AU concept: paul mccartney is a private investigator whose specialty is investigating high end fraud. unlike many in his field, paul tends to have a… hands on approach with his “clients”. known for his charm, pretty face, and clever one-liners, he’s a force to be reckoned with, which explains why he is put on the case of one john lennon, a bestselling author whose reputation swings from eccentric genius to playboy extraordinaire. paul’s task should be simple: figure out if john is the novelist he’s purported to be. the catch? try not to fall in love on the job. or at the very least try not to sleep with the mark. should be easy - right?
Kaneki is a flight attendant on a rinky dink plane, generally hating his life and serving cocktails to suits. A particular gruff man complains about the man in the back of the plane playing his music too loud.
Hide is sitting in the last row, playing the drums seats, failing at silently lip syncing. Kaneki has to tell him to turn it down, but he gets nervous and stands in front of him shaking slightly. Hide looks up at him and smiles, pulling off his headphones and handing them to Kaneki.
Kaneki gets in trouble for fraternizing with the passengers, but its worth it: he gets Hide’s number.
my father frowns and says, “your generation is making this world muddy.”
no, love. we are getting ourselves dirty. I know it’s a foreign concept to somebody who never bloodied his palms trying to hold onto something. we are now old enough and angry enough and sure enough of what we believe in that we are shoving our hands into the soil up to our elbows. we watched you with your suits and cocktails as you stepped on the backs of your friends and your children. we decided we wouldn’t be party to it. we decided injustice against one is injustice against everyone.
please pardon our appearance, we’re busy remodeling. we’re tilling this country until it’s good ground to grow a better government in. we’re making a mess but you better bet it’s for a good goddamn purpose. in order to make an omelette, you gotta break a few eggs. in order to change this whole fucking world, you gotta scream until your words get through their heads.
you can blame technology or our student debt or how lazy we are working six minimum wage jobs to keep a shabby roof over our heads. you can blame us and complain when your walk to the park is interrupted by our protests. at this point, we don’t give a shit. what have you done but whine about those rascal social justice kids? what have you done but make the world a harder place to live? you can’t scorn us for our lack of interest and then get mad when we demand more out of the system.
no. we weren’t the ones to make the world like this. but you better fucking bet that we will do anything in order to change it - and if that means our hands aren’t clean? so be it.
“I saw her from across the room. She was wearing a lavender cocktail suit. I remember. She had a wonderful figure, gorgeous legs of course. But I only saw her in black and white movies, and in person I was struck by her coloring, her chestnut hair, worn in soft waves to her shoulders, this glowing complexion, and beautiful cornflower blue eyes, And when she smiled I was just captivated. I don’t remember what we said. The party was crowded and boisterous and at the end of the day we only had a few moments alone.” - Glenn Ford on the first time he saw Eleanor Powell
If taking oneself seriously as a woman means committing to a life of grooming, pumicing, pruning and polishing one’s exterior for the benefit of onlookers, then I may as well heave my unwieldy rucksack to the top of a bleak Scottish hill and make my home there under a stone, where I’ll fashion shoes out of mud and clothes out of leaves.
And - I must ask - do men have to do this? Is this a thing for them, too? What would it mean to ‘take yourself seriously as a man’? Let’s see. Attention All Men - please put down the Top Gear annual and join me in a round of ‘Say It Out Loud With Miranda’. Lean back, and growl ‘I am taking myself seriously as a man.’ What springs to mind? Is it a singlet, a tool belt and a roll of electrical tape? Or is it a sharp suit, a cocktail and the presidency of the International Monetary Fund? Or perhaps you suddenly feel the need to hole up in a dingy pub and start yelling ‘Ref!’ at the telly? Whatever it is, it’s not likely to have much to do with grooming, or carrying a particular type of slightly-too-small and essentially useless bag masquerading as a clutch (good word).