#but we already work. we have taxes to pay

[adore-laur]

Dadrry idea: since Harry left his position of head chef and there’s a second baby now, maybe they’re struggling a tiny bit with money. Not too much but things are a little stressful and they have to cancel a holiday maybe? Or one of the girls just doesn’t get a toy she wants or something? And they have to explain it to the child just while Harry picks up a few more shifts

——

Harry handled the finances and was aware of each transaction made in the family. With two kids, you both had to be quite frugal, especially since Harry was working fewer hours at the restaurant and you were a stay-at-home mom. While there was never an issue of not having enough money to pay the bills and provide your children with the necessities, the prospect of running out still haunted your mind. It was possible that an unforeseeable emergency could snatch a hefty chunk of money away. Additionally, there were other boring adult things like mortgages, taxes, and monthly subscriptions that all left a bigger deduction with each year that passed.

Then there was the summer trip to Tuscany, Italy, in two months. The plane tickets had already been bought and gifted for Christmas, and the villa was booked in advance. It was expensive, but the other option of staying in a hotel room for a week with young children was undesirable in all regards. The space and privacy were crucial for your sanity.

Italy was not a cheap travel destination per se. There would be money spent every day on transportation, dining, tourist traps, and whatever else sucked you in with its magnificent European beauty. Indulging in extravagance would be tempting, but if you planned and budgeted ahead of time, maybe the financial repercussions of the trip wouldn't be so deplorable. Your wishful thinking was blatantly deceptive.

After putting the kids down for bed, you sat at the kitchen table under the dim chandelier and waited for Harry to finish unloading the dishwasher. His silent presence was comfortable as you pondered the logistics of the upcoming trip. Pondered was putting it lightly—you were brooding.

"I can hear you thinking," Harry said, setting the last bowl in the cupboard. He washed and dried his hands, then walked over to you with his cotton pajama pants slung low on his hips. His bare torso was at your eye level, and you fought the urge to bury your face in the warm, chiseled skin there.

"My head is going to explode," you muttered, feeling an imminent migraine pulsing near your temples.

He fell into the adjacent chair, exhausted from an eventful Saturday of dad duty, and scooted it closer to you. "Why, baby?" he asked, his palms scrubbing down his face as he yawned.

"I'm overthinking everything."

Placing his elbow on the table, his cheek cradled in his palm, he gave you his full focus. "Break it down for me."

"Well, there's mainly one thing." You huffed, deciding to broach the topic before it was swept under the rug. "The Italy trip. Prices are going up, and I'm worried we won't be able to afford going anymore."

Harry's expression was the epitome of flummoxed. "Wait, what? Where is this coming from?"

"You're not working full-time," you began explaining, "and I'm not raking in any income. I mean, will we be able to financially recover from the trip? What if—"

"Hold on, hold on," he said softly, his eyes pinching shut. "Can I interrupt, please?"

You half-heartedly waved your hand in his general direction, in desperate need of his sensible guidance. "Be my guest."

"Let's backtrack for a second. Why... honey, why do you think we won't be able to afford it? The biggest costs are already out of the way."

"I just told you why. Think about it, Harry." You tapped the table to emphasize each point. "A meal for four people will probably cost over a hundred dollars. That includes breakfast, lunch, and dinner, so if we multiply that by the seven days we're there, it's going to be well over a thousand dollars."

"Okay," he said. He didn't seem to have anything to add after that, so you continued.

"Then there's transportation." You groaned, staring up at the ceiling. "We still have to decide if we're renting a car. If not, we'll have to pay for a bus, or a train, or a taxi. That's going to add up very quickly."

"Mm-hmm." Harry had a dopey look on his face, a hint of a smile tugging the corners of his lips up. Whatever. You were being realistic, and he was in a dreamland where money grew on trees.

You carried on, getting tangled in the vines of your brain's dense jungle. "And then what about all the sightseeing and activities? That's the most expensive aspect." You shrugged helplessly. "I was recently searching for free things to do there. I guess there are a lot of buildings we can look at, but I don't know if the kids would enjoy it."

Harry nodded along. When he realized you were done with your long-winded explanation, he lifted his eyebrows and said, "It's a good thing we can spoil them with the raise I got yesterday."

"And also—what?" You stopped abruptly, catching your breath. Did he just...?

Harry stood and bent down to kiss your forehead in that sweet way of his—gentle and imploring, like he wanted to caress your brain and will it to calm down. "I got a raise yesterday," he repeated nonchalantly, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you demanded, lightly smacking his shoulder.

"I'm telling you right now. I wanted to wait until we had a moment to ourselves." He crouched in front of you, holding your knees just like he'd done when you told him you were pregnant for the second time. The memory was so vivid that it almost left you stunned with emotion. "Five percent pay raise. We're going to be just fine." His simple smile was remedial. "We are not canceling this trip."

You exhaled, releasing all of your worries into the air, the pounding in your temples dissipating. "Why didn't you stop me from rambling on?"

"Because it's healthy to speak those types of thoughts aloud instead of letting them simmer," Harry replied like the perfect husband he was.

You cupped his cheeks and kissed him thoroughly, pouring all of your love and gratitude into it. "I'm so proud of you," you whispered against his mouth. He savored your words by humming and sliding his tongue across yours for just a brief second. "I appreciate all the hard work you put into making our little family happy. And thank you for making this vacation possible."

"Wanted to spoil my girls," Harry murmured, craning his neck to kiss you more. His wet lips pulled at yours, greedy for their pliancy.

"Are you going to pick up more hours at the restaurant?" you asked in between the sounds of lip-smacking and heavy breathing. Something about him at night, in the dimly lit kitchen, with you as his sole focus, was igniting that secret fuse only he could play with.

"Shhh..." His fingers dug into your waist as he lifted you off the chair. Your legs and arms wrapped around him, warmth flooding right under your skin like wildfire. "No more work talk. I want some alone time with my wife before a hungry baby wakes us up."

You giggled and bit his bottom lip in excitement before he carried you to the bedroom. Miraculously, your six-month-old gave the both of you forty minutes of uninterrupted time to roll around in the sheets.

When you went to sleep later that night, visions of Tuscany's hillside vineyards and swimming in the vast sea erased your concerns. As did the unequivocal vision of the man beside you making precious memories with his babies.

With Harry, there was no need to sweat the small stuff. His eyes were set on the most important thing—family.

——

[fragilefangirl]

"Shuri is 19 in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever" wrong. She is at least twenty four i should know she literally was born in the same year I was

[the-bibrarian]

I see a lot of incomprehension online about our pension reform and the anger it generates in France, and what it often boils down to is "why are they so angry, 64 is plenty young to retire?"

I don't agree, but even if I did I would still oppose the reform. Here are some of the reasons why:

We already need 43 full years of work and tax contributions to be able to retire. Which means college-educated people were never going to retire at 64 anyway, let alone 62. This reform is aimed at people who start working early, mostly in low-paying jobs.

There's very little provision made in this law for hard/dangerous/manual labour.

There's no provision made for women who stop working to raise their children (51% of women already retire without a "complete career," which means they only retire on a partial pension, vs. 25% of men).

At 64, 1/3 of the poorest workers will already be dead. In France, between the richest and the poorest men, there's a 13 years gap in life expectancy.

Beyond life expectancy, at that age a lot of people (especially poorer, non-college educated) have too many health-related issues to be able to work. Not only is it cruel to ask them to work longer, if they can't work at all that's two more years to hold on with no pension

Unemployment in France is still fairly high (7%). Young people already have a hard time finding work, and this is going to make things even harder for them

Macron cut taxes on the rich and lost the country around 16 Billions € in tax revenue. Our estimated pension deficit should peak at 12 Billions worst case scenario.

While I'm on wealth redistribution (no, not soviet style, but I think there should be a cap on wealth concentration. Nobody needs to be a billionaire.): some of the massive profits of last year should go to workers and to the state to be redistributed, including to fund pensions. The state subsidized companies and corporations during the pandemic, Macron even said "no matter the cost" and spent 206 Billions € on businesses. Now he's going after the poorest workers in the country for an hypothetical 12 Billions??

Implicit in all of this is the question of systemic racism. French workers from immigrant families are already more likely to have started their careers early, to have low-paying jobs, are less likely to be college-educated, more at risk for disabilities and chronic illnesses, etc., so this is going to disproportionately affect them

This is not even touching on the fact that he didn't let lawmakers vote on it, meaning he knew he wouldn't get a majority of votes in parliament, or that 70% of the population is against this law. Pushing it through anyway is blatant authoritarianism.

TL;DR: This is only tangentially about retirement age. The reform will make life harder for people with low incomes, or with no higher education, for manual workers, for women—mothers especially, for POC, for people with disabilities or chronic conditions, etc. This is about solidarity.

Hope (sincerely) this helps.

[fratboykate]

I'm totally in support of the writers in theory but I'm trying to understand more of what you're fighting for because I've seen some people on twitter claim writers make more money a week than most of us make in a month so I'm trying to understand what the issue is. Also if that info is accurate. This is a genuine question. Not trying to have a "gotcha moment". I really want to hear from a writer.

people have always had wild misconceptions about how much a writer earns because of their lack of understanding of how the industry actually works. there's so many posts about how "you guys make 5k a week. what more do you want?!" yeah...let's do some math on that.

5k a week for 14 weeks (and that's a long room. a lot of rooms these days are 8-10 weeks. those are the dreaded mini-rooms we're trying to kill) is $70,000. for roughly three months of work. you'd think we're cooking with gas...BUT HOLD UP. that's gross! let's see everything that has to come out of that check:

10% to our agent

10% to our manager

5% to our entertainment attorney

5% to our business manager (not everyone has one but a lot of us do. i do, so that's literally 30% immediately off the top of every check)

most of these breakdowns ive seen downplay taxes severely. someone made one that says writers pay 5% in taxes and i would like to ask them "in what universe?". that doesn't even cover state taxes. the way taxes work in the industry is really complicated, but the short of it is most of us have companies for tax reasons so we aren't taxed like people on w2s/1099. if we did we'd be even more fucked. basically every production hires a writer's company instead of the writer as an individual. so they engage our companies for our services and then at the end of the year we (the company) pay taxes as corporations or llcs (depending on what the writer chose to go with). my company is registered as a "corporation" so let's go with those rates. california's corporate rate is 9% and the federal corporate tax rate is 21%. there's other expenses with running a business like fees and other shit so my business managers/accountants/bookkeepers have recommended i save between 35-40% of everything i make for when tax season comes.

you see where the math is at already??? 25-30% in commissions and then 35-40% in taxes. on the lower end you're at THE VERY LEAST looking at 60% of that check gone. 70% worst case scenario. suddenly those $70,000 people claim we make are actually down to $28,000 as the take home pay. and that's if you're only losing 60%. it goes down to $21,000 if it's 70%.

lets pretend you worked a long 14 week room (that's the longest room ive ever worked btw) and let's also be generous and say you only have 60% in expenses so the take home is $28,000. average rent in los angeles is around $2,800-$3,000. if you're paying $2,800 in rent that means you need AT LEAST $4,000 a month to have a semi decent life since you need to also cover groceries, gas, medical expenses, toiletries, phone, internet, utilities, rental and car insurances, car payments, student loan payments, etc etc etc. and again, this is los angeles. everything is more expensive so you're living BARE BONES on 4k. and these are numbers as a single person. im not even taking having children into account. so those $28,000 you take home might cover your life for 6-7 months. 3 of which you're in the room working. the reality is that once that room ends, you might not work in a room again for 6-9-12 months (i have friends whose last jobs were over 18 months ago) and you now only have about 3 months left of savings to hold you over. we have to make that money stretch while we do all the endless free development we do for studios and until we get our next paying job. so...3 months left of enough money to cover your expenses -> possible 9 months of not having a job. this is how writers end up on food stamps or applying to work at target.

this is why we're fighting for better rates and better residuals. residuals were a thing writers used to rely on to get them through the unemployment periods. residual checks have gone down from 20k to $0.03 cents. im not joking.

they've decimated our regular pay and then destroyed residuals. we have nothing left. so don't believe it when they tell you writers are being greedy. writers are simply fighting to be able to make a middle class living. we're not asking them to become poor for our sake. we're asking for raises that amount to 2% of their profit. TWO PERCENT. this is a fight for writing even being a career in five years instead of something you do on the side while you work retail to pay your bills. if you think shows are bad now imagine when your writer has to do it as a hobby because they need a real job to pay their bills and support a family. (which none of us can currently afford to have btw)

support writers. stop being bootlickers for billion dollar corporations. stop caring about fictional people more than you care about the real people that write them. if we don't win this fight it truly is game over. the industry as you know it is gone.

[judasvibe]

when people say, 'university educated people have more progressive views' i'm pretty sure they mean people with worthless ____ studies degrees and not necessarily doctors, researchers, engineers, or anyone in a quantitative field lmfao

the left does hate anyone who can show that A + B does not = C on popular points

[fabulouslygaybean]

okay i think i got like the best first gig ever bc i got like $80 for 4-ish hours of work

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Dogs

Clive Barker: now everyone i want you all to welcome a real scary story by dodie smith Poe: um clive Poe: is this really appropriate Barker: oh yeah trust me this is gonna be REAL scary Barker: for dean Poe: are you doing this to torment dean Barker: whaaaat Barker: i would never

Dodie Smith: submitted for the approval of the midnight society, i call this the tale of the woman who kidnaps dogs Dean Koontz: what?! Koontz: you guys Koontz: you know I like scary stories Koontz: but you didn't tell me it was gonna be THIS scary

Barker: ahh poor dean, is this too much for you? Barker: i guess you could just go to bed and leave this one for the big kids Koontz: n-no Koontz: no i can take it King: that's the spirit dean King: you can do it

Dodie Smith: so there's this woman who kidnaps dogs Koontz: that's fine, i can handle this Smith: because she wants to skin them for a coat Koontz: guysssss Koontz: guyssss i hate thisss Barker: ah ha ha Poe: oh really clive this is too much

Smith: so the important thing is there's this guy mr dearly Smith: now the government lets him live tax free for life cuz he solved a really hard math problem King: King: uh King: i don't think that's the way that works

Smith: no no that's legit i checked Smith: that's how we do it in the UK King: King: clive? Barker: That doesn't sound right, but I don't know enough about math to dispute it

Smith: so anyway mr dearly marries this woman Smith: and his dog marries her dog Smith: also they both have nannies Koontz: do the nannies also get married? Smith: haha of course not dean they're both ladies Smith: nanny butch and nanny femme are just really good platonic friends

Smith: but there's a problem Smith: the dearlys adopt ANOTHER dalmatian, perdita Smith: and this dog Smith: is NOT married Barker: and that's a problem huh? Smith: OF COURSE IT'S A PROBLEM Smith: you can't just have this dog slutting it up around town!

Smith: so the married dogs, pongo and missus, go on a merry adventure to save their puppies from the insane woman who wants to skin them for a coat Smith: and when the adventure is over Smith: they need to buy a bigger house to home all their 97 puppies

Smith: luckily mr dearly solved another problem to help the government pay its taxes Poe: wait why does the government have to pay taxes Smith: oh we do things differently in the UK Poe: yeah, evidently

Smith: perdita's original owners come back Smith: and the dearlys are afraid that they'll want perdita back Smith: but they're all "oh we didn't actually like her all that much, you can keep her" Koontz: wait someone doesn't like a dog? Koontz: this is breaking my immersion

Smith: but then some other people come by and they have a dog too Smith: and it turns out that this is perdita's dog husband! Smith: and these people are all "oh, i guess you can have this dog" Smith: "you know, since they're already dog married"

Smith: oh also the dearlys get a cat Smith: the cat also gets married Barker: christ why are all these animals getting married Smith: what, you want them living in sin? Koontz: yeah clive you want them living in sin?? Barker: i just Koontz: that would be immoral clive!!! Barker:

Smith: anyway then everyone is matched up in a nice monogamous, hetero-sex pair Smith: just the way it should be! Piers Anthony: yeah yeah now THAT'S the way you end a story!

[equalseleventhirds]

"I don't understand how I'm losing," Reigen said, his hands flying over his keyboard. It was so late now—too late, maybe—if only he'd used the same technique as with the Player Killer from the beginning, he might have stood a chance, but he hadn't seriously thought he'd lose—

"Shishou," Mob said, "why is this so important? You already have second place from Twitter."

Reigen laughed, not at all nervously, and splayed a hand across his forehead. "You don't understand, Mob. The publicity from something like this, even a rematch, would do wonders for Spirits and Such. This is about business."

(He would never admit to his pride being on the line.)

"And anyway, who is this guy? A radio host? I've been on TV, you know."

Mob carefully did not bring up what had actually happened when Reigen made his television debut.

Ritsu had no such qualms. "When they exposed you as a fraud? That was publicity too, right?"

"Hey—!"

Serizawa leaned over Reigen's shoulder to see the computer screen, careful not to spill the tea he placed on the desk. "Oh, Cecil from Welcome to Night Vale? It's been a while since I listened to that, maybe I should catch up."

Reigen stared at him. "You? What? Serizawa?"

"Ah... yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Back when I was... well, when I didn't leave my room much, the podcast was popular. I guess it gave a sense of... community? Feeling less alone, even when you are." He shrugged. "Plus, hearing another gay man in a show like that was comforting."

"He's gay? Canonically?" Why can't I be gay canonically?

"Sure, he got married in episode 100. It was very emotional."

"I nearly died in our chapter 100—"

-- -- -- -- --

Well, listeners, there's still a few hours left on the poll, but I'm now leading at 56%! I must say, I did not expect this, especially after Twitter users so clearly forgot—or perhaps never knew—about my Tumblr Sexyman Origins.

But, that's neither here nor there. I certainly am grateful, if a bit bemused, about all of this, but let us not forget that this is all a friendly competition. Unlike the annual War On Christmas—and let us all take a moment to remember our fallen allies against that terrible holiday foe—this is a battle of kindness. Love, even. The love we feel for Tumblr, for our favorite sexy men, for pressing a button on a meaningless internet poll. The love we feel, listeners, for each other.

And in the spirit of that love and friendliness, I figured I'd get to know my opponent a little better! A bit of googling, which of course you know means searching via every search engine but Google, what with the Town Council imposing the Google Search Tax and getting all Night Vale IP addresses shadowbanned, has led me to... oh my, listeners. I do not know who made this, but Reigen Arataka has the single most beautiful professional web page I have ever encountered. It's... words do not do it justice. I am tearing up. This... I could not make anything better myself.

A-hem. Listeners, now that I've wiped away the tears such beauty inspired in me, I can now see that Reigen's website advertises his business, one Spirits and Such Consulting. Well! We may be rivals in this moment, but I am overjoyed to learn that Reigen runs such an innovative and important business! I am nearly ashamed that, while my opponent works to make the world a better place, I, a mere community radio host, am winning the sexyman contest.

Nevertheless, we must respect the polls. Not respecting polls could get us in hot water with the Town Council, or with the demigods of numbers who lurk in the sharp edges of percentages. So since I can't hand my victory over to him, I think I'll do what I can as a community radio host, and promote Reigen Arataka's important business!

So if you're a spirit in need of counseling, a ghost in need of therapy, or an eldritch beast in need of a shoulder to cry on, head on over to Seasoning City and pay our good friend Reigen a visit! I'm sure he'll be pleased as anything to see you.

[dapg-otmebytheballs]

All or Nothing and lowave records

Strap in because this is gonna be a long one. This post will try to shed some light on how the whole lowave records thing works, how you can use this music, how it is being distributed, and what all a contract with lowave would include. All this and more below the cut!

Let us start with the basics: What is lowave records?

Quite succinctly summed up on their website as follows:

They make and distribute royalty-free music for content creators - specifically video-format content creators like Youtubers and streamers - they share some streaming revenue (30%, we'll get into that) with the creators who are labelled 'co-artists' and get promotion of their music through the content creators.

So, that brings us to the next big question: What is royalty-free music?

This is music that is free to use. Yes, by anyone, by Dan and Phil, by other creators, by you and me, any of us. This is by no means a new thing of course, anyone who has created content online would have come across other such services. just as an example, bensound.com hosts a large library of royalty-free music which you can use in any video by simply crediting the site in your description. Lowave works in a similar fashion. The music is not copyrighted. However, the rights to the music are held by lowave records and there are limitations on its use, which we will get into ahead.

How is the money working (preliminary edition)?

I will add details to this later when I discuss the contract, but let's see the info we get straight away from the FAQs: You do not have to pay them anything to make music for you

The money is coming in from the streaming platforms, depends completely on amount of streams, and is shared between lowave and the creators

Also from the FAQs: how can this music be used?

Anyone can freely use any of the music from lowave records, which means that yes, you can use any music from All or Nothing for your purposes with credit, it will not be taken down

Is this the only music we will hear on dapg now? Will there be more albums?

Not necessarily! This isn't an exclusive deal, DnP can use any music they want on the channel. As for new albums, seems like it depends on how this one does (and it seems to be doing quite well!) which will unlock future avenues for more collabs with lowave

Okay BASICS DONE if you're still reading you're probably here for the real meat so let us get into it

How is the money working (director's cut)?

Let us start with the terms on the partner agreement:

Content Creators get 30% of the 'remaining income'. This basically means any costs that streaming platforms are deducting, any processing fees, taxes etc will be deducted before the 30% share is calculated. The second point there basically means that the deductions here do not include business expenses of the label itself, ie when the label calculates its own profit production costs and various other expenses are deducted from the income, but these costs will not affect the revenue received by the content creators (You are probably already thinking 'how is this company earning enough to keep going?' and I will touch on that later as well)

Payment installments are simple enough but here we see a third party enter the chat: DistroKid. Who is DistroKid and why are payments going through them, Hazel? I hear you ask. Well I'll tell you dear readers:

It is basically a service that takes a yearly fee for putting your music on streaming platforms efficiently and then pockets 0% of the royalties. The royalties go from the streaming services (eg Spotify) to DistroKid who then send it to the rights-holders (in this case, lowave records). lowave records is using this service for a yearly fee to upload all their music through.

But wait! If DistroKid is working with lowave, and lowave owns all the rights, why is DistroKid making direct payments to the content creators?

Well, over the years they have offered a bunch of services:

I am guessing lowave is making use of the teams feature to send royalties owed to content creators ("collaborators") directly from Diskworld, which makes sense, the less people money goes through the less chances of mishandling.

People have of course been talking about what percentage Spotify even pays for many many years. The short answer: we don't know for sure because it is confidential, Spotify won't tell and artists aren't allowed to. The longer answer: people have estimated from a bunch of publically available data that the share seems to be 70-30 (rights-holders- spotify).

However spotify is not paying per stream anymore so that makes these figures harder to pin down. they are using a 'streamshare' system which is much more convoluted:

That was all about the money, now let's talk Licensing

Creators can use this music in any capacity, and do not have to share any of the revenue from their own content with lowave. They have put a stipulation that it may not be used in a way that is "illegal, immoral, discriminatory or derogatory to [lowave]" but what constitutes 'immoral' and 'discriminatory' is not really defined.

The other limitation applies to the contracted Content Creators only as far as I can tell: they are not allowed to remix, sample, or edit these songs without prior permission. This probably only applies to altering the songs and playing under the same name, so fan remixes should not run into issues here, as long as they are not monetised. (thanks kate @goldenpinof for making me think about this part a bit more, I think it should be safe, but even royalty free music cannot be transformed without permission at least in a commercial capacity)

They will also make more music free of cost if the streaming targets they set are being met by the albums produced. The process:

Other services they provide will be handling the creator's account which they set up (DanAndPhilBeats in this case) on streaming platforms and making changes as required, so the Cheeky Banter -> Project X thing was probably done from their end, possibly an older change that they forgot to update?

Also below are promotional obligations:

The promotion wasn't a one-time thing, it is expected to be ongoing, so we will probably be hearing about this in future videos as well. However, later in the partner agreement it is added that this has to be done as often as possible in a way that is "natural and appealing to their audience" which again, is pretty vague wording

Also the licensing goes both ways, so lowave can also use segments of the content DnP make that has the music in the background to promote their music:

Additional stuff from the contract:

lowave takes the guarantee of creating original works that it has the rights to and which do not infringe on copyrights, and the creators likewise take the guarantee not use the songs in content which infringes copyright. If there are any disputes regarding such infringement in the future the record and the creators have to back each other up (including sharing legal fees)

I mentioned before some parts of the agreement being written in vague language. There is also a clause that says if any provision ends up being illegal/not possible to enforce by a court (eg if a court were to it's impossible to say whether content featuring the songs was 'immoral') then only that provision will be removed, the rest of the contract stands.

The waiver part basically means that if any of the parties decide to not sue or forgo a complaint about breach of contract, that does not mean that those provisions are now unavailable, they can still sue later on or for some other breach if they wish.

That's the contracts done. Some of the framing there makes it seem to me like it's a pretty small company. The revenue they hope to generate does not seem to be very sustainable, especially since the revenue is being shared with content creators but the cost is not and they are additionally paying for other services like DistroKid.

So I looked more into this record label: they started business in 2022. If you go to their socials though, twitter and instagram they have followers in double digits and post very sparsely. Their tiktok seems to have nothing on it at all (thanks @lesbiandanhowell for the screenshot) and you may have noticed, Dan did not tag the lowave account at all when he announced the album on twitter

The agreement never mentions creators promoting lowave's social channels or tagging them either (and it is quite odd, I have worked with a bunch of organisations in their infancy and this is, now more than ever, a common requirement from collaborators). lowave records does not seem to be actively working towards promoting themselves on social media or building an online presence, even though they have been operational two years producing music throughout.

There are three people involved with the company on public record:

Benjamin Johnson listed as 'Head of Production' is probably the 'Ben' Dan has been talking about who made the songs. Seems like their scale of operations is not very big and possibly not a lot of producers in the records at all (despite the spotify page saying they have 'producers' plural, but that doesn't have to mean a lot many lol). Anyway, that would solve the mystery of 'how are they playing their employees?' if there aren't many employees to begin with (not even an intern to manage their social media it seems).

Look at the last person in the screenshots though: Robin. I looked at what other companies Robin is associated with and several of them - yeah several different operations that he's involved in - have the same correspondence address of '60 Thorpe Road...', so probably operating out of a ghost office (just to have a registered address and receive mail at etc). And one of these businesses that Robin is associated with is RWD, the business that made lowave records' website for them:

The no-cost production of royalty-free music, little attention to social media presence, vaguely written contract, seemingly small scale of operations with technical assistance like website design coming from an affiliated organisation makes me think that lowave records might be a side project. A labour of love, possibly, hoping to sustain itself enough to keep putting out royalty-free music in a time of extreme crackdown on copyrighted music use.

It makes sense to use content creators for promotion, gets you way more streaming than making your own music and putting it out. And the incentive of unique but guaranteed royalty free music at no cost is great for content creators of all sizes. It is far from sustainable on its own though, especially with streaming revenue being basically peanuts, and I do not think there's much interest in gaining a following or putting in that effort either, so it's probably a very small business by a few people. How long it manages to sustain itself as a project I am not sure, but it certainly isn't looking like something particularly geared towards profit and growth in its current state.

We are at an end! If you read this far, leave me like an A+ or a star for my essay so I can have academic validation from this please. Of course I probably have not covered everything possible in connection to this so if anyone has more info feel free to add on! And if this was all very long and there's something particular you wanted to know you can drop an ask into the inbox about it!

Thank you for coming with me on this journey! Back to the important things, which was your favourite song from the album? I think mine is Arcade Admission

[ourflagmeansgayrights]

so part of me wants to blame this entirely on wbd, right? bloys said he was cool with the show getting shopped around, so assuming he was telling the truth (not that im abt to start blindly trusting anything a CEO says lol), that means it’s not an hbo problem. and we already know wbd has an awful track record with refusing to sell their properties—altho unlike coyote v acme, s3 of ofmd isn’t a completed work and therefore there isn’t the same tax writeoff incentive to bury the thing. i just can’t see any reason to hold on to ofmd except for worrying about image, bc it would be embarrassing if they let this show go with such a devoted fanbase and recognizable celebrities and it went somewhere else and did really well (which it would undoubtedly do really well, we’ve long since proven that). it feels kinda tinfoil hat of me to making assumptions abt what’s going on in wbd behind the scenes, but i also feel like there are hints that i’m onto something w my suspicions: suddenly cracking down on fan merch on etsy doesn’t seem like something a studio looking to sell their property would bother with, and we know someone was paying to track the viewing stats on ofmd’s bbc airing, which isn’t finished yet, so i’d expect whoever is monitoring that to not make a decision abt buying ofmd until the s2 finale dropped.

but also i think part of me just wants there to be a clear villain in the situation. it’s kinda comforting to have a face to blame, a clear target to shake my fist at. but the truth is that the entire streaming industry is in the shitter. streaming is not pulling in the kind of profit that investors were promised, and we’re seeing the bubble that was propped up w investor money finally start to pop. studios aren’t leaving much room in their budgets for acquiring new properties, and they’re whittling down what they already have. especially w the strikes last year, they’re all penny pinching like hell. and that’s much a much harder thing to rage against than just one studio or one CEO being shitty. that’s disheartening in a way that’s much bigger and more frightening than if there was just one guy to blame.

my guess is that the truth of the situation is probably somewhere in the middle. wbd is following the same shitty pattern they’ve been following since the merger, and it’s just a hard time for anyone trying to get their story picked up by any studio. ofmd is just one of many shows that are unlucky enough to exist at this very unstable time for the tv/streaming industry.

when i think abt it that way, tho, i’m struck by how lucky we are that ofmd even got to exist at all. if the wbd merger had happened a year earlier, or if djenks and tw tried to pitch this show a year later, there’s no way this show would’ve been made. s1 was given the runtime and the creative freedom needed to tell the story the way the showrunners wanted to, and the final product benefited from it so much that it became a huge hit from sheer gay word of mouth. and for all the imperfections with s2—the shorter episode order, the hard 30 minute per episode limit, the last-minute script changes, the finale a butchered mess of the intended creative vision—the team behind ofmd managed to tell a beautiful story despite the uphill battle they undoubtedly were up against. they ended the season with the main characters in a happy place. ed and stede are together, and our last shot of ed isn’t of him sobbing uncontrollably (like i rlly can’t stress enough how much i would have never been able to acknowledge the existence of this show again if s1 was all we got)

like. y’all. we were this close to a world where ofmd never got to exist. for me, at least, the pain of an undue cancellation is worth getting to have this story at all. so rather than taking my comfort in the form of righteous anger at david zaslav or at wbd or at the entire streaming industry as a whole, i’m trying to focus on how lucky i am to get to have the show in the first place.

bc really, even as i’m reeling in grief to know this is the end of the road for ofmd, a part of me still can’t quite wrap my head around that this show is real. a queer romcom about middle-aged men, a rejection of washboard abs and facetuned beauty standards, a masterful deconstruction and criticism of toxic masculinity, well-written female characters who get to shine despite being in a show that is primarily about manhood and masculinity, diverse characters whose stories never center around oppression and bigotry, a casually nonbinary character, violent revenge fantasies against oppressors that are cathartic but at the same time are not what brings the characters healing and joy, a queer found family, a strong theme of anti colonialism throughout the entire show. a diverse writers room that got to use their perspectives and experiences to inform the story. the fact that above all else, this show is about the love story between ed and stede, which means the character arcs, the thoughts, the feelings, the motivations, the backstories, and everything else that make up the characters of ed and stede are given the most focus and the most care.

bc there rlly aren’t a lot of shows where a character like stede—a flamboyant and overtly gay middle-aged man who abandoned his family to live his life authentically—gets to be the main character of a romcom, gets to be the hero who the show is rooting for.

and god, there definitely aren’t a lot of shows where a character like ed—a queer indigenous man who is famous, successful, hyper-competent, who feels trapped by rigid standards of toxic hypermasculinity, who yearns for softness and gentleness and genuine interpersonal connection and vulnerability, whose mental health struggles and suicidal intentions are given such a huge degree of attention and delicate care in their depiction, who messes up and hurts people when he’s in pain but who the show is still endlessly sympathetic towards—gets to exist at all, much less as the romantic lead and the second protagonist of the show.

so fuck the studios, fuck capitalism, fuck everything that brought the show to an end before the story was told all the way through. because the forces that are keeping s3 from being made are the same forces that would’ve seen the entire show canceled before it even began. s3 is canceled, and s2 suffered from studio meddling, but we still won. we got to have this show. we got to have these characters. there’s been so much working against this show from the very beginning but here we are, two years later, lives changed bc despite all odds, ofmd exists. they can’t take that away from us. they can’t make us stop talking abt or stop caring abt this show. i’m gonna be a fan of this show til the day i die, and the studios hate that. they hate that we care about things that don’t fit into their business strategy, they hate that not everyone will blindly consume endless IP reboots and spin-offs and cheap reality tv.

anyway i dont rlly have a neat way to end this post. sorta just rambling abt my feelings. idk, i know this sucks but im not rlly feeling like wallowing in it. i think my gratitude for the show is outweighing my grief and anger, at least for right now. most important thing tho is im not going anywhere. and my love for this show is certainly not fucking going anywhere.

[robertreich]

5 Crises Republicans Made up to Distract You

Here are five totally made-up “crises” Republicans have invented to distract from the real crises facing Americans today: the growing concentration of wealth, the worsening climate crisis, and the undermining of our democracy.

Fake crisis #1:  Anything they claim is “woke.”

Although Republicans struggle to define what “woke” even means, they’re constantly using it as a weapon to combat anything that seeks to foster tolerance and acceptance.

Pride flags? Woke!

Books about Rosa Parks? Woke!

Green M&M’s? The wokest!

Fortunately, most Americans think being informed and aware of social injustice…which is what being “woke” really means... is a good thing.

Fake crisis #2: The panic over trans people.

Trans people just want the right to exist safely as their true selves, like everyone else. And despite the lies spewed by some Republicans, there’s not a shred of evidence that they are a threat to anyone. But they’ve become easy scapegoats for the GOP, who vilify them and threaten to criminalize their very existence.

Fake crisis #3: Critical race theory

In reality, critical race theory is mostly taught in universities — like quantum physics or philosophy. It's really not taught in K-12, nor is it dangerous.

It’s merely a framework to understand the role that race and racism have played in shaping America’s laws and institutions. But Republicans have deliberately turned this obscure academic phrase into a weapon to silence any discussion of race they don't like.

Unfortunately, this includes teaching many basic historical facts.

Fake crisis #4: “Couch potatoes.”

Republicans are whipping up anger over welfare recipients supposedly abusing the system.

The reality is most people who collect benefits already hold jobs and work exceedingly hard.

Like Ronald Reagan’s claim about so-called “welfare queens”, the “couch potato” myth is a cruel racial dog whistle. In fact, the vast majority of Americans who receive government benefits are white.

We should be asking why so many jobs pay such low wages that workers need government help to get by?

Fake crisis #5: “Out of control government spending.”

Another lie. Apart from mandatory spending like Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid, government spending has actually fallen more than 30% in the past 50 years as a percentage of our total economy.

[9.6% in 1973  vs. 6.6% in 2022, a decrease of  31.25%]

Yes, the national debt is a problem, but in recent years, among its biggest drivers have been the Bush and Trump tax cuts, which have added nearly $10 trillion to the debt since their enactment.

All five of these so-called crises have been manufactured by the GOP. They’re entirely made up.

Why? To deflect attention from the near record share of the nation’s income and wealth now going to the richest Americans.

As the wealthy pour money into politics — largely into the GOP — they don’t want the rest of America to notice they’re rigging the economy for their own benefit, that their greed is worsening the climate crisis, and they’re undermining our democracy.

So the game of the Republican Party and their major donors is to deflect attention — to use fake crises to disguise what’s really going on.

Don’t let them get away with it.

[literallymechanical]

I see a lot of posts about solarpunk aesthetic that are basically just cottagecore, but you still have an iPhone and you water your garden with a cute little drone.

And that’s fine! I get why people like it. A hopeful, optimistic green utopia that thoughtfully blends technology with stewardship of the land.

However. I, personally, find that pretty boring.

I want to write solarpunk that’s heavy on the “punk.” An ecodystopia. Most cyberpunk dystopias feature extreme class distinctions and heavy cybernetic modifications, and I want to write about an equally bleak world where the subjugation is from a hideous runaway ecosphere.  We screwed the planet, it’s screwing us back.

Concept: We tried geoengineering away global warming, and failed. The dominant form of life on earth is a globe-spanning mat of chemosynthetic iron-oxidizing bacteria, designed to sequester CO2 from the atmosphere and seeded by dumping massive quantities of iron dust into the ocean.  They worked a little too well, and started chewing up our cities into acidic swamps as the oceans kept rising and flooded the coasts.  They extract iron from bedrock.  Slowly, mountains crumble.

So, no metal infrastructure.  We engineered city-trees instead.  Unfortunately, we’d already darkened the skies to keep sunlight from hitting the ground – an anti-greenhouse, built far too late.  The bacteria don’t care, they’re chemosynthetic, but the trees don’t have enough light to photosynthesize properly.  They need glucose.

Blood glucose is currency, and your taxes feed the city-tree. Your monorail fare is extracted from your blood by root tendrils. If you try to jump the turnstile, watch out for the security wasps. Your meager paycheck is payed out in injectable ampoules of glucosaline solution. There’s not enough to go around.  Watch out for the black market stuff. If you’re lucky, the worst you’ll get is a raging MRSA infection.  Everybody is hypoglycemic and mineral-deficient, but with a diet made primarily of iron-rich processed algae, at least nobody is anemic.

The criminal system is “reformed.” No more prisons, just a parasite infusion that saturates your brain and compels you into doing the dirty grunt work — scraping toxic algae off the city-trunk, sewage maintenance, arsenic reprocessing. Allegedly, the process is reversible.

The tree grows roots into your veins while you sleep.  They retract when you wake up. Usually.

But at least you have it better than that fungal village on the horizon.  The city-tree just wants your blood, but the mycelial citizens are not quite human anymore. Don’t get too close. Don’t let them breathe on you.  Don’t listen to their songs.

[formulaforza]

—strawberry wine

and all the times we used to have. (nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft). pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: language, angst babyyy love, mackie... 5k ish. this is. definitely something. perhaps it should have stayed in the drafts but dani selected it from a group of it's peers yesterday evening.

It’s been years since you last spent enough time at the vineyard to be considered even a part-time employee. It’s hard to be there, now, in a way it didn’t used to be. Watching it fade away into obscurity and beg someone–anyone–to buy the property to land so your family can get out without generational debt. The fields just hold so many memories, an ancestral kind of history; your first job, the place you had your first drink, where you fell both in, and out of love for the first time. Being there now, watching it die a malignant death is just… sad. There isn’t anything poetic about it. 

You long for the days of the peak, of never ending days spent behind the counter in the barn selling wealthy people on the aesthetics of a small, family-run vineyard. Of your father hosting tours and your mother tastings, of you, pink nose and shoulders kissed by the sun, picking grapes by hand. Of the days where help still had to be hired. 

For a while there, it seemed like there was a never ending rotation of teenagers and twenty-somethings willing to do manual labor for minimum wage–thirteen an hour–from sunup to sundown. They’d even host the occasional tour on busy Saturday evenings, would be compensated in under the table bottles of wine and cash tips. None of them ever stuck around longer than a couple months, found better jobs indoors, closer to school, better pay. Well, nobody except Daniel. 

Daniel worked at the vineyard for… four-ish years, with varying availability depending on seasons and school and racing. 

Sometimes, when you lose yourself to sentiments and fantasy, you imagine a world where the Vineyard never faced any competition, where it is still thriving and you take over your mother’s job when she retires. Daniel still works there, maybe in the fields where he was always supposed to be, or maybe front of house guiding tours and helping you with tastings. Life is simple and plain and at the end of every night you lock the barn doors  and go home together and eat dinner and grocery shop and do your taxes. Daniel strums the guitar on the porch when it rains. Life is easy and fun and you laugh more than you don’t. 

It’s silly, really. But first loves are always silly. 

He is one of the many memories that haunt the property, walking the lines of grapevines feeling more like a walk through a fogged out graveyard than anything. 

Even now, all these years later, you can still see him sat in the swivel chair in the office doorway, throwing grapes at you while you attempt to run the dusty cash register. It’s a cool July afternoon and he’s got a stupid grin on his face and can’t look anywhere but you. 

Daniel is kind of like those people you know you’re given young so that for the rest of your life you know what real feels like. They’re more a lesson than a lover, unfortunately. 

—

You move through the place like you own it, which, you suppose technically you do, in some will locked away in an accountant’s filing cabinet, this all belongs to you. Right now, though, you’re seventeen and just returning from school, already setting up your homework on the end of the counter, a spattering of greetings from the local customers and the local hands, the people who know that this is more of a natural habitat than anywhere else on the planet will ever be. 

Danny also moves around the place like he owns it, which, if it was up to him he probably would. He hums your name as he moves past, taps the opposite shoulder to the one he leans over, reading your textbook over your shoulder. “It’s seventeen,” he quips.

“It’s a history textbook,” you reply, eyes unmoving from the page. 

“Seventeen-seventy, cunt.” There’s a half-empty bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. He leans over you to grab an orange. “Captain Hook and such,” he adds, hosting himself up onto the counter with a thud. You’re sure one day the old wood is going to give out on him and he’ll fall straight onto his ass. Part of you hopes you’re around to see it, the other knows that he’ll find a way to not only make it your fault, but also tease you about it for a minimum of six months. 

“Fuck off, Danny,” you punctuate, just loud enough for him to hear. 

“It’s Daniel, now.”

You snort. Finally, you give him your attention. “Danny is too unprofessional for a hot-shot Red Bull junior driver like you?”

“See,” he pops his thumb harshly through the peel of the orange, the citrus scent wafting out into the humid air. “You get it.”

You pout. “I’m still going to call you Danny.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. God, the smell of orange is overwhelming, the kind that lingers long after the fruit is gone. When Danny goes back to work in a few minutes, tosses the peel and into the trash by the office door, he’ll still linger in the room with the smell of citrus. 

“I will.”

“You know what,” he hums, biting into a slice. “Let me make you a deal.”

You smile, shake your head. “Shouldn’t I be the one making you a deal?”

He groans against the fruit, “Can you just?”

When you look up again, lean back in your chair and cross your arms, he has orange juice running down the side of his hand, all sweet and sticky and summery. “Fine.”

He smiles goofily, all fucking proud of himself just because you agreed to shut up for thirty seconds. “You can keep calling me Danny, but only if you let me take you out this weekend.”

“Danny,” you protest. This is far from the first time he’s tried to plant the seed of a date with him. It’s had to’ve been a year, by now. You know he’d drop it if you would just give him an answer, but a year later you still haven’t been able to deliver anything definitive. 

He shrugs. “‘Dem’s the rules, honey.”

Maybe what you say next is your greatest mistake, or maybe it was what you were always going to say. Maybe you feel like you can say it because he leaves again soon, for longer than ever. You won’t have to live with the consequences of your actions, of your words. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply that you think Daniel is far too proper a name for the sticky-handed vineyard tour guide you’ve grown particularly fond of. Danny is much more fitting for him, which is most certainly why you say, okay. When are you picking me up?

—

You drive out from your parents house with your dad in his old Ford Bronco. It’s half rusted out and half chipped blue paint, with worn leather seats and a steering wheel somehow more worn than the rest of it. Seven black tree air fresheners hand from the rearview mirror, new car smell. This relic is well past that–he’s been driving it out to the property literally forever, and this trip won’t be any exception. 

You hardly recognize the place, you think as you slam the squeaky door shut with enough force to make sure it really latches. 

The fields are overgrown with tall grass and shrubs and mustard flowers. The trunks of the grapevines act as headstones for the sprawling field of dry, sunburnt plants. You don’t think anyone has been out there with a plow in months, if not years. 

The barn, the one you grew up in, has been lost with the rest of the place to time. Red paint chips off the wood in massive flakes. The branding that had once run in big wooden letters along the top of the door have all since fallen, leaving a sad outline of your family name in its weathered wake. Two padlocks, one rusted shut, sit on the lock. Every step you take kicks up more dust. 

You’re removed from your thoughts, from the hauntings and the sentiment and the memories, by the creaking of the tailgate on your father’s truck. Stuffed in the back of the Bronco are your afternoon tasks; a pair of bulk cutters for the padlocks,  a new, state of the art keypad lock given to your Dad by a realtor, a post hole digger, and five for-sale signs haphazardly packed any way they would fit. 

You spend most of the next couple hours digging holes along the road, filling them with the wooden posts of the for-sale signs, looking disapprovingly at the thirty-something in a suit that has been tasked with selling the unsellable property. 

This is, what… the fifth person you’d hired to sell this fucking place. Soon enough, you’re going to be sticking up For Sale by Owner signs with a hand-written phone number in black sharpie along the fences that were supposed to keep animals out. Realtors were never in the budget to begin with. 

—

You’re waiting on the old front porch when he pulls up in his beat-up truck, John Denver playing through the open windows, his hand moving in the wind up the entire dusty driveway. You don’t know what he can see, that your Mom is watching out the kitchen window with a friendly smile. 

You’ve got your best sundress on, one that you’d debated wearing for almost thirty-six hours. The first week Danny worked in front of house with you, he spent the entire shift flirting with one of your Dad’s friend’s daughters. He said that sundresses are a crime committed against teenage boys and that when he meets God he’s going to have words with him over pretty girls and their affinity for said sundresses. 

You’d laughed then, because you thought it was silly. You remembered it because you thought the new kid was kind of cute, in a you work for my parents and I could never think you’re cute way. 

“Fuck,” is the first word out of his mouth, before the car door is even closed behind him, followed quickly by a check of his watch and “am I late?”

“No, no,” you smile, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind your ear, standing to your feet on the wooden stairs. “You’re early, actually. I think,” you chuckle. “I’m just,” you can feel your cheeks flushing. “I’m just excited.”

“Yeah,” he moves to you quickly, nervously. In the way only teenage boys on a first date do. “I’m excited too.”

“You look nice,” you say, stepping down the final couple of steps and meeting his waiting hand. “Your hair. I feel like I only ever see you in a hat.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he laughs. You’ve always loved his laugh, even when he’s annoying you and annoying customers and annoying himself. His laugh has always been good. “You look beautiful. I’ve never seen you, I mean. Not that you don’t always look–”

“Danny,” you interject as he opens the passenger side door. 

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he offers a smile and closes the door. Just before it latches shut, though, you hear him finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

He takes you to King’s Park, to the botanical garden after a stop for ice cream. He tells you that he’s had a crush on you this entire time and you ask him to tell you something you don’t already know. It’s then, in the botanical garden next to the water garden, that he tells you about his quote-en-quote ‘silly, kind of, like, backup dream, I guess’ where he has his own vineyard, brews his own wine and spends every day half drunk and wholly happy. 

He stumbles through the entire telling of it, which is how you know he’s not fucking with you. He never gets nervous when it comes to fucking with you. 

Perhaps that is where your silly, kind of like, backup dream started. The one where you and Daniel are working at the vineyard together and life is all death and taxes and grocery bills but somehow, in the midst of all the dull normalcy, you’re both happy as happy can be. 

—

“Someone is out there looking at the place today,” your father tells you over the phone. You try to talk every day, a habit you’ve both picked up in the past couple years, in the time and space since you’ve turned thirty. 

“You’re kidding,” you say. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some health-conscious cereal into your mouth (another post-thirtieth habit). “Who?”

“I don’t know, kid,” you swear you can hear the frown on his face, the deep smile lines and the frustrated forehead wrinkles from months in the direct southern sun. “Probably some fucking developer.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “If I’m right, I’d bet they break ground on a neighborhood within the year.”

Your sigh matches his. You can’t even imagine it, front yards and vinyl flooring and white walls built on a foundation of your childhood memories. It’s like going back home, to your childhood home that you sold so many years ago, and discovering it’s been bulldozed, wiped clean from the face of the Earth. “That’s so sad.”

“I know, but, well. You know, honey. It’s not like we have much choice.”

You nod. You do understand. You understand more than you wish you did. “I know. I know. Still pretty fuckin’ sad, though.”

There’s a long silence. The kind of silence that can only be shared by a father and a daughter; a silence that speaks more words than the dictionary can hold. “She’d understand it,” he finally speaks.  “She wouldn’t fucking like it, but she would understand it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know she would.”

—

“Are you going to kill me?” You giggled, stumbling over your feet. Danny is leading you on the property, one hand over your eyes, the other on your waist, guiding you poorly. 

“And be the first fucking suspect?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Okay, then where are you taking me?” You beg. It's been going on like this for some half hour, before he even covered your eyes.

He laughs. You laugh. All the two of you do is laugh. “Can’t you lighten up?”

“Not when I’m being led to my death. No, I can’t!”

He stops, turns you around a hundred and eighty degrees and takes his hand off your eyes, fingers digging into either of your shoulders. “Babe," he says, and you'd think he was about to tell you he killed someone.

You mimic his seriousness, find humor in it. “Babe.”

“You trust me.”

“Do I?” You smile. He cocks his head to one side and rolls his big brown eyes. You would commit crimes for his eyes. “I do.”

“Okay, so then fucking trust me.”

“Okay,” you nod, closing your eyes.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay," you reach blindly for his hand, bring it to your eyes to block the light from them once more. "I trust you. Let’s go.”

After a short, terribly blind walk, Danny finally stops. You’ve been able to hear the river that flows out the back of the property for twenty minutes, but it’s close enough now that you can smell it; the sticks and the rocks and the mud and the water. You can practically feel the splashing of the water bouncing off the boulders.

“Okay. Open,” he instructs, removing his hand from your eye, moving his arms to hug you from behind, arms wrapped over the front of your chest. 

You open your eyes to find a picnic, carefully set up with a spread of dinner and drinks and dessert, complete with a plaid flannel blanket and candles that smell like citronella masked with lavender and a bouquet of white roses already in a water filled vase. “Danny,” you hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder. 

He kisses your temple, whispers against your hair, “Happy Anniversary.”

“Danny,” you drag out the letters of his name, of the nickname he only lets the people he loves call him by. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy and special. 

“Honey,” he mocks you, sways behind you. 

“This is too much,” You crane your neck to look at him, and then turn your whole body so you’re flush against his chest, close in a way only you get to be. “You’re so sweet.”

He laughs and it vibrates in both of your chests. A feeling you’ll never tire of. “I mean, this is not too much. Arguably, this is too little.”

“No,” you back away, out of his grip and take small steps backwards, towards the picnic and the waiting meal, pulling him along with you by interlocked pinkies. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Well,” his grin grows. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, because you do, because you’re eighteen and everything in this life is so simple and black and white.

“I love you, too, and–”

“Oh my gosh,” you cut him off, wide-eyed and giddy. “Wine with strawberries?”

He nods. “Strawberry wine, if you will. For the winery with no strawberry fields.”

“This is better,” you state, with the utmost confidence, without even a sip or a sniff or any idea of what white wine he’d used as a base for his little cocktail. 

“Definitely not, but sure.”

“It is, because you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”

—

You’re completely removed from the actual buying and selling of the property. It isn’t up to you to decline or accept or field offers, that’s all your dad. The place is still his, at least for a couple more weeks while all the paperwork processes.

It was an anonymous buyer, according to your Dad. Cash offer, over asking price. He’s not sure how the real estate agent managed it, and honestly? Neither are you. Objectively, that land isn’t worth the cost of cleaning it up. Everyone in their right mind knows it. You just come from a particular bloodline where the mind never was quite right when it came to the vineyard. 

What shocks you most, though, is that the anonymous buyer–supposedly–is interested in restoring the place rather than bulldozing it.

“They asked me about the dirt,” your dad tells you on one of your daily phone calls. “Wanted to know about berries.”

“Berries?”

“Yeah, strawberries or raspberries or something like that.”

You scoff. What kind of fucking idiot is buying this land? It might just be a herd of manufactured houses after all. “Well, it’s too hot here for raspberries. Everyone knows that.”

“I know, that’s what I told them. They could probably grow strawberries in July or August.”

“Are they trying to make strawberry wine or something?” And, as if this is some fucked up kind of movie, and not real life, it all comes back to you. Every memory, every moment, all at the thought of fucking strawberries in wine. 

“Good fucking luck to them, if they are.” Your grandparents entertained the idea of it once, all the fruit wines. It’s a fucking shit-show, according to legend. Hell to try and make, Heaven to taste. It just wasn’t worth it for them. But apparently now it’s worth it to someone.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, bite and bite until you’re worried you’ll draw blood, that you’re a single tooth away from popping a hole clear through the skin. There’s no way, there’s genuinely no way, right? “Dad?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not.” You almost stop yourself, you almost have some common fucking sense and realize just how vast the world is and how completely unlikely it is that– almost. You almost stop yourself. “The anonymous buyer, it isn’t Daniel, is it?”

“Daniel?” He scoffs on the other end. “Better not be that fucking cunt.”

You smile, the kind of smile that you know you should feel guilty for having. “He’s not a cunt, Dad.”

“I never fucking liked that kid.”

You’re right–you think. You’re right, Dad. You didn’t like him. “You loved him.”

“No, I lost all my respect for him when he left you like he did,” his voice is laced with a calm seriousness. He’s always been your blind defender. 

“Yeah, Dad,” you pause. Now’s as good a time as any, you suppose. “I’ve been… that’s not exactly how it went down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Daniel didn’t leave me, and even if he did, Dad, he wouldn’t have done it then.”

—

“What the fuck are you talking about, you’re breaking up with me?” His voice cuts through continents. He’s somewhere in the UK, or maybe Italy, or maybe Asia. You honestly can’t keep track anymore, can barely keep track of the days of the week that you’re living much less the ones he’s in. 

“It’s exactly what I said, Daniel,” you say, try to keep your voice as level headed as possible, to juxtapose the way your mind races, the way your heart rate spikes and your palms sweat and everything in you hurts. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No, no. I’m making this fucking hard,” he’s riled up enough for the both of you. “You don’t just. This isn’t how this works, babe. You can’t just break up with me.” He’s raising his voice with you. You can count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times Danny has yelled at you, and this is the first time it’s not scary. 

“I can, and I am,” your voice comes from your throat, choked out over the lull of your entire body begging you to please, please don’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” He yells, the last letter sound cracking with the realization of his actions. “You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever.” He doesn’t make this easy, not that you’d expected it to be easy. You’d hoped for something cleaner, though. Less mess. “I’m having a great time breaking your heart.”

“Just. Why? Why are you doing this? What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, D,” you sigh. You didn’t know that your heart could physically hurt. You thought that was some crap that they made up for movies and songs and poems, some grand metaphor for how sad you get. “I can’t be a girlfriend right now. To anyone.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

You can feel yourself shutting down, closing every part of yourself off, running on pure survival instincts. “I know. I’m a cunt.”

“You aren’t… fuck me. I mean, fuck, dude.” He laughs. There’s not a thing about it that sounds happy. “I know you don’t want this, I know it. Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you and everything is going to be fine, baby. Just. Please.”

“Daniel.”

“Why are you calling me that?!”

“It’s what you like to be called!” You yell back, feel the burn in your nose and your cheeks and the sting in your chest. 

There’s silence for so long you wonder if he’s hung up, if you’re supposed to. It’s minutes before he speaks again. “Not by you, it’s not.”

—

It’s been just past a year since the place got sold, and nobody from your family–nobody–has been there since. You moved out of town years before the sale, and your Dad has joined you, wants to be near you in his ever increasing age and always deepening wrinkles. When the arthritis sets in, someone needs to forge my signature for me, he tells you. 

It’s not until her birthday that you’re back in Perth, that you’re struck with the sudden spark, with the idea to drive past the vineyard, to see what idiot is trying to plant raspberries in the Australian heat, to see who's living in your shoes and wearing your clothes and sleeping under your bed like a monster. 

“I don’t know that we should do that,” your Dad says. “It’s going to make you sad.”

You shrug in the passenger seat of the old Bronco. “We’re in the parking lot of a cemetery, so,” you offer a near silent chuckle. “I think we’re a bit past sad.”

“Okay,” he nods. “There’s something you should know, then.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a neighborhood.”

“No, no. It’s a vineyard. Strawberries and grapes in the fields.”

“Well, good then,” you nod, glide your hands through the air outside the open window. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs, drums his fingers on the beat up steering wheel. “You remember when you asked me last year if it was Daniel?”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then, but–”

“I’m serious. Don’t tell me this, please,” you’re a second away from sticking your fingers in your ears and humming a nursery rhyme to keep the unsaid unspoken. 

“Daniel bought the place, hon.”

“My Daniel?” You squeak. You haven’t felt this young in a while. Or this small. 

He laughs, turns to face you with a look that begs you not to be so damn daft. “The only Daniel that means anything to anyone in this family.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as they put the sign up. I was still living out here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have so many questions. You don’t think there’s any you actually want answers to. 

“What good was it going to do? I never thought you’d be back here.”

“Well. I’m back.”

He nods. “You’re back.”

You’re back. You never really left, you don’t think. It’s not something you can do around here. Perth is in your blood the same way wine is, some grand, immovable part of your soul. You suppose Daniel is there too, taking up a plot of land in your soul that can never be sold. He lives in you like summertime and sadness and strawberries. Strawberries. Him and his fucking strawberry white wines. 

“He’s got strawberries?” You croak. Tears pull on your voice but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You’re grown now, it’s time to fucking act like it. 

“Strawberry wine. First batches just came out last month. I heard it’s pretty good.”

“I bet.”

“You still wanna go?”

You nod, cold and stunted. “Yeah.”

You see the cars before you see the barn, they’re overflowing out of the parking lot and stopped on the side of the dirt road that leads to the drive. You’ve never seen it so busy. It looks like the pictures your parents used to show you, the ones where the place was fresh and new and shiny. The barn has a fresh coat of red paint, the parking lot is repaved and half full of ATVs with a logo for DR3 Wines printed on either side. 

Above the door, a matching phrase, in simple white wooden letters–like what once was–hangs, announces the place to passers by. 

Inside, it smells like wood, like lavender and citronella and alcohol. There are pictures on every wall, carefully framed photos of everyone in the world besides him. The counter is that same old slab of wood, the one that you always hoped he would fall through. On the wall behind is are more 4x6 photos than you can count, all unframed, all messily taken. He’s in some of those, holding a camera or posing with friends or hugging a grapevine. There’s one with you, right in the middle. You and he and your Mom on the back field picking grapes. It’s taken by your dad, you still remember that morning clear as day. 

There’s another of you; a selfie taken on a point-and-shoot, the two of you with glasses of white wine and strawberries. Next to it is a picture of Kristen Bell and Dax Shephard leaning against the counter, half-drunk glasses in each of their hands. 

Framed, on the edge of the counter, right beside the register, is a photo of the place when he first started working there, of your Mom and your Dad standing proudly in front of it. You took it. You left it in the office when your Dad decided to lock the doors for good. Our Story, the plaque below it reads, with a QR code to scan. 

It leads to a linktree, to social media links and tasting menus and a merchandise shop. The last link, though, is stomach curling. It’s her name, your Mom’s. Fighting for her, it reads. When you click it, you’re taken to a website that encourages donations, that spreads awareness and promotes research, that thanks Daniel by name twice in two paragraphs for his consistent and generous donations and support. 

Before you can make a bee-line for the exit, to tell your Dad that he was right and this was a mistake, you’re met with a red-faced teenage girl asking you if there’s anything she can help you with. “No, uh,” you swallow hard. “My parents were the previous owners, we just stopped in to see the place.”

“Oh my gosh, would you like a tour?”

“Um…” you pause, because you don’t know if you can handle being here. Seeing the place like this again. “Danny’s not… Daniel isn’t here, is he?” She shakes her head. You nod. “Then yeah, I guess. Let me just grab my dad?”

—

You get an invite to a VIP tasting at his vineyard two weeks after your visit. It’s scheduled during the F1 summer break, so you have no doubt he’ll be there, and if that wasn’t clue enough, his handwriting glaring back at you on the invite is about as obvious as obvious can be. 

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your Dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine–the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

read part two, everywhere, everything, here!

[girlwiththegreenhat]

Owen Dennis, creator of Infinity Train, posted a newsletter explaining what he currently knows about Infinity Train's removal from HBOMax. Key notes:

He was assured Infinity Train is NOT part of the tax writeoffs, and as it stands, will not be removed from the pay-per-view/per-season websites like iTunes and YouTube

These shows were supposed to be removed next week so the companies could have time to talk to the show crews, this did not happen.

The cuts were a direct order from Discovery

Discovery was warned not to do this because it was unprofessional and would hurt relationships with their talents, and did it anyway because “they clearly do not care what any of this looks like publicly, much less about how we [the crews] feel about it. “

What little residuals they make on these shows go to the unions to pay for their healthcare.

Nobody has been able to contact any of the “higher ups” at any of the merging companies for days due to, well, the merger. Everybody’s contacts are gone or scrambled around.

Owen thinks this is, ironically, the best bit of advertising the show has gotten, because it’s drawn up so much attention towards the show and how much people love it. It’s been trending on twitter for three straight days and is topping the charts on Amazon and iTunes with how many people are buying dvds and virtual copies of the seasons.

And most most importantly...

“Is the Show Gone Forever?“

I don’t believe so. As I said, it’s apparently still available on those sources listed above, though I do not know for how long. The problem is that I can’t be entirely sure if the information I’m getting is truthful or if it’s just to placate us so we’ll stop pestering them with so many questions. They certainly haven’t earned anyone’s trust with the way they’ve handled all this, so obviously take all of this with a grain or two or a million of salt (though I’m sure you’re feeling plenty salty already). In the meantime, I’ll be working with my management team on figuring out some other kind of fate for the show

There is more, but these are the most important points concerning the most distressing parts of all of this. It’s a must-read for everybody concerned about this situation.

[bryngmemoney]

✁FASHION FLIRT✃

Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

⭑story masterlist link

tw: none

Writing in between messages!!

🪡Chapter Thirteen: Iron

“I hope this one lasts us longer than the last one,” Maki spoke as she untangled the cord of the new clothing iron you guys had bought. “Well, to be fair the last one cost us 15 dollars with tax.” Maki plugged it into the outlet, clicking a button at the top of the handle to set it on the right type of fabric she needed. “Yeah, well this one doubled in price, so it better work.”

Maki was currently in a desperate situation of trying to get Kirara’s outfit done. Her model had informed her that they were taking a two week trip for one of their programs. This wasn’t a problem as it didn’t conflict with the date of the show, but it did mean that Maki needed to hurry to try and get the outfit done. In the case that if anything wasn’t working she would still have time to make adjustments to it while her model was gone, and it would be ready by the time they came back. Maki was close to finishing up, the last thing left to do was to iron on patches she had designed on to the pants. The only problem was that today was Sunday, and the studio room was not open. There was a solution though, and that was doing the ironing on her own.

“It’s not turning on, pass me the instructions I might be doing this wrong.”

“The instructions came on the box, here let me see it.”

Maki held her hand a distance from the surface of the iron, “It’s lighting up but its not heating up, look.”

“That’s weird,” You took a hold of the machine, copying Maki’s movements. You moved a finger to place on the heating part, “Yeah, its not I wonder- ow!” It wasn’t the smartest move, but just your luck that the moment you decided to touch the surface, it had decided to finally start heating up. Your reflex was to hold your injured hand with the other, but that also meant letting go of the iron, and watching if fall on the ground, breaking.

“Shit.”

“Are you kidding me Y/n?”

“You broke the last one! This just makes us even.”

“What else did Yuji say was on the list?”

“Uh, yeah that.”

“Pay attention! Are we missing anything else?”

You looked up from your phone, seeing Maki leaning towards you at the end of the shopping cart. The cart itself was barely full, considering there was a max of 8 things on the ‘grocery list’ Yuji had sent you guys. He had already let you guys know he’d pay you back once you’d get there, but you were surprised by a reassurance text you got from Megumi saying that he would make Yuji give you and Maki any money you guys had spent at the store.

The conversation had gradually changed course from that and now he was just sending you pictures of his dogs saying that he’d introduce you to them once you guys arrived.

Your elbows leaning on the handle of the cart, you switched over to the list saved in your camera roll, and took a look at everything inside the cart.

“Yeah that looks good, I think we got everything.”

The cart began to move forward. Maki dragging it as you (barely) pushed it forward. “Who were you texting anyway?”

“I think you can guess.”

“Forget I asked.”

Author’s Note: iron incident based on a true story (i exaggerated it for story purposes mine didn’t actually break)

i’ve never typed the word iron sm before it doesn’t look real atp

anyways Megumi’s dogs mentioned again 🤗

hope you guys enjoyed!

Taglist below, feel free to comment or dm me to be added!!

TAGLIST

@iridescentrays @gumimegz @maya-maya-56 @mamafly @lunavixia @swissy23 @coltsgf @m00nglad3-mp3 @etsukis @xosren @qtnfer @oengleli @harek89 @y-sabell-a @morgyyyyyyy @getolvr @liliumaraneae @k3lbade @aiieera @dancedancey @get0sfav @chuyasthighs0 @hyssoplampflickers @kpopanimen @sad-darksoul @vivi-loves-penguins @kasumitenbaz @talkingsperm @nymphsdomain @inlovewithlondonn @rzcnlb @enchantingkitty @fuyuzemi @lysaray @ni-ki-ismyluv @reneny @frumira @mixzimi @miralunaela @dreamxiing @p3achiee

[dear-ao3]

Ask for f1 drama

i shall continue my tales of regaling you all

this edition: las vegas

so as it currently stands (november 14, 2023) there are two races left in the 2023 f1 season. one is this weekend in las vegas and one is next weekend in abu dhabi. we already know who has won the drivers and contractors (team) championship (max verstappen and red bull) but theres still some loose ends in the form of second third fourth etc place that need some tying up.

and the standings for the lower places of the championship are all quite tight:

theres still a whole lot of action that can come there

which brings us to las vegas

vegas is a new race on the calendar, meaning no one has ever raced there on this track before (and likely no one will again based on how its going) and it is a street circuit, so they are literally racing on the las vegas strip.

now, prior to all the new stuff that came to light for this weekend, f1 royally managed to piss off las vegas by (probably) making tax payers (the people of vegas) pay for the strip to be repaved (several million dollars), wreaking absolute havoc on their town, shutting off the fountains, blocking things off, making traffic a nightmare and most terribly, saying that they would block off/put blackout on any stores or windows of stores or hotels who didnt want to pay a several thousand dollar fee to f1, basically making the race not viewable to anyone for free. (note that they have several other street circuit races in the calendar and they don't do this there). so it was already a nightmare.

now it gets more fun!

the race is in the middle of november in las vegas (which, for all intents and purposes, is a desert) and they decided for some unholy reason to make this a night race. i think it starts at 11 pm local time. and low and behold, the organizers just happened to forget (and they admitted that they did indeed forget) that it gets very cold at night in the desert. right now its projected to be 44-47 degrees f ( about 4/5 degrees c). f1 cars are fragile little machines that get grumpy in the wrong conditions and boy let me tell you, this is absolutely the wrong conditions. if it is indeed This Cold at the race, it will make it the coldest race in f1 history. last i heard people weren't entirely sure that the cars would work or that the tires would cooperate.

the track set up is woefully abysmally. to get the tires warm, the lads would need some good corners to zoom around to get the tires up to temperature where they can go vroom zoom fast, but, there are not too many corners. below is the track. as you can see, theres a lot of straights, and thus, not many good opportunities to get the tires nice and hot, further affecting car performance

the pit lane (you know where everyone usually goes at least once or twice to change their tires) is quite possibly in the worst spot it could be. it is on the tiny straight right before turn 1. when you go into the pitlane, the tires lose a good amount of heat (or all of it if you're going in to get fresh tires) and they need to warm the tires back up. problem is, they're going to be zooming out of the pitlane basically directly into turns 1 2 and 3, on cold rubber, in a cold race. but it gets better, because of the way the track is set up, this positioning of the pitlane, if the exits are not timed correctly, will cause collisions because the pitlane exit it basically right where the cars on the track need to go in order to get the most speed (its more technical than this and someone else can fully explain the pitlane disaster better, but this is it in very simple terms i think). the pitlane is around where that arrow is.

so not only will it be cold and the pitlane cause accidents and the cars won't work, they don't have names for any of the corners and straights. so right now the map of the track looks like this which is batshit hilarious

and to top it off!! no one has raced here! no one knows how the cars will perform!! its going to be a shit show! god save the poorest little meow meows!!

and unrelated but there is a chapel in the paddock at the race, just for some spice, called race to the alter