ever since i was little i knew i wanted to make up little guys in my brain and play on my puter all day

hey, wanna know something cool?

a little over a century ago, the polar explorer Ernest Shackleton lost the ship Endurance when attempting to make a land crossing of the antarctic.

soon after, the ship would be crushed by the surrounding ice as it shifted, and it would sink about 10,000 feet to the sea floor.

BUT THEN

2 years ago, national geographic was able to locate the HMS endurance and found it in an incredibly well preserved state!

the leader of the expedition, Mensun Bound, said "This is by far the finest wooden shipwreck I have ever seen. It is upright, well proud of the seabed, intact, and in a brilliant state of preservation."

gay new yorker. faggot about it!

new reaction image

Free Palestine protesters shut down the Golden Gate Bridge and 880 freeway in Oakland. This is huge🫡

And in Eugene, Oregon today...

Lots of other cities too!

Link

"The disruption appeared to span the country over several hours. Protesters in San Francisco parked vehicles on the Golden Gate Bridge, stopping traffic in both directions for four hours Monday morning, while hundreds of demonstrators blocked a highway in nearby Oakland, some by chaining themselves to drums of cement, California Highway Patrol representatives told The Washington Post. Some protesters headed toward a Tesla factory in Fremont, Calif., according to local TV station KRON4. In New York, dozens of protesters stopped traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge and held demonstrations on Wall Street, according to ABC7.

Pro-Palestinian demonstrations were also reported in Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami and San Antonio. Demonstrators’ targets ranged from major highways such as Interstate 5 in Eugene, Ore., to a countryside road leading to an aircraft engine manufacturer in Middletown, Conn.

They blocked roads leading to O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, which warned travelers on social media to consider alternate forms of transportation, as car travel was “substantially delayed this morning due to protest activity.” A similar obstruction on the expressway leading to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport in Washington prompted travelers to take their luggage and cross roads on foot.

Police arrested dozens of people in several cities, but no significant violence had been reported as of Monday evening.

Protesters have stalled traffic, closed streets, disrupted daily life and interrupted events in major U.S. cities intermittently since the beginning of the Israel-Gaza war, but few have concurrently or consecutively affected travel in as many parts of the country as on Monday [April 15]."

-via The Washington Post, April 15, 2024

this is like 100% petty all things considered but i just can’t wait until some of u learn that it is absolutely normal for people of any age to refer to their dads as “daddy” in many parts of the south like it isn’t a red flag there. 60 year old women in my family still refer to their dads as “daddy.” and btw i think anyone should be allowed to call their own fathers whatever they want without someone either making it nasty or being accusatory like don’t you get tired of making ppl uncomfortable for no reason

good morning to every person who calls their parents mommy or daddy or pápi or papa or mama or baba or any other “childish” name. and to everyone who is unnecessarily rude or condescending under this post please go back to sleep and get some good rest so you’re not as cranky and mean to strangers on the internet.

do what you will but never forget he is fucked up

dont forget;

But never forget.

I regret to inform you that Discord's new Terms of Service includes an arbitration clause. You can find it here https://discord.com/terms/#16. This clause includes an opt-out, which I have transcribed here:

You can decline this agreement to arbitrate by emailing an opt-out notice to arbitration-opt-out@discord.com within 30 days of April 15, 2024 or when you first register your Discord account, whichever is later; otherwise, you shall be bound to arbitrate disputes in accordance with the terms of these paragraphs. If you opt out of these arbitration provisions, Discord also will not be bound by them.

These clauses are underhanded ways that corporations seek to deprive you of your right to participate in class-action lawsuits and your right to a jury trial. (This does only apply to us users ,other people still spread the word though )

#whats arbitration someone help me

Bad news, @noodelzmop. Arbitration basically means that if you want to sue Discord for whatever reason, the dispute needs to be handled in house. Specifically, in their house. If you don't get this email out, you're basically signing away your right to legal recourse if they do criminally shitty stuff to you, like with the McDonalds app.

I have been told that emailing "I am confirming that as of the date of this email, I am choosing to opt out of binding arbitration to settle disputes with Discord." With the Email you used for your discord account is enough for the notice but take this with a grain of salt as this was not said by a lawyer

reiterating that this only applies to US users

THIRTY DAY LIMIT BTW. I suggest taking sixty seconds to fire off a quick email with op’s recommended text. I have no plans to sue discord but better safe than sorry

Can't quite cope with how much this looks like me and my dad

It begins

Photo credit to the exceeding bemused sound technician we bribed with two cans of Carlsberg to permit us access to his gazebo.

Horniness is not intrinsically less pure than any other human motivation

"He only made this art because he was horny!" ...Yeah, and? You only made a sandwich because you were hungry.

I need people to stop blaming the death of movies on “quips”. A quip is just a funny line of dialogue. That’s all. Like I just saw a post talking about quips and the death of movies and brought up Pirates of the Caribbean as an example of a better movie and yes it is but also that movie is FULL OF QUIPS. I just rewatched The Princess Bride. It’s all quips. Every single line. And it’s a masterpiece.

Movies suck when people don’t care about the art they’re making. That includes them not caring about their quips. Which is why a lot of comic relief dialogue ALSO sucks now. But the problem isn’t that funny dialogue exists.

#it’s not the quips it’s the complete and utter fear of showing any kind of sincerity#honestly it’s almost the equivalent of saying ‘no homo’ after a moment of being genuine

The Princess Bride is almost all quips, but it’s all sincerity. Every aspect of the plot is ridiculous and yet no movie dialogue has ever gone as hard as “I want my father back, you son of a bitch”

people recognize the problem contained within Whedon-style quippyness without knowing the term for the actual issue so they say “quips” when they mean “bathos”

another problem with quips that’s a little harder to analyze and explain is the quips are all in the author’s voice, NOT the characters’.

steve rogers, natalia romanoff, james barnes, tony stark, pepper potts, and bruce banner are people from radically different walks of life, and should therefore have extremely different styles of communication, despite all off them nominally speaking the same language (english). they should have different senses of humor, different senses of where the boundary lies between irreverence and insult, different boundaries, different sore spots, different goals as well as different methods of communication.

the fact that all these characters banter the exact same way, i.e how joss whedon thinks is funny, is incredibly shallow and grating.

steve grew up as a challenging little shit, who was also very small and poor, and he did it in 1920′s-30′s brooklyn new york. he regularly got his ass kicked. tony stark is also challenging and provocative, he’s a shit stirrer, but he grew up rich as all fuck. no one was beating the piss out of him in a dirty alley. tony has grown up surrounded by sycophants, rich enough to get away with whatever amount of bad behavior he wants to pull; steve grew up poor and disabled in a society that openly advocated for the death and degradation of the weak and unfit. why the fuck would they enter a conversation the same way? why would they deliver a snappy retort the same way? natasha romanoff is a spy, she’s manipulative, she’s always watching to see how a joke lands, she’s always conscientiously tuning herself this way and that to get results. she doesn’t have the luxury of casual defiance, or unthinking obnoxiousness, or even standing by her principles and pissing off someone she hates. again, why would she be tossing off little asides the same as tony, or even the same as steve?

the princess bride is sincere, and the characters still banter in their own voices. fezzik is cautious and methodical, inigo is weary and incredulous, vizzini is desperate to impress everyone with his own intelligence and in so doing often sounds like a complete twerp, buttercup is so incredibly pissed off she doesn’t have any brain cells to spare for joking around, and westley is here to ruin everyone’s day. and it works! the characters have great banter because they’re striking sparks off each other, not meshing like identical cogs in a machine.

humor is about subverting expectations, about breaking up patterns, about confrontation and absurdity. you can’t get that from a blandly uniform pulp.

I have never heard anyone summarize Westley’s character so perfectly in a single line

Bothering the beast

Here's every U.S. factory making bombs for Israel

the full map:

joan nestle and john Preston, from Sister & Brother: Lesbians and Gay Men Write About Their Lives Together, 1994

["I first met John Preston sometime in the early eighties when we were on a panel of pornographers as part of a conference of gay and lesbian journalists, a group of writers who had been censored for their subject matter were meeting in one of the ground floor rooms of the newly opened Lesbian and Gay Center of New York City. I was the last panel member to arrive, and I remember Pat Califa asking the whole panel to rise so I could wedge myself in behind the long table. John Preston was one of my colleagues that day. He sat straight and tall, unflinching in his gaze, as he chronicled his career in erotic writing. Intrigued by his honesty and his dedication to his writing, I began to read his books and keep an eye out for his name as he toured the country.

Over the years, I would get warm, encouraging cards from John, words that I needed in the face of some of the more ugly responses to my erotic writing. We were comrades in our dedication to telling the tales of how touch and taste and yearning encouraged life. My other good gay friends— Jonathan Katz and his lover, David; Allen Berube, Bert Hansen; and Eric Garber— were all supportive of my history work, but it was John who read my books as portraits of sex.

J.N.

Joan and I have been on many panels together over the years. But she's wrong about this one being our first meeting. We originally met at a conference in the late seventies sponsored, I think, by the National Writer's Union and its lesbian and gay caucus. I wasn't on the podium with her. I had attended that particular panel— it had been my highest priority for the trip— only to see her, listen to her, and meet her.

It was at the height of controversy about Joan's writing on themes that thought police had declared unacceptable for a lesbian. As a gay man who wrote much too much about sex, I had been fighting the same battles. Joan was sitting alone; she was the first presenter to arrive. The crowd was packing in, but there was no way to know, yet, if they were friendly or if this would be another public attack on Joan's honest writing.

I went up to her and introduced myself. "You are one of my heroes," I told her. She looked stunned— a little battle weary, I think— and said, "Thank you for telling me that. I'm so nervous!" We talked easily, but simply.

J.P.

In the mid-eighties, I grew aware of another dimension in John's work; he became one of the first creators of and spokespeople for a new eroticism: safe sex. He put his authoritative stance behind the possibility of hot, heavy, gay male desire. Here we shared another parallel in our work. My erotic writings existed in a world where women lost their lives every day because of male violence. Every time I wrote of touch and entry, I had to weigh the consequences of my words; I had to ask myself whether I was serving life, the fuller life of women, by breaking erotic silence. Both John and I chose to keep alive the taste, the power of homoerotic desire.

In 1991, John started writing me letters about his idea for a book about gay men and lesbians. "Fondest of My Fantasies," he would greet me, "it is time for us to get to work on this project." His salutations became more and more baroque as our correspondence grew: Dearest Love Goddess, Dearest Erotic Icon of My Soul, and finally, Dear Divine Being of My Groin. How could a girl resist? The letters themselves, after their courtly flourishings, showed the hard work of a professional writer. We both had other editing, speaking, and touring commitments that kept pushing at the time we had put aside for this book, but finally in 1992, John demanded that we find the time for this project.

J.N.

The idea for Sister & Brother actually began with a 1991 conversation between my agent, Peter Ginsberg, and Susan Fox Rogers, who was then an editor for a large publishing house. They asked each other why the recent burst in lesbian and gay publishing didn't reflect the reality of their lives: that most gay men and lesbians had, in fact, warm and often powerful relationships with one another. Lesbian books, if they mentioned men at all, were most often furious with the other gender; gay male books mainly ignored lesbians and treated other women as stereotypes of the "fag hag."

Peter came to me and said I should do an anthology on the subject. I agreed, but it definitely needed a lesbian coeditor. Joan, of course, came to mind instantly. I would be able to work with my hero. And there would be the luscious benefit of hearing Joan's deep sensuous voice on the phone even more frequently.

J.P.

Sprawling on the couch, John's long legs extending far out into the living room, our dog at his feet. A sweltering summer day in New York, 1993. John's first meeting of Lee, my partner, who is a devoted fan of his Flesh and the Word series of gay erotic anthologies. From across the room, I notice how they resemble one another— both lean and gray, both marked by the slate blue of their eyes. John is tired and upset at the lack of interest in his proposed autobiography. He repeats the words of an influential editor he has just spoken to: "You know, Preston, the story of a middle-aged gay man who came out in the seventies and finds himself fighting AIDS in the nineties is not news anymore. It's been done."

His words bring me back to another conversation I had a few months earlier when I called a Jewish archives to see if they would be interested in receiving a copy of my neighbor's story of how he had survived the ghetto of Riga. I had worked with David, now a man in his seventies, as he translated his original Yiddish text into English. David would sit by my side as I sat by my computer and typed his journey of loss, of flight, of resistence, stopping only when his grief overcame his words., He had insisted that his story had to be remembered, beyond the confines of his immediate family, and so I made the call to a likely place. "Miss Nestle," the weary voice of the archivist informed me, "I know you find this story very impressive, very dramatic, very unique, but I am saddened to have to tell you that we already have thousands of such stories."

The next afternoon is the opening of the new Brooklyn home of the Lesbian Herstory Archives. Again the heat blared down, but I was so excited by the crowds of women, by the beauty of our new space, that I just plunged ahead. Through the streets of Park Slope we marched, our own small band drumming us along, over four hundred celebrants jamming into a building in Prospect Park to hear speeches, to eat, and of course, to dance. I ran from table to table along with the other archives workers, making sure the chaos was pleasurable for our guests. Finally, too tired, too hot to keep up the hectic scurrying, I stopped and just looked around at the moving, swirling mass of lesbians celebrating their own cultural institution. Then I saw John, his head towering above most of the crowd, standing with the sweat dripping down, his luggage pulling at his arms. I made my way toward him. "I just had to come," he said. "I knew how important this was to you. I can't stay. I have to make a plane home." He bent his head so I could kiss him goodbye and I felt his fever, like another sweltering August day, burning inside of him.

J.N."]

"This person has a secret onlyfans!" "This artist does NSFW commissions!" "This author writes porn on the side!" I cannot begin to tell you how swag and awesome that is.