#i only know jon malvern | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scenetocause · 1 year

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NOT to be greedy but i would kill & die for ur take on max & lando informing the following people about the impending baby: 1) jon malvern 2) tom bale 3) random f1 driver of your choice (lewis? daniel??)

o alright then

(mpreg, some nsfw, ambiguously trans max)

This - they should have known this plan was not going to work. What was supposed to happen was Max just saying he was driving and so couldn't drink on Oli's birthday . Except Oli had immediately said he'd get them a cab and fuck the money, let's have a big one and then they had to think fast, which neither of them is good at so Lando just got them a hotel room and then got distracted by the bed.

Which is why their back-up plan was Lando drinks all of Max's drinks too. It is, Max is coming to realise, possibly the worst plan in history. He's managed to dispatch a couple into plant pots and one into the sink in the loo and Oli's drunk enough now not to notice.

The problem is Lando is also so drunk he's quite hard to control. And Max would kind of like to go back to their room and sleep because he's crotchety and tired and drunk Lando is just unbelievably annoying at the best of times.

Which is what makes him make a huge mistake and leave Lando with Tom while he goes to the loo because apparently he can't drink more than half a glass of water without needing a piss, these days.

When he gets back, Tom looks a) very drunk, b) confused and c) like he's scrutinising Max. To be fair, the second two of those can be explained by the first but something about the way Lando looks both deliriously happy and sort of sheepish tells him some kind of shit has gone down and it's 2am and he wants to go home.

"Alright, what the fuck?"

"I mean..." Tom takes a big swig of a drink he definitely doesn't need. "I mean, I could say that - I didn't know you were. Y'know, that Lando had. I thought you were just-"

"Lando," Max hardly ever uses his real name to him and he knows it's a bit of a mum tactic to do it when he's telling him off but, well, whatever, they're going to be dads soon aren't they?

"I'm sorry!" Lando hiccups pathetically and it's nearly enough to make Max forgive him except he is hormonal and he can already guess what's happened here. "I just - I love you and. And I wanna tell people and it just, I'm really drunk."

Lando emphasises it by falling over and only just catching himself on the table, before reaching a sticky hand for Max. "You're just soooooo-"

There's a very strong possibility something absolutely terrible is going to come out of Lando's mouth, so Max shuts him up with his. It's a bit reckless, given they're in public but Lando's apparently in the mood to make announcements.

Except Lando's mouth somehow tastes of pineapple and ginger beer and at least three types of alcohol and Max has to reel back immediately and cough. "Jesus, what have you been drinking?"

"Everything," Lando says, woefully and slumping on the table. "I'm gonna feel so bad."

Tom is looking at them like he's making calculations except he's too drunk to make the maths add up and Max is too tired to help him. "Mate, I'm gonna take Bob somewhere to throw up. Speak to you tomorrow?"

He gets a nod, Tom looking like he hasn't blinked for several minutes and Max manages to shoulder Lando enough to find their jackets and maneuver him out. Thank fuck their room's only a walk away, Max trying to stop Lando tripping him up before he manages to get him into the lift and then onto the bed.

"Max.," Lando sounds very small. "I'm sorry. I tried to drink all the- I wanted to, I like you so much."

Max sighs. "I like you too, buddy. But you gotta brush your teeth before bed or I'm gonna throw up more than you."

Lando hiccups, in reply. Wobbles to his feet and takes some steps towards the bathroom. He's just about to shut the door when he turns back and goes. "Maxy, no one's thrown up more than you."

He throws a pillow at the door and finally, finally gets into bed, instantly feeling better for being horizontal.

Max wakes up with Lando curled round his back, holding him and if it hadn't been so sweaty he could've forgotten they're going to need to share toilet time this morning, Lando groaning as soon as Max unlocks his phone.

There's a text from Tom, which doesn't really surprise him but it's from this morning, not last night, so actually contains coherent words not just a symbol keysmash.

Should've said congrats to you and Bob. Gotta let me be a godfather.

Max is too close to the time he's gonna need to throw up to reply to that, so just rolls over a bit, into Lando. "Y'know you told Tom we're having a baby?"

"Yhhh." Lando sighs. "We are."

Lando agonises over it, for some reason. Says it's not his thing to tell Jon and Jon doesn't really need to know, except that Jon sort of has to know everything about Lando and also clearly has guessed something is up with the way Lando keeps having to make time for things and then Max is suddenly moving to Monaco.

He doesn't want to credit Lando with having taken one for the team by getting blasted and telling Tom but maybe it is Max's turn. And Tom knowing has helped, it's taken the teasing down a notch and let Max relax a bit more, not feel like he has to wear baggy clothes or can't go swimming.

There's a lazy morning (well, for him) in Monaco when he gets out of bed late and realises Lando must be in the office on a Zoom call, finds Jon sitting in the lounge. He's fairly confident he doesn't need to explain why he just walked out of Lando's bedroom because Jon seems easily intelligent enough to count the number of rooms in a small flat and do that particular bit of maths but he does hesitate for a second, only wearing a robe that sort of makes it obvious.

In the end, Lando's been saying it's his to tell and he doesn't think Jon's judgemental enough to be an ass about this, so he walks across to the breakfast bar, starts trying to find a mug in the dishwasher.

Jon looks up at him and gives him a grin, friendly as ever and then Max straightens up and. He could just be getting fat, to someone who didn't recognise anatomy but Jon does, knows what Max's body looks like, knows he doesn't normally have a small curve from his crotch to his waist.

To his credit, he doesn't stare at it, looks more like he's filed it away somewhere in wherever he keeps information about Lando. Just says "hey" and asks Max how he is.

Max shrugs. "Lazy, this morning."

He could try and excuse it all as that. Jon would give him an out. If Max had a baby that looked exactly like him and Lando in his arms, Jon'd let him say as much as he wanted to.

But he wants to tell.

There's a pause. "I've been, y'know. Morning sickness, for ages and it's just worn off, which is mega so I'm just, y'know. I probably shouldn't be lazing around but it's nice getting the bed to myself."

Jon nods, solemnly, then smiles again. "How long?"

"To go?" He gets another nod and Max looks at the chart stuck to the fridge, realises they maybe aren't as subtle as they think they are. "Uhm, like two months now? D'you wanna see the scan?"

He hasn't shown anyone. Well, apart from his mum and he made her swear not to tell anyone, except he knows she told his dad to stop him taking Max golfing. He misses it, the baby's gonna have to get used to whatever a child seat for a buggy is.

Jon doesn't ask any awkward questions, lets Max show him everything because once the dam's burst it turns out he really wants to talk about their baby. About all the kinda exciting things, like how he's counting the kicks like the doctor told him and they're small but they're healthy and that's ok because Max is pretty small and Lando's not much bigger. And they're gonna get them a crib, at first, when they're little and then Lando's office is moving into the gaming room and they've been buying, just the last week or so, stuff for when the baby's here.

"Wow," says Jon. "You've really got it all figured out."

It's the first time it's occurred to Max they actually kind of do. Having no one to help them's kind of made it their problem.

He subconsciously puts a hand on the sort-of-bump, soothing. "I hope so."

"Listen, mate, I don't think anyone has everything sorted. But you look like you're doing alright and they're gonna have two great dads." Jon gives him a pat on the shoulder. "If you need more time with Lando I can make him actually concentrate instead of trying to avoid sets."

Max shakes his head. "Nah. You're alright, he only fusses over me anyway - which, like, it's nice but sometimes I just wanna do things for myself."

He sets about making the tea he'd abandoned, as well as one for Jon and by the time he's finished Lando comes out of the office, visibly doing a double-take at Max being there and obvious about it.

"Congratulations, mate, you didn't tell me." Jon says it with a little bit of reproach. "Thought you were just sneaking off, not going to ultrasound appointments."

Lando blushes, reaching for Max and slinging his arms round him from behind. "Yeah, well. It's - not just Max's thing but, y'know. It's his news."

Lando kisses his ear, soppy and wet and Max should fight him off but actually Jon just gives them a very affectionate, indulgent look before getting back to whatever he's working on. Max leans back on Lando, lets him take his weight for a second, kneading at Max's back where it's started aching.

Max assumed Oscar was going to be the first driver to find out and then he was going to have to go through some sort of various stages of career-grief, explanatory cringe and finally, hopefully, baby excitement. That was because he was thinking about it from his perspective, though and he knows Oscar.

From Lando's perspective, it is not at all surprising that it's Carlos.

He lets Lando bring him to all the European races and Miami. Although in retrospect, just as well that one was early enough in the season no one could've told anything. By some insane coincidence the baby's due in the August break, which there's no way they would've been able to plan.

What that means, though is that by Spa he's fucking waddling or at least feels like it. Maybe they got the dates wrong? Maybe the baby's gonna turn up during Q2. It's wet and Max hates Spa (and feels bad for hating Spa) and he hates it even more when it's raining and the baby seems to hate it too, kicking him viciously all the way through quali and not even slightly soothed by a hand inside his hoodie pocket.

He looks odd, now. It's still mostly hide-able in big enough clothes and the weather makes it easy to layer up both his and Lando's rain jackets, bundling himself up. But he's got a bit of a weird glow to him and he can't walk or sit normally anymore, struggles with getting up or sitting down without losing his balance.

Of course Lando has to put it on fucking pole so he hauls himself up via the arm of the McLaren sofa and does his own coat up, shrugs Lando's round his shoulders, to trudge to the interview pen.

He doesn't want to lean on the fence, that feels way too much like looking over a stable door, barefoot or some shit. Which Lando would probably love, especially if Max wore a milkmaid dress but he's not indulging that on the first baby. Or thinking about the fact he's already accepted there will be a second. Wants that.

He leans against the pit wall, instead, watching Lando do his interview and feeling proud of his man. Lando works hard for it, on himself and the team and Max does want to get back to doing his own thing one day but it's nice, knowing this is who provides for them. The baby flips over or something, makes him stuff a hand in his pocket to stroke the bump but at least they've been pacified by their other dad doing well, no longer trying to bruise Max's kidneys.

It's only when Lando catches his eye that Max feels a bit of panic. He'd been expecting a smile and a wave, the usual thing that happens when they see each other at the podium, when Lando's done well. Instead, Lando frowns, gets out of his interview as fast as possible and then vaults the metal fence, straight through his mechanics, to get to Max.

"Whoa there, Bob, what the fuck-"

"Nono, you need to be in the warm." He tries to say he really needs not to be bundled by Lando but it's pointless, already being lovingly but forcefully marched back to the McLaren garage and motorhome. "I told them not to let you come down, I even said it on the - I hope they didn't broadcast my radio but like, it wasn't too weird but you should be resting."

"Mate, I'm fine," Max tries to protest and Lando gives him a very strong Look.

"I know because you've been resting and staying warm, not standing in pit lanes where there's - oh god, there's so many things, what if you catch fire-"

"I'm not going to catch fire-"

"But what if you breathe in oil or something? Fuck. Please stay in the warm? They'll make you anything you want to eat and Andrea knows, he can pull me out of the race if it starts."

Max swallows, as Lando manages to nudge him over the threshold of the McLaren motorhome. "Bob, I'm alright. I just wanted to see you."

Lando swallows, too and maybe they need to talk about whether paddock kissing is something they should work up to, before they bring their baby to a race.

"Just, please? I can't - my head's all over the place and I want you to be safe."

Max pats his arm, then grips Lando's bicep, through his race suit, reminds him he's not that far off the same strength. "Ok, buddy."

"Lando!"

"Oh, fuck." Lando leans his head on the doorframe for a second. "Uh. I'm not sure how I'm gonna explain this."

Max touches his cheek. "You don't have to. Just tell him, he's your friend."

Lando grimaces, then leans over and kisses Max, extremely quickly and half-hidden by his own hand.

"Lando! What the fuck? We have to go to the press conference." Carlos grabs Lando's other arm and for a second Max panics that they're going to have a weird fight over him. Before he realises he can just let go, that Lando ought to go with Carlos.

"Yeah, sorry." Lando closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "Just, the baby's nearly due and I panicked."

"What?" Carlos' huge eyes make comic confusion look even more ridiculous. "The baby?"

Lando exhales again but more deliberately, like he's grounding himself. "Yeah, come on, I'll tell you on the way."

He slings an arm around Carlos' shoulders, steers him away from Max, before looking back and mouthing "Go inside, I love you."

Carlos gets Kit a 1-2 month old romper in yellow and black. It's not branded but it looks like the Renault suits, when they were both there. Something that's Carlos and Max, not Carlos and Lando. He appreciates it more than he could've expected, so many of the gifts coming from one side.

It takes nearly three months for Kit to grow into it but Max maintains it's ok for babies to be tiny. And it gives him time to fit back into one of his old junior academy shirts so they can match, Kit cuddled against his chest on their sofa during Lando's birthday party.

#emptyhalf fic

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formulavroom · 4 years

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my favourite pair on the grid: jhon and lando

#lando norris #jon malvern #f1 #italian gp 2020 #mclaren #who is that guy on the right?? i only know jhon

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patowardd · 3 years

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Wait, do you think that because Lando is going to appear more in dts we are going to get Jon content?

#bc i KNOW we are getting michael content and im thriving #but what about my other man #that’s the only reason i wanted lando to appear in dts so we could get jon content #priorities #jon malvern #lando norris

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edie-baby · 3 years

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baby girls - chapter three | lando norris

Chapter Three: What If, If Only

summary: Lando's descent into anger is fast, but not fast enough to get rid of the vivid memory of his Mila with someone else out of his head. Mila, on the other hand, struggles with the hypotheticals of her relationship, or at least what's left of it.

word count: 1004

warnings: swearing, the beginning of the angst

last chapter

Dreaming of the perfect woman while on a perfect vacation in the perfect scenery was, well, perfect. Until Lando woke up to the blaringly loud beeping of his alarm, the incessant assault on his eardrums was almost as painful as the realisation that Mila just wasn’t his.

After hanging up the phone last night, his mind swirled with the identity of her late-night company, and the look on her face when she realised he knew. She looked guilty, like she didn’t intend for Lando to find out so soon, like she didn’t intend for Lando to find out ever. And that just might have been what pushed Lando over the edge.

Falling into an abyss of anger was dangerous, with no rope to help you down or pull you back, anger becomes all consuming. Sometimes, if you let yourself feel it so strongly that it becomes your only emotion. Everything becomes clouded in red, a broad brush of fury painted over every moment you experience. Anger is the least productive emotion, but Lando didn’t have any other option.

He jumped into the abyss, the hurt, betrayal and regret that was seeping out of his pores turned to a burning hot anger. He forced his body out of bed, changing into workout gear to meet his trainer in the garden before they began their session. He could have really used some boxing gloves because he needed a release, and aside from some hardcore sex with Mila, he wasn’t going to get a proper release.

The training session with Jon Malvern went by faster than Lando would have liked, and for once he was asking Jon for something more. But there was nothing Jon gave him that would pump his blood fast enough to forget the way Mila’s touch got his heart racing. So he returned to his kitchen feeling angrier and, unfortunately, sadder than he had been that morning.

On the flip side, he found his best friend, a beacon of knowledge and wisdom, making a coffee on the opposite side of the island counter when he entered. Max, who had seen Lando’s odd behaviour the night before and decided not to comment on it, could see that his friend still wasn’t up to scratch.

“Mate, what’s going on? I have seen you this depressed since Abu Dhabi.” Max joked, taking in the slumped shoulders and heavy scowl on Lando’s face. At the mention of the desert country, Lando stiffened, a surefire indication that his mood was, indeed, related to a girl.

“Just bullshit. Every time I think I have an actual connection with a woman, she goes off and fucks someone else at the first opportunity.” Lando ranted, the barely concealed anger rumbled in his chest, desperate to let out his true feelings about Mila.

“So? Just do the same thing.” Max replied, shrugging his shoulders as if it was that easy. And usually for Lando, it was. But there was something about that tiny Czech that drew him in and kept him hostage.

“It’s not that easy. She’s just, in my fucking head constantly, and every time I close my eyes I see her. She fucked Max, Daniel and Charles while I knew her, and I heard her talking about it, but knowing she’s been with someone since we were together fucking hurts.” Lando continued, the anger he felt for Mila morphing further into the hurt he had initially felt. He tried pushing it down, to turn it back into the raging beast, but instead he was left feeling like a kicked puppy.

“Would you prefer she know how much she hurt you and continue to use that, or do you want her to see that she meant nothing to you either? I know what I’d do if I had as many girls at my disposal as you.” Max finished, walking out of the kitchen with his hot coffee and leaving his friend to stew in his thoughts. He knew what Lando would do; he hated losing, and especially hated when girls got one over on him. What Max didn’t know, however, was just how much Lando liked this girl, and the lengths he would go to show her he was better off without.

BABY GIRLS | EDIE-BABY

The days following her horrific call with Lando, Mila was barely present in the real world. The ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s began stepping in on her usually calm mind.

What if she told Lando about Mahri?

If only she could have told Lando the truth.

What if she had told Lando about Mahri in Austria?

If only she knew he was ready for a child to be in the middle of his relationship.

What if she hadn’t started falling in love with Lando after a few perfect days?

If only she knew how to keep her heart to herself.

What if she had brought Mahri to Austria?

If only, if only if only.

Her brain was fixated on making herself feel worse about the way she handled the phone call. There were so many other ways for her to deliver the news, so many lies that would have stopped her heart, and Lando’s, from breaking.

When four days had passed since the traumatic FaceTime, Mila worked up the courage to text Lando, having stared at their past conversations a lot in the hours without communication.

Hey, I know Silverstone is next week, but I was hoping we could talk? The other day was a misunderstanding, and I want to set things straight.

Mila felt good enough about her text, and the fact that she would have a few days to think of a cover story, maybe a friend was staying over from the night before? Or, closer to the truth, she could always say she was babysitting her niece? Feeling content with her attempt to reach out, Mila felt like she could get back to her life. The ball was in Lando’s court now, and she just hoped he knew what to do with it.

#lando norris #Lando Norris fluff #Lando Norris fanfiction #Lando Norris fanfic #Lando Norris x oc #Lando Norris imagine #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #ln4

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whymasi · 3 years

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The First Official Performance Coach Support Group by simplyverstappen (AO3)

This is something rare because the main pairing doesn’t involve drivers, but two performance coaches! They are Jon Malvern (Lando’s coach) and Michael Italiano (Daniel’s coach).

There are so many things I love about this fic. The humour. The different performance coaches gossiping about their drivers and bonding over that. With the amount of shenanigans drivers get into that they have to put up with, these coaches should be paid more LMAO. Them having the same occupation essentially also allows them to understand the “pain” that comes along with being the coaches of these drivers, and support one another in this small, but close-knitted group.

Also I know not everyone may like Lewis Hamilton for whatever reasons (I personally don’t have any ill feelings towards him; I admire that he’s the only Black driver on the grid, and may he continue to inspire kids of colour out there should they decide to be a F1 driver one day, if not, even in other fields), but I’ve always had immense respect for his coach, Angela Cullen, who is the only female physiotherapist/performance coach on the grid that I know of in recent years. To see her being featured in this fic was a pleasant surprise :)

The side characters like Maxiel and the other coaches weren’t just there to fill in the plot, and it’s always great to see side characters not being neglected, but to serve an important purpose in driving the plot.

Finally, on to the main pairing. I have not quite seen this pair coming (ok to be fair, I don’t really ship performance coaches together in the first place), but the well-handled relationship development made it easier to believe.

P.s. what should the ship name be called? Throw in some suggestions as a reply to this post, or in the tags when you reblog!

#f1 #formula one #formula 1 #jon malvern #michael italiano #performance coach

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zxczxczzz · 3 years

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Barry's petty power move raises the prospect that cable TV Channel 13 viewers

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oselatra · 6 years

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2018 Best of Arkansas editors' picks

Exotic sodas, cool relief in July, sweet treats on the cheap and more.

Best multicultural experience on the cheap

My wife loves to cook different curries, so we occasionally find ourselves at Indian Grocers, Mr. Chen's or other Little Rock Asian markets in search of certain ingredients not typically available at the neighborhood Kroger. While there, I invariably am drawn toward the beverage coolers. I don't usually drink sodas, but I lived for a year in Japan and grew fond of its delightful array of canned drinks (with names like "Sparkling Beatnik" and "Pocari Sweat"), and I just can't help myself when confronted with strange beverages from faraway lands featuring a flavor profile fundamentally different from what we usually imbibe. For example, Jeera Masala and Bisleri Spyci (both from India) seem made for people who thought the fundamental problem with New Coke was the lack of an overpowering cumin taste. And if you like your beverages with a little bit of chew, there's Grass Jelly Drink (Taiwan), which comes in an array of flavors from banana to lychee and contains little cubes of grass jelly, a tapioca-like substance. In a similar vein, the Hemani company of Thailand produces several varieties of basil seed drinks that have the consistency of loose Jello with little crunchy seeds held in suspension; my current favorite is lemon mint, but you can also buy rose-flavored. And if you need something to quench your thirst after mowing the lawn under the hot sun, try Yeo's White Gourd Drink (Malaysia), which tastes like a crisp cucumber crossed with caramel.

But let me reassure the less adventurous that there is plenty for you, too, to sample. Quice Ice Cream Soda (Pakistan) is a pleasant variant of the classic cream soda, full-bodied and delightfully sweet, while Sosyo (India) proves an odd little fruit drink just crying out for a shot of rum.

However, even my expansive cosmopolitanism fails when confronted with Bird's Nest Nice Look Drink (Taiwan), the main ingredients of which are water, white fungus, rock sugar and bird's nest. The nest in question is made by Southeast Asian swifts from solidified saliva, so you get bird spit and fungus, all in one little can! The actual experience of drinking it is nowhere near worth the bragging rights, I am sorry to report, for it tastes rather like a mushroom just sneezed into your mouth. But aside from that one, I highly recommend going out and embracing the unknown at $1.50 a can — it's a small price to pay for a glimpse into the other side of the world.

— Guy Lancaster Best escape from Interstate 40 homogeneity

It's probably hard for the youngsters who have never known Northwest Arkansas as anything but the hurly-burly of rampant capitalism and rampant highway ramps to fathom, but the now-sleepy section of U.S. Highway 71 in the region was once the main conduit between that part of Arkansas and the rest of the world.

This section of 71 is the road to get into a literal and metaphoric lower gear — not as low as the steep, serpentine Pig Trail, but getting there. After you hit the antique stores and do the Tony Alamo trail in Alma, head north and make a pickup (or drop off) at the vacuum cleaner hospital. See Winslow — birthplace of writer Douglas C. Jones and forever the home of the Squirrels! Stop for a Mountainburger at Mountainburg's Dairy Dream; it's a loose mix of ground beef with onion and mustard, and a favorite in Crawford County and beyond since the 1950s. Get a milkshake and sit for a spell on the newly renovated patio behind the restaurant and ponder the vistas ... and is that a large, live pig roaming in someone's front yard? Yes, it is a large, live pig.

Other areas just have the skeletal stone remains of attractions like restaurants, tourist courts and artists' galleries slowly becoming kudzu sculpture, but remain just as compelling to sightseers as they were decades ago. (Brentwood in Crawford County — a once-happening burg?) There are breathtaking views of the valleys and peaks of the Boston Mountains throughout. Once you get into the ever-connecting hub of Springdale/Fayetteville/Bentonville, it's a fascinating glimpse of what were once the faces of these older parts of towns. Travelers can take U.S. 71 all the way to Canada. We hope someone we know will do this soon and take us along for the ride.

— Stephen Koch Best venue for emerging artists

Young Arkansas artists whose obvious talent could still use a boost in the public arena have an invaluable leg up: The Thea Foundation's The Art Department, a quarterly showcase of art in all its forms. The foundation, at 401 Main St. in North Little Rock, supports Arkansas schoolchildren with its scholarships for high school students, its Arkansas A+ Schools that weave the arts into the fabric of academic work, and providing music programs and art supplies. With The Art Department, the foundation has brought high-quality work in a wide variety of styles and embodying social and cultural messages. Over the past five years, The Art Department series has shown a spotlight on the gender-focused works of Lyon College art professor Carly Dahl and the abstract, pattern-heavy work of her husband, gallery director Dustyn Bork; Emily Wood's paintings of friends and family; John Harlan Norris' fantasy depictions of people as occupations; Jon Rogers' landscapes; Guy Bell's levitating pyramid. It's shown Michael Church's surreal collages, Sandra Sells' wood assemblages and video art, Kat Wilson's "Habitat" photographs of people in their homes, Michael Shaeffer's images of drag queens, illustrator Chad Maupin's pulp-fiction-inspired printmaking. Coming up: "The Mind Unveiled," an exhibition of works by painter and printmaker Carmen Alexandria Thompson that address mental illness. In her artist's statement, Thompson writes, the work "seeks to unveil, expose and open up a discussion for everyone about the beauty and tragic workings of the human mind." Like all Art Department shows, the Friday, Aug. 3, opening reception will feature heavy hors d'oeuvres, an open beer and wine bar and a chance to win a work of art by the featured artist. Tickets are $10.

— Leslie Newell Peacock Best culinary bargain

Mike's Place at 5501 Asher Ave. is an outpost for Vietnamese food, which is good in its own right. The bun (rice vermicelli) enlivened with bean sprouts, a fried pork egg roll and bits of pig skin, once doused with fish sauce and a dash of squirt bottle hoisin, is interesting, crunchy and filling. But here's the thing: There's a one-line item on the appetizer list that is Little Rock's single best food bargain. It's the banh mih thit, or the Vietnamese sandwich. No slice of pate here. You choose beef, pork or chicken; each comes dipped in a sticky sauce. The meat is dressed with crunchy fresh and pickled vegetables, plenty of fresh cilantro and slices of fresh hot peppers (watch out!). They stuff a torpedo-shaped bun that is served hot and crusty. They call it an appetizer, but it's easily a lunch. And it costs THREE DOLLARS. That's right. THREE DOLLARS.

— Max Brantley Best place to pair an egg roll with a milkshake

For the past few years, Park Avenue (aka "Uptown," aka "Highway 7") in Hot Springs has been attempting an upswing. There's a dope neighborhood community garden, the much-lauded Deluca's Pizzeria and the crisp, clean Cottage Courts tourist court, which looks freshly sprung from a time machine. The Hot Springy Dingy costume shop at 409 Park Ave. keeps it comfortingly weird. But our nation has learned that the path to righteousness isn't a straight line, and there are still pockets of Park Avenue that are ripe for renovation — former Bohemia Restaurant, we're looking at you ... with increasingly misty eyes.

But stalwart amongst the comings and goings in this funky cool section of the Spa City is the tidy and tiny Bailey's Dairy Treat, 510 Park Ave., with its distinctive neon ice cream cone serving as a beacon to those who not only tolerate lactose, but revel in it.

Every Arkansas community needs at least one of these — an ice cream and burger drive-up, hopefully from the Truman era, but at least strongly evoking the days of sock hops and cult of personality radio DJs. (Lucky Hot Springs has an embarrassment of creamy riches in this arena, with Mamoo's ParadICE Cream and a Kilwin's on Bathhouse Row nearby, crosstown rivals King Kone on Malvern Avenue and Frosty Treat on Grand Avenue, and with bougie Dolce Gelato and Scoops "Yes We Really Make It Here" Ice Cream holding frozen court on the other end of Highway 7.)

Bailey's mixes up its menu from the standard dairy bar fare with offerings of fried rice and egg rolls and the like, and they are a refreshing off-script surprise. But if you're here, you're here for shakes, ice cream or burgers, probably in that order, and that's where Bailey's shines brightest. Long may you anchor Park Avenue, Bailey's Dairy Treat.

— Stephen Koch Best non-museum museum

The only place that has issued me a handwritten IOU this century sits on Grand Avenue in Hot Springs, just south of historic Bathhouse Row and the Hot Springs Farmers Market. Google Maps calls it Young's Trading Center Inc., but the business name printed in Durango Western font across the old general store-style façade — Young's Trading Post — gives a much more accurate indicator of what lies within. James Henry, the 83-year-old patriarch of the antique palace, sat in a rocking chair at the open-air entrance last Saturday, occasionally chiming in as his daughter (and Young's co-owner), Karrie Jackson, regaled a few curious visitors about the history of the place.

Jackson pulled out a color photo she says was taken sometime between 1952 and 1955. In it, a surlier twentysomething Henry stands in front of the very same storefront, dressed in a striped linen shirt and dark blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up, with what appears to be a red pencil tucked behind his ear. Beside him are his parents, Willie Matilda and Jim Henry. James, as it turns out, had gone to California to work in the logging fields for three months or so when he was called back to help run the new family business, a store the Henrys had acquired from Monroe Young, whose family was sort of a big deal in mid-20th century Hot Springs. "One set of brothers were in the law," Jackson said, "and the other set of brothers were in the moonshine business." Before their ownership, as a photo with "October 1940" scrawled on the back reveals, it was a fruit and vegetable stand, with the same corrugated tin facade.

Now, it's a labyrinthian warehouse with every square foot of its walls lined with old farm tools and wicker baskets and light fixtures and cookbooks and oil cans. Metal box fans circulate air through the corners and wooden rafters, and there's a loft full of antique furniture up a staircase with a preemptive "Watch Your Step" sign at the top.

It's more likely to smell of WD-40 than Old English — a sort of agrarian counterpart to the strain of antique shops lined with lace and chandeliers. It's a place people tend to recommend when you've searched everywhere else and still can't find a replacement for the broken ceramic radiant on your old gas space heater, or when you want to outfit your workshed with some vintage tin beer signs. It's also good for picking up slightly dusty things you weren't looking for in the first place, which could include, but are not limited to: a maroon-and-gold footstool with the Lake Hamilton Gray Wolf mascot where your feet should rest; a briefcase bar lined in coral satin straight out of a "Mad Men" episode, with its rocks glasses still in their plastic packaging; a 1920s enamel gas range by Laurel; an oversized tin sign advertising Salem menthols ("Menthol Fresh!"); a pegboard full of swing locks and cabinet hinges; a vinyl record titled "Good Times with The Happy Goodmans" next to an Oak Ridge Boys cover album subtitled "Songs We Wish We'd Recorded First" and a Ray Charles LP called "Country and Western Meets Rhythm and Blues"; cast iron skillets in all shapes and sizes; drawers of mismatched silver flatware; hacksaws; old-school stand mixers; blank Scotch-brand VHS tapes; ceramic beer steins from Pabst's and Budweiser's classier days; brass doorknobs; pedestal sinks; snow shovels; birdhouses; birdcages; a Royal typewriter from the Roosevelt era; a rack of glass soda bottles; china cabinets; a "Legend of the Lone Ranger" tin lunchbox; a tiny beige Panasonic TV with an earphone jack; empty cans of every sort of salve, remedy and household cleaner imaginable (something called "$1,000.00 Guaranteed Moth Killer," for one); myriad lampshades and wrenches; washboards; an elaborate hinged octagonal jewelry box made of popsicle sticks; box fans from the days when box fans weren't plastic; and at least a hundred items whose original intended function eludes me. One of these items, I'm certain, is the perfect purchase to make with that lingering $7.50 IOU burning a hole in my pocket, and Young's is a perfectly fine place to get lost in, realizing that you've whittled away your afternoon muttering "Look at this" and "What is it?" to yourself at turns for a few more quarter hours than you'd planned.

— Stephanie Smittle Best summertime sweet treats under $3

There comes a time in the peak of every Arkansas summer when the heat's oppression feels historic: Lethargy sets in, the body humors are overwhelmed by choler and sweat, and even the best conversationalists are reduced to nonstop complaining about the temperature.

Treats of the sweet and frozen persuasion are the best salvation I've found for the proverbial dog days, and Little Rock has some pretty damn good ones. Here are my top three, all found at stellar local establishments, all quick, all easy to take on the road:

Paletas La Michoacana from Del Campo a la Ciudad

I was a paletas naysayer for some years, mostly because they're usually sold at top-dollar by people who don't speak Spanish and at a smaller-than-appropriate serving size for adults.

Enter Del Campo a la Ciudad, a taqueria mercado on South University with countless festive and culinary treasures — delightful paletas de hielo o crema (ice or cream), crispy chicharrón (fried pork belly) and an immaculate piñata display.

The paletas with a cream base are where it's at, particularly those de coco (coconut), arroz con leche (rice pudding), café (coffee), fresa (strawberry) and mango (mango). They are exceptionally rich and velvety, with some notable chunks of fruit or nuts of cookies dispersed throughout. Take the coconut paleta. Something about an opaque white popsicle is just plain satisfying, and the shredded coconut flakes are a welcome addition.

Del Campo a la Ciudad, at 6500 S. University Ave., is open 9 a.m. until 9 p.m. Monday through Saturday.

Frozen lemonade from Shark's

Sharks Fish & Chicken is a chain with a down-home feel and delicious food: Each franchise is locally owned and has specialty menu items, striking real-life shark photography, a bold teal and yellow color scheme, signature lemon-pepper dust (ask for it on everything!), and a brilliant condiment caddy that I give thanks for every time I set foot inside.

The frozen lemonade is of premium quality, and because there's a new Shark's popping up every which way in this town, they are easy to acquire. People tend to have views on ice, and they know what they like — I've heard the term "soft ice" uttered affectionately on many occasions. The frozen part of the drink is exceptionally cold, and the iciness falls somewhere on the spectrum between margarita and snow cone; it's somehow both crunchy and soft, and there's an unexpected delight that comes when the lemonade concentrates at the base of the cup. Last I asked about flavors, I was told each brick and mortar has its own selection (all have classic lemonade, my favorite), including Orange Tang, Pink Lemonade, Cherry Lemonade, Grape, Green Apple, Strawberry and Fruit Punch. I have yet to make this pairing, but I believe any aforementioned frozen drink would pair well with clear liquor.

Shark's Fish & Chicken is open 10 a.m. until 11 p.m. or midnight every day of the week at all of its locations in Central Arkansas.

Sugarcane Coke float from K. Hall and Sons

K. Hall and Sons holds a special place in the heart of the Little Rock community for a host of wonderful reasons. For me, it's a nostalgic spot, reminding me of my days of cutting class at Central High School to pick up a fried chicken to-go box and a bottle of Orange Fanta. K. Hall hosts a legendary Seafood Saturday during the hot months of the year with shrimp, lobster, crawfish and a line of customers around the block. And, for those who know where to look, it sells soft-serve homemade vanilla ice cream in Styrofoam cups.

Slide open the door on the glass-top freezer near the checkout and reach for the unmarked Styrofoam; it looks like a coffee cup with a pull-back drinking tab. The homemade ice cream somehow maintains its softness, even after being immersed in a deep freezer. I recommend purchasing a bottle of sugarcane sweetened Coca-Cola from the ice bath, consuming about half that vanilla cup, then pouring your soda inside the cup (may I suggest creating a few shallow caverns with your spoon for easier saturation?). What results is a coke float of the highest order, one that both quenches my thirst and brings me back to what it felt like to skip school looking for treats.

K. Hall & Sons Produce, at 1900 Wright Ave., is open 8 a.m. until 6 p.m. Monday through Saturday, 8 a.m. until 3 p.m. Sunday.

—Rachael Borne´ Best non-sexy way to be in the dark with strangers

High church and hot yoga are for the devout. And, while the net serenity yielded is, no doubt, commensurate to your 90-minute investment in mindfulness, sometimes you have more like ... 17 minutes. Tops. And an affinity for sleeping in on Sunday mornings. And perhaps a commitment to the idea of divinity that vacillates between lukewarm and "I'm not religious, but I'm spiritual, you know what I mean?" So, for the rest of us, there's the weekly Compline service at Christ Episcopal Church — a quarter-hour of sung prayers, short readings and silences, intoned by candlelight every Sunday at 6:45 p.m. in a 179-year-old church downtown. If you're looking to get right with the universe, and feel like that's better accomplished with psalm than with pranayama, pull up a pew (or a kneeler) at the corner of Scott Street and Capitol Avenue every now and again.

— Stephanie Smittle The best county for cool relief

Last week, some old friends who used to live in Arkansas but now live in New Jersey came for a visit with their kids. It's somehow remained light jacket weather at night in New Jersey and our friends came off the plane in long sleeve shirts and hoodies to 100 degrees. We spent several days talking about frying an egg on the sidewalk. Then we did one of the few things you can do outdoors in Arkansas in July and feel cool, even cold sometimes: We drove to Stone County and plopped our butts into the Sylamore, the mostly spring-fed creek that originates somewhere in the Ozark Mountains. The water was so cold that, even though I'd been cursing the sticky triple-digit heat for weeks, it took me a few minutes of hemming and hawing before I let anything above my knees get wet. It was also crystal clear; you could watch little bream nibbling at your toes. Swimming kept us occupied for the bulk of three days, but on our way home we made the obligatory visit to check in on the stalactites and stalagmites and bats of Blanchard Springs Cavern, where it was a blissful 57 degrees.

— Lindsey Millar Best pizza night shortcut

I can cook, but I can't bake. Whether that's due to some misunderstanding of the craft or some unnamable necrosis of the spirit infecting my being, I'm not sure. I've just never had success with yeast. My attempts at homemade bread or pizza always end up as airless and dead as the surface of the moon.

So, I was pleased to make the discovery recently that Vino's sells fresh pizza dough at a bargain rate. For $3, you can get a double-fist-sized portion of dough, equivalent to a large pizza. It comes ensconced in the same plastic clamshell used to package a calzone or a salad — flour-dusted and pregnant with possibilities, like some great ghostly mushroom harvested from a distant, malt-scented forest.

I like Vino's pizza. But honestly, I like what I've made at home from their dough quite a bit more — maybe from simple pride of ownership or maybe because I get to use exactly the ingredients I want. I suggest jalapeno escabeche (homemade, if possible), a little chorizo from Farm Girl Meats and a modest layer of shredded cheddar. Or, if you can get past the perversity of turning on the oven in August, a summertime Margherita with fresh Arkansas tomatoes and front-yard basil. It's life-affirming even for those of us dead at heart.

— Benjamin Hardy Best local spat

In September 2017, the Eureka Springs Independent reported that six box elder trees in the quaint, quirky mountainside town's North Main Music Park had been vandalized. Well, sort of. The vibrant crochet coverings that decorated the tree trunks — created by crochet artist Gina Gallina for the city's "Art of Crochet" Festival — had disappeared. Rumors circulated. Conjectures flew. Letters to the editor were written. Dendrological hypotheses about whether yarn-wrapped trees are more susceptible to disease and stunted growth were formed and discussed. The breathability of yarn was called into question. "If I find out who they are, and I catch 'em," Gallina said in a radio segment on KUAF-FM, 91.3, "I'm gonna make 'em learn how to crochet!" Would that social divisions in Little Rock could be woven of such stuff.

— Stephanie Smittle Best Little Rock collection

Earlier this summer, an anonymous local started the Instagram account @letterrockarkansas to document the wonderful and varied typography found around town. It's an essential follow for those who enjoy design ephemera or simply delight in trying to figure out where they've seen that type. Favorites include the massive wooden "Club Jimmy" sign, once wired with 255 lightbulbs, but knocked down by a storm long ago, that leans against the side of Jimmy Doyle's Country Club off Interstate 40; a modernist Church of Christ sign with a letter missing that reads "Church O Christ" with the caption "All out of F's"; and the chunky, hand-painted drop-shadow Sims Bar-B-Que sign outside the Barrow Road location.

— Lindsey Millar Best collection of business cards

Foster's Garage, the classic, no-frills body shop mainstay at 409 W. Eighth St., has been collecting the business cards of patrons and vendors apparently since the Eisenhower administration. They're contained within the span of an arm's-length corkboard on the wall in the garage's unceremonious lobby, and the card collection is augmented so gradually and delicately that each card is gingerly tucked into the folds of the cards that preceded it; our own tiny, greasy, secular version of the Wailing Wall.

— Stephanie Smittle Best political protest

Look, when you manage to piss off Willie Nelson — the unofficial ambassador of stoner serenity and goodwill toward men — your path is surely strewn with hubris and folly. The 85-year-old played a June 29 set at Verizon Arena — the finale to an Outlaw Music Festival that began at 4:30 p.m. that Friday — and included a rendition of his 1986 release "Living in the Promiseland." The song, sung as a trio with Nelson and his two sons, is a bittersweet anthem of an America that, theoretically, anyway, counts Lazarus' "New Colossus" as part of its ethos: "Give us your tired and weak/And we will make them strong/Bring us your foreign songs/And we will sing along." And, performed at such a crucial juncture of the family separation crisis at the nation's southern border, it read as a blistering indictment of our broken immigration policy.

— Stephanie Smittle Best return

After a long hiatus, David Jukes, one of Little Rock's greatest — and least heralded — singer/songwriters, dropped two EPs under his Magic Cropdusters moniker this summer. "Snowfall" collects songs Jukes recorded with Jeff Matika (Green Day) playing bass and Max Recordings head honcho Burt Taggart (Big Cats) playing drums in the mid-2000s in a Denton, Texas, studio owned by Matt Pence (Centro-Matic). Joe Cripps, the Little Rock native and famed percussionist, helped pay for an album from the sessions and to distribute it. When Cripps went missing in 2016 (he still hasn't been found), the record fell into limbo. "Snowfall" represents a scaled-down version of that album. It's five songs, many familiar to longtime Cropduster fans, like "Hey Wonder," "England" and "Marry Them for Free." The other EP, "Woodstock," was recorded more recently in Woodstock, N.Y., at a studio owned by Jukes' former bandmate in The Gunbunnies, Chris Maxwell. There's a cryptic beauty to Jukes' lyrics that emerges after repeated listens. That's easy to do because his warble and general pop sensibilities will have you immediately bopping along. The records, via Max Recordings, are available for purchase at maxrecordings.com, and on streaming platforms.

— Lindsey Millar Best, no, actually, the only music festival worth attending

The whole experience of attending a big music festival feels like participation in an overwrought performance art piece on the pitfalls of consumerism. You're looking for a special experience, a fun time, a little reward for your weeks of toil. You pay way too much money to gain entrance to a gated community that promises unique access to an array of precious goods — the bands and artists you adore — and spend hours of extra labor finagling the logistics. It'll all be worth it, though — because just look at that lineup.

You wind your way through an acre of security and get stamped with the imprimatur of elite access. Then, once inside, plot twist, YOU'RE the ones trapped in a borderline humanitarian crisis. It's hot, it's crowded, everything smells like a urinal cake. Induced scarcity jacks up the price of basic commodities (bottled water, kebabs) and you grow to loathe the hordes of fellow sweaty mammals jostling for limited resources. You retreat inward mentally, become beady-eyed and narrow-minded, jealously protect the pitiful patch of turf you've staked out in front of whatever beer-branded stage is presenting whatever performer you've come to see. You damn well better see them up close, and you damn well better enjoy yourself after all this trouble, because you paid for it with your own money, goddammit.

Then there's Valley of the Vapors, the antithesis of all that.

VoV, in case you haven't heard, is a five-day nonprofit-run festival in Hot Springs that captures bands as they travel to and from SXSW in Austin, allowing it to attract a fantastic spread of under-recognized national and international talent. This spring, a day pass was $10. The music is mostly to be found at one of two venerable venues in town, Low Key Arts — the driving force behind VoV — and Maxine's. There are also a few "secret shows" that pop up in unexpected places. Around 4 p.m. on a rainy Sunday this March, about two dozen of us crammed into a Waffle House on Central Avenue to watch a goofily too-cool-for-school Brooklyn rocker named Zuli churn out swaggering guitar riffs, occasionally using a sugar dispenser as a slide. Later, at Low Key Arts, I was treated to a succession of artists playing everything from country to bouncy indie pop to gloomy, Eels-esque bedroom ballads on a tiny electric keyboard. Some of it was good, some of it was not and at least two acts were genuinely terrific.

What makes VoV truly special, though, is the miracle of your fellow concertgoers: You don't despise them. There's just something about being crammed into a big festival that breeds contempt. At Valley of the Vapors, that sour note of impersonal hostility turns to one of, well, actual community. It's an all-ages affair, so you'll see teenagers, a handful of families, older folks. You're in it together, and you're there to hear music you'll probably never get the chance to hear again. What could be better than that?

— Benjamin Hardy

2018 Best of Arkansas editors' picks

#2018 Best of Arkansas editors' picks

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