#Tom I smashed with a mallet | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

robbyrobinson · 3 years

Text

My Most Hated Characters from the Owl House

1. My most hated character from the show is not surprising, but it's Kikimora. I just have this...unholy urge to punch this midget in the face so many times, it rips her head off her neck. To describe her, it's kind of like if you were at home just unwinding, and then you see this big cockroach crawling on the wall. Not only is it a big, unsightly freak of nature, but it's hairy. You just have this innate need of crushing it to death before it could lay eggs. That is Kikimora to me. Anytime she is on screen, I just want to smash her with some cartoonishly large mallet like you'd see in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. She is a condescending prick with that grandiose sense of self-worth because of her position in the Emperor's Coven who was a dick to Lilith, and then tries to kill Hunter. What the fuck, lady? What kind of yandere shit is that? It was bad that Odalia tried to kill Luz, but Hunter's case is worse because he would be the most intimate with Belos because of him being his "nephew." And why would she do something that irredeemably evil? Just because she was jealous that she wasn't at Belos's side. What the hell, gremlin? Even worse, you could contrast her with Lilith and Hunter: Lilith served Belos partly because she was trying to cure her sister to atone of her mistakes and ultimately tries to become better. Hunter was emotionally abused/manipulated by Belos and follows his commands without question even when he was curious about wild magic. Kikimora has no redeeming traits, sympathetic motivations, nor complexity. She is just some arrogant, psychotic, pint-sized asshole who needs to be destroyed/ Just...stop it. Get some help.

2. Bria. I don't care much for her lackeys since they were relatively flat. Bria at first came off as being concerned how her school was being run on some Social Darwinist rhetoric with stronger students bullying the weaker, and it seemed at first she would be a genuine friend for Gus, and likely be seen as "cool mentors" or whatever. But nope. She blew it because it was obvious she wanted to get the galderstones so that she could benefit from them. And then there's robbing graves. Can't get much worse than that.

3. The Blights. As it was kind of obvious, I love Odalia's design. But aside from that, not a really pleasant person. She could be on the running for worst mother in western animation among the likes of Lois Griffin, Peggy Hill, and Sheila from South Park. She is the very definition of a Karen who throws fits when things don't go her way such as when she was considering calling up everyone she knew to prevent Luz and her friends from reentering Hexside. Add in the obligatory "I want to speak to your manager," and you can check that off you Karen bingo board. Alador, I do like a little more because of his odd mannerisms such as chasing butterflies and the like. But just because he is seemingly less verbally abusive than his wife does not mean that he is a good guy: he was likely henpecked by his wife to force Amity to end her friendship with Willow; he thought nothing of demonstrating his Abomi-ton on Luz (even if he did agree with Luz that the demonstration itself was enough...he doesn't even try to push his wife to not kill Luz). And he shows shades of being an opportunistic bastard.

4. Boscha; she is Amity if you stripped her of her redeeming qualities and have her just be obsessed with her social life and goes out of her way to bully students she viewed as "weaker" than her. And then came where she harasses Willow for no good reason beyond "oh, the nerd is stealing my glamor? Well, I can't have that." But I do kind of think that she does have some potential to become slightly better...not to the point where she is a tag-along accomplice to the Hex Gang, but maybe have her haughtiness be broken a smidge? Plus her reaction to acquiring her crab palismen was cute.

#owl house #the owl house #blight #blight family #odalia #odalia blight #kikimora #hunter #golden guard #rant #bria

40 notes · View notes

get-help-im-dying · 3 years

Text

I had dinner tonight and I was like “ooooo tumblr’s gonna LOVE this” so here we are

Anyways, for dinner I had cheese sausages and Caesar salad

When I saw the salad I was like ASGARD and RAGNAROK but then I realized that the salad metaphor is what convinced Mobius to test out the apocalypse theory that Loki had. They tested it in Pompeii, which was in the Roman Empire. What else was in the Roman Empire? Caesars, who would have Caesar salad because they’re it’s namesake. The sausage made me think “you naughty little sausage” from that one video of Tom Hiddleston having a party and he invited Josh Horowitz and he said this before smashing Josh’s phone with a mallet. And my knife that I used to cut my sausage made me think LOVE IS A DAGGER.

Because this fandom has ruined me

#thank you for coming to my ted talk #I can’t look at salad the same way again #love is a dagger #Asgard is a salad #Ragnarok is a salad #apocalypses are a salad #Loki’s metaphors are so weird but make so much sense ngl #on an unrelated note I watched sonic the hedgehog yesterday with my step dad and stepsister #and when the raccoons were going through tom’s trash #I pointed at them and said RABBITS #loki #tom hiddleston #josh horowitz #IMMA COWBOY #lokius #salad

53 notes · View notes

not-too-many-eyes · 3 years

Text

The Hatchetfield verse is so werid cause like, the eldritch horror that is a metaphor for capitalism’s name is WIGGLY.

That’s one of the hundreds of wild things including THAT scene in Jane’s a car which apparently symbolizes Tom not letting of of the past, The entirety of The Hatchetfield Ape Man, Musical Zombie Ailens, THE WATCHER WITH A THOUSAND EYES NAME BEING B L I N K Y.

Let me repeat that, The Watcher with a Thousand Eyes, my personal favorite lord in black, the one who has a thing for ordering his servants to smash there enemy with a mallet name is BLINKY.

This universe is wild and terrifying and I love it, the juxtaposition of the comedy and the horror is amazing.

I can go on about how smart it is to make the Ailens in TGWLDM use the wants of someone to infect them and how they use the musical genre to create effective horror.

TMA fans please watch Stakid, the order is TGWLDM - Black Friday -Nightmare Time, I think you’ll enjoy the Comedy Horror mix cause the company balances it so well and it’s FREE, ON YOUTUBE, OFFICIALLY.

Though be prepared for a lot of adult humor and swearing, uh to put it in perspective TGWDLM is a 1hr 50 minute and someone sped it up every time a character swore which whittled it down to 22 minutes, so yea theres a lot of swearing.

#starkid #team starkid #hatchetfield #man I love hatchetfield #it’s just such a great universe

38 notes · View notes

thesunlounge · 4 years

Text

Reviews 351: MAÂT

At the end of 2019, Growing Bin Records tossed a special surprise into one of my mailorder packages, which took the form of an unmarked and incorrectly sequenced test pressing of an upcoming release. Even without any context to anchor myself to, I dove over and over again into the entrancing landscapes of world music infused post-rock, cinematic sunset disco, solar stoner blues, seaside psych folk, balearic dub pop, organic studio jazz, and new age fusion contained therein, all the while feeling as if I had some secret sonic treasure completely to myself. And after spending a few weeks in blissful ignorance, having no clue where or when in the world this music was created, its source was finally revealed as the trio of Adrien Colle, Tim Karbon, and Maxime Castanet, otherwise known as MAÂT. Far from spoiling the magic though, knowing the authors of Solar Mantra only enhanced the experience, as did the loose ideological framework provided by the song titles and Alan Briand’s enigmatic artwork, for now, I had conceptual signposts to guide my imagination as it continued exploring the trio’s exotic environments, where rainforest rhythms anchor skeletal stoner blues riffs as smoke-shrouded vocals croon towards the sunset; where bass synths filter between fusion walks and subsonic growls while idiophones of every color splash and sparkle; where pastoral prog guitars jangle over the heavenly drone of an electric organ; where chanted harmonies flow into mantric incantations above spiritual synth cascades, swelling cymbal shimmer, and ambient funk basslines; and where heady angel voices melt down over soul-affirming expanses of dub-kissed dreampop psychedelia. I was also thrilled to discover that MAÂT dedicated the album to Don Cherry’s, Naná Vasconcelos’, and Collin Walcott’s work in Codona, a favorite group of mine who here provide less of a direct sonic inspiration and more so a spiritual one, as Solar Mantra sees another trio of gifted and sympathetic collaborators pushing each other to the limits of individual creativity in the search for sonic transcendence.

MAÂT - Solar Mantra (Growing Bin Records, 2020) In “The Walk,” echo-soaked toms, tambourines, and chain off snares gallop through the void while claps crack, four four kicks beat beneath dreamspace vibraphones, and desperate smears of singing fade into focus. Then everything cuts away, leaving space for ceremonial organs and fat acid basslines to ambulate beneath a pair of voices seeming to intone “can’t you see how they walk?” as bells and shakers swell violently. A squelching synth solo seeks out the sunrise and light kisses of dub delay work the snares as the track spreads further out into pastoral folk psychedelia, with ecclesiastical organ chords supporting jangling acoustic guitars. Vibraphones add soulful jazz flourishes and harmonize with bleary-eyed fusion leads as pleading vocals thread in and out of the stereo field and at the track’s conclusion, kick drums and shakers move together, hand drums spill over themselves, and those smokey vocal hazes continue flowing in round over light acoustic guitar brushstrokes, before it all ends in a fractal storm of xylophones and shakers. “Jaki & Bryn” comes to life on smoldering synth swells as twanging guitars play single note snake charmer leads before working into a potsmoke chug. Synthetic bells melt and pitter patter percussions pop beneath lyrical incantations, with everything slowly devolving into self-oscillating abstracting. As we snap to the groove, we find ourselves floating on a post-punk raga of skeletal guitar riffing while shakers and bongos guide the hypnotic groove. Organs dart and dash like fireflies and haunted vocalisms flow in each ear, with touches of downer prog and crooning blues mergin into a stoner lullaby. At some point, everything cuts away, leaving lonely lyricisms to float in the void, accompanied by a light panorama of shakers and melting chordscapes. Later, as ping pong echo drums rush us back into the groove, music box arps move drunkely over melting FM synth environments…the whole mix growing strange and alien. Subtle blasts of galactic magic suffuse the stereo field as we work towards the end and eventually, it all reduces to minimal guitar work and hazy vocal hymns, with drums clattering wildly and everything filtering towards darkness.

Minimalist organs join a dancing panorama of filtering chords in “Feuglace” before everything starts reversing in time. Subsonic drums and shakers emerge amidst a bubble cloud of echo-morphing vocal expressionism and as soul-soaked house chords pan across the spectrum, we drop into the groove proper, where dazzling cymbal patterns work around slap bass fusion lines while snares and claps swing on the beat. Idiophones play melancholic island melodies and at some point, the groove grows abstract, with militant percussions pounding then fading as kalimbas, marimbas, vibraphones, and tapped cymbals dance through a cloud of reverb. Then comes a smash cut into tribal hand drum rolls, Afro-folk guitar refractions, and ghostly vocal harmonizations while xylophones beat out sunshine refrains. And later, after the vocals morph into a cloud of fevered insect psychedelia, smeared deep house pianos return alongside handclaps and equatorial fusion basslines to guide an irresistible groove, wherein sparkling ride cymbals and cycling organ riffs refract sunshine and those scatting echo vocal swim far in the distance while the stereo swells with mutating choral hazes. The A-side closed with “Solar Mantra” and its steel pans dancing in a picturesque sunrise. Shakers and tambourines glitter over a tropical bongo groove and layers of plucked psaltery slowly suffuse the stereo field with a jangling dance of polyrhythmic string psychedelia. Sensual sub basslines soften the vibe and kalimba melodies fall like a gentle summer storm until suddenly, vocals ride in on effervescing tapestries of electronic drumming and sing towards the sky: “I want you to grow / praise the sun”. Bleary-eyed synths solo softly and vocal scats imitate shakers as everything reduces down to simplistic hand drumming, ambient thumb piano atmospheres, and plucked string shimmer. But eventually, the groove slowly builds back in strength, though somehow it all seems shambolic and barely held together as various passages flow in and around each other according to some unknowable logic, with plucked psaltery glowing and smokey vocals moving between the titular solar mantra and wordless soul reveries.

“Quetzal Pacino” builds wondrous anticipation from the outset, with mallets tapping and ethereal atmospheres swelling. Violins soar to the surface and drums take on a spaghetti western gallop before dropping into disco intoxication, with hi-hats working the mind via energetic double time flourishes and big synth basslines snapping and sliding. The background swirls with fantasy orchestrations and occasionally, marimbas emerge to beat out anthemic island melodies. Basslines filter into a monstrous growl, martial snare rolls portend some mighty climax, and radiant whooshes of electro-psychedelia flow across the mix until the drums drop away, leaving basslines and layered mallet instruments to pound on the beat, ride cymbals to swell into flashes of white light, and oceanic phaser strings to seek out the sky. Then, things reduce further and string synths start weaving paradise spells amidst a rainfall of cymbal shimmer. And as the extasy-laced disco groove builds back to epic proportions, with a sunset symphony swimming overheard and filtered basslines roaring, the vibe is of some thrilling chase scene…of convertibles careening down seaside highways in the light of the setting sun…the heart racing along with urgent disco drum pulsations while textures of tropical exotica subsume the spirit. Cosmic electronics harmonize with Renaud Guy-Rousseau’s clarinet in “Clairière,” with druidic cycles and ancient melodies spreading into delirium drone. Textured clicks move beneath howling ghosts while cymbal and rimshot splashes bring to life a tribalistic drum groove, which kicks fully into gear once romantic basslines begin executing drunken dances amidst layers of polyphonic idiophone mesmerism. Synths percolate like bubble clouds, hi-hats bash away, and moaning brass electronics mimic a siren until the rhythms disperse, leaving behind machine screams and computronic synth flourishes. Eventually, the clarinet re-emerges…its touches elegiac and reverb soaked jazz enticing the groove back into focus, now with sawing strings and sliding portamento sonics reminding me of the magisterial post-rock and desolate folk Americana of GY!BE, especially Efrim Menuck’s screwdriver guitar freakouts.

In “Mount Bevray,” blurred e-piano bass chords support solar feedback swells as slap jazz and fusion funk basslines dance across shimmering ocean wave crests. Layered cymbal polyrhythms gleam in the sunlight, brass polysynths spread outwards into new age fusion cloudforms, and all the while, wordless vocal cycles build in support…these paradise incantations of impossible beauty…so simple yet so emotionally affecting. At some point its all obscured by dark filtering, with the cymbal patterns fading and synths soloing through banks of moonlit seafog. But soon, the radiant rhythms of tapped metal return, bringing with them the psych pop vocal cascades and nimble bassline motions as the background overflows with wavefronts of balearic bliss. “Llomé Dub” opens in a futuristic seaside saloon setting, where lofi island percussion and snake tail rattles surround daydream ivory leads and tapped cymbals fall like rain. Droning organs sing LSD lullabies and an upright piano flutters on an echo breeze until we lock into a breezy psych pop groove featuring Laurel Canyon basslines that occasionally transmute into subsonic bubbles and drums that swing and sway in the dubwsie sunshine. Echo modulating tom toms and hyperkinetic ride taps join dopamine choirs to background lazed acoustic guitar strums and after a devolution into crazed delay fx and anxious musique concrète, we transition towards one of the best musical moments of 2020, as vocalist Leya descends upon the mix like some balearic angel to sing flower power dream lullabies while heavy dub basslines skank over bopping reggae-pop drumbeats, body swaying clap rhythms, and soaring 60s organs. The good vibes only increase from here, as the song works itself into a breathtaking closed eye chorus seeing Leya’s vocals move towards pure wordless revery while crazed echo lasers whoosh upwards…the whole thing so perfect as to soar the spirit towards a cloudland paradise. Then, it all breaks down and returns again to the seaside western settings of the intro, as saloon pianos and echo panning guitars move over a ghost town bassline thump. And as the drums resume, bringing rimshot taps and a jazz pop swing, glorious cascades of piano chord mesmerism flow over seasick sequences and oceanic organ wavefronts before it all gives way to an outro of bleating synth detritus, abstracted ivory flutters, and underwater dub bass.

(images from my personal copy)

6 notes · View notes

marvel-ously-blog · 7 years

Text

Hidden Voicemails

Tom Holland x Reader

Author: Grae

Word Count: 1844 | Warnings: mentions of abuse, language, angst

Summary: Spoiler: he’s not a prince charming.

A/N: So I've been having some really shitty writer's block but I finally have this out! So that's a victory. This is kind of inspired by the American Shameless between a scene with Lip and Mandy that I cried at honestly.

You were sitting on the steps of the electronic store as always. Your foot stomping to whatever music was playing off the phone your friend had covered by a solo cup to magnify the sound. You looked beautiful to him in the ugly orange street light, even in the shitty neon signs light. Different, he thought, but beautiful. Even with the neighborhood that smelled of vomit, cigarettes, and alcohol, you still managed to radiate.

You noticed him immediately, the corner of her mouth tugging itself up into that smirk. If he wasn’t already smiling he was now.

“Hey, what’re you doing here movie star?” You asked there was a fake ease to your voice. It had been a while after Tom got cast as Spider-man since you had seen him. The urge to run off the steps and go hug him was beat down as you held your cup tighter in your lap. He looked better, his muscles more pronounced and he even seemed to stand with more confidence. In this setting he looked so out of place, like he was cut out and pasted.

“Well, I had to come visit my best girl.”

Your heart seemed to skip a beat but not in the way that all the grown-ups told you it would when you loved someone. It seemed to skip right off the edge with a cinder block tied to it and sink right down.

“And I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” he said with a smile. You couldn’t tell which one was more of a falsehood, his reason or his smile. “Now where’s this big scary boyfriend that Haz told me about,” he asked, looking around with a small chuckle.

“Poker night,” you said shortly, taking another sip of what needed to be stronger liquid courage. Your friends were eyeing Tom like a piece of meat. You had known them before you moved and they had been filled into the shit hole you were left in after he was cast.

Two years of serious dating went down the drain when he left. The whole long distance thing went to shambles within a couple weeks. He could only call you for five minutes every couple days or when he was finally allowed to go to the house they gave him, but even then he was too tired to talk to you. After seeing the rumors of him and Zendaya you called it off. He tried for a couple days after you broke up with him, calling and texting constantly but you just seemed forced yourself to block his number.

That’s when Alex managed to pop up. He had been your knight in shining armor until you moved in with him. You knew it was a downsize from your apartment in London and you even had to switch jobs and eventually quit because he could take care of you just fine. But he was the best thing in your life and you needed a rock to keep you on the ground. He never hit you so it wasn’t technically abuse and you fucked up a lot so why did his language matter.

There was always that little voice telling you that it was wrong, but he loved you and just wanted to grow with you. As of late, he thought that growing should be done in America, with his new job. You weren’t completely sure whether or not you wanted to go that far out and when you asked Harrison, who you managed to keep in contact with, he must have passed it on to Tom.

“Can we uh, go talk somewhere private?” Tom asked, kind of snapping your attention back to him. You looked up at your friends and tipped your cup to them as a goodbye.

You were both blocks down the street before you spoke.

“So what exactly did Harrison tell you?” you said bluntly.

“Enough,” he returned your tone. You barely registered his hand tugging at your wrist before you were face to face with him. His hand moved to behind your neck, there was force in the motion but no malice. He started kissing you, in the deep and passionate way he always had. You stood still. The look he gave you after he pulled back was full of pain, part of you was glad he felt it too.

His other hand raised to the other side of your face and pushed your shaggy hair to the side. His thumbs were warm as they tugged on your skin gently. He was looking directly into your eyes as he spoke leaving small pauses between each statement. “You are beautiful Y/N. You are sweet. You are funny. You are so very smart”

You were still as his eyes teared up. Nothing in your expression changing.

He continued though. “You know that right? You know that I would never cheat on you. You know that you don’t deserve his bullshit.”

Your patience had finally worn off. “And what? I’m going to just leave him for you?” you spoke with a certain coldness and when you pushed him away you noticed his eyes let off a single tear, then another.

“You can’t just show up and sweep me back off my fucking feet Tom. You moved on and so did I. And I’m happy now, at least I know he’ll never leave me.”

Tom was yelling now, “But you’re so much better than him! And what the hell are you going to do in bloody America? They don’t have what you have here.”

“Oh, you checked didn’t you.”

There was a silent tension that neither of you could remedy. There was nothing to be done and nothing that was going to be said. Everything inside you was screaming at you to cry but your eyes remained dry. You would not let this fucker see you cry. Not after what he did.

“Go tell Harrison to fuck off.” You turned on your heel and walked away.

After a tantrum that managed to smash two cups and an unused picture frame, you finally settled into bed. Your knees were at your chest and the tears were falling harder than you had ever felt. It wasn’t until your phone beeped that you finally looked up.

Fumbling for your phone you noticed a text from the snitch of the hour.

Haz-

Hey Tom told me what happened, I'm sorry you ok?

You almost crushed the phone in hand but still ignored it. Something had taken over your fingers and you were brought to your voicemail. You hadn’t opened it since before you broke up with Tom. It was too painful to hear his voice anymore and since you barely got any voicemails regularly, it wasn’t a big deal if you just ignored it.

Your fingers still managed to move on their own to open it up.

1st Tom:

I love you so much, I couldn’t be here without you! I miss you so much and you wouldn’t believe what happened on set today! Just uh call me back when you get this I miss you!

2nd Tom:

Um I just got your voicemail and I wanted to talk to you about it. I know I’ve been busy but I can do better I swear. Please just call me so we can work this out. It seems silly to do it over a voicemail.

3rd Tom:

If this is about the thing with Zendaya, it’s nonsense, I told you that just please pick up the phone. I need to hear your voice.

4th Zendaya:

Hey uh Y/N its Zendaya and Tom wanted me to tell you that there’s nothing going on between us. He never shuts up about you and I look forward to meeting you at the premiere!

5th Tom:

Hey it’s late and I haven’t been able to sleep without you on the phone. I miss the way your hair smells when you’re sleeping next to me and I miss hearing you sing in the shower. I miss the way you always had to dunk your oreos in 10 times before eating them and how sometimes you would count out loud without realizing it. I miss that stupid song you played on repeat for a solid week and I miss the way you danced to it. I just need you right now. I don’t even know if you’re getting these messages anymore but I need you. Please call me back.

6th Tom:

You’re a bloody bitch you got that! I get offered the role of a lifetime something you supposedly wanted from me and now that it’s here you just bloody bail on me! You know what fuck you.

7th Tom:

I’m sorry about last night. Um Harrison somehow brought home a lot of beer and said I needed to drink it out. I still love you. I really just want to hear your voice again.

8th Alex:

Hey this is the hot guy you met at the bar yesterday. Was curious if I could show you that bass I was telling you about sometime. Maybe a cheap bottle of vodka to go with it?

9th Harrison:

Hey Tom’s really beat up could you just call him to talk to him one last time

10th Alex:

Hey babe just calling to tell you happy birthday! Bring a bag to my place tonight and we’ll have some fun.

11th Tom:

I’m not going to call you anymore.

12th Alex:

I fucking told you this morning I was picking you up for lunch where the fuck are you?

13th Alex:

Your fucking mother just called me telling me to back off of you. What the bloody hell did you tell her?

14th Tom:

I know I said I wouldn’t call but I needed to be reminded that you still exist. I don’t want to give up on us even though that’s what everyone is saying I need to do. You were always so good at knowing what I needed and I’m so lost without you. I’m sorry I fucked up but I still love you and I’d give up the movie just to be with you again.

You weren’t crying when he finished. Your eyes were raw and there were no tears left even though your heart was crushed with a mallet on the floor. You hadn’t moved at all during the messages and your knees were aching but you couldn’t get yourself to budge.

It wasn’t till you heard the front door to the apartment unlock that you laid down in your bed, put your phone under the pillow and pretended to be asleep. When the bedroom door opened you heard Alex sigh and close it again. The refrigerator opened and you heard the clanking of his beer and the sound of the TV.

You felt around the bed stand for your earbuds and plugged it into your phone.

1st Tom:

I love you so much, I couldn’t be here without you! I miss you so much and ...

#tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland angst #tom holland x reader #tom holland spiderman #tom holland one shot #peter parker fan fic #marvel #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #peter parker x reader #avengers #avengers x reader #marvel imagine #avengers imagine #reader insert #avengers angst #marvel angst #hidden voicemails

420 notes · View notes

worlds--avenged · 7 years

Text

Professor Tom: Chapter 10

Summary: This wasn’t the first time a student had fallen for him. Hell, it wasn’t the first time this year. But something etched deep in his bones told him that she was different. Surely there could be no harm in talking to her after class… Right?

Previous Next

A/N: Two. Months. Two goddamn months i’ve been neglecting this fic. I’m so sorry, y’all, time just got away from me I guess. Anyways, here’s a bit of backstory on Seb and Tom’s relationship. As always, don’t like, don’t read.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Drug use, alcohol use, mentions of sex, just a bunch of gay shit tbh

He seemed so fucking cool at the time. His carefree attitude, his apparent dominance over any room, his high alcohol tolerance. Mostly the latter, though the former didn’t go without notice. This was when he had his beard, hiding his round cheeks that rarely saw any attention more than the occasional blush. Even the way he snorted white lines was so elegantly masculine. Glamorous, even.

He’d heard whispers about him around the campus, despite only being there for a matter of weeks-- the prototypical bad boy. Bad for you, bad for himself, bad for everyone that got in his way. He was a hurricane, an earthquake, a tsunami, something so naturally catastrophic that you just couldn’t tear your eyes away from the destruction in its wake. Sebastian was the reason why the kids called it “tearing up the dance floor”, because on the off occasion he didn’t put cherry bombs in the toilets or down an entire bottle of Ciroc (the Ciroc was water) on a whim and smash the empty bottle on his skull, he would dance on any lukewarm body with a pulse and a hole in it until the sun came up. Then he would accompany the body to bed. And thus the cycle continued.

So when an invitation to a recent graduate’s party slipped under the door while Tom was finishing one of his short stories, he didn’t hesitate. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about with the man.

Poor Tom wasn’t ready when he crossed paths with Hurricane Seb.

He’d read plenty on how beautiful destruction was, written false words about the broken and the damned, but Sebastian’s damask lips on another girl’s neck was the personification of every tragic character he’d pretended to know anything about.

The only thing he had wished he’d done different was find his muse sooner.

He forgot the details-- what cologne he was wearing, how he styled his hair, what outfit he threw together to make him look like a proper college student and not an infant, but he could never forget the first time he laid eyes on Sebastian.

Tom knew it was him the moment he heard the drunken shouts of the partygoers. He didn’t hear a name, he didn’t see Sebastian, didn’t get an introduction from one of his three friends. But he knew that the figure bent over the table couldn’t be anyone but the asshole that dragged his curiosity there in the first place.

Tom caught Seb’s eye in the moment his head lifted from a plate of ten clean lines of cocaine. Seb wiped the residue off of his nose, downed the rest of what could have been peach schnapps in hooch (he was too blacked out to care), and walked over to the shy, little twink he just couldn’t take his eyes off of.

Boundaries were odd. It didn’t occur to Sebastian that he was resting most of his body weight onto the nerd pressed into the corner until Tom stumbled and Sebastian fell against the peeling wallpaper. Apparently college students didn’t have a penchant for interior design. Flurries of words strung themselves into a sentence, and somehow Seb managed to open his mouth and get the words out.

“What the fuck is a kid like you doing here?” Seb’s words quaked with intoxication, but his voice was still strong and Tom struggled to find an adequate response.

“I-I’m not a kid, actually. I’m a student.” Sebastian cocked an eyebrow and chuckled, taking another swig out of his plastic cup, god knew what number drink he was on. He mustered all the sobriety he could and put one neuron next to another and spark up a conversation.

“I see. You new? I haven’t seen you around. Freshmen don’t usually come to parties this early in the year unless they’re being hazed.” Sebastian’s eyes darkened and he bent down to whisper into Tom’s ear. Tom turned bright red and was reminded exactly as to why he was so intrigued with the man in the first place. Because he was hot.

“And you don’t seem like the fraternal type.” The words came out of his mouth so easily and with so much sober stability that Tom wondered if he had even consumed any alcohol. But Tom caught a whiff of his breath that said otherwise. Tequila and something sour that he couldn’t quite place. Even with the white powder dotting his beard and his eyes foggy and red from the alcohol, he had a gravitas to him that Tom couldn’t ignore. An irresistible charm that pulled everyone closer to him like a fucking magnet. Or maybe that was just his dick talking.

Tom tried to play it cool, nursing a small sip of his drink and trying to string together somewhat coherent sentence. But considering who he was talking to, that was a tall order.

“I’m here for an assignment,” He said simply. Sebastian grinned like the cat that ate the canary and Tom felt an urge to explain himself. “English. I’m, uh, writing.”

Seb glanced at Tom with an unintended urgency that forced Tom to look away. He felt like an idiot. And Tom was the farthest thing from an idiot. The next shock came when Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder and doubled over laughing. A belly laugh, like Santa Claus in the Coca-Cola commercials.

“I meant what are you doing in this corner, dude. You should be having fun!” Sebastian insisted. He spread his arms in front of the throngs of sweaty bodies plastered to each other, grinding to a song he didn’t know. Sebastian rested an elbow on Tom and used his shoulder as an armrest. If it had been anyone else, he would have protested. But this was Sebastian and Sebastian did what he wanted and who he wanted when he wanted to. So Tom let him. Sebastian snapped his wrist flippantly and leaned in closer, as if there was anyone in his vicinity that could have heard them.

“There are a million horny girls here waiting for some dick.” Tom’s body stayed still right where it was. But every muscle, every nerve ending in him froze at the mention of sex. Tom wasn’t exactly proud of his track record with fuckbuddies, but discussing it so brazenly and so casually was uncharted territory for him.

It had occurred to him that the conversation would eventually go in that direction, but it throws him for a loop when Sebastian brings it up after barely talking to him for two minutes. But he could only be so surprised, considering that Sebastian was the one who had sauntered over to him and struck up a conversation in the first place.

“Or guys, y’know, whatever you’re into,” He shrugged and downed the rest of his beer, throwing the cup over his shoulder as a thin stream of liquid dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. He reached out a hand. “I’m Seb.” Tom felt a sudden urge to impress the man. He stood up a bit straighter, as if that would help his tiny frame against the ox of a man in front of him.

“I know,” Tom followed his lead and gulped what was left in his cup, crushing it in his hand before dropping it to the ground. Tom quickly found himself losing the upper ground as he felt the effects of alcohol overtake his body. He held on to Seb’s hand for a bit longer than what would be considered a purely orientational handshake. Sebastian looked at him expectantly and Tom suddenly forgot how to hold a regular conversation when Seb met his eyes. Words, Tom. He reminded himself. Formulate words.

But Seb’s breath was 40 proof and his smile was warm and despite being the most popular person at the party, he had decided to take pity on Tom and leave his friends for a conversation with a nobody. So it was no surprise that the shock started talking when Tom’s voice dropped and he uttered, “I don’t know what I am.”

Seb chuckled. “Well, right now, you’re with me. And that’s the only label that matters to any of these posers, anyways.” Sebastian throws an arm over his shoulder and it wasn’t just the alcohol that made Tom’s knees quake when Seb pulled him closer and steered him into the kitchen.

“Let’s get you drunk and see how many people you’ve fucked by the morning. Correct me if I’m wrong, but by my count, you’ve fucked zero people. Now, what if we gave you a shot of...” Suddenly, like magic, there was a drink in Seb’s hand. Then, it was against Tom’s lips. Then, it was being forced down his throat, burning.

(I was gonna end it there but because i’m a terrible author and i haven’t updated in an age...)

And then there was black. A few flashes of memories run through his head. Naked skin pressed against him. Music thumping in his chest with a rubber band beat. The heat. The sweat. And, of course, Sebastian. His grin, his drunken cheers, his fierce pride that had roped Tom in in the first place. But when Tom reached across the bed to search for him, he found the space unoccupied. He was just grasping at empty sheets. His eyes opened slowly, and he instantly regretted letting the afternoon light pierce through his brain the minute he blinked.He groaned and turned his back to the window, burying his face in a pillow that definitely wasn’t his own. Actually, the bed wasn’t his either. And his window at Uni was on a completely different wall. And there was no way his bed back in his dorm was this comfortable. Panic sets in quickly when he realizes how out of place he his. His body stays rigid in the bed out of fear that moving a muscle would trigger any number of hangover symptoms. The terror takes over and he sits up in bed to find himself completely naked and covered in a thin sheen of dried sweat. A wave of nausea hits him like a mallet to the temple and it takes all his might to suppress the urge to run to the bathroom and empty his guts of the poison he ingested the night earlier. He turns to the bedside table to search for his phone, but all he found was a little sign that read, “Welcome to Motel 6!” and the name of a town he didn’t recognize. The door to the bathroom swings open and Tom jumps at the movement. Sebastian stands in the door frame, wrapped in a towel, his hair wet from the shower. He chuckles at Tom’s weakened state and even the comparably quiet noise makes Tom wince.

“You look like shit.” He said simply. Tom rubbed his eyes.

“Feel like it.” Sebastian dries his hair and tosses the towel on the bed.

“Wash up. We have an appointment.”

#tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #mcu #mcu fanfiction #professor tom #professor au #teacher au

17 notes · View notes

siphen0 · 6 years

Text

This summer, Walmart shoppers will receive a personal invitation to discover the lore behind their favorite DC experiences as DC Entertainment announced today that a series of “giant” monthly comics will be sold exclusively in more than 3,000 participating Walmart stores around the country.

Available for $4.99, each 100-page anthology features all-new stories written exclusively for these books by some of DC’s top creative talents, including Tom King (BATMAN, MISTER MIRACLE, HEROES IN CRISIS), Dan Jurgens (ACTION COMICS, BATMAN BEYOND), Brian Michael Bendis (SUPERMAN, ACTION COMICS, THE MAN OF STEEL), Andy Kubert (NEW CHALLENGERS) and others. Each title will also include additional story arcs drawn from fan-favorite DC eras such as the New 52, Rebirth and the New Age of DC Heroes.

Each of the four titles – SUPERMAN GIANT, JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA GIANT, BATMAN GIANT and TEEN TITANS GIANT – will arrive in stores by July 1. Beginning in August, the Superman and Justice League of America titles will arrive in week one of each month, with the second pair, Batman and Teen Titans, arriving approximately two weeks later.

“We are extraordinarily excited about working with Walmart to expand the reach of our books,” said DC Publisher Dan DiDio. “These new monthly books combine new and accessible stories with reprints of classic comic series. It’s a great way for new readers to get into comics and follow the characters they’ve grown to love in TV and film.”

The debut title lineup includes:

SUPERMAN GIANT #1

SUPERMAN GIANT #1 features chapter one of the two-part “Endurance,” an original story written by Jimmy Palmiotti (HARLEY QUINN, ACTION COMICS) with art by Tom Derenick (HARLEY QUINN, CYBORG, BATMAN/SUPERMAN). The Daily Planet sends Clark Kent to Tornado Alley to do a story on the area, but when the storm hits, it turns out that this mild-mannered reporter is more helpful as Superman.

The issue also includes:

THE TERRIFICS #1 (2018) – From this year’s New Age of Heroes and born of the events of DC’s hit series DARK NIGHTS: METAL. Mr. Terrific, Metamorpho, Plastic Man and Phantom Girl are a team of heroes bound together by fate and united by the spirit of exploration and discovery. Together these heroes plumb the depths of the fantastic to learn what it means to become family.

GREEN LANTERN #1 (2005) – Written by best-selling writer Geoff Johns with art by Ethan Van Sciver and Carlos Pacheco, this first chapter launches the fan-favorite three-part story “No Fear,” in which Hal Jordan makes his return to the DC Universe as the Green Lantern, casting the light of justice on the darkest corners of Space Sector 2814.

SUPERMAN/BATMAN #1 (2003) – The iconic fan-favorite story arc, “Public Enemies,” returns, courtesy of writer Jeph Loeb, with artists Ed McGuinness and Tim Sale. Batman and Superman unite when President Lex Luthor accuses the Man of Steel of a crime against humanity and assembles a top-secret team of powerhouse heroes to bring Superman in by any means necessary.

September’s SUPERMAN GIANT #3 features Eisner Award-winning writer Tom King’s first return to the Man of Steel since his poignant and heartfelt tribute story, “For Tomorrow,” in the pages of ACTION COMICS #1000. Together with DC Master Class artist Andy Kubert, this powerhouse team will take readers on a new 12-part adventure titled “Up in the Sky!” When a little girl is kidnapped and taken from Earth, Superman embarks on a galaxy-spanning mission to find the perpetrators…but has to decide what lengths he will go to in order to save one life!

TEEN TITANS GIANT #1

In this original six-part Teen Titans story by Dan Jurgens with art by Scot Eaton, Wayne Faucher and Jim Charalampidis, the Teen Titans’ pizza dinner is interrupted by the introduction of a new villain, the Disruptor. Teaming up with the Fearsome Five and working as an agent of H.I.V.E., he had one mission: kill the Teen Titans! The battle spills onto the streets of San Francisco, putting its citizens at risk, while H.I.V.E. uses this distraction to begin their plan for world conquest!

Additional issue #1 stories include:

SUPER SONS #1 (2017) – From DC’s smash-hit Rebirth event, writer Peter J. Tomasi and artist Jorge Jimenez reintroduce the sons of Superman and Batman, Jonathan Kent and Damian Wayne, in part one of “When I Grow Up.” As Robin, Damian’s more than ready to take his place at the heroes’ table and has zero plans to wait his turn. And he’s dragging Superman’s son along for the trip, whether Jon likes it or not!

SIDEWAYS #1 (2018) – Also from the New Age of Heroes, this story written by Dan DiDio with art by Kenneth Rocafort introduces fans to high schooler Derek James who, during the events of DARK NIGHTS: METAL, has acquired powers from the Dark Multiverse and stepped into the role of superhero! But when cracks begin to appear in the space-time continuum, he soon learns that with that much power comes even greater liability!

TEEN TITANS #1 (2003) – Written by best-selling author Geoff Johns with art by Mike McKone. Cyborg, Raven, Starfire and Beast Boy welcome in a new roster of young heroes to train to defend humanity—Wonder Girl, Impulse and a Superboy who’s been cloned from Superman’s DNA!

BATMAN GIANT #1

Batman is on the case of a missing girl in “One More Chance,” an all-new story by writer Jimmy Palmiotti and artist Patrick “Patch” Zircher. Batman is the world’s greatest detective, but what happens when the trail in his newest case leads him back to a place from his past that he never expected to revisit?

BATMAN GIANT #1 also includes:

BATMAN #608 (2002) – Written by Jeph Loeb with art by comics icon Jim Lee, issue #608 kicks off “Batman: Hush,” one of the most popular storylines in the Dark Knight’s fabled history. When Batman sets out to unmask the mystery character wreaking havoc in his life, he teams up with an unexpected ally (Catwoman) and finds himself facing off against not only his deadliest foes, but some of the toughest characters in the DC Universe, including Poison Ivy, Killer Croc and even Superman!

NIGHTWING #1 (2011) – From DC’s New 52, this story by writer Kyle Higgins and artist Eddy Barrows debuted a new look for Dick Grayson as he dives into a tale of murder, mystery and superhuman evil against the backdrop of Haley’s Circus, the place that started him on his path from acrobat to orphan to sidekick and ultimately superhero!

HARLEY QUINN #1 (2011) – Also from the New 52, writer Jimmy Palmiotti and artist Amanda Conner break Harley Quinn out of The Joker’s shadow with all the force of a giant mallet!

Beginning with BATMAN GIANT #3 in September, superstar writer Brian Michael Bendis makes his DC debut on the Dark Knight with a 12-part story, “Universe.” Batman’s run-in with the Riddler leads the Caped Crusader into a mystery that spans the globe!

JUSTICE LEAGUE OF AMERICA GIANT #1

Justice League member Wonder Woman is spotlighted in “The Conversion,” an all-new story from NIGHTWING writer Tim Seeley and artists Rick Leonardi and Steve Buccellato. In this single-issue story, Wonder Woman comes face to face with Ares, god of war—who sees her as a promising new recruit!

JUSTICE LEAGUE GIANT #1 also includes:

JUSTICE LEAGUE #1 (2011) – From the incomparable team of writer Geoff Johns and artist Jim Lee comes this version of the League from the New 52. In this alternative spin on the union of Superman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, the Flash, Aquaman and Cyborg, superheroes are a strange and new phenomenon. The mysterious Batman discovers a dark evil that requires him to unite these reluctant heroes to protect Earth from a cosmic-level threat!

THE FLASH #1 (2011) – In this New 52 version of the Fastest Man Alive, writer Brian Buccellato and artist Francis Manapul introduce Barry Allen to a villain who not only can be everywhere at once, but is also a close friend of the Scarlet Speedster!

AQUAMAN #1 (2011) – Award-winning writer Geoff Johns and dynamic artist Ivan Reis team up on this story from the New 52! Aquaman has given up the throne of Atlantis, but the sea still has plans for Arthur Curry as a broken race of undersea creatures, the Trench, emerges from the ocean depths, bent on destroying the surface world!

In issue #2, Seeley teams up with artists Felipe Watanabe and Chris Sotomayor on “Mother’s Day,” a stand-alone story where Wonder Woman returns to Paradise Island for the first time since her exile, only to find that the Amazons – and Queen Hippolyta – have been abducted by Echidna, the mythological Mother of Monsters, with a brood of unstoppable beasts as children!

Issue #3 begins another original 12-part Wonder Woman story by HARLEY QUINN co-writers Amanda Conner and Jimmy Palmiotti called “Come Back to Me.” When Steve Trevor’s plane crashes on an island outside of time itself, it’s up to Wonder Woman to rescue him from this mysterious land, full of monsters, dinosaurs and some very surprising citizens.

Use Walmart.com’s online store finder to locate the store in your area that has DC’s GIANT 100-Page comic books.

100-Page Giant Comics From DC to Be Sold Exclusively at Walmart Stores This Summer This summer, Walmart shoppers will receive a personal invitation to discover the lore behind their favorite DC experiences as DC Entertainment announced today that a series of “giant” monthly comics will be sold exclusively in more than 3,000 participating Walmart stores around the country.

#100-Page Giant Comics #anthology #comic news #Comics #DC Comics #Walmart

0 notes

theliterateape · 6 years

Text

Fat Louie the Butcher

By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers

Fat Louie the butcher had thick arms. Short and covered with hair. A bloody apron draped over his barrel chest. And a large stomach. His gnarled fingers couldn’t decide which way to go snaking out of his leathery hands. A nose that went about three different ways before it came to a purple veined bulbous stop. I never saw him without an unlit cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth. Maybe 5’8” 230–240. A fucking gorilla. “Spent time in the ring” was the word on the street. In the Bronx before he got to Chicago.

At about 30 he showed up in Grand Crossing where I lived. He opened the shop at 77th and Greenwood. Butcher block tables, saw dust on the floor. Bloody meat hanging off hooks. The whole thing.

He had the cleanest windows I ever seen. Fucking sparkled. Huge pieces of meat hung in those pristine windows and everybody bought from Louie. The smell of garlic, rosemary, and fresh basil drifted onto the street. It lured you in like an herbal specter gently taking your hand guiding you through his doorway. A bell hung over its cracked wooden frame that jingled whenever a customer walked in.

Open at 6, closed at 9. Every fucking day. Except for Sunday. “I go to the Church at 11, eat the pasta at noon, come back, open again at 2.”

He lived alone over the store. A small apartment with a kitchen, a bathroom. a closet for a bedroom, and a tiny room where he balanced an 18 inch Philco on top of a milk crate. Four channels, 2,5,7, and sometimes 9.

His voice sounded like it was dragged through an alley, raspy with a thick accent. His eyes were sunk deep into his face, dark almost black. His eyebrows looked phony. Like they were balls of white and black cotton glued to his forehead aimlessly searching for a place to rest.

His meaty paws were always wrapped around his cleaver. His clothes smelled of recently slaughtered animal. And his black boots crunched the sawdust floor as he moved among the carcasses of cows, lambs, and pigs.

It was 1959. The Sox were in the World Series. Playing the Dodgers. I was 10. My old man was going, I wasn’t. I was pissed, pouty. We owned a deli right off 79th Street and one or our regulars was Daley’s secretary. She had an extra ticket. She asked the old man. Not me.

I wouldn’t go to school that day. Made up a story about a bad gut. The runs. Poured water into the toilet making it sound for real. The old man didn’t buy it. But I got to stay home anyway. Watched the game on TV. Black and white. Brickhouse announcing on the radio. Big Klu our first baseman hit two bombs, and Early Wynn, the Indian, threw a shutout. We smoked em 11-zip.

I deserved to go. The old man went, I shoulda. I was a kid but I knew the score. Daley’s secretary coulda copped a ticket for me. No problem.

So I’m sulking and shit after the game even though we won. My ma had the heart of a lion and the wisdom of a fox. “Pauly, here is $3 go to Louie’s. Get me some flank steak.”

“Ma, I whined.

“Go.”

“I don’t wanna.” I was gonna make her and the old man pay, I’d be a shit, their penance.

“I feel like braciole.” My mother was so fucking smart.

“Braciole?” My eyes lit up. Tender beef pounded paper thin, braised in wine and olive oil, lovingly embracing garlic, cheese, parsley, pancetta, and bread crumbs, simmered in red sauce.

“Now.” She pointed to the door, “Your father will be home soon.”

She won. My foul mood vanished and my stomach rumbled joyfully.

I started walking to Louie’s to get the meat. Through the park, and up Greenwood.

When I got close, I saw Georgie cleaning Louie’s front window talking to himself. In the ’50s Georgie was called the neighborhood retard. He stuttered and drooled. Had a red pockmarked face. Wore baggy pee stained green pants and a white t-shirt two sizes too small. At first you thought he was 13, maybe 14, but when you looked close it was more like 23, maybe 24.

Georgie spotted me coming up the street and he got all happy. I never gave Georgie shit, but the big kids in the neighborhood did. Bullies, assholes. “Pauly, Pauly, my friend!” Georgie shouted. I wanted to crawl under a rock. I mean I’m 10 years old and this kid, even though he never hurt nobody was screamin my name like, well, like a retard.

I didn’t respond. I just wanted to get my flank steak and disappear. Again” Pauly, Pauly, my friend.”

Fuck! He’s talking to me. What if people heard?

Just then outa the corner of my eye I saw the three of them. The bullies. Assholes. “The retard’s friend?!” They screamed.

Shit.

“Georgie’s buddy!” Screaming.

“Come on guys, he ain’t botherin' nobody,” I said, scared and embarrassed.

“He bothers us, with his piss pants and drool. Bothers us a lot.”

“Just leave him...” I felt the warm liquid run down my face and searing hot pain shoot through my skull from just below my eye socket. The crack sounded like it came from across the street. I dropped to my knees spotting the rock on the ground. It had hit me square in the face. Stars floated in the bright afternoon sun. Georgie terrified. The assholes laughing, “Retard’s buddy, his friend.”

The door to the store swung open. Filling the doorway was Fat Louie, cleaver in hand, bloody apron draping his stomach. Unlit cigar crammed in the side of his mouth.

“You,” he pointed at the bullies with his cigar.” Get the hell out of here.” He stepped towards them. They scattered like flies.

Georgie bent over me, his breath making me nauseous. “Pauly, my friend, are you OK?

I felt a thick fingered hand pulling me up. The smell of meat filled my nose. Without saying a word Louie guided me into his store.

He lifted me onto his butcher block counter, and slapped a piece of cold raw meat onto my face. “This help. Boys, they bullies. I find later. Press.” He grasped my hand in his pressing the raw bloody meat into my eye. Its damp coolness felt like heaven.

In raspy broken English he spoke. “Pauly, you did a good thing. The bully boys no do good thing,”

“They nailed me Louie.” I sobbed.

“Face will heal. They need to live with what they do. You did good. Them, if no change, bad things will happen.” He pressed his hand on mine again, the steak still doing its job. “You see when older. No good to bully.”

“No good to get my face smashed.” I argued, trying to be strong.

He gently pulled my hand from my face. The meat slithered down my shirt. I could feel my eye swell as it closed. He took my bloody face in his hands. “You did a good thing. Georgie needs help sometimes, you give, that is good.” His breath was heavy. His voice solemn. “Now why you come to my store?”

What? I tried to remember. The Sox. The Dodgers. The World Series. Braciole. That’s it. Flank steak. “I came for some flank streak.”

“Ah,” he pulled the cigar from his mouth, “you Momma, she make the braciole?”

“Yeah, my favorite.” Trying to cover my whimpering.

What I could see of his face through my swollen eye broke into a huge smile. He walked slowly to his butcher block table, his feet crunching on his sawdust covered floor. He slammed a piece of meat onto his table and pounded it thin with his mallet. The banging made my head throb. Finished, he methodically wrapped it in brown paper and tied it with white twine.

I reached into my pocket for the $3. He held his hand up. “No bring me a braciole. That is payment.”

“ I will.”

I walked back up Greenwood through the park. I carried our flank steak in the blood stained brown paper that Louie had given me. When I opened the door to our store, my mother was finishing with a customer. Her eyes riveted on my swollen face. She rushed to me. “What happened?”

I could hear Louie’s voice. The voice that sounded like it had been dragged through a fucking alley. I looked at her and smiled handing her the meat.

“I did a good thing.”

#World Series

0 notes

samanthasroberts · 6 years

Text

The Ultimate Beer Run

It’s not even 8:40 a.m. and I’m already sipping my first beer of the day. Normally, this would be early even by booze writers’ standards but I’m about to kick off Philadelphia’s annual Beer Week festivities.

We’re at the Hop Angel Brauhaus and Barry “Chez” Chezik is buying everyone their first beer of the day. “Because beer is a way of life,” he philosophizes.

It must be true, because 10 of us are way out here in the Fox Chase neighborhood, getting ready to board the Sugar House Casino double-decker bus to follow the path of a comically oversized hammer—the “Hammer O’ Glory,” lovingly known as “the HOG.” The oversized tool is the centerpiece of Philly Beer Week’s opening event, the so-called HOG Relay.

You don’t want to rush something like that, so we have 17 stops planned between the Brauhaus and the ceremonial Opening Tap, which is at The Fillmore, a concert hall in the Northern Liberties neighborhood. Drinking a beer at each stop is optional, and the HOG, like the Olympic torch, is handed over as each volunteer carrier completes a leg of the frothy sojourn. The modes of transport will be increasingly bizarre as the day progresses.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

The Hammer is bestowed upon its first guardian of the day and the carrier recites, as they will at each changing of guard: “Noble carrier, we entrust you with The Hammer of Glory, the omnipotent symbol of our beloved Philadelphia Beer Week. May your journey be safe. Work ye up a thirst, for there shall be a beer waiting for you at your destination. Godspeed!”

The first HOG carrier mounts an open-topped Jeep—a basic means of transport, but it’s five miles to the next stop—and we’re off. The weather is perfect, clear and sunny, about 75 degrees, and everyone’s having fun already.

As we get going a small bit of history seems appropriate. Philly Beer Week started 10 years ago when another Philly institution, The Book and The Cook festival, collapsed. There’d always been a strong beer component of the event, including an annual mass beer tasting by legendary writer Michael Jackson at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, and the beer geeks didn’t want to lose that. Out of the ashes Philly Beer Week was born.

The first year saw about 500 events (dinners, tastings, contests, festivals, and crazy stuff like beer dunk tanks and brewer “sumo” wrestling) across the city and suburbs. After swelling to more than 1,000 events for a few years, this year there are a more sensible 700, including the HOG Relay. The beer week conceit spread quickly, and there are more than 100 beer weeks around the world now… but Philly was, amazingly, the first one.

10:20 a.m., The Grey Lodge Pub, in Mayfair: The publican here, Michael “Scoats” Scotese, was one of two bar owners who dreamed up the idea of the Hammer (we’ll meet the other one at the end of the Relay). Why did Philly Beer Week need a Hammer? “We didn’t want it to get super serious, like a wine event,” Scoats admits. “It needed something stupid. We wanted something like the Olympic torch, and the mallet we were using to tap the opening firkin [a small keg] was kind of lame.” Philly metal artisan Warren Holzman forged the Hammer O’ Glory, and stupidity was ensured.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

The HOG is carried to the next stop by “The Running of The Santas,” at least eight people in a variety of Santa costumes. We board the bus again.

We miss one stop—the Philadelphia Brewing Company, where the HOG is transferred to a pedal-powered truck chassis tricked out as an AT-AT Walker from Star Wars—when the bus gets stuck under the elevated rail line on Frankford Avenue. “Too high under the El,” calls one spectator on the sidewalk, “just like everyone else!” We respond with laughter and cheers of “Philly Beer Week, baby!”

11:30 a.m., Evil Genius Brewing, in Fishtown: Christian Gunsenhouser, one of the “storm troopers” who pedaled the HOG here, is gulping down a beer to re-hydrate. “It’s always a big spectacle for Philly Beer Week, a huge gathering,” he says. “You just come out and have fun.” Evil Genius is busy, and there’s a long line of people queuing up for their fresh beers.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

One of them is State Senator Chuck McIlhinney, who recently steered a bill to the governor’s desk that helped update Pennsylvania’s backward booze laws. But today he’s just having a beer and some fun on the HOG Relay. “Philly Beer Week is still going strong after ten years and is emulated across the country,” he proudly says. “It’s a testimony to Pennsylvania beer culture.”

Back on the bus, and we follow two guys in green bodysuits who run the HOG to St. Benjamin Brewing. There it is handed off to a classic Mustang convertible escorted by motorcycles for the cross-town trip to London Grill, where owner Terry Berch McNally is waiting… dressed as Marie Antoinette, along with Chris McCollum, who is dressed as what he calls “Mantoinette.” As everyone’s having a good time on the sidewalk, a woman walks by with flowers from the florist a few doors down: “Happy Beer Week!” she calls out as she threads the crowd. Marie and Mantoinette mount a Vespa Scooter and take off down Fairmount Avenue. We follow on foot.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

Two stops later, we’re up in a 12th floor office in Center City (as we call “Downtown” in Philly), the home of the Billy Penn local news service. They’ve got cold cans of 2SP Brewing Delco Lager and ASAP IPA for us, and we watch Fergus Carey, owner of Fergie’s Pub and who dressed up as a mime today, hand off the HOG to Billy Penn’s culture editor, Danya Henninger. Naturally, Carey just shows Henninger the proclamation, and accepts his beer with a silent shrug. She’s in MC Hammer pants, a beautiful visual pun. We grab to-go beers and get on the elevator… eight of us get on the elevator… and it stops between the 4th and 5th floors.

We stay calm, drink our beers, and joke about cannibalism. One of Senator McIlhinney’s friends plugs a hand-sized speaker into his phone. “I’ve got Tom Petty, ‘Free Falling,’ he says, and we all laugh. Well, most of us laugh. When the firemen get the door open an hour later, we’re grinning and listening to the Who’s “Who Are You?”

But we missed four stops! Luckily, we’re able to walk to the Hammer’s next destination. We arrive just in time to watch the HOG pass local Greek tavern Opa, where it’s greeted with the traditional smashing of plates. It then turns down Philly’s shortest street, Drury Street, and comes to a halt at Tiki. The HOG is used with great accuracy and verve to smash three watermelons on plaster columns. Well done.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

We pick up the pace, as we push to get on schedule. The HOG is transported in quick succession by more motorcycles, a skateboard, and a bunch of bicyclists in star-spangled shorts. Then the Fishtown Beer Runners, more than 20 of them, carry the Hammer to Standard Tap, where co-owner William Reed is waiting. He’s the Hammer’s other father. He jumpstarts things a bit by Hammering a tap into a firkin of unfiltered lager, brewed at Sly Fox Brewing from a 100-year-old recipe by the 91-year-old Bill Moeller. He was the last brewmaster at the Schmidt’s brewery, which stood just a few blocks away. The beer is absolutely delicious.

What’s next for the HOG? “I can’t believe we haven’t blown it up yet,” Reed mused. “We’ve busted plenty of shit with it.”

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

And with that, the Philly Roller Derby girls skate off with the oversized tool, headed downhill to Yards Brewing. At this point, things turn into a real street parade. The brewers at Yards have built drum kits out of buckets and steel barrels. There are also vuvuzelas and a trumpet and bells. We’re escorted by this ad hoc marching band half a mile to Frankford Hall, then a block and a half to Garage and then back across Girard Avenue to Reed’s other bar, Johnny Brenda’s. He’s waiting for us in a space suit and is standing next to a golf cart tricked out as a lunar rover. Lights flash, the charge is recited one last time and the cart moves out. To mark the occasion, Reed is firing frosty blasts of carbon dioxide from the “cryogun” he’s rigged up.

We chase after Reed to The Fillmore and the Hammer O’ Glory is finally delivered to Tom Peters, who runs Philly’s world-renowned beer bar Monk’s Cafe, and George Hummel, owner of Home Sweet Homebrew, where many of the area’s brewers first learned to make beer.

The HOG is used to tap the opening keg and its frothy contents are dispersed to thirsty fans who have gathered around it… and with that pint the day is finally complete.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/2017/11/15/the-ultimate-beer-run/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2017/11/15/the-ultimate-beer-run/

0 notes

adambstingus · 6 years

Text

The Ultimate Beer Run

We’re at the Hop Angel Brauhaus and Barry “Chez” Chezik is buying everyone their first beer of the day. “Because beer is a way of life,” he philosophizes.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

The HOG is carried to the next stop by “The Running of The Santas,” at least eight people in a variety of Santa costumes. We board the bus again.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

What’s next for the HOG? “I can’t believe we haven’t blown it up yet,” Reed mused. “We’ve busted plenty of shit with it.”

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

The HOG is used to tap the opening keg and its frothy contents are dispersed to thirsty fans who have gathered around it… and with that pint the day is finally complete.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/11/15/the-ultimate-beer-run/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/167502077382

0 notes

allofbeercom · 6 years

Text

The Ultimate Beer Run

We’re at the Hop Angel Brauhaus and Barry “Chez” Chezik is buying everyone their first beer of the day. “Because beer is a way of life,” he philosophizes.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

The HOG is carried to the next stop by “The Running of The Santas,” at least eight people in a variety of Santa costumes. We board the bus again.

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

What’s next for the HOG? “I can’t believe we haven’t blown it up yet,” Reed mused. “We’ve busted plenty of shit with it.”

Courtesy of Stephen Lyford

The HOG is used to tap the opening keg and its frothy contents are dispersed to thirsty fans who have gathered around it… and with that pint the day is finally complete.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/2017/11/15/the-ultimate-beer-run/

0 notes

caredogstips · 7 years

Text

12 Highest-Rated Movies To Stream On Netflix While You’re Snowed In

Netflix and chill just got too real.

Winter Storm Jonas is returning a snowpocalypse to the East Coast this weekend, and that can only mean one thing: Make the binge-watching begin.

You could expend hours perusing the Netflix library or using secret codesto access sub-genres no one else got to go like.( I’m looking at you, Kurt Russell container top movies .) But if you’d rather go with a sure bet, here are 12 of the highest-rated movies on IMDb that are available on Netflix.

12 “Reservoir Dogs”( 1992)( IMDB: 8.4)

A bunch of busters are super cruel at plagiarizing diamonds.( Epitome: Giphy)

11 “To Kill a Mockingbird”( 1962)( IMDb: 8.4)

Universal

Racial tension and stuff. We’ve started a long way. #OscarsSoWhite

10 “Amlie”( 2001)( IMDb: 8.4)

This movie facilitates promote all the pictures of gnomes traveling “the worlds”. So there’s that.( Persona: Giphy)

9 “Oldboy”( 2003)( IMDb: 8.4)

Show East

Winstheaward for most creative apply of a mallet.

8 “American Beauty”( 1999)( IMDb: 8.4)

The bestmovie featuring a swim plasticbag.( Epitome: Giphy)

7 “The Shining”( 1980)( IMDb: 8.4)

Warner Bros.

Jack Nicholson does his bestEd McMahon impression.

6 “Django Unchained”( 2012)( IMDb: 8.5)

Django get … unchained.( Persona: Giphy)

5 “Cinema Paradiso”( 1988)( IMDb: 8.5)

Miramax

Who would’ve thoughtmovie theaters could be so stunning?

4 “Lon: The Professional”( 1994)( IMDb: 8.6)

Young Natalie Portman has become a assassin.( Portrait: Giphy)

3 “City of God”( 2002)( IMDb: 8.7)

Netflix

A feel-good story about two boys growing up in a brutal place, and, wait, never mind.

2 “Forrest Gump”( 1994)( IMDb: 8.8)

Giphy/ The Good Film

Tom Hanks is subtly part of every major U.S. cultural happening. What else is brand-new?( Likenes: Giphy)

1 “Pulp Fiction”( 1994)( IMDb: 8.9)

Miramax

Oh, I’m sorry. Did I smash your concentration?

The post 12 Highest-Rated Movies To Stream On Netflix While You’re Snowed In appeared first on caredogstips.com.

from WordPress http://ift.tt/2tNas4T via IFTTT

#IFTTT #WordPress

0 notes

thesunlounge · 5 years

Text

Reviews 292: Quiroga

For whatever reason, I feel a close kinship to the far-out sonics emanating from Napoli and among the many eclectic and adventurous artists working there, I am particularly zoned in on the productions of Walter Del Vecchio, otherwise known as Quiroga. With his label Really Swing and alongside a collection of like minded musicians and producers that includes the 291out collective, Dario Bass, Bop Singlayer, and Edizioni Mondo main-man L.U.C.A., Quiroga has created a wonderfully weird and completely unique universe, which, to paraphrase and expand on what I said in my review of Cups and Balls, mixes live instrumentation and sampling to explore the outer realms of library music, Italo funk, soul, chill-out, ambient, drone, and jazz fusion. And on Passages, the long-awaited full length from the artist released through Hell Yeah Recordings, all of these styles (and more) have been deftly woven into an immersive journey of paradise balearica. Riffed out expanses of stoner prog give way to laid back stretches of sun-kissed jazz, with sea foam pads washing over e-piano starscapes and cinematic orchestrations wrapping the heart in golden threads. Energetic house jammers break into funky keyboard freakouts, exotica textures morph and mutate through fourth world jungles, instrumental hip-hop burners sparkle with aquatic chill-out energy, and shimmering new age electronics ripple through interstellar oceans as the spirit is transported to some faraway dreamworld, one where all worries, anxieties, and fears melt away into a fantastical coalescence of Caribbean beaches, Hollywood sunsets, Mediterranean breezes, and Afro-cosmic jungles.

Quiroga - Passages (Hell Yeah Recordings, 2019) Passages starts with “Got Your Love,” which originally opened the B-side of Quiroga’s Vol 8 on Really Swing. Interstellar transmissions flitter while tribal machine toms interact with gurgling vocalisms. Aquatic squelches filter and flow as the drums pull away, leaving smeared out keys to hover, and as the rhythms drop back in, the vibe is like a dopamine kissed hip-hop instrumental, with cut-up breaks lead by jazzwise snares and claps rocketing around the spectrum. Voices diffuse in and out over layers of ambiance, resulting in a narcotic call and response of soulful cut-ups and spiritual falsettos. Synthesizer leads continue morphing joyously as the tripped out rhythms pull in and out, sometimes sucking the air away while ping-ponging electro oscillations fire amidst delirium voice layers. “Martinica Feelings” also comes from Vol 8 and features Luca ‘Presence’ Carini and Vincenzo ‘Warren’ Ciorra of the ever amazing 291out. Carini’s bass moves through romantic motions, sometimes pulsing low, other times slapping and quacking through zany prog ascents, while slow motion funk drums crush the air. Ciorra’s wah guitar traces hallucinogenic curlicues as pianos bang out midnight chords, and at some point, a delay soaked six string casts ethereal moonspells. Later, after a smashing drum and blazing synth passage, we break into a classical jazz guitar solo, all clean glassy perfection snaking amidst jangling tambourines and sensual bass slides. Harmonious mermaid choirs coo in the background while layered riffs execute magical conversations across the spectrum and there are these passages of beatless wonderment, with one seeing everything wash away as aqueous synth waves blow across the void, while another features gorgeous guitar webs floating above hand percussion vibrance.

At the start of “The Zoist,” synthetic wind blasts carry cyborg computations, equatorial arps flutter, and fat bottomed bass squelches ride on a lo-fi machine groove, with snare and kick cracking through spacey reverberation. Pads generate a calming glow and cut-up chime strands are threaded into the percussive panorama while Dario Basslino’s electric piano smears into starlight overhead. And as hissing voices raise hair on the back of the neck, the robo-basslines journey further and further into future funk fireworks. There’s a false ending that sets white noise whooshes and sunset pianos afloat amidst an ambient paradise, one that perhaps recalls film scores from the Golden Era of Hollywood. Then, as the drums work back in, conga accents and mechanized clicks mutate things into a low slung tropical house jam, wherein greasy basslines wiggle and slide, shakers push the body towards hypnosis, and pianos dance on sunbeams...the whole thing coming together and radiating that deeper than deep Moodymann glow. The B-side opens with “North Hollywood Witches” and its clippy kicks and snares stoking an ecstatic groove, with brass chords flashing and lowdown funk basslines slithering beneath the blaring flamboyance. Smoother than silk keyboard solos flow up and down the scale and cymbals and cowbells progress into strange electro patterns while the kick drum pulsates nervously. Wavering synth chords intertwine and the drums move into an irresistible swing, all setting the stage for what is surely the best synth solo all year…this monstrous and magnificent lead ripping through the cosmos and smothered in galactic delay, shredding ever towards the center of the universe and dripping layers of rainbow psychedelia over the stuttering machine funk jam out.

“Non dire notte” was released on Quiroga and Hell Yeah’s first collaboration, the Viaggio a Tulum EP, and again features Carini and Ciorra of 291out. Colorful tom fills and cymbal patterns set the stage, while a fuzzed out bass guitar drops weirdo doom riffs. Horror movie themes rain down from a stormy sky and huge tom fills push thunderous bursts of air before it all reduces to a haze of euphoric voices. The drums smash back in as Carini drops sludge funk bass sorcery and Ciorra’s guitars morph through delirious vibrato fx, coming out the other side like some sort of space age liquid. At some point, things take a turn, with everything fading away in favor of a mutant acid lines and cymbals that blur into granular static. Then, as the sinister rhythm section returns to stomp druggily through lands of shadow, harmonious voices are reduced to a feverish fog, freakedelic guitar licks disperse into phaserwave hallucinations, and Goblin-style synths climb ever higher towards a blood red moon. The first LP ends with the fittingly titled “Africa Addio (Ode to Fourth World),” wherein woodwinds from various cultural traditions bleat and scat over a hand percussion panorama. The ethno-groove is given further shape by shining mallet tones until an unexpected breakdown, and once the propulsive drum energies re-emerge, a contrabass slips and slides through freeform motions while brass synthesizers cast spells of exotica. Electric pianos are used for percussive effect and dance along mesmerically with the spiritual percussion groove and throughout the track, I detect touches of Finis Africæ, though as if merging with a wilder sensibility recalling Art Ensemble of Chicago or even Sun Ra. In other words, it’s music for interplanetary jungle treks and astral adventures into the rainforests of the Congo.

“Città di Mare” first showed up on Quirago’s Cups and Balls, and here appears in edited form. The original introduction of pot-soaked drumming and 80’s prog sequencing is excised and Quiroga drops us straight away into world where soft waves of fusion synthesis create ethereal dreamscapes above a massive downbeat shuffle, here sourced by Aniello Gentile. Electric piano lullabies, again from Bassolino, drift peacefully overhead and low slung bass guitars dance around the fretboard as the groove progresses further and further into smokey lounge territory. A deeply emotional synth solo soars above expressive tom fills and vibrant cymbal and shaker patterns, with everything awash in vibes of mysterious twilight. It’s almost as if the synthesizer solo is trying to mimic the paradise scats of a 50’s jazz diva, with the track evoking some fantasy rememberance of 1940’s era big city nightclubs. The e-piano sometimes works itself into hallucinogenic vibrato waves, while at other times it backs down into sultry blues fantasias surrounded by narcotizing synth swells. And completing the classical jazz vibe, the song softly fades away on brush stroke snare rolls, cymbal taps, and pianos that seem too disperse into vapor. “Luzhin Defence” marries woodwind synthesis and kosmische sequencing to create a new age starscape, one where galactic wisps generate underwater ripples. Existence itself slowly modulates through layers of aqueous fog and at some point, sequences constructed from glowing crystals dance through the mix. It’s as if Quiroga is scoring a 90’s RPG, specifically an exploration of some faraway gemstone cavern, with synthesizers sounding like plucked strands of glass, cushiony basslines dancing, and french horns bluring into cloudform majesty amidst a hypnagogic tapestry of Reich-ian minimalism.

In C-side closer “Amori Proibiti,” echoing e-piano chords are awash in AOR melancholia and synthesizers trail laser liquids. The drums smash on a perfect downtempo groove, with subdued yet funked out basslines following in support. Occasionally, the electronics oscillate out of control and blast the mix with starshine tracers while elsewhere, increasingly romantic piano excursions see high notes blurring into midnight panoramas. Finger rolling conga rhythms join in as the drums pick up energy and after a vocal bass synth sings soft fusion harmonies, the rhythms reduce to a hand drum whisper while at the same time, strings swell amidst alien textures, resulting in a stretch of synthesized symphonic majesty. Later, after the mix squelches into silence, the beats crack back in, now surrounded by interstellar cloudforms…these deeply affecting synth layers evoking some orchestra of the cosmos. Side D opens with “Chiaia Sunset” and its new age arpeggiations cycling amidst wisps of galactic light. A bouncy house rhythm enters…airy and hypnotic…with claps cracking, rattling cymbal patterns tickling the mind, and basslines moving with emotional funk fluidity. The vibe continues growing impossibly hopeful, resulting in stretches of pure ocean dance mesmerism, wherein drunken synths whoosh across the spectrum, further enchanting the spirit. Then comes a piano solo that is so perfect as to almost defy description…a simple yet timeless ivory led dream exploration that I can only compare to Cantoma’s “Sea of Blue” (which is about as high praise as I can possibly give). It’s so easy to close your eyes and sway along to the sunset incantations and tropical house vibrations, especially as the pianos back into radiant chord themes while increasingly trancey electronics add touches of cosmic ecstasy.

“Viaggio a Tulum” introduced me to Quiroga’s weird and wonderful world, as the track was first released by Hell Yeah back in 2017. We cruise on a hip-hop kissed house beat, with slapback snares carried by kicks, woodblocks, shakers, and cut-up tambourines. Oceanic synths cycle through each ear and a voice repeats “good”, bringing a perfect touch of summer anthem magic while squelching leads dance over sequential bubble clouds. Oscillations soar overhead and laser blasts mutate as a polysynth dazzles with neon melodics, which move in counterpoint to the booty shaking bass progressions. The stereo field is alight with pointillist keyboard patterns that circle toward the stars and all the while, string synth orchestrations bathe the body in spiritual warmth. The drums wash out at some point, leaving behind shakers and rimshots, and after whooshing blasts of sonic shimmer obscures all vision, we drop into funky fried fusion brilliace, with e-pianos dancing like Herbie Hancock, bass notes sliding into subsonic growls, and angel voices swelling into ethereal dissonance. And like in “Got Your Love,” Quiroga crafts a soulful call and response, with voices sourced from who knows where repurposed into a vibrant and jammed out vocal house climax. Closer “Bava” also comes from the Viaggio a Tulum EP and two years later, the track is a mysterious and otherworldly as ever. It’s like exploring an underwater cavern, wherein everything is smothered in hiss. Rhythmic clacks smear into drone psychosis and feedback voices scream as alien sonics bubble in from the depths, with Quiroga reveling in pure abstraction and making the enigmatic choice to conclude his epic journey of fusion kissed balearica with a futuristic experiment in musique concrète.

(images from my personal copy)

4 notes · View notes