#he was named during a time when i had too many eugenes they were popping up like daisies so his name is also a joke

[freebooter4ever]

sometimes i forget that people new here probably don't know teddy's name so missed the irony of this. back in 2020 i named him eugene. and this hockey season i put a r*angers jersey on Eugene. cause i think im funny. ive also started to worry that i pushed my luck and criss crossed my loyalties too much and now both teams are backsliding ;_; but Teddy Gene has been sporting this jersey since the start of the season so i dont think its his fault. both teams have back to back games starting tomorrow before the break and im Concerned :(

[the-library-alcove]

So a while back, a fairly left-wing friend of mine was shocked at the thought of Left-Wing Holocaust Denial, asking how it could even be possible, how can the Left even deny the Holocaust given everything (quote: "why would the LEFT be in denial? After you read Elie Wiesel, you can't deny any of it. Same with Maus, Frieda Appleman-Jurman's memoirs, and all that. Also, Lois Lowry won a Newberry medal for Number the Stars"). So I've been chewing on this for a while now.

First, Right-Wing Holocaust Denial is straight up "denial that the Holocaust happened"--often with an undertone of "But we wish that it had and it was a great idea". They deny the number of deaths, or excuse the Nazis, or say that the Jews had it coming, or say that it didn't happen at all, that sort of thing. It's a very blunt, straightforward form of denial.

Comparatively, Left-Wing Holocaust Denial takes a different, more sophisticated form that functions on multiple levels--with an undertone of its own along the lines of "the Jews are exaggerating to try to portray themselves as victims"--and to talk about this form of denial, I have to explain what the Holocaust was.

So this gets a bit long, because what is being denied is long, but I will ask you to bear with me.

But, TL:DR:

Right Wing Holocaust Denial denies the body count and the atrocities...

Left Wing Holocaust Denial denies everything that built up to it, the centuries of Othering and murders, and the aftereffects.

The Holocaust, 1939-1945, was the culmination of literally centuries of anti-Jewish hatred from Christian Europeans, dating back well over a thousand years.

For one example, there were anti-Jewish riots in France in the 1020s in misplaced vengeance for the Islamic destruction of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in 1009 CE. Decades later, the Crusaders butchered 99% of the Jewish population of northern Europe, beginning in 1096 and continuing for centuries, such that a population of nearly 100,000 in 1050 CE was reduced down to less than a thousand in 1350 CE, as genetic studies show.

Jews were vilified as "Enemies of Christ", and various forms of attack to whip up mobs against Jews became common enough to get names of their own: Blood Libel (the accusation of Jews stealing children and murdering them to use their blood) and Host Desecration (the accusation that Jews were stealing consecrated Hosts and "torturing" them in order to attack Jesus), among others. These resulted in thousands of Jews being attacked, harmed, killed, and expelled.

Pogroms, massacres, and expulsions were just part of the pattern; Jews were effectively second class citizens at best, confined to marginal parts of cities (the original ghettos), subject to ritual humiliation (there was a part of Carnival in Rome that featured "The Running Of The Jews" where the Jewish population of the city had to race and be beaten by the Christians and there are designed-to-be-humiliating carvings of Jews on churches), and so forth. Jews were the scapegoats of choice--a powerless minority made to do the dirty work (such as tax collection) by the powerful and then liquidated when the lower classes got upset, as a distraction (King: "It's not my fault you're hungry!" *motions to table laden with food* "It's the fault of those greedy Jews who I force to work as tax collectors! Go kill them instead of me!"). And that cycle further entrenched the hatred.

Martin Luther took this to new heights during the Reformation; initially, he was "nice", saying that the Christians should treat the Jews gently to get us to convert... and when we didn't, he got nasty, writing a book titled "On The Jews And Their Lies" where he outlined a "how to persecute Jews and make their lives utter hell so they'll convert" prescription of behavior.

And this all became deeply baked into the culture of Europe, in plays, architecture, pop culture, stories, and conspiracy theories over the centuries. Even after the ghetto walls were torn down in the early 1800s by Napoleon and Jews were allowed to integrate into mainstream society, that hatred did not go away. If anything, the resentment grew, culminating in outbursts like the Dreyfus Affair, where a French-Jewish artillery officer was made into the fall guy for another spy, because he was Jewish.

There was a "Jewish Question" in the countries of Europe. A political National Question that went, "What shall we do with these Jews who live in our lands who we do not want?" And many of the Jews desperately wanted to prove that they were Good Model Citizens, but it didn't matter. Some of us, seeing the writing on the wall, and that the Europeans would never accept us, started agitating for political separation and independence--Zionism.

During this time, the old religious-based hatreds were being ostensibly phased out, and it was the era of "scientific racism", so a new word was coined--"antisemitism", to replace the old "Judenhass", to sound more "scientific". More anti-Jewish accusations were created, such as the "Protocols Of The Elders Of Zion", which is a Russian-made forgery that is supposedly the record of a meeting of Jewish elders in their master plan to control the world; it was written to distract hatred away from the Czar and onto a scapegoat. (Essentially just an updated version of the kings' tactic of scapegoating the Jews from centuries earlier)

So the hatreds stayed, regardless of what new clothes they wore. After World War One, when the Nazis said that the blame for the loss and subsequent humiliation and economic collapse of the Weimar Republic was because of the "Jews stabbing us in the back", there was a massive population of people who were already primed to hate and resent Jews and just needed that excuse to focus that hatred. They passed laws that specifically stripped citizenship from the Jews on racial grounds, instituted blood purity laws--again, on racial grounds--and built up to the Holocaust, where the Jews were not seen as human, but as vermin, out to contaminate their pure race.

In the process, they killed nine out of ten Jews who lived in Europe. Their hatred to the point that they diverted efforts to fight the Allies just so that they could kill Jews. Local people hated Jews so much that they collaborated with their own conquerors, just so they could kill Jews. Because they hated us so much, had hated us for centuries. Their "Final Solution" to "The Jewish Question." This part is what the Right Wing denies.

And then, in the aftermath, nobody wanted the remaining victims. Literally, the British said, "We'll carve off part of our Empire to give to them rather than let them come here."

So, after centuries of hatred and marginalization, Europeans gave into their hatreds that they had been raised with and murdered us in our millions, and we were traumatized.

And some of us went to the USA--the few that the US was willing to take in--and many more, not having any other place to go, went to British Mandate Palestine with the hope of self-governance in the future Jewish territory... having learned that they could not trust non-Jews.

That is the Holocaust and what led up to it, and some of the aftermath of it.

Left Wing Holocaust Denial erases all of that, except for the Holocaust itself, which is taken out of context as a moral lesson.

The Left Wing Unofficial Narrative Of The Holocaust is that the Nazis arbitrarily picked several groups of fellow European Whites, the Jews being just one of them, agitated against them in order to make an Enemy, and then killed them in order to cement power. Thus, in this narrative, the Holocaust was thus an aberration brought about by demagoguery and propaganda. Thus, it is imperative to remember "Never Again", because it can happen to anyone.

According to this narrative, "Jews" are just White Europeans who practice a different Abrahamic Religion, and who played the aftermath of the genocide for undeserved sympathy points to get a colony of their own where they could become oppressors in turn, and that they are getting special treatment that ignores the other victims of the Holocaust.

In doing so, the Left needs to ignore...

...the racial aspects of the Holocaust and the decades and centuries before it--the blood purity laws, the specific "racial science" that Othered Jews, and so forth--in favor of a "Jews are White" narrative.

...that the Jews were specifically targeted by the Nazis for extermination, to the point of irrational, self-defeating fixation, whereas only the Roma were as targeted for complete eradication alongside the Jews--in favor of a "But what about the other victims too?" narrative.

...the Nazi obsession with hating Jews (which has not gone away) as a fundamental part of their ideology, and pretending that the Nazi hatred of Jews is no different than the eugenics and political oppression that other groups were victims of--again, in favor of a "Other people were victims of the Nazis too!" narrative.

...the centuries of hatred and victimization that preceded the Holocaust and culminated in it--in favor of a "Jews are just European White People" narrative.

...the trauma that happened when you've lost your homes, your families, your way of life, and your society, and nobody made any efforts to help you, and how it becomes apparent, after trying to fit in and integrate for decades, that you can be Perfect Citizens and the Christians will still hate you so we need to defend ourselves for our own sakes--in favor of a "Jews are oppressors and didn't learn the right lessons from the Holocaust" narrative.

So, TL;DR:

Right Wing Holocaust Denial denies the body count and the atrocities...

Left Wing Holocaust Denial denies everything that built up to it, the centuries of Othering and murders, and the aftereffects.

[ladyfawkes]

A Eugene and Dark Queen Reunion - Eugene Appreciation Week | Day 3 - Angst

Meanwhile, back in Gothel’s tower..... Rapunzel was desperately trying the healing incantation even though her magical hair was now gone. But Eugene couldn’t allow her the chance. Already too much had been taken from Rapunzel during her life and he wasn’t going to take any more from her. Not even to save himself….especially not to save himself. Eugene summoned his last tiny bit of strength with Herculean effort. “Rapunzel,” he insisted, pulling her face to him. He had to tell her. “What?” she whispered at last. The effort cost him dearly, left him gasping. “You were my new dream,” he breathed, as Rapunzel laughed through her tears with bittersweet joy. Whatever the price, it was worth it to Eugene just so he could hear the sound along with her next words. “And you were mine,” she replied with loving sorrow, fervently wishing she could just hold Eugene here in this moment with her forever. At least…..at least she could put a smile on his face before he slipped away for good. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Eugene was swiftly awoken and bidden to stand by a mysterious brunette with long flowing hair. She quietly stood next to him, dressed in an elegant white gown, and looked up at him serenely. He briefly wondered if she were an angel before reminding himself he didn’t believe in such nonsense.

He couldn't really pay much attention to her at first....as upon standing, he had turned around and was jolted by what he saw. Eugene’s gaze was instantly glued to the scene playing out before him. It turned out he was still in the tower. Rapunzel, now clearly resigned, despondently finished the healing chant he had so stoutly refused her and wept openly over his dead body.

"Oh no....." Eugene fell to his incorporeal knees in anguish. “No!” Eugene had thought dying would be the saddest thing to happen to him. Yet he’d been sorely mistaken. "Rapunzel, I...."

"She can't hear you, son," the brunette said softly. She came up behind him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I can promise you, however, she will not be sad for much longer." At the moment, Eugene felt anything but reassured.

"Who....who are you?" demanded Eugene of this...this interloper, in spite of himself. For the moment, he just wished to be alone with Rapunzel and their shared grief. The mystery woman seemed to have sensed Eugene’s reluctance to her presence and carefully moved away a few paces. She now stood opposite him on the other side of Rapunzel as she cradled Eugene's body.

"Well, I did call you 'son' for a reason, you know," said the woman, with an impish twinkle in her eye.  "Wuh--" Eugene nearly choked on his own tongue as he stood up in a rush, trying to get the words out, finally settling upon, "--Mother?" He gaped at her, openly searching for any signs of his own features within hers.

"That is one of my many titles, yes," replied the regal lady, smiling enigmatically in front of him, “and my personal favorite.” All at once he noticed she was wearing a black tiara with purple jewels. It seemed all the more stark against her crisp white dress. Eugene’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Alas, there is no time to discuss them all, though. You need to go very soon."

"What?" Eugene protested. "Go? But didn't I just get here? Wherever here is? How can it be that I already have to leave again?" "Observe," said his mother, gesturing to his prone self on the floor. A tiny starburst of golden sparks showered his cheek where Rapunzel's solitary tear had fallen, only to travel further down toward the mortal wound in Eugene's side. As they watched, the garish gash began mending itself closed amidst a thunderclap of bright spiraling magical tendrils that grew to encompass the entire tower. "What is happening?" Eugene cried over the thunderous roar of healing magic, shielding his vision against its brightness. "I should think that much would be obvious," his mother replied with what was now characteristic vagueness, once again wearing her Mona Lisa smile. Eugene groaned in exasperation and he found himself getting mildly annoyed with her cryptic amusement. It even reminded the young man a little bit of....himself. So that's where I get it! he marveled as realization dawned. "This time, the Sun Drop chose you, Eugene," his mother was looking him right in the eye now. "Chose me?" Eugene echoed skeptically, his eyebrows knitting together. "Why ever would it choose me? It's Rapunzel who's into this whole 'destiny' business." His mother laughed throatily and it mesmerized him; he was completely enchanted by the sight and sound. "Come here, Gene." He was utterly taken by her use of his diminutive name as he walked around to meet her. He almost couldn't ask. It seemed too surreal. An orphan wouldn't dare to hope....but he gestured to her tiara. "Are you...." She slipped an arm sideways around his waist, pulling her to him. He couldn’t help but notice how tall she was as she replied, "Yes, I was royalty when I was alive, which means you have royal blood too. And as long as you keep putting your faith in and keep choosing this young woman, you will find all of the answers you've sought about your family -- past, present, and future. And sooner rather than much later. However, I fear right now it’s time we take our leave of one another." "Now?? But--but I have so many questions!" Eugene pleaded. His mother put a quieting finger to his lips and patiently said, "In due time, dear son of mine. The only thing I want you to have on your mind during this present time is you….and her.” She reached up and lightly tapped his forehead three times and bade him into her loving embrace. Still somewhat unsure of her, he accepted, eventually melting into her arms as she stroked the back of his hair. She hummed an old German lullaby, the same way a young mother would soothe her small child. Hot tears sprang to Eugene’s eyes, completely unbidden. Just how could this song sound so familiar?? his mind cast-about wildly. He was both amazed and bewildered, yet he felt far too overwhelmed to speak.

Eugene felt himself fade out into soft white nothingness while in his mother's warm embrace. Then before he knew it, Eugene’s eyes were fluttering open again, as if he'd briefly fallen asleep and taken an unintentional nap somewhere. Immediately, his mind filled with thoughts of….

"Rapunzel?" he said breathlessly. Back! He really was back within his own body! Mentally, Eugene checked himself over.....he could breathe easily again. No more aching stab wound in his side. He remembered passing out…. Somehow Rapunzel had actually done it!! “Eugene??” gasped Rapunzel hopefully above him. Her hands reflexively held him closer. The way she whispered his name sounded like a little prayer. His eyesight was gradually returning, as he blinked and saw the blurry figure above him coalesce into his newest dream.

"Have I ever told you that I've got a thing for brunettes?" he kidded breathlessly, to let his love know that he was indeed all there for real.

"EUGENE!!" cried Rapunzel in exultation, throwing her arms so joyously about his neck that she nearly pulled him back to the floor with her. He caught her in a one-armed embrace, holding her as tightly to him as he dared. Never before had such a remarkable woman loved him so fiercely. Eugene had scarcely dreamt it was possible. A lilting voice filled his mind, But if something's not impossible, it's not worth doing... he dismissed it as his own fleeting thoughts playing tricks on him....until the same lilting voice confirmed outright his next thoughts: Yes, you really are just that lucky to have Rapunzel. And yes -- you will remember our little meeting here when the time is right.

Then Rapunzel grasped the sides of Eugene’s doublet in both of her fists and literally took his breath away with the ferocity of their first kiss. Eugene enthusiastically responded in kind. And although Eugene never completely forgot his memories of the very brief encounter with his mother, in light of recent pressing events, those memories completely faded to the back of Eugene’s mind as if it were a dream. For the greater part of two years, he was pretty certain he had hallucinated them anyway. That is, until this very moment.....

When after he sees this portrait....

And a light of familiarity appears to dawn in his eyes.

It has always been my theory (well, I s’pose it’s wish fulfillment now -- since all the series episodes have been broadcast) that even all of Eugene’s old wanted posters wouldn’t have been enough to convince him to turn away from Rapunzel. It had to be something more....something huge. If Eugene had a visual confirmation of who his mother is prior to seeing this portrait because he’d recently already seen her during the 1-minute-40-second interval that he was dead in the tower.....then I postulate that this is why Eugene was convinced to go against Rapunzel, if even for a few hours.

[areyougettingenoughoxygen]

Don’t Listen to the Nay-Sayers, I’ve Got a Love for Pokemon Sword/Shield

As I was trying to figure out something to post about this week, I was also trying to get a Grookey egg for a friend. That turned into me getting off the computer, laying down, and just playing Pokemon Shield. It may have been a good idea: not only did I hatch a shiny Grookey for myself after only 21 eggs as well as found a shiny Gigantamax Hatterene online, but I also found something I wanted to write about.

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this the day before the Direct came out talking about the new Expansions, so those will not be discussed in this write-up.

I’m presenting at the Pop Culture Association’s National Conference in April, with my topic being about how Pokemon’s fanbase refuses to evolve alongside the games. My research over winter break from school was supposed to be playing through all 8 gens of games, but I keep finding myself just playing Pokemon Shield. It may just be because I’m procrastinating, but I have Pokemon Red up on my 3DS just sleeping while I’m actively playing Pokemon Shield. Sorry Charmander, but the Galarian region is calling to me.

Before I got Pokemon Shield, I was one of the people who was in disbelief over what was deemed “Dex-It,” a term given to the fact that not all previous Pokemon would enter the region of Galar. Even more soured on the Pokemon Sword/Shield hype train, once reviews for Sword/Shield came out giving the game extreme praise, I began having almost resentment towards the title. How could a game with half the Pokemon and graphics looking like they came out of a Nintendo 64 rank better on IGN than any game since Black 2/White 2 (including the infamous Omega Ruby/Alpha Sapphire “7.8 - too much water” ranking)?

Regardless, I decided that I wanted it near release, and it’d be unfair of me to judge a game based on what people said rather than what I felt about it. The weekend that Pokemon Sword/Shield came out, I worked Friday and then doubles on Saturday and Sunday so that I could use the tip money that I accumulated towards Pokemon Shield. That Sunday, I walked over to my local Gamestop and picked up my copy, took it home, and started up the game. I was so exhausted that I only got to the starter selection portion of the game before falling asleep, but once I had my energy back, I went to work with my Pokemon buddies.

I almost always choose the Grass starter (except for lieking Mudkips in Gen 3), so Grookey was a natural choice for me. Besides, just look at that face. How could I NOT choose Grookey? Something that Pokemon Sword/Shield did better than any Pokemon game before it though is giving each and every starter a distinct personality. When Leon (the champion of the Galar region and your rival Hop’s brother) sends out the three Pokemon for you to select between, you’re treated to a cutscene of Grookey, Scorbunny, and Sobble interacting with one another. My heartstrings were tugged as I chose Grookey and Hop chose Sobble, leaving Scorbunny all alone. Leon assured Scorbunny that it could come with him and Charizard though, and I found myself elated that all three starters had homes. I hadn’t even had a Pokemon battle yet, and I was already invested in what would happen to the three starters in the game.

Hop won’t be the only rival you encounter throughout the game though, as many trainers are looking to advance in the challenge to become Pokemon Master. Marnie, alongside her faithful Morpeko, is also fighting to be the best like no one ever was. Cheering her on are Team Yell, which take on the roles of redeemable baddies much like Team Skull of Sun/Moon rather than outright baddies like Team Rocket. Both Marnie as well as Team Yell favor Dark type Pokemon, with the new Galarian form of Zigzagoon being a favorite of Team Yell. While Marnie has a competitive nature, she never is outright rude to the player, making her a more favorable rival to encounter during your journey. Contrasting Dark type trainer Marnie and her helpful attitude is Bede, a pastel trainer with a bad attitude who favors Psychic and Fairy types. While his interior is cold and ruthless, his relationships with Chairman Rose and Gym Leader Opal make him more endearing as the game goes on. Each rival you encounter has a satisfying end to their journey, showing that even if you don’t achieve your dream of becoming Pokemon Master, you can achieve a different dream.

I don’t want to spoil the story for anyone reading this who hasn’t played Pokemon Sword/Shield yet, but I would venture to say that it’s the best story out of any game in recent memory. Of course, it follows the routine of start your journey, earn badges, challenge the champion, become Pokemon Master, but there are many surprises alongside the way. Just when I thought the game was over, a few hours of more content strung itself along before I was able to claim my title of Pokemon Master and beat up Leon’s Charizard.

I’m not sure how other people play the game, but the Pokemon Camp feature of the game really connected me to the Pokemon that I had in my party along the way. It’s similar to the Pokemon Amie and such of yesteryear, but with a few changes. Your Pokemon can actually interact with one another, for starters. My Pokemon would chat with each other, race against each other, and sometimes even fight each other (which I had to break up). You can create curry dishes for them, and they joyfully gobble up your food if you cook it well enough. Seriously, one of my favorite parts of the 125+ hours I’ve put into the game so far was when after cooking curry, a stray Hippopotas came to my camp and wanted to be in my party, alongside a ribbon he received for being a Curry Connoisseur. I gave him competitive stats and an Everstone, and I named him Roux after his love for curry.

The main story itself only took me around 35 hours to complete, and the postgame only took a few more hours, but as I said above, I’ve put 125+ hours into the game thus far. One of the reasons for this is the Wild Area, which is a welcome addition to the game for people who like exploration. After you’re thrown into the Wild Area, you learn after a period of time which areas you’re supposed to be in and which ones you need to get out of as soon as possible. Rather than having a sign saying DON’T GO HERE, you’ll encounter Pokemon impossible to beat. I myself used Pokedolls for the first time ever in a Pokemon game to allow myself to get away from Pokemon who were 20+ levels above me just so that my team wouldn’t black out.

My only critique of the Wild Area is that there are admittedly portions of it that look as though they came out of a Nintendo 64 game, specifically the graphics of the trees in the game. Before a friend got the game, I walked up to one of the berry trees and showed him how they would become see-thru and comprise of green dots where the treetops were supposed to be. We both laughed at how bad it looked. However, as bad as these graphical errors are, they never took away from my enjoyment of the game.

As a competitive player, I like how much simpler it is in the game to make your Pokemon in fighting shape. Instead of every single Pokemon having to be products of Daycare Eugenics, you’re able to use readily available berries to reset your Pokemon’s EVs, give them purchasable vitamins to give them desired EVs, use Bottle Caps to max out IVs, and even use new mechanics found in Mints to change the nature of your Pokemon to something viable. I was able to take the Grookey that I started the game with and make him competitive just using the post-game mechanics available. This also makes it so that you can use the shiny Pokemon that you find, rather than hoping and praying that you get the exact stats you want for one. My original Grookey-turned-Rillaboom, Lucio, is able to compete alongside his daughter, shiny Grookey-turned Rillaboom, Lucia.

I have a love/hate relationship with the online play in Pokemon Sword/Shield though, which could be attributed to how online play works in any Switch game period. I’ve grown to enjoy joining Pokemon Raids with people online, but I hate how you basically have to be actively trading to find any new Raids, especially with how frequently Raids fill up. I’ve got a box filled with baby Grookeys to mystery trade to people while I wait to battle Gigantamax Pokemon and eventually curse to myself while throwing out a Pokeball and failing to capture it. The trade off for the wait rarely pays off.

For my criticism of online play and the graphics of Pokemon Sword/Shield though, there’s so much more to appreciate about the game than that. I don’t know if I’d throw out “best Pokemon game ever,” but I definitely agree that it’s the best Pokemon game since Black 2/White 2. Damn you IGN for having me agree with you.

If any of you reading this happen to be interested in my future presentation of Pokemon info at the 2020 Pop Culture Association National Conference, be sure to watch out for future info. I’ll let y’all know when I’m presenting the closer it is.

[drxbbles]

This little drabble idea originally came from another of my blogs forever ago and I only just got around to polishing it all off. Just some sinful public teasing underneath a dinner table during season two/Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventures. 

***

At first glance, the restaurant seemed like any other he had passed by while travelling. A quaint spot with a checkered tablecloth or two, candles in old bottles and a tavern-style bar tucked away, around the corner from the dining.

But then Rapunzel had bumped into some nice old ladies while stocking up on fruits for the caravan. And after hearing all the good feedback she insisted on skipping a campfire meal and buying dinner for their party of four. (Five, if you count Shorty who made himself at home on a bar stool with the kids menu.)

After all that excitement, and seeing her features light up as she scanned the menu and made her choice, Eugene was certain he’d never been in a nicer restaurant. Anything that had Blondie’s seal of approval worked for him.

“I cannot wait to try their chicken dish!” Rapunzel’s shoulders rose and fell as she watched their meals being brought over towards their booth. “I hear they use breadcrumbs and an Italian paste, and some cheese, and it’s so experimental!”

“And really healthy,” Cassandra remarked dryly, jerking her thumb towards the kitchen. “I’ll enjoy my usual salad and eggs, thank you very much.”

“Wow - cold, damp and a little runny? I never would’ve guessed,” Eugene hummed, before his knee bashed underneath the table and he flinched. “Ow!” The only thing stopping him from reaching down and rubbing his poor shin where it had suddenly been kicked was the smug look on Cass’s face.

“Having trouble, Fitzherbert?” she asked, knife and fork in each hand, waiting as a bowl of colourful… plant-matter, if he had to guess, was placed in front of her.

“Not at all,” he ground out, but it was as much for show as anything. A plate of hot food was placed before him and he thanked the waiter. A heartbeat was all it took for Lance to reach over and steal half of a potato.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Correction - it was yours,” Lance said with gravitas, pushing the whole half into his mouth and humming with delight. “And ish good!”

“Thrilled for you,” Eugene muttered, pulling his plate just a little closer before shooting a helpless look at his radiant little girlfriend. “Next time can we leave the ‘kids’ at home?”

Rapunzel finished thanking the waiter in earnest before smiling playfully back. “Oh, Eugene. Relax - it’s a nice evening out. And it smells so good! How do you pronounce the dish again?”

“I don’t think it has a name, yet, Blondie,” he murmured. “But if I had to guess…” He summoned a few words of Italian - basic phrases for chicken and sauce and cheese, swallowing a bite of his beef as he made a gesture. “Some combination of those words.”

“Well, it sounds as fascinating as it looks,” Rapunzel insisted, picking up her knife and fork and cutting a bite-sized piece for herself.

“Raps - you think that of everything,” Cass declared. Eugene guessed it was a full moon out - it was one of the times, usually once a month at best, when he found himself agreeing with her.

Until he felt something pressing against his shin and he lost his train of thought. His brow creased as he stayed still, assuming it was just someone’s leg stretching out.

“Well, I really think it of this,” Rapunzel said, and the gentle pressure and lift as she spoke made it clear who was touching him under the table.

Not that there was many other candidates - she was sitting opposite him instead of snuggled up beside him for a change, the pair of them on the inside of their little booth. And nobody else was as likely to slip out of their boot and press their foot against his shin. Obviously to sooth where her lady-in-waiting had kicked him, he figured.

“Ooh! Eugene - remind me how to say ‘very good’ in Italian?” He glanced up, quite certain that the grin on her face was as brilliant then as it had ever been. And with a little hand motion, he supplied:

“Molto bene.” Eugene was fairly sure she was clever enough to remember just fine and she just enjoyed hearing him say it, but who was he to deny her?

“That’s it,” she said happily. And underneath the table, he felt her foot suddenly move higher, until her sole was neatly resting on the bump of his knee. “Molto bene,” she practiced, applying gentle pressure against him. Eugene chewed his food quietly, a tilt of his head the closest he dared come to asking her about it in company.

And then she did ‘the look.’ A little ‘Smoulder’ all of her own, except that hers worked. A ducking of her head as she looked up through her thick lashes.

“I’m just interested,” she offered. “It’s such a pretty language. It’s so.. on point with everything.”

Eugene went ramrod still as he felt her tiny toes digging into his thigh. Ever since he had blurted out how badly she ‘turned him on’ during a heated, private moment, it had become Rapunzel’s little watchword. A sneaky, cute password that she used to tell him what kind of mood she was in. ‘This painting is so on,’ or ‘let me show you the book I’m reading - it’s on.’ It all came back to that evening when she rocked against him, giggling and purring and deciding ‘on’ was a very good word for describing how naughty and aroused she was.

“Aren’t all languages like that, Raps?” Cassandra asked, pushing more leaves and vegetables onto her fork. But Cass was (blessedly) unaware of the Princess’ leg under the table, stretched out and resting on her boyfriend’s lap as her foot brushed back and forth, higher and higher.

“I guess?” Rapunzel could have acted. She pushed another piece of her meal into her mouth and hummed, swallowing and looking for all the world like nothing more than a woman enjoying her dinner. Like a woman who wasn’t beginning to tease back and forth over Eugene’s privates with her toes. “But Italian is so pretty and everything has such a flourish! It’s like they make everything so… alight! So switched on.”

Eugene forced himself to eat as he felt himself reacting to it all. The slow, gentle teases. The coy remarks. The fact that she was doing it all in public while their friends were there. And judging from the coy, dazzling little look she gave him again from across the table, she knew very well what she was doing.

“Don’t you think, Eugene?” He was hard now. He was hard and she knew it because her sole was pressing flat against him.

“Well, Blondie, I’ll be sure to sit you down and teach you a few things if you’d like,” he managed to say, quietly patting himself on the back for doing it all without squeaking or moaning. Or from making some obvious scoot forwards to press against her.

“I’d love that - I think I’m a pretty fast learner,” Rapunzel grinned. It was so her. The sassy, confident girl who was willing to take on all challenges, royal or otherwise.

The girl who apparently knew how to lift her entire leg up and down without the table catching wind of it.

“Oh, I know you are,” Eugene answered back, forcing himself to look as innocent as possible. “You’re learning new things all the time, Blondie.”

In hindsight, he had watched her climb trees with nothing but her hair and her bare legs. ‘I’ve got strong feet!’ she had said with pride.

He really shouldn’t have been so shocked that she could turn around and climb him just as quickly and easily. But maybe it was just because she was Rapunzel - that cute girl who he was head over heels in love with and could turn him on at the drop of a hat.

Maybe it was the fact they were still in public.

“I’d tell you two to save it for the caravan, but I made it perfectly clear to the King and Queen that I’d keep an eye on you,” Cass remarked, swallowing another mouthful of salad. And then for good measure, she leaned across the table and gave Eugene a suspicious, squinted look. “No funny business from you.”

“Why am I getting the bad cop treatment over here?”

“Because I trust Raps. But you? You still have your moments.”

And Rapunzel giggled and smiled and looked for all the world like she was the most innocent person in it. “Sorry, Eugene. I guess you do have a little of that roguish reputation, still.”

And then she went ahead and slid her foot up and down along the length of his hardened cock, flexing her toes while she cut another piece of chicken and popped it into her mouth.

“Well, you are the innocent one,” Eugene said, schooling his face to remain as passive as possible. Forcing himself to carefully cut and eat his meal as Her Royal Mischief Maker kept stroking him up and down. Back and forth. Over and again in a slow, steady rhythm. It wasn’t bad. Heck, it was great, and anywhere else, Eugene would’ve been all for it. Underneath the dinner table, though, well…

He could handle the even stroke of her foot moving up and down. But because Rapunzel had magical mind-reading techniques (obviously), she would press harder or squeeze him whenever he was getting too relaxed.

“Mm!” he moaned when she pushed a certain way. “Oh, it’s.. good stuff. A little spicy, though,” Eugene tried to bluff as Lance gave him a sideways glance.

“Yeah - you’re looking a little flushed there. Whassamatter - comfy living making you soft?” Lance grinned, leaning over and nudging Eugene with a mighty elbow. But he was having none of it - even with the long, draping checkered tablecloth, he wasn’t about to risk anyone getting an accidental eyeful of what was going on underneath it.

“Thank you for your input,” Eugene ground out between clenched teeth, before lighting struck from on high. Slipping into a smooth, charming smile, he pointed off towards the polished bar that seemed to curve around a corner. “But you know what I’d really appreciate? Something nice and cold to drink. Go on, be a buddy. Think of it as payment for my poor potato.”

Lance rolled his eyes before moving to slide out of the booth. It was a tone of voice that Eugene broke out whenever he really wanted something, and was prepared to keep on needling him until it was done.

“Alright, alright, I’m off. Anyone want something else?”

They all did, and when it became clear that Lance was going to be balancing glasses and serving tins on top of his head, Rapunzel performed one of her little miracles.

“Cass, go with him and help? You’re almost done, right…?” There was a look of peaceful serenity on her face as she asked. A look that Cass returned with an arched eyebrow, pushing her very-empty plate away from her.

“Okay, I get it, my meal wasn’t very big,” she sniffed before lifting herself up as best as she could and wriggling off the bench. “Besides - without help he’s likely to drop the lot.”

“Take your time,” Eugene said, as teasingly as he always did.

“Shave your chin, Fitzherbert.”

He managed to wait until Cass’s bob of dark curls vanished around the corner before he let out a strangled whine. “Blondie! You’re killing me over here.”

“No, I’m not.” And all signs of Rapunzel the innocent, first of her name and well-known saint seemed to vanish. The hooded, playful bedroom eyes that gazed back at him seemed to grow more intense as her foot pressed firmly against his length. “I’m fairly sure I can feel your heart beating from here, Eugene.” She bit her lip and immediately giggled as, sure enough, the coy act did make him twitch that much harder.

“And if you keep going like that, we’re going to… I’ll have a mess to… we’re… Blondie.”

“Are you saying you want me to stop…?” Rapunzel ducked her head again. Her bottom lip stuck out just a little bit. The pressure beneath the table relaxed, her big toe slowly moving down his length. Eugene was fairly sure if she wasn’t royalty, he’d drop beneath the table, pull her under with him and kiss her until her pout vanished.

“Maybe a little bit…?” It came out as a pathetic squeak. He hated saying no to her - the times she was feeling so bold weren’t uncommon, but he loved encouraging them all the same.

“You once told me to have you checked by a doctor if you ever said you weren’t in the mood,” she countered, still pouting, but a little more of that familiar mischief crawling back into her voice. It was a discussion that had occurred one evening when he joked about it while they were helping each other undress. The look of horror on her face quickly smothered the mood that night.

It was a good talk. He made sure to go over all the basics so that they’d never again have another one like it.

“And we agreed that wasn’t serious, but Sunshine? Honey? This isn’t really the time or the pla-ce.” He was cut off again as she once again began to push against him.

“So you’re suggesting if this keeps going… you’d have to try very hard not to finish all over yourself? And then we’d have to worry about getting out of here without anyone noticing…?”

‘Finish all over your leg,’ Eugene wanted to say, but they both knew it was a bluff. He was still tucked inside his trousers, (mostly) comfortably. At best she would get the message, relax and he’d have a small wet stain to deal with later. At worst, with her pace and speed and surprise squeezes… yeah, there wouldn’t be any chance of hiding that.

“Yes, Rapunzel. You’re very, very good, and my briefs are getting a little too crowded, okay sweetie?”

Rapunzel’s eyebrows rose to her hairline, her eyes going saucer wide. ‘Finally,’ he thought, certain the message had gotten through…

… and then he watched with apprehension as gave him her little Smoulder. Like a cat, her gaze on him the whole time, she picked up Cass’s ignored knife and dropped it. Metal hit the stone tiles with a noisy clang!

“Oops. I’ll get that.” And with more flexibility and speed than a princess ought to have, Rapunzel vanished beneath the table. It was like watching her rappel down a cliff face with her hair all over again.

Eugene had a heartbeat to prepare before he felt her, hands flying over him in a rush. Expert flicks and practiced pulls that made him wonder just how good of a learner she was to loosen his belt and unbutton his fly so damned quickly and easily.

“Hn!” He hissed as suddenly he felt her. Warm, dainty little fingers reaching just inside and curling around his hot flesh. Lifting him up. Guiding him through the little escape passage she created. His hands curled into fists as he felt something moist press against this wet tip, and the muffled muah sound made it clear what had happened.

Rapunzel climbed back up from beneath the table, licking her lips and wiggling about in her seat. Looking for all the world like she had successfully picked up her dropped utensil and did not just pull her boyfriend’s cock out under the table and kissed the dripping head.

And neglected to tuck him back in again.

“Rapunzel…?” Eugene’s voice wavered somewhere between begging and disbelief. But she smiled and sighed and quickly turned her attention to her meal, pushing the last few mouthful’s of chicken through her sauce and popping them in her mouth. Stopping only to look up and smile wider as he felt a presence beside them.

His heart dropped as Lance strolled up with a sweaty glass of ale in each hand, followed by Cass holding a bottle of something and a pair of glasses.

“Okay - you two? You need to leave room afterwards, because their dessert menu is looking phenomenal,” Lance insisted, easing back into the booth and setting the glasses down. “Guaranteed some ice cream’ll cool that fire you’ve got going on, Eugene.”

“Gotta say - I can spare some extra calories too after my little dinner, Cass added, swinging herself back into the girl’s side of the booth. “How about you, Raps?”

Rapunzel grinned and speared her last bite with her fork. At the same moment, unseen beneath the tablecloth, her foot stretched back up and began rubbing Eugene’s hardness. Only instead of his trousers, she grinned as she felt every hot, solid inch.

“I could do with something sweet after this,” she said, swallowing her mouthful. “Maybe something with lots of cream all over it. Cream on it.”

Eugene swallowed another mouthful as she said her magic word. Small, strong toes curled around his sensitive tip and he swallowed to keep himself from moaning.

She was going to be the death of him, all over again.

[astronanda]

Bridges to Pax: Chapter One

Eugene Foster had Always thought he was a regular teenager, spite his schizophrenia. When he almost dies in an alleyway, attacked by a monster who definitely shouldn't exist, his life is put into perspective, and he finds out that he belongs to a family with a history of Pontum - people who connect the magical and the human worlds, the so-called "Bridges" - and now he must continue this family tradition. With the mysterious death of his uncle and the threat of a traitor looming over him, he doesn't know if he will be able to hold on. 

(ALSO ON TAPAS)

Eugene walked from one side to the other, diverting from plants here and there. The sunlight entered through the yellow stained glass, painting the greenhouse even more as if the colour of the plants and lowers still wasn't enough.

Lazuli still hadn't arrived, but lateness wasn't something rare for the Dracae. Eugene's nervousness wasn't linked to the training that would start as soon as Lazuli arrived. No, he was desperately anxious because of the piece of paper under the daisies near the door. The letter of a dead man.

The circumstances weren't great for Eugene, who had discovered his place in the universe two months ago when he as attacked by a monster in an alleyway, something that definitely shouldn't have happened. When he found out his schizophrenia wasn't real and that the world was more than it seemed. When his best friend had confessed to being a mere bodyguard and that he did not want to be in the place he occupied for seven years. When Eugene saw himself, for the first time, alone.

"Alone". There were people around him. Well, not actually people, but he wasn't in a position to complain. He asked himself if he could call them all friends, especially after receiving a desperate letter from his deceased uncle, the man who occupied his place before he passed away. Words written hastily in a notebook page asked him to not trust anyone.

The door opened, causing Eugene to stop his walk. He breathed in deeply, furrowing his brows and trying not to demonstrate his mistrust when he turned around and faced Lazuli's milky white eyes.

"Laz!" He smiled, putting his hands in his sweatshirt's pocket.

"Why are you nervous?" The Dracae asked, frowning.

"I'm not nervous." He said, staring at the ground. He let out a sigh. "It's just... a bad day, that's all."

It wasn't a lie. That had been an awful day, mainly because of the letter hidden in the greenhouse. He bit his lips, gazing at the daisies that now seemed strangely suspicious. Lazuli did not seem to notice the guilty yellow flowers, because when their eyes deviated from where Eugene looked, their face remained without expression.

(Probably not that positive, since Lazuli rarely had a facial expression)

Lazuli was the person responsible for supervising Eugene's training, physically, mentally and spiritually. Apparently, all of that was necessary for the magical people that inhabited that world to consider him a Pontum. Couldn't they be happy with a teenager risking his life? No, they wanted him to go through a boring hell known as school. Of course, it was a special school, but was it really that different? If Eugene had to be inside of a room while having classes, he decided that no, it wasn't.

Back to what we were talking about, Eugene did not know that much about Lazuli. They were the rarest kind of Dracae, they seemed to not feel any kind of emotion and had the bad habit of drip sarcasm whenever they met the Raziel brothers, which led them to a passive-aggressive that was as interesting as it was stressing. There was also that annoying habit of overestimating Eugene's abilities whenever they were in front of others as if it was a competition over who had the most powerful Pontum.

Eugene felt like a woman, being objectified like that.

"Today I'll take you to the armoury." They said, awaking Eugene from his thoughts.

"Bless you." He said, frowning. "Is that some kind of lost city, food or...?"

"Arsenal." They said, turning to the door. During the to months of training, Lazuli had got used to translate their exotic terms for Eugene, who had no kind of linguistic knowledge. He was just a painter, Dallon was the poet.

His heart ached as he remembered that name, that insisted in coming to his mind together with blue eyes and dark hair, with the rare smile that seemed to be able to end all of the world's wars. Eugene ran a hand through his blond hair, letting out a sigh, not even noticing the daises as he left the greenhouse, closing the door behind him.

He knew Dallon Jean Miguel Souto when he was nine, on the school's playground. It wasn't a very gracious moment for Eugene, who was bawling his eyes out because of a bruised knee. The other calmed him down and took him to the nurse's office. Eugene had always been an anxious child, and if Dallon hadn't taken him there, he would never have had the courage to do so.

The two became friends quickly. Dallon was a year older than Eugene, and they didn't share classes, but they always met each other during recess and played together. Dallon seemed to like pretending that he was an astronaut, and Eugene soon got used to playing the role of the alien. Well, aliens were cool, anyway.

Dallon was Eugene's first and best friend, and finding out their friendship grew because of an obligation of Dallon was absurd, and broke his heart. So many moments shared together now seemed implanted memories by a cruel magical society.

He followed Lazuli through the Pontum Sanctum's hallways without really paying attention to where he was. That place was huge, and if the two ended up in a door Eugene didn't recognize - Eugene, who kind of lived there now, considering how much time he spent there - he wouldn't be surprised.

He wasn't that excited to explore the place, not ever since he learned to do portals. He used to spend his time in the greenhouse, taking care of the plants or reading books Lazuli gave him, occupying moments that would be haunted by obscure thoughts if his imagination had too much freedom. As they say, an empty mind is devil's workshop.

Eugene sighed once again, something he did a lot, lately. He stared at the Dracae's back, covered by indigo fabric, adorned by golden details. The fashion there was certainly different from the human's, but it was interesting in its own way. Eugene noticed each one of the main five people that lived there had their own style. He didn't really know much about, you know, normal Dracae, civilians, but their style seemed... uh, ninja style.

The Dracae he knew weren't normal, by any means. They were killing machines that would give him nightmares if they weren't in the same team., Godric, his history and politics teacher was a skilled militarian trained to kill silently. Narcissa, the one responsible for his medical training, was the type of person to heal you and take care of your wounds just so that she could beat you up again. Dante was a mysterious guy, with biceps the size of Eugene's head, and if that wasn't' scary... Eugene did not know what "scary" was.

"Why are we going to the Arm... The arsenal?" He asked. "Are you going to give me a weapon?"

"People don't get weapons, Eugene, they deserve them."

"Ok... Do I deserve one?" He inquired. The Dracae stopped abruptly, causing Eugene to hit their back. He wondered if it hadn't been something he said, but Laz's hoarse voice calmed him.

"We'll find out later." They said, putting their hands in a steel door that seemed to not have a keyhole or a handle. Quite annoying, if you ask Eugene.

A blue light shone from Lazuli's fingertips, spreading through the metal just like heat. Magic was a weird sensation, to Eugene. Maybe it was for the fact that he literally learned some tricks a couple of weeks before, after a conversation in another plane of existence with his deceased grandpa. She knew her stuff.

It was a hot sensation, for Eugene. Heat running through his veins. When he used magic, he seemed to feel every and each cell of his body, which was quite uncomfortable. He was getting used to it, little by little.

"The armoury is a shared space. Other Representants or Pontum may be here." Lazuli said. Whenever there was a chance he could end up meeting Dallon, the Dracae made sure he would know it. He was grateful, but he also worried every time the Dracae said so, and wouldn't be able to concentrate on whatever they were doing.

The arsenal was huge. Different types of weapons hanged from the walls, from the ground to the ceiling, that seemed exaggeratedly far away. How did they take the weapons from the top? Maybe there were faeries there, that flew high up to bring them axes and lances? Weren't dwarves who made weapons? Maybe they kept them in the arsenal, too?

The place seemed to organize its weapons by type. There were different kinds of axes, with various sizes and weights grouped together; there were lances, bows and arrows, scythes, swords, rapiers, hammers, whips and etc.

So many questions popped up in Eugene's mind, he didn't notice that Lazuli had already abandoned him and was flipping through the yellowed pages of a gigantic book.

"You shouldn't stand in the middle of the way, noob." A feminine voice said. 

Surprised, he turned quickly to see who was behind him, but he lost his balance easily.

His body didn't hit the ground, though. A firm hand held him from his green shirt.

Two people stared at him, one of them still holding him. Eugene knew them from a reunion a couple of weeks before. Leilani, the Mage Pontum and Aeris, the Kitsune Pontum.

Leilani let him go, smiling at him. She was the youngest of all the Pontum, being just fifteen, but she had more muscles than Eugene, who was seventeen. He scratched the back of his head, smiling shyly to her, who laughed.

"Are you always like that, noob?" She asked. "You don't need to get all shy, we don't bite!"

Aeris laughed too. "How are you, Eugene?" She asked.

"I'm fine!" He said, a little too loud, trying to look anywhere but them. "Uh... Why are you here? Not that you shouldn't be, you are Pontum, after all. It's normal for you to be in places like this, uh..."

Aeris put her hands on his shoulders, smiling gently. "Breathe, Eugene." She said, trying to calm him down. He did as he was told, as Leilani answered his question:

"We came here to train." She said. "It is hard for us to go against each other, because of time zones and shit."

"Yes," Aeris said "honestly, I was getting tired of training against Dallon. You know how it is, right, Leilani?"

"Oh, yeah!" The younger one laughed, and Eugene just couldn't face them. "Always the same tricks and attacks."

"I think he just lets us win. Have you seen him fighting for real?" Aeris laughed.

Leilani nodded. "It sucks." She said, turning to Eugene. "Do you fight with him for real or he also things you are too fragile to face his manly strength?"

"We don't fight." He said, shrinking. "Actually, the last time I saw him was in that reunion, a couple of weeks ago."

Leilani and Aeris frowned. "Well, but... didn't you go to the same school?" Leilani asked.

Eugene shook his head. "He went back to Colombia." He said, avoiding Leilani's questioning dark eyes. "We don't talk anymore. He doesn't want to have anything to do with me."

Aeris opened her mouth, but Lazuli's distant voice interrupted their conversation.

"Eugene, come here." They said, and Eugene complied.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Trying to find some kind of weapon you can train with." They said, crossing their arms. The two girls approached them, curiously.

"Eugene looks like a swordsman" Leilani said. "What about a rapier?"

"Eugene is not confident enough to be a swordsman." Lazuli said. "Besides, he doesn't have the strength."

"I'm not even here." He mumbled.

"An arrow, then?" Aeris suggested. "It's good for building strength."

Lazuli flipped through the pages.

"It is possible. He needs to be useful, somehow."

Eugene frowned, trying to ignore that last part. It seemed that Lazuli had no sense of how to talk to people. He sighed.

"What kind of arms do you have?" He turned to the two girls.

Leilani grinned, her eyes glimmering. "I have an axe." She said. "Do ya wanna see it?"

Eugene nodded with enthusiasm. Leilani got up on some kind of arena in the middle of the arsenal, raising her hands up.

Her eyes were filled by a white light, the same that flickered around her fingers as if they were electricity waves. It didn't take long for a huge battle axe to occupy one of her hands, at the same time a loud bang filled the room, just like thunder.

Leilani smiled wide, and Eugene felt the urge to ask: "Does that happen every time you, like.... summon your weapon?"

"Let's just say Leilani likes drama." Aeris laughed. 

"Can I see yours too?" Eugene turned to her, and the woman nodded. She went to where Leilani stood and closed her eyes in concentration. With a quick flick of her wrists, two whips appeared in her hands. 

"They turn into swords." She mentioned. True to her word, with another flick the whips got hard and stood in a straight form, turning into two blades. 

"Can I get a cool weapon like that?" Eugene turned to Lazuli, who merely sighed:

"Those are short-range weapons. Maybe one day."

The smile vanished from Eugene's face, who felt like a kid who just asked something absurd to their parents. 

"Even when you get the weapon you want, Eugene, don't give up on the bow and arrow. Archers are super cool and it can save many lives. Ok?"

"Ok." He nodded, a bit disappointed but definitely hopeful with the promise.

Eugene felt pain in muscles he barely knew that existed. The boy practically dragged himself back to the greenhouse, his legs numb and screaming from the agony simultaneously, a distasteful paradox Eugene wanted to ignore, but couldn't.

He threw himself in the only chair available, resting his head on the table full of books in front of him, his sweaty back pressed against the wood of the seat.

Leilani and Aeris did not stay for long. They said it was better to leave Laz and Eugene alone, so they could work out and train shooting with the bow and arrow.

The Dracae was not, in any way, gentle with him. Laz first taught him how to stand up - something he never knew he did wrong -, the correct posture and how to shoot an arrow - all of that without a proper bow.

In the end, they gave him a green and metallic bow so he could practice and build up strength before actually getting his weapon.

The bow was indeed pretty, with blue runes colouring the green metal. Still, Eugene thought that was the last exciting weapon ever.

"Really? I don't really like rapiers, I think they're the worst." Lazuli had said.

He raised his head, taking a look at the daisies near the door. He thought that being part of a magical society was stressing enough, but apparently, he still had to deal with his uncle's mystery on top of it all.

He massaged his temples, feeling the anxiety looming in his mind. He had no psychological strength to deal with it all.

His cellphone vibrated on the table, calling for his attention. The notification that lit up the screen told him he had been added to a new group.

Pontum Chat, that was the name. He was greeted by numerous messages of Leilani and Aeris as he opened the app.

He smiled to himself. Those two were good people. He was worried the other Pontum would be cold, perhaps hostile, but he had been lucky.

There were other Pontum besides Leilani and Aeris. There was Tristan, a mysterious and quiet guy, who prefered to avoid attention to himself. Eugene understood the feeling. Tristan was the Werewolves' Pontum, and every time Eugene saw him, he was accompanied by the race's Representant, Nikolai Volkov.

Eugene had never talked to the man, but he felt like he knew him a little. Lazuli did not hold anything back when talking about their coworkers. The Dracae had said that everyone was a close, good friend of theirs. But not Arkiel. Arkiel could choke.

Arkiel was the unsympathetic Representant of the Ghouls, creatures that fed themselves with dead magical meat. That being said, they're not the most beloved guys around, but they have a stable government and a good source of food, so no one bothers with them.

A new message arrived. Tristan welcomed him, which brought a smile to Eugene's lips. At least he wouldn't have any trouble with his colleagues. Honestly, he wasn't mature enough to deal with intrapersonal problems on top of the new job and the death of his uncle Henry. The enigma of the letter was eating at him.

He sighed, rubbing his face. It was getting late and he needed to go back home.

He quickly got up and walked to the door with large steps, getting the letter from below the daisies rapidly and hiding it into his pants.

Even far from him, Dallon could still cause him headaches. If he could, Eugene would go back in time and refuse the fucking message, would tell his friend to go fuck off and ignore him for the rest of his life.

Goddamn it.

[simayeeet]

(Wei) DW Modern Au Western Names

This was part of an old fanfic concept that never took off because I guess I was a wuss/got lazy/lost steam and I’m just dumping one of the ideas here I really oddly put more effort into which is what would (Wei) DW characters pick as their Western names (they were working for a company that recently placed its headquarters in the US, so they would need to pick their names) 

if you’re still with me, i guess you can go here where i dumped these ideas, foolishly believing that I would someday come back to this

The bit where everyone picked their names was mostly by using a baby book/websites for baby names. There are some exceptions.

Cao Cao - Alexander (originally picked Ambition, but was told that it was not a real name in the West by Xun Yu) 

Cao Pi - Leon (liked that it sounded similar to “lion”, I thought his hair is kinda similar to Resident Evil Leon when it was short) 

Xiahou Dun - Johnathan (he wasn’t very creative at the time he picked the name nor trying to be) 

Xiahou Yuan - Jason (Like Dun, he wasn’t trying to be that picky and thought of the first common name he had heard of)

Dian Wei - David (he flipped through the baby book and placed his finger on a random spot and went with the name that he think sounded good to him)

Xu Chu -  Max (the simplest name of them all) 

Cao Ren - Austin (he used Cao Cao’s chosen name as a starting point, so he just searched around in the A’s) 

Zhang He - Sebastian (sounds pretty, was also leaning to Maximillian)

Xu Huang - Robert (Originally chose John because he wasn’t too picky, but was discouraged from getting similar names, just then settled for a plain professional-sounding name) 

Zhang Liao - Eric (don’t think i made a reason, he probably just picked what was the most popular baby name) 

Pang De- Kevin (don’t think i made a reason, possibly just went on a website to pick the first name on there)

Zhen Ji - Monica (she just liked how pretty it sounded)

Cai Wenji - Daisy (she just liked how it sounded)

Wang Yi - Michelle (she did not want to go with a flower-based name, but still wanted something nice)

Jia Xu - He actually did not have one during when the fic was going to take place since he had recently retired, so it was never revealed nor ever thought of. 

Guo Jia - Jack (It sounded similar to “Jia”, his original name. Another idea was that he picked that name after watching Titanic, so that people will be confused about why would he name himself after the guy who drowns in the end. I also wanted to make a Metal Gear/Raiden reference) 

Yue Jin - Justin  (I don’t think I made a reason for him during development) not all of them have some special reasons behind their names lol

Li Dian - Jake (I think I just wanted to make him Jake because of Brooklyn 99)

Yu Jin - Edward/Eugene (He wanted Edward, but many people suggested Eugene because... you know. He still goes by Edward and prefers it, but is called Eugene by people trying to pronounce his Chinese name/his friends jokingly as a nickname) 

Xun Yu - Charles (he was born in a British Chinatown must make him british til the end , so he already had a Western name on top of his Chinese name. I also just wanted to make an X-men reference because Charles X. if written that way. No, you may not call him Mr. X or Charlie ) 

(Xun You, Cao Xiu, and Man Chong did not debut during the time I was developing this, but I can give them names too for the hell of it)

Xun You - William (he would be born in the same place Xun Yu was and given a super British name) 

Man Chong - Mike (He would like the sound and simplicity of Mike)

Cao Xiu - Alan (he wanted Alex because Cao Cao, but was discouraged to get similar names)

I also had Sima Yi and Zhang Chunhua’s names because it was going to be from their POV. 

Sima Yi - Henry (He chose John because he didn’t care and thought that sounded decent enough, but was discouraged from taking it Xiahou Dun sure screwed everyone over)

Zhang Chunhua - Rose (well, her name meant “flower” already, she had an easy job there) 

I distinctly remember I was planning to have other factions’ characters get Western names if they somehow pop up, but never got to that stage. 

[olivereliott]

The Rut 50K: A Race Report

High on the east ridge of Lone Peak, at about 10,500 feet or so, The Rut 50K started to feel like a cartoon, in which an idiot, me, runs and hikes up an incline at a fast (for me) but hopefully sustainable pace, as the grade gradually gets steeper and steeper, until, just before the summit, the idiot tips over backwards and rolls back to the start. 

This, of course, is not true. The elevation map of the race course actually looks like this:

But right around Mile 20, I felt like I’d been carefully picking my way up Lone Peak’s east ridge for six hours, three feet in front of a guy from Eugene the entire time. With the steep terrain, fatigue, altitude, a decreased amount of readily available oxygen for breathing, and the mental exhaustion of climbing a neverending pile of rocks while trying to not dislodge anything onto people below me, many elements were coming together to crush my morale, and me. 

This is also not true. I was just one of 500 or so people to sign up for The Rut 50K this year. The Rut is an annual event that is essentially a European-style sky race held in Big Sky, Montana, designed by two American sadomasochists named Mike (Foote and Wolfe), with several events ranging from a Vertical Kilometer to the 50K. One way to look at the 50K race might be, “Hey, I ran the Chicago Marathon last year, and The Rut 50K is only five miles longer than that.” 

Here are some words and phrases from the website for The Rut 50K: 

“extremely challenging”

“EXTREMELY STEEP & TECHNICAL” 

“exposure” 

“potential rockfall hazard”

“true mountain course”

“rockfall hazards”

“mountainous and technical nature” 

It’s probably good policy for mountain running race organizers to use strong language in describing their events, just so no one gets in over their head and then later says things like “no one told me would be this hard,” or “suddenly, there I was, staring death in the face,” or “[sounds of a person sitting on a pile of rocks and weeping uncontrollably].” But also, you could probably be forgiven for a tiny bit of skepticism as far as race marketing is concerned, i.e. “I don’t know, has anyone ACTUALLY died doing this ‘Death Race’ we’re signing up for?”

There is at least one spot on The Rut 50K where you could legitimately fall, and possibly not stop falling until you were dead and/or have way more than 208 bones in your body. 

I did not, as may be obvious at this point, die doing The Rut. I did perhaps underestimate it a tiny bit. 

The race started at 6:00 a.m., a few minutes before sunrise, in three waves, five minutes apart, each wave a few hundred runners jogging uphill, a stream of headlamps, nerves, and chatter leaving the Big Sky Resort base area. Where should I start? Certainly not at the front of the first wave, where the elite runners and other super-mutants would be, ripping off three-minute miles uphill or whatever. Probably not at the back of the third wave, based on my previous race results. I really had no idea what to expect, so I did what I always do: Start way too far back in the pack, and then waste tons of energy frantically trying to pass people during the race. This is probably some combination of impostor syndrome and Midwestern over-politeness, or maybe I’m just not that smart.

Another role I had signed up for: running with a younger friend, Devon, and theoretically helping him not go too fast for the first few miles of the race. Devon had finished an 18-day traverse of the Wind River Range literally 60 hours before the start, and is a full decade-plus younger than me, so for the first nine miles, we settled somewhere in between me holding him back and him dragging me up the trail. When the route went from fire road to singletrack, there were bottlenecks of single-file lines of people, where we literally stood waiting in line for a couple minutes. 

In the first nine miles, in any spot where the trail widened in the forest, Devon and I accelerated around runners in front of us, sometimes one at a time, sometimes a handful of people. I did have a small bit of anxiety knowing that at a certain point, the course would hit a 1.2-mile section climbing 2,000 feet up the ridge of Lone Peak, where it would be pretty difficult to pass anyone without them very graciously stepping off to the side of the path, so I was motivated to pass people early on, where it was easy and safe. But I had more anxiety about running myself into the ground in the first 10 miles of the race by going way too fast way too early. Just before Mile 9, I told Devon to go ahead without me, because although I am not smart, I am also not proud, and he shot off through the trees like a gazelle, finally free. 

I had thoroughly studied the course map and elevation profile in the days and weeks leading up to the race, but still found myself surprised at all the ups and downs as we tromped through the forest, popped out above treeline, then dropped back into the trees again. I had downloaded the GPX map of the course onto my phone and could open it at any time to see where I was on the course, but I decided to just keep plodding on in ignorance, following the flags. Somewhere around Mile 14 or so, the course went from what I would call “pretty normal” to “OK, this is not an actual hiking trail that anyone uses for anything not named ‘The Rut.’” At that point, I was thankful I had talked myself into carrying trekking poles, ignoring the advice of at least one friend, who was well-meaning, but who also drastically overestimated my VO2 max. I mean, they weigh 10.5 ounces, and are very handy when you want to lean on something and shed a few tears, instead of collapsing all the way to the ground to convulse with sobs. 

I managed to under-eat the morning of the race, and was hungry the entire day, shoving down Clif Bloks and Honey Stinger Waffles whenever I could, often chewing while mouth-breathing in huge gasps as I hiked steep uphills. I had packed something like 2,000 calories for the day in my vest, in hopes that it would keep me from wasting time at aid stations, because I often unintentionally spend more time gazing at the layout of M&Ms, chips, pickles, Oreos, etc. than most people do putting together a plate at the Sizzler salad bar, and then end up confused at how six people passed me in the time I took to fill one water bottle and walk away with a double-handful of Cheez-Its. 

At the 14.5-mile mark, we started climbing up steep talus. The pack had thinned out and I had found a pretty appropriate spot, every once in a while passing someone or letting someone pass me, but for the most part able to settle in, put my head down, and watch my feet. Surely, I thought—without actually checking my GPS app to see where we were on the course—this must be the big climb up Lone Peak. Here we go. 

Imagine my internal dismay 40 minutes later when the route started going downhill from a high point of about 10,100 feet. Going down always feels good, but not as good when you know you’ll have to climb right back up every single foot you descend. We dropped to 8,280 feet, hitting a fire road, which was nice for a few minutes, I guess. But the course’s high point was 11,166 feet, somewhere above us. 

  If you hit Mile 17 during a flat-ish 50K, you’re psyched! You’re more than halfway to the finish! If you hit Mile 17 during The Rut, you are … not as psyched! You are more than halfway to the finish … in mileage only! You are about to spend an hour or an hour and a half grinding up a steep incline, 2,900 feet in 2.5 miles! You will “run” a 40-minute mile! Your fancy GPS watch will, instead of showing your pace per mile, will display a series of dashes, basically saying “you are not moving—are you OK?”

The good thing is, you eventually get to the top. Maybe you’re motivated by finishing the race, maybe because everywhere you look you’re surrounded by angular blocks of rock that would not be comfortable to sit or lie down on, maybe because finishing the race will be a visceral metaphor for other things you hope to face in life, or maybe because you know deep down that literally hundreds of other people have done the same thing so you can too, and some of those people have literally gotten a complimentary Run the Rut tattoo at the finish line, a real tattoo, not a temporary one, because that is a thing they do at this race. 

At the top of Lone Peak are some nice people handing out water and snacks, including, when I was there, a shirtless man wearing a full-length fur coat. The actual aid station we passed through was a solid 30 or 40 vertical feet below the summit of Lone Peak itself, and for a moment, my inner peak-bagger felt conflicted about getting this close to the summit after working that hard to get there and not actually tagging it, but I decided to keep moving forward, and down the mountain. 

The route down Lone Peak is steep, starting with dinner-plate talus, then scree, then steep trails. I had seen people wearing running gaiters at the beginning of the race, and as I made my way down and kicked rocks into my own shoes, I thought this might be the one place I could have used them in my life. Alas, I did not have any. Nor did I take the time to do proper self-care/self-preservation practices, like, I don’t know, emptying the rocks out of my shoes at any point during the final 11 miles of the race. 

I enjoy lying to myself during races, a tactic I believe is a form of positive self-talk. I do not enjoy it when I catch myself in the lies I have told myself earlier. Such as “You’ll start feeling better when you only have five miles to go,” or “That weird feeling in your lower intestine is unlikely to turn into anything remotely explosive before the end of the race,” or in this case, “That was the last big climb—it should be a cruise from here,” and “We’re back below treeline, so it’s probably just gently rolling from here on out.” 

I had read some race reports from previous years, so I should have been well aware that the last 10 miles or so seemed to be generally demoralizing. True, all the “big” climbs were out of the way, and most of what was left was below treeline. But before the finish, we still had a 500-foot climb, a 900-foot climb, and a 400-foot climb. I started up the beginning of the 900-foot climb, on a steep trail that I’m pretty sure I heard had a rope on it at one point for runners to use to pull themselves up the incline, and found myself surrounded by a glut of people in various states of mild to extreme discontent: our pace slowed to an uphill crawl, some people muttering half-jokes about how terrible they felt, others hunched over with their hands on their knees or leaning on a tree, maybe about to throw up. I kept going, thankful I had trekking poles, both as life support and security blanket. 

This, I think, is where many people start to hate the Rut. You start to ask yourself what the point of going up and down these hills is (as if the whole idea of the race isn’t also contrived and pointless, in the grand scheme of human existence), why they would send you this way instead of a route that’s more friendly (or even just flat), and maybe why you didn’t sign up for the 28K or the 11K instead of the 50K. 

The singletrack gave way to a road, which started to ease up as I inched closer to an aid station. Spectators waiting for the runner(s) they knew to come through dotted the sides of the road, cheering everyone who came past. One woman yelled, “Nice job, you’re almost there,” and I said “Thank you, existentially, we’re already there, aren’t we?” I power-hiked into the aid station and a young gentleman named Dash filled my water bottles and I grabbed a couple half-bananas and gulped them down. 

The course wound mostly downhill through intermittent forest, finally topping out on the last climb a half-mile from the finish line, where a couple guys sitting on the side of the fire road told me Nice job, you’re really, really done with the last climb now, and then another guy 100 feet later said “Those guys are lying,” and I laughed as I jogged past, the ski area base within view, and around the corner from that, the finish line. Which is where, I think, people begin the transition from hating the Rut to loving the Rut. As is common in this sport, the same person who, at 1 p.m. one day carries themselves along a trail on fumes of motivation and curses everything that brought them to that point, 24 or 48 hours later will earnestly tell people who ask about their race, “It was great.” Whatever that means. 

If you liked this story, please consider supporting my work via Patreon, which enables me to keep writing and drawing, and will also make you feel good (and get you a bunch of members-only stuff, including discounts to my shop).

The post The Rut 50K: A Race Report appeared first on Semi-Rad.com.

[conduits-not-bioterrorists]

About Kiku...

Age: 18 during the events of Second Son, 22 modern day, 15 during the events of inFAMOUS 2 Gender: Male Race: Japanese-American List three to five most important things about your character. - He thinks he’s a hotshot

- Doesn’t realize his apathy for certain things

- Likes cats (feeds the strays when he can)

- He’s homeless (he sleeps when he needs to, for the rest of the time, he is out doing things. Breaks into people’s homes while they are at work to take showers.)

- Similar to Eugene, he is a Delsin “fanboy” (He believes rebellion is the best course of action)

-Physical Details- Build/Body Type/Physical Frame: He is (very) slim yet short, with relatively lean muscle. He’s only recently began to introduce more calories and essential fats/proteins/vitamins into his diet, as many years he went malnutritioned. Height: 5′5″ Weight: 108 lbs Skin: He is rather pale, kind of sickly looking. He’s never looked better in his life though, surprisingly. Hair: His hair is an ashen grey, near close to black. It is silky and soft tot he touch. His hair naturally duckbutts (if you don’y know what that means, it is when the hair in the back flares up, commonly used to describe Sasuke or Noctis’ hair) Eyes: Kiku’s eyes a an amber brown, which creates a relatively nice contrast due to his monolids and sickly pale skin! It makes his eyes pop. Other defining features/extra anatomy: He has several scars, either self-inflicted (he’s a masochist so he will hurt himself from time to time, he’s not depressed) or battle-made. Habits: + He has manners. from time to time.

+ He’ll help correct your grammar

+ He helps conduits who are being picked on

+ He is protective

- He doesn’t sugarcoat

- He tends to act sarcasticly

- He kills criminals

- He’s a critical person, and will point out your flaws

x He can be rather rude at times

x He uses politically incorrect slurs sometimes (Fa**ot, Ni**a, re**rd) {But I mean, what teen in today’s US doesn’t? It’s just common now, and the words don’t actually mean what they originally meant. It’s called semantic shift, hun. Don’t get your panties in a twist, it happens all the time that’s why feminism has a negative connotation nowadays. Plus, he’s gay and he doesn’t see why people overreact to the usage of fa**ot. In the end he means them in a fucked up nice way. yknow, “wassup my nigga!” type of stuff. He doesn’t mean to rudely describe a black guy}

x  He kills or hurts people

x When he gets mad, he gets personal

Gestures/Mannerisms: He is rather expressive with his shifts in weight and his facial expressions. Aside from that, he might mover his hands every once in a while. you can tell he is curious about something or rather intrigued when his bottom lip raises slightly, and his brows as well.

Demeanor/Carriage/Gait: Carries himself rather highly, thinking he’s the next best thing to honey on bananas.

Voice: His voice sounds like this. [2] He speaks some slurs, and is relatively foul mouthed. Really abrasive words. Overall though he sounds relatively happy, and light.

Style: He’s pretty normal, only somewhat shabby.

Clothing: His clothing sense is casual streetwear. He wears a near-black tee, with either a grey and black striped hoodie underneath, or a white and black striped longsleeve. His pants are black - either straight cut or slim. He wears skater shoes more often than not (his favorite pair is a pair of black converse high tops). All of his clothes are stolen, from his own home before Curdun, or from Goodwill.

-Personality-

Part One: Basic Info

Loves/Favorites:

- Playing guitar

- Drawing

- Cats

- Seafood 

- Chill people

- sympathisers

Hates:

- DUP

- Meats

- People who act stupid/don’t put their education to good use

- People who want to start fights for no apparent reason

- Anti-Conduits

- The reality that they’ll never be as kickass as Delsin Rowe

Hobbies: Kiku spends his time playing guitar, drawing, and following news on conduits and any rebellious actions taking place - which are mostly Delsin’s work. (At this point he’s just a Delsin groupie)

Talents/Skills: Drawing, playing guitar, and using their powers to their fullest capability.

Hopes/Dreams: To live freely, and to see his sister happy. Keep her safe.

Fears/Nightmares: The DUP will hurt his sis, he is unable to help. He let her down..

Best Quality: He’s a very caring person, despite his outer shell.

Greatest Flaw: He knows his flaws. He has a lot. He’s rude, impulsive, violent, a major douchebag. His greatest flaw though is his own belief that he cannot love. He thinks love is impossible for him, and that is his worst trait.

Character Strengths: He is resilient, and can bounce back. Nothing can knock him down, unless it’s disappointing someone close to him. Then he falters. For a long time..

Part Two: In-depth Analysis

How do others see him? Usually others see him as a critical and cold soul hardened by a tough childhood. Then some see him as a horrible killing machine.

Five adjectives that he/she would use to describe himself.

- Rebellious

- Right

- Rambunctious

- Life of the party

- A bit “in your face”

Five adjectives others would use to describe him.

- A violent criminal

- Just a kid

- Abrasive

- An asshole

- Immature

What kind of energy level do they usually have? Kiku is relatively agressive and joking. Rather laid back, but he can be quite energetic.

Does he/she have a temper? Oh yeah. He’s got a really firey temper, and he acts on it. Whether it be defacing something, blackening a name, or hurting someone, he lets his anger out in so shape way or form.

Polite or rude? Rood, unless to his friends, then he is only slightly rude

Leader or a follower? Leader

More happy by themselves or in a group? By themselves, or with only one or two friends.

Does he/she have any addictions/dependencies/fixations/fetishes/ or other strange behavior? Sadomasochistic. Other than that, not really.

What is his/her sexual preference/experience/values? Gayyyyyyy. Has had one boyfriend in freshman year, they dumped him though. Kind of has a crush of Delsin. Okay, definitely has one.

-History/Background-

Setting:

Time period, current residence, any other basic descriptions needed

Educational background/other learning experiences:

Intelligence Level: Near genius, though he doesn’t really act on it.

Short Term Goals: Get the DUP out of the US

Long Term Goals: Make sure Heidi lives a long and happy life

Friends: His “sister”, Heidi Kirsch. Met her when he escaped, as she had been the one to help him out. Turns out they were buddies in school too

Unusual Abilities/Powers: Ferrokinesis and somewhat a form of calokinesis. He can absorb, manipulate, and redirect steel. He absorbs it by raising the kinetic energy in the steel’s atoms enough so it liquefies, which he then absorbs.

Weapons/Other Gear: He forms his own arsenal out of steel.

[newyorktheater]

The Broadway composer Richard Rodgers found four things invariably gratifying: “eating, a warm bath, making love and having a successful show.”

But how gratifying is it to read about successful shows – or the people who’ve created them?

That’s the question that lingers over two recently published Broadway biographies — Something Wonderful: Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Broadway Revolution  (Henry Holt, 2018, 386 pages) by Todd S. Purdum and Renaissance Man: The Lin-Manuel Miranda Story An Unauthorized Biography (Riverdale Avenue Books, 2018, 184 pages) by Marc Shapiro Both are about people who created Broadway musicals that became cultural phenomena. But they differ so radically in quality it’s almost an offense to consider them together.

Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein

South Pacific, 1949. Ezio Pinza an Mary Martin

Carousel (1945 – 1947 Broadway) Music by Richard Rodgers; Book and Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II Directed by Rouben Mamoulian Shown from left: Jan Clayton, John Raitt

The King and I 1951. Gertrude Lawrence and Yul Brynner.

Oklahoma! (1955) Directed by Fred Zinnemann Shown from left: Gordon MacRae, Shirley Jones, Charlotte Greenwood

Sound of Music (1959-1963, Broadway) Music by Richard Rogers, Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein, Book by Howard Lindsay & Russel Crouse Directed by Vincent J. Donehue Shown from left: (top) Mary Martin, Joseph Stewart, Kathy Dunn, William Snowden, Lauri Peters; (front) Marilyn Rogers, Evanna Lien, Mary Susan Locke

from left to right: Richard Rodgers, Dorothy Hammerstein, Dorothy Rodgers, Oscar Hammerstein. Both their wives were named Dorothy, and both were interior decorators.

Composer Richard Rodgers and lyricist/librettist Oscar Hammerstein II together wrote some half dozen musicals between 1943 and 1959 that were the most popular Broadway shows of their time. The songs from these musicals remain among the most beloved and familiar of any that have ever been sung on Broadway. Todd Purdum, a former White House correspondent for the New York Times and current writer for Politico, devotes a chapter to each of these shows – Oklahoma, Carousel, South Pacific, The King and I, The Sound of Music. We learn where the ideas came from; how Hammerstein figured out the right lyrics (Rodgers’ process was more mysterious and often instantaneous), how the initial productions came together, how the public and the critics reacted. But the author spends almost as much time on some of the movie adaptations of these hits, and on the Rodgers and Hammerstein shows that weren’t hits – Allegro, Me and Juliet, Pipe Dream, Flower Drum Song. And the first two of the book’s 11 chapters are taken up with the individual careers of the two men before they started collaborating with each other. Both had successful partnerships with other theater artists – Oscar Hammerstein with composer Jerome Kern, most notably on Show Boat; Rodgers with lyricist Larry Hart, whose 28 stage musicals together included Pal Joey and On Your Toes. And then there are the shows Purdum writes about that Rodgers and Hammerstein produced but didn’t write, most notably “Annie Get Your Gun,” which they lured Irving Berlin into scoring. And the author also goes into some depth about the projects that each man undertook separately in-between their collaborations, such as “Carmen Jones,” Hammerstein’s adaptation of Bizet’s opera “Carmen” transposed to the American South with an all African-American cast. (A revival of ‘Carmen Jones” is opening this month at the Classic Stage Company) All of this information is well researched and competently written. There are plenty of memorable tidbits. The night after “Oklahoma!” opened, we’re told, the house sold out for the next four years. During “The Sound of Music,” lead actress and investor Mary Martin had befriended a theater-loving nun, who became an advisor on the show. Among Sister Gregory’s advice: “ Please don’t have the nuns giggle. Chuckle, laugh— and even explode with laughter, but not giggle.” Yet after a while, with so much covered in its 320 pages of text, “Something Wonderful” (the title is taken from a song in “The King and I”) feels more like “Many Wonderful Things,” and occasionally even “Too Many Wonderful Things.” One begins to wonder: What’s the point of this book? And also: Why now? Rodgers died in 1979, Hammerstein in 1960. (There’s an entire chapter on what Rodgers did in the years after Hammerstein died; and more details about each of their end-of-life illnesses than I was eager to learn.) Certainly I can be excused for assuming that the book would take advantage of the passage of time to offer fresh critical perspectives. But any critical evaluations are perfunctory – largely brief excerpts from contemporary reviews. The author does offer a line or two of analysis here and there: “If Oklahoma! had satisfied wartime America’s longing for a simpler time and Carousel had tapped into the returning servicemen’s familiarity with death, South Pacific offered a dramatization of a conflict that was still visceral for millions.” But that doesn’t explain why the shows are still popular. A brief section in the Epilogue makes the current case for Rodgers and Hammerstein shows as if they’re under attack, but, again, by briefly quoting critics. Instead of critical insights, Purdum opts for a compact historical overview of two impossibly fruitful careers. We learn that during his lifetime Rodgers had written the music for some 900 songs, and Hammerstein had written the lyrics for 1,589. (The 1,589th was Edelweiss from The Sound of Music. By the end of “Something Wonderful” I can’t claim to have gotten a firm handle on either theater artist – not what made them great, nor even a vivid sense of what they were like as individuals. It is hard to blame the author for this. Mary Rodgers, Richard’s daughter and an accomplished composer in her own right, is quoted as saying: “I don’t think anybody ever knew who he really was, with the possible exception of one of the five psychiatrists he went to.” Stephen Sondheim (Hammerstein’s protégée and Rodgers one-time, unhappy collaborator) is reduced to a kind of unhelpful Zen description of the two: Hammerstein as a man of limited talent but infinite soul, and Rodgers as a man of infinite talent but limited soul. Still, “Something Wonderful” is a reasonably good read about two theater artists whose work remains familiar and beloved 75 years after they first started collaborating.

“The Sound of Music” was one of the many original Broadway cast albums lying around in the Miranda household when Lin-Manuel was growing up in Inwood, we learn in “Renaissance Man: The Lin-Manuel Miranda Story.” Hunter College Elementary School put on Oklahoma when Miranda was in the fourth grade. His senior thesis at Wesleyan was an analysis of the lyrics of Alan Lerner, Stephen Sondheim…and Oscar Hammerstein. So, yes, Rodgers and Hammerstein were among Lin-Manuel’s many influences in an eclectic cultural upbringing that featured, among many other things – as Renaissance Man reminds us — his parents’ many original cast albums, a school bus driver who loved rap, early exposure to Disney animated films, a household full of Puerto Rican culture, schooling that emphasized the arts, especially theater. “Renaissance Man” by Marc Shapiro (who specializes in “unauthorized” celebrity biographies)  is a cut-and-paste job, splicing together facts and quotes gathered from newspaper articles and blog posts and podcasts and speeches. This alone wouldn’t necessarily be reason to condemn it. As with “Something Wonderful,” there should be some appeal in revisiting Lin-Manuel Miranda’s extraordinary story, even though it is by this point so thoroughly familiar – how he created “In The Heights” starting when he was a sophomore at Wesleyan; followed by the six year journey to create “Hamilton.” We can even appreciate being reminded of some of Miranda’s other activities as writer and rapper and actor – his improvisational rap group Freestyle Love Supreme, his work on other Broadway shows (co-composing Bring It On The Musical; writing the Spanish translations for a West Side Story revival) the his songwriting for the animated Disney film Moana and a Star Wars movie; his appearance as himself in Fatwa: The Musical in Curb Your Enthusiasm, his forthcoming role in the movie Mary Poppins Returns All of this is mentioned in “Renaissance Man: The Lin-Manuel Miranda Story,” but we don’t wind up caring. The book could hardly be a worse read. It’s poorly written, cliché-ridden, and so full of typos and obvious errors that one wonders what else the author got wrong. (It’s the Outer Critics Circle Awards, not The Outer City Circle Awards. It’s the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center. Miranda’s friend Chris Hayes is sometimes spelled Chris Harris; Hamilton performer Daveed Diggs is sometimes referred to as David.) Marc Shapiro uses the word “literal” or “literally” incorrectly so many times (“Miranda was a literal babe in the woods”…”Miranda was literally over the moon…”) that I stopped counting. There is no intelligent or even cogent insight into Miranda or his shows, and virtually no original reporting. The only apparent interview the author conducted was with one Irv Steinfink, Miranda’s 11th grade Social Studies teacher, said he assigned him to do a report on the Hamilton-Burr duel “It was a good paper. He got an A on it. As I think about it now, it may have actually been an A plus.” There are so many hilariously awkward sentences and extended forays into incoherence that I briefly wondered whether Renaissance Man was secretly a spoof. Here is a typical paragraph, which purports to explain the reason for the book: “That Lin-Manuel Miranda has emerged as the pop composer/literal renaissance man of his time was the logical reason to profile his life. Hamilton is on everybody’s lips and so, in the immortal words of the publishing bard, strike while the iron is hot became the order of the day. But it soon became something a bit more than cashing in on the latest big thing.” Actually, “Renaissance Man: The Lin-Manuel Story” is never anything more than an attempt to cash in on the latest big thing.

New Broadway Biographies: Lin-Manuel Miranda, Rodgers and Hammerstein The Broadway composer Richard Rodgers found four things invariably gratifying: “eating, a warm bath, making love and having a successful show.”

[pocket-anon]

10 Questions Every Fic Writer Secretly Wants to be Asked

After answering these questions for A Fairytale Beginning, @kmomof4 rewarded me by prompting me to answer these same questions for The Long Way Home.  She’s too nice to me, you guys.  Here we go!  As with the other post, spoilers abound.

1. Of the fics you’ve written, which is your favorite and why?

See my previous answer.

2. Which scene was your favorite to write in The Long Way Home?

Definitely the scene where Killian realizes he’s in love with Emma while staring up at the stars.  I just love the visual and all the delicious angst of that moment.  Killian being flummoxed by Emma’s first climb up the mast comes in a close second.

3. Which part of The Long Way Home was hardest to write?

The hurricane scene was probably the hardest to write simply because it involved so much research into how a square-rigged vessel could try to survive a storm and I had to try to describe it using enough jargon to be realistic and yet not so much that readers would be overwhelmed. That’s a difficult line to walk. You can get away with a TON of jargon in the movies/TV (pay attention the next time you watch Pirates of the Caribbean; I checked a transcript of one of the battle scenes for inspiration, and I barely understood anything), but it’s harder to get away with the same level of jargon in fic because readers are less likely to just shrug it off.

4. If you could change anything in The Long Way Home, what would it be?

Mmph.  This is a hard question to answer about a fic I just finished.  I probably would have made the story longer - thrown in another incident/adventure or just thrown in more fluff.  One of the most common comments I got from readers was that they didn’t want the story to end (goodness, you people are so sweet).  If I hadn’t been limited by the CSBB deadline and if I’d known how much people would enjoy this story, that’s probably what would have happened.

ADDENDUM: In retrospect, I should also have made what was supposed to be emotional context for Killian’s vigil for Emma a little less subtle.  I had him mention how his mother died in order to give people some insight into how much more torturous it must have been for him to wait for Emma to wake up.  I’m pretty sure zero people picked up on this.  LOL.  I really should have included a line of dialogue about it.  :p

5. Did you make an outline for The Long Way Home? Did you stick to it?

Yes, and yes (mostly), though the outline it was very general and many scenes that ultimately ended up in the fic were not plotted out ahead of time (eg, Emma’s scene in the tavern attic, Emma and Killian’s entire day in the Southern Isles, the whale watching, Emma pulling away from Killian after realizing she’s in love with him, etc.).   A lot of those scenes got thrown in later after writing the pre-planned scenes; this fic was unique for me in that it was not written linearly - I had holes to patch all over the place for a while!  It was a mess.

The order of the events also changed.  Originally I had the hurricane happening immediately before the encounter with the slavers; ie, they meet the slave ship after Emma saves the Jolly and Killian declares his feelings for her but before their TLK.  Reordering those events was probably the biggest deviation from the original outline (and SUPER frustrating, because I had to ditch several days’ worth of words making that transition).

6. Which scenes did you cut, and which were added in The Long Way Home?

The only scene that got cut was related to the reordering of events mentioned above.  It was a scene where Emma waits for Killian to come back from the slave ship and worries she won’t be able to be the princess Misthaven needs without her memories or her control of her magic.  She tries to do more magic and gets frustrated when she can’t, and when Killian returns, he encourages her and that conversation ultimately results in the TLK.

As for scenes that were added, there were a ton.  See my answer to #5 for examples.   

7. Who was your favorite character to write in The Long Way Home?

Killian - he’s usually my favorite to write, and this fic is largely (in my mind) about his transformation from Captain Hook back to Killian Jones; it’s more about him finding his home than about Emma finding hers.  Writing a lot of the ensemble cast (Maggie, Roberts, Smee, and Charming) was also a blast, though!

8. Which came first, the title or the fic?

The fic always comes first for me.  I had a short list of candidate titles but didn’t settle on one until I was getting ready to email the fic in for the final CSBB check-in, LOL.

9. Which idea came to you first in The Long Way Home?

I actually started this fic two years ago, back before I’d joined the fandom (before I was even aware of the fandom), when I was just writing for personal pleasure.  I came up with this Captain Duckling AU (I didn’t even know the fic terminology back then) involving Princess Emma under a memory curse and Killian kind of Sherlock Holmes’ing his way to discovering her identity.  That concept and Emma’s encounter with Blackbeard were basically all I started with; I had no idea where it was going at the time, and I certainly never intended for it to become a complete story that other people would read!

10. What are some facts readers may not know about The Long Way Home?

- I didn’t actually intend for this fic to be an Anastasia AU, but one of the CSBB mods labeled it as such after reading the plot, and it just stuck.

- This was by far the most frustrating fic I’ve written to-date in the sense that the nature of the CSBB made me as obsessed with word count as anything else.  It was also difficult for me to only have the feedback of a handful of people to go on during the process - I had so much anxiety about whether this story was any good and whether I could pull it off the way I wanted.  Still, this fic would probably not have happened at all without the CSBB, and I’m very glad to have participated!

- My CSBB artists @giraffes-ride-swordfishes and @waiting-for-autumn helped me design all of Emma’s non-canon wardrobe for this fic.

- Topics I researched for this fic include historical pirating and aspects of that lifestyle, 18th century ships/sailing/navigation, 18th century clothing, 18th century soap recipes, the average size/speed of hurricanes, and swords (types, parts, sword fighting techniques, care, etc.).  My Pinterest boards for my fics always include research references as well as visual inspiration; the board for this fic has 175 pins.

- The number of pictures of the Jolly Roger/Lady Washington I saved for reference - OMG.  

- Killian’s line about the Dread Pirate Roberts is an obvious homage to The Princess Bride, which, in addition to being part of the inspiration for Hook’s character on the show, is one of my favorite movies.  The Jolly’s quartermaster is always named Roberts in my fics (see also A Fairytale Beginning) in honor of the movie.

- Killian and Emma’s dancing was largely inspired by Rose and Jack’s dancing in Titanic and Rapunzel and Flynn/Eugene’s dancing in Tangled.

- The cut on Killian’s cheek is a reference to Colin O’Donoghue’s scar.

- For any medical-types out there, Alec suffered from a wound infection which progressed to sepsis and was complicated by disseminated intravascular coagulation, pulmonary embolism, and delirium.

- Emma’s thoughts on Liam’s ring came from a mini-crisis I had trying to figure out what color the stone was on OUAT.  I posted about it at the time to try to find group consensus.  Ultimately, we did find proof that the stone is actually red, and this sappy little metaphor about it being like Killian’s heart popped into my head, and there you go.

- I thought about putting Emma in the silver princess dress from canon for the wedding, but I’d already used this dress in A Fairytale Beginning, so I nixed the idea.  I tried coming up with a custom design, but ultimately I went with an existing dress I found while looking for inspiration.  It’s the dress I used to Photoshop this picture.  I wanted feathers on the dress both because Emma was nicknamed “Swan” and because Snow also had feathers on her wedding dress.

There you are.  Much more than any of you ever wanted to know, I’m sure.  Thanks to those of you who made it to the end (of the fic and this post), haha!  You guys are the best.

[ramenfallsbutnotudon]

Riverdale Raw Thoughts

Binge watched Riverdale last night as my Netflix membership for the month was expiring. (Not renewing again until early November to watch S2 The Crown and other stuff I’m waiting on) - Like I literally stayed up from 9 pm to 6 pm this morning watching the show straight and then went to bed and woke up at noon.

Cheesy dialogue aside, it was pretty great for what it was.

But it suffered from the same thing Scream Queens did - interesting core plot, but cheesy cringy writing and too many pop culture references to pander to their target audience demographic (I’m assuming 18-34)

Wishy-washy social commentary: 

FP Jones ain’t shit but Jughead has a cute beenie and is sensitive so he’s a-okay.

 Alice Cooper grew up on the “wrong side of the tracks” but married well so now she’s determined to keep south side trash out by joining the “neighborhood watch” and using her white woman hood, white feminism and ‘come-uppance’ privilage to publish edgy think pieces.

Betty Cooper has some pent up rage that is sorta overlooked because it was “for good” (doing it for the girls and trying to get revenge for Polly - and because the guy was Black, thinly veiled anti-blackness) until it isn’t overlooked but simply mentioned . Then she initally starts using Jughead and Jughead calls it out and she kind of agrees and says she has “darkness” in her - until something happens again and she decides to “let the darkness out” and be selfish and blame it on something else again.

Jughead getting dealt a piss poor hand, being okay at the South Side school (he’s a gang member - arguably gang leader or liutenant’s son...of course he’s fine jesus fucking christ Riverdale) until the trio of good show up to...talk to him and comfort him? and they realize he’s fine.

Betty making a white feminist speech about the town needing to do better because yes although her boyfriend’s dad is a Serpent he’s a good person and although her parents told her to shut her mouth she feels it’s the right thing to do. [She actually did not care about the Serpents before and her buds Veronica and Kevin  heckled them during the last drive in movie screening.but whatevs] After the speech she has no solution or propsed ways the town can “do better” and there’s this awkward silence and everyone’s favorite punching bag has to clap it up so people blindy accept that lackluster speech. (I don’t expect a teenage girl to fix the towns problems but if you wanted to tackle the issue and get people talking shouldnt’t you also have some thoughts other than people not being mean to your boyfriend?)

Jughead not having shit and the gang seeing him enter the trailer with a girl and (maybe wanting to keep a pg 13 rating) stop him before their steamy make out session leads to something more give him a jacket to become a serpent and Betty is angry that he’s trying to survive and embracing the gang life that he’s essentially grown up around and will be surrounded by until he comes of age.

Archie’s dad’s forhead. my god. not social commentary but damn it bugged me.

Archie and his hottie teacher banging without impuity and her being allowed to quietly leave after obviously being a predator and dangerous person. (did they ever give her back her gun??? IS that what Alice uses when Hal breaks back in? Did Hal ever mention he stole the evidence to the sheriff even after it came to light FP was innocent?)

Archie wanting the pussy cat’s to use his song so he manipulates one of the band members (Valerie), dates her, uses their connections, ignores her, and when she dumps him and tells him why he isn’t shit he somehow doesn’t get it.

Valerie being acceptable to date because she has blue eyes and light skin but she’s rarely heard from when she’s no longer helping archie’s ‘music career’ but simply dating him.

Archie playing along with Cheryl’s crazy ass family “for his music” as an excuse to be selfish.

Archie trying to be a tortured soul when his dad point blank asked him why he’s lying if he wants music that’s cool it’s just unstable; someone else (Veronica I think?) kind of saying why are you being like this no one is making you choose between Football and music; someone bringing up he was only music when he was banging his hottie teacher; the football team heckles him once but they seen he’s Troy Bolton & they accepted him - everyone fucking accepted him but himself like christ and he spent the whole season searching for validation of his self worth in women and girls.

Just Archie I mean christ lmfao. You don’t like Betty, You make out with Veronica, you decide your really into your hottie music teacher and manipulate her into music lessons (although she manipulated the hell out of him as well), when your dad starts getting a boner for her you try to cut contact with her short, people find out, you decide the pussy cats are your answer, they explain they are black and because of the culture they have had to fight hard and they can’t have a white man just step in and run shit, archie the white man steps in and runs shit, archie breaks them up, Archie says he can’t perform alone and manipulates Valerie playing on her insecurities to leave the band, archie decides “he was wrong” and Veronica decides to help him, he ditches Veronica because he looked within himself and realized he wasn’t shit, he patronizes jughead and only resumes their rocky friendship because he wanted him to keep the secret about him banging their hottie teacher, he’s semi jealous that jughead is dating Betty, archie then really wants Veronica and wants to make sure Betty isn’t jealous. He keeps playing the hero...something which probably got his dad killed at the end - If there’s a s2 I haven’t seen it yet)

Veronica Lodge is hella famous by name and it’s a small town everyone knows who she is and she even points out that she expected more people to talk to her and acknowledge her divine presence but Kevin is like “lol you got overshadowed by another rich person’s death” /s but... Ethel Muggs truly has no fucking idea who she is? No incling? No rumors? Is she really that much of a rock-dweller?

The whole incest baby thing....the josef mengele joke...the fact that Jason and Cheryl were twins.....the eugenics joke when Cheryl’s face says them damn well know they practice eugenics and ethic breeding and need to keep up the “blossom apperance” (Her dad’s red wigs, using Archie as a stand-in for Jason...but I digress -  just touch on the topic to sound edgy and draw controversy but leave it shallow eh?)

The whole “lol let’s ship our pregnant daughter away to a literal convent in 2017 because I was shipped to a convent in the late 80′s early 90′s- but why is she mad at me I love her I’d never do anything to hurt her like ambushing her and having her dragged away against her will as an underage expecting teenager lol”

Hyping big bad black football player up to fuck shit up at Archie’s party and in reality he kinda did...nothing? lmao  (a la Jughead’s aminous V.O. about “no one expected what happened at that party” or some shit )

The whole “the sins of the father don’t or shouldn’t reflect on the daughter” but Veronica gets away scott free essentially and Cheryl literally loses everything because I mean fuck those Blossoms amirite lololol /S

Archie looked like Jason, got his number initially before retiring it (lol kind of insensitive to have his doppleganger become team captain for plot purposes later on ) and the Blossoms essentially used him because he mirrored Jason at the tapping ceremony.

The name Hermione Lodge lmfao she’s not old enough for the HP book reading mom boom.

Hermione Lodge and Hiram Lodge’s intials on that stupid fucking bag.

Veronica being rich and intelligent but her morals making her real fucking dumb. (I wanna go home but I also wanna coddle everyone my daddy hurt but I still wanna be rich lol but I’m implicating my mom and she’s literally begging and pleading me to stop and having crying fits but lol justice and my chanel bags hahaha and I’m gonna go clubbing and shopping even though my mom is working as a waitress and flirting with her old hs boyfriend to secure a job so we can continue to float and not drown and not be taken down by the families my dad hurt lololol omg archie is a hot prince harry hipster ginger amirite lololol the met gala lalala rich girl things new york lol)

The whole plot demand that Veronica win the impromptu HBIC dance off when big red Cheryl actually killed that shit and Veronica danced like a fucking robot.

ARCHIE HURT HIS HAND PLAYING FOOTBALL AND CRACKING THICK ICE WITH HIS BARE BLOODY KNUCKLES HOW DOES THE GINGER WONDER STILL HAVE USE OF THAT HAND ? The body heals but it’s never the same after repeated exposed trama’s to the same area in a short period of time.

.....I’ve ranted enough about this and I didn’t even mean to.

The last two episodes seemed to have been steamrolled for the sake up tying up loose ends to create a cliffhanger for another season.

Again, good for what it was....but... I truly enjoyed that the real villian was capitalism. Good job millenials.

 (not sarcasm. Capitlaism destroyed Jughead’s future a la his father FP and Fred Andrews - The Coopers and the Blossoms - Josie McCoy’s mom - “Criminal” capitalism Hiram Lodge ruining his associates lives, the small town not working for everyone -  Archie’s mom moving (after seperation), Jughead’s mom moving, Veronica’s mom moving back because she can survive in their economy on the nest money Hiram left....) etc etc

These small cosy “uppercrust white” town just isn’t safe anymore.

I mean have you seen that new negro mayor? That wealthy latina woman and her daughter?That negro coach and his star player son?

Remember - without Capitalism there is no social inequality, systematic racism, white supremacy, classism, etc etc

(also my personal issues with one of the actors colored this a bit biased....but on how things went it was cool.)

Also our culture has a real hardon for the 1950s eh? I know it’s based on the Archie Comics but Stranger Things, 13 Reasons Why...other media where we’re going for the small town america aesthetic and “traditional values” and sprinkling in some social issues and people of color for kicks.

On to season 2 I guess lol.

Don’t put too much stock into my raw thoughts, I just think shows (especially in our current political climate and reality) should commit to what they really want.

[short-years-long-days-blog]

During

A little before 7 o’clock on a Sunday morning, my husband Malachi and I drove to the hospital for my appointment to have my baby. 

This was not how I’d imagined my pregnancy would end.

The whole induction thing came up the previous Thursday night, during one of the non-stress tests I was required to do every three days for a few weeks, ever since my nurse-midwife noticed an irregularity in the baby’s heartbeat during one of my routine visits.

When I came in for that Thursday’s non-stress test after work, I felt like an old pro, resting my bulk onto the hospital bed and propping myself on the pillows at just the right angle. I rolled partway to one side to help the nurse place and tighten the fetal heart monitor, then settled back onto the pillows, looking over at the cardiac monitor as it spat out a ticker tape of lines spiking up into peaks and down into valleys.

After the requisite half hour or so, the nurse returned, and peered over my readings. I had already mapped out the rest of my evening in my head and was anxious to get home and eat dinner, so I could rest before what was to be my last scheduled day in the classroom before my maternity leave would start.

“Hmmm,” the nurse squinted, and held up the reading for me. “You see this line here?”

“Um, yes?” I pretended, willing myself to see whatever significant phenomenon she perceived.

“So, it’s normal for the baby to have some decelerations, but there are a few here that are quite low,” she explained. “I’m going to keep you on here a little longer and then we’ll check it again.”

Her next check revealed more of the same.

“We are obligated to send you to the hospital for more monitoring,” she said. “And legally, we have to send you in an ambulance. I know that you are fine, but if anything were to happen to you on the way, we would be liable, and we want to keep you safe.”

“Okay?” I said. I didn’t know what to feel. As a young EMT helped me onto a stretcher and wheeled me through one of the waiting rooms, I fought the urge to call out, “Don’t worry, everyone! I don’t really need this; it’s just a formality! No emergency here!”

It was a quiet, siren-free ride to the hospital, where I spent the next few hours hooked up to another fetal heart monitor. Malachi met me there, and I told him how tired I was and that I had a weird stomachache. I’d been up since 5:30 that morning, worked all day, then sat in an hour of traffic to get to my appointment.

“I just want to go home,” I said.

Around 10 pm, a doctor entered our small room. She told us she and the nurses were seeing continued irregularities, enough that they couldn’t rule out an abnormality, but not enough to qualify for an emergency.

“I recommend that you be induced tonight,” she said plainly.

I really don’t want to have to have a baby tonight, I thought. Please don’t make me.

“Can we get a little time to talk about it?” I motioned to Malachi.

“Sure, it’s your decision. I’ll check back soon,” the doctor said, and left the room.

I wiped away tears of fatigue as I told my husband that I couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

“I need to go home and rest, at least for one night,” I said. “And then I can call them to get induced, if that’s what we need to do.”

He said that he would follow my wishes, and we explained our decision to the doctor, who, if not enthusiastically, accepted it.

“It’s not against medical advice if you decide to go home tonight,” she said. “But do keep in mind that at this point, we can take better care of your baby outside of your body than inside.”

Just give me 24 hours, I thought as I drove home. I arranged for a sub to cover the next day’s classes, and told my teaching partner the news, that unbeknownst to both of us, today had been my last day. He wished me luck and said he would wait for updates.

And I waited.

While Malachi was at work the next day, I waited, whispering little messages of encouragement to my body and to the baby, telling the baby it was safe to come out. I ate lunch with my younger sister, who added some pineapple to the meal since we read it can have labor-stimulating properties.

“Have you called yet?” Malachi asked when he got home.

“I just want to give it a little longer,” I said. “I’m 39 and a half weeks. I could go into labor any time.”

“One more day,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving me a long look.

On Friday and Saturday, I went for a couple two-mile walks, and at one point climbed on top of Malachi for some unwieldy and quite unsexy sex. I felt like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade turkey float.

Still nothing. Waiting for something so meaningful to start, I felt I should be practically anointing myself every hour in anticipation, ushering in this sacred occasion with a vigil or something. But after one day, I dropped my noble fantasies and sat around watching Netflix like everybody else.

By Saturday afternoon, anxiety had gotten to me. I’d been told to carefully monitor the baby’s movements, and notify medical staff immediately if my belly went quiet for too long. I obsessively kept my hands on my abdomen, poking and prodding the baby from its every nap. I didn’t think I could do any more days of this, and Malachi’s confidence was faltering.

“I thought you were just going to wait one day,” he reminded me.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call the doctor.”

                                                   *          *          *

 So there we were in the car on Sunday morning, on our way to the hospital. I listened to some hypnobirthing tracks, feeling like one of my students cramming for a test. “Breathe your baby down…now feel yourself open up like a flower, still breathing deeply…feel your baby start to move toward this opening…” After weeks of intermittent listening, I was still distracted by the narrator’s Australian accent. I willed myself to ignore it and absorb as much of her wisdom as possible. This is your last chance, I told myself.

When we got to the hospital, our nurse Jacque met us at the front desk. I of course had to mention the show Nurse Jackie, which we had been compulsively watching over the last few weeks, but stopped myself from making jokes about popping pills. Jacque brought us to our room and put me on fetal heart and contraction monitors.

At about 10 in the morning, I was hooked up to the Pitocin I.V. I was mostly excited to get the process going, but I still heard the voice of one of the women from our birth class:

“All my friends said they wanted a natural childbirth, but every one of them ended up getting an epidural.”

I thought about our culture’s response to pain, the way we were taught to purchase and numb our way out of it. A pill for every ill.

I remembered stories I’d heard about Kenyan long-distance runners, and emerging theories that their success could be attributed in no small part to what they learned about pain in their childhoods. Pubescent boys and girls learned to stare down pain and walk with it through grueling initiation ceremonies and circumcision rituals. Many schoolchildren thought nothing of running many miles each day, learning to persist through burning lungs and burning muscles, accepting these as conditions of daily living and a common method of transport.

I thought about my own relationship to pain.

Physically, I could be tough. I ran and hiked through a 30-mile canyon in eastern Oregon during a running camp one summer as a teenager. My nickname on my high school cross-country team was “Energizer Bunny,” because I did not relent until I finished every last requirement of a workout. In my adult life, I’d run two half-marathons, the grueling 200-mile relay race Hood to Coast twice, and summited Mount Fuji.

Emotional pain was another matter.

I hadn’t learned healthy ways to cope with it during my childhood, so I’d spent almost 20 years numbing myself by starving, exercising, binge-eating, drinking, drugging, shopping, and using other people for their bodies and resources.

I thought about how hard I had worked during my past seven years in recovery to learn how to feel pain and accept it, to not numb it, change it, or run away from it. I viewed the birth as an expression of that journey, and was a little sad to be hooked up to so many machines so early in the process. But the medical staff’s increasing references to “my age” and information about higher risk of stillbirths with each accumulative year of the mother’s age had me sufficiently spooked, so I surrendered to what I’d snidely referred to earlier as the medical-industrial complex, and put my and my baby’s care in their hands.

Through the window of our hospital room, I could see that it was an overcast but mostly dry day. I didn’t feel anything different for the next few hours. I was dilated to 3.5 centimeters when we came in, and that seemed encouraging. Our first nurse-midwife drew ten circles on the room’s white board, each circle consecutively larger in diameter and designating the progression of dilation from one centimeter up to the coveted 10, then recorded my arrival time in between the third and fourth circles. I noticed that the names of everyone who would be attending to me were also written on the board, which accomplished its purpose of making me feel reassured.

I decided this was a good time to put my mermaid temporary tattoo on the inside of my wrist. It was from the shower thrown for me by my group of recovery friends. We call ourselves the “mermaid tribe,” a term bestowed upon us by our unofficial high priestess, Serena, who lives by the Anaïs Nin quote: “I must be a mermaid…I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”

I took a picture of the tattoo and sent a text alerting the tribe of my status.

My friend Jeannie drove two hours from Eugene and got there around noon, with my sisters soon after. Still feeling nothing, I spent the next few hours resting and chatting. I was a little tired and knew it was important to save my energy, so I tried not to feel guilty about lying down in bed and closing my eyes from time to time. I was starting to retreat into introspection, aware of the journey I was already on.

We all laughed at Jeannie’s stories and jokes, especially when she sang 80s covers in her best Ethel Merman voice, and described her days dancing in a Florida strip club.

We passed around magazines and the New York Times, but it was hard to concentrate. I read something about Drake, something about David Bowie’s life in New York. My eyes took in the words, but my brain released them immediately after.

I was asked if I wanted to watch TV, but surprised myself by refusing the distraction. There was nothing to do but wait, and yet I couldn’t let my mind engage in something else. I was strangely content with just being present and letting things unfold.

Jacque returned at intervals to check the Pitocin, and turned it up a little more each time when she saw that I wasn’t responding to it much at all yet. By about 3 in the afternoon, I started to feel more tightening and what I started to recognize as mostly painless contractions. Out of sheer boredom and a sense of obligation to all the natural childbirth books that espoused the importance of staying active during labor, I walked a few laps around the hospital floor, getting used to wheeling the I.V. cart alongside me, as if I had sprouted a metal appendage adorned with loops of plastic tubing and a glowing screen.

Contractions started to come a little more regularly, but were still mostly just uncomfortable. A little before 5 in the evening, the nurses decided to check me again to see how much I’d progressed. I was only dilated to 4 centimeters, so the nurse-midwife suggested they break my water to help things along.

Our childbirth class and the natural childbirth literature I’d immersed myself in advocated for the creation of a birth plan that could communicate the mother’s wishes, especially in unforeseen circumstances or stress. Freshly indignant after reading about the de-humanizing and overly medicalized history of 20th century childbirth, I filled out the hospital-provided birth plan form, wielding my pen like a weapon against the centuries of misogyny that left women powerless, confused, and scared about a process their bodies already knew how to do since the dawn of humanity.

I checked off, NO, I do NOT want Pitocin; YES, I want my waters to break on their own; NO, I do NOT want an epidural. I was tempted to write in the comments section, Keep your invasive procedures out of my womb, but I thought it best to not come into the hospital swinging.

As one of the nurses held up what looked like a knitting needle with a tiny hook on the end and explained that I would feel a warm gush of water after it was inserted, I didn’t think about my birth plan. I didn’t think, This is how it happens. This is how you start doubting yourself and let the medical-industrial complex take over and make you irrelevant in your own birth. They suggest one little step, and then another one, and then the next thing you know, birth is being done to you, and you’re a passive participant in the whole thing, waiting for the next poke, prick, and stitch.

Instead, I thought, Okay. This is what birth looks like for me right now. I thought of Eva, one of my mermaid friends, who told me that when she was struggling during her son’s birth, looking for a way out, and pleading, “This isn’t the way this is supposed to happen,” a nurse gently replied, “This is how it is done.”

So, the knitting needle went in, and warm fluid gushed out, like a faucet had been turned on inside me. I laid down on the cotton pads that had been placed underneath me for awhile, waiting for the fluid to subside. By 6 pm, just as my contractions were getting a little stronger, Jeannie had to leave, since she was working the next morning and still had to drive the two hours home. I felt weirdly apologetic, like she’d bought a ticket to a concert, and ended up sitting around watching the stage crew set up for hours instead.

After about seven hours of mostly waiting, here I was on the threshold of active labor.

Everything gets a bit hazy and dream-like at this point.

“Being pregnant is like being on acid,” Jeannie had told me months earlier, and I’d agreed. From even the first trimester, you move in the world but don’t feel entirely of the world. Your senses heighten, making things like drinking ice water intolerable because you can smell the food aromas on the ice that’s been sitting in your freezer. Like a tripping teenager attempting to nonchalantly buy candy at a convenience store in the middle of the night, you walk around with an awareness that something profound is happening inside you (Serena would say that you’re growing a particle of God inside your body, after all), while you try to interact with the world as if everything is the same and it’s just another day.

At that point, I decided that active labor is the “peaking” phase of the pregnancy acid trip. Sometime shortly after the outside world started to fade away, I listened to a little bit of a hypnobirthing “surge breathing” track and began to feel the progression of each contraction. I felt myself moving into different positions without conscious thought—I sat on a yoga ball and rotated my hips, got on all fours on the bed and tried to walk around. When a new contraction rolled through me, I instinctively stopped and squatted down. My younger sister stroked my neck and back lightly with her fingertips after I got back on the ball, which was deliciously relaxing. I started imagining each contraction as a circle or a track that I was traveling around. As each one got stronger, I imagined God walking with me, and at times carrying me around the bend.

Even while the contractions were getting more painful, I could still talk a little between them and tell Malachi and my sisters about what I was thinking and feeling. A soundtrack had also started in my head: “Kooks” by David Bowie, “Be Here in the Morning,” by The Beach Boys, bits of the Nurse Jackie theme song. Then, as I felt each contraction come on, the Stones’ line, “Here it comes, here it comes” from “19th Nervous Breakdown.” It crossed my mind to get out my iPod, but that was suddenly too complicated of a task. Like I said, acid trip.

It was maybe around 8 in the evening when my contractions got much more intense. (I really don’t know how much time had passed, which is funny, because I remember looking at the clock in early labor and worrying I would be too focused on it, which I then worried would make me too stressed and hinder my progress.)

I felt myself on a different plane. Everything and everyone else faded into the background even more, as if they were now moving underwater and I was still on land. I couldn’t hold on to the image of traveling around the circle of contractions anymore—I was simply overtaken by pain with each one. I did not summon any of the relaxation breathing and visualization techniques I had pored over and practiced during the previous months.

It did not occur to me to do this, and it did not matter. I did evolve from thinking about each contraction as a circle, to thinking about moving through each of them as climbing a hill and coming down the other side, kind of like riding a roller coaster, or a wave. But eventually that image dissolved too.

My actions and reactions became even more instinctual, and were guided by my body and a greater force outside myself. I started moaning, and swore during a couple different surges. I didn’t totally relax my body as I had learned to do, but instead found myself grabbing onto the top edge of the bed, my pillow, or the bars along the toilet or the hallway, depending on where I was at the time.

I tried to relax between contractions, but “relaxing” just meant being in slightly less pain for a few moments in between intervals of greater pain. I felt annoyed by people talking in the background, but it felt like too much effort to say anything. Or they felt too far away, like they might not hear me even if I did say something. I think the nurses turned down the Pitocin a couple different times when they saw how intense things had gotten.

One of the nurses who had replaced Jacque after my water broke, Barb, said she could get one of the tubs ready for me. At this hospital, you weren’t allowed to give birth in the water, but you could labor in a tub for as long as you wanted. It felt like she was gone for an hour, and my pain was making me more desperate.

I ended up sitting on the toilet for quite awhile because I kept feeling like I had to poop. I maybe did once, but the rest of the time I just stayed there because it was the most comfortable position by then. Later, I stood up and grabbed onto Malachi’s neck, hanging my full weight from him when the pain peaked.

“Whoa,” he said and stumbled, taken aback by the force on his body, and I couldn’t muster the energy to tell him to just deal with it; he wasn’t the one doing the equivalent of pushing a watermelon out of his butthole.

We finally started making our trek to the tub, which felt like crossing a desert. I had to stop several times in the hallway and squat during contractions. I eased my heft into the tub, breathing a sigh of relief as the warm water enveloped and buoyed me. I floated on my back, grabbed onto a bar during surges, and turned over to my stomach. Malachi hovered nearby, asking if he could do anything. I doubted he could penetrate my bubble even if he tried, so I just said no.

“You’re doing so good,” he repeated.

By now, the pain gripped my mind and body; it was my whole reality. I started wondering how much longer I could do this; I started to dread each contraction. I tried to remind myself that each one was temporary, and I only had to get through one at a time.

And yet, without any volition on my part, I still managed to be in the total present moment of each breath at a time. There was nothing outside of that; I had no resources to see or feel or know anything around the breath’s edges. A single contraction was too much, I could only exist in each inhalation and exhalation.

The entire premise of my birth plan, and my attitude toward it, seemed laughably ignorant and arrogant in this moment. Yet I remembered a concession I’d embedded within its verbiage, now glimmering like a coin dropped in a field.

I had informed Malachi when I wrote down my original birth plan requests, “I will tell you if I need an out. If I need pain medication. You know that I don’t want to have to resort to that, but if I tell you I need it, listen to me. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

I turned this coin over and over in my mind, as spasms of pain rippled through me with no real differentiation in between them. My voice dropped the coin into my husband’s lap: “I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I’m going to need something, if I have to keep going.”

Then something new happened.

I’d been in the tub for what felt like an hour, but I really have no idea how long it really was. I was sucking in air hard, then letting it out several times through each surge. A low, guttural noise suddenly escaped from my throat, and this grunt seemed to travel all the way down my body and out through the bottom. It happened again.

“I feel like I want to push,” I muttered to Malachi, “or maybe I just need to poop again.”

He went to get Barb, and by the time he came back, I was already starting to stand up and trying to step over the side of the tub. Something told me to get out of that tub. Now.

“Okay, okay, hold on just a minute, let us help you here,” Barb said gently.

“I feel like I want to push,” I repeated.

I was led, hobbling, to a bed adjacent to the tub, and told to lie down.

“Well, you are fully dilated, and indeed, ready to push!” Barb announced.

My thoughts (Already? Really? Isn’t it too early for that?) had just as soon formed as they were pushed out by a chorus (Haaaa-llelujah! Haaaa-llelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Ha-le-eh-lujah!).

I wanted to cry with relief. I could do this. The end was in sight.

They asked if I wanted to stay there and I said, Fine, because I didn’t care where this was going to happen; I just wanted to finish the job. But they decided it would be better to bring me back to my room, so they put me in a wheelchair, naked. They could have wheeled me down the hall just like that and I wouldn’t have cared, but a blanket was thrown over me first to preserve whatever scrap of dignity I might still possess.

Somehow, I moved from the wheelchair back to the bed in my room, where my sisters had been discussing their plan for leaving and coming back in the morning, since of course it would be silly for them to wait around during a long, overnight labor.

“What? She’s pushing?” They looked at me in disbelief through the flurry of people suddenly in front of them. It had only been five hours since my water broke and active labor really started.

I got on all fours. I felt the grunting sensation at the end of each contraction again. A wave of nausea washed over me, and I gagged into a plastic bag set up at the edge of the bed.

“Here,” a nurse said, “the baby has a low heart rate and is showing some fetal distress, so let’s get you on your side because that’s safer.” Malachi held my top leg as I tried to figure out how to push in this awkward new position.

Soon after, a swarm of nurses and a doctor suddenly filled the room. I was told that because of fetal distress, the baby needed to come quickly or I would have to be taken into surgery.

“And we will probably need to use a vacuum extractor to help get the baby out faster,” someone said.

None of this scared me. I was ready to do whatever necessary to get this baby out safely. They moved me to my back since the doctor would need to use the vacuum, and they put an oxygen mask over my face, telling me I needed to send more oxygen to the baby. As I felt each contraction, I pushed as hard as I could, grunting and grabbing on to the bed bars. I was straining, not doing the more gentle “birth breathing” I learned about, as it seemed we were past gentleness. My pelvic floor felt like it might split open, and I prayed that the contractions would keep coming, so this would all end soon.

Then, inexplicably, my contractions slowed, my body uneasily feeling like the glassy surface of a lake after a boat’s wake has receded.

“I want to push, but I don’t feel more contractions,” I reported, confused.

“Do you mind if I roll your nipples to help get the contractions going again?” a nurse asked.

I was half-tempted to look over at Malachi and snicker, since that was one of our jokes from birth class.

“Okay, when the teacher asks what things you can do to stimulate labor, after someone says eating pineapple or whatever, you have to say in a loud voice, “NIPPLE STIMULATION,” I had dared him, only because I knew he was too modest and polite to do so.

As the nurse started her nipple work, Barb coached me to push hard at least twice during each contraction: “Curl around your baby and push.”

After what felt like a few minutes, but what actually was about half an hour later, the pressure in my pelvis changed and transformed into an intense burning. Jeannie had told me about “the ring of fire,” and at the time of her first son’s birth, she said that all she could see when she closed her eyes was a huge, pulsating circle.

I pushed as hard as I could, feeling like it wasn’t enough, like I couldn’t give more even though I desperately wanted to. Then, in a white explosion of pain, a flood of warm liquid spilled out of my body. I vaguely wondered if all of my insides had followed.

A baby was held up to my face. The baby that I had just pushed out. I held it to my chest, shaking. I clutched the tiny body. Did this just happen?

Then someone asked, “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“We forgot to look!” Malachi laughed, then lifted the baby’s body to display a tiny penis.

A boy! My whole pregnancy, I’d been secretly convinced it would be a girl. There was no logic to this, just an arbitrary supposition based on a comment made by my mom, and my experience growing up with two sisters.

Our baby boy didn’t cry, just looked around, calmly. I looked right into his eyes.

Who are you? Who will you be?

Deluged with euphoria and relief, I had no idea that they used the vacuum extractor on my last couple pushes, and the baby came out so quickly that I tore. I felt nothing as the young doctor stitched me up as if she were at a quilting bee, her fingers flying gracefully as she chatted with Malachi and the staff.

I felt our baby’s tiny animal body in between my hands, and thought of something Serena had told me the last time she and I had been together:

“Regardless of whatever happens during your child’s life, you’ll never not be a mother again. With this birth, you are reborn.”

[blastingxff]

Fate that Binds pt. 5

This part: Lunch with Jessebelle and James goes about as well as it can. Also, Jessie is the new Eugene because that’s my favorite fairy tale (like even before the Disney movie). 

first part // previous part // next part Series: Pokemon Characters: Jessie, James, Meowth, Pikachu, Ash, Brock, May, Max, Jessebelle Ships: hints of rocketshipping if you read it that way, mostly just friendshipping though Summary: It had been a throwaway wish, something made out of the frustration of the moment- it wasn’t actually supposed to happen. But the magic of a well haunted by a pokemon’s spirit ended up altering reality. Now, Jessie, James, and Meowth aren’t in Team Rocket. They don’t even know each other. And it’s created far darker a world for the TRio than Ash could have ever imagined, and now he and his friends want nothing more than to change things back to how they were. Genre: Friendship, hurt/comfort, so much angst, all the angst, drama, butchered canon, Words: 1,904 / part 5 out of 16 Trigger Warnings (this part): swearing, abuse Notes: This popped into my head and didn’t get out until I wrote it down. It’s 16 chapters, and entirely written already in about three days. So that will explain a helluvalot. Like the bus-sized plotholes. I just wanted to be mean to my favorite characters, geeze, is that so bad? XP Also can be read on Ao3.

Chapter 5

One Week until the Wedding 

This… this isn’t what he wanted.

Those words marqueed in her mind. Her blue eyes shooting towards her travelling companion who looked as though he had gotten little sleep. Did he still blame himself for this? No, Team Rocket had annoyed them all. It was only by sheer chance that she hadn’t wished upon that well herself. I want Team Rocket to just leave us alone.  But this was… this…

This isn’t what he meant.

She tried to meet the eyes of the lavender-haired man across the table, his parents having excused themselves on account of business. Beside him a proper, haughty woman ate her lunch with elegance and poise. His manners were impeccable as well, but his shoulders, while back out of politeness, were heavy out of crushed spirit.

When she had managed to catch those green eyes during one of their brief ventures up from the safety of the plate in front of him, she almost wished she hadn’t. They were dull, faded, holding no sign of his vibrant personality in the sparkling emerald she had glared into on so many occasions, the corners of his lips showed no sign of ever engaging in that joyous laughter she had heard from him before, he had been tamed. Broken.

Ash’s puffy eyes that morning had told her he had been crying. Pikachu’s closeness to him confirmed the fact. And now she felt very much like doing the same.

What she wouldn’t give for this to be an elaborate set-up. For them to stand up right now, rip off the unnatural looking blue formal dress Jessie was wearing, the stiff suit James wore, Meowth disguised as the pretty Jessebelle using Wobbuffet to make himself taller, and start the motto. She realized in the moment she was actually wishing, desperately, for them to try to steal Pikachu.

Jessebelle had just finished telling a “hilarious” story about when their Vileplume accidentally got stun spore all over James’ clothes. May was starting to slowly be convinced of her theory of this being a set-up. That’s it. It had to be a trick. This was too messed up. It had to be. “Sounds like having a vileplume makes so you really need to prepare for trouble.”

Her partners caught on immediately to the last three words, and subsequently on some level realized what she was trying to do.

Jessie’s brow only raised a little, but she continued to eat- using the opportunity to get as full as she could. James remained unmoved, focused on his own food. He hadn’t even noticed.

May’s shoulders fell. No, it wasn’t a trick. Unless they decided to nix the motto in the past twenty-four hours, this was the new reality.

“So, James,” Jessie began to speak suddenly, May’s attention made sharp. It was the first word Jessie had said that day, and it was to him. She exchanged an anxious glance with her brother, “What do you do around here?”

“My fiancé here is a master pianist, he plays the most beautiful songs,” Jessebelle spoke before James even had the chance to register that someone was talking to him. His gaze had shifted from the plate to Jessie. For the first time, their eyes met.

Jessie didn’t back down, “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to James.” Her words came sharp; Jessebelle looked affronted that someone would dare speak to her like that, and in her own home!

“Ah yes,” she recovered smoothly, “My darling is a man of few words. I know he doesn’t mind me speaking for him. It saves him the trouble.”

“Really? That’s it? Because you’ve been talking nonstop for the past, hm,” she glanced at her wrist as though it held a watch, “thirty minutes? Hour? Perhaps it’s because he’s a man of few words. Maybe it’s just because you’re a teensy bit conceited.”

May watched Jessebelle’s face start to change color, lips pursed. Before she could retort, however, a small scoff came from the lavender-haired man. A little, light laugh it seemed came from the beaten-down human before them. May realized then how relieved the sound made her feel. For a moment, things seemed almost normal.

“Sweetheart,” the words were anything but soothing, her hand reached out for his, gently caressing his knuckles. The touch made James stiffen unnaturally. His eyes widened, he swallowed. She could see the regret in his eyes.

That woman terrified him.

Satisfied, Jessebelle took back her hand. Jessie’s eyes only hardened as she looked from him to her and back. She looked like she wanted to say something, but a familiarity to the situation held her tongue. It’s the exact same. May realized, give or take a couple hundred grand.

The awkward silence filled the large dining room. Brock broke it, “Hey, so, Miss Jessebelle?”

Her attention was earned. 

“Have you ever heard of any mysterious wells or the like?”

“Mysterious wells? How do you mean?” It seems James’ offense had been forgiven, but he had yet to relax. His eyes were fixated on the plate. He showed no sign of having heard anyone.

“We came across a beautifully decorated one. We’d like to know more about it,” Brock explained.

“It was a blueish color, with a purple roof and gold bricks at its mouth,” offered Max, getting out a notebook from his backpack to draw its shape, “the roof’s shingles had carvings on them of a Pokémon I think. Um… I don’t remember exactly….”

May thought back to the well, trying to imagine the top of it. She had looked at those carvings closely, their uniqueness drawing her in. The image took shape in her mind, “Oh! I remember!”

Max handed her the notebook and she sketched from her mind. Perhaps it would be a little different in reality, but the drawing was good enough she felt. She turned around the notebook so that the couple across from them could get a look.

James slowly glanced up, as though trying to make sure that Jessebelle didn’t see him examining the picture. He tilted his head, and May saw a glint in his eyes. He knows something. “I’ve never seen such an ugly thing in my life,” Jessebelle waved her hand, pushing the notebook away with a flick in the air, “Now put that away. It isn’t proper to draw at the table. If we’re done with our main course, I would love for you to join us in the parlor. My fiancé simply loves to play the piano for guests.”

She stood up, glancing over at Jessie, “Unfortunately, there’s only room for six in the parlor. You are dismissed.”

“Bitch,” she coughed, “I didn’t want to see you treat James like a fucking dancing mankey anyway.”

She grabbed a bread roll, giving the finger before turning, “I’ll get our shit together so when you come back from the circus we can split.”

May watched the woman leave, turning back to see that she wasn’t the only one. James’ face told her that he wanted every bit to go with her. To have the courage to talk to Jessebelle that same way.

“Sweetheart,” the name caused a tremor to shake through James’ body, “Please don’t make me ask you to get up again. Go play the piano, our guests expect the best.”

All he could do was nod, accepting her order. May felt heartbreak in her gut. His walk was too heavy. It looked as though he were an old, frail man- too weak to defend himself. Too beaten to know he was worth defending.

They had to fix this.

* * *

 “Guys where’s Jessie?” the question came by the light of the campfire. They hadn’t gone far from the mansion, as per Jessie’s request. But as they settled down for the evening with the bare supplies they had managed, they realized she was missing.

Her few items, however, remained.

Instead of worry, the four decided to wait to see if she was there once more by morning.

Max realized, as he went through his backpack, his notebook was missing a page. The page with the drawing of the well.

 * * *

“Knock knock, Rapunzel.”

The voice broke through the otherwise silent room in one of the four towers of the mansion. James found himself turning around quick, eyes wide as he saw a figure sitting in one of the two window sills, “Did they really lock these windows from the outside? Like what the fuck are you, some sort of animal? Geeze. Is that door locked too?”

James’ eyes went towards where Jessie was pointing, the only door in the room. He returned his look to her, and nodded.

“Fuck. And I thought I had it bad. What happens when you gotta piss? Got a pot in the corner or something? Damn,” she let her sneakered shoes touch the inside of the room, “So, wanna go get into some trouble? We can make it back here before they even notice you’re gone.”

 He froze as he tried to register what she had just said. She stepped forward, waving her hand in front of his face, “Hey, James, Jimmy, Jim, come on, I’m breaking you out.”

Suddenly, realization seemed to hit. He backed away, shaking his head violently, his eyes went to the door as though terrified his ‘beloved fiancée’ would come through, terrified she’d see this, terrified she’d realize that he wasn’t alone.

“Fine, then I’ll kidnap you. I’ll return you by morning. If they find out, I’ll hold you ransom, okay? It’ll all be because I’m a thug and you come out smelling like a rose. Deal?”

She held out her hand for him to shake. He hesitated longer, “What do you want?”

The words came from a voice that hadn’t been used in who knows how long. But she didn’t let him see the sorrow she held for that. Pity sucked, “Just for you to play by my rules.”

He paused, looking at her hand, then up to study her face. Find her bluff. Find the trick. Her deal was tempting to him; she could tell he had a deep desperation to get out of that building. How long had he been trapped in there? But fear was holding him back. After a moment she saw his eyes narrow with resolve. He had nothing to lose. With a deep breath he reached out, taking her hand, “Deal. How did you find me?”

Her grin was genuine this time. She went to the window, “Don’t ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Just follow my steps,” she was already halfway out, starting to let herself down. Before her head dipped below the sill, she looked at the man who seemed to still be caught in a little bit of inner turmoil, but the reasonable side of the turmoil appeared to be losing satisfactorily.

“If I’m the princess then, does that make you a prince?”

“Prince?” her nose scrunched, “Too many rules. How about I’m the handsome rogue? You okay with handsome rogues?”

He feigned thought on the matter before returning with a smile, “I think that’s okay.”

“He does smile!” She let herself return his faked thought with her own acted surprise. “Looks good on you. Now let’s get out of here. We got a lot to do and an itty bitty time to do it!”

[spoopy-imagines-writer]

In This Moment

Request: Could you do a Negan x Reader where the reader is an Alexandrian but Negan had taken her a while back and they fell in love, but when she becomes pregnant with Negan's baby, she escapes back to Alexandria. He eventually finds her and is shocked when he finds out? - @thewinchestersbitch

Pairing: Negan x Reader

Word Count: 2978 (I’m not even sorry)

Warning: Pregnancy, Angst, Fluff, general gore associated with The Walking Dead, implied smut, and a LOT of cussing because, well... Its Negan

A/n: Anything in italics before present time are flashbacks! Man this was so fun to write, I loved this request! This fic is named after the band Em told me to listen to for inspiration! -Jo

“Well, well… well,” his boots stopped directly in front of you. “Who the shit do we have here?”

You willed yourself not to collapse further in front of the group of the ones who ironically called themselves the saviors. One of them shot you twice in the leg, and you grew more weary as this nightmare dragged on. Shivering violently, you risked a glance at your friends – your family – on either side of you. Rick stared ahead, the others stared down. Only Daryl and Maggie looked at you.

Suddenly you felt the cold wood and the metal barbs of the baseball bat underneath your chin, willing you to look into the eyes of the devil. He grinned down at you, but his eyes held a warning. “I said, ‘Who the shit do we have here?’ I was asking you, sweetheart. Not your little buddies over there.” It was then that he finally took notice of the blood pooling beneath you and spreading on your jeans. He continued to remain nonchalant. “What the- Okay, here’s the deal. We have a first aid kit… somewhere. You’re gonna come with us… Or you’ll bleed out here. My girl doesn’t want you. She told me herself, you see. So what do you say?”

You glared up at him, but your eyes couldn’t stay focused. It became harder to breathe. Your vision became hazy just as you fell completely to the ground. At least if this was how you died it wouldn’t be as painful, you could barely feel your leg anymore. There were muffled voices close to your ear. You felt yourself being lifted… Then you didn’t feel anything at all.

The pain in your head was the first thing you noticed as you began to wake. You groaned, bringing your hand to your forehead in a feeble attempt to stop the pounding. “Well, I’m not dead then.”

“Was that what you were really hoping for?” The voice to your right surprised you. You finally noticed the soft sheets under you, and the hard pillow beneath your head. You looked over and saw the man himself sitting in a chair. “That’s so... disappointing. I was hoping for more from you.”

“Hot damn, I must be a goner after all. The devil himself standing vigil over me.” You snorted, ignoring the pain in your… everything.

He tsked at you. “You might want to be nice to me, Kitten. I’m the one with the meds to make all that pain you’re feeling just fuck right off right out of here.”

“Who says I’m in any pain?”

He laughed without humor. “So says that fucking ace bandage and the four bullet holes in your leg. Two shots right on through. You’re a damn trooper, Kitten.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.” You gritted your teeth together. “I have an actual name.”

“Well I thought so, but you passed out like a sissy before we could be formally introduced.” He leaned forward, grinning widely. “Now I’m still gonna call you whatever the fuck I want to, seeing as how I’m the one who saved you from dying in the middle of the woods-“

“I wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place if your men hadn’t-!“

“I can assure you that those two particular assholes have been taken care of.” His eyes tightened. “Don’t interrupt me again, Kitten. Now where was I?” He stared you down, daring you to disrupt his train of thought. He smiled again. “Oh yeah! I was telling you how I saved you from imminent death from bleeding out in the middle of the woods and left you to become one of those dead fuckers, and I still haven’t even gotten a thank you! Now what kind of ungrateful shit does that?”

You sighed and let your head fall back onto the pillow. “The kind who still doesn’t know your name either.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Good, maybe he’ll leave, you thought. He didn’t. Figures. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“Nope.” You popped the ‘P’.

“Well how fucking rude of me! Where are my manners?” he grabbed your hand. You looked over to see his face. If he wasn’t such an asshole… he might even be handsome. He was smirking again. He kissed your hand, and you ignored the sparks you felt. “I’m Negan.”

You nodded, already having figured that out. “Y/n.”

His grin widened, and he winked at you. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“You’re pulling my fucking leg, right?” Negan couldn’t believe you were serious. “I’ve got these damn sexy little black dresses staring you in the face… And you want to wear blue jeans and a fucking flannel?!”

“I agreed to be one of your wives, Negan,” you crossed your arms, “but only because you said you wouldn’t hurt any more of my family. I didn’t agree to… those.” You sneered at the dresses. It was a half lie, it wasn’t the only reason you agreed to be one of his wives and he knew it.

“Well why the fuck not? They’ve at least got to be easier on your leg than pants.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “They’re not nearly as comfortable as what I normally wear, and my leg is much better now.” An idea struck you then. Smirking internally, you pulled your best puppy dog face. “Come on, Negan. Please?” You batted your eyelashes for good measure.

He rolled his eyes. You were lucky it was just the two of you in your room. If not, he would never in a million years have said, “Fine.” His grin was back, his voice seductively low. “Although I do like hearing you beg, Kitten. Let’s hear some more of that.” He gripped the back of your head and pulled your mouth to his in a rough kiss. You moaned, moving your arms up to grip his shoulders. His hands slid slowly down your back, stopping to grip just below your ass. You wrapped your legs around his waist as his mouth went to your neck, nipping and sucking marks onto the skin there. Your voice came out breathless. “Negan, please…”

You felt him smirk into your neck. “Please what, Kitten?”

You growled. “Fuck me, Negan.”

His low laugh was right in your ear. “Well if you insist.”

The other wives stared at you in disdain. They sneered insults both to your face and behind your back when they thought you couldn’t hear. You didn’t have a single friend here you could talk to. Daryl was here, somewhere, but you’d seen what happened to the other men who spoke too fondly with a few of the other wives. You couldn’t seek him out, not that you even knew where to look.

You had no one to turn to. You were no longer safe in Sanctuary.

Neither of you were. Your hand automatically went to your abdomen, like that alone would shield your unborn child from the dangers of this world. Hell, the dangers in this room alone. All of these women would sooner kick you in the stomach than help you.

It’s a good thing you were a survivor before you were brought here. During your walks with Negan over the past few months you’d listen intently and take in your surroundings. You memorized the guards’ shifts, took note of the gaps in between. You tried not to think of how this would affect Negan. You knew you were his favorite, it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. You leaving might actually hurt him.

You knew it would hurt you to leave him. Of all people, you had to fall in love with the one man you knew who had more wives than he really knew what to do with. But it wasn’t just you anymore.

With that thought in mind, you reached under your bed to grab the bag you’d packed already. You double checked everything inside, pulled on your boots, and snuck out into the night with only one place in mind.

Home.

Present Time

It didn’t take as long as you’d thought it would to get used to being back at home, although it had taken some convincing on your part to get Rick and Michonne to understand that you’d be alright on your own despite the pregnancy. They still visited often, as did Carl with Judith. You didn’t really want to be around anyone else, but you were thankful for the company. Eugene was also good company occasionally, although the two of you didn’t talk much. He was sweet enough to look for baby formula when he was on runs, and he’d run across a handful of cans that miraculously had yet to expire.

At nights your mind couldn’t help but wander back to the man you’d left behind. Was he angry? Was he hurt? You snorted. You knew he would be able to drown himself in his other women. Sure he might have been angry at first, but it wouldn’t have lasted long. You doubted he even remembered you at this point. Negan was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He knew where you’d have likely gone and if he had cared, he would have sent a group out to find you. He never felt the same love you had for him.

At least that’s what you told yourself to make your decision easier to live with.

Once your baby girl was born it was almost too easy to keep your mind distracted. She needed constant attention, and she always cried if anyone other than you held her. You had more visitors after Scarlett’s birth. It had been so long since many of them had seen a newborn. That never really went over well with Scar, she hated all the attention. You couldn’t help but smile at the likeness between the two of you.

You were able to keep to yourself for the most part, you didn’t need to leave your house very often. So you weren’t entirely aware of what was happening a few houses down from yours. You were putting Scarlett down for her afternoon nap when you happened to glance out of the window and saw most of the Alexandrians had gathered around something in the center of the street. You opened the window just in time to hear his voice. “… You did have guts! I’ve never been so wrong in my whole life!” He paused, and you knew he was savoring the moment of whatever he’d done this time. You opened your front door enough that you could hear him better, but he couldn’t see you. “Now someone ought to get up here and clean this mess up.” You briefly wondered what the mess was when he spoke again. “Oh… Anyone wanna finish the game?” Everyone stayed still where they were, too frightened to move an inch. “Come on.” Your feet had a mind of their own, your brain was on autopilot as you began to move slowly out of the doorway. “Anybody? Anybody?” You reached the back of the crowd. “Come on,” he grinned. “I was winning.”

His eyes fell on you at the same moment Rosita lifted her gun. “NO!” you screamed and shoved her. The bullet only hit Lucille, but you knew that was almost as bad as if Rosita’s bullet had hit Negan himself. You were shoved to the ground, Negan’s people believing you were also a threat. You glared defiantly at the man with a knife to your throat.

“SHIT!” He shouted. “What the SHIT! You just tried to kill me?! You shot Lucille!!”

Rosita glared her bitch face in your direction. “She got in the way.”

Negan finally took note of you. His eyes noticeably softened at seeing you again. “Get off her.” The guy holding you down was momentarily stunned at the command. Negan barked at him, “Now!” He did as he was told finally, and Negan leaned down next to you. You could see he wanted to have words with you, but not here. You made it easier on him and sent a cocky smirk his way. He visibly hardened his face. “You’re coming with me, Kitten.” He grabbed your upper arm and yanked you to your feet, although his grip wasn’t painfully tight like he made it to look. He looked back to the woman holding Rosita down. “You keep her happy ass right there, she’s got some fucking explaining to do.”

Nodding your head to the house you’d claimed as yours, he hurried you both inside. Slamming the door behind him, he turned to you. He set Lucille down in the corner. “Y/n,” he breathed out your name. You expected yelling, but he surprised you by pulling you tightly to him. “I should turn you over my fucking knee, Kitten. Why the hell did you leave?!”

Pulling away from him, you couldn’t meet his eyes. You bit your lip before answering. “It might be easier to show you.” You held you hand out to his. “Do you trust me?”

He raised an eyebrow but gripped your hand regardless. Negan allowed you to lead him to a room just down the hallway, and you thanked God that Scar was a heavy napper. You let go of Negan’s hand and nodded for him to open the door. He let out a small laugh. “Now what do we have here?” He leaned over her crib to get a better look at the baby. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes from her. “She’s mine?”

You scoffed. “Seriously?”

“It’s a genuine question, Kitten.”

Propping yourself against the doorframe, you answered easily, “Of course she’s yours, jackass. I couldn’t…”

He stood up fully again and turned to look at you. He was uncharacteristically quiet. Your eyes stayed glued to the floor until his boots were in your line of sight. His fingers went under your chin to lift your gaze to meet his, and you had the strangest sense of déjà vu. You smiled in spite of yourself. “Why couldn’t you?” he asked.

You shook your head to clear your thoughts. “We have a lot to talk about, and Scarlett has to sleep. I don’t know who’s blood that is on your face, but you can go wash up in the bathroom beside the dining room. Meet me in the living room, okay?” You walked out before he could object to you ordering him around.

You didn’t even see his smile at learning his baby girl’s name.

Not five minutes later you were sitting together on the couch. It didn’t do well for your state of mind but now that he was here with you, you more or less gravitated towards him. You couldn’t find the right words to start.

Thankfully you didn’t have to. This was the most thoughtful you’d ever seen him. “So she’s why you left? You found out you were pregnant and you… just bolted?”

“That’s… not exactly what happened.” After taking a deep breath you delved into your story, explaining the obvious jealousy the other wives felt for you, how they’d sooner kill you themselves than help you. Once they would have found out about the pregnancy, one of them would have seen to the end of it. It went beyond simple jealousy for some, the ones who actually hated you. It was no longer safe, and that’s why you had to leave.

Negan, of course, was surprised to hear that. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that they were bitches to you? I would have shut that shit down in a heartbeat!”

You looked at him with tired eyes. “Would you have believed me?”

“Yeah, because you tell me like it fucking is.” He paused for a moment, like he was thinking hard about what to say next. “What stopped you from being with anyone else?” He smirked. “Lemme guess, you had the best so no other guy could compare?”

You smacked his arm. “No…” It was now or never. “It’s because… Like an idiot, I grew to love you even though you’d never feel the same about me. I accepted that, but after I got here I knew I wasn’t going to move on. So I guess – “

His hand on your cheek pulling your mouth to his interrupted your rambling. This kiss was different from all the others you’d shared. Those were all more possessive and primal. This was… passionate. And it didn’t stop the fluttering in your tummy.

Negan pulled away from you. “You want the others gone? They’ll be out on their asses faster than you can say ‘shit show’. Because Kitten… I don’t care what you think you know. You’re it for me.” That was as close to an I love you as you were going to get. Before you could reply, Scarlett let out a loud cry to let you know that she wasn’t happy about being left alone. He grinned. “I’ve got her,” he said and took off before you could get a word out.

You followed behind him. “Babe she doesn’t like anyone else holding her, she cries- “

That cocky smirk was on his face again but turned into a smile when he looked at her. “I guess she know who her Papa is.” She cooed at him. “Yes she does. That’s right. I’m your Papa and I’m gonna shut down any motherfu-“

You cleared your throat.

“Seriously? Unless she came out of there talking your ear off, she’s not gonna care about what the hell I say in front of her.”

You shook your head and went to go fix her a bottle. You didn’t know what the future held for you at this point, not that you ever did really. But now that things were out in the open… Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

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You're Cellophane!

Not too long ago, I created a Music Man glossary, since that show is so chock-full of period slang and euphemisms. Now, working on Anything Goes, I find the same thing is true. It's part of what make both shows so good -- they create a very real, full world in which these characters exist. And contrary to what a lot of directors and actors think, it is not important for the audience to get every reference; but it is important that the actors get them, so that they can live fully and honestly in this world. That sense of reality is the real value of period references. On the other hand.. In the original Anything Goes, several the lyrics were full of references to people and things that were popular in 1934, many of which we haven't even heard of today. So a lot of the original lyric for "You're the Top" and "Anything Goes" would just be baffling to audiences; and instead of listening to the song, they'd be feeling left behind and confused. Those lyrics had to be revised for the revivals. All that said, for actors and directors working on Anything Goes, and for all musical theatre fangirls and fanboys (of which I am one) who just love the show, here is my Anything Goes glossary. Take a look particularly at the juxtaposition of these pop culture references against each other, in their context. Porter is doing some really subtle, sophisticated social commentary in many of these lyrics. From the original 1934 script: "Manhattan" -- a cocktail made with whiskey, sweet vermouth, and bitters. While rye is the traditional whiskey of choice, other commonly used whiskeys include Canadian whisky, bourbon, blended whiskey, and Tennessee whiskey, invented in in the early 1870s at the Manhattan Club. "Grosvenor House" -- one of the largest private homes in London, torn down during World War I, and replaced with the luxury Grosvenor House Hotel

"Tommy gun" -- the Thompson submachine gun, invented by John T. Thompson in 1918, and became infamous during the Prohibition era. "rote shot" -- a section of the newspaper with society photographs, called the "rotogravure," after the printing process "Evelyn" -- a then common British man's name pronounced EVE-lin. "Snake Eyes Johnson" and Moonface Martin" -- jokes on 1930s gangster nicknames, like Baby Face Nelson, Pretty Boy Floyd, Bugsy Siegel, Machine Gun Kelly, Lucky Luciano... "dicks"  -- law enforcement; a slang term for detectives, originally coined in Canada and brought south by rumrunners during Prohibition. The comic strip character Dick Tracy was named for this term. "a wireless" -- a telegram "Mater" -- British for Mother, from the Latin, an intentionally old-fashioned term "Eight Bells Strike" -- the striking of eight bells on a ship says a four-hour watch shift is over (it's not connected to a specific time on the clock) "my sea legs..." -- a person's ability to keep their balance and not feel seasick when on board a moving ship. "Nicholas Murray Butler" -- a famous American philosopher, diplomat, and educator; president of Columbia University, president of the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, and a recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize. "Damn white of him" -- originally used under British colonialism, an expression of appreciation for honorable or gracious behavior, under the assumption that white people were inherently more virtuous. "The Social Register" -- according to Wikipedia, "The social elite was a small closed group. The leadership was well known to the readers of society pages, but in larger cities it was impossible to remember everyone, or to keep track of the new debutantes, the marriages, and the obituaries. The solution was the Social Register, which listed the names and addresses of the families who mingled in the same private clubs, attended the right teas and cotillions, worshipped together at prestige churches, funded the proper charities, lived in exclusive neighborhoods, and sent their daughters to finishing schools and their sons away to prep schools" "Beefeater" -- actually a ceremonial guard at the Tower of London, but here just referring to a British person, possibly also implying that Evelyn is stiff...? "Coliseum" -- the famous amphitheater in Rome, built in 70-80 AD "Louvre Museum" -- the world's largest museum, in Paris, holding some of our great works of art, including the "Mona Lisa." "Symphony by Strauss" -- German composer Richard Strauss was still actively writing operas and concert works when Anything Goes opened.

"Bendel bonnet" -- a ladies' hat from Henri Bendel, the upscale women's specialty store still today based in New York City, selling handbags, jewelry, luxury fashion accessories, home fragrances and gifts "Shakespeare Sonnet" -- Shakespeare wrote 154 sonnets, fourteen-line poems Mickey Mouse -- you have to remember that for these characters living in 1934, Steamboat Willie premiered only six years ago, and Mickey was still only in black and white... "Vincent Youmans" -- Broadway composer of many musicals, including No, No, Nanette, Hit the Deck, and several Hollywood films "Mahatma Gandhi" -- still in the middle of his historic fight for independence for colonial India from Great Britain at this moment "Napoleon Brandy" -- an "extra old" blend of brandy in which the youngest brandy is stored for at least six years "The National Gallery": Famous art gallery in Washington, D.C. "Garbo's salary" - according to an article on Slate.com, "After the success of Flesh and the Devil (1927), Greta Garbo demanded that MGM raise her salary from $600 per week to $5,000 per week. Louis B. Mayer hemmed and hawed, so Garbo sailed to Sweden. Eventually Mayer gave in and Garbo sailed back. $5,000 per week comes to $260,000 per year, or the equivalent in today's dollars of $4.6 million per year." "cellophane" -- according to Wikipedia, "Whitman's candy company initiated use of cellophane for candy wrapping in the United States in 1912 for their Whitman's Sampler. They remained the largest user of imported cellophane from France until nearly 1924, when DuPont built the first cellophane manufacturing plant in the US. Cellophane saw limited sales in the US at first since while it was waterproof, it was not moisture proof—it held water but was permeable to water vapor. This meant that it was unsuited to packaging products that required moisture proofing. DuPont hired chemist William Hale Charch, who spent three years developing a nitrocellulose lacquer that, when applied to Cellophane, made it moisture proof. Following the introduction of moisture-proof Cellophane in 1927, the material's sales tripled between 1928 and 1930." Our story is set in 1934. "Derby winner" -- the 1934 running of the Kentucky Derby was its 60th! "You're a Brewster body" -- the frame for a Bentley or Rolls Royce luxury car "A Ritz hot toddy" -- a specialty drink of the Ritz Hotel bar in Paris "the sleepy Zuder Zee" -- The Zuiderzee was a shallow bay of the North Sea in the northwest of the Netherlands. The characters in Anything Goes know this because in 1928, sailing events for the Amsterdam Summer Olympics were held on the Zuiderzee. "Bishop Manning" -- Episcopal Bishop of St. John the Divine Cathedral in Manhattan. "A Nathan panning" -- a bad review from New York drama critic George Jean Nathan "broccoli" -- something of a novelty in 1934, having been farmed commercially in the US only since the 1920s, and the first advertising campaign on its behalf didn't occur until 1929. So in 1934, broccoli was the culinary cutting edge "a night at Coney" -- Coney Island "Irene Bordoni" -- French actress who starred on Broadway in Cole Porter's 1928 musical Paris, introducing the song "Let's Do It" (which had replaced "Let's Misbehave") "a fol-de-rol" -- a useless ornament or accessory, nonsense

"Arrow collar" -- the famous "Sanforized" collar on Arrow Shirts. The Arrow Collar Man became an advertising symbol in the 1920s for rugged masculinity. "Coolidge dollar" -- the very sound, very strong American dollar, under President Calvin Coolidge, before the Depression "Fred Astaire" -- Broadway and film star of musical comedies "(Eugene) O'Neill" -- Pulitzer Prize winning American playwright of powerful dramas, including Anna Christie (1920), The Emperor Jones (1920), The Hairy Ape (1922), Desire Under the Elms (1924), Strange Interlude (1928), Mourning Becomes Electra (1931), and others "Whistler's Mama" -- the famous painting actually called Arrangement in Grey and Black No.1, best known as Whistler's Mother, painted by the American painter James McNeill Whistler in 1871 "Camembert" -- A mellow, soft cheese with a creamy center first marketed in Normandy, France. "Inferno's Dante" -- Dante Alighieri (1265-1321) author of The Divine Comedy, the third part of which deals with Inferno (Hell). "the great Durante" -- comedian/actor Jimmy Durante. His first film was in 1930, but he had made 19 films by 1934 "de trop" -- a mispronunciation of the French phrase de trop, meaning too much, not wanted, unwelcome "A Waldorf Salad" -- a salad of apples, walnuts, raisins, celery, and mayonnaise, originated at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in Manhattan. "Berlin ballad" -- A romantic song by American songwriter Irvin Berlin, who by 1934 had already written standards like "Alexander's Ragtime Band," "What'll I Do?", "Blue Skies," and "Puttin' on the Ritz." A few years later, in 1938, Berlin would write "God Bless America." "an Old Dutch master" -- a Dutch master painter like Rembrandt, but ALSO a brand of cigars "Mrs. Astor" (changed to "Lady Astor" in 1962) -- Mrs. John Jacob Astor, leading New York socialite. "Pepsodent" -- toothpaste introduced in the USA in 1915 by the Pepsodent Company of Chicago. The original formula for the paste contained pepsin, a digestive agent designed to break down and digest food deposits on the teeth, hence the brand and company name. From 1930 to late 1933 a massive animated neon advertising sign for the toothpaste, featuring a young girl on a swing, hung on West 47th Street in Times Square in New York City.

"the steppes of Russia" -- a region of grasslands joining Europe and Asia -- Around 1930 the Soviet Union wanted to attract foreign tourists to bring in currency and improve its external image. On Stalin's and the Party's initiative a national tourist agency was founded. Intourist was responsible for attracting, accommodating and escorting all foreign guests.Western advertising styles were applied to appeal to the target audience. Intourist posters pictured a tourist paradise, not a country of laborers and peasants. Trains were no icons of progress but a comfortable way of transport. Intourist women were not working hard in a factory but were either fashionable or exotic. "Pants on a Roxy usher" -- the famous Roxy Theatre in Manhattan ("the Cathedral of motion pictures") had a squad of ushers who were trained like an army platoon and wore very tight pants. "G.O.P." -- Grand Old Party, i.e. Republicans. "Tower of Babel" -- Biblical tower in the land of Shinar, the building of which ceased when a confusion of languages took place. "Whitney stable" -- the socially prominent Whitney family bred famous horses "Mrs. Baer's son, Max" (also referred to as "Maxie Bauer") -- Max Baer, World Heavyweight Champion in the 1930s (his son, Max Baer Jr. played Jethro on The Beverly Hillbillies) "Rudy Vallee" --  1920s/1930s crooner, who often sang through a megaphone and later starred in the original production of How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying. "Phenolax" -- a  pink flavored wafer laxative, first introduced in 1908

"Drumstick Lipstick" -- brand of makeup manufactured by Charbert, a French cosmetics firm. "brig" -- military prison "in irons" -- shackled "The Dean boys" -- baseball players and brothers Dizzy and Daffy, members of the famed "Gashouse Gang," the 1934 St. Louis Cardinal baseball team, which won 95 games, the National League pennant, and the 1934 World Series -- just months before Anything Goes opened! "Max Gordon" -- Broadway producer from the 1920s through the 1950, famous for extravagant productions "Jitneys" -- independent taxi cabs or small buses. The joke here is that the middle-class folks who can still afford to take a cab, here in the middle of the Depression, would be shocked to find out that some of the richest Americans (in this case, the Vanderbilt and Whitney families) had lost nearly everything. "Vanderbilts and Whitneys" -- two prominent rich families in New York "Sam Goldwyn" -- movie studio head "Lady Mendl" -- an American actress, interior decorator, author of the influential 1913 book The House in Good Taste, and a prominent figure in New York, Paris, and London society. Her morning exercises were famous, including yoga, standing on her head, and walking on her hands. "Missus R." and "Franklin" -- Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt

"broadcast a bed from Simmons" -- Eleanor Roosevelt did weekly radio broadcasts sponsored by Simmons mattresses "Mrs. Ned McLean" -- a socialite who was the last private owner of the Hope Diamond "Anna Sten" -- Ukrainian movie star "Swannee River" -- a reference to Stephen Foster's famous song "Old Folks at Home" and to the Gerhwin song "Swanee "goose's liver" -- pate "Russian Ballet" -- reference to the 1934–1935 world tour by the Dandré-Levitoff Russian Ballet "the Oxford movement" -- a 19th-century movement of High Church members of the Church of England which eventually developed into Anglo-Catholicism, arguing for the reinstatement of some older Christian traditions of faith and their inclusion into Anglican liturgy and theology. Presumably, Mrs. Wentworth is confusing the Oxford Movement with The Oxford Group was a Christian organization founded in 1931 by the American Christian missionary Frank Buchman. [For the references in "Anything Goes," see my earlier post on that song.] [For the references in "Blow Gabriel, Blow" see my earlier post about that song.] "Sing Sing" and "Joliet" -- famous maximum security prisons [For an explanation of the intro to "Be Like the Bluebird," see my earlier post about that.] Additional Things from the 1962 version: "The Globe American" -- a generic fictitious name for a newspaper "Hymsie Brown, the fighter" -- a fictitious nicknamed boxer "you know the New Deal" -- reference to government red tape, bureaucracy "Toscanini" -- Italian conductor Arturo Toscanini. The New York Philharmonic under Toscanini, in 1931, became the first orchestra to offer regular live coast-to-coast radio broadcasts of its concerts, gaining Toscanini unprecedented fame and a remarkable salary of $110,000 per year. "Milton Berle" -- already a successful stand-up comedian in the 1930s, patterning himself after one of Vaudeville's top comics, Ted Healy (the inspiration for Billy Flynn in Chicago). A year before Anything Goes opened, Berle starred in the short musical film Poppin' the Cork, a topical musical comedy about the repealing of Prohibition. "tomato ketchup" -- During the 1930s Heinz increased their sales force and advertising, to battle the drop in sales due to the Depression. Heinz salesmen were expected to be at least 6ft tall, impeccably dressed and particularly eloquent at promoting Heinz products. Their equipment ­ which included chrome vacuum flasks, pickle forks and olive spears ­ weighed about 30lbs. "Chippendale" -- various styles of furniture fashionable in the late 18th century and named after the English cabinetmaker Thomas Chippendale

"Fourth Dimension" -- according to Project Muse, "During the first three decades of the twentieth century, the fourth dimension was a concern common to artists in nearly every major modern movement: Analytical and Synthetic Cubists, Italian Futurists, Russian Futurists, Suprematists, and Constructivists, American modernists in the Stieglitz and Arensberg circles, Dadaists, and members of De Stijl. Kandinsky’s own awareness of the idea, and the growing interest in Germany in the space-time world of Einstein. Although by the end of the 1920s the temporal fourth dimension of Einsteinian Relativity Theory had largely displaced the popular fourth dimension of space in the public mind, one further movement was to explore a fourth spatial dimension: French Surrealism." "George Bernard Shaw" -- British playwright (Pygmalion, Major Barbara, Man and Superman, Saint Joan, etc.) "verse" -- Today, we call the first section of a song the intro, which sets up the topic, before we get to the first verse and main melody (though many songs today don't have one). Then we get the first verse, which introduces the main melody, and then in most pop songs, we get the chorus. Sometimes there's a contrasting section called the bridge. But in Porter's time, the first section was the verse, and what we call the verse and chorus were together called the refrain. "Tinpantithesis" -- an invented joke word, meaning the Tin Pan Alley (common) antithesis (opposite) of good music Gullery -- Billy's joke on Mrs. Harcourt "un peu d'amour" -- French for a little love "DAR, PTA, and WPA" -- The Daughters of the Revolution, the Parents-Teachers Association, and the Works Progress Administrtion -- three things that do not belong together, but Mooney doesn't know that... Every day, I find new richness in Anything Goes, new craft, new surprises. It's such diving this deep into a show I've always loved but never thought about that much... Hope you enjoy learning about all this stuff as much as I do! The adventure continues! Long Live the Musical! Scott from The Bad Boy of Musical Theatre http://newlinetheatre.blogspot.com/2018/02/youre-cellophane.html