#best contemporary television

[hxcgirl666]

Living Room - Transitional Living Room

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Whitney Houston - I Have Nothing 1993

"I Have Nothing" is a song by American singer and actress Whitney Houston, released on February 20, 1993 as the third single from The Bodyguard: Original Soundtrack Album (1992). The song was written by David Foster and Linda Thompson, and produced by Foster.

After the back-to-back successes of Houston's "I Will Always Love You" and "I'm Every Woman", "I Have Nothing" became yet another hit, peaking at number four on the US Billboard Hot 100. Houston established another historic milestone in Billboard chart history with the three singles off the soundtrack, becoming the first artist to have three songs inside the top 11 of the Hot 100 chart in the same week since the chart began using Broadcast Data System and SoundScan data in 1991. The song also became a hit on the Billboard Hot R&B Singles chart, with a number four peak, and a number-one peak on the Billboard Adult Contemporary chart. Internationally, the song reached number one in Canada, the top five in Ireland and the UK, the top ten in Denmark and Portugal, and peaked within the top forty in Australia, Germany, the Netherlands, New Zealand, and Switzerland.

"I Have Nothing" was nominated for Best Original Song at the 65th Annual Academy Awards in 1993. David Foster and Linda Thompson were nominated for Best Song Written Specifically for a Motion Picture, Television or Other Visual Media for the song at the 36th Annual Grammy Awards. Foster and Thompson received the award for Most Performed Song from a Film for the song at the 10th BMI Film & Television Awards in 1994. The song was also nominated for Best R&B Single, Female at the 8th Annual Soul Train Music Awards in 1994.

"I Have Nothing" received a total of 72,7% yes votes!

[lackadaisycats]

I’m so sorry if you’ve already answered this somewhere, but how do you design your characters?

I’ve been trying to make an OC from the prohibition era and it turns out there’s basically nothing to work with for men’s outfits, so I’m curious how you made this many that look unique and fitting to the characters

There is so much to work with, though! You will tend to find more of a focus on variety in women's fashion, but there is still quite a lot of menswear to ogle too. I suppose it's just a matter of searching out ideas and inspiration in the rights corners. Here are a few suggestions:

Old Clothing Catalogues -

Collections from Sears-Roebuck and other popular clothing retailers are pretty easy to find compiled into relatively inexpensive books, or just floating online.

A fair bit of it is in the public domain now.

--Here's an entire 1922 catalogue of stuff to flip through.

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Contemporary Artwork -

Some phenomenal illustrators were working in this field amidst the "Golden Age of Illustration" and featured prominently on the covers of magazines and on the ads inside. There was a lot of emphasis on fashion.

Collier's and The Saturday Evening Post are a couple of the more prominent and easily searchable resources. The costuming on the cover art always has a lot of personality.

There's Rockwell, of course, and it's almost impossible to go wrong with J. C. Leyendecker. He's probably best known for his Arrow Collar ad art, but even his sock ads are like…

There were numerous other amazing and influential illustrators working at the time too. Here's a list of some of them. Here's a bonus Henry Raleigh featuring some of his fabulously-dressed people.

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Blogs and Articles -

There are so many of them! If you want historical accuracy, be wary of write-ups pulling all of their references from film and television. There's nothing wrong with using those for inspiration if you aren't too concerned with historicity, but there are some pretty comprehensive and well-researched things out there with more of an eye on actual fashion history too:

--Gentleman's Gazette - What Men Really Wore in the 1920s

--The Fashionisto - 1920s Men's Fashion

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Digital Collections -

There are numerous digital historic image collections stemming from universities, museums, libraries, and the government that are free to peruse too.

--The Metropolitan Museum has a searchable catalog of exhibits that includes fashion and photos

--Here's some things from the New York Public Library

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Photos at Large -

If you aren't sure where to start, image searching for any of Hollywood's early celebrities will typically turn up a bevy of production stills and promotional photography featuring a variety of fashions. Here's a random Getty images search for Harold Lloyd. A lot of standard 3 piece suits, but a lot of stuff with added character too.

Photography was generally quite accessible by the 1920s, though, and you can find a lot of authentic photos of people from all walks of life, out in the wild wearing all sorts of clothes.

This is by no means the limit to the resources available, but hopefully it'll provide some leaping-off points for designing looks for your characters!

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC

Chapter 1: Gimme More

Rating: Explicit (18+) Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences. Word Count: 11k

Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.

Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.

Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!

Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.

Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool. 

It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.

Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.

In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.

4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.

Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.

MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom

PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave

CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL: CORINNE

CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.

(212) 555-4325 [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)

MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.

“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”

She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.

“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.

“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”

“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds. 

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.

“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.

“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”

“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.

“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.

“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is  your shot at a comeback.”

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.

“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.

You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.

“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly. 

“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.

“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”

“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.

[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?

You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.

[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night

In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.

“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.

“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.

“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.

“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.

You were fired six weeks ago.

The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously. 

Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.

You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.

You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.

That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.

You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.

“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.

“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”

You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”

"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.

“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.

Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.

“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”

“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface. 

She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.

In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.

The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.

“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”

“It’s Alan. Open the door.”

Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.

“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.

“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”

Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”

“What?” You were dumbstruck.

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.

“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”

Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.

“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”

You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.

“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”

You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.

Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.

The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera. 

When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.

Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.

It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.

You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.

So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.

You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.

Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.

[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo

Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.

Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.

“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.

Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.

“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”

You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.

“Hi.”

You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.

“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.

“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”

Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.

“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.

The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party. 

It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.

The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around. 

Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.

After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.

“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.

“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen

ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite

You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.

[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE

You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.

You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.

You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.

Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.

Oh, bingo.

Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.

Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.

Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat. 

He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.

As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.

Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.

Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.

Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.

Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.

The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.

The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.

You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.

Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.

Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.

“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”

Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.

His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.

The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.

He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.

“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.

You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.

“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.

Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass. 

“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass. 

“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.

“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.

“Just like you.”

You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left. 

There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.

His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.

“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention. 

You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.

Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.

It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.

“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.

“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone. 

Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight. 

Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed. 

Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes. 

You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.

His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.

“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.

He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.

Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids. You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.

Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again. 

A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.

You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.

You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.

“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment. 

Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."

“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”

There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.

You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.

He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning. 

You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.

With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.

Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you. 

THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.

He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.

The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.

“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.

“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”

You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.

“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”

“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.

“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.

“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.

“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.

“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.

“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.

“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off. 

“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.

Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.

“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”

Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.

“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.

You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.

“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”

You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”

“So climb over,” She suggested.

“Not in this!”

Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.

“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.

“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.

“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off.  The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.

“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.

“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.

“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”

“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.

“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.

“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”

“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”

You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.

“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”

You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.

“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.

“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.

“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.

“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.

“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”

“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”

You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”

With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.

“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”

You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own. 

With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.

As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.

“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.

Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.

Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.

[libertineangel]

I'd be a terrible DJ because I think the best flow between any songs will be found on the albums they come from and I'd want people to pay proper attention to the music instead of just treating it as background, get me on the decks at a club and I'll be like "first up is the entirety of Lou Reed's self-titled, then Talking Heads '77 and Marquee Moon, and then the music stops for a bit while we all absorb what we heard and ponder how Television combined the hard guitars of the contemporary New York punk scene with the poetic avant-garde which was tailing off as they formed"

[deatwithdignity]

today realized that in literally one month best character in contemporary television returns

[pepaldi]

This interview originally appeared in Radio Times magazine.

As Peter Capaldi talks about his new Apple TV+ drama Criminal Record – "a stylish crime drama with a contemporary edge and a noir-ish element", to quote his own description – he makes no effort to disguise his fondness for Elaine Collins, his fellow executive producer on the eight-part series, sitting beside him.

Friendly, funny and stylish in equal measure, she is just as affectionate towards him… which is rather lovely, as they have been married since 1991 and have a 30-year-old daughter.

In 2021, he sweetly pinpointed "September 12th 1985, under a street lamp in Glasgow with Elaine" as the greatest kiss of his life. It was their very first, soon after they met as actors in a touring theatre production.

They co-starred in the 1992 romantic comedy Soft Top Hard Shoulder, and teamed up again in Franz Kafka’s It’s a Wonderful Life, the 1995 Oscar-winning short film he wrote and directed. As Capaldi clutched his Academy Award he told Hollywood’s assembled royalty: “Elaine Collins was the real creative dynamo behind all this."

Since then, she has become a powerhouse in British television, bringing Vera to ITV and Shetland to the BBC, long-running successes both.

Meanwhile, Capaldi’s own profile has risen ever higher, with his award-laden portrayal of The Thick of It’s fabulously foul-mouthed political enforcer Malcolm Tucker, and of course his three-year stint as the 12th incarnation of Doctor Who. In 2022, when BAFTA Scotland gave him its Outstanding Contribution gong, he concluded his acceptance speech with a direct address to Collins.

"My darling wife Elaine," he said, "it’s your strength, kindness, wisdom and love that’s enabled me to have this career. You’ve always been there through all the ups and downs, and that you chose to share your life with me is the greatest luck of all."

And now here they are, working as executive producers together for the first time and talking to RT. "It was great," beams Capaldi. "Elaine’s the boss, obviously. She’s the person who really drove this show, pulled it all together and had the vision for it, while having to do the day-to-day business mechanics of keeping it rolling. I was just a sounding board."

Collins tuts at once, exclaiming, "You’re too modest. He was fantastic. We genuinely had a great time and it was amazing to have that support system at work and at home. Of course you bring it home – you’re living and breathing a show while you’re making it – but that was genuinely great. He’s always a support system for me. Hand on heart, we’re best friends."

Sitting listening close by, one of Criminal Record’s supporting actors, Tom Moutchi, smiles at the two of them indulgently. "Awww," he teases, "soooo cute." Capaldi and Collins crease up, as Capaldi agrees that "cute" isn’t a word usually linked with him.

"A journalist asked me the other day, 'Why do you scowl all the time?'" he recounts. "I said to him 'I’m not!' and he said 'Your face is a scowl.'"

"He’s cute to me," declares Collins firmly, although it must be said the role he plays in Criminal Record scores low on the cute-o-meter.

The whole thing at Radio Times.

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Apr 18, 2024

“Why do you think the giraffe has a long neck?” says the naturalist Philip Henry Gosse to his son Edmund while he tucks him up into bed. “Does it have a long neck so that it can eat the leaves at the top of the tree? Or does it eat the leaves at the top of the tree because it has a long neck?”

“Does it matter?” says Edmund.

“A great deal, my son.”

This exchange is taken from Dennis Potter’s wonderful television play Where Adam Stood (1976), a loose adaptation of Edmund Gosse’s Father and Son (1907). Gosse’s book must rank among the very best of autobiographies. It is his account of being raised by his father Philip, one of Darwin’s close contemporaries, a man whose faith in the Bible was so fervent that the revelations of natural selection almost destroyed him.

The question about the giraffes is Potter’s invention, but it adroitly captures the profound inner struggle of this scientist who had devoted his life to a belief-system that was suddenly falling apart. It wasn’t just a matter of changing his mind as new evidence emerged, because the proposition that the earth’s age could be numbered in the billions rather than the thousands was not something that his faith could accommodate. The stumbling block was the Bible, a point that Edmund is quick to acknowledge in his book:

“My Father’s attitude towards the theory of natural selection was critical in his career, and oddly enough, it exercised an immense influence on my own experience as a child. Let it be admitted at once, mournful as the admission is, that every instinct in his intelligence went out at first to greet the new light. It had hardly done so, when a recollection of the opening chapter of Genesis checked it at the outset. He consulted with Carpenter, a great investigator, but one who was fully as incapable as himself of remodelling his ideas with regard to the old, accepted hypotheses. They both determined, on various grounds, to have nothing to do with the terrible theory, but to hold steadily to the law of the fixity of species.”

Philip Gosse had an instinct for scientific enquiry, but the new discoveries simply could not be reconciled with his holy text. His whole being was invested in the Biblical truth, and to cast that in doubt would be to undermine the crux of his being. To admit that he might have been wrong, in this particular instance, would be a form of spiritual death.

Both Gosse’s memoir and Potter’s dramatisation grapple with what Peter Boghossian and James Lindsay (in their book How to Have Impossible Conversations) call an “identity quake”, the “emotional reaction that follows from having one’s core values disrupted”. Their point is that when arguing with those who see the world in an entirely different way, we must be sensitive to the ways in which certain ideas constitute an aspect of our sense of self. In such circumstances, to dispense with a cherished viewpoint can be as traumatic as losing a limb.

The concept of identity quakes helps us to understand the extreme political tribalism of our times. It isn’t simply that the left disagrees with the right, but that to be “left-wing” has become integral to self-conceptualisation. How often have we seen “#FBPE” or “anti-Tory” in social media bios? These aren’t simply political affiliations; they are defining aspects of these people’s lives. This is also why so many online disputes seem to be untethered from reason; many are following a set of rules established by their “side”, not thinking for themselves. When it comes to fealty to the cause, truth becomes irrelevant. We are no longer dealing with disputants in an argument, but individuals who occupy entirely different epistemological frameworks.

Since the publication of the Cass Review, we have seen countless examples of this kind of phenomena. Even faced with the evidence that “gender-affirming” care is unsafe for children, those whose identity has been cultivated in the gender wars will find it almost impossible to accept the truth. Trans rights activists have insisted that “gender identity” is a reality, and their “allies” have been the most strident of all on this point. As an essentially supernatural belief, it should come as no surprise that it has been insisted on with such vigour, and that those who have attempted to challenge this view have been bullied and demonised as heretics.

Consider the reaction from Novara Media, a left-wing independent media company, which once published some tips on how to deceive a doctor into prescribing cross-sex hormones. Novara has claimed that “within hours of publication” the Cass Review had been “torn to shreds”. Like all ideologues, they are invested in a creed, and it just so happens that the conviction that “gender identity” is innate and fixed (and simultaneously infinitely fluid) has become a firm dogma of the identity-obsessed intersectional cult.

Identity quakes will be all the more seismic within a movement whose members have elevated “identity” itself to hallowed status. When tax expert Maya Forstater sued her former employers for discrimination due to her gender-critical beliefs in 2019, one of the company’s representatives, Luke Easley, made a revealing declaration during the hearing. “Identity is reality,” he said, “without identity there’s just a corpse”.

This sentiment encapsulates the kind of magical thinking that lies at the core of the creed. So while it becomes increasingly obvious that gender identity ideology is a reactionary force that represents a direct threat to the rights of women and gay people, there will be many who simply will not be able to admit it. In Easley’s terms, if their entire identity is based on a lie, only “a corpse” remains. From this perspective, to abandon one’s worldview is tantamount to suicide.

This determination to hold fast to one’s views, even when the evidence mounts up against them, is known as “belief perseverance”. It is a natural form of psychological self-defence. After all, there is a lot at stake for those who have supported and enabled the Tavistock Clinic and groups like Mermaids and Stonewall. Many of the cheerleaders have encouraged the transitioning of children, sometimes their own. What we have known for years has now been confirmed: many of these young people will have been autistic, or will have simply grown up to be gay. For people to admit that they supported the sterilisation of some of the most vulnerable in society would be to face a terrible reality.

This idea was summarised in parliament on Monday by Victoria Atkins, Secretary of State for Health and Social Care. Addressing Labour MP Wes Streeting, she said:

“I welcome all those who have changed their minds about this critical issue. In order to move forward and get on with the vital work that Dr Cass recommends, we need more people to face up to the truth, no matter how uncomfortable that makes them feel. I hope the honourable gentleman has the humility to understand that the ideology that he and his colleagues espoused was part of the problem. He talked about the culture and the toxicity of the debate. Does he understand the hurt that he caused to people when he told them to ‘just get over it’? Does he know that when he and his friends on the left spent the last decade crying ‘culture wars’ when legitimate concerns were raised created an atmosphere of intimidation, with the impact on the workforce that he rightly described?”

It remains to be seen whether those politicians who failed to grapple with the implications of gender identity ideology, and who mindlessly accepted the misleading rhetoric of Stonewall and its allies, will have the humility to admit that they were wrong. Many culpable celebrities have been choosing to remain silent in recent days, while others have opted for outright denial. On the question of puberty blockers and their harm to children, television presenter Kirstie Allsop has made the remarkable claim that “it is, and always has been possible to debate these things and those saying there was no debate are wrong”. The concept of “no debate” was official Stonewall policy for many years, and has been a mantra for many within the trans activist movement. To suggest that there have been no attempts to stifle discussion on this subject can only be ignorance, mendacity or a remarkably acute form of amnesia.

Of course, the stakes could hardly be higher. We are dealing with complacency and ideological capture that had resulted in the sterilisation and castration of healthy young people. It is, without a doubt, one of the biggest medical scandals of our time. It is entirely understandable that those who have supported such terrible actions would enter a state of denial. And so we must also be sensitive to those who are now strong enough to admit that they were mistaken.

But we also need to prepare ourselves for the inevitable doubling down. There are those whose psyche cannot withstand the kind of identity quake that Philip Henry Gosse once suffered. His solution was to write a book explaining why God had left evidence of natural selection. It was called Omphalos (1857) – the Greek word for “navel” – and his thesis was that since Adam had no mother, his navel was merely an addition to generate the illusion of past that did not exist. The fossils that were being discovered in the ground were therefore no different than the rings in the first trees in the Garden of Eden. They weren’t evidence of age, but rather part of God’s poetical vision.

Some of the revisionism and excuses from gender ideologues are likely to be even more elaborate. They have invested too much in their fantasies to give up without a fight.

==

As gender identity ideology falls apart, we need to pay attention to who is working to fix the mistakes they made, who is doubling down, and who is remaining silent.

[nattaphum]

Earlier this year at the Gateway of India in Mumbai, Phakphum Romsaithong — or more affectionately known by his nickname “Mile” — was spotted at the Dior Women’s Fall ’23 show together with fellow co-star “Apo” Nattawin Wattanagitiphat. There was plenty of buzz surrounding their attendance: #MileApo appeared on Twitter’s trending page, while “Did Mile and Apo come to India” became one of many common Google searches about the two actors. Despite being just two years into their careers in the Thai entertainment industry, the duo requires no introduction — and it is all thanks to the seminal action and romance television series KinnPorsche: The Series.

Since it first aired on 2 April 2022 after a year of production delays, the show consistently trended worldwide as each weekly episode arrived. While a shift in scriptwriting — especially as the story pursues themes of the Mafia with darker, complex themes that most series in Thailand have shied away from — many have reasoned that the natural interactions of Mile and Apo in the series are a rarity. Coupled with an intense promotional strategy that saw graphic teasers each time an episode was announced and a slew of behind-the-scenes footage available in durations twice as much as the series, it made sense why these actors have rapidly risen into contemporary pop culture knowledge.

While we have come to know both Mile and Apo, rarely do we get a glimpse of Mile without his tether to Apo. Once a communications and journalism graduate, the 31-year old — who never expected that acting would be his calling — has been going back and forth between personas. For faithful fans, he might be Kinn but within closed doors, Mile remains just as he was before the series. Two years on, Mile is still intensely committed to his fans. “I approach my work with an open mind, not knowing the extent of its potential success,” Mile mentions. “Nevertheless, my main focus remains on giving my absolute best and ensuring the happiness of those who witness it. Their satisfaction is of utmost importance to me.”

Hello Mile, how are you these days?

I’m currently doing well, although quite occupied at the moment. If we were to represent it as a graph, it might appear as a lull period. However, I am utilising this time to engage in self-care — both physically and mentally — and to make necessary preparations.


What did it feel like waking up the morning the show debuted? 


I’m thrilled to be addicted to the series once again. Its irresistible charm keeps me coming back for more, just like others who are captivated by its captivating story. Seeing people enjoy it and receiving positive feedback brings me immense joy. These moments are truly cherished, and I take great pleasure in being a part of it.

In a few interviews, you mentioned that a career as an actor and singer/songwriter was not your first choice. Looking back, do you still have any reservations about acting?

Each of us harbours a multitude of aspirations, not confined to a singular goal. For me, true fulfilment lies in pursuing what truly ignites my passion and brings me joy. I am steadfast in my commitment to constant self-preparation and growth.

When presented with an opportunity, I choose to wholeheartedly embrace it — giving nothing short of my best. I am prepared to immerse myself in the pursuits that captivate my interest, dedicating my heart and soul to them. Though it may not be my ultimate objective, I am aware of my deep desire to embark on this path and so, I persistently ready myself for it.

Your life has now changed seeing that you are arguably one of Thailand’s most recognisable personalities. What is one thing you miss from before your fame arrived?

Engaging in conversations with strangers holds a special place in my heart. As of right now — due to time constraints — I haven’t had the opportunity to fully immerse myself like that anymore. The days of encounters and spontaneous conversations with unfamiliar faces have become a rarity. However, such encounters have always been a source of genuine enjoyment for me. The sheer pleasure of conversing with individuals from all walks of life knows no bounds. Regardless of their background or disposition, I find immense fulfilment in the simple act of exchanging thoughts and ideas.

Any moments with your fans that have had a lasting impact on you?

Each encounter with my fans brings an overwhelming sense of joy and fulfilment. Lately, I’ve been immersed in reading the heartfelt messages written on cards by my devoted supporters. I’m already halfway through this heartfelt endeavour. Last night, I came across a touching note from a fan expressing their desire to learn English in order to communicate with me. It’s remarkable to witness the lengths people go to — dedicating their time and efforts to learning languages like Thai, English, or even regional dialects — solely for the purpose of connection. Their dedication truly moves me.

You are almost inseparable from Apo, both on and off-screen. What is your most fond memory of him?

It has been twelve years since we coincidentally worked together, and his unique appearance remains vivid in my memory. Recently, passionate fans stumbled upon a video of our first meeting, leaving me pleasantly surprised. This unexpected revelation serves as a gentle reminder of life’s unpredictable nature, occasionally gifting us with delightful surprises along our journey.

On fashion, Mile elaborates that “the fashion world captivates us and draws us into its allure. Active participation in this industry involves immersing myself among talented stylists and continuously expanding knowledge.” But while Mumbai is not his first breakthrough with Dior, Mile has always had his eye on fashion. “I actually embarked on this journey at the age of eight,” Mile explains. “Seeing my mother in beautifully crafted clothes when I was young and experiencing the influence of television were transformative moments that sparked my passion for the captivating world of fashion.”

Tell us more about the Dior Men Fall 2023 collection you are wearing today. What did you like most about it? 


This collection exudes an exceptional uniqueness and embodies the distinctive character that Dior presents. I was remarkably comfortable during my time in Mumbai, which pleasantly surprised me. Despite the inquiries from others about its potential heat-inducing qualities, I found it to be quite the opposite. Even with its simple yet captivating designs and understated colour palette, it effortlessly stands out. Wearing these pieces becomes easy and is an enjoyable experience. Rather than mere excitement, my emotions were fueled by an intense enthusiasm when I delved deeper into the realm of Dior.

How about your first fashion show with Dior, what was it like?


Attending a fashion show proved to be a transformative experience, one that expanded the horizons of my perception. It was a delightful and invigorating journey, allowing me to witness the unfolding of a whole new world. The show by Dior in the enchanting city of Paris was truly remarkable. Each garment conveyed a profound message, intricately woven into the fabric of the event. This combination of creativity and storytelling made for an unforgettable spectacle.

Are there any Dior items in your wardrobe that you would consider your favourite?

I love the Dior Lingot bag in the large size, I believe it is the 50. It truly holds everything I need. And when you have a very busy schedule, a large bag is just what you need.

Yet, despite the tremendous achievements he currently possesses, the story is far from over for Mile. In some ways, KinnPorsche could be likened to only the dawn in what promises to be an impressive career. Be On Cloud — the company managing Mile and Apo as well as a host of other up-and-rising Thai stars — has recently announced a new film later this year and it involves Mile as its lead actor. Titled Man Suang — an ancient descriptor which translates to a “heavenly city of gods and angels” — the film will be set around the emerging Thai kingdom and its historical inception as a modern civilisation in epic proportions. Teased as a complete departure from the contemporary themes explored with KinnPorsche, the film has been marked as one of the largest and most ambitious film projects in Thailand with a production budget that rivals even that of Hollywood.

Much of what is shown in the trailer is meant to mislead, Mile teases, with more yet to be revealed at this point of writing. Apo will return as Mile’s co-star, but with a different dynamic between both actors this time. Its quality is meant to be top-notched too and make no mistake, there is plenty of anticipation for the film to be huge — the film’s trailer arrived weeks before its premiere at the 76th annual Cannes Film Festival, suggesting that Be On Cloud has its eyes on taking the film all over the globe.

There has been quite a bit of buzz about Be On Cloud’s Man Suang, especially since there has not been much information released at this moment other than its debut at this year’s Cannes Film Festival. It is noteworthy to mention that the film marks your first main role in a motion picture. Can you tell us more about it? 


This movie carries a truly unique essence, captivating its viewers with a narrative that invites imagination and contemplation. It weaves a mysterious tapestry intertwined with the rich traditions and stories that unfolded in Thailand during the Rattanakosin period. The beauty lies in the artful portrayal of each character as they share their tale, allowing us to witness the profound transformations that humans undergo. It serves as a reminder that our beliefs — though held strongly — may not always yield definitive outcomes, offering a glimpse into the diverse possibilities that exist.

Let’s also get into the fact that it will be a historical film, and it marks a departure from the contemporary style of KinnPorsche. What kind of research did you do to get into the role?

For every character I embody, I dedicate myself to meticulous preparation, adopting a consistent approach. I delve into the era in which the character resides, immersing myself in its historical backdrop. It is almost like method acting and it is very similar to how I live my life. This thorough understanding enables me to comprehend the motives behind their actions and thoughts. I am grateful to be surrounded by a supportive team that encourages my creativity throughout this process, granting me the freedom to explore and bring my own unique perspective to the role.

While it is a new project for you, you will be starring alongside Apo again. Will we see a different dynamic between the characters both of you are slated to play? 


In every performance I deliver, there lies a remarkable blend of 90% embodiment of the character and a 10% essence of my own being. This 90% is a testament to my growth as an actor, an opportunity for people to witness my evolution through each role I undertake. I wholeheartedly invite audiences to appreciate the dedication and effort I invest in every project. As each character holds a unique identity, spectators will recognise the striking distinction, unveiling the diverse range and versatility I hope I can bring to the stage or screen.

Before we end, would you like to share any messages with your fans? 


My heartfelt gratitude goes out to all the devoted fans who have supported me wholeheartedly throughout my journey. Your unwavering support has touched me deeply and means the world to me. Thank you for being there, from the bottom of my heart.

[LINK]

[blowflyfag]

Pro Wrestling Illustrated: March 2024

“Timeless” Toni Storm is simultaneously a throwback to a bygone Golden Age and, in this contemporary grappling scene, someone rather singular.

HOTSEAT 

AN INCISIVE INTERVIEW WITH THE SPORT’S TOP STARS AND FIGURES 

TONI STORM

The whole place seemed to have been stricken with a kind of creeping paralysis. Out of beat with the rest of the world, crumbling apart in slow motion. A once-grand estate, nestled deep in the Hollywood Hills … a relic from a bygone age in Tinseltown. Back then, they didn’t need dialogue. They had faces. This is where Pro Wrestling Illustrated had sent me, on assignment for an exclusive interview with a woman whose startling reinvention has taken All Elite Wrestling–and the entire wrestling world–by storm, you might say. These days, she doesn’t show herself in public very much, aside from TV tapings and, of course, on the set. So, landing the interview took some doing, but if there’s anything 30 years covering this crazy business has taught me, it’s how to get my foot in the door. 

This time, that foot would be in the door of a palatial mansion that may very well  have once housed Valentino, DeMille, Garbo, or Fairbanks. Walking under the shade of rows of aging palms, past that once crystal-clear outdoor pool, between the cracked pillars of a French facade, I’m greeted by the butler; a loyal, oddly quiet man who brings me inside. Shrouded partly in sharp shadows, by the flickering light on a roaring fireplace, she sits reclining on a chaise lounge… Toni Storm. At first, she is reluctant to break her silence, so I have to win her trust. Part of that means playing along with what can sometimes only be described as  a baffling , yet mesmerizing delusion. In the end it’s working for her; If Toni Storm is crazy, then she’s crazy like a fox.

We chat for what seems like hours, as she relays to me her hopes and dreams, her natural connection with the fans, whether in the stands or watching at home–those wonderful people out there in the dark.

What follows are the highlights of that enlightening conversation. By the end of it, I felt I had developed a real understanding of who Toni Storm is now. I get it. She really is “Timeless.” Perhaps more than that, she is transcendent. 

And she’s ready for her closeup, Mr Khan. 

Brian R. Solomon: Thank you so much for granting me this interview, Ms. Storm. I realize you’re a very busy woman. First, let me say that there are a lot of people, myself included, who would say that right now, “Timeless” Toni Storm is one of the best, most entertaining things on AEW television, I wanted to know how you feel about that.

Storm: Well, thank you very much. I completely understand why you’re feeling that way. I am a very exciting act. I have been a very exciting act for a very long time. And I’ve always blown audiences away, no matter where I’ve gone or what I’ve done. So, you are right to be feeling like this. I am, as the kids say, “killing it.”

Solomon: Nevertheless, having to address your transformation as of late. It’s been very dramatic, to say the least. What do you say to the fans who might be wondering what happened to the Toni Storm that they remembered? Storm: Well, you see, it’s simple, really. I have played many roles all throughout my career. And now what you’re seeing, “Timeless” Toni Storm, is the real me. I’m finally ready to show the world who I well and truly am. And this is it. Over the years, fans have seen others of the numerous roles I've played. For instance, most recently I used to be “Green Goblin #3” of the Outcasts trio. But now, I’m finally revealing myself, Finally revealing my true self, I should say. And that is “Timeless” Toni Storm.

Solomon: That word, “Timeless.” it keeps coming up. Could you help us understand what that word means to you? Storm: How do I put this? Ah, yes. I transcend. Yes, I’m in a different realm. In this realm, there is no time. I just exist. I do not age. I was not born. I will not die. Stars never die. I just am.

[If you ask some of the broadcast journalists at AEW, Toni Storm has lost her marbles. But the “Timeless” one tells PWI She’s just found her true self.]

Solomon: I have to ask–and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way–but did the loss of the AEW Women’s World title to Hikaru Shida last summer on the 200th episode of AEW dynamite have anything to do with what we’re seeing from you lately? Not to mention the fact that it was your supposed friend and ally, Saraya, who pinned you to win the title during the three-way match with Shinda during All In at Wembley Stadium. The reason I ask is that those developments all took place around the same time. And those losses, the way they happened, would cause many people to reconsider the path of their career.

Storm: Alright, I admit it. I’m going to finally admit it here for the readers of Pro Wrestling Illustrated. When I lost the title to Hikaru Shida, I absolutely lost it. I fell apart. And I would like to apologize to all my fans who had to witness that. But now, I have risen from the ashes. I am on quite a fantastic winning streak right now, in case you haven't noticed. I have picked myself off the ground. And I'm doing better than I ever have done. This has really ignited the fire inside of me once again. One cannot deny that Hikaru Shida has the heart of a champion. One cannot deny, even, that she has the heart of a lion. And one might say that she was destined to be a champion.  But every destiny comes to an end.

Solomon: I’m sure you’ve noticed this, but there are a lot of fans–and even the television announcers  who call your matches, like Taz and Tony Schiavone–who seem to be very concerned about you these days. Some of them have even spoken about you like you may have lost your mind. How do you take that?

Storm: Well, I’m not going to lie, darling. I don’t know where all of this misplaced concern is coming from, because I have never felt more “with it” in my entire life. I don’t know where people are getting these ideas from. I don't know who is daring to spread these ugly rumors about me. But I am done with it, truly. And you don’t need to worry about me, because I'm giving the performance of my lifetime. I’m doing just fine. I just cannot fathom where they are getting the idea that I've lost it, or why anyone would even entertain such a thought.

[Dressed as if she’s just emerged from her spacious trailer on a Hollywood studio lot, Ms. Storm shares a jaunty laugh with her adoring public.]

Solomon: Well, I think I can tell you one thing that might have been giving them that idea: the smeared makeup. That certainly might be having some people worried. I hope you can at least understand that. And, while we’re on the subject, maybe you could let us in on what that’s all about. 

Storm: Well, you see, I was talking to RJ City, and I had an epiphany…a revelation, you might say. It was then that I realized that I'm “Timeless” Toni Storm. But getting to that realization, leading up to it, was very difficult. And that takes a toll. This whole lifestyle can be very hard, mentally, on a performer. That realization can be hard to bear. And so, once in a while, you can lose control. 

Solomon: I’m not sure I understand.

Storm: Have you ever had a mental breakdown?

Solomon: I suppose I have. Many people have, at one point or another, but that’s not–

Storm: and you’ve never smeared your makeup?

Solomon: No. That, I've never done, no. Mental breakdown, maybe, yes. Smeared makeup? No.

Storm: In my world, where there is a mental breakdown, there is a bit of a smeared makeup job. However, I have a new butler now. And there will be no makeup smears. Everything is taken care of. I fired my stylist. And that was a good move. You won’t be seeing any more smeared makeup on me. I’m going to be immaculate, all of the time. 

[“SPRAYPAINTING THINGS LIKE WE USED TO DO”: Saraya attempts to incapacitate her challenger, who rallies back with Storm Zero piledriver at the Dynamite: Grand Slam taping.]

Solomon: Yes, I did notice the butler right away. He’s hard to miss. But you mentioned RJ City. Let’s get back to him. I’m interested in talking about RJ, because I noticed that he’s been with you now since you’ve been reborn, so to speak. We’d previously seen him doing backstage interviews with Renee Paquette, or hosting his excellent web interview series, HEY! EW. But lately, he seems to really be a big part of what you’ve been doing. How would you describe what your relationship is with him right now?

Storm: The thing about RJ City is he has a bit of an attitude problem. I’m going to let you all in on this. He can be difficult. He’s very cheeky. I would even go so far as to say that he’s a bit of a pest, really. So, you can’t trust him entirely. But he is around me all the time. And he was there when I had my revelation. Now, I just can’t get rid of him. But he seems to always be there to help me if I should need something, I suppose. 

Solomon: So, kind of like a pet?

Storm: Yes, exactly! He’s like my dog friend. Everyone should have one. A trusty, loyal sled dog. Solomon: I’m sure he'll be delighted to read that.

Storm: Hopefully not. I love doing this, even just to annoy him.

[Beneath the catchphrases, dramatic turns (faces!), and somewhat erratic behavior, Ms. Storm is a woman possessed by the desire to return to her former glory.]

Solomon: Now, we talked about previously losing the AEW Women’s title and how you came to these realizations. But obviously, before that, you had been one of the Outcasts, with Saraya and Ruby Soho. Now, you’ve kind of splintered off into your own universe. I’d like to ask if you have any awareness at all of how your former allies in the Outcasts feel about the new Toni Storm?

Storm: Saraya certainly hasn’t seemed very happy with me recently, for some reason. I don’t know why. But whatever problems Saraya has with me, whatever reason she’s upset, I'm sure she'll get over it. As a matter of fact, they'll all be fine. I don’t really know what they’re up to. I’m sure they’re just off, spray-painting things, like we used to do.

[“I need the biggest prize, the biggest trophy … I can’t bear to be seen without it. A lot of my self-worth comes from being champion.”]

Solomon: Are you above the AEW Women’s World championship at this point? Is that even the main goal of your career? Or are you bigger than that now?

Storm: I wouldn’t say bigger than the title, necessarily. It’s more that I need it. It’s something that I need to possess in order to be okay. I need the biggest prize, the biggest trophy. It’s become very much a big part of my art. I can’t bear to be seen without it. A lot of my self-worth comes from being champion.

Solomon: I have to ask you about the show. I mean, I have other questions about your various catchphrases, but I don’t think they’d let me print those in the pages of Pro Wrestling Illustrated. So, I’ll leave that alone, and, instead, I’ll focus on the shoe. What exactly is the significance of the shoe?

Storm: When one needs to defend oneself, one must utilize what one can get one’s hands on. And I've only ever had my shoes on me. Maybe I should invest in some kind of weaponry. But right now, the shoes seem to be doing the trick. 

[WATCH OUT FOR THE SHOW: “Timeless” Toni Storm is ever aware of the camera’s lens and can often be found breaking the fourth wall. But only a fool would dare mistake her eccentricity for weakness.]

Solomon: I would say they are, yes. I honestly never thought I’d be asking anyone this question in an interview, but do you think that maybe you might have been reincarnated? Or is it possible that you perhaps could have been born 100 years too late? Certainly, you seem more at home in the 1920s than in the 2020s.

Storm: You know, I would answer yes to that question. But the truth is, since I’m timeless, my concept of time is not a thing, if that makes sense.

Solomon: Not really, but go on.

Storm: What I mean to say is, I’m an essence. I’m a realm. I’m a mirage. I’m neither here nor there.

Solomon: Hmmm. While we’re on the subject of reincarnation, and flashbacks to a century ago, let’s talk about the short films you’ve been doing. And, by the way, I think they shouldn’t even be in picture-in-picture. They should be on the main part of the show, not during commercials. And I know a lot of people feel that way. But the films are silent, so I guess I understand …

Storm: Now you’re just babbling, darling. Do you have a question?

Solomon: Oh, yes. Do you think that All Elite Wrestling should switch the whole show being entirely done in black-and-white? And maybe silent? Or would you maybe not stand out as much if they did that?

Storm: To tell you the truth, I don't even know what you’re talking about or what you’re referring to. Everything is black-and-white to me. But I have heard about that fancy, newfangled Technicolor you’re talking about. It would be really nice one day to see AEW go live in Technicolor. I hear it’s going to be all  the rage.

Solomon: I have one more important question that I wanted to ask you, and this has to do with things that are even bigger than AEW. We know that a lot of people over the years, but especially these days, have kind of grown disillusioned with modern-day Hollywood. And you represent a timeless version of Hollywood that I think a lot of people are nostalgic for, or kind of miss in some ways–the glamor and the elegance. Could we ever expect to see “Timeless” Toni Storm bringing her timelessness, her elegance, her classic style to Hollywood itself?

Storm: What does that question even mean? What do you mean “bring my timelessness to Hollywood itself”? I’ve been in Hollywood my whole life. I’ve starred in a million movies, in all the major flicks. I’ve been a star my whole life, ever since childhood. I was born on set. Both of my parents were very famous actors, I create art, darling. And you will continue to see more and more pieces of art from me.

Solomon: I’m intrigued to learn of your being born on a movie set. I don’t think that fans are aware of that.That might be new information, broken right here in the pages of Pro Wrestling Illustrated. But didn’t you just tell me that you were never born, that you just exist?

Storm [waves in disgust]: Explain it however you like. Call it whatever you will. I was born into this business. I have been on movie sets my entire life. I am the very definition of Hollywood. All I have ever done is perform. I have performed so much my entire life that I can’t even remember my countless performances.

Solomon: Well, your performances certainly have been making an impression on audiences, as I said at the beginning of our conversation. You’re bringing back a certain something that’s been lost in the business.

Storm: I congratulate you on recognizing the obvious, yes. I just think we needed to bring that back, and that’s why I'm here. There’s been something missing from the business, from All Elite Wrestling. And I'm bringing a bit of the magic back, a bit of the art. It’s no wonder that audiences have been eating it up. I give them something to believe in. That’s what makes me stand out from the rest of the pack. And that’s what “Timeless” Toni Storm is all about. I would say that there should be even more of it–but then, of course, it wouldn’t stand out as much, would it?

[Ouch! Ms. Storm liberates the follicles from poor Skye Blue’s scalp. Tolerant of her “co-stars” until they stand in the path of her goals, Storm’s power ties in her ability to become ruthless at the drop of a hair curler.]

Solomon: No, it wouldn’t. That’s a great point, Ms. Storm. And you’re doing such an amazing job with it. I’m a huge fan.

Storm: as you should be. I appreciate all my fans and admirers. I definitely can’t say I blame them.

As with all brushes with greatness, there was only so much time to say all the things that I wanted to say, to ask all the questions that I wanted to ask. As the interview went on, it almost seemed like she was consumed deeper and deeper into this fantasy of her own making. I dared not challenge her too directly, as one never knows how someone in such a state might react. And far be it from me to shatter what's been so carefully constructed.

[“Now you’re just babbling darling. Do you have a question?”]

Eventually, the butler flashed me that pointed look that can only mean, “This interview is over now.” I politely thanked Ms. Storm and collected my things, thanking her for the gift of her precious time and excusing myself. After leaving the estate, I took one last wistful look back at the tarnished gables and overgrown landscaping that perfectly encapsulated the decadence that has overtaken the mind of Toni Storm. There is no point in debating the finer points of reality with someone like her. When all is said and done, reality is what you make it. And she has made her reality into something unforgettable and grand.

You might call it madness, but there is undeniably a method to it. Whether on the big screen or the same screen, “Timeless” Toni Storm is a big star. 

[astoundingbeyondbelief]

“All of my work so far has been leading up to this,” Schoenbrun said in a statement. “‘Public Access Afterworld’ is the culmination of my so-called ‘screen trilogy’ that I began with ‘World’s Fair’ and ‘TV Glow.’ But unlike those works, which focused mainly on pre-transition, this novel is an epic of trans becoming, and probably the biggest cinematic universe I’ll ever create, my attempt to craft a contemporary queer opus on the scale of ‘Sandman,’ ‘Lord of the Rings,’ or even, groan, ‘Harry Potter.'” The official description for “Public Access Afterworld” reads: An epic blend of literary fantasy, coming-of-age, sci fi, and horror, “Public Access Afterworld” traces the mysterious transmissions of a secret television network known as Public Access Afterworld that draws in a wide cast of characters, from two teenage best friends in a suburban New York basement to a housewife during the last days of World War II to a young trans content moderator at a YouTube-like corporation, who becomes an unlikely hero capable of rescuing a century of victims disappeared into the broadcast’s signal. “Public Access Afterworld” is a thrilling and profound novel of identity, conspiracy, the secret occult history of American entertainment, and the narratives that guide our lives and shape our world.

[angelsdean]

one tree hill simultaneously the best show ever and also full of CrimesTM. standard experience for a CW show. i wish more ppl actually watched early 2000s network television. then maybe they'd understand why spn is Like That sometimes and that it's Not a unique phenomenon and in fact, in comparison to many of its contemporaries, spn was tame on the early-2000s-problems of it all.

[nattawinlove-andmygaytea]

Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat And Tul Pakorn Thanasrivanitchai On Love, Travel, Upcoming Projects And More

Together, the Thai stars are rewriting the rules of being a leading man in film and television all while venturing into new territories, pursuing passion projects and living their lives unapologetically.

Forget everything you think you know about being a leading man. Thai actors, Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat and Tul Pakorn “Tyler” Thanasrivanitchai, are redefining what it means to be a household name after starring in Thai boys’ love (BL) dramas.

Unlike the uninhibited and daring characters he sometimes plays on screen, Mew comes across as a reserved, soft-spoken yet confident gentleman in person. On set, he’s polite, charming and eager for feedback despite possessing a wellspring of experience in the entertainment industry. “Are my poses okay? Do I need to do anything differently?” he earnestly asks Kenneth Goh, our editor-in-chief who was art directing the shoot in Bangkok, Thailand.

Mew’s rise to fame was gradual. The 32-year-old earned his stripes as a model before getting his first big break as an actor when he was cast as Pree in the Thai BL drama What The Duck: The Series (2018). The show was an instant hit in Thailand, and was brought back for a second season. But it wasn’t until his role in TharnType: The Series, where he played Tharn, a gay man who falls in love with his homophobic roommate (played by Gulf Kanawut Traipipattanapong) in university, that his star rose dramatically.

Mew is also a gifted musician. His debut album 365 ranked number three on the worldwide iTunes album chart, and was number one in 18 countries. He also became the first Thai artiste to debut an album that reached the 13th spot on iTunes’ Global Digital Artist Ranking list. He has since struck out on his own with Mew Suppasit Studio, through which he releases new music.

His success as an actor and recording artist hasn’t gone unnoticed. He caught the eye of luxury fashion brands such as Maison Valentino, Tod’s and BOSS, resulting in coveted partnerships and front row seats at Milan fashion week.

In contrast, Tul exhibits golden retriever energy. Charming and enthusiastic in the flesh, he is the polar opposite of Mew on set. Tul is playful and adventurous, taking initiative on how to better bring the concept of the shoot to life. “It might be better if I stood behind Mew for this shot so we’re both facing the camera,” he thoughtfully suggests. His energy is infectious and he’s not afraid to do whatever it takes to get the best photo. On set, they are drawn to each other, playfully tugging at each other’s clothes, while warm embraces and encouraging shoulder rubs signal a close bond. After lunch, the laughs grew louder, the boyish repartee naughtier and the hugs tighter. Clearly, Mew and Tul have a special affinity with each other.

Like his contemporary, Tul’s first foray into the entertainment industry was through modelling. “I was a drum major during the Chula–Thammasat Traditional Football match back in 2011, and I was scouted by a modelling agency,” he recalls. “I was later spotted modelling during a fashion show by a casting director and was asked to go on an audition. I started acting in my third year in university, accepting one production a year.”

The casting director’s eye for talent proved to be on the money—the 31-year-old shot to fame, thanks to the success of Together With Me (2018), where he played Knock, a sexually-confused university student who ends up falling in love with his gay childhood best friend. With his newfound popularity, opportunities within the fashion industry opened up for Tul as well.

Another similarity between the two men is their dedication to academic excellence. Mew has a master’s degree in Engineering from Chulalongkorn University, while Tul just graduated from Columbia University with an MSc in Real Estate Development and worked as an acquisition intern at Cycamore Capital in New York City.

Mew and Tul are testament to the modern idea that there’s no one way to reach the pinnacle of success, and that there’s always room for personal and professional enrichment and time for passion projects. We sat both of them down for an intimate tête-à-tête on style, travel, upcoming projects, their goals for the new year and more.

ON FASHION

Tul: How would you describe your style?

Mew: It depends. I love to mix and match. I have different types of tops that I’d mix with different bottoms, shoes and accessories.

T: Your wardrobe is huge (laughs)!

M: What about you?

T: In Thailand, anything lightweight. I’m very sensitive to the heat. I’m still experimenting with my style, but I love Korean fashion. I think the cutting is more flattering for us Asians and it’s more sophisticated. I like something minimal with details that is easy to mix and match with what you already have. For Thai fashion, I like Greyhound.

M: Handbags! You have so many bags!

T: Shoulder bags and crossbody bags. Well, the thing is, I don’t feel like dressing up much while in Thailand. So I play with bags instead.

M: I bought him a new bag last year and I only saw him use it once. You know the problem isn’t about how often he uses it. The problem is, he was whining a lot when he wanted it. But when I bought it for him, he rarely used it.

T: I used it many times! Around five times.

M: In the entire year!

T: When I want him to buy me something, I’ll send him a picture saying, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

ON FOOD AND TRAVEL

M: Any restaurant recommendations?

T: I think Japanese restaurants are great. I like yakiniku and shabu shabu, but I really recommend grilled prawns.

M: Any good ones in Ayutthaya? Once I ate them on a raft and threw up. I guess I had seasickness. River prawns are very fatty and the raft was floating, so I felt terrible.

T: I would recommend Ginzado. It’s a Japanese yakiniku restaurant.

M: What’s your favourite food?

T: Asian food. I enjoy Thai, Chinese, Japanese, and Korean food.

M: You know what our new discovery is? Peruvian food! It’s very good.

T: Yes, Peruvian food! So good!

M: We ate it in Canada.

T: Peruvian food is like a mix of Latin and Japanese food.

M: The restaurant we ate at in Miami was very good too.

T: Yes. They have this dish that’s a lot like our Yum (spicy salad). I think Thai people will like it. If you don’t enjoy Mexican cuisine, you might like Peruvian.

M: Do you always plan your trips or just go with the flow?

T: I always plan.

M: Overplan, more like it! He’s the one in charge of trips, and the itinerary is always just nice—not too packed.

T: I told you I can be obsessive-compulsive. When we travel, I want the best things at the best price. It needs to be cost-efficient. When you need to be somewhere at a certain point in time—such as seeing the sunrise at a particular spot—I will do everything to make sure we get to see the sunrise. I plan everything in advance and I don’t want anyone in the group to have to pay for something unnecessarily expensive. If, at some time, business class tickets are excessively costly and premium economy is more value for money, then we should do premium economy. I’ll be attentive to everyone’s rewards and mileage to ensure they don’t need to pay extra when they can redeem miles.

M: He will have all the information on hand like, if we’re going somewhere and need to use a particular airline, we should apply for this and that in advance, so we have benefits like better seats or baggage allowance.

ON WHAT’S NEXT

T: What are your plans for this year?

M: Last year, I worked on many projects, series and movies, so you’ll see a lot of my work both on television and in cinema. I’ll be back working on music soon as well. In addition, I have a fan meet around my birthday in February, so I’m looking forward to meeting my supporters there. Among the projects that I’ve completed is Mon Rak Luk Thung, a remake of a classic Thai musical rom-com. This is my first time singing many luk thung [folk] songs.

T: I’m thinking of seriously moving away from entertainment, and focussing on my family business. I’m currently working as a project manager for our new project in Bangna. It’s a community mall with a fresh food market. In the future, I would love to work in property management. I enjoy exploring residential and housing projects. I want to do something that offers customers high-quality products and a good quality of life. This is also the reason why I pursued my postgraduate study.

M: What are your goals for 2024?

T: I want to have a sexier body. I want to have time for the gym no matter what I have going on at work. Another goal of mine is to make more use of what I’ve learned in the US in my life. I want to be working on more tangible projects.

M: I have never had a chance to use any of the things I learned during my postgraduate studies (laughs). The research I did… I’ve used none of it.

ON THEMSELVES

W: How would you describe yourself?

T: I’m a worrywart. I think too much about every little thing despite my image as a very sociable extrovert. But when I’m on my own, I’m quite obsessive-compulsive; I will tidy my rooms and fold my clothes.

M: Everyone thinks he’s easy-going and very laid-back, but in reality, he’s a worrywart. He really, really thinks about everything. He keeps worrying about others.

T: It depends. I thought I could handle social media better as I got older but sometimes, I feel like I’m not as good at it as I could be. That said, after years in showbiz, I’m better at letting go and not letting it affect me as much.

M: I’m the opposite of Tul. He’s a worrywart despite his easy-going image. I look like I’m overthinking but in reality, I’m much more laid-back.

T: Exactly (laughs)!

ON LOVE

T: What’s your favourite love quote?

M: I don’t know… I’ve never thought of it.

T: Just Google ‘love quote’ and pick one you like.

M: For real? Okay, let’s see… Top 10 Love Quotes…

T: My love quote is ‘Bitch, I say what I say.’

M: What should I choose…what about this one? It’s quite short. ‘When there is love, there is life.’

[olympic-paris]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more …

September 4

Invisible Paris: What happened on the Quatre Septembre?

1900 – Baron George Hoyningen-Huene (d.1968) was a seminal fashion photographer of the 1920s and 1930s. He was born in Russia to Baltic German and American parents and spent his working life in France, England and the United States. Born in Saint Petersburg, Russia, Hoyningen-Huene was the only son of Baron Barthold Theodorevitch von Hoyningen-Huene (1859-1942), a Baltic nobleman and military officer. His mother was an American.

During the Russian Revolution, the Hoyningen-Huenes fled to first London, and later Paris. By 1925 George had already worked his way up to chief of photography at French Vogue. In 1931 he met Horst [pictured lbelow, photographed by Hoyningen-Huene], the future photographer, who became his lover and frequent model, and travelled to England with him that winter. While there, they visited photographer Cecil Beaton, who was working for the British edition of Vogue.

"Horst on Mantel"

In 1935 Hoyningen-Huene moved to New York City where he did most of his work for Harper's Bazaar. He published two art books on Greece and Egypt before relocating to Hollywood, where he earned a living shooting glamorous portraits for the film industry.

Hoyningen-Huene worked before anything resembling contemporary flash photography was known. Working in huge studios and with whatever lighting worked best. There is something about the texture of his black and whites that one seldom finds in contemporary work. Beyond fashion, he was a master portraitist as well from Hollywood stars to other celebrities.

He also worked in Hollywood in various capacities in the film industry, working closely with George Cukor, notably as special visual and colour consultant for the 1954 Judy Garland movie A Star Is Born. He served a similar role for the 1957 film Les Girls, which starred Kay Kendall and Mitzi Gaynor and the Sophia Loren film Heller in Pink Tights.

He died at 68 years of age in Los Angeles.

1938 – Leonard Frey (d.1988) was an American actor. He is best remembered for his performance in the 1971 film Fiddler on the Roof, which earned him an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor nomination.

Frey was born in Brooklyn, New York. After attending James Madison High School, he studied art at Cooper Union, with designs on being a painter, before switching to acting at New York City's Neighborhood Playhouse under famed acting coach Sanford Meisner, and pursued a career in theater instead. Frey made his stage debut in an Off-Broadway production of Little Mary Sunshine.

Frey received critical acclaim in 1968 for his performance as Harold in off-Broadway's The Boys in the Band. He would go on to appear alongside the rest of the original cast in the 1970 film version, directed by William Friedkin.

Frey was nominated for a 1975 Tony Award as Best Featured Actor in a Play for his performance in The National Health. Other stage credits include revivals of The Time of Your Life (1969), Beggar on Horseback (1970), Twelfth Night (1972) and The Man Who Came to Dinner (1980). He also played Clare Quilty in the Alan Jay Lerner musical Lolita, My Love which closed, before reaching Broadway, in 1971.

Frey was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his performance as Motel the tailor in Norman Jewison's 1971 film Fiddler on the Roof (he had appeared in the original Broadway musical production as Mendel, the rabbi's son). His other film credits included roles in The Magic Christian (1969), Tell Me That You Love Me, Junie Moon (1970), Where the Buffalo Roam (1980), Up the Academy (1980), and Tattoo (1981).

Frey's television credits included appearances on Hallmark Hall of Fame; Medical Center; Mission Impossible; Eight is Enough; Quincy, M.E.; Hart to Hart; Barney Miller; Moonlighting; and Murder, She Wrote.

Frey died at the age 49 of an AIDS-related illness in New York on August 24, 1988.

1957 – On this date in the United Kingdom, the Wolfenden Report was published. It was the culmination of a request by the Conservative government in 1954 to set up a Departmental Committee to look into aspects of British sex laws. The committee of 13 members committee was chaired by Sir John Wolfenden, Vice-Chancellor of Reading University, investigated the current laws on homosexuality and prostitution. The Wolfenden Report was published after a succession of well-known men, including Lord Montagu, Michael Pitt-Rivers and Peter Wildeblood, were convicted of homosexual offences.

Disregarding the conventional ideas of the day, the committee recommended that "homosexual behaviour between consenting adults in private should no longer be a criminal offence". Contrary to some medical and psychiatric witnesses' evidence at that time, the committee found that "homosexuality cannot legitimately be regarded as a disease, because in many cases it is the only symptom and is compatible with full mental health in other respects." The report added, "The law's function is to preserve public order and decency, to protect the citizen from what is offensive or injurious, and to provide sufficient safeguards against exploitation and corruption of others ... It is not, in our view, the function of the law to intervene in the private life of citizens, or to seek to enforce any particular pattern of behaviour." The recommended age of consent was 21 (the age of majority in the UK then).

The report also discussed the rise in street prostitution at the time, which it associated with "community instability" and "weakening of the family". As a result there was a police crackdown on street prostitution following the report.

"The enforcement of Morals", by Patrick Devlin, stated that "Adultery, fornication, and prostitution are not, as the Report points out, criminal offences: homosexuality between males is a criminal offence, but between females it is not."

The recommendations of the report eventually led to the passage of the Sexual Offences Act 1967, applying to England and Wales only, that replaced the previous law on sodomy contained in the Offences against the Person Act 1861 and the 1885 Labouchere Amendment which outlawed every other homosexual act. The law was only passed a decade after the report was published in 1957.

John Wolfenden came 45th in a list of the top 500 lesbian and gay heroes, Pink Paper, 26 September 1997. It later became known that his son Jeremy Wolfenden was gay.

2017 – Canada has discreetly granted asylum to 31 gay men from Chechnya working with the NGO Rainbow Railroad,  a clandestine program unique in the world. In April, Justin Trudeau and the Canadian  government strongly condemned persecution of homosexuals in Chechnya. Canada is not the only country to accept gay refugees from Chechnya and other countries in the region. France has accepted at least one person, as has Germany, and two are in Lithuania. An undetermined number of individuals have traveled to European Union countries on tourist visas, and then applied for refugee status. So far, the United States has done nothing.

[woodaba]

We Wouldn't Have Alan Wake II Without Quantum Break

Remember Quantum Break? The first game announced for the Xbox One? The link between cult classic Alan Wake and surprising studio-saving hit Control? That prominently features Lance Reddick, the much-missed actor who was frequently one of the most electric screen presences of our time?

Don't worry, I barely do either, and I played the game yesterday.

So, a refresher. Quantum Break, announced in 2013 alongside the Xbox One and released three years later, is a third-person shooter starring Shawn Ashmore aka Iceman from the X-Men movies as Jack Joyce (and not Jake Joyce as I constantly remembered him as. In my defense, it's a better name, if only because then his superhero name could be Quantum Jake...), who, after being turned into A Remedy Entertainment Protagonist after a time-travel experiment gone wrong, battles against fellow Remedy Entertainment Protagonist Aidan Gillen aka Doctor Pavel I'm CIA as Paul Serene, over what to do about an imminent apocalypse after Time starts Breaking because of the aforementioned time-travel experiment.

As a rehabilitating former Doctor Who obsessive, I'm particularly open to this kind of time-travel nonsense, but Quantum Break is frustratingly unwilling to capitalize on its own premise. Interesting things happen, sure: people get stuck in causality loops, confront and become acausal time monsters, and live entire second lives in the past after time-traveling, but almost none of it occurs to Jack Joyce: he just spends his time just shooting guys in a series of warehouses and offices. Quantum Break is a potentially interesting story that we don't really get to see anything of, instead anything compelling in the narrative is relayed to us second-hand, by the myriad emails and documents scattered throughout the gunfights, or over the radio, and, of course, Remedy's now-signature multimedia ambitions.

In between acts of the video game Quantum Break, you'll be treated to episodes of the TV show Quantum Break, a live-action c-tier circa-2009 network TV production starring some of the big(ish) names that headline the game Quantum Break, but mostly follows a cast of extras who navigate around the events of the game while working for baddie Paul Serene's Evil Corporation, Monarch.

It's in the TV show that what Quantum Break actually is begins to take shape. Remedy, as a studio, has always been interested - and unusually adept at - pastiche, whether it's the noir comic stylings of their still-astonishing Max Payne duology or the rickety but deeply charming Stephen King love-in that is Alan Wake. And here, they do a genuinely stellar job at replicating the look, feel, and sensibilities of a 2008-2013 network TV Lost/Fringe rip-off that gets canceled after one season.

That may sound backhanded, but I assure you it isn't. I've long been a fan of Remedy, in spite of, or perhaps because I don't think they've made a truly great game since Max Payne 2. In a medium that often pillages relentlessly from Film and TV, Remedy set themselves apart from their competition with the depth of their understanding of the production of film, bringing into games a deftness of set construction and filmic pacing that blows their contemporaries out of the water. Even more-lauded names like Naughty Dog and Rockstar come up short against Alan Wake's hauntingly gorgeous misty woods, best illustrated with Rockstar's Max Payne 3, which matched Remedy's cinematographical flair in the cutscenes, but fell far short of their level design chops and breadth of influences.

Quantum Break is, in aesthetics and production, a genuinely extremely well-considered pastiche of this period of sci-fi television that is now comfortably in the rear-view mirror, the time since its release having given it a real nostalgic charm that would have been dulled at the time of release. It really reminded me of the years I spent watching shows like Heroes, or Flash/Forward, shows that may not have been very good, but are intoxicatingly emblematic of their time and place, hiding just beneath the floorboards of the shows that would actually get to be remembered.

It's a shame, then, that it just fails to really compel on any level beyond appreciation for the pastiche.

Much like the gameplay, the TV episodes of Quantum Break feel almost ancillary to another, better story that we never get to see. The stars of the game feel wasted here - particularly Lance Reddick, one of my favorite actors, who steals the show every time he appears, but is given vanishingly little to do in comparison with a group of wafer-thin characters that struggle to manifest a single dimension, with relational at best connection to the concerns of the narrative. It looks like a particularly budget-strapped episode of Warehouse 13, sure, but it doesn't really feel like one, as the episodes - until the last one, which is a noticeable improvement - are shockingly paceless and devoid of the arcs that would make a singular episode of television compelling. They are, ultimately, primarily dreary, overlong, and constantly highlighting the fact that they are largely interstitial filler.

It would be wrong to accuse Remedy of not having their heart in Quantum Break, as there is too much evident passion to discount, but I do feel like they struggle to find a core to this idea, something that they truly want to explore. Whether I'm playing the game or watching the show, QB leaves everything on the surface, with nothing to really find beneath the surface. It's notable that the game is absolutely filled with constant allusions to Alan Wake - including a full-blown trailer found on a TV moments after starting the game that bears startling resemblance to the eventual plot of this year's Alan Wake II - and that the game started life as a pitch to Microsoft for Alan Wake II: one suspects that they would much rather be making that game at this moment in time than Quantum Break, or that the game is a test-bed of ideas for the studio's future, the act of throwing a thousand darts at a quantum dartboard, and seeing which ones find their mark. It's just that for this effort, precious few of them do.

And yet, the surprise is that by the end, I truly felt like Remedy was genuinely onto something with the spirit of Quantum Break's ideas, if not the execution of them. The television show is the thing that makes Quantum Break live, that marks it out as something worth remembering in a sea of slick third-person shooters with cinematic ambitions. It is the icon of the foundational belief of the Xbox One, that the future of games lay in a synthesis with television, a dead-end future that had already worn out by the time the game was actually released. What remains is little more than a gimmick, sure, but it is one that, by the end, is oddly compelling, even if most of it is terrifically boring to actually experience.

There is a genuine thrill to seeing characters in both video game graphics and live-action forms, shifting between the two seamlessly thanks to some genuinely well-realized digitized actors that still look good today, a shift that blends well with the time-space bending of the plot. Do I care about Jack Joyce, as a person? Not even slightly. Did I still grin when I saw Actual Shawn Ashmore briefly appear in the TV episodes after controlling Virtual Shawn Ashmore? Absolutely. It's the same kind of shallow thrill you get from Cheers allumni showing up for a visit in Frasier, or when the Torchwood crew talk around the presence of Mr. Doctor Who, Esq, but as something that works with what the game is doing rather than distracting your attention elsewhere.

The gameplay portions represent time breaking down with (genuinely cool, if shallow) shards of space and glass and stuttering loops of physical time, but the collision of the Real and the Virtual feels so much more effective in communicating the idea of time and space shattering and colliding into one another. I just wish it played in this space more, focusing on Ashmore, Reddick, Monaghan, and Hope, rather than the cast of goons and extras who feel wholly separated from the game until the final mission.

I'd like to say that I'd love Remedy to take another crack at this idea, with the lessons they've learned from Control and Alan Wake II, but that already feels like a fool's hope. The ballooning costs of video game development make the idea of filming an entire TV mini-series alongside it feel laughable. Sure, Control's live-action segments were plentiful and superbly produced, but they were also far more restrained than Quantum Break, focusing on short segments with one non-big-name actor each in a couple of highly reusable sets. With both this and its open-world, side-questing structure with plenty of loot and upgrades to collect, Control is something largely in line with the realities and productions of modern game development

Quantum Break isn't rooted in reality for even a second. It's a time-locked instant, the most 2015 game ever made, which makes it all the better that it came out in 2016. There's no future in what Quantum Break envisions. It's a failed experiment, something to shrug at and move on. And yet, it compels me regardless, despite the fact that I don't really like it.

We need games like this, I feel. Historical curios like this show that the shifting landscape of the medium isn't a straight line, it splits off into splintered fraying timelines, some leading to nothing, but others spilling back in unexpected ways. After all, Courtney Hope, who played Beth Wilder here, returned for the starring role in Control, and that game feels so keenly like the product of lessons learned from QB, with everything from the live-action segments, the document-reading, and the combat feeling like a progression from Remedy's previous work. In particular, my complaints about QB's narrative taking place almost entirely off-screen evolves into a hugely compelling aspect of Control, with the genuine highlight of that game being reading the endless documents detailing the horrors and nightmares of America transcribed into corporate mundanity.

And while I've only played a taster of Alan Wake II, there's no doubt in my mind that that game, a bona-fide critical darling the likes of which Remedy hasn't had since Max Payne 2, owes a great debt to QB. Not least because its engine provides the framework for the game, but also because, well, it's been in there, this whole time.

Waiting for The Return.

[sam-keeper]

You've seen all the other guides to the best and most essential episodes of Doctor Who. Forget all that crap, I'm here with a new blockbuster double sized article about what you really want: Doctor Who stories for absolute freaks!

"I received this strange mess with a kind of wide-eyed Jake English wonder, and I soon settled into that approach for the new series as well. Part of the pleasure of it is precisely that it's cheaply produced, hammily acted, clumsily scripted, often shot in a fairly utilitarian way, with cgi that looks like a ps2 game. This is an exhilarating contrast to the "good-core" monotony of contemporary television, which all seems to be Prestige, and is consequently shot, acted, animated, scripted, and grotesquely under-lit the same way. Contemporary television feels over-determined, aggro in its need to make sure that at all times we understand how to feel, even aggro about making sure we know we're supposed to feel ambiguous. This is despite the fact that it often has no actual idea what it's saying or why. It's kind of a relief to experience, in contrast, a show that often is gleefully open about the fact that it doesn't really know what it's doing besides "having fun with it." It's in this spirit that I present my own recommendations."