remember that rob mcelhenney was 25 years old waiting tables in LA with a failing acting career and shot a pilot (basically for free) with his two best friends, which ended up becoming FXX’s most watched show that will run for at least 14 seasons, tying it as the longest running sitcom in american television history
melodrama through the eyes of a (fellow) synaesthete
hello everyone! just like lorde herself, i have a strong case of synaesthesia (I get colour visions, but also tastes and scents as well), so this is my attempt to review the masterpiece that is melodrama through my synaesthetical experiences
green light: car air freshener, heated highway and the visions you get when you drive in heat (a la mirages), blackberry-scented cheap shower gel, a pistachio green silk scarf, old school adidas kicks, lemon juice drops on fresh summer salad, beige satin, old black cars (a la classic cadillacs and jaguars), maple syrup, the heat of cairo at around 11 am
sober: ripehoneydew, the smell of guitar wood varnish, red satin ribbons, smudged glass coffee tables, spilled lemonade on said tables, peach vodka, the feel of white plaster in old museums where security guards are very strict, cough syrup (both the colour and the flavour), artificial smell of mint, mint gum, velvet red carpeting in old and badly aired town halls, the humidity of rainforest
homemade dynamite: 4 am sunrise straight after a storm with torn dark grey, nearly black clouds being ripped, smell of gasoline, deep puddles in cracked pavement, dimmed street lights about to go out, magenta, white musk perfume from the body shop, deep indigo of the nearly sunrise of mid may, that walk home from a rowdy night out when everyone is more or less sobered up, but not sober enough to feel shy yet, still drunk enough to be honest with affection and cursing and slightly slurred speech
the louvre: bamboo blinds, bamboo shoots, bonsai trees, flowing honey, varnished birchwood, sunlit old halls in ugly grey
soviet buildings, silver hellium-filled balloons, white shiny doors between a party-filled room and a closet where hook-ups and one-night stands take place, old oil paint, the sunny, lemon yellow butterflies, muddly skies of july, edelflower syrup in a glass of white wine, edelflower flower crowns, an expensive pool in a mansion-like house in hollywood hills, the eerie comfort and anxiety of the opening credits of twin peaks
liability: massive bouquets of lily of the valley, white lace curtains knitted by a grandmother, greyness of a sunday in a village on a last warm october day, a single light in an office on a late night in a massive skyscraper, dried flowers, drops of nosebleed on a crystal clean white sink, grey that turns into pastel lilac, the feeling of ripped paper
hard feelings/loveless: faint sunrise shining through the windows of a manhattan apartment in a skyscraper, all shades of orange spilling onto a hi-tec kitchen, cointreau liqueur, sunny warm nights on ocean beach, lukewarm bathtubs when the bath foam has fizzled, bonfires and burned marshmallows, just the beginning of feeling buzzed (like a glass of wine in), tender shades of yellow, rustiness of old heavy doors into a basement, scaffolding sounds, first sunniest days of spring after a heavy winter, sunset in the ocean, heavy fluffy sweaters / neon diner signs, anime eyes, porcelain dolls, peach-flavoured bubblegum, glass bowls
sober ii (melodrama): colour of crimson, heavy red velvet couches, smudged matte red lipstick, glass shards, ripped pearl necklaces and scattered pearls on sticky floor, red limelight, stilettos, tight black bodysuits, smoky-eyed tall models in revealing tight and latex dresses, marble furniture with golden decor, fistfights during a party, ripped suits and thrown ties and unbuttoned white shirts on boys with wealthy fathers
writer in the dark: light parakeet green, whitewashed starched tablecloths that crunch, old wooden tables, rusty cages for canaries, Advocat liqueur, big pearl necklaces on black dresses, big sunglasses (a la Audrey’s in Breakfast at Tiffany’s), sunny Sunday mornings on a patio with a cup of fancy tea, sunday clothes, white churches in greece, silver tears and crying in the backseat after a breakup, wilted flowers in a vase with dirty water
supercut: light green and orange, Love Is bubblegum, peaches, apricots, mint, Mojitos, fairy lights above people at a rooftop party, roadtrip one takes after a breakup with all thier belongings, flavoured water that doesn’t quench thirst, sparkling water with lemon and ice cubes, worn down picnic blankets, fancy dresses girls wear to the entrance into a nightclub, folding chairs, chilled champagne
liability (reprise): cold winter wind of february, the feeling on the tip of the tongue from scolding hot tea, big white rooms in museums, light green, light smoke of e-cigarette that smells like peppermint, the smell of sunscreen, the stillness of a swimming pool at noon in heat
perfect places: red wine, swinging chandeliers, red plastic cups, glass grand pianos, the last summer party in august, that warm feeling at the end of the party where everyone’s buzzed and affectionate and there’s a lot of kissing and hugging and swinging, big fake golden earrings, summer fruits, fancy hotels and luxurious lifts/elevators, skinny dipping, black velvet dresses that touch the floor, uncontrollable laughing in comfy sweaters
The first thing Phichit heard when he and Seung Gil entered Yuuri and Victor’s home was the shouts of his name from small children. Three children ran up to him, one from each couple, jumping up and wanting their turn to hug him first.
Phichit laughed and knelt down to let them all jump on him. Yuri and Otabek’s daughter, Ekaterina (Katya for short), was the first to lunge at him, tiny arms wrapping around Phichit’s neck. She was six at this point, the oldest of the bunch. Victor and Yuuri’s son, four year old Masaru, glued himself to Phichit’s left side. The boy was shy, much like Yuuri was for the majority of his life. Lastly, the youngest of the bunch, three year old Felipe de la Iglesia bounced onto Phichit’s right side. All three of them were giggling and Phichit was with them.
Seung Gil had moved to the side, scrunching up his nose at the squealing children.
“Hi guys!” Phichit laughed and ruffled all of their hair.
Yuuri came tumbling into the entrance then, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Phichit-kun!” He exclaimed and then helped Phichit stand, pulling all of the children off of him. “I’m so sorry!”
Phichit laughed and stood up, keeping Felipe close to him. “Oh, it’s alright. I don’t mind being around all these babies.”
Yuuri just gave him a smile at that and greeted the both of them, taking their coats before allowing them to go into the main room where everybody was. Yuri was leaning into Otabek’s side, their one year old son Nikolai snoozing against his shoulder. Leo and Guang Hong were cozied up on the other couch, listing to the story that Victor was engaging them in.
When Seung Gil and Phichit entered they all got up to greet them except Yuri. He blamed it on Nikolai of course but everybody knew he just didn’t want to get up.
The four couples did this a couple of times a year, getting together in order to catch up. It wasn’t easy and money didn’t really allow for travel often (although both Yuris were based in Russia, Leo and Guang Hong lived in America while Phichit and Seung Gil were based in South Korea. It was easier for Seung Gil and Phichit to come as they didn’t have children - Leo and Guang Hong, not so much.
The pair sat down, Phichit being basically dragged down by Guang Hong in a hug before the younger took his son back.
“No, I like Uncle Phichit!” Felipe whined as he reached for said uncle.
Phichit grinned and tapped his nose. “Don’t worry buddy, you’ll be seeing me a lot this week!” Felipe wasn’t convinced but a tickle to his stomach from both Guang Hong and Phichit got him smiling again. Then the former lowered the boy to the ground so he could toddle back over to his friends to play.
All three of the were seated in the middle of the room, playing together. The adults watched them for a moment with fond smiles on their faces before turning back to the conversation.
“How was traveling?” Otabek asked, the question directed at Seung Gil.
Seung Gil just shrugged. “Not too bad.”
“The plane was freezing!” Phichit added and fell back with a dramatic sigh. “And this one wouldn’t even cuddle with me.” He stuck his tongue out at Seung Gil who smirked.
“Wow, tragic.” Guang Hong snorted. “Leo never cuddles with me on the plane either though.”
“That’s a lie!” Leo frowned and tightened his arm around his husband. Phichit laughed softly and eyed their rings before looking at Seung Gil. He was on the opposite couch so it was easy to look directly at them.
They were the only pair who were not married. And they had no children. It surprised everybody that Yuri had gotten married before most of them, Victor and Yuuri beating the entire crowd. Phichit just didn’t know how to bring it up.
The thing was, Phichit wanted all of this. He wanted the domesticity that came with marriage. He wanted children too, maybe two or three. But Seung Gil was always almost repulsed by the thought of having kids, so they never talked about it.
Being around his friends’ kids just made Phichit’s heart all the heavier.
The night carried on without any hiccups. A couple of times a child toddled over to Phichit or called to him to show him something. Phichit was beaming with pride that the kids only wanted him, but perhaps it was understandable; he never really saw them in the first place. Only over FaceTime did he get to talk to them. He was most close with Masaru, as that was his best friend’s son and his god child.
As Phichit watched these children toddle around he grew a bit somber. He tried to keep the smile on his face but Yuuri, always the observant type, pulled him aside as he went to go bring out food.
“Can I ask you something?” Yuuri inquired as he presented all the food on the plate neatly.
Phichit grinned. “Yuuri, how long have we known each other? Just ask already.”
Yuuri gave a weak smile and then sighed. “Do you… Have you… Hm.” It seemed as if he was searching for how to word his question. “Do you, you know, want to have children.”
Phichit’s initial reaction was to laugh. But it wasn’t genuine; it sounded forced. “I have four children, thank you very much.” He was referring to all the children here tonight that certainly didn’t belong to him.
Yuuri looked at him over the frames of his glasses. “You know what I mean.”
Phichit’s smile faltered a bit but he waved his hand. “I don’t know, I’m kind of old already and you know, Seung-Gil and I haven’t really spoken about it.”
Ah, the age all question. Why not? Well, because… they hadn’t.
“It’s a sore topic.” Phichit decided on.
Yuuri just sighed. “You should talk to him, Phichit. You deserve to be happy, and if having kids makes you happy then he should consider it for you.”
“I can’t force that on him.” Phichit said but he was looking out into the main room where all were gathered. Masaru had found a spot next to Seung Gil, drawn to the man’s quietness. They coexisted next to each other but didn’t touch.
“You look sad.” Yuuri passed by him. “Talk to him. It can’t hurt.”
The tables seemed to have turned. Usually it was Phichit giving Yuuri advice. But as the night progressed and he had to say goodbye to the children that he cared for so deeply with tears in his eyes (even though he was going to see them tomorrow and would be five minutes away in a hotel), Phichit knew he had to bring up the topic to Seung Gil.
So he did. When they walked through the door of the hotel room, it just fell from his lips.
“Seung Gil, I… I want kids.” He confessed. It was more of a confession than a question, if anything.
Seung Gil took his jacket off and then looked at him. “With me?”
Phichit laughed humorlessly. “Yes, with you. I love you, I don’t want to raise a child with anybody else.”
“Oh.” Seung Gil ran his fingers through his hair but didn’t meet his eyes. “I never really thought about having children of my own. Or about children at all,.”
“I think we should think about it.” Phichit said, sitting on the bed and running his fingers through his hair.
Seung Gil bit his lip and started rummaging through the suitcase. It was eerily quiet in the room and Phichit’s heart beat in anticipation.
“Okay.” Seung Gil finally said, voice quiet. It was basically a whisper. But it was enough for Phichit to perk up and then launch himself off the bed, wrapping his arms around his partner tightly.
“I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you!” He repeated over and over again, kissing Seung Gil’s cheek after every statement. Seung Gil let out a soft laugh and hugged him back, unable to contain himself. Not when Phichit was laughing and crying from joy the way he was.
Jean-Michel Basquiat - “Horn Players” (1983, acrílico y barra de óleo sobre lienzo, 243 x 190 cm, The Broad Art Foundation, Los Ángeles)
Para animar el fin de semana, un poco de jazz interpretado por Charlie Parker y Dizzie Gillespie, acompañados con mucho arte por Jean-Michel Basquiat, que los eleva al panteón de los dioses al retratarlos en este original tríptico de fondo negro. Basquiat fue el primero en llevar el arte callejero a las galerías de arte. Se hizo famoso de la noche a la mañana pero, incapaz de soportar la presión mediática, murió de sobredosis a los 27 años, como tantos otros genios. Las palabras y frases que llenan sus obras, que a veces tachaba para llamar la atención del espectador, son un remanente de su etapa como grafitero en las calles de Manhattan. Junto a su colega Al Díaz, llenaba las paredes de la ciudad con frases irónicas e ingeniosas que llamaron la atención de los críticos y que firmaban con el nombre de SAMO (acrónimo de Same Old Shit, la misma mierda de siempre).
No sabemos a quien corresponde la cabeza calavera que Basquiat ha pintado en el centro de la composición, uno de los motivos recurrentes de sus obras. El señor de la derecha es Dizzy Gillespie, con su trompeta, cantando una de esas palabrejas inventadas que utilizaba para sus improvisaciones: “Ooh shoo de obee”. A la izquierda está Charlie Parker tocando su saxo alto (podemos ver la música saliendo del instrumento). En ese mismo panel, aparecen los nombres de Chan, la esposa sin papeles de Parker, y de Pree, la hija de ambos. Y por todo el lienzo, repetido una y otra vez, el título del tema Ornithologyde Charlie Parker, que hacía referencia a su apodo: Bird. Charlie Parker y Dizzy Gillespie improvisaban con sus instrumentos. Basquiat lo hacía con la pintura. Obras creadas sobre la marcha, sin un plan previo. Sabían dónde empezaban, pero nunca dónde acabarían.
This is laaaaaate. But it’s also like hella long so I feel like it’s justified.
Day 3: Fake Dating/Secret Relationship
“Kenneth, have you found a nice young man yet?” Kent’s Grandmother squinted at the camera on his mom’s ipad. “You know the Priest at church has a nephew and he’s quite good looking. He’s a Kindergarten teacher, and I think you would just love him. He even likes your hockey! He teaches a team for children at the rec center on weekends. I see him there when I have my water aerobics.” She nodded.
I think if you want to be happy and okay with everything you’ve been through in life all you might need is family, real friends, old school memories, la raza, lowriders, and some might even say beer! You’ll be just fine cause only the strong survive!