Hello! Has Anyone Written A Fic Inspired By Your Kid!Jon Time Travel AU? (if You Allow That Kind Of Stuff?

the thing about Hozier is that he's gonna use mythology, literature and folklore to be horny and to make his songs political every time and i'm gonna eat it up every time

“…food and love - which is of course the same thing.”

Daniel J. Miller, “The Touch of Love - It Is Everything” / this post / “Joe Pera Shows You How To Pack A Lunch Box” (2020) / a text from my sister / A. A. Milne / @chennai-expression / Chef (2014) dir. Jon Favreau / Sam Sifton, “What to Cook Right Now” (New York Times) / Alan Alda

hey, pssst. ride the cyclone fans.

you totally shouldn’t click on this link because it totally won’t take you to a google drive folder which totally doesn’t have a full copy of the 2016 production of Ride The Cyclone which definitely isn’t in full 1080p

because that would just be terrible

The concept of Big Brother Billy is over looked. IMO i think in that space of time where he tries to be GOOD but needs to practice and work on his anger he'd be a fucking menace.

I NEED TO SEE:

Billy throwing a guy into traffic because he was passing around a polaroid of a naked girl Max's age

Bartender Billy smashing roofied drinks into the skulls of creeps eventually getting demoted to bouncer bc they cant deal with the chaos

Helping joyce carry her groceries to her car and then aggresively bangs on a car that almost runs them over

Shoving the kid's bullies into garbage cans

Billy Hargrove tearing apart someone's car (probably steves lets be honest) bc a kitten got trapped inside

WAY too protective of El and Max. Like when they're all dolled up and looking cute to dance he joins them and drinks except to scare off unwanted advances and surpersives wanted advances

no cops at pride just Billy Hargrove and an axe. I trust him im not gonna lie i trust him with my whole heart.

Billy in general, when someone he cares abt is mad/sad bc of someone else:

the fact they released a “clean” version of noel’s lament is SO funny to me. the song is about being a slut in postwar france and having sex with a different guy EVERY NIGHT and they think that taking out “fuck” is going to make it family friendly? yeah this song is very explicitly about sex and death but nobody cusses so here let your children listen :)

i think what’s on a person’s nightstand is very telling so reblog this and put in the tags the things you have on your nightstand

Green arrow, getting into a fight with batman because he insulted bruce

“No, I want to hear you say it again,” Ollie said, leaning over the conference table and past Dinah to jab a finger in Batman’s face. “Insult him again, I dare you.”

Batman, for his part, looked entirely unperturbed by Ollie’s chest puffing. “I said, Bruce Wayne isn’t exactly known for being intelligent. That’s common knowledge, Green—”

“Do you know what he’s been through?” Ollie exploded, “Do you know how fucked up his childhood was? It’s a miracle he’s functioning as an adult. I knew him in school — do you know what he was? Sad. And you have the nerve to sit in your stupid little angst suit and lecture me about Bruce Wayne?”

Dinah swallowed, giving up on holding Ollie back. She glanced at Batman out of the corner of her eye, prepared to size up an opponent, but the other man’s posture was still relaxed.

He seemed…taken aback, if such a thing was possible for the Batman.

“I…apologize,” Batman said quietly. “I hadn’t realized the extent of your feelings toward him.”

“Pick on someone your own size next time,” Ollie grumbled, as close to an apology as he would get. “Bruce does so much for Gotham. More than you’ll ever do. So yeah, if he’s a little air-headed sometimes — that’s fine with me.”

With that, Ollie turned on his heel, exiting the conference room with a huff. Batman stared after him for a long moment, steeped in stillness.

“He cares about his friends,” Dinah offered, breaking the awkward silence. Batman gave her an odd look, jaw tensing.

“I know.”

“Now you do,” Dinah said, putting enough emphasis on the first word for him to look up at her, acknowledging the hint. “I’d better go check on him.”

From Anthony Bourdain:

Americans love Mexican food. We consume nachos, tacos, burritos, tortas, enchiladas, tamales and anything resembling Mexican in enormous quantities. We love Mexican beverages, happily knocking back huge amounts of tequila, mezcal, and Mexican beer every year. We love Mexican people—we sure employ a lot of them.

Despite our ridiculously hypocritical attitudes towards immigration, we demand that Mexicans cook a large percentage of the food we eat, grow the ingredients we need to make that food, clean our houses, mow our lawns, wash our dishes, and look after our children.

As any chef will tell you, our entire service economy—the restaurant business as we know it—in most American cities, would collapse overnight without Mexican workers. Some, of course, like to claim that Mexicans are “stealing American jobs.”

But in two decades as a chef and employer, I never had ONE American kid walk in my door and apply for a dishwashing job, a porter’s position—or even a job as a prep cook. Mexicans do much of the work in this country that Americans, probably, simply won’t do.

We love Mexican drugs. Maybe not you personally, but “we”, as a nation, certainly consume titanic amounts of them—and go to extraordinary lengths and expense to acquire them. We love Mexican music, Mexican beaches, Mexican architecture, interior design, Mexican films.

So, why don’t we love Mexico?

We throw up our hands and shrug at what happens and what is happening just across the border. Maybe we are embarrassed. Mexico, after all, has always been there for us, to service our darkest needs and desires.

Whether it’s dress up like fools and get passed-out drunk and sunburned on spring break in Cancun, throw pesos at strippers in Tijuana, or get toasted on Mexican drugs, we are seldom on our best behavior in Mexico. They have seen many of us at our worst. They know our darkest desires.

In the service of our appetites, we spend billions and billions of dollars each year on Mexican drugs—while at the same time spending billions and billions more trying to prevent those drugs from reaching us.

The effect on our society is everywhere to be seen. Whether it’s kids nodding off and overdosing in small town Vermont, gang violence in L.A., burned out neighborhoods in Detroit—it’s there to see.

What we don’t see, however, haven’t really noticed, and don’t seem to much care about, is the 80,000 dead in Mexico, just in the past few years—mostly innocent victims. Eighty thousand families who’ve been touched directly by the so-called “War On Drugs”.

Mexico. Our brother from another mother. A country, with whom, like it or not, we are inexorably, deeply involved, in a close but often uncomfortable embrace.

Look at it. It’s beautiful. It has some of the most ravishingly beautiful beaches on earth. Mountains, desert, jungle. Beautiful colonial architecture, a tragic, elegant, violent, ludicrous, heroic, lamentable, heartbreaking history. Mexican wine country rivals Tuscany for gorgeousness.

It's archeological sites—the remnants of great empires, unrivaled anywhere. And as much as we think we know and love it, we have barely scratched the surface of what Mexican food really is. It is NOT melted cheese over tortilla chips. It is not simple, or easy. It is not simply “bro food” at halftime.

It is in fact, old—older even than the great cuisines of Europe, and often deeply complex, refined, subtle, and sophisticated. A true mole sauce, for instance, can take DAYS to make, a balance of freshly (always fresh) ingredients painstakingly prepared by hand. It could be, should be, one of the most exciting cuisines on the planet, if we paid attention.

The old school cooks of Oaxaca make some of the more difficult and nuanced sauces in gastronomy. And some of the new generation—many of whom have trained in the kitchens of America and Europe—have returned home to take Mexican food to new and thrilling heights.

It’s a country I feel particularly attached to and grateful for. In nearly 30 years of cooking professionally, just about every time I walked into a new kitchen, it was a Mexican guy who looked after me, had my back, showed me what was what, and was there—and on the case—when the cooks like me, with backgrounds like mine, ran away to go skiing or surfing or simply flaked. I have been fortunate to track where some of those cooks come from, to go back home with them.

To small towns populated mostly by women—where in the evening, families gather at the town’s phone kiosk, waiting for calls from their husbands, sons and brothers who have left to work in our kitchens in the cities of the North.

I have been fortunate enough to see where that affinity for cooking comes from, to experience moms and grandmothers preparing many delicious things, with pride and real love, passing that food made by hand from their hands to mine.

In years of making television in Mexico, it’s one of the places we, as a crew, are happiest when the day’s work is over. We’ll gather around a street stall and order soft tacos with fresh, bright, delicious salsas, drink cold Mexican beer, sip smoky mezcals, and listen with moist eyes to sentimental songs from street musicians. We will look around and remark, for the hundredth time, what an extraordinary place this is.

Based on an idea @thediktatortot and I workshopped in the tags of this post. Enjoy Tommy, Steve, Eddie and Billy being trapped in a room together!

Part 2 here!

                                                               *

The world was hell bent on making Steve Harrington suffer. He was sure of it, dead-set, knew it in his soul.

Why else would he have gotten trapped in the high school teacher’s lounge with Eddie Munson, Tommy Hagan, and Billy Hargrove of all people?

“–you didn’t skip gym every fuckin’ year then maybe you could have kept up, freak.” Tommy hissed at Eddie, his teeth gritted as he leaned against the door a demodog was currently trying to knock down.

“Oh yeah cause tackle fucking football really prepares you for the goddamn apocalypse!” Eddie snarled back, marring the effect a little by tripping over his feet as he brought over a chair to prop against the door.

“Shut the fuck up!” Billy growled at them both, “‘M tryin’ to fuckin’ focus!”

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Just watched Dead Poets Society. I sobbed really hard and now need to hydrate. Such a beautiful ending and the interspersed quotes.....I need the mantra from the society tattooed on my face.