#too skinny for guys that like bears/cubs

[floraleevee]

Okay I just gotta say it to get it out of my system: I’m sick of how picky gay guys are and how fake the body positive movement is within gay male circles

[watusichris]

My Brilliant Career in Chicago Pro Wrestling: A True Story

Damn, I could have sworn I’d posted this 2015 Night Flight story, which remains the funniest thing I’ve ever written. Every word is true. ********** In the early 1970s, before Vince McMahon’s World Wrestling Federation (today World Wrestling Entertainment) turned professional wrestling into a pay-per-view cash cow, pro grappling was a wide-open game run by maverick regional promoters and catering to lunatic fans. I got to experience this incredible world intimately: For two years, I served as “publicist” for the promoter in one of the biggest wrasslin’ towns in the country, Chicago.

I was fresh out of college back in 1972, and returned to my old room in my mother’s apartment in Evanston bearing a seemingly worthless bachelor’s degree in English and no immediate prospects for gainful employment. Fortunately, my father believed in nepotism.

After a long career as a TV executive that had garnered him two Peabody Awards, my dad was then the general manager of WSNS, a Chicago UHF station that broadcast on Channel 44. It was a low-rent operation that my old man helped legitimize by securing telecasts of White Sox games. (He loathed Sox announcer Harry Caray, who would get hammered out of his skull while working in the booth, and rightly thought major league screwball-turned-color man Jimmy Piersall was out of his mind.)

Though such questionable WSNS programming as a daily late-night weathercast delivered by a buxom negligee-clad blonde stretched out on a heart-shaped bed was a thing of the past, colorful holdovers from the old schedule remained. And thus my dad called me one day to say he could get me some part-time work doing PR for Bob Luce, the local pro wrestling promoter, who mounted the weekly show All Star Championship Wrestling on the station.

Naturally, I was hired on the spot at my first meeting with Luce, who was something of a legend in Chicago sports circles at the time. Chicago Sun-Times columnist Bob Greene captured had him perfectly in a famous column in which every sentence ended with an exclamation point.

Stocky, florid of complexion, and as loud as his off-the-rack sport coats, the outsized Luce was the dictionary definition of the word “character.” You’d sit down with him in a restaurant, and the other diners would duck and cover. Constantly agitated and gesticulating wildly, his stentorian conversation was a manic torrent of hype and madness, punctuated by explosive laughter than sounded like a machine gun going off next to your ear.

Fittingly, before joining the wrestling biz, Luce had edited a tabloid, the National Tattler. Like the National Enquirer of that frontier era, the rag made its bones with totally fictitious “news” stories featuring lots of cleavage and outré bloodletting. At one lunch, to the very evident embarrassment of the neighboring clientele, Luce regaled me with the tale of one inspired Tattler cover story, which I will recount Greene-style. Imagine it at full volume: “I got this idea, see, for a story about a sex orgy! [He pronounced “orgy” with a hard “g,” as in “Porgy” of Porgy and Bess.] But it had to be a different kind of orgy! So I got my wife Sharon to take her clothes off and covered her with peanut butter! And we took some pictures, and the lights were HOT, and the peanut butter melted all over her! They were great pictures! We called it – ha ha HA! – ‘PEANUT BUTTER ORGY!’”

Luce had graduated to promoting pro wrestling events in Chicago and other Midwestern markets, in partnership with the American Wrestling Association’s star attractions, Verne Gagne and Dick the Bruiser, of whom more in a moment. (His sweet, funny, but definitely tough wife knew the business: She had wrestled under the name Sharon Lass.)

As the noisy host of All Star Championship Wrestling, Luce would interview the stars of his upcoming promotions, show footage of recent contests, and pump the next matches. Thrusting a finger at the camera in one of his windups, he would shriek, “BE THERE!!!” Ever the sales impresario, he also served as the show’s principal pitchman, appearing in tandem with some of his hulking charges -- and occasionally with special guest hucksters like former heavyweight champ Leon Spinks -- to spiel for a long line of sketchy local advertisers. They are among the greatest and most hilarious commercials ever made.

As Luce’s publicity rep, commanding a monthly paycheck of $200, I was charged with lightweight duty: writing and mailing press releases promoting the bi-weekly Friday night matches at the Chicago International Amphitheatre, assisting the WSNS camera crew at the gigs (sometimes by protecting their extra film magazines from flying bodies at ringside), and calling in the results of the matches to the local papers. (The last task proved to be the most onerous. I’d ring up the local sports desks late on the nights of the matches and harangue some half-drunk, bored assistant editor whose interest in the “sport” could not have been more infinitesimal. When I finally managed to get the Sun-Times to print the results of one match, I felt as if I’d qualified for a Publicists Guild award.) I also performed certain functions for Luce when he was out of town or too busy to handle them. One weekday afternoon I accompanied Superstar Billy Graham, later a big WWF name and a sort of proto-Hulk Hogan, to Wrigley Field, where he was interviewed by nonplussed announcer Jack Brickhouse between innings of a Chicago Cubs radio broadcast.

Every other week for nearly two years, I’d take the El down to the Amphitheatre, located on Halsted Street on the far South Side, adjacent to the old Chicago Stock Yards. (I held onto the job even after I secured a similarly nepotistic but full-time position – writing about cheap component stereo systems for Zenith Radio Corporation.) The antique, immense Amphitheatre had hosted big political conventions, auto shows, circuses, rodeos, and concerts by Elvis Presley, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin, but Luce’s dates at the venue, as you will see, attracted a distinctly different class of customer.

The pre-match staging area, where I’d meet Luce and the crew, was the Sirloin Room of the adjacent Stock Yard Inn, not far from the site of the old South Side cattle slaughterhouses. This is where Luce’s employees and pals would also convene before the night’s entertainment began to swill a couple of cocktails and shoot the breeze. It was a cast worthy of a Damon Runyon story.

Luce employed a bodyguard, a towering ex-Chicago cop named Duke, who had reputedly shot six men before being relieved of duty by the PD. He stood about six-four and dressed exactly like John Shaft. He emanated an aura of extreme menace. Once, when I asked him what he would do if someone actually started any serious trouble, Duke wordlessly pulled back the lapel of his full-length leather coat to reveal a shoulder holster bulging with a .44 Magnum.

The promotion’s bagman, charged with collecting the night’s cash receipts, was a diminutive cat everyone called Bill the Barber. I never knew his last name, but he did in fact run a South Side barbershop. He’d invariably show up dressed in a sport coat that looked like a TV test pattern and a skinny-brim fedora, with watery eyes that sometimes flicked nervously above his pencil-thin mustache. He kept a .38 strapped to his belt.

Many nights, a mysterious character referred to only as “Carmie La Papa” would put in an appearance. This elderly Italian gentleman was always treated with great deference and ate on Luce’s tab. I never found out exactly what he did. But he looked a lot like the mobster played by Pasquale Cajano in Martin Scorsese’s Casino, and I thought it wise not to inquire about his line of work.

There were also bona fide wrestling groupies, well-stacked, slightly haggard old-school broads who draped themselves on the bar, sipping pink ladies. One night, Luce leaned over to me in the Sirloin Room and said, in a whisper that could be heard 20 feet away, “After the matches, these girls and the guys go to a motel up in Prospect Heights, and they have orgies.” (Again, pronounced with a hard “g.”) The most popular of these was reportedly Gloria, a tall, pneumatic redhead of uncertain but rapidly advancing age; Luce confided, “She will do anything.”

The matches themselves were something to behold. I’d usually watch them in the company of WSNS’s young, jaded camera crew, from the dilapidated press box high above the ring in the center of the Amphitheatre. The crowd – thousands of poorly dressed, myopic, malodorous, and steeply inebriated men – was a product of what may be called the pre-ironic era of pro wrestling. There was no such thing as a suspension of disbelief among these spectators. Disbelief did not exist. Though the matches were as closely stage-managed as a production of Richard III, these rubes accepted every feigned punch and bogus drop kick as the McCoy.

Pro wrestling is the eternal contest between virtue and evil, and the wrestlers were identified in equal number as good guys and heels. Most of the good guys on the undercard – there were usually half a dozen matches, with one main event – were young “scientific” wrestlers whose Greco-Roman moves were no match for the brazenly illegal play of the dirty heels, who almost invariably won their bouts with tactics that would not pass muster with an elementary school playground monitor, let alone a legitimate referee. About the only one of these “babyfaces” (or, alternatively, “chumps”) who was vouchsafed an occasional victory was Greg Gagne, son of the promotion’s star attraction and part owner.

By the early ‘70s, Verne Gagne had been wrestling professionally for more than two decades; drafted by the Chicago Bears and then rebelling against team owner George Halas’ prohibition of a sideline on the mat, he had chosen the ring over the gridiron. He was 46 years old when I started working for Luce; he was still in decent shape, and, unlike almost all of his opponents, he still had all of his teeth.

I only managed to spend time with him once. For some reason now lost in the dense fog of time, Luce dispatched me to meet Gagne at the elegant Pump Room of the Drake Hotel near Lake Michigan. There, as cabaret star Dorothy Donegan serenaded us on the piano, the 16-time world heavyweight wrestling champion of the world got me brain-dead drunk, and then poured me into a cab home. He was an excellent guy.

Many of the other good guys on Luce’s undercards were reliable patsies for the baddies. Pepper Gomez, one of the domestic game’s few Mexican stars, was a venerable attraction who was allowed the rare triumph; billed as “the Man with the Cast-Iron Stomach,” he once allowed a Volkswagen Bug to be driven over his gut on Luce’s TV show, where he was a frequent guest.

One of my favorites was Yukon Moose Cholak. Then a veteran of 20 years on the mat, Moose owned a bar not far from the Amphitheatre, but he still worked regularly for his close pal Luce in the AWA. Huge, pot-bellied, and benign, he boasted a ripe Sout’ Side accent rivaled only by Dennis Farina’s. He was hardly an exceptional combatant: He moved around the ring with the fleetness of a dazed sloth. He was a regular on Luce’s show, and often appeared with the host in his TV spots.

The only time I appeared as a guest on All Star Championship Wrestling, Moose was the victim of the on-camera carnage that was a requisite feature of the show. At the time, conflict of interest be damned, I was writing a column about wrestling for a short-lived local sports paper called Fans, and was brought in to lend something like legitimacy to the proceedings. Luce offered me a chair on his threadbare set to push a forthcoming match between Cholak, who appeared on camera next to me, and Handsome Jimmy Valiant, a new heel on the rise in the market.

I figured something ugly was going to happen, but I went about extolling the virtues of Moose’s nearly non-existent mat skills in the front of the camera. Suddenly, Valiant crept up from behind the black scrim behind us and whacked Cholak over the head with a metal folding chair. To this day, I believe my expression of outraged surprise was worthy of a local Emmy, but a nomination eluded me.

I was actually very fond of Valiant, whom I interviewed with his “brother” and tag team partner Luscious John Valiant for Fans. Jimmy was a peroxided, strutting egomaniac in the grand Gorgeous George manner, and he had some classic patter: “I’m da wimmen’s pet and da men’s regret! I got da body wimmen love and men fear! And you, you’re as useful as a screen door in a submarine, daddy!” A rock ‘n’ roll fan, he went on to a very successful solo career, appropriately enough in Memphis, the capital of all things Elvis.

After Gagne the elder, the AWA’s biggest attraction was the tag team of Dick the Bruiser and the Crusher. Bruiser had gotten his competitive start as a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, but had been a top wrestling draw since 1955. Somewhere along the way, he had been converted from heel to hero, and the Chicago fans adored him. Among the merch sold at the Amphitheatre were Dick the Bruiser Fan Club buttons; measuring six inches in diameter, they could either be pinned on one’s chest or, with the aid of a built-in cardboard stand, be displayed as a plaque. I kept mine on my desk at my straight job to freak out my co-workers.

Early in my gig with Luce, I was taken to meet Bruiser in the locker room. He sat on a table smoking a huge cigar. When I was introduced to him, he exclaimed, “Hey, you’re Ed Morris’ kid? You got more hair than your old man!” My father, who was in fact almost completely bald, had been known to associate with winners of the Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes. I was a little surprised that he ran in Bruiser’s circle.

The Crusher’s career in the squared circle dated back to the late ‘40s. I was even more impressed by him than I was by the Bruiser, for he had been the inspiration of the Novas’ wrasslin’-themed single “The Crusher,” a huge 1965 radio hit in Chicago for the Minnesota garage band the Novas (and later eloquently covered by the Cramps). Bruiser and Crusher were a unique combo: They were “good guys,” but they earned their keep by being badder than the “bad guys” they gutter-stomped.

The villains in that era of pro wrestling were often the object of atavistic xenophobia and hatred. Long before the U.S.’s conflicts in the Middle East, the Sheik (né Ed Farhat in Lansing, Michigan), who took the ring wearing a burnoose, was among the most reviled of heels. Some of the older fans were World War II vets, and they lustily booed Baron von Raschke, who climbed through the ropes with a monocle in one eye, draped in a Nazi flag. He was actually a U.S. Army vet born Jim Raschke in Omaha, Nebraska. His fake German accent was utterly feeble.

The AWA’s all-purpose villain, who would go on to bigger things as one of McMahon’s first WWF stars, was “Pretty Boy” Bobby Heenan, dubbed “the Weasel” by the Bruiser. Heenan was featured in his own matches, but he was most reliably entertaining as a manager, of the most duplicitous and cowardly variety, in another villain’s corner. You didn’t need a script to know what was going to happen: Just as it looked like the good guy was going to triumph, Heenan would leap into the ring and smash the apparent victor’s head into a turnbuckle or hit him over the skull with a water bucket.

Heenan featured in the most outrageous story I heard during my brilliant career in wrestling. One night I was sitting with the film crew when Al Lerner, the mustachioed, shaggy-haired, bespectacled WSNS sports reporter, entered the press box with a portable tape machine on his shoulder and a stunned look on his face. “I’ve interviewed people in front of burning buildings,” Al said. “I’ve interviewed people as they were jumping out of airplanes. But I’ve never interviewed anyone while they were getting a blowjob.”

It seems that while Al was in the locker room recording some audio bites from Heenan, a voluptuous girl standing nearby walked over to the wrestler, kneeled down in front of him, pulled down his trunks, and began giving him the kind of pre-match service Mickey Rourke probably dreamed of but never received. As she went about her business, Heenan continued to spout invective to Al as if nothing extraordinary was transpiring. With that moment alone, Bobby Heenan earned his place in the Professional Wrestling Hall of Fame.

I visited Heenan in the locker room on a somewhat less eventful evening, but that night I learned the secret of many pros’ mat success. As I was talking to him, I noticed that his forehead was crosshatched with tiny scars, some of them new and still livid. I later mentioned this to one of the crew, and was told that these wounds – referred to as “juicing”  -- were actually self-inflicted, so that the wrestlers could easily draw blood during critical moments of violence in their matches.

As Heenan said in a later interview, “If you want the green, you gotta bring the red.” Gore was a staple of pro wrestling, and there was nothing like sitting in an arena filled with 10,000 or 15,000 crazed spectators and hearing a drunken chant go up as a good guy pummeled a heel to the mat: “WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD!”

My last hurrah in pro wrestling was one of Luce’s rare alfresco promotions, a multi-bout 1974 card at old Comiskey Park, the White Sox’s stadium, which climaxed with a 16-man battle royal. I don’t remember who triumphed in the main event, but I do remember that someone on the crew brought a bat and some softballs along, and we ended the evening shagging fly balls under the lights where Nellie Fox and Luis Aparicio once played.

The outlaw era of regional pro wrestling is a dim memory for most. The racket would get wilder after I left it: In an interview with Nashville wrestling figure Jimmy Cornette, Heenan said that a fan at a 1975 Amphitheatre match pulled out a pistol and began firing at him, but the shooter only managed to wound four people in the rows in front of him.

McMahon’s WWF brought the regional promoters’ day to a close, pillaging most of the big names in the game in the process. Today, the WWE has been displaced in popularity by the even gaudier UFC contests. Most of the stars I met – including Bruiser, Crusher, and Cholak – are dead now. Heenan, a throat cancer survivor, has been in poor health for more than a decade. Verne Gagne died this April; in 2009, suffering from dementia, he accidentally killed a 97-year-old fellow resident in a Minnesota assisted living facility. Even the old stomping grounds are gone: The Chicago Amphitheatre was razed in 1999.

Bob Luce passed away in 2007, but his wild-ass legacy may live on via an unlikely champion. There are many analogs between pro wrestling and rock ‘n’ roll, and this April, mat mega-fan Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins announced on Twitter that he had bought Luce’s memorabilia and an archive of 9,000 vintage wrestling photos. Maybe he and former Hüsker Dü front man Bob Mould, a fellow wrasslin’ aficionado who once worked for McMahon as a writer, can make something of it. That would rock. 

[potatosoldier]

Are you still there?

/ Part 4 /

If I ever felt like my feet were going to fall off, it was today. I has just successfully passed my physical fitness test. I was feeling great, but I honestly couldn’t feel my legs. The whole night before I had been practicing to get over those walls over at the training obstacle. Which meant that that none of us in our barrack got that much sleep last night, with Lewis and Richard having been at the map exercise at dusk. 

But here I was once again, at night wondering around to find Skip. I wasn’t completely sure which barrack he was in, but I was determined to check up on his ankle, which had once again been bothering him today. I knew this was inappropriate, but I wasn’t going to drop this. He needed it supported for tomorrow for him to keep it from overexerting. 

“Nurse!”, came a call from behind me. The voice was so sharp it made me jump. When I turned around I was met with a piercing hazel gaze. It was the Dog company lieutenant, Ronald Speirs. 

“Forgive me sir, I’m looking for E-company, Second Platoon. A private needs first aid”, I quickly explain. He just looks at me with even more determination. He then offers me his hand, which I shake firmly. “Ronald Speirs”

I smile at little: “Sonja Winters”. At that the corner of his mouth turns up and he smirks. “I think everyone in this regimen knows who you are, Nurse Winters.” Then he once again turns serious. “You do realize that this could get you into some trouble. With the higher ups and with the men”, he scolds. It’s clear to see the irritation in his eyes. 

“As I said sir, I just need to check up on a comrade”, I reason. I knew he was correct, but I still wanted to make sure Skip was fully alright.

“Well then, Follow me”, he says and turns around. And we walk very very quietly. 

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

Once we are in front of the barrack, I thank him. But before I can even fully get my thanks out, he walks away. What an odd man. 

I knock on the barrack door timidly. When the door opens I am greeted by Bill. “The hell are you doing here, come in you mick”, he says and quickly pulls me inside. “You outta your mind Bambi, there are slimy men all over the place”, he then scolds. 

I look around the room and see most of the men in looking at me. I turn to Guarnere to ease my nerves. “I just came to see Skip, Bill. No one except Lt.Speirs saw me”, I softly try to calm him. 

His eyes almost bulge out of his head. “Okay let’s talk about crazy maggots then and not slimy men”, he grunts. Skip luckily comes to my rescue and bows with his hand out “Milady, how can I be of service?”

I grin and take a cotton bandage from my pocket. “Not this again, I don’t need any bandages”, he groans. I push his shoulders and sit him down on a bed. “Private Muck, your ankle is acting up again, it needs to be supported so the twinge doesn’t come back and have worse causes! Do you want Sobel to have you out of training?”, I ask with my hands on my hips.

“Listen to Bambi, Skip. Better have it wrapped up now, than in a cast tomorrow”, Joe comments from his bed. I smile and nod at him. Sweet Joe Toye always having my back. 

Everyone goes back to their own things as I lower myself to bandage Warren’s ankle tightly. Once I’m done I give him a bandage roll. “Have this near, because with all the sweating we do, this probably will be ruined soon. Once you don’t feel hesitation to step on the ankle, take it off and save it for later. I know you don’t want to take a day off, but please be merciful with these skinny things”, I gently guide him. 

He just pats my head and smirks. “Okay Bambi, wouldn’t want to disappoint you.” I shake my head at his antics. “Think of Faye when you take care of yourself, God knows she wouldn’t want her sweetheart hurt”, I reason with a gentle grin. The way Skip talked about his sweet Faye Tanner was adorable. I actually gave him a couple romantic poems from my books so he could use them in his letters. It was a little secret of ours, the guys would ruin the sweetness of the gesture. 

I stay at the barrack for a little while. Chatting with Muck, Don and Penk. I mostly just sat and listened...and giggled. These boys lightened my heart with their jokes. 

“Let’s get you back before someone comes looking”, Joe says jumping up. I shake my head “I can find my way out”, I say and go to the door. Until Bill stoops in front of me. “You ain’t going outta this door without an escort”, he says tapping my nose. 

I roll my eyes smiling and wait for Joe to come. I gently wave at everyone and let Joe lead me out. Once we are out we start softly talking. With Joe it was easy, he was comfortable with silence, and he never saw the need to judge or lie. 

“You miss home yet?”, he asks while lighting a cigarette. I start thinking. Do I miss home? What is home? Me and Richard lived in a barn house in Lancaster. Desperately trying to gather money for our own lot. Do I miss it? Yes I do. In the end there was nothing better than sinking next to Richard after a long day, cuddling up to him in the chilly bedroom. It was not a fancy dream, but it was the nest me and Richard have started with, and that was enough. 

“I do, sometimes it’s just better to not think of it”, I answer. He nods in agreement. “You miss your husband? You seem so invested in Faye and Skip, it’s odd that you never talk about your own sweetheart”, he says blowing out the smoke. 

I gulp and wring my hands together. He seems to notice my nervous reaction and furrows his brows. “You ain’t gotta talk about it if you don’t want to”, he then adds. “But if he hurt you, he’s never walking again”

My cheeks hurt as I smile at him. After the Sobel incident weeks ago, he really had become a dear friend to me. He just needed to see that I was worth the effort. And I sure am happy that I was to him. 

“It’s not like that Joe, it really isn’t. He just..he is in the army too”, I tell him soothingly. His brows lift and he nods. Then he says something that makes me freeze:

“Yeah the LT seems like a proper fella”

My eyes bulge out of my head as I halt my step. “What?!”, I ask sharply. He just shakes his head and smirks. “You look at Winters like a lost puppy and he looks at you like a protective bear with it’s cubs. At first I thought it was nothing, but then I saw him help you with your gear and those looks ain’t just your regular ‘well thank you sir’”

I shake my head and my hands tremble. “Joe you can’t tell anyone, does anyone else know? Oh no they are going to see me as a hussy”, I almost start pulling my hair. It feels like a carpet has been just pulled from under my feet. All my achievements would mean nothing to the men from now on. 

“Hey, hey, Sonja! SONJA!”, Joe raises his voice making me halt. “No one has said a word about you two. I just happened to notice. What you told me made me guess. You two are so professional it’s hard to even tell if he likes you or not”, he soothes rubbing my upper arms. I bite my lip and look at the ground. 

“You are such a proper girl, not one of us would call you a hussy. You ain’t like that, Winters isn’t like that”, he continues. I look at him in the eye and only see kindness. Kindness and honesty in those button eyes. I nod and take one hand that’s on my shoulder. “thank you”, I whisper. 

For the rest of the walk we just walk while he sings softly. Once we come to my barrack he takes my hand again. “You can trust me Sonja, Joe’s cotcha”, he smiles and then takes off. I smile softly too. He and Skip just might be the only friends I’ve ever truly had. 

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

The maneuvers with Sobel have been getting worse and worse. He is jumpy, he is unprofessional and most sadly: he does not know how to work theory in practice. 

Nix also got moved to the battalion staff. He was now packing the rest of his stuff. It felt odd, I had come used to spending time with the man. He was very odd company, but the more you get used to him, the more pleasant you see him. 

“What are you gonna do?”, Lewis asks as we discuss Sobel’s field work. I know it is very unprofessional of me, but my eyes almost become stars when I look at my husband in his Ike jacket. I shake my head and grin at the thought. 

“Nothing, just keep training the men”, Richard answers, just as a short fellow hops in. I quickly stand up too. 

“Am I interrupting?”, the man asks. As me and Nix look at each other. Richard answers for us as he rises up: “No, no. Lt. Lewis Nixon, Nurse Sonja Winters, Lt. Harry Welsh just in from the 82nd”, he introduces. I smile at Harry kindly and shake his hand. “Ahh the beautiful lady wife”, He grins with his tooth gap. 

I smile too, all the officers know the setting.It was easier that way and when things got serious, it was very practical. “Beautiful wife for a beautiful man”, I say knowing it would make my husband flush. 

Harry chuckles and moves to shake hands with Lew.  “Congratulations on the promotion”

“Ah, thanks. If you wanna call it that. You’ll learn them pretty quickly. She’s holy Mary, biblical little lady with a husband to match: No flaws, no vices, no sense of humor”, Lewis manages to hint. I glare at him and he just looks at me with a million dollar smile. 

“Just like your chums up at Battalion Staff?”, Richard quips. I grin at him and go to gently brush his jacket straight. Which it already was, but better be as neat as possible. While I do that Dick turns his head to Harry: “What’s up?”

“I’m hearing a lot of rumblings”, you can hear the concern in Harry’s voice. Lew catches on quickly: “Sobel? We were just talking about that”

“So he gets a little jumpy in the field?”, Harry confirms as I turn back to him and Lewis. “He gets jumpy and you get killed”, Lewis nods. I look at him with raised brows and a dry expression. “What?”, he asks. 

“Aren’t you just tactful”, I say pointedly. He chuckles: “haha, sorry Dick, I’ve rubbed up on her.” I roll my eyes, in his eyes you could see the pride of being bad influence. And I am in deep shame that I’m not immune to it.

Richard just continues with the topic of Sobel. “Listen, if we discuss it, it should be among ourselves”, he says looking at all of us very pointedly. We all quickly agree, and then the devil himself jumps in. 

We are moving out.

@iilovemusic12us​

[gayagendaofficial]

Wait, what’s gay lingo? Like, what does twink, bear, etc. mean?

I AM SO GLAD YOU ASKED!

Before I get into actually defining these terms, I’d like to write about a few things:

So this is probably in reference to this post I made. Not to explain the joke to death, but that’s exactly what I’m about to do. I wanted to make fun of how people who aren’t mlm think they know what mlm terms like “twink” and “bear” mean and how they blatantly use them incorrectly everywhere, because they think they’re funny (bc gay men are a joke, right? //sarcasm), or because it makes them look “woke”. It’s an idea I had for the longest time when I saw something a str8 woman wrote about Zac Efron being a twink, in the present. Like yes, Zac Efron was a twink, past tense, but he is absolutely not a twink anymore (if you can even call a str8 man a twink). And she also implied that being a twink is something you can’t outgrow, which is laughable, because it’s kind of a meme among gay men that being a twink is something you grow out of whether you like it or not.

This mostly seems to be a problem among cishet women, since cishet men tend to be too concerned with their “masculinity” to touch gay culture. But since this is tumblr and virtually none of you are cishet, a lot of the times I’ve seen people misuse these terms on this site were LGBT+ people who weren’t themselves mlm. In those cases, the reasons seem more that these people are just misinformed, and they use these terms because mlm use these terms, and we share a community. Part of it comes from the fact that wlw might see the terms “twink” and “bear” as analogous to “femme” and “butch” respectively, which is not true in the slightest (Butch and femme are their own complex thing. What they actually have in common with twink and bear is that few outside their communities actually know what they mean lol).  Another reason might be that other LGBT people see mlm using these terms sarcastically and think they’re being used in earnest; if an actual gay man calls a bodybuilder a twink, he’s probably being sarcastic, and also probably trying to insult him (which is a whole can of worms I’ll open up in a bit).

I’m gonna try to define what “twink”, “bear”, and a couple of other terms actually mean, as well as give a little bit of context to how they’re used and controversy surrounding these identities within gay spaces, partially based on my experience as a gay man and partially based on casual research. I’m just one gay man, and I’m not an expert in queer studies or anything, so take from that what you will. I hope this will be useful to mlm who are just discovering their identities and exploring their sexuality/gender, who are new to the community, and I also hope to inform our siblings elsewhere in the LGBT community. This info could also be useful to cishet allies, although please be mindful of your intentions in using these terms.

Anywho, lets get to the definitions:

A twink is a young, smooth, slim mlm. The definition here is generally seen as being pretty strict on those 3 criteria, although “twink” is sometimes used for older mlm who are skinny and don’t have much body hair. Those last two criteria are the most important, because there are other categories for mlm that fit one of the criteria; an otter is essentially twink + bodyhair, and there’s a whole host of other words for other body types.

The definition of “bear” is a little more flexible than “twink”, although it generally comes down to the inverses of those same 3 criteria. The most important of these is the bodyhair requirement; any definition you find of bear includes something about being hairy. Almost as important as bodyhair is body type, although “bear” covers a slightly larger range than twink in that regard. Usually, “bear” indicates that someone is large or plus-sized, although it can also sometimes be used to describe someone who is muscular in the sense that they are beefy (if you can see a 6 pack, he’s probably not a bear). It’s also sometimes associated with being slightly older, but that’s not nearly as important, and “bear” can refer to any age. The term “cub” refers to mlm with the same body type as a bear, but who are smooth and young.

Now, let’s get into some misconceptions/controversies surrounding these terms. The first of these is that twink and bear are the only two options, and that all mlm fall into one of these two categories, or that other terms are simply variations on those two main terms. This misconception is really only one held by people who aren’t mlm themselves (or are, but are only just learning the terminology). These terms are extremely specific, and the fact of the matter is that the vast majority of mlm don’t fit into either of these categories. And that’s ok! There are a ton of other words mlm use to describe themselves. I’ve already mentioned “otter” and “cub”; there’s also “jock”, which refers to muscular mlm; “wolf”, which also refers to muscular mlm, but specifically hairy ones (with a bit of overlap with the “beefier bears” I mentioned earlier); the relatively new term “twunk” which you may know from this video as “a combination twink and hunk”; and many many more. In addition, all of these categories are really just physical descriptions of your body, and don’t have any bearing on anything else. You don’t need to fit into any of them.

That being said, there are a number of stereotypes associated with these terms, and it is important to address them.

Our next misconception is one that’s as common among mlm as as it is among everyone else: that twinks are by definition fem, and bears are by definition masc. “Masc” and “fem”, short for masculine and feminine respectively, come with their own host of problems, and that is a can of worms that I am not going to open up right now. This post is long enough as it is. If you want the sparknotes version of the controversy surrounding the masc-fem dichotomy, it basically boils down to misogyny, transphobia, and internalized homophobia. But back to twinks and bears: I would like to assume that it’s obvious that your body type or bodyhair has absolutely no impact  on your personal presentation of gender. There are plenty of fem bears and masc twinks. But unfortunately, most people don’t seem to get this. And this super important, because the gendered way we think of these terms affects everything else I’ll be talking about in the remainder of this post.

My next point, which is really and observation based on my experience in the gay community, is that bear as a term seems to be much less… loaded. However, being a twink myself, there might be a gap in my personal experience, so any bears feel free to correct me. However, from what I’ve seen, “bear” isn’t really used as an insult in the way “twink” is. Which is a bit of a miracle, considering how prevalent fat-shaming is in the gay community. From what I’ve seen, bear isn’t a term that’s forced on you, it’s a term that bears choose for themselves, almost always in a positive way. It’s a term associated with body positivity, and bear communities seem to be much less toxic than the gay community as a whole. Even when it’s used to describe someone else, it’s always a neutral statement of fact. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it used as an insult, or even sarcastically. The worst I’ve seen of it is that it’s used as a porn category, which contributes to the fetishization of fat people; but then again, twink and jock are also porn categories, so it would be weird for bear not to be. This isn’t to suggest that bears are treated better than anyone else in the gay community, if anything they’re treated worse; just that the word “bear” itself has neutral to positive connotations. (Again, any bears correct me on this if you’ve seen it used negatively!)

Twink, on the other hand, is absolutely used as an insult, and frequently. And while this may sometimes be harmless, more often than not it’s really problematic. If you’re plus-sized and you use twink as an insult in the same vein that Nicki Minaj said “fuck the skinny bitches”, that’s completely fine. Twinks are seen as being desirable (if they behave a certain way; more on that later), so effectively it’s punching up instead of punching down. However, a good 95% of the time that “twink” is used as an insult, it really comes from one of the many stereotypes that all essentially boil down to the idea that twinks are fem. And the idea that being fem is inherently bad and insult worthy is, once again, rooted in misogyny, transphobia, and internalized homophobia. 

This association between twinks and femininity also has a lot of scary implications on the beauty standards twinks are held to. I’ve noticed that twinks fill a niche in the gay community that is similar to the role cis women are supposed to fill in western culture as large, and that we’re only seen as sexually valuable if we perform the same behaviors and meet the same beauty standards that are typically reserved for women. We’re bottoms by default, submissive both in and out of the bedroom (yes I actually am a sub bottom, but that’s beside the point). We’re supposed to maintain a completely smooth, hairless appearance; a shaved ass is the bare minimum of hygiene. I once met a guy on grindr who demanded that I be completely hairless everywhere beneath my eyelashes, and while that’s a bit extreme, he was by no means an outlier. Just today I talked to a guy who wanted me hairless between my neck and knees. We’re often seen as vapid and stupid, and infantilization of twinks is rampant (some guys put way too much emphasis on the young part of the definition). And, to cap it all off, there’s the racism! Who’d’a thunk that all forms of oppression are connected? (sarcasm). Twinks can of course be any race, but the ones you’ll see men on grindr going after the most are white or light-skinned Asian twinks. Combine that with stereotypes of Black, Latino, and Middle Eastern men as dominant and aggressive, and you have a whole slew of white supremacist ideas painted over with a thin coat of gay porn.  (mlm of color who’d like to add or correct me on anything, please do so!)

I’ll end this already long post with a comparatively brief discussion on who these terms apply to. Basically, if you’re an mlm and you fit the definition of “twink” or “bear”, congratulations! You’re a twink/bear! “Can bi men use these terms?” Of course! “What about trans men?” Are you attracted to men and male-aligned people? Then of course! That last one might be controversial to some cis gays, and to that I say fuck right off. However, it does get a bit muddier with trans women and transfem nonbinary people and the word twink. Trans women are absolutely not mlm, but many of them have been a part of mlm communities for a long time, often before they even realized they were trans, and some may be reluctant to give up the word twink (I haven’t seen this for bear, although again, lmk if you’ve seen evidence to the contrary). And on top of that, a lot of cis men looking to have sex with trans women conflate trans women and cis twinks. Because remember what I said about twinks filling the niche of women? It’s often a niche they share with trans women, except trans women have it even worse, because they are actually women. My two cents is, if a trans woman wants to refer to herself as a twink, she’s more than welcome to. Just don’t go around calling trans women “twinks” unless they specifically say you can; it’s a gendered term, you are misgendering them, and, once again, you can fuck right off. (trans women also please comment if you want!)

Well, anon, I bet you weren’t expecting a post this long. At least I hope y’all learned something! Be gay do crimes!

[zentornos]

Here’s a transcript (bc even as a Canadian, I still watch this show with subtitles lmao):

Dax: I'll give you a different kind of clap bomb, boys. Four pink pills and she's gone through, I promise.

Ron: Let's set up in Gretz's office, boys. Work my quiet zone, you know what I'm saying?

Dax: Remember the Louisville rubber shaft? Have a Daxiville rubber shaft.

Ron: Let's have a Ronniebrooke.

Dax: Short side, far side, blind side, gimme your best shot.

Ron: Five holes are wide open boys, take it. Take it!

Dax: I can stick handle inside a phone booth, boys. Let's see your handles. Show me.

Ron: I'm a late round performer, boys. Let's go seven.

-Reilly and Jonesy slow clap in unison-

Reilly: I have to say boys, that is some of the finest chirping that I've ever received.

Jonesy: Ever.

Reilly: And you're shrines too. Your temples, my God. First team all stars.

Jonesy: Take that to the temples, boys, two days written all over you.

Dax: But people aren't supposed to enjoy being catcalled.

Ron: Yeah, supposed to...not enjoy being catcalled.

Reilly: Yeah, eh, fuck buddy, if anybody knows how hot we are, you're looking at em.

Jonesy: There's a line-up around the block for this bop-bop shop.

Reilly: Yeah, and nobody's kicking this kid out of bed for eating crackers that's for sure.

Jonesy: I've yet to see one customer not come back for seconds at that buffet.

Reilly: Yeah, I bet you thought everybody skips the continental breakfast. Guess what, they don't.

Jonesy: Take this ride and you're getting right back in line, boys.

Dax: Truth is, you're not really our type, boys.

Reilly: Bull-fucking-shit.

Jonesy: Think we don't see you rocking semis?

Dax: We're gay guys at the gym, we're always rocking semis.

Ron: It's true though, you're not our type.

Jonesy: What is your type then, you fucking liar?

Dax and Ron: Otters.

Reilly: Like the Eerie Otters?

Jonesy: Like the Cal State Monterey Bay Otters?

Dax: No, Otters are what we call skinny hairy dudes.

Reilly: Points for creativity, boys.

Jonesy: Love the hustle, boys.

Reilly: So, like, what are we supposed to call you then? Our gay buddies from the gym, or...

Dax: We took gay in the expansion draft from you about a hundred years back.

Jonesy: Butch?

Ron: Shout out to our sisters in the women's league.

Reilly: Fruit?

Dax: Fruit had a cup of coffee in the show a few decades back but never really produced for either of us.

Jonesy: Bear?

Ron: You guys released bear a while back for under performing and we got her at a friendly price. Been a real stud for us ever since.

Reilly: Cub?

Dax: Cub's been consistent since he put her on a line with Bear.

Jonesy: Poofter?

Ron: Still playing overseas. Likely gonna retire there.

Reilly: Nellie?

Dax: Only your grandpa remembers that alumni.

Jonesy: Homo?

Ron: Homo may be in your ring of honour but never forget the body checks our goons threw down to end that career.

Reilly: Creed?

Dax: Creed is the best Arena music of all time. But still, it's only for some.

-Reilly and Jonesy look at each other-

Reilly: I'm not fucking saying it.

Dax and Ron: Fag.

Jonesy: Not sure that's PC, but you said it.

Ron: Fag got cut in the '80s, and may have cleared waivers, but we all made a gentleman's agreement not to sign it because of behaviour detrimental to the league.

Dax: Call me Dax.

Ron: Call me Ron.

Reilly: Fuck, let's be buddies Daxi.

Jonesy: Let's be buds, Ronzy.

Dax: Really?

Reilly: Yeah. Fuck, you guys slam crush butts, we slam crush box and the world keeps on turning, boys. Well, fuck. Come over here and lay some skin on me, Daxi.

Jonesy: Lay some skin on me Ronzy! First time.

Reilly: Jonesy and I, usually just fist each other like... Just like that. No it's different, it's supposed to... It's like this.

Dax: Oh, okay.

Reilly: I guess we better go talk to Katy-Kat, buddy.

Jonesy: Time to break it to Kitty-Kat, buddy. But wait. You seriously don't want to bang us, you fucking liars?

tumblr dont sleep on letterkenny

[chuckwanninger]

END OF AN ERA

The long partnership between the Chicago Cubs and WGN ends soon . . . fewer than a half-dozen games to be broadcast before the season ends.

A story in Forbes detailed that reality this week. And I find it sad. The picture above of Harry Caray and Jack Brickhouse spurs some memories for me and I thought I might share them. Those two icons played roles in my long-standing following of both the Cubs and the Bears.

I was 8 or so when I became a Cubs fan. That would be about 1953 and it was hard to get the radio broadcasts in downstate Illinois. And everyday TV coverage hadn’t yet been invented. I listened to some games on WKAI, Macomb’s hometown station, one of those dinky AM operations that went off the air at sundown.

Fine for Wrigley Field day games, I guess. But when the Cubs were on the road at night, I’d have to tune to KMOX in St. Louis. Listening to the Cardinals, for cripes sake, and waiting for Harry Caray to give me the Cubs score. He was broadcasting the St. Louis games back then.

KMOX channeled in clearly on the brown plastic radio propped up near my bed at the old house on McArthur Street. That radio had been dropped a few too many times. It was cracked on top and the back was attached by one lonely screw. But the reception was OK when I lay my hand on top of that radio . . . just so . . . and my skinny, adolescent body could serve as an antenna.

So, you see, Harry Caray and I go way back. I was straining to hear an “it-might-be-outta-here” long before Harry became a Chicago icon and a Saturday Night Live skit. Before he became the Mayor of Rush Street. Before he took his shirt off and broadcast games from the bleachers. Before he got his own statue and his own restaurants. I always thought that Harry was really a Cubs fan, even back when he broadcast the Cardinals.

About the same time, I became Bears fan. And every Sunday, I would excuse myself from Sunday dinner. And retire to my bedroom to listen to Jack Brickhouse do the WGN radio broadcast of the Bears. That would have started about 1956 . . . a great Bears team with Bill George and Rick Caseres and J.C. Caroline and Harlan Hill.

Jack did the Bears from 1953 to 1977. He also did the early Chicago Bulls.

I later interacted with him when he was broadcasting the Cubs and I was a rookie sportswriter for the Joliet Herald News. That would have been 1968. I had done a big piece headlined HEY HEY - Jack’s trademark call for a Cubs homerun.

I delivered a copy to Jack in the Wrigley Field broadcast booth. Now, how bush-league is that!

A statue of Jack at the microphone is still in place , of course, on Michigan Avenue.

I had some contact with Harry Caray as well. He and Steve Stone, a retired pitcher who had moved to the broadcast booth, had opened a Steve & Harry’s restaurant in Mesa - not far from the Cubs spring training park. For 15 years, I led a group of eight Indiana guys who played golf in the morning, watched Cubs spring training games in the afternoon and moderately misbehaved at night. Then we got up and did it again.

Trips to Steve & Harry’s was an integral part of those weeks. And Harry regularly showed up to drink and hobnob.

Harry and Jack, of course, have passed on. But they remain a part of Chicago history and I liked that picture.

The Forbes article spelled the business implications of the broadcasting change, noting that WGN had broadcast its first Cubs game in 1948. And that WGN radio had been home of the Cubs since 1924.

So . . . a longtime relationship ends. And I understand all that business-is-business stuff.

But for me , this story seems sad. I bet Jack and Harry would agree.

[chaospenelope]

While They Were Gone

The World Beyond

The house didn't look any different after they left sooner than expected. The yard was free of any cars or large toys but it was mostly unchanged. It felt sad all the same. The FazBear kids would find themselves glancing at it every time they came home as did their friends. They weren't necessarily upset, they just expected something that wasn't there anymore. The twins called their cousins as often as they could, but since the parents were busy pulling double shifts until new staff was hired there hadn't been any planned visits just yet. As summer neared it's halfway point it slowed down enough for a two day trip. "I can't wait to see Faye, Victor, and Amelia again." Spring cheered as she hopped into her seat in very the back of the eight seated minivan. She pulled her stuffed dog, into a backpack and put that onto her lap. "Why are you bringing that thing with us?" Philip asked as he went into the passenger seat in front of them. "Because I wanna..." Her brother rolled his eyes but didn't ask her about it further. He had bigger problems than bothering his little sister. William and Robert sat on either side of him. "Wait a minute, who said I was going to be in the middle seat?" "Cuz your butt's the only one skinny enough to fit in the middle seat. Unless you wanna trade with Chelsea." He motioned toward the oldest sister who was crawling in the seat next to the twins. Philip looked at his mother in the front passenger seat whose shrug told him she wasn't going to help. "Did you remember to bring an extra set of clothes?" FredBear asked his little cub as he made sure the twins were buckled in properly. "Yes Papa." "Frederick?" "Yes, dad." "Alright, let's get outta here." He said as he closed the door. He pulled himself into the driver seat and started the van's engine.

"You have all your things?" Neda stood in the doorway of her daughter's now bare room. All that remained was light blue painted walls, dark blue ceilings with white specks where glow in the dark stars used to be and white carpet. "Yeah. Dad and the movers took the boxes." Penelope tucked her notebook into her black backpack before slinging it onto her shoulder. "Kind of strange seeing it this empty." She felt a conflicting mix of nostalgia, sadness, and joy as she looked at the shell of a house. "You're not actually going to miss this place, are you mom?" "I know the neighbors weren't the best, but this was our home. There were a lot of memories here. As much as I'm happy to leave there's still some things I'll miss." "Yeah, I've had this room a long time. I'll probably miss...Mm. I, can't really think of anything. The closet is nice?" "Your bedroom in the new house has a closet. And, to be honest, a better view." Her mother noted as she looked out the window through a parallel window at a woman who quickly acted like she wasn't just watching them. "What else is at the new house?" "Well, there's two bathrooms, a kitchen, three bedrooms, two stories, three if you count the attic, an office for your father, and hm...What am I forgetting? The living room? Oh, It's completely surrounded by woods." Her daughter perked up as she expected. The small cub loved to climb. "You ready to go?" Phineas walked up to the girls. The large black furred bear carried his son's green Hulk backpack. The boy lazily Leaned against the wall behind him. "The truck already left." "I am!" The little cub jumped up and ran to up to him. "Can't wait to see our new home!" Her father let out chuckle as he looked at his wife. "Told her about the trees, didn't you?" "She asked what the house was like." She said with a smirk, but it faded when she noticed the time on her husband's watch. "We better get going, we don't want the movers to be stuck there without a way to get in. If we make them wait too long they might just leave everything in the yard."

"Are we there yet?" The fox asked in a bored monotone. "Philip, are you serious?" William glared at his brother. "I expected that sort of thing from Spring, not you." "What?" The golden cub looked up from her game. "We're here." The new building was smaller than the last. Around it's yard was a well kept metal fence. The driveway was only wide enough for one car with the other in the garage. There was a stone path leading to a porch with bench swing hanging from the roof. "You're here early!" Faye's voice was a bit muffled by the window. She ran to the door to let them in. "Mom is out getting some light bulbs and dad is in the kitchen. Do you want me to go get him?" "That's alright Faye." FredBear grinned giving her a pat on the head. He headed to the back of the house. The inside was very welcoming. Mangle did a great job placing furniture and choosing colors that made the place feel comfortable and pleasing to the eye. Victor bolted out of his bedroom as the rest of the family settled down in the living room. "There you are guys! C'mon, lets go play outside! There's a swing and slide out there!" "Can we Mama?" "If Teddy says it's safe." "Can I watch TV instead?" Amelia asked shyly. Faye nodded and sat her up on the couch next to Plushy revealing her prosthetic hand. Then followed her cousins and brother. "Don't stick your paws through the fence again Victor." Theodore warned his son as the four kids pitter-pattered across the kitchen to the back door. "C'mon! We can play tag!" The fox poked Freddy. "You're it! No tail grabs!" Then ran off giggling like a madman. "Hey!" He shouted with his own giggles. The two girls split in different directions but he had a vendetta, bolting straight for his cousin. He ducked under the slide in an attempt to cut him off. Victor made a leaping dodge as he bolted back the other side. Frederick knew he couldn't catch up to him in a long distance run so he used in a full sprint. He was inches away when he reached out in a frantic grab. His paw latched on his shoulder as he cried 'it'. Then he quickly grabbed the ladder of the play set to hoist himself up. Victor was about to chase him but saw his sister. She fled once he noticed her. He followed her across the yard swerving around as she made sharp corners just before hitting the fence. He cut her off just at the small freshly planted garden huddled against the back of the house, or he would, if she hadn't tripped on someone. "Are you OK Faye?" Goldie asked as she stood up to offer her hand. Freddy ran up to them with the same amount of concern. "Yeah, I landed on the soft soil." She brushed the dirt off of her white fur and pink shirt. "What were you doing anyway Spring?" "I found a bug!" She knelt back down and pointed at her find. There was wriggling worm pulsating around the moist earth and a pair of pill bugs curled into balls at their presence. "Look, there's more now!" "There's another worm, or is it just the other end?" Freddy asked as he too became invested in the insects. "Guys! You have bugs at your house!" Victor crossed his arms and watched SpringBear pick up a roly poly. She examined it closely, and gently pushing it on it's side. "I love Rollie bugs. They're so cute." She got up and carefully ran to the backdoor still cradling the invertebrate. She ran inside after wiping her paws on the mat. "Papa!" She held her cupped hands up so the large yellow bear could see her new friend. "I found a Rollie bug! Can I keep him please? I'll fed him leaves and give him water everyday." He smiled and patted her head. "I'm not sure that's a good idea Honey Bear. He might miss his family and friends if you take him home. You can always visit him here." "Oh...OK." She hesitantly returned outside where Freddy and Faye were watching the worms race out the dirt. Victor was sitting against the fence pulling up blades of grass. She placed the critter on a bush's leaf. "I'll check on you later, ok Bailey?" "Hurry Goldie! The race is almost over." She huddled up to the patch of dirt that was the center of attention. The two bugs writhed and slithered into the soft ground. The cubs started to cheer them on giving them the names Tube and Segments. It was a close match but Segments had all five of his hearts in the race. "Can we play now?" Victor asked. Then hopped up when a spark of inspiration hit him. "Let's be superheroes!"

The dirt road widened to a clearing with two houses in the middle. The large moving truck was closed and the engine started up. Most of it's contents were placed roughly where they were assigned. "Hey, we might actually get this done before tonight." Neda happily admitted as she finished pushing the drier in place." "We should probably work on the beds next, just in case we lose track of time." "Right, I wish we didn't have to take the bed frames apart..." Their daughter poked her head into the room. "I put all the dishes in the cabinet, can I go outside?" "Sorry Penny, but I need to be able to see you if you want to play outside and your father and I still need to make sure we don't have to roll out the inflatable tonight...But we can have our lunch break under the trees." The breeze gently rustled the leafy branches. The sticks and leaves crunched under their paws as they selected a spot to spread out the freshly unpacked blanket. There was a faint, distant scuttle of life as they sat down. "Such a beautiful day today." Phineas looked up at the sun trickling through the gaps in shade. "Nice weather for a picnic. Bet it'll be even lovelier at night. You could look out the window and see the whole galaxy." Neda opened the shopping bag and passed out the containers of take out. "So how do you cubs like the house so far?" "It's big." "I really like the color of my room. One of my windows is still facing another window. It was covered with a blue curtain. Who lives next to us?" "We haven't really seen them yet. They weren't here when we looked at the house. As long as we stay on our side of the fence we should be fine." Penelope wasn't too sure but at least it was only one side of the house instead of surrounding them. She tried to push the thought away as she ate her lasagna. "The food's good." Nade added, not too sure if there was much else he needed to like this place. "There are a lot of nice places in town; a theater, some restaurants, an arcade. We're not too far from the city either." "Sounds great mom. Can I look around? I'm full." "You can play around the woods where we can see you, but when your mother and I have to go back inside you go in the back yard and stay in the fence, alright?" "Sure thing dad!" She put her leftovers back in the bag. After wiping her muzzle on a napkin she bolted for the foliage. She picked out a big, wide tree with low branches right at the edge of the forest. "Don't go up too high!" "I won't!" Penelope jumped up to grab a strong branch. She latched her arms around it. Then lifted her lower body to secure her legs around it. She pulled herself to the top of the branch and carefully stood up. Carefully walked to the trunk and pulled herself on a higher one. She held tightly on another as she looked at the view until she moved few branches and realized three of them were perfectly positioned to rest on. She noticed something scratched into the bark of the tree. It appeared as if it were supposed to be letters cut in crudely. She could make out a V but the rest of the bark was pulled off. It seemed like another person wanted to erase the mark. She pondered the scribble for a moment, wondering which house this person lived in when they did it and if they were still here.