17th September, 2014

last-snowfall:

akamine-chan:

cracked:

I was at a bar with friends when I first caught a whiff of the impending shitstorm. We were having birthday drinks when someone reached out to tell me that my ex had written a screed about our relationship that had been posted to a forum I belong to. Slowly, horrifically, we discovered that he had posted it to several other popular forums (that had immediately nuked it) and created a Wordpress blog that was literally nothing but his 10,000-word rant about our failed relationship. Shortly after that, we found Wikipedia edits on my page that had altered my date of death to coincide with planned public appearances (or, in one case, simply “soon”).
“5 Things I Learned as the Internet’s Most Hated Person” by Zoe Quinn

If you haven’t been paying attention to Gamergate, you’ve missed out on a fine, fine example of misogyny in action.Briefly, Zoe Quinn is an independent game developer. Her ex decided to post about what a bitch she was and how horrible she was and oh, by the way, she fucked her way into game development and WORST OF ALL, fucked a guy to get a positive review for her game.Except…1. Her ex is a vindictive douchebag2. Why is it important who she’s fucked?3. The game reviewer she supposedly fucked? Never reviewed her game.Instead, the men of the gaming world have decided this is a call to arms about how corrupt the gaming journalism community is, and how Zoe Quinn is a perfect example of that.Because we all know there’s a feminist conspiracy in the gaming world, where all the women hold the power and any day now we’re going to suck the fun outta games…Sometimes I just really hate men. No, not ALL men, ffs. *hands*

I appreciate Cracked.

And her game? DepressionQuest. A GAME AIMED AT TEACHING PEOPLE WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE SUFFERING FROM DEPRESSION. AND GIVES A PORTION OF THE DONATIONS SHE RAISES TO THE NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION HELPLINE.
This is who the neckbeard gatekeepers felt so threatened by. A woman created a free/donation-based Flash game to raise awareness and empathy for a major public health issue. 
Fucking men. Seriously. I don’t give a shit that it’s not all men. WOMEN DO NOT DO THIS. AT ALL. Men who don’t do this? Get your own house in fucking order.

last-snowfall:

akamine-chan:

cracked:

I was at a bar with friends when I first caught a whiff of the impending shitstorm. We were having birthday drinks when someone reached out to tell me that my ex had written a screed about our relationship that had been posted to a forum I belong to. Slowly, horrifically, we discovered that he had posted it to several other popular forums (that had immediately nuked it) and created a Wordpress blog that was literally nothing but his 10,000-word rant about our failed relationship. Shortly after that, we found Wikipedia edits on my page that had altered my date of death to coincide with planned public appearances (or, in one case, simply “soon”).

“5 Things I Learned as the Internet’s Most Hated Person” by Zoe Quinn

If you haven’t been paying attention to Gamergate, you’ve missed out on a fine, fine example of misogyny in action.

Briefly, Zoe Quinn is an independent game developer. Her ex decided to post about what a bitch she was and how horrible she was and oh, by the way, she fucked her way into game development and WORST OF ALL, fucked a guy to get a positive review for her game.

Except…

1. Her ex is a vindictive douchebag
2. Why is it important who she’s fucked?
3. The game reviewer she supposedly fucked? Never reviewed her game.

Instead, the men of the gaming world have decided this is a call to arms about how corrupt the gaming journalism community is, and how Zoe Quinn is a perfect example of that.

Because we all know there’s a feminist conspiracy in the gaming world, where all the women hold the power and any day now we’re going to suck the fun outta games…

Sometimes I just really hate men. No, not ALL men, ffs. *hands*

I appreciate Cracked.

And her game? DepressionQuest. A GAME AIMED AT TEACHING PEOPLE WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE SUFFERING FROM DEPRESSION. AND GIVES A PORTION OF THE DONATIONS SHE RAISES TO THE NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION HELPLINE.

This is who the neckbeard gatekeepers felt so threatened by. A woman created a free/donation-based Flash game to raise awareness and empathy for a major public health issue.

Fucking men. Seriously. I don’t give a shit that it’s not all men. WOMEN DO NOT DO THIS. AT ALL. Men who don’t do this? Get your own house in fucking order.

(via that kind of grateful)

16th September, 2014

malcolm-f-tucker:

guys send me your Bond headcanons, Bond trivia, your favourite Bond films and books, anything Bond I need it pls

Headcanon: James Bond’s childhood was as shitty as Casper Fleming’s. His parents fought constantly, often physically. Andrew cheated, Monique drank, and if they hadn’t died when he was 11, he would have killed himself by 22.

Trivia: The dignified old Chinese woman playing poker in Casino Royale is the same actress who played Bond’s lover in Hong Kong at the beginning of You Only Live Twice.

Favorite book: We covered this recently, still Moonraker. However, I still haven’t gotten past the first chapter of OHMSS (because of my own flaws, not the book’s) but I suspect it will shoot up the list.

Top 5 Movies:

  1. Skyfall
  2. Casino Royale
  3. On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
  4. GoldenEye
  5. Licence to Kill
  6. (honorable mention) The World Is Not Enough

(via Seek a North West passage)

16th September, 2014

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.

I see a fuckton of comics and he caters to Wodehouse hoarders/connoisseurs? Get me on the next flight to Seattle, pls.

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

I see a fuckton of comics and he caters to Wodehouse hoarders/connoisseurs? Get me on the next flight to Seattle, pls.

(via 221C Baker Street)

16th September, 2014

Another 00Silva Writers’ Workshop next weekend?

mechanical-jewel:

We’re about due, I think. Which day works best for people, Saturday or Sunday? 6pm EDT still work for everyone?

OK, it sounds like Saturday is good and people are into an earlier time (especially jamesraoulsilva who is 6 hours ahead). I’m good after noon, so does noonish EDT work for everyone, or is that too early?

(cc: shawarma-palace, lastratstanding, frozenthoughtbox)

(via mechanicaljewel)

16th September, 2014

nuna80:

Before Night Falls ..  My name, for the moment, is Reinaldo Arenas.          
 Walking along streets that collapse from crumbling sewers. Past buildings that you jump to avoid because they will fall on you. Past grim faces that size you up and sentence you. Past closed shops, closed markets, closed cinemas, closed parks, closed cafes. Sometimes showing dusty signs, justifcations: “CLOSED FOR RENOVATION,” “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS.” What kind of repairs? When will these so-called renovations be finished? When at last will they begin? Closed… closed… closed… everything closed. I arrive, open the countless padlocks and run up the temporary stairs. There she is, waiting for me. I pull off the cover, and stare at her dusty, cold shape I clean of fthe dust and caress her. With my hand, delicately, I wipe clean her back, her base and her sides. Infront of her, I feel desperate and happy. I run my fingers over her keyboard and suddenly it all starts up. With a tinkling sound the music begins, little by little, then faster; now full speed. Walls, trees, streets, cathedrals, faces and beaches. Cells, mini- cells, huge cells. Starry nights, bare feet, pines, clouds. Hundreds, thousands, millions of parrots. A stool, a climbing plant, they all answer my call, all come to me. The walls recede, the roof vanishes, and you float quite naturally. You float uprooted, dragged off, lfited high. Transported, immortalized, saved. Thanks to that subtle, continuous rhythm, that music, that incessant tap-tap.

Watched this again last night, cried my eyes out at the end. So hard to believe it was only Javier’s second film in English, and then his first Oscar nomination!
I also want to start reading Arenas’s work, but just his prose. I found myself ignoring the subtitles when Javier recited his poetry in Spanish because the rhythm of the language was beautiful and the translation too literal to capture it. I’ll try his poetry when my Spanish is better. nuna80:

Before Night Falls ..  My name, for the moment, is Reinaldo Arenas.          
 Walking along streets that collapse from crumbling sewers. Past buildings that you jump to avoid because they will fall on you. Past grim faces that size you up and sentence you. Past closed shops, closed markets, closed cinemas, closed parks, closed cafes. Sometimes showing dusty signs, justifcations: “CLOSED FOR RENOVATION,” “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS.” What kind of repairs? When will these so-called renovations be finished? When at last will they begin? Closed… closed… closed… everything closed. I arrive, open the countless padlocks and run up the temporary stairs. There she is, waiting for me. I pull off the cover, and stare at her dusty, cold shape I clean of fthe dust and caress her. With my hand, delicately, I wipe clean her back, her base and her sides. Infront of her, I feel desperate and happy. I run my fingers over her keyboard and suddenly it all starts up. With a tinkling sound the music begins, little by little, then faster; now full speed. Walls, trees, streets, cathedrals, faces and beaches. Cells, mini- cells, huge cells. Starry nights, bare feet, pines, clouds. Hundreds, thousands, millions of parrots. A stool, a climbing plant, they all answer my call, all come to me. The walls recede, the roof vanishes, and you float quite naturally. You float uprooted, dragged off, lfited high. Transported, immortalized, saved. Thanks to that subtle, continuous rhythm, that music, that incessant tap-tap.

Watched this again last night, cried my eyes out at the end. So hard to believe it was only Javier’s second film in English, and then his first Oscar nomination!
I also want to start reading Arenas’s work, but just his prose. I found myself ignoring the subtitles when Javier recited his poetry in Spanish because the rhythm of the language was beautiful and the translation too literal to capture it. I’ll try his poetry when my Spanish is better.

nuna80:

Before Night Falls ..  My name, for the moment, is Reinaldo Arenas. 
         

 Walking along streets that collapse from crumbling sewers. Past buildings that you jump to avoid because they will fall on you. Past grim faces that size you up and sentence you. Past closed shops, closed markets, closed cinemas, closed parks, closed cafes. Sometimes showing dusty signs, justifcations: “CLOSED FOR RENOVATION,” “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS.” What kind of repairs? When will these so-called renovations be finished? When at last will they begin? Closed… closed… closed… everything closed. I arrive, open the countless padlocks and run up the temporary stairs. There she is, waiting for me. I pull off the cover, and stare at her dusty, cold shape I clean of fthe dust and caress her. With my hand, delicately, I wipe clean her back, her base and her sides. Infront of her, I feel desperate and happy. I run my fingers over her keyboard and suddenly it all starts up. With a tinkling sound the music begins, little by little, then faster; now full speed. Walls, trees, streets, cathedrals, faces and beaches. Cells, mini- cells, huge cells. Starry nights, bare feet, pines, clouds. Hundreds, thousands, millions of parrots. A stool, a climbing plant, they all answer my call, all come to me. The walls recede, the roof vanishes, and you float quite naturally. You float uprooted, dragged off, lfited high. Transported, immortalized, saved. Thanks to that subtle, continuous rhythm, that music, that incessant tap-tap.

Watched this again last night, cried my eyes out at the end. So hard to believe it was only Javier’s second film in English, and then his first Oscar nomination!

I also want to start reading Arenas’s work, but just his prose. I found myself ignoring the subtitles when Javier recited his poetry in Spanish because the rhythm of the language was beautiful and the translation too literal to capture it. I’ll try his poetry when my Spanish is better.

(via Amani Elwerfli)

16th September, 2014

pharaonicwolf:

dispositiontotransition:

lgbtgivesmehope:

djchickenfajitas:

STAND OUT
seen in Madison, Wisconsin

[Image shows rows of identical bikes available to rent, while one of them has been decorated in rainbow]

Are we just gonna ignore those fancy-ass bike-renting-machines?Or am I just revealing how country my town is? <_<;;

One of the many reasons I love Madison! I’ve also seen similar bike rental stations in Boston.

We have them in DC too.

pharaonicwolf:

dispositiontotransition:

lgbtgivesmehope:

djchickenfajitas:

STAND OUT

seen in Madison, Wisconsin

[Image shows rows of identical bikes available to rent, while one of them has been decorated in rainbow]

Are we just gonna ignore those fancy-ass bike-renting-machines?

Or am I just revealing how country my town is? <_<;;

One of the many reasons I love Madison! I’ve also seen similar bike rental stations in Boston.

We have them in DC too.

(via Where's my supersuit?)