loquatrooster

[onihcinimkcin]

library design is my passion

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME: Issue #2

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Your streak of bad luck continues as you find that the universe is not done putting you in harm's way. Luckily, you have grouchy Spider-man to save you.

Word count: 3,500 words.

Content: Slowest of the burn, near death experiences, the emotional whiplash of Miguel O'Hara being a rude bastard and a total softie.

Astroboot’s Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

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According to an article that ran in the New York Times: one out of every 40 New Yorkers will have a run in with a Superhero in the time they live here.

That might not sound like much, but considering that nearly 8.5 million people live in this city, it adds up to a lot of people. In fact, most in your friends circle have their own anecdotal story to tell.

I ran into Tony Stark at the Brandy Library and he asked me for my phone number. Bit of a sleaze but he bought our whole table a round of drinks.

Captain America landed on my Fiat on Manhattan Bridge. He dented the roof, but he was very polite about it.

Daredevil was hanging out at the fire escape ladder above the Meatball shop. Gave me tips on what to order.

It's nothing short of a miracle that having lived in this city for as many years as you have that this is the first time you've had a Supes encounter.

It'll be a great story to tell at parties. You fell out of the Chrysler building and were rescued mid-air. It blows all the other stories out of the water. Though, you'll probably leave out the part where he wished he'd left you to die.

You stare blindly at your computer screen. There are endless rows of cells on your excel sheet no matter how far you scroll. Uninterrupted numbers and reference codes for insurance claims that are waiting for your attention. But the numbers and letters all blend into an indecipherable sludge soup. All you can focus on is: 'I should've let you fall.'

Heat prickles your cheek, as you replay his words in your head.

What the hell.

That was entirely unnecessary.

You didn't deserve that.

Over the course of the last 24 hours, you've played the scene on an endless loop in your head, until the memory is worn and scratched like a used up VHS tape.

Did you do something wrong? You must've. Who has ever heard of a Superhero treating a civilian in this manner? You’re just a hapless innocent bystander who fell out of a building due to a supervillain battle they started. To blame it on you and then call it a mistake. Isn't that something a supervillain would do?

Gritting your teeth, you feel yourself seething of the memory of the windows next to you breaking and shattering out of nowhere as a bird-person villain with mechanical wings tumbled past you. Next thing you knew you were tumbling out the window. 

And then he saved you.

Did he mean to save someone else? Is that why he was so annoyed? But, you didn't see any other people falling from the building on your way down.

You replay the memory. Again.

The looming silhouette of his towering frame over yours as he sneered down at you.

He looked at you like he knew you. Like you had offended him with your mere existence. But you don't understand how. You've never met him before. Never met anyone who looked even remotely like him. You would've remembered a man with red eyes, they're not exactly common. Plus, you don't think you've ever met someone quite so tall. Your neck hurt with the angle you had to crane just to look at his face.

What could you possibly have done in your lifetime to piss off a Superhero you've never met before?

For that matter what Superhero is he anyway? You think back at the dark navy suit clinging onto every inch of skin, embellished by that bright angry red in the emblem of a spider.

Spider-man... 

Except Spider-man is known to be a swell guy with a great sense of humor. Not a rude asshole.

Aren't his colors inverted too? You pull up the browser on your screen and google "spiderman outfit". There's over 800 million hits. In all of them Spiderman's suit is primarily red with blue embellishment.

Whoever the guy is, you don't think he's your friendly neighborhood Spiderman that every New Yorker knows and loves.

With a hapless sigh, you click aimlessly on your screen, trying to look busy at work for the next twenty minutes until you can go on your lunch break. You go through the motions of your soul sucking tasks. Tagging each insurance claim into one of the following categories: approved/rejected/further missing information required.

Peering over your cubicle wall to the wall of windows, you spy the section that has been zoned off since yesterday. The broken window you were knocked out of has already been replaced, but there's still shattered glass and debris nearby.

Your stomach drops, the phantom sensation of the ground beneath you giving way. For a brief second you swear you can feel the weightlessness of soaring through the skies without anything catching your fall.

You stand up from your desk, solid ground meeting the soles of your feet to remind you where you are. 

The office.

There's a monotone drone of workers all around you grumbling and sighing just as unhappily. The quiet tip-tapping of keyboards of the working masses.

Is this the life you managed to escape death for?

Is this it?

It's kind of sad isn't it? You nearly died and lived to tell the tale, only to return to a life so unremarkable your brain didn't deign it necessary to provide you with any highlights (cause there are none).

The most exciting thing that has happened to you the whole of this year was being insulted by a grumpy superhero. The most you've wanted to live was during that span of ten seconds when you were falling out of a building to your death.

You glance at your clock, still 15 minutes before noon. You log out of your desktop anyway.

You barely make it across the street from your office. The light is green as you cross Lexington Avenue when the screeching noise of tires tears down the street and rips through your eardrums.

A yellow taxi hurtles towards you at full speed. Through the car window separating you, the cab driver is staring up at you with wide-eyed horror. In that fraction of a second before the hard metal is going to collide and shatter every bone in your body, you only have one thought: Oh god, this is going to hurt.

Life doesn't flash before your eyes. All you see is the familiar blur of shiny blue and red.

Go figure that's the only moment extraordinary enough for your brain to think it's worth replaying before you die.

There's a blunt and forceful shove to the side of your ribs. Softer than you would've imagined a two tonne vehicle slamming into you would be. It doesn't hurt. It reminds you of that time you played football with your cousin and he body slammed you to the lawn. You've heard about this phenomena, the brain will try to protect itself by going unconscious if the pain is too extreme.

But there's no bright light, when you open your eyes all you see is the familiar shiny blue fabric.

A firm weight wraps around your shoulders, and you recognize this, the feeling of being held as you're pulled into their solid chest. There's not enough time for you to look up, you're slammed onto the ground, the solid warmth wrapped around you, absorbing the fall.

The pressure wrapped around you shifts then lifts away entirely. When you open your eyes for a second time, there’s no one there holding you. 

There's no one else there with you. Just the standstill traffic of cars and pedestrians gawking at you.

A concerned woman runs over to you, bending down to help you up on your feet. "Are you okay? That car came out of nowhere."

Your legs feel unsteady, wobbling as you put weight on it to stand up. 

“I’m fine, I think,” you respond, and look down on yourself. There are no scrapes, just a bit of dust on your work-attire from traffic.

"You're so lucky, Spiderman was there to save you."

You blink up at the woman in dazed confusion and it takes your brain a few seconds to process what she's telling you.

Spider-man...

In your mind's eye the flashes of blue and a vivid red invades your vision. It wasn't just your life flashing you by. Not just a figment of your imagination.

He was here. He saved you. (Probably not) Spider-man saved you (again).

A wave of gratitude washes over you. You take back every unflattering thought you had about the man not five minutes ago. Rude? Would a rude man save you, not once but twice in one day? No, of course not, you probably just misunderstood him, or misheard. After all, if he truly regretted saving you, he wouldn't have done it a second time... right?

--

When you get back at your desk, there's a post-it tacked to your computer screen, with an angry scrawl of a handwriting.

'Look BOTH ways before crossing!!!!!'

You stare at the note, and the way the word "both" is capitalized and aggressively underlined.

Rude.

The universe is out to kill you. You're sure of it.

They say that death comes in threes after all. So no one can blame you for being a little bit on the edge after you've gone two for two within the time span of 24 hours.

You stay away from windows in tall buildings. You look both ways, twice, before crossing the street. You try to go straight home from work the minute you clock out from work, turning down any and all initiations with friends to go out after out of precaution. It's just not worth the risk.

And for a while it seems to work. For a while, there are no more incidents. A week goes by and your nerves start to settle and you are lulled into a temporary sense of security before it all goes to shits.

A ceramic flower pot on a windowsill tumbling off the sixth floor of a brown house by Chelsea that would have dropped on your head and split your skull if someone hadn't bumped into you from behind that you weren’t able to catch sight of.

A piece of scaffolding that comes loose and falls from a construction site in West Village as you happened to walk past, and would have been crushed under if you weren’t tackled away at the last second by someone who fled the scene before you could thank them.

A hot dog cart runs amok, hurtling downhill towards you between 184th and 190th street in Manhattan when the cart suddenly out of nowhere, against the very laws of physics like it’s being pulled by an invisible force and changes direction mere inches in front of you, hurtling through the air and crashing into the windows of a bodega instead.

Each and every incident leaves you with an ever growing sense of paranoia that this cannot be explained away by being merely pure bad luck. There are cosmic forces at force that clearly want you dead.

On Thursday, there are leftover cupcakes from a client conference. Mary, the secretary in your team, boxes up four of them for you and tells you to take them with you, because, "you've had a rough week, toots."

It’s not a flattering assessment of you, but when you see your own reflection in the mirrors of the office toilets, you can’t help but think it’s an accurate one. You look rough. Eyes bloodshot with deep furrowed lines underneath. Your face is gaunter than you remember seeing it too. 

You take the cupcakes. 

It's the first good thing that has happened to you all week, and as small of a comfort it is, you take it as a win.

You eye the box from your desk the rest of the day, squirreled away in your tiny cubicle. You are determined not to eat one while at work. Because you'll be damned if Matt from accounting catches a whiff of your cupcakes and asks you to share one with him. You want to properly savor them in the comfort of your home at the end of the day.

But as often is the case when you have something to look forward to, the seconds, minutes and hours tick away with a reluctant drag as if time itself knew you wanted the day to end faster and decided it'd be fun to flip yet another cosmic middle finger in your direction. 

When it's finally time to end work, you get off your chair so forcefully it knocks it to the floor. You are practically jogging through the lanes of cubicles to get to the elevator, and nearly smack the security guard on the other side with how hard you swing open the front door. 

It's pouring outside, which, of course it is. You take off your jacket and cover your cupcake box with it, because you're not going to let the universe ruin the one good thing you've got going for you this week, as you run towards the station.

The moment you step into the damp and sticky station any remaining sense of joy in you evaporates. There's a hoard of tourists swarming the subway paying no attention to their surroundings. Tourists wearing their caps and backpacks and wheelies knocking over a 'Caution Wet Floor ' sign as they gather in a throng in front of the subway map, blocking the way as you hear the train approach.

It's not that big of a deal. A train comes every two to five minutes, and if you miss this one, you'll just get on the next one. It's not the end of the world. Logically, you know that. Emotionally and spiritually however, the world around you has just taken a little bit too much from you for you to concede to this minor little loss.

You are going to make this goddamned train.

Taking a determined step forward, you shoulder and push your way through the throng of people to fight your way to the front of the track.

You push a little too hard. Your feet skid across the slippery tiles, leg buckling from your own weight and you lose control, tumbling forward.

In your peripheral view there's a blinding light approaching. There's wind beating the sides of your face, and you can hear the screeching metal of the train right next to you. Your foot drops into empty space and you are falling into the tracks. 

Oh god why...

Why?

You just want to live.

The cupcake box flies out of your grip, splattered somewhere across the front pane of the train. There's a hard tug on your shirt as an invisible force you cannot see yanks you back, hard.

Your head whips back and for a fraction of a second, there are crimson eyes staring back down at you, you blink and then it's gone.

You land on your ass with a bruising force to your tailbone with a bone-breaking thud. The subway whizzes by with a demonic roar past you, inches from where you're sprawled on your ass on the dirty tiles of the subway station.

In front of your feet, there's a long streak of white frosting trailing down from your feet to the tracks of what looks like a crime scene.

Maybe it's the stress. Maybe you've just had a bad night of sleep (after many successive bad nights with little to no sleep). But something in you breaks at the sight of the frosting smeared across the dirty subway tiles.

Your eyes sting with exhaustion. Chest drawing in tight with a crumbling ache that makes you want to curl up on the cold tiles. You're just so tired.

There are people around you staring at you. No one in their right mind who lives in New York would sit on the floor of the subway.

But your legs are heavy and numb. You can’t move from the spot. Everything tastes like bile. You try to swallow and force it back down but it's no use, your throat has swollen shut. Your cheeks run wet and you press your palms to your eyes to make it stop but that only seems to make it worse. Snot runs down your nose and drips down your wrist. You're crying and you don't know how to stop.

Is this the rest of your life?

In the morning, you wake in your bed with a sore ache that gnaws at your bones. Swollen eyes and a soreness that scratches the lining of your throat.

Your back hurts, and as you try to turn to your side to get out of bed a sharp pain surges up along your entire spine.

Fuck.

It's too bright. The sunlight is offensive. It stings your eyes and makes you sick to your stomach. You only have vague memories of how you made it back home. Feet shuffling through the subway in a daze like the walking dead.

God is that what you are? A dead man woman walking?

You crane your head and catch a glimpse of your clock on the bedside table. 9.13 You're late for work. But that's mind as well, you don't have it in you to make it in.

What's the point anyhow? You hate that place.

Besides, if the subway on the way over doesn't finish off the job this time around, then eventually a taxi will. Failing that the universe is probably going to send over a ninja assassin rat from the subway to come after your life.

There's a soft breeze coming in from the open window that grazes the back of your neck and you turn your head towards it. All you can see from your window is the brick wall of the neighboring building. Even though your apartment is on the sixth floor, you can't see a speck of the New York skyline.

Still the breeze is nice, though you don't remember opening the window last night. You never usually do. It is silly and paranoid. No human robber could possibly climb up your six storey building just to climb into your window and rob you. If they could, they’d find that there isn’t much to rob in your apartment, the most valuable thing you own is a complete Le Creuset Cookware set. 

Your eyes glaze over your work tote bag on the floor next to the window, drifting upwards and spot the pink box sat on the window sill and you stop. 

You didn’t put that there. 

You sit upright in your bed, setting your feet to the floor and force yourself to leave your bed as you pad over to the open window.

It's a fancy looking thing. Baby pink, and chiffon ribbon on its side. Wrapping your pinkie around it, you tug it loose. You perch your thumb against the corner of the lid when you stop.

It's not another one of the universe's assassination attempts is it? You're not going to open it to find a bomb ticking down are you?

You hesitate for another moment, taking a deep calming breath before you gather the courage to finally lift the lid. Inside, there is a gorgeous display of cupcakes adorned with white and pink frosting, topped with strawberries, chocolate shavings and on two of them there's mini macarons.

Way fancier than the day old Costco cupcakes you'd lost yesterday.

Picking up one, you take a bite. The frosting is light and zesty. The refreshing lemon melts on the tip of your tongue as the buttery cream floods your mouth with the rich flavor. It's the best thing you've ever tasted.

Lifting the box, you check the sides of it to see if there's any note left behind, but there's none.

Gladis Bakery. It's from a bakery you've never heard of before. When you google the name the place is outside of New Jersey, 58 minutes away and you would need to take a subway then switch to a tram.

There's no note attached, but you don't need one. The list of candidates who would be physically able to climb up six floors up the bricks of your apartment building to leave cupcakes on your window isn’t a long one. 

Something warm blooms in your chest at the thought, and your fingers linger on the top of the box, savoring the taste of lemon and sugar still lingering on your tongue.

You put your head out the window, not sure what you're expecting to find but find yourself disappointed all the same when there's nothing there. No people in the quiet street below, and nothing unusual above.

"Thank you for uhm... saving me,” you say into the silence with nothing but the traffic noise below to answer you. 

 “And the cupcakes," you add. 

There's no reply. 

~ To be continued.

I don’t have a tag list but please follow me on astroboots-writes and turn on notifications to be notified when I post something new!

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil:

*Think* I’m up to date with your Tumblr / Bluesky answers, sorry if I missed this, but how did the interview of Dr. Jenni Haukio and Eliza Reid – the First Ladies of Finland and Iceland - on Wednesday, Sept. 20th at NYPL come together?

Hope people can attend or listen to the stream: it sounds fascinating.

https://www.nypl.org/events/programs/2023/09/20/first-ladies-finland-and-iceland-neil-gaiman

Thanks,

Randi

P.S. If you can find out if the NYPL folks are calling the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library (nee Mid-Manhattan Library) as SNIFFLE vs the spelled out SNFL, it’s be appreciated.

They asked.

[fantabulisticity]

The context:

Tell City Hall: No Cuts to Libraries! Your library and your community need your help. Mid-year City budget cuts in November 2023 forced New York City’s public libraries to reduce the vital services we offer to all New Yorkers, including ending Sunday service at most locations offering it across the city, and reducing collections, programming, and maintenance at our branches. In the recently announced FY25 City budget, public libraries face a loss of funding that would require even more tough decisions about materials, programming, and open hours we can offer. That’s why we are asking you to stand by your library and send a note right now. Sign your name to instantly deliver a message to Mayor Adams and the New York City Council to let them know how vital public libraries are to the communities they serve. From books and e-books to job-search help and ESOL classes to safe spaces for kids and teens to learn and grow, our libraries provide all New Yorkers with the support and resources they need to succeed. Your letter and the contact information you enter below will be instantly delivered to Mayor Eric Adams, City Council Speaker Adrienne Adams, Majority Leader Amanda Farías, Council Finance Chair Justin Brannan, Committee on Libraries Chair Carlina Rivera, and your local Council Member. Please note: The New York Public Library has locations in the Bronx, Manhattan, and Staten Island. The boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens are each served by their own library systems, Brooklyn Public Library and Queens Public Library.

The petition itself:

Dear Mayor Eric Adams, City Council Speaker Adrienne Adams, Council Majority Leader Amanda Farías, Committee on Libraries Chair Carlina Rivera, Council Finance Chair Justin Brannan, and Council Member, As you make important decisions on the city budget this year, I am reaching out to urge you to restore funding to one of New York City’s most vital resources: our public libraries. Our libraries sustained mid-year cuts in November 2023 that forced them to reduce collections, programming, and maintenance. These cuts also ended seven-day service at all the city’s libraries that offered it. If funding for the coming fiscal year is not restored, the city’s libraries will experience further losses. That means fewer books, fewer indispensable resources freely available to all, and even fewer days open each week. This would be devastating for all New Yorkers. Public libraries are the cornerstones of our communities. They provide a wealth of services and resources, all for free. Branches are safe spaces where people of all ages, from all walks of life, gather and connect. Books and e-books open doors to new worlds, new ideas, and new voices. Library programs and classes help New Yorkers learn and grow, from after-school support for kids to English language and technology training classes for adults, and more. As the city continues to face challenges, it’s crucial that our public libraries be open and available to all New Yorkers who need them. Libraries are for everyone—and they are essential to protecting free and open access to knowledge and creating equal opportunity for all. Restoring funding for our libraries is key to ensuring an equitable, resilient, and successful New York City.

I found out about this petition from Julia (of Drawfee):

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #24: The Doors

Like every other wishing-he-were-cool Southern California white boy born in the mid-to-late 70's, I had a big Doors phase in 1990. In the year leading up to Oliver Stone's ridiculously silly, TV flinging, film I spent 10 rich months in the following fashion:

First, I copied a friend's father's double CD Door's Greatest Hits collection (the one with Jim Morrison's fabulous pecks on the cover). I was discovering music after comic books and I memorized every glorious moment.

Next, I tracked down the band's four easily accessible full albums via another friend's Costco (or was it still called Price Club at that point?) Nice Price 4 Pack and memorized all of that too, even though I found parts of Waiting For The Sun dull and much of LA Woman sorta gross.

Then, I decided that Not To Touch The Earth was actually their best song and that anyone who only knew the band's greatest hits was a poser.

Next, I enjoyed listening to my father's tall tales about how The Doors had once lived on the strand in Manhattan Beach (my hometown) and were often practicing in their garage when my dad passed by. He also claimed that Morrison had worked for him for one single day as a house painter (my father's trade) but that Jim had been too nuts to keep on the payroll. At other points in my dad's joyful imagination Charles Manson and Ginger Baker had also been on past crews; his lies, which were specifically designed to entertain us, led us to mock and roll our eyes at him when he sincerely claimed that one of his past painters, Robbie Rodgers, actually had gone on to be a relatively successful musician. But then dad scored us tickets and we went to see the dude's Reggae/slasher band, War Called Peace, open for Yellowman; it was totally nuts, and Robbie told us that my dad had changed his life.

After that, I learned of the existence of The Soft Parade and swore to myself that I'd never listen to it. My heroes, horrifyingly, had once SOLD OUT!

Next, I watched Apocalypse Now over and over, daydreaming of the day I'd get my own hands on The End's master tapes and undercover even more of Morrison's Oedipal ranting.

(All the while I had no idea what Oedipal actually meant.)

Throughout it all, I feverishly followed Robert Hilburn's updates in the LA Times on the back and forth on set about whether or not Val Kilmore would sing or lip sync in the upcoming film.

Shortly thereafter, I shook my fist in fury when Billy Idol dared to cover LA Woman. The poser!

That drove me to the library, where I got Riders on the Storm, Jim Densmore's Morrison bio. I read it feverishly, taking mental notes on how I too would one day successfully avoid the draft by demonstrating Morrison-level savvy madness.

Midway through Densmore's self-aggrandizing tome, I bought a copy of Wilderness, Morrison's slim and posthumous published poetry collection, and carried it around with me together with my copy of the Tao Te Ching, convinced that they were the two true holy books. Anyone who thought otherwise I recognized as a poser.

All the while, I spent a lot of time thinking about how Ray Manzarek doubled as the band's bass player and pianist all at the same time on one keyboard. I viewed him as Einstein with a chainsaw.

Somewhere along the way, I sought out an ancient tape copy of a disco sounding album the band made after Jim's death and noted that no one in the band had made meaningful music ever since. And so I grew slightly concerned that maybe my heroes were secretly lame.

But I still stood in line for opening night of the film and smugly mocked everyone else in line with me as a poser. Clearly, none of them knew the secret lyric, edited out, after She Gets! on Break on Through...

And I thought the movie was pretty cool!

Then I proceeded to grow sick of the whole thing - the band and everything about them was suddenly far too mainstream for my superior tastes - and I decided anyone who liked The Doors on any level was a poser. Lou Reed and Bob Dylan were all that mattered.

Then a cool older kid played me Peace Frog and I realized I'd missed a whole album (damn Costco!). So I decided The Doors were cool again for about 15 minutes.

Then, 10 months after the whole thing had started, I moved on for good.

But that's not entirely true. Years and year later, I sang my kids to sleep with The Spy and The Crystal Ship; and I can still can almost recite Morrison's poem about some dude burning leaves. Now that I summon it from the internet and read it again I still think it's pretty great:

A man rakes leaves into

a heap in his yard, a pile,

& leans on his rake &

burns them utterly.

The fragrance fills the forest

children pause & heed the

smell, which will become

nostalgia in several years

But now, I have to ask, how does one even go about listening to The Doors with any objectivity 33 years after they became the world's biggest band for a moment and 50 years after Morrison's death? I mean there's a 15 year old hipster in the high school where I teach who still wears a t-shirt with Morrison on it. I don't know if objectivity can be achieved.

But I'm giving it a shot right now as I write this.

My copy of their debut, self-titled, album is an original print supposedly, and the vinyl sure sounds like it's creeping up on its 60th birthday. Crackling thunder, seemingly borrowed from Riders on the Storm, buzzels and pops throughout. But the whole record sounds great that way, like it too was taken from the Ancient Gallery and WALKED ON DOWN THE HALL!

Fair reader, here's what I think: if I try hard and strip back all the nonsense I know about poor Jim and the band, then I'm left with what is elemental music.

Sure there's some silly stuff to be found: Morrison's lyric "specialize in having fun" from Take It As It Comes is, and always has been, embarrassing, along with basically all the lyrics to Light My Fire. And I don't really know that the organ's drunk circus vibe in Alabama Song holds up.

But listen to Manzarek spill every coin in the band's copious wallet on Take It As It Comes; remember just how cool the wandering guitar intro still is on The End, not to mention the slapping, rippling, pick me up 3/4 of the way through that wandering track; appreciate just how unhinged Morrison's screaming holler is on Back Door Man; ride on the perfect Crystal Ship. And for god's sake, just sit back and listen to Light My Fire.

What if we simply thought of The Doors alongside their actual peers from 66-71: Love, Buffalo Springfield, Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead? What if we slowed down and remembered that the band did everything they did in under 5 years? What if we remembered, at the same time, just how much Stephen Stills still sucks? And what if we set aside for good just how damn magnetic poor Jim was? What if we just listened to The Doors?

I encourage you to give it a shot. Drop the needle on The Doors debut once a season; ride the King's Highway west; catch all the weird scenes in the goldmine. You too will wish The Doors practiced in a garage down your street.

-------------

Update! After posting this, my famous brother sent me this photo of Morrison. He's actually in Manhattan Beach!

I think my father, who, come to think of it, looked a hell of a lot like Morrison at that point, is just outside the frame, striding away after firing his ass. Rest in peace Jim.

[bayoubashsims]

Addams Family Tree & History

I'm sick with the flu and still grieving, so I decided to remake the Addams Family tree (lol excuse the tacky graphic design) and write down their fictional history based on all of the references to their ancestors. Some of the placements of relatives here are speculative, based on the time they lived in and so on.

Pre-1600s

The many iterations of the Addams Family provides several information on the history of the fictional family. The eldest known ancestor of the Addams family is probably the ghostly caveman featured in the musical and Mamoud Khali Pasha Addams, who was called the Firebug of the Bosporus that burned the Library of Alexandria down in 270 AD. Around the Dark Ages, an ancestor named Rulen the Ruthless Addams existed.

1600s

The earliest appearance of an ancestor was one that was featured prominently in Wednesday (series). Goody Addams and her mother lived in Jericho, Vermont during the witch trials of 1625 and were of Mexican descent, having lived among the native folk for a long time. When the town founder Joseph Crackstone set those accused of withcraft on fire, Goody escaped. Goody is not mentioned to be a direct ancestor, so it is possible that she may be the sister of one of Wednesday's ancestors.

A year later, in 1626, a Dutch man by the name of Van Dyke Addams helped in buying Manhattan from the natives of New York. Though Gomez claimed him to be his great-great-great-great-grandfather, this is not plausible because of Long John (see below), who existed in the latter part of the 1600s. Given the timeline, it's possible that Van Dyke was actually the grandfather of Long John and the father of Goody.

In the The New Addams Family, Long John Addams, Gomez's great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a pirate and in 1699 wrote a story about his life. He had a brother named Curly Addams, whose severed hand became Pinky (presumably an ancestor of Thing) and Long John later married Lady Penelope Addams, who was actually a dread pirate that was his rival and sought someone to best her.

1700s

In the early 1700s, an aunt by the name of Calpurnia Addams danced naked in the town square and enslaved a minister, and was burned as a witch in 1706.

According to Gomez in the musical in July 31st, 1715, a man named Captain General Redondo Cuervo (short for Redondo Ventana Laguna Don Jose Cuervo), who commanded a Spanish warship named Pico de Gallo, sailed from Madrid, but was still stuck there three weeks later. He sank six months later off the southern coast of Florida and presumably settled there. It was not mentioned that he was a direct ancestor by Gomez and he did not bear the name of Addams, so it's possible that he might have come from a maternal line.

A woman by the name of Miss Salem Addams was born in 1730 and lived up until 1830, and was buried in the family cemetery.

In 1764, an Admiral John Paul Addams was apparently hanged, but he was also apparently responsible for 'the shot heard round the world' in 1775, which began the American Revolutionary War, and for fighting against Hideki Tojo's forces and the German flotilla in the North Atlantic sea during World War II.

It can be inferred that he was possibly the captain of a ghost ship, considering that he had died in the mid 1700s and was yet active in the 1940s. It is possible that he was Gomez's great-great-great-great-grandfather.

Another relative who appeared in the American Revolutionary War was Old Cannonball Addams, who was said to be a natural-born leader at Bunker Hill in 1775 before he began firing at his own men due to him not being able to see without his glasses. An Addams that possibly lived in this generation as well was Blood and Guts Addams, who may also have been in the American Revolutionary War.

During the 1700s, apparently a branch of the family split into the famous Adams political family in Boston, Massachussetts, of which Gomez's distant cousin by marriage, Abigail Adams, is a member of and sees herself as the head of the family.

1800s

Around this time, Ol' Ebenezer Addams led early settlers to the Great Plains and sold the first guns to the Native Americans (it is possible that he was Gomez's great-great-great-grandfather). Later on, Old Blood and Thunder Addams participated in the American Civil War and was very inspirational right before he turned traitor at Shiloh in 1862, while in 1863, General Ulysses S. Addams surrendered in Vicksburg after enemy soldiers caught up with him.

Then presumably in c.1860-1870, Gomez's great-great-grandfather, Goober Addams (according to Gomez in the 1992 series) built The Addams Family Mansion in order to enjoy the swamp. It is possible that Goober was a sibling of Blood and Thunder and Ulysses, and the son of Ebenezer.

His presumable son, Pegleg Addams, was Gomez's great-grandfather (mentioned in the 1964 series), who was the last of the adventureous Addams and was wanted by fifteen countries for piracy. He had hid the treasure under the mansion. It was possible that he had siblings by the name of Bluebeard Addams, Black Bart Addams, and Bloody Addams, who were presumably pirates too.

1900s

Pegleg had at least one son, Mortimer Addams, a pyromaniac who resembled Gomez and married Delilah Addams. Delilah is possibly the daughter of Grandpa Squint, a medical expert of some kind who Abraham Lincoln begged for his political support in the 1860s, and Grandma Squint, who often makes strange sounds and cackles from the attic on dark stormy nights.

It was possible that Pegleg had another son named Uncle Blight, who masterminded the presidential campaigns of Al Smith, Wendell Wilkie, and Adlai Stevenson in 1928, 1940, and 1952 (respectively). Additionally, a relative by the name of Edwin Booth Addams was presumably named after the killer of Abraham Lincoln, and could possibly be a relative of them.

Mortimer and Delilah visited the family in Addams Family Reunion, in which they showed symptoms for Waltzheimer's Disease and became pleasant old people. By the time of The New Addams Family, Delilah had died by being struck by a truck while rollerblading with headphones on. Mortimer later married Diandra Addams, who resembled Morticia.

Mortimer's son was Father Addams (possibly named Harold) who later married Grandmama (or Mother Addams), and they had four children: Gomez Addams, Pancho Addams, and Uncle Cosimo, Uncle Fester. They spent some time in Spain (Gomez calls it his 'ancestral land') as it was mentioned that Gomez lived there until he was 10 and a marriage was arranged by Mortimer (who signed the marriage contract) and Don Xavier Molina between Gomez and Consuela, Don Xavier's daughter. Their families were said to have known each other since the time of the Spanish inquisition. According to Morticia in the 1991 film, both Mother and Father Addams later died in the hands of an angry mob.

Present time

In Wednesday, Gomez and Morticia both attended Nevermore Academy for their high school, and that is where they met in 1997.

In The Addams Family (TV Series) and The New Addams Family, Granny Frump and Grandmama had planned to marry Morticia's older sister Ophelia Frump to Gomez, but the plan failed when Gomez fell in love with Morticia instead. Beforehand, Morticia had been dating Gomez' cousin Cousin Vlad, since they had gone to the same high school, and Gomez and Morticia had first met at a funeral, but only gotten to know each other better around the time of Ophelia and Gomez's matchmaking.

After they married at the age of 22, they had three children: Wednesday Addams, Pugsley Addams, and later, in Addams Family Values, Pubert Addams. There were also two other children in the Halloween special named Wednesday Jr. Addams and Pugsley Jr. Addams, but they are often not considered canon.

They live in the crumbling Addams Family mansion with their butler, Lurch, who had presumably been in the family for a long time. His father, Father Lurch, a Dr. Frankenstein-like character, put him together and wanted him to be a jockey, and he has a very smothering mother by the name of Mother Lurch. Gomez said that Lurch has the heart of an Addams and it is implied to be literal. Lurch apparently came from a long line of similar looking, hulking people. in the 2019 film, Lurch was a former inmate at the insane asylum that became the family mansion.

Another member of the household is Thing (or his full name, Thing T. Thing). Though he is sometimes portrayed as having been a hand creature born from a long line of hands (a photograph of his parents appears in the 1964 series, as a female hand holding a male hand), other portrayals have him as a disembodied hand, possibly of a member of a family. Indeed, in the original cartoons, Thing was shown to be a creature with a body who often appears in the peripherals of the illustrations. He then became an arm and later on, only a hand.

Grandmama's Branch

The oldest known ancestor from Grandmama's side of the family was her great-great-great-grandmother Slice, who sharpened guillotines and was called 'the belle of the French Revolution' in 1789-1799.

Not much is known about her branch of the family, but it was known that she came from a family of witches. Her mother was presumably called Mooma, who would run her kids out of town if they ever got too big for their brooms, while her father was presumably Grandpa Slurp, who had two heads: with a bucktooth in one head, and a receding chin on the other.

She was also known to have two siblings: Uncle Jester, a zany, trouble-making jester who resembled Fester (and who she greatly disliked), and Great Auntie Sloom, who was looked at as a family elder who presided over the family traditions (such as the Mazurka). It can be inferred, then, that Grandmama's family and the main Addams family have their traditions intertwined.

She had a dark complexion (in the original illustrations and the 2020s films) and was known to have gone to a high school named Swamptown High with Granny Frump. In the 2020s film, she often travels the world and has an Old World, Eastern-European accent, the first iteration that showed her to be of a non-American origin.

The Frump Branch

Morticia's great-great-great-Aunt Singe was said to be burned during the Salem Witch Trials of 1892-1893, placing her as the oldest known ancestor of the Frump family. Another possible relative from this time would be Great-Aunt Esther.

Morticia was known to have a grandfather named Grandpa Droop, who gave her stock certicifactes for her twelfth birthday, implying they were rich. He may presumably be the father of Morticia's father, Grandpa Frump or her mother, Granny Frump. Grandpa and Granny had fallen in love because Fester (here as Grandpa's brother, in the 1964 series) shot the arrow (and the gun) that brought them together. They had two children: Ophelia Frump and Morticia.

Granny was a witch and presumably, Morticia's ancestors were also witches. Because of Morticia's anti-social tendencies, Granny had to homeschool her and taught her everything. Morticia has an assortment of cousins with eccentric behaviors, such as the sisters Cousin Melancholia and Cousin Catastrophia, and Cousin Pretensia.

[mote-historie]

1915 Women at Tea Time, Print, Mid-Manhattan Library, Picture Collection

[theycallme-thejackal]

One MidgeLenny x TSwift Fic Per Day

131. You're On Your Own, Kid

The jokes aren’t funny, Gordon even less so, and Midge hates this job.

She hates writing jokes for a man who doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t. Gordon is the type of celebrity who just wanted to be famous and made it happen despite having no discernible talent.

Fucker.

She takes the money anyway because she has a family to support, and when she gets her paycheck, she leaves the studio for home.

The apartment is empty. Her parents and children are in the Catskills with the Maisels, and Midge is set to join them all tomorrow. She used to look forward to going to the mountains during the summer, but this year she’s dreading it.

She tries to convince herself that it’s just about her career. That she just doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to play clubs in Manhattan during the summer, but she knows it’s more than that.

It’s that she’s on her own. Amongst happy families and newlyweds and couples who have been together for fifty years, she’ll be all alone.

For the briefest of moments, she thought she wasn’t going to be. That he had chased away the loneliness for good. That with one perfect kiss he had saved her from the soul-crushing isolation she felt.

She can’t believe that she’s given her blood, sweat, and tears for this. She’s hosted parties and theme nights and spent countless hours tugging a measuring tape around her body just to end up alone again.

She feels like if she were meant to end up with someone, she would be with him by now. She’s thirty. There’s over a decade of women younger than her who are ready to hang up their single days, marry a man, and churn out a few kids.

What does she have to offer anyone?

She’s been dreaming lately of making a change. Of leaving this town that has done nothing but hurt her for the last five years. Fleeing to Los Angeles, trying her luck amongst the sun and movie stars.

Realistically she can’t. She has children. Parents. She can’t just pick up and leave when her roots are so firmly embedded in concrete and subway grates.

The phone rings as she pours herself a glass of wine, and she reaches for it, assuming it’s going to be Susie calling to talk before Midge leaves for the Catskills.

“Hello?”

“When I watch Gordon Ford, I can always tell which jokes you wrote.”

She exhales, and it’s half laugh, half sigh of relief at the sound of his voice. “I hope that’s a compliment,” she replies, sitting down on the couch.

“Yours are the only jokes that are funny,” he replies as though it’s obvious. “They should clear out the writer’s room and put your name on the door.”

She laughs again. “The writers are fine. Gordon is just...not funny.”

“Then they should clear out his dressing room and put your name on the show.”

“Damn straight...he’s in talks to take over The Tonight Show,” Midge explains.

“No way in hell can that guy fill Jack Paar’s shoes,” Lenny argues, and she hears him take a drag of his cigarette.

“Gordon does have shockingly tiny feet,” she bats back. She takes a sip of her wine as his chuckle rumbles over the line. “It’s nice to hear from you,” she says quietly.

“I figured I was overdue for a phone call.”

“I should start charging you. Like the library. I could make a fortune on late fees with the way you communicate.”

She hears the clinking of change and furrows her brow. “Are you at a payphone?” She asks.

“Very astute. You should call yourself Detective Maisel.”

“If I were going to change my name, I’d disown my ex’s name,” she retorts.

“And go by Weissman?”

“Yes. Scheherazade Rhoda Weissman.”

“I like it. But there’s a certain poetic nature about telling scathing jokes about the ex-husband whose name you kept for your own.”

“Fine, I suppose I’ll keep it,” she sighs with a smile. “Now about that payphone - where are you?”

“Actually, I’m not far,” he says, and more change is dropped into the phone.

“You’re in New York?” She asks, hoping he doesn’t hear the way her breath catches.

“I am,” he confirms.

“The Village?”

“Closer.”

“Mid-town?”

“Getting warmer,” he replies.

“Do I just have to name neighborhoods until you tell me where you are?” She asks with a laugh.

“I suppose I could put you out of your misery by just telling you I’m standing outside of your building, but where’s the fun in that?”

She raises her brows in surprise. “You’re...really not far,” she breathes, and her feet itch to carry her to the window to catch a glimpse of him. But she stays put. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The way he drawls, she knows he’s got a finger covering smirking lips.

“Not entirely, no.”

He sighs. “I miss you. I heard you’re heading out of town, and I...wanted to catch you before you left.”

“You miss me,” she repeats quietly.

“Painfully so,” he answers, the honesty in his voice making her heart flutter.

She worries her lower lip between her teeth. “This could be a bad idea, Lenny.”

“If I recall correctly, your apartment is not blue. I think we’re safe.”

“Oh, so we can only have sex in blue rooms?” She asks.

“We’re a superstitious bunch, us entertainers. What if a pink room or green room or white room brings out the worst in us?” He jokes.

She takes a deep breath. “I’m willing to take that chance, Lenny,” she whispers.

She hears him exhale. “Then I am, too,” he says.

He knocks on her door a few minutes later, enough time having passed to have her heart thudding in anticipation, and he crosses the threshold, taking her in his arms and kissing her deeply.

She was afraid she’d burned this bridge, that she’d lost him that night on the stage of Carnegie Hall, and as her arms wrap tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, she realizes she had no reason to be afraid.

“Lenny?” She breathes when they part for air.

“Yeah?” He asks, equally breathless as he holds her.

“What is this? Is it...is it just sex, or is it...more?”

He grins and lifts his hand to brush her fringe from her eyes. “It’s everything,” he answers.

She smiles and captures his lips again.

[monkeyssalad-blog]

[Man playing the tuba.] by New York Public Library Via Flickr: Digital ID: 832515 Source: Mid-Manhattan Picture Collection / Music -- horn (more info) Repository: The New York Public Library. Mid-Manhattan Library. Picture Collection. See more information about this image and others at NYPL Digital Gallery. Persistent URL: digitalgallery.nypl.org/nypldigital/id?832515 Rights Info: No known copyright restrictions; may be subject to third party rights (for more information, click here)

[realjaysumlin]

Colonial Authority (1600-1775) - Understanding RACE

It's really strange how people can't keep up with their lies regarding history. If the first African Slaves first arrived in 1619 why would you have laws against Black People before 1619? These were just ideas of colonial laws before 1776. The white laws are enforced globally and most Black People follow everything that the fake white people say, no matter if it's against their own self interest.

This is by no means to speak negatively about Black Indigenous People because I know that this is a form of mental abuse from the traumatic experiences that they have endured since the 1400s when colonization started. I understand Black Psychology because this is my learning experience and I truly understand why so many Black Indigenous People globally act the way they do.

[tjpda]

And now it's time for everyone's favorite new segment: COOL STUFF WE FOUND IN THE ARCHIVAL PIECES! This is a new series where we at the archive highlight quirky, interesting items found left inside the texts compiled in the archive. Today we have:

A FOLDOUT PAGE OF ALL THE BOHEMIAN GROVE PLAYS!

These Bohemian Grove plays feature a list in each play of all the prior plays done at the retreat spanning back to the turn of the century. I feel like a better conspiracy theorist than I would be able to find some hidden message in their dramaturgy but it's beyond me. Still interesting to see though!

AN OUT-OF-DATE LIBRARY CARD HOLDER!

In this copy of Charles Ludlam plays, we can see that it was once a book belonging to the Mid-Manhattan branch of the NYPL. Apart from being potential evidence in a library-based crime (calling Phillip Baker Hall), it is of interest because the Mid-Manhattan branch no longer exists! It was renamed the Stavros Niarchos Foundation Library in 2017 after the titular foundation donated $55 million to the library for renovations.

A TINY CARD HOLDER!!

Inside this copy of Athol Fugard's The Road To Mecca, I found a little identifier sticking out listing the author, name of the play, publisher and copyright date. I figured this was for whoever had archived the play before me but I was more intrigued by the adorable holder/envelope thing that the card was in. It is printed with the (beautiful) logo for GEVA Theatre in Rochester, New York. Aside from being my hometown, this was exciting because GEVA was where I saw many of my first theatrical performances and it holds a very special place in my heart so this was fun to find.

[porciaenjoyer]

mid-manhattan library....? no such thing as a mid library

[kathyzucker]

I have no memories of Bryant Park as a child. I spent many hours visiting the New York Public Library bracketing the east end, and I researched term papers across the street at the Mid-Manhattan Library. But the park itself begins in my mind with carousel visits for my children. Over the years, corollary locations have flowered alongside connecting streets. A Japanese bookstore, organic grocer, and my fencing club revolve around the park like spokes on a hub.

On our most recent visit, I walked all three children to the door of my club. I made sure they know how to find it again, and told them that if anything bad ever happens, they should go there. Somebody will help them find their way home.

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A post shared by Kathy Zucker✨ (@kathyzucker)

[willfrominternet]

Meet the new OCs, same as the old OCs

In 2012, I began writing a webcomic (which you should not try to find) which featured some unnamed and undeveloped characters. The idea was to see who these characters became and what kind of crazy hijinks would ensue between them. Unfortunately, the comic didn't last longer than three weeks due to life/school/work/distractions.

However, those characters prevailed in the back of my mind for a decade, growing and forming and waiting for their time to shine. I figured I would reintroduce a few of them. Thanks to the power of AI, I've created some portraits to show you what they might look like, since I cannot draw for the life of me. (I've tried. Trust me. The comic was not good.)

From left to right, please meet:

Alisa Velasquez: Former bridge-and-tunnel kid, assistant librarian at the New York Public Library's Mid-Manhattan Branch by day, dream-filled writer by night. 31 years old. Bookish but quick-thinking, and certainly not shy, although awkward in large groups or social situations. Has a muted flair for the romantic.

Mallory McAllister: Resident of New York's underground, professional busker, gossip, super sleuth. Knows the business of every New Yorker, tourist, politician, and panhandler. 33 years old. Staten Island expat. Musical encyclopedia. Has a knack for adventure, a penchant for individuality, and a loud love for her friends.

Zechariah King: British Brooklynite, former Columbia professor, current mad scientist. Maintains a not-so-secret lab in an illegal basement underneath his home. 49 years old in body, 29 years old at heart. Fearless in the face of science, but fearful in front of too many faces. Somewhat of a hermit, but spirited nonetheless. Often makes himself his own test subject. Keeps many at a distance, but deeply cherishes those whom he keeps close.

Say hello! You may meet these folks many more times in the posts to come. I doubt their portraits will look as good as these, but I'll find some other way to make them come alive.

[furryalligator]

What is one to do when you've hired wrong celebrity architect? @GiniaNYT asks an architectural matchmaker. https://t.co/ME8sUZELPk

— The New York Times (@nytimes) August 25, 2019

[nypl]

While our Mid-Manhattan Library is closed for a much-needed renovation, we're accommodating patrons by opening a temporary circulating space across Fifth Avenue! The new space—called Mid-Manhattan at 42nd Street—opens today, August 29, and is accessible to patrons via the 42nd Street entrance of the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. Check out this short video to see the brand new space, or drop by and see it for yourself!