Okay, but can we talk about how AMAZING Frontier was? Like, how did I not know that this was so epic until just now? Jason Momoa is (as always), a flawless giant badass covered in blood, Katie McGrath (as always) slays, and the plot is literally people of color + women vs. White Men™. It tickles me in all of my happy places.
Japangardi Miller spent his early childhood living a traditional and nomadic Warlpiri
life. The first time he saw white men was around 1928, during the time of the
Coniston Massacre which was one of the last events of the frontier wars. He saw
the men and their guns and heard about their bullets which had already killed
many Warlpiri people. Japangardi was placed under the control of a white
pastoralist and was used, along many other indigenous peoples, for free labour
in the mines and cattle stations. He drove cattle from near the West Australian
border to near Brisbane, at the end of the trip, his boss sold the horses,
forcing Japangardi and his colleagues to walk all the way back home.
After a lifetime of hard physical work, he moved back to Mount Theo and with
his sister in law, Peggy Brown, began to provide refuge and help for
those youths addicted to sniffing petrol. Mrs Brown and Japangardi began this
rehabilitation program completely out of their own pockets, using their age pensions to run activities for the kids and buy extra food and
clothing. All their work was
His methodology was simple: take
young addicted people out into the bush, teach them traditional law and country skills, and let the power of the land and culture heal their spirit. In 1994, half the
teenage population of Yuendumu (Central Australias largest indigenous
community) was sniffing petrol, but eight years later no one sniffed
at all, and ex addicts went on to become youth leaders and community workers. Modern treatment does not commonly advise such ‘alternative’ methods
as this. Australian social policy analysts deemed petrol sniffing in central
Australia an ‘unsolvable problem’, and to primary western methods of treatment,
Japangardi passed away on the 31st
of October last year.
I’ve had this dumb idea sitting around in my head for years now, originally for a fantasy novel I was writing to amuse myself as a teenager. You’ll notice some very strong inspirations from Eberron and the original Final Fantasy. Feel free to pick from this, if any of it gives you ideas for your home campaign.
The Age of Magic Is New
Magic didn’t exist on The Mortal Plane among humans and the Dwarven Kingdoms for the longest time. Sure, there would be the occasional outcry of a witch or spellcaster - but this could usually be explained away as superstition and here-say.
And then the elves arrived.
The Feywild destroyed by monsters and demons, the elves came The Mortal Plane as refugees, bringing their floating forest islands and cities along with them. They taught men magic - and how to draw powers from rifts in the fabric of reality.
What do men know? Nobody knows anything, everyone claims to know me “Declan Harp” but very few know my real name. Everyone presumes that I am what they see, that I feel what happened. But not a single one of them hears the wind, not one of them the whisper of the stream of the river. My pain is not only mine, but it is hers as well. Because love is the incurable, because desire is perpetual. I do not know why, I do not know but it is.
I can not forget her, & i´m trying now like i did in the past.
Like once i failed, i will come back to fail again, but this time my pain Is indomitable. It is impossible to forget her, i don´t know why.
She thinks to help me with hope, but really she´s killing me more everyday.
Because i can not take of her what i want, because i can not give to her what she wants.
What can I hold you with? I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.… I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have honoured in bronze: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twenty four– heading a charge of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished horses. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow –the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities. I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
While doubling for William Shatner, stuntman Ken Bates set a record for the highest descender fall in North America by plummeting off El Capitan for long shots used in Star Trek V: The Final Frontier. (He was wearing a wire support rig.) Bates is also known for his work in films like Die Hard and True Romance and would later work closely with Hollywood explosion fetishist Michael Bay on projects such as Bad Boys, The Rock, Bad Boys, Transformers and Pain & Gain.
(983 I Teen I Complete I Model!Stiles, America’s Next Top Model AU)
Because that’s Derek Hale she’s talking about. Her older brother. The guy who had the potential to be the male version of Gisele Bundchen but decided to become a photographer instead. Stiles used to have posters on his wall of Derek in nothing but boxer briefs.
He can’t just say no to such a big opportunity, right?
Maybe Stiles can become a model after all, and if not - then at least he will be able to see Derek’s ass live.
- The America’s Next Top Model AU you didn’t know you wanted.
At first, Stiles can’t fucking believe that Derek Hale is sitting at table 22. That’s Stiles’ table. The table that Stiles waits on (one of the many) five nights a week. And Derek is sitting right there, in the flesh, sitting across from Jackson Whittemore, one of Calvin Klein’s newest models. (Stiles doesn’t give two shits if Jackson is shiny and new—Derek Hale is and always will be his favorite CK guy.)
“Dude, Cora just threatened my dangly-bits. What the fuck?” he says, taking a long draught of his beer. “And she started talking about something I did in eleventh grade that I have no id-“
The words die on his lips as he looks across the room, and there, sitting on the edge of an armchair with a relaxed smile on his face, in a well-fitted henley and jeans, is Imaginary L’Oreal Boyfriend. Or, Derek Hale.
Derek’s modeling career started as favor to Laura. He’d kept it up after she’d finished the class because it was only six hours a week and it paid him really good money. All in all, it was a sweet deal, and he’d never regretted it when looking back on it.
(8,346 I General I Complete I Warning: (Past) Abuse, Panic Attacks I Model!Stiles)
Stiles and Derek don’t start off on the best of terms. Stiles comes off as a snarky newbie, while Derek reigns as the best model to ever grace the covers of Vogue. But when they get thrown together for four seasons of cologne ads, they have very little choice other than to get along. Scott doesn’t help with his insistence that Stiles straddle Derek’s hips—for the sake of the shot, of course.
(28,970 I Not Rated (Angsty Says: Mature) I Complete I Warning: Depression, (Past) Abuse, (Implied) Rape/Noncon I Photographer!Stiles)
Pack Mentality is widely considered the new frontier in mens fashion magazines rivaling GQ itself. Head photographer, Stiles Stilinksi, is out scouting for new models when he meets Derek Hale. Shenanigans (also angst) ensue as Stiles attempts to simultaneously emotionally unravel and woo the surly, reluctant model.
“Laura sounded majorly pissed off. And Stiles couldn’t help but think ‘What the hell was it with him and the Hale siblings? Was it some kind of cosmic joke? Did he somehow spite the magnificent house of Hale in another life? Why? Why couldn’t he catch a break.’ Stiles was being overdramatic, he knew that. He tended to do that when he was stressed, or overtired or hopelessly crushing on someone who would never, in a million years, like him back. Depressingly he was gone three for three; the odds weren’t looking good.”
Leonard did exactly what he always signed his tweets with.
He lived long and, dammit, he sure did prosper. He has been a major influence in so many people’s lives. The hearts he’d touched with his poetry and his actions. He will be remembered as one of the kindest, most good-hearted men to ever live.
On to the final frontier, Leonard. We will surely miss you.
Let me tell you a story about one of my subway rides today. I sat on the not very crowded subway with a suitcase between my legs (which was probably not immediately visible due to it being small and my stripey backpack being on top of it).
After a stop or three, a guy sat down next to me, making body contact all the way along my leg. Which I didn’t move away. Because a) I had a suitcase plus two legs to store, and b) principle (I took up exactly half of that seat, plus he had room to the aisle side (subway seats here are in two pairs facing back/front, with the aisle in the middle), so there really was no reason). Which seemed to make him nervous. I kept playing with my phone and didn’t acknowledge him in any way, pretending I didn’t notice that anything out of the ordinary (= a woman not automatically making herself smaller because a man nonverbally wanted more space due to being male) was happening here.
Eventually, he got up halfway, looking at something, and sat down with considerably less leg contact (but still some). I counted that as a semi-success.
But then he made his next move, which truly baffled me because it was actually new to me (and that’s after 25 years of being a feminist on public transport): He put his arm onto his leg so that his elbow clearly stuck into the air space right in front of my upper body. Of course I couldn’t resist documenting this (my anthropologist urges are strong sometimes), and I assure you, I actually had to lean away from him so I could even take the picture. Which means that his elbow was actually even more in my face than it seems here.
He really must have felt a mighty need to assert his right to take up more than his half of the seat to do that (frankly, I was a little amused at his desperation to do so by any means possible). And I’m sure we can all agree that this had absolutely nothing to do with the space he needed for his balls to breathe freely. Nope. He and his balls could breathe just fine, he just needed to show me that I couldn’t take up so much space (like, an entire half of a two-person seat!) without having it invaded by any available body part of his.
And this is just a particularly obnoxious example of what happens every fucking day on public transport. Trust me, I’ve been observing this shit for 25 years now, I know what I’m talking about. The percentage of men who first violate my space and then seem confused when I don’t make myself smaller just because they took the seat next to me (even when me and my luggage never took up more than half of the seat in the first place) is ridiculously high. Apparently, few of them even allow for the possibility that a woman may want to actually use her entire half of the seat. I have also observed that two MEN are perfectly able to share a seat more or less in the middle (although the guy on the aisle still tends to stick his legs out), so it’s not an inherent inability to contain their limbs. It’s just sexism.
…Williams challenges the roles of American masculinity and traditional portraiture by replacing the idyllic female, or odalisque, with romanticized scenes of men in various states of idleness. The narratives depicted circle around an inverted version of manifest destiny wherein men abandon their conquests and choose stillness, allowing the next frontier to be an inward quest. Through various painting techniques and a neon palette, Williams drapes each figure with mixed identities that mask traditional signifiers of purpose and patriarchy in order to construct a new and sympathetic masculine mythology.
In many ways, I think that masculinity is the final frontier for gay men. Even as we pass more laws to legitimize and protect our relationships, it’s the notion that gay men aren’t real men that continues to haunt us as individuals and as a movement. From Grindr profiles that demand “masc only” to men like Tovey who think their masculinity – however manufactured, however antithetical to who they truly were when they landed on this planet – is what makes them marketable or desirable, our obsession with what it means to be a man and what it means to fall short of that is keeping us from becoming truly liberated.
Noah Michelson “A Few Words on Russell Tovey and Why If It Weren’t for My Father, I Wouldn’t Be a Faggot” [x]
Grand Duchess Maria Pavlovna of Russia, wife of Grand Duke Vladimir Alexandrovich. When she first arrived in Russia, one of the American visitors to the city, Thomas W. Knox, summed up his views on this new addition to the Imperial family:
“Vladimir´s bride is good-looking, solid, well-formed, with plump and finely rounded shoulders; a neck neither long nor short; regularly formed features, with the exception of the nose, which has a slight tendency to pugginess … With her evening toilet, a coronet of diamonds, and a string of diamonds around her neck in which each stone appears as large as a walnut, she is prettier than when I saw her two weeks before at the frontier, where she arrived in a plain traveling dress of brown hollands. Say what you will, a princess appears more like a princess when dressed like ona than when attired like an English governess or a New York shop-girl. As I saw Vladimir´s bride at the frontier I don´t think many men would propose to her, but as she looks to-night at the opera she would not want for offers.”