One of the interesting things about growing up in Miami is that you see a lot of film and television productions. I remember seeing a Harrier jet in the middle of the street near my father’s office because True Lies was being shot there. Scenes from The Crew and episodes of Burn Notice were shot a few blocks from my childhood apartment. The causeway by my high school was shut down because they needed to shoot, of all things, the music video for Sisqo’s “Thong Song”. And these were just the productions that I personally encountered, there were tons more that I won’t bother naming. Yet in all these years of seeing my hometown on big and small screens, there wasn’t a single one of them that told a real Miami story about real Miami people from real Miami communities. Everything was some kind of cheap music video, some capitalist nouveau riche fantasy, some tropical bikini fantasy for white people. You never hear about the immigrants from all over Latin America and the world hustling in warehouses, flipping merchandise, laying marble tiles, praying in strip-mall churches. You never hear about how the City let public housing be cannibalized by fancy contractors so that they could build private residences to push subprime mortgages with. And you sure as hell don’t hear about the black and brown people living in Liberty City, much less about those that are queer. But that is what makes Moonlight a film of rare power, in that it renders, in masterful strokes of black and blue, a story that was once invisible. Personally, the film resonated deeply with me, even though my young life in Miami was different from Chiron and Kevin’s. For the first time in my 30+ years, I saw fragments of familiar experiences (riding sad in a sad metromover, smoking a blunt on South Beach at night, jokes about jitneys, black beans from Cuban diners) in a film of staggering beauty, written and directed by fellow Miamians working with a Miami crew. And holy shit, it was the best film of the year. <3 [Edit: It actually fucking won best picture]
When the lights in Dipper’s office flickered the first time, he ignored it, eyes fixed upon his laptop screen as he continued his research.
The second time the lights flickered, he glanced up at them, silently wondering if the light bulbs needed to be replaced. He stood up, making his way over to the intercom on the wall. He pressed the red button.
“This is Dipper Pines, room 618, floor 21. Can someone send the janitor, Soos, to come fix the lights in my office?” The detective spoke into it. When he released his finger from the button, all he heard was the crackling of static. In that moment, he knew something was completely wrong. He swore he could hear whispers of some kind in the static haze, though the words were jumbled and inaudible.
Before he had time to blink or move, the lights fully went out, leaving him in utter darkness. For a moment he stood there, motionless, ears on full alert. It was completely silent and still, but the sense that someone was standing in the far corner had Dipper sweating. He glanced in the corner that he felt the presence from, but nothing was there. As soon as his eyes left that spot, out of the side of his eye he saw a dark figure that simply stood there, watching.
He stumbled in the dark towards the coat hanger by the door, as he could feel eyes burning on his back. Someone had to be in the room with him. When Dipper’s eyes fully adjusted to the dark he grabbed his coat, putting it on. His gaze shifted to the mirror on the wall. That’s when he let out a terrified scream, his blood running cold. The detective didn’t have any eyes. They were gone, and in their place was two Xs just like the man that had been murdered earlier that day.
Dipper reached two shaking hands up to his face, feeling for his eyes, but he only felt the cold, smooth holes of eye sockets. He let out another horrified scream, stepping away from the mirror, freaking out. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. He tripped over the rug and fell on the floor, staring up at the ceiling where writing started to appear in blood. It read: YOU WERE NEXT, DETECTIVE. A shadow of a man stood next to him, holding what looked like an eyeball in blood drenched hands.
Dipper woke up screaming, hands immediately flying up to feel if he still had eyes. Thankfully, he did and it was all just a nightmare. The lights were on and not flickering, and there was no creepy writing on the ceiling.
Main takeaway from Rogue One: the people in a galaxy far, far away did some amazing work on spaceships and sentient droids, but if they’d just thrown in decent wifi and better file zipping software the whole Star Wars story would go very differently
“I’m scared to go back to work. I just called out someone in front of a large group of people. I just wouldn’t let it go. I should have taken it offline, but I had to be right. I could have stepped back, watched the movie version of myself, and seen how my behavior was being seen by the people around me. But no— I just couldn’t let it go. My therapist would be so upset with me right now. I almost went home, but there was a woman taking a diarrhea shit on the train platform. So I think God, who I don’t even believe in, is telling me that I need to go back to the office and figure this out.”
Okay, I usually don’t come on here with my own opinions but I feel the need to speak up. And fuck all yall haters.
Split is the most mental illness empowering movie I have ever seen.
M. Night Shaymalan used great care in handling both illnesses displayed (DID & PTSD) throughout the film. James McAvoy’s performance is well portrayed, chilling, and beautiful. I never felt like his character was a bad person. What I saw was a good man struggling with an illness in his brain and trying to live in a world that broke and triggered him constantly.
The movie itself is, at times, hard to watch but that is expected for a Shaymalan film. In true Shaymalan fashion, this movie is filmed in an artistic way that forces you to face some hard truths without actually having to shove it in your face.
I honestly feel that every person with any kind of mental illness needs to see this movie. I personally walked out of the movie last night feeling empowered and even more accepting of myself because for once the characters with mental illness had the upper hand in both bad and good ways and I had witnessed a movie that not only understood how things can be for a mentally ill person but was able to display both the up and down sides of the illness.
And to top it all off there is a surprise at the end that completely turns the film on it’s head and even changes the world that you believe the film is in.
So basically what I am trying to say is don’t bash this movie until you have seen it. Go see it and if you still feel like it displays mental illness poorly then hate on it all you want.
I, however, want to thank Mr. Shaymalan and his cast and crew for a tense, beautiful, well researched and well put together peice of cinema. This is what movies were meant to be. Thank you for all of your hard work.
I just called my senators & congressman & asked them to make public statements that they oppose Trump’s appointment of Steve Bannon as his Chief of Staff.
Here’s what I said: “Is Senator _________ aware of Bannon’s ant-semitic comments, and that he is supported by white supremacist groups like the KKK?” “Well, I know that Senator ___________ is as appalled by ant-semitism & white nationalism as I am. I encourage him to publicly state his disapproval of Bannon, making it clear that extremists like him have no place in public office. I look forward to hearing his statement.”
Then I ask if they need my zip so they know I am a constituent.
WHAT GOOD WILL THIS DO:
Conventional wisdom is that 1 phone call to a congressperson represents 50 unheard voters. We need to let our politicians know we are mobilized.
We need to make it clear to conservatives that siding with Trump is going to be a political risk for them. Many Trump voters don’t actually love Trump, and republicans know that. They are on shakey ground. We need to drive a wedge within their party.
If by some miracle we stop Bannon’s appointment it will make for a saner 4 years. It will also be a symbol of Trumps weakness. Trump followers hate weakness. It will make him lose face.
If you have a progressive congressperson: Let them know they have your support in speaking out, or your gratitude if they’ve already done so. You can email them or write if you don’t want to overwhelm their phone lines.
Be nice to the person you’re talking to. They are aides.
SAVE YOUR CONGRESSPEOPLE’S NUMBERS IN YOUR PHONE. YOU WILL BE CALLING THEM A LOT IN THE NEXT FOUR YEARS.
GEORGIA PEOPLE: These are our senators, and the rep for GA district 10:
Senator Isakson Local office: 770-661-0999 DC office: 202-224-3643
Senator Perdue Local Office: 404-865-0087 DC Office: 202-224-3521
Growing up, my parents would always tell me to be properly dressed around my brothers. Never mind that they were walking around in short boxer briefs, it was me who had to be presentable. I was the girl, after all.
In school, I was always taught that the way I dressed affected a boy’s education. I was taught that the slight peek of my shoulder was enough to get me sent to the head office. It was much too distracting, because after all, a boy’s education had to be more important than a girl’s. At least, that was what they were teaching me.
This is why I’m a feminist.
I’m a feminist because it is 2017, and when I talk about how unfair it is that a professional athlete gets to walk away from the accusation of raping a girl without a single ding to their career, I’m some sort of radical that needs to calm down. Because that poor girl’s life will never be the same, but said athlete’s career is perfectly intact.
I’m a feminist because my aunt says things like, “Oh, those feminists, they just need to shave their armpits and get over it.” Because somehow the grooming of my body hair has everything to do with the rights I’m fighting for.
I’m a feminist because people still think you must have a vagina to be considered a woman.
I’m a feminist because I am 20 years old, and when I tell people I’m not sure I want to have kids, they look at me like I just defied all womankind.
I’m a feminist because when mothers choose to work rather than stay at home with their children, they aren’t doing “enough.”
I’m a feminist because when fathers choose to stay at home with their children rather than work, they somehow aren’t as “manly.”
I’m a feminist because parents still won’t let their sons play with Barbies.
I’m a feminist because young boys are taught that crying is bad. Showing emotion is bad, better to bottle it up and never feel. If you cry, you’re a girl, and no one wants to be a girl.
I’m a feminist because when my family talks about the Women’s March that happened yesterday, they say things like, “What’s protesting going to change?” and “They’re honestly just wasting their time. Nobody’s going to listen to them.” Never mind that the country we are living in found its freedom through protesting—No Taxation Without Representation. But I suppose that’s okay. It was men protesting then.
I’m a feminist because when my aunt saw a picture of a man marching with women yesterday, she snorted and said, “What’s he doing there? Doesn’t he have something better to do?” Her seven year old son was sitting next to her.
I’m a feminist because a highly qualified politician lost the presidential election to a less than mediocre businessman who based his campaign on misogyny, racism, bigotry, and slander. Because this country would rather see an over privileged, racist, homophobic, white man, whose years of experience sums up to zero, in office rather than a woman whose qualifications are more than his will ever be. Because I somehow have to have years of experience before I can even get my first job, but Donald Trump can get sworn into office without a single day of political experience.
I’m a feminist because the President of the United States speaks vilely of women and all minorities, and I’m the terrible one for disliking him.
I’m a feminist because I get made fun of for being a feminist.
I’m a feminist because I want the next generation of girls to live in a better world than mine.
I’m a feminist for these reasons and so many others.
Funny story: I promised myself this go ‘round that I was under no circumstances going to analyze the Holby City: Winter Trailer. At all. I was going to be very mature and watch the Trailer one time like all the normal people in the GA general audience who have watched it the way it was meant to be viewed. Once. And that was going to to be that.
Apparently the actual, literal translation of I’m not going to analyze the Holby City Winter Trailer this time around is: Imma gonna watch that sucker 75 times, backwards and forwards, in slow motion, frame by frame, screenshot Serena’s scenes, catalogue and label blouses, earrings, hair-line and makeup, cross reference with spoilers and official synopses and a preview video to come up with some ideas. Forget one theory. I’ve got six. I could blame @nicolaruth27 because she tagged me this morning and asked for some CSI level investigation, but that would be unfair as we all know I would have done this anyway. In any case I’m shoving it all under a read-more, mostly to save my six, I can’t believe you’re hanging in you precious people followers who don’t watch Holby City and obsess over Serena and Bernie and anyone else in the tag who simply like to watch the pretty gifs and have no use for the rambling prognostications of the obsessed theories.
I cover Congress, and one of the coolest secrets about my job is the furry, four-legged friend I get to bring to work everyday.
Mickey Chang is my effervescent, forever loving, black and white Shih Tzu. You may not know this — but the U.S. Capitol is the most dog-friendly workplace you will ever find. And come on — anyone who has to watch Congress all day needs a therapy dog.
And besides, Mickey loves schmoozing with senators.
Lawmakers have been bringing their dogs to the U.S. Capitol since the 1800s, according to the Senate Historian’s Office.
“In the late 19th century and the early 20th century, all the reporting about dogs has to do with dogs fighting or being on the loose in some way,” says Assistant Senate Historian Dan Holt.