“The girls are totally going to win,” she said, “You’re a bunch of sexists.” She could win at everything. She could change a tire and dance in a ballgown in the same ten minutes. Maybe with a little streak of grease over her cheekbone, to remind you that she was tough and beautiful, and also to remind you how good her cheekbones were. Now she was wearing a pretty dress but combat boots underneath it, and she also had a gun, to fight sexism. She looked so good. She kicked a guy in the face, and she didn’t even care.
“Feminism,” she said to herself, and then put on some red lipstick. “Just because I’m a feminist doesn’t mean I don’t like to look good.” Then she kicked another guy through a window, and he fell all the way. He was probably dead. She had like four guns strapped right on her boobs.
So yesterday my grandparents found a big box of old 78s that they’ve had in an attic for years, and wanted me to transfer them to CDs. Most were in pretty great shape, no cracks and few scratches. Lots of 1930s sweet/hot jazz, British big band & swing and a few Decca classical ones. This one had its label peeled/scratched off on the a side, on the reverse was a Parlophone march.
90% sure by playing it it’s unleashed some kind of 70 year old curse.
Oh my god D:
here’s a bad idea: listening to this in the dark by yourself
I heard that some records made during the 30s had laughter on them because they believed that listening to laughter would make others laugh along.
My God, they were wrong.
I’m gonna wake up tonight to girl with no eyes or something standing at the end of my bed now aren’t i?
Dear revisionists, Mandela will never, ever be your minstrel. Over the next few days you will try so, so hard to make him something he was not, and you will fail. You will try to smooth him, to sandblast him, to take away his Malcolm X. You will try to hide his anger from view. Right now, you are anxiously pacing the corridors of your condos and country estates, looking for the right words, the right tributes, the right-wing tributes. You will say that Mandela was not about race. You will say that Mandela was not about politics. You will say that Mandela was about nothing but one love, you will try to reduce him to a lilting reggae tune. ‘Let’s get together, and feel alright.’ Yes, you will do that. You will make out that apartheid was just some sort of evil mystical space disease that suddenly fell from the heavens and settled on all of us, had us all, black or white, in its thrall, until Mandela appeared from the ether to redeem us. You will try to make Mandela a Magic Negro and you will fail. You will say that Mandela stood above all for forgiveness whilst scuttling swiftly over the details of the perversity that he had the grace to forgive.
Nelson Mandela was not a god, floating elegantly above us and saving us. He was utterly, thoroughly human, and he did all he did in spite of people like you. There is no need to name you because you know who you are, we know who you are, and you know we know that too. You didn’t break him in life, and you won’t shape him in death.
Excerpts from his brilliant essay Mandela Will Never, Ever Be Your Minstrel. I love that he included Bob Marley’s lyrics, because he too like so many very much so human yet very much so remarkable people have been turned into memes and reframed to serve White supremacy and make the status quo and the State comfortable, literally what these people were fighting or singing or marching or writing or speaking etc. against.
When sentiment doesn’t allow for complexity and seeks to serve White supremacy, it cannot respect Mandela’s legacy. It cannot respect Black lives. It cannot be truthful in relation to justice—the justice still needed today for the racism and oppression that still thrives today.
Nelson Mandela was a human being and a complex one who fought with people, not alone, for a justice that cannot be separated from both the desire for peace and the necessity of self-defense from the State, both unity and the reality of racism so virulent and so pungent that we still smell and experience that stench today. His enemies—people who wanted him imprisoned or dead—are the same ones (literally, by name, in some cases) who are desperate and thirsty to reframe his life and legacy in a way where “peaceful” means “sought White approval; didn’t believe in self-defense.” Let’s remember him for who he actually was and what he did, with all of its complicated, difficult, radical and glorious complexity.
jeez i would love to order that thing online, but i don’t know what size to order it in because women’s clothing sizes are determined by the alignments of the planets in relation to the fuck you galaxy
“I am tired, not of arguing in favour of equality, diversity and tolerance, but of having to explain, over and over and over again, why such arguments are still necessary, only to have my evidence casually dismissed by someone too oblivious to realise that their dismissal of the problem is itself a textbook example of the f*cking problem.
I am tired of being mocked by hypocrites who think that a single lazy counterexample is sufficient to debunk the fifteen detailed examples they demanded I produce before they’d even accept my point as a hypothetical, let alone valid, argument.
I am tired of a**holes who think that playing Devil’s advocate about an issue alien to their experience but of deep personal significance to their interlocutor makes them both intellectually superior and more rationally objective on the specious basis that being dispassionate is the same as being right (because if they can stay calm while savagely kicking your open wound, then clearly, you have no excuse for screaming).
“The first time I smoked weed was with Demi and Miley. I must have been 17 or 18. They kept saying, “Try it! Try it!” so I gave it a shot, and it was all right. I don’t even smoke weed that often anymore.”—
I’ve been on a Hoku kick lately and figured I would spread the love. If this song has taught me anything, it’s that if you make eye contact with a cute person eating a burrito chances are they MIGHT be your future love interest. But, like, no promises, okay!
“…trolling used to be pretty funny and almost entirely harmless. Trolling, despite the modern usage, does not mean “the act of pissing somebody off and laughing about their anger.” It is “the act of pissing somebody off BASED ON SOMETHING COMPLETELY MEANINGLESS and laughing about their MISPLACED anger.” It isn’t considered trolling to leave a comment full of racial epithets and laugh when people “don’t get it.” It is trolling if you leave a comment insisting on the wrong information about something irrelevant – how many runes are on a Stargate, for example (everybody knows its 12) – and wait for the ONE guy that just can’t let the transgression pass. If you start a fake fight with Prof. Stargate, dragging him deeper and deeper until hopefully, finally, even he has to stop and think “wait a minute, this is ridiculous,” that is trolling. That’s the difference: No actual harm is caused, and even the victim can eventually get in on the joke. “Trolling” isn’t referring to hiding behind a fortification and trying to hurt people like the mythical creature. It’s referring to the style of fishing – you drag bait across the bottom hoping to get a rare bite. It’s not ‘bait’ if you’re earnestly spouting your misogynistic beliefs and somebody gets upset. There’s nothing funny about entirely justified anger.”—Robert Brockway, http://www.robertbrockway.net/2013/07/18/its-not-a-game-if-you-cant-lose/ (via pelikinesis)
“I have gotten into baseball recently, and whenever I have trouble writing, I think about the pace of baseball. It’s slow. You strike out a lot, even if you’re great. It’s mostly individual, but when you have to work together, it must be perfect. My desktop picture is of the Red Sox during the World Series. They aren’t winning; they’re just grinding out another play. This, for me, is very helpful to have in my mind while writing.”—Greta Gerwig on writing at 14 Screenwriters Writing - NYTimes.com
Peppermint Patty tells Charlie Brown to “just save me a drumstick and the neck.” No wonder she wants to keep “these intimate details” between the two of them.
Snoopy has a boxing match with the lawn chair. The only possible explanation for this is that one of Charles Schulz’s girlfriends thought it would be funny, and told him so during one of their ice-rink hand-holding sessions.
A dozen toasters appear out of nowhere. Between their overabundance of kitchen appliances and their overstuffed garage, the Browns clearly have a hoarding issue.
Charlie Brown fails to recognize Snoopy in his pilgrim costume. “What? Oh hi, Snoopy” is the original “Oh hi, doggie.”
Franklin and Charlie Brown clasp hands and have a low-five. Why are we shown this little greeting, but not Peppermint Patty slapping Chuck on the ass?
Franklin sits alone at dinner. A screencap of the one black kid being made to sit all by himself is widely circulated every November on Tumblr, usually accompanied by GIFs that unsubtly allege racism. That’s a little unfair—Charles Schulz went out of his way to include an African-American character, when it would have been very easy to keep the Peanuts gang white and avoid ruffling any feathers at a time when school integration was still a widely contentious issue in many communities that were filling Schulz’s pockets by running his strip—but you do have to wonder whether any animator looked at that seating arrangement and said, “You know…”
Linus tries to relive his Christmas-pageant moment of glory. Linus’s little speech before Thanksgiving dinner was clearly meant to evoke the same atmosphere of hushed reverence as his famous Bible story in A Charlie Brown Christmas, but that was never going to work even if he hadn’t ignored that whole genocide situation.
Linus can’t stop talking about Captain Myles Standish. The massacres overseen by Standish set the brutal tone of European settlement for the next 300 years, but Linus seems to have pinups of the colonial leader hanging in his locker.
The gang sings totally out of sync. It looks like all the kids are sitting together in the back seat singing “Over the River and Through the Woods,” but their mismatched voices make clear that the young actors were recorded in totally separate singing sessions and patched together as best the audio engineers could manage—which wasn’t very well.
Woodstock eats another bird. After the kids leave for Grandma’s, Snoopy busts out with the turkey he’s been holding out on and carves it up for himself and his avian friend. Woodstock chows down with relish.
He lit seventeen cigarettes, because who the fuck cared. “I’m a man,” he announced to the room. “I’m a goddamn man and sometimes I have to make the tough decisions that no one asked me to make and my jaw looks like a shovel and I have an important job, so fuck you,” just in case someone was listening.
"She followed him angrily down the path. They were totally going to do it, he could tell already.
He lit a cigarette, and then turned into a cigarette himself, so he was a cigarette smoking a cigarette, and it totally blew her fucking mind."
“This video presents some of the most stereotypical, if not corny American stereotypes. The desert. The galloping stallions. The beautiful woman. The soft porn. The lone ranger riding his motorcycle into the sunset. And it is all presented in such a simple and uninspiring way that it is almost a mockery of these things. The only thing not stereotypically American here, is the fact that the lone ranger is black. So why is Kanye doing this? Well it is pretty simple, he is talking White American culture, and he is replacing it with a black skin head. This is essentially an aggressive cultural takeover that the average person probably doesn’t even realize is happening. Why else would he debut the video on the Ellen show? It is a white American talk show, with a white American demographic. This man is literally destroying white American stereotypes by making them revolve around him. The funniest part is, hardly anyone realises it. Oh and who is White America’s favourite ‘white’ person? Jesus. I’m sure you all get where I’m going with this”— on Bound 2, via
“People, mostly nonwriters, are always surprised when I tell them I wrote so much growing up. They’re incredulous that I would write such a large volume of work, entire novels, and never submit them, or at least rework them (as if all of it wasn’t incredibly sophomoric, amateur as if it wasn’t written by a 14-year-old). But those words, I want to tell them, weren’t written for anyone else the audience who needed to see them and the audience for whom they were written was me.”—Writing to Explain Yourself to Yourself