But I know better. I know about your rough edges and I have seen your perfect curves, and I will fit into any spaces you let me. If loving you means getting dirty, bring on the grime, I will leave this porcelain home behind.
—  Sarah Kay, “Toothbrush to the Bicycle Tire"

I would like to point out Flynn’s very own constructed staircase. Made with wood and bicycle tires. That’s very nice, Flynn. I bet you got an A+ in Croatian shop class.

As she learns about her world in the After, Eleven finds that it’s the little things in her life that make it so special. It’s painting her nails each a different color while Nancy rambles on about the happenings of high school. It’s sneaking the whisks from the electric mixer while the cookies are baking to eat the raw dough with Will. It’s watching old movies with Dustin on a staticky television with bright colors and busting into laughter when either of them quotes the movie days after. It’s keeping a shoebox of mementos–movie tickets, dried flowers, Polaroids that didn’t turn out right–that Hopper has almost accidentally thrown out five times (and promptly had a lecture on the fondness behind each memory from El). It’s wearing an NYU hoodie nearly every day of winter so she can proudly say that her big brother is there. It’s the smell of dusty furniture in the Wheeler’s attic where Holly insists all the best toys are. It’s calling out whoever ate all the M&M’s and peanuts out of the trail mix on their summer hike. It’s finding a comfy chair in the library with Mike, losing track of the time as they pore over a stack of books higher than the tops of their heads. It’s sidewalk chalk drawings of her favorite superheroes with Lucas smudged by bicycle tires and bare feet. 

It’s the little things that bring the most joy, little flames of happiness when her deepest memories are consumed in darkness

feelinglikealazyegg  asked:

Opinion on Tony?

Tony Padilla is scuffed boots and bruised knuckles– born to press the pedal in a Mustang. He’s focused in a world that’s blustering from one new thing to the next. Patient in an impatient world, quiet in a sea of noise. Our world’s dying virtues wrapped in black leather.

Tony doesn’t discard broken things. He repairs them.

He fixes, time and again, a Mustang older than he is, maybe even older than his father is. No matter how many times it breaks. He jump starts cars and fixes broken bicycle tires…and he wishes he could fix a broken boy with a broken heart but Tony’s an old soul. He knows better. People can’t be welded back together like the parts of a car. But they can be loved despite their brokenness.

So that’s what he does. He loves Clay Jensen, so goddamn much, and that’s fucking exceptional. 

Tony Padilla is fucking exceptional. 


An hour before noon on August 20, 1982, 51-year-old Carl Robert Brown went to a gun store a block away from his home and purchased two shotguns, a rifle, and ammunition. With a 12-gauge Ithaca 37 shotgun slung over his shoulder, he then rode his bicycle to Bob Moore’s Welding & Machine Service Inc. in Miami, Florida, where he had argued with an employee the previous day about a lawnmower engine he thought they had repaired poorly and the $20 bill they wouldn’t let him pay with a traveler’s check. Brown entered the building’s offices and shot to death the five employees in that area before heading into the machine shop, killing one and injuring three others huddled near a table. He continued to the welding shop and murdered a foreman hiding in the office, then killed a welder as he tried to escape outside. Afterwards, Brown fled on his bicycle “as calm as can be,” one witness recalled, adding, “he got on his bike and pedaled off as if he were going for a stroll.” Mark Kram, who was working in a nearby metal shop heard of the massacre and grabbed his .38-caliber revolver, pursuing the gunman in his car with his friend Ernest Hammett. They caught up with him six blocks away from the crime scene and Kram claimed he fired a warning shot over his head, causing him to fall to the ground. Brown reached for his shotgun, and they ran into him with their car, forcing his body against a light pole. He was deceased when authorities arrived, and an autopsy revealed the shot Kram fired hit him in the back, which was the cause of death.

Brown was described as an incredibly patriotic man, who “kept a military bearing about himself,” sometimes waking up neighbors in the early morning hours chanting, “United States! United States! United States!” but his behavior preceding the shooting had become unusual and incoherent. That March, he had been relieved of his teaching duties at Drew Middle School, so he could seek psychiatric help, due to his constant trailing from school curriculum and threatening behavior, including describing his sexual relations with a girlfriend to the class and chasing a group of students around with a stapler. A former student revealed the class took advantage of his ramblings: “All you had to do was come to class, ask one question, and he’d talk the rest of the period about everything. He was off his rocker. You could ask him a question about a bicycle tire and he’d talk about  how the tire was made and how much air goes into it. I never remember him smiling.”

Before the massacre, Brown also called his 10-year-old son and asked him if he wanted to join him in “killing a lot of people,” then he revealed he planned to target Hialeah Junior High School, the school he worked at before being transferred to Drew Middle School.

When investigators searched his home, they found a recording where he’s speaking as “a mythical figure he considered to be the controlling principle of the universe.” On the tape, Brown was heard saying, “This is the Logos speaking. God through me is responsible for the good and bad sounds in your head. Now I shall say a few good words in your head before I return you to the bad sounds in your head … The Logos is the spark of God, the most logical. I am indestructible on Earth.”

Metafictional Monday: Holmes as Medievalist and Musicologist

Sherlock Holmes’ little monographs are a fixture of the canon, and usually on topics related to his detective work, e.g. bicycle tire marks, cigar and cigarette ash. Then there is the “magnum opus of [his] latter years,” his treatise on beekeeping (LAST.) There are hints that Holmes’ prodigious mental energies may sometimes – perhaps fleetingly – be focused on an arcane topic that catches his attention, like the possible relation of Cornish to Chaldean (!) in DEVI. But there is another topic to which Holmes clearly devotes considerable time. 

In GOLD, which is set in late 1894, Holmes spends a rainy winter evening “engaged with a powerful lens deciphering the remains of the original inscription upon a palimpsest.” Any medievalist will sympathize with the less-than-thrilling results of his hours of poring over the difficult text: “So far as I can make out it is nothing more exciting than an Abbey’s accounts dating from the second half of the fifteenth century.” Poor Holmes. This cannot be a casual pursuit: he would have needed to obtain the manuscript from a dealer, for one thing, and he would also have to have had training not only in Latin (standard for an Englishman of his level of education) but also in medieval Latin and in medieval handwriting, which were not standard. So several kinds of specialized knowledge were required.

Almost exactly a year later, in November 1895 (BRUC), Watson tells us that Holmes had “recently made [the music of the Middle Ages] his hobby.” Since, for myriad reasons (neumes! Latin and medieval handwriting again!) this is a challenging topic to specialize in, we may hypothesize that Holmes was already interested in it when looking in that palimpsest for something more interesting than an abbey’s bookkeeping. Codices kept by monastic houses sometimes did bind multiple kinds of texts they were using together; though the separate uses of music and accounts make this comparatively unlikely, a thrifty scribe might have jotted down the bookkeeping on the leaf of a no-longer-used antiphonal. (The jotting down of things by medieval scribes in odd places is practically a field of study to itself.) It was, moreover, extremely common for early modern antiquarians to bind multiple texts from the same house together, since these texts no longer had separate uses. So what is Holmes studying? In BRUC, it’s specifically “the polyphonic motets of Lassus.” Lassus is now more usually called by his name in the vernacular, Orlando di Lasso. Also, he’s not a medieval composer; he lived in the sixteenth century. Maybe Holmes couldn’t get Watson to absorb this distinction of periodization. 

Lassus was, in any case, a prolific composer of both sacred and secular music. And he was very funny. In his motets, he plays around a lot with both musical and dramatic expectations. In this one, for instance, a man sings beneath a woman’s window, explaining that he doesn’t know classical or contemporary poetry… however:

Se ti mi foller bene,
Mi non esser poltron,
 Mi ficcar tutta notte, 
Urtar come monton.

If you really want me, I won’t be a lazy fellow – I’ll fuck all night and thrust like a ram. There… there really isn’t a more polite way to translate that. Lassus used this form in many ways, though; another of his secular motets sets Virgil’s text for Dido’s dying speech, remembering her doomed love for Aeneas. Here you can see how the setting for that works:

The motet is a fascinating subject in its own right, and a rich and complex one. You can find more of Lassus’ motets here (on the prophecies of the Sibyls.) And here is a sacred but sexy motet on the text of the Song of Songs: He shall kiss me with the kiss of his mouth. Watson informs his readers that Holmes’ monograph “is said by experts to be the last word upon the subject.”


ISFJ - Let me be your doormat.
INFJ - I invented Jesus in my image.
ISTJ - Ofcourse I’d love to die for my country!
INTJ - I know everything about life, but I don’t have one.
INTP - I take social awkwardness to a whole new level.
ISTP - Killing people for money is a job I’d seriously consider, as a dream job you know.
ISFP - Yes, I am saying that this pile of bicycle tires and seats is art!
INFP - I was born depressed.
ESFJ - Buying stuff I don’t need and making babies makes me happy.
ENFJ - I am the nicest, most moral and kind person in the world and you should follow me and act like me.
ESTJ - I love getting up early and working my ass off every day so I can brag about my achievements and rub them in everyone’s face.
ESTP - Yo, chill man, have a beer.
ENTJ - God doesn’t exist so I’m a good enough replacement.
ENTP - Last night I solved the Riemann hypothesis while on LSD but I ripped my papers into shreds because I was so fucking high.
ESFP - Hey, look at me everyone, I can drink through my nose!
ENFP - I can persuade a professor to give me a chance to take a test after arriving 90 minutes late for it. 

Worf on a Bicycle

Had a dream about Worf basically being a stubborn ass. Realism! The set-up was some kind of away mission or perhaps a diplomatic trip. Rather than being in a stuffy building, he was out in a huge marshy field, marsh grass and water as far as the eye can see. Sort of hilly but watery everywhere. And he and this local alien are on bicycles. Big, fat-tired mountain bike type things.

The alien guy is plowing ahead on his bike, through the water, seemingly effortlessly, and Worf is behind him pushing as hard as he can but seriously, how are you supposed to bike through a foot of water mixed with grass? But like Worf is going to say anything.

As he falls behind, his host asks if he’s OK and Worf says he’s fine, he’s fine… until finally he has a cramp or hits a rock or something and stop. The other guy comes back and looks him over, watches him get back on and then says “Ah, I see your mistake!” Then demonstrates that first of all, there’s a little button you switch before you ride, not a motor, but a sensor, and second, there’s a whole method of riding that allows you to zip through the water. You use the grips on the handlebars a certain way, lean a certain way. It’s not about brute force pedaling at all. Worf is like, “I thought this was a bicycle.” The other guys says it is only superficially a bicycle.

From this point on, Worf has a new understanding. He gets on the bike and once he masters the controls, he tears off at about 100 miles an hour, master of the water bike.

anonymous asked:

what are your favorite poems about love?

i came up with a new analogy for my bpd and its a bicycle tire. check it out

so i’m like… a bicycle tire, except with a hole in it. not a huge hole. air gets out really slowly, but it still deflates by the end of the day (ESPECIALLY when the bike is moving!!)

but its key to remember that the tire is functional when it is pumped. if you fill the tire with air you can still ride the bike for most of the day even though there’s a hole in it. it doesn’t take much effort, you just have to get the pump out and fuckin do it

if you don’t pump it, the tire is flat, and the bike is just… you shouldn’t ride it. sometimes you have places you need to ride your bike to even though the tire is flat, and that’s such a rough and terrible ride that once you pump it again and remember how easy it is to pump, you’re honestly impressed by how much better it is

i feel like i’m like a bike tire and the air pump is the attention i’m being given. if a few people have a short conversation with me on any given day, i have enough energy in me to do whatever i need to do during that day. however, if i don’t receive any attention from anyone… its like riding uphill on flat tires. its tedious. it feels almost impossible and when i’m finished, i feel absolutely exhausted and like i never want to do it again.

and then if one person takes out some time to give me even a little attention, its fucking ABSURD how much better i am?


Kevlar was developed by Stephanie L. Kwolek in 1965. Originally used for racing tires, it’s now used for a wide variety of products, ranging from bicycle tires to safety gloves to body armor , because of its high tensile strength-to-weight ratio; by this measure it is 5 times stronger than steel. Kevlar is also what the infamous batsuit in made from, as well as many suits that former Robins and other heroes in DC comics wear. Sadly, Stephanie Kwolek passed away in 2014 at the age of 90. (Sources 1, 2, 3) (Images)