#elite 90's hits

[honeyydrunk]

nct are such fraternity boy college athletes fuckboys coded it's insane !! everyone i see a video of those men with the homosexual tendencies, vaping addiction, and their athletic garments, it really only cements this theory. their disography and music videos add to this too 😔✋ u know 90's love, universe (let's play ball), alley oop, bad alive eng ver.

can imagine them walking around this elite prestigious campus all loud and obnoxious. they know everyone is looking at them and want to fuck them too. they're chronic drinkers, vapers, cheaters, fuckboys. what would get most students expelled, they do on a tuesday afternoon.

nct are mostly made up of foreigners right? watch them walk around the campus as rich international students, some are here on academic or athletic scholarships they don't need. everything they own is designer. playing the 'sorry my korean isn't so good, can you help me?' card, and what they want help with is you sucking their dick.

the korean members aren't any better. they're every single horrible stereotype you hear of korean hongdae fuckboys. will come up to you all sweet and pretty, but they're horrid.

cw for under the cut: they are toxic males

can literally imagine haechan vaping on the college campus, moaning in the back of the class obnoxiously, and pulling the thing where he jokingly asks for your number ALL THE TIME. going to college parties and getting wasted after 3 drinks idk 🤷 ,,, he'd be so whiny and teasing too. bc obviously he's a rude BITCH but he's so pretty and whiny and flirtatious. he's fucking everything in sight, absolute whore!! his body count is triple his age. he'd genuinely try to suck one of his friends' dick and claim it doesn't mean anything because he has clothes on !! 😔✋ he'd be stroking his dick while you're in the room, whimpering your name. the type to get on his knees and beg for any kind of attention from you..

mark lee starting off being a cute college boy canadian transfer but becomes the NOTORIOUS korean pastor's son fuckboy in like the span of 3 months. he'll act real nice, and that's because he is real nice. being super sweet and asking if you want to get coffee with him and study. and he's so good with his words you'll think that's all it is. but then of course, since he's so good with his words he'll have you blushing and giggling as he takes you back to his apartment and gets your clothes off. talking yapping so much you don't even realise what he has you doing, that you're just another girl he's pulled. he'll still be whispering when his face is in your pussy. telling you how easily you cum. "dang girl, wait a lil' can't you?" implying you're the whore,

YUTA yuta is the entire campus crush. the star football ⚽️ player and the rockstar vocalist in a band. has sex with all the groupies that come to his concerts. he's dragging people up on stage to shotgun them while the guitar break plays. absolute heartbreaker. would definitely kick the ball to your head so that when it hits you, he has to go over check if you're alright, take you up to the nurse and wait with you. he is such a liar, it genuinely hurts. lying all the time and making up words and stories left and right. but he smells like cherries and watery perfume !! he tastes like it too. you'll be coming to all his garage concerts just to see if you'll be the one he takes backstage to fuck after. he's like a god, half the time you don't even realise he's a student like the rest of you. he's just an angel sent to have fun and fuck or smth.

jaemin nah he's horrid. he'll cheat on you, and with his cute smile you'll forgive him instantly. 😔✋ he'll spend a little cash dress you in designer, make you cum until you faint, and tell you how beautiful and perfect you are for him. he will genuinely have you thinking those girls meant nothing to him, theyre just a way to vent his stress and you're the only one he loves. and then bro will say he can't stay the night, as he needs to wake up early for training. you agree, obviously. and he left for another girl's house to fuck her too. when you met him he smelled so sweet, and it was someone else's perfume. each of his girls swear they're his favourite of his, and one day he's planning fucking them all in the same room.

JOHNNY SUH? he would abuse the american transfer student status. he walks around without a shirt, soaking wet, and never get pulled up. he's rich too, got bands on his wrist and multiple cars. going on holidays overseas every chance he get and hosting parties every weekend. when you get drunk at one of them, almost falling off the balcony, someone will come up and help you to a chair. he'll take real good care of you, going above and beyond. so you can't let this guy leave when he's everything you've ever wanted. so you pull yourself onto him and ride him while the party rages on inside. make sure his dick feels so good he'll ask for your number. but you don't know that you're the fifth girl who's thrown herself at him that night.

taeyongie ^-^ he's the prettiest guy you've ever seen. bros too sweet and shy to be handing out with the rest of the neo WHORES. he's the leader of a lot of clubs but he mainly sits in cute little cafes. genuinely he seemed too adorable? to be considered the 'leader' of some horrific ahh fuckboys. until you check twitter and you see someone's reposted his MANY MULTIPLE HE HAS A LOT sex tapes. he's surrounded by ridiculously hot guys and girls, and they're passing him around like a joint, and he's begging to be humiliated. they're making him cum so much he crying. he's stronger than most of them but he's letting himself be thrown around like a doll. absolutely wrecked. looking in the camera with pretty black eyes and a slurred voice before someone shoves a cock back in this throat "am i pretty?" zhong chenle is the epitome of the chinese international student stereotype. he's almost never there, never takes off his sunglasses. he has several of those douyin type baddies trailing after him. "you have nice collarbones and pretty eyes, i like. what's your instagram?" he'll be talking with his friend renjun about what yacht he should buy during class. he can buy your affection simply because he's just that rich. will shove his black card down his pants and tell you there's only one way to get it. buys rolex watches so that he can have it on while he fingers you. dresses you in diamonds and he doesn't want to be paid back in cash. qian kun is there on an academic scholarship, but he doesn't need it. he's just that good, the school begs to have him attend. he's not a fuckboy in the conventional sense but he's just as nasty. he wants to have the perfect girl for him, to bring back to his family. he'll look for the most naive but academic girl he can. he's a manipulator. he's trying to mold you into what he wants. he'll replace your entire wardrobe with designer, but he picked out all the clothes. he'll plan cute dates for you every day, but it's to stop you from hanging out with your skanky friends. he'll buy you a new phone, but he's already added software tech to spy on you. in some essences, even though he's not a fuckboy, he's much worse than one.

jisung, like taeyong, looks so sweet. but he's NASTY. he'll seem too quiet to be hanging out with the rest of the dreamie WHORES. so you don't mind sitting next to him in your lecture. but he's just a mix of all of dream. he's good with his words like mark, and he'll have you agreeing to meet at his place EASY. he's too cute to refuse like haechan and jaemin. and then the renjun part hits, silent and sneaky, he'll be doing everything to make you think you're coming on to him. once he finally has you, he'll make a mess of you like a feral animal, the way you've heard jeno fucks. and you realise he's just like the rest of the dreamies, you shouldn't have thought otherwise. he might actually be worse than all of them.

tell me if u want me to make these like a full post or add more characters IM SO CRAZY DELULU RN SORRY xx !! 💋

#nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #wayv smut #haechan smut #donghyuck smut #mark lee smut #yuta nakamoto smut #jaemin smut #johnny suh smut #taeyong smut #chenle smut #kun smut

[colorful-white-ideas]

I agree what you said about the crow fans being annoying lol. I'm a big fan of the crow 1994 and Brandon Lee, but I dunno what it is with wanting to be so obnoxious and elitist like the people who yap "my music taste is the best" because they listen to something old or indie and not well known. I don't believe the new crow will hit the same as the og, it will hit different and that is fine too, not to mention there's talks from the test screening that the movie is actually good so people need to get out their ass and just not watch the movie if they're so offended. Also bills look is great for what the movie is aiming for. I first thought "wow he looks like a mess and a crackhead and hot". This version of Eric is in rehab, I think he's meant to give off that vibe

Yeah there is a bit of elitism ( classism ) and gatekeeping behind the critics. There are two things people need to understand. This is not exactly a reboot because it's a completely different timeline/ universe where they took names and details from the comics to build a different story. Here Eric Is a flawed hero, an ex drug addict . Why is that a problem? Is a very common trope.

The crow is one of my favorite movies and I understand why people are so fond of it and saw it as some type of sacred relic that should not be touched. And they feel offended by the fact that the new movie doesn't seem to "honour" Brando Lee legacy ,they were hoping for a movie that revolved around him and that also served as some time of comfort place to relieve in real time what they felt in their younger days ... Like a nostalgia pill.

At the same time they would have complained about it too 'cause " nothing will equal the original"

For me the fact that this version is so different is a good way to pay respect to the 90's movie. That was Brandon Lee's Crow. And as such will remain. You can always go back to it

( Bill's Eric is not erasin the original. Same way as his pennywise didn't erase Tim curry's )

Times change , it's been 30 years, a new generation needs a new hero, someone they can reflect onto and share emotions with ... This is for the young flawed kids / young adults who feel lost and in pain. Let them have this and at the same time enjoy a new beginning for a new story that will also mutate every other generation. Nothing stays completely untouched over time , it's not natural.

Keep an open mind , step down your moral high , they all looked like crazy conservative with the " omg tattoos, he does drugs ? , he is openly goth ? " "Kids know nothing " grrrr

Since when is The Crow for prudes?

Sad , they have become the grumpy old dudes of the neighborhood.

#bill skarsgård #bill skarsgard #billskarsgard #the crow #the crow 2024 #eric draven

[sswwmmpptthhnngg]

Bat Out of Hell | Chapter One

→ Pairings: Eddie x HendersonSister!Reader

→ Warnings: angst, anxiety, mental health, hurt/comfort, vignette style flashbacks, eventual smut, slow burn, drug/alcohol mention/use, 18+ minors dni

→ WC: 13k+

→ A/N: Y'all. This is feeling mightily like a magnum opus sorts. I can't tell you how many times I've written and rewritten, hemmed and hawed. I finally just had to hit post. Here there probably be typos, not beta-ed in the slightest. I figured I'll go back and edit, just needed to get the story out.

In penance, I made y'all a playlist, featuring some of the tracks mentioned in this chapter and some funk tracks that I really just like and would 1000% be playing at the record shop if I worked at one.

Here we go.

→ Playlist: Maggot Brain

Chicago, March 13, 1991

Silence. Blissful, impenetrable, being-less silence. The quiet of your apartment enveloped you from the brisk March bustle of the city at your back. Windy City indeed. You thought you were prepared for Chicago’s so called spring growing up in the Midwest all your life, but the proximity to the lake changed all that. Icy torrents ripping at warp speeds at slush sludged in between the laces of your Docs. Or at least it used to until you wised up and purchased a pair of Sportos. Not the pinnacle of fashion, but damn were they functional against Chicago’s street funk.

Kicking off said boots, your toes uncurled on the warm wood floor, welcoming the relief of being able to spread out. The day had droned on, picking up that double was an instant regret. Noon to midnight. What the hell had you been thinking? Especially when you had to cram your feet into the dress code mandated pointy toe pumps, which you tossed in the direction of your closet, not caring where they landed. Whoever decided bartenders had to wear heels during their shift deserved an extra hot seat in hell. Maybe a few extra pokers for good measure. 

Tight, pinching spasms wracked your muscles as you unfurled your scarf from your neck and shlepped your heavy coat from your shoulders. Dense fabric pooled at your feet as you rubbed at your shoulder, willing away the already forming kink. Damn your overly altruistic nature of wanting to help a fellow coworker out of a tight spot. Thankfully, Wednesday nights at The Signature were fairly quiet, at least as quiet as an upscale bar on The Mile could be. Bankers, business men, and bourgeoisie. Typical clientele for the elite establishment. Top shelf liquor at a high sticker price, steak, chrome, velvet, pretty waitstaff, a cliche of 90’s decadence atop one of Chicago’s tallest buildings giving the patrons ample opportunity to look down at the city as well as down their noses. Sure, it wasn’t the most you placed you’ve ever worked. But it was a living and the tips were generous. Always an incentive for the trouble. That and the two shots your last patron of the night insisted that he didn’t do alone. Another perk. 

Tequila was already at work, doing its job dulling your senses, lulling you out into the sea of unconscious dissociation. Lights were off in your apartment, just the glow of the streetlights filtering though the window into the darkness of the small studio. Typically your neighborhood was awash with lights, music, and the scene; the punk bustle of Halsted your initial draw. Tonight, dampened by the sleeting snow, all was quiet. Just like you needed it to be. 

Only Wednesday and it had already been a week. Between tonight’s double, a full 10 days on shift in a row, and the weather, exhaustion permeated your bones. It was March, no holidays in sight, yet the bar buzzed with loaded tables, even on what were supposed to be the slow nights. People were insane for traversing the blustering streets when the gales amassed snow piles as deep as your knees. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays the alcoholics from the swift completion of their rounds. The sheer number of appletinis you had to mix threatened your sanity and the massive orders for mojitos left your palms raw from their encounter with the muddler. Tips. That’s why you were doing all of this. To afford your modest studio apartment. And to live. Though you really weren’t doing too much of that lately.

Flicking the light switch on the wall next to you, your apartment lit with a soft orange glow from the small lamp nestled in the corner of the space. One of the few things not encased in cardboard. Yet. What little time you had between shifts was unfortunately spent packing. Exactly on what you had wanted to spend your precious free time. Heaving a sigh, you surveyed your once cozy apartment. A narrow path cut through the maze of boxes in your apartment from the front door to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the couch, the couch to your bed. How there were so many boxes temporarily housing your meager cache of belongings, you’ll never know. It seemed as though each box you packed, another three were needed. Seeing everything you had to your name entombed in cardboard felt hollowed. Displaced.

Truly, aside from the last week, you hadn’t spent a lot time in your own apartment, or really even on your own. This time of year and the memories attached to it— you didn’t want to dredge them up if you could avoid it. And avoid you did. Working 10 days on, catching up with friends for dinner, crashing with a friend. You had once loved your little studio, but times had changed. You had changed. What once was a haven felt like a lifeless shrine to a life you used to live. A relic of a life that wouldn’t come to be, full of memories you wished to bury.  

Life altered vastly since the first time you came to Chicago to now. The one constant, this small haven had been the place you lay your head for the better part of the last seven years. Seven years. How had it been that long? Keeping busy in a city like Chicago was all too easy you supposed, having learned this firsthand when you had first moved to The Windy City all those years ago as a bright-eyed freshman stepping foot on Northwestern’s campus. Initially, you had moved into the tiny on campus dorms. The vivacious energy of other eager freshman only enlivened you for your first real no responsibilities experience, other than your school responsibilities of course. Being the elder Henderson sibling put a heavy mantle on your shoulders and college was the first time you got to lay the burden down. 

At first it was odd, adjusting to not having to take care of the house or pick your little brother up from school and run him all over Hawkins to his activities. You were truly living for yourself. Classwork and your part time job at the campus library were your only two obligations. The world truly felt like your oyster in those days. Free. Expansive. Yours for the taking. 

Campus life exhilarated, with the many new people and experiences. Your head was on a constant swivel that first semester. Clubs to join, parties to attend, people to meet. Your calendar burst at the seams with the new, wanting to experience everything and anything you could get your hands on. Too many years in a small town will do that you. You wanted a life so far removed from your life in Hawkins and it was in your grasp. 

Classes scintillated, broadening your horizons at every lecture. Friends joined your ranks, falling in with another merry band of misfits much like your chosen few friends in Hawkins. The only downside being your rather finicky first semester roommate who didn’t seem to grasp the concept that the room was shared, not just hers. Lauren, not be pronounced like normal, but “Lore-Ren” as in Ralph Lauren she would constantly correct. Her spiteful “toleration” of your “devil music” and distastefully drab wardrobe lead her Lacoste to leech onto your side of the room, inch by inch.  There were only so much poppy plaid, debutante delicacies, and Chad Lowe posters you could stomach. Enter your search for a space of your own.

Weeks of perusing periodicals for spaces for rent in your price range returned a fruitless search. Seems like every twenty-something was jonesing for their own slice of the city to sink their teeth into. You didn’t just want any old apartment in any old neighborhood. If you were going to strike out on your own, there was only one place to be. 

Halsted was your chosen borough, the scene rife with lovable riffraff, your kind of folks. Every spare moment you had was spent in the neighborhood; it wasn’t all about the jocks and cheerleaders— freaks ruled the roost in Halsted. Leather jackets, punk t-shirts, sky-high mowhawks, Halsted attracted those outside of the mainstream. Naturally, it was hard to find a feasible place to live in freak central due to the draw. 

You had discovered Halstead on complete accident. A rare Saturday you had to yourself with no tests to study or homework littering your desk, left you jonesing for a trip into the city. Needing to get out of your head with finals just around the corner, a trip to the city was just what the doctor ordered. With a loaded whole day plan, centering around a visit to the Institute of Art and lunch at the famed hole-in-the-wall diner Jim’s Grill, the promise of reprieve from studying seeped into your overwork brain as you nestled into a window seat on the Red Line. The ambling lull of the train proved too much for your lack of sleep as you settled into a casual doze. You should have gotten off the train in Buena Park near Wrigley Field to catch the 80 to Irving Park, but your doze was a full blown sleep and you missed your stop by several. Waking up as the Red Line pulled into Belmont Station, the rest is history. You fell in love with blossoming counterculture the moment your Chuck Taylors hit the pavement in Halsted. 

Berlin’s cavernous nightlife club with a diverse, no-attitude, all-orientations crowd on the dance floor, Susie’s 24 hour diner on Montrose, The Alley’s punk duds. Every corner housed a haven for the freaks. You had never seen anything like it. When night fell, Halsted really sprung to life. A glitter gulch filled with people pouring in and out of clubs, cars circling for non-existent parking spaces on cruise congested streets. Part-time tourists suburbanites and street freaks mingled together in club queues. Places like Punkin’ Doughnuts became a mainstay staple in your social calendar. A booming 24 hour street scene, a beacon for the offbeat. Straight up sugar fiends filled the parking lot of the Belmont and Clark Dunkin Doughnuts, loitering in the lot while music blasted through ghetto blasters or a scuffle of a live band. It was electric and eclectic, a place where you could go and find like-minded folks; a rarity in the midwest. It wasn’t just the punks, but other folks outside of the mainstream: house music fanatics, antifascist skinheads, skaters, trans folks, drag queens, goths, runaways. It was a corner hub awash with a tapestry of folks that could just hang out together. With the constellation of music venues and bars, there was always something going on in Halsted.

Perhaps your favorite of all the establishments was The Wax Trax! The bread and butter of the neighborhood, Wax Trax! was the anchor for the disenfranchised. A punk/new wave/industrial haven. Many hours were spent flipping through LPs and adding treasures to your already expansive collection. It was more than just a record store. Amid the death grip of AIDS, the arrival of Ronald Regan’s trickle-down economics, and the specter of Cold War nuclear Armaggedon, Wax Trax! was the neon-lit musical club house or a hidden community. A community that liked fringe music and transgressive humor, a community that identified as gay, trans, punk, misfit or “other,” a community that found solace in glam, dirty disco, girl groups with magnificent beehives, rockabilly of the most impolite sort, or the gritty grinding of industrial music. To be a regular at Wax Trax!, meant you didn’t fit in anywhere else. Who new there were so many of your kind? Especially in there. Not only were the vinyls cool, it became your regular haunt. Where you worked after classes and on the weekends. Where you found home.

Literally. Perusing the records a few weeks after finals while finishing up your May Term class, you spotted it. A for rent sign in the fourth story window right across the street from The Trax. Your fingers flew to dial the number during your shift and the landlord answered on the second ring. The appointment was set to the view the apartment that evening. 

It was love at first sight. You had found it. Home. Your oasis among the grit of the punk scene of Halsted. The small studio nestled on the top floor of the building facing Halsted, giving you the perfect birds-eye view of the street happenings below. Warm wood floors, crisp freshly painted while walls, tall cathedral ceilings, skylights peppering the ceiling emitting an otherworldly glow. You couldn’t have custom cherry picked a better apartment if you tried. It enveloped you from the first moment you opened the door. You had to have it. 

The place was a steal, so much so that there had to be something wrong with it beyond what the naked eye could see. Your potential future landlord had mumbled something about goddamn punks creating a ruckus and driving away renters, but thought better of finishing the statement when taking in your appearance. You may look like a punk, but your credentials were anything but riffraff. Your full ride scholarship to Northwestern, solid employment history at Wax Trax!, he didn’t even hesitate to have you sign a lease. And sign you did. It was perfect. You were home.

That was 1984. Back when the world made sense. Back before monsters, evil Russians, the Upside Down, back before you lost— Yeah, not tonight. A shake of the head dispelled the mounting thoughts. Getting out of your uncomfortable pencil skirt and Oxford was what you needed right now. Basic needs. That’s at least what your newly acquired therapist had recommended last session. Keep it simple, especially in this period of transition.  

Weaving through your box maze to where your bed nestled underneath one of the skylights, you slumped down on the mattress, unclipping your suspenders as you sat. Working at a place you didn’t enjoy really took it out of you. The stuffy clientele, bitchy backbiting coworkers primed to see you fall flat on your face. The only saving grace was your surprisingly affable bar manger and boss Jerry. He had been absolutely gutted when you put in your two weeks notice. Losing my best and brightest, he had all but cried when you handed in your resignation. 

Tending bar wasn’t the plan, it really wasn’t even in the realm of what you wanted to do with your life. It was merely a means to an end. ’Til you found your footing again. A temporary stepping stone on your way to bigger and better things, to quote your therapist. Yeah, a five year stepping stone. Aggravatedly, you stood, pulling open your dresser drawer keen to find something comfortable to lounge in for the sixteen hours you had yourself only to be met with emptiness. Shit. SHIT. Your gaze turned to the stack of boxes next to the dresser labeled “BEDROOM” in bold black block lettering. Focused packing had clearly hit your dressers, and if you had to guess your closet too, in preparation for your impending move. Like everything else in your apartment. Shoulder slumping at even the thought of having to dig through boxes to find something, anything at this point. Had it been summer, you could strip to your under layers and just laze on the couch as you pleased. But no, it was the tail end of winter, always the most biting time in Chicago. Heaters were already working overtime against the squall, radiators simmering as the steam heat fought to keep the chill at bay. 

Fighting the heavy sigh threatening to spill from your lungs, you righted your shoulders. Better to get this over with quickly so you could finally be horizontal. Just a minor inconvenience, that’s all. You’ve had more than your share of those this week. The snow, a grabby patron, everything you own in a box, and now not even being able to find a t-shirt. Fuck this week. Actually, fuck the whole month. March was the worst anyways. 

Not even bothering to find a blade or keys to make opening the boxes infinitesimally easier, you pick at the heavy packing tape. Cardboard ripping filling the silence of your apartment as you tore into the first box destined for your future bedroom. Socks. You rummaged around deeper in the box only to find more socks and stockings. Who packs an entire box of just socks? Apparently you do. Could you have at least specified that the box contained socks? No, of course not. That would have made things all too easy, too convenient for present you. 

Packing in a sleep addled state clearly was a mistake as the next box contained heavy wool sweaters and layers meant to stave off the elements, and the following only contained bottoms. Strike three. You calves quaked as you heaved the offending, wholly unhelpful boxes to the side so you could get to the next stack. Relabelling and re-taping the boxes was a future you problem. 

Another box, another disappointment. This one straining to contain a portion of your LPs, dust jackets laden with dust from disuse. When was the last time you had even played one of these? Physical Graffiti, Led Zeppelin. Queens of Noise, The Runaways. Space Oddity, David Bowie. Creatures of the Night, Kiss. The Number of The Beast, Iron Maiden. So many greats made up the backbone of a comprehensive collection once your pride and joy. Warn paper spines felt familiar under your fingertips, a warm musk kicking up as you traced the them. So much of your youth was spent in a constant rotation of these albums on your turntable, lost in the euphony each album created. How long had it been since you pulled one of these out? If the layer of thick dust accumulating upon your turntable was any indication, it had been an eon. 

Subsequent boxes contained more records hidden away, stale with desertion. Perhaps the dust added to the heft as you sloughed the boxes into a disorganized pile on your quest for something comfortable, desperation and tiredness mounting upon each disappointing box. The last box at the bottom of the stack was unsurprisingly unlabeled. It had better not be more records. Three full boxes packed to the gills with LPs was enough. Even the thought of having to transport those ratcheted up the tiredness. You peeled back the tape and popped open the flaps and your hands froze. Box flaps fell from your shocked hands as you peered down at the box’s contents. 

Soft baby blue satin glinted in the low light of your apartment. You couldn’t hold back the soft smile that quirked your lips in recognition as your fingers traced the lettering on the cool fabric. Sound Hound looped across the satin expanse in white script formed by patch and chainstitch. Almost reverently, you lifted the jacket from the box. How it was still in near mint condtion, you couldn’t fathom as you brought the fabric to your nose. The Oakmoss, anise, and bergamot notes of Brut met your inhale; it still smelled like him. Your dad. Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson.

One thousand percent responsible for your record collection and former deep love of music, Don was WINN 104.9’s premiere drive time radio spot Not My First Radio. Perhaps your dad was also one thousand percent responsible for your sense of humor. All leather jackets, KISS t-shirts, and cigarette smoke, he was a true rock’n’roller and he immersed you in that world from your conception. Playing you Pink Floyd in utero, playing you acoustic cover lullabies of Led Zeppelin, giving you the finer points of imitating Barry Gibb for your grade school talent show, sneaking you out of middle school to see Cheap Trick in Chicago and subsequently finding Meat Loaf thus beginning your life long obsession, and all the late night concerts as you began high school. Bowie, KISS, Journey, Nazareth, AC/DC, Bee Gees, Billy Squire, Black Sabbath, Bruce Springsteen. If it was a major musical act playing anywhere near the Indianapolis area, you could bet DJ Don “The Sound Hound” Henderson was in attendance. And by proxy, you if he could steal you away as his assistant in “research”. 

It wasn’t just rock and roll, it was soul. Your dad may have been a rock virtuoso, but he was also a funk junkie. Kool and The Gang, Funkadelic, Cymande, Earth, Wind, & Fire. Anything with a groove sent you and your dad whirling around the living room to the beat, laughing until your sides ached as much as your cheeks from smiling. Often roping your mother and your brother in on your hijinks. Music wove the very fabric of your life from before you were born. It was a tether, entwining especially you and your dad together, as thick at thieves. You idolized him. He was your best friend.

At least he was until cancer took him when you were 14. Watching your idol succumb to that nasty, eating disease broke you. He wasted away in a matter of months post diagnosis. It was then you resolved you wanted to be just like him, setting your sights on Northwestern’s broadcasting program. You were going to carry on the Henderson name, at least in the radio world. Desperate to keep the music thread continuing in your life. 

A telltale lump began to form in the back of your throat, tightening in that all too familiar way. Guard already low due to energy dangling dangerously close to burnout, you set the bomber jacket aside to assuage the brewing feelings, but were startled with a clatter. Curious, you pressed a hand to the jacket, feeling a rectangular lump beneath the fabric. Slipping your hand in the pocket, you produced a clear case housing a cassette. A yellowed label read “Sound Hound: September 1, 1979 Broadcast”,  your dad’s familiar scrawl clearly scripted. Feet moving of their own volition, you hardly realized you had crossed the room until you were popping open the tape deck on your alarm clock and pressing play. 

The tape began to spool, clicking and clacking reverberating from the player. Not even fading in, the tinny recording began abruptly. 

Since you been gone

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Since you been gone

Since you been gone

I'm out of my head can't take it

Graham Bonnet’s iron lung of a voice faded as a voice you hadn’t heard in a long while began to talk over the outro.

“And if you are just tuning in to WINN, you’re listening to The Sound Hound!” Your dad’s voice enthused followed by a very cheesy Halloween werewolf howling sound effect. “That is a new drop from across the pond. After the rain there’s always a Rainbow. And off their new album Down to Earth that was Since You’ve Been Gone. Hoping your ride home has been rockin’ and rolling smoothly. Keep an eye on the traffic headed southbound on 65, there’s heavy traffic in all lanes. Speaking of traffic, here’s one last jam to take you home. And this one is for a little creature who should be just getting off school. See y’all tomorrow on the next Not My First Radio Show!”

A Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann

Barbara Ann

Take my hand

Another bitter smile formed on your lips. As hard rock as your dad could be, he had a secret soft spot. One only known to you. The Beach Boys. No one would expect a love of The Beach Boys. But he did, he loved them un-ironically. It became your thing. Taking his prized powder blue Fairlane, affectionally known as Babs, out for a cruise down the 31. Top down, summer sun warming your skin and wind tousling your hair. Barbara Ann pouring through the speakers at the highest volume possible. You singing along at the top of your lungs. Your dad singing off-key in his best Boris Karloff impersonation, coaxing a peel of giggles from you in your younger years. 

Oh Barbara Ann, take my hand

Barbara Ann

You got me rockin' and a-rollin'

Rockin' and a-reelin'

Barbara Ann ba ba

Ba Barbara Ann

Those were the kind of hazy days of summer that you wished would last forever. Some of your fondest childhood memories lived in the cream leather interior, the soft blue dashboard, the treads of the tires. Barbara Ann became your code. Anytime it played on air, it was his way of say hi or he was thinking about you. Now, when you happened to hear it, it was your dad’s way of saying he was with you even beyond the grave and Babs… Well, she was a last corporeal piece of him. 

Honestly, it was bittersweet. Babs was a little bit of your dad to keep with you wherever you went. In later years, she became a scared space of shared secrets, long drives to Lover's Lake with Led Zeppelin on the radio, a stolen away solace at the back of the drive-in lot. But for the last five, she sat in your apartment’s parking structure. Under some sheet like a ghost of your past life. 

Nostalgia. What was with it today? Threatening to swallow you whole like the squall outside. As if this month wasn’t already charged enough. Now all this nostalgia to contend with? No thank you. While a trip down memory lane was nice and all, what you needed desperately was a little sleep. And to do that, you needed to be comfortable. Endeavoring to not let anything else sidetrack your mission, you return to the box you had opened, Beach Boys still bopping along in the background. Jackpot. Finally, past you did something that made sense. A box with a jacket AND other garments. It only took eight boxes, but you had found something to wear. Finally, a soft cotton tee was in your hands. You could almost cry in tired elation. The heathered forest green tee was Nirvana in your grasp. Shaking it out, eager to slip into comfort, you used the last ounce of your waining will straighten out the garment and— ugh, you had got to be kidding. 

Out of all the tees you owned, it would be this one. It was your lot. A huge cosmic joke where you were the punchline. Your shoulders sagged in weary acceptance. Clearly the universe was out to get you. As if you hadn’t been served enough sentimentality, the sole tee you could find would be for Shepherd’s Records. Shepherd’s had been your first job. Manning the counter and keep track of inventory for your dad’s best friend, Irwin Shepherd. Lord help you if you called him by his first name. He was Shep, and only Shep. God, you had loved that job, working nights after school and weekends, even coming home in the summer to man the shop. There was no place better for a music fanatic to work. Playing records all day and getting paid to chat with folks about music? Nothing better. 

You snorted ruefully as you lay the tee on your bed and began to disrobe. Seemingly everything today saw fit to remind you of things that were no longer part of your life. Dad. Shepherd’s. Music. So much loss in a short nearly three decades. But that was something better saved for your therapist office, not standing half naked staring at a t-shirt listening to Barbara Ann in the middle of your apartment at 1:30 in the morning. You just needed sleep. Sweet sleep. And maybe a Bartles & James to take the edge off. Yeah, that sounded good. Slipping on the comically large shirt, it hung down to mid-thigh, ample coverage for a night’s sleep. You rucked off your tights and snagged a pair of tall, thick socks from your box of socks before shuffling to the kitchen for your intended beverage.

The cool of the refrigerator breezed across your bare legs as you tugged open the door and plucked the peach flavored wine cooler from the scant contents of your fridge. Plunking the door closed, your hurried to the couch, pulled on your socks, and nestled under the bulky knit blanket, sinking into the warm reprieve from the chilled air of your apartment. One of the few things you hadn’t packed was a bottle opener. You grinned at your own genius as you reached for the tool on your coffee table and popped the top off your beverage. The sweet peach of the fizzy drink titillated your tastebuds as you took a deep swig, relaxing into the plush of your couch. 

Silence once again. The tape player had clicked off as you dressed and you were once again left in the quiet of your apartment. Gentle rattling of the radiator only added to the soundtrack of your mounting thoughts. This time of year always dredged up encroaching feelings. Giant, monstrous, beast like feelings unfurling their tentacles, probing through the mirk for some soft flesh to sink into. Testing the virility of the armor you’ve built over the years, craving to find some chink in your defenses. Most days you could stave off the onslaught with tools from your therapist wielded like weapons hewn in hard work of facing down your demons. Other days, much like today, when tiredness seeped from every pore and the calendar slowly progressing towards the day you dreaded most, your defenses offered little resistance to the strike. 

In the turbulent grey of March, you couldn’t help but think on it. Of him. The irony wasn’t lost on you that you lazed on your couch wearing the shirt bearing the name of the first place you truly saw him. The first time that unruly mop of brown hair waltzed into your life, setting you on a collision course of inevitable destruction.

Hawkins June 20, 1981

Summer. Might as well be called hell season as far as you were concerned. Asphalt hot enough to cook an egg or melt the rubber off your sneakers. Mercury bursting to the top of thermometers, 100 degrees and counting. Heat haze blurring the corn fields along the sides of the road as you drove into town. The mid-afternoon Midwest sun was as unforgiving as you could get, so much so that despite your car’s air-conditioning being on the fritz, having the top down wasn’t even in the realm of possibility lest you scorched your hide clean off. Dewey beads of sweat caused your baby hairs to stick to your brow and your legs to the leather of the seats. It was a scorcher, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. 

School was officially done for the year. No schedules, no assignments. Just you and your favorite place on earth, thankfully with air conditioning. Pulling into your designated spot, you cut the engine, twirling the keys around your finger as you walked up the back door of Shepherd’s Records. Locking the door behind you, pressing your back to the door, you relished in the cool air, an oasis from the broiling heat outside.

The quiet cool of the shop was peaceful as you made your way through the stacks of records. A familiar scent of plastic wrap, laminated cardboard, and heavily treaded carpet. Inviting, a place of comfort. Being the only record institution in Hawkins, the store was always a little less than clean, clear that many people have trampled through the shop. Stained carpeting, a little rubbish stuck in a corner somewhere no matter how thoroughly you scoured the shop, and the ever-present hint of fast food, plastic, and hairspray lived in the soft lines. 

Posters hung from the rafters debut the newest albums and in store promotions. The community bulletin board was littered with flyers for local shows and stacks of independent zines by filled the table by the door. Oasis was certainly the right word for Shepherd’s progressive palace in the midwestern malum. The devil-may-care attitude the outsider rock and roll nature of Shepherd’s offered appealed to some, but the real draw was of course the music. Rows and rows of illustrations and photos, containing everything from heavy metal to new wave to Motown to Shostakovich. 

Folks occasionally bought an album or single after hearing it played over the store’s sound system, or something of your recommendation. Husband’s utterly lost trying to find a gift for their wife. Some girl humming something she heard over the radio that she was desperate to have a copy of her own. Local DJ’s jonesing to find an international import of an obscure funk album. The true diehards never wanted assistance, nor did they really need it. “Don’t buy that album, there’s only one good song” or “This might be there best ever”, you didn’t dare even breathe it in their direction; they’d find your opinions more than annoying wanting to draw their own conclusions. Elitists aside, you gleaned a lot of joy in connecting folks to the music that excited them. After all, vinyl was how you fell in the love with music. 

While other kids were listening on Fisher 100 watt hi-fi systems, you were spinning records on a Technic SP-10. Direct drive, the pinnacle of hi-fi. Much more crisp than a sad sounding mono speaker and better yet, loud, much to the dismay of your family and neighbors. It made music a much more visceral listening experience for you. It wasn’t just the superior audio quality, it was also the album itself. Nothing tops the feeling of cracking open the record sleeve, peeling back the plastic wrap not knowing what was inside. Were there lyrics? Tour photos? Pure unadulterated excitement. When there was a lack of stuff inside, it was always disappointing. 

Nothing topped browsing the aisles of Shepherd’s, looking for an exotic gem or a familiar favorite. And you got to do it everyday. And get paid. Summer, heat side, was your second favorite time of the year. Five days a week you basked in the haven Shepherd’s provided. Briefly you wondered if this is how your dad felt, being at the station surrounded by albums as far as the eye could see. Ample avenues and journeys to take, music to be carried way by… if only he was here. Your love of music stemmed from wholly your dad. While you mom fancied Barry Manilow and The Beatles, not terrible choices if you're honest, she was a causal listener, not one who was consumed by what she heard. You and your dad had that in common, cut from the same sensitive cloth. 

“Come here, Creature,” he’d beckon you from the floor of his office, kneeling next to his record player adjusting the gain. “Listen to this.” He set the needle on the record and sound would pour out as he lay on the floor, limbs stretched and eyes closed. Completely succumbing to the music.

You’d nestle into his side in kind. Your nights typically consisted of this. Waiting for your dad to return home from the station with a new release to show you. You’d both lay on the floor and close your eyes and be taken away. As the music would build, gooseflesh broke out upon your arms, sending zinging chills throughout your whole being. Utterly and completely alive. The first time you recall feeling this sensation was the first time you listened to Ramble On by Led Zeppelin in this exact manner. Barely 6, your father could hardly wait to share one of his favorite albums with you. 

“Whadya think?” he’d turn to you and ask, eyes alight. You’d tell him exactly what you thought, how it made you feel. Swapping sensations and your deep, newly acquired love of Robert Plant. 

What you wouldn’t give for him to be tucked behind the counter right now, discussing that the Creature Feature would be for the day. Creature, your dad’s nickname for you, raised many eyebrows. Part due to your penchant for staying up into the early hours of the morning, part due to your love of Creature From The Black Lagoon. You had made him watch that film on repeat so frequently that the tape began to run thin, needing replaced. Twice. What could you say? There was just something about a creature just wanting love. The outcast, the oddity, the one never to belong thirsting deeply for companionship. Or that’s at least what your interpretation of the plot was, not a bloodthirsty Gil-Man out to ensure a beautiful woman. 

Your Creature Feature turntable choice of the day: Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain. Was there any better way than to start you day with funk? Maybe a little mind-melting for the beginning of your shift, but it was one of your favorite albums of all time. Rife with protest-soul, brimming with rage over Vietnam and raised fists in support of Martin Luther King Jr., Maggot Brain spoke through brooding delusions, screaming from the shadows in a time bereft with injustice. You drop the needle on the record and just marinated a minute. 

Mother Earth is pregnant for the third time

For y'all have knocked her up.

I have tasted the maggots in the mind of the universe

I was not offended

For I knew I had to rise above it all

Or drown in my own shit.

Bandleader George Clinton’s spoken word begins fading into one of the most powerful and passionate guitar solos ever etched in wax. Fuzz and wah ala Hendrix, combined with the delay and echoplexed improvisation, Eddie Hazel’s solo brayed through the shop, eerie and mournful, an emotional apocalypse of sound. The one-take-wonder and titular track was your favorite, not just for sound, but also for lore. Clinton told Hazel to play as if he just found out his mother passed. The heartbreak and subsequent spiral of loss was palpable as the music pumped through the overhead speakers, vibrating in your chest as you set about turning on the lights readying for open.

This is why you loved working here. Learning all the interconnectedness of the music tapestry. How artists and styles inspired and wove together. If you paid close enough attention, funk was the epicenter of a lot of musical genres. Funkadelic for example influenced Miles Davis’ Agharta with their Wars of Armageddon which could really only be described as a paranoid freak out jam. Decadent, dizzying, and heady. There were even tunes Black Sabbath would have been proud of like Super Stupid. Funk to jazz, funk to metal. It was all connected; that such pain could transmute into something so poignant it echoed for decades after. 

Far to heady thoughts for barely noon. Proceeding with your opening duties, you flicked on the open sign, the connected neon lights flickering to life as you unlocked the front door, officially ready for the day. As per the nature of the biz, your first hour was slow, not a customer in sight. Which was fine, you had plenty to keep you occupied. Between cleaning, much needed dusting, straightening up the store, and bringing stock up from the back, you hardly noticed the bell above the door jingle with your first customers of the day.

“I’ll be right up!” You called, making your voice heard over Wars of Armeggedon. A feat considering you were in the back room contesting with protest audio, crowd ambiance, odd mouth noises, and otherwise cacophonous and riotous noise driven funk.

No response was given as you trotted up to the front. “How can I help—” your customer service smile dropped in an instant when you saw who was standing in the center of the store. “You,” your voice deadpanned in summation. 

“For starters, you could play something a little more, oh I don’t know, sane?” 

A hulking frame draped in a lettermen’s jacket despite the heat were blocked your path to the front of the store. Flanked by two of cronies, clearly amused with the cat and mouse game that had just instigated, they caged you in. Terrific. What had started out as a laissez faire day now had been severely sidetracked. Summer was supposed mean less encounters from the masses at school. Something you had greatly looked forward to: no jocks for a glorious three months. It had only been two days. Of all the record stores in all of Indiana, he had to walk into yours.

“Last I checked, I was the employee here, not you Carver,” you spat with clenched teeth, standing your ground not being at all intimidated by the goons. 

Chet Carver, the eldest Carver sibling. Most notably known for captaining the Hawkins High football team as quarterback. And also being a grade A douche canoe. Blonde. Brawny. Entitled. You would think for a pastor’s son he’d be a bit more humble. But it couldn’t be further from the truth. The aggressive meathead saw fit to target anyone who was slightly off center from the norm. Mathletes, drama geeks, no one was safe from his ire. His sway over those who looked up to him was strong, seeing as his little brother was following along in his exact footsteps. 

You knew his type, all too well unfortunately. Just a year or so ago, you were going steady. Holding hands, kissing in his car at the drive-in, the whole lot. Dumping the King of Hawkins High made you persona non grata, top mark in his crosshairs. He leered down at you, sussing out your stance for any weakness, thirsty to rend you to your knees as you had done to him. That smarmy captious grin made your blood boil and your palm itch to smack the look off his face. 

“What do you want?” You over-annunciated each syllable, hopefully the direct manner would somehow seep into his peabrain. 

“Oh you know,” he casually began, finally putting distance between the two of you. He began walking his fingers over the albums as he spoke, “we were out for a drive before heading to Benny’s for a burger and I thought to myself, you know what I could use? A new record.” He paused to flip through one of the bins he was standing in front of, taking time to muss the alphabetical order. 

Your lips pressed into a thin line, jaw aching in restraint as you bit back a smarting remark. As much as you would love to engage him in witty repartee, the sooner he left the shop, the better. You watch unmoving, your eyes trailed Chet and his cronies as the perused. Watching only, not interfering. Sure, they were making your job difficult by bringing chaos to your inventory, but if it was the worst they did, so be it. A few disorganized records? They could do much worse. 

“Ah, this is the one,” Chet had stopped his perusal, pulling a record out of the country bin and holding it out to you. Ronnie Milsap. There’s No Gettin’ Over Me. Fitting.

With a short snort, you took the record from him and made for the cash wrap. Of course he would pick the worst song of the year with the most blatant messaging.

Well you can walk out on me tonight

If you think that it ain’t feeling right

But darling

There’s ain’t no getting over me

Well you can say that you need to be free

But there ain’t no place that I won’e be

As one would assume, such a cocksure clydesdale didn’t take being dumped too kindly. If his constant harassment was enough of an indicator, this cheap shot was as clear as a foghorn. There ain’t no getting over me. Please. You had heard the song all but once over the radio at Melvald’s and it was enough. Utter trash. A narcissist’s anthem if you’ve ever heard one. You had been over him the day you dumped him. He had changed after your dad passed. All your friends had. Treating you different for grieving; you weren’t the peppy upstart you used to be. Not cool enough to hang with the in crowd. And honestly it suited you fine. The exhaustion that came a long with keeping up The Joneses was too much anyway.

Your frustration leeched out onto the register keys, punching the pricing into the cash register as you thought back on it. You may have been over Chet, but the feelings of your world turning upside down were a little too fresh. “$9.98.” You foisted your palm in his direction, not bothering to make eye contact as you rummaged beneath the counter with your freehand for a bag 

From the corner of your eye, you saw him smirk, reaching into his jacket for his wallet. “I’ll let you keep the change if you give me a smile,” he taunted, laying a crisp ten dollar bill in your awaiting palm, as he leaned over the counter, encroaching inch by inch on your personal space. 

Change was made quickly and dropped into the bag. “Have a nice day,” you spoke flatly, slapping the bagged record into his chest. The paper bag crinkled against his jacket, the force and surprise propelling him back a few steps, bemused expression on his face at your reaction.  

HIs cronies chortled again, the interaction pulling them out of the mussing miscreancy.  “Seems like we’re not wanted here, Carver,” one of them mused, flanking Chet. 

“I supposed not,” Chet clapped him on the back. “Let’s get outta here.” 

Finally, FINALLY, the three skulked their way to the exit. Only being in the store for all of ten minutes, they had sufficiently made a large enough mess of your racks that it would take you nearly half the day to restore the order. Scooping up the nearest stack, you took the armful of albums back over the the counter. 

“Hey Henderson,” he called to your retreating back, pausing you mid step. 

Your abrupt turn and the heft of the records in your arms put you off kilter are you stared him down in the doorway. 

“I always thought you were prettiest when you smiled,” he winked, disquieting you to the very core as he exited.

Had your hands been free, you would have flipped him the bird, double time. That fucker. Thinking he could come in here, invade your sanctuary, and leer like that? Who did he think he was? Right, god’s gift to womankind. The albums met the counter with more force than you intended, the pile spilling onto the floor with the force. A breath didn’t know you were holding released, your shoulders slumping in resignation. This was going to be a long shift.

Several hours and almost the entirety of Iron Maiden’s Killers later, all was righted in the store. All of the jazz section had to be completely reorganized from Armstrong to Zawinul. Pain in the ass was the understatement of the year. Wistfully, you wished you had given Chet a piece of your mind, read him for all the filth he was, but being in his presence any longer than necessary would have been a drain on your day. Engaging him in the slightest would have bated him to linger. Just the short encounter had been enough. 

Gloriously, you hadn’t had another customer all afternoon, nothing too atypical for a Friday. The lull in activity gave you ample time to right Carver’s wrongs. Something about organizing provided the proper channel for your aggravation. A before B, B before C. A rhyme and a reason, no chaos in an easily understood system. The balm you desperately needed, smoothing the wrinkles out in your day.

“Hey Henderson!” 

Your head snapped up, the voice catching you off guard. The sound system must have obscured the door bell as you had not heard the group of boys enter, too lost in your world of alphabetized jazz. Anxiety left your body in a rush, spine slackening in relief as you looked upon a familiar face. “Hi Grant.”

The sophomore flustered under your recognition, looking down at his shoes as a blush tinted his round cheeks pink. Among your job at the record shop and a babysitting gig here and there, you also tutored students as a part of the Hawkins Library Aide program. Looked good on college applications and provided some extra scratch. 

“Got that new Demon album in. Set aside a copy for you,” you continued, wiping your hands off on your jean shorts, ridding the dust from your sticky palms. 

“Hey,” one of Grant’s friends good naturedly ribbed, “getting in in tight with the record store girl. Sucking at English has it perks.”

“Shut up, Gareth,” Grant admonished his blonde friend. 

Gentle giant Grant. You would never understand why the school thought him such a freak. Grant aired more on the quiet side, odd considering his large frame. Had he been popular, he more than likely would have been a starting lineman or something like that. Instead, he favored music, art, softer pursuits. He reminded you a lot of your brother’s friend Will in temperament at least. Grant’s whole friend ground reminded you of your brother’s Party come to think of it.

“Speaking of which,” you dashed back behind the cash warp to retrieve his hold, easily finding under GOODMAN, “how’d you do on your final?” Your hands moved on muscle memory as you prepared the sale, stamping the brown paper bag with the satisfying ka-chunk with the store’s branded stamp. 

“He aced it,” Jeff beamed at his friend as they neared the counter. 

“Way to go!” You beamed proudly at your pupil as he handed you the payment for his tape. Prepping for the exam tested Grant’s resolve. Really, the only reason he needed a tutor was due to O’Donnell’s impatience. Had she taken the necessary time and not written him off as a “problem”, like she did with any student who wasn’t a grade A ass kisser, he would have been just fine. All he needed was a little time and reassurance. 

“Right?” Gareth added, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Now your parents can’t say shit when we practice in your garage all summer.”

“We owe our future success to you,” Jeff grinned. “We would be down a guitarist if it wasn't for your help.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the exchange, this friend group not unlike your brother’s in the slightest. Through tutoring, you came to know Grant well, and by proxy, you had become casually acquainted with his friends. Gareth: loud, boisterous, ostentatious. Jeff: quiet, contemplative, congenial. And—

“Hey sorry, I’m late! The copier kept jamming at the print shop,” the boy who was more mass of hair than human skidded into the shop. Eddie. Eddie Munson. Out of all of the group, you had interacted with it’s defacto leader the least. No words had been exchanged, solely a head nod or a wave. He flapped around like a bat out of hell. Hyperactive. Mercurial. Rough around the edges. The crowned town freak. Though you suspected that wasn’t truly the case. Was he unruly? Absolutely. Did he draw attention to himself in spectacle? Everyday. But was he a freak? Doubtful. More than likely merely misunderstood. Not unlike your own brother. Same hyperactive, overly chatty, nerd tendencies.

You watched the group flurry about as Eddie tacked up a boisterous flyer. CORRODED COFFIN @ THE HIDEOUT AUGUST 4th 7pm it read in what you assume to be Eddie’s scratchy scrawl, complete with the stereotypical rock paraphernalia sketched on the neon paper. 

“Dude, how did you manage that?” Gareth jerked a thumb at the poster. “The Hideout is bar.”

“Power of persuasion my friend, power of persuasion,” Eddie lips drew back in a wide grin full of pomp, his ego on full display. Unruly curls jostled in time with his animated movements as he regaled his friends with the full tale. From your station behind the counter, the mischievous twinkle in his eye was easily seen, overly proud of his cleverness in securing their gig. 

His chains glinted in the neon light lights of the shop, causing them to glow more pink and blue against the cut off black denim shorts and shirt he wore. Iron Maiden and Eddie the Head barely stood out on the fabric, faded with much wear. Rough around the edges indeed. He certainly contrasted the punchy hunter green and burnt orange of Hawkins High School’s logo. Of the town’s sun-faded siding of the houses along Main Street. The pastels and polos of the in crowd. How had you not noticed before? 

“And a Tuesday? There’s gonna be no one there,” you overheard Gareth complain as you tuned back into the conversation. 

“Gentlemen, come on,” he threw his arms around Gareth and Jeff’s shoulders. He spoke in a manner of a commander quelling his troops before a charge. His persuasive aura huddling the group  “Sure it’s not Market Square Arena, but it’s a start.”

The group looked unsure between themselves. 

“One person doth an audience make. Right?” He was all smiles. Affable and relaxed having swayed his friends over to his point of view. Curious. You regarded him as they continued to converse, perusing the shop leisurely. In the way one should. Try as you could to look at anything else, your eyes followed Eddie’s movements. Pouring through the records, admiring the album with their due reverence. His love of music read from across the store. If it wasn’t his sheer enthusiasm for his gig, it was the way he handled each vinyl with care. Like each was a priceless antiquity meant for the Smithsonian, not a dusty old Indiana record shop. 

He cuts through your perusal, his deep boisterous laugh filling the space. Head thrown back, fully body shaking. Lopsided grin toying at the edges of his lips. Free, you thought idly. He was utterly free. A foreign chink sounded somewhere deep in the pit of your stomach at the thought. When was the last time you had laughed like that? Let your hair down and allowed yourself to be free? Hell, just even be. 

Jesus Christ, what planets were in transit today that made every thought that wafted through your head wax the poetic? Turning to busy yourself with something other than staring at Eddie Munson, receipts from the week begging to be filed demanded your attention. 

The slips of paper consumed your attention, filing expenses for the week, returns from the one lady who insisted Stevie Nicks was the devil incarnate and insisted on a refund, and preparing the order for next week’s shipment for Shep. Lost in your own clerical world you had missed the small scuffle and sound of light cajoling behind you. That was until a voice was cleared, loudly and comically. Clearly intended to garner your attention. 

“H-hi there,” you were greeted as you looked over your shoulder. Eddie was standing at the counter across from you.

“What can I do for you, Cousin It?” You could hardly withhold the jibe that left your lips. Cousin It? You mentally reprimanded yourself for your lack of filter. It had been a long day. The perfect defense, but your excuse died in your throat. 

A wry smile quirked the corner of his lips as his friends chortled behind him, trying and failing to pretend like they weren’t eavesdropping. “You wound me!” His hands flew over his heart as he staggered a few steps back as if he had been stabbed. “Is this what customer service has come to nowadays?”  He faux fainted into the support of the record bins behind him with the grace of a 1800’s courtesan. 

His friends burst into full guffaws, unable to ignore the hijinks. You huffed, folding your arms across your chest. Clearly, this clown wasn’t too unlike the other who came in to chat you up and goad a smile out of you. 

He caught you mid eye-roll, those deep brown eyes. A flash of amusement in the neon lights of the shop. “Listen,” he said lowly, demeanor changing to something resembling a semi-respectable member of society. “I bet those numb skulls over there,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his friends as he sidled up the counter again, “my DM seat, my—”

“Dungeon Master seat, yeah I’m tracking with you,” you interrupted, all too familiar with the term. Dustin’s inane rambling about Dungeons & Dragons had permeated your brain. He only talked about it 24/7.

His eyes widened, surprise clear as he looked at you. “Well then,” the laugh lines appeared on either side of his mouth, clearly pleased at this turn of events, “a lady informed.” He propped an elbow on the counter and rested his chin in hand as he leaned closer to you. “Then you know the severity of this bet,” he all but whispered into the space between you. 

You stared at him for a beat, sussing out his intent. Narrowing your eyes at him slightly and still his grinned persisted, not fading a mite. 

“Right, so I bet them my DM sea aha I could get a lovely lady as yourself’s phone number by the end of the day. They don’t believe in the Munson charm.”

Eyes flicking to the clock, it was 5:47pm. Nearly the end of the day. Per his early statement, most of his day sounded like it was spent wrestling a copier prior to killing time in your shop. His options were limited. A wry smile cracked your features. “Let me guess,” you leaned onto the counter mimicking his position, “I’m your only hope?” He returned your grin. “You’d be correct, Obi Wan.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My undying gratitude,” he answered quickly, hand flourishing over his heart.

“You’re going to have to sweeten the pot.”

At that, his palm flew up to cover his mouth, the thought process propelled him to pace, unable to stay still to ponder. The need to make a show of it all too great. He paused, as if a great idea dawned on him.

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude.” You really didn’t. This being the first time you’ve ever directly spoken to the boy, how on Earth could he provide you a favor? Would you even want a favor from a complete stranger?

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left. 

Perhaps the Munson charm really was a figment of his imagination. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Disarming, you could feel your hackles from your earlier encounter with Chet smooth back flat to your neck as Eddie searched for something further to say, a pink tint dusting his cheeks as he floundered. There was something endearing about the way he toed at the carpet with his beat up Reebok’s. All the bravado seem to slip for an instant, allowing you a brief peek behind the curtain. There was more to him than the rumors around town suggested. 

"I, milady, will owe you one favor of your choosing. A favor from your humble, grateful servant," he bowed low, arms out wide in submission.

Flabbergasted, you regarded him in his docile pose. "I don't even know you, dude."

He stood, quickly returning to his towering height. “Touché,” his grin faltered, not expecting this conversation to go left. 

Perhaps the Munson charm really was a figment of his imagination. Then again maybe it wasn’t. Disarming, you could feel your hackles from your earlier encounter with Chet smooth back flat to your neck as Eddie searched for something further to say, a pink tint dusting his cheeks as he floundered. There was something endearing about the way he toed at the carpet with his beat up Reebok’s. All the bravado seem to slip for an instant, allowing you a brief peek behind the curtain. There was more to him than the rumors around town suggested. 

You never really believed what the rumors whispered. Cultist. Satanist. Evil. If he was any of those things, he certainly would be blushing in front of you trying to come up with something to offer. 

His gaze returned to yours. “You’re nice,” he arrived at with what you were sure was less subtly and finesse than he wanted, “at least that what Grant says. He raves about you. So I know you’ve got some small soft spot for us freaks.”

Your brow lifted in response. “Is that so?” you challenged.

“Me thinks so,” he mirrored you, leaning back in, closing the distance. “You know,” he offered casually, “we aren’t totally strangers. We’re just meeting now. I’m Eddie by the way.” 

“Oh I know.”

“I do declare,” he gasped in a rather surprisingly accurate mimicry of a southern belle. “Henderson the Great knows my name?”

A snort was your only response as his chocolate eyes did their best to woo you into helping him. You rested your chin on your fist, staring him down in equal kind. A Mexican standoff over the counter. He trying desperately to sway you. You trying to determine his motives. Narrowing your eyes slightly, you weighed your options. What did you really have to lose in this situation? Your phone number was permanently etched in the men’s bathroom at Hawkins High thanks to Chet and his minions. Crank calls weren’t something with which you were unfamiliar. But what you had to gain, that was a mystery. What could Eddie Munson do for you that you couldn’t do for yourself?  Something about Eddie made you want to say yes, seal yourself in this devil’s bargain where you had the power and he owed you.

“A favor I can call in for anything at anytime. No questions asked?”

“I draw the line at animal sacrifice,” he grinned, “but yeah. Anything, anytime.” He drew a little x over his heart, sealing the deal. 

“Charming.” You proffered your hand. 

He stares at you, startled that it worked? His lips the perfect “o” in shock.

“Give me your arm,” you laughed lightly, fishing a pen from a drawer behind the counter. 

Eddie all but threw his arm into your await grasp, eagerness rolling off of him in waves. His skin vibrated under your palm as your phone number took shape on his arm. 

“I really appreciate this.” The timbre of his voice had changed, warm. Rife with what felt like true meaning. You didn’t doubt his appreciation and if you had looked up, you would have caught the shy blush that blossomed on his cheeks at your gentle touch. Deeper and redder than before.

“Just doing my civic duty. Can’t let Princess Leia lose her seat.”

With that he laughed. Full on belly laugh like before. But this time at your prompting, you had earned a bit of his free savoir faire. Pleasure at the fact bloomed small in your chest, causing you to nearly drop the pen in your grasp. 

“Munson, are you accosting my tutor?” Grant keyed in on the moment, just realizing what was happening. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry.” His large hands landed on Eddie’s shoulders pulling him away from the counter, severing your connection. “I’ll get him out of your hair,” Grant said as he shooed his friend to the exit.

“See ya around, Creech,” called over his shoulder as Grant manhandled him to the door. “What did you just call me?” the world hitting you like a slur.

“Creech, like Creature?” He grinned, pointing at your t-shirt. “Like Creature from The Black Lagoon? Rad shirt by the way,” he complimented as Grant finally herded him out the door and onto the sidewalk. 

Creature. That world fell upon you like cold bucket of water. No one had called you that in years. The only person to ever use the nickname, your father. In disbelief you looked down at your tee. The familiar movie poster was there, same black ink on the love-worn shirt. Creature. Out of all the things he could have called you… 

“You did not just get her number!” You heard Gareth’s shout from outside the shop in total shock of his friend’s success. A laugh you needed worked it’s way up and out of you. At both the outburst and the absurdity of the last five minutes of your life. Creature. You couldn’t wait until he found out that you had given him the shop phone number. 

If someone from the future had beamed down in that instant and told you that the two of you— that you and him— he and you— You would have never believed it. In what timeline were the two of you destined to be together? You threw an arm over your eyes as you surfaced from the memory you'd always carry with you, no matter how hard you've tried to erase it. Carry? His memory, a boulder and you, Sisyphus. Forever rolling his echo up the mountainside and just as you are about to crest, to be free from the niggling guilt and ever-present ache, it plummets back down, right back into the pit you from which you crawled. Fingers bloody and war torn, muscles aching only second to the affliction of your heart. Would you ever not feel the boulder in your chest? The throb of the rock lurching about, staggering your thoughts, keeping you off-kilter. In a session, your therapist had suggested that you never shrink your grief, you eventually outgrow it. But how long? Ten years? Fifteen years? Fifty years? The past five constricted, your skin pulled taut over the sorrow stone. Tightness hindering your ability to draw breath, to think clearly, to move on.

Or was it more like maggots? Worming away in the decay of your heart, carving out tracts for all the guilt and shame to fester. Wriggling, putrid, filth. Yeah, no. Beginning to the lose the battle with the constriction in your throat, you stood lest you be swallowed by the mounting wave of grief. Before the wave crested, you stooped back to the kitchen, grabbed the dwindling content of the six pack you started days priors, and schlepped back to the couch. If you were to face the sleepless undertow pulling at your ankles, you wouldn’t do so without liquid courage. Sleep evaded you most nights, but this time of year it was damn near impossible to find rest in the choppy waves that thundered your shore. And even if sleep did take you, this was going to be a long night.

Shrill ringing woke you from your post-shift slumber. Groaning, you swore, feeling as if you had just closed your eyes only to have your sleep so rudely interrupted.

The ringing didn’t quit, the blasted thing rattling from your side table just above your lounging head.  Blindly from your prostrate position on your couch, your hand roved until it met the glossy plastic of your telephone. With a groan, your fingers curled around the receiver, hoisting into the air and foisting it to your ear with a grumbled, “hello?”

“Come home.” 

A demand, a cracked intonation you hadn’t heard in your younger brother’s voice in a long while. The mere sound doused you like a frigid bucket of water. You froze, heart thrumming loudly in your ear overriding your functions to knee-jerk. Shocked, you propelled yourself sitting, dread pooling in your gut. Shit, shit, shitting shit.

Tantalizingly, the thought of just simply hanging up waltzed to the front of your brain. Oops, the phone happened to fall out of hand and right onto the cradle, your muscles too tired from mixing drinks to hold the receiver. Believable? Yes. Easy to execute? Yes. Your palm itched at the idea. A faked bad connection had gotten you off the phone a time or two, but this called for more drastic tactics. Surely this would work. Your brother would understand, wouldn’t he?

Frustration was evident in his tone as he yammered on, his words falling upon deaf ears. You couldn’t blame him; he had every right to be frustrated with you. Five years is a long time to stay away, no matter how good your reasoning. 

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Dustin in five years. He had come to visit during breaks after he got his license, your family drove up to celebrate your birthday one or twice, meeting for a quick catch up in Indianapolis on a Saturday. You had seen your family. Perhaps not as often as they would like. 

Just a few months ago you were all together. Now that was a magical Christmas. Soft white fluffy snow, the kind you see on those “Wish You Were Here” postcards, blanketed the roads as you took the bus from Cambridge into New York City Dustin’s first year at MIT. The world always has a little more glow that time of year, but something about being in New York made it even more so. Skating in Times Square, hot chocolate in Central Park freezing your butts off, forcing your mom to eat street hot dogs with you and her bellyaching about all the hazards of imbibing, getting lost in the natural history museum for hours. Complete bliss. It was almost enough to make you forget. Almost.

It wasn’t like you were radio silent either. Save for the last few months, regular phone were a Wednesday night staple. There were cards exchanged for the birthdays and holidays you dodged coming home to celebrate. So you had missed a few birthdays, Christmas, high school graduations, college acceptances— ok so you had missed some major milestones. An even more appealing reason to add to the list of why you needed off this call. A big ol’ pit of guilt.

Who were you kidding, though? Really. This is Dustin Henderson. That dogged determination would have him ringing you again and again until you rip the phone from the jack, and burying it under your floorboards a la Edgar Alan Poe’s Telltale Heart. Even then, the phantom ringing would drive you mad. The alternative: The National Guard would show up on your doorstep and drag you kicking and screaming all the way back to Hawkins. As much as you dreaded this exact scenario, he was your little brother and you loved that little punk more than anything. Though the fantasy of a final desperate dodge appealed, you couldn’t do that to him. You wouldn’t do that to him. Resigned, your shoulders slumped. You had to take this call. There were no more ways around it. You were trapped. Great, just great. 

As if your anxiety wasn’t high enough, the thought of being trapped only served to make the walls of your studio apartment feel smaller than they already were. With each nervous breath, they closed in a little more, creeping closer and closer. Your beloved little hole in the wall was now a refrigerator box of rigid tension. What was it that your therapist had reminded you of last session? Chewing on your cuticle and maintaining your breath evenly, you tried to recall her words. A breath would help. Slowly, you unfurled yourself from your tense seat, placing your feet flat on the floor and inhaling and holding. In. Out. In and out. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat as many times as it takes to gain your bearings. As many time as it takes to not want to claw your way out of your own skin. Breathe. Just fucking breathe. 

Finally releasing the stranglehold on your eardrums, the ringing subsided, bringing your brother’s frantic calling of your name into focus.

“Dust—”

“Jesus Christ, I thought you had a coronary.” The relief in his voice was palpable, even cutting through his obvious frustration.

“Sorry.” Hopefully he’d pickup on the sheepish tone to your voice. You hadn’t meant to startle him. Hell, that was the last thing you’d want to do. Things had been hard enough for Dustin Henderson. A basket case sister is not what he needed right now. With a deep swallow and additional breath for good measure, you consoled, “I spaced is all.” 

While the ringing had stopped, uneasiness licked up your spine. Pressing your palm to your abdomen did little to quell the steady rise of heat, but it was a minor comfort. A minor comfort you’d continue to give yourself until this wave of anxiety releases you from its undertow. 

“Don’t do that!” His admonishments continued, ratcheting your guilt at every word. It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. Yes, initially you were avoidant, then it just became your modus operandi. Avoidance was easier than the inevitable bursting of the bubble. And god did you want that bubble to last forever. Really it had superseded a want; it was now a need. That sweet bubble of blissful feigned ignorance. Yep, you could hide in that no problem. 

Dodging this call for the past several weeks had been a Herculean effort on your part. Picking up extra shifts at The Signature Lounge to keep you out of your apartment until the wee hours of the morning, conveniently forgetting to change the tape in your answering machine, staying out all hours of the night dancing and drinking until your stomach was more sore than your feet, even going as far as leaving your phone off the hook to avoid this dreaded call.

Three months. Three blissful months of not acknowledging the impending anniversary. Ides of March took on a whole new meaning since 1986. At the thought, you swallowed harshly, your throat drying at the memory. A nearly empty Bartles & James offered you salvation from your coffee table and you sought it, finishing the bottle before adding it to the pile of its discarded twins. Beware indeed. Even with all the time past, stomaching this call was not on the list of things you wanted to do today. Honestly, probably ever. 

You sighed in the receiver, the nervous sweats already starting to coat your palms, the receiver slackening in your grasp. An excuse already forming on your tongue as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“Don’t even start,” he interrupted what was sure to be your anxiety ridden ramble.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You said you were coming. You’re already three days late. Everyone’s counting on you being here.” 

Grounding. That was what your therapist recommended. Grounding. Sitting on the ground felt more appropriate to ground yourself, already feeling what little energy your brief nap gleaned left your body. Okay, so maybe lying on the floor would be better. Already feeling gelatinous, you poured yourself onto the floor. Flat as a board, staring up at the ceiling. 

Five. Five things you can see. 

The image of yourself reflected convex back to you in the screen of the small television sitting on the floor. Hair askew, dark circles forming under your eyes darkened by the remnant mascara smudged from your couch cushion. Oversized tee hanging off your frame, you looked as gaunt as you felt. No, you wouldn’t dwell on your haggardness. What else? Cobwebs in the corners that really needed your attention. Really, how long had those been there and how hadn’t you noticed an arachnid roommate taking over the corners of your space? Equally egregious dust tufts under your couch. The mountain of boxes awaiting Friday’s movers. Last one. Your eyes roved over your apartment, your body unwilling to move. What else could you see from supine spot? Your window. Diluted light of the city glinting through your sheers. A favorite of yours, especially this late at night. The kind of light that makes you feel like you're the only one in the world awake. A familiar friend for your sleepless nights. 

Four. Four things you can touch. 

The firm plastic of the phone if your hand, transferring the heat of your palms. Threadbare cotton of your favorite tee. Warmth seeping through the floor, bonus of being the top floor apartment. The heat always rose.Soft pile of your barf green shag rug that you adored and everyone hated, including your mom and that is how it came into your possession. Love for the stupid thing brought brief smile to your face as your hands wandered through the strands. 

Three. Three things you can hear. 

The city, the white noise churn of traffic passing by your window. The soundtrack to your day to day, thankfully minus the honking. Some kind of jazz in a time signature that should be outlawed played by your most adjacent neighbor. Your brother’s voice, rattling off plans for your visit at a speed beyond your current comprehension. 

Two. Two things you you can smell. 

One of your neighbors cooking something with garlic down the hall. Your stomach thundered at the smell. Maybe as a reward for making it through this call, a late night slice was in order. Leftover remnants of the perfume you spritz at your pulse point before your shifts today.

And one. One thing you can taste. 

The acrid aftertaste of the Battles & James churned with bile slowly climbing up your throat. Delectable. Your phone cord could reach to the bathroom, maybe a quick brush would suffice. If you could be bothered to get up from the floor. 

To your amazement, your therapist had been correct. Or maybe it was more to your chagrin. You did feel a little more centered and your anxiety had eased from a chokehold to a tight grip on the back your neck. But progress was progress, and you’d take it.

“Did you hear anything I said?” 

Right, you were still on the phone. Dustin’s voice lasered through the haze, bringing you back into the moment. Truthfully, you hadn’t heard a single word he said, too preoccupied with keeping your heart from beating through your ribs like a Chestburster from Alien. Guilty you had’t paid attention, you settled on the response, “Mhmm.”

“Oh yeah? Repeat it back to me?”

Nevermind he was now a college sophmore, Dustin Henderson was still a butthead. “What happened to respecting you elders?”

“Oh I don’t know, how about you start acting like the elder sibling for once?”

The ringing in your ears returned, tinning out all background noise. A stab straight to the gut. You really had shirked your duties as eldest sibling. Retreating into yourself for the better part of the last three years, only to emerge a disjointed caterpillar figuring out how to wiggle yourself into a chrysalis to heal for the last two. Therapy was new, and it was helping, but clearly to everyone else progress wasn’t being made. 

“Dustin—” the shock not kept from your voice at your brother’s sharp barb. You knew he was angry, despite him not outrightly saying so. He had been pulling the weight as the defacto elder sibling, you could admit that. Really, the guilt of sticking Dustin to carry on and grieve alone may have contributed to your negligence in reaching out. Heat burned in your cheeks. You deserved all the ire coming your way. Simple as that. 

“Sorry, too harsh,” he joked, his usual tone settling in place. “When you didn’t show up on Sunday, we thought—”

“I know,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he thought. Pre-therapy, he had a right to be concerned; those days were dicey at best. But now— what about now? You weren’t ready to check out, this you knew. But the aimless distractions you sought, what was even the point? You had no heading.

“I worry about you.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“If I had visual proof of your existence every once in awhile that would help. Ma too.”

“I’m coming home now aren’t I?”

“You were supposed to be here Sunday.”

Heavily you sighed, the bridge of you nose pinched between the fingers of your free hand. “You’re an ignoramus, you know that right?”

“Yeah, I know. I just miss you, alright?”

“Miss you too, kid.” You really did. Your relationship with your brother wasn’t the typical cat and dog. Even six years your junior, he was you best friend. With all the shit you went through together, you were all each other really had. The support, the understanding, the trauma. It bonded you together deeper than the average siblings. You couldn’t disappoint him again. You wouldn’t disappoint him again.  “I’ll be there Friday.”

“Why not tomorrow?”

“I picked up another shift. If I’m going to be gone for two weeks, gotta have a little more savings in the can.”

He sighed heavily into the receiver, frustration begging to flow again. It wasn’t your usual excuse, he seemed to buy it. “Okay,” he said slowly, disbelief coloring his words. “If you’re not here by Friday—”

“You’ll reign down holy hellfire on me and drag me kicking and screaming back to Hawkins. I know. How many times have you threatened me with that?”

“This time I have back up.”

It wasn’t an empty threat. You knew he did. If you dared to not show, not only Dustin would be at your door, certainly all of Hellfire would be. With that many people to let down, you knew you would be going regardless of how much you dreaded it. 

“What, you think the guilt trip isn’t enough to sway me?”

“You’re an idiot,” he laughed, jovial nature returning. “Friday?”

“Friday,” you confirmed. “Love you, Dust.”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnected on his end, the dial tone tolling from the receiver still clenched in your grasp. You were going home. You were going to Eddie’s Memorial. You had agreed to come home to attend Eddie’s Memorial. That was that. Finally the receiver had made it’s way back to the cradle as you collapsed back into the couch, dragging your hands over your face. What did you just do?

#eddie munson #stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #bat out of hell #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst

[th3-0bjectivist]

Dear listener, we are nearly three months into a necromantic mass musical summoning event on my page. For nearly 90 days, I’ve been covering recently deceased musical legends as well as digging deep for the very elite of dead bands. I’m gonna wrap the theme up after my next musical post, but this week let’s examine a band that has virtually no history because it folded like an accordion right out of the birth canal. Does everybody remember 90’s alternative rock!? I know, a throwback, right? If you’re not old enough to remember what the musical market was like back then; alternative rock had spent the 80’s largely underground and was popularized in the 90’s by bands like Nirvana, The Smashing Pumpkins and Soundgarden. At least initially, this type of rock was supposed to be an ‘alternative’ to mainstream radio rock. Unfortunately, in just a few short years, alt-rock BECAME mainstream radio rock. Everybody wanted to be in an alt-rock band and as a result the market became bloated and flabby with 3 to 4 member acts, and the music itself became diluted and consumer-focused. Alternative rock DID NOT age well, folks, and neither did Drill. This band didn’t just shit the bed upon their arrival on the music scene, they managed to shit every bed in a ten-block radius and called it quits immediately thereafter. They created zero hits, they never went on tour, they didn’t really contribute anything particularly substantial to music in general, and their album sold like bottled colon cancer. Further, they never really had a chance in hell at being successful because they were a newer act trying to muscle their way into the oversized alt-rock market which was largely spoken for. And that’s a shame, because this band had some demonstrably talented members like impossibly hot and gifted lead vocalist and future KMFDM alum Lucia Cifarelli, as well as Black Label Society’s original bassist John DeServio. Although their first and only album wasn’t exactly the greatest-of-all-time, they at least tried to hunker down and create something that sounded different from their contemporaries. When their self-titled album got panned into the 9th dimension by critics at the time, Drill instantly went out like a puff of cigar smoke in a thunderstorm. End of band history! This is Go To Hell from their 1996 self-titled album. Smash play and enjoy alt-rock again in all its majestic 90’s-drenched glory!

When I listen to modern music, I mostly hear shitty corporate pablum. When I listen to Drill, I think, well, at least there was some potential for greatness. They were enthusiastic, chaotic, aggressive, and creative… all traits I would respect in any artist. When it comes to music, I like anything that tries to be different. Drill tried and failed miserably, but as they say, it is sometimes the effort alone that counts. Image source: https://www.discogs.com/artist/230476-Drill

#drill #lucia cifarelli #go to hell #music on tumblr #music video #music #alternative rock #hard rock #grunge rock #rock #audio #audio on tumblr #KMFDM #new york band

[bobsliquorstore]

Top 5 Mafioso Rap Albums

The 90's was a golden era of hip hop. In the mid-90's, one thing that stood out was the the "Mafioso" sub-genre of rap that was created by Kool G Rap. In the late 80’s, NWA took the world by storm with the Gangsta rap sub-genre. By the time the mid-90s hit, east coast rap came with their own twist of gangsta rap influenced by the mafia culture. The sub-genre was overshadowed by west coast rap music. Pop culture didn't take a liking to it, maybe because the songs were too intricate. The average listener is not trying to dissect through lyrics and meanings on a casual listen. Mafioso rap gave birth to one of the greatest rappers ever, Jay-Z, so it's hard to overlook the music that came out during this era. Here's a top 5 of Mafioso albums:

5. Scarface The Diary (1994)

Geto Boy's stand-out member and Houston native, Scarface, is one of the illest rappers to ever touch a microphone. Many rappers have highlighted Scarface as a major influence and an elite lyricist. Scarface known for his sinister/dark stories about murder, death, poverty and the afterlife. This album is Scarface at his apex of rapping abilities and lyricism. One of the best storytellers in rap history, he provides introspection about the metaphysical human experiences. Death has been a constant element in his music In songs like "I've Seen A Man Die" he lures you into the dark experience of seeing a dead man laid out on the pavement and facing the repercussions of committing murder. His constant obsession of the death is a genre in its own. Scarface almost personifies a grim reaper narrating a person's life before his/her's death. He keeps dark tone with this album on songs such as "No Tears," "Hand of the Dead Body," and "Goin' Down." 

4. Nas It Was Written (1996)

Illmatic was such a classic any follow up album would of been hard for Nas to live up to. It Was Written was an underated album at the time, now considered a classic. Some Illmatic enthusiast dislike this album because it made Nas go "pop" with the classic "If I Ruled The World" featuring Lauryn Hill. The album was elite, God MC Nas verses laced with production from the Trackmasters and Dr. Dre. It Was Written was him with more confidence, wealth, and maturity than the debut. Illmatic was life in Queensbridge Projects, It Was Written was Nas with the riches and survivor’s remorse. He goes from “Nasty Nas” to “Nas Escobar”. Escobar gives us one of his more introspective songs, “I Give You Power,” where he raps from a perspective of a gun. Despite the negative criticism from music outlets, It Was Written is his best selling album of his career. Nas created one of the few mafioso rap albums that crossed over into the mainstream.

3. AZ Doe or Die (1995)

Hailing from East New York, AZ is known for his rather unique (pun intended) voice and rhyme flow. AZ was introduced to Nas via a mutal friend over the phone, which led to him getting a feature on Nas' debut Illmatic. Getting introduced to the masses on the hip hop classic, Illmatic, there was a lot of hype surrounded by AZ. He lived up to the hype when he dropped his debut album Doe or Die. AZ came out the gate with a hip hop classic. AZ's bars were crafted with impressive vocabulary and illustrious lines telling a story of a mobster on the road to riches and the pitfalls of living fast. Grandiose bars highlighting low life activities while living the high life, taking other people's goods in "Gimme Yours" while simultaneously protecting his riches from "Ho Happy Jackie".

2. Jay Z Reasonable Doubt (1996)

Jay Z didn't become a household name until his third album, In My Lifetime Vol. 2: Hard Knock Life. Unfortunately, at the time of its release, Reasonable Doubt flew over people heads. Most listeners had to go back and listen to the project. 2Pac dissed him on his posthumously released album The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory, and people didn't know who Jay Z was yet. I guess 2Pac foresaw the success Jay Z was going to achieve in the music industry. His debut album is Jay Z's arugably most elite bars, sparring with the likes of the legendary Brooklynite Biggie Smalls, his mentor Jaz-O, and his then-sparring partner Sauce Money. Jigga even secured the Queen of R&B Mary J. Blige, with an alleged bag of cash.

1. Raekwon Only Built 4 Cuban Linx (1995)

The Chef cooked up a 3-course meal on his solo debut, Only Built 4 Cuban Linx, also known as "The Purple Tape" for the unique cassette color. This project impacted rap music like an atomic bomb. The album was practically a collaboration album with Rae's Wu-Tang group mate Ghostface Killah; Ghost being featured on nearly every song and skit. The Purple Tape was felt in the streets across the country. Arguably the best Wu-Tang solo album, Raekwon had a short stint as the King of New York when this project released. The lyrics and RZA's beats were all on point, maintaining the Wu-Tang style and showcasing the Chef's unique style simultaneously. Rae and Ghost take you on a trip to Shoalin, where they snort coke and hit licks. Like most Wu-Tang albums, most features only included Wu-Tang members. The exception of this rule was Nas, who spit some of his most memorable bars on “Verbal Intercourse”, with Rae and Ghost holding their own with one of the best MC’s of all time. Without this album there wouldn't be a Reasonable Doubt or It Was Written. The subject matter of OB4CL inspired Jay-Z and Nas. The subject of a mobster trying to leave the life to become a full-time rapper.

For more visit: www.bobsliquorstore.com

#az #doe or die #jay z #reasonable doubt #rocafella #scarface #the diary #raekwon #ghostface killah #wutang #only built 4 cuban linx #nas #it was written #hip hop #rap #90s #mafioso #mafioso rap #bobsliquor #bobsliquorstore #bobs liquor store

[jurijurijurious]

(Been re-watching Reboot, love your work.) Just have to say [dubious writing and/or Trojan abilities aside] that it really is both terrifying and disturbingly intimate how Megabyte is the cause of all of Dot's deepest emotional scars and yet also knows /exactly what she (thinks) she wants/ in a partner. Your thoughts?

Hi, sorry I took a few days to answer this, it's the kind of ask I like to mull over and smirk about. I apologise if I don't actually answer the question but I'll talk around it and see where it leads.

To start with, I think you've hit on the element of the series which is at the crux of my MegaDot fanfic and fanart - that ultimately Megabyte is highly perceptive about Dot's wants, and possibly even needs, and yet, in contrast, and in line with his nature, he knows, and at many times has infiltrated, her faults and weaknesses.

I will over-simplify things but bear with me...

The thing about Megabyte and Dot is that arguably, at a basic level, they are the same character. The parallels are I think particularly sharp in series one and again at the start of series 3, where they are at first competitive, astute and highly ambitious businessmen/women (series 1 - plus that nice lil scene in series 2 where Dot asks Megabyte to loan his ABCs - the fact she has him in her "phone book" always tickles me) OR later on, as the show develops and progresses, they are both sharp-minded strategists and commanders (series 3, where both characters are much darker and more ruthless).

If you strip away their morals, their appearance, their gender, etc, etc, and look at their basic motives and drives, whether that be in business and trade, or in war and conquest, you have the same mould. It's beautifully done; the same character framework but in totaly contrasting lights.

And because ReBoot was the elite in terms of 90's children's television in terms of its writing, depth and structure, these parallels are apparent in their relationship and actions. One of the best ones, which was pointed out by the blog @vidwindow years ago, is a subtle one which I honestly didn't pick up on at first (goes to show that this show has so many layers so that each re-watch is a revelation... but I digress):

In the first episode of series 3, "To Mend and Defend", Megabyte salvages Hex and with a wicked grin and that thick sinister tone of his, tells Herr Doktor "I want her to have the best treatment, understand? The best." Cue evil laugh. Later in the same episode, Frisket gets hurt in the zombie game and when they get out, Dot asks the doctors to make sure Frisket gets "the best treatment possible. The best". Heartfelt, caring and true.

The contrast is startling and it is meant to be - Megabyte rebuilding his sister for enslavement, no qualms about her pain or suffering, versus Dot saving her brother's dog and companion, who is as much a family member to her as any of the sprites she shares her life with. It shows the same thought pattern but cast alternately in selfishness and selflessness. So very nicely done. Same coin, different sides. Bravo, ReBoot creators.

So being so similar, understanding Dot for Megabyte isn't really a problem. Of course he knows what her weaknesses are, because in many ways they're his own. He might not always get it right, not only because she's as smart as he is and they thus outwit each other on occasions, but also because they're both short-sighted at times. They look too far ahead, or simply don't see the woods for the trees, overthink. This is where having someone like Bob works a treat for Dot's team because he is much more grounded in the simpler things in life and less structured. Megabyte doesn't have that counterbalance.

So why might he know, or think he knows, what she wants in a partner? Well he has seen her dallying with Bob for cycles, ever since he set foot in Mainframe probably. And he's had enough time to study Bob, his enemy, who he also must be a little bit obsessed with. (Because arch enemies are. There's sexual tension there too, no mistake.) So he might not 100% know Dot's deepest desires and needs, but he probably has a good understanding of what it is about Bob that Dot adores and thus what it is that attracts her to someone.

And yet we also know Megabyte sees them never quite commiting to each other for cycles. Why don't they commit? Both too busy, too bashful, full of imposter syndrome. I digress again...

We know Megabyte is astute, that he's observant. We even see this at the end of series one where he intentionally manipulates Dot's self belief for his own gains - he was preying on her weaknesses long before she walked down the aisle to him.

We can thus only assume that during his long tenure in Mainframe, where he's in constant conflict with Bob and Dot, that he has had chance to discern what it is that blocks the development of Bob and Dot's relationship. And we witness multiple times, throughout each of the RB series, those elements of Bob and Dot's characters which clash. The episode "The TIFF" is literally about this. ("The Medusa Bug" also has some nice moments where Enzo and Bob try to get Dot to take some time off.) Bob is wonderfully rash, he doesn't plan ahead, he's jovial and fun, he wears his heart on his sleeve; Dot is the opposite in many respects. Hence why they work so well together.

But if we fast forward to series four and Megabyte disguising himself as Bob, how can we not assume that in creating this performance, in plotting how he can persuade Dot to accept his charade of Bob over the real sprite, that he doesn't capitalise on his past knowledge and experience? That in trying to win Dot's heart he play his cards right, that he adjusts Bob's "character failings" so he can present a sprite who is more articulate, more organised, and more calculated. (And when I say "failings", they're not - just those minor characteristics that irk Dot at times when emotions run high). By adjusting himself to Dot's personal preferences, by impressing her by singing from her proverbial hymn sheet and fitting himself to her "values" - and at the same time having the appearance of the classic Bob with added wit and charm - he sells Dot what she wants under the guise of the person she has always wanted, but has perhaps found, in some respects... wanting?

(There's also the complicated issue of Dot's mental health playing a big part which I shan't even get started on, I'll never stop.)

In truth what Megabyte does is sell Dot "Megabyte-in-disguise", hidden beneath Bob's shell. That's all. He's not very much Bob at all when you really watch it.

Is that what she wants? Megabyte? No. His morals, his values - the sheer fact he has set up what is incontravertably and terrifyingly a rape plot - are all a complete anathema to her. And yet we are reminded that they are similar and that in those similarities there is an element of concordance, of mutuality, separated by stark morality. That they can appreciate one another and are alike one another. And it is in that sparse ground that I plant my fanfic seeds and make them germinate because, though the chance is slim, I can make that notion sprout roots. There is a twisted parallel universe where they could be together and, though they would never be a peaceful match of concordance and romance, that pair of control freaks would be electrifying; it would be a relationship which would be a constant battle of one-up-man-ship, of power, dominance and control. Get out the whips and chains, they're here for it. How can one not to tempted by the sordid notion of such a match? They wouldn't make love, they'd make fire, bitches.

And on that note: Like a firewaaaallll...

Thanks for the ask, I loved this. I I hope that's helped? I don't even know if it makes sense. If not I've at the least I've given you an insight into my brain. Stay frosty!

#reboot #juri got an ask #reboot fanart #reboot fanfic #inane rambles #megabyte #trojan megabyte #dot matrix #megadot #megabyte x dot #bob (reboot) #reboot cartoon #reboot tv show #control freaks

[culturehause]

CULTURE HAUSE: GRAMMY 2024 RECAP

The 66th Annual Grammy Awards may have been one of the best overall ceremonies in recent years give or take a few things.

JAY Z took the stage to receive the Dr. Dre Global Impact Award and when he did he candidly spoke out against the very institution that has nominated him 88 times and awarded him 26 times.

The key takeaway highlight the 1989 Boycott by Will Smith and 1998 Boycott by himself for DMX not being nominated despite Jay Z winning for Hard Knock Life Vol. 2. But essentially calling out the academy for NOT getting it right and his wife Beyoncé never winning Album of The Year despite having the most Grammys.

Marketing Moment: Jay Z as always was sitting at his table where he was served Armand De Brignac and Dussé (both which he owns) as well as Tidal being integrated with the live show appearing on the LED screens on the stage of Crypto Arena.

Find full speech below.

Victoria Monét took home Best New Artist, Best R&B Album and Best Engineered Album, Non-Classical. She spoke proudly thanking her manager Rachelle Louis for quitting her job and taking a chance on her. A decision that paid off greatly for them both.

SZA took home 3 trophies for Best Pop Duo/Group Performance, Best R&B Song and Best Urban Contemporary Album.

Marketing Moment: A key highlight was SZA's second performance which was a strategic partnership with Mastercard where she debuted a new song 'Saturn', aside from the rare second solo performance, the partnership also integrated with Lyft where if customers use their U.S. World or World Elite Mastercard for a Lyft ride, a tree will be planted up to 500,000 trees.

Taylor Swift who has been the top of all entertainment and sports media outlets for the past year took home 2 awards with the main one being the coveted Album of The Year for her 'Midnights' album. Taylor announced a new album during her AOTY acceptance speech and will be the ongoing topic of the week leading up to Super Bowl 58 in Las Vegas where her boyfriend Travis Kielce will be competing for his 3rd title.

MARKETING MOMENT: Travis Scott performed during the ceremony but the highlight was his brand Cactus Jack x Jumpman debuting a commercial immediately following promoting his new sneaker which was aired to 16.9 million U.S. households and not including the rest of the world. Travis also quickly uploaded the commercial on his instagram page which has more than 54 million followers.

Killer Mike took all 3 hip-hop trophies for his album 'Michael' including Best Rap Album, Best Rap Song and Best Rap Performance. The Atlanta native amazing night was overshadowed by him being temporarily arrested backstage for alledgely bumping into a police officer.

Last but certainly not least Lil Durk took home Best Melodic Rap Performance for his hit radio friendly single "All My Life" ft. J. Cole. A well deserved win and shows how continuous artist development, hardworking and collaboration can be rewarding. Ever since Lil Durk appeared on Drake's "Laugh Now, Cry Later" he has been on an upward swing in his career with so much more room for growth. Walking the Grammy red carpet in custom Louis Vuitton designed by Pharrell Williams.

The Dean's Notes: Holidays and global cultural moments like Grammy's, Super Bowl, Christmas, etc. are the best times to make announcements and launch products. Artist and brands are doubling and tripling down on Grammy advertising, Super Bowl advertising including Social Media, TV and the all new MSG Sphere where ad spots are costing $2million for 90 seconds of space.

In 2024 how will brands, celebrities and influencers take advantage of shifting their budgets from micro-spends for big moment opportunities? They are all fighting for as many eyeballs at once and trying to build unique messaging that could possible appeal to as many costumers as possible.

Influencer marketing has been aligned with activations during these key tentpole moments where brands can utilize the "organic" reach of social influencers by inviting them to these events knowing they will deliver great content recaps on their personal channels without being paid an influencer fee. Giving the brand increased earned media reach.

Please subscribe to Culture Hause blog and be on the look out for our Super Bowl recap which will including the best of social media moments, commercials, halftime show and of course the big game.

#JAY Z #BEYONCE #taylor swift #SZA #victoria monet #GRAMMYS #MUSIC #AWARDS #SUPER BOWL #travis kelce #billie eilish #tyla #WATER #travis scott #CACTUS JACK #JUMPMAN #MASTERCARD #LYFT #jordan #kansas city chiefs #chiefs #san francisco 49ers #49ers #football #Youtube

[monterraverde]

White Rabbit - Rocketverse (ft. @throneseize )

TW for Murder, Blood, Extortion, Sexual themes.

Paldea is ignorant to what Rocket actually is.

The downside of closing your borders for years in order to contain your ecosystem is the fact that information travels less. During the late 90's and early 2000's when Rocket was most active, the most they got in terms of information was the story of the assault on the Goldenrod Radio Tower, and Golds subsequent takedown and disbandment of Archers ambitions.

They've only known Neo-Rocket, not its original incarnation.

So when travelling to Kanto on a long vacation, she found herself befriending the local ground type master. It started out normal enough, a blossoming friendship forged between two people sharing the same interest, but Giovanni's true machinations were forever a mystery.

Get on her good side, lower her guard, charm her in a way that only a shared type expertise could, then sink his claws into her.

The true leader of Rocket saw a chance to broaden his reach when the younger Navarro, Isabella, found herself wrapped up in a Yakuza hit job that Giovanni himself was carrying out. Her strong sense of justice compelling her to try and rescue the poor victim, only to find herself apprehended by grunts, and staring down the barrel of a gun. Making the familial connection, though, the chance to strike practically dumped itself into his lap.

Swearing Bella to silence, he brought Rika into his debt, claiming Bella was going to be hunted by the Yakuza, and he was so generously offering his services to protect her from that. He then went a step further, wining and dining the Elite, indulging every one of her vices, and then dropping a bombshell on them both.

Unknowingly trapped in his vacation home, left alone after a night of carnal desire, and waking up to a scuffle in the hallway... and a dead body on the floor, murdered with the very knife she used at dinner the night before.

He calls her, and taunts her, mocking her half dressed and panicked state before making her beg for his help to save them from the rapidly approaching police that he himself alerted, and when she finally caves, they run for the kitchen, where an Alakazam greets them and whisks them straight to his office, where the ultimatum is thrown.

Join Rocket as an information gatherer and hacker, and the Paldea branch executive, or Bella loses her life.

She's left with little choice, and thus her life with Rocket- As the executive "Terra"- Began.

She curses her situation daily, always with an eye out for a way to escape without Bella losing her life, but until that day, she'll play her part...

And just keep diving down the hole.

#:: white rabbit (rocket verse) #VERSE WRITE-UP IS FINALLY HERE IM SO HAPPY

[frostyreturns]

Frosty Ruins Glass Onion

It's a fairly recent movie so I avoided spoilers best I could but I recommend just not seeing this movie altogether because it was cancerously bad.

Now I'm not advocating we forget what happened in 2020 at all, I think we need to remember what they did to us,how retarded it was and how insane people behaved…however I don't want my entertainment to begin with reminders. This came out December of 2022 we've barely just gotten past this shit... I'm more sick of hearing about covid than I ever was from covid…so when something that's supposed to be entertainment begins with someone covering their face because a package is delivered to their door it fills me with rage and I already hate this movie. We went 2 years without a movie where everyone was wearing face masks why the fuck are we starting this horseshit now? Then for it to immediately cut to a CNN segment where the character is ranting about climate change I'd already be asking for my money back if I paid for this.

5 minutes in and we've already hit covid, climate change and feminism and I can already tell this is a Rian Johnson movie. I have no idea what's going on, who anyone is, why I'm supposed to care and the dialogue is weird and unnatural.

I get the sense the director is trying to be funny but I'm not sure because there's no actual jokes. Like there's a group of old people playing among us and the one guy is in a bath and someone asks him if he's in the bath again and he says no…get it because he is. It has the cadence and delivery of a joke but it's just nonsense.

I don't know if Batista is just the worlds shittiest actor or if Rian Johnson was just too much of a human vagina to ask him to redo a single line because there is better acting on a 90's cable access show. When he's playing a socially retarded alien its not as noticeable but when he's just playing a guy you notice how bad he sucks. Also his character is there to just be a caricature of what they call mens rights but based on how they portray him he's a caricature of just anyone who has a male audience because they don't actively shit on men and denounce masculinity. So from the acting to the heavy handed and out of place feminist strawmanning I hated this character. Makes me wonder if Rian Johnson has ever had a single miligram of testosterone in his body.

There was a moment that implies there was an easy covid cure that they only gave to a few small elites and friends. Now was this a moment of honesty masquerading as fiction from hollywood…or was it just a stupid plot device to reconcile that he decided to make the plot happen during covid without having the actors wearing masks the whole time. It really would have overshadowed everything else.Remember how insane people were about covid in 2020 and then imagine those people found out there wasa simple one dose cure...they thought thisshit was killing billions of people nobody would have given a shit about anything else. You're telling me the social media influence, the politician and the scientist just had no interest in a cure for covid in 2020. Either way Rian should have all his cameras and pens taken away from him forever.

Also what the hell happened to Edward Norton? Maybe it really is just Rian Johnson…because in this Norton sounds and looks like he's never been filmed before. I think of Edward Norton as making goofy movies he's in better and more professional, like he made the second iteration of Hulk watchable but here he looks like a lesbian they just pulled off the street, threw him into the movie and did all his lines in one take. He was terrible and when a good actor is terrible you have to look at the script and the director.

Nortons character goes on this rant about disrupting the system and calls everyone at this murder mystery thing a disrupter. A mainstream celebrity, a typical politician, a social media influencer, and a tech billionaire…these are all people he's saying disrupted the system? No these people are the system, these people are the system, getting fat on the system. He even says none of them want to disrupt the system…but then says right after that they are all disrupters of the system. It's the kind of pretentious, contradictory self congratulatory bloviating I'd expect from this douchebag directors dialogue.

The movie is so hard to watch because all the drama is contrived and irritating because none of the people are interesting or likeable. Not to mention that its a murder mystery movie where it takes an hour into the fucking thing for somebody to die and there's already been an annoying Rian Johnson "subversion of expectations" which is ironic because at this point nobody is expecting there to not be some gay twists.

This movie combines everything I hate about the director with everything I don't like about murder mysteries. They make the plots convoluted and use misdirects to keep you from guessing the outcome to the point that the outcome loses believability and it's sense of a cohesive plot. Writers go out of their way to ensure everyone is in some way a suspect and then the premise is made ridiculous. If you host a party of all your closest friends and someone tries to kill you there's no world where every single one of your closest friends is a suspect with evidence and a motive against them. It ruins my suspension of disbelief and comes across as contrived sloppy writing. Rian Johnson takes this weakness in the genre and amplifies it by a hundred because even in other genres he likes to throw reason and comprehensive writing to the wind for the sake of tricking the audience. Ironically knowing this going in I knew who the killer was going to end up being the whole time, so congrats Rian you wanted to be so unpredictible that you're predictible.

He does things like has the investigator say "only you can give me the last piece of the puzzle" right before that character is shot…but the audience is not given any of the information the character is supposed to have. The entire story is one big web of deus ex machina And delivered with the ham fist of paroxysms like a character shouting "What is reality!" after a reveal that the audience was already privy to. More wooden half asses attempts at infusing this train wreck with the semblance of comedy.

And after the reveal they somehow let the killer get close enough to destroy the only evidence they had. There's no way... they had to use a camera trick to make it more believable that someone they thought was a killer could close the gap quick enough and destroy the evidence that quickly because its just another impossible thing done for story convenience.

Also the story resolution was so stupid… nobody will testify for the murders for plot convenience but at the end they all suddenly change their mind for absolutely no reason…except that now is the time the director wants story resolution. He comes up with this convoluted way to get the murderer their just desserts but nobody thinks that they're just now casually rubbing elbows with someone they just all watched proved to be a murderer, nobody grabs a weapon nobody thinks oh they might try to kill again now that they were found out…they just carry on like they're all about to move on since they can't prove anything to the law... even though every single one is an eyewitness. Then instead of the next rational step being a violent solution nobody even thinks of it. What they did do was a crime anyway choosing to assassinate a reputation…which only might happen theoretically, just like them being found innocent in court is theoretical. Nobody behaves rationally, everything is contrived everything is stupid… this movie was fucking terrible. Rian Johnson is the worse director in the world.

0 stars

#glass onion

[frontproofmedia]

Black History Month tribute to George Foreman

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By Sina Latif

Follow @Frontproofmedia!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0],p=/^http:/.test(d.location)?'http':'https';if(!d.getElementById(id))(document, 'script', 'twitter-wjs');

Published: February 18, 2023

How many individual fighters can you name that were two entirely different fighters during the course of their career? Two men who look different, with different fighting styles, different personalities, fighting in different eras, both iconic in their own way. That is what the boxing career of George Foreman provided. Two chapters two decades apart cemented the legacy of one of the greatest prize-fighters of all time.

The term "living legend" has become a freely used cliche, but Foreman is the embodiment of it. This is a man who was a sparring partner for an active Sonny Liston in the 1960s, fought in the golden age of heavyweights alongside Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, and Ken Norton in the 70s, then fought an in-prime Evander Holyfield, Tommy Morrison, and Michael Moorer in the '90s.

As Ali would say, a young Foreman in the '70s was a 'baaaaad maaaan.' At 6'3 and weighing in excess of 220 lbs, appropriately nicknamed "Big George," Foreman came out of Houston, Texas, won Olympic gold at the 1968 Games in Mexico City, then became one of the most vicious and daunting heavyweights in history. The elite were steamrolled in similar fashion to the journeymen. He was not always the friendly giant fans came to recognize in the second chapter of his career. Foreman, in the 70s, was a menacing, brutal heavyweight, bludgeoning his way through everybody while looking emotionless in doing so.

"My opponents don't worry about losing," Foreman once said. "They worry about getting hurt."

There are a few reasons as to why Ali's 'Rumble in the Jungle' victory against Foreman in 1974 is so historic. One of them is that prior to Ali's win, Foreman was considered genuinely unbeatable, a monster, one of the most devastating punchers the sport had known. In the late '80s and '90s, "Big George" was more of a thinking fighter. Foreman was now a much better boxer. He was older and slower, but fought with the relaxed confidence of a wisened fighter, without tension. Big George would now study his opponents and look to exploit weaknesses.

As Foreman said in his book, God In My Corner: A Spiritual Memoir: "Being older, I had to fight smarter. Instead of relying on my power, I had to concentrate on finding the weaknesses in my opponents, which I usually did."

Foreman is arguably, physically, the strongest heavyweight champion in history and one of the hardest-hitting punchers boxing has ever seen.

Holyfield, who fought Foreman in April 1991, was once asked about Foreman's vaunted power in an interview with Fight Hub TV, to which Holyfield responded: "He (Foreman) hit me one time, and my feet froze up, I'd never been hit like that before, and I remember coming back to the corner asking 'did he knock all my teeth out?'"

Alongside his incredible two-handed power, Foreman was mentally and physically tough, fearless, and had a great chin. He had a variety of devastating punches. Foreman had a sledgehammer of a jab, his uppercut and hook had neck-breaking power, and his right hand, whether thrown short or long, had lights-out power written all over it.

After 21 amateur fights, Foreman won Olympic gold within two years of changing his life for the better and replacing the troubled, poverty-stricken streets of Texas with a life dedicated to boxing. Foreman was showing from the very beginning that there are no limits to what he can achieve.

On his professional debut less than a year later, Foreman showed destructive punching power and then continued to display his power throughout his great career.

Before Foreman's demolition of Frazier in 1973, Frazier had wiped out the heavyweight division and established his greatness by handing Ali his first professional defeat. Frazier was the unbeaten, undisputed champion. A great champion, seen as close to invincible at the time. Then, Foreman came along and obliterated Frazier with six brutal knockdowns in two rounds to become champion less than four years into his professional career. Foreman's destruction of Frazier was up there with Jack Dempsey vs. Jess Willard and Liston vs. Floyd Patterson as the most vicious beatdown of a reigning heavyweight champion in history.

With this destructive display, Foreman immediately became the most feared heavyweight since Liston a decade earlier.

Foreman then also demolished Ken Norton in two rounds. He was proving to be just as effective at the highest level as against the below-par opponents, knocking out all in front of him in equally devastating fashion.

Heading into the Rumble in the Jungle against Ali, Foreman had beaten Frazier, and his first two challengers, one of whom included Norton, in a total of five rounds.

Foreman had become an irrepressible force of nature and was heading to Zaire with a genuine aura of invincibility. The sense of irresistible danger carried by Foreman made it impossible to believe that Ali would regain the title. Those right swings by Foreman were utterly devastating, and Ali was no longer the elusive marvel of the 60s. He had become hittable. Foreman had the appearance of a man who was en route to drastically bringing the magical legend of Ali to an end. This fight became one of the most famous in history. Implementing the infamous 'Rope-a-Dope,' Ali laid back on the ropes and beat Foreman with a tremendous display of ring acumen, intelligence, and physical and mental toughness. Ali used his extraordinary ability to anticipate and ride punches and lean away from shots to absorb all of Foreman's big punches for eight rounds, then pounced on an exhausted Foreman and knocked him out. Make no mistake, Ali did also have to display one of the best chins in heavyweight history to stand up to Foreman.

As Archie Moore, one of Foreman's cornermen on the night stated in Thomas Hauser's "Muhammad Ali, His Life and Times": "When George's blows did land, Ali took them with a marvelous show of disdain and managed to convince George that George couldn't punch."

Possibly only Ali could have defeated Foreman on that Zaire morning in a magnificent concoction of mental and physical brilliance to produce a true miracle and one of the greatest triumphs in boxing history.

Foreman's first title reign and aura of invincibility came to an end.

15 months after the demoralizing defeat to Ali, in January 1976, Foreman faced Ron Lyle, a powerful and tough ex-con, in an all-time great heavyweight war.

This was a slugfest from the opening bell. Foreman touched the canvas twice, and Lyle was dropped once in the fourth round before Foreman trapped Lyle in the corner in the fifth round and pummelled him relentlessly until Lyle went down for the last time. Any criticisms about Foreman's heart and will were emphatically answered.

After Foreman's unanimous decision defeat to Jimmy Young in 1977, Foreman quit boxing.

Immediately after his loss to Young, Foreman said he had a religious epiphany in the locker room. He stated he was on the verge of death and had a direct experience with God that changed his life forever. Big George quit boxing, dedicated his life to the Lord, and became an ordained minister. Another short footnote in the vast and illustrious history of boxing.. or so they thought.

Wins over Frazier, Norton, Lyle, and George Chuvalo in the first chapter of his career deserved the utmost respect, and just as Foreman was starting to be forgotten about after disappearing into oblivion, he made a huge comeback a decade later in 1987, with plenty still left in the tank.

Of course, initially, many did not believe they were witnessing one of the greatest sporting comebacks of all time. When Foreman ended his 10-year retirement at age 38, having ballooned to around 300 pounds, the world responded with mocking laughter, critique, and deep worry. Foreman no longer carried the aura of a man who demanded respect through fear. Foreman, now an ordained minister, kept the belief and determination and proceeded to work his way back toward the top.

Foreman's comeback started to be taken a bit more seriously on 15 January 1990 when he wiped out Gerry Cooney with a beautiful lead left uppercut to the chin, followed by a merciless right hand to the head. The joke was starting to be less on Foreman's comeback and more on the faces of those who made a mockery of Big George's comeback nearly 20 years after he first claimed the heavyweight title.

The last thing to leave a fighter is his punch, and one thing that even the biggest naysayers could not deny was that Foreman still possessed that soul-destroying power from his younger days.

During this second chapter of his career, he turned doubters into believers. At 45 years of age, Foreman immortalized himself forever by becoming the oldest heavyweight champion in history. To make this amazing achievement all the more impressive is the fact that this feat was not accomplished against a cherry-picked, weak champion. Foreman defeated an unbeaten and fleet-footed 26-year-old Michael Moorer, one of the top heavyweights of the '90s. Putting the ghosts of The Rumble In The Jungle to bed, Foreman wore the same shorts he did that morning in Zaire, and he had Angelo Dundee, Ali's old trainer, in his corner. Moorer was leading on the judges' scorecards until Foreman showed that his incredible punching power at 45 remained. He knocked out the younger, fresher champion in the 10th round with a big right hand on a historic night.

Three years earlier, on an iconic night in Atlantic City in April 1991 against Holyfield, with both Ali and Frazier in the ring prior to the fight, Foreman, aged 42, was competitive over 12 rounds against a young, undefeated Holyfield, who would also go on to become a heavyweight legend. This was special in itself. Becoming the oldest heavyweight champion in history against Holyfield's conqueror three years later was just truly amazing.

Foreman fought the best of the two greatest heavyweight eras in history, which were 20 years apart, and made it to the top of the mountain in both eras. The only man who ever stopped Foreman was Ali.

Foreman changed boxing forever, proving that age is just a number. A fighter's career is not necessarily finished once they hit 40 years of age. As George intended, he proved to the world that 'the age 40 is not a death sentence at all'.

Speaking to Thomas Gerbasi of Boxing News, Foreman said: "The one thing I do understand; nobody's got a monopoly on life and death. And it's not how long you live, it's the quality of the life you live, and I'm thankful for the quality of life."

Foreman is the only man from an extremely special trio of heavyweight champions that is still with us today. He can take pride in providing lasting memories for many and being such an inspiration both inside and outside of the ring for future generations to follow.

(Featured Photo: The Ring Archive/Getty Images)

#SL #George Foreman #Muhammad Ali #Joe Frazier

[jigscw]

the absolute last thing he wants to do after a major event is show up at his high school reunion. not that he’s avoiding it --- it’s just pointless for him to go. he was popular. well liked. played varsity baseball, dated a few girls, broke a few hearts. drank, smoke, got kicked out of a foster home or two. skipped out on graduation to enlist in the military. the only reason people went to reunions was to flaunt how much they’d grown --- which he had. he owned a billion dollar company, had made a name for himself, had connections in all levels of government and industry. he didn’t need to go flex his accomplishments at an event that had been planned by the once-popular cheerleaders who had turned into bored housewives.

except rapunzel had called with that panicked edge to her voice. something about one of the girls who had picked on her in high school making snide comments and her panicking and mentioning that she was engaged. and then, somehow, miraculously, his name had been brought into the mix. for a guy who made a career out of removing weakness --- he had exactly one. and it came with long, curly blonde hair, wide green eyes, and the kind of sweetness that he usually hated. ever since she’d first sat next to him in homeroom sophomore year, rapunzel carter had been his one, singular, achilles heel. hence --- the fact that he’d just spent the past several hours rubbing elbows with the city’s elite and now he was striding into a ballroom decked out in semi-deflated balloons playing 90′s hits, instantly zeroing his gaze in on the blonde in question. striding up to her, he wasted no time in sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her against him, kissing her temple. ❝ hi pumpkin. ❞          /          @shesdaylight​   +   i’m forcing you to do this plot with me bc that’s what friends do.

#shesdaylight #fake engagement fake engagement fake engagement

[denimbex1986]

'Netflix fans have a new show they can't stop watching as it finally got its long-awaited release.

Ripley stars Andrew Scott as serial killer Tom Ripley with Dakota Fanning also appearing in the star-studded show that landed on the streaming service on Thursday. Viewers have been raving about the series since it dropped with the Fleabag star impressing them with his work.

Ripley is adapted from Patricia Highsmith's hit 1955 novel The Talented Mr. Ripley - which was previously adapted for the big screen in the hit movie where Matt Damon played the titular role and John Malkovich also starred. The plot is set in the 1960s and sees Ripley get hired by a rich New Yorker to go to Italy and find his son Dickie and try to convince him to come home.

Ripley is then seen worming his way into a lavish lifestyle mixing with the elite as he turns to lies and murder to maintain his position. The updated adaptation already has fans rushing to social media to gush over the plotline and acting.

One wrote: "Ripley: sublime, just sublime. Fantastic adaptation of the novel. This is actually a very handsomely made show and production. I’m enjoying it so far. 'Not that it will surprise anyone, but Andrew Scott as #Ripley is sublime."

Another enthused: "Loving this limited series so far. Beautifully shot and lit. The attention to detail at the beginning of the first episode really sets the tone. Andrew Scott/Tom Ripley really is talented."

A third commented: "Just watched the first episode of Ripley. Andrew Scott does not miss." A fourth social media user gushed: "RIPLEY is so gorgeously shot that it can be distracting (complimentary), with Andrew Scott devouring the titular role with ease."

A fifth said: "Five minutes into Ripley and I already love it! It's the vibe that was missing from the 90's remake. Jude Law and PSH were perfection in it, but I found Matt Damon to Be all wrong for Tom. The black and white filming, Andrew Scott, this is going to be great."

Andrew recently opened up about the challenges he faced when filming the series. He said: "The challenge of it was 'How do you make the audience feel what it's like to be Tom Ripley, rather that where we might usually go, which is to feel like to be a victim of Tom Ripley. He's the protagonist he's not the antagonist, so it asks us to look at what's dark within ourselves."

He then admitted that the humanity of his character makes him hard to class as a "monster" as killers would usually be seen. He added: "Actually all these things are perpetrated by human beings and we have to be able to in some ways accept the very terrifying nature that people can make mistakes and be bad and inept and innocent and yet still do these terrible things and I think that's what is so sort of unsettling about the character. So he's actually a deeply human character, but maybe not one that we choose to want to look at too much."'

#Netflix #Twitter #Andrew Scott #Dakota Fanning #Ripley #Matt Damon #The Talented Mr Ripley #John Malkovich #Patricia Highsmith

[usagirotten]

Movie Review: The Beekeeper is astonishingly bad and entertainingly good

Action heroes have had a very active participation in film and television for decades, each generation has seen and had their favorites and it is a genre that is popular among locals and strangers. These productions have an already established rule: the actors evolve and adapt to new media, leaving the baton to others. During the 80s and 90's we saw the birth of those who are now great stars of celluloid, Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Bruce Willis, Wesley Snipes, Harrison Ford, Steven Seagal, Kurt Russell, Jackie Chan Mel Gibson among many others. The new generation of heroes has brought with them diverse and varied stories ranging from the fight against drug traffickers, white slavery, kidnappings, conspiracies, large-scale robberies, and everything attached to the modernity of the time in which we live being Tom Cruise, Dwayne Johnson, Keanu Reeves, Liam Neeson, John Cena, Robert Downey Jr, Chris Hemsworth, Ryan Reynolds, Chris Evans, Vin Diesel, and Jason Statham who are now in charge of taking the action to a new level. With productions that range from the most complex and successful to the simplest that end up being part of a catalog on some Sreeaming platform, good, average, bad, and very bad productions make it clear to us that there is everything for everyone, the director At the beginning of 2024, David Ayer presents a film that complies with the rules with a different approach, The Beekeeper raises how dangerous modernity can be.

What is the film about?

The so-called Beekeepers are elements that form and apply a special program outside of any chain of command, men and women work ruthlessly during the most extreme circumstances involving a national emergency, when Adam Clay (Jason Statham), a retired Beekeeper, discovers a conspiracy in The highest levels of the government will have to unlock all their knowledge and defense mechanisms to fulfill a new mission, revenge against those who believe they are untouchable and above the law. We cannot deny that this genre is extremely entertaining, having a premiere like this in which we see the actor Jason Statham flaunting everything he knows about martial arts and fighting is extremely pleasant for those who like this type of film, the idea That there is a "secret" elite that brings order where others cannot is extremely cliché and trite, here there is absolutely nothing new or anything that enriches but there is something that entertains. Adam Clay is a stealthy ex-combatant who seeks revenge in the purest style of hitting, kicking, shooting, and chasing against those technicians who profit by using the internet and electronic media to rob people online, Clay is a modern and updated version that reminds us of that trilogy directed by Sergio Leone and starring Clint Easwood in 1964, the famous Man with No Name from the Italian films of the spaghetti western genre, a man who knows how to move, who has high-level tactile training, knowledge of firearms and personal defense with the bonus that now, retired, he lives in the countryside raising bees and selling his honey, which means that he is not an ordinary beekeeper. As a starting point for this whole mess of action, we meet his neighbor and friend, an older woman named Eloise Parker (Phylicia Rashad) who lives on the farm near his and rents him space in her barn to work on the process of Honey, the friendship between the two has its reservations. Eloise is the only person who cares for him and with whom he can talk, the typical man who helps those in need regardless of the cause and consequences. Eloise, ignorant of the risks involved in using the Internet to carry out banking procedures, makes the terrible mistake of responding to a phishing scam, a technique that consists of sending emails that impersonate companies or public organizations requesting personal and banking information from the user. , within minutes her bank account is empty, and the account of a non-profit organization she helped found, leading her to commit an act of suicide. Clay immediately trades in his beekeeper's clothes for a commando team to deal with and stop this criminal organization from doing what the law does not or cannot do because it is at the center of corruption.

Up to this point, things are presented in a linear way in which none of the characters are completely established. We have the action hero, the villains of the evil corporation, the victim, and the FBI agent who investigates the event and who turns out to be the daughter of Eloise Verona Parker (Emmy Raver-Lampman) what we would expect from this is that everyone would develop alongside the main story, that each revelation, although not an impressive twist, could give us give as viewers a more general idea of things but that does not happen and it does not happen for the simple reason that they intend for this to be a saga that has more installments, something that does not seem to go out of fashion in Hollywood. Continuing with the plot, when Agent Parker learns of her mother's death, she immediately takes the case and arrests Clay on suspicion of homicide. When it is determined that Eloise's death was a suicide, he is released. The agent reveals that this group who robbed Eloise has been in the FBI's sights for some time but they are tough to track down, their attitude ranges from neutral to pessimistic about whether they will be found and prosecuted, wanting to achieve justice for Eloise Clay contacts his former fellow Beekeepers to find to the scammers responsible. At this point the film itself tells us where things are going, this narrative arc has been constant in presenting small acts that open new subplots, this is because we want to tell things differently, from here we already know that Clay will have allies in his search, he will find them and there will be a display of action where the good guys face the bad guys and end up coming out ahead in a situation that has us very worried and in the process, we will see chases, fights, explosions, more fights, more chases and more explosions that comply with the rule that it establishes. It seems that it is a great merit that the film never gives more details about how these characters arise, how these criminal organizations are born and operate, nor does it establish who Adam Clay was before becoming a commando of this secret elite, as it is that without having An identity exists outside of any known government structure, it is only established that he is an agent that operates under the terms and conditions of the group that trained him, of which we also know nothing or what they have done. Director David Ayer is no stranger to the action genre, one of his most popular failures is Suicide Squad (2016) or for being the one which opened the film saga of The Fast and the Furious (2001), and here he wants to show us that it seems easy to make tapes with this theme and it's not just about giving stupid shit but it has a current story with a social message in which we should all take care of each other about fraud and the value of friendship while the topic of bees and the ecological discourse of what they represent is completely diluted, it is just a mere pretext to give a twist to the identity of the protagonist. The script written by Kurt Wimmer (The Thomas Crown Affair, Street Kings, and Point Break) is also no stranger to this genre, his script lacks strength and the necessary impact to place it at a level in which what we see has symmetry, things happen by chance and for its benefit, it establishes as a rule that it does not matter if the characters are established or if their extreme and exaggerated action justifies the 105 min duration, there are no relevant dialogues that give more seriousness and credibility, it is only focused in tin action which justice for all these victims of cyber fraud is more important than following the law, in the special effects that range from the excessive use of CGI to more practical effects.

Towards its conclusion we see that each character already acts on their own and it seems that we are watching segments of different films, the editing is very uneven which causes it to have more errors than those mentioned above, the holes in the script and here time is wasted that is good They could have used to give a more general idea of things with those useful flashbacks, the FBI agents investigate something, Clay kills everyone without rhyme or reason, the villains try to reestablish their order and a line of defense, all this with the end is that if this works there may be more sagas using mainly the character of Adam Clay in other missions and if not it doesn't matter because it was an entertaining and forgettable movie. Something else that its script has is that it is indiscreet in itself, the references to other films of the genre are evident as well as the recreation of scenes that remind us of the Mission: Impossible saga, The Fast and the Furious, and those classic films martial arts B series starring Bruce Lee, the film plays between action and fantasy combined with science fiction that addresses a current issue with a social message, the mixture of these elements is what makes it very unbelievable but it doesn't matter either, the genre itself is not to be taken seriously, it is only to entertain. None of us is indeed exempt from being a victim of such a fraud, the message it tries to give us lacks seriousness and falls more into the joke or joke that a country woman cannot or should not be more than 2 million dollars in an account without any type of protection, once the decision is made that the character commits suicide, they do not give any explanation or indication of whether or not they recovered that money, it is understood that if in a game in which so much The director and the scriptwriter leave it to the discretion of the viewer. Having already stated its flaws, we can say that not everything here is so bad, there are very well-choreographed fight sequences as well as the chase scenes, Ayer has a unique handling of the shots and what he wants us to see in them, and the constant cuts It does not allow us to fully appreciate all that work and leads us to ask ourselves, what did he say when I said what did he say? Even in these times we think and have the foolish belief that this helps more to make the action look spectacular and that is not the case, it simply confuses us and takes us out of rhythm. All this waste of entertaining errors works in its context, a fantasy about how satisfying it would be to brutalize and kill this type of criminals who take advantage of innocent people without fear of being punished, a topic that is current but has been treated in different ways for decades, we already know that governments know about this and do nothing, as do police departments specialized in cybercrimes, which are protected by an endless network of corruption that goes from the streets to the upper social spheres and policies. The Beekeeper as a commercial product is completely ridiculous and excessive in almost every way, and perhaps this is why it fulfills what it promises, it is pretentious and boasts of being something new that they believe will make us think that we want to see more of this, there will be Those who do and there will be those who don't, the proposal loses everything interesting that it could have been and perhaps in other hands this would have a different result for better or worse, as spectators what we want is to have a pleasant time that distracts us from the daily routine of our day. every day and we are not as demanding in this genre as in others. The cast is made up of Jason Statham, Emmy Raver-Lampman, Josh Hutcherson, Bobby Naderi, Minnie Driver, Phylicia Rashad, Jeremy Irons, and again we say that they do what they can with what they have, some more, others less but the last name Statham sells and makes numbers at the box office, here you don't need more than what they can give. The music composed by Dave Sardy and Jared Michael Fry is just what is expected from a production like this, it complies with the rule of being an audiovisual companion with no other pretension than being a good job. In conclusion, The Beekeeper is astonishingly bad and perhaps that makes it entertainingly good, once again we see what could have been and was not, one more missed opportunity, something that aims to open a new saga in the genre that occupies it without any brilliance. and substance, something that may or may not delight fans but is there trying to occupy a place among the best action films. The Beekeeper is now available in movie theaters in our country. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SzINZZ6iqxY Read the full article

#MGM

[allnightlongzine]

In the Wake of Grunge, a Rock Culture Clash

Kelefa Sanneh | Jan. 26, 2006 | nytimes.com

What does mainstream American rock 'n' roll sound like in 2006? On radio stations across the country, it sounds like two things at once. Sometimes you hear the never-ending aftershocks of grunge; plenty of nth-generation alt-rock bands are still following the trail blazed by Nirvana and others. And sometimes you hear the still-burgeoning sound of emo, the sentimental punk offshoot; plenty of fresh-faced, girl-obsessed boys are finding ways to woo listeners beyond the confines of the Warped Tour. This is a culture clash that's also a musical generation gap: the 90's versus the 00's. (Sadly, it's starting to look as if the current decade will never get a pronounceable name.)

You don't hear much talk about grunge these days, yet the sounds of the 1990's have endured, along with some of that decade's most perplexing fashion statements. (For starters: wool hats, worn indoors.) The veterans persist: Nine Inch Nails, Foo Fighters and Audioslave (formed from the remnants of Rage Against the Machine and Soundgarden) all find themselves near the top of the rock 'n' roll heap. And a horde of popular but unheralded bands continue to crank out hits by recycling the mildly disaffected sound of 90's guitar rock: Nickelback, Seether and all the rest. Right now, the Florida band Shinedown is responsible for one of the country's most popular rock songs, a vaguely Soundgardenish power ballad called "Save Me."

While neo-grunge hasn't quite gone away, emo hasn't quite arrived. In 2005, emo bands ranging from fair (Hawthorne Heights) to good (Fall Out Boy) to great (My Chemical Romance) enjoyed banner years and earned spots on rock radio playlists. But emo has yet to produce a block-busting, stadium-filling band like Creed or Linkin Park. And so instead of conquering the rock mainstream, emo bands have to share it with their more old-fashioned rivals. And because no subgenre is triumphant, mainstream rock seems a bit lifeless; there's a vacuum at the top. Not coincidentally, rock radio itself is in something of a slump. (In New York, K-Rock, 92.3 FM, recently rebranded itself a talk station, Free FM, during the week. Rock fans have to wait for "Free Rock Weekends.")

The latest emo band hoping for a blockbuster is Yellowcard, the clean-scrubbed, violin-enhanced group responsible for one of the best-selling emo CD's of all time -- which is to say, so far. The band's 2003 album, "Ocean Avenue" (Capitol), sold about 1.7 million copies, thanks mainly to the sing-along title track, which had a crunchy guitar line and a big, hopeful refrain: "If I could find you now, things would get better."

On Tuesday night Yellowcard came to Irving Plaza to celebrate the release of a new album, "Lights and Sounds" (Capitol), which suggests that the emo elite is a bit like triple-A baseball: apparently the only thing better than getting in is getting out. This is a CD meant to show that Yellowcard isn't merely an emo band, that its songs aren't merely odes to girlfriends real and imaginary. (As if there's anything wrong with any of that.) The band's singer, Ryan Key, told one interviewer, "We took the opportunity to show people that, hey, we like to make real music." Which tells you something, perhaps, about the inferiority complex that afflicts lots of emo bands.

In fact, that inferiority complex is central to the appeal of bands like Yellowcard. Compared to the brooding but swaggering men in a band like Shinedown, the members of Yellowcard seem appealingly boyish: lightweight, not heavyweight. In the howling sound of 90's rock and neo-90's rock, self-loathing is a constant. (That Shinedown song is written in the voice of an addict, begging, "Someone save me, if you will/ And take away all these pills.") But those raspy, slightly guttural voices and those swaggering guitar riffs also suggest aggression, even anger. By contrast, the music of, say, Fall Out Boy is more nasal than guttural, more awkward than angry. (Especially to anyone who's seen the music video starring a lovesick boy who is self-conscious about the antlers growing out of his head.) To listeners on either side of rock's latest generational divide, there's a big difference -- the difference of a decade -- between being a loser and being a twerp.

Among other things, "Lights and Sounds" is Yellowcard's attempt to split that difference. The violinist, Sean Mackin, has evolved into the lead string-section arranger. The band's music has gotten a bit slower and a bit more stoic. And Mr. Key is aiming for bigger themes in his lyrics, although his ambition sometimes leads him to write lines like "No one's hands are big enough to hold onto this fear." (It could be the tag line for a singularly inept horror movie.) The album includes a duet with Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks and a lame antiwar ballad, "Two Weeks From Twenty," which sounds suspiciously like Green Day; the lyrics echo the plot of the video for Green Day's "Wake Me Up When September Ends."

Luckily, Yellowcard is still pretty good at the thing it has always been pretty good at: writing sweeping, upbeat punk-rock love songs. At Tuesday's concert, the old hits got big roars, but so did the new album's title track, which is also the soundtrack to a Verizon Wireless commercial that was shown before the set began. (This decade's bands are even less shy about corporate sponsorship than last decade's bands were.) And although the new CD had been in stores for only a few hours, some of the other new songs also seemed like surefire sing-alongs, none more than the catchy lament called "Down on My Head," which may yet convert a few Nickelback fans. (As Yellowcard's accountants surely know, that's no insult.)

In a lot of ways, these twin traditions have lots in common, starting with loud guitars and plaintive lyrics. And it may be inevitable that the distinction between 90's rock and 00's rock will eventually get blurred beyond recognition. Bands like Green Day and Weezer were singing tuneful love songs long before the current emo boom, and they're still thriving now. And the emerging Orange County band Avenged Sevenfold is succeeding by pioneering an unlikely and intriguing fusion, drawing from emo while also embracing the swaggering look and sound of 1980's metal.

You won't find anything nearly so unexpected on the Yellowcard album, though you will find a hint of the anxiety that pervades the rock mainstream these days. Listen closely and you can hear the strain of a band struggling to sound as big as its aspirations. Listen even more closely and you can hear something else: the quiet sucking sound of a rock 'n' roll vacuum, waiting -- still -- to be filled.

A version of this article appears in print on Jan. 26, 2006, Section E, Page 5 of the National edition with the headline: CRITIC'S NOTEBOOK; In the Wake of Grunge, A Rock Culture Clash.

#emo #nyt #outside

[heavenboy09]

25 Years Ago Today, On July 10th, 1998

From DreamWorks Pictures Presents

A Joe Dante Film 🎥

In Our Present Day World 🌎 Where Technology Changes Lives

A New Breed Of Technological Superiority Is Coming To A Town Near You

When top defense contractor GloboTech Industries acquires

the Heartland Toy Company, CEO Gil Mars commissions toy designers Larry Benson and Irwin Wayfair to develop toys capable of "playing back".

Mars selects Larry's "Commando Elite" action figures for the project, with Irwin's "Gorgonites" — peaceful monsters intended to be educational toys — as their enemies.

Facing a tight deadline, Larry unwittingly equips the toys with GloboTech's X1000 microprocessor.

A Mircoprocessor Chip So Sophisticated & So Powerful

It Clearly Has A Mind Of Its Own

Apply This To The Most Advanced Toy On The Face Of The Earth 🌎

& You Are Left With Some Big Unanswered Questions

For Such Small Action Figures

What If Toys Could Walk

What If Toys Could Talk

What If Toys Could Actually Kick Your ***

Well

1 Young Boy Is About To Learn 1st Hand

What These Toys Can Really Do

Working at his family's toy store, teenager Alan Abernathy persuades delivery driver Joe to give him a shipment of the new GloboTech toys,

activating Major Chip Hazard, leader of the Commando Elite

and Archer, the Gorgonites' leader.

Together, Alan & Archer 🏹 & The Gorgonites Must Find A Way To Set The Gorgonites Free & Defeat The Evil Reign Of The Commando Elite

This Means War

What is it good for.

Absolutely Nothing

DreamWorks Pictures Presents

A Joe Dante Film 🎥

Starring Gregory Smith

Kirsten Dunst

Tommy Lee Jones as The Voice Of Major Chip Hazard

&

Frank Langella as The Voice Of Archer 🏹

In

The 1998 Hit Classic Family Fun Film of The 90's

SMALL SOLDIERS 🎖

HAPPY 25TH ANNIVERSARY TO DREAMWORKS PICTURES

SMALL SOLDIERS 🏅

BIG THINGS, COME IN SMALL PACKAGES 📦

#SmallSoldiers #DreamworksPictures #Gorgonites #CommandoElite

#Small Soldiers #DreamWorks Pictures #Gorgonites #Commamdo Elite #SoundCloud

[benefits1986]

Dyslexic Meets Color Blind

If you look at it well, your curse is your gift, too. 

I always have a tough time polishing my subject-verb agreement, spelling, run-on sentences, punctuations and the works. Back in elementary days, a 5 out of 10 in spelling class is my usual take home. Funny how my English Teacher, Ms. Seline (Yes, that’s an “S” and not a “C”.) called me one day and told me how she can help me. I told her that I really have a hard time to figure out which comes first whenever “receive” and “believe” are meant to be written out.  She told me that it’s totally fine and all I need is practice. She also shared that my spoken English overrides my poor skills. She also commended my penmanship and how I organize my notes with my side notes, too. I really felt bad and good, at the same time. My 87-89 marks in English class are not good enough for mother dragon, so I have to triple down my effort. I kept the comments of Teacher Seline really close as I frowned upon my tattered Merriam-Webster thesaurus, because I abhor the dictionary.  Later, I saw a 90-mark in my report card. It said English, Language and Arts. I stopped dead as mother dragon smirked. I managed to get a few merit cards and was part of the Top Ten circle which I really find irksome even then. I didn’t see the very good stamps as mother dragon wanted those that bear excellent. I didn’t see my top scores because at the end of the day, I still struggle to read and write. I felt that my certificates and merits are nothing but consolation prizes. 

At the end of the day, I know that I am not part of the elite circle as I’m from a lower middle class family. Mother dragon made sure that while was  in an exclusive school, I must know that material gains are not the goals we should be going after. She made sure I focus on getting good grades, join a few extra-curricular activities that have zero spending and of course, go home right after the dismissal bell rings.  

I vividly remember one random day in my third quarter with Teacher Seline. She called the girl who tops English and then she called me, too. I felt as though I was policed yet again, but, of course, I needed to come to the front. She then asked me and the other girl to hand her our notebooks. She counted the stars, stamps and stickers. Then, it hit me... I was in second place.  Of course, mother dragon congratulated me and said that I can be first place next time. The excitement and surprise died instantly. I should work triple time yet again. However, deep inside, the second place status really felt good given my poor written English skills a few months back.  _____

I also struggled in Filipino because mother dragon trained me to use English as early as 3 years old. My grade is Filipino is only 84-85. Mother dragon lambasted me because I can speak fluent Tagalog but I have a really tough time reading BATA (as in kid) as I punish myself for reading out loud as TABA (as in fat). As I work triple time in English, Filipino felt like hell. I applied the hacks I got in English class and that’s where I started to associate English words to Tagalog ones. I had to translate my thoughts to Tagalog but some Tagalog words like gigil do not have direct translations.  Later, I managed to get 89-90 marks in Filipino. I also won first place in a few declamation contests both in Filipino and English. The merit cards and top student status kept coming; but again, mother dragon never ever settled for second and third place. She told me that while those allow me to compare myself to the class, the real world is much crazier. I always found myself scratching my head or my skin because I didn’t get why the hell her worldview was like that.  ________

While I salivated over my classmate’s pencil cases and their rubber shoes, mother dragon instilled in me the lesson of being presentable, well-mannered and grounded. She also allowed me to pick dresses and bows that scream. I never blended in and sometimes, though I stand out, I felt outlandish. Did that bother me? Hell, no. What’s nice about being a lower middle class girl in an elite world is that I got to see how life can bring you so much wealth, but that does not guarantee health in all aspects.  I witnessed the breakdown of some classmates who later dropped out. I saw how poorly some really A-class kids do even when they have tutors. I also got my heartbroken when I had to say good bye to one of my classmates who needed to go abroad because his parents separated. All of these crazy stories came to me during my elementary school days.  Whenever I share these to mother dragon, she reminded me that wealth is not the pinnacle of life. I asked why those things happened to kids who are too young. She answered me straight up. Families with so much access to convenience usually have too much liberty to the point that they tend to indulge and suffer the consequences of their actions and the lack of thereof. I blinked and stared at her. She told me that I have a lot to learn even when she knew that I secretly want a bad ass pencil case and a Lisa Frank trapper keeper. Of course, she said NO, NO, NO.  _________ I studied in an exclusive non-sectarian Catholic school in the South for six years. Back then, not a single adult mentioned dyslexia. I had to make do with what I did not know. My default is triple down effort because I knew what I have is a mishap, a quirk. 

In between term papers and formal writing remarks that meant I needed to polish my writing, I knew there’s something else beyond these really constricting rules.  During a random HEKASI assignment where were tasked to make a script about the Spanish colonization, I spent a lot of time to pour my thoughts out. No inhibitions, no rules. Just the way I like. A few days later, Teacher Julie announced that my script teeming in liquid paper and crossed out lines was chosen to compete with six other scripts from other classes.  It was my first time to handle a full room of people and guide them to get this story out in the world. I felt so good that even when mother dragon smirked and told me that my script was extremely messy. Our class won third place. We cheered because Grade Five kids experienced something out of the box. Mother dragon blamed the script and the kids who didn’t give justice to it. I guess that was my first time to validate myself and my work even when mom said otherwise. 

________

This dyslexic later dabbled with school paper and her impostor syndrome. I really wanted to take up advertising or economics then law, but mom wanted marketing in her dream school.  I saw my tiny folio crumble but that didn’t stop me from swimming in the counter current. Funny how I collaborated with someone who was color blind. While I help put together the frames, this person and I talk about colors via color picker, CMYK and RGB. That’s where I learned how to make the most of the BNW scale; and how it’s the true north, the Polaris of design. We made one too many jokes about how dyslexia and color blindness dance over fire and ice. We’ve managed to birth a good number of projects in full color and in decent (not perfect) English, Filipino and Taglish, too.  During our long days and nights, I discovered that curses are gifts, too. You just have to accept what you are and what you are not. You just have to be honest enough and brave enough to accept criticisms and triple down of your effort. You just have to tame your dragons and befriend your demons. Not easy. Never easy. I found refuge and surrender through the works and the lives of Joseph Addison, E.E. Cummings, Alexander Pope, Haruki Murakami, Jane Austen, Charles Bukowski, Edgar Allan Poe, JK Rowling, Lualhati Bautista, Ricky Lee, Wei Hui, Wong Kar-wai and the rest of the misfits. 

Perhaps, Bob Ong is my OG. Even his books have obvious grammatical errors and bad layout; but the story, the lines, the pauses, the sudden stops make him more real. His book Stainless Longganisa is my guiding light whenever I am faced with too much noise and unnecessary stress in a world where it’s so easy to look down upon the storytellers who just want to get to their audience of one.  Everyone can write. Not a lot can write well. But it’s rare to come across a storyteller. Ergo, I’m never gonna write well. I am but a storyteller and a story binder, always in WIP, always ongoing.  PS 1:  Thank u, universe for digital. Thank u, universe for AI and data.  You are my gift and my curse, too.  PS 2: Still not using any editing tool and not optimizing my thought farts; just because, this is my safe space. 

Maybe, just maybe, one day, I’d be able to share this to my audience of one. For now, let’s go for the an audience of none.  PS 3:  This video played as I was typing away. Not prompted; but very, very curious; yet again. Google gods, you are getting more and more profound. I don’t want to be found, please.  Ambient love, light & shadows,  B