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aion-rsa · 3 years

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The 25 Best SNL Holiday Sketches

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The holidays are a special time around 30 Rock. While tourists flock to see the towering Christmas tree, the Saturday Night Live writers room is busy thinking of holiday sketches you’ll reminisce about as you put up the stockings for years to come. Some of SNL’s all-time great sketches illustrate the best of the holiday spirit or lack thereof as show’s biggest stars often shined the brightest just before the New Year.

From unlikely Santas to unorthodox gift-giving, we’re looking at 25 of our favorite Saturday Night Live holiday sketches. We’ll be going in chronological order here. There is a big dose of modern stuff in there, but what can I say? The show might be more miss than hit these days, but they really hit it out of the park year after year with the Christmas sketches.

Santi-Wrap (1976)

Very early in the show’s run, we get this classic where an adult woman (Laraine Newman) is all about sitting on Santa’s lap like when she was a little kid. The initial laugh is that before sitting down, she puts pieces of toilet paper on Santa’s leg for protection, like one would do in a public bathroom. Dan Aykroyd, her companion on this trip, seems shocked by this. Not that she’s trying to protect herself from germs, but because she’s not going far enough!

Suddenly, it turns out to be a commercial for Santi-Wrap, a festive and plasticky take on toilet seat covers. Not only do those two sell the product concept so well, but John Belushi as the mall Santa pushes it further by coming off as a complete disaster of a man who is probably riddled with disease.

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One of the show’s all-time best line deliveries is Belushi’s drunken, “Ho ho ho…” which has both defiant gusto and the sense that he’s seconds away from vomiting all over himself.

Mr. Robinson’s Christmas (1984)

Saturday Night Live has been a stepping stone to superstardom ever since Chevy Chase became a household name during its first season. In the 80s, Eddie Murphy’s recurring roles on SNL helped raise his profile as he eventually became one of, if not the biggest star of the decade. It was around Christmas time when Murphy’s spin on Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood became one of the sketches that came to define his tenure at Studio 8H.

Mr. Robinson’s neighborhood isn’t quite as nice as Mister Rogers’ but at Christmas time you have to make the best with what you have. Mr. Robinson was able to do that with a chunk of lettuce and a headless doll and Murphy was able to make the most of every opportunity he had on SNL.

It’s a Wonderful Life: The Lost Ending (1986)

If you’ve seen the 1946 American Christmas classic It’s A Wonderful Life, odds are you’ve been inspired by its heart-warming ending. Thanks to SNL and host William Shatner, we now have footage of the “fabled” lost ending to Frank Capra’s Christmas epic and it’s anything but heartwarming. Rather than end the film with everyone coming to George Bailey’s aid in his time of need and celebrating his lifetime of selflessness and kindness, it decides to give Mr. Potter a fate more explicit than being doomed to failure and loneliness. Phil Hartman pops in as Uncle Billy and not only remembers what happened to the missing money, but knows exactly who has it!

Dana Carvey makes the sketch as a George Bailey hell-bent on revenge. It just wouldn’t be Christmas without seeing him give Mr. Potter a beat down alongside his bloodthirsty loved ones.

Master Thespian Plays Santa Claus (1987)

Jon Lovitz’s characters were usually very hammy by design. Whether he was a pathological liar or the Devil himself, he always went to 11. One of his better recurring characters was Master Thespian, a scene-chewing Shakespearean actor who takes himself and his roles far too seriously.

In this installment, he would be playing the role of a mall Santa Claus.

Thespian doesn’t seem to have heard of Santa, but he’s down for the part. Finding out that there’s no actual script, he improvises and figures out the character via making mistakes and getting scolded by the Macy’s manager (played by Phil Hartman, choosing to base his performance on Frank Nelson because why not). To his surprise, Santa Claus actually LIKES children! These are notes a performer needs to know, man!

Seeing him play off the kids and Hartman is a blast. Speaking of which, one of the better gags is a fart joke that somehow proves how great an actor Master Thespian truly is. THANK YOUUUUUU!

Hanukkah Harry (1989)

Santa Claus (Phil Hartman) is violently ill with the flu, so it seems Christmas might be cancelled. Luckily, there is one man capable of fulfilling his obligations through the same kind of holiday magic. Hanukkah Harry (Jon Lovitz), Santa’s Jewish counterpart, is called in to help.

At its core, it’s a lengthy sketch about Jewish jokes and how lame Hanukkah is outside of it lasting eight days. Springing off of that, it actually makes for a really good, if a little touching, holiday story. There are definite laughs in there, but what was created to be a parody hits a little too close and becomes a genuine gem celebrating both holidays and the spirit of togetherness.

“On Moishe! On Herschel! On Schlomo!”

Motivational Santa (1993)

What started as a pep talk for troubled teens turned into Chris Farley’s iconic recurring character. Matt Foley, the thrice-divorced, sweaty, overweight man who lived in a van down by the river, crashed into our living rooms in 1993 and remained a fixture on SNL until Farley was fired from the show in 1995.

Sometimes a sketch is so successful that the writers are almost forced to bring one or more of its characters around again and Matt Foley was no exception. In one of the funnier times Matt Foley returned, he was hired to spread Christmas cheer as a motivational mall Santa, offering up this gem:

“‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the van Your ol’ buddy Matt fell asleep on the can. His children were nestled two time zones away, With his first wife and her husband, in sunny L.A. Matt woke up and realized with a chill and a quiver That he was living in a van down by the river!“

Though many of the same jokes and physical gags are recycled, Farley’s effort, from the painfully high pitch of his voice to crashing down the chimney, earns the Motivational Santa a place in SNL Christmas lore.

Adam Sandler’s Hanukkah Song (1994)

Yes, we’ve heard Adam Sandler’s “The Hanukkah Song” a million times over, but we shouldn’t let that cloud our judgement. It’s one of the first clips that pops into your head when you think “SNL Holiday Sketches” and it will go down as a landmark moment when the history of “Weekend Update” is written 200 years from now. Sandler didn’t use his time to evoke images of being a Jew at Christmas, rather he chose to praise the Festival of Lights and name-drop all the famous people who celebrate it. Since debuting the song in 1994, Sandler’s updated it for his comedy albums and standup routine and given Jewish kids something other than “The Dreidel Song” to belt during during the holidays. Sandler’s clever, original moment is about as influential as it gets for any not-ready-for-prime time player.

It did lead to the movie Eight Crazy Nights, so it isn’t free from sin.

TV Funhouse: Fun with Real Audio (1997)

It’s rare for SNL to get poignant, but here’s a fantastic example. In this animated short, Jesus Christ returns to Earth and spends the first opening minutes being ignored and shoved into the background for disagreeing with televangelists who use his name to line their pockets with donations or to justify their hatred of homosexuals. These bits are, of course, animated over actual audio of said real life sociopaths. Jesus is able to give them their just desserts with his divine magic, but it bums him out.

Walking the city streets, unnoticed by the public at large, Jesus watches Christmas-themed TV through a store window and is disappointed with what he sees. That is, until he comes across Linus’ speech at the end of A Charlie Brown Christmas and we get a final moment that’s adorable, uplifting, and pretty hilarious.

NPR’S Delicious Dish: Schweddy Balls (1998)

The dry, NPR-host banter between Ana Gasteyer’s Margaret Jo McCullen — who cheerfully admits that she leaves tap water and rice out for Santa because “Christmas foods really wreak havoc on the ol’ digestive system” — and Molly Shannon’s Teri Rialto as they discuss delectable Yuletide “balls” with Alec Baldwin’s Pete Schweddy is a can’t-miss skit. The trio makes monotone an art form, while remaining dedicated to the naivety of the characters involved. (In response to Alec Baldwin’s, “But the thing I most like to bring out this time of year are my balls,” their faces barely twitch.) It’s double entendre at its finest, and never fails to leave me in stitches.

Pete Schweddy returned in another episode where he introduced the women to his hotdogs, but having them show so much interest in putting his wiener in their mouths was a little too easy a joke to pull off.

I Wish It Was Christmas Today (2000-the heat death of the universe)

On one December episode, there was a short segment of Horatio Sanz, Jimmy Fallon, Chris Kattan, and Tracy Morgan playing a catchy, albeit incredibly stupid song about Christmas being on the way. Sanz played a skinny guitar while singing, Fallon occasionally pressed an elephant noise button on the keyboard, Kattan held the keyboard while shaking his head, and Morgan danced with a look on his face like he got dragged on stage against his will. It was silly and would have probably been forgotten soon after.

Instead, they returned a week later and insisted on playing it again despite being explicitly told not to. Soon they would start playing it during non-December months to show Christmas’ superiority over other holidays. After Simon Cowell insulted the group, he sheepishly agreed that he wanted to join them and broke out some maracas. One year, when Sanz was the only one left in the cast, he replaced his buddies with Fozzie Bear, Gonzo, and Animal while Kermit the Frog danced in a way that you have to wonder if a Muppet is capable of snorting coke.

The song still gets brought out now and then, usually on Fallon’s show. It’s even been covered by Julian Casablancas and Cheap Trick of all people!

They did sing a completely different Christmas song one time, but nobody cared.

Glengarry Glen Elf: Christmas Motivation (2005)

Alec Baldwin seems to be the go-to host for classic Christmas sketches. Playing on his iconic Glengarry Glen Ross character Blake, Baldwin (in a way) reprises the role as 615-year-old “elf from the home office” sent to straighten out the subpar work of Santa’s elves. There couldn’t have been a more perfect break in character than when Baldwin says “Always Be Closing” instead of “Always Be Cobbling” as scripted. It’s a slip-up that makes for a perfect holiday sketch, full of deep-bellied laughs.

TV Funhouse: Christmastime for the Jews (2005)

Not only is the witty “Christmas for the Jews” written by comedy legend Robert Smigel, but it’s sung by David Letterman’s Christmas angel Darlene Love. In “Christmas for the Jews,” the characters see “Fiddler on the Roof,” grab an early dinner, and enjoy dreamland Daily Show reruns. It’s an intriguing and catchy look at the other side of the Christmas season, complete with a very Rankin-Bass animation style.

Digital Short: Dick in a Box (2006)

Justin Timberlake is one of the most entertaining, versatile hosts that SNL has been gifted. A member of their prestigious Five-Timers Club, “Dick in a Box” is Timberlake’s most memorable sketch, filled with skeevy, disgusting come-ons from Andy Samberg and Timberlake, which has been viewed just millions and millions of times. In 2006, Timberlake had already impressed critics and viewers alike with his acting range in Alpha Dog, but his comedic turns on SNL solidified him as an actor. Timberlake has done a lot of impressive things in his time as an entertainer, but there are few more enjoyable (or laughable) than “Dick in a Box.”

These two R&B weirdos would return later on to sleep with each other’s moms as reciprocated Mother’s Day presents and later swear that being in a two-guy/one-girl three-way isn’t considered gay.

John Malkovich Reads ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas (2008)

As quipped by the man himself, no one emits Christmas spirit quite like John Malkovich. This admission yields the self-reflexive irony of Malkovich reading “The Night Before Christmas” to the children of SNL’s staff. Malkovich, pausing during his reading of the holiday classic, asks the children about the suicide rate rising during the holidays, talking about how shooting a home invader in California is “perfectly legal,” musing about how the tonnage of Santa’s sleigh and reindeer would (scientifically speaking) burst into flames, how in Portugal their version of Saint Nicholas steals children’s toes, as well as reciting the gem: “You know what they say about hopes; they’re what we cling to when reality has left us nothing else.” If you’re in a lighthearted Christmas mood, Malkovich’s monologue is certainly one to enjoy.

Stefon on Holiday Travel (2010)

Bill Hader was highly respected for his versatility and range during his time at SNL, but it was his improvisational skills that turned a Weekend Update bit into a must-see recurring segment. Stefon, likely the defining character for SNL during the 2010s thus far, informed New Yorkers and tourists alike of the city’s hottest nightclubs – with Hader almost always breaking down in laughter as his cue cards were frequently changed from the rehearsal to throw him off.

Stefon knew how to get weird and you can imagine he’d save some fun things for the a “classic New York holiday.” Make sure to check out the Lower, Lower East Side dump hosted by Tranderson Cooper or find a club with the right amount of Puerto Rican Screeches or Gay Aladdins. Just don’t run over the Human Parking Cones.

Stefon would return with more Christmastime insight three years later, where he’d discuss a club called [loud Tauntaun noises], founded by Jewish cartoon character Menorah the Explorer.

Under-Underground Crunkmas Karnival (2010)

Good God, I wish there were more Under-Underground Records sketches. As a parody of the Gathering of the Juggalos, we’d regularly see DJ Supersoak (Jason Sudeikis) and Lil Blaster (Nasim Pedrad) excitedly talk up huge concert events that are needlessly violent and inexplicable in their randomness. For instance, there’s the Crunkmas Karnival, which features such musical acts as Dump, Boys II Dicks, Scrotum Fire, and…Third Eye Blind for some reason.

It’s just a bunch of loud humor that goes back and forth between being stupidly hardcore and being meekly out of left field. Yes, you can go check out a “dong tug-of-war,” but you can also see a special 2D screening of the Owls of Ga’hoole or meet Spaceballs star Pizza the Hut. Not to mention the return of their most fondly remembered running gag, the endless undying and dying of Ass Dan.

This Christmas-based event will take place in February. Sounds about right.

Ornaments (2011)

Every now and then, SNL will do a sketch towards the end of the show where the guest will talk about whichever holiday is coming up and awkwardly go into one of the aspects of it, such as Easter eggs or Halloween candy. In this instance, it’s Steve Buscemi unloading a box of Christmas ornaments and commenting on each one. All the while, Kristen Wiig plays Sheila, his girlfriend who appears to be more than a little off and doesn’t quite grasp tree decorating.

Buscemi’s descriptions range from delightful non-humor to outlandish and disturbing. He might make an intentionally lame joke about one ornament before holding up another and matter-of-factly letting you know that, “I put this one up my butt.”

And somehow he’s still the straight man in this bit.

You’re a Rat Bastard Charlie Brown (2012)

This sketch is centered on Bill Hader playing Al Pacino, playing Charlie Brown. The rest of the cast turns out bang-up impressions as well: Jason Sudeikis playing Philip Seymour Hoffman playing Pigpen, Kate McKinnon as Edie Falco playing Lucy (as Charlie Brown’s drug peddling therapist, causing a holiday-blues Charlie to say, “Oh yeah…I want something to take me sky high!”), Martin Short playing Larry David playing Linus, Taran Killam doing Michael Keaton as Schroeder, and Cecily Strong as Fran Drescher as Charlie Brown’s mother, all performed in front of a baffled childhood audience.

For anyone who grew up watching Charlie Brown and Co., watching Bill Hader/Al Pacino/Charlie Brown unleash the expletive-laden “You’re gonna hold that f***ing football?!” towards Kate McKinnion/Edie Falco/Lucy, and saying, “Ow, you bitch!” after she pulls it away is absolutely to die for.

Jebidiah Atkinson on Holiday Movies (2013)

For a time, Taran Killam played Jebidiah Atkinson, a Weekend Update character based on how an old newspaper editorial was discovered that panned Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Atkinson, somehow still alive, would appear and read review snippets about other big speeches he hated.

One of his return appearances had him discuss holiday specials and movies. Every single one of them he hates. Every single one of them gets roasted. His vicious energy is so over-the-top that the good jokes land and the bad jokes still get a laugh from the misplaced confidence. Over these several minutes, he screams about how much of a depressing bore A Charlie Brown Christmas is, how the Grinch stole a half hour of his life, and how every time they play It’s a Wonderful Life, an angel blows its brains out.

This one is admittedly a bit dated with its biggest joke, where his distaste for Snoopy is so great that he wishes Family Guy killed him off instead of Brian. The horror from the audience still makes it worth it.

St. Joseph’s Christmas Mass Spectacular (2014)

Ah, Christmas Mass. The drum solo for every childhood during Christmas time. It’s uncomfortable and especially boring. Ergo, liven it up by framing it as a big, in-your-face event via what amounts to a monster truck rally commercial!

It’s a brilliant use of contrast. Take an event that is so mundane with so many familiar and shared experiences and treat it like it’s some extreme thing. The familiarity of the pastor making corny jokes that get the most minor of laughs is treated like a once-in-a-lifetime event. It shines a light on the weird tics of the prominent people you see at church and feels amazingly universal.

The SNL cast is fantastic here, but the MVP is Cecily Strong as the middle-age woman who is way into doing a reading in the loudest, most overly articulate speaking voice possible.

Sump’N Claus (2014)

Getting gifts from Santa Claus is great and all, but when you grow up, you realize how hard it truly is to be nice all year round. Luckily, there’s an alternative. Introduced via an extremely catchy song, we meet Sump’n Claus (Keenan Thompson), a pimp-like offshoot of Santa who not only used to work for St. Nick, but also appears to have some dirt on him.

Sump’n Claus sings several verses about people who have had breakdowns and would be thrown onto the naughty list. Sump’n Claus doesn’t care about that. You be you. Every December, he’ll still be there to hand you an envelope full of twenties and fifties. He’s the holiday mascot for adults, basically.

One of the highlights is how he mentions that Santa is not your friend as friends don’t watch you while you’re sleeping.

The Christmas Candle (2016)

Christmas has been saved by many different things: ghosts who see through time, an angel trying to earn his wings, a reindeer’s glowing nose, New Yorkers singing “Santa Claus is Coming to Town,” and so on. Then again, sometimes you need a savior for something with lower stakes.

In the form of a mid-1990s all ladies group that gives me kind of a Celine Dion vibe, we’re given a wonderful song that starts with the tale of a woman who had to get a coworker a gift for Secret Santa. She found an old peach candle in her closet and just gave her that. The second verse is a similar situation where not only is a peach candle given as a throwaway gift to an acquaintance, but it’s THE SAME candle. Yes, somehow this one peach candle is re-gifted across the globe through latter December by women and gay men who couldn’t be bothered to put thought into their presents.

Truly a miracle.

First Impression (2018)

Beck Bennett plays a guy about to finally meet his girlfriend’s (Melissa Villaseñor) parents and he’s nervous as hell. She assures him that he’ll be fine, but he really wants to impress them. Sure enough, he tries to impress them in the weirdest way by hiding somewhere in the house and speaking in a high-pitched voice in order to dare them to find him. Her parents (Jason Momoa and Heidi Gardner) are notably confused, as is she.

It’s already a strange and silly bit, but Jason Momoa shifts it into gear by suddenly being COMPLETELY into it. Removing his jacket with purpose, Momoa excitedly starts searching the house for this guy. The fact that Momoa is playing an overweight 60-year-old man is enough of a novelty, but he brings this oddball zest to the role as he starts to literally tear the home to pieces in order to get a look at his daughter’s elusive boyfriend.

The boyfriend’s plans here are both overly complicated and half-baked, culminating in an ending that’s as happy as it’s inexplicable and off-putting.

North Pole News Report (2019)

When Eddie Murphy returned to SNL, there was much fanfare. A completely solid episode, it admittedly spent too much of its runtime revisiting his old recurring classics like Mr. Robinson, Gumby, and Velvet Jones. The final sketch of the night goes full blast with his manic energy as he plays an elf eyewitness on the elf news, screaming bloody murder about a horrible tragedy. Mikey Day is reporter Donny Chestnut, looking at the destruction of a toy factory. As he tries to make heads or tails of what’s going on, Murphy bursts onto the scene, screaming about a polar bear attacking the elves and eating them like Skittles. And just screaming in general.

The best line comes from the elf (who keeps declaring, “IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT MY NAME IS!”) bringing over one of the survivors, and noting that, “This white, teenage elf girl ran out here, straight up to me – a black elf in sweatpants – and asked me to keep her safe. That’s how bad it is!” Despite this elf being right about the situation, Donny Chestnut keeps trying to sideline him for being increasingly erratic about Santa’s potential role in the slaughter and what it means for Christmas. Even as he trips over some of his lines, Eddie Murphy is so damn precious here.

AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!

December to Remember Car Commercial (2020)

It might be in bad form to include a sketch from this very year, but man, this joke is not only long overdue, but the acting is top notch. Heidi Gardner’s barely repressed rage is something special.

You’ve seen the commercial a million times. It’s Christmas morning and someone reveals a brand new car to a loved one. As part of Lexus’ December to Remember, Beck Bennett reveals a brand new Lexus with a giant bow to his wife (Gardner) and their son (Timothée Chalamet). What initially appears as shock turns out to be fury and confusion over what is a selfish and short-sighted decision. Buying a car is a huge deal and isn’t something you don’t tell your significant other. More than that, Bennett’s character hasn’t been employed for about a year and a half and has no way of affording such a thing. The thread is pulled away, unraveling both how much of an idiot he is and how doomed their family life happens to be.

Then neighbor Mikey Day shows up and it hits another level. Beck Bennett is the expert at playing guys with misplaced confidence who haven’t come close to thinking things through.

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blissfulalchemist · 4 years

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Fun Facts for Chance and Cat? :)

Thank you for asking! I hope your day is going well!

Which tropes do they fit? Which archetypes?

I don’t know formal names for tropes so I had to look it up.

Big Fun, Contender/Chosen One, Hotshot, Loveable Rogue, and Jester.

Do they play any instruments? Sports?

He was never one to play anything. Never did sports and failed at learning guitar. Definitely tried to learn to scream for singing, does that count? What are some items they always carry?

He always has a music player on him, his leather or denim jacket, and backpack with tools needed for life in Hope County. Do they collect anything?

Sort of. He will take samples of things. You could say he collects knowledge with the amount of textbooks he had. What position do they sleep in?

He typically falls into bed face first. But he doesn’t have much of a set sleeping position it’s whatever way he falls asleep in. Which emoji would they use the most?

😈 or 🙂 He’s a bit of a little shit and will just send those as a response when you ask him certain questions. What languages do they speak?

English and a little Japanese cause he rewatched Sailor Moon so many times he could quote it. What’s their favorite expletive?

Fuck or Damnit What’s their favorite candle scent?

Anything woodsy smelling. Pine, rain, ect. What songs remind you of them?

The song that I most feel his whole vibe with is “Christian’s Inferno” by Green Day. But I would also say that “Nobody’s Hero” by Black Veil Brides fits him and his character really. There will also forever be a hint of Breaking Benjamin in there too they just tie to more specific moments. Which animal would you say represents them?

I would have to say either a crow, they have this fun aspect about them but there’s always this kind of lingering ominous vibe to them. Chance is loveable and so much fun but there’s a sad boy in there too. What stereotypical high school clique would they fit into?

He was with the emo/scene/goth kids! Like this was a major part of his identity as a teenager. What would their favorite ride at an amusement park be?

Roller coasters and those sling shot type of rides. Anything dangerous he’s there. Do they believe in aliens? Ghosts? Reincarnation or something else?

Aliens totally exist, they have found life on mars there’s science to prove it. Ghosts, no never possible. Cryptids though are totally a thing and he will fight you on this. Do they follow any religions/gods? Do they celebrate holidays?

He doesn’t follow any religion. He celebrates mainstream holidays though. He’s just not a believer in religion. Which Deadly Sin do they most correspond to? Which Heavenly Virtue?

He actually lives up to Wrath ironically. I’ve thought about just what makes John hate him so much after a while, and this was unintentional, but he sees himself in Chance and there’s a jealousy of what he could have been had things turned out different. Chance is still very self destructive even without being drunk all the time, and he really hates himself for many things that became out of his control. He may not take it his Wrath on innocents but he does take it out on himself for a long while.

Virtues I would have to put him with Humility. At his core its who he is. As his story progresses he learns to become the opposite of his sin which in my research is Patience, forgiveness and mercy. If you had to choose one tarot card to represent them, which would it be?

The Fool. From what I have gathered this fits him to a T.

Which tropes do they fit? Which archetypes?

All Loving Hero, Girl Next Door, Peacemaker, Tragic Hero. I would also put Conscience to her too in some aspects. Do they play any instruments? Sports?

None for her either unfortunately What are some items they always carry?

She wears the same jewelry. A leather bracelet that John gave her for her birthday and a chain with her wedding rings on them. Do they collect anything?

Husbands. She collects certain nerdy memorabilia but nothing super significant. What position do they sleep in?

She’s a side sleeper, so fetal position when alone, but likes to cuddle when with a partner. Which emoji would they use the most?

🥰 and 💖 She loves spreading the love and they’re cute! What languages do they speak?

English and some Spanish. What’s their favorite expletive?

Shit, fuck, and damn. What’s their favorite candle scent?

Fruity and tropical scents. Also seasonal out door scents that rely on flowers and natural things. What songs remind you of them?

A lot of Hozier really. “From Eden” was a main song I pulled from for her story cause I’m cheesy okay. I would also say “If My Heart Was A House” by Owl City. She’s very loving and warm and more soft pop type music fits her best. And if we want to go with the RafCat universe then throw in “Call Me Maybe” because that music video is her falling for Raf okay. Which animal would you say represents them?

Wolves and Otters, she’s loyal and has qualities that are associated with the two animals mixed together. I don’t know of, or better can’t think of, one animal that fits her best. What stereotypical high school clique would they fit into?

She was with more of the wallflower kids. The ones that weren’t always hated but its not like anyone took the time to get to know them. They just existed off to the sidelines. What would their favorite ride at an amusement park be?

She loves the games and Ferris Wheel, rides that are fun and easy going. And games because who doesn’t want to try and win the big prizes. Waterparks suit her pretty well also really. Do they believe in aliens? Ghosts? Reincarnation or something else?

Aliens yes, ghosts yes, reincarnation yes. Basically almost anything is possible except things for kids like Santa and the Easter Bunny. Do they follow any religions/gods? Do they celebrate holidays?

She is a self proclaimed Omnist. She doesn’t follow a religion strictly. This went the same for her family growing up, they were all catholic and hold many traditions that relate to that but they didn’t always follow it. Mainstream holidays are celebrated. Which Deadly Sin do they most correspond to? Which Heavenly Virtue?

Lust because she has desire for one kind of life and gets to a point where she will do anything to get it. She also has indulged in that sin much through out her life. She relies on using sex to cope with life and battling feelings of loneliness and unloveable-ness.

Virtues I give her Kindness and Temperance. These sum up her core values and the way in which she attempts to live her life really. If you had to choose one tarot card to represent them, which would it be?

The Star, The Lovers, and Strength. There’s qualities to all of them that fit her but I also am not very well versed in Tarot. So I am open to input.

#I am open to input on the tropes and tarot honestly #I'm not very well versed in those things if I'm being honest #chance ruicknar oc #catlina rojas oc

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imagesofthegreatgull · 4 years

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Hybrid Rainbow

Joy has always been a rare and precious commodity. I would argue, though, that in the developed world (Wherever, exactly, that is), it has become somewhat less rare in recent times, as standards of living and education continue to go up. That’s an absurdly privileged thing to say, I realize, but I’m trying to start this thing as evenhandedly as I can. I understand about suffering and poverty; I’m reading A Tree Grows In Brooklyn right now, even! Okay, saying we’re closer now than ever to utopia is going to smack of ignorance no matter how you phrase it, but it also strikes me as undeniably true, in the grand scheme of things. I think most people--aside from the fascists--would refuse a one-way trip in a time machine to any previous era, or at the very least, would recognize that it wouldn’t improve much of anything for them. As unruly as our age is, it’s still probably the best one we’ve gotten thus far, and as the boot-heel of oppression starts to ever so slowly ease up its pressure on the necks of the long-suffering masses, the question has begun to enter into the collective consciousness: what is to be done with joy when it begins to fall, unbidden, into your life with something like abundance? What is to be done if moments of joy no longer must be pried with great effort and sacrifice from the rockface of life, but lie strewn liberally throughout our days, needing only the will and lack of embarrassment to seize them?

Thus far, the latter-day generations have faced up to this problem with decidedly mixed success. The idea that expecting anything other than the very worst leaves one vulnerable to the universe’s cruel whims has been stamped upon the human brain for centuries, and has left many sadly unable to recognize their own privilege (Which, by the way, is a big part of why a whole lotta white folks refuse to admit they have it better than anyone else and continue to dig their heels in against progress because to them it looks like cutting in line). It is still widely accepted that constantly finding joy and peace and purpose in one’s own life is the purview of children and children alone, that it is a naivete to be grown out of. We have the impulse always within us to be hard, to be warlike, to show the world that we’re not weak and frivolous but monsters to be feared, without emotions to be appealed to or ideals to be fallen short of.

Remedying this problem has turned out to be one of the primary functions of counterculture. If it is often unhelpful to simply look at the entire value system of one’s parents and say “Fuck that”, as it tends to foster a rather negative self-definition, still, if part of that value system is a deeply entrenched distrust of happiness, “Fuck that” may be exactly the response called for. The beauty of “Fuck that” is that it leaps past the slow loss of faith in something and arrives immediately at a flat rejection of it, and since much of the history of civilization has been bound up with blind faith in arbitrary and harmful things, the ability and the courage to flatly reject something, to give it no credit for however widely accepted it is but to dismiss it as bullshit from the ground up, is a step forward in human consciousness tantamount to the reinvention of the wheel.

The great irony of the end of the sixties is that all the hippies were miserable for no reason: they won. Rock n’ roll did change the world, it just didn’t immediately transform it on every level into an unrecognizable nirvana. For all the apparent emptiness of its utopian dreams, the basic thrust of the thing worked out just fine: that particular cat will never be put back into its bag, and those ideas are now out in the ether forever, always waiting for someone to find them and be inspired to change their own life and the lives of those around them for the better. The same goes for the punk rock revolution a few years later: they may not have brought the bastards down, but they did successfully bring personal liberation to a lot of people, and poured exactly as much gas on the fires of populism as they intended to. Culture, and in particular art and in particular music, cannot, unassisted, change the world, but it can change your world, and has been changing small worlds all over the frigging place at least since those mop-topped Brits set foot on American shores and probably since Johnny B. Goode learned to play guitar just like a-ringin’ a bell.

The thread can get lost, however. Culture is always a reflection of the people, and the people still spend a lot of their time bored, frustrated, and terrified of letting on that they have feelings about stuff. Young people especially, formerly the eternal pirate crew waving high the flags of “Liberty” and “Up Yours”, in recent times have often capitulated and resigned themselves to no more than a few stray moments of fun pilfered from the fortresses of the almighty Money Man-Kings, usually in the form of drugs, sex, and reckless self-endangerment. The cost of the hippies and the punks giving up their battles is that the counterculture lost its intellectual leadership, at least until the resurgence in political literacy in the 2010s. In the wasteland following the 70s, there were no John Lennons or Joe Strummers to look to for guidance; even the people who were elected to speak for their generation seemed adamant that there was fuck-all they could really say. Yeah, it’s nice to know that someone else feels stupid and contagious, but that’s not really a direction, is it? The generation-defining message Kurt Cobain and his peers sent out was “We’re all way too fucked up to do anything about anything”, and that introspective moodiness pervaded American underground rock music from the invention of hardcore at least all the way up to the moment Craig Finn watched The Last Waltz with Tad Kubler and said “Why aren’t there bands like this anymore?” and set out with rest of the Steadies in tow to remind everyone that music can save your immortal soul and that hey, that Springsteen guy was really onto something, headband and all, and together they all successfully ushered in the New Uncool and now we’ve got Patrick Stickles wailing that “If the weather’s as bad as the weatherman says, we’re in for a real mean storm!” and Brian Fallon admitting “I always kinda sorta wished I looked like Elvis” and everything’s great, except it’s not, everything’s fucked, but rock n’ roll is here to stay, come inside now it’s okay, and I’ll shake you, ooo-ooo-ooo.

The point of all this is my belief that even with the responsibility rock music has to provide cathartic outlets for dissatisfaction, is has an equal or greater responsibility to provide heroes. I think it’s time we all got over pretending that we’re better than the need for heroes, because we all insist on having them anyway, imperfect roses by any other name, and we’d do a hell of a lot better selecting them if we just admitted what we were after. We don’t just want particularly talented comrades, we want King Arthur, Robin Hood, Superman, Malcolm Reynolds. Damn it all, they don’t need to be perfect, they don’t even need to be all that great really, and yeah, Arthur dies, and Robin never gets Prince John, and Superman can’t save everyone, and the war’s over, we’re all just folk now, and John Lennon beat women and Van Morrison is a grumpy old fart and John Lydon’s a disgrace, but it’s the faith that counts. The faith that there’s something greater than ourselves that some people are more keyed into than others, and that whatever they can relay from that other side is what’ll see us through. All the best prophets are madmen, and madmen aren’t always romantic fools; sometimes they hurt people, or fail at crucial moments due to a compulsion they can’t control. Let he who is without sin etcetera, right? Why not cast aside realism and sincerely believe in something or someone, huh?

I believe in the Pillows. I don’t know hardly anything about them; my expertise of Japanese culture and history extends to the anime I’ve seen and that “History of Japan” YouTube video that made the rounds a while back. I can’t locate them within the Japanese music scene; all their western influences seem obvious to me, and the rest I know nothing about. They’re the only rock band from their country I’ve listened to any great amount of, I don’t speak the language they mostly sing in, I don’t even know their career very well. The particulars of any experiences they might have had that motivated them to make the art they make are not ones I could possibly share in, so, saying that I “Relate” to their work sounds a little preposterous. They ought to be a novelty to me, a band that clearly likes a lot of the same bands I do despite hailing from a foreign shore, marrying that shared music taste with a cultural identity I have nothing to do with, a small, nice upswing of globalism pleasing to my sense of universalism but not having any kind of quantifiable impact on me.

Yet I, like a good many other westerners, believe in the Pillows. I’m a little buster, and my eyes just watered as I wrote that. In fact, it’s likely because of the barriers of language and culture that exist between us that my belief in the Pillows is so strong. Pete Townshend, someone else I believe in, once opened a show by saying “You are very far away...but we will fucking reach you”, and though the Pillows are both geographically (At the moment) and culturally miles away from me, Lord strike me down if they don’t fucking reach me. They reach me in a way many of their American college rock peers, many of their biggest influences in fact, never have. Dinosaur Jr, Bob Mould, Sonic Youth, the Pixies, Nirvana--all these artists speak directly to the American adolescent experience, but though they have all moved me to one degree or another, none of them have produced a body of work I can so readily see myself in as that of the Pillows. Maybe it is the novelty of it, maybe I’m fooling myself and it is just my sense of universalism carrying me away, but there’s something I hear in the Pillows that I don’t hear in those bands, and though the obvious candidate for that thing would be the foreign tongue the majority of the lyrics are written in, when it comes down to it, I think that thing is joy.

Joy, to me, is the possibility glimpsed by rock n’ roll. Not hedonistic pleasure, not a sadistic glee over the outrage of authority figures, but real, true, open-hearted, “Freude, schöner Götterfunken/Tochter aus Elysium”--type joy. Buddy Holly had joy. The Beatles, The Who, the pre-fall Rod Stewart, they had joy. Springsteen’s got joy to spare. Those people have such profound love for their art and their audience that just the continual recognition of the fact that they have a guitar in their hands and they’re being allowed to play it is enough to make them ecstatic, and whenever they want to actually express something serious they have to get themselves under control to do it. Yet, whether it’s the unfashionability of those utopian dreams, or the simple fact that rock music has become accepted by mainstream culture and is now a commonplace, unremarkable thing, but half the people who have picked up an electric guitar for the past few decades don’t seem all that excited about it. From Kim Gordon snarling about how people go down to the store to buy some more and more and more and more, to Thom Yorke moaning about how he’s let down and hanging around, crushed like a bug in the ground, even up to Courtney Barnett asking how’s that for first impressions, this place seems depressing, it’s not really a given anymore, if it ever was, that people who make rock music are very joyful in what they do.

Of course, I’m not demanding that our artists be empty-headed fluff-factories; far from it. The Pillows write sad songs and angry songs same as everybody else. But the important thing is this: every song the Pillows play is played with an exuberance and abandon that is immediately striking, regardless of the emotional content of each song. Channelling that kind of revelry into rock music is both to my mind the initial purpose of the genre in the first place and something which has become so rare as to be remarkable. A veneer of detached cool, a howling ferocity, a whimpering woundedness--these have become the hallmarks of American rock music, and they are nowhere to be found in the Pillows.

At the same time, the Pillows are the very antithesis of artlessness. Joy of the caliber they deal in is more commonly found in folky rave-ups, a lack of musicianship giving way to trancelike festivity. But the Pillows are skilled song craftsmen like few others; their sound has evolved throughout the years, but they tend to settle in the neighborhood of power-pop, abounding in glorious hooks and surprising structures. A hundred unnecessary, perfect touches seem to exist in every song; a pause, a solo, a bassline, all deftly elevating the song into a perfect expression of something sublime, something that always--always--takes ahold of the musicians themselves and imbues their performances with power and purpose the likes of which most little busters can only dream of feeling. It should be testament enough to their brilliance that upon first listen to a song I never know what most of the lyrics mean, but whenever I look up a translation, they always turn out to be exactly what I felt they must be; their songs are so musically communicative that they all but lack the need for lyrics.

This dual nature is why I believe in the Pillows: by so utterly failing to neglect both the highest possibilities of musical composition as an unparalleled tool for capturing emotional nuance and the unrestrained id-like rush that is the province of rock n’ roll, they successfully attain the lofty realm that is--or ought to be--the goal of music in the first place. Never once is there a hint of straying into the realm of primitivism nor into overthought seriousness, and instead they locate themselves somehow exactly center on the scale between punk and prog, lacking the weaknesses and gaining the strengths of both. They make rock whole again by finally disproving the tenet initially laid out by their heroes, your heroes, and mine, The Beatles: the notion that growing up means having less fun. The viscerally exciting early work of The Beatles lacks any of the depth and vision displayed by their later records, but those records are so carefully and expertly crafted that they tend to lose spontaneity, and constantly second-guess themselves where the juvenilia they followed forged unselfconsciously ahead. That legendary career path has laid out a false dichotomy that every proceeding generation of kids with guitars has chosen between, save for the few who could see past it, the ones who heard the wildness in “Revolution” and the wisdom in “Twist and Shout” and realized that they were of a piece, were one and the same, not to be chosen between but embraced fully. Pete Townshend. Bruce Springsteen. Joe Strummer. David Byrne. Paul Westerberg. The Pillows. The real heroes are not those who champion one side or another but fight all their lives for peace between them, knowing that we have not yet begun to imagine what could be accomplished if that were made possible.

Just as they bypass the divide between what Patrick Stickles termed the Apollonian and Dionysian tendencies of rock (I prefer to think of the usual battle as being between the Dionysians and the Athenians, with the true devotees of Apollo being most of those heroes I keep referring to, except Dylan, who might be a Hermesian), so too do the Pillows bypass the Pacific frigging ocean. And the Atlantic, to boot. Their music quotes the Pixies and The Beatles directly, and obviously owes much to Nirvana and all their college rock predecessors who spent the entire 80s desperately stacking themselves until the doomed power trio could finally vault over the wall. Their first record is practically a tribute to XTC. They do speak a lot of English, too. I’m informed that much of western culture is seen as the epitome of coolness in Japan, which might explain their obsession with Baseball, and apparently sprinkling a bit of the Saxon tongue into the mix is far from uncommon in the music scene(s). Regardless, there is something ineffably touching to a distant fan in a foreign land about hearing Sawao Yamanaka spit “No surrender!” or exclaim “Just runner’s high!” It looks from here like a show of mutual effort to understand me as much as I’m trying to understand them. They’re generous enough to have already walked to the middle where they’re asking me to meet them, a middle where it doesn’t matter that I don’t have a suffix attached to my name or that they don’t wear shoes in houses. The invisible continent that all forward-thinking and sensitive people come to long for is where the Pillows are broadcasting from, because they’ve realized that its golden shores and spiraling cities are attainable. They’re attainable with joy, with the fundamentally rebellious act of refusing to let the fascists bring down even your globdamn day, because who the hell gave them that power other than us? I know enough about Japan and America to know that either one accusing the other of being imperialist and socially conservative to a fault is a fucking joke, and to know that we’ve done a lot more wrong to them than they’ll ever do to us and the presence of the Pillows amounts to a “We forgive you”, not an “I’m sorry”. Having watched a decent amount of anime, which is basically the result of Japan’s mind being blown by western media and then proceeding to show their love by often almost inadvertently surpassing their inspirations, I know that the only way to save our respective national souls and everybody else’s too is to put our knuckles down, have Jesus and Buddha shake hands like Kerouac tried to explain that they would anyway, and embrace each other’s dreams and passions and adopt them into our own.

It takes better people to inhabit that better world, and in case that sounds like fascist talk, I mean we’ve got to do better, not be better. It’s no physical imperfection that holds us back, nor a mental imperfection exactly, as we all have our own neuroses and if we expunge those then we’ll be kissing art and lot of other vital stuff goodbye. No, it’s our discomfort with ourselves, our world, our neighbors, our aliens, that keep us from seeing that crazy sunshine. If we can’t even acknowledge the greatness around us, that surplus of joy I mentioned a while back that we just seem to have no idea what to do with, then we have no hope of ever achieving further greatness, of ever quelling man’s inhumanity to man down to an inevitable fringe rather than the basic order of the world.

There was always more to do

Than just eat and work and screw

But now that there’s time at last to do those things, we’re still afraid to, afraid that we’ll come up empty, that the search for fulfillment leads only to disappointment, better to hang back and play it safe, better not to risk becoming one of those people I shake my head at and pity and will secretly envy until I die. It’s a new world, and we must learn to be new people. I believe in the Pillows because I believe they make excellent models for that new kind of person. The way they behave in the studio and on the stage is the way people behave when they’re truly free, and we’ve all been set free already or will be soon, so if we’re going to try and learn what the fuck is next from anyone, I think we might as well learn from the Pillows. At least, that’s one of the places we could get that insight. There’s a lot of art and a lot of philosophy and political theory to sift through to in order to put together a workable 21st century identity, and the Pillows are hardly the only people to have begun making the leap. But because of a silly thing like the size of the earth, the infinitesimal size of the earth even compared to the distance between us and the next rock we’re gonna try and get to, not everybody is getting their particular brand of free thought and action, and I happen to think that’s regrettable, and it’s my will as a free individual to rectify it as much as I can.

Writing about music really is worthless, isn’t it? I haven’t said jackshit about what the Pillows actually do other than to vaguely qualify their genre and temperament, and the only more useless thing I could do than not describing their songs would be to describe their songs. If you don’t hear the bracing weightlessness in “Blues Drive Monster”, or the aching nostalgia in “Patricia”, or the soul-bearing cry in “Hybrid Rainbow” then nothing I could write about those would be more effective than “Little Busters is a really good album.” The better primer might be Happy Bivouac, from a few years later; it has the melancholic rush of “Last Dinosaur”, the ascended teenybopper “Whoa, whoa, yeah” chorus in “Backseat Dog”, and the intro that should make it obvious immediately that you’re listening to one of the best songs ever recorded which opens “Funny Bunny”. Those two, Runners High, and Please, Mr. Lostman are the classic era, selections from the former three immortalized in their biggest claim to western fame, the FLCL soundtrack, a brilliant use of their music that could warrant an equally long piece. Before and after those four are periods of experimentation and discovery equally worth your time, not all of which I’m familiar with yet. See, now I’m just an incomplete Wikipedia article; it’d be equally worthless to expound upon the individual bandmates, on the pure yawp of Yamanaka’s vocals, on the passionate drumming of Yoshiaki Manabe and the supernaturally faultless lead guitar of Shinichiro Sato, or the contribution of founding bassist Kenji Ueda, which was so valued by the others that when he left he was never officially replaced (They’re so sweet). I’m not here to write an advertisement or a press-release, I don’t really even know why I’m here writing this, but I know that I believe in the Pillows, that they’re important, and that people should write about them. I’m being the change I want to see in the world, get it? That’s all we can be asked to do.

It occurs to me that people believed in Harvey Dent too, and that didn’t turn out so well. Hell, let’s leave the comic book pages behind, people believe in Donald Trump, they think he’s a hero, and that’s all going down in flames as I write this. Having heroes can be dangerous, but I still believe it’s not as dangerous as not having heroes. “Lesser of two evils” sounds an awful lot like one of those false dichotomies between fun and intelligence or between misery and foolishness I mentioned earlier, so, let’s call it a qualified good. I’m not much of a responsible world-citizen if my only effort towards bringing the planet together is spinning some sweet Japanese alt-rock tunes and bragging about how open-minded I am, but if I do ever end up doing anyone any good, then I’d consider it paying forward the good done to me by the Pillows, among others. They helped me form my identity as an artist (Read: functional human being) and they made my adolescence a lot easier. Actually, that’s a lie: my adolescence was (And continues to be) pretty easy already, and the Pillows reassured me that I wasn’t avoiding reality by feeling that. While American bands sang about the downsides of being a mallrat or a non-mallrat, the Pillows offered a vision of teenagedome much like my own, one that was grandly romantic, in which suffering wasn’t a cosmic stupidity but a trial with pathos and merit, and joy was not an occasional indulgence but a constant presence, whether it was lived in or lost and needing recovery.

That’s the old idea of youth, the youth of John Keats, the youth that makes the old miss it, makes it required that we explain to them that it’s still there, it never left, it’s a dream, a momentary affirmation, an attitude, a muttered curse word. So many of my peers, now no longer engaged in a constant race to stay out of the grave as their ancestors were, seemed intent on beating each other into their tombs, as if reaching walking death before their parents was the only way to outgrow them. There’s so much life just lying around and it’s just plain wasteful to let it lie in the sun and rust in the rain. There’s space enough to stretch, to not keep who you are awkwardly curled up inside yourself, to breathe the air and taste the wine and dig the brains of your fellow travelers in this loosely-defined circus. I found that space in the Pillows, having often suspected it was there, and while everyone is going to find that space in their own way--or not, still, tragically not--I have to think that experience was due in part to some innate and unique quality of the music itself, not just a complimentary sensibility contained within myself. The Pillows are free, and that makes them freeing, it’s easy as that. Their liberation is plain as day; it rings in every chord, every snare-hit, every harmony; it’s up to us ascertain what we can do in our own limited capacity to hoist ourselves up to their level and give some other folks a boost along the way and a hand to grab afterwards. It’s the gift that art gives us, and the Pillows just give it more freely than most is all, which is why I think the suggestion to listen to them is more than just a solid recommendation. Like the insistence on listening to The Beatles, or The Clash, or any of the others, it’s a plea to save your soul, to learn the language of tomorrow and drink the lifeblood of peace and love and piss and vinegar, or else you’ll be lost, lost, lost.

Can you feel? Can you feel that hybrid rainbow?

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sml8180 · 5 years

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Shot at Redemption - 20

This took so much longer than I anticipated, but I finally got chapter 20 finished! This also kind of applies to the theme for Day Six of this year’s Far Cry 5 Week (The Music), seeing as lyrics from a couple of the cult’s hymns are in here, and the general point of this chapter. I hope you all enjoy this! I’ll be updating my Masterlist soon, as well, including the most recent SaR chapters and a D:BH oneshot I wrote a few days ago. Anyways, enjoy the chapter!

Masterlist can be found Here

Water

The rain had let up early in the morning, and a mist clung to the ground outside when Rose got up. She could only assume that John had brought her up to her room after she had fallen asleep, seeing as she had no memory of heading upstairs. The blonde came down from her room, following the smell of freshly brewed coffee and sound of popping bacon.

“Morning, Blue,” she greeted, walking over to the man.

“Good morning,” John replied, giving her a gentle smile before turning off the burners on the stove and plating the food he had made; pancakes and bacon. He and Rose both took a plate of food and a mug of coffee, and sat down at the table across from one another.

“Is Joseph speaking this morning?” Rose asked as she put some butter and syrup on her pancakes.

“No, he will tonight, though. Until then, we’ve got the day to ourselves,” John answered, mirroring Rose’s actions.

As they ate, the room wasn’t quite silent. John had a small radio set on the table not too far from them, tuned to the station that played the Project’s hymns and some of Joseph’s sermons. The music made for a calm atmosphere, as Rose and John would hum along with the lyrics of the songs while they ate. As the pair were finishing their meal, one particular song came on, and John gave a thoughtful hum.

“Let the water wash away your sins,” he quietly sang along with the choir coming over the radio. “Hm… Seeing as we’ve got the day free, why don’t we go down to the water again? Try to get you to float?”

Rose thought over the suggestion. She was getting far better about being in the water. John would be there for her, just as he always was, and she honestly wanted to get to the point where she could finally get into the water and let him guide her under and let the water wash her sins and her past away. “I’d like that. We’ve got all the time in the world, today, after all.”

John gave a nod, and the two went about finishing their food. The man cleaned up the dishes, while Rose went to get dressed. She ran her brush through her hair, after throwing on a sports bra, blue tank top, and a set of black compression running shorts she hardly ever wore. Considering she didn’t have a swim suit and didn’t want to get any of her other clothes soaked, these would do. After getting dressed and pulling on her shoes, Rose threw a set of socks and undergarments into her smaller bag, along with a skirt and blouse she had gotten from Faith’s old things. Just as she was about to go meet John outside so they could make their way down to the water, the blonde stopped. She eyed her 1911, biting her lip as she remembered the events of last night. There was a dark bruise on her shoulder from the boot the other woman had been wearing, and she had a fair gash in her forehead from when her car had rolled over. After a moment of thought, Rose decided it would be best to not take chances and put the gun into her bag, as well, before finally going to meet up with John.

The pair settled in John’s car and he drove them down to the dock, singing along with the radio as Project hymns played. The man had grabbed a change of clothes for himself, as well as a couple of towels and his handheld radio. Approaching the water’s edge, John set the towels and radio on the rocks, letting the music play from his radio as he and Rose both kicked off their shoes. The Baptist was dressed very differently for this; instead of his usual dark jeans, silk shirt, and vest, he wore a set of what looked to be dark blue athletic shorts and a t-shirt that had a fading print of an airplane on it. He pulled off his shirt, setting it on the rocks with their other things, as Rose quietly sang along with the current song playing on the radio.

“Are you ready?” he asked, stepping into the water and offering his hand to Rose. She simply nodded with a gentle smile, taking his hand and letting the man guide her into the water. They stopped once Rose was about chest deep, and John let her adjust and relax to the depth, still holding her hand. “Alright, I want you to turn your back to me,” he directed the blonde, carefully guiding her to turn around. “Good, good. Now, I need you to relax and lay back slowly. I’m right here.”

Rose took a deep breath, doing her best to relax as she started to lay back, feeling John’s arm at her back while he still held her hand. She could feel the water against the back of her neck and shoulders. The blonde felt the water wetting her hair, and jumped a little when she felt it in her ears, attempting to find her footing again.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” John quietly insisted. “Everything’s alright. You just need to relax a bit. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he told her. “Bring your arms out a bit, we’ll try again.”

Rose brought her arms out, as much as she could with her shoulder being as sore as it was. John guided her back again, and she took a shuddering breath as she felt the water at her ears again. John’s arms were supporting her, a comforting touch against the small of her back and the backs of her knees.

“Oh Lord, the great collapse, won’t be our end, when the world falls into the flames, we will rise again… We will rise again…” John quietly sang along with the radio, and Rose joined him, focusing on the lyrics as she tried to relax.

“When the sky has cleared, and the storm as passed, we’ll walk arm in arm, down our promised path. We’ll watch the sun come up, from its bed of black, we’ll enter Eden’s garden, and never look back…” they sang together, as Rose shut her eyes, letting herself relax and simply float by John. She hardly noticed that his arms had left her back and knees.

“Perfect,” John mused, taking a step back, but still holding onto Rose’s hand. “You’ve got it, Rose.”

“Hm?” Rose hummed in question, opening her eyes and turning them towards John, who gave a little wave with his free hand. Upon noticing that he was no longer holding her up, Rose let out a quiet laugh, smiling brightly.

“Looks like we just need to get you swimming, now,” John observed. He chuckled a bit, gently pulling Rose along by her hand as she lay there floating.

“Looks it. This is nice, actually,” Rose responded.

John smiled, “Want to get to that, then? Looks like it could start to rain again, but we probably still have time.”

Rose thought for a moment, looking towards some dark clouds that were rolling in. It would seem Hope County had only gotten a short respite from the rain before it was going to pick up again. “I don’t really want to get caught out here in the rain. Maybe we could stay for a bit, relax, and then head back to the ranch?”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

The pair remained in the water for some time, before getting out and drying off. They quickly pulled on their dry clothes, shielded from view by the car. The rain started to fall as they were on the way back to John’s ranch, finding a truck with the Project’s cross painted on the doors parked there. John parked not far from the truck, turning off the engine and getting out of the car. He went around and let Rose out, and the pair gathered their things before heading inside. John kept in front of Rose as they opened the door, and visibly relaxed, spotting his brothers sitting by the large fireplace, simply waiting for the pair to arrive.

“I told you they would be here, Jacob,” Joseph spoke up, looking towards the pair. He was in his dark pants, though without a shirt, which seemed to be the usual for the man at this point.

“Where were you?” Jacob questioned, looking over his shoulder towards the couple walking in.

“Down by the river. I’ve been helping Rose with something,” John answered, not specifying just what he was helping the blonde with. “What are you two doing here?”

“I was listening to the prison’s frequency,” Jacob started. “Sheriff’s looking all over for this one,” he continued, motioning to Rose.

“The Resistance also took out two more silos here in the Valley, and took over four more outposts between here and the Whitetails. Seems like taking out the Junior Deputy only served as a proverbial kick to the hornet’s nest,” Joseph chimed in.

“That’s just great,” John sarcastically mumbled. He took a seat on the couch at the opposite end from his brother, while Rose sat in the unoccupied armchair.

“What are we going to do?” Rose asked, doing what she could to hide the worry in her voice.

“They’ve hit us hard, we’ll hit back, harder,” Jacob stated.

“We’ll defend ourselves, make moves to take back the outposts they’ve claimed,” Joseph clarified. “Things will get more difficult from here, but we will save all those we can.”

Rose nodded a little bit, thinking over what had been said. The three brothers spoke with one another, though Rose didn’t pay much attention. She simply thought about how the friends she had made in Fall’s End had reacted to finding out that she had sided with the Project, even if she hadn’t had much of a choice. Jerome had been disappointed in her, having hoped that she was on the side of the Resistance; Whitehorse didn’t seem to care for her either way, seeing as he knew who she was, where she stood on matters likely didn’t matter to him; and Nick, he’d been furious, if given the chance, he probably would have killed her in that cell. And yet, despite just how mad he’d been, how frightening it was to be on the receiving end of that anger, Rose wanted to speak with him again. The Project would be kicking things up against the Resistance, and Nick had a wife, and a baby on the way. She didn’t want anything to happen to the family.

“We should all get going,” Joseph prompted, pulling Rose from her thoughts. He and his brothers stood, and Rose followed suit. She had been so deep in thought she hadn’t noticed the time passing. It was early evening, starting to approach the time when Joseph usually gave his evening sermons. The four filed out the door to the ranch house, Joseph and Jacob getting into the truck, and John and Rose getting into John’s car. Both drivers pulled out onto the road, making their way to Joseph’s compound.

As usual, Joseph’s sermon was powerful. He spoke about how the Collapse was coming, and time was running out for them to save the residents of Hope County. He urged his flock to have faith, and to protect one another. He tried to quell any unease concerning the Resistance by saying that their stubborn refusal and fighting were merely denial on their part, that they weren’t seeing things clearly just yet, but they would in time. With a quick look towards the window of the church, Joseph gave a slight nod to himself, offering that any who wished to be washed of their sins follow himself and his brothers to the water’s edge, so that they could be cleansed.

Most of the congregation followed the three brothers, with Rose among them. Rather than John getting into the water on his own, Joseph waded in with his brother. John guided his older brother under the water, holding him there for a short moment before letting the man up. As water dripped from his face and hair, Joseph did the same with John, holding him under for a short time before he let him up. The Father whispered into his brother’s ear, and John nodded a bit, stepping away towards the shore; it seemed Joseph wanted to go about this himself, this time around. One by one, followers approached, and the Father said a short prayer with his hand on their shoulder, before guiding them under the water for a short time and then letting them up. Rose recognized several of the followers around her from the day she had bailed from this, and she took a breath, steadying herself as what seemed to be the last person came up from the water, making their way back to the group in their soaking clothes. Everyone waited a moment, looking amongst themselves to see if anyone else would step forward. When nobody did, Joseph began to come towards the rocks, though he stopped when he saw a bit of movement.

Rose stepped forward, taking slow deep breaths as she walked to the water’s edge. Time seemed to freeze as she felt the water against her feet, slowly making its way up her legs as she stepped closer to Joseph. The man stood where he was, offering a hand to Rose. The blonde took his hand, letting the man guide her a little farther out and allowing him to turn her so that they were facing one another, but neither one was directly facing the congregation.

“Lord, let your waters wash away this child’s sins,” Joseph began, praying quietly over Rose, nearly whispering. “It matters not what she has done, now that she is in your hands. Take her sins, Lord, and her fears and her regrets. Leave her clean, and ready for you; ready to follow you, and to do whatever you may ask of her.”

Rose was entranced by Joseph’s words; how he spoke so easily, as if he’d been doing this sort of thing his entire life and then some. Her breath was almost knocked out of her as Joseph brought her under the water, and she did all she could to not panic at the fact that a small amount of water had gotten into her mouth, and burned in her nose, as the sudden cold bit at her skin. It felt like she was under for ages, and her lungs burned a little bit when Joseph finally brought her up. The blonde coughed and sputtered a bit, trying to take deep breaths to calm herself. She felt Joseph’s hands on her; one on her shoulder, and the other on her head, brushing her wet hair back as he gently brought her head forward, pressing their foreheads together. He was taking slow breaths, and Rose mirrored him, pulling herself together. They remained like that for a time, before Joseph dismissed the congregation and began to make his way to the shore. Rose followed the man, approaching John. She seemed more relaxed than he’d ever seen her, and he smiled, pulling her into a tight hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” he praised, using a finger to tilt the woman’s head up towards him. He leaned down a bit and pulled her into a kiss, holding the blonde close. Finally, after what felt like ages, but still not long enough, they parted. “Let’s go home, I’ll make dinner.”

Before Rose was able to reply, Joseph cut in. “No need, John. I want to speak with all three of you,” he said. “Go home, and get into something dry, then come back. I’ll cook for all of us.”

John nodded, though he clearly didn’t know much more than Jacob and Rose did concerning whatever the Father wanted to speak to them about. He took Rose back to the ranch, and they both got changed into dry clothing. John put on a copy of his usual clothes; a blue silk shirt, vest, and dark jeans; meanwhile, Rose pulled on a pair of jeans she had gotten from the trunk of Faith’s clothes, along with a white t-shirt and a red plaid flannel. They made their way to Joseph’s, finding Jacob’s truck parked outside. Jacob was sitting at the kitchen table, idly speaking with Joseph as he cooked, now dressed in dry pants and a buttoned shirt. John, Jacob and Rose all chatted amongst themselves, until Joseph set the serving dishes on the table. They each got their share, and Joseph said a short grace before they started to eat. Some time of silence went by, before Joseph spoke up.

“I said that I wanted to speak with all of you. That is true, but, this concerns Rose in particular.”

Taglist: @statichvm @thot4stacipratt @wastelandshitlord @thotful-writing @ignoranttruly @cerulean-aries @rookieseed @honesthearts

#SaR #shot at redemption #Far Cry 5 Week #Far Cry 5 Week 2019 #john seed #joseph seed #oc: rose carter #long post

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Deliverance [2]

Careful when you’re swimming in the holy water.

SERIES: Far Cry 5 WORD COUNT: 7,557 SHIP: Quinn/John Seed CHARACTERS: quinn leonis, john seed, eli palmer, wheaty, jacob seed

HERE TAKE THIS IM SICK OF LOOKING AT IT

It had never been apparent to her just how debilitating losing her sense of time’s passage could be until now.

She imagines it’s been weeks since she’d fled the Whitetail Mountains, but between the lack of sunlight and the hours that crept by so slowly they felt like days instead she had no idea how much time she’d been stuck here in the cell she’d been thrown in after the baptism John had performed on her.

Part of her still found that amusing. She’d been raised Catholic (her mother’s insistence, not her father’s), and that meant she’d effectively been baptized twice. It’s not technically unusual and she knows people sometimes chose to have another, but it wasn’t something she would have ever chosen herself—she hadn’t been any semblance of religious since her pre-teens.

A breath is huffed out as she lowers herself on bent arms, chest almost brushing the ground before she pushes herself back up again.

For the first time since escaping Jacob’s clutches Quinn can feel herself regaining the strength and good health she’d had before her initial capture in the mountains. Being stuck in a cage once again was hardly a great feeling (dehumanizing, at best) but unlike his older brother John seemed to actually give somewhat of a damn about keeping her healthy. It was probably some kind of manipulation tactic, but she could hardly complain about not starving and having a cot to sleep on rather than the ground.

Whether or not that applied to his other prisoners, she wasn’t sure.

It was slow going and she knows she won’t be back to peak health for a while, but she was on her way and that was good enough for her. The degrading health had been the worst aspect of her time with Jacob—not the starvation itself or the deplorable conditions they were all kept in or even the mind-fuckery, but the fact that she could feel herself weakening with every day that passed.

His methods hadn’t made any sense to her while there; what was the point of trying to train soldiers when you were keeping them too weak to so much as throw a halfway decent punch?

She’d gotten John to clarify it a bit after she’d discovered that once he’d found out she gave as good as she got in wordplay he could be sufficiently distracted from pulling her metaphorical—hopefully metaphorical—teeth.

(maybe she’d batted her eyelashes a few times and maybe Jacob’s demeaning question of if she abused flirting to get her way all the time drifted into her head whenever she did, maybe Jacob Seed could go fuck himself)

Jacob’s game was deprivation of sustenance and rest, keeping the ‘trainees’ weak and demoralized until they were physically and mentally pliable enough to push and twist in the direction he wanted. Classical conditioning. Pure psychological warfare confirmed.

There wasn’t any comfort in having her suspicions validated; it had almost made her less comforted when she again heard a faint echo of come home, kitten whisper through her mind like a passing breeze.

The cat and mouse games her and John had started up from the moment he first strapped her to the chair in his workshop was something she hadn’t expected to get away with, but he’d actually seemed to enjoy it—at least in the beginning. His patience for it had begun to wear thin, if his increased threats and agitation as the days passed were anything to go by.

Though she managed to dig a few more things out of him during their ‘sessions’, he was talented at swerving around questions and idle comments that would have given her something to actually work with; in itself, that was telling. He’d probably been in a white-collar profession judging by the well-kempt appearance and intelligence, but that assumption had a wrench thrown in it every time he slipped and let the monster of Wrath loose.

Jacob had been easier to read even considering the cool and distant demeanor. Posture and vernacular said military career, careful speech patterns spoke of both intelligence and pointed restraint, and Darwinian beliefs combined with the classical conditioning he was employing meant he was well-read and clever.

John, on the other hand, switched gears so frequently and with such ease that whenever she thought she had a grasp on him it slipped through her fingers. All she knew about him was that she didn’t know a Goddamn thing about him. One minute he played the calm, considerate man of God and the next he was the embodiment of rage and hate, another he was charismatic and likeable, and the next he was a grotesque caricature of a human being.

They had to have been masks, but the question of which one was the true John Seed remained. Were they just techniques to bend people the way he wanted them to bend, simply more subtle than the closed-fist punch of Jacob’s? A way to drag out the answers he wanted to hear from the people he brought into what amounted to a torture room?

Whatever it was, it was effective—some days she’d seen him pry a confession out of a begging victim before he’d even begun to cut and carve into them.

If she thought about it long enough those confessions actually seemed to aggravate him and she couldn’t put a finger on why, since it was confessions he was after in the first place.

The sadism combined with the chameleon nature of his personality made it easy to ignore the stories of his childhood that she overheard him impart to his victims (and to her, once) as well as the sympathy they dredged up in her, but there was something raw to his anger every time the people he interrogated refused to play by his rules. He would insist that he was trying to help them, that he could free them from the bonds of lies and sin, and why were they fighting that freedom?

Psychotic behavior at its finest, but how much of that was true disposition, and how much of it was a direct result of upbringing, provided those horrific stories were true?

A grunt of exertion leaves her mouth with another push-up; she needs to stop psychoanalyzing the bastard, she knew, but there wasn’t really much else for her to do while she was stuck here waiting for her turns in that chair.

Humming and singing tunes when she was left alone with the rusty smell of blood and phantom screams seeping from the walls around her was her only other pastime aside from trying to pick apart the brain of a madman like she’d been trained to do back at Quantico. Sleeping too much just gave her headaches, and though exercising to the best of her ability gave her something to do it really didn’t do much to stop her from thinking and thinking and overthinking.

Maybe the Rolling Stones had it right, she muses, a strained hum of a familiar tune about sympathizing with the devil leaving her mouth as she continues her routine.

At least she was getting practical experience she could boast about if—when—she got the chance to appeal for her badge.

She wonders if Stevie was having any more luck with figuring out how to stop the Seeds while she counted out her repetitions; so far, she’d had no luck staying away from the bastards long enough to even breathe.

Pausing with her body flat to the ground as the unmistakable, skin-prickling sensation of being watched hits her, she purses her lips.

Wordlessly she resumes, not happy with the burn she was beginning to feel telling her she wasn’t going to be able to do much more. Her captivity with Jacob had taken more out of her than she had realized. “What is it with you boys and staring? It’s fucking rude.”

Sure enough, the voice that responds is exactly the one she expects, preceded first by a disapproving tsk. “That Pride of yours again. Hadn’t you thought that, maybe, I was just waiting for you to finish?”

“I know the feeling of eyes on my back, John.” She replies, her next push-up more strained and slow than the rest; she was shaking with the effort now. “I also know the feeling of eyes on my ass.” With a heavy sigh she pushes herself up to her feet to stretch, lamenting that she’d barely counted half of what she’d been capable of before coming to Hope County.

Baby steps.

John scoffs at the accusation as he crosses the floor towards her. “Every day you make me more certain of the sin my brother suggested you suffered from.”

“Oh, I’m not suffering from it.” Her back pops nicely when she stretches upward as best as she can with the low ceiling of her cell. “You seem to be taking a hell of a lot longer to commit to mine than any of the other victims of your insanity here. Why the delay in mutilating me?”

Not that she wants it—fuck, it’s the last thing she wants.

“Because you have to willingly acknowledge it. You have to want to atone for your sin. You have to say yes.” He says, and she lifts an eyebrow at his failure to deny the mutilation comment. Considering his convictions—otherwise decent—she’d have expected him to defend his methods.

Her shoulder begins to ache, aggravated by her exercising in spite of the injury he’d given her by tipping the chair she’d been bound to over in a rage. She rolls it, folds her arms over her chest, and then in a completely deadpan voice says: “No.”

The change is immediate; he steps closer to her cell, fury in every hard line of his body.

She goes rigid. It’s a miracle she manages to not step away in reflex, but her knuckles go white where they grip her upper arms and she has to swallow the sudden stone in her throat.

John was nowhere near as physically imposing as Jacob was but his unpredictability made him every bit as dangerous—not that her constant and conscious attempts to provoke him were doing her any favors in that regard. Stop playing with fire, Quinn.

Their tense staring contest is broken by him first, and she watches as he storms over to the workbench she’d grown painfully familiar with in the last few days as he lost patience for her glib attitude and games. With an angry roar he places his hands on the edge of the bench and shoves, tipping it over and sending it crashing to the floor. All the tools stacked and lined up on its surface clatter to the ground and either roll or bounce away.

Her eyes are wide as she stares at the workbench. Silently she scratches out her previous mental assessment of his physical capability; clearly, his lean frame was deceptive.

Then a quiet ting near her feet catches her attention and she looks down, blinking at the sight of a thin screwdriver that had rolled from the bench and bumped into the bars of her cell. Adrenaline pulses through her veins at the sight and she quickly lifts her eyes back to John, schooling her features and praying he wouldn’t notice it lying there. Please, for once, let my luck turn out in my favor.

He doesn’t turn away from the workbench immediately, but once he’s apparently collected himself he returns to her, smile all teeth. “This could be so much easier if you just bared your Pride and let me free you from it.” He hisses.

“I already told you,” she says carefully, licking her lips and not missing the way his expression flickers and eyes follow the motion, “I’m not interested in being saved and I’m definitely not interested in baring myself to you.”

Wait—fuck.

She wastes half a second hoping he didn’t notice the accidental entendre, but the way his fury is fully doused and replaced by a heat of a different kind has her swearing a blue streak internally. He leans forward, hands on the bars of her cell and expression now an open leer. “My, my, Agent, where did your mind go just now?”

Oh, no, he was not going to stick her with the Scarlet fucking Letter. “Get bent you son of a bitch.”

“And Wrath makes an appearance as well! My dear, you must have a lot to own up to that’s just aching to come out.” He laughs, and her skin prickles. “I could help you with that. You just. Have to. Say. Yes.”

Christ, he’d circled through about half a dozen personalities and attitudes within the span of just five minutes—whether she’d been napping in the dirt and starving or not, she was starting to miss Jacob. At least he was consistent.

Her mouth opens, scathing comment ready to go, but before she can get the words out there’s a hiss of loud static from the two-way attached to his belt. “John. You there?” Gooseflesh ripples over her skin and she shivers, recognizing Jacob’s voice and trying not to wonder what the odds were that he’d contact John right after she’d thought about him.

The smile on John’s face drops and his jaw ticks; without breaking eye contact he reaches for the radio and clicks the receiver. “I’m busy, brother.”

“Stop being busy.” Jacob says, and Quinn has to chew on her lip to keep the mild laughter that bubbles in her throat from the flat disregard in his voice. “You’ve got a problem heading in your direction.”

A lightness settles in her chest at Jacob’s words that she fights to keep from showing; the only real problem the Cult had been dealing with in recent events, so far as what she’d heard from Eli and the Whitetails, was one determined as hell and very pissed off Stevie Brewin, who had in just two months managed to light a fire under the local Resistance’s ass.

John stares at her for a long moment before finally stepping back, pointing at her with the antenna of the radio and smiling easily. “I have business to take care of, it seems—don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

She says nothing, watching him with sharp eyes while he leers at her and hoping that karma would smack him in the face in the form of tripping over one of the tools he’d sent scattered across the floor while walking backwards. When he finally turns away, unfortunately skipping the delightful opportunity for schadenfreude, she listens to his footsteps fade away as he disappears down a stairwell beyond a grated dividing wall.

There was no way for her to tell if he’d just been fucking with her by saying he’d return, but either way she was going to be balancing a fine line here. If she waited too long, she risked running into him on his way back, and if she didn’t wait long enough she risked running into him before he’d even really left.

She won’t let herself consider he wasn’t planning on going far at all and she’d have nowhere to slip past him anyway.

Tense as a board she counts out two minutes before scrambling for the fallen screwdriver at the foot of her cell and then setting to work on forcing the lock on the door open. It’s a long shot, but in a relieving upturn of her luck it works.

Resisting the urge to toss the tool away and just book it, she instead slowly slides the door open and gently sets it aside. There’s a knife on the floor ahead of her, tossed along with all of John’s other tools, and she quickly snatches it up. There was one other door in the room opposite the direction he’d left in, but it’s locked fast and requires some kind of key—one that John probably kept on his person rather than floating around.

Unhappy about it, she turns and follows after John.

The landing at the bottom of the stairs leads to an industrial room like his workshop, this one packed with crates and shelves of stored tools and supplies. All of it was stark and military in appearance, an orderly form of chaos, adding to her confusion as to where in the hell she was; this hardly seemed like the kind of place a man like John with his fancy shirts and designer shades would willingly spend time in.

It sort of made sense considering his clear and disturbing fondness for torture, but that left the supplies—she doubted he needed so many just for getting his rocks off by cutting a few people open. Her gut feeling said that, no, this place had nothing to do with John’s extracurricular activities.

There’s an open door up ahead, blocked by a cultist looking out into the hall beyond; she waits, watching and hoping she didn’t plan on standing there until John returned. Luckily, she turns around and Quinn quickly doubles back, ducking under a shelf at a near-crawl and bypassing the unaware cultist entirely.

Exposed pipes, stark metal, and solid concrete walls that almost reminded her of manufacturing facilities and laboratories, hoses and power wires crisscrossing the floors, and a few open pipes large enough for her to crouch and move through to dodge more cultists all became familiar sights to her as she moves through the facility quietly and unseen.

A lot of the Peggies were working, packing away boxes and taking inventory of their contents, moving equipment into different rooms and occasionally stopping to gossip about their boss. Much as she’d like to stop and snoop, she wasn’t about to risk her chance at getting free. Learning about the Seeds wasn’t at all worth getting found out and either shot full of holes or dragged back to John’s workshop. She’d already pushed him far enough, and that would just give him an excuse to get even more aggressive in forcing a confession out of her.

What gives her heavy pause and leaves her with an ill feeling in her stomach is the sight of repurposed sections of hallways, blocked by metal gates, with groups of shaking people huddled with in. If she weren’t a lone woman armed with nothing but a knife and her wits and had some idea of where she was going, she could take the time to try and free them.

Her stomach twists as she does, but she ignores them all and continues moving, careful to stick to the shadows as she moves up a flight of stairs and filing away a growing suspicion that whatever this place was, it had something to do with the Collapse the Cult seemed so obsessed with.

Sneaking around Jacob’s operations up in the mountains with Jess had served her well—save for a few close calls where one of the cultists catch a glimpse of something skulking around she manages to avoid confrontation through a dozen rooms and up another flight of stairs without much struggle.

Any of them that did happen to spot her moving around in the shadows just mumble something about too much Bliss before simply returning to work. Apparently the Cult’s best brainwashing weapon was also a double-edged sword.

As she passes another doorway a familiar voice catches her attention and she pauses; ultimately it’s the sight of the bow and quiver she’d nicked from one of Jacob’s hunters in the room beyond that alters her path into the room. It’s empty save for a few pipes stretching from the floor to the ceiling in one corner and a workbench up against the wall, next to which sat her recurve and quiver.

Her radio is nowhere to be found, but that doesn’t surprise her.

She carefully slinks past an open doorway with a soft glow lighting the floor from within and quietly slings both her bow and quiver over her back.

The she refocuses on the voice, John’s smooth tone coming from the room she’d just passed by and now returns to, hiding just beyond the frame and peeking inside. His back is to her as he leans over a desk in the center of the room, a single desk lamp illuminating whatever it was he was staring at and throwing enough ambient light for her to see what looked like a facility map taped up between the rows of obsolete screens and computers lining the walls.

Some kind of security hub, maybe, but all she cares about is the map and it’s what she focuses on with intent as she listens in on him.

“—is why Joseph is so insistent these two need to be converted to our cause, or why they should be important to us at all. We’re expending a lot of effort and people trying and all the while they’re helping the Resistance undermine our efforts.” She’d missed the first half of his statement, but she frowns at the half she does hear.

Joseph wanted her and Stevie to be part of the Project? Well that had a snowball’s chance in hell of happening—Quinn would sooner stab herself in the eye, and she knows Stevie well enough to know they’d be in agreement on that front.

“It doesn’t matter. You know how he gets when the Voice is involved.” Jacob says, clear disinterest in his voice even through the wash of static that distorts it. That catches her interest, however—did Jacob not actually believe in Joseph’s overarching goal for the Project?

It was far beyond a long shot, but she wonders what the possibility was they could convert him.

John lets out a scoff. “Your lack of faith in Joseph’s gift never ceases to astound me, Jacob.”

“You’re the one asking why.” Ever the dutiful soldier, it seemed, if Joseph gave the order and Jacob followed whether he believed or not. “The Deputy’ll reach the south gatehouse in the next few hours unless she deviates.”

“Hours? I thought you said your hunters last saw her by the ranger station?”

“Apparently she knows how to hotwire.”

Damn. Quinn makes a note to ask Stevie to teach her that trick; spending three days dodging Jacob’s hunters on foot just to reach another section of the County had been the exact opposite of fun.

Speaking of—

She stands from where she’d been crouched by the doorway and lets out a sharp whistle just as John presses the receiver on the radio. He whirls around and she grins at the look of bewilderment on his face. “Hey, you mind pointing me in the direction of the restroom? I think I’m a bit lost.”

This was so fucking stupid, but totally, one-hundred-percent worth watching the gears in his head struggle to get back up to speed.

The second his expression turns some mixture of impressed and wickedly amused she shoots him a cheeky two-fingered salute and then turns and bolts, a wild smile on her face as she goes. He gives chase immediately, heavy footfalls following after her as the industrial architecture of the facility blurs around her.

She jukes around cultists on her way through, following the map to the best of her memory and hoping she’d gotten a long enough look to be heading for the entrance; they all shout in alarm as she passes, silenced shortly after by loud thumps and crashing that tells her John wasn’t bothering to be nearly as careful as he followed her.

He was taller than her and had longer strides, but even with her diminished health and knowing she was on an endurance clock that would’ve made her instructors cry, she was faster and had freerunning—one of her hobbies—on her side.

The distance between them begins to grow, and he seems to realize he was losing ground. “You’re only making this more difficult, my dear!”

“Difficult for who? You sound out of breath!” She calls back, darting through a doorway and nearly running over another Peggie; they were starting to look more urgent, and that meant the ones they’d already passed had radioed ahead. Things were about to get more difficult.

Without slowing she jumps directly for the solid wall that greets her past the open doorway and plants a foot on it, pushing off at an angle and taking the sharp turn without losing speed.

“I will catch you!” He yells. She’d expected him to sound angry or frustrated, but instead he just sounded invigorated. He was having fun.

Her intent had been to piss him off and the fact she’d misjudged and failed spectacularly should have frustrated her.

It didn’t. She was having fun, too.

A doorway halfway down the hall up ahead would take her to the facility exit if her memory served her well, but she’s forced to skid to a complete halt to make the turn with no wall to bounce off of. Even with the immediate push forward she still feels a rush of air just behind her as John misses her by inches.

Alright, so he was bad at cornering but really good at open sprints. Noted.

Through the doorway she sees a large room littered with stacks of more crates and boxes, and the sheer size of whatever operation this was suddenly occurs to her; they were really digging in for something, and Quinn wonders where the line blurred between paranoia and preparation.

Two Peggies are startled at her sudden appearance, both standing on opposite sides of a stack of crates half her height.

John yells for them to grab her and the two step forward to intercept, ready for her to try and dodge around—instead, she leaps directly for the stack of crates, slapping her hands down onto the surface and expertly vaulting right between them.

Maneuvering around the rest of the room slows her down, but when she breaks through the organized chaos into the open landing, only one cultist between her and a stairwell that would lead her to freedom, she’s still moving fast.

Fast enough for her to drop her shoulder and body slam the cultist into the wall near the stairs. He collapses, wheezing and nearly dragging her down with a desperate grab for her shoulders but she skips back, spinning and taking the stairs two at a time.

Her lungs were starting to burn uncomfortably. Just a bit further, she reminds herself.

Footsteps echo after her up the stairs, and those four simple words become a mantra.

When she reaches the final landing of the absurdly tall stairwell—no windows, industrial, tons of bulkheads, were they underground?—she sequesters the bud of victory that starts to form in her chest. A false sense of security would be her worst enemy when this would be the most dangerous stretch of her escape.

Brilliant sunlight nearly blinds her as she bursts through a final bulkhead, thick metal door ahead of her ajar and beckoning her forward.

She nearly tumbles right over the edge of the raised landing outside the door, forced to quickly redirect and move for a ramp that led down to the flat, open ground of the yard in front of her. It’s a loading bay, littered with even more scattered supplies and a semi-trailer parked back up against the raised landing. A trio of white pickups were lined up ahead with their sides facing her.

She could risk checking for keys in the trucks, but she’d already gone beyond pushing her luck by taunting John rather than fleeing silently and without attracting attention. If her dad were here, he’d definitely be giving her one hell of a disappointed stare for the impulsive decision.

“There! She’s there!”

“Don’t shoot her, the Father wants her alive!”

“Aim for her legs!”

Not only did that sound hellishly unpleasant, one good shot to her legs would put her right back at square one, incapacitated and ready to be dragged back down into the depths and right back into John’s hands.

She glances around, noting the wire fence penning in the area, the opening flanked by gatehouses up ahead, and the trio of heavily-armored cultists blocking the exit—and her eyes settle on the line of trucks.

Alright, so this wasn’t her most brilliant of ideas, ever, but it was better than making a fool of herself by getting all the way to the end of the line only to have nowhere to run.

The first shot rings out across the yard and spurs her forward.

A stack of crates unloaded next to the nearest truck is used as a springboard to launch her up onto the wall of the truckbed, and from there she hops up onto the cab and then across each of the trucks with the thought in her head that Frogger was a hell of a lot less fun than she remembered.

“What the fuck is she doing?”

“Go! Go around!”

When she reaches the third truck she braces herself and then leaps, clearing the barbed wire topping the yard fence by scant inches. Her heart drifts into her throat as the freefall grips at her, the sound of more gunfire breaking the silence of the surrounding forest and sending nearby flocks of birds into panicked flight.

Pain flares up her leg as she lands, the force of her fall sending her sprawling; a noise of pain leaves her, but she forces herself back to her feet and keeps running, pouring every ounce of speed into her burning limbs and ignoring her tiring lungs.

One of the cultist’s bullets finds its mark and she stumbles as fire erupts in her arm, more pain that through sheer force of will is ignored in favor of running. It’s not a bliss bullet, or she wouldn’t have made it to the trees—the only dizziness she feels is purely the result of a tiring body begging her to slow down and stop.

She’s pursued into the woods, frantic shouts and barked orders and gunfire that causes her to instinctively duck as she runs as quickly as she dares down a slope following after her. The forest thickens as she goes, giving her more cover as she ducks in and around trees and bushes as often as possible.

After what felt like an eternity the sounds of pursuit leave her behind, fading farther and farther back until she feels comfortable enough to duck and hide under a rocky outcropping in the sloped landscape; the shade does little to ease the inferno in her blood from so much exertion and sweat drips down the side of her face.

It’s a struggle to calm her breathing as she waits, hating the way her tired limbs start to shake.

Five minutes pass. Distant but still too-close-for-comfort shouts from John’s followers reach her ears. Their hair raising calls of “come out, little girl!” and “play nice and we will!” do nothing to assist in calming her.

Ten minutes. Footsteps crunch in the underbrush on sticks and dry leaves nearby. None approach.

Fifteen.

“She’s gone.”

“Damnit. I’m not telling him.”

“Quit complaining. All of you head back, I’m checking ahead.”

The other voices drift off along with the groups of footsteps she’d been hearing until only one is left; her body is starting to shake more with the adrenaline fading and it’s a struggle to keep upright as she listens with bated breath.

The steps drift towards her hiding spot. Her eyes narrow.

With her body so unsteady she has no idea if she’ll be able to accomplish what she needs to if she’s found, but she steels herself for it anyway. The bow would make too much noise if she tried to slide it off her back in the quiet woods, so she instead reaches for the knife she’d tucked under her belt back in the bunker.

She holds completely still, keeping her breathing as even and quiet as she possibly can when a pair of booted feet enter her vision to the left of the rocky outcropping.

What she assumes is one of John’s Chosen steps fully into her sight, passing her completely without even bothering to check behind the outcropping. Fucking idiot. He stands there scanning the area; her knuckles are white where they grip the knife.

When he does finally turn around his gaze settles on her with a startled expression; she springs forward with a snarl, jamming her knife into his throat before he can lift the gun in his hands, surprising both him and herself for two very different reasons. His eyes widen and the gun drops from his hands, clattering to the loose dirt and leaves between them, one of his hands fisting in her hair in dying fury and yanking.

A yelp of pain leaves her and her fingers slip from the knife when his other hand snaps around her throat—a single painful squeeze is all he can manage before his grip on her slackens and gaze goes distant, her hair and her throat both released as he collapses to the ground on his back in a twitching heap.

She stumbles back on unsteady feet, falling back onto her ass and watching with something she can only describe in the moment as horror while he grasps furiously at the blade in his throat until his movements slow and eventually stop, blood still leaking around the sharp edge of the weapon and bubbling in his throat.

Nausea rises in her own and she sucks in a sharp breath, pressing her lips together tightly to keep herself from retching at the sight of the still body and glassy eyes laid out in front of her.

She’d wanted to be an FBI agent since she was a teenager—still did. She’d known from the beginning that there was a more than high possibility that her choice of field would lead to her having to kill someone at some point, but she hadn’t ever expected it to be like this. Not even when the stories Eli had told her gave her an idea of what Jacob might have been trying to do with her, not even when she’d been up in the mountains helping the Whitetails—that had been at a distance, cold and impersonal. It still made her sick at first, but it had been getting easier to deal with.

Suddenly, that decent ease she’d begun to grow with killing meant absolutely nothing, and she felt like she’d just made her first kill again. This was up close, she’d been near enough to see the life leave the man’s eyes, and she decides immediately that she does not fucking like it.

Worse was knowing that, sooner or later, she was going to have to get used to this as well. She’d been lucky up in the mountains and had a partner watching her back, both of them taking enemies down at a distance.

This wasn’t going to be the only time she was going to be on her own and at risk.

Swallowing, she gathers her wits and stands, moving forward with palpable hesitation and reaching down to grasp the handle; her shoulder flares with pain as she pulls it out with a sickening, wet noise. More bile rises in her throat at the immediate gush of more blood from the wound without something blocking it.

Pulling arrows from corpses was no different. It wasn’t, but no matter how many times it runs through her head her skin still crawls.

It’s only knowing that the longer she sticks around the likelier it is she’ll be found and that she was up shit creek without the metaphorical paddle—paddle being supplies—that gives her the constitution to search the body for anything she can use. She has to avoid looking at the man’s face in order to do so.

A pair of throwing knives are both tucked into her boots. Nothing in the way of food or water are on his person, but she’s not surprised considering she’d caught them all of guard.

It was still worrying. She was who knew how many miles from any semblance of civilization, and between the marathon she’d just run and the bullet wound on her arm she risked dehydration at least.

Hell, she’d be lucky if she could make it anywhere between the wound and the ache in her ankle that was more prominent in her mind without the adrenaline and urgency keeping her focus elsewhere, and that wasn’t taking into account the exhaustion that was going to settle over her quickly now.

There’s a radio clipped to his belt, and having decided that she’s not going to find anything else truly useful, she snatches it off him with quick fingers and steps away. Her eyes drift around as she tries to get her bearings and decide a direction to go; if she keeps lingering, it was tantamount to her just turning around and walking right back into John’s hands.

And she didn’t go through all this for nothing.

She lingers long enough to rip a strip of fabric from the bottom of her shirt and tie a makeshift tourniquet around her bicep just above the bullet wound, and ultimately she decides to simply follow the ravine she’s in downhill. Ravines meant water erosion, and if she was lucky she would wander across a body of water at some point. The question was whether or not she’d get to one before passing out.

After an hour of walking, her ankle slowly paining her more and more, she was struggling to motivate herself to keep going rather than finding a bush to just lay down and rest. Despite the tourniquet there’s a slow trickle of blood that’s doing her no favors, either.

Come home. Come home. Come home.

She hesitates, staring with blurry, blinking eyes up at the bridge spanning the gap of the ravine fifty feet above her. The sun was starting to set and more than the exhaustion itself—or maybe a direct result of it—the thought kept creeping into her head. Come home. Jacob’s voice was like a ghostly whisper in her ear and she sways with indecision.

She sure as fuck wouldn’t be able to make it back to the Veteran’s Center from here, but maybe if she went back to John—

Holy fucking shit.

Her head shakes rapidly to break the thoughts in her head, a shaky breathe leaving her and the motion making her even dizzier. Jesus, Tammy had been right. He gets into your head, she had told her, venomous and warning, there’s no avoiding it. No matter how long you’re with him. He gets into your head.

The knowledge that within three weeks he’d been able to plant control into her brain leaves her disturbed. What would he have been able to accomplish if she’d been there longer?

She’s too tired to be ashamed of the startled yelp that leaves her when a voice crackles through static on the radio clipped to her belt. “Brayden, do you copy?” It’s not John, just another of the Peggies.

Her fingers grasp the radio and unclip it, and she wars with the same thoughts—come home come home come home—as she stares at it and debates on responding. She could be a petty little shit and taunt them, but she has no idea how far she’d actually managed to get away from John’s bunker and she didn’t want to give them the idea that she was still nearby.

The voice that wasn’t her own told her that was exactly what she wanted to do.

“Brayden, do you copy? We need an update. Are you tracking her?”

Definitely the guy she’d killed. With him not responding they were probably going to suspect foul play and send a group out to look for him—and, by extension, her. Ignoring the voice that sounded suspiciously like a red-haired, blue-eyed wolf of a man, she decides she needs to get oriented and find somewhere safe that wasn’t with John.

With the sun setting she’d be at one hell of a disadvantage if they were still out looking for her. She’d never been taught to navigate by stars, and she was alone with no supplies and no idea if there was any shelter nearby.

It was looking more and more like her luck had been used up by managing to dodge Jacob’s hunters for nearly a week after this nightmare had begun, and Lady Luck had wiggled a glimmer of it in front of her nose with this escape only to take it away again.

Blinking down at the radio, she switches the frequency to one she hopes wasn’t too far out of range. “Eli, this is Quinn. Are you there?”

Only her footsteps as she resumes her unsteady and slowed walking pace answer her at first, and she starts to doubt that she could still reach the Militia out here. She’s about to press the button to try again when she finally gets a response. “Shit, Quinn, is that really you? Jess told us what happened, we’ve been trying to get in contact with you for weeks!”

His voice is slightly garbled, likely a result of the distance, but it’s unmistakably Wheaty on the other end. She sighs in relief. “It’s me, Wheaty. Good to hear you.” Then what he said gives her pause. “How long was I dark?”

“A little over two weeks, after that ambush. Hey, you’re breaking up real bad—where are you?”

It couldn’t hurt to share the wildly general area, considering she truly had no idea. “Somewhere in Holland Valley, I think.”

“You don’t know?”

“I just spent two weeks held captive underground, so no. That’s why I’m contacting you guys. I need help getting my bearings.”

There’s a longer pause and she assumes that Wheaty was processing what she’d told him or looking for a map, but the next voice that speaks is the one that she’d called for in the first place. “John got hold of you?” Eli must have been listening in and had chosen then to cut in. She feels a momentary pang of regret for interrupting whatever he might’ve been working on, but the concern in his voice soothes it somewhat.

“He did. I’m okay, Eli, just exhausted. I gave him a swift metaphorical kick in the nuts on my way out, so it was worth it.”

“You and the Deputy are something special, Quinn. Been at this resistance thing for years but none of us have been able to kick over the Cult’s sandcastles the way both of you have in just a few months.” Eli says, amused and relieved in equal measure. “Can you give me some landmarks to work with? Get to high ground if you can.”

She’d already anticipated the request and had—with difficulty thanks to both her leg and arm—begun to scale the hillside of the ravine she’d been traversing, wary of the open road and bridge she’d just bypassed. Once at the top she squints at the mountainside to her right and the waning colors of sunset. “I’m facing south right now, been traveling through a ravine down the mountain I think.”

She’ll need to get moving as soon as Eli gives her a direction to go in, now. This was an unsecured frequency the Whitetails monitored, and anyone could’ve been listening in.

Scanning her environment, she lists off anything noteworthy she can see; a lone church down by a small lake, spire just barely peeking up over the top of the trees, what looked like an airfield somewhere to her southeast, plus the bridge she’d just passed, and—

She blinks, having turned around to see if there was anything behind her and suddenly wondering if the blood loss was causing her to hallucinate visually as well as audibly. There above the trees was a massive Hollywood-style billboard featuring exactly three letters: YES.

What. The. Fuck.

When she realizes she’s keeping Eli waiting she clicks the receiver down, unable to tear her eyes away from the sign. “I—there’s a big ‘Yes’ sign up in the mountain northeast of me.” Really, John?

Eli doesn’t comment on the billboard and she almost wishes he would—it’d make the surreality of what she was looking at make her feel just a bit more grounded. “Can’t tell exactly where you’re at, kid, but in a general sense keep heading southeast. I remember right, Grace Armstrong is holed up somewhere near the foot of the hill you’re on.”

She winces, heading carefully back down into the ravine. “Thanks, Eli. Hey, I’m on a stolen radio right now ‘cause John took mine, so I don’t have the encryption channels anymore. Until you can swap out the keys, avoid details on the radio.”

“Got it. Damn miracle they haven’t intercepted us yet.”

“Yeah.” She says. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Put a bullet in John and help your friend put a few in Jacob and we’ll call it even.”

She laughs, feeling light in her chest and unsettled by the fact she can’t tell if it’s from the blood loss or exhaustion or she was just happy to hear from someone friendly. “Will do, Eli. Quinn out.”

#v: far cry 5 #f: deliverance #c: quinn leonis #ch: john seed #ch: jacob seed #ch: eli palmer #ch: wheaty #sh: say yes

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perfectlyrose · 6 years

Text

Up In Flames (8/10)

Summary: In the year since they decided to become a team, John Smith and Rose Tyler have made quite the names for themselves as Team TARDIS, bank robbers extraordinaire. Newspapers the world over run headlines about The Doctor and the Bad Wolf and their latest heists. They’re practically unstoppable.

Then their world spins to a halt with a phone call. Jack’s in trouble again and a formidable enemy from John’s past has emerged from the shadows to try and destroy the bank robbing couple once and for all. Will they be able to survive this new threat intact or will the life they’ve been building together go up in flames?

A sequel to Watch it Burn, a Nine/Rose bank robbers AU

Note: a chapter a day after the last one? you’re not imagining things! one more to go after this (and possibly an epilogue, we’ll see)

Word Count: 3103

Rating: Teen

Read here: tumblr // ao3 // tsp // ff

“You got in my way with that first bank heist of yours,” the Master said. “I don’t like people getting in my way.”

Rose stole a glance at John, wondering if this was really about the Agency job or it was about him.

“It was a bonus to find out one of the people I was searching for was my old friend Theta,” the Master continued. He looked at Rose. “We used to be partners, you know.”

She didn’t respond, already knowing this bit of information.

“Ah, so he told you that much, did he?” He shifted his focus to John who was glaring daggers at him, jaw clenched. “Did you tell her what we did, Theta? Or did you try to hide your multitude of sins?”

Rose saw a flash of pain cross John’s face and knew the Master saw it too.

“You tried to hide it!” The Master laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. Didn’t want her to leave when she found out who you really are?”

The Master turned his gaze back to Rose. “Let me tell you for him. You might regret rushing in here to save him when you find out what he really is.”

“Was,” John interjected, voice rough. “It’s who I was.”

The Master waved his free hand at John dismissively, gun not wavering from where it was trained on Rose. “Makes no difference.”

“I don’t care about his past,” Rose insisted.

“Oh, but you should,” the Master said. His voice was sickly sweet and Rose wanted to recoil from it. “

“We were killers, little wolf. Assassins. Technically working for the government but they would have disavowed us if asked.”

Rose worked to keep her face blank but it felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. She hadn’t ever considered this possibility in the millions of half-formed ideas about John’s past that she’d dreamed up.

His reasons for trying so hard to bury that part of his life made perfect sense now. She wanted to hug John. She wanted to tear the Master’s throat out with her teeth for dredging all this up when John wasn’t ready to share.

Rose couldn’t do either of those so she settled for glaring at the man who was trying to hurt the man she loved. He would pay for it as soon as she could manage.

He laughed. “Whoever decided you were a wolf has obviously seen that look on your face. Fangs are no good here, not when I have about six guns trained on you.”

Rose didn’t have an answer for that so she pressed her lips together and kept her mouth shut. She didn’t dare look over at John, knowing she wouldn’t be able to keep the concern from her expression.

“Not only were we assassins, we were some of the best,” the Master continued. “We were trained to be the best and we were successful. A trusted team tasked with the hardest kills. Do you want to know how many missions we ran?”

“I don’t care,” Rose said.

“You do,” the Master said. “I can read it all over your face.”

“John isn’t a killer anymore and that’s all that matters to me,” she said.

“Ah, but you didn’t know he was a killer before. That changes things,” he insisted. “You’ll just have to mull it over. Won’t she, Theta?” He looked over at John. “I’m sure she’ll have plenty of time to think over the fact that she’s been fucking a killer for the past year while I figure out what to do with the pair of you. I wonder how long it will take before she decides she wants nothing to do with you.”

“Fuck off,” John said, anger bubbling under the two brusque syllables.

“Or maybe I’ll just kill her so there’s one less person to deal with around here.”

John growled.

“But not yet of course. We haven’t even started to delve into her secrets,” the Master said.

A wave of unease rolled over Rose.

“Don’t you want to know all about Miss Rose Marion Tyler’s past?”

Rose shivered at the sound of her name on his tongue, unnerved by the way he said it, by the fact that he knew it.

“Yes, I do know your name, little flower,” he said, correctly reading the shock on her face. “I know more than that, even.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” Rose heard the uncertainty in her own voice and she hated that it was entirely real.

“Oh, but I do,” the Master said, smile growing. “I bet you haven’t told your precious John here where you come from.”

“He knows enough,” Rose said, head spinning as she tried to figure out what he could know.

“Does he know that you’re nothing more than a chav off the estates who dropped out of school? That you dropped out to run away with a boy?”

Rose’s blood thrummed through her, waiting to see if he knew anything of the rest of her story.

“Ran away to play the whore for a year only to come home and watch her mother die,” he continued. “That’s who you’ve aligned yourself with, Theta. Quite the step down. Your little flower is nothing more than a common thief with a common, sordid past and it’s time you see that.”

Rose knew that her past wouldn’t matter to John, especially not these tiny tidbits that the Master had dug up. It didn’t stop the fear from rising as she wondered if he’d found anything else and if he’d disclose it before she could tell it to John herself.

She let her head drop, gathering herself for her next move and listening to the sudden chatter over her earbud as Amy moved forward with her side of the plan.

“Don’t you see it?” The Master urged. “She’s nothing and she knows it.”

“She’s a million times better than you,” John shot back.

“You’re deluded,” the Master said.

Rose was done letting the Master think he was able to trod all over her and John. It was time to change the game.

She swallowed her fear and let it sing through her veins, let it make her more dangerous in her awareness and acceptance of it. Then she raised her head and looked the Master dead in the eye, letting every mask drop.

Rose snarled, showing her teeth in what was was a clear threat, every inch the wolf she had named herself.

The Master looked a bit taken aback at her sudden shift.

John shivered as he watched Rose turn cold for the second time since he’d known her. It was just as disconcerting and terrifying when aimed at someone else as it had been when she’d turned that icy gaze on him.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” Rose taunted, stepping closer to the Master, completely ignoring the gun he had trained on her and the way his bodyguards all stepped closer. “You did a bit of research and discovered bits of my sob story but you don’t understand a single goddamn thing.”

“I think you’ll find that I do,” he argued, trying to regain control of the situation as Rose began to wrest it away.

“For someone who thinks so much, you’re wrong a lot,” she shot back. “But honestly, you really don’t understand. You bring up my past, hoping that reminding me of it will cripple me, hoping to remind me that I’m just some chav off the estate that needs to remember what her place is. But there’s something you didn’t count on because you don’t understand me at all.”

“Please, little flower, enlighten us all,” he sneered.

“I know I’m a chav off the estate. I’m not ashamed of my past and I haven’t tried to forget it,” she said, voice frightening in its evenness. “My past doesn’t cripple me, it just makes me stronger because I made it through more than your research will ever let on.”

The Master rolled his eyes but John could tell he was off balance now that Rose was no longer playing the trembling thief he’d expected her to be.

“You keep calling me a little flower like that’s meant to demean me as well,” she continued, not letting him get a word in. “Well, I’ve been a flower my whole life, long before I named myself a wolf. You’d do well to remember exactly what kind of flower I am.”

“That's what you're building up to?” the Master said, voice dripping in condescension. “A threat that roses have thorns? You're exactly what I expected. A pretty little thing with no brains. Don't know what Theta sees in you.”

Rose smiled and it almost sent shivers down the Master’s spine. For a fraction of a second, he considered that maybe this girl had potential, that she wasn’t the weak link in the partnership. He almost recognized the familiar spark of ruthless genius that burned bright and cold behind her eyes.

Almost.

“That’s because you’ve always been remarkably shortsighted for someone who calls himself a genius. Yes, roses have thorns.” She took another step forward, not taking her eyes of the Master, continuing to disregard the gun pointed at her chest. “They’re also the flower of love.”

The Master sneered. “So?”

“You’ve never understood love and therefore you’ll never understand me,” Rose continued. “That gives me the advantage.”

“No, it just makes you weak.”

Rose’s expression hardened further. “No, it makes me stronger,” she said. “You hurt the people I love and I will not stand for it.”

“All your monologuing about the ‘power of love’ and all this flower mumbo jumbo won’t do you any good,” The Master said. He motioned for John to be brought to him.

The guards pulled him to his feet and shoved him forward. John pushed back against the hand on his shoulder with a growl. That earned him a hard push, sending him to his knees once again, this time next to the Master.

John heard the metallic click of a gun being readied to fire right behind him.

“I have both of you where I want you. The mighty Doctor and his little pet wolf at gunpoint and finally at my mercy.”

“Like you ever had any of that,” John spat.

The Master motioned to the guard and they decked John in the jaw. John’s eyes strayed back to Rose as the blow reverberated through his head, barely catching her flinch.

The Master’s smile was cold as he turned his gaze to his old partner. “You’re right.”

John snarled at him, blood staining his teeth red.

“Anyways, I have you, I have Rose here, and Jack is down in a very disagreeable cell in my basement. I believe that’s the entirety of your little gang of miscreants. No one left to rescue you.” The Master looked positively gleeful. “I win.”

John watched as Rose tilted her head to her side like she could hear something he couldn’t. A smile spread across her face and something akin to hope began to bloom in his chest. Of course she still had a plan, she always did.

He should have known from the start that the only way she would’ve gotten caught was by design. His lips twitched up in a smile to match hers, ready to see exactly what Rose had up her sleeve.

“Are you sure about that?” Rose asked.

The Master faltered for a fraction of a second. “Of course I am.”

“Because I’m thinking that lack of understanding about things like love and friendship are about to bite you in the arse,” she said. Her eyes were hard, unforgiving. Ruthless.

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re the ones captured at gunpoint.”

“I think she’s talking about us,” Amy said, as she put a gun to the back of the Master’s head. She cocked it, the sound echoing in the suddenly silent room.

A motley crew of criminals had the Master’s bodyguards at their mercy. John recognized most of them but not all. They’d snuck in while everyone’s attention was on Rose and the Master’s conversation and surrounded them.

There was a brief scuffle as the guards fought back but Rose’s crew quickly subdued and disarmed them. A blonde with cargo pants and her hair in a high ponytail made quick work of John’s restraints and helped him to his feet.

John didn’t take his eyes off Rose who was staring down the Master. His old enemy still had his gun pointed at her, uncaring that Amy was ready to blow his brains out at any move she didn’t like.

Rose stepped closer, almost coming into contact with the barrel of the Master’s gun. “I win,” she whispered. Before he could make another move, her fist came up and made hard contact with his face.

He staggered backwards. Amy swung her gun and cracked it against the side of the man’s head. He went down in an ungraceful heap.

John lurched forward just as Rose turned to face him. His breath caught at the anger blazing in her eyes, but it was fire now instead of a cold burn and so he kept moving towards her until he had her wrapped up in his arms.

Her grip on him was tight and he winced at the pressure on what were sure to be some colorful mementos of his stay in the Master’s stronghold.

“Are you okay?” Rose asked.

“Little banged up but nothing major,” he said, mouth right next to her ear as he continued to cling to her. “You saved me, Rose.”

She pulled back and thumped a hand against his chest. “I’m so angry with you. You ran off without me and I was so worried!”

“I’m sorry, Rose,” John said. “I was stupid.”

“You were,” she agreed.

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

She shook her head. “You should know by now that I don’t need taking care of.”

He cupped her cheek with one hand, still marvelling that she was here and safe and hopefully not done with him. “I know.”

She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his chest, making his hand drop from her face. “I’m going to yell at you later. A lot.”

John squeezed her tighter. “Okay.”

“Well, aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes.”

John and Rose pulled apart with matching expressions of happiness at the sound of Jack’s voice.

“Jack!” Rose cried.

She ran towards him and skidded to a stop a few feet away, taking in his appearance. He was leaning on her friend Donna. Numerous bruises and cuts were visible but his smile was as bright and irreverent as always. He’d definitely taken a beating but the Master hadn’t broken him.

“Hey Rosie, hell of a rescue you engineered. Thought I told you not to worry about me.”

“You had to know we wouldn’t just leave you here!”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jack said. “Hospitality in this place was terrible.”

John walked up behind Rose and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Good to see you, Jack.”

“Likewise.”

“You done playing damsel in distress for a bit?”

Jack grinned. “I’ll always be a damsel in distress for the two of you. Next time I’ll try to dress the part, though.”

Rose groaned and Donna laughed.

“Is he always like this?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rose and John answered in unison.

“You and I are going to get a drink when you’re better,” Donna told Jack.

Jack winked at her. “You got it, sweetheart.”

“Hey Rose, what do you want us to do with this lot?” Amy called.

Rose turned and saw that everyone had been tied up. The blonde with the ponytail had her gun trained on the still unconscious Master. “Jenny? You know anyone who would want them?”

Her smile was a sharp thing. “I can think of a couple intelligence agencies off the top of my head.”

“No one even slightly connected to the Agency or the Lungbarrow Project,” John cut in. “He has ties to both of those and they would try to use him instead of punishing him.”

“Noted,” Jenny said with a nod. “Clara says hello, by the way. She wanted to come but she would’ve shot somebody so I convinced her to stay sidelined as support. She’ll get the right people here, though.”

John’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “You’re the soldier girlfriend, then?”

“That’s me.”

He nodded. “Pick the organization you want to turn them over to and then have Clara get them here.”

“How do you feel about UNIT?” Jenny asked.

“Good rep for trying to do the right thing,” John said. “Good choice.”

“Clara said you owe her a few recipes for her help,” Jenny said after a moment. Clara was obviously talking to her through an earbud.

“I’ll make sure to get them to her,” he promised.

He turned back to Rose. “Do we need to do anything else here besides clear out?”

“We’ve got what we came for,” Rose said. “You’re safe. Jack’s safe and Amy already volunteered to take him home so Rory can tend to his injuries. The Master has been taken down. That’s everything on my checklist besides yelling at you but we’re doing that later.”

John smiled, still just marvelling that she wanted anything to do with him. “Let’s go home, then.”

Rose pulled out a couple of their calling cards from her pocket. “Want to leave these?”

He shook his head. “Let’s save them for the banks. Besides, I didn’t do a great job on working as a team this go round.”

Rose arched an eyebrow. “Glad you’re admitting it. Thought I was going to have to remind you the meaning of TARDIS.”

“Duly remembered. I won’t be forgetting it again.”

Amy reached over Rose’s shoulder and plucked one of the cards out of Rose’s hand. “I have so many questions for the two of you but for now I want one of these as a keepsake.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “You could’ve just asked.”

“Takes the fun out of it.” Amy plucked the comms device out of her ear and handed it to Rose. “If I was still in the game, I’d be commissioning some of these.”

Rose hugged Amy quickly. “Thanks so much for your help, Ames.”

“Anytime.”

Rose thanked everyone else for their help, made sure they had everything under control, and gave Jack a lingering hug before slipping her hand into John’s. They walked out the front door of the Master’s stronghold hand in hand and disappeared into the inky darkness.

#ficandchips #doctorroseprompts #nine x rose #up in flames #into the fire verse #i wrote this #just breezing through this last section of the fic!

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oneweekoneband · 7 years

Video

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DON’T STOP

It would be easy to assume that everything not only true but even possible to articulate has already been said. Or, alternately, that there is no reason to discuss it because it belongs to the past—the ugly, false past—and we are here to discuss the sparkling, honest present. Certainly in the seven years since, this song has been tackled from almost every conceivable angle in the various avenues where opinions collect themselves like rainwater in a gutter. And certainly we hear it differently now, knowing what we know; the darkness that always simmered thrillingly under the surface has slunk closer to center stage. Certainly that incongruously gorgeous, haunting bridge will never sound the same. You build me up, you break me down.

And yet. And yet I find myself coming back to it, and coming back, and coming back. There were days in the summer where I would decide to listen to the new album and instead, or first, play it through not once or twice but over and over, an album’s work of Tik Tok, insistently pressing itself upon me the way it did on all of us that year, our initial confusion over how to hear it giving way to understanding and joyful surrender. I had to reabsorb it, to give myself not a blank slate but context into which to understand the new. Hours and hours, like I hadn’t since that first fall, listening and listening: for what was different, sometimes, but often for what remained. Eventually, listening for what, after everything, I had to say—listening in fact for why I kept hitting play, just one more time.

I so badly wanted—we all wanted—to be able to say this year: look at what Kesha made now that she is free. And I still hope, one day, to say that—to shout it from the tops of fucking skyscrapers from a bullhorn, raining glitter on the streets below, to paint it across my arms, to throw a party in celebration and toast a Jello shot in honor of Kesha and her hard-won freedom.

But we can’t, yet. Her legal battle against the man who both abused her and produced this song churns forward unresolved; although specifics have not been made public, it seems incontestable from the available facts that he continues to financially profit from her artistic output. Delineating yet again the painful history of exploitation and injustice that has been revealed across headlines for the past several years would at this point be both redundant and contrary to Kesha’s own current public stance; we all know this awful, too-familiar story, and if she’s not going to speak further on the matter, neither am I.

Still it’s worth stating: Rainbow is not the album Kesha made once she was free. It’s the album she chose to make in spite of the fact that she isn’t. It’s an album of celebration that exists inextricably entangled with that from which it is breaking away. The physics of a rainbow reflect this: they appear to us not across cloudless blue skies but when we stand between the sun and rain.

Listening to Tik Tok now—a song I love, forged under a series of circumstances I would erase from time if I could—in an infinitesimal way, it feels like this too.

I’M ALREADY HERE

There’s a narrative that has emerged since the release of the album’s first single if not before, one succinctly encapsulated by Katherine St. Asaph: “that what Kesha escaped was not abuse but electro-pop, that in the minds of more people than would admit it, “Tik Tok” was as much of a sin as anything else [he] did.” You can hear this beneath Facebook threads and casual conversations about the album, the fact of her exploitation serving as absolution for her failures of old: look at what she can do now that she’s not being forced to make that Autotune bullshit, a retroactive forgiveness that rests on assuming Kesha herself, suddenly and newly revealed as both a victim and an artist, would never have made such trash on purpose.

And it’s true that she’s distanced herself from some songs, and complicated her relationship with others. In a New York Times Magazine profile last year, she said of the writing process for this one:

“I remember specifically him saying: ‘Make it more dumb. Make it more stupid. Make it more simple, just dumb.’ ” She tried, joking around with some lyrics she found silly. “I was like, O.K., ‘Boys try to touch my junk. Going to get crunk. Everybody getting drunk,’ or whatever, and he was like, ‘Perfect.’”

But even though no one could blame her, even though she’s shared her story such that her fans would more than understand, Kesha hasn’t renounced her previous work at large. She still performs Tik Tok live; three weeks ago, when that discordant riff filled Hammerstein Ballroom, we lost our fucking minds. And no one could have been there, with all of us shrieking along, watching her strut and dance and jump across the stage, watching her keep us at fever pitch, and still believed what was so often said about this song back when it first appeared—that all its magic stemmed from the clever manipulations of a savvy producer. No one could have witnessed her and still doubted what she told us from the very start: the party don’t start till I walk in. It was always her party, her world. Her voice even when it was splintered and caught, her words even when she wasn’t the only one writing them: these things belong to Kesha. This song is hers as much as anyone else’s; it always was. To act otherwise is essentially to recreate in part one of the conditions of her exploitation: the lie that her success always rested squarely on someone else’s shoulders.

It matters that we’re clear on this: Kesha has always been an artist. If you couldn’t hear that in Tik Tok—separate from personal experience, speaking solely of the recognition of deliberation and craft, the awareness of performance—that’s on you.

SEE THE SUNLIGHT

There’s an interview from that first round of persona-establishing press that I can never find when I need it. Kesha was asked about her relationship with her fans, one of those really standard softball questions on pop sites, and in talking about being overwhelmed by the response, she mentioned being approach by a girl who said that her boyfriend had died and Tik Tok was the only thing making her happy.

I think about that all the time. Partly it’s because it such a sharp and poignant expression of that John Darnielle quote that makes the rounds every now and then, about how some of the value of pop music lies in its ability to remind us of our own potential for joy. Partly it’s because at the time that I read it, it resonated so specifically with me. Kesha, like many of the things we love most dearly, came into my life exactly when I needed her: an autumn I remember always in darkness, shuttering into a winter I only saw from inside of my room. I hadn’t lost anyone, except myself; I wasn’t alone except that I believed myself to be. I was left tracing circles in the dust. And into this came Kesha, loud and like nothing I’d heard, thumping and slurring in a way that bypassed entirely my defunct brain and reminded me that I was still a body. It wasn’t that she showed me the way out but that listening to Animal on the train, in my room, first thing in the morning, at night when I couldn’t sleep—it made me feel temporarily like the kind of person who could find a way out.

I’m telling you this because Rainbow is an album, through its context and in its text, about surviving, about what it looks like on the other side of something that needed to be survived and what it took to get there; a rainbow, after all, is a symbol of survival, the promise that the storm has been weathered and soon we will step into something new. But for a lot of us, loving Kesha has always been in part about survival. And some of that is the pop-music-joy thing, the miracle of feeling for three and a half minutes at a stretch something other than whatever it is we are living through or with, and some of it is about the fact that loving anything with your whole self is a way of reminding yourself of the fact of your heart.

But there’s also always been something about Kesha that gave her that magic, for those of us who needed it. It’s almost funny, because Animal isn’t and has no ambition to be an album that inspires. It’s concerned with our titular creaturely selves, the hulking id that stalks through the night careening through desires and bad ideas, which is to say, yeah, it’s an album about going and getting shitfaced. I read arguments that it was glorifying a self-destructive party culture and rolled my eyes, thinking, she doesn’t even sing about, like, weed; I read, later, the idea that it was all some big ironic display actually highlighting the depressing nature of whatever I literally don’t care, and thought, that’s not right either; it didn’t at all align with what it felt like to actually listen to the album, to experience its gleeful crassness, its visceral thrills, the explosions of delight and pockets of laughter.

There are ways to be in on the joke without being above the joke. And that was the thing about her: she seemed to see things as they were. She said once that she wrote songs the way people talk over a drink, and that always rang accurate to me; damn, Jeannie, why you gotta tell the secrets ‘bout my sex life? still makes me laugh. Her hedonistic playground was by many standards really quite tame (dancing while wasted is practically the national pastime of twenty-three-year-olds); it came to vibrant life in her snarling, smirking delivery and in her affectionate details. One of my favorite lines is when she rhymes and I’m gonna get laid / and I’m not the designat/ed driver, because it’s funny but also because it meant that Kesha’s world was one like ours, with things like designated drivers and overpriced club drinks you were too broke to buy, and the distinguishing feature was attitude. It was fantastic, but not fantastical; it was intoxicatingly glorious precisely because she wasn’t pretending it was anything it wasn’t. On the title track she sang I am in love with what we are, not what we should be, and it always sounded to me like she was talking about our teeming human mess: in love, sincerely, not with an imagined perfection but with the tangibly imperfect—the puke in a garbage can, the drunk texts sent, the glitter on the sticky, filthy floor.

There is always power in honesty, in looking at the truth of things and plunging right in. There’s power in seeing the ugliness of life and deciding to love it anyway. When she said tonight I’mma fight till we see the sunlight, you could believe she knew what it might take, some nights, to make it through.

KICK ‘EM TO THE CURB

There’s one more thing, and then we will, I promise, get to the good stuff. When Kesha burst onto the scene in a cloud of glitter and whiskey, I had, as indicated above, a lot of time on my hands. I followed her early press pretty closely. In interviews and videos, I saw someone who was obviously smart, in ways that had nothing to do with her SAT score or Barnard acceptance; someone who loved animals and glitter and stupid dick jokes, and disliked the rules of decorum and when people were mean; someone a little weird in some ways, and refreshingly normal in others, whose weirdness seemed not like a put-on but like the outgrowth of a commitment to doing what she liked; someone who said some pretty fucked up things, and some pretty wise things, and some boring or stupid things, and a lot of really funny shit, most of which did not precisely take the form of a joke. I saw someone who seemed, ultimately, like someone I might know, someone I could easily imagine I might enjoy talking with over a drink or six (hey: I was twenty-three, too).

Kesha felt, in other words, completely legible to me. And it stung in odd ways to see how baffled she made other people: the things they assumed were an act, or a lie, that I found wholly plausible, the contradictions they perceived that felt to me like just the typical mismatched knickknacks of personhood. Years later I still struggle to find words for how crazy-making it was to see the endless head-scratching around the stupid fucking line, kick ‘em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger, the insinuations of irony or disbelief that someone of Kesha’s age and gender might use maybe the most iconic male sex symbol of all time as shorthand for exactly that. Like girls existed outside of culture, like it was so fucking hard to believe that they too might have a parent’s crate of records, or a cool older friend, or access to the internet and its many message boards, or any of the other rites of coolness we grant so easily to men. It would take a long time before I could articulate why it hurt, as a woman within a year of Kesha’s age who doesn’t give a shit about rock’n’roll but knows that Mick Jagger means sex, like, come the fuck on: it hurt to be confronted so starkly with the paucity of our collective imagination about women’s interiority. It hurt to be told, essentially, that aspects of myself and my knowledge that I took for granted were to many people so alien, so outside the bounds of any allowable feminine type, that they were literally inconceivable.

Now, of course, after the Dylan covers and the Iggy Pop feature, no one doubts Kesha’s rock cred. But I hate, still, that that’s what it took to get here. And I hate that this too has become part of the narrative of Rainbow, like we’re all finally seeing the authentic artist and actual human being under the ersatz mask of glitter and whiskey breath, instead of considering that maybe these things can coexist. That maybe the people you dismiss out of hand can also have complex inner lives; that a silly party girl can be other things on different nights, or even all at once. That same profile from last year included the following passage:

The problem was, she said, there was no balance. Every song was a song about partying, and yes, that was who she was, Kesha says that was definitely who she was, but she’s a real person having a complete human experience, and she wanted her album to reflect that. “To this day, I’ve never released a single that’s a true ballad, and I feel like those are the songs that balance out the perception of you, because you can be a fun girl. You can go and have a crazy night out, but you also, as a human being, have vulnerable emotions. You have love.”

You can have both; you can be many things. Of course Tik Tok was not, could never be, the entirety of Kesha, but no song ever is. That a portrait is incomplete, exaggerated, selective, doesn’t make it a lie, it just makes it art: a piece created, by someone, to express something. Kesha is showing now parts of her we haven’t seen, but we shouldn’t have needed to see them to believe they were there. Even before, she was never as simple as was often assumed; even on this song, she slides from bratty nasal tunelessness to tongue-in-cheek flirtatiousness, from fist-pumping marching orders to open-eyed vulnerability.

That’s a rainbow, too—not the transformation of light, but its refraction: a shift in angle that reveals that what appeared simple was in fact all along much more beautiful, and much more complicated, than you assumed.

—Isabel

#rainbow

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doomedandstoned · 6 years

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BAILEY’S CHOICE

Youngblood Supercult guitarist Bailey Gonzales shares her 10 favorite albums of Autumn.

Photo by Johnny Hubbard at Doomed & Stoned Fest

First off, let me preface by saying that this list is just a fraction of what I would include on a good, solid Autumn playlist, but everything must end at some point. Most of these you’ve probably heard, some you may not be familiar with, and others perhaps long forgotten and thus need a good revisiting. So here goes:

1. Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young – Déjà vu

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This has been in my catalog since I first started smoking weed in the fall of my freshman year of high school and learned to enjoy the hazy, beautiful strains of intricate harmonies that permeate CSNY’s iconic brand of folk-blues rock. Their albums were always on rotation in my house when I was growing up, but until I started to fully understand its cosmic, layered beauty, Déjà vu fell more or less into the “lame music my parents listen to” category for me. Now it’s a staple, especially as the weather starts to cool and the leaves start to turn, and I’m thrown into some kind of sepia-tinged yearning for the past. Funny how things change. This album holds some of the group’s most acclaimed work; I can’t point out a single track I’d skip over.

2. Graveyard – Graveyard

Graveyard by Graveyard

Speaking of high school—I grew up in a very small town in Southeast Kansas, and when MySpace made its debut (yes, MySpace), I found a page for this indie label called Tee Pee Records that absolutely dictated what I would listen to take the edge of my Black Sabbath cravings—this is where I was ultimately introduced to stoner rock and all of the branches of the retro heavy metal genre—and one of them that always stuck with me as I worshipped this label’s releases thereafter was Graveyard’s self-titled album. There are so many great tracks on this album, with “Thin Line” being an absolute favorite and even an echoing of one of my darkest autumn remembrances (won’t delve into it, but the subject matter will lead you where you need to go). Fantastic, timeless album.

3. Jonathan Snipes & William Hutson – Room 237

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Room 237 (2012) is a funny little documentary. I love it, despite the fact that this film lays out conspiracies about Stanley Kubrick’s version of The Shining that range from absolutely Kubrickesque crazy-but-plausible to totally ludicrous, leaping-to-judgement scenarios and breakdowns related to the hidden puzzles within the original adaptation. But, we are talking about music here: this album plays like Stranger Things meets Goblin meets John Carpenter. There is nothing necessarily special about it, but in trying to find an OST that would fit neatly within this list, this fella kind of jumped out to me. Not everybody enjoys soundtracks, and while I could listen to creepy, ambient synth all day long, every day, Room 237 seems like it could entrance any listener, especially with standout tracks like “To Keep From Falling Off” to “Universal Weak Male” and even with the closing track, “Dies Irae” which plays off the original theme from The Shining.

4. Trouble – Trouble

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It blows my mind that this album was released in 1990. Everything about it screams, “I WANT TO MAKE YOUR EARS BLEED: ‘70s METAL STLYE.” It’s like a lost and very angry Sir Lord Baltimore album was found in someone’s murky basement and sold in a musty, long forgotten record shop. The kind of place where you might hear whispers of dark legends. Somewhere that may be evocative, in legend, of the kind of place that Mayhem’s late singer, Dead, slit his wrists, throat, and blew his brains out and everyone commenced for this orgiastic blood feast of mourning to say, uh, “let’s take a photo of his dead body and slap it on a bootleg album cover and make necklaces out of his skull...” It’s not that harsh, but there’s definitely something spooky, dark, and forbidden about it. You may ask yourself, if you’re just hearing this album for the first time: “Why don’t they play some of these tracks on the radio?” Well, my child...do you really want to know?

5. The Steepwater Band – Revelation Sunday

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This collection of hot tunes from The Steepwater Band is, apart from 2011’s Clava, one of our band’s road staples. We often don’t agree on much when that road cagey feeling hits or when disagreements happen, which incidentally is why things tend to work well with us, but The Steepwater Band, Mount Carmel, and Gary Clark Junior are all things we can come to terms with through the van’s trebly stock speakers. Maybe it’s the bluesiness. Very moody folk-blues rock tunes, with a touch of whiskey-fueled country, is what these guys exhibit in songs like “Slow Train Drag,” “Dance Me A Number,” and “Steel Sky.” A plus material, in my book, and good for the road on a cold night’s ramble.

6. Black Sabbath – Never Say Die!

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Can people stop it with the “I’m tired of Black Sabbath” comments??? You know they are the reason we’re all here, and whether you like to admit it or not, you dig a good Sabbath tune either once in a while or every day. Doctor’s orders. Now I don’t think that a playlist is complete without a Black Sabbath album, but autumn seems the appropriate time for their fumbling, but strong conclusion — 1978’s Never Say Die! And I really don’t care that I know I’m in the minority for loving this album. To me, while it’s their most strained Ozzy-era album (I won’t even touch 13, so don’t ask), it’s full of premonitions of things to come, including a full out jazz brawl in “Breakout” that reminds me of the mean streets in Dirty Harry, and songs that might make the bravest of our genre cry, like “Junior’s Eyes.” “Shock Wave” goes through the typical rough and tumble changes that Black Sabbath fans learn to embrace, but it comes in wave after wave after wave. Hell, even the title track is nearly full-out punk rock. If you’ve avoided this album, please—give it a spin. Even if it’s only to hear Bill Ward sing. It’s the album I fell into when I joined my first band in the fall of 2008 and what pushed me into the direction of branching out to things I’d long avoided. I literally shit my pants every time the first synth breakdown in “Johnny Blade” comes over the speakers, and I think you should, too.

7. Madonna – Madonna

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Speaking of shit you probably don’t wanna read…who out of us has given Madonna’s 1983 debut a spin? Anyone? Bueller? Yeah, I didn’t think so. For you folks who can appreciate this one, I applaud you for admitting it. It’s not a sin to listen to Madonna (tell that one to the Vatican), but unless she’s been covertly transformed into Lana Del Rey or someone else on the darker and more modern side of the pop spectrum, you’d be hard pressed to find an admitted fan in our heavy underground group. And you know what? I don’t give a single fuck (yes, I learned that language from M herself). She’s a goddess, an icon, a killer songwriter—if you don’t believe me, tell that to the $400 million she has neatly tucked away—and dammit, she taught me to give a little less of a fuck in times where I don’t have too many to spare. This is another reason my parents are badass. Who in the world would buy their kid the “Like A Virgin” album only if their 11-year-old can ask for it by name without getting too embarrassed at the thought of saying “virgin” out loud to the Camelot Music clerk? Yeah, that’s right. Anyway, listen to this. Just do it...Madonna would.

8. The Midnight Ghost Train – Buffalo

Buffalo by The Midnight Ghost Train

I met Steve Moss at a show in Topeka in late 2009 at a dive bar where the drummer from my first band was singing in his new group. We did the obligatory thing and then, holy shit—this band starts playing and glasses start clinking and I swear to god I thought the whole damn place was going to cave in. They play a bunch of tunes and I’m so fully entranced it’s stupid. After the show, I went up to their singer/guitarist and said, “Um, that was really fucking awesome. I loved how you slipped “Hand of Doom into the middle of one of your songs.” Bam. We were instant buds. I couldn’t believe that they had come out of Topeka, Kansas. Later, while they were prepping to record 2012’s Buffalo, we had a very memorable fall jam session and some shows together, and EVERY. DAMNED. TIME. I felt like there was just something insanely special happening. Buffalo proved to be an instant classic, and even though The Midnight Ghost Train boys seem to always be on tour, I visit with my old pal Steve from time to time when he’s around, and nothing can erase those crazy, almost LSD-like imprinted memories of our house shows together. Hell, we reunited again just last month in another Topeka dive bar. I still have almost 3 hours’ worth of an interview I need to write that documents Steve’s early life up until the recording of Cold Was The Ground. The circle goes round and round. And I sure as hell can’t shake that sound.

9. Creedence Clearwater Revival – Green River

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I don’t know what everyone else thinks about when they hear the track “Green River” from Creedence Clearwater Revival, but I think of Gary Ridgeway. I know that’s way far off, but I can’t help it. I also think about the album cover, and how many people still try to copy it, unintentionally. And I think about Stephen King. If you’ve read a few of his novels, you know from some of his passages, he’s a total CCR freak. I’ll give him a pass for mentioning Springsteen so much just because he’s a damn genius. But I bet the casual listener has never heard the song “Sinister Purpose” on the radio airwaves. It sounds like it belongs on a damn Leaf Hound album or something. Thank god for small favors. This is the epitome of southern blues rock. All you Lynyrd Skynyrd fans can fight me (although I won’t knock them), but CCR has earned their grimy, yet rightful spot as the Bayou’s most raw and creepy rock group. And way down in the fall, there’s always a bad moon rising.

10. Buffalo – Dead Forever...

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Man, I was going to write up a few more albums, but this is the end of the line, folks. Australia’s Buffalo caps it off with their 1972 album, Dead Forever... I can see this piece being released today, and that’s why I’m so glad everyone in this community puts out music that can rival little-known bands like Buffalo. I have a sweet spot for this group. Nobody will ever be able to answer why this killer band could never receive any airplay, and that question still lingers as absolute over processed shit continues to infiltrate the airwaves and real emotion can’t shine through. One of the promotional stickers for this record was, “Play this album LOUD.” Seen that before? Is history repeating itself in belittling our efforts to get out there and WARP THE FUCK out of people’s minds? I guess so. But we can fix that. Put the needle on some Buffalo, don your battle jacket, and work on getting some fuzz into some onlooker’s ears. Listen carefully, and don’t let the Buffalo situation happen to us all.

Hear Bailey's 'Autumn Vibes' Playlist on Spotify

Photo by Johnny Hubbard

The Great American Death Rattle by Youngblood Supercult

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wskent · 4 years

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What about Bob? (pt. 4)

Mueller enters the club. It appears he has time traveled to the 1920s, the roaringly sinful 1920s. Women dance in beaded dresses with bobbed haircuts, men in their baggy suits. No one seems to see Mueller who did not notice the sign outside explaining that the club is hosting a themed fundraiser for Michigan Senator Debbie Stabenow, a true party-animal.

Mueller is offered a coupe of champagne which he takes but doesn’t drink. Everyone knows that if you eat or drink anything in the past you’ll be stuck there forever. Mueller is approached by Orrin Hatch who is wearing his usual off-duty senator ensemble - a red tracksuit with Adidas sandals and black trouser stockings. Hatch hurries over to Mueller, “You party crashing too?”

“What?” Mueller asks.

“Oh, I know this is supposed to be some kind of liberal themed party, but I love the gin gimlets they serve at this place.”

None of this information has made any sense to the sleep-deprived Mueller who believes he is either time traveling or still in a coma. He stares blankly at Hatch who doesn’t seem to notice.

“And I do love jazz,” Hatch adds. He begins to move his body in a way that could be described as dancing, but to Mueller it looks like lurid writhing. He begins to feel nauseous. He turns away from Hatch and begins to make his way toward a soft reddish light he sees in the distance.

He walks toward the red light. Mueller weaves by a gaggle of raucous treasury members, led by nosy-Jack Lew. Lew snaps his fingers arrogantly as Mueller tries to avoid eye contact, but fails. Lew waves, flashing his renowned three-dollar smile. Mueller scowls, stunned by Dianne Feinstein, who, everyone agrees, can really dance.

The red light grows in intensity. All-too-suddenly Muller catches a strong whiff of asparagus and glue on a hot day. It’s like a slap in the face. He grimaces, stopping dead in his tracks, knowing full-well it’s too late. “Oh hell,” he stammers.

“BOB MUELLER. IN THE FLESH,” a deep voice with a syrupy southern-drawl announces.

“Hi Rex,” Mueller says, moving his blazer, adjusting his cuffs. “Are those pigs in a blanket?” Mueller inquires.

“There aren’t many sure things in this world, Bobby, but those are pigs in a blanket,” he declares, gesturing with his whole arm at a platter bathed in red light. “Help yourself.”

“I’d rather not,” Mueller says, remembering the slippery rules around time travel. He looks at Tillerson and his group of oil weasels, fawning over the recently-freed Tillerson. “What are you doing here, Rex? I thought you would be getting out of this dirty, old burg.”

“I’m a big fan of chaos, Bobby. I want this race to be interesting. Stabenow is scrappier than my pet goat, Ramona.” Ramona, Rex Tillerson’s pet goat is a well-known figure in DC and Texas. It is impossible to know how far beyond these spheres Ramona’s story reaches. Bob Mueller met Ramona on several occasions and finds himself nodding in agreement. “Plus, I love a good show,” Tillerson adds, running a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, smiling menacingly. Helping himself to a pig in a blanket, Tillerson dangles it over his maw to impress Mueller. Mueller is unmoved, even as Tillerson releases it, gnashing his jowls and craning his neck at the same time, like a bear chomping down on a river salmon. The weasels approve. Mueller feels a tap on his shoulder and swivels around.

“Well, thank god you walked in,” Dianne Feinstein says. She’s bathed in sweat, no doubt from singlehandedly setting the tone on the dancefloor. Her tone is flirtatious. “Tammy Baldwin was supposed to play piano for this gig. I guess she’s double-booked tonight. I know it’s a big ask,” she says, wiping her brow with a palm tree-patterned kerchief, “but would you mind covering for her tonight?”

Mueller feels time stand still. He had sworn off the piano years ago, or had he given it up minutes ago? The MK-timeline makes dates hazy. If only he had a paper cup right now. As a man of discipline, Bob Mueller was able to systematically swear off all distractions in his life -- except jazz. He remembers reading an article in The Hilltop, Howard University’s best newspaper, that said Jazz music was not to be trusted because of its jagged beats. In an alarming turn of events, he rebelled against this editorial, embracing the unpredictable rhythms of jazz as a guiding light - a truth that would ground him.

As he thinks more about this, Mueller looks down and realizes he is halfway through Monk’s Nutty, confidently seated at a jet-black piano. Debbie Stabenow is suspended ten feet above the piano in a sparkling hula-hoop, spinning gracefully as red and silver confetti fall around him. There’s Gillibrand on sax and he swears he can see Sherrod Brown on drums. He leans in close to the keys and his fingers dance. Is he wearing sunglasses? He hears Tillerson’s booming voice “My god Bobby, you’re gonna set the place on fire.”

His eyes scan the room. He wants to see the man in the pink umbrella, but all he sees is Orrin Hatch and Chuck Schumer dip each other awkwardly bumping into other attendees. He dives hard and fast into the middle eight and the crowd cheers approvingly. It’s a helluva fundraiser he concedes to himself, pulling back on the piano as she begins her speech.

“HEY YOU, MACHINES,” everyone knows that Stabenow loves trying out new accents and referring to people who aren’t from Michigan as machines. “Time to explode your wallets into my bank account,” she remarks grotesquely in a pitch-perfect Australian brogue. The crowd is delighted and Mueller hears audible squeals of delight. He glares at Schumer and purses his lips.

Stabenow continues about the importance of keeping Michigan out of the great lakes, how small things should be smaller, and launches into her usual stump speech, complete with talking points from the blimp lobby. Mueller chuckles to himself as the shape of blimps are very funny. He shakes his head because it’s really funny.

“BOB,” Stabenow says suddenly, forcefully, emphasizing the curves of the letter Bs, “We are running out of time.” She’s staring directly at him. The whole crowd is staring too. The spotlight is on him and him alone. The crowd encircles him. He blinks vacantly. He tries to stay present, banishing the nagging thought that he will wind up in front of another unlikely district locale with a half-eaten sandwich in hand. He is tired of the tangled timeline and John Kerry run-ins. He misses the din of his office. He yearns for the field from his dream, far away from the district. He wishes---

“Are you even listening, Bob?” Feinstein is shaking him. He smiles, nodding. “We need you more than ever.” Even the oil weasels are nodding their heads. Orrin Hatch gyrates with needless gusto and the scent of asparagus and hot glue permeates everything as Rex Tillerson claps like Duffy, the beloved seal at the national zoo.

“I...I..I’m happy to help,” Mueller muses. “I...I just need to answer some questions first.” The room grows quiet. He feels it is suddenly very late. The crowd fades into the dark corners of the club. He gazes down at the checkerboard floor. It stretches infinitely in all directions. He feels heat behind his knees. He licks his lips and tastes vinegar. He reaches down into a bowl full of nuts and takes a handful. The world spins around its axis and feels a premonition, the future coming. He opens his mouth, absent-mindedly, taking in a handful of nuts. His large jaw makes quick work of them.

In the far-reaches of his mind he starts to hear music. A piano looping. A swell of a string ensemble. He closes his eyes. A cascade of color. All colors. Beautiful hues. A palette of deep, vivid colors comes into focus. The music grows louder. He begins singing along. It’s Over the Rainbow. Warm tones and a soft crackle. An old recording. The one from the movie. A familiar warble. Is that Judy Garland? He’s tearing up, looking at himself staring into the infinite abyss of Washington, DC. He sees light blue gingham everywhere. She appears in the middle of it, wearing, ruby slippers. She hands him a lei of flowers. He accepts them and locks eyes with her. In slow motion she says “Bob, this is wrong. I am the wrong one. The other one. Find the other one. Make haste. We need you, Bob. The wizard. THE WIZARD!” She screams. He’s confused, but nods. He reaches out to her and she disintegrates into a powerful gingham wind. Rex Tillerson laughs somewhere and the world shudders while Orrin Hatch tries out his new dance moves. Ugh. The room swirls around him and all goes dark.

Silence.

0 notes

thesinglesjukebox · 7 years

Video

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TAYLOR SWIFT - LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO [4.39] Man, look what she made US do.

Elisabeth Sanders: Here is the thing about Taylor Swift: anybody that has truly loved (despite themselves) Taylor Swift has done so because of her sharp, frightening edges, because of the way in which she is the mean girl in the midst of a panic attack, because she's petty, because she's crazy, because she believes in things and at the same time when those things aren't as they seem wants to crush them in the palm of her hand. Any interpretation of Taylor Swift that doesn't incorporate this is simply bad research. In 2006: "Go and tell your friends that I'm obsessive and crazy--There's no time for tears / I'm just sitting here, planning my revenge." In 2010: "And my mother accused me of losing my mind /But I swore I was fine /You paint me a blue sky /And go back and turn it to rain /And I lived in your chess game /But you changed the rules every day /Wondering which version of you I might get on the phone, tonight /Well I stopped picking up and this song is to let you know why" In 2012: "Maybe we got lost in translation / maybe I asked for too much / or maybe this thing was a masterpiece / til you tore it all up." And finally, in 2014, a culmination of the songwriting combined with the publicity--well, just listen to "Blank Space." I can't quote the whole thing. At the time it was brilliant, a parody that dipped just enough into the real, a joke about both media extrapolation and actual content. But we're past the time for parody. It came, it was good, it went. The criticism still followed, for other reasons, for deeper reasons, for real reasons. Along with, I'm sure, superficial ones. But if "Blank Space" was Taylor Swift's petty Gone Girl fan fiction, "Look What You Made Me Do" is the unfortunate chapter in which we have to acknowledge that the fiction was never that self-aware, and that an excavation of complication, when confronted with complicated times, sometimes reveals not a complex sympathetic maybe-villain, but simply a person not equipped to be making mass art right now. Taylor's pettiness, her villainy, her strangeness, has always been her most interesting feature. Maybe, now, too many years into seeing but not seeing it, it's just--not that interesting anymore. She's not your friend, and she's not your enemy, she's just--well. As she says, "I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me." I think that might be her final truth. [3]

Stephen Eisermann: I've never been a big Taylor Swift fan -- I like her music well enough, but there was always something about the details she painted and the cards she showed that it felt a bit... made-up. Still, I always had a weird feeling that Taylor and I had very similar personalities and personal life trajectories (bear with me) and this song reinforces that. When I was younger and "straight" (16-18), I was very quiet, nice to a fault, and introverted. Thanks to my name and skin color, a lot of (racist) older people always said it was hard to believe I was a Mexican teenager because I was so quiet, polite, well-spoken and bright. Much like Swizzle during the "Taylor Swift" and "Fearless" era, I was considered naive but genuine-hearted and people loved to love my niceness. However, I soon started coming to terms with my sexuality and started being a bit more open with myself and others about who I truly was, just like we saw glimpses of pure pop and more evocative lyrics in "Speak Now" and "Red." I still built stories and a narrative that painted me as more mystery than gay, just as Taylor toed the line between squeaky clean young adult and Lolita, but I was a bit more willing to explore. Soon after, the inevitable happened and I finally had my first NSFW encounter with a man, and was even MORE willing to be who I really was. I let my gay flag fly and if people asked, I wouldn't dance around the question, but own who I was. Taylor didn't hesitate one bit when she announced 1989 would be a pop album in its entirety, and I didn't so much was stutter when telling questioning friends my realization. Still, a part of me hid things from ass-backwards family members and people who I knew wouldn't "understand," just as Sweezy continued to play the victim card to hold on to some of the innocence that was slowly falling through her fingertips like sand on the last day of vacation. However, there is only so much sand one hand can hold and BAM -- my family became aware of my sexuality and Taylor was exposed. I was at a crossroads -- do I drop my family and throw out ALL the dirty chisme I had accumulated over the years at different holidays, effectively exposing the most bigoted family members, or do I keep my mouth shut and weather the hate, being all the stronger for it? I wanted so badly to be vindictive and evil, but I choose the high road for reasons I'm not really sure I can effectively communicate. Taylor, however, has opted for the darker route. "LWYMMD" lacks detail, yes, but it's intentional. I just... I just know it. She has secrets up her sleeves she will soon reveal -- nobody willingly takes the villainous role without ammo, and Taylor has been MANY things throughout her career, but unprepared is not one of them. This song is calculated, petty, unnecessary, and very much beneath her, but it allows me to live vicariously through her and I want her to drag her detractors just as I want to drag my family members through the mud they continue to think I belong in. And just as my bigoted family members will get theirs, so will Taylor's enemies, I'm sure. [10]

Will Rivitz: "I think I have a part to play in this drama, and I have chosen to be the villain. Every good story needs a bad guy, don't you think?" -Lorelei Granger, Frindle (Andrew Clements, 1996) [9]

David Moore: Phonogram: The Immaterial Girl Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie (Image Comics, 2015) Synopsis: Years ago, a young woman obsessed with music videos and mythic pop celebrity made a deal with the King Behind the Screen -- she gave up half of herself to gain the mystical power needed to eventually lead a coven of music obsessives. Now the deal's gone sour, and her darker, sacrificed self has switched places to destroy the coven with an ill-advised electroclash revival. [7]

Alfred Soto: Electronic swoops, piano on the bridge, lots of boom boom bap -- this single could be the new St. Vincent, or, to return to once upon a long time ago, to a track from Lorde's estimable Melodrama, a flop also largely co-written with Jack Antonoff. A skeptic of her first singles since 2009, I approached "Look..." with caution; on the evidence she's anticipated this caution. "I don't trust nobody and nobody trusts me," she sings while soap opera strings add the requisite melodrama, and for a moment I thought she sang "I don't trust my body." I've never cared about biographical parallels in any art, especially in popular art where the insistence feels like conscription; the blank space where she wants the audience to write his/her/whatever's name is a sop to us. Less persuasive is the talk-sung part informing her audience that the "old Taylor" is "dead," as if Fearless fans needed an 808 dug into their faces. It will sound terrific on the radio. I'll skip it when I buy the album. [5]

Crystal Leww: The emerging narrative of Jack Antonoff as the next king of pop production is perplexing because his resume is honestly pretty thin. It's unclear what Antonoff actually brings to the table other than an amplification factor; Antonoff's songs have only been as good as his collaborators. This works when artists are working with a strong vision they can execute against -- e.g., CRJ's "in love and feeling like a teen again" on "Sweetie," Lorde's earnest wide open heartbreak on Melodrama. It is damning if artists are falling into their worst habits. Taylor Swift is a very solid songwriter -- it's nearly impossible to have the kind of career she had in country music if you're not -- but it always falls back on specificity, the emotional connection that she can forge with her fans when she knows what she's trying to convey. "Look What You Made Me Do" fails because it's unclear what it's about -- is this song about haters? Kim and Kanye? Her exes? The media? -- and Antonoff using Right Said Fred makes it all seem very clunky. The song sounds like it could have really leaned into a psycho ex-girlfriend vibe, but it's not self-aware, not funny, not sure of itself. Ultimately, "Look What You Made Me Do" isn't awful, but it's not catchy, which is its worst sin of all. Taylor Swift's still a decent songwriter ("Better Man" was great; "I've been looking sad in all the nicest places" almost made up for that Zayn collab), but this isn't even yucky -- it's just kinda boring. [4]

Katherine St Asaph: The curse continues. Maybe it's that the past month I've been listening to very little but "Anatomy of a Plastic Girl" by The Opiates and "Justice" by Fotonovela and Sarah Blackwood, and here's the exact conceptual midpoint. I've heard comparisons to electroclash, NIN, mall emo, Lorde, but I hear more Jessie Malakouti or Britney on Original Doll: frantic tabloid petulance, slightly updated with a "Problem" anti-chorus, but otherwise things I like. Otherwise, Swift's style has not changed: self-referential ("actress" and "bad dreams" shuffle her images to make her the heel) and threaded with subliminals ("tilted stage" is literal, "kingdom keys" keeps up with the konsonance) Just as "Dear John" parodied its subject's lite-blooz guitar, "Look What You Made Me Do" parodies the austere tracks of 808s and Heartbreak on, like "Love Lockdown" in curdled Midwestern vowels: trading soporific for loaded. The song has inevitably become about everything but itself. Her milkshake duck brought all the boys to the yard, and they're like, this is garb, and I'm like, the Internet deplorables haven't adopted this in any better faith than they did Depeche Mode; any of pop's myriad songs about the tabloids would read as "political" if transplanted into 2017 (is Lindsay Lohan's "Rumours" about FAKE NEWS?), and Swift's suffocatingly prescriptive "Southern" "values" pre-Red were as politically suspect as this, and more insidious. The next salvo of attack: its rollout being unprecedentedly gimmicky and exploitative, never mind how aforementioned Depeche Mode did the same pre-order thing, or Britney Spears upholstered-carpetbombed "Pretty Girls" in everyone's Ubers, or Rihanna's Talk That Talk was launched with gamified "missions", or Srsly Legit Band Arcade Fire spent months on fake Stereogum posts and fake Ben and Jerry's. Doesn't help that when Taylor is bad, she's stunningly, loudly bad; the second verse, in its magnification of the cringiest parts of "Shake It Off" and "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together," seems to last forever. (The phone call is fine, though; no one had a problem with "How Ya Doin'" or, like, "Telephone.") It's no good for catharsis, definitely not relatable, maybe on purpose: like being too sexy for your shirt, all you feel is cold. [6]

Katie Gill: On the one hand, Taylor using the language of abusers in the chorus of her song is clueless at best and worrisome at worst. On the other hand, blatantly riffing off of "I'm Too Sexy" is a surprisingly smart choice for a chorus and I'm shocked that I can't think of anyone who's tried it before with this level of success. But on the one hand, for a song about how she's getting smarter and harder, the lyrics don't reflect that, giving us some petty Regina George level nonsense instead of anything remotely resembling depth or nuance. But then again, that snake is pouring Taylor Swift some tea and all the Taylor Swifts are beating up the other Taylor Swifts in a battle royale hahaha this video is so amazingly dumb. I guess I'll split the difference and give it a [5]

Alex Clifton: I've always wanted give-no-fucks Taylor Swift, but I'm dying for context, as this album (and sing) will sink or swim based entirely on the narrative she creates. She's clearly setting herself on fire in order to rebrand herself, although I question her self-awareness. The music video indicates yes, with a brilliant 30-second scene featuring various Taylors mocking each other. Yet "Look What You Made Me Do" is also curiously passive, with a reactionary title and a bored chorus--more a sign of privilege and status. The ambiguity between honest, wronged victim and villainous persona here is intriguing, especially given Swift's penchant for earnestness; obviously she cannot be both, but the tension drives the song. The song itself is a mixed bag; Swift returns to the messy rapping last heard on "Shake It Off" with an equally cringey spoken-word interlude, but her voice is simutaneously delicate and confident as she comes out swinging. While I love seeing Blood!Swift writing a hitlist of enemies like an evil Santa Claus and the hint of confronting the less attractive/more honest parts of her role in the spotlight, only time will tell whether this is truly a playful new direction or more of the same old tune. (Also, what did we make her do? The answer is classic Swift, diabolically obvious: we made her write a song about it.) [7]

Jessica Doyle: A week on I still hear more self-loathing than anything else. Nothing the supposed New Taylor offers up comes off particularly convincingly; there's no glee in her reinvention. Compare the way she rushes through honey-I-rose-up-from-the-dead when she once sounded like she was thoroughly enjoying Boys only want love when it's torture. She doesn't sound smarter, or harder; look what you made me do, when she's spent the last eighteen months making a point of not doing anything. There's no air in here, no space beyond the multiple annotated versions and multiple thinkpieces declaring her a walking horsebitch of the Trumpocalypse. Just Taylor Swift practicing telling herself to shut up, Taylor Swift wondering about karma, Taylor Swift reading Buzzfeed and taking careful notes, Taylor Swift unable to make a point about anything at all except Taylor Swift. You don't realize, when you're in the thick of it, that self-loathing is just as relentlessly, narrowly egotistical as any other kind of self-obsession. It gets old, finally. It wears you out. It wears everybody out. Right? Yes? Can we all agree to be worn out now? Are we going to allow her to move on? She can't rise up from the dead if we don't let her die first. [3]

Cassy Gress: There was a time when I thought 1989 pajama-parties-and-kittens Taylor was the "real Taylor." I don't know if that really was. What I do know is that trying to figure out who the "real Taylor" is, and arguing on the internet about it, is fucking exhausting. So much of her musical output has been autobiographical, or meant to sound generically autobiographical to women listeners; so much of her reads as "pussycat with claws." Sometimes she emphasizes the pussycat side, soft and vulnerable; "Look What You Made Me Do" is the claws side. But Taylor, who we know has the ability to be nuanced and evocative, is here transmitting her intent (to destroy Kanye, or Katy, or Hiddleston, or her old selves, or just to be the cleverest sausage) like a hammer to the skull. This, like much else about her, is exhausting to watch/listen to. I would much rather close the blinds and put on my headphones and watch GBBO reruns in my jammies. [2]

Olivia Rafferty: Washing in with the arrival of her sixth album are a tidal wave of thinkpieces on Swift, all set within the context of her A-list feuds, miscalculations and politics, or lack thereof. We've all sifted through stories of fake boyfriends, cheap shots and oblivious colonialism, and I'm going to speak for all of us when I say we probably should just all take a goddamn break from the vortex. I'm placing LWYMMD in a vacuum for now. Reaching into the embarrassing depths of my personal history, I can draw up two different past-Olivias who would be a perfect fit for this song. I'm gifting the verse, pre-chorus and middle eight to my 10-year-old self, and the chorus to my 17-year-old self. Olivia at 10 would lap up the overly-dramatic opening lines, the "I. Don't. Likes" and their thick punctuation. It's served with the attitude that would have made you want to stick on a crop top and pick up one of your tiny handbags to fling about during an ill-prepared dance routine -- no, Mum, it's not finished yet! And the moment of absolute pre-teen glory is the cheerleader delivery of the spoken half-verse, "the world moves on another day another drama drama," I can literally see the Beanie Baby music video re-enactment. All of these melodic aspects are playful but lack the precision or maturity you'd expect Swift to deliver on this "good girl grown up" song. When the chorus hits you suddenly mature into that 17 year-old whose friends-but-not-really-friends played that Peaches song at someone's house party. You could probably embarassingly attempt a slut-drop to it in your bedroom, pretending you're a dominatrix who's just split some milk on the floor. But the overall impression is that if Swift is trying to be naughty, sexy or dangerous, she's missed the mark a little. Now at 25 I'm listening and thinking that the chorus still snaps, but if this track was an attempt at sexualising Taylor in a way that's not been done before, it's only made it clear that she's still got a lot of growing up to do. [6]

Joshua Copperman: From the first bar chimes sound effect, I was worried, and I suppose my feelings didn't improve by the time the "tilted stage" line happened. On "Out Of The Woods", Antonoff and Swift brought out the best in each other (Jack's big choruses, Taylor's specific references), but on "Look What You Made Me Do", they bring out the worst (Jack's obnoxiousness, Taylor's pettiness.) Antonoff can do flamboyant earnestness, especially when it blends with Lorde's self-awareness and quirkiness; he just can't do dark and edgy. Or even campy, apparently: the glorious video mostly takes care of that, giving the song an intensity and glamour that it doesn't have nor deserve on its own. Yet even the video often misses the humor inherent in moments like the terrible rap in the second verse, or the already-infamous lift from "I'm Too Sexy". The ultimate effect is like John Green praising a burn of himself without realizing why the burn was deserved in the first place. In this case, it's one Taylor saying to another Taylor "there she goes, playing the victim, again", even though the preceding song couldn't even play the victim or villain well enough. [4]

Mo Kim: There was a time in my life when I looked up to Taylor Swift. I was eighteen once, clearing my throat of all the doubts that haunted it, and the only way I had to express myself was through songs about slights that exploded like firecrackers. But a voice with that strength comes with responsibility. Sometimes you need to stop reveling in the volume of your own speech to see the platform of power you stand on; otherwise you might build a version of yourself on the rickety foundation of innocence only to find it crashing down. On "Look What You Made Me Do," she's still trying for the pottery shard hooks that once made her so important to petty queer kids like me. It works in bits and spurts: that second verse is a bucket of water and an emergency siren to the face, and the pre-chorus utilizes a sinister piano and eerie vocal production to great effect. Too bad, then, that the flimsy chorus and winky-face lyrics cave in on themselves more easily than almost anything she's written before (like a house of cards, some might say). That it so blatantly abjects responsibility onto her audience, however, is the biggest point against it: instead of personability, or at least the pretense of it, there's just layer after layer of metanarrative. Instead of a telling that acknowledges her history -- a complicated, troubling, rich one -- there's just Queen Bee Taylor, sneering over a landfill heap of old Taylors before she discards of all her past selves. I used to hold stadiums in my chest as I listened to the stories Swift spun; now I feel like the lights have finally crackled out, and here she is, dithering in the debris of her crumbling empire, and here we are, looking down. [5]

Josh Love: If Taylor wants to go in, that's her prerogative, but because this is a song that none of us plebes can actually relate to, it's only fair to judge it solely based on whether it goes hard, and I'm sorry to report that Taylor has no bars. "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" and "Shake It Off" seemed like wild stabs at first too, but they possessed an inclusivity that's curdled into Yeezus-level petulance here. There's nothing here to suggest she's capable of making Reputation her Lemonade. At least the video gives me some hope that maybe she realizes she's a complete dork. [3]

Anthony Easton: This is the hardest for me to grade, because I still don't know if it is good, but it is constructed in such a way that people like me (critic, liberal elitist, homosexual) are pressed to have opinions. It steals with such quickness, and with such weirdness that the opinions give birth to other opinons, somewhere between a snake hall and the ouroboros she already quotes. It sounds like Lorde, it samples Peaches, it plays with electroclash, which was a genre that was already heavily recursive. It tries to be without feeling, but it feels all too deeply. That is enough to spend time with, that is enough to unpack. It sounds like Lorde because they are both working with Jack Antonoff. Who is cribbing from who here? Is Lorde playing like Swift, is Swift cribbing Lorde's lankness, are both pulling outside of their influence, by the commercial, mainstreamed weirdness of Antonoff? Swift was always pretty; her main skill was using guile to a stiletto edge. This edges on ugliness, but it is still "ugly." Women like Peaches or the cabaret singer Bridgett Everett know how to sing, have the ambition to sing well, but chose to reject good taste for social and political power. Taylor playing with being ugly, with being flat, with kind of half singing, with no longer being the cheerleader, is not a formal refusal of beauty as a political means but has the louche boredom of a hanger-on, with maybe a bit of anger at not being cool enough. It's a capital blankness that raids and doesn't contribute. Part of the ugliness of Peaches, part of the joy of electroclash, is not only how it absorbs the amoral around it--Grace Jones, The Normal, Joy Division, Klaus Nomi--but that the sex of it works so hard. The fucking is less pleasure than hard work--the grit of dirt and sweat and bodies. When Swift quotes Peaches, she is quoting the reduction of pop to a stripping down of bodies through a formal aesthetic choice. When she quotes noir, it is an attempt to self-consciously think of herself as a body who is capable of doing real damage. Swift flatters herself as someone whose suicide could be a nihilist aesthetic gesture. She flatters herself as a fatale. She's still the kid who does damage, and plays naif. You can't be pretty and ugly. You can't be a naif fatale. You can't pretend not to care about gossip and make your career about what people think of you. You can only be so much of a feminist and rest on your producers this much, and you cannot play at louche blankness if it is so obvious how much work you are doing. This might suggest that I hate the song, but I can't. Swift doing an "ugly" heel turn fills me with poptimist longing, and I want to hear more. [9]

Eleanor Graham: There is a bit in an old Never Mind The Buzzcocks where Simon Amstell says to Amy Winehouse, "We used to be close! On Popworld, we were close." And Amy Winehouse runs her hand down his face and says, half-pityingly and to thunderous laughter, "She's dead." I don't really know why I'm bringing this up except to illustrate that a woman killing off her former self, against Joan Didion's worldly advice, has a kind of power. The crudest hyperbole. Like Amy in Gone Girl. You don't like this thing about me? You wish I was different? Well, guess what -- I'M DEAD! This line, which Swift delivers with the manic kittenish venom of Reese Witherspoon's character in Big Little Lies, is the only redeeming feature of "Look What You Made Me Do." And yet -- even as someone who has openly thrown politics to the wind in the face of such forever songs as "Style", "State of Grace" and "All Too Well" -- this single is too hallucinatory to be a flat disappointment. Quite aside from the Right Said Fred debacle, the "aw" is reminiscent of Julia Michaels, the second verse of a lobotomised Miz-Biz era Hayley Williams, the production ideas of a mid-2000s CBBC show, and the whole thing of a middle-aged man in a wig playing Sky Ferreira in an SNL skit. Disorientating. Almost euphorically horrible. Say what you want about T Swift, but who else is serving this level of pop Kafkaism in 2017? [2]

Maxwell Cavaseno: Weirdly, everything works for me sorta kinda with the second verse. The percussion thuds in the distance just a little more effectively, and Taylor's whining drone of a rap screams up into that high-pitched melodrama, only to crash and burn into an anemic "Push It," as written by someone who forgot Lady Gaga once could fool us into thinking she was funny. Past that subsection and prior, however, the record truly never clicks. You get the sense that Swift, someone so eagerly to seize the moment, doesn't realize that the horror campiness plays her hand too hard. [2]

Edward Okulicz: Saved from being her worst ever single by an out-of-nowhere, brilliant, Lorde-esque pre-chorus (and the existence of both "Welcome to New York" and "Bad Blood"), this is pretty thin gruel for the first single off a first album in three years. Remember how dense her songwriting used to be? See how clumsy it is on this. Taylor Swift's devolution from essential pop star to somewhat annoying head of a cult of personality is complete. At least there'll be better to come on the album. I hope. [4]

Rachel Bowles: I am guessing (and hoping) that "Look What You Made Me Do" is Reputation's "Shake It Off," a comparatively mediocre introduction to what is ostensibly a good album with some timeless songs ("Style" in particular on 1989). Functionally the same, both songs have to reintroduce Taylor in a new iteration to a cultural narrative she cannot be excluded from, both heavy on self-awareness and light on her signature musical flair. Where "Shake It Off" felt anodyne and compressed, "LWYMMD" is beautifully stripped back, chopping between lowly sung and rhythmically spoken word over a synthesiser, strings or a beat -- verses, bridges and middle 8's passing, though ultimately building to nothing -- the chorus of "LWYMMD" being the swirling void at its centre, one that cannot hold, however fashionable it is to build then strip to anti-climax in EDM and pop. What did Taylor do? The absence of her critical action, the bloody, thirsted-for revenge, can only leave us unsatisfied, like watching a Jacobean tragedy on tilted stage without the final release of death for all. What's left is a painful, public death of media citations of Taylor, played over and over, joylessly. [5]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: 1989 is Taylor Swift's worst album, but that shouldn't necessarily be seen as a bad thing. For an artist whose vocal melodies were able to effectively drive a song forward, it was a bit odd hearing her rely so heavily on a song's instrumentation to do all the heavy lifting. Additionally, the painterly lyrics that drew me to her work in the first place were mostly abandoned for ones more beige (simply compare the most memorable lyrics from 1989 and any other album and it becomes very obvious). It didn't work out for the most part, but I was fine with the mediocrity. And considering how stylistically diverse the album was, I very much saw it as a stepping stone for a future project. Which is why I'm completely unsurprised by the doubling down of "Look What You Made Me Do" -- it's a lead single that's heavily tied to her media perception, finds her abandoning any sense of subtlety, and utilizes amelodic singing to put greater emphasis on the instrumentation itself. It's conceptually brilliant for all these reasons, but it doesn't come together all too well. Namely, the lyrics are almost laughably bad and distract from how physical the song can be, and her calculated attempts at announcing her self-awareness have reached the point of utter parody. That the music video ends with Swift essentially explaining the (unfunny) joke only confirms this. [3]

Rebecca A. Gowns: Every new Taylor Swift single is Vizzini from "The Princess Bride," letting us know that she knows that we know that she knows that we know that she is Taylor Swift, and since she knows that we know (etc. etc. etc.), she can be confident drinking the goblet in front of her, since she knows that she switched around the goblets when we weren't looking, and she's laughing like she's clearly outsmarted us, but little does she know that we've been building up an immunity to her odorless white poison for years. [2]

William John: The hyper-specificity is gone. There are no references here to paper airplane necklaces or dead roses in December or in-jokes written on notes left on doors. In their place, platitudes abound, choruses are forgotten, "time" rhymes with "time", and "drama" with "karma". The latter is pursued with a maniacal intensity, the parody spelled out rather brilliantly in "Blank Space" quickly undoing itself. Rather obviously, "Look What You Made Me Do" does not exist in a vacuum, and the timing and nature of its release are what render it particularly dismaying. Its author, not playing to her previously demonstrated strengths, is seemingly at great pains to fuel fire to certain celebrity feuds, all the while insisting on her exclusion from them. It wouldn't matter so much were she to denounce some of her new fans with the same fervour, but for some reason this era she's opted out of interviews, perhaps at the time when some explanation driven by someone outside her inner circle is most needed. It's one way to forge a reputation, indeed. I do like the way she screams "bad DREAMS!" though. [3]

Leonel Manzanares: An auteur whose entire schtick is about framing herself as a victim, now emboldened by the current climate to address "the haters" using the language of abuse, embracing villainhood. No wonder she's considered the ambassador of Breitbart Pop. [4]

Thomas Inskeep: "Don't you understand? It's your fault that I had to go and become a mean girl!" Yeah, okay, whatever, Ms. White Privilege. [2]

Anjy Ou: For the woman who singularly embodies white female privilege, it's kind of embarrassing that she doesn't have the range. [2]

Will Adams: If you had asked me three months ago, "Hey, between 'Swish Swish' and whatever Taylor Swift ends up putting out this year, which is the more embarrassing diss track?", I wouldn't have thought I'd need to think about the answer this much. [2]

Anaïs Escobar Mathers: "Taylor, you're doing amazing, sweetie," said no one. [1]

Sonia Yang: With an artist as polarizing as Swift, it's easy to make the conversation a messy knot about the real life conflicts she's had, but I find it more interesting to tune that all out and focus on the simplicity of her work as a standalone. "Look What You Made Me Do" is Swift at her most coldly bitter yet, but betrays the resignation of long buried hurt. It's "Blank Space" but with none of the fantastical fun; it toes the line between wary irony and jadedly "becoming the mask." Most telling is the dull echo of the song title in place of a real hook, which is actually a favorite point of mine. Reality doesn't always go out with a bang; it's more likely for one to reach a gloomy conclusion than stumbling upon a glorious epiphany. Musically, I'd call this an awkward transition phase for Taylor -- it's not her worst song ever, but it's admittedly underwhelming compared to the heights we've seen from her. However, I've sat through questionable attempts at reinvention from my favorite artists before and I'm still optimistic about the potential for Swift's growth after this. [7]

Jonathan Bradley: There is nothing Taylor Swift does better than revenge, and this is not that. This is the first Swift single that exists only in conversation with Swift's media-created persona -- even "Blank Space" turned on internally resolved narrative beats and emotional moments -- but it offers little for those who hear pop through celebrity news updates, not speakers or headphones. Compare "Look What You Made Me Do" to "Mean," a pointed and hurt missive that scarified its targets with dangerous care; this new single, however, barely extends beyond the bounds of Swift's own skull. "I don't like your little games," levels Swift, her voice venom, "the role you made me play." The central character -- the only character -- in this narrative is Swift, and she enacts an immolation. Her nastiness is the etiolated savagery of Drake in his more recent and loutish incarnation: lonely and lordly, "just a sicko, a real sicko when you get to know me." "I got smarter, I got harder in the nick of time" could be Jesse Lacey on Deja Entendu but sunk into the abyss of The Devil and God -- only it's delivered over ugly, the Knife-like electro clanging. The line that succeeds is classic Swift in its brittle theatrics: "Honey, I rose up from the dead; I do it all the time." The spoken-word bridge -- the song's most blatantly campy and deliciously gothic moment -- acts as a witchy incantation, walking most precariously the line between winking vamp and public tantrum. Swift has brought her monstrous birth to the world's light; contra the title, what it is we've made her do isn't even apparent yet. [8]

Lauren Gilbert: I was 18 when "Fearless" was released, and listened to it on repeat my first term of undergrad, feeling freedom and joy and hope. I listened to "We Are Never Getting Back Together" on repeat in an on-again-off-again relationship that should have ended years before it did. I listened to 1989 over and over again after recovering from a nervous breakdown and for the first time, really, truly focused on choosing a life of joy. I should be Here For This. I am not. Pop music thrives on specificity, and Taylor Swift in particular has made a career of writing about hyperspecific situations. This is... generic; it could be sung by Katy Perry, by a female Zayn, by Kim K herself. Taylor offers no hooks to her own life here, and perhaps that's not a flaw; female songwriters have the right to choose not to expose their own lives, and to write the same generic pop song nonsense that everyone else does. But as someone who bought into the whole TSwift authenticity brand -- even while I recognized it as a brand, even while I knew that she was a multimillionaire looking out for her own interests first and foremost, even as she was the definition of a Problematic Fav -- I can't really say I care that much about new Taylor. I could fault Taylor's politics and personality -- and I'm sure other blurbs will -- but the primary failing here isn't Taylor's non-music life. It's that there's no feeling here; it feels as cynical as the line "another day, another drama". Next. [4]

Andy Hutchins: "I'm Too Sexy" + "Mr. Me Too" - basically any of the elements that made "Mr. Me Too" compelling = "Ms. I'm Sexy, Too." [4]

Tara Hillegeist: Let's leave this double-edged sword hang here for a minute: Taylor Swift's personhood is irrelevant to the reality that she is a better creator than she ever gets credit for. Since her earliest days of the demo CDs she'd like to keep buried, Taylor Swift has never been less interesting or more terrible on the ears than when her songs are forcibly positioned as autobiography. For a decade she has cultivated an audience of lovers and haters alike that never felt her--or truly felt for her--because she never wanted them to know her, driven to own her brand even as she's deliberately averred to own up to what lies behind it. Witness the framing of an Etch-a-Sketch of a song like "Look What You Made Me Do": she releases a song about vengeful self-definition mere weeks after finally winning a years-long case against a man who sexually assaulted her and tried to sue her to silence over it on the sheer strength of her own self-representation, and the air charges itself with intimations that she instead meant it for Katy Perry, whose flash-in-the-pan "friendship" she publicly and memorably disowned in a bad song about bad blood an entire album ago, or perhaps Kim Kardashian-West, a woman whose "feud" with her arguably began with Taylor Swift's attempt to paint herself as the victim in an argument with Kim's husband but ended inarguably and decisively in Kim's favor. To claim someone would mangle her targets so ineptly even the conspiracy theorists have to resort to half-guesses and deliberate misquotes to draw out the barbs is a claim it's especially ridiculous to pin on a musician like Taylor Swift, a control freak who once built a labyrinth of personal references into an album full of songs about protagonists nothing like herself just to prove a point to anyone listening to them that closely about how sturdy the songs would be without knowing any of it. A public conversation that misses the point this drastically can only occur if there's a deliberately blank space where any sense of or interest in the person it's about could exist. There is a hole where this most powerfully self-determining popstar lives where a human life has never been glimpsed--because she cast that little girl and her frail voice aside years ago in search of something altogether more influential than such a weak vessel could ever hold. The girl who cajoled her family into spending enough Merrill-Lynch money to cover for her inability to sing until she had enough professional training to sing the songs she wanted to put to her name was never the girl who could truly be a flight risk with a fear of falling, was never the girl who never did anything better than revenge. But she wanted to be the girl who sang the words for that girl, who put her words in that girl's mouth, more than anything else in the world. She staked her name on nothing less than her ability to capitalize on the reputation she acquired. The Taylor Swift of Fearless and Speak Now was a Taylor Swift who believed she could be someone else in your mind, a songwriter dexterous enough to slip between gothic pop, americana-infused new wave, and pop-punk piss-offs without shaking that crisply machine-tooled Pennsylvania diction. A decade on, she's learned a lesson enough women before her already learned it's shocking she wasn't ready for it: when you're a girl and you make something about being a girl, everyone thinks you just had yourself in mind. The proof that she was more than that--more than the songs on the radio, you might say--was always there; it wasn't hidden, it wasn't obscured. But from Red onwards that Taylor began to die; a straighter Taylor Swift emerged in more ways than just her hair, all the kinks ironing themselves out in favor of her remodeling herself into a different sort of someone else's voice. Where once stood a Taylor Swift who sang for the sake of seeing her words sung by someone else's mouth back to her, there now stood a Taylor Swift who sang everyone else's words about her back to them. Tabloids cannot resurrect a life that a woman never lived, and no amount of retrospective sleight of hand about the girl she might have lied about being can hide the truth that neither can she. Conspiracy theories only flourish when people treat the mystery of human motives like a jigsaw puzzle waiting to be solved--ignoring that she already made it clear that was, still and always, the wrong answer to the questions she wouldn't let them ask. She wanted fame, she wanted a reputation; she wanted them on terms she defined; she never wanted anything else half as much as she wanted that. She has used every means available to her to earn them. Her awkward adolescence took a backseat to her life's dream of conquering America's radio. It's no shock, then, that all this gossip-mongering rings as hollow as a crown. The messy melodrama of Southern sympathy and thin-voiced warbles that defined the sweethearted ladygirls of generations before her and beside her and will define those that come after her, the sloppy humanities of Britney and Dolly and Tammy and Leann and Kesha Rose; these fumbling honesties, these vulnerabilities have never been tools in Taylor's narrative repertoire the way she uses the white girlhood she shares with them has been. She owned her protagonists' anxieties; but those songs have never defined her. This was always the moral to the story of Taylor Swift, to anyone--condemning or compassionate--who cared to really hear it: behind her careful compositions and obsessive pleas, Taylor Swift was never interested in making herself a real person at all. That would have cost her everything she ever wanted. And we, the Cicerone masses, ought very well to ask ourselves, before we let that double-edged sword finally fall: would it have been any more worth it, to anyone, if she had been? [2]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#Taylor Swift #Look What You Made Me Do #reputatio

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happyholygoodfriday-blog · 5 years

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What's Great Friday 2019 -- Heritage & Specifics In USA

The genuinely fantastic Happy Good Friday 2019 could be that the afternoon we overcome Jesus-Christ who will be constructing this bucket onto the cross because of the transgression, even as we likely comprehend he is our Savior, that disturbs us together with all our sin. She had been blessed along with her mum, Mary's tummy then went along to John to its sanctification. He commenced using all the conclusion of software onto the internet.

Around the Great Friday 2019, he also passed his cross his shoulders against the town of Jerusalem into the Golgotha fortress since he split his cross. Of those fighters. After troopers had surrounded the Golgotha valley attacked his hands into stabbing large claws, his thighs were locked with large hooks to get there on Friday. Jesus imagined the practice of everyone his followers must represent our sanity since he dropped, as of the blunders and expired about the crossover the fabulous Friday of all 2019.

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Perfect Friday

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johnhardinsawyer · 5 years

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What Are You Doing Here?

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

12 / 16 / 18

Luke 3:7-18

Isaiah 12:2-6

“What Are You Doing Here?”

(On Fear and Faith, Fire and Fruit)

“You snakey-snakes. . .”

Well, that’s one way to start a sermon. It is not, perhaps, the best way, but it does get one’s attention. In all of the literature on preaching that I have ever read, I have never seen any recommendation that sermons should begin with name-calling or insulting the people who have come to listen to you. But here is John, in today’s reading from Luke’s gospel, shouting at us from the wilderness: “You brood of vipers! God’s judgment is coming soon! Repent!” To which we might say, “Ummm. . . and also with you?!” or “Merry Christmas to you, too, John!” To which John would say, “Y’all, it’s not Christmas yet. It’s still Advent.

Ah, Advent. . . that time in the church year that is filled with music in a minor key and scripture passages with prophets telling us to turn or burn. Why does Advent have to be such a drag? Many of us have already hung the stockings by our chimneys with care, and are dutifully watering our fresh Christmas trees every couple of days. And, this afternoon, I’m sure that some of you have some pre-Christmas errands to run. Christmas is in the air. The Lifetime channel has been playing Christmas movies for weeks now. And there are Christmas carols playing in all the stores, telling us that “it’s the most wonderful time of the year,”[1]or so the song goes.

And yet, here is John the Baptizer – and, I guess, guilty by association, John the Presbyterian – telling us that we are the offspring of poisonous snakes, throwing a big wet blanket over the whole thing, and reminding everyone that it isn’t Christmas yet. “It’s still Advent?” you say. “Well. . . Bah, humbug!”

Why is this happening? Why must we hear John’s persistent voice from the wilderness every year in the season of Advent? One possible explanation is that just as you can’t get to Easter without first going through Good Friday, the same can be said about the birth of the Christ Child. As one commentator writes,

There is no getting to Bethlehem and the sweet baby in the manger without first hearing the rough prophet in the wilderness call us to repentance. . . Trying to avoid or sugarcoat John’s words is not possible. Faithful and fruitful arrival at the manger will be possible only after the careful self-examination and recommitment called for by John.[2]

So, if we are trying to be faithful and fruitful as followers of Jesus, then perhaps we should – yet again – stop long enough on our journey to the manger to hear the words of a man named John who was out in the wilderness along the Jordan River. According to the scriptures, he was “proclaiming [announcing, preaching[3]] a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins.” (Luke 3:3) He was, basically, inviting people to turn their lives around – to turn away from whatever they were doing and to turn toward God – and then to take a dip in the river as a sign that their lives were changed.

A lot of people came out to hear what John had to say and to be baptized by him in the river. But John wanted to make sure that these people were serious about what was taking place. This is where today’s passage begins. Eugene Peterson translates it this way:

“Brood of snakes! What do you think you’re doing slithering down here to the river? Do you think a little water on your snakeskins is going to deflect God’s judgment? It’s your life that must change, not your skin.”[4]

In other words, “What are you people doing here? Search your hearts and try to answer the question of what brought you all the way out here into the wilderness. Are you here to pay lip service to God or are you going to honor God with more than that? Your faithfulness to God can’t just be skin deep. It has to come from your heart – from the inside, out.”

This is not a new thing that John is saying. In the Book of Isaiah, the Lord says: “. . . these people draw near with their mouths and honor me with their lips, while their hearts are far from me.” (Isaiah 29:13) Later, Jesus quotes this passage when he is calling out the hypocrisy of the scribes and Pharisees.[5] John the Baptizer, in today’s reading, wants to make sure that the people who came to be baptized were taking their repentance and baptism seriously. Because, if they weren’t taking those things seriously, there could be some real consequences. John is telling them – and us – to be genuinely concerned about God’s judgment.

Now, this is where things can get uncomfortable, especially in churches – like ours – that don’t talk a lot about God’s judgment. It can be uncomfortable for preachers, too – preachers like me – who don’t talk a lot about God’s judgement, either. “Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” John asks. (Luke 3:7) When we hear this, a lot of us think, “‘Wrath?’ God’s wrath? Yikes!”

I know plenty of people who don’t like hearing about God’s wrath, because most of us prefer a God of love instead of a God of angry judgment. Wrath and judgment are frightening things. And fear can be a very strong motivator, whether we like it or not.

The people who came to be baptized by John lived in fearful times, amongst people of different political and religious persuasions, tax collectors and soldiers stole and extorted money from the people living under Roman occupation, and no one knew who or what they could or should trust. There were rumors of a Messiah – God’s anointed one, who would come to free God’s people and make things right. Some folks thought that it was fake news, but there was this wild looking man[6]named John, out in the wilderness, shouting what he said was good news:

“Prepare the way of the Lord. . . Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low. . . and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.” (Luke 3:4-6)

“In order to prepare for the coming of the Lord – or the Lord’s Messiah – you would be wise to make yourself ready,” John tells the people. “But you can’t skate by on your heritage or your connections, or where you go to church a couple times a year, or where your momma went to church.” John tells the people that they would be wrong to assume that just being a part of the right family tree, or the right faith tradition will keep them safe from God. God is going to do what God is going to do, regardless of what we think we know or who our family might be. What is important, John says, is all about our own lives and the good fruit that those lives bear. If you’re ready for a turning toward God – for a conversion of your mind[7]and heart and spirit – then the only suitable[8]thing for you to do is to live like it matters – to bear good fruit.[9] When he is asked by the crowds what this means, he doesn’t say that their faith in God will save them or their belief in one thing or another, or what creed they might say with their lips. Instead, he tells them to do a curious thing:

“Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise. . . Treat other people fairly. . . Do not threaten people or use your power in ways that cause harm. . .”[10]

In other words, be kind, be generous, and do the right thing: the loving thing. It is important to note that John isn’t just telling us to be nice, here. It goes deeper than that. Much deeper.

As good Presbyterians, we know that there is nothing we can do – no good act – that will earn God’s favor. There is nothing we can do, on our own, that will ensure our salvation, even though there are some who – because they fear the fiery judgment of God will try to do good on their own. Instead, any good that we do is really a sign of the Holy Spirit doing good through us. Any good that we do is a sign of the fruit of the Spirit. So, when John tells us to share what we have out of our abundance, to be fair in our dealings, and to use what power we might have for good, he is saying that these actions on our part are the fruit that God is bearing in our lives from the heart of who we are. Being turned – from within – by God, toward God, and toward the ones who are most in need of God’s compassion, hospitality, and love is the way that leads to the bearing of this fruit. When John Calvin wrote about this passage, he said that good works are the fruit of that turning – the fruit of “repentance” – which “has its seat in the heart and soul, but afterwards yields its fruits in a change of life.”[11] In other words, God is at work, changing our lives, making our repentance real – doing good through us.

“What are you doing here?” John asked the people. He asks us the same thing. Are we here to pay lip service to God or are we here to do more than that – something deeper? Are we here because the sanctuary looks great for the season or are we here to be led by God into a new way of life where God’s good work on us and in us has a direct impact on the world through us?

This is what it means to repent and turn toward God – not that we might somehow earn salvation and eternal life and all that other stuff, though that would be nice – but that we might be instruments of God’s healing and wholeness right here and right now in the world.

This is what the season of Advent is for – a yearly reminder that if we want to “come to Bethlehem and see him whose birth the angels sing,”[12]it would be good to “let every heart prepare him room.”[13] Advent is the season of that preparation, of minor key hymns, and prophets in the wilderness calling us to turn toward God, to examine our hearts and see the holy at work through us in what we do, in how we treat one another, and in how we seek to be an example of what true repentance looks like.

What are you doing here? What are any of us really doing here?

God has gathered us together to prepare ourselves. Because there is someone coming – someone more powerful than we are – who has baptized us with the fire of the Holy Spirit and is at work in the world through us, by the power of that same Spirit. Sometimes, we need a voice, getting our attention, calling us to turn toward God – reminding us of God’s power to change lives. . . your life, and my life, and the life of the world. This change of life and heart and mind is not always easy. We fall short and we fail. But by God’s grace, the judgment that we might fear is wrapped in the love and mercy of Jesus Christ, who changes us from the inside out.

This is good news – for you and for me. Thanks be to God.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

-----------

[1]Edward Pola and George Wyle, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” Columbia Records, 1963.

[2]David Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, ed. Feasting on the Word – Year C, Volume 1 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009) 69. Kathy Beach-Verhey – “Homiletical Perspective.”

[3]Walter Bauer, A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979) 431.

[4]Eugene Peterson, The Message – Numbered Edition(Colorado Springs: NAV Press, 2002) 1411. Luke 3:7-8.

[5]See Matthew 15:7-8.

[6]See Mark 1:6.

[7]Walter Bauer, 511-512.

[8]Walter Bauer, 78.

[9]Luke 3:7-8, paraphrased, JHS.

[10]Luke 3:11-14, paraphrased, JHS.

[11]John Calvin, Calvin’s Commentaries – Vol. XVI (Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 2009) 189-190.

[12]Glory to God – The Presbyterian Hymnal (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2013) 113, “Angels We Have Heard on High.” Text: French carol; trans, James Chadwick, 1860.

[13]Glory to God – The Presbyterian Hymnal, 134. “Joy to the World.” Text: Isaac Wats, 1719.

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kickoffme-blog · 7 years

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Alex Newell Won’t Fit into Your Mold, But He Might Squeeze into Your Shoes

New Post has been published on http://www.kickoffme.com/alex-newell-wont-fit-into-your-mold-but-he-might-squeeze-into-your-shoes/

Alex Newell Won’t Fit into Your Mold, But He Might Squeeze into Your Shoes

It’s a sweltering late afternoon in June and Alex Newell is struggling to put on his shoes. “Dear feet.

You will not be swollen today,” Newell, 24, says as he squeezes his toes into a pair of lacey black Christian Louboutins in his trailer on New York City’s Upper West Side.

“I’m an 11 in women’s. It’s not bad. Would I rather be an 8? Absolutely.”

After about 30 seconds of grunting and tugging, Newell is in. “Yes!” he yelps, as he slips in his heel.

He trots to the mirror to admire his full look: red-bottomed Louboutins, a matching black lace choker, and an all-white suit. (He’ll add a silver and black wig later.) “This is a moment,” he says.

Newell has an affinity for shoes.

It’s likely why he’s willing to withstand the pain (and bleeding) of the glittery silver pair of Aldo heels his stylist picked out for his opening performance—a violin-powered rendition of “True Colors,” alongside singers Hayley Kiyoko and Wrabel, in honor of Cyndi Lauper.

It’s also likely why he snuck into his mother’s closet at 10 years old (around the time he began having inklings of his sexuality) to try on her high heels, or why he auditioned for the role of Lola, a thigh-high boots-obsessed drag queen, on Broadway’s “Kinky Boots” four times.

“I think the higher the heel, the closer to god,” Newell says.

There perhaps is nowhere closer to god than where Newell is right now at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, a Gothic upper Manhattan church, where Logo will film its show.

Soon, the cathedral, a religious worship house-turned-pink-tinted gala, will be filled with hundreds of LGBTQ leaders—an irony Newell, a Catholic school alum, fully understands.

“I love it. All the homos in one little church. It’s such an oxymoron,” Newell says.

Born and raised in a town just north of Boston, Newell spent most of his childhood at Catholic school, where he was one of less than five black students. “I had my best Caucasian upbringing,” he says.

The only place he saw others that looked like him was at church, where Newell attended every Sunday since he was a toddler to sing in the choir. It was also where he would later develop conflicted feelings over the bible’s teachings.

Newell’s mother discovered his talent at age two after he wandered onto the stage at a state fair when his mother briefly turned around to fetch him a juice. “She started panicking, looking for me, and then she just heard my voice,” Newell says.

He later caught the performing bug at 11, when he saw a local theatre production of “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” an all-black Musical set in the Harlem Renaissance. “I would see Broadway shows that were on PBS and I would be in love with them, but I never saw anyone that looked like me,” he says.

It was a running theme: Newell was one of three black students in his high school—and with a high-pitched voice and natural sashay, he easily stuck out. Still, it wasn’t all tough. While his peers sorted through their own sexuality, Newell barely gave his a second thought. “Walking around the house in my mother’s heels, I was like, ‘I think that’s it, guys!’” he says,

At 17, on a whim, Newell came out to his mother by impulsively telling her right before bed. “I screamed it at my mother and she said, ‘Go to bed. I just took a Xanax,’” he says. “The next morning she was like, ‘I’m fine. Are you fine?’ And I was like, ‘I’m great! I love you.’”

But not everyone was so accepting. As word spread in his church, Newell caught the attention of his pastor, who pulled his mother aside to inform her that Newell’s sexuality was sinful. “He said the lifestyle that I chose goes against the bible,” Newell says. “Everyone who is a diehard Christian, they always use the bible against things they don’t like. But I’m pretty sure the bible says, ‘God is love.’ So if you can’t love someone else, aren’t you going against the bible?”

In his junior year, Newell applied for a regular role on “Glee” via a Myspace audition. Months later, he was selected to compete on a little-known show called “The Glee Project”—not quite the same, but if chosen, Newell would win a recurring role on “Glee.” Newell quickly agreed, taking a leave absence from high school and flying to Los Angeles that same week.

He eventually made it to the top four, losing out on the main role but still earning a two-episode consolation prize—a role that would later become a series regular and catapult him to national stardom.

In April 2012, about a year after “The Glee Project” ended, Newell made his “Glee” debut as Wade Adams, a shy off-stage, Sasha Fierce on-stage transgender student who would later go by “Unique.” By September 2013, Newell was promoted to series regular and earned widespread acclaim for portraying one of the first transgender high school students on television. “I was just in Denver last week at a nightclub and this trans male came up to me and he said that he wears his [surgical] scars proudly because of me,” Newell says. “It took everything in my body not to sob.”

Despite the praise, Newell is still a part of ongoing controversy regarding cisgender actors playing transgender characters. (In a viral Twitter thread, transgender actress Jen Richards explained that cisgender actors, specifically men, playing transgender characters is dangerous because it conveys to audiences that “being a trans women is just a man performing.”) It is a controversy Newell understands but also sees limitations to. “Everything’s a double-edged sword. I’m an actor, so at the end of the day, it’s whoever is best for the role. But I’m also a human,” he says. “I will say, since my character never fully transitioned, it kind of worked in a way. I myself may not be trans, but I am heavy on the gender-noncomforming.”

Photo: FOX

As “Glee” entered its final seasons, Newell was already looking ahead. While signing his last series regular deal, Newell was approached by Atlantic Records to release his own music. He jumped at the opportunity, debuting his first extended play, “POWER”—a Whitney Houston-esque catalogue—in 2016. Though it didn’t launch him into Beyonce’s stratosphere, Newell isn’t discouraged, with a new single out in August and another EP and album in the pipeline.

That level of confident optimism is likely what captured the attention of Adam Lambert in 2016 to bring Newell on his tour, or caught the eye of NBC that same year to greenlight “Imaginary Friend,” a comedy starring Newell in the lead role.

. He seemed to be hitting all the marks, until the director turned him down for his figure.

“They said my weight would inhibit me from playing the role, which is not true, but to each their own,” he says. “I was like, ‘This is a show where they’re encouraging you to be who you want to be. Don’t let them tell you who you should be.’ They literally looked me in the face and told me I was too big to play a role. There’s no limitation. My weight does not prescribe what I cannot do.”

The discrimination also followed Newell through his personal life where he would continually encounter relationship profiles preaching, “No fats. No femmes. No blacks.”

“We’re in a community where we want so much to be accepted yet we don’t accept each other,” Newell says. “We all suck the same dick, so why is it that you take it upon yourself to create some sort of alpha gay? The gay that is the ‘right’ kind of gay.”

Before he met his boyfriend, Newell admits he was never called “beautiful,” a term he’s still getting used to. “I was nothing like any of his 6’1”, white, blonde, blue-eyed, go-to-the-gym-nine-times-a-day boyfriends.

I was like, ‘You do know that I’m 5’7”, I have thick thighs, and my hair is black, right?” Newell says. “I had the insecurities about it all the time. It was really hard to get out of that. But here I am. I’ve risen above it. He always said I was beautiful, regardless. It’s a hard thing to hear because no one else has said it.

At the end, Newell’s face drops. He turns to his stylist, gives her a death glare, and shakes his head.

She quickly rushes to him to swap his heels for flip flops. Even the most mold-breaking still have to break in their shoes.

July 1, 2017 11:25 pm (Source)

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dawnajaynes32 · 7 years

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Chasing Down Creativity with Sam Harrison

I remember sitting in Starbucks one Thursday afternoon sipping a grande whatever while writing a post for the In-house Designer Blog. At 5:54 p.m. my iPhone alerted me that I received an invitation to join someone’s LinkedIn network. When I picked up the phone, that someone was Sam Harrison. THE Sam Harrison. The same Sam Harrison who authored Zing!, one of many great books he has written for creatives, as well as being a perennial favorite speaker at the HOW Design Live Conference. I respected Sam’s work so much and had become a real fan long before receiving his invitation. I thought, “How in the world does Sam Harrison know me?”

When I read his kind and encouraging InMail, I felt like all the late nights writing blog posts from my experiences as an in-house manager (in the deepest of corporate trenches) were validated. My mind was blown. It took me almost a full day to figure out how to respond to Sam because I didn’t want to come off like a country bumpkin, even though I lived around a bunch of small towns including Lizard Lick, N.C.

What I like most about Sam is that he doesn’t put on airs. He is a genuinely good guy who immediately sets you at ease, drawing you in with his keen creative insights, unique brand of southern charm, and an accent that could only be dipped in warm molasses. A wildly talented giver, Sam wants all designers to learn how to spot the very best ideas to develop and share while making their careers truly zing throughout the process.

If you’ve got a few minutes, I suggest you kick back, grab a bite, and learn a few things you never knew about Sam Harrison. When you’re finished, register for HOW Design Live in Chicago by midnight tonight/Feb. 1 and get the lowest price for the whole conference—including his session Slay Your Zombies, Slash Your Zigzags, Show Your Zing! Enjoy my chat with author and speaker Sam Harrison.

Ed Roberts: Hey Sam, what’s for lunch?

Sam Harrison: I’m working at home today, so I’ll slap together a quick grilled cheese and arugula sandwich. I learned about this sandwich several years ago from our mutual friend Bryn Mooth and her writes4food blog. Bryn’s version is two kinds of cheeses and arugula—and I also add sliced pickled beets to mine and press it in our George Foreman grill, so it’s like a panini.

Ed: That sounds delicious! I’m having a boring protein shake. LOL! I’ve been wondering… what’s your earliest creative memory?

Sam: My mother had a theater and dancing background, so she made sure her children got heavy doses of creativity. When I was about three years old, she started a class called “Expression” for kids in our neighborhood. I have vivid memories of us in her music room reciting poetry, singing songs, learning dance steps, putting on skits, and writing stories—expressing ourselves in creative ways.

Of course, at the time, we boys would have preferred to be outside playing in the mud, but now I wouldn’t take anything for those memories—and the experience’s creative foundation.

Ed: Was there any opposition to your creative spirit?

Sam: No, as the Expression class demonstrates, our parents encouraged us to be creative. Saying “I’m bored” was pretty much a cardinal sin in our household. My mother would reply, “Great—being bored means you get to invent something to do!” And she would expect me to perk up and get busy being creative—drawing, writing, making up a game, whatever.

That stuck with me. I think for most creative people, boredom becomes a motivator for action. Some people can just lounge around being bored, but I believe creative people abhor that condition and employ their imagination to seek relief.

Ed: You’ve worked in-house and then became an author—why?

Sam: I’ve worked in all arenas of creative communications—freelance, agency, consultant and, as you mentioned, for many years I directed a large in-house creative team for an S&P 500 firm.

Several years ago, I reached that satisfying career point where I could step back from being totally focused on “making a living” and look at ways to offer out what I learned along the way. Some of that is in areas of speaking and coaching, some in areas of teaching and writing, and some in areas of service work.

Ed: Your books and other writings focus mostly on generating ideas and presenting ideas, right?

Sam: Yes, having ideas and expressing ideas are two key elements of a creative life. But from childhood on, forces are often at work to inhibit our creativity. When we’re growing up, the suppressors might be parents or teachers, in adulthood, they may be bosses or clients—or rigid structures, meaningless paperwork, never-ending deadlines or even the morning headlines.

Creativity can’t be taught, but what I try to do is help people overcome creative inhibitors by reminding them of creative resources that already exist inside them—and help them discover or rediscover ways to tap into their well of imagination. After all, you can’t wait for inspiration. You have to chase it down with a rope and net.

That’s why I wrote ZING!, IdeaSpotting as well as speak and coach on creativity-related topics—to help people search out inspiration to keep their creative energy alive and flowing, even when facing deadlines, criticism and doldrums.

Ed: And then you wrote IdeaSelling to help people present their ideas?

Sam: Exactly. When I would give talks or workshops on creativity, people would often come up afterwards to say, “I have lots of ideas, but my boss and clients won’t approve them.” Those comments put me on the additional path of writing and talking about presentation skills and selling techniques for creative people.

It’s useless to be a creative thinker and have great ideas if we’re unable to express those ideas in ways that get them accepted by others.

Ed: What are three things you would recommend designers do to improve their ability to present their work?

Sam: When I coach people on presentation skills, one of the first things I say is be yourself—but be the best version of yourself. Be at the top of your game. Too often people say they want to “be natural,” so they give presentations in the same way they talk to friends in a bar or at a restaurant. And consequently they come across as disorganized, rambling and unprofessional. Rise up—when you present, people want you to be yourself, but they also expect a professional performance.

Next, practice what you’re going to say and how you’re going to say it. For God’s sake, don’t wing it. Top performers in sports, music and other endeavors have a saying: You play like your practice. And that’s also true with presentations. If you want to present effectively, practice effectively. Practice to get it right, and practice not to get it wrong.

And third, when presenting your idea, talk about the “so what” more than the “what.” Rather than “here’s what I’ve got,” veer toward “so what this idea means to you and your customers is…” Don’t try to sell the idea—instead, explain and sell the value that the idea has for decision makers and their customers.

Ed: Since you directed an in-house team during part of your career, how do you suggest in-house managers and their teams keep their motivations and passions alive and well while working in-house?

Sam: This can be an issue wherever we work, but I agree it is often more difficult in-house—maybe because of bureaucracy or maybe because clients are in the same organization and probably in the same building. This close proximity sometimes cramps creativity.

Clearly there are dozens of ways to stay motivated and passionate, but a one-word formula is curiosity. Curiosity is jet fuel for creativity and passion, so it’s important for in-house people to push themselves to be intensely curious about the organization and its products, employees, customers, shareholders, systems, facilities—everything.

John Cage used to say, “I’m trying to become unfamiliar with what I’m doing.” Getting past the familiar to become a beginner again re-inspired him. It’s similar with in-house creatives—it’s easy to become uninspired when surrounded by familiar systems, familiar people, familiar products, familiar customers. Deliberate curiosity can help team members discover ways to become unfamiliar with those surroundings—and rediscover the awe of a beginner.

Encourage curiosity by bringing in people from different areas of the organizations to talk about what they do and how they do it. Send team members out to ask questions to employees or customers, then have them develop talk boards or videos for the team meetings. Go into the marketplace on a regular basis and notice small details. Dig in.

Encourage curiosity in life. Creativity isn’t a 9-to-5 job, so challenge team members to get out and pay acute attention to shops and restaurants, streets and parks, young kids and old people, anything and everything. Seeking outside inspiration is an obvious tactic, but it can be forgotten if in-house creatives are totally focused on their in-house world.

And when one team member gets inspired, urge them to inspire others. As Plato talked about in the Ion, the muse inspires a person, then that person shares their inspiration and a chain is formed.

Ed: Really great insights, Sam! Who are some of your creative heroes and how have they influenced your creative sensibilities, aesthetics and work?

Sam: I have so many and my list keeps growing. Take people like Lin-Manuel Miranda, who was browsing in an airport store, picked up a thick book about Alexander Hamilton and turned it into a blockbuster, hip hop musical.

This morning I was admiring the creativity of two young women, Carly Zakin and Danielle Weisberg, who started The Skimm—a punchy, inviting online news update. It’s really targeted to young urban women, but it’s so well done that I go to it almost every morning.

But let me quickly talk about three creative people I’ve gotten to know from some recent readings: David Plowden, Mariam Rothschild and Louis Agassiz. I see them as creative heroes because all three have helped people learn to see and observe life in inspiring ways.

David Plowden, as you know, is a photographer who uses a large format camera to take incredible black-and-white photos of abandoned buildings, farm machinery, gas stations, freight yards and railroad stations. While Plowden’s subjects are mundane, his photographs are mesmerizing. You’re compelled to stop and really look and study every detail.

Mariam Rothschild was a British natural scientist and author with broad knowledge. For example, one thing she was an expert on was fleas, if you can imagine that. “If you were a flea,” she would tell people, “you could jump to the height of Rockefeller Center about 30,000 times without stopping.” And she would say, “My microscope is my marijuana,” because looking at tiny things gave her such a huge high.

Even though she lived to the ripe old age of 96, Rothschild often said her life could never be long enough, with all there was to see and learn. To me, that’s a creative life at its finest.

And do you know of Louis Agassiz? He was a Harvard biology professor long ago. He was a major creative figure at the time and a friend to other creative giants like Emerson, Thoreau, Longfellow and Hawthorne.

He earns my ballot as a creative leader because of the way he taught his biology students to observe. He would make students stare at a dead fish in a tin pan for days at a time, then have them write and draw about what they saw. “Look at your fish!” was his constant mantra, emphasizing that discoveries are frequently right in front of those who pay attention.

Ed: If you could grab a bite with anyone in our industry alive or dead, who would it be and why?

Sam: My list could fill a banquet hall, but if I could pick dining partners on this particular day, I would invite Ray and Charles Eames. I’m inspired by the Eames’ furniture designs, of course, but also by the ways they sparked creativity in others, with things like Create-It-All Cards and Thinking in Powers of Ten.

And I love the story of the Eames escorting their employees to the circus to teach the value of creative teamwork. They would take employees behind the scenes and tell them to pay close attention to how all circus employees work as a team to make sure the show is creative and exciting. “Don’t let the blood show,” Charles Eames would say, emphasizing that circus performances look effortless, but everybody is actually working together like crazy in the arena and in the background for a creative, professional show.

Ed: Tell me what attendees can expect, and learn, from your “Slay Your Zombies, Slash Your Zigzags, Show your Zing” session at HOW Design Live this coming May?

Sam: It’ll be a fun and inspiring session with lots of tips on ways to zing through work and life with passion, creativity and confidence.

The session will look at how to break out of those zombie slumps where we’re walking dead, void of passion and ideas. We’ll target those mind-boggling zigzags where we stretch ourselves too far in multiple directions and are filled with self-doubt. We’ll touch on a few ways to present with clarity and confidence.

That’s a ton to stuff into 45 minutes, so it’ll be a fast-moving, info-packed session with suggestions that people can start using the minute they walk out of the room.

Ed: This is going to be another one of those can’t miss HOW Design Live Conference sessions. Count me in, Sam!

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