young widows just put on a fucking incredible show. so glad i made it here and didn’t succumb to having felt sick for a week. (at Lincoln Hall)
A cleaned up version of the doodle graphic Tumblr user lovewallace created because it deserved to be a full grown graphic.
If it’s hard to read:
ive learned more about topics such as sexism and racism and rape culture and ableism and self confidence on a website that was originally made for pretty pictures than i have in my 11 years in an environment that is supposed to prepare me for the real world and if that isnt fucked up i honestly dont know what is
So much lust for the Folio Society edition of His Dark Materials by Phillip Pullman. Illustrated by Peter Bailey
i wish i had all the monies…
finally listening to this on #vinyl after owning it for months. it sounds AMAZING. #swans #theseer (at Home)
i expect to be a bit more insane by the time i’m done.
this always made me wish for an alternate version of “the way out is through” with a break so trent’s vocals could just scream without anything else.
I know, tough, right? I’m knitting a carrier for my chainsaw here. (x)a cute guy that knits socks? yes please. put him along side sufjan stevens
oh, misha…you are hilarious.
You probably haven’t seen Manos: The Hands of Felt, a theatrical puppet musical based on one of the most legendarily awful films ever made â it’s been performed around the U.S., but not often and not everywhere. But you have a chance to fix this egregious error by crowdfunding an official DVD release!
Manos: Hands of Felt is amazing. I’ve seen it live and was even caressed by a puppet during the “Forgetting You” musical number. This DVD needs to happen and we need to give it money!
I can’t imagine watching this movie without rifftrax
i can’t imagine watching it without rifftrax AND in the same room as tommy wiseau (as people do here in chicago at the music box).
Wow. I didn’t think it was possible but Trump actually trumped his own idiocy with this.
Donald Trump, warning all women of the world to avoid alone time with him.
picnic time! best way to combat having been stuck inside, feeling crappy all day. (at Winnemac Park)
MRA groups in a nutshell.
So. I heard about the passing of Ray Harryhausen, and my mind immediately spun back to 1963.
It’s the first year of my life I remember with any clarity, the year that my Dad would move us out of the elm-lined avenues of River Forest and into the corn-and-soybean-surrounded spankin’ new housing of the far west Chicago suburbs.
My sister was playing the grooves off her copy of the Beatles’ first album Please Please Me and my brothers were learning Kinks riffs - one on guitar and one on drums - and certainly driving my parents to drink.
I was in second grade and hated it, hated my new school, hated the Nazi tactics of my Vader’s precursor of a teacher Sister Martilia.
But it was also the year my mom started making my brothers drag me along to movies, and more than anything I remember the movies. Made everything else tolerable.
In 1963 widescreen had spread like a brushfire. I saw a lot of movies, but I clearly remember three: The Great Escape, It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World and Jason and the Argonauts. I don’t think I could’ve picked a better spread of movies for a kid my age. all of them sprawling, all of them barreling along, all of them really fun to watch, just to watch, just to get sucked into that Brobdingnagian image and sound up there.
While the first two films taught me through osmosis the thrill of multiple parallel story lines, Jason was an adventure, a quest, and frankly it was the most fun to watch with my six-year-old eyes. Sinbad had featured a fighting skeleton, but Jason had a whole damn battalion of them, all angry and pretty unskillful, more dangerous-looking than dangerous. Handsome bearded Jason and voluptuous Medea? Well sure, they were there, but come on, skeletons! Plus two flying harpies, big stone Triton (we called him Neptune, he looked like a Neptune), nasty Hydra, the dreamy talking statue of Hera (stone fox), the ship-crunching colossus Talos.
What brought this chunk of dubious Greek myth to life was Harryhausen. Harryhausen and Dynamation. Stop-motion + rear projection + split screen + foreground mattes. He’d worked on it for a good twenty years and then unleashed on us like Walter White’s meth but for the eyes.
Those kinetic fantasies, bigger than life yet convincingly to scale, worked. No strings, no guys in rubber costumes, actual unnatural things brought to life. Twitchy, jerky life to be sure, but enough for me to willingly suspend my disbelief. The world of fantastic cinema opened up to me because now the fantasticalness made a kind of sense. I’m thinking this is how people might have when they first saw George Méliès.
See, this is my Star Wars, kids. This was the amped-up heroes’ quest that fired my playground dramas and filled my couch-cushion castles. It was cool. And as the age of Star Wars and all that owes as much to Dykstra, Trumbell, Winston and ILM as it does to Lucas, Spielberg, Ridley and Jackson, and maybe more, they in turn happily acknowledge their debt to Harryhausen. All of them.
And so do I. Thank you Ray. You spun my second-grader’s head around and helped make me a movie-lover.