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armor up
Oh my God. Day. Worst. Do not even want to discuss.
Please take a second and leave me prompt(s). Multiples are cool. I'm most into Glee right now, so Glee prompts have by far the highest probability of being answered. I just want to write about things that are not my life right now! Show choir fits!
P.S. - Just because I'm cranky doesn't mean that prompts have to be sad to match or happy to compensate; I'm good with the gamut of emotions/ideas. For reals. I'll work with anything people throw at me! But, again, highest probability of answers for: Glee prompts, specifically ones that get a little more specific than, like -- listing a character and a color and saying the word 'go.'
Please take a second and leave me prompt(s). Multiples are cool. I'm most into Glee right now, so Glee prompts have by far the highest probability of being answered. I just want to write about things that are not my life right now! Show choir fits!
P.S. - Just because I'm cranky doesn't mean that prompts have to be sad to match or happy to compensate; I'm good with the gamut of emotions/ideas. For reals. I'll work with anything people throw at me! But, again, highest probability of answers for: Glee prompts, specifically ones that get a little more specific than, like -- listing a character and a color and saying the word 'go.'
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BRITTANY'S SWEET GREAT-GRANDMOTHER SOPHIA MEETS SUE SYLVESTER
BONDING
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BTW, if you have access to a copy you should watch it. It is so, so good for cheering up a bad day. *hugs*
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I do not remember at all who these people are, or that someone named Poot put on a dress.
(Best birthday ever.)
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Joanne and Poot <3
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Santana gets it, anyway, even if Jones is shooting Brittany a funny look from the mirror beside them.
Santana ignores Mercedes, and Quinn -- who's sharing the counter as she touches up her lipstick -- and Rachel and Tina at the third mirror. Santana has already put the finishing touches on their hair, but Brittany is, like, physically incapable of not moving.
"Be a bell if you want, but keep your head still," Santana orders briskly, hard at work with an aerosol can of hairspray and an intent expression.
Brittany immediately, obediently stops moving. "Bells don't have heads," she says, after a moment's consideration.
Santana's eyebrows momentarily furrow, then lift again. She gives Brittany's teased hair a critical pat. It doesn't so much as twitch. Santana is a genius. A hair genius.
There's a knock at the door. "Girls?" says Mr. Schue's voice, from outside. "It's time."
Santana doesn't miss the intakes of breath that come from the line of girls standing along the counter. Whatever. Clearly, not everybody here is used to putting a smile on and being thrown 20 feet into the air in high-pressure situations where your coach has threatened to make a coat out of your ponytails if she's not 152% pleased with how hard your performance rocked her face off.
Berry turns toward them, clasping her hands in front of herself. "Well, ladies," she says, in that incredibly Rachel way, "let's--"
Santana rolls her eyes and cuts the mind-blowingly stupid inspirational speech off at the pass. "Let's kick all their asses," she says, and Mercedes laughs and Tina whoops; even cranky-ass preggo Quinn cracks a smile. Rachel looks, for a second, like she wants to fight back -- and then she smiles, too.
"Let's do it," she says fiercely, and every girl in the bathroom knows she's thinking about the look on Jesse St. James's face when they beat Vocal Adrenaline.
Santana can get behind that.
Rachel stalks out of the bathroom, head held high; shaking their heads a little at each other (because there is no other good reaction to Rachel freaking Berry) but looking no less determined, Mercedes and Quinn follow. Tina's hot on their heels
Santana pats Brittany's hair down one last time and looks at her in the mirror. "Ready?" she asks, and by now, it's a rhetorical question. Brittany gets it better than anyone. Brittany's ready.
Brittany beams into the mirror. "I'm Brittany, bitch." Santana grins like a wolf, underhands the hairspray into the trash can, hooks pinkies with Brittany, and marches out to meet the bus.
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WRITE THIS ONE
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Ramona is holding steady (and grim. Scott knew she could get kind of broody, but he hadn't realized she had this intense of a capacity for grimness) by his side. "Trust me. He sucks."
Sitting on the steps behind them, Wallace says, "He looks like he sucks." He doesn't sound like he thinks this is necessarily a bad thing. Scott doesn't think he is using the word 'sucks' the same way that Ramona is using it.
"Hey, Ramona," says Evil Ex # ... well, Scott isn't actually sure what number this is. (He kind of lost track somewhere along the way.) "Long time no see." Ex #Whatever gives that same broad, movie-star-but-friendly smile.
"Wallace!" Scott hollers over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off the man standing in the street. "What number is this guy?!"
"Scott," says Wallace. He sounds calm. How does he sound so calm?! "There is a giant number on his T-shirt. I'd guess that."
Ramona, meanwhile, is ignoring both of them. "Oh, can it, Schuester," she snaps.
"Ramona," says 'Schuester,' a little reproachful but mostly sad. He has kind eyes. Scott wants to hug him. "I guess you never worked on your stuff that broke us up, huh?"
She makes this noise that Scott has never ever heard out of her before. It's a little hot. Is he allowed to be distracted by hotness?
"But you know what? That's okay," continues Schuester. "I forgive you. But -- here; I've got this great therapist's card," he's digging in his back pocket, "and I just know he would be able to help you help yourself."
Scott's eyebrows start to lower.
"And then," Schuester finishes, "we can finally be together."
"Hey!" Scott objects, and Schuester really looks at him for the first time. Scott almost falters -- kind! eyes! -- but then he spots the diminishing residue of the sparkles and his resolve hardens. "You can't do that!"
Schuester laughs. It sounds friendly, but Scott is starting to think he's a a little douchey. "Why not?"
Scott strikes a heroic pose with his sword. " 'Cause she's with me."
When Ramona steps on his foot as she turns around, Scott thinks it probably isn't an accident. "Oh, just fight already," she says, and she stomps back to her front steps to sit down beside Wallace. He offers her the bag of chips he's idly snacking on.
Scott is still hopping in pain when Schuester dances into position. It's so smooth and so effortless; Scott watches him, mesmerized -- and then Schuester hits him in the face.
"I understand you better than you think," Schuester calls to Ramona, over Scott's fallen body. "I've been called a slut for two days of my life; I've felt," he thuds against his own chest with a theatrical open hand, "what it's like when prejudiced people discriminate against you."
"Dude," say Ramona and Wallace simultaneously. She sounds unbelievably pissed off; he sounds really, really amused.
Scott wobbles his way to his feet. "Who is this guy?" he demands of Ramona.
She sighs sharply from behind him. "Look," she says. "I'm not originally from New York. He may not be much, but he's pretty much the hottest thing that town has got, and there was a certain illicit thrill in sneaking around with my former Spanish teacher."
"May not be much?!" yells Schuester.
"SPANISH TEACHER?!" yells Scott.
Schuester spins into a kick; Scott blocks it and frantically ducks backward under a flurry of moves that actually look really nice but would probably kill him if they caught him.
"Former Spanish teacher!" Ramona hollers.
(Wallace says, "Nice."
Ramona says, "I was 19. Shut up.")
"RAMONA WHY IS HE RAPPING!!"
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"THAT'S KIND OF DIFFICULT." Schuester is actually summoning knives into existence out of thin air as he talk-sings the lyrics to a Mos Def song. Scott flails with his sword, batting away the flying cutlery. "RAMONA TELL ME SOMETHING THAT CAN BEAT HIM."
"I don't know!" Ramona shouts. "He -- he's a condescending douchebag! He put on weirdly sexual performances with the choir kids! He's a cheater!"
"His hair is the worst," Wallace contributes thoughtfully, around a mouthful of Fritos.
Ramona's head slowly turns and she shoots him an unimpressed look.
He never turns his attention away from the spectacle of Scott Pilgrim running away from a 30-year-old white man who is doing Broadway-worthy kick-turns while rapping the Sugarhill Gang's classic number. He cups his free hand around his mouth. "Scott, tell him how bad his dance moves suck!"
"--What?" barks Schuester, his head snapping toward the two of them on the steps, and Scott takes the opportunity to bash the back of his head in with the hilt of his sword. Schuester collapses into a pile of coins.
+5 AGILITY
+10 INSIGHT
SCOTT HAS GAINED THE POWER OF BEING ABLE TO RECOGNIZE A DOUCHEBAG WHEN HE SEES ONE
"Awwwww! Lamest power ever!" Scott complains.
"I know," says Kim Pine, from her seat beside Ramona. (Scott gawks at her. When did Kim get here?!) "It's gonna go off every time you look in the mirror." Somebody else sitting on the steps snorts.
Scott's face goes: >:( and then he marches out of the street. His sword tip drags along the pavement behind him.
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I WILL BE BACK FOR THESE. *_______*
(1/4)
(Of course it does.)
She gets up in front of the group and announces to Mr. Schue that she has prepared a selection for today's practice. He tells her to go right ahead.
(Of course he does.)
She belts "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" to Finn, who looks a little uncomfortable at the start but weirdly touched by the end.
It's probably the one musical he knows.
Finn apparently gets the idea somewhere -- probably from Rachel herself -- that he needs to reciprocate. He shows up at Glee one day and, to an chorus of raised eyebrows, sings "You Are Loved (Don't Give Up)." It's not a good selection for his vocal strengths. Finn is no Josh Groban, and Josh Groban is no favorite of the Glee Club.
And so it begins.
Sam gets up with his guitar for a Coldplay tune about how he and Quinn will be together til kingdom come, or something like that. More than one member of the audience thinks that it's a very unlikely goal, but Quinn is captivated.
Quinn returns the gesture with "Come Away with Me," during which Noah Puckerman can be seen with a stony face, clutching the armrest of his chair til it creaks.
Puck breaks his tradition of Jewish songwriters by performing a smug take on "Everyday I Love You Less and Less."
The club is very awkward that day.
On the well-at-least-it-was-interesting side, Quinn slaps the hell out of him.
Mike, apparently not wanting to look like a jerk when all of the other boyfriends have sung, gets over his singing-fright enough to massacre something with a heavy beat and the weirdest lyrics anyone has ever heard.
Tina has happy tears shining in her eyes when he finishes bounding across the chorus room floor.
She serenades Mike with "I Could Have Danced All Night," which seems, despite being a perfectly legitimate (if very, very sweet) performance, to make Mr. Schuester wince.
Kurt and Mercedes sing "Down with Love" as a pointed duet. Artie whoops his approval; Santana says, "Finally." Mr. Schuester says he thinks he sees their point, and issues a plea for a return to business as usual.
That seems to be the end of it -- until it's not.
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Mercedes is laughing as she gathers up her stuff. "You're crazy," she says, throwing her backpack strap over her shoulder. "We are not singing anything from Avenue Q; Mr. Schue would never go for that."
"I can dream," Kurt retorts airily, refraining from tapping his boot as he waits for her.
"It's puppets, Kurt," Mercedes says, dubious. "Puppets that swear."
"It's more--" he protests, and then he slows down, "than..." She frowns at him, then turns to see where he's looking.
Brittany is sitting quietly in the back row of the risers, her shoulders slumped and her hands in her lap. It's pathetic-looking, even by Brittany's usual blank standards.
"That's about the saddest thing I've ever seen," Mercedes mutters.
Kurt privately agrees, as he thinks back to about three minutes earlier, when Mr. Schuester told them to go home for the afternoon. "Santana left hand-in-hand with Puck," he mutters back. He raises his voice. "Brittany."
She slowly looks over at him.
"... Mr. Schue said we could go," Kurt says. Sometimes, the emptiness in Brittany's lack of expressions can be downright unnerving.
"Oh," says Brittany dully. She doesn't move. "Okay."
Kurt and Mercedes exchange a glance.
"--and we'll just," says Kurt, leading them down the hallway, and then he stops short. "Dad!" His dad is, in fact, sitting on the couch with his feet on the coffee table. The TV is on, but he's not looking at it. "I ... thought you were at the garage today."
"I came home early," his dad says slowly. "Hey Mercedes." Kurt sees him looking at Brittany's hand, which is, unfortunately, in Kurt's. "...Brittany."
"Hi Mr. Hummel," Mercedes says from behind them.
"Your name sounds like that telescope," Brittany says, like this has just occurred to her. Kurt would be more busy with astonishment that Brittany knows what the Hubble is (and with relief that his dad is still taking it easy after the aneurysm), if his dad wasn't looking really, really wary.
"Uh, okay," says Dad.
"We're just going to go -- practice," Kurt says, and he tries to make a break for the basement door.
"Kurt, can I talk to you for a second?"
His back to his dad, Kurt shuts his eyes for a second. Mercedes looks like she's trying not to laugh. "Sure," he says. He makes a motion toward the basement in Mercedes's general direction; he's pretty sure she is laughing as she leads Brittany downstairs.
When he turns around, his dad is shooting him a level look. "You're not ... tryin' to prove anything again, are you?"
Kurt can't decide whether to be annoyed or mortified. He goes with a combination of both, and says, matter-of-factly, "Brittany wants to sing a song to her ex-best friend. Mercedes and I are helping with the musical selection. She kept trying to hold my hand."
"Fair enough," says Burt. "Just asking."
Kurt flees into the basement while he still can.
(3/4)
"Do you know what theme you want to sing to Santana about?" Kurt asks, leaning over Brittany's shoulder at his desk.
"I've got a suggestion," Mercedes says darkly from the couch. "It begins with b and ends with itch."
He snorts, but, to illustrate to Brittany, types it into the iTunes bar to search his 63 gigs of music. Not many songs come up; Kurt doesn't see Brittany as much of a Bowie fan. "Picking a common word can at least give you a starting list to work from."
Brittany seems to have perked up at the idea of taking on a solo in front of the club. She brightened a little and said something about her awesomeness when they were in the car, anyway, so she seems to have retained her self-confidence from the week of the Other Britney. She slowly nods.
"What's your theme?" Mercedes asks.
Brittany turns around in her chair. "It's a secret," she says, very seriously, and Kurt and Mercedes exchange what feels like the fiftieth look of the afternoon.
"Well," Kurt drawls, slowly. "If you want your song choice to be a secret until you perform it, you'll probably want to plug these in." He connects his noise-canceling headphones to the laptop.
It takes her three tries to get them over her ears correctly.
"Maybe we shouldn't be encouraging this," Kurt mutters to Mercedes.
"Definitely not," she mutters back.
Kurt sticks his hand up. "Mr. Schuester," he says.
Mr. Schue sighs and leans back against the piano, like he's just been waiting for this. "Yes, Kurt?"
He frowns at him, but remembers: this is for Brittany. Despite all his misgivings. He pushes on. "Brittany has something she wants to share with the group."
There are some muffled groans. Mr. Schuester says, "Guys, if we keep doing this, we're never going to practice."
"Mr. Schue, everybody else had their chance to sing if they wanted to," Mercedes says. "I think Brittany should get a shot."
"Fine." Mr. Schuester doesn't sound particularly enthused about it, as he climbs into the seats. That's totally his 'this is stupid but I'm going to allow you kids to get it out of your system' voice. "Where is she?"
Mercedes points to Brad at the piano, who takes his cue and signals the strings.
The chorus room doors blow open and Brittany stalks in, heels clicking. She's dressed like a pin-up of a fifties housewife in a short black halter-neck dress with wide skirts made wider by a crinoline. Her hair is up in an impeccably retro mass of curls, and she is wearing bright red lipstick and a fierce eyeliner cat-eye.
Everyone else looks various levels of surprised, bemused, or turned on by the sight of Brittany's chosen outfit. Kurt, however, recognizes both the fashion style and the opening strains of the song (that sounds like something out of a cheesy PSA from 1952) that Brad and the band are beginning to play.
Kurt's eyebrows make an immediate run for his hairline.
The music shifts into a steady beat and Brittany stops at the piano, staring out at all of them. She puts her hand on her cocked hip and she talk-sings, "Now honey, you better sit down and look around, 'cause you must have bumped your head, and I love you enough to talk some sense back into you, baby."
Brittany has always been a good performer. When she gets up in front of people, her studied blankness vanishes and is completely replaced by some of the most expressive work Kurt has ever seen. That's usually while dancing or cheering in a group, though, and this is on a whole new level altogether. Who knew Brit had so much attitude in her?
Mercedes reaches back and clutches at Kurt's knee in realization. "Is she--?!" she hisses, and Kurt bats at her hand, staring at Brittany.
"Check my credentials; I give you everything you want, everything you need," says Brittany, over the beat. "Even your friends say I'm a good woman. All I need to know is why."
And then the hook sets in, and Brittany launches into it. "Why don't you love me? Tell me, baby, why don't you love me when I make me so damn easy to love?"
(4/4)
"And why don't you need me? Tell me, baby, why don't you need me when I make me so damn easy to need?"
He glances to his left. Every single student in Glee -- with Mr. Schue included -- is gaping at the spectacle in front of them.
Santana Lopez's mouth is hanging open.
"I got beauty, I got class; I got style, and I got ass, and you don't even care to care, looka here," Brittany belts, and then she step-turns to the side and, with more grace than should really be possible for what she's doing, points at her booty.
Someone -- Kurt thinks Quinn -- lets out a disbelieving laugh and then whoops. Several other cheers join her voice. Santana still hasn't moved.
Brittany struts through the whole song. She does a little dancing during the musical interlude (mostly shaking her ass to heights hitherto unknown even to Brittany, though she also plucks a feather duster off the piano and mimes dusting off the Cheerios trophy that Sue had installed in the choir room last year, except it's hard to be mad at her for it, because she's so clearly staring right at Santana as she does it), but mostly, she stands in the front of the room and she taps her heel and she sings. It's totally mesmerizing.
It's also totally unmistakable who she's singing to, with the way that her eyes keep coming back to the back row over and over again. Especially on the verse that goes: "I got moves in your bedroom, keep you happy with the nasty things I do, but you don't seem to be in tune."
Kurt is looking at Santana on that one, and her face cycles through several emotions, lightning fast, before it settles back on pure shock. Mr. Schuester is frowning, like maybe he should stop this due to inappropriate lyrics (oh please, Mr. Schuester), but Brittany keeps blowing through the song.
By the final two verses, almost everyone in the seats is giving Brittany a clap with the beat or is grooving in his or her chair.
"There's nothing not to love about me," Brittany sings; "no, no, there's nothing not to love about me; I'm lovely, there's nothing not to need about me."
(Tina tells her: "Sing it!")
"No, no, there's nothing not to need about me," Brittany sings with everything she's got (which isn't that much, but she's seriously working it); "maybe you're just not the one, or maybe you're just plain..." Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, and then she finishes, with her eyes on the back row: "dumb."
The chorus room erupts. In the front row, Mercedes and Tina haul Brittany in to sit with them, congratulating her; she's beaming the biggest, most vacuous smile Kurt has ever seen on her face.
"Whoaaaaa!" Mr. Schuester is laughing as he claps. "Brittany Pierce, guys!"
As the raucous applause dies down, Finn looks at Artie, who shoots him a bitch, please face; everyone else has turned around and is staring at Santana.
"--What?" Santana snaps, her arms folded over her chest, as furious at them all as Kurt's ever seen her. And, he thinks, maybe a little scared, too.
Getting back up in front of the group, Mr. Schue tries to call their attention to practicing whatever ungodly song he has selected for them for this week, but Kurt sees the way that Santana is staring at the back of Brittany's head.
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:D?
(1/2)
"Dude, that's, like, the worst idea ever," Puck says, sprawled in his chair with his knees spread and his arms folded over his chest. "You can't just go strolling into the parking lot with a huge group of unarmed people. I've played Left 4 Dead; I know how this goes!"
"Feeding frenzy," Sam says, totally unnecessarily. Most of the group shudders.
Finn bristles. "Well, nobody else was suggesting anything!"
"You didn't exactly give us a chance to," Mercedes interjects sourly.
"I don't know why you boys are assuming that you're the only people in this room who are capable of coming up with a plan," Rachel snaps. "I've thought up no less than four separate escape plans while I've been sitting here." She flounces up out of her seat and heads for the whiteboard, and 10 students groan.
One doesn't.
"Look," Santana snapped, picking up a chair, "we need to get some food and water, then lock ourselves up and throw away the key."
"--What?" asked Brittany, and this wasn't her usual blankness; she sounded lost and scared enough that Santana stopped what she was doing and turned around. Brittany was standing in the faculty lounge doorway, hands hanging awkwardly at her sides.
She wasn't much of a lookout.
Santana lowered the chair and said matter-of-factly, "We're breaking into the vending machines for some food. Then we're running as fast as we can to the chorus room, where we're gonna barricade the doors and sit until somebody shows up with some damn guns. Okay?"
"... Okay," said Brittany. She didn't look or sound reassured.
"Brittany," Santana said, sharply enough that Brit jerked her head up and stared at her. Santana took the couple of steps necessary to bring them together, and then she leaned in and peered out the door over Brittany's shoulder. The halls were deathly silent; no sign of them here. She turned her attention back to Brittany, who hadn't made the slightest move to get out of her way. They were standing inches apart.
"I know you're scared," said Santana, choking back overwhelming impatience and looking Brittany in the eyes. "Ignore it. Fear doesn't get you anywhere. All it does is make you fuck up the footwork during a back handspring. Remember?"
Sometimes, Coach Sylvester's advice came in handy at really weird moments.
This one was probably the weirdest.
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"Stop saying spunk," says Kurt flatly. "I'm not doing it."
"But--" Sam tries.
"Absolutely not. You're lucky I'm even agreeing to be seen with you."
"I mean," says Sam, "the whole idea is not to be seen with me."
"Sam," Kurt says, he thinks very patiently. "I don't wear unbreathable unnatural fibers."
"Kurt, it's spandex, not polyester." He doesn't roll his eyes -- but it's a near thing. (By now, he has an idea of what fabrics Kurt does and doesn't find acceptable. It's just one of those things you pick up.) "You can't be recognized."
"Which is going to happen the second that anyone sees me or hears my voice," Kurt points out. "Spandex or no spandex, it's a small town."
He makes a good point. Kurt's pretty damn distinctive.
"Anyway, I don't see what's wrong with," Kurt wiggles his fingers, and he does roll his eyes, "crime-fighting in what I'm wearing."
Sam stares at him.
He's wearing skinny madras pants with a yellow blazer, a dark blue tie, and lace-up knee high boots.
Well. At least the boots are kind of practical.
"Fine," Sam agrees, giving up. Serious: "You've got to at least wear a mask, though."
Kurt eyes with great distaste the black domino mask that is being offered to him. "Do you know what that will do to my hai--" He squawks as Sam hauls him into a kiss.
A long kiss, in which Sam makes sure to dig his hands into his hair as much as is physically possible.
"Oh man, look. It's already messed up," Sam says, grinning, and he can tell that Kurt is trying really hard to be annoyed, but the color in his face isn't selling the anger thing.
(He was much madder when Sam dropped a reference about the whole superhero thing into casual conversation.)
Kurt frowns at him and makes one futile attempt to flatten the "baby bird just woke up in the nest" situation that Sam has created, then he wordlessly holds his hand out for the mask.
"Nice," says Sam, shooting him a thumbs up once he has the mask on his face, and he sees the tiny quirk of the corners of Kurt's mouth. "Let me just go change and we'll get out there."
Except when Sam comes out with his costume on, they wind up hooking up in a back stairwell instead of patrolling the streets. Kurt may not want to wear spandex, but he's pretty okay with taking it off of Sam.
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I want to know precisely what this guy (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v427/kiyara/NEW%20ALBUM/30bl160.gif) is thinking just at that moment. :D
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(This is seriously the least spoilery thing ever.)
This is totally ridiculous, Sam thinks, and he was a little unsure of the performance at first, but now he's leaning strongly toward the "ridiculous in a good way" category.
He's never seen anything like the show that's being put on in front of him right now, not even the lunchtime ambush concerts that the Warblers used to do back at Dalton. Brittany and Mike and all of the cheerleaders in top hats up there can really dance, but Sam's really only got eyes for the kid in the half-white, half-black suit. With one fringed sleeve and half a mustache painted on one side of his upper lip, and sparkly makeup on his opposite eye. It's beyond ridiculous. But awesome.
Kurt's slinking around the stage, and his voice -- it's even crazier than it had sounded in all those mp3's he'd sent Sam.
For a minute, Sam thinks of what a duet between the two of them could have been like. Sam can't exactly do anything but trip over his own feet when it comes to dancing, but he can play guitar and carry a tune well, and Kurt -- well, Kurt's clearly talented. They could have done something cool together, Sam thinks. Then Kurt is shimmying into the big finale and Sam is vaguely aware of tilting his head to one side and starting to smile (almost laughing), because he can't stop thinking about that conversation in the shower.
This is Kurt's duet partner, the person who's as passionate and talented as he is.
Ridiculous.
(Awesome.)
My personal canon for Sam in this moment is: RIDICULOUSLY OBLIVIOUS.
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Glee, Santana gives Rachel some advice on how to make Jesse pay for dumping her like he did.
(And can I just say that I really like how you sometimes put in links to songs in your glee fics? I really fits with the vibe of the show.)