier.” Yet, the recording of the album would take more than a year. The band did not reconvene for more tracks until March 1970 at Mick Jagger‘s estate, Stargroves. He did not have a studio in his house, but instead they used a mobile recording unit. They would use the same thing on the next album, which essentially carried around in a van all the equipment in the sound booth at a recording studio. This unit also allowed the band to record any musicians that just stopped by for a visit. One reason the album took so long was because the material they made during this period was so outstanding. If a song did not end up on Sticky Fingers, then they decided to use it for Exile on Main Street.

Unlike their other releases, this album embodied straight rock and roll. They did not experiment with country, gospel, or anything else for this record. Looking at it in hindsight, this is precisely why people love this album, while critics had mixed reactions about it. The one thing the band did introduce with this album was their new guitarist Mick Taylor. He became a revelation musically because Taylor stood out as the most technically skilled guitarist in the band's history. Keith Richards even said in an interview that the guitar part on “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” could not be played by him. The guitarist also brought a much more melodic guitar as opposed to Brian Jones previously. This would not be the Rolling Stones, if they did not have any issues at all in the recording of the album. During this time, Keith Richards began to gradually descend into complete and utter heroin addiction. At times, he was so intoxicated during recording they had to abandon completely certain takes. The delay of the album probably had much more to do with his heroin addiction, rather than the amount of material they were producing. Richards would later comment on why he began using the drug. “It was] the periods with nothing to do that got me into heroin. It was more of an adrenaline imbalance. You have to be an athlete out there, but when the tour stops, suddenly your body don’t know there ain’t a show the next night. The body is saying, ‘What am I gonna do, leap out in the street?’ It was a very hard readjustment. And I found smack made it much easier for me to slow down very smoothly and gradually.” At one point during the recording, things got so bad that Mick Jagger filled in for him on the song “Moonlight Mile.” At no point previously would that have even been imagined. This would become quite the conundrum for the band considering the fact that they had just fired Brian Jones for this exact reason. Another interesting aspect of Sticky Fingers was the fact that Gram Parsons did a country version of “Wild Horses” one year before the album was even released for his band. There exist differing accounts on how it all transpired. Jagger and Richards were totally fine with the release of the song. Before his death, Parsons would say in interviews that the song was a gift to him for helping them with country rock songs like “Country Honk” on Sticky Fingers and Let It Bleed. The track is very different from the one the band released, and some critics even argue that the Parsons version is better.

One of the things about Sticky Fingers is that the art associated with the album became just as important as the music. Andy Warhol designed the cover of the album, which was a pair of pants with a working zipper. The first albums had the zipper pull all the way down to reveal white underwear. These albums are collectors items today because they eventually had to switch to a plain photograph. The metal from the zippers was damaging the records when they were stacked in trucks to be delivered. Unfortunately, nobody really knows for sure who the model is on the cover of the album. Some have suspected that it is Joe Johnson, the brother of Warhol's lover at the time. The other iconic piece of art released with this album came in the introduction of the Rolling Stones signature tongue. This has become the most recognizable image for their brand. You probably cannot live in this country without having seen it at least once. The inspiration for it came to Jagger via calendar he owned about Indian culture. “I was looking for a logo when we started Rolling Stones Records. I had this calendar on my wall, it was an Indian calendar, which you’ll see in Indian grocery stores, and it’s the goddess Kali, which is the very serious goddess of carnage and so forth. And she has, apart from her body, this tongue that sticks out. So I took that to John Pasche and he ‘modernized’ it somewhat.”

Upon its release, critics had very mixed reactions towards the album. The main flaw that some found it possessing came in the fact that it underwhelmed. This issue represented what these critics have come to love about the band's more recent efforts. On Beggars Banquet and Let It Bleed, the Stones had experimented quite a bit with their sound venturing off into new areas. Yet, Sticky Fingers did not go in those places, but instead stayed fairly close to basic rock and roll. This emerges as an age old story with a lot of bands. You must do something different in order to impress the critics because they will often say I have already listened to that. The album became the band's most popular one to date as it went number one in both England and America. That fact should actually be the true testament on how good the band's album is overall.

[sohannabarberaesque]

Underwater America with Peter Potamus: Florida’s Space Coast

art by MaudeDraws (https://www.deviantart.com/maudedraws)

This story continues a Friday Fanfic series which debuted late last year, in which Peter Potamus and friends go on a cross-country tour of the nation’s most interesting diving sites in the hope of selling their adventures to television. This story takes place early in the summer of 1970.

I drove the bus out of Ocala at around six o’clock in the morning while everyone else inside was still sleeping off our latest refreshing adventure.

Early into the next leg of our cross-country tour, I pondered taking the winding country roads instead of the highway. I eventually decided on the highway, for the roads were generally less bumpy—thereby making the crew less irritable—and faster, even though we had lots of time to get to our next stop: Florida’s famous State Road A1A, featuring the longest stretches of beaches one could ever hope for.

About 90 minutes later, once everyone was awake, alert and begging for breakfast, we stopped at a diner in Ocoee, not far from Orlando, Walt Disney’s latest conquest. In fact, as we sat in two separate booths looking at menus, the conversation turned to the resort.

“What do you think he’s got there?” Breezly pondered.

“Do you think we could get up close and take pictures?” asked a slightly hyperactive Squiddly, shivering with delight.

“Yeah!” Magilla giddily exclaimed. “Maybe we could have a piece of history!”

“Please,” Mildew said in his usual sassy style. “I doubt they’d let anyone near a construction site. Plus, this is Disney we’re talking about, so they’d probably shoot you!”

“Indeed,” I added, dead serious. “I’m not going to waste valuable time going there. We’ve got Cape Canaveral coming up in a few hours.” The thought of me or any of the others possibly getting arrested for trespassing immediately came to mind. “Let me remind you all that even though we’re all having fun here, I’m spending my life savings to make this dream happen. You all have nothing to lose, but not me.”

Squiddly and Magilla clammed up immediately. I figured they knew what I was talking about: nobody else had any means of support. Hokey and his partner Ding-a-Ling only had their street smarts to get them out of jams. Lippy and Hardy were just struggling. While Magilla could simply go back to Peebles’ Pet Shop, it simply wasn’t a life. This was a ticket to a new life for them and I was not about to risk that for something stupid.

Breakfast, otherwise, was nothing special. The coffee was a little too strong for some of them, and some of the meals just weren’t up to par. Lippy, sitting opposite from me, wasn’t thrilled with the slightly-soggy pancakes, either. We still paid for the meal, though, and went on our way. At least Squiddly loved the bagels and lox.

To compensate for the lack of Disney in our lives, we made an unplanned stop at the Tosohatchee Wildlife Management Area in Orange County. The area brings hunters, birdwatchers, campers, hikers, botanists, fishermen and wildlife enthusiasts together under one roof, and today all of the above were out enjoying themselves.

We took plenty of pictures of birds that morning, with bald eagles and kestrels hunting for their next meal, while herons and ibises, among others, hung out in the wetlands. We were also able to get on camera a group of wild turkeys congregating nearby, with Mildew and Hokey instantly regretting not bringing a shotgun—if only we had one.

“Monsters,” Loopy said with a smirk, although I am certain that, deep down, he would’ve wanted it.

The excursion turned out to be a good thing: the heavy showers came in a few miles after we got back onto Route 524. Better now than later.

“Oh, dear,” Hardy moaned. “That’s going to ruin our plans.”

“Aww, don’t sweat it, Hardy!” replied his optimistic friend, Lippy. “Better now than when we’re out on the boat, right?”

“If you say so,” the sour-flavored hyena moped. “I suppose it could have been worse. We could have been out in the water when—“

As if on cue, lightning struck a few hundred feet away from us, startling everyone but especially Hardy, who would’ve jumped into Lippy’s lap had the seat belt not prevented him from doing so—and yet, we all soldiered on past the rain and out of danger, and just in time.

The timing was perfect: the sun shone brightly on the Indian and Banana rivers, the first things one sees before entering State Road A1A from the north. Sandwiched between the two rivers is Merritt Island, home to the John F. Kennedy Space Center, known throughout the world for NASA’s Apollo space missions that eventually put man on the moon for the first time in history.

We stopped at the northernmost point of Florida’s Space Coast—the town of Cape Canaveral, where space tourism and beach tourism combine to provide an unforgettable experience. As we were on a mix of both pleasure and business, however, we immediately sought out a boat to rent for today’s underwater journey.

Once we secured one, we got to work loading our gear from the trailer into the boat. To avoid confusion and clutter, not only are the swim fins and masks hooked to the belt of the harness, our names are marked on the backs of the harnesses so we do not end up wearing someone else’s kit. We then started on our way, into the Atlantic Ocean.

As we continued on our way, we were able to get a glimpse of houses lined along the streets, not far from the Space Coast’s gorgeous beaches. These streets bear the names of past U.S. Presidents, the greats and not-so-greats among them: Washington Avenue. Adams. Jefferson. Eventually ending with Harding.

“Huh. Coulda sworn Van Buren would get his due,” Wally said before letting out his familiar, ear-pleasing laugh, noting the absence of his own street.

Further along the coast, the beaches were endless, although the places had different names. Cocoa Beach? Satellite Beach? Melbourne Beach, just a drive away from the city of Melbourne? It’s all good. You get to enjoy the feeling of sand between your toes.

I made certain to check my gear to ensure everything was operational. I took a breath from the regulator and found no problems. While everyone else was testing their tanks and regulators, I went into the cabin to plot out a course for ourselves using a nautical map.

Now, Cape Canaveral itself is not an ideal place for diving. Consulting the guidebook, I had two options: either explore a natural reef twenty miles out of Port Canaveral in an area called Pelican Flats, or explore the wrecked Dutch steamship Laertes, the Allied cargo vessel sunk by a German U-109 in May 1942. We couldn’t tackle both at once, as those two were a mile apart. As I looked further through the book to see if there were other reefs, it turned out there are plenty of other wrecks along the waters off A1A, some of them much, much older.

My mind was made up: we would be exploring a reef that day. …Or at least, I thought! Maybe some of the gang wanted a change of scene early. If there were other natural reefs along the coast, they were hard to come by. So, I told them we’d go to the reef.

After agreeing amongst ourselves on 90 feet for 40 minutes with a seven-minute decompression stop, we geared up for our journey into the depths in our familiar way: tanks secured to harnesses; harnesses worn and buckled securely; fins snugly worn; mask lenses spat-at-and-rinsed before donning; regulators being given a final check.

art by Kandlin

After a final safety briefing and the dropping of the anchor line, we were about to back-roll into the ocean when an Atlantic flyingfish flew up from the water and landed right on Breezly’s lap. We all had a terrific laugh over it, even after Breezly non-chalantly threw the fish back in the ocean, toward where the little fella had hoped to go.

“We could’ve had some lunch!” Lippy laughed. “Why’d you throw it back?”

“I didn’t want to punish him for one simple mistake!” Breezly replied with a warm smile to match his warm heart.

After that slight delay, we back-rolled into the water and slowly followed the anchor line down to the ocean floor, right next to where the reef was located.

Immediately the ten of us split up into several groups, giving us several times the opportunities for fun things to happen, though the feeling of water against one’s skin or fur is always a source of delight, regardless of the results of these dives.

One thing we noticed was that the reef was not a coral reef as some of us had hoped. Instead, we found plenty of short seagrass, an important source of nutrition for some of the aquatic life. The lack of coral gave me the first impression that the reef resembled a formation of mossy rocks and boulders one would perhaps find in the woods.

On the ocean floor nearby, Hardy swam close to what appeared to be a small, wide formation. It looked like it was a little smooth to the touch, unlike coral, so he brushed a few fingers along the length. The “formation” moved slightly, causing Hardy to jump back a little. The thing Hardy touched was a Florida sea cucumber, one of many such invertebrates found along Florida’s waters. To reassure Hardy, Lippy gently picked it up and showed its underside, with its many rows of tube feet, and the oral tentacles on the front side. Hardy nodded, having fully understood.

Meanwhile, Hokey and Wally, apparently not yet over their hunger pangs, scoped out a sizable group of lobsters congregating beneath a portion of the reef. With no net with which to catch them, and no way to bring them back, lest they carry it with them throughout the dive and even the decompression stop, they were at a loss. Even so, they were not about to be defeated.

Hokey beckoned for Loopy to swim over. Once Loopy joined the pair, Hokey pointed to the lobsters that were taking cover, then rubbed his belly to communicate everyone’s favorite language—food.

Loopy looked at Hokey quizzically, pointing up to the surface: did Hokey really intend to take his dinner up to the boat? When Hokey and Wally nodded in the affirmative, Loopy shook his head, not wanting anything to do with it.

Wally, however, had a plan, and he started to take off Loopy’s scarf, despite the wolf’s objections. Once Hokey got into the mess, Loopy had no chance. He then laid down one end of the scarf by the lobsters, waiting on one of them to take the bait. It didn’t take long, as one of them gripped the scarf.

Excitedly, Hokey pulled the scarf out, but the lobster, sensing what was happening, let go and rejoined the others.

Wally laid out the bait again, but before a lobster could hook onto it, Loopy, disgruntled, snatched the scarf away and swam far from them in order to put it back on. So much for lunch.

Meanwhile, our camera-octopus, Squiddly, located a gorgeous queen angelfish swimming alongside me. The somewhat fluorescent-looking colors on its body make it stand out from most of the other fish. Getting to experience seeing one up close is exciting enough, but when about a dozen more show up in the vicinity, you get worried about whether or not you actually loaded the film into the camera!

Some of the others were able to witness a loggerhead sea turtle swim by them. Mildew started off by following it, with Loopy instinctively joining his lupine companion. Soon, Lippy and Hardy were on the chase as well, though I do believe they just wanted to pet it. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just get it over with and form a conga line.

I followed Magilla and Breezly when they decided to stray a little from the reef. We had reached a sandy area where the two of them went fish-watching, without any of the others getting in the way.

We were able to witness a group of African pompanos on their way to the reef. While the juveniles prefer to go where the ocean currents lead them, adults prefer the coastline, in depths of up to 100 meters.

Outside of that, we were unable to find many fish of interest, outside of a solitary cocoa damselfish that swam right between the polar bear’s and gorilla’s bodies. The two of them turned around in unison just as the fish passed them; perhaps those two should have signed up for synchronized swimming instead.

We were about to rejoin the group when we saw what appeared to be a large school of fish—at least from a distance. As they drew ever closer, however, we realized they weren’t fish, but a group of about three dozen manta rays swimming towards us and above us. We quickly turned around, kicking our legs as quickly as we could, swim fins waving up and down, so that we could alert the others. We were going to get a chance to swim along with the rays.

art by Enookie

Squiddly got in front of us so he could capture this epic scene. I positioned the other camera at a different angle, and we were on our way.

As we followed the group of rays, we were awestruck by the graceful movement of their pectoral fins. Taken individually, it’s a gorgeous sight, but to witness over thirty of them doing it was like viewing real-life natural art.

Mildew had the right idea when he swam the backstroke. The rays’ movements, combined with the limited light of the sun, made for the best viewing experience.

The mantas have a pair of horn-like cephalic fins on either side of their mouth. When the manta forages for food, these fins flatten in order to channel food into their mouths. At the surface they will feed on zooplankton such as shrimp and krill. At deeper depths such as these, they will feed on small or medium-sized fish.

As were were approaching a variety of fish, we had no choice but to let them be. Squiddly kept filming, yet kept a safe distance. As the rays fed on the sundry fish, I discovered, while editing this film for broadcast, that one of the rays may very have well feasted on that same cocoa damselfish Magilla and Breezly saw earlier. That’s the way life goes for an animal: one day you’re minding your own business, and the next day you’re gone. I would talk about life’s fleeting mortality, but that’s for some other show. It was time for us to ascend, anyway.

In deep dives, nitrogen starts to accumulate in the diver’s body. If a diver ascends like one usually would in a relatively shallow swimming pool, these nitrogen gases could turn into bubbles, thereby causing decompression sickness, which can be potentially fatal.

To help relieve the pressure, the diver’s ascent must be approximately thirty feet per minute. Depending on the details of the dive, a decompression stop may also be necessary fifteen feet from the surface. In this case, because of a 90-foot dive for 40 minutes, our wait was seven minutes. Even in dives at shorter depths, precautionary safety stops of three minutes may be required.

Because of the potential for danger, it is advised that dives are planned carefully. Use the most conservative figures when consulting dive tables. Know how much air you have, and do not plan lengthy dives if you don’t have the air to do a safety or decompression stop.

Squiddly Diddly, bless him, doesn’t have those disadvantages we mammals have. While we waited to ascend again, the good old octopus took the time to take one last tour of Pelican Flats, showcasing all its flora and fauna in its glory, however fleeting it may be. Who knows—maybe the fish Squiddly caught on camera could be the next to be swallowed up by a manta ray!

After the decompression stop, we made our final ascent to the boat, where we climbed out of the ocean, one at a time. Some of us laid back, gear still on, a little worn out from overstimulation.

“All those wasted years of trying to catch lambs,” Mildew chuckled. “Now this is living!”

“Who woulda thought? Swimming with manta rays!” Magilla said giddily, removing the gear one piece at a time and drying himself off.

“I think all of us needed that spark in our lives where we truly got to experience something special,” said I, stacking my fins and mask together as Squiddly climbed back onto the boat, the last to do so. “We’ve all forgotten how much of a thrill life could be. All we’ve been doing before is trying to survive.”

Lippy and Hardy, having known the feeling for years, nodded in agreement.

I slowly arose from the ledge and walked to the cabin. “All right. Let’s get this boat back, we get the gear back in, get our tanks refilled, and then finally we relax. I hear there are some good seafood places here.”

“How about a lobster?” Hokey said, smiling, eager for something exquisite.

“Me, too!” Wally added.

“Eh, we’ll see,” I said with a laugh, and the others were pretty much amused.

Once back on shore, we got the tanks refilled and all the gear loaded back onto the trailer. We bade farewell to Cape Canaveral and continued further south along A1A. Although Cape Canaveral isn’t a haven for divers, what we did see was good enough to warrant a visit, and the beaches are still very exquisite. If you would like to get to know NASA’s space program up-close and get wet and sandy—preferably not at the same time—set aside some time to visit the Space Coast.

Although we never got a chance to explore the Laertes shipwreck, a greater opportunity arose pre-dive when I learned of an early 18th-century Spanish ship, part of the doomed 1715 Treasure Fleet that transported goods and treasure from Spain’s territories back to the mainland. In our next episode, in which we travel to Florida’s Treasure Coast, we will explore one of those ships lost to a hurricane, the Urca de Lima, and perhaps come away with some treasure of our own.

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/lifestyle/the-chic-octogenarian-behind-barbies-best-looks/

The Chic Octogenarian Behind Barbie’s Best Looks

LOS ANGELES — Carol Spencer, 86, may be the most influential fashion designer you’ve never heard of.

In the mid-1960s, she made a red pencil skirt with a white sleeveless blouse that had red stitching and three red buttons down the front. Short white gloves came with it. Thousands sold.

In the 1970s, well aware that the counterculture’s loosening dress code and mores had made it to the mainstream, Ms. Spencer designed a red bandanna halter maxi-dress and a matching leisure shirt for men. Those designs were popular, too.

In the Nancy Reagan 1980s, Ms. Spencer aimed for high-end appeal, making a one-shouldered ball gown in blue jacquard with an organza flower at the nipped-in waist and a cape. One of Mrs. Reagan’s go-to couturiers personally approved the gown to be sold under his name: “Oscar de la Renta for Barbie.”

Ms. Spencer has made wedding dresses, saris, go-go boots and caftans. All in miniature. From 1963 to 1999, she was Barbie’s fashion designer, a career celebrated in her new book, “Dressing Barbie” (HarperDesign).

Ms. Spencer also made her own clothes, and had an easy time working with the doll’s famously unusual proportions, she said, because they weren’t so far from her own. “I have shrunk but in those days, I was tall and skinny,” she said. “I had a 16-inch waist and something on top, too, I sure did, but Barbie’s legs were better than mine.”

She was sitting in her dining room, wearing a blouse in a shade that can only be described as Barbie pink, with a Barbie brooch and a Barbie digital watch that legions of girls probably begged to get for Christmas in the 1990s.

It was a different body part that was most important for her job, Ms. Spencer said: “I have small hands.” She set down the Barbie teacup filled with lemonade she had been clasping to show her fingers. They are small and jut out at angles from the joint, a disfiguration likely caused by years of grasping little needles and bottles of glue.

In creating a wardrobe for Barbie and the entourage (Skipper, Ken, Midge, Big Jim, Baby Sister Kelly, Cara, Stacey, Christie, P.J., Steffie and Miss America), Ms. Spencer was part of a team that has inspired the work of designers including Bob Mackie, Nicole Miller, Jeremy Scott and Jason Wu, who once said he played with Barbie dolls when he was a child.

For a Moschino fashion show in Milan in 2014, Mr. Scott had a Barbie waiting on front-row chairs and sent models down the runway in blond bouffants and pink skirt suits.

Last month, to celebrate the doll’s 60th birthday, Mattel hosted a profusely pink Barbie bacchanal in New York City with Instagram-friendly Dream House backdrops, intended to draw in a new generation of fans who are too young to know that Barbie was the original influencer.

1. Ms. Spencer designed Ski Party Pink for Barbie in 1982. The sweater had Dolman sleeves and a cowl neck. In her ankle-strap high-heels, she was ready to hit the bars, not the slopes.

2. Released in 1979, this City Sophisticate outfit had a faux-fur-trimmed coat and skirt accented by a yellow soutache braid.

3. A Mattel employee accidentally ordered 2,500 yards of gold-and-white striped fabric, instead of 250 yards. Ms. Spencer’s 1965 Country Club Dance fashions made use of the excess.

4. The 1992 Totally Hair Barbie was one of Mattel’s best sellers. Ms. Spencer designed a Pucci-inspired mini.

5. Ms. Spencer wanted to create an “evening pajama” look for Barbie after Barbra Streisand wore a Scaasi version when accepting an Academy Award in 1969. Ms. Streisand’s outfit was see-through, so Ms. Spencer made Barbie special panties.

Saving the Dune Buggy

Even since her retirement, Ms. Spencer has devoted her time to Barbie. Inducted in 2017 into the Women in Toys, Licensing & Entertainment Hall of Fame, she has spent her golden years attending Barbie collectors events, doing research and amassing artifacts.

For years she has worked on “Dressing Barbie,” which is sized for a coffee table and subtitled “A Celebration of the Clothes That Made America’s Favorite Fashion Doll, and the Incredible Woman Behind Them.” Laurie Brookins, a writer and stylist, helped Ms. Spencer with the project.

The book combines styled vintage fashion photography with memoir. Born in 1932 and raised in Minneapolis, Ms. Spencer rejected the wife-and-mother path that prevailed in the American midcentury and instead made a career for herself. “I truly fell in love with Barbie the first moment I created her clothes and accessories,” she writes in the book.

Barbie has been a go-to emblem of all that has ill-served girls and young women in American culture. Living in a world that is almost exclusively white, the doll has breasts that are disproportionately large compared with her hips, and her feet are contorted into a permanent “floint” (short for flexing your toes back as you point the rest of your foot).

Her hair seems to be bleached blond, never with dark (or gray) roots. At times she dressed the part of a doctor or politician but has seemed unable to hold down a job. And there’s the place in Malibu. Does it come from a trust fund or Ken?

But Ms. Spencer would like to counterpunch the Barbie bashing. She points out the doll’s humble origins, with her proportions modeled after paper dolls cut from newspapers. She also defends Barbie as a healthy alternative to video games; an engine of imagination for girls and boys, who can project onto a Barbie doll whoever they may wish to become.

“It’s wholesome play,” she said, as she pulled from a case one of the many hundreds of dolls in her home. This one was wearing a yellow chiffon-like pleated tunic with see-through pajama pants, inspired by the Arnold Scaasi transparent ensemble Barbra Streisand wore to the 1969 Oscars when she won a best actress award for “Funny Girl.”

Ms. Spencer’s house is filled with books like “Barbie: Her Life and Times” and “Dream Doll: the Ruth Handler Story,” about Ms. Handler, who, with her husband, Elliot, and Harold Matson, founded Mattel in 1945. The Barbie fashion doll was released in 1959.

Over a cluttered desk are posters of Barbie, like one showing the same image of the original 1959 doll, displayed against four different bright backgrounds, à la Warhol. (It was made to celebrate Mattel’s 35th Anniversary Barbie Festival, in 1994.)

Ms. Spencer is a scavenger for treasures in a toss-everything world. One day at the Mattel offices, then located in Hawthorne, Calif., she noticed someone was about to throw away an important piece of Barbie memorabilia.

“It was the prototype for Barbie’s dune buggy,” she said. “They were tossing it, and I said, ‘Would you toss it my way?’”

She learned thrift as a child. “During World War II, things were scarce and I remember the family would get the Sunday paper,” Ms Spencer said. “When they’d get through with it, they’d hand me the comic pages so that I could cut out the paper dolls.”

She began to create paper fashion for these paper dolls. Soon she was making her own clothes. But being a fashion designer didn’t seem like a realistic goal in those days, she recalled. “You could be a teacher, nurse, secretary or clerk,” she said. “But wife and mother were the big ones.”

She was engaged to a medical student but when she realized she was expected to work to help pay for education before quitting to be a “doctor’s wife,” she broke the engagement. Then she enrolled at the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, where she got a bachelor of fine arts with a focus on fashion design.

In May 1955, as she was about to graduate, she received a telegram from New York letting her know that her application for a “guest editor” slot at Mademoiselle magazine had been approved. Instead of sticking around for her commencement ceremony, Ms. Spencer took her first plane trip and moved in to the Barbizon Hotel for Women, for a month.

During her time in New York, she attended a reception at the home of the cosmetics entrepreneur Helena Rubinstein, visited the recently opened United Nations, danced with West Point cadets at the St. Regis hotel and interviewed the designer Pauline Trigère in her studio.

Ms. Spencer was in the same class of Mademoiselle guest editors as Joan Didion. “It was about as far from Minneapolis as you could get,” she writes.

She returned to her hometown to work, designing children’s wear for Wonderalls Company and then moved to Milwaukee to become a “misses” sportswear designer.

In late 1962, Ms. Spencer spotted an advertisement in Women’s Wear Daily. “A national manufacturer who leads its industry with annual sales in excess of $50 million seeks a cost-conscious fashion designer-stylist for its suburban Los Angeles facility.”

She sent a résumé and heard nothing back. Still, sensing this mysterious job was her destiny, she and her aunt packed up their 1959 Ford Fairlane and drove across the country to California.

In April 1963, she saw an ad in the California Apparel News for the same job, and this time her application got a response. It was from Mattel, the toymaker already known for the postwar bombshell: Barbie.

Ms. Spencer went to the company headquarters for an interview and was asked to make a suite of outfits for this creature. She made a halter-top-and-boy-short bikini, a one-piece in the same shade of orange-pink. There was a cover-up and a wrap skirt. She got the job.

Pink Pills Nixed

At that time, Mattel made about 125 different outfits a year for Barbie, and the fashion department, run by Charlotte Johnson, could be cutthroat.

“Charlotte had a theory,” Ms. Spencer said. “If you have four designers, you put them in four corners. And it was always competitive and you were pitching your product. Sometimes the competition was kind of dirty.”

How so? She wouldn’t say. “I’m out of it, I’m retired, I’m enjoying life, I’ll put it that way,” she said, and she took a sip of lemonade from her Barbie teacup.

Some of her early successes, all of which she has cataloged, included Country Club Dance (a white and gold striped gown), From Nine to Five (a midcalf blue dress with an embroidered vest and hair scarf) and Debutante Ball (an aqua satin gown with a fur stole).

Ms. Spencer took her cue from the culture around her. As the Jane Fonda aerobics craze of the 1980s took off, Barbie got a purple leotard and leg warmers. When NASA’s space shuttle exploration was in full tilt, Barbie became an astronaut (albeit one in thigh-high boots and silver capes).

And there was inspiration from her own life as well. When she needed a biopsy on her breast, Ms. Spencer was transfixed by the white coats doctors wore. The biopsy was negative, but the fashion was positive. Guess who became, however briefly, a surgeon?

There were missteps too, like when she gave Dr. Barbie a case of pink pills without knowing that at that time pink pills were known to be methamphetamines. “Let me tell you, that caused quite a stir,” she said. (Her faux pas was caught before Meth-Head Barbie made its way to children’s dollhouses.)

There are hundreds and hundreds of designs that are Carol Spencer originals, with only a small portion bearing her name. Until the mid-1990s, Mattel didn’t put designer names on Barbie’s packaging.

But Ms. Spencer remembers each of her creations, and many of them are in her home, which her sister, Margaret, 88, will be moving into soon. But even though Ms. Spencer gets out less these days, and relies on a walker to take more than a few steps, she said she feels surrounded by good company.

“You’re never alone when you have dinner at my house,” she said. “Barbie is always with you.”

[litbits]

2018 Reading Round-up!

In 2018, I read 21 fiction and non-fiction books. (Poetry to be dealt with separately.) I probably spent the equivalent of 10 books’ worth of time on stupid Twitter, though. I don’t know what the sum of these tweets have contributed to my life or understanding of the world yet. I can’t even remember the funny memes at the moment. OH WELL. I also tried to keep up with a New Yorker subscription, which cut into book-reading time. I’m discontinuing this in 2019 and have subscribed to Granta, which is quarterly, instead. I’m also engaging in periodic social media fasts to break addictive patterns. We’ll see how that goes!

Reading trends in 2018: more European fiction, more novels and fewer short story collections than I usually read. Each year, there’s been a single author I become obsessed with and seek out (Anais Nin, Deborah Levy, Elena Ferrante, Joan Didion), but that didn’t really happen in 2018.  The list is rather eclectic and there was nothing that made me rave and buy multiple copies and press into friends’ hands, which is my favorite thing that happens. I do want to read more by Elizabeth Strout, Rebecca Solnit and Virginie Despentes, but the desire isn’t at obsession level.

Some stats:

•  52% fiction (mostly novels), 48% non-fiction (interviews, memoir, politics, feminist theory, art theory)

• 64% by women, 36% by men (out of 22 total writers)

• Authors were from the U.S.A. (11), United Kingdom (3), France (2), Italy (2), Canada, Colombia, Germany, and Greece (1 each). I read 19 books in English, 5 of these were in translation, and 1 book in Spanish and 1 in French.

• Original dates of publication span 1946-2018. About half of what I read was published within the past ten years. 

The list, ranked in order of how much I enjoyed the book, its scope of impact on the life of the mind and imagination, and how likely I am to re-read and recommend it. 

1. The Cost of Living: A Working Autobiography by Deborah Levy (Hamish Hamilton, 2018)

This is the second volume in what Levy herself has termed a “working autobiography”. The first volume, Things I Don’t Want to Know, was probably one of my favorite books I’ve read, ever, so I was excited for this one. The second volume doesn’t dive as deep as the first, but that deep dive is also something that can’t be done twice. (The first book contended with her childhood in South Africa and her first graspings of injustice as a fact of life). In this volume, she recounts starting over at age 50, post-divorce, making a new life with her daughters, losing her mother, writing through it. She does it her way, which is in a Modernist spirit, understatedly, through metaphor, and weaving in objects (a bird clock,  a necklace, a heavy e-bike), recurring phrases, and other pieces of writing (in this one, Beauvoir’s, Duras’) as way of coming at the narrative elliptically and lyrically. Her piercing analysis and sense of humor make her writing about anything a pleasure.

Provenance: Van Stockum bookstore in Leiden (RIP) Fate: On the keeper shelf

2. My Name Is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout (Viking, 2016)

A slim, absorbing, funny, affecting novel. Lucy Barton starts by remembering a period she spent hospitalized in New York and her mother came to visit. Her mother, who had never been on a plane before, who she hadn’t seen in years. The story weaves around like memory itself, making lateral, associative leaps between different episodes about growing up in poverty and becoming a writer. The narrative also mimics the writing process itself, now that I think of it. My only quibble is that this is a piece of fiction where the narrator is a writer, writing about writing, writing about writing workshops and writing about another writer. It all gets too much into itself – the premise would somehow be more acceptable to me if it were a piece of non-fiction.

Provenance: Gift from my sweet mother-in-law Fate: Passed on to a friend

3. Fellini on Fellini, various translators (1976)

This was a re-read. Essays by and interviews with Federico Fellini. Things I take away from Fellini: his (Jungian) trust in dreams, the image as a source of creation; appreciation of artifice (the film set above reality, hyper-real characters); improvisation and a sense of humor as requisite for survival; not doing it for the money. There’s a beautiful essay about Rimini, the place he grew up, in the 1930s (essentially an essay version of Amarcord). There’s an interesting coda, when he goes back to the town in the late 60s and barely recognizes the place. He is older than the revolutionary youth, but he admires their ideas and bravery, recognizes the limitations religion and fascism placed on his own youth and how their freedom from those strictures will take them into new, unknown discoveries. Curiously, he view his own time as producing outsized artists, and the post-60s times as producing more, but smaller figures, a society of small artists. Is this true?

Provenance: a used bookstore in New York Fate: On the keeper shelf

4. Zorba the Greek by Nikos Kazantis (1946), translated by Carl Wildman

If you can set aside a feminist perspective and pretend you’re a pre-1970s dude while reading this, then it’s a classic. I don’t mean that facetiously – the character of Zorba is a useful point of reference in life. I think about him a lot, and the wimpy narrator, too. We all have a bit of both in us. (I am OK with reading like a pre-1970s dude at the moment, maybe because there are so many interesting women’s voices out there, it’s almost like assumed patriarchal views are historical, like feudalism, and not annoyingly ubiquitous. Almost. I also have times of only wanting to read women, insisting on our personhood, etc. With Zorba, beyond even issues with the female characters and what happens to them, there’s the basic world view it departs from, that women are like nature, religion, war, learning: one of those things in life men must contend with, rather than heroes of their own stories, too.) 

So, Zorba versus the narrator: eating up life all has to offer vs. ascetic withdrawal; a life of experiences over a life of contemplation; choosing experience over morality. The spiritual life? Monks reveal themselves to be as depraved and greedy as anyone else. The simple country life? Apparently innocent villagers can transform into a killer, misogynist mob. Zen withdrawal? When a beautiful woman offers herself to you, you take her! You might as well be honest and not buy into any of those rigid life paths. But then there are the sacrifices you make if you choose to be a Zorba, too, going all the way, doing it all, leaving everyone behind at some point or another...

5. Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House by Michael Wolff (Henry Holt, 2018)

I couldn’t put this book down. I’ve figured out why it was comforting: It was a confirmation of reality, of a timeline of events in objective reality, in this awful moment when we’re spun in circles by media, social media, fake news, real news, bad news, until we’re dizzy, can’t see straight, think straight. Particularly notable was Wolff’s account of election night and the weeks that followed. I wanted it to go on and on, up through the present day. Wolff writes vividly and entertainingly. He also has a nuanced grasp of the media landscape, which shaped Trump and the people around him more than politics did, and isn’t afraid to be critical of Democrats and figures on the left, either. I wrote more about this book here. (God, it seems like this was published years ago, the scandal it caused, but it was only a year ago.)

Provenance: Purchased by Dan from a Dutch bookstore, he ordered it as soon as it came out.

Fate: Holding onto it for now.

[brentwatchesmovies]

My Top 10 Movies of 2021

It’s been a weird year. I’m not really sure how to start this one except to say thank god for movies this year. Whether we chose to stay home and watch on one of numerous streaming apps or ventured back out to a local theater, it felt nice to have a bit of a return to normal, at least for a little while. This one is coming a bit later than usual while I caught up with some last minute watches, but this year, none of these are in order (except for my number 1, which the real ones already know lol). Anyway, I think I’ve been doing this pointless thing for like 12 years now, which is insane, but why stop now! Thanks for reading, and let me know on Twitter or Facebook what you thought, and if you had any favorites that are/are not on this list!

Any new movie by Paul Thomas Anderson is basically a lock for my top 10 of any given year, but this was a funnier, more free-wheeling film than he’s maybe ever made and I loved it. Alana Haim (of the Haim Sisters) and Cooper Hoffman (son of the late Philip Seymour Hoffman) play Alana and Gary, growing up in San Fernando valley in the 1970’s. It’s probably PTA’s least structured movie, letting Alana and Gary run around (literally a lot of the time) going from scheme to scheme in an effort to make money and be successful. To me, it’s a movie about trying to find someone who makes you feel like an adult, whether it’s 15-year old Gary falling for 25 year old Alana, or Alana’s appeal of Gary’s confidence and decency when every grown man in her life treats her like crap. It’s a great coming-of-age story that really feels dreamlike or like a lost memory more than most others and I loved it for that.

Don’t doubt the king. There were a lot of people skeptical about Spielberg making an updated version of the Broadway classic, as it had been made into an already classic, best picture winning hit in 1960. However, this is one of the best living filmmakers we’re talking about here, and he’s been itching to make a musical for his entire career. The most shocking takeaway I had from this dazzling and electrifying adaptation is how vital and modern it feels. I’d never seen the Broadway show or classic adaptation, but the second the jets come onscreen after a beautiful opening shot made of his classic visual storytelling, I knew he had already killed it. Filled with incredible dance numbers, beautifully captured songs and amazing performances, this is one of Spielberg’s very best and possibly best film since Munich.

I think when we look back on 2020 (hell, basically the whole early 2020’s at this point), Bo Burnham’s ‘Inside’ is the piece of art I’d point to first that really captured the anxieties many people were feeling. Burnham has consistently been one of the funniest and creative comedians working today but it’s this 90 minute special, bouncing from manic reflections on social medias influence on our generation, to anxiety about turning 30, to deeper, sadder observations about the world at large that really was a transcendent experience. When my son asks me what 2020 was like years from now, I’ll put this on and tell him to buckle up for a wild ride.

Jane Campion is an acclaimed director I’m only coming around to after seeing the amazing portrayal of suppression and masculine rage she captures in Power of the Dog. A story I thought I could predict after the first half or so but that takes a few very unexpected and dark turns in the latter half. Benedict Cumberbatch has never been better than he is here, playing the parasitic Phil Burbank. Kirsten Dunst is also incredible as Phil’s brothers new wife. Phil Burbank is a poisonous, toxic presence to all those he interacts with, but as layers of him continue to be discovered (mostly by Kirsten Dunst’s characters son), he slowly becomes outplayed in ways I did not see coming. Aside from the great script, it’s a beautiful movie, using the landscapes of New Zealand to stand in for Montana, and accompanied by a top tier Johnny Greenwood score to boot. For fans of slow burn, character focused thrillers, don’t sleep on this one.

Mike Mills is quickly becoming one of my favorite writer/directors, making some of the best parent/child relationship movies of the last decade (20th Century Women and Beginners). C’mon C’mon is another great addition to his filmography, this time inspired by his time as a father, writing Joaquin Phoenix as the uncle to an energetic young boy played wonderfully by Woody Norman. Phoenix plays a radio host traveling around the country interviewing children about their thoughts on the world, when he’s forced to take his nephew along for the ride. It’s a very loose movie, comfortable in capturing little moments between Phoenix and Norman, but also in the beauty of a child’s worldview. It’s great to see Phoenix so grounded and human again, because he’s better at it than most when he wants to.

I’m still processing this one, having just seen it recently, and it’s a hard movie to talk about, but Drive My Car is the definition of a perfect slow burn drama. Dutifully taking it’s time at almost exactly 3 hours, we’re introduced early to Yusuke Kafuku, a theater actor and playwright who helps his screenwriting wife conceive her scripts during love making. After things take a dark turn, Yusuke is escorted to Hiroshima to begin casting and rehearsing an adaptation of Chekhov’s play ‘Uncle Vanya’. It’s these rehearsals where director Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s intention comes into focus: the play is cast with actors who largely speak different languages, and through rehearsal and performance come to communicate outside of words. It’s the catalyst for so many beautiful, human scenes like nothing I’ve ever seen in a movie before, and only the tip of the iceberg of what this movie has to offer. If you’ve got a few hours, this one is a must-watch.

I really had no idea what to expect with filmmaker Michael Sarnoski’s debut movie ‘Pig’ starring Nicolas Cage, and that’s the best way to go into it. Robin Feld is an almost mute man (until he’s not) who lives on his own with a truffled pig in the woods of Oregon until one day when the pig is taken. At this point, you expect Cage’s character Robin Feld to whip up a John Wick-esque frenzy, violently hunting down his beloved pig until the very end. What the movie does is subvert these expectations in a way that gives Nicolas Cage his best performance possibly ever and makes a meditative case for sincerity and honesty that felt truly refreshing, especially in our current landscape. Pig isn’t an action fix like you expect it to be going in, and thank god for that. It’s so much more and I love that this movie exists.

David Lowery is a recent filmmaker I’ve always respected and admired more than I’ve actually loved his actual projects, but damn did Green Knight turn that around. A medieval quest movie, luscious in it’s landscapes and imagery, yet made on a shockingly low budget. Don’t go into this one expecting Lord of the Rings or King Arthur (despite it’s connections); Lowery is an intentional filmmaker, and the thematic elements of this movie make it stand above so many others. Early on it lulls you into a slow, almost Tarkovsky-esque pacing, Sir Gawain (played perfectly by Dev Patel) out on his journey of locating the Green Knight whom he made a dangerous pact to duel. The quest goes in and out of the literal into the metaphorical and mystical with some of the most jaw dropping things I’ve seen this year. All that being said, the final 20 or so minutes of this movie are perfect, and that ending! Probably none better this year.

Sean Baker’s Red Rocket is one of the funniest and equally one of the darkest movies I’ve seen this year. After burning bridges in LA, washed up porn actor Mikey Saber heads back to east Texas to reunite with his estranged wife. Once he arrives, we start to understand what makes Mikey so dangerous: he’s a confident, persuasive narcissist who doesn’t care about anybody but himself at the end of the day. It’s perfect that in the background of all of his interactions brews the 2016 presidential election, Baker underlining the themes of Red Rocket, as Mikey’s every interaction begins a ticking clock to eventual detonation. It wouldn’t work without an amazing performance from Simon Rex as Mikey, somehow able to play up the charm while his every interaction is a manipulation or exploitation to get him back on top.

Alright, I didn’t really rank the list this year, but if you know me, you know that Dune is my #1. Denis Villenueve’s long anticipated adaptation of the Frank Herbert classic did absolutely everything that it needed to for new fans, and exceeded my expectations as a fan of the book. speaking of the book (long thought unadaptable) really only needed a perfect marriage of impeccable artistry and passion, both of which Denis has in spades. The only comparison I know to make is Lord of the Rings (lot of lord of the rings mentions in this top 10 I guess) over 20 years ago. It’s so rare to have that perfect union of artist and source material, each influencing and overlapping into one-another and responsible for each other in the first place, I’d argue, that it makes a project like Dune incredibly special. That it was also a pretty decent box-office hit (something that was very in question a year ago) is just icing on the cake. Can’t wait for the much weirder, epic part 2 later next year.

Honorable mentions

Coda

Summer of Soul

The Mitchells vs The Machines

Benedetta

Malignant

Titane

Midnight Mass (I know it’s not a movie but who cares, loved it)

[aion-rsa]

Fear and Loathing in Aspen Plants Its Freak Flag High

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Hunter S. Thompson is a confounding figure. Though he didn’t invent Gonzo journalism, he is the most identifiable face of it. His first-person narrative style of news gathering makes him partially accountable for the overriding trends of internet journalism, on both sides of the aisle and all the cleanup calls which go along with them. Thompson’s 1970 attempt to run for sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado, marked the beginning of baby boomer politicking. Writer-director Bobby Kennedy III’s Fear and Loathing in Aspen tells that story with wit, wisdom and weirdness.

Set just before Thomson, played by Jay Bulger, caught his stride with his 1971 novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, the film conjures the energy of strange, new beginnings. Much of it is shot on vintage grade, grainy film stock, and it looks like the actors were free to taste at least medium grade, seedy, hemp stock, as well as mescaline, cocaine, and plain old tobacco, dipped in PCP. More than merely recreating the era, Fear and Loathing in Aspen accurately captures the underground filmmaking experience of the time period.

My favorite Bill Murray performance is his turn as Thompson in Where the Buffalo Roam. Though I love Terry Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Art Linson’s film more accurately captures the offbeat social divide because it was closer to the source material. Murray was himself, with Thompson’s impish soul egging him to be what he was naturally. He sprinkled Thompson’s singular speaking approach like pepper, and never offended the chef. Bulger captures Thompson’s mannerisms without ever approaching caricature. It is a deeply felt performance, especially when Bulger allows Thompson to reveal his own inner disappointments, something which never occurs to Johnny Depp until The Rum Diary.

Murray and Depp got to hang out with Thompson in the flesh. Bulger doesn’t project inner wildness on the inner projector behind his eyes, but spent a large part of his real life immersed in Thompson’s job. He was also a gonzo journalist and Rolling Stone writer, and puts himself behind those tinted aviator glasses, converse sneakers, crumpled hat, and cigarette holder. We don’t doubt he is who he’s playing, and when we see the 8 mm home movie footage, we can imagine ourselves being fooled into thinking of Hunter with a full head of hair. The audience is guided by Hunter S. Thompson himself, through recordings he made during his political run. Thompson almost traded writing articles for tickets, and found a new buzz: political addiction. Bulger gives a visceral impression of the thrills and lows of the high.

While Gillian tried to bring the inner LSD experience to an artistic fruition, Fear and Loathing in Aspen shows the exterior surface of indulgent tripsters. But the low-budget, we-can-do-this-at-home intimacy explores the players’ interiors more deeply. It’s even hard to fear the sheriff Hunter is trying to depose when he says he got the chalk for his map of local intransigeants from his kids.

Thompson is as much an outlaw as Doc Holliday and Billy the Kid to Sheriff Carroll Whitmire (Laird Macintosh). He’s just running ‘em out of Dodge. He’d probably envy the handguns, rifles and other weaponry available up at Thompson’s place. But he’s at least reasonable. Whitmire’s opponent is running on a very Democratic “Jail Thompson” ticket, and de-pigs the top cop. Thompson runs on the “Freak Power” ticket. One inspired sequence shows Hunter shaving his head just so he can call the encumbered, incumbent Republican candidate for sheriff “his long-haired opponent.”

“The Battle of Aspen” was Thompson’s first Rolling Stone piece, and can be found in his essential collection The Great Shark Hunt. The race was also the focus of last year’s documentary Freak Power: The Ballot or the Bomb. After riding with the Hell’s Angels, former sports writer Hunter fled to a cabin in the woods to start a family and write a novel at the end of the 1960s. Acid clarity inspires him to discern unnatural elements in the stream, and to pour a bucket of the foul-smelling stuff at an Aspen town council meeting. This leads to the exposure of the town’s great divides, generational, racial, economic and corporate.

Cheryl Hines, as Aspen Mayor Eve Homeyer, is fun to loathe here. She brings a deliciously bland middle American flavor, and leaves an indistinct aftertaste. Homeyer is oblivious to how manipulative she is. She doesn’t see what she’s doing as wrong. Sees no evil in driving the real people of Aspen out to make room for the developers and the rich. The film’s main focus is subtle small-town bigotry and the overt insular structure which keeps the system in place. Kennedy keeps it contemporary by targeting gentrification, the unfairness of drug laws, calls for police reform and demilitarization, and a plea for the Colorado environment.

Amaryllis Fox, who was a former CIA analyst, plays Thompson’s fictionalized campaign manager. She also serves as his Jiminy Cricket, as well as Cricket lighter, burning feelings of conscience into his ear and grass in his pipe. Fear and Loathing in Aspen also presents Thompson’s home life. He educates his son on the ways of life, and toys with his wife in the ways of sons. Bobby Kennedy III, met Thompson as a child along with his father, Robert Kennedy Jr., the son of Robert F. Kennedy, who was a lifelong friend. He ensures Thompson the person comes out as much as the man who railed against social disparities and dysentery with equal rage, and often in the same sentence.

The only thing missing is a representational soundtrack. The score, written by Wayne Kramer, John Paul Roney, and The Futurebirds, captures the sound and feel of the time, but a recognizable song or two would have done wonders for the puzzles of the period piece.

A lot of what was outlaw in 1970 is mainstream now. Thompson, who died by suicide at age 67 on Feb. 20, 2005, is as much a reason for this as Chicago 7 alumni or Angela Davis. The freak has inherited the earth, but it’s still out of our price range. The end credits admit “This is a fictional story with fictional characters adapted from a true story.” Which is a roundabout way of saying you can’t make this shit up. It’s organic, and as real as it feels. Fear and Loathing in Aspen feels good, even though it doesn’t have a strictly happy ending. But feeling good is good enough in this case. It’s short, but satisfying, and yet frustrating enough to consider giving something like this a try at home.

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Fear and Loathing in Aspen will be available on digital and on demand Aug. 31.

The post Fear and Loathing in Aspen Plants Its Freak Flag High appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3Bo2Wwr

[marshmallowgoop]

Things About: Ryuko Matoi

✄ For a newspaper ad, Kill la Kill scriptwriter Kazuki Nakashima wrote a short introduction for Ryuko from Ryuko’s perspective. In the introduction, Ryuko reveals that she’s been alone for as long as she can remember and “only [she] could protect [herself].” She then talks about Senketsu, noting that it’s strange that she’s wearing him (perhaps especially because she’s been alone so long and has never particularly trusted anyone else?), but finishes by saying that how Senketsu makes her look doesn’t matter so long as she comes out a winner: “That’s the spirit of Ryuko Matoi.”

✄ Ryuko is very much depicted as a Japanese delinquent (and she describes herself accordingly in episode 8). Her initial outfit and Senketsu are clearly modeled after sukeban, “girl boss,” a term used to describe the culture of the rebellious schoolgirl gangs that began appearing in Japan in the 1960s and 1970s. These all-girl groups would modify their school uniforms, wearing Converse sneakers, cutting their blouses short, and so on. Interestingly, even prior to Kill la Kill, when Ryuko more resembles a “typical” high school girl, she still wears different-colored socks than the other girls, much like sukeban would.

✄ Ryuko’s appearance also takes some cues from Sukeban Deka, a series from which Kill la Kill draws a ton of inspiration from (perhaps most obviously, the first ending sequence of the series is a straight-up homage to a Sukeban Deka ending sequence). Particularly, take note of the red glove.

✄ Ryuko’s initial jacket, too, is associated with rebellion and delinquency. The jacket is known as a sukajan, which was initially a specially-embroidered “souvenir jacket” that American soldiers brought home from Japan after World War II. However, in the 1960s, the sukajan became a symbol of defiance, representing a rebellion against the growing popularity of the American “preppy” styles in Japan. Sukajan were then connected with gangs and criminals.

✄ Even Ryuko’s speech is indicative of her delinquency and rebellious attitude. Ryuko (I believe) uses ヤンキー語文法 (yankii (yankee) speech), a crude, disrespectful manner of speaking (which the English dub tries to convey with Ryuko’s considerable potty mouth, her tendency to cut the “g’s” off her verbs, her usage of words like “ain’t,” etc.) Here is an excellent discussion of yankii speech (and its similarities/differences to yakuza speech), which also references this blog post here that delves further into yankii speech.

✄ However, Ryuko is also depicted rather sweetly even at the start. In the first episode, she steals a delivery bike to make an escape, which is fitting of a delinquent. Later in the episode, though, she returns the bike back to where she’d taken it with a note reading, “My deepest apologies for borrowing without permission.”

✄ The “JK2″ sticker on Ryuko’s guitar case is meant to say that she’s in her second year of high school. As Japanese high schools begin at the tenth grade, Ryuko is then an eleventh grader (an American junior), and she still has one year of high school left. As revealed in the OVA, Ryuko (and Mako) will attend Rinne-Dou High School in Kanagawa for that last year. (Interestingly, Gamagoori attended Rinne-Dou Junior High before transferring to Honnouji Academy.)

✄ The other sticker on Ryuko’s guitar case is of Kuri-chan, the main character of a classic, 4-panel manga series of the same name. Kuri-chan is apparently Ryuko’s favorite mascot character.

✄ At the Complete Script Book Event in 2014, it’s revealed that Ryuko doesn’t go to university after graduating from high school, getting a job immediately upon graduation instead. It’s said that “it’d suit [Ryuko] to be a babysitter or something like that” because she “probably can’t do jobs that force her to work with customers, but she is good with kids.”

✄ In episode 7, when Ryuko throws her bath bucket at the Mankanshokus, you can see that she uses Timotei shampoo (and rinse).

✄ In episode 6, Ryuko is shown brushing her teeth with a bunny toothbrush. The Kill la Kill artbook SUSHIO CLUB LOVE LOVE KLKL has a page dedicated to the “Toothbrushes of the Mankanshoku Family” that includes illustrations of Ryuko, Mako, and Mataro’s toothbrushes. (Ryuko’s is the bunny, Mataro’s is the eyepatch cat, and Mako’s is the bear (?))

✄ By episode 5, Ryuko is shown using a personalized bowl with her name on it while eating dinner at the Mankanshoku’s.

✄ At Anime Expo 2014′s Kill la Kill panel (6th post from the top), it’s revealed that from what Ryuko saw of her father’s killer, she deduced that the killer had to be a high school student of around 17. As such, Ryuko spent six months going from high school to high school before finally getting to Honnouji Academy. 

✄ The series suggests that Ryuko becomes so convinced that Satsuki killed her father that she reworks her memories to change the Nui-like silhouette she remembers to a figure that more resembles Satsuki instead. 

✄ As a series that loves wordplay and puns, Ryuko’s name is surely filled with meaning. Folks who know much more than me have written about this, so I’ll point to this post and this post that discuss some Ryuko name meanings. I will say, though, that one of the most prominent meanings I see behind Ryuko’s name is “abandoned child” (which no doubt refers to how Ragyo literally threw Ryuko away), since the 流 (ryuu) of Ryuko’s name is a kanji that represents ideas of “washing away” and “forfeiting.” (And the 子 (ko) represents “child.”) That said, though, it was explained at the Connichi Kill la Kill panel in 2014 that “Before my body is dry” is Ryuko’s theme because the kanji 流 (ryuu) represents “fluid” and 子 (ko) represents “child” and Ryuko “is a child who is easily influenced by others and thus loses her way quickly.”

✄ Though Ryuko is widely understood as a big lemon eater, she’s actually only depicted with lemons three times within the series and in official, non-concept art (as far as I’m aware): as a part of her introduction in episode 1, in the first opening sequence, and on CD art for the first volume.

✄ In contrast, Ryuko is shown eating/with croquettes many, many times throughout the series (episodes 2, 5, 7, 22), and the disc art for the final volume (9) even depicts her holding up a croquette.

✄ In fact, as revealed at the Complete Script Book Event in 2014, Ryuko’s favorite food is actually gameni, a dish of chicken and vegetables.

✄ That same event also revealed that Ryuko’s least favorite food is konnyaku, “because it reminds her of Uzu,” whose family owns a konnyaku business (and who is kind of obsessed with konnyaku himself). Funnily enough, though, Ryuko seems to enjoy eating konnyaku in the second Drama CD.

✄ In the first Drama CD, Ryuko claims that she’s excellent at cramming, but when it comes to cramming for a big group exam coming up at Honnouji Academy, she ends up sleeping for nearly a week in the library instead of studying. Listen to her dramatic apology to her teammates from about 3:47 - 4:00 here.

✄ The first Drama CD also features Ryuko “correctly” understanding that Satsuki’s eyebrows aren’t truly thick.

✄ In Track 3 of the second Drama CD, Ryuko and Senketsu make a daring escape through Guts’s butt.

✄ The third Drama CD features a bizarre plot where a sentient Life Fiber bug, Minomushi, creates a white T-shirt body for himself that Mako finds. Minomushi then drains Mako’s energy, transferring her consciousness into his T-shirt body (which Mako can then control). (I think.) (Yes, Kill la Kill is batshit.) The Mako/Minomushi T-shirt proceeds to attach itself to the Elite Four, resulting in a bunch more batshit scenarios where Mako speaks through the Elite’s voices. When Mako speaks through Uzu, Ryuko gets super creeped out when “Uzu” tries to treat her like Mako would, dodging “Uzu’s” hug and telling “Uzu” to not call her “Ryuko-chan.”

✄ In the fourth Drama CD, which takes place immediately after Ryuko learns of her Life Fibers and her relation to Ragyo, she falls unconscious desperately trying to convince herself that she’s human. 

✄ The lyrics for many of Kill la Kill’s vocal pieces suggest that they are about Ryuko. Though nothing has been officially confirmed (as far as I am aware), it seems clear that “Before my body is dry” is a duet between Ryuko and Senketsu, “Till I Die” and “Suck your blood” are songs from Senketsu to Ryuko, “I want to know” is from Isshin to Ryuko, and “New World Symphony” and “Light your heart up” are from Mako to Ryuko. I’ve also heard conflicting information that “Ambiguous,” the show’s second opening, is either entirely from Satsuki to Ryuko or half Ryuko to Senketsu and half Satsuki to Ryuko, and I’d make a case that “Sirius,” the first opening song, is one from Ryuko to Senketsu. The first ending song, “Sorry, I Can’t be a Good Child,” I would also argue to be from Ryuko’s perspective.

✄ On the disc art for volume 8, Mako is shown pushing Ryuko and Satsuki together (perhaps because Ryuko is shy and needs a little help to be sisterly with Satsuki?)

✄ Akira Amemiya’s illustration of Ryuko and Senketsu having fun at the beach (which first appeared in the 49th issue of Nyantype magazine in late 2013) later became two official cards for the Kill la Kill card game and a figurine, which might maybe imply that “Senketsu’s Date with Ryuko” is a canon event.

✄ Similarly, there is a plethora of animator art featuring Ryuko that isn’t officially canon to her character but is still fun to consider. For instance, character designer/animator Sushio draws quite a bit of post-series Ryuko/Mako, animator Kengo Saito once created a comic in which Ryuko works part-time at a clothing store, and something that never fails to get my heart aching is Sushio’s depiction of little Ryuko celebrating a happy Christmas with her father.

[femmesfollesnebraska]

Blog at 40, Wanda Ewing at 40

This is my third in my series of blog posts on the occasion of my recent 40th birthday, and LFF’s forthcoming 10th anniversary (April 2021), writing informally around some of my favorite artists – what did they do / create their 40th year? Why do I like them so much? What’s my favorite work of theirs? Just a few words from me complemented by images, as I figure out what I’m doing at 40.

My first post on the series was on Judy Chicago. My second post I mused on artist Carolee Schneemann. For this third post, I bring it back to my friend and mentor, feminist artist Wanda Ewing (1970–2013), probably the first artist I ever met who directly and fearlessly claimed to be an artist dedicated to celebrating her womanhood--notably for her, black womanhood.

I have written about Wanda and her work, and published interviews with her many times. Perhaps my favorite was an interview we did for the now defunct online magazine, Gender Across Borders (which I reposted on my blog). I remember that evening sipping wine at a local Omaha cafe, talking art and feminism, absolutely one of my favorite days. I wrote about her on my blog several times, most notably after her passing (find it here) which details how I met her, and how much she personally meant to me. I also wrote a little memorial about her for SGC Print International Journal as well as a few posts on her blog now managed by her sister, about the formal facets of feminism in her work, from a presentation I gave about her at an art conference (post 1 on satire + feminism; post 2 on pop art + feminism; post 3 on pop art + feminism continued).  So, I won’t go on here about how much her mentorship and friendship meant to me or how much all of her work impacted me. Here are three works of hers created during her 40th year - that happen to be three of my favorites....All artwork (c) Wanda Ewing from wandaewingartist.com.

Peach n Plum, acrylic and latex on canvas, 2010, 79″ x 100″

Writes Wanda about her painting:

I LOVE painting! I don’t know that it’s my strongest means of expression, but I do enjoy the act of moving color around a surface with a brush.

The funny thing about it is that my paintings tend to always look like prints — flat and graphic. It works.

I find her modesty so funny -- obviously her painting is AMAZING. I remember seeing this work in our Peerless exhibit we curated together, tremendously and lusciously covering a wall, beautifully graphically and the content combined with flowers, celebrating sexuality and sensuality, femininity and strength, in a huge way, just pure awe. I also remember that night - how crowded that pop-up exhibit was - for an exhibit of work by women - pointing at each other across the crowds mouthing “you did this” - “no you did this” makes me tear up, and her amazingness.

I wouldn’t have a master’s degree in art history if it weren’t for Wanda - it never occurred to me before speaking with her and her seeing my total curiosity and passion for all things art (and feminist art at that), via my curating, blog and art column I had in the local paper. I didn’t think I could do it - she knew I could.

At any rate - back to her work - 

Bluebell, 59x57″, 2010, acrylic and latex on canvas

Contrast is one of my favorite things about Wanda’s work - along with everything mentioned above - she had such a skill with format and color. I love Bluebell’s pose, hand, eye contact - not only does her work inspire the graphic/concept of my work - but in how I model, how I stand, how I practice modeling (I modeled for her classes many times), how I practice body love and confidence. She herself had the best walk, the most celebratory love for her body which is exuded stellarly in her work such as this.

Just 2 more of my favorites of hers:

Midnight,  Yarn, canvas mesh, sequins 51″x 26″, 2012

I love her latchhooks - the last series she made before she passed, and she debuted at our exhibit, VOICE. I remember her telling me the above portrait was from a photo of Halle Berry - I have this on a magnet on my fridge and look of it daily and think of Wanda. This series again, softens and celebrates images of black women. Wanda on her website of this series:

If I had a dollar for every piece of yarn I cut and knotted, I could pay my house off and probably buy a vacation home somewhere really cool. I’d probably have one in the Bay Area. Ooh or maybe Toronto. Never stop dreaming!

I like to allow my self to try new things when it comes to my artwork. Working with other materials is challenging, frustrating and always teaches me something new.

I remember her emailing me (after I had moved away) telling me about the hours she spent “hookin”. Her voice (her own blog posts are also archived on her website) is/was also so impactful - not only what she said/wrote but how she said it - I find strength in hers that was so universally strong, feminine and fierce at the same time, just like her work.

Lastly - (so hard to pick just a few!)

Video Grrrlzz 2, graphite on paper, 2005

I remember going to her fundraiser around this time before she did a residency and purchasing a small print similar to this - tributes to video vixens like Karrine Steffans and basically how much shit they took, the drawing above says it all. I also love Wanda’s view of drawing:

…the root of everything…

YES. I was a drawing major of studio art in drawing - we would argue with the ceramicists about which is best - I mean, come on, obviously drawing. I love her line work, her texture, how she drew figures. Her inspiration is clearly evident in my work. 

Her writing, all of her work, inspires me professionally, artistically and personally. In fact - she inspired and named this blog. Go check her out - https://wandaewingartist.com/ . 

Unlike my previous blog posts (though I may go back and add), I’m going to share a few drawings I made in tribute to Wanda...

Tribute to Wanda Ewing, pencil and watercolor in on paper, Sally Brown Deskins, 2019

Double Edged Sword (Tribute to Wanda Ewing), acrylic and ink on canvas, Sally Brown Deskins, 2017

Tribute to Wanda Ewing (trio), watercolor ink on paper, 2019, Sally Brown Deskins

~Sally Brown (Deskins)

https://sallydeskins.wixsite.com/feministart

IG @sallery_art

-

Les Femmes Folles is a volunteer organization founded in 2011 with the mission to support and promote women in all forms, styles and levels of art from around the world with the online journal, print annuals, exhibitions and events; originally inspired by artist Wanda Ewing and her curated exhibit by the name Les Femmes Folles (Wild Women). LFF was created and is curated by Sally Brown Deskins.  LFF Books is a micro-feminist press that publishes 1-2 books per year by the creators of Les Femmes Folles including the award-winning Intimates & Fools (Laura Madeline Wiseman, 2014) , The Hunger of the Cheeky Sisters: Ten Tales (Laura Madeline Wiseman/Lauren Rinaldi, 2015 and Mes Predices (catalog of art/writing by Marie Peter Toltz, 2017). Other titles include Les Femmes Folles: The Women 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 and 2016 available on blurb.com, including art, poetry and interview excerpts from women artists. A portion of the proceeds from LFF books and products benefit the University of Nebraska-Omaha’s Wanda Ewing Scholarship Fund.

Submissions always open!

https://femmesfollesnebraska.tumblr.com/callforart-writing

[isatetreaultart-blog]

My Work

My name is Isa Tetreault, and I’m a graphic designer. When asked, “So, what exactly do you do?” I don’t always know where to begin. When it comes to the graphic arts, I feel like a major part of my job is to be an influencer. Morally, this leaves me feeling a little torn. I love what I do, but I think we as designers walk a fine line between being honest and doing whatever it takes to persuade the viewer into agreeing with us. Often times, we’re presenting the voice and vision of a company, and we do what we need to do to please the client and successfully market the product. I wouldn’t say that this causes designers to lose their personal style or brand, but I think it’s difficult working for others and still finding a way to insert your voice into the work. That being said, I still find the design world fascinating and exciting. I create the first impression; the work that often goes unnoticed, even though it’s crucial to the visual world. I kind of live in the shadows, but I like that.

Away from clientele, my personal work is heavily influenced by minimalism and Swiss design. I tend to follow the grid pretty strictly, and I devote myself to maintaining uniformity and legibility, but I can break it when appropriate for the project. Fearing that this design methodology was too boring though, I have experimented with incorporating elements of busyness and controlled chaos into my work. However, I recently realized that that isn’t my most inspired work; it feels forced and unnatural. As much as I love the madness of those wacky Emigre fonts and the work of new wave artists like April Greiman, I enjoy drawing beauty from simplicity and bringing my work to life in a more reserved manner, and that’s okay. To me, nothing beats sans serif type, white space, and thoughtful use of geometry.

When approaching a new project, I push myself to work on paper first as the computer has become somewhat of a comfort zone for me. Even when I’m working by hand, I find myself working meticulously with rulers and straightedges. I usually associate graphic design with my mathematical/analytical side, and although it is so much more expressive than that, working digitally just makes more sense to me. Unfortunately though, this opens a door where the potential for loss of life in my work greatly increases. Working by hand allows my work to become more fluid and organic, and that can be difficult to do when working solely with the computer. It’s something I’m still working on, and I’d like to reach a point where I’m very comfortable working by hand.

A phrase I’ll always remember from my first year at MECA is “form follows function”, and while I believe this to be true, I’ve come up with my own phrase: form is the function. Essentially, form needs no purpose; its existence is enough. I think that’s why I enjoy working with typography so much — not only as a means for expression, but for pure form. Letterforms themselves can be artful just from a figure-ground standpoint. Warping type to enhance its expressive ability can be fun too, even though Mark Jamra drilled it into my head that that’s a huge design faux pas (according to him anyway).

When it comes to color, I often work with muted/earth tones with an occasional pop of red, though working more with the risograph recently has gotten me interested in using more vibrant colors and layering them for different effects. Specifically, I was really enthusiastic about the creative process of a trifold I made in the fall of 2017. My goal was to visually represent the word ‘funkify’. I wanted to capture the essence of the 1970s hip hop scene in the Bronx and the colorful culture that surrounded it. By incorporating imagery of the era and some chunky, serif type that was evocative of the time, I believe I was able to portray that. I stepped out of my comfort zone by using the most vibrant colors available with a touch of black for contrast. I think this use of color is something I’d like to continue experimenting with outside of risograph printing.

I most enjoy creating print pieces, so my work tends to live in a tangible space more often than the digital realm. Bookmaking is probably my favorite thing to do in terms of both the creative process and the final product. Combining papers of different weights, textures, and transparencies creates a really fun, tactile experience, and allowing the viewer to have a fun or otherwise emotional connection with my work is important to me. This is something I’d like to bring into my thesis work. For example, the idea of using vellum to show layered images receding in space and becoming less visible the more layered they are relates to the idea of memory very strongly to me. One element that I haven’t previously explored in depth is interactivity, and I’d like to bring that into my exhibition as well by allowing the viewer to have an intimate audio-visual experience.

As time passes and I continue to learn, I find myself growing closer to my work and starting to really love the things that I create. I still struggle with being confident in my work, but I’m learning to trust my instincts and carry less doubt with me. I’m content in knowing that the life of an artist is an opportunity for constant growth, knowledge, and new perspectives, and I can’t wait to see where I go.

[slapmeagain-blog]

COVID-19 Life

9 April 2020

Spain, Greece, losing my virginities..... and my fears.

Happy 80th birthday Sally!  Sally is one of my friends from Waverley, PA, with whom I had the pleasure of joining as part of a group of 9 of us who traveled together to Greece for two weeks a couple of years back organized by my BFF Suzanne Staples.  It was a really great trip.  We had a big van, a driver (Costas) and a guide/historian (Mara) and visited all the usual places, from Athens and Evia to Corinth, Kalamata to Delphi, Olympia, Marathon, into the mountains and by air to Santorini.  I hadn’t spent that much time enjoying Greece since 1970 - wow - 50 years (very sobering). 

I first went to Greece as part of a student group in 1970.  We spent two weeks in Italy, and then 4 weeks in Greece.  We were studying Greek and Roman civilization, architecture and art.  Probably my very best memories from high school.  The year before I had gone to Spain on a similar program - six weeks at the University of Salamanca.  I was in awe of the French kids who smoked Gitanes in class.  There we studied Spanish as well as history. Summer of 1969 was a blockbuster back home in the US.  We had both the moon landing and Chappaquiddick!  As 16 year-olds, we were basically clueless except for where to get wine, pot, and trying to have our first sex.  (I accomplished all three, even if I didn’t know at the time that my first sex was with the wrong gender!)  Oh, and my sister, at home in LA, dropped acid, got divorced, then pregnant and then my mom remarried and moved to Hawaii, leaving me to finish my senior year in Hawthorne “At Home Alone”.  In Salamanca, I also had my last recurring nightmare, dreams that I had had since I was 2-3 years old (which involved a lot of sleep walking, night terrors and peeing on or in assorted pieces of furniture including my clothing drawers, the clothes dryer, a TV and a long walk alone at 2 a.m. to the local mini-market when I was 5 or 6.  I managed to find my way back home when I woke up -- ran the whole way -- and went to bed without being discovered.  My parents did put a chain lock on the front door, well out of my reach, after that.  I found it interesting that those nightmares went away at the exact same time I stopped living with either of my parents.  

Early in the week, here in the Hudson Valley, we enjoyed a couple of warm days, close to 70, and I have worked more in the gardens around the property, clearing remaining leaves and dead plants.  Yesterday was gloomy, though not cold, and today we are getting a decent amount of rain.  I’m finding that if I can spend a couple of hours a day working in the gardens on sunny days, I can keep up with what needs to be done, and I’m enjoying it very much.  My dad used to do the same.  He’d knock off work by 2 p.m., come home and spend a couple of hours in his gardens, then settle down to watching “Ellen” and “Dr. Phil” with mom.  I hope I never enjoy watching TV like they did.  Thank god programming has expanded to include so many mini-series and cable TV shows which are actually not bad.  

Still having nightly cocktail hours on Skype with friends.  Last night I checked in with the Weisbergs, then we had a 6 person call with Italian friends, then on my own I Skyped both grandkids (individually), and an old UH-friend from the late-70s in Bel Air, and finally B&B/F&F.  We also made pizzas at home last night.  

I think I am finally slipping into a routine that works.  I should be looking for ways to get more exercise, yoga is probably my best best, and walking, besides the gardening. I read somewhere that gardening counts as exercise!  Chinese classes started on Tuesday night via Zoom, and it was actually very good.  I loved that I can fill a coffee cup with wine and sit there in front of the screen and learn a language with a beautiful new teacher and 5 classmates from last term.  I hope we get to continue to learn via video, even after COVID goes away!

Waking up between 7-8 a.m. without an alarm and enjoying getting ready for the day with no sense of urgency.  Showering, shaving, nails, teeth, hair, clothes, coffee, news, check email, process cancellations at the B&B, set up calls for QWZRD.  I have this blog, and Chinese homework.... we’re starting to learn to write!!  Finishing up a new history of Brooklyn (reading, not writing).  Lunch today -- thinking of plant-based burgers or pad thai, and I also bought ingredients for stir-fried eggplant and ground ‘pork’ with garlic, chilies and honey.  One of  my favorite Chinese dishes.  Then a nap (probably), some more work on the computer or reading, then cocktails!  Life could be much worse.  We are so fortunate.  

And on the subject of how life has changed, I had a scheduled 4:30 p.m. video conference call with my PCP at 8 p.m. last night -- I feel so bad for the health care workers right now.  And it was just for a prescription refill.  Used to be you could just send in an email and then go to the pharmacy and pick it up, but now they are requiring video calls with the doctor to get a refill.  I have 5 prescriptions.  I think it’s a huge mis-allocation of resources to make the doctors talk to every patient before refilling a prescription!

Less important but nonetheless annoying, is that the plastic bag industry seems to have convinced politicians that plastic single use bags (which were recently made illegal in NY) are safer than the bags we were bringing to the supermarket for our groceries in this time of COVID!  And, the cashiers, for the most past aren’t using any personal protective equipment (PPE - another new acronym!), masks or gloves.  Everyday is something new.  

And, two masks arrived for us yesterday.  Ordered them 3 weeks ago.

[sindearlyconnormurphy]

My Favorite Person [Connor Murphy x Reader]

Title: My Favorite Person Pairing: Connor Murphy x Reader Fandom: Dear Evan Hansen Requested: by the lovely @rinzix Summary: College!Friends with benefits | You’re thankful to have a friend like Connor, for more reasons than one, but you’re fun may soon be coming to an end, and Connor isn’t feeling like himself Warnings: mentions of sex | Connor has a potty mouth | mentions of mental health relapses and recovery | brief allusions to domestic violence | first person reader A/N: This was such a wonderful, fun prompt and it reeaallly got away from me, so I apologize in advance. Essentially, the summary is I will probably never let Connor Murphy be happy. As always, it’s really rushed and I didn’t proof read. Enjoy?

It never starts the way I expect it to.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not complaining. It just doesn’t work out the way it does in the movies, ya know? I’ve never gotten a text at eleven pm asking me to sneak across the campus to his conviently empty dorm room, never received anything remotely similar to a booty call. It started on accident, like everything else Connor Murphy does. He doesn’t understand the sort of pull he has on people.

Connor Murphy was an absolute octopus, first off. I woke up early–much earlier than he ever would–underneath a pile of pale, lithe limbs that seemed to tangle around me in a number of places. I was sticky–definitely sweaty from sleeping too close to Connor, who apparently fell asleep on top of me like some kind of animal, but I also felt an uncomfortable squish between my thighs that reminded me of the drastic turn of events that happened last night.

To be perfectly clear, this wasn’t the first time we had done this. The first time had been planned–an accidental mishap that had spiraled out of control, beginning with texts (“Hey, would you mind to model for a piece I’m working on? I can’t find any decent reference poses online.”) and ended with some not so appropriate banter (“Are we sexting? Is this sexting? I mean I’m horny but like it’s gotta be smoother than this, right? Shit, do you have nudes??) that had snowballed into an agreement: we could fool around, platonically, because being in college and being ridiculously horny all the time and balancing a decent relationship was one thing too many.

Still, our first few times had been planned: I’d come over for pizza when Connor’s roommate was out, we’d play video games and watch a movie, and, at some point, Connor would lean over with little to no warning and kiss me much too roughly, taking me off guard–it usually either dissolved into a fit of giggles or ended up with me on my back staring up at the smooth column of his throat, watching his pale adams apple dip briefly as he groaned into my hair.

The sun was up, shining obnoxiously through Connor’s too thin quilted curtains, filtering across our tangled bodies. My shirt was still on, thankfully–I had no idea when his roommate would be back–but Connor was entirely nude (save for a pair of tie-dye tube socks, I can’t believe I slept with him while he was wearing that), sprawled on top of me, all pale skin and angles. From here, I could see the knobs of his spine pressing against the thin, pale skin of his back where my hand rested. One of his hands was fisted tightly in the fabric of my shirt, just over my stomach, and the other was dangling off the edge of the  bed, his thin wrist almost comically looking as if it would snap.

The smell of him was overwhelming, of course, it always was. I could still taste him if I ran my tongue across the backs of my teeth. I’d need a long shower to scrub away the smell if I wanted to think coherently today–Connor was definitely my favorite person, the only real  friend I’d made at school so far, but the very smell of him was going to make my brain short circuit.

We needed to have a discussion, needed to stop doing this every time we hang out. A limit. I sighed, remembering. We were going to have to have a talk anyway.

Reaching up gingerly, I ran my fingers against the knots on his back, tracing the triangles of his scapula and cupping the back of neck to run my fingers through the curls. His hair needed washed, badly, but I didn’t mind, just continued to soothe, feeling him sigh in his sleep against my neck. I grinned, feeling his nose press more firmly against the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

"Why are you awake?” He slurred, lips wet where they brushed my skin. His limbs went taunt, stretching before rolling over off of me, his arms slinging against his eyes.

“Ugh, can you cover up?” I groaned, sitting up and pulling a blanket to pool in my lap, trying to look anywhere but Connor. “It’s daylight now, it’s too vivid.”

He just chuckled, running his hands to scrub at his face in an attempt to wake up, pushing tangled curls out of his eyes, grinning at me. “Sorry, geez. Didn’t hear you complaining last night.” Nonetheless, he yanked the blanket over his lap, rolling over to look at me with a smirk.

“How’d you sleep?” He asked, tapping my forehead with his thumb, before leaning over to kiss me there. He didn’t move away, just hovered over me on an elbow, and surrounded by his scent left me vaguely dizzy. I’d miss it when I left here, I knew.

I scrunched my nose, letting him know that the affection was unnecessary, but he kept leaning over, pressing another kiss to my temple.

“I don’t remember,” I sighed honestly. “You kinda kept me up till two am.”

“What time is it now?”

“One.”

“Christ, sorry,” he laughed, sitting up immediately and pushing his hair back. “Guess I tired you out, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky. We were talking until twelve thirty, you only last half an hour, bucko,” I said, crawling quickly out of the bed and tugging on my panties.

“Ouch! Didn’t hear you complaining,” he chuckled, pulling his hair back into a ponytail holder. He was planning to let me shower first, then.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, and I could tell that was the end of the discussion. We had a habit of skirting the topic during the daylight hours–if we talked about it, then we thought about it, and if we thought about it, then–well, you get the picture. “I’m gonna shower.”

——

By the time I’m out, my hair combed in wet strands sticking to the back of my neck and dressed in a clear pair of panties and one of Connor’s bigger shirts, Connor is sprawled on the bed, fully dressed, staring at a worn copy of T.S. Eliot poems, the green cloth binding fraying between his lithe fingers. The steam from the shower followed me in the room, making it look like a hazy 1970s Polaroid, accompanied by the warm light trying desperately to filter into the room through Connor’s quilted curtains.

He’s brushed his hair, I noticed, and there’s a lingering scent of cologne in an attempt to mask the smell of him–of us, if I’m being entirely honest–without showering. I nearly snorted aloud when I saw what he was wearing.

“That’s my shirt, you know,” I choked out between laughter, unable to believe that Connor fucking Murphy is wearing my tie dye crop top with a pair of ratty grey sweatpants. It was big on him, with a little pink embroidered heart stitched messily over the chest. The sweatpants rode high on his square hips, so all I could see was the slope of his ribs into the flat plain of his stomach, his belly button barely peaking out over the elastic waistband of his boxers, which rode a little higher than the sweats.

He looked up from the book, grinning lethargically, letting me know he was still barely awake. I probably should’ve let him sleep longer, but I needed to leave soon, and I wanted to tell him goodbye.

“I know,” he sighed lazily. “You left it here last time. It’s really soft.”

I bit back my smile, crossing the room to sit beside him. “Fair enough,” I conceded, tucking back a piece of hair that was beginning to slip from his ponytail.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” he pointed out, pouting his bottom lip.

“I forgot to bring a clean one,” I lied.

“You know you have extras here,” he said, suddenly frowning and returning to his book. I paused, unsure what had caused the sudden mood shift, and wanted to be careful moving forward in the conversation. “I mean, you can always borrow mine, I don’t care or anything–”

“You don’t want anyone to see me wearing it, I get it, I’ll switch back before I leave,” I said reassuringly, scooting away half an inch to give him space. It was easy to overload Connor–it wasn’t his fault, I really did understand. Sometimes social interaction was too much, especially when I’d spent almost twenty four hours with him, and we’d been so intimate.

“Fuck, I don’t care about that,” he hissed, flipping the pages of his book much too rapidly to be actually reading them. “Do you care about that?”

The second statement was shorter, softer, almost as if he didn’t want me to hear. It made me nervous–Connor had been doing better, a lot better. Throwing himself into school, into art, made him better. He wasn’t recovered–it was hard to tell if he ever would be, and I’d only ever seen a few of his episodes, but any form of relapse that I couldn’t help him control was unwanted.

“Of course I don’t care, Con,” I said softly, reaching up to soothe his hair softly, feeling him stiffen and relax beneath my fingertips. “Jeez, we’re in college. I couldn’t care less what people think.”

He nodded, eyes creased before closing, his lips pressed together in a frown. “Right, right, you’re right, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I muttered, feeling nervous. He certainly wasn’t in any mood to hear my news. Something was on his mind. “You good?”

“Huh? Yeah! Great, don’t sweat it!” He some how managed to morph his deer in the headlights expression into one of enthusiasm.  It was more than concerning, and I hadn’t noticed when he’d developed the ability to swallow back his feelings. I didn’t know why he felt like he needed to. “What’s the plan for today, kiddo? There’s a Clark Gable marathon on TCM tonight, I know you like that black and white crap.”

Shit. I swallowed thickly, realizing I needed to tell him, and now. I was hoping it would wait until at least after we had food in us, or at least until Connor was awake enough to reign in his emotions and think with a level head.

“When’s your roommate getting back?” I asked instead, scratching at the back of my neck and not meeting his gaze. I felt him squint angrily at me, aware of my avoidance. “Don’t want him to walk in on anything unseemly,” I laughed.

Connor was still watching me, I felt it, with a pinched, calculated expression. “We don’t have to fool around tonight,” he said softly. “We can just hang.”

His voice was that soft, melancholy tone again that made my heart constrict. He wasn’t feeling good, I realized. He clearly thought that I was upset with him–I wasn’t, but I realized with a jolt that my news certainly wasn’t going to help his sudden self conscious streak.

I shifted on the bed again, feeling his eyes on me as I delayed, and I could practically see his inner turmoil. I should stay here with him. He wasn’t doing well. But, I’d promised….

“Um,” I mumbled, pushing back my wet hair with my hand. “About that. I, uh, have plans for tonight.”

His eyebrows took a quick hike into his hairline, his slate eyes wide, before he horrified me by neutralizing his expression again before I could read him properly–he gave me a small smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh,” he said hoarsely. “That’s chill. You could’ve just told me that.”

I smiled gratefully back at him, reaching out to rest my hand on his knee. “You’re sure?” I asked softly, tracing a pattern out on the grey cotton knee of the sweatpants. He swatted my hand away, and I felt a sudden dip in my stomach. He was upset.

“Yes, geez,” he grumbled. “I am perfectly capable to spend a day without you, you know. I probably need to check in with my folks, anyway.”

“You’re sure?” I asked again, leaning back, a bit more skeptical. Connor saying he wanted to check in with his parents was the boldest lie I’d heard in a long time.

“Yes, Christ, shut it,” he hissed, flopping onto his back, the crop top riding comically up on his stomach, and, without thinking, I leaned forward quickly to press a wet kiss to the cluster of freckles on his ribcage, earning a loud swear from Connor, followed by a slew of giggles, his thin hands pushing at my hair to pull me away from his ticklish sides.

“Stop it! Stop! Christ–st–” he sat up abruptly and tangled his hands into my hair, yanking me down against him, his bare chest trapped between us, soft against my palms.

What had started as a gentle joke, just a silly peck, escalated as it tended to. It was slow–Connor’s laughter dying quickly in his chest, his breath hitching in the back of his throat instead. I opened my eyes to glance down at him, his eyes closed, his eyelashes flickering against his cheeks. I pulled back, just for a moment, amazed to find his lips parted, head tilted back, obvious that he expected me to move my lips to neck. I just chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to the cleft of his chin.

“Not this morning, Con,” I whispered, kissing behind his ear.

“Just kissing,” he whispered, letting out a shuddering breath into my hair. Eyes still closed, his hands tightened in my shirt in an attempt to keep me against him.

“You know it won’t stop there,” I laughed. He pouted beneath me.

“But–I’m not wearing a bra. I’m all ready to fool around!” Connor snorted, hands digging harshly into my sides as he laughed.

I smothered my laugh against his jugular, fighting to control my breathing, before pushing myself up against Connor’s chest.

“Not now,” I sighed sadly, giving him a closed mouth kiss against his lips, watching his eyes fade as he chased me for another kiss.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Sorry, my fault.” Throwing a hand over his eyes, he groaned, tangling his fingers in his pretty, pulled back hair.

“Don’t be sorry,” I mumbled.

“Later,” he smiled against his fist, slate eyes staring up at the ceiling with amusement. “Later. Christ, no one told me my libido would get a second wind after fourteen.”

“You’ve always got your hand,” I reminded with a chuckle, rising from the bed to stretch. Distance, I needed distance to think. He wrinkled his nose in disdain.

“Yeah, no thanks, not the same.”

There was a beat of silence, where I caught Connor watching me from the bed, before turning away with a pinched expression. It triggered an oddly sick feeling in my stomach–I shouldn’t feel guilty. I shouldn’t. This was just fun, Connor was just my friend, nothing more.

“So, uh,” he coughed. “What was your plan for tonight?”

I stiffened, turning around to sit on the edge of the bed with my back to him, beginning to braid my hair. The bed dipped suddenly, and Connor’s leg was flush with mine, the other folded behind my back, and Connor’s fingers wove into my wet hair, beginning to plait it silently.

“I have a date.”

His hands stilled, just briefly, and I felt myself relax when his fingers began again. He hadn’t taken a single breath.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Who with?” Cold. Uninterested. I growled low in my throat.

“Not sure. Some guy my mom set me up with–they’re pissed I don’t have a boyfriend, you know,” I reminded, and Connor just grunted in affirmation.

“You have no idea who he is?” Connor groaned in disgust. 

I shrugged. “He goes to school here–I think his name is Jared? He’s a business major. My mom is very impressed.”

Now, Connor really paused, his fingers abandoning the braid to snap his hands down into his lap.

“You know him?” I asked.

“Jared Kleinman?” Connor hissed, not looking at me.

“I think?” I said skeptically, unsure what about this kid had Connor in such a state.

“He’s an ass,” Connor growled. “An absolute asshole, bully, short-stack, scum bag, and you can’t go out with him. You can’t go out with that jerk off, trust me, okay? As your friend, I forbid you.”

I’d been taking everything Connor said seriously up to that point–it took a lot to make Connor that verbose, let alone that enraged–he’d been working on getting better, he really had–but his final statement made my eyes snap open, throwing my body off the bed.

“You forbid me?” I hissed, spinning with a wicked laugh. “I’m not your girlfriend, Connor. You can’t stop me from doing shit, okay?”

His eyes widened–in shock or shame, I wasn’t sure–sliding back up onto the bed. “I didn’t mean, fuck, I’m just trying to look out for you, okay? He’s bad news. He was–fuck, he was such an ass in highschool, okay?”

“And people can’t change, right?” I laughed crudely, watching the muscle twitch in his jaw. I’d pressed a button. Good. His eyebrows furrowed down over his glare, and I saw his hands clench and unclench in his lap. He’d caught my eyes flickering to them, and immediately looked helpless, wiping them on his jeans.

“I’m not having a fit,” he promised. “I’m not gonna hit you, I fucking swear to–”

“I know,” I lied, softening my posture and  looking away from him. “I know, Con. You’re not gonna hurt me again.”

Truth be told, he might. Relapse was easy–I knew, I’d seen it in teaspoon sized doses, whether be him throwing me against the door with too much force or be it a fist coming to connect on the wall behind my head after I gave a particular nasty comment. Connor had never hit me, not hard, but he almost had, and he’d said a few nasty things, broken some things of mine.

We were friends because I trusted him, because I didn’t want to leave him just because this felt hard. But I wouldn’t let Connor talk to me like that again, I’d promised myself. It meant a time out–no sex, no talking, not until he could calmly apologize and talk through what he was feeling.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, scrubbing his hands over his eyes–he’d forgotten to paint his nails this week, I noticed, but his wrist had flowering patches of indigo and lavender peppered along his arm like blooming bruises–they were just left over from his last art class Friday. He really needed a shower, I realized.

“Don’t be sorry,” I said again, leaning against the bathroom’s doorjamb in lieu of joining him on the bed. If I sat on the bed, I’d want to touch him, and as much as he deserved reassurance, he didn’t need the positive reinforcement. He had to learn I was a finite fixture. “That Jared kid–he said something to you, right? In school. You didn’t like each other.”

Connor laughed mirthlessly, filling my stomach with lead. “Yeah, you could say that. He’s one of those weasely kids, ya know? With just shitty underhanded comments they get out of Mad magazine. Gets under your skin.”

It was too easy to picture, embarrassingly so, I thought, watching Connor now with his eyes downcast and his mouth pursed, I could still see him, just a year ago, and some punk kid whose comment landed on its mark. He probably sent Connor into fits.

I tried too hard not to picture Connor those nights, crying disgustingly in the shower, banging his head too hard against the tile, replaying over and over in his head what that little shit had said to him.

I didn’t want to go out with him. I hadn’t wanted to to begin with. But, I had to. I’d promised.

“I’m really sorry, Con,” I sighed softly, thunking my head against the doorjamb in punishment. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Don’t be,” he laughed bitterly again. “’S over now.” He held his arms open, silently asking me to come back down to him, just to make up. “Just because you’re sucking his cock now–”

He froze, eyes bugging out of his head, staring at something on the ceiling I couldn’t make out from here. My stomach churned uneasily, and the tips of my ears got uncomfortably warm. Connor sat up slowly, bracing himself on his arms, staring at the wall with a horrified expression. He was vaguely green around the collar of my shirt.

“You wanna stop. That’s why you told me. You wanna stop.”

I swallowed thickly. “Con–”

“Christ, kid! What happened to relationships and sex and school are too much? We said–”

“It’s out of my hands!” I gasped, Connor’s glare finally snapping to mine, melting me into the floor. “I don’t want to go out with him–you know my mom expects me to–”

“Fuck, I know, you’re parents want you to be a fucking baby factory with a rich husband, I know, okay?” He groaned, shoving his hands into his hair and dislodging the ponytail holder, his dark hair cascading around his shoulders, his whole expression pinched.

I flinched, shutting my eyes, wishing desperately to be somewhere else. He didn’t mean it, he was angry–it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“It’s just to appease my mom,” I sighed quietly, disgusted to realize how wet and broken my voice sounded. “Just to say I have a boyfriend, to keep her out of my hair. Otherwise she’d be down here every week, and I’d never be able to see you–”

“What if I pretended to be your boyfriend?” He said suddenly, making my gaze snap to his, despite my discomfort. He was staring seriously at me, and I felt sick to realize he was sincere.

“Trust me, Con, you don’t wanna do that.”

To subject him to that kind of scrutiny would be unfair. Connor was my favorite person in the world right now, and, despite coming from a good family, my mother would be less than thrilled to hear I was involved with an art major with a juvenile record.

He snorted. “I know I’m no Jared–”

“Don’t,” I glared. “Don’t. I’m sorry, but yeah, we can’t have sex for awhile, okay?”

“Fuck,” he hissed.

I felt sick–like crying. “I’m sorry if that ruins our friendship for you. I thought you might be able to tolerate spending time with me when I’m not getting you off.”

Connor’s horrified expression let me know he hadn’t actually thought of that, but it didn’t mean he hadn’t known.

“Hey,” he said softly, rolling off the bed to stand, his hands out stretched as if he was scared to spook me. “Hey, that’s not–hey, don’t cry.”

“Fuck off.”

“No,” he growled, coming forward to wrap his arms around me, still wearing that stupid crop top, pressing his face into my neck. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” he murmured, his lips brushing my jaw. “You come first, you always come first. I’d rather have you than sex, you know that, right?”

His fingers scraped under my shirt to press against my skin, pulling me tighter to him, his fingertips tripping with friction.

“I know,” I sighed, going limp against him and wrapping my arms around his neck–it felt nice just to be close. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fair enough.”

He pulled back, reaching up to cup my face, his fingertips burning where they thumbed my cheeks, wiping away the stray tears. He stared down at me so intently, and I realized he was still scared.

“Before your lame ass date, you wanna get some take out?” He asked with a crooked grin, leaning in to kiss my forehead quickly.

“Fine, but you have to change,” I giggled, pulling away despite his protests to grab my purse from his desk.

“I refuse to change–this color looks too good on me.”

——

“I can’t believe you’re gonna wear one of my shirts on your date with that wank,” Connor groaned, watching me button up one of his shirts over my chest, shaking his head. “He’s gonna try to cop a feel–it’s like he’s grabbing my boob, kid. That’s the worst violation of all.”

I rolled my eyes, brushing my hair back from my forehead. “First off, they’re still my boobs, but I promise I’ll bring the shirt back in mint condition. I doubt I’ll be kissing him tonight.”

Connor grinned around a mouthful of rice–he was cute like that, I realized, cheeks full and eyes crinkled with a smile. His mood had flipped swiftly, thank goodness, despite the fact it had started to pour outside, the sky pitch black despite the fact it was still early in the afternoon.

“Maybe he’ll buy you something nice,” Connor grinned. “I’m sure he’s loaded. If he brings a friend, make sure you hit on him.”

I snorted, but pulled on my slightly dirty skinny jeans anyway. “If he brings his friend on a date, I’m walking out and taking you home for thanksgiving.”

Connor grinned again. “God, that’d be rich.”

Thunder pounded through the room, making Connor’s hair products shake on his desk, causing me to jump back onto the bed to be near Connor.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” he teased softly, glancing out the window to see the downpour. “Christ, maybe you should stay in tonight. Last thing you need is to be trapped in some shitty French restaurant with mademoiselle rat face.”

“You’re hilarious,” I said bitterly, watching the leaves paste themselves to the window pane. “But, maybe I should reschedule. That’s not a shitty thing to do, right? It looks awful out there.”

“Nah,” Connor said around another mouthful. “Plus, if you do, we can have one last hoorah–okay, you’re right, sorry.”

I just grinned, hitting him lightly upside the head. “You can finish up in the shower, pretty boy.”

He frowned. “Fine.”

I pursed my lips, glaring out into the storm again. “I should call Jared ask him to reschedule,” I sighed again, feeling only vaguely guilty. I mean, what were the odds Jared even wanted to go on this date? Our parents set us up, for goodness’ sake.

I wondered briefly if Connor had worn this shirt in highschool, if Jared would recognize it.

“I highly recommend standing him up,” Connor said chipperly. “Allow me to hand you your phone–”

Connor froze, still half stretched across the bed, staring at my phone on the nightstand.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” I asked, concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh my God,” Connor said again, this time dissolving into a fit of giggles, yanking my phone off the charger and throwing it on the bed. “I can’t believe this!”

“Connor, if you don’t tell me–”

“He stood you up!”

“What?” I screeched, fumbling for my phone, surprised to see a few missed texts on my home screen.

From: Jared To: Me Srry 4 the short notice, do you think we coukd meet some other time? Don’t wanna get caught in the strom

“He can’t even spell,” I muttered in disgust, throwing my phone onto Connor’s bare stomach that shook with laughter.

“This is hilarious, oh my God. It’s so sad, you look so cute and everything! You were gonna put on mascara for that asshole!”

“I’m gonna dump this soy sauce on your shirt, Murphy.”

“Sorry, sorry, geez!”

He put down his plastic fork, reaching across the mattress to stroke his hand across my bare arm. For a minute, I thought he might ask me how I felt, but instead just asked, “Are you up for a round of Battlefront?”

I grinned, beginning to undo pearline buttons of Connor’s nice navy shirt. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

He grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners and his lips cracking with the force of his smile. “I look forward to it.”