View allAll Photos Tagged hate
I really hate cords - visible cords. I buried all of the cables in the wall and run them along the baseboard. The PC is on the floor, under a bookshelf to the left. All other accessories (headphones, USB hub, power strip, etc) are in the bottom drawer of the bookshelf - hidden away.
The PC is a HP Envy - store.hp.com/us/en/mdp/envy-desktop
The monitor is a 4k Philips - www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00K15LQZM
The soundbar - which has pretty decent bass for no subwoofer - is www.amazon.com/gp/product/B015NTS0I6
The desk - just the perfect size for the setup - is www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01G92L3F8
My phone - an older Samsung note 4 - is connected to the PC via the USB hub in the monitor. With the SideSync software - I can seamlessly use my mouse and keyboard on the phone which is pretty cool. I just used a small wooden shelf, drilled a hole in it and fed the micro USB cord up through it so the shelf is a phone stand and charger.
The bias lighting - nice for at night - was easy: www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01H4OC7GY
Vivitar Ultra Wide & Slim + Redscaled Konica Minolta VX Super 200 + Double Exposure.
Experimenting with Redscale again - moving from the blunt application of that banging colour, to explore other possibilities beyond that...The first roll was shot almost exclusively along the environs of Stokes Croft, Cheltenham Road & Gloucester Road and mostly graffiti. The intention of the second roll was to find mainstream advertising or images from more affluent areas of the city, or more pastoral/non urban environments. I did not line up the film, nor take notes, nor plan beyond striving for the principle of contrasting subjects. The negatives were returned uncut as requested, but I did get lab scans - any overlaps of one frame over another, are a result of this. I have cropped where I feel it is most helpful to do so, so any inclusion of frame overlap is these uploaded images has been an active choice. I will almost certainly return to the negs with a home scanner to search for alternative compositions to complement these.
In some cases I have found the results quite 'dark' and unsettling in mood - quite a refreshing departure for my stream. I plan to explore this some more.
Redscaling.
Basically it involves taking a roll of ordinary 'bog standard' print film, reversing it and respooling it into another film canister (all done in a dark bag) so that the light is exposed on 'the wrong side of the film' when you take a shot. You then lose two 'stops' on the optimal exposure conditions from the original. It gets developed in exactly the same way as print film, but be prepared for the technician to be a little startled (at best) or a little irritated (at worst) when they realise that something very odd has happened to the film. :)
I always liked Kodak Gold 100 and hated to hear when they killed it off. It was always my trusted go to film.
Camera: Minolta XG1 No. 2
Lens: Minolta MD Rokkor-X 50mm, f/1.2
Teleconverter: Soligor Auto Tele Converter 2X
Film: Agfa Photo Vista Plus 400 (expired on 3/2017 and shot @200 ISO)
Shooting Program: Manual
Aperture: f/16
Shutter Speed: “B” (bulb) 3 seconds
Date: October 29th, 2020, 8.38 p.m.
Location: Norris City, Illinois, U.S.A.
Developing Chemicals: Unicolor C-41
Water pre-soak: 1 minute at 102 degrees
Developer: 3 mins. and 30 secs. at 102 degrees
Water rinse: 2 minutes (to keep chemicals clean)
Blix: 6 ½ minutes at 102 degrees
Water rinse: 2 minutes at approx. 100 degrees
Stabilizer: 1 minute at room temperature
Water rinse: 2 minutes
Kodak Photo-Flo 200: 1 minute
Minolta XG1-2 Vista 400 Shawnee 2020 03df
This week is the forth-annual Greater Manchester’s Hate Crime Awareness Week, raising awareness for victims and support groups.
We work with partners and stakeholders to engage with and support victims of hate crime, helping them to rebuild their lives after an incident.
The week began with a launch at Manchester Art Gallery. This event was organised by Manchester City Council and the office of the Greater Manchester’s Police and Crime Commissioner. Adrian Derbyshire, a former international wheelchair fencer, supported the launch.
There are events across the region throughout the week with the launch of two new reporting centres in Oldham and engagement events for our communities across the region.
The week will also see a new transgender hate crime report being published to help shape our services in the years to come.
Here in Manchester we take action against six types of hate crime – race, religion, transgender identity, sexuality, disability and alternative subculture. We will simply not tolerate any kind of discrimination or prejudice on the streets of Greater Manchester.
Together, let’s end hate crime.
For more information about Policing in Greater Manchester please visit our website. www.gmp.police.uk
To report crime call police on 101 the national non-emergency number.
You can also call anonymously with information about crime to Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111. Crimestoppers is an independent charity who will not want your name, just your information. Your call will not be traced or recorded and you do not have to go to court or give a statement.
Some drama exists between these two toothbrushes.
I don't know what it is. The purple toothbrush is either intimidating the crap out of the multi-colored toothbrush -- maybe roughing him up for some money, or telling him to stay away from his woman --
Or, the purple toothbrush is closing in on a kiss to the motley toothbrush's whiskery... uh, lady face.
I mean, unless it's two dude toothbrushes. I don't go that way, but if I have gay toothbrushes, I won't persecute them for that. They should be allowed to get married and adopt little dental floss boxes and all that. Freedom for all toothbrushes, I say.
...
It's really too early.
These two mostly love each other, but three times now, something has set them off, and they have gotten into an all-out brawl.
Yesterday, I was dumb enough to try to grab their collars and separate them and got a horrible bite on my hand :( I had to get a Tetanus shot and antibiotics.
I'm not really sure what is going to happen, but it makes me sad and angry that we can't work it out. Yesterday's fight had nothing to do with food or attention. One dog was in, the other was out. I let the one that was out come back in, she ran over to see what the other was doing, and BAM. I had to pour a liter of water on their heads to get them to stop. It was stressful, and my poor kids were trying to be so helpful, but not really knowing what to do.
I'm not sure what hurts worse, the puncture wounds on my hand or my upper arm from the Tetanus shot!
HATE POSTER
Artwork selected for Anti Design Festival (london 2010)
- www.betojanz.com ©betojanz 2010
1 of 5 people found the following review helpful
Sorrry i have to say this but, January 4, 2006
A Kid's Review
= Durability: = Fun: = Educational:
This review is from: Bratz Step Out! Doll - Jade (Misc.)
the bratz are real ugly looking dolls. just my opinion. i hate their clothes and their lips are so sick like somthin has been injected into them. yuck. mga is a really gai company i like mattel better, even though i hate all dolls alot, the bratz dont look anythin like real people, and barbies just look like pornstars with a ton of make up, even tho they look so mutck more realistic, eneough said, im outie.
**PUNKSTAR**
all peeps were tagged randomly....but only bratzloversz were tagged
Love her for being such amazing doll.
Hate her for making me became so addicted to her.
--- -
Dion --- Volks SD Tae 2nd on SDgrG body
GGRR presents
TOKYODIONYSOS Release Party
2015/7/11
at EARTHDOM
[Live]
ANAL VOLCANO
CARRE
ENDON
FILTHY HATE
INCAPACITANTS
ISTERISMO
PREPARATIONﾊSET
ZENOCIDE
CHAOSMONGERS
[DJ's]
AIWABEATZ
LOVEJUICE
YWK1
李ペリー
BLACKMONEY
SHOT-ARROW
Single, male, and Indian? It’s almost a disease
The guard outside the Gordon House Hotel in Colaba hated my face. I don’t think he’d even seen it, though. The way most of us casually blank out eyes of a beggar knocking on our tinted car windows, this guard had first looked away, then scowled, then mumbled something for a bit—still ignoring the four of us entirely, given that we were even unworthy of his inattention. And then he finally muttered ‘nahin’, or something to the effect.
We were all men, single (so, obviously molesters and rapists), standing outside the main gate of his posh discotheque, dressed in our Saturday night best. It appeared we could afford his hospitality, but he didn’t seem interested. Dogs and stags weren’t allowed, but then, suddenly, we (the dogs) were.
Galloping mindlessly across Mumbai’s backpacking district, we had left behind our only legitimate passports to status and nightlife—the four women friends with us. They caught up with us eventually and hence the guard welcomed us in. I don’t think he said sorry. He needn’t have. I didn’t blame him. Egos are too trivial to get in the way of a precious evening.
However, the gent outside Tito’s, with eight people inside on a Monday night, in the dead of the monsoon season, turned out to be a whole lot ruder. I heard him whisper under his breath some terrible things about the anatomy of our mothers and sisters. Not the sorts to pick a brawl still, we endured the humiliation, gently explained that we, in fact, did have women friends at the bar and then quietly left. This is common sufferance in Delhi. But we were in Goa, for God’s sake.
Being a man, with other men, in India’s semi-urban nocturnal jungle is to remain a gross, sometimes disgraced social outcaste, experiencing a strange tropical ailment—single-itis, for lack of a better name. These untouchables of nightlife don’t deserve their dance, with their drink, even if they could pay twice for the same simple pleasures.
You know something’s warped when watering holes that serve loud hard retro rock for music—still no one’s idea of a romantic date, by the way — remain officially open to couples only. Save if you are a regular. So they let me into Mumbai’s good old Ghetto the other night. I heaved a sigh of relief. We were five men, one woman. You can’t form political coalitions with right permutations each time you go out. The said ratio didn’t work at the next lounge, like it won’t at most clubs. Tough luck, I guess. And, no, there isn’t such a thing as ‘gay couples’. So, smart try.
It’s the sort of sexual discrimination few will take seriously and fewer still will care about. No one I know will fight against it. Suspicions are hard to erase. Some terrorists give all men a bad name. This is true for the average, Indian non-molester man, who makes for the vast majority. He stopped hitting on Indian women at some point. She instantly assumed him to be sleazy anyway. She had probably liked looking at him. He had seemed okay. He had enjoyed giving her the attention. She had thought that was fine as well. Their eyes had just met at the bar. But I know what they were both suffering from.
The Indian girl is hit by the silly ‘slut complex’. She won’t make the semblance of a first move—which should truly be her right—for fear of being judged as the loose one. The Indian guy is similarly down with the ‘creep syndrome’. He can’t be seen as one of those, you know, “one of those”. He has a reputation to protect.
Given such poor practice with making conversations with the unknown of the opposite gender, his skills get considerably worse with time. When he does try his luck now, once in a while, the possible openers get odder still: “You smell really nice . . .” Eww. She looks away. He goes back to his drink.
The times you must hang out with other men, just men, is when you’re at a quasi-gay joint celebrating old boys’ reunion of a frustrated boarding school. There are mostly men around at party places, which allow men to be by themselves. The topic of conversation is the woman, still.
Species single, male, and Indian, could consider themselves getting officially quarantined. It would help their cause. Female companionship is a mirage. Male company gets boring. Cloaking this lack of opportunity into a moral virtue, most prefer to get married instead. Their parents help them hook up, finally. Someone should. It’s hard to hold out beyond the late twenties. Arranged marriage isn’t always a matter of social conservatism or personal choice. It is often an urban necessity. Family feels proud. Segregation suits the status quo. Society approves. As does the petty politician, whether he’s the sicko who hassles lovers at public parks, or the old man in the gram panchayat. Unmarried love is fatal to his constituency. Inter-religious or inter-caste family can negate his existence. The conforming institution, the saviour, lives on.
Sooner or later, being single gets even tougher when everyone else around is already married. And there, those platonic female passports to an acceptable nightlife are gone as well. It may be fair to suggest that you can be happily single, in much the same way as you can be happily married . . . both being empirically impossible. To me the occasional woes of single men, however, seem diametrically opposite to those of the single women I meet. Except when they discuss the opposite sex, which is when they talk the same language.
Both on separate tables insist that a man or woman who is straight, smart, attractive, intelligent, interesting, funny, and, yet, available is an extinct specimen fit to hang at museums. Maybe because the two tables have never merged with each other’s. They’ve never really met. After school and college, where will they? At work? That’s where many do, it appears—unless you’re the supposedly shy sort, who only slimily stares at objects of desire, over the cubicle, under the staircase, when not stalking on Facebook.
New to sharing workspace with women, the traditional Indian man can barely get himself to open his hesitant mouth before a frothy female form. What comes out, when he does part his lips, bears promise of a sexual harassment case. He’s better off tongue-tied, quietly fantasizing. Dishonesty in sexual expression is probably better for the civilised world.
The less shady ones—fat, fugly, tall, talkative, short, sloppy—get to demonstrate their actual worth at work. This is a level playing eld. Women get attracted to the relatively
smart. The guy has something to prove. Bosses should be glad. Late hours aren’t a problem. Attendance goes up. Company’s productivity rises.
Sure, an office intern can shake up the White House and shock America. The gorgeous dimwit secretary can make the stern corporate CEO dance on his knees. Attraction demands no prior appointment. This may be unfair on the nerdy, pimply man who must work harder to command the same attention from his male superiors. But nature tends to balance this out in the long run.
That rookie biz-school grad, when he turns bald and old and if he is on top of his boardroom game, will be considered sexually attractive still. This isn’t necessarily true for the dumb hot intern in his office twenty years later. While he’s younger, freer, funnier, he stands a fair chance as well. Call centres and the movie industry merely get a bad name. All Indian offices with reasonable sex ratios, being 1:10, if you peer harder I reckon, will look like rocking dating sites, spiced up with secret romances, rebounds, heartburns, and heartbreaks. Pay closer attention to the HR department.
Mixing hormones with business may be a terrible idea, I know, but what to do? Where else to go? At a house party full of drunks? Where the inevitable cock-blocking and penis- fencing match is about to begin between twenty single men over the only woman who decided to stay back until late? Maybe. Or maybe not.
At a discotheque? Yes. That would be an ideal place for the lonely soul, seeking a happy ending to a day—a night of casual, naughty nirvana. It’s a large, dimly lit psychedelic dome singularly structured around eyeing men and women, since there’s precious little they can see of each other, through their beer goggles, under a shiny disco-ball. Loud music takes away the awkward discomforts of acquaintanceship. Burden of conversation safely lies in the lyrics of the songs. Akon sings ‘I wanna love you’, Snoop Dogg adds ‘I wanna fuck you’. Bodies move to booty calls. Eyes meet. The point’s made. Nobody need ask your place or mine?. Maybe that’s there in the song lyrics as well. Deal’s struck. Booze is expensive. Night’s young. So are you.
But then if you’re single, male, and around others with the same affliction, you were just dreaming right now. They won’t allow you into a nightclub. It’s for couples only. Despite weightier measures of time, the two people entering have already met, and so have already dated, drank, danced, and done all old-world things invented to break the ice since the Internet. Then, perhaps, they’re not single anymore. Social segregation is a vicious circle. Having a girlfriend exponentially increases your chances of finding another than being single ever does.
For a year or so I once co-ran an anonymous daily relationship column in an English daily in Mumbai. It was called Dear Diana, named after this well-travelled woman who could solve your daily problems. I was Diana. It was a popular read. Most of those writing in, I realised, were only checking if we would print their crazy queries, none of which were serious. They were almost all jigsaw puzzles about cousins sleeping with their daughters, who were in turn making love with both the dad and the aunt. The only genuine questions would inevitably be from a lost male soul: “I like this girl. What do I do?” Become her friend, I’d say. “How?” Get to know her friends first, and take it slowly from there, I guess. “How?” You know what, buddy? I don’t know.
A veteran tri-sexual acquaintance (the sort who serially tries for sex as his natural right) tells me he’s had it now. It is a hard life, unless you’re a rock star, or in the Indian context, a Bollywood hero who plays a rock star, I suppose. The friend says he’d rather start a political front for single men. There’d be enough support for his cause, he jokes. I don’t agree.
Nobody would openly join a group that automatically is presumed to comprise a bunch of cash-strapped, unstable varieties who walk around being single because, it is thought, they ought to be. No woman could stand the son of a gun, anyway. Even women are attracted more towards men who are already hitched. There’s mystique in the unattainable. Singles’ nights inevitably fail. Recent female responses to dating apps like Tinder suggest to me that it is mainly full of married freakoids or sexual ends. Neither help much in restoring the rep of the Indian single man anyway. “Deserters, all these people,” the ‘tri-sexual’ frowns at my analysis. You’d be the first one looking to desert your own group, I tell him. He agrees.
The Game is a celebrated Bible for single men that scientifically tutors an ‘average frustrated chump’ (AFC) to become a ‘pick-up artist’ (PUA) giving out few quick steps towards attracting pretty things at bars, cafés, malls, and discotheques. The bestseller studies various ‘seduction communities’ in the US. During the course of writing his experiences, author Neil Strauss, self- admittedly an AFC, attends workshops conducted by experts in serious ‘seduction communities’ before he gets anointed the world’s no. 1 PUA.
The single Indian man would be in awe of such a champion. Read the book and you’d be easily able to tell why the same methods could never be applied in his country. This isn’t to say I haven’t seen a desi dude with a ‘wing man’ at a local bar, ‘peacocking’ (dressing outrageously), ‘negging’ (sounding rude, but giving backhanded compliments), ‘kinoing’ (making harmless physical contact) . . . Yeah, I have basically seen him make a plum ass of himself in public. The desi girl is mostly unimpressed. She probably also knows he’s read the book.
The Game is yet another American dream. Women have widely panned the bestseller in the West for its overt male chauvinism. The premise is entirely sexist, yes. But sex-guru Strauss makes a significant point out there that should please the average female reader—that there are no ugly women, only lazy ones.
Everybody loves the single woman. The world donates her its affection, attention, drinks, dinner, coffee, couch, conversations, cupcakes, tags, hash-tags, friend requests, re- tweets, roses on Rose Day, proposals on Propose Day, self- respect on Valentine’s Day . . . She gifts them hope. Nobody loves a single man; not even the single man himself, and least of all the bouncer outside the club.
Preparing to head home after a week in Capitol Reef NP doing a little volunteering. But as much as I hate to leave, I know my wife is waiting for me back in Kansas. She is really great letting me take off on adventures like this even though I am gone during our wedding anniversary.