#wax bodega

[pretendpopstar]

Why Would I Watch by Hot Mulligan

The packaging for this album looks so pretty with the pink vinyl.

[sinceileftyoublog]

Home Is Where Interview: We’re Already Here

Photo by Texas Smith

BY JORDAN MAINZER

“It’s a whale.” That’s how Home Is Where vocalist Brandon MacDonald answered to me, over email, my question, “What’s the story behind the cover art?” referring to the front of their incredible sophomore record the whaler (Wax Bodega). On the surface, given the amount of energy she poured into writing and recording the record--along with performing the songs on a nightly basis--I don’t blame her for the brevity. Dig deeper, and the whaler is riddled with simple verses, or at least direct statements chiding life’s paradoxes. They come sandwiched between comparatively complex verses likening the world to a self-eating organism, an animal or a human devouring its own entrails in an act of desperation. In its 35-minute runtime, the whaler journeys through cultural and sociopolitical history, from 9/11 to the death of Dale Earnhardt (Florida’s 9/11, as MacDonald says). It’s an emo concept record whose concept isn’t that far-fetched: We live in a world where we’re getting used to every day life getting more horrifying.

You can understand why the whaler is a mere reflection of real life for the Palm Coast, Florida quartet. It’s been an emotionally trying few years for MacDonald, who suffered a nervous breakdown in 2021. As the band released their debut album i became birds to critical acclaim, rendering them the unofficial ambassadors of fifth-wave emo, MacDonald transitioned. But as a result of horrific anti-trans legislation passed earlier this year in Florida, both she and guitarist Tilley Komorny, also trans, left the home state they loved in order to protect themselves. With this added context, the emotional outpour of the whaler becomes all the more powerful. MacDonald describes it on opener “skin meadow” as “spilling guts to the gutless;” “Forgive me for giving a shit!” she barks, on a song that contrasts Komorny’s gorgeous, twinkling Midwest emo guitar arpeggios with warbling singing saw, horns, and gang vocals scream-chanting the title. In general, the instrumentation and composition on the whaler thrillingly wavers between emo/hardcore and Americana, sometimes within the same song, emphasizing the band’s influences, and something that’s actually a positive cultural output from this godforsaken country.

The narrator on the whaler--whether that’s MacDonald herself, a character, or a collection of characters--concerns themselves with how we interact with both other individuals and society as a whole. On “lily pad pupils”, the titular whaler kills whales because, simply, it’s what they do. “I am the whaler,” MacDonald repeats as if to give the narrator’s life meaning, over Komorny’s banjo and Dan Pot’s pedal steel. A hangman brings flowers to an execution. Everyone is trying to extract beauty from an ugly situation. On the flipside, the loveless couple at the altar on “yes! yes! a thousand times yes!” are lying to themselves and each other, faking normalcy, getting eaten up by mosquitos as the song transforms from disco beat to hardcore blast, their camouflage wearing off. “9/12″ consists of twinkly piano, a sample of children speaking, and a single line: “And on September 12th, 2001, everyone went back to work.” It recalls the oft-memed picture of George W. Bush reading to a classroom, dumbfounded as he’s being told that planes have crashed into the Twin Towers. Everyone’s numb, and nobody knows how to react or move on. On a smaller scale, the twangy “daytona 500″ illustrates the cyclical aftermath of localized death: “Animal control came to collect last night’s roadkill form the roadside / Where fathers of drunk drivers plant a cross / For their loss when the wreck is hauled off,” MacDonald sings. Her sneer, knotty delivery, and imagery all recall Jeff Mangum, an admitted influence, from fever dreams of fluids and loose teeth to “lips knitted kissin' like pigeons shittin' on windshields.”

If there’s a line on the whaler that acts as the album’s thesis statement, it’s on “whaling for sport”. MacDonald knocks down the idea of a traditional higher being when she sings, “An all-knowing God doesn’t know what it’s like / To not know anything at all.” Twenty three years ago, Isaac Brock sang, “The universe is shaped exactly like the Earth / If you go straight long enough, you’ll end up where you were,” and MacDonald’s pearls of wisdom recall a similar idea. The folks uniquely positioned to comment on our hell-scape are not the usual talking heads--they’re the ones who on “chris farley” watch as a garden grows over a buried body, who on “floral organs” are “spitting teeth into each other's mouths back and forth until we make a smile.” The wheels of their racecars spin and spin, until they lurch into forward motion, even if they crash. the whaler ends on a tape loop, the same as the start of “skin meadow”. We wake up and do it all over again.

In the middle of their tour, MacDonald was nice enough to answer a few questions over email about the whaler, her writing style and mindset, and playing live. Read our exchange below, edited for length and clarity.

Photo credit: Texas Smith (Prairie Creek Productions)

Since I Left You: the whaler imagines a world where every day is 9/11 and we've become numb to tragedy. How close do you think we are to that world in reality?

Brandon MacDonald: Reality is subjective and easily manipulated. I wouldn't recognize it if you pointed it out. We’re already here. We've been here for a long time.

SILY: As sad as it is, some folks become numb to tragedy as a means of self-protection. Would you say that's the case for any of the characters on the record?

BM: I don't see it as self protection, I just see it as what happens after being inflicted with endless tragedy. The characters on the record are all different people, and at the same time, the same person. I don't feel protected by the numbness, just bored and afraid.

SILY: There's some tongue-in-cheek humor on the record, from Florida lore to a song named after Chris Farley. How important is humor to you as a coping mechanism, writing strategy, or both?

BM: My grandmother always says after something rough happens that, “If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.” That's where some of the funny comes from. It’s hysterical and unnerving.

SILY: Despite the song "9/12", you've posited that 9/11 was the true turning point in our history, a before-and-after type event. Do you feel that way about any other world events or eras, even if not quite as impactful?

BM: When Dale Earnhardt died. That was Florida's 9/11. Praise Dale.

SILY: Were there any newfound musical influences on the record?

BM: Not really. We just stuck to what we like. Bob Dylan, The Beach Boys, Joan Of Arc, Hank Williams. things like that.

SILY: Do you pay attention to reviews of your music or what the general public says about it? Has your relationship to the record changed at all since it's come out?

BM: I see some--I don't really think about it too much. The record is complicated for me because the writing happened during a really dark period, but recording it and touring on it has been the most fun I've had. I like that some folks like it.

SILY: The record has such a wide array of instruments on it. How do you adapt these songs to a live performance?

BM: We have very different approaches to playing them live than in the studio. I want the songs live to be intimate and fun. In the studio, I can't help but want to add layers and mess around. Some of the more dense songs are strange to play at first, but folks don’t seem to mind the absence of certain instruments. Maybe we don’t need them at all?

SILY: You recently shared a tribute compilation for I Became Birds. Even if not part of the same "scene," how would you describe the kinship you feel with the bands that were included on there?

BM: I don't really know what the scene is. I just have some friends, and they make good music. I admire all the acts on the comp. We all owe a lot to Heccra for what all of us are doing with music, whether we know it or not. He's the first.

SILY: What's next for Home Is Where?

BM: LP3. DVD copy of Barnyard.

Home Is Where tour dates:

7/13/2023 Nashville, TN Drkmttr 7/14/2023 Atlanta, GA The Masquerade 7/15/2023 Orlando, FL Wills Pub 9/13/2023 Phoenix, AZ The Rebel Lounge 9/14/2023 Santa Ana, CA Constellation Room 9/15/2023 Los Angeles, CA Knitting Factory NoHo 9/16/2023 Berkeley, CA 924 Gilman 9/19/2023 Portland, OR Holocene 9/20/2023 Seattle, WA El Corazón 9/22/2023 Salt Lake City, UT The Beehive 9/23/2023 Colorado Springs, CO Vultures

[m3t4ln3rd]

Holy Fawn debut video for "Void of Light"

Band: Holy FawnSong: “Void of Light”Director: Chase WarrenAlbum: Dimensional BleedRelease Date: September 9th, 2022Label: Wax Bodega Guitarist Ryan Osterman explains of the new track: “I’m not sure what it is about our nature as musicians but at our core, we love to tinker. Whenever we get something new, we have to set it up and hit record just to see what happens. For ‘Void of Light’ in…

[jeremythejirachi]

Hot Mulligan Announce New Album, Go Golfing With "Shhhh! Golf Is On"

New @HotMulligan album drops May 12 on @WaxBodega.

It’s time. Hot Mulligan, the #1 Hot New Band, have unveiled a brand new album. Their third album titled Why Would I Watch, which was recently named one of the most anticipated albums of 2023 on here, comes out May 12 via Wax Bodega Records (Carly Cosgrove, Maybeshewill, Super American). Produced by Brett Romnes (Heart Attack Man, I Am The Avalanche, Save Face,) Why Would I Watch features 12…

[stronglobe]

Arm's length

4/9

Dallas TX

[brokensoundkuci]

Song of the Day (Day # 484)

☀️☀️☀️

Song: Up In Smoke

Artist: Arm's Length

Album: Up In Smoke - Single

Year Released: 2023

https://armslengthontario.bandcamp.com/

Lyrics:

Exhaust my options in a house caught up in smoke But I'd rather face the fire if I stay or if I go Damned if I do Damned if I don't

I spoke too soon How should I remember you? You call me phases of the moon Open lighting like an open wound I've got enough to lose And make myself empty When I need to float And you told me "Once you get in, the water isn't cold"

Exhaust my options in a house caught up in smoke But I'd rather face the fire if I stay or if I go When you don't believe in nothing If I come back as a ghost Well I would makе my presence know

Do what you want to mе Take to your heart's desire You put your hands on me And I don't even flinch I swear it follows me like Smoke around the fire Alone and lingering like a Friend that won't take a hint

Do what you want to me Take to your heart's desire You put your hands on me And I don't even flinch And I swear it follows me like Smoke around the fire Alone and lingering like a Friend that won't take a hint

[tainted-liquor]

'Cuddle Monster(s)☾‧₊˚ ⋅

E42!Miles Morales x Witch!BlackFem!Reader ┆˚✧Ingredients: Crack, kisses, and a lil bit of smiles! ┆∘⋆TWs: Cursing, Reader being a menace, n I think that’s it? ┆⁺˚⋆W/C: I’ll fix this later😭 ┆`✦A/N: I lowkey used this as spanglish practice

"Miles? Can you get me some basil and patchouli while you're out?" You called from your bathroom as you heard your front door swing open. "I'm only going to the bodega, but I'll see what I can find Mami!" he shouted back from downstairs before swiftly exiting out your house. You smiled to yourself, thinking about just how much you loved your boyfriend as you threw a slew of items and herbs into a small jar. For the past 5 months, you've been perfecting your new craft of spirit-raising, the art of manifesting a living vessel from the hole between your world and theirs. These spirits, or "monsters" as many people would call them are...usually grateful when you raise them, often repaying your kindness by offering protection and energy in exchange for being their path to this world and theirs.

Since these spirits can be seen as an extension of you due to bringing them into this world, they tend to be in tune with your emotions. When you cried, they cried, when you yelled, they yelled, and when you loved, so did they. When Miles first learned about your ability to pull spirits through that invisible portal, he didn't really care. He's murdered people before, so what's a little witchcraft? After all, he hadn't actually seen exactly what came through that portal just yet.

You casually dumped more herbs and tiny crystals into your jar, maintaining perfect focus on the task at hand as you slowly dumped almond oil into the jar. When everything was finished, you sealed the jar with purple wax before throwing it rather aggressively into your full bathtub. You closed your eyes, silently hoping that you didn't do shit wrong as you kneeled down next to the tub, dunking a hand into the numbing and cold water for a couple of minutes. When you didn't notice anything happening, you sighed to yourself and went to pull your hand out of the water. But no sooner than you moved, you felt something unfamiliar and cold grab your hand.

You felt a harsh tug, then watched as what appeared to be an all-grey horned creature emerged through the tub. It was around 8 feet in height and looked like something straight out of a horror fantasy movie. It had no face, only one massive pitch-black eye where what would be a nose. It stared at you unblinkingly, processing its surroundings before emerging from your bathtub and standing behind you. It looked more afraid of you than you were slightly of it, so you gave it a small wave and a pat on the...knee? to calm it down.

It sat down motionless and limp in the bathroom, radiating content as you heard the front door open. It wasn't even a fraction of a second before the creature came darting out of the room, you following quickly behind it as it advanced toward Miles. Miles didn't even get the chance to scream before it scooped him up, hugging him like the tiniest of babies as its eye closed in joy. "WHEW. OKAY. MAMI, QUÉ ES ESTO?" He shouted with wide eyes. "It's...my new protector! I just raised it...It's not gonna hurt you it just loves you" you quickly explained as Miles froze up in the monster's hands. "Shit...warn me next time" he huffed, slowly relaxing as he processes what was happening.

From that day forward, he learned to accept the sudden appearance of various creatures in his house. A bone dog, a very very long horse, several people that weren't quite people, and various spirits that took on many many forms. He wasn't gonna pretend like it never caught him off guard or scared him, occasionally stepping out of the shower to see a monster or two staring at him silently always managed to raise his heart rate by a couple beats per minute. He knew they loved him with the same affection you always gave him, so he was never truly terrified by them. He had been told it was rude to not speak to them, so he always gave them a rather quiet and shaky "Hola..." whenever he saw them.

"Mama, te amo tan mucho...pero, por favor dime cuando tus 'spirits' will be watching me shower."

"Sorry love!"

And it never quite stopped there. Whenever you were outside of the house and a few entities decided to loom and fawn over your boyfriend, he always knew how you felt in the moment. There were times when he would be sitting on the couch, eating a nice bowl of cereal and a sea of non-human crying could be heard. He immediately jumped up from whatever it was he was doing, running to his phone to check on you. Whether you were minor stressed or full-blown crying, he was able to tell how you truly felt at the drop of a hat. In some sense he was grateful because it allowed him to further understand and navigate...you!

"Mami are you mad at me?"

"...no"

"Tell me the truth, c'mon muñequita"

"What makes you think I'm mad?"

"You deadass?" he huffed as he pointed at the strange thing hovering above him, staring at him with crossed arms and an annoyed grimace.

"okay maybe..."

[thebandghostofficial]

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

We wish to inform you EXTENDED IMPERA Deluxe Collectors Edition is available for pre-order in the #LomaVistaRC Bodega featuring unreleased cover "Stay (Extended Impera Version)", Phantomime EP (with exclusive jacket), Impera & Live from the Ministry EP (with 3D Gatefold jacket with light feature) all on colored vinyl plus Ghost Wax Seal Kit in embroidered satin pouch. All contents enclosed in a copper foiled numbered box of 6K copies worldwide.

Pre-order now! Releases July 28th.

[scooplery]

i'm so excited for my music show next sunday 😭 i haven't been to a show since last July 😭😭😭 if u are going to wax bodega tour in Boston next week hmu

[flashlight-smallknife]

Hello update I still wanna use tumblr as a personal diary but I’m currently going thru a phase where I’m hanging out with my favorite bands irl and also am about to go on tour with the band I joined and also my life is kind of a whirlwind and I wanna respect the privacy of my pals bc they are increasingly public-facing and increasingly occupying more of my time!!!

Got guest listed for the first time for a show at the canal club last night and got home at 4 in the fucking morning but holy shit I had a blast!!! Also got to hang out w some of the sweetest humans from another DIY band I saw back in the beginning of January who also got guest listed lol holy shit I am at the cool kids table and I belong here!!!

Next week I go to wax bodega w my pals and then I see Spanish love songs and oso oso twice!!!! And then my band goes on tour!!!! And WE see Spanish love songs and oso oso together bc the person who produces our records is playin in oso this tour!!!! I am going to a total of 14 gigs this month!!! I’m in a band!!!! I belong here!!!! Holy shit!!!!!!

[tropes-and-tales-archives]

Sonny Carisi:  Dumpster Fire

Word Count:  2379

TW:  Fluff; mutual pining.

There were good days and bad days with SVU.  The good days were defined, usually, by the full weight of justice being applied to the perpetrators.  By virtue of your work, the bad days were more prevalent.  And there were levels of bad.

Bad:  a date-rape at Hudson University.  Worse:  uncovering a string of assaults at a Catholic high school.  Worst:  a violent rapist-murderer cutting a bloody swath through Manhattan.

You weren’t sure where today would rate.  It certainly wasn’t the worst, but it was far from good.  You and your partner, Fin, were running a stake-out in broad daylight, waiting for a suspect to pop out of his Upper East Side apartment so that you could nab him.  

You didn’t mind stake-outs with Fin.  He didn’t chatter away endlessly, trying to fill the silence.  He didn’t smoke in the car.  He knew the city like the back of his hand and, as a result, knew the best coffee shops and every bodega with a bathroom available to the public.  Important stuff, for a stake-out.

Mundane moments like that can take a hard swerve, and that’s exactly what happened:  the suspect left his house.  You and Fin exited the car, and the moment the suspect saw you both, he took off running.  You – the faster and younger – took off after him while Fin brought the car around and called for back-up.

Days like this can go bad (the suspect gets away) or worst (the suspect takes and kills a hostage).  Today, you caught the suspect but it came at a price:  a scuffle on the sidewalk, flailing limbs.  You took a hard elbow to the ribs that left you momentarily stunned before you hauled the suspect to the ground….and he pulled you down with him.  Into the pile of garbage bags.  Then more scuffling, which broke open some of those garbage bags.

Which, it must be said, had been simmering in the warm spring morning.

By the time Fin caught up and helped cuff the suspect, your entire outfit was grimy with liquids and semi-liquids that you didn’t want to consider too much.  As it was, the smell of you made you want to empty the contents of your stomach onto the sidewalk.

Fin thought it was hilarious, and he alternated between laughing and gagging at the smell the entire ride back to the precinct.  Once there, you made a beeline for your locker.

And your day got worse.

You usually kept a spare outfit at work precisely for this reason – shit went wrong sometimes.  You usually rotated the spare outfit every few weeks – took it home, got it dry-cleaned – so it didn’t take on the stale, old-building smell of the precinct.

But you had taken your spare outfit home a few days ago and kept forgetting to replace it.  The dry-cleaning bag with its crisp shirt, sharp suit – it was still hanging on the coat tree in your entryway.  You walked past it this morning and completely failed to bring it in.

Which left you with two options:  stay in your reeking clothes soaked in garbage juice, or change into the clothes in your gym bag.  Neither choice was great, and you sighed heavily as you started to unbutton your shirt and strip.

-----

Growing up, like most girls, you had read the entire library of Judy Blume books.  You had never related to the protagonists, though, when they waxed poetic about wanting breasts.  You had never felt such desire – probably because you had developed early, and could hardly remember what it was like to not navigate the world with larger breasts.

You camouflaged them well:  at work, you stuck with dark colors, high collars, and well-tailored coats and blazers that minimized your figure.  You weren’t ashamed of them, exactly, but you knew what people thought when they saw them.  The assumptions they would make.  Throughout the course of your life, you had been accused plenty of times of using your voluptuous figure for a step up.  You hadn’t, of course, but people were always going to assume the worse, it seemed.

Now, you had to do the best you could with what you had.  The day was nearly over, and you didn’t have court or anything public-facing.  You just had to run out the clock at your desk.

Or more precisely, run out the clock at your desk in your gym clothes:  the black track pants were fine, and aside from the racing stripes down the side, they could even pass for dress pants to an unwary observer.  It was the t-shirt that was the problem.

Bad enough that it was a v-neck, which meant that you had some cleavage on display now.  Worse that you had an off-beat, off-color sense of humor that you kept carefully separate from your work life.  You had tried so hard to cultivate a professional persona at work, and now here you were, about to walk into the bullpen in a t-shirt with picture of a box on the front, and the legend “Schrödinger did it for the pussy” writ large across your chest.

Fucking fantastic.

But maybe no one would notice.  Liv was at 1PP with Mike, Barba was in a grand jury all day, Fin was escorting the suspect to the tombs to cool his heels for a while.  That only left Sonny and Amanda….maybe they wouldn’t notice.

They noticed.  

Of course they did – two steps into the bullpen, and Amanda gave a low whistle, which made Sonny’s head swivel around to follow her gaze.  To land on you.  More specifically, to land on your chest.

It was extraordinary watching Sonny’s face.  It was an entire journey, of the sweet gentlemanly guy you harbored a small crush on to a more base man ogling you.  Those bright blue eyes of his went to your chest first, then stuttered up to your face, then went back down to your chest.  You watched his forehead furrow a little at the legend on your shirt.  His cheeks had instantly pinked when he first saw you, but his face got steadily redder and redder until he was furiously crimson.  His gaze finally settled somewhere over your head and past you, probably in an attempt to avoid the obvious place it wanted to settle.

Amanda, for her part, was also red in the face, but mostly from the gales of laughter.

“Zip it,” you muttered through your clenched jaw, and you crossed your arms over your chest which, unfortunately, pushed your breasts up to even more ludicrous heights.  Sonny made a choking sort of cough, and you felt your own blush breaking out across your face.

You made your way to your desk and slumped down in your seat, wishing you were invisible.  Funny, how a moment could slam you right back into your adolescence, with all the awkward pain of living in a body you couldn’t quite control.  You were an adult with a career and an apartment and a pet cat, but right now, you felt like a child.  

At one point, you heard Amanda whisper something to Sonny, but you couldn’t make it out and you ignored it.  You only slumped a little further into your seat and stared at your computer screen.  You almost always gave 110% at work, but this was a run-out-the-clock situation.  You just wanted to go home and bury your head under a blanket.

It surprised you when Sonny suddenly materialized in front of you.  You looked up but refused to quite meet his gaze – you had a small infatuation for the man, and the coolly professional vibe you had been trying to put out there was effectively dead now.  There was no coming back from it.  

“Here,” he said, and he held out a grey zip-up sweatshirt.  Then, as an afterthought, he added, “it’s clean.”

“Thanks,” you replied.  You took it from him and pulled it on.  Zipped it up, and breathed a sigh of relief when it cleared your chest with some clearance.

“I just thought, you know,” he offered, and he rubbed the back of his neck like he did when he was nervous.  “It’s a funny shirt, but it might get unwanted attention on the subway.  On the ride home, I mean.”

“Thanks,” you repeated, and his sweet gesture made you look him in the eye and smile.  “I appreciate it.  And I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.  I promise.”

“No rush.”  He reached up and rubbed his neck again, and you wondered if he was aware of it.  “It, uh, looks good on you.”

That made you laugh.  “Liar,” you said, and he shook his head with a grin and went back to his desk.  The sleeves were just a bit too long, and you rolled them up carefully.  He said it was clean, but it smelled like Sonny.  You raised one sleeve up to your face and took a surreptitious sniff.  You knew he was just being kind, but you still felt the same butterflies in your stomach that you got in high school, when you swiped your crush’s sweatshirt in the nascent stages of your relationship.  

You weren’t the only one drawing those parallels.  You heard Amanda and Sonny talking – no, whispering at each other, trying to keep their voices down across the bullpen – and you weren’t able to make most of it out.

You caught some of it though.  You caught enough.

“…cute,” you heard Amanda say.  “Want me to ask her to prom for you?”

“Shut up,” he hissed back.

You didn’t look over at them and just kept your eyes on your computer.  You didn’t want them to know you had heard them, but they both trailed off into silence too, and together, the three of you ran out the clock.

*****

It was hard being Sonny sometimes.  

He wanted to be the consummate gentleman, but he couldn’t help but stare when you came into the bullpen from the locker room.  He had known you were cute, but god – you were a knock-out.  You had kept it all hidden under your dark, conservative suits.

And then he felt like a creep, staring like that.

He felt worse when he saw how uncomfortable it made you, how you tried to make yourself invisible at your desk.  He had two older sisters, one younger one, and while he wasn’t quite sure what it was like to be a girl, he had some faint memory of his sisters’ awkward teenaged years, the embarrassment when they started to develop and pull in men’s gazes.

It was mostly the reason he offered you his Fordham sweatshirt.  But, if pressed, he’s admit that it made his stomach do a pleasant little flip-flop, seeing you in his clothes.

Amanda had something to say about it because she always had something to say.  She had picked up on his discomfort around you early on, the way he stuttered a little, how he couldn’t quite meet your gaze without the tips of his ears turning red.

“Aw,” she whispered to him now in the bullpen.  “You two are just too cute.  Want me to ask her to prom for you?”

“Shut up,” he said.  He chanced a look over at you, but you hadn’t heard – your head remained bent over some paperwork you were thumbing through.

“At least offer her a ride home,” Amanda continued.  “You both live in Brooklyn.  No sense in condemning her to public transit in that outfit.”

Sonny opened his mouth to argue – he didn’t want to seem forward or pushy – but Amanda was always giving him hell to be more proactive.  He glanced back over at you and realized that his partner was right.  It was mutually beneficial to drive you home:  you could avoid the creeps on transit, and he could spend some time with you.  Win-win.

“Fine,” he muttered, and it made Amanda cheer, which made you look up at them in surprise.

*****

The ride home should have been awkward but surprisingly was not.  You put your ruined garbage clothes in Sonny’s trunk, and then settled in for the rush hour traffic and long ride home.

You hadn’t ever really sat and talked to Sonny socially – your scant few working lunches and happy hours always tended to end in conversations about work – but you chatted now.  He told you about his family, his time of the force.  You did the same.  You offered the story of earlier in the day, how you ended up soaked in garbage-juice.  He offered his own story from his days in Homicide and how he got dumped in the Harlem River once in February.

By the time you were in Brooklyn, you felt like old friends almost.

You directed Sonny to your building, and he pulled into a spot with a fire hydrant.  He parked the car but kept it running, and you both climbed out.  He popped the trunk and handed you the bag with your ruined clothes, and you took it with your thanks.

“I really appreciate this, Sonny,” you said.  “Both this – “ you gestured at your front, the Fordham sweatshirt, “- and the ride home.  Today was a real dumpster fire, but it’s ending okay, thanks to you.”

He smiled at you, that patented Sonny sunniness, and he pointed down the street.  “You know, I only live about five blocks that way.  We could car-pool, if you want.”

You felt that tell-tale feeling of butterflies in your stomach, but you couldn’t help but smile back at him.  “That would be nice.”  You paused and then added, “I can return your sweatshirt tomorrow.”

He waved you off and walked back to the driver’s side.  “Don’t worry about it.  I said it looks better on you.  You can keep it.”  Then he waved again and ducked back into his car, but not before you noticed the blush reddening his ears.

You stayed on the sidewalk and waved as he pulled away, then went into your building.  Days at SVU can go from good to bad, bad to worse – but as you settled in for the evening, wrapped in Sonny’s oversized sweatshirt that smelled just like him, you realized that sometimes a day can go from bad to good, too.

[m3t4ln3rd]

Holy Fawn announce new record Dimensional Bleed; debut title track

Photo by: Charles Barth Official press release: Holy Fawn, the Phoenix-based band whose 2018 DIY release,Death Spells, earned the fledgling foursome widespread recognition from both colleagues and writers, return with the eagerly-awaited album, Dimensional Bleed (September 9th through Wax Bodega). Following their recent single+video “Death Is A Relief” (released in advance of their spring 2022…

[bugginoutofthisworld]

Pandora's Shop (or, Bodega Triangle)

I’d decided to shed my skin, which had been flaking off for years, in a place of nightmarish liminality. Where the only variables are expiration dates. The neon mermaid bade her tail and winked at me as I shook dandruff from my scalp in a snow of powdery crust. A chill overcame me and my dry skin cracked further, an artificial breeze constricting my pores. The palms of my hands clammed, something that hadn’t happened since a childhood incident with a bullfrog who’s piss gave me warts between my fingers so big they couldn’t close. Leaving the quarry that day was a kid who didn't shake hands and his butterfly net of sun-dried tadpoles.

Chipped paint on vestibule walls. Nothing is less appealing to a customer than last year's eggshell under this year's ivory. How hard is it to slap a layer of varnish to wood panels so dry even the termites have gone? It would give the sticky handles of carts and baskets some justification; oh their money is being used on aesthetics rather than sanitation, can’t have both that’s for sure. The soggy coupon ad in the basket I grabbed plopped onto the trashcans rim and slid to the bottom of the bag with a squelch. The radio above reminded me, in the words of Sheryl Crow, “all I wanna do is have some fun.”

Shattered stained glass like that which belongs in a cathedral cracked under my fingers and scathed the wax floor that led to aisles of superfluous inebriation. I’d have stayed home if not for my inability to function without room-temperature vodka in my stomach. And knowing myself as well as I do, the half-fifth I had at home was full of water. Drunk-me had stopped putting my vodka in the freezer because most mornings I’d shakily wake up to it frozen. My ironic humor led my eyes to watch the shelves for new drinks I’d never try. Whenever my work friends and I go out to the bar they order seltzers, something their wives said would quell a beer gut. Frankly, carbonation and vodka sound as appealing as children and pedophiles, but as one might justify his pedaracy, what was the harm in looking?

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With a handle of the most acetone-like vodka tucked under my arm, sloshing a foamless tide, I was ready to pull a swig. To pickle your insides was the most common cause of death in my genealogy. Most of us died pre-embalmed. I told my mom before she passed that I wouldn’t turn out like her brother, my uncle. Who bisected himself and his car on a telephone pole while on the run from a townsworth of sheriffs who were called to chase the violent bank robber that smelled like cinnamon whiskey and could hardly stand, let alone point a gun.

She croaked, and out came the bullfrog; a warty beast of sebaceum so viscous that most flies were caught on him rather than by him. And fed from a stagnant pond with mosquitoes so bountiful they outnumbered the people that lived in the apartments below. Nests of eggs were laid at the pond's edge and under a mountain of muck at the bottom the bullfrog lay masked, waiting for the buffet of hatchlings. From that hill rooftops seemed like asphalt ground and trees like bushes that lined an infinitely expansive blue front door. What I’d always wanted was to knock and ask for directions home.

The cashier behind the till stared at a vacant wonderland ahead of him. If there was a dollar in that till for every zit on his face he’d have enough to break a day’s worth of twenty’s. A haunting atmosphere became of him and the white noise emanating from the humming soda coolers. Fluorescent light is a killer of organic energies, shattering the bone under the skin. Nothing about the cashier felt less than uncanny; human cartilage.

Breakfast was a meal I routinely skipped. In favor of a mug of black coffee and a glass with a raw egg, hot sauce, vinegar, salt, and pepper in it which, along with a shot of vodka, was the only cure for the gale winds and dead fire I awoke to every morning. With more skin left to peel than time I had I wandered with the hurriedness of a molasses snail. Cereal changed little after all these years. A shiny new logo, a thinner mascot, and forgoing box tops for education. 

Post Honey Bunches of Toes: For the kid who hates corn chips but loves the smell. Never has breakfast been gamier. Enjoy our new sock fuzz edition! Watch the strands of fuzz swirl in your milk and forget the days of yawns at the breakfast table. Once you’ve finished, fish around the bowl for loose toenails and satisfy that childlike oral fixation! For every ten boxes sold we’ll donate toes to a child in need. Coming soon: new blister flavor!

Even before the hangovers, waking up in discomfort was as regular as morning dew or an oily nose. To remember falling asleep was to beg for memories that weren’t there. After a while of asking I’d just accepted that it was impossible for me not to fall asleep on the couch and have my step-dad carry me to bed. Food was a distant thought in my waking mind. Water was in orbit. But to rectify the pain was as immediate a concern as an asteroid barreling through the atmosphere. My step-dad was the kind of tough that you’d only come to realize was a farce after he succumbed to the hurt. Enough times of seeking help and only getting a fistful of painkillers was a lesson in complacency.

My childhood woes often lost themselves amongst my boundless imagination. Playing with action figures, who could be heroes, villains, cops, or teachers all in one day was my favorite pastime. Hesitancy overcame me in the toy aisle of the store. Although their heroes were more plastic than mine, and although their eyes drooped the way cheap paint runs, I couldn’t fight the melancholic nostalgia that made me bite through my gummy lips. I might not see a hero in Strongarm Mike or Daredevil Nick. But I do see the opportunity to create for them a life beyond their toxic Chinese parts. 

Two princesses, in royal blue and purple gowns dance a waltz in a glittering ballroom. From them emanates a hue of sparkling magic which guides their dancing feet and tosses the tulle of their gowns in a dramatic flair. Under the glass floor two heroes’ barrel through the raining debris of a falling skyscraper, each with an unconscious construction worker thrown over their shoulder. A figure-eight of the princesses' wands invites the men into their realm and sets the workers in pumpkin-shaped ambulances. Mike grabs the hand of the blue princess who, with a wave of her wand, clothes him in a teal suit. Nicks’ purple princess bestows him a lavender colored ensemble. The pairs break off and sway with each other to the sound of fluttering piano keys. 

New! Hasbro Lolita Doll. Finally! A doll made to be played with by the veiny hands of old predators- oh, excuse me, Humberts. Nothing strange to see here! You can now own your own nymphette doll. Lolita comes equipped with a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses and pre-broken hymen! Who said toys are just for kids? Now the kid is the toy. Feel free to take Lolita across state lines and into innumerable hotel rooms where she’s just begging to be statutorily raped! Watch your wallet! As our new Lolita doll is built with a special A.I. that will find your cash and build herself a nest egg in hopes to run away. Coming soon: Brolita, because women can be predators too!

A tactic in self-preservation I’d learned early on was to piss in a drawer at the corner of my room. There was a book I’d read in second grade that taught me about pheromones, about the way animals secrete fluids that can invite or deter others. Like a sort of implicit instruction that finds itself teaching from the subconscious. The bullfrog hated the drawer. My experiment started once my fear of crossing his path overwhelmed my need to piss. On the precipice of an infected tract, I awoke one night to a strained throb in my bladder. While half-asleep I wandered over to the drawer which presented itself to me as a porcelain latrine. In a frothy gush like that of a breaking dam I flooded the drawer. And went back to bed. The next morning the bullfrog wasn’t standing over me nor did I wake up with the pains. After a few more weeks of using the drawer, I’d figured out the correlation. 

I ran my nose up and down the cleaning aisle in marathon laps. Like some scentless apprentice I could distinguish clean linen from lavender serenity from April fresh from blossom and breeze from Hawaiian aloha from fresh lemon. They worked in harmony to create an environment that left my skin itchy and my lungs ablaze as the chemical compounds worked their way into my already clogged bronchi. And remembering the time I poured bleach into my piss drawer and created a gas so noxiously overwhelming it did the bullfrogs job for him I hesitated as I made my way. 

Cotton fabric is a particularly absorbent material. My clothes always had a musk of cigarettes and nap sweat from my jackets to my boxers and socks. Yet, I was olfactorily unrecognizable. The ecosystem of sanitizing elements that watched me like birds on telephone wire, without trying, hid me in a drape of anonymous scent. Into the mirage of frost, I disappeared. And cried. Bees attacking my eyes with their sharp thoraxes. Gushes of salivation clawed my sunny eyes and bled onto my face. Into the freshly peeled skin of my cheeks, dry and raw, ran a tidal of abstract, toxic compounds. Underfoot the ground disappeared and became a crunchy and brittle surface. My blue toes, numb to thought, squelched in the swamp at the soles of my shoes. Fire engulfed what nerves were left to sing a song of damnation. Shaking so violently the world crumbled from its trembling axis. Fell into a clear void of thick fog which hissed from every point possible in the third dimension. 

Try the holiday favorite, available year-round! Gregg Nog: Nog gathered from the spunky nuts of a bachelor named Gregg. We’ve got him hooked up to a machine out back that milks the boy dry day in and day out, so you don’t have to worry about harmful additives or chemicals. Notice the faint yellow hue and taste the eggy goodness. Kids love Gregg Nog! Don’t wait till Christmas for that other, less impregnating beverage; and switch to a healthy, proteinated alternative, it’s Gregg Nog! The only beverage that you can feel moving on your tongue!

The price of milk is only getting more expensive- I mean what is the deal with inflation? Whoever is behind this must be the same ladies working on my husband's tits. And it’s not just because he has a baby on the way- no ma’am. It’s because he has two babies on the way. If you’d have told me that my husband getting pregnant would make him horny and well-endowed I’d have stopped masturbating in the bathroom after he fell asleep years ago. No, no- I’m serious. Nothing makes me feel uglier than looking up into the mirror stained with his popped pimples and toothpaste spit and seeing the face of the gal who just came into her toilet to Three Latina Death Row Inmates Play Strip Euchre. Anyone seen any good movies lately? No? Sorry I forgot it was the great depression. Let me roll my eyes and exhale from my nose dramatically real quick. Anyway, I just got back from seeing that Everything Everywhere All At Once flick- It’s the movie about a dimension hopping mom and her evil lesbian daughter. Whatever, I got to thinking… I wonder if there's a universe out there where my husband is not such a bitch? Look I’m glad we got men's rights, but what about men's wrongs?

I tried to drown myself in that drawer full of piss. By the time the bullfrog was gone to another pond, it had become a murky, autumn colored liquid that seeped through the thin tile at the bottom and dripped onto my floor. But once I’d started pissing in there I couldn’t stop. Everything about that house scared me even after I knew, consciously, it was safe. But some tickle in the back of my mind kept saying it would be back. But I’d seen him hop over to the pigs and play in the mud; last I heard he was living with some birds in a steely nest. And the day came when I learned that it doesn't take much for a lilypad to sink. 

The world is ending inside my head.

Find that fuse, which grows from the earth

like a juvenile sprout.

If we were in a hotel I’d say avoid the stairs

and the active shooter. 

And when my dog was a duck 

I still loved him.

While ants' lap spilled vodka from the couch.

This is like the third kid I’ve killed this way.

If you walk a little farther

you’ll save some money

and make sense of roadkill

and their absent eyes.

and I’ll never be on stage again.

Yet the world persists.

Horridly the presence of asparagus became on me. I’d never wanted again to smell piss so pungent. Artichoke and spinach danced a dip as one.  The apples removed layers of caramel seductively and stroked their wooden sticks. Gleeks, sung a mashup of songs that swung and just barely missed a spot in the top 40s. Harmonizing ambiently was the chime of bell peppers. It was midnight all the time. Spicy germ chimed against the membranous wall and echoed toward the tall ceilings and their waning light. Words from languages foreign to human ears, ginger root communicated with a bug-like discourse. Belly laughing pumpkins. An assault of melon seeds against any thick, echoing surface: stone for a bass-heavy thud, metal made a rattling clang, and wood made for a thin, clapping instrumentation. But in a band all parts are made equal; it's the sheet music which permits bias.

Those tomatoes in the corner creating martyrs of themselves, by Florence, they call to me. I’m at the front of the classroom being pelted by spitballs from bullies who might just yank my underwear by my autographed waistband. A match held just under my nose takes hair in sulfur wisps; melting that thin septum of mine to a drippy goop. I believe in protein powder for its glamorous-physique- inducing milk chocolate goodness. Granola makes for too harsh a meal; no yogurt can dull the stalactite-sharpness of any grain. I believe they are coming and I shall light another match and put my nose back in place. Spuds on the floor hear me when I say to you, “por que no los dos?”

Old! From Eddie Bauer, The Kings Robe: hate the burden of fashion and the threat of a public indecency charge? Try The Kings Robe! A multifunctional statement piece that says, “yes I have money, and no my penis is not that large in the cold.” With The Kings Robe by Eddie Bauer, you too can be your own hubris. Gone are the days of pseudo-intellectualism. What lay before you on a pea-dented mattress is the absolute humiliation of the working class knowing you’re no better than them.

Forsaken by my skin and now as fresh as a newborn chick. Where my feathers are dangling stems of chewy nerves and I am dressed in a clear-orange sauce of fluid. The shelves no longer behold themselves to merchandise and the only light is that which comes in from the moon and street lamps outside.

My cashier exploded, like pressurizing a can of tomato paste there are streams of meat that cover every-inch of in a six-foot-radius from where he stood. I suspect the bills in the till are still fresh and crisp, however. All I can audibly distinguish is the whir of machinery that keeps fridges cool and freezers frigid.

“Underdog, underdog.” Croaks an appalling voice. “Speed of lightning, roar of thunder,” it continues, “stare directly into the sun and see how clean that makes your clothes. Stains do not a good boy make. Your mother would be so disappointed in you. Those scuffs on your white shoes would send her reeling. You know I could clean them up for you. Go ahead and take off your shoes.”

I step from my formerly white tennis shoes, the color of their underside. 

“That’s a good boy.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, what?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That's better. Now let's get that shirt and those shorts into the washer, I thought you hated playing in the mud? That was the first thing your mom told me about you, and something I never forgot, ‘this boy of mine hates to get dirty,’ she said.” 

I stepped into near-nakedness by taking off my shirt and shorts, left in my underwear, socks, and forsaken knees. 

“There we go. Oh you must be so cold. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a warm shower? Wash some of that dirt off your face and get yourself clean before dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” 

I abandoned my briefs and cotton socks on the bathroom floor where they became fabric mush; abstracted by sprinkles from the cool shower water. Shampoo de-greased my hair, conditioner made it soft, no soap was strong enough to rinse from me the oil of hands that caressed my up and down and smoothed my skin from the roughness made by the peach fuzz of a fawnlette. And I’d always been grateful that in a shower there were bountiful excuses to dismiss what looked like crying. And what may be blood washed down the drain never to be seen again. And what was pain could be dulled by making the water hotter.

[kyle2314]

2022 End of the Year List

This was one of the strangest years for music and media for me. A lot of really pleasant, completely unexpected surprises and a number of unmet expectations. I’m pretty pleased with how this list came out this year, I just would have never guessed it would look like it does. Keeps me on my toes and I suppose that’s what keeps things fresh and exciting.

Albums: 1. Angel Olsen - Big Time (Jagjaguwar) 2. Counterparts - A Eulogy For Those Still Here (Pure Noise) 3. Soul Blind - Feel It All Around (Other People) 4. Tegan & Sara - Crybaby (Mom + Pop) 5. Looming - Anybody’s Baby (No Sleep) 6. No Devotion - No Oblivion (Velocity/Equal Vision) 7. Nikki Lane - Denim & Diamonds (New West) 8. Parker Gispert - Golden Years (Normaltown) 9. Elizabeth Moen - Wherever You Aren’t (self released) 10. Holy Fawn - Dimensional Bleed (Wax Bodega)

EPs: 1. Hazel English - Summer Nights (self released) 2. Tigers Jaw - Old Clothes (Hopeless) 3. Speedway - Paradise (Revelation) 4. Morgan Wade - Acoustic Sessions (Ladylike/Arista) 5. END/Cult Leader - Gather & Mourn split (Closed Casket Activities/Deathwish)

Shows: 1. CHVRCHES - Bourbon Theatre, Lincoln, NE - 6/15/22 2. Code Orange - Wells Fargo Arena, Des Moines, IA - 3/28/22 3. Japanese Breakfast - 80/35, Des Moines, IA - 7/8/22 4. Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus, MUNA - Hinterland, St. Charles, IA - 8/7/22 5. Stars Hollow - xBk, Des Moines, IA - 3/17/22

Films: 1. Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness 2. X 3. The Batman 4. Clerks 3 5. Pearl Honorable Mention: Barbarian

TV: 1. Peacemaker (HBO) 2. She-Hulk: Attorney at Law (Disney+) 3. The Bear (FX/Hulu) 4. The White Lotus - Season 2 (HBO) 5. Reservation Dogs - Season 2 (FX/Hulu) Honorable Mention: The Offer (Paramount+)

Check out a playlist of my favorite songs from the year on Spotify and YouTube!

[recoftheday]

Holy Fawn • Dimensional Bleed • 2022 Wax Bodega • 1st press on 2 x Coke Bottle Clear with Black Splatter Vinyl • Project M (Revolver Magazine, Brooklyn Vegan, and Hard Times) exclusive • Limited to 250 copies. . . . . . #holyfawn #dimensionalbleed #waxbodega #Vinyl #Vinylcollector #vinylcollection #Vinyladdict #vinyllovers #vinylmaniac #recordoftheday #albumoftheday #instavinyl #vinyligclub #vinyljunkie #vinyloftheday #vinylporn #vinylrecords #recordscollection #vinylcollective #vinylcollectionpost #vinylcommunity #vinylphotography #vinylgram #vinyllove #coloredvinylclub #coloredvinyl (presso Milan, Italy) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cll-IpYsKpn/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[heartwontsink]

 like we're made of starlight

Relationship: Esperanza “Spooner” Cruz/Astra Logue

Summary: As soon as they stepped off the cab, Behrad had the bright idea of challenging the two on who could cause the greatest commotion out of them all.

“How much?”

“250 bucks.”

“Holy shit. That’s more than two tickets!”

OR Odessa is a really boring place and Spooner, Nate, and Behrad do their best to liven their awfully dreary town. They end up ruining Astra Logue's wedding— but for the better.

Spooner snatched the crisp bills clean off Nate and Behrad, rising from the church pew before she could second-guess herself. Nearly knocking over two elaborate flower pots, her sudden movement caught the attention of a number of guests. Fifty or so other heads turned at break-neck speed to face her, their eyes wide with anticipation at her next step.

Behind her, her mates tossed and turned in their seats, convulsing with laughter.

In a moment of recklessness and pure audacity, her feet shuffled closer to the carpeted floor.

Fuck it, she thought to herself. Self-preservation had never been her strong suit.

She opened her mouth to speak and watched as gasps erupted from an entire congregation.

🎟

Spooner lived in a tacky old town, where nothing eventful ever really happens.

Until now.

The Smell’s concert flyers abounded the bodega where Spooner’s mom always insisted she picks up their groceries from. Arms spilling with five grocery bags, she hurried home and begged her mother to let her come.

“I’m not letting you waste good money on some Paramore knockoff, Esperanza,” Gloria stressed as she tore a shimmery piece of fabric into two.

“They’re not some knockoff, Mami! No disrespect, but they actually had decent songs.”

“Look kid, if you’re really bored,” her mother paused, shutting an eye in concentration as she attempted to thread her sewing machine. Spooner begrudgingly held her palm out, “Let me.”

“Why don’t you just come with me this Saturday?”

Spooner lifted an eyebrow curiously. Nothing ever happens on a Saturday.

Her mother tossed an envelope to her side. It was the color of moss with a pale silver ribbon holding it together. Her fingers absently traced the golden wax seal a few times over. “Woah. An invite? Which uber-rich family is it from?”

“Say that again but faster,” her mom grinned. “The Logues.”

“But it’s a wedding invite. The bald market master and Mrs Logue had been married for years, I think?”

“It’s for the niece,” Gloria answered. “Hand me the scissors.”

The time-worn sewing machine whirred to life.

The Logues had a niece who lived with them. Every morning Spooner used to pass by their handsome mansion, finding a kind-eyed kid with cork-screw curls smiling back. They’d never talked outside brief morning greetings since Spooner went to a public university and she probably attended the exclusive prep school by the lakes. Up until now, she didn’t even think to ask for her name.

Spooner’s eyes widened at a realization, “But she can’t be more than nineteen!”

“Your grandmother had me at seventeen,” was her mother’s matter-of-factly response.

“Still. That doesn’t make it okay, y’know?”

Gloria sighed. “I know, chiquita.”

Spooner shifted her gaze to the open fields outside, past the cleared roads and people-less sidewalks.

Perhaps the Logue kid too, like her, had nothing else better to do.

“So… you coming with or not?”

🎟

Her mother forced her onto one of her old dresses for the occasion, but in the end, decided against it and had Spooner wear her husband’s beige suit. They had to make last-minute adjustments with the material (as the pants pooled around Spooner’s ankles and the shoulders were too wide for taste), but Spooner more or less came out looking decent.

Behrad and Nate teased her relentlessly, but at least it was no taffeta dress. On their ride to the old chaplet, they laid wagers on the guests, food that will be served, the time it will take for the ceremony to finish — anything and everything, really.

To her surprise, almost half of the town was present. As soon as they stepped off the cab, Behrad had the bright idea of challenging the two on who could cause the greatest commotion out of them all.

“How much?”

“250 bucks.”

“Holy shit. That’s more than two tickets!”

An old lady with a severe middle part bob sniped at Spooner. The trio ducked their heads and settled on the bride’s side of the Church. Spooner’s mom disappeared with the other moms, leaving behind her shameless daughter with her equally shameless friends.

Nate tripped over a passing altar boy when the procession commenced. Behrad faked a coughing fit in the middle of the priest’s sermon. It was a miracle how no one had kicked them out yet.

Spooner wracked her brain for ideas but came up with a blank. Pressed for time, she was initially at odds with the plan that finally came, but it was now or never.

The priest asked both the bride and groom to stand. Spooner mouthed a cheeky “Watch me” to the two and proceeded to disturb the nuptial in the worst way possible.

“I OBJECT!”

Even Spooner was surprised by the conviction in her voice as her words reverberated across the Church’s interior.

“I—”

She trailed off, noticing the death stares and total look of confusion on the guests’ faces. She folded and crumpled the money in her pocket under her grip, thinking over her next course of action.

The bride surprised everyone by descending the raised platform, her wedding train trailing behind. Her steps finally stopped a few inches short of Spooner. Her lips were pursed and she towered over the twenty-two-year-old by at least two feet. Spooner gawked at the bride stupidly, unsure of what else there is to say.

“How dare you!” A sharp stinging bloomed from Spooner’s cheek. The impact of the bride’s palm against her face was brutal, her eyes automatically watered.

She probably deserved that.

“I’ve been waiting forever! I thought you wouldn’t come!”

There was a tug on her collar, and the next thing she knew, she and the bride were locked in a kiss.

Spooner didn’t quite follow.

The Logue kid’s lips were soft and tasted sweet against hers and on a normal day Spooner wouldn’t have minded, but her relatives were staring.

“Run!”

Spooner had no time to think. With their hands entangled, they bolted from the church patio and jumped into a free cab.

The jilted groom blinked once, twice before staring off into space. From the first row of the pew, Mrs Logue broke into a crying howl as the whole Church fell into utter chaos.

🎟

They asked the driver to pull to a stop at a random bistro by the edge of town. Spooner hands him one of the few dollar bills she had in her person, but the mustached man merely flicked her hand away and meaningfully said, “It’s on me. You kids continue to follow your heart and be good.”

The pair watched the yellow Honda whiz them by in a daze. Spooner shrugged and remembered to look for a driver named Rip Hunter (at least it said so on his ID) if she ever went back to midtown to properly thank him. It was weird how she didn’t know him and yet Spooner thought she knew everyone in town.

“I’m so hungry. Are you hungry? Let’s grab a bite!”

The Logue kid wasted no time waiting for her response and yanked her by the elbow. Ava — an upperclassman from her school — greeted them warmly although Spooner did notice her ogling their outfits.

“Mornin’, Spoons and company. What are you two having, hmm?”

“Steak and mashed potatoes, please! And a side of pie— do you have pie?”

“Whoa! Calm down there, tiger.”

Surreptitiously Spooner asked Ava to give them the discount meal version. She couldn’t see any pocket in her dress and she really wanted to save her honestly-earned money at the moment.

“Uhm…” Spooner eyed the woman cautiously. “Not to spoil your appetite, but, could you tell me what the fuck just happened?”

“You ruined my wedding and I decided to go along with it.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“I don’t give a shit about Brandon. My aunt thought it would be fun to set me up with her snotty friend’s son and for a while, I thought I had no choice. You and your friends opened your troublesome mouths and I realized I couldn’t possibly stomach spending the rest of my life with a stranger. So I did what I did. You?”

Her nonchalance should have concerned Spooner, but to be honest, she found the woman in front of her intriguing.

“You noticed? Us— my friends?”

“Are you kidding? I was chuffed watching you three wreck my wedding!”

Spooner narrowed her eyes at her, only to realize she wasn’t being sarcastic. She proceeded to tell her about the bet, barring none, and held up the cash prize with pride.

When she finished, she cleared her throat and asked: “Sorry for being too forward, but what was your name again?”

“You didn’t even bother to check the invite?” The bride stomped her heels in surprise, nearly crushing Spooner’s right foot.

“No. That was boring stuff. I’m Spooner, by the way.”

“Yeah, we did jump straight to the less boring stuff,” she bit her lip and Spooner grew red with embarrassment. It was almost enough to make her forget the sore spot on one side of her face. “It’s Astra.”

“Nice to meet you, Astra. Honest question: do you always slap people you just met?”

They laughed their asses off as the meals rolled in. A phone rang in the middle of her third bite and only when it refused to stop did Spooner stop to check on her own phone. Mami, the screen flashed.

Astra looked on with her thumbs up, “Go on. Maybe it’s important.”

The ringing ended before Spooner could swipe the green button up. When her mother didn’t call again, she went to her inbox to check her messages and sure enough, there were at least a dozen of them awaiting her.

astra’s aunt is livid, don’t come back yet. let her simmer down a bit

where r u? plz be safe

why did u hide all these from me? i expected better from u

don’t let ur gf wander around. she can stay at ours

ur sleeping on the couch, ofc

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing.” Spooner cast a serious look over Astra.

Her veil had come undone sometime around their great break for freedom and her hair was in disarray (which was partly Spooner’s fault). Nonetheless, Spooner couldn’t deny that Astra was quite beautiful.

“What are you planning to do next?” Spooner asked.

“I don’t know. Start a small clothing business and watch it grow? So long as it ends up with me being the cutthroat and drop-dead-gorgeous ultra gay lady boss, I’ll take it.”

Hell, Spooner could already see it. This weird lady was quick on her feet and ready to work any situation to her advantage. Astra would surely make one wicked businesswoman.

“Nice, but I’m thinking more short-term. Where are you going after you finish your steak?”

“Honestly, I haven’t got a clue.”

Spooner dug around her pockets, suddenly nervous. A companionable silence fell over them as they walked out of the establishment full and giddy from their own recklessness.

As they turned to a corner and the gap between them grew, Spooner thought of something. An idea. Another brilliant, rash idea that would probably amount to no good. “Hey, Astra!”

She checked her wristwatch and almost couldn’t believe her luck. She still had plenty of time.

“Ever heard of The Smell?” She cupped both hands to her mouth, desperate to be heard.

Astra swiveled around a lamp post and grinned. A heart-stopping grin. “Yeah, that Charlie fella’s got quite the pipe. Why?”

“What do you say if we stop by my mom’s, get changed, and go to a concert?” She said, jogging towards Astra and trying to match her pace.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Spooner?”

“I stopped a wedding, ran away with the bride, ate dinner like it’s nothing while rocking my father’s tux— I mean, that'll probably be one of the tamest things I would do today. You coming with?”

Astra tilted her head and closed her eyes, letting the moon and flickering light bulbs above wash her face. Spooner’s stomach dropped as she came to realize the gravity of the next few moments. Fuck it fuck it fuck it.

Ever the lover of surprises, Astra opened her eyes and beamed, “Of course. I thought you’d never ask.”

Maybe this town wasn’t so bad after all.