- The gay rodeos of Oklahoma
- Pissoirs are exactly what they sound like from the name.
- People who rid their sites of just Javascript are cowards. All the cool kids have no HTML!
- A wonderful, wonderful video showing the moment that two scientists find a lost species of bird in New Guinea. Itâs impossible to watch it without smiling.
- Nobody knows when movies come out any more â seriously, when actually is that Barbie movie coming out?
- What we lose when we hide the violence of the past â see also Everything2 on âvisceral insulationâ
- Immerse your brain in psychedelic internet goop with Mindmelt.party
Posts in EnglishPage 11
Arts and crafts: tidbits from Manchester

Manchester is not particularly renowned as a home for the aristocracy or patrons of the high arts, so i was pleased to discover upon a visit that the Manchester Art Gallery is one of the finest of its kind.
The Mag (as nobody calls it)âs success lies not in the size of its collection â itâs no larger than my local, the Laing â but in its presentation. Like many museums, its curators have lately been making efforts to diversify their collections and make them more relatable to the average yoof of today. Itâs a process that can often come off as haphazard and rushed1, but the team at the Mag have pulled it off with care and respect.

Newer works are dotted in each gallery in such a way that they complement, rather than denigrate, the greats of old. A visa rejection letter from a group of Pakistani artists hangs alongside Victorian paintings of eastern caravans; where a gallery about protest and revolution could have added some shrewd, vapid letterpress and called it a day, the museumâs curators have instead chosen to incorporate a thoughtful self-portrait by a South African painter, made in the wake of the Marikana massacre.2

The captions accompanying each artwork face a similarly complicated task. Be too conservative and youâll disappear up your own arse into a world of romanticist masturbation; be too reactionary and youâll come off as cloyingly didactic, engaging in pseudohistoric iconoclasm for iconoclasmâs sake. The Mag hit a stroke of genius here: after a brief description in the typical style, the captions adorning prominent works also include conversations and thoughts from a variety of perspectives, be it historians, curators, or the artists themselves. Itâs a brilliant way to further inform the visitor without beating them over the head with one opinion, alienating them with arcane academese, or leaving out unsavoury histories.


Other highlights on the lower floors include a portrait of the early black tragedian Ira Aldridge (the very first work in the museumâs collection, which rather surprised me coming from the people of 1858), a Ghanaian tapestry that i was surprised to learn was actually made of glass, and a lovely painting of an industrial scene lit by hazy fog whose name â to current meâs infuriation â i neglected to include in the photo, taken from an angle so inconvenient that reverse image search returns nothing of relevance. Past me is a bastard and iâm killing him when i get the chance.
Upstairs sit the galleryâs temporary exhibitions. The most prominently advertised was on the topic of the history of menâs fashion, something i regrettably could not get myself to muster up any interest in. Iâm sure itâs quite interesting if thatâs your sort of thing. The other (smaller) exhibition sits in a surprisingly grand hall which, from what i can tell, normally houses the museumâs pottery galleries, and itâs about tea. No wait come back i swâ

I jest, but there really is some fascinating stuff in there. The roomâs cabinets are packed with advertisements, old jugs, and all sorts of other things detailing how hot drinks have shaped Britain and the world over the years â from sparking conversation to funding colonisation. But there was one thing that stuck out to me the most. A newly-created work of art, perhaps meant to inspire some thought or another in the viewer, but that our whole group agreed could only be described as one thing:

PS: I had to ask what the abbreviation âdblâ (âdoubleâ) on the signs for upcoming trams meant. My poor exurban soul simply could not comprehend the idea of a transit system that consistently ran so punctually â i had been thinking it stood for something like âdelayed by lateâ.
PPS: This was meant to be the last post in the series, but my rambling about the gallery got so out of hand that i thought iâd spin off its intended complement into its own part. Tune in next week3 for one last dispatch from Affleckâs Palace.
The Saturnine Rites of the Cult of Phanes
Time travel is often thought of as a scientific affair, with precisely-calibrated equipment, sleek uniforms, and incomprehensible jargon. As any physicist can tell you, this is bullshit. Itâs nonsense. Itâs impossible. Itâs a complete violation of the laws of physics.
âŚThereâs a word for that, you know. Itâs called magic.
The Saturnine Rites of the Cult of Phanes
The cult
Long ago, before the people of Greece knew alpha from omega, a priestly faun received a revelation. That faunâs name has been lost to time, but the cult he started, kicked out from his tribe for such incredible heresy, continued to grow in number well through the centuries, initiating hundreds into its mysteries â the mysteries of chronomancy.
The satyrsâ creed is simple: the Cultists of Phanes are to bring Bacchic joy and ecstasy to the people of the future, for our numbers are far greater than theirs, and they are to spread the word of peace and love. Many thousands of lives have been touched by them, and most will never even know it.
The physics of time travel
There is much disagreement even within the cult on the precise mechanics of chronomancy, but among its astrologers, a rough consensus had developed (prior to the return of Libanomene) on its approximate physics.
As Bill and Ted would put it, the clock is always running in San Dimas Delphi. The
universe seems to have an unchanging âpresentâ: while the future is fluid and can be changed as one
likes, the past is set in stone, unchanging and unrachable.
The Saturnine Rites, as they are called, use magic to set a stable âanchorâ from which our brave congregants are launched into the future. Once an anchor is set up, it takes far less effort for a chronomancer to return to whence they started; they need only perform a simple solo ritual with the materials strapped to their belt.
The rite
A solo traveller can accomplish hops of a few years by themself with a small stone circle and enough prayer, but serious business requires a serious ritual. The Great Saturnine Rite is the cultâs time-tested method of flinging their members up to a thousand olympiads into the future and bringing them back safely. It goes, roughly, as follows.
1. A circle of gypsum chalk â any material will do in a pinch, the closer to its natural form the better â is drawn on the ground in the form of a sigil, based by cult chronastrologers on the precise position of the stars and planets at any given time. (It often represents a date a precise amount of years in the future; this is not a physical limitation, merely something the cult likes to do to reduce the star-speyersâ workload.)
2. The ritual space is fumigated with lavender, rosemary, and cannabis, first introduced to the fauns by an uptime dealer, until the air is foggy and thick with smoke. This creates a trance-like effect once the already drunken fauns enter to begin the ritual proper; it is best done in a cave, building, or other enclosed space.
3. Our brave chronomancers enter, supplies and utility belt in hand. Due to the riteâs nature, they are always of an even number; the cultâs priests have attempted adaptations for one or three members, but they are far less effective. We will be assuming for the remainder of the description that there are only two within the circle.
4. The rest of the cult chants and dances in a ring around the circle, rhythmically howling and singing songs of praise, while the time-sailors within recite prayers and hymns to Gods whose names i am not party to.
5. With a toast to Dionysos, the two fauns within the circle eagerly drink up a small flask of hand sanitiser. This used to be a calyx-ful of wine, but modern advances in technology have allowed travellers to get far drunker, far faster. (The High Priest says He strongly approves.)
The Cult of Phanes are self-described âhippiesâ who eschew violence when out and about. The daggers they keep are blunted, used only to intimidate, and never to hurt. They keep bouquets of flowers in their hair, and preach a gospel of unity and equality. All this makes the final step of the ritual shocking to the unacquainted observer â but we must remember that much as they idealise peace and love, they are also an Orphic cult, one that deals in sacrifice and reincarnation.
6. The High Priest (or, if they will be tagging along for the ride, a priest of lower rank) hands one of the travellers a freshly sharpened scythe.
I am not a member of the cult myself, and this account is based only in the whispers i have heard from members in vino veritas; thus, i cannot attest to the precise meaning behind the rite. It seems to me to be derived from myths of Saturn, Dionysos, and (bemusingly) Mithras, but the cultists i have spoken to are all of the laity, and they have no more of a clue than i do.
7. In one fell swoop, one of the chronomancers slices the scythe through their hand and strikes the other with it in the calf. As drops of the twoâs blood fall to the floor, the rite takes effect, transporting them and their belongings hundreds of years into the future. The only remnants are a blood-splattered scythe and a metallic taste in the air.
A few hours, days, or weeks later, the travellers materialise back in the circle, confident that they have successfully spread peace and love to the denizens of the future and ready to do it all over again.
The return of Libanomene
It is said that Halloweâen is when the veil between spirit and matter is at its thinnest, and the same too goes for Saturnalia. Around the winter solstice, the fabric of time becomes far more susceptible to human (or satyr) intervention; far less work is needed to launch someone millennia into the future, or to send dozens of cultists on one trip. This is why Christmas (as we now know it) is such a wondrous time of the year. The troops in 1914, the warm family reunions, the children screaming with joy over their new gifts â all made possible, in some part, by the Cultâs activities.
But even in those weakened days, the laws of chronomancy held true, much to the chagrin of Phanesâ priests. The Gods are unchanging and eternal, exempt from our mortal notions of time; why, then, should prayer and magic be beholden to our earthly rules? It was by accident that, last year (1970 BCE to us uptimers), the cult discovered an exception.
It was high noon on midwinterâs day. The high priest Libanomene and their assistant Ombrosilphion were readying themselves for an expedition to gods-know-when, gods-know-why (the precise order of the day has been forgotten since), and as a ruddy scythe clattered to the floor, all seemed well. But, just as the cultâs other members were shuffling out the room to tend to other business, Libanomene returned to the circle in a state of frenzy, barely a few minutes after they had left. They claimed to have seen visions of a distant future, with their first and second eyes, no less, of dark golden clouds blotting out the sky, onyx-shard buildings cutting through, and â well, my drinking companion passed out before they could say what else was spoken of.
The priestâs assistant, however, was unaccounted for, and a search party set out. For days on end, they scoured Delphiâs hills and valleys, until they found the missing faun, battered, bruised, and broken-horned, in an ivy-covered ditch. Ombrosilphion was despatched back to the temple, wrapped in a woolen blanket, and fed a steaming bowl of soup. Once the trembling cultist mustered up the ability to speak, they revealed that they had been lying there, unsure of what had happened, for âseven days and seven nightsâ.
It had only been three days since the rite.
Lords of Misrule 2022 â let the misrule begin!
This is a copy of the main page for this event.
The cycle of a year is a wonderful thing. Trees grow and wilt, rivers ebb and flow, and every winter, GĂŚa blankets Herself in a snowy coat. All across Europe, people gather together, huddling around, exchanging gifts. Most would call it Christmas.
For us? Well⌠Io Saturnalia!
Itâs time for the second annual Satyrsâ Forest Lords of Misrule! In the spirit of the topsy-turvy season, iâm putting you in charge of the site.
If you write or put together something â absolutely anything â and email it to misrule@satyrs.eu, come Saturnalia (thatâs December 17 to 23, for those who arenât up to date with their ancient festivals) iâll put it up on the site, both on the blog and on its own dedicated, permanent subpage, etched in stone for all to see.
Like last year, i would ask that you refrain from political polemics or anything that would get this noble forest in legal trouble. Apart from that, anything goes. Your granâs chocolate cake recipe? An impassioned defence of Freddy Got Fingered as an ironic masterpiece? Hell, iâll even let you vandalise one of the permanent pages for a bit if you ask me to. Whatever you â my lords of misrule â want.
You can submit your entries from today until the 16th of December, 2021. Have fun, and donât be afraid to get weird with it!
â Xanthe
Old book smell: tidbits from Manchester

Manchesterâs influences on British culture and life spread far and wide â music, politics, industry, TV â but itâs fair to say itâs not exactly renowned for its literary output. And yet, nevertheless, i found myself wandering the halls of two great libraries in Cottonopolis.

The first and grander of the two is the Manchester Central Library, whose imposing hall first squat itself upon St Peterâs Square in 1934. Upon walking in, there are a number of things the discerning visitor might notice. Hir eyes might wander upwards to the expertly crafted stained-glass window of Shakespeare and his protagonists, or all the way up to the ceiling, generously coated with the arms of authorities priestly, princely, and popular. Or, if our hypothetical visitor is a Geordie, shi might instead notice some things that the rest of the countryâs eyes would gloss over: clean, well-designed signage; sleek open space; swooshy modern ĂŚsthetics⌠All paid for out of the councilâs pockets.

There are no decaying bridges, no council computers running Windows XP, no decade-old untouched brownfields. When ministers talk a big game about âlevelling up the Northâ, this is the North theyâre talking about. Cumbria? Newcastle? Middlesbrough? Isnât that in Scotland? Itâs best not to dwell on these things (for cynicism doesnât do the mind good), but one canât help but feel like theyâre rubbing it in.
The Central Library is a treasure trove. It houses an impressive collection of musical paraphernalia, from sheet music to encyclo-glee-diĂŚ to biographies of Saint Noel Gallagher. Its central atrium is home to the âarchives plusâ, where Mancunians can drill into their cityâs history without needing to be fluent in acadamese. The reference library on the upper floors is so tightly packed that it uses mechanical bookshelves which reveal themselves with the push of a button. By all accounts, it serves the people of Manchester well. Perhaps thatâs the problem: for a tourist like me, itâs hard not to get jealous.
The Portico Library is an older, humbler affair, constructed at the height of the industrial revolution and taking up but the first floor of its classically-inspired building. Anyone can enter, but iâm afraid the full collection is a members-only joint; my group were just here to check out a book a family friend had paid to be restored. (A page fell out while we were handling it. Whoops!)
While the back catalogues might be off limits to us plebes, thereâs still plenty to pique the passing itinerantâs interest. The central hall is still decorated in its original homely Victorian fashion, having a delightfully idiosyncratic way of catalogueing its books: âbiographyâ, âtravels and voyagesâ, and âpolite fictionâ (a vestige of the time when the middle classes were still joining âpoliteâ society).

An exhibition of architectural art circles the middle seating area. While much of it was the usual arty bollocks, i found myself captured by the adorable cardboard houses of Thu Le Ha, an artist and volunteer at the library. Ms Ha has a vanishingly small online footprint, but i hope she keeps at it â this is the sort of thing the world needs more of! Cute little whimsy.
And thatâs all i wrote. Next up, some less wordy centres of Mancunian culture.
P.S. On the way back from the Sigur RĂłs gig, we bore witness to a throng of teenyboppers and weary parents making their way back from a different gig held at the famous Arena. What could possibly inspire such turnout from such a young crowd: Taylor Swift? Olivia Rodrigo? Some K-pop act iâd never heard of? Nope â they were there to see the Backstreet Boys.
Some things never change.
Mx Tynehorneâs link roundup, volume XV

- A list of âhuman universalsâ â things said to be common across all human civilisation.
- âI agree with the flag-waving patriots that America is Godâs own land â I just happen to believe that that God is Dionysos.â
- Are Boeingâs first aeroplanes secretly being stored underneath a sacred mountain in New Zealand?
- Is there any song more melancholic, and yet, so hypnotically addictive, as âGolden Brownâ? Something about that harpsichord just sends me to another world.
- Iâm going to need you all to look at this ridiculously comprehensive, wide-ranging sci-fi alternate history map project Thing â including the associated lore docs, which are currently longer than the first Harry Potter book. Joanne could never.
A jolly good show: tidbits from Manchester
Hello. Iâve been to Manchester. I thought i might tell you about it. Wait no come back i promise this isn't just showing you my holiday ph
The last time i went to that wonderful southern city, i was hardly ten years old, and hadnât much of a chance to explore â a mistake i was itching to rectify this go around. Over the next few days iâll be sharing some of the things i saw, heard, and third verb goes here.
First things first, our tripâs raison dâĂŞtre: Sigur RĂłs were on a world tour, and though they might not have been schlepping up to Newcastle, i sure as hell wasnât going to miss the chance to see them.

Sigur RĂłs are a post-rock band, and their gig made clear that itâs with a strong emphasis on the âpost-â. It was an all-seated audience, with vanishingly little banter from the band (one has to imagine theyâre not 100% confident in their English), excepting a brief pantomime bit at the end of âAndvariâ. No complaints from me, though: a laid-back, almost classical atmosphere quite befits their ĂŚtheral soundscapes. I mean, could you imagine people going wild in the pit to âVakaâ?
As âPopplagiðâ came to a close and everyone shuffled out the venueâs doors, i noticed a curious item at the merch table: an officially licensed Sigur RĂłs tea and incense kit. What a world we live in. (I didnât buy it â there was only one left, and i probably wouldnât be the one to make the most use out of it.)

As an official, Lisa Nandyâcertified resident of a Townâ˘, i was left slightly dumbstruck and intimidated by the dense forest of tall buildings that is Manchesterâs city centre. Sure, itâs not like iâm a stranger to the idea of a city, but of the two big cities i have most haunted over the years , Newcastle only has a stumpy luxury apartment and a few council houses strewn about the suburbs, while Amsterdamâs skyscraper district is sectioned off behind the other side of a ring road, far from the centre of town.
But Manchester? Nay â Manchester is Englandâs second city, and theyâll show it any way they like! Dozens upon dozens of architectural phalli jut up from the ground in all directions, a veritable orgy of capital. I pray thee, have we as a species learnt nothing from the tales of Icarus and the Tower of Babel? Nothingâ˝ This is hubris writ large, i tell you!
Or, you know, something like that. Their green spaces donât even have cows.
They both serve the same purpose, really, but i just want to rub in that where we up north has a fully-fledged metro, Manchester merely has to do with trams. Sure, ours might be delayed every five minutes, and theirs might be uber-reliable and extend throughout the urban area, but whoâs really winning?

Manchester has no shortage of iconic residents â Morrissey, Danny Boyle, Burgess, Wanksy â but Mancunians have taken it upon themselves to idolise two people above all else. Everywhere you look, there are statues, plaques, and posters in their memory.
The first is Emmeline Pankhurst. An early leader of the suffragette movement, she and her allies often used violent tactics to get their way, from breaking windows all the way up to arson. You can see why the left-wing, industrial city, birthplace of the labour movement, would be proud to honour her.
The other is Noel Gallagher.
Naturally.
Does anyone else think the guitar riff from â21 Gunsâ sounds like the Full House theme, or am i just crazy?
Mx Tynehorneâs link roundup, volume XIV

- If you have any interest in web development stuff â which i suspect is a decent chunk of my dear readers â then you should look at these PokĂŠmon cards right fucking now.
- Sign language in VRChat, using a cool new hand-tracking feature! Furriesâ spare cash 1, Facebookâs billions upon billions 0. Well â itâs probably more like Furries 50, Facebook 0 at this point.
- âSlow Roadsâ, a neat little driving simulator. Every day i grow more astonished at what people can do in a web browser.
-
The Youtube rabbit hole:
- âDear Raid: Shadow Legends: I don't want your money. I want a Date.â [3â˛]
- Watching The Fifth Element1 recently had me thinking, naturally, about Russian pop singer Vitasâ 1999 classic âThe Seventh Elementâ, which is far catchier than it really deserves to be. [4â˛]
- The criminally underrated Captain KRB on the downfall of Myspace and the ruins of the web, which, well, youâre probably on Neocities, youâre going to watch it either way [30â˛]
- BlameItOnJorge investigates creepypasta lost media, which is the sort of thing thatâs basically guaranteed to make me watch your video. [33â˛]
THE WAR ON SANTA

ALRIGHT BUCKO ITâS FUCKING NOVEMBER, PUT YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS UP!

THIS FUCKING HALLOWEâEN SHIT IS OVER MERRY CHRISTMAS I WANT YOU TO REPEAT AFTER ME âMERRY CHRISTMASâ RIGHT NOW AND IâM NOT LETTING YOU GO UNTIL YOU DO IT
MERRRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU TOO
NOW YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING WHY IâVE BROUGHT YOU HERE TODAY AND THEREâS ONE SIMPLE REASON. THE WAR ON CHRISTMAS? ITâS FAKE. ITâS A FUCKING PSYOP. WEâRE RECRUITING YOU INTO THE REAL WAR. THE WAR ON SANTA CLAUS.

THIS RAT FUCKING BASTARD SANTA IS AGGLOMERATING CHRISTMAS INTO ONE CORPORATISED YANKEE MEGATRADITION AND THIS CANNOT STAND! FATHER CHRISTMAS IS THE REAL ONE. SINTERKLAAS AND HIS WEIRD RACIST FRIENDS ARE THE REAL ONES. SATURN IS WEIRD BUT WE KIND OF STOLE HIS SHTICK AND ALSO WEâRE PRETTY SURE HEâD EAT US IF WE DIDNâT LEAVE HIM BE. DED MOROZ IS STAYING. BUT SANTA CLAUS? WEâRE KILLING THAT ELF-ENSLAVING ASSHOLE
YOUR SOUNDTRACK FOR THIS MISSION WILL BE âFAIRYTALE OF NEW YORKâ, PLAYED ON REPEAT FOR SEVENTY-TWO HOURS STRAIGHT. THIS IS BECUASE SANTA IS HOMOPHOBIC AND YOU NEED TO GET ACCLIMATISED TO HIM CALLING YOU A WELL YOU KNOW

AND AFTER WEâRE DONE, OH TRUST ME BUCKO, WEâRE NOT STOPPING THERE. YOU THINK NOVEMBER IS BAD? WEâRE GONNA EXTEND CHRISTMAS SEASON TO ALL YEAR ROUND. HALLOWEâEN? YOU MEAN PRECHRISTMAS? SUMMER HOLIDAYS? YOU MEAN CHRISTMAS IN JULY??? THATâS RIGHT FUCKER ITâS CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY THE PROPHECY IS TRUE MERRY CHRISTMAS
Now playing:
(New posts eventuallyâ˘. Promise.)
âThere She Goesâ is such an addictive song.
Donât Worry Darling is not the greatest film ever made
I was bored the other day, so i thought iâd go see a film. The problem, my dear readers, is that i have this terribly unlucky habit: 70% of the time, when i go see a film at the cinema, itâs not very good â and i can confirm that Donât Worry Darling is, indeed, not very good.
If youâve heard anything about Donât Worry Darling, itâll be about the juicy, juicy behind-the-scenes drama, involving saucy affairs between director Olivia Wilde and the filmâs leading male star, an exasperated Chris Pine, and Shia LaBeouf. But weâre not going to be talking about any of that â instead, weâll be talking about the topic everyone is desperately avoiding: the movie itself. Oh dear.

The film boils down to a thin Truman Show pastiche following a troubled couple in an idyllic American suburb, wherein a 1950s housewife, imaginatively named Alice Warren, questions what her controlling husband, the inexplicably British Jack Chambers, actually does at his mysterious government job. The wonderful Florence Pugh, hot off of 2019âs Midsommar, gives her all with the script sheâs given as Alice, and is easily one of the standout parts of the film. Jack, on the other hand⌠Jack is played by Harry Styles, a man who should not act. (Every pop star nowadays seems to think they can walk the tightrope between music and cinema as easily as Lady Gaga does, and it never quite seems to work out for them.)
So, letâs put ourselves in Ms Wildeâs shoes. You have one common plot structure, one brilliant lead actress, and one so-so lead actor. How do you make this movie⌠good?
Well, first you load up the secondary cast with talented people. KiKi Lane and Chris Pine both absolutely kill it in their respective roles â Margaret, a troubled neighbour to Alice, and Frank, Jackâs hammy villainous boss â but neither character feels fully fleshed out; Mr Pine in particular finds himself with not much to do despite ostensibly being the driving force behind the plot.
You can also pour piles upon piles of money into your filmâs technical aspects. The quaint suburb in which Jack and Alice live is designed to within an inch of its life, and every shot is clear, crisp, and packed with colour while not being too overbearing â like a James Bond film or, if youâre being unkind, a perfume commercial.
Alright. Youâve got your cast, youâve got your style, now you just need to⌠ah, god, what was it? You look down at the smudged writing on your hand â ah, yes, the script! You have to write a script, with, like, a plot and stuff.
You wake up from a terrible dream. You are no longer Olivia Wilde. You are once again the handsome reader of the blog of an even handsomer webmixter, who politely informs you that the filmâs one-block-wide Jenga tower of a storyline, while it seemed to be setting up for an interesting conclusion, falls apart completely in the third act. The filmâs writers pull out every clichĂŠ in the book â âit was all in VR!â âour protagonistâs best friend was in on it!â âif you die in the game you die in real life!â â in the space of about ten minutes, with barely any of it given room to breathe. (In fact, that third revelation comes after a pivotal death scene.) Just as the audience wonders what impact this will have on the plot going forward, the film just⌠ends, with a distinctly unsatisfying resolution to our heroâs story, and an air of âwell why did they even bother?â about the villainous plot.
All in all, i really canât recommend watching Donât Worry Darling â perhaps catch it on streaming when it comes out if it piques your interest, but donât spend your heard-earned Lizzies on going to the cinema to watch Harry Styles gaslight his wife for an hour and a half. (5/10)
Pass notes: some other films of note
See How They Run is a fun, Wes Andersonâlite romp of a mystery story that gets in and out and does what it needs without making too much of a fuss about itself. Saoirse Ronan and Sam Rockwell drive around in a tiny blue â50s police car; what more could you possibly want? (7½/10)
The Woman King is a fine enough (alternate-)historical epic carried on the backs of some terrific performances by Thuso Mbedu and Viola Davis. (6/10)
I wasnât expecting to be so spellbound by a seventy-year-old drama film of a bunch of people talking in a room, but i absolutely could not take my eyes off of 12 Angry Men, which you should really just go watch right now. (9/10)
Iâve decided that HRT, and all other drugs and techniques which can be used to express oneâs right to freedom of form, should not only be available over-the-counter, but government-subsidised to ensure equal access for all.
I will not be elaborating at this time.
Just write about gardening or the Bible or Zootopia fanfiction or something

I have to say, it gets on my nerves when, on my regular surfing sessions across the high seas of the web, i see a cool-looking website⌠and then its only content is just about how much its creator misses Le Old Web before they invented capitalism or whatever.1
Thereâs certainly room for meta-puffery about the internet (i wouldnât have made this site what it is without Kicks Condor doing exactly that), but after a dozen sites in a row all moaning the same moan without an original insight in sight, it starts to get tired. Iâm begging you, just write about gardening or the Bible or Zootopia fanfiction or something!
What makes the free web beautiful is the sheer diversity in the topics covered and how peopleâs little idiosyncracies and quirks and interests shine through â it saddens me how most sites in the âold webâ (did it ever really go away?) revival movement are doing nothing but lamenting their own existence.