#they were so fucking mean to bob in this article for no goddamn reason

[muirneach]

i kind of hate this article about the mats cause it’s just non stop ‘this band absolutely fucking SUCKED bob was the WORST their live shows were AWFUL and they gave HORRIBLE interviews and their albums FLOPPED’ as if rolling stone mag didn’t solidify their image as rowdy drunkards and help lead to their downfall. that said paul and tommy are perhaps the cutest ever and paul is literally me

#they were so fucking mean to bob in this article for no goddamn reason #tommy is literally like ‘yeah kicking him out was the worst day of my life and he had such a tragic death and he tried so hard’ #and the writer is like yeah haha okay well anyways look at this balding freak who cant play guitar #like??? #but at least the direct quotes are funny #‘turn down thine amp’ girl i love you so fucking much #im bored and im gonna be reading retrospective mats articles all evening sorry to everyone who does not follow me for that #magazines #music #the replacements #edit: like u can talk about how rowdy their shows are #but like. you dont have to be SO mean about it #like those creem articles werent great but like they usually are like ‘yes this is the most horrendous annoying band ever. #AND they are the greatest band ever to exist’ #im thinkin of the concert review they did in like san jose or something idk its in my mag tag #not the interview with paul and tommy. that was crazy lol not that #oh also another complaint about this article was that no mention of chris but also chris seems to be quiet anyways so maybe he wants it #sorry he was my first love in the band so i always gotta defend him

[nincompoopydoo]

PINING, BAGELS, REPEAT.

— WHEN THE DRINKING'S DONE ; PART 6 / ?

( gif from this gifset by @jascontodd )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2.9k

SUMMARY: Sunday night dinner with your mother doesn’t go as planned when Bruce shows up unexpectedly at your door and you both know how your mother really loves him alot.

A/N: Slow and kinda long-winded chapter again haha. I used to be the kind of person who couldn’t write long stuff. Now look at me. Who is she??? Enjoy this one yall. Probably one or two more chapters to go, depends on how much I can write <3

WARNINGS: Swearing, alcohol. I write about what I feel and they are very real. So if you find these things triggering, please do not read this.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Sunday night. You’re in an apron, flushed from the heat of the stove. You’ve just poured a glass of wine for your mother, but she doesn’t drink it—too busy walking around your apartment, clearing your stuff as she criticizes your lack of cleanliness and organization. Grading papers during exam season keeps you busy. Needless to say, you don’t have the time to clean your goddamn house.

You still love her anyway.

You’re at the sink, purple-stained fingers from peeling the tunic of the red onions are under running water when there is a knock on your door. It’s deafening, rapid, and agitating. You’ve just spilled boiling water onto your hand and you really don’t need another problem to come charging at your front door. Literally.

Moving out of the kitchen with haste, you call out over your shoulder to your mother to quit rearranging with bits and bobs of stationary and papers because yes, it’s messy but you know exactly where everything is. The knocking doesn’t cease, and your annoyance aggravates further. You’re gonna have to punch someone or something if it doesn’t stop.

You aggressively pushed the barrel of the bolt lock, swinging the door open as the strands of your wild hair flew backward in the sudden blow of air.

All forms of anger and agitation disappear as soon as your gaze meets the flushed face of none other than Bruce fucking Wayne, dressed in a grey dress vest, tie hanging loosely a pristine white shirt, and an ebony tweed overcoat. This feels like deja vu. Your expression goes through a series of mixed emotions, mostly confusion, when it morphed into a guise of embarrassment, cheeks even redder. “Don’t tell me I texted you by accident again?” He blinks, seemingly as bewildered as you are. “What? No, no. No. I—” His sentence is cut short when he takes a moment to catch his breath. Your brows are frowning even deeper than before. “Did you run here or something? And what are you doing here anyway?”

Bruce shifts in his stance, a palm against the door frame, shaking his head. He feels small under your interrogative stare. “No, I came here to see you…” he trails off, eyes shamelessly skirting across your figure. He just now notices that it may be a bad time for him to turn up, and you’re hit with the realization you’re in a ratty apron, very red and very sweaty. You’re right. It is deja vu because why are you always a mess when Bruce shows up at your front door unannounced? You abruptly pull the apron over your head, hurling it behind the door, hands palming the frizz of your hair into a somewhat presentable look.

“Look, I need to talk you—”

“Honey! Who’s at the door?” He’s being cut off mid-sentence again. This time, by your mother’s voice from the living room. Your eyes are wide again—so are his.

Your mother’s fondness for Bruce is an understatement. Obsession is a better word. She had only met him once, and that was six years ago but the conceptualization of being somewhat related to an exceptionally handsome and successful man had gotten to her head all those years ago. Hell, she loves him more than she loves you. Your mother—A woman who wishes to call your best friend ‘son’ with a whole lot of love to give. If she discovers Bruce is here, at your doorstep, she will never let go. Never. And you both know it. There’s a silent understanding that travels between the two of you and the look you’re giving him tells only one thing—Run before it’s too late.

“Bruce Wayne as I live and breathe...”

Well, too late.

A small-statured lady stands on the farther side of the hallway, face lit up with sheer joy and excitement as if she had just won a lottery. She approaches him with arms open wide and soon, her hands are laid on his cheeks, examining the man’s face carefully. Bruce just stands there, stiff as a rock, unsure of how to regain his composure from all the adrenaline of wanting to see you now that he was in such close proximity to the woman who raised you. When it’s you, he tends to struggle with timing and it’s partly the reason he has never managed to act on his feelings for you. For the longest time, he has wanted to be more than friends or whatever the hell this was. He had been hesitant but now, he’s very sure.

Sometimes it feels like it's the right person but the wrong time. He doesn’t want it to be that way. He wants to make things right with you.

And there he was, being squished under the grasp of the lady that loves him very much.

He catches your gaze; you flash him a sympathetic smile as you mouth the word “sorry.” Bruce arches his brows, indicating he has no idea what to do or how to get out of this situation.

“You’ve grown so much since the last time I saw you!” the older woman exclaims, a hand now firmly on his shoulder, the other brushing away his long strands of hair from his face with affection. Bruce would never admit it; he likes the attention your mother gives to him—the touch of a mother. Something he longs for.

“Why don’t you come in and join us for dinner? There's more than enough food.”

Crap, you should have known that question was bound to be mentioned. You’re not convinced that you will be able to suppress your emotional heartburn and the idea of Bruce tasting the dishes you’re cooking, it’s making your palms sweat. But what the hell. You shouldn’t be this nervous around him, you’ve known each other for years. He has seen you at your worst and vice versa.

Still, you’ll like to avoid the predicament of a dinner table set for you, your mother, and the man you secretly love. You’re quick with an answer. “Oh, I’m sure he has other important things to do. Bruce is very busy—”

“I’ll be happy to. I have no plans for tonight after all.”

You stare at Bruce, eyes glimmering with shock and betrayal—he is supposed to be on your side. He simply sends you a swift wink, and you feel the growing and most likely apparent deep red of your already flushed cheeks. You glance away to face your mother, eye crinkling in hopes of concealing the effect he has on you. Well, at least your mother looks fucking overjoyed. Maybe the night won’t end in disappointment.

-

The scent of chicken and spice whiffs through the air from the dishes of chicken and chorizo paella you’ve managed to whip up in a quick thirty minutes—a recipe you came by in an article titled “Fancy dishes for lazy cooks.” Well, it’s certainly working; everyone looks pleasantly surprised when you emerge from the kitchen with a cast-iron skillet within your kitchen gloved-grasp.

Happiness is the sound of the clinking of cutlery against nearly empty smeared plates, the splash of wine cascading from the bottle you held into the glasses of your guests, and the occasional laughter that erupts from your mother as Bruce tries to make a joke through mouthfuls of paella. A symphony of contentment and comfort, composed and orchestrated by the two most significant individuals in your life. Beauty is made anywhere beautiful people are; in this space, cramped up at the beech wooden table made for one by the casement window that overlooks the apartment across yours.

This side of Bruce—where boyish smiles were manifested and hearty laughs arising from the belly—is the side you miss the most. Years ago, things felt simpler though your past self would deny that notion as human life continues to become more intricate as we grow older and our eyes see more. Innocence to maturity. Happiness to grief. But, the complexity of this warfare between the brain and the heart seems to reside in perpetual darkness, no light at the end of the tunnel. For a long time, you thought deciding to be alone could eventually bring peace to the madness but maybe, you’ve been with the wrong people this whole time. It’s your reflection against the window pane that shows the evident crinkle in your eyes and the constant upward in the curve of your lips even though it contrasts the gloomy hues of blue from the sky at twilight—you’re happy.

It’s the way your mother leans over and wipes off the bits of rice from the corner of your mouth and the exchange of awkward smiles when Bruce accidentally brushes his hand against yours when reaching for the fork. This is what you want. And maybe, just maybe, you deserve to not be alone.

“So, have you decided on who you’re taking to the wedding?”

Your mother’s voice hauls you back from your daydream. She gives you a knowing look, discretely glancing towards Bruce on the other end of the table. She knows you don’t have a date, and you know she wants you to bring Bruce. You feel your anxiety creep back in.

This is weirdly the second time you’re in this situation.

“I don’t know yet...” In times like this, you wonder if your mother wields some sort of magical ability of truth or something because no matter how much you try, you can never lie to her. And now, you wish the ground would collapse and swallow you up. You know she means well, but oh my God, Bruce is staring at you and you don’t know what to do with your hands anymore.

“Wedding?” Bruce chirps with a questioning brow as he glances between you and your mother. Now, you’re forced to explain for the sake of context. “My cousin’s getting married next week and mom here wants me to bring a date.” Your mother’s expression indicates that you’re lying through your teeth. Yet in reality, it’s not technically a lie if you’re leaving parts of reason out of the explanation because it’s true she wants you to bring a date but you don’t mention how you don’t want to go alone because weddings make you sad.

It sounds pathetic.

Bruce just nods, taking a sip of his wine. The fact he’s not saying anything is making you anxious. You thought you didn’t want him to be your date but now, maybe you do. These feelings are messing up your brain. It’s just mush now, and there’s no cure.

These are the times you want to say “Fuck you, Bruce” but in the nicest way possible.

“Why don’t you bring Bruce?”

She was direct as they come but is mostly tired of your lack of initiative and doubt. I mean, it’s not like you’re asking him to marry you, right? And honestly, you’re kind of relieved you didn’t have to be one to do it but you can’t keep depending on her to do all the heavy lifting for you. You’re not a teenager anymore. You’re a goddamn grown adult.

Nevertheless, you peer at his reaction to this from the corner of your eye, fully expecting some sort of a resting jaded expression or eyes wide in horror but he’s just looking at you...with that look—highly bewildered and almost seems to be entertained by your embarrassment. Despite the purse of his lips, you manage to catch sight of the slight impish tuck of his lips.

He thinks it's the wine, but he isn’t exactly sure.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?”

-

“Are you sure about this?” you cross your arms, as you watch Bruce shrug on his coat from the rack. The two of you are squeezed in the entryway of your apartment, huddling in hushed conversation. “About what?” he asks absentmindedly when in reality, he knows exactly what you’re referring to. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s an excuse to be around you longer. You purse your lips, shifting in your stance, eyes flickering away from his gaze. “About coming to the wedding,” you say it slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid to and you’re not sure why. He nods with the furrow of his brows, tugging his hands into the pockets of his ebony tweed coat. “I’m sure...Unless you don’t want me to come—”

“No, no. God, of course, I want you to come,” you stop, realizing how your sudden outburst of excitement must have made you seem desperate. You clear your throat, feet shifting once more. “I don’t want to pull you off work just because I don’t want to be alone.”

He raises his brows, nearing a little closer to you. “So that’s the real reason?” A hint of a smile—it’s a teasing one. You simply throw a fist to his arm yet unable to stifle your growing smile. “Don’t be a jerk.”

Bruce winces followed by a laugh that comes out more light a puff of air as he bares his palms in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

Maybe, it’s the walls of this hallway, covered with hung framed photographs of family, childhood, and friends because it’s starting to feel warm. You think it’s the way his eyes light up when you laugh, radiating a sort of comforting warmth on this cold night. It feels like home. Bruce feels like home. You notice the prominent stain of your mother’s lipstick on his left cheek. You bring one hand to rest on the curve of his cheekbone, thumb trying to efface the smeared stain away.

You’re not sure if it's the smell of his deodorant or the sudden sense of his breath on your skin that made you comprehend the closing gap between your face and his. In an instant, your hand jerks away and returns to your side, clenching to a fist. Bruce clears his throat, bringing a hand up to scratch the growing stubble at his jaw. The touch of your fingers lingers like a burn.

Recognizing the tension in the air, you decide to avert your thoughts back to the conversation you were having in the first place. “You know, you don’t have to come. Really. You’ve done a lot for me, and you know that.”

“Yes...but I’ll always have your back no matter what.”

He smiles at you. The kind that reaches his eyes. He looks younger like this.

“And I’ll always have yours, Bruce.”

You’re an idiot. He’s an idiot. You’re just two idiots, standing in the hallway with hearts that feel like they’re about to explode. Despite the lingering tension in the air that’s still present, you bring him into an embrace. It feels natural, your arms around his shoulder and his on the small of your back. “Thanks for everything. Especially for making my mom really happy.” you punctuate your sentence with a gentle caress to the back where his shoulders meet. You hear the muffled sound of his laugh, feeling the rumble of his chest against yours as you try not to squirm at the brush of his unshaven chin against the curve of your neck. “No problem,” he mumbles before pulling away.

“And you need a shave.” You’re pointing to his chin and he finds himself scratching it again. He merely hums in response.

Swinging the door open while you wave him goodbye feels like a part of you is leaving. You’re not sure why you’re feeling this newly found emptiness in you when you know you’ll see him next week. You decide to blame the wine. It’s easier that way.

He’s walking away, already out of view when you decide you should really say something at least.

“Bruce,” you suddenly call out; he turns on his heels and backtracks a little too eager to face you at the doorway. “What was it you wanted to talk about?” He frowns in response, head tilting in a questioning manner. “When you came here, you said you needed to talk.”

He recalls the real reason he was here in the first place. Rushing to your door like you’re about to disappear any minute. Yet, you’re here, still at the doorway, three hours later. Fuck, he was about to confess.

Bad timing. Again.

Right person, wrong time.

No. He’ll make it right. Just, not now.

“I was...going to thank you for the bagels; Asiago. Nice choice.” Is what he says instead of reciting the words that had been running through his head in rehearsal since the drive to your apartment. He ignores the way your shoulders sag, perhaps in relief—he doesn’t want to know. He ignores the burning in his chest when you nod, the corners of your mouth tugging into a faint smile as you raise a palm in a somewhat solemn wave of farewell. He ignores the sting in his eyes when the door closes on him, symbolizing finality when he really doesn’t want it to end. Left alone in the dismal light of the hallway; it acts as a poignant reminder of his bereavement and how much of his consolation depends on your presence.

When the drinking's done, does it make it any easier for him to open himself up to you?

Bruce allows himself to cry once he pulls the car door to a close because he feels overwhelmed by the conflicting thoughts that continue to reside in his mind. The regrets, the what-ifs, and the should-haves. He forgets himself sometimes because he gets so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t recognize himself anymore.

You keep him grounded. You remind him who Bruce Wayne truly is.

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror.

You’re right. He does need a shave.

TAGLIST:

@raineeace

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman #batman x reader #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #bruce wayne x you #batman x you #justice league

[365days365movies]

Western August V: Broken Arrow (1950) - Recap (Part Two) and Review

Where’s Jay SIlverheels, by the way?

This is, like, one of his most acclaimed roles, and he hasn’t shown up anywhere yet. Well, before he does, I should elaborate on why I care so goddamn much.

As I said last time, Silverheels was cast as Tonto in 1949, and became the most recognizable Native American or First Nations face in the United States. At the same time as him, another actor was working. His name was Iron Eyes Cody, and he actually also appears in Broken Arrow...somewhere. Cody made his career as a makeup artist...who specialized in redface. Yeah, that’s a weird-ass thing for a Native American actor to take part in, right?

Silverheels and Cody worked together on Broken Arrow, but Jay thought something was off. Still, the two went on in their respective careers. But they would go in two completely different directions.

During the time of Jay’s rise to fame, the Native American Civil RIghts Movement also began. This culminated in 1969 when Richard Oakes, LaNada Means, John Trudell (pictured above) and the Indians of All Tribes protest group occupied Alcatraz for 18 months. Yeah, the prison in the San Francisco Bay. It was originally native lands, so they took it back...until the government stepped in and ended the protest. But that’s a WHOLE other story. The point is, shit was changing. And suddenly, Jay Silverheels was enemy number one.

Like I said before, Hollywood and Native Americans never had the best relationship. Or even a good one. Hell, there’s a 1915 article written by a film executives that said they stole from film sets, but were trustworthy if provided tobacco and firewater, which is NOT AN EXAGGERATION AT ALL OF WHAT THAT DUDE SAID. And extending to Jay’s role of Tonto, Native American depictions in film were quite stereotypical. Broken and simplified English, savage behaviors and a misunderstanding of Western technology, headfeathers and hollering...you know, real racist shit. And since Jay was kind of the face of that to America...his career didn’t go well. And it REALLY didn’t help that he leaned into it.

Look, Jay was a massive advocate for the Native American Civil Rights movement, and he made that well-known on every possible occasion. However, he also treated Tonto as more of a parody of himself, performing the role for talk shows and commercials, like this above commercial for pizza rolls. And yeah, people were NOT FUCKING HAPPY about that. Native Americans labeled him an “Uncle Tomahawk”, and he was shunned in the community. Meanwhile, Jay’s career was absolutely tanking, barely getting any rolls after 1970. To make things worse, he has a stroke that year. And to make things EVEN worse...let’s get back to Iron Eyes fucking Cody.

In 1971, Iron Eyes Cody was cast by the Keep America Beautiful organization as the “Crying Indian” in their Earth Day commercial. This is the most successful commercial in the history of television, and it launched Iron Eyes Cody into fame as the most recognizable Native American face in the country, if not in the world. He met three Presidents, the Pope, got a stamp, was nominated for statehood...just, ludicrous amounts of acclaim and fame. When asked what his tribal lineage was, he would claim that he was of Cherokee and Cree descent. Just like Johnny Depp did! Which is fitting, because just like Johnny Depp... 

IRON EYES CODY WASN’T NATIVE AMERICAN AT ALL

Born Espera Oscar de Corti, he was an Italian kid from Louisiana. Yeah. This guy, this motherfucking guy, made his career playing pretend as a Native American. Remember when I said he was a makeup artist for films, making people look more authentically redface? Yeah, he did that as his job AND AS HIS LIFE. He would also always wear his Native American costume in public, which even Native Americans thought was fucking weird.

And Jay Silverheels KNEW this, by the way. He found out while the two were working together...on Broken Arrow. Which, of course, is why I brought this up. So this must’ve been a goddamn gutpunch for the poor guy. He’s labeled Uncle Tomahawk, while Cody’s being lauded as the best Native American actor ever, AND HE ISN’T EVEN NATIVE AMERICAN. Jesus Christ, this sucks.

Jay Silverheels died of a second stroke in 1980, at the age of 67. Iron Eyes went on to be on Mister Rogers, got even more film roles, and died a successful man in 1999, at the age of 94. There was an attempt to expose him in 1996, but that attempt got backlash from a fuckton of people, including within the Native American community. Only after his death was he finally revealed as the son of Sicilian immigrants who played a fake Native American for the cameras. And to be fair, he did give to Native American charities and causes, he was an advocate for Native American rights, and he at least raised the awareness of Native Americans to people who may not have known or cared about them otherwise. And yet, despite that...

Fuck Iron Eyes Cody. He’s still a dick.

Time to get back to Broken Arrow, huh? Here’s Part One if you missed it!

Recap: Part 2

After the gross-ass flirtation between the two the next day, Cochise arrives to tell Jeffords that he’ll allow the mail through, but nobody else. Jeffords takes the news back to Tucson, and nobody believes him. He’s given resistance specifically from John Lowrie (Robert Griffin), who bets Jeffords money that five mail riders won’t make it through. Jeffords takes the bet, and Milt Duffield is the first to volunteer to ride.

Duffield and four other riders make it through. But in the process, a military wagon train is ambushed by Chochise and his men and slaughtered. This seeming dichotomy leads the men of Tucson to believe that Jeffords is a traitor and siding with the Apache. In response, after a tence-ass altercation in a bar, the men mob together and IMMEDIATELY TRY TO LYNCH HIM JESUS CHRIST

He’s saved at the last minute by General Oliver Howard (Basil Ruysdael), who asks Jeffords to ask for a meeting with Cochise. He agrees to arrange it, if the peace-seeking General agrees to come alone. He does, as the General is actually a decent-ass dude. He’s not racist, and he believes that the Apache should be allowed their territory as well. Sick.

Also sick is the fact that the romance between Jeffords and Sonseeahray is going ahead towards marriage! Gross! Fucking gross. Cochise approves of this, and arranges it with the parents, despite warning them of the troubles ahead. However, that night, Jeffords is almost killed in his sleep by one of the tribesmen. Jeffords stops it, and Cochise intervenes, ashamed by the actions of one of his people. This is Nahilzay (John War Eagle), a rival suitor of Sonseeahray, and a traitor to Cochise’s word. So, to act upon his honor, Cochise kills him. Whoof.

The General comes for the treaty, while Sonseeahray prepares for their wedduuuuuuchh. Sorry, threw up in my mouth a little just then. Anyway, four days pass, and the men of the Apache Tribes have gathered to attempt a peace negotiation with the General. After a round of questions by the generals, the two Americans leave. And at this point, a dissenting voice rises. This voice does not believe the Americans. He says that the Apache don’t need this treaty, but need a new chief who is not softened to war.

But Cochise rightly notes that the Americans are growing in strength, and the Apache are shrinking. He puts it to a vote, and while some men leave, the majority of the Apache agree to peace. The leader of these men takes a new name: Geronimo (Jay SIlverheels). Sick. Geronimo and his new allies leave, ready to continue the war in the stead of the other Apache. But still, overall, there is a tentative peace that’s been struck.

But, of course, Geronimo doesn’t care about peace. He and his men ambush a stagecoach party, accompanied by Jeffords. But Jeffords is able to put out smoke signals that bring Cochise’s Apache to their aid, chasing off these renegades. Looks like the treaty’s working after all! I’m sure that it’s not gonna backfire even a little bit.

Anyway, the wedduuuuching between Jeffouuuughrds and Sonseeeewahray takes place and I stop myself from vomiting all over my computer.  There, a wedding prayer is said, and that prayer has been mistaken for being an authentic Apache Prayer for 71 years. It comes from THIS FUCKING MOVIE.

Sixteen days pass, and the peace treaty is still intact. Jeffords and Sonseeahray wax poetic about their love, and I feel like burying my head in the couch pillows to GET AWAY FROM THIS. But that’s interrupted by the arrival of Bob Slade (Mickey Kuhn), the son of racist farmer Ben Slade. He claims that the Apache have stolen their horses, which Cochise doubts. Still, on Jeffords’ suggestion, they go to investigate. And of course...it’s an ambush by Ben Slade, John Lowrie, and their compatriots.

The men fire away, aiming for Cochise. They miss him, and instead hit Jeffords and Sonseeahray, who tagged along for some reason. Slade is killed by Cochise, who escapes with his life. The men realize how severely they’ve fucked up, and they take off for Mexico. Fuck you guys. Jeffords lives, only to see that Sonseeahray is dead. When Cochise returns to find Jeffords and the survivors, they also notice a still-living settler. Jeffords wants to kill him, but Cochise stops him, now fully believing in peace.

Although he grieves, he also recognizes that Sonseearray was a Girl in the Refrigerator all along, and her death has inspired TRUE peace between the settlers and the Apache. And...that’s it.

That’s it?

That’s...one of the most sudden and anticlimactic endings I’ve seen in a while. I’m a little disappointed, to be honest. But OK, before I get on a tangent, let’s do a full review, huh?

Review

Short preamble! I did like this movie...mostly. It’s kind of haunted by the whole underage love interest and the redface. Hard for me to see past that, BUT IF I TRY...I can acknowledge that this is a good movie. I didn’t even mention that it’s loosely based off of a true story! Yeah! Tom Jeffords and Cochise actually did have a relationship. It’s a VERY different story, but their friendship really did exist.

If I was gonna guess my rating ahead of time...I’ll go with a 76%-80%. But let’s see how that holds up in the breakdown.

Cast and Acting - 7/10: Despite the position he’s in, Jimmy Stewart still turns out a great performance in this movie. Sure, watching him kiss Debra Paget make me cry on the inside and outside, but he was good in the role of Jeffords, especially when up against the racist settlers. Jeff Chandler also manages to be good, despite the fucking redface. And Jay Silverheels...Jay was great, even though I thought his role would be more than a single scene. As for the rest...Paget was bad. She was not good in this movie, sorry. And everybody else was basically just OK. Nothing to write home about.

Plot and Writing - 9/10: This was a solid-ass story, and I liked almost every part of it...save the underage romance. Which, no, I AM NOT FORGETTING ABOUT. Dude, Jeffords didn’t do that in real life. So, for the love of GOD, why make his fictional bride fucking 15? Guys...gross. Really fucking gross, Albert Maltz. Other than that, you did a great job, I just wish that wasn’t a part of it. Ugh.

Directing and Cinematography - 10/10: Yeah, Delmer Daves is a legend. I thought of writing the into to these recaps on him, but I really wanted to talk about Jay Silverheels and Iron Eyes Cody. But I’ll get my chance; Delmer Daves also directed 3:10 to Yuma, so I’ll bring him up one of these days. Anyway, Delmer Daves does a great job with this movie, and it’s gorgeously shot. Ernest Palmer is cinematographer, and he also does an excellent job.

Production and Art Design - 9/10: Sure, the settlers look generic, but the Native Americans? Excellent costume design, with a lot of authenticity packed in there. Credit where credit’s due, here.

Music and Editing - 7/10: Well, the music is great here, if not extraordinarily memorable. Hugo Friedhofer does the composition, and he does a great job. But is it iconic? Eh. Not really. I don’t remember it having a massive impact on me, unfortunately. And the editing...is also OK. That ending is weirdly paced for me, and very abrupt. But J. Watson Webb Jr. does a decent enough job, I think.

That’s an 84%. Huh. Genuinely thought it’d be lower.

This is a good movie, don’t get me wrong. But it’s...complicated. I would recommend it with warnings, I’ll put it that way. Good, great even...but complicated. Outside of that, I have to admire the stance to put Native American tribes on a equal stance, respect-wise. For the time, and for the genre, that’s a rarity. So, as always, credit where credit’s due.

Next up, we continue our foray into the classic Western...but stick with Jimmy Stewart. I wanna give him a second chance. And hopefully, this one doesn’t include a romance with a fifteen year-old. Hopefully.

Next: The Naked Spur (1953); dir. Anthony Mann

#broken arrow #film:broken arrow #broken arrow 1950 #delmer daves #james stewart #jeff chandler #debra paget #jay silverheels #western august #western genre #user365 #365 days 365 movies #365 movie challenge #mygifs #my gifs

[uptightcitizensbrigade]

Annie Clark is not where she’s supposed to be. At the last minute, the artist known as St. Vincent decided that instead of trekking to a country store as planned, she wanted to stick closer to her studio in the hills of Los Angeles’s Laurel Canyon. When I arrive at our new meeting spot, breathless from a steep climb, the first thing I notice is that neither of us is dressed appropriately for a rendezvous in the domesticated wilderness. Of course, in Clark’s case, this means looking pretty damn cool, in a sky-blue duster, gray sweatshirt, and leopard-print shorts, her trademark curly dark hair (which took a silvery lavender turn last album cycle) pin-straight and tucked under a Duran Duran cap. We make our way to a picnic table in the middle of a hiking trail that apparently enjoys more use as a bird lavatory. “Is this OK?” she asks, straddling the bench and setting down her mug of Yogi tea. It is. Anything to stop moving vertically.

“Up,” however, is a fitting direction for the 34-year-old Clark. Over the past decade, she has evolved from a clever multi-instrumentalist to critical darling to indie icon—her last record, 2014’s St. Vincent, took home the Grammy for Best Alternative Album. She’s a road warrior (with the bed bug stories to prove it), having toured for much of her life, beginning as a teenager when she was the tour manager for her uncle’s jazz duo, Tuck & Patti. And her latest album, MASSEDUCTION, is most definitely a career summit. It’s her Lemonade, her OK Computer—whatever reference conveys the urgency with which it demands to be listened to when it drops on October 13. “This one’s better,” she says of her fifth solo effort, nodding. “I was focused on writing the best songs I’d ever written.”

That goal comes at a cost, or so Clark’s body language seems to say on this late-August evening. She stifles a yawn, and cradles her tea. For the last couple of months, she’s been celibate and sober. Some of the monasticism she favors during recording stuck: An illness last March prompted her to quit alcohol altogether. “I loved my white wine,” she says. “But I just can’t stand the smell anymore.”

She is also insanely busy, still recuperating from yesterday’s flight home from Australia for press, not to mention the whirlwind trip to Tokyo that preceded it, where she performed at Summer Sonic (and shot this cover). And while it’s been three and a half years since she released an album, Clark’s been working on it all the while. “I’ve just been collecting things, bowerbird-style, and making elaborate plumage,” she says. Meanwhile, she’s been flexing her creative muscles: A week ago, Lionsgate announced that the Dallas native would be helming its female-led adaptation of The Picture of Dorian Gray. (Clark made her directorial debut earlier this year with a short called “The Birthday Party” for the female-driven horror anthology XX.)

She’s also spent a good part of the last year getting over her breakup from 25-year-old British supermodel and actress Cara Delevingne. The pair dated for 18 months, thrusting Clark into a tabloid existence she’d never known before. You won’t find her in any formal pictures from (the old) Taylor Swift’s last Fourth of July bonanza in 2016, but she and her soon-to-be ex were captured by paparazzi in a private embrace. “It was really bizarre,” she says. “No joke, I’ve been in high-speed chases in London with at least five cars and six motorcycles following me and Cara. You’re going to kill someone, and for what? A photo of a sweet girl?”

The last thing she wants to talk about is how much of this album was informed by that relationship. She’s baffled by such inquiries—she only just recently admitted that 2011’s Strange Mercy was partly about her father being sent to prison for investment fraud. “I never think, ‘If I only knew who Kate Bush was singing about in “Running Up That Hill,” I could enjoy the song,’” she says, shooing a mosquito off my shirt. “I do not wonder who or what songs are about. And the Texan in me is like, ‘It’s none of your goddamned business.’” I ask whether she cleared the disclosure of her dad’s incarceration with him beforehand. “Is it OK with me that he’s in prison?” she responds dryly, but quickly adds, “I’ve only ever spoken highly of my father.”

Clark is a vivid storyteller whose knack for relating tales of dirty policemen or down-on-their-luck friends would make her the most popular guest at a dinner party. On MASSEDUCTION’s first single, “New York,” which debuted last June, she sings along to a plangent piano about “the only motherfucker in the city who can handle me.” While the song’s grief over lost heroes could easily apply to David Bowie or Prince, as Clark has suggested, it’s the identity of the “motherfucker” that piqued curiosity. “I totally understand it, I do,” she says, and frowns thoughtfully. “But the point is for the song to mean whatever it means to somebody else. Some people have a real hang-up about being misunderstood. I don’t care.” She stops to clarify this point: “I would be concerned if someone was like, ‘Wow, she seems like a Holocaust denier.’ But racism, sexism, or homophobia aside? I’m happy to be misunderstood.”

In the past, Clark’s music was more often respected than adored, like Love This Giant, her 2012 album with Talking Heads savant David Byrne. She is a masterful guitarist, a performance artist unafraid of experimentation. Artificial sounds, brass sections, unhurried choruses? All play a part in her eclectic repertoire, and she rarely stays monogamous to any one genre or rhythm.

“A lot of people are skilled at bending notes, but I think she actually bends the parameters of what guitar is,” says longtime friend Carrie Brownstein, whose prowess on the same instrument helped usher Sleater-Kinney to stardom. “She doesn’t approach it in a traditionally worshipful way. While she’s playing guitar, she seems to be destroying the very concept of it, which I think is very exciting.”

The opening track of her last album famously depicted Clark running naked from a rattlesnake. MASSEDUCTION (pronounced “mass seduction” on the title track) somehow finds her even more exposed. Clark says “New York” was the first time she ever wrote something and thought, “This could be somebody’s favorite song.” The same could be said of many tracks on the album, which, taken as a whole, sounds like Clark violating her own sense of privacy in order to grant access to her vulnerability. “I’m not eschewing any of the work I’ve done in the past,” says Clark. “But I was less concerned [here] about doing a lot of musical tricks that to me are intellectually interesting. The point of the record was to go, like, mainline to the heart.”

For this, Clark enlisted co-producer Jack Antonoff. Through his work with Lorde and Taylor Swift, as well as his own band Bleachers, Antonoff has developed a reputation for channeling ideas and emotions into their most approximate, frequently synth-driven expressions. “Jack changed my life for the better,” says Clark. “He makes you feel like anything is possible. We were merciless, trying to push all these songs past the finish line to accept the gold medal.”

None of which is to suggest that Clark has sacrificed any virtuosity or ambition. Several of the best songs break off into their own compelling codas. “How could anybody have you and lose you and not lose their mind, too?” moans Clark on “Los Ageless,” backed by an aggressive beat that would not be out of place at an adults-only club, before dissolving, like a film melt, into a series of bleary synths and barely audible whispers.

The theme of Clark’s last record was “near-future cult leader.” Here, having traded in those wild lavender-platinum curls for an austere black bob, “It’s dominatrix at the mental institution,” she says. “I knew I needed to write about power—the fiction of power and the power of fiction.” The concept is at its most powerful on the more adrenalized songs, like “Pills,” whose opening lines function like a Valley of the Dolls reboot: “Pills to wake/ Pills to sleep/ Pills, pills, pills every day of the week.” The words are delivered by Delevingne in a demented, cheerfully vacant chant.

“You mean Kid Monkey, obscure DJ,” says Clark, gamely referencing her ex’s pseudonym. “It needed to be a posh British voice. I was like, ‘Cara, wake up. I need you to sing on this song.’ And she’s kind of grumpy. And I’m like, ‘Please. It sounds so good. One more time.’” That song, too, starts with a blinking alertness but finishes drowsily, like Pink Floyd at the planetarium. Clark says the inspiration came to her after popping a sleeping pill on tour, and speaks to larger issues of opioid addiction that have affected people she cares about.

But the song that’s most likely to be picked over lyrically, for obvious reasons, is “Young Lover.” It’s set in Paris, where gossip rags once reported that Delevingne, proposed to Clark. The relationship described in the song suffers as a result of the titular subject’s hard-partying ways. “Did I have experiences that emotionally resonated in the way they do for that character? Abso-fucking-lutely,” says Clark, who’s also been linked briefly to Kristen Stewart. “But did that exact scenario happen? No!” She makes a dismissive face.

Clark didn’t grow up feasting on the sordid details of celebrity coupledom, though she admits to a fascination with Kate Moss, Shalom Harlow, and the early-’90s supermodel set. (The musician has recently done some modeling herself as one of the new faces of Tiffany & Co.) Her parents divorced young, and Clark lived with her social worker mother and two older sisters. “I was free to be a wild card, because the other roles were spoken for,” she says. A breeze kicks up and she rubs her legs as they prickle with goosebumps.

A tiny part of her early musical education includes a crate of CDs that fell off a truck in front of their house. “It was good taste for someone in the suburbs of Dallas,” she says, citing Nine Inch Nails and Pet Shop Boys. Clark started playing guitar at 12, and was encouraged by her maternal uncle, who hired her as a tour manager for his jazz duo when she was a teenager.

Eventually, her family swelled to include eight siblings, with whom she is close. A younger brother now works as her assistant. “We grew up hearing my dad talk business on the phone, and it was ‘motherfucker’ this and ‘fucking cocksucker’ that,” she says, laughing. In part, this informed her curse word of choice on “New York.” “If people don’t curse at all, I always think they’re hiding something,” she says.

The next day, Clark is filming a video for MASSEDUCTION’s as-yet-unannounced second single at a soundstage in Hollywood. She spends more time on the West Coast now that she has built a studio here, but still keeps properties in New York and Texas. She hesitates to use the word bicoastal, which feels “kind of douchey,” she says.

The video set changes from a Pepto-Bismol pink beauty salon, where the pedicure tubs are filled with green slime, to a yoga studio. Clark is dressed in a cheetah-print leotard with an open-face hood. She’s been bending over for 15 minutes straight in order for director Willo Perron to get a dolly shot of her face hanging between her legs. I marvel at her stamina. “Are you really asking me how I’m good at bending over?” she says, wryly. She rests between takes, curling up on the yoga mat like a cat in a sunbeam.

Clark wasn’t involved with the concept for the video. Back in Laurel Canyon, she admitted to being preoccupied with Dorian Gray, working with Elle screenwriter David Birke and rereading the book for the first time since high school. “I jumped at the chance to explore themes of transgression, narcissism, youth, beauty, queerness, but through a female protagonist,” says Clark, who’s currently considering a cast for the project. She’s new to this milieu, but credits Tuck & Patti with teaching her the rigors of knowing her shit. “They really were the coach in Rocky,” she says of her uncle’s duo. “I learned how to be professional. It’s not as if I need to be a camera expert in order to direct something, but you have to have the respect of the crew. This is not a vanity project. This is something I want to do for the rest of my life.”

Melanie Lynskey, who starred in Clark’s XX short, was pleasantly surprised by the musician’s command of the set. “It was like working with someone who had been doing it a very long time,” she says. “She’s so smart and she had such a clear idea of what she wanted, but gave me all the room in the world to come up with ideas and collaborate.”

In the meantime, Clark is also preparing for this fall’s Fear the Future Tour. As we slowly make our way down the hill, clutching at branches to steady ourselves, she says there won’t be as much postmodern dancing this time around. “The record is full of sorrow, but the visual aspect of it is really absurd,” she says. “I take the piss out of myself. The last tour I sat atop a pink throne, looking very imperious.” She kindly helps me down the last step. “This one will let people see that I have a sense of humor.”

#Annie Clark #St Vincent #Fear the Future #MASSEDUCTION #interview

[jayankles]

Deserved It (AU)

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean x Reader Word Count: 1591 Warnings: Smut. Fingering, oral (male receiving), masturbation?, orgasm denial? Request: @dancingalone21 - Congrats!!! Can I get #1 with Dean? An AU with smut/fluff? Thank youuuu :) Prompts: 1) Did you...did you just bite me?'

A/N - That gif though... I hope you like it babe

You're searching through your cupboards hoping to find what you've been waiting for after you long day at work in the office. You're in dire need of your comfort food, who cares if you put on weight from them, you could always work it off in the bedroom later on. You're too short to see the top shelf of the cupboard but you think you put it there to restrain yourself from eating them. But those rules are forgotten. You need them but they're not there.

You fall silent, thinking of where you could have put them all of a sudden you hear munching coming from your bedroom. You wander up the stairs, light footed, quiet as a mouse. You're on a mission to find your precious can of Pringles. Opening the door, you see Dean with his hands deep inside of your can of chips. Your arms fold in front of your chest, and you cough, gaining his attention. His eyes widen as he's caught red handed.

He swallows the chips that were in his mouth and anxiously smiles at you, gauging your reaction. 'H-hey, sweetheart. How was your day?'

You grab a cushion that was on the armchair in the corner, throwing it at his annoyingly attractive head, hitting him in the forehead, making him hit the back of his head on the head board. But hey, if the head boards isn't for heads, what is it for?

'How was my day? Terrible. And to top it off, you're eating my goddamn chips. Do you know what time of the month it is?'

You reach for your Pringles in his hand, making a connection with a handful and pulling it out but you feel a sinking feeling in your hand. When you pull it back you notice teeth marks it them, the fucker actually bit you.

'Did you...did you just bite me?'

The dumbass knows he's in trouble with the tone of voice you are using, you only use it when your scolding others or when things don't go your way, right now it's for both reasons. 'No...maybe...yes.' His voice is quiet and he knows he's messed up, you've just worked an eight hour shift, staring at a computer screen and listening to everybody else's problems. You just wanted your goddamn chips. That was the worst. Why couldn't you have been a stripper? You would been happier.

'Well, you can forget the blowjob I was going to give you tonight, you ass! I only like it rough in bed, jeez, do you know nothing about me?'

You turn away to walk back out of the door to go to the store but he catches your wrist in his hand. His bravado is returning, an irritatingly smug smile dawned upon his face as he realised that he was going to get a treat tonight.

'How can I forget about it if you brought it up?'

Luckily for him, he had already made a trip to the store to get all the necessities to satisfy your needs. Heat pads, check. Flowers, check. Bath bombs, check. Chocolate, double check. And lots of it. Even another tall can of your Pringles that he was previously munching on. He shows you the items he bought earlier and he can tell your facade is slowly fading away.

Before you have a chance to respond, he spins you and holds you close, interlocking his fingers over your tummy. 'Is there any way I can make it up to you, my beautiful girlfriend?'

Oh, he's good. He knows to kiss up to you to get what he wants but you're going to have some fun yourself. You know what you want. And you are going to get it.

Your head tilts to the side and he has better access to kiss the shit out of your neck. 'You're such a dork.' You laugh at his quaint antics.

'You know I love you, right?' He questions.

'You better!' You sass. 'You wanna make it up to me?'

You feel him nod against you, the scruff on his face scratching against you, making you feel tingly, needing to feel him someplace else.

Untangling his hands, you guide them lower down, grazing the waistband of your skirt. Good thinking ahead. 'Show me how good you are with those hands, Mechanic.'

One of his hands massaging your breast, his other delved under the articles of clothing you wore on your bottom half.  The latter quickly found your clit, rubbing in slow circles before gradually picking up the pace. You wrapped your hands around his wrist, grinding against his fingers. He drove his fingers into your dripping pussy without warning, your head rolled back onto his shoulder, your mouth wide open. The tweak of your nipple through your top make you shudder against his chest. He so deserved that blowjob now.

'Make me come and you get what you want,' you breathed out, barely sure he even heard you or not. Although you gave the commands, he was in control.

The hand at your breast left, encompassing your waist, his fingertips digging into your hip bone. He applied the perfect amount of pressure to your clit and your hips gyrated at their own pace, forcing yourself against his hand.

'Don't stop. Fuck! Right there, baby.'

When your body jutted back you felt his hard on, that alone allowing you to explode around him, clutching onto his forearm.

Panting, you slowly calmed down from your high, and freed yourself from his embrace. Swiveling your body to face him, he brought his fingers to his lips and licked of your arousal with a boyish grin plastered on his face.

'Fucking delicious!'

You roll your eyes but take the compliment, 'I know right, but I bet you taste better.' Your hands fly to his belt, tugging it out of the loops and unfastening his button. Your actions are quick, desperate to have him in your mouth.

His jeans and boxers are around his knees in no time. You kissed him passionately, tasting yourself on his tongue, groaning at scent that lingered. Sinking down, you eyed your boyfriend's cock, your tongue subconsciously wetting your bottom lip, ready and waiting. Your fingers trailed down, smoothing over the slight pudge of his beautiful stomach, moving delicately over his thighs. Feeling the muscles contract under your touch, you continued your ministrations, torturing him a little further. Dean braced himself on the top of the drawer behind him, regaining his equilibrium, you were too intoxicating.

Your tongue darted out and over the bead of pre come that was on the tip of his dick. Dean hissed at the sensation, the contact too overwhelming yet also not enough.

You grabbed the base of his cock, the other wrapped around to his behind, squeezing him and pulling Dean closer to you. You enclosed the space between you as you shoved his cock into your mouth, pumping the rest of him in your hand. Your lose hair was now in a makeshift ponytail with Dean's fingers entwined in the strands. His hips moving on their own accord, fucking your mouth.

With his cock hitting the back of your throat, you hollowed your cheeks and took him in deeper. Making Dean moan above you, refraining from letting your gag reflex stop you. Your grip on his thighs loosened and you felt your pussy throbbing again, you needed to relieve yourself.

While your head bobbed up and down, taking him all in until your nose hit his pelvis, your hand trailed down your body, over your stomach. Your fingers found your pussy lips and spread them, your middle finger sinking into your cunt and your thumb circling your clit. You moaned around Dean's cock, enjoying the feel of that and the clenching of your walls around your own finger. The vibrations had him moaning and groaning himself.

'Fuck! Yes...fuck yes. Right there, baby. Ugh!'

Your tongue swirled around his tip and his hold on your hair tightened, loving the feeling of your warm, wet mouth around him. The rotation of his hips stutter and you can tell he's close to his release, you increase the pace and intensity of the pleasure you hope to bring him.

He thrusts once more and he's ready to let go. Before he can come, you hear scratching at the door and pull away from him, a string of your saliva still connecting your mouth to his length, he whines in frustration at the loss of contact as his orgasm dies down.

'What the fuck, (Y/N)?!'

You didn't mean to deny him, but if it doesn't make this more enjoyable then...

Jasper pads in, a sloppy smile adorning his long face and you can help but double over in laughter at Dean scolding your dog.

'Jas, I have never hated you so much in my life.'

Tears are falling from your eyes as Dean tucks himself back into his jeans defiantly, his button is fastened but he refuses to buckle his belt. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, glaring daggers at you and Jasper as you pet him.

Stroking your fingers through his long fur, you praise the canine.

'Who's mommy's good little boy? You are. Yes you are! Did you cock block daddy? Good boy!'

You squish his face and kiss the top of his head.

'Oh, Dean I forgot. We're having dinner with Sam and Jess tonight. We leave in 30 minutes.' You make to leave the room and wink over your shoulder seductively.

Tagging: @just-a-touch-of-sass-and-fandoms @iwantthedean @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @bringmesomepie56 @impalapossible @spnashley @deansleather @jensen-jarpad @daydreamingintheimpala @winchesterenthusiast @winchestersnco @wayward-marvel-and-more @ellen-reincarnated1967 @spn-fan-girl-173 @grace-for-sale @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious @deanwinchester-af @winchesterprincessbride @atc74 @mamaredd123 @deandoesthingstome @jpadjackles @mrswhozeewhatsis @nichelle-my-belle @bovaria @faith-in-dean @lipstickandwhiskey @scorpiongirl1  @chelsea072498 @bkwrm523 @soaringeag1e @aprofoundbondwithdean @katnharper @teamfreewill-imagine @chaos-and-the-calm67 @supernatural-jackles @balthazars-muse @loveitsallineed @jotink78  @torn-and-frayed  @sincerelysaraahh @oriona75 @anotherwinchesterfangirl @blushingsamgirl @plaidstiel-wormstache

#dean x reader #mechanic!dean #mechanic!dean x reader #dean winchester #supernatural #supernatural au #spn #spn au #spn one shot #spn oneshot #request #300 followers #dancingalone21 #dean smut #dean fluff #buckysmetallicstump #buckysmetallicstump writes #bailey writes

[latestnews2018-blog]

A Conversation With My Friend Who Really Wants To Have Sex With Mr. Incredible

New Post has been published on https://latestnews2018.com/a-conversation-with-my-friend-who-really-wants-to-have-sex-with-mr-incredible/

A Conversation With My Friend Who Really Wants To Have Sex With Mr. Incredible

Earlier this week, a review by The New Yorker’s Anthony Lane of the Pixar film “Incredibles 2” caught the attention of the internet.

The reason was a paragraph near the end of the article that painted a theoretical picture of two parents taking their children to watch the film only to find the mother comparing Ms. Incredible to Anastasia from “Fifty Shades of Grey” and the father catapulting his popcorn in a state of throbbing cinematic appreciation.

Holy crap, WHAT is with The New Yorker’s review of The Incredibles 2? Gross. pic.twitter.com/2PCVW4BQga

— Amanda Wong (@amandawtwong) June 19, 2018

I, on the other hand, could only think of an old friend of mine, Will Wiesenfeld, who, for as long as I can remember, has badly wanted to have sex with Mr. Incredible, i.e. Bob Parr. This is not a joke. Will really, really loves him some Bob Parr.

i want Bob Parr to fuck me up and down the goddamn block

— ● Will Wiesenfeld ● (@BATHSmusic) May 29, 2018

thinking about bob fuckin parr

— ● Will Wiesenfeld ● (@BATHSmusic) June 12, 2018

i don’t think u understand how hot i think the dad from The Incredibles is. Bob Parr. that’s my dude

— ● Will Wiesenfeld ● (@BATHSmusic) May 7, 2018

like honestly Bob Parr is a dreamboat

— ● Will Wiesenfeld ● (@BATHSmusic) February 15, 2018

Wiesenfeld is a professional electronic musician mostly known by his stage name, Baths. He’s very good; Pitchfork loves him. My editor, Tommy Craggs, did not care about any of that. He wanted to know more about my friend who’d like to boink an animated superhero dad. He asked me to talk to Will. So I did. It turns out that Wiesenfeld’s desire to sleep with the man with perhaps the largest chest-to-hip ratio in the cartoon universe is actually just one part of a larger story about coming to terms with his sexuality through cartoons as a teenager ― and becoming something of a connoisseur of the form as an adult.

Here is our conversation, edited a bit for clarity.  

Will Wiesenfeld: Hey dude!

HuffPost: What’s up, dog?

Not much. How’s it going?

It’s chilling. I can’t believe I’m interviewing you about this.

So you want to fuck Bob Parr. When did that start? When did you first get into Bob Parr?

How long ago did “The Incredibles” come out?

I must have been 15. I wasn’t out. I would have just found out that I was gay, so probably not yet. I don’t know.

When did cartoons become a thing for you in terms of your own sexuality

That was right away. Basically I found out I was gay because of porn, straight-up porn. I just realized that was going on and I had the realization, and I think through looking for that stuff and then always being a fan of Japanese stuff, I came across porny art and muscular art of characters, and so it started off not [with] American cartoons, but Japanese stuff and people’s original characters and buff men. And that would have been a year after I found out I was gay, so probably 16.

this mode of bob parr could get it ✔️ https://t.co/DLno1tbMBH

— ● Will Wiesenfeld ● (@BATHSmusic) January 16, 2016

Why do you think you had that attraction to anime or cartoon characters?

I can tell you almost exactly. Everything about porn ― at least what I was finding ― was intense and kind of aggressive. There’s nothing really loving about it. It was just sex, obviously, and very intense and very upfront.

And almost immediately the first images I saw of this sort of stuff ― of drawn characters and erotic illustrations and stuff ― it was all softer, even though it was really muscular men. A lot of it was really domestic. There were comics that I found that were just couples at home, or illustrations of dudes doing it in an apartment, outside of a pornographic context, just because they were dating or whatever.

And all of that was brand new to me. Just the idea of gayness as normalcy. That was the thing that allowed me to come out after that point. I knew I was gay before finding out about this stuff, but then I was comfortable coming out realizing that there was a route to gayness and queerness that was chill.

And now is it more just a funny thing than anything else?

It’s not actually much of a funny thing. There are funny things that come up. There are illustrations that are insane, where it’s like, “Oh, my God, look at this.” But it’s a super deep hobby of mine. I collect art. I have a running collection of manga in my house and a bunch of illustrations. I’ve paid for commissions of characters and stuff like that. It’s very real and it’s very deep. And I’m into it in a way that’s well beyond a joke thing, you know? I’m truly down with it.

You’ve done a Bob Parr illustration, I know. Have you done other ones besides that?

Yeah, or I paid for a commission of it.

who can i commission some tastefully hot mr incredible art from . mr bob parr

— ● Will Wiesenfeld ● (@BATHSmusic) May 15, 2018

I commissioned this other character from this series called “Legend of Korra,” which is also an American cartoon. His name is Bolin, and I’m super, super into him. I’ve paid for commissions of him in the past. I actually have one that’s pending right now that somebody is doing [laughs].

Twitter/Tumblr: yoPeppy

Here’s the illustration Will got commissioned for himself.

With Bob Parr, what is it about him that attracts you to him?  

It’s a huge mix of things. Physically, he’s exactly my type. Big 40-, 50-something-year-old dudes who are muscular but kind of friendly and approachable ― that’s my shit. So that, combined with all the stuff in “The Incredibles” ― him being a good dad, meaning that it translates to him being a responsible person and, I don’t know, safe? Those things, they’re great. And they are a huge turn-on. And he’s straight, obviously, but you can find comics and illustrations and fan art that people have done that skew it into a fun gay thing, and there’s plenty of it with Mr. Incredible.

I think people would probably think of an attraction to a cartoon character as mostly a physical thing. It’s interesting that what he’s like as a father figure and person wraps up into it.  

I think that’s a thing with a lot of the characters that I’m really into. Bolin also is the same way. He’s much younger, but he’s carefree and positive and all that stuff. I don’t have a thing for villains usually, sometimes I do, but it’s usually a physical thing. But I’ll obsess over a character if they’re almost role model-y. I’m realizing it now in my brain that a lot of my favorite characters are the role model of the series that they’re a part of, or the most rounded and the most mature. ’Cause I think that it’s this weird motivator for myself to try and see myself in that.

“@DisneyPixar: Home sweet, crazy home. pic.twitter.com/LHOOqUXDCo”

Bob Parr could get it god damn 😎😎😎

— ● Will Wiesenfeld ● (@BATHSmusic) February 27, 2015

What do you mean? You want to become that kind of person as you age, or you hope to be that kind of person right now?

Yeah, exactly, something like that. Just inspiration to live honestly, the way that I’m doing, and stay positive. And a big part of it is keeping in shape, ’cause all of these stupid cartoons are buff as hell [laughs]. Just looking at it for too long, it sort of works its way into your brain to try and keep doing that.

So you’re saying that by looking at buff dad cartoon characters, you yourself go, “I gotta hit the gym as well” or something?

Absolutely, it’s fair to put it like that.

What are some of the other top characters for you?

Looking around my room, there’s this character Shiro, who’s one of the main characters from the new “Voltron” series on Netflix. He’s literally the dad of the group, and he’s buff and mild-mannered and he’s just super hot. And then there’s this character Daichi, from this show “Haikyuu.” It’s a whole series about volleyball. It’s a sports anime and it’s way, way, way better than it should be. It’s the most exciting, most intense series I’ve watched in forever. He’s the captain of the volleyball team that the show follows. He’s not the lead character, but he’s the one that’s in charge of that team.

A big note: It’s problematic because his character is 17, and in the first season of that show “Legend of Korra,” that character that I mentioned, Bolin, is 16, and I had no idea watching it. I thought he was 24 or 25. When I found out way later on that in the first season he’s 16 years old, I felt so gross.

Then, yeah, later on in the series I think he’s much older. He ages as the show progresses. I’m attracted to Daichi and Bolin because they act older and more mature than their peers on top of the fact that they’re super buff. All these hundreds of artists out there making fan art of them feel the same way.

There exists this whole deep fandom in Japan of every single one of these characters. There’s this thing called doujin, or doujinshi, and it’s like “fan comic,” and it usually translates to being porny most of the time. But there are doujin that are not and are just narratives that people make up.

But they’re fan comics, and there’s a huge market for it, and there’s conventions. The same way you have, I guess, Comic-Con or Anime Expo in the States. There’s huge, huge conventions in Japan where all these different artists sell all this stuff and the market for it is much, much bigger and much more widespread. And so, when I found out about this show “Haikyuu,” I was like, is there any art of this dude that I’m into? And it was insane how much of it there was. There’s so much, and most of it is not actually sexual. It’ll just be a romance novel or a romance movie or something like that. The plot will just be them being attracted to each other and not knowing what to do with it and at times navigating high school and being on a volleyball team at the same time ― that sort of shit. There are comics that are just full plots of that without sex being involved.

Does the character have to be human or can it also be an animal or something like that for you to be attracted to it?

I think I’m cool with anthropomorphic stuff. I’m basically a fan of buffness, so it’s usually, if I see something where the character is buff and they’re also an animal, I’m like, that’s cool. I can get into it or whatever. But I don’t seek it out, and I kind of don’t obsess over it the way that I typically do with human characters. But lately there is ― you know “Zelda”? The new “Zelda” game?

There is a bird-man in that game that is all of these things that I’m talking about with these mentor characters that I get really into. He’s this big, buff bird that helps you on your adventures, and he’s like a good dad and is fair and relaxed, and it hits all the benchmarks for me. And, for whatever reason, they gave him really beautiful eyes in the game. They give them all this eye makeup and intense ― I don’t know how to describe it. You should just Google the word “Kass,” K-A-S-S, in Zelda.

Yeah, and “Zelda,” and you’ll just see this handsome ―

It makes sense, you know what I mean? Me talking about all the other things I just talked about ― it’s like, “Oh, yeah, this makes sense.”

I feel bad for asking you earlier if it’s just a funny thing, when now that I think about it, it’s obviously something more serious.

Don’t even worry about it. I’ve been involved in the hobby of it for so long that I don’t think there’s any question that somebody could pose that could offend me.  

What did you think of “Incredibles 2”? I forgot to ask.

I liked it a lot. I think Bob Parr was hotter than ever, and I was very, very down with that. But as an actual movie, I think it suffered from pacing issues.

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