Keychains for Guys Who Wear Slim Jeans

Let’s admit it: slim, raw denim jeans don’t make for very good carrying space. The back pocket can easily hold a billfold wallet, but the two front pockets are usually useless. I sometimes joke with friends: if I don’t pick up my cell phone, there’s a good chance I’m wearing new jeans and can’t get my phone out in time. 

The obvious solution is to keep most things in your jacket’s pockets, but it’s often easier to hang keys off of belt loops. Basic carabiner keychains are good for this. They’re simple and affordable, and can be easily bought at Amazon, Etsy, or REI

If you’re looking to spend a little more money, there are a bunch of other options — from the slightly more expensive to the extravagant. 

  • 3sixteen ($24): For their 10th anniversary collection, 3sixteen made some braided blue keychains that nicely complement indigo or black denim. 
  • Zissou, Summit Creek, and David Lane ($24+): Leather keyhooks that you can attach to your belt. 
  • Tender ($35): A slightly more unique design with a S-shaped hook. 
  • Superior Labor ($55): A fancy brass keyhook with old-timey appeal (lots of heritage-y words like “pride,” “craftsmanship,” “time,” and “effort,” so you can impress your Americana friends). 
  • Iron Heart ($70): A sturdy brass keyhook with three brass rings.
  • Dale ($90+): Beautiful sterling silver, S-shaped keyhooks with turquoise inlays. Each piece is handcut, rather than cast, in New Mexico by a silversmith with over forty years of experience. Also available without the inlay for a little less money. 
  • Maple ($90): A simple hook with decorative leather tails. 
  • The Flat Head ($115): One of the best Japanese denim brands around. This piece has some pretty handsome hardware. 
  • Good Art ($475): A leather snap key ring with a sterling silver rosette button. This one approaches fine jewelry in both make and price. 

My favorites include:

  • eBay: Just do a search on eBay for Japanese fishhook key rings and you’ll find a bunch of stuff from about $10 and up. I prefer “closed loop” designs — such as this, this, and this — over anything that’s too open. Open loop keyhooks slip off too easily when you’re sitting down (as the keys can get pushed upwards). That can leave you in a potentially bad situation if your keys are left in a cab or bus without you knowing. 
  • Don’t Mourn Organize: Scott is a leatherworker in Utah who can make anything you want for a small fee (I’m a big fan of his belts). He designed the above keychain for me. It’s made with a concho, some brass hooks, and a little bit of shell cordovan leather. Something like mine will run you $35, although you can also design something completely different. Scott’s prices vary depending on the difficulty of the job. 

i was tagged by the lovely clemmigns for the 6 unseen selfies of 2k15 but i havent taken that many selfies yet so im cheating and doing some from the past six months :o im tagging flechter mike5soz manbunstan theclassyfangirls anarchyaustralia annnddd punk-et-disorderly if they want to. havent already!


I love my sport. I do.
But if you think I will submit to the idea that playing this sport means I can’t be what you deem feminine, you are wrong.
I love my sport. I love the turf, I love the hits, the runs, the tackles, the conditioning, the hard practices, the sweat, the blood and the tears. But I also love my glitter. I love my pink, I love my high heels, my lipstick, my long hair, my makeup, my dresses, my skirts and my bows.
I love my sport. But if you think for a second I’m going to give into this notion that I am a “woman playing a mans sport”, you are wrong. If you think for a second women have no place on the field, you are wrong. I am an athlete and I am a girl. I can be both, don’t make me choose.

By Kevin Cullen

Four minutes. That’s how long Dzhokhar Tsarnaev stood there, next to the kids watching the Marathon on the sidewalk on Boylston Street, outside the Forum.
Four minutes. That’s how long he had to consider what the pressure cooker bomb he had in his backpack would do to those children, the Richard kids.

He had 240 seconds to play in his head the way the BB’s and tiny pieces of metal would be propelled, like hot razors, into those kids.

After four minutes, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev turned right, while everybody else’s head jerked left, looking down Boylston, to where the bomb planted by his brother Tamerlan exploded in front of Marathon Sports, killing Krystle Campbell.

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev was heading toward the corner of Gloucester Street when his bomb detonated. It ripped through 8-year-old Martin Richard, like a meteor. It left a gaping hole in his midsection, from which virtually all the blood drained from his small body.

Denise Richard’s sight was cloudy, from the projectile that had shattered her eyeball. She could barely see the outline of her son. It was just as well, because had she been able to see clearly, Denise Richard would be even more haunted than she is already.

Bill Richard picked up their daughter, 7-year-old Jane, but Jane fell down because, as Assistant US Attorney Bill Weinreb put it in his opening statement to the jury at Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s trial, “Her leg was no longer attached to her body.”

Lingzi Lu, a Boston University student from China, lay nearby. Like little Martin Richard, she was dead. Like Martin Richard, virtually all of the blood in her body had drained onto the sidewalk.

The government’s opening salvo in the federal case was strangely restrained, as if Bill Weinreb and the other members of the prosecution team knew the case they were about to present was so disturbing, so poignant, so horrifying, that to overdo it would somehow be an insult to those who fell dead or dismembered on Boylston Street on Patriots Day 2013.

Weinreb avoided purple prose, but his description of what Dzhokhar Tsarnaev and his dead brother Tamerlan did that day dripped blood red.

And in her response, Judy Clarke, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s attorney, gave us all permission to drop this charade of calling her client the accused Boston Marathon bomber who allegedly killed four people and maimed so many others.

"There is little,” Clarke said, “we dispute.”

Clarke broke the hearts of the conspiracy theory wackos who have held handmade signs outside the courthouse and filled the Internet with absurd tales of the government using actors to stage the Marathon bombing, that the Tsarnaevs were patsies in some grand conspiracy orchestrated by an Orwellian government.

Instead, she said: “He did it.”

Sitting just yards away, in Courtroom 9, were Denise and Bill Richard, who lost their son, Heather Abbott, who lost her leg, and Transit Police Officer Dic Donahue, who nearly lost his life, bleeding out in the crossfire on Laurel Street in Watertown.

Weinreb used his opening to deliver this bombshell: It was Dzhokhar who killed his brother, running him over in his haste to escape the police dragnet that closed in on them in Watertown. The bullets fired into Tamerlan by Watertown Police Sargeant Jeff Pugilese contributed, Weinreb said, but it was the injuries from Dzhokhar running him over that actually killed him.

Much of what Weinreb had to say was already public knowledge, but that part about Dzhokhar Tsarnaev standing next to the kids for four minutes was a new nugget, and it was devastating in a way that was unexpected.

This was not a rash act. The children killed and maimed were not collateral damage. They weren’t unlucky. They were targeted. Explicitly. When Dzhokhar Tsarnaev put that backpack down outside the Forum, he had to know he was going to kill and dismember children.

Clarke must have known how devastating that piece of information was. Even as she admitted her client had done what she called “the incomprehensible, the inexcusable,” she offered an excuse that was easy to comprehend: His big brother made him do it.

While Weinreb told the jury that Dzhokhar became radicalized by reading Islamic extremist propaganda, by watching Islamist snuff films, by reading a magazine put out by Al Qaeda, Clarke said it was Tamerlan who gave Dzhokhar all of his misguided direction.

“It was Tamerlan who self-radicalized,” Clarke said. “It was Dzhokhar who followed.”

Even before Weinreb and Clarke gave their opening statements, Judge George O’Toole made it clear he was going to severely limit the amount of leeway he was going to give Tsarnaev’s lawyers in mounting the “my brother made me do it” defense.

O’Toole said he was granting as “a general matter” a motion filed by the prosecution to prevent the defense from presenting so-called “mitigation” evidence aimed at reducing Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s culpability during the first phase of the trial, which is aimed at establishing guilt. The prosecution argued that evidence should be presented during the penalty phase of the trial, which — given that the defense has stipulated most of the prosecution’s case — is now inevitable.

O’Toole said he couldn’t give a precise ruling, but he made it clear he was going to curtail attempts by the defense to make the guilt phase of the trial about Tamerlan Tsarnaev.

O’Toole acknowledged that introducing some evidence about Tamerlan is inevitable, given that he carried out the bombings, too. But he said how much of that evidence will be introduced during the first phase of the trial “depends on its relevance” to Dzhokhar’s guilt.

Weinreb suggested that the evidence pointing to that guilt is overwhelming.
“He pretended to be a spectator, but he had murder in his heart,” Weinreb said of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev.

Weinreb said Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s bomb shredded flesh, severed arteries, lit people on fire.

While the city reeled, as surgeons pulled saws to amputate legs, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev walked into the Whole Foods in Central Square and bought a gallon of milk.

It was Dzhokhar Tsarnaev who got the gun used to murder MIT Police Officer Sean Collier, Weinreb said. Collier’s bloodied gloves were found in the car Tsarnaev drove that night.

When he was captured, cowering in a boat in a back yard in Watertown, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev’s motive was literally written on the walls, on the wall of the boat, in pencil. He bombed the Marathon to punish Americans, because America was killing Muslims.

“He did it,” Bill Weinreb said, in closing, “because he thought it would help secure him a place in paradise.”

Paradise would last forever. A lot longer than the four minutes that Dzhokhar Tsarnaev stood there, next to the kids whose bodies and souls he destroyed before he went to buy some milk.

One man decided to train in patience on his morning commute. He thought he was succeeding beautifully. He was patient when people cut in front of him. He was patient when they honked their horns. When he became anxious that the heavy traffic was going to make him late, he was able to relax with his agitated energy. He was doing great. Then he had to stop for a woman in a crosswalk. She was walking very slowly. The man sat there practicing patience—letting the thoughts go and connecting with his restlessness as directly as he could. Suddenly the woman turned, kicked his car, and started screaming at him. At that point he totally lost his calm and started screaming back. Then he remembered hearing that in practicing patience we see our anger far more clearly. He started breathing in for the woman and for himself. Here they were—two strangers screaming at each other—and he felt the absurdity and tenderness of the situation.
—  Pema Chödrön
FIC: Revival

Rating: T
Pairing: f!Trevelyan/Iron Bull
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Seeing Bull fall in battle forces Katrina to confront an old fear. Also on AO3.
Notes: pandasintheimpala put these tags: #there’s a scar right beneath his brain #i need a fic of him getting hit there #and going down #and not getting back up #and the inquisitor freaking out #because iron bull always gets back up on this post, tagged me in it, and expected me to just leave it there? I think not.

Katrina hears her ribs crack before she feels the pain.

She’s on the ground before she registers more than shock, and then the heat of the blow opens up from her shoulder to her hip, a staggering bruise that deepens with every pained heartbeat. She can’t tighten the fingers of her left hand around her staff. A shadow falls over her, and she looks up at the Freeman, silhouetted against the sun, mace raised—

Bull charges past her, bellowing, and bowls her attacker over. She can’t catch her breath, but she staggers to her feet, leaning on her staff. The crack in her ribs stabs, reaching deeper, but she reaches for what remains of her magic, planning to drop lightning on the Freemen swarming Sera.

She hears the sickening thud of a weapon connecting with flesh, and when she turns back, Bull is on the ground.

She waits—one heartbeat, two, three—but he doesn’t get up.

Keep reading

Got a midday workout today! It was a little run with some biking, and some bicep work! Holly is in class till late tonight so I may go back for a second round later, I am a bit behind in my mileage this month. Saturday I am going to do a trail run that is a 10k at 7:30am and then insane inflatable 5k at 11:30am! It is gonna be a good test of where I am at before doing Tough Mudder on the 14th! :-)

I am having an asian ginger salad for lunch, it is pretty dang delicious!

Anywho, hope yall are having an excellent day!

CLOAKS are the universal outer garb of everyone who is not a Barbarian. It is hard to see why. They are open in front and require you at most times to use one hand to hold them shut. On horseback they leave the shirt-sleeved arms and most of the torso exposed to wind and WEATHER. The OMTs for Cloaks well express their difficulties. They are constantly ‘swirling and dripping’ and becoming ‘heavy with water’ in rainy Weather, ‘entangling with trees’ or ‘swords’ or needing to be ‘pulled close around her/his shivering body.’ This seems to suggest they are less than practical for anyone on an arduous Tour. But they do have one advantage. Female Cloaks usually add a wide frilly hood, male cloaks a wide plain one, and neither of these adjuncts ever gets blown from the head or lets water in round the edges. So at least your head is dry. 

It is thought that the real reason for the popularity of Cloaks is that the inhabitants like the look of themselves from the back.

—  Diana Wynne Jones, The Tough Guide to Fantasyland