Sep. 3rd, 2017

athousanderrors: from 'Spirited Away' - soot sprites, clutching confetti stars, running about excitedly. (Default)
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solarcat:

zoophobianexus:

the-holy-trash:

rashaka:

notsomolly:

thehollowbutterfly:

beka-tiddalik:

derekmalikpoindexter:

wilwheaton:

greenekangaroo:

scrawlers:

australopithecusrex:

relax-o-vision:

dedalvs:

roachpatrol:

kateordie:

freezecooper:

Ppl be like “ I want an actual male gem, not just Steven.”

Jeez, it’s like having only one character

to represent your whole gender

in a group composed all of another gender

is a bit upsetting huh?

I wonder

what

that’s like

no really

can you 

even imagine

what this lack of representation

MUST 

FEEL 

LIKE

This

post

isn’t

long

enough

none of the listed shows are named after the one female character, either

it’s actually physically impossible for me to not reblog this post.

I want to say I’ve reblogged this before, but I’m reblogging again for the brilliant addition of, “None of the listed shows are named after the one female character, either” because FUCKING THANK YOU.

mmmmmhm.

Every time I reblog this, there are new shows on the list.

Wow

it’s almost

as though

this happens

almost constantly

But normally you don’t notice, because it’s not about you.

If I stop rebloging this, assume that I am dead

crazy

how

it keeps 

happening

Im mad

I never noticed this

at least WW’s film was named after her. progress?? /sarcasm
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athousanderrors: from 'Spirited Away' - soot sprites, clutching confetti stars, running about excitedly. (Default)
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grayacejace:

Jonathan “Sebastian” Morgenstern + Text Posts
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jacintatveit:

Compare and contrast

Left hand side: Behind the scenes: x, x

Right hand side: Photoshoot: x, x, x
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My Brain: Eat
Me: Okay, what should we make?
My Brain: No make!!! Only eat.
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sleeping-with-the-suicidal:

maddisonkennedy:

myreticentvale:

Keep the flame going for those we have lost to suicide. 

Couldn’t scroll

I don’t give a fuck if this doesn’t suit your ‘theme’ have a heart and reblog.
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It grows…. #ravelry #knittersofinstagram
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fassy-stuff:

Michael Fassbender / X-men: Apocalypse
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neverwhere:

speculativepast:

It’s been 10 years since we first started taking the Hobbits to Isengard. I mean, it’s been way longer - the Hobbits could have fucking walked there, back again, managed to get served several times at the downstairs bar in Doggett’s and got a Southeastern train service all the way to Charing Cross since Tolkien put pen to page. But (and believe me, this is deeply unusual for me) let’s put J R R aside in this.

Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy is kind of… well, both too faithful (total lack of critical interrogation of Tolkien’s absolutely awful concepts around race, gender, etc.) and not faithful enough in that it appeared to miss all the points your correspondent’s teenage self managed to find in the series. Specifically, where Lord of the Rings is an obsessively detailed but ultimately quite modest and traumatised epic, a huge amount of which is two small, starving creatures crawling around in mud having moral dilemmas. The Jackson films take themselves as seriously and grandly as the books came to be and as I suspect their author probably never did.

Taking the Hobbits to Isengard, on the other hand, is a pure and perfect work and I will hear no ill spoken of it else ye never receive a pint in a round bought by me again. 

It takes as its base the Hovis-theme-ripping-off music from The Shire - the small-worlded part of the films, before any grandeur is truly injected into the bloated beastie that is the trilogy. The Hobbiton theme is supposed to be homely, reassuring, quaint - like anything that succeeds at that, it sounds fucking amazing played on an airhorn.

The simplicity of the Shire’s theme is what allows it to so naturally accept the kitchen-sink style auditory ornamentation that is ‘a donk’. A classic staple of rave, it needs no introduction even in a world as apparently dislocated from two WKDs and a honk on some poppers as the miruvor-quaffing pipeweed fiends we see here.

As a lyrical piece, Taking The Hobbits is discursive - like many of the very best pieces of pop. One only has to consider the sweet, sweet tension of Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain or Brandy and Monica’s iconic The Boy Is Mine to recognise that dialogous pop is, when it works, a particularly sublime genre.

It doesn’t matter that the lines are, ostensibly, orphaned from their original place in the script - from the eponymous ejaculation to Gollum’s hissed What did u say??? they’re all perfectly addressing each other in the sort of gloriously confused cacophony usually reserved for a misunderstanding-based brawl outside a kebab shop at 3am. 

I remember the first time I heard Taking The Hobbits To Isengard. It was quite a momentous occasion because I still had dial up, so it took roughly the length of a decent pop song to load and it was very difficult to tell if it was deliberate or a bandwidth-related glitch remix for at least 30 torturously disrupted seconds. I’d imagined it would be a fairly quick joke - most internet video based things were, at the time, but no; a fully fledged song. That just kept going. 

The initial air horns! These are funny, yes because we remember them as the Shire theme, which isn’t even the music for this bit. The stuttering sample of the original line! Which sustains itself as Sheffield Dave-style shout out far better than it should, given it’s old seriousface Elf ears himself yelling off a horse. 

(In retrospect, should have equated that with Sheffield Dave earlier)

Then there’s …polka bit. Few pop songs manage to maintain a polka interlude - Bohemian Rhapsody springs to mind but Taking the Hobbits To Isengard manages to repeatedly insert it without losing coherency around its original rave premise. If you don’t think ‘Tell me where is Gandalf, for I much desire to speak with him’ delivered over a little eurodance handbag bit is not both extremely funny and excellent pop, I can’t help you. 

Taking The Hobbits To Isengard would score reasonably at Eurovision. Not because Eurovision is actually the home of comedy trash but because if France (and it would probably have to be France in order for the Elven analogues to take themselves seriously enough) scooted in on an artpop platform and wanged loads of fucking airhorns round the stadium it would be entirely in keeping with European sensibilities of solemnly considering the totally whimsical due to our inherent reservedness about experiencing joy.

(The slightly older and wiser part of me has to question the repeated use of Gollum’s ‘stupid, fat, Hobbits’ which makes sense in the context of what he is but isn’t inherently funny, unlike a context-dislocated, bass-intoned ‘A Balrog of Morgoth’)

The great thing about Taking The Hobbits To Isengard is it actually gets funnier the more it goes on. Like Star Trekkin it not only sets out to commit to a fairly one-note premise but to hammer that note until it falls out through the piano and becomes a transcendent free agent, cascading through the strings. 

It takes a premise; that the Lord of the Rings films, in their overblown format, are very, very silly and runs with it extremely, deadly seriously. This is the core of not all but a fairly substantial chunk of really good pop, as well as an excellent manual for life. All things are here - a manic sense of imminent implosion, troubling past associated with racist ideologies, handcarts, hell, what did u say???

Very seriously; Taking The Hobbits To Isengard is a superb piece of fan work and it has substantially enriched my life to listen to it on loop for the past 45 minutes whilst watching a parliamentary debate on mute. Creators of this piece: thank.

My friend Hazel wrote a Very Serious post about a Very Serious and Important fanwork and you should all read it immediately 
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athousanderrors: from 'Spirited Away' - soot sprites, clutching confetti stars, running about excitedly. (Default)
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cummerslam:

a conversation i saw on twitter about statues worth keeping reminded me of what is easily one of my favorites.

this is outside of the university of maryland’s student union building, a bench with a statue of one of UMd’s most universally beloved alumni, jim henson, conversing with kermit. people (usually incoming freshmen) will sit down next to them and have their picture taken. it’s one of the most pure and beautiful things on this earth.
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zombeesknees:

#the main pop-cultural presence of robin wright in my life has been a) buttercup and b) escaping from sean penn  #with support work as forrest gump’s princess in a tower  #so to have her live on an island with women  #training women to fight  #training a young woman to defend herself  #launching 12 feet in the air and shooting 3 dudes in the chest  #yeah that’s an image
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warlockprince:

Magnus Bane + caring about others more than he cares about himself

Magnus’ relationship with Raphael is one of my favourite things about this series. 
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mangaluva:

mangaluva:

You are stuck in roadworks. There were no roadworks yesterday. There will be no roadworks tomorrow, when you do not need to drive. You turn down another street, but there are roadworks here, too. There are roadworks behind you. Everywhere, the sound of jackhammers.

To get from home to work, you must walk uphill. To get from work to home, you must walk uphill. There are no downhills.

You cross a bridge. Below it is Edinburgh. Around you is Edinburgh. Above you is Edinburgh. Inside you is Edinburgh.

Outside it is raining. You look up and see sun and blue sky. At your feet is snow.

You walk into a building and cross over ot the window. You are six stories up. You return to the door. You are twelve stories up. You return to the window. You are in the void.

Your feet stick to the floor in Hive. You can feel yourself beginning to sink. You try to escape, but every door leads to another dancefloor. You sink into a sticky darkness where unseen figures gyrate against you. Shots are a pound.

Humans are seen bringing sticks and toys to Greyfriars Bobby’s grave. No human is seen removing them, but they disappear.

It is 12.59. You hear nothing. It is 2pm. No cannon fired and one o’clock did not happen. 

You spit on the heart for luck. The heart beats. The city pulses. The city blesses you.

You wander down a side street. There is a statue of John Knox and a shop that sells only hats of many colours. Tomorrow you will return, and there will be a statue of Adam Smith and a cafe that does not serve coffee.

A tourist wants a history book about Princess Merida. A tourist tells you that William Wallace is only a movie character. A tourist wants to know why you do not know your own history. You weep that you only know the history of the reality that you are from.

You are cold and lost and alone in an unknown place. You find a bus stop. A 35 bus arrives. The 35 goes everywhere. The 35 can take you home. The 35 leaves without you because you do not have exact change.

So work was boring again and I did an Edinburgh Fringe Gothic

You cannot go to work because it is now a Fringe venue. You go to the shops, but they are all Fringe venues too. You try to return home, but there is singing inside. Your flat is now a Fringe venue. Admission is ten pounds.

Masked figures in black rob a bank. One holds a sign proclaiming that they are drama students doing a performance art piece on the evils of capitalism. The crowd cheers and puts money in a hat when they sing a Proclaimers song. 

The great cow lies with all four legs in the air. Inside, there is laughter.

Reality frays at the edges in the Fringe. Dimensions cartwheel past and hand you a flyer for the End of Days. Admission is free. 

Fringe Venue 616 is an open grave. Maggots fall into your hair and bones crack under your feet as you climb in. Three students perform Hamlet. It is alright. They’ve clearly worked hard.

A corpse lies in the middle of the Royal Mile. It is advertising a show. A knight fights a demon in front of the Tron Kirk. They are advertising a show. People with painted faces slay and devour the hapless in the street. They are advertising a show. They have flyers. 

Children giggle as a living statue dances for them. Across the city, people stare at an empty plinth in confusion.

Have a flyer. Your hands are full of flyers. Have a flyer. Your pockets are full of flyers. Have a flyer. Your bag is full of flyers. Have a flyer. Your eyes are full of flyers. Have a flyer.You open your mouth to scream, but your throat is full of flyers. Have a flyer. 

This isn’t Edinburgh Gothic. This is just Edinburgh. 
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