Lady Brienne of Smokin’ Hot.

Lady Brienne of Smokin’ Hot.

(Source: kisedbyfire)

(Reblogged from nudityandnerdery)

Contents Under Pressure

ruckawriter:

I rarely use this to just blog. I’m going to just blog now, so you can all just ignore this if it’s not to your liking.

Warning. Contents under pressure.

Read More

There are boys and there are men. And the men have got precisely no fucking time for this misogynist, sexist, archaic bullshit.

(Reblogged from ruckawriter)

Never forget.

Unhand me! I am your king!

(Source: obsessedwiththeroyals)

(Reblogged from theinsanerobin)
Hold on to your butts.

Hold on to your butts.

(Source: zalarhg)

(Reblogged from warmoth)

Man, the Lannisters make the BEST camp counselors.

boyfriendhook:

mayifindher:

Possibly the best GoT cast photo I’ve found yet.

that’s one crazy national lannister vacation

(Reblogged from nerdintraining)

The famed Roseland Ballroom closes tonight. Like Captain America, I am sad.

I worked next to Roseland for almost 10 years. Entertainment Weekly used to be headquartered next door. I’ve walked past those doors — both the front, and the back, on 54th — more times than I can count. I’ve tiptoed through the “kids” waiting out for a show to start, I’ve dodged thrown beer bottles from post-concert fights, I’ve peeked inside to see who was on stage.

I’ve only been inside twice: Once, to see Fiona Apple’s now-legendary show in which she melted down halfway through her set and stormed off, and again, when EW threw a 10th anniversary party.

It was a part of my Manhattan, the one I remember as a young man, stalking these streets, walking to and from the places that would define me. My job, my friends, the subway that led me home.

A thing like Roseland is always supposed to be there, an anchor for memories that, as we age, constantly threaten to slip.

And then it isn’t.

"I’ve lost so much more than can ever be regained."

I feel you, Steve.

seanhowe:

Captain America’s Roseland Ballroom, 1956-2014.

Roseland closes tonight.

From Captain America #258, June 1981
Caption: On 52nd Street in Manhattan, between Broadway and 8th Avenue, stands one of New York’s celebrated landmarks—a dance hall called Roseland. In this age of new wave, rock ‘n’ roll and disco, it’s a place where a couple can do a slow, romantic shuffle to the music of a big band. And among tonight’s couples are Steve Rogers (perhaps more widely known as Captain America) and his downstairs neighbor Bernadette Rosenthal.

"Strange. I was last here almost forty years ago. It was a victory bonds party. So long ago, yet for me it seems like only yesterday. I’m still young, thanks to the years I spent in suspended animation after the war—but the WAC I danced with should be in her 60s. With children and grandchildren. I’ve seen so much in my life—and yet I’ve lost so much more that can never be regained."

Poor Captain America, fated to outlive everything he’s ever loved.

(Reblogged from seanhowe)

Clearly, one of them X-Files held the secret to immortality…

(Source: gilliandersob)

(Reblogged from nudityandnerdery)

"I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit" is on my family crest.

(Source: jillsandwich)

(Reblogged from geektresses)

Snausages at a thousand meters.

(Source: nunown)

(Reblogged from bookoisseur)

Strangé.

divalocity:

A Glamtastic Flashback: Grace Jones x Halle Berry on the set of Boomerang, 1992.

(Source: midniwithmaddy)

(Reblogged from samhumphries)
Perfect for the beginning swimmer who’s also deathly afraid of heights.
nikolawashere:

NY under water.
The eye-catching swimming pool in Mumbai, India, has been built to raise awareness about the threat of sea level rises as a result of global warming.  
It was constructed by attaching a giant aerial photograph of the New York City skyline to the floor of the pool.

Perfect for the beginning swimmer who’s also deathly afraid of heights.

nikolawashere:

NY under water.

The eye-catching swimming pool in Mumbai, India, has been built to raise awareness about the threat of sea level rises as a result of global warming.  

It was constructed by attaching a giant aerial photograph of the New York City skyline to the floor of the pool.

(Reblogged from kimmy-creepers)
boldlygiffing:

Season 2 - Episode 3 “Elementary, Dear Data”

Worf, straight-up, doesn’t trust hats.

boldlygiffing:

Season 2 - Episode 3 “Elementary, Dear Data”

Worf, straight-up, doesn’t trust hats.

(Reblogged from spoonfullofspock)
Tomorrow night, I’m going out with my game face on.

Tomorrow night, I’m going out with my game face on.

(Source: blueberrymuffinable)

(Reblogged from nudityandnerdery)

Dixie

Getting the sticker right was really important. It required a patience and a precision that didn’t come easily to my nine-year-old hands. But the flag had to be perfect. It had to be exact. And I didn’t have a protractor — nor would I have known how to use it. I was nine, after all.

But when you’re putting a flag on the roof of a car, it needed to be just right, or it was all wrong. And you didn’t have a lot of time to mess around: Once you dipped the sticker in the water, you had seconds to make sure that it was where you wanted it, before it was stuck forever.

Luckily, I got it right. And that Confederate Flag was affixed to the roof of the General Lee exactly how I wanted it. I was so proud.

——

There was a discipline to building models that I responded to in a big way. I liked following directions. I liked the process of making something that, in truth, didn’t require any artistic talent to produce. I was never a good artist, but I could trace the shit out of superheroes from the Official Handbook of the Marvel Universe. (Maybe I traced more female heroes than male ones. No way to know for sure.) I even figured out how, thanks to a rudimentary grid system, to blow them up into my own posters.

Laying out the pieces, twisting the plastic forms free, sanding away the rough spots, using just the right amount of glue, holding it fast, getting the multiple coats of paint mirror-smooth, affixing the decals… It was like my own little zen toy garden.

If you screwed up, it didn’t look right. The doors wouldn’t close. The hood wouldn’t lay flush. You were penalized for imperfection.

(I would later indulge those same tendencies with baking, the most exacting of cooking. There is no room for “eyeballing” amounts when baking a cake — that shit is chemistry, and if you get it wrong, you’ll taste the mistake. The building blocks of being a fat child.)

——

There was no way for me, a black kid growing up in the Bronx, to understand exactly what was happening in The Dukes of Hazzard. All I knew was that I loved it. I loved the Duke boys, and the way they shot dynamite arrows and blew up randomly placed piles of tires or barrels. I loved Roscoe P. Coltrane — who I thought was named “Roscoe Peco Train” — for the silly way that he talked. I loved Cooter because his name was Cooter and Uncle Jesse because he seemed to know everything, like a backwoods Obi-Wan Kenobi.

I wasn’t sure at the time why I loved Daisy Duke, but it would eventually become evident. 

But most of all, I loved the car. That screaming orange 1969 Dodge Charger with the doors welded shut could outrun anything, anytime. It could fly over ravines and barricades. It kicked up rooster tails of dirt even when it was rolling on pavement. 

It was, like so many cars of the late ’70s/early ’80s — KITT, the Trans Am from Smokey and the Bandit, whatever the hell it was that Starsky and Hutch drove, Bullitt’s Mustang Fastback — an item of lust, and I wanted it.

So I built it. And I loved it.

——

It never occurred to me, until very recently, what my parents must have thought of this. My father, an immigrant from the poorest country in the Western hemisphere, and my mother, who was a girl coming of age during the Civil Rights struggle — they must’ve been appalled that their young black son was infatuated with this show that glorified the very symbol of southern aggression and oppression. That he was playing, every day, with the a toy emblazoned with a flag that had been co-opted as a banner of hate.

And that he loved it.

But they never said anything. Never a word of discouragement, never a hint of disapproval. They just let me play, knowing that, in time, The Dukes of Hazzard would dim in my estimation, to be replaced by something else just as temporary. And that, someday, I’d learn who General Robert E. Lee was, what the Civil War was, and why the Dixie flag is such a firestarter.

They never said anything. The strength it must’ve taken to remain silent, when what I was doing must have bristled against the very core of their being…. They didn’t teach hate even though it’d be perfectly understandable if they did.

Only a parent can understand that sacrifice in the service of making a better world for their children. A better world that takes root in each small mind.