#barroom art

[loverdude]

They make me nostalgic tbh

Don't repost/use 4 anything 🌟 COMMISSION INFO

[matthew-pasquarello]

The Sweet.

charming was the jukebox girl rolling quarters down the pipeline never playing the same song twice but dancing like it was all one long serenade, smooth like barroom oak decorating every inch our eyes comprehend and if there were wolves at the windows they would lick the pane and if the drunks weren’t floating above their stools they’d do the same 

partake in the problems of your interlocked fingers, broken and stuffed into the vents of yesterday 

[made4radio]

Ready or Not [Ch.3]

Explicit | Multi-Chapter | Alastor Art by @lustylita

Pairing: Human!Alastor x OFC

Content Warning(s): Alcohol, Mentions of past abuse and family issues - if I missed anything please let me know!

Word Count: 2.4K

[Previous]

The golden lights overhead illuminated Alastor's caramel-colored skin, adding a warm glow to his features as he meticulously polished a glass behind the bar. The speakeasy was alive with the low murmur of conversations and the occasional clink of ice against glass, creating a lively atmosphere that filled the room. Alice sat alone on her stool, her friends still nowhere in sight.

"Is this where you work?" she asked, leaning her elbows on the smooth dark wood of the bar, her emerald eyes fixed curiously on him.

With a toothy grin, Alastor placed the sparkling glass on its shelf and replied, "Heavens, no! Mine is the voice that serenades the city at night; I host a rather popular radio show, if you recall."

Alice felt her cheeks flush with warmth as she tucked a coppery lock behind her ear. "Oh yes, I think I remember you mentioning that," she admitted sheepishly.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear," He reassured her, his deep amber eyes twinkling with amusement above his thin glasses. "But if you ever find yourself awake at those late hours, you should tune in. My broadcasts are quite a treat, if I do say so myself."

A blush crept onto Alice's freckled skin as she bit her bottom lip lightly. "I'd love to," she confessed. "But unfortunately, I don't own a radio."

"Well, that is a shame," Alastor responded, his lips curling into a half-smile. "We'll just have to fix that now, won't we?"

The girl laughed, a sound that seemed to dance through the air like a delicate melody. "Perhaps one day. For now, I’ve gotta save every penny I can. I want to find my own place instead of relying on Miss Anjanae's kindness."

There was a momentary silence as Alastor's expression softened into something contemplative. He poured himself a ginger ale, the fizz of the carbonation breaking the tension. As he brought the glass to his lips, his gaze never left Alice.

"Saving is a wise choice," he murmured after taking a sip. "Independence is a precious thing. Precious and rare." His voice held a hint of darkness, a shadow that flickered just beneath the surface, as fleeting as the smile that graced his well-defined lips.

Alice's nod was slow, thoughtful. She found a truth in his words that resonated deeply within her. For a heartbeat or two, the barroom's cacophony seemed to recede into a hush, leaving the two of them adrift in their own island of quiet understanding.

"Independence is precious," she finally said, her voice low and steady.

"Indeed it is," Alastor agreed, his gaze lingering on her with an intensity that made her feel as if he could see right through her. His silence was probing, expectant, until it wasn't—until he shattered it with a question that sounded too casual to be innocent. "So tell me, how does a dame like you end up living with my dearest mother? Surely there's a beau out there just dying to make you his pretty little wife."

The words, delivered with a teasing lilt, had Alice's freckles flaring to life against her porcelain skin. The indignation sparked within her, and yet she couldn't help but laugh—a light, airy sound that belied the tightness in her chest.

"Mr. Alastor, I think I might need something stronger to drink if we're going to venture down that particular path," she retorted.

"Is that so?" His smile was a sly curve of lips as he leaned back against the polished wood of the bar. "What's your poison, then, sweetheart?"

"I- I've never actually..." Her admission was a whisper, suddenly shy beneath his penetrating gaze.

"Never?" His eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. "Well then, let me fix you up something nice." Alastor set about his task with the grace of a maestro, the clink of ice against glass punctuating each deliberate movement. He presented her with an Old Fashioned, the amber liquid swirling seductively as he slid it across the bar to her.

"Go on," he urged. "Just take it slow."

Alice brought the glass to her lips, the rich scent of whiskey wrapping around her senses before she took a tentative sip. The burn was immediate, fierce, searing a path down her throat and eliciting a cough from her unaccustomed palate. But as the heat subsided, it left behind a complex warmth that was somehow... comforting.

"Small sips," Alastor advised softly.

She nodded, following his counsel, finding her rhythm with the drink. Emboldened by the Old Fashioned's fiery embrace, Alice began to unravel the thread he'd tugged at.

"My father," she started, the words coming easier now, "he made arrangements with one of his buddies for me to marry his eldest son."

"Ah," The man murmured, leaning forward, his interest peaking as he rested his elbows on the bar, glasses glinting in the low light.

"Yes, 'ah,'" The girl echoed, rolling her eyes. "They're rather well-off, you see. My father... he believes this will secure my future, ensure I'm taken care of." A bitter note crept into her voice, belying the sweetness of her demeanor. "But the man... I can't stand him."

"Rebellious little thing, aren't you?" The edge in his voice wasn't unkind; rather it held a note of respect.

"Perhaps," she conceded, taking another careful sip of her drink. "So, I rejected the proposal. My father—he didn't take it well and I couldn't bear the thought of living under the same roof as him anymore. He’d always been a wrathful man, but I fear I really pushed him over the edge…So, I packed a bag and left."

"My, where did you go?" His curiosity was palpable, his lean frame coiled like a spring, ready to absorb every detail she offered.

"Anywhere. Everywhere. Slept in the park for a few nights," she confessed, her voice a mere murmur over the rim of her glass. "Until I met Miss Anjanae."

"Mother has always had a soft spot for strays," He sighed, his smile tinged with fondness for a moment before it sharpened again. "And she took you in?"

"Like an angel," Alice said, her gratitude clear in her shining eyes. "Fed me, let me wash up, and in return, I helped around the house. And then we came to an agreement that I could stay."

"That is quite the tale, my dear," Alastor mused, his voice a low purr that seemed to vibrate through the smoky air between them. "You've got spunk. Can't say I'm not impressed."

"Well, thank you," Alice replied, her gaze unwavering even as the edges of her world softened with the whiskey's embrace. "I do believe I'll need all the spunk I can muster."

The man leaned forward, his eyes locked onto Alice's as he asked the question that had been burning in the back of his mind. "So, I simply have to know - what is it about this man that you find so disagreeable?"

Her lip caught between her teeth, Alice's gaze flickered away, a tumult of thoughts wrestling within her. He noted the hesitation, the vulnerability in the clench of her jaw. "You don't have to share anything you're not comfortable with, cher," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm that seemed to seep into her very soul.

A warmth spread through her chest, a sensation she hadn't felt in ages. It was as if the man’s words wrapped around her like a protective cloak. How strange it was that this man, whom she half expected to judge or dismiss her, offered solace instead. A prickle of tears threatened her control, and she blinked rapidly in a futile effort to keep them at bay.

"Please, don't apologize," she murmured when she saw his expression fall. "It's not your fault. Not at all."

But the tears betrayed her, one escaping to trace a path down her cheek. Before she could react, Alastor's hand was there, his touch surprisingly gentle against her skin. His thumb swept away the moisture, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "We can't have you ruining your lovely face over such trifles," he quipped, trying to lift the somber mood.

The laugh that bubbled from her lips was unexpected, a sound that seemed foreign to her own ears. His hand lingered, warm and reassuring, before finally retreating, much to her silent dismay.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Alice found the courage to reveal the truth. "Louis... he's a brute, a child in a man's body who throws tantrums when he doesn't get his way." The words poured out of her, a dam broken. "He has no regard for anyone else's feelings, only his own entitlement. And—" Her voice dropped to a whisper, "he's violent. He's…put hands on me before."

The atmosphere shifted, charged with an invisible current as Alastor's demeanor changed, a shadow falling over his features. "I see," he stated, the two simple words hanging heavily between them.

The weight of her confession hung in the air, a thick fog of vulnerability that she had never intended to wade into. The silence stretched between them, taut as a violin string, until his voice cut through, soft yet steady. "In that case," he said, "you can feel free to stay as long as you need." A smile danced on Alice's lips, fragile and hopeful. This night was blossoming into something unexpectedly pleasant.

She once more glanced around the dimly lit speakeasy, realizing her friends were still nowhere to be found. Yet, with Alastor's presence, their absence became an afterthought. He was the last person she expected to find comfort in, but there they stood, two kindred spirits adrift in the same stormy sea.

The band struck up a new melody, slow and beckoning, stirring the smoky air with its sultry notes. Alastor leaned toward her, the scent of sandalwood teasing her senses. "Ever danced before?" he queried, a playful lilt in his transatlantic accent.

"Of course I've danced before," She chuckled, her voice barely above a whisper, betraying her rising excitement.

"Not like this, you haven't," He countered, his hand finding hers with confident ease. He led her onto the dance floor, where shadows played across the faces of the other dancers, all lost in their own worlds.

Close to him now, she felt the solid strength of his body as he pulled her nearer than any gentleman ought. Towering over her by nearly a foot, Alastor was the embodiment of masculine elegance—his broad shoulders tapering down to a trim waist that contrasted sharply with her petite frame. She was porcelain to his caramel, a delicate doll encircled by his protective embrace.

They moved together, bodies swaying to the rhythm, two souls momentarily entwined. After a few heartbeats, curiosity bubbled up within Alice, compelling her to ask, "So, what's your story? Surely you’ve got a wife at home?"

His giggle vibrated through her. "If I had a wife, I certainly wouldn't be here, dancing with a pretty, young thing like you," He replied.

A flush warmed her cheeks, the heat of it reaching the tips of her ears. "So why have you never married? Surely there are plenty of ladies eager to take you off the market."

"Ah, relationships," he mused, his gaze never leaving hers as they spun slowly. "I've had a couple, but none substantial enough to capture my interest for long. I simply moved on."

As they glided across the dance floor, she sensed the layers of Alastor's enigma wrapping tighter around her curiosity. "So, you're content being a bachelor then?" she pressed, searching his face.

"Perfectly content," he affirmed, his voice soft as velvet. "Some things aren’t meant to be sought-out, my dear - they simply come to you when they do, regardless of whether or not you are ready for them."

And in that moment, with the music enveloping them and Alastor's arm possessively around her waist, Alice couldn't help but wonder if she'd unwittingly stumbled upon one of those unexpected instances herself.

The warmth of his hand on her waist seeped through the fabric of her dress, igniting a fire that flickered beneath her skin. Their shared smiles, once carefree, now held a weighted tension as the heat between them thickened.

Alastor's gaze ensnared hers, his amber eyes smoldering with an intensity that made her heart race. He swallowed hard, the movement of his Adam's apple stark against the low lighting, drawing her attention to the sharp line of his throat. As he leaned in, the space between them dwindled until only a breath remained, his face so close she could count the dark lashes that framed his piercing gaze.

Alice's eyes fluttered shut, the world falling away until there was only the anticipation of his lips pressing against hers. Instead, his breath danced across her skin, a teasing caress that traced the curve of her cheek before coming to rest at the shell of her ear. His voice, low and rough, sent shivers down her spine. "I think it's time I get you back home."

Eyes snapping open, Alice's cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and longing. She'd been spellbound by his charm, the gentle strength of his grip, and how effortlessly he led her across the floor. With a nod, she accepted his subtle cue to depart, her body still thrumming with unfulfilled desire.

"Let's," she agreed, her voice a whisper lost amidst the fading music.

Alastor offered his arm, and together they stepped out of the haze of the speakeasy, the cool night air a stark contrast to the warmth they left behind. The city was hushed, save for the distant echo of a streetcar and the soft click of Alice's heels on the pavement. Midnight had long since passed, the moon hanging heavy in the ink-black sky.

"Get some rest," Alastor said as they approached her front door. "I will be joining you and mother for dinner this evening."

"Thank you," She answered with a smile, "I’ll look forward to seeing you, then."

As she reached for the door handle, his voice halted her movements. "Alice," he called out, a note of urgency in his tone. She turned to find him staring intently, his silhouette etched against the streetlights. "Please don't mention tonight's activities to my mother. She'd be beside herself to know I set foot in a place like that."

A giggle escaped her, light and airy. "Your secret is safe with me," she promised, her green eyes glinting with mischief.

"Goodnight, Alice," Alastor said, his smile returning as he tipped his head in a gesture of farewell.

"Goodnight," she echoed, and with one last glance, she slipped inside the house.

[electrificata]

if the various kinds of wine were girls, what would their endearing personal foibles and fighting arts be?

hate this question

chiantigirls are real barroom brawlers, these are bitches who can throw a haymaker thatll knock you into the middle of next year. champagnegirls will bring a knife to a fist fight or a gun fight or any fight. prosecco girls wish champagne girls would stop doing that. syrahgirls have been studying some kind of obscure martial art for decades but will not fight you. petnatgirls are fucking freaks.

[themailedfist-blog]

Pulptober 18th: Average Joe Justice - Jack Burton

Had the good fortune last year to see Big Trouble in Little China in a proper cinema. It's tied first place for my favorite John Carpenter film (with The Thing) and it was a glorious experience on the big screen. I haven't had the opportunity to read the comics starring everyone's favorite trucker, but the film is enough to earn Jack a spot this month. If you haven't seen it, fix that. If you have seen it, watch it again. And remember, in the words of the man himself When some wild-eyed, eight-foot-tall maniac grabs your neck, taps the back of your favorite head up against the barroom wall, looks you crooked in the eye, and asks you if you paid your dues; you just stare that big sucker right back in the eye, and you remember what ol' Jack Burton always says at a time like that: "Have you paid your dues, Jack?" "Yes, sir, the check is in the mail! (poster art by Drew Struzan)

[dragonfruitghosts]

Finally making more art for my Cometkids in my Cometcare Au; here’s my Barroom child, Pie Bell Ill

Totally isn’t just for the Asteroidcare au ask blog I’m making, I would never (me when I lie)

[dailycharacteroption]

Hybrid Class Review: Brawler part 1

(art by Giuseppe De Iure on Artstation)

Overview

The ability of the monk class to be able to stand up to demons, dragons, and the like with nothing more than their bare hands is a powerful indicator of the power that mortals truly possess when guided by discipline. However, maybe the trappings of spirituality are not for you. Maybe you wanna be a super-powerful martial artist without ki or a particularly monastic lifestyle. There’s certainly plenty of fictional characters out there who fit that criteria across many different types of media.

And it is that question that brings us to the hybrid class we are checking out today, a fusion of fighter and monk, I present the brawler!

While they don’t usually have time for the spiritual side of training one’s body and mind, there can be no denying that these martial artists are quite capable even without bouts of supernatural strength, speed, and the occasional teleport. In fact, in settings where monks really just don’t fit in for any reason, brawler can be quite the useful substitute for that niche in your games.

At the very least, lt lets unarmed combatant characters from a region where such disciplines have no foothold to be something other than an incongruous monk or some sort of unarmed fighter build.

But brawlers are not just “monks without ki” or anything so boring. Instead, the brawler implements unarmed and close-quarter weapon combat in a way that makes sense for them, as well as introduces a new ability that truly makes the brawler unique.

This new ability, martial improvisation, lets brawlers improvise battle tactics on the fly, essentially granting them the ability to temporarily gain combat feats based on the situation. Perhaps you need a technique which is right for the situation, or maybe you want access to a feat derived from one you already have, letting you improve or diversify an already present technique. It’s such a fun and useful ability that a few archetypes from other classes straight-up steal it to be the gimmick of the archetype.

In this way, the brawler is almost sort of like a caster whose only spell is fist, but they have the ability to gain a thousand ways to modify that, becoming an expert grappler when a foe needs to sit still, or a heavy hitter when they need to die as fast as possible.

The brawler also has different themes and aesthetics compared to your average monk as well. While some may wear the light gi or flowing robes of certain styles of martial arts without the association of spirituality, others might be barroom brawlers, pit fighters, gladiators, or even genteel boxers and wrestlers.

Such figures, bereft of the spiritual aspect of the monk, may seek to become the very best fighter in the world, or they may just be a person using their skill set to get by in the rough world in which they live. Meanwhile, others might view the living flesh as a work of art to be refined and perfected for it’s own sake. Whatever their motivations, their skill is nothing to be sneezed at.

This is just the beginning of this week’s topic, but I hope it’s got you excited for the rest of this week!

[ashtrayfloors]

3

I get so scared of what my family, my spouse, my friends and acquaintances might think of the things I write. Of what they might think of me because of something I wrote. This may sound ridiculous, in the context of the essay I was going to post this week. After all, I’m almost 40. These particular things occurred decades ago. And I am very purposeful in the way I write about them; it’s not like I’m handing people pages of my teenage diary, sharing all of my secrets.

But then, it’s not so much about secrets, per se, as it is—maybe I don’t want to have that discussion right now. Maybe I want to write something and have it stand as it is, not have to process it further with my loved ones. Or: we all have many aspects to our personalities. We speak differently to our parents than we do to our significant others, differently to our significant others than we do to our friends, and differently to our friends than we do to a stranger in a barroom. Even if they ultimately all know almost everything about us, we reveal that information in different ways, at different times, depending on who we’re with. I find the same to be true in my writing.

It is easier for me to bare all of the weirdest, saddest, ugliest parts of myself to strangers than to my loved ones. Because strangers don’t have any preconceived notions about me that could be shattered by my true confessions. Because even if a stranger is upset by what they find in my writing, it is an impersonal upset. They may be against everything I stand for, but they don’t know me, so they can’t be disappointed in me. Nor can they be hurt by what they find of themselves.

I’ve hurt people with things I’ve written. I’ve hurt people by what I’ve revealed of myself, and what I’ve kept hidden. I’ve hurt people with the ways I’ve portrayed them; by using them as the raw material for my art.

(Let me out)

4

Like when [redacted] said: “Why did you [redacted] in that story you wrote? It makes me feel [redacted].”

(Let, let me out)

—Jessie Lynn McMains, from “tell me all of your secrets” (August 2021)

[rinnysega]

Smell of Smoke - An Elena and Ozzy Drabble

In all her years performing in barrooms and nightclubs, Elena Ruiz never did get used to the smell of cigars. Some of her favorite garments were ruined in her eyes when she was unable to get the stench out of them. The stench from gentlemen who somehow made it past Hugo to talk to her backstage, the air around them thick in burnt smoke and chauvinism.

One night in particular, Elena found herself in her dressing room, already in pre-mourning over one of her favorite gowns. She sat in her undergarments at her vanity and stared at it as it hung and glistened from the lightbulbs along the mirror. Carlos would be there tonight, and at the last minute he invited several of his friends who were notorious for their chain smoking. Another beautiful gown gone to rest too soon…

A soft knock didn’t even so much turn her head when her door opened and an unfamiliar voice stuttered out, “Oh, my apologies, señorita.”

Elena looked over to see a gentleman she hadn’t seen before, which was odd considering she must have seen almost every man in the country and perhaps a few in west Venezuela. He was a baby-faced man older than her, with a beautiful complexion of dark skin without blemishes or wrinkles or any other signs of sinful vices of drinking or fighting. If Elena didn’t know better by the modest way he dressed, she would mistake him for a man her age.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, to make sure she got the message. “I was looking for the restrooms.”

“They’re down the next hall over.” Elena stood up and noticed something quite different about him. He wasn’t staring her up and down. He wasn’t trying to force himself into her dressing room. If anything he gave a simple, shy wave of apology again before attempting to close the door and leave.

“Oh, wait a moment,” she said to him.

The man stopped as she came closer and opened the door a little further to talk to him. “You’re here a little early for the show. If you have good seats up front, I’d love to know your name if I see you on stage.”

Those baby cheeks lifted in another shy smile as he replied, “Oswaldo, but I go by Ozzy.”

“Elena Ruiz.” She held her hand to his to shake. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“Sounds about right. My partner brought me out to help carry his things. He’s got a meeting to go over his art portfolio to make some posters for the nightclub. If you’re the only Elena Ruiz here, you may be the subject of one of them.”

Oh, so that’s why Carlos had friends with him...He must have gotten word about this and wanted to boast. Once again, Elena oh so loved being kept in the dark when it came to anything relating to her.

“Sounds exciting.” She gave him a genuine smile despite her annoyances toward Carlos - and hell, even Hugo now if he knew about this. “I’ve never posed for an artist's poster before.”

“Well my Nairo is the best!” Ozzy exclaimed. “He’ll make you feel right at home and make sure you have everything you need to be comfortable. He’s quite the professional.”

“He must be a sweet guy to have a gentleman such as yourself as his partner.”

Ozzy didn’t react much to her words except to give a soft shrug and change the subject. “We’ll be sitting front row center. Nairo may be sketching while you sing, but I’ll be watching.”

“And I’ll be singing,” she joked.

They both shared a small chuckle and Ozzy then excused himself to go search for the restroom.

When Elena shut the door, she sat back down at her vanity and took a breath to start her pre-show routines.

Look on the bright side, she told herself. If you have to say goodbye to such a beautiful gown, at least it’ll be immortalized in art forever...

Gift for @prophetic-hijinks and @thebiggestnope

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/20/2023: DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE (1931)

I liked this movie so much I even got over listening to everybody pronounce it "JEE-kil"! Fredric March won the Oscar for his dual role as the vain young scientist and his monstrous id, and it's easy to see why--although it's maddening to think that not only was there no makeup award at the time, but the artists themselves went uncredited. Norbert A. Myles--who worked uncredited on THE WIZARD OF OZ, THE THIEF OF BAGDAD, and MAD LOVE (also included in this year's Blogtober speed run)--and Wally Westmore, whose zillions of impressive credits include WAR OF THE WORLDS '53 and THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME (also part of Blogtober '23), should really have been honored contemporarily for what remains a simple, elegant, often magical transformation effect that makes the whole movie what it is. At least we all know now.

The other person who should really have been more importantly recognized for her contributions to the timeless horror of this iteration of the Robert Louis Stevenson's classic story is Miriam Hopkins, for her vivid portrayal of the doomed barroom entertainer Ivy who becomes the center of Hyde's sadistic attention. Rouben Mamoulian's movie is a bit of a Jekyll-and-Hyde in and of itself, lingering on the doctor's sappy courtship of his fiance (Rose Hobart) to the point of silliness...and then subjecting the viewer at almost intolerable length to Hyde's merciless destruction of the tragic Ivy. Fredric March's creation of the villain is a real work of art, as repulsive and frightening as it is fascinating, but his efforts wouldn't mean nearly as much without such a convincing and sympathetic victim. Hyde is a delight when he's on the rampage, sowing chaos and destruction among screaming bystanders, but in Ivy's chambers we understand the seriousness of the situation. The film is almost 90 years old but its description of misogynistic violence is as freshly disturbing and heartbreaking as the day of its release. There are a lot more Jekyll and Hyde movies I have yet to see, but even in a world where they were all bad, the Mamoulian edition proves the enduring potency of the story.

[sherryannshop]

[loverdude]

They r watching smthn abt paranormal stuff :]

Don't repost/use 4 anything 🔦 COMMISSION INFO

[chernobog13]

GORGO and THE DAY THE EARTH GAVE UP

It’s time for everybody’s favorite Irish kaiju...GORGO!

Gorgo’s furious because the aliens blew up the Guiness brewery!

Gorgo eats tress?  What kinda malarkey is this?  Ain’t nobody gonna believe kaiju eat trees!

What?  Godzilla eats trees, too?  Holy art imitating art, Batman!

Anyhoo, back in Gorgo’s comic--

Is that sound effect “barroom” or “bar room?”  Was this issue written in a pub, with the author in his cups (would certainly explain a lot)?

Time for a commercial break.

Don’t suffer the embarrassment of being paralyzed by Yoshie Imanami, pretty Japanese wife of N.J. Fleming!  Sign up today!

And now, back to our story:

Yay!  Earth is saved because Gorgo and his mum kicked the spaceships into space! 

Thanks, Gorgo!  Next pint’s on me!

[pridepages]

eARC Review: Glitter and Concrete

A HUGE thank you to Netgalley and Harlequin Trade Publishing for providing me an eARC in exchange for an honest review!

RATING: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

GOODREADS SYNOPSIS:  

From the lush feather boas that adorned early female impersonators to the sequined lip syncs of barroom queens to the drag kings that have us laughing in stitches, drag has played a vital role in the creative life of New York City. But the evolution of drag in the city—as an art form, a community and a mode of liberation—has never before been fully chronicled.

Now, for the first time, journalist and drag historian Elyssa Maxx Goodman unearths the dramatic, provocative untold story of drag in New York City in all its glistening glory. Goodman ducks beneath the velvet ropes of Harlem Renaissance balls, examines drag’s crucial role in the Stonewall Uprising, traces drag's influence on disco and punk rock as well as its unifying power during the AIDS crisis and 9/11, and culminates in the era of RuPaul’sDrag Race.

Informed by meticulous research and archival work, as well as original interviews with high-profile performers, Glitter and Concrete is a significant contribution to queer history and an essential read for anyone curious about the story that echoes beneath the heels.

RELEASE DATE: 9/13/23

See my full review under the cut!

With trans, gender-nonconforming, nonbinary, and drag artists now under fire in the United States, it's never been more important to give voice to history.

Queer gender rebels are not a new phenomenon, no matter what the uneducated would have you believe. But they've been silenced for far too long.

Enter Elyssa Maxx Goodman, who delivers this dense but comprehensive primer on the history of drag in New York City from the 1920s-2023.

For any fan of Drag Race who has wondered: where did this culture come from? Here are the answers. See how known icons like Marlene Dietrich, Lady Gaga, and Nicki Minaj connected to drag and gender non-comformity. Learn the stories behind Paris is Burning (you may be shocked to learn that not all the skeletons in the closet were rhetorical). But most importantly, come to understand how tides of time and culture shaped this community. See how public policies under a veneer of good intentions were used to challenge outsiders time and time again. Understand how much we as the LBGTQIA+ community owe our ancestors. And learn how we can honor their legacies by sharing their stories and continuing their work.

While far from light reading, Glitter and Concrete is worth the read. Be sure to pick it up when it hits shelves on 9/13/23.

[tomoleary]

Reed Crandall The Fez on the Barroom Floor Unfinished Original Art (1960)

“Crandall -- better known as a preeminent interpreter of Edgar Rice Burroughs -- shows a humorous side with this frontier-saloon scenario in which a bohemian artist enthralls a crowd of rowdies. A fez (headgear decidedly out-of-place in such a rustic setting) appears in the foreground, off-center. The intrinsic pun is a reference to John Henry Titus's famous poem of 1872, "The Face on the Barroom Floor," and to a no less famous 1936 portrait by Herndon Davis on the floor of a lounge in Colorado. Crandall captures to perfection the contours of the Davis portrait, which resembles his wife. Fully pencilled and partially inked, the drawing is prime Crandall, perhaps his most unusual effort of a distinguished career.”

https://comics.ha.com/itm/original-comic-art/illustrations/reed-crandall-the-fez-on-the-barroom-floor-unfinished-original-art-1960-/a/7244-95124.s