#so all we had was a couple of 24/7 bodegas

[unexpectedbrickattack]

noisette is canonically a terrible cook (according to side comics anyway) so i love the idea that she inexplicably makes amazing coffee

it makes sense tho bc her cooking usually involves adding sweets to normal foods but i think people do that with coffee anyway (i do not drink it so i’m not sure)

just don’t ask her to make you black coffee LOL

IS SHE REALLY LMAO i just assumed she only made sweet stuff bc i remember reading that all she could make was sweets; i didnt know it translated into her being a shit chef 😭😭

But ! I did remember the sweets thing and i was thinking of that! Bc i think Peppino would NOT be okay with black coffee. Its very common to hear about people who ONLY drink black coffee while also being a line cook/retail worker/what have u. But i worked in an ER with attending doctors who have worked there for 30 fucking years, and like three of them ALWAYS asked for coffee light n sweet OR ‘half n half, 6 sugars’ like they were trying SO HARD to pump their bloodstream full of sugar instead of getting like 3 red bulls 😭😭

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Not sure if you're actually interested in talking more about this, but I'm jumping in anyway because I relate so hard to being confused about the spiderverse timeline. Not only did everything about the society and Miguel happen fast, but a bunch of other stuff don't add up either? Like.

The first film takes place in early December 2018 according to Miles' test (if we can trust that? It does snow several times) and Peter's headstone, and Across takes place less than a year and a half later... or in July 2023 according to the bodega's security cameras?

Also, the news anchor says Peter was 26 when he died, but the headstone says 1991-2018. Then his birthday was in mid to late December? And he died right before it? That's sad. Oh! Speaking of birthdays: Miles asks why he can't go back to Brooklyn middle school. Soo... he's 13 (which the art book claimed, I think??) and skipped a grade? Is his birthday also late in the year? It has to be imminent if he can be 15 in a year and four months.

And Mayday! Babies typically start crawling at 7-10 months. 9 months of pregnancy + 7 months of living baby = 16 months, or a year and four months! MJ must've gotten pregnant immediately after she and Peter B reconciled. That's effecient of them, but I guess she'd waited long enough.

If we disregard the security cams, it's actually April-ish 2020. How long has Gwen been with the society? She says "a few months", yeah? If that's the truth, it must be between two and five months, because Jess' belly was noticeably big in the prologue, but she's yet to give birth by the end. So! Gwen joined in December or January? Maybe February? That's winter. Is it common to be dressed in shorts, tights, and sweater but no coat in New York during winter? Because that's how she's dressed. And the people around her are wearing t-shirts.

Gwen and Hobie has been on "a couple dozen" missions together. That's at least 24, if he meant that literally. Nearly one every day for one month. But it can't have been continuous because he's got shit to deal with in his own dimension in between. How do they manage their time? Do they have a schedule? And this has less to do with the timeline and is really something that just hit me:

Did Miguel deliberately gather all those spider-people to intimidate Miles with? Because HQ is teeming with spider-people doing mostly nothing (and that's only in the lobby). Don't they have villains to catch at home? I'm picturing Miguel sending a mass dm to everyone about how he needs them to come in and act natural – they have a 15 year old that has to be put in his place!

All this to say: I don't think you're dense about this. I think it's the writers that can't math.

BRUH ACTUALLY DEADASS

HOW LONG HAS JESSICA BEEN PREGNANT??????

Because her pregnancy and Gwen's time there PLUS pavitr joining in under six months is SO JARRING AND CONFUSING.

I assumed Gwen was with them for like 6 months, but that seems way too long so maybe 3? And we can (generously) say Jess was maybe 5-6 months pregnant? So okay, she's about to give birth.

And as someone who lives in NY, nah Winter here is a good 40F(4C) here or lower - even spring you have to wear a hoodie and it's like 60F(15C) until July so I don't know when they recruited her tbh

But for some reason I always assumed that Gwen joined before Pavi did, but I guess not?? But Pavi had only been Spider-man for six months? So did they recruit him right away or was HE the 'new guy' before Miles???? And why would they recruit him right away?

Yeah and with Hobie's work schedule - like I'm assuming they don't go on missions only together because she knows Pavi and LOTS of the other Peters, so either shes going on other missions with other people too- meaning Gwen has done a couple dozen with Hobie and THEN some, or she has a lot of time between missions to meet a lot of Peters around campus.

But then that adds up to like 50 something missions. Unless anamolies are happening every single day, that's still 10 weeks, five days a week - at the least.

And they have training rooms!! So i'm assuming Gwen didn't start going on missions right away with the way Miguel was treating her - so what the hell?????

It's like....

If MJ got pregnant right away, at the same time Miguel got the watch - how long did it take him to meet Peter B.??? Was Peter B the first one he met? And how long did he know Peter B before he lost his daughter? Mind you - all in under a year or so. How long was he with his daughter?????

This makes NO SENSE. NO SENSE WHATSOEVER

And also to answer your last point:

Personally I think, yes Miguel actually made a concentrated effort to do that.

I wrote about it in my Hobie dialogue break-down - but the entire Spider Society scene was propaganda meant to intimidate Miles. Hobie even points this out, telling Miles 'propaganda bro'.

Their watches can take them anywhere - Jess goes to the bridge in Mumbattan. But when they need to see Miguel, they make Miles look at the all (trained) Spider-people. Then they take him to the prison area, then the go home machine. They could've just teleported into Miguel's lair, but instead Miguel made them do this whole tour (things Hobie and Gwen have seen), before meeting Miguel.

In my opinion Miguel absolutely planned that, theres no other reason for them to have been there and for the three of them to have to walk through all of that.

They even make them go to the food court for Miguels empanada like how petty can Miguel be lol He literally just wanted to scare Miles

[peralta-guaranteed]

One of my favorite things to imagine and think about is how Rosa and Jake met. Like here is this doofus looking white boy, and this badass scary Latina (who is honestly probs nervous for the academy). Rosa gets worried when he starts talking to her but he just talks about die hard and sour candy the whole time???? Is not racist or sexist??? Or hitting on her??? And she is,,,,, confused?? Like who is this straight white boy and why is he not being a dick?

Rosa canonly said it took her a couple of weeks to like him so I’m just imaging those weeks of her realizing she has this friend who is amazing and it warms my heart every time. I need more fics from Rosa’s POV of them meeting

Day 1 - everyone here sucks. As expected. At least it'll be over in 6 months and I can get to actual work. Day 2 - we were separated in groups and would you believe it, my whole group is nothing but white dudes, how wonderful. They already made 4 jokes about 'those latinos'. Day 3 - One of the dudes picked a fight with the latino jokers. Might not be the worst apple of the bunch. Day 4 - IS HE EVER GONNA SHUT UP Day 5 - he does not shut up Day 6-7 - weekend and peace, no noise. Definitely don't miss the constant background chatter about stupid things. Day 8 - Made the mistake of asking him how his weekend was. 3 hour chatter. Day 9 - he brought in donuts and offered me one, no thanks. Not gonna go down that flirting route. "They're for everyone" okay but he offered none to the others and ate them all himself. Day 10 - Donut holes this time. I ate one. Is this what you call someone's face "lighting up"? Gross. Day 11 - whole box of donut holes for him, whole box of donut holes for me. Wanted to throw them in his face telling him not to try any shit with me, I can see the random flirt / guilttrip coming. He turned it into a fucking game instead. Day 12 - I can't believe he caught that donuthole from seven rows down, actually impressive. Day 13-14 - weekend and peace again. Did not consider ordering donut holes during brunch. Day 15 - brought my own donut holes so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings about who owes who. He managed a double-wall-hit catch. Biggest grin after my thumbs up, that was probably a mistake. Day 16 - off-track training. He ate face 15 minutes in. Only helped him up so our team time wouldn't suffer. Did earn me good help during the next obstacle course. And a high five, which I refused. Day 17 - he did the off-track training without fail, he deserves that high five. Day 18 - apparently he's a huggy drunk. And even chattier. Not good. Note: watch out for his dad during graduation. Bring knife. Day 19 - he came in with a black eye and wouldn't explain. Finally did when I twisted his arm just right. Latino jokers took it too far yesterday. Note: do not leave bars before him. Day 20-21: weekend is too quiet. Does he have an icepack for his eye? Gonna text him to buy frozen peas. He definitely does not have vegetables anywhere in his place. Day 22: His eye looks better. Asked if I needed any peas for dinner. Day 23: One of the latino jokers is out of the class. Teach wouldn't explain why. Got a clear wink from his black eye, though. Does that mean I owe him now? Day 24: patrol training. Thought his chatter was bad? Try his radio singing. Day 25: patrol training again. Apparently we were meant to pick partners and switch around. Was not notified of that when he handed me our assignment. It's fine though. Day 26: patrol training. Fuck, can he run, though. Chased that decoy perp for 12 blocks, I recon. Then texted me he got lost. Day 27-28: weekend. Text for drinks. Did not leave bar before him because I had to bring him home. His place is horrible. Fixed the broken oven so now he can have 'the best frozen pizza in the world' again. Day 29: His mom called during lunch break. Adorable how his voice changes. But shit, he talked about this 'cool friend' he made. Day 30: mom called me, asked how I was doing. Seemed very happy I mentioned a new friend. Day 31: there was only one orange soda left at the bodega for lunch break. That and donut holes got me a hug. Feels weird. But good.

[boop-le-snoot]

masterpost ☀️ main masterlist ☀️ taglist

previously on...

This chapter is very dialogue heavy. Stephen Strange being a little bit of a dick and Tony being a sweetheart. No warnings here, just plot and worldbuilding. I think Tony is his own warning to be honest... Do we want fun facts before each chapter like before or nah?

Sorcerer Strange stared at me with the heat of a plasma beam after I finished stuttering throughout my story, one accurate eyebrow raised and sharp cheekbones painting him displeased and dangerous in the yellow light of the store lamps. The whole experience shook me more than I would have liked to admit to myself and his mute reaction wasn't helping matters at all.

"Hmph," he finally cleared his throat, taking a step back and casting a thoughtful look over the shelves in the store. "You did all you could. Perhaps, we owe you gratitude," his tone was far kinder than his face. "How long have you been doing... This?" He vaguely gestured with a gloved hand.

"Long enough," I replied without thinking. My stress levels urgently rose above acceptable and the feelings needed to be let out now; Wong's dismissive attitude and Strange's half-assed apology for the attitude was still fresh in my mind.

The sorcerer sighed, briefly touching the bridge of his nose. "I won't pretend to understand the reason for your hostility but I'd like to remind you we're on the same side here," his steely blue eyes attempted to peer into my soul.

"There are no sides here," whatever he was selling, I wasn't buying it. "There are just people who get hurt, either because of unstable maniacs with superpowers or aliens who think Earth is an all-you-can-kill buffet," I stuck my dirty, bloody hands in my pockets. "You do your part in mitigating the damage, I do mine. That's all there is."

"And you would be making my job expotentionally harder if you get in the way and slow down professionals, even if you mean well," the man's temper had, evidently, won over and he immediately got on the defensive, crossing his arms and trying to glare me down.

Odette's words rang true, starting a storm of hollow anger in the pit of my skull. "Now listen here, you privileged prick," the damn burst at the seams as I squared up to give him a piece of my mind. "You and your Hogwarts rejects and the merry band of billionaires may have the opportunity to 24/7 healthcare and near-instant compensation for any damages the villain of the week decides to bestow upon your shallow little heads," I advanced half a step towards Strange, hands bailed into tight fists, internally rejoicing at the way he leaned back. My blood sang with adrenaline as I breathed the exhilaration.

"But how many people do you overlook? How many children never make it because your super secret organisation gives their parents an ultimatum just because they are different? This is a safe space for the ones you pretend not to see until it's convenient and it will stay that way, over my fucking dead body, if need be," I stared at the tall man, almost physically feeling his brain halt and pause with the cartoony sound of screeching tires. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this.

A pregnant pause hung in the air, both of us waiting for the other to explode.

"Don't you think I am aware," Strange finally seethed through gritted teeth, alarming golden sparks shining in his eyes. "The Avengers are not under the rule of SHIELD and I, personally, have no affiliation with either. I do not condone their barbaric methods," the man was struggling to form his sentences properly but even despite that, I understood his ideas.

I desperately wanted to believe his words to be true, I really did, but... "Then do your fucking job and let me do mine. I do not go out there and intervene, I merely clean up the mess you all leave. Something that nobody wants to do do, so unless you've got any takers, I'll keep helping those you deem unfit," in a fit of muted rage, I flew my arm to point at the abandoned cars and destroyed concrete outside of the window, the empty street and the clouds of dust rising into the moody skies.

The entrance door flew open suddenly, with a force strong enough to bang the heavy, old handle against something outside, letting in the stuffy air inside the bodega. Strange jumped at the sound of the screaming hinges, my own heart skipping a beat from the startling interruption.

Visibly composing himself, the man pierced me with a final stare before starting a dangerously quiet, "Very well, goodbye," and hightailing it out of Odette's before disappearing in a golden circle just outside the front porch.

I let my shoulders sag for a brief moment of respite, feeling the tension bleed out of me and penetrate every nook and cranny in the room. My protection charms were mostly destroyed, silver dull, glass and amber crackled. Tossing them into the appropriate recycling bin, I set to clean up the shop, flying through the motions in record time and wandering home through the damaged streets on autopilot.

My anger had cost me more than a fortune in my past but no matter how much I sought to reason with myself, I couldn't bring it to justify Strange's attitude towards my choices. The more I thought about it, the less rational my guesses became; I forced myself to stop thinking about it when my brain had unhelpfully supplied an absurd notion of him being jealous of my lifestyle: he knew next to nothing of my skills and his opinion was based solely on seeing me work the store front and one cleansing spell I'd performed on Bucky. There was simply no rational explanation for his behaviour.

NYC life wasn't affected by the battle in the slightest, it seemed; a day and a half later, I was back at Jeremy's, serving overpriced hot beverages to the rich and the busy. I'd slept on the Bucky and Strange situation, got a handle on my feelings and decided to simply put it away. There were other, more pressing things to worry about than a couple of men.

I didn't expect the flood of anxiety that turned my hands to lead upon seeing Tony Stark's signature suit-and-sunglasses wearing ass waltz into the café. He flashed me his usual easy grin but didn't remove his glasses, eyes eerily blank behind them, as he motioned for his usual order before leaning on the countertop with the entirety of his upper body. "So, Starshine, what is it exactly that you do?" Came the question I was dreading. "Are you, like, a witch? The broomstick and cauldron kind?"

"Mr. Stark, I am serving you coffee and a muffin as we speak," I replied curtly, raising an eyebrow.

"Drop the act, honeybuns. I thought we were friends," if I squinted, I could see that he was genuinely hurt by my lack of desire to communicate. Or, perhaps, he simply was unused to not satisfying his curiosities immediately.

Either way, I stood no chance against Stark patented puppy eyes. "I clock out at two," a sigh of epic magnitude left my mouth against my will. "You can interrogate me then. Until that, it's lattes and cheesecakes only."

Tony narrowed his eyes, smile warming up by a smidgen. "Interrogate you? Never," he pocketed the napkin with Dr. Banner's scribbles the doc had forgotten last time. "I'm merely curious." Another flash of his teeth and he was gone, taking what little peace I had left along with him.

The hands on the clock made their hurried rounds over and over. My chest had grown it's own set of ticking, grinding, mismatched gears as the endless possibilities coursed a steady stream through my head. Tony Stark was a wild card, his struggles with authority a widely known fact, as frequent as his strange habits in just about anything. And while I doubted I would get ambushed and locked up, I had no qualms of him berating me for telling off his boyfriend. He seemed like the possessive, overprotective type, anyways.

As soon as I exited the café, surrounded by the smells of flour and coffee grounds, my eyes immediately landed on the shiny, brand new Audi illegally parked right in front of the establishment, it's owner leisurely leaning against the hood with a face of contented boredom as passerby pedestrians shamelessly ogled him and his ride. His face lit up as he noticed me, immediately rushing to hold the passenger side door open for my comfort. "M'lady," the dorky remark didn't fail to summon a smile to my face even if it was a weak shadow of my usual camaraderie.

"Mr. Stark," I greeted him as soon as he peeled off the crowded sidewalk.

The lack of joy on my face didn't go unnoticed by him and every now and then, he snuck a glance at my face. "Relax, Starshine, I won't bite."

"Well," I mumbled, remembering the vicious way I had torn into his boyfriend. "Good to know."

Seeing as that didn't do much for my nerves, he suddenly swerved right, rushing into a busy intersection with the ease of a practiced manic driver. "I'm feeling like a cheeseburger," he announced unceremoniously, pulling into a parking lot of some place I never noticed.

I doubted that I could swallow anything at all but relented, sitting down opposite him in the furthest booth from the entrance. I ordered the biggest milkshake they had as Tony grinned big at the waitress, finally taking off his sunglasses when she left for the kitchen.

I rested my elbows on the table under the scrutiny of his gaze. He kept quiet. I couldn't hold back my curiosity any more. "So?"

His sharp, clever brown eyes captured and held mine for the longest second in my life. I struggled not to break eye contact until he relented, focusing on the shine of my rings instead. "RoboCop almost died from the shit that happened to him," Tony's words were curt. I inhaled sharply, assuming he was talking about Barnes. The engineer's fingers began to fiddle with his glasses. "We couldn't figure out how you helped him. Not the medical, not Banner, not me and and not even Steph," he paused to run a hand through his hair. "Barnes was hit with a poisoned arrow. There were no toxins left in his body, not even a single inflammation marker showed up on the tests." With that, Tony expectantly turned to me.

I chewed on my lip in contemplation. "Magic," I simply answered, figuring Strange had already briefed him about my occupation.

Tony shook his head with a snort. "Magic that the Sorcerer Supreme doesn't recognize or cannot detect?" The question was saved in nature.

Stephen Strange was Sorcerer Supreme and I had pissed him off and remained alive. I couldn't believe my luck, if Odette's stories were anything to go by. Inwardly rejoicing, I nonetheless resigned to answer truthfully. "Because there is nothing to detect, no foreign energy," I tried to phrase it in a way a scientist could understand. "What I use to heal, it is given me by nature and willingly. Think of me as a... Conductor. I merely store the energy short-term and direct it where it is needed."

That sparked a visible interest in Tony. He leaned forward, running my whole form, over and over, with his sharp eyes, searching for something I knew he wouldn't find. "Like... Making a blood transfusion?" It was obvious that he was thinking hard about the subject. "Like a successful organ transplant?"

"Something like that," I agreed amicably, seeing as he was talking at himself rather than engaging in a conversation with me.

"But it doesn't come from nothing, the first law of thermodynamics..." He started off in slight confusion.

"Yes, the total amount of energy remains constant," I interrupted him, making his eyes widen. "It's all around us, Mr. Stark. You cannot see it, and most people even cannot feel it, but mother Earth supports her creations. More than we like to think," the corner of my mouth tilted upward at the memories. Working with Gaia directly was like being briefly submersed in a cocoon of pure, warm sunshine; like being held in mother's arms as a babe. "She is kind and she is merciful, especially to the ones whose suffering is unjust," I let the man mull over my words.

The waitress brought our orders; my throat was parched, I took a few haste gulps of the chocolate milkshake. Tony's burger, however, remained unnoticed and untouched.

"Earth is a sentient organism?"

The question made my eyebrows rise; I coughed slightly, meeting his confused eyes with a smirk. "Mr. Stark, keep your science headcanons to yourself," the banter came easily now that the status quo was established.

He rolled his eyes, fitfully resisting the smile tugging at his mouth. "I'm telling on you to Mean Green," there was no malice behind his words.

I doubted the shy scientist would do much more than stutter out two jumbled questions but let the topic slide in favour of closing up on the issue. "Would you call a wolf sentient? No," I shook my head. "But it is autonomous, it has free will. Think of it like that," I wasn't really up to par on explaining Tony all the ins and outs of my craft. The more I spoke, the more questions danced in his eyes. It was charming but not something I wanted to spend most of my day on.

"I won't pretend to be anything but sceptical but as it is, I happen to be dating a wizard," the engineer finally chortled, making hands for his burger. He made a vague gesture with his fork, expression still not-quite out of the thinking place.

"They say opposites attract," I shrugged.

"Romanoff keeps saying we're two sides of the same coin, so," he non-commitally shrugged in return. "Can't help but wonder what the fuck did you tell him that day. He was seething," Tony raised an eyebrow, tone teasing.

"Oh lord," I briefly palmed my face. "Here comes the shovel talk."

"No, no," a fry landed on the table in front of me. I snatched it right from under Tony's hand. He pouted. "He probably deserved it. I mean, you saved the Terminator and, honestly," he paused. "I heard about one third of his rant and I distinctly remember something about 'girls way over their heads' and whatnot," he did a poor imitation of his boyfriend's deep voice. "Now, I consider myself a feminist so, respectfully, I disagree," he finished with a self-satisfied smirk.

I blanked, trying to process the avalanche of information. "That's a lot to unpack," I acquiesced.

"It means he likes you. I would know," the man had the audacity to wink at me. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Tony Stark.

"Are you hitting on me for your boyfriend?" I couldn't resist snarking back, briefly catching his eyes as I polished off my milkshake.

Tony looked at me through his thick, long lashes, a picture perfect visage of surprised innocence. "Maybe," his tone a little too south of friendly, the direction of his eyes a bit lower than my face.

The snort escaped me before I could put a stop to it. The banter - it was easy, comforting in this situation where I found myself to be akin a fish out of water. Like I was a slightly socially awkward witch, Tony was a genius engineer and a notorious flirt. He toed the lines of appropriate with practiced gusto and I hadn't had the heart to do anything but indulge in a little bit of harmless fun ever since he first stepped foot in the café, seeing right through his stone cold facade of an alleged womaniser. Call it a hunch, if you will.

Say what you want about Tony Stark but one thing was definite: he was a gentleman. I thoroughly enjoyed my ride home in his expensive, fast, latest model car. As the city streets zoomed by in a flurry of blurred lines and flashing colorful lights, I allowed my mind to finally calm and resume it's usual even wandering pace.

A hand loosely thrown over the steering wheel, Tony quietly hummed along to the music, playing with the hem of his tee whenever it wasn't occupied with driving the car. He looked so peaceful like that.

The sound system played some contemporary rock that blended in with the moderately busy afternoon of the NYC streets, submerging the surroundings in catharsis. Grey everything with the occasional burst of colour from a traffic light; the brief car ride lulled me into a state almost drowsy.

"You with me, Salem?" Tony's voice quietly took me out of my stupor.

I blinked, seeing the front door of my apartment building. "Yeah, yeah, thanks," I didn't resist the big, wide smile of relief and rejoiced upon seeing his face return to his normal expression, sparkling and mischievous. "That's my stop," I motioned lamely.

Something hung in the air, something unsaid. It leaked through the gaps between Tony's smile and his eyes, it filled up the car with something thick and foggy. I was powerless to stop its influence on me; the daze remained just as it was when we zoomed through city streets.

Tony's fingers twitched on the steering wheel as I exited the vehicle, giving him a short wave before he put pedal to the metal, quickly disappearing into the twilight. I watched his tail lights glow red amongst the flat blacks and greys and beiges of my surroundings, blinking away the dryness in my eyes only when the car disappeared from my view completely.

My apartment was just as I'd left it, warm and slightly messy- but a new feeling had crawled up from the very gutter of me, foreign and impending. The walls didn't breathe the comfort I had hoped I would finally find: if anything, none of what I encountered on my rapid beeline towards the couch felt real.

I'd grown accustomed to the comforts of my solitude and routine, to attached to the simplest task of being. Sorting through my dirty laundry had never been a favourable ordeal for me, I'd much rather lived in a relatively wide bubble- rationally, I knew that sooner or later, change had have to come, but there was nothing ever rational about having feelings on one matter or another.

My spirit was trying to tell me big things were coming and I had no choice but to listen and let the currents of fate and happenstance snatch me up and take me whichever way they pleased.

Taglist: @couldntbedamned @mikariell95 @letsby @sleep-i-ness @toomanyrobins @mostly-marvel-musings @persephonehemingway @schemefrenzy @lillsxd @bluecrazedandbeautiful @slothspaghettiwrites @xoxabs88xox

[monkberries]

So here goes: Personally I find Paul to be hot with a beard. But it annoys me because there’s always some Paul stan who’s like “he was super depressed during that time you know” anytime someone says how hot he looks with a beard. Like first of all, I don’t think we should go around diagnosing people and assuming how he felt 24/7 just based on a couple of quotes when we don’t know him, and second of all I was just saying he looks good. Also idk why Paul stans want to pretend like Paul is STILL a victim when he’s definitely not. He’s a super successful billionaire musician. He’s fine.

I'm going to assume all four of these were from the same anon; I received another along these same lines that seems to be from someone else:

OKAY. There's a lot here.

As I've said before, I think the concept you are both talking about - that Paul is the favourite, that people will attack you if you criticize him, that people are vilifying John more now - is true, but is also a matter of perspective. I think sometimes we perceive the whole fandom as just the people we're surrounded by; that can be true in smaller fandoms, like for obscure shows or whatever, but for the Beatles, the fandom is so much bigger and more spread out across generations, social media platforms, and works of literature than almost any other fandom. There are literally thousands upon thousands of books either about or tangentially about the Beatles; there are pockets on every platform from tumblr to twitter to podcasts to instagram to facebook etc., and it branches off even more niche within those to like, facebook groups specifically for podcasts about the Beatles, or discord servers, or livejournal threads, or music forums, or fics on ao3. There are fansites with thoughtful speculative articles like heydullblog and blogs specifically reviewing Beatle books like beatlebioreview and sites cataloging every bit of minutiae like the Beatles Bible, all with their own flavor of comment sections. And not only that, the Beatles fandom spans generations and cultures in a way that almost nothing else ever has or ever will.

And this is not even going into the shifting narratives that have been in play over the years surrounding Paul specifically, and the huge, huge difference between the perceptions of him by the authors and the Counterculture People, the perceptions of him by regular ass Wings fans who have only idly flipped through Rolling Stone while waiting in line at the local bodega, and the perceptions of him by everyone in between, who may or may not have been unconsciously influenced by the wider narratives about him.

All that is to make the case that the fandom that you are experiencing on tumblr/twitter is an extremely small fraction of The Fandom at large. For every Paul stan on twitter that yells at people for not believing that Paul literally invented music, there is a John stan in a facebook group going on about John's supposedly tireless peace efforts. For every nuanced, well sourced post on amoralto's blog, there is someone in the Beatles Bible comment section saying that John and Paul hated each other. For every fan who's read the major Beatles bios with a critical eye towards bias, there are plenty more fans who just absorbed them as straight fact. This is not to say that your experiences are not real or valid! They absolutely are! What I am saying is that there are infinite permutations of infinite Beatles fandoms out there, and the people you see who insist that Paul is still treated worse than John, I would imagine, are occupying various permutations of the fandom where that is more true, alongside the one they share with you. It's not for me to say whether the Paul or John people have the upper hand on the whole - truly, I don't think anyone has enough perspective on the whole fandom to make any judgment on that, no matter what general Grand Pronouncements anyone may make about The Fandom.

As I've said before, any overly defensive "stan" behavior, whether it's for John or Paul or George or anyone, is exhausting to me, so I definitely understand where you're coming from re: him being supposedly underrated. He is literally one of the most successful musicians of all time; as of the beginning of this year, he is worth 1.2 billion dollars; and, thanks to his own efforts and the efforts of quite a few fans and writers out there over the decades, he now enjoys an incredibly positive "granddude" reputation. There are ways in which it can be exasperating to read yet another indignant refutation of music reviews for RAM that came out fifty years ago, when his last three albums have hit the top 3 in the charts in both the US and the UK and have gotten great reviews. I have seen people wonder, honestly wonder, how much more money Paul could have made, how much more respected he could have been, if the rock press had been inclined to give RAM good reviews. When I see that, it does start to feel like fans of Paul, at least the defensive ones in the fandom permutations I occupy, are arguing with the author photo of Philip Norman in the book jacket for Shout!. It's not that I think those arguments and discussions are not worth having; I do think they're worth having because I believe that the only way we can continue to grow is if we grapple with the mistakes made in the past. But there is a strange kind of disconnect that happens when you read about someone indignantly defending Wild Life as though the members of Wings are currently, actively having eggs and rotten fruit thrown at them, and then you remember that Paul is currently, and has been for many years now, one of the richest men in the entire world.

As for the misogyny thing, I'll copy and paste a quote from Erin Weber which may explain a little better than I can:

"Where it starts entering into serious discussion for me is when you have professional grown men (Schaffner would be the most glaring example of this, but not the only one) repeatedly using the term “pretty” or “pretty-faced” to refer to another grown man. (Norman does the same). Schaffner doesn’t only do that once or twice, he uses one of those exact words at least fifteen times in his references to McCartney. “Pretty-boy” is also a term that at least one journalist has used to describe Paul, and that’s not a stealth insult: that’s an overt one. (My husband, who hates the Yankees, routinely used the term “pretty-boy” to insult Alex Rodriguez. And it wasn’t meant as a compliment).

My reaction to this is based both on studies that I’m aware of (I’d have to hunt them up, but I’ve seen them referenced before) which argue that the use of feminized language can be a method of stealth insult/diminishment when used by men to describe other men, and my own personal experience. It is difficult to see a situation where a grown man using the term “pretty” or any variation of the word “pretty” to describe another grown man means it as a compliment. Even if its purely meant as a descriptive term, it is a descriptive term that is weighted with significant meaning and is feminizing. And given the rock press’s obsession with masculinity and its insistence, as noted in other studies, of using masculine terms to portray a song as good and feminizing terms to describe them as weak or inferior, I don’t think its a coincidence that a rock press that knew well the power of masculine and feminine language commonly used feminized language, particularly in the 1970s and 80s, to describe McCartney."

I personally see this more as pseudo-homophobic than pseudo-misogynistic (like, when I see a man called "pretty" by another man in an insulting way, I immediately think "oh, that author wanted to say a gay slur but he's too Professional"), but the two things can get muddled together, I suppose.

Anyway, actionable items:

Diversify Your Fan Experience. More perspectives can really help gain a fuller understanding of not just the fandom but the Beatles themselves. Don't be afraid to be wrong, and don't be afraid to be right; always be open to learning new things and hearing new insights.

If All Else Fails, Block 'Em.

[colormetheworld]

"Come On”

I wrote 14 of 24 chapters of “24 Frames.” a series of one-shots based on the song by Jason Isbell. This is the first one- Vanish. 

You wanna see if there’s a word you love in my WIPs? go ahead. Ask, and if it’s there, I’ll post the snippet.

Vanish (A 24 Frames One-Shot) 

......

This is how you make yourself vanish into nothing

Maura finds her out on the porch. Jane hears her stop a couple feet away, unsure if her presence is wanted. She does this often. She finds Jane wherever she’s wandered off to and then hovers on the periphery, waiting for some kind of invitation. Usually, Jane appreciates this, but today she wonders if Maura is hesitating because Jane is invisible. Maybe Maura can’t see her.

But then the doctor speaks, and the illusion is broken.

“That cake was made for you, Jane,” she says softly.

Jane sighs, leaning forward on the railing of the porch, and after a moment, Maura comes to lean with her.

“You did spectacularly today,” she continues.

Spectacular. Jane smiles, despite herself. “Thanks. It was a big win, huh?”

“The biggest,” Maura answers. “No one can take that from you.”

Jane makes a noise between a scoff and a snort. A noise her mother would reprimand her for. “Not even my baby brother?” She looks around at Maura and catches the tail end of her expression. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “Never mind.” She chastises herself internally. “Forget it, Maura,” she says. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t,” Maura shakes her head seriously. “Don’t do that. I know how it feels to be overlooked.” She waits a beat, but Jane can’t think of anything to say to that. “I, of all people, know how you’re feeling right now,” she repeats.

Jane nods. She doesn’t apologize. The moment calls for something else. “When I was eight, my little league team went all the way to States,” she says. “Ma and Pop said that if I raised half the fee, we could go.”

Maura remains silent, but she shifts closer to Jane, and it is clear from her expression that she’s listening intently.

“It was 650. A ton to an eight-year-old, you know?”

Maura nods. “How long did you have?”

“Ten weeks.” Jane chuckles. “I was like a kid possessed. I would have skipped the end of school if they’d let me. I returned bottles, I did odd jobs. I even illegally put money down on horses.” Jane grins at Maura’s alarm. “Relax. I found out a long time later that the guy took pity on me. Told me I doubled my fifty bucks and paid me out of his own pocket. He was a family friend and he knew how bad I wanted to go. Manages that Bodega around the corner to this day.”

“How chivalrous,” Maura says lightly.

“Yeah. Anyway…I make the money. By hook or by crook,” Jane continues, and as she recounts the tale, it’s like she can feel the mason jar of odd bills and coins, heavy in her hands. “I’m over the moon, you know? I’m ecstatic. Baseball is my entire life at that point, and all I can think is how cool it’s going to be to wear that shiny new uniform and play on a real, official field, with television cameras.” She laughs at herself, at the feeling of weak anticipation she gets, even now. “Local station, of course, but back then, you couldn’t tell me anything.”

She starts when Maura puts her hand on her forearm, looking at her questioningly.

“Please don’t tell me that you didn’t get to go,” she says softly.

Jane shakes her head. “I got to go,” she says, and when Maura breathes a sigh of relief, Jane feels a rush of affection so strong, that the remainder of the story is wiped from her mind. Maura has to prompt her.

“What happened?” she asks after a bit of silence.

“Tommy got the Chicken Pox the night before we left, so everyone else stayed home. Frankie hadn’t had it yet, and Ma was worried that he would contract it too. So they all…”

Maura’s fingers tighten on Jane’s arm. “Oh, Jane,” she says, and the story gets a little more difficult to tell.

“We were runner up. I went 6 for 7 with a homer that took us to the finals,” Jane says curtly. “I’m with my teammate’s family, and they offer me time to call my family every night we’re away. They were so kind. Super proud of how we did…” She trails off, voice cracking a little.

“They missed them,” she says when she can recover. “All three games. They missed them all.”

Silence. The night is calm and mild. Jane has come out without a coat, and Maura is wearing only her sweater, but when they link hands, it is warm and reassuring. Nice.

Inside, the noise of celebration rises, Tommy’s voice above them all, and Jane knows that he’s had a couple too many. She knows that he will crash on his parent’s couch tonight and in the morning she will swing by and collect him. She knows that she will drive him – hungover and sour smelling – to the job they are all celebrating him for obtaining.

She knows that it will not last.  

“At functions,” Maura begins, and she glances at Jane, asking permission. Jane nods. “At functions, I would often pretend that I was invisible.”

Jane swallows the smart retort that presents itselfx and just nods encouragingly.

“It was less painful that way. My mother would look to where I was standing, and I would smile at her, and she would seem to look right through me.” Maura looks down, pondering their hands, at the way their fingers have thread together. She bites her lip. “If I pretended that I was invisible, then her decision not to acknowledge me became a matter she had no say in. She could not smile at me, wave at me, beckon me over and introduce me, because I wasn’t there.”

Jane shakes her head, shoulders sagging, and Maura puts her free hand over their already linked ones. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you more.”

But Jane shakes her head more vigorously. “No,” she says. “You didn’t. Maura, you’re amazing. You know that now, right?” She looks up again, at her companion, and finds her smiling.

“You are too,” she says. “My sentiments exactly. You solved those murders. You saved that girl.”

“You helped,” Jane interjects, “a lot.”

Maura laughs, her expression breaking open like the parting of clouds after rain. Jane doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but she has to ask the question now or she’ll lose her nerve.

“Do you ever feel like that with me, Maura?”

Maura seems to have gotten lost in the bend of Jane’s neck. “hmm?” she looks up.

“Do I ever look through you?”

“No,” Maura says resolutely. “It’s one of the things I like about you.”

“You’ll tell me, right? If I do? Promise?”

Maura doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she says. “I promise.”

The noise of the party rises again, singing, Jane realizes. Her mother and her father, off key. For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow.

She imagines Frankie, tight smile, glancing towards the door every couple of minutes, waiting for her to return. They’d long ago discovered that while Jane could sneak out unnoticed, Angela usually came looking for Frankie if he disappeared. And so, faithful, kind, understanding to a fault, her middle brother had stopped following her, knowing that he simply intruded on her alone time, trailing their mother like an overbearing balloon.

“They do that because there is so little to celebrate surrounding him,” Maura says, voice nearly a whisper. “They grab at what they can. Even at the expense of their other children.”

Speaking of. “We should go back in,” Jane says, and they stand straight, dropping hands only when it appears to be necessary.

Maura steps towards the door first, and Jane is just thinking she should move to open it for her when it does so on its own.

No. Not on its own. Angela has pushed through it, and she steps out onto the porch, face flushed and happy. Her eyes sweep Jane, and then Maura standing a little in front, then the rest of the porch.

“Maura!” she says, breathless, “come inside and have some cake!” She waves her hand when Maura hesitates. “Come on!” she coaxes, as though the doctor was simply outside alone, missing the celebration. 

“Certainly, Angela,” Maura says politely, starting forward.

Jane watches her mother’s eyes sweep the porch on more time, her hands reaching absently out to guide Maura inside. She clicks her tongue.

“And where on earth has Jane gotten to?”

[lenaisanerd]

i know it’s expected that i be serene

When Clary texts Simon requesting Fullmetal Alchemist, he knows something's up. But Clary seems to be in denial, and so Simon dispenses the ultimate cure-all: Hanging out with her best friend. (ca. 3500 words)

tunes.

Read on AO3.

 This story was co-written with my darling @raisehades. Please enjoy the hard-earned fruits of many late-night Google Docs comment battles.

Clary: can i come ober

  Simon: Ofc

  Are u okay?

  Clary: yes i just want so talk and cuddle or something

  Simon: Okay. Want me to set up anything?

  Clary: fma? 2009?

  Simon: I gotchu

Simon was slightly worried.

First of all, Clary wasn’t usually this reserved in her texting. Her lack of exclamation points coupled with the request for her favourite show could only mean one thing: his friend was way more down than she was letting on.

But he would deal with that when she brought it up because, well, he was also happy; Clary and him used to do this a lot – go over to each other’s (parent’s) place to hang out and watch something they both more or less enjoyed and maybe even talk about their lives and their feelings and- stuff.

But ever since the whole… half-angel manic pixie dream girl mom reveal (the HAMPDGMR) and everything that went down in consequence of the HAMPDGMR, they simply hadn’t done this sort of thing anymore. Sure, they hung out with all their other friends, at parties at Magnus’ loft or karaoke night at the Hunter’s Moon. And while that was fun, it was different when it was just the two of them.

Even during their brief dating stint, there wasn’t much they did that they’d done as friends. Simon had enjoyed what they’d done together, of course, but looking back it had been obvious that this wasn’t ideal for them.

Ideal was this: Lugging the connector cable for the TV into the vicinity of his laptop, powering both up and then loading a site with English subtitles of Hiromu Arakawa’s masterpiece Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood.

Also ideal: Clary bringing weird snacks with unpronounceable names from the Polish bodega down the street from their old high school. That store had become their first stop after class when they were younger and would sneak candy into movie theatres or curl up on the couch in Clary’s living room and watch Audrey Hepburn flicks with Dot. Simon was almost certain he would be able to eat some and keep them down by now.

Well, actually, in a perfect world, Simon would have loved to cook something for Clary (the food at the Institute was a far cry from what any sane person would call comfort food. Or edible). But one of the results of moving out of his mom’s place just after he’d become a bloodsucking creature of the night was that he owned basically no dishes, or pots, or kitchen utensils.

Even compiling his stuff with Maia’s (who had lived next to a Chinese restaurant for her entire adult life) yielded five plates, one bowl, two chipped mugs, and somehow a ridiculously large amount of cutlery. So cooking anything more than a bowl of cereal was out of the question until they got around to buying some usable stuff. Simon could already see himself and Maia filling their birthday and Christmas/Hanukkah wishlists with basic household items for years into the future. Ah, the joys of adulthood.

Still, this was almost the Saturday morning of his dreams. In the past year, Simon had come to understand that while moments of normalcy were few and far between, when one came along they had to hold on tight for as long as they could. Which was exactly what he was planning to do.

“I’m telling you, Polish Bodega lady has to be a Downworlder. We just have to find out what flavor she is.” Clary started on her new favourite topic as soon as Simon opened the door. She draped her damp jacket over the back of a kitchen chair to dry, dropped a plastic bag on the table, and re-tied her wet ponytail.

Simon started rummaging through the contents of the bag. “Okay, one: I don’t like “flavors”, at all, two: how do you know she’s not just a normal human being who just happens to own a windowless shop where she basically lives 24/7? Oooh, you brought those weird milk drops!”

Clary had her back turned to him while she stretched as far as she could to reach the plates and mugs on one of the high shelves above the sink, not quite managing it. “She never sleeps. Sometimes I come by that store when I’m on patrol, and she must be there all night. Every night. And every day, too. Either she never sleeps, or she has at least two clones.”

“Maybe she has an identical twin sister.” Simon took pity on her and handed her the dishes. Clary took them and ducked out under his arm from between the sink and his body in one fluid movement. Then she set to digging through the fridge for some soda for herself, and a bag of A+ for him, hugging the plates and mugs to her body with her free arm.

“I think I caught her staring at my runes. She definitely at least has the Sight.”

“Oh, so your angel-ninja sense is tingling? Tell me, is there a type of demon that loves to disguise itself as an old lady and watch reruns of Polish soap operas?”

“There’s only so many demons that can be terrorizing Manhattan bankers at a time, you know.”

Simon let out an undignified snort of laughter, of the kind that, had he been drinking at the time, would certainly have made him exhale his drink through his nose. Clary stuck her head over the fridge door grinning triumphantly. Then she emerged fully from its depths with a bottle of coke wedged horizontally under her chin, the plates under her arm, right hand holding the mugs, and left hand holding the blood bag. Standing up was a precarious balancing act, and Simon rushed over to take the bottle from between her chin and collarbone. After he snatched up the bags of sweets from the table they continued their procession into Simon’s bedroom.

Maia and him had moved in together just after New Year’s, into a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Fort Greene. They had decided against sharing a bedroom, though, mostly because of their sleep schedules. As Maia had put it, one partner strangling the other because a certain vampire keeps making noise all through the night while a certain werewolf is trying to sleep is not very conducive to a healthy relationship. Of course, they often spend the night together anyway, although those weren’t the nights when they did much sleeping.

“Come lie down, thought you wanted to cuddle,” Simon said, sitting down on the bed and patting the spot next to him. Clary flopped down and threw her legs over his. Balancing the snack plate carefully on her lap she fluffed the pillows behind her and finally settled down.

It was several skipped episodes, an entire bag o’ blood, and a good two thirds of the coke later when Simon got to find out why  exactly  Clary was in such urgent need for Comfort TV Time.

“Did you know jat Ling’s name doejn’t need the ng sound at all? It’sh Lin in Japanese and”, Simon swallowed the milk drops, “the Chinese translation both, so they just changed it for us for some reason.”

“You’re going to regret eating those,” Clary said with such a comical expression of distaste on her face that Simon couldn’t help but laugh out loud. She rolled her eyes. “Suit yourself. I won’t mop it up, though.”

Simon was still grinning when Clary reached forward to pause the episode on a rather unfortunate still of Major Louis Armstrong in motion.

“Do you think Izzy would like this,” she said, suddenly serious.

“Who wouldn’t like Fullmetal Alch- ”

“You’re right. Of course she would. Continue.”

Simon took her vague gesture towards the screen as a command to unpause. About half a minute later she piped up again, this time not even bothering with the pause button. “Her favourite character would have to be Mei-Chang.”

“Really?,” Simon indulged, reminding himself that he had in fact watched this episode several times in his life(un-life?) already and could live (hah) with not catching every subtitle, “I would have thought Olivier, Lan Fan… or maybe Riza? One of the really cool badass ladies.”

“Izzy may be a really cool badass but trust me, she loves little girls with a passion for science. Did I tell you about that dinner party at Magnus’ place? She was off in a corner with Madzie all evening, talking about chemistry or something. It was adorable.”

“Yes, I – I don’t know how I managed to forget. You’ve told me about it... several times now.” Simon was quite proud of his wallowing pause here.

Clary said, “Well.” and when Simon looked over to her she was visibly re-invested in subtitles. He suppressed a fond headshake and decided to let her have this one.

The next time they got through a good fifteen minutes during which Clary only noticeably stopped herself from interrupting twice and Simon started quietly wondering if eating those drops was a bad idea after all.

“Could we invite her to something like this?”

“Izzy, you mean?”

“Ah, yes. I just mean, like, we’ve hung out at the Hunter’s Moon and the Institute and stuff but I don’t know, would she like just… watching anime? Snacking?”

Simon really did put up with a lot, huh. “I don’t know, what do you think?”, he said in his least exasperated voice and leaned forward once again to press pause. He looked over to Clary, who was searching through one of the bags of candy for the last red one with the utmost concentration.

“I think she’s probably never been able to do something like this but that… she’d probably like to try. And I guess it depends on the show if she’d enjoy it. Her attention span is better than ours’ for sure, though. Maybe I’ll ask her.”

“Instead of me?! I’m hurt, Fray.” Simon placed a hand over his unbeating heart and pulled what he hoped to be the most devastating pout since Shrek’s puss in boots. He probably didn’t succeed in that.

Clary repaid his efforts by hitting his shoulder. He whined out an ooow and curled up to smoosh his head into Clary’s side. Her shirt muffled his sigh, and she recoiled from his breath, pushing him away with a giggle.

“Simon, stop that! You know I’m ticklish!”

Instead of letting up, Simon wrapped his arms around Clary’s waist.

“Zis vasn’t my decision.” Simon was using his best Bela Lugosi accent. Clary’s eyes widened in mock horror and the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “You brought zis on yourself. If Izzy is going to be your new best friend now, you must face...ze octopus!” His legs wrapped around Clary’s knees while she wriggled and squirmed and laughed.

“Hang on, what do you mean ‘my new best friend’? Simon Lewis, you’re not suddenly getting jealous, are you?” Clary asked when she had successfully freed herself from Simon’s grasp and they were both lying on their backs, looking at the ceiling.

“Pssh. No,” Simon lied. Clary had the decency to look slightly guilty. “Maybe you just have a crush on Izzy, ever thought about that?”

He had expected a pillow to the face for that tease, or another assault on his shoulder, or a bit of banter. What Simon had not expected was Clary suddenly looking all serious.

“Huh. You know, I’ve never considered that. Thanks, Simon,” she said, and Simon was quite proud of himself for being as good at identifying sarcasm as he was, but he really and truly couldn’t tell what Clary was thinking then. As his friend leant forward to unpause their series he decided she must just be a bit tired of antics for today. Understandable, really.

Yesterday’s summer storm had turned into persistent rain. It pitter-pattered against the fire escape and the windowsill, occasionally cutting through the sound coming from the TV’s speakers. During the peak of the heat wave, Maia and Simon had opened all the windows in the apartment to let in a breeze and had jammed whatever was handy at the time underneath to keep them from closing. There was a guitar foot rest wedged in the crack of Simon’s bedroom window.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I definitely have a crush on Izzy.”

The pause button had never been pressed so quickly. It would have been a world record, if world record judges liked to hang out on rickety fire escapes peering through windows to see if random teenagers performed laws-of-physics-defying feats from the comfort of their beds.

Simon lay back down, face to face with Clary. She seemed way more casual than what Simon thought was appropriate for the situation.

“So…Izzy. Isabelle. Really tall, beautiful, kinda scary. Terrible cook. We’re still talking about our Izzy here?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” Simon let that sink in for a minute.

“And, uh. How long have you known?”

Clary let out a hollow chuckle. “Consciously? About 30 seconds.”

Simon sat up. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Clary. I know you won’t like hearing it, but I’ve been your friend for over ten years, so I feel it is my duty to tell you this: You are such a dumbass.”

With a big sigh, Clary rolled over and buried her face in a pillow. Simon could barely make out her voice, but what she said sounded distinctly like a whine.

“What was that?”

Clary came up for air. ”I know.” Definitely whiny. With a very long vowel sound.

“I mean, you’re in so deep that I’m surprised you don’t need scuba gear yet.”

A groan.

Simon bumped her shoulder gently with his elbow. “Did I make you skip to the ‘wallowing in your own misery’ phase of having a crush?”

“No, it’s just...I can’t believe I never noticed.” Clary sat up, her legs crossed, facing Simon. “I only spent, oh, the last year with Izzy, every day. And– and looking back on some… things, it’s becoming really clear that I’ve had a crush on her for a while. And now I just feel like the biggest idiot in the world, and also what the fuck do I do now, Simon?” While she spoke Clary had let her head sink into her hands. Simon was of the opinion that they had just passed ‘wallowing’ and were well on their way to “breakdown”.

Simon leaned forward and, as gently as he could, pried Clary’s hands away from her face and held onto them for safekeeping.

“Hey, slow down, ‘cause this is bringing back really bad memories of pre-finals all-nighters.” This at least got a little smile out of Clary. “Now, can we back up just a bit to the ‘things’ you’re currently re-examining?”

Clary thought for a moment and then answered slowly, as though she was choosing her words with care. “Like, for example, why I love when she does my makeup. She’s really focused and just gets so close to my face and then she does that thing were she bites her lip and narrows her eyes, and sometimes I just want to lean forward and… kiss her?”

Immediately and seemingly instinctually, a grin tugged its way up the corner of Simon’s mouth. “Should I go get that scuba gear?” Clary rolled her eyes in response, but continued her recounting of Isabelle’s many virtues.

“And, uh, I always pick Izzy as a training partner, even though she does not go easy on me, because I kind of like when she kicks my ass.”

Simon only held in a dirty joke by viciously biting his own tongue. Clary was in distress. In distress.

His friend looked up at him from behind a strand of hair as if sensing his struggle but, judging by the nearly imperceptible untrackable movement of her eyebrows, refusing to acknowledge it. She headed on.

“Like, Izzy isn't really like anyone I've ever met before? And it's so - uh, exciting? Just to see her, like, do things her way. From the start she's made me feel like I belong, when, like, no one else really bothered to try?” Clary exhaled and shook her head. “I don't know. Maybe that's a bit much. I mean, what if we start dating and it immediately goes sideways? It’s just - we have too much history together. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense?”

Simon frowned. “No, I get it. She's really important to you.” He tilted his head to catch Clary’s gaze again. “And I know you’re really important to her. I don’t think one bad date could end your friendship. Also, you’ve known her for a year. If you want to call that ‘too much history’, I guess it might be, but when has that ever stopped you?”

Clary barked out a laugh. “Yeah, our relationship wasn’t exactly a success, though.”

“Okay, that’s fair, but Izzy isn’t me. And you aren’t the same you you were a year ago. Things are different.”

Clary looked ready to argue again, but kept quiet. Her body language was singularly vulnerable but her expression was more thoughtful than anything, brow furrowed tightly. She picked absently at her fingers which were still stained with oil paints, green and purple and gold. The rain continued its assault on the fire escape.

Eventually, after a long moment of silence, Clary stretched out on the bed next to Simon and, tugging at his shoulder, gently nudged him to lie down too. Clary tilted her head so it was lying against his shoulder and they lay there listening to the city they had been hearing their entire lives. But it was different now, wasn’t it? Simon had super vampire hearing and Clary had her angel ears and this wasn’t the city they had known anymore, because they knew what hid under the surface. But then, well, New York had never been the city they thought they knew. Simon had meant what he’d said: Clary had changed, and he had changed, and their old world felt lifetimes away. A year ago he would have said this was a bad thing. Today, he... wasn’t so sure.

“Should I tell her, do you think?”

“Hmm? What?”

“Izzy.”

“Oh.” Simon tried to get his train of thought off the existentialist detour track. “Uhh,” he said, intelligently, “I don’t know. Give me a sec.”

“Yeah, of course. Can you think while we watch?”

Simon nodded and Clary unpaused the episode. She propped her head up on her hand to get a more comfortable angle at the screen, and Simon’s eyes caught on the rune on her neck, right against the edge of her jawline. That was the first one, the healing rune that had seemed so out of place the night he’d found her by the church. By the Institute. Now, he couldn’t really imagine Clary without the runes, each a different part of her new life. There were the quick, simple ones Jace had drawn in the beginning, joined by the strong, decisive strokes of Isabelle and the slender script that indicated Alec, and of course Clary’s own hand, elegant and curving. Some for protection and some for strength, for courage and speed, fresh ones and older, darker marks. There was a story for every single one. A bit of experience. A battle won or lost.

He didn’t often dwell on this, but it sometimes occurred to Simon just how strong his best friend was. She had been through so, so much and come out on the other side a victor, maybe through luck, but also through sheer stubbornness. It was one of the things he loved (and sometimes loathed) about Clary. Simon was extraordinarily grateful that, even though both of them had lost a life, they had gained a new one, and one that had the other in it.

“Clary.”

She turned her head so she could look at him. One side of her face reflected the  flickering lights of the TV. “Yes?”

“I think you should do what you think is best. Trust your gut. You’re gonna be fine.”

Clary looked disappointed. “That wasn’t much of an answer, oh great oracle,” she said.

“Well, that’s the only one you’re gonna get. This oracle is closed for the day,” Simon replied. He crossed his arms over his chest to emphasize his statement. Then, very quickly and stumbling over his words a little, he added: “I just really respect you and I think you’re really smart and have good judgement, and you can sort this out for yourself. Also if anything goes wrong this means you can’t blame me, so–” The rest of the sentence was cut off by Clary rushing to hug him. Her shoulder banged into his chin rather painfully. He would, of course, not have it any other way.

“Thank you, Simon. I love you.”

Simon smiled into Clary’s shoulder. “Love you too, Fray.”

[read-a-like]

NYC Done Right

After rec’ing Honey, I Can See the Stars by twentysomething (Avengers, Tony/Steve) the other day, I took a photo of my burger at Burger and Barrel to share with tumblr, because I was just! so! excited! about how right this fic gets NYC.

So many stories, both fic and professionally published, get it wrong. It’s so common that I’ve moved past it. I pretend it’s some generic other city, and keep reading, and sometimes even loving. There are even stories I’ve rec’d on here that fall into this category.

But when stories get NYC right it’s such a joy. Here are some of my favorites that do.

Honey, I Can See the Stars by twentysomething

Avengers, Tony/Steve, as mentioned above.

The burgers!

Locations that really exist. And it takes the appropriate amount of time to travel from one to the other. And the characters take real modes of transportation.

Average Avengers Local Chapter 7 of NYC by hertrez 

Again, this is Avengers Tony/Steve fic. All of the accurate transportation mentioned above is there. Scabby the Union rat makes an appearance. He’s a real thing. New Yorkers are very good at looking straight ahead and walking past all manner of things. I’ve spent months in the past ignoring it on my way to work. And yet New Yorkers care tremendously for their city and the community therein. And that is the shining truth at the heart of this story.

After the End by copperbadge 

Avengers again, but this time it’s all canon relationships. This is about Betty Ross coming to look for Bruce after the events of the movie. It’s another story that shows New York’s resilience, and the way people come together in the face of disaster.

A Couple of Miles by bachelor_girl 

Moving on from Avengers, this is High School Musical Fic, Chad/Ryan. It takes place after the events of the movies, when Ryan is at Julliard. When Chad comes to town with his basketball team, Ryan shows him around. This is a bit of historical fiction already, as it was published in 2009. I’m sure Pinkberries still exist, but when they first popped up in 2007 they were a bit of a phenomenon. Beyond that, the places, neighborhoods, transportation, and equal parts sense of possibility and overwhelming competition are all true New York.

Moving on to some professionally published works, I have another bit of a historical rec: Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist by David Levithan and Rachel Cohn. This is the story of two seniors in high school having an all night adventure in the East Village and Lower East Side. I’ve called it historical, because back in 2006, none of them had smartphones and that becomes a plot point. 

In 2008 it was made into a movie. In the lead-up to the movie, made everyone I knew read the book and then the movie was terrible. If you’re familiar with the movie, pretend it doesn’t exist. The feeling of the neighborhoods is right. They’re filled with small bars and music venues, all night bodegas, and the very real pirogies and borscht, 24-hour, hot-spot Veselka. 

I was never really cool enough to have an adventure like the one here, but I once saw a show at Irving Plaza, followed by a smaller show at Rockwood Music Hall, followed by late-night food at the LES location of The Meatball Shop. When the radio at The Meatball Shop cut out the whole restaurant spontaneously broke into song to finish out Gnarls Barkley’s Crazy, including the guy sitting next to my group at the family-style tables, who’s bald head painted with an arrow like Aang from Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Speaking of movies that change things, I know we all love it when Princess Anne Hathaway struggles to get her car up the hills of San Francisco while Julie Andrews shrieks in the car next to her. But The Princess Diaries by Meg Cabot is another great NYC in YA book. And no matter how much I love the movie, the books hold a special NYC place in my heart.

Mystery rec, even to myself: I could have sworn one of the Avengers fics I mentioned above was the one that name-dropped the Calvin Klein billboard at Houston and Lafayette. And yet, I couldn’t find it in any of them through ctrl+f-ing any of the likely keywords. A million bonus points of thanks if anyone knows which fic mentions it. Because here it is with less naked people than usual.

[delos-mio]

Six Months- Logan/Westworld AU- Part 1

A/N: Hi! It’s me. This is going to be part 1 of what I’m thinking will be a short series. I decided to do something a little different and wrote this from Logan’s POV- let me know if it’s a yay or nay please! Anyways, without further ado...

The summer rain hadn’t let up since we first flew over New York City. For what felt like an hour, we circled and circled the goddamn airport before they finally let us land. Lucky for them, the only place I was heading was home, so I internalized my anger rather than take it out on some poor flight attendant. My car was waiting for me as I stepped out into the pouring rain; the black town car glistened as we crawled over the bridge back to Manhattan. I fiddled with my phone, occasionally watching the large drops roll down the window as I looked out at the city. My driver, Chris, pulled me from my reverie when I heard him clear his throat from behind the wheel.

“Sir, we’re just heading to the condo, right? Nowhere else you need to stop?” he asked, looking back at me via the rearview mirror. I let out a small sigh, considering my options. The condo would be empty. My fridge would smell like old Indian food. I’d probably just drink and jerk off until I fell asleep. Home didn’t sound like much fun once he reminded me that’s where we were going.

“Actually, will you drop me off at Duke’s? I’ll just walk home when I’m ready,” I said, tucking my phone back into my pocket. “Will you drop off my shit though?”

“Of course, sir.”

Within 5 minutes, Chris was pulling to a stop outside of a run-down little storefront. There were a few steps that led down to a glass door with “Duke’s” painted across the top, most of it chipped away. But I’d been here enough times to know what it said. I took the steps down two at a time, pushing open the door to the dimly lit dive bar. My normal stool was open thankfully, so I sat myself down next to an older woman who was usually there when I was. She always had a gin and tonic, which I respected. We gave each other a small nod, and I turned back to face a whiskey on the rocks in front of me.

“Ah, you’re too good to me,” I smiled as I raised the glass to my lips, taking a long pull of the amber spirit.

“Thought maybe you weren’t coming back,” the bartender added, wiping down the far end of the bar.

“Of course I came back! Just had some work out of town is all,” I replied, downing the rest of my drink and motioning for another. The bartender walked over and poured more Buschmills right into my glass, letting it fill for a little longer than normal. I gave an appreciative wink and took another drink.

For some time, I was lost in the muted Rangers’ game on the TV. My brain was finally on autopilot for once in what felt like weeks. The whiskey was going down a little too easy, but I didn’t give a shit; the condo was only a few blocks from here. I’d staggered further than that many times before. During a break between periods, I heard the familiar bell clang of the door being pushed open, followed by loud laughter. Instinctively, I turned my head slightly to see who was coming in, assuming it would be another face I saw around here often.  

I wasn’t far off. After all, it was a face I knew, but not one I had expected to see again. She walked in with a friend, her wide smile still on her face from the tail end of her laughter. Her hair was long now, well past the bottom of her shoulder blades. Last time I saw her, it sat on top of her shoulders- just long enough to pull behind her head. My mind started racing, not sure if this was the time or place to say ‘hi’. Would she even want to see me? I was still deep in consideration when I found out the answer written all over her face as she locked eyes with me. Her eyes were wide as her smile dropped; I felt my stomach turn in knots as he continued to stare at me, ignoring the story her friend was still telling. She appeared to pardon herself and I watched, frozen in my seat, as she approached with purpose.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered angrily once she was at my side.

“You know damn well this is only a couple blocks from the condo,” I said, cracking a half smile at her.

“Don’t you fucking smirk at me, Logan,” she warned, her eyes wild. Clearly this conversation was not going to be a pleasant one.

“Ok. I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“Please don’t…” she pleaded, closing her eyes gently. “Don’t you dare sit here and feed me some ‘I miss you’ or ‘you look so good’ bullshit.”

“What if I meant it?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. She huffed and rolled her eyes.

“You never do.” She turned on her heel and left at that. I opened my mouth to call for her, but words never came out.

Instead, I watched as she whispered to her friend, who then scanned her eyes around the bar, and quietly left as quickly as they came. I tossed back the rest of my whiskey and threw a $50 on the bar. The rain was still pounding, amplifying the stench from the bodega next door. I half jogged back to my building, all the while thinking about the last time I saw her- how she cried as she told me she had to leave and that I shouldn’t be here when she got back. We hadn’t spoken since that day. I’d find myself staring at the black, sleeping front of my phone during my work meetings, hoping that a message from her would light up the screen. But it never did.

The condo was cold when I entered, but all my things were there as Chris had promised. I quickly pulled off my damp clothes, leaving them in a trail to the bathroom. The shower head came to life as I stepped in, letting the warm streams of water rush over me, washing away the stench of the airplane, the city, and my embarrassment. For what felt like hours I stood there and planned my next move. Finally, I switched off the water and toweled off, ruffling my dark hair a little more than usual. I walked over unlocked my phone, reluctantly dialing a recent contact.

___

The next morning, I stretched in bed, itching lazily at my overgrown beard. I moved to roll on my side to find the sheets were being weighed down. My brow knit together, forgetting momentarily about the call I had made last night to a girl named Caroline, who looked eerily like the girl who had stormed out on me at the bar. I sighed and rolled my eyes at myself, annoyed with my decision making and annoyed that she was still here. I gently shook her shoulder, coaxing her awake.

“Hey Y/…Caroline. I have some work to do this morning, you should probably head out,” I said, trying my hardest to call her the right name.

“Aww, LoLo, you sure we can’t go one more time?” she purred, batting her eyelashes at me. I would have been tempted by her exposed tits if she didn’t call me that stupid fucking nickname.

“I told you before- do not call me that.” I didn’t look at her again as I sent Chris a message that she needed a ride home. He responded within 30 seconds to my delight saying he was out front. “Chris can give you a ride back to your place. He’s out front,” I added, still not paying much attention as she stepped back into her dress from the night before. She was just about to finally leave my room when she turned back to me.

“You know, you’re going to end up alone if you keep treating everyone like shit,” Caroline spat at me as she stomped out.

“Ok,” I laughed as she slammed the door behind her. Finally, I was alone and free to make one more bad decision within 24 hours of being home. Quickly, I opened up my message app and searched for a thread that I had been saving for months now. Every so often, I’d read it from beginning to end, usually when the girl next to me was asleep and it was 3a.m. and all I could think about was the way she felt wrapped around me.

L: Can we get dinner tonight?

I wanted to get straight to the point. I knew if I played too much or danced around the subject, she would just get mad and she’d never agree to seeing me. Those three pesky dots danced on the screen for a long time, then they’d disappear only to appear once again. At least she was considering my proposition rather than writing me off immediately. Finally, a grey text bubble appeared.

Y: Why?

L: Just want to see you

Y: Ok but why?

L: We’re both in the same city

Y: Logan…

L: Please? It’s just dinner

Y: It’s never just dinner

L: Well that’s your fault

Y: You’re so annoying

L: So that’s a yes?

Another lapse, another set of thinking dots. I chewed nervously on my cuticles, completely unsure how she would respond.

Y: I’m free after 6

L: I’ll come get you at 7. You still at the same place?

Y: Unfortunately

L: Ha- I’ll see you tonight

I locked my phone once again and finally rolled my ass out of bed; I had to go get the perfect suit after all.

[chineseamericantraveler]

Day 24: June 4 - Valencia

Despite going to sleep around 7:30 AM, I was awakened around 11:45 AM by Katie, not willing to let a day go to waste. After I ate a quick breakfast of leftover paella, we took a bus to the Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias (City of Arts and Sciences), which boasted of the largest aquarium in Europe and architecture by Santiago Calatrava and Félix Candela. When we first arrived, we stopped to admire the unique and impressive buildings before descending to L’Hemisfèric to buy combined tickets to the three major buildings of the City. While I struggled to convey my desire to buy student tickets to a woman who spoke no English, Katie grabbed a donut for her breakfast. Fortunately, I was able to understand some basic Spanish, like “estudiante” and the proper tickets were procured. After receiving the tickets and a map of the entire City, I decided to reward myself with my own donut from the cafe right across from the ticket booth.

We decided to go to see L'Oceanogràfic first, the aquarium, but swung by L'Umbracle on the way. L'Umbracle is the open structure similar to a greenhouse built over an underground car garage for the City, housing many sculptures and plants native to Valencia. After about a twenty minute walk to L'Oceanogràfic, we finally arrived and walked through the turnstiles. At the aquarium, we enjoyed seeing seals, fish of all shapes and sizes, crabs, jellyfish (included are pictures of moon jellies the size of my hand and my new favorite jellyfish, the egg yolk jellies), and sharks, but soon found the trip a little saddening after we saw a mother and a calf of Beluga whales in a pen that was way too small for their own good. After passing through a last penguin exhibit, we decided to go back to see El Museu de les Ciències Príncipe Felipe (The Science Museum). After going up about two or three floors, we finally made it to the first exhibit, which happened to focus on various basic physics lessons, such as refraction, color theory, sound waves, etc. These lessons were demonstrated by small stations with plaques that described the rules, mostly aimed at educating kids, but also interesting for adults too. There was a separate section that also educated on electricity and power production in Spain in relation to other European nations (I tried a VR headset that described all of it), but all the information was in Spanish, so the information was lost on our English (and slightly French) ears.

We moved onto the next floor up where the first exhibit we saw, which featured several dinosaur skeletons, particularly the ones found in Spain. Once we had enough walking around huge thigh bones and skulls with full sets of teeth, we moved past a space exhibit quickly (we didn’t really look inside the exhibit, but walked around the demonstrations on the outside of the exhibition area. As Katie found herself preoccupied with a room that displayed a looping reel of random space footage, I moved onto a fascinating exhibit of the processes of the human body and various senses. These exhibits included stations where one could test their sense of smell, touch, sight, as well as memory tests, and various development information stations about body systems like conception to fetus, bone structures.

Around 4 PM, we made our way back to L’Hemisfèric to see the Cousteau film. We were handed these dorky looking headsets that would play the narration in the language you chose. I was able to get my headset to work, but Katie repeatedly had problems with hers. Fortunately, the headsets were loud enough to hear your neighbor’s audio (for better and for worse) and Katie listened in on mine. However, watching the documentary, I was transported back to my younger days when I would pass time watching nature shows on TV, and was soon put to sleep about halfway through the show. I woke up very close to the end, and we left the City after the lights were raised.

We lazed around in the hostel for a while after we took the bus back (I took another nap in my bed), and then set out to get tapas around 7-8 PM from a little place called Bodega La Rentaora. There, we ordered several tapas, including a mussel dip (way too salty) with chips, goat cheese with jam on top, two baskets of bread, pulled pork, two toasts, one with sun-dried tomatoes and capers and one with Iberian ham, a bottle of beer and a bottle of wine for 6 euros (which Katie ended up drinking herself because I didn’t like the taste of it).

Unfortunately (or fortunately), it started to rain pretty heavily right as we were ready to leave (and Katie was well lubricated with alcohol). We stayed inside the little tapas place and stayed and ordered a tiramisu to split and coke and rum each. It reached the point in the night where Katie and I wanted to go home and we resolved we’d try to catch a taxi back (we had no rain proof clothing or protection with us at the time). Fortunately, a nice Dutch couple accompanied us and we conversed for a long time (about politics, our future plans, past experiences, etc) as we stood under various awnings, trying to flag down half a dozen taxies before we were successful. We retired back to Red Nest about 10 PM (I think) and soon passed out.

[mitchellkuga]

Spam Is Making A Comeback At Hip NYC Restaurants

Published in Gothamist

On a recent Monday night at New York Sushi Ko, between courses of braised pork belly with dollops of yuzu foam and aged, wild caught blue fin sushi, chef John Daley reached over the bar to present a bowl of Spam fried rice. Topped with seared ahi and flourishes of fresh pineapple, the dish was a far cry from the hangover breakfasts of leaner times—and an unexpected lowbrow pop on the restaurant’s $135 special one-night tasting menu.

“Is it just regular Spam? Like from the can?” asked LauRenn Reed, one of five diners seated at the 7-seat sushi bar. All were partaking in an offbeat, Hawaiian-inflected night of Daley’s omakase, which loosely translates to “chef’s choice.” “Fresh from the can!” joked Daley, a former chef at 15 East who spent a couple of years living on Maui. “And sourced locally from the nearest bodega.”

“Gosh, I haven’t had Spam since the eighties,” said Reed, staring into her bowl. “I grew up with it. I’m not anti-Spam at all. It just reminds me of poorer days.” There was a gap in conversations as palates processed the orchestra of flavors to the loose swing of reggae pouring out of Daley’s speakers. The Spam—diced and roasted—popped through with salty bursts.

“It’s so good though!” Reed declared. “It reminds me a little bit of oxtail. So savory. I’m thinking of all the ways I could eat it.”

The final course, a plate of sushi, included Spam musubi, a Hawaiian staple composed of a slab of fried Spam affixed to a bed of rice with seaweed. For an added level of authenticity, Daley wrapped it in saran wrap, a nod to the Hawaiian street food available at local gas stations and 7-Eleven. Next to fish sourced from Tsukiji Market, it’s easy to interpret Daley’s use of Spam ironically, a suggestion he’s quick to dismiss.

“No, no, no. If I wanted to be funny I would’ve opened a bar,” explained Daley. “I love my food. I love Spam. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t love it.”

A little after 11, a group of four walked in, shedding their coats for the waiter.

“Yo John! You still doing the Spam thing?” asked Leah Cohen, a contestant on Season 5 of Top Chef and the chef at Pig and Khao. “Got it!” Daley fired back.

Amid a food scene populated with grass-fed beef and humanely butchered pork, it’s surprising that this brick of protein has been popping up on New Yorkers’ menus. This isn’t an artisanal, organic or house-made variety. It’s a gelatinous block of Hormel canned meat; sliced, glazed, and fried without a hint of irony or intended shock value. And in pockets of New York known for more refined palates, it’s garnering a surprisingly enthusiastic response.

“For a lot of Asians it really is soul food,” said Mike Briones, the owner and chef of Suzume, a small, candlelit ramen and sushi bar located in Williamsburg. Last fall, Suzume began serving Spam musubi as a special, a nod to the few years Briones spent living in Honolulu. The reception has been overwhelmingly positive. “Usually it’s one person at the table who understands Spam, and then the other person will try it. People are ordering it and asking if we’re going to put it on the menu and taking it to go.”

It’s been a long and unlikely journey from Spam’s humble origins, as a product born out of the Great Depression to a special featured at a trendy Brooklyn restaurant. Produced in Minnesota, the blue cans of blended pork shoulder and ham debuted in American grocery stores in 1937, peaking in popularity during WWII, when troops stationed overseas referred to it as “Special Army Meat.” Since then, the pink brick has been associated with harder times, the outcast of preserved meats, left to linger in the dark recesses of the cupboard. A Monty Python skit from 1970, in which two diners are confronted with a Spam-centric menu, gave birth to “spam” as electronic junk mail; an inescapable annoyance.

In Hawaii, which consumes around 7 million cans of Spam each year, the connotations are more sunny. An annual Spam Jam festival sees a main street in Waikiki closed to traffic in celebration of the beloved street food. Local McDonald’s serve Spam breakfast with eggs and rice. In New York, framing Spam around the context of Hawaii is a logical way to highlight its tasty attraction.

For Daley, who grew up in New Jersey eating Spam for breakfast, the luncheon meat felt synonymous with riding the bus. He vowed to never eat it again, even after moving to Maui for a couple of years as an adult. “But you live in Hawaii long enough and you end up eating musubi one day,” explains Daley. “You have $2 left, one beer and one musubi. And it’s like ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ It’s absolutely awesome. Once I had it, I was hooked.”

The consensus amongst chefs is to avoid the desire to elevate Spam into a more refined product, and instead focus on pairing it with the right ingredients. Briones said it took a while for his cooks to figure that out. For Suzume’s Spam musubi they experimented with fancy glazes and different cooking methods before Briones interjected, explaining that the relationship between the Spam, rice and nori already composed the perfect umami, or harmony of flavors. In short, when it comes to Spam, less is more.

Spam isn’t just popping up as a surprise item on otherwise upscale menus. Onomea, a Hawaiian restaurant that opened last August in Williamsburg, serves Spam musubi and Spam fried rice next to other humble island staples, like shoyu chicken. For Hawaii born Cystalyn Costa, Onomea’s 24-year-old owner, incorporating Spam on the menu was a no-brainer. “You can’t open up a Hawaiian restaurant without having Spam on the menu,” she said. “Spam is Hawaii. Hawaii is spam.”

Comfort and familiarity was also what inspired the Spam fried rice at King Noodle, which opened last July in Bushwick. Owner and chef Nick Subic grew up in Michigan eating Spam omelets on Christmas morning as part of his family potluck. The warm bowl of pan-fried Spam sprinkled over a mound of rice, eggs and green onions comes served in a less familiar setting: psychedelic track lights illuminating walls coated in day glow graffiti. “To me it’s one of the most simple and comforting dishes on the menu,” said Subic, a former chef at nearby Roberta’s. “We just want it to be something on the menu that when you try it, you go 'Oh yeah, that’s delicious.’”

For a more experimental approach there’s Maharlika, a Filipino restaurant in the East Village that serves—in addition to other dishes with Spam “fresh from the can"—beer-battered Spam fries. Chef Miguel Trinidad came to his fries the way most people come to Spam: he was running out of food. At the last minute, a wedding reception that Maharlika hosted jumped from 50 guests to 75. In a pinch, Trinidad battered leftover pieces of Spam and threw them in the fryer. "Everyone went nuts,” he said. The next week it was on the menu. “I wasn’t ordering enough Spam. I would order a case, 12 cans, and it would be gone in two days. People were just coming for the Spam fries.”

While Spam’s reputation may always precede it, it’s clear that New Yorkers are starting to recognizing its virtues, thanks to a small but growing handful of chefs and business owners, a feat in an increasingly health conscious food scene.

“At the end of the day, it’s not good for you,” said Briones. “Personally I’m really healthy. All the protein here is as hormone and biotic free as possible. Except for the Spam. But it’s good for your soul.”

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