#Why is nobody talking about the mouthfeel

[completeoveranalysis]

[3]

BUT ARE THEY WRONG?

Mokona’s cuteness is one of the strongest powers in the universe. It’s always a good reason to cook something!

Though I’m interested in the fact that not only can Watanuki not remember what things taste like, he apparently will forget the taste of anything pretty much immediately and so cannot taste test anything. Either that OR they meant that he can’t compare THIS dish to his previous dishes, since he can’t remember the taste of his own past meals? Which would make a bit more sense to me, but I guess go with whichever sounds best to you. 

Either way Yuuko is once again leading Watanuki right up to a fact that two people have already communicated to him already and at this point is just prompting him until he figures it out himself. Doumeki isn’t reacting to the physical taste of the dish at all - or at least, not the cooking quality of it. I’m sure Watanuki will figure it out, eventually, over the course of many chapters - but he’ll get there!

But not on this day in particular, since he is currently preoccupied with the fact that they enjoyed the dish enough to finish it. 

But he’ll get there!

[josies-not-suicidal-now]

only producing watery impotent loads is really hot actually, and it’s convenient lube

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 8/10/21

got a bunch of followers (many of you are Cool Teens, so also a reminder im 26 and an adult and you’re responsible for curating your own internet experience) anyway there’s a bunch of new folks since the last time this was a regular series, so i am going to pre-answer some things that popped up in my inbox last week.

a quick reminder that this is empathetically NOT a recommendations or review blog series. this is a quick snapshot of what i’m thinking about with regards to mass media this week, and sometimes i’m funny about it and sometimes i also do interesting diy shit

a work can be culturally or historically relevant and important in the history of a genre AND be extremely difficult to recommend unless i know you very well due to. hm. let us say many pitfalls due to the inherent nature of the genre or the time it was made in it any number of other factors that make it unpalatable to modern audiences but still worth knowing about. doesthedogdie dot com will be your friend here for anything i talk about ever

being critical of a work doesn’t just mean pointing out its flaws- was it successful in telling the story it wanted to tell? were the techniques it used effective? were the emotions it elicited in me probably the ones the creators set out to elicit? these are key components of a good review and often help me break down what i want to say about a particular piece of media in any given week, but this isn’t a review series of blog posts either.

i am literally just some guy and you should question everything i say

listening i’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair (from the musical South Pacific) brought to you by a random mix of classic movie musicals bc apparently im that kinda gay this week.

like a lot of other fifties media that aged like milk, i have fond memories of watching this with my grandmother. this isn’t even my favorite song from the musical (that would be bali hai’i) but i think it is one of the more technically interesting non-solo ones. specifically, the faint siren-y dissonance on “ahoy, ahoy!” has really been stuck in my head. the melancholy “ah fuck we’ve broken our hearts again” vibe on “rub him out of the roll call/and drum him out of your dreams” with all the girls singing is probably a result of a soprano-heavy cast, but it’s almost chimey in a way? the rhyme scheme of those lines has an excellent mouthfeel. ms gaynor singing “cancel hiiiiiim” has a very different vibe in 2021

two (really three? maybe four? the world is large and mysterious) things can be true at the same time: i don’t think i could watch this musical again as an adult because i don’t think there’s a good way to salvage or update it. the very qualities of this musical that make me go “fuckin yikes” as adult were the very qualities that made my grandmother love it so much. i can hold a bittersweet memory of a rare late movie night with a complicated lady and at the same time wish she were a better person. the dead never leave you with answers.

reading yet another fallow week. this field is turning back into forest

watching i often say “AAA video game (derogatory)” when talking offline about the bad batc/h, but this was a real bioshock ass lookin episode. i don’t think this show is succesful at making or having a point. mostly because it cannot contradict any existing lore in one of the most traversed time periods of this franchise, even with the expanded universe reboot. it falls into the uncomfortable realm of most starred wars media: this is a franchise for children but it also has to cater to legions of grownup fanatics with lots of money. but by god does it “feel” like starred wars. something not all the sequel trilogy movies or much of the clone wars series were successful at.

as a sidebar to that last sentence. the most memorable (imo) scene of the fucking sequel trilogy is the back-to-back battle couple thing in ep seven, which i have just rewatched, and it simply does not hold up. there are too many cuts to other sideplots, which kills any tension dead, and it’s mostly fighting on opposite sides of the room in frantic desperation instead of what i wanted, which was more than five seconds of synergy. it’s a bad rhyme of the final throne room fight in rotj and my memory of the thing is so much better, which is always disappointing.

back to the main point, i think a big part of something “feeling” like starred wars is big setpieces and fights that make you go “HAHA YES FUCKIN SICK WHY NOT!!!!” like, nobody ever Just gets shot in the head and temporarily incapacitated, they get half-vadered by the engines of a derelict ship trying to go to hyperspace while it’s grounded. this franchise has never met a location it couldn’t destroy in a beautiful and awful shower of light while the string sections of three combined orchestras play their hearts out.

this franchise is so fucking stupid and i am so invested in it

playing got my hands on the death trash early access, very hype to play it, have been too busy turning this apartment into a functional and comfortable space to live in for three separate people with their own separate toiletries and groceries and work from home/school schedules

making related to the above, the fucking kitchen table and chairs are done.

things wot i did friday night/saturday morning:

new rubber feeties on everybody

wrapped the legs that structurally couldn’t get new rubber feeties in jute to be kinder to my rental linoleum

bolted the legs back on the table and rebalanced it bc the jute wasn’t quite even

did a very halfassed job of fixing the drawer rails on the table

bolted the chair tubing back together

took all the old decorative tacks out of the backs of the chairs

scrubbed the seats and backs and the pieces the tacks were holding down with mild detergent (partially effective, it still has some patina but is sanitized)

re-covered the bottoms of the chairs in remnant black polyester to replace mildewed black canvas

put in new decorative tacks on the seat backs

bolted the vinyl parts to the chrome tubing parts (a long and frustrating process since there were two sizes of decidedly non-standard nuts and bolts)

wiped everything down again for idk good luck

sitting at my kitchen table in the sun eating a breakfast sandwich and some terrible iced tea on sunday morning was very nice. i lived in the south just long enough to get Opinions on iced tea and how the north can’t get it right. shouldn’t be gritty. shouldn’t be bitter. how is this even happening

some very very halfassed “during” pics

[sailormoonsub]

I feel the burning desire to tell you that the witch Sayaka turns into is named Oktavia von Seckendorff. It just has a great mouthfeel.

WHY IS NOBODY TALKING ABOUT THE MOUTHFEEL

[terezis]

I once included Kravitz having trouble with the Great Vowel Shift in a fic because that's SO funny to me. Kravitz talks about "shapes" and nobody knows what he means until he points to a sheep. He still calls pens "pins." All these newfangled long vowels spoken at the front of the mouth. The mouthfeel is just bad, you know? it's like the boys rhyming twenty with honey, only it's Kravitz rhyming "blood" and "goad."

holy shit

is this why he’s so bad at accents... 

[fresaconcremas]

Roxy: can someone talk about the femenine dick, why is nobody talking about the mouthfeel?? June: roxy this is a funeral!!

[magistralucis]

Russian Sweets Review [Part 1]

😍☕️ IT’S A HAPPY TEATIME ☕️😍

Today is my birthday, This year I received a most generous gift from @absolut--kurant in the mail: a package full of Russian confectionery! Me being all the way over in the UK, so many of these sweets I’ve only ever seen in images and didn’t think I’d see for a long time, if ever. To express my joy and gratitude, and because I love talking about food (news to no one, ahaha), I’ll be writing reviews of the contents as I work my way through this wonderful present. This is just part one of several, dealing with the small collection pictured above: four types of конфеты (chocolate sweets) and some very crunchy сушки (sushki).

The tea is Red Label (Fairtrade) with a spoonful of honey. Let’s begin.

(Note: I intended to take pictures of the actual sweets but I was so lost in savouring them that I forgot ffffffff and I really want to save them and eat them slow. So I’m going to do this scrapbook style, with the wrappers folded out to show what they look like. I collect exotic sweet wrappers so this serves me well, but I think I’ll include pictures of конфеты proper in the next installment of this review as a supplement.)

Сушки (Sushki)

This was on the top layer of the parcel you sent, @absolut--kurant! It’s the first thing I took out when I unwrapped the box, and accordingly the thing I surveyed for the longest as I sorted all the other delicacies.

From what I understand, the relationship of these мини-сушки to full size is that of mini pretzels to actual pretzels. Mini pretzels usually have so much rock salt tossed on them I don’t enjoy them half as much as soft pretzels - but these, I loved. These sushki are smooth and glazed with a faint yeasted aftertaste. Provided that they aren’t too heavily salted or spiced, I actually love dry flour-and-water-based foods like these. I get through packages of cream crackers, water crackers, and hardtack faster than I do any kind of cookie. I don’t even need to put cheese on them or anything, they’re moreish on their own.

Sushki taste of savory and nutrition. I just took one more out to sample while I was writing this section and then ended up grabbing five more. God save me. Also this is one of the very few things in the parcel with English labeling on the back, so I was perfectly informed of what this contained 😂

“Красная Шапочка” - Красный Октябрь (Red Riding Hood - Red October)

This sounds strange, but here goes: part of the unreality of Russian sweets for me was the way they are folded. That triangular-tipped fold is something I have literally never seen anywhere else. That’s probably why I picked up this one first - I saw there are other конфеты available with that fold, which I will sample in the next review - and examined it.

The fold was simpler than I thought it was. I’d always assumed it was some kind of tucked-in origami.

As for the chocolate itself: I expected solid chocolate, but was surprised by the wafer inside the chocolate shell. Russian chocolate is noticeably of different quality than British. Much smoother, I think, with a darker edge and a deeper flavour. The wafers were laid with some kind of nutty praline and it was a gorgeous thing to nibble. Are there конфеты that are especially good to take with tea, perchance? This was a good one for a quick dip.

“Халва в шоколаде” - Рот Фронт (Halva in Chocolate - Rot Front)

hello russian language reading skills please interact

I spent several minutes trying to read this wrapper and didn’t get far. I should learn cursive; this exercise showed me that I really am functionally illiterate in this language outside of print, because I can’t puzzle out the very frequent instances of cursive. At least it was obvious what was inside this chocolate. Халва couldn’t mean much else.

I love my halva, but I’m not versed in the different types. It took me ages to find a place that even sells them here, and it’s just the sesame variant. The halva inside this chocolate was very crumbly - but in a thicker, more tender way, not in thin layers like sesame halva tend to be. Brown, very sweet, extremely hearty. It’s one of the bigger конфеты in this package so I was satisfied.

I don’t know what type of halva it is, though. Some kind of nut?

Батончик - Рот Фронт (Batonchik - Rot Front)

WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT THE CHRIST ARE THESE THINGS???? WHY ARE THEY SO DELICIOUS?? WHERE CAN I BUY FIFTEEN HUNDRED KILOGRAMS OF THIS STUFF AAAA?aAa?aa??

This. This made me bolt upstairs and search for 1) what this was, and 2) where I could buy it in the UK. It’s like 2.29GBP for 250g and I’m honestly considering stocking up on these because these absolutely hit the spot.

I think I like pralines. I think I like pralines a lot.

According to my research these are peanut-cocoa praline rolls. They’re not covered in chocolate themselves, but the mouthfeel is so incredible I was enchanted from the first bite. Elegant and soft. It also has one of the few Russian sweet wrappers I recognized (only in terms of visuals - I am unversed as to what’s actually in them), red and gold. I might have actually read the ‘red and gold’ descriptor in a book, too, some months ago. I only can imagine this ascertains their popularity among Russians.

There’s a Russia Beyond recipe for those. I might follow it.

“Маска” - Красный Октябрь (Mask - Red October)

I think I like Russian pralines a lot.

Batonchiki-like filling covered with a thin layer of luxurious chocolate. I think maska must be a different kind of praline, though, it feels lighter somehow; batonchiki feel denser to me. I return again to the comment on the quality of Russian chocolate again for this one, because this is the конфета that helped define what feels so different between Russian and British chocolate. To me, it feels that the standard quality of British chocolate has fallen in recent times, and Russian chocolate reminds me of the time when it was good.

Don’t get me wrong. Fine brand name chocolates have always been available here, and they were always of excellent quality. Nobody’s complaining about the posh M&S truffles or the Rococos or the Artisan du Chocolat. The UK is not lacking in excellent chocolates or chocolatiers with flourishing personal businesses. But the quality of everyday chocolates, the sort from Cadbury and the like, that has fallen ever since Kraft took over a lot of chocolate makers here. I remember when Dairy Milk was sold in vibrant royal purple wrappers with thick, mouth-watering squares weighing easily 500g per bar. Now it’s dozens of flavours but with very thin, mediocre chocolate. The perils of selling out.

I think Russian chocolate hasn’t done that. I’d have had to experience the Soviet life to follow the full continuity of these конфеты, of course, but they taste more legitimate to me. These are some fine chocolates. Though now I’m thinking of that ‘Russian chocolate with a horse magnet inside’ post and wondering what that one’s all about

Guest of Honour: Зефир (Zefir)

It is her ; w ; I see that when your product consists of what is essentially jelly meringue, 250g holds quite a lot of zefir, given the size of this pack. This honorary mention is mostly to prove that these got to me fully intact.

I did not open the zefir at this time because I was concerned about how I would keep them. They seem to me the most perishable food, once opened, out of everything else in the parcel - and the weather here alternates rapidly between hot, cold rain, and humid-sticky at the moment. I have put the zefir away to rest in a nice cool dry place for now. They expire in August, so I will pick a cold afternoon in the next week or two to enjoy them for real. I will write a review about them, too.

Closing Words of Part 1

Overall, this made for an excellent tea break and an excellent treat for the tastebuds. I can’t wait to arrange the second teatime. I feel like I learnt quite a lot, too - I first encountered the word конфет(ы) in Duolingo, where they’re translated simply as ‘candy’ (e.g. ‘Купи конфеты, пожалуйста’ is translated as ‘buy candies, please’). I thought very little of this. Like... you know, candy.

These things.

Surely you mean these things.

these things??????

But turns out, no, конфеты did not mean these things. I don’t know what a fitting English translation would be for them now. ‘Buy candies, please’ is one level of abstraction, but ‘buy this very particular subset of Russian confectionery, often chocolate-coated and in bar form, that are sold individually wrapped in paper or foil, please’ is quite another. Some retailers seem to content themselves with ‘chocolate sweets’ (but batonchik doesn’t fall cleanly into that category) or just ‘sweets’, but none of these translations carry the nuance of конфеты proper. Something for me to think about.

Thank you so much, @absolut--kurant. You gave me a fantastic birthday, as well as several more teatimes to look forward to. Tune in soon for further reviews ;)

[havewegottenfe16newsyet]

155 days until Fire Emblem Three Houses.

Why is nobody talking about the mouthfeel?

[theghostisametaphor]

that feeling when you see ‘writing advice’ posts that say things like ‘nobody talks that way in real life, only in fanfic, and if people did talk that way it would be insufferable and annoying and I’d hate them’, or ‘it would be incredibly unrealistic to have more than one person talk that way in a story, but you may write one (1) person that way if it Says Something About Their Character’

and I’m just ....... I talk that way. a lot. it - doesn’t really say anything about my Character except maybe that I’m autistic, but I talk weird. a lot. I try to not around people I don’t know, which means I stay pretty silent around people I don’t know, because I am AWARE that it’s weird, but I - draw out vowels, I enunciate consonants in funny ways, I don’t use quotes to communicate as much as I used to, but sometimes I’ll slip one in because I need to. I repeat things. Half the time when I’m talking I’m also verbally stimming; if I’m by myself I’ll often talk to myself aloud, or make weird noises, or read out lines of poetry because they have a good mouthfeel. 

it’s taken me a long time to start trying to write characters that sound like me, and this is why. 

[believerindaydreams]

iv. saccharin

New Orleans, early 70s

tagged for suicidal idealisation. Tuco’s not doing too well on his own. Or too good, perhaps...

Blondie's not here. Tuco's just about sober enough to know that much.

He hasn't seen his partner for a year, or heard a word from him in months, but that doesn't stop him needing the only person who'd understand what's wrong with him tonight. Instinctively he reaches for the Duluth, before remembering it's not here. It's parked in a storage locker halfway across town, part of this whole attempt to pass. It should have worked.

It is working; he has somewhere to sleep at night, he's fed, nobody wants to arrest him for anything. He'd even picked up a girlfriend along the way, a waitress at the hotel where he washes dishes. Katie's tall, too tall for him, and redheads aren't his preferred flavour but she's a better class of woman than he's ever dared for before. Any man would count himself lucky to have her.

He's shaking. The prosecco's left a sour aftertaste in his mouth, and he wonders vaguely about pouring himself a glass of water, but moving off this bed seems more effort than he's able to muster. It takes as much as he can handle, just to dig a pen out of the bedside table drawer and start rummaging for a paper to write on. Something to do right this minute, that he can transfer to a post card when he's sobered up a little.

"Dear Blondie," Tuco says aloud. It's taken him several moments to remember that's how you start these things, and he doesn't want to forget before he starts writing it down.

The drawer's neat, organised, not like he lives here at all (he doesn't, it's just somewhere he's been renting). Bible. Keepsake earring, Katie had laughingly let him have that after losing the other one on a sight-seeing expedition into the bayou. Several little pink packets, the saccharin she's always coaxing him to eat- healthier, she says. And you can't taste the difference.

In his addled state, the notion of writing on those makes as much sense as anything; he rips one open, lets the small grains trickle down onto his tongue. Doesn't make any difference, if he can't be cheered up by straight sugar he's more broken than he thought-

all that's coming out of this pen are ink smears. Tuco throws it across the room, reaches for another one, realises he doesn't have any others.

Duluth. Passing.

That's it. He's done. Forget hanging on until Blondie has a chance to reach him, forget staring at the Golfo de México until the soothing lap of the water and the stink of dead fish had driven him back to life- he just hurts so much and doesn't know what could even bring him pleasure anymore-

(it's not even the pain, it's the flat-edged quality of the despair- jesus, he's only been like this once but there was reason for it that time, not like now which is inexplicable, but must be his fault-)

it's a bad sign that his body is letting him move now, to sit up and pull a shirt on and take his keys. Because he knows where he wants to go now, what he wants to do- it's taken him four days and far too much wine to dull his instincts enough, but he's managed it now. No more piddling around with water. He owns a gun and he knows where to find it.

When Tuco reaches for the doorknob, the door suddenly springs to life and smacks him, knocking him ass-flat on the neatly patterned carpet. He yelps; that'd hurt. A lot, actually-

and maybe it's gone straight to his head and broken something there, because he'd swear that's Blondie. Standing over him with that indefinable mystique, compassion in there but it's half something else-

pure smugness, part of his mind supplies. The part that resents being saved.  

"Came as soon as I could," Blondie says. "Pablo didn't wait to forward your postcard this time, he looked up the address and called me straight. You feel like getting up?"

"No."

"Okay." His partner sits down next to him, with casual indolence- that's something he'd taught Blondie, years back. Not too many white boys who know how to sit on a floor without looking nervous about it, they make such a meal of squatting down.

If he put out his hand, he'd be close enough to touch that smooth blue expanse of leg. His choice. Blondie won't touch him first.

"He knew it was that gonna be that bad, huh? That's more than I did- I guess my brother knows me pretty well."

Father Paul, though, what does his brother care about being taken for something he isn't; and his whole body cringes.

Blondie ignores him, in favour of removing a cigarette from a pack and lighting it. Not a cigarillo. The smoke drifts over him as Blondie breathes out; his body craves it suddenly, urgently, but he fights down that urge the same way he's managed to do for the last two months. If he takes it maybe that will mean the same as coming back to life, a signal he's unwilling to give...the pain's wearing off. It'd reminded him what real hurt feels like, but he's forgetting just as quickly.

"He wasn't sure," Blondie says at length. "I was sure. That's why I'm here."

"You want to help, you could get me a gun." It might be superstitious, to doubt if he'd be able to hold to his intent after feeling the familiar weight of that pack on his shoulders again, but he'd rather not take the chance. "Just let me have it. I'll do the rest."

"If you want to die so bad as that," Blondie says, in his quiet drawl, "might be better all around, if I just took care of it for you."

And Tuco jolts backwards, away- hating Blondie for this, that his partner knows him inside and out and exactly what buttons to press to make him live-

"You try, Blondie. You just try-"

and he lets loose then in a torrent of Spanish and English curses mixed, their sharp and heavy mouthfeel such a contrast to the politeness he's been living with. Every insult and invocation and scatalogical comment doing its part, drawing him in, until he's run out of words and rests exhausted, with his head on his partner's lap.

He weeps for a while, after that. Gets spit and tears and snot all over Blondie's jeans, knows it doesn't matter. It's okay.

"Feel better now?"

"Yeah."

After that they're quiet for a while. There's always this to be said for Blondie, a silence with him will never be uncomfortable.

(Not like Katie, who liked to blab bad as a hustler herself, as if pauses scared her.)

"So she broke up with you?"

"I broke up with her," Tuco says. "After I said- after I said it-"

calling ciao, because he didn't grow up in the neighbourhood for nothing-

and Katie had turned, waved, called back to him. "My gorgeous Italian lover!"

then he'd just fallen to pieces

"She didn't mind, even, she told me that. I'm crazy. I told her, go fall in love with a spaghetti-eater and never talk to me ever again. I quit my job- Blondie, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Think of her as a mark," Blondie says, the picture of calm. "You took her in with a hustle, and she fell for it. That makes her stupid. You don't want to go with a girl who's stupid."

That's not a fair way of putting it, Tuco knows that (she's smarter than he is, working on a college degree by correspondence course)- but it's a version of events that fits with who he is, and gives him back some dignity. A story he can live with.

"I want to fuck you. But later, not now."

"We'll do that." Blondie stubs out the cigarette on the carpet, where it'll leave a burn. Lights another one, takes a drag, places it between Tuco's lips.

It's good. It's very good. He finds himself sucking up the smoke with eager pleasure.

"Where's your pack?"

"Bus station locker. I was trying to go straight, prove to myself I didn't need it anymore."

Blondie snorts. "You still want to do that?"

"No." He misses it; and besides, when Blondie's around he always needs to be ready for a crisis. "We can go pick it up tomorrow before we hit the road. I don't want to see this city again in my life."

"That suits." Blondie stands up with graceful ease, looks around the place with that quick, assessing glance- such a sexy way he has of doing it, maybe later on he'll mention that. "You should eat something, you look like you need it- what the hell's this?"

This being one of the pink packets, which Blondie holds between thumb and forefinger like it's some sort of poison; and the contrast between the delicate package and his furious demeanor is so ridiculous that Tuco nearly falls over laughing. Too much, probably. But he hasn't laughed at anything in four days, he's catching up.

Blondie waits for him to stop, with tired patience.

"Something she left," Tuco says, when he's recovered. No need to explain which she. "She said it was healthy. Better for you than sugar."

"Well, that's all nonsense-" (Tuco's always enjoyed this, his partner getting hot and bothered about something that is in no way either of their faults.) "This is just chemical sludge. It's useless. Tastes sweet but that's all it does, it won't feed you."

"She said-" Tuco says, and then stops, his mind working out the implications faster than he wants. Suppose he'd gone out on the road again, without knowing that. Hungry and anxious and not knowing why the coffee isn't doing anything for him, thinking it was all in his head- he expects lies when people have something to gain or something to lose, but this? This is something else again, and he doesn't understand it at all.

"You see," Blondie says. "She was hustling you, too."

Not the way it happened; but between them, that'll be good enough. Giddiness rolls over him in waves. Too much shock today, too many changes, his body feeling ill-used and cheated. "I'm hungry."

"I thought you might be. Come on, you get cleaned up and we'll go out somewhere. I've got money to burn right now."

"As long as it's not spaghetti. Or a goddamn pizza. Or-"

he has a wide and extensive knowledge of Italian dishes and starts methodically cursing out every last one he can remember, while Blondie chuckles and lounges on the bed. It's a good thing, to have his partner back like this.

(The whole night, it never once occurs to him to ask what Blondie's been up to.)

[josies-not-suicidal-now]

seriously though guys why is nobody talking about the mouthfeel?

[spector]

im eating oatmeal with almond milk and its good but something... about the... texture..... is not... good in fact almost.. repulsive .. can we please talk about the mouthfeel........ why is nobody talking about the mouthfeel

[lilnasxvevo]

friend: no one’s talking about porphyry, WHY IS NOBODY TALKING ABOUT PORPHYRY

me: ...was that a fucking mouthfeel joke

friend: i don’t know. was it?

me: ..........

friend: it’s possible. 

[sqvudgeboy]

why is nobody talking about the mouthfeel

I love how deceptively legit and professional the thumbnails for Griffin’s amiibo Corner are.

Nobody could ever expect the content they are about to receive from these videos.

[packbat]

Tried to type up the title cards as well, as the above transcript doesn't include them. Typos my own.

The Artist is Absent #1

This was scrapped from the section on language. When I started talking about semiotics, and the idea of language as a shared code for communicating our lived experiences, I thought I'd mention that memory and imagination are basically the same thing. Because it's interesting! But it wasn't actually relevant to the thesis and it was already clear the video was going to be at least 30 minutes, so it got the axe.

The Artist is Absent #2

In the segment where I talk about "the meaning of a work," I put all the theory we'd be discussing into practice by doing a quick reading of The Avengers, discussing its various subtexts, both intended and unintended. (That's why the finished video has footage of The Battle of New York under this bit, if you were wondering.) But it got a little bloated as I vented some of my opinions on the MCU, and I realized I didn't need to demonstrate how to do a reading since the video itself was a reading of The Beginner's Guide, so I cut this bit on revision.

Bringing Back What's Stolen #1

I read a lot of feminist film theory in preparation for this video - Laura Mulvey, Claudia Herbst, and especially Carol Clover - and I felt duty-bound to comment on the fixation with phallic imagery. Freudianism doesn't leave a lot of room for symbols to mean different things in different contexts, or for the idea of a feminine penis (nobody even mentions the mouthfeel), so I wanted to acknowledge the sexual symbolism of slasher movies but also assert a Third Wave perspective. Also, I was going to hand-animate a woman doing a can-can with penises for legs, but I ended up cutting the whole thing to a brief aside for time.

I highly recommend Elizabeth Hills and Barbara Creed for some gender analysis that discusses the flexibility of symbolism.

Bringing Back What's Stolen #2

This got cut because it felt too much like I was trying to reassure men in the audience. Like, "don't worry, you can still like these movies." "Hey, it's not just about doing what's right, don't you want the movie to respect you?" I think the comment about feeling condescended to is interesting, but, ultimately, those weren't the people I wanted to make the video for, and this was going to go in Part 8, which no one that sensitive was going to stick around until anyway.

WSGT: Genre & the Adventure Game

I spent so much of the video talking about how the adventure game is defined by the essential experience it creates that it seemed important to at least gesture at that experience with a metaphor. Clara Fernandez-Vara links interactive fiction with theater in her writing, so that seemed like a good way to approach it. But I couldn't figure out how to visualize it, and it seemed like a lot of effort only to follow it with "just play an adventure game and you'll understand." And I really wanted to get the video online, so out it went.

Untitled _DOOM_ Video

I worked on this script for months. It started as a quick rant about the branding of the new DOOM, which was still a year from release. Then I revised it to talk more explicitly about what the original DOOM had meant when it was new, and how new DOOM seemed to be nostalgic not just for the gameplay but for the controversies of 1993. Then I expanded it more to talk about the different things violence means in media, and what it's meant to sell, and to whom. But then new DOOM came out, so I had to also address the ways the game's marketing differed from the final product.

I could never get the threads to cohere, and I eventually gave up. It's the only completed script I've ever abandoned. Which sucks, because, in many ways, I felt it was my best writing. I'll probably cannibalize a lot of it into a video about violence someday, but that video won't be about DOOM, so here's some of the bits on DOOM.

Indivisible Talk

My talk at Indivisible Somerville went through a lot of revisions. There's probably one word cut for every word that's in the finished presentation. These were some principles I wanted the audience to come in with; they've been foundational to The Alt-Right Playbook, and you can probably glean them from the videos themselves, but I'd never said them outright. Per usual, they got removed for time. Most of the other stuff I cut will turn up in future videos, but I felt these stood on their own enough that I could release them as-is.

We hit 200k subscribers! Holy heck! Here’s a small, celebratory video collecting my favorite bits and pieces that got cut from other videos.

If you like this, or the videos these bits were removed from, consider backing me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

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