#god i might be living in san francisco next year. disgusting. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xaphrin · 4 years

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Damian was fighting to keep his eyes on the road and his heart in his chest. Next to him sat Raven, looking so damn pretty it hurt to breathe, and he found himself wanting to stare at her the whole ride to the animal shelter. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw a lock of hair had fallen from her bun, brushing against the curve of her cheek. His fingers itched to brush it away, but… right. They weren’t those kinds of friends.

For the hundredth time that night, he silently promised himself he was doing to keep his heart intact. He might have been head-over-heels in love with her, but that didn’t mean she loved him back, and he wasn’t willing to risk his own feelings just yet. Damian cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turned white.

“So.” He needed to talk, if only to fill the silence that was growing between them. Otherwise the rest of this night was going to be painfully awkward.

Raven turned and looked at him, her lips pulling down into a frown. “What?”

“How’s your senior thesis coming along?” School seemed a safe topic, so he’d stick with that. “What was it on again? Emily Dickinson?”

Raven’s face fell and she turned to look at him, obviously insulted. “Do you think every female literature student does their senior thesis on Emily Dickinson?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a literature student.” Damian tried to sound nonchalant, as if he didn’t really care, but mentally he was kicking himself. Honestly, he couldn’t remember what she said she was working on, because every time she started talking about it, her eyes lit up and she got this excited almost dreamy expression on her face, and Damian got lost in her. She was easy to get lost in. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked over at her, forcing his expression to remain neutral. “You’re applying to grad school, right?”

“Yeah, actually.” She looked surprised that he remembered, and fidgeting with the strap on her purse, as if suddenly nervous. “I submitted my application last week. But, I have a few more weeks before I find out if I got into the program.”

“You know you’ll get in.” Damian stared up at a red light, refusing to look at her. If he did, he knew he’d forget everything he was supposed to say to her. How in the world could she break him like this? “I don’t know why you’re so worried. You’re the smartest, most inspired student in the whole program.”

“Was that… a compliment, Damian Wayne?” Her voice was teasing, almost playful, and it made his stomach twist. Raven shifted and stared out the windshield, a small smile playing on her lips. “We’ve been fighting each other for the better part of four years, and you actually complimented me. Well, shit. I guess I owe Conner ten bucks.”

At the sound of Conner’s name, Damian frowned. He remembered Conner’s soft touches and soft, lopsided smiles at Raven, and Damian shifted in his seat. Maybe there was more to their relationship. “Are you two… together?”

Raven snorted. “With Conner? No.” She glanced back at him, her dark eyes searching his face. “I mean sure, he’s fun and cute, and he almost out-bid you at the auction-”

Damian gave her a flat stare. Of course she was going to bring that up.

“-but no.” She paused, as if suddenly realizing that was a very personal question. Her eyebrows knitted together and she stared at him. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, hoping he looked unaffected by her or her suspicion. “No reason. I just noticed you were a bit more chummy with him over the last few parties.” Jealousy, thick and viscous spilled into his chest, and Damian forced himself to breathe just to ignore it. “I thought maybe you two had hooked up or something.”

“Oh, god no.” Raven shook her head, color leaving her face as she forced out a bark of laughter. “Trust me. I made the mistake of dating a frat boy once. Never again will I wander down that road.”

Damian jerked and looked over at her, surprised. “What? Who did you date?”

“Gar. For all of six weeks during freshman year.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you not remember? You teased us relentlessly. I think half the reason we broke up was to get you to shut up and leave up alone.”

Memories flooded his thoughts, and Damian felt heat crawl up his neck. Ah, no. He remembered. It was definitely not one of his finer moments, but it had been before he understood what his feelings really were towards Raven. He remembered being angry and jealous, and he didn’t want to see them together, he just didn’t understand why. It wasn’t until months later that he realized he liked Raven. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah… I’m sorry about that.”

Raven seemed surprised by his apology, but she chose not to tease him about it. Instead, she shrugged and glanced away. “It’s fine. It never would have worked out between us anyway. That relationship was doomed from the start. Gar is still getting his life together, and I can’t wait for that. I don’t want to wait for that.” She paused as if realizing something, and looked back at Damian. “Why did you join the frat in the first place? I mean, you’re a legacy student, rich as all get out, and could have rented a swank apartment just off campus. You don’t need to join a fraternity.”

Damian shrugged. “Father belonged to the same one when he was in college, and he thought it would be good for business connections and my… social skills.” He rolled his eyes.

Raven laughed. “Social skills. Ah. So you’ve always had this stick up your ass? Good to know it’s not a recent development.”

Damian glanced over at her and tried to glare, but her smile melted whatever annoyance filled him. He blinked and looked away, turning down a side street towards the animal shelter. He swallowed and felt the confession bubble up before he could stop it. “I’m going to grad school too.”

Raven hummed, but the sound was playful. “Are you telling me I have at least three more years of you? Three more years of you harping on my reading choices?”

“At least.” He smirked. “I’ll make sure to bother you whenever I get the chance.”

“Are you going to stay in the frat house?”

“Probably not. I’m getting a little too old for that. The freshmen parties keep me up way too late.”

“Careful, Dami. Otherwise I’m going to start thinking you’re an old man.”

He gave her a flat stare, but tried not to crow at the playful nickname she offered. “What about you? Are you staying with Karen and Donna?”

“No.” Raven shook her head. “Karen is taking an internship in San Francisco, and Donna is going to Europe to work with her family’s company.” A pensive, sad expression filled her face. “If I get accepted, I’ll have to find somewhere to live before I start.”

The offer fell out of his mouth before he could stop it. “You could stay with me.”

Oh god. No. Panic filled his chest and tried to think of a way to make it a joke, but nothing came to mind. Instead he sat there and watched as several expressions of confusion colored Raven’s face.

Raven snorted. “As what? Your maid?”

“No.” Why did his mouth insist on talking? He couldn’t stop talking, and he needed to right now. “I mean… as roommates. I have the money and the space is easy to find. You need somewhere to stay. You’re clean and quiet, and you’d stay out of my business.” Damian finally breathed. Safe. “You’d be the perfect roommate. Like having a cat you never see.”

She rolled her eyes. “Gee, when you put it like that, how can I refuse? Be still my beating heart.”

He shrugged. “The offer stands. If you can’t find a place before fall, let me know.”

Raven laughed. “You know. I’ll do it. I’ll be your roommate just to annoy you.” She smirked and looked over at him, finally tucking that stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Put flavored creamer in my coffee every morning.”

“How many times do I have to say that you don’t sully good coffee with cheap creamer?” He seethed and pulled into the parking lot, shoving the car into park. “It’s a waste of good coffee.”

She laughed again and unbuckled her seatbelt. “I’ll make sure I have every single flavor in the fridge. Even down to the disgusting seasonal flavors. Pumpkin Spice. Egg Nog. Mint Chocolate.”

“That’s it.” Damian flung open his car door and stepped out, glaring at her over the roof of his car. “The offer has been officially revoked. You are no longer allowed to be my roommate.”

Raven laughed and followed him into the animal shelter, her steps uneven. Damian glanced down at her and realized her clothes didn’t fit quite right. Which meant she was probably wearing Donna’s shoes as well as Donna’s dress. His heart did something weird in his chest, and he realized that Raven had dressed up for him. Something like excitement and pride mixed together, and he found himself wanting to kiss her. Of course, he always wanted to kiss her, but right now… he was ready to throw caution to the wind and make out with her right on the animal shelter steps.

“Kittens.”

Her voice was soft and strained, as if she was trying to contain her excitement, and it pulled Damian deeper into his internal struggle to not fall in love with her any more. He glanced up to see Raven taking a shy step forward, looking through the window at the kitten and cat room. They lounged on trees and in beds, watching her with a curious expression. For a moment, he stood there and let this memory burn in his head. Raven’s eyes were wide and bright, and a soft smile played on her lips. She looked… cute. Too cute. His heart twisted even more in his chest and he guided her to the front door.

He smirked and held open the door for her. “You can pet them, you know.”

Raven glanced up at him, and Damian was pretty sure his insides were now permanently mush. She looked so eager, and he wanted to get her whatever she wanted just to keep that expression on her face.

“It’s gonna take me a bit to get the paperwork completed for the donation.” He was trying not to look completely and utterly enamored with her, but knew he was probably failing. “Go play with the cats.”

Her eyes widened for a moment, before her face fell back into a stern expression, poking him in the chest. “This stays between us.”

“That you turn into a small child at the sight of a kitten?” He forced a sarcastic smile. “You think I’m not going to take a picture of you and put it all over the internet.” He wasn’t, but she didn’t know that. “I can see the headline now: Resident Hardass, Raven Roth, Actually has a Soft Side.”

Before he could blink, Raven reached into his pants pocket and yanked out his cell phone, holding it up in front of his face. “I’ll keep this until we leave. Consider it collateral.” Sticking out her tongue at him, she shoved his phone into her bra and out of his reach, before turning around and heading to play with the cats.

“Your girlfriend is cute.”

Damian turned and looked at the office worker who had come out to meet him, and he didn’t bother correcting the assumption. Raven was cute, and he desperately wanted her as his girlfriend.

He finished up with the donation, writing out the check and posing for a few promotional photos with workers from the animal shelter. But his thoughts were thirty feet away, with Raven as she moved around the room, playing with cats. Damian stood there for a few minutes and watched her, all spread out on the floor, cats and kittens crawling over her and making her light up and smile so damned bright. Damian stared at her, his heart so heavy and so full that breathing hurt. He didn’t understand how he could protect his heart anymore.

He was irrevocably in love with her, and it was only going to hurt him to keep denying it.

Raven looked up and saw him standing there. She picked up a kitten that had been crawling up her back, and set it on the floor before stepping out of the room to meet him. She was covered in cat fur, and that somehow only made her cuter. He was so damn gone for her.

“You’re a mess.” He said, shaking his head with a laugh. “And you desperately need a lint roller.”

Damian went and borrowed one from the front desk clerk, taking time to roll off the back of her dress and her skirt. The whole act felt strangely intimate, but Raven didn’t seem to mind. Instead she was laughing, twisting away when he found a ticklish spot near her side. Forgetting who he was, Damian wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her back to him, running the lint roller over her stomach and letting himself bathe in her joy. She felt like liquid sunshine in his arms, happy and honest, and so unlike the usual studious hardass she was. His world was shifting even more, and Raven was standing in the center like a beacon.

“Careful, Dami.” Her voice was soft and breathy from laughter, and she smelled of lavender and vanilla. God. He could feel her heat spilling through his clothes and warming him in the best way possible. She turned in his arms and plucked the lint roller from his hand, tilting her face up to meet his own. Her lips shifted to the side, and she poked a finger in his chest. “People might get the wrong idea about us.”

His mind was filled with one thought: Let them.

#damirae #demonbirds #college au #LOOK CATS!#I know this is saccharine and too sweet #BUT LET ME HAVE THIS #please #also I'm so sorry #dialogue is not my strong point #so I hope this isn't too bad #thank you for letting me just make terrible decisions

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timextoxhajima · 4 years

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*SHORT SERIES

Member: j u y e o n

Genre: drama with chaebol/lawyer juyeon

A/N: I’m investing way too much feelings and emotions into this i might cry when it ends. this chapter is more serious i guess i can’t be writing angst and smut every chapter LOL

Link to other parts:

I Never Wanna See You Again

Frustrated (light smut)

Love Somebody (light smut)

Play With Fire (smut)

“i’m playing with fire.”

all you wanted to do was have breakfast, but you walk out along the hallways of the second floor only to watch an entire crowd of staff members push and pull countless of racks across the living room.

the female staff member who recognised you from the previous week notices you standing awkwardly behind the wall, struggling to process the crowd at the foot of the stairs.

you watch her say something to another staff member, before she strolls across the living room and heads up the stairs to greet you.

“i’m going to hope you don’t have any clothes of your own,” she smiles at you, eyes flitting to your neck for a split second and looks at your bare legs.

“uh--” you stumble on your tongue, having trouble finding any words to say. you completely forget about the marks on your neck, and you were only in his underwear with the large pullover barely covering your rear.

“i’m gonna get you a robe while you choose your clothes for today and i’ll run you a bath before you have breakfast.”

you watch as she walks away into the bathroom, and again, you wonder why it was so difficult to think of anything to say. you had expected the house staff to be judging you for sleeping with him, but they all seemed so nice and candid, it was a little difficult to believe.

you just couldn’t get the idea of juyeon being such a kind, relaxed boss out of your head.

she returns from the bathroom with a robe, the water now running and a rose scent begins to waft through your nose. “here,” she hands you the robe and waits for you to put it on.

“mr lee wanted you to pick out as many clothes as you wanted, and he wants you to know not to worry about the price.”

you reach the bottom of the stairs with her standing right next to you, and you see at least three racks of clothes surrounding the living room. there were at least two full-body mirrors next to the sofas, and a separate mobile shelf with shoes.

“uh... do i have to? where are my clothes from yesterday?” your hand unconsciously reaches up to your neck to cover your skin.

“in the laundry! we’ll get it steamed and ready for you by lunch, but right now, he’s told us he wants to see you in something from any of these racks. he didn’t exactly give us much choice either,” she gives you a look that comforts you, gently patting your arm to encourage you.

you choose out exactly five different sets of clothes, which included shoes. you suddenly feel like you went on a splurge and your credit card would’ve exceeded by now, judging by the brands the clothes were from.

you soak yourself in the bathtub, the light from behind you illuminating the white, black and golden surfaces. you couldn’t help but to let your head replay the memories from the night before as the rose scent pulls all the knots in your body apart.

it felt like you were on vacation, when you were really just... feeding off your boyfriend’s wealth. you felt guilty, and frankly, a little worried that people were going to start thinking you were with him for his money.

you haven’t done anything for him besides curse at him, take the credit for his workings for the case and sleep in his bed.

you shake your thoughts away, deciding that it was time for you to get your due breakfast before working on the case.

you were pushing the last few bites of the strange looking pudding around in the bowl, and the female staff from before was in the dining room with you, arranging the cutlery and utensils away from sight.

“hey, uh--” you call out, looking at her while mrs jung comes out of the kitchen. you wonder why it took you three meals before you notice that you could see into the kitchen. the dining table was right next to a black counter where mrs jung would leave the food right after it was prepared, and the kitchen itself looked extravagant.

“you called?” the female staff lays down the plate and walks over to your side.

“yeah, uh...” you scratch your temple, slightly pulling on the turtleneck you chose to hide the bruises he left. “you don’t-- happen to think that... i’m with mr lee for his money... do you?”

the female staff blinks in surprise at you, and before she could respond, mrs jung does the honor.

“oh, my dear, definitely not! you’d be surprised at how good juyeon-nim is at picking out who’s genuine and who isn’t.” you turn and watch mrs jung carry some leftover food back into the kitchen.

“we were very surprised when he asked you to stay last friday, past the time where the house staff gets off work. he doesn’t like guests over, unless they are his parents... so it was nice to see him bring someone back.”

you let a small laugh escape your lips, feeling the blood rush up to your ears and cheek.

hold on.

��someone’?

“you mean he’s never brought anybody home before?”

“not willingly, no.” mrs jung responds from the kitchen. “juyeon-nim is only friendly to people he trusts and even then he’s extremely cautious, though sometimes a little dense... but now that we know how comfortable he is with you, and we’re all just happy for him.”

you feel a second wave of embarrassment wash over you, your hand now wrapping around your own neck and pulling up the material to hide any possible marks that were peeking out from under.

“you don’t have to hide those as long as you’re here. everybody knows what happened,” the female staff member teases you, clearing the plates that you literally licked the crumbs off from before.

“awh... nooooo,” you whine, hiding your face in your hands.

the staff member laughs at your embarrassment, encouraging you to finish your dessert before she tells you where his office was.

you get the door open, and the first thing you notice was the similar L-shaped glass windows like his bedroom had. the desk sat on the right side, with a main leather seat back facing a large shelf. the levels were alternated between files and small, expensive-looking statues and souvenirs.

right before the glass panels were two single-seaters with a small coffee table between them, and your eyes took awhile to notice the little fridge under the table.

you log into the computer with ease, surprised that there wasn’t a password required. you remember mrs jung saying that he doesn’t have anybody over, and you figure that nobody else has been in his office anyway. the worry about someone hacking into his files was non-existent.

your suitcase was already placed by the table, and you wonder when did it get here. did he leave it in here last night? this morning? or did he get a staff member to do it?

the online system was perfectly synced with the system you had in the office, and all you needed to do was log in with your information before your case displays itself on the screen.

you get to work almost immediately, every now and then looking past the computer screen to look out the large glass windows.

the clouds were so fluffy against the bright blue sky today, and you couldn’t help but imagine chanhee, eric and sunwoo’s reactions when they notice you didn’t clock in today.

oh. chanhee, eric and sunwoo.

you reach over to your suitcase and pull out your cellphone, noticing the nearly ten missed calls you got from them starting about five minutes before the supposed reporting time.

chanhee: where the hell are you? its 7.55am!

eric: did she oversleep

chanhee: she doesn’t oversleep

sunwoo: not with that annoying ass alarm she’s got

you smile to yourself, unable to contain your happiness as you scroll down.

chanhee: why do we have to hear about your absence from our manager?

sunwoo: wait

eric: OH MY GOD

sunwoo: mf WAIT

eric: DID THE BOSS TELL OUR MANAGER THAT YOU WEREN’T COMING IN TODAY

sunwoo: DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM AGAIN

chanhee: but he’s in office!

sunwoo: so? he could’ve just left her at home and came to work to reduce suspicion cause it’ll too obvious if the both of them are absent

eric: unless...

sunwoo: i’m betting on that and OTHER REASONS

eric: i was thinking about other reasons

chanhee: whatever the reason, call us during our lunch break!

eric: yeah we want details

sunwoo: fucking disgusting

you snort to yourself, ready to keep your phone away and finish up the case.

but the aggressive vibration from your phone stops you just as you laid it down, and you sigh heavily when you see the caller ID.

“yello,” you put the phone down on the table, keeping it on loudspeaker.

“why do you sound so glum? i return from a two month trip and this is how you greet me?”

you roll your eyes, laying your hands right at the keyboard. “hi mom, how was your trip to san francisco?”

“oh, it was gorgeous!” she says with a strange accent. must’ve been the american air for two months. “i was pretty sad to leave, but nothing can stop me from coming back to see you!”

“when have you ever needed to see me?” your tone was unenthusiastic, and you resist the urge to hang up altogether.

“aw, no, honey,” she whines. “are you still mad about last year?”

“just so you know, i’m gonna stay mad for quite a bit, so don’t expect anything different.”

“aw, but you did say you wanted swavroski--”

“yeah, a swavroski ring! not the damn brand!” you huff, burying your face into your hands. your eyes were on the screen, staring at the case document, but all you could hear was the heavy breathing over the phone.

“i take it that you haven’t signed the contract to claim ownership of the brand.”

“of course i didn’t! i left home so i could build a life for myself. you promised me that you’d leave me and my finances and my life alone. you know i don’t want you or dad’s help but you go ahead and buy a whole jewellery brand?!”

silence.

“i’m never signing that contract, just so you know. it’s been sitting at home since you had it mailed to me while you ran off to canada.”

“are you still living in that tiny flat by the lake outside of town?”

you pick up a pinch of contempt in her voice. “yeah, what’s so bad about my 'tiny flat’?”

“nothing,” liar. “i just want you to have the best we can afford.”

“again with the ‘we’. how many times do i have to tell you that i don’t want you or dad’s help?”

“but--”

“no,” you snap into the phone, picking it up and hovering your thumb over the hang up button. “i’m gonna go now because i have work to do. don’t call me unless it’s to tell me that someone else already owns swavroski.”

you finally hang up and you throw the phone back into your suitcase, hands on your forehead as you return your attention to the screen.

needed me? what a load of bullcrap.

maybe if she didn’t treat you like some kind of trophy when you were younger, you’d believe that she genuinely loved you.

you were called to lunch when the sun was at its highest, the blinding rays bouncing off windows and the metal from buildings that it heated up the room like a toaster.

mrs jung’s food never fails to deliver, and the female staff from before struggles to tuck your napkin into your clothes so that the gravy doesn’t fly about.

you were mindlessly praising the hell out of mrs jung’s pasta when you hear a staff outside the dining room shout. you turn at the sound of the doors swinging open, and you find yourself standing immediately at the sight of a lady who looked like a million bucks.

“what do you mean he’s in offic--” the lady finally turns her attention from the staff outside the dining room and to you. “and... who are you?”

so much for that lunch phone call to your friends.

you find yourself sitting awkwardly opposite her, carefully watching as she swirls the wine in her glass. you feel her eyes pierce right through you, and your hands reach up to your turtleneck in a bid to pull it upwards.

“there’s no need to hide,” she nearly scolds you, and the harsh tone strikes a chord in you. “i know who you are.”

what?

“you’re the reason why my son’s fiance is in shambles right now.”

his what--

“i’m sorry, who?” you squint your eyes at her, for a split second forgetting that she was the mother of your now-boyfriend.

“he didn’t tell you?” she offers a smile of disbelief. “and here i was thinking he changed for the better.”

“’for the better’? he wanted to leave the country to do charity work, not run away.”

“he was running away from the responsibilities he was born to shoulder. we do enough charity for him to stay,” she leans forward on the table, one palm pressed flat on the surface.

“but he didn’t even want the damn law fi--”

“mother!”

the both of you turn to the door of the dining room. every staff member within your line of vision looked like they were scared shitless, which was a strange sight, considering how relaxed and candid they were in the absence of this... crazy lady.

who might be my mother-in-law? ugh.

“you should’ve told me you’re visiting,” juyeon walks in the doors and the staff members shut them behind him. he grabs a seat next to you, and it visibly stuns his mother.

“i wouldn’t have bothered if i knew you weren’t even at home,” she watches in slight disgust as juyeon leans into your face and plants a kiss on your cheek. your eyes widen and your heart feels extremely heavy. “care to explain what is going on?”

juyeon carefully sits his suitcase next to his chair as the kitchen staff serves him a glass of wine. you remember the only food that was prepared was only for you and the staff members.

“what’s there to explain? i never said i agreed to marry anybody i was told to.”

you watch anxiously, eyes switching between juyeon, who was calmly sipping on his wine, and his mother, who was so angry that you could almost see the steam escaping from her ears...

“and so you run off and sleep with some random girl?”

ouch.

“will she still be ‘some random girl’ if you knew what she was capable of? she’s closed more cases in six months than i did in a year, mother.”

“i didn’t think a lawyer would let someone leave such savage marks all over her body like this!” she berates you, hand carelessly gesturing to all of you.

“which year did you walk through a portal from? it’s not the 1800s, mother.”

wow, so she blames me and not the one who made these marks?

“girls nowadays.”

you could feel juyeon’s frustration hit the roof, and the atmosphere in the dining hall gets heavier as each second passes in silence.

“what are you here for, anyway? just to ask me about me dumping my fiance who i never even loved? i don’t even like her face, mother. she’s an incapable princess who does nothing but sit around and gets waited on.”

“forget about that, you’ve gone ahead and spent your weekend breaking off the engagement anyway,” his mother glares at the two of you.

didn’t he spend his weekend with his family--

“but i do want to know why you’re back in the office.”

juyeon locks his jaw in odd angles, and if you didn’t know it was his mother who was pissing him off, you would’ve thought he was going to throw a punch across the table.

“what do you mean ‘why i’m back in the office’? doing my job and accepting my responsibilities like you wanted to!”

“and you didn’t have the decency to at least inform us? we were ready to re-sell it to the bureau director!”

juyeon sucks in a deep breath and stands up, eyes tightly shut as you watch him collect his feelings. his mother remains relaxed in the seat opposite you, arms tightly crossed over her chest but her face still brimming with anger and dissatisfaction.

“okay,” he leans downwards, pressing his palms flat against the surface of the table. “if you’re so upset then i assume a contract has already been drawn up, yes?”

his mother doesn’t respond.

“alright, i’ll contact the bureau director and i’ll explain the situation. it’s you the bureau director has a problem with, anyway. it’ll be easy for me.”

your face was turned to juyeon, but your eyes couldn’t resist the temptation to look at his mother. she had just been outspoken by her son, and you felt so proud of him for standing up for himself.

his mother finishes the win, visibly angry. she gets up and leaves the dining hall, and when you hear the lift ‘ding’ followed by the sound of its gears shutting its doors, you heaved a sigh of relief.

the entire room relaxes and begins helping to clear the table. juyeon was the only one who looked like he was about to burst from anger and frustration.

you stand up and wrap your arms around his torso, leaning your chin on his shoulder.

“hey.”

“i’m sorry you had to see that.”

you shake your head, pulling away and hugging his arm instead.

“i’m sorry that i lied about what i did over the weekend, and i’m sorry i didn’t tell you i was already engaged.”

you let the pain of the realisation sink in for a moment, before giving him a weak smile. “well, it wasn’t really a lie. you said it was something to do with your family... and besides, you broke off the engagement.” you reach over his chest and find his arm to pull him to face you, looking up at him whose eyes were filled with remorse.

naturally, a shitty feeling swamps you when you lose sight of his prideful, authorial self, so you pull his face down to meet yours and you feel him melt into the kiss.

“do you need to go back to the office?” you let him go, his hands now resting on your waist.

“yeah,” he sighs apologetically. “i only came back because the lobby called to tell me my mother was here.”

“aw,” you grin in attempt to shake off the tension that was still hanging in the air. “nice to know you came back to save me from your mother.”

a smile appears on his lips, and he pulls you in all so suddenly, planting a soft kiss on your forehead.

“maybe i shouldn’t leave my marks so high up your neck next time.”

you sigh with your lips in smile, pressing your head into his chest as he wraps his arms tightly around you.

THE NEXT DAY

your arm was linked tightly with juyeon’s as he walks you up the stairs of the grand hotel, the ends of your gown dragging along the marble surface to the restaurant where he would meet the bureau director.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him, though the simple suit was nothing compared to the dress he had prepared for you within a day’s notice. you reach the restaurant entrance and the lady immediately recognises him, turning to lead you two into the restaurant and in the corner where the private rooms were.

“so just to be clear, ignore your mother and be nice to the bureau director, right?” you giggle as the restaurant staff knocks on the door.

juyeon laughs and pecks you on your temple. “maybe if you ignore her enough, she’ll start wanting your attention.”

you snicker to yourself, watching the door pull open and the light from inside spills out.

you trail behind juyeon and look into the room, and your heart stops in your chest.

the world stops revolving around the sun and your breath hitches in your throat, your grip on juyeon’s arm tightening instantly when you see the two people in the room.

“mother,” juyeon awkwardly starts, only noticing your sudden grip on his arm.

mother.

she looks at you with wide, surprised eyes before they dissipate into a wide smile.

“this is the bureau director, mrs--”

“it’s alright,” she stops juyeon. “i know who she is.”

you gulp and your chest collapses in on itself.

of all people, THIS bureau director just had to be your mother?

Part 6: Bourbon

#timetohajima #timetohajima playlist feels #lee juyeon #the boyz #the boyz juyeon #juyeon imagine #juyeon scenario #juyeon fanfic #juyeon

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fortunebuoyed · 3 years

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Meta + Daniel’s family // @caravaggiovagabond

I feel like, for a majority of people, the family you are born into is going to be the first community that truly has impact on you. Before you even know there is a world outside, with all its expectations and myriad reactions to who you are, there are the people who raise you and in some cases are raised with you. This has especially been the case with Daniel, the youngest of five, the accident, but a favored son in many regards. Daniel the neat, conscientious boy who was the pride of his unremarkable parents who produced otherwise unremarkable children. Danny was going places. No one realized the boy was born with a shovel in hand, ready to dig his own grave.

Certainly not his mother, the middle American space case that came to California on a dream. She drove until she ran out of gas money and settled into whatever nowhere town would have her. It was just a temporary pit stop on her great cosmic journey, Katherine would laugh, working odd jobs and earning an odder reputation. Back then they just called it free-spirited, and her moments of great introspective melancholy nothing more than a flash of maturity shining through. Mother is God in the eyes of a child, and Katherine knit all of her babies in with soft words and open arms, armed with books and a spontaneity that could prove downright manic. Daniel was her thoughtful boy, her fellow dreamer, and all that was derided in her she celebrated in him. She handed down that wandering spirit and questioning nature, and something more just beneath the surface, lying in wait until the very end of adolescence caused it to spring fully formed in his mind like Athena.

And maybe Daniel might have had a chance, had she chosen any other man to marry. She met an east coast stranger chasing down a job offer after the war. New in town and handsome as anything, Robert was the kind of man who could charm anyone, even if he fumbled often enough as a father. His intentions were good. Intentions don’t count for much in life, but at least he tried. God only knows what he would have been without the alcohol, other than alive. Daniel was his favorite, his Danny Boy, and for all the wrong he might have accomplished chasing competence, he is remembered fondly by his youngest. Too fondly, perhaps, for all the ways they overlap. All Bob’s surviving friends tell Daniel he looks just like his father, though Bob reached an age that Daniel never will, and Daniel is now older than Bob ever got to be. He died before Daniel graduated high school, years of drinking catching up with him. But you know, at the end of his mortal life, he understood intimately why the old man who never got to be truly old preferred to see the world from the other side of a bottle.

The pair had a proper Catholic wedding, wasted no time in achieving their marital duties. Three sons and a single daughter came before Daniel, and all things considered, they did a fine enough job. Three out of five ended up stable. The boys don’t matter so much to him -- Sure, they’re his brothers, and he likes them well enough, but he never quite connected with them like he did his sister.

First was Peter, the furthest from Daniel himself in more ways than one. Former high school sports star, now he’s a teacher living on the East Coast with his normal wife and normal kids. The kind of brother you spare a Christmas and Birthday call then shrug off the rest of the year.

Next came James, a card-carrying nerd, the kind you can find in any Hollywood stereotype, working for some IT company in SoCal to put his kids through private school. He sometimes summers on the Island, polite enough to stay out of Daniel’s hair for the most part.

Luke’s the one that took the most after their mother, drifting across the road chasing Americana and putting as much distance as possible between he and his ex. Of the three, Daniel might admit to liking Luke the best.

If you want to really know Daniel, you go to his sister, Maryanne. Two years his senior, and his closest friend in the world through all his human life. She’s always been Annie to the family, Annie and Danny being a matching pair to hear their father talk. Ash haired and sapphire eyed, she has always kept a good head on her shoulders and a protective streak towards her younger brother. The streak of Molloy independence still runs in her, no matter how loyal she is to her baby brother and mother. She eloped at 20 and made her way to Oregon, desperate to get out of Sacramento, out from the shadow of her father’s addictions, trying to outrun the codependency that their mother embraced. Her beau repaid her by ending up like her father, and she returned fire in making the decision to leave. She knew where that path ended and she knew she would be powerless next to his decisions. Maybe one day her daughter will forgive her for it.

And don’t get him wrong, there’s no bad blood between he and his family. They were even really supportive, if for the most part confused, when he came out of the closet. His family did nothing to estrange him, nor did he cut ties officially. It’s just that he got... busy. Caught up in his obsessions, in Armand, and drifted away like his mother before him. Under the urging of others, he’s begun to reach out to them again from the 90s onward, beyond Annie’s insistent presence in his life -- more on that later.

What we take from this is three important figures and their impacts: Katherine’s ‘bad brains,’ Robert’s addictions, and Annie as the safe place to land.

On some level, Daniel feels responsible for his mother in her old age, when she has no one else in the house to support her. When he sends money back West from the Island, it’s going to his mother and sister. He knows he was her favorite, his mother’s hope for a remarkable child. In some ways, he is that, the accomplished writer, the successful businessman. He can hear the smile in her voice when she’s in the background of a call, announcing that it’s ‘Danny.’ He keeps his distance largely to keep her illusions alive. He’ll make a better ideal than a son, he’s sure. His mother has always done better with her own world than reality, the same as him, even if her coping takes a different shape.

In life, even at the end of it, Daniel would often go crawling back to his sister, when he thought it wasn’t dangerous to do so. She would demand phone calls, hassle him with questions, try to stage interventions for his drinking and relationship with this mysterious man both. It was killing him, she said, and threw up her hands in disgust at his dramatic ‘maybe I’m already dead.’ Regardless of his theatrics, she made it perfectly clear he didn’t even have to come to her, if he would only call she would buy him a ticket home, no matter where he was in the world.

The only time he really felt scared about all of it, truly scared for himself rather than intrigued by his own terror, was in Annie’s presence. Somewhere between his final escape and a rainy Chicago night, he ended up back in Sacramento, as he so often did -- Annie cried to see him in such a state. Told him he was sick, told him to stay, told him she would call a doctor. She knew. She was strong enough to face what an immortal and the dying man in question had fought so hard to ignore. Many nights, she still doubts her brother is actually alive after the state he was in during that final visit. The first time he skips one of their weekly phone calls, she’ll be on the first plane to Miami. Til then, she’ll keep praying for him.

In a lot of ways, she’s the sense Daniel never had.

As for Robert, well.. One doesn’t have to be a genius to make out how he was the blueprint for his son’s later struggles. Both were beautiful men who threw themselves body and soul into what ultimately killed them. Only, Daniel was far more his father’s son before that San Francisco night, a popular boy with nothing but goodwill. In recent years, he’s started to make more of a connection between his downward spiral and that of his father, and is taking measures to try and pull himself out of the eternal overlap. He can’t help looking like the father he lost. He can, however, help walking the same path of altruistic desires muddled by mediocrity.

#yes the molloy family comes with lore this is a kadi production i have lore for every god damn member of my muse's families #i did a soup boy write up for God's sake. fuckin Soup Boy.#antidotes and revelations [ DANIEL ; HEADCANON ]#parent death //#alcoholism //#caravaggiovagabond

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jgroffdaily · 5 years

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Jonathan Groff is not, he says, “a serial killer sort of person”, which will probably come as a relief to the millions of adoring families who know him best in wholesome animated form, as the voice of mountain-dwelling ice harvester Kristoff in Disney’s Frozen.

What drew the 34-year-old actor – nominated for a Tony for his Broadway performance as Melchior Gabor in Spring Awakening and his scene-stealing turn as King George III in Hamilton – to the dark, murder-heavy Netflix drama Mindhunter was, he says, precisely what a radical departure it was from his previous roles.

His FBI profiler Holden Ford is, as he puts it: “This corn-fed, all-American, earnest Midwestern guy, having an existential crisis, finding meaning and purpose while talking to incarcerated sociopathic murderers.” Groff tells me all this, it should be noted, with an enormous grin. Apparently, the only major note that David Fincher, Mindhunter’s director, ever has for his leading man is to stop smiling so much. “[Fincher] would be like, ‘We’re rolling, and, Jonathan, stop smiling. And you’re still smiling, you’re still smiling, and… action.’”

Television, of course, hardly needs another FBI drama, but what elevates Mindhunter above the procedural is not only Fincher’s precision direction, but also the tension inherent in Ford’s mission. Set in the late Seventies and based on the career of real-life FBI profiler and “serial killer whisperer” John Douglas, “Holden is pushing for understanding and curiosity, rather than simply dismissing these killers as crazy,” says Groff. Using the emerging social sciences of criminology and psychology, he hopes to gain some understanding of what motivates these apparent monsters.

The first series saw Ford interviewing notorious murderers Richard Speck, Ed Kemper and Jerry Brudos; season two, which begins this week, will delve into the Atlanta Child Murders (in which an estimated 28 children were killed between 1979 and 1981), and see the protagonist land an interview with “the rock star of the serial killer world”, Charles Manson.

There is also the added layer of Ford’s personal development; over the first season, he grew from a buttoned-up boy scout (literally drinking milk from the bottle in an early episode) into a skilful manipulator of his subjects; some critics have gone further and accused him of sociopathy.

“I never saw Holden as a sociopathic character, but he definitely wants to win,” says Groff. I agree about the sociopathy but, I suggest, Holden is perhaps guilty of wielding empathy as a weapon. “Yeah, I love that – weaponising empathy!” Groff cries, excitedly. “That might be the title of my autobiography.”

It’s early on a Friday morning in Los Angeles and, in spite of the unusually anti-social call time, Groff, boyishly handsome and sipping on a Diet Coke, is infectiously bouncy and Tiggerish. During the filming of Mindhunter, he has, he tells me, been listening to the audiobook of Fosse, Sam Wasson’s bestselling biography of the legendary Broadway choreographer and film director, on which the current show Fosse/Verdon was initially based. After finishing the book, he went back and watched all of Fosse’s films.

“He does such a good job of capturing that drug of being on stage, and the sadness that you get when you come off stage,” he says. “The huge rush of performing and the let-down afterwards. I get both happy and depressed about it. I don’t want to love it this much, but then I do, but I want also to have perspective.” He waves his hands in the air as if to bat away his only apparent torture: loving this job, which he is incredibly good at, a little too much.

Groff grew up in Pennsylvania, in a conservative, Methodist family, but his parents encouraged his theatrical ambitions, driving him several hours each way to audition for musicals in New York City. He won a place in a touring performance of The Sound of Music and deferred his spot at Carnegie Mellon University. At 20, he was cast in Spring Awakening, earning his first Tony nomination at 21, in 2007.

Television roles followed in Glee, The Normal Heart and Looking, the critically acclaimed but short-lived HBO drama about the lives of gay men in San Francisco. His parents, he tells me, “didn’t watch that one”.

Openly gay himself, in Mindhunter Groff is playing straight, in a role that features a solid amount of sex scenes as well as psychosexual content. Ryan Murphy, his former showrunner at Glee, and the creator of Pose and The People vs OJ Simpson, was so moved to see this, Groff tells me, that he rang to congratulate him.

“He got really emotional about it, partly, I think, because when he first met me [Groff made a pilot with him during Spring Awakening, which was never picked up] I was still in the closet. Then I came out, owned my identity and, thankfully, still get to play all different kinds of parts. Ryan said: ‘I know that it was something you were scared about, but you worked through your fear, and now here you are, getting to do this amazing show, and not being defined by your sexual orientation.’”

Did he really worry that if he came out he’d never be given a “straight” role again? “Totally,” Groff cries, slapping his thighs. “No agents or producers had ever said: ‘Don’t come out of the closet, it will ruin your career,’ but it was an unspoken thing. And there were no out gay movie stars as examples. But then I fell in love, at 23. And I thought, ‘OK, if I come out, and I only do off-Broadway plays for the rest of my life, I am totally happy with that – that’s what I moved to New York for. So maybe I won’t be a romantic lead in a movie – who cares? I would rather be doing cool stuff with people who don’t give a f--- than pretend to be someone I am not.’”

Happily, that couldn’t be further from the case. While filming the second season of Mindhunter in Pittsburgh, he’s been simultaneously reprising his role as Kristoff for Frozen 2, due out in November. “It was the dream,” he beams. “To be able to sit with Charles Manson, and then drive to New York to pretend to be in a blizzard, singing a Disney song.”

But, in truth, he’s never really stopped being Kristoff. “I make Voice Memos for kids,” he reveals. “I sing for them and do the reindeer voice, which they get really excited about. I do a lot of King George Voice Memos too, actually.”

He was in Hamilton for only two months, in the spring of 2015, but made enough of an impact with his campy, knowing performance, to earn another Tony nomination.

“It was like being in the eye of the storm,” he says of his spell in the Broadway phenomenon. “I listened to the Bill Gates Desert Island Discs the other day; he has My Shot from Hamilton as his final song. And I thought, ‘Oh my god, that’s right, I met Bill Gates – he came to the show.’ You really can’t take it in, in the moment, but looking back, I’m like, ‘Wow, I really met Beyoncé?’”

Given his experience in voicing Frozen, one might assume Groff would be a dab hand at recording audiobooks. Not so, he says. When he was asked to record the audio for John Douglas’s latest non-fiction book (his 13th), The Killer Across the Table, “it was SO hard,” he says. “So much harder than I thought it was going to be. I never made it through one page without f------ up.” It did mean, however, that he finally got to meet the legendary FBI agent in person. “We’d emailed before, but getting to meet him was a great moment. He loves the show, and even talks about it in the book that I recorded.”

This second series is launching at a moment of renewed obsession with Manson, thanks to the 50th anniversary of the murder of Sharon Tate, and the release of Quentin Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. I wonder out loud whether the period that Mindhunter explores, when serial killers began to be studied seriously, was also the moment that they also began to be glamorised in popular culture.

“Yes, David and the writers try to address that question. You have Holden, who is a sycophant and obsessed with Manson, and you have the Bill Tench character [Ford’s FBI colleague, played by Holt McCallany], who is like: ‘Dude, these people are disgusting and deplorable.’

“David is uninterested in creating conversation in which any one person is right and any one person is wrong,” says Groff. “He likes to hold a bunch of different perspectives at the same time. That’s what makes it worth working on, that’s what makes it worth watching.”

Mindhunter, series one  and two, are available  on Netflix

#jonathan groff #interview #press #!

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hazkiwislutt · 5 years

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humble beginnings.

{ it’s athena!! this is something i wrote ‘cause i was inspired; my parents both immigrated to the US and i grew up in SF. since the city is so dear to me, i only take people i genuinely trust to see where i’ve grown up because it isn’t exactly “the ritz” and i come from pretty humble beginnings that some people have difficulty swallowing. also,, i’m filipina, so some of the details in here cater to my filipina readers! HOWEVER, if you guys want to request certain types of cultures or have any requests in general, don’t be afraid to ask me ‘cause i’ll most definitely write them. i hope you enjoy!! }

“Hey, H? Can I ask you something?”

You weren’t a person who was acquainted with nervousness.

Your voice never wavered when you talked (not even when you delivered an impromptu speech to thousands of people at your college graduation because the original speaker ate bad shrimp an hour before the ceremony). Your hands were never clammy, and they never shook (even when you had to sew your dad’s thumb back onto his hand after he severed it while shucking oysters at your tenth birthday party). Your stomach never filled with butterflies that intended to make you hurl (not even when you had take the blame for your little sister breaking your mom’s favorite china).

Now, though, you felt all of these symptoms of nervousness amplified, because you were about to ask your boyfriend of a little over ten months if he’d like to come home for New Year’s with you, so that he could finally meet your parents and visit your hometown.

It wasn’t that Harry was a scary person; in fact, he was the definition of sunshine, the epitome of kindness, the pinnacle of love. You knew he loved you, and you knew that you were being a silly for being so nervous, but your past was something you could not shake at times. You weren’t embarrassed, per se, but you were definitely wary that not everybody could understand your roots, and you didn’t want to overwhelm Harry with your family and your origin.

“F’course, love. Anything, y’know that.” He looked up at you from where he was sitting on the couch, clad in a black t-shirt with grey sweats, legs splayed wide. “But first, come over here. I’d like a cuddle, please.” You obliged, straddling his waist and leaning your head on his shoulder. He squeezed you tightly to him, drawing patterns on your back as you rose and fell slightly with his breathing.

“So, I know New Years is coming up soon,” you started slowly, calculating your words because the anxious feeling in your stomach was overwhelming. “And I was just wondering if you’d like to come meet my parents, finally. You can say no, of course, it was just a suggestion and honestly, I don’t know why I asked, it was stupid, just forget that I even said anything- oh!”

Harry giggled as he pressed his lips against yours before pulling back and looking at you. He shook his head, threading his fingers through your hair.

“Silly girl, f’course I’d love t’go. When do we leave?”

...

The drive to your parents’ house took longer than you’d expected, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Embarrassment had never been the word used to describe your feelings towards your family, your background, and your hometown. Your parents had raised you to the best of their abilities, and although they had little to nothing when they’d first immigrated to the States (though, not much had changed), they worked hard and you were immensely proud and endlessly grateful for their determination to give you and your siblings the life they could never have.

However, a part of you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Harry would look at your humble beginnings and think twice about your relationship. You had never allowed any of your past partners to meet your parents out of discomfort, but Harry was different. You were completely sure that your future could involve Harry, even if it had only been ten months. As stupid as it was, you just didn’t want Harry to feel that he was in too far over his head.

The doubts in your head whizzed around faster than the cars next to you on the freeway, and you hadn’t realized Harry had taken the exit into the Excelsior District of San Francisco. The streets were cramped, and pedestrians braved the sloping hills to run down to the shabby shops and stands on the infamous Mission Street. Your nerves jumped as he made his way up the nearly vertical hills and streets that were so small, they might as well have been called over-exaggerated sidewalks.

“That’s the one,” you commented softly, pointing at your parents’ dingy house from down the street as Harry had turned onto Vienna.

Your parents’ house sat at the top of a tall flight of stairs leading up to the chipped front door, and the front yard (if it could even be deemed as one) was littered with random patches of grass poking through the cracked, uneven cement. The house was mostly grey, since it was built quickly and carelessly to satisfy the wave of immigrants that your parents had come over with when they were barely in their twenties. Harry parked in your parents’ driveway, his Range Rover sat slanted worryingly to the right because of the uneven incline of the hills, looking painfully out of place in a neighborhood where the inhabitants could only dream of being able to scrape enough money together to buy one.

“C’mon, then, let’s go meet the in-laws,” Harry giggled, wiggling his eyebrows at you and scrambling out of the car. If you’d been in a better mindset, you’d definitely laugh at how comical his excitement was, but your stomach was twisting and your palms were beginning to sweat a disgusting amount. He hadn’t seemed perturbed by the scenery and the evident lack of luster of your parents’ house, but you believed him to be covering up his confusion and disgust.

Sighing, you peered at Harry unloading the bags from the trunk through the rearview mirror, and opened the door to help him. You grabbed your bag and began to lead him up the steps to the front door, grimacing at every groan and creak that the eroded wood gave on your ascent.

“This is so cool! Their house s’like, in the air! Christ, yeh could get a workout from all those steps too, m’already winded.” You smiled shyly at him, and he returned it with a cheeky grin. “S’that why yeh’ve got such a nice a-! Ow, okay! I won’t finish that sentence.”

Harry continued huffing and puffing until you reached the top of the flight, right in front of the wooden front door that was chipped and cracked in certain places. You knocked, wincing as you reminded yourself to tell your parents that you could help them at least get a better door, since this one looked as if you could tap it and it would fall inward.

You heard Harry whistle, and felt him slip his hand into yours. He was staring out at the overlook of the city, a view you had the pleasure of looking at every morning before you took off for the bus station to get to school. It showed the neighborhoods across the freeway and the city from where you both stood.

“That’s quite the view, love! Can’t believe yeh got to wake up an’ see tha’ everyday!” Harry’s voice was filled with such childlike wonder, it almost made you lighten up and smile, until you internally reminded yourself that the view was the only nice thing about this place.

The lovely scene was harshly interrupted by an aggressive creaking of someone attempting to open the poor excuse of a door, revealing your mother looking physically frail and tired, wearing a shabby housedress she probably had owned since she was in her twenties and an apron that looked as if it were held together by God’s will. You’d missed her.

“Anak! Malamig sa labas, pasok ka!” (Dear, it’s cold outside, come in!) Your mother grabbed you by the hand and pulled you inside, dragging Harry along since your hands were still intertwined. The warm of the small house enveloped you and your eyes watered at the familiar smell that filled the walls. You’d truly missed home.

“Nanay,” you breathed, hugging her tightly, “I missed you.” She smiled at you warmly and patted your cheek with her hand, before you took it from her and blessed your forehead with it. It was a custom that had been engrained into your head since you were a child when you interacted with your elders.

Your mother peered around you curiously and you stepped aside to introduce Harry, who was grinning and already reaching out to shake your mother’s hand. “Ito ang aking novio, Nay.” (This is my boyfriend, Mom.) Your mother shook his hand, and you marveled as Harry bent down to bless his forehead with your mother’s hand.

“M’Harry, s’lovely t’finally meet yeh...Erm...” Harry had straightened out, maintaining eye contact with your mom until he’d realized he didn’t know what to call her.

“Mom,” your mother piped up, her accent as prominent as the surprise she wore on her face in response to Harry’s gesture, “You call me Mom.” She bumped his hip with her own and gave you a conspicuous side-eye, before telling you in Tagalog to give him a tour and to put your bags in your old room. Harry grinned bashfully, and you gave him a real smile. Your heart was still filled with an indescribable warmth as you realized Harry had taken a small piece of your culture and used it to integrate himself into your family and impress your parents.

“Baby, just leave your bags here while I show you around. It’ll take like, three minutes. There’s not much to show.” You mumbled the last part, eyes shifting around to your parent’s squalid home, and you caught Harry looking at you questioningly.

As soon as you walked into your parents’ house, you were in the living room. It was smaller than you and Harry’s shared closet, crammed with a faded print sofa that sagged precariously close to the ground and should have been thrown out years ago, accompanied by a television balanced precariously on a broken wooden table that you remember your father buying from your next door neighbor when you were ten. There was a single window that was cracked with blinds that were yellowed and brittle, and there were dusty bookshelves that were filled with miscellaneous items that hadn’t been picked up in years.

“This is just the living room, s’nothing special.” Harry observed closely everything you’d just pointed out, and he smiled again when he caught your eye. You motioned for him to follow you further into the house, which was really only three or four steps, until you showed him the first door, right next to the arm of the sofa.

“S’just my parents’ room here, I’d show you but they’ve not cleaned it since they first came here, plus my dad is probably changing, and I don’t think you want to see that.” You gestured to the door right next to the first one. “That’s where we’re staying, but I’ll show you after. Come on.”

You pulled Harry a few more steps to enter the kitchen through a crumbling wooden doorframe. The soft tile of the kitchen was splintered and missing in some places, creating an odd patchwork that made you groan internally. The dining table was flimsy and shoved against the wall so that there was enough room to walk through to the actual kitchen. It looked as if it would collapse under the weight of all the dishes your mother was putting out, but you knew it wouldn’t. You smiled softly as you remembered the time you’d made a running leap on top of it to evade your younger brother after you’d taken his underpants while he was trying to change.

The chairs that surrounded the pitiful table were all different, ranging from plastic chairs to fold out chairs to a random rocking chair your father bought when you were twelve, each one creaky and old and a reminder of your background.

“Uh, well, this is the dining room, obviously. It’s also the kitchen, ‘cause the kitchen is literally one step away...” Your mother was diligently stirring sotanghon in a pot in the kitchen, which was nothing more than a few cabinets with the doors hanging off on their hinges, an incredibly eroded sink, and a stove that looked perpetually dirty, even if you’d spent the entire day cleaning it.

“Nay, I’m going to show him the bathroom. Excuse me,” you said as your mother walked out of the kitchen to allow you both to walk through. You walked a few steps and turned to the right, where one door lay sandwiched between the walls.

“This is the bathroom,” you slowly started, jiggling the door handle harshly and bumping your shoulder against the door to get it to open. This time, you let out an audible sigh as you took in the sight of the bathroom. The tub’s white enamel was chipped in so many places, it could’ve passed as brown with white flecks, and the bottom of it was literally held together by duct tape. You peered at the ceiling, which wasn’t a ceiling, really, but rather cardboard boxes stretched out and duct taped to cover the holes where the ceiling panels had fallen out. The single window by the toilet wasn’t even a window, for Christ’s sake, but instead, a wooden slab propped up against the broken glass to keep the air out. You looked into the scratched mirror and saw your face burn hot with shame.

“Love? S’the matter?” Harry was looking at you with his brows furrowed, and he reached out for your arm. You shook your head, pushing him out of the bathroom and ushering him back through the kitchen to the front door where you’d left your bags. Your mom was fixing the food at the dining table, and was painfully oblivious to the turmoil in your mind at the moment.

You grabbed your bags, and motioned for him to grab his, before leading him to your old bedroom, which you’d shared with all six of your siblings growing up.

You opened the door, close to tears as you took in the appearance of it, before shoving it shut with your shoulder. The white walls were cracked, and the ceiling was covered by more cardboard boxes. There was one battered twin bed covered in paper thin, threadbare sheets that were pressed up against the wall that the youngest of your siblings used to share, and a stack of thin blankets in the corner of the room that the older ones used to lay on the floor at night. Your only solace was that you were the only one visiting for the holiday, so that you and Harry wouldn’t be cramped in this room with your siblings. There was a minuscule closet with the door hanging off brokenly, and inside you saw a mass of boxes filled with God knows what.

The room was dark, because the ramshackle blinds that covered the window were drawn shut, and you shuffled your feet along the scratchy carpet as you felt your shoulders start to shake and tears start to fall. You felt Harry attempt to envelope you in his large frame, but you jerked away and reared to face him.

“Harry, you can leave.” You choked on your last word a bit, but stifled the cry that threatened to come out, because the walls were thin and you didn’t want your parents to worry.

“What d’yeh mean, love?” His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, and his hands gripped the bags on his shoulders tightly, wondering what he’d done, or what had happened between now and five minutes ago, when you’d both first stepped foot into the house. He wondered if he’d heard you right, and held his breath as he waited to find out.

“You can leave,” you gritted out, “because where I come from isn’t what you need, or deserve, and it sure as hell isn’t what you want. It’s ugly, and dirty, and poor, and I’m sorry I brought you here.”

Harry was taken aback, confused as to where you inferences of his feelings came from, but as he saw the tears falling rapidly from your eyes, he realized this was a deep-rooted insecurity that you’d trusted him with. He knew you were scared and vulnerable, and Harry prided himself on making you feel safe and at home.

“Love, it’s none of those things. M’being honest w’yeh, I don’t see it like tha-” He was cut off by your disgruntled snort.

“Oh, you don’t, do you? Don’t fucking lie to me. This house is worth a lot less than your car, Harry. Even when it was first built, it looked shabby and worn down. It’s disgusting, and you know it.” You were still talking low, but Harry could feel the emotions in your voice, even if he didn’t understand them.

“Love, m’not lying to yeh, swear on it! I don’t mind this at all-” He was interrupted once again by another outburst.

“Harry,” you breathed in, your lungs rattling with your effort to keep quiet, “I love you. I love you, meaning I love everything about you, every part of you. It’s so easy to love you, and I’m sorry it’s not the same for me, because there’s no way to love this. There is absolutely no way for you to love this part of me.”

You weakly gestured around the room, not daring to look at him before you continued, “There were twelve of us living in this house when my grandparents were still alive. Twelve people, one bathroom, two bedrooms. You’re telling me you don’t mind this? Even I minded it, every fucking day when I was growing up here, going to a school with other kids who didn’t have to share their room with six other people and didn’t have to live in a slum. My parents barely made enough to keep this place. It’s still hard for them to afford this place. It’s dirty, dingy, disgusting... I’m the first to admit that. I’ve never taken anyone to meet my parents, or see my home. Ever. You don’t have to lie and tell me you don’t mind, because I know, H. I know what the truth is, and I’m not angry that you think so. This is where I come from, and I can’t put that on you. I love you, but I can’t do this to you. You don’t deserve someone who comes from this. You deserve a lot better, a lot more than me.”

You were properly sobbing now, not caring if your parents heard at this point. Harry had listened intently, wanting to immediately cut in and tell you that he loved you, and that he really didn’t mind, and that you had the truth wrong, and that he didn’t want anyone else but you because you were already more than enough for him, but he waited until you were finished so that he could give you full reassurance. He dropped his bags and crushed you to him, ignoring the way you initially stiffened in his hold.

“Remember when we first started dating, hm? An’ we went to your favorite restaurant t’celebrate getting your job? When we got home, there were pictures everywhere of me holding your hand an’ kissing you, an’ people were being terrible to you right? What did I say to yeh when tha’ happened? Tell me, angel.” Your face was buried into his chest, soaking his t-shirt and he felt a muffled rumble against him as you answered. He smiled before saying, “Can’t hear yeh, love.” He heard you breathe exasperatedly before answering louder.

“’This is what comes with me. I can’t change it, and I can’t force you to stick through it if you don’t want to. But I’m crazy about you, and I want this with you, so I’m going to selfishly ask that if you’re just as crazy about me, to stay and we can both work it out together.’” Your voice was still shaky, but his smile grew as he ran his fingers through your hair, still cradling you to his chest.

“An’ look wha’ you did, baby. Stayed w’me, an’ we worked it out together, right?” He felt you nod timidly, before pulling you away so that he could look into your eyes.

“Not going anywhere, ‘cause this is what comes w’you, and m’absolutely crazy for yeh. Can’t change it, and yeh can’t force me t’stick through this, but you’d never have to because I want to. I want yeh. M’staying, an’ I love yeh endlessly, regardless of where yeh from, where you’ve gone, where you’re going t’be. Don’t know how you could ever think that about your background. S’bloody incredible. This house gave way to the most amazing woman I’ve ever known, and I’m eternally grateful tha’ you trusted me enough to let me in like this.”

Your breathing had slowed and you were crying for an entirely different reason now. Your heart was full with the weight of Harry’s words and empty of the ugly insecurities you’d harbored a few minutes prior. Harry’s voice dropped even lower as he continued, “Fuck life in the fast lane, I’d let all of our kids grow up like this if it means they’ll end up as extraordinary as you, my love.”

You crashed your lips against Harry’s as you felt your heart swell even more, and you felt him smile against your lips. You pulled away breathlessly and crushed him to you, murmuring softly, “Thank you, thank you, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you,” until he shushed you with another kiss.

You both situated your bags and wiped your teary eyes before braving your parents. Grasping Harry’s hand, you pulled him out of your room and toward the dining room.

Your mom was sitting at the food laden dining table with your dad, and they both turned toward you with smiles on their faces when you entered the dining room. Your dad eyed Harry up and down in a cold manner, and you felt Harry’s hand stiffen in yours. You stifled a laugh, knowing your dad was simply pranking him, but deciding to play along.

Your dad scooted his chair away from the table, making a loud scraping sound as he limped over to you and Harry, keeping a death stare. Harry’s hand was clammy in yours, and you turned to look at him, taking in his pale complexion and the sweat forming on his forehead. Your dad had stopped in front of you both, and Harry extended his other hand before greeting him with a timid, “Hello, sir, m’Harry.”

Your dad eyed Harry’s hand with contempt, and you heard Harry stuttering before you dad broke into a broad smile and passed Harry’s hand to give him a hug instead. Harry’s eyes bugged out of his head and darted to find yours, only to see you giggling behind your hand. Your dad cleared his throat, before speaking, his accent prominent as he continued to cling to Harry, “After a speech like that, you call me Dad, and you give me as many grandchildren as you’d like! No more crying, let’s eat!”

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jenoramaca · 5 years

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Been trying to work on a wedding fic ...

I’ve been working on a wedding fic off an on for a little while now and I haven’t yet quite come up with something I feel like really works. Here’s one bit I have.

HARRY POTTER ENGAGED!

This reporter has recently learned of the engagement of the Savior of the Wizarding World, Harry Potter! As you undoubtedly recall, young Mr Potter, the star of Britain’s Aurors, left the Ministry and our shores for the United States, settling in San Francisco, California where he is employed teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at a local Wizarding school. By all accounts, he is a popular teacher with both the students and parents.

“I’m not surprised he turned to teaching. He was dead serious when we were doing Dumbledore’s Army—a real professional. We all thought sure that he was going to teach as soon as Voldemort was gone, but he went for the Aurors,” says Zacharias Smith, a former classmate of the Chosen One.

And who is the lucky girl, you ask? Did some American get her hooks into our boy? Have no fear for she’s none other than his best friend’s sister, and fellow Gryffindor Ginny Weasley! This reporter was not able to get a reaction from Mr Potter’s best friend, Ron, but I did run into Parvati Patil in Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlor.

“Oh, we all just knew that they were meant to be together,” she said. “They used to spend hours snugged up together in the Gryffindor common room.”

Moments after speaking to Ms Patil, this reporter made the acquaintance of Flora Carrow, a Slytherin schoolmate of the affianced. “Ginny Weasley? Honestly, I think he could have done much better. She was known as a bit of a strumpet in her school days, wasn’t she? I know she got through an awful lot of boys.”

Well, there you have it. Ladies, consider all of your hearts broken because the Chosen One has made his choice. Watch this space for more news about what will certainly be the wedding of the year, if not the century!

POTTER-WEASLEY LOVE NEST! AND A ROCK TO GO WITH IT!

Hello again, dear readers! Last month this reporter brought you news of Harry Potter’s engagement to Ginny Weasley and the news has certainly caught like wildfire! Our office has been inundated by your owls and this reporter will do her best to answer all of your questions!

First off, where are the happy couple going to live after the blessed event? I have it on good authority that Mr Potter has put his considerable wealth to good use in purchasing a property in notoriously expensive San Francisco within sight of the the world-famous Golden Gate Bridge. Nothing but the best for our two lovebirds!

And speaking of the best—a lot of you have been asking about one of the most important things—The Ring! As you know, our Mr Potter is notoriously camera-shy, but lucky for us, Miss Weasley does not suffer from the same affliction! A loyal reader was able to obtain this snap and sent it in to our office post haste! In it you can clearly see a heart-shaped engagement ring on her finger! This reporter estimates the size to be at least two carats. Mr Potter certainly isn’t afraid to splash out where his fiancée is concerned!

Who is the man Miss Weasley is with in that picture? This reporter doesn’t know yet, but it’s safe to say that Miss Weasley prefers both brunets and blonds!

But what about the dress? This reporter has been in contact with all of the best designers the Wizarding world has to offer and they all say that they are eagerly anticipating her owl. This reporter was privy to several in-progress designs from Giacomo di Mare, designer of Astoria Malfoy’s (née Greengrass) wedding dress.

“For the chosen of the Chosen One, it must be something spectacular and never-before seen that will echo through the ages!” he said. This reporter must agree that di Mare seems to be on the right track. If you’re reading this, Miss Weasley, he has our full endorsement!

That’s all I have space for right now, Dear Readers. Please continue sending your owls with questions, tips and any information. As always, we pay well! Until next time!

***

“Well, I’m certainly glad to know that spotty Flora Carrow thinks you could have done a lot better than me,” Ginny said, throwing down the article clippings onto the coffee table in disgust.

“Who’s she?” Harry asked, picking up the clippings Molly had sent with her latest letter. He read the headlines, forehead creasing in dismay. I’m going to have to set up some sort of perimeter, he thought. Can’t have long lenses peeking into our windows.

“Absolutely no one worth knowing. Her surname should tell you all you need to know. And I did not get through a lot of boys in school! It was Michael and then Dean and then you!” Ginny crossed her arms, fuming. “That bitch. She must still be ticked off at me because Slughorn invited me to the Slug Club before her and her creepy sister.”

Harry read over the short article, wincing at the use of “savior” and “chosen one”. Well, that just reinforces my decision to leave all of that. “Sorry, love. At least we’re not over there, yeah? It’s just going to get worse.”

Ginny looked at him and smiled, ruffling her fingers through his already untidy hair. “I’ve never hid the fact that you are a lot of bother.” She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. “Would you be upset if we spent Teddy’s school holidays here? I know we’d talked about doing a split holiday.”

“That is no problem at all. I want to spend enough time over there to get the flat sorted and pick up Teddy. The less time in all of that madness the better.” Harry looked at the picture in the second clipping. It was clearly Ginny and Ben out for a customary post-class coffee. He had evidently said something that made her laugh and he watched as she smiled and put her hand on Ben’s arm over and over, her engagement ring flashing in the sunlight. A note in Molly’s hand said, “Who is this?”

“Brunets and blonds, eh?” Harry asked, turning his head to kiss the top of hers.

“And the occasional redhead,” she said leaning in to kiss him. “I don’t discriminate.”

“Maybe I should owl in a tip to Witch Weekly, then?” Harry said, grinning at her scowl.

“Only if you want to find out how comfortable this sofa is for sleeping.” She picked up the letter from Molly and started reading, ignoring him on purpose. “Oh dear,” she groaned after a few minutes.

Harry turned his attention away from the article clippings, wondering just how they’d figured out he’d bought property here. I might have to have a word with my solicitors. “What?” he asked with some trepidation.

“Mum’s gone off the reservation. I told her small and now she’s talking about all of these associated events. The Ministry want to have a party for us.”

“No.”

“And she’s been contacted by St Mungos—they want to have some sort of reception as well.”

“No.”

“There’s a tradition of both a pre and post-wedding breakfast for the extended families … high teas, receptions …” she said, Harry sinking lower and lower into the sofa cushions until he’d nearly slithered to the floor. “Oh dear, she’s even asking about hen parties and stag nights!”

Harry sat straight up. “No, I am not having your mother arrange a stag night.”

“Oh my God,” Ginny said, clearly not having heard what he’d just said. “McGonagall has offered Hogwarts for the venue.”

“What?” Harry said, taking the offered letter. Minerva owled me as soon as she heard about your engagement, offering the use of Hogwarts for your wedding. I can’t think of anyplace more appropriate for the two of you to be joined in marriage. Just think how wonderful the Great Hall always looks at Christmas time!

He passed the letter back to Ginny, all too easily envisioning Molly with her hands clasped to her chest and a beatific smile on her face at the thought of her only daughter getting married in the Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He felt a bit sick.

“Harry, that would be amazing!” Ginny said, eyes shining. “All decorated for Christmas, all of the floating candles—”

“Peeves flying in and out, hurling stink bombs at the guests.”

“Harry, don’t be such a wet blanket. It’ll be wonderful!”

Harry looked at Ginny’s excited expression and sighed. “Fine. But no Ministry party, one breakfast OR high tea and your mum has nothing to do with anything remotely resembling a stag night.” He grunted as she dove at him, wrapping her arms around his midsection in a bear hug.

“This is going to be amazing,” she said, sounding like someone who had dreamed of getting married in the Great Hall ever since she’d laid eyes on it.

#hp fanfic #harry x ginny

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doomandgloomfromthetomb · 6 years

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The Ballad of Spike & Jerry: Bob Dylan & Jerry Garcia, 1980-1995 / Dylan & The Dead: 2003

A very special treat for you today — the estimable Jesse Jarnow has gone long on the tangled tale of Bob Dylan and the Grateful Dead, and put together two essential comps for your listening pleasure, with great art by John Hilgart. Before we get started, you should know that Jesse has a new book coming out soon: Wasn’t That a Time: The Weavers, the Blacklist, and the Battle for the American Soul, scheduled for publication by Da Capo on Election Day, 2018. He’s also just started a podcast — Alternate Routes, featuring “independent music not found on major streaming services, all tracks approved by artists.” And of course, you can still catch his Frow Show, weekly on WFMU. OK, I think that covers it — take it away, Jesse!

The Ballad of Spike & Jerry: The Frequently Secret & Always Misbegotten Adventures of Bob Dylan & the Grateful Dead, 1971-2003 by Jesse Jarnow

You might love Dylan. You might even love the Dead. But that says nothing about how you might feel about Dylan & the Dead, the 1989 live album documenting the 1987 tour where Jerry & co. backed Bob. I’m pretty sure I’ve spent more hours listening to Bob Dylan and the Grateful Dead than any other two artists combined, and I’m quite sure I don’t dig Dylan & the Dead. Perhaps presumptuously (but I’d bet accurately!), I assume the vast majority of Dylan and Dead freaks I know feel the same way.

So, as Doom & Gloom From the Tomb rolls through the Never-Ending Tour, which started the year after Dylan’s ’87 tour with the Dead, I was inspired to dig into the moment where it intersected with the equally endless Summer of Dead, which has trucked on now for more than two decades since Jerry Garcia’s 1995 death. Specifically, I wanted to hear the appearances Dylan made with the post-Garcia configuration calling themselves “The Dead” in the summer of 2003, playing 18 different songs during eight performances. And so I did, and enjoyed it quite a bit, the two acts’ idiosyncratic tendencies lining up more sympathetically and far more enjoyably than the 1987 onstage train wreckage.

But, of course, there was the missing void of Jerry Garcia, and it seemed silly to stop there. What I wanted--what I want--is Jerry and Dylan. And there’s actually a fair body of that, over 14 hours worth. Inside that, I went a-questing for at least a single disc’s worth of highlights, of performances that I actually want to listen to and could maybe internalize in the same way that I do with my favorite recordings from either. Listening back to what I put aside, I think what I wanted were tracks where neither side overpowered the other, where Dylan doesn’t shout, and where the Dead quit rolling their thunder. I’m sure the expanded Bootleg Series version of Blood on the Tracks will be plenty bloody, but these might be Dylan’s bloodiest tracks of all.

There’s also the plot point that Dylan has repeatedly credited his collaboration with the Dead for turning around his own career, leading directly to his critical and commercial reemergence a decade later. And I also wanted to piece together the story, which--as it turns out--goes back nearly a full decade before the first Bob Dylan and Jerry Garcia played together onstage.

1. Reckoning with Dylan & the Dead

Dylan & the Dead is one of the bigger missed opportunities in rock history, but the even bigger missed opportunity probably came about 15 years earlier, when the Dead were at their peak as a nimble Americana/jazz quintet, and Dylan was simultaneously retired and in the process of becoming something of a Deadhead.

The first inklings that Dylan might be gettin’ heady came in spring 1971, when Rolling Stone reported him hanging out by the Fillmore East soundboard during the Dead’s five-night run that April. “Fuck, they’re damned good,” the Stone reported him saying after watching the band jam with the Beach Boys. According to Levon Helm’s autobiography, on New Year’s Eve that year, when Dylan showed up to play with The Band at New York’s Academy of Music, he told the drummer that, “I’m thinking of touring with the Dead.” “Dylan Stalks the Dead,” the Village Voice reported on Dylan’s presence at Jersey City’s Roosevelt Stadium for one of the Dead’s summer ’72 shows, but nothing materialized. Jerry Garcia was elusive when asked about their chillage.

Jerry Garcia was a serious grade Dylan freak, which maybe seems obvious, but it wasn’t ever thus. In fact, Garcia was one of those purists who thought Dylan’s new directions in folk music were impure and walked out on one of Dylan’s legendary folk festival sets in disgust. For Garcia, though, it was the Monterey Folk Festival in May of 1963. By the time Dylan plugged in two years later, Garcia was likewise in the process of going electric, and was totally on board. When Dylan returned to the road in ’74, Garcia caught him with the Band in Oakland and, according to Rolling Stone, headed down to LA to see him again at the Forum a few days later, only to discover that some enterprising beardo had shown up at the box office, claimed to be Jerry, and ganked his ticket.

In the intervening years, Bob Dylan and Jerry Garcia continued to circle one another, traces of their developing friendship emerging in the marginalia of rock history. Grateful Dead Records employee Steve Brown told me (when I interviewed him for my book, Heads) about how he and Garcia scored an invitation to a mixdown session for Planet Waves, after Dead crew chief Ramrod befriended some roadies for the Band at their joint gigs. They saw them working on “Going, Going, Gone,” Steve notes, which went almost directly into Garcia’s solo sets. Sometime later that year, it seems, Dylan looked up David Grisman and arrived in Stinson Beach for mandolin lessons, and--at some point--made his way up the hill for a jam session with Garcia at San Souci, cookies by Mountain Girl.

But it wasn’t until 1980 that Bob Dylan and Jerry Garcia showed up on a stage together and, by then, things had changed. Bob Dylan had been born again. Jerry Garcia was sliding into a deep heroin addiction. Like star-crossed lovers, the pair continued to cross paths for the next 15 years, playing together from time to time--most notably during Dylan’s six show run with the Dead in the summer of ’87--but never achieved the sustained burst of magic that one might hope for from the two. Bummer.

I’ve revisited their first pairing a few times over the years, a 1980 show during Dylan’s 14-show stand at San Francisco’s Warfield Theater, beginning only a few weeks after the Dead had finished their own 15-night run that would end up, in part, as the great acoustic album Reckoning. Dylan, though, was on his second pass through the Bay Area with his expanding repertoire of born again Christian songs. The previous year, he’d performed only his gospel music.

By 1980, for the first time in Dylan’s performing career, though, shows weren’t selling out. A few of his old favorites soon returned to the setlists, and promoter Bill Graham started to tap into his phonebook for guests that might spice up the proceedings and sell more tickets, which would come to include Carlos Santana, Roger McGuinn, Maria Muldaur, and Dylan’s final performance with Highway 61 Revisited guitar hero Mike Bloomfield. And Jerry.

The first song they played together, “To Ramona,” is fairly magic. Garcia takes over for the solo, shifting into a mode that’s perfect Jerry, simultaneously fully in charge, but finding voicings and turns that also push the song open, making it sound like a limitless conversation -- for 85 seconds or so, anyway. After that, though, Garcia’s contributions are bit more nebulous. Setlists differ about when he was actually onstage, and the recording is of mixed help, his guitar sometimes sinking into the murk, sometimes punctuating thoughts, but never with the confidence of “To Ramona.”

A few months later, Garcia spoke to David Gans about the performance. “I was surprised that the tunes were as difficult as they were,” he commented. “A lot of the tunes that he writes are deceptively simple-sounding, when in reality they’re not. There was really only maybe two or three of the five or six that I played on that I wasn’t doing anything besides trying to learn the tune.”

Little Feat guitarist Fred Tackett, then serving in Dylan’s band, assessed it similarly to Clinton Heylin, if more harshly (and not fully accurately): “Carlos played a song--thank you and left. Mike Bloomfield came out, played ‘Like A Rolling Stone’--thank you--left. Jerry Garcia came out, played and stayed. The whole two-hour show. [Not quuuite --ed.] He didn’t know any of the songs and he was higher than a kite... We finished the show and Bob said, ‘I’m never going to have anybody sit in with us again.’” (Roger McGuinn and Maria Muldaur would sit in over the next few nights.)

Their semi-public paths converged again in 1986. Garcia checked out a Dylan show at the Greek, hung with Bob backstage, planted the seed for the next summer’s tour, and offered some song-by-song notes. Another story from around that era has Dylan showing up at an Oakland Dead show with his Greenwich Village-era roommate, Wavy Gravy, and going unrecognized until he slipped his sunglasses on.

Finally, when the Dead shared a few stadium bills with Dylan (backed by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers for his own summer tour), Dylan showed up onstage with the Dead in Akron and Washington, DC.

But ye Gods I don’t recommend listening. Only a week later, Jerry Garcia would fall into a diabetic coma and nearly die. He sounds better here than I would’ve suspected, but there is no clickage happening whatsoever between Dylan and the Dead during either of these performances as Dylan tries and often fails to duet with Garcia and Bob Weir on his own songs.

Even still, Dylan arrived at the Dead’s Club Front studio warehouse in the San Rafael industrial zone in January 1987 and jammed with the Dead, landing (according to Dennis McNally) in a version of the Beatles’ “Nowhere Man” that thrilled both parties. Dylan proposed a tour together, and showed up in June for three weeks of rehearsals.

Dylan’s entrance into the Dead’s world was typically absurd and would get no less so. The band’s infamously cliquish road thugs immediately signaled that Dylan was on their turf, deciding that--since the Dead already had one “Bob,” and two if you count Hunter--that they would need to find a new name for Dylan. They settled on “Spike,” and would only address Dylan as such.

Dead roadie Steve Parish remembered Dylan as private, “content to write songs, play guitar, and smoke a little pot,” and enjoyed the surreality of being assigned to hang as Dylan crashed on the Front Street couch, inherited from Parish’s parents, where little Big Steve had once sat and argued that Dylan was the voice of his generation.

While a banner year for the Grateful Dead, scoring their only top 10 hit, 1987 was a terrible year for Bob Dylan. Later, he would tell Newsweek that he was going through a complete musical freak-out, suffering onstage panic attacks, “I-- I can’t remember what it means, does it mean -- is it just a bunch of words? Maybe it’s like what all these people say, just a bunch of surrealistic nonsense...” As Paul Williams points out in his wonderful chapter on the 1987 collaboration, this amnesia is audible throughout Dylan’s performances with the Dead during this period, both onstage and off. Perhaps the most sympathetic Dylan listener the world has ever known, Williams’s Dylan/Dead assessment comes in the third (and sadly final) volume of his Performing Artist series, 1986-1990 & beyond, Mind Out of Time, and I don’t totally agree with it.

In Chronicles, a book to which perhaps shouldn’t always be taken literally, Dylan’s freak-out continued palpably as he arrived at Front Street and discovered the band wanted to dive far back into Dylan’s songbook. “I could hear the brakes screech,” Dylan wrote in his 2004 account. “If I had known this to begin with, I might not have taken the dates. I had no feeling for any of those songs and didn’t know how I could sing them with any intent... I felt like a goon and didn’t want to stick around.”

And here Dylan slips into what sounds more like a parable than an actual story, describing how he escaped to a seedy bar somewhere nearby, not intending to go back, ordered a gin and tonic, turned around to watch the jazz combo onstage, and was struck dumb with musical revelation. “All of a sudden, I understood something faster than I ever did before,” Dylan wrote, and spends time in Chronicles explaining how this sudden download would cause him to rethink his career and approach to performing. He returned to Front Street a new man and had a blast. “Maybe [the Dead] dropped something in my drink, I can’t say, but anything they wanted to do was fine with me. I had that old jazz singer to thank.”

In 1997, Dylan would tell a more believable and practical version of what he gained from the rehearsal sessions. “[Garcia would] say, ‘Come on, man, you know, this is the way it goes, let’s play it, it goes like this,’” Dylan described. “And I’d say, ‘Man, he’s right, you know? How’s he getting there and I can’t get there?’ I had to go through a lot of red tape in my mind to get back there.”

The five hours of music circulating from these sessions at the Dead’s Club Front rehearsal space represent the Basement Tapes of the Dylan/Dead continuum, filled with delights, strange covers, experiments, shop talk, almost four dozen different songs, and a few performances that are, to my ears, just wonderful. I don’t think Dylan’s revelation is necessarily audible here, and I tend to imagine the real story being a bit more prosaic, closer to the second version, as the tape record bears out, but I find almost all of the rehearsal recordings to be enjoyable on some level.

My personal keeper takes come almost entirely on songs that neither act is known for, played in a far quieter manner than either had demonstrated onstage in those years. (Dylan had spent time a earlier that spring working with former Sex Pistols guitarist Steve Jones.) I’m especially taken with the songs where Garcia plays pedal steel and banjo. With Jerry on the banjo, they turn out some primo folk revival sunshine by way of “John Hardy” (as performed by the Carter Family on the Anthology of American Folk Music) and the jug band standard “Stealin’” (part of the Dead’s early electric repertoire and revisited by Garcia with his pal David Grisman a few years later). With Garcia sitting down at pedal steel for the first known time since 1972, they would play beautiful versions of 1967’s “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” and the half-lost 1962 gem “Tomorrow Is A Long Time,” both delivered with far more intimacy than the onstage versions performed over the summer, even if Dylan seems to remember almost none of the words. Paul Williams hates this version of “Tomorrow Is A Long Time,” and it’s true that Dylan doesn’t remember, really, any of the words and invents a few new phrases on the spot. Williams attributes it to the amnesia, but there’s a softness and spirit in Dylan’s voice I don’t hear many other places. It reminds me more of how--during the Basement sessions--he would sing songs he hadn’t yet finished, grappling for words, and sometimes not make full sense, but still capture some kind of feeling.

There’s raucousness, too. “Nowhere Man” doesn’t show up, but I was also grabbed especially by solid take on the communal favorite Buddy Holly’s “Oh Boy,” a sweet and casual “Watching the River Flow,” and a deliciously Basement-y romp through Paul Simon’s “Boy in the Bubble.” The lead song from Simon’s recent mega-comeback Graceland, it’s a gas to hear Jerry, Bob, and Spike try to remember the words, a song they’ve all clearly spent time with. Plus-one to Garcia for remembering the third verse and alternate chorus about “lasers in the jungle” and powering through even when the Bob section doesn’t recall it.

I wish there was more ethereal music like “Under Your Spell,” the Dead exhibiting surprising comfort with Knocked Out Loaded’s closing song, released the previous year and never played live, which Dylan seems to deliver with an entirely different set of lyrics. They almost hit that spot again doing Ian & Sylvia’s “The French Girl,” which Dylan and the Hawks had played in the Basement era, too, here with Garcia on pedal steel. The music stays nicely moody -- at least until the drummers figure out how to drum it up. Somewhere between the ethereal and the raucous is a take on the Rolling Stones’ 1965 song, “I’m Free,” with the Bobs joining on the chorus.

“You really have to pay attention to him to avoid making mistakes,” Garcia said after the rehearsals, “insofar as he’s doing what he’s doing and everybody else is trying to play the song. If you don’t do what he’s doing, you’re doing something wrong. In that sense, he de facto becomes the leader of the band... I don’t know whether two weeks with us is going to be able to change twenty years of that kind of conditioning.”

“By the end, I had a notebook filled with chord sequences, form diagrams, and lyric cues,” Phil Lesh remembered the sessions in his memoir. It “also confirmed that, hey, this guy’s at least as weird as any of us.” To that end, Spike also fell in love a pink Modulus guitar, later seen on stage in the company of Bob Weir. “This one’s really the right color, isn’t it?” Spike remarked.

It was during these sessions, too, that video director Len Dell’Amico got to screen the first cut of the “Touch of Grey” video during the sessions, and remembers that Dylan and Garcia’s relationship seemed to run deeper than it might’ve seemed. “I got the sense from Jerry that the two of them had a closer relationship than has been revealed by either one,” Dell’Amico recalls. “Because once I got him talking, it was clear they had talked on the phone a lot and they had spent time together in New York when [the Dead] played in New York. Bob had even given him a tour of New York City in his van. I think that was somewhere between ’78 and the Christian tour in 1980.”

Whatever Dylan and Garcia’s connection, and whatever transformation he may’ve undergone at a seedy San Rafael bar, when they got onstage, it was more or less chaos. For starters, Dylan was right back to shouting again and, yeesh Spike, chill out, in addition to setlist chaos. “That seemed like poetic justice for a band that took pride in its flexibility and in not using a setlist,” Lesh would say.

The resultant tour album is so harsh that it scared me off the rest of the tour and, as I dip back into it, it’s not unrepresentative, and that reaction wasn’t unwarranted. But there are also a few takes from the tour that I do actually like. On the “Ballad of a Thin Man,” during the first chorus, Dylan approaches something like the lovely voice he’d find again in the ‘90s, and lays into it, finding a harmony for the verse melody, and suddenly he’s stopped shouting and is singing.

On Sonicnoizelove’s mix of tour highlights, I found two versions that are right for me, both songs that I virtually never need to hear anybody sing ever. I recognize myself as being in the minority, but I’ve always loved Dylan’s versions of “All Along the Watchtower” above all others, but what pulls me in here is Garcia’s utterly over-the-top power shredding, totally ‘80s, but also pure Garcia, like the photo-inverse of the delicate colors he’d added on “To Ramona” the first time he’d joined Dylan. Sung by pretty much anybody, “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” has almost always sounded like “Kumbuyah” to me. But the Dead (whose versions of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” is likewise one I don’t often need to hear) fuckin’ nail it here, perfectly ragged, perfectly graceful. I think it’s ‘cuz Garcia’s leading the oooohs, and Dylan almost accidentally slides back into his purdy style of singing.

But of the six shows, those are the only three performances I really wanna hang out with more. For Dylan-heads, the sets included some big bust-outs, including the first ever live versions of “Queen Jane Approximately” and the first versions of the unreleased “John Brown” since the early ‘60s. Garcia apparently had his own favorites, which he assembled for the proposed live album -- and which were rejected by Dylan, recompiled by Sonicnoizelove on the Albums That Never Were blog. “What am I going to do, pop him one?” Garcia apparently shrugged. Unusually, given how I often I tend to agree with Garcia’s tastes, none of his picks resonated with me, either.

The real importance of the Grateful Dead on Bob Dylan would only become clear after the tour. Through the ‘80s, including his tour with the Dead, Dylan’s live setlists had barely varied. As Paul Williams pointed out, in Dylan’s first two shows of the fall, back with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, that changed, only repeating four songs on the second night of the tour, adding 13 more to the setlist.

Around the time of the ’87 shows, too, he set music to a pair of unrecorded Robert Hunter lyrics, “Silvio” and “The Ugliest Girl in the World,” both included for 1988’s Down in the Groove. “Silvio” featured Garcia, Weir, and Brent Mydland on backing vocals and became the album’s only single. Played nearly every night during large vital stretches of the Never-Ending Tour(s), I think “Silvio” is one of the songs that helped Dylan find his voice again, and even the down-on-his-heels character that would occupy 1997’s Time Out of Mind and 2001’s “Love & Theft.” Paul Williams thinks the song might be about Dylan himself.

By 1989, Dylan’s Deadheaddom had turned to something of an obsession. That February, he arrived at the LA Forum, inviting himself to sit-in and demanding to play “Dire Wolf.” (Perhaps he was inspired by the two nights Neil Young invited himself to play with Bob the previous year.) Dylan joined the band for the first half of the second set, but--for the most part--only played guitar. When they got to “Stuck Inside of Mobile,” the other Bob took the mic, Spike only stepping in when Weir forgot the words.

The next day, Dylan personally called the Dead’s office and asked if he could join the band, like, as a member. They had to have a vote, and it had to be unanimous. Perhaps obviously, it wasn’t. (Phil Lesh has been cited as the likely dissenter.)

Dylan himself became even more of a Deadhead after his tour with them. The Dead influence on his live shows is undeniable. In the early ‘90s, he began to integrate Garcia/Hunter covers into his live sets, including “Friend of the Devil,” “West L.A. Fadeaway,” “Alabama Getaway,” and “Black Muddy River.” A friend of mine has posited a theory about the first half of a particular Dylan show in the fall of ’92 being a shout-out to Garcia, with the first 7 songs being a combination of Dead tunes (“West L.A. Fadeaway”), Dylan tunes Jerry and/or the Dead covered (“Positively 4th Street”), and material they shared (“Peggy-O”). And even if it wasn’t intentional, the math says a lot.

Garcia sat in with Dylan a few more times, too, one in ’92 at the Warfield (a misfired but still enjoyable “Idiot Wind”) and ’95 at R.F.K. Stadium, on Garcia’s final tour (“Train to Cry” is especially the right pace, “Rainy Day Women” has a crashing little jam-off). It’s sadly fitting that Garcia and Dylan’s friendship was only seeming to deepen during these years, ending with yet another heartbreaking missed opportunity: a proposed fall ’95 acoustic duo tour, which both had orally agreed to, according to Dennis McNally’s bio. It was Dylan, too, that provoked what proved to be Garcia’s last studio session in July of 1995, Garcia gathering himself for a cover of Jimmie Rodgers’ “Blue Yodel #9” with David Grisman and pals for a tribute album Dylan put out on his own infrequently invoked Egyptian imprint.

“There’s no way to measure his greatness or magnitude as a person or as a player,” Dylan said in a statement a month later, following Garcia’s death at the age of 53. “I don’t think eulogizing will do him justice.” It remains one of the most articulate and beautiful pieces of writing about Jerry Garcia. “To me he wasn’t only a musician and friend,” it reads in part, “he was more like a big brother who taught and showed me more than he’ll ever know. There are a lot of spaces and advances between the Carter family, Buddy Holly and, say, Ornette Coleman, a lot of universes, but he filled them all without being a member of any school. His playing was moody, awesome, sophisticated, hypnotic and subtle. There’s no way to convey the loss.”

Dylan stayed with Hunter while visiting for the funeral, the two great lyricists supposedly starting to write songs together, a thread the two would officially pick up on Dylan’s 2009 album Together Through Life, where the two are credited as songwriters on all but two of the album’s songs. Whatever connection Garcia and Dylan shared, it was one that Dylan has continued to carry with him at a deep level. The year after Garcia’s death, he drafted former Jerry Garcia Band drummer David Kemper into his own band, who played with Spike for a half-decade in my personal favorite iteration of the Never-Ending Band. As Dylan entered his pastiche period, Dylan scholar Scott Warmuth has posited that “Love & Theft”’s opening “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum” is an answer song to “Uncle John’s Band” by way of a 1961 single called “Uncle John’s Bongos.” Really!

I haven’t seen much evidence of the Dead’s influence since Dylan shifted into his later career mode of covering pop standards. His setlists have ossified again, too. But it’s hard not to be influenced by Jerry, and, in the equally never-ending hunt for Dylan’s sources, I’m sure Garcia’s bemused beardo grin will show up somewhere.

2. Reckoning with Dylan & “the Dead”

As post-Garcia incarnations of former Grateful Dead members go, the 2003 squad called “the Dead” was one of my favorites. I only caught one show, but there were long jams, weird drumz and spaces, new songs, and no blues yodelers in sight. Looking back, it was the only year where Jimmy Herring acted as sole lead guitarist. I thought it was great.

But, even more, the early 2000s remain one of my favorite periods in the Never-Ending timeline, before Bob Dylan shifted over to keyboards full-time. His mode of improvising new melodies on the fly can be harsh and shouty, and there’s no better example of that than Dylan & the Dead. But, for nearly a decade of the Never-Ending Tour of tapes, I find his inventions to often be gorgeous, especially when he employs a soft and sweet lilt that I simply can’t hear as any derivative of “harsh.” (Check out the “Desolation Row,” especially on the recent Doom & Gloom NET Choice Cuts, vol. 1 mix.)

Spike didn’t join the band for any big jams (though Willie Nelson joined for a 10-minute version of Miles Davis’s “Milestones” that summer), wouldn’t allow his sit-ins to be included in the soundboard CDs sold after after show (again, big ups to Willie), and didn’t exactly sing in that soft, sweet Never-Ending voice (give or take the vitriolic “Ballad of a Thin Man,” ironically). But, listening to it as a compiled disc, they do jump into a great and convincing range of material. They do Garcia favorites (“Señor,” “Tangled Up in Blue”), shared standards they’d tried at the ’87 rehearsals (“You Win Again,” “Oh Boy”), Garcia/Hunter tunes Dylan loved (“Alabama Getaway,” “Friend of the Devil,” “West L.A. Fadeaway”), and more. It’s all a blast to my ears.

In many places, Bob Dylan does something totally remarkable by his standards: he sings songs such that, if a listener knows the words and wanted to, they could sing along. He doesn’t do it every time, certainly, but riding through “Alabama Getaway” on July 29th, Dylan does so with authority, a growling frontman. (Of course, the other two takes are wildly different.) “Subterranean Homesick Blues” didn’t make its live debut well into the scrambled ‘80s, but here sounds shockingly close to the 1965 Bringing It All Back Home version, give or take the Berklee-trained shredder Jimmy Herring in place of Bruce Langhorne, which is hilarious in its own way.

On “Goin’ Down the Road Feelin’ Bad,” he takes Garcia’s lead vocal with Joan Osborne matching him gamely, and on “Oh Boy,” the Bob section links up successfully. Sometimes it’s a little clunky, like when the Bobs trades verses on “Around & Around” -- never a Dead cover I particularly cared for, though I like Spike’s contributions a good deal. Occasionally, we get hints of what Dylan might be like as a jamming contributor to the Dead, had they taken him up on his 1989 request to join the band, in which he proves himself to be perhaps a more beguiling lead/rhythm hybrid than even Bob Weir, adding clonking piano interjections to “Thin Man” and “Gotta Serve Somebody.”

While perhaps not one of the great collaborations in the history of rock, Dylan and the 2003 Dead managed to achieve what they’d never done before, and--for once--didn’t miss their opportunity. Opening seven shows, Dylan sat in with the band at all of them. The musicians sound competent, the songs are usually recognizable from their first notes, and the music remains enjoyable in recorded form. If achieving competency doesn’t seem like a remarkable achievement, I suspect you might not be a fan of later period Grateful Dead or Bob Dylan, in which case I’m pleased you, dear reader, made it past the first sentence, let alone to the last.

Wall of Sound-sized #deadfreaksunite thanx to Tyler, John Hilgart, Sean Howe, James Adams, Joe Jupille, & Scott Warmuth for pointers / assistance / encouragement.

#bob dylan #The Grateful Dead #Jerry Garcia #jesse jarnow #the neverending tour

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cecilspeaks · 6 years

Text

117 - eGemony, part 1: “Canadian Club”

The suffocation of the ego. The eternal silence of the void. Faceless, yet screaming. And now serving orange wine on tap.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, we have a new sponsor! Our show is brought to you by – money. When purchasing items, please consider using money. It’s exchanged universally in place of transactions with actual value. Money is available in handy ones, fives, sixes, eights, and now twenties. [very fast] Money may be habit forming, symptoms may include (avarice) [0:03:21], lack of introspection and, frequent substitution of the phase “intelligent” for “wealthy”. Please ask your doctor if money is right for you and nod with considerable vigor when your doctor asks if you think money will complete you.

We have a visitor who I’m just now learning about. I’ve been handed a note by my new intern Gustav. Gustav says Station Management has ordered him to bring this guest immediately to the studio. Gustav, are you missing an eye? Uh, Gustav is nodding. OK. Uh, let’s see. The note says, it says to please welcome... Oh. What?! Wow! I mean, WOW! Gustav, is this real? OK, it is my honor and my privilege to welcome to the show – Hugh Jackman.

Hugh: Hi!

Cecil: Wait you’re not the Hugh Jackman, right?

Hugh: I like to think I am.

Cecil: Yeah, you’re not.

Hugh: But my children think I’m the real Hugh Jackman, so..

Cecil: Your children are wrong. But go on Mr Hugh Jackman.

Hugh: My name is Hugh Jackman, and-

Cecil: [muttering] Hmm but not the Hugh Jackman.

Hugh: Here’s my card.

Cecil: Oh. Hugh’s business card is a hologram he’s projected straight into my fingers. Says he’s the senior vice president in charge of “dreamfluencing” at.. ee-Gemini?

Hugh: It’s pronounced “ee-Gemonee”.

Cecil: Oh so it sounds just like he-

Hugh: I’m here to solve a funny little mystery. I just need to uh, open my briefcase here. Take a look at this.

Cecil: Oh, well that’s a Playboy magazine.

Hugh: Yes! December 1969. It had the pictorial on Bond girls in case you don’t remember.

Cecil: Oh I can see that. Ooh and there’s also a feature on architect Mies van der Rohe.

Hugh: I’ll take your word for it, Mr Palmer. I only read Playboy for the advertisements like this one: the one for Canadian Club.

Cecil: OK uh listeners, Mr Jackman is showing me a full page ad that features six people hiking in dense-looking woods, and two of them are carrying a sling of some sort and in the sling is-

Hugh: A case of Canadian Club whiskey!

Cecil: Uh huh. Um the headline reads, “On October 13, 1969, we hid a case of Canadian Club deep in the Amazon jungle. Here’s how you can find it.” Oh let’s see! Well this is actually quite entertaining, there are clues and maps and, is that an acrostic?

Hugh: It is an acrostic, very good Mr Palmer! It’s a clue to where the case was buried. Now from 1967 to 1973, Hiram Walker Distilled Spirits TBA Canadian Club ran a contest where they hid 21 cases of Canadian Club whiskey throughout the world, from the densest alleys of Jakarta to the skyscrapers of Manhattan, the cable car tracks in San Francisco, on cobblestoned streets in London, under 30 feet of water on the Great Barrier Reef. They ran ads with clues about how to find them, and find them the people of the world did! Every single case was recovered.

Cecil: That’s remarkable.

Hugh: Mr Palmer. We hid a case under the ice caps of the North Pole, and people found it. we dropped one on Mount Everest..

Cecil: [clears throat, mutters] Mountains. So why do you think people wanted to find them so badly?

Hugh: As far as we can tell, it has to do with people’s desire to have alcohol. Ironically, it sank the contest. People weren’t buying Canadian Club. They figured that it was way cheaper and more fun to get a yacht and sail to the Cayman Islands and snorkel under the security fences of the International Monetary Fund and then you know like, remove a case from the International Monetary Fund’s Mom’s poolside refrigerator, and that’s exactly what happened to case number 17. So sales plummeted, but later, Hiram Walker merged with (--) [0:07:21], which was acquired by Bacardi Constellation brands, which is now an acquisition of our little tech startup, eGemony!

Cecil: Now excuse me but what does eGemony do?

Hugh: We dreamfluence!

Cecil: [long beat] …Got it.

Hugh: It turns out there’s one further case of Canadian Club. It’s been hidden for over 40 years. Right here in Night Vale! Here’s the ad. This is the November 1973 issue of Playboy. Go on, read it.

Cecil: Um, “on August 30, we hid a case of Canadian Club in Night Vale. Here’s how to find it.” But, Mr Jackman, the rest of the ad is blank.

Hugh: We at eGemony after some internal discussion, believe that might be why the case was never found. There seems to have been some kind of event at the printers that month. Fran Lebowitz’s interview with progressive rock band Yes keyboardist Rick Wakeman is perfectly fine for its first 37 pages, but then devolves into a series of umlauts. Little Annie Fanny, generally a lighthearted and [chuckling] adorably misogynistic comic strip, was just panel after panel of…

Cecil: ..umlauts.

Hugh: And Mr Palmer, look at the pictoral on men’s golf pants.

Cecil: Aaaagh…

Hugh. Yeah.

Cecil: Ooooooooh.

Hugh: I know, we’re not really sure what happened there. Further, you’ll see that every cartoon has the same punchline.

Cecil: Oh yeah. Uh, here’s a bride on her wedding day and her mother is telling her… “It’s under Cecil’s desk”?

Hugh: Same punchline is on page 33 with the desert island, and page 74 here with the cowboys at the saloon.

Both in unison: “It’s under Cecil’s desk”!

Cecil: That is so odd! So Mr Jackman, why does eGemony want to find his case of liquor?

Hugh: We thought it would be.. fun. Can I look under your desk?

Cecil: Why?

Hugh: The case is under your desk.

Cecil: Yeah, but this desk wasn’t even here in 1973.

Hugh: So you’re telling us - me - no?

Cecil: Well I’m telling you to ask Station Management.

Hugh: Oh, I will!

Cecil: I-I-I mean they’ll make you fill out a form, and they can also create fire with their minds. Also they’ve eaten people before for way less. Hey Gustav? Gustav, come in here and show Hugh what Station Management did to your eye.

Hugh: Oh my!

Cecil: Oh God..

Hugh: That is disgusting.

Cecil: Ugh, it’s getting wor- [gags] OK, that’s enough Gustav.

Hugh: Oh. I am prepared. [ahem] I’m familiar with your Station and Management and not afraid of them. Eunice, Lily, Agatha, DeMarcus and Chad, old friends of mine.

Cecil: Who?

Hugh: Have you never learned the names of your supervisors, Mr Palmer? You need a team building retreat. I’ll be back. You haven’t seen the last of me.

Cecil: Yeah well you aren’t even the real Hugh Jackman!

I don’t trust that man. I need to figure out what to do next. We’ll be back after this.

[serene voice] Life is meaningless. There are no guiding principles, nor rewards, nor punishments for how to live. Just flashes of pain or joy, which are only neurotic messages, not actual experiences. Even pondering why we exist is a rudderless journey. So consciousness is a means to no end. The Sheriff’s Secret Police would like to acknowledge that hearing this will ruin your day.

However, they are further authorized to announce that nothing we have heard about nature describes a process that occurs without purpose. We can point to a fish’s fin and understand what function it serves. A monkey’s fur, a starfish’s many arms. The acorns in your uncle Simon’s branchy beard that explode outward as stabbing bristles whenever uncle Simon experiences fear. They all serve a purpose. So it’s possible that consciousness developed for a reason larger than consciousness itself can conceive of. The function of your mind is literally beyond comprehension. Which means that awareness, pursued to its limits, only makes you aware of your helpess ness. You are without power in this life. Except when you purchase items by using – money. This has been brought to you by – moneyyy.

We are back and – I’m in a jam. I mean I don’t trust this “Hugh Jackman” nor his company. I mean after what StrexCorp did to our town, I’m a bit wary of any business conglomerate. Although eGemony does seem different, friendlier. But what is this thing with looking under my desk? I’m not sure I should even look under my desk, I mean what if I find it? what if I don’t find it?

Every time I’v ehidden under my desk, I’ve closed my eyes and for good reason! I’m so distracted I lost my notes and now I don’t even know what the news was supposed to be! And Gustav went to go by some cotton balls and anti-bacterial spray for his missing eye. Um.. [rustles papers] Well, I mean honestly I’ve never really looked at any of these magazines before. I mean, Playboy was for other boys and girls. Uh, interesting. Listeners, did you know that Playboy magazine has a bunch of pictures of women across various careers with in-depth profiles on their lives? I did not know this. yeah there’s a whole pictoral on this issue of all the women who have ever played James Bond, in full costumes! Oh my god, look at these smart tuxes and pistols and one of them’s on a motorcycle!

In the middle of a magazine, there’s even a foldout photo of a woman in coveralls and a hard hat, leading a volunteer construction crew who’s building houses in a hurricane-ravaged Nova Scotia. Oh, and on the other side of the foldout, there’s a Playmate questionnaire. Let’s see, her turnoffs include “impatient people and tick bites”. You know, I agree with that. And her turn-ons include “groovy people, good food, overwhelming feelings of dread, chanting, and all hail the Glow Cloud”. All hail the Glow Cloud! Yes! Uh, the playmate’s name is Missy Wilks. Missy Wilks?! Could that be the Missy Wilks who lives over on Kestrel Street here in Night Vale? I mean, they do have similar eyes and tendrils. I wonder if it’s possible that she knows where the case of Canadian Club is? Well let’s see. [dials] M-I-S-S-Y-W-I-L-K-S.

[phone signal]

Missy: Hello?

Cecil: Hello, is this Missy Wilks? This is Cecil Palmer from the radio station. It’s a little hard to explain why I’m calling but-

Missy: Have you looked under your desk?

Cecil: Oh, not yet. Should I? I mean I kind of don’t want to.

Missy: Cecil. I’ve been waiting for this phonecall for over 40 years. You must look under your desk. The future of Night Vale depends on it.

Cecil: Have you been doing anything else?

Missy: Pardon?

Cecil: 40 years.

Missy: Well, no not really. Raised a family. Shot a guy once. But you’re stalling, Cecil.

Cecil: I’m not stalling! Bu-but you know, we really should get to today’s weather.

["Lost Everything" by Mary Epworth]

Cecil: And we’re back.

Missy: Have you looked under the de-

Cecil: No, I’ve not looked under my desk!

Missy: Come – on -, Cecil!

Cecil: Wait, why does Mr Jackman want this so badly?

Missy: Ugh! It’s why they put cases everywhere on the planet! They knew that leaving an item in place long enough allows it to absorb the spirit of the area. That case is now infused with the soul of Night Vale. No one actually recovered those other cases. eGemony recovered them after they bought all the other parent companies of Canadian Club. They’re going to send out one of their corporate prize contestant sweepstakes buzz marketing street teams to dreamfluence anyone who stands in their way. If eGemony finds it before you do, they will drink Night Vale’s soul, the same way they’ve drunk the soul of all the other cities!

Cecil: Wait, that makes no sense! They’ve recovered a bunch of these across the world. Are you saying that Manhattan, San Francisco, London, the Great Barrier Reef and the Cayman Island don’t have souls anymore?

Missy: Cecil.

Cecil: Oh my god, you’re right. OK then, alright, I’m going to look. I am looking under my desk. And I am findiiing.. nothing. I, there’s nothing under here!

Missy: Mm?

Cecil: Wait, wait wait wait wait wait wait oh, oh, oh, oh, oh wait put – a pushpin! A red one! And it-it’s holding an envelope to the underside of the desk!

Missy: Is it manila?

Cecil: Yes! And it’s addressed to me. There’s a letter inside. It’s written on papyrus and you can tell it’s very old because it’s written in cursive. It says: “Dear Cecil how are you? We are fine. We’re sorry we didn’t write earlier, but we were unlearning our destinies. We had to unlearn so many things. Small steps, then larger ones, then larger until we were almost flying, but not quite flying because we had to unlearn our expectations and then unlearn our limitations, so we gave up on flying. Because that turns out not to work regardless of your expectations and no matter what you unlearn. So we relearned what we needed to. we’ve relearned so many essential things, Cecil, about work and love and complaining about work and love and – oh! And we took the case of booze! If you wanna find us, you’ll know us by our sign.” And then it’s signed with a smear of foam. No wait, this isn’t just any foam it’s – hold on! [sniffs] [tastes] Cappuccino!

Oh my goodness, I have to tell Ms Wilks that..

Missy: I’m still here.

Cecil: Oh! Miss Wilks! I know where the case of Canadian Club is!

Missy: Where?

Cecil: It’s in the cave lands outside of town. It’s been taken by the baristas!

Missy: Cecil! This is the worst possible news! The baristas are no match for buzz marketing street teams. The baristas are gentle people, soft of spirit and jolly of countenance, whose dreams are only influenced by the purest of the loves, not crowd sourced manipulations. The baristas are rosy-cheeked and innocent! They gamble like lambs, Cecil! You’ve got to warn them!

Cecil: OK, I will, I will. Thank you, Miss Wilks! Listeners, this is terrible, I-I-I don’t know what to do! I don’t like warning people about things, I mean warnings lead to consequences and we all know how much I avoid consequences. In fact, there’s only one way to be thoroughly insulated from consequence and – that’s to accumulate enough money. But I don’t have any money. As Station Management recently switched their payroll protocol from cash to Twitter followers and Groupons for local spas, so I’m kinda screwed.

Think, Cecil, think. Think think think think think.

Stay tuned next to the sounds of chewing amplified to the threshold of pain.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night!

Today’s proverb: People always say “before I die”, as if they haven’t already begun the process.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #welcome to night vale transcripts #episode 117 #egemony #egemony part 1 #canadian club

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beans-shadow · 7 years

Text

The Whole Nine Yards

Summary: Lucifer drops by Chloe's house on a lazy day.

Author: little_bean (aka me)

Notes: Amidst all this angst of the season finale and hiatus, I just wanted some fluff! Title from the Lucifer gag reel.

Read on Ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11110146

The sun was shining, Trixie was out playing at a friend’s house, Dan was doing improv with Amenadiel, Maze was doing God-knows what, and Chloe Decker was happy.

There could have been many reasons she was grossly happy. Maybe it was due to her solving a case in a clutch moment, thinking swiftly on her feet. Perhaps it was because of a nice evening out with Ella yesterday, the forensic scientist’s bubbly attitude not having yet gone away.

Or most likely, it was because Chloe Decker was dating the Devil.

The idea itself sounded absurd. And it definitely would have sounded insane to Chloe not a couple of months ago. But now, she simply stood upbeat in her kitchen, all alone, smiling into her coffee mug as she took a generous sip. The marvelous taste of the sugar-free almond milk drink danced on her tongue, emitting a glorious sigh of contentment from Chloe. She really did make the best coffee.

“Even I have not managed to elicit such a satisfied look on your face. What do you put in that monstrosity of a drink?”

Chloe opened her eyes to see Lucifer let himself into her apartment, smirking at her as he closed the door behind him. In response, Chloe just rolled her eyes, never surprised at his sexual comments, but always amused. Sometimes against every bone in her body, this man never failed to summon a smile from her. He knew it too, and used it to his advantage, the darn devil. Literally.

“Hey,” Chloe greeted him, deciding to ignore his question. It didn’t matter, anyways. Lucifer was tremendously disgusted by coffee. She’d seen him try it once, after he admitted to her of his crime of never tasting it. The grimace as Lucifer reacted to the drink was priceless, and Chloe regretted not taking a photo of the humorous look of betrayal that was plainly written on the fallen angel’s face. But she had saved the memory in stone in her mind, never letting him live down the moment.

Chloe gave him a soft smile, one that made Lucifer’s eyes soften in kind, one that left him vulnerable. It was a look he reserved only for her (and Trixie, when he thought Chloe wasn’t watching). The devotion in his gaze warmed Chloe’s stomach as she placed her mug on the counter. “What brings you here? Everyone else is out having a life,” she joked.

Now Lucifer frowned. Despite her constant teaching, and despite him having been on Earth now for over five years, he was still dreadful at picking apart sarcasm and joshing. He took everything so seriously. He was still practically a foreigner, constantly learning the euphemisms, the slang, the normalities of life—especially Los Angeles, American life.

“Do I need an excuse to come visit the greatest detective of the LAPD?” Lucifer asked, tilting his head sideways.

Chloe shook her head, making her way around the counter to take his arms in her hands. “You don’t mean that,” she insisted.

“Always so humble,” Lucifer whispered, voice dropping with his eyes as they sought her lips. His head quickly followed, as Chloe stood on her toes to meet him halfway. She could feel his smile against hers at each kept the kiss relatively chaste. Or at least Chloe tried, until she snuck a hand up his neck, tangling it in his fuzzy, curly hair, pulling him closer, opening her mouth wider.

Lucifer was the one who pulled away. He stared at her, gaze intense. “It’s true, you know. You really are the most talented detective.” She could tell this was really important to him, that she knew how he felt.

Chloe chuckled, shaking her head, trying to clear it of those hypnotizing eyes. “That you know,” she finished the sentence for him. She knew he wasn’t lying, that he believed the words he was saying. But there was no way. Out of the hundreds of detectives at the LAPD, spanning all over the Los Angeles county, Chloe Decker could not be the best one.

Lucifer sighed, probably guessing exactly what she was thinking. At least he also understood it was moot to try and argue with her. She was stubborn, to a pretty frustrating point, and she wasn’t afraid to admit that. So instead he just shrugged one shoulder, saying, “Well, you’re the only one that matters to me.” As Chloe smiled at him, he looked around. “What was your plan for the rest of the afternoon, Detective?”

Chloe stepped out of Lucifer’s warm arms, making her way to the living space. Trying to hide a blush, she gestured to the TV. “Not much. Just to watch some TV show until I either fall asleep on the couch, or Sarah’s mom drops Trixie back off.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Lucifer purred, following Chloe to the room. There was a time, Chloe remembered, where Lucifer would scoff at such a list of events. Before, he would not have considered any of that fun. But now, he seemed to appreciate the domestic moments more so than even Chloe did. It was as if he was done with the extravagant life he sought when he established Lux, when he first arrived at Earth. Now, he just wanted to relax, enjoy life. Be in the moment.

Be with Chloe.

Chloe smiled wide at Lucifer, flopping down on the couch. “Good. I agree.”

“Splendid.” Lucifer tore off his jacket, stretching his arms as his wings spread out in the living room. They reached to the sides of the compact space, and Lucifer groaned as they worked out the day’s kinks. It must be rough, Chloe thought, keeping them tucked away all day.

From her spot on the couch, Chloe let herself admire his beauty, for just a moment, before he caught her and started teasing her. The teasing, she had deduced, came from a place of both snarkiness and timidness. While Lucifer was never one to turn down praise about his physique, he was still always surprised whenever he saw her scrutinizing his angelic or demonic parts. He was getting better at it, finally understanding that she loved him, loved everything about him, but his previous rejections had been rough, had cut deep, and might always be in a state of healing.

Chloe blinked, bringing her back to the present, watching the wings ripple, the muscles straining underneath all of that white. The aura they released smelled like sanctification, the wind they brushed across her cheek sounded like a chorus of glory. The mix of sensations flooded her, but never overwhelmed her. It comforted her, felt so much like Lucifer it hurt. Not a bad hurt, but that tug that one gets when they see their favorite person act in a way that is just simply them. And you become reminded why you latched on to them so hard, and why you could never let go. Because you appreciate them for who they were, and who they will become.

Lucifer finally settled down next to her after sufficient stretching as Chloe switched on the TV. He extended his wing behind her, wrapping her in his feathers and tucking her against his chest. She welcomed the pull, resting her head on his body. His rhythmic, steady breathing always calmed her, slowed down her brain, allowing her to get the rest she needed, being the busy mom she was.

“What are we watching today?” Lucifer asked, gesturing to the set with his left wing, too lazy to lift his own arm.

“I want to show you what a real, good detective looks like,” Chloe informed him. “This is Monk, an old show about a San Francisco detective.”

Chloe could feel Lucifer shift under her weight, something bothering him. “I never participated that much in the consumerism side of humanity, but it is my understanding that most of this is fake.”

“That is correct,” Chloe said.

“That means this detective is fake as well. He’s not real,” Lucifer said. “So how could you say he is real?”

“Well,” Chloe said, unsure how to proceed. “I guess I tried to suggest this is what a better detective would look like. Or, if I was as good at you claim I am, this is how I quickly I should be able to put two in two together.”

“I doubt it, but I will humor you, Detective,” Lucifer said, rubbing her arm with his hand, up and down.

As per usual, Lucifer narrated during the entirety of the show. It always started with snorts, or scoffs, then steadily escalates to tuts, angry “no ways!” and then out-right comments about the character’s absurd, or clever, actions. For this one, he tried to guess the murderer within five minutes of the show. “I’m a civilian consultant, Detective, I know what I am talking about,” is what he told her when she asked him how he could possible know. Chloe just rolled her eyes, and went back to paying attention to Adrian Monk and Sharona Fleming.

She didn’t mind his commentary. To her, it meant he was invested in the show, actually listening and watching, instead of zoning out and pretending to have followed the plot, like Dan had used to. Besides, while his conjectures were never accurate (it was quite a tricky show), they were always entertaining.

Lucifer got so sucked into the show, in fact, despite being confused by Monk’s OCD, he insisted on watching the next episode, and then the next.

Chloe must have fallen asleep at some point, because when she opened her eyes next, Lucifer had moved onto an episode she didn't remember seeing the beginning of, and when she checked her watch, they’d gone well into the evening. She yawned, stretching her arm, and Lucifer moved his wing absentmindedly out of her way.

“This show is quite fascinating,” he remarked from the couch as Chloe stood up, searching for her phone. She patted her butt, checking those pockets, glanced at the counter, and then found it right in front of her: the living room table. “This Adrian human is remarkable. His fastidious nature allows him to notice the smallest of things that are pertinent to the case, yet sometimes he views this ability as a curse.”

Chloe pressed the home button. “Well, sometimes it is all about perspective. What we think is harmful to us actually, in the end, becomes the very thing that saves us.” She quickly read the messages on her phone. “Apparently, Trixie has decided to stay at Sarah’s house for the night. She got permission from Sarah’s mom, and Dan. They tried to ask me, but I missed it when I was asleep. Nothing I can do about that now.” She sighed, slapping her thigh in exacerbation.

Chloe looked up when she heard the TV go black, just as Lucifer rose from the couch, placing the remote on the table.

“That just might be the best news I have heard all day,” he informed her, a wicked smile on his face.

Chloe stood almost frozen at her spot, looking at Lucifer with as much really? as a single face could have.

“Are you serious right now, Lucifer?” she groaned as he approached her, snaking a hand around her waist, bringing his mouth to her neck. “I’m not sure this is the best time…”

“It’s always the best time, Detective,” Lucifer spoke to the crook of her neck, kissing her gently, tugging her closer to his chest. Still trying to resist, Chloe brought her hands up his chest, rubbing his shoulders. It was tough to refuse him. And no, not because he was the Devil. Chloe couldn’t care less about that when it came to this. It was simply because he was Lucifer. Her Lucifer.

“I was just asleep!” Chloe protested, chuckling as she touched her forehead to one of his shoulders.

Lucifer straightening under her hands, eyes becoming unfocused as his mind recalled something. A smile plastered on his face, one of pure joy and excitement.

“Oh! Well, I have a surprise for you that might just be the right pick-me-up for you!” he said happily, and turned to jog into Trixie’s room. He walked out a second later, hands behind his back, face still lit up with warm anticipation.

“A surprise you kept in Trixie’s room?” Chloe asked, a bit confused and a bit suspicious.

Lucifer raised his eyebrows. “Yes, well, I couldn’t have you snooping around and finding it. Now, please go back and sit on the couch. And close your eyes.”

Obeying his command, Chloe lifted a finger at him. “If this is one of those ‘open your mouth and close your eyes’ type of things, I swear to your father, Lucifer…”

“Of course not, Detective,” Lucifer scoffed, waving a hand in the air, still making sure to keep the object behind him. “But I will ask you to close your eyes.”

Chloe sighed. But she trusted Lucifer. Rubbing her hands over her leggings, she sat on the couch with her eyes shut tight, waiting patiently for Lucifer to uncover what he had in store for her. “Okay. Open.”

With those words, Chloe opened her eyes, then immediately started laughing at what she saw.

Lucifer stood in front of her, arms out, eyebrows raised, expectant. The smile on his face was so bright it made Chloe’s heart burst.

But on his head.

On his head was a headband. But not just any headband.

It was a devil horn headband, one that had two red horns poking out from the strap, sparkly and shiny, reflecting the dim living room light. They contrasted with Lucifer’s deep black hair, just drawing more attention to them.

“Lucifer, what are those things on your head?” Chloe tried to get out, speaking between snorts.

Lucifer frowned. “I think you know exactly what they are, Detective.”

More snorts. “Yeah, but I meant why do you have them on your head?” she laughed.

“Well, I know you have a things for horns. You told me so yourself. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would think you were actually disappointed I didn’t have horns when you found out what I really was.”

Chloe finally got control of herself as she stood up, drawing closer to Lucifer. But she still chuckled. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a touch of disappointment. But you’re pretty good as is. Especially now,” she added, bringing up a hand to play with his horns. They were soft, and when she pinched them they easily collapsed under her strength. But they were cute, and Lucifer had got them specifically for her. Sue her, maybe she did still had horn dreams.

“I knew you would like them,” Lucifer purred. He leaned down, mouth searching for hers, and she surged upwards. Like always, kissing him generated waves of pleasure through Chloe’s body. His lips on hers, tongue tracing her mouth. His hands practically left burn marks as they drew lines up her back, then back down as he tried to close the little distance between them.

And curse those damn horns, but Chloe’s hands kept going back to them, playing with them, shoving her fingers through his hair, dragging the headband with his curls. She could feel Lucifer hum with contentment under her touch as he deepened the kiss, lifting Chloe as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her to the countertop so she could rest as she took his face in her hands, kissing him hard, the temperature in the room rising.

After a couple of minutes, the couple parted to finally breathe. Unfortunately for Lucifer, he never had this problem before being tied to the detective. Now, he had to be aware of the fact that mortals needed air to live, and so did he. But he didn’t care. Not at all.

In the moment of rest, Chloe smiled as she brushed the tips of the horns with her finger. “These are too funny,” she said.

Lucifer smirked. “Yet they did the trick,” he said, placing a quick kiss on her lips.

Chloe dropped her hand to caress Lucifer’s cheek. She touched his mouth lightly. “You know, it’s kind of ironic how the Devil himself has the most adorable dimples.”

Lucifer drew back. “I am insulted, Detective! Adorable? That’s how you describe me?”

Chloe grabbed his shoulders, bringing him back. She smacked him with a kiss, moving slowly against him. “Yes, adorable. You are adorable, and I love you.”

Lucifer breathed in, taking in Chloe’s scent. Forehead to forehead, he stared at his detective. “And I love you, Chloe.”

Chloe smiled at him, and he just looked back in admiration. The two remained like that for a while until Chloe reached up to remove the horns from Lucifer’s head and place them on her own. “If I wear these, is it like you’re kissing yourself, or one of your demons?”

Lucifer’s brow pinched together in serious thought. “Neither. Like I said, and you know, I don’t actually have horns, and neither do any of my demons. Horns are just the result of human imagination.”

“Hmm.” Chloe said, playing with the horns, straightening them. “So, how do they look on me?” She leaned backwards to give him a better look, his hand on the small of her back, constantly supporting her.

He sized her up, hot gaze studying her whole body, despite her only asking about her head. But Chloe didn’t object. His eyes became almost predatory, yet on Lucifer, the vulnerability remained, and Chloe only felt more secure in his arms.

“You look positively ethereal,” he whispered, voice full of awe.

Shaking her head, Chloe snickered as she crossed her arms around Lucifer’s neck, drawing him in for another kiss.

Yes, Chloe Decker had many things to be happy about. And one was definitely thanks to her being in a relationship with Lucifer Morningstar. No one else had such a sweet, caring partner in the whole world. In the entire Universe. There was no way.

Notes: And maybe I wanted to address the horn kink (and declare my love for Tom's dimples). I hope you enjoyed this little story!

#lucifer #lucifer fanfic #fanfic #lucifer on fox #lucifer morningstar #chloe decker #deckerstar #deckerstar fanfic

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Sports Doping: The Limitless Chase

Yuliya Stepanova, Russia’s 800-metres champion in 2011, and her husband Vitaly discovered to the world how they noticed Russia as having created its champions. For five years, Yuliya accomplished many of the global’s top-flight athletes and Vitaly changed into an adviser to the director of the Russian anti-doping business enterprise, RUSADA.

In 2014, the couple decided to head public on the systematic doping of Russian athletes, inflicting one of the global’s largest wearing scandals – and putting into question Russia’s participation in worldwide opposition.

“Many champions aren’t gods, they’re no longer even actual champions,” says Yuliya. “That is what disgusted me, the lies. Those people are favorite, but they’re just liars and cheats.”

Reacting to Yuliya and Vitaly’s revelations, the worldwide Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) suspended 4,000 Russian athletes, forcing President Vladimir Putin to reassure the world that he became taking the problem seriously.

Scandal After Scandal In Sports I logged onto CNN.Com this morning to read approximately any other capacity doping scandal in Sports. This time it becomes in biking.

According to CNN, Spanish officers have linked a number of the Tour De France’s top riders, including Tour favored Jan Ulrich to drug doping (CNN.Com).

For now, I will reserve judgment on this precise tale, considering that Lance Armstrong become wrongfully accused by using Dick Pound and L’Equipe last year.

It appears that evidently on a weekly basis Sports activities enthusiasts are hearing testimonies approximately pills in Sports. Modern testimonies are approximately human increase hormones, steroids, drug doping and different overall performance improving pills.

As a Sports fan, I’m outraged and saddened through These scandals. I in my view want to look honest play in Sports. I don’t see information being damaged. I additionally want the best athlete/group to win by gambling within the policies.

So who is in charge? I think a number of parties need to take some duty.

1) Expert Sports activities Teams & Governing Bodies – There’s a lot of stress placed on athletes to break records. Maximum Professional athletes have incentives tied to their contracts. In the event that they hit sure targets or set statistics they could earn lots extra cash.

Novice athletes can trade their lives forever through putting statistics, incomes championships, and so forth. they are able to pass on to Professional Sports in which moneymaking contracts exist.

Sports franchises and their governing Bodies have traditionally turned a blind eye to Sports activities doping, steroids, and many others. Their Groups and leagues flourished and lovers poured into the stands.

Why might they need to rock the boat? Well, I wager integrity, ethics, morality and truthful play come to thoughts.

It’s time for Professional and Newbie Sports leagues and associations to get difficult with the athletes that cheat. I accept as true with in lifetime bans for cheaters who take performance improving tablets.

2) The Fan – Sure we are must take some of the blame. If it weren’t for the fan demanding more data or quicker and stronger athletes, Sports activities Groups would not sense the need to show a blind eye to performance improving pills.

enthusiasts are so targeted on winning. They will not tolerate failure with their Sports Teams. lovers prevent attending games, suits and competitions while their Teams or favorite athletes don’t do Properly.

This places unfair stress on athletes, Sports franchises and leagues/associations.

3) The media. It is all approximately hype nowadays. This hype apparently ends in better ratings. The Sports media want to see records being broken. Additionally they need to peer superhuman athletes.

when scandals destroy, the Sports media acts taken aback and they react harshly. I also assume that inside the beyond the media accidentally failed to record on ability scandals till It’s too overdue.

Now I suppose that the media is waking up. Now they’re looking for the next scandal to come to their manner.

four) The cheating athlete – The athlete that cheat’s is the Most culpable in my mind. they’re the ones taking the drugs and making the choice to play unfairly.

No one’s setting a gun to their head. What about gambling Sports activities for the love of the game and now not for the dollar.

It’s time for Sports athletes to take a stand against any form of cheating.

Ultra-modern athletes are so consumed approximately cash that They will do anything to win. I would love to look athletes playing their game for the absolute love of the game. That need to be the motivating issue. In case you do Well and turn out to be cashing in on it, outstanding. If not, at least you may have the delight which you did your exceptional, enjoyed the opposition and played inside the guidelines.

Sports Doping and the Price of triumphing considering that I stay inside the Bay Area, it’s been not possible to get away the daily nearby news insurance coping with the Barry Bonds perjury trial taking location in San Francisco. He has been accused of mendacity to a grand jury in 2003 approximately whether he knowingly used steroids. Despite the fact that Bonds is suspected of getting taken steroids, he virtually wouldn’t be the primary athlete to use overall performance enhancing pills in hopes of becoming a champion.

Doping in Sports has an extended records. The time period “doping” has been advised to originate from many exclusive locations. In Southern Africa at some point of the 18th century, an alcoholic drink referred to as “dop” became used as a stimulant in ceremonial dances. A thick dipping sauce the Dutch called “doop” came to be known in The usa as a mixture that prompted sedation, hallucinations, and confusion. at some stage in the overdue 1800’s and into 1900, the word “dope” become referred as a narcotic drug that could also be used on racehorses to influence their overall performance.

At some stage in antiquity, men have looked for methods to help their Bodies work tougher and closing longer. for the duration of the 19th century, Doctor Albert Schweitzer discovered that the human beings of Gabon (on the western coast of Relevant Africa) might eat sure leaves or roots that would assist them work contentedly and vigorously all day without feeling worn-out, hungry, and thirsty.

Athletes have constantly located ways to beautify their stamina and overall performance. in the course of an endurance on foot race in Britain, one of the members named Abraham Wood said in 1807 that he had used opium to preserve himself wakeful for 24 hours while competing. Those kinds of patience Sports, including on foot races that stretched over 500 miles, became such popular spectator Sports, that promoters were eager to exploit them. Similar occasions have been then held for cyclists with six-day races which soon spread throughout the Atlantic. With monetary prizes increasing as more crowds paid to observe, cyclists had been greater encouraged to stay wakeful longer to cowl more distances. This opened the door for all sorts of treatments and pills to accept to these athletes to beautify performance. however in place of supporting the rider, the drugs made them suffer hallucinations. It made them come to be briefly insane throughout the contest. Cocaine changed into even used in some of Those concoctions in hopes that a rider who were given worn-out with the aid of a six-day race might be capable of get their second wind.

at some point of the 1904 Summer season Olympics the usage of strychnine turned into notion important to live on demanding races. Even doctors on the time mentioned how beneficial the use of Those capsules changed into to athletes in lengthy-distance races. Thomas J. Hicks, who gained the Olympic marathon in 1904, become given an injection of strychnine and a tumbler of brandy at some point of the race. Although his fitness subsequently recovered, all through the competition he changed into described as being “between existence and loss of life.”

An amphetamine known as Benzedrine made its first appearance at some point of the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. Its avenue name turned into “pace.” This amphetamine prompted a deficiency in judgment and heightened risk-taking inclinations concept to be useful in Sports activities. Although anabolic steroids have been first recognized and synthesized within the 1930’s, its use in Sports activities did not start until 1954. The Russians used it on their weightlifters who acquired superb consequences with greater weight benefit and energy. quickly steroid use could emerge as commonplace in Olympic athletes, football gamers, bodybuilders, and athletes from different Sports activities as Well.

The Most blatant use of doping athletes, frequently towards their will, become at some point of the 1970’s in East Germany. Earlier than German reunification, the country mystery police referred to as the Stasi, supervised the systematic doping of East German athletes. on the time doping existed in different countries, but in East Germany, it became a kingdom policy. Athletes as young as ten years vintage were given hormones with out regard to the terrible results it would have on their growing Bodies. Trainers and coaches frequently lied telling the athletes that the performance enhancing tablets have been only vitamins. Thousands of former athletes have had to live with the bodily and mental scars from years of drug abuse pressured on them by using the state who believed that each gold medal changed into an ideological victory.

Doping has been admittedly time-honored in all Sports. a few have claimed that since the prevention of doping is impossible, possibly it ought to be legalized. Even though the combat against tablets in Sports activities is ongoing and using anabolic steroids is banned by using all predominant wearing corporations, athletes will keep to look for methods to get that aggressive side. To some athletes, risking their fitness and reputation is the Price they may be inclined to pay for prevailing.

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