#i found christmas pictures from 1982 and just. how was your christmas

[lovelyirony]

weird but anyone else see someone’s old family pictures at like a vintage shop or something and get unbearably sad about it 

#like i wonder what those people were like #i found christmas pictures from 1982 and just. how was your christmas? do you still celebrate it? #found old vacation pictures from hawaii in 1957 and how cool is that?

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Life Without Reverend Moon by Jen Kiaba – October 22, 2012

Thirty-thousand feet seems like a good altitude at which to question one's life. “I am already in motion,” I tell myself. It's a kind of progress. Shortly after my twentieth birthday I was in progress, between JFK and Heathrow, en route to Oslo.

After takeoff the girl sitting next to me smiled kindly, asking where I was headed. I told her:

“To Norway. To visit my husband.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of glossy women's magazines, offering me several. They promised hot sex tips, orgasm-inducing positions, and advice on how to find a man to orgasm with. She pointed to a few with a wink. “Maybe you can find something nice in there for your husband.”

Today, almost a decade later, to use the word husband feels wrong; I avoid it. But at the time it was what he said I should call him. “I am your husband!” he would say. The word sounded foreign in my ears; "husband" was supposed to be a word attached to “honoring” and “cherishing,” and whatever else heartfelt marriage vows should entail. But I had not been given the choice to say those vows.

My parents were married, along with two thousand other couples, in Reverend Sun Myung Moon's Unification Church at Madison Square Garden on July 1, 1982. I was the first of five children, and we were all raised as members of the Unification Church's Second Generation, who were thought to be born sinless and of God's Lineage, through the Blessing marriage ceremony officiated by Rev. Moon. Theologically this meant that Rev. Moon, as the purported Messiah, had created a heavenly lineage through his personal perfection, relationship with God, and marriage with (the much-younger) Hak Ja Han, in 1960.

Growing up, I always had the expectation that Rev. Moon would choose my spouse. In the Unification Church, one didn't date. Flirtatious interactions with the opposite sex were severely frowned upon, all activities were separated by gender, and we referred to one another as brother and sister in order to emphasize platonic relations. Sex before marriage was absolutely out of the question. The Church had a word for that: falling. To fall was the greatest sin that could be committed, and it could not be undone. To fall was to enter the realm of Satan, to be cut off from God and to wound His already-suffering heart.

Perhaps childhood's greatest tragedy is what we learn to normalize. In my upbringing, to question what we were taught was to invite Satan and the evil Spirit World into your mind; to fend off evil, one must quiet the questions and dive further into the readings and teachings of Rev. Moon. Some of the most effective brainwashing was what we had been taught to perpetuate upon ourselves.

At 19 I found myself on a terrifying personal precipice. I was seriously considering leaving the Unification Church, but with no means of supporting myself and no safety net outside of the insular church community, the notion was enough to bring me to panicked tears. Yet I didn't know if I believed Rev. Moon, his world, or his supposed messianic mission. As a reflex, I was ashamed and hated myself for feeling that way.

When word of an administrative opening in the US Second Generation Department reached my family, I was intrigued. What better way was there to understand what this movement was all about than by working for one of the central organizations? So, before making a decision to abandon the culture of my childhood, I climbed into the belly of the beast looking for truth. That’s where I lost my way.

When the Christmas holidays rolled around, I took my miniscule stipend and boarded an Amtrak train home to ponder the nothingness I had found but had not yet accepted. When I arrived home, there was news: after five years of having parents match their children, Rev. Moon was stepping up again, and was going to conduct a matching ceremony for the Second Generation.

My parents sat me down in the bedroom, listing all of the reasons why I should go. Though it was left unspoken, we all knew that at almost 20 years old, my eligibility expiration date was staring me hard in the face. My mother finished with, “If Jesus came to you and said that he had found your perfect spouse, what would you say to him?” She paused for effect. “Now, how much more is Father?”

How could I say no? To refuse was to deny the remotest possibility that this man might be who he said that he was. I simply had not gotten there in my journey. Besides, I told myself, it was just a matching. My match and I would have time to get to know each other before deciding to get married.

My biggest mistake was to assume that I would be allowed to exercise free will.

My mother dropped me off at East Garden, one of the Moon family's mansion-compounds in Tarrytown, NY, and I entered into the ballroom of the estate with approximately 10 other nervous young people. For the next several hours, one of the Korean leaders proceeded to lecture us on our unworthiness. That’s when I found out that by the time we left, we were all going to be Blessed to someone.

The panic blossomed. I had to leave and began approaching anyone, even strangers, to ask to borrow their cellphones. Repeated calls home, begging my parents to come pick me up, were answered in the negative.

By the end of the day, the ballroom was packed to capacity. Young people from all over the United States, Asia, and Europe had answered Rev. Moon's call. Late in the evening, Rev. Moon came out to address us through his interpreter. Though I had never heard them from his mouth before, I desperately wanted to hear words of wisdom — or something that rang true — from the man who held my future in his hands.

One phrase stuck out to me in the monotony: “Do you want me to match you tonight?” A thunderous “Yes” answered Rev. Moon's question, and we were lined up into rows, divided down the middle, and categorized.

I should have left, I tell myself. I should have simply snuck out of the sweltering ballroom, slipped out of the mansion, and found my way through security to get outside of the compound. Even if I had had to follow the train tracks from Tarrytown back home, I should have left. But with no money, no means of communication, and no idea if I would have a home to go back to if I left, I was frozen in place. Besides, I had been trained to obey.

Suddenly Rev. Moon began pointing. A girl, then a boy would stand up, acknowledge each other, bow to Rev. Moon, and then be ushered out to be “processed” by administrators. My breathing was shallow; I tried to quiet my mind and draw upon the things I had been taught.

Absolute faith. Absolute Love. Absolute Obedience.

When Rev. Moon's finger pointed to me, time stopped. I looked deep into the eyes of the man who had bidden me to rise with his gesture and saw nothing. I was gazing into the eyes of the man who was determining my future, and I had expected to see some sort of timelessness, or to feel as though his eyes were digging into my soul. But he was looking through me, as though his finger had arbitrarily found its way to me in a game of love roulette. I felt suspended over an infinite emptiness.

Then time sped up, his finger jabbed in another direction, then another and another. Three other people stood up, and I had no idea which of the other two men I had been assigned to. One I had met at a summer camp several years ago, but he was looking at someone else. The other man gestured to me and I found myself eye-level with a shrunken and pilled sweatshirt emblazoned with the word “Norway.”

In an instant, I was no longer suspended. A kind of darkness engulfed my mind, the words “game over” ringing in my ears. Afterward, everyone was abuzz with excitement; I desperately looked around to try and find someone whose face mirrored the same panic I was trying to fight. A gesture from above caught my attention. “Norway” was trying to introduce himself to me.

Finally I looked up at the man that Rev. Moon had chosen for me. "Tall" was the only word that came to mind. Over the noise, he tried asking me questions; what they were and how I answered, I forget. Those next hours were a strange blur — alternating between sadness and terror. At one point I borrowed someone's cellphone and called home. It was 2 a.m. and my mother's sleepy voice answered. “I'm matched,” I said without emotion. “To a Norwegian. His name is Chris.” Then I hung up.

We were woken up the next morning at 5 a.m. for morning service. I had lain awake all night, clutching my stomach, trying to keep nausea at bay. Chris found me and approached me with a bagel — the first meal I remember receiving in 24 hours. The smell of food made me ill and I politely refused. Despite his best efforts to chat with me and have the “getting to know you” small-talk, I could barely muster words.

Every so often I would sneak away to borrow another cellphone, calling home in tears. But if my parents had refused to budge before, they certainly weren't going to now that they had a son-in-law waiting in the wings.

The day after Christmas, at the back of that crowded ballroom, I was wearing a wedding dress that didn't fit, standing next to a tall stranger, and repeating vows in a language I didn't understand. After the Blessing ceremony, we had official photos taken. As the photographer told us to say “cheese,” I realized that I couldn't remember how to smile.

I still have that photo. I look like a confused child playing a bizarre game of dress-up; I'm gazing into the camera with a lost expression. Chris is looking away, dressed in an equally ill-fitting tuxedo. The picture would have been funny if it weren't so sad.

That was how I found myself several months later at 30,000 feet, bound for Norway. To fight the mounting dread of the impending arrival, I immersed myself in the magazines that my neighbor had kindly lent me. It was the first time I had ever picked up any material that encouraged an expression of sexuality, and I felt a delicious bit of rebellion wash over me.

As I pored over the pages, I could feel certain gears shifting as pieces of me unlocked and unwound inside. The women in these pages catapulted me into an exhilarating daydream in which my choices were my own. That daydream left an intense hunger within me.

As a 20-year-old virgin, I wanted to know what it would be like to sleep with a man because you wanted to, or because you loved him, not because you were pressured by your parents and his parents to “start family life.” The idea of sex with Chris made my skin crawl, and I had no idea if I would face pressure from him or his parents when my plane touched down.

Rev. Moon died on September 3, 2012, at the age of 92. His daughter, In Jin Moon, stepped down from her role as leader of the American church a few days later, after having given birth to a child from a three-year affair with a married man. While the church has not been a part of my life for many years now, I've watched these recent events and their fallout with interest.

At first, this news of Rev. Moon's daughter didn't bother me. Then the leadership began trying to explain away her actions and affair, saying that she "chose love when she had a chance.” How many of us were given the allowance to "choose love when we had the chance"? That was something we were explicitly denied; instead were taught to feel ashamed for our feelings unless they were chosen for us, and then sanctioned by someone with power over us.

Sometimes I wonder where my life would be if I had sat next to someone else on the plane, who offered to let me borrow a copy of The Economist instead. The girl next to me on the plane offered a small form of salvation; in a kind gesture she offered me a glimpse into a world that I had had no idea existed. It was a world in which I did not need to be ashamed of my body and my sexuality. My desires for love were not evil. It was a world that encouraged me to discover who I was, not a world in which I had to break my inner-self down to fit a preconceived notion of goodness and of womanhood. Most important, it was a world that let me take ownership of my future, my free will, my reproduction, and my heart. It was a world that I finally knew I needed to escape to.

And I did. It didn't happen overnight. It didn't happen while I was in Norway. It took me almost two years of fighting with Chris, fighting with his parents and my own, before a church divorce was granted. The decision to "break the Blessing" was an agonizing one that took me turning myself inside-out, trying to reform into the kind of person who could love and accept Chris. But finally, I walked away — free but with a proverbial Scarlet "A" branded into my chest, as far as other church members were concerned. Today I am proud of it. It is my battle scar from a fight I am proud to have survived, because I fought my way into this new world.

Jen Kiaba is a photographer living in New York's Hudson Valley. Her work explores dreams, memory, fantasy, and the realms where all three blend. This is her first personal essay. She and her sister also have a blog about their experiences within the Unification Church.

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The Purity Knife: Sex, Death and Human Trafficking in the Unification Church

http://summerofcheesecake.blogspot.com/

https://www.jenkiaba.com/portfolio

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Jen Kiaba on the Ares Meyer podcast

Conceptual Self Portrait Artist
Join me in conversation with Artist Jen Kiaba as we talk Poetry, Self Portraits and Child Marriage.

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/conceptual-self-portrait-artist/id1549515902?i=1000507915214

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Why Didn’t You Just Leave?

Jen Kiaba
: Hello and welcome to my least favorite question in the entire world. It’s one I’ve heard more times than I care to count, and sadly I think that’s something many cult survivors can relate to. In the past that question used to make me clam up and spiral into shame, or mumble, “It’s not that simple.” But in those days I didn’t fully understand the coercive control mechanism that were used to keep me, and so many others, trapped.

Read more:
 https://jenkiaba.medium.com/lessons-on-leaving-why-didnt-you-just-leave-789953c4689a

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We Are All Vulnerable

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‘Falling Out’ Elgen Strait podcast  April 6, 2021

13. Fuel For Nightmares: Jen Kiaba – Part 1

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/13-fuel-for-nightmares-jen-kiaba-part-1/id1550448436?i=1000516011584

• Jen’s website: jenkiaba.com • Introducing a new segment “Autotune the Moon.” • “Bad Moon Rising” by John Gorenfeld – Recommended by Jen.


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‘Falling Out’ Elgen Strait podcast  April 13, 2021

14. Scorpion House: Jen Kiaba – Part 2

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/14-scorpion-house-jen-kiaba-part-2/id1550448436?i=1000516958607

Recommended reading from Jen: "Pure: Inside the Evangelical Movement That Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free" by Linda Kay Klein

#Jen Kiaba #Moonies #cult #Sun Myung Moon #Unification Church

[theonewiththefanfics]

70s Vintage (one-shot)

80s Retro (one-shot)

70s Bling (one-shot)

70s Glam (one-shot)

Synopsys: More shenanigans ensue as the Taylors hang around the set. And if the BoRhap boys thought they were wild on nights out, they’ll be proven severely wrong.

Pairing: Roger Taylor x f!Reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: drinking, swearing, alluding to sexy times ;)

Word count: 2595

When Brian May walked up to the BoRhap boys who were engaged in a discussion about how to better work off of one another during the big Live Aid scene, Ben in the meantime had been struggling to get one particular bit in ‘Radio Ga Ga’ right, so Bri, the ever-loving father figure, went out on a search for the real drummer.    “Has anyone seen Rog? Ben’s struggling with getting the movements down.”    The guys only shook their heads when Jon got a quizzical look on his face. “We haven’t seen Roger in like half an hour. In fact, we haven’t seen Y/N for twenty minutes either.”    It was a bold suggestion, but by the eye roll that Brian did, they knew they hit the jackpot. And all the confirmation they needed came in the form of a thoroughly dishevelled Y/N.    “Did you have fun?” Brian asked, and she winked at her old friend.    “I think Roger enjoyed it a bit more, this time.”    “Well, is he put together enough to go out and help Ben?” Brian asked, just as the blond actor came up to the guys, drumsticks tightly clutched between his fingers.    “Come on, love,” Y/N said linking her arm through his elbow. “Rog is a bit preoccupied at the moment, so I’ll try and help as much as I can.”    Ben’s eyebrows were high up on his forehead. “You know how to drum?”    She hummed in response, and the crowd, seeing him and the woman walk out on stage went wild, chanting Y/N’s name like she was a Goddess there to fulfil all of their wishes. With a small wave, she sat down behind the drum set and adjusted the height of the little round bench. “I also know how to play the cello, violin, bass, guitar, piano and trumpet.”

   Expertly Y/N twirled the drumstick and looked up at Ben. “Which part were you struggling with, honey?”    But even before she could tap a snare, Roger stormed on stage, the crowd of extras going absolutely crazy.    “No,” he pointed a finger at Y/N. “Not happening. You’re not stealing my spotlight.”    A smirk tugged up her lips, seeing that purplish mark on his neck, which he so desperately had tried to cover up with a shawl, but it was still peeking through. “Your spotlight? Love, it’s Ben that’s gonna be on stage, not you.”    Roger raised a grey eyebrow. “And who do you think he’s playing? Me! Ha!”    “Fine,” Y/N stood up, leaving the drumsticks on the chair. “But who do you think is sleeping on the couch? You! Ha!” and with a wide smile plastered over her face, Y/N waved at the roaring crowd and disappeared behind the scenes.    The grey drummer put his hands on his hips and looked up to the sky, letting out a deep sigh.    “You alright?” Ben asked, clearly concerned if he’d somehow made a mistake and offended the legend.    “Yeah,” Roger nodded, sitting down behind the drums. “Just can’t figure out how the hell did I fall in love with a woman who infuriates me so much.” But he said it with nothing but adoration in his voice.

***

   “Ronnie, I’m telling you, it’s crazy freaky,” Y/N sat in one of the sofas in the trailer that was labeled 'THE BAND AND PAUL'. “I’m telling you! Look, I’ll just send you a picture and then you can see for yourself.”    As Y/N pulled the phone away from her ear and went into the photos folder, Joe walked inside, fingers massaging his scalp as he had just been able to get the wig removed.    The woman gave him a small smile, before doing a double take and practically shouting “Don’t move!” and putting her phone back to her ear. “Imma switch to Facetime.” She said to whoever was on the other line and Joe just stood there confused.    Y/N turned the phone to him and the man almost choked on his spit seeing the Veronica Deacon on the other side, the woman’s eyes widening at the appearance of Joe. Silence took over the trailer before she quietly asked when he was born.    “Nine- ninete- 1983. September 21, 1983,” Joe stuttered out. “Mam.”    Veronica narrowed her eyes before yelling down the house. “John, you better come here and explain some things to me!”    Joe couldn’t believe what was actually happening as John Deacon came in view, the man rubbing his eyes as if he had just been rudely awoken.    “If this is Y/N again, trying to persuade you to go bar hopping, I’m not joining. Last time ended with you in a jail cell and her in Scotland.”    But just as he was about to talk further about the crazy things the two women had done, he stopped, looking Joe dead in the eye. Veronica for a second thought he wasn’t breathing, but then John cleared his throat.        “Hello,” he warmly smiled at Joe who was still frozen in the spot. “You must be mister Mazzello. Brian and Roger have had nothing but good things to say about you and the guys.”    Joe just stared at the rock legend, mouth hanging open, cause holy fucking shit, he was talking to the Disco Deaky. Y/N smiled looking at the star-struck actor and glanced at Veronica who cleared her throat and crossed her arms.    “Are you sure you didn’t have an affair with someone in late 1982 or early 1983?” Veronica turned her head to the side as John looked at her fondly but rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying, you look quite uncanny.”    Joe laughed at that and he couldn’t help but feel relief flood his veins. They spent a few minutes talking about the music of Queen and how Y/N had been the one to push Veronica to ask Deaky out on a date.    “She was so bloody petrified that he wouldn’t say yes, she came to my flat and we both got drunk. In the end, she ended up calling him and slurring out that she liked him and wanted to go out on a date.”    “And she,” Veronica pointed at Y/N, “ended up calling Freddie, who was also coincidentally drunk that night, and convinced him that flying over to New York that night was a good idea.”    Y/N shrugged, remembering how she had woken up next to a passed-out Freddie, in a hotel room. Her scream had been the thing that had stirred both of them up, massive hangovers already forming.    “What the fuck did we do last night?” Y/N asked, rummaging through the first aid kit she had found underneath the sink in the bathroom for some painkillers. “Where are we?”    Freddie had been very nonchalant about all of it, as he made two cups of black coffee. “Well, my love, by the view outside of the window, I’d say we're on some thirty-odd story of a hotel in the middle of New York.”    Y/N had choked on the water she was drinking. “New York? How the fuck did we end up in New York?”    Veronica smiled, reminiscing about how much fun it had been to tease the two as they caught the first plane home. “Almost gave Rog a heart attack. He thought she’d run off with someone.”    “Honestly, he overreacted way too much,” Y/N replied, and it was like he had been waiting to be mentioned, Roger stepped in the trailer.    “What are you two conspiring about? Y/N if you’ve put some bloody dumb ideas in his head, I swear you’ll be the one staying at Bri’s.”    She rolled her eyes and scooted closer to Joe, to make room for Roger to sit down.    “Deaky!” his blue eyes lit up like Christmas trees, seeing his old friend. “How are you?”    “Good. We were just talking about when Y/N and Fred got so hammered they ended up in the city that never sleeps. And she was just saying how you overreacted.”    “Overreacted?” Roger’s eyes shot up to his forehead. “One second you and Ronnie are simply drinking wine at your flat, the next I hear is Freddie’s hungover voice telling me to be at the airport in nine hours, since you two had fucked off to God knows where.”    “We had gone out on two dates, Rog. You really took it as if I had cheated on you and married the pool boy.”    “You were still my friend, even if we weren’t dating then. So, pardon me if I got worried.”    Y/N rolled her eyes, but her heart swelled at the thought of Roger taking care of her like that.    The five of them talked a bit more about what wild things they’d done in the past and a little bit about how Joe could become an even more convincing Deaky. Soon enough, he was called to set, and with a very solemn look, he said goodbye to Veronica and John, exiting the trailer.    “Honestly, you two,” Deaky said through the phone pointing at his wife and Y/N, “are forbidden to drink without supervision.”    Roger laughed and nodded along, but the glance Ronnie threw Y/N, whose smirk had widened tenfold, was enough to make his heart drop. “What did you two do?”

***

   The cast and crew, Y/N, Roger, Brian and Anita as well, all decided to go to a local pub after a gruelling day of shooting and during that, her mischievous side came out once more.    The drink off between her and her husband was provoked by Joe who was chatting away with Anita and she had mentioned how wild Y/N used to be. He’d laughed and told her about the conversation they’d shared with Veronica and Anita could only agree.    “I mean,” the woman snickered, “they had been married for what, eight years at that point, but were still at one another throats. And so, after a particularly bad fight, she said that if Roger could out drink her, she’d forgive the man.”    Joe laughed, leaning in. “And did she? Forgive him?”    At that point, both Ben and Y/N had overheard their little conversation and she simply smiled as Anita answered. “Let’s just say the next day, that minx over there was filled to the brim with guilt, as Roger nursed a hangover for two days.”    “What can I say,” Y/N said, smirking at Ben, “if there is one thing, I know how to do right, it is leave an impression. And obviously, prove a point.”    And right on cue Roger Taylor, most famous drummer in the world of the most famous band I the world started weeping, as Freddie’s voice erupted over the heads of everyone singing ‘Love Of My Life. “I love my wife, Bri. I love her, so much. Even though there are times I think she might kill me, I love her.”    Y/N sighed, rolling her eyes and she went over to her husband. “Alright, Rockstar, that’s enough for you,” she said and chugged his half-finished pint.    “Hey!” now an obviously pissed off Roger looked up at her. “I was drinking that- wow.”    He leaned over to Brian, and the curly haired man already knew what was about to happen. “D’ya think she’ll let me shag her? She’s real pretty. I like pretty women. Like Y/N. Y/N is the prettiest. Hey love, what’s your name?”    She almost choked on her laugh. “I’m Y/N.”    “No fucking way!” Roger exclaimed, “that’s my wife’s name.”    “I know. Cause I am your wife.”    For a second, Roger paused and then through a big, big grin he exclaimed, “Cool! Can we go home and have sex?”    This was where Y/N saw her opportunity. “We can.”    The smile that split Roger’s face apart was amazing, and he smugly looked at Bri. “After all these years I still have it.”    “If,” Y/N interrupted his gloating, “you can outdrink me.”    Brian was instantly up on his feet and pointing at her. “Y/N, no! We’re not going through this again. Just take your idiot of a husband and go home. Please,” the last word was a desperate plea, but she just ignored the only rationally thinking person in the room.    “Bri, ma man,” Roger said standing up and motioning for Y/N to go to the bar. “I thought we were friends. And here you are, barring me from having a good night with that fox.”    She smirked over her shoulder ordering twenty shots of vodka, ten for each. When Brian saw it, everyone could read the disappointment on his face. “When they get to shot number five, you two,” he pointed at Anita and Joe, “take Y/N and me and Rami will get Rog.”    “Why five?” Gwil asked, amusement evident on his features as he watched the married couple sit down by a free table in the bar, the shots in two perfect rows before them.    “Cause last time they got to number six, they got thrown out of a pub for indecent behaviour.”    And let’s just say, everyone in the bar looked with awe in their eyes as the two of them downed shot after shot, completely disregarding the fact they had been together for years, only so they could shag.

***

   “Rog, what did we do?” Y/N groaned, pressing her face in her husband’s shoulder, who pulled her closer, the bright morning sun making her eyes hurt. “I think we had a drinking competition," he replied. "Again. Though things are very blurry after Anita said something about a badger and you two running around naked in Bri’s garden.”    Y/N hummed and was about to roll out of the bed when a stack of pictures caught her gaze. Slowly, she took them, and her mouth hung open when she saw a bare Roger and her own stripped body in them.    “I guess we recreated a moment from what- 1976?”    Roger’s eyes were still closed, but his mind remembered the exact thing that was in the photos; how a young him had persuaded her to take her top and pants, off so he could snap some pictures of the girl.    “If these ever get out, Roger Meddows Taylor,” Y/N had said through a laugh, covering her face with her hands, but that meant leaving her chest exposed. “The next pictures people will be seeing in the tabloids will be of my mugshot.”    Roger had laughed, pressing his legs tighter around Y/N’s hips, so she would stop squirming and he could focus the camera on her body. “I promise. These are for my personal collection when I get lonely without you on tour.”    Though that had been his intention, Roger was quite the forgetful person. And let’s just say he’d heard an earful two days later as Y/N berated him for leaving the polaroids on the middle of a table on the bus.    “If history repeats itself, I’m divorcing you, Taylor,” she said, slipping the photos in a drawer and closing her eyes ready to go back to sleep.    “If history repeats itself, then we should prepare for a pregnancy.”    Instantly Y/N’s eyes were open, cause, of course, that little photo shoot had led to one of the steamiest nights of her life and of course, that’s when she’d fallen pregnant with their first child.    “Well, then this time, you’ll be the one pushing a watermelon out of your vagina.”    With that said, the hungover pair smiled and fell asleep, dreams of the past pulling them down, securely wrapped in one another’s embrace.    “Think they’ll allow to put that moment in the movie?” Roger suddenly asked, and Y/N slapped him.    “Shut it, Taylor.”    “Love you too, Taylor.”

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take): @chlobo6 @pietrorunsforme @brianhemian-rogerdy @16wiishes @wanderingsami @desir-ae @thiccio-and-thicciet @roseslovedreams @vesoleil @gloomybisexualemo @kostyaownsmyheart @perriwiinkle @screaminggalileochickenwrites@lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @sweet-ladyy @magicwithaknife 

A/N: Y’all loved the shit out of 80s Retro, so I hope you like this as well :D

P.S. what did you think?

P.S.S. my tags are always open :)

#ben hardy #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy! roger taylor #ben hardy x you #roger taylor #roger taylor imagine #imagine roger taylor #imagine ben hardy! roger taylor #ben hardy!roger x reader #roger taylor x reader #roger taylor x you #brian may #john deaky #deaky #disco deaky #freddy mercury #freddie mercury #freddie #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rapsody movie #borhap #joe mazzello #rami malek #pirate #rami malek imagine #rami malek x reader #rami #gwilym lee #gwil lee

[dweemeister]

The Happiest Millionaire (1967)

Younger readers do not know of a time when Walt Disney Studios was never considered a major Hollywood studio. That recognition, to stand alongside the likes of Columbia, Universal, or Warner Bros., did not officially arrive until after The Little Mermaid (1989) and the resulting 1989-2000 Disney Renaissance and Disney’s close ties to Pixar (which it would purchase outright in 2006). In its early years, Disney did not distribute its own films, instead going through United Artists and later RKO. Disputes with the eccentric Howard Hughes – who purchased RKO in 1948 – over the True-Life Adventures documentary series led Disney to (correctly) predict that RKO was a studio in a fatal tailspin, and the RKO-Disney partnership was soon abandoned. Walt and older brother Roy O. Disney co-founded Buena Vista Film Distribution Company (renamed Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures in 2007), but Disney – taking the animation and live-action studios together – lacked the distribution reach of the established Hollywood studios.

As Walt paid less attention to animated features for his anthology television series and the live-action features, an occasional live-action Disney film became part of the American cinematic zeitgeist: 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954); Old Yeller (1957); The Absent-Minded Professor (1961). In a decade heralded (and ridiculed) for its sumptuous musicals, Mary Poppins (1964) was considered the defining film for the studio’s live-action efforts. Of course, an ailing Walt desired to replicate the artistic and financial success of Mary Poppins. Norman Tokar’s The Happiest Millionaire is that follow-up film, adapted from a play based on My Philadelphia Father by Cordelia Drexel Biddle, and doomed to unforgiving comparisons upon release and today. The Happiest Millionaire is an unfocused fever dream of a musical film, surviving – just – because of a handful of Sherman Brothers songs and its unironic charm.

The film begins with Irish immigrant John Lawless (Tommy Steele) arriving in Philadelphia, ready to become the butler of a household headed by millionaire, amateur boxing trainer, Bible School teacher, and alligator enthusiast. Anthony J. Drexel Biddle (Fred MacMurray). Lawless is the on-screen narrator for the film’s duration, noting how he enjoys the Biddles’ eccentricity. He observes or comments on Mr. Biddle’s antics and, more seriously, his eagerness to have the U.S. intervene in World War I. Mrs. Biddle (Greer Garson) and Aunt Mary (Gladys Cooper) pay little heed to Mr. Biddle’s unusual beliefs and behaviors – most likely out of love, not marital/familial capitulation. The Biddle children are older teenagers trained in boxing by their father, and we see little of sons Tony and Livingston (Paul Petersen and Eddie Hodges). Cordy Biddle (Lesley Ann Warren in her film debut) is the best boxer of the Biddle children and, while away to boarding school, falls for Angier “Angie” Buchanan Duke (John Davidson) – what a name!

If it seems difficult to ascertain the narrative focus of The Happiest Millionaire judging by the above paragraph, that is how it feels like to watch the film after the opening song. Though it is ostensibly about Mr. Biddle as the allegedly happiest millionaire, the story transitions between Mr. Biddle, his wife, John Lawless, Cordy and Angie, and Angie’s family without much signaling. These shifts are abrupt, resetting often, and disrupting the flow of the movie. Norman Tokar’s direction and Cotton Warburton’s (1949′s Neptune’s Daughter, Mary Poppins) editing appear scattered, lacking any semblance of cohesiveness, and making The Happiest Millionaire feel like its 172-minute runtime (this is the most complete version of the film; I will go into this more later, but beware of any versions that are shorter and are not presented in the 1.66:1 widescreen format). The adapted screenplay by A.J. Carothers (1963′s Miracle of the White Stallions, 1964′s Emil and the Detectives) just barely connects the competing plotlines to form a comprehensible whole.

Carothers’ screenplay is packed with references to the turn of the twentieth century that probably will be lost on younger viewers, who might be instead charmed by Biddle’s pet alligators and his Bible study masquerading for a boxing school. Too much of the broad humor falls flat, as The Happiest Millionaire is at its comedic best when it elects to be witty rather than relying on slapstick or its bizarre, absurd situational humor. The performances are uncomplicated, but does one ever really expect excellent performances from such a disorganized screenplay?

With 3,000 costumes tailored for the extras and principal actors of The Happiest Millionaire (250 were for the principal actors), Bill Thomas (1960′s Spartacus, 1971′s Bedknobs and Broomsticks) crafts gowns and suits for various occasions: casual, formal, sporting, professional. Thomas’ work helps the audience feel like they are embedded within this well-to-do family in the mid-1910s. The art direction by Carroll Clark (1933′s King Kong, Mary Poppins) and John B. Mansbridge (1965′s Those Calloways, 1982′s Tron) is as flamboyantly tacky as could be expected for showing the interior of an eccentric millionaire’s family residence – there is a lot of glass in this film.

Yet from a technical standpoint, this is the Sherman Brothers’ film. Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman combined to be the most prolific songwriting team in Hollywood – no other duo worked together for as many film musical scores as they did. The Happiest Millionaire is not the best entry from the Shermans in part because of the film’s lackluster screenplay. That is a high bar, however, for the songwriting brothers whose credits also include Mary Poppins, the Winnie the Pooh films from 1966-2000, numerous other Disney animated and live-action films, and extra-Disney productions including The Slipper and the Rose (1976). Immediately after the opening credits and overture, “Fortuosity” (a supposed neologism derived from “fortuitous” and is one of the songs played on rotation at Disney parks’ Main Street) describes John Lawless’ situation and personality in three minutes. The film never approaches that level of efficient musical characterization ever again – not even with the multiple musical quotations of “What’s Wrong With That?”, which is to Fred MacMurray as “The Life I Lead” was to David Tomlinson in Mary Poppins.

The more musically and narratively isolated songs serve their momentary purpose, with little function after they have completed. Some will elicit laughter, like “Watch Your Footwork” and “Bye-Yum Pum Pum”. Others are catchier or more musically interesting than others, such as “I’ll Always Be Irish” and especially John Davidson’s vocals in “Detroit”. Nevertheless, there are too many meandering clunkers (“Valentine Candy” and “It Won’t Be Long ‘Til Christmas”; the latter has hints of late nineteenth century American folk music in its woodwind section that would have been interesting to use in this film), with uninteresting musical phrases extended far past the point where they should resolve to the tonic.

Appearing at the roughly around the one-hour mark for The Happiest Millionaire’s, “Are We Dancing?” does not have the lyrical genius and the poetic personification of Mary Poppins’ “Feed the Birds”, nor has it imprinted itself into the public consciousness to the extent of the Winnie the Pooh theme. Its lyrical imperfections and lack of cultural impact aside, I don’t recall a Sherman Brothers for a Disney film being orchestrated as gorgeously as “Are We Dancing?” (if we want to open it up to their non-Disney careers, then it rivals “He/She Danced with Me” from The Slipper and the Rose). Every section of the orchestra – whether it is the string instruments doubling John Davidson and Lesley Ann Warren’s lyrics or the woodwinds and brass providing a heavenly lift in three-quarter time – is providing some of the lushest harmonies ever heard in a Disney song. Within the film, “Are We Dancing?” – you guessed it – is Cordy and Angie’s first dance, where love begins to a waltz’s pulse. Some, including Cordy before she begins dancing, might consider that old-fashioned. Like she and numerous characters in movie history who have waltzed on-screen, she changes her tune by music’s end.

When The Happiest Millionaire premiered at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood on an early summer day in 1967, the occasion became less of a movie premiere and more of a testimonial to Walt Disney, who passed away that last December and had seen a rough cut of the film that would be bitterly contested by his successors. The Happiest Millionaire was the final film Disney personally oversaw and, in its most complete form, remains the longest film to be released under the banner of Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures (excluding Hollywood, Lucasfilm, Marvel, Miramax, Pixar, and Touchstone). Following its Hollywood premiere, The Happiest Millionaire was released as a roadshow. The roadshow theatrical release, popular in the 1950s and ‘60s but largely having run its course by the ‘70s, was where a film would first open in a major city before going “on the road” – a film that debuted in Los Angeles or New York City would then premiere in another large city for limited showings (perhaps one or two performances a day for select days during the week). Only after the completion of this roadshow would the film be released across the United States, typically shorn of some scenes that only appeared in the “roadshow release”.  Roadshow films were typically longer, containing an overture, an intermission, an entr’acte, and occasionally closing music. It is the roadshow release version that viewers should seek – the roadshow version is available on DVD (VHS and all formats prior to DVD have shortened theatrical cuts) and, hopefully, will be on Disney’s streaming upcoming service.

By the time The Happiest Millionaire premiered, roadshow releases were on the wane. Studios executives (including Disney, which led him to produce The Happiest Millionaire after the triumph of Mary Poppins), inspired by the financial success of such musicals from the early- and mid-1960s, believed these movie musicals to be their answer to shifting winds in Hollywood. They would, as a post-Walt Walt Disney Studios learned, be mistaken. Any notions that Walt Disney Studios could ever challenge the Hollywood studio stalwarts seemed unlikely. The Happiest Millionaire, for those who temper their expectations and are interested in the final Disney film with any connection to Walt himself, is a flawed effort saved only by a selection of its musical performances and songs found within.

My rating: 6/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

#The Happiest Millionaire #Norman Tokar #Fred MacMurray #Tommy Steele #Greer Garson #Gladys Cooper #Geraldine Page #Hermione Baddeley #John Davidson #Lesley Ann Warren #Walt Disney #Sherman Brothers #Richard M. Sherman #Robert B. Sherman #Bill Thomas #TCM #My Movie Odyssey

[bookish-but-corruptible]

A Massive Remus/Sirius Fic Rec List (the fandom dinosaur remix)

Friends.  It’s been yonks since I updated my Remus/Sirius rec list.  This is a remix of my old rec list- I’ve kept all the classic fics and added some new ones, including ones I’ve rescued from the clutches of the Wayback machine. I even had to split this into parts because I froze Tumblr trying to upload as one post.

All links fixed and active as of November 2019.

If you would like to sort by tags instead with even more fics, feel free to filter my bookmarks on AO3. If you like one of these fics, I also encourage you to check out the author’s other fics.

(Part 1: Angst) (Part 2: Humor) (Part 3: In-Universe Magical AUs) (Part 4: Out of Universe & Non-Magical AUs) (Part 5: PWP)

Part 1: Angst  

Black Moon

Remus seeks out an on the run Sirius post POA.  (If you would like the fluffier sequel, “Blue Moon,” leave a message in my ask and I will email you the pdf)

Our Private Universe

“Watch Remus, Peter said, look for evidence; but what Sirius found was something different.”

Studies in Motion and Shadow

Remus character study, from Dumbledore’s POV, MWPP era.

Do And Do Not

First war era; Remus is reticent (which tells you a lot, I’m sure).

A Creature Void of Form

Post-Azkaban, Remus brings Christmas dinner to Sirius’ cave.

Pain

Character Sketch on how Remus deals with pain.

That the Science of Cartography is Limited

“There is a part of Remus that not only believes, but knows, that Sirius will come back.”

Hell and Back

Remus has to finally face the Ministry’s werewolf registry.

Consider the Lotus

Another Werewolf Registry fic (cw:sterilization)

The Days Are Bright

The summer after finishing Hogwarts Remus was kicked in the face by the Werewolf Registry.

Mercy, Pity, Peace

“He tried not to remember anything at all, even his name.” (tw: rape, death)

So We’ll Go No More a Roving

“Usually Remus doesn’t like to be reminded that he has a body.”

Sing My Heart

The music helps Sirius remember.

A Short Discourse on Cruelty

“Hello, cliché, sighs Remus. Have you met my friend metaphor, and will you stay for a cup of misery?”

Mapmakers

Sirius and Remus’ relationship through Fred Weasley’s eyes, Grimmauld Place era and after, with some help from the Marauder’s Map.

A Quiet Reflection

A mirror remembers Sirius.

Ephemeris

Grimmauld Place get-together fic.

Coffee and Cigarettes (remix)

The first time their relationship ended.

You Say That I Treat You Like a Book on the Shelf

“We lived in London, he writes, and in the summer we listened to music with the windows open and smoked cigarettes after dark. He wanted to buy the book for me, and I wouldn’t let him. We were in love.”

Inhabited By Winter

Remus finds a place to belong.  Get-together fic.

A Fearsome Business

Post-Azkaban reunion fic.  Unfinished.

The Past is Mine

In his worst days, Harry seeks solace in an old photo album. However, a picture of Sirius brings questions to his mind. Questions only one man can answer. Post OotP.

Written by Hand

One year, Remus goes to Romania for the summer and the letters written by his friends are magically charmed to write themselves on the walls of his flat.  Years later, the words are still there.

Faded Laughter Against Her Ear

Ginny finds Sirius’ portrait in the attic.

And Gravity, Scientists Say, Is Weak

“Sirius used to want everyone to look at him”

The Past

“And so he prepares for a life where he’ll always be Remus Lupin; because there’s no one left to call him Moony.”

It Lets You Know You’re Still Alive

Azkaban has changed Sirius.

Combat Rock

Remus and Sirius’ relationship during the first war.

It’s Not the Years, Honey, It’s the Mileage

Sirius visits Remus, post POA.

The Line is Fine

Remus really, really wants to beat the crap out of Sirius.  Or something.  Ah, adolescence

Your Heart on the Line

Things aren’t always simple, but they’re always there for each other.

Longsdune

He supposes that this is what is expected of him, to sit here and listen to wetness sinking into the earth and remember how it felt when it was sunny, and there were four of them, and Sirius Black looked at him like he was a piece of the universe he wanted to understand so badly that he was willing to take Remus apart completely and then put him back together.

Just Another Word

On the first day of winter holidays, Sirius Black attends a funeral, tells a lie, insults a child, is rude to guests, and runs away from home.

The Active Reader

When a craze for pulpy romance novels about Dark Creatures starts in Gryffindor, Sirius reads one about a werewolf -- and decides to write a better one.

In Silence Easy

Easter, 1975. One spring morning, Remus has a conversation with his father that doesn’t go quite the way he feared it would.

A Comfort

Sirius sets out to help Remus battle arthritis… with the help of the world’s second-ugliest Christmas jumper.

Comfort

"Each be other's comfort kind" (Hopkins)

As We Race Towards the Sunset

It’s July 1980, the time of the First Wizarding War. A mission for the Order of the Phoenix sends Sirius and Remus to investigate a Ministry official whose loyalties are unclear. It’s not like they didn’t see the trap coming, but they are rather taken aback at where their mission suddenly takes them.

First Blood

The reality of the war against Voldemort finally hits home for the Marauders when Sirius is captured during what should have been a simple mission for the Order.

The Lost Years

Remus Lupin’s adventures around the world, 1982-1993.

Sweet Home

Being a chronicle of the twelve missing years between the deaths of the Potters and Remus Lupin’s return to Hogwarts.

A Carnival of Dark and Dangerous Creatures

Remus Lupin mystery fic, lost years.  Imprisonment, high angst.

On to Part 2: Humor        

#remus/sirius #wolfstar #remus lupin/Sirius black #rl/sb #fic recs

[trade-baby-blues]

Ghost of Christmas Past

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader (if you squint)

Word Count: 2270

Warnings: ANGST, character death, mention of possible suicide

A/N: Nothing says Merry Christmas like some good ol’ fashioned angst!! Based (loosely) off the prompt “Character A returns to their birth-town for the holidays. Character B is their estranged childhood best friend” requested by @during-a-starry-sky for my Xmas Challenge. Sorry it took so long! Sorry it’s so angsty! Hope you all enjoy!

The wind whispered warnings as you looked over your childhood playground, reminiscing of sandcastles and the pine cone monsters that attacked them. Every second you stood in the cold was another second your heart broke. You could still feel the sand between your fingers and hear the boys’ laughter. Together you made up your own band of three misfit musketeers.

Steve was always the leader, despite being five foot nothing and skinnier than a twig. He more than made up for it with his personality - always picking fights and standing up for the little guys (though there wasn't much standing up when his head barely cleared the other guy’s chest). But that's why he had Bucky.

Bucky was the opposite of Steve in almost every way. Tall, suave, devout pacifist, unless you or Stevie were in trouble. Then he was a force to be reckoned with. He could tap into some deep well of inner rage and send even the biggest bullies packing. One night in the middle of summer, as the three of you stared up at the night sky, Bucky admitted that it scared him sometimes.

Which is where you came in: the nurturer, the peacekeeper. You were the happy medium between Steve’s reckless courage and Bucky’s ruthless brawn. It was your unspoken duty to keep everyone calm, happy, and safe. You weren't quite sure where that went wrong.

The wind ran its cold fingers through your hair, sending a shiver down your spine like an electric shock. How long had you been standing there, a statue guarding what few precious memories you had left? Maybe it was a mistake coming back after all.

Ten years didn't seem like such a long time, just enough for everything to fall apart. Enough for the pain to feel less desperate, no longer the ravenous animal clawing at your chest and ripping your heart to pieces but a dull growl in your ear when you tried to fall asleep, saying you could have been more, could have done more, done something. Instead you ran like Steve ran. Like Bucky always dreamed of running.

Suddenly, as if propelled by the ghost of a pain you never could quite shake, you were standing there again: the corner of Maple and Evergreen. The only bus stop out of town. You stood next to Steve, weighed down by bags almost as big as he was. The air between you was thick and stagnant and you wondered, not for the first time that day, how things had come to this. Steve leaving. You unable to even look him in the eye but also unable to let him wait alone. There were so many things you were bursting to tell him but every ounce of fire in you was smother by the time it reached your throat, so the two of you stood in silence until the bus came roaring up the hill to claim Steve. In that moment, it was scarier than any monster that had ever lived under your bed, and, as you watched Steve get on without looking back, it left you twice as lonely.

You fought past the burning in your throat, bringing yourself back to reality. There was no use reminiscing. It wouldn't bring either of them back. You straightened your back and closed your eyes, as if you didn't still see them every time you blinked. As if you didn't see Steve’s smile in every streetlight or hear Bucky’s laughter on a warm wind. Every inch of this town breathed with them, which is why you felt like you were suffocating.

You loosened the top button of your jacket and kept your eyes trained firmly on the ground, dragging your feet to stir up the snow. You could almost feel it dripping down every patch of exposed skin as you, Bucky, and Steve wrapped up yet another snowball fight. You and Buck always let Steve win. After all, victory didn't matter much when the three of you spent the rest of the afternoon curled up next to each other with cocoa and movies.

Steve would fall asleep first, head in your lap while you stroked his hair. You and Bucky would stay up a little longer talking about everything and nothing. What you wanted to do after high school. What kind of fruit you thought you would be. Most often, you'd talk about leaving. Finally getting out of this dead end town.

The plan was New York. Steve wanted to be an artist and there wasn't a better school in his eyes than NYU. It was perfect, because you had your sights set on Columbia. Bucky, on the other hand, wasn't sure yet what he wanted to do. Maybe architecture. Maybe culinary school. The only thing he was sure of was that he would follow you and Steve to the ends of the earth if he had to, and more than anything you wanted him to. It would have made those first semester easier.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out the small die cast Statue of Liberty you’d picked up at the airport. You could almost hear Bucky’s voice teasing you, saying, “You went all the way to New York and this is all I get?” But you knew he would have put it on his bookshelf as soon as he got home. He had a shrine of souvenirs just like this, reminding him that there was a whole world outside this town. A world with more than one traffic light and paved driveways.

The snow was starting to sting your knees, but you couldn't bring yourself to care as you set the model down in front of you. It was a bright pop of green against the white earth and brown flowers. You ran your fingers over the stone, hoping that maybe now, after ten years, it would somehow feel real but it still felt like a dream. You could see your fingers move but the feeling was far away, as if it was someone else’s hand caressing the inscription:

                                          James Buchanan Barnes.                                                    1982-1998.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again, laying in your bed in the dead of night. Something woke you up, but you couldn't remember what. A dream? No, a noise. Knocking. Then, a door opening. Floor boards creaking. A chair scraping against the floor. Whispering words you couldn't make out but in a tone that made your heart leap to your throat. You crept out of your room to hear better.

“We’ll need to talk to her.” A voice you didn't recognize.

“I’m not sure she’ll be in any state to talk when she finds out…” Your mother, voice catching on the brink of tears.

“I can tell her. It’s my job.” You saw the glint of a sheriff’s star catching the kitchen light.

“Tell me what?” Every eye in the room snapped to you standing in the doorway, a picture of youthful innocence in bare feet and dinosaur print pajamas.

Your father stood, placing a hand on your mother’s shoulder. She pinched her eyes shut and you saw a tear fall. “There’s been an accident,” your father said, voice steadier than his hands.

“What kind of accident?”

The officer stood. “At the quarry. A body was found. We don't know what happened, exactly, but it, um….It was Bucky.”

You watched the officer’s mouth move but every word he said was drowned by the buzzing in your ears, in your head, in every nerve in your body. You felt like you were on fire and frozen all at once. It was like your spirit left your body, flying over the town to the quarry, to the spot you knew Bucky liked to sit and watch the stars. The rocks stretched out before you like the blanket he kept hidden there and you could see every star reflected in his eyes. A sinister voice slithered through your mind, casting every memory you had with Bucky into shadow: did he fall or did he jump?

Without warning, you bolted from the house. You heard your parents calling after you but didn't dare stop, as if running would keep your thoughts from catching up. Your bare feet slammed against the gravel of the driveway but the pain was far away. There was only one thing that mattered now: Steve.

The blinking lights of the cop car made every shadow dance mournfully across the lawn. The door flew open as Steve tore out of it like a devil out of the gates of Hell. He didn't have far to run as you rounded the corner and the two of you curled around each other, pulling each other close enough you could almost pretend you didn't feel the empty space where Bucky’s arms would be.

Then, you were in a police car, both still in pajamas, on your way to the station. Then you were in a morgue, shivering less from cold than from fear, looking at the face of your best friend. Then, you were 18, throwing off the covers in your bed as you gasped for air, still able to picture the way Bucky’s arm stuck out at odd angles even under the sheet, the way his eyes stared not at you but through you to the emptiest parts of your mind and you wondered if the nightmares would ever stop. If you really wanted them to, since it was the only way you could see Bucky now.

“How long have you been sitting here?” A voice asked, soft and sad but without pity.

You wiped your eyes hurriedly and loosed a hollow laugh. “I don't know actually. I just got lost in thought.” You stood, but your knees buckled beneath you and the weight of your grief. A pair of strong arms reached out to grab you before you hit the ground. You shook as much snow off yourself as you could, mumbling a thank you before looking up at the stranger and time seemed to stop.

You could hardly believe it was Steve. He was twice the size, all muscle and height now, and, yet, when you looked in his eyes you saw the same world-weary gaze of a man who knew too much pain. He smiled the same goofy half grin he only ever gave you and Bucky and, even if you didn't know how, you knew it was Steve.

“Come on, it's cold out. Why don't we go get some coffee?” You nodded and he threw an arm around your shoulder, shielding you from most of the wind.

The diner was almost empty, and the Christmas music coming from the jukebox in the corner made the silence between you and Steve more painful. You poked half-heartedly at the plate of waffles in the middle of the table while Steve looked out the window, hoping maybe he'd find something to say.

Finally, you dropped the fork along with your pretenses and looked at Steve. “Why are you here?”

Steve looked down at his coffee, the fluorescent lights highlighting the bags under his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“I have family here still.”

“I have family here, too.” He looked at you, then, and you felt the pieces of your heart swell for a moment.

In your head, your voice was confident but when it came out it sounded more like a lost child: “You left.” It was your turn to avoid eye contact.

Steve reached across the table for your hand but you pulled away, hiding your hands in your lap. He sighed, fidgeting with the corner of a napkin instead. “I had to. Everywhere I look I just….”

“See Bucky,” you finished. You looked up and Steve nodded. You watched him tear at the napkin edges and noticed the roughness of his hands. You reached out and took them in yours, wondering when they stopped being so soft.

“You didn't go to NYU.”

“No, I went to Brooklyn. Joined the Army.”

“And a gym by the looks of it.”

Steve laughed. You’d missed the sound. “Yeah, Stark’s Gym. I work there now, actually.” Steve turned your hands over, tracing a finger along your palm. “What about you?”

“Columbia. Like we always talked about. I wanted to invite you to graduation, but I…,” you but your bottom lip, pulling your hands back again. You took a breath to steady yourself and looked out the window. “I haven't heard from you in years, Stevie. You could've been dead too, and I never would have known.”

“I know, I-”

“Do you? You were in Brooklyn this whole time. That's a 45 minute trip to upper Manhattan and you never once made it.

“And I want to make up for that. If you'll let me.” Steve reached across the table, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb brushed your cheek and, despite your anger, you let yourself melt into his touch. “Come on, kid. Whaddya say?”

“Just because you grew a few inches doesn't mean you get to call me kid.”

“No? How about being born two days before you?”

You rolled your eyes, mouth pulling up into a smile you weren’t sure you could make anymore. “Shut up, grandpa.”

Steve laughed the same deep-bellied laugh you’ve missed, and, for a second, you saw the same impish glint in Steve’s eyes that always signalled trouble when you were kids. You smiled back and suggested you go see a movie, not wanting to part ways just yet. The two of you slid out of the booth leaving a third mug of cocoa sitting on the table untouched.

Tags: 

@during-a-starry-sky @ wefracturedmotivation (Idk if you want to just be tagged in Tony stuff or all marvel stuff but lmk and I’ll update it!! Idk if/when I’ll have more Tony stuff coming)

A/N part 2: Sorry I haven’t updated in so long!! I had to finish writing a script for my producer and then I was crazy depressed the last few days so I didn’t have any energy to write, but!! I think I’m back in the groove of things!! And I intend to finish all the fics even if it’s after Christmas !! 

#marvel imagine #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #christmas follower celebration #my fics #I truly did not imagine my first Steve fic would be so angsty.....

[crdenhart]

10 Movies You Should Watch This Halloween 2017

October is here, and now is the time to get into the Halloween spirit! Instead of the traditional “best of” Halloween movie list (don’t need to mention yet again how much I love The Shining, the first two Halloween films, and The Exorcist), here are a list of 10 movies (in release date order) that may not be as well known or not usually listed among the upper echelon of scary movies but perfect for this 2017 Halloween season and worth a look.

Eraserhead (1977)

“In Heaven everything is fine…”

The spectacular new season of Twin Peaks just came to an end last month, so this Halloween would be the perfect time to take a look back at David Lynch’s brilliant feature film debut on its 40th anniversary.  The film create a sense of total dread and darkness in its beautiful black-and-white cinematography, eerie sound design, and well-acted performances. It is pure horror!  The film has inspired a significant number filmmakers over the years, including Stanley Kubrick while he worked on The Shining. It may be one of the most important movies ever made!

Phantasm (1979)

“Boooy!”

This cult-classic horror film was remastered in HD this past year (with the help of JJ Abrams) so this Halloween would be the first time to experience the film in its full visual glory.  I love the creepy music, eerie sets, and low-fi feel of the film; feels like being in a haunted house. Really high quality for such a low budget and some really good scares, especially Angus Scrimm as the menacing Tall Man. If you like movies such as Stranger Things, Super 8, and the Halloween series you will love Phantasm!

Vincent (1982)

“Vincent is nice when his aunt comes to see him, but imagines dipping her in wax for his wax museum.”

This early Tim Burton stop-motion short film is a masterpiece! Vincent Price provides the narration with great inflection.  The animation is top-notch and some of the best stop-motion work ever; love the dark visuals and music.  At some points it feels like we are getting a glimpse at Tim Burton’s childhood.  The short celebrates its 35th anniversary this year, and its influence shows in the many stop-motion films that have been released since (i.e. Nightmare Before Christmas, Corpse Bride, ParaNorman, Frankenweenie). It’s almost as if all stop-motion animated films have to be horror-themed and this one was the first.

Halloween III: Season of the Witch (1982)

“Happy, happy Halloween, Halloween, Halloween! Happy, happy Halloween, Silver Shamrock!”

Most overlook this film and pass on it as “the one without Michael Myers,” but Season of the Witch is actually a great horror film in its own respect. John Carpenter’s idea of having a different Halloween-themed story with each sequel while maintaining some of the same crew and cast (albeit in different roles) was way ahead of its time and now seems to be commonplace with American Horror Story changing its story and characters every year.  I love the cinematography, special effects, scary soundtrack, especially the dark “Silver Shamrock” commercial song.  The movie also celebrates its 35th anniversary this Halloween.  Definitely worth another look because it is actually a good horror movie, especially if one doesn’t think of it as a Halloween sequel.

Return to Oz (1985)

“There’s no place like home!”

Many see this movie as the weird Wizard of Oz sequel. However, it stands on its own as a truly unique fantasy adventure film. It is actually quite dark in parts; more in the likes of The Neverending Story or The Dark Crystal than the 1939 original.  This movie is great for Halloween with the fall setting, the Halloween visuals (i.e. Jack Pumpkinhead, the thousand-head wicked witch Mombi), and the spooky interpretation of Oz.

Stephen King’s It (1990)

“They ALL float down here. When you’re down here with us, you’ll float too!”

If you like the new IT adaptation (or if you don’t), definitely check out the 1990 original. The new film has more impressive special effects and is a better movie overall, but the 1990 miniseries holds a special nostalgic place in my heart and is much scarier thanks mostly to Tim Curry’s terrifying performance as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. This film also would make a great introduction to the horror genre to younger viewers because it scary without the excessive gore or gratuitous sex found in many horror films.

Halloweentown (1998)

“Being normal is vastly overrated.”

With the passing of star Debbie Reynolds this past December, this Halloween is the perfect time to pay tribute to the late actress by watching one of her best films.  My siblings and I watched this film and its sequels (the 2nd one is good too, 3rd and 4th are not so much) every Halloween at our grandparents’ house. Not really scary as much as it is a fun Halloween movie. I love the decorative set designs of the town (it’s a place I would love to visit if it were real) and the cool costumes used for all the monster characters who live in Halloweentown. It’s a movie all ages can enjoy!

The Sixth Sense (1999)

“I see dead people.”

With writer-director M. Night Shyamalan making a successful career comeback earlier this year with Split, this Halloween is the perfect time to take a look back at the film that made him a celebrity filmmaker. The atmosphere and performances are incredible!  I used to watch this film for the horror elements as a kid and in my teen year, but now as an adult, I see this more as a film about love and relationships.  There are some scenes that really hit me deeply on an emotional level, especially in the scene where Cole tells his mom how much her mother really loved her and the final scene with Malcolm and his wife.  One watching this movie can see why Shyamalan was at one point thought to be the next Spielberg.

Rob Zombie’s Halloween (2007)

“Behind these eyes one finds only blackness, the absence of light.  These are the eyes of a psychopath.”

This Halloween marks the 10th anniversary of Rob Zombie’s Halloween film (my dad and I saw it theaters on opening day when I was a high school freshman). It is quite possibly the best horror film of the past 15 years! Though not as much of classic or as scary as the 1978 original, the 2007 film stands above other horror remakes (i.e. Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, The Fog, Prom Night, Psycho, Amityville Horror) and succeeds by being its own thing and not trying to be a carbon copy of the original.  I especially like the performances including Malcolm McDowell as Dr. Loomis and Daeg Faerch as young Michael Myers.  Also some really great cinematography and use of colors and overall pacing that gives the story a grand scope.  Plus it has a killer soundtrack featuring awesome songs like “God of Thunder” by KISS, “Baby, I Love Your Way” by Peter Frampton, and “Love Hurts” by Nazareth.

Trick ‘r Treat (2007)

“Always check your candy.”

Good elements of dark comedy are sprinkled throughout this colorful horror anthology. I like how the film is several Halloween-themed shorts that are all tied together.  It’s the rare horror film that is both fun and scary!  Also check out writer-director Michael Dougherty’s short animated precursor “Season’s Greetings,” really retro and creative!

Happy Halloween!  By the way, as an added treat, here is a picture from my animated Halloween short in post-production called “Halloween Cat.”

#halloween #movie list #movies #michael myers #John Carpenter #rob zombie #m night shyamalan #trickrtreat #sixth sense #halloweentown #tim burton #vincent #return to oz #it #stephen king #tim curry #horror #american horror story #halloween iii #season of the witch #eraserhead #david lynch #phantasm

[toongrrl-blog]

The Mommy Myth: Attack of the Celebrity Moms

Gonna try and structure it a lil’ bit different, hit it!

Debby Boone

January 1981, Ronald Reagan was inaugurated as president and Debby Boone, 1978 Grammy winner, poses with her three month old child for the cover of Good Housekeeping. Like her father who has oozed his brand of sanitized rock ‘n’ roll (as not to freak out white parents and grandparents), Debby has become a pioneer: the celebrity mom profile. Inside the issue we learned that baby Jordan eats very well and sleeps 8 hours a night (good) and he is healthy because Debby took SUPER GOOD CARE OF HER BODY during her pregnancy as she ate health food and weighed only a pound less than before she was pregnant (okay Deb), mostly due to healthy food and prayer (news to the church ladies my Mom knows), this was a surprise (okay), and baby Jordan loves music because his grandfather Pat Boone and great-grandfather Red Foley were musicians (well most babies like music and noise). The celebrity mom profile where she reminds the female reader that she is a poised, trim, stylish, perfect mother unlike you the mom who stresses over tax season, is a household drudge, and eats junk food when the kids are asleep.

Kirstie Alley

February 1994, Kirstie Alley (remember Cheers, Fat Actress, It Takes Two, and Look Who’s Talking?) invites In Style magazine into her fourth house in Bangor, Maine that she paid in with cash, a house that is like her: “at once down-to-earth and whimsical”. She’s a mom now with a “playful sense of style” that is evident by the decoupage grapes on her son’s highchair and was made to look antique and worn. One year old True (that’s his name!) has his highchair facing a ceramic pig holding a blackboard on which a new word appears to encourage his reading proficiency (never too early to start teaching kids to read!) We see Kirstie’s life is made easy with decorators, nanny, a cook, and personal assistants and True having two hour nap times (I will check with relatives of young babies and toddlers to see if possible) where Kirstie works out with a personal trainer and eats a fat-free lunch (well we know what happens when you diet for so long). Kirstie gushes about how “being a mother has given me a whole new purpose. Every day when I wake up it’s like Christmas morning to me, and seeing life through True’s eyes gives me a whole new way of looking at the world” (yeah I don’t know anyone who actually feels that way and what about those who found a purpose without having kids? Sorry charity volunteers and recovering alcoholics!) 

Flash forward to 1997 where Kirstie is star of the then-new Veronica’s Closet where she has a new man, new show, and a new baby. We learn her Maine home has fifteen bedrooms and she loves decorating this huge place, which includes a nursery-rhyme garden for True and baby Lillie. Kirstie talks about this facial treatment she has every morning where she blasts her face with oxygen and enzymes with a plastic hose hooked up to two pressurized tanks (guess Joan Crawford’s beauty regimen wasn’t hardcore enough?). 

Annie Potts

I admit there could be some bias here, I grew up on Annie Potts (Ghostbusters, Designing Women, Any Day Now, Pretty In Pink, GCB, Toy Story) so that might color my commentary (though I try to keep a bit of Susan J. and Meredith here). In California, we enter Annie Potts’s “Casa de Mayhem” (actually really cute, nice to see she nice great decorating sense outside of Iona’s fabulous digs) where her nanny corrals Potts’s 16 month old where a wing was built in the anticipation of the baby Jake’s birth (how?), where there is a darkroom for her husband, a bedroom for the assistant (late night slumbers?), and an office for Potts and also a pool. Somehow her white furniture remains immaculate (just like Megan Draper’s white carpet). Annie Potts believes that her son may be the reincarnation of her cat Gus and covers her chairs with cow-print vinyl.

Cheryl Ladd (Or a more Honest Time that was soon to be past)

During a different time Ladies Home Journal in March 1979 reported on Cheryl Ladd (Charlies Angels star and singer for Melody) as a mother where she admitted even with her household staff and her four year old with a nine year old’s vocabulary (by 1979 standards!) , it can be stressful which Goldie Hawn admitted to in smaller profile. Back then the celebrity moms were glamorous and embraced intensive mothering but they admitted it had it’s ups and downs, sentiments that were gone by the late 1980s where “motherhood was sexy” or “blessed”. Also the houses and toys became more lavish and the moms were always gushing with Whitney Houston stating she “never found anything more fulfilling than being a mother” (okay that makes me sad in hindsight, RIP Whitney and Bobbi Christina) and celeb moms saying they have transformed as people since having babies (babies are not reform school people nor life coaches). And was so awkward when Christie Brinkley said she got it right with her 3rd kid (no shade really, she was neat as Gayle Gergich). 

In Celebrity Momma land there was no such thing as postpartum depression, saggy tits, leaky nipples, extra fat or economic, political, and social barriers or sexism, racism, and classism or even bratty kids or lazy or tired partners. They were (in the words of Michaels and Douglas) “June Cleaver with cleavage and a successful career”. They were allowed to bring the kid to work and they were always in love with their husbands....until not (these gushing profiles were the equivalent of that couple on Facebook with the perfect photos but argued a lot in real life). And while most of us bounce between the hip cynic and the corny romantic, we can see through it but still feel insecure by it. 

Princess Diana (and the Rules of Celebrity Motherhood)

She was one of the most watched celebrity moms ever since her engagement to Prince Charles and even after the Royal Gyno certified her as a virgin and fertile in 1881...no I mean 1981 when she married him. Then in June 1982, William was born while she was around 20 years old. This girl clearly was picked by the Royal Family because she was young, pretty, not very assertive, fertile, and a virgin. He was her sister Lady Sarah’s ex-boyfriend and she thought he was hot since she was 16....keep in mind there is like a fourteen year age difference and she was a late teenager when they got engaged and married. The Press talked about his adoration for her and they had for a while the image of the picture-perfect family where nothing was wrong, she was naturally very thin and he thought she was the only woman in the world for him and wouldn’t want to be another woman’s tampon. Of course the cracks were obvi, early on, the Royal Family was all about projecting that image and Diana played along, being and playing devoted mom and she was, just she couldn’t be tired or want a lil space from the kids while the cameras were rolling. She even looked slim during her second (!) pregnancy! Which she timed perfectly. We now know that was a eating disorder. She had a ton of tasks on her schedule (charity) and often turned the kids over to a nanny but tried to give a normal life to her kids and expose them to people less privileged than they. Diana was a child of divorce, close to her younger brother, was depressed and bulimic, happened to marry a guy from a tradition bound family when she was starting to find herself, why does our culture encourage women to bound themselves to motherhood and marriage before they figured themselves out as people? And we know stuff about the Windsors as a family from The Crown. 

1. “The mom is gorgeous, in clear control of her destiny, and her husband loves her even more once she becomes pregnant and the baby is born.”

2. “They are always radiantly happy when they are with their kids.” And the kids are always happy too, as it reflects well on the moms...

3. “They always look and feel fabulous--better than ever--while pregnant, because they are nutrition experts and eat exactly what they should and have the discipline to exercise regularly. No varicose veins, no dreaded ‘mask of pregnancy’, no total exhaustion, no unflattering comparisons to Weber barbecue kettles or Chris Farley. And they time their babies perfectly. Control, control, control. 

4. “Whatever your schedule, whatever institutional constraints you confront that keep you away from or less involved with your kids, it must be clear that they are your number-one priority, not mater what.” Big thing when working moms were dealing with workplace rules making it hard to be there for their children and be on top at work.

5. “There must be some human frailties, some family tragedies, some struggles or foibles that bring the celeb down a peg, make her seem a bit more like us and allow some of us to identify with her.” 

6. “The celebrity mom is fun-loving, eager to jump up and play with the kids at a moment’s notice. She’s always in the mood. She never says, ‘Not now honey. I don’t feel like it. Mummy’s tired. Mummy’s too lazy. Roller-coasters make Mummy barf.”

7. “...truly good, devoted mothering requires lavishing as many material goods on your kids as possible.” You even have to be lavish with the nursery. 

Moms of Color

When the genre found it’s boom, Celebrity Moms were mostly white and straight (except for Rosie O’Donnell and the then-closeted Jodie Foster) and many writers and editors at women’s magazine said that white women don’t want to read about black women (crushing a soda can in my hand). Then women like Whitney Houston and Gloria Estefan started having kids and magazines like Ebony have done profiles like “The New Motherhood” and “The Joys of Being A Stay At Home Mom” where educated and employable black women became housewives (no statistics offered) and yes Ebony has always done that and spotlighted activists and their families. I also want to point out that the magazine has always been socially conscious, because Police Brutality and racism are still alive, with recently black celebrities posing with their sons as a statement against the police killings of young black people.

Now Susan J. Douglas and Meredith Michaels ask: should moms of color be glad to be celebrated with this lofty pedestal or be concerned about how fragile this pedestal is? I think Jodie Landon says it all.

Why all this matters

The Celebrity Mom profile presented a narrow view of motherhood not afforded to many ordinary mothers (whether you are of color or white, working class or middle class, have many kids or just one, are religious or spiritual or atheist, stay at home or part-time or salaried) cannot live up to. Celebrity Moms have existed for a long time but when the 1980s came, that is when motherhood practically became even more of a sport or a performance about how one can be the perfect supermom and make those who feel ambivalence feel like they are terrible mothers who ate too many junk food and were always tired, and had photos with no photoshop or personal trainers or stylists. In the Reagan era, being wealthy was chic: “trickle-down” economics, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, dramas about wealthy people, ads from Calvin Klein and Ralph Lauren that breathed new life into the preppy look, Merchant Ivory films focusing on wealthy people in the old days and Mommie Dearest was a bestseller on the bookshelves and the theaters that made publicists very busy. 

Also let’s talk about the beginnings of People magazine. In 1974, after market researchers for Time magazine noted that readers read the “People” section first before reading other parts of the magazine, Time-Life launched People magazine. Following was Us Weekly in 1977 and then the tabloids started doing more celebrity journalism, even local TV news magazines like Evening which gave way to Entertainment Tonight and then we heard the more serious news shows talking about celebs. Also while we were turning away from “experts” who were never moms or did diapers, we looked for role models as we needed to be role models and Celebrity moms were women who had lucrative and high-paying jobs and motherhood; they were also attractive role models as they suggested an alternative to being a frumpy or presentable-but-in-the-background or sexless has-been after having kids. Then women’s magazines started featuring more celebrities and they have before but now more so than ever. Redbook magazine, according to an anonymous employee who reported to Douglas and Michaels, said that the magazine conducted focus groups to see which celeb would sell the best: one year it was Kathie Lee Gifford, a few years later it was Meg Ryan, also headlines with words like “a tragedy” “triump” or “a secret” or a combo sold like hotcakes. This is not to suggest people working the magazines or the celebs keeping their brand were calculating cynics, just take things with a grain of salt...

What about Regular Moms?

Let’s give up for the Joan Holloways, Trudy Campbells, Betty Drapers, Karen Wheelers, Rochelle Rocks, Debbie Eagans, Tamme Dawsons, Peggy Olsons, Megan Drapers, and Joyce Byers of the world. Who while reading this piece of treacle, are dealing with unhelpful or tired or abusive husbands or having no husband, struggle with feedings and diaper changes, with loving their babies and missing their old lives, and with having a bit of weight after baby or had to fight it off and still find that things are very different. Who had their sleep disrupted after baby and spent a good chunk of their day in curlers. The Moms who felt sick, swollen, fat, gross, un-sexy during their pregnancies or even sans pregnancy, and never had that “glow”. Basically the moms doing all they can for their kids and have their own demons to exercise and are made to feel bad by their role models; some of them didn’t have role models (like their Moms don’t understand the context of their lives). 

Celebrity Mom profiles bring up the same stereotypes that plagued women like Betty Draper and Karen Wheeler: that women are all nurturing and maternal, love all children, and prefer motherhood to anything even work and are the main responsible figures. Also add the competition from consumer culture of pitting moms against moms and encouraged self-loathing in women. 

To ordinary mothers of America, those of us lacking the staff of a French chateau, and the joyful outlook that goes with it, these ceaseless profiles of celebrity moms with their perfect children and perfect lives are a rebuke, a snub, and a warning. Fail to get with the program and your kids will not make the grade, your husband won’t look at you the way he used to, and, worst of all, other mothers will see you for what you are: an unworthy loser, a bad mother. 

To all the Women stuck with the Second Shift, homeschooling, keeping the home afloat along with their careers during this Pandemic, thank you. Shout out to the Lois Foutleys working the front lines while they deal with their families and to the Helen Morgendorffers who wish they were at work (really, don’t let any “having a child is more important than a career” people make you feel bad). And to the essential workers like Joyce. 

#The Mommy Myth #Susan J Douglas #meredith michaels #women in media #motherhood in media #women's magazines #motherhood #celebrities #Stranger Things #Karen Wheeler #1970s #1980s #1990s #2000s #2020s #COVID19 #Coronavirus #Debbie Boone #Kirstie Alley #Mad Men #Megan Draper #White Interior Decorating #Good Housekeeping #In Style #People magazine #Us Weekly #Entertainment Tonight #Celebrity Journalism #glow netflix #Debbie Eagan

[rebeebit]

Alan Andrews-Katz 3.4.20

What follows is my remembrance of Alan. I’ve been piecing this together over twenty four hours, as soon as I knew Alan didn’t have much longer.

A recent picture taken in Seattle.

August, 1999. My Honda Civic was packed with my worldly possessions. Twenty-one year old me lacked direction in life, so I picked a cardinal direction in which to drive. West. Until I couldn’t go west anymore. So I drove to Seattle, found a place to live and job, and figured the rest would sort itself out.

I’d never lived in a city. I decided the most economical choice was to find a roommate situation, so I responded to a few ads and met some folks. I realized that cities were full of bizarre people that I didn’t want to live with. One house already had six people living in it, but to a 21 year old that sounds kind of fun. It’s denizens were: a quiet art student, a frat boy from the midwest, a woman with OCD who was on disability who said that if she didn’t take her meds she’d wash her socks in the washer one at a time, a guy studying to be a kindergarten teacher, another who performed with the Seattle men’s choir, and a German lady. (Later on the German was swapped for a boisterous Hawaiian. No offense to Germans, but it was a step up.) At least half the people in the house seemed sort of normal and the price was right, so I went for it.

Alan, the would-be kindergarten teacher, and I became fast friends. He was 13 years my senior but we connected immediately. As we were both single, we were often not around on weekend evenings, but whenever we were home together, we watched movies together, traded books, and laughed our asses off. He got sick a lot. I mean, an abnormal amount of time. So I’d always take care of him: bring him coffee in bed (I started work late), and get him anything he needed. We bought a Christmas tree for five dollars that year, and it was the saddest Charlie Brown Christmas tree anyone had ever seen. But for our budgets - him, a teacher in training, me a canvasser for the Sierra club - it was perfect. We loved driving our roommate Roy up a wall. Roy was the midwest frat boy, and since fraternity culture was anathema to Alan and me, this was a natural bonding point for us. We all liked each other, truly: I think Roy couldn’t figure out his affinity for a punk rock girl and her gay boy pal, but he did get really mad at us once when we pointed out to him how homoerotic all the flight scenes in “Top Gun” were. How could something so masculine, so American be so….gay? Roy left the room, and Alan and I giggled our way through the rest of the movie, high as kites.

Over the course of the year we saw each others’ boyfriends come and go. He always gave great advice and boosted my confidence, something I sorely needed at the time. We trusted each other. One day in the spring I was coming home from a visit to Chicago. As I walked in the house, Alan and another man came out from the kitchen. I looked the fella up and down and said I was pleased to meet him. They said their goodbyes, and I sat Alan down to dish about his date: of course, any man either of us dated would have to be vetted by the other. Alan really liked this guy Eric, and they saw more and more of each other.

I got restless. My visit to Chicago got me thinking about moving on, as canvassing wasn’t turning out to be the glamorous job I thought it would be. I found a job in Chicago and moved in August, 2000. Alan and I hugged and cried when I left, and we promised to keep in touch. I saw him in Chicago when he flew out for an interview, and then two years later when he and Eric  got married. They had a beautiful wedding in Seattle with a view of Puget Sound and Mount Rainier. I brought the guy I’d been dating for a year and a half - it was Alan’s turn to vet. When Alan and Eric were saying their vows, I heard a sniffling next to me. Andy was crying. I was pretty sure he’d get the approval.

By 2010, Eric’s writing was taking off, and they came down to do a reading in Denver. I took them on a tour of our Front Range mountains, and we stopped for lunch in Idaho Springs. Talk turned to Alan’s health. At this point, he was on peritoneal dialysis due to non-functioning kidneys, and he was blind in one eye as a side effect from an anti-viral drug. I commented that he struggled so much with his health, and seemed to get the most bizarre afflictions. “Do you know my whole story?” he asked. I was confused, no, I didn’t think so. “I’m HIV+, I have been since 1982.” I was dumbfounded. I’d had absolutely no clue. Then he said, “is it still OK if we stay in your house, now that you know?” I told him Eric could, but Alan was sleeping in a tent in the yard for asking such an idiotic question. We hugged and cried. 

I started worrying about Alan all the time.

Over the next 17 years, Alan, Eric, Andy and I would see each other. Andy’s work often took him to the Pacific Northwest, and he’d always visit “The Boys” if he had time. I went up for Alan’s 50th birthday. He told me once that in the mid-1990s, he was given three months to live. “Say your goodbyes,” the doctor told him. Alan thought to himself, “I’m not dying yet,” and he didn’t. He was down to 95 pounds and had AIDS, but he simply decided not to give up. He kept living - a few years after being told to say his goodbyes, he met Eric, the love of his life. So he told us he never thought he’d see his 50th, and he was just so happy to still be here.

Andy, Alan, Eric, and I became a great foursome over the past few years, and we would reunite at least once a year for Pride, and then other times as luck would have it. Over time, we developed those hilarious in-jokes and secret languages characteristic of the best couples. Most of my friends have probed the limits of my vulgarity, and I thought I had a pretty high bar for what was offensive. Alan and Eric would regularly vault right over that bar, leaving the four of us in hysterics. We also had a constant shifting of allegiances: Eric and I would sing the “Monorail” song from The Simpsons, prompting Alan to tell us that we should get married; Alan, Andy and I would harangue Eric for doing stupid things while playing board games; the boys would gang up on me for being a girl; Andy and I would make the boys faux vomit when we commented on certain decor items in their home that appeared vaginal. We always left our visits with Alan and Eric giggling for days. In recent years, that laughter was coupled with concern. Would Alan get a kidney transplant? When would the next crisis be?

One thing I always admired about Alan was that he never complained. He was always exhausted, he had to be careful with his diet, and despite a fierce desire to work he could never work full time because he always got sidelined by illness. I’ve never met anyone with so many interests and passions: he was a voracious reader, and amazing pastry chef, he was a pharmacy tech, he would have been a teacher but he realized the pay was idiotic...the list goes on. And for so many of the years I knew him, he never complained. Insomnia from dialysis? At least we have coffee. Loss of appetite from his meds? Great weight loss program. Nausea? Well, that one wasn’t too fun, but at least I’m still alive, he'd say, and I have marijuana. And for so many other complaints, he’d always say anything was better than being dead.

I really started to worry the past few years because he started to struggle. He admitted that his life was challenging. He started doing hemo-dialysis two years ago, and this meant going 3-4 times a week, for almost half a day, for dialysis. He told me that dialysis took an equivalent toll on your body as running a marathon (to put things into meaningful perspective for his runner friend), and afterwards he usually crashed for a few hours before dinner, and then having an early night. But he still said that he’d rather be alive and dealing with all of his problems than be dead.

It sounds cliche, but that’s how I want to honor Alan. He got mad at me once for making him cry on the bus (we were texting), because I told him he was the toughest human I know. When the going gets tough, I’m going to remind myself to remember Alan. That no matter how terrible things are, they really could always be worse. When life is good, I’ll remind myself that this is what I’m living for. And if I’m really trying, I’ll top off my PollyAnna (Polly-Alan?) with a sweet smile and a witty joke.

[steliosagapitos]

       Jean Leon Huens

    Jean-Léon Huens is a Belgian illustrator. His schooling completed, Jean-Léon Huens continued his studies at the Institut Saint-Luc and ends at the top of the Cambre Decorative Arts Institute in Brussels. He illustrated children’s books (edited from the immediate post-war by Casterman and in collaboration with Jeanne Cappe, historian about children books: Cinderella and Other Tales of Perrault, The Little Match Girl, Blondine Bonne-Biche et Beau-Minon), greeting cards and calendars published by and for known printers (including printmaking workshops  De Schutter in Antwerp), yet collected.

A part of his work was exhibited at the Museum of the Book of Brussels in 1951 and at the Royal Library in 1977 as part of the exhibition The Illustrated Book in the West from the High Middle Ages to today. Titular of many certificates of merit from the Society of Illustrators of New York in 1962, Jean-Léon Huens as been introduced twenty years after his death in June 2002, in the Hall of Fame of the same company.

Jean-Leon Huens (sometimes abbreviated as Jean Huens) was a Belgian-born artist who did work both in Europe and the United States. He produced many paintings for National Geographic and Reader's Digest, book covers for Dell, and illustrations for Christmas cards, comic book covers, and children's books. He was poised to be a major contributor to Time/Life Books Enchanted World, but passed away after completing only one picture for them. Howard E. Paine, the former Art Director for National Geographic, had this to say about Huens when the artist was inducted into the Society of Illustrators Hall of Fame in 2002:

2002 Hall of Fame Inductee: Jean-Leon Huens

1921-1984

The eyes of Gerardus Mercator; 16th-century Flemish cartographer; look into mine. The bearded old man is surrounded by maps and a globe, and holds in his hand a pair of dividers. His head is tipped slightly, and his eyebrows are raised, as if he has just posed a question about geography or mapmaking, and, like a patient professor, awaits my answer.

I found this portrait in an issue of Penrose Annual and wrote the author to see if the painting could be used in a map exhibit I was designing for the National Geographic Society. He forwarded my request to the artist in Belgium, and in a few days a small envelope arrived on my desk. In it was a postcard-size image of Mercator and a letter from Jean-Leon Huens telling me that this was the original painting and “May I ask you to guard this with your life.” I was amazed that he would dispatch this exquisite little gem across the Atlantic, and to a perfect stranger!

Thus began a collaboration and a friendship that was to last for 17 years.

Generous in many ways, Jean-Leon Huens was most generous in the rich detail that he gave to every painting. Instead of using shortcuts and simplifications, he took great delight in recreating the wood grain in furniture, the texture of clothing, the brickwork of old buildings, the wrinkles of old age. And over all a gentle Flemish light that unified all the elements of these miniature masterpieces.

Huens was a master not only of detail and of lighting, but also of perspective and composition. His panorama of Bethlehem at the time of Christ, painted for Reader’s Digest, compels the eye to wander the streets, rooftops and plazas, and to end up back at the beginning, still wanting to mingle with the more than a hundred people going about their business. The panorama appeared in the book Great People of the Bible and How They Lived. And also as the jacket design.

Huens painted many covers for Reader’s Digest but they appeared in the magzine’s international editions and were rarely seen in the United States. Reader’s Digest also commissioned Huens to make more than a hundred paintings to illustrate Shakespeare’s works. The book unfortunately was never published. Twenty-two of Huens’ paintings were donated to the Society of Illustrators.

Those works in the Society’s collection are small, measuring but 5.25 by 7.25 inches. They are breathtakingly precise glimpses of scenes from Julius Caesar, Hamlet, and Macbeth: Calpurnia, on bended knee, begging Caesar not to leave; Macbeth hiring two wicked knaves to murder Banquo; Hamlet rejecting Ophelia with the line, “Get Thee to a nunnery…”; Macduff holding Macbeth’s severed head.

Had the book been published, these paintings would certainly have enriched the iconography of Shakespeare’s work. But now they are stored in dark archives, seldom exhibited, because of the very light-sensitive nature of Huen’s work.

Huens painted with what he called “water color pencils,” which enabled him to render detail with great precision, later brushing a slight wash of clear water over the areas to blend the colors. He worked from photographs of models in various poses and costumes, often posing himself. His wife Monique—researcher; correspondent, translator, critic and photographer—assisted him throughout his career.

   Jean-Leon Huens was born December 1, 1921, in Melsbrock, Belgium. He attended the institute of St. Luc and completed his studies at the Academy of La Cambre, in Brussels. At the end of World War II, while still in his twenties, Huens began illustrating children’s books for publishers such as Casterman, Marabout, Desclee-DeBrouwer and Durendel.  

  In 1946 Huens and his brother Etienne founded the Historia Society, with the aim of popularizing Belgian history through more than 400 paintings—village scenes, battle scenes, coronations, hangings, and portraits of heroes such as Gerardus Mercator. Huens’ carefully researched paintings were lithographed in full color, each 3.75 x 5.75 inches, and were offered as premiums with packages of tea, chocolate, spices, and biscuits. Like nineteenth-century trade cards, the Historia Society cards are prized collectibles today.

As soon as I saw the Mercator portrait, I knew that Huens could enrich the pages of National Geographic, and in short order he was working on portraits of Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, Newton, Herschel, Einstein, and Hubble, all of which appeared in the May 1974 issue. A year later, National Geographic published four Huens paintings in a story about Sir Francis Drake, including a heart-stopping view of the Golden Hind in the stormy seas of the Straits of Magellan. He later painted scenes of life in Thrace (ancient Bulgaria), and, for a major article on the Byzantine Empire, two large, fold-out paintings. One, a map of the Byzantine world, was painted as if it were a mosaic assemblage, a self-imposed challenge that he may have regretted, but one he finished flawlessly. The other, an aerial view of ancient Constantinople, is equally powerful.

Huens’ Christmas cards throughout the years, painted in full color, showed Father Time in a wide variety of styles and situations, giving us a peek at Huens overflowing wit and humor. This made him the perfect artist for a Time-Life Books series called The Enchanted World, a set of books about wizards, merlins, magic and mystery. Huens completed but one painting, a promotional piece to help get the series marketed, before he died suddenly on May 24, 1982, in Benissa, Spain.

In his 60 years, Jean-Leon Huens had seen his work heralded throughout Europe, amd had successfully expanded his audience to the United States. Now, 20 years after his death, the Society of Illustrators pays tribute to Jean-Leon Huens by inducting him into its Hall of Fame.

[chroniclesofawkwardness]

Candy Kane

I’ve never been a big fan of family pictures, or holiday celebrations. When I was about seven, my brother Derek and I had our picture taken with our cousin Kyle, who couldn’t have been much more than a year old. Kyle was smiling, but also pointing at something off in the distance (probably a prop the photographer was using to make him laugh). Derek and I had on clip-on ties that were recycled from a previous Easter. I wore thick, almost square-framed glasses. if I left the house with them on today, they would almost certainly impede my ability to successfully procreate. I had little choice at the time since I needed corrective lenses, and wouldn’t start wearing contacts for at least another six years. 

By the time I’d made the switch, the photo of Kyle, Derek, and me belonged to a museum exhibit—frozen in time like the Iceman—of pictures my grandparents loved, but their grandchildren wished no longer existed. By 1999, they’d moved into a house much smaller than the one in which they’d raised their six children, and the photo had been relegated to a literal wall of shame in their basement. Along the wall were senior pictures of my mother and her siblings, and various photos of the nine grandchildren, including that of a triumvirate of boys c. 1988. I can’t think of a time anyone whose picture was on the wall expressed fondness when looking at it. Each of us probably thought about what we’d tell our younger selves if we passed them on the street, or secretly wished to remain arrested in that state of childhood development, our entire lives uncertain, unfolding, before us one day at a time.

The biggest reason I’ve never been a huge fan of holidays, family pictures, and especially family holiday pictures is because the only capture one moment in time, moments that, for better or worse, are frozen on film or stored in cloud of data and never really gone. Whenever the holidays come around, I have a tendency to cram an entire year’s worth of socializing into 48 hours, or however long I get to spend with my family and friends.

In my family, those occasions are typically when we celebrate some Puritans surviving a hard winter despite wearing ridiculous hats, and the birth of a boy who somehow managed to erase his teenage debauchery from the record. You know he had to screw up those miracles dozens of times in private before nailing them (oops) in public by his early thirties. This must be why we never hear about the zombies of Arimathea he couldn’t quite bring all the way back from the dead, or the numerous weddings he crashed around Nazareth during puberty, flexing to prostitutes about how he could turn water into wine in exchange for performing a number of sins his Dad didn’t have to know about (but would later be considered deadly because Mary Magdalene couldn’t keep her mouth shut) only to deliver vinegar.

I guarantee you Jesus promised Joseph of Arimathea eternal salvation as thanks for the years of resurrection practice, and in return for the use of his tomb one Friday night. Mary Magdalene showed up at the tomb three days after the crucifixion because she finally realized how serious Jesus had been about her fucking up his chances to keep holy the Sabbath day with a bridesmaid, before he hit it big and all the lepers wanted a piece (oops again) of him.

Anyway… If family pictures remind me of who I used to be, holidays remind me of things I used to wholeheartedly believe in.

My first picture with Santa was probably taken in 1982, before I had the surgery to straighten out my leg that left me with a cool scar. My enthusiasm for the holidays faded as I grew older and began to challenge my beliefs that one man could deliver presents to all the world’s children in a single night, and the three wise men could find Jesus just by following a star.

After passing at least numerically through teenage angst, I started to realize how incredibly fortunate I’ve been instead of complaining about what other people had that I didn’t. But what really got me comfortable in my own skin was volunteering, a series of activities in which I put myself in some very uncomfortable positions by surrounding myself with people and places I didn’t know. Still, my desire for the uncomfortable hasn’t weakened my ability to attract the absurd.

I recently had a chance to volunteer at Santa’s Workshop. I put on my elf hat (which I later found out had been on backwards all night) and got to work in the arts and crafts area, but that didn’t last long. Macaroni pictures weren’t doing it for me. I needed a different challenge.

Soon enough, I found my way to where Santa was. My backwards elf hat and I had to keep the line moving so every kid would have a chance to see Santa before closing time at 6 PM. Thee were all kinds of characters around me. Rudolph was there, and so was this character that had Pinocchio’s face, but looked how I imagined the Frisch’s Big Boy would if he’d been on a liquid diet for six months. “Who’s THAT?” I asked the event coordinator. “That’s the Elf on the Shelf,” she replied. “Oh… shit… I was way off,” I said. Whenever I caught the characters waving to children and their families as they passed by, they looked like those people from 80s and 90s workout videos who got stuck doing the low-impact versions of the exercises everybody else was doing at full speed. I wondered if they were secretly asking themselves why they agreed to do this, quietly cursing themselves for not auditioning to sell shit on QVC instead.

I’m not sure if the first child whose Santa aftermath I’ll remember for a long time was just really upset, had a cognitive deficiency, or both. Either way, he or she was not happy. My first post near the man of the hour was standing outside a fence they’d set up around Santa’s chair. My job was to wave the kids and their families forward once the previous family had enjoyed their moment in the makeshift winter wonderland. As the child left Santa’s lap screaming bloody murder and passed through the fence with his/her parent or guardian, they let out a sound I can only describe as a Home Improvement-era Tim Allen grunt mixed with visceral cry for help: UHHHAAHHHOOOOO! 

Before I knew what was happening, the child headbutted themselves against the exterior glass of the Lazarus building, like Kane and the Undertaker from another spoiled childhood fantasy of so many— professional wresting. All the person accompanying the child said was, “Now honey… Don’t hit your head.” All I could think was, “Damn.” But as a man wearing a backwards elf hat, I couldn’t say shit to them.

Not long after witnessing a pediatric concussion, I found myself in the path of low-impact Rudolph herself. I slightly embarrassed myself by giving her a fist bump and talking to the person in the suit as though they were the red-nosed reindeer in the flesh. I came back to my adulthood while low-impact Rudolph was in the middle of muffled sentence about candy canes. I noticed had a bucket in her hands, which I assumed had been filled with the striped holiday icons. There were no candy canes in her bucket, but I did notice a set of Toyota car keys. In my confusion, I almost blurted out, “Shouldn’t you be guiding a sleigh instead of a fucking Camry?” Some things are best left unsaid.  

For the first two hours we were there, the line to see Santa seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, which made the next encounter I remember even more excruciating. A lady walked up and stood right next to me, thus blocking my view of the line and preventing me from doing the one volunteer task I was explicitly asked to do. To make matters worse, she started offering a running commentary on all the children she saw in Santa’s lap, like a color commentator at a sporting event who didn’t know when to just shut up and let whatever moment they were witnessing wash over them.  

It didn’t matter whether they were boys dressed in identical suits for the obligatory in-lap picture with the big man (Oh, how cute!) or babies whose faces became contorted with red hot agony upon being separated from their mothers and embraced by a strange man (Oh, he is NOT having it!) The line seemed to grow infinitely longer during her soliloquy and I found myself thinking it was a shame the crucifixion of the guy whose birthday everyone would be celebrating in few weeks didn’t draw a crowd like this. In Survivor, Chuck Palahniuk observed that on some crucifixes, Jesus looks jacked enough to be modeling Ray-Ban sunglasses and Guess jeans without a shirt on. I can’t help thinking Chuck would concur that since not everyone will reach that level of supposed piety or physical fitness in a lifetime, it’s a bigger draw to remember God’s only son immediately after he humbled himself to share in our humanity the same way we all started—as a baby.

Anyway… as her commentary droned on, found myself wishing I could be the elf in the holiday classic A Christmas Story who tells Ralphie to get a move on before Santa kicks him down the slide, “Let’s Go!!!” But it bears repeating that in my backwards hat, my powers of persuasion were limited.

Not long after the soliloquy ended, I was approached by what I assume was a mother and daughter pair who were wondering if they’d ever get to see Santa. “I don’t know if we’re going to make it,” the older one said. “Let’s just take my picture with the elf.” “Actually, my name’s Dav…” I wanted to protest, but with my powers weakened, all I could do was acquiesce to their demands. The younger woman held a smartphone at what seemed like six different angles during our impromptu photo session. By the time they were done, I felt certain I was destined for Instagram infamy.  

Eventually, the powers that be decided that I should move inside the fence and stand on the glitter-covered red carpet in an effort the speed up the queue after sunset. Before I went to the other side of the fence, someone asked me if I knew whether or not they’d be cutting people off at 6 PM. I didn’t, but I wished they would. I was growing tired of head injuries, seething, teething infants, and watching people taking selfies or recruiting the other elves to take pictures of them standing under one of the arches leading up to Santa’s chair.

I must have been distracted. The next time someone tried to get my attention, I was accused of holding up the line. The man had on a white, short-sleeved polo shirt. The woman wasn’t wearing a coat, but had on something I never thought I’d see on Santa’s red carpet: a leopard-print dress and dull pink high heels. “I used to be a Santa’s helper in this building,” she exclaimed. She said something else, about 1978, but I was too busy trying to avoid another “Damn” moment to really pay attention. “Actually, we just want our bathroom done. He’s working on our house.” “Fine.” I muttered. She proceeded to throw herself at Santa like he was Hugh Heffner, and she was Playboy Bunny. The whole scene looked ridiculous, but so did I.

After the final patrons had paid Santa a visit, the other volunteer elves and I sat for our own picture with the man himself. It was likely the first time I’d had my picture taken with him since the year the picture of Derek, Kyle, and I was taken. I wasn’t filled with regret over my evaporated childhood and its beliefs, or terribly concerned that no one said a word about my backwards elf hat the whole night. I was glad I’d put myself in another uncomfortable position and come out clean on the other side minus the glitter that will be stuck to the bottoms of the shoes I wore that night for months. I was reminded of the importance of not trying to cram everything into one season, or in Santa’s case, one night. Let the kids have their beliefs and grow up to challenge them. I didn’t have to sit in Santa’s lap to tell him that wish come true was all I wanted for Christmas. I have a funny feeling that whoever he is, was, and has been, he knew what I wanted long before I ever asked.

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

I accidentally joined one cult after leaving the Unification Church cult

I decided I needed to get out of this church immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

by HANNAH               November 21, 2014

When we opened our eyes, I could still feel the fleeting warmth from his hands placed on my head. We sat in a circle as he led us into a quiet chant known as the “moola mantra.”

“Moola? Like money?” I wondered. The incense smoke snaked throughout the room. I noticed a donation bowl being passed around. Yes. Like money.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I readily joined the others in chanting, not really knowing what they were saying. When I couldn’t remember the next phrase, I just Milli-Vanilli’d my way through it, letting the other voices fill in the gaps for me. I’ve had a lifetime of chanting in a language I didn’t understand to prepare myself for this.

In 1982, my parents, among many others, had an arranged mass marriage at Madison Square Garden (photo above), performed by the infamous Sun Myung Moon. With a simple hand gesture, Sun Myung Moon matched my parents together among a sea of brides and grooms, and five years later, I was born, the second of four children. It’s always troubling to think about how my very existence was decided by some Washington-Times-owning, money-laundering, homophobic, sushi tycoon/sexist cult leader, but I guess it makes things interesting.

Our childhood was…weird, in a word. Even as a kid I found myself thinking, “Why are we selling flowers at the side of highways?” “Why are we going door-to-door making strangers drink juice?” “Why are we sprinkling salt over our groceries?” “Why are we waking up at 5 a.m. to bow to a picture of a Korean man and a bowl of fruit?” “Why are we chanting right now, I mean, really? What language is this? I’m tired.”

Friends would come over and ask who the Korean people were in the photos around our house, referring to the Mr. and Mrs. Sun Myung Moon.

“I…uh…they’re my grandparents.” I often found myself saying.

“But…you’re…not Asian,” they’d reply, stating the obvious.

I’ll never forget my birthday during the blizzard of ’96. My parents took us to one of Moon’s mansions in D.C. to meet some witch doctor of a woman. She claimed to embody the spirit of Sun Myung Moon’s dead mother. We stood in line behind a closed door in the foyer.

Before the door slammed shut, I caught a glimpse of a large group of people gathered around a woman and a boy. The woman had her eyes closed with the boy sprawled over her lap. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and seemed to be crying. Red marks were all over him. He tried to escape her grip, arms extended to what I assumed to be his mother, who sat silently in the circle. Then, the door shut. I’m haunted.

Finally, my turn came. I nervously sat myself next to the woman. She lifted my shirt, prepubescent chest exposed, as the captive audience watched as I was hit several times on my back. She prayed in Korean over me. And then, applause. It was over. Somewhere, there is a photo of my brother and I standing in front of the mansion after the woman hit us that day. We were smiling.

Beyond the ritual abuse, there was a certain strain of poverty that only a child of a cult could understand. You get used to communal living and sleeping on floors very quickly.

Before we eventually settled in the D.C. metropolitan area, we had traveled around the country, staying in attics, basements, and church-owned hotels and mansions. There’s a very real cognitive dissonance that occurs when you’re living in a mansion, sleeping in a tiny bedroom with all six members of your family. In that mansion, I befriended a young, Japanese opera singer who lived on the top floor. She’d French braid my hair and show me pictures of her fiancé, a man she had yet to meet.

I thought this was so strange, but I would later learn that being “matched,” or engaged to a stranger in another country was common. At 17, it happened to one of my best friends. I’ll never forget the look of misery on her face as she stood in her wedding dress, among the sea of brides and grooms, holding the picture of her future husband.

It was then that I decided I needed to get out of this church, immediately, before I became some stranger’s child bride.

Within days of that decision, I got a phone call from an old friend.

“Do you want to get your third-eye opened?” She asked.

“Do I…what?”

“You heard me. Get your third-eye…opened.”

When we arrived at the house, a blue-eyed man answered the door.

“David!” Joanna squealed. “It’s so good to see you!” He wrapped his arms around her, practically swallowing her tiny frame. “Hannah, this is David. We met at a commune conference. We couldn’t stop staring at each other from across the room. It was kismet.”

David laughed and put out his hand to shake mine. “Nice to meet you, Hannah.” He led us inside, where a bald-headed man was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed deep in meditation.

He opened his eyes and spoke with a soft cadence. He introduced himself as Daniel. He told us that he had recently returned from a trip to India, where he received a special blessing known as “deeksha,” from a group called “The Oneness Movement.” By taking part in this expensive ceremony in India, he became empowered to pass this gift of enlightenment to us.

He instructed us to close our eyes as he guided us into meditation. He came around the room and gently placed his hands on our heads. I was struck by the similarities of this ritual with another my parents performed for my birthday. There is something spiritual about having someone caress the crown of your head while they speak in soft tones over you. I felt enlightened, or at least relaxed. Like Fox Mulder [The X-Files], I wanted to believe. But there was a Dana Scully in the back of my head that wouldn’t completely let me.

I began attending meetings regularly. Daniel and I developed a close friendship where we spoke on the phone daily. At one point, I was $300 short for my rent, and without blinking, he loaned me the money. Three months later, I found myself riding in a car with him to attend a Oneness Movement get-together in Pittsburg.

We pulled up to a row house in Pittsburg, where we were greeted warmly by a jolly man. He placed prayer beads over our heads, luau-style. “Namaste,” he bowed, and we did the same. He led us upstairs to his railroad apartment and gave us a tour.

“And this…is my Christmas room.” It was August.

There were two entirely decorated trees with trains circling around them. Presents galore. Reindeer, flashing lights, snowmen. It was Christmas hell. I took a seat, completely entranced and horrified by the mechanical Santa’s never-ending “ho-ho-ho” mantra. I kept thinking, “Where am I?”

Daniel called me into the next room where others had already gathered and were chanting in harmony.

“Sat chi ananda. Parabrahma. Purushathama. Paramatma. Sri Bhaghavathi Sametha. Sri Bhagavathe Namaha.”

I sat on my knees, and just as I was about to lower my head in a child’s pose bow, I noticed a familiar face from across the room. She looked a lot like Diane, a Moonie truck driver who would stop and make us oxtail soup when she passed through town. She loved talking about God with my parents. No. It couldn’t be. It was. Our eyes met. In a panic, I lowered my forehead to the ground to hide my face.

Finally, the chants subsided, and a faint voice spoke up. “Hi, I’m Anthony and I prepared a song for you all.” I slowly raised my body, trying to hide my face behind my hair. A mousy-looking teenager stood before us, boom box ready. The familiar sound of chimes and wind instruments filled the room. I knew this song.

“Olha eu vii lue mostar…” He sang. “Como é belo este mundo…”

He was singing “A Whole New World,” the Disney classic, in Portuguese. I noticed Diane was full-on staring at me. I panicked just as Anthony’s falsetto kicked in for Princess Jasmine’s part of the duet.

“Um mundo ideal…Um mundo que eu nunca vi…”

I looked around the room, scanning for any sign of acknowledgement from another human. Nothing. I noticed everyone in the room was in fact, crying. Was I that cynical? Should I feel something right now? Watching Anthony shimmy his way through the intense key change was definitely a spiritual experience, but I still didn’t want to give these people my money. I felt duped. This “whole new world” suddenly felt a lot like the old one.

I retreated to the Christmas room in an attempt to hide from Diane. On a table, I noticed a photograph of Sri Bhaghavan and his wife, the founders of the Oneness movement. They were sitting in chairs, like royalty. The photograph was nearly identical to ones my parents kept of my pseudo Korean “grandparents.” Horrified by the parallels, my inner Dana Scully finally broke through.

I spent the rest of my time at the retreat doing just that — retreating. I slithered along the walls, and managed to avoid a conversation with Diane other than, “funny meeting you here” and “please don’t tell my parents.”

When I left my respective cults, I was excited to be integrated into the real world, a place without cults, or so I thought. Not so. These days, I see cults everywhere: cults of influence, cults of institutions, cults of politics. You learn a lingo, you follow a set of rules, a code of ethics. Sometimes you wear a uniform and a name tag. Sometimes you are sleep-deprived and haven’t seen your family in weeks. In a world where CEO’s are more likely be to sociopaths, it’s harder to define what is a cult and what isn’t.

What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.

_______________________________________

Hannah

After selling flowers as a child with the Moonies, Hannah is now a part-time florist. Her life has hilariously come full circle. She is also a songwriter and musician. She is a student majoring in human services and hopes for a career in social justice advocacy.

_______________________________________

A few of the comments on Hannah’s story:

mrsdanger So interesting, would love to hear about your life now and your parents’ reaction to leaving.

Keith All religions are cults, some are more destructive than others. Thank you for sharing your story. Write another story for us later to let everyone know how you are doing on your new journey.

sara_ahoy I understood what she was trying to say here. A lot of successful people become that way because they refuse to follow the rules of society, some are more aggressive, and willing to throw other people under the bus in their bid for a promotion. Cult leaders tend to act similarly, acting charming but ultimately bullying their way into leadership positions and ruling through fear and ignorance.

We like to think that the societal rules that we all follow are there to benefit us, but I’ve found time and time again that I’m paying arbitrary fees of all kinds that go straight to a rich businessperson somewhere…

Lalaloki … they sure discourage people from ever taking a day off, even when sick. And then, when people do call out sick, there’s a sort of underlying guilt involved. People are being paid to be there, sure, but in a cult, people are being “paid” salvation.

tracy This is perfect! “What’s important is listening to your inner Dana Scully, no matter how badly you want to believe. The truth is out there, sure, but it’s also inside you.”

Huh Wow, you should write a memoir! I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian church that was very cultish. We left in middle school and it was hard adjusting to the real world but my “inner Dana Scully” has been strong and made me skeptical of all things spiritual ever since. My advice: If a group (religious or otherwise) makes you isolated or relies heavily on secrets get the hell out!

FoxMulder She needs to know the truth is out there

breebree Moonies aren’t rich at all! The majority (my parents included) dropped out of school and donated ALL of their money to the church. And keep doing it. Ugh, so stupid.

berly I want to know why the cult did a ritual of hitting children? [ansu, a Korean shaman ritual to get rid of evil spirits]

_______________________________________

The FFWPU / Unification Church and Shamanism

Soon-ae Hong (the mother of Hak Ja Han) spent two years in Chuncheon Prison after Ansu beating an 18-year old boy to death.

Fear and Loathing at Cheongpyeong Lake

#shamanism #Hannah #2nd gen #moonies

[the--blackdahlia]

Don’t Blink Chapter 10 (John x Reader)

Title: Don’t Blink Chapter 10

Summary:  When (Y/n) takes a simple haunting case on her own, she gets in way over her head. Being transported to the past, she falls in love with a young marine with a killer smile. The only problem is she knows his sons and his girlfriend wants to kill her, and probably knows about twenty ways to do so.

Warnings: Language, messing up canon

1982

 John had picked up (Y/n) over an hour later. She had almost bailed on him, heading over to Missouri’s house until he just gave up, but she couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t hurt him again. So she let him take her to lunch.

 “I’ll have a beer.” John told the waitress. He looked at (Y/n) with wide eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry. Do you want me to change my order?”

 “You can drink a beer John.” (Y/n) explained. The waitress left to bring them their drinks. John kept watching (Y/n), who was staring down at her menu. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. And she knew this. She couldn’t look up at him right now because she knew that she would start crying the moment she did.

 “(Y/n)…” John whispered softly. She knew there was no avoiding the sound of that voice. She slowly looked up at him. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?” He asked. There was no anger in his voice. Just pain.

 “No…” (Y/n) admitted. She had been hoping that she could avoid him and get out of the 80’s. Maybe if the angels didn’t know that John Winchester had another bastard child in the world, she could keep him or her safe. And if John didn’t know, then the demons and angels couldn’t know, right?

 He reached out and gently put his hand on top of hers. He didn’t want to scare her off. He didn’t want her to disappear on him again. Or if she did, he wanted to take Dean and go with her.

 “Do you know the gender yet?” He asked. (Y/n) shook her head.

 “No. I’m only about a month along.” (Y/n) explained. “I don’t even have a doctor.” John’s eyes widened.

 “We’re taking you to a doctor.” He said. “Mary had high blood pressure when she was pregnant with Dean. I just want to make sure that you two are okay…” (Y/n) couldn’t help but smile at how protective John was. It made her think of the stories Dean and Sam told her about the grumpy old hunter. She never had officially met him. She had seen him once in passing before she showed up at the hospital to find out he had died. But what John said next brought her out of her memories.

 “Because I love you.”

 (Y/n) stared at John, unsure of what to say. It was impossible. John couldn’t be in love with her. He had to be in love with Mary. That’s what the angels told Dean. That John and Mary Winchester’s love was written in the heavens.

 “But…you and Mary…”

 “We don’t love each other.” John explained. “If I didn’t love Dean so much, I probably would’ve left by now. I’m not my father, I’m not going to just abandon my child like that.” (Y/n) stared at John.

 “John?” (Y/n) said softly. “I love you too.”

 ****

 A few months had gone by. John accompanied (Y/n) to doctor’s appointments and hugged her tightly when the doctor told them they were having a little boy. Mary hadn’t been happy about all of this in the least, but had come up with a plan that broke (Y/n)’s heart some.

 Mary and John would take the boy after he was born and raise him as their own.

 Of course, (Y/n) wanted to keep her son with her, but she knew that she couldn’t very well stay in the 80’s. She had to get back to her time and helping the boys stop the Apocalypse. But it was Christmas Eve and she was currently living in the guest room at the Winchester’s home, much to John and Missouri’s pushing.

 “You look amazing.” John said as he watched (Y/n) rub at her belly through that t-shirt. Mary and Dean were both in bed. John was supposed to set out the presents from Santa, which he had already done. Mary knew that there was no keeping John away from (Y/n), so she had pretty much given up.

 “John, you’re just saying that because I’m half naked.” (Y/n) laughed. John shook his head and took a Polaroid from a junk drawer on a desk in the room. He raised it and snapped a picture of (Y/n). He took a pen and wrote on the back of the picture before smiling. “John, it’s only ’82.”

 “Well, our son is due in ’83 and it’s almost New Years.” He laughed. (Y/n) smiled and kissed him gently.

 “You better get to Mary.” (Y/n) said. “Dean’s gonna be waking the two of you up soon to open presents.”

 “I wanna stay here.” John pouted. (Y/n) kissed him again.

 “Tomorrow night you can unwrap your present.” She whispered in his ear. She could feel him shiver with excitement. John gave her one last kiss before heading down to Mary and his bedroom. (Y/n) sighed softly. How did things become this crazy? How was she destroying what she thought had been a perfect marriage. If Dean and Sam found out the truth, they would probably kill her. John was a man so in love with Mary Winchester that he set out on a one man vendetta against the thing that killed her.

 (Y/n) stared in the mirror, rubbing at her swollen belly. Mary was supposed to be pregnant too, but she didn’t think she was. Sam was supposed to be born May 2nd, and (Y/n) was pretty sure that he wasn’t premature. Suddenly, things started to click together. (Y/n) as due late April or early May. She was having a boy. Mary wasn’t pregnant yet….

 Her eyes widened as she realized this wasn’t just some bastard child in her like Adam.

 She was pregnant with Sam.

 ****

 Present

 “I’m so done with angels!” Dean screamed out. “Cas, get your feathery ass back here!”

 “I’m afraid he can’t do that right now.” Zachariah laughed as he stood off to the side of the room. Dean glared the angel down.

 “And why the hell not?” Dean asked. Zachariah shrugged.

 “He had things to do.” HE told the hunter. “Things involving your brother.”

 ‘Leave Sam alone.” Dean said. Zachariah laughed.

 “Not that brother Dean.” Zachariah said, shaking his head.

 “Adam’s dead.” Dean told him. Zachariah snapped his fingers and Cas appeared, a slightly familiar blond boy at his side. “Adam?”

 “We brought him back so you guys could have a lovely family reunion.” Zachariah laughed. “Those things that the Doctor brought here are fixing a timeline that we created, so we think all of you deserve the truth. Might make saying yes a little easier.” Sam walked in as Zachariah disappeared. Cas stood there, holding Adam.

 “Adam!” Sam walked over towards him. Adam pulled back from the angel and the hunter slightly.

 “Where’s my mom?” He asked. “Bring her back.”

 “Dude, she got ate by ghouls.” Dean said. Cas sighed.

 “Adam, your mother is not dead.” Cas explained. They all three looked at the angel.

 “What? But we saw her.” Dean said. Cas shook his head.

 “Sam and Adam’s mother is very much alive.” He realized what he had said after the fact. His eyes widened as Dean’s narrowed.

 “Sam’s mom is Mary Winchester.” Dean said. Cas sighed and shook his head.

 “Mary Winchester is not Sam’s biological mother.”

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[the-record-newspaper]

The Killing of Rhonda Hinson Part 16

Rhonda Hinson’s best friend, Jill Turner-Mull , above left in 1980, and right, today

By LARRY GRIFFIN                                                                                            Special Investigative Reporter For The Record

…Basic procedure of a murder investigation is to start with those closest to the victim and work your way from there; but, it sounds like basic investigative techniques were not used in this case...—Crystal Carroll Williams, former dispatcher for the Burke County Sheriff’s Department, commenting on the Remembering Rhonda Hinson Facebook page.

Once, there were four friends—two couples to be precise.  

The two males were friends, but not the best of. The two females were, in fact, the best of friends and had been since the 4th Grade—almost like sisters.

The quartet attended the same high school; and, throughout their Senior Year and beyond, the couples would “hang out,” double-date, and even ventured to the beach together.  Of course, they graduated together during the same commencement ceremony conducted in the East Burke High School’s gymnasium.  

Three of the four—the two males and one of the females—matriculated at three different colleges; one stayed behind. She aspired to seek gainful employment and join the workforce, having grown weary of school.  So, while her friends and boyfriend continued to navigate the world of books and assignments and push pencils across the lined pages of college-ruled composition notebooks of academe, she quietly secured a job at a local steel company to make money to pay for her new automobile.  She enjoyed her work and quickly added a few new friends to her circle.

At length, her boyfriend and friends returned from their academic pursuits to celebrate Yuletide and resume their former associations.  But two mornings before Christmas,--while traveling back to home and family subsequent to attending her employer’s evening Winter-fête—this barely-19-year-old’s life-force was precipitously and inexplicably extinguished by a single high-powered bullet.

And the quartet of friends was no more.  One was taken; three remained.  

During the formative hours of the consequent homicide investigation, it was assumed by the people that the surviving triumvirate would be among the first individuals interviewed by the local constabulary. Two were—the best friend and the boyfriend.  The third—the best friend’s boyfriend and a comrade of the boyfriend of the slain young woman—wasn’t interrogated until 14 years, 12 days after the murder of his girlfriend’s best friend.

Jill Turner-Mull, the best friend, recently recalled details from her three interviews with law enforcement—the first just hours after the killing of Rhonda Hinson.

 “I was an 18-year-old who had just lost my best friend when they came to my house to question me during the afternoon of December 23rd.  I remember one of them was John McDevitt [Burke County Sheriff’s Department; the other—I am thinking—might have been John Suttle [SBI].  At first, they kinda started a little slowly—asking me to position myself at a location in the funeral home during receiving of friends so that I could possibly identify any strange behavior by the people attending the viewing.  But then they asked me the question they came to ask, “Where were you the evening before Rhonda was killed?”

Jill informed her inquisitors that she had been in the company of her boyfriend, Mark Turner.  She explained that he had picked her up from her parents’ Hazel  Street home and took her to his parents’ house in Indian Hills off the Cape Hickory  Road.  

“I told them that Mark’s mother, Barbara, fixed dinner for us; afterwards, we watched a movie before Mark took me home a little after midnight, dropping off at my front door about 12:25 that morning—past my curfew, as it happened.”

Admittedly, Ms. Turner-Mull spent weeks and months walking around enshrouded in a haze of disbelief.  Tears were common as she struggled to come to terms with the surreality of the emotional upheaval of losing her best friend with whom she shared so much.  Frequently, Jill reached out to friends and family for support—especially her boyfriend, Mark Turner.  But to her surprise and chagrin, she found little solace.  

Something had changed in Mark, though I couldn’t quite determine what.  A couple of weeks after Rhonda’s death, I started talking about everything and he said to me, “Jill, Rhonda’s dead; she’s isn’t coming back; and you need to get over it.”  I remember how confusing that response was—it was not typical of his usual emotional expression.  Generally, I found him to always be comforting in situations when I needed him to support me.  But I experienced more empathy from friends than I did from the one person I expected it to come from, you know?  This wasn’t the Mark that I knew.

Jill Turner and Mark Turner started their courtship during the Summer of 1980 just before the commencement of their Senior Year at East Burke High School.  It all began with lockers and levity.

“All through high school, we would frequently see each other at our lockers. The lockers were assigned alphabetically, and ours were always together because we shared the same last name.  But I suppose what really brought us together was an incident that took place on the football field.”

Pictures were being made of the cheerleaders of East Burke High School—both collectively and individually.  The football team was also lined-up on the field watching the photo shoot. Mark Turner was one of those players. Jill recalled that day:

“It was my turn to have my individual picture taken.  So I picked up the pom-poms and walked out on the field in front of the photographer. As I was posing, I heard Mark yell at me, “Hey Turner, if you smile real big, I’ll take you out on a date.”  So, I did, and he did.”

However, in the aftermath of Rhonda’s death, Mark wasn’t behaving like the talkative, easy-going person that he had been.  Ms. Turner-Mull reflected upon this obvious transmogrification in personality:

“I started thinking about how subdued his reaction to Rhonda’s death really was.  I mean, they weren’t close friends like Rhonda and I were; but, we did hang out a lot together, and he did go Christmas shopping with her to buy presents for me.  So, I expected his reaction to the news to be like others of my friends, ‘Oh God, Jill, I am so sorry….’  That didn’t happen with him.”

 In retrospect, Jill noted Mark’s relative reticence and subdued emotional expression in the wake of Rhonda’s murder.

“You know, when I called Mark that morning to tell him about Rhonda and that we needed to go check on Greg, he never questioned it.  He was like, “Ok; let’s go.”  On the car ride to Wilkies Grove, he said very little; usually, he would have been very talkative.  He really didn’t say much of anything at Greg’s house after we arrived there.  And at the funeral home and funeral?  Well, he would stand or sit next to me but was offering no consolation or emotional support.  These responses were just not like the Mark that I started dating and had grown to know.”

And though it wasn’t articulated aloud at the time, the death knell of the Turner and Turner relationship had been sounded. Mark’s obvious indifference to his girlfriend’s suffering played a pivotal role in the discontinuance of their amorous association.

“I can’t find a single letter from Mark [after returning to Western Carolina for the Winter Semester, 1982]…Maybe Mark stopped writing because he didn’t go back to college [Elon] after the first semester.  He went to work at a hosiery mill owned by one of his relatives—just a possibility….But we must have been dating as late as February 18, 1982, because I found a letter from Ann Hodges [Smith] and—according to our verbiage—I was still dating Mark at that time.”

It must have been sometime in March, 1982 that Jill-Turner Mull formally ended her almost two-year relationship with Mark Turner. Shortly thereafter—perhaps over the summer months of 1982—Mark started dating Faith Crump, according to Jill’s recollection.

“I knew Faith well; so did Rhonda.  And, like Rhonda, I have known her since the 4th Grade.  She lived as close to me in one direction as Rhonda did in another direction.  We lived so close that Faith could easily walk to my house from hers.  In fact, she spent as much time at my house as Rhonda did.”

And when Mark Steven Turner and Faith Christine Crump were married at East Valdese Baptist Church, 3 p.m., on Saturday, Dec. 4, 1982; Jill Turner [Mull] was amongst the celebrants.  One of the mutual friends of the bride and groom was noticeably absent—Rhonda Hinson.  

The wedding of her classmates and friends was conducted nine days before what would have been Rhonda’s 20th birthday; nineteen days before the first anniversary of her murder.  

On Dec. 18, 1995, Jill Turner-Mull was married and living in Charlotte when she received a phone call at work from James “Flash” Pruett, a detective from the Burke County Sheriff’s Department.  

“My [first] daughter, Morgan, was six-months-old at the time; and, I was working at Forms and Supplies in Charlotte when he called.  That was the first time I remember being asked about a gray-hooded sweat-jacket that I saw in the back of Mark’s car the early morning of the 23rd when he brought me home.  I told the detective that I asked Mark about it; he said that Rhonda left it there when they went shopping for me a Christmas present.  Well, I didn’t question him further; I was late and needed to get in the house.”

Jill was surprised to learn that the sweat-jacket was found lodged on the rear sundeck of Rhonda’s 1981 Datsun 210 by investigators who inventoried the car’s contents on the afternoon of December 23, 1981.  

On the strength of Jill Turner-Mull’s statement to him, Detective James Pruett set out to locate Mark Turner.

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Image copyright PA

Image caption George Michael at the closing ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics

“Sex, beauty, sadness: All those things resonated with George.”

David Austin is casting his eye over George Michael’s art collection, which is on display at Christie’s in London before going under the hammer on Thursday.

Among the 200 exhibits are a colour-changing portrait of the star by Michael Craig-Martin, a dove preserved in formaldehyde by Damien Hirst, and a life-size bronze gorilla by Angus Fairhurst, which used to live in Michael’s garden.

Austin, who rarely gives interviews, was Michael’s childhood friend, songwriting partner and manager.

He not only put this exhibition together but often accompanied the star when he bought art.

“I remember going down to the White Cube #gallery-0-5 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-5 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-5 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-5 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

one evening,” he recalls. “It was closed when we got there and we saw Damien Hirst’s Saint Sebastian through the locked doors.

“I remember his disappointment at not being able to see it – but I also remember him buying it. It’s such an imposing piece.”

The seven-tonne work restages the death of Christian martyr Saint Sebastian – traditionally depicted as a handsome young man pierced with arrows – using a bull encased in formaldehyde.

Over time, the saint has become a gay icon (more through iconography than biography) and his quiet suffering resonated with Michael.

Image copyright Damien Hirst

Image caption Saint Sebastian, Exquisite Pain by Damien Hirst

The star was frequently drawn to mournful pieces, and the Christie’s sale includes a haunting cast iron human sculpture by Antony Gormley, a pink coffin by Sarah Lucas, and an unsettling collage of broken mirrors and eyeballs by Jim Lambie.

But Michael also had a love of life and a cheeky sense of humour, exemplified by the triptych Urinal and Sex and Handcuffs, a reference to the star’s 1998 arrest for engaging in a sexual act in a public toilet.

“There’s a humour about the art,” agrees Austin.

“In actual fact, there’s a quote of George’s that we use in the exhibition where he sums it all up: ‘I guess I’m just not afraid of being laughed at.'”

Generosity

Austin accompanied Michael throughout his career, playing in his first band The Executive and joining Wham! for their Top of the Pops debut in 1982.

After a brief attempt at his own pop career, he co-wrote songs including I Want Your Sex and You Have Been Loved, and latterly became the star’s manager, “although I hate that word because George really managed himself”.

The art sale is the first public project since the star died as a result of heart and liver disease on Christmas Day 2016, aged 53.

“It does feel very personal walking around it, because George was such a private person,” says Austin.

Image copyright Michael Craig-Martin/PA

Image caption The charity sale includes a specially-commissioned portrait of the star by Michael Craig-Martin

Image copyright Mary McCartney

Image caption Other pieces in the sale include these portraits of Kate Moss by Mary McCartney

All the money raised will go to charity, continuing the philanthropic work he started in his lifetime.

After his death, it emerged that Michael had worked anonymously at a homeless shelter and donated millions to Childline – including the royalties from Jesus to a Child.

“He was a wonderful person,” says Austin. “A caring, kind, giving man.

“It never stops amazing me how he touched people and how much love there is for him.”

He remembers Michael’s final months fondly. They would spend the days working on a documentary before retiring to Michael’s home in Goring-on-Thames to play records or going out for dinner.

“I remember sitting in a restaurant one evening and people were looking across thinking, ‘Ooh, it’s George Michael!‘” he recalls.

“I got up to go to the toilet, and when I came back he was having a cup of tea with two women at the next table. They were just talking about life and their problems, and I was like, ‘What is going on here?’

“That was a small moment, but it was important – because that’s exactly who he was. Everybody warmed to him, from Princess Diana to those two women in the restaurant.”

Image copyright PA

After Michael died, Austin found himself unable to listen to his music until his phone accidentally started playing a live version of Praying For Time.

“I was in shock. I fumbled with it and I wanted to turn it off,” he says. “But then I stopped, and I listened to him and I thought, God, he really can sing can’t he?

“George and I worked our whole lives together – but when you’re in the eye of the storm, you don’t always see it.”

Today, Austin is a custodian of the star’s legacy and says fans have a lot to look forward to.

“I’m going to make sure all of George’s stuff is back out on vinyl,” he says, noting that the Older album, which the star called “his greatest moment”, is currently out of print.

This December will also see the release of a film, Last Christmas, featuring nine of the musician’s most famous songs.

Starring Game of Thrones’ Emilia Clarke and Crazy Rich Asians actor Henry Golding, the rom-com has been written by Emma Thompson and is directed by Paul Feig (Bridesmaids, Ghostbusters).

Image copyright Universal Pictures

Image caption Last Christmas is a rom-com set in London, featuring George Michael’s music

“I did the deal with Emma Thompson because I knew it would be a family film, I knew it would have absolutely massive reach, and we’d be rolling out year after year to a new demographic that would be listening to his music,” says Austin.

“It’s really taking a note out of George’s book. He hated going around selling his wares and this film will do that job.”

Austin denies rumours of an all-star tribute concert but says there are other, secret projects in the works.

“There will be lots more happening in the future. Beautiful and significant stuff, too,” he says.

“My job is just to make sure everybody hears that music and his legacy continues.”

Follow us on Facebook, on Twitter @BBCNewsEnts, or on Instagram at bbcnewsents. If you have a story suggestion email [email protected].

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‘Everybody warmed to George Michael’ – manager on life with the singer Image copyright PA Image caption George Michael at the closing ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics… 1,037 more words

[funnythingshere0-blog]

The 40 Halloweeniest Halloween Movies For Your Next ~Spooky~ Night-In

New Post has been published on https://funnythingshere.xyz/the-40-halloweeniest-halloween-movies-for-your-next-spooky-night-in/

The 40 Halloweeniest Halloween Movies For Your Next ~Spooky~ Night-In

John Francis | Dimension | Universal | Walt Disney Pictures

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The best thing about Halloween isn’t the candy. It’s cozying up to your pillow (or bae, or your pup, or your BFF) with candy to watch a scary movie, be it a bloody extravaganza or an animated classic from your childhood. But let’s face it: the list of excellent, high quality Halloween movies out there can be a tad overwhelming. (Without cheating, do you know how many Paranormal Activity films exist?) Below, in no particular order, a list of some of the best scare fests to ever grace the silver screen:

1. The Shining (1980)

When you think of Halloween, do you immediately see Jack Nicholson’s face from The Shining? Same, along with other images from the 1980 film based on Stephen King’s classic: the Grady daughters, the river of blood spilling out of the elevator doors, and little Danny’s tricycle, to name a few. If you have time and energy to spare after watching this Stanley Kubrick masterpiece, do check out Room 237, the 2012 documentary about different interpretations of The Shining. It’s basically a masterclass on the film with all your pals and—*pushes glasses up*—theories.

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2. The Exorcist (1973)

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There’s nothing scarier than a horror film from the ‘70s, and The Exorcist is a prime example of the type of scare that makes you sleep with the lights on for at least two weeks. Fun fact: The Exorcist was the first horror movie to be nominated for a Best Picture Oscar in 1974, but lost out to the heist film The Sting. To date, only one horror film has won Best Picture: The Silence of the Lambs.

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3. Halloween (1978)

In 1978, Jamie Lee Curtis made her feature film debut as Laurie Strode in John Carpenter’s slasher flick about an asylum escapee who was originally committed for the murder of his sister. Turns out, Laurie, a young woman he stalks, is his other sister. And turns out, this film is just as scary even if you’ve seen it 30 times. Good luck trying to get Carpenter’s theme song out of your head.

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4. Poltergeist (1982)

The most important lesson you’ll get from watching Poltergeist is to turn off your TV and run as soon as the screen fills with static. That, and always, always, check if the land you live on used to be a cemetery.

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5. Psycho (1960)

Long before Jamie Lee Curtis met Michael Myers, her mother Janet Leigh was the face of horror after starring in the Alfred Hitchcock movie that probably inspired folks to skip taking showers in 1960s.

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6. A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

This Wes Craven classic is a winner for several reasons: it makes you never want to hit the dream phase of sleep; you’ll be glad to have a cellphone in 2018; Johnny Depp is in it for a hot minute (it was his first film).

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7. Hocus Pocus (1993)

Halloween movies need not be dark, bloody, and nightmare inducing. Leading the comedy horror pack are the Sanderson sisters, played by Bette Midler, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Kathy Najimy, who are resurrected by a virgin in present-day Salem, unleashing all sorts of mayhem and one of the earliest appearances by actor Doug Jones (as Winnie’s sewed up ex), who most recently appeared as the fish man in The Shape of Water.

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8. Beetlejuice (1988)

Raise your hand if you’ve ever worn a Beetlejuice-inspired costume for Halloween or, more importantly, dressed up as Winona Ryder’s Lydia, aka the goth girl, from the film.

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9. Scream (1996)

This movie had everything: the genius of Wes Craven, the words of Dawson’s Creek creator Kevin Williamson, and a young Skeet Ulrich licking “pig’s blood” while Neve Campbell looked on in disgust. The film, which also starred Drew Barrymore and then-married couple Courtney Cox and David Arquette, spawned three more sequels, along with the spoof franchise, Scary Movie.

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10. Scary Movie (2000)

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The scary films of the mid to late ‘90s, namely the Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer franchises, inspired Keenan Ivory Wayans to make Scary Movie, starring Anna Faris in one of her first films. The kills are over-the-top while the jokes are dirty and wrong, but the film still grossed $278 million worldwide. FWIW, that’s more than Scream’s box office performance ($173 million worldwide).

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11. Practical Magic (1998)

Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman are sisters Sally and Gillian, who try to use their powers (yes, they’re witches) to undo a family curse that results in any significant other that comes into their lives to drop dead. Come for all the magic, stay for Stockard Channing’s commanding screen presence.

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12. The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)

Not long after the Pumpkin King of Halloween Town concludes he’s simply bored with the annual celebrations related to the blessed day that is Halloween, he stumbles into Christmas Town and immediately becomes infatuated, so much that he tries to recreate the holiday at home.

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13. The Addams Family (1991)

This dark comedy is satisfying for several reasons, including the fact that Angelica Huston was born to play Addams family matriarch Morticia Addams. (Seriously, can you picture anyone else in Morticia’s long black dress, blood red lipstick, and deadly stare downs?) The film is extra fun if you do any of the following: clap along to the theme song; wear braids like Christina Ricci’s Wednesday; impersonate Cousin Itt.

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14. Halloweentown (1998)

With the recent discovery that Marnie Piper and Kal (from Halloweentown II: Kalabar’s Revenge) are dating IRL, it’s imperative that you (re)watch the first Halloweentown, which made us all question what we’d do if we suddenly found out we were related to witches. This film is best enjoyed with a plate full of cookies—that you’re allowed to have, of course.

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15. The Others (2001)

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It’s hard to look away from Nicole Kidman’s powerhouse performance as Grace, a loving and religious mother who tries to protect her children from a photosensitivity disease that keeps them indoors. Who still gets chills upon hearing her daughter Anne say, “Are you mad? I am your daughter”?

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16. Friday the 13th (1980)

Before Jason and his hockey mask haunted your dreams, it was his mother, Mrs. Voorhees, who caused havoc at Camp Crystal Lake in the first installment of the Friday the 13th franchise. Yes, this is the film with a young Kevin Bacon, and no, he doesn’t have much screen time.

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17. It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (1966)

Much like the other Charlie Brown specials of our youth, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown was short, sweet, and full of hope. While Charlie Brown and the other kids head to Violet’s Halloween party in full costume (Charlie’s a ghost, Lucy’s a witch), Linus stays behind to wait for the Great Pumpkin to arrive. If you watched this as a kid and feared that you, too, would end up with rocks while trick-or-treating, you’re not alone.

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18. The Craft (1996)

The thing to do in 1996 after watching Neve Campbell and company in The Craft was get together with your friends to chant “Light as a feather, stiff as a board,” only to find out witchcraft does not run in your blood. Or does it?

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19. Paranormal Activity (2007)

Even if you watch this film in broad daylight with lots of people, snacks, and the volume turned down at its lowest, you’ll still flinch and scream so many times you’ll (1) never want to move houses/apartments, (2) never sleep, (3) never look at baby powder the same way. If you ever have literally nothing else to do and want to have a Paranormal Activity marathon, there are a total of six films in the franchise, including 2015’s Paranormal Activity: The Ghost Dimension.

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20. The Host (2006)

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You know what’s scarier than a regular monster? A sea monster in South Korea possibly created by toxic waste dumped by the U.S. military. Such is the creature lurking in The Host, which picks up the second a local snack bar owner’s daughter is abducted by the monster. Warning: you’ll want to avoid any river after watching the film and think twice about dumping mystery chemicals down your sink.

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21. The Blair Witch Project (1999)

The film was revolutionary for its time, as it was made of “recovered footage” from three student filmmakers who disappeared while making a documentary about a local legend (the Blair Witch) in the woods in Burkittsville, Maryland. It also left a lot of audience members in a state of motion sickness (blame the “recovered footage”) and pure shock (blame the final shot of the film).

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22. A Quiet Place (2018)

John Krasinski and Emily Blunt put their real-life relationship to the test when he directed himself and Emily in this post-apocalyptic horror film about a family living in silence while monsters with super sensitive hearing hunt humans. The film is so good a sequel has already been ordered for 2020.

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23. Carrie (1976)

Stephen King’s first-ever novel was such a hit that it was made into a film starring Sissy Spacek just two years after the book’s release. Spacek played Carrie White, the 17-year-old telekinetic power possessing outcast who puts an end to a long reign of bullying by her classmates after a bucket of pigs’ blood is dumped on her at prom.

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24. Train to Busan (2016)

South Korean heartthrob Gong Yoo plays a divorced fund manager who tries to survive a zombie apocalypse while on a high-speed train with his young daughter and hundreds of other passengers, including a heroic man and his pregnant wife, a high school baseball team, and a homeless man with a big heart.

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25. Get Out (2017)

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A young man goes and his girlfriend go on a weekend getaway to her parents’ house, only to find out the family’s dirty, horrifying secret. Jordan Peele won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay for his directorial debut, which starred Daniel Kaluuya, Allison Williams, Bradley Whitford, Catherine Keener, and Lakeith Stanfield.

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26. Edward Scissorhands (1990)

Tim Burton’s imagination blessed the world with the heart of Edward Scissorhands (Johnny Depp), who’s taken in by an Avon-selling suburban mom after she discovers him in an abandoned mansion. Edward immediately falls for the woman’s daughter Kim (Winona Ryder), and the rest is Kim’s story to tell.

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27. Casper (1995)

Two words: Devon Sawa. If you fell in love with him in the mid-1990s, it was likely due to his ever-so-brief appearance in Casper, in which he melted hearts with the words, “Can I keep you?” Christina Ricci was excellent as Kat as well.

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28. The Conjuring (2013)

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The Conjuring franchise, which most recently spawned The Nun, began in 2013 with Patrick Wilson and Vera Farmiga as Ed and Lorraine Warren, the real-life paranormal investigators whose reports led to The Amityville Horror book and related films.

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29. The Ring (2002)

The good thing about watching this film in 2018 is that videotapes pretty much don’t exist anymore. The bad thing is The Ring is still creepy AF and you bet you’ll think twice about answering any phone calls while watching the movie for the 13th time.

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30. The Sixth Sense (1999)

Haley Joel Osment told you he could see dead people, but who would’ve expected to see Kyra the ghost show up as Marissa Cooper on The O.C. just four years later? Bravo to everyone in this film, but especially Mischa Barton, who still gets “Halloween vibes” from her Sixth Sense character.

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31. A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014)

This underrated vampire Western (yep) from director Ana Lily Amirpour is a satisfying black-and-white film for anyone who loves cats, hates men who disrespects women, and has an ear for good music.

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32. Coraline (2009)

Dakota Fanning is the voice of Coraline, a young girl who discovers a secret door to an alternate, darker world after moving with her family from Michigan to Oregon.

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33. Ju-On: The Grudge (2002)

This Japanese horror film (which was technically the third installment of the franchise but the first to be released in theaters) inspired multiple sequels and the American remake starring Sarah Michelle Gellar. But let’s face it, you only have time for one horror film from the franchise, so why not spend an afternoon with the ghost of Kayako (because watching it at night is just not recommended).

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34. Hereditary (2018)

Toni Collette and her on-screen family must deal with the aftermath of her mother’s death. The premise sounds simple, that is until more awful stuff starts happening and you as the viewer begin to question what’s real and what’s imagined. If you find yourself thinking about Hereditary and Toni Collette’s brilliant acting days after seeing the film, don’t worry: this is normal. Probably.

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35. The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975)

More over-the-top entertaining than scary, this cult classic stars Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter, a scientist who lives in a castle and creates a living man with muscles named—you guessed it—Rocky.

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36. American Psycho (2000)

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What makes someone kill? Such is the million dollar question of Mary Harron’s film, adapted from Bret Easton Ellis’ 1991 novel and starring Christian Bale as the wealthy investment banker slash serial killer Patrick Bateman. In case you’ve forgotten, the movie also stars Reese Witherspoon, Justin Theroux, and Justin Theroux’s giant cellphone.

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37. Rosemary’s Baby (1968)

Mia Farrow is Rosemary Woodhouse, a young woman who becomes mysteriously pregnant not long after moving to an apartment with her husband. Their neighbors are definitely, maybe part of a cult. Her pregnancy is anything but a walk in the park. And far too many uninvited players are convinced they know what’s best for the unborn child. Sound familiar?

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38. The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974)

Leatherface’s kills in this film are not for the faint of heart, but if you think about it, they’re all pretty ridiculous—and not all of them are executed with his famed chainsaw. The group of friends who stumble upon this family of cannibals really shouldn’t have picked up that hitchhiker in the first place. It’s basically the first rule of horror!

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39. Alien (1979)

There aren’t a lot of alien-themed titles in this list, but Sigourney Weaver’s first film as Warrant Officer Ripley is arguably the best in the franchise. Maybe it’s her badass attitude, how she makes holding a gun look effortless, or that cute cat who somehow makes it to the very end.

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40. Twilight (2008)

Kristin Stewart and Robert Pattinson’s acting has greatly improved since the release of Twilight, but you can’t help but be charmed by everything else this film offered: teen love, hot vampires, and the beginnings of the whole Edward vs Jacob debate.

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Source: https://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/movies/a23279674/best-halloween-movies/