#but the amount of excitement i feel is literally through the roof this album is gonna be so fucking good

[hyunjins]

UNVEIL : TRACK “CHEESE” / HYUNJIN.

#hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #stray kids #skz #bystay #mine: gifs. #i will denoise later i have to get ready KLFDJAFKJDALJFD #but the amount of excitement i feel is literally through the roof this album is gonna be so fucking good #also changjin.... for me... uwu 😳 #flashing tw

[lavenderbyun]

For Sunshine,

It might seem strange to have called a black and greyish brown tabby “Sunshine” (blame my then 5 y.o cousin brother), but really there isn’t a name that would fit her more. She loved being outside in the sun, she loved being cozy, and warm, and relaxed.

Where there was sunshine, there was Sunshine.

Born in October 2000 (I couldn’t tell you the exact date since it was less than a month after I’d turned 5), by this year she was over 100 in cat years, and almost 21 in human.

My Nanu (grandmother), who passed away December 2000, was the ‘midwife’ so to speak, for Sunshine’s mum, Chompa Lily. And as the only kitten from the litter we had all these years, for my mum and her siblings, Sunshine was the last connection they had to their mother. (we also kept Sunshine’s sister Jessie…but she ran away a while after moving in with my aunt, only to stop by some time later with a collar as if to let us know she had a new family)

Whilst I don’t remember the time she was born clearly, my sister and cousins love to reminisce how we’d once planned a scheme where one of us faked a broken leg for Nanu to be distracted as the rest of us tried to “free” the kittens.

Yesterday, I delved through our old photo albums in hopes of finding even a glimpse of her young adult life, but apparently she hated taking photos back then (proven by the one photo we do have where she’s running away). I'm glad old lady Sunshine didn't mind though!

In the early 2000s she would get stuck on our conservatory roof, get angry at my dad for saving a bird she was about to kill, and follow trails of dry cat food I’d lay out for her in our garden.

As an adult cat, she’d once been sent over to stay with my cousins to help with London’s everlasting problem - mice. I don’t remember a huge amount from that time, but I do remember that she’d leave my eldest cousin dead mice on her prayer mat. A token of affection of course.

She was the extended family cat.

We got Tiggy when Sunshine was about 10, and it was probably the only time we felt genuinely scared of her. Since Tiggy was a kitten about to be kicked out by my sister’s friend’s parents, we didn’t really have time to do any of the actual steps to introduce cats to each other, and to be honest, I don’t even think we knew how to. And that meant, a huge, angry ball of rage, absolutely infuriated by a new presence in her space.

They spent more than 10 years together, and only ever tolerated each others presence at a distance (insert the odd WhatsApp message where someone sends a photo in shock because the ladies are sitting on the same sofa).

When Tiggy had kittens, we then had these tiny balls of rage trying to hiss at Sunshine, and Sunshine just staring them down into submission…honestly, it was hilarious.

During the time my eldest sister, Anah, was away for university, Sunshine was catnapped by an old cat lady. Technically speaking, we knew where she was and that she was safe, but no one had the heart to take her back…no one of course, except Anah. Who, during the holidays, quite literally had a getaway car (aka our mum) so she could grab Sunshine and bolt. (The old woman of course went straight to my dad’s store and asked to speak to Anah, who suddenly felt guilty then made me pretend to be her on the phone and explain that we’d taken Sunshine back).

It’s funny that despite living almost 21 years, she was technically a senior from the age of 8. But honestly, we couldn’t really feel it until she was about 14. And god was she cute. As she grew older, she began prowling like a tiger (we’d compare her to Tiggy who honestly…kinda trots like a horse). She just reminded me of a sweet old lady, she wasn’t keen on hunting anymore, and was finally more into endless petting and affection.

When we first moved to Leicester we lived literally a road away from the local schools, which meant herds of children on our road every day at 3pm. In the past Sunshine wasn’t huge on kids, but geriatric Sunshine? She loved them. And at that same time everyday, you’d find her in the front garden surrounded by children.

One of my aunts has 3 daughters who love cats. The eldest would sit next to Sunshine on the sofa and pet her head, middle daughter would lie down next to her on the floor and give her kisses, and the youngest would get overly excited (we had countless “gentle hands please, gently” conversations showing her how to pet cats) causing her mum to worry she was bothering Sunshine. But Sunshine wasn’t an indoor cat, she spent plenty of time outdoors, and if she didn’t want their company she’d stay outside like Tiggy does when kids come over. She stayed for their company.

It was practically the same with all babies. Whenever they would cry, I would always say “lets go and see Sunshine!”, and they would instantly light up and become excited to see her. They loved her, and she loved them.

She was however very particular about her chairs. Once she got used to sitting in a certain place, she didn't like it any different. I was once sitting on an armchair she had claimed at the time, and she came and sat on me in the most awkward position - essentially forcing me off her chair. Another time, I had left my laptop on a chair she'd been sitting on, and she just stared at it, as if willing it to move. We once had a dinner party, and as I was putting the dinnerware away, I placed a pile of plates on a chair next to me, and I kid you not - I literally had to stop her from climbing on top of the pile and sitting on the plates. If she wanted to sit on a chair, she was sitting there no matter what.

In our new house, we finally had a cat flap. Theres a small utility area where the washing machine is, and it was basically Sunshine’s space. She slept on dirty laundry that had been separated into piles when she wasn't in the mood for the sofas, the cat flap gave her quick access to the garden, and more recently we put her litter tray there as she got too old to feel comfortable doing a wee outside.

But most importantly, this utility area was connected to the kitchen, and for Sunshine this meant easy access to nibbles. If someone was cooking, she’d be there for a snack without fail. Whether it was a chicken neck, a piece of fish, a little bit of cream, or even spring water from a tuna can, she’d be there. Countless moments of “Sunshine get out of the kitchen!”, “mum just give her that piece there”, and “yes baba? would you like some?” exist in that kitchen and utility area.

(I think it will be a while before I can go into the utility area without wanting to cry.)

I have so much more I want to say, but theres so much context and family history that’s linked to Sunshine’s life, I feel like we’d be here all week.

Basically, i love her and i miss her.

#babbles #bilai #idk if anyone will read this - i guess its mostly for myself

[azwriting]

The First Sleepover (The Writer and The Photographer, Harry Holland x Reader) - Chapter Six

Hi everyone, here’s chapter six! I hope you enjoy! If you haven’t watched the Phantom of the Opera, I recommend. it’s on Netflix in the U.S. so I apologize if it’s not in the UK and we can ignore my error. Also the girlfriend I reference for Tom, is not based off of any of the rumor girls he’s dating, just merely a subplot for the story. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! 

Summary: Tom returns home from filming and somehow Harry ends up in (Y/N)’s bed.

Warning(s): Sexual Tension, Sexual References (Not really), Phantom of the Opera spoilers(?)

Word Count: 1505

It was a good idea at the time, moving into the empty bedroom in Tom and Harrison’s flat. Harry had made the decision when they were both away filming and the flat was silent apart for himself and occasionally Tessa. But now Tom was back and Harry needed to get out of the flat before he lost his mind.

(Y/N) was propped up in bed, scrolling through the countless options on Netflix. She was not sure what to watch, even more unsure of how long she would be awake. Not with the thunderstorm outside lulling her into a state of tranquility. Settling on one of her all time favorites the young writer selected The Phantom of the Opera. (Y/N) had seen the musical multiple times in the U.S., but she always had a soft spot for the 2004 movie. It was after all her first exposure to the hauntingly beautiful music and not many five year old’s were attending broadway musicals. She clicked play and watched as the company logos played by, the eery candle lighting to display the title of the movie. As the title zoomed in to reveal the worn black and white postcard showcasing Paris in 1919, her phone let out a loud chime. (Y/N) raked her hands through her purple comforter searching for her phone, finding it by her thigh. She tore her eyes from the screen to see what notification was, a text message from someone who made her heart swell.

(Y/N)’s eyebrows furrowed as she texted back, “Yes?” Her phone buzzed immediately as Harry responded. “Can you get the front door?” Confused, (Y/N) paused her movie, jumped out of bed, and rushed down the poorly lit staircase, only almost tripping once. She unlocked the deadbolt and wrenched open the door to find a sight that made her giggle. Harry stood under the door roof, attempting to avoid the pouring rain, in a pair of grey sweatpants, a maroon hoodie, and his circular glasses perched on top of his reddened cheeks. (Y/N) could not judge, wouldn’t think of it either, as she was in her matching Star Wars pajamas and her thick square glasses. 

“Harry what’s wrong?” It was not that she minded his company, not at all, but it was midnight. 

“Um…” Harry scratched the back of his head awkwardly, trying to find the words to say. “Tom just got back from filming this afternoon and his girlfriend is over and…” Harry trailed off, his cheeks turning even redder. (Y/N) looked at him confused for a moment before a light bulb seemed to go off.

 Her eyes widened in realization at what he was inferring to, “OH! W-Well you can stay here for the night, come in!” She quickly ushered him inside and out of the rain. Harry let out a sigh of relief as he stepped inside the dry establishment, quickly kicking off his squeaky shoes. 

“Thank you, I couldn’t stay there a minute longer!” (Y/N) let out a quiet laugh as the twins were most likely asleep upstairs. 

“It’s no problem, really.” The Ginger began to move down the hall towards the living room, but (Y/N) quickly plucked the hood of his sweatshirt, halting him in his movements. “Where are you going?” H

arry turned in her grasp to look at her puzzled, “The couch?” (Y/N) giggled as she shook her head, was he insane? 

“No way, come on!” She nodded her head towards the stairs before she quickly bounced back up the stairs. Harry stood frozen for a minute, watching her zoom back up the stairs. Was she suggesting what he thought she was? “Harry!” Her voice shouted quietly down the stairs. He gulped nervously before following after.

Upstairs Harry entered the first door on his right finding (Y/N) already snuggled back into bed, patting the empty space beside her. He slowly closed her white door behind him and walked around the bed frame to the other side of the bed. (Y/N) watched as he awkwardly slid into bed next to her and pulled the comforter up to his shoulders. His head looking like nothing more than just a floating sea of curls. She snickered lightly as he continued to shift in her bed, trying to find a comfortable position. 

(Y/N) could feel his warm soaking through the comforter, warming her, as his hand accidentally grazed across hers beneath the covers. They both evaded each other’s eyes as their faces were painted a bright pink. This was the closest either of them had been to each other, ever. They were silent for a moment longer as they waited for the awkwardness to fade. Harry finally broke the silence, “What are you watching?” 

(Y/N) perked at that, “The Phantom of the Opera!” Harry nodded, a look of surprise on his look. 

“I’ve never seen it.” 

“WHAT?” (Y/N) slapped a hand over her mouth, her outburst hopefully not waking the twins. Harry only shrugged innocently, the tension between the two melting. She scoffed and grabbed her remote, “Well buckle up babe, you’re in for a treat!”

Throughout the movie, (Y/N) commented on certain elements of the movie and music, describing to Harry the use of imagery and symbolism hidden in the two hour and twenty minute movie.

“You see when Raoul asks if she’s fonder of ‘dolls, or goblins, or shoes’ it’s actually a reference to the decision Christine ultimately has to make between the dashing Raoul, the disfigured Phantom, or her singing career.”

“You’ll see that throughout most of the film, they keep the Phantom and Christine in opposite colors. Like Christine in white and the Phantom in black, or her in pink and him in red. The Musical doesn’t do this really so I always liked this little touch in the movie. They’re literally yin and yang.”

“Now when Christine chooses Raoul, I find that it’s her picking her childhood innocence and security, where as the Phantom was this darker, lustier love that was all consuming and not particularly right either. He is crazy so I see why she doesn’t pick him but…. What do you think?”

“I could literally write a thesis paper on all the symbolism in this movie!”

Harry was impressed, listening to all the little notes and comments that came out of (Y/N)’s mouth. He was intrigued by her interpretation of the movie and lyrics. He was also concerned with how many times she had watched the film and musical… not to mention how many times she listened to the album. He watched her more than the movie, watched as she mouthed along to the lyrics, twiddled around with her fingers as if she was playing an invisible instrument. He watched as her eyes watered observing the Phantom’s heartbreak on the rooftop as he watched Christine happy with her childhood sweetheart, the images reflecting onto her thick glasses. 

“I don’t know how I lived without you for so long.” The words that slipped from his mouth were no louder than a whisper, but (Y/N) heard them nonetheless. She turned and tilted her head up to look at him, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks. Their faces were close, their warm breath mixing in the small space in between them. 

“I’m not sure how I did either…” Harry’s eyes flickered down to her soft inviting lips as (Y/N)’s eyes did the same. Oh how the scales were tipping. Harry leaned in hovering just above her lips. Tipping, tipping, tipping…

“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!” Gerald Butler’s voice bellowed out loudly causing both of them to jump back startled, slipping out of the intoxicating presence of one another. The two eyed each other warily, unsure what to do. The amount of blood rushing to their faces in one day had to be concerning. 

“So um… w-who’s t-this old man again?” Harry pointed to the screen trying to distract from the fact that they almost kissed. His heart was showing no sign of slowing down though…

The next hour of the movie seemed to fly by, Harry and (Y/N)’s eyes growing heavy as they continued to shift lower and lower into the mass of pillows. Her head now rested on top of Harry’s chest as they struggled to keep their eyes open during the finale. “It’s just so sad,” (Y/N) yawned, “He loved her so much and now he’s all alone.” Harry only nodded, eyes closed, fingers twirling a small piece of (Y/N)’s hair. He wasn’t sure if it was the sleep depravity, the fact they almost kissed, her intoxicating presence, or just all his pent up emotions that made him finally speak his mind. 

“Go out with me?” (Y/N) hummed softly, sleep overcoming them both as the credits began to roll. “Hmmm, of course.”

As the morning sun began to stream into the bedroom the next morning, (Y/N) and Harry woke up in each other’s embrace, goofy excited smiles on both their faces. All thanks to Tom and his girlfriend’s extracurricular activities…

Taglist:

@aloneinherroom​

@ineedabifriend​

@with-my-soul-and-heart​

#Harry Holland #harry holland x reader #harry holland imagine #harry holland x you #Harry holland x y/n

[hazylucas]

My Everything | Prologue

Words: 1.5k

Title: My Everything I Prologue 1

Pairing: Taeyong x Reader

Warnings:  Fluff

Prologue 1 2 3 4 5

The sun spread through the curtain, its glorious rays radiating throughout the wide room. You immediately turned the other direction, as an attempt to avoid the brightness. By impulse, you reached your small hand out to the right to meet another warm body. He looked stunning. He always did. As you smiled, he immediately opened his warm, inviting chocolate eyes.

"Awake already?"

"It's way too bright."

You grabbed the blanket and forced it on top of both your and Taeyong's bodies. As you looked over, he reached his long hand out to your face and gently traced your jawline lovingly. What you loved about him was not just his personality, but the way he spoke to you without any words. You didn't need words around him, he just understood. He knew you loved him, and you knew he loved you.

"Y/N, I hate to say it, but we should probably get up."

"I agree. I call the bathroom first though!"

You immediately threw off the ivory, satin blanket and sprinted towards the bathroom's grey door. Taeyong took after you, but you were too fast, and immediately the door was slammed shut.

"Y/N!"

"You should've run faster!"

"My shift is before you!"

"Does it look like I care?"

You heard an audible sigh at the other side of the door as well as a low chuckle. It had been two years since you had been dating Taeyong, and ever since you moved in, it was a tradition to have a competition of who could reach the bathroom the fastest. The idea was silly, but it was fun to show him your running abilities and beat him. You glanced at yourself in the mirror to ensure you weren't breaking out and opened the wooden drawer. After you finished washing your face and putting on your makeup, you opened the bathroom door.

"Finally."

"Taeyong, I took literally 15 minutes."

"Felt long enough though!"

You reached over to the bed while grabbing a pillow and slammed Taeyong in the head causing a few feathers to fall out and stick to his blunt red hair. He dyed it due to a music video shoot with his band and even though you never said it, he looked like a living god.

"OW! YOU'RE GONNA GET IT!"

After 20 minutes of running around the room, throwing pillows at each other, the entire room was drowning in feathers.

"We should probably stop," Taeyong chuckled under his breath as he attempted to kick a few feathers under the shelf.

"Agree," you laughed.

You made your way to the closet and put on a light-pink off the shoulder top paired with cream-colored cotton shorts that had a feminine, professional bow at the top. It was one of the few days that you wore pink or even something feminine. One reason why Taeyong found you so fascinating was due to your ability to blend anywhere, with anything. You could wear a band t-shirt with a leather jacket and ripped jeans or a knee-length light blue dress and always look amazing.

"Wow. I have to say, that's one of my favorite outfits of yours." "Really? I'm glad you like it"

You spun around in your outfit, attempting to show off and giggled as Taeyong hugged your waist from behind.

9:10 a.m.

As Taeyong opened the car door, he reached out his pale, bony hand which you tightly squeezed as a sign of reassurance. Your jobs were utter blessings. Both of you worked at the same agency named SM in Seoul, South Korea. He was part of a large group named NCT which was one of the most successful groups of the country, releasing song after song and earning an endless amount of awards. He was a major figure in the group and he never failed to make you proud. As you entered the small elevator, Taeyong wrapped his arm around you and told you about what his group was planning. It was always exciting: world tours, fan signs, and interviews. However, it made you worried. Even though he put up a confident attitude, you felt that sometimes he felt down on things, down on himself. Yet, he always talked it out with you. You were always able to make him feel better about himself, and that's why you two worked out so well. As you walked through the corridor, you made your way to the wardrobe room, where you worked as a fashion stylist and makeup artist for the idols within the agency. Taeyong walked you to the door and waved to his friends sitting within.

"Don't have too much fun," he said while winking.

He kissed you once on the lips and it always made your breath hitch. His lips were plump near his cupid's bow and he always put just the right amount of passion into the kiss. In public, never too sexual and never too childish. His kisses were vanilla and honey mixed into one form with frosting on top. You could never get sick of him.

5:00 p.m.

After a long day of applying lipstick onto idols, you heard an attentive cough near the door.

"How is my princess doing?"

"I'm doing well. Just a lot of struggles with makeup on the boys. Oh, by the way, please don't let Taeil ever get mascara done. I'm pretty sure that he will end up losing an eye," you sighed remembering the two hours you spent on him.

"That's Taeil for you," he laughed.

He wrapped his arm around you once again, returning to his protective attitude and walked you out towards the matte, grey door. As Taeyong turned the steel handle, you immediately jumped, startled by the sight around you. Paparazzi swarmed every side of you, and the flashes repeatedly went off making you unable to see clearly. They had found you once again. Taeyong suddenly pulled you closer to him and lightly pushed your head down as an attempt to keep you safe from the sudden snaps of white light all around you. He quickly unlocked the door and the moment that you were in the car, you slouched down into the leather seat.

"I will never get used to that," you chuckled.

"Y/N."

"Yes?"

You glanced over at Taeyong to meet a solemn expression. His furrowed eyebrows and dark eyes stared at you while his lips were pulled in. He gripped the steering wheel with a death grip which was enough to indicate how agitated he was.

"Did they touch you?"

"No."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Do you want me to do anything?"

"No."

He let out a small sigh. The public knew that you and Taeyong were in a relationship, but you two did your best to avoid keeping things mainstream. He was possessive and wanted the passion and love to remain on the low. Taeyong knew that other idols thought that you were attractive and he did everything in his power to give the media as little information as possible. However, you were a talkative person which made his job harder than usual.

"Damn Y/N... I'm sorry. I have no clue how they found out that we were here. I promise that I'll try to get the agency to add more security. I swear if I see one more light snap, I'll lose my shit."

"Taeyong, it's okay. When we got into a relationship, I knew what was coming. I literally signed up for this. Don't stress. It's actually a lot of fun seeing the paparazzi chase us. It's like our morning games," you replied, trying to lighten the mood.

His facial expressions lightened, and the boy you loved so dearly returned. On your way home, you and Taeyong blasted your favorite songs. As soon as Limitless came on, your favorite song by his group, you two were yelling the lyrics and attempting to do the choreography while in the car. You ended up raising your arm too high and slammed it against the roof of the car. You and Taeyong laughed to the point where breathing had become painful and he repeatedly asked you to stop laughing before he ended up crashing the car. When you finally got home, you exited the car and eagerly attempted to unlock the door. Until you noticed the small package lying on the doormat.

"Hey, T?"

"Yeah?" 

"What is this?"

Taeyong strode towards you, concerned. You pointed towards the box on the ground and his expression slightly shifted until returning to normal. You found it strange, and you could not identify what exactly his emotions were earlier.

"Oh, this is the rough copy of the album we are planning to release to fans this summer." 

"Wow, already? I'm sure it will be great."

Taeyong talked about how work was as he entered the door, wavering on one foot due to his lack of balance from holding the small cardboard package.  Once you entered the room, you kicked off your blood red Louboutin heels and jumped onto the soft mattress. Taeyong chuckled at the sight, gently put the box down on the wooden desk, and laid down on the bed. He wrapped his arm around you and moved your head so that it rested in the crook of his neck, leaving you warm in his embrace. That's how you and Taeyong's relationship was.  An utter fairytale. But not every fairytale gets to last forever.

#nct #nct 127 #nct dream #nct lucas #nctsmut #nct u #nct 2018 #got7 #jaebum #jaehyun #taeyong #moon taeil #taeil #taeyong smut #taeyong fluff #kpop requests #kpop scenarios #kun #lucas #doyoung #winwin #yuta #yukhei #xuxi #jaemin #jeno #jisung #twice #kpop #fluff

[homieswithhades]

BTS Analysis;

I don’t even know if I can call this an unpopular opinion bc I know some people agree with this, this is more of an in-depth analysis and personal experience I guess. It’s all about bts... and its lowkey a mess. I apologise in advance for any grammar/spelling errors, and times I may contradict myself a bit. This is something that REALLY bothers me. I just want to clarify that I love bts a lot, and that I was the HUGEST STAN for a good 5ish months. I still stan them but not as much due to the following reasons.

They just don’t make good music anymore.  They love yourself era was when everything turned to shit. The actual core love yourself concept is very good but,,,, it was executed really poorly.

Dna was my first comeback with them, even though I’ve been listening to them since august 2016. But when actually became a stan in April 2017, I was obsessed with them. I was so damn excited for their September 2017 cb that my standards were through the roof. During the summer they changed the logo and did the beyond the scene thing,,, that’s the first thing that kind of irked me,,, and then they did the highlight reels in the style of I need u and they were redeemed.

When love yourself her started promotions and teasers, the bar was higher than the person who edited the DNA mv. The concept pics were so unfitting??? And just lacked that aesthetic element. I dint like them at all,,,, and the album cover was,,, below standard and looked rushed and lazily designed. But when serendipity came out I loved it (and I still do) so that fuelled my expectations for the music, even though they weren’t really that damaged by the odd first impression of the album. But then DNA came out and???? I was so disappointed?????? The beat was so annoying,,, the mv was so ugly,, the outfits were ugly,,, the lyrics were weird. In other words DNA was just a straight up flop... I hoped the rest of the album would have been better but,,,, it really, REALLY wasn’t.

After love yourself her I lost a lot of interest in bts. I missed their old music so much, and I was genuinely upset over it. I didn’t follow them as closely as I used to. I started to joke about them with my friends who lost interest in bts before me, but I still missed the old bts so much. The whole Ellen show thing, all the western media like Buzzfeed and Billboard making vids and articles about bts, all the rigged award shows, it pissed me off bc they were getting famous in the US bc of their worst album that didn’t display their full potential at all!!!!

Imma just go out and say it, armys are one of the most toxic fandoms ever.

Sometimes they’re just plain disrespectful and starting arguments where they don’t belong. I wouldn’t be able to count how many times I got attacked on Twitter, Instagram and even in the YouTube comments for expressing a different opinion. I remember all the fan wars and scandals. All the mobs at airports, All the times k-fans and i-fans tried to ruin another groups reputation (I’m not saying other fans never did this, bc it was always a thing, but it was never this extreme.) and the fuckin credit card thing oh my god,,,, a huge shitstorm caused by one fandom that lasts for years on end.

When bts got really mainstream, and gained more young western fans, they really ruined bts even further for me. Not to mention all the cringey tweets and memes, they hurt to look at. I absolutely don’t mind the “you got no jams” meme or the “ExCuSE mE” one, bc theyre just pure goof from the members, but when armys took it and overused it, that’s when it started to get annoying.

Some armys genuinely think bts is the only kpop group and that the world revolves around them. They comment “annyeonghaseyo any armys here???!!!” in the most unexpected places, I deadass saw someone on my overwatch team playing quick play with the name “army.FOREVER.saranghae” yall do realise it costs 10$ to change ur blizzard username, right?

Some armys also don’t respect other kpop groups in older gens (or any other ones for that matter) and assume that bts broke through into the western world themselves, which is complete bullshit, without groups like bigbang, shinee, tvxq, shinhwa, h.o.t,  seo taiji boys etc etc (and other ones I don’t know of rip) kpop would have never gotten into the western world.

I never identified as an army bc I knew they were cringey bc of my friends who were HUGE armys back in 2016 and low-key koreaboos, and I knew what the bad stans looked like, so I never associated with them, and just called myself a bts stan. But the whole western situation just got so goddamn worse. I was sick of the Americans plaguing bts for me.

I also wanna say, I know not all armys are toxic and cringey. And I respect the level headed and chill Armys, yall are doing it right.

Moving on from Armys, I noticed a change in bts themselves. Namjoon changed his stage name, which absolutely sent me. I understand the meaning behind it but for some reason I felt that he did it to be fake deep? Or woke, and that he tried to completely cover-up his past self. The other members became cocky and were always draped in all that ugly Gucci and designer shit. I knew they were being forced to act the way they were acting, bc I know them well. I know how they really are. I know that they’re good people. I know they’re very humble deep down. They had that special connection with their fans before, that made u feel like u were good friends with them, and they absolutely ruined that. They’re being forced to put on this fake image to impress you filthy Americans.

I still stan bts atm. But I stan them for their old music and the people they truly are, not who they are portrayed to be. I can’t remember when euphoria came out, but I was kinda annoyed they tried to incorporate hyyh prologue into their shitty concept. And the song was also annoying and too edm-ish (like most of their new songs, idk why their style completely changed). Anyway, when tear came out, I was still kinda off the bandwagon, and I saw the concept pics and I was surprised at how nice they were. I saw the album cover, which was still ugly but better than the previous one. Then Singularity came out and!!!!! I loved it a lot. And then fake love happened. Oof is all I have to say. But some songs on the album, were actually good. Like the truth untold, paradise and OUTRO TEAR. Outro tear will remain the best song in the love yourself trilogy.

I also feel that I have to acknowledge that for all the love yourself albums only the intro and outro were genuinely up to standard (except outro answer).

Then came love yourself answer and idol. When I found out they were collabing with niki minaj I lost it. The concept pics were ugly once again, it was supposed to a controversial comeback???? And??? It wasn’t. I’m honestly glad it wasn’t promoted.

I noticed a repetitiveness with songs on answer. The beat was off with the singing. It was all just a mess. I also noticed the amount of godddamn auto tune in the songs (eg, mic drop, fake love, idol, airplane pt.2 and others I can’t remember atm) all of bts’s old songs all sound unique and different, and they all had this “emotional” element to them, to elaborate on that, compare dna, fake love or idol to save me, I need u or young forever. Notice how dna, fake love and idol convey absolutely no emotion through the lyrics or the actual beat of the song, unlike save me, I need u or young forever, that literally have more sentimental/emotional value in the few English lines that are in the song then all of the lyrics in their 3 new title tracks combined. I think this is my most difficult point to explain bc different songs make people feel different things, but it’s no doubt that you can tell the difference between a song that’s made to appeal to the masses with no unique properties to a song that coveys deep emotion (whatever the emotion may be) through the beat, the lyrics and the sound of the vocals/rapping alike. Listen to intro nevermind, and then listen to go go and just try to tell me that im wrong.

Alos, bts seem to have incorporated auto tune into songs, especially on their vocalists. bts don’t need the auto tune bc they’re good vocalists. Also, I have to mention, the vocal line isn’t the “best” per say. they’re good vocalists but it’s nothing special. Seokjin is the best vocalist period. Jungkook’s voice is generic, and in recent songs he has been straining it to reach the notes. Taehyungs voice isn’t even that special, it’s just deep, and it only really suits ballads and R&B songs like singularity or butterfly. Jimin has a very nice voice, but again, it’s nothing extraordinary. I feel that Jin has the most vocal potential, and he doesn’t get to show it, he has this really unique voice, idk what it is about it that just??? I really love it. But to clarify, I’m not hating on their voices or saying there untalented, because they’re very talented, but most of vocal line gets too much credit. As for rap line, I think they’re one of bts’s strongest points. Namjoons style is so smooth and just overall good? It amazes me that he rapped so well over the years with a breathing problem. Hoseok is a good rapper too, his sound is unique and his adlibs add to that uniqueness in older songs, as for Yoongi, I genuinely think he’s one of the best rappers in the industry, it’s not about the speed element, it’s about his flow, his power, his emotion, everything about his rap is just amazing.

Now I wanna talk about the member’s individual popularity. The maknae line has the most stans, and quite frankly, their stans are the worst. Treat all of the members with the same love and respect. Sure, it’s perfectly fine to have a bias but to disregard the other members is just plain wrong.

Bts are human beings, first and foremost, and then there musicians second. They’re being made into media puppets and clout bait, which they absolutely don’t deserve. They deserve recognition for their good stuff, which they have PLENTY of.

All in all, I’m sick of the American attention. It’s cringey, annoying and unnecessary. Sure, bts deserve recognition but not that much of it!!!!!!

And they were being recognised for the wrong thing for fucks sake!!!! I didn’t like ANY of the new songs on answer. I only liked epiphany. And then I found out it wasn’t written by any of the members. Rip. Fans will unfortunately blindly follow, stream and like whatever they put out like blind sheep because it’s accustomed to them, bighit KNOW that they’ll make more money in America. They know no matter what bts put out, no matter how shit it is, fans will like it and itll be revenue for the company. And all the mobile games and the bt21??? Was so unnecessary?? Capitalism amirite? Quantity over quality. It’s the sad truth.

Armys tend to mix up criticism and hate. Although there is a very thin line between the two, there is a difference. Criticism is the analysis and judgement of the merits and faults of something. Hate is blind and unjustified. Hate is disliking something for no reason, or for a very invalid reason. So for example, saying; “I don’t like this apple because its bitter and im not a huge fan of bitter things” is fine to say, unlike, “FUCK THIS APPLE BECAUSE ITS BITTER, FUCK ALL APPLES” you know? It’s okay to dislike a group. It’s NOT okay to hate on a group. No one’s is going to gain anything by hate.

So, all the youtubers are reacting to bts for clout, the fandom is a fucking mess, armys are attacking other fandoms for no reason, the members lost their TRUE humbleness and neglected their real personalities and they’ve put out 3 overall bad standard albums over the course of a whole ass year.

But I still have this spark of hope for them. Why? Because I love them, they have a special place in my heart. I know they have the potential to be amazing, unique and just overall good people with their own personalities, and truly special musical abilities.

After their tour I honestly, really hope the attention dies down and they put out another good, original, album like the hyyh albums, with nice concepts, good songs, and a pleasant to look at mv. It’s really all I ask for. The old bts. I know I’ll never get them back, and I absolutely cherish their old stuff, like the bulletproof logo, bangtan boys, rap monster, hyyh, young forever, no more dream, wings, them all goofing around together and not caring about their image, their wholesome interactions with fans, and all the songs and concepts and theories that never have, and never will be recognised.

On a final note, I realise I can’t blame bts themselves entirely for this. This stuff is only partially “their fault”. Its bighit’s fault, the army’s and haters fault and the media’s fault. But, America is to blame the most. That’s all for today.

#delete

[animegirl266]

Just Say Yes|| Jack Avery|| Why Don’t We Imagine|| Part 3

Sunlight screams at your eyes as your little sister, Marina pulls open the blinds in your bedroom. You groan, pulling the blankets over your head as she says, “Rise and shine! You can’t stay in bed forever. Stop sulking already!” 

“Get out, Mare!” You scream at her, the frustration clear in your voice.

“Not until you get up.” You can’t see her, but you know she just crossed her arms over her chest. 

“Get out!” You scream again, sitting up and throwing your pillow at her. She shrieks, running out of the room, slamming the door behind her. You fall on to your bed, closing your eyes. As much as you know she’s right, you can’t even imagine getting out of bed right now.

It’s been six months since you started dating Jack. You planned to visit him during your Christmas break, but being in college now, you realized that your break is only a three day weekend. Even so, you thought you could spend those three days in LA, but with money tight at your house, your mom said they couldn’t afford you a ticket. And you couldn’t drive there either, considering you still don’t have a car. You’d been looking forward to seeing Jack and all the boys for months now, thinking the whole time that you’d be able to spend Christmas with them. With reality crashing down on you all at once you slumped into severe disappointment, hence your sulking that Marina and your mom have been pestering you about for the last week.

Your phone beeps, notifying you of a reminder. Grabbing it from your bedside table, you look at your lock screen.The reminder reads: December 23rd. Get packing! Leaving for LA tomorrow! 

You had made your calendar last month and had forgotten to delete the notification. “Uuuugh!” You moan, dropping your phone on your bed. After a few moments of blissful silence, your iPhone starting ringing. What now? 

You pick up your phone, looking at it reluctantly. You read Babe on the top of your screen. Jack was Facetiming you. You press accept, and are greeted by Jack’s handsome face. 

“Hey, gorgeous.” He smirks at you, making you giggle. 

“Hi, baby.” Worry flashes across his face as he takes a better look at you, noticing the bags under your eyes, and the sadness written on your features.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is soft and tender, yet raspy with the early hours of the morning.

“Nothing. I’m just bummed that I won’t be able to visit you guys like I planned.” You shrug, trying your best to not make him worry like he always does. 

“What do you mean you won’t be able to visit us?”

“Jack, I told you like, three days ago. Were you not listening?” You furrow your brows, frustration replacing your sadness. 

“No, no. I was. Did you check your mail today?” He slumps back against his couch and you can just imagine him crossing his legs, resting his ankle on his other knee. 

“What? No. Are you trying to distract me?” Jack laughs at your accusation, a beautiful smile playing on his lips. 

“Just go look.” You raises an eyebrow at your boyfriend, but do as you’re told. You leave your phone on your bed, telling Jack you’ll be right back. A couple minutes later you return to your room holding an anonymous letter addressed to you. You wave it in front of the camera, getting Jack’s attention. 

“What’s this?” You ask, pursing your lips as you sit on your bed. 

“Hmm... don’t know. Maybe you should open it and see.” He suggests with a wink. You laugh and start ripping open the envelope. Jack’s eyes never leave your face which makes you blush and giggle as you continue to open the envelope with your fingers. You dump the contents on to your bed and gasp. A single plane tickets sits on your sheets. “See you tomorrow, beautiful.” With that, Jack hangs up and you’re left there, staring at the plane ticket in awe.

You step out of the plane and into your gate, looking around for the boys. Jack texted you before you took off, telling you the all five of them would be waiting for you when you landed. After literally five seconds of looking you found them... or more, they found you. “Y/N!” You hear the lanky boy you call your best friend scream. You get a sense of deja vu as you charge into his arms. You hold on to Daniel for what must of been a whole five minute. Someone taps your shoulder and clears their throat. You turn around, retreating out of Daniel’s grasp.

“Just saying, usually the boyfriend gets the first hug.” Jack says, running a hand through his curls. You laugh and throw yourself into your boyfriend’s arms. You stand on your tip toes to nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and he rests his chin on the top of your head. Pulling away, you place a kiss on his lips and turn your attention to the other boys.

On the drive to the boys’ house, you sit next to Zach. “You ready for a Why Don’t We style Christmas, Y/N?” He asks, making sure to get you in frame for his Instagram story.

“Lay it on me!” You smile at the camera with a wink.

The Why Don’t We house is in full season. Christmas lights hang from the roof, there are reindeer in the yard, and Corbyn has a stash of candy canes in his coat pocket. Entering the house, you get a full blast of holiday spirit. There are pine wreaths hung on the walls, peppermint and pine scented candles adorn every surface, and a breath-taking Christmas tree sits in the living room. Beautiful ornaments, strings of lights and popcorn, and a glowing, golden star decorate the tree. It’s so easy for you to imagine all five of the boys and their friends huddled around this tree, laughing as they decorated. 

The boys’ laughing brings you back to reality and you realize how long you had been staring at the tree. A blush blossoms across your face as you look down at your feet, placing a stray hair behind your ear. “You’re so cute.” Jack says, kissing the top of your head on his way to the kitchen. 

That night, all eight of you (eight being, you, the boys, David, and Aspen) sit around the Christmas tree in the living room, eating dinner. You sit there for hours, laughing and sharing stories. You don’t know when, but some how you end up in Jack’s lap, snuggling in front of everyone. At midnight, you wait a second before bursting out, mid-conversation, “Merry Christmas!” You and Zach say it simultaneously, making everyone laugh. 

Your Christmas was magical. All day, the boys made you feel like a princess, doing little things like opening doors for you, or pulling out your chair. But at the same time, you felt like one of them, engaging in idle banter with Jonah and poking fun at Corbyn with Zach.

When it was time to exchange presents you were jumping in your shoes, excited to see the boys’ reactions. You had bought them each a gift or two, hoping they were the perfect ratio of thoughtful and casual. You gave each of them their bags, watching as their faces went from shocked to happy. You had spent a considerably large amount of money on their presents, without your mother’s knowledge, of course. You watched Jack shrug on the Adidas jacket you had gotten him, the color contrasting from his skin perfectly. “You look great, babe.” You smile at him as he turns to you. “Do you like it?” You ask hesitantly. 

Jack presses a kiss to your lips, resting his forehead against yours. “I love it. Thank you.” 

Later that night, after your shower, you sit beside Jack on his bed. He leans over, kissing your forehead before pulling back. “Here, Y/N. Merry Christmas.” Jack places a small box in the palm of your hand. You smile at him before opening it. You stare down at what the tiny box holds inside, an infinity necklace with studded Amethyst crystals, your birthstone. You place your hand over your mouth, something you find you do a lot when you’re with Jack. “I love it.” Jack takes the necklace and puts it on you. You beam at Jack’s present, holding the necklace in your hand.

You look up at your boyfriend seeing unease on his face. Placing your hand on his, you ask, “You okay?”He tilts his head slightly so he’s at your eye level.

“I uh... I have something to tell you.” You get worried for a moment, but reassure yourself that Jack would never do anything to hurt you. You nod, urging him to continue. “The boys and I are gonna go on tour again in a couple months to promote the new album, and I won’t be able to see or talk to you a lot when we leave.” Your face falls, and you stare down at your lap. You text Jack every single day. To think that he’ll be out of reach for weeks... months. It’s too much for you to comprehend. 

“So... I was thinking,” He continues, catching you off guard. “Will you come on tour with us?” Your breath catches in your lungs. Your head snaps up, and you look Jack in the eyes.

“Ar... Are you serious?” Your voice is airy as you laugh. The thought of coming with the boys on tour didn’t crossed your mind. You never dreamed of going around America, considering the low income your family has dealt with your whole life. 

“Of course I’m serious. I don’t get to see enough of you. Spending two and a half months with you on the road sounds too good to turn down in my head... Say yes, Y/N.” You love this about Jack -  the way he pushes you to do new things. The way his eyes light up at the sign of adventure. Jack says that a lot to you - just say yes, and you can never turn him down. 

“I’d love to come.” You smile at your boyfriend, suddenly thrilled. You jump into his lap, giving him the biggest hug possible. You kiss him, pecking at his lips. He holds the back of your head, bringing you in for a longer, more meaningful kiss. “I’ve never been more excited for anything in my life.”

#jack avery #jack avery imagine #jack avery fanfiction #why dont we #why don't we imagines #why dont we band #why dont we boys #wdw #daniel seavey #zach herron #corbyn besson #jonah marais

[amberrileynews]

Onetime Glee star Amber Riley has caused a sensation in her first major theatrical role, winning this year's musical actress Olivier Award for her performance as Effie White in Dreamgirls at the Savoy Theatre—a production said to be heading for Broadway. One recent evening found the performer sporting newly shorn locks and joining her colleagues for a late-night celebration of music and song at London's W Hotel in Leicester Square, the event part of a series known as West End Unplugged. So, it was impressive barely 12 hours after she had finished her roof-raising set (Chaka Khan's "Tell Me Something Good" among the songs covered) to find Riley up for an early-afternoon chat embracing any number of topics, including the release this week of the new Dreamgirls cast album, which was recorded live. Riley was in fine, expansive form, as is evident below.

How are you doing today after giving your all at the W Hotel into the wee hours last night? You know, as soon as we finished, I was outta there, but it was so much fun. Doing things like West End Unplugged kind of recharges you because it can be a little bit difficult doing the same thing every night. How are you finding the show some six months or so into the run? I can't believe I've actually been [in London] since last September! I really feel as if my job is to try to give something different each night but to also try to stay in the moment as the character every single night. The show, we hope, is exciting to the audience because they've never seen it, and because it's new for them, it's new for me. Have you settled into a routine? It's taken me a while to kind of come up with one, but it's really about going to the gym because when your body is warm then your voice is warm. I steam twice a day, do vocal exercises, and there are certain teas that I drink throughout the day. I came here to do a job, not to socialize or be on holiday, so everything I do during the day is for the show that evening. And I really enjoy being in the show, so for me it's not a burden to do those things. Singing is my life's joy.

Are you aware of your voice perhaps changing—even strengthening—as the run has gone on? It has! The voice honestly does get stronger if you take care of it. [Maintaining it] requires a certain amount of cardio and energy, and I'm finding as I go on that there are different places in my voice that I didn't realize were there; I'd never initially thought of myself as a belter. Is it useful having several alternate Effies [Marisha Wallace and Karen Mav] with whom you can trade notes? I've seen both of them do [the part], which actually really helped me because when you're in a show, you don't really see it. So, I was able to go, "Oh that's a laugh there," or "I need to be turned out right there." What's fascinating is that all three of us do Effie completely differently and sing the songs differently. Was it weird for those audiences watching you watch the show? [Laughs] I was hiding in the booth with the sound engineer. Was your very first experience of Dreamgirls the celebrated Tony Awards clip on YouTube of Jennifer Holliday from 1982? That was it! I watched that online and then I saw the movie when it came out and that was when I was really, like, "Oh my God!" Dreamgirls has always been my favorite musical, and I have always been enamored with the music from it. I had been completely blown away by Jennifer Holliday and then to see Jennifer Hudson, who's like my generation, in this movie was, like, "Yes!"  I was obsessed with the movie and could recite the whole thing, word for word, lyric for lyric.

Were you counting the years until you could do it? I truly never thought this show was in the realm of possibility. Number one, I never considered myself a belter: I don't sound like Jennifer Holliday or Jennifer Hudson; I don't sing like them, and I don't have that belt like they have. I remember toward the end of season one on Glee when Ryan Murphy said to me, "OK, you're going to sing `And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going,'" I said, "Please don't make me!" But he was, like, "Oh, it will be fine," and when I recorded it in the studio, my legs gave out. I had never sung like that in my life, so it was about kind of discovering that part of my voice on that show. Was a stage version the obvious next step? At the time, no one was talking about putting it back on Broadway; that wasn't the conversation. It was my agency who told me that they were doing Dreamgirls on the West End. My agent is [director-choreographer] Casey Nicholaw's agent, so I was asked if I would come to New York and audition. I had literally just had surgery and had to fly and my voice was not all the way there and they wanted me to sing "And I Am Telling You ..." and "I Am Changing," and I said that I couldn't sing both of them, so they said, "OK, do one or the other," and then they loved it. After that, I had to come to London to audition for the producers and I had to do both songs and had a cast on my foot and bronchitis, but somehow I got through them. That was one hell of a year!

What about the acting side of it, which must have been a separate issue? I was actually a lot more concerned about the acting. I wanted to prove myself as an actor and get out of this pigeonhole realm of thought that I can only sing because on Glee I was considered a singer: I was the one that came on with a song and took it home. That's why Casey was, like, "Here's why we are having you do all these lines" [at the audition]. Effie has to be able to carry the acting part as well. How do you feel about the cast album coming out this week? What's great is that they literally just recorded the show live at three different shows and then they put in whatever they felt was the best. I asked Sonia Friedman Productions if they could put a listening party together for everyone in the show so that they can hear it, and it was so amazing. There were so many tearful moments and so many laughs. Do you like listening to yourself sing? I don't hate it, but it's not like I go online to listen to myself sing or listen to myself in the car. At times, you do kind of cringe because you can hear things that maybe other people can't. When I listen to myself, I think I'm more likely to criticize it than enjoy it. What are your memories of this year's Olivier Awards, where you brought down the house as a performer—and won the musical actress trophy? It was all just so surreal. My mom was here and my sister. I try to take every experience how it is and, of course, part of you knows that nobody is going to care in a couple of days, but, to me, that [night] is going to be something I remember for the rest of my life. I may get to sing at the Royal Albert Hall again or I may not, but it was about just taking in the moment while I was there. Any thoughts on Broadway, where this production is rumored to be heading? I know the reception would be great if this production does go there and that it would be a great move. We've had so many people from America at the show here and when I go to the stage door to sign, there are people from New York or North Carolina, Texas and Florida and all over. And you want to be part of it in New York? If it goes, absolutely!

#amber riley #dreamgirlsldn #broadway.com #interview

[newyorktheater]

With two weeks left in 2018, it’s a time for assessments of the year in New York theater, for better and for worse.

  Top Ten Lists of Top 10 New York Theater 2018

“The Ferryman” was the most popular play or musical among critics whose top 10 lists for 2018 are featured below, followed by “Angels in America” and “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child.” Other shows that made at least four critics’ lists: “Dance Nation,”  “Three Tall Women,” and “Oklahoma!” It’s worth pointing out that five of these six favorite are straight plays; the most popular musical among critics was a re-conceived revival staged in Brooklyn.

  Poll: Worst Broadway Show of 2018

  Poll: Best Cast Recording of 2018

The Week in New York Theater Reviews

Nassim

“Nassim,” a play by Iranian playwright and performer Nassim Soleimanpour, is deliberately disorienting, both for the audience, who’s told virtually nothing about the show beforehand, and for the “guest” actor,  who is different for each performance…But if “Nassim” is an example of what you can call trickster theater,  with lots of teasing, it winds up not just clever, but charming, and even warm-hearted. And it offers several lessons, both literal and emotional, that illustrate how language can serve as both barrier and bridge between strangers.

The Net Will Appear

In Erin Mallon’s sweet, modest play, an unlikely rooftop friendship develops between a 75-year-old man and a nine-year-old girl.

Richard Masur is terrific (as always) in portraying Bernard, who sits on the roof of his home, dividing his time between drinking and bird watching. Rory, a talkative, precocious nine-year-old (portrayed by the precocious fifth-grader Eve Johnson), suddenly appears on the roof of the house next door, determined to engage her grumpy neighbor against his will.

Ruben and Clay’s Christmas Show

At the very end of their Christmas show, running through December 30th at the Imperial Theater on Broadway, Ruben Studdard and Clay Aiken together sing the 19th century Christmas carol “O Holy Night.” Their duet is so lovely and powerful it seems to pierce the heavens. It would be mean-spirited and inaccurate to say the two hours preceding it feel like a trip through hell. The feeling is more like a trip to the moon, since so much of “Ruben & Clay’s First Annual Christmas Carol Family Fun Pageant Spectacular Reunion Show” – which is the show’s official, and alarming, title – is made of cheese.

Springsteen on Broadway on Netflix

“Springsteen on Broadway” begins with The Boss explaining what it takes to play before “80,000 screaming rock n roll fans,” but the two-hour show is mostly a lesson in intimacy. This was true when he performed solo for 900 or so nightly audience members in Broadway’s Walter Kerr Theater, where it was supposed to run for just eight weeks, but closed last night after 14 months. It’s even more of a lesson, paradoxically, now that it’s playing for some 100 million streaming subscribers

Miranda in Mary Poppins Returns

Lin-Manuel Miranda in Mary Poppins Returns:What the critics say

  The Week in New York Theater News

After 15 years, Avenue Q will close in April. The musical about young adult puppets trying to make their way in the world began Off-Broadway in 2003, transferred to Broadway, won Tonys, and then moved back to Off-Broadway (at New World Stages ) in 2009.

Rebecca Naomi Jones as Laurey and Damon Daunno as Curley

There’s a bright golden haze back on Broadway! The sixth revival of Oklahoma!, this one the hip production from St. Ann’s Warehouse, will transfer to Broadway’s Circle in the Square opening April 7. The corn’s not as high in this version.

The Mother by Florian Zeller (author of The Father) about a woman adrift in middle-age, featuring Isabelle Huppert, Chris Noth, Justice Smith, and Odessa Young will be produced at the Atlantic Theater Company, February 20 to April 7, opening March 11

Roman Banks,20, has been hired as the understudy for Connor Murphy, Jared Kleinman…and Evan Hansen. “I’ve gotten endless amounts of messages from people of color, both young and old, telling me how much it means to them that I’ll be playing the role…”

One theater marketer discovers: Theater attendance drops in the three weeks before an election,

  Congratulations to the theater nominees of the 9th annual #clivebarnesaward:

Edmund Donovan (Lewiston/Clarkston), #IanDuff (Dutch Masters), @Will_Roland (@BeMoreChill ), and @aanavee (@CollectiveRage).

Award announced Feb 11 pic.twitter.com/B1aAd9lYi1

— New York Theater (@NewYorkTheater) December 12, 2018

Congratulations @harryphordHarrison for winning 2018 @relentlessAPF + $45,000 for his play “The Bandaged Place,” about an abusive relationship between two gay men. pic.twitter.com/QhyA02lmTU

— New York Theater (@NewYorkTheater) December 14, 2018

James Cusati Moyer and Ato Blankson-Wood

New York Theater Workshop is putting on a deliberately provocative play, Slave Play, and people are provoked. Apparently egged on by an article in MediaTakeOut (“the most visited African-American news network”) that attacks Jeremy O.Harris’s debut Off-Broadway play, the fury has gone viral on Twitter. It’s not clear that the most vociferous of critics have seen the play or even read the reviews that explain that the slave-master sexual couplings in the first half of the play turn out to be role-playing by 21st century interracial couples as part of their therapy.

It’s so surreal to me that after two weeks of having some of the most enriching and exciting convos with black people who felt seen, affirmed, and exhilarated by Slave Play. A couple loud idiots saw a post on MediaTakeOut and have decided to get fully psychotic in my mentions.

— Jeremy O. Harris (@jeremyoharris) December 14, 2018

Earlier this year, San Francisco’s Z Space launched its inaugural Problematic Play Festival. “I was much more receptive to plays that might have made me hesitant or offended me in different circumstance,” write Maggie Gaw, a literary manager who helped select scripts for the festival.

  Betty White, who’s been an entertainer for 80 years, explains why she’s never performed on Broadway. (they actually put this as a refrigerator magnet for sale)

Rest in Peace

Charles Weldon, 78, artistic director, Negro Ensemble Company. He was also an actor in such films as Serpico and Malcolm X.

Jazz singer Nancy Wilson, 81, whose albums included “Broadway — My Way”

Best and Worst New York Theater of 2018. #Stageworthy News of the Week. With two weeks left in 2018, it's a time for assessments of the year in New York theater, for better and for worse.

#Avenue Q closing #New York City Center at 75 video #Slave Play controversy

[heartslogos]

the declassified texts of the inquisition’s elite [162]

(914):  I'm sorry I crashed your motorcycle and watched you get robbed from a rooftop. Will you please come back or at least drop off my shoes? - (813):  She picked a quarter off the floor, kissed it "for luck" and won the $20,000 jackpot. She bought dinner and stayed sober to drive us home. This is a typical example of a visit with my sister. -

“Don’t tell me you left her there.”

“It’s Ellana,” Sera says meeting Evelyn’s disapproving gaze with a flat look of her own, “You think her not having her shoes is going to stop her from parkour-ing her brand of disaster all over the city? No. The answer is no and you know it. The only reason she hasn’t turned up yet is probably because she’s found even more trouble to get into. Not because she’s stuck on a roof and can’t get down because she’s afraid of getting her delicate feet dirty.”

Evelyn holds Sera’s flat gaze.

“Of course it’s not going to stop her, Sera. Frankly nothing can stop her and I’m glad she’s one of ours. I’m giving you this look of disapproval not because she might be on that rooftop — she definitely isn’t — but because you left here there and you’re the last one who had eyes on her. She’s somewhere out there doing god knows what causing all sorts of trouble that I don’t have eyes on. With my luck she’s going to turn up in a few hours with an entire group of expats with criminal records, highly illegal substances, animals from some kind of underground trading ring she’s just busted clean open, or all of the above at once with some sort of drug angle.”

Sera scowls, “She crashed my bike. Dagna modded that bike for me for my birthday.”

“She didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Don’t care. I can be pissed.”

“You can be as pissed as you like, but you shouldn’t have left her alone.”

Sera throws her hands up. “The woman is thirty five years old. She doesn’t need constant supervision, least of all from me, a twenty four year old. Isn’t supposed to be the other way around? Why are we always babying her? It’s so stupid.”

Evelyn leans forward. “Sera. If someone put a nuclear bomb on legs and gave it a random AI matrix to give it a sense of direction, would you feel comfortable letting that go unmonitored for long periods of time in an unknown place?”

“Are you comparing Ellana Lavellan to a nuclear bomb?”

“I can’t think of anything more dangerous and wildly unpredictable,” Evelyn replies. “Answer the question.”

“Fuck you,” Sera shoves out of her chair and storms towards the door, “Fine. I’m gonna get her. I’m mad though.”

“You can be as mad as you want, that’s between you and her,” Evelyn calls out after her, “Send someone else for all I care. Just make sure someone has eyes on her and report it back to Leliana so we can make sure she isn’t about to ruin something.” - “Every time I hear about Edric going home I get excited for a new story like I’m waiting for a new album to drop or a new episode of my favorite prime time drama,” Herah says as she flips through papers on Edric’s desk. “It helps to offset the annoyance from not being able to find literally anything because his organizational system is so fucking wild that it’s like you need to go through five layers of categorization to understand what the fuck is going on here. The man writes his personal notes in code. Three codes. You have to break all three in the correct order to understand what’s going on. He’s got problems.”

“He’s Carta,” Max says from the doorway as he rapidly types a reply to Edric, “And he says that he left all relevant materials with Josephine. Are you sure Josephine doesn’t have anything else?”

“Josephine doesn't mess up. Edric does. Also, what’s relevant to Edric isn’t what’s relevant to me. As you can see by the fact that I’m struggling this much with his bullshit organization system, we don’t think a like at all.”

“Can we make do without turning over Edric’s entire office? He’s already going to be a mess when he comes back, we don’t need to add onto that right?” Max says checking his watch. “We’ve got to go if we’re going to make it in time. herah, we’ll make do without tit, okay? Or we can have someone else come up and carefully go through Edric’s things and then send us whatever it is you’re looking for later.”

“Fuck, fine. I don’t like not having everything at once.” Herah throws the file she was looking at onto Edric’s formerly neat desk, as if to spite him. “If the documents I’m missing prove to be key to busting this whole case open I’mma have his ass and no amount of mandated leave is going to fix him when I’m through with him.”

“Delightful imagery, let’s go.” Max starts moving down the hall towards the elevators without her, pausing to stick his head into one of the unassigned office spaces used for interns. “Do any of you work with Edric Cadash frequently enough to understand his codes and organizational systems?”

Two hands tentatively raise. Max points at them.

“Wonderful. If you’re working on anything else, stop and report back to whoever it was that Maxwell Trevelyan is pulling you in order to work something for him. Herah Adaar and I are both taking over one of Edric’s cases while he’s on mandated leave and we need some of his notes which I’m guessing you know are absolutely ridiculous to handle. Get into contact with either of our assistants for the case details and they’ll put you in touch with us so we can clarify what we’re looking for. In the mean time we’re heading out for a preliminary hearing in Orlais. Do not call either of us. We will not answer. Also if anyone gives you grief about any of it tell them to take it up with Leliana. That’ll shut them up quick.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

[ecotone99]

[RF] Liberal Arts

Francis walks like he knows exactly where he’s going, even though he’s in foreign territory. He strolls into the room, and pauses. He’s not alone, there’s another girl already waiting. She looks up from her phone, holding his gaze. It’s more than just a casual glance. A few seconds pass, and they size each other up. He looks away, and walks over to a tiny table where a stack of dilapidated magazines sits. Nothing interests him, and he looks back at the girl, she’s still staring, and she looks down at her shoes when their eyes meet again. She looks worried, but she wears a faint smile now. It’s enough for him, he sits down near her, and decides that he’s going to say something. This is the worst possible situation, and nothing comes to him. No funny observation. No witty remark. He goes for the first thing that comes to mind.

“What are you doing here?” Francis asks.

“Getting help,” She replies.

They’re sitting outside the therapist’s office at Carlow University. It’s perched in an office building overlooking Pittsburgh’s Fifth Avenue and the cars below inch at a crawl, working their way homewards - wherever that may be. Cheesy posters extolling “Teamwork,” “Dialogue!”, “Go Celtics!”, cling to the wall, there’s a bookcase stuffed with self-help and psychology textbooks. It stinks like Glade and Clorox baby wipes.

“You look like the last person that needs help.” Francis says.

“Really?” She breaks into a smile, choking back the tears that have been threatening for the past half hour, the worry haunting her expression disappears - it’s like the sun after a storm, and Francis senses that she’s someone special.

“Really. I’m fine too. But I need a cigarette. I don’t even smoke. I only smoke when I’m drunk.”

“I smoke.” She smiles.

“No way.”

She reaches for a pack in her purse. Marlboro Reds.

“No shit. Cowboy killers?” Francis smirks. “You smoke cowboy killers?”

“I usually smoke Gitanes. You say, cowboy killer?” The words form awkwardly - hesitantly, it dawns on Francis that English isn’t her first language. He swears she’s Italian.

“Are you Italian?” He asks.

She tosses her head back in laughter, the black hair tucked behind her ear comes loose and falls across her cheek. It’s almost too much and a stray tear trickles from her eye.

“Are you alright?” Francis is stupefied, raising a brow and leaning forward.

“No.” She shakes her head. “Or else I’d be somewhere else right now. Maybe a beach. Maybe in bed. My life is finished.”

“Same. I’m breaking up with my girlfriend and she said she was going to kill herself. It’s insane. My Pap told me to go talk to someone about it.” He blurts the statement thoughtlessly, and he looks away for a moment when he realizes it – he’s stressed and the cracks are showing.

“Do you want to kill yourself too?”

“No, not at all. She’s the one who needs to see someone. I’m basically going to the therapist for her, just to get advice. We’ve known each other since we were thirteen and my Pap is best friends with her parents. She’s basically his adopted granddaughter. He says he’ll quit paying for both my car and health insurance if I don’t stay with her. So here we are.”

Francis feels compelled to explain himself after sharing his initial revelation. He’s never seen a therapist, and he’s faltering – he doesn’t think it’s going to solve anything. Francis decides to open up to this girl, a total stranger. His words are honest, without the fear of judgement that comes with full disclosure to someone he knows well. He’s seen her around campus before, she was in one of his classes, but they never had a chance to talk. It’s strange, he still remembers the fun fact she shared on the first day. “My favorite band is the Rolling Stones.” It stuck with him, that’s his favorite band too.

“That’s sad about your girlfriend, but it’s funny that your Pap is uh, bullying you.” She smiles.

“Maybe.” Francis laughs. “What brings you here again?”

“I don’t know,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“So, you’re just here for fun?”

“No! I actually broke up with my girlfriend too.” She laughs nervously, and freezes for a moment in anxiety – a crooked smile on her face.

“No shit.” Francis stares. She possesses a rare, imperfect beauty, and makes no attempt to mask her flaws. Dating another girl at this school is enough to make her a pariah. Carlow is a private, Catholic University located a block away from the University of Pittsburgh. The school is an afterthought, obscure to some even in Pittsburgh. There’s a convent on campus, and the social life is dead - if you go to a party, chances are it’s up the road at Pitt.

“It’s not as you think. I like men, but women too. The whole thing was a mistake. That’s why I’m here.”

“How do you accidentally date another girl?”

“It was just to, as you say, try it out, for fun, but she was too serious. I’m here abroad, I’m only here for one semester. She twisted me, as you say, um, I can’t think of the word. I just want to go home, if I even have one.”

“She screwed you?” Francis says. Picturing her going all the way with another girl floors him - it takes her to the edge, and that’s something he likes in a girl, that ability to break the mold and step outside the boundaries, to see something and pursue it. He lives life the same way.

“Yeah, um, she’s going to tell my father that we had the fling, she may have already. She’s a friend of the family, and she’s living here in Pittsburgh with a host and I stayed for one semester.” An ambulance speeds past on the street below, they glance out the window behind them. Two hospitals are located a block away from Carlow, and the sound of a meat-wagon howling past is usually enough to scare Francis awake during his lectures. Muffled conversation drifts from behind the closed door nearby. “That’s why I’m so upset. Because I will be uh, de-owned by my father.”

“You’re French, aren’t you?” Francis finally places the accent.

“Yes! But Italy is only a few miles away from where I live. That’s why I sound Italian. I live near Nice and Monaco.”

They gaze at each other. He feels it, there’s a connection.

“You’re something.” Francis sits for a moment and comes to a sudden decision. He needs a change, he’s desperate for it – he’s spent the last seven years in a relationship with the same girl, and he isn’t satisfied. This girl’s looks are captivating, with a unique, Mediterranean quality, stunning, and carefully refined. He risks it. “Listen, I’m a psych major. I bet you the guy behind that door is an asshole. Let’s go outside, and we could smoke a couple of those cowboy killers and talk this all out. I bet we’ll both get a lot more out of it. Besides, I’ve never met anyone from Monaco. I’m Francis by the way.” He offers his hand.

She takes it. “I’m Fae.” She pauses, considering the idea. “Let’s go.”

She stands and picks up her purse, she doesn’t think twice. Sometimes you meet someone, and once it happens you can’t un-see it.

“Allo!”

Fae plops into the passenger seat of the Hyundai. Through the gloom Francis can see she’s wearing one of those black, quilted jackets that reach down to the knee, black skin-tight jeans that are frayed on the thighs exposing the right amount of skin, and black Vans with the laces tied neatly. Her black hair reaches just below her shoulders, and she parts it down the middle, tucking half behind her left ear and the rest falling across her face - it’s like she’s hiding, her right eye covered, but she smiles, and her hazel eyes light up as they meet Francis’s gaze. For once he can’t find the words.

“You look great.” Francis says as she pulls the door shut behind her. The anxiety she had yesterday has disappeared. There’s something distinct in her movement, she makes the simple act of getting in the car seem smooth, effortless - sexy even. Francis is excited for tonight, but his mouth is dry and his heart is thumping, he just got off the phone with Allie - his girlfriend. He grilled her about her ‘suicidal ideations,’ and she admitted her bluff – this isn’t the first time Francis has threatened to end the relationship, and this isn’t the first time she’s responded with hysterics. “You couldn’t survive without me!” She screamed, her words still ringing in his ear. Just watch me, he told her. Just watch.

Rain patters on the windshield, and the tiny four-liter engine hums patiently as the car idles. Francis’s battered, six-year-old iPod is plugged into the sound system, and music from The Walkmen’s album ‘Lisbon’ plays low in the background.

“Merci, et tu, and you I mean.” She laughs, “Sometimes I say things in French and don’t even realize, I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ll get used to it.” Francis says as they pull away from the posh mansion in Pittsburgh’s Shadyside neighborhood where Fae has been staying. “How’s Katrine?”

“She won’t speak to me. Must we? Let’s talk about music, I’m so glad we have a common passion.”

“I’m glad too. I don’t know many girls who play the guitar.”

“Or are so good at photography.” She smiles – it’s white, perfect, framed by two shallow dimples. The car is sterile, he cleaned it earlier, emptying a half a bottle of Febreeze in the process, he is embarrassed by the huge coffee stain on the passenger side floor where Fae’s feet are now resting. Allie never cared, but Fae is immaculate and he prays she doesn’t notice.

“Photography?” Francis says, considering her statement as they make their way through the traffic on Penn Avenue, they’re hitting the back end of rush hour, and Francis tries to hone his focus as he splits his attention between Fae and the maze on the road. It’s dark, December – the rain picks up, tapping insistently on the Hyundai’s roof. The semester is almost over, and it’s reading week at Carlow. What Francis doesn’t know is that Fae has failed almost every one of her classes, she’s studying sociology, but the American classes don’t translate well to what she learned in the French system. Surprisingly, she finds the courses more rigorous in America. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do next. Francis is on track to make the dean’s list again, despite all the nights in the South Side.

“The picture I sent?” Fae says.

“Oh, yeah.” That photography. He smiles. They texted for hours after they parted ways the previous afternoon. They discussed their love of music mostly, but it didn’t take long until the conversation turned to romance. Francis eventually asked Fae what she looks for in a potential lover. She answered honestly – she wants confidence and sincerity, and she responded with the same question. Francis told her he wants loyalty and honesty. They made plans to meet up for what was essentially a date. It reached a point where Francis thought the conversation was over, until Fae sent a text that caught him off guard entirely. “Do you know how to French kiss, or am I going to have to teach you?” Francis wondered how far things would go. The next morning, he woke up to it – Fae striking a seductive pose in a mirror, in nothing but her black underwear. “That was nice.”

“I knew you’d like it.”

“I did.”

“I was expecting something in return.” There’s a playful glint in her eye.

“Sorry, I’ve only known you for twenty-four hours. I’m a prude.”

“No fun.” She says and faux frowns.

“I didn’t think you were that type.”

She throws her head back, and laughs. “I’m French!”

He laughs too now. It’s ridiculous, she’s the first French girl he’s ever met, and she has him hooked.

Francis parks near the door. The mall looms in the distance across the parking lot, illuminated by the soft yellow sodium bulbs of the street lights. The new movie theater juts out like a sore thumb, tacked on a couple years earlier. It looks like a sinking ship, and the rain is starting the gradual transition to snow. Francis catches a glimpse of himself in the car window, and meditates upon his reflection. His hair is black, cut short and styled with Garnier Fructis hair gel that sticks to the fingers and smells like a rotten fruit smoothie - it’s unpleasant, but it gets the job done. His clothes are understated yet suave, and Francis looks like someone you’d see within the pages of Vanity Fair magazine – cool, debonair, but grittier and more driven. His eyes are a grey-blue, placid, thoughtful, girls always remarking upon them, “You have such nice eyes Francis,” and he just brushes it off like always because of Allie. Francis is good-natured, and he knows it. He’s never had trouble getting along with other people, and he senses that in Fae – they’re extroverted, maybe even a little cocky.

The snow is sticking to their hair in white specks and making the ground slick. Francis’s leather jacket is too thin and he shivers. The red sign tacked to the side of the strip mall reads “Guitar Center” except some of the bulbs are out so it’s “Gut Center.”

“This place is the Walmart of guitar shops,” Francis says clicking the key fob and locking his Sonata.

“How so?” Fae asks.

“You’ll see what I mean.” Francis hasn’t mentioned that he comes here with Allie sometimes out of boredom, and they’d spend an hour or two playing every guitar and the drums, and sometimes the keyboards too. They’d leave after purchasing a pack of picks or some strings because they felt bad for disturbing the peace in the otherwise empty store. Francis had noticed at some point that they never seemed to sell the guitars, you’d come back a month or two later and there’d still be that Fender Duo-Sonic hanging from the wall, biding its time until the right player comes along.

“The weather was so nice yesterday. What happened?” Fae says as they cross the parking lot and head toward the door.

Yesterday, Fae and Francis went outside into the brisk December air on the tiny commons at Carlow University, and smoked a few Marlboros and chatted for about an hour. Fae was full of stories about her relationship with Katrine, who was the daughter of Fae’s father’s best friend. It was physical, and nothing else as she claimed, but Katrine had genuine feelings for Fae which weren’t reciprocated. Fae told Francis repeatedly that her only intention with Katrine was to experiment sexually. After a while, she asked Francis about his girlfriend. Francis realized he didn’t want to talk about Allie, but he was honest. He said he wanted to end things. “I don’t love her anymore.” He said, and he was lying. He still does, but she is smothering him - scaring the shit out of him at the same time.

“Just think, if we get married, we’ll be buried together.” She had said. Allie haunts him. Over the summer, one of her cousins exchanged vows with a man she’d only known for three years. Afterwards, she fixated on the idea of marriage. “I’m ready whenever you are.” She brought it up constantly, and he played it off as best he could. Things finally came to a head, and one night she laid bare the terms of her love, and exposed just how deep it went – she’s obsessed with him. It terrified Francis, and he pushed her away, he went a week without speaking to her. That’s when things blew up. Francis loves Allie, but their relationship is like a burning building ready to collapse. On the other hand, the prospect of throwing away seven years of commitment to her gnaws on Francis – it undercuts his willingness to rush into things with Fae. The mere thought of Allie with another man is enough to incite feelings of heated jealousy. Tonight however, he pushes aside his misgivings, and focuses on Fae – she’s like a breath of fresh air.

“Do you know those guys?” Francis gestures towards the windows. Giant posters of Cobain, Lennon, and Clapton look on from behind the huge black panes, tonight Francis wishes they could speak. He trusts them – Kurt and Courtney, John and Yoko, Eric and Pattie. What would they say about Fae? And then he reconsiders, some of those relationships didn’t exactly goes as planned.

“Of course, I know those guys!” Fae gives Francis a playful shove. They hit it off yesterday, and this was agreed as just a short stop before dinner today, Friday. It was Francis’s idea after Fae mentioned she had played for years.

Francis holds the door for Fae.

“Merci!” She says as she steps through. They’re on the same wave length tonight, and there’s a palpable sense of attraction even when they aren’t talking - the way Francis keeps catching her gazing at him when she thinks he isn’t looking. Francis already knows from the short time they’ve spent together that Fae and Allie are the same type - outgoing, yet mysterious in some ways. When you look past her flaws, Allie is a girl of matchless beauty, but Fae is already proving herself.

Fae all but gasps when she sees the carousel of amplifiers, and the rows of mint-condition guitars waiting to make music. They make their way to the wall of instruments, the warmth of the indoors leading them to unzip their jackets. Fae is wearing a blue sweater over a white blouse, and something about the way the neatly buttoned collar of her shirt peeks above the neck line of her sweater looks distinctly French.

“Didn’t you say earlier you have a Fender Jaguar at home?” Francis asks.

“Oui, il est douane… uh custom. It has an uh, hum-bucker in the uh,” She makes a gesture.

“The bridge? That’s cool, and you like the Stones, right?”

“Oui! I love the Rolling Stones! I like Serge Gainsbourg too especially! Any rock!”

They edge closer to the wall, scanning for the right guitar.

“Oh, here is a Jaguar!” Fae spots a red Squier model and plucks it from its wall hanger. “It’s a poor man Jaguar but still the same.” She’s beaming.

“Have you ever played a Tele?” Francis reaches and pulls down a sunburst Fender Telecaster. Fae steps forward to examine the guitar, and is standing only inches away from Francis now, and she keeps brushing against him, he gets the sense it isn’t accidental.

“Yes! But I do not own one sadly. Just my Jaguar and my Stratocaster, and my acoustic.”

They plug into a couple of Marshall amps and noodle a bit. Francis knows instantly that Fae is lightyears ahead in her playing. She runs down an impressive jazz scale and plays a melodic chord progression he’s never heard. Francis is good, but not this good.

“You’ve been playing how long exactly?”

“Since I had four years! Guitar and football are my true passions!”

“Soccer?” “Yes! Football! I played at my university in France until, I, uh,” her bright mood dims, “until I tore my knee. Now I can’t ever again.” She rocks on the stool, her hair falling in her face.

“I’m sorry. It sounds weird, but at least you can play guitar for your whole life. That’s something I like to tell myself,”

“I never thought that!” She says. She smiles.

Francis plays a riff on his telecaster. “Do you know this?”

“Of course!” She responds with the serpentine rhythm part, they play for a few seconds and Fae starts to sing, quietly at first, and then more confidently.

“I can’t get no, sat-is-fac-tion, I can’t get no sat-is-fac-tion!” Her accent disappears as she sings, her voice ringing true, confident - resonant. Francis is thrilled, they play the whole song, she knows every word. They lock into each other’s groove, forgetting everything else, their problems fading into the music. They finish, and Fae finishes by flashing through a blues scale, concluding in a flourish.

Francis nods his head, playing it cool, trying to mask how ecstatic he is. “That was neat.”

“Neat?” Fae tosses her head back into that infectious laughter, and Francis watches with concern as Fae laughs, and laughs - she can’t stop. Fae has an absolute fit of laughter, and when she finally does stop, Francis notices that she’s drooling. His expression shows an edge of concern. She slowly wipes her face after finally coming to her senses. Francis job-shadowed at Western Psychiatric last summer, and he saw patients that acted just like this. It dawns on him that he met her at the therapist’s office. If it was anyone else Francis would run, and fast, but he’s in too deep now. He’s blinded, not only by the fact she’s gorgeous, but by the depth of their rapport – they give off the same vibe, they have the same personality. Not only is she ‘trop sexy’ as they would say in Nice, but she’s better than Francis at something, he’s used to being the best at most things, and he appreciates the occasions when he isn’t.

They pause, and lock eyes, neither looks away, and they’re both smiling. Fae is composed now. Francis leans forward and puts a hand on her knee.

“That wasn’t neat, that was amazing.”

“Thank you! I had a sudden idea, we are so good together, that we should start a band!” Fae remarks suddenly.

“We just met!”

“I know, but it would work! And I like you, a little too much I think!”

“I like you too.” Francis says. Then the quip about the band hits him – Allie is a superb drummer, he’s more than proficient on the bass, and Fae is clearly a gifted guitarist. Something clicks in his head. Maybe I don’t have to get rid of Allie after all, maybe we can learn to simply be friends. Maybe we can all coexist. He knows that if he got Fae and Allie together, they would click.

“What’s dating like in France?” Francis asks after they’ve been seated at Mad Mex. It’s a yuppie Cali-Mex restaurant exclusive to Pittsburgh where you can order a big azz margarita or seasonal burritos. Chili lights are strung from the ceiling and indie rock blares from the stereo, cubist graffiti art reminiscent of Picasso adorns the walls. Hipsters seriously dig the place, and Francis knows that’s exactly what he and Fae are. Not the casual sort who buy a vinyl Beatles LP from a thrift shop and let it gather dust in the corner of their dorm room – they’re the militant type who can quote Neutral Milk Hotel and tell you every type of guitar Lou Reed owned while he was with the Velvet Underground.

She collects her thoughts before answering the question. “Nothing like in America, much different. In France, it is much easier for guys and girls to be friends. Here it is uh, like if you’re not dating, or uh, if you’re not doing sex, then what’s the point? And when you do become exclusive in France, there is not so much possession. It is common to see a married woman go out with her married friend who is a man, and they are that, just friends, and nothing more. Contrary to popular ideas, I feel that French women are more conservative than those in America, because once she is exclusive she is loyal to a point of her honor.”

“That picture you sent me wasn’t very conservative.” Francis smirks. The lights are dimmed low, and Fae has a radiant, soulful look. There’s a spark in her eyes, she’s full of life and excitement. They have each other’s undivided attention.

“That was just me saying, ‘I’m interested.’” Fae explains. As the night has worn on Francis notices she is very touchy, very flirty. He likes it. He tries to ignore the thought, but she’s a more sophisticated, more attractive version of Allie. Even though Fae has an accent, it almost feels like he’s talking to Allie sometimes, they’re both very cool and easygoing. And then that remark hits him. I’m interested.

“That’s one of way of getting that across.” They laugh, and Fae leans forward with intent, rests her elbows on the table and cradles her chin in the palms of her hands. Francis can’t take his eyes off her, and he takes a moment to appreciate her. She doesn’t look like an American girl, and there’s an intangible sense that she’s European, even if he didn’t know already he could guess.

“You’re really tan for December.”

“My mother was Algerian,” Fae says.

“That’s interesting, do you think she’ll care when she finds out about you and Katrine?”

“Well, my mother is dead, Francis.” Fae looks down at the table, for a second he thinks he’s killed the vibe.

The waitress appears - she’s young, college age, and her arm is emblazoned with a full sleeve of colorful, floral tattoos. She takes their drink orders. Francis orders a Corona, and Fae asks for an expensive glass of wine. They both have fake IDs, and the server scrutinizes Fae’s heavily before letting it slide. She walks off.

“I’m sorry about your mother. That’s one more thing we have in common.” Francis says.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents died in a car accident when I was thirteen. That’s why I live with my Pap.”

The words hang heavy between them, and it’s terrible, but Francis feels a deeper sense of connection to her. He carries the weight every day, and usually waits a long time to tell people - until he can be sure that they won’t try to patronize him with half-hearted pity. Fae looks away. A group of yuppies sitting at the bar burst into raucous laughter.

“So, you know how it is?” Fae says, she stares off into the distance with a wounded expression.

“All too well.”

Neither has the words.

“Where’d you get your fake?” Francis says, changing the subject, they need to get off this. He wants things to go back to how they were just a minute ago, when it felt like everything was coming together.

“A website. I’d go insane if I couldn’t drink here.”

“I thought the waitress was going to take it.”

“As did I. The picture looks nothing like me.”

“Neither does mine. But it scans so I can go down Carson Street.”

“Lucky.” The drinks come and Francis squeezes the lime into the Corona bottle and Fae sips on her wine. They enjoy each other’s company for a few moments in silence.

“I just thought of something, Francis,” Fae remarks.

“Yeah?” “You’re more French than you realize.” Francis laughs. “How?” “Your way of acting. You are uh, laid back, yet confident, too many American men are inconsiderate.”

“I like the comparison, but you haven’t seen me around my friends,” he considers her statement, and adds, “you’re definitely not like other girls I know.” Francis says.

“How?” She laughs.

Francis pauses and chooses his words, he smiles. “You have a spark. You have this energy that’s fun to be around. Most girls I know these days don’t have that.”

“Really?” She laughs, her smile is unequaled, and the way she holds her expression is subtly seductive – it’s airy and inviting. “Anyways, what is your uh, situation, with your girlfriend, I feel you haven’t fully explained to me yet.”

“With Allie?” He doesn’t want to talk about her, he’s skirted around the subject so far. “We’re still dating technically.” He says. He feels stupid. The breakup isn’t official yet, and he doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he’s in the act of cheating right now. The fact troubles him, and the thought of letting Allie go for good ties his stomach in a knot. The unforgettable impression Fae has made so far complicates his feelings. Somehow, he wishes it was possible to have them both.

“Oh.” She says. Fae looks frustrated, and she purses her lips.

“I’m trying to end it, but the weird thing is, I think if you and Allie met, you’d really like each other.”

“That’s a funny thought.” Fae is playing with her hands, her hair falling from behind her ear. “The truth is, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t feel something, I can’t describe it, but when we met yesterday, I wanted to get to know you. I know I sound crazy, but sometimes you just look at someone, and you feel something, you can’t describe why or how, you just know it’s happening. When we played music tonight Francis, I felt like we were in unison, the same. I wish we could have that feeling all the time.” She says.

Francis contemplates her words. She can feel it too then. He thinks she’s incredible. “How long are you in America?” He asks.

“Just until the new year,” She responds absently.

“Fae,” He hesitates. “We might be rushing things. We just met yesterday, and now we’re having dinner together. I don’t know about you, but I don’t care. It’s like this was all supposed to happen.” Francis takes a long sip from his Corona.

“Like fate?” She leans forward, her hazel eyes alive, warm.

“Yeah. Like fate. And if you’re leaving soon, we’ll have to make the most of it.”

Steph returns and asks if they’re ready to order. They’ve been caught up in each other and have forgotten entirely to look at the menu. Francis asks her to come back, and they quickly decide upon their orders while she’s gone. It hits him how hungry he is – the scent of Mexican cooking wafting around the restaurant – the tantalizing prospect of a spicy burrito.

“Not to bring up a shitty subject, but will your father really care that much when he finds out about Katrine? It’s almost 2013, if you want to try dating another girl I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“He will because he is very conservative, and, um, because I am nobility, and it is unacceptable for me to have relations with a girl.”

“What do you mean by nobility?”

“Whenever my father is gone I will be the Countess de Menton.”

Francis blinks. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he’s intrigued. “You’re a countess?”

“The French government recognizes the fact that you are a marquis or what have you, but it’s meaningless mostly. Usually it just says that you come from an old family with a lot of money.” Fae explains.

“Is that true about you?”

She’s hesitant, Fae looks down and takes a breath. “I won’t tell you how much money I have. I feel that if you think I’m wealthy it will change things between us.” She pauses again, and Francis guesses that she doesn’t want to say too much. “But I will tell you that through my father, you can trace my bloodline back to the time of the crusades.”

Francis can’t wrap his head around the notion, but he puts two and two together. Her outfit probably cost a few hundred dollars, she just ordered a twelve-dollar glass of wine, and as subtle as it is, she comes across as somewhat arrogant, even though he can tell she’s at her most vulnerable. He doesn’t doubt her claim that she’s a countess, it makes sense. It dawns on him how high-class she is. Francis wavers, he leans back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair. He feels like he’s finally met his match, and he can’t shake the feeling that they’re developing genuine feelings for each other - it’s undeniable. He knows he’s diving headlong into things with this girl. At best, they have a brief fling, she goes home, and he never sees her again, but the way it seems now, there’s something genuine happening, and the last thing he wants is to hurt her.

Fae’s iPhone is laying on the table and buzzes to life. She reaches for it, reads the screen, and considers what she has just read. She sets the phone down, and then she bursts into laughter -it’s worse than before. She can’t stop, it’s manic, uncontrollable and she laughs until she can’t breathe, tears pouring down her face, and when she can’t laugh anymore she starts to cry. She covers her face with her hand, her whole body wracked with sobs.

“Fae!” He’s shaken. She is incredible, yet here she is having a nervous breakdown. He’s seen it before with Allie - she has her own issues. She continues. “Fae!” He repeats louder. She looks at him and gasps, her tears abate momentarily.

“Let’s go outside. You need some air. Trust me.” They stare at each other. “Trust me.”

“Oui.” They stand and walk through the mostly empty restaurant past the waitress.

“We’ll be right back.” Francis says as he leads Fae past the bar and outside through the porch and the iron gate that opens onto the parking lot. They’re on the sidewalk now, and Fae wraps her arms around Francis and buries her face in his chest and sobs, and he just hugs her as close as he can and lets her cry. There’s nothing else he can do. Snow flurries flutter through the air and his breath billows in white clouds. He closes his eyes. It’s been one day, and they’re virtual strangers. This is insane. She cries for a little while longer before going silent, and still they embrace.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Mon pere.” She can’t find the words. “My father, he texts me, he says, I had a conversation with Katrine’s father, about the sickening things you’ve done.” She collects herself. “He says, don’t come home. You are on your own.”

Francis grits his teeth and pulls her closer.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“I didn’t want to go home anyways. I hate home… and I can’t go back to my host. Katrine is there. I have nowhere.”

Francis speaks without consideration – he goes all in. “You can stay with me. I live at home with my Pap in Regent Square. We have a guest room, and you can stay as long as it takes for you to get things figured out. I promise.”

“Merci. Merci beaucoup Francis.” She releases him, takes a step back, and smiles. It’s the first time he’s seen her without worry. “That’s why I like you.”

“Why?” He laughs.

“We just met, but we don’t play games. We’re honest. Boys in France are taught to flirt, they flirt endlessly, and go in a circle and you get nowhere. But yesterday you said, let’s go talk, and we went outside and we’ve been nothing but honest with each other. I’ve never had this before.”

Francis gazes at her, the white puffs of their breath clouding the air between them.

“Fae, I can’t describe how I feel about tonight. I don’t care if we just met. We understand each other, it’s natural, and it’s like we were meant to find each other.”

Fae looks at him and smiles. They stare at each other wordlessly for a while, there’s something quietly passionate in the way they stand admiring each other.

“Want a smoke, cowboy?” She laughs. Fae reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboros. Francis laughs too. She hands him the cigarette and he places it in his mouth, he cups his hands around it and she lights it for him, the pungent smoke filling his lungs. He exhales. She lights her own cigarette. “So, what are we doing tomorrow?”

Francis takes a step forward, “We’ll think of something.” He pulls her close and they kiss.

{I had to cut the final scene because of excessive character count. If there is some interest or demand, and if the mods are gracious enough to allow, I will post it either in the comments or a separate post}

submitted by /u/tacobell_enthusiast_ [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2UU6LWK

#Blogger #Story

[tinymixtapes]

Interview: Genesis Breyer P-Orridge (Throbbing Gristle, Psychic TV)

As one of the key originators of industrial music, organizer of the occult art collective Temple ov Psychick Youth, and participant in the ambitious body-altering pandrogyne project, Genesis Breyer P-Orridge has embodied the artistic process for over four decades. Observing and critiquing culture from the vantage point of a disruptor, P-Orridge draws from the teachings of William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, whom s/he counted as friends. Throughout the years, P-Orridge has dabbled in occult practices, pouring h/er thoughts out in a 500-page tome, Thee Psychick Bible. But h/er band Psychic TV also mastered the mainstream with the pop hit “Godstar,” which remained a number one song in Britain for months. Oh, and Psychic TV was also in the Guinness World Records for releasing the most albums in a year. That doesn’t mean P-Orridge rests on h/er prior achievements. Recently, s/he performed with Psychic TV at a rare show at this year’s Moogfest and was the subject of the documentary Bight of the Twin, which chronicled h/er experiences with Voodoo practitioners in Benin. A second documentary, A Message from the Temple, is forthcoming. --- Is there any kind of ritual or practice you undergo before going onstage with Psychic TV? No, no. There used to be a drinking ritual where we would get plastic bottles of water and put in vodka and cranberry or vodka and orange to take onstage, and that became this really ridiculous little ritual that we used to all do. And then everyone would all go and have a pee [laughs]. The band now is without any question my favorite lineup we’ve ever had. It’s basically stayed pretty stable since 2003. We’re on our third keyboard player. Our keyboard player seems to be a bit like the Spinal Tap drummer [laughs]. But we’re so bonded at this point that it’s a true organism. Everyone’s hyper aware of what’s happening in each other’s lives, what emotional journey they might be on at that given moment. So if we feel somebody needs encouragement, it just happens. Psychic TV is such an amazingly integrated organism that everything goes unsaid a lot of the time, but there’s an amazing amount of love. It really is a family in the truest sense. In Benin, when someone passes away, they say that “a twin goes to the forest to look for wood,” which is explored in Bight of the Twin. You’ve been involved with the idea of twins since at least the pandrogyne project, but there’s also a history of this in the Vodun religion. Yeah, as you carry on through life, you discover that there are twins in all sorts of hidden doctrines and groups with different belief systems. I mean, the Garden of Eden begins with twins. So we draw those into many experiences of rituals and psychedelic trips and what have you, and myself and Jaye concluded that either symbolically or literally, we were here to reunify as a species, that things like either/or, male/female, black/white, Christian/Muslim are all tools used to control us. The only way out of control is unity, where there is no difference. Therefore, no strategies are irrelevant. That’s why we felt pandrogyny was so important as an idea, and the twins idea in Africa was just confirmation on a really exciting, deep level. As the oldest continuous religion, Vodun would have the earliest concept of creation. We were asking them about their creation story. And they said, “In the beginning there was one god, Mahu, made up of both male and female parts named Segbo Lissa. Segbo is a female chameleon, and Lissa is a male python.” But they were one, or in other words, a pandrogyne. You can argue Adam and Eve is one being. In the earliest paintings of the Garden of Eden, the paintings were of God, Adam, and Eve, and they all have male and female genitals and breasts. The Vatican suppressed it, of course. So we’re not card-carrying dogma followers of anything, but we keep an extremely open mind. Psychic TV is such an amazingly integrated organism that everything goes unsaid a lot of the time, but there’s an amazing amount of love. It really is a family in the truest sense. Can you tell us about the idea of “occulture” you wrote about in Thee Psychick Bible? That was one of those words that just seemed inevitable. There’s a TOPY [Temple Ov Psychick Youth] member now in Asheville named Chandra Shukla who got involved with what we were doing on many levels when he was a teenager while living in a very traditional Asian family. He couldn’t bring himself to surrender into repetition of what his parents had lived, so he started looking for different stories. He’s working on a Psychick dictionary of all the phrases and slogans and new word definitions we’ve developed the last 50 years. Occulture was one of those words we just felt should always have existed. Even as a teenager, we’d read about Freemasons, the Process Church of the Final Judgment, different secret cabals, the Knights Templar, all these different organizations, some mythological, some actual, that were about, if you like, the real history of the world. Like what was the real reason that the first World War happened? It was a fight between two members of the same family, Queen Victoria and Kaiser Wilhelm, and they had a family argument and neither of them would back down, and then we have a war where millions die. So what were the real reasons that we went to war? Why was America so rich and powerful in the 50s? Profit came from the war where the Morgan bank financed both sides. If you start looking into the nitty gritty of where control really resides, there’s probably 100 families that tell us the primary story of what’s really gone on so far. Occulture is a great framework to think about these latent practices and organizations that have always been there throughout history outside of the mainstream. When I was a teenager, I started to daydream. “Wouldn’t it be fabulous if someone or myself identified the real history of the world?” It’s a long, big topic, but the bottom line is we’re constantly fed stimulation, but we’re not constantly fed education, and to me, that’s very suspicious. And it’s a vested interest. We want to keep the true story quiet. The real reasons that they decided to go to war in Iraq, was that for the oil or was that ego? We don’t know, but it wasn’t the reason they gave. A cult is hidden from the eye and culture is a control system. Occulture is also about people’s hidden motives. You know, Burroughs was brilliant at revealing these kinds of dynamics in society, and his work with Brion Gysin, with cutups, still to me is one of the greatest tools for breaking control, because it reveals things that cannot be revealed any other way except through what appears to be random chance. People now are surrendering on a level that we’ve never seen before. My years of mental formation were heavily influenced by the liberationist concepts of the 60s and some of the most positive changes that happened in society. Squatting, prison’s rights, organic food, gay rights, women’s rights, alternative medicine, yoga, there’s an endless list of changes that occurred. There’s a huge array of simple but identifiable improvements in the lot of humanity that came from that era, because we said, “Let’s take our daydreams really seriously. How would we like to be treated? How would we like to live? Why can’t we? There must be a way.” One of the ways we believe that has to come in the next real step of rebellion is communities. Not communes, but communities and collectives where people share their resources. So if there’s 10 of you, you don’t need 10 cars. Maybe three for emergencies. Sell the other seven and you’ve still all got access to cars. The money from those seven can buy a new computer that everyone uses or pay for the roof to be fixed. It’s always shocking to me how many people are terrified of sharing. They’ve been trained to think in terms of career as a success. You know, in the art world, which we’ve been dabbling in lately, it’s all about divine inspiration. It’s not a continuum, but in fact, everything that we make is a continuum. My life, I’m thrilled to say, is the result of all the different things that have happened and influenced me. All the people we’ve met, all the people that have spoken to me, all the places we’ve been, all the books we’ve read, all the music we’ve heard. All of that is what we then percolate and refine in order to make a response or create an object or a piece of music that we feel contains what we know so far in some way, in the hope it will inspire others to be less afraid of sharing. You were listed by Guinness World Records for the most albums released in one year. What was your work ethic like then? Well, I don’t know if it’s true anymore. I’m sure someone’s beaten us. A lot of them were live concerts released on vinyl. We were on CBS Records when we did Dreams Less Sweet, and then I wrote “Godstar,” a great little pop song, and I went in to Muff Winwood, the head of A&R, and I said, “Muff, listen to this tape.” And he went, “Hmm, it’s not weird like the other stuff.” I said, “No, but it’s a great pop song and this is what I want to do now. We’ve done the weird, now we want to do psychedelic pop.” And he said, “Oh, no, no, no. We don’t want the music to change like this. Your scene is weird music, so you’ve got to keep doing weird music.” And we said, “Muff, we just left your label. And I’m going to prove that even a monkey could make this into a hit record.” [laughs] I released it myself with a new label, Temple Records, and it was number one in the indie chart in Britain for 16 weeks, and it got into the top 30 in the national chart, too. It was our big hit. One of the ways we believe that has to come in the next real step of rebellion is communities. Not communes, but communities and collectives where people share their resources. To get the money to do a proper mix, I went to my bank manager and said, “Could you possibly loan me some money to remix this song?” And he went, “I don’t know, what’s the collateral element?” “Well, I don’t have any. I’m on the dole, living in a squat.” And I don’t know how, but the conversation changed and I was talking about bootlegs, and we came up with this idea to do a series of live albums that people collected, and each one had a token in it, and when you had all the tokens, you got a free record that was only available in that way. And on that agreement of me saying we’ll do that, he loaned me the money to do proper mixes and recordings of all the psychedelic stuff. That’s how we got in the Guinness World Records, because I was releasing a live album every month and then there were other records too, and it just built up to about 14 in a year or something, which at that time was a lot. We were next to Michael Jackson in the Guinness World Records. That’s really incredible. What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned from studying Austin Osman Spare? The potency of the orgasm. The idea that you can open up any inhibitions or gateways that might normally be closed between layers of consciousness and actually reprogram your neurology, your brain, your mind. That in fact the orgasm is a moment of absolute unity. And of course, two beings having a simultaneous orgasm is a superb image of androgyny where the two become one. Spare said that’s when you can reprogram a self. You decide how you really want to change or what you need to achieve. The choices you make afterwards, without you really being aware of it, will always be geared towards what your mind thinks is going to get you closer to the desired place. You’ll continue with certain activities, drop others, maybe end or begin a relationship, travel or stay home, whatever it is. Those decisions will be made to maximize your potential of reaching the most divine version of yourself. That’s what he taught me. Can you relate a memorable encounter you had with William S. Burroughs? Oh, god. [laughs] Memorable… I don’t know if it’s memorable. I’m trying to think… no, I can’t. I mean, there’s lots of little things, but it was the entirety that really made him so special. You know, at one point we came over to New York when we were still in England. I think it was in 1980 and we were in the bunker. William wanted to try the Raudive experiments of using a crystal radio set plugged into a tape recorder to get the voices of the dead to appear in the static. Have you ever heard about that? I haven’t, no. Konstantin Raudive — I think he’s Latvian — did a book called Breakthrough, and it’s just full of all these conversations with the dead recorded on blank tape using this little crystal set. It’s incredible, and there was a record with the book so that you could actually listen and hear some of them, but unfortunately, that’s been lost. But we recommend you have a look at that at least. Yeah, I’m definitely going to. That seems super interesting. It is. But we did it together, me and William. We still have the reel-to-reel tapes. You have to release those. Well, actually, it’s funny you should mention that, because when we did it, me and William listened to them back afterwards and, “Ah, there’s nothing.” [laughs] But now that technology’s improved we were just talking to Ryan Martin [of Dais Records], and he wants to play those tapes through really high-quality speakers and see whether we can hear things. The thing that made me a little bit unsure about Raudive is that most of the voices he heard were speaking in Latvian. And you think, “Really? Do they actually know that this is a Latvian speaking? Or is he just imagining Latvian because that’s his language?” Right, like out of all the languages, why would it be Latvian, or even something humans created? Yeah. So there’s a question mark, but it’s an interesting area. Certainly there are voices. That seems pretty definite. My hope would be that they’re voices from alternative dimensions. You know, when people take psychedelics, no one asks, “Why were you traveling? What did you want to learn that was so important and who did you want to benefit beyond yourself?” We think about all these people who now do DMT and ayahuasca as psychedelic tourists. It’s like Mount Everest, which is drowning under human feces and trash. People are leaving behind their consciousness trash. They’re popping into these other worlds where all the DMT creatures are and looking around. “Oh, wow, man. Look. Ooh.” Like they’re having a picnic at the zoo. Isn’t that really impolite? You know, in that kind of situation, we believe you should cleanse yourself, bathe, talk to the spirits, ask for permission, and really be hyper aware that you’re visiting somebody else’s world. The other thing I often wonder about is, are we ripping holes in the veil between these two alternate realities where things can come through into this apparent dimension that we didn’t invite? Now, what exactly is happening? It needs to be thought about much more seriously, in my opinion, before you do that. Now, are you letting things come back this way without even realizing it, and if you are, what are those things and what’s their agenda, and are you leaving a big mess like Mount Everest? Right, like it’s shortsighted for us to think that we can have these experiences without affecting either ourselves or another realm. Exactly, and it’s a typical short-sighted human response. It’s an aspect of the capitalist society that should be very carefully kept away from the sort of shamanic spiritual experience. If we make a mess on Everest, how dare we go somewhere even more precious until we know what we’re doing and we’re respectful? This is an example of thinking about things from different directions when you’re working, and that’s an occulture moment too, you know? What’s hidden in this process? What might be going on? And you can look at it and think of certain things that seem ridiculous. But maybe somebody’s having dinner in the DMT world and then we pop in going, “Hey, this is interesting. Oh, sorry I’ve stolen your food. Blah, blah, blah, blah.” It’s a great way to consider it. I never thought about it that way. Oh, good. Well, see, that’s what we’re here for. http://j.mp/2oLE5zt

[iamnotthedog]

ST. LOUIS: FALL 1999

Once I graduated from high school, I had been reading road books and travelogues pretty much exclusively for quite a while. After I read On the Road at Jim’s place, I caught the travel bug, and read Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night, Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Tom Wolfe’s The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, Bashō’s Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which came at the suggestion of Mrs. Frame, who really knew me better than just about anyone at the time. Those books all lit a fire under me, and I couldn’t wait to get out of Morrison and experience more of the world, as well as a whole new life out from under my parents’ roof.

I wanted to travel more than anything, but I was determined to go to college first, and I sort of ended up fucking that whole thing up, to be completely honest. I mean, it wasn’t bad or anything, it just isn’t what I should have been doing. I got accepted to a writing program at a private school called Webster University.1 Webster’s a nice school and all, I just say that I fucked up because of all the places in the world that I could have gone after finally getting out of Morrison, I ended up in a suburb of St. Louis, which isn’t exactly the most exciting place in the world. I mainly ended up there because I was lazy with the whole “preparing for college” thing, and I hadn’t even applied anywhere else.

All that aside, I was excited to meet some new people when I arrived at Webster for the first time—as most college freshmen are. But then my first roommate in the dorms at Webster was a total dick. His name was Brett or Brent, and he was one of the several people on my floor who had barely even put their suitcases down before they started complaining that Webster University was too small, and threatening to transfer to UMSL (“threatening,” as though any of us would actually care if they left), where they could live downtown and go to football games and frat parties and chug beer out of holes punched into the sides of cans and maybe even videotape themselves fucking somebody.

That wasn’t my scene. Sleepy Webster Groves with its narrow tree-lined streets and long-haired, grey-bearded writing professors was more up my alley. And after about a week in the dorms, I managed to find a few like-minded people to spend some time with. I met the friend I would eventually end up taking to California with me—John—and John’s roommate and lifelong companion (at least up to that point), Marc.

I was walking down the hall completely aimlessly one afternoon when I heard Bob Dylan crooning through a door that was open a crack, and I smelled incense, so I gave a little knock. John came to the door and peeped out at me with his red eyes, his long brown caveman hair and unshaven chin. He was wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt with a stretched out collar, and baggy sweatpants with a bunch of pockets on the legs. And he was barefoot. He looked at me skeptically, furrowing his brow. “Yes?” he said.

“Hey,” I said, awkwardly. “Uh...what’s going on?”

He opened the door a little wider. Marc was behind him, sitting on a futon with long red hair flowing down over his pale, shirtless torso and a fuckin’ three-foot tall glass bong in his lap. He lifted a lighter in a sort of wave.

“Nothing much,” John said. He kind of tilted his head to the side a little and looked into my eyes. He still looked skeptical.

I stuck a finger in the air in an attempt at pointing at the music playing, as people do. “Blonde on Blonde,” I said. I wasn’t exactly sure how to accomplish what I wanted to accomplish. Then I saw a couple guitars in the corner of the room, back behind Marc. “You guys play? I can play pretty much this whole album.”

That seemed to work, for whatever reason.

“C’mon in,” John said.

John and Marc lived in their own little hippie heaven there in the dorms. Their walls were plastered with tapestries and black light posters and pictures of Led Zeppelin and the Doors and Jimi Hendrix and the Grateful Dead. They always had incense burning and music on the stereo. They would sleep to some of the weirdest shit, too. If you walked by their room late any night—say you were stoned and wandering down the hallway to hit up the vending machines for a Snickers or whatever—you could often hear some Miles Davis piping out through their door. It was the weird Miles, too. Not Kind of Blue Miles, but Bitches Brew or sometimes even On the Corner Miles. Even being a huge Miles Davis fan, as I was at the time (and still am), I couldn’t understand how anyone could actually fall asleep to On the Corner.

After I started hanging out with John and Marc, I ended up spending a hell of a lot more time in their room then my own. The amount of drugs those two smoked was comical. They would literally wake up in the morning and smoke opium. Opium! At, like, nine o’clock in the goddamned morning. Then they would go back to sleep for a couple hours, wake up, and smoke some weed to start their day.

John and Marc were great for me, though—at least at the start—because they were from St. Louis. Born and raised. They were the first people to take me out on the town and show me around. They showed me where to buy my weed—which was actually pretty hilarious, because they got all their shit from a fat black dude named Q who worked in the drive-thru of a local Steak ‘n Shake—and they took me to see shows at the local venues, and they’d drive me out to Marc’s parents house in the outer ‘burbs, which was huge.2 We’d have parties out there whenever Marc’s parents were out of town, which was actually quite a bit because they were getting ready to move down south somewhere, and were always going down there to look at property.

The thing was, though, that after a while John and Marc’s circle of high school buddies that were always hanging around started to wear on me a little—I mentioned that earlier. They had all that history together—all those inside jokes and anecdotes and all that loyalty that seems really nice at first, but really ends up making people lazy and afraid of change after a while. I started to feel like I had actually never left high school myself. So I started seeking out other circles with which to insert myself. These guys who came around to Marc and John’s room every once in a while to score some weed were pretty laid back, and they lived on the floor above us. Their names were Phil and Isaac. Phil was a California boy who had grown up in Salinas, on the Pacific coast, which prompted all of us who had never travelled west and had our ultra-idealized fantasies of California in our heads to ask him why the hell he had come to the Midwest. (His mother worked for the university and got him a really good deal on tuition, or something like that). As for Isaac, he was a classic cinephile type, born and raised in St. Louis, and he resembled the Dude from The Big Lebowski—always stoned, always in sweatpants. He even drank White Russians almost exclusively.

Anyway, I started hanging out with Phil and Isaac more, and Phil and I totally hit it off. He needed a roommate, as his previous roommate was not unlike Brett or Brent—one of those jock types who decided that he needed to drop out of Webster and go to a school with a fraternity and more “loose chicks.” So I said sayonara to Brett or Brent, and I moved into Phil’s room.

Phil was a handsome kid with a neatly trimmed goatee, a friendly smile, and a southern California sense of style. He and I started cruising around together in his tricked out BMW with black lights under the dash, flashy rims, and a lowered suspension. I was at the height of my adolescent kleptomania at the time, and when I got off work at this little deli I had been rolling burritos for, Phil would pick me up and I’d go steal us a big bottle of good liquor from the local big-box grocery store down the street, Schnucks.3 We’d bring the bottle back to the dorms and have some drinks with a joint or two before hitting up some of the other kids on the floor, seeing if they wanted to go drive around and find some shit to get into.

It was around then that I met Leah.

Leah lived right down the hallway from Phil and I, along with her friend, Lilith. Lilith and Leah were both into a lot of the same music as I was, and they were down to party pretty much whenever Phil and I were. The first time Leah came around to my room alone, I was probably listening to some Bob Marley or something cliché like that and working on a paper for one of my classes, and she came in wearing this tight tube top without a bra. She totally took me off guard.

“Hey,” she said, leaning on the doorframe in the open door. I looked at her tube top, her pale, flat stomach, then quickly caught myself, shifting my gaze up to her eyes and smiling.

“What’s going on?” I stammered. “What...uh...what are you doing?”

I had already thought Leah was cool and everything—she was hyper smart, funny, and had great taste in music and books and all that—but after that entrance—after she stood right there next to me and leaned over me and asked about my paper, with her nipples in my face and her sweet breath surrounding me—well, after that she had my attention pretty much all the time. Then one night, we were alone in her room listening to records, and she asked me to give her a massage. She slipped my hand down between her legs and put her hand between mine, and then she got me up into her bed and unbuttoned my jeans and slipped off her shorts and took my virginity. Just like that. It took all of three minutes, tops. I made some excuse that she was way too good and that my last girl had been a dead fish, but in all honesty, I had never even come close to getting laid in high school. My high school experience, as I mentioned earlier, had been nothing but one long dry hump.

So after that night, Leah and I were pretty much attached at the hip for the next few weeks. She was all I needed, really. But we weren’t even one month into our relationship before the honeymoon ended—as they do—and things got real.

It turned out that Leah was clinically depressed. She managed to hide it from me for our first few weeks together, but then she just couldn’t do it any more. It started to show itself—mostly in her retreating to her room, turning the lights off, and refusing to come out for anything.

It always happened the same way. A couple weeks into the semester, Leah had moved out of the dorms to the university apartments where kids with rich parents could afford to live. I’d go over there and Leah would turn off the television. We’d sit on her couch and smoke a bowl. I’d put a record on. She’d walk to the kitchen, right there in the same room, and put on a pot of water for tea. Then she’d come back over to me, stripping some of her clothes off, and we’d mess around a little, go into her bedroom for a while, and then take a nap or shower. Then we’d be talking and thinking about going out and finding Phil or Lilith or something and she’d turn off. Like someone pulled a plug.

And those were the good nights. On the bad nights the plug would get pulled far earlier. Sometimes before I even got over to her apartment. Sometimes I’d be walking around the black asphalt parking lot on that white cement sidewalk around those neatly trimmed bushes by the hot tub that Phil and I used to break into after hours, and I’d be all excited to see my girl, and then I’d look up at her window and see that it was dark and the shades were drawn. After a while I learned to not even try knocking when that was the case. She’d be in her huge bed with her thick white down comforter up over her head, and she wouldn’t come to the door for anyone.

On those nights, I would get so down on everything that I would avoid everyone and leave campus altogether. I’d walk for hours down Big Bend Boulevard, through Richmond Heights, and sometimes all the way through Forest Park to the Central West End—a good twelve miles round trip. I would just walk and maybe smoke some weed, and I’d think of all those travel books and all my favorite characters, and I’d think about how as soon as I just couldn’t take school anymore—as soon as I started to get bored with everything—I’d just get up and leave. I thought about how I had to do that at some point—how I had to do it while I was still young, before the university life managed to scoop up whatever was left of my spirit and funnel me into the downward spiral of some sort of career pursuit or another. What was I in school for writing for, anyway? Screw being taught an art, I wanted to turn myself into art—make myself into the project I would work on for the rest of my life.

I would think about all that while walking and seeing the city at night—piece by piece, building by building—and I loved those walks, even if the part of the city I was walking through was just boring ol’ Richmond Heights. Back on campus, though, I have to admit that I’d always walk by Leah’s place before walking back to the dorms. Sometimes her light would be on, and I’d go over there and we’d run our whole routine, just a few hours later than usual. Other times, though, she wouldn’t even come to the door. And sadly enough, thinking back on all that now that I am more than a dozen years removed from the situation, that depression is still what I remember most about Leah—the way it would consume her, over and over again.

 Webster University is named after the place in which it resides—a mellow, inner-ring suburb of St. Louis called Webster Groves. It’s got a nice campus, with lots of old buildings and trees—some nuns founded it as a Catholic women’s college in 1915 before the first male students were admitted in 1962. ↩︎

 When Marc’s parents finally sold the house, they ended up selling it to some hot shot rookie for the St. Louis Cardinals. ↩︎

 When I say I was “at the height of my adolescent kleptomania,” what I mean is that it was pretty bad right around then. I would have never stolen from an individual person, or from a mom and pop sort of store, but big box department stores and grocery chains were like all-you-can-eat buffets to me. Nothing was off limits. I actually used to go into department stores in the mall or wherever and take like five t-shirts into the dressing room, put ‘em all on, then put my own shirt on over ‘em, cover up with a jacket or a hooded sweatshirt, and walk right the fuck out. I’d never have the balls to do that sort of thing nowadays. ↩︎

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