#last week i went to see a concert where they told the story of george’s life after the beatles set to his own music

[aimeedaisies]

Happy heavenly birthday George 💗🕉️🕊️

Life flows on within you and without you

Thank you for your music, your talent and your love. You were and are still such an inspiration to me and so many others.

[harrisongslimited]

George Chapter of the Day #6

I Saw Her Standing There

Trigger Warnings: swearing, adult situations, bullying

Chapter 6

"Where the hell have you been?" Allison greeted her.

"Staying with friends," Joie answered flatly.

"We are supposed to stick together you know," Allison reprimanded.

Joie just smiled. "Well, I'll be staying with some friends periodically. As a matter of fact, we can speak to the chaperone and maybe get you a new roommate."

"Hell no," she shot back. "I like having my own room. I'm gonna land me a Beatle if it's the last thing I do."

"Is that why you came here? To sleep with one of the Beatles?"

Allison waved a hand at her. "Why do you think any of these girls wanted to come? What are you? Stupid? Why the hell did you come?"

"Frankly, to see London..." Joie admitted, then threw in for good measure "and to see some old friends."

"Well have fun, roomie," she said. "I've got a plan I need to work on."

"So who are you after? John? Paul? George, Ringo?"

Allison threw her long blonde hair over her shoulder. "Doesn't matter, does it?"

Joie followed her a moment. "But Allison, they have lives, girlfriends...wives!"

Allison forced a wicked smile and repeated, "Doesn't matter...does it?"

Joie watched her as she followed the group of girls into a dressing room. She was totally out of her element. Yes, she found Paul attractive but it wouldn't go any farther than that. And then peeking in her mind was George. What she felt for him was....was....well, she didn't know what exactly, but she would never try to sleep with any of them. Truth be told, she wasn't ready to sleep with anyone. The farthest she and Charlie got was her battling him to stop trying to unzip her pants. He finally gave up and started dating Sheila Mattes, who boasted about helping boys unzip her pants.

Joie wanted to be in love. She wanted her first time to be something special...not just a quick grope in the back seat of a car during a drive in movie. She wanted flowers and romance and a loving courtship. Like in the romance novels she read or love stories she watched at the movies. Someone to take her away. Someone who would love Jordan and watch football with her dad.

She knew that boy was somewhere. She just needed to be smart and patient. Apparently, very patient.

..........

Victoria Brown was the woman who would show them the ropes at the studio. From what Joie could tell, it would be a lot of standing around, then some running after the boys, then a little screaming. Simple. Except that girls were disappearing at an alarming rate. "Wandering off" they called it. Victoria Brown knew they were trying to get to the Beatles and Victoria also knew the Beatles' wouldn't mind a quick one in the loo before a scene.

They were all instructed as to what to wear, where makeup was, where they were supposed to report and when. It was like a cattle call to Joie, but she didn't care. It was all new to her. Some of these other girls had actually been in movies that had been produced by their fathers, so it was old hat to them. But Joie was amazed at the organization.

By 3:30 they were done. Tuesday was going to be a free day and then Wednesday, they were going to start shooting "B" shots of the girls running, standing...waiting for the Beatles. The last scene, in about 4 weeks, was the concert. Joie couldn't wait for that.

She was getting ready to board the bus to go to the hotel when Victoria pulled her out of line. She instructed the bus driver to leave. Seems Joie was going to have a special driver of her own.

Part of her hoped it was Paul, but another part of her said it wasn't a good idea. She went back into the cavernous studio with Victoria and was told to wait in a small back studio.

And wait she did.

And waited. And waited.

Nothing.

She heard people milling around and finally a man came in questioning why she was there. Joie told him she asked to wait here. She showed him the note Victoria had given her. It said simply, "Wait for me in Studio B, Paul."

The man laughed. "You've been had little one," he said. "Someone pulled a trick on you."

Joie didn't know if she should tell the man that Paul had actually brought her to the studio in the morning...but decided against it. Why embarrass herself further? The man probably wouldn't believe her anyway. So this, apparently, was the way little rich Hollywood girls have their fun and games. Well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Their bullshit bothered her as much as a 70° day.

"Can you tell me how I can get a taxi?"

"Where are you going?"

Joie had to think. To Freda's? To the hotel?

She decided on the hotel. It was the easiest place to get to. "Shepparton Inn," she told him.

"I'll drive you."

"That's ok," Joie told him, not wanting to get into the car with a stranger. "I'll manage with a taxi."

The man shook his head. "Look, my name is Dick Lester. I'm directing this movie and I'm safe to get into a car with. Who the hell are you anyway?"

All Joie told him was that she was from California and hired as one of the extras. She added that she had gotten separated from her group.

"I think the group separated you from the sound of that note," he said gently.

She felt foolish and small. All she could think of is going back home and thoughts of home made her weepy. But she wasn't going to cry in front of a stranger. She fought and fought until tears welled in the corner of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I'm just a long way from home."

"For the first time?"

Joie nodded and blinked furiously to dry her tears. She took a deep breath.

"Look," he said sitting down before her. "go your own way. These other girls just want to bang a Beatle and go home. Probably some of them will. Others will make up stories that they did. Just go your own way and you'll be fine."

Joie took another breath and finally smiled. "Thanks Mr. Lester. That really helped."

"And I'll get my assistant to get you a taxi..."

"Thanks again."

"No problem. My pleasure. And don't let those other girls get to you."

"I won't."

Joie waited by the studio gate for a taxi, still not sure of where she was going. She had no way of getting a hold of Freda, who was probably at Brian's office, but Joie didn't know the phone number. The safest bet was to go to the hotel and call Freda later to let her know where she was.

She only waited a few moments when a green mini cooper pulled up beside her inside the gate.

"Need a ride?"

It was George, his dark eyes shining bright as he looked into hers.

Joie smiled in recognition. "You have no idea...."

Joie climbed into the passenger's side and George noticed she seemed to be a bit weepy. "I didn't know where to go."

"Just go to Freda's if anything ever happens or call Brian's office. I'll give you the number to ring."

Joie proceeded to tell him how the girls had tricked her with a note from Paul. And how she thought the note was really from Paul since he had picked her up.

George knew that the note was probably meant to do exactly what it did -- embarrass Joie, with a hug and kiss from the jealous extras in the peanut gallery, but he remained mute.

"How about dinner?" George suddenly asked. "there's a restaurant by our place where we won't be bothered."

"Our place?"

"Ringo's and mine. We live together for now until we find our own places. I'm looking out towards Esher. Ringo likes living in town."

"Is Esher far?"

"An hour outside London," he explained. "Not too far from John and Cyn's."

"We'll stop by my house to see if Ringo wants to come with us. Maybe Mo too."

[peaceloveandstarrs]

brainwashed. dhani reposted the story about the album anniversary from george's ig account saying it really is a thing. the more i think of it, the more i think both of them are right (george wrote the album so)

society and media brainwashes us to think that we need to constantly buy buy buy. unhappy? buy this fancy journal with all of these prompts, that'll fix it!

i bought a wellness journal on a day trip last summer. where is it? in my dresser drawer. haven't touched it since before work started back. what do i use to journal? a plain notebook that i've had for two, three years. no prompts. just whatever i want to write.

hate your body? buy this exercise machine, this diet plan, this juice cleanse! that'll for sure fix it!

does it? not in my experience. i've tried to shrink myself for YEARS. i've got posts on my blog showing my exercise results going back to 2015. nearly a decade. the only thing that can fix the hatred of our bodies is to stop giving in to the societal/media brainwashing that we're supposed to hate our bodies. we aren't. think about it with me for a second. imagine what would happen if we got rid of the media portrayal of fat bodies as bad or something that needed to be fixed. imagine if we got rid of influencers peddling diets and exercise machines or people showing off their extreme weight loss. would we have nearly as many people hating their bodies? absolutely not. food for thought.

at a concert? out in nature? better have your phone with you so you can take pictures! at home? better be on your phone looking at what everyone else is doing!

personal experience here. i took videos from kareoke at our work christmas party last year. of the music person at staff wellness day b/c our cook got up there and sang with him. i took pictures of christmas lights yesterday. have i looked any of them? no. i've deleted video after video i've taken. because they just take up space. and honestly, even if i went to see ringo or paul, i probably wouldn't watch the videos i took.

now, i understand having your phone on you in case you run into trouble. that i get. but i don't want to watch a concert or a sunset or the drive through the country through my phone's camera lens. i understand wanting to preserve memories. but we've become so obsessed with wanting to put these things on social media that we watch literal once-in-a-lifetime events through our phone's cameras, trying to capture everything to put on facebook or instagram or whatever. it's sad. we're brainwashed to be jealous of what others are doing instead of appreciating our lives for what they are. and at the end of the day, we're all mortal. we aren't our bodies. we are our souls, our personalities, our hearts. and do we really want to be on our death beds regretting the comparisons we made to others? wanting to be like them instead of finding ourselves?

thinking for ourselves? what's that? we're told what to think. tiktok especially has loads of people telling us that this food is bad (scientifically, it isn't). that this exercise plan will get rid of X amount of pounds in a week! that we need to do this to love ourselves. how about we go on our own self discovery? learn what we like and don't like instead of forcing ourselves to do things we don't like just to reach some societal idea of happiness. don't like meditating no matter how much you try to? cool, don't do it! don't like hiit exercises no matter how much you're told it's the best type? fine! nothing says you have to do them. don't like face masks and soaking in a tub with a fancy bath bomb? hey you do you babe! you've got other ways to love yourselves.

so fucking sick of being told how to be. how to look. how to feel. of being told what to do, what to buy, to be happy.

i'm sick of the world, the media, society 'brainwashing' me.

[sgt-paul]

Paul McCartney Is Still Trying to Figure Out Love – The New York Times Magazine

By David Marchese, Nov. 29, 2020

Paul McCartney, like the rest of us, this year found himself with an unexpected amount of time stuck indoors. Unlike the rest of us — or most of us, anyway — he used that time to record a new album. The pandemic-induced circumstances of its creation may mark “McCartney III” as an outlier in the former Beatle’s catalog, but as its title suggests, it does have precedents: Like “McCartney” (1970) and “McCartney II” (1980), the album, out Dec. 18, was primarily recorded by McCartney alone, with him playing nearly all the instruments and handling all the production. “At no point,” McCartney said, “did I think: I’m making an album. I’d better be serious. This was more like: You’re locked down. You can do whatever the hell you want.” Which was a gas, as always. “What I’m amazed with,” McCartney explained, “is that I’m not fed up with music. Because, strictly speaking, I should have gotten bored years ago.”

It seems to me that working on music by yourself, as you did on the new album, might allow for some insights about what you do and how you do it. So are there aspects of “McCartney III” that represent creative growth to you? 

The idea of growing and adding more arrows to your bow is nice, but I’m not sure if I’m interested in it. The thing is, when I look back to “Yesterday,” which was written when I was 21 or something, there’s me talking like a 90-year-old: “Suddenly I’m not half the man I used to be.” Things like that and “Eleanor Rigby” have a kind of wisdom. You would naturally think, OK, as I get older I’m going to get deeper, but I’m not sure that’s true. I think it’s a fact of life that personalities don’t change much. Throughout your life, there you are.

Is there anything different about the nature of your musical gift today at 78 than in 1980 or 1970 or when you first started writing songs? 

It’s the story that you’re telling. That changes. When I first said to John, “I’ve written a few songs,” they were simple. My first song was called “I Lost My Little Girl” — four chords. Then we went into the next phase of songwriting, which was talking to our fans. Those were songs like “Thank You Girl,” “Love Me Do,” “Please Please Me.” Then came a rich vein as we got more mature, with things like “Let It Be,” “The Long and Winding Road.” But basically I think it’s all the same, and you get lucky sometimes. Like, “Let It Be” came from a dream where my mother had said that phrase. “Yesterday” came from a dream of a melody. I’m a great believer in dreams. I’m a great rememberer of dreams.

What’s the last interesting dream you had? 

Last night’s was pretty good.

What was it? 

It was of a sexual nature, so I’m not sure it’s good for the Kids section. Pretty cool, though. Very interesting, dreams of a sexual nature when you’re married. Because your married head is in the dream saying: “Don’t do this. Don’t go here.” And just to let you know, I didn’t. It was still a good dream.

You know, I was conscious of not mentioning the Beatles early in this interview, and you’ve already mentioned them a few times. So let me ask you: The band broke up 50 years ago. You were in it for roughly 10 years. When you’re not doing interviews or playing concerts, how central to your own story of your life are those 10 years from half a century ago? 

Very. It was a great group. That’s commonly acknowledged.

Generally speaking. 

[Laughs.] It’s like your high school memories — those are my Beatles memories. This is the danger: At a dinner party, I am liable to tell stories about my life, and people already know them. I can see everyone stifling a yawn. But the Beatles are inescapable. My daughter Mary will send me a photo or a text a few times a week: “There you were on an advert” or “I heard you on the radio.” The thing that amazes me now, because of my venerable age, is that I will be with, like, one of New York’s finest dermatologists, and he will be a rabid Beatles fan. All of that amazes me. We were trying to get known, we were trying to do good work and we did it. So to me, it’s all happy memories.

“McCartney III” will come out very close to the 40th anniversary of John Lennon’s death. Has your processing of what happened to him changed over the years? 

It’s difficult for me to think about. I rerun the scenario in my head. Very emotional. So much so that I can’t really think about it. It kind of implodes. What can you think about that besides anger, sorrow? Like any bereavement, the only way out is to remember how good it was with John. Because I can’t get over the senseless act. I can’t think about it. I’m sure it’s some form of denial. But denial is the only way that I can deal with it. Having said that, of course I do think about it, and it’s horrible. You do things to help yourself out of it. I did an interview with Sean, his son. That was nice — to talk about how cool John was and fill in little gaps in his knowledge. So it’s little things that I am able to do, but I know that none of them can get over the hill and make it OK. But you know, after he was killed, he was taken to Frank Campbell’s funeral parlor in New York. I’m often passing that. I never pass it without saying: “All right, John. Hi, John.”

And how about your perspective on the work you did together? Has that changed? 

I always thought it was good. I still think it’s good. Sometimes I had to reassure him that it was good. I remember one time he said to me: “What are they going to think of me when I’m dead? Am I going to be remembered?” I felt like the older brother, even though he was older than me. I said: “John, listen to me. You are going to be so remembered. You are so [expletive] great that there’s no way that this disappears.” I guess that was a moment of insecurity on his part. He straightened me up on other occasions. It was a great collaboration. I can’t think of any better collaboration, and there have been millions. I feel very lucky. We happened upon each other in Liverpool through a friend of mine, Ivan Vaughan. Ivan said, “I think you’d like this mate of mine.” Everyone’s lives have magic, but that guy putting me and John together and then George getting on a bus — an awful lot of coincidences had to happen to make the Beatles.

People always ask you about John. I’ve noticed they rarely ask about George, who of course also died relatively young. 

John is probably the one in the group you would remember, but the circumstances of his death were particularly harrowing. When you die horrifically, you’re remembered more. But I like your point, which is: What about George? I often think of George because he was my little buddy. I was thinking the other day of my hitchhiking bursts. This was before the Beatles. I suddenly was keen on hitchhiking, so I sold this idea to George and then John.

I know this memory. You and George hitchhiked to Paignton.

Yeah, Exeter and Paignton. We did that, and then I also hitchhiked with John. He and I got as far as Paris. What I was thinking about was — it’s interesting how I was the instigator. Neither of them came to me and said, “Should we go hitchhiking?” It was me, like, “I’ve got this great idea.”

Why is that interesting? 

My theory is that attitude followed us into our recording career. Everyone was hanging out in the sticks, and I used to ring them up and say, “Guys, it’s time for an album.” Then we’d all come in, and they’d all be grumbling. “He’s making us work.” We used to laugh about it. So the same way I instigated the hitchhiking holidays, I would put forward ideas like, “It’s time to make an album.” I don’t remember Ringo, George or John ever ringing me up and saying that.

How strange is it to share an idle recollection from your youth, as you just did with that hitchhiking story, and then have the person to whom you’re sharing it — in this case, me — know the memory? It seems as though it would be weird. 

It’s quite annoying, David. It’s like people at dinner yawning when I’m telling stories. This keeps happening to me.

I even know the details. You and George slept on the beach. 

That’s right.

Some Salvation Army girls kept you warm. 

Yes.

Then at some point you sat on a car battery and zapped your ass? 

That was George who did that! I have a very clear recollection. He showed me the scar. Let’s set the record straight: It was George’s ass, and it was a burn the exact shape of a zip from his jeans.

Do you remember the last thing George said to you? 

We said silly things. We were in New York before he went to Los Angeles to die, and they were silly but important to me. And, I think, important to him. We were sitting there, and I was holding his hand, and it occurred to me — I’ve never told this — I don’t want to hold George’s hand. You don’t hold your mate’s hands. I mean, we didn’t anyway. And I remember he was getting a bit annoyed at having to travel all the time — chasing a cure. He’d gone to Geneva to see what they could do. Then he came to a special clinic in New York to see what they could do. Then the thought was to go to L.A. and see what they could do. He was sort of getting a bit, “Can’t we just stay in one place?” And I said: “Yes, Speke Hall. Let’s go to Speke Hall.” That was one of the last things we said to each other, knowing that he would be the only person in the room who would know what Speke Hall was. You probably know what the hell it is.

Yep.

I can’t amaze you with anything! Anyway, the nice thing for me when I was holding George’s hands, he looked at me, and there was a smile.

How many good Beatles stories are there left to tell that haven’t been told? 

There are millions. Sometimes the reason is that they’re too private, and I don’t want to go gossiping. But the main stories do get told and told again.

Can you think of one now that you haven’t told before? 

Hmm. I will rake through the embers. Oh, I’ll tell you one! I thought of one this morning. It’s pretty good. I don’t think I’ve told it. You’re going to have to say in the article, “I forced this out of him,” because it’s a bit telling-out-of-school.

I am hereby twisting your arm. 

So when we did the album “Abbey Road,” the photographer was set up and taking the pictures that ended up as the album cover. Linda was also there taking incidental pictures. She has some that are of us — I think it was all four of us — sitting on the steps of Abbey Road studios, taking a break from the session, and I’m in quite earnest conversation with John. This morning I thought, I remember why. John’s accountants had rung my accountants and said: “Someone’s got to tell John he’s got to fill in his tax returns. He’s not doing it.” So I was trying to say to him, “Listen, man, you’ve got to do this.” I was trying to give him the sensible advice on not getting busted for not doing your taxes. That’s why I looked so earnest. I don’t think I’ve told that story before.

Tax filings — that’s some deep arcana. 

I have dredged the barrel.

I know that your goal with making music is to do something that pleases yourself. What’s most pleasing to you on the new album? 

I’m very happy with “Women and Wives.” I’ve been reading a book about Lead Belly. I was looking at his life and thinking about the blues scene of that day. I love that tone of voice and energy and style. So I was sitting at my piano, and I’m thinking about Huddie Ledbetter, and I started noodling around in the key of D minor, and this thing came to me. “Hear me women and wives” — in a vocal tone like what I imagine a blues singer might make. I was taking clues from Lead Belly, from the universe, from blues. And why I’m pleased with it is because the lyrics are pretty good advice. It’s advice I wouldn’t mind getting myself.

There’s a song on “McCartney III,” “Pretty Boys,” that is kind of unusual for you in how the music is sort of unassuming but the lyrics have an almost sinister edge. What inspired that one? 

I’ll tell you exactly. I’ve been photographed by many photographers through the years. And when you get down to London, doing sessions with people like David Bailey, they can get pretty energetic in the studio. It’s like “Blow-Up,” [the director Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1966 film thriller about a fashion photographer, thought to be loosely based on David Bailey] you know? “Give it to me! [Expletive] the lens!” And it’s like: “What? No, I’m not going to.” But I understand why they’re doing that. They’re that kind of artist. So you allow it. Certain photographers — they tend to be very good photographers, by the way — can be totally out of line in the studio. So “Pretty Boys” is about male models. And going around New York or London, you see the lines of bicycles for hire. It struck me that they’re like models, there to be used. It’s most unfortunate.

“Lavatory Lil” is another song I was curious about. That’s quite a title. 

“Lavatory Lil” is a parody of someone I didn’t like. Someone I was working with who turned out to be a bit of a baddie. I thought things were great; it turned nasty. So I made up the character Lavatory Lil and remembered some of the things that had gone on and put them in the song. I don’t need to be more specific than that. I will never divulge who it was.

I have another bigger-picture question. In your experience, how is the love in a marriage different at different stages of your life and in different marriages?

I don’t think it’s different. It’s always a splendid puzzle. Even though I write love songs, I don’t think I know what’s going on. It would be great if it was smooth and wonderful all the time, but you get pockets of that, and sometimes it’s — you could be annoying. To Nancy I’m pretty complex, with everything I’ve been through.

In what ways? 

I’m some poor working-class kid from Liverpool. I’ve done music all my life. I’ve had huge success, and people often try to do what I want, so you get a false feeling of omnipotence. All that together makes a complex person. We’re all complex. Well, maybe I’m more complex than other people because of coming from poverty.

And how do you think about money these days? 

It has obviously changed. What has stayed the same is the central core. When I was in Liverpool as a kid, I used to listen to people’s conversations. I remember a couple of women going on about money: “Ah, me and my husband, we’re always arguing about money.” And I remember thinking very consciously, “OK, I’ll solve that; I will try to get money.” That set me off on the “Let’s not have too many problems with money” trail. What happened also was, not having much money, when anything came into the house, it was important. It was important when my weekly comic was delivered. Or my penpal — I had a penpal in Spain, Rodrigo — when his letter came through, that was a big event. When they had giveaways in comics with little trinkets, I kept them all. Some people would say that’s a hoarding instinct, but not having anything when I was a kid has stuck with me as far as money. You know, I’m kind of crazy. My wife is not. She knows you can get rid of things you don’t need.

You’re a hoarder? 

I’m a keeper. If I go somewhere and I get whatever I bought in a nice bag, I will want to keep the bag. My rationale is that I might want to put my sandwiches in it tomorrow. Whereas Nancy says, “We’ll get another bag.” In that way, my attitude toward money hasn’t changed that much. It’s the same instinct to preserve. One of the great things now about money is what you can do with it. Family and friends, if they have any medical problem, I can just say, “I’ll help.” The nicest thing about having money is you can help people with it.

Something that has been a constant for you musically is your ability to keep coming up with melodies. It’s there on the new album — the melodies all flow. Is your facility for writing a catchy melody ever an obstacle to getting the songs to be more than just catchy? Because a good tune by itself is not always enough to make a good song. “Bip Bop” would be an example of that. Do you know what I’m saying? 

No, I know. “Bip Bop” is not lyrically stunning. I was always embarrassed about that song. Literally, it goes, “Bip Bop / take your bottom dollar.” It’s inconsequential. But I mentioned that to a friend, a producer, a few years ago, and he said, “That’s my favorite song of yours.” So you don’t know what people like. It’s enough if I like it and enjoyed putting it on record and don’t particularly want to think of any more lyrics. I don’t want to sweat it. Sometimes maybe it would be better if I sweated it. Once or twice I tried to sweat it, and I hated it. It’s like, What are you doing this for?

Sixty-something years into writing songs, do you feel any closer to knowing where melodies come from? 

No. There is something with my ability to write music that I don’t think I’m necessarily responsible for. It just seems to come easier to me — touch wood — than it does to some people. That’s it. I’m a fortunate man.

[lovelivingmydreams]

A story by heroes and villains

Janus Bullard: Mistakes

Mistakes, big or small, tend to stack up. Does Janus manage to fix theirs before the damage gets too big?

Masterlist

The rest of the year, Virgil was quiet. Distant. Janus realized they’d done the controlling thing again and gave him space. It was hard though. They’d sent texts and get no reply and spent hours wondering if they should text again or if that was pushing too hard. Their comfort was that Virgil still met them at the bus stop and ate lunch with them. That meant he just needed some more time, right? Maybe he was just very focused on finals? They wondered if they should take the first step. Apologize for being harsh… but they didn’t want to push Virgil even more if he was already this upset with them. So time went on, finals came and went and Janus left on the end of year trip once more. They considered staying home, but they didn’t want to explain to their parents what happened last time. And besides, other than the terrible company, they’d had fun on that first trip. They deserved a reward for working so hard for good grades. And maybe some distance for a week was what Virgil needed to be ready to talk. And in the end, Janus was glad they went.

The guy with the gay cousin wasn’t there this year. In his stead there was a boy with a little pride flag hanging from his luggage. He introduced himself as George, specified his pronouns as he/him and confirmed he was gay. He told them all that he understood if they felt uncomfortable getting dressed and stuff with him in the room, so he offered to talk to their chaperones about arranging alternatives to make it so everyone felt at peace. Turns out, Janus wasn’t the only one who’d felt like they’d had to agree with the homophobe of last year. The boys Janus recognized from back then all seemed to be okay with it, though they were all apprehensive to be the first to say something. So Janus decided to be brave. “Hi, Janus. He/him for me. And I don’t care where you sleep,” they told him. They were not comfortable coming out with they/them pronouns. Not to mention the fact that they still wanted Virgil to be the first to know. After they greeted George, the other boys followed. One even revealed they were ace. They joked and teased, but all in good fun. Most of those of last year expressed their relieve and how bad they’d felt about how they acted last year. How afraid they’d all been to speak out. The week was great. They did lots of cool stuff and George was a fun guy. And rather handsome. On the final night they got to sleep under the stars. Janus and George stayed up the latest. Staring up at the stares while sitting at the slowly dying campfire. The chaperones had told them to make sure to douse the fire before going to bed. Janus had found themself talking to George a lot over the week. They had told him about Virgil and their parents and uncle Lo. Complained about Castile… “You’re gay too aren’t you?” he suddenly observed. Janus had been telling him about the concert they’d gone to with Virgil before High school started. “Wh… What makes you say that?” they asked shocked that he’d figured it out. “Well you clearly think your friend and this ‘Castile’ are hot. And I have noticed you checking me out…” suddenly George stopped himself. “Sorry, I get it if you aren’t ready to tell anyone… Blame the sleepy brain.” Janus tensed. Were they that obvious? But as they thought about it they relaxed. They might as well admit it. “I… Want to tell him… Virgil I mean… I’m just…” “Scared of rejection?” George guessed. “No. I mean ,yes a little, but not in the ‘he doesn’t feel the same’ way,” they admitted. George nodded in understanding. “He sounds like a cool guy though. And if he rejects you over who you like. Then you’re probably better off without him in your life anyway.” Janus curled in on themself. “I know he’d accept it… But what if things get weird?” “Then you two figure it out. You’ve known each other since diapers right?” “I guess…” Janus nodded. George scooted closer and gave them a supportive sideways hug. “Then it’s something worth fighting for,” he smiled. Janus looked back at him. He hadn’t been this close to another boy in ages. “Can I…?” they didn’t get a chance to finish. “Oh, absolutely,” George smiled. So Janus took hold of the boy’s face and kissed him. It was nice. A strange sort of relief even. To finally act on attraction instead of trying to repress it. As a bonus, they were Janus right now. So there was no guilt about being deceptive. It was a summer fling. Neither expected anything romantic to come from it. Just two guys making out before never seeing each other again. The next day Janus waved George goodbye at the train station promising to take his advice. They had a plan. When they got off the bus they hurried to Virgil’s house. They needed to see him and apologize for what happened at school. Not just with the electives. But everything. Then they’d stop distancing themselves. Allow for hugs and playful shoves and the likes once more. And then… Then they’d come out.

When the door opened however, they were met with a stranger. It was a kind faced man. Big eyes framed with a pair of glasses took them in curiously, gaze lingering briefly on their marks, before focusing on their eyes. “Oh, hya kiddo,” the man smiled. “You must be looking for Virgil!” Janus felt lost. Who was this? Where was uncle Lo? Or Virgil? The answer to the first question luckily soon joined the stranger in the doorway. Logan noticed Janus and offered them a familiar patient smile as he wrapped an arm around the stranger’s waist. What in the world…? “Janus. It’s been a long time. How are you? Had a good time at camp?” he greeted warmly. Despite the unexpected behavior, the implications of which refused to register in Janus’ mind at the moment, hearing that steady, welcoming voice, felt like coming home. Uncle Lo had a reassuring presence. One that had been missing from Janus’ life for far too long. They smiled up at the older man. “Hi, uncle Lo. I… I guess it has been a while…” Trying not to be too clingy, they had stopped spending time with Virgil at either of their houses at some point. “Um camp was good. I did miss Virgil though…” Their eyes went from studying the friendly stranger to looking past them to the staircase, expecting Virgil to appear any moment, and back to the stranger. Luckily Uncle Lo was quick to make introductions. “Patton, this is Janus. He’s been our neighbor ever since we moved to town. He and Virgil practically grew up as brothers.” Hearing uncle Lo say that made Janus feel a little guilty. They hadn’t been ‘practically a brother’ to Virgil lately. Too cowardly to apologize or to be honest with him. But they were determined to be better. “Janus, may I officially introduce you to my partner, Patton Bonaire?” Uncle Lo continued, giving the man, Patton, a kiss on the lips. Clearly comfortable with the PDA. Patton giggled at the act of affection, and possibly Janus’ shocked reaction. Partner. The kiss… Uncle Lo was in a romantic relationship? Sure the body language had suggested something like that but… They weren’t even nervous about it. Since when? “Logie! Virgil would die of embarrassment if he were here,” Patton scolded Uncle Lo playfully. “Well, good. He’s long overdue for some.” Uncle Lo looking mischievous was not something they expected to find when returning home. Janus was still trying to unpack all of that when uncle Lo spoke again. “Virgil left on a camp of his own this morning. He should be back next Sunday.” What? “Oh… He never mentioned anything about that…” Or this. Why had Virgil hidden all this? Suddenly Janus thought back to the times Virgil had brought up the LGBTQ+ community and they’d gotten defensive. Had he tried to tell them about his dad’s boyfriend all those times? Or at least about his dad’s preferences… A comforting hand on their shoulder pulled them out of their worries. “It was a very last minute decision. We were lucky to fit him in.” Oh, well so… Maybe Virgil hadn’t consciously kept this trip from them then. “Wanna join us for a cup of tea kiddo?” Patton offered all of a sudden. He seemed like a very kind man. Good. Uncle Lo deserved that in their life. And Virgil too, for that matter “I don't want to intrude…” Janus argued. Not sure how long they could talk with uncle Lo without revealing how much they’d grown out of touch with Virgil. They didn’t want to disappoint him. “Nonsense Janus. You are always more than welcome here.” The words were a much needed reminder. Right. Uncle Lo considered them and their parents close to family. He’d always been there with advice and support. They’d had thanksgiving dinner together every year. How had Janus allowed so much time to pass since last they spoke to him? Still they shook their head. They hadn’t seen Patton around the house before now and if Virgil was out, this was likely their first chance to spend some one on one time together. They knew better than to intrude. “I just came by to say hi…” Then something occurred to them. If uncle Lo was gay. And Virgil knew he was with Patton, which seemed to be the case, then he might know... “Can I ask you something kind of personal? “ they asked before they could change their mind. “Of course,” Logan nodded. “Should I go?” Patton added already taking a step back. “No, it's fine…” He might be able to help too. “I just wanted to know… aren't you ever afraid what people say about… you being different?” they asked purposefully moving their hand towards their birthmarks. They didn’t want it to be too obvious. When they came out, they’d realize what this was really about. For now they could think that Janus just meant their appearance. The couple exchanged a glance. Patton spoke first. "Well, there will always be people who judge you. No matter what. I mean, I adore dad jokes and I like wearing pastels and cute onesies on the weekends. I'm sure there are plenty people who judge me for that. But I like it. It makes me happy." ‘But it makes me happy,’ Virgil’s voice echoed through their memory. Oh, they had really messed up. Patton giggled as uncle Lo kissed their temple. “And I love you for that,” their honorary uncle muttered in a gentle and sweet voice they weren’t used to hearing from him. Then he turned his attention back to Janus. "We can't figuratively bend over backwards to fit the norm of the Karens in this world. They don't have to live your life. You do. And denying who you are is no way to live it. Especially when it comes to things you can't help." Uncle Lo was talking so earnest and it made so much sense, as he tended to do. There was one other thing that worried them though. They nodded slowly, trying to play it off as if they were just curious at this point. "But what about the people you want to stay around... I mean, weren't you worried how Virgil would react?" To their surprise this question was met with careless laughter from both men. "Aside from the fact that Virgil has known I'm gay for almost 10 years, he was the one to suggest me and Patton should go out together." Janus’ mind went blank. Virgil… Had set his dad up? Sure Janus remembered Virgil’s tendency to play match maker when they were little. He’d once suggested to set Janus up with one of the girls in their class way back in middle school. An endeavor they now knew was doomed to fail from the start. But this meant that Virgil really was comfortable with it. That he wasn’t just an Ally in theory. He’d already shown he didn’t mind different gender labels… Janus felt their heart race. So all this time… If they’d come out when they’d figured themselves out… They were such an idiot. All this wasted time. The tension the worries. Uncle Logan’s face softened, clearly sensing the inner turmoil in Janus. "Virgil probably didn't want to out me without my permission. And asking your father such a question... it is rather awkward I would say.” That was not what Janus had been thinking about. And he was sure that respecting his father’s privacy was not the only reason Virgil had been hesitant. Janus had their answers now though. And they’d already bothered their uncle and his partner more than enough. They nodded. “Yes, you are probably right… I’ll see him when he gets back then. Have a nice evening,” they bid before heading to his house.

The end of the week came. Janice got dressed in a cute outfit hidden under a long sweater, they planned to take off once they had privacy in Virgil’s room and had properly apologized and explained themself. Then they’d let Virgil see them as Janice and explain the fact that they were aromatic to him. It had to be tonight. Janice’s parents had reminded them they’d travel to Europe for a wedding turned family trip. Janice’s parents had immigrated to America from France before Janus was born. Which meant that they only saw their family in person for special occasions, like their cousin’s wedding. And when they did they made sure to visit and catch up with both sides of the family tree. So Janice had to tell Virgil now, or wait until they were back in august. They really wanted to tell him now. That way their friend would have time to think over their apology and their confession and they could talk more about it when they returned. They saw Virgil arrive and leave with his dad almost immediately. They might be going out to catch up? It was fine. Janice hadn’t expected to talk to Virgil the second he got home anyway. So after dinner that night they went over to the neighbor’s house and rang the bell. “Oh… Janus. What brings you here?” Uncle Logan asked surprised. It was… Odd. He seemed almost tense… Maybe Virgil hadn’t had a good time at camp? They’d ask about it later. “Hi, uncle Lo. I came by to say hi to Virgil. If that’s alright?” they asked carefully. Uncle Lo hesitated. “I’m sorry Janus. But Virgil went straight to his room after dinner. Camp was pretty exhausting apparently.” Janice nodded. They understood. “Oh… Ok. Tell him I wanted to say hi. We’ll be leaving to visit family in France early in the morning. We won’t be back until August. I’ll see him after. Have a good evening,” they told him disappointedly. Of course. Of course after all the missed chances, now that they finally got their act together, the world was conspiring against them. Because even after they got back it seemed like Virgil was always out when they tried to reach him. Janus regularly took out their phone and almost texted him to ask if he could keep a few minutes free for them. But they couldn’t figure out a way to ask that didn’t seem controlling or clingy. When had they forgotten how to ask something like a normal person? Or were they overthinking it?

In the end, the solution to their problem came through an announcement from the school on the last day of summer. Assembly day. They didn’t even read the full announcement. Janus never skipped, but if there was one day they would consider it, it was assembly days. In this case it meant that they could meet Virgil and talk all day if that was what it took. They sent Virgil a text right away. ‘Skipping assembly. Meet me @ <3 swings 9am?’ There, not too forceful, not too clingy. Just one friend asking another to hang out at their favorite spot in the neighborhood. It was called the lovers swings by most people because it was secluded and supposedly romantic. People rarely came there. It was a perfect place to have a private conversation. Virgil didn’t answer, but that usually meant he agreed… Still Janus wondered all day if they should text Virgil to confirm their plans. No. Virgil had read the text. So he’d be there. No need to be pushy when you are going to apologize for just that. The next day they woke up and knew right away, it was a Janice day again. Which meant that once again they had a chance to introduce Virgil to that part of themselves face to face. They did their nails, dressed up cute, hid it with a long sweater and let their hair down. After breakfast they packed their makeup and headed to the swings. Once there they applied it as best they could while looking in a pocket mirror. They were quite happy with the result. They were ready to show Virgil who they were. But Virgil didn’t come.

Eventually they had to accept that Virgil hadn’t replied because he hadn’t planned on coming and probably didn’t want Janice to be difficult about it… That was fair. They probably deserved as much after how they’d acted the past two years. They took out a sponge and make up remover and got rid of the most obvious stuff before heading to school. They might catch Virgil at lunch and get him to listen to the apology at least. The rest could wait for a little longer… But when they arrived at the cafeteria, they spotted Virgil, talking to Castile. Virgil had his back turned towards Janice. Castile on the other hand was in full view. Smiling awkwardly, fidgeting… What was going on? What were they talking about…? They could feel a storm of emotion warring inside them. All trying to get the upper hand. Attraction for the two boys he was looking at, anger, jealousy and fear. They tried to get a hold of them, to push it down. Suddenly they felt something snap, as if something had given out under their weight, but they weren’t falling. They blinked and then the ceiling lamp was on the ground. Virgil and Castile a few feet away from it. What just happened? How… Had… Had they done that somehow? Their eyes took in the figures laying on top of one another. Watched as they got up. They let out a sigh of relief as they saw they seemed unharmed and took off. Before anyone could spot them. Not realizing someone already had. That evening, when they finally calmed down they sent out a text. “Sry bout what happened 2day. Will U B @ schl 2mrw?” There, simple and to the point. They were called down for dinner, which saved them the torture of staring at a screen, waiting for a reply. When they headed back to their room a bit later, they got a text. “M fine thx. C U there.” Janice felt relief flood them. Finally, an end to the radio silence. It made them feel a bit better about tomorrow. Tomorrow they’d tell Virgil everything… Or, they thought back to what happened in the cafeteria… almost everything.

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[hazbbyhaz]

sleepless || harry styles

eight

pairing: Harry Styles x OC

synopsis: a night out on the town

disclaimer: cursing, bars

Forever is composed of nows

Avery watched Harry decline the incoming call without a second thought. “We should get going.” He said, already making his way to the door. She quickly grabbed her keys and her coat before following him out of the flat. There was something impatient and troublesome about his presence as he waited for her to lock her front door.

“How are we getting there?”

“We drive.” He must be a damn good photographer if he could afford a car. As if he could read her mind, he soon spoke, “The car’s not mine, It's my uncles.”

The vehicle was small but cute. It seemed to fit him well. During the drive to the club, Harry was rather quiet and closed off. Later saying that his friends were already there, quickly assuming she still remembered them from his birthday

“So, you're a photographer, right? What do you photograph?”

“I like black and white photographs,” He said. He stopped to think about what he was going to say next before he continued. “When I got into photography I used to just take pictures of my friends without them noticing. Then I moved on to public transport, parties, concerts. All those places where you can catch a glimpse of people's souls. I quickly threw out all of my colored films and switched to black and white. There's something so much more vulnerable and secretive about it…”

“I like that.” She imagines Harry with a camera in his hand, spending his days in London looking for the mystery in every person who passed him.

He gave her a small smile, which did not reach all the way up to his eyes. “Me too. However, I can't make my money with that. It's not good enough to stand on its own, so I work for a modeling agency as a photographer. It's not bad, they pay good enough but it also shows me just how much I hate staged photographs. What about you then? What's your passion?”

She shrugged, moving her gaze to the front. “Writing, I guess.” The truth was, she had no idea. In her opinion, it was too hard for her to organize all of her thoughts inside of her head, let alone sit down to put them to paper. She wanted to be a writer. She did. It was one of the only things she really wanted, but she knew she didn't have the talent or skill set for it.

“So you want to be a journalist? Or a writer?” Harry asked. She struggled with finding an answer since nobody had ever shown that much real, genuine interest in her.

“Just a writer, I think… but journalism sounds nice too.” In reality, she'd like to tell him that she didn't know what to do. Tell him that she was lost. Completely and utterly lost. In her childhood, she was never given the chance to find her talents or develop specific abilities. She had never shown her work to anyone, only submitting a handful of short stories to magazines just to receive no reply in return.

“Can you tell me more about your photographs?’’

He grinned and told Avery more. He spoke with so much emotion that Avery found herself wondering if she had sounded the same when she talked about writing. Most likely not. I felt like he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how to capture an image and turn it into the most wonderful masterpiece.

Soon after, the club came in sight. Harry parked the car at the side of the road, and as they were getting out, a sudden wave of exhaustion overcame her. Just thinking about meeting his friends, for real this time, made her mind so tired, “You ready?”

“Sure.”

Avery had never been much of a club person, always liking the warmer feeling a pub provided. She didn't like the loud music, the overwhelming smell of pure sweat, and just the overall pace of it all. She felt like everything went so much faster. Harry helped her take off her coat as they got inside. Despite her objections, he paid for both entries, emitting a small chuckle when she tried to argue with him.

The entire place was filled with people and the music was being managed by a DJ in the back of the room. Different colored lights flashed and moved through the crowd. Harry soon took her hand into his own, leading her through the crowd, and down a small flight of stairs to a much quieter area.

The brunette girl was the first person Avery spotted. “Emily, How are you? Why are you down here?” Harry greeted her with a hug, letting go of Avery's hand in the process. “Not bad, the DJ is kinda wack.”

“Well, look who's talking. The girl who said we HAD to come here.” A guy standing close by said, mimicking Emily.

“Shut up, George.” Harry greeted the others. Some of them she recognized from the party and some she didn't.

“This is Avery.” He introduced her and all of his friends' eyes stopped on her for a moment, looking her up and down, making her feel like a rat on a doctor’s table.

“Nice to see you again,” Emily said, the others nodded in her direction, but a second later all of their attention was back on Emily. She let out a dramatic sigh, “So, what are we going to do? Stay here, or go somewhere else?”

“I vote that we stay here.” A rather tall man, Harry had introduced as James, said. The brunette rolled her eyes, all of them making their way to the dance floor nonetheless, George making it his responsibility to get drinks for everybody.

It was hard for Avery to enjoy herself. She felt incredibly awkward while dancing, or trying to anyway. All the others had some type of rhythm in their blood, while she was desperately trying her best. Once “Low” by Flo Rida started to pour out of the speakers, she made a mad dash to the bathroom, staying there until the song was finished. Harry didn't drink, as he had to drive them both back afterward, so Avery did the same. Wanting to avoid all possible realms of embarrassment.

He gave her a small backstory of his mates. James has very rich parents, his dad paying his way through law school just so he can tell his colleagues that his son is a successful lawyer. James has a twin brother named Jasper, he ended up leaving home the first chance he got. George is a failed musician who has the entire second verse of Piano Man tattooed on his ass. Emily is into fashion, but she lost per passion for it after she got rejected from a school in Amsterdam. They all seemed to be on some kind of path. Every one of them working their way to the future, attempting to reach some sort of goal.

And Harry had taken photos of all of it. Documenting their entire lives as these individuals. He had taken photos of James passed out on the floor with numerous textbooks open around him, all just to live up to his father's standards. There were pictures of George playing the piano in many different pubs, several pints sitting atop the instrument while his friends listened to him play a tune. A few were taken of Emily hard at work, sat by her sewing machine, or window shopping at nearby second-hand dress shops. And when Jasper was around, there were a couple of him trying to learn how to juggle, the instructions given to him by a homeless man.

Their lives had been documented in a way so utterly beautiful. Photographs were taken in moments that seemed worth freezing. Moments that a curly-headed boy thought deserved to be remembered forever. Knowing all of this made Avery feel so unexplainably lonely, especially while being in their company.

“Did you have fun?” They had made it back to the car at 2 am. Harry took a quick look back, seeing all of his friends laughing, and stumbling while making their way back home.

“Yes, thank you for inviting me.”

“My pleasure. What are you going to do when you get home?” He backed out and drove onto the main road.

“Probably make a couple of cups of coffee.” She still hadn't made it out to the grocery to pick up more tea.

“You don't sleep often, huh?”

“What makes you think that?” The answer was obvious.

“You look tired a lot. Why don't you sleep?” Avery ignores his assumption. She wasn't offended, it was easy to assume without being incorrect.

“I don't like it,” She shrugged, feeling like a child. “I prefer to stay awake.” Avery could tell that he wanted to ask more questions. She would have been fine with this, but at this point, she was beyond exhausted and couldn't handle giving any more answers. “Can I ask you a question?’’

“Shoot.”

She waited a moment before continuing. Not for dramatic effect, just to figure out how she wanted to go about it. “What do you dream of?”

Harry's eyebrows pulled together, and he looked her way. “Uhm… I guess making a living off my-”

“No,” She quickly stopped him. “I mean… When you fall asleep at night. What do you dream of?”

“Oh… I don't know. I forget most of the time when I wake up, but last week I dreamed I had adopted a puppy and he ran away the second day I had him. I oddly enough didn't mind that he had run away. He ended up coming back on the third day. Quite random, but that was that… Why are you asking me this?”

Avery smiled at the description of his dream. So innocent and childlike. He didn't have to worry about what would appear before him when he fell asleep, and she was glad that he didn't have to. “No reason.”

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[sunshinesholland]

the one (and all the others) [2] | t.h.

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Word count: 5.35k

Warnings: swearing, angst/pining, allusion to abusive past relationships, PTSD mention

Summary: It’s possible Tom would have outgrown the crush, but after one night where feelings were confessed and tears were shed, everything changed. And the worst of it all is that the two of you don’t talk about it, or even acknowledge that it happened. But that’s how it always goes right? It’s good until it’s not.

A/N: This part is a flashback to the night Tom alludes to in part one (see summary above). This is just some exposition to explain their relationship and past. I also just want to say a huge thank you for such a great reaction to my writing so far. It’s something I used to be so passionate about and it feels lovely to get back into it :) Let me know your thoughts, or if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

part one || part two || part three

eighteen months ago

Tom and you are sat on the couch, tangled up in your favorite blanket with Iron Man 2 playing in the background. Zendaya is away on a family trip, so naturally you and Tom are spending the whole weekend watching your favorite movies and eating lots of takeout. It’s not too different from your usual time spent together, but it’s always nice to not feel like you’re bugging her. You’re about tell him the things you’ve learned in your psychology class this week, but instead he’s trying to get you to thumb wrestle him, determined to win. 

“Okay, you know what? You’re the one who wanted to watch this movie! The second one isn’t even my favorite and now you’re thumb wrestling me instead of even watching it,” you say exasperated, though the grin on your face shows you’re enjoying your time together all the same.

“Well, you’re the one that wanted to talk instead of watch so technically this is all your fault. I just want something to do while you tell me about… about, uh,” he pauses, long enough for you to tuck his thumb under yours.

“About arousal theory,” you finish, knowing he won’t remember what you’ve been trying to tell him the past five minutes.

“Oh, now all of a sudden I’m interested, continue,” he grins at you, putting his hand under his chin to (dramatically) show he’s averted his full attention to you.

“If you were paying attention, you would know that’s not at all what that means, Tommy,” you laugh, and face away from him to watch the movie.

“Well, if it was maybe then--” he’s cut off by your phone ringing and vibrating on the coffee table. 

The caller ID shows a picture of your friend George that lights up the screen. Since most people don’t opt for calling, especially in your friend group, you answer quickly. 

“Hello?” You question, nervous something’s wrong with him or another of your friends.

“Y/N!” He excitedly shouts in your ear, so much so that you have to take it away from your ear. At least now you know there’s nothing wrong but your bleeding eardrums.

“I tried calling Tom’s phone but it went straight to voicemail! I’ve got some exciting news and I figured he’s with you though, yeah?” He continues to shout over the noise on his side. 

“I’ll put you on speakerphone,” you reply and do just that, before you place it on the coffee table. 

“Is there a congratulations in order?” Tom asks, a knowing smile on his face. You look at Tom, confused as to what he is talking about.

“Hell yeah there is! She cried and I cried but she said yes! Her family is over right now but the whole gang is coming over for celebratory drinks later, are ya in?” George asks, and you quickly connect the dots.

“Wait, you proposed to Gwen?! And you didn’t tell me? And more importantly, you didn’t ask for my help?” You question in quick succession, because as resident hopeless romantic, you should really be the first one your friends come to for things like this. 

You then turn to Tom who’s chuckling at your excitement, and now you’re yelling at him, “but you knew? And didn’t tell me either?!” 

You chuck a pillow at him, which he dodges before laughing harder at. He ignores you and leans towards the phone to reply to George’s invitation.

“We’ll be there, George. Just text me the details, oh and tell Gwen she’s a div for saying yes,” Tom replies, laughing when George replies with a ‘sure thing!’ before hanging up. He’s so excited he didn’t even register Tom’s comment as a jab, or needing a comeback (which is especially amusing considering how quippy George usually is). 

Gwen and George are a few years older than the rest of your friend group, so you’re a little unsynchronized in your points in life but they’re close friends with you all nonetheless. They have been going out since before anyone in your group has known them. They’re high school sweethearts, best friends, lovers and everything in between. They’ve been through so much in all their time together. They had been told they would never last for the first four years of their relationship. When they ended up on opposite coasts since George left to a startup business and Gwen stayed home to go to culinary school, they were told that one of them would cheat if they didn’t get bored of the distance and each other before then. When they ended up on the same coast in recent years, people assumed Gwen wouldn’t want to stay with him as he wasn’t making much money and had yet to pop the question. Neither Gwen or George paid any mind to any opinions or judgements and were happy taking their time. They were secure with where they were at and whether a shiny ring on her finger and piece of paper happened tomorrow or years in the future, it didn’t matter to either of them when it happened when they knew how they felt.

Now two years later, George’s business has taken off, they live upstate in a nice apartment with their sweet little French bulldog and they’re stable enough to plan the big, romantic wedding they both want. It’s heartwarming every time either of them tells you about their story, or talks about each other at all. Which is why you’re pissed you’re only finding out now. 

“I cannot believe you didn’t even tell me,” you mumble, crossing your arms across your chest with your eyes trained on the TV, “you’re shit at keeping secrets, but this one you decide to not tell me.”

“You’re just jealous that he came to me advice rather than you,” he grins, laying his head in your lap to look up at you.

“Well yeah! You’re not even into all that lovey-dovey, romantic stuff, I am. When you dated that girl last year you couldn’t even think of a gift to give her for Christmas, I had to pick one out. And Harry said you never even said ‘I love you’ to any of your girlfriends growing up and I’ve never heard you say that either.” you pout at the TV, despite not paying attention because it’s just your excuse to not look down at him.

Except that he is into all that lovey-dovey stuff. Or at least he has been since he met you. It’s cheesy, but it’s like you’ve lent him the rose-colored glasses you see the world through and he’s eternally grateful for it. Of course, it helps that he’s in love with you and watching you admire romance and the idea of a fairytale ending is enough to make anyone fall just as hard as he has. But all of that is just too heavy considering you’ve only recently returned to your usual self. Tom can’t be selfish and risk hurting you when you’ve only just begun to heal from your shitty ex-boyfriend. What you need now is your friend and so instead of any declaration of love, he jokes with you. 

“Guess the ladies love me because I love hard enough in other ways,” he says, winking at you.

“I live across the hall, so I know definitely not hard enough, Holland” you retort back, grabbing the last pillow on the couch to throw at his face. 

--

The both of you are in Tom’s car, on the way to Gwen and George’s apartment. The setting sun streams through the passing trees, while Tom’s playlist (the one full of all the songs you like, that he’ll always deny was made specifically for you) plays throughout the car. 

Tom glances at you as you lean your head against the window. You’ve been silent the whole car ride. Not singing along to your favorite song or blabbering about the romance of the engagement, which is unbelievably out of character. He turns down the volume on the stereo so it’s quiet enough to hear the wind whip against the car.

“What’s on your mind?” He questions, sneaking a glance at you before returning his eyes to the road, pulling onto their street.

You don’t say anything for a few minutes, making him think you didn’t hear him. He pulls into a parking spot, thankful for not having to parallel park, and is about to repeat the question when you finally reply.

“Nothing important.” You say and of course Tom doesn’t believe it. Before he can question the honesty of your reply, you’re opening the passenger door and beginning to walk up to their apartment. 

Tom takes the keys out of the ignition and exits the car, quick to catch up to you. It's colder upstate, allowing the snow to form a thick blanket on the ground. It’s fresh and fluffy, effectively dampening all ambient sound outside. While he really wants to ask you again, he can tell you’re not ready to talk yet so he stays silent on the walk up to the apartment building as well as the elevator ride up.

You reach to knock on the door, greeted immediately by George. 

“Hey guys! I’m glad you could make it,” he smiles, practically beaming. They’ve both always known it was in the cards for them to get engaged and of course married, but damn if he wasn’t ecstatic about it finally happening.

“Gwen’s in the living room, on her fourth glass of champagne so naturally she’s already started her own acapella concert in there,” he tells you, looking absolutely smitten just thinking about his future bride, even as a drunk, goofy mess.

“Oh, and Jacob brought some celebratory cigars and since you were such a huge part in helping me plan this, I’d love if you’d join me for one,” George offers Tom.

Tom looks towards you, not wanting to leave when your mood seems off like this. He doesn’t want to flat out say no to George, but you can tell this is his silent way of asking.

“You can go, I’m gonna go see Gwen. I hate the smell of them anyways,” you reassure him with a smile and congratulate George before walking through the apartment to find her.

Gwen is surrounded by people talking to her and congratulating her but as soon as she sees you, she comes running.

“Y/N! Hi! I’m engaged!” She shouts despite the music not being at a loud volume, champagne in one hand and flashing the other with the ring on it at you.

“I know you did, that’s why I came,” you reply with a smile, leaning in to greet your tipsy friend with a hug.

For a while you’re chatting with her and some other friends, not really as energetic as you would be but most people have been here longer than you and are already a little tipsy, so no one notices. You’re in the middle of half-listening to one of Gwen’s co-workers tell all of you about their upcoming trip to somewhere you don’t really care about, when a hand is placed on your back. 

“Do you mind if I steal Y/N away from you for a moment?” He asks and he’s behind you but you can just tell he’s got on a charming smile (but isn’t it always charming to you?)

All of the intoxicated girls grin at his English accent and endearing smile, nodding simultaneously and encouraging him to take you away. You think one may have even said ‘hell, you can take me!’, but regardless, Tom utters a thank you regardless. With his hand in yours, he leads you through the apartment and onto the balcony. The smell of cigar smoke lingers outside and the night air is chilling against your bare arms, having left your jacket inside.

“You brought me away from friends, free booze and the warmth of the indoors to… have me smell some cigar smoke?” You joke, arms hugging yourself in an attempt to keep warm.

“You’re being weird,” he replies before sliding glass door shut, blocking out the music and talking from inside. 

“Excuse me?” You question, furrowing your eyebrows at him, “so you’re gonna force me to be cold, smell cigar smoke, and call me weird? I’m going inside then.”

“Okay I’m sorry for saying you’re being weird,” he says quickly, “But, can you please sit down with me? You can even have my jacket,” he offers, and shrugs it off to hand to you.

You eye the jacket, then the table, before grabbing his coat and sitting down. Bundling yourself up in his warm jacket, the smoke scent lingers on his coat, but it's mixed with his familiar cologne and that’s enough to be comforting. 

“I just, I really love engagements and romance and I realize I haven’t really been excited for two of my closest friends when that’s all tonight is about. It’s just kind of weird behavior on my part and I wanted to talk to you about it,” Tom replies dramatically (the damned acting major).

You look down at the table because you know exactly what he’s doing. Really, it’s hard not to, he knows how stubborn you are and reads you better than anyone, so voices his concern this way. If he says something flat out, you don’t really have a chance to deny it.

“Oh, no wait. That’s you.” He finishes his sentence and pulls out the chair on the opposite side of the table to sit down in.

“Haha, that never gets old.” You reply sarcastically, running your fingers across the glass that covers the top of the table.

He places his hand atop of yours, stilling your movements. You look up to him, unblinking and expressionless. 

“Really, N/N what’s wrong? You were excited earlier and you’re practically the president of the Gwen/George fan club so if you don’t get excited, they’re going to find another leader.” He jokes but stops when you don’t smile.

“It’s nothing,” you reply, biting at your cheek. You’re trying your best to not rain on their parade, and no one notices but Tom. But if he keeps pushing, you’re not going to be able to hold your stupid emotions in. 

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” he reprimands, squeezing your hand, “you know you can tell me anything.”

You look at the closed door and no one else is out here, or paying attention and Tom is your best friend, and maybe if you talk about it, you’ll be able to enjoy the party.

“Sometimes I just worry it will never happen for me,” you start, looking down at your hands, “getting married I mean. Or anything relatively close, like finding someone who loves me long enough to even stay more than a few months…”

“And I know I’m only 23, and they’re 28 so they’re at a different point in their life and they’ve been going out forever but..” you pause, and Tom doesn’t interrupt, just listens. 

“After what happened with him, I’m scared of ever trying again. More than that, I think I just feel like that maybe that’s the best I’ll ever get, or even deserve,” you finish, with tears welling up in your eyes, and you look away, out over the balcony. 

Tom gets up and you close your eyes, letting the tears fall because maybe he thinks you’re selfish for making this night about you somehow and he’s leaving. But instead, he pulls you up out of the chair and brings you to his chest and holds you tightly. You stay like that for a while, until the tears slow to a stop and your breathing has slowed to normal. 

“Why would you ever think that’s the best you’ll get?” he asks and you look up at him, expecting some sort of joke because there’s no way he’s serious. 

“Why wouldn’t I? I must deserve it in some regard after how deeply and unapologetically he hurt me. After all that happened and how long it went on for, it's hard not to think somehow, it’s my fault. I must have done something wrong.” The tears are welling in your eyes again, threatening to fall.

“You cannot seriously believe that,” He softly rubs his hands up and down your arms, “hey, look at me.”

He puts his hand under your chin, lifting it so your eyes meet his. 

“Why would you ever think you deserve the kind of treatment he gave you?” He questions, and then repeats himself when you don’t answer, gingerly as though speaking too loud would scare you away.

“He wasn’t all bad,” you reply meekly, biting the inside of your cheek, “sometimes he--”

Tom cuts you off, “No, there’s no ‘sometimes’ for treating someone you’re supposed to love well, it’s not something you need to earn or something that’s rationed. He was a dick all the time, he just pretended not to be sometimes to manipulate you into staying.” 

Your heart throbs at the blunt veracity of his words. Deep, deep down, under everything that has happened, all of the trauma and damage done, you know it’s true. Internally you’ve just been at a constant tug of war, trying to rationalize all that happened. Was he in love with you at all? Did you do something to make him hurt you like he did? Could you have fixed him? Was he good under it all and just hurting? Did you imagine it all? Were you not good enough in the end, even for him? 

“Why manipulate me into staying if he was the one who ended up leaving in the end?” you question, and his own heart hurts at your words.

Tom’s not sure what to say because he saw your ex leave you and come back so many times. Saw how it slowly chipped away at you each time. When someone does that to you, time and time again, it takes away all your power. You feel helpless and like you can’t go on and the only thing you can do is wait for them to come back. While all of that makes Tom furious, and he wishes you were the one who dumped that asshole because he deserved it, he instead says what will best comfort you.

“Because he’s a blind idiot. But it’s probably the kindest thing he’s done your whole relationship,” he replies, before moving his hand from under your chin to your face, his thumb stroking your cheek, “and I know that sounds insensitive because you hurt for so long and you’re just getting over it, but it’s true.” 

“You’ll find someone who fulfills all of those fairytale expectations, because you shouldn't settle for less and you don’t have to. Someone who is kind, and cares for you, and appreciates everything you are and have to offer. I’m not saying it will take away all the hurt you have felt, but they will love you so deeply that you’ll wonder how you ever thought you deserved any less,” he promises, leaning forward to press his forehead to yours.

He wants to say he’s that someone, confess the way he felt about you since the very beginning but that’s not what you need now. Instead he gives you one last squeeze and brings you down inside, out of the cold. He’s gotten you to at least talk about it and that at least means you won’t hide yourself away, hurting and staying silent in an attempt to not burden anyone. Not that you could ever be a burden, not to Tom.

It hurts a little less when you have someone like Tom by your side. Maybe people look at you two and think he’s suffering from white knight syndrome, like you need to rescued because you’re a damsel in distress. Maybe they think you love him because he’s doing the saving and you love him for such a shallow reason. Except it’s not that, you’re just healing on your own with your best friend being there to support you and love you. It is deeper than a fleeting attraction because someone has helped you. This love is patient, kind and unwavering. As cheesy as it sounds, Tom is someone you fell for slowly, and then all at once. You went to bed one night thinking of him as your best friend and woke up the next with the thought crossing your mind while you were in the shower; ‘I love my best friend so much’ and by the time you were done rinsing away your shampoo, you realized ‘shit, I love him’.

After that it was all you could think of for weeks, noticing all the ways he cared for you. Something as simple as asking if you had gotten enough sleep last night or giving you the cherry from his drinks because you love them so much. The way he locks eyes with you in a boring lecture to make sure you’re awake, the way his hand immediately grabs yours in crowds. Picking up your favorite chips when he goes grocery shopping, just so he always has them in the cupboard for you even though he doesn’t like them. The way he doesn’t just tolerate the things you like, and he doesn’t but gets excited for them simply because he likes seeing you enjoy things. The two of you are the other’s first person to tell both good and bad news alike to. The two of you may fight but neither of you are too embarrassed to admit you’re in the wrong to the other. He makes mundane things like getting gas or going grocery shopping entertaining. While you should be scared of him leaving or being hurt again, you’ve trusted him for so long with matters regarding your heart, it only seems right that he’s the one you trust to hold your it and not harm it. But you don’t want him to think he’s a rebound from the man who’s broken your heart only months ago, because it is so much deeper than that. Your love for him is so much deeper than that. So, you keep quiet, loving him silently.

You both have fallen so deeply into each other, but both too worried about caring for the other to say anything and tonight isn’t any different. The rest of the night is spent celebrating your friends’ engagement: dancing and drinking the night away. The two of you exchange longing glances throughout the entire evening, scared to break the silence regarding your feelings.

—

Tom pulls into your own apartment complex, parking before glancing over at you. Your eyes closed, mouth slightly opened, high heels in your lap while you’re curled up in the passenger seat. Tom unbuckles, reaching his hand over to softly shake your shoulder in an attempt to wake you gently. You continue your slumber, unphased by his disturbance.

“Y/N,” he calls softly. You’re still sleeping soundly, and you look so peaceful that Tom can’t help but reach over and tuck your hair behind your ear, letting his hand linger there.

Out of all the ways you could wake up, this could very well be the creepiest way to, Tom thinks. His thought must have manifested it because your eyes flutter open slowly. While he thinks to withdraw his hand and pretend he wasn’t just thinking about how breathtaking his best friend is (and how in love with her he is), you instead lean into his hand.

“Mm, hello,” you mumble, blinking to adjust to the darkness of the car. The few streetlights lining the parking lot let in just enough light for you to see his lovely face. Tom hasn’t shut off the car yet so heat is still on and his (really, your) playlist continues playing at a low volume.

“We’re home,” he says gently, trying not to be too loud as you shake off the effects of sleep.

The words make you feel warm, hearing him say ‘home’, despite the fact that you’ve definitely referred to the general complex as ‘home’ before. Maybe it’s just the circumstances; him waking you up tenderly from a night spent out together, like you’re lovers and he’s waking you so you can go inside to the bed you both share.

“Oh, okay,” you reply, rubbing at your eyes despite the presence of makeup.

“Want me to carry you up?” He asks, innocently enough. Except that it just furthers that fantasy of being together: being carried up to your home together.

“I mean, because you’re tired and you’ve had a bit to drink everything,” he quickly adds, “and I know they’re the lace up ones and you hate doing them up.” He points to the heels in your lap.

Of course, he’s just being his usual sweet self. He’s heard you complain about these shoes enough and knows the only reason you wear them is because you say the way they look is worth the effort. But he also knows when you’re drunk and the shoes come off, you’re past the point of no return and you’ll only ever get less put together, not more. Because he remembers things like that.

The thudding in your chest quiets a little, “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

He turns off the car and gets out to walk around to your side. He opens the passenger door and grabs your shoes from you and allows you to wrap your hands around his neck. He adjusts his hold on you so he’s carrying you bridal style (great, that helps your romantic mindset) and you bury your face into his chest, telling yourself its only to shield your eyes from the change in lighting. He places you on the floor, since you’re safe from the slushy snow outside now. While he wishes he could have you in his arms the whole way up, there’s no reason for it and it would look strange since you’re just friends.

You walk barefoot beside him to the elevator, both of you silent on your way up. You’ve managed to make it home before 2 AM, but the hall and the whole complex is peacefully silent. When you reach your apartment, you both begin talking at the same time.

“I just wanted to say—”

“I hope you know—”

“Oh sorry, you go.”

“No, it’s okay, you go.”

You both laugh quietly as not to wake any of your neighbors, until Tom gestures for you to go ahead first.

“I just wanted to say thank you. For talking to me about everything tonight. And for not thinking I was absolutely awful to be thinking about myself during Gwen and George’s happy night,” you glance down at your bare feet, shy at tonight’s actions.

“You don’t have to apologize,” and he continues before you can interrupt, “you really don’t. I know you and so I know it wasn’t something you did out of selfishness.”

He reaches for your hand and holds it between you two, while the other reaches up to stroke your cheek, which you lean into again. It’s an intimate gesture he doesn’t usually do, but has managed twice tonight, and it feels like walking the line of friendship and lovers.

“You deserve so much better than anything he ever gave you, or anything anyone has ever given you. You deserve the world and I can’t believe you would ever think otherwise. I will always fight for your fairytale ending, even if you give up or think you don’t deserve it.”

Your heart swells and you want to thank him for all that he’s saying, but he only continues.

“I always want you to feel like you can talk to me, because I will always be here because I, I lo-“ he stops himself and your heart begins thudding again, because maybe he feels the same way you do.

“I-I look out for you. And you look out for me, right?” he finishes, his voice unsteady and you’re beyond disappointed.

You rest your hand atop the hand of his that cups your face.

Despite how nervous you feel, and how clammy your hands are getting and the thumping in your chest, you look into his eyes bravely and ask, “Tom, do you love me?”

“Of course I do, you’re my—”

“No. I am asking you; do you love me?”

When he doesn’t say yes, but he also doesn’t say no you decide to make the first move. You lean in to kiss him, but quickly his hands pull out of yours, pressing gently against your shoulders. Your brain goes into full panic mode: you cannot believe you misread the signals so badly, you cannot believe you tried to kiss your best friend. You turn away from him, fumbling with your keys and shoving the apartment key into the lock, shoving it in, scrambling to escape from this mess.

Tom certainly isn’t drunk since he had to drive home but the emotion bubbling inside of his chest is far more intoxicating than any amount of alcohol could be. He’s grasping at words, trying to try to express what he’s feeling right now but his thoughts are jumbled and clouded.

“Y/N,” he breathes out, walking to follow you into your apartment, desperate to explain himself.

Your turn around, pressing your hand against his chest, leaving it there for a moment, not meeting his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to hold your hands or assure you in any way, so you turn around to enter your apartment. You close the door softly and turn the lock, and maybe that’s scarier than you slamming the door in anger. You press your forehead to the door, eyes closed and attempting not to feel all that you are right now, as deeply as you are. You could not be more thankful for Zendaya’s family trip as she is unable to see the stupid attempt at an advance. She is not here to pretend that what you did wasn’t stupid, or that you didn’t make the biggest mistake.

You’re frustrated and annoyed that you’re hurting like this. You’re frustrated that you were stupid enough to think you’re not a broken mess, that you’re deserving of him, of love. Of course he doesn’t want anything more than friendship from you, he’s seen the train wreck that is your love life. Why would he willingly dive into that mess?  To soften the ache in your heart you tell yourself that it’s better this way, you tell yourself you haven’t felt this way for as long as you have, that it's just the alcohol and the influence of the romance of your friend’s engagement. You pretend that you don’t feign sleep on Saturday mornings to stay in his arms just a little bit longer. Those longing glances at him from across the room at parties or class don’t happen. Even more, the times where he catches you and smiles before joining you, and makes you laugh and nothing else matters doesn’t happen either. All those times he comforts you and says things that straddle that line of friendship, and you just so badly want to say something back or kiss him, those don’t happen either. You’re friends and that’s it. Friendship is safer, it won’t end in your heart broken, and a little bit of Tom in that way is better than all of him romantically. You’ll settle for loving him softly and quietly, like a friend would, and you ignore the way your chest hurts like you’ve just lost the love of your life as you fall asleep that night.

Tom is left outside of your door, stunned at all that has happened. You are hurt, alone and without your best friend and the fact that he is the cause of it is what hurts him the most. He may have had a few drinks (and barely slept that night), he remembers it vividly. He doesn’t for a moment question the authenticity of his memories when you pretend like nothing happened the next day. 

Taglist: @averyfosterthoughts @martinafigoli​

[mytargaryenchildren]

How a historical analysis might help reconsider the need to accept Game of Thrones’ TV ending

I’m dedicating this post to @bendthekneejon ❤️

I wrote this weeks ago but real life got in the way of finalizing it, but here you go. Almost 2 months later and I’m still angry about the Game of Thrones ending. And here’s how I am getting over it.

Most people I see online have been upset about the way the Game of Thrones TV show ended, including me. I have been a mega fan since 2013, read the books, spent a lot of money traveling to filming locations and on cosplay, went out of my way to meet Kit Harington, but most importantly I have used the story of ASOIAF as escapism for these past 6 years. It’s so ingrained in my daily imagination, so it’s been really difficult to come to terms with the butchering of characters and their arcs, sexist/racist writing, and an overall unsatisfying ending that we got just for the sake of ‘subverting expectations’.

To come to terms with my disregard for Season 8, I was thinking about a lecture I attended back in 2018 at my undergraduate university by Ayelet Haimson Lushkov. She wrote You Win or You Die: The Ancient World of Game of Thrones as a comparison of the events and tropes within ASOIAF with ancient Roman and Greek history. Usually, the comparison is made with medieval Britain or European history, but I found many of the parallels, especially from Essos, to be more interesting than the typical feudalist reading of ASOIAF that we get by historians. That’s not my main point here, though I would definitely check her book out if you’re a fan of history and ASOIAF like me. My main point is how to reconcile David and Dan’s ending or George R. R. Martin’s future ending with an actual satisfying end, and how modern fandom culture is actually the perfect way to bridge this gap.

Lushkov spoke about the formation of ‘canon’ in this lecture.  She explained how interesting it is how exactly ASOIAF canon has come to be: one author began it, which would usually be considered the one and only ‘true’ canon of a certain media. However, when it went to D&D and HBO, especially once they surpassed George’s books, that canon splintered into two. There’s book and show canon. Up until season 8 I was a fan of both; I liked each one for different reasons. I saw it as getting two separate stories told by two different entities, just using the same characters. In my heart I never preferred one over the other, I saw them as two different canons, two stories. I’m arguing that this is how we must think of the world of ASOIAF now. The book and show are completely different stories, and should remain that way. HOWEVER I’m taking it a step further.

Fandoms are just an authoritative source of canon as the ‘original’ creators. There, I said it. Now, let me explain this view by using Lushkov’s explanation. Because she looked into classical history, she naturally used Homer’s epic poems as a source to compare the content of ASOIAF with. Then she made the parallel, or reverse parallel, with the formation of these stories. First, it is important to understand the theories around Homer. “There are scholars who see (most of) the Iliad and sometimes the Odyssey as the work of a single inspired poet, a genius whom they call Homer.” In my parallel, this theory reflects GRRM and most singular content creators. However, the other argument helps my view, that “the Homeric poems are the product of a long series of compositions and re-compositions,” where “Homer is seen as a ‘movement’ rather than as an individual”. This theory states that the Greek Epics were compiled over time, by many people, until eventually it became one single canon. This isn’t only applicable to Greek poetry. Let’s look at where the word ‘canon’ comes from: religion. The Bible for example was written over time by different contributors into one eventual canon that’s followed by millions today. Each of the four gospels has its own version of the story of Christ, and even they differ from one another within canon!

So, why is this important? What does it have to do with the ending of Game of Thrones? Well, what I’m saying is that if we all agree that Game of Thrones season 8 was the worst thing to happen to the world of ASOIAF, we can throw it out the window of canon if we want. By reversing the formation of canon, us fans have just as much authority over it as David and Dan. Of course I’m not saying that every headcanon is 100% legitimate, no, but what I’m saying is that due to the widespread disdain and hatred for the ending, and overall agreement that it wasn’t up to the standards of the rest of canon, it’s acceptable for us to disregard it completely and feel no guilt in that. I don’t want anyone to say “no, I’m ignoring the final 3 episodes” and then to feel that underlying guilt or belief that you’re turning your back on a story you’ve loved for years. I know how much effort has been put into metas, theories, and fanfics. Some of you have spent way more time on this canon than D&D combined. It’s such a personal thing too, loving these characters, reflecting on our lives through them, and wanting to see them thrive. This analysis should help you disregard season 8 and feel justified about it under the definitions of canon.

Lushkov mentioned that modern fandom culture is so important in the acceptance of canon, and she was the one who suggested this reversal of roles. The definition of “Canon” is where my argument is strengthened: “Canon is a source, or sources, considered authoritative by the fannish community. In other words, canon is what fans agree "actually" happened in a film, television show, novel, comic book, or concert tour. Specific sources considered canon may vary even within a specific fandom.” Note the importance of fan’s acceptance in this definition. In Lushkov’s analysis, the fans play the same role as the original orators of the Greek epics before the Homer canon was solidified. Modern fandom is defined by many people sharing a story, and especially sharing extra content like metas and fanfics.

There’s a precedent for disregarding canon set already, though, and hopefully this can convince you more that you’re justified in throwing season 8 in the trash. When Disney bought Star Wars, they threw out everything that had been done in the Extended Universe and made up their own new canon. The Extended Universe was an example of one canon being created by one person, and then authors taking that and making their own additional stories in universe, that counted as canon. So, are all of their stories, their hard work, is it all invalid now? I wouldn’t say so. There’s just two separate canons now. Also, how many times have comic books been retconned? Just think about how many different superheros have 5 different film versions!  Creators ignore the past, or change it, and then new canon is accepted or not accepted by fans. I mentioned the Bible earlier; even THAT split into multiple Canons due to disdain for creators misusing canon! My years of studying Martin Luther have finally come in handy! Am I really comparing 1.5 million Game of Thrones fans signing a petition to remake season 8 to Martin Luther’s 95 Theses against the Catholic Church? You know what, yeah, yeah I am. 

If 1.5+ million people have signed the petition to remake Game of Thrones season 8, if 90% of the articles I see online hate the ending, if almost all of tumblr discourse says that the ending was gross and sexist and racist, well let’s throw it out the window. Clearly almost every character was acting out of character. The people we saw in the last 3 episodes of Game of Thrones were not the characters we grew to love in the previous 7.5 seasons.

I hope by pointing out real historical canons, as well as modern fandom interactions and media consumption, I’ve shown that the idea of one unifying ‘canon’ has never been as clear cut as one might hope. In this, I hope that everyone who is considering ignoring season 8 and turning to fanfiction to correct the mistakes made by David and Dan feels no remorse in doing so. GO FOR IT!! If Martin Luther could, you can too.  

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Epilogue

We’ll Meet Again by George deValier

50 Years Later… May, 1995

Arthur's back creaked in protest as he dragged himself up the stairs of the pub. It seemed like every day it got harder. One of these days, he told himself. One of these days he was going to install an elevator. He grumbled to himself as he finally reached the top and walked slowly into the living room. He fell heavily into his favourite armchair and looked across at Alfred, who sat watching the small television set absently. "One of these days I am going to install an elevator."

Alfred's lips twitched in a tiny smile. "You say that every day, Arthur."

"I mean it, too. Mail's here."

Alfred looked over, his eyes lighting up. "Ooh, what'd we get?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. He didn't know how Alfred managed to get so excited every day about something as simple as the mail arriving. He leafed through the pages and envelopes. "Just the newspaper and some catalogues. Oh, and a postcard from Matthew and Francis."

"Where are they now?"

"Cruising around the Spanish coast, can you believe it?" Arthur examined the postcard with a picture of a pristine beach on the front and Matthew's handwriting on the back. "When will they learn they're too old like the rest of us?"

"Hey, speak for yourself, old man."

Arthur ignored him with the practiced ease that only came after fifty years of living with a bloody irritating American. He leant back against the soft cushions and opened the newspaper. It was a special issue to celebrate the 50th VE Day, the 50th anniversary of the end of the war in Europe. Alfred had been invited to numerous ceremonies of course, but he never was one to make a big deal of these sorts of things. He had barely mentioned anything about the day and seemed quite content to simply watch the proceedings on television. Arthur focused on the newspaper. After flicking past a few articles on the end of the war and the current celebrations, he came to a page that made him pause in shock. "Well, blow me down."

"Hm?" asked Alfred vaguely, his eyes glued to the television set.

"You're in the paper!"

Alfred looked over, surprised. "What? Is it about the UFO sighting I reported last month?"

"No…"

"Is it about that cat I rescued from the tree out front last week?"

"No, Alfred…"

"It's not about that can of tomatoes I forgot to pay for at the supermarket is it, because I took them back and the girl was real nice and she swore she wouldn't get the police involved…"

"Alfred, shut up." Arthur held up the lift-out from the paper. Alfred leant forward and squinted.

"What's it say? Hold on, I need my stronger glasses…" Alfred rummaged around on the coffee table.

Arthur smiled slightly and shook his head. "It says, 'Fighter Aces of World War Two,'"

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "You don't say?"

"And look, there you are." Arthur gazed at the black and white photo of nineteen year old Alfred in the paper, grinning widely at the camera with his military cap at a skewed angle. He looked exactly the way Arthur remembered. Arthur sighed quietly. "You were so handsome."

"What's with this 'were' business?"

"Shush." Arthur read the article out loud. "Lieutenant Alfred F. Jones of the American Army Air Force only flew in combat for a few short months in 1944, but quickly distinguished himself as one of the best fighter pilots of the war. Known by the enemy as 'The Magician' for his unparalleled skills in evasion, his record of seven kills in a single flight has never been equalled by an American pilot, before or since. Lieutenant Jones' last flight, during which he was isolated by a squadron of German Messerschmitts in allied airspace, is still considered one of the most courageous moments in aviation history. Greatly outnumbered, Jones took down seven enemy planes while defending strategic airspace and drawing fire away from his squad into enemy territory. Here he was shot down, captured, and…" Arthur faltered over the next few words. It was amazing how, even fifty years later, any mention of that incident still affected him so strongly. He looked up at Alfred, who smiled gently back at him.

"Skip that bit."

Arthur took a deep breath, skipped ahead, and continued reading. "For this act of bravery Jones was awarded the prestigious Medal of Honor. He went on to become a greatly respected military flight instructor. He travelled extensively between England and the United States and has been formally recognised by the British government on several occasions for services to the Commonwealth. Alfred Jones currently resides in London with his…" Arthur trailed off once again.

"With his what?" Alfred prompted.

Arthur's mind spun in disbelief. His mouth went dry and he could barely manage to choke out the words. "With his long time partner Arthur Kirkland." Arthur shook his head in astonishment. "They put that in the paper… can you believe they actually wrote that in the national bloody newspaper!"

Alfred giggled cheerfully. "Ah, the times they are a-changing. Wait and see, we'll be walking down the aisle one of these days!"

Arthur just stared unbelieving at the words in print before him. After all these years of being the partner of a war hero, it was the first time he had been publicly acknowledged as such. He couldn't help the wave of pride he felt, knowing that the entire country would read that paper and those words. He also couldn't help the wide smile that spread across his face. Then he looked up, saw Alfred grinning at him, and felt slightly embarrassed. He folded the paper and tossed it down beside him. "Huh, well, there you are then. What is this rubbish you're watching anyway?"

Alfred turned the volume up. "Some concert celebration for the 50th anniversary."

Arthur shook his head in disgust. "I never did like these depressing wartime songs." Alfred just laughed. When the next song started, Arthur recognised the tune immediately. His stomach turned cold. "Oh no."

Alfred's face lit up and he looked over at Arthur excitedly. "Arthur! It's our song!"

Arthur just repeated, "Oh no."

But it was too late. Alfred had already pulled himself out of his chair and was attempting to drag Arthur to his feet. Arthur attempted a protest, but he already knew it was in vain. He finally let himself be dragged out of the chair and into Alfred's arms. Alfred held him in the familiar dance position and began waltzing across the floor. And, of course, he started singing. "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when…"

The sun flooded through the curtains as memories of this song flooded Arthur's mind. Fifty years. Fifty years that had passed in a heartbeat. Fifty years of dancing and laughing and terrible singing and everything else that came with it. In decades past they had danced to this tune playing from a wireless radio, a gramophone, a record player, a black and white television, a tiny cassette player, a CD player Alfred had excitedly brought home one morning in 1983, and on one memorable occasion from a military band at a highly select function as several amused and confused international delegates looked on. And on this particular afternoon they danced to the tune playing from their small colour television set. Of course they danced a little slower, and Alfred didn't swing Arthur around and dip him like he used to. But some things, just like the song itself, never changed.

"Keep smiling through, just like you, always do…" Alfred's hair was thin and grey. His handsome face was lined with the years. But that grin still had the exact same effect as ever. "til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!"

"Well, one thing certainly hasn't changed," said Arthur, smiling up into Alfred's blazing blue eyes.

"What's that?" asked Alfred, grinning down as he held Arthur tightly by the waist and ran his thumb over Arthur's palm.

"After all these years, my dear, you are still the most bloody awful singer I have ever heard."

Alfred just laughed as they danced slowly to the swelling music while the afternoon sunshine flooded the room. "I love you too," he replied, before bursting back into song.

"But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day!"

THE END

.

Keep Smiling Through

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[exposeacreep-blog]

Milo Moran is a child molester, manipulator and general scumbag

I met Milo when I was in year 7 (11 years old) at school. At the time, he was in year 11 (around 15). My English mistress had given us a creative writing task: to write the backstory of Edgar Allen Poe's poem "The Raven". Milo was in her form in year eleven, and he, along with his friends, were pretty friendly with her, so she would sometimes chat with them about her other classes during morning and afternoon registration. Apparently, my name came up in one of these chats, because one day in what must have been around October 2014, when my English class were leaving the classroom after a sixth period lesson and her year eleven form were coming in for afternoon register, my teacher pointed me out to him and said "that's the girl who wrote that Raven story you liked". He smiled at me, and told me how much he'd liked it.

Now, me being a fucking dumb, pubescent, hormonal little girl I was for some reason extremely receptive and innocently excited by older male attention at the time, no matter how much of an absolute minger they were, meaning that the fact that somebody as senior as Milo had so much as offered me a second glance I was a bit smitten with him.

After school had finished, I went to get the bus home only to find that apparently Milo was on the same bus route home. I didn't say anything to him that day, I was too busy being the epitome of preteen angst so I just plugged myself into my Panic! At The Disco and stared blankly out of the window, but then a couple of weeks later I ran into him with my mum while at Waitrose. We said hi to each other, and when she asked I told my mum who he was. She said that he seemed nice, and that it was good that I was friendly with people outside my own year.

We had very little interaction for the next couple of months until after the Christmas break, when two new kids, twins, joined my year group. I quickly became joined at the hip to one of them, we rarely spoke to anyone else and then wondered why we didn't really have any other friends. So when we saw a poster for the English magazine club at lunchtime, we figured it was a great opportunity to socialise. We went, and lo and behold who's the editor of the magazine? Milo, overseen by another English mistress. That was absolutely fine by me, he was an older boy who gave me special attention because, at least I assumed at the time, he liked my writing.

Not long after that, we began to talk and videocall fairly infrequently on Google Hangouts, where he mentioned a physical similarity in our respective appearances, and said it might be funny if we pretended to be siblings to confuse people. I fail to see now how this is in any way entertaining, but I suppose at the time my ape brain said "ooga booga male attention must maintain", so I went along with it.

Then there's a bit of a gap in my memory between the end of year 7 and the beginning of year 8, but somewhere in that gap my friend Vincent (who was the same friend I'd joined magazine club with) convinced me to take up the guitar so I could go to the lunchtime guitar group with him. I joined the group, and guess who the bassist is? Milo McNonce. I'll get back to that a little later.

So while he was still at school, he worked at a pub in the town where I live called The Fleece, and to get from there to his bus stop he had to walk past my house. By pure chance one day I spotted him out of my bedroom window and called out to him, and we began talking with him down on the pavement looking up at me through my open window. This same thing went on for ages until one day my parents got fed up of what they dubbed the "Romeo and Juliet" routine and invited him in.

Around this time I inexplicably developed massive crushes on two of Milo's friends, Chris and George. I told Milo, and he basically agreed to stalk them for me, even going so far as to write little stories wherein I had rough, kinky sex with his 17 year old for me to get my little 12 year old rocks off to. I, being a total and utter fucking moron, didn't find that weird in the slightest. Until fairly recently, I still had some of these stories screenshotted on my phone gallery but rather stupidly deleted them last year out of shame and fear that somebody would find them.

Then about halfway through year 8, when I was helping him with packing up after guitar group, he started hugging me out of nowhere and kissed me on the forehead. Ape brain struck again and said "Oh worm? Guess this is happening now, that's calm."

Nothing else of particular note happened in year 8 on that front, although it all continued as a regular thing.

So then began year 9, and the *real* shitstorm reared its head.

Remember how I said that eventually my parents had invited him in? That was the point that he began to *really* cosy up to my mum, like really sucking up to her. He didn't manage to have quite the same effect on my dad because he was usually at work, but since my mum is a goldsmith she works from home. It was also around that time when he rather conveniently decided that he was gay, at least that's what he told my mum, which meant that for the next roughly six months she felt unthreatened by the fact that her 12 year old daughter was having private conversations in her bedroom with a 17 year old boy with the door closed (bearing in mind I live in the UK, where the age of consent is 16).

Then, in March, it was my school's annual Pump Room Concert. At the rehearsal on the day of the concert we were in the big room upstairs where all the instruments are kept in-between the rehearsal and the concert itself, when he hugged me tightly and began to stare into my eyes. We were interrupted by a teacher coming in to put his own instrument there, but Milo later told me a couple of nights later that had the teacher *not* come in when he did he'd have kissed me. Ape brain liked this very much.

That was something of a turning point I think, because after that I can only remember our conversations in my room ending with him on top of me, tongue down my throat and hand down my knickers. At that point I had just turned 13, and he was no younger than 18.

He started to tell me about his mental health issues, he'd been orphaned at a young age but old enough to remember his parents dying, which had understandably messed him up a bit. The last I heard of this he was being treated for bipolar disorder.

That was when my friends at the time began to smell a rather large rat, and told me about the stench of said rat, which I stubbornly ignored. This ended in me having a massive row with my friendship group, which promptly divided down the middle into two factions: one relentlessly took the piss and tried to rile me up about the whole thing (I'm not friends with them anymore), and the other kept telling me that they thought he was dangerous and that I should stay away from him (I'm still friends with them). I ended up ignoring both, which caused me to become more distant from them and spend more time with Milo, spurred on by the fact that he'd told me that I was helping him cope with his depression.

This routine kept up until the end of year 9, when he fucked up all his A Levels and managed to get a place at Cardiff University by pure good luck. I spent the next two to three months convinced that *I* was the reason he'd done so badly, and thinking that the time he spent molesting me (what I interpreted at the time as me "distracting" him) he could have spent studying.

After he moved to Wales our communication gradually petered out, and I eventually realised that I was not his taboo seductress or whatever the fuck I thought our relationship dynamic was, but that I had in fact been sexually manipulated and exploited and tried to cut ties with him.

He still came over during the holidays, but far less frequently and I never let him touch me again.

I got a proper boyfriend, and thought things were looking up, when a month before my GCSEs started, he messaged me out of the blue asking if I wanted to see him again while I had the chance because he was going to kill himself. I spent the entire day sobbing on the phone to him and trying to talk him down because as much as I resented him and wanted him gone from my life, I couldn't have responsibility for his death on my conscience during my exams. I still haven't quite figured out if he was serious about it or whether he just wanted to illicit some kind of emotional response from me, but that was pretty much the final straw.

To be honest? If I could go back and redo that whole day with the knowledge of what he's done since then (namely having been in the national papers for narrowly avoided jail time over revenge-porning his ex girlfriend), I'm not entirely sure I'd have expended that much time and energy into trying to stop him. I know it sounds horrible, but at this point, when I feel dirty and ashamed in my own bed and I can't even watch Catch 22 on Channel 4 and say "Damn, Milo's cute" without getting a jarring intrusive thought of that paedophilic creep sucking on my neck and palming my fanny, I don't think I really care.

So that's where we are. If you meet him, stay the fuck away from him, for all his slime he's a charismatic bugger and knows how to get into your head until you're trapped in a web of manipulation that you just can't escape.

I've since opened up to a very close friend, still not my parents though, who said that she could see what I was going through and feeling as it was happening, and the only reason that she didn't report it was that I begged her and made her swear not to. Despite this, she went to our school nurse to ask for anonymous advice and that's mostly what's helped me get to grips with how to handle this now, and for that I cannot be more grateful. Her support has made it easier to tell the truth to a couple of other people, and to contact this account. Will it get to the point where I feel I can tell my parents or the police? I'm not sure, but I hope so.

[mill3nniumforc3]

200: My crush’s name is: Russell :) 199: I was born in: April 1994 198: I am really: energetic 197: My cellphone company is: Verizon 196: My eye color is: hazel 195: My shoe size is: 7.5-8.5, depending on the shoe 194: My ring size is: 7.5 193: My height is: 5′5″ 192: I am allergic to: penicillin, cats, pollen, and strong scents 191: My 1st car was: I’ve never owned my own car. 190: My 1st job was: babysitting. First real job was a desk job at my university 189: Last book you read: I don’t remember. I don’t have time to read for leisure. 188: My bed is: comfy 187: My pet: Seamus the miniature schnauzer and Sugar the Aussie-mo 186: My best friend: Ashlyn 185: My favorite shampoo is: Dove 184: Xbox or ps3: neither 183: Piggy banks are: for kids and rainy days 182: In my pockets: nothing 181: On my calendar: going river tubing on Saturday, party next Saturday, trip for T’s birthday weekend, and possibly going to Kennywood and Kings Island sometime in August. 180: Marriage is: something for my future self 179: Spongebob can: do anything 178: My mom: is the bestest 177: The last three songs I bought were?: who buys music anymore? 176: Last YouTube video watched: probably an ASMR video 175: How many cousins do you have?: too many to count 174: Do you have any siblings?: three sisters 173: Are your parents divorced?: no 172: Are you taller than your mom?: yep 171: Do you play an instrument?: piano, drums, bells, and I know three chords of the guitar 170: What did you do yesterday?: sleep [ I Believe In ] 169: Love at first sight: sure 168: Luck: yes 167: Fate: maybe? 166: Yourself: depends on the day 165: Aliens: not really... 164: Heaven: yes 163: Hell: Do I believe in it? Yes, because God is just. Do I believe people are damned there? No, because God is loving. 162: God: yes 161: Horoscopes: no. It’s funny to see “horoscope” posts and see if they apply to me, but it’s a bunch of b.s. A bunch of Aries aren’t going to have the same day/month/year. That’s ridiculous. 160: Soul mates: I’m not sure if I do or don’t, but I do believe in love. 159: Ghosts: no 158: Gay Marriage: of course! 157: War: it’s an unfortunate and unnecessary part of life 156: Orbs: no 155: Magic: yes [ This or That ] 154: Hugs or Kisses: both 153: Drunk or High: drunk 152: Phone or Online: online 151: Red heads or Black haired: no comment 150: Blondes or Brunettes: brunettes 149: Hot or cold: hot 148: Summer or winter: summer 147: Autumn or Spring: spring 146: Chocolate or vanilla: chocolate 145: Night or Day: night 144: Oranges or Apples: apples 143: Curly or Straight hair: straight 142: McDonalds or Burger King: McD’s (though I’m probably biased because I work there) 141: White Chocolate or Milk Chocolate: both 140: Mac or PC: PC 139: Flip flops or high heals: flip flops 138: Ugly and rich OR sweet and poor: sweet and poor 137: Coke or Pepsi: neither 136: Hillary or Obama: Obama 135: Burried or cremated: I want to be cremated and have my ashes buried with a seed and grow into a tree 134: Singing or Dancing: dancing 133: Coach or Chanel: neither 132: Kat McPhee or Taylor Hicks: Kat 131: Small town or Big city: small town 130: Wal-Mart or Target: Target 129: Ben Stiller or Adam Sandler: Ben 128: Manicure or Pedicure: mani 127: East Coast or West Coast: east coast 126: Your Birthday or Christmas: Christmas. My birthday stopped being special after I turned 19. I get good food every year on Christmas. 125: Chocolate or Flowers: chocolate 124: Disney or Six Flags: Six Flags 123: Yankees or Red Sox: Indians [ Here’s What I Think About ] 122: War: What is it good for? Absolutely nothing. 121: George Bush: he had some good policies. Better than Trump, that’s for damn sure. 120: Gay Marriage: should never be illegal again. 119: The presidential election: #FuckTrump #VoteBlueNoMatterWho #ImpeachTheMF 118: Abortion: all my life, I was told to be pro-life. These days, I don’t know anymore, but I think my beliefs are closer to pro-choice than pro-life. 117: MySpace: it’s not 2008 anymore. 116: Reality TV: glad it’s not my life 115: Parents: they’re doing their best. I’m not looking to be one anytime soon though. 114: Back stabbers: bye! 113: Ebay: Amazon is better. 112: Facebook: these days, I use it to get laughs and memes. I don’t interact with people I know IRL much. 111: Work: good for the money. Not good for my mental health. 110: My Neighbors: they’re ok. 109: Gas Prices: #ThanksTrump 108: Designer Clothes: I can get good clothes at Target. The only “splurge” I do for clothes is at Spencer’s or Kohl’s. 107: College: I plan to go back soon. 106: Sports: entertaining. 105: My family: family is life. 104: The future: anything can happen [ Last time I ] 103: Hugged someone: Tuesday. 102: Last time you ate: a couple hours ago (chik’n patties and cheese) 101: Saw someone I haven’t seen in awhile: last week. I saw a manager I hadn’t worked with in like a month. 100: Cried in front of someone: Monday 99: Went to a movie theater: July 2nd 98: Took a vacation: June 97: Swam in a pool: back in February 96: Changed a diaper: I don’t remember 95: Got my nails done: way too long ago 94: Went to a wedding: in April 93: Broke a bone: 2017 (broke my toe) 92: Got a piercing: 2006 91: Broke the law: never. I’m a good person. 90: Texted: three hours ago [ MISC ] 89: Who makes you laugh the most: Russell 88: Something I will really miss when I leave home is: my dog 87: The last movie I saw: in theatres, Toy Story 4. At home, Adventures in Babysitting. 86: The thing that I’m looking forward to the most: being off on Saturday 85: The thing im not looking forward to: working tomorrow 84: People call me: Vonnie, Vonn, Bonbon, Sophia, and “the girl” 83: The most difficult thing to do is: not cry while watching Grey’s Anatomy 82: I have gotten a speeding ticket: never 81: My zodiac sign is: Aries 80: The first person i talked to today was: my sister 79: First time you had a crush: kindergarten. His name was Wally, and we were “boyfriend and girlfriend” til about third grade, and we remained friends til we graduated 8th grade. Haven’t talked to him much since. 78: The one person who i can’t hide things from: Russell 77: Last time someone said something you were thinking: Sunday 76: Right now I am talking to: nobody because it’s 3:30am 75: What are you going to do when you grow up: I hope to be teaching English education 74: I have/will get a job: I currently work at McDonald’s, but within the next 6-12 months, I’ll be moving out of state, so who knows where I’ll work.  73: Tomorrow: work 72: Today: work 71: Next Summer: I’ll be in a whole new state, so that means new amusement parks to visit and rollies to ride. 70: Next Weekend: party. Oh, and next Saturday makes officially 18 months with me and Russell, so go us! 69: I have these pets: two dogs 68: The worst sound in the world: the beeping in the headset when I work back cash. It haunts my nightmares 67: The person that makes me cry the most is: Heather because she sends me to back cash all the time 66: People that make you happy: Russell, my mom, my dogs, Ashlyn, and Aunt Dolly because she sends me lives on Candy Crush 65: Last time I cried: Monday 64: My friends are: Ashlyn, Mikayla, Jon, Rilee, Lamar, Tae, Alexus, Clare, Katie, Mario, and Kel 63: My computer is: all mine because I bought it with my own money 62: My School: not in school  61: My Car: don’t have one 60: I lose all respect for people who: lie 59: The movie I cried at was: Avengers: Endgame 58: Your hair color is: natural 57: TV shows you watch: Grey’s Anatomy, Once Upon a Time, House, The Simpsons, Bob’s Burgers, and... I don’t really watch TV because I don’t have cable. 56: Favorite web site: YouTube 55: Your dream vacation: Just a big coaster trip 54: The worst pain I was ever in was: my period this month. I had cramps for days leading up to my period that were so bad that, the day my period actually came, I couldn’t stand straight. 53: How do you like your steak cooked: I don’t eat steak 52: My room is: a mess, like my life 51: My favorite celebrity is: NPH 50: Where would you like to be: with my boyfriend 49: Do you want children: someday, but not today 48: Ever been in love: ohhh yes. 47: Who’s your best friend: not answering again 46: More guy friends or girl friends: i think i have a fair amount of both 45: One thing that makes you feel great is: this is tmi, but sex with my bf. 44: One person that you wish you could see right now: Russell 43: Do you have a 5 year plan: no 42: Have you made a list of things to do before you die: yes 41: Have you pre-named your children: I don’t have any definitive names, but I’m thinking MaryGrace Linda for a girl, and James Sebastian for a boy 40: Last person I got mad at: Anna because she put me on back cash 39: I would like to move to: someplace south 38: I wish I was a professional: dancer.... no, writer.... no, why not both? [ My Favorites ] 37: Candy: peanut butter cups 36: Vehicle: Jeep 35: President: FDR 34: State visited: North Carolina (not just saying that because I lived there for two months) 33: Cellphone provider: Verizon 32: Athlete: Trevor Bauer 31: Actor: Justin Chambers 30: Actress: Amy Poehler 29: Singer: Chester Bennington 28: Band: Linkin Park 27: Clothing store: Kohl’s 26: Grocery store: Marc’s 25: TV show: Grey’s Anatomy 24: Movie: 13 Going on 30 23: Website: Pogo 22: Animal: seal 21: Theme park: Cedar Point 20: Holiday: Christmas 19: Sport to watch: baseball 18: Sport to play: softball 17: Magazine: I only read magazines at the dentist office, and I’ll read whichever has an interesting cover story 16: Book: A Series of Unfortunate Events 15: Day of the week: Saturday, as long as I’m not at work. If I’m working, then Mondays, I guess... 14: Beach: Huntington 13: Concert attended: Winter Jam, because I got to see Skillet play, and I met Matthew West. 12: Thing to cook: desserts 11: Food: eggplant parm 10: Restaurant: Olive Garden 9: Radio station: Star 102 8: Yankee candle scent: vanilla 7: Perfume: I don’t wear perfume 6: Flower: Daisies 5: Color: pink 4: Talk show host: Ellen DeGeneres 3: Comedian: Steve Rannazzisi 2: Dog breed: I really like terriers lol 1: did you answer all these truthfully ?: For me to know and you to find out :)

[spacerockwriting]

I’m feeling much better now, so I’m going to talk about the time I saw Cursed Child. It started over a year ago. When the raffles were being released I entered every single one and when I failed at winning, I, like everyone else went to enter the queue on the main day.

The tickets went on sale while I was at work, and I put everything on hold, stressing myself out for the tickets. I get really anxious when I buy tickets for concerts because most of the time I’m fighting for really good concert seats, and with this, it was no exception. However, as I entered the buying portion, I didn’t know what to do. My first plan was to try and see the show in April, as my best friend and I were already planning a trip to see George Salazar and Joe Iconis’ Two Player Game while we were there. I was very impatient with my desire to see Cursed Child. In fact, I was so impatient to see Cursed Child I was willing to throw sums of money at a person who is no longer in my life, just so they could report to me the story. Desperate, amirite?

After much conversing with my best friend, the decision became clear that we couldn’t go see the show in April. We had a lot going on already for that trip, so the decision became that we would just have to go again! When I got in line to buy tickets, september became the time period I was most easily able to get. At first, the decision was like many, to do both parts in one day. However, my best friend is not a Harry Potter fan like I am. They’re familiar with it, they know the franchise, but the thought of having to spend six hours in a theater is not something they’d personally be interested in. Fair enough, so I got the two day tickets, which I’m glad I did!

So in a hurry, I buy two tickets to the September showing of CC. The queue went so quick, and the ticket buying process is a blur. I had no more than ten minutes to make a decision and I called him shortly after buying them and was like “guess we have to go back to New York in September” which he was obviously fine with.

When I bought the tickets it was too quick to really know where I was sitting and what I had bought. When we got there in April, we went past the building and saw a few of our favourite Marquees for shows, but at the time I wasn’t able to go in the HP shop. We saw George Salazar and met him and Joe Iconis at their concert, went to Irving Plaza for a last minute 5SOS show for their upcoming album, and had a blast.

Weeks before our September trip, my best friend asks if his little brother can come to the trip. I say sure, as long as he can finance his own way. A few days later I am asked if it is okay if he goes to the HP show instead. His little brother is a really big HP fan, so I get it. I have no problem with this. We make plans for the trip and I arrive in NYC late on Wednesday before the show.

The Thursday of the show was exciting! I had started to plan out a head of time all the things I wanted at the shop.We decide that my best friend should go see a show while we’re at our show, so he buys last minute tickets for Book of Mormon, and then later that afternoon we eat lunch at Ellens Stardust Diner. The food is really good, and if you’re into Broadway and musicals, I’d suggest it.

After, we go pick up Will Call tickets and he heads back to the hotel while we get to the venue. I am overly excited. I’m in my Hufflepuff backpack and Hufflepuff shirt (my Cedric one I got at Universal) and we wait and wait. We got there like an hour early, and I highly recommend that. We were close in line, but like fifteen minutes later the line was wrapped around in like a U shape. Going in, one of the people at the door told me that “Lounge is downstairs and to the right.” My friend’s brother looks at me and is like “Comet, what did you do?”

I had just pressed buttons on the ticket site until I received tickets. I didn’t know what I did, or pressed. I just blindly bought tickets. So we went to get merch and big reminder IF YOU ARE IN LOUNGE DO NOT BUY THE SOUVENIR PROGRAM which I didn’t know so I had to return my copy of the program, lol. While in the lounge they have a name list by the entrance and you give them your last name and then we got one free beverage (alcoholic or non) and snacks, and at intermission we had desserts and one free beverage (alcoholic or non). It was a blast. Everyone we sat near was excited and hyped up and people beside us were sharing alcohol with us, and tasting and it was like a party. Everyone was excited.

At the end, the waiters in the lounge told us to come back tomorrow and have a wonderful day. The service was excellent, and they were so nice and respectful about everything. They were happy to take pictures, whatever.

At the end of Part 1, the show just stops. There is no curtain call, there is no cast coming out. Just a screen with To Be Continued... Note: the cast does not meet after part 1. If you want part 2 merch, you can only buy it behind the counter after part 1, or during part 2. You cannot buy it in the regular shop. (it is available online, however.)

On part 2 day, I wore my Malfoy quidditch shirt from Universal and kept my Hufflepuff backpack. A LOT of staff were confused why a hufflepuff was wearing Slytherin and I’m a dork about Scorpius so, theres that. Because we were in The Lounge, as we came to call it, my best friend’s little brother and I got in the “special entrance” on the side of the shop. We supposedly counted as VIP and could enter early.  As soon as we got in line, my best friend bid us farewell and went to see his night of Book of Mormon, and then we entered the venue and Voldemort Day started. All the staff hammed up the event and it just became even more of a party. In between snacking I got more stuff because I’m a nerd and tbh Scorpus’ wand is just as cute as Albus’ and I decided I needed a Voldy shirt too. (I also got two more plush fuzzy owls. One for my bestie, and one for his little brother.) During Intermission we got our free souvenir programs, the plastic cups, and I actually had more alcohol which is rare since I don’t really drink hardly ever because of my extreme reflux.

As soon as curtain call ended I told my friend’s brother we needed to high tail it to stage door because we were going to meet the cast. He had no objections, so we got in line and that queue was amazing. It was just a straight line and not a cluster and it was so calm. Some mum’s near us would pull out their programs and yell down the line who was coming which is very helpful because so many characters are in the show. When we were there, almost all the cast came out except for Jamie, the woman playing Hermione, I don’t think Rose came out, and sadly, Sam was not out. I did get to meet Antho, which I was really excited about.  Lol, I went to show him my shirt and he was like do you want me to sign it?? and I misheard and was like “Oh, no! I was showing you!” and oops. But no hard feelings. The gentleman playing Dumbledore was VERY talkative and had conversations with pretty much every person in line. My best friend’s brother is actually a HUGE Marauder’s fan, so he was upset after we realized Myrtle was ALSO Lily and declined the pictures, lol.

When the cast was done, my best friend showed up and we all went back to the hotel and saw the goodies he got from BOM (my favourite musical btw)

We found out a few days later that Jo was at the Sunday performance of the Cursed Child, and Monday the cast of Fantastic Beasts were on GMA which we were SO upset we missed. I would’ve high keyed out in the middle of Times Square at 3AM for a glimpse of Ezra Miller, lol.

Some tips if you’re seeing Cursed Child:

Arrive Early! This gives you PLENTY of time to look around the theater and buy merch & food. Trust me, the theater is WORTH exploring.

There is NO HP food there. I saw A LOT of people ask where the gummy slugs/chocolate frogs/butterbeer was. They can’t sell those there, as Universal owns the rights to those items. That being said, Cursed Child, Fantastic Beasts, and HP are 3 separate franchises, so you won’t find them intermixing.

You CAN bring food into the theater!! Drinks too!

If you have Lounge Access, you have your own bathroom. Trust me, that will save you a TON of time.

Part 2 Merch is only available during Part 2 or after Part 1.It is kept behind the counter so you can’t get it during normal shop hours.

There is no curtain call after part 1. House lights come up and thats the end. No cast come out after part 1 either.

Seeing it in 2 days isn’t as bad as one would think. I think I liked it better than I would have seeing it all in one day.

The playbills have recaps of important HP events crucial to the plot. This is helpful for anyone who hasn’t read the books in a long time, or isn’t super familiar with the story. (i.e not me or my best friend’s brother).

I think this is long enough, but if anyone has any questions about seeing the show in NYC I’ll be happy to help!

[jessekg]

A firsthand account of the Beatles' final concert, 50 years ago today

It was 50 years ago today that the Beatles climbed the stairs of their Apple Corps headquarters at 3 Savile Row in London, plugged in their instruments and played together publicly for the very last time.

The short concert, which was scheduled for a particularly cold lunch hour break, was held so that the Beatles could record a live performance for their film, Let It Be. It lasted only 42 minutes before the police shut it down, but it's become one of the most iconic moments in pop history, and has been referenced in everything from The Simpsons to the video for U2's Where the Streets Have No Name.

It didn't take long for people to gather on the streets below, crane their necks out their windows or climb to their own rooftops to watch, but atop the five-story Apple building, the group was small. Joined by the Beatles was keyboardist Billy Preston, a camera crew, and a small crew of Apple staff. That included Ken Mansfield, then the group's U.S. manager, who was sat beside Yoko Ono, Ringo's then-wife Maureen Starkey, and Apple secretary Chris O'Dell on a bench. Mansfield was so close to the action that he lit four cigarettes, put them between his fingers and held them out so that George Harrison could warm up his hands between songs.

"I just happened to be working in the office that week, it was sheer good fortune," says Mansfield now, over the phone from his Florida home. "I didn't know it was going to happen and was told 15 minutes before going up."

At first, Mansfield says it was just like "another day at the office" at Apple Corps. "There was always something going on in that building. It was like walking into a movie studio with 10 movies happening at once. The Hells Angels might be there in one room, while the Hare Krishnas would be holding court somewhere else, a video shoot somewhere else. Things were changing every minute."

Mansfield has written about the moments leading up that historic concert in a book called, simply, The Roof, which is a firsthand account of what he saw between 1968 and 1970.

"There are so many books about the fact and details, like who played cowbell on the fourth take of whatever song, but I wanted to talk about what it was like personally," he says. "How it felt to walk down that street and walk into their world and see them in their everyday action."

Easing the tension

Those two years were a particularly volatile time for the Beatles, who managed to release two albums, Let It Be and Abbey Road, despite holding on by a thread. John Lennon officially told the group he was leaving in September 1969, just eight months after the rooftop concert.  

"Even during the two days leading up to the concert — and they really kept it a secret in the building — there was a lot of dissension," he says. "George was having a lot of problems with the whole thing. I was with him in L.A. when they had finished The White Album, and he said that was too big a project. They simply took on too much. Then to walk into this other thing two months later, both a new album [which would become Let It Be], rehearse for another concert, and do a film. He was really having a problem."

In fact, the concert almost didn't happen at all, right up until the last minute. "When they were there at the door they still weren't sure about it until John said, 'Come on, let's go, let's get it over with.'"

To put Harrison at ease, and perhaps to help ease the tension among members, Billy Preston was brought in to play keyboard. Preston knew the band from their early days in Hamburg, and had gone on to play with the likes of Ray Charles. You can hear him quite clearly throughout the performances, but nowhere more than on his solo on Get Back.

"They loved Billy," says Mansfield, adding that the group played with the idea of officially making him the fifth Beatle. "I think it was Paul [McCartney] that said, why do we need a fifth Beatle when we can't even get along with four?"

Having Preston, a close friend of Harrison's, around was "like having calming odours in the room," says Mansfield. "No one would be arguing with him there."

As such, Preston is the only musician to ever get top billing on a Beatles song from outside the group. When Get Back was released as a single, it was credited to "The Beatles with Billy Preston."

"They didn't do that with anyone, not Eric Clapton, not anyone," says Mansfield.

Location, location, location

What Mansfield says many don't realize is how truly last-minute the decision was to perform on the rooftop. In fact, just before, he had been sent to scope out the Sonoran desert, in the southwestern United States, as a possible location. "Think about trying to put that together," he says. "The plan was they would setup in the desert and put the word out and invite every kid in America to come watch for free. That's wonderful, but how would you like to underwrite that for insurance? Or be the one bringing in the Porta Potties. Half the kids wouldn't have come back alive."

When it was all said and done, everyone walked down from the rooftop in silence.

He mentions other location ideas in the book — everything from the Pyramids of Giza to the British House of Parliament — but in the end, the roof just made sense.

"I think they were comfortable there," he says. "That was home for them. It was like going up to another room in the house."

British rock group the Beatles performing their last live public concert on the rooftop of the Apple Organization. The concert lasted for TK minutes before police shut it down. (Evening Standard/Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

Blue Meanies

While the location was an example of how spontaneous things could be at Apple Corps, especially that day, some elements were more carefully orchestrated.

"We had locked the doors downstairs, but there was such chaos in the street below that the tailors and the bankers started complaining — soon enough the Bobbies are banging on the door," says Mansfield.

In the film, police officers can clearly be seen trying to make their way in, eventually forcing the band to pull the plug. As it turns out, they were a bit more complicit. In fact, everything was coordinated, and the police even called 10 minutes before the raid to give everyone a chance to dump any "stash" they had on them.

"I think it was more like, 'Look, you're going to get to see the Beatles up close and personal, but let us get what we need to get done first,'" says Mansfield. "Everything about that day was special."

When it was all said and done, Mansfield says everyone walked down from the rooftop in silence. There was no after-party or celebration, as you might expect, and everyone, including the Beatles, went their separate ways and carried on like it was a normal day.

That said, there was a real sense that it was a moment in history, even if they hadn't realized it yet. "I remember when I was sitting about four feet away, I saw John look at Paul and Paul at John, and the unspoken words were, 'It doesn't matter, what's done is done, we're a rock 'n' roll band, it doesn't matter, this is us.' At that moment they needed that. That escape back into who they were."

As Mansfield writes in his book, "The day began without a sound check and ended with a soul check."

[matthillica]

Pandemic - Day 355

This week marks 1 year since Covid was declared a Pandemic in the US.

As things began to shut down and the world changed before our eyes last March, I picked up this blog again thinking it would be interesting to document. At the time, although we hadn't told anyone yet, my wife was three months pregnant with our second child. My daughter was about to turn two. What better way, I thought, to show my kids what Covid was like than to document the pandemic's course as we muddled our way through daily uncertainty.

What I hadn't counted on was the duration and depth of the pandemic. I figured we'd be locked down in quarantine for three months, tops… maybe six if things were handled poorly. 

As the novelty of Covid and prepping pantries and Covid memes began to wear off, we learned more about how Covid is actually transmitted. That meant aspects of our lives went back to normal while other abnormal aspects became second nature. Fear subsided, somewhat. I no longer stressed as much about grocery store trips. We still wear masks everywhere, but aren't afraid of Covid lurking behind every corner. For the most part, we understand that by taking a few simple steps, we can protect ourselves and our family from this disease.

Then in May came George Floyd, which took a world already turned on its head and lit a fire underneath it. A summer of protests against police brutality followed, then the politicization of masks, racial tension, and the most heated election cycle in my memory, all capped off by a coup attempt… the year we found ourselves living through became about so much more than just a pandemic.

The overwhelming was soon mired in disinformation and propaganda and the overwhelming-ness of it all became too overwhelming to even care about documenting, even for posterity.

I quit updating. Who gave a shit anyway? Certainly not me. I had bigger fish to fry than documenting the slow motion train wreck. I shared pics from my Instagram when I felt like it. I helped my Mom move from Kansas to Atlanta and then we packed up and moved to a new house ourselves. This was a welcome distraction from the horrible world, but Covid never really leaves your consciousness. It's always there, especially in weird, unexpected moments. This guy is trying to talk to me and he's getting too close but I don't want to offend him. I just filled up with gas and I'm all out of hand sanitizer, so I drive home reminding myself not to touch my face for the entire 15 minute ride. Mom wants to go to the salon, but I’m worried about exposure because my wife and her father are both high risk and I’m afraid to offend her by saying something. You're always thinking about it. How could you not? Covid is always there, always forcing you to adjust your life and habits around it.

With over 500,000 dead at this point in the US alone, the story of our little pandemic lives seemed so miniscule and, quite frankly, blessed. Sure, we'd lost income due to my unemployment, but our family managed to stay healthy (so far) and happy and together. We had it so much better than so many.

But then I have days like today where small things just rip me apart.

I got my car stuck in the mud in our backyard trying to unload a toolbox in our basement the other day and now I can't get it out of the goddamn grass. It's now sat there for three days while I waited for the ground to dry out so I could try again. I decided this morning to try and get it out by laying a cardboard path of old moving boxes. It was a massive failure that only succeeded in creating more muddy ruts, my car even more stuck now than it was this morning.

I sat in my driver's seat this morning… yelling at my stupid tires and two-wheel-drive, pounding on the steering wheel; the weight of all these little thoughts and worries crashing in around me. My daughter's entire second year was spent inside a fucking house. My son is already getting his first teeth and has only met six people. My hands have been cracked and bleeding for 12 months from constant hand washing. I haven't had a haircut in a year. I haven't seen some of my closest friends in over a year. I have a niece in Las Vegas who I was supposed to meet in March 2020 when she was four months old… now she's walking and talking. My friend lost her uncle and father to Covid in the same month. My other friend has been suffering with Covid for almost two months. My brother caught Covid in September shadowing home inspections to become a certified inspector because MGM’s shows were all closed. I haven't seen my father in a year and he’s 71 and lives by himself. The last time we were together (a year ago this week) he helped me buy a handgun for protection. Political division, social unrest, and America's tenuous grip on democracy. What kind of world did I just bring children into? Are we gonna make it?

I know there is light, but there are days when it still feels pretty damn dark.

And I guess that's where I'm at, mentally speaking. Exhausted. Sad. Grateful. So incredibly grateful. Even when the exhaustion takes over and guts me, I remind myself to be grateful. I'm grateful that the pandemic hasn't been worse for us as it has for so many others. I'm grateful that I've been able to cobble together an income off freelance work. I'm grateful that my kids are happy and healthy, not to mention too young to remember any of this shit once it's over. I’m grateful that I've learned to cook. I'm grateful that my wife and I still love each other. I'm grateful for family who have helped us navigate being working parents without daycare. I'm grateful that my parents and my wife's parents have been vaccinated. I'm grateful that now an end is in sight. When that end will be for us, I'm still not sure, but at least we know it's coming. And for that, I am grateful.

Now we brace for a return to "normalcy", whatever that means… and however long it takes. A regular topic of conversation in my house is what the first restaurant we eat inside will be. Or what vacation we'll take first. These all still feel very aspirational to me, but at least we're aspiring, I guess. In my mind, I'm ready to burst out of my unfinished basement office and folding table desk to tackle the world again. I'm ready to dive into another marketing department somewhere, go see a concert in the front row, take my kid to the aquarium so she can see the fish she only remembers from pictures. In my mind, I'm ready for all of these things and telling myself that attitude is everything.

But in my heart I know that it will probably be a long time before I can eat comfortably at a restaurant again, stand next to a stranger on a train, or sit in an airplane with other passengers without it doing a number on my head. In my heart I know that the first time I experience live music again, go to a museum, watch my child take in the majesty of a real shark, or feel the hug of a friend I've only seen over Zoom for 12+ months, I will be reduced to a puddle. And that's OK. I expect there are many, many others who feel exactly the same way and will be going through the same thing.

Still, if there's one thing the last year has taught me, it's that the abyss of the unknown is crossable and I'm ready to cross it, for better or for worse.  

[ericgamalinda]

Sod Manila!

From EMPIRE OF MEMORY, 1992 / 2014

AT HALF PAST THREE in the afternoon of July 5, 1966, a mob hired by President Ferdinand Marcos chased the Beatles out of Manila International Airport. I remember the jittery footage of the scene being replayed over and over on The News Tonite on Channel 5. A grim-looking commentator was saying the Fab but Discourteous Four had shamelessly humiliated the First Lady and her children by refusing to pay a courtesy call at Malacañang Palace. Imelda Marcos herself hastily issued a statement saying the Beatles were to be treated humanely despite the snub, but this was said after the fact—after the Beatles had been kicked, spat at, cursed, and chased into a waiting jet.

     Julian Hidalgo, known by the nickname Jun, took me and my sister Delphi to the Beatles’ concert at Rizal Memorial Stadium. At that time he was courting my sister and was hoping to win me over by playing the older brother. They were both nineteen, and the rituals of this older generation meant nothing to me beyond free passes to a number of movies, where I had to chaperone Delphi. The three of us would witness, not by accident, the Beatles being beaten up at the airport, and for some time we would bond in a special way—conspirators mystically united by an adventure whose significance would only dawn on us long after the event had passed. Jun explained a few details about this incident to me eighteen years later, when, in the ironic twists of fate that coursed through our lives during the dictatorship, he and I became colleagues once again in the censorship office in Malacañang. But in 1966 we were young, brash, and bold with hope, and like the entire country, we seemed on the verge of a privileged destiny.

     Three days before the concert, Jun rushed to our house with three front-row tickets. Delphi’s eyes widened like 45s. “Where did you get the money this time, ha?” she asked incredulously.      “The First Lady gave them to me,” Jun said proudly. And, in response to our howls of disbelief, “Well, actually, this reporter from the Manila Times gave them to me. The First Lady was giving away sacks of rice and tickets last week. This reporter owed me for a tip I gave him years ago, the one that got him the Press Club award. He wanted the rice, I asked for the tickets. He was one of those Perry Como types.”      Imelda Marcos had flown in friends and media to celebrate her birthday on her native island of Leyte. There was roast suckling pig and a rondalla playing all day. She herself obliged requests for a song with a tearful ballad in the dialect, “Ang Irog Nga Tuna,” My Motherland. To commemorate the sentimental reunion, each guest went home with the rice and tickets.      “Now that’s style,” Delphi said. Then, upon reflection: “They won’t let Alfonso in.”      “Of course they would!” I protested. I was just thirteen but I was already as tall as she was.      “That’s not the point,” Jun said impatiently. “I’m going to get myself assigned to cover the Beatles and we can talk to them ourselves.”      “All the other reporters will beat you to it,” I said. Jun was stringing for the Manila Times and was convinced that getting an exclusive interview would land him a job as a staff reporter.      “All the other reporters listen to nothing but Ray Conniff,” he said. “Besides, nobody knows where they’re staying. But I do.”      Jun’s modus operandi wasn’t going to be that easy. He managed to get stage passes for the three of us, which turned out to be inutile. It was the official pass, printed and distributed in London, that we had to wangle if we were to get near the Beatles.      “Go ahead and do your job,” Delphi told him icily. “We’ll see you at the stadium.”      “I can still get you the pass,” Jun said. “Somehow.” He was beginning to realize that concert security would directly affect his personal relationships. But not even his religious coverage of pre-concert press briefings seemed to help. Local promoters announced that the Beatles’ only press conference was going to be held at the War Room of the Philippine Navy headquarters, and that the concert was being staged, not by coincidence, on the fourth of July as a birthday gift to the Republic (July 4th) and the First Lady (July 2nd).      Other questions were left unanswered. Had the Beatles secretly arrived by submarine? “That’s confidential.” Were they actually going to stay at the Palace? “That’s confidential.” In the end somebody asked if the Beatles actually existed, and the joke was that that, too, was confidential.      The excitement was further fueled by a series of wire stories the dailies ran on page one, including coverage of the Beatles’ world tour, warnings of possible riots all over the world, and a rare discordant moment in Tokyo, where a reporter asked the group, “What are you going to be when you grow up?” The reply: “If you grow up yourself you’d know better than to ask that question.”      Radio stations kept playing the Beatles’ hits (most requested: “Yesterday” and “Help!”), and DZUW, Rainy Day Radio, preempted everyone and began playing the new single, “Paperback Writer.” The Philippine Security Corporation created the biggest stir when it insured the Beatles for a million pesos. Two hundred Philippine Constabulary troopers, seven hundred policemen, detachments from the Pasay City and Parañaque police, the Civil Aeronautics Administration, the Bureau of Customs, and the Marines were on red alert. The First Lady bought fifteen hundred tickets and distributed them to volunteer recruits to Vietnam, who were going to be the show’s guests of honor. Pro-Beatle fan clubs were staging rallies, counterpointed by anti-Beatle demonstrations where placards said, “No one is more popular than Jesus!!!” Government bureaucrats had to drive away contractors who were bribing them with concert tickets. On the eve of the Beatles’ arrival, a young colegiala threatened to jump off the roof of the Bank of the Philippine Islands building unless she was granted a private audience with the band.      Backstage at the Rizal Memorial Stadium, an air-conditioned dressing room was hastily installed a day before the concert, complete with state-of-the-art TV monitors and audio equipment. Quarter-page ads appeared in the dailies for a week, announcing concert schedules and sponsors. Finally, on July 3, the day of the Beatles’ arrival, a full-page splash appeared in all the dailies:

LIVE! THE BEST IN THE WORLD! THE BEATLES IN MANILA With Asia’s Queen of Songs Pilita Corales Carding Cruz and his Orchestra The Wing Duo The Lemons Three Dale Adriatico The Reycard Duet and Eddie Reyes & The Downbeats!

     Early that morning, Jun called us up. “Get dressed, both of you. We’re meeting the Beatles at the airport.”      “What do you mean, we?” Delphi asked.      “I told you we’d talk to them, didn’t I?” Jun said. “Did I ever break a promise?”      On many occasions, yes, but this was one promise for which Delphi was willing to risk her life—and mine, if need be. She drove our parents’ 1964 Ford to the airport as though she wanted to mow down everything in our way, laughing as irate motorists yelled obscenities at us.      When we finally met Jun at the parking lot, he handed us a pile of obviously used porter uniforms. “I paid the guy twenty pesos to rent them,” he said proudly.      “Does this guy know what you’re renting them for?” Delphi asked, crinkling her nose as she daintily held her uniform away.      Jun held up a bootleg 45, pressed in Hong Kong, in red vinyl. “If I get an autograph, we get a refund.”

THE CATHAY PACIFIC jet swooped in at half past four. The airport was jam-packed with the biggest crowd I had ever seen in my life: girls in bobby socks and leatherette miniskirts and boys in seersucker suits, all perspiring and scrunched against a chain-link fence. This was definitely the wrong place to be. As the jet taxied in, we tore ourselves away from the crowd and wormed our way to one of the departure exits, just in time to catch a baggage trolley rattling toward the plane. Jun hopped on, and Delphi and I awkwardly clambered after him. I was afraid Delphi’s bobbed hair would spill out of the cap she was wearing and blow our cover. But, having regained her composure, she stood handsomely in the last car, gripping the rail; it was no wonder Jun risked life, limb, and career for her.      The trolley rattled past armored cars, fire trucks, riot squads, and troops of motorcycle police who were wearing special cowboy hats for this occasion. As soon as the trolley cranked to a stop under the jet, Jun hopped off. He was about to head toward the stairs when a limousine careened and cut him off. Three official-looking men dressed in formal barong Tagalog got off the limousine and rushed up to the plane. What followed was an interminable, bated-breath pause. Jun walked up the stairs and saw the officials arguing with passengers near the plane’s exit. Somebody was saying, “Is there a war going on?”      Finally, one official tentatively walked out of the plane. This was enough to excite the increasingly impatient crowd, and immediately a cacophony of screams burst from the viewing deck. The screams grew louder as other officials and soldiers walked out of the plane. By the time Brian Epstein groggily stepped out, the screaming had reached earsplitting level—no matter that the soldiers surrounded the Beatles from jet to limousine and we caught glimpses of them only through spaces in the cordon sanitaire: George Harrison, his hair tousled by the humid wind, his red blazer flashing like a signal of distress, Ringo Starr in peppermint stripes and flapping foulard, Paul McCartney, round-eyed and baby-faced, and John Lennon, hiding behind dark glasses.      Jun hurried down the stairs and motioned for us to follow him.      “What happened in there?” Delphi asked him.      “I don’t know,” Jun said. “All I heard was a lot of words your folks wouldn’t want you to hear.”      “What does that mean?” Delphi asked.      “Nothing we can’t find out,” said Jun.

THE MANILA TIMES ran a story about the press conference at the War Room. Jun fumed over his colleague’s story, saying, “This idiot did little more than transcribe the Q&A.” It turned out, however, that the Beatles’ replies would be uncannily prophetic.

     THE BEATLES! YEAH!      By Bobby Tan

     When did you last get a haircut?      In 1933.      Would you be as popular without your long hair?      We can always wear wigs.      How much taxes do you pay?      Too much.      What attracted you to your wives?      Sex.      Do you feel you deserve the Order of the British Empire?      Yeah. But when you’re between 20 and 23, there are bound to be some criticisms.      How will you solve the Vietnam War?      Give it back to whoever deserves it.      What’s your latest song?      “Philippine Blues.”      Mr. Lennon, what did you mean by Spaniard in your latest book?      Have you read it?      No.      Then read it.      If there should come a time when you have to choose between the Beatles and your family, whom would you choose?      We never let our families come between us.      What is your favorite song?      “God Save the King.”      But it’s the Queen now.      “God Save the Queen” then.      What will you be doing ten years from now?      Why bother about ten years from now? We don’t even know if we’ll be around tomorrow.

ON THE EVE of July 4, Philippine-American Friendship Day, President Ferdinand Marcos urged Filipinos to “recall the lasting and valuable friendship between America and the Philippines” and issued a statement saying a revamp of the government bureaucracy was imminent. “Heads Will Roll!” the dailies shrilled, their bold prediction thrust audaciously by homeless street children against car windows along Highway 54. At the Quirino Grandstand the next day, the President sat in the sweltering heat as troops paraded before him. Three stations covered the Friendship Day rites, but Channel 5 ignored it completely, running instead a 24-hour update on the Beatles. Marcos seethed on the grandstand, and cameras caught the expression on his face that might have said: Damned Trillos, they really get my goat. The Trillos owned the Manila Times and many broadcast stations and refused to accommodate the First Family’s whims. But Marcos had the last laugh. On this very afternoon, back at the Palace, Imelda and the children would be having lunch with the Beatles. All television stations and newspapers had been invited for a five-minute photo opportunity—all, that is, except the Trillo network. Marcos tried to stifle a smirk as he saluted the troops. Proud and dignified in his white suit, he stood out like some sartorial titan: people said you could tell he was going in for a second term.

CALLA LILIES were brought in at nine by Emma Fernandez, one of the Blue Ladies, so-called because Imelda Marcos had them wear nothing but blue. The flowers adorned the corridors of the palace all the way to the formal dining hall, where about a hundred youngsters, ages three to fifteen, listlessly waited for the Beatles. Imee, the eldest of the Marcos children, sporting a new bobcut hairdo, sat at the head of the table. Her younger sister Irene sat beside her, reticent and uncomfortable in Sunday clothes. Ferdinand Junior, master Bongbong to one and all, was wearing a bowtie and a starched cotton shirt, and his attire apparently made him restless, as he kept sliding off his seat to pace the floor. Around them were children of ministers, generals, business tycoons, and friends of the family, sitting under buntings of red, white, and blue and paper flags of the United States and the Philippines.      Imelda Marcos walked in at exactly eleven. Emma Fernandez approached her, wringing her hands, and whispered in her ear: “They’re late!” Imelda brushed her off, an imperceptible smile parting her lips. She kissed the children one by one, Imee dodging and receiving instead a red smear on the ear. She inspected the cutlery, the lilies, the nameplates: two R’s each for Harrison and Starr, check; two N’s for Lennon; and no A in Mc. She scanned the room proudly, deflecting the grateful, expectant faces, the small fingers clutching cardboard tickets to the concert.      At half past eleven the children began complaining, so breadsticks and some juice were served. Imelda walked around the hall, stopping to strike a pose for the palace photographers. “Good shot, Madame!” The photographers were the best in the field, plucked out of the newsrooms to accompany her on all her itineraries. They had been sufficiently instructed on which angle to shoot from and which side to take, and anyone who took the wrong shot was dismissed posthaste, his camera and negatives confiscated. The children were more difficult to shoot: bratty and impatient, they always came out pouting, with their chins stuck out. It was always best to avoid them.      Unknown to this gathering, a commotion was going on at the lobby of the Manila Hotel. On hand were Brian Epstein and members of the concert crew; Colonel Justin Flores and Captain Nilo Cunanan of the Philippine Constabulary; Sonny Balatbat, the teenage son of Secretary of State Roberto Balatbat; Captain Fred Santos of the Presidential Guard; Major Tommy Young and Colonel Efren Morales of the Manila Police District; and local promoter Rene Amos.      “We had an agreement,” Colonel Flores was saying. “We sent a telegram to Tokyo.”      “I don’t know about any fucking telegram,” Epstein replied.      “The First Lady and the children have been waiting all morning.”      “Nobody told them to wait.”      “The First Lady will be very, very disappointed.”      Brian Epstein looked the colonel in the eye and said, “If they want to see the Beatles, let them come here.”      At the stroke of noon, Imelda Marcos rose from her chair and walked out of the dining hall. “The children can wait,” she said, “but I have more important things to do.”      As soon as she was gone, Imee pushed back her chair, fished out her ticket, and tore it in two. The other children followed, and for a few seconds there was no sound in the hall but the sound of tickets being torn. Bongbong hovered near the plate that had been reserved for John Lennon. “I really much prefer the Rolling Stones,” he said. Photographers caught the young master at that moment, his eyes wide and blank. Imee looked at him and remarked, “The only Beatles song I liked was ‘Run for Your Life.’” She looked around the hall defiantly. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. People always said that among the three Marcos children, she was the sensitive one. That morning she seemed she was about to cry.

     The Beatles: Mass Hysteria!      By Jun Hidalgo

     Eighty thousand hysterical fans cramped into Rizal Memorial Stadium to watch the Beatles, the largest crowd Manila has seen since the Elorde-Ortiz boxing match in the same stadium.      While traffic snarled to a standstill along Dakota Street, 720 policemen, 35 special detectives and the entire contingent of the Manila Fire Department stood guard as the Liverpool quartet performed their hits before thousands of cheering and screaming fans, many of whom had waited to get inside the stadium since early morning…

WHEN THE GATES finally opened, all hell broke loose. I held on to Delphi, who held on to Jun, and the three of us braved the onslaught as we squeezed past security and found ourselves, miraculously intact, on the front row beside the Vox speakers.      “I don’t want to sit here,” Delphi protested. “We’re going to blast our ears off!”      “Relax,” Jun said. “Everybody’ll be screaming anyway. We have the best seats in the house.”      Everyone in the stadium was a mophead, except the Vietnam volunteers sitting in our row, whose heads had been cleanly shaved. They were young men plucked from the provinces, and many of them were never coming home again. I was so relieved I had grown my hair longer that summer. My hair was a clear sign that, despite my young age, I had gained honorary membership in the exclusive cabal of this generation. You could tell who the pigs were: they were the ones who roamed around, their ears pink and their heads shaved clean like the Vietnam volunteers. Some of them had guns under into their belts; they had been warned that a riot could break out.

     …Soaked in sweat, Beatles fans impatiently heckled the opening acts, and emcees had to threaten the crowd that the Beatles would not perform until the audience simmered down.

And when the Beatles finally opened with “I Wanna Be Your Man,” you could feel the excitement ripping through you, a detonation of such magnitude your entire being seemed to explode. I couldn’t hear anything except a long, extended shrill—the whole stadium screaming its lungs out. I looked at Delphi. She was holding her head between her hands and her eyes were bulging out and her mouth was stretched to an 0, and all I could hear was this long, high-pitched scream coming out of her mouth. I had never seen Delphi like that before, and I would never, for the rest of her life, see her as remorselessly young as she was that afternoon.

THE MORNING AFTER the concert, Jun asked Delphi if we could take the Ford to Manila Hotel.      “Why do you have to take us along?” Delphi asked him. It was clear that for her the concert had been the high point of our adventure.      “We still have to get that interview, don’t we?” Jun reminded her. “Besides,” he added, “I need you to cover for me,” Jun said.      “Cover?” asked Delphi. “As in war?”      “Looks like war it’s going to be,” said Jun.      Jun had bribed someone from room service to let him take a snack to the Beatles. I was going to pose as a bellhop. Delphi was going to be a chambermaid. Apparently our plan was to swoop down on them in the name of impeccable service, with Jun secretly recording this invasion with the help of a pocket-sized tape recorder. As usual, he had the uniforms ready, rented for the day for half his month’s wages. “The hotel laundry boy’s a childhood friend of mine.”      “You’re the company you keep,” Delphi teased him, because she knew it tortured him whenever she did that.      I wore the monkey suit perfectly, but somehow it still didn’t feel right. I looked at myself in the men’s room mirror and knew I was too young for the role. And Delphi looked incongruous as the chambermaid: her bob cut was too in.      As it turned out, all my misgivings would be proven true. We crossed the lobby to the service elevator. Jun walked several paces ahead of us, nonchalantly jiggling the car keys, but I kept glancing nervously around.      “Hoy, where you going?”      Jun didn’t seem to hear the house detective call us, or maybe the detective didn’t notice him walking past. I felt a hand grab my collar and pull me aside. Immediately, Delphi was all over the detective, hitting him with her fists: “You take your hands off my brother or I’ll kick your teeth in!” Struggling out of the detective’s chokehold, I could see Jun hesitating by the elevator. I motioned for him to go. The detective dragged Delphi and me out to a backroom where several other detectives were playing poker. “Oy, got two more right here!”

AS HE RECALLED LATER, Jun wheeled the tray into Suite 402 expecting to find telltale debris of a post-concert party (and hence an excuse for us to mop up). What he came upon was something less festive.      “Compliments of the house, sir,” he announced cheerfully as he came in.      George Harrison and Brian Epstein were sitting on the sofa, and Paul McCartney was precariously perched on the TV set, brooding. The three of them apparently had been having an argument and they all looked up, surprised, at the intruder.      “All right,” Epstein said, curtly. “Bring it in.”      “I’ll have to mix the dip here, sir,” Jun said, to prolong the intrusion. “House specialty.”      Nobody seemed to hear him. George Harrison continued the conversation, “We came here to sing. We didn’t come here to drink tea and shake hands.”      “That’s precisely the reason we’ve got to pay customs the bond for the equipment,” said Epstein.      “Let them keep the money then,” Paul said. “Everyone says here come those rich mopheads to make more money. We don’t care about the money.”      “We didn’t even want to come here,” George reminded them.      “The only reason we came here,” added Paul, “was because these people were always saying why don’t you come over here? We didn’t want to offend anyone, did we? We just came here to sing. You there,” indicating Jun, who jumped with surprise. “Do you speak English?”      “Fairly well,” replied Jun.      “Does the government control the press here, as they do the customs people, the airport managers, and the police?”      “Not yet,” said Jun.      Paul then observed that everything was “so American in this country, it’s eerie, man!” He also remarked that many people were exploited by a wealthy and powerful few. Epstein wanted to know how he knew that, as the others had simply not heard of the country before, and Paul replied that he had been reading one of the local papers.      “What are we supposed to do?” he asked. “Show up and say, ‘Well, here we are, we’re sorry we’re late!’ We weren’t supposed to be here in the first place. Why should we apologize for something that’s not our fault?”      At that point John Lennon and Ringo Starr, who had been booked in the adjacent suite, walked in. Ringo, sweating and tousled, plopped into the sofa between Epstein and George Harrison. John Lennon, wearing his dark glasses, walked straight to the window and looked out. “We’ve got a few things to learn about the Philippines, lads,” he said. “First of all is how to get out.”

THE MANILA HOTEL DETECTIVES deftly disposed of Delphi and me with a push via the back door, where a sign said THROUGH THIS DOOR PASS THE MOST COURTEOUS EMPLOYEES OF MANILA.      We walked back to the Ford in the parking lot and waited for less than an hour when Jun, struggling out of the hotel uniform and back to mufti, sprinted toward us and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Get in!” he shouted. “We’re going to the airport!”      “Did you get the interview?” Delphi asked.      “Better,” Jun said. “The Beatles are going to try to leave this afternoon. They’re paying something like forty-five thousand dollars as a bond or something. Customs is charging them so much money in taxes for the concert.”      “Wait a minute,” Delphi protested. “Is that legal?”      “Who cares?” Jun said. “All I know is they’re paying the bond and now all they want to do is to get out. But they think something’s going to happen at the airport. There’s been talk of arrest and detention.”      “Who said that?” Delphi asked.      “John Lennon, I think. I don’t know. I was mixing that stupid dip.”      We were driving toward the south highway now, past the mammoth hulls of ships docked at Manila Bay. “You know all those people who’ve been trying to get the Beatles to go to the palace? You know why they were so keen on bringing the band over to Imelda’s luncheon?”      “Can’t waste all that food, right?” Delphi said.      “Bright girl, but no. There’s going to be a major revamp soon. It’s all over the papers, if you’ve been paying attention. All these guys are going to get the top posts. Well, most of them were, until the Beatles screwed everything up.”      “What guys? Who?”      “That Colonel Fred Santos, the one who led the group to talk to Epstein, he’s being groomed to head the Presidential Guard. Real heavy-duty position, accompanying the First Family all over the world, luxury apartment at the Palace, the works. There’s one Colonel Flores, Justin Flores I think, who’s bound to be chief of the constabulary. Then there’s Colonel Efren Morales, most likely head of the Manila Police.”      “But these are junior officers,” Delphi said. “Marcos can’t just promote them to top posts.”      “That’s the point. Marcos is going to bypass everybody and build up an army of his own. All these new guys will be licking his boots and there’s nothing the generals can do about it. That young mophead, the son of Balatbat, he was there for his father, who’s going to be reappointed secretary of state. And if I’m not mistaken, Salvador Roda, the airport manager, wants to take over customs. The man’s going to be a millionaire, kickbacks and all.”      “How do you know all that?” Delphi demanded.      “Homework,” Jun said, swerving the car toward the airport, his reply drowned out by the droning of jets. “I’m the best damned reporter in the city, and everybody’s going to find out why.”

SALVADOR RODA was briefing the press agitatedly at the VIP lounge of the airport that afternoon, explaining why the republic was withdrawing security for the Beatles and why customs had slapped a hundred-thousand-peso tax on Liverpudlian income. “Too much Filipino money wasted on such a paltry entourage, gentlemen of the press, and not one centavo of the profits going to the nation. Puta, that doesn’t make sense, di ba?”      We walked up the escalators to the second floor to change into our porter uniforms, which we had lugged in backpacks.      “This airport gets worse every time I come here,” Delphi complained. “Nothing’s working.”      “And there’s nobody around,” observed Jun. The entire second floor was deserted. “Lucky for us,” he said, pushing Delphi into the ladies’ room and then pulling me into the adjoining gents’. We changed into the uniforms and stuffed our clothes above the water tanks.      “You think there’s going to be trouble?” I asked Jun.      “Will you guys back out if I told you there might?”      I had to give that some thought. In the past Jun had taken Delphi and me on some insane adventures, mostly juvenile pranks that left us breathlessly exhilarated, but with no real sense of danger. For the first time I was afraid we were up against something, well, real.      “We’ll stick around,” I said, tentatively.      He put his arm around me and said, “Kapatid! That’s my brother!”

JULY 5, 2 P.M. THE BEATLES arrived at the airport in a Manila Hotel taxi. They weren’t wasting any time. They ran straight up the escalators, their crew lugging whatever equipment they could carry. At the foot of the escalators a group of women—society matrons and young college girls—had managed to slip past the deserted security posts and, seeing the Beatles arrive, they lunged for the group, screaming and tearing at the band’s clothes. Flashbulbs blinded the band as photographers crowded at the top of the stairs. It would have taken a miracle for the band to tear themselves away from the mob and to reach, as they did in a bedraggled way, the only booth open for passport clearance, where Roda had been waiting with the manifest for Flight CX 196.      “Beatles here!” he hollered imperiously, and the band followed his voice meekly, almost contritely. Behind the booth a crowd that had checked in earlier restlessly ogled.      “Those aren’t passengers,” Jun observed as we stole past a booth. “They look like the people we saw earlier with Roda.”      “Beatles out!” Roda boomed.      And then it happened.      As the Beatles and their crew filed past the booth, the crowd that had been waiting there seemed to swell like a wave and engulfed the band, pulling them into an undertow of fists and knee jabs. There was a thud—Epstein falling groggily, then being dragged to his feet by security police. Someone was cursing in Tagalog: Heto’ng sa ‘yo bwakang inang putang inang tarantado ka! Take that you m*#f@%ing*@^*r!!! Paul McCartney surfaced for air, his chubby face crunched in unmistakable terror. He pulled away from the crowd, and the other three staggered behind him. Somebody gave Ringo Starr a loud whack on the shoulder and pulled at John Lennon, who yanked his arm away, tearing his coat sleeve.      That was when we started running after them—the three of us, and the whole mob.      The crowd overtook Delphi, who was shoved aside brusquely. They were inching in on me when the exit doors flew open into the searing afternoon. From the view deck hundreds of fans who had been waiting for hours started screaming. The band clambered up the plane. I kept my eye on the plane, where Jun was already catching up with John Lennon.      “Please, Mr. Lennon,” he pleaded. “Let me help you with your bags!”      At the foot of the stairs a panting John Lennon turned to him and said, “A friendly soul, for a change. Thanks, but we’re leaving.”      “I’m sorry,” Jun said, trembling.      John Lennon bolted up the stairs. At the top he stopped and took off his coat and threw it down to Jun.      “Here,” he said. “Tell your friends the Beatles gave it to you.”

A FEW WEEKS after the Beatles’ frantic egress from Manila, Taal Volcano erupted, perhaps by way of divine castigation, as happens often in this inscrutable, illogical archipelago. The eruption buried three towns and shrouded Manila in sulfuric ash for days. A month later a lake emerged from what had been the volcano’s crater—a boiling, putrefied, honey-yellow liquefaction.      The Beatles flew to New Delhi, where they were to encounter two figures that would change their lives and music: the corpulent, swaying Maharishi, and the droning, mesmerizing sitar. Back in London later, a swarm of fans greeted them carrying placards with mostly one message:

SOD MANILA!

     Manila’s columnists took umbrage, and the side of the offended First Lady. Said Teodoro Valencia, who would later become the spokesman of the Marcos press: “Those Beatles are knights of the Crown of England. Now we have a more realistic understanding of what knights are. They’re snobs. But we are probably more to blame than the Beatles. We gave them too much importance.” And columnist Joe Guevarra added: “What if 80,000 people saw the Beatles? They’re too young to vote against Marcos anyway!”      Imelda Marcos later announced to the lavishly sympathetic press that the incident “was regrettable. This has been a breach of Filipino hospitality.” She added that when she heard of a plot to maul the Beatles, she herself asked her brother, the tourism secretary, to make sure the Beatles got out of the airport safely.      But her magnanimity did little to lessen the outrage. The Manila Bulletin declared that Malacañang Palace had received no less than two hundred letters denouncing the Beatles by that weekend. Manila councilor Gerino Tolentino proposed that the Beatles “should be banned from the city in perpetuity.” Caloocan City passed an ordinance prohibiting the sale, display, and playing of Beatles records. And Quezon City passed a law declaring the Beatles’ music satanic and the mophead hairstyle illegal.      Jun Hidalgo wrote his story about the Beatles’ departure, with insider quotes taped, as an editor’s introduction to the story revealed, “while undercover as a hotel employee.” A few weeks later he was accepted into the Manila Times, where he played rookie, as was the custom then, in the snake pit of the local press: the police beat. He gave John Lennon’s coat to Delphi, who dutifully mended the sleeve, and they went steady for a while. But like most youthful relationships, the series of melodramatic misunderstandings, periodic separations, and predictable reunions finally ended in tears, and many unprintable words. My sister, older and more healthily cynical, later immigrated to the United States, from where she sent me postcards and books—and once, a note replying to one of my continuous requests for records, saying she had lost interest in the Beatles when they went psychedelic. I myself, being the obligatory late bloomer, only then began to appreciate the magical, mysterious orchestrations and raga-like trances of the band.      Delphi left John Lennon’s coat with me, and I became known in school as the keeper of a holy relic. Like the martyrs, I was the object of much admiration and also much envy. One afternoon, armed with a copy of an ordinance recently passed in Manila, directors of the school rounded up several mophead boys, including myself. In one vacant classroom we were made to sit on hardboard chairs as the directors snipped our hair. I sat stolidly under the scissors, watching my hair fall in clutches on the bare cement floor.      Back in my room that evening, I stared at myself in the mirror for a long time. Then I folded John Lennon’s jacket tightly, stuffed it in a box, and tucked it under my books and clothes. I felt no bitterness at all. I knew that something irrevocable in my life had ended.

[liberace19]

LIBERACE’S CONSTANT COMPANION since boyhood has been his mother, Mrs. France Liberace. And like most other personal possessions in the Liberace home, his visitors’ book which they are looking over, is piano-shaped. The Liberace Story Lucrative And Glamorous Career Deliberately Planned By Liberace PART IV  What is the background of this amazing piano jilayer? What happened to make hii the idol he ist In this, the closing story on the secrets of Liberace, you get the answers.)  All of a sudden Liberace began thinking. He was taking a bath in the sunken tub dramatizing the bath room of his 5100,000 Sherman Oaks home and his thoughts dipped back to the past. He remembered his childhood in Milwaukee. He thought of the piano he started to love at the age of three how his dad Sam Liberace, withheld his lessons and his practice when Wladziu Valentino Liberace the current idol’s real name was a bad boy. “Unless you help your mother in the kitchen you can’t practice today,” father Liberace told the kid. And he remembered other things Hours of work play, really at the keyboard he loved …. Endless sessions with private tutors while other school boys played football …. Finally, his artistry already recognized, his piano debut with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at the age of 16 … . Then “the road,” preparing his own food to cut down on expenses … , Billed as Walter Liberace, he thrilled cafe society in hotels and swank supper clubs from coast to coast. Even then, back in the late 30s, he planned a more lucrative and glamorous career. “I Wanted to reach peoplelots end lots of them,” Liberace whose nickname is Lee told friends recently. “I felt a kind of Skat, Gibby’s Tavern Every Saturday Afternoon N. 13th at Superior NORTH END SKAT CLUB Drawing 1:30 P.M. Pitying irti 2 frustration, an idea I had lots more to offer.” Joined by his fiddle-playing brother George, he began making concrete plans. They started a mailing list, informing his followers where they could expect to see him. It was in 1945 when Liberace saw the Chopin motion picture, “A Song to Remember” that he got the big idea. The candelabra on the piano, a Chopin character istic, impressed Liberace so much he started it himself. Years went by six of them before the Liberace hopes and dreams materialized into glittering actuality. . In the early months of 19ol, with his brother George and their attorney, John Ft. Jacobs Jr., he walked into the Hollywood Per sonal Management offices of Gabbe, Lutz and Heller a firm that already had zoomed Frankie Laine to fame. Familiar with the piano-antics of Liberace and realizing the pos sibilities, Sam Lutz and Seymore Heller signed him. Play At Ciro" Their first booking placed Liberace at Ciro’s on the Sunset Strip. Ciro’s management thought Liberace was terrific but they drew the line on one point. ,r “The guy would play forever if you’d let him,” complained Herman Plover, the owner. “He felt he owed his audience his all and he’d stay on as long as people applauded sometimes for longer than an hour. ’‘You can’t sell food or liquor while the show is on so we had to limit him to 30 minutes.” Right after the Ciro engage ment things started popping. Liberace was playing at the Hotel Del Coronado, across the bay from San Diego, when Don Fedderson, general manager of a Los Angeles television station, journeyed down to see the guy. fascinated with the way Liberace held his audience in the palm of his hand, Fedderson signed him to an exclusive TV conlract beginning in January, 1952. The rest is historybut before ;it happened there were many i problems. j Liberace’s sponsors soon ilearned a piano player and a vio-  linist (George) made a limited show. They wondered: “Should we brjng in production numbers singers and maybe a ballroom dancing team to per form while Liberace plays in the background?” They argued pro and con. But Fedderson insisted the only way to present Liberace was to duplicate his nightclub act on television … ’. the same lighting effects, the same candelabra, the same Liberace pitch to introduce brother George, his “Mom,” and other members of the cast. Fedderson, as the nation now knows, won out. First Television Show The first show went on without sponsorship and with little rehearsal time. But before it was over the sta tion switchboard lit up like Holly wood Boulevard at Christmas time. Four weeks later Liberace’s sponsor was the Citizen’s National Bank an institution promptly deluged with new accounts start ed by people “just because we like Liberace.” One elderly woman with $100,- 000 in the old kick switched to Citizens “because any bank that puts Liberace in my home is a friend of mine.” As this new sensation of the entertainment world 'came into his own, other organizations were moaning in loud lamentation. One was the national radio network that used Liberace the year before as an eight-week summer replacement for Dinah Shore, only to drop him. Some reports, say a vice-president of the network resigned over the blunder. Liberace was making history in other ways. In his first Los Angeles con certin April of 1952 he netted $4400 at the Philharmonic Audi torium. That same summer he appeared in concert at Hollywood Bow,, netting $5,000 for the single ap pearance. For a Pasadena appearance he made $3,500 … in Long Beach he drew crowds that paid him $7,500 … But was it all smooth sailing for this smiling wizard of the keyboards? Was Liberace the lad who plays mostly from memory, the artist who must have a light shining on the keyboard at all times happy with his success. Some associates pointing to the record say he changed about this time. They remember his promise, in January of 1952, to sign a new, j iwo-year contract etrective tnat I Charlie’s Inn June with the managers vno made him a stay. And they remember Liberace’s change in plans … his sudden announcement he would sign for one year only. They remember Sam Lutz" re minder that he had made a star of this boy from Milwaukee, the phenomenon who hemstitched as kid while other Doys piajeu football. And they remember Liberace’s reply: “Whatever has happened to me would have happened anyway! There are those, too, who won der: Does Liberace use people lor his own personal gain, then drop them? Red Doff, the Hollywood publi cist who made music-lovers Liberace conscious, then got fired by the "Candelabra Casanova, is generous in his praise of the pianist. Yet he mused: "Many people believe Liberace thinks he and his brother George can handle the whole works. "George isn’t tagging along on any gravy train as so many critics believe. He would be the last one tn tie fired if the time comes He has contributed a lot to the art. "George is a few years older than Lee, perhaps a little more deliberate in his decisions but generally he goes along with Lee on all matters. Plans New Triumphs The curlv-coiffed Liberace Is only too conscious of these pro fessional Mews pro and con as he makes his elaborate plans for the future. Currently visiting in Mexico where his TV films soon will be dubbed in Spanish Liberace plans new triumphs. He has no fear of being seen too often on television while veterans like Bing Crosby andi Bob Hope shudder at the thought of a weekly show. He loves, rather than loathes, being satirized by comedians in ; the candelabra-kidding style that j Jack Benny recently used. He is undistressed over the rumor his popularity is waning. He has no regret over the fact he won no television Emmy awards this year while last year he was voted the most popular j Hollywood entertainer with the best show. Liberace jhst can’t be bothered, j Perhaps in the summing up of this strange man, Red Doff best; explains it : 'He wasn’t born with a gold spoon in his mouth nor did he inherit millions. "He set a goal, whether he believes it or not, to get to the top and there’s no stopping him. "No one will get in his way. "H works hard,  March 18, 1954