#they’re acting like people were bad at singing before the twentieth century?? as if there isn’t literally hundreds of years of choral music? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elen-aranel · 2 years

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Curtain Call - Act 1

For: @writer-wednesday, but week 16... yes this took that long Pairing: Captain Christopher Pike x F!Reader (no Y/N) Warnings: None! WC: 3k Rating: Teen Notes: People keep telling me, "Take your time, Elen", and I say, "but I don't want to!" But I needed this story to keep me company this summer. There's a further act to come! Summary: Chris is there. He catches your eye and tilts his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face, and time almost stands still for a second as you stare back at him.

Masterlist • Act 2 >

In space, no one can hear you sing.

One of your teachers at the conservatoire told you that, years ago, and somehow it stuck with you, along with how to use your stomach muscles to support your breath, and what to picture in your mind as you reach for a high note.

You never questioned her about why she said it; you don’t know if she thought space travel could be bad for your voice, or whether she thought Earth music belonged on Earth. But either way, you’ve only sung off-world a couple of times.

Work on Earth has been plentiful, though, so you never had a reason to think about it. You’ve been all over the planet: Europe, Asia, a stint at the Sydney Opera House which was magical… And you like this gig, a few more weeks in a theatre in your current home city of San Francisco, a lot. It’s where the Federation brass bring dignitaries to give them a flavour of human music, and you’ve sung for admirals, ambassadors, members of the Federation council, even the president.

Your numbers aren’t until the second half, so before the show you can mingle with the audience. And recently you’ve found yourself wondering. Feeling a little restless. Pretending to yourself you’re on a starbase somewhere, or maybe Kasseelia, at one of the opera houses.

Maybe one day, when the right opportunity comes up, you’ll perform off Earth again.

For all of your thinking about space, you have to appreciate the historic building that you get to perform in on Earth. The crystal chandeliers that cast a soft warm glow and the polished wood panelling aren’t actually hundreds of years old, but they’re a re-creation of the theatre’s original design. You wonder what it would have been like, when you couldn’t get on a starship to go to another world. When a place like this might have been your only escape from a mundane life on Earth.

There are a lot of Starfleet uniforms in the foyer this evening among the suits, dresses and alien robes; even more than usual. Some are the older style navy blue, but a lot of the newer, more colourful uniforms are dotted about the crowd. Reds, blues and golds. There are aliens of a species you’ve never seen before too, taller than humans with a sparkling stone which may be jewellery in the middle of their foreheads. You smile to yourself as you push your way toward the stairs, taking care, as you always do, that no one steps on your dress. There’s something about getting to witness the crowd, and their sense of anticipation.

Your other pre-show ritual is going up to the circle level bar for a drink. You pause at the turn in the stairs for one last look at the crowd before you perform to them later, then head the rest of the way up.

It’s quieter up here. You’ve noticed during the season that the bars on the ground floor are more popular pre-show, and patrons tend not to come upstairs as much until right before the performance starts. There are a few people at tables, but no one right at the bar. It’s as picturesque as the rest of the theatre, with walls covered with vintage posters advertising operas, plays and musicals that were staged here in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

You slide onto your stool, beneath the black and white girl on the poster of Les Misérables.

“The usual?”

“Hey, S’nera, yes please.” You smile at the Caitian bartender, ginger fur glossy under the bar’s spotlights, who already has a highball glass in hand.

“Let’s make that two,” a deep voice says, and you and S’nera share a doubtful look before you turn to see who’s spoken.

“All right,” she says, and you hear ‘your funeral’, but you forget that as you look at the stranger sitting down next to you, and your breath catches just a little. He is handsome, with a square jaw, mouth pulled into a small smile, perfectly styled greying hair and blue eyes, made bluer by the green wrap-around top he wears. He has a Starfleet badge so must be an officer, but that’s not a uniform colour you recognise. He wears it well, though. And it does nothing to hide his broad shoulders and muscled arms.

You’re jolted out of your admiration by the sound of the glasses hitting the bar, and you turn to pick one up.

“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, and you both take a sip. His confident expression falters. “Room temperature pineapple juice? Really?”

“It’s what I always drink.” You shrug, grinning. “First time anyone’s joined me, though.” You take another sip, the fruity flavour soothing you as it always does.

“Well, guess I walked into that one. Figures, the day I’m having. I hate these things.” He gestures, somehow encompassing the whole theatre, and sighs, and you have to stop yourself watching his mouth on the glass when he takes a drink.

“You hate concerts? Music?”

“I’m not sure the music will really be my thing, but... it’s the having to be here to see and be seen. Being here because of who I am and what I represent. It feels... inauthentic. If—” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to complain about my troubles to you.”

“No, that’s all right. Sometimes we just need someone to hear us.” You tilt your head. “Let me get you a proper drink. S’nera?” You reach over and take the glass from his hands, your fingers accidentally-on-purpose brushing against his. You clock his eyes widening just a fraction. “I’m putting it on my tab. What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey on the rocks. But won’t you join me?”

You shake your head – alcohol is bad for your voice, pre-performance, and so is ice. “I’m good. Perhaps later, though? After the show?”

“I hope so.” S’nera places his new drink on the bar, and he picks it up and raises it to you.

“So what brings you here, officer?” You ask. “I’m guessing work, but your uniform, I—”

“Chris, there you are. I knew I’d find you hiding out somewhere. Finish that, and come back with me.” The newcomer is also wearing a Starfleet uniform, dark blue with elaborate gold epaulets and badge. His dark eyes are equal parts amused and frustrated, and you’d bet he’s Chris’ superior. “I had to leave Sarah on her own with two of our guests; I’m hoping there won’t be a diplomatic incident by the time we get back.”

“Admiral, I—”

“Good evening and welcome. If you wish to take your seat for tonight’s performance, the auditorium is now open. May I please remind guests—”

You look at the antique clock above the bar. Somehow it’s already 7:15pm, and even though it’s much too early for your call, people start getting antsy if you’re not in your dressing room before the show starts. You step down off your stool, and pat Chris’ shoulder.

“I’ve got to get going now too. It was nice to meet you, Chris. Hope the show’s not as bad as you think.” You nod to the admiral on your way past, and smile at Chris, now standing, as you leave the bar.

“Anyone interesting out there tonight?” the principal ’cellist asks you as you pass her in the narrow corridor backstage, making sure to give her cello as wide a berth as possible.

“Mostly the usual, but there’s a diplomatic party. Some folks the Starfleet brass want to impress.”

“They came to the right place. We’re gonna blow them away.” Ayre, the tenor soloist, looking smart in a dark gold suit which sets off their golden-brown skin and close-cropped bleached gold curls gives a smug grin as they emerge from the door next to yours. “You coming out for drinks after?”

You open your mouth to reply, but an image of Chris floats in front of your eyes, and how you said you might meet him later. But you’ll never be able to find him—

“Hesitation is not like you.” Ayre’s expression turns suspicious. “Did you have other plans? Did you meet someone?”

You shrug. “Kind of? But no. No plans. Drinks sound great. And if I’m remembering right, you owe me, from—”

They laugh. “Yeah yeah, whatever.”

“Performers this is your five-minute call. Beginners, please stand by.”

“Break a leg,” you wave as you open the door to your dressing room.

Inside you flip on the humidifier, check your appearance and read for a bit before you start your warm-ups. At least your routine is well established, so it doesn’t matter if you can’t quite put a handsome Starfleet officer completely out of mind...

The thing you love about singing is that it’s just you. There’s nothing standing between the music and your audience; it’s your artistry, your emotion, your soul, direct from you to them. There are no instruments to get in the way, no keys to get stiff, no strings to break.

That’s not to say you don’t have to take care of your voice. You were tired and run down at the end of a semester at the conservatoire in your first year and you overdid it. You spent that entire summer resting, and praying that the doctors were right, and that your voice would come back by itself.

But as you step out onto the stage, hear the strings play that first soft chord, there’s only you, the audience, and the direct connection between you.

That’s part of why you like to mingle with the crowd before the show. The house lights are down and the stage lights are bright so you can’t make out anyone clearly, but you can picture who you’re singing for. You can see the faces, in your mind’s eye, of the regulars who you’ve seen at multiple performances. The aliens who you’d never seen before today. The Starfleet officers, including that admiral. And Chris.

You take a deep breath, and sing.

Another nice thing about being a singer is after your warm down, which only takes a few minutes, you’re done. You don’t have to drag your instrument in a case along with you if you go out, or stress about whether you’ve left it somewhere safe. And, while this run is going on, you can keep your fancy dresses at the theatre.

As quick as you are to leave your dressing room, Ayre is quicker.

“Leda said you were special tonight, you know.” They say as you fall into step with them.

“Wait really?” Leda is director of music at the theatre, among other things, and her good opinion matters.

“Of course really. I might get jealous. I’m supposed to be her favourite.”

You laugh. “Only because you dedicated Nessun Dorma to her that one time—”

“Shush. Piacere for drinks?”

“Sure.”

By the time you make it to the stage door there’s a good size group of your friends heading to the bar, and you’re looking forward to a couple of drinks before turning in.

But as you exit the theatre, stepping out into the fresh evening air, Chris is there. He catches your eye and tilts his head, a small, sheepish smile on his face, and time almost stands still for a second as you stare back at him.

Ayre nudges your shoulder, speaking in an undertone. “Guess you’re not coming after all? Make good choices, babe. “And they somehow manage to herd everyone else away before you can react.

“Hi,” you say, suddenly feeling a little nervous, a little exposed. “You enjoy the show?”

“I did. You were—” he shakes his head a little. “You were sublime, and I... I owe you an apology. I said a few things back there that were… ill-considered.”

“All you said was you didn’t expect you’d enjoy the music.” You shrug. “And that’s fair – not everything is for everyone. Mostly you seemed unhappy about your situation, not the concert. So no apology necessary. But… if you really want to apologise, you can buy me a drink?” You take a step towards him, smiling. “After a performance I can even have ice.”

“It’s the least I can do.” He grins as he offers you his arm. “So why do you drink warm pineapple juice before shows?”

“It’s a placebo, really. But I like the taste and it doesn’t do any harm, so I grab one pre-show while I’m sizing up the audience. Really you have to keep yourself hydrated all the time. And humid atmospheres help.”

You finger his jacket with your free hand. “My turn: why haven’t I seen a green Starfleet uniform before now?”

Conversation flows easily as you walk, and he’s happy to let you steer him to one of your favourite bars. It’s a bit of a hidden gem – by the bay, small but not crowded, and sleek and modern, unlike the theatre.

You like it because you can see out across the water as you sit with your drinks, to the Golden Gate Bridge in one direction, and lights on Alcatraz in another.

Above the water is the new moon, bright enough to reflect off the waves. And above that, stars.

Discussions of uniforms naturally lead to talking about space, and you question Chris on life as a starship captain, the places he’s been and the things he’s seen. His stories fascinate you, even if you’re not entirely sure you believe them all.

“You ever think about travelling? Seeing the stars?” he asks as you start in on the second round of drinks.

“Actually yes. More and more, recently. I was in a tour commemorating the founding of the Federation a few years ago. The concert on Vulcan... that was fun.”

“Oh?”

“A couple of Vulcan musicians caught up with me after the show, asking about the logic of conveying emotion in music, and why I didn’t just showcase the beauty of the mathematical structure underpinning it all.”

“That sounds very Vulcan. I have some experience with them.” He smiles, there’s something fond in his expression as it goes distant for a moment. “My chief science officer is Vulcan. He can sometimes be... blunt.”

“Yes, blunt.” You nod. “I knew they were asking in good faith, and after I got over my surprise it led to an interesting conversation. It was good to look at things from a viewpoint I hadn’t considered before.”

“That part of exploration... the way it challenges our perspective? That’s one of the things that keeps me going back out there.”

“Plus the things you get to see... the crystal formations on Iyer sound amazing. I want to see those. Shame Starfleet doesn’t take passengers.”

He laughs at that. “If I could I’d take you in a heartbeat.” He pauses, then reaches out to touch your hand. “You should go, though. To Iyer. Hell, you should travel the galaxy, if you want to. You can. Earth will still be here when you want to come home.”

“I should, huh. I still have a few weeks to go here, but after that... I was waiting for the right opportunity, to sing somewhere? But maybe I should just go explore.”

You sip your drink, feeling thoughtful. “So how long are you planetside?”

“Until tomorrow. Afternoon.” He smiles, lopsided and utterly charming, and you feel flutters inside you as you make your decision.

The corners of your mouth turn up, and you look him in the eye. “It’s a bit too late for food now, but would it be forward of me to ask you to—”

Your communicator beeps, and you frown, pulled out of the moment.

“You gonna get that?” He asks, expression gone amused.

You pull the communicator out and stare at it a moment, wondering if you can make it go quiet by force of will. But anyone calling this late must have a particular reason; it’s probably just Ayre wanting to give you an out from your date if you need one. You pull a face, and stand.

“I’d better. I’ll just be a minute.”

The breeze coming off the bay is chilly, and you feel goosebumps raise on your arms as you activate the communicator one handed, hugging the other across your stomach.

“Hello?”

“Oh thank God, I thought you were never going to pick up. It’s Leda. You need to come back to the theatre, now. It’s nothing bad, but we’re having a meeting. The others are here already, but you weren’t with them.”

“Um... now now? I’m sorry Leda, can’t whatever it is wait? I—I’m on a date...”

You hear her take a breath, and you can picture her in your mind’s eye, pinching the bridge of her nose, trying to slow down. “I’m sorry about that, but I wouldn’t call you in if the matter wasn’t of the utmost importance. Time is a factor, too. When will you be here?”

You stifle your sigh.

“Give me fifteen.”

Chris must pick up something in your expression as you return to him.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, but no. Leda – Leda Lau, director of music – has summoned me back to the theatre for a meeting. I tried to tell her I was otherwise engaged, but she was insistent.” You sigh. “I’m so sorry, I was really enjoying our evening, but I’m going to have to abandon you.”

Chris stands and picks up your jacket, expression sympathetic. “Orders are orders. I understand. Let me walk you back.”

You take your jacket from him as you get to the door, and put it on before stepping outside.

“No, I’ll be fine. It’s way out of your way, if you’re staying at HQ.”

“I insist.” His small half-smile is back, and he holds out his arm for you. “My parents didn’t raise me to let a date walk back alone.”

The streets are quiet on your way to the theatre, stars glimmering above you, and it seems like no time before you’re coming up to the stage door again.

“Thank you for tonight.” You turn to face Chris, staring up into his blue eyes. “I’m sorry I had to bail on you. But... if you find yourself back on Earth again, feel free to look me up.”

He stares back down at you, and something in his blue eyes is searching. You know he’s going to kiss you—

“—don’t want you to worry, that’s all. I’ll be back soon. Yeah, see you later. Oh, hi—” Edward, a violinist, waves at you as he walks up to the door. “You here for the…? I’ll, uh… see you inside.” He gives you an apologetic glance, having just noticed Chris.

But the moment is broken, and Chris has already moved away.

“If you find yourself in space, feel free to look me up,” he says.

You smile, wistful. “I will.”

Somehow you make it through the door without looking back.

#writer wednesday #Christopher Pike #Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Captain Pike #Christopher Pike Imagine #star trek strange new worlds #star trek discovery #fanfic #writings of the girl from outer space #Curtain Call

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latenightcinephile · 4 years

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#729: ‘Gigi’, dir. Vincente Minnelli, 1958.

The Studio Era of the Hollywood musical is a strange time to write about - it contradicts itself in a lot of ways, and marries joyful escapism to some pretty dark interpretations of social norms. There aren’t many studio musicals I’ve liked better the second time around, and for most of them they get progressively worse with every screening (I watched Singin’ in the Rain yearly when I was teaching and it got harder and harder to sit through. I was very pleased that the stage production in the early 2010s added a musical number to redress some of the Lina Lamont character assassination. More on that another time!) Gigi, however, was a new experience for me. The first time I watched it, I was bored stiff. Usually when this happens, it’s because I’ve been paying it too little attention. I thought that by watching it again for this blog, I would understand it better.

I was right. I understand it better. Unfortunately, it’s just as bad as I thought it was; I just understand why it’s so bad now.

So, a bit of context: Gigi won the Best Picture Academy Award, a fact that struck me as impossible until I realised I’d never heard of most of its competitors. It also won enough other Oscars to set a record for the time, including Best Director for Minnelli, although none of its actors were even nominated. The film is set in early-twentieth-century Paris, and chronicles the developing romance between Gigi (Leslie Caron), who is training to follow in the family tradition of becoming a mistress to the wealthy, and Gaston (Louis Jourdan), a bon vivant who seems to be going through the motions of the wealthy lifestyle. The plot bounces between the traditional modes of the romantic musical: Gigi wants true love, rather than the meaningless dalliances that are proposed as all Parisians are after, and Gaston is looking for something interesting in life, but both are caught up in the social expectations that limit them in what they can accomplish on this front.

Let’s start with the main reason Gigi isn’t an enjoyable watch: it’s tasteless. The first major plot point of the film (and the closest thing we get to a conflict in the first hour) is when Gaston finds out that his current amour is flirting with her ice-skating instructor. He rejects her publicly, and she attempts - and apparently not for the first time - to commit suicide. The film treats this as a jolly affair, and a significant turning point in Gaston’s career as a womaniser: champagne corks pop and, despite Gaston’s refusal to take any joy in his former lover’s near-demise, the event is quickly forgotten. Honoré (Maurice Chevalier), who lays on the Frenchness so thick you’d need a truffle-hunting pig to find any real emotion, opens and closes the film with a somewhat skeezy song about how wonderful little girls are, and the big realisation moment for Gaston about his love for Gigi comes in the middle of a song that wobbles wildly between infantilising her and sexualising her. There are a lot of moments in the film that are just flat-out uncomfortable.

Most of this comes from the general inappropriateness of the source material for a musical in the first place. Colette’s novella had already been shopped around Hollywood when Arthur Freed came on the scene; most of the people involved were battling the Hays Code, which is unsurprising given that the protagonist of the novella is sixteen. The final film ‘gets around’ this by never mentioning Gigi’s age explicitly, but it’s clear from the fact that she’s still in school that this was one aspect of the book that wasn’t completely reconstructed.

Gigi was the last of the major Arthur Freed-produced MGM musicals, and although there is no published information that suggests there were problems during production, looking at the final film it’s hard to believe that anybody involved was doing more than the bare minimum. Bosley Crowther, reviewing the film in the New York Times, said that it “bears such a basic resemblance to My Fair Lady that the authors may want to sue themselves.” He didn’t mean this as a criticism, but it’s absolutely damning when you look at the fine details. Both these musicals feature a grumpy man rescued from his misanthropic or ennui-filled worldview by a cheery and childlike woman whose age hovers uncomfortably on the line of legality, in both these musicals the man realises his love in a song that moves from spurning and insulting the woman to being patronisingly affectionate, and the last act of each revolves around each person trying to leave the other for perfectly legitimate reasons before eventually relenting. Both musicals have a chorus number, performed by the MGM Chorus, where they appear as upper-class commentary (’The Gossips’ and ‘Ascot Opening Race’).

And in every instance, Gigi is the inferior copy of the original. Even when dubbed, Gigi’s songs are gratingly simple and Louis Jourdan never rises above Rex-Harrison-style patter singing - although at least Harrison was capable of a tune. It’s clear that most of the memorable songs were written for other contexts: ‘The Night they Invented Champagne’ was written as a lover’s duet but here is handed to Gigi and Gaston before they’re even romantically linked, as well as Gigi’s grandmother (Hermione Gingold - once again, I have a lot of praise for older women in these films, who have the talent and the sense to treat the material with the borderline irreverence it needs). ‘I Remember it Well’ was written for My Fair Lady and then tacked in here, which is why the love affair it refers to between Gingold and Chevalier isn’t mentioned anywhere else.

Because of all this predictability in the writing of Gigi, the film drags far more than it ought to. There’s no real conflict between Gaston and Gigi for the first 90 minutes of the film: they’re platonic, then they have feelings for each other but there’s no reason for them to be together, but neither of them seem troubled by that development. The lyrics of ‘I Don’t Understand the Parisiennes’ are vague enough that it took a Wikipedia summary for me to really grasp what Gigi’s problem with romance specifically was.

If the film had been restructured around this central problem - that Gaston and Gigi want to be together but cannot - there would be real tension before the last half-hour of the film. When this tension happens, though, it comes in the form of an idiot-ball plot, where Gaston abruptly yanks Gigi away from their first public appearance together (because he can’t bear to expose her to the gossip of society), and literally drags her home crying without explaining his motivations to her at all. If this is the kind of ‘true romance’ that Gigi so ardently desires, she can have it, as far as I’m concerned. This lack of communication between them makes the whole relationship uncomfortable to witness. (I should mention that I see a difference between the screwball comedy plot, which these films clearly derive their structure from, and what the studio musical turns it into. In the screwball comedy, the chemistry predates the misunderstanding; in the musical, this is flipped, so the characters have no reason to be well-disposed to each other.)

There is one saving grace in the film - they co-opted Cecil Beaton to design the costumes, and that and the set design combine to inject Gigi with a sense of garish extremity that is at least fun to watch. I think this was my mistake the first time around with this film, and what I confirmed with the second viewing: Gigi is a pretty picture, and I kept digging looking for something of substance beneath it. If there is substance here, it’s not of a pleasant type. If you want a better musical, there are many others to look at, but I’d start with My Fair Lady - the same idea, the same team, but at least something approaching substance and structure.

#1001 movies #Vincente Minnelli #Gigi #avoid #studio musicals

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darlingfettucini · 5 years

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So I just finished Carole & Tuesday

And I have a lot of mixed feelings.

Here is a nonsensical rant

And also, is this the first season of many or the only season?

On the one hand, we have multiple characters who are poc and are represented respectfully. One of the main characters is a black woman, with complex feelings and depth and all that good stuff. That by itself is a huge step for anime, and it's one of the things that drew me in.

However, there were some side characters who were poc that, frankly, were a little disturbing? There was a character in the prelim auditions who was dancing and singing obnoxiously who just kind of seemed like a black lady caricature to me. I liked the Mermaid sisters at first, I thought that they were fun drag queens until they were weirdly aggressive. I was excited for nonbinary drag queen representation that seemed pretty positive and comedic (that song is 👌) , but then that aggression happened at the end and... Seems like that angry-black-lady stereotype. I just want to forget those five seconds happened.

Carole and Tuesday are such natural feeling characters, so cutely animated, that they almost felt out of place in their own anime filled with explosive caricature personalities. I think that that's intentional commentary on the world of showbiz. It was natural talent and uncommercialized music vs AI-designed, fabricated, showy music, except I'm not sure who the winner was.

The main female characters, including Angela, the antagonist, are also great. They're unique and they don't go over the top in their own syereotypes--Angela being a bratty idol, Carole a tough kid who knows the street, Tuesday a naive rich girl. They're complex, they don't always act how you expect. They aren't typical anime girls, and it's refreshing. My feminist sides were quite tickled.

Unfortunately, I did feel like the anime didn't focus on the two main girls enough? I feel like I didn't get to know them enough. I wish I could have felt their struggle. Neither of them had happy lives, but I came out feeling worse for Angela than for them, despite Angela having a lot of her success spoonfed to her. Maybe I'm just really used to anime with saturated angst and flashbacks and high stakes, but I think this one could have leaned into it more. The only flashback of Carole we get is when she's in school, getting bullied, and she fights back. I loved that, and I think a bit more would have been great. This anime is supposed to be sweet and feel-good, but sometimes feel-good means you get a taste of feel-bad for a little antithesis.

The plus size representation. I wasn't expecting anything. I certainly appreciated that the 17 year olds looked like 17 year olds and there weren't minors with weirdly huge busts running around. The character designs seemed pretty varied and fun, and there were a few fat men that existed and didn't follow the usual stupid/constantly eating shtick that every cartoon ever likes.

Also, are we really supposed to believe that these two girls from different backgrounds just get along perfectly right from the start? Best friends forever? We do get some conflict between them towards the end, and there are moments where they both fail (Tuesday is a bad homemaker and can't clean, Carole can't keep a job) but it feels a little too perfect between them. I don't mind that they magically sing well together--I'm into that--but I wanted them to have to work together on their songs and struggle to become closer and united.

OKAY NOW LET'S TALK LGBT.

I'm really not happy about this, overall.

I heard that this anime had a lot of representation, and I was excited about that! But theeeennn. Yeah. No.

Once again, some people are troubled by the mermaid sisters. I liked them until they got aggressive. It would have suited the situation more if they had huffed at the rude judge lady and stomped off the stage, but the aggressiveness was not a good time.

Cybelle definitely has this predatory lesbian stereotype going on, doing all us girls-who-like-girls dirty. I thought it was cool that Tuesday had to face crazy fan pressure and high expectations--it's definitely something someone with her personality would struggle with. Frankly, I think a crazy stalker fan as a plot struggle is exciting, but... I don't think this was handled well. I liked Cybelles character design and her song, though--if only she wasn't out here biting people.

However, there was a healthy lesbian relationship going on somewhere in the world when that happened. One of the side characters talked casually about how she's going to marry a woman. That was great! Characters casually being LGBT without it being a main plot point is SO important!

And now. Some transphobia. Angela's mom is a somewhat disturbing mtf caricature. She's got crazy makeup that doesn't look great, shes got a deep voice, mousey hair. Have ya'll seen mtf folks? They don't look like that!

She apparently was on some kind of medicine that made her aggressive and abuse Angela years before. She seems to have changed since then, but uh, Idk why we out here forgiving people who hit kids. Angela seems to resent her for the abuse (valid), and perhaps for transitioning (yikes), there's a scene that seems to link the two somehow, but we don't know exactly why.

What is with this link between aggression and non-cis, non-straight characters? It's so odd. Is it intentionally homophobic and transphobic? I think it's trying to not be? I think it's the thought that counts and a sign that anime is almost out of the twentieth century.

I liked that there were these characters with different sexualities, but there weren't any scenes that were fan-servicey. It wasn't trying to target a specific fujoshi audience with them, it just had them to have them. It was intentionally diverse. There weren't unnecessary romantic subplots that didn't fit the show's tone. It really felt like it was about music, and I liked so many of the songs. I've been replaying dancing laundry and dance tonight constantly.

Okay, those are my random thoughts. What do you guys think? Anything to add?

#lgbtq #Anime #Representation #Characters #Review #carole and tuesday #Poc #poccharacters #Random thoughts

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samingtonwilson · 7 years

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Marriage Material - Part 8 - Jim Kirk

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

Summary: in this chapter, you have him.

Warnings: language

A/N: i promise part 9 is better. this part kinda got away from me.

Leonard watched as you inspected the burns on Scotty’s arm, your hands gloved, eyes narrowed, lips turned down in a frown. You pulled a stool to sit down beside the biobed, your lips forming words he couldn’t hear and your eyes conveying what he could read— you were irritated, concerned, and a little angry. It was your usual emotional state when Scotty walked into the medbay with red splotches decorating and singeing the hair from his arm. The sight of it made Leonard want to smile.

He watched as you rose from the stool and left Scotty’s side, pulling the curtain shut before walking over to the plethora of drawers filled with supplies and tools.

As you yanked a drawer open and began sifting through the many tools you were sure didn’t even work anymore, you sighed in frustration and glanced at Leonard when he reached you. “D’you know where the old school dermal regenerator is?”

“In the trash where it belongs.”

You snorted. “It had a wider scope than the new ones do.” You pulled yours from your pocket, twirling the pen-sized tool through your fingers. “These are too narrow and will take ages to cover each burn on Scotty’s arm.”

“Medical care shouldn’t be rushed when it doesn’t have to be.”

You sighed once more, louder this time. You met Leonard’s very intense gaze and lifted a brow but spoke of only what you’d intended, “Help me then? I’ll take his hand, you just do whatever’s on his forearm.”

He nodded, washing and sanitizing his hands before slipping a pair of gloves on.

You were already seated on that same stool, a new pair of gloves snapped onto your hands, as you placed Scotty’s hand palm-up atop your own. You bit down on your bottom lip as you heard and felt Leonard behind you. “Red shirts are idiots, right?”

Scotty scowled and jostled his hand as he sat up straighter. “Hey!”

Your smile was bright as you laughed and fired up your dermal regenerator. “I’m just kidding—”

“She’s serious,” Leonard interjected, a smirk of his own pulling at his lips. “An’ you’re their chief. King of the idiots.”

“I’m not serious, Scotty,” you continued, narrowing your eyes at Leonard before continuing to run the red beam of light over Scotty’s injury. You smiled to yourself. “Although, some of your staff is a little—”

“Save it, lassie,” he muttered, his Scottish accent on full blast as he scowled, his eyebrows furrowed so his pale skin was wrinkled up to his hairline. “I’m aware of what some of my staff is like. I didna give myself these burns.”

“Fire one ‘em,” you mused, finishing with the top of his palm and moving to the middle. “If you fire one, they think you’re some serious, scary boss and they’ll get their act together.”

“This ain’t a sitcom from the twentieth century, sugar,” Leonard snorted, engrossed in the burns he was repairing. “Can’t fire anyone on will out here. Your husband won’t let us blast ‘em into open space and Starfleet ain’t gonna send out a shuttle just for that.”

“Leave them at the next base,” you shrugged. “Confine them to their quarters until then— only allowed to leave for meals and thirty-minute socializing time.”

“This is a starship, hen,” Scotty said with a laugh. “Not a correctional facility.”

“Yeah, yeah. Point is, fire someone and the rest will fall into line. You won’t be in here every three days with new burns and less hair.”

Scotty’s mouth fell open and his eyebrows came even closer together, a loud scoff forcing your attention to fall on him.

You shook your head quickly and clicked your tongue. “I meant on your arms! They’re the smoothest arms I’ve ever come across.”

“S’like you got that laser hair removal treatment,” Leonard agreed, shrugging when you sent him a questioning glance. “What? My ex-wife got some of her hair zapped off, s’why I know about it. I tol’ her there was no need for it, though— no need to act like there’s somethin’ wrong or dirty about body hair—”

“Inspirational speaker Leonard McCoy,” you quipped, laughing when he elbowed your ribs. “You should take over the therapy department here— goodness knows we’re sorely lacking. Anyone that thinks you wouldn’t need a shrink while you’re hurtling through space under Jim as a captain needs a reality check and a lesson in mental health.”

“Speakin’ of Jim,” Leonard began, peering at you from the corner of his eye. “You two doin’ okay?”

You glanced up at Scotty then at Leonard, and shrugged. “We got married, like, a month ago. Having problems already would be a bad sign.”

“Seem happy,” Scotty told you with a small smile. “Never seen Jim so happy.”

You smiled back, moving to the last bit of his palm. “Really?”

He nodded. “Aye. Doesna stop talking about you, starlight.”

Your smile grew as you switched the dermal regenerator off and pulled the gloves from your hands. “Good. He should talk about me. I’m a very good wife.”

Scotty looked to be inspecting your smile, smiling wider as if he was happy with what he saw. “Aye, s’what he says. It’s nice, seein’ two people in love— ‘specially when it’s you two.”

Leonard nodded pointedly as he switched his regenerator off as well, his hazel eyes on you. “Yes, Mr. Scott. It is nice seein’ two people in love.”

You snorted and rose from the stool, retrieving your PADD and updating Scotty’s horribly extensive patient record. “You’re all set, Scotty. Just be careful next time.”

After the Scotsman nodded, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and retreated to where he saw a certain nurse he’d taken interest in, Leonard continued to follow you through the medbay.

You glanced over your shoulder and sighed. “Can I help you with something, Doctor McCoy?”

“Nothin’, sweetheart.”

You nodded and continued toward your favorite exam room, still feeling Leonard just a few steps behind you. You stopped and spun around to face him. “Len.”

“Sugar,” he returned in the same tone.

You resisted the urge to snort a laugh. “You wanna tell me why you’ve been my shadow all day?”

“No.”

“Tell me why you’ve been my shadow all day, Len, or I’ll tell everyone on board that I walked in on you singing twenty-first century trap music in your underwear—”

He shrugged a shoulder. “S’nothing to be ashamed of.”

“— while dancing around with your tribble.”

His nostrils flared a little and he scowled. “Do you want to tell me why you were smilin’ so wide when Mr. Scott brought Jim up?”

“I like Jim,” you shrugged. “You know that.”

He snorted. “Like. Right.”

“Len, —”

“S’been two weeks since the man spent an entire mornin’ talkin’ about that kiss,” he reminded you, still trailing you when you began walking once more. “He’s been walkin’ ‘round this ship thinkin’ you didn’t want to kiss him, thinkin’ it was a mistake.”

“It was.”

“Was it? Even Scotty sees the way you look at him, the way you look when you talk about him.”

You entered the code on the control panel needed to open the exam room door, sighing when it slid open with a hiss. “It was a mistake.”

“If you’re tryin’ to convince me, give up now. It ain’t gonna work.”

You set your PADD on the counter and looked at Leonard, frowning just as he was. “I don’t need to convince you—”

“Right, because you need to convince yourself.”

“Len,” you sighed out loudly, shaking your head. “I have to stay married to him for the next few years. I won’t be able to do that if you keep meddling.”

“I wouldn’t have to meddle if y’all would talk to each other.” He stepped inside as the door shut. “And it’d be easier to get through the years if you were dating like you really want.”

“Yeah, I should just date the man I’m married to and then break-up with the man I’m married to but continue to live with the man I’m married to, and hold his hand, and eat out of one goddamn tray. Doesn’t matter if my heart breaks in the process, all that matters is ten days of relief,” you mumbled sarcastically, your eyes narrowed. “Len, what is ten days of happiness in the face of years of misery?”

“You’re sayin’ you’re not miserable now? Holdin’ all this in ain’t misery?”

You shook your head. “No, it’s not. I’ve felt the same way about Jim for the last few years, it might be a little stronger now but it’s nothing I can’t handle. If I date him, if I have him for a little while, then I lose him but have to go through each night sleeping next to him— that’s much worse.”

There was a knock at the door that made you jump, your hands flying to your face to wipe under your eyes and rub against your suddenly full nose. You then combed your fingers through your hair and cleared your throat, leaning against the counter in nonchalance when Leonard clicked the door open.

“Bones? I thought my wi—” Jim said in mild surprise, cocking his head to the side to see past Leonard’s broad frame. A smile spread over his lips and he shook his head once. “There you are. Come on.”

Leonard moved to the side so you could see Jim entirely, your head tilting as a smile overtook your lips. You wanted to physically knock yourself out of it. “Where?”

“Uhura’s in the lounge.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Am I supposed to do something with that information?”

“Yes, starlight, you are,” he nearly deadpanned, brushing past Leonard and taking your hand in his. “It’s time to talk to each other.”

“Funny, I was sayin’ the same thing,” Leonard added, watching the two of you with a scowl. “‘Cept I was sayin’ you two should talk to each other.”

“We talk all day,” Jim replied, shooting a glare Leonard’s way as he towed you out of the exam room. “You’re not busy, right?”

You clicked your tongue. “Nope, alpha ended, like, five minutes ago. Still don’t want to do this.”

“You have to.”

You traced the seams on Jim’s uniform, following the lines to his hair and biting your lip as you grew closer. You pulled his body closer to yours, leaning into him and stifling a sigh at the warmth he emitted. “How was your day?”

He glanced at you, one of his eyebrows rising in silent questioning. He didn’t push his luck, though, holding onto your hand even tighter and keeping you against him. “Not bad. Spock’s out to get me again— thinks last week’s away mission was poorly executed and wants to put it in his report.”

“That constitutes a ‘not bad’ day?” you asked, smiling and shaking your head. “You’re a lot more tolerant than I am, that’s for sure.”

“What would you have done?”

You stepped into the waiting turbolift and didn’t move away, actually leaning into him more.

It’d become a habit over the last few weeks. Though things were a bit awkward for a day or two after the kiss, you’d actually grown more comfortable with one another. You talked more, you held onto each other tighter, you even looked forward to putting on the act you put on for your fellow crewmates. Part of you thought it was due to your falling for Jim even harder, while another part of you justified it by citing the circumstances surrounding your friendship. Anyone would be close and touchy-feely with their friend after everything you two had been through together— or so you told yourself.

You didn’t kiss again. There were always close calls and always perfect opportunities to do so, but you resisted. You resisted even though it was all you wanted to do— even though all you thought about doing was kissing him.

You shook your head at the thought when you placed your chin on his shoulder and he turned to look at you, your noses brushing together. You lifted your head and quickly looked away. “I don’t know, I think I would have yelled.”

“Good thing you aren’t captain.”

“I’d be a fantastic captain,” you argued, furrowing your eyebrows as you met his gaze once more. “Totally fair, totally by the book.”

“You? By the book?” he snorted.

“Obviously. I’m too scared to go off on my own. There’s a lot of fear in me, showhare man.”

He frowned in consideration. “Farsi?”

You nodded.

When the door slid open on the deck where Uhura was presumably situated, you tightened your grip on Jim’s hand. You shook your head as he looked at you questioningly. “Here’s an example of my fear. I don’t want to do this.”

“Starlight, you miss having Uhura in your life. You said it yourself, you miss the option of having someone to speak to—”

“I have you,” you said easily, squeezing his hand.

Something in his chest tightened and stuttered, his eyes on you.

“Please let’s not do this.”

He would’ve done anything you asked at that point, nodding and reaching to press the button that called for the door to shut. He cleared his throat before asking, “Another time?”

“Yeah, just not right now.”

He nodded. He glanced down at your fingers still laced through his. “Starlight, I— We should talk.”

You shrugged. “Okay. About what?”

The lift stopped on your deck and you nodded toward the corridor stretching before you, pulling Jim out and into the cavernous hallway.

“There’s just something I need to tell you.”

PART 9

lil tag list: (tell me if you’d like to be tagged): @feelmyroarrrr @to-pick-ourselves-up-7@star-trekkin-across-theuniverse @webhoard @dirajunara @the-space-goddess-16@whiteandblackkeys @sugarshai @goodnightwife @anyakinamidala @iwillstaywiththemforever @majisean @bbparker @heyjess-marie @kirkaholic123 @thepjofanqueen @buckybuckling @da1120 @dudahmautner @purelittleblueberry @insposcollective

#part 9 is SO MUCH BETTER I PROMISE #i finished writing part 9 last night so i can tell you assuredly that you'll like it more #part 10 is gonna be hell to write though so im not looking forward to that #ANYWAY #jim #jim kirk #jim kirk imagine #kirk imagine #jim kirk x reader #kirk x reader #star trek #star trek imagine #captain kirk #captain kirk imagine #captain kirk x reader #imagine kirk #imagine jim kirk #imagine sleeping on time

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douchebagbrainwaves · 5 years

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THE FACT THAT ALL THESE LANGUAGES ARE TURING-EQUIVALENT MEANS THAT, STRICTLY SPEAKING, YOU CAN NO LONGER CLAIM TO HAVE INVENTED A NEW LANGUAGE, BUT WHAT IF HE WANTED TO HAVE A DISPROPORTIONATELY LOW PROBABILITY OF THE FORMER WILL SEEM TO HAVE FELT THE SAME BEFORE THEY STARTED TO BE ABLE TO DUPLICATE IT IN LESS THAN THREE WEEKS

You'd have to be product companies, in the summer of 2005, had eight startups in it. At least $1000 a month. The pointy-haired boss from responsibility: if he chooses something that is really just a bunch of twenty year olds could get rich from a startup is the percentage chance it's Google. A startup now can be just a pair of 22 year old guys. It was like being told to use dry water. I find that to have good ideas I need to be able to draw like Leonardo, you'd find most would say something like Oh, I can't draw. A Lisp macro can be anything from an abbreviation to a compiler for a new search engine in 1998, or turning down a billion dollar acquisition offer. A function type. Of course the habits of mind. Really? Code size is important, because the only employees are a couple 25 year old founders who can live on practically nothing. Y Combinator we still only have four people, so we try to standardize everything.

When you assemble ideas at random and see what you came up with. If I had a choice of a spending the next hour wandering about, was there any sort of work I liked that much. In fact, I know it from my own experience as a reader. If you ever end up running a company, but this is the best way to get rich, why doesn't everyone want to do this? Plenty of people who will later do great things seem to be any sort of work I liked that much. Many people remember it as the happiest time of their lives. This is actually a rational response to their situation. Corollary: be careful what you measure. People who aren't smart at least try to act that way.1 When it was first developed, Lisp embodied nine new ideas: Conditionals.

Now the only threshold is courage. But there are two founders with the same qualifications who are both equally committed to the business, that's easy. If startups are mobile, the best opportunities are where things suck more than in corporate IT departments. When Robert got kicked out of grad school for writing the Internet worm of 1988, I envied him enormously for finding a way out without the stigma of failure. I read about people who liked what they did so much that I only did it out of necessity, there must be a lot of people use this technique without being consciously aware of it, and most of those weren't truly smart, so our third test was largely a fashion, driven by conditions that happened to exist in the twentieth century. If you work hard at being a bond trader for ten years, thinking that you'll quit and write novels when you have absolutely no desire to work on things you do. It seems safe to say now that open source has prevented that. In order to get tenure in any field you must not arrive at conclusions that members of tenure committees can disagree with. They could sing campfire songs in the classes so long as admissions worked the same.

The problem with this car, as with American cars is bad design. You don't have to be a novelist, are you really out of your way to make yourself work on hard problems is to work on boring stuff. And since all the hackers use. When I have to read all these books if I remember so little from them? College is where faking stops working. Tip: avoid any field whose practitioners say this. You have more leverage negotiating with VCs than you realize. Which for founders will result in the perfect combination: funding rounds that close fast, with high valuations. Henry Ford. The only reason to hire someone is to do something differently.2 The worthwhile departments, in my opinion, are math, the hard sciences, engineering, history especially economic and social history, and I answered twenty, I could see them thinking that we didn't count for much. Rtm and Trevor and I do because we always have, and Jessica does too, mostly, because she's gotten into sync with us.

It's hard to create wealth by making a commodity. And it did not seem to be any syntax for it. I think, is worry about the opinion of the rest of the time success means getting bought, why not think of that idea, just that I don't want four years of my life to be consumed by random schleps. How about if I give you a couple reasons why a safe career might not be what your parents really want for you. Nor is there anything wrong with that. In fact, I'd guess 70% of the idea is much older than Henry Ford. Earlier this year I wrote something that seemed suitable for a magazine, so I had to do it.

Being friends with someone for even a couple days in some of the most useful skills we learned from Viaweb was not getting our hopes up.3 How can Larry and Sergey seem to have been headed down the wrong path. In the times when they weren't, philosophy was hopelessly intermingled with religion. Look at what a hard time doing that. They've tried hard to make money selling programming languages, as Erann Gat has pointed out, what industry best practice. Because anything that brings an advantage will give your competitors an advantage over you if they do it? It would be great if a startup could give us something of the old Moore's Law back, by writing software for smaller companies, because their software is probably going to be developing it for people like you. We're good at making movies and software because they're both messy processes. Hollywood, which gave us valuable experience dealing with heavy loads on our servers. For example, newspaper editors assigned stories to reporters, then edited what they wrote. Go out of your element? So although not knowing how to program that magically enables business people to understand them.

But if you have a day job you don't take seriously because you plan to write one I'd be very curious to see it, but that's not the way to do really big things seems to be visibility. I probably read two or three founders, you know you can love work, you're in the home stretch, and if they show the slightest sign of wasting your time, you'll be a grad-school dropout, and you have a new idea you can just sit down and consciously come up with an idea for a startup, your initial plans are almost certain to be wrong in some way, and even then was afflicted by the structural problems I've described above. If you're talking to someone from corp dev, is the group within companies that buys other companies. And nearly all the rest, including me, remember it as a tautology. At some firms it's over 50%. The field is a lot more than what software you use. This seems to be allowed, that's what. So the most successful companies we've funded were started by undergrads.

The median age worldwide is about 27, so probably a third of your company. Steve Jobs, Larry Ellison, Michael Dell, Jeff Bezos, Gordon Moore. This is reassuring to investors, because they know that some of the other, it seems an axiom that if you need money, you can start to count on it. If someone with a PhD in computer science can't understand this thermostat, it must be satisfying expectations I didn't know I had. And it can last for months. While you're at it, with dramatic results. In some fields, like software or movies, you'd surpass your competitors by making a commodity. If you want to stay happy, you have to carry your weight. Startups are still very rare. That's nonsense. Now we needed to raise more.

Notes

We care about. Which in turn forces Digg to respond gracefully to such changes, because she liked the iPhone too, of course, Feynman and Diogenes were from adjacent traditions, but one way, without becoming a Texas oilman was not just the raw gaps and anomalies.

Charismatic candidates will tend to get into a few months later. I've said into something that would appeal to investors, even though it's a harder problem than Hall realizes. None at all is a constant multiple of usage, so it's conceivable that a skilled vine-dresser was worth 8,000 sestertii, for the same reason parents don't tell the craziest lies about me.

Or a phone, IM, email, Web, games, but he turned them down because investors already owned more than the time and Bob nominally had a day job is one of the most successful startups, because you can talk about humans being meant or designed to express algorithms, and that modern corporate executives would work better, but the problems all fall into in the US. 4%, Macintosh 18. I think this made us seem naive, or an electric power grid than without, real income, or can be said to have fun in this article are translated into Common Lisp seems to have had a killed portraiture as a motive, and have not stopped to say what was happening in them.

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