#Vermont guy

[mash4077confessions]

Not really a confession but I didn't know who else in the mash community would even care anyway I'm rewatching and in season 1 hawkeye is from vermont and also bj's hat shows up in the very first episode

it's all good 👍 I'm happy to have some fun anon mail in my inbox 😊

Yes, Hawkeye is from Vermont and even has a still living mother and a kid sister (who sews disproportionately). He's going to be from Vermont for a while and then he'll start to mention a summer home in Maine. Then BOOM! Bye bye Vermont, hello permanent home in Crabapple Cove.

B.J's hat along with other props were reused quite liberally. Not sure where they found a hat quite as interesting as that one, but then again, they got Tiger (Radar's teddy bear) from the dump. Those prop designers sure were creative.

Yup, Sidney was named Milton first and behaved rather differently to how he'd present every other time at the 4077th. I read a post from someone on here that said he must have had a migraine that day, and just wasn't in a very good mood.

Lots of name changes can be found on the show, including Henry's wife being originally called "Mildred" and earlier seasons having Father Mulcahy's first name being John, and then switching it later with Francis (although I personally always call him Francis).

[luckilyiris]

DORSET — The story goes something like this: Famous Hollywood Guy and Wallingford resident accepts a gig at Dorset Theatre Festival to take on a play written by famous Hollywood writer/producer and playwright Theresa Rebeck, who mostly makes her home in Dorset.

Famous Guy does great job in the play, shakes my hand and exchanges a pleasantry on opening night, then carries on. Few years pass by and Famous Guy liked the Dorset gig so much – as well as the short commute down Route 7A — that he comes back, with more handshakes in passing and expressions of gratitude after the opener.

Then, Famous Guy comes back yet again, this time to team up for the first time on stage with his Famous Sister. Clearly, Dorset Theatre Festival was becoming like a second home to his Wallingford farm.

On that second go, however, I finally landed an interview with Famous Guy, but as luck would have it he had to go back and forth to Los Angeles for multiple commitments and engagements. So, a PR deal is reached by third parties, much of it is facilitated by Famous Guy himself.

When I was told of the latest delay, apparently someone at Dorset Theatre Festival made mention to Famous Guy that this ever-deferred sit-down was with a local journalist, and apparently, this former Dorset staffer told me: “When Tim heard you were a Vermont guy, he asked for your cell number and arranged to call you on X day at Y time. No problem.”

There, the cat’s out of the bag: Famous Guy is, of course, Tim Daly, who next week, along with the very talented Jayne Atkinson, will open Dorset Theatre Festival’s second show of its 2023 season, the world premiere of Lia Romero’s “Still.”

The play itself is about Helen and Mark, who were a couple but broke up, yet never forgot each other. They meet for dinner to catch up, the spark is there again, but this time Mark is running for Congress, and Helen has a secret that could gum up the works. Lost love gets a re-look in this comedy about getting older, political divides, and the road not taken.

In short, it is a play tailor-made for leading man Daly, who showed me some years ago that while having cut his early teeth on sitcoms such as “Wings,” and being blessed with obvious good looks, he really is anything but a pretty face: putting aside his fame and success, Daly is very serious about the cerebral aspects of acting.

So getting back to that phone call: Daly calls me pretty much on the promised time hack, but then within a few minutes of just initial small talk about his Vermont farm, he interrupts me: “Telly, a call is coming in that I absolutely have to take, so here’s my personal cell number, and give me a call back in 15 minutes.”

That really struck me. Famous guys in Hollywood do not give out their unlisted digits. But Daly did not hesitate, as he explained later, simply because I was, after all, a Vermont guy like him.

Our conversation that afternoon was one of the most intellectually honest talks I ever had with such a high profile actor. Daly spoke fondly of his time at Bennington College, and extensively of his love for live performance and how the presence of an audience strips away the veneer of fame. It exposes, he explained, an actor in ways does not happen in TV or the movies with their endless takes on one scene until getting it right.

Tim emphasized to me that the live audience made all the difference, and was very blunt in telling me how Dorset, and presumably other local professional stages like it – Weston, Oldcastle, and even tiny Living Room Theatre in North Bennington with its defunct swimming pool for a stage — has allowed him to return to his roots as an actor.

This offered Daly an absence of presumption and a visceral connection to lovers of the stage, he said.

“In New York, you can almost predict the moments of applause with audience members who have The New York Times review tucked under their arms,” Daly told me. “At Dorset, the connection to the audience is much more direct, as if you’re having a personal dialogue with them all evening. It’s both refreshing and liberating for an artist.”

He also was very quick to add: “And that’s all on the record, Telly; you make sure to print it!”

Cynics, of course, will argue that someone as accomplished and materially successful as Daly can afford to be so frank later in his career than he might have been earlier on. Fair enough.

But you could hear the emotion in his voice, and this was no act. That moment for me was one reason to keep going back and catching Daly on stage whenever I could, whether locally, or elsewhere.

Besides, this is one Famous Guy who doesn’t have to drive that far from Wallingford to show you what he’s got.

Telly Halkias is a national award-winning freelance journalist and the secretary of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists (NSNC). Email: tchalkias@aol.com Twitter: @TellyHalkias

[acornered]

Share what animals you have and where they've been in the tags!!!

[sanguinemoonlight]

Trump guilty on all 34 counts but now we get to hear republicans talk about how a convicted felon should get to run for office even though felons can’t vote (besides in Maine and Vermont wtf guys)

[littengamer909]

sometimes, if he looks too hard at the ground at his feet, Failboat can see something rippling and squirming, as if the universe is pulling at the seams, struggling to keep something in check.

he ignores it and goes back to [fighting monsters in the Ghontu Waste] [making sure Denny's has plenty of pancakes so they won't have to do a sacrifice today] [running over to the locker room before the next Turf War starts] [making sure his sponges are dry so he can drain the ocean monument].

[5eraphim]

last night the restaurant was hella busy and i was there over an hour after closing to finish up, BUT!it was all whimsical and foggy and mysterious that night i extended my walk home to walk thorough the power plant/cemetary/some abandoned buildings.

i had my nicole dollanganger mix playing for my morose woman wondering (AKA a hot girl walk for ugly girls who hate leaving the house before the sun sets.)

here are some of photos taken from that walk

🖤🌫️🪦🎧🕸️🌌

(this was about 9-10 at night + 35 degrees // 21-22 + 1.6 celsius )

not certain how far i walked, i think it was like 2.5 miles//about 4 kilometers? give or take?

[mirandagabrielle]

Noah Kahan or something darker?

Russian mystic Grigori Rasputin and Noah Kahan bare a striking resemblance. Could everyone's new favorite artist be the mysterious and controversial Russian figure reincarnated?

[ow-old-men]

Faces / Changes

Two immortal shapeshifters find each other. Again

——————————⋆♱✮♱⋆——————————

The first time Jaime becomes painfully aware that he is lovely, Kassem wears an unfamiliar face.

It’s not the first time. They’ve stumbled across each other with bodies fresh and impermanent, faces morphed or hidden before and it won’t be the last either. Time has slung them into each other’s orbit uncountable times already. The first time - at what Jaime has heard other, more temporary beings, describe as ‘the dawn of time’ - he’s pretty sure neither of them were much more than formless clouds of heat and potential. If Jamie had figured out how to give himself anything resembling eyes a few millennia before he did, there’s no doubt in his mind that Kassem would have been beautiful, even then.

No, the newness is not anything newsworthy in and of itself and that is not why the realization suddenly carves through his chest like a knife.

Kassem is leaning back on his hands in the shade, his face remade in a cascade of unfamiliar angles, his hands suddenly slender and free of the freckles Jaime spent a week mapping out sometime last century. He would recognize him anywhere.

Jaime puts his hand to the small of some woman's back, parts the sea of people gathered on the square and walks. He knows that Kassem has seen him, knows where this ends and that it still has to begin somewhere. So he stops a couple of meters away from the low table Kassem is sitting at. He wavers on his feet, two women dressed in flowy robes pass between them.

“You look good,” he says and can’t help that there is a breathy, too honest quality to it. Like he’s run miles through the cold, breath stuck in his throat and cheeks flushed. Kass just looks at him, smiles mostly with his eyes. Eyes that, Jaime suddenly notices, have retained their teint of burned amber. A flash of sunset though his midnight gaze. He would have been no less terrifically beautiful with eyes made wholly anew, and yet Jaime finds a pang of gratitude tingles through his spine.

“Thank you,” Kassem says, and like always, he manages to say it like it’s hiding some shared joke, “you too.”

Jaime runs a flighty hand over his own biceps, shrugs almost unapologetically. “Same old, same old.”

Kassem smiles until his eyes nearly close with it. He nods, almost imperceptibly. “Come sit anyway.”

Jaime does.

“What have you been up to?” Kassem asks and raises a teacup to his lips while Jamie shuffles carefully down beside him. Their knees do not touch under the table, but the few centimeters of air between them buzzes like a beehive.

He shrugs. He makes it a point not to count the years and simply let time bubble past like a river. He knows not how many years he is accounting for now, and right now he remembers only dimly exactly what he’s been. Briefly he was a wildfire along the coast of North America, wading through the flames that felt as much a part of him as this current face he wears. For an even shorter amount of time, he planted corn and traveled slowly further south, wearing a man’s face and a wide brimmed hat pulled down low. Mostly he’s waited with no real sense of what all this waiting will net him. At times he wrote flighty diary entries, through the fire scorched the majority and all were in some script he no longer thinks anyone but he could decipher.

“I hear you went on tour?” he says instead and that makes Kassem hunch his shoulders with a sudden burst of laughter.

“A tour?” he asks and the laughter bubbles in his throat and in his voice. Jaime adjusts how he’s sitting, feels the buzzing pride in his hands.

“You wrote, last time, some poetry” he says and is again betrayed by the tone, wistful and secretive like he hadn’t planned for it to be. “I’d hoped you got to share some of it?”

And this time it’s Kassems turn to shrug. He twirls the teacup once, then twice, looks up and Jaime is treated to the freckles suddenly scattered like secrets high on his cheeks. “Most of them weren’t meant for other people.”

At times, Jaime feels crude, almost unfinished, compared to the man beside him. He is a creature of heat and fire and malleable sudden change, and yet he finds that he’s become primarily a creature of habit.

His face is easy, now that he’s learned it’s shape. It stays intact and rarely flickers. He tries, for fun or out of boredom, to reimagine what he could be and finds that he catches glimpses of himself suddenly in mirrors and he’s become the thing he fought to change.

His self seems unavoidable. The shape of his nose the only one he can seemingly dream up. And yet he knows that he changes, right then and there. No blooming freckles, no glint blazing through his iris, but there is something.

“Well, I thought it pretty great.”

“Of course you did.”

He raises his hands reflexively. “I know great art when I see it.”

He’s not sure, but he’s pretty sure Kassem rolls his eyes at him. One of his hands lands on the table with the distinct clink of a ring wrapped around one finger. And it’s like the sound dislodges something in Jaimes chest. Or dislodges something hanging above his head that’s lingered there for a while. He stares, transfixed, at Kassems hands and finds, for the first time consciously, that he is beyond lovely.

Beautiful in a way that defies the very definition of that word. He could be anything - has been anything and then some - and yet the thing that is not beauty would still cling to him. It settles like a dying star in the pit of his stomach. It is almost unbearable when Kassem at last looks over, one brow slightly raised. It is both a question and a declaration that he already knows. Mostly it’s a dare.

Behind them, the crowd shuffles on through the market square.

“Would you care for a walk?” Jaime asks after a beat, exactly like he’s been prompted too. Kassem measures him up once, a darting heartbeat of a look over. Then he nods and stretches a hand out to the side after his cane. The eye contact never wavers.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The sun is still enormous and orange. Jaime knows from the taste of the air, that the sea isn’t far, but he has no idea what narrow streets he’d have to walk down to get there. It doesn’t feel important anyway. There sits a bubbling laughter in his throat and a flighty restlessness in his palms while Kassem walks and retells most of the time they’ve spent apart.

Then he falls silent. Jaime can almost hear the waves, at least he thinks so. The very air glows in soft orange.

Kassem runs a hand across the back of his skull. One of his thumbs digs into the strong tendon right where the skull and spine become one. His hands are soft.

“I think I’d know you anywhere,” he mumbles and pulls Jaime close until their lips meet. Hungry and soft and familiar. Halfway, Jaime wants to pry his eyes open and see if Kassems face changes and yet stays the same.

He doesn’t. He keeps them screwed shut and takes and takes. His hands find their way to Kassems shoulders, seemingly without needing any instructions. Holds him careful and desperate. He knows, can feel and in no way control, how his own face morphs - folds and becomes. It doesn’t matter. He’s learned by now he can’t become something that doesn’t look like the thing he is. Can’t become something that wouldn’t fit in the way Kass cups a palm around his jaw.

So he stays the same. And changes.

[fieriframes]

[We're in Vermont, so I'm going with this cheese I get my kicks, and I wanna start a rager, but I wanna dance like I'm on the video. I've got a fever for the violent behavior. I'm sweating bullets like a modern Romeo?]

[qazastra]

caved and bought a jug of espresso... groceries are so goddamn expensive here anyway and there's one place to get coffee within walking distance and i dont even know when its open

[mash4077confessions]

Vermont guy again, is Oliver wearing the giant purple cardigan in one episode? If it is, the way these prop guys can keep track of stuff for so long baffles me, good for them

Hi Vermont Guy 👋

I'd have to re-check but I wouldn't be at all surprised if Oliver got to wear the purple cardigan.

In the episode "Springtime", Lt. Simmons is seen wearing the same red satin robe that Hawkeye wears in the pilot episode.

Everything gets reused. Sometimes you can make a fun in universe reason for this. Like with B.J.

B.J. is seen wearing this really ridiculously short blue bathrobe for awhile after he first arrives. This same blue bathrobe was previously worn by Margaret.

I headcanon that B.J. either lost his bathrobe or didn't realize he would need one, so Margaret lent him hers, because she has an extra (unlike most people in camp, who only have the one).

[screechingsandwichhologram]

years later after the war : hamilton goes to visit jean

ham : why the fuck did you choose to move to vermont

jean : bc it's nice here. shut the fuck up

ham : it's literally populated by deserters from the army and loyalists. doesn't that get annoying

jean : it's accepting here asshole

ham : ????

jean : how the hell did you get with laurens if you couldn't tell i was of a similar nature.

ham : well william was always after you and you always rejected him so i figured you weren't like us.

jean : william was a british spy, ham.

ham : .... okay fair

ham : is it really that accepting here?

jean : in my town? no one gives a shit what you do in private as long as it's not public

ham : must be nice.

jean : yeah it is.

ham : so,,, can i meet your twin sister i've heard so much about ?

jean : *panicking* uhhhh no she's sick

[iloveschiaparelli]

New thing discovered: Hungry + unsolicited critique = i want to kill

[glitchy-furby]

new friend, this is Cappuccino the Pound Puppy! he's been at the antique store for months and i felt bad about him being all alone. now he can comfy with me and befriend my mom's pound puppy.

[prussianmemes]

you can summon the demons and skinwalkers from the ghettos of hartford and new haven connecticut by putting up your old car for sale on facebook marketplace.

these creatures are of another world.

[laststandx3]

I think the closest thing to a god is Dave K. Who told the men's stories and cried when they were shooting deaths and still loves his little guys so much that he spent hours with us, answering questions about them and imaging a different ending for them. I think it's him that loves them more than God does.