If you drive any American two-lane highway long enough, you will inevitably pass a real shithole ramshackle house or trailer, blue tarp bricked over the hole in the roof, yard strewn with garbage and the rotting husks of large appliances and cars long dead. This two-bedroom ode to entropy will be surrounded by a fence which will almost certainly topped with barbed or razor wire and adorned with a sign. Something on the order of THIEVES AND TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.
I made this last year as an admittedly smug one-off Twitter joke. I keep it as a reminder to (1) try to not so much with the smug already and (2) work toward a world where I can afford to use some of the energy currently spent on grim resolve for frivolous shit like being a smug jerk. Or, y'know, helping.
I figure once the Russians fix our cyber I…CRAP I'm being smug again, they make it SO HARD
I'm tempted to say "fuck September forever" but you just know this shit starts with the parents
there's always French pussy
Quite possibly the best use of not-quite-binary trees yet discovered. I find these oddly soothing to look at.
Also fun is this summary of questionable CYOA plot lines, a showcase of what happens when you hire a class of people with assorted addiction and mental health issues (i.e., writers) to entertain children.
I'd recommend you watch first, but the playlist is its own thing too.
I would literally give up a limb to have Edgar Wright's focus and discipline when it comes to execution of a vision. Ideas are cheap; any idiot can bust a nut. New life comes on a tide of blood, shit and hollering. And then the hard part starts.
So yeah, go see it.
For the first time in my life, I could feel my whole body listening. Go here. Come here. Be still. Take charge. Now one, two, three, fly. Like I had practiced as the drunk fawn, I tucked my chin and kicked my legs over my head. But this time Kia's hands were on me the whole time, turning me in the air like I was an anti-gravity baby. I slammed to the ground, screaming to sell the fall. The 12 other women pounded the floor with their feet and fists and howled at the ceiling. Then my moment was over and the next duo scrambled to the center of the ring, taunting an imaginary audience. We were all mermaids with muscle. I howled back at them.
Betty Gilpin, ladies and gentlemen. Turns out she's a damn fine writer, too.
GLOW is a hell of a thing. I stayed up too late last night finishing the first season, grinning like an idiot at her and Alison Brie and all of the others. And I haven't liked wrestling since I was 13.
He wants, more than anything, to be taken seriously.
Yes, Lying Cat. And you're either thinking "of course" or "…whuh?" but either way I'm not going to explain too much, because you don't deserve Saga or Lying Cat without putting in the minimal work of reading the link.
Lying Cat is one of my favorite creations in all of comics. In no small part because of this scene with Sophie, a recently-liberated young girl who had been sold into sex slavery:
I was going to make a Hitler joke because Lying Cat's partner is named The Will (though he does not triumph all that often), but to me the president* is less a Hitler than a reupholstered Biff Tannen.
Baby girl learned her knife skills during a rained-out daddy/daughter campout.
She wanted a whittling chip like the Cub Scouts earn, so when I go pick her up from sleepaway camp today, she shall have it.
This is my second time posting a shot of a Matt Fraction comic today. This one, from almost exactly 10 years ago, seems timely on about four different levels.
This off-brand Nazi Captain America goes down to Mexico to kill immigrants. Suddenly I feel like going to bed.
The difference between being good at something and being great at something is attention to detail.
If only I had known that the day would come when I would say things like "My sari fabric finally came from Australia" and yet still not be a sultan or a even a Grand Poobah.
I took myself to the ER at 2:00 this morning for what I thought was appendicitis and turned out to be a 4mm kidney stone. A few thousand bucks and a breathtaking shot of dilaudid later, I was home and napping. While I slept, my son snuck a get-well card onto my nightstand.
I know you are in a lot of pain right now and Mom said you're going to have a "peenis migrane," and I hope you get well soon so we can play together again.
Tom Hardy's dog died, so he dropped a tribute video and an open letter to his good boy. This marks him as a quality human worthy of a dog's care.
Please note that Woody was named after both his penis and his fondness for eating poop.
Every few months, I look at Mugsy and four words leap unbidden into my brain: You can never die.
It looks like a lot of people discussing the end of The Leftovers want to waste time wondering about the nuts and bolts of The Departure. As if that were the point.
Read this instead (big spoilers). Seems appropriate that after I finish a show about people finding out that they're not alone, I find some criticism that makes me feel like I'm not alone.
Because there's this:
Stories are just stories, but they're also more than that. Our religious stories don't have to be literally true to be true. There's value to them beyond even moral instruction. They're about how we interpret the world, how we force it to make sense so we can make sense in the short time we're alive.
And there's this, which hadn't occurred to me:
...season three has felt, to me, like a vital document of our current moment, just one that peeks at it from a slightly different angle, like reality is a snow globe that The Leftovers picked up and shook. So many people from all walks of life feel lost and alone right now, and The Leftovers is all about how hard we'll try to make sense of the senseless.
I came to love them all, but I love Nora most. Kevin is, like me, a hopeless dope, albeit one with better hair and ink. Nora is, in a story about people finding and loving each other through their damage, the most damaged of them all, and the most determined to face that damage honestly. She'll burn herself down, if she has to. How perfect that hers is the last story, the one without proof.
Do I believe it? Yes, but it doesn't matter. Even if she was lying, it was the truth.
This seems thematically appropriate this week, somehow
- That tie and collar are not Poirot-grade. That shit is fastidiousness kryptonite. There better have been a kerfuffle.
- I am really tempted to try that moustache.