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scullydubois · 3 years

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Keys: a series of vignettes

Documenting all the times Mulder & Scully use a key to get into each other’s apartment.

read on Ao3 tagging: @today-in-fic (thank you <3)

Part 1 (Prologue): post-Squeeze

After Tooms, Mulder knew he had to broach the subject. He also knew, despite the limited time that Scully had graced his life thus far, that she wouldn’t react like Diana had. Scully would make it difficult. And he understood this--respected it, even--but it still had to be done. He had barged into her apartment one time too many.

Seeing Tooms nesting in his jail cell banishes any misgivings Mulder has left. Those yellow-green eyes and their inhuman desire to desecrate their victim, stealing away the purifying organ...and it had almost worked.

Mulder wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to Scully on his watch. This is what he’s thinking when she brushes her hand down his bicep and leads him away from the immortal monster. He’s still thinking it as they exit the jail and he does the mental math and realizes that Scully will be 58 in thirty years and he can’t imagine any other fate for her than being the head of the Bureau, that wasn’t a joke.

“Scully?” He had known that name first through Vin Scully, who had been announcing Dodgers games for as long as he could remember. It slips off his tongue so naturally now.

“Yes?” She shifts her gaze toward him, and he’s taken aback. How can he focus on the task at hand when there are entire oceans in her eyes?

He knows that for this to be a success, he has to go the roundabout way. Does reverse psychology work on a doctor, he wonders? It’s worked on some psychologists he’s known.

He decides to find out. “I was just thinking, um, since it looks like we’re in it for the long haul…” Scully raises an eyebrow, her perpetual state of doubt coming to the surface. He presses on, a tenuous grip on his confidence. “Since we’re partners on the X-Files, I mean, since it looks like...that’s gonna keep continuing…” He feels like he’s back in high school asking Sloane Rivers to the senior prom. He hopes this has a happier ending.

He clears his throat. “What I’m trying to say is, I’d like to give you a key to my apartment so that...if you need to get in there ever...you can. Without breaking the door down,” he adds with an awkward chuckle.

Scully actually smiles at him. Sure, it’s tight-lipped like the kind a Southern lady might offer after saying ‘bless your heart,’ but still, it’s not the frown he expected.

“I doubt I’ll ever need to break your door down, Mulder.”

“Why not?” His voice goes high. He’s almost offended.

She purses her lips. Pouty Scully always forces Mulder to fight back a smile. He clamps his teeth down on his tongue. With her crossed arms and pout, she has the air of a little girl imitating her nagging mother. “Have you looked at yourself?” she asks.

“In the shower sometimes, yes,” Mulder deadpans.

There’s that eye-roll he’s come to expect. “How tall are you?” There’s exhaustion in her voice. She’s preemptively annoyed by his answer.

“Six feet. Six two if my loafers have a bit of a heel on them.”

“Uh-huh, and you’re a pretty strong guy, wouldn’t you say?”

“I could pick you up.” He lets the double entendre hang suggestively in the air.

She humors him with direct eye contact, nothing more. “Right. And you’ve put away dozens of violent offenders over the years, correct?”

Mulder nods, not sure where she’s going with this. He’s constantly intrigued by how she keeps him on his toes.

“And have you ever felt that one of them posed a physical threat to you if they were to be released?”

He slips his hands into his pockets. “No, I never really thought about it.”

“Exactly. I have to think about it. Before, during, and after a case.”

It figures that Scully would beat him to his own point. Mulder laughs. It only occurs to him how his laughter must look to her after he’s already done it.

“Mulder!” she screeches.

“I wasn’t laughing at what you said, I was laughing at what you did.”

“Gee, thanks, real comforting.”

“No, I mean, that’s the point I was trying to make--that you’re more susceptible to, urhm, bad things happening-- but I didn’t want to offend you.”

“Offend me? With the truth?”

“Yeah, I, um…” It occurs to him that he has miscalculated her, that she is not like any of the women he has ever known. His chest flutters, but his stomach sinks. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sure you’re more aware of that than anyone else.”

Scully finds his earnest attempt at an unnecessary apology endearing, but she won’t show it. “Uh-huh,” she responds, staring out into the distance, checking her surroundings even now.

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to go at it alone,” Mulder continues. “I’ll watch your back too, if you let me.”

Despite his sweetness, Scully can’t resist toying with him. “You’ve had a partner before, haven’t you?” she smirks. “That’s kind of how it’s supposed to work.”

Mulder clasps his hands behind his back. The corners of his mouth turn up into a bashful, apologetic smile. This is the routine he used to perform when his parents yelled at him. Who says you have to grow out of childhood habits?

“Well, I…” He’s not sure where he’s going with that sentence, and Scully knows this. She relishes in his embarrassment.

“I’m just teasing, it’s very kind of you to be concerned.” She pats his shoulder. Turns out, someone saving your life makes you quite touchy-feely. “I’ll have a key made this weekend,” she promises.

Figuring Scully out feels like navigating a room full of laser beams. He may have to crawl, jump, or twist himself into otherwise unnatural shapes to get through, but--somehow--he always makes it. Each time he’s convinced he’s done the impossible, yet he finds himself even more stoked to take on her next challenge. Scully is his endless puzzle, his X-File to end all X-Files. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

He slides his extra key off the chain, folds his fingers over it, and gently bumps his hand against Scully’s as they walk. She opens her fist, lets him place it in her palm, then curls her fingers around the metal. It’s still warm from his grasp.

“Thank you,” she murmurs. Her gratitude goes deeper than the key, Mulder understands this.

“You’re welcome,” he hums.

She is glad to have the key; he is glad she took it. She is glad he asked for her key; he is glad she will give him one. She is glad to be alive; he is glad that she lived. They have so many things to be thankful for.

#this was gonna be a one-shot but I couldn't get the key concept out of my head #so i suppose it will be a series #with chapters on the shorter end #thank you for reading as always <3 #I really really appreciate it #the x-files #txf #the x-files fanfic #fox mulder #dana scully #keys fic #mine

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mksc77 · 3 years

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A little World Series celebration/Halloween fic :) Hope y’all like it! 💜

"Hi, you guys," Sharon greeted as Provenza and Patrice followed Andy onto the back porch. She nodded at the bottle of wine in Patrice's hands. "Ahh, this is why we're friends. You bring gifts."

"I got red so Louie wouldn't drink half of it," Patrice murmured as she gave her the bottle. "I've gained a few pounds with all of this isolation and have been drinking more than normal, so I'm trying to cut back."

"So have I," Sharon agreed, "but tonight will have to be an exception. My nerves are already shot, and the game hasn't even started." October had been a crazy month for sports. Sharon nor Andy were basketball fans, but with a local team playing in the NBA finals, they'd watched most of the games and had been excited for a Lakers championship. And admittedly had the best sex they'd ever had afterward. The World Series had started just a few days later, and it seemed like they'd spent most of the month glued to the TV. With neither couple having ventured out in the last week or so, they'd decided that a socially-distanced, outdoor viewing of the game together would be reasonably safe.

Andy was watching the pregame coverage on TV. "Damn, I miss Vin Scully. Baseball still hasn't been the same without him."

Sharon rolled her eyes. "Oh, god, here we go. There better not have to be a seventh game, because I don't think I can handle another night of Scully mourning."

"The man was a legend!" Andy protested.

"Honey, it's been a couple of years since he retired. I think it's about time to get over it."

"Blasphemy," Andy muttered.

By the Fifth Inning, the game was looking grim. "I feel like I'm watching a little girl's t-ball game," Provenza complained.

Sharon raised an eyebrow. "You clearly never saw any of Emily's games. She was probably the only five-year-old in history to turn t-ball into a contact sport. I was actually relieved when she was a little older and decided to give up other activities to put more time into ballet."

Andy shook his head. "Shocking."

"Wait a minute, what's happening?" Provenza asked when the Rays coach trotted out to the pitcher's mound. "Surely, he's not taking out Snell? He's only allowed two hits all night!"

Andy shrugged. "I wouldn't complain. He's made our guys look like they've never held a bat before."

Provenza sipped his wine. "I'm not complaining, either, but this would have to be the dumbest call—yep, there he goes. This is about to be a gamechanger…He's putting Anderson in? He's been pathetic all month!"

"Did Cash bet against his own team or something?" Andy asked. "It's like he's trying to lose this game."

True to their prediction, Betts almost immediately hit a double down the left field line. After a wild pitch and another hit, the score had turned from a 1-0 deficit to a 2-1 lead in just a few plays.

"There are the boys I know and love," Sharon commented, finishing off her glass of wine and pouring another.

By the last inning, with the Dodgers up by two and one out away from winning the game, Provenza massaged two fingers against his chest. "I don't know if it's the wine or this game that's giving me heartburn. Do you know where my little purple pills are?" He asked Patrice.

"Yeah, in the cabinet right beside your little blue ones," Patrice answered, without hesitation.

"A simple yes would've sufficed," Provenza grumbled.

Andy laughed, and Sharon just focused on her wine glass, trying not to laugh, herself. "I hope there's some Xanax in there somewhere, too," Sharon whispered to Patrice.

"No, that's in my purse." Patrice rolled her eyes. "I'm not above crushing some into his wine glass when he leaves it unattended."

Rusty looked confused. "What's the big deal about blue pills—oh, gross," he whined, connecting the dots.

"Okay, come on, one more strike," Sharon murmured, looking back at the TV. "All right!" Everyone except Rusty jumped up and cheered, yelling and high-fiving. Rusty didn't get the baseball obsession and just watched.

"As much as I'd love to stay and celebrate, it's time to shift the focus to a different variety of balls," Provenza said, indicating for Patrice to get up. "If we don't get home soon, I really might need one of those blue pills, but we're celebrating, one way or the other."

"Do we have to hear this?" Rusty complained.

"It can't be unheard," Andy lamented. "There goes any desire I had to celebrate." Patrice's Viagra jab had been funny, but the following dialogue had been a boner-killer if he'd ever heard one.

"Ewwww, not you, too!" Rusty fled into the house before his gag reflex could be tested any further.

Sharon, a little affected by the night's wine consumption, just laughed helplessly at Provenza's eagerness to get home and Andy's and Rusty's disgust. When the Provenzas were gone, she ran a bath and got one more glass of wine. She'd expected Andy to join her in the bath, as she hadn't thought he'd been serious about his own desire to "celebrate" being gone, but when she got out and found him reading in bed, she was a little disappointed. Still wrapped in her robe, she nibbled at his ear and moved to his neck, thinking she just needed to get things started herself, but Andy shook his head. "Not tonight. I won't be able to do anything without Provenza being in my head, and that's just weird."

"Oh, come on, Andy, the Dodgers just won the World Series for the first time in decades, and in the same month as an NBA championship! When will we have this chance again?"

"I don't know, but not tonight," Andy answered dramatically.

"You can call all the shots," Sharon pleaded. "Whatever you want."

Andy shook his head, unmoved.

Sharon shrugged. "All right, fine." The question wasn't whether or not they were having sex tonight, she would see to it that they did, the question was just how to get there. Her first impulse was to reach for the navy chemise that he could never resist, but something about the situation wanted her to make it a little more challenging than that. Instead, she pulled one of Andy's Dodger's t-shirts over her head and slipped on a pair of panties she knew he loved. "I'm cleaning out my closet tomorrow, so I'm going to go ahead and rearrange some things if we're not doing anything else."

Seeing that Sharon was just in one of his old t-shirts, Andy was relieved that she wasn't going to try to seduce him, so he let his guard down. He went back to his book, but couldn't help but watch her out of the corner of his eye. Damn, those legs. They fucked him over every damn time. He admittedly quivered a bit when she stood on her tiptoes and reached for something at the top of her closet and he could see the lacy, rose-colored panties he loved for her to wear peeking out from under the hem of his t-shirt. Closing his book, his attention was now on her entirely, as he still felt safe from her trying to get him in the mood. He could just enjoy the view and leave it at that. Or not. He was done for when she bent over to put something on a bottom shelf. "All right, fine, you win. Let's do it."

Sharon turned to look at him, wide-eyed and the picture of innocence. "What? I think if I've put on an old t-shirt and am cleaning out my closet, you can assume that the moment has passed."

"Please," it was Andy's turn to beg, "whatever you want. And I'll make sure you finish, one way or the other."

Sharon pretended to think it over. "I mean, if you really want to…"

"Yes. Please. And I'll do the dishes and laundry for a week. And I'll wear that godawful chimney sweep costume for Halloween."

"Deal." Sharon bit back a smile as she pulled her t-shirt over her head. Did she know this man, or what? He was so damn easy.

The next morning, Sharon woke up in Andy's arms, which didn't happen all that often. She wasn't a cuddly sleeper, much to Andy's dismay, but she hadn't had the energy to push him off of her during the night.

"Hey," Andy mumbled, feeling her start to stir against him. Eyes still closed, he tightened his arms around her and pulled her closer to him.

"Hey." Sharon yawned and nuzzled into his shoulder. "I'm still a little weak in the knees after last night, I've gotta say."

Andy kissed the top of her head. "That makes two of us. Damn. We even scared Poppy out of the room."

MCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMCMC

On Halloween morning, Sharon was reading in the swing on the porch while Rusty studied at the table nearby. Andy walked up the back steps after working in the yard. "What do you want to do for lunch?"

Sharon looked at her watch. "It's 10:00, honey, I haven't gotten that far yet."

"It's only 10:00?" Andy wasn't adjusting to retirement very well. Being confined to the house did not suit him at all. Sharon wasn't a sedentary person, by any means, but she was better at finding things to do and setting personal goals for herself to keep her occupied than he was. She'd been exercising and meditating more than she'd ever had time for before, and while Andy worked out, he still had trouble filling his days.

"Afraid so." Sharon eyed the pumpkins lining the porch steps. "Why don't we carve the pumpkins? That'll be fun, and it'll take some time."

"Anything to distract me from Trademark Law," Rusty agreed. "I'm about to lose my damn mind."

Andy shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

"Nothing gross, Andy," Rusty warned.

Andy tilted his head. "So breasts are out of the question?"

"Mo-om!" Rusty complained.

Sharon rolled her eyes. "Both of you, stop torturing each other!" They had been driving her insane for the last few months.

A little while later, Andy was the last to finish his pumpkin. Sharon and Rusty had taken traditional approaches, but Andy had taken a different direction. "This is my general attitude toward this whole year," he grinned, turning his pumpkin around.

"Wha—Andy!" Sharon shrieked with laughter when she saw "fuck off" carved into his pumpkin. "But you're not wrong about that."

Late that afternoon, Sharon was putting the finishing touches on her Mary Poppins costume. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss last year's costume arrangement," Andy lamented, referencing a bet he'd lost with his commanding officer which resulted in a terrible costume for him, but a low-cut, form-fitting dress of a costume for Sharon, which he was always on board for. There was no party this year, but they were planning to sit at the end of their driveway with their neighbors and cocktails for those who imbibed, which was about as close to a costume party as they could get. "Was there not at least a sexy Mary Poppins option?" he whined, indicating her high-necked white blouse and knee-length black skirt. "Halloween is a good excuse to get away with being revealing, but I'm getting nothing from this."

"Oh, really? I guess that makes my night a little less taxing, then." Sharon leaned closer to the bathroom mirror to apply her lipstick. Shocking no one, Andy had honed in on her ass and otherwise barely seemed to notice she was in the room. He was so full of shit. Men. She gave him a knowing look. "But you know you can always sweep my chimney any time."

#Major Crimes #Major Crimes fanfiction #Major Crimes fanfic #Shandy #mikuscfanfic

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twins2994 · 4 years

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Dodgers Win First World Series Since 1988!

Rays 1 Dodgers 3 W-Gonzalez (1-0) L-Anderson (1-1) SV-Urias (1)

The Los Angeles Dodgers have had a long championship drought for a team that has been so good over the past decade. They have had exits in the Division Series and even two World Series, but for some reason this year felt different even in the shortened season. Tonight, they had a chance won win their first World Series since 1988. The Rays tried to dampen the Dodgers hopes in the first inning. Randy Arozarena crushed a Tony Gonsolin slider out to right for a solo homer. This put the Rays on the board right off the bat, but the Dodgers would eventually bounce back. Blake Snell threw five shutout innings, but struggled in the sixth. Austin Barnes lined a one-out single to center to get a huge rally started. Kevin Cash went with Nick Anderson out of the bullpen and things changed on a dime. Mookie Betts lined a double down the left field line. Then Nick Anderson threw a wild pitch, which scored Barnes and tied the game at one. The next batter, Corey Seager hit a grounder to first base and Mookie Betts reached home plate before Mike Zunino could tag him. This put the Dodgers up 2-1 after six frames. Meanwhile, the Dodgers bullpen cruised after Tony Gonsolin registered five outs. Dylan Floro got out of the second, Alex Wood threw two shutout innings, and Pedro Baez got two big outs in the fifth. Victor Gonzalez struck out three over 1 1/3 innings. Brusdar Graterol got two big outs to start the seventh then Julio Urias entered. He struck out Yandy Diaz to end the seventh and had a 1-2-3 eighth. Mookie Betts led-off the bottom of the eighth and crushed a Pete Fairbanks slider out to left-center. The solo blast put the Dodgers up by two runs. Julio Urias had a perfect ninth and the Dodgers won their first World Series in thirty-two years.

-Final Thoughts- Tony Gonsolin did okay as the opener tonight. He retired five men and allowed a run on three hits with four strikeouts. Dylan Floro struck out Randy Arozarena to get out of the second. Alex Wood was huge with three strikeouts over two perfect innings, Pedro Baez got two outs, Victor Gonzalez retired all four men he faced.. Brusdar Graterol got two outs and Julio Urias was sensational. He retired all seven men he faced and struck out four. Mookie Betts led the team with two hits on the day. The Dodgers hit 0-for-5 with runners in scoring position and left four men on base. My heart goes out to the Dodger core of players, who endured so much throughout the years. Clayton Kershaw, Kenley Jansen, Justin Turner, Joc Pederson have been around for a long time. Even guys like Kike Hernandez, Corey Seager, Max Muncy, and Cody Bellinger endure the tough Game 7 loss of the 2017 World Series amidst the Astros scandal. I became a Dodger fan in high school because of Vin Scully. I learned a ton about baseball from that man with all his stories. Enjoy this one Dodgers nation. It was too long of a drought for this organization. I wish I could have visited Dodger Stadium in April like I originally planned for the Twins-Dodgers series. What a year 2020 has been for all of us, but we got through the season.

-Chris Kreibich-

#Dodgers #WinForVin #WorldSeries #MLB

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aestheticvoyage2020 · 4 years

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Day 298: Saturday October 24, 2020 - “ A Fall Classic”

Ive been enjoying the World Series, 2020, almost exclusively from atop my indoor bike... Covid style - with us all in the bubble. The Fox coverage has been great with Joe Buck and Smoltz calling the games for the Dodgers and The Rays and Im not really pulling for either team, just being grateful to have games on and hoping they go 7 to get as many as we can get before the long cold winter.... and if there can be some memorable drama in there too, why not? Count me in. On one hand there is the underdog, mechanical low budget team starring a former Cardinal prospect studding it out in October and there is the historic Dodger blue big market team with talent to beat the world, whose last championship was won in one of my earliest memories of watching Fall baseball dramatics (1988). And after trading wins, came a back and forth Game 4 with as much dramatics as you can pack into 54 outs. And indeed, it came right down to that last one with a walkoff on a play that involved two errors (three if you could count that stumble!) and depending on who ends up winning this series, we might be talking about this one for years and I’ll say, like so many, yep -I watched that one at home with it ending just after a 30 mile bike ride, dripping in my own sweat, glued to the TV to see if this no name guy could deliver in the bottom of the 9th with two outs... and he did and that Cuban rising star scored from 1st on a single to right/center. Crazy - such a beautiful game. Its hard not to be romantic about baseball in October - even in this year of Covid.

Song: Ciara - Paint It, Black

Quote: “Faith may be defined briefly as an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable.” ― H.L. Mencken

“In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened” ~ Vin Scully

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diarrheaofthekeyboard · 4 years

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The Impossible Has Happened

9.14.2020

We’re gonna talk Mets baseball again. I hadn’t intended this blog to be about baseball. It’s clearly titled “music and depression”. But there are few things more depressing than Mets baseball, so here we go.

It’s been a year of a lot of feels. The shortened season, the BLM walkouts, the death of Tom Seaver, and now the sale of the New York Mets.

The facts as I understand them: Steve Cohen, billionaire hedge fund manager, has paid $2.42 billion for 95% of the New York Mets. The sale will be finalized at the owner’s meeting this November, when it must be approved by at least 23 of the remaining 29 franchise owners. The sale does not include SNY, the Mets’ cable tv station.

$2.42 billion is the highest amount ever paid for a franchise. That said, Cohen offered to buy 80% of the Mets for $2.6 billion last year. Cohen wanted to take over the team right away. The Wilpons, who have owned the team in percentages, and then in full since 1980, wanted to retain control for five years. This deal is not only for $180 million less than the previous offer, it’s for 15% more of the team.

The hate: Only the Wilpons could drag this out nearly a year and then screw themselves out of hundreds of millions of dollars and team equity.

The depressing oversharing reaction: As I mentioned in my Seaver post, I went to my first Mets game in 1983. I tried to swear off the Mets when we moved to California two years ago. That’s 35 years of depressing baseball. I was doing pretty ok with it. Then COVID. Then BLM. Then Seaver. Now this. It’s too much and in looking for some kind of stability, I started watching again because my wife wanted to. It was predictably comforting in ways California baseball just isn’t.

The A’s are no respite from the Mets and Dallas Braden as an announcer is insufferable. The Giants are trash and their announcers are a snoozefest. The Dodgers are corporate and boring and they’ve replaced Vin Scully with more corporate and boring.

All I have known for my entire life is the Wilpon owned Mets. The last time they were unstoppable was 1986. Every other team has either been “just good enough to contend” or dismal. And again, as I referenced in the Seaver post, the game broadcast is home. It was apparent on the first game of this shortened season. It was apparent on the BLM walkout game. And it was none more apparent than on the Seaver game.

I hate this reality. I hate it because I really wanted to leave New York behind. Isn’t that the American Dream? Move across the country and start a new life for yourself? Forget who you were, or at least, give yourself the ability to heal. 2020 has stripped all of my progress away in some respects. And I’ve made progress in others.

The thing that bothers me most is the visceral reactions. I sat on my couch with my head in my hands again tonight over this team. These reactions are ones of true loss or panic. It feels gross because of the source. It’s what I imagine drug addicts or abuse victims feel like when after a period away, they go back. That loving, sinister embrace. It feels so good and at the same time, it feels like failure.

I’ll watch the game tomorrow. I want to hear what the SNY announcers have to say. Gary lived through the Payson sale to the Wilpon group. And he’s been the standard bearer of all news that matters for the past 15 years. He’ll have some interesting, if tempered thoughts. But I truly want to keep my distance and continue watching the Dodgers and A’s. Mr. Cohen will have to prove it to me. He doesn’t get the keys to the ownership suite until November anyway.

#new york mets #wilpons #steve cohen #american dream #2020 #sny #covid #therapy #diarrhea #keyboard #tom seaver #blm

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mearnsblog · 4 years

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Remembering Reege

I'm taking a brief break from Disney blogging today to remember a man who was under employment by Disney subsidiary ABC for a long, long time. Ali and I had just finished watching "Hercules" as part of the Disney binge, and I picked up my phone to scroll through Twitter. That's when I saw that Regis Philbin had passed away at age 88.

I don't think I've ever really written any kind of remembrance for anyone other than for a family member or for a famous baseball figure (as I did in the Pinstripe Alley blogging days), but I'm motivated to write about Regis. Part of me isn't sure why, but the other part understands. Watching Regis on TV was a big part of growing up. I only knew a little about his daytime show with Kathie Lee Gifford & Kelly Ripa, but I was absolutely obsessed with "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire."

I'm not sure how exactly it came to be. I know that even then, I loved trivia and watched "Jeopardy!" a bunch, especially in the Alex Trebek mustache days. For whatever reason though, "Millionaire" suddenly became a near-daily part of my life in January 2000. I had missed when it first became a smash hit in limited runs during the previous August & November, when contestant John Carpenter turned himself into a viral video before the term "viral" even existed in that sense by calling his father just before becoming the show's first millionaire. ABC executives realized that they had an absurdly valuable property on their hands and began running "Millionaire" about as often as possible, and I was absolutely there for it.

Phone-a-friend blowing a $500,000 question for his pal? I was watching. Another millionaire earning his prize with probably a too-easy question about the astronomy? I was watching. A contestant nearly losing his mind after sitting the Hot Seat for so long during an agonizing $250,000 question about 2 Live Crew & Star Wars? I was watching.

If I wasn't watching it live, I was watching it on a VHS recording that I'd set up. Then, I'd be watching that recording again. And again. And again. Or I’d be playing one of the three computer games of “Millionaire” that I owned. Or reading one of the branded trivia books. My family was definitely sick of it after awhile, but I didn't care.

The trivia was great, the contestants were usually fun, and throughout it all, there was Regis, spellbinding me. He was like my TV grandpa, almost a Vin Scully type. He was always quick to rib his contestants and keep the mood light with friendly banter. He'd been in the business since the '50s, so while this was old hat for him, it was new for me. Regis could roll with whatever the show threw at him, even if he was already getting exhausted by fans peppering him with "Is that your final answer?" quotes.

One time, a contestant was out of lifelines at the $16,000 question and had to completely guess who sang the "Dawson's Creek" theme. Somehow, he got it right. The guy then proceeded to stun Regis and everyone else watching at home by rattling off 5 increasingly difficult questions in a row (aside from that Turkey nonsense) to make it all the way to the million dollar question. Regis mirrored the reaction of everyone watching. How could someone exist who didn't immediately know what limelight was, but had an encyclopedic knowledge of Russian imperial history? Regis's exhilaration was our exhilaration, and no one could've delivered it better. The fact that he genuinely seemed to care about people behind the scenes on his shows was just the cherry on top.

My "Millionaire" obsession didn't really last; by the fall, I -- like almost everyone else -- had eaten too much "Millionaire" candy and was getting exhausted by ABC putting it on almost literally every day at that point. I stopped watching the live shows, but again, for some reason, I kept watching the reruns that I'd taped. I was just weirdly drawn to them. I was drawn to Regis's funny candor, especially in the moments that I'd already seen. (This hasn't changed with so many of those shows now just conveniently available on YouTube.)

I wasn't watching when the show was cancelled in 2002, but I did watch when Regis came back to the show for limited runs in 2004 and 2009. Meredith Vieira and others were fine as daytime hosts when "Millionaire" resurfaced there, but it just wasn't the same as watching Regis. "Millionaire" changed game shows forever, and the Reege was a big reason for that.

It was also funny how Regis's deep roots in pop culture kept making him pop up in my other interests. The guy was a huge Yankees fan, and it was not uncommon to see him pop up on the screen at the old Yankee Stadium when I was watching games on TV. He made a memorable cameo breaking a newspaper machine on my favorite TV show for a long time, "How I Met Your Mother." (Yes, I'm still bitter about the ending.) His daughter, J.J., and son-in-law, Mike Schur (another baseball connection), also played pivotal roles in the development of more TV favorites: "The Office," "Saturday Night Live," "Parks & Recreation," "The Good Place," etc. Even as recently as the mid-2010s, Regis made guest appearances on sports shows, hilariously quoting Nas. Anytime I saw Regis in another platform, it was a mini-delight. The dude just knew how to make me laugh.

When it was announced that "Millionaire" was returning in a new celebrity-focused format in 2020 with Jimmy Kimmel, I knew that something probably wasn't right with Regis. Yes, he was old, but that hadn't stopped him from coming back for new primetime versions of "Millionaire" in the past. So it wasn't a complete shock when I saw today that he had passed on. But it was still sad. How many hours of my life have been spent mindlessly watching him entertain me? Too many to count.

So farewell and thank you for all the TV memories, Regis. As his pal Katie Nolan said, I hope there's a gin & tonic waiting for you at the pearly gates.

#archive #rip

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tweefunk · 6 years

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2017 Local & EP Roundup

Title says it all. Here are my favorite local MN area releases and various other EPs of 2017. List is in alphabetical order. Sorry I can’t write an essay about everything, but all y’all’s stuff is sicc.

Blacc.KLagoon x w e s t k o r e a: Baby Boy EP This collab EP showcases one of the more interesting new projects to come from the MN DIY scene. This EP owes its influence rrespectively to the jazz-rap of the early 90′s, the vibed-out party jams of early Outkast, and the staunchly political lyricism of Kendrick Lamar. I’m very interested to see where this duo goes from here, especially as they continue to hone their sound and become true innovators upon the precedent of those who came before them. This is one to watch.

Boy Pablo: Roy Pablo EP This sub-20-minute indie pop masterpiece is one of the most slept-on of the year. Boy Pablo is an 18-year old from Norway with sense of melody and composition that would the envy of people half his age. Roy Pablo finds the sweet spot between Mac DeMarco and The War on Drugs, losing the affected apathy of the former, and the inescapable pretension of the latter. Don’t sleep.

Double Grave: New Year’s Daydream Formerly known as Ego Death, Double Grave put out an excellent mini-album this year which seamlessly meshes the amplifier worship of Starflyer 59 with the prettier moments of post-punk, resulting in a noisy, but nonetheless beautiful project.

Since learning of this band, Jeremy Warden has become one of my favorite guitarists in the scene, and his melodic lines steal the show here. In many cases, his warped, glide-stummed leads provide the real hooks. It’s easy to lose yourself in the sonic wormhole, but it’s a trip well-worth taking. Shoegaze meets immediacy.

Hippo Campus: Warm Glow EP Minnesota’s favorite exports followed up this year’s full-length Landmark with a far more progressive digital-only release. Their boyish pop charm remains intact, but this time they put their considerable instrumental chops to use and create something really special. If a twinkle band went pop, this is what you might get, and I’m all about it.

Inconsistent: Acting Cool EP This one has had a permanent place in my CD changer (shut up, I’m old) since its release. I probably jam it at least once a week in the morning when I’m getting dressed for work.

Isaac Luedtke gives a lyrical masterclass in radical honesty in his graphic tales of depression and anxiety. As I said before, I’m old, but not so old that I don’t remember vividly what felt like to be 17 and have no idea where you belong or what you’re going to do with your life. It’s a specific type of suburban angst, but one that never really leaves. The causes of existential consternation may change, but the effects always linger. Acting Cool is frankly the most concentrated dose of whup-ass I’ve seen from a local band in a while. If this were a full-length effort, it would likely have made my AOTY list.

Look for these cats to blow up in 2018.

Less Than Jake: Sound The Alarm EP Ska rules and I’ll fight you on that. LTJ has always had strong EP releases and this one is no exception. You might not expect a third-wave ska band in its 25th year of existence to have any particularly profound thoughts on aging, but here we are.

“Welcome to my Life” seems like a direct response to their 2003 hit “The Science of Selling Yourself Short,” right down to its white-boy reggae lilt. Roger Lima’s decade-older narrator finds himself in far more apologetic mood. Years of binging, worrying too much about the future, and taking the people who love you for granted can leave you with a lifetime of missed memories, failed relationships, and self-inflicted loneliness. Instead of defiance and an acceptance of mediocrity, we’re trying to save whatever’s left.

Another song that seems unfortunately timely is “Bomb Drop.” While the band likely meant it as an allegory for the inevitability of age and irrelevance, in Trump’s America it seems all too literal. We’re just watching the clock, waiting for the bomb to drop.

Naive Sense: [Self-Titled] EP RIP. They were too good for this world. Hands down the best hardcore band I’ve ever seen in my life. Their shows will be the stuff of legend. I shit-talk hardcore as a genre quite a bit, but Naive Sense proved that the medium can still be powerfully sublime when combined with a timely, vital message and musicians with a desire to push sonic boundaries.

I have no words. Listen for yourself and weep if you never got to witness it. They were more than a band, they were the pure voice of light and hope in human form.

Oftener: Lavender EP The solo project of Nate Gurrola, vocalist of the now-defunct Ridgewood, Lavender marks a return after nearly two years of silence. What we have here is a collection acoustic ballads that feature some of his strongest vocal work and arrangements that refuse to be pigeonholed. Describing Lavender as acoustic shoegaze seems like a cop-out, and labeling it emo seems like an insult. There’s a lot more going on here than sad-boy whining.

Oftener has recently expanded to a full band, and will be releasing another EP as such next month. Having seen this configuration live, I’m confident that this will bring another layer to the sound and make them a band to watch moving forward.

Township: Impact Bliss Another band leaving us too soon, Township announced their impending breakup this spring, so make sure you catch a show if they make it to your area one more time.

Impact Bliss is a beautiful, textured homage to shoegaze. While Double Grave resides in the poppier, more accessible end of the spectrum, Township aren’t afraid to take their audience down long swirling rabbit holes with massive dynamic shifts to throw the listener off-balance.

This record is best enjoyed in a dark room, slightly high at 2am, and loud. Township have shot for the ethereal majesty of Souvlaki and Loveless, and come damn close to their mark. It’s that good.

VIN: S/T EP Debut release by a new band with former member of Infinite Me and Familiar Theme features some of the most deceptively straight forward rock you’ll find in the local DIY scene. But make no mistake, this is prog all the way.

Bassist Nicholas Culliton and drummer Jacob Scully are particular standouts here. Culliton creates arpeggiated, harmonized lines where a lesser musician would just be happy to drone a root note, or just mirror the bass drum. By playing like a third guitarist, he gives the band a far thicker sound without overpowering the primary melodic elements. Scully on the other hand is a rudimental monster with the musical sense to use his chops as a complement to the music, rather than an excuse to show off.

Weathered: Misnomer EP These guys have made massive improvements to both their production and compositions since their last time out. Arrangements are fussed over and far more intricate than the emo genre is usually blessed with. In particular, the rhythm section of Christian Rassmussen and Alec Panchyshyn are a two-man wrecking crew from the moment “Better For Me” kicks into second gear, and the latter subtle touch with the sticks and some lovely color to the proceedings.

The production is also a big star here in that it imbues the music with enough clarity to be a pleasant listen, but leaves the edges just rough enough to leave some nervous intensity around the band. This newfound clarity and crispness suits Weathered well.

With another album on the way in 2018, Weathered is poised to be the Minnesota DIY scene’s next big export. Misnomer isn’t just good for a local band, it’s good for anybody.

Wretch: BANGERZ It’s kinda like if DFA1979 weren’t edgelords and ripped way harder. This is another great local that we lost in their prime. RIP.

If you couldn’t infer from the quip above, Wretch is (was?) a drum and bass combo but with a wicked front-person whose lyrics manage to speak incisive truth to the scourge of modern beauty standards (among other subjects) while still being darkly hilarious. It doesn’t read like a sermon, but rather a brilliantly dance-able stand-up routine that would George Carlin proud.

No, none of that is intended as a backhanded compliment. Comedy is one of the most powerful tools we have for expression. BANGERZ is one the most fun releases of the year, and also one of the most thought-provoking.

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jjaywmac · 4 years

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Sound familiar. August 2016. “Over the age of 60. Underlying health condition (heart problems. Pneumonia in the lungs. ICU. Insulator. Unexpectedly.” That is exactly what happened to Steve 4 years ago. Was it a virus before its time? I will never know. The doctors cured the pneumonia. He died of heart failure. It was fast. Like today. That should want you to stay home! And keep your loved ones at home! It does me. I remember only too well.

SO, how do I start with a clean slate of this? By introducing you to some books I think you may enjoy reading during this down time.

SO, I am spending today, a (férié) in France (the day after Easter is always celebrated as a holiday) by staying inside and writing a lot. Sorry. But, I cannot stop thinking about what happened to him as I read the news and all of the descriptions of what to expect. Plus, in my head, I am processing a Lot of new ideas that have come to me over the weekend. My “clean slate”/ “eternal NOW” frame of mind is running wild with new ideas of how to spend this unusual time in Paris. I have ideas for new books that excite me. I have projects that need to be completed. I have courses I want to take, places I want to walk, pictures I want to take, sites I want to develop. There is never a dull moment around here. My mind keeps me busy.

I want to spend time with my “new present”. So here is a fresh look at something that means a lot to me. What?? I have in my safe keeping, several books that I want to bring to your attention in this new day!!! OK. So a tad of past. Don’t worry. I will try to make it interesting and worth your time.

It all started on September 20, 2011. I was (for 20 years) an Entertainment Attorney (and an Employment Law Litigator) in Los Angeles, California USA. In early September 2011, I was invited by the Writers Guild of America (WGA) to be the legal representative by on a panel for the members – an E-publishing Panel. The Panel sought to empower writers to create new opportunities for work in film, television, new media, and transmedia. Since WGA did not cover book publication regardless of format, it was thought that e-publishing could be a stepping stone towards potential work on Guild-covered adaptations. So, on September 20, I joined other Panel members Lee Goldberg (The Glades), Derek Haas (Wanted), and Alexandra Sokoloff (author, Book of Shadows, and Mark Coker (Smashwords) on a panel. Our task was to discuss the latest ebook/self and indie-publishing developments. WOW, what a lineup! I got very excited. Needless to say, it was a power-packed evening with the Writer Members and members doing most of the talking. The evening flew by with everyone sharing information, questions, and answers.

The next day I said to my husband Steve Orlandella, “You need to write a book”. He said, “What? A book? I have nothing to say.” I laughed. Steve ALWAYS had something to say. So did I. I needed to write a book. And, we did.

Steve wrote eight books before he died in 2016. I have written seven (7) and am still writing every day. But, this post is about Steve and his books.

He had specific things he liked – history, cheesecake, sex, trivia, condiments (of every kind), Castle (TV show), the Titanic, and baseball. Not necessarily in that order. So, he wrote about things he liked. Now, to be honest, he was not a great American writer. He just wrote about topics he enjoyed. I was glad to see him happy. He loved working. Retirement was not his cup of tea. And, he loved writing. He created two characters he liked. And, he would spend all day creating their “banter”. I would often hear his chuckling to himself. That would be when he would come up with something he thought was particularly clever. He started out with a collection of his writings on Facebook. All of that was new at that time, and his posts were funny and interesting. When it was published, he was thrilled. He would read it over and over. Amazed and proud of himself for actually publishing a book!

Next, he tackled baseball. He was an Emmy-winning Live Sports producer for Hockey and Baseball. 9 seasons for the Dodgers. Personal friend of Vin Scully. He KNEW his baseball. Then, he wrote “his masterpiece”, a wonderful book about the Titanic. He poured his soul into this book. His love, his heart, his skill, his all. He could not believe it when he held that book in his hands. He read and reread and reread it.

It was then that he thought that he had no more to write. I did not want to see him depressed because he was happy when he had a book in progress. So, I suggested he create a detective and do mysteries – novels. After thinking about it a LONNNNNGGGGGG time, he came up with an idea. He really loved the television show “Castle”. He loved their “banter”. He would create a sexy couple – an ex-baseball player (a private investigator – Vic Landell) and hot babe attorney/news anchor (The Redhead). They would solve crimes in Sarasota, Florida (his favorite location in the world). That was how it started. It evolved from there.

So, I am going to introduce you to his books. I am not presenting them in the order they were written. I am doing this my way. Novels, first. I am suggesting you try them. they are light reading and enjoyable. And, I think the reader can experience the fun Steve was having with the dialogue and spending time with his characters. He loved Tina Louis and Dusty Springfield. Plus, he had some favorite News Anchors. So, bear with him as he enjoys his “babes” with their high heels. Short skirts and all. Red hair, long legs. A fun guy. We laughed a lot. And, I miss him. This post is dedicated to Steve Orlandella. This one’s for him. Now, the books – during this pandemic!

The first Vic Landell mystery was BURDEN OF PROOF.

1) BURDEN OF PROOF is set in and around Sarasota Florida. It is dedicated my sister, Patricia Jewell Prince, “My Sister-in-Law Patricia, Lover of Mysteries.”

Steve begins each mystery: What’s in a Name? “My father was born Vito Anthony Orlandella, and he didn’t much care for his name. “Vito” was all right, and in fact, he named his principal business The Vito Fruit Company – although throughout Boston he was often referred to as “Vic.” No real problem with the benign Anthony, it was the last name he saw as problematic. His one foray into show business as a record producer was done under the name “Tony Vito.” I’m not certain, but I believe he thought that Orlandella was too long and clumsy for a billboard. He had another name ready but never got the chance to use it. A clever anagram made by dropping the first two and the last letters of his name. Add to that, the remnants of his first name. Thus, was born “Vic Landell.” When it came time to name my pitcher-turned-detective, the choice was an easy one. Call it homage to my father.”

Next, CAPITOL MURDER.

2) CAPITOL MURDER is dedicated to “Her Royal Blondness [HRB], Long may she Reign”. It is set in and around Washington, D.C.

“What’s in a Name? The heroine of this series is Marcia Glenn. The name is borrowed from my first childhood crush – a sixth-grade, blonde goddess. For two years I pined for her from, to paraphrase Hammerstein, ‘across a crowded schoolroom.’ My passion held in check only by the fact that she didn’t know I was alive. Her sights were set on another classmate, a surfer boy wannabe with flaxen air. Sure, just plunge a knife in my heart. The irony of all this is rooted in the fact that he seemed to have absolutely no interest in her. Funny the things you remember. How this preteen vixen has now morphed into a six-foot, Titian-tressed femme fatale is a story for another time.”

3) MARATHON MURDERS.

MARATHON MURDERS is dedicated to “Dash, Winner & Still Champion”, and located in Boston.

“What’s in a Name? He was born on a farm in Maryland. He served his country in the First World War and became ill with the Spanish flu and later contracted Tuberculosis – spending most of his time in the Army as a patient in a Washington Hospital. As a result of his illness he could not live full-time with his wife and two daughters and the marriage fell apart. He was a firm believer in the notion that you write about what you know. And since he was an alcoholic, his two most famous characters were as well. He devoted much of the rest of his life to unpopular causes. He wore his country’s uniform again in the Second World War. His reward? After the war he was investigated by Congress and testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee about his own life but refused to cooperate with the committee. As a result – he was blacklisted. He was sixty-six when lung cancer took his life. In his obituary, The New York Times said of him, ‘the dean of the hard-boiled school of detective fiction.’ For any fan of mysteries his name is said with a smile. For someone like me, who would love to be just a poor copy of the original, it is said with reverence.”

4) DANCE WITH DEATH. (Steve’s Favorite – he wanted me to read him passages from this one when he was in the hospital)

DANCE WITH DEATH is dedicated “To my Second Parents Rose & Gerry”. It is set in Los Angeles, California.

“What’s in a Name? She was born Marcia Colleen Glenn – her first name from the Latin, meaning ‘dedicated to Mars.’ Mars is the red planet – there is your first clue. It also means proud or warlike – that’s your second clue. Her middle name was chosen by her father to emphasize the family’s Gaelic heritage. By the age of five, her sister Katelyn was calling her ‘The Marce.’ To this day, if she likes you, call her Marce. If she doesn’t much care for you, it’s Marcia. If she flat hates your guts – it’s Ms. Glenn. Fair warning, if you call her Marsha, brother, you are just asking for trouble. When she was seventeen and turned from an ugly duckling into a beautiful swan, the boys in her high school started referring to her as ‘the looker.’ The lawyers at the firm where she did her internship called her ‘the stunner.’ That’s also what the crew at WWSB calls her – along with ‘the goddess.’ To the boys in Idaho Falls, she was ‘the long drink of water.’ When she knocked out a would-be assailant with one right hand, the name ‘slugger’ entered the lexicon. There are others, like ‘supermodel’ and ‘deadeye.’ But if you’ve killed someone, she’s the ‘red menace.’ And finally, to her smitten boyfriend, she is occasionally ‘Titian’ -the shade of her glorious red hair. She will also answer to ‘Irish,’ and for him only, ‘Honey,’ along with his favorite, ‘Baby.’ But, first and foremost she is always and forever – ‘the redhead.'”

5) MIDTOWN MAYHEM, dedicated “For the amazing Kris Jones”, and set in NYC. (He did not know this would be his last one.)

“What’s in a Name? It was my high-school baseball coach who first hung the nickname on me. Of the nine pitchers on his staff, eight were right-handed. When asked who the starting pitcher against Syracuse would be, he replied, “Let’s send out the lefty.” The name stuck throughout college, the minors, and my first six years in the majors. It became problematic for me when I was traded to Philadelphia – for you see, they already had a “Lefty.” He was born Steven Norman Carlton. He made his debut with the Cardinals in 1965. He was a tall, imposing man blessed with a hard fastball and nasty slider. He was soon known as an intimidating and dominating pitcher. Following a protracted salary dispute, St. Louis Cardinals owner Gussie Busch ordered Carlton traded. Eventually, he was dealt to the Philadelphia Phillies before the ‘72 season for a pitcher named Rick Wise. In time, it would be recognized as one of the most lopsided deals in baseball history. Carlton hit his stride with the Phillies. How good was he? In 1972, the down-trodden Phils won a total of 59 games – 27 of them by Carlton. That won him his first of four Cy Young Awards. He finished with 322 wins and was a consensus first ballot Hall of Famer. The day before a start, the scoreboard in Veterans Stadium would list tomorrow’s starting pitcher – Lefty. Need more? There’s a statue of him in front of Citizens Bank Park. How was I supposed to compete with all that? I could not. Since Carlton is six-foot four and your humble servant is a paltry six-foot one the players started to refer to me as Little Lefty. The day my career ended, I went back to being plain old Lefty.”

6) CASINO KILLER (Steve was writing this one when he died.)

Forty-six pages are in the can. It was to be dedicated to “John & Gloria Cataldo, Once and Forever”. It was to be set in and around Nice, France.

“What’s in a Name? It is the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea in the southeast corner of France, beneath of the base of the French Alps. There is no official boundary, but it is usually considered to extend from the Italian border in the east to Saint-Tropez, Hyères, Toulon, or Cassis in the west. The area is a Department of the French Government – Alpes-Maritimes. There is nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world. As the French might refer to it – beau ravage – beautiful shoreline. It began as a winter health resort for the British upper class at the end of the 18th century. With the arrival of the railway in the mid-19th century, it became the playground and vacation spot of British, Russian, and other aristocrats, including Queen Victoria. It was the English who coined the phrase, the French Riviera. After World War II, the south of France became a popular tourist destination and convention site. The area went off the charts in the 1950s when a beautiful girl from Philadelphia moved into the Royal palace of the one and only principality. Millionaires and celebrities built homes there and routinely spent their summers. The region has one more name. In 1887, a French author named Stéphen Liégeard published a book about the coastline. So taken was he by the color of the Mediterranean, he used the words Azure Coast in the title – in French that translates as Côte d’Azur.”

Steves first book is delightful – STEVESPEAK – 3 YEARS ON FACEBOOK.

STEVESPEAK is one of my favorites for spending time with him and getting to know him better. Plus, it is dedicated to me: “To Janet, The wind beneath my wings, And the power behind my throne.”

In his Prologue, he writes: “I’m not sure how I got on Facebook. Most likely it was word of mouth. Like many of you I started small, but as my list of friends grew, so did my activity. A funny thing happened along the way, I found my voice. Along with connecting with friends, I had the chance to be critical, historical, passionate, and I hope, funny. This book traces almost 3 years on Facebook, and is designed to give my fellow “Facebookers,” An idea of what other people are saying. For what it’s worth, you will learn some things about me. My love for baseball, my interest in “The Titanic,” my passion for my hometown, Boston.

“Stevespeak” was coined by my wife, who insists I have my own language. Well that’s probably not true, but there are some words that are uniquely mine. For instance, only in my world is there a planet “Smecktar.” Those pimples on your shoulder blades are “bacne,” and “Xerocracy” is government by photocopy. If something is dead, it’s “kersfuncken.” “Inuendo” is Italian for colonoscopy.

That said, there are some things you need to know in order to navigate your way through this book. There are many references to something called “HRB.” “HRB” is “Her Royal Blondness.” That would be my wife. She is an attorney and is sometimes referred to as the “blonde barrister.” Her maiden name is Janet Jewell. Christine became Kris and is my sister. “Tori” and “Icto” are other names for our friend Victoria Lucas. Tori’s sister is Lil, and sometimes, Liz. The “Knife” is Joe Klinger. “Fabulous 52” was the old Saturday night movie series on CBS in Los Angeles. I stole it, (I mean, researched it) and it became the “Fabulous 42.” Most of the rest is self-explanatory.”

Steve’s Masterpiece – TITANIC.

TITANIC was his lifetime achievement, the one he held close to his heart. He dedicated it to his mother. He wrote, “To my Mother Therese, The Real Historian in The Family.”

“In the fall of 1960, I was a ten-year-old, growing up in Los Angeles’ San Fernando Valley. Even then I was sarcastic, opinionated, and well on my way to becoming obnoxious. The phrase most often used was, ‘A little too smart for his own good.’ Perhaps. Duplicit in all this were my parents who spoiled me rotten. One of my numerous privileges was permission to stay up late on Saturday night…very late.

Toward the end of the 1950s, television in Los Angeles was in a state of flux. The Country’s number three [now number two] market had seven stations, a wealth of airtime, and a dearth of programming. The three network affiliates and the four independents turned to motion pictures to fill the void so much so that one station, Channel 9, ran the same movie every night for a week. Hey, I love Jimmy Cagney, but how many times can you watch ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’? The stations also had the nasty habit of cutting the films to pieces, the classic case being Channel 7, the ABC affiliate who filled their 3:30-5pm slots by slicing and dicing 2-hour movies down to 67 minutes. They came close to cutting Ingrid Bergman out of ‘Casablanca.’ Channel 2, the CBS Affiliate, had no such problem. [They had ‘Lucy’; they had ‘Jackie Gleason’.] ‘The Fabulous 52’ was reserved for Saturday night at 11:30pm, and, since the only things that followed the movie were the National Anthem and a test pattern, they ran uncut. The station held the rights to a package of relatively recent films from 20th Century Fox.

One Saturday afternoon, my dad announced, ‘Titanic is on tonight.’ I had no idea who or what was ‘Titanic’, but we gathered in the family room at 11:30. For the next two hours, I sat transfixed, mesmerized by what we were seeing. If you are scoring at home, it was the 1953 version with Barbara Stanwyck, Clifton Webb and a young Robert Wagner. They had me.

In 1964, I came across a copy of A Night to Remember, Walter Lord’s seminal work on the events of April 14-15, 1912, and the following year, I saw the movie made [in England, 1958] from Lord’s book. It was a film made by people who wanted to get it right. This film was the game changer.

The Fox movie opens with a page of text proclaiming that all the facts in the film were taken right from the United States Senate and British Board of Trade Inquiries. Really? Even then, Fox knew how to ‘play fast and loose with the truth.’ As good as their movie was – and it was good, it paled before the Brit’s film. Fifteen hundred people did not all stand together, sing ‘Nearer My God To Thee’, and meekly sink into the North Atlantic. They fought and struggled until their last breath, trying not to freeze or drown in the unforgiving sea. Madeleine Astor wasn’t an elegant matron. She was in fact a pregnant teenager. That was it. ‘Game On!’

I absorbed every book I could find, any TV program I could watch, and every newspaper on microfilm, along with help from the Titanic Historical Society. Add that to my natural affinity for ships, and an ‘obsession’ was born. For some, it’s The Civil War; for others, it’s the Kennedy Assassination; for me, it is The Royal Mail Steamship Titanic.

Part of the obsession stems from the fact that no event in history is so loaded with conjecture, myths, and downright lies, some of which are ‘beauties.’ One example: A young David Sarnoff [co-founder of RCA] became famous telling the world how he was the first to pick-up the Titanic’s distress call in the station on the roof of Wanamaker’s Department Store and how he remained at the key all Sunday night and well into the next day. Great story? Absolutely. Truthful story? Absolutely not. Wanamaker’s was closed on Sunday, and even when the store was open, Sarnoff was the office manager. Three other employees of The Marconi Company stood the watch.

Fox reloaded and fired again in 1997. This time, they tried it with a seemingly unlimited budget and an amateur historian calling the shots. Movie making? Unmatched. Story telling? Not so much. History? Nonexistent. There is a word for what you wind up with when you invent the leading characters. Fiction. Now, nobody loves Kate Winslet ‘in flagrante delicto’ more than I do, but the truth is better. Thus, ”Jack Dawson’ and ‘Rose DeWitt’ join ‘Julia Sturges’ and ‘Lady Marjory Bellamy’ as mythical creatures on a real ship.

And, since you’re making stuff up, how about a little character assassination? The 1997 film depicted First Officer William Murdoch taking but ultimately rejecting a bribe from make-believe villain ‘Caledon Hockley.’ Murdoch was also shown shooting two passengers dead after he presumed, they intended to storm one of the remaining lifeboats. He then saluted Chief Officer Henry Wilde and committed suicide with a revolver. None of this ever happened. After the picture’s director [name withheld] refused to take out the bogus scenes, studio executives flew to Murdoch’s hometown to issue his relatives an apology. As for the movie, if you are looking for an accurate depiction of events – keep looking. Put another way, there was a ship called Titanic, and it sank. After that, you’re on your own.

The Civil War is far and away the all-time champion of most books. [One of Titanic’s passengers wrote ‘The Truth about Chickamauga.’] Second? The runner-up is World War II. Third? The correct guess is the Titanic. So, what is my mission statement? What else? Write yet another book. Tell her story, once again. This time come armed with all I know and have learned in the wake of Doctor Robert Ballard’s stunning discovery of the wreck in 1985. I will attempt to detail what is correct and dispel, whenever possible, what is not.

I spent my career working in television, the first seven years producing TV News. What did I learn? I learned skepticism tinged with a bit of cynicism, and it has served me well. So, I will do your bidding. On your behalf, I will be skeptical, factual, analytical, and when required, cynical. There is one thing I cannot be, dispassionate. I will stipulate to a love of all ships – but Her most of all. By now, you may be asking yourself, ‘Why so many pictures?’ I confess that, too, is the TV producer in me. You always try to put a face with a story. Plus, there is always the possibility that you can’t recognize Turbinia.

If I am standing at all, it is on the shoulders of some truly great authors. I have read, re-read, and re-re-read their work over the years and have researched – borrowed – from them all. To the best of my ability, everything in this book is true. I believe in the concept that, if the Lord wanted us to remain silent, he wouldn’t have given us [brackets]. So, on occasion, you’ll see a comment from yours truly. [I’ll be that most irritating of shipmates – the loud, opinionated one.]

The longest section of the book concerns the area around the Boat Deck between midnight and 2:20am. If it seems long [it’s real time] and overly detailed, I apologize, but to me, this is the heart of the narrative. Hundreds of little dramas played out on a sloping deck in the middle of a freezing ocean. Loved ones were torn apart, and families were destroyed. And with it came the sub-plots. Some got in lifeboats, and some did not. Some were allowed in the boats, and some were not. All of this begs the question, why? Regardless, these are their stories, and on their behalf, I make no apologies. I have tried to keep the technological parts under control and not drown my readers in facts and figures. But the brains and skill that created the Olympic-class liners are very much a part of this story.

Allow me just a couple of more thoughts before we proceed. There is one sentence that is common to virtually every book written about the RMS Titanic. ‘It had been a mild winter in the Arctic.’ It had, indeed. Ice that had been forming since well before the dawn of man was now at last free. Unfettered, it could leave Greenland and move into the Labrador Current and begin its journey south toward the shipping lanes. The ice was no different than previous years, only this year, there would be more than usual, much more. There were small pieces of ice, what sailors called ‘growlers.’ There were large sections known as ‘sheet ice,’ and larger still, ‘pack ice.’ In between were hundreds of what every seaman feared most, what the Norsemen referred to as ‘mountains of ice.’ Icebergs.

If you’re familiar with the advertising business, you probably know about the concepts of ‘marketing research’ and ‘brand recognition.’ Countless studies have been commissioned to find out what people can identify and what they like. The results are often quite surprising. For example, inquiries have determined that far more people [around the world] can recognize the ‘Cavallino Rampante’ [in English, ‘The Prancing Horse’ aka the ‘Ferrari’ logo] than can recognize ‘Shell’ or ‘Coca-Cola.’ Then there is my favorite. For decades, focus groups, when asked to identify the most famous ship in the world, gave the traditional answer, ‘Noah’s Ark’. No more. The runaway number one is now ‘Titanic’. That’s ‘brand recognition.’

There is no way to tell the whole story in this little book, yet I will do my best. Call me crazy [you wouldn’t be the first] and maybe a little arrogant [see previous], but I feel it’s my duty to help set the record straight for fifteen hundred souls who went to a cold, watery grave that night. Time to depart. ‘All ashore that’s goin’ ashore!'”

THE GAME

THE GAME is dedicated, “To My Father, for that rainy day at Fenway and A thousand games of ‘catch’”. Steve was passionate about baseball. He knew baseball in-and-out. He was the expert’s expert. He would say, “I know what I like.” Well, I’m here to tell you that he “liked”, [see also, “was passionate about”] the Red Sox, Boston, the Patriots, the Celtics, Lotus cars, Ferraris, meatballs, pasta of any kind, pundits, condiments, the Titanic, HRB, his family, and Vin Scully – not necessarily in that order.

He writes in THE GAME Foreword: “The History books tell us that the first professional baseball game was held on May 4, 1869, as the Cincinnati Red Stockings ‘eked’ out a 45-9 win. No doubt, the first baseball story was told on May 5, 1969. No sport – not basketball, not football, not hockey – has the oral tradition of the national pastime. And, like any good oral tradition, it has been passed from generation to generation. Baseball stories in one form or another are as much a part of our game as the infield fly and the rosin bag. In this book, they come in all sizes and shapes – short stories, essays, expressions, rules, jokes, and slang, to name just a few.

The first ‘Baseball Balladeer’ in my life was one Vincent Edward Scully, known to three generations of fans as ‘Vin.’ For baseball-ignorant Southern Californians, he was a Godsend. Far more than their voice, he was their teacher. At that point, the game that had been thousands of miles away was as close as your transistor radio or the ‘am’ in your car. He gave Los Angeles the who, what, when, where, and most importantly, the why. He studied at the foot of the master Red Barber and is acknowledged as the best in the business. I know this how? He was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame 43 years ago! For nine years, I was lucky enough to be his producer. I called him ‘The Doctor’ for his PhD in baseball. Try explaining the balk rule to the man who taught you half of what you know about the game.

When I began covering the Angels, I got to know Emil Joseph ‘Buzzie’ Bavasi. If you looked up ‘character’ in the dictionary, it would say, ‘see Buzzie.’ In the ‘40s, he was Branch Rickey’s top lieutenant and had a hand in breaking Baseball’s color line as well as dealing with Vero Beach in the acquisition of Dodgertown. He became General Manager and earned a reputation as a shrewd and tough negotiator. Buzzie loved to tell the story about contract haggling with a certain player [still alive, so no names]. He had a fake contract with a very low salary created for the team’s best player. He left it on his desk and excused himself for a moment, convinced that the player would take a peak. Needless to say, that when he returned, the negotiations ended quickly and in Buzzie’s favor. He had been schooled in [and ultimately taught] the Branch Rickey way of playing the game [stressing fundamentals, nurturing talent, and the importance of a strong farm system]. In the years we worked together, I never once overheard a conversation when he wasn’t at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end of a story or anecdote. He lived for baseball and lived to talk about it.

In 1985, I began working with Bob Starr. Bob, or as we called him, ‘Bobo’, was the broadcaster’s broadcaster. He could do play-by-play for anything – baseball, football, your kid’s hopscotch game, anything. Bobo was a graduate of the KMOX School of Broadcasting. The famed St. Louis radio station produced Harry Caray, Jack and Joe Buck, Buddy Blattner, Joe Garagiola, and Bob Costas, among others. He had that smooth, Midwestern style, and on the air, you’d swear he was talking just to you. I once shared a golf cart with him for a round – four hours well-spent looking for my ball [as usual] and listening. He loved to tell stories, some on himself. While playing 18 holes on an off day, Bob had a heart attack. Upon arrival at the hospital, the doctors asked if he were in pain. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘in my backside.’ Mystified, the doctors went over the test results. A physical examination revealed that the patient still had his pants on. The source of the pain was two Titleists in his back pocket. How we miss Bobo.

The average baseball fan may not recognize the name Jack Lang, but every player knew him and loved it when he called. Jack was for twenty years the executive secretary of The Baseball Writers of America, and if he telephoned you, it meant that you just won the Cy Young Award, the Most Valuable Player Award, the Rookie-of-the-Year, or had hit the ‘Baseball Lottery,’ induction into the Hall of Fame. His vocation was sportswriter [a New York beat writer], and for forty years, he was one of the best. I met Jack in 1987. We had been hired by Victor Temkin to do sports licensing for MCA/Universal. It was there I discovered his sense of humor, his humanity, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the game. We would speak on the phone almost every day for an hour. Five minutes would be devoted to business, the remaining fifty-five given over to ‘talkin’ baseball.’ I firmly believe that I could have put the phone on speaker, turned on a tape recorder, left the room, and returned thirty minutes later to find another chapter for this book. In 1997, we took a production crew to his home for an interview. It was the 50th anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s entry into the major leagues, and who better to discuss it than the man who covered it. Jack lived in the little village of Ft. Salonga on the North Coast of Long Island, [Vin used to refer to him as ‘the Squire of Ft. Salonga’] in a modest house with an office on the side. The office contained a desk, two chairs, and enough baseball memorabilia to open a museum. [The whole place could have been shipped, as is, to Cooperstown.]

Buzzie, Bobo, and the Squire are gone, and, believe me, this book would have been easier to write if they were still here. We still have Vinnie [long may he reign]. If there is such a thing as a sub-dedication, this is for them. They and countless others had a hand in writing this book. I have tried to fashion a work with something for everyone, from the hard-core fan to the young people just learning about the game. In so doing, I’ve run the gamut all the way from baseball history to baseball jokes. I hope you enjoy it and hope it adds to your love for ‘the game’.”

On amazon.com and smashwords.

Best, Jay

A CLEAN SLATE – BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS Sound familiar. August 2016. "Over the age of 60. Underlying health condition (heart problems. Pneumonia in the lungs.

#life #observations

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deadlydodgers · 7 years

Quote

Alive | Cody Bellinger

❝ He was your wish, and you were his fantasy. ❞

Heavily inspired by the Make-A-Wish foundation ❤️

TWELVE YEARS AGO.

The tests were negative. Far from positive, and at age six you had to face the real world. There you were, just an innocent soul like no other who was bound to die before you could live your own life. Before you could have children of your own, and before you could find love. Not the children’s love like you’ve had, but the love that makes you go into overdrive, the kind of love that everyone waits their whole lives to experience. That love that makes you feel special, that makes you feel alive.

Sadly, the cyst in your kidney took that possibility away.

The possibility of living your life.

Suddenly an opportunity emerged to increase your lifespan. You have gotten a kidney transplant and during recovery a few family and friends wanted you to experience an opportunity of a lifetime. They wanted to grant your wish, and no it was not to visit disneyland, meet a boyband or travel the world. As a matter of fact your eighteen year life didn’t just revolve around the hospital or meds. It revolved around a major league baseball team.

It all started with one of your many doctor appointments in your early years of life. On the waiting room television was the Los Angeles Dodgers against the New York Yankees. Sure, you lived in New York, but that day your heart was sold to LA. From then on you went to almost every single Dodger game taken place in NY. Sadly you couldn’t venture to LA because of how severe your cyst was. But did that stop your love for the boys in blue?

Hell no.

PRESENT.

“Hello I am Dave Roberts and I would like to invite (Y/F/N) to Los Angeles for a day to become part of the Dodgers Organization!” Everything felt surreal to you, you were the happiest girl in the planet.

You and the team. One full day!

But that wasn’t the best news you got. In fact, It was the news that started it all. The big day came and you started to freak about what you were going to wear, “Should I go with the pantone jumper or the white crop?” You ask your mom who for some reason couldn’t wipe that smile off her face. Then you knew why. “I think you’ll look beautiful in both” a voice told you, and you were starstruck. There stood the boy you have been head over heals for as long as you could remember. You couldn’t even get your words out because they were taken away by the sight of Cody Bellinger. He embraced you in a hug and you wrapped your arms around his torso.

He even smelled amazing.

The amazing day went by like a blur and the game was approaching. You met the whole team who treated you like family. There was nothing like hurting for all the right reasons, your stomach sore from Kiké’s humor and your cheeks were almost killing you a much as your kidneys from smiling so much for just being there. Mind awed by the veterans you’ve followed for a long time, standing right in front of them. And it was ok if to them it was just a normal day with the exception of you, because today was your day and it was a day that you were going to remember for the rest of your life.

“You want to practice swinging with me a bit?” Cody approaches you. Of course you obliged and followed him to the cages. You took a couple of swings, adjusting your stance if needed.

“Ok but honestly, you may be a better hitter than me.” He tells you and you burst out laughing. To him it was music to his ears. “Yeah, right Cody. Maybe if I had a better pitcher I would be even better!” He took offense to this, firing back, “I will have you know I was the Clayton Kershaw in my high school pitching days!” You two were so loud that you didn’t notice Andre Ethier snapping all the right photos or Kenley Jansen filming the whole thing, with the bullpen and batters right behind them with grins on their faces. They knew how to state the obvious.

He was your wish, and you were his fantasy.

You got the privilege of throwing out the first pitch to Cody. Walking to the mound wearing your own jersey you felt so special. So many things happened here. All, wonderful great things from Kirk Gibson's home run to Clayton Kershaw's no-no to Culberson's walk off homer to win Vin Scully's last game. It was all so overwhelming.

And here you stood.

You threw a strike down the middle to Cody who hugged you after that, keeping his arm around your shoulders. "Thank you Cody. Thank you all." Tears pricked your eyes and before the team took the field they gave you a hug.

It was no surprise that the Dodgers crushed it tonight. Cody had another multi-homer game going 5-5 on a rbi double. With Kershaw on he shut out seven scoreless innings with the dodgers beating the Phillies 8-0. What made the game special was that time to time Cody came over to your spot offering you ice cream and peanuts. He almost forgot to warm up on-deck or take off to the field between innings. A very amused Ethier and Puig stood watching this transaction.

Cody never shares. Never.

You were on the field once more next to friends and family waiting for the fireworks to begin. Cody came jogging to your side. “Want to watch them with me (Y/N)?” He asks you scratching the back of his neck. “Yes, of course!” Then he did something. He held out his hand for you to gladly take as he guided you to the center of the field. Your hand fit perfectly into his, as his larger ones took your smaller ones. He had a blanket set out where just the two of you would sit, whereas the other players wives and girlfriends sat by the third base line. But it was just you two there, watching the sky blossoming of colors.

“It’s beautiful” you whispered under your breath. “Iv’e seen prettier.” Cody says, not even looking at the sky. He wasn’t looking back, he wasn’t looking forward.

He was looking at you.

“Iv’e actually been waiting to ask this, um... w-would you y-you know... want to go get some ice cream after this?” He was sweating buckets and couldn’t look directly into your eyes. You held onto his hand, squeezing it and rubbing the back of his hand. But he was real, here, asking you on this date. You smiled at him with delight. “I’d love too Cody.”

“It doesn’t matter what challenges come our way, (Y/N). We can face them together.” The light in your eyes sparkled so bright, and from that moment you didn’t just know. You felt.

You’re not just a girl with a life-threatening illness.

You’re not just a patient waiting for her time to come.

You’re not living in a life with no meaning.

That one moment when you know you’re not a sad story.

You were alive.

#cody bellinger #dodgerimagine #dodgers

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caffeineivore · 7 years

Text

Margarita

Fic, written for @nelwynp‘s nuptials. Part of... not quite a series, as the stories are not precisely related to each other, but... we can call it a series. Senshi/shitennou, AU Angst, Crime, Drinks. Depending on my motivation/level of laziness, I may or may not hunt up and post up the other fics in this... “series”.

The Blood Pact

I am not perfect.

I am sometimes selfish. Occasionally self destructive.

And prone to very brief, yet severe, spells of sadness.

But I would fight until every bone in my body was broken to protect you.

That's a promise.

--- Beau Taplin

*-*

Nondescript jeans, straight-leg and medium wash, ancient Adidas, and a green University of Miami sweatshirt, autumn-leaf-auburn curls poking out underneath the hood. Marisa Cruz's dossier states that she's a recent grad, who'd attended on a basketball scholarship and turned twenty-two only a month ago, but right now, her hands are clenched in her lap, knuckles white, and if she bites her lower lip any harder, she'd draw blood. She has the height and statuesque build of an athlete, but that only emphasizes her fragility as she sits bolt-upright across from him as the small airplane makes its way from Florida towards Washington, DC. Nico can't blame her, though, for the silence or the nerves. This particular flight is never a happy one for any who make it.

“Want something to eat, or drink?”

“No. No, thank you.” Marisa's fists clench even tighter. The shadows underneath her green eyes are bruise-purple as she raises her gaze briefly to his face, a grimacing smile upon her own. “I hate flying.”

Nico doesn't see the point of mincing words, but returns her forced smile with an uncharacteristically-gentle one of his own. “I'll stock you up on Dramamine, then. Unfortunately, you're going to have to get used to this.”

She sighs and closes her eyes, a shuddering breath escaping. “I'm going to have to get used to a lot of things.”

A new home, a new phone number and email address, a new name on a new driver's license and a new social security number. Twenty-four-hour protection. Waking up sweating and screaming, gunshots echoing in her subconscious, the blood-spattered faces of her parents frozen in death, branded to the insides of her eyelids. A single tear tracks its way down one pale cheek, almost as though she has yet to completely cry herself dry.

Nico tucks the dossier away and reaches the short distance across to lay one hand on her tightly balled ones, and keeps it there until he feels her fingers relax-- roughly ten seconds before the plane begins its descent.

*-*

Marisa Cruz attends the orientation for joining the Witness Protection Program with a stoic face as the details of her new life are explained to her. She will relocate and enroll in grad-level classes in a completely different field than her undergraduate studies. At no point is she to contact any of her old friends and any remaining family members. In time, she will be expected to testify against the drug cartel boss who had murdered her parents, after which she will disappear.

It's all old hat to Nico, but something about her-- fragile and solitary and intrepid as a wild rose blooming amidst a mess of thorns-- stirs an undefinable feeling of tenderness that he's certainly not accustomed to feeling. Later, they sit in the windowless room, drinking cokes from a vending machine, and he smiles at her.

“Pick a name that's going to be easy for you to remember. Some people like to use their same initials.”

She finishes her soft drink. The highly-identifying University of Miami sweatshirt is gone, and one pink tank top strap slips down her shoulder as she wings the empty can into the wastebasket across the room with impressive accuracy. Nico's eyes trace the graceful movement for a moment, but then meets her emerald gaze.

“My grandmother's name was Marcela, though my grandfather always called her Marcelita. I think I can go with that. Marcelita Cross. Maybe Lita for short. Will that do?”

“Perfect. Lita Cross, my name is Nico Hernandez, the US Marshal assigned to your protection.” His big hand swallows her smaller one, and finally, finally, she cracks a faint smile over their clasped hands. “It's nice to meet you.”

*-*

Despite the Dramamine, Marisa Cruz-- now Lita Cross, is still tense and white-knuckled in the seat across from him during the flight out of Washington, so Nico fills the silence with his own words.

“So, what did you go to school for? Aside from basketball, obviously.”

“Electrical Engineering, if you'll believe it. I was gonna go work in Silicon Valley like all the cool kids, retire by the age of thirty-five with a gazillion dollars, or something.” There's a hint of an ironic smile on her lips, and that's better than nothing, so Nico smiles back.

“Eh, it's overrated. I'm from California, originally, and the cost of living is outrageous out there. When I came out to Virginia at the start of my career and got my first apartment-- a decently sized one-bedroom, too, in Crystal City-- I almost wept with joy. My apartment in Cali was about the size of a shoebox, and the rent was triple.” His smile widens and he adds a cheeky wink. “Naturally, being a shallow asshole, I do miss the beaches. And burritos. And In-N-Out.”

“Where did you go to school, then?”

“Stanford. I was an athletic scholarship kid, too,” he reaches over and takes her hands, gently pries her fists open. “Track and field, though. Mainly, it was cool because I can say that I went to the same school as Dana Scully from the X-Files, who holds the distinction of being the first woman I loved. Aside from my mother and sisters, that is. I think I have a weakness for tomboyish redheads.”

She rolls her eyes, but her fingers relax fractionally in his as the sunlight streaming in through the airplane window glows golden against her ruddy hair.

*-*

Lita Cross attends a different school than Marisa Cruz had, and lives in a cozy two-bedroom apartment on campus with a roommate whom all of her new female classmates have agreed upon as man-candy of the best tall-dark-and-handsome variety. She has no social media of any kind. She's enrolled in the culinary arts program, and wears her bark-brown hair in a ladylike ponytail and knee-length dresses that show off beautifully toned, tanned legs. She's friendly enough with the other students and is known to like flowers and chick flicks.

The nightmares wake her up more often than not in the beginning, and in the first, agonizing weeks, several times a week, she'd shoot up in her bed, cold sweat matting her hair in dark streaks to her neck and a scream choking in her throat, shivering despite the southern warmth as a large male body bursts into her room and silently holds her as she sobs, dark eyes bleak and sympathetic and endlessly patient as they wait for her to finally drop from exhaustion. She sleeps with the lights on and feels ironically ashamed at the taxpayer dollars that went, every month, towards her astronomical electric bill.

It is about a month and a half into their acquaintance that Nico hits upon a solution.

A few nights a week, always during the wee small hours, the two of them go to the twenty-four-hour gym an hour's drive off-campus and play an exhilarating and sweaty hour of one-on-one basketball in a deserted indoor court, with nothing but the fluorescent lights overhead bearing witness. They always get home at roughly three in the morning, and then follow up the basketball with a kickboxing lesson in the living room, and then, more often than not, scrambled eggs hastily devoured over the kitchen counter before they'd had the chance to cool down from smoking. These nights would always be before days that she didn't have any morning classes, and it would be approaching dawn when both of them would finally crash, fully dressed, in her bed out of sheer exhaustion.

Eventually, in an organic, unplanned progression, he sort of abandons his own bedroom altogether. It's not sexual-- they're always dressed and nobody's hands wander. She just sleeps better with a warm, muscular, protective body lying in between her and the bedroom door.

In the locked drawer of the nightstand on her side of that bed is the one photograph of her parents that she was allowed to keep. He pretends not to know that it's there and always looks away when she takes it out.

In the locked drawer of the nightstand on his side of that bed is a loaded Glock 22. She pretends not to know that it's there and always looks away when he takes it out.

*-*

Lita finds herself enjoying culinary school more than she thought she would. The long hours on her feet don't faze her, and she finds it a rather fascinating duality of precision and creativity. She often brings home leftovers and experiments of all kinds, some more successful than others. Nico democratically and enthusiastically demolishes all of them, but has an especial fondness for desserts, particularly cookies.

“I don't know why you're not like, six hundred pounds,” she teases him one evening, as they watch a football game on TV and he plows his way through a generous serving of coq au vin and half a dozen chocolate macarons. There's a crumb by his mouth, and she reaches across the couch to swipe at it just as the game cuts to halftime and commercials. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him set down his plate, and then his hand-- large, tanned, surprisingly elegant despite the roughness of his fingers, snags her wrist, his touch warm and achingly gentle.

“Exercise and good clean living,” Nico says lightly. “PT for the job is no joke, at least to the guy who trained me. Guy by the name of Elias Priest. Had one of those faces and smiles like a Catholic saint, but appearances can be deceiving, you know?”

She traces her fingertip over the crumb by his mouth, and his skin is warm like the air in a Thanksgiving kitchen. Stubble is coming in, brushing his chin and jaw with sand-papery dark brown. He's a man's man and loves sports and documentaries and napping on the couch, but he listens to everything she says-- her fears, her memories both happy and horrible, her pet peeves and stupid things she's seen on the internet-- like his investment in her life extends far beyond keeping her breathing until the court date. He had taught her how to throw a punch and use a taser, and holds her in her sleep, even though she keeps the lights on and tosses and turns. She doesn't realize that she's leaned forward until suddenly she can count every one of his eyelashes, which have no right to be as long and dark as they are, but he's the one to bend his head. Firm lips brush against her hair, then press against her forehead, and she's sure that she's blushing wildly despite the innocuousness of the touch. It's not where she'd like it to be, the sudden thought occurs to her, though she'd never, ever admit that aloud. He smells like chocolate and her girly-smelling fabric softener, though it's incredibly different on him.

The game on TV is well into the third quarter before she manages to turn her attention back to it, but somehow, that hand around her wrist doesn't leave, and his fingers entwine with hers.

*-*

The driver's license bearing the name Marcelita Cross is issued by the State of Georgia as opposed to Florida, and states that the bearer's birthday is the 12th of May, so the fifth of December that year dawns uneventfully like any other day. Lita comes home to the distinctive grinding sound of the blender whirring away in the kitchen, and curiously goes to investigate.

Nico smiles as she walks in, even as he pours something pale green and frothy into two cocktail glasses rimmed with salt. “All in all, we can say this is just another day, yeah?” He has a dimple in his right cheek but not his left when he grins, and there's a small gift box somewhat clumsily wrapped in floral gift-wrap on the counter next to a grocery-store bouquet of flowers in a plain white vase. “I made margaritas. They're the only girly drink I know how to make, I'm afraid-- I'm more of a beer kind of guy.”

Shocked green eyes meet his dark ones, and her breath catches in her throat. Wordlessly, she reaches for the drink, but her cheeks flush even before she takes a sip, and her fingers tremble as they carefully unwrap the box. Nestled inside against snow-white satin is a pair of earrings shaped like pink rosebuds. She puts them on, and smiles tremulously at the gleam of approval in Nico's eyes. She drains her glass and half of a second one before she finds the courage to step closer to him-- Nico-the-protector is so much easier to understand than Nico-the-closest-friend-and-more-- but when she leans up to press her lips against that solitary dimple and he wraps his strong arms around her like it's the simplest thing in the world, it's the most perfect thing she's felt.

And yet, in some strange and subtle way, it seems to herald yet another change in her life. A quickening thrill. Elation and despair intertwined. The warmth of his body cradling hers and the dread of the trial, set to begin in a month.

A beginning. An end. The beginning of the end.

It's as though Nico feels it too, though, because all of the sudden, he sets down his barely-touched drink with a quiet clack and she feels him bury his face in her hair, and his breath is hot but not quite even against her neck.

“Do you know, I've been doing this for quite some time? Most people who go into witness protection are criminals who turn informant. Kind of sleazy types-- the villain who helps the good guys bring down the bigger villain, if you will.” He pulls back just enough to look into her eyes, and the shine in them, so different from the numb flatness of their first meeting, causes his breath to hitch. “Not like you. No one's ever been like you.”

There's no good that can come out of this conversation-- it ends with a one-way plane ticket to some small town in Wisconsin that she's never even heard of before, where the name Marisa Cruz means nothing to anybody, and life will go on, perhaps peacefully and uneventfully but in sepia-toned anonymity and solitude. All at once, for the first time in months, her eyes fill with tears, and she burrows back into his arms as they start falling. He rubs her back and rocks gently and there's probably something ridiculously incongruous about the tableau-- fruity tropical drinks on a cheap Formica counter, a jewelry box, a weeping young woman with copper roots showing under her tousled brunette hair, a dark-haired man holding her protectively, a gun holstered at his side. And maybe it's because she presses her wet cheek against his stubbly one, close enough that he can taste tequila and lime on her breath, or maybe it's because her hands are clenched white-knuckled again, this time around fistfuls of his shirt, and he knows that in the morning there will be dark-purple shadows underneath her eyes again, but a moment later they're kissing, devouring each other, and he sinks his grip into her hair and she sinks hers into his heart and both of their mouths taste like salt—margarita and tears.

Nico pulls back first, and his eyes blaze like dark fire as he stares down at her. “We can't, not like this.” His voice sounds as though he'd swallowed something a lot rougher than citrusy cocktail, and in his eyes, Lita reads an echo of her own despair. “I'm falling in love with you, but I can't compromise your safety. If something were to happen to you, it would kill me.” His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, his chest rises as he takes a ragged breath. “I'll come back for you, though. Someday, when you're safe, and this is all over. I swear that, on my life.”

The day's date means absolutely nothing, according to all of Marcelita Cross's documents, but a birthday is a year older and wiser, no matter what anyone says. And so she nods, slowly, gingerly, with the meticulous care of someone trying not to break. She leans up, and when her lips meet his this time they're soft and sweet and slow as a requiem. They don't break apart until they need to breathe, and then, deliberately, she finishes her second drink and his, letting the alcohol cushion the blow to come.

She's dimly aware of him carrying her to bed, then lying down next to her, holding her close under the covers. But she wakes up the next morning alone, and when she walks into the living room, there's a different marshal. A sharp-eyed blonde with a pixie crop who introduces herself as Harper Tennyson and whose sardonic smirk doesn't at all resemble Nico's smile. But at least Harper asks no questions, and lets her cry herself to sleep in peace that night.

She doesn't see or hear from Nico again, not when the trial is finally over, not when she completes her culinary program, not when she gets that one-way plane ticket. But at the oddest times in the subsequent years, she'd receive a dozen pink roses from the local florist. They match her favourite earrings perfectly.

*-*

The town of Menomonie, Wisconsin, dawns cold and snowy on the fifth of December, and Lita Cross quietly bids farewell to her coworkers at the restaurant where she'd been working for the past six months as the pastry chef and makes the short trek to the local neighbourhood bar. It's a quiet weekday night, and she seats herself at a small table in the back, content to watch a basketball game in silent progress on the TV screens.

Marisa Cruz would have turned twenty-seven today, had she still existed.

A cheery cocktail waitress walks over to her table, and sets down a pale green drink in a distinctive glass, and Lita's head snaps up in surprise.

“I didn't order anything.”

“Oh, it's from that gentleman over there. He said to tell you he really likes your earrings.” The waitress gestures a broad back at the other side of the bar, sculpted shoulders brushed with dark hair slightly too long, and as Lita watches, wide-eyed, everything else around them seems to stand still as he turns around, one dimple in his right cheek as he slowly walks over. He's wearing a black pea coat and jeans and looks nothing like a US marshal as he reaches her table, but it's the same warm hands, the same smile, and when he wraps his fingers around hers, it's like everything slowly falling into place with the same quiet loveliness as the snow outside.

“What are you doing here?” Lita manages to ask in a surprisingly steady voice. Her testimony at the trial of the cartel kingpin years ago had resulted in a conviction and she had been out of true danger for quite some time, but just now, she felt brave enough to take on the whole wide world.

“I moved out here a few months ago. You know why I'm here,” Nico tips her face up, staring at her as though unable to get his fill of her face. His stubbly cheek presses against her smooth one as he whispers into her ear. “Happy birthday, love.”

She picks up the glass that the waitress had left on the table and takes a sip, tasting icy, salty-sweetness on her tongue, and clenches her fingers around fistfuls of his coat, and grins. “Do I get a present?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, clumsily-wrapped jewelry box in floral paper, and the hint of nerves in his eyes gives away precisely what might be in the box. “Why don't you open it and see?”

#fanfiction #sailor moon #senshi/shitennou #fanfic #M/N #nelwynp

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montrealroleplay2 · 7 years

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SHANE McKNIGHT

Age & Birthdate: July 25th, 1982 (34) Birthplace: Los Angeles, California Location: Saint Laurent Occupation: TV show host/ Stand-up comedian Gender: Male Sexuality: Pansexual Length of Time in Montreal: Two years Faceclaim: Chris Evans

trigger warnings: – depression , drug use

Born and raised in California, Shane had an idyllic childhood growing up in Los Angeles with barbecue on Saturdays, a loving parents, and constant visits to Baseball games, since he is the grandson of the legendary Dodgers’ narrator Vin Scully. The boy was always in the narration booth, following all games with his grandfather, and being often considered a good luck amulet of the Los Angeles team.

However, at the age of 9, Shane had his life turned upside down as his mother landed the lead in a famous medical drama and his father took on the role of international correspondent on a major TV station. The lack of presence of his parents at home, the constant moving and the series of restrictions that got into his new life, made Shane feel lost during such chaos without having anything to support on.

It was at that time that the two greatest passions of the boy became more evident: to make people laugh and sports. The boy always did as many sports as possible, something that sooner made him the target of criticism of his peers in high school, many considered him to be average, and there was always gossip about his lack of merit in being on the team or just being there because his parents were famous. He was part of his school’s baseball team, in the position of substitute hitter, even received a scholarship to McGill University in Montreal.

To be seen as the class clown, for many times made him the target of bullying of the most popular, aggravated even more by having famous parents. It was not uncommon to hear his classmates commenting on how annoying or annoying he was. The boy eventually met two kids from the theater club that dragged him into the world of performing arts. The three had instant click, and became inseparable in a matter of time. Constant bullying caused him to struggle against depression for much of his adolescence, either because of criticism from people around him or because of excessive self-deprecation, and for a long time, the theater club was the only kind of support he had. Helped him to channel all that into more productive activities.

Switching to Montreal turned out to be important to him. In a place far from everyone who knew him, he felt freer to be himself. It was also in this period that the athlete met Ashley, a girl with whom he shared some classes. The relationship between the two was getting very close, both had much in common, and it was practically impossible to see one without another. It was not long before they started dating, Shane loved how easy it was to talk to her, and how they both seemed to understand each other. He even went so far as to buy a pair of rings and think of several ways to get her to marry him, until Ashley ended the relationship and to date another guy.

Heartbroken, as soon as he graduated, Shane returned to California and worked in various jobs in different places to keep himself busy to not fall in depression again. It ranging from frying hamburgers to tips in small low-budget productions, the boy refused to accept the help of famous parents, wishing to carve his way without having to rely on their fame. Shane did small stand-up comedy shows in a few smaller comedy houses across the LA area while sharing an apartment with friends until finally got a job at Fox Sports producing materials for the most diverse types of channel programs, and enjoying Behind the camera.

In 2010, Shane’s world turned upside down again, now with Ashley’s death in a car accident as the journalist helped cover the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. He learned the news in the worst possible way, via Facebook messages, days after the funeral.

Gradually, he closed himself off to the world, abandoning everything he liked best and becoming isolated, to the point of losing his job on the station. For a long time, the only thing Shane did was sleep, smoke marijuana, and spend all day watching sports videos on YouTube, becoming completely apathetic and all around him. His friends and family eventually forced him to treat depression in an unusual way: by using his love for art and giving him camera. He began producing short videos about different sports that were both instructive and funny, which became quite popular, especially after Shane had the clever idea of using his contacts from the days of Fox Sports to bring the presence of illustrious athletes, and doing absurd things with them.

Two years ago, the videos caught the attention of ESPN Canada, who wanted to produce a show with Shane based on his YouTube channel, settled in their facilities in Montreal. He was reluctant at first, because of all the memories of his time spent with Ashley in the city, fearing it could lead his depression to relapse, but accepted it at the end, as long as he had total creative freedom over the program.

“Try this at home” (same name of his YouTube Channel) has become a success, and is currently one of the most watched sports programs in Canada. The show also helped Shane to land a space as one of the attractions of the Casino Lacroix, by performing every wednesday with a stand-up comedy show called “The King of Dirty Jokes” which makes a relative success despite being A little shocking by the amount of profanity.

❝ i lose a lot, guys. no matter what i do, i always seem to lose. but i refuse to be beaten. i get up right in life’s face and mock it into oblivion. because when i do that, i show life that it won’t beat me. ever.

Shane tend to be curious and idealistic. He seeks meaning in everything and is very interested in other people’s motives, especially when he realizes that they are sad, seeing life as a big, complex puzzle. Not surprisingly, the man is also very intuitive, empathetic and influential. On the other hand, he cares enough not to be sufficiently original or spontaneous, something that usually may decrease his self-esteem.

Moreover, he possesses are high levels of enthusiasm, especially in relation to things that arouse his imagination. Ironically, this feature may also turn against, since Shane is his worst critic, which disturbs him in his effort to be independent. Yet, He is very emotional, kind, and sensitive, although sometimes avoidant. The comedian is really good in focus too much on the motivations of others, which may lead him to make serious mistakes when trying to guess the motives behind someone else’s actions.

He also tends to have difficulties in dealing with administrative, routine issues. The man is more interested in freedom and inspiration than in security and stability - Shane prefers to have an interesting idea than dealing with simple but monotonous tasks. While He can be very serious about his work during the day, the comedian is adapt of “the work hard play harder” philosophy, something that may surprise even his closest friends.

Finally, he is non-conformist, liking to follow his own path and relying on his intuition. This trait of his personality easily turns him in impatient if they are stuck in a monotonous role, unable to express themselves freely - but when Shane is finally comfortable, their imagination, empathy and courage can produce unbelievable results.

#chris evans #male #all #saint laurent

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illadib-blog · 4 years

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[MF] Optimism

They were dropping like hail into nearly every yard and house in my neighborhood of track homes, except for ours. You might wonder why not ours? At the time, I was only nine years old, but I knew ALL the answers. WHY, HOW, WHAT, AND WHEN! I knew where they came from and where they originated. I even knew the culprit. It went on for over a month. But then, the constant slamming on roofs and spooking of pets ended as abruptly as it had begun. There was no mention of this strange phenomena in the newspapers or on television. No one was injured. There were no police reports. Nowhere else in the world was it happening. No one ever spoke about it. I doubt that even Area 51 knew about this occurrence. It was the early 1950's, and there had been many so-called alien sightings, but there were no flying saucers insight. So, how was I so privy to these happenings?

The year was 1951. The locale was sunny Southern California, 30+ miles east of Los Angeles. It was spring and there hadn't been a single drop of rain for months. So, there was no hail in sight, but something was dropping onto the near-by yards. No one could see it coming because it was random. I was responsible, but this was 68 years ago, so don't hold me to the "dropping like hail" comment. My mind was often a hodgepodge of thoughts---Mickey Mantle, Pee Wee Reese, Jackie Robinson, Stan Musical, Ted Williams. I was throwing an old tennis ball, that no respectable dog would chase, against the garage door and fielding the bounces.

My neighbors were super and never complained as I did this for up to an hour at a time. Then, it happened! Mom and Dad came outside and said, "We are going to Woolworth's. Do you want to go?" And there you have it, Woolworth was the culprit. Without Woolworth, none of this would have happened. It was that five and dime's fault. I just had a small part. I was young and innocent. They knew I had an active imagination and would quickly put it to use. Keep in mind that I had no evil intentions and was unaware of what could have happened.

Woolworth was the 99 cent store of the 1950s. It was before Pick-and-Save, but only better. It was affordable and fun. Average Americans could buy all types of things: underwear, socks, yo-yos, locks, nail polish, pet supplies, car wax; you name it! There was an aisle that had many trinkets for kids---Mexican jumping beans, puzzles, cards, magic tricks, and board games, etc. This is where I would spend most of my time. And there was even a lunch counter where you could order burgers, fries, "real" malts, and ice cream sodas. Some waitresses might even call you "hun."

Dad came over and found me looking for yo-yo string. Grabbing my arm, he guided me to the end of another aisle where there was a large keg with metal straps around it. It couldn't be filled with beer, could it? Naw, not in Woolworths. I could see a sign stuck to it that said, "One handful for one cent". Dad gave me a dime and sent me on ahead to discover the "hail". In a few seconds, Woolworth would have my eyes bulging, mouth agape, and wishing I had bigger hands. Paper lunch type bags were on a stand next to the barrel. The barrel was filled to the top. I asked my Dad if he would use his hand but he pointed to a sign that said for 10 year-olds and under. I'd have to come back another time and make it soon before others find out about the barrel of marbles.

I would fill my pockets every morning with them and rush to school where my friends and I would play marble games for "keepsies", such as "Poison". We would lag them to see who could get closest to a line, and we would draw circles in the dirt playground, ante a few, and try to shoot them out. But, when summer came, there weren't enough kids to play these marble games. Alone, and with a stockpile of marbles, my imagination went to work.

A saw, a piece of sandpaper, an old mop, some black electrical tape, and three large Quaker Oats containers filled with Woolworth's marbles, and it was nearly game time. I sawed off the end of the mop to the approximate length of a baseball bat, used the sticky black tape for the grip, sanded the tip of the mop to make it smooth, and got the baseballs ready. My backyard was Dodger Stadium, and fans were filling the imaginary seats. Vin Scully, myself, of course, would be the announcer. Kids always called the game they were playing--baseball and basketball alike.

Last year there was one of the best television commercials that was ever written. It was about a ten-year-old boy who was carrying a bat, a bucket of baseballs, and his glove onto an empty baseball field where he was about to let his imagination go wild. He could have been me 70 years ago. Perhaps, the writers were in the stadium that my mind had built in my backyard seven decades ago. Maybe I should get residuals--just kidding! Great writers, terrific kid actor! The commercial was titled "Optimism."

Standing at home plate, he announces that he was, "the greatest hitter in the world." Tossing the ball up, he swung and missed it as it dropped. Not discouraged, he said, "strike one!" A second toss and miss, and as the umpire might yell, he proclaimed, "strike two!" He spat in his hands, rubbed them together, and waited for the third pitch. Taking a mighty swing he missed again, and dropping his head declared, "STRIKE THREE!" But then, his eyes lit up, his head raised, and he loudly announced that he was "the greatest pitcher in the world!" He had what we all need--OPTIMISM. I was optimistic as well but in a different way. I guess I won't be getting residuals now.

Where did I get the idea that I could throw a marble up and hit it with a mop handle? I played my game. Strike one, strike two, strike three! A small marble, a super-thin baseball bat, and a lot of optimism led me to try again. Strike one, strike two, strike three--Strike one, strike two, strike three. Again and again, I struck out. Who was this pitcher on the mound? He was going to throw a no-hitter, and he did!. The way I was going, I would need only one marble. Was I going to be traded, or sent down to the minors? I will just have to try tomorrow. Strike one, strike two, strike three. I had better be a terrific fielder because I was not going to make it as a hitter.

And then, it happened. After striking out hundreds of times, I got a piece of the marble. It had to be a foul ball or a ground out. I began to make contact more often than I missed. Soon, I was calling the shots. This one is going over center field, that one is being pulled to left field, and right field was easy. I was hitting marbles over our house, over the garages north and south of me. Hail was falling everywhere! I made contact maybe 90% of the time. I imagined myself as Babe Ruth when he stepped to the plate and pointed to center field. He was saying that he was going to hit the ball over the center-field fence and out of Yankee stadium. He was doing this for a boy in the hospital. And he proceeded to do so. I was now calling my shots. I never thought about where the hail "might" land. Three oatmeal boxes were now empty and summer was over. I had to have been an optimist too, for I never thought about quitting.

The boy in the commercial became a great pitcher, but I became a great hitter. I could have made money betting with other kids and adults that I could hit a marble with a mop handle.

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