#hippie tour baby

[mxboxlocks]

PRIVATE DOMINATION/DOMINATED LINES!

i think i've posted them before, but this is my tf2 self-insert, the Private! they work under Soldier as an apprentice and mostly sticks by him through a lot of missions. i took a bit of time brainstorming their dom lines to get a feel for their personality and i think i did a pretty good job! so here you are!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

dominating scout "You run circles, I run miles, twerp!" "St-eee-rike! You're out!" "And that's what we do to spineless boys around my turf, slick. This is MEN'S territory!" "You're gonna need bandages for a lot more than your hands after that one." "DOMINATED, ya whiney little brat!" "I just knocked your ass out the ballpark!"

dominated by scout "Are you- Are you always this stupid? Cuz that was embarrassin'." "Dominated, bootlicker!" "You oughta get discharged, cuz there's no comin' back from that." "Y'know you take after your boss a lot; you're both easy to shoot, and you're both dumb as dirt!" "(laughter) Oh man! Wait'll I tell Soldier he's raisin' a HIPPIE!"

dominating soldier "Looks like THIS Private just moved up in rank!" "I'm taking your title, old man! Trial by combat!" "Land of the free, home of this boot I just shoved up your ass, Sarge!" "They should give me a medal for how hard I'm kicking your ass." "Saludos desde México, GRINGO! (Greetings from Mexico, FOREIGNER!)"

dominated by soldier "I don't wanna see your nose out of that dirt until your arms are about to fall off! IS! THAT! CLEAR?!" "Have you learned NOTHING, son?!" "DOMINATED! You are a disappointment! You are a coward!" "DOMINATED, you spineless hippie!" "Ohh, get up, it's only a scratch. UP, I SAID!" "DOMINATED! DISCHARGED! DEEEECEASED!"

dominating pyro "I got a waterhose back home with your name on it, Gas." "You're in hot water, ain'tchu?" "Holy mole, that's gotta burn!" (mole is a kind of Mexican spicy sauce) "Flail that 'thrower all you want, you can't burn a phoenix! CAWWW!" "DOMINATED, Pinkie Pie!" "You just got SMOKED!"

dominating heavy "Need an ice pack for that? Don't worry, we can bury you in the snow." "Your big gun doesn't scare me, Stallingrad!" "I never quit, I wanted your head! And so I shotcha til you were dead!" (reference to the song Rasputin by Boney M.) "Take that domination where the sun don't shine, lover-of-the-Russian-queen!" (another Rasputin reference) "Tell Dr. Boytoy he's gonna need to do a lot of work to get those bullets out of ya!"

dominated by heavy "DOMINATED. Now be quiet." "Dominated! You do not live up to your title." "Mm. You need more training." "Private is not disciplined! (singsong) Oh, Soldier!" "Stay down, little man. I do not enjoy killing babies."

dominating demo "Gotcha that time, Cap'n Loch Ness!" "Those bombs of yours ain't really all that useful when you can't keep your eye on 'em, are they?" "Didn't see me comin' did ya?" "Oof, you're gonna need more than a drink for that." "You just LOVE my bullets, don'tcha Cyclops? CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"

dominated by demo "TELL YOUR SORRY EXCUSE FOR A LEADER THAT I'M COMIN' FOR HIM NEXT!" "A fine sendoff for a boot-lickin' bib-wearin' git!" "For your sake, laddie, I'll tell your ma you died doin' what you loved; gettin' your BLOODY ARSE handed to you!"

dominating engineer "You ever thought about buildin' a bulletproof vest?" "Not very intuitive design when your own sentry can shoot at you too, y'know." (rare) "Dominated! Tell Beecave I said best wishes!" "Twelve pHDs and for what?! Try a tour in the army, Quickdraw!" "They don't teach fightin' like that in IT, do they?" "Tend to your farm and mind your own damn business!" "DOMINATED, Marty Robins!"

dominated by engineer "You're not much smarter than yer mentor, are ya? Hell, y'all might be related." "Dominated. Tell Houston I said they can go to hell!" "Take your humid ass air back down to the coast, damn it!" "Not in my damn base, ya don't."

dominating sniper "You piss in jars and you keep 'em. I don't need to embarrass you any more." "Dominated, Heeler!" (vague reference to Bluey) "Aren't Australians supposed to be the best fighters in the world?! C'MON!" "I got you in my sights. Wanker."

dominated by sniper "(sotto voice) Gotcha, trench rat." "Gotcha, trench rat!" "(sotto voice) Another bloody moron crossed off my list." "Another bloody moron crossed off my list!" "You think wearin' a uniform makes you special, punk?!" "(sotto voice) They got cages in hell for people like you, grunt." "They got cages in hell for people like you, grunt!"

dominating medic "Someone call the waah-mbulence!" "And for your death certificate, that'll be 200,000 dollars! Name of insurance?" "What's this? A DNR? Baaad news, other team, the doctor is OUT!" "Dominated, pillskirt!" "Dominated, psych ward!" "DOMINATED, Frankenstein!"

dominated by medic "I would use your body for science, but it's so full of sugar and plastic I think I'd be better off robbing a grave!" "Ooh! That limb looks infected. I'll have to take it off." "You never SAW me coming, did you, fraulien?!" "Ha-ha-hah! Your blood, it gives me youth!" "Shut up and let me do my job!"

dominating spy "You sorry sacks of scum are USELESS to your teammates!" "Ooo, a ghost?! So spooooky!" "Need a cig, baguette?" "That's what you get you little weasel!" "Buy me a drink later and we'll call it even." "Eat that, white flag!"

dominated by spy "If your spatial awareness were as large as your ego, you'd have caught that!" "Now to torture the information out of you - or is that too much to handle?" "A knife in the back, like a kiss, au revoir." "I've met politicians with more conviction than you!" "Dominated! Now go back to your play-pen!" "Dominated, you scraggly ill-kempt mutt!"

#for clarity soldier and private are NOT related the team just likes to make fun of them for having a father/son relationship #tf2 #team fortress 2 #team fortress two #tf2 fanart #tf2 soldier #tf2 engineer #tf2 spy #tf2 sniper #tf2 scout #tf2 medic #tf2 pyro #tf2 demoman #tf2 heavy #tf2 mercs #tf2 oc #tf2 private

[little-reader]

“The Son of A Monster” Ch.3

Masterlist

Carl grimes x Male!Reader

Warnings; Death, blood, Slow-burn Sexual tension, Gay awakening (For both), Cursing, Negan is Readers dad, Enemies to lovers story. Fighting. Zombie apocalypse

Rick wasn’t there, nor was Aaron. You found a place where Iris could stay. The woman you met last time, Olivia. She looked slightly scared again once you got into view. You left Iris alone to unpack.

You moved your bat off the couch and onto the carpet floor, sitting down as your dad was talking to Olivia. “Dad!” You said, eyes wide when you heard the words come out of his mouth. A hard smack across the face echoed throughout the room when Olivia slapped him. Your dad only flirted back. “Jesus.” You muttered. 

Olivia left to make lemonade, forcibly, and you got up so you could have a “Grand House tour”. “Dad, you don't have to touch everything.” You muttered, walking around as he took off his shoes. “And that's gross.”

Carl only stayed silent and watched as Negan played around with everything. A “heater” ended up being a baby in the last room. Your dad instantly picked her up. You touched her hair as she looked at you. “Haven’t seen one since… what 2 years ago.” You said, taking your hand away. Your dad only nodded as he took the kid outside.

The sunlight flicked as the trees shook, and the breeze was light from the window in the room. You looked around the bedroom that Iris stayed in. Small, but comfortable, away from others like your dad. You laid back as you looked at the books across the room. You were mainly giving the place a nice glance over. You wanted Iris to be safe and sound, with no threats around her. 

“I’m done.” She said, coming into the room with wet hair and a towel. You hummed as she closed the door and sat on the bed, drying her hair. 

“What ya’ wearing?” You asked, looking at the suitcase and back. She shrugged and looked over. “You don’t know? What about ragged jeans? You know the cool hippie ones?” You joked. She slapped your knee and sighed, taking the towel off and looking through the suitcase for the “perfect outfit”. “Niceee.” You hummed. She scoffed and started changing. 

Sitting up, you sighed and stood. “I’ve got to be there when Rick gets back.” kissing her head, you went to the door. “Stay in here until I tell you to come out, I don't want anyone pestering you.” She only nodded as you closed the door and left down the stairs. Your guessing you didn’t miss anything, because the trucks at the gate were still there, along with the men.

You walked past the street, into the other patch of grass where Negan stood talking to a man. A pool table on the road, and a stick in his hand. Your dad smiled, but fury set in his eyes. The small crowd around watched them talk as you got closer. Negan sat the stick down. “The guy who waited for Rick to be gone so he could sneak over and talk to me to get me to do his dirty work, so he could take Rick’s place.” A small pause, you took a second, and looked over at him, then at the man. Fuck. “So I gotta ask – If you wanna take over, why not kill Rick yourself and just take over?” He asked, now in his face as the man shuddered.

“Dad.” You said, only for him to raise his hand in your direction.

“You know what I’m thinking? Cause I got a guess.” He said, leaning back, and then getting back in his face. “It’s because you got” A small pause. “no guts.” He whispered.

“Dad!” You yelled as the man was sliced open by the stomach. The man fell to his knees, holding his organs in his hands. You stared wide-eyed at the man, taking a step forward before he pushed you back. 

“Ohh, how embarrassing!” he went on. You spaced out, looking at the man, and how his blood dripped out. Not that you haven’t seen it before, but it only proved that your dad was getting worse. 

Negan started waving the bat around asking if they wanted to finish the game. 

A loud shot rang, then another, you were dazed, your eyes even wider than before as you looked at your father, the bullet didn’t hit him, but his bat, which was twice as worse as hitting him. You felt the blood trickle down your face, it was cut but only a small scrape. “Aw, fuck.” You muttered, touching your face. That is when he started to yell. Rosita was slammed to the ground, and a knife was pressed to her cheek. 

Your dad carefully examined the bullet. It was hand-made, and not like the ones you took a few days ago. 

You don't feel like being here when another person dies. “I’m gonna go… inside.” You said, tripping over your foot a bit. Negan only grabbed you, checking your face before sending you on your way. Which wasn’t far, you heard their voices as you entered the Grimes home and sat on the couch, another gunshot, You sighed and left to the bathroom to clean your wound and stitch it up. 

You didn’t see Carl until the morning, very early in the morning. He was sneaking around, putting his shoes on, and leaving. You groaned as you sat up, pulling your shoes on your feet and taking a cigarette out. You grabbed your tank top and pulled it on before heading back out, slowly shutting the door without a sound. You looked back and forth. You could see him moving around the streets. 

You followed him, staying out of the light, and into the other side of the town, where the solar panels sat. You looked around, but there wasn’t anything to see. He probably wandered to another place, and you didn’t exactly enjoy following him around… kind of.

You sighed, turned around, and started walking. You ended up in front of the gate. “Hey!” There was a shadow on the post, looking down at you. “You can’t go out there.” They yelled, then Shown a light in your face.

You covered your face, looking at them with one eye. “C’mon Rosita, Just a drive?” You said, waving your knife around with a grin. She only paused, then sat the light down and climbed the latter down. 

“If you get bit,., I’m not letting you in, I don’t give a shit who you are.” She said, opening the gate as you walked out. 

“Eh, I think I’ll be fine. Have a nice day, doll.” You said, leaving out into the street. You could barely see, but there was no noise. No shuffling of bushes, the break of a stick, or your dad scolding you. 

You hummed, closing your eyes and breathing in the air. You were about half a mile out by now, and the sun was starting to rise. You could see a small clearing of the sky through the leaves of the trees. “Fuck.” You muttered, looking at the small group of ten biters down the road. You jumped the ditch and headed into the woods. You ran farther into the trees, only almost falling into more walkers before finally resting against a tree and onto the ground. 

“Jesus fuck.” Your side hurt, with the cuts on your torso bursting with rage and your legs wanting to kill you right now, you decided to rest there for a bit, until you could walk forty minutes back home.

—-- Carl’s POV—--

Carl woke up early. He sat in his room staring at the ceiling for more than an hour until he got bored and got up. He grabbed his flannel and pants, before leaving downstairs. He turned on the flashlight, tip-toeing past his parent's room and towards the stairs. Shining the flashlight in the living room where You slept, he walked in, checking the time. 5 am. He looked at you. You didn’t sleep with a blanket, just a pillow and pants. Your face was covered by hair, but he could see your eyes and the way you slowly breathed. He could tell, just by looking at you, that you could be a value to someone, like a bodyguard.

He shuffled back, hitting the coffee table then looking back at you, hearing you grunt. He let out a breath before going around the couch to the door, grabbing his shoes, and setting down the flashlight. He stood on one foot, trying to balance as he put his shoe on. He heard you shuffle around on the couch before he left out the door.

Carl sighed as he walked down the stairs and turned the flashlight off. He checked his side, making sure the knife still stayed on his hip. He made his way through the solar panels and ran to the wall, climbing over it before landing on the ground, brushing off the leaves as he headed into the woods.

He didn’t know where he was going, he wasn’t even supposed to be out. But he felt. Good. Being out the walls, away from Negan and his son. He killed a few walkers on his way. The light peering in allowed him to see the ground and around the trees. He stood for a second, in and out, before walking again. It was quiet, or maybe he was out of it. Because as he walked, there was no sound whatsoever.

He was deep in the woods when he encountered a large group of walkers that he could not take alone. He felt like with every turn he took they multiplied as he ran. 

“FUCK!” You yelled, getting slammed into and crashing to the ground. “What the fuck-” You looked over to see Carl trying to stand, then looked over to the large crowd. “Oh fuck.” You breathed. You grabbed Carl, pushed him to your chest, and rolled into the trench beside you, getting into the hollow part.

Your back was out and Carl was pressed against the wall of the cave, his back was covered. You put your finger up to your lips as they passed above you. “Fuck, that hurt.” You whispered

He looked confused. His bright eyes looked into yours. You examined his face. He had small freckles at the edge of his face, along with a bit of stubble on his chin. His eyes were blue as blue could be, with even darker around the edges. “You know, your nice quiet.” You whispered with a laugh.

He only rolled his eyes and looked away from you, taking his knife out of his pocket. “Shit. I need you to grab mine.” Your hand was currently occupied, one on the roof of the cave, not sure if it would stay up, the second around and under Carl’s torso. 

He sat his knife on your side and reached down, feeling around your shirt. “Where is it?” He whispered back. “In the front, or on my side.” You said, looking back behind you, you groaned. “Fuck.”

“What?” He asked, pausing. You laughed, turning back to him, and you got closer to his body, pressing against him, your head close to his ear. “What are you doing-”

“One, They’ll see me if I don't get closer, 2,” You said, looking at him with one eye. “Let's just say you weren’t just grabbing my knife.” He quickly pulled his hand away with a weird look and gave you his knife. 

You could feel his breath on your neck, how sometimes it would stop and pause, then continue. You could feel his chest move, and his legs shift against yours. You could tell you’d be here for a while. And hopefully, none of them will wander down here, but if you got out now, you both would be trapped with them down here.

You could feel your stomach growl and turn, “Shit, you got anything to eat?” You asked. He hummed and reached down again, digging in his pocket. He handed you a protein bar, it was already opened but barely eaten. You pushed yourself back, face to face once again. Then you broke the bar in half. “Here, eat some.”

“I’m not-” You cut him off. “It's barely been eaten, I'm sure you haven't eaten since last night.” You said he took it, taking a bite out of it. You huffed, still hearing the groans of the dead. You got in the same position as earlier. “I hope you know this is not me being nice.” You said. 

“I never said it was,” Carl replied back. He shifted once again, this time his hips. His legs were now mostly between yours, his arms to his chest and head against your neck. “Don’t tell my dad either, he’ll get a person to guard the walls, not just the front.”

“Fine, don’t tell mine either, he’ll think I came out here for cigs and looking for old stashes of drugs.” You said, sighing. “It's dangerous! Y/n, what is wrong with you? Why can’t you just follow the rules?” You mocked your dad's voice. “Trust me, he can suck a slim-jim.” You muttered. ‘

You felt Carl's chest bouncing. “Are you laughing?” You asked, smirking. He coughed a bit and shook his head slightly. You hummed and closed your eyes. “You're a badass grimes.” You stated. “Shoving me off a goddamn truck, then killing a bunch of men. I liked one of them you know…” 

A hand covered your mouth, hushing you. “They can hear you know?” He said sarcastically. You only nodded and took his hand off your mouth. 

“I ramble on when I’m with people, I don’t do good with silence.” You whispered. 

About ten minutes later, you peered behind yourself. “I’m gonna look out, I don't hear them anymore.” You said, sliding out of the shallow trench. You stood, then turned. “Shit.” You said, ducking, putting your finger to your lips and a hand out. “Shut up and stay there.”

Carl looked at you with narrowed eyes and backed into the hollow part even more. You passed his knife back to him and stood, looking above him and climbing the trench. It went quiet for a few seconds, you could hear him moving around, the leaves crunching with each step. “Please help!” You yelled, then fell to the ground, face first.

Voices soon started to come closer. 

They were laughing. Two men. That's when he heard you groan. 

“He’s alive? Hey pal, you good?” One of the men asked. Shuffling was heard again. “Hey, aw look at his face V.” 

You smirked, and in a quick move, you stabbed the man in his neck and kicked the other down, “You little shit!” You were shoved into the trench, landing on your arm. You looked at Carl, a sarcastic wink his way and putting a finger to your lips. 

The man jumped down, sliding slightly, before standing straight, “C’mere ya’ brat.” You were grabbed by the neck and thrown back down. You laughed, coughing as you did, and grabbed your knife, hitting him right in the calf and moving over. He screamed in pain and charged toward you. You swung at him, and your hand made contact with his face, but only for him to yank you by it, and moved to him. 

He dug his knee into your back and threw the knife out of your reach. You struggled and he laughed. “Now look at you! Weak.” He said, punching you in the stomach, and face, and kicking you repeatedly. You groaned as he got off of you. You closed your eyes. Your whole body felt like fire, you’ve felt the pain many times before, but it Hurt. 

Carl swung his knife over, hitting the man's farm but only grazing it. “That's why he did that, e was protecting you,” The man said in a baby voice. “What is he? Your brother?” He asked. Carl stayed quiet. 

You opened your eyes, looking at the man. He was much larger than Carl, and Carl had a smaller knife that could barely go into a chicken bone. You slowly got up, watching them fight, and it was more in slow motion for you. As you moved more, the pain slowly decreased and you came back into reality. 

You breathed in and ran for it, pulling the man down with you and turning him over, sitting on him. You threw a punch, then another, and another, and another, it felt like forever before you stopped. 

Carl watched you cave the man's head in, his blood spewing everywhere, on your face, clothes, and hair. Everywhere.

You got off the man. Well, now a man with no head. You shook your hand and stepped away, turning around and examining your knuckles. You then looked up, pacing Towards Carl and grabbing him by the collar. 

“I told you not to come out.” You shook him. “I told you to be quiet and stay.” You only got angrier. You threw him down.

“Fuck you too. I was helping your ass,” Carl said, pissed. You laughed and turned, grabbing your knife.

“Yeah fuck me.” You said.

It was about 7 in the morning by then. You both climbed the trench, helping each other before finding a road. When you finally reached the gate, you were met by Rick, Rosita, and Michonne. You waved and walked past them. “Scold him, not me,” You said. 

“You can just wander off like that,” Rick said, taking your appearance in. “What the hell happened?” He asked, then looked at Carl.

“I saved your son's ass, your welcome.” You said. “Tell him not to sneak out.” You mumbled and left down the street and into Olivia's house, now your wife's home. You walked up the stairs and knocked on her bedroom door. 

“Y/n… Jesus.” She said, looking up and down. 

“Like what you see?” You laughed, she only took your hand and laid you down. “Fuck… How’s…” You paused and pointed to her stomach.

“Hm, they're fine.” She said, taking out a few things from the cabinet. “I think, though, I’m sure they miss their dad.” She laughed, and you jokingly scoffed, pulling her over. “I have to clean you up, stop.” 

You hummed. “I’m so tired.” You said. “C’mon bestie, you don’t need to be so mean.” You whined as she pulled away and hit your thigh. You fell asleep as she took care of you.

Chapter 4

#Rick Grimes #Rosita Espinosa #eugene porter #michonne #twd #twd x reader #twd x you #twd daryl #carl grimes #carl grimes x male reader #carl grimes x reader #male reader #male yandere #male y/n #story line #dad!negan #negan #negans son #negan x reader #negan x son!reader

[pushing500]

The Grand Eureka Colony Tour!

It's here at last! The Grand Finale Colony tour! Woo! I'm very proud of this colony, I hope you like it too.

For a sample, let's begin with a shot of the whole of Eureka:

Ta-dah! Isn't it gorgeous? It's a very big colony, so once again I'm going to put the rest of it under the cut so it won't clog up people's dashboards with my screenshots and rambling.

Starting on the left, we've got our first animal pens. The large pen is home to a variety of animals, listed as follows:

Laser, Dominator, Tryst, Clementine, Quintin, Nikita, Safari, Excalibur and Ragdoll the alpacas

Devotion and Mozart the neutrolopes (like boomalopes but for neutroamine, from the 'ReGrowth: Core' mod)

Verona the Cyrenian hind (from the 'Alpha Mythology' mod)

Samson the teratogenic originator (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod)

Teacup, Hayley, Portia, Nadine, Aiko, Fraiser, Salty, Chaplin and Smarmer the horses

Also sleeping in the large pen's barn but not confined by the fences is:

Calvin, Honcho, Whoopie, Zombie, and Paprika the nightling cubs (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod)

Kiki the murkling (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod)

Bryanna and Marauder the red pandas (from the 'Vanilla Animals Expanded' mod)

Tommy Brock the badger, one of only two animals in the colony who does not have a randomized name (from the 'Vanilla Animals Expanded' mod)

Elegance the baby razorjack (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod)

The small pen is where we keep our ducks. They are named Olivia, Pepe, Shrimp, Dynamo, Zack, Tipsy, Augusta, and Adele. They're very useful for eggs, and we cycle through the duck population every few quadrums so we have fresh meat to make kibble (don't tell the ducks that, though).

Speaking of meat, next to the pens are our abattoir/kibble-making freezer, our nutrient paste dispenser, and the prison. Prisoners (and suspected-mime Eva) are put on a strict nutrient-paste-only diet, so the proximity helps.

You can also see three of our twelve chemfuel-powered generators and a teeny-tiny secret patch of smokeleaf that we're growing to keep hippie-drug-cultist Gracie happy. Below that are some decorative chemfuel barrels and our sewage treatment plant.

Next there's the hot tub room with its adjoining facilities, famous for its romantic pink lighting and for being the place where Wookshys proposed to Albina back when I didn't like him.

Also pictured is the children's bedroom, with high-tech illuminated beds, dresser, and end tables so they don't need to worry about being scared of the dark.

Moving on, we have the classroom that has seen so many of my colonists pass on their knowledge to the children in a variety of sweet and amusing interactions. Next to the classroom is the obligatory schoolyard vegetable patch, which provides most of the vegetarian component for the kibble made in the abattoir next to it.

Don't mind Jesse and his square, by the way. I was already drafting this post before a lovely anonymous ask helped me fix the Curse of Jesse's Box (I love you, anon)

Here is the ship we have worked so painstakingly to construct, pictured alongside the tomb for cuterpillar Bernie, a patch of opuntia (prickly-pear) cacti from when Albina was testing one of her psycasts, and the thrumbo barn where Pharaoh, Brandi, Big Dipper, Caramel, Bellboy, Ray, Belladonna, Dollie, Apollo, and Dallas sleep at night.

The Ancient Danger has been transformed into a delightful hybrid space, as it is one part laboratory for mechanitor Fafo to muck about in, one part rec room with a billiards table, a dartboard, and even a television set, and one part drug operation because it is where we grow our psychoid plants ready for when Hussar Henry is old enough to need them (along with some mint and uranium root for funsies).

There are also six more chemfuel generators, an infinite chemreactor, and the legendary monument that Fafo carved depicting her then-fiance now-husband Kaz, which is used as a meditation for all colonists with the artistic focus type.

This is the pool room, which comes with an arcade machine, longwave radio, and roulette table. Next to it are the last three chemfuel generators.

Underneath, there are two barrack rooms. The one on the left is home to Gracie, Emerald, Grump, Hot Minute, and Sam the razorjack. The barracks on the right is currently only home to Jesse and Kelorul, along with Beau the razorjack. There's also a bathroom close by for easy access.

The devil sheep pen is home to many adorable little red devilstrand-producing sheep from the 'Alpha Animals' mod. Sixteen of them to be exact! Their names are Blossom, Petit, Persephone, Tank, Clarence, Crockett, Stellar, Dudette, Violator (my favourite), Honed, Soldier, Heather, Seargent, Fabian, Adonis, and Cassandra. Ingrid the red panda also sleeps in the devil sheep pen for some reason.

To the right you can see a neat little dining area with some sculptures and an industrial radio for recreation, and below that is the temple used by followers of Wendy, Laurie, and Jesse's ideology. There's also a horseshoes pin, for anybody who feels like some low-tech recreation.

Then there are the boomalope pens, made out of granite instead of wood to avoid any potential fire mishaps. They contain the main providers of the chemfuel we use to power our twelve chemfuel generators. The top pen contains our two male boomalopes, Hunter and Dude, and the bottom pen has the three females, Margarita, Missile, and Liability.

I am of the opinion that "Missile" and "Liability" are the best randomly generated names a boomalope could ever have.

Here is our Wedding Chapel/music room, a lovely little space that the couples of Eureka like to frequent in order to enjoy some musical romance with one another (demonstrated here by Kaz playing the drums for his lovely wife).

Outside we also have a little barbecue and dining area for those few colonists who aren't vegetarian, and in the top left corner, you can see the band node that Fafo is tuned to so that she can hopefully get more mechs in the future!

This is Eureka's clothing closet (and where we keep the caravan bedrolls too). That long rectangle building in the bottom left is a "monument" we built for the Empire, which is now a fireproof chemfuel storeroom, and also where we brew chemshine to sell to traders (and to satiate Eva's chemical interest trait).

Fafo made both of those monuments, but only one of them (the pyramid) is of legendary quality. The other is only excellent quality, and depicts "a politician playing blackjack with a thousand hooligans".

Some of the planting zones are here, too, including our blueberry field and apiary, one of our chickpea patches, some rice, some cotton, and some sugarcane.

Some more planting zones (rice, chickpeas, potatoes, onions, more rice and chickpeas, even more chickpeas, gold fern, allspice, plasteel bulbs), along with our only wind turbine and the first solar panel we ever built.

The bedroom at the top right is Albina and Wookshys' room, they share it with Rogan the rottweiler (from the 'Vanilla Animals Expanded' mod). The bedroom below that is Kaz and Fafo's room, which they share with Kaz's bonded razorjack Roxy (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod). The bedroom in the middle is where Hazrov and Candlelight sleep, along with Reaper the razorjack and Anatoly the Tasmanian devil (from the 'Vanilla Animals Expanded - Endangered' mod).

Four more bedrooms here:

Top left is Wendy and Tamarind's room, shared with Stabber the razorjack (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod)

Top right is Kawoo and Andrei's room, shared with Frisbee the pulmonoscorpius (from the 'Megafauna' mod). Outside their bedroom are also three cheese presses, where we... ~drumroll please~... make cheese!!

Bottom left is Vu and Laurie's room

Bottom right is Baz and Zonovo's room, which they share with Jellybean the razorjack.

Moving on, we can see the temple of The Wavian Path (Wookshys' sub-cult), with the tomb we built for Wendy and Pearl underneath it. Pearl is still buried there, alongside Fafo's nephew Pinovo because Wendy was resurrected.

Across from the tomb is the landing pad for shuttles and such, along with our ground-penetrating scanner and long-range mineral scanner. In the top left corner, you can also see our main workshops, which contain our smelter, smithy, machining table, fabrication bench, and animal bionics tables. The room with the fabrication bench is also where Buccanneer the drebbbd (from the 'Ebbbs' mod) sleeps.

Outside the workshops are our weapons shelves.

I'm glad I eventually decided to like Wookshys, look how content he is hanging out here on his little fishing bridge. He's close by a lovely picnic table, some bathrooms, an obelisk, and some plantations of almond trees and water chestnuts. He's having a grand time. This site is so pretty, it's one of my favourite places in the whole colony.

There's also a bathing zone on the other side of the bridge, but I... Uh... I wouldn't swim there for a while. The recent raids might have polluted the water a bit.

Here's our natural meditation area, home to our beloved Anima tree, three Gauranlen trees, and a little jade nature shrine.

Connie is connected to one of the Gauranlen trees, and she has two berrymaker dryads named Herbert and Mortimer. They're very sweet, and I love them both.

Jesse is connected to another Gauranlen tree and currently has a medicinemaker dryad named Wiseguy. A big help to the colony and an all-around cute little guy.

The last Gauranlen tree is connected to colony leader Albina, and she has a funky little acidic spitter dryad from the 'Vanilla Ideology Expanded - Dryads' mod. His name is Rolland, and I adore him. He's so snakey and fun. I should try to draw him someday.

Here's our freezer, our kibble shelves with Colonist-Gracie's secret smokeleaf-joint-rolling crafting spot hidden between them, one of the bathrooms, the water pumping/treatment facilities for said bathroom, and our single mortar with the shelf that has shells for it.

This is the majestic temple for The Path of Animism, the one true ideology for The Animist Alliance. We don't do a whole lot in here, but it's nice to look at. Below the temple is the storeroom for things that don't have to be in the freezer, which is mostly wood and silver at the moment.

We also have the crematorium and some of our fruit trees (four lemon trees, two avocado trees, a blood orange tree, and an apple tree). In the weird divet in the wall of the crematorium is an animal sleeping spot for our geriatric salamander Orion, from the 'Alpha Mythology' mod.

Here we have the obelisk marking our crash-landing site, next to our patch of peas and our outdoor dining area. In the top left corner is Debby and Eva's bedroom, which they share with Polly and Limbo the nightlings (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod).

Beneath that room is the room Brennan used to share with Debby, but now sleeps in alone since the divorce. There are sleeping spots in there for Cinnamon and Moonstruck, Brennan's steel and rock constructs, but I don't think they actually sleep, so the spots aren't used. Behind her room is the stonecutting bench.

In the middle, above the pea patch, is Barghest's room. He's ascetic and doesn't care for fancy things, so it's just him, his bed, and a sleeping spot for Flicker the razorjack (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod). Sleeping along the outside of Barghest's room are:

Hood, Elias, and Huck the red pandas (from 'Vanilla Animals Expanded')

Sinbad the thrumebbb (from the 'Ebbbs' mod)

Witch the cave bear (from the 'Vanilla Animals Expanded - Caves' mod)

Echo the short-faced bear (from the 'Megafauna' mod)

Asset the ankylosaurus (from the 'Biomes! Prehistoric' mod)

And then on the right side, we've got the kitchen/dining room, alongside the art and tailoring benches.

Eureka has a very well-equipped hospital, with plenty of high-tech medical facilities and a sterile drugs lab which has been put to use making lots of medicine to tend injuries and go-juice for when Henry is old enough to be dependant on it.

The research lab is where Brennan spends most of her time, and often one of the kids will hang out in there with her, radiotalking to get their learning desire up.

You'll never be short a bathroom in Eureka, there are plenty to choose from, and most of them are quite nice (in my humble opinion). There's also a lovely hot spring surrounded by manicured lawn, should you choose to relax that way. It is situated quite close to our rock/bone pile, but I can't be bothered rearranging it, so it remains an eyesore, I'm afraid.

There are also some transport pods that are used for the occasional trip out-of-colony or to dispose of toxic wastepacks until we finish researching the wastepack atomizer.

If hot springs aren't to your taste, you could always relax in the saunas! They're found right beside the bedroom that Irwin and Connie share with Bartholomew the ripper hound (from the 'Alpha Animals' mod) and Energizer the angora rabbit (from the 'Vanilla Animals Expanded - Royal Animals' mod), who is the only animal aside from Tommy Brock the badger to not have a randomized name.

Next to Irwin and Connie's room is a small table and two more animal sleeping spots, one for Chianti the boombat (from the 'Vanilla Animals Expanded' mod) and Bernardo the dimorphodon (from the 'Biomes! Prehistoric' mod).

Eureka has plenty of guest rooms for hosting friends and family from other factions, mostly our allies from The Android Alliance. We don't charge for staying here, as the bounties of The Animist Alliance should be free of charge for everyone to enjoy!

In the top right, you can also see most of the water treatment facilities attached to the prison bathrooms and the hot tub room.

Finally, we have some more solar panels and our cocoa tree plantation, surrounded by coral coconut trees grown by another of Albina's psycasts gone awry.

And that concludes the endgame colony tour! I hope you like Eureka as much as I do. It's been a lot of fun playing with the City Builders meme, as I usually go for the "massive superstructure" instead of "quaint village", so it was a nice change of pace. I also think the end result is a very homey feeling community, so that's nice.

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#rimworld #gracie plays #The Animist Alliance #rimworld colony tour #long post #This is one of the best colonies I ever built #I'll be sorry to see it go #But I am super excited to see what the next one will bring!! #I hope you are too <3 #Please enjoy this look at my haphazard building ability #You can tell I prioritize form over function #So it looks nice despite being impractical #Well I think it looks nice anyway #Thank you so much for sticking with me this far!! #I love you all so much #Have an amazing day <3 <3

[larkandkatydid]

They used to say that one of the buildings in the leftist commune had been a funeral home, but I didn’t believe it at first because my friends were, at the point, living in a house where people insisted that the bones of human babies were found in the walls. No critique that the baby bones looked a lot like rat bones could stop this rumor. So, I approached similar rumors with skepticism.

The Houdini scholars convinced me. A rare but delightful job on the leftist commune was Tour Guide for Amateur Houdini Scholars, who were often doing a completionist tour of Houdini Death Landmarks, ending at the funeral home where his body was embalmed. To my knowledge, none of them ever wanted to do a seance.

So I guess this could be a suggestion: if you ever wanted to do a seance in the very room where Houdini’s recently deceased corpse spent the night, you totally could. I’m sure the hippies would let you.

Also, you could use this post as a writing sample focused on nouns. I think you’ll agree this post has many nouns.

[aethertownusa]

Okay this is interesting to absolutely no one besides me but I found a box of my teenage clothes that I’d set aside in case I have a daughter (I was always disappointed that my mother didn’t have any hippie dresses to pass down to me)—I thought the box had been lost years ago!

The first discovery—and the coincidence seems impossible—is that the three special dresses my mother bought for me on our college-touring trip to NYC were made by the boutique where I would later buy a special dress for myself in London. These are all varieties of babydoll cuts!

My absolute favorite t-shirt until I grew just enough for it to fit awkwardly; it had started as a loose baby tee then got sort of weirdly tight. Now it looks pretty cute again lol. I just had to get bigger still

It would be cuter on a teen!

I wore this to absolute pieces. It’s an upcycled vintage boys’ sweatshirt—I wore it as a crop sweat over dresses. I wore it almost every day for about a year. It’s kind of gross if I’m honest with you

My high school just let me show up in any old thing. I can’t believe no one stopped me. I’d always wear this corset top with this April Cornell jacket and jeans and flats

[snobgoblin]

please show us more of your collection omg

x YEAHHH why don't I just show you the whole thing here (I don't have proper curtains so I've just been using Billie Eilish posters I found in the trash whoops) (don't worry they were bagged when I found them)

putting a readmore bc this will be a long one

ANYWAY I'm gonna do a tiny little tour bc I've actually been wanting to make a video where I talk about them but very briefly showing you around- so I already showed you the strawberry shortcake dolls and you can see the g3 monster high dolls in the top picture!

(Draculaura, Ghoulia, Cleo, Deuce, Frankie, Lagoona, Clawdeen, Twyla, and Toralei)

BUT this is also a gen 1(?) monster high doll innnnn Fawntine Fallowheart!! she's a hippie deer centaur with some green hair and for that she's perfect. I really don't like the tank top molded onto her though sobs... I want to make her a new outfit sometime. also she's very top heavy and has trouble standing up

ALSO the mlps I have are g3 Strawberry Swirl and Fluttershy, g1 Snuzzle, Tropical Sea Breeze, Minty, Glow, Creamsicle, Spunky, Yo-Yo, Baby Cotton Candy, and Milkweed!

and here's a little calico critters bunny family, these are the Sweetpeas. also that pink deer was my favorite as a kid though I lost the one I had back then so I had to get a new one... sobs... she did come with a second deer lps though which is cool! except they gave the other one the antlers instead of the pink one for some reason... I fixed it though yippee

anddd I think this Discord is an old Funko figurine and the little Fluttershy is a blind bag thing- and of course Lime Chiffon, baby Strawberry Shortcake, and Peach Blush

and last but not least some ppg mini figures I got at a con, and Beavis and Butthead :D

🫡🫡🫡 I hope you enjoyed my hyperfixation shelf tour I absolutely love this thing 🗣‼️

#dolls #mlp #monster high #calico critters #strawberry shortcake #lps

[oddlysweet]

Will

            There once was a boy who lived to play fútbol.  He was the baby of the family, and to be completely honest, was unplanned as his mother and father had a falling out when the husband betrayed her and took her handmaiden as his second wife but that’s a story for another time.  Younger than his 11 surviving siblings and left to his own devices, he spent every free moment running in the fields barefoot, kicking his ball.  For years and years, the humble boy begged his father for a pair of soccer cleats.  When he was twelve, he finally got his wish.  To say he was overjoyed was putting it lightly; walking back from the field in town, one can imagine this little boy in the midst of the calm before the storm in his tumultuous country, had never been happier. 

            Perhaps it was some unresolved karma, a cruel joke for fate’s amusement, or simply a tragic accident, but as he was passing under a balcony, a carelessly tossed cigarette butt landed on his unfortunately quite flammable garb.  Panicking, and not knowing any better, he ran like the wind.  By the time the people on the street had beat the flames out, his left leg was scorched with fourth degree burns halfway up his thigh; clothing melted to whatever skin he had left.  It was uncertain if the boy would live or not, dread hung over the household for months.  The facilities in his home country would not be able to do anything for him, everyone resigned to the inevitability of his imminent passing.

The problem was since his injury, everything had changed.  The president was assassinated ruthlessly along with his entire family, including the boys fourth oldest brother who tragically was one week away from completing his tour of duty in the honor guard of his distant cousin, looking forward to studying medicine in America—again, another time.  The foreign government responsible for installing the deceased president in a bloodless coup years earlier, eventually killed off his replacement puppet within the same year. They rolled their tanks into what has been described in hippy circles time and time again, as the most peaceful and loving place in the world.  Factions emerged and thousands were disappeared.  There was no leaving this perpetual warring state now; not at all unlike the way things are currently.

The boy’s oldest sister, worked for the national airline and with months and months of planning and conspiring and scenes that will fill another bestseller, she was able to smuggle him out of the country while the rest of the family left on foot with nothing the clothes on their backs and the help of what are sometimes referred to coyotes, taking every penny they had.  He was admitted to the burn unit, and great measures were taken to ensure the boy had a fighting chance.  After a long outpatient period, he was discharged to a once again, full-enough house.

With nothing but time on his hands, the boy studied—anything and everything—music, language, science, poetry, theology, philosophy.  The only polyglot, musician, and artist of his family, he eventually went on to record an album, one of the first digitally mastered projects of his diaspora, if not, all worlds.  The voice of a young man who suffered through so much physical pain still brings rivers of tears to the eyes of his loved ones he left behind, to the point they hardly can bear to listen anymore.

When the family eventually made it to the new world, he was in the middle of his adolescence, forced to enroll in school with kids that would not be kind to him in the slightest: bullying him, mocking him for his limp, teasing him about his lazy eye.  I would later find out after admitting my own flirtations with suicide, that he attempted it twice in this period, but none of his nieces and nephews to come would ever know it, given his calming and caring demeanor. 

He dropped out and got his GED, attempted to follow suit in his siblings to become a doctor, but failed to earn admission to any med schools.  He worked all sorts of jobs, excelling at everything he did.  Eventually getting into sales, video rentals first, then cars, he ended up in pharmaceuticals. Everyone loved him, his command of the English language, and that of his native tongue was unparalleled.  Not once in the memories of the children of his siblings, did he ever raise his voice, curse, badmouth, or otherwise exhibit any negative behavior nor did he ever raise his hand to us.  Just a silent look from him was all that was needed to make us forget our pride or indignation.  The most positive person anyone could ask for in any capacity of their lives, doesn’t begin to describe how much this being meant to his fellows.   

During birthdays and other excuses for family gatherings at the parks was where one truly got to see another side to him, the child he was forced to leave behind on that fateful day.  He was typically goalie, to make it easier on his all but destroyed leg, but when he was making a run, it was like a child with a smile as grand as love itself was playing with the rest of us kids. It was the greatest tragedy of all that he had none of his own, what a father he would have made.

During my own struggles, he was the confidant and mentor that went above and beyond.  Perpetually busy and covering thousands of miles a week, he always seemed to have time for me, taking drives for hours at a time so he could listen to my struggles and impart lessons when it was appropriate.  I would make an effort to remain present and hang on to every word he said, reluctant to let his Sagittarian wisdom go in one ear and out the other.  He was the most articulate and eloquent person likely in any of our lives or his own.  His perspicacity was unrivaled even to my own today.  It cannot be overstated enough how much embodied all the things the best of us strive towards. Perhaps it was his undeserved and immense suffering that allowed him to achieve such a state of benevolent zen, but on the worst of his days rife with pain, one began to understand just how much he was going through, and the respect for him only grew stronger.

In his mid-thirties, fate came knocking on his door again. The extremely thin section of flesh he had keeping his foot attached to his leg ripped open and would not stop bleeding.  Most of the muscle and skin was damaged beyond repair, and they had fused his ankle at the burn ward; his leg now resembled uncooked sausage.  He was given a choice, amputate below the knee or attempt a longshot of an operation involving grafting skin from his forearm and healthy thigh onto the gaping wound. Being one of the most pious and grateful among us, he decided to keep the leg, as his lord had bestowed the gift of life upon him, gave him his flesh and bones to discover the joys and pains of one’s time on this earth, who was he to reject one of his gifts? This well-meaning decision would later cost him everything.

After a successful surgery, things were back to normal, the family was growing bigger, he became even more successful in his career. It wasn’t until the day of his nephew’s graduation, where his absence was deeply felt that his lifelong battle for survival came to a head.  A careless gossiping aunt let slip in the car on the way to the ceremony that he was getting the results of a biopsy of a lump on his left leg, just below the knee.  Our matriarch, tough as nails, illiterate mother to over a dozen children, with a memory as sharp as blades began her decline, dreading the day she would bury her second adult soon, overwhelmed with guilt.

Rhabdomyosarcoma, an extremely rare form of cancer that is typically found in children.  Ironically enough, the company where he was currently employed specialized in anti-cancer medications, but those, we all slowly and painfully discovered would fail him too.  He fought it as hard as he could, but in the end, it became obvious he was no longer fighting for himself, but for everyone around him.  No one could be oblivious to how much pain he was in.  He avoided opiates until his last few weeks.  For a whole year, he held on to say his goodbyes.  People came from all walks of his life, near or across the globe, to pay their respects.  His eldest brother could not bear to see him in such a state so they made their peace on the phone.

One day at work, I got a call from my brother, “You need to come right now, it’s really bad, he’s going.”  I had been a nervous wreck all year, stress eating, eventually getting a cannabis recommendation and steadily self-medicating. I had no idea what to expect, but I could no longer bear to see my favorite person in the world suffering in such agony in such a sober state, I was ready to faint the entire month.  Having never contracted childhood chickenpox, he spent his last weeks experiencing that rite of passage in the most unkind manner possible, shingles.  I swear upon all that is holy, when I walked into his room, he was dying, perhaps hours left.  His eyes had lost their light, he was speaking in tongues. I thought silently, this is what it was like when The Prophet passed (peace be upon him and all of God’s messengers). 

Despite his extremely weakened and delirious state on death’s door, my selfless uncle recognized me.  The light came back to his eyes, irises appeared, and his speech returned to normal. He asked me how I was.  We talked and talked, despite his reservations, allowed his final days to be audio recorded.  He held on for another week, and all of his nephews slept on the floor around him.  I could no longer delay work and went back, but we had said our goodbyes. His second eldest brother working with the western contractors back home flew back to kiss his brother goodbye and within hours of his arrival, he faded into the ether, holding his brother and my father’s hands.

My first death, my favorite person, who was more like a big brother to me than an uncle; the bridge of understanding from one generation to another was gone.  He was the last person I never wanted to disappoint, and we were all of us lost without him.  He didn’t seem to struggle with his demise, he was completely at peace with it, to the point it infuriated some. A man who lived such an exemplary life, astounded us once again with his grace in death, even that he prolonged to make sure he could make peace with his loved ones.

After everything the family went through to get here, it is not surprising that destiny has great things planned for all of us, but it is in bearing witness to such a heroic and inspiring life full of pure love that pushes us all to persevere, to be better, to aim higher, to choose love, every single time.  I wrote a nice eulogy, tried to live by his example, but I was not able to mourn him, the tears would not fall.  Perhaps I was numb and always have been, until now.  Maybe it is him saving me again, when I am at my lowest, contemplating and end that would be most disrespectful to his memory, that I am finally able to taste the bitter salt of life’s pain.  I can only pray that this darkness passes and will make him proud.

#the narrative of slouching shytooth #⚰️⚰️⚰️ #oddlysweet

[ashtoninbloom]

ASHTON IRWIN-HEMMINGS; 28. musician. | husband, father, drummer for a shitty band. australian hippie. candle maker. 

I spend most of my money on: tapestries, crystals, candles, weed and baby clothes. it’s an eclectic mix, but it just works. 

facts about me that surprise people: my favourite room of the house is the kitchen and i love cooking. if we’re not on the road touring, you’ll find me in the kitchen pottering around. i’m a lean mean grilling machine and i make the best banana bread you’ve ever had. 

I geek out on: new music equipment and memorabilia. finding a new thrift store i’ve never been to. 

Typical Sunday: yoga while the baby sleeps, quality time with the husband, soaking up as much california sunshine by the pool. 

#hfrpconnect #hfrpconnectFM

[yeojngs]

—— look who’s joining the infinite tour! only PARK YEOJEONG, who is the STYLIST of TIDAL. i’ve heard whispers that the 25 year old is pretty STARRY-EYED but lowkey TACITURN. also, doesn’t she remind you of HA SOOYOUNG (YVES)?

hey! you can call me lulu. i’m stoked to be here and to be bringing a newer muse, yeojeong. since she is a little newer, please bear with me as i develop her more. give this a like and i’ll come and bother you for plots  ♡( ˊᵕˋ )♡.°⑅

background.

yeojeong was born the only child to two parents in october 1997. she was their miracle baby, seeing as though they were both considerably older than the average parent when she was born.

her parents were old hippies, so she was raised in a very .... nuanced fashion (yes, let’s say nuanced). yeojeong grew up on the road, living a nomadic lifestyle with her parents. her mom worked as a freelance journalist for a few indie publications while her dad was a gig musician.

she’s free-spirited to the point of chaos. definitely the type to follow the vibes (whatever that means).

throughout her adolescence and now, her early adulthood, yeojeong likes to keep busy so she’s often found working multiple jobs. however, now that she’s found a home for herself here at infinite, she’s glad to be only doing this.

if you’re looking for advice, maybe don’t come to her? she’ll do a good job trying to make you feel comforted and she’ll do a lot of talking.... but it won’t mean anything. she’ll give you some word-salady mumble and then nod, like she expects you to understand.

speaking of, self-awareness isn’t her forte.

fashion is one of the few things that is a constant in her life and always makes sense. she does her best to find all of the most sustainable/good quality brands to have tidal wear.

further, tidal is her universe. she loves all of the members and thinks of them as extended family members.

all in all, she’s just here to have a fun time, be a good friend and get everyone to start using paper straws!!!!! #save_the_turtles

unfortunately i am a garbage human being and don’t have any plot ideas atm, but let’s brainstorm!  ( ˊᵕˋ )

#infinite:intro #this took so long! i fell asleep after thinking i had posted it but i did not

[90363462]

Kendrick Lamar on His Upcoming Major-Label Debut, Tupac Hologram, and Fruit Snacks

Kendrick Lamar. Photo: Kevin Winter/Getty Images

On October 2, Kendrick Lamar will release his major-label debut, Good Kid, Mad City, via Dr. Dre’s Aftermath imprint. But don’t take that to mean Lamar, a 25-year-old fiercely lyrical Compton MC, was discovered by Dre. Alongside his crew Black Hippy, Kendrick has hustled for years, releasing a string of exceedingly acclaimed mixtapes and albums on L.A. indie Top Dawg before getting called up to the majors. While still in the studio, between fifteen-hour, all-night mixing sessions and family hang time, Lamar spoke to us about Fruity Pebbles, Tupac Hologram, and changing his stage name.

Do you have any studio rituals? One of the main things I gotta have is a whole bunch of fruit snacks and Fruity Pebbles and Gushers and little stupid shit like that. That and Google. Sometimes my mind be working a million minutes at one time, and I could be writing, and I could be looking at something that I wanna know about, all in one motion. People think I’m crazy when they’re watching me.

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What kind of stuff have you been reading up on recently? I probably get in trouble talking about it. Some real real crazy worldy type things.

Did you ever worry all your efforts at a music career wouldn’t pan out? When you ain’t making no money from it, that’ll discourage you quick. You see your homeboys getting money and doing whatever they gotta do to get it, it’s easy to go negative. But through the grace of God, I stuck through it, and eventually my time came. I thought, I gotta get a [big] record, but time is everything. That’s something I didn’t know then.

You used to go by K. Dot but dropped the stage name. Why? I learned, when I look in the mirror and tell my story, that I should be myself and not peep whatever everybody is doing. K. Dot will always be my name in the neighborhood — that’s what they called me when I was a little baby running around with a basketball. But as a stage name, it didn’t work. It didn’t work because that was me emulating what I seen on TV. If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.

One of my favorite songs of yours is an older mixtape track, “The Heart Pt. 2.” Your voice is cracking, you’re near tears … That was tapping into the emotion of the time. It was a real depressed stage in my life. You feel you got nobody. All you have is your mouthpiece to express yourself. And you hear that same tone on this album. We tapping back into it, where I was eight, nine years ago — a teenager.

How’d you and Black Hippy work your way up to Dre and Aftermath? Just with great music and word of mouth. We didn’t have no money to really push a project or nothing like that. One dude behind a computer, two other dudes behind management, and three other artists just making the music — that’s all we had. And that mentality will continue to spread. I’m sticking to the script, I’m putting that organic feeling back in the game. As long as my music is real, it’s no limit to how many ears I can grab. It’s something [Black Hippy’s] Ab-Soul told me five years ago: You can make a simple song in your little bathroom, and if it’s that good, it’s gonna get you touring all over America.

You played Coachella with Dre when he brought out Tupac Hologram. Is there any way you could top that? I don’t think I can even try to top that. I don’t think nobody should, either. Anything topping that would be the Rapture. That’d be God coming back. I’ll leave Tupac Hologram where it at, right on that stage.

[ccohanlon]

my generation, part 3

There was a period between 1974 and 1979 — no more than four or five years at most — when it looked as if we might redeem ourselves. Punk rock is rarely identified with Baby Boomers these days, but it is the one enduring cultural legacy to which my generation can lay sole claim. From its raggedy-assed, New York originators — among them, Iggy Pop (born 1947), Patti Smith (born 1946), Richard Hell (born 1949), Johnny, Tommy, Joey and Dee Dee of The Ramones (born between 1948 and 1952), and The Dead Kennedys’ Jello Biafra (born 1958) — to the rawer, more politicised and subversive Londoners with whom the public most readily associates punk — among them, The Sex Pistols’ Johnny Rotten (born 1956) and Sid Vicious (born 1957), The Clash’s Joe Strummer (born 1952), The Banshees’ Siouxsie Sioux (born 1957) and The Damned’s Dave Vanian (born 1956) — and its one great Australian band, The Saints, the late G.G. Allin (born 1956) oh, and Nick Cave (born 1957), still the coolest Australian alive, its protagonists were all, without exception, Baby Boomers.

Punk was unarguably a social as well as a musical revolt, and its raw, self‐negating anger was directed not only at an older generation, but at the majority of its own, which had sold out any chance for genuine social and political change. It was no accident that punk first emerged during the mid-1970s, when the city of New York, under mayor Abe Beame, teetered on the edge of bankruptcy or that many of its most coherent and vehement songs, such as The Clash’s London Calling, were released in 1978 just before the infamous ‘winter of discontent’ under Prime Minister James Callaghan’s Labour government, during which the economy began to collapse under the weight of high unemployment, industrial unrest, and dysfunctional public services. The rising groundswell of Conservative sympathy (and self‐interest) would carry Margaret Thatcher into power the following spring.

Punk’s musical prejudices were many, but a constant in all of them was impatience with its own generation’s obsession with the surface of things. With its pared‐down, DIY approach to recording, total disdain for basic instrumental skills, and simplistic, buzz‐saw‐like songs that were never more than one tempo — fast — two minutes’ duration, three chords and four‐beats-to‐the‐bar, with titles like Too Drunk to Fuck, Blank Generation, White Riot, and Anarchy in the UK, punk slashed at the tie‐died remnants of hippie counterculture — by then, an already long-in-the-tooth Eric Clapton, the legendary guitarist and founder of the ’60s ‘supergroup’ Cream, was appearing in British beer ads — and directed its razor‐edged, amphetamine‐fuelled intensity toward the shimmering glitter of disco and the grandiose posturing of heavy metal rockers, whose stadium gigs were becoming as over‐produced and robotic as Hitler-Jügend rallies in the 1920s and ’30s.

Malcolm McLaren (born on January 22, 1946 — one of the very first Baby Boomers) was punk’s arch manipulator, its media‐savvy Svengali. The then‐partner of fashion designer Vivienne Westwood (who had yet to make her name and fortune as a couturier) and the co‐proprietor with her of a fetish and bondage clothing shop called SEX on London’s Kings Road, McLaren was the dandyish, amoral and rudely cunning (if not downright crooked) manager of Britain’s most infamous punk band, The Sex Pistols, fronted by Johnny Rotten (neé John Lydon) The band was a McLaren creation, inspired by both the disaffected, working‐class kids — prototypical punks — that hung out at SEX, and McLaren’s own encounters with the nascent New York punk scene during a visit there in 1974. The Sex Pistols lasted only a couple of years — releasing just one album, Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols, before Johnny Rotten announced their break‐up during a shambolic American tour in 1978, and the band’s notorious bass player, Sid Vicious, killed his girlfriend in a drug‐addled haze at New York’s Chelsea Hotel the same year, over‐dosing on heroin a few months later at a party to celebrate his release on bail from the city’s Riker’s Island jail — but not before McLaren had demonstrated just how to execute what he would later call “the great rock’n’roll swindle”.

In 1976, McLaren showcased The Sex Pistols during punk’s first festival at the 100 Club on Oxford Street, London, and talked EMI into signing the band for what was said to be a half‐million pound advance — although this figure was probably just McLaren hype — and releasing its first single, Anarchy in the UK, at the end of November 1976. Less than a fortnight after the song hit the UK charts, the band members got into an on‐air slanging match with Bill Grundy, the host of Thames Television’s popular early evening program Today; guitarist Steve Jones called him a “fucking rotter”. It was the beginning of a run of bad press – “Punk? Call it Filthy Lucre” ran the front page headline of The Daily Express – and it was deliberately inflamed by McLaren. It scared EMI enough to terminate its contract with the band at the end of January 1977. Six weeks later, in a ceremony staged (probably by McLaren) outside the gates of Buckingham Palace, the Sex Pistols signed to Herb Alpert’s A&M Records. This time the deal didn’t last the day: at a party back at the record label’s offices, the band members sexually harassed secretaries, picked fights with executives and, in a lurid coup de grace, Sid Vicious trashed the managing director’s office and vomited on his desk. A&M publicly cut the band loose less than a week later.

It was left to one of the first of England’s Baby Boomer entrepreneurs, Richard Branson (born 1950) — who played in an altogether bigger league than McLaren when it came to both opportunism and shameless self‐promotion — to sign the band to Virgin Records for another large advance and the promise of total artistic control. In May 1977, The Sex Pistols released its second single, God Save the Queen. With the help of some well‐planned radio airplay and the usual sensationalist press, it reached number two on the UK charts during the same week as the country celebrated Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee. Later, one of the band‐members, Paul Cook, told a journalist: “It wasn’t written specifically for the Queen’s Jubilee. We weren’t aware of it at the time. It wasn’t a contrived effort to go out and shock everyone.” Maybe not, but Malcolm McLaren convinced the band to change the original title of the song, No Future.

McLaren recently recalled that he made money then “by doing the exact opposite of what most people would think would be correct. I acted the irresponsible, the ultimate, child and everything I did was what society hated.” His public posturing and game‐playing during punk’s last gob‐spit at ‘the system’ would have made Sir Guy Grand proud. Sadly, by the end of the ’70s, punk’s truculent nihilism had dissipated, and a corrosive process of co-option and homogenisation had begun. Within a decade, punk and all the other good things youth culture had encompassed over the previous quarter‐century — and would encompass, briefly, in the decade ahead, such as rave culture, graffiti art, gangsta rap and mash‐ups — would be reduced to an unidentifiable but easily consumable mush. Meanwhile, a faltering global realpolitik, resurgent squabbles in the Middle East, and economic and social disarray in the developed world (especially the United Kingdom) suggested a future more uncertain and dangerous than anything that George W. Bush would have us fear in the aftermath of 9/11. The brittle, pre‐Apocalyptic edginess of the early ’80s was reminiscent of the ’60s.

MTV was launched on American cable networks on August 1, 1981. The US Centre for Disease Control and Prevention had just recognised the first cases of AIDS, in five gay men in California. Of course, the two events were unrelated but it felt like the beginning and the end of youth culture.

With its all‐music‐video format modelled on Top 40 radio by former whizz‐kid Baby Boomers fresh out FM radio programming and advertising — the first video that MTV broadcast was The Buggles’ Video Killed the Radio Star — and its use of young, good‐looking ‘video jockeys’, or VJs, who appeared to have been genetically engineered to match a broad cross‐section of the racially diverse, financially disparate, youth demography found in densely populated American urban centres, even if the music it first featured was predominantly white, MTV appeared to dull rather than enliven the collective imagination, despite its popularity. The symbiosis it had with a music industry already absorbed into huge, multinational media conglomerates — MTV itself was itself the product of a joint venture between Warner Communications and American Express, the Warner‐Amex Satellite Entertainment Company, that morphed into MTV Networks Inc. just ahead of an IPO in 1984 — was obvious and a little creepy: apart from hourly entertainment news spots and studio interviews with music stars, MTV’s only content was music video clips produced by the major labels and provided to the new network free of charge (although it would not be long before the network would charge them to put a video into what was called ‘heavy rotation’). In other words, MTV was running ads for the record labels twenty‐four hours a day, seven days a week.

None of its growing audience gave a damn. “Too much is never enough” as one of MTV’s earliest promotional slogans put it. In keeping with the times, the new network was about as cynical as you could get.

“I think the relationship between authentic youth cultural happenings and youth culture consumption is indistinguishable,” Douglas Rushkoff, Professor of Media Culture at New York University, said in a recent interview. He might as well have simplified it to “culture and consumption”, because even by the ’80s the porous membrane between the two had already been breached — and not just among youth. Shopping was the primary cultural activity of most major cities in the developed world, and with more products competing across more programming choices — if not yet more media –—for the exponentially shorter attention of more consumers willing to spend more time and money on themselves than ever before, it was inevitable that marketers would have to look for other ways of ensuring, if not higher (or more conscious) awareness of their brands, then more constant visibility. We needed the brands to become ambient, ever‐present. “Turn it on, leave it on” – another MTV slogan.

It didn’t take genius to figure out that brands should behave like the media they used to distribute awareness of themselves. Nuances of meaning and emotional engagement could be different depending on how and where the brand insinuated itself into a consumer’s awareness: the medium was no longer just the message, as McLuhan had argued when, in 1967, he rewrote his most famous catchphrase, but rather the massage, the effect on our sensorium. Traditional advertising was, and still is, interruptive — it deliberately intersected the periods of attention we allotted to entertainment and information programming across what was, in the ’80s, a limited range of passive media — so the logical step was to create opportunities for brands, their product expressions and values to exist not only within the context of entertainment and information (still mainly as interruptive advertising), but also within the content.

Today, a high percentage of the multi‐million dollar marketing budgets (and sometimes the $100–200 million negative costs) of blockbuster feature films — usually the action‐driven franchises such as James Bond, Spiderman or X‐Men, the so‐called ‘tent‐pole pictures’ that prop up the intrinsically rickety balance sheets of Hollywood studios — are funded by product placement written into the scripts even before shooting begins. For example, Ford’s multi‐picture, multi‐brand relationship (including Aston Martin, Jaguar, and Range Rover) with the most recent series of Bond films starring Pierce Brosnan was said to have cost the ailing US car manufacturer over $US125 million; and in 2000, international courier Federal Express underwrote much of the production and marketing budgets of Cast Away, starring Tom Hanks as your average FedEx executive who is transformed into a modern Robinson Crusoe when the FedEx cargo plane on which he catches a ride crashes on a remote island in the Pacific.

Pop singers such as Mariah Carey, Beyoncé, Jay‐Z, Kanye West and Nelly supplement their already extraordinary earnings from record sales, music publishing and touring with millions more dollars just for ‘name checking’ brands in songs that will pervade, for a short while, the awareness of a huge number of young, impressionable consumers impatient to realise their potential. Agenda, a US youth marketing company, even tracks what brands are mentioned most in the songs on US music charts to create a Top 40 chart of its own, American Brandstand. (The current Gen Y pop stars have studied Boomer formulae for appropriation and hype, now so refined that anyone can use them. Rather than rejecting them, they have embraced these formulae with such enthusiasm that, for the first time since the ’30s, youth culture appears to be ‘aspirationally older’.)

In some cases, entirely new, purpose‐built content has been created as brand vehicles — not only TV programming, film and music but also sporting and cultural events. The array of high profile, sponsored literary prizes in the UK is an example. Another is the unregulated, post‐apocalyptic version of ‘the world game’, played inside a locked cage, that Nike invented to promote its involvement in the 2002 World Cup hosted by both Korea and Japan. Nike featured it in a couple of award‐winning TV ads starring some of soccer’s best‐known international players. Then the US company built a real‐ life arena — a playing field deconstructed as theme park and sci‐fi movie set — in a Tokyo warehouse, where Japanese youth, its target consumers, could play it as well.

All sides of the marketing/media/consumer equation are still dominated by Baby Boomers. We are the most powerful consumer segment in the global economy, with aggregate gross earnings in the United States alone of US4.1 trillion dollars a year (and with a projected global entertainment media spend of $US1.8 trillion a year by 2010). If we are no longer at the white‐hot core of the hyper‐mediated consumerism that passes for popular culture these days, our money — and the parasitic tenaciousness with which we have wormed our way into the imaginative ambitions of other generations, usually to their detriment, since the mid‐60s — enables us to exert influence everywhere.

Advertising strategists, demographic researchers and academics argue that both Generations X and Y are inured to Baby Boomer attempts to market to them on anything but their own terms. “Young people have grown up immersed in the language of advertising and public relations. They speak it like natives,” Douglas Rushkoff writes in his 2000 book Coercion: Why We Listen To What They Say.“As a result, they are more than aware when a commercial or billboard is targeting them. In conscious defiance of demographic‐based pandering, they adopt a stance of self‐protective irony — distancing themselves from the emotional ploys of the advertisers.”

To some extent, this ignores the depth of the Baby Boomers’ experience. Boomers were still young when passive, pre‐programmed mass media began a slow transformation of its hardware, formats and programming, and we not only participated in the early evolution of interactive media — through which individualised information, entertainment, transaction and communication could eventually be accessed any time, anywhere — we were among its inventors. Media are as much a natural element for Boomers as they are for younger generations. We have appropriated, co‐opted or ‘remixed’ the disparate perceptions, attitudes and trends of four generations of youth culture distributed — and preserved — by old and new media in order to commoditise them (while sterilising any inherent idealism): how do you think we came up with the amorphous hip‐ness of The Gap’s t‐shirts and cargo pants, or Starbucks’ Beatnik‐manqué coffee lounges?

Will the younger generations ever break the ageing Boomers’ suffocating headlock on popular culture? To some extent, they have already by sharing music, video, games and software online. Baby Boomer executives, lobbyists and lawyers decry file‐sharing because it deprives a work’s creator of both income and control, and because it threatens all businesses — not just those in entertainment or publishing — which derive revenue and power from the licensing of intellectual property (in other words, most of the world’s largest corporations). Our real dread is file‐sharing’s subversive simplicity. All it needs is mass for it to erase traditional concepts of ownership and value.

The revolution starts there.

Part three of three. First published as part of a single essay in Griffith Review, Australia, 2006.

#culturewars #babyboomers #punk #music #mygeneration #mtv

[crispyzeb]

Deep Dive - San Francisco

Join Crispy on a tour around the world's capital city of freak!

The influence of the Californian city of San Francisco on psychedelia cannot be overstated. Amidst a sea of monochrome, Lyndon B Johnson, the Vietnam war and racial segregation, a new sound – no, new movement – emerged from out of its city, one that embraced freedom of thought as well as speech. It advocated the use of hallucinogenic drugs and spoke to a new generation of kids – the baby boomers – in a way never seen before. And the epicentre for this seismic change was the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco.

Bands like The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Santana and Big Brother and the Holding Company pioneered a new consciousness, a new kind of journey – the journey within.

Their influence was immense (no Haight-Ashbury, then no Sgt Pepper, no Pet Sounds, no Electric Lady land – it really is that simple). And for the shortest of periods, kids around the world, dreamed of (many of them actually flocking) to the city by the bay, to turn on, tune in and drop out. It was a time of colour, of self-expression, of hope and unity; one that created the hippy movement and all the limitless possibilities that existed therein.

It could never last (in truth the Haight-Ashbury scene was so fleeting as to almost be over before it started), but what was left behind was a world changed, a cultural shift of possibility that questioned the rigid structure of the existing societal control.

Things would never be the same again.

This Deep Dive takes us for a trip into the music – past and present – that continues to define San Francisco as the spark behind the counter-cultural explosion that encouraged the west’s youth to rebel against their parents, to speak their own minds and openly fight back against The Man. We’re only going to skim the surface – there is so much quality music to choose from when it comes to San Francisco – but we hope it will give you flavour from which to start your own journey of discovery into the planet’s capital city of freak.

Artists include Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead, Flipper and Faith No More.

#indie music #experimental music #psychedelia #crispy zebra #alternative music #music #grateful dead #jefferson airplane #psychedelic rock

[somethingboutafic]

First Time/Virgin

make you never wanna leave by fairytalelights (E) word count: 9,126 (Omega/Omega) Harry is an omega teen who has trouble getting wet even when he's turned on, Louis is his omega best friend who helps him experiment. In a completely platonic way, of course.

Just Jump by jaerie (E) word count: 9,748 Finally, after years of suffering alone, the insurance plan at Harry's new job covered omega heat services. As a grown omega adult, it finally felt like the right time to try it out. And, since taking an entire week of heat leave would really put him behind at work, using a service to shorten it seemed like a responsible decision. At least that’s how he rationalized it. He was nervous about his decision but it was too late. The doorbell rang. “Hi!” The alpha said again and Harry took the hand he offered and shook it firmly. “I’m Louis from Omega Services. It’s nice to meet you.”

even the best laid plans by falsegoodnight (E) word count: 25,190 Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

Ever Since I Tried Your Way by fairytalefemme (E) word count: 25,896 In 1949 Harry left his bride at the altar, running away from the only life he'd known. When a kindhearted farmer offers him a ride in his truck and a place to sleep the two find themselves inexplicably drawn together. Isolated on Louis' farm with nobody but a field of dairy cows to intrude, the men are finally able to explore the parts of themselves they've spent their lives hiding away.

Pillow Talk by FallingLikeThis (E) word count: 25,981 When Harry starts having confusing feelings for a male classmate, his sister's best friend, Louis, helps him figure himself out. Cue lots of kissing, sex, and falling in love.

fake it till you make it by falsegoodnight (E) word count: 28,777 After a serious error in judgement causes Harry to lie to his frat brothers about being in a relationship, he begrudgingly enlists his best friend’s omega roommate to help keep up the charade. There’s only one small issue…

Bug Boy by FitzAndLarry (M) word count: 36,630 the one where Harry is obsessed with bugs and Louis can't wait for them to be Alphas together.

somewhere only we know by bethaboo (E) word count: 44,536 Personal assistant Louis knows something is up with his best friend and employer Harry. And it's not just his big tour coming up or the ever-increasing womanizing rumors about the popstar. To get to the bottom of Harry's moodiness, Louis decides he has to kidnap him and take him on a roadtrip up the California coast to Portland. The roadtrippiest road trip fic ever written. Basically an excuse for gratuitous fluff and smut with a pinch of angst tossed in for good measure.

7 Up by cherrystreet (E) word count: 51,973 Very loosely based on the British TV Show "The Up Series" and somewhat inspired by "Something I Need by One Republic." We follow Harry & Louis in an interview setting every 7 years. They fall apart & come together, their lives & emotions recorded. Harry calls it a time capsule. Louis calls it a pain in the arse.

Here's Your Perfect by brightgolden (E) word count: 54,170 In the world where mates are assigned to everyone and deposited to their door when an agreeable partner is found for them, Alpha Louis has recently been given his. However, he is nothing like the type of alpha that the omega academy prepares Harry for.

Summer's in the air and baby, heaven's in your eyes by starryhaze (NR) word count: 82,280 a 70s tennis au filled with skirts, pet names and intrigue

Atlas At Last by louisandthealien (M) word count: 83,037 Maine to California in ten days. In which Zayn’s an open-shirt hippie they meet somewhere in Ohio, Liam’s the pastor’s son running away from home, and Niall’s the number they call on the bathroom wall. It’s 1978. Harry and Louis are just trying to get to San Fran in time for the Queen concert.

knock knock, i love you by beautlouis (E) word count: 86,066 Harry and Louis get kicked out of a statistics exam for passing a knock knock joke note, and subsequently fall in love. Harry's a virgin, there's a cat, a hot cocoa date, a lot of sex, even more knock knock jokes, and everything is lovely and happy.

Desperation Was My Sanctuary by InsightfulInsomniac (E) word count: 101,830 As a PhD student and transplant to New York City, Louis is struggling for both money and companionship. His roommate, Zayn, introduces him to a friend who is involved in New York City's sugar bowl. Reluctantly, he signs up for a sugaring app knowing he’s probably the least conventional sugar baby on the market. If he can find a sugar daddy who will pay his bills without asking him to sacrifice his own preferences and boundaries, he might just be willing to earn a bit of extra cash by faking a relationship with a millionaire. At the age of 35, Harry’s spent his entire adult life devoted to his career as a fashion designer. With his label, Eroda, steady and flourishing, he finally has time to settle down. When he reflects on his adult life, he realizes that he’s never been in a relationship and therefore feels behind. Shy and insecure in his inexperience, he turns to a sugaring app to manufacture a “test relationship” on his terms. Turns out, they’re both looking for something unconventional. A smutty, non-traditional strangers-to-lovers story about finding yourself, friendship, safety, sexual discovery, and an unexpected collision with tender, profound love.

apple pie baked just right by 28goldenfics (E) word count: 106,417 Louis has to get away. The news of his father’s terminal diagnosis, the loss of his job, and the breakup with his girlfriend leads Louis to leave for a life of slower things in the small town of Cedar Hills. His new neighbor is the Cox Family Apple Farm. Harry Styles, the oldest child of the Cox Family, might just teach him how to live life a little simpler, bake an apple pie, and breathe.

The Devil and the Deep Blue Sea by kingsofeverything (E) word count: 109,504 Louis’ life is steady and calm, moored by his marriage, and tied to his hometown, but after a chance encounter with another man, it’ll never be the same.

Our Lives, Non-Fiction by indiaalphawhiskey (E) word count: 113,574 Heralded as the next Neil Gaiman, Louis Tomlinson does not appreciate being told that his very serious novel is in dire need of a PR boost. Even worse, that it comes in the form of a joint book tour with the UK’s #1 online romance-writing sensation Marcel Styles. Already turbulent at best, their partnership takes a drastic turn when, overly stressed about his looming deadline, Marcel accidentally blurts out a secret: though he’s famed for his scorching hot literary love scenes, he is, actually, a virgin. Convinced that the only way to rid himself of writer’s block is to gain some experience, Marcel asks Louis, author-to-author, to sleep with him – for Science. And of course Louis agrees because, well, what on Earth could possibly go wrong? Or, a lesson in romance that proves that sometimes the best love stories aren’t always by the book.

Take Me As I Am by lovelarry10 (E) word count: 117,895 Secrets. Lies. Deception. Betrayal. Self-discovery. Alpha. Omega. How far will they go to hide the truth?

Drops of Jupiter by Itsmotivatingcara (M) word count: 121,826 In a small, sleepy town ruled by prejudice, Louis Tomlinson runs his grandmothers shop for the occult. He finds comfort in his tarot cards, his friends, and a dog that he doesn't have room for. He thought the worst he'd have to deal with would be bigotry, until a new sheriff arrives with a headstrong little girl that's impossible not to fall in love with. But what happens when a string of break-ins leads to a brutal attack, and the towns' darling is murdered right under their Sunday hats? A murder that just so happens to bear the same modus operandi as similar homicides in neighbouring states. Has the killer been circling Virginia, or is he a local of Lavender Hills? And what will Louis do when the charming Sheriff Styles starts to suspect him of such a heinous crime?

#larry fic rec #first time #larry fanfiction #larry fic

[deafeningwastelandllama]

THE ROCK BAND

ATTENZIONE – ATTENZIONE - ATTENZIONE ***** AND IF YOU DARE TO HIRE THE DANGEROUS ROCK BANDS FOR YOUR MASSIVE EVENTS, YOU WILL DAMAGE THE BRAIN TO ALL THE PUBLIC ATTENDED THE VENUE AND INNOCENT LIKE A BABY IN ARMS BECAUSE MANY THIEVES ALSO GO TO STEAL AMONG THE CROWD, WHILE THEY ARE DISTRACTED LISTENING TO THE SHIT OF MUSIC THESE SEMI MUSICIANS PLAY WHO SHOULD WORK BETTER OF PROSTITUTES TO OFFER THEIR SERVICES ON THE STREETS. ***** AND MUCH LESS TO LAT – RAN – XXX - VES – TRI – ONE THE FIRST AND TROUBLESHOOTING SINGER OF EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ Rock and Band BECAUSE A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO SHE WAS BETATED BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAFIA AND FOR THE BIG TANTRUTTER... … … ***** LAT RAN XXX VES - TRI ONE ***** MADE… HER MENSTRUATION WAS DELAYED CAUSING BIG AWFUL PAINS IN LABOR THAT NOT EVEN YOUR MOM IN FULL SPRING WOULD HOLD BREATH AND FOR THAT REASON LA DIVA WILL NO LONGER PLAY ANYMORE AT YOUR FUCKEN CONCERTS BECAUSE HER MUSICAL PROPOSAL ATTENTS AGAINST EVERYTHING ESTABLISHED BY THE NEW ORDER WORLDWIDE TO THE EXTENT THAT THE SEX PISTOLS LOOK LIKE BEAUTIFUL ANGELS FALLEN FROM HEAVEN COMPARED TO THE AGGRESSIVENESS OF LA-TRANXXX WHO BECAME THE PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE AND THAT'S WHY THE PRETTY GIRL IS NOT A PUNK. ***** Firstable, because LAT – RAN – XXX - VES – TRI - ONE is the firsth singer of EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ Rock and Band as El Caballero Águila, who was born in 1820 and is still so active in the streets of El Distrito Federal México, but since she does not have La Mini Sinfónica to quiet the beasts it was because the fucking musicians abandoned her and went on a political tour to The United Mexican States of the North, formerly called the (usa) and for these reasons she was forced to sing the songs of EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ alone like an-out-of-tune-macaw and I wonder if after these damn recommendations YOU still give the opportunity to The Goddes of Darkness to perform on your stage completely free of charge, but she will never do it, that's why we will never thank you with our hearts in our hands and what do you say ladies and gentlemen, AURRERA (which means YES) or NOPALONG CASSIDY (which means NO) , but for now we wish you a Merry Christmas in 2023 and a Happy New Year in 2024 and thank you very much for your kind attention, sincerely. El Robert M. Sánchez ¡!!! ***** And no one could imagine why LAT – RAN – XXX - VES – TRI - ONE changed an entire male world to become a degenerate woman who suddenly jumped from The Hippie Movement to The Punks Bench only because she realized that at the dawn of the counterculture the protest songs were going to end contaminating themselves with anarchy, something that the proletarian society quickly became frightened of the cock and hugged from the balls seeking refuge in sin and then burning The Divas in green wood, alleging to The Judge more than singing to The Sacramented God it seemed that all the songs of EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ Rock and Band as El Caballero Águila dedicated them to The Devil Himself. ***** And as the last beggar threatens THE BLACK AND WHITE RECORDS tells you that in the immediate future la-tranxxx will never play again in The United Mexican States of The North, nor in The United Mexican States of The South, nor in Europe and much less in The United Kingdom because these three countries are the most unfaithful that the ex former hippie has trampled.

[somethingvinyl]

Tinseltown Rebellion, Zappa’s first album of the ‘80s after a year spent on the road in 1980, is alright but ultimately forgettable. It’s a largely live album—the line between live albums and studio albums has been blurry in Zappa’s world for a long while, and this does have overdubs and some studio material, but it’s presented as a concert album with applause and between-song banter prominent.

Lyrically, this album has little to recommend it—it continues the downward spiral. Side 1 is misogyny top to bottom, The Blue Light is just irritating, the title track is a takedown of punk/new wave that lacks the punch and insight of his hippie takedown of the ‘60s. The album is encumbered by long spoken bits encouraging women in the audience to throw their underwear on the stage to make a quilt (eyeroll inducing) and running a dance contest (why does he put so many of these on his albums? He knows we can’t see it right? They’re always so boring). But musically, it’s damn good. The band (amorphous because the songs were recorded over the course of a couple tours) sometimes includes FOUR guitarists (Ike Willis and Ray White on rhythm, Zappa himself and baby shredder Steve Vai on lead) and almost everyone sings—Zappa, Willis, and White all do lead vocals. It’s a band specially designed for bombast. The sound is massive and intensely arranged. It’s also something of a final form… Zappa’s previous bands were heavily influenced by the other personalities in them, but from this album on his rock bands all sound basically identical even as he constantly swaps out members. In live album fashion, the best cuts on this album are the old material. This is technically the debut of For the Young Sophisticate—an earlier version appeared on Läther, which was unreleased until after his death, and this version is better. There’s great renditions of much earlier material, from first Mothers to Flo & Eddie. The album ends with a good rendition of Brown Shoes Don’t Make It and Peaches III, a blistering rearrangement of Peaches en Regalia from Hot Rats that rivals the original.

This is a minor Zappa album, the little brother of You Are What You Is. A rewarding album for diehard fans, but quite nonessential. It’s also the first on his new Barking Pumpkin label—Phonogram, who distributed Zappa Records, refused to release the I Don’t Wanna Get Drafted single (damn, shoulda photographed that one), so Zappa started a new label about it. Modern vinyl reissues feature the Zappa label on the A side and Barking Pumpkin on the B.

#frank zappa #vinyl

[dritalion]

Pink flamingo

Pink flamingo movie#

Having been condemned in the press as “the filthiest person alive”, Divine has adopted the alias Babs Johnson, and fled to a derelict mobile home in the woods with her hillbilly son (Danny Mills), her son’s voyeuristic girlfriend (Mary Vivian Pearce), and her mother (Edith Massey), who is described by Waters in Shock Value as “a 250-pound senior citizen who sits in a playpen dressed in a girdle and bra and worships eggs”. Harris Glenn Milstead, better known by the stage name Divine, stars as a woman who is also called Divine, a vision in a tight sparkly dress, with a back-combed coiffure, and iconic eye make-up that reaches all the way up her forehead. “I would’ve loved to have had my picture taken with him under our big pink flamingo,” Café Hon owner Denise Whiting says of Featherstone.īut best of all, even as the country mourns the loss of the inventor (on Wednesday, Featherstone graced the cover of The New York Time s), his creative legacy lives on-those plastic feathered friends forever emblazoned in American memory as a symbol of novelty, and still stuck, neck arched and one-legged, into the Baltimore grass.The plot, says the BBFC’s website with exquisite understatement, “is unusual but fairly straightforward”. There are flamingos tucked into every corner of the neighborhood’s annual HonFest, on the treetops of 34th Street during the holidays, and, of course, in Cafe Hon, first opened in 1992, with its flamingo chandeliers, cocktails, and prodigious façade (which caused the Flamingogate of 2009). Up near The Avenue, pink flamingo populations are still alive and well. I think when it was innocent, it was much more touching and influential.” But then it went on to become: yuppies have it on their lawn! That’s when I gave all mine away. “And at the time, pink flamingos subtly questioned taste.

Pink flamingo movie#

“But it was always going to be called Pink Flamingos because it was a very calm title for a movie that was the opposite,” he says. Demented, and The Wire, found them for the film, along with other set pieces like a plate that read “God Bless Our Mobile Home.” Waters notes that Pink Flamingos production designer Vincent Peranio, who went on to do Homicide, Cecil B. (As does Madison, Wisconsin, whose council named the plastic pink flamingo their official city bird.) Through bouts of popularity all across the country, the pink flamingo has remained bound to our city, at one point or another designating Hampden as its unofficial urban district, which proudly wears the honor. Later, became like the hula-hoop, they became a huge fad, but they’ve gone through many, many changes over the years.” “When we made Pink Flamingos in the fall of ’71, nobody collected ’50s stuff-it was before ‘modern-antiques’ was even a term-and thrift shops were filled with it.Įverybody was collecting ’30s and ’40s stuff-even hippiesĭressed like they were the gold diggers of ’33-but nobody wanted to “I liked because the ’50s had not been revived yet,” says Waters. Just as Waters’ film was banned in theaters, some neighborhood associations started to ban the eyesores in their communities. Hippies opposed the use of plastic, and what had once been a symbol of taste quickly devolved into a tchotchke of tackiness. From California to Charm City, families welcomed the bright, beloved bird into their yards.īy the 1960s and ’70s, however, the flamingo’s mainstream popularity waned. With a burgeoning consumer society came the embrace of plastic and mass production, and hence, Featherstone’s tour de force. Same, but front lawns were a way to keep up with the Joneses and also standĪpart. All across the country, houses looked the II America was in a state of suburban sprawl, with baby-boom desire driving development of nuclear dream homes. One of his first assignments was to create the neon, umbrella-shaped bird, which debuted in 1957, and was soon immortalized in American culture. He attended art school there, honing his craft as a sculptor, before ultimately landing a job at a large manufacturer of lawn and garden decorations. Fittingly surnamed, Featherstone was not a Baltimore native but rather from Massachusetts. On Monday, the plastic bird’s inventor, Don Featherstone, passed away at the age of 79, nearly 60 years after his famed flamingo first came off the assembly line. “That may have been the beginning of my obsession with them, because whatever I was told I wasn’t supposed to like, I always did.” “When I grew up, I think my mother, who was great at the tyranny of good taste, mentioned her disdain for lawn ornaments, especially pink flamingos,” Waters says. Over the years, the mid-century lawn ornament has cemented itself in our city’s narrative, largely thanks to our own auteur John Waters and his 1972 film Pink Flamingos. And, of course, we have the pink flamingo.

#Pink flamingo