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College Hall centennial approaches: the rich history of NCF's most iconic building
College Hall centennial approaches: the rich history of NCF’s most iconic building
College Hall has always been the flagship sight to see for students attending New College . In 1962—two years after New College was founded—Sarasota trustees were given the opportunity to purchase this aged building that is now an essential part of the campus. The now Academic and Admissions Office was formerly owned by Charles and Edith Ringling—who also were in possession of The Ringling Bros.…
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arctic monkeys for q magazine, june 2011 (x) (x)
ARCTIC MONKEYS: Inside Alex Turner's Head
Words Sylvia Patterson
Portrait John Wright
The day Arctic Monkeys moved into their six bedroom, Spanish-style villa in the Hollywood Hills, where the first-floor balcony looked over the patio swimming pool, they knew exactly what to do.
"From the balcony, you could get on t'roof and jump in't pool," chirps the Monkeys' most gregarious member, drummer Matt Helders, in his homely Yorkshire way. "We looked at it and said, That's definitely gonna happen. So by the end, we did a couple of 'em. Somersaults in t'pool, from the roof. At night time."
In January 2011, as Sheffield and the rest of Britain endured its bitterest winter in a century, Arctic Monkeys capered among the palm trees, eschewing hotels for a millionaire's Hollywood homestead as they recorded and mixed their fourth studio album, Suck It and See.
The four Monkeys, alongside producer James Ford and engineer James Brown, lived what they called the "American man thing": watched Super Bowl on giant TVs, played ping-pong, hired two Mustangs, cooked cartoon Tom And Jerry-sized steaks on barbecues on Sundays, had girlfriends over to visit, all cooking and drinking around the colossal outdoor kitchen area featuring a fridge and two dishwashers. Living atop the Hills, they could see the Pacific Ocean beyond by day, the infinite glittering lights of downtown LA by night.
Every day, en route to Sound City Studios, they'd travel in a seven-seater four-by-four through the mountains, via bohemian 60s enclave Laurel Canyon, blaring out the tunes: The Stones Roses, The Cramps, the Misfits' Hollywood Babylon. For the sometime teenage art-punk renegades whose guitarist, Jamie Cook, was once ejected from London's Met Bar for refusing to pay €22 for two beers, the comedy rock'n'roll life still feels, however, absolutely nothing like reality.
NICK O'MALLEY: "It were really as if we were on holiday. When we came back it's the most post-holiday blues I've ever had!"
JAMIE COOK: "It's hard to comment on that. It were just really good fun."
MATT HELDERS: "We always said, As soon as things like that feel normal, we're in trouble. But it's just funny. You might think it would get more and more serious as you get older but it's getting funnier. We've done four albums now and I'm still only 24, I'm still immature to an extent. So who cares?"
Alex? Al? Are you there?
ALEX TURNER: "Yeah, it were good times. But we were in the studio most of the time. So there's no real wild Hollywood stories. Hmn. Yeah."
Wednesday, 16 March 2011, Strongroom Bar, Shoreditch, East London, 11am. Alex Turner, 25, slips entirely alone into an empty art-crowd brasserie looking like an indie girl's indie dream boy: mop-top bouffant hair which coils, in curlicues, directly into his cheekbones, army-green waist-length jacket, baggy-arsed skinny jeans, black cord zip-up cardigan, simple gold chain, supermoon sized chocolate-brown eyes.
Almost six years after I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor became the indie-punk anthem of a generation (from the first of Arctic Monkeys' three Number 1 albums), and nothing prepares you for the curious phenomenon of Alex Turner "in conversation". Unlike so many of the Monkeys frenetic early songs, he operates in slow motion, seemingly underwater, carrying a protective shell on his back, perhaps indie rock's very own diamond-backed terrapin. The most celebrated young wordsmith in rock'n roll today talks fulsomely, in fact, only in shapeless, curling sentences punctuated with "maybe... hmn.. yeah", an anecdotal wilderness sketching pictures as vague as a cloud. He is, though, simultaneously adorable: amenable, gentle, graceful, and as Northern as a 70s grandpa who literally greets you with "ey oop?".
"People think I'm a miserable bastard," he notes, cheerfully, "but it's just the way me face falls." Still profoundly private, if not as hermetically sealed as a vacuum-packed length of Frankfurter, his fante-shy reticence extends not only to his personal life (his four-year relationship with It-girl/TV presenter Alexa Chung, whom he never mentions) but to insider details generally. Take the Monkeys’ Hollywood high jinks documented above: not one word of it was described by Turner. Before Q was informed by his other Monkey bandmates, Turner’s anecdotal aversion unfolded like this:
Describe the lovely villa you were in.
AT: "Well... we certainly had a... good view."
Of what?
AT: "Well, we were up quite high."
The downtown LA lights going on forever?
AT: "I dunno. It was definitely that thing of getting a bit of sort of sunshine. Is it vitamin D? If you can get vitamin D on your record, you've got a bit of a head start. So we'd get up and drive to the studio."
What were you driving?
AT: "Nothing... spectacular. But yeah, we'd drive up the studio, spend all day there and sort of, y know, get back. To be honest... we had limited time. So we spent as much time as possible kind of getting into it, like, in the studio.
So your favourite adventures were what?
AT: "Well, they were really… minimal. We were working out there!"
Any nightclubs or anything, perhaps?
AT: "You really want the goss 'ere, don't you?"
Yes, please.
AT: "I could make some up. Nah!"
And this was on the second time of asking. It's perhaps obvious: Alex Turner, one of the most prolific songwriters of his generation (four Monkeys albums and two EPs in five years, The Last Shadow Puppets side-project, a bewitching acoustic soundtrack for his actor/video director friend Richard Ayoade's feature-length debut Submarine), is dedicated only to the cause – of being the best he can possibly be. He simply remembers the songs much more than the somersaults.
Throughout 2009, Arctic Monkeys toured third album Humbug – the record mostly made in the Californian desert with Queens Of The Stone Age man-monolith Josh Homme – across the planet. While hardly some cranium-blistering opus, its heavier sonic meanderings considerably slowed the Arctic Monkeys' live sets and on 23 August 2009, Q watched them headline the Lowlands Festival, Holland and witnessed a hitherto unthinkable sight – swathes of perplexed Monkeys fans trudging away from the stage. With the sludge rock mood matching their cascading dude-rock hair it seemed obvious: they'd smoked way too much outrageously strong weed in the desert.
"Heheheh, yeah," responds Turner, unperturbed. "That's your theory. You probably weren't alone."
Back in the Strongroom Bar, Turner's arm is now nonchalantly draped along the back of a beaten-up brown leather sofa. He ponders his band's somewhat contrary reputation…
"I think starting the headline set at Reading with a cover of a Nick Cave tune perhaps was a bit contrary. D'youknowhat Imean?! But to be honest, that summer, at those festivals, we had a great time. And I know some fans enjoyed those sets 10 times more. And you can't just do, y’know, another Mardy Bum or whatever. Because how could you, really?"
With Humbug, notes Turner, "I went into corners I hadn't before, because I needed to see what were there," but by spring 2010 he wanted their fourth album to be "more song-based" and less lyrically "removed". He was "organised this time", studied "the good songwriters" (from Nick Cave, The Byrds and Leonard Cohen to country colossi Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline), discovered "the other three strings" on his guitar, and wrote 12 songs through the spring and summer of 2010, mostly in the fourth-floor New York flat he shared with Chung before the couple moved back to London late last summer (the New York MTV show It's On With Alexa Chung was cancelled after two seasons). The result: major-key melodies, harmonised singing and classic song structures.
At the same time he revisited the opposite extreme: bands such as Black Sabbath and The Stooges ("we wanted a few wig-outs as well"); he was also still heavily influenced by the oil-thick grinder rock of Josh Homme, who is clearly now a permanent Monkeys hero. After four months' rehearsals in London, on 8 January the Monkeys relocated to LA for five swift weeks of production and Homme came to visit, singing backing vocals on All My Own Stunts. Tequila was involved.
"Tequila is probably me favourite," manages Turner, by way of an anecdote. "But it takes a certain climate... It's not the same... in the rain. Yeah. [Looks to be contemplating a lyric] Tequila in the rain."
Vocally, he developed the caramel richness first unveiled on The Last Shadow Puppets' Scott Walker-esque The Age Of The Understatement, finding a crooner's vibrato. "Everything before was so tight,” he notes, clutching his neck. "Probably just through nerves. That's just not there any more." Suck It and See contains at least four of the most glittering, sing-along, world-class pop songs (and obvious singles) of Arctic Monkeys' career: the towering, clanging She's Thunderstorms, the summertime stunner The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala, the heavenly harmonised title track and the Echo & The Bunnymen-esque jangly pop of closer That's Where You're Wrong.
Elsewhere, in typically contrary "fashion", there's preposterous head-banger bedlam (Brick By Brick, the rollicking faux-heavy rock download they released in March "just for fun", featuring vocals by Helders; Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair, and Library Pictures). News arrives that the first single proper will be Don't Sit Down 'Cause I've Moved Your Chair. Q is perplexed. Brilliantly titled, certainly, but arriving after Brick By Brick, the new album will appear to the planet as some comedy pastiche metal album for 12-year-old boys.
You've got all these colossal, summery, indie-pop classics and you've gone for... The Chair?
AT: [Laughing uproariously] "The Chair! I'm now calling it The Chair, that's cool. Well for once it weren't even our suggestion. It was Laurence's (Bell, Domino label boss). And I were, Fucking too right! He's awesome. It'd be good to get a bit of fucking rock'n'roll out there, won't it? It's riffs. It's loud. It's funny."
If you don't release The Hellcat Spangled Shalalala as a single I'm going round Domino to kick Laurence's "awesome" butt.
AT: "I think it'll be the next one!"
The record's title, meanwhile, could've been more enigmatically original than the un-loved phrase Suck It and See. The band, struggling with ideas due to the opposing sonic moods, invented an inspiration-conjuring ruse: to think of new names for effects pedals in the style of Tom Wolfe, Turner being long enamoured with the American author's legendarily psychedelic books The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby, "cos that just sounds awesome".
"There's the Big Muff pedal," he elaborates, "That’s the classic. I've got the Valve Slapper. And there's the Tube Screamer. So we came up with the Thunder Suckle Fuzz Canyon. And… wait till I assemble it in me mind… em… it'll come to me… The Blonde-O-Sonic Shimmer Trap. So we were going for summat like that."
A wasted opportunity?
"Nah. Because some of those things ended up in the lyrics anyway. Suck It and See was just easier."
Alex Turner, rock'n'roll's premier descriptive art-poet, still writes his lyrics long-hand in spiral-bound notebooks. "Writing lyrics is a craft that I've practised a bit now," he avers. "In me notebook it looks like sums. Theories. There's words and arrows going everywhere. There's always a few possibilities and I write the word 'OR' in a square."
For our most celebrated colloquial sketch-writer of the everyday observation (all betting pencils, boy slags and ice-cream van aggravations) the more successful he becomes, the less he orbits the ordinary. "I'm not struggling with that, to be honest," he decides. "In fact I'm enjoying writing lyrics much more than I did. Stories. Describing a picture. Um. There's quite a bit of weather and time in this one. Which is probably not reassuring. 'Oh God, he's writing about the weather.' Maybe leave that out!"
There are also some direct, funny, romantic observations: "That's not a skirt, girl, that's a sawn-off shotgun/And I only hope you've got it aimed at me..." (from the title track).
Some of your romantic quips, now, must be about Alexa.
AT: "Right. Yeah. Definitely. Well... there's always been that side to our songs, when we weren't writing about... the fucking taxi rank. It's kind of inevitably... people you're with." [At the mention of Chung's name, Turner is visibly aggrieved, head sliding into his neck, terrapin-esque indeed.]
It must have been very grounding being in a proper relationship through all this madness. Because if you weren't, girls would be jumping all over your head.
AT: "Em. Hmn. Well, of course that helps you to... I don't really know.. what the other way would be."
Does Alexa wonder if the lyrics are about her?
AT: "Oh there's none of that. Yeah, no, there's no looking over the shoulder."
She must be curious, at least.
"Maybe."
Did you ever watch Popworld?
AT: [Nervous laughter] "Em! Now and again."
Did you ever see the episode where she helps Paul McCartney write a song about shoes?
AT: "Ah, yeah I think so, maybe I did see that."
Well, if I was you, I'd have been thinking, "She's the one for me."
AT: "Well. Yeah... maybe that would've... sealed the deal! Hmn. But maybe that wasn't when i got the ray of light. When was? Nah [buries head in hands]. I might have to go for a cigarette..."
Q can't torture him any more and joins him for a snout. Turner smokes Camels from a crumpled, sad, soft-pack and resembles a teenager again. As early song You Probably Couldn't See For The Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me says, "Never tenser/Could all go a bit Frank Spencer…”
In January 2006, when Arctic Monkeys' Number 1 album Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not became the fastest-selling debut in UK history, inadvertently redefining the concept of autonomy and further imploding the decimated music industry (& wasn't their idea to be "the MySpace band", it was their fans': the Monkeys merely kick-started viral marketing by giving away demos at gigs), the 19- and 20-year-old Monkeys were terrible at fame. They weren't so much insurrectionary teenage upstarts as teenage innocents culturally traumatised by the peak-era fame democracy.
To their generation (born in the mid-'80s) fame was now synonymous with some-twat-off-the-telly a world of foaming tabloid hysteria where renown and celebrity meant, in fact, you were talentless. Hence their interview diffidence and receiving awards via videos dressed up as the Wizard OfOz and the Village People. Which only, ironically, made them even more celebrated and famous. (“That were a product of us just trying to hold onto the reins," thinks Turner today. "Being uncooperative.")
Q meets The Other Three one morning at 11am, in the well-appointed, empty bar of the Bethnal Green, Bast London hotel they're staying in (all three live in Sheffield, with their girlfriends, in their own homes). First to arrive is the industrious, sensible and cheerful Helders, crunching into a hangover-curing green apple. He has recovered from last year's boxing accident at the gym, which left his broken arm requiring a fitted plate. Now impressively purple-scarred, the break felt "interesting" and the doctor couldn't resist the one-armed drummer jest: "D'you like Def Leppard?"
Currently enjoying an enduring bromance with Diddy, he still doesn't feel famous, "it just doesn't feel that real, there's no paparazzi waiting for me to trip up." He and Turner, during the four-month rehearsals last year, became an accomplished roast dinner cooking duo for the band. "I reckon we could have us our own cookbook," he beams. "Pictures of us stirring, with a whisk."
O'Malley, an agreeable, twinkly-eyed 25-year-old with a strikingly deep voice and a winningly huge smile, is still coyly embarrassed by the interview process. A replacement for the departed original bass player Andy Nicholson in May 2006, he went from Asda shelf-filler to Glastonbury headliner in 13 months and still finds the Monkeys "a massive adventure". His life in Sheffield is profoundly normal – he's delighted that his new home since last October has an open-hearth fireplace: "Me parents had electric bars." He has also discovered cooking. “I’m just a pretty shit-hot housewife, most of the time," he smiles. "I cook stews, fish combinations, curries, chillies. I made a beef pho noodle soup the other day, Vietnamese, I surprised meself, had some mates round for that."
Recently, at his dad's 50th birthday bash, the party band, made up of family and friends, insisted he join them onstage "for ...The Dancefloor. So I were up there [mimes playing bass, all sheepish] and it were the wrong pitch, they didn't know the words or 'owt, going, Makin eyes... er..." He has no extra-curricular musical ambitions. "I'm happy just playing bass," he smiles. "I've never had the skill of doing songs meself. It'd be shit!"
Cook, 25, is still spectacularly embarrassed by the interview process. He perches upright, with a fixed nervous smile, newly shorn of the beard and ponytail he sported in LA: "Rockin' a pone, yeah, because I could get away with it." With his classic preppy haircut and dapper green military coat (from London's swish department store, Liberty), he looks like a handsome '40s film star. (Turner deems Cook "the band heartbreaker" and had a word with him post-LA: "I said to him, Come on, mate, you've got to get that beard shaved off. Get the girls back into us. Shift some posters.")
His life in Sheffield is also profoundly normal. He still plays Sunday League football with his local pub team, The Pack Horse FC (position, left back), remains in his long-term relationship with page-three-model-turned-make-up-artist Katie Downes and "potters about" at home, refusing to describe said home, "cos I'll get burgled".
A tiler by trade, he always vowed, should the Monkeys sign a deal, that he'd throw his trowel in a Sheffield river on his last day of work. "I never did fling me trowel," he confirms. "Probably still in me shed." He's never considered what his band represents to his generation. "I'd go insane thinking about it, I'm pretty good at not thinking about it… Oh God. I'm terrible at this!"
Back in the Strongroom Bar, Alex Turner is cloudily describing his everyday life. "I just keep meself to meself," he confounds. He mostly stays indoors and his perfect night in with Alexa is "watching loads of Sopranos. And doing roast dinners".
No longer spindle-limbed, he attends a gym and has handsomely well-defined arms – "You have to look after yourself."
Suddenly, Crying Lightning from Humbug rumbles over the bar stereo. "Wow. How about that? I was quite happy the other morning cos Brick By Brick were on the round-up goals on Soccer AM. It's still exciting when that happens. It was like Brick By Brick is real."
He spends his days writing music, "listening to records", and recommends Blues Run The Game by doomed '60s minstrel Jackson C Frank ("who's that lass?... Laura Marling, she did a cover recently), a simple, acoustic, deep and regretful stunner about missing someone on the road.
Lyrically, he cites as an example of greatness the Nick Cave B-side Little Empty Boat [from ‘97 single Into My Arms ], a comically sinister paean to a sexual power struggle: "Your knowledge is impressive and your argument is good/But I am the resurrection babe and you're standing on my foot."
"I need a hobby," he suddenly decides. "I'd like to learn another language." Since his mum is a German teacher (his dad teaches music), surely he can speak some German? "I know how to ask somebody if they've had fun at Christmas." Go on, then. "Nah!"
Where Turner's creative gifts stem from remains a contemporary rock'n'roll mystery; he became a fledgling songwriter at 16, after the gift of a guitar at Christmas from his parents. An only child, did his folks, perhaps, foresee artistic greatness? "I doubt it!" he balks. "Cos I didn't. I wasn't... a show kid." Like the others, he doesn't analyse the past, or the future.
"You can't constantly be thinking about what's happened," he reasons, "it's just about getting on with it." The elaborate pinky ring he now constantly wears, however, a silver, gold and ruby metal-goth corker featuring the words DEATH RAMPS is a permanent reminder of he and his best friends’ past. The Death Ramps is not only a Monkeys pseudonym and B-side to Teddy Picker, but a place they used to ride their bikes in Sheffield as kids.
"Up in the woods near where we lived," he nods. "Just little hills. But when you're eight years old they're death ramps." The ring was custom made by a friend of his, who runs top-end rock'n'roll jewellery emporium The Great Frog near London's Carnaby Street. Ask Turner why he thinks the chase between his writing and speaking eloquence is quite so mesmerisingly vast and he attempts a theory.
"Well, writing isn't the same as speaking," he muses. "Not for me. I seem to struggle more and more with... conversation. Talking onstage... I can't do it any more. Hmn. I'll have to work on that."
The ever-helpful Helders has a better theory.
"Since he's been writing songs," he ponders, “It seems like he’s always thinking about that. So even when he’s talking to you now, he’s thinking about the next thing that rhymes with a word. Even when he’s driving. We joke he’s a bad driver, his focus is never 100 per cent on what he’s doing. Which is good for us cos it means he’s got another 12 songs up his sleeve. I think music must be the easiest way for him to be concise and get everything out. Otherwise his head would explode.”
The Shoreditch.com photo studios, 18 March. Alex Turner, today, is more ethereally distracted than ever, transfixed by the studio iPod, playing Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, a version of I’d Rather Go Blind. Occasionally, he’ll completely lose his conversational thread, “Um. I’ve dropped a stitch.”
The first to arrive for Q’s photoshoot, he greets his incoming bandmates with enormous hugs (and also hugs them goodbye). Today, Q feels it’s pointless poking its pickaxe of serious enquiry further into Turner’s vacuum-packed soul and wonders if he’ll play, instead, a daft game. It’s called Popworld Questions, as first posed by someone he knows rather well.
“Oh, OK. Let’s do it,” he blinks, now perched in an empty dressing room. He then vigorously shakes his head, “Um…I’ve gotta snap back into it.”
Here, then, are some genuine “Alexa Chung on Popworld” questions (2006-2007), as originally posed to Matt Willis, Amy Winehouse, Robbie Williams, Pussycat Dolls, Kaiser Chiefs and Diddy.
Why do indie bands wear such tight jeans?
AT: “Um. I supposed they do. They haven’t always. When we first were playing I was definitely in flares. You need to be quite tall to get the full effect, though. So, that's why this indie band wears such tight jeans, cos we've not got the legs for flares."
What makes you tick in the sexy department?
AT: "Wow. Pass. What do I find most attractive in a woman? Something in the head? That's definitely a requirement. Well... Hmn. I'm struggling."
Tell us about all the lovely groupies.
AT: "No!"
If dogs had human hands instead of paws, would you consider trying to teach them to play the piano?
AT: "Absolutely. I'd teach Hey Jude."
How many plums d'you think you can comfortably fit in one hand?
AT: "They're not very big. [Holds small, pale, girly hand up for inspection] It's a shame. Probably three. Diddy only managed two? Maybe not then. I can carry a lot of glasses at once, though. If they're small ones I can do four."
Are you cool?
AT: "Not as much as I'd like to be. There's this clip where Clint Eastwood is on a talkshow and he gets asked, Everybody thinks of you as defining cool, what d'you think about that? And he gets his cigs out, takes one out, flicks it into his mouth, lights it and says, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Here, Turner locates his Camels soft-pack and attempts to do a Clint Eastwood. He flicks one upwards towards his mouth. And misses. Flicks another. And misses. "Third time lucky?" He misses. "I'll get it the next time." And succeeds. "Hey. Fourth time. Don't put that in! So there you go. I'm four steps away from where I wanna be."
Thank you very much for joining me here on Popworld, here's my clammy hand again. There it is, let it slip, hmmn. You can let go now.
AT: "OK! Were you a Popworld fan, then? It was funny. Cool. What were we talking about, before?"
Blimey, Alex. What must you be like when you're completely stoned out of your head?
AT: "Stoned? What d'you mean, cos I seem like that anyway? Yeah. A lot of people... tell me I'm a bit... dreamy. But I like the idea of that. Of being somewhere else."
Two days earlier, Turner had contemplated what he wanted from all this, in the end. Many seconds later he gave his deceptively ambitious answer.
"I just wanna write better songs," he decided. "And better lyrics. I just definitely wanna be good at it. Hmn. Yeah.”
—
RUFUS BLACK: AKA Matt Helders, on his ongoing bromance with Diddy
Matt Helders has known preposterous rap titan Diddy since they met in Miami in 2008. “He goes, Arctic Monkeys! Then he said summat about a B-side and I was like, He's not lying! I just thought, This is funny, I'm gonna go with this for a while." Last October Diddy texted Helders, suggesting he play drums with his Diddy Dirty Money band on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross, to give his own drummer a day off. “I were bowling with me girifriend at the time. In Sheffield, on a Sunday." On the day of recording, says Helder, "We had a musical director. That were one of the maddest times of my life. Next day Diddy said, Why don't you just stay? Come along with me. So I went everywhere with him." Diddy had "a convoy of cars" and made sure Helders was always in his. "He'd stop his car and go, Where's Matt? You're coming with me! So I'd get in his car. Just me, him, his security, driver." Diddy, by now, had given him a pseudonym - Rufus Black. "He kept saying, I don't wanna fuck up your image. And I'm, I don't think it's gonna do me any harm!" He stayed in Diddy's spectacularly expensive hotel. Some weeks later, Helders almost returned to the Dirty Money drumstool for a gig in Glasgow. "But we were rehearsing in London. I were like, I might come, how are you getting there? And he were like, Jet. Jump on t’jet with me. But I had to stay in Bethnal Green instead.”
Love’s young dream: Diddy (left) with Helders
#arctic monkeys#alex turner#matt helders#nick o'malley#jamie cook#sias era#interviews#q magazine#my image id#bands#this is such a funny interview honestly shfjwjs#self proclaimed housewife nick my beloved......#also why did the interviewer describe alex's hands as small pale and girly HELPME#btw im missing page 93 it's probabky just a photospread but yeah#i managed to find the dead links' images on vk#eye contact#not my scan
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Naomi Campbell for Vogue Italia photographed by Steve Miesel
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The Breakfast Club
Ugh, finally! This only took me the better part of a week but I like what's here, and I hope you do, too. A huge thank you to everyone who contributed some new girls to this project - I didn't quite get them all in just yet but we've got all kinds of time.
It's 7:30 on a mission morning, and now that the flights are out, the second shift is eating breakfast.
---
It was a good thing that there weren't as many of them on a shift as the pilots, or they'd never fit at the breakfast table.
"Spare a little room there, Nina?" Cord asked, as politely as she could, looking for a space to at least put down her coffee cup.
Nina, a young woman of twenty with straw-blonde hair, nodded absentmindedly and moved her plate of toast slightly to the left to vacate a post-card sized plot of tablecloth, making no effort whatsoever to relocate the extremely large copy of Life magazine she was currently reading from the middle of the table.
Cord looked at Mae, sitting just to Nina's left, and the two women shared a small amused shrug. Nina was one of the younger girls in the group, and a lifetime spent on a big family farm in New Hampshire hadn't done a whole lot for her table manners. (And for a girl who professed to be small and shy, she sure did a lot of taking up space sometimes.)
"You not eating anything?" Mae asked, passing Cord the milk before she even had a chance to ask for it.
"I had some oatmeal before wheels up," Cord said, accepting the milk and pouring a very long dollop into her coffee, stirring calmly.
"You know, you're going to get in trouble one of these days, sneaking into that kitchen," Mae said wisely, taking a sip of her own cup.
"I'm not sneaking kisses, Mae, just a bite to eat. And none of them ever touch the oatmeal." Cord took a sip of her coffee and smiled, closing her eyes over the hot cup and cradling it in both hands. "Besides, I want to make sure I'm awake for takeoff."
"So when do you think they'll send a reporter to cover us?" Nina asked, still very deep in her magazine and a full page photospread of some WACs on bicycles, somewhere deep in the British countryside.
"Do we want that?" Netta asked, glancing at the magazine over Nina's shoulder, carefully spreading a thin layer of margarine over her toast and cutting into perfect, elegant triangles. (Everyone else tended to give the margarine a wide berth, but Netta was forever on about 'slenderizing' and no one wanted to tell her she was plenty thin already.)
"Have your name in Life Magazine so everyone at home can see it?" Ethel reached across the table for the pepper shaker and vigorously dusted her hashbrowns. "Who wouldn't? At that point you're practically famous."
"They're not going to send a reporter here, Nina. We're not interesting enough for that," Mae said with a practical smile, sitting back in her chair.
Nina looked up at Mae like the older woman had just told her they'd kicked a puppy. "We're plenty interesting! Colonel Huglin said last week we were winning the air war!"
"Not us personally, Nina," Mae specified, patient to the last. "It's more of a group effort - the whole 8th Air Force."
Nina sighed heavily and went back to mooning over her magazine photos. "They must be so brave," she said, clearly addressing the woman in the photographs. She turned over the next page in the photospread, the top image a sky white with parachutes. "I don't think I could ever do that."
Cord glanced down at the photo and shrugged. "It's not hard." Nina looked up dramatically. "Parachuting," she specified. "I've done it a couple of times. It's not hard, once you get used to it."
Ethel looked up from her potatoes. "Where did you ever jump out of an airplane, Lieutenant?"
Cord laughed. "Back home, in Dayton."
"Quit bragging, Cord," Mae said with a long-suffering grin. "Not all of us grew up with daddies in flight suits."
"Your dad's a pilot?" Nina looked impressed. "Why didn't you ever say?"
"More of an engineer," Cord specified, a little cagey. "But he's got his license - taken me up a couple of times."
"And Cord does, too," Mae revealed, having far too much being a fountain of information across the table.
Ethel put down her fork. "Now, why'd you ever sign up for this gig if you can fly?"
It was a serious question, and deserved a serious answer. Cord looked down at her coffee, considering her options. "Didn't think they'd let me get close enough to matter," she said, drumming one finger on the handle of her cup. "They only let girls fly stateside - and some transatlantic ferries. It'd be a lot of flight hours but…no action. At least here I know I'm doing some good."
"Captain Brennan, what do you think about it? " Nina flagged down the passing officer, already finished with her own breakfast and obviously on her way to her next assignment. "These gals in the paratroopers that everyone can't stop writing about."
"Like they invented joining the army," Ethel added with a disdainful huff.
Brennan, a good ten years older than the rest of the table, glanced down at the article, her eyes skating over the pictures of the women at calisthenics, and spilling parachutes, and fixing their hair. "I think it takes a great deal of courage to do something different. Combat's not something they've ever allowed women before, and that's a big change."
"Why would you even want to?"
"Because it's a challenge," Brennan said with a slim smile. "And they're women who like challenges - who want to see real change. Because if they can prove themselves out there, maybe one day the Army Air Force will let Lieutenant Callaway into a B-17." She smiled around the table and glanced down at the article. "I might not be able to do what they do, but I doubt they can do what I do, either. There's space in the army for all kinds." She glanced up at the clock. "Except anyone who wants to be late. I'd hurry along, ladies, we don't want to leave the third shift waiting for breakfast."
"Yes, Captain Brennan," came chorused from the table, and Nina finally packed up her magazine while everyone took last bites and drained coffee cups and set down napkins.
"Lieutenant Callaway." Cord stopped in her tracks. "Master Sergeant Knox said you were in the kitchen again this morning eating with the crews." She paused. "When you've all been told the ground staff eats second."
Cord looked guiltily at her commanding officer, caught out. "Yes, Captain."
Brennan's face had the slightest of smiles. "I told him that I didn't like tattle-tales, and if one of my officers wanted to make sure she was sharp for wheels up then he'd better accommodate her."
Cord let out the breath she'd been holding in, relieved as anything, and allowed herself a smile. "Yes, Captain."
Brennan nodded, implacable. "Don't miss your transport, now, they'll need you back at Tower."
Cord nodded, double-timing for the door and the waiting pair of trucks outside, ready to carry the morning crew back to their assignments.
"I told you she'd chew you out about breakfast!" Mae said quietly, as the rest of the truck chattered and gossiped while the engine idled and they all settled onto the bench seats for the five minute ride to the other side of the airfield.
"She didn't chew me out," Cord said quietly. "Told Knox I had a pass for it."
"And what do they always say about Irish luck?" Mae asked with a grin. "I want to see Knox's face the next time you do it. He'll be steamed."
"Get up at four-thirty and join me," Cord replied with a smile of her own.
Mae laughed out loud as the truck coughed into motion. "As if! A girl in this man's army's got to have her beauty sleep!"
#i have written a thing#mercurygraypresents#cordelia callaway#mae werner#nina turner#ethel murray#marion brennan#netta hallstrom#masters of the air OC#mota oc#tds cinematic universe
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Power dressing photospread for Vogue Italia 1982 - Mireille Caron
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The Shocking Truth: How 1980s Wrestling Magazines Pornographied the Wrestlers!
If you grew up reading the old wrestling magazines like Ringside, Wrestling Illustrated, and Wrestling World, you will probably recall how homo-erotic and sexy they were. Amid salacious photos of shirtless males in spandex briefs, grappling together in all manner of provocative poses, were sexually suggestive descriptions of them.
These excerpts from the October 1986 edition of Wrestling World, promoting young Scott Hall, illustrate how the (primarily male) readers were seduced into (homo-erotic) desire by positioning Hall as a sex symbol.
Young Scott Hall is masculinity personified with his hairy torso on proud display throughout the photospread. We can easily see that the text of the article is packed with phallic terms like "big", "towering", "giant", and "package", to imply (and trigger?) arousal and erection.
In case any readers overlooked Hall's sex appeal based on the thirst-trap photos alone, the text further fans the flames of our lust with phrases like: "handsome giant," "dominant star," and "impressive package." They definitely wanted young me to worship this man, to ache blue for him, and I must admit, their seduction worked like a charm.
The article then describes a recent match against the "sadistic" Bruiser Brody in which the "animal" attacks our "newest hero" from behind and brutally assaults him -- dishing out punishment and repeatedly slamming his head, which has a percussive, rapey vibe to it. This is the formula of pro wrestling: First convince us to love him, then depict his utter suffering and humiliation (with as much sexual overtone as the law will allow).
Maybe it's just me reading too much into it -- maybe the editors of these magazines weren't actually fluffing us up to ensure we'd be back for more. Or maybe these magazines were, in fact, queer pornography hidden in plain sight in the guise of sports fandom.
I personally recall the intoxicating effects these magazines had on me, and let's just say, I somehow knew not to go around town telling everyone I enjoyed wrestling magazines. I knew instinctively that this content was meant to be consumed in private, behind a locked bedroom door.
#pro wrestling magazines#male beefcake photos#scott hall#hairy chested wrestler#hunk in trunks#provocative pro wrestling article#1980s wrestling magazines#pro wrestler fanboy crush
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https://www.tumblr.com/lullabyes22-blog/722592546218442752
One of the pictures featured in (one of) Jinx’s magazine spread
She absolutely would do it.
Meanwhile Silco would pick up the morning paper, stare at the photospread, put it down, lift a hand to rub his temples, and go:
"JINX!"
>(
Far away, in Piltover, Vi would pick up the paper, see the image, go absolutely still, crush it into a ball, and scream:
"SILCO!"
>(
Jinx, somewhere far away, posting the spread up on her wall for self-admiration:
"I look cute af."
>)
#asks#arcane#arcane league of legends#arcane silco#silco#arcane jinx#jinx#arcane vi#vi#forward (never forget)/xoxo#forward but never forget/xoxo
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People You Want To Know Better Tag
Quite flattered to have been tagged by @mthollowell-writes!
last song: the leak of Lolita by Kim Petras. I'm never a fan of this kind of interpolation of the book/character but somehow the song she samples is much much worse... Tragic the sound is so good.
currently watching: I am not a serialized media person! I never did finish POSE or Bojack Horseman and still dearly wish to finish both. My most anticipated serial-thing-watch is last week's episode of The Chase, which is online now and which I have had recommended to me twice! First my grandmother, then the woman at the thrift shop who was raving about it. Clearly I've got to view.
current obsession: My fanmade Kim Petras albums. I've been arranging every listenable leak into tracklists for hypothetical albums to prove her assertion that at the time of Problematique's cancellation she had "written 3 albums worth of songs." It turned out to be more than true. I just hope SOPHIE's Reason Why gets released someday.
I always say I'm too busy to tag people but oh heck let's go ahead and do it. I want to know what everyone's current obsession is! This is just like those Gothic Lolita Bible photospreads! I'll pick: @butchniqabi @goosemixtapes @fluoresensitive @hurricanelolita @sharkologydesign @furiousfinnstan @avi-why @asablehart @lazarusemma and I'm up to the traditional 9 apparently recommended by this tag. ^__^ And whoever wants to do it as always.
#txt#tag games#Can we talk about Lolita being mentioned in this post to refer to the song the book the fashion the URL.
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Massive photospread in the Mail ... he's on a yacht on Lake Bolsena near Civita with Xander and his gf, Corden and his wife, Brad, Gemma and others. Same outfit as the bridge pics. Harries who thought he and Brad were on a romantic trip alone aren't happy!
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/harry_styles/article-12350171/PICTURE-EXCLUSIVE-Harry-Styles-sparks-romance-rumours-Victorias-Secret-lingerie-model-Jacquelyn-Jablonski-join-pal-James-Corden-boat-trip-Italy.html
Just like I said. LOL
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Ok but where is my Jacob Anderson photospread
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it's probably b/c daniel was in the wedding party so arrived earlier to the venue than the rest of his group so wasn't around to pose with them....the good news is, if the wedding will have an official magazine reveal, which it looks like it's going to, daniel will be in the professional photospread <3
i cannot wait
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i’d love to see what you would do with ‘rosy’ + dick and joan + the ballet au!!! (i continue to be obsessed with the ballet au)
After several hours, the whole situation was really starting to get on his nerves.
"So, is anyone going to tell them?"
Joan looked over at him from the relative darkness beside a rack of costumes, the two of them looking at the photo set in front of them. "Tell them what?"
Dick gestured to the set. "That Rites of Spring isn't anything like this?"
The scene in the studio here was an 18th century confection of columns and flowers and actors in floral prints - the idea of an emerging 'spring' of talent, just starting to come into their own. (It really was something of a Hollywood who's who - two of the people in the room had already been nominated for Oscars, one had a play opening on Broadway in the coming months, and everyone seemed to be swapping stories from Cannes.)
Dick and Joan were really here to set-dress, wearing costumes that might have come from a very classically staged…something, Dick in more of the style of a prince and Joan the humble milk-maid. Stravinsky's ballet, in contrast, was a riot of sound and sharp angles, meant to evoke a primal past - something any student of the art would have known, if they'd bothered to do the reading.
"Dick, I'm not going to stand between the art director for a major magazine and a technicality," Joan said, practical to her bones. "We are being paid quite a lot of money to stand here and look pretty. It's good press for the company and the new season - and new audience exposure."
The word 'exposure' made Dick almost want to shiver - one of those new buzzwords that Tab (in his new tech-saavy Instagram fame) was always throwing around, like CTR and organic engagement and market share. Joan paid more attention to those things, a side effect of having an uncle who sat on the board and cared about these things like 'a new generation of viewers.' Isn't it enough any more to just make good art?
But he already knew it wasn't. This is the new generation of viewers - the people searching relentlessly for their next hit of pretty, streaming something from their couch.
"It's just all so…fake and…" he looked around, flicking his fingers at a nearby bouquet, "Rosy."
Joan's eyeroll was immense. "Dick, ballet is fake and rosy. I think anyone could argue any creative performance can be fake and rosy. So what is it really that's bothering you, hmm?"
Well, when she put it like that, how could he refuse? "Mr. Hollywood over there can't stop staring at you."
Mr. Hollywood - not his real name, of course, but it summed him up well - was an up and coming actor, one of several prized show horses being promoted in this photospread. (While Dick was in what amounted to full ballet court dress, the actor was lounging in an undone blue frock coat to show off washboard abs, his cropped hair more 21st century than 18th, Men's Health rather than Madame de Montespan. His attitude in the chair had every suggestion that in any century he could, as the kids were saying these days, 'get it.')
A smile emerged. "Oh, so Mr. Winters is jealous."
"…maybe."
Joan laughed. "Well, you needn't be. He asked for my number already. I told him I was very taken by the hot redhead in tights. I think now he's staring at you and wondering how to get an ass that looks like yours."
"Three hours of daily pointe practice. It's probably not macho enough for him."
"Let's do a lift later and show him how macho it is, then." She leaned over, something of the stage coquette in her smile and the tilt of her hand towards his shoulder, clearly pantomining the telling of a secret. "I don't think he could get it up that high."
It was Dick's turn now to stare. "Joanie Warren, are you making dirty jokes?"
In that shepherdess outfit she was the picture of rosy naiveté, but the smile she gave him was anything but fake. "Anything to make you smile."
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Inspiration Sunday
Teasing an idea that I had for mirror one-shots this week. Thanks for tagging me @welcometololaland 💊
Music will forever be the most inspirational thing for me. Sorry this isn't more interesting of a photospread but keeping it real. this is all I have so far lol
I tag @lightningboltreader , @carlos-in-glasses , @rmd-writes , @wtfuckevenknows if you want to share something <3
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Check out Lauren Lyle's gorgeous photospread and interview in PhotoBook. Link is in my stories. #laurenlyle #laurenlyle7 #photobook #karenpirie #outlander #marsalifraser https://www.instagram.com/p/ClaCn4rMium/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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"You seriously think i could’ve done this?" Quiet hurt borrowing anger's coat makes her enunciate fully. She's all but quivering as she jabs a finger onto what's left of the newspaper and it's headline. "*Really*, Ben? Really?" {{Senator's Son Modern//Morbid Curiosity}}
If looks could kill, Beth would gut herself on the dirk of this one.
"I don't know," he repeats. Maybe this is the third or so time he's said it. That and 'you tell me.' Ben parrots these phrases back at her. For the most part, he glares at the headline quivering in Beth's hand. That's when he's not glowering at her, with his anger trapped in his eyes like hardened amber. Fire burning cold.
Does he seriously think she did this? Maybe he does. Maybe it's just her tone. His shame. Ben's attention drifts toward a panorama of the Etch-A-Sketch skyline. It's got so heated in Beth's Brooklyn apartment her window panes fog up, and the snow starts blowing away from the Verrazano as though to avoid them.
When diminishing the enormity of his thoughts isn't enough, Beth adds the garnish, 'Really?' She says, 'Really?' The way his mother would say it. Something in him goes raw, then. Comes tumbling out covered in blood and gook, like a newborn goat. Comes screaming. Where he was once still, his every fiber now bristles.
"I don't know!"
He's never heard himself like this, not aloud. He watched a car burst into flames on the Sungai Dohol bridge, and he wasn't like this.
"I don't know how it leaked, but—" Ben slams his thermos on the kitchen island.
"—Somebody," slam, "said," slam, "something. Somebody did a little fucking more than say something."
Ben yells, yells at Beth. His face contorts with anger, and it feels twisted and unjust, but it keeps coming, wave after wave of rapid breath and speech trawling him as the dam he built around himself over the last six months begins to split. This must be the breaking point his therapist has told him about, but why must it come now?
"Fuck."
Why must it be so consuming? Relentless?
Ben gestures violently at the crumpled photospread on Beth's kitchen tiles, his voice about giving out. "Look! Look at the fucking pictures. Oh my God."
The halftone length of his arm still shows where the newspaper folds open, gesticulating at an impossible angle. Above that, the subhead, painfully forthright in its wording. That's when he starts shaking. Ben smooths his hands over his temples and then raises them like he's removing a crown from his head. They stay suspended there, marionettes. Suddenly his body becomes foreign to him. The legs below, massive. Automatons.
"I have to go," he says faintly, in a voice that's like tin to his ears: he has to go into exile like his uncle. Where does that leave Ben? The Everglades? The mind tries to visualize palm trees, but the eyes see T.V. snow. The head throbs, the heart hammers.
Please don't let it be her.
Please.
For a moment, he begins packing Beth's kitchen sundries into his canvas bag. It's unclear whether he understands the futility of the objects he holds—that they don't even belong to him—but it's only a beat or so until he abandons this, shuffling toward the blur of living room furniture.
The legs drop and berth him against Beth's couch. Not on it, but beside it. Kneecaps crushing against denim, against Afghan weaving. The face finds respite in its arm, sinking into a cool, dark space. Breathing then not breathing. And the same thoughts play on a loop, alternating: Please, not her. I have to go. Please.
#brooklynislandgirl#m. au | modern!ben: the senator's son#r. a certain person#ben & beth: like a poem poorly written#mini thread#edited: for quality assurance
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Cowitness recognition rate affects choices through target-absent photospreads.
Cys282Tyr mutation. Components and methods Fifty-three individuals along with primary IO as well as non-homozygous genotype for your HFE r.Cys282Tyr have been decided on. Following bidirectional DNA sequencing regarding BMP6 exons ended up being performed. Benefits Two fresh alternatives were found. A single at homozygous state r.Gln158Ter (h.472C>T) ended up being pathogenic, one other one particular from heterozygous point out g.Val394Met (h.1180G>A) was of doubtful value (VUS); the 3rd variant at heterozygous point out s.Arg257His (c.770G>A) has already been described and associated with IO. Absolutely no BMP6 pathogenic versions that would explain iron overload phenotypes had been recognized inside 94% from the studied sufferers. Finish Recognition with the BMP6 pathogenic variants in Brazil individuals with principal IO may possibly help with the particular anatomical understanding of this phenotype.History Using mock interview (also referred to as role enjoy), specially utilizing skilled celebrities since interviewees, has revealed positive effects about conversation instruction nevertheless little is well known about how precisely individuals engage these kinds of training actions. Aim The actual review has been conducted to find out which views forensic hiring managers hold with regards to model job interviews being a learning exercise regarding creating capabilities for child meeting with, along with no matter whether you'll find unfavorable ideas that could probably affect the helpfulness from the exercise. Participants Written insights had been from 35 Us all forensic interviewing pros who have been signed up for an online child interviewer training program. Methods Frequent designs had been taken from the actual insights to determine forensic interviewers' awareness regarding areas of your mock meeting. Extraction associated with themes or templates assist the resolution of regardless of whether ideas afflicted the way in which along with diploma to which interviewers involved in the make fun of interview process. Results Benefits suggest that no matter possible anxiousness, individuals expertise several UPR signaling advantages of the actual model meeting. Results Studies through the found research indicates propose nearly all enrollees understand fake job interviews positively, and they're attractive youngster meeting training packages.Cerebral hydropsy make up a crucial reason behind secondary injury inside severe injury to the brain. The particular quantification regarding cerebral hydropsy in neuroimaging, a well-established biomarker associated with second brain injury, signifies a good advanced phenotype to examine swelling creation. Populace inherited genes offers effective resources to recognize fresh susceptibility body's genes, natural path ways and also healing targets linked to brain hydropsy enhancement. Right here, our company offers an overview of your pathogenesis of cerebral hydropsy, expose pertinent innate solutions to research this procedure, along with go over the ongoing investigation for the hereditary underpinnings involving swelling creation throughout acute brain injury.
#inhibitor#small molecules#chemicals#kinase inhibitors#tyrosine kinase inhibitors#enzyme inhibitors#protein inhibitors#proteins kinase inhibitors#phosphatase inhibitors#compound library#activators#modulators#agonists#antagonists
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