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Ruby-crowned Kinglet singing away. Just wish the light had been better to get the right depth of field :0)
This morning I debated with myself about packing the zoom lens as I knew about the NATO/Gripen flyover, but in the end decided not to bring it. Walking across Stortorget in the old town, I said hello to the former PM Stefan Löfven, and asked him if I could take a portrait. He said, what? And then pretended not to understand me before walking on and then chatting with a few people outside a café, to the amusement of two suits that also had recognized the politician. And then, a few minutes later at Riksbron as I had just jumped on the bike, the flyover happened, so I hit the brakes. Jumped off the bike. Grabbed the camera in the bag and snapped away, hoping for a good shot of the B-1B Lancer, the B-52 Stratofortress and the two escorting JAS Gripen planes with the 85mm lens. How was your day photography wise?
I'm sorry, but I can't keep it to myself; this print is terrible.
I really hoped it would look better in person, but as soon as I built it I realised I won't be able to get used to it.
The eyes are way too big, too cartoonish, too flat looking. The choice of black outlines gives it too strong of a contrast against the light bluish grey and the lines are way too thick. It looks more like the nose art of an aeroplane to me than the eyes of an animal.
Like something Harry Cane would fly around with.
I struggle to understand why the hell they did this. It doesn't fit with the rest of the dinosaurs and really puts me off.
It just looks so cheap compared to other animals they've done. I mean, compare this print to something like Smaug from 2014. Much smaller print and yet so much more detailed and crisp.
I'm probably going to sell the Indominus off on ebay, I just can't stand it.
Well it was all about the Ankylosaurus for me anyway so it's not too big of an issue. The latter one is fine, although the printing is also a bit overly simple, just not as unpleasant as this one.
It just seems like such a shame since it seemed nice to get a new Indominus rex with a more fitting colour scheme. I don't even mind the unarticulated arms.
Anyway, am I the only one unable to enjoy this thing? Am I overreacting?
falling so far behind and feeling like a snob around here but I will catch up.... are you sick of hearing that yet? haha
okay rant post, even though I have calmed down since my last upload, the break from here helped that... I am still pissed off a bit when coming into Flickr
The reason? private messages from anonymous profiles that have no uploads and only porn in their favourites. I am not talking about real messages from my contacts nor people with streams, just fuckhead sleaze-balls who want my private details or for me to see their cock....
SO here are some basic rules if you are one of these fucktards
I will not tell you my full name, give you my home address, phone number or email.....
Why does anyone need to know my home address I ask??? ..... all I can think of is to stalk, rape or kill me with an axe!!! because I doubt it is to send me gifts!!! paranoid and extreme yes haha but I am not some naive teenager who will tell anyone my details, I have been around since the internet was invented (seriously I am that old) which means I have seen shit happen to good people and therefore I keep my personal details private. All you need to know is I live in a Sydney suburb in Australia and like bacon.... LOL
I do not want to see your penis, suck it, fuck it or do some kinky shit to it!! I have a perfectly fine dick I can access any-time lol nothing else needs to be said here :)
I will not send you any photos of my pussy or nakedness..... actually any photo lol If I wanted to have naked photos of me around the net I would get on a pay site and make you pay for it like the other girls around here do
I don't webcam so please do not ask, I don' t need to see you wanking or blowing all over your screen, keep that for some other random chick or how about respect women and do not send at all :D
YES I really am married and yes he does know about my flickr. He is not interested in flickr, does not have an account, nor looks. We are not interested in any Ménage à trois.... We are not swingers so sorry to disappoint haha
My photos are all public, I do not have any sex photos just for my 'friends' haha and I am glad as I really don't think my real friends want to see that LMAO
hmm I am sure I have forgotten something but I guess that is the main points why I have been not getting on Flickr very much as I get sick of the questions.. I wish blocking worked but when they are faceless its pointless as new accounts get opened.
I hope I do not sound stuck up here as I am not meaning too. I understand I have posted photos which may attract these messages so I just have to take the good with the bad, maybe I will just start posting 'safe' photos lol maybe by garden or what I made for dinner ;p
I would like to say while I am having this huge rant and on a roll that I am very lucky to have a lot of contacts which I think have become my friends on here which are always lovely to me and supportive. If it wasn't for all of you then I doubt I would keep coming back :) so much love to all of these people <3
Degradation of the Internet- a Political Rant
Alright, I think it’s time to find out who my real friends are. No, I won’t block you if you disagree with me, but I definitely will if you don’t treat my opinions with the respect that I treat yours. I think the internet is going to hell, as politics have been for decades. No longer is it about an honest debate between who has the best solution, but an ongoing flamewar of people telling each other to fuck themselves if they don’t share the same beliefs. I will hereby cover some topics in my “terrorist narrow, minded, homophobic, racist, sexist, bigoted” point of view. And yes, I have been called all those things. And now without further ado…
-‘MERICA!
Who the fuck came up with that anyway? The United States was never intended to be a mindlessly nationalistic country filled with sheep. Yes, we’re not perfect, just like any country, but I, the patriot, can admit that. I think this country was supposed to be an eternal work in progress, to try out new social and political ideas and their effect on society. And being a patriot, I can understand that not all of the ideas worked, and some were definitely slowed down, but that doesn’t mean that the country as a whole is bad. And I can also admit that other nations do things better than us.
-Guns
You guys probably know me well enough to understand that I do in fact, love them. In addition, I feel like an activist for the second amendment. What some people don’t understand, is that guns really don’t kill people. It takes an actual person to pull the trigger, and assault is a BEHAVIOR, not an object. But after reading DJB’s thoughts, I can understand where he’s coming from. It is not the gun that is the problem, but the user of said device. I do think that some people that shouldn’t buy guns do anyway, and bans wouldn’t actually work. Just look at the black market, or “underground economy.” People that really want a gun will get one some way or another, even if it’s through illegal means. And they don’t even have to use a gun, right? I’ve heard stories of people getting killed by gangs using railroad ties, and you can’t forget knives. If abiders of the law are unarmed, then it’s a lot easier to stab them, correct? In addition to this, carrying does make a difference. Just look at Switzerland- they arm and train their civilians with automatic weapons, and they still maintain the lowest crime rate of any civilized nation. And as a closer example, Washington D.C. had a higher crime rate than Iraq at one point. But if we look back at Switzerland, we’ll find that they are responsible with their firearms. They don’t go on nearly as many killing sprees due to the fact that they would get cut to shreds with all the assault weapons everyone is carrying in public. And frankly, if somebody pulled a weapon on you, which item would you rather have? Your fist or a pistol? Oh yeah, and I will pull the half of the second amendment that nobody pays attention to out: “…the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” IT has been said that it is the last opportunity to defend yourself against tyranny.
-Using Death as a Sick Punch Line
The Holocaust, 9/11, Pearl Harbor, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Dark Knight shooting, Columbine, etc. were all tragedies for sure, and people tend to forget about that. At my school, I constantly hear this drug-infused kid joking about all of them. Yes, death is a natural thing, BUT SURE AS HELL NOT WHEN SEVERAL THOUSAND ARE KILLED IN ONE INCIDENT! I don't care what country it takes place in, or who they are, or what their beliefs are, but the dead deserve some fucking respect.
Tl;dr, right? Well, thank you for your time if you actually read it, and if not, then whatever. All I ask is that this be taken seriously. That’s pretty much all I have to say right now, and if you’re uncomfortable with having a conservative that’s been quiet long enough as a contact, then I bid ye farewell.
Alex
The old pier that was almost completely destroyed by fire in 2010, after lottery funding of over 12 million pounds it was restored and re-opened in May 2016.
Now the Pier Trust have put the pier into administration and it is now up for sale. An Operations Manager was appointed at a cost of £70,000 per annum who resigned after less than a year in the post.
The way the pier has been run is an utter disgrace and why the lottery funding was ever released for such an outdated concept is even more alarming.
Surely over 12 millions pounds worth of lottery money could have been used on a much more worthwhile cause instead of a structure that resembles a plank with a dozen garden sheds on it.
Rant over, this image was shot using my new Nisi Filter Holder and NiSi 15 stop ND Filter
It really bothers me when people call emily an 'ungreatful bitch' or 'irrelevant' and stuck up.
Just because she's not focusing on being disney, and not wanting to talk about being lilly, or how it's like wokring with Miley Cyrus , or every little thing Disney in interviews over and over again, doesn't make her ungreatful.
And irrelevant?
really? her concerts have been sold out, she has countless followers on twitter, tons of friends on myspace, facebook, and youtube. She is probably one of the very few disney stars that are actually successful in branching out.
her record label has nothing to do with Disney, she can say damn in her own songs, she gets the chance to tour and write with amazing artists, she is always thankful for her fans.
She is one of those artists that just likes being her age, she loves to hang out with her friends, she went to a normal school, she knows what she wants to do with her music / acting and she's going for it.
She is not Lily. She's Emily Osment, she's VERY talented, very beautiful, very caring , and very driven and dedicated.
I'm going to love , and be a fan of hers because i adore her music, i adore her personality, i adore every thing that she stands for, and is.
She has introduced me to many musical groups i wouldn't think to listen to, and she has surprised me with how smart she is and how much we have in common with our style, personality, and likes and dislikes.
To me, she's a rolemodel, and a person i will continue to be a fan of.
I've loved her since hannah montana started, and i've always hoped she would branch out from being Miley's best friend , and being the sidekick.
It hurts to see people bash on her so badly just because she's not into the whole Disney scene. Don't like it, you don't have to..but get over yourselves if you think she'll change for you, or even care one teeny bit what you think. She cares about what she, her friends, and her fans think about her - that's it.
haters are not important, obviously she has lived a more normal life than any other disney star, so i can say with confidence, that Emily Osment is a normal teenager, so back the fuck off and get off your high horse.
Anyway, there is my rant.
AND YES, i made the picture, don't take it.. i didn't feel like tagging it.
I've been wondering if the age limit for Flickr is still enforced, because I just saw something that looks like it was built by a six-year-old- absolutely no rhyme or reason, just random parts slapped together. I'm not going to name names as to not start a long flamewar, but this aggravates me. The quality of LEGO on Flickr used to be superb, and there's been a significant decline, right along with the influx of new people. Legoboy can only go so far for the reason for all of this horrible stuff. WHAT IS THE SOURCE, WHY, AND HOW DO WE STOP THIS PLAGUE!
TL;dr: we need a new MocPages with a quality control system, etc.
Man I gotta tell you about the subway in Japan. Freezing cold outside and get on a train and you have to strip down to get comfortable it is so toasty and stuffy. They could save a lot of power wasted on heating and make people feel much more comfortable at the same time if they turned the thermostat down a few degrees!
Please do not use this picture for any kind of media for any objectives without my expressed permission.
Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
. . .
"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like -"
"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."
"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."...
Anyway, I keep picturing these little kids playing some game in this big field or rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean, except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy."
—excerpts from J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye
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"Somewhere along the line - in one damn incarnation or another, if you like - you not only had a hankering to be an actor or an actress but to be a good one. You're stuck with it now. You can't just walk out on the results of your own hankerings. Cause and effect, buddy, cause and effect. The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act. Act for God, if you want to - be God's actress, if you want to. What could be prettier? You can at least try to, if you want to - there's nothing wrong in trying." There was a slight pause. "You'd better get busy, though, buddy. The goddam sands run out on you every time you turn around."
—excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey
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John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.
Do I go on about my brother's poetry too much? Am I being garrulous? Yes. Yes. I go on about my brother's poetry too much. I'm being garrulous. And I care. But my reasons against leaving off multiply like rabbits as I go along. Furthermore, though I am, as I've already conspicuously posted, a happy writer, I'll take my oath I'm not now and never have been a merry one; I've mercifully been allowed the usual professional quota of unmerry thoughts. For example, it hasn't just this moment struck me that once I get around to recounting what I know of Seymour himself, I can't expect to leave myself either the space or the required pulse rate or, in a broad but true sense, the inclination to mention his poetry again. At this very instant, alarmingly, while I clutch my own wrist and lecture myself on garrulousness, I may be losing the chance of a lifetime - my last chance, I think, really - to make one final, hoarse, objectionable, sweeping public pronouncement on my brother's rank as an American poet. I mustn't let it slip. Here it is: When I look back, listen back, over the half-dozen or slightly more original poets we've had in America, as well as the numerous talented eccentric poets and - in modern times, especially - the many gifted style deviates, I feel something close to a conviction that we have had only three or four very nearly nonexpendable poets, and I think Seymour will eventually stand with those few. Not overnight, verständlich. Zut, what would would you? It's my guess, my perhaps flagrantly over-considered guess, that the first few waves of reviewers will obliquely condemn his verses by calling them Interesting or Very Interesting, with a tacit or just plain badly articulated declaration, still more damning, that they are rather small, sub-acoustical things that have failed to arrive on the contemporary Western scene with their own built-in transatlantic podium, complete with lectern, drinking glass, and pitcher of iced sea water. Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.) And I'm reminded, too, that once when we were boys, Seymour waked me from a sound sleep, much excited, yellow pajamas flashing in the dark. He had what my brother Walt used to call his Eureka Look, and he wanted to tell me that he thought he finally knew why Christ said to call no man Fool. (It was a problem that had been baffling him all week, because it sounded to him like a piece of advice, I believe, more typical of Emily Post than of someone busily about his Father's Business.) Christ had said it, Seymour thought I'd want to know, because there are no fools. Dopes, yes - fools, no. It seemed to him well worth waking me up for, but if I admit that it was (and I do, without reservations), I'll have to concede that if you give even poetry critics enough time, they'll prove themselves unfoolish. To be truthful, it's a thought that comes hard to me, and I'm grateful to be able to push on to something else. I've reached, at long last, the real head of this compulsive and, I'm afraid, occasionally somewhat pustulous disquisition on my brother's poetry. I've seen it coming from the very beginning. I would to God the reader had something terrible to tell me first. (Oh, you out there - with your enviable golden silence.)
I have a recurrent, and, in 1959, almost chronic, premonition that when Seymour's poems have been widely and rather officially acknowledged as First Class (stacked up in college bookstores, assigned in Contemporary Poetry courses), matriculating young men and women will strike out, in singlets and twosomes, notebooks at the ready, for my somewhat creaking front door. (It's regrettable that this matter has to come up at all, but it's surely too late to pretend to an ingenuousness, to say nothing of a grace, I don't have, and I must reveal that my reputedly heartshaped prose has knighted me one of the best-loved sciolists in print since Ferris L. Monahan, and a good many young English Department people already know where I live, hole up; I have their tire tracks in my rose beds to prove it.) By and large, I'd say without a shred of hesitation, there are three kinds of students who have both the desire and the temerity to look as squarely as possible into any sort of literary horse's mouth. The first kind is the young man or woman who loves and respects to distraction any fairly responsible sort of literature and who, if he or she can't see Shelley plain, will make do with seeking out manufacturers of inferior but estimable products. I know these boys and girls well, or think I do. They're naive, they're alive, they're enthusiastic, they're usually less than right, and they're the hope always, I think, of blase or vested-interested literary society the world over. (By some good fortune I can't believe I've deserved, I've had one of these ebullient, cocksure, irritating, instructive, often charming girls or boys in every second or third class I've taught in the past twelve years.) The second kind of young person who actually rings doorbells in the pursuit of literary data suffers, somewhat proudly, from a case of academicitis, contracted from any one of half a dozen Modern English professors or graduate instructors to whom he's been exposed since his freshman year. Not seldom, if he himself is already teaching or is about to start teaching, the disease is so far along that one doubts whether it could be arrested, even if someone were fully equipped to try. Only last year, for example, a young man stopped by to see me about a piece I'd written, several years back, that had a good deal to do with Sherwood Anderson. He came at a time when I was cutting part of my winter's supply of firewood with a gasoline-operated chain saw - an instrument that after eight years of repeated use I'm still terrified of. It was the height of the spring thaw, a beautiful sunny day, and I was feeling, frankly, just a trifle Thoreauish (a real treat for me, because after thirteen years of country living I'm still a man who gauges bucolic distances by New York City blocks). In short, it looked like a promising, if literary, afternoon, and I recall that I had high hopes of getting the young man, a la Tom Sawyer and his bucket of whitewash, to have a go at my chain saw. He appeared healthy, not to say strapping. His deceiving looks, however, very nearly cost me my left foot, for between spurts and buzzes of my saw, just as I finished delivering a short and to me rather enjoyable eulogy on Sherwood Anderson's gentle and effective style, the young man asked me - after a thoughtful, a cruelly promising pause - if I thought there was an endemic American Zeitgeist. (Poor young man. Even if he takes exceptionally good care of himself, he can't at the outside have more than fifty years of successful campus activity ahead of him.) The third kind of person who will be a fairly constant visitor around here, I believe, once Seymour's poems have been quite thoroughly unpacked and tagged, requires a paragraph to himself or herself.
It would be absurd to say that most young people's attraction to poetry is far exceeded by their attraction to those few or many details of a poet's life that may be defined here, loosely, operationally, as lurid. It's the sort of absurd notion, though, that I wouldn't mind taking out for a good academic run someday. I surely think, at any rate, that if I were to ask the sixty odd girls (or, that is, the sixty-odd girls) in my two Writing for Publication courses - most of them seniors, all of them English majors - to quote a line, any line from "Ozymandias," or even just to tell me roughly what the poem is about, it is doubtful whether ten of them could do either, but I'd bet my unrisen tulips that some fifty of them could tell me that Shelley was all for free love, and had one wife who wrote "Frankenstein" and another who drowned herself.* I'm neither shocked nor outraged at the idea, please mind. I don't think I'm even complaining. For if nobody's a fool, then neither am I, and I'm entitled to a non-fool's Sunday awareness that, whoever we are, no matter how like a blast furnace the heat from the candles on our latest birthday cake, and however presumably lofty the intellectual, moral, and spiritual heights we've all reached, our gusto for the lurid or partly lurid (which, of course, includes both low and superior gossip) is probably the last of our fleshy appetites to be sated or effectively curbed. (But, my God, why do I rant on? Why am I not going straight to the poet for an illustration? One of Seymour's hundred and eighty-four poems - a shocker on the first impact only; on the second, as heartening a paean to the living as I've read - is about a distinguished old ascetic on his deathbed, surrounded by chanting priests and disciples, who lies straining to hear what the washerwoman in the courtyard is saying about his neighbor's laundry. The old gentleman, Seymour makes it clear, is faintly wishing the priests would keep their voices down a bit.) I can see, though, that I'm having a little of the usual trouble entailed in trying to make a very convenient generalization stay still and docile long enough to support a wild specific premise. I don't relish being sensible about it, but I suppose I must. It seems to me indisputably true that a good many people, the wide world over, of varying ages, cultures, natural endowments, respond with a special impetus, a zing, even, in some cases, to artists and poets who as well as having a reputation for producing great or fine art have something garishly Wrong with them as persons: a spectacular flaw in character or citizenship, a construably romantic affliction or addiction - extreme self-centeredness, marital infidelity, stone-deafness, stone-blindness, a terrible thirst, a mortally bad cough, a soft spot for prostitutes, a partiality for grand-scale adultery or incest, a certified or uncertified weakness for opium or sodomy, and so on, God have mercy on the lonely bastards. If suicide isn't at the top of the list of compelling infirmities for creative men, the suicide poet or artist, one can't help noticing, has always been given a very considerable amount of avid attention, not seldom on sentimental grounds almost exclusively, as if he were (to put it much more horribly than I really want to) the floppy-eared runt of the litter. It's a thought, anyway, finally said, that I've lost sleep over many times, and possibly will again.
(How can I record what I've just recorded and still be happy? But I am. Unjolly, unmerry, to the marrow, but my afflatus seems to be punctureproof. Recollective of only one other person I've known in my life.)
—poem and excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Seymour An Introduction
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I was staring, as I remember, directly in front of me, at the back of the driver's neck, which was a relief map of boil scars, when suddenly my jump-seat mate addressed me: "I didn't get a chance to ask you inside. How's that darling mother of yours? Aren't you Dickie Briganza?"
My tongue, at the time of the question, was curled back exploratively as far as the soft palate. I disentangled it, swallowed, and turned to her. She was fifty, or thereabouts, fashionably and tastefully dressed. She was wearing a very heavy pancake makeup. I answered no - that I wasn't.
She narrowed her eyes a trifle at me and said I looked exactly like Celia Briganza's boy. Around the mouth. I tried to show by my expression that it was a mistake anybody could make. Then I went on staring at the back of the driver's neck. The car was silent. I glanced out of the window, for a change of scene.
"How do you like the Army?" Mrs. Silsburn asked. Abruptly, conversationally.
I had a brief coughing spell at that particular instant. When it was over, I turned to her with all available alacrity and said I'd made a lot of buddies. It was a little difficult for me to swivel in her direction, what with the encasement of adhesive tape around my diaphragm.
She nodded. "I think you're all just wonderful," she said, somewhat ambiguously. "Are you a friend of the bride's or the groom's?" she then asked, delicately getting down to brass tacks.
"Well, actually, I'm not exactly a friend of--"
"You'd better not say you're a friend of the groom," the Matron of Honor interrupted me, from the back of the car. "I'd like to get my hands on him for about two minutes. Just two minutes, that's all."
Mrs. Silsburn turned briefly - but completely - around to smile at the speaker. Then she faced front again. We made the round trip, in fact, almost in unison. Considering that Mrs. Silsburn had turned around for only an instant, the smile she had bestowed on the Matron of Honor was a kind of jump-seat masterpiece. It was vivid enough to express unlimited partisanship with all young people, all over the world, but most particularly with this spirited, outspoken local representative, to whom, perhaps, she had been little more than perfunctorily introduced, if at all.
"Bloodthirsty wench," said a chuckling male voice. And Mrs. Silsburn and I turned around again. It was the Matron of Honor's husband who had spoken up. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He was seated directly behind me, at his wife's left. He and I briefly exchanged that blank,uncomradely look which, possibly, in the crapulous year of 1942, only an officer and a private could exchange. A first lieutenant in the Signal Corps, he was wearing a very interesting Air Corps pilot's cap - a visored hat with the metal frame removed from inside the crown, which usually conferred on the wearer a certain, presumably desired, intrepid look. In his case, however, the cap didn't begin to fill the bill. It seemed to serve no other purpose than to make my own outsize, regulation headpiece feel rather like a clown's hat that someone had nervously picked out of the incinerator. His face was sallow and, essentially, daunted-looking. He was perspiring with an almost incredible profusion - on his forehead, on his upper lip, and even at the end of his nose - to the point where a salt tablet might have been in order. "I'm married to the bloodthirstiest wench in six counties," he said, addressing Mrs. Silsburn and giving another soft, public chuckle. In automatic deference to his rank, I very nearly chuckled right along with him - a short, inane, stranger's and draftee's chuckle that would clearly signify that I was with him and everyone else in the car, against no one.
"I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "Just two minutes - that's all, brother. Oh, if I could just get my two little hands -"
"All right, now, take it easy, take it easy," her husband said, still with apparently inexhaustible resources of connubial good humor. "Just take it easy. You'll last longer."
Mrs. Silsburn faced around toward the back of the car again, and favored the Matron of Honor with an all but canonized smile. "Did anyone see any of his people at the wedding?" she inquired softly, with just a little emphasis - no more than perfectly genteel - on the personal pronoun.
The Matron of Honor's answer came with toxic volume: "No. They're all out on the West Coast or someplace. I just wish I had."
Her husband's chuckle sounded again. "What wouldja done if you had, honey?" he asked - and winked indiscriminately at me.
"Well, I don't know, but I'd've done something," said the Matron of Honor. The chuckle at her left expanded in volume. "Well, I would have!" she insisted. "I'd've said something to them. I mean. My gosh." She spoke with increasing aplomb, as though perceiving that, cued by her husband, the rest of us within earshot were finding something attractively forthright - spunky - about her sense of justice, however youthful or impractical it might be. "I don't know what I'd have said to them. I probably would have just blabbered something idiotic. But my gosh. Honestly! I just can't stand to see somebody get away with absolute murder. It makes my blood boil." She suspended animation just long enough to be bolstered by a look of simulated empathy from Mrs. Silsburn. Mrs. Silsburn and I were now turned completely, supersociably, around in our jump seats. "I mean it," the Matron of Honor said. "You can't just barge through life hurting people's feelings whenever you feel like it."
"I'm afraid I know very little about the young man," Mrs. Silsburn said, softly. "As a matter of fact, I haven't even met him. The first I'd heard that Muriel was even engaged -"
"Nobody's met him," the Matron of Honor said, rather explosively. "I haven't even met him. We had two rehearsals, and both times Muriel's poor father had to take his place, just because his crazy plane couldn't take off. he was supposed to get a hop here last Tuesday night in some crazy Army plane, but it was snowing or something crazy in Colorado, or Arizona, or one of those crazy places, and he didn't get in till one o'clock in the morning, last night. Then - at that insane hour - he calls Muriel on the phone from way out in Long Island or someplace and asks her to meet him in the lobby of some horrible hotel so they can talk." The Matron of Honor shuddered eloquently. "And you know Muriel. She's just darling enought o let anybody and his brother push her around. That's what gripes me. It's always those kind of people that get hurt in the end ... Anyway, so she gets dressed and gets in a cab and sits in some horrible lobby talking with him till quarter to five in the morning." The Matron of Honor released her grip on her gardenia bouquet long enough to raise two clenched fists above her lap. "Ooo, it makes me so mad!" she said.
"What hotel?" I asked the Matron of Honor. "Do you know?" I tried to make my voice sound casual, as though, possibly, my father might be in the hotel business and I took a certain understandable filial interest in where people stopped in New York. In reality, my question meant almost nothing. I was just thinking aloud, more or less. I'd been interested in the fact that my brother had asked his fiancee to meet him in a hotel lobby, rather than at his empty, available apartment. The morality of the invitation was by no means out of character, but it interested me, mildly, nonetheless.
"I don't know which hotel," the Matron of Honor said irritably. "Just some hotel." She stared at me. "Why?" she demanded. "Are you a friend of his?"
There was something distinctly intimidating about her stare. It seemed to come from a one-woman mob, separated only by time and chance from her knitting bag and a splendid view of the guillotine. I've been terrified of mobs, of any kind, all my life. "We were boys together," I answered, all but unintelligibly.
"Well, lucky you!"
"Now, now," said her husband.
"Well, I'm sorry," the Matron of Honor said to him, but addressing all of us. "But you haven't been in a room watching that poor kid cry her eyes out for a solid hour. It's not funny - and don't you forget it. I've heard about grooms getting cold feet, and all that. But you don't do it at the last minute. I mean you don't do it so that you'll embarrass a lot of perfectly nice people half to death and almost break a kid's spirit and everything! If he'd changed his mind, why didn't he write to her and at least break it off like a gentleman, for goodness' sake? Before all the damage was done."
"All right, take it easy, just take it easy," her husband said. His chuckle was still there, but it was sounding a trifle strained.
"Well, I mean it! Why couldn't he write to her and just tell her, like a man, and prevent all this tragedy and everything?" She looked at me, abruptly. "Do you have any idea where he is, by any chance?" she demanded, with metal in her voice. "If you have boyhood friends, you should have some -"
"I just got into New York about two hours ago," I said nervously. Not only the Matron of Honor but her husband and Mrs. Silsburn as well were now staring at me. "So far, I haven't even had a chance to get to a phone." At that point, as I remember, I had a coughing spell. It was genuine enough, but I must say I did very little to suppress it or shorten its duration.
"You had that cough looked at, soldier?" the Lieutenant asked me when I'd come out of it.
At that instant, I had another coughing spell - a perfectly genuine one, oddly enough. I was still turned a sort of half or quarter right in my jump seat, with my body averted just enough toward the front of the car to be able to cough with all due hygienic propriety.
—excerpt from J.D. Salinger's Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters
✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯
I just got a call from an employee (crying) stating that their brother was just killed by a drunk driver. People, do not drink and drive! You are an idiot if you do so as you are putting innocent lives at risk. How would you feel if [GOD FORBID] it was someone you cared about that was victimized by a drunk driver?
I hope justice is served. Absolutely RIDICULOUS!
1.WTF
2. Who made this shit up?
3.It sucks
4.Derp
6.Bye bye 5
7.Herp
8.I am Italian
9.RAGE
10.DONE!
Now time for that rant
Things and people I hate:
obama
Cod n00bs
SCOTT WALKER HATERS BLOW!
I hate Miley Cyrus. There I said it. But I have my own reasons. I have a logical explanation.
It didn't used to be this way. Miley WAS actaully one of my idols. I used to Watch Hannah Montana all the time and buy her
soundtrack and CD's and shit. But things are so diffrent now. I don't hate her cause of the Niley thing or the Miley vs.
Selena fued and shit. I hate her cause I'M VERY VERY DISAPPOINTED.
I mean, how would you feel towards your idol if suddenly, out of nowhere she shows of her goodies and dirty dances in
front of her YOUNG fans. Truth be told, I started hating her after the TCA. Before that I just didn't like her but she still had my respect.
I started disliking her after a few episodes on Hannah (but that's a whole diffrent story) Now I hate her and she lost my respect.
When I saw her pole dancing in the TCA's I was so pissed! I mean seeing her outfit was a give away already. Then I saw her "personal" pictures from home,
showing of her body, partly showing of her breasts with her cleavage and blah blah blah (I know you've seen those pics) I was disgusted.
Then I saw her music video of "Party in The USA" her shorts, her top and that swing... it was a whole new way to stirp dance.
I don't know, maybe it's because I'm a Filipino and the fact that we're very conservative is the reason why I don't agree with her actions.
But when I saw her pole dancing on I was like "Dude! You fans in the pre-k level! They adore you and they're also minorities!" If you haven't realised where
I'm going with this, I think she's an F-ing bad influence!
Okay, some of you may say that "She growing, she likes diffrent things now that she's older." Yeah, okay I understand where you're going at, and yes, she's
getting older and she would want to do diffrent stuff, but she could atleast channel those stuff AFTER working on channel the proititizes childrens'
entertainment and parents' aproval. She has fans who are todllers, fans who are 10 yeras old and below! I don't want kids growing up to be sluts (yes, I said it)
Now, everytime I see a kid wearing a Miley Cyrus shirt or whatever, I feel sorry for her cause she's idolizing someone that she's not even suppose to idolize.
IDK if you know this, but Miley was actually voted "WORST CELEB INFLUENCE ON TWEENS AND TEENS". She even beat Britney Spears by like 15% !
Well, I actaully saw that coming, her being a bad influence, I mean come on. The reasons are all over the place.
Some say she's doing all these "sexy" things to get Nicks' attention. If that's the case I have 2 things to say to you.
1. You need to get over Nick! He's obviously over you so get over him!
2. You're with Liam dammit! I'd feel so sorry for Liam or any of your other boyfriends if Nick's the guy in your heart and your real boyfriends in your mind!
Some say she's doing these "sexy" stuff to make guys think that she's hott.
NEWSFLASH: They don't!
Guys don't like it if a girl's trying way to hard to be sexy even though she's not. NO GUY IN THE RIGHT MIND WOULD FALL FOR THAT(knowing Nick, he won't
fall for that). If you want a man then get his attention the right way! Not by showing off what you've got! The only guy who'd fall for that would be
the kind of guys who want nothing from you but your body; the kind of guys who have no jobs no life and just want nothing in life but to hang out
in bars and have a beer.
Trust me I asked alot of guys here in my place and THEY DON'T THINK MILEY'S HOTT AT ALL! They think Selena's hotter and she doesn't even try!
This is also the reason why don't want Miley to come back on Disney and continue Hannah Montana for a new season. Not because she already has a
name outside Disney. Not because she's bigger than Disney (that's not possible) but because Disney's better off without her. Because she's a bad influence
to the youth. She says she wants to be just like her idol Hilary Duff, well then good luck! Hilary never became a bad influence. She never did anything
scandalous while she was on Disney she only did years after she got out of Disney. And what makes it worse is that you're father's right there with you on
the show!
I hate Miley not because of me supporting Nelena and not Niley.
I hate Miley not because I love Selena and not her.
I hate Miley cause I'm so disappointed at her. She let me down.
She let all her fans down.
But if there's one thing I like about her it's her songs. That's all. I like her songs but her, herself and her... no thanks.
Dear Miley, be careful with what you do. And stop putting God's name into your situations. It's not He's fault that your like this. It's yours. He granted us
free will and you used it badly.
You're slowly loosing you're fans, my dear. Be careful with what you do. You might just loose them all.
(It's true, I've seen alot of "Selena hater and Miley supporter" go "Miley hater and Selena suppoter")
~Rant by me, her EX-fan
lately demis rumored to be in a bad mood and upset.
which, i can believe.
and i dont blame her.
i feel sorry for her.
shes on tour with her best friend, who she dated a few months ago, and to me its pretty obvious shes having a hard time getting over him.
and ontop of that joe has ashley with him most of the time.
i dont think its right for her to be in a bad mood at meet and greets with fans.
i understand her pain but she has to try to act happy with fans.
anyways,
i dont like jashley.
i guess there cute,
but i dont like ashley.
and no not because of joe, i never have.
i was never a big jemi fan but i do kinda miss them.
whats your opinion on all of this?(:
S Brick www.sbrick.com/ Worst LEGO investment ever. I backed the Kickstarter campaign last year. And despite having several S Bricks in my possession now, they are all useless lumps of plastic. My OS is up to date, my app is up to date yet I hav