HEY, MAN!

why the FUCK is alvin and the chipmunks in your music

1. CAT PEOPLE ( PUTTING OUT THE FIRE ) / david bowie. 2. MOVIN’ OUT ( ANTHONY’S SONG ) / billy joel. 3. AQUAMAN / walk the moon. 4. LA ‘ELIMA / israel kamakawiwo’ole. 5. BITCH BETTA HAVE MY MONEY / amg. 6. O-O-H CHILD / the five stairsteps. 7. WITCH DOCTOR / alvin and the chipmunks. 8. ANGRY JOHNNY / poe. 9. FEELING GOOD / nina simone. 10. TOUCH-A, TOUCH-A, TOUCH ME / susan sarandon.

         ‘ you can’t keep feeding me like we’re the same size, big lad. ’

chris doesn’t know how or when their irish vacation took a turn into the sickeningly domestic, but he decided early on that they deserve something nice, for a change. it’s been a long, refreshing stretch of sleeping in, stress-free exploration, and a smug ( fond ) christopher translating every little thing that goes over hopper’s head.

he gives jim’s side a double-pat as he walks by. his pants are undone and he’s apparently unbothered; he pulls the now useless- belt through the loops and tosses it onto the couch.

         ‘ there are pictures of me scrawny all over this place, ’ he says. ‘ mocking me. ’

@perdurables​  won a free trip to ireland!

          “ hey, you’re the one that keeps recommending your --- what is it? ” hopper snaps his fingers at chris and affects a very poor rendition of his brogue for all of three words. “ authentic irish pubs. it isn’t my fault all your food is pure carb. ”

a slow blink, eyebrows raising slightly. “ … am i r–really not supposed to ask ? ” fingers reach out to grasp at the trashbag, a small shrug rolling of her shoulders. head tilts up at the other, a bright smile spreading across her features. a small laugh escapes from her throat, free hand coming to scratch against the side of her face.  “ you wouldn’t !! kill me – b-b-because you - you owe me forever. that was - was the deal. ”

          “ weeell, it’s what they say in the movies, kiddo. ” time drawls, picking up the remaining two bags. he hefts one over his shoulder in a movement that sends glass clinking and plastic rustling inside, letting the second one hang from his hand at his side. the smile turns brighter, if also conspiratorial. 

Quite seriously–face blank, chin tilting down towards Charlie like the slip of an avalanche–Wonka replies (that is to say, quotes).

          “The heart as king keeps his court, and by his arteries communicates life to the whole body.”

Silence stretches on and on and on between them like pulled taffy. Wonka does something (no, two things (no, two things in one (like candy floss))) he’s never done before: he elaborates, he explains (this time, softer, like kneaded dough and not the fisted hands molding it).

          “It doesn’t matter in the slightest what I think, Charlie. I think a hundred thousand thoughts in a day, double on Mondays. The best candy makes you forget what you’re thinking, or that you’re even thinking at all.”

          charlie is still learning. learning how to learn. learning how to weave and unravel every little nuance in the language that wonka spills out his mouth. ( which, in all honesty, he will very likely never stop learning. a process in-process. continuously. but, we digress. ) it isn’t the waxing poetic, original or borrowed, that nearly sets him bristling nervously just moments ago. it’s the silence that stretches from mouth puckering to sweet, crisp clarity.

          but, like we said, he’s been learning. so the bristling stays just that. nearly.

          charlie nods, feeling somehow like he should be thanking him. instead, he revises: “ it’s supposed to make your spit fizzle like soda. or popping rocks. ” his hands leave the tops of his thighs to instead clasp between them, fingers interlocking. his thumbs fiddle, but not nervously. there’s even a slip of a smile.