#theatre experience of all time guaranteed

[cup-noodle]

wait you're telling me i was this close to seeing crosby beloved live in this play we're seeing (which i just found out today cause we booked it pre-mota and i had no idea who he was) and now he's not in it??

jail for anthony for One Thousand Years

[noxofspades]

Appreciating+analyzing Brokeback Mountain's first tent scene for it's 18th anniversary

It’s been 18 years since Ang Lee used his familarity of repression from his culture to bring Brokeback Mountain to life. Starring legendary actor, Heath Ledger, and his co-star, best friend + the godfather of his child, Jake Gyllenhaal.

And i want to show appreciation to the first tent scene. It’s the most famous scene along with Jack’s final speech. I guarantee that most non-viewer knows about either one or both of these. And while this sex scene is very impactful and a few ppl also like this scene, it's usually met with two types of reactions. First, plain homophobia. Like when ppl just immediately left the theatre, outraged or disgusted.

Ppl made parodies about this, and there was a trend of ppl showing someone this scene out of context and enjoy the shocked, horrified or disgusted reaction

On the flip side, there’s the ppl who loves+appreciates this film but has valid criticisms about this scene. It’s not realistic when it comes to prep. There’s the beans thing (even though Jack threw a whole tantrum about hating to eat this, so Ennis had to give him alternatives like hunting elk+getting soup).either way, that beans aspect is something ppl can't look past,therefore can't take seriously. This scene is too rough for some, too short for others. Or it feels really sanitized to them.

I see all of these points. I actually disliked this scene as well on my first watch when i was a young teen.However, as i grew older and i rewatched this film a few times, i developed a huge appreciation for this scene. i geninuely love this now. And coming from an aro/ace person, this one of my favorite scenes in cinema. And here's why...

We know that Ennis is a virgin from the ‘sinner’ talk. And later on, you get the details of Ennis' trauma from being forced to see the horrific aftermath of a hate crime. So growing up, as he went through puberty…i don’t think he let himself fantasize about guy. And also, his parents were methodists, so add religion in his childhood.

So this isn’t only about him giving into his lust for Jack, this is about struggling with all these repressed emotions of fear, shame. He grew up, being denied the most simple pleasure of life. So this isn’t just about this sexual release, it’s a huge, shattering emotional release as well.

And putting all this together, this backstory is the reason why this scene is vital. I highly doubt that with all this repression+trauma, that Ennis would make any kind of move, romantic or sexual. Heck, i don’t even think he was fully aware of his feelings until this moment. It implied in the short story that even though he doesn’t know why he’s so happy around Jack, he could still just palm the white of the moon.

So i believe this is the only way he could face not only his lust, but his emotions. Having Jack being aroused and explicitly state with his actions how much he wanted this

This being THE MOMENT where Ennis could experience true freedom. Let the restraints go and just vulnerable with another person. And i think it being it at night, in the dark helped give him that extra courage.And because of all the pent up lust went with his emotions, he just lost control at the sound of the belt unbuckle and just roughly took Jack on the spot.

I like how this subverts my expectation. Jack is the impulsive, extroverted and bold one. And also, i'm used to scenes where when someone is hesitant or really scared to be intimate with someone, they are usually soothed and they will slowly let themself experience pleasure. But instead, Ennis is overcome with lust, and fully takes over.

And the moments after Jack is pushed down just gets me. You hear tiny little noises of excitement from him, cuz the shy, reserved man he knew suddenly shoved him down, shaking hard from lust+impatience. And he is just waiting, while Ennis is rushing to undo his pants then practically rips off Jack's . No pleasantries, nothing, just does him raw. Is this ideal in real life? Hell no. But as a fantastical concept, i find that incredibly hot. I may not find ppl sexually attractive, but i appreciate a spicy scenario, as long as i’m not involved.

And i appreciate the film not framing the loss of Ennis' virginity as comedic or even victorious, like a prize he finally won. I often see this in media with male characters having sex for the first time. This, while abrupt, is still taken seriously. Ennis is really clumsy, and even though he’s doing the work, he’s not the one in control. He is barely hanging on, really overwhelmed by all these new sensations. The surprise, the bliss and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t last long. The way he pressed his forehead onto Jack’s back as the orgasmic sensations abruptly hits him.

And Jack aggressively slamming on the tent floor when the release hits him. Iconic. Apparently, Jake G added that in, which shocked Ang lee in a good way. And yeah, that definitely adds to the level of intensity that this whole scene built up to.

And there’s also this brief scene i like where the two, especially Ennis, is just WIPED OUT. And while a part of me wondered why it’d be like if this scene lasted longer, I think it also really adds to the intensity of Ennis’ experience. The physical and the emotional release is so monumental for him that not only he wasn't able to last long, it also just shattered every ounce of his physical energy.

And i like how it didn’t linger on the afterglow. It’s a quick cut to the outside shot of their tent, as you still hear their panting. I liked this because it emphasizes how this was truly impulsive this act was. How desperate they were to just feel each other that they even couldn’t utter a single word. And they couldn't even take the time to fully undress or enjoy each other's bodies yet. This was just instinctive and animalistic.

And it's the fact that there's no music, and it's all shot close up, alternating from Jack+Ennis that makes it feel more authentic. To me, it doesn't feel staged, and that again, just adds so much.

And i love the contrast between this and the second tent scene. Ennis surrenders in both but has different reactions. Because of the overwhelming lust+emotions, this moment is rushed.

But after struggling to process that he found so much freedom+pleasure in something society deems immoral, he gives into his desires and enters the tent. Now since the physical barrier has been crossed, and the pent up lust is satiated, he is forced to face his emotions. And allow Jack to fully see him the most vulnerable he's ever been. The way he clutches his hat like a shield and struggles to make eye contact.

The way Jack sees all this and responds with so much tenderness. How he kissed him, whispers reassurances and cradles him. And Ennis feels safe enough to properly enjoy Jack's body. And feel his chest. That soft kiss he plants a moment later. Just gives me so many butterflies.

On the first watch, it's really sad to see Ennis so scared. But on a rewatch, when you know the details of his trauma. Soul-shattering. You fully realize how much he needed to be soothed +held like this😭😭

And then i found this great website, Brokeback Mountain Love Scene Tent – Book & Movie Library (whythebookwins.com)

where it talks about the symbolism of the nature+ tent. I love how it points out how nature is their silent witness. Whether it’s for their frantic first time, or more tender ones that happen later on. And how the tent is so confined, which reflects Jack+Ennis’ relationship. Because of our cruel society, they had to hide their love+vulnerability from the world. And because of Ennis’ trauma and internal struggle, it’s only this tent on Brokeback Mountain, that is truly becomes their only safe haven.

Heath+Jake did fantastic in both of these scenes. Especially the first one. I'm glad that there were proper measures to make sure these two were very comfortable and they weren't exploited in any way.

[harry-on-broadway]

The Last Line: Part One

Part One 

Word Count: 9.4K || Series Masterlist || Rating: M

A/N: I didn’t think I’d be writing another series so soon after TYTM but...this little idea of an enemies-to-friends-to-lovers story that I’ve been thinking about for a long time just wouldn’t go away. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I’m enjoying writing it. Would love to hear what everyone thinks! 

***

May 12, 2017

Review: Harry Styles Heads In A New Direction

By Penny Sanders

If you know someone, most likely a young woman, between the ages of 13 and 30, chances are you’ve heard of Harry Styles.

Or at least his former band, One Direction.

Styles is one of the five young men that were thrown together by the infamous Simon Cowell to create the best selling boy band of all-time. Over their brief career, One Direction’s discography cast a wide net, attracting fans of all ages. Young tweens and their millennial counterparts were drawn in by the clean-cut look of the lads clad in blazers and bowties and lyrics that felt like they were pulled from a self-insert fanfiction. However, as the years progressed the band added a bit of an edge – tattoos, rumors of an attempted threesome, and lyrics about a loaded gun (read: erect penis). But with 1D in the midst of an indefinite hiatus, all eyes are on Harry, Niall, Liam, and Louis (and Zayn too) to see what comes next.

Styles has answered that question with a 10-song debut that is worlds away from the five albums he put out with his former band. Gone are the bubblegum beats, replaced by alternatively somber and bombastic instrumentals. And forget cheeky “wink-wink nod-nod” lyrics to – gasp! sex! Styles readily admits getting himself off in a hotel room in the album’s closer, “From the Dining Table.”

It’s not a poor offering, but frankly, it’s not great either. While he pushes himself to redefine the sound that has been associated with him for more than five years, the result is a generic LP that will likely be forgotten as soon as one of the industry’s legitimate superstars releases a new single. And, to head off the question I’ve already received from many of Styles’ supporters on Twitter, I can guarantee that you won’t be seeing this album or any of its tracks, mentioned at this year’s Grammy Awards.

One of the bright spots on the album, the lead single “Sign Of The Times,” feels like a grand moment, but it also feels misplaced, almost as if it was a song that should have come a decade into his solo career. Despite poignant lyrics (the song is purportedly about a mother dying in childbirth), Styles’ falsetto needs strengthening and at times he sounds like a young boy trying to imitate his elders. He has talent and shows promise, but isn’t able to pull off a ballad of that caliber yet. Other songs, like “Sweet Creature” and “Two Ghosts” are instantly forgettable, though “Kiwi,” while memorable, is just plain painful to listen to.

Styles is obviously popular, and that alone will be enough to propel him to years of sold-out shows and chart-topping albums. But he needs something else – a secret ingredient if you will –  to launch him to further stardom and cement his name alongside his idols Nicks, Bowie, and Jagger. Otherwise, he’ll be nothing but a midnight memory.

***

September 21, 2017

Review: Harry Styles Rocks The Greek Theatre

By Penny Sanders

Months after the release of his self-titled debut album, Harry Styles found himself at the Greek Theatre, ready to play to a sold out crowd that had likely been waiting for this moment since One Direction’s final performance.

And let me just say, attending a Harry Styles concert is an experience like no other.

The intimate venue was a nice change of pace for Styles who was selling out stadiums in the latter half of One Direction’s tour. He was always seen as the charming one, and the small stage makes that even more apparent, giving him more than enough time to banter with the audience, introduce songs, and connect with his audience. I’m sure many of those in the front of the crowd will tell stories for years to come of the night they made eye contact with the heartthrob.

With just 10 songs of his own, he relied on some One Direction hits and other covers to fill out the setlist. With the exception of “The Chain,” most of the covers sounded nothing like the original version, leading anyone unfamiliar with Styles’ career so far to assume the guitar heavy, rocking versions of the songs – notably “What Makes You Beautiful” and “Story of My Life” – are the standard.

Styles has a charisma like no other, and even though it’s clear it takes him a while to warm up to the crowd, perhaps a symptom of never being alone onstage in his career so far, he’s a born performer who belongs on the stage. But for me, he wasn’t the standout. It was his fans.

The crowd was ready for fun, dressed to the nines, with nearly everyone carrying overflowing bags of merch. They sang along to the songs word perfect and clung to Styles every word, cheering louder than I’ve ever heard when he entered the stage. It was a joyous occasion and had an energy I haven’t seen in any of the concerts I’ve recently attended.

I spoke to a number of women in attendance last night, asking them what drew them to the show. Some cited their One Direction fandom, while others spoke of the sounds of his music, and how it reminded them of other classic songs they love. But for many, Styles himself was the primary reason for being there.

“He makes things really personal,” said Ally, a college student who came from Minneapolis to see the show – her third time seeing Styles this year. “A lot of the other concerts I go to, the artists don’t say anything other than a generic thank you. But Harry makes every show feel special.”

“He feels like a friend,” said Katrina, a local high-schooler. “School’s not always easy and I sometimes struggle with things, but when I listen to his music or go to one of his shows, it feels comforting. Like I’m in a safe place.”

These statements perfectly summarize why Styles’ concerts are so unique.

If he stays true to what his fans want and lets his personality shine on stage, that, in addition to strengthening his songwriting, could be enough to land him alongside his musical icons, and 50 years from now, we’ll see him headlining stadiums on his own, playing a career’s worth of hits as the crowd – full more than just women – sings along.

Longtime readers will remember that I was less than effusive in my review of Styles’s debut, but after seeing him live, I must eat my words and say he’s going places.

***

Transcript from the “Track After Track” podcast, Episode 147: July 21, 2018

Ethan: Speaking of concerts, Penny, you just saw Harry Styles at the Forum, right?

Penny: Yeah, I was there a week ago. Eight days? No a week ago. Sorry it all blends together.

Ethan: I mean, you are at a concert every night, pretty much, so I’ll give you a pass.

Penny: [laughs] You’re so kind. But yes, I was at his show.

Tyler: How was that? I never know what to make of these boy band guys. For every Timberlake, there’s 10 Chris Kirkpatricks.

Penny: It wasn’t terrible. He puts on a good show.

Ethan: Was this your first time seeing him?

Penny: No. I saw him twice when he was in One Direction. And when he was at the Greek.

Tyler: And?

Penny: Like I said, he’s not terrible. It’s clear that his music and personality has resonated with a lot of people, so his shows are filled with fans and have a great energy. Listening to the album on its own is kind of meh…there weren’t a lot of tracks that stuck out as memorable…but live it can be kind of fun. You can tell he loves performing and really feeds off the crowd.

Ethan: Confession: I actually haven’t listened to the album yet.

Penny: That doesn’t surprise me based on the number of EDM CDs in your car.

Ethan: [laughs] Yeah, the genre definitely isn’t my cup of tea, but I think Harry is someone the industry really needs to watch. He’s going to do big things. Well, even bigger since he’s already pretty massive. Tyler, have you listened?

Tyler: Yeah, but I just can’t bring myself to get into it. Like, you just mention his name and you can hear the teen girls screaming off in the distance. I just think it’s a red flag when your fanbase is that narrow. Like if teen girls are your driver, how are you going to succeed? What happens when they’re not 13 and hormonal anymore. You’re not seeing a lot of geriatric boy band fans.

Penny: Wow! Ageism and sexism all in one statement! That has to be a first for you! It’s fine to say you don’t like his music, but to discount it purely on the basis that younger women like it…that’s just plain ignorant.

Tyler: Let’s evaluate this in five years and see where he is.

Penny: Fine, in five years have me back on this podcast and we’ll discuss his Grammy win.

Tyler: You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think Harry Styles will win a Grammy. You need to start thinking with your head and not your – (inaudible)

Penny: Seriously?

Ethan: OK, let’s talk charts…

***

Talking Biz News  

November 8, 2018

Penny Sanders to join media start-up The Moment as Music Reporter

***

Present Day, 2019

“She needs to go back to copyediting and stop fucking up my stories,” Chloe barked, stabbing lettuce onto her fork to match her anger. “She knows nothing about film but is constantly trying to make corrections and I’m just like ‘No?!? That’s not how the fucking industry works.’” She looked across the table at Penny. “Am I crazy?”

“No, you’re not crazy,” Penny said, trying to soothe her friend. “I have the same issue with Darren. He came in thinking he was hot shit because he had been at Rolling Stone and started trying to explain how the charts work as if I haven’t been covering this for years. I can’t tell you how much time I spend undoing his edits before the piece goes to Skylar.”

“Why can’t this newsroom hire a competent editor?” Chloe asked. “It’s not that hard.”

“Probably because no editor wants to work here?”

“Good point!”

Penny and Chloe were eating a late lunch in the courtyard of the complex that housed The Moment, the entertainment publication they both worked for. They’d met three years ago during a summer internship at Variety and forged an alliance after realizing they were the only two women in the program. Penny had wanted to cover music and Chloe was determined to become a film reporter, and they’d been thrilled to finally end up at The Moment together after several years of freelancing and fighting for staff writer roles. Now, they were unstoppable, filing stories daily and dodging pointless notes from their first editors.

“Wait, Penny…didn’t you file your piece on ‘Old Town Road’ today?”

“Yes, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why? It’s such an interesting story,” Chloe whined. “And I haven’t seen anyone covering it yet.”

“That always makes me nervous.” Penny swirled her spoon through her bowl of soup.

“It shouldn’t. It means you’re ahead of the curve.”

“Or I’ve completely misjudged the story. Maybe it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Give it a month and everyone will be talking about it.” Chloe paused. “Is Darren taking firsts?”

“Yes.”

“Oh fuck.”

“Yeah, it’s not looking good for me, Chlo.”

The Moment’s typical reporting and editing process involved a reporter filing a story to one editor, who would do an intensive first edit, fixing the structure of the story, making notes on sections that needed to be added or get cut, and getting the piece 99% ready for publication. The second round of edits was largely focused on fixing grammar and spelling, as well as fact-checking, ahead of publication. Penny typically preferred Skylar, the publication’s editor-in-chief, to take on first edits. While she could be tough, she was smart and kind, and Penny’s stories were always much better after Skylar got her hands on them. When other editors, like Darren, took first edits, Penny knew to prepare herself for days of tears, stress, and questioning her life choices.

“What about you?” Penny asked, wanting to shift the conversation away from her anxiety over her story. “Have things calmed down post-Oscars?”

“Yes. Thankfully.”

Penny knew Chloe loved her job but from late August to early March, she was running from festival to festival, covering awards season. In addition to writing her articles, she, like Penny, found herself taking on media hits as an added responsibility, appearing on morning shows, podcasts, and radio programs to break down entertainment topics for everyday consumers. It was fun and super fulfilling, but it was also exhausting.

“When is Cannes again?”

“May!” Chloe said brightly. “Easily my favorite festival.”

“I have no idea why,” Penny said with a sly grin. “Two weeks on a French beach surrounded by celebrities, eating the most delicious food. It sounds horrid.”

“Oh my God, Penny? What are you doing here?”

Penny and Chloe turned in synchronicity to look at the man who had shouted at them from a table across the path.

“Do we know him?” Chloe asked, mumbling the question through the tentative grin she had plastered on her face.

“I can’t actually see his face,” Penny admitted, squinting trying to gain a better view.

“This is why you need to wear your glasses,” Chloe hissed.

“Of all the food courts in Los Angeles,” the man continued as he walked over to them.

“Wait…Tom? Is that you?”

“It is! How have you been?” He opened his arms and pulled Penny into him. She wrapped her own arms around him.

“So good. I didn’t realize you were out here.”

“I’ve actually been here for a few years now.”

“Shit. Really. I feel so bad that I didn’t reach out,” Penny said apologetically. “And I’m also surprised that my mom didn’t mention you.”

“Eh, it’s not a problem,” he shrugged.

“Care to introduce me?” Chloe asked.

“Ah, yes,” Penny said, composing herself. “Chloe, this is Tom Skoglund. He’s a longtime family friend, although I’m sure that title is being called into question since I didn’t even know he was living here. Tom, this is Chloe. She’s a friend of mine who also works at The Moment.” Penny stepped back to allow Chloe and Tom to shake hands and exchange pleasantries. “Do you want to sit with us?” she asked when they were finished, noting Tom’s sandwich and chips.

“If you don’t mind,” he said. “I’d love to catch up.”

Penny and Chloe sat back down as Tom pulled up a third chair and set his food down. “So you’re still doing the reporter thing?” he asked with a grin. He turned to Chloe. “Penny used to write a newsletter for everyone in the neighborhood. It had news items and opinion pieces all written by her. I seem to remember a glowing review for the second High School Musical soundtrack.”

“It’s full of bangers and you know it,” Penny said with a grin.

Tom turned to Chloe. “Do you also cover music?”

Chloe shook her head. “I’m a film girl.”

“Thoughts on the Oscars?” he asked as he took a bite.

“Anyone who actually pays attention to previous stats knew that Green Book would pull out a win so I wasn’t surprised. I will be curious to see what Netflix does next though. I personally thought The Favourite should have won, but that’s why I’m not a voter.”

“I literally only saw Black Panther and A Star Is Born so I feel like I don’t have room to say anything,” Tom said with a grimace.

“You sound like Penny,” Chloe said with a laugh. “She can tell you the exact week a song hit number one on the Billboard charts, but is frighteningly unaware of the latest movies.”

“I only have so much room for useless facts,” Penny said, earning a kick under the table from Chloe. She turned her attention back to Tom. “What are you doing here? Last I heard my mom said you were working in finance? Is that still the case?”

“God no,” he said lightly. “I had enough of that soul crushing job and decided to head out here to hack it in music. Got an assistant gig and worked my way up to manager.”

“Tom, that’s incredible,” Penny said with genuine excitement. “Who are you with?”

“Full Stop. With Jeff Azoff”

“Wow,” Penny said as Chloe let out a slow whistle. She turned to look at her friend.

“Yes, I know who the Azoffs are,” Chloe said. “And that’s impressive. Congrats, Tom.” Her phone chirped and she looked down at the screen. “Fuck. One of my sources wants to chat. I’ve got to take this.” She looked up at Penny and Tom. “It was so nice to meet you, Tom. Penny, I’ll see you at drinks later?”

Penny nodded and waved as Chloe disappeared across the grass, depositing her empty salad container in the trash. “So Full Stop,” she said, turning back to Tom. “You all have quite the roster.”

“Before you ask, no comment,” Tom said with a grin.

“Tom, I’m disappointed that you’d think I would stoop that low. I have a firm stance on not using friends for work stuff.”

“Well good, because you’d get nothing out of me.” He took a sip of his drink. “Remind me, are you still doing breaking news?” He grimaced. “I know I see your byline frequently, but I don’t always remember which article it comes in front of.”

“No. I moved on from that.” Penny didn’t miss the days of covering the desk at night, ready to pounce on any stories that came across the wire. “I mostly do reviews for concerts and albums now. I’m working my way up to business features, profiles, those types of things.”

“What should I go back and get caught up on?”

“I reviewed Maggie Rogers’ album a couple of weeks ago and wrote a review of Elton John’s show last week.”

“God, doesn’t he put on a great show.”

“One of the best. And I’m working on a feature about TikTok and ‘Old Town Road’ right now.”

“That sounds so interesting. Is it up yet?”

“No. I just filed it to my editor so there is a very good chance that it will never see the light of day. But if it does, I will send it your way.”

“Please. Let me give you my number.”

Penny pulled out her phone and handed it to her old friend. It was a strange feeling knowing that in the heyday of their friendship, they hadn’t needed each other's number, knowing they could always find the other in the cul-de-sac or the school hallways.

“Done.” Tom said, saving his contact information and passing the phone back to Penny, who quickly dashed off a text so he would have her information as well.

“I should probably head back into the office now,” Penny said. “But it was great to see you.”

“You too,” Tom said, standing to hug her. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d want to come to a little party slash happy hour thing I’m having on Friday. It’s super casual, basically just drinks and fancy snacks with a bunch of people from the office. I think they’d all love to meet you and talk music. Off the record,” he added quickly.

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Penny replied. “I should be free Friday.”

“Great. I’ll text you my address and we can take it from there.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Penny said, collecting her trash. “I’m really looking forward to seeing more of you.”

“Same. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Penny waved as she threw her trash away and headed back to her building. She smiled to herself. It would be nice to have another friendly face around. They were too rare in her line of work.

***

Penny promptly shut her laptop at 5pm, stowing it in her tote bag and pushing her chair underneath her desk.

“Have a nice weekend!” she called out to the few staffers that were remaining in the newsroom, before heading to her car. She plugged Tom’s address into her GPS app, hit play on her Spotify playlist, and pulled out of the parking lot. She was about 45 minutes away, thanks to the heavy traffic that was a near constant presence in the city, but made it to Tom’s house before her 80s synth mix was finished playing, which she counted as a win.

She grabbed her bag and fished around in the backseat for the bottle of wine she’d purchased earlier that day. She wasn’t sure if this was that type of gathering, but she felt weird showing up empty handed. Hopefully Tom wouldn’t say no to some Trader Joe’s wine. She locked her car and walked up the path and heard some shouts coming from the backyard. She rang the bell and just a few moments later, Tom appeared with a smile on his face.

“Penny! Come on in!” he said, opening the door for her. “How was the drive over?”

“Not as bad as it could have been,” she replied, shrugging off her cardigan and tote bag.

“I can take those,” Tom offered, reaching for her belongings, and placing them in a nearby closet.

“Thanks,” Penny said. “And this is for you,” she added, offering him the bottle of wine.

“You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“It’s from Trader Joe’s, Tom. It is quite literally the least I could do.”

He laughed. “Well, thank you. I’ll put it out now. It’s an open bar, so help yourself. Once you get a drink, I’ll take you around and introduce you to everyone.”

Penny poured herself a rum and Coke, and followed Tom out to the patio, drink in hand.

“Penny, I’d like you to meet Tommy Bruce,” he said. “Tommy, this is my friend, Penny. We reconnected the other day.”

“Pleasure, Penny,” Tommy said, shaking her hand. “Do you also work in the industry?”

“Sort of. I’m a critic and reporter at The Moment. I cover music.”

“That’s sick. Do you go to a lot of shows?”

“Yes. I was at Elton John’s show the other day and I’m planning to see Post Animal in a couple of weeks.”

“I was at Elton too! I wonder if we ran into each other?”

“We probably did,” Penny said with a laugh.

“Are you planning to go to Leon Bridges?”

“I’m not sure yet. I have to get everything approved by my editor so it’s up to her.”

“I hope you can. He’s so good. Hey, Jeff!”

Tom and Tommy turned their attention to another man that had approached their small group.

“Penny, this is the man, the myth, the legend, Jeffrey Azoff,” Tom said.

“They exaggerate,” Jeff said. “Nice to meet you Penny.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Penny said, moving her drink to her other hand so she could shake Jeff’s. “I’m an old friend of Tom’s from growing up. I work as a music journalist now.”

“Yeah, you’re at The Moment, right?” Jeff said.

“Yes…” Penny said slowly.

“OK,” Tommy said, affably rolling his eyes. “He’s such a show off.”

“I try to keep up with those who cover our clients, that’s all,” Jeff said. “And if it makes me look like a show-off, so be it,” he added, as Tommy playfully punched his shoulder.

As the men continued to banter, Penny surveyed the room, making the silent calculation she faced nearly everyday. Including herself, there were four women total at the gathering, which felt like a huge accomplishment. Working in her industry, she was used to being one of the only women in the room, a blessing and a curse.

The blessing was that whenever she found another woman at an event or meeting, they instantly gravitated toward each other, which meant she’d made a lot of friends in just a few years. The curse was obvious: men.

The men that surrounded her weren’t the worst offenders – they kept their hands and other body parts to themselves and were generally very kind – but being the lone woman was noticeable. Men would casually throw out that someone was a “bitch” or offer Penny an explanation that they didn’t give to a male reporter two years her junior. Penny usually just took it with a grain of salt, sighing internally, complaining to Chloe, and then proving her worth by being the smartest one in the room. Keeping an eye on two women chatting in the corner, she started to move towards them to introduce herself when she caught sight of another person across the way.

Harry Styles.

Or was it? Was that actually him? Chloe was right, she needed to wear her glasses more often. But Harry Styles being here didn’t make any sense. What would he be doing at a random house party?

She felt a hand on her shoulder and stepped over to the side to allow the person to pass and collect her thoughts. The more she thought about it, Harry Styles being at this party made sense. She knew from stories she’d worked on that he was repped by Full Stop, so it wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility that he would hang out with Tom and the other agents outside of work, but it was still jarring to see him out in the wild.

Whenever she told people she was a music journalist, their first instinct was to assume that she was close to many of the artists she reported on daily, but that wasn’t the case. When she was attending an event, it was a professional engagement. She was there to gather the facts, tell a story, and move on. Socializing with those in the industry outside of that professional setting made her uncomfortable. Especially when she was working on a review or piece of criticism. It was one thing to write those things and send them off into the vacuum of the internet, but when she thought about the subjects of the reviews reading her writing, she started to feel…guilty. She never intended to be mean – she knew how she felt when she received harsh notes from an editor – but the point of her reviews was to offer commentary and opinions. And if she thought too much about the people behind the work, her objectivity disappeared. So, she’d made a concerted effort to keep a firm boundary to ensure her writing was as good as it could be.

The few times she did meet musicians outside of work events, she could feel her brain going a mile a minute to remember if she’d ever written something slightly negative about them for fear they’d call her out on it, as despite what every musician claimed, they always read the reviews. And her brain started working overtime to perform these mental calculations as she saw Harry stop in front of her.

“Haven’t seen you here before. I’m Harry,” he drawled slowly, reaching out his hand.

Penny momentarily froze, but quickly recovered. “I’m Penny,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Do you work at Full Stop?” he asked, eyes glancing over her as if he was trying to figure out where she should be placed.

“No.”

“At one of the labels?”

“No.”

“OK, well I’m stumped as to where you fit it,” he said with a light laugh. “Care to enlighten me?”

“I’m a writer,” Penny replied, hoping the vague nature of her answer was enough to satisfy him.

“Have you written anything I’ve read?”

“Maybe.”

“Care to give me any other clues?” he asked, sipping from the plastic cup in his hand and leaning in closer to hear her response. Penny couldn’t tell what it was, but from the smell wafting over to her, it was something strong.

“I’m a journalist.”

“What do you cover?” Another sip, his eyes intensely focused on her.

“Entertainment,” Penny said simply, praying this game of 20 questions would be over soon.

“That’s kind of vague,” Harry replied quickly.

“That’s kind of the point.”

“Oh! A woman with an air of mystery. That’s…” he paused. “Enticing.”

“Enticing?” Penny quirked a brow and shot him a bemused grin.

“Yeah, it’s like a challenge. You’re making me work for it.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, maybe a drink?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Wow. Subtle.”

“I try.” The corners of his lips ticked up. “Maybe I should try a little harder though.”  

Penny was thinking up a witty comeback, somewhat amused by the situation she’d found herself in and very pleased that she’d have a new story to share with Chloe at lunch on Monday, when Tom interrupted their conversation.

“There you two are! I was hoping to introduce you all tonight.” He looked at Harry, gesturing to Penny. “This is Penny. She’s a friend from back home who’s a big time writer for The Moment. She writes reviews for concerts and albums.”

Penny snuck a look at Harry and thought she saw a flicker of…something…in his eyes. It was so subtle and so brief that she didn’t have time to think about what it could mean before she felt Tom’s arm on her back.

“And Penny, you of course know Harry.”

“I do. I think one of my friends had a toothbrush with your face on it.”

“Hmmm,” Harry murmured. “Those were a hot item for sure.”

Tom’s eyes darted between the two, evidently waiting for them to continue the conversation he had interrupted. Seeing that that wasn’t going to happen, he excused himself and moved onto another group of people.

“So, music is the kind of entertainment you cover.” The banter was back but it had a harder edge this time.

“It is.”

“Have you ever written about me?”

Penny mulled her potential responses, trying to find one that could cause the path of least resistance. “No,” she said simply.

“Really?” Harry said. The challenge in his voice was evident. “You weren’t the one who said I sound like ‘a young boy trying to imitate his elders?’”

Fuck. Penny felt her face grow hot. “That might have been me.”

“I thought so.”

“How long did you know?”

“Once Tom said the name of where you work. There aren’t that many critics named Penny that wrote a scathing review of my album.”

“It wasn’t scathing,” Penny said, suddenly feeling defensive of her work. “It was critical, sure, but that’s what my job is. I’m a critic. And besides, don't musicians get off on bragging about how they don’t pay attention to the reviews?”

“Hate to break it to you but that’s a load of bullshit. We are all very sensitive creatures.”

“Well, that’s clear based on how you’re acting now.”

“How I'm acting? You’re the one that’s yelling in the middle of a party.”

“I’m not yelling!” Penny said, lowering her voice by a couple of decibels. “You’re the one that came over here trying to score and then decided to pick a fight because you can’t forget about one review from like two years ago.”

“I’m sorry–” Harry laughed in disbelief. “You thought I was trying to get lucky? What made you think that?”

“‘Ah! A mysterious woman! So enticing! I like a challenge. You’re making me bloody work for it. Let’s get a drink!’” Penny shot back in a poor imitation of his slow, deep voice.

“I did not say that.”

“Yes you did!” Penny yelped. “You totally did.”

“Whatever,” Harry mumbled, taking another sip of his drink while Penny just looked at him.

“That’s all you have to say?”

Harry looked at her blankly. “Yes?”

“Oh, I thought you might offer up a sorry.”

“What for?”

“For attacking my work.”

“I hate to break it to you, Penny, but I think you attacked my work first.”

“Because it’s my fucking job!”

“Everything alright over here?”  Jeff asked, stepping into the conversation. The look of caution on his face told Penny that her conversation with Harry had been overheard by the others at the party.

“We’re fine,” Penny said evenly.

“Yeah, peachy keen,” Harry added, earning a glare from Penny.

“I should actually be going,” Penny said.

“Oh, can’t you stay a little longer?” Jeff asked as Harry muttered “Bye, then.” Jeff cut his eyes over to Harry, who avoided his glance. “Alright then,” he said slowly. “It was nice to meet you, Penny. Hope to see you around.”

“You, too,” Penny said before swiftly leaving the group.

“What was that about?” Jeff asked, attention turned back to Harry.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“You were a bit, shall we say…dickish…back there?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“If you say so,” Jeff said. He paused. “Have you read any of her work?”

“I’ve read enough of it.”

“You should honestly read some more. The Moment in general is a really up-and-coming publication. They’ve poached some stellar writers and editors from Billboard and Rolling Stone. And Penny…she’s smart. I think you all would have a lot to talk about.”

Harry glared at Jeff. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s got an interesting perspective. Her reviews always leave me thinking about things in a different way and I can’t say that about many critics.”

“Oh really,” Harry shot back, suddenly combative. “Did you start to reconsider my album after reading her review?”

“Calm down, H,” Jeff said gently. “Your album is a fantastic accomplishment and you know it. And she doesn’t just write criticism, she does cultural pieces as well. Check them out. She was on a podcast last year that you might find interesting.” Jeff pulled out his phone, typing quickly. “Here’s a link. Give it a listen and let me know what you think.”

Harry shot Jeff another glare and drained his cup. “Thanks,” he said dryly. “I’ll move it to the top of the list. See you later,” he called, pushing past his manager.

He tossed his cup into a nearby trash can and combed the room for Tom, offering a wave as he walked out the door. Harry walked slowly down the driveway, feeling the cool night air blow through his hair, relishing the peace. He’d felt a little off all day, but couldn’t put a finger on why, and his encounter with Penny had thrown him even more off balance. He’d been feeling like this a lot recently. Like he didn’t quite fit in alongside the other pieces of his life. He reached his car and unlocked it, sliding inside.

He plugged in his phone and stared out the windshield. Penny. He hadn’t known who she was when he approached her that night. Only that she looked pretty and that the smile she’d worn when he saw her talking to Jeff and Tommy made him want to know more about her. But as the pieces fell into place, it was impossible to look past what she’d done to him two years ago.

He didn’t know why her review had struck such a nerve with him. It wasn’t like his debut had been released to unanimous raves, and after two years of looking back on it, while he was proud of what he’d accomplished, he could see the weak spots in his work and was hoping to improve upon them with his second album. The hurt that lingered was just one of those implacable feelings.

Rolling his neck and feeling it crack, he pulled on his seatbelt and scrolled through his music library looking for something to listen to on the ride home. But after cycling through the entire library twice to no avail, he opened the text Jeffrey had sent him earlier, pressing play on the podcast episode that had been shared with him before turning the key in the ignition. His drive home was long but while he usually grew antsy watching the clock change as he sat bumper to bumper with other drivers, tonight his mind was occupied listening to the discussion echoing through his speakers.

It was an episode from one of Variety’s podcasts last year, shortly after his Forum concerts. Penny was a guest, chatting with the two guys who served as hosts. One of them sounded cool, and the other sounded like someone that he’d like to punch in the face if they ever crossed paths in real life. The episode was about his tour, specifically his shows in Los Angeles. It was weird listening to people talk about him like he was a commodity for consumption, and not like a human, a blatant reminder of why he typically abstained from engaging with anything like this.

Much to his surprise, Penny played the role of his supporter throughout the podcast, jumping to his defense when the Asshole, or whatever his name was, levied harsh words at Harry and his fans. He wouldn’t have expected that based on what she’d previously written. On the track, they shifted topics and Harry’s mind drifted off as the episode played on, ending moments before he arrived at his home. He turned off the car but made no effort to head inside. Instead, he picked up his phone and opened Instagram where he typed in Penny’s name.

Her account popped up right away. He scrolled over her page, unsurprised by what he found. Lots of pictures of concerts, sunsets on the beach, and admittedly delicious looking food. There weren’t many pictures of her but he found one that was relatively recent, posted last Christmas. She was smiling alongside some other women, probably friends based on the caption, and once again he felt something tugging inside of him when he looked at her. Next, he redownloaded the Twitter app, something he swore he would never do, and typed in Penny’s name, skimming through her Tweets. Jeff was right. She was frustratingly and irritatingly smart.

Closing out of Twitter, he navigated back to Instagram, finger hovering over the follow button. He hesitated, but after a minute his finger came down on the icon and it changed from blue to gray.

As he put his phone in his pocket and locked his car, across town Penny’s phone lit up with a notification. She missed the initial alert as she washed her face and pulled on the old college t-shirt she wore to bed most nights, but she finally noticed it when she went to set her alarm: Harry Styles followed you.

What the fuck was he trying to do? After laying into her the way he did at Tom’s house, completely unprovoked, the last thing she wanted to do was interact with him in the virtual world. She deleted the notification, plugged in her phone, and went to sleep.

When Harry woke up the next morning, the first thing he did was check his Instagram notifications. He scrolled past most of them – comments and following alerts from random fans and bots – but among all of the familiar amalgamations of usernames, Penny’s was nowhere to be found.

He laid his phone on his chest and stared at the ceiling. What game was she trying to play with him? And why did he feel so upset? The silence that surrounded him as he laid motionless was so loud.

When he finally found the motivation to get out of bed, he pulled on some jogging shorts and a tank and laced up his sneakers, grabbing headphones on his way out the door. He was hoping that a run might clear his head, but thoughts of Penny from the night before echoed alongside the sound of his feet on the pavement. Clarity hadn’t been found when he reached the five mile point, so he begrudgingly turned around to head home and shower. His mind was still swirling as he got cleaned up, and by the time he was dressed for the day and brewing coffee, he had a plan.

He pulled up his contacts and scrolled until he found the name he was looking for, pacing nervously while the phone rang.

“Hey,” the voice on the other line said. “Is everything OK?”

“Yeah, Tom. Sorry for the early morning call,” Harry said, twisting his fringe around his finger as he continued to do laps around the island. “Are you heading into the office today?”

“Seeing as it’s Saturday, I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Oh, shit,” Harry said, cringing when he took note of the early weekend hour. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“Not a problem,” Tom replied, stifling what seemed to be a yawn. “I’ll be there bright and early on Monday.

“Oh, nice. Would you maybe want to catch up and grab lunch?”

“That would be great, seeing as it’ll have been close to 48 hours since we last caught up,” Tom said a bit facetiously.

Harry said nothing trying to extract his fingers from the knot he’d twisted his fringe into. “Oh, yeah,” he mumbled after a moment.

“H, I’m kidding,” Tom said with a light laugh. “You can always swing by. Would you want to go to the bistro?”

“No, why don’t we pick somewhere more convenient to you. How about Loqui?” Harry suggested naming one of the restaurants that was in the campus that housed both the Full Stop and The Moment offices.

“Uh, yeah that’s fine. I’ll see you then. Have a good weekend, H.”

“You too, Tom.”

Harry hung up the phone and tried to figure out how he’d distract himself until Monday.

***

As Penny sat in her editor’s office Monday morning, she was trying to calculate when her next dental appointment was scheduled for and whether or not she’d be able to add on some x-rays to survey the damage done to her jaw after clenching it as hard as she had that morning.

Darren had finished reviewing her piece over the weekend, and had suggested they review his edits first thing, which wasn't the way she wanted to start the week.

“I think the biggest problem you have here is that this isn’t a story,” he said, scrolling through the copy on his laptop. “You only have one example of this phenomenon if we want to call it that and I honestly don’t think that TikTok is that important to the success of the song. In my professional career, we’ve seen plenty of songs do this. It’s nothing unusual.”

“But you’re missing the point,” Penny said, pushing back. “The whole idea is yes, this hasn’t happened before, but it’s the way forward. This is going to be the new version of Justin Bieber getting discovered on YouTube or Shawn Mendes on Vine.” She could feel herself getting angry and took a breath to calm herself. “You’re always telling us to be ahead of the story and that’s what I’m doing.”

“But this isn’t a story.”

Penny bit the inside of her cheek as she struggled to keep her cool. “OK, then, what do you suggest I do?”

Darren sighed. “Write it up like a regular chart recap and include a couple of lines about how it’s getting close to a record.”

“Because of TikTok?”

“No mention of TikTok. We don’t want to look like we don’t know what we’re talking about.”

“We have a chance to scoop Rolling Stone and Billboard and you’re just ignoring it.”

“Because it’s not a story. End of discussion. I’ve got a meeting to go to.”

Darren stood up and exited the office, leaving Penny stunned and furious. When she’d collected herself, she moved back to her desk in the newsroom. She spun around in her chair, any motivation to work gone.

Editors, specifically Skylar, were constantly telling them to push boundaries and find the stories no one was writing on yet. Unfortunately, they weren’t always on the same page, which led to a great deal of frustration when it came time to file a story. Penny could submit a story thinking it was Pullitzer-worthy, but be left questioning her entire life path after a single round of edits. Almost as if she could sense the tension brewing, Chloe poked her head over top of the divider that separated their desks.

“I think you need coffee. Or a pastry. Or lunch. Basically you just need to not be in this office right now, so we’re going for a walk.”

Penny begrudgingly grabbed her purse and ID and headed towards the exit, close behind Chloe, who was listing off restaurant options.

“Loqui,” Penny eventually said, stopping the list. “I’m in the mood for some spice.”

After walking a few blocks they found themselves at the restaurant, scanning the menu above the cash register. They ordered – a beef plate for Chloe and chicken plate for Penny – and had stood off to the side waiting for their respective numbers to be called, when they were interrupted.

“So we go years without seeing each other and then all of a sudden it’s three times in one week?” Tom called from behind a partition.

“Oh my God,” Penny said, laughing with actual mirth for the first time all day. “What are the odds?”

“Nice to see you again,” Chloe added.

“Are you all dining in?” Tom asked, eyes shifting between the two women.

“Yeah,” Chloe chimed in. “Needed to get out of the office for a little while.”

“I feel that,” Tom replied. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Penny looked at Chloe, who nodded her agreement. Neither woman asked who “us” was.

Their numbers were called and when they’d collected their food they slid into the booth, leaving space around the plate of veggie tacos that had been placed in front of an empty chair.

“How’s your week shaping up?” Chloe asked Tom.

He shrugged. “Mondays are always rough, but it’s all downhill from here.”

“What is management like? Do you have a routine?” Chloe continued. “Like with reporting, there’s a certain cadence with different deadlines and interviews. Is there a similar thing for you all?”

“Sort of. If we’re on tour a lot of people have a routine they like to stick to. When we’re in the office, it’s a little less structured. Depends on what each client is working on.”

Penny kept her eyes on her plate, her thoughts still focused on her earlier conversation with Darren. Eyes on the floor, she saw the white loafers and yellow socks before the face of the man they belonged to.

“You’re out to lunch with Tom?” Penny asked in disbelief when her eyes met Harry’s.

“Yeah. I didn’t think there’d be a problem with that,” he mumbled as he sat in front of the plate.

“I’m Chloe. I don’t think we’ve met,” Chloe interjected helpfully.

“Harry,” Harry returned, extending his hand.

Penny stared daggers at him, but Harry refused to look at her. Penny knew he was observing her though, feeling his eyes burning into her whenever she looked away. Neither of them spoke, leaving Tom and Chloe to fill the silence with banal conversation.

As they chattered on, Penny continued to feel the heat of Harry’s glare on her.

“Can I help you?” she finally snapped.

“What?” he shot back.

“If you have something to say, just fucking say it.”

“I’ve got nothing to say,” he said, spooning some mushrooms and peppers into his mouth.

“Really? Because it looks like you’ve got something on your mind.”

“OK, then,” Harry shot back, putting his spoon down next to his plate. “Why’d you give my album such a shit review?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I do!”

“That’s a great argument,” Penny said, rolling her eyes.

“Well how about this,” Harry said, turning to face her. “I’m trying to figure out how someone who supposedly loves music and everything it stands for can be such a hater.”

“A hater?” Penny could feel the prickly sensation behind her eyes that meant tears were just moments away. “I’m sorry. The 90s called and they want their slang back.”

“Yeah, all of your reviews are just so…mean. It’s like you forget there’s someone behind that album.”

“Almost like forgetting there’s a person behind the review?”

“Don’t twist my words like that.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying it’s a two way street.”

“All you are is a second-rate journalist who isn’t good enough to work for a legitimate publication, so instead of saying things that actually matter, you just share your shitty takes to try to get Twitter clout.”

Penny could feel her lips tremble, but she was determined to not give Harry the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “You know, it’s generally frowned upon to harass a journalist in a public setting just because you don’t care for what they have to say.” She sniffed and much to her chagrin, she could feel her eyes getting wet. “But now you’ve got me crying in a restaurant so I hope you’re satisfied.” She grabbed her purse, leaving her food nearly untouched on the table. “I’ll see you back at the office, Chloe.”

Chloe and Tom’s eyes followed her as she walked out of the restaurant. Harry kept his eyes locked on his plate.

“I should probably check on her,” Chloe said after a moment.

“That might be for the best,” Tom said. “Let me grab a box. You can take her her food.”

Chloe picked up her own bag and leftovers, balancing them alongside Penny’s. “Wish this could have been longer but…” she trailed off as Tom nodded. She looked at Harry. “I’m not entirely sure what this is about but I’ve never met anyone who loves music more than Penny, so whatever assumptions you have about her, she’s not a ‘hater.’ She’s also not second-rate. She’s fucking brilliant, but maybe you’re just too dumb to see that.” She turned on her heel and walked out of the restaurant.

Harry picked up his spoon and started pushing the remaining vegetables and bits of tortilla around on his plate. The air was heavy with the unspoken questions on Tom’s tongue. “Go ahead and say it,” Harry said after a moment.

“Is there something going on with you?” Tom asked, point blank. “You’ve been kind of moody lately and I’m here if you want to talk.”

Harry looked up at him. “That wasn’t what I was expecting you to say.”

“Oh don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed that you yelled at my friend like that, but whatever issues you all have it’s not my business and I don’t want to get in the middle of it.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, a little more firmly. “I just – I haven’t been feeling great and I’m sure this is just a byproduct of whatever that is.”

“Studio stress?”

“Yeah, that,” Harry said, taking the out he was handed.

“Well, you can always talk to me, man. Just gotta let me know that something’s going on.”

Harry nodded and focused on finishing his lunch.

***

Back in the newsroom, Penny picked at the remnants of her lunch that Chloe had deposited on her desk, refreshing the feeds in her RSS reader while she waited on Darren’s edits. When he Slacked her that he was through, she opened the Google Doc to find that he had completely rewritten it. Ordinarily, she would have fought back, challenging him on everything down to the placement of commas, but she felt too drained after her earlier bout with him and the subsequent battle with Harry.

She signed off on the two rounds of edits as quickly as she could and returned to refreshing her browser.

“Are you ready to talk?” Chloe asked, poking her head over the frosted glass between them.

Penny shrugged. “Not much to discuss. I suck at doing my job. Darren agrees! Harry agrees! So does Walt from who the hell knows! I should just quit while I’m ahead.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe said. “Who is Walt and how does he factor into this equation?”

“Just some jerk on Twitter who also thinks I can’t write for shit.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Chloe said. “That’s how much time you have left to wallow. After that, you have to get up, look in the mirror, and realize that you are a bad bitch who deserves this job more than anyone.”

“I deserve twenty minutes,” Penny shot back. “But thank you for the words of encouragement. I know I just need to move on, but it’s hard to do that when it feels like this happens every fucking day just because Darren thinks I’m an idiot.”

“I know, Pen, but you just have to hang in there.” Chloe looked around before leaning in closer. “I heard a rumor that Darren’s days are numbered so things may be looking up for you.”

“Seriously?” The long running joke of the newsroom was that Darren had witnessed the CEO of the company hit someone with his car and that’s how he managed to land the job and stay gainfully employed for as long as he had.

“You didn’t hear it from me,” Chloe said, sinking back into her desk chair.

On slow days like this one, Penny typically filled her afternoon with source calls and research for future stories but with her motivation subzero, she made her way to the parking garage at 5pm on the dot, ready for a night of wine, takeout, and Friends reruns.

When she reached her car, she was surprised to find Tom there.

“Hey…” she said slowly.

“Hey, I didn’t want to miss you.”

“Should I be worried?” she asked jokingly. “I run into you after years of silence and a week later you’re waiting for me at my car?”

“I promise I’m not following you,” Tom said with a laugh. “I just had to tell you…I know this means nothing coming from me, but Harry isn’t usually like that.”

Penny sighed. “I don’t care, Tom. It’s been a day and I’d rather just move on to prepare for tomorrow’s battles.”

“I know, but it’s important to me that you know the truth.”

“Trying to make sure I don’t start a nasty rumor about your client?”

“No, just trying to make sure you don’t have the wrong idea about a great guy.”

“Great guy?” Penny’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “Are you trying to set me up with him now? Because I’m not interested.”

“No,” Tom huffed, rolling his eyes. “Although there could be something there…”

“Nope, not happening,” Penny said.

“Seriously,” Tom said, the earnestness returning to his eyes. “Harry’s a good guy and I think under the right circumstances you all would actually get along.”

“Tom, even if we were the last people on Earth tasked with repopulating the planet, I’d rather let the human race go extinct than willingly spend time with Harry Styles.”

“Wow, that’s uh, harsh and vivid,” Tom said, scratching the back of his neck. “You just need to understand that he’s under a lot of pressure with the new album.”

“New album?” That caught Penny’s attention.

“Shit!” Tom exclaimed, realizing the magnitude of what he’d shared. “That’s entirely off the record. I’m serious, Pen!”

“Woodward and Bernstein had Deep Throat telling them government secrets in a garage, and I have Tom Skoglund blabbing album releases next to my decrepit Toyota…does this mean my Pulitzer is on the way.”

“I mean it, Penny. I could get in a lot of trouble.”

“It’s fine, Tom. I’m not going to tell anyone. I’ll see you later.”

Tom nodded and headed back to the Full Stop office as Penny climbed into her car and pulled out of the garage.

Later that night after two glasses of wine and about 10 episodes of Friends, Penny decided to sign into her work email. She told herself that she wouldn’t check work emails off the clock, but she always gave into the temptation. She scrolled past the usual news alerts and reader feedback until one subject line stopped her cold.

“An Apology.”

She opened it before she realized what she was doing.

Hi Penny, the email began

It’s Harry. I’d like to apologize for the way I acted at Tom’s party the other night, as well as what I said in the restaurant earlier today. You’re right – it was entirely inappropriate for me to behave that way, and I’m sincerely sorry for any hurt or hard feelings that may have come about on your end as a result.

I just wanted to get this off my chest and conscience.

Hope your evening is treating you well.

All the best,

Harry

Penny was speechless, staring at her phone as Ross Geller’s cries of “We were on a break!” and the subsequent laugh track echoed in her empty apartment.

Harry had apologized.

When she recovered, her first instinct was to text Tom, attaching a screenshot of the email.

Did you put him up to this? she asked.

No, came Tom’s swift reply. See what I mean though? Not a bad guy.

Penny reread the email once, twice, three times, taking in the way he’d introduced himself, but left off his last name. The way his writing was devoid of exclamation points. The effort finding her address and sending the email entailed.

She doubted he’d got it from Tom, seeing as Tom had no clue about the message, which meant he’d either pulled it from The Moment’s website or her Twitter bio. Either option meant he’d taken the time to look her up, typing her name into the search bar to find her profile. Knowing that Harry had searched for her specifically made her feel some type of way. She wasn’t sure what.

She didn’t like Harry Styles, but maybe he wasn’t as horrible as she thought.

***

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[chrisbitchtree]

Santa Billy

Part 1

A dorm-wide secret Santa, the poster had announced. For the last five days before everyone went home for the Christmas holidays, you would give your recipient a gift, and receive one from whoever had drawn you.

Billy signed up immediately. He was excited to have a little holiday cheer in his life after Neil had sucked every once of fun out of the season for as long as he could remember.

His first task had been to pay off one of the organizers of the event so he could guarantee he’d get Harrington when the names were drawn. He’d been crushing bad on the other boy all semester, since he’d first laid eyes on him at freshman orientation, but was scared to make a move, for fear of getting rejected, despite his friend Heather insisting that she’d heard from a trustworthy source that Harrington was both bi and single. Billy was biding his time until the perfect moment, and he was pretty sure he’d found it.

Next, he had to decide what to get him. He knew exactly five things about the lanky, goofy brunette that lived two doors down:

1. He drank bucketloads of Starbucks. He’d tote steaming cardboard cups to their one shared class, Human Anatomy 101

2. What cologne he wore, information that definitely wasn’t procured by snooping through the guys toiletries bucket the one time Harrington had left it in the communal showers

3. He liked going to the movies. It was a shared interest, the only one Billy knew for sure they had. He frequently saw Harrington at the movie theatre just off campus, when a Billy himself was there to catch a show

4. He wore Chapstick religiously. It seemed like he was never without a tube, applying it to his plump lips

5. Which brought Billy to the fifth thing he knew about Steve Harrington. He had the world’s most kissable lips. Not that Billy knew from personal experience. There was just no way that those plush, pillowy, pink lips wouldn’t be the perfect landing pad for Billy’s own, and this could be the perfect opportunity to test his theory

Gifts one through four would be simple enough. It was gift number five that he was going to have to put some real thought into if he wanted to pull it off.

Day 1

A $10 Starbucks gift card and one of those fancy, reusable coffee cups, in solid black. Something that Billy knew Harrington would enjoy, with the added bonus of a reduction in the amount of reusable cups that the brunette went through.

He dropped it off outside Harrington’s dorm room door first thing in the morning, in a little candy cane striped gift bag, and was pleased to see him carrying the cup, steam rising through the top, on the way back to his room that very afternoon, a little smile on his face.

[droughtofapathy]

"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby

Broadway Flea Market & Grand Auction 2024

September 22, 2024 | BC/EFA | All Day | Event | Auction | 10H

To the relief of my bank account, this is the first time in three years that I haven't bid/won an auction item. Here's a little rundown of how the day went:

I showed up at around 9:45 or so, and it was already fairly crowded. I'm really not interested in fighting through the crowds to get to the tables, and most merch doesn't entice me. But I made a round just to see, and I can tell you it was very, very crowded this year. It's been getting bigger with each passing flea. I've seen a lot of people wringing their hands over it though, and I do have to say that it never at any time felt threatening to me. And look. I'm elbow-height to a lot of people, so you'd think a huge crowd would be a problem, but it doesn't bother me. I'm in Times Square a lot so this is just another Sunday. If you're not comfortable with crowds, I do not think you should go. The organizers will have to find ways to mitigate the crowds, but there are still only so many tables. Moving the autograph booth to another location would help to limit the crowding in Shubert Alley, but I believe the flea and Juniors have a generous agreement in place. This was also the first year in a long time where all of the theatres along 45th street were also doing shows, so those lines were adding more people.

I picked up a few Squigs cards because I like a guaranteed way to give some money without having more stuff cluttering my apartment, and I got myself a Mame playbill, but that's about it for booth-scouring. The auction itself is my interest. Several Sondheim estate items went for thousands, which is far beyond my budget. And the Chita Rivera Broadway Bear has to be my favorite one in the series. She's precious. But so many of the silent auction items these last few years have just been signed playbills and posters. I want the good stuff. Two years ago, I got the original Passion lobby board. That's the kind of thing I want to see. But the Merrily sneakers went for $11.5k, so...y'know. One woman's trash and all that jazz.

The grand auction was very organized this year with prior reservations sent out in advance. I was paddle #2 and got a reserved seat and everything. Very nice. Most of the bids were pretty steady throughout, leading to a record total of $520k raised in that auction alone. The highest bid went to the London/West End experience package (airfare and three West End shows) sponsored by United that sold for $26k. They doubled the package, and two bidders got it at that price each. The walk-on Chicago role went for $20k. Oh, and Norm Lewis stopped by to drum up some hype for his item.

In all, not the most exciting year as I didn't get to take home anything stunning, but still fun. I'll be there next year, parked in front of the auction with my camping stool.

Verdict: A Lovely Day

A Note on Ratings

[tea-with-evan-and-me]

anon with some questions 👀

Imma bout to write a thesis here so I am so sorry. Actor anon here to answer your question fellow anon! My experience with auditioning is community theatre, school, and just one equity audition which was an open call (basically anyone can come in between set hours to audition). Community theatre structures around the fact people are doing this as a hobby/passion so will have auditions during evenings/weekends and also some auditions will allow you to book a time slot that works for you. My school does self-tapes for preliminary auditions and it seems like in the professional world, self-tapes are becoming the most popular. I know Evan's mentioned having to do self-tapes for "Mare of Easttown." From what I've heard most people will work jobs where shifts can get covered easily. The question about landing a role and having to decide between taking it vs. quitting your day job--that's such a good question! It's hard to say and depends on the individual what's a big enough role to justify quitting a job where you are guaranteed a check bi-weekly vs. taking on a job where you can coast on getting paid say $5k. Jacob Elordi said in an interview that he landed a major role when he first came to LA but "then it was crickets for two years." He mentioned that "Euphoria" was the last of many auditions where he received constant "no's", that he had been living in his car for two weeks, and if he didn't get lucky and land the role he'd have no choice but to move back to Australia (which we all know he got lucky and got the job). I dropped out of the NYC conservatory I was going to after the first year, but kept in touch with one classmate. The teacher who taught second years wound up getting cast as the villain in the third Guardians of the Galaxy movie, however my classmate said that he drilled it in their heads that even when they are having success to always pursue other interests because the industry is fickle and acting is basically a freelance job. Personally, I'm minoring in art history and currently am training to give tours at an art museum. What landed me the position? They saw I'm an actor who's done stage and can perform in front of crowds and memorize text and that impressed them. So I got an internship that has nothing to do with acting but me being an actor is what got me the job. With Evan, Imo, I think showing up and nailing Colin after having to prove himself via the casting director fighting for him, winning the Emmy, and in combo with "Dahmer", he's had a huge uptick and probably is being offered roles/sent scripts via his agent/manager and is actively choosing to take a break. I could be wrong cause I was shocked to find out about the casting director having to fight to just get him into the first audition for Mare.

this is so interesting.. thank you for taking the time to answer anons questions 💗 it gives people a chance to see what the industry is actually like for the vast majority.

[silvfyre-writings]

Please don't hate me (BSD Fanfic)

Crossposted from AO3

Ranpo is awake.

He’s been awake for several hours now, but that’s unsurprising at this point, it’s not like he’s slept well in years. The only difference is that now he has the chance to sleep, and yet his mind just won’t quiet down enough for him to drift off. He has plenty of blankets, a comfortable pillow, and a warm weight at his back, yet somehow it’s still not enough, and he doesn’t understand what more he can do. It’s not like he can look it up the answer either, not without having a phone or computer to get the access he needs, and a lack of money means he can’t get any of those things either, not unless he wants to sacrifice the temporary roof over his head.

So he suffers.

Quietly.

Ranpo knows that he doesn’t have to anymore, but five years of torture and conditioning builds habits that are rather hard to break, and it’s those habits that’ve driven him into the situation where he doesn’t dare to get out of bed, lest he risk waking the one that shares it with him. Because it is what’s happened in the past; he’ll have lain awake for hours, and get up, only to be stopped by a hand that will gently wrap around his frail wrist.

Always gentle, always.

Every time this happens, Bram insists that he doesn’t mind staying up with Ranpo when he can’t sleep, but the vampire has endured decades of starvation and abuse, far worse and much longer than the measly five years that Ranpo did, so he always feels guilty for disturbing the peace that Bram finds during the nights when he gets the chance to sleep; because just like Ranpo, Bram too has trouble sleeping, only, he’s had a lifetime of experience to help force himself to sleep. Experience that Ranpo doesn’t have.

There’s a little bit of moonlight shining through the one window of the hotel that he and Bram are currently staying at, bathing the room in just enough night that Ranpo can name the objects that are in the room. A chair, a small kitchen, a table, a lamp. Everything that a basic rundown hotel has, which is more than he’s had in a long time. It hasn’t been long since he and Bram escaped from the facility they were held in, so being in a room like this feels both oppressive and relieving, but mostly, he feels as if he doesn’t deserve such a luxury. How can he deserve it when he’s done nothing but be a problem?

Years ago, he would’ve had food, a home, and people in his life that he loved and cared for.

But now? Now he only has Bram.

Bram, who without any hesitation, broke Ranpo out of his own cage at the risk of getting caught again himself, carrying him out of the facility when there was no guarantee that Ranpo would even survive what he’d done in the first place. He’s not quite sure what Bram did to keep him alive, but the next thing that he knew was that they were in some abandoned building, tucked away in a corner with new—that Bram had stolen from somewhere apparently—clothing and scraps of food that Bram insisted Ranpo eat.

Bram, who has gone out of his way to keep Ranpo safe from everything around them but also from himself. Ranpo knows he’s a little broken from what happened to him, that he’s traumatised and nothing more than damaged goods capable of doing nothing else but being a burden. But despite that, Bram stays by his side, patches him up when he takes a blade to his skin because Ranpo needs to get the feeling of grossness out of his body, and bloodletting is the only way he knows how.

The vampire even mentioned trying to find a job so that they could make real money, and find a more permanent place to live.

And what’s Ranpo done to help? Nothing.

He doesn’t know how to do anything anymore, having been robbed of all the skills that he’d had before everything that happened. One thing Ranpo remembers is the silver haired swordsman that tried to save him, but wound up having his life stripped away instead. Ranpo remembers the way the man fed him, and told him he wasn’t a monster, and the theatre they worked together at. He wishes he could go back to such a time, to a reality where he might’ve been saved and not taken to some strange facility that had seen to brutalise him.

Such a world can’t possibly exist.

Ranpo blinks, his brow furrowing when his vision blurs, and he raises a hand to touch his cheek, surprised to feel that it’s damp.

Well that’s new.

He can’t remember the last time that he cried.

A quiet sigh falls from his lips, and he slowly inches forward, out of the arms that hold him close. He can’t stay in that bed for another second, otherwise his thoughts will truly start to get the better of him and that’s the last thing he needs. The memories are already bad enough to deal with, and he sucks at dealing with those too. His emotions—or lack thereof—are something he’s choosing to ignore the existence off entirely. Who needs them anyway? All they do is make you weak and susceptible to manipulation; regrettably something that Ranpo knows all too well.

It takes several minutes for him to crawl out of the bed, because he doesn’t want to wake Bram, and the vampire is quite the light sleeper, so it’s slow progress. But finally, he makes it and stands, but now that he’s standing, he doesn’t know what to do next. He can’t go to the bathroom, because Bram will wake up in an instant thinking the worst, and for once, Ranpo doesn’t feel the urge to make himself bleed. He lifts an arm, and looks at the lines from the last incident that are still healing; he promised Bram that he’d try not to add new wounds until the old ones healed, and so far, he’s managed to keep that promise.

So if the bathroom and the room aren’t suitable, then there’s only one thing that he can do, really, and that’s leave the room and go outside.

The thought of stepping outside, alone, makes his heart pound. The city they’re in right now is safe, with no nearby threats unless Ranpo wanders too far. Which he won’t—he can’t, he needs Bram close by to keep him safe—there’s no one else that can.

That’s when Ranpo remembers that the room their staying in is a few floors up, which means there’s a balcony that he can sit on instead. He turns on his heel and sure enough, there’s the balcony, and he beelines for it, keeping his footsteps quiet and light. The door is heavy and pain dances up his arms as he wrestles to open it, and he doesn’t bother shutting it behind him. He doesn’t particularly want to have to open it again.

Ranpo walks to the railing and sits on the ground, sliding his legs through the bars so that he can lean against the cold steel and close his eyes. The cold keeps him from drifting away with his thoughts, keeps them at bay long enough so that he can look out over the city that’s bright with the lights that the buildings and street lamps produce. He doesn’t know what city that Bram and he are currently in, since their main focus had really been finding a cheap place to stay, especially since they’d just spent the last week sleeping rough in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn’t the worst, but Ranpo hadn’t been able to sleep the entire time from the stress of potentially being discovered by strangers.

There’s a part of Ranpo that hopes they can make their way back to Yokohama, since it’s the only city he actually knows aside from his hometown, but it’s also the city where everything in his life went wrong and he’s not too sure how he’ll feel about going back to it. He doesn’t even know where he and Bram escaped from; the facility had been buried so deep into nature according to the vampire that it’d taken hours to get to the closest town. And he’s not sure he could ever find his way back—not that he wants to, to begin with.

“Ranpo.” Bram’s voice makes him jump, and Ranpo turns to look over his shoulder where Bram stands, in nothing but a pair of shorts. The weather is cooling down, yet the change in temperature doesn’t bother the vampire in the slightest, unlike Ranpo who hates feeling cold. Bram’s looking at him with open concern, even as he blinks sleep from his eyes. “Not sleeping?”

He shrugs, and turns back to face the city.

Another thing he struggles with is talking to Bram, which really shouldn’t be as hard as it was considering that he’s known the other for five years now, but Bram’s face, other than when he’s openly worried about his wellbeing, is hard to read, and Ranpo just can’t deal with that, not when his captors used such a thing against him once upon a time. It’s not fair on Bram though, so he tries, but more often than not, conversations between them are one sided.

He listens as Bram moves, coming to sit beside Ranpo, shifting until his chest is pressed to Ranpo’s back.

Ranpo appreciates the warmth, and leans back into the touch, wriggling a little as arms wind around him. A silence falls upon them both, a peaceful one punctuated with the occasional night sounds.

“Do you…” Ranpo starts to say only to trail off as his heart begins to race, pounding uncomfortable in his throat. He can’t, he can’t get the words out, it’s too hard. There’s no one around that can hurt him for asking a simple question, but it’s the fear, the what-if of if he does. He will never forget the few times that questions escaped him, and the way that someone would hold his head underwater until he nearly died to teach him that it wasn’t okay to do so.

Bram hums, and Ranpo shudders as long nails slide under his shirt to gently scratch at his stomach in soothing patterns. “Take your time.”

Ranpo nods and takes a moment before slowly speaking. “Do you… think we could… get a map?”

“You want to know where we are?”

“Yes. And where to go.” Ranpo manages to say through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s tense now, and can feel the tension grow even stronger.

Bram raises the hand that was on his stomach and starts to run it through Ranpo’s hair—white, what it’ll most likely be for the rest of his life because of the stress that his body and mind underwent. It’s a constant reminder of what happened that Ranpo hates, but is something he knows he’ll have to live with no matter how much it hurts to.

“We can find a map in the morning. Do you wish to go back to the city you were in before that place?”

That place because they don’t know anything more about what the facility even was. Military, government, or some radical scientist institution, there’s no way for them to know who it was that took the both of them and tried to hurt them. Ranpo deduced easily when he was first taken that all three would have their reasons, but none of the reasons helped in figuring out the truth. The truth that went down when the facility did during their escape.

Ranpo still doesn’t know what happened that day, and Bram refuses to tell him.

A decision he respects, since he hasn’t told Bram about his life prior to the facility, other than he had no family to return to.

“Maybe.” Ranpo answers finally. “I’m not sure.”

“That is fine. We have the time.”

For some reason Bram’s words cause him to frown.

Do we?

Something tells him that they don’t.

[catchy-technologies]

Modularcleanroomindia - Modular Operation Theatre

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[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Some Moments in a Gentle War by David MacRae Landon

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/some-moments-in-a-gentle-war-by-david-macrae-landon/

This collection of #poems borrows its title from a line of the second poem, “Kleos, or Fame”. “Kleos” also begins the story of the #war, “gentle” because it is a commitment, at times a struggle, to care: for each other and our #world, from moment to moment, from day to day. To fight the gentle war is to live in opposition to another war, a war associated in several of the poems with “history”: reckless ambition, abuse of power, indifference to suffering, violence. There are moments—at times mysterious—when we feel the gentle war may win, so let’s celebrate, let’s remember those moments. In iambic pentameter? It is a meter usually more vigorous than gentle. But there are moments we want to remember and celebrate with vigor!

David Landon is the Bishop Juhan Professor of Theatre Emeritus at the University of the South in Sewanee. He won the American Academy Poetry Prize as an undergraduate at Harvard, where he was class poet. More recent poems have appeared in Able Muse (Write Prize), Southwest Review (Marr Prize, runner-up), Georgia Review (Lorraine Williams Prize, featured finalist), and elsewhere. As an actor he has performed with the Nashville, Alabama, and New York Shakespeare Festivals, with the Provincetown and New Orleans Tennessee Williams’ Festivals. Several of his undergraduate poems were republished in the Harvard Advocate Centennial Anthology (T. S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, E.E. Cummings, etc.).

PRAISE FOR Some Moments in a Gentle War by David MacRae Landon:

In the intimate voice of a wise friend over a glass of wine, Landon’s poems both narrate and participate in a “gentle war”—that is, a quiet but noble campaign “to take back history from violence.” In locations ranging from the Metropolitan Museum to a rural Piggly Wiggly, Montaigne and Bach are at home, but so are the mundane details of unfolded laundry, a paper cup—all invested with what Landon calls “magic.” The enchantment is in the verse itself, a deftly conversational form distilled from Landon’s years as a Shakespearean actor. But don’t be fooled: these captivating poems are as current as today’s news, and give the reader strength to bear it.

–Jennifer D. Michael, Author of Let Me Let Go and Dubious Breath (Finishing Line Press)

In this splendid new collection, David Landon mines quotidian experience for its luminous gists, finding them as he conjures Montaigne late one night in a corner of the Piggly Wiggly parking lot in Monteagle, TN, or recalls a moment of in-flight pizzaz approaching Idlewild. These are poems in which the trials of life, the inevitable disabilities of advancing age, are met with a joyful exuberance. The gentle war is the war against entropy and despair, fought with love, hope, and gratitude. This is a book which discharges and inspires gratitude.

–Charles Martin, author of The Khayyam Suite (Johns Hopkins, 2025)

With clarity and formal grace, Some Moments In a Gentle War traces the contours of a life richly experienced. David Landon’s voice is frank, erudite, and threaded with surprising tenderness as he reflects on the passage of time and honors “the art of day to day.” These are poems to celebrate and cherish.

–Caki Wilkinson, author of The Survival Expo

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry #war

[detcodrivels]

"Kingdom Come"

Chapter 1: What's Done is Done

Everyone in the Kingdom knew that it was Queen Eri who ran the country, but it was King Kogoro who sat upon the throne. Or rather, in Shinichi’s considered opinion, slept upon the throne. Were it not for his cunning and calculated queen, the country might have folded long ago. He squandered the tax funds, threw ridiculous banquets, and made a general fool of himself often enough that a court jester was hardly necessary within the palace walls to keep the dignified aristocracy entertained. This would have been bad enough were it not for his habit of pointing fingers and picking fights with the neighboring nations. It took all of the strategic expertise and diplomatic innovation of his advisors to keep the country out of war, and more than once Shinichi heard accounts of the Head of the Secret Police, a man known by reputation alone, whose identity was synonymous with national security, literally on his knees before the throne begging the king to hold his tongue, and his finger, when things went awry within their country borders.

The threat of the northern country Ra-Ven was an ever growing concern for the military of Bei-ka, exacerbated by King Kogoro’s often drawn out and lengthy dissertations on how corrupt and evil of a country it was. Which, to be entirely fair to the sovereign, Ra-Ven was a corrupt nation. Not much was known about it, the identity of their ruler kept a strict secret, and more than once their agents had been deported after smuggling illegal substances, weapons and counterfeit funds into Bei-ka. That didn’t keep them from sneaking back in, a syndicate of their agents a growing concern to the national security, but it didn’t help the heightened tensions to have the King going on inebriated rants about their known rivals.

But then, the King often went off on tangents…it was part of how Shinichi got here in the first place. As a child, he had lived in the bustling central city of Bei-ka, where his parents ran a family playhouse. He’d spent his childhood playing with his cousin Kaito backstage, running through the rigging, experimenting with all sorts of tricks, achievable with just the right application of string and adhesive. But then his father, playwright of the theatre, had made the mistake of creating a satirical piece depicting their sad excuse for a monarch, exposing his hypocrisies and poking fun at his ineptitude. In the play, as Shinichi recalled, his mother, lead actress, had played the fictitious role of a noble consort, a role which the Queen took special exception to (especially considering the rumors that King Kogoro was, indeed, seeing a consort by the name of Okino, a story for another time).

Long story short, the King and Queen were less than pleased with the production, though it earned great reviews at the box office, and under threat of prosecution, Shinichi’s parents had little choice but to flee overseas or serve time for defamation of an aristocratic figure. Shinichi and Kaito, who had lost his parents in a fire only a year prior, were left on their own. He was sure his parents would have brought them with if they could, but fares across the ocean were expensive, and their documents had to be forged, and there was no guarantee they would even make it as ocean voyages were long and dangerous….and he knew that if they could have they would have kept the family together…

He had always thought his father the cleverest, smartest man in the world, but even he couldn’t figure out a way to make it work. And so, Yusaku and Yukiko Kudo had disappeared from the country of Bei-ka overnight, and Shinichi and Kaito were left behind. There was no changing that fact.

Well, then the army had arrived at their front door. Kaito, son a magician that he was, had no interest in sticking around to see what the military would end up doing with him, but Shinichi had been frozen in place as they filed into his house, tore his father’s library apart searching for evidence, tore apart his entire childhood before his eyes and then dragged him away, never to return. And that was how, some six months later, he was waking in a shared barracks, a soldier to the army of Bei-ka, loyal warrior for his majesty King Kogoro.

There were daily drills, barked orders, guard duties and a whole host of unglamorous affairs expected of him. Their food was nasty at best, nothing compared to his mother’s homemade curry. The sheets were scratchy, the beds were hard, and the days were long. But not everything about his newfound life was horrible. There were some aspects that made it, dare he admit it, tolerable. And one was that the window in his particular rampart barrack looked out across the inner palace and directly towards the tower bedroom where the crown jewel of the empire slept: the King and Queen’s only daughter, the beautiful Princess Ran.

He knew it was pathetic. He knew it was stupid. After everything he’d lost, everything he’d been through, he went soft and silly looking across the palace at a girl. But Princess Ran was different from her imbecile father and stringent mother. She was beloved by everyone in the country. She was kind, and sweet, and cared passionately about goodness and rights, advocating for those that someone in her position would never have to behold, but she did, she went out of her way to know even the poorest, most destitute of her people, and no one doubted that the day she took the throne would be the beginning of a renewed era within Bei-ka. Her contests to her parents’ authority were legendary, but both adored her far too much to put a stop to the challenging behavior. In fact, it might be said the only thing King Kogoro actually took seriously was his daughter, his every day revolving around her wishes and her wellbeing.

“Oi! Kudo!”

He turned just as Heiji’s hand dropped onto his shoulder and the fellow knight leaned up against the window pane. “Morning, Hattori…”

“Oggling again?”

Shinichi rolled his eyes in an attempt to play it off. “I was just watching the sun rise.”

“Watching the RAN rise?” Heiji’s mouth split into an ear to ear mocking grin as he pulled away and adjusted his shoulder straps. “Outta your league, Kudo.”

Shinichi was about to shove his bunk mate when he noticed the double doors to the Princess’s balcony patio open and out she streaked into the morning sun, her long flowing pink satin robe sailing behind her, just covering the lacy white nightgown. Her rich brown locks fell in a sheet down her back as she stretched and yawned into the morning air. Someone from within room, just out of sight, passed her a delicate cup, probably tea or coffee, which she sipped as she leaned over the railing.

“You’ve got a problem,” Heiji muttered with a shake of his head. He raked a hand through his sleep tousled hair, “Gotta get your head out of the towers and back to earth, find a nice girl within your station. Like my Kazuha,” he prattled on as he started assembling his knight’s tunic, “She’s a nice girl, from a nice family, and once I’ve made good here, I’m gonna go back West, sweep her off her feet and ask her to marry me.”

Shinichi turned away from the window and looked his bunk mate up and down. Despite the confidence in his voice and the cocky grin, Shinichi could see the shadows under his eyes from a less than restful night, and the deep purple blemish on cheek. Some parents were too distant, Shinichi mused, others much too attentive.

Heiji was what they called a Generational Knight. His father, Heizo Hattori, was a top General, his grandfather was, too, and so on and so forth for as far back as the country existed, and it was fully expected that Heiji would follow in the same footsteps and become the same type of respectable figure as all Hattori men had been forever and always. But that only meant his father was harsher and stricter with Heiji than with any other entry soldier. Heiji was meant to be better than the others, faster, more apt because it was meant to be in his blood, and often that push for excellence was reflected upon the fellow teen’s skin in ways Shinichi tried not to concentrate on too long.

Shinichi dragged himself back to his bunk and started dressing himself for the grueling day that lay before him. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he jested, “but she’s not really your Kazuha yet, is she? Didn’t you say you haven’t built up the nerve yet, or something…? Something about not wanting to tell her how you feel and then leave…”

There was friendly fire in Heiji’s sea-green eyes. “I don’t haf-ta say it,” he shot back.

By now the others in the barracks were also shaping up for the day, the shared room occupied by ten of the newest soldiers and as the clock tower bell rang upon the hour, the door was opened and one of the Junior Knights entered to ensure they were all up. Shinichi was glad it was Lieutenant Takagi today; he was always a little easier on them than the others. Still, the boys stiffened upon his entrance and saluted the higher ranking officer, as was expected.

“Morning! Out of bed! Breakfast in fifteen!” He shouted, “Don’t be late!”

It wasn’t so much a warning as a reminder. Those who failed to report on time for meals didn’t eat. It was part of their training, part of what stiffened them into soldiers. Punctuality was important. Reporting for duty was important. Following orders. Don’t question, just do. It was easier said than done. Together, he and Heiji scrambled to finish assembling their multi-piece uniforms and then scrambled out of the barracks in a rush for the mess hall.

Little did Shinichi know, as he gobbled up his dry toast and soggy oats, that this day would change his fate forever. He had thought his life already irrevocably altered. He’d lost his parents, his cousin, his family. He was a conscripted soldier for goodness sake! He would never have believed fate could be twisted even more. But that day, a normal, cool spring morning, the perfume of cherry blossoms wafting upon the breeze, was the day Ra-Ven would attack the palace of Bei-ka with the sole interest of taking the life and soul of the country from its pedestal, to take Princess Ran away from her people, and to crush the will of Bei-ka in the process.

[latenightcinephile]

Film #577: 'Ace in the Hole' / 'The Big Carnival', dir. Billy Wilder, 1951.

For the first half an hour of Ace in the Hole, the audience I was with at the Embassy Theatre were having a great time. Billy Wilder's script follows a washed-up journalist looking for the big story that will get him out of the small Albuquerque newsroom he's wound up in, and it's filled with the kind of crackling, acerbic one-liners that are familiar to fans of Wilder's work. Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas) admits to his new editor that he's been fired three times: once for inciting a libel case, once for starting an affair with the editor's wife, and once for drinking on the job. His editor replies that he's a lawyer, so he's not concerned about libel, and that his wife is three times a grandmother - "if you wanted to start something with her, she'd be very flattered." For those that have seen other films of Wilder's, like Some Like It Hot (1959), Sunset Boulevard (1950) and The Apartment (1960), this sort of wisecracking is to be expected.

Chuck Tatum is one of Billy Wilder's antiheroes, driven in increasingly dangerous directions out of a sense of what they deserve. Tatum feels hard done by, practically owed a cushy office and a front-page byline, and he has a keen sense of what drives readership and increased newspaper circulation. On the way to another rattlesnake hunt, he stops off at a Native American cliff dwelling, now a neglected tourist attraction, and finds that Leo Minosa (Richard Benedict), the owner of the nearby gas station, has become trapped in the caves while looking for relics to sell. Tatum quickly realises that the situation has a strong resemblance to the (real-life) Floyd Collins incident from a few decades before, which occupied the American public's attention for weeks. In addition, Leo's predicament has a few other angles for good reporting: the possibility of a Native American curse, and the presence of Leo's attractive wife, Lorraine (Jan Sterling). He rapidly decides to use this story to rebuild his reputation. First, he has to persuade the local sheriff to give him exclusive access to the scene, promising him coverage that will guarantee his re-election. Lorraine proves a little harder for Chuck to manage. From the first moment he meets her, it's clear that she's deeply unhappy with her life with Leo, and looking for an opportunity to escape. Chuck's magnetism makes Lorraine stick around, but Chuck insists she continue to play the role of the worry-sick wife, something she is vocally resistant to doing, especially as Chuck defies her advances.

Almost immediately, Chuck's approach to this life-or-death situation becomes reckless. Convinced that Leo is hardy enough to survive a few extra days in the cave, he insists that the rescue team drill down through the mountaintop rather than shoring up the existing passageways. He parades Lorraine and Leo's grieving parents before the cameras, denigrates anyone with experience who suggests the rescue might be conducted faster, and monopolises all the channels of information. Despite the high wages offered by the Albuquerque Sun-Bulletin, he quits his job and uses his access to play the big-city newspapers off against each other. Suddenly, the tide turns - Leo falls ill with pneumonia, and Chuck tries desperately to reverse course, but it's too late. The drilling at Tatum's insistence has made it impossible to approach Leo's position safely in any other way. With his position of power slipping through his fingers, Chuck takes it out on Lorraine, aggressively forcing her into the role that will bring the newspaper stories to a satisfying conclusion. For his trouble, he gets a pair of scissors to the gut. Leo dies with the drill only feet away from him, and the carnival is over. Lorraine is left still trying to escape the life she has made for herself, Leo's parents are distraught on the trash-strewn plains, and Chuck, disillusioned, returns to the Sun-Bulletin offices to demand his job back, but dies while pitching his pay rate.

On its initial release, Ace in the Hole was not particularly appreciated - it was considered too bitter. The Hollywood Reporter called it a "brazen, uncalled-for slap in the face" to democracy and the free press. With the benefits of hindsight, though, it does feel like the real world has caught up to the depiction of the journalism industry. This is also partly because of the dialogue - the language throughout the script feels very contemporary, and wouldn't be out of place in any Netflix series about political corruption.

One thing that seemed to escape specific criticism, but which almost certainly influenced these early reviews, was that the film depicts corruption as contagious. The local newspaper's photographer, Herbie (Robert Arthur), doesn't seem to have a clue about anything outside Albuquerque, but rapidly falls into step with Tatum. Before long he has been encouraged to quit alongside Tatum, and it is only when things have truly turned south that he is able to pull himself out of the protagonist's orbit. It's unclear whether Lorraine is already corrupted - she's certainly jaded - but Tatum provides an opportunity for that to blossom.

What dooms Chuck, in the end, is his inability to take responsibility for anything. This is obvious from the very beginning: he's a risk for the Sun-Bulletin to hire, but he has the experience that the editor finds intriguing. Once Chuck feels that he's outgrown that paper, he ditches it, but tries to return as things fall apart. He's benevolent to Lorraine, until it becomes clear that Leo will die, at which point he forcibly pivots her towards the role of the grieving wife. He's dismissive of the feelings that she's developed for him, but keeps her on the hook until it's clear that he can't maintain that illusion any longer. He lies to the sheriff, to Leo, to Leo's parents - often switching stories in the middle of a scene, once he's out of earshot of the last person he spoke to. Anyone who suggests shoring up the passageways is steamrolled by the force of Tatum's charisma, until it becomes clear that that approach is necessary, at which point he becomes a full-throated advocate for it. "When you get people steamed up like this, don't ever make suckers out of them," he says, wilfully blind to the fact that he was the one doing the steaming. The last half-hour of the film becomes unbearably tense, as we watch Chuck kicking frantically against anything that might keep him above water, kicking so hard that everything breaks apart under his urgent force. Before long, he's on the phone to New York, turning himself into the story: "Listen to this: 'Reporter Keeps Man Buried for Six Days'!"

One of the things that I found interesting about this film, which sets it apart from many other films of this genre, is that there doesn't seem to be anyone that we unreservedly support. Normally we would be expected to pity Leo, and we do to some extent. Because we've already been shown how little his wife cares for him, though, he becomes a pathetic figure. He lacks the self-awareness required for him to be admirable: too easily taken advantage of, and too quick to believe that the fast-talking newspaperman has his best interests at heart. The only people who really seem to earn our respect and pity are those on the outskirts of the affair - the newspaper editor, who knows why Tatum is doing what he does, but doesn't want it to contaminate his publication, or Leo's parents, who are at the mercy of the whirlwind that has sprung up around them. It is humorous, at first, to see the carnival spring up, and to watch the entry fee increase every time we see the billboard in an establishing shot. By the end, though, Leo's father is left alone, abandoned both physically and morally by everyone around him. "I don't want their money," he plaintively tells Lorraine as she invites the amusement park rides in through the gate, "I just want Leo."

Is this a good film? Perhaps. The acting is never substandard, but often a bit overwrought. Chuck gets stabbed, and then wanders around until nightfall trying to tie his report up in a nice neat bundle, until the plot decrees that it's time for him to die. If you're looking for a film where you can't see the machinations, this isn't the one - it's too obvious; it replaces all its blood with vinegar far too early to be subtle about where it's going. At the end of the film, with the exception of Lorraine, every character regrets getting swept away. "Leo Minosa is dead," Chuck announces. "There's nothing anyone can do." A long shot follows him walking back to his car as, in the background, everyone immediately makes a move to leave. We see the embarrassment on their faces. I think the audience I was with felt the same way: the laughter was quickly gone, replaced by a stony silence as we all realised we had been taken in, too.

[inscrutable-shadow]

Febuwhump Day 19 - "You Deserve This"

or, hollow me out (and fill me with rage)

5.1k. The Doctor's captivity continues, this time, with a punishment of a particular karmic parallel.

(too long? read on ao3!) bit of background here, this is meant as a continuation of a storyline in which the Doctor has been kidnapped by one of their colleagues and a former subject and experiences various punishments and humiliations, supposedly with the goal of making them feel bad for being awful all of the time (which we all know is impossible). the "previous day" that keeps being referred to the Doc was forced to "reveal" their assigned gender under duress (they lied, they don't remember). it stands pretty well on its own if you just ignore all of the little details that don't make sense, haha Content Warnings: gore/vivisection, nausea (no vomiting), misgendering (the Doctor is not a woman and this is not lady whump, that’s the more wrong of the two options), drug mentions (medical setting and use).

I am awoken by the sharp bite of a needle going into my neck, and dread pools in my stomach as I realise what is happening. I have ten seconds to fight before the paralytic goes to work on my muscles, but it is too late. Harper is on top of me, and even I, with my enhanced strength, cannot fight both him and the drug. 

“Really, Rowan, your drugs are incredible,” Rosen taunts me. He knows how much I despise being called that name. “You haven’t patented this? What a waste.”

“You know why I have not,” I grind out. Insufferable prick.

He grins. “Ah, yes. Can’t publish your research because of your methods. What a shame.” Wrong. I can easily have procedural records forged that would obfuscate the less-than-savoury origins of my results. I do not do so because I have integrity, unlike some other doctors I could mention. 

My muscles have gone slack by now, and I hang limply from the cot, still pale and thin from my previous ordeals. “What do you want?” I interject, annoyed. I wish he would just get the seven-devilled procedure over with instead of wasting time needling me as if it would make me feel some sort of remorse.

“Harper tells me that today’s procedure is one of your favourites,” Rosen explains. Surely he doesn’t mean…

I won’t deny my nature. I do not even have the decency to be afraid in the face of what is most likely torture. Instead, giddy anticipation wells in my stomach, and requires concentration to keep out of my voice. “I guarantee you, hallucinogens will not produce as satisfying a result in me as you anticipate.” I can never resist the urge to wilfully misunderstand, one of my many small vices.

“Idiot, not that,” Harper spits as he hoists me up out of the cot. I feel sick hanging upside down over his shoulder with no feeling below the neck, but voicing my discomfort will get me nowhere. He continues, “You’d always get this light in your eyes when talking about it, like you were… hunting. You called it… uh… gross something… vivisystem?” Typical. I did not study him for his intelligence, after all. He wasn’t even really a pleasant diversion.

Rosen rolls his eyes, walking behind us on the way to the operating theatre. “Gross multi-system vivisection, Harper, we went over this. At least pretend to pay attention, won’t you? And don’t tilt them so much, they’re starting to look a little green around the gills.” It’s true, I am quite nauseous at this point, but that is least among the concerns of my mind when faced with the prospect of my wildest dreams being realised. 

“She’s fine,” Harper says, dumping me unceremoniously onto the gurney, where I will be prepared for surgery before being transferred to the operating table. “Probably can’t even puke with that shit you put into her.”

“Could. Shall not,” I respond, tersely. I fear that if I open my mouth too far, I will vomit. It’s a mostly involuntary process that will only be slightly impeded by the impairment of my abdominal muscles.

Harper moves to undress me, but Rosen shoulders him off. “No way. Not after that stunt you pulled yesterday. I don’t care what they did to you, you don’t violate them like that. What is the point of this if you are more cruel even than they were to you?”

I am grateful. Harper’s insistence on “she” since the debacle yesterday doesn’t bother me any. I am used to that. It’s the way he says it, as if I am a cut of meat he plans to devour. I have not missed that feeling at all in the last several decades of being assumed to be some flavour of male. Rosen, at least, still respects me as a human being and as a fellow researcher, though I find it hard to believe that his only goal in this is to somehow rehabilitate me.

“The point,” Harper hisses, “is to make this bitch pay for what she did to me!” He pulls up his shirt to reveal a nasty-looking Y-shaped scar. My sutures usually heal much better than that…

“Sorry,” Rosen whispers as he pulls down my trousers. He continues, louder, “What did you even study him for, anyway? It’s not like he’s special.”

“No, certainly not. An ordinary human subject was what I was looking for. I was attempting to induce accelerated healing in a subject without mutated biology, though I was only marginally successful. Should have pushed harder on that last drug trial; I pulled the plug because of the risk factor, but I suppose I would not be here if I had killed him.” The healing factor drugs are mostly complete now, though I must still tailor the formulation to the recipient’s unique biology, preferably with the assistance of genetic sequencing.

Rosen shrugs as he pulls the paper gown over me. “Well, he lived, so you must have done something right.” 

I snort. “I am a doctor, Rosen. I do not lose patients on my operating table.” On the rare occasion a subject expires while in my care, it is due to complications and not the procedures themselves. Though I am usually able to mitigate these, occasionally there is nothing even I can do.

Outraged at being talked about like he is not present, Harper shoulders his way back into the conversation. “The hell you don’t! You murdered that woman right in front of me!”

“Oh, Adelaide? She still lives. She was an immortal. Were you not aware? I suppose not. I had given up on explaining things to you at that point. But no, she did not die, at least not permanently. That was the purpose of the experiment, to transfer at least a subset of her abilities to you. You did not acquire that one, obviously.”

He has no response other than indignant noises and gaping like a fish, which, I must admit, is quite satisfying. Rosen goes to scrub in, leaving Harper to transfer me to the operating table. He is not gentle, as expected, and I let out a soft grunt as my back impacts the hard surface. I honestly do not understand why he is so bitter. Most released subjects of mine would much rather never see me again than seek me out for some sort of revenge. He is hale and healthy, even with a bit of accelerated healing, and without lasting disability. If he gained some amount of post-traumatic stress after his experience, well, we’ve all done that. If anything, I did him several favours.

Rosen returns quickly. He is nothing if not a professional. Unfortunately, he is also a completely insufferable, eel-headed buffoon. “Scrub in, Harper,” he commands, and Harper scuttles off to obey. I do very much prefer non-sterile individuals not to be present while my chest cavity is open. “I’ve never done this before, should be a learning experience for me. How long did it take you to master?” 

He is trying to frighten me. It will not work; I am far too excited to be frightened. “Mastery required several years and tens of repetitions. I performed the procedure passably on the first attempt, however.”

If one were to question my colleagues, one would come away with the impression that I am something of a surgical prodigy, a notion which I quite dispute. The fact remains that I find surgery to be relaxing, and it comes to me rather easily. My perfectionism regarding working with living subjects rather than cadavers knows no bounds, and I am versatile in an operating theatre, able to do whatever is necessary to ensure a procedure is a success. I would not call myself a doctor if I could do anything less, though others are much freer with the title. Regardless, I am likely to enjoy the procedure even more if Rosen errs catastrophically, though losing my life in the process may not be worth the trouble.

Rosen is unimpressed. “I’m sure. Doctor Pryor’s wunderkind would never need more than one try to learn anything. What would she say if she knew what you’d done?”

“I am sure I have not the slightest idea. I care little for her approval. I am perfectly content to do my work in peace.” I would rather work the clinic than attend these ridiculous symposiums. My feelings on clinic hours are neutral, bordering on dislike, but still. 

“Ah, of course. Soulless vessel of science and all that.” Ridiculous. I have never claimed to be such. “Let’s see if you’re still so cold when it’s your guts on the table.” Cold is unlikely to be the correct word to describe it…

Harper is back now, hovering awkwardly on the opposite side of the table from Rosen. “Come on, just cut her open already…” Eager to see me bleed. I share the sentiment.

“Right. Would you even use pain relief for a procedure like this, Rowan? Or do you prefer to watch your victims squirm?”

Victims? Please. “Of course I do, Rosen; I am not cruel for its own sake. However-” I shouldn’t. Would he even listen? He would surely think me mad. Though, he already thinks I am insane… which is not entirely inaccurate. “Would you… refrain from using it this time? The paralytic will dull much of it, regardless.”

Rosen is dumbstruck. “Y-you… want to feel it? You really are a freak, aren’t you…”

After all of these years, I am still somehow hurt by the name ‘freak’. “You are under no obligation to acquiesce, of course. You will want to use two hundred and fifty micrograms of fentanyl, and double the dose of the paralytic formulation. I should not have this much control over my diaphragm.” If he will not cede to my requests, the least he can do is not have me die from shock.

“And you want us to skip the fentanyl?” Harper asks warily, wondering, most likely, if it will give me some advantage. 

“Naturally. I have no way of gathering data on the actual experience: not only is it more difficult to operate on a conscious and feeling subject, very few will talk to me afterward other than to heap curses upon my head. This is an excellent opportunity to collect the data myself. My tolerance is much higher than the average subject. You will not have to worry about my making the procedure more difficult by breathing erratically or going into shock from pain alone.”

“You’ve thought about this. You’ve planned this.” Rosen’s tone is accusatory. I am sure that his surgical mask hides an expression just as horrified. 

I roll my eyes. “I perform vivisections on myself regularly, yes. A multi-system would be both awkward and incredibly dangerous to perform on oneself, though I will not deny having thought about it in detail.” Fantasised, really. I could learn so much.

Harper pulls Rosen aside and they whisper among themselves, attempting to determine if fulfilling my request will defeat their purpose. I suppose I should not inform them that I can still hear them. I don’t understand what they think I will do, enjoy it too much, I imagine. It is not as if I seek pain for its own sake.

Eventually, they return, having decided that pain would surely drown out any enjoyment I may receive before I could savour it. At this point, I would rather like to get the whole thing over with. I am quite cold lying here in paper clothes while they deliberate. “Quite finished?”

“Shut it. You’re getting what’s coming to you.” Harper hovers a short distance away, likely having been told by Rosen to keep his distance if he wanted to be allowed to watch the show.

“Ah. Yes. Restitution for my many sins. May God have mercy on my soul.”

“Watch it, Rowan,” Rosen warns, pushing more paralytic as I had directed. “Save your strength. You’ll need it.”

I miss the opportunity for another eye roll when the first incision bites into my skin, sending ripples of euphoria through my entire body. My first instinct is to bite down on my knuckle to suppress the urge to laugh out loud, but, of course, I am immobile, and must settle for a gasp instead. The pain is there, of course: I can feel every millimetre of the scalpel sliding through my skin on its Y-shaped path, but the calydinol is doing its job, and the sensation is not nearly as acute as it could be. I have experience with this. It isn’t usually until about half an hour into a vivisection that the pain begins interfering with my ability to work.

Speaking of which, I must catalogue this. It would be too much to ask for my tape recorder. I shall have to rely on memory. They’ve skipped the external inventory, though, I suppose, they have no interest in the actual data, and I believe Rosen would like to avoid drawing Harper’s attention to my body (and particularly, my lack of genitalia) after yesterday’s disaster. I have sufficient data on my own particulars, regardless. The Y-incision is neat and performed with care. Rosen is actually a capable surgeon, after all, and as much as I dislike him, I cannot deny we possess a similar degree of professional dedication.

The sensation of having my skin pulled back is not exactly new, but this is my first time having it done on an area so large and one that I cannot see. With minor vivisections, I tend not to use any sort of anaesthetic at all on myself, so the humming numbness of the paralytic is an odd addition to the familiar feeling, but it’s the fingers on my internal organs that are most distressing. I remain silent, though I, at last, understand why subjects usually cry out: it is incredibly odd, though not painful, per se.

“Where’re the… you know, ova… girl parts?” Harper seems intent on being as incredibly rude as possible.

“Absent.” I glare at him, or as much as I can without being able to pick my head up.

“Hush, Rowan.” It’s not as if I can really speak while my intestines are being pulled on, regardless. “And do you really think they wouldn’t have had a hysterectomy by now, Harper? I don’t think I’ve ever known a doctor to be so eager to modify their own body.” I choose to take that as a compliment. It is one of the few redeeming qualities about being biological that my knowledge of pharmaceuticals allows me to have my body running quite the way I want it.

Harper shrugs. “I dunno. Seems to me like she’d never let someone else take a knife to her. Wouldn’t trust anyone. She thinks she’s the only good doctor on the planet.” Half true. I do, in general, provide my own medical care, and I think I bring a higher quality than most, but I would not prevent someone else from assisting me if I were incapacitated. Some things I cannot do myself, there is no shame in that.

“For all we know, they did it themselves,” Rosen mutters, watching my face suspiciously. I smile in return until he looks away. “You won’t be smiling once I bring out the bone saw.”

He is correct, and that is one element that distresses me. It appears to be the most painful part of the entire process if subject reactions are anything to go on, and though I can withstand quite a bit of pain, I am not confident that my veneer of calm will survive the ordeal. It has been a very long while since I have experienced any sort of sensation that would bring me distress, and longer still since anything I would consider unbearable. I do not wish to cry in front of Harper again, but if it is unavoidable, I suppose I shall deal with it as it comes.

Rosen is squeezing a section of my small intestine between his thumb and forefinger. I grunt softly; it is painful, but I am more bothered by the memory of what pain in that location usually means for me. “Does this feel inflamed to you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had celiac.” 

“I do. Be delicate with that, will you? It is already sufficiently damaged and I would prefer not to have to remove it. Now you know why I would only eat the rice.” The cross-contamination still caught me, hence the inflammation when I have been rigorous with my diet for decades, but I make do. 

Harper laughs. “That’s the no-gluten thing, right? Should we feed her bread and see what happens?” I sigh, but say nothing.

Rosen doesn’t respond for a moment, mind occupied with measuring my intestines. “Seven hundred and sixty-eight centimetres, in case you wanted the information. Might do an endoscopy tomorrow to check on it. And don’t be ridiculous, Harper, I’m not trying to send them home minus intestine.”

“Regardless, I am sure watching me lie on a cot staring into space will not be as amusing as you anticipate. I have lived with the condition since childhood. Do you truly think a person who would ask you to perform surgery without pain relief is not aware of how much pain they can tolerate?”

“Rosen told you to shut up.” Harper is tired of being mocked, clearly.

“Rosen can- unh!” My words are arrested by the bite of the bone saw in my ribs.

I find describing the sensation quite difficult. Pain, certainly. White-hot agony erupting from the site, the vibrations resonating through my entire skeletal structure and producing a terrible sound in my ears. I didn’t expect to feel every millimetre of my bones being ground away; I am grateful that Rosen is a cardiac surgeon and that I do not have to fear for his procedural awareness or I think I would be beside myself with anxiety. As it is, the terror still shakes me to my core, and I catch myself wondering for a fleeting instant if I am going to die, here and now, on this table. Certainly not, though the fear is understandable. There is an inherent sense of wrongness to having your internals altered while you are conscious.

Harper has found the strangled sounds I have been making quite amusing. “Ready for the painkillers yet, Doc? You’re not getting any…” I have a long list of scathing retorts I would like to make, but cannot get any of them out through the choking sobs my throat constricts into on every involuntary exhale. The breathing regulation is working, at least. I had been worried based on how easy I’d found talking to be, but I needn’t have been concerned. The tears slipping down the sides of my face and pooling in my ears are embarrassing, but there is nothing I can do about that now.

As Rosen spreads my ribs, I stop breathing entirely. My throat tightens to the point of complete obstruction, and I can hear the monitor beeping indignantly as my oxygen saturation dips. “Breathe, Rowan. How are we doing?” This is his way of offering me fentanyl. He can shove the syringe up his arse for all I care.

“F-fine… no… drugs…” My voice sounds strange, thin and faltering, but I will not give up now. My blood is still singing with the thrill of discovery even as railroad spikes of concentrated pain hammer into my spine with every movement Rosen makes. “The pain is… subsiding… I can push through.”

“You really are something else… I’ll keep the records for you, at least. Assuming you stop performing these procedures. I bet that’s a better carrot for you than any threat I could make. I’ll give you the data if you give up your practice, eh?”

I feel the urge to laugh building in my chest again, the crackling energy of mania pulsing just beneath the surface now unsuppressed by my altered mental state. Surrender my licence? I cannot even imagine it. What would I do, who would I be if not the Doctor? Just an elderly fool whose eccentricities everyone tolerates while they wait to die, nameless and purposeless. To while away my eternity carving dollhouses instead of corpses, sewing miniature outfits instead of skin? I may as well die right here on the table.

My expression most likely betrays some of this internal reflection (though I can no more laugh than I can get up and walk about) because Rosen shakes his head, clicking his tongue scoldingly. “Didn’t think so, but a man can hope. What do you even get out of this, Rowan? Surely there are easier ways to get the data you’re after.”

The data I want? No, there is no quicker, easier, or cleaner method, but I know that is not the question he truly wishes answered. “When you hold my heart in your hands, you tell me.” If he cannot understand then how I feel when I perform a procedure like this, he never will.

Rosen is discomfited by the cryptic statement, though he does not yet understand. Harper, though, in an uncharacteristic display of insight, appears to have worked it out. “You can’t beat the crazy out of her, Rosen. I told you that. She’s dangerous, and this rehabilitation bullshit is only gonna end with some other guy like me caught in her clutches somewhere else. She needs to be put down.” He is not the first to suggest it, though obviously, I still draw breath. Everyone who tries hesitates, stalled by greed or something like it, and Rosen is no different.

“I didn’t bring them here to kill them in cold blood, and with a mind like theirs, I won’t let you do it either. It would be a crime to destroy something like this.” There it is. I am just as useful to Rosen as I am to anyone else, not least because he cannot do the things I can with pharmaceutical synthesis. They all believe that if they can control me, they can use me, and that destroying me would be a waste. I quite agree on that last point, though the others are ridiculous. I give Harper a “good try” smile and try to focus on retaining consciousness. The pain is rather more intense than I had anticipated.

“You’re just like her,” Harper shoots back. “You’ll do anything for your results. Every crime, every person she kills, that shit’s on your head, too. All you doctors are the same. I dunno why I thought you’d-” He’s cut off by the strangled cry I make as Rosen pulls out my liver and places it on the scale.

“Easy does it. You want the biopsies done too, right?” I nod feebly, awash in misery. This is usually where I would seek to bring a self-surgical procedure to a close. My hands will begin to shake and I will require long pauses between incisions to regulate my breathing. No reprieve will be granted to me here, though. I regret that I am too proud to ask for pain relief, though it is unlikely that any would be given. This is a punishment, after all. “I’m going to switch to cardiopulmonary bypass. Help me, won’t you, Harper? You’re not here just to gawk.” Harper does as he’s told, much to my relief.

Once on bypass, I am unable to speak, and therefore have plenty of time for introspection. Harper and Rosen are also silent, save for the exchange of instructions and clarifications. It is rather eerie. I am used to the sound of my own voice in the operating theatre, narrating my notes to the tape recorder, talking to the subject whether or not they are capable of response, and singing quietly to myself when things are going well. It is quite rare for me to remain in silence. I am forced to reckon with the reality of my situation. 

I am forced to admit that I was previously rather… overconfident… regarding my pain tolerance. It has been many years, I would have to say at least fifty, since I have experienced concentrated suffering on this scale. I have had my share of mishaps despite the off-field nature of my position: bullet wounds, stab wounds, various broken bones, overexertion, and the ever-present caffeine withdrawal, but I am usually able to triage, treat, and reduce my discomfort to manageable levels. Levels that are still quite intolerable for others, I am told, and it’s true, I would consider it malpractice to prescribe only a standard dose of paracetamol to any other patient for post-surgical care. I manage, by and large, and I do not complain often. 

This experience, however, is fit to recalibrate my prior standards. The constant pulse of agony, flaring with every heartbeat (though, less now, with the bypass machine) is enough to bring tears to my eyes, and it’s been decades since I did that last. I can feel the beginnings of an anxiety attack tightening my lungs and- Oh. Nevermind. I no longer have lungs. Regardless, my mind seems to want to flash back to some long-buried unpleasant experience. My amnesia is an issue I prefer to address as little as possible, it is rarely relevant in my day-to-day life, but I find myself wishing I at least knew what sort of thing to expect to be immersed in if that barrier were to violently shatter.

I… I want Luca…

At this point, my abdominal cavity is mostly empty. I feel hollow emotionally as well, silent tears slipping into my ears and soaking into my hair. All of the thrill of a novel experience is gone, and the whole of my sensation is now consumed by pain. Rosen mistakenly believes that I am myopic rather than hyperopic, and therefore, when he cradles my heart in his hands and brings it to what he assumes is my visual range, it is still rather blurry. An interesting emotion grips me, looking at my own heart, unbeating, pink and red, smaller, somehow, than I had expected. I would say my heart twists, but that is clearly impossible, and the dissonance causes a wave of nausea to wash over me, and I think I would shudder if I could move. The nausea, at least, is still possible: my digestive tract is intact, to my relief. I do not trust Rosen to put it back together properly. Frankly, I do not trust him to put any of me back together as well as I would like, but it is rather late for that now. 

“Well, here it is. Still with us, Rowan?” I can only blink heavily at him, attempting to indicate that my stillness is not due to catatonia. I am rather close to dissociation, though each new incision forcibly grounds me in the moment. “I have to admit, I think I understand what you meant earlier. Holding this in my hands, it’s... incredible.” Jävlar. He is completely insufferable.

Harper seems almost as affected by the experience as I am. Our eyes meet as he watches me silently weeping, the look of wonder on Rosen’s face reflecting into horror on his own, and I think I detect an ember of… pity?... in his eyes. Rage surges inside of me. I will not be pitied. All of my sins are my own, committed wilfully, often gleefully, and I will apologise for none of them, nor do I regret a single action I have taken. I fix my gaze on the ceiling. They have not broken me yet.

Defiant fury keeps me going through the reconstruction. Can I feel it blazing in my chest, or is that just the incisions burning? It matters little. Rosen’s stitchwork is as sloppy as I had expected, though it is clear that he has at least read my treatise on methodologies and procedures and he is using my dissolving surgical thread. I should still heal well.

When my heart and lungs are started again, the pain of each hacking cough deals a shuddering blow to my resolve, and yet, I hold fast, refusing to let more tears fall. I don’t answer when Rosen again asks how I’m feeling. I do not wish to engage with him on the matter. My ribs, likewise, do not seem to want to re-engage with each other, and Rosen spends much longer than I usually would have wiring my sternum shut again. I do not cry during this either, though I do make a good deal of undignified sounds an untrained ear may have construed as sobs.

The final stitches that close off my abdominal cavity are a mild tickling in comparison to the deep ache that has set into my entire body along with a fatigue that settles into my bones. I am disassociated from events now; I can barely hear Rosen giving Harper the order to transfer me back from the operating table to the slightly softer gurney to recover, and can barely feel my clothes being changed again. The post-surgical vest feels good, actually. The compression dulls some of the pain, though there is still plenty more of that.

“I’m going to push some pain relief now, if that’s all right. I’d like to reduce the stress on your heart.” It is not really a question, but I nod assent. I am so tired. Without the pain, I will be able to rest. I groan audibly as the drugs fill my system. “Try to rest up, yeah, Rowan? I’ll want to talk when you’ve recovered, but I think you’ve had enough punishment for one day.” My eyes are closed and I refuse to acknowledge him.

The next time he speaks, it is from much further away, closer to the door. “Come, Harper! Leave them alone!” I sense Harper’s presence leave my side, and soon the both of them leave me alone in the room, with only the quiet beeping of the monitors and hiss of my nasal cannula. I can almost imagine that I am simply taking a brief nap in my laboratory during an extended experiment and that soon I shall get up to go for more coffee. It will be a long time before I am allowed coffee, I think.

This is the first time in quite a while I will be glad to go to sleep.

[strokes-of-everything]

The New York Times apparently featured an article recently about how ~American Theater is Imploding.~. With quotes from industry “leaders” about why people not seeing shows are committing moral failures for not doing so.

“The Greeks understood its part of one’s civic duty to attend theatrical productions!”

“JFK encouraged people to engage with the arts! Why aren’t you engaging????”

At the core, these sentiments essentially boil down to, “why aren’t you spending your time and money to see our shows, audiences??? Shame!”

I’m an aspiring theater and film director. I switched fields because I saw the promise of creating works of art that foster discussion and connection with the world around us.

Had I known we’d see the field devolve into what it is today, I would have stuck to economics.

Instead of stomping their feet and wagging fingers at the American people for not attending what these supposed experts deem to be worthy of our time and effort as a society, they ought to be looking at why audience engagement is so low.

First and foremost? Inflation and monetary pressure on necessities.

The arts are not a necessity when you’re struggling to feed your family and afford your house payments. Sorry, that’s just a fact of a life.

Anyone in theatre should know this, considering you usually have to study things like A Doll’s House and the rise of entertainment for the middle class at the start of the 1900s when earning a theatre degree. Industrialization increased income for a large chunk of the population so they could stop worrying about feeding their kids and instead have some pocket money and a little leisure time. We are now rapidly rolling back down the poverty hill, so people don’t have the time nor the money to spend on going to see a show.

Second, I can almost guarantee these people aren’t actively asking previous audience members why they aren’t coming to shows anymore. Why? Because when I have spoken to people at local theaters where I volunteer, who said they stopped going to Broadway and are sticking closer to home, it’s because they’re tired of shows telling them what to think and shoving certain material down their throats.

This second point is why I am actively regretting my life choices.

Theatre works best when it isn’t forcing an audience to take a certain viewpoint. Theatre works best when it doesn’t water down complex issues into motivational cat posters. If you want escapism without nuance, watch a Disney movie.

Theatre today is less about fostering debate and more about forcing political ideologies.

I want people to engage with and discuss my shows. I don’t want to indoctrinate them.

That is not what the Greeks used theatre for in their society. That is, “Hey, I’m the Sun King, and you better make me look good,” theatre. That is Fuenteovejuna theatre. That is not what JFK or anyone who understood the power of debate through creative expression meant when they said it’s part of your civic duty to engage with artistic productions.

That’s also why I mourn the great playwrights like Tennessee Williams, August Wilson, etc. They wrote with nuance. You understood the power of their plays in creating acceptance and connection and removing bigotry without it being shoved down your throat. No one openly engages with things getting shoved down their throats. And they tire of things very quickly when it’s the same stuff getting shoved over and over again.

Third, and finally, you have to find new ways to engage with audiences. Sleep No More did this and continues to excel. The National Theatre production of Midsummer also brought theatre-goers into the experience instead of having them sit for three hours in darkness while the actors had all the fun, which helped it to do well. We need more shows with participation elements in the industry if we want to innovate.

If the theatre industry could let go of proclaiming, “We’ve always done this and it’s always worked! Why aren’t you understanding we are right?!” and shifted to focusing on what audiences want to see now, maybe shows would see the engagement they desperately need. I don’t see that happening anytime in the near future.

[if-i-had-a-voice-i-would-sing]

TBC 30 day challenge

Day 28: one thing you regret the most

So full transparency, I’ve been leaving longer and longer gaps between my entries on this challenge because I’m decidedly Not Doing Well as of late. The longer we go without TBC, the more it sets in for me that it’s truly gone, and it just so happens that this grief is coinciding with the return of my seasonal depression (just layered on top of the regular depression, naturally). And today, the news about SNM has been another painful blow to my already less than ideal mental state. I’ve been reluctant to reach the end of this challenge because it means saying goodbye to the show again, in a way. And I’m not ready to do that.

Maudlin preamble aside, I have to get to it eventually. So, even if it’s been well over 28 days since I started this journey, we’ll address today’s question.

First off, I regret not finding the discord server sooner. I’ve never been a part of a community like this, and as wonderful as my solitary shows all were, there was something so profoundly comforting about knowing that I could drop into the city on any given night and be guaranteed a few familiar faces. I was never alone in my love of the show again, neither in the city nor online. It was a blessing and a joy to meet the people I did, but I wish I’d had more time to share this wonderful show with them, and to enjoy getting to know them better. (To any discord people reading this - thank you. You’ve been an absolute delight to get to know, and our shared love of this show has been a lighthouse these past few months.)

My second regret is one I’ve had since my very first show - it is what I wrote on my first and only napkin. I regret that I couldn’t be a part of this. Since my experience with SNM in 2018, my dearest dream has been performing in a punchdrunk show. It’s all I’ve wanted, and for a while it seemed entirely out of reach, given the how long the UK was without a new mask show. But then out of the blue this show emerged, and reminded me of what I’d been dreaming of - and I wasn’t ready. I’d let adults convince me that dance school was a mistake, I’d be better studying theatre in an academic capacity. I’d let the pandemic sap away my fitness and confidence in dancing. And even then, when open auditions were announced and I thought I might at least have a chance to try for my dream, technical issues got in the way and I once again missed out. After that disappointment I remember my father saying “you’ve got time. They’ll need more performers again one day soon, and you’ll be ready to apply then.” And so I trained harder than ever to get back to my former skill level, and pushed through my worsening disability because I knew that this is my calling. They’ll need performers again, and I’ll be here. But now the city will never need performers again, and all that’s left is my deep regret for a life lived at odds with my dream, and all the wrong decisions I made that have seemingly stolen my last chance at it from me. Dancers tend to age out of the industry young, and I’m so profoundly aware of my own ticking clock. I wish I could’ve been part of the city, while it was still an option.

But my biggest regret in regard to TBC is that I didn’t experience more. I saw a good deal, but there’s still so much I missed. So many early visits sticking with what I knew rather than venturing into the unknown again. So many character loops abandoned in favour of ones I was confident in enjoying. This whole thing should be about enjoyment, of course, but as someone who was still finding new delights right until the very end (my first full Luba and Askalaphos loops weren’t until my final week with the show!), I wish I’d been more patient in letting characters win me over. They would have, I know it, each and every one. I wish I’d had more time, and more wisdom, to get to know the show as thoroughly as it deserved.

[aworldofdarkness]

5 New Videos Released!

5 New video releases. These are NFT Forever except for “Winnie The Pooh”. Please don't trade/sell/gift/share these in any way, or post/share any part of them online.

If you’d like to be added to my mailing list please fill up the following form as it is the only way to guarantee knowing about my newest release: https://form.jotform.com/222556278244864

Please email mozartwascrazy@yahoo.com if interested in any video.

Winnie The Pooh | Off-Broadway | June, 2022 | NFT June 25, 2023 | bikinibottomday & MozartWasCrazy | MP4 (HD)

CAST: Will Rupert (alt Winnie the Pooh), Kadyn Kuioka (Christopher Robin), Tina-Kim Nguyen (alt Piglet/Roo), Vicky Oceguera (Kanga), Emmanuel Elpenora (Eeyore/Owl/Rabbit), Sebastiano Ricci (alt Tigger)

NOTES: Supercut made from bikinibottomday (4K) & MozartWasCrazy (HD)'s videos from the same performance, filmed with a mix of medium, wides and a few closeups, a bit of obstruction is present at the sides and bottom at times but it doesn't affect the viewing experience, includes both videos as well as the supercut which all come off NFT the same day.

Screenshots: https://photos.app.goo.gl/5GSbwuYW1yu4BVEA8mp4

The Rocky Horror Show | Fourth Mexican Revival | October, 2022 | NFT Forever | MozartWasCrazy | MP4 (HD)

CAST: Beto Torres (Frank-N-Furter), Gloria Aura (Janet Weiss), Moises Araiza (Brad Majors) Gerardo Gonzales, (The Narrator) Juan Fonsalido, (Riff Raff), Maria Filippini, (Magenta/Usherette) Cecilia Arias, (Columbia/Usherette), Marcela Carraro (Rocky), Carla Heftye (Eddie/Dr Scott), Alejandra Desimone (Phantom), Ana Sofia Cordero (Phantom), Armando Andrade (Phantom), Carlos Iriarte (Phantom), Ervey G. Ortegon (Phantom), Jonathan Portillo (Phantom), Miranda Labardini (Phantom), Natalia Moguel (Phantom)

NOTES: Excellent HD of the newest revival of RHS in Mexico City, Filmed with a mix of medium, wides and ocassional closeups, minimal obstruction at the middle of the bottom of the screen, first couple of songs are a bit obstructed/covered up due to phantoms and usherettes being in the audience but nothing too bad, includes bows, Time Warp Reprise and post show speech as well as the programme.

Screenshots: https://photos.app.goo.gl/RLhYztnW2XN92j4j6

The Prom | Mexico City (Second Season) | First Preview | October, 2022 | NFT Forever | MozartWasCrazy | MP4 (HD) CAST: Alicia Candelas (Emma), Romina Marcos (Alessa / Alyssa), Anahi Allué (Gigi / Dee Dee), Mauricio Salas (Benny / Barry), Roger Gonzales (Trent), Alicia Paola (Angie), Oscar Carapia (Memo / Sheldon) Samantha Salgado (Mrs. Greene), Alex de la Madrid (Sr. Arias / Mr. Hawkins), Maria Acuña (Jenny), Diego Meléndez (Nick), Carolina del Toro (Karli), Saul Guzman (Kevin)

NOTES: Great HD capture of the first preview of the new season of The Prom. filmed with a mix of wides, mediums and a few closeups with some obstruction as well as some wandering and minimal washout. New theatre, new set and a partly new cast, some transitions are a bit wonky and some minor set fails occur as can be expected in any first performance, some microphone issues as well. Includes Bows & Programme

Screenshots: https://photos.app.goo.gl/Qcbrg882mLBPbYTM9

The Woman In Black | Mexico City | October, 2022 | NFT Forever | MozartWasCrazy | MP4 (HD) CAST: Ricardo Morell (alt Arthur Kipps), Benjamin Rivero (alt The Actor)

NOTES: Excellent HD capture of the Mexican production of The Woman In Black. Filmed with a mix of medium, wides and closeups, first minute or so is heavily obstructed by the people in front but almost fully dissapears after that, some washout - specially on faces on brighter scenes as well as a bit of wandering, audience members can sometimes be heard cussing/screaming after getting scared.

Screenshots: https://photos.app.goo.gl/9VvwUKVxrGHCFMQL8

Mentiras | Mexico City Revival | October, 2022 | NFT Forever | MozartWasCrazy | MP4 (HD) CAST: Aitza Terran (e/c Daniela), Maria Elisa Gallegos (alt Yuri), Brenda Santabalbina (Dulce), Pahola Escalera (s/b Lupita), Enrique Montaño (Emmanuel), Mary Francis Reyes (Manoela)

NOTES: Good HD capture of Aitza Terran as Daniela. Filmed mostly as a blindshot with ocasional medium and closeup zooms, a bit of obstruction with some washout and a bit of wandering, features a few short coverups when ushers were telling off the person next to me for filming.

Screenshots: https://photos.app.goo.gl/LWmgLyERrdGPpk9d6

Asking price for each is $16 USD (Woman In Black, Rocky Horror Show, The Prom) & $12 USD (Pooh, Mentiras)

[don-lichterman]

Now Playing is ‘Alone Together’ by the Oscar Peterson Trio from the J.A.T.P In Tokyo Album, Live At The Nichigeki Theatre 1953. The Improv Cafe Radio Station only plays live Jazz Music and New Weekly Shows Starting Soon!

by The Improv Cafe'

 Live JazzThe Improv Cafe

The Improv Cafe'The Dave Brubeck Quartet - Take Five

We are thrilled to inform you that exciting new additions are being made to The Improv Cafe! In the near future, we will be presenting a captivating array of shows that will keep you glued to your seats. Amongst these highly anticipated treats are the Big Band Live Radio Show and the Vocal Jazz Radio Show. Our goal is to provide you with a unique and engaging listening experience that you won’t find anywhere else. Every week, we will be featuring a new Live Album to keep our audience engaged and entertained. Not only that, but we will also be hosting Live Concerts featuring legendary Jazz and Big Band Artists that will leave you mesmerized and longing for more. So come and enjoy the perfect blend of musical genius and engaging storytelling, only at The Improv Cafe!

Welcome to the All Live Jazz Radio Station, where we take pride in providing our listeners with only the best live jazz music.

Each and every song played on our station is guaranteed to be a live version, ensuring that you will always experience the true essence and energy of the jazz music genre. We understand the importance of authenticity and strive to bring you the most genuine performances by your favorite jazz musicians.

The commitment to providing the highest quality live jazz music makes us the ultimate destination for true jazz lovers. Tune in to our station and let us take you on a journey filled with soulful melodies and captivating rhythms that will leave you wanting more. Thank you for choosing The Improv Cafe’, the worlds first and only ‘All Live Jazz Radio Station’ as your go-to source for all things live jazz!

TOP Chart on The Improv Cafe'

The Improv Cafe'

1  Duke Ellington - Duke Ellington Introduces Ella Fitzgerald

2  Duke Ellington - Duke Ellington Introduces Ella Fitzgerald

3  Duke Ellington - The Old Circus Train Turn-Around Blues

4  Ella Fitzgerald - St. Louis Blues

5  Ella Fitzgerald - So Danco Samba (Jazz Samba)

6  Ella Fitzgerald - Happy Blues

7  Ella Fitzgerald - Satin Doll

8  Ella Fitzgerald - It's All Right With Me

9  Ella Fitzgerald - Wave

10  Ella Fitzgerald - Mack the Knife

NPR NEWS NOW

FOUR (4) Times Daily

The Improv Cafe Radio Station is not just any ordinary radio station but the premier hub for jazz enthusiasts all over the world.

For those who have a deep appreciation for live jazz performances, big band beats and vocal jazz music, this is the perfect station for you. We take pride in our carefully curated playlist that features a collection of the most legendary jazz artists of all time.

Our team of DJ’s is also excited to announce the launch of our new shows that will provide jazz fans up-to-date information on the latest trends, interviews with top performers and industry professionals. Furthermore, we are thrilled to announce our debut of the Big Band Live Show, which will showcase the best modern day jazz music. Not only that, we will also have shows hailing the top jazz clubs and record labels all over the world. Respected labels and jazz clubs such as Blue Note, Village Vanguard, Impulse, and Verve, among others will be featured.

So, stay tuned to the Improv Cafe Radio Station for all your jazz needs and be a part of our community of jazz enthusiasts who share the same passion as you do.

The Improv Cafe'

Wed, 20

Thu, 21

Fri, 22

Sat, 23

Sun, 24

Mon, 25

Tue, 26

17:42 The Dave Brubeck Quartet - Take Five

17:36 J.A.T.P In Tokyo - Alone Together

17:32 Ella Fitzgerald - The Very Thought Of You

17:28 Nina Simone - I Loves You Porgy (Live)

17:17 Art Pepper - Landscape (Live)

17:11 Jaco Pastorius - Dear Prudence

17:06 Ella Fitzgerald - Any Old Blues

17:02 Ella Fitzgerald - Teach Me Tonight

16:58 Ella Fitzgerald - Something To Live For

16:52 Greyboy Allstars - Jan Jan

16:48 Billie Holiday - My Man (Live At The Newport Jazz Festival/1957)

16:44 Ella Fitzgerald - Open Your Window

16:42 Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie - Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone

16:29 Art Pepper - Body And Soul (Live)

16:14 Keith Jarrett - Köln, January 24, 1975, Part Ii a

16:01 Hans Zimmer - Inception Medley

15:57 Ella Fitzgerald - Just One Of Those Things

15:53 Keith Jarrett Trio - Wooden Flute Piece

15:49 Louis Armstrong and The All Stars - 'C' Jam Blues

15:43 Hans Zimmer - Journey To The Line

15:39 Ella Fitgerald - Spring Can Really Hang You Up

15:02 John Coltrane - Tonight's Live From The vault is Live At The Village Vanguard

14:55 Chris Botti - The Very Thought of You

14:45 Dave Brubeck - All The Things You Are (Live)

14:42 Ella Fitzgerald - Frim Fram Sauce

14:36 Louis Armstrong and The All Stars - Stars Fell On Alabama

14:30 Ella Fitzgerald - Fine And Mellow

14:27 Yanni/Royal Philharmonic Concert Orchestra/Shardad Rohani - One Man's Dream

14:19 Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington - The Old Circus Train Turn-Around Blues - Complete Rehearsal

14:11 Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington - Diminuendo In Blue And Blow By Blow

14:07 Ella Fitzgerald - Crazy Rhythm

14:03 Ella Fitgerald - What's Going On?

14:01 Ella Fitzgerald - Across The Alley From The Alamo

13:58 Ella Fitzgerald - Why Don't You Do Right

13:48 The Dave Brubeck Quartet - For All We Know

13:45 Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald - Jam With Sam

13:37 George Benson - Love Ballad (Live)