#and other alliterative descriptors

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

a Mr. Beagle warmup for the masses! he continues to be so soft and soothing to scribble!

[kaeyapilled]

SAME SAME

I have so many thoughts about the in-universe implications of some things, if not removed for being video game mechanics. Artifacts especially. Also, the personal pocket dimensions. The Traveler definitely, cutscene confirmed, canonically has one they summon from and have since before Teyvat. In order for the field tiller quest to make sense, Dainsleif disappearing the eye has to be literal. There's just - no way for that to work with the entire ruin guard eye tucked under his arm, even if we just couldn't see it. Amber doesn’t have Baron Bunny following her around, and in the manga I believe she literally summons it. But, like, it's a real physical item, not an Oz. I feel we also see some other Vision holders' weapons summoned in cutscenes? Probably? maybe also in the manga, I'm not certain, but they do have weapons they weren't storing on their persons previously. Obviously there's idles but I'm gonna assume Diluc isn't magically summoning a whole live bird. In gameplay, Klee summons bombs, but she canonically keeps them in pack and hides them - why bother if she could just disappear them for safe keeping? Why not have a whole demand to have vision holders transfer bulk shipments for max capacity, and for safe keeping for likely-to-be-stolen items? How do you rob someone who can do that? How long can a non-Traveler vision holder keep something in there? What happens if they die? The visionless NPCs certainly can't - it would be utilized and completely undermine all the many, many quests and problems and inconveniences about carts and transportation and manpower etc they have. What happens if you try to out a non-magic alive thing in there? Lots of writers call it a vision compartment, but as the fandom is always asking on every topic every: what's up with Dainsleif?

Bursts and their names are voice line canon, but character do way many elemental things outside of their skill/burst abilities. ("Dandelion Field" specifically.) Are these just chosen descriptors for specific things you can do with vision, and not limited to them? Do they feel different? Do you make up the names? What's up with that? How many are actually called that in-universe - I'm sure not everyone would be designating fancy alliterative names to all their individual superpowers.

not what you were talking about, but in relation to the idea of Traveler having infinite magic pockets, one of my favorite Traveler-the-Character headcanons is the idea of them having food/resource scarcity trauma because... don't recall how much they strictly do need food or don't besides that they do eat, but they've been implied to be alive for a very long time. Something just tickles me about the idea of (near?) infinite worlds, and how even if 90% of them have things you can eat or are compatible with somehow, a theoretical "10%" of infinity is still the chance to go centuries upon centuries without encountering a world not hostile to you, or that hasn't deteriorated to a horrible state of danger. Even if it's not food, specifically, just... safe stuff. Teapot Nahida points out in-game that they apparently canonically grab all the mint and such they see. It's a joke about video game behavior, but also! We don't know what they had on them before being cast to Teyvat and that they lost when that happened! And if you need to be that prepared for any number of any type of worlds before you come across another one this hospital to you, it's a gamble to have enough no matter how many years prior you spend gathering. On one hand I feel like that kind of takes away from the whimsy-ness their travels are somewhat connotated with? but idk. Also when food comes up they have a reoccurring thing about saving money items etc. gotta level up those talents

idk perhaps something in canon we know about their traveling or the hoyoverse contradictes this, and feel free to disagree, but I like the concept. drop the pre-Teyvat Traveler lore PLEASE

anon i forgot to respond to your ask im so sorry. it's been a few days since the discussion but yes so true i love to think about this

[adaliak]

fic writer interview

Thanks for the tag @tessiete (and for remembering that I once used to write fic hahaha - hopefully will again tho!)

Name/nickname: Adalia

Fandoms: Star Wars is my one & only, baby! (I’ve considered stepping outside of it, but no other fandom obsession has ever been as strong or pervasive)

Two shots? Love me a 2-shot! I’ve got a couple of them: The Bacta Tank - the first part is a baby Anakin story & the second part is Vader reflecting on it - and Analyzing Anakin in which Anakin sees a therapist and then returns to see her as Vader (hmm guess that’s a theme for me)

Most-popular multi-chapter fic: That would be my Comfortember from last year, which is a series of one-shots about Anakin’s first year at the Temple - basically lots of very soft & fluffy Obi & Ani interactions, with some angst & foreshadowing thrown in cuz... Star Wars.

Actual worst part of writing: Staring at a blank page. Once I have some words, it’s a little easier, but opening that doc to start ugh

How you choose your titles: No methodology really - sometimes it’s just a simple descriptor - I do enjoy alliteration though and have quite a few alliterative titles

Do you outline? Nope. I mostly write one-shots so it’s not really neccessary.

Ideas you probably won't get around to, but wouldn't it be nice: Hmm i have a modern AU Obi-Wan & Anakin that I do still think about sometimes so it’s possible... but don’t hold your breath

Callouts @ me: Any excuse for a Jedi hug - I’ve written entire fics just to get to a particular hug

Best writing traits: Dialogue - it’s what comes easiest to me - having to write what people are actually doing while they talk is hard

Spicy tangential opinion: Fics are fantasy & there are no bad fantasies. Let people write what they want to write. Tags exist for a reason so if something bothers you, don’t read it - it’s as simple as that.

tagging: @dells-bells @dilfdarthvader @rexismycopilot @hellowkatey @stolen-pen-name23 @calltomuster

[iamthespineofmybook]

Listening to The Science of Discworld 3: Darwin's Watch again, and I had an idea for a permutation on H. G. Wells' The Time Machine.

Rather than the Morlocks and Eloi, humanity has speciated into three forms, alliteratively and succinctly called Beauty, Brain, and Brawn humans. These descriptors, though, aren't the whole story.

For example, beauty humans aren't just nice to look at, but also good at painting and other visual arts and can convince most people to do what they want. Brawn humans, in addition to being very strong and tough, are more than capable of understanding very complex rules, especially when they play their games, which get more complex as time goes on. And brain humans may be more focused on intellectual pursuits, but they are also good at multitasking.

There would, of course, be friction between the factions, but there would also be some who find that cooperation helps all of them, so the main character would probably be doing their best to get all three human subspecies working together.

[valdomarx]

Ok so I’ve seen a few one shots about if Jaskier suddenly was able to hear Geralt’s thoughts but like what about the other way around? Geralt would at first be like “fuck now I’ll never get silence” but then he starts to pick up on just how beautiful Jaskier thinks the world is. He can hear him trying to find the perfect rhyme for his new ballad. The affectionate words that Jaskier is too afraid to say. Geralt finds the beauty in everyday life from simply listening to how Jaskier sees the world

At first it was a godsdamned headache.

A fight with a mage, an errant spell, a loud pop, and then Geralt could hear every one of Jaskier’s thoughts. It’s not clear which of them this is worse for, but Yennefer had looked them over and declared the spell should wear off in a few days, so until then they’re going to have to tough it out.

Geralt thought Jaskier was loud when he talked, but that was nothing compared to his thoughts. They were a constantly running stream of irrelevant chitchat and trite observations, interrupted by childish daydreams and melodramatic narratives.

And the music. By gods, the music.

LA da da dah da da da dah da LA da da dah da da dah daaaaa

“Will you stop?“ Geralt snaps. If he never has to hear that accursed fishmonger’s daughter song ever again, it would be fine by him.

“Oh.” Jaskier looks chastened. “Sorry. I’ll try.”

And then Geralt has to listen to his agonised attempts to keep his mind quiet and to hide how hurt and embarrassed he is.

Geralt feels a bit guilty about that, but it’s not his fault Jaskier has so many feelings. It’s exhausting just listening to them.

--

It’s not always awful, though.

They pass a field of flowers, and Geralt sees it as he’s been trained: there is celandine, used for mixing potions, and there is bison grass, used for blade oils.

But today he hears how Jaskier sees it: the bright yellow flowers joyfully upturned to the sun, the soft green grasses undulating in the breeze like the waves of the sea, the heady floral scent intertwining with the dust of the road and the comforting background of Roach and of Geralt, mixing together into a perfume that suggests adventure.

Geralt recalls a conversation from long ago. You smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak. At the time, he’d thought those were empty words, flowery nonsense from a child who liked spinning fantastical poetry.

Now he wonders if this is genuinely how Jaskier sees the world. And if he’s been feeling this strongly and observing this closely all this time.

--

It’s not so bad when Jaskier concentrates, when he corrals his thoughts into order and focuses on a new song or poem. The whirling of his mind is more streamlined, less distracting.

It’s almost... nice.

Lovely garroter... hmm, no... gorgeous garroter. No, too alliterative. Or, hmm, keep it simple... garroter, jury and judge.

“The last one,” Geralt says without thinking about it. “It flows nicely. It doesn’t need a descriptor, the music carries the sentiment.”

There’s a whirlwind of emotions in Jaskier’s head which whip by too fast for Geralt to pick up on. In the end, Jaskier tilts his head and smiles, and Geralt can hear how much he appreciates his input. But there’s an undercurrent of sadness to Jaskier’s thoughts which he doesn’t quite understand.

--

Geralt sighs as he slides into the warm bath Jaskier has prepared for him. His whole body relaxes until he tries to comb through his hair with his fingers and finds it hopelessly matted with monster guts.

"Let me help," Jaskier says. "Don't pout at me. I know you enjoy this."

He's right, of course, and Geralt grunts his assent. Jaskier's careful fingers slide into his hair, gently untangling the mess.

I enjoy it too. You have no idea how much. The thought slips from Jaskier's mind, and Geralt chooses to respect his privacy by ignoring it.

He ducks his head under the water to wash the gunk away. When he breaks the surface, Jaskier is smiling softly at him.

You're beautiful, Jaskier thinks but doesn't say.

That's... well. Geralt has no idea what to think about that.

I'd make you feel good every day if you'd let me. The words crystallise in his mind, clear as day, and with them a rush of heat and affection. Overhearing it feels like the warm water closing over his head, soothing and terrifying at the same time.

Jaskier is giving him an out, he realises. He could ignore the thoughts, write them off, not respond. Nothing has been said out loud, nothing that can't be covered in plausible deniability.

He could ignore it, but perhaps he doesn't want to. Perhaps it's time that he uses his words. He knows what Jaskier is thinking, but he's seen to it that Jaskier has no idea what he's thinking.

He takes Jaskier's hand in his own. "I do enjoy this," he says. "I like it when you look after me."

A flurry of thoughts pass through Jaskier's head, sweet and kind and filthy by turns. Geralt hears them loud and clear, and judging by the way Jaskier is blushing, he knows he's been heard.

Geralt raises an eyebrow in interest. "Hmm."

Perhaps this thought sharing business wasn’t so bad after all.

[drunkonstolenmead]

Why do cliches become cliches?

If there is any piece of advice that writers give to other writers, it’s to avoid cliches.  I myself, when asked to review others’ writing, have historically made many of my crossings out and dire notes in red ink around cliched phrases or cliched ideas in the writing.   As I recall, I justified my attitude by saying that once a striking phrase has become conventional, what powers of imagery it once had have been worn out.

Lately, however, I have come to suspect that it is not so; and that certain phrases and certain tropes gain more power the more they are used.  For instance, when I say “red as blood,” perhaps the original shock of such a comparison is diminished; but nonetheless, one knows immediately what color I am describing; and all of the culturally-bound connotations of the phrase “red as blood” are at once summoned up, which would not have happened had I used a more original phrase.  Moreover, many such phrases are supremely useful poetically:  they fit themselves very nicely to the most traditional mode of English poetry, alliterative verse; and it is therefore essential for anyone who wants to sing such verse extemporaneously without first writing it down to have a big store of such phrases.

 Setting aside the usefulness of cliched phrases in general, I have come to wonder what it is that makes any one phrase stick and become a cliche.   I think there are certain criteria that determine it.  On the one hand, there is an aesthetic criterion:  the phrase generally has to fit a certain time-honored verbal aesthetic of the English language, one which native English speakers unknowingly value.  On the other hand, there is an ethical criterion:  there must be something about the phrase that affirms, or that is at least compatible with, traditional values which English speakers knowingly or unknowingly endorse.  If a phrase fits both criteria, it is likely to become a cliche.

As aesthetic criteria I propose the following as some.  Not all of these must necessarily be fulfilled, but at least one of them.

    -Assonance and consonance;

   -Strong rhythmic pulse, usually consisting of either two or four 

      beats;

   -Parallelism;

   -Opposites;

   -Complementary pairs; and

   -Repeated or mirrored rhythms. 

 Let me consider my favorite example, the phrase "last but not least."  Here we have a four syllable phrase with two main stresses.  These stresses fall on the very first and very last of the four syllables, giving the whole phrase the shape /xx/.  And so we have so far fulfilled our criteria of strong rhythmic pulse and mirrored rhythms.  Now, the two strongest beats are reinforced by their consonance:  l s t : l s t.  The only thing differentiating the words is the vowel.  And so, by being at opposite ends of a mirrored rhythm and bolstered by consonance, these two words are indexed to each other.  They are a complementary pair, both acoustically and conceptually. 

At first it is not obvious what traditional cultural values are embedded in the phrase:  but they're in they're, sure as day.  The fact that "last" would ever require the modifier "but not least" tells us several things: 

   -That we care very much about the sequence, the precedence, of 

      entities, especially people;

   -That we connect that precedence to the importance of people

     relative to each other;

   -That being last is a conspicuous position, potentially conspicuous

    by being least important;

   -That we care enough about the relationship between precedence

    and status to specify "but not least." 

 That these values precede the phrase is important to note.  Cast around in your head to coin a similar phrase.  You will surely think of odd pairs like "bumbling but not bumpy" or some such; but you will discard them.  It is not as if you couldn't derive values from the phrase "bumbling but not bumpy;" but whatever those values are, they do not sufficiently align with those ancient ones you hold unaware for the phrase to be worth keeping.  Those phrases that you do not discard, those that feel viable, are those that hit upon ancient values -- upon ideas you didn’t even know you condoned.  

 Let me consider another one.  I propose the phrase "filthy rich." Aesthetically it has a modest amount going for it:  it’s a good two-beat phrase with the same vowel on either side.  Semantically, though, it’s a little puzzling:  “filthy” cannot claim any obvious connection to the word rich.  It’s not like “golden rich” or “kingly rich” or “fat-cat rich,” in which the modifying words have an obvious connection to riches.  But the phrase has stuck.   The reason, I deem, is that it aligns with our traditional values.  Consider, for a moment, the way in which the phrase “filthy rich” is used:  it is rarely flattering, in fact usually derisive.  It immediately evokes a certain kind of wealth, the kind that makes its owner vulgar and carnal and bestial, the kind that seems to dirty his character.  We value restraint; we value moderation; we value understatement; and we hate hubris of any kind.  Such a phrase as “filthy rich” would never have gained traction in a culture that correlated wealth and virtue.  This being so, when we use the phrase “filthy rich,” even in passing as a descriptor, it evokes and affirms our latent attitudes.

[anonymouse-thoughts]

[In the beginning...] [Those three were the first...]

@luluthorn​ @starlit-winter​ I bring you even longer ML lore headcanons~

—————

     Are you still there? Are you still listening? Ah, good. See that you stay focused as I will not be repeating myself. If you wish to understand what is happening to you now, you must first know the events that led up to it. Yes, even those so ancient they precede history itself. You, like most humans, view time as self-contained snippets that can be examined individually. You think this particular story started only when you came into it, but it began long before you and will continue long after. You are but a page – a mere paragraph, even – that is being flipped through in this great tome. You would do well to remember that. Although… just because your part here is short does not mean it is insignificant. That too you would do well to remember. 

     Now, let us resume

~

     Those three were the first kwamis and the most powerful by far, but they were not the only ones. As the universe expanded, new concepts came into existence. With each new concept, one of the clusters left from All’s consciousness would draw in on itself in a period of silent incubation until it too contained its own individual spark. Null would watch over these too, though less intimately than with the original three. Null extended blankets of Nothingness to wrap around each new awareness as it formed but never again provided care to them individually. The attention granted to the first three had been given on account of their connection to All. Each new kwami that formed, like all conscious beings, was still connected to All by the very nature of their being – but with an increasing degree of separation. As a general rule, the earlier the kwami came into existence, the greater their proximity to what had been All’s consciousness. And, by extension, the greater the strength of their abilities.

     All kwamis were – or rather, are – manifestations of the abstract. After the first three came to be, all others fell into one of their domains. In this way, the kwamis were organized into courts that contained hierarchies within them. They were the Court of Creation, the Court of Chaos, and the Court of… Calamity… The original three–

~

     “Calamity?” 

     “Yes, Calamity,” the small tawny figure huffed. 

     “But you said earlier that the first three kwamis were Creation, Chaos, and Destruction.” 

     His golden eyes narrowed and he hovered closer to the girl’s face. “I also said not to interrupt.” 

     She rolled her yes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

     One of the boys next to her seemed distraught by the confrontation. The notes he’d been scribbling rapidly ceased and he began to chew on the back of his pen, a nervous tick he’d picked up in the last few months. 

     “Well, which is it?” asked the second boy, drawing their mentor’s attention from the girl and onto him. “You told us to pay attention and we are. So, was the third being the avatar of Calamity or Destruction?” 

     The floating figure’s usually wide eyes were narrowed into slits. He seemed to be deliberating on whether to scold or answer them. Finally, he let out one last agitated sigh and relaxed. 

     “He was – is both. Or neither. The true names of kwamis and things related to them is beyond your comprehension. If I spoke them or any other words in the true language, the language of kwamis, you would not even hear half of them, and you would certainly not be able to replicate them. Anyways, if you did hear them in full then the names would likely drive you mad. These are not names meant for the likes of you.” 

     Seeing the unsatisfied looks and pouts the three kids were directing at him, the kwami closed his eyes and sighed once again. With his eyes still shut he began to speak, only this time instead of words came a series of melodic chimes. The tune was pleasant and ethereal and, despite its loveliness, headache-inducing. The kids began to squirm in discomfort and then the bolder boy yelped in pain. Immediately the kwami fell silent. His golden eyes seemed to be glowing when he opened them again and the boy felt they were peering into his very core. The boy broke eye contact first and the kwami’s frown turned into a satisfied smirk. 

     “And that was just nonsensical babbling. I skirted around the true names of the objects I mentioned for the most part but when I came closer even that was too much for you.”

     “But it was so…” the boy looked up at a loss for words. 

     “Pretty,” the girl finished, rubbing at her temples. 

     At this the kwami gave a gentle smile. “Yes, our language is very pretty. But it is not meant for you. Destruction is probably a more apt descriptor in your tongue but even that is not quite right. Perhaps decay would be a better term. The matter manipulated by this kwami was not necessarily turned to rubble, it was just… worn down to various degrees. True destruction came from the joining of this kwami and the kwami of Chaos.” 

    “Then why not just call it decay and be over with it? Why Calamity?” 

    The kwami’s cheeks seemed to be tinged with a soft yellow and it occurred to the boy who had previously been taking notes that the kwami was blushing. 

    “None of these terms are perfect but the ‘Court of Calamity’ is alliterative and I find it has more linguistic appeal,” he mumbled in response. 

    There was a pause as the kids silently blinked and then they all burst into laughter. The kwami’s cheeks grew increasingly golden and he narrowed his eyes once again. 

    “Do you wish to hear the rest or not?” he asked in indignation. After a few more chuckles the kids managed to suppress their giggling so the narration could proceed.

~

     The Courts of Creation, Chaos, and Calamity were headed by their respective kwamis. The original three did not take a tangible shape that humans could freely interact with until a few millennia ago. Their forms prior to that would not make sense to you, but the ones they settled into are still indicative of their natures so they will suffice.

    The kwami of destruction, decay, calamity, or whatever else you wish to refer to him as was the largest of the three. He modeled his form after a black cat, sleek and predatory. His eyes were a vivid green with dark slits. He kept the fangs, tail, and paw pads of his animal muse, along with three tendrils. Two of the tendrils extended from either cheek and the third shot up from between his ears. In your tongue, he was named Plagg.

    The kwami of creation was smaller but had far greater magic. She was a deep red and had only two tendrils – one extending from each side of her forehead. Her form was inspired by the land’s revered ladybug. There was a large black spot on her forehead, above her bright blue eyes. She also had a spot on each cheek and one on her back, slightly higher than the base of her three-tuft tail. This was Tikki.

    The last, the embodiment of Chaos, struggled with their shape. They were too unstable to manifest themselves properly and drew on the the forms of their companions instead. They were the smallest of the three, smaller even than Tikki. They mimicked the basic form of Plagg in a crude imitation of a black cat. However, their loose form gave a “fuzzy” appearance as small bristles of energy slipped out of their mold before they could be solidified. They too had a tail that was long like Plagg’s, but it pronged into three tufts like Tikki’s. Single tendrils extended from the tip of each ear while three-pronged tendrils stuck out from their cheeks and forehead. This kwami had one green eye and one blue. Both eyes were catlike in shape and fill, but the pupils were rounded. They came to be known as Hexx.

    Directly under Tikki, Plagg, and Hexx were three other kwamis. The kwamis of Life, Growth, and Death followed closely after the original three. These took form as a phoenix, a hydra, and a hellhound. Another two joined each of these to form their own triads. The pair that accompanied Life was that of the physical – they represented actions, both offensive and defensive. The bee and the turtle. Growth and Death were joined by kwamis of the mind and soul, thoughts and emotions. The kwamis of the mind, the fox and the crow, fell into the same triad as the hydra. Those of the soul, the butterfly and the peafowl, were with the hellhound. Though they were slightly more powerful than the others in each of their triads, the phoenix, hydra, and hellhound never came to have any other kwamis under their own domains. They, instead, watched over many other phenomena in the universe – most of which are beyond the scope of this lesson. The remaining six each had another triad of kwamis under their domain and those each had three more under them so that, in total, the kwamis of Creation, Chaos, and Calamity each had twenty-seven others in their courts. These eighty-four kwamis were eventually bound to your physical plane by the amulets you call the miraculous. 

    And only a fraction were bound willingly.

[swimintothesound]

Lil Pump Versus The Elderly: A Long and Storied History

Letter From the Editor: The writer of this piece would like to apologize in advance for the abject stupidity contained within the following wall of text. If you’re brave enough to subject yourself to the mania that’s about to unfold, then you have my admiration, gratitude, respect, and appreciation. Thank you for understanding, and may God have mercy on your soul.

Pumpology 101: The Mystifying Origins of Gazzy Garcia

Lil Pump is a dreadlocked 17-year old rapper from Florida who first began making waves in late 2016 when his song “D Rose” became an unexpected viral hit. Over the span of a few short months, the wrist-obsessed track had garnered millions of plays on Soundcloud and over one hundred million curious YouTube clicks. By the end of 2017, Lil Pump (whose real name is Gazzy Garcia) had established himself as a mainstream success when his song “Gucci Gang” peaked at #3 on the Billboard charts. Spawning from his self-titled debut, the alliterative hit quickly became the focal point of a heated debate on the declining state of rap music rap music, the ongoing idocratization of popular culture, and the bare minimum required to pass for lyricism in the year of our Lord 2017.

Expertly covered by both Rolling Stone and The New York Times, Mr. Pump has become a figure at the forefront of the budding “Soundcloud Rap” movement. This subgenre is a spin-off of Trap that’s focused on crafting a particular brand of blown-out, vapid, and repetitive hip-hop that, while lyrically substanceless, still manages to be catchy, memorable, and (most importantly) energetic. It’s hype-up music that’s been distilled so many times that words practically don’t matter.

I’ve already discussed my conflicted feelings on the genre back in August, and while some members of this scene are still objectively-horrific human beings, I’m willing to admit that I’ve come around to Lil Pump thanks to the catchiness of the aforementioned “Gucci Gang.” While the man himself should never be looked up to as an idol, Garcia is still making exciting creations within a field that I’m morbidly fascinated by.

The Lyrics (or Lack Thereof)

Like most rappers, Pump’s songs typically center around the same award-winning trifecta of drugs, money, and women. What makes “Gucci Gang” unique is the fact that it ticks all these boxes while also managing to be accessible to a mainstream audience. Soundcloud Rap’s previous biggest success came in the form of “Look At Me!,” a song whose lyrics are probably just a touch too edgy for mainstream audiences.

Meanwhile “Gucci Gang” has just the right mix of garish colors and catchy lyrics, both of which are accompanied by a distinct feeling of “newness” that helped it stand out from the crowd. Additionally, the song’s bouncy three-syllable chorus proved perfectly memeable, ripe for parody, and endlessly reworkable, all of which led to a song that hit, and lingered in the cultural consciousness for longer than anyone ever expected. Possibly even a reflection of our society at large, “Gucci Gang” is an undeniable success no matter how you cut it.

Outside of the song itself, Lilliam Pumpernickel has also gained fans through numerous extra-musical antics including second-floor balcony jumps, a love for iCarly’s Miranda Cosgrove, and a running joke that he’s a Harvard Graduate. Essentially, he’s not afraid to be a meme, and that lack of fear makes him even stronger. Complete with his own catchphrase, there are many reasons to be entertained by Lil Pump, and all of these elements combined help explain his meteoric rise to success.

The Emergence of an Astronomical Happening

Though my numerous listens to “Gucci Gang,” I began to approach the song the same way that many others did: first with curiosity, then ironic enjoyment, then genuine adoration. I can’t stress enough that the lyrics are nothing to write home about, however one stanza in particular stands out amongst the rest like a bright, shining star:

My lean cost more than your rent, ooh (it do)

Your momma still live in a tent, yuh (brr)

Still slangin' dope in the 'jects, huh? (yeah)

Me and my grandma take meds, ooh (huh?)

These bars initially seemed like a single metaphysical barb amongst a sea of relatively-straightforward brags and boasts, so I explained them away as a one-off lyric with no deeper significance. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this line was just the tip of the iceberg.

By the time December had rolled around, “Gucci Gang” had won the honor(?) of being recognized not once, but twice in Swim Into The Sound’s 2017 Un-Awards. While part of a largely-negative post, I shined a relatively-positive light on “Gucci Gang” as my second-biggest “WTF” moment of the year (second only to Bhad Bhabie) in which I found myself surprisingly endeared to both equally-trashy artists. Later on in the proceedings, I cited the lyrics above specifically as the single “Weirdest Flex” of 2017 (barely edging out a Drake lyric about napping).

In researching the Pump-penned lines for that write-up I found myself jumping between various Genius pages and in doing so, I quickly began to uncover a conspiracy deep as the Carly Rae Jepsen Cinematic Universe: Lil Pump has an unshakable fixation with the elderly.

The Quest For A Universal Truth

It’s no secret that artists tend to use the same concepts, thoughts, and ideas over and over again throughout their work. Usually in hip-hop, these recurring topics (like drugs, money, and women for instance) are framed by using twists on conventional language that are given new meanings within the scene’s culture. From “bricks” to “bands” to “bitches” every possible theme has dozens of different synonyms that can be switched out interchangeably to keep the rhyme fresh and the topic from going stale.

However, slang goes in and out of popular vernacular like the tides of the ocean, and Monsieur Pump is not above these familiar tropes. While drugs, money, and women remain the primary topics around which Pump waves his tales, he, on more than one occasion, has used his grandma, or the grandmother of the listener as a reference point for these interests.

Of course he likes lean, and naturally, he talks about it, but what makes Pump unique is his ability to relate that commonplace idea to the elderly in a hilarious and unexpected way. He’s using age as a barometer by which to measure his own life; the elderly representing an extreme through which he can cover these well-trodden topics.

It’s quite the signature flair for a 17-year-old to brandish, but perhaps through these lines he’s revealing his own obsession with death and mortality. Maybe these grandparent-based lyrics are allowing us a brief peek into the inner machinations of Lil Pump’s mind and we are learning what troubles him on a deep, cosmic, existential level. The philosophical reaper that keeps him up at night. These lines act as an illumination of the human experience as told through the grounded eyes of one man who yells “ESKETIT” like it’s his Pokemon name. What follows is a comprehensive list of every time Little Pump has rapped about senior citizens. You are welcome.

Exhibit #1 - “Gucci Gang”

My lean cost more than your rent, ooh (it do)

Your momma still live in a tent, yuh (brr)

Still slangin' dope in the 'jects, huh? (yeah)

Me and my grandma take meds, ooh (huh?)

For the sake of completeness, we’ll begin with lyrics that started it all. The quote above comprises exactly 25% of the sole verse found on Lil Pump’s breakout hit “Gucci Gang.” In it we find Pump surveying his surroundings, living situation, and pattern of systematic drug use over a bassy beat and twinkling piano line.

First, we get the worrying comparison between the upkeep of his own opiate addiction to monthly rent, then the (uncalled for) implication that the listener’s mother is homeless, and the final cherry on top: the fact that Pump spends quality time popping pills with his grandmother. While the specifics remain vague here, it’s implied that he’s taking drugs recreationally while she is taking them for health reasons.

This being one of Pump’s numerous references to the elderly, the topic’s pervasiveness now leads me to believe that this is both a genuine lyric, as well as a thinly-veiled cry for help. As distressing as the lyric may be, at least he’s spending some quality time with his elders before they pass. Even if it’s a drug-fueled haze, I hope that both parties treasure their remaining time together and cherish each other's company.

Exhibit #2 - “Fiji”

I got Fiji on my neck

I got Gucci on my chest

And my grandma sippin' Tech

Off a Xan like Ron Artes

In this one-off Lil Pump loosie, Young Gazzy uses the artesian water brand as a descriptor for both his jewelry and his sex life. Following a similar structure as “Gucci Gang,” this track features a brief intro, and one verse sandwiched between two short choruses. Clocking in at a mere 88-seconds, “Fiji” is a striking minimalist creation that embraces reductionism and revels in ambiguity.

Within the world of hip-hop, “Water” can actually mean many things. From sex to swagger, the use of ‘water’ in-song is generally something you have to pick up from context clues, and this track is no different. In “Fiji” Pump walks a beautifully-ambiguous line between these typical definitions of earthly possessions and literal water, turning the brand’s name into a primal chant of “I pour Fiji on her neck.”

After a brief water-laced refrain, Pump proceeds into the meat of the song: a 45-word verse that discusses his public persona and ticks all of the seemingly-mandatory drug-based name-drops. He has jewelry on his neck, a Gucci logo tattooed on his chest, and most importantly the incongruous mention of his grandmother casually enjoying some hitech (aka Lean).

Perhaps elaborating on the lines of “Gucci Gang,” this lyric implies that maybe he and his grandmother both enjoy drugs on the same recreational level. Later on in the song he continues:

Slice your auntie in the neck

Lil Pump disrespect

Run up on you with that 40

Grab your grandma by the neck

After the verses earlier drug revelry, Pump seems to “set his sights” on the listener, attacking us via multiple familial ties. In a single moment of clarity he utters “Lil Pump disrespect” as if he knows what he’s doing is morally reprehensible, but remains out of his control. A haunting sentiment to say the least.

His hunger is insatiable, and your grandmother is his target. Violence is the only thing he understands, and your grandmother is the only thing he can grasp onto, both physically and metaphorically. And then, just as suddenly as the attack unfolded, the song fades into nothing, leaving the listener in the bloody aftermath.

Exhibit #3 - “Smoke My Dope”

Whippin' up dope in the trap spot (what)

Sellin' cocaine to your grandma (yuh)

Whippin' up dope in the trap spot (yuh, yuh)

Sellin' cocaine to your grandma (yuh, yuh, yuh, yuh)

In this early-album cut Lil Pump and fellow Florida rapper SmokePurpp trade verses for a compact and chaotic 2-minutes. In Garcia’s second verse he exerts himself enough to present one specific instance of creating and selling drugs over a series of escalating “yuh’s.”

In this simplistic portrayal of Pump’s supply chain, he gives his process away to the listener:

Whip up an indeterminate amount of “dope” within the “trap”

Proceed to sell that cocaine to the listener’s grandmother

Perhaps connected to the seemingly-uncalled-for violence depicted on “Fiji,” these lines seem to explain how Pump has obtained his wealth. I imagine that the elderly are comparatively easy-going when it comes to the purchase and intake of drugs, so it’s presumably easy money for Pump and a decent enough business model. Backed up by voracious twitter claims that echo the song’s lyrics, Pump has given us no reason to doubt him or his business acumen when it comes to selling the white stuff to the Greatest Generation.

Exhibit #4 - “Had”

My loud pack smell like fish tank

My backwoods filled with dumb stank

I can't fuck with you, cause I know all you ni**as stains

My grandma selling loud pack and she selling cocaine

She run up on your block and she'll shoot you in the fuckin' brain

With “Had” it seems that there’s a new wrinkle to Pump’s drug operation as it’s revealed that he’s running a family business by employing his grandmother as a key player.

Depicting his bubbe as savage and violent as himself, this example could possibly explain Pump’s own outwardly-destructive actions as a learned behavior. In portraying a systematic issue within our society, this line directly tackles how family can fail us, or lead us to repeat the same mistakes as those that came before us. It’s a tortured and agonized call for help as Pump removes himself enough to realize the trauma that he has indirectly absorbed and the conditions that he has had no choice but to grow up in.

This all said, it’s still nice that people like Pump’s grandmother can find purpose in the fast-paced working world and be driven by the fulfillment of a hard days work. The fact that she’s willing to kill on top of the drug dealing means that she’s committed to the cause, and is likely quite experienced, even in her old age. At the very least, Pump must come from good genes!

Exhibit #5 - “At The Door”

I got junkies at the door

I could serve you 2 for 4

I could serve you couple Xans

I could feed your bitch some coke

Yeah my Uzi automatic

Make your grandma do a backflip

On this mid-album cut, we see yet another allusion to the violence that Pump has inflicted upon the listener’s grandmother specifically. Perhaps wielded by Pump himself, or maybe even his grandmother (as we saw in “Had), it appears as if the drug dealing illustrated on “Smoke my Dope” has gone sideways for one reason or another, and Pump has been forced to resort to violence.

This line is actually one of the multiple familial references within this verse, the others being father, daughter, and aunt, so while this reference fits squarely in the bounds of the topic at hand, there’s no getting around the persistently-elderly angle that Pump takes.

This is yet another line later echoed in a Tweet by Pump, either lending further credence to his unfeeling savagery, or (perhaps) his commitment to our society’s collective physical fitness by inspiring the elderly to do advanced-level gymnastics.

In Conclusion

None of this was good. While Pump’s initial references to the elderly seemed to be a twisted form of mutual enjoyment, things quickly devolved into selling drugs, and eventually inflicting violence directly on the listener's grandmother.

This analysis is absolute stupidity, but I find it too amusing that a 17-year-old who has so few songs officially released has referenced the elderly half a dozen times throughout the history of his recorded work. The way I see it, there are a few explanations for this lyrical ouroboros:

It’s a creative crutch.

Lil Pump has that little to say that he keeps defaulting to “grandma.”

Deep-seated familial trauma in his own past that Pump may or may not be cognizant of.

Pump thinks that the savagery of his grandma implies, dictates, and directly translates to his own.

By “attacking” the listener and showing disregard for their loved ones, his devil-may-care attitude is preemptively deflecting any criticism they may have of Pump or his music.

Lil Pump truly does fear the uncertainty of death and projects that concern through the multiple references to the elderly in his music. 

It very well could be all or any combination of all of these, but in any case, I feel it’s safe to say that this qualifies as an unhealthy fixation. Whether it’s a profound fear of death, a thinly-veiled attempt to address his own mortality, or irreconcilable childhood trauma, I genuinely hope that Gazzy Garcia can get the help he needs to get over this mental block.

He’s still got many years ahead of him, and a full life to live. If he wants to make it to the status of “Grandpa Pump” he’ll have to overcome this irrational fear and tackle his issues head-on, or else they will continue to emerge in unhealthy ways.

Here’s to you Mr. Pump, I hope you get the help you need and deserve.

I’m sorry for writing this.

[kentonramsey]

The Rise and Fall of the “Busyboy”: Were We Ever So Young?

On the evening of March 5th, as I crossed Houston Street alone en route to a gathering where I’d know next to nobody, I had zero idea that a new term was about to enter my lexicon. That night, I made my last new friend before a world-altering virus sunk its teeth into New York, and it was on this most auspicious occasion that she told me about… the busyboy.

Lea Carey, a talented illustrator and painter, coined the term “busyboy” with her friends not long ago. The descriptor refers to a romantic prospect who responds to your inquiry about making plans with a vague yet helpless reply, something along the lines of: “I’d love to, but I’m so busy right now.”

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Forget the dinner dates!! It’s the one year anniversary of busy man today

love you all even if I don’t have time for you

A post shared by Busy Man (@very_busyman) on Feb 14, 2019 at 7:01am PST

The busyboy… it’s tough to pin him down or identify precisely what afflicts him. He might not have the constitution to ghost you, or to let you down easy with some transparent communication. He might struggle with the task of time management, or a tendency to overcommit (time realists and busyboys alike will note that you only have 168 hours to work with every week). He might have a more myopic sense of his calendar, only planning a few hours or so into the future (it turns out this kind of mindset is rewarded in a pandemic). He might have an inner life so rich it’s tough to carve out room for others. Or maybe, just maybe, here’s where hope springs eternal and the benefit of the doubt lingers ever-present: You’ve just happened to catch him at a bad time. You wonder if the only way to get on the busyboy’s calendar is to propose getting to know each other with hyper-efficiency over a glass of strawberry Soylent.

What exactly is it that keeps a busyboy so busy?

Many have fallen prey to the fun and futile thought experiment of wondering: “What exactly is it that keeps a busyboy so busy?” Is he making his own jam? Learning new Excel shortcuts? Finding a vaccine for the novel coronavirus? Recruiting new guests for his podcast? Playing cornhole? Doubling down on thought leadership or band practice? Digitally detoxing? Those promotional e-mails from Seamless don’t delete themselves, you know! The answer to this question is rarely answered by a busyboy, and more often delivered by a close friend: speculating or dwelling on it is probably not worth your own precious time.

There’s something satisfying about enrobing a phenomenon with exacting language. Better yet, affixed with a gerund, the busyboy glides into verb territory as smoothly as socks across a polished floor in Risky Business. The act of ambivalent filibustering over text message in the 21st century finally has its entry, ready for the Oxford English Dictionary. While the term presents as gendered at first blush, it’s mostly by virtue of its alliterative bounciness from one syllable to the next.

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A post shared by Busy Man (@very_busyman) on Feb 1, 2019 at 6:53am PST

Lea found a captive audience in me, as a recent initiate to the universe of dating, the free marketplace of courtship. Regaling her tales of busyboys past, Lea took on the quality of a sage as I eased back into this complicated arena of unspoken dynamics that I hadn’t experienced in six or so years, back when Tinder was in its infancy. I didn’t have much time to heed Lea’s warning, however, as dating went the way of the woolly mammoth a week later.

This story was originally slated to run in mid-March, and then the pandemic rendered it irrelevant. Experiencing a shelter-in-place order for the first time knocked the wind out of our existing conception of busyness. Now, as we enter a new and muddy period of fluxantine, it seems that the busyboys are beginning to emerge from their burrows and creep back into the mix. Is your local busyboy back in business? If not, maybe they are using their emotional and logistical unavailability for the greater good of humanity, in the name of public health, but somehow I doubt it.

When someone tells you they’re busy, it’s kind of a conversation bomb. It feels weird to pry about what’s occupying them.

I’m of the mind that there are always two sides to a story, so I reached out to a few acquaintances who agreed to answer questions anonymously. One respondent, we’ll call him Roland, described his particular approach to the term “busy” in the field of dating.

“I have not played the busy card to someone I was genuinely interested in… I don’t think it sets a very inviting path,” Roland tells me. “I’m actually more likely to hide how busy I actually am if I’m excited to see someone.” He pauses. “I’ve definitely used ‘busy’ to slow things down.” I asked Roland for clarification here: if he’s implemented the busy card to slow things down with the intention of letting something coast for a bit—or with the end goal of eventually grinding the conversation to a halt. He meant the latter. Roland reflected on how invoking busyness is a kind of linguistic tactic: “When someone tells you they’re busy, it’s kind of a conversation bomb,” he says. “It feels weird to pry about what’s occupying them.”

I spoke with another contact, “Sylvester,” known in his circles for his high emotional intelligence and his insistence on open, transparent lanes of conscientious communication. When posed the problem of the busyboy, Sylvester jokes: “If he says he’s busy, he ain’t wrong—he’s really busy not liking you. Working very hard, tireless hours, at not thinking about you much at all.”

Sylvester is a busy person, but not a busyboy. He doesn’t lean on the blanket term of “busyness” in his dating life, despite having a demanding full-time job and a series of other creative pursuits that take up much of his attention outside the office. “If I like the person, then I explain what it is I have to do and suggest a new time where we get to see each other,” Sylvester tells me. “If I don’t like the person or don’t want to see them, I say that I have something specific so I can’t see them, and then respond less and less until they stop texting me. If they are really interested, then I’m just straight up with them and say I didn’t feel like we’re the right match, or that I met someone else—whatever it was that made me not want to see them,” he explains. “I’m a paragon, if you will, of being straightforward about my good or bad news.”

Graphics by Lorenza Centi.

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