#surprise surprise i like things other than 70s punk

[twisted-nerve]

dronken met donnie - joost klein

+ bonus joost closeups :3

[thoushallnotfall]

Walkin' After Midnight

Masterlist

Pairing: Marko x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Note: *finger guns* Ehhhhh...so it’s been a minute. How ya’ll been? So completely ignoring that’s it’s been...a long time, here’s another of my ‘imagine the boys in a decade prior to the 80s’ fics--and we’re moving right along to the 50s!

I started this...a very long time ago, and then I didn’t like it so I just left it in my WIPs with like 15 other ideas/half-written fics/updates. I still don’t love it, but upon further reflection I don’t totally hate it--and it was already started so I didn’t have to work as hard to finish it, so there’s that.

That being said, I'm kind of interested in writing a part 2, so we'll see...taking babysteps here.

(I’m really having to dig deep for these gifs)

Every kid from Santa Carla grew up knowing two things: Don’t go out after dark if you ever want to make it home, and stay away from the greasers who hung around the boardwalk.

It never really occurred to you that those two things could be related.

Unlike a lot of the teenagers in Santa Carla, who’d run there with nowhere else to go, you’d lived there all your life. You’d never left the city, and the older you got the more you doubted you ever would. Your dad had been killed in Vietnam, and your mom was around so little you half expected one day she’d just stop coming back home at all. You may not be one of the runaways, but you were still alone in Santa Carla.

Still, you were young; and while you knew you’d have to find a way to live on your own sooner or later, you decided to try and enjoy what little youth you had left. One day you’d have to grow up and start providing for yourself somehow, but for now you just wanted to live your life to the fullest before that all got taken away.

With that in mind, you’d taken to going to plenty of the dances and social events in town. You didn’t have a curfew, and no one was around to care about where you were, but even so you tried not to be out too late after dark. That’s always when the people went missing--and they never came back.

That’s why it was the first rule of Santa Carla: Don’t go out after dark.

The official numbers were never right, given how many of the people who disappeared were runaways, but the amount of missing people in Santa Carla had always been unusually high. The only thing they knew for sure was that they always seemed to vanish at night.

The prevalent theory among many of the local teens was aliens. They came out with their flying saucers and abducted unsuspecting people in the night. Others were more practical--they just thought there was a really good serial killer in town.

It could be anyone! They’d say.

But people have always gone missing in Santa Carla--is he an old man, still killing people in his 70s? Someone else would question.

Okay, so a family of serial killers! They’d say back.

Personally, you had no idea who or what was making people disappear. You only cared about surviving it, and the best way to do that was stay in at night.

Then, there was the second rule of Santa Carla: Stay away from the greasers.

There was a particularly nasty group of punks who usually hung around the Boardwalk at night. No one knew who they were--probably just another group of runaways--but people had grown to know they were trouble. A gang of greasers who didn’t care about the law and would sooner gut a man than say hello. That’s what people said about them, anyway.

So imagine your surprise when you broke both rules in a single night.

--

The night in question started out well enough. You and a friend had gone to the beach in the afternoon, and spent most of the day there. At one point, the two of you had attracted the attention of some boys--who ended up spending the day with you.

So when the sun got low and it was time to leave, your friend decided to accept the invitation from the boys to go get some dinner at the local diner. You however, weren’t as excited about the prospect. Not only did you not want to be out too late, you frankly just weren’t that interested in any of them. Your friend tried to get you to change your mind, but you held firm.

And so it was that your friend headed off with the guys. At least she brought you into town so you wouldn’t have so far to walk to get home. And while you weren’t jazzed about walking home alone you figured you could make it back quick enough that it’d be okay. Unfortunately, it was nearly dark before you even made it back to town--and well into the night by the time you walked past the Boardwalk.

You tried to hurry your way through the crowded streets of tourists and late-night couples walking hand in hand without any trouble. But of course that's exactly what you find.

"Hey there pretty lady, going my way?" A big guy in a varsity sweater asks. He looked like a jock--maybe home from college? You didn't know him, and you certainly didn't want to.

"Sorry, I'm in a hurry." You say, hoping to sidestep him and continue on your way. He moves to stand in front of you.

"Aw, don't be like that doll." He says, looming over you. "I just want to get to know you."

"Well I'm not interested." You say, trying to push past him. He grabs your wrist, squeezing so tight it makes you wince in pain.

"Not so fast girlie--we ain't done talking yet." He says, pulling you back.

Oh God, this is it. He's a part of that serial killer family and you're about to get murdered.

Your frantic thoughts are interrupted as the creep let's you go. He screams as he looks to his other side. You follow his gaze and see a greaser with blonde, curly hair standing next to him--the jock's wrist in his hand. He squeezes it tighter and the jock falls to one knee, yelling in pain.

"Don't like it so much on the receiving end, do yah punk?" The boy says, squeezing even tighter. Despite being smaller than the other boy, the greaser was still clearly stronger.

"What the hell man? Let me go!" The jock begs.

"You want me to let you go?" The greaser smirks. "Alright." He lets the guy go, before quickly using his now free hand to punch him square in the face. The boy falls back, holding his bloody, broken face in his hands. The greaser grabs the bleeding boy by the collar and pulls him up, smiling at him. "Now beat it before I decide to get serious." He says, dropping his collar. The boy scrambles up and runs off, disappearing down an allyway.

You watch him run off, stunned by what had just happened.

"You okay?" The blonde asks, having turned his attention to you. You practically jump out of your shoes.

"What? Oh." You look down at your wrist. "Yeah, it's fine--I mean, um, I'm fine." You stumble through before looking back up at him. "Thank you."

"No problem. Punks like that deserve a good beating." He says, before he smirks. "And I couldn't let him hurt a pretty thing like you, now could I?"

Uh oh, you may have just gone out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"So what's your deal anyway? You know it's not safe walking around alone at night, right?" He asks, ignoring your apprehensive look.

"We'll um," You hesitated, unsure of how much you should say about yourself. "I was out with a friend, but she had other plans. She drove, so..."

"So now you're stuck walking back. I get you." He says. "Pretty uncool of your friend, ditching you like that. But hey, I'll make sure you get home safe."

"What?" You nearly shout. "Um, no really that's not necessary. I'm fine now, so--"

"No way. I already told you--you're way too cute to be out here on your own." He says, cutting off your attempt to protest. "My bike's nearby, let's go."

"I would really hate to put you out," you try once more to worm our way out of the situation, but he wasn't having it.

He smirks, "I offered didn't I? Don't worry about it." He grabs your hand and all but drags you down the block.

Soon enough, you arrive at a parking lot, and he leads you towards a row of four motorcycles lined up in the corner. He lets you go, moving to the bike at the end and throwing his leg over to sit. He looks at you, holding out his hand. You were pretty sure you couldn't get away from him even if you tried, so you took a deep breath and accepted his outstretched hand. He helps you onto the back of the bike, smirking as gravity slide you down towards him.

"So princess, were are we going?" he asks, tilting his head back to look at you sitting behind him. You hesitated giving him your address, but at this point if he wanted to do something nefarious he didn't need to take you home first.

You were in too deep now.

You tell him, and he nods, "Yeah, I know the place." He starts the bike, giving you one last smirk as he revves the engine, "Better hold on tight."

Your arms instinctively wrap around his waist as the bike shoots forward. You gripped him tightly, you head resting on his back. You squeezed your eyes shut, fear coursing through you as your heartbeat raced. As much as you knew you should watch where you were heading, you were too scared to open your eyes. He was going fast--very fast--and with each bump and turn, you were sure you would crash and that would be the end of it.

But the two of you didn't crash, and before you knew it the bike slowed to a stop. You dared to open an eye, and saw you sat in front of your house. A little run down and a bit worse for wear, but still yours. You sat up, shocked you had not only survived the ride, but that he had actually brought you home.

"This it?" he asked like he already knew the answer. You turned to him,

"Oh, um--yes, it is."

"Doesn't look like anyone's home," he commented absently, and you felt your shoulders tense.

"Oh, my parents are here--they just go to bed early," you lied. Something told you he knew you weren't telling him the truth, but he didn't say anything.

You hoped off the bike, smoothing the wrinkles from your skirt out of habit. You took a step towards your door, then stopped. You turned, looking back at the smirking, curly-haired boy sitting lazily on his bike.

"Thank you again. For bringing me home, and for helping me with that guy earlier, " you were still scared of him, but he had helped you. It would be bad manners not to at least thank him for his help.

He laughs, the moonlight catching his blue eyes as he stared back at you.

"Anytime, princess," he replies. He started his bike, glancing back up at you, "I'm Marko, by the way."

"Oh, I'm y/n." You had certainly not planned to tell him your name, but at this point could it really hurt?

"Well, I'll see you around, y/n," he says, his smile wide and mischievous. Before you could say anything more, he rode off down the quiet street, disappearing into the darkness.

[moviesludge]

tagged by @thechurchofsplatterdaysaints

Do you make your bed? Not usually, but oddly enough I did during covid. Something about doing it then made sense to me but I haven't really thought about it. And then I did it when my ex used to nag me about it. I do it sometimes.

Fave number? Don't really care now but I used to like 13 and 14.

What's your job? Unemployed. Would like to be employed but refuse to work a job I hate unless I have no other option. The stress of my last job sucked bad. I help my family though (parents and sister), and there's a lot to do. My dad does absolutely everything and he's 70, so you know. Shit will be changing sooner than later.

Go back to school? I'm not ruling it out.

Can you parallel park? I can. It's weird too, because the first time I ever did it was completely out of necessity and it was a dark night and it was a really small space too. I couldn't believe it when I did it the first time. And I don't consider myself that good of a driver.

Job you had that would surprise people? I guess the most surprising maybe is call center supervisor for eharmony. Or Blockbuster? I dunno.

Aliens real? I feel like the scope of the universe makes this a certainty and it amazes me how many people think it's a ridiculous idea. Talk about main character syndrome!

Can you drive stick? I never had the means to even learn

Guilty pleasure? Eating stuff I know I'm not supposed to (very sparingly!)

Tattoos? no but I think about it sometimes. I feel like I'd get sick of it no matter what it was.

Fave color? too many. earthtones and ryb are up there.

Fave type of music? probably all the stuff in the post-punk/new wave/no wave/power pop sphere. I'm picky about metal, but when I like something I like it a lot. Also been finding out there's a fair amount of rap stuff I dig. I really like soul and funk music and some oldies (50s & 60s, not modern oldies which are 80s).

Do you like puzzles? Word/mind shit, trivia, board games, etc. Yeah I love Jeopardy and I subscribe to NYT games. I do the crosswords, wordle, strands, spelling bee, and connections games every day. I also like nonagrams and I'll do a sudoku once in a while.

Phobias? just making it in the world, especially when my parents are gone. My parents getting sick and/or dying. Climate change causing a global food supply collapse in my lifetime. The U.S. falling fully into fascism. Basically things that are all certain to happen sooner or later

Favorite childhood sport? Basketball and baseball. Never liked playing soccer or football.

Talk to yourself? Yeah mostly when I'm irritated about something.

Movies you adore? Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, Evil Dead II, Speed Racer, Starship Troopers, Black Christmas, Bad Santa, My Cousin Vinny, Tremors, Gremlins 2, Better Off Dead, Big Trouble In Little China, Boxer's Omen, Terrorvision, etc

Coffee or Tea? both, but mostly coffee. I tried chai tea recently though and I like it a lot.

1st thing you wanted to be when grew up? The way my mind is, I didn't really think about things this way. All I remember desiring as a kid about being an adult was being on even ground with other adults and being given basic respect instead of being treated like a little kid. Like I wanted to sit on the couch and have my feet touch the floor. I wondered what my face would look like as an adult. The idea of a far off future job was irrelevant to me.

tagging @donnerpartyofone @steamedtangerine @jesusismyhostage

[rhysdarbinizedarby]

Relax, I’m From The Future

A conversation with writer-director Luke Higgingson

Relax, I’m From The Future was a surprise fav of mine at last year’s Fantasia Fest, and it’s finally getting a theatrical release! The movie is a punk rock sci-fi comedy with a lot of wit and even more heart starring Rhys Darby (Flight of the Conchords, Our Flag Means Death) and Gabrielle Graham (Possessor, Twenties) as an unlikely duo trying, sort of, not really, to save the world. I got a chance to speak with writer-director Luke Higginson a few weeks ago about all the work that went into his debut feature. Read our (lightly edited for clarity) conversation below!

Tell me, how do you describe this movie to other people?

It’s very much my attempt to work through my anxieties about the future and the state of the world in a way that might bring me some comfort without eliminating the very real cynicism I have about it. [My short film in 2013] started as a simple joke idea — the idea of an unprepared timetraveler — and then when people sort of liked that film more than I expected, I thought about how I would make that meaningful enough to expand it. And as I noodled on that, Trump got elected, and Covid happened, a lot of terrible things happened… It really became a source of therapy for me to write this ridiculous film and pump my anxieties into it. That’s really where I found what the film was about.

There is an incredible dynamic between Rhys and Gabrielle — how did you work your story with them?

Gabriel Graham was the first person that I knew I wanted to cast [as Holly]. I saw Brandon Cronenberg’s Possessor, and she had such presence, but I didn’t know if she was funny, so I watched Twenties… it was clear she had comic chops.

For Casper [Rhys Darby’s character], you have to be on board with following him even when he does some questionable things. And also, he’s on screen for so much of the movie that it had to be someone with real energy, especially in a script that’s mostly people talking to each other. There weren’t a lot of people that I felt fit that. Then when his name was floated, it was immediately like omg holy shit that would be amazing! My producers at Wango films are phenomenally gifted at getting scripts in hands. I spent a couple of days building up a dossier of arguments for why he should do the film. And when we got on the call and he was just like “Hey, so I just wanted to meet ya and make sure you were ok with me doing this movie”, I was blown away. He had this tiny little window where we could get him for 15 shooting days and he agreed to come up [to Hamilton, Ontario] and do it. I’m still pinching myself about that, it was amazing.

In terms of working with them, because of that window of time, there was no time for rehearsal. There was barely time for Rhys to learn his lines. I got one hour of Rhys and Gabby in a room together before the first day of shooting… Something clicked, it was like Oh it’s Casper and Holly, they’re hanging out!

The scene in the playground — where the two of them are sharing a bottle of booze and talking — was incredibly cold, absurdly cold. And they were both very underdressed for that weather. They were both improving and bouncing off of each other. That was the scene where I felt like ah there’s something special between these two in particular. It was cool, it was really special, both of them are just amazing.

Wait, the shooting schedule was only 15 days?

We had Rhys for 15 days, and we shot for 18 days, but Rhys is in almost all of the movie.

How did the music in the movie play into writing your story and how did you manage to clear all those songs?

I knew a ton of people in the Toronto indie-rock punk scene and I always knew that if I ever got to make a movie, I knew all these great songs that no one knows. I listened to a lot of that stuff writing the film — Holly being part of the punk scene was very important to the character. I gave [Gabrielle] a playlist of a bunch of 70s CBGB stuff, she watched a documentary on Poly Styrene. That really embodied the vibe of the music. I wanted it to be all Toronto music on the soundtrack, it’s basically a split between songs from bands that I played with or went to see back in the day and bands that are still operating right now. The big coup was getting Pup involved, which was really exciting. They didn’t have to say yes at all, but they really were big fans of Rhys and [because of Covid] I think they were a little itchy to get on stage in front of a bunch of people. We got to use a few of their songs, as well as Metz and Bad Waitress and a couple of other great bands.

In terms of the licensing side what I didn’t expect as a problem was that many of those bands no longer exist and never had any kind of official existence in terms of paper work or legality, so I perhaps foolishly did not see that coming as a problem. Anagram, Sailboats Are White, Lunchmeat — all great bands that I love, but [licensing their songs] was a trickier thing than I thought it was gonna be.

What are some of the challenges or joys that you encountered in the editing room, putting this thing together?

The editing process was long, longer than I expected. My baby was 6 months old when we started shooting, which was a real challenge for me and my wife. I literally edited the film with my baby next to me, so it took a while. But really, it was about matching the film to Rhys’s rhythm. When we [cast] Rhys, who’s one of the best improvisers comedically in the world, I knew that [for the edit] I was gonna want both sides of the conversations he has with Gabby. So any time that Rhys is talking to another person, there’s two cameras going at the same time and that really allowed us to use the little moments of inspiration and improvisation. If Rhys gives you a piece of gold, you know that you have it covered. That was big, I think both in the shooting and in the editing.

Time travel can be a tricky narrative device! How did you build the rules of this universe?

I knew right off the bat that I was neither capable nor interested in doing something scientifically “accurate”, but you also don’t want the audience to feel like you don’t give a shit. It has to feel like there’s an internal consistency. So my guiding principle was that rules of time travel are going to be what serves the humour and the story, and then once I have those things, to make sure it’s internally consistent. It actively subverts what I felt was the most common tropes — like in Terminator, you have to be naked to travel through time, in my movie you have to have no skin showing of any kind. In most time travel movies you can go back and forth, in mine you can only go back. When drafting it out, I went with the ideas that I found funny, then once I had the beats, I worked very hard to make sure it was internally consistent within that.

What was screening your film at Fantasia like?

It was incredible, I can’t say enough good things about Fantasia. I wanna shout out programmer Carolyn Mauricette, who saw a very rough cut of the film without any of the sound mix or special effects. She saw it, she got it, she connected to it. It just meant so much, that phase of the editing process, you’re very emotionally fragile, you have no idea if you’ve made something that works or not, and that was such a vote of confidence.

What are you hoping people take away from this?

I am genuinely very excited for people to see Rhys do this. I feel like he uses some muscles that you don’t get to see him use normally, he’s such a star. And I think Gabriel Graham is incredibly slept on, like she’s a successful actor but I think way more people should know her. I’m gonna sit in on a bunch of screenings — I never need to watch the movie again, but I do love watching the audience watch it, and there are some moments in the back third of the movie that I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing an audience react to.

I didn’t even ask you about Julian Richings!

He’s incredible! I got him [cast as Percy] by recording a video begging him to be in the movie because he’s a legend! I first saw him in Hard Core Logo when I was a teenager, he’s so captivating. So ya, I recorded a shameless message and sent it to him, and luckily he is the sweetest man in the world, just the easiest person in the world to work with — I can’t say enough nice things about him.

I think this movie has a lot for a lot of different crowds of people — you got the gays, you got the nerds, you got the horror fans -

Those are all my people! Those are my favourite type of people!

I’m excited for people to see it!

Me too!

Source: Bad Critic

[elxgantcaptain]

from a rp meme you haven't reblogged but i want them all answered

How do they feel about people shorter/taller than them?

What are they like on social media? (What’s their username, profile pic, etc.)

Their sexuality?

Preferred weather?

What’s their sleeping schedule?

Favorite music?

How’s their cooking?

It’s movie night, what movie do they pick?

How would they hold up in a pillow war?

What’s their sleeping position?

Who do they go to for comfort?

Something small that they enjoy?

How do they feel about physical contact by others?

What is enough to bring them to tears?

Biggest pet peeve?

How well do they take care of themselves?

What’s something they like that may be surprising to others?

Do they consider others family?

Any bad habits that they have?

What’s their idea of a perfect vacation?

Do they get lost easily? Will they ask for directions if they are?

The strangest thing they have ever seen?

How well do they accept advice?

How much do they swear?

How do they take advice given to them?

Do they like being in pictures?

Is there anything they’re bad at?

What’s their morning schedule?

Any past injuries?

Something that disgusts them?

BLOODY HELL XD

Well, I shall put this under the cut because there is A LOT!

I don't think height bothers Hook so much? There are men on the ship that seem taller/bigger than him and he doesn't seem intimidated. I think he CAN get annoyed at times? In scenarios where all villains can interact and stuff, I like to think he puts higher heels on his shoes to seem taller xD

Main verse Hook has... NO IDEA how internet and technology works, put something like that in front of him and he'd think its haunted or something idk. But modern verse Hook? Ehhh, he gets the rough gist of it, but i still think he'd be a bloody old man on his phone, probably with a classic nokia with the classic snake game being the only other thing you can do on it aside from text and make calls xD

Sexuality is easy, Bisexual, leaning strongly towards men.

Weather? A good breeze on a warm day, easy for sailing, good for relaxing, no one wants hot still weather.

Sleeping schedule, PFT. WHO NEEDS THAT? xD Honestly, he doesn't really have one? He's up at all hours usually, sleeping at night should be a thing but he sleeps when he can and feels the need to. Nightmares keep him up and at least if he slept in the day he could SEE his opponent.

Music.. Hmm... Modern Hook would probably like 70s/80s type music maybe? I've not thought of this much tbh, but he would DEFO not be into rap, punk, funk or 'modern' tunes in either verse. Classic Hook is into those happy jigs and tunes they played in inns in Scotland and Ireland. Folk songs and sea shanties. Celtic bangers xD

He... Cannot cook. Thats it. He probably can toast coconut and cook fish? But all the bones would still be on and stuff.

Movie night, he'd pick a romance, something he needs the tissues for. Or some over the top drama.

Pillow war? Like a pillow fight? xD Idk man, he's probably not really played a full game of that before, but I'd say he'd WACK someone round the face easily with arms like those.

Sleeping position, he tends to curl up in the fetal position, all snuggled up and cocooned in blankets and pillows.

For comfort he always calls for Smee, who always seems to know what to do. (Unless he is in a strong ship in which he'd go to his S/O if they've developed enough)

He really enjoys just... The sound of the sea. Or maybe the most simple, the feel of wet sand between his toes when the tide comes ashore.

He doesn't really like it when people touch him, unless he's initiated or offered something, NO TOUCHY.

Literally anything can bring Hook to tears. He's an emotional person. Sadness, frustration, etc etc.

Pet peeve... UMMM, when people move his 'organised mess? xD'

Hook... hm... Doesn't really take THAT much care of himself? not mentally anyway? Physically, appearances can be everything, he's one of the most well groomed people on the ship, he ALWAYS cares for his hair, before anything else, the rest of him could be stinking from sailing for weeks but his hair would be PERFECT. Mentally? UH, not so much. He also just shrugs off many wounds and cuts and hopes for the best xD

The fact that he likes traditional romance novels? Maybe that could surprise people? Or his simple, sweet pleasures, like collecting seashells, or drawing and writing in his journals?

Hook doesn't really have family, perhaps the closest thing is his crew and Smee... But he wouldn't call them a family?

Bad habits is basically just leaving things where he's dropped them, he doesn't clean up after himself, his papers, journals etc are all in piles and nothing is organised per-say. He also chews his hook from time to time and tugs on his tash.

Perfect vacation for Hook would be away from Peter Pan and Neverland, plundering somewhere and taking treasure and just relaxing on a beach with a nice drink.

Hook has a good sense of direction, even if he would get lost he can easily make his way back to where he started.

He has seen... Many strange things in his time, talking trees, singing plants... The list is endless.

Hook doesn't accept advice to be honest? He can take advice for one thing but end up twisting it into another and thinking he came up with it xD

He doesn't swear... THAT often? He's a gentleman after all xD But he can swear when he's in the bedroom~ Or when he's REALLY angry

Same as before with the advice thing I think

He likes to know how pretty he looks, so yes, he does like being in pictures xD

He's bad at being around children? He's also bad at staying on land for long amount of time without complaining xD

Morning schedule, get up, work on the charts, check navigation and the wind direction and to see if they're on course, do an inspection, smoke a few cigarettes and basically eat when Smee brings him something xD

Many, he has scars covering most his body, bite marks from the croc, slash marks from Pan's dagger, the missing hand, obviously, he has whip scars on his back, bullet wound(s) etc etc.

He gets disgusted by bad singing/music? He can also have times where he finds some foods or most foods disgusting and he can't eat it, reminds him of bad things.

[juststayquiete]

- So, fuck, marry, kill - Nancy, Kerry, Danny.

- Why the fuck I'm the only one who finds these options weird? - V complained. - Weren't they YOUR chooms? Plus all of them are three times older than me.

- Don't act like your mommy issues don't make you weak before older chicks, V. Also, they WERE my choombas but that doesn't mean I wouldn't fuck them. And MAYBE I did.

- Ugh, you're literally the worst. Okay, kill Danny, because I know her less than the others, fuck Nancy, marry Kerry.

- Ha! I knew it. But marrying Kerry? That's some dysfunctional family. At least with him you're gonna listen to the good music, not that bland shit you listen on the radio.

- Go jerk off to Kerry without my presence, I don't give a fuck about your boner to his songs.

- Is it jealousy I hear, V?

V snorted.

- You wish, asshole. My turn. Fuck, marry, kill - Saburo, Yorinobu, Smasher.

- Are you out of your fucking mind? Kill, kill, kill. What the fuck, V?

- What, no fucking Smasher? Boring, doesn't count. Fuck, marry, kill - Alt, Rogue, me.

- What's with THAT group?

- Aw, Johnny, don't be shy, that's the women that impact your life the most.

- Alright. Kill Alt, since she's the hardest to kill nowadays, fuck Rogue, marry you.

- What?

- Why are you even surprised? Your dumb ass chose these options.

- Yeah, but I thought you'd kill me! Wait, I get Alt, but why don't marry Rogue though? Was your meeting THAT bad?

- ... Yeah. She has her life now, and we both changed. I don't think the thing between us would be easy or stable, she doesn't think so too.

- Well, I don't blame her, it WAS 70 years ago. I'm surprised that she still gives a shit about you.

Johnny chuckled.

- Fuck you, I'm still 34.

- No, you're still an old fuck. But Johnny, are you really going to give up on her with that weekass excuse? Of course you both changed but, honestly, I think the thing between you would be healthier now. You both matured to not be two punk gonks who can't stop destroying each other. Grow a pair, man.

- Listen, I don't care about this now. You're my priority. We're going to take the chip out and then we'll see. Honestly, with your constant nagging I already feel we're an old married couple. You're annoying as fuck.

- Go fuck yourself, dick, tonight you're sleeping on the couch.

[hersterical]

(quick disclaimer: I only know the very basics about punk culture. This isn’t supposed to be very serious)

If MCU Steve Rogers was a teen/young adult in the 60’s/70’s/80’s he would’ve been a hardcore punk (this is just for fun so I’m not going to talk about Vietnam) He’d do the safety pin earrings and the handmade patches on his old and ripped clothes and the whole thing with lots of diy and thrifting and painting his clothes. He’d go to protests and make sure everyone was properly hydrated and snacked up and do his best to keep the peace between the protesters and the police. But as soon as the first protester is unjustly harassed by an officer he’s throwing punches. If he looks like pre-serum Steve this leads to him being beat up a lot more but that obviously doesn’t stop him from getting into fights and hurts himself more than the person he punches. Bucky and Peggy take turns bailing him out of jail (whoever’s not bailing him out is usually in jail with Steve). He is impossibly nice even by punk standards.

Peggy would also be a punk but she’s not as hardcore as Steve when it comes to the aesthetics. She’s just as hardcore punk when it comes to attitude though she’s more careful about thinking things through than Steve is. She goes to all of the same protests and rallies as Steve (and is sometimes even one of the organizers) but she wasn’t usually arrested until she fell in with Steve and Bucky who encourages her more reckless side.

Bucky isn’t hardcore when it comes to the aesthetics because it can make it difficult to find dates but he’s right there with Steve through everything. Mostly he just wears a lot of eyeliner, and leather/denim jackets and has an eyebrow piercing. He did at one point have a mohawk but he didn’t like it. He doesn’t care quite as much about the causes as Steve and Peggy who are both unhinged, but he is still passionate about civil rights (partially because of Steve). He’s even more passionate about the people he cares about and keeping them safe (mostly Steve because everyone else usually has a basic sense of self-preservation).

Sam is there as well. He’s the last one to join the group and is a hippie (I’m not going to talk about that because I know even less about hippies than I do about punks). He’s even more passionate about civil rights than the other three but he’s a lot more careful about not being caught (Sam’s the most self-aware about the groups tendency to lose brain cells when they’re around each other and there’s also the necessity of him having to be more careful of racist cops). Sam is also less prone to getting into fights as the others, but he still gets into a surprising amount of fights for a hippie. Especially when he has to back the other three up. He’s quickly added to the paying for bail rotation because he gets into his fair share of trouble as well. He gets the other three to do some drum circles and go on camping trips with him. Bucky secretly loves doing these things even though he pretends to hate it while Steve and Peggy enjoys it more for the bonding and making Sam and Bucky happy than the actual activities. They still have fun though.

It’s funny seeing them all hang out together because there’s three punks, two of whom are some of the scariest, most intimidating people you’ve ever seen, an impossibly skinny dude who’s dressed even edgier than the scary ones, and a really happy and nice looking hippie. Sometimes the Howling Commandos show up and then usually gets them kicked out of wherever they’re hanging out.

[1spy]

1991 | Matthew Sweet - “Girlfriend”

In the fall of 1991, I saw a video on MTV that changed how I thought about music and shifted my tastes significantly toward what would become known as alternative music.  No, not THAT video. I’m not talking about Nirvana and “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” It was Matthew Sweet’s anime-infused video for the title track of his third album, Girlfriend.

I’d sometimes wake up and watch MTV in the upstairs den before going to school, and I remember it was morning, and I stood there in front of the TV transfixed throughout the entire thing. I wish I could go back in time and see it again for the first time. Or see the dumb look on my face as I  heard the first strains of feedback while watching a spaceship emerge from the ocean, and then watch as a sexy, sophisticated space opera takes place over the next three minutes, interrupted only by Matthew Sweet’s disembodied head and voice.

Another version of me might have gone down the anime rabbit hole and become obsessed with manga. And I was intrigued, of course. Space Adventure Cobra: The Movie looked like the Voltron cartoons I loved as a kid, but seemed to contain nudity and adult situations. That movie looked incredible! But this was pre-internet and I had no idea where to go for softcore cartoons. Or even how to find out what movie it was. It’s been more than 30 years, and I still haven’t seen it.

Music though, was something I was learning how to investigate. And hearing Sweet’s precise stabs of dry rhythm guitar and 18 layers of harmony vocals be absolutely ripped apart by multiple unhinged guitar solos, well, that blew my mind. I had never heard anyone play guitar like that, and I wanted more of it immediately.

The “it” was Robert Quine who was, prior to this, most famous for playing with Richard Hell and the Voidoids, one of the first American punk rock bands to come out in the mid-70s. He also played with Lou Reed on his classic album, The Blue Mask. The pairing with Sweet was odd, because Sweet’s first two albums were polished, shiny pop albums that sounded like…a less exciting version of the Bangles or Cyndi Lauper. Sweet’s third album stripped away all the, uh, sweetness, but doubled down on Sweet’s layered harmony vocals while letting his guitar players go wild. 

I didn’t know it at the time, but Quine and the other main guitar player on the record, Richard Lloyd from the band Television, were actual punk pioneers. Punk rockers who played early shows with the Ramones and pre-dated british bands like The Clash and Sex Pistols. They were from a generation before Nirvana and Sonic Youth, and they specialized in the kind of guitar that rock critics called “searing” and “angular”. Together, they just kicked all kinds of ass all over this record and were a key reason why Matthew Sweet’s third album isn’t just a power pop classic. It has frequent moments of ecstatic, blistering fury and jazz-like bursts of melody. And those sounds were thrilling in the context of Sweet’s sophisticated, Beatles-soaked songwriting.

The whole album really is a power-pop masterpiece. Sweet wrote it after he was divorced from his first wife. It has big divorced guy energy. Half of it is consumed with recriminations and regrets from his dissolving relationship, the other half are wistful fantasies about finding new love. The love songs included one named for Winona Rider and one called “Evangeline” about a girl who cares more about God than she does about Sweet (btw, my parents were going to name me Evangeline had I been a girl). There’s a surprising amount of theological content on the record, and Sweet has said the record captured his emergence as an atheist. It’s his lyrics about searching for a God who seems frustratingly absent that are the album’s most consistent and compelling lyrical theme.

Finally, let me add that the ballads are killer on this album. “You Don’t Love Me”, “Your Sweet Voice” and “Nothing Lasts” provide a break from the punk rock guitar heroics in favor of pedal steel guitar from one of the masters, Greg Leisz. 

Two weeks ago, Matthew Sweet suffered a massive stroke while he was on tour in Europe with Hanson. He’s returned to the states and is now undergoing treatment and therapy towards what I hope is a full recovery. You can donate here:

[greensparty]

Album Review: X "Smoke & Fiction"

Last year I was lucky enough to interview X singer Exene Cervenka, see their Boston concert, and the band even shared it on their social media. When I spoke with her, Exene said the legendary band was working on a new album and even testing some new songs live. They did 2 when I saw them. I have always enjoyed this band and their immense contribution to punk music, but in some ways they are more than just a punk band, as they encompass a lot of other sounds too. I have their debut album Los Angeles on vinyl in my collection and I’ve dug them ever since I saw Penelope Spheeris’ doc The Decline of Western Civilization, which features X among a ton of their peers like The Germs and Black Flag. The band’s song “Los Angeles” has also accompanied me on my trips to L.A. Earlier this year, the band announced they'd be releasing their final studio album and embarking on their final tour after 47 years. Considering the classic albums they have released, this has set the bar pretty high for this album. Smoke & Fiction drops today from Fat Possum Records.

album cover

It might surprise some to learn that this only the band's 9th album. I know it's quality over quantity, but it's just surprising that it's only the 9th album in contrast with other bands formed in the 70s. For example, The Wipers were formed in 1977 as well and they only released 9 studio albums, but they officially ended in 1999. In terms of the X's discography, the first two albums 1980's Los Angeles and 1981's Wild Gift are the most revered. They've had some other gems, but those two are their high watermark. For this album they recruited producer Rob Schnapf, who produced 2020's Alphabetland. Schnapf has produced some classics for Beck and Elliot Smith and he mixed the Foo Fighters' 1995 debut. The band is bigger than the sum of their parts: Exene singing, bassist / singer John Doe, bassist Billy Zoom, and drummer D.J. Bonebrake. This album is a straight up rock album more so than just punk.

Bonebrake, Cervenka, Doe, and Zoom

Exene Cervenka and I backstage after the 9/2/23 show at The Wilbur

There are some bangers on this album for sure, some of which are in the pantheon of great X songs. But here is the thing with a final album: it's too much pressure and expectation to live up to. If they had just released this album, it'd be a pretty awesome album. But by announcing it is their final album, it needs to live up to their own discography and also please who want them to go out on top. Think of the final episode of a TV show and how there's no way to please the entire audience. There is just no way it can live up to that bar being set that high. So I would recommend just listening to this as a great X album and not "the final album of X".

For info on Smoke & Fiction

3.5 out of 5 stars

[misti-chan]

Hello, Could I request something fluff for Caesar and Doflamingo please, So I saw Let's groove challenge on tiktok and it look so fun how about Caesar and Doffy have s/o who doing this trend or really good at dancing and like to dance to cheer them up? Thank youuuu

Hi! Sorry I took a while to answer it, but here it is! It is a little short though I hope you'll still like it! However I don't really know about Tik Tok challenges so I did with a reader who likes to cheer them up with their dancing!

Not really proofread.

❤ Caesar & Doflamingo x reader, who likes to dance to cheer them up, headcanons ❤

Against what the majority could think Caesar is very emotional and spontaneous when he doesn’t have to play a role. So, when he is feeling bad, frustrated, or angry, you know it right away as it is written all over his face. Still, he tries his best to be professional and in character when his underlings come in the lab. You are the only person that he would let see his real expressions and self, in Punk Hazard. Therefore, you always do your little cheering dances when this is the two of you and when you’re sure nobody would bother you. Caesar truly likes it as it makes him feel like important and particularly supported. He enjoys it and sometimes even ask if you could do some moves to give him some strength to work on his projects.

He also likes it if you do choreography on rollers with music like ABBA. I headcanons him as liking things from the 70’ and 80’, so just some old music and he’s happy. If you try to make him, go with you, he’ll try to persuade you that this is definitely not a good idea (and it isn’t, really don’t do that). The poor guy has no balance and will fall face first.

When it comes to dancing, he isn’t bad, but not good either. He is just very awkward at first. But the more you encourage him to dance with you the more he’ll warm up to the idea. However, watch your feet, you don’t want him to step on you by accident. (It already happened, and he quickly apologized, he even thought he broke your foot).

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It is actually quite easy to notice if Doflamingo is into a bad mood. His smile is bigger and more tense, and his veins are popping out more than usual. So, when people catch on, they generally leave him be, to avoid getting into serious trouble. Other persons that are obliged to deal with his presence walk on eggshells, completely panicked at the idea of annoying him further. It is at this moment that members of his family come and get you to get him to calm down. At first, when he sees you, he isn’t really thrilled. He thinks that maybe something else bad happened or what you are going to ask him something. But when you begin to dance, it takes him by complete and utter surprise. He watches you with great interest, slowly forgetting what was on his mind.

No matter what kind of dance you do, he will like it. But he has a soft spot for romantic and passionate dances that take him on a journey. He also likes cheerleading, (bonus point if you sing a little something that struck his ego, this man is a sucker for everything that boost it).

At some point he’ll buy you outfits for your session. He will watch you dance every time, but it also happens that he joins in (especially if you ask him). And you’ll be surprised as his great dance skills. He'll sweep you off your feet!

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.

[sunjaesol]

juke | human au | title: fearless // taylor swift

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

As they were walking up the front lawn of her childhood home, nerves wrecked her body. Even her hand, snug in Luke's, felt clammy and sweaty and suffocating. God, this was such a mistake — going home, not him. He didn't even realise what he had gotten himself into by falling for the youngest darling of the matriarch.

Or rather, she shouldn't have fallen head over heels for the swoon-worthy Luke Patterson, but she never really stood a chance.

But everything had happened so fast! One second banter easily flowed between them, warm and easy flirtatiousness without consequences, the next she was at IKEA helping him pick out a bookshelf while he somehow knew whenever she needed pizza and a good cuddle. They were very much in a committed relationship, something the Molina women very much frowned upon.

It wasn't as if they were all deeply scared of love and relationships, but the Molina family was a matriarchy. All women raised families on their own, no man to help. Divorced, cheated on, died, a donor, infertile and therefore adopting children — men were of zero priority.

So, coming home with her boyfriend whom she deeply loved? Definitely a risk. She was surprised he was still standing, that she hadn't scared him enough yet.

Spinning on her heels in front of the door, she shot him an anxious smile. "Are you... sure you wanna do this? We're, like, really intense."

Luke smiled, tender. "Do I wanna meet the family of my girlfriend? 'Course I do." When her expression didn't change, he added, "Jules, just 'cause they all did the 'no guy' thing, doesn't mean you have to follow that, right? And I'm not scared."

Oh, God. His courage was as admirable as it was stupid.

She chuckled, antsy. "You haven't met my mom though."

His smile widened as he dipped down to kiss her, gently, hands caressing her cheeks. For a moment, stress fled her system.

But then the door flew open.

"There you are!" Mom exclaimed, a glass of red wine in one hand and music booming over her shoulder. "And is this the boy toy?"

"Mom!" Julie grumbled, embarrassed to be caught kissing (God, she's twenty-three!) as well as putting Luke in a bad position.

First impression of him: seeing him kiss her beloved daughter on the doorstep. Great.

"Hi," Luke said, dazzling her with a smile while he stuck his hand out. "I'm Luke. And I'm, uh, older? So..."

"Meh," Rose trailed, lamely shaking his hand. "Still a boy toy. Anyway, come in! Food's warm!"

Following her mom inside, Luke shot her a strange look, like it was only registering now all her tall tales were, well, true. Shrugging with a sheepish grin, she placed their shoes and jackets in the wall closet and then made the agonising trek to the loud, jumbled chatter.

As expected, all the California-based Molina women were present. Which meant ten, including her, all staring at Luke like he was a weird specimen. Her hand squeezed his beneath the table in support, and he was finally squeezing back just as tightly.

Was it bad she felt some sick pleasure he understood how fucked he was? Probably. It seemed warranted.

When everyone had their plates filled, the interrogation began.

"So, Luke, how old are you?" Victoria asked.

"Twenty-five."

"Going around town with a twenty-three year old?" She sniffed. "Interesting..."

"Do you have any siblings?" Donna inquiried.

A wry grin ticked up his lips, sensing the irony of the situation. "I, uh, I'm an only child, actually. Mostly raised by my dad, 'cause my mom worked long hours."

Shoving a fork of meatloaf in her mouth, Julie withheld a guttural wince at his words. Luke Patterson was the poster child of everything the Molina's didn't like and she brought him in their cave.

"What do you do for a living?" Abuela croaked, peering intensely.

His smile didn't falter, but instead widened. "I'm in a band, but I also bartend a couple of nights a week."

"A band, huh?" Mom leaned forward, intrigued. "Has Julie told you I used to be in a band?"

"How can I not, mom?" Rolling her eyes, Julie added, "You'd tell him anyway..."

"I was in The Petal Pushers, the best protest punk-rock feminist group of the 90s." Her fist punched in the air as she spoke and Julie could imagine the fingerless leather gloves and purple streaks as she did. "What kinda... band do you have?"

Her endearing Luke didn't read the warning signs humble himself, so he enthusiastically perched himself at the end of his chair as he said, "Punk-rock too, actually! Yeah, we're really killing it right now at all the clubs."

She smirked. "I'm sure you do."

"What are your plans with Julie?" Elena asked, one of her cousins.

Both her and Luke froze at that. Shit. That... was not something they've discussed. A relationship of seven months was still pretty fresh, not ready for a confrontational talk about futures and plans.

He scraped his throat, briefly let his gaze flicker to her, and then uttered, "I'm, uh, a one day at a time kinda guy."

Julie cringed, not hiding it this time. To her, it was an alright, albeit lame answer. But to her family? Horrible. So, so horrible. Gah, she had to put an end to this!

Abuela scoffed, nearly choking on her hard seltzer. "One day? At a time? What is this, the 70s? My little girl deserves more than carpe diem!"

Mimi hissed. "Wrong, wrong answer, boy toy."

The questions kept shooting at lightning speed, each one more outrageous than the other, while Julie's grip on her fork tightened and tightened in anger.

"How many times a week do you shower?"

"What's your least favourite colour?"

"Do you pick up women? Is that how you make extra money?"

"What's your view on children?"

"Can you handle spice?"

"How did you even find our darling, huh? Did you lure her into that bar of yours?"

"Is Luke short for Lukas, or Lucrative?"

"Alright, enough!" Julie screamed, standing up with a stomp of the foot.

A hush crossed the table, aghast and surprised, her mother perpetually amused as always (too many in drugs in the 90s, she presumed) while Abuela feigned to be sleeping. 'Resting her eyes' would likely be the excuse.

"This is insane! Stop acting like this and start treating Luke with a little respect!"

From the corner of her eye, she vaguely noted he was staring at her, gobsmacked. He did well, given the circumstances, but she couldn't just idly sit there and let him take all this shit.

Mom puffed, leaning back in her chair. "We haven't been disrespectful, Julie."

"You have, mom! Can't I just have a boyfriend without—"

"We've invited him," she interrupted. "That's enough of a courtesy."

And before Julie could fire back, furious beyond belief, Rose added, "You know how the Molina cookie crumbles, honey. No men stay. Not for long, anyway."

That smug response made her explode. "Mom! Can you just for once—?!"

"I love her though," Luke quipped, shy.

The fight halted instantly, all ten women gawking at him like he just spoke a new language.

And he did, to Julie at least. Luke loved her? Even after all of this? She obviously knew he wasn't impartial to her, those seven months equalling tenderness and partnership like nothing she's ever experienced before, but... love? He was in love with her?

How could she abide by the 'Molina Women Rule!' rules when he confessed that, no hesitation or stutter heard?

And so, Julie's heart melted. "You love me?"

"Of course, I do," he whispered. "Why else would I be here?"

Elena nodded, sympathetic. "Good point."

Unable to stop her smile from becoming a dazzling, lovesick beam, she repeated his words with as much conviction as she could muster. "I love you too, Luke."

Abuela shot up from her sleep with a cough and a snicker. "Yeah, right."

Mom waved her glass around, congratulating them. For the first time tonight, her tone held kindness instead of poorly veiled contempt. "That's very sweet, Luke. Tell me in seven more months how you're feeling then."

Though Julie couldn't expect her to suddenly change her ways. Damn.

Mimi scowled. "We're letting 'I'm a one day at a time kinda guy' slide?"

Disgruntled chatter rose again, and that was her cue to go. Tapping Luke's shoulder, she mouthed home — something she hadn't done before and wasn't sure which apartment she meant either, but it left flutters in her chest regardless — and he nodded in understanding.

Oh, God. He loved her. That still hadn't set in.

"And if you'll excuse us, me and Luke are going," Julie continued. "Thanks for dinner, mom."

The woman laughed, baring all her teeth. She clearly had a fun time. "See you at Victoria's birthday, mi amor. And Luke? Who knows!"

He forced a chuckle at her remark. Awkwardly bouncing on his heels, he waved at all the ladies. "It was really cool to meet you all. Now– now I know why Julie's so incredible. So... thanks." A true smile appeared. "This was great."

No one said anything after that. Abuela gurgled her drink and her cousins prodded at their leftovers, mom peering at her like she was trying to find something. Sometimes, Julie and Rose were so alike, and other times, they were complete strangers. She liked that. It kept dinners like these exciting, she supposed. Mom seemed to think the same.

They bid goodbye one last time with a kiss on the cheek, and then they hurried out the door. A giggling breath left as the cool wind hit her skin. Luke was buzzing with adrenaline, unable to keep his limbs still.

Clambering in her car, the comforting quietude wrapped around them as the doors slammed shut. A beat passed. No one spoke.

"What the fuck," he whispered, horrified. "What the fuck. What the fuck did just happen? What the fuck—"

Julie squealed. "You love me!"

"That's what you got from that?!"

"Of course!" Her arms curled around him, teasing. "You love me!"

"That shouldn't be the most surprising thing tonight, Jules," he grumbled, though a playful shimmer sparked within his beautiful eyes. "I thought I was, y'know, obvious."

She shrugged, bashful. "It's always nice to hear, no?"

"Oh, man," he sighed, eyes flickering across her face as though he couldn't decide what to focus on, as though she was indescribably stunning. Her heart swelled tenfold at the thought. "I love you, Julie. So fucking much. Even with your crazy family."

Laughing, she reached forward and kissed his lips, fingers pressing in his neck and their silly grins preventing them from deepening the warm touch.

"Let's go," he mumbled, noses nudging, eyes hooded and pouring with the love she somehow hadn't noticed before. "Before they're ready for round two."

But before he could move away, she kissed him again, better this time, and cherished his sigh when they slowly seperated.

"I love you too," she whispered. "Like, a lot."

He grinned, breathless. "Good to know."

Victoria's birthday was four months later, and Luke attended as well. And also for Mimi and Elena and mom and Abuela and Donna and every other Molina member. And when Julie got surprised with a 24th birthday party, she figured out Luke and mom combined their powers to host it.

Molina women were independant and lived life by their own rules... which included Julie.

Loving Luke Patterson unconditionally probably made her the most unique Molina of all.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

@bluefirewrites @blush-and-books @ourstarscollided @thedeathdeelers @pink-flame @constantly-singing @willexx @unsaid-emily

[whitehotharlots]

A true story about rehab from 2007

Names and places changed, dates slightly fuzzy, yada yada

This all starts with Chris.  Chris might be a good example of how things are objectively broken.

Two summers ago, Chris and his girlfriend moved from everyone's old hometown, Alton, to everyone's current home, Garden City.  I had known Chris briefly when I still lived in Alton, which was up until about 8 years ago.  In high school he was friends with my sister, a year behind her, I think, only he had some legal trouble and didn't graduate until two years after her.  The first arrest came during his junior year, when police found some marijuana in his car while he was in class.  "Apparently Alton is a utopia," he said years later.  "No robberies need solving, no cars need ticketing, no fences need mending, fuckit nobody's house must've been dirty because if there was anything else even remotely worthwhile that those cocksuckers could have been doing they wouldn't have taken a drug dog through the high school parking lot."  

The ironic part was that he was, honest-to-god, holding it for a friend.  Hadn't touched the stuff until then, hadn't even drank more than a beer or two.  Cops came in and pulled him out of class.  Cuffed him right there in class, in front of everybody.   From what I've been able to piece together that marked a very strong loss of innocence for young Chris.  No rules were worth following, after all, if The Bastards could punish you for nothing.  This was greatly exacerbated by the fact that, according to several of the best lawyers Alton had to offer, the search of Chris' car was unconstitutional as it was not actually parked in the school parking lot, or even on school grounds, at the time of the search.  The juvenile court judge would hear none of it though—all the police had done was break Chris' constitutional right to privacy.  He had committed the much greater crime of having an eighth ounce of marijuana in his glove compartment. 

His claim of having his rights violated incensed the judge, who sentenced our poor Chris to 72 hours in county jail and 12 weeks of rehab.  Were it not for his successful, stable family, he would have been sent to juvie. 

It was his first offense.  He was 16. 

Jail, he said, wasn't that bad.  He got to do it over a weekend. The guard was an old lady and even though she was kind of a bitch she let him bring in his homework.  She said she was surprised to see someone his age in here, with the adults, but whatever he had done it must have been pretty bad or else he wouldn't be here, would he?  They kept him away from the drunks at night and the only other people who came into the "pen" (his word, not mine) were guys who got bailed out within a couple of hours and were too pissed off about their own bad luck to give him any shit for his. 

What really fucked with him was rehab.  It didn’t matter that he'd never smoked a single joint (or even a cigarette) at this time:  he was an addict and by gum he had to admit to being an addict before the obese, shit-smelling overseer would sign the form saying that Chris had attended his sessions.  Every weekend for three months he was legally forced to lie.  Yes, he said, he was an addict.  Yes, even though it made no sense in any grammatical or even symbolic context, he was forced to say "my name is Chris and I'm a narcotic."  His personal habits were picked apart—why was his hair so long (it wasn't that long, really)? Why did he wear the same pants on Sunday that he wore on Saturday?  Who were these "Dead Milkmen" that his T-shirt spoke of?  Ohh… and surely this is a good-tempered, Christian punk band, right?  No?  Well you see right there that's a part of the problem.  Have your mother sign a note saying you've thrown out all of their CDs and any other enabling you might own.  No—you can't sell them, you must throw them out. 

"We had to go in a day and a half every weekend.  All day Saturday and then Sunday from noon until 4.  It took me five weeks, when I was starting to get comfortable, before I asked if I could come in Saturday afternoon and all day Sunday.  It worked out better for me that way, since the place where I worked wasn't open Sundays.  The fat guy just opened his mouth and would not close it.  'When would you go to church?'  he said. By then I knew enough to laugh and say 'oh yeah what was I thinking.'"

A few of the people had actual problems.  One guy got caught with meth, was beating the shit out of his wife and his two little girls, and seemed genuinely remorseful.  Another guy had to drink a sixer every morning or else he'd get the shakes so bad he wouldn't be able to drive to work.  But most of the people there were more or less normal and had either fucked up once or else been fucked over once—got into a bar fight while legally drunk, blew .02 over the legal limit at a roadblock, smoked pot once every few weeks and got narced on by a snitch, that kind of stuff. These people were split over how much they believed the bullshit they were being fed.  Those who believed, as the official literature did, that being hungover once in your lifetime or ever drinking more than 4 beers in a sitting two or more times in a month are both signs of hardcore alcoholism, they became repentant and preachy. 

One such lady was a thin, tan, well-dressed soccer mom who would snitch on the others when they didn't pay close enough attention to the instructional videos or else would appear in any way to not be taking things seriously enough.  If you were bad you got demerits, credit card-sized pieces of construction paper upon which frowny faces and intimidating biblical verses were printed. The overseer would also scribble something down in his notebook, which must have had some kind of official weight because it was on his person at all times.

Most people have an innate desire, however illogical it might often be, to please authority figures, and so Chris and the rest of the doubtful "addicts" thought the embarrassment of getting their reprimand literally handed to them was punishment enough for resting their eyes or letting a stray giggle break loose when the acting in an informational film was especially bad. Chris made only one such mistake.  During a lecture, the overseer kept making the point that it wasn't the drugs that people get addicted to—oh no, it's the high that keeps you coming back.  Chris smiled—remember at this point he still probably hadn't ever been high, not in his whole life—because it seemed like such a stupid, nonsensical thing to say, because even though he was only 16 he could appreciate moments like this, when the moronic essence of a big, scary process could concentrate itself into a single sentence. 

"It's not the drugs:  it's the high," the man said.  He was very clean shaven, dressed like a detective in a 70s cop show, his hair was combed so straight it was like wire, his glasses were round and cruel looking and he had this, this look on his face, this air about him like he thought he was a genius.  He nodded a little bit after the repetition of his idiotic point. Proud—he was actually proud of the things he was saying, proud of his position, proud of getting to fill the heads of desperate or else unfortunate people with nonsense.  And this made Chris smile—not laugh, just smile, and the soccer mom pulled on his ear really hard, so hard it made his eyes water, and then she raised her hand to snitch on him.  The proud overseer was still proud, looked like a king in an old movie, and with the most serious air Chris had ever seen, the fat man called him up before the entire room.  His eyes were still watery from the shock of having his ear nearly yanked up and so he looked down, towards the ground, so people wouldn't think he was crying.

"You ashamed of something," the fat overseer asked.  Chris didn't say anything. "Look up," said the overseer.  Chris kept looking down.  His chest moved in and out heavily and his fists were clenched, and he wasn't sure but he may have been crying normal tears by this point, but they were out of rage, not sadness.  Or—no…really what's the difference between those two, and it's impossible that the immense hopelessness of his situation and the utter retardation of his surroundings hadn't saddened somewhat.  If it were just rage making him cry then he would have also lashed out, punched the overseer or at least called him a name. No. No, the hopelessness must have stung enough to make him sad.  But his tears were out of rage primarily, and out of nothing even close to shame.

"Look up.  Now."

He did.  His jaw was clenched and his eyes were tightened into red little slits but he looked more defeated than mean, more helpless than threatening.

"I want you all to look at this face.  Soak it up.  Take it all in.  Done?  Give you another second.  Okay, now you're done.  This, people, is what failure looks like.  Some of you will see it again, right here.  This is what it looks like when you don't take yourself seriously, when you don't care enough about yourself to appreciate the chances that are being given to you."

He extended a demerit card towards the Chris’ face.  It was accepted without a whimper.

Weeks later, it came time for Chris and the gang to "graduate" from their classes.  By this point, Chris had gotten drunk several times (even puked, once) and tried to smoke pot a few times but it hadn't done anything to him.  Maybe he was just too drunk to feel it or he wasn't inhaling right, who knows.  Anyhow he figured a few bong hits wouldn't hurt before he had to show up to the ceremony, right, since he hadn't felt anything yet.  And, man, it was a blast because he was high as a fucking kite at the graduation, must have shoved 20 inches worth of the party sub into his mouth and downed at least 7 flutes of sparkling grape juice.  

His mother and stepfather—both stinking rich, by the way, disheartened by the lad's sudden fall from grace and more than a little pleased to see him making such a fast and exemplary recovery with the aid of such a caring and competent program—were dressed to the nines.  His mom was making time with the addicts.  This was her wont, the irresistible, flirty friendliness that drove her from the dregs of society (Chris' biological father) all the way to where she was today. While this was going on, Stepfather gracefully let loose to the riffraff around him all those little signs that showed that he was a kind man, but of great consequence.  He'd talk about sports while stretching him arm just so, just far enough to let his fancy watch fall into view.  He'd offer to lift heavy objects as an excuse to show off his bed-made tan, his gym-toned arms and back.  All of your jokes made him smile, but only just long enough for you to get a glimpse of his perfectly straight, snow white teeth. Both of them kept making their way over to Chris, who had stationed himself near the concessions table, to whisper into his ear how proud they were of him for pulling himself around and hint bluntly at him still receiving for his birthday a new car.  All the while, through this bleary, more-or-less with it haze, feeling content and calm with his surroundings and his high, Chris kept thinking about how much he had it made.  Everyone was a sucker, it seemed, but him.  Really, wow.  Everyone is stupid but me.

The soccer mom cut quickly around the room, stopping alongside each cluster of people and telling them that something important was about to happen,  it was time for everyone to walk into the little classroom where they normally met.  "You're not gonna want to miss this" she said, looking right into Chris with a mean little smile on her face that she knew would scare him.  Oh god, Chris though, she knew that he was high.  What was she in here for—ooh shit man, you've heard her talk about it 100 times.  Vicodin, right.  Vicodin and wine, passing out while one of her kids started a fire.  That's right.  Calm down. She wouldn't have known what someone looked like when he was high on pot.  Mom and Stepfather couldn't even tell and they saw Chris every day.  Calm down.

Chris shoved a few more bites of party sub into his mouth.  His mom laughed and said "getting better must make you work up an appetite, huh?"  Stepfather laughed.  Chris couldn't say anything, not even by the time they had walked all the way into the classroom and sat down on little folding chairs, because there was so much sandwich in his mouth.  Things began to quiet down within a couple of minutes. The overseer, smiling, poked his head out of his office and waved to the small crowd.  People clapped a little bit.  Chris noticed that "AWARDS RECEPTION" had been written on the blackboard with colored chalk, the letters alternating blue to red, blue to red.  A stack of certificates sat on the table up front.  The overseer waddled to the table and gestured towards his office and a large, black policeman walked from office to the entrance.  He looked all business.  There was another one who poked his head out from the office and then the overseer was still smiling, like the soccer mom he was wearing big, mean, fake smile and Chris sunk into his chair and moaned a little bit because he knew he was about to get arrested, again.  Arrested in front of his parents. 

Mom asked stepfather what the policemen were hear for the stepfather said—ahh the great rational bastard, it was all Chris could do to stop himself from hugging him—that since this was an official presentation, court mandated and all that, they must have some cops come and witness it.  That's all it was.  Nothing to get too upset about.  Still—gotta stay calm.  If the cops took no notice of Chris then they wouldn't take any notice of his being so incredibly fucking high. 

"Well," the overseer began.  Chris was hyperobservant and noncritical and he realized for the first time how long it took the overseer to get through sentences, because of all of his fat.  He'd pause every few words and take in a deep breath from his gut.  When he spoke it was in these bursts that were effeminately condescending but still bulky and powerful.  Like, if being told you were bad by a sharp-tongued gay man didn't hurt you then maybe being yelled at by an abusive gym coach would. Only he wasn't a gym coach and probably wasn't gay, either.  Talked about his wife and kids all the time.  This was an act.  He had measured out this persona for himself.  This was some kind of cruel professionalism.

Jesus, Chris thought to himself.  Pot fucks up the way you think about things.  How long had it been since they sat down?  How long since he'd been scared by the cops?  When was the guy going to start talking—ohh, wait he's already talking.  Might want to listen:

"And this is what this program is supposed to achieve: smiling faces.  Not just the smiling faces of those who are on roads to recovery—their own personal roads—but of their families and their friends.  The selfishness might end here.  The pain they have caused you, that they are sorry for, might end here.  But it's up to everyone here to make sure that all of these faces keep smiling."

He paused—too long.  Wanted people to clap for him.  They did.  Then they finished.  He continued.  His tone was different.  He had sounded like he was reading off a card.  Now he sounded more like he normally did, during classes.

"But it would be… hypocritical of me to let everyone who came here leave here, especially… if I knew that they would be making people start… to cry sometime soon.  Two of our friends will not be graduating today."

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

"The first… Rup-ERT Donwiddle."

Ahh.  Okay.  That guy—white guy, lots of scars—never even showed up after the first day.  He wasn't even here.  Chris sunk his head into his lap, like he was stretching or about to puke, while the overseer mumbled about how Rubert had squandered his chance for recovery and blah blah blah. 

"Rufus failed… due to lack of initiative.  He didn't come.  But every time we have this course, it seems… there is someone who does come…  but who shows such disrespect that he might as well not have"

The overseer's tone changed, again, abruptly but not in a way that seemed unplanned.  He was talking somewhere in between the rehearsed tone he'd used earlier and the mumbling, jumbled tone he used during regular meetings.  The air shifted around Chris.  It felt like strategy, men moving into position in order to accomplish some kind of task or anticipate some kind of resistance.  The bigger cop stood by the door that led to the outside, blocking it.  Meanwhile the guys who had missed the most class and been handed the most demerits began to shift in their seats a little bit while their wives looked at them in white fear, the sterile blank walls felt like they were closing in—that's what  expression actually meant, when it actually feels like the room you are in just got smaller, more oppressive—and the big fat fuck who ran the place worse the biggest fatfuck smile Chris had ever seen and he if had dropped dead of a heart attack no one with a mind or soul would have gotten up to help him.  In spite of all of this, the synchronization was such that Chris couldn't work up any fear.  He was too busy admiring the evil of the whole process. 

Chris took to talking to the soccer mom, a few months later, as part of some revenge scheme that never quite materialized.  He had first planned on sleeping with the woman and ruining her marriage.  When that didn’t work out he thought about maybe figuring out the vulnerabilities of her home and passing that knowledge on to some unseemly sorts who, god willing, would have raped, robbed, and kill her.  He didn't do that, though, for the same reason he didn't speak up during the meeting when the police were blocking off the door and overseer was smiling the very worst smile the world had ever seen:  because the woman's evil was so immense that he could barely process it, could do little else, in fact, aside from sitting back and admiring it.  What he learned from her, after she had opened up to him and filled him on all the details, was that if you didn't pass the rehab course it counted as either a violation of your parole or else as a violation of your court sentence, so your failure was akin to skipping bail trying to escape from prison.   That's to say it was a Very Serious offense, one that could put you in prison for a long, long time.  And what the overseer hadn't told to anybody but the soccer mom, who was his favorite, was that his policy was that out of every class there had to be at least one addict who failed to pass in spite of showing up, one person who because of this or that reason simply did not deserve to consider his or her self cured of their addiction.  That's what the demerits were for. Whoever got the most failed the course.  You couldn't tell the whole class about this since then the people who got the most demerits early on would have stopped coming all together.  On top of that, if you got into a situation where a few weeks in one guy had racked up 20 or 30 demerits, then that more or less lightens the stakes for everyone else.  They'll start mouthing off or falling asleep since they know they'll never make up enough demerits to catch the worst guy, and then by the end of it you'd have been better off not doing any sort of demerit system at all.  No—no, the trick was to keep it a surprise.  That had two positives:  one, you catch the guy by surprise and make sure he gets what's coming to him.  Two, you put the fear of god into the others who are all sitting around watching.  That's when they got taught what happens if you don't respect the things you should.

All Chris knew at the time of meeting was that the balding factory worker, Hank was his name, was getting pulled up really unnecessarily roughly by the cop, had his arms thrown behind his back, and was getting cuffed and pushed out of the room while his teenage daughter was screaming in abject terror and his wife was burying her head in her hands and then the two women sat there while the smiling overseer berated Hank, talked about how he needed to learn how to accept help and how this was for the good of him and his family and You two ladies should stop crying, it's pointless, what you need right now is strength, loyalty, and conviction.  Hank had blown .02 over the legal limit at a road block.  He insisted he hadn't had a drop to drink in months, not since his first DUI, that he couldn't perform the heel-to-toe sobriety test successfully because of a fully documented injury he had sustained during Desert Storm and that the alcohol on his breath—which came up on only one of the 5 breathalyzers he was given—must have been from gum or mouthwash or cologne or something.  His parole was zero tolerance, though, and so he found himself at the meetings.  Every week he told the overseer that something he had said was bullshit.  He wouldn't say "My name is Hank and I'm a narcotic," he said, because that is just fucking stupid.  He wouldn't apologize for hurting anybody because he hadn't hurt anybody.  He wouldn't lie for the sake of lying because goddamn it that's not what this country is about.

And for that he went to prison.

Coming face-to-face with the reality of just how cruel and unfair the system is can, especially for a teenager, lead to a distrust so strong and all encompassing that it borders on despair.  This distrust can, sometimes, be healthy and inspire you to try and change things.  More often, it can grow into full-blown hatred, a maniacal desire to change things or to right wrongs that leads you to do something rash or destructive.  Still more often, it leads to a sense of defeatism, a feeling that you can't win since the system is so fucked so why the hell should you even try.  At least, that's what I gather from hearing Chris talk about it.  That's probably what I would have done if something like that would have happened to me.  I would have given up and failed.

And for the longest time Chris had given up and had failed. He drank and drugged and destroyed.  This made him a blast to hang out with.  This was when he still lived in Alton and I would see him once every few months, when I was at home visiting my family.  My sister moved to Garden City to attend the university at which I now teach.  Most of her friends soon followed suit.  He was left behind.  As I am self-absorbed to the point where I don't care about my friend's lives except for when their stories are particularly miserable or amusing, I don't know much about this time period except that it saw Chris turning things somewhat around.  Not by much.  He still drinks far too much.  But he's in school now—he's at the school where I teach, actually, although I've never had him for a student. 

[gohyuck]

nct/wayv members represented in this collab: ot23

basis of the collab: rockstars/musicians!au but they aren’t idols, modern day doesn’t have a pandemic raging

deadline: as of right now, december 31st 2021 but it can be moved into 2022 if necessary

minimum word count: 7k

based on the band au my anons and i have been writing on my other blog; more information under the cut... note that members’ instruments and stuff are liable to change! 

i’ll be adding everyone in the collab to a discord server and we can switch things around and discuss them in that server!

details under the cut.

the year is 1972, and yuta nakamoto is fucking pissed. 

governments - yes, all of them - are shit, the people of the world are tearing themselves apart just to serve the few who are wealthiest, there is racism and sexism and homophobia and everything other negative -ism and -phobia you can think of ingrained into the skins of everyday humans who can only feel everyday hatred. life, on the whole, is terrifying mundane and horribly overstimulating, somehow simultaneously. 

the year is 1972, yuta nakamoto is angrier at The System than he’s ever been, but, unlike before, he finally thinks that he’s going to do something about it. armed with nothing but a guitar, youthful bullheadedness, and a notebook full of lyrics, he does what anyone in his position would do: he starts a rock band. 

taeil (vocals, rhythm guitar): @prettyjaems

yuta (frontman, vocals, bass guitar): @gohyuck​ 

jaehyun (vocals, lead guitar, doubles as manager): @moonlit-jeno​ 

jungwoo (vocals, electric guitar): @domjaehyun​ 

winwin (vocals, drums (and keyboard in the studio if needed)): @loviejaehyun​ 

the year is 2002, and ten lee loves people but hates what the world can do to them. 

as technology grows, so do threats - as people become more open with love, others become more outright in hate. fear has an iron-fisted grip on the people of the world, one that can’t be loosened as easily as ten wishes it could. he doesn’t even have words when it comes to the government, or to the rich, or to those who oppress when they might aid instead. 

the year is 2002, ten lee wants to remind the world of love in the face of hate, and in between college classes and volunteering and a million other things, he decides to do something about it. with a voice that’ll make him a star one day and inspired by his favorite band from the 70s, he does exactly what you’d expect him to: he starts a pop punk band that veers into alternative and hard rock and maybe even r&b, sometimes. 

johnny (vocals, drums): @heychan​ 

taeyong (vocals, keyboard): @ceruleanskies​ 

kun (vocals, lead guitar): @wonjaekook​ 

ten (frontman, lead vocals): @yeosang-ponytail​ 

doyoung (vocals, bass guitar, doubles as manager): @markresonates​ 

the year is 2020, and jeno lee is a college junior, which should be the most of his worries but is somehow the least. 

the government still sucks - yes, all governments, surprise, surprise! - and the people are starting to suck more and more as every day passes. sure, school is swamping him and he has a social life to balance with work and internships and anything and everything else he has going on, but jeno starts every day by checking the news app on his phone and, hell, if that won’t kill any urge to do anything, he doesn’t know what will. 

the year is 2020, and you know the drill by now. jeno’s always loved playing the guitar and writing lyrics on his own time, performing for his family and sometimes his friends, too. hell, his friends have had a ragtag ‘band’ since his freshman year, but chenle and jisung had been juniors in high school then, making band practice a rarity. inspired by his favorite bands from the 70s, he can’t help but feel like he almost has an obligation to churn out protest music and love songs alike in a world that’s quickly forgetting how to love at all. 

mark (their manager, underground rap is more his thing): @lucas-wongs​ 

renjun (lead vocals, rhythm guitar): @waithyuck​ 

jeno (frontman, screamer (sometimes), vocals, lead guitar): @byunbaekby​

haechan (vocals, screamer (sometimes), drums/keyboard): @yongiefilms​ 

jaemin (vocals, bass guitar): @meow-bebe​ 

chenle (vocals, keyboard/drums): @dreamyyang​  

jisung (other manager, sometimes helps write lyrics and they always (always!) credit him when he does so): @imhyuckedup119​ 

yangyang (ex-drummer, now underground rapper): @moondustaeil​ 

the year is... still 2020, and xiaojun is a college senior who’s pretty much in the same boat jeno is. 

he’s just not that big of a rock fan, if he’s being honest. yes, the government sucks, and yes, everything is bad, but music is an escape for him, and he wants to keep it that way. the real world is bad enough as it is, and even though he takes it upon himself to speak up and speak out as often as possible, music is his refuse. when his guitar is in his hands, the world melts away. 

the year is 2020, and xiaojun wants to make others feel safe. inspired by his favorite band from the 00s, he wants to make people feel love again. he wants to wrap listeners in his music and give them comfort. he does exactly what anyone like him would do: he starts a band. their genre isn’t as rigid, and it’s really more of a go-with-the-flow type thing. he guesses that they’re a cross between indie and folk and alternative and some r&b and anything and everything in between.

lucas (rap, drums): @puppywritings​ 

xiaojun (frontman, vocals, lead guitar): @neonun-au​ 

hendery (vocals, rhythm guitar): @itsapapisongo

shotaro (vocals, keyboard): @jungwooisms​ 

sungchan (rap, bass guitar): @nowthislookslikeajobforme​ 

please message me privately if you’re interested! thank you so much.

[reflections-in-a-critical-eye]

Hi BMT, I thought you might have a bit of a global perspective on pop culture for this ask. Lots of older fans describe falling for BTS in a quasi-religious or at least overwhelming way, how meaningful it is to them, how surprised they are at experiencing such strong emotions for these strangers (hello, I'm one of those fans!), and I just wondered if this is kind of unique in the pop world or if Coldplay, J-Lo, Taylor Swift, other K-Pop etc fans might go through the same intense thing I have. xx

Hi @onthecuterside, thank you for the question. Before trying to answer that specifically, I would like to start with something that you mentioned in your ask, that is the religious element when it comes to fandom engagement because I think we'll find our answer there.

There is this quote by Andre Malraux, which despite him referring to other situations, I personally think it can be applied to what we're talking about here. He said that ''The 21st century will be religious or it will not be''. I do believe in present times we look for something/someone to worship in one shape or form and it can be argued that despite some parts of the world are turning more secular, our brain is still used to certain practices and the need to feel connected to a community, to look for something higher than ourselves, even in cases where we would identify as atheists. Because religion also has to do with the idea of ritual and worship which have transferred to other contemporary segments of our lives. In consequence, a fandom can be seen as having some religious elements to it. We have testimonies by fans saying that they found BTS exactly when they needed it (usually when they were going through some hardships) or how fans are always ready and sometimes blindly ready to defend the people they worship because they represent the exact element that has brought a good and significant change in their lives. And then a fan searches for a community, to be able to share their feelings and beliefs and it's an important reason why the experience can get so meaningful.

So, if we look at all that, I don't think it's unique to K-Pop, but it certainly enhanced it and took it to a different level of worship. I do not know the fandoms of the other bands and artists, but I presume that those fans may have had a similar quasi-religious experience. The same thing happened when Elvis was around and then The Beatles. It's because connections to an artist and getting involved in a community becomes part of the person's identity, especially at a certain age and it can stick for decades. Like those who were into punk in the late '70s-'80s can still be part of that subculture in many different forms.

[musicallisto]

Hello love,

Congratulations for the 800 followers! You absolutely deserve this and so much more! I'm happy to see how your blog grows and that you're still providing all of us with wonderful content. You're one of the first blogs that I've started to follow here on Tumblr and I'm so lucky to have found your blog ♡

As for your celebration event, could I please request a 🍨 vanilla milkshake with a male Peaky Blinders Character?

I'm more on the curvy side (and insecure about it) and I'm ALWAYS wearing black (which I love, no matter what others say or even more if they object). As for my personality, I'm a highly complex, paradox and complicated individium. I'm unbelievable patient, timid, awkward, kind, forgiving, open-minded, compassionate, thruthful, gentle and calm and I've been told that I have a calming effect on others, that I can easily ground anyone and anything, no matter how troubled their mind is. I prefer vintage over modern things. I think rather deep which often leads me to overthinking everything, which in turn leads me to doubting (very much) myself. You would be surprised how timid and reserved I am, I'm sure you wouln't notice me in a room full of people if it wouldn't be for my different appearance (but I like it this way). I'm always well-meaning, yet often misunderstood (maybe because it's hard for me to articulate myself). I can be incredible lazy, clumsy and forgetful. I've always felt like I don't really belong anywhere, so I've started to distance myself from others a while ago. I'm a outsider, weird, a dork, not normal, a loner and I fucking love it, because I like to be different, I would hate to fit into just one box and to be like everyone else. And I like people who are not ashamed to be their 100% true self, no matter how different that is from the mainstream. I'm the most loyal person you'll ever find, once you earn my trust, I'll always be on/by your side, no matter what. That says a lot, because I'm hard to scare away. Sometimes I feel alienated from the people and things surrounding me and I'm sure that I annoy and bore them. I'm very nervous and insecure around others, which is why I try to avoid people and why I'm not talking all that much around them (though, I'm a really good listener). I'm easily overwhelmed by large crowds and much light/noise, that's why I don't like to go outside, I prefer to cozy up at home. I would never intentionally hurt a animal and I'm not eating any meat, which is very important to me. I believe that there isn't a ounce of cruelty inside me. I'm unassuming and understanding, I only believe what I've witnessed on my own and I have endless acceptance for almost everything. Due to my Insomnia, I'm a night owl. I have strong personal values, am very opinionated and I'm really in-touch with myself and even though I'm extremly insecure, I would never reduce or change myself and views/opinions for someone and I neither have a problem to challenge authority and advocating for my beliefs. I'm a perfectionist and sometimes I really hate it. And, as you can see, I'm unable to be brief. My favourite colours are dark green, black, gold and dark purple. My greatest passion is music, even if I can't sing or play an instrument.(I prefer rock/punk/pop/80s/90s) It's the most calming and therapeutic thing when it comes to my anxiety and depression and I could never live a day without it. You will never see me in the street without headphones in my ears and even when I'm at home there's music playing almost all the time. I could talk for hours about music and what it means to me. And otherwise I love to watch films and series (I like fantasy, horror, psychological thriller, science fiction and psychological drama and almost anything from the 70s, 80s and 90s). I love rainy days and to go outside while it's pouring big, fat drops. What I love the most is to drive around without a destination, while talking and listening to music. And I love to spend time with my cat, if I could, I would have endless animals who live peacefully and loved with me. I enjoy to have deep talks and to be challenged to think. I love to take late-night-strolls, while gazing into the sky and watching the stars/moon. I have a fascination for dark and macabre things.

I really hope that's not too much? But thank you anyway ♡

Have a good day!

thank you so much for your kind words, you have no idea how much it means to me to know that I was one of the first blogs you followed ;; here’s your vanilla milkshake - and it’s also my first time writing for peaky blinders, but I hope it’s alright; and I hope finn shelby will find the portrait I paint of him accurate enough...

Birmingham was a drab and disheartening place enough without the war adding to its joylessness; but somehow the streets are even worse to bear deserted than when they’re bustling and fetid. Especially for a ten year old boy who wants nothing but to play with someone, to talk to someone, to see someone.

With his brothers off fighting somewhere in France and his aunt too busy with her businesses (adult stuff that Finn has absolutey no interest in attempting to understand), the youngest Shelby has been fighting off an affliction worse than consumption and measles, because much more insidious for a boy his age; boredom

and he’s so sad, so irrevocably sad, with no one to bruise his knees with and throw mud at, that he just aimlessly wanders the empty streets whenever aunt Polly isn’t looking, to find a semblance of stimulation

(he used to enjoy the solitude, it gave him time to imagine delirious stories in fantastical worlds and read the most enthralling of novels, but not anymore. four years of reclusion is an awfully long time for a little boy.)

and it’s during one of his escapades that he first meets you

you’re a little girl his age, dressed in a pretty dress, wearing pretty booties and holding a pretty little woven basket, but your face is stuck on the most grouchy frown he’s ever seen on a little girl, and you don’t walk, you stomp down the wet pavement like a wrathful titan

And it’s probably the first time in four years that he’s been this close to making a new friend, so he walks up to you, despite how rusty his communication skills have become

“Girls don’t frown. It’s unbecoming.”

(Yes, pretty rusty indeed; but in his defense, he’s ten, he’s bored, he’s lonely, and he’s only ever heard Ada say it, and Ada is the most level-headed of his siblings, so anything she says must be true, right?)

“Shut up.”

(Well, if it was unbecoming of you to frown, it’s even more to rebuff someone so rudely. You don’t even spare a glance and continue walking; he has to hurry to catch up to you.)

“You can’t say that. It’s a bad word.”

“How do you know that?”

“My family says it all the time, but they told me I can’t say it.”

“Well, my family is not your family. And I hate my family!”

You’ve yelled the last words at the sky, so loud that the crows on the neighboring roofs have taken off in a startled flight.

“They want to wear this stupid dress to go to the stupid market to buy stupid meat. I don’t even want to eat meat, that’s cruel! And I don’t even want to wear a frilly dress! I want to wear black!”

And in saying so you tugged at the pink and white ribbons that encircled your waist.

And Finn couldn’t help being extremely intrigued at this little girl who said bad words and refused to eat meet and wanted to wear black. It was the most exciting thing to ever happen in all the duration of the war.

“You want to wear a black dress?”

“Yes, but my mama won’t let me. She says it’s too sad because of the war. But black isn’t sad! Black is beautiful!”

“Maybe I could find you a black dress. I’m sure my sister must have one. Where do you live?”

And, loyal to his promise, the following morning he had run to your doorstep and snuck into your house - a proper Shelby talent, to be able to go unnoticed or make a ruckus depending on the occasion - with an old, crinkled mourning dress of Ada’s, that had probably belonged to his mother and had been mended several times

And it was obviously five sizes too big for you and you looked more like a ghost from one of Finn’s horror novels, your arms floating in the sleeves and the hem of the skirt pooling at your feet, but your smile was the brightest light he’d ever seen in this whole damn town.

“Do you like it?”

(He didn’t really know why he sounds so nervous. Maybe it was having a friend, a real friend, and doing something personal for them... or maybe it had to do with how fast his heart beat, watching you in that gigantic, shapeless dress)

“I love it! Thank you so much, Finn!”

From then on started one of the most wonderful friendships Finn would ever have, and what would bring a ray of light to the grim existence of a little boy in the midst of a global war

Despite the ration cards, despite the loneliness, despite the worry that tugged at his stoic aunt’s eyes for her son and nephews across the Channel... he found an unspeakable solace in your friendship

And one day, without a trace, you were gone

He knocked on your door; gone. He asked all the neighbors what had happened to the family that lived there; gone. He wrote you letters and sent them to the confines of England; gone. He got scolded by Polly for marking numbers at random on Tommy’s state-of-the-art telephone; gone.

Suddenly he was back to the bleak existence he had battled with before meeting you, and the hollow inside his chest only grew wider as the days went on, because he had no explanation as to what had happened to you, and worried every single day

Thankfully, the war ended not long after, and his brothers came back home, all alive and unscathed - well, for the most part

Fast forward more or less ten years, and much has changed in Finn Shelby’s life and in old Birmingham, but the memory of you still stugs at his heartstrings

One evening, he’s tasked by Arthur to run some errands, send a few messages, scout a few places; the most dangerous thing his older brothers will ever let him do

His task leads him to a bar in the center of town, one that pours its joyous light and music into the street outside; he’s there to meet with a client, arrange a meeting; nothing he’s hasn’t done already

But the evening takes a turn for the unexpected when he recognizes the girl sat alone at a table, enjoying the musicians’ jazz with an air of pure bliss on her face

It’s been ten years, of course, but... it’s unmistakable. That face, that silhouette, and the black ensemble from head to toe... and he’s always had a knack for remembering faces, especially those that mark him deeply

Suddenly he’s frozen on the spot, and he has forgotten why he came to the bar in the first place, what his target looks like - all he knows is you, and how beautiful you look in the dim light of the bar, and the undisclosed and unknown feelings he had for you at the time come flooding back.

Except this time, he understands, and he fears them, because he doesn’t have time for any of this, and it’s way too dangerous for you and him

But he can’t just pass you by and not say a word?

He swallows, hard.

And walks up to you.

“Y/N?”

You open your eyes, and your face flashes with recognition, and a little bit of pain as well. Even if you fled without a word, and left him hanging all these years, he’s incapable of rancor

“Finn... wow, you’ve changed so much.”

“You haven’t.”

He gestures at your face, your clothes, how you savor the music like the finest drink in the world, and you laugh and blush, sending his heart into overdrive

“Where were you all this time?”

“I’m so sorry, Finn... my brother died in the war, and... my mom sent me to live with my grandparents in Scotland. We were all destroyed by grief... I needed to get away.”

“Without explanation? Not even a word?”

“I wanted to write to you, so bad, but... I couldn’t remember your address. I couldn’t remember anything about Birmingham at all...”

He nods, slowly, in understanding.

The war opens wounds that never heal, even after all the most beautiful friendships and love stories in the world.

“But I’m really glad I found you.”

His heart is pounding in his throat. Maybe it’s a sign of destiny that he found you here, tonight, alone, and ready to welcome him back. Maybe it’s a word from fate, that you can never truly be apart.

So he takes the seat in front of you, and you smile, that shy but bright smile of yours, and he forgets all about his mission, his client, and his brothers.

They’ll have to understand.

800 follower sleepover

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums: a stupendously underrated classic of queer punk meets synth sophistication, and an album without which we wouldn’t have Dare by the Human League: Homosapien, the 1981 solo opus of Buzzcocks frontman Pete Shelley. Find out more by watching the video, or reading the transcript below!

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be talking about one of those albums that isn’t necessarily the most acclaimed or best remembered work of its period, but nonetheless played an important role in history, and remains unrivaled for its uniqueness: Pete Shelley’s Homosapien, first released in 1981.

Shelley has historically been chiefly remembered as the frontman of the punk act, Buzzcocks. But, despite punk’s reputation for simplicity to the point of obnoxiousness, Shelley was one of many musicians to come from the punk scene with a penchant for experimental or otherwise ground-breaking music. His very first solo release, 1980’s Sky Yen, features little more than a brash wall of oscillating electronic noise, not unlike the earliest provocations of industrial artists like Cabaret Voltaire.

Music: “Sky Yen (Part One)”

Subsequent generations of critics have gone great lengths to coin and define terminology, in the hopes of breaking this period down into constituent parts, but the more I study it, the more I’m inclined to view it as just a huge soup. There was, quite simply, a lot going on in Britain’s underground in the late 70s and early 80s, and in practice, the lines between punk, post-punk, industrial, synth, noise, and other avant-garde miscellany are frequently illegible. As an artifact of this era, Homosapien resonates with all of the contradictions this melting pot would imply, fusing emotional rawness and pristine production in a way that never quite settles down and feels comfortable.

Music: “I Don’t Know What It Is”

“I Don’t Know What It Is” served as the opening track of the album’s second side, as well as its lead single. With a bona fide guitar solo as well as a propulsive, and truly soaring, chorus, it somewhat resembles that most 1980s of art forms, the power ballad. It is, ostensibly, a love song, and is revealed to be one quickly enough, but its portrayal of love is far from kind. While a real power ballad might take the concept of love for granted, “I Don’t Know What It Is” seems to portray it as something mysterious, inscrutable, and dangerous. And I can’t forget to mention just how much Pete Shelley stands out as a vocalist--his high-pitched, perhaps even fried or shrill vocals add a great deal to the song’s sense of unease, and really sell the idea of someone who’s being overtaken by an uncontrollable and dominating force.

Of course, perhaps the most noteworthy thing about Homosapien’s sound is its fusion of the hard, driving acoustic guitar of punk with the electronic sensibilities of its producer, Martin Rushent. I wouldn’t say this combination is ever terribly cohesive in its sound, but I think that’s why I find this album so interesting: there’s a tension that permeates each track, a feeling that things don’t fit together. While Homosapien is a pioneering work of electronic-centered production, enough of the pieces are still in place that you can certainly hear the shape of music to come as you listen to it. It’s not just the synthesisers, but also the use of electronic percussion here--it’s difficult to overstate the impact that so-called “drum machines” had around this time. While reviled by many, both then and now, rhythm machines were undeniably “instrumental” in changing what popular music sounded like. Even synthesiser-based electronic acts like Gary Numan, OMD, and Kraftwerk often relied on traditional percussion, so this genuinely was pretty shocking at the time.

Perhaps the most important element of the legacy of Homosapien is the fact that Martin Rushent would go on to use the skills he honed here to produce one of the most influential albums of the 1980s, and perhaps of all time: The Human League’s Dare, which would go on to cast an enormous shadow on nearly all popular music to come, after playing an enormous role in instigating an era of popular dominance of synth-pop. In that sense at least, Homosapien is certainly a very historically important album, and for that reason alone, I think it deserves a fair bit more attention than it gets. Still, for as much as the electronics might be the most forward-looking element of this album, one also can’t deny that it remains full of aggressive and perfectly punk overtones, as on the crass or perhaps dismissive screed of “Guess I Must Have Been In Love With Myself.”

Music: “Guess I Must Have Been In Love With Myself”

While Homosapien has many moments of seemingly being too thorny to get a good grip on, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t also times in which it can feel like a bit more than the sum of its apparent parts, as on its most narrative-driven track, “Pusher Man.”

Music: “Pusher Man”

“Pusher Man” is one of, if not the, most synth-centered compositions to be had on Homosapien, but its insistent pacing and neurotic portrayal of the “low life” theme of buying illicit drugs mean you’ll never confuse it for run of the mill synth-pop. Moreso than anything else the album offers, this track reminds me of the sort of “synth-punk” that American acts like the Units and Crash Course In Science would put forward at around the same time. “Pusher Man” was, at the very least, a sufficiently experimental track to earn the honour of being cut from the US release of the album in order to make room for some non-album A-sides, as happened to many albums at the time. But hey, that’s enough beating around the bush. Let’s talk about the real crown jewel of this album.

Music: “Homosapien”

If you’ve heard anything from this album before, chances are, it was probably the title track, which proved to be quite the commercial success--despite being banned by the BBC on account of its homoerotic content. Given that this very same year, they also came after OMD’s “Enola Gay” for its obviously nonexistent reference to homosexuality, one might be forgiven for thinking that a tune called “Homosapien” was simply misinterpreted. The title track isn’t terribly explicit material, but its clever wordplay nonetheless deals quite deftly with issues of sexuality and personal identity. In the earlier verses, Shelley introduces us to typified roles of gay male sexuality--the “cruiser,” the “shy boy”--only to seemingly doff them with the tune’s defiant refrain, asserting that the only truly important identity a human being has is that of “Homosapien.” Far from being an unfortunate coincidence, the similarity of “Homosapien” to “homosexual” is being employed here completely deliberately, particularly with it being mashed into a single word and thus gaining a greater resemblance to the word “homosexual” in print. It not only allows Shelley to belt out a borderline dirty word, but also creates a sort of unconscious syllogism, suggesting, in a sense, that homosexuals are people too.

With elements of both unapologetic pride in one’s own queerness, as well as the uncompromising assertion that humanity is something much deeper than that, the title track of Homosapien is one of the most fascinating and inspiring queer anthems of its time. Its artsy slipperiness has prevented it from feeling more shallow with time, and its straightforward or raw quality, intensified by that constant acoustic guitar, has kept it sounding equally sharp. It genuinely does surprise me that this album isn’t at least a little bit better remembered than it is. Outside of the title track, most of this album is currently not available on services like Spotify and YouTube Music at the time of this writing, and I actually struggled to present musical examples here. That’s really a pretty high level of neglect in this day and age, and I hope it can be rectified in the relatively near future.

It would be no exaggeration for me to say that Homosapien features some of my very favourite cover art of any album. Homosapien’s sleeve design sees Shelley occupy some sort of sleek, but hollow hyper-modernist office. Geometric forms suggest the world of the artificial or ideal. An Egyptian statue beside Shelley is a reminder of history, and the idea that even the greatest empires must eventually fall. Likewise, the telescope and early computer positioned nearer to Shelley are evocative symbols of science and technology--but in context they seem more sinister, being juxtaposed against a phrenology bust, which evokes the ways in which our attempts at science have caused misunderstanding and great human misery in the past. The central scene is framed in with large areas of black, which make the space feel even more claustrophobic and uninviting, and Shelley appears to be pushed into the background, almost belittled by the inanimate objects. Overall, I think it’s sort of funny that this album’s cover is perhaps more iconally “New Wave” than the music itself ended up being, particularly with Shelley clad in this somewhat foppish white suit and bow tie--certainly a big change of attire for a former punk!

Given the experimental nature of the collaboration between Shelley and Rushent, you might be surprised to learn that Homosapien actually wasn’t a one-off. Just two years later, Shelley would release a follow-up LP, XL-1, which was also produced by Rushent and largely continues the same ideas. While Shelley would never see the success of “Homosapien” again, the XL-1 single “Telephone Operator” would also chart to a lesser degree.

Music: “Telephone Operator”

My favourite track on Homosapien is “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça,” which closes out the first side of the album. If you’re familiar with my other work, you probably already know that I’m coming at this as someone chiefly interested in the electronic side of things, and I think that of everything on this album, “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça” is the closest to being convincing as a synth-pop tune. With a bubbly, synth-dominant sound and lyrics that are more contemplative than aggressive, it’s much closer to the mould of what I usually listen to for fun than a lot of the other tracks are. That’s everything for today--thanks for listening!

Music: “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça”