#goghs five cents

[teddywancurlobi]

guess who's gonna watch two more episodes today?

no... seriously. who?

[fishmongeringstudies]

opening scene, six am, scrambled eggs stuck to your economy class seat

the first thing i bought in america was a stick of deodorant. i'd left mine in singapore though i could've sworn i'd stuck it in my suitcase before i got on the plane, in the turquoise pouch with the chipped zipper beside the advil that would sit there, forgotten, for the next thirteen weeks and a travel-sized bottle of hand sanitizer that smelled like well-fermented ass. it turns out your memory fails you when you're getting ready to leave everything you've ever known behind, even if the place you're headed for has looked like a hammered michelangelo's impression of salvation for most of your life. it was that kind of time. i was out of my mind and found the space beneath my feet where one expects floor to be empty for most, if not all, of my waking moments. of course i forgot about the deodorant. the real surprise was that i thought i'd remember at all.

the first thing i bought when i got on campus was a bottle of mineral water. it took me two days to realize that the star trek-esque metal fitting built into the wall on the first floor of my dorm building was meant to dispense drinking water and not tiny silver men that would kill me in my sleep, and three to realize that none of the water coolers in this place were functional. jamming my thumb into the button while no longer expecting anything to happen, i was reminded, suddenly and abruptly, that we were in the middle of a pandemic. i resisted the urge to rub my eye with the back of my hand and went back up to my room, where already a small army of plastic bottles had begun to accumulate on an empty shelf.

the first person i spoke to here is not a good person, but not a particularly bad one either. he is selfish and has half-eaten dinner plates for eyes and thinks the world is the size of his fist, which is how most people are when they're eighteen, especially the boys, especially the ones who've never had to answer to the horrible, searching x-ray question, what are you? i only hope he grows out of it. i will not be the one to make him. perhaps he should make an appointment with god.

the first time i cried in america was when i was born (austin, texas, april 25th, 2001). it hasn't happened since.

today i cross the street from the campus bookstore to the bank, thumbing my passport in the pocket of my hoodie to make sure it hasn't fallen out, to make sure they'll be able to identify my body if i'm ever found somewhere wet and starless (behind a beat-up denny's would be good, though i'm not against the idea of waffle house). i spend five minutes standing awkwardly in front of the empty counter, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, before i notice the print-out saying something about online check-ins and virtual consultations. i ignore it. when i finally work up the courage to speak to someone the teller makes me scan the QR code with my phone anyway. eight hours later, long after i've opened my first bank account in america and gotten a bona fide american debit card, bright orange like they're afraid i'm going to drop it on the street if it's the color of slate (i will anyway, because god made me full of homosexuality and hubris and i intend to live up to his expectations), and discovered that i am, in fact, capable of holding a conversation with two strangers a decade my senior who both have wedding rings and big adult smiles and soft adult voices, i get a text back. good news, it says. we're ready to serve you now.

the spring semester ends today. when i was typing up my powerpoint on why i should be allowed to go to america for college at four a.m. last december i remember looking up the duration of the spring semester on the school website. look, i told my mom, while frantically clicking through fifteen pointless, but very cool animations on google slides with my other hand. it's only until may twenty-first. it's not that long. but it's long enough.

it isn't long enough. three months is barely enough time to get someone to trust you enough to tell you what they think about when they're lying awake in bed at three o'clock in the morning and they have to pee but they're starting to drift off and if they get up now they'll never fall asleep ever again in their life. and this is a country we're talking about. the worst one there is. the loudest, the proudest, the weirdest; the closest to the proverbial heart of man. the one that's the happiest to fuck the world up, over and over again. this is not your standard courtship ritual. this is a lifelong investmnet.

one time someone told me he'd always thought he was straight. but then i met you, he said, his brows scrunched together in a way that was both unattractive and made me want to pinch his cheeks together until there was nothing left in between. so what does that make me? imagine i'm standing in that room again but a little removed from the scene. i stare into the camera like i'm in the office. i don't have a fucking clue, i say blankly. why the fuck are you asking me?

there is something about people who have never been forced to consider the question of what constitutes their fundamental identity as a human being. they're so happy, but in the way that toddlers are before they realize that melted ice cream doesn't taste as good as the frozen stuff and things that die, like, actually don't come back to you even if you hold a funeral for the ant you accidentally squished and stop drinking soda for a week and make sure not to step on all the white tiles in the hallway outside your apartment. i imagine all of the happy cishets in the world poised on the edge of a very tall building. what's at the bottom of the drop? i dunno. you'll have to ask them.

recently i acquired seven bottles of nail polish from a friend who was trying to clear out her collection before leaving for the summer. i keep forgetting people are leaving for the summer, and now they've all left. reality hits you like a horse's ass across the cheek. it's warm. it's soft. it smells unpleasant but in a way that makes you want to keep smelling it even though at the back of your mind you know that this isn't going to improve your mental, physical, or spiritual health, and yet in the moment, in the moment that is the now that is the blood coursing through your veins all red and shimmery like glass, in this funny little moment all you can do is stand there, eyes squeezed shut, and inhale.

i convinced my mom to send me my favorite bomber jacket. the postage cost seventeen dollars and fifty cents in singapore dollars but true to form it only took thirteen days to get from one side of the globe to the other. it is not so appalling after all that we are connected by distances. geographically speaking, i am always beside you.

there is at least one working water cooler on this campus. in the basement of this whoozy, boozy freshman dorm, beside the laundry room with its clear glass door and clean, powdery lavender-lemon-jasmine smell, you will find a metal fixture with a thick rectangular button hidden under the lip of the bowl. if you jam your thumb into it, water will erupt from the fountain-head like god pouring life into the mouths of tiny clay-children or goldfish, depending on which version of history you're a fan of, depending on which natgeo subscription you have. and the water will be very sweet, very cold, nourishing the skin on your bones and furnishing the ground beneath your feet. but don't drink from it. we're in a pandemic, after all.

instead go back up, past the lounge with the flatscreen tv and the ratty green sofas, past the elevator that sounds like a soap opera crossed with a minecraft let's play, past the cubbyhole of a kitchen with the moldy sponges and the half-empty bottle of dish soap that smells like van gogh's impression of misery until you get to the room that, for the last three brilliant, battered months, has been yours. and let yourself in.

05.21.21

[delightfullyatomicfest]

John Lennon and Yoko Ono in Melody Maker, 20 September 1969

JOHN LENNON HASN’T had a royalty cheque for two years. 

And, believe it or not, he’s feeling the pinch. The man whose group has again been voted top in both the British and International Sections of the Melody Maker poll told me that The Beatles’ own company, Apple, has become something of a monster which is out of control. 

“The problem is that two years ago our accountants made us sign over 80 per cent of our royalties to Apple,” he said. “We can’t touch any of it, and it’s a ridiculous situation. All the money comes into this little building and it never gets out. If I could get my money out of the company I’d split away and start doing my own projects independently. I’d have much more freedom and we’d all be happier. I still feel part of Apple and The Beatles, and there’s no animosity, but they tend to ignore Yoko and me . 

“For instance, [Radio One DJ] Kenny Everett recently made a promotional record for Apple which was played at the big yearly EMI meeting. It plugged James Taylor, The Iveys and so on, but it didn’t mention the things Yoko and I had been doing. And I think that what we’re doing is a lot more important than James Taylor. Apple seem to be scared of us. They didn’t want to have anything to do with our Two Virgins film, for instance. 

“The Beatles’ wealth is all a myth. The only expensive things I’ve ever owned are my house and cars, and I just haven’t got anything else. Don’t even break even on the films we make, and that worries me.” 

I asked John about his recent evening of films at the ICA. (A selection of John and Yoko ’s films, including Ono’s Bottoms and Lennon’s Self Portrait , which detailed the rise (and fall) of his penis, were shown at the New Cinema Club, Institute Of Contemporary Arts, September 10, 1969.) Why, for instance, did he feel it necessary to make a film like Self Portrait, with its highly controversial content, when Andy Warhol did the same thing years ago with his films Empire State and Sleep ? 

“It’s not like Warhol at all. He’s negative and we’re positive. I can’t stand negative things, and our attitude is completely different. Self Portrait has vibrations of love, and it has an immediate message of humanity. 

“When Yoko showed me her Bottoms film I thought it was ridiculous, but she explained it to me and I was convinced - I don’t remember how. I think it was the humour of the film, and that’s what we try to keep in our films. If we’re going to get these films shown, we’ve got to get into the scene. We’d like to make a film that wasn’t so underground in concept, but we wouldn’t do something like Barbarella or 2001 - although that was a lovely trip. 

“Films are moving ahead so fast - much faster than music or anything else. We’re hoping to have talks with a big production company which I shouldn’t name - oh well, why not, it’s United Artists - who seem to be interested. We’d like to get on at the West End.” 

Yoko, who was sitting by John’s side, chipped in, “We don’t know how to go about it. We’re sussing it out at the moment.” 

John continued, “It’s not like films, it’s more like TV. Dylan was right - it should be less important. Our films, and the Beatles and Stones albums, shouldn’t have so much noise made about them. The process of production is so slow. We’d like to speed the process up, and get a new album and film out every month. For instance, we haven’t been able to get our Wedding film out yet. And the trouble is that people will say we copied Jane Birkin on one track, but we didn’t. It’s just that we couldn’t get ours out fast enough. 

“Most of our films are like portraits. For instance, Smile is simply a portrait of me sending out love vibrations to Yoko, who’s on the other end of the camera. People say it’s boring, but they’ll look at Van Gogh, which doesn’t move at all, and they’ll have it on their walls.” 

I suggested that perhaps the audience at the ICA had been dissatisfied because the environment was wrong. 

“Yes, it would probably be best if people had the film at home and could show it on their walls and look at it when they felt like it. The ICA night was too long- but they asked for five hours of film and that’s what I gave them.” 

Wasn’t the work of John and Yoko coming to resemble an open diary, I asked? And don’t most people keep their diaries in their desks at home? 

“Yes, but who doesn’t like to read other people’s diaries? ” he replied. “That’s exactly what it is-but you must realise that The Beatles’ albums, and Dylan’s for that matter, are all diaries. We’re just bringing it out into the open and making it more honest.” 

Does this theory inevitably lead to disposable works of art? 

“Yes, that’s what we’re aiming at,” said John. “Yoko’s having her book of poetry, Grapefruit, reprinted and at the end there’s an instruction to the reader to eat the book.” 

Yoko added, “When you keep things they become tombstones. The world would be clogged up with useless objects.” 

Have they any new ideas for their well-publicised campaign for peace? “There’s this Peace Ship plan,” said John, “which is very strange because I recently read a book which contained almost exactly the same idea. There was this bloke in a white ship from which he broadcast peace messages, and then when I’d read the book a real guy came to me with the plan for doing it. Someone’s also given me some ideas for doing things in Nigeria and Biafra, but I can’t talk about it at the moment.” 

Does this suggest a more direct involvement with war and peace? “Not really, because I think that what we’ve done already, like staying in bed for peace, has been very direct. It wouldn’t do any good, for instance, if I was to go to Vietnam and get shot. That proves nothing, but it’s what people are always telling me to do. 

“We’re after people’s minds. If we go to see Nixon, for instance, it wouldn’t make him down tools, but we think we could find out what he thinks and tell other people. We’d know where he was at. 

“You can’t change anything by violence. You have to be aggressive, that’s part of everyone and I’m aggressive, but we have the machinery to challenge it. We don’t have to get involved in other people’s games, and I think that all the killers should be allowed to take their tanks into the desert and kill each other off. But I don’t want any part of it, and we’ve got the power to do something about it.” 

With two albums in the can Abbey Road and Get Back [sic] - would there now be a lull in The Beatles’ recording schedule? 

“The trouble is that we’ve got too much material. Now that George is writing a lot we could put out a double album every month, but they’re so difficult to produce. After Get Back is recorded in January, we’ll probably go back into the studio and record another one. It’s just a shame we can’t get more albums out faster.” 

Richard Williams

Source

[littlekiller-00]

Tagged by: @killian-and-carey-fangbattle

Rules:

Answer the Q+A’s and tag 5 of your most recent followers and 3 of your biggest fans

What’s the smell of your shampoo?

Some fruity stuff from the 99 Cent Store (should probably invest in something nicer).

What is your aesthetic?

I like everything from “soft grunge” (blah) to heavy metal to kawaii to Renaissance art. I don’t have one, particular blog aesthetic. I just reblog what I like and don’t reblog what I don’t care for. One second it’s Studio Ghibli fanart, the next, it’s meme posts, and right after that could be something edging on soft-core teratophilia (fight me).

What’s your favorite time of the day and why?

Though I don’t get to spend a lot of time in it, I REALLY love the early morning, right when the sun begins to rise. It’s so still and quiet; definitely dark, but with the warning signs of morning; the birds are waking up and the whole world is covered in dew. Usually, no one else is up. I can be a half-awake spectator to the city.

What do you like most about the beach?

She’s so BIG. I grew up in a desert, so any time I get to be near Her (the ocean), I do my best to at least get my feet wet. I love just walking up and down the shore, right at the water line. I pick up all the shiny rocks and shells and sticks I get get my little grabby-hands on.

What do you worry about constantly?

Money. I’m often reassure that, “it’s just money”, as if it’s something that will always be there, and I’ll never run out, but living in a big, BIG, EXPENSIVE city like I do, I constantly worry about going broke and having to leave. Or worse, take out a loan or live out of someone else’s pocket. I hate the idea of being a financial leech.

What is a song you’ve cried to before?

I’ve actually cried to “Set Fire to the Rain” by Adelle. I mean, I like her music, but it just caught me at a time that, I guess, I needed to hear it, and I was stuck in LA traffic, in my little car, by myself, just sobbing and trying to sing along and cry at the same time.

What are some relaxing tips for your followers?

I listen to music. It doesn’t matter what kind. As long as I can plug into my iPod for a few minutes (or an hour, or two, or whatever), I can usually either A) organize my thoughts, B) realize that my problem(s) isn’t as big or complicated as I think it is, or C) forget about what I was worrying about and lose myself in a long, convoluted daydream.

What are some things that made you tear up?

Art, apparently. I visited Paris this summer, and of course ended up at the Lourve. I told my SO that I didn’t care about seeing the Mona Lisa (”We know what she looks like. We get it,” I told him when we’d finally made it inside. He just smiled at me, knowingly), but he insisted that she be the first thing we see. And, gods below, did I see her. And she saw me back from across the room. I cried all the way up to the velvet rope, said my hellos to a strip of ancient canvas, and left feeling like a different person. I did the same thing at the Orsay (my tears directed this time at Van Gogh’s self-portrait), Notre Dame, and the Eiffel Tower.

What is your favorite from each of the five senses?

Sound: moving water, LOUD thunder, people getting ready in the morning while I’m still in bed, a theater full of people reacting to a film together

Smell: coffee in the morning, airports, old books, musk (men’s cologne, mostly)

Sight: the sky after a rainstorm (with or without rainbow), my SO when he looks up at me through his eyelashes, the ocean at night

Taste: mint chocolate chip ice cream, toast with jam, earl grey tea, Portuguese coffee, carrot cake

Touch: animals when they’ve been laying out in the sun, animals in general (have you ever pet a cow?), big sweaters, flannel, flower petals

What is one alternate reality you'd like to be in?

One where I feel more free. Where there aren’t so many people or so many responsibilities; where there’s a little adventure; a little less fact and a little more fantasy-fiction.

What are some troubles you face on a day-to-day basis?

Wondering if my dreams of being an actress are A) possible and B) founded on my own desires, and not the desires of the people who raised me.

What is one scene in a book that made your really sad?

(SPOILER ALERT)

The end of Jonathon Strange and Mr. Norrell. Not only is my 1000 page journey over, but Jonathon can’t see his wife anymore. He’s fought so hard, for so long, and he can’t even spend his life with the woman he loves. He’s trapped in some in-between place with no end in sight. It took a lot out of me.

Say something to your followers:

I don’t know a lot of you, and most of you probably won’t read this (who would? I certainly don’t blame you), but I love being here. Even after this porn-bot apocalypse, I still find things to move me, inspire me, and entertain me (in a variety of ways *wink wink*). I don’t know what it’s worth, but I’ll be here a while. And you can always message me. For whatever reason you make up.

Those I am tagging:

@starrywisdomsect, @chasencooper, @mangofruiit, and @civilunionsquid And whoever else wants to do it (or not). I can’t remember the last time I tagged anyone, let alone several people.

[topfygad]

New Zealand’s Wild Cities: A Kiwi Kinda Adventure

Short drives from Wellington, Dunedin and Christchurch lead visitors to rare penguins, sea lions play-fighting on beaches, and fur seals having a lovers’ tiff.

  Wait long enough in the discreet sheds built along the Otago Peninsula and you’ll see yellow-eyed penguins waddle out of the sea after a hard day’s swim. They’re among the rarest in the world, but Otago gives visitors ample time to observe their adorable antics. Photo By: Xavier Fores-Joana Roncero/Alamy/Indiapicture

Dunedin

Come hail or harsh sun, the Otago Farmers Market pops up outside Dunedin Railway Station every Saturday morning. Its stained glass windows perk up when the morning light hits its early-20th-century facade. In the lawns, out come pumpkins the size of doll houses, Pinot Noirs from the Central Otago Peninsula, and buskers with guitars and voices like honey. A Frenchman hands me two crêpes: one with poached pear bundled in chocolate sauce and custard, another packed with Jerusalem artichokes, pork, cheese and egg. People’s purses balloon with jars of fragrant honey made from manuka bushes. A man with crinkly eyes doles out bacon butties, pepper pâté, and a smile each. And pies, oh there are pies everywhere. I try the traditional hangi (Maori feast) pie with beef, pumpkin, kumara (sweet) potato, and carrot. I feel I’ll never be able to eat another meal again. Until I move to the next truck.

It has been a long time since a group of Scottish settlers came to this part of Maori land in the mid-19th century and named it Dunedin (‘Dùn Èideann’ is the Scottish Gaelic name for Edinburgh). Today, the city is a peppy university town, with ringing pubs, stunningly preserved Victorian and Edwardian buildings, a castle, and even its own kilt shop.

But I am here for Otago Peninsula, a mere 30-minute ride yet a world away, where the van waiting outside the railway station will take me.

Beyond the window of this little shed is a world that was never tamed. Cliffs so high that they’d tingle toes; the sea so blue that it can see into your soul. Dusk makes the ancient bays and beaches of the Otago Peninsula seem a bit broody. The wind howls and roars, but the green and gold tussock by the harbour bears it stoically.

I peer a few feet ahead, at the sea. Anytime now.

A yellow-eyed penguin emerges; it toddles slowly with hunched shoulders, as if walking back from school after flunking a maths test. I can sympathise: it has dived into the sea 200-300 times today, swimming 65-230 feet each time in search of seafood. It comes close enough to the shed for me to see its rad yellow eyebands—which gives it its name. Its irises too are the colour of van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.”

The royal albatross (top)—one of the world’s largest birds—and cheeky Hooker’s sea lions (bottom) are some of the creatures that call the Otago Peninsula home (bottom inset). The peninsula is a mere 30-minute drive from Dunedin (top inset). Photo Courtesy: Dunedinnz (Albatross); Photos By: Michael Rucker/ImageBroker/Getty Images (sea lions); Daniel Harwardt/iStock/Getty Images (coast)

Knee-high in size, this penguin species is believed to be the world’s rarest; about 3,000-odd ones are found only here, in New Zealand, on the eastern and southern coasts of South Island. I’m incredibly lucky to see them like this in the wild, where they roam free and are at home.

In seconds, more and more cuddly creatures rise from the sea, some strutting like calendar models, oblivious to me and my guide silently whooping in the hide. Mark, the guide, has seen this hundreds of times; he taps my arm when one penguin throws back its arms à la Shah Rukh Khan, and emits a long shrill cry. “Their Maori name is hoiho, which means ‘noise shouter’,” Mark whispers as the penguin sings with rockstarish head-shaking. Hoihos aren’t very sociable; I watch one accidentally headbutt a sheep on its way up the cliff behind us, waddling on quickly without meeting its eye. At the top, one curious lone penguin stands like Christ the Redeemer. For 15 whole minutes.

All life in the 33-kilometre Otago Peninsula revolves around preserving its creatures—the yellow-eyed and little blue species of penguins, New Zealand fur seal, New Zealand sea lion, and royal albatross. Large stretches are unpaved and settlements are small; it’s heartening to see some private properties have walking tracks for the easy passage of tourists. Trench-like hides built at various beaches and corners along the peninsula ensure that some wildlife (penguins in particular) rarely comes in direct contact with visitors. Operators like Mark’s company, Elm Wildlife Tours, are visibly passionate about ecotourism.

At the northernmost tip of Otago Peninsula is Taiaroa Head. The main attraction on this windswept piece of land jutting from the coastline is The Royal Albatross Centre, the only breeding colony on a mainland for the world’s largest seabird. Their wingspans are more than 10 feet (that’s twice the size of my mother). Rob, a guide at the centre, leads me to a viewing room with a glass panel. A young chick is huddled outside on a patch of grass, looking like it were made of cotton balls. Adult albatrosses spend almost 80 per cent of their time at sea, returning only to feed their young. They divvy up parenting, like the progressive spouses they are. Rob speaks of these gentle giants as if their lives are no less gripping than his favourite soap opera. “Royal albatrosses, or toroa, have a three-year mating period, so if you get bored of your partner, it’s going to be a while before you’ll settle down again,” he says. His favourite albatross here, he adds, was the one called ‘Grandma’ because she raised her last chick at 62. “She divorced one of her partners, but got back again. Then there’s one here in his 30s, who is bereaved and hasn’t put himself out there again,” rues Rob. As the perfect ending of his story, an adult toroa comes soaring in a circle, and swoops in towards its chick. I see its grace. These “ocean wanderers” fly 1,90,000 kilometres a year; I think of how, in less than eight months, a strong gust of wind will launch the baby albatross on its maiden flight.

Exploring the Otago Peninsula largely on foot, beside empty beaches, inlets, and dreamy purple clusters of hebe blossoms, feels more intimate than a safari. It also drives home an important lesson: that it’s me who’s on the turf of these creatures. Making myself invisible—huddling in hides, standing behind glass panels—is key to understanding them.

So I feel oddly exposed when Mark walks down Papanui beach in long strides, towards two, five, nay, nine sea lions roaring and gamboling in the sand. “They are endemic, the Hooker’s sea lions; confident around humans. Maintain safe distance, and you’re fine,” he says, coaxing me to stand about eight feet away from one that weighs at least 350 kilograms. He takes photos while I look over my shoulder at the way the creature bullies and playfights smaller lions around him, throwing sand over them, barking and chasing them. Almost all sea lions at Otago, I learn, are related to ‘Mum,’ a female who had a pup here in 1993—the first to be born on the mainland in over 100 years (https://ift.tt/1bDQ61i; tours from NZD122/Rs5,760 adults, children NZD112/Rs5,300).

All you need to observe New Zealand fur seals along Tongue Point, a 20-minute drive from Wellington (inset), is curiosity and a healthy 15-foot distance. Photos By: Skyimages/iStock/Getty Images (seal); Fotoshoot/Alamy/indiapicture (boy)

From the airplane, you can see the Hollywood-style sign perched on a hillside. ‘Wellington’ it reads, the last two letters askew, floating skyward. On ground, the world’s windiest city pops with Victorian homes along its harbour.

That evening, my walk from Wellington’s waterfront to Cuba Street passes through revolving doors of the world: Japanese, Vietnamese, Moroccan, and Indonesian food aromas come drifting, transporting me to secret kitchens. Coffeemakers hiss with head-clearing Cuban coffee at Fidel’s café; a puppeteer pulls strings to make her puppet paint a portrait of a little girl standing close by, sending her into squeals of disbelief. At Cuba Street’s night market, a persistent steampunk jewellery artist, a bookshop, and a paella stall tug at my heart and purse strings.

They say you can walk from one end of the Kiwi capital to the other in 30 minutes, and I do. The morning after, I book a tour with Seal Coast Safaris to look beyond the windy city. In just 20 minutes, Kent, my guide for the three-hour tour, drives the 4WD to a wind turbine on Brooklyn Hill, through private farmlands with ostrich and red deer. Soon, I see old mountains lick the waters of the South Coast. Wellington seems far away, and this place its rustic sibling—no golden sand beaches or sunbathers, no people at all.

Just the sea pummelling grey outcrops and hills that look a giant’s hairy back. When Kent stops along one of the beaches, at Tongue Point, I get out and—with a shock—realise I am surrounded by at least 15 New Zealand fur seals. Some look out at the robin’s-egg blue water. Others yawn as I tiptoe towards them, but begin hissing and spitting when I get too close. Two fur seals seem to be having a lovers’ tiff, smacking and flapping their flippers at each other. Another one scratches its neck and looks bored with their drama (www.sealcoast.com; tours from adults NZD125/Rs5,900, children 14 and under NZD62.5/Rs2,950).

A 1.5-hour drive southeast of Christchurch takes visitors to Akaroa, whose waters host the Hector’s dolphins—the world’s rarest and smallest. Don’t miss Akaroa’s other attraction: a whimsical sculpture garden with mosaic figures, the Giant’s House (inset). Photo Courtesy: Graeme Murray (dolphin), Photo by: Dennis Macdonald/ AgeFotostock/ Dinodia Photo Library (mosaic statues)

Roses bloom outside colonial homes in Rue Balguerie, and onion soup bubbles in old-timey cafés in nearby Rues. Iridescent paua shells mark some graves in the Old French Cemetery up the hill. I haven’t woken up in France, but it’s easy to forget that in the little town of Akaroa, a 1.5-hour drive away from Christchurch, South Island’s largest city.

Hewn from a volcano, Akaroa tucks charm in the little things—a walk to its lighthouse that watches over Caribbean-blue waters of the Banks Peninsula; stories of how French settlers arrived at its shores in 1840 only to find that the British had beaten them to it; or at the Giant’s House, a sculpture garden with Gaudi-like mosaics and Dali-esque whimsy.

Akaroa is catnip for another, significant reason—it is the home of the rare Hector’s dolphins, among the world’s smallest at five feet and endemic to New Zealand. When a Black Cat Cruise ship takes me and other visitors into the bay, cathedral-like coves and mystical orange-brown volcanic formations surround us. Seals scamper as our boat inches closer to the rockface. And then, as suddenly as they rose, the grey-black bodies of three Hector’s dolphins sink into the waters ahead of us. The boat stops, and a little girl beside me giggles every time the dolphins hiss and pop up like a jack-in-the-box of the sea. Our skipper points out their black dorsal fins—rounded, instead of pointed. Some cruises offer a chance to swim with Hector’s dolphins too (blackcat.co.nz; cruise NZD85/Rs4,015, children 5-15 NZD35/Rs1,650).

Flights between Delhi or Mumbai and New Zealand’s capital, Wellington—or Christchurch in South Island—require at least one layover in a gateway cities such as Sydney or Singapore. Dunedin is connected to Christchurch by regular domestic flights and two buses a day (6 hr; www.intercity.co.nz). Self-drive is the most popular way to travel within New Zealand. Indian travellers can apply for a New Zealand visa online (www.immigration.govt.nz). A month-long visa costs NZD246/Rs11,435 and is processed within 28 working days.

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from Cheapr Travels https://ift.tt/2mF9p5d via https://ift.tt/2NIqXKN

[itsworn]

This 1960 Chevy Two-Door Brookwood is an Owner-Built Mid-Budget Beauty

One of the most frequent questions car show spectators ask Randy Lewis is “How did you make it into a two-door?” and a lot of them are surprised by his answer.

Randy’s most recent opportunity to talk to people about his long, low, homebuilt 1960 Chevy Brookwood station wagon was outdoor at the Grand National Roadster Show in January. Instead of exhibiting his plus-sized street rod in a roped-off indoor display area, Randy chose to drive it to the event and participate in the Drive-In portion of the show.

Five years ago, Randy was at the GNRS showing off a different vehicle, an extensively modified off-silver 1969 Chevy C10. The pickup was built at home by Randy and his son, Brett, and had been featured in Custom Classic Trucks magazine (check it out here). It hadn’t been finished long when Randy took it to the GNRS where he decided to stick a “For Sale” notice on the truck just to see what kind of attention it would get. Collector Stan Adams from Oregon spotted it and before the weekend was over he’d bought the C10. When he did, he encouraged Randy to get busy with another project.

When we talked to Randy back in 2014 he hinted that he might be thinking about building a 1967 Dodge Charger, but what came next could never be mistaken for a Charger. As we’ve learned since, Randy had been on the lookout for a 1960 Chevy wagon for several years and had given up the hunt. Stan Adams’ advice motivated him to keep looking. His next Craigslist search turned up this Brookwood. It had been posted for an hour and was located in Chino Hills, California, on the other side of Los Angeles from Randy’s home in Simi Valley. Randy was out there the next morning paying the owner every cent of the $2,500 asking price.

“On one of the few rainy days in Southern California, I brought the car home on a trailer,” he says. “It had no motor, no transmission, and no brakes—only a steering wheel. Brett was there to help me get it off the trailer and onto the side yard. A neighbor came by and asked if he could help. Not knowing that it had no brakes, he gave the car a push. It quickly slid off the trailer, missing a tree by mere inches. Considering how close the whole body panel came to being ruined, those few inches made the difference between a car with great potential and a worthless frame!”

Narrowly missing that tree saved Randy from countless hours of bodywork, repairing a body that was in very good shape. The streetmetal was straight with only one small rusted segment—and converting the wagon to a two-door was effortless, since Chevy built 14,663 two-door Brookwoods in 1960, including this one. The bigger challenge was finding all the needed trim. Lettering was removed from the hood and front quarters and the Chevy crest and rear window crank were eliminated from the tailgate. Headlights and taillights are stock and the original grille was brought back to 1960 condition by North Hollywood Metal Polishing. Above All Glass in Thousand Oaks, California, provided the new glass. Randy located windshield trim in Oxnard, California. Adding the jet and side molding from a 1960 Impala is a great-looking custom touch that dresses up the Brookwood’s exterior. The white insert breaks up the black paint and complements the white paint on the top of the wagon and all the bright chrome.

Stance and rake go a long way to giving an aggressive attitude to a hot rod, even an unlikely one. It didn’t require a high-dollar chassis to achieve this, just some well-chosen components on the powdercoated stock frame. Air Lift Performance air springs and Bilstein shocks contribute to the posture and the ride quality. Classic Performance Products provided several frontend parts, including dropped spindles, upper and lower A-arms, the steering box, and 12-inch disc brakes (plus 10-inch rear discs). The stock Chevy rearend was modified with RideTech trailing arms. Randy wanted the tires and wheels to have a muscle” look, and chose 19- and 20-inch Centennial wheels from the Hot Rods by Boyd Gotcha series, wrapping them in 275/35ZR20 and 255/35ZR19 Toyo Proxes tires.

It took a while to settle on the paint color. Designer Keith Kaucher at Kaucher Kustoms created several concept renderings of the wagon in red and white, orange and white, and silver and white, but when Randy saw the combination of black and pearl white he knew it was the correct choice. Dan Gogh Master Refinishing in Chatsworth, California, who had painted Randy’s C10, handled the body prep and painting on the Brookwood.

For the engine, Randy once again turned to someone who had contributed to the C10 build. The pickup was powered by a Chevy 454 crate motor built by Hawaii Racing in Simi Valley, and Joe repeated the order for the wagon. The truck was fed by a four-barrel carb. This time, fuel and air are fed to the engine by an Edelbrock Pro-Flo XT EFI system and intake manifold. Sanderson headers draw out the exhaust and a pair of MagnaFlow mufflers provide the perfect tone. Accessories are driven with a Vintage Air Front Runner drive system. The 400hp big-block is backed up by a 700-R4 transmission built by Champion Transmissions in Thousand Oaks, California.

The car was delivered to Mike Ambrose Custom Interiors for upholstery. The bucket seats started life in the interior of a 1967 Chevelle, and look right at home in the Brookwood, especially covered in black and maroon leather, stitched in a style inspired by their muscle car roots. Rear buckets were built to match, separated by a waterfall divider. Further forward, the center console houses the Lokar shifter. Classic Instruments gauges fill the classic 1960 Chevy dash. A lower dash holds the vents for the Vintage Air system. Black Mercedes carpet covers the floor. An ididit tilt steering column is topped with an aftermarket wheel purchased at Truck Shop in Orange, California. The cruising soundtrack is provided by an up-to-date audio system installed by Street Sound Plus.

Randy’s Brookwood proves that different is daring, that unlikely raw material can be transformed into a cool hot rod. Most importantly, it proves that homebuilt cars can hold their own against mega-buck pro-built projects, on the street, in a magazine, or at any show.

The post This 1960 Chevy Two-Door Brookwood is an Owner-Built Mid-Budget Beauty appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network https://www.hotrod.com/articles/1960-chevy-two-door-brookwood-owner-built-mid-budget-beauty/ via IFTTT

[mortvivanthqs-blog]

welcome to the outpost, landon scott, we’re sure you’ll find the place accommodating. daniel sharman is now taken! please review our checklist and send in your account within twenty-four hours!

🡶 OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME andres

AGE 24

TIMEZONE mst

PRONOUNS he&him

🡶 IN CHARACTER:

NAME landon scott

FACE CLAIM daniel sharman

GENDER & PRONOUNS cismale / he&him

BIRTHDAY  november 13, 1991

BIRTHPLACE london, england

JOB(S) commander-in-chief, medic, floats generally though (mostly field but sometimes hospitality work)

KILL COUNT twenty-one (a couple of these during his time in the u.s. army, the rest post apocalypse)

ANYTHING ELSE?  leader of original and current group

🡶 BIOGRAPHY:

a smudge of orange acrylic accidentally adorns strong features, but he’s spotted all over, touches of reds and blues and yellows and all those shades in between. a canvas, flesh, pigmenting a canvas, cotton.

mum and dad never liked that very much, the young boy’s hobbies, the psyche permanently in the clouds. utters of you’re no van gogh, go outside, go play football with the boys your age. this’ll get you nowhere, they said, crushing, nowhere but a mess.

he was a quiet boy– shy even; too timid to speak up, too afraid of consequence to stand up for himself…. he, an easy target. with a single friend to his name and a rocky home life – parents too acquainted with the bottle – primary was relentless.

‘s not so bad, landon, ‘least both your parents are still together, your dad only strikes you to knock a little man into you.

sixteen, oh sixteen, supposedly sweet. nothing was sweet about the binds he had to his home. all wasn’t lost. he met someone, online (myspace), couple years his senior, an american. a man. david, who he spent hours upon hours skyping, sacrificing his sleep just for a few more hours to see that face he adored so much. they went on this way, couple of years, landon’s brain unable to remember the last time he’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep. everything was on david’s schedule, david’s timezone, david’s convenience. was alright though, landon always told himself, david was worth it. david was all he had.

he’s twenty now, attending vocational schooling, working one too many jobs. he and his “main squeeze” still in cahoots, though he still hadn’t relayed the truth of his sexuality to the ‘rents. something inside him, something deep in the gut, knew that talk could never end well. so, landon internalized. internalizing: landon’s specialty. the loneliness. the inadequacy– never living up to his parents expectations. never the son they wanted. the feeling of indestructible shackles.

an impasse, he versus himself.

let’s get married, a blinding smile tugs at his features, c’mon, david, you love me, don’t you? we’ll head up to new york, tie the knot. I could be with you, there’s heartbreak pooling in impossibly blue eyes, it’s been four years, we can finallybe together.

no.

david, he isn’t ready. doesn’t know when he’ll be ready.

landon packs his bags anyway. clothes, small trinkets. everything else is sold or donated. hands clutch the handles of his entire life, boot clad feet lead his person to heathrow, never even spares a glance out the window at the country he leaves in the dust.

marching down in the valley I heard a loud roar, curly locks litter the floor, it was a bravo trooper treating alpha like a toy, he drops and gives his sergeant twenty, so put your feet on the peddle step down on the gas, left faces every corner, legs marching in sync with a cadence ringing in his ears, move over awful alpha let the mighty bravo pass, wonders what he’s gotten himself into. bravo company is on the go.

68w combat medic, landon finds himself stationed in texas, fort sam houston in san antonio. texas, a state away from david. yet david never, in landon’s five years of service (when not deployed), does he visit landon. he offers to pay for his airfare, babe, one weekend, please, to no avail.

doc… you can’t save them all.. rounds in afganistan both hardened and crippled, gaining and losing brothers and sisters, if i try.. i can if i try.. that sweet and timid boy from london, who loved to paint, who was afraid of his own shadow, buried underneath a lifetime of horrors. and landon, the poor fool, still spent every minute of leave with david, the man who wouldn’t dare spend a cent or second to come to landon, who barely wrote, barely called. that innate need to be loved, even with an element of pretending, to be touched, and feel wanted for just a little while won over the soldier every single time.

it’s april, he’s twenty-six, still a fool sprung on a man who if he’s ever loved the londoner, hasn’t in a long time. the pair are seated outdoors, a rhythmic jazz in the new orleans air, coffee in paper mugs: one sickeningly saccharine, a scoop of unbothered bliss, no real strings attached to the man opposite him; landon takes his coffee black these days, bitter to the core, hurt etched in the heart. the man-at-arms rests his leg over his thigh and pretends, pretends he’s fine, pretends being on holiday with a man who he’s expendable to. if david was his king, landon was nothing but a jester in his court.

a screech, piercing and afraid – screaming bloody murder – rattles the ear drums. he furrows his brows, what was that? david doesn’t even spare a glance, mind ya business, landon. dick. a sea of pedestrians rush down the street of the french quarter, berserk. a harmony of emergency alerts sound from hundreds of cellular devices. the beginning of the end.

time clocks, the end of may creeps around the corner, humidity’s risen. it’s all the same, death and the dead unwilling to stay dead. the ex soldier’d gone awol shy of two months back. every passing day hope slips, he slips, nothing will ever be the same. david grows more and more useless, obscenities and degradation constantly on the tongue (falling on landon, toward landon). and something snaps, a deep-seated anger brewing for years and years and years unearthing.

snarling and restless, decay hanging from reanimated extremities clawing, clawing, and clawing. a man and his “lover” prisoned atop a rooftop; fresh meat. it’s been hours baking in the sun, emptied magazines and a single can of peas between two. they’re surrounded every which way. Hands, greasy and matted, run through brown curls. eyes, blue and bloodshot, capture the undead in their crosshairs then to david. this isn't where you die, not for this man, never for this man.

“y’know, david,” there’s something sick, something sinister pulling at the englishman’s lips, the ghost of a smile, “been a decade now. gave you my whole life– and that’s on me. i’m the fool. but there comes a point in a man’s life,” fingers feel over the hilt of the blade strapped at the thigh, “where he needs to shed the dead weight holding him back.” hunting knife unholstered, landon marvels the blade, “trim the fat.”

david’s wrestled to the ground now, he never loved you, landon, fists fly and a strike manages to connect, never gave you the time of day. a snigger escapes chapped lips, and perhaps, perhaps a sliver of humanity too. david’s pinned– landon’s taller, stronger, hungrier. a blade rests at the back of the elder man’s ankle. funny how much one mutilated tendon can have a man down, how much he can scream, how lips who utter nothing but self-serving charm and bile can beg for mercy.

he never loved you anyway.

combat boots force the mass of dead weight to the ground, a sacrifice, living and breathing. the horde pools in like a herd of starved hogs. he takes off the opposite direction, feet catching himself hitting the foundation beneath him. never looks back. but that scream? that scream went on for miles.

landon indulges in carnal pleasure, thrives in the lawless of the land. robs and kills, and not just the dead. every man for himself. the thing that keeps a man human further and further. never recognized himself in a mirror again.

yet, he meets a character or two along the way – forces violent and irrational tendencies down, far, far from the surface – allies himself. there’s a strength in numbers, one man is nothing to twenty. he’s got a plan now. a vision. throws on the charm, undigs the courageousness he’d held in his few years of serving. his true – now true, this world’s truth, that landon scott of the old world gone with the wind – colors too untrustworthy to stand a chance in rallying people, in gaining their trust. they hole up in an old baptist church and he offers himself (protection, direction, and a promise of a better tomorrow) in exchange for skills. empires aren’t built alone. stragglers come and go, landon offers a night or two and a hot meal at most to some, and a permanent position to others. the leader goes out of the way to gain the people’s trust, build a personal relationship with each and every one, acts in fearlessness and ‘selflessness,’ and never lets a wicked thought bleed through. it’s important people can vouch for the man they take a chance on. he’s nearly always out, always gathering and collecting, to stockpile supplies. never comes home empty handed. works his ass off. proves himself.

they’re nine when they abandon the church. lugging along scavenged necessities (food, water, firepower), in route to somewhere much larger. we need to stop just surviving out here, he says, create something the future generations can inherit and thrive in this madness.

but, it’s only a matter of time, a ticking time bomb, ‘till lost-and-never-found sanity uncoils at the seams.

[millionth-attempt]

amsterdam as in amstel and dam

Today I want to write about Amsterdam. I want to tell you about the sea that was once overruled by the people who have had to fight ever since that first battle, even though a part of them knows that it is a war they are destined to lose. I want to tell you about the three crosses that I aspire to make mine one day. There’s also the rain, the wind and the cold that I can talk to you about, and I promise that that story is equally charming to the one on the tulips and Van Gogh. I don’t know where to start, but don’t worrry, this is not a one day type of thing. You can’t see me but I am already excited about all the stories I want you to hear, preferably from me. Yo don’t need to see me, it’s better that way.

Writing about Amsterdam means writing about bicycles, which was my target from the beginning. Fiets. Don’t get me started with these devils that can convince you that you are flying, but only if they are Dutch and you are not, as a way of communication with us, poor souls that don’t know the language but inevitably fall in love with them. If you look right when you leave the central train station, you will understand my next words. Bikes are ugly, in fact the only ugly beings that can be called Amsterdamers. Every single else is beautiful. The men are breathtaking, and the women… well, the day I know how to describe a woman like the ones in my district’s supermarket has not yet arrived. The balconies, the windows and the lack of curtains are also gorgeous. What is not beautiful is instead cute. Pretty in a fantasy fairytale kind of way. Street animals, the combination of black and white in the facades, all the hidden corners perfect for a kiss, a red light with no abuse behind, the pigeons in Dam Square all over that man who just wants five cents, the rainbow and the Palestine flags for the sake of human beings… overwhelming such amount of beauty. Stunning, yes, and beautiful. Almost unreal, which makes me forget. And that is why I wanted to talk about bicycles, because they make me remember that Amsterdam really exists, not as in a dream, but as in my dream. The best part of her existance is that I exist with her. I already told you, bikes are ugly, but they are also authentic, which is a property I like to transfer to the big picture.

The first time I got lost, phone dead, as if they wanted me to go back in time, to when all those narrow buildings were first built, all the land won to the river, and all the cravings of the bourgeoisie were disputed; the first time I got lost was also the first time I stopped crying the moment I sat on my bike. I got lost physically, and for a moment, also mentally. It was nighttime, of course, no clever being gets lost during the day, and my butt was hurting. Unfortunately –or not-, it was not a sexual pain. It was more of an embarrassing I-fell-from-my-bike-for-the-second-day-in-a-row kind of pain. My pride was aching, and my heart was missing home and my privacy. You know; the privacy of not having to use your theory of mind. It was the first of some other moments, but it always ended the moment I went up in that expensive pile of materials I would never be able to name. Now I am my own home, my own secure usshak, and I know it is not about places anymore, not even about people. However, when time comes that I get lost in this big beautiful city that looks like a candy town, my bike is the safest way back home.

[teddywancurlobi]

pretty little liars [01.08]

previously on pretty little liars:

me collecting receipts on marlene using her tweets for actual dialogue:

this show apologizes more within itself that to the fans.

mood about this show: this whole town just sucks.

“that’s immortality, my darlings.“

she’ll be remembered for constant bitch mode and a bench until she returns from the dead.

ali’s movie was mean girls with a darker twist. it would be rated R.

you figured that hanna’s sperm donor would have to pay child support until she turned 18. sucks to believe that ashley wouldn’t even try for it.

should have been over minute one. nixed.

oh em. you look so happy. those happy tears just flow down your cheeks majestically. for someone who just found out her father is coming home, you sure are keeping it together.

i remember that history book.... from my high school years. i hated it then too.

she clearly doesn’t want to go, but goes anyway. that’s ridiculous.

wilden.... rosewood pd is fucking slow and incompetent. of course he’s pissed and wants to see progress because y’all wanna yank on someone’s dick besides your own.

honestly, this is the spencer hastings i miss. she had so much more backbone and sass with a strength she didn’t have in the last two seasons.

ashley looks ready to heavily throttle byron right now. she is ready to ho out and ride that montgomery d.

howdy neighbor.

jason 1.0 got a fire lit under wilden’s ass.

what was jason’s career prior to moving back to rosewood and getting a new face? he goes from looking like a suave businessman to looking like hippie jesus. not a complaint, just an observation. he looked, sounded, and acted like a lawyer.

the ringing of alison’s phone that was obviously cut out. toby did call and at least they remembered this part is remembered by alison for her story. everything else was fucking bullshit and just a clusterfuck.

waste of popcorn, but what a delicious kiss.

spencer was really the only one to stand up to alison. aria, emily, and hanna chose not to. there’s a difference between could and choosing to. she stood up to her because she wasn’t going to take any of alison’s bullshit laying down.

ian 2.0: ian 1.0 glow up.

emily.... i don’t want to think about alison. thanks though.

memorial gong too soon. did they ever fix it? probably not.

[vincentbuckles]

How to make the most of the British outdoors with The Rough Guide to Accessible Britain

Sometimes our local surroundings and neighbouring towns in Britain are overlooked with everyone’s hectic lives, commitments, and schedules. A fun day out in the great outdoors provides several emotional and health benefits and it doesn’t have to break the bank, it can cost as little as nothing!

Going out and discovering the natural world can be both affordable and accessible with the seventh edition of The Rough Guide to Accessible, which offers an easy–to-use resource to inspire those with cognitive and physical conditions to plan a fulfilling day out, from museums and art galleries, to scenic drives, wildlife parks and gardens.  A wide range of top accessible attractions throughout the UK feature in the inspiring new guide, now in its 10th year, to encourage people with diverse needs to enjoy a family day out throughout the year.

The Rough Guide to Accessible Britain includes reviews and details of ramps, accessible toilets, and parking spaces of over 180 venues, including great free escapes such as:

Brockholes Nature Reserve in Preston – “Nature just got closer” and stress levels just got lower. The reserve is composed of an appealing mix of grassland, reedbeds, and ancient woodland. An extraordinary pool of 134 lakes span across the venue with the largest of which boasting Brockholes’ breath-taking centrepiece: the floating Visitor Village, where you’ll find a visitor centre, shop, restaurant and other facilities. The wide range of habitats offers a home for numerous birds, bats, mammals, and insects that you can investigate from three trails. The Gravel Pit Trail, which you can do in half an hour, and the longer Reserve Trail, which covers a much larger area in about two hours, are both wheelchair accessible. Make the most of your visit by joining one of their guided walks. The car park has plenty of disabled spaces on firm, level tarmac.

  Buckfast Abbey in Devon – Take a break from the city, discover the history behind the peaceful sanctuary, and enjoy the picturesque landscape of Devon. The abbey and 3,000 year old living monastery, inhibited by a community of Benedictine monks, is cradled by the tranquil Physic Garden, Sensory Garden, and Lavender Garden beside River Dart. In 2018, the abbey celebrates its millennium, with a full programme of events throughout the year, including a new Monastic Experience exhibition. Buckfast Abbey was founded during the reign of King Canute and stood for five hundred years until Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. A community of Benedictine monks returned in 1882 to rebuild it on its medieval foundations. It wasn’t completed until 1938. In the Monastic Produce Shop you can buy the famous Buckfast tonic wine, as well as a variety of goods and consumables from monasteries and convents around the world to remember your day out.

Horniman Museum and Gardens in London – Boost creativity and productivity by marvelling at Victorian tea merchant Frederick John Horniman’s collection of curiosities and anthropological eccentricities, on display on top of Forest Hill with glorious views looking over south London. The museum claims a selection of eclectic objects ranging from ancient Egyptian musical instruments to a Haitian voodoo altar. For a tactile experience, participate in the free interactive hands-on sessions, family workshops, short courses, and events available such as African drumming and visits to the beehive. In the surrounding gardens, visitors can also explore the botanical display garden, the Butterfly House, bandstand, pavilion, wildlife garden, meadow field, nature trail, and animal walk.

  National Galleries Scotland in Edinburgh – It’s hard to miss the neoclassical structure of the Scottish National Gallery and the Scottish National Portrait Gallery when out and about in Edinburgh. The gallery houses a phenomenal collection of fine art from different époques including masterpieces from El Greco, Velázquez, Rembrandt; Impressionist works by the likes of Monet, Cézanne and Degas, and Post-Impressionists such as Van Gogh and Gauguin. The buildings provide a comprehensive display of Scottish painting, with works by all the major names, including Allan Ramsay, David Wilkie and William McTaggart. Parking can be tricky in the city centre, but there are a handful of Blue Badge bays in a pedestrianised area right outside the gallery (just off The Mound). The Scottish National Gallery complex is fully accessible over all levels, and even has voice-activated lifts.

  Portstewart Strand in Northern Ireland – Two miles of glorious golden sand is waiting to be explored on the Derry coast, it’s completely free for pedestrians and only a few pounds to take your car onto the beach for an accessible seaside experience (visitors are even allowed to drive onto the sand). Stretching from the seaside town of Portstewart to the mouth of the River Bann, Portstewart Strand is a Blue Flag beach and an Area of Special Scientific Interest that was recognised in 2015 as one of the UK’s top ten wild swimming spots. Depending on the time of year, you may spot butterflies, wild orchids, pansies and thyme flourishing among the dunes, plus seals in the sea. The western end of the Strand, by the river estuary, is home to abundant birdlife, which can be marvelled from a wheelchair accessible hide.

  A recent study carried out by the National Autistic Society highlighted that 98 per cent of respondents said they would be more inclined to explore the outdoors if venues and attractions were better able to support them. Simple things can be done to make days out more accessible for autistic people and their families from a welcoming attitude to having a quiet area.  For the first time, The Rough Guide to Accessible Britain now also includes information aimed specifically at people with hidden conditions, such as autism and anxiety. Aiming to inspire more people to enjoy the best of Britain’s attractions, whatever their ability, the guide celebrates venues that have implemented features such as quiet mornings, picture stories or bespoke queuing arrangements.

The Rough Guide to Accessible Britain provides clear and helpful advice to highlight the very best inclusive and accessible days out for people of all abilities, an ideal planning tool for anyone with access needs. The expanded guide includes many new entries for its seventh edition including Windsor Castle, RSPB Bempton Cliffs, Monkey World, Hyde Hall in Essex, and Sandcastle Waterpark in Blackpool.

The refreshed guide showcases many examples of best practice, with venues large and small providing imaginative solutions to the challenges posed by disabilities. Every venue is thoroughly checked out by Rough Guides’ team of reviewers, who either have a disability themselves or visited the venue with a disabled friend or relative.

Read the full review for these awe-inspiring venues and days out recommendation in the new edition of  The Rough Guide to Accessible Britain available to read and download for free online at accessibleguide.co.uk.

The post How to make the most of the British outdoors with The Rough Guide to Accessible Britain appeared first on MoneyMagpie.

How to make the most of the British outdoors with The Rough Guide to Accessible Britain published first on https://justinbetreviews.weebly.com/

[duo-log]

Be Curious Not Judgmental

“you never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something build a new model that will make the existing model obsolete.” - Buckminster Fuller

Last night our friend dropped by, and we spent a glorious hour chatting about random people and things from the 90s. The reminiscing was melodious and satisfying with a lot of laughter, hi-fives and moments of pure joy. At this moment I am not sure what triggered the specific discussion about being rigid in one’s ways, but I believe it involved Sushmita Sen and Rahul Gandhi. So anyhow my friend left soon after leaving dear husband and me talking about the gravity of what he said. He said that we could not be rigid about our beliefs without being thrown off the tide. Not in those exact words but I think I surmised it well enough. Like a surfer who has to adjust his posture, surfboard and his foothold according to the tides to not be engulfed in the waves but instead rides them, the beliefs of humanity need to adjust to the changing reality to survive the change. History is riddled with stories about those that went obsolete because they thought they were too big to change or be affected by the change.

Meritocracy is one such example. It has often been asked if employers should be privy to the GPA of the students during college placements. For a very long time, employers have seeked out students with high GPAs over others because it is a convenient way of filtering IQ. Back in business school, we had employers who had minimum GPA requirements, and some were ridiculously high to be a minimum. But to be fair to them, they have the creme de la creme knocking at their door for a job so why would they need to consider anyone with average GPA? But does a high GPA guarantee a great workforce? Sometimes yes and well sometimes it doesn’t. Merit is only one aspect of a person, and there are others like will, demeanour, outlook, people skills, extracurricular etc., Today, we see employers looking for a more 360-degree personality as they realise good people skills matter more than good merit. This realisation has changed the dynamics of employment and interviews and for the better for there is one thing we can all agree on; five fingers make a hand, and all five are unique.

There is an Indian language film released a decade ago about a dyslexic kid who was shunned by his friends, school, society and even his father. They did not understand his troubles or what bothered him; only that he was stupid, unruly and a menace. The boy did not fit into the belief system of scoring 101% in every subject. The fact that the boy could paint like Van Gogh was trivial, irrelevant even. Then enters a teacher who believes in thinking out of the box, exploring one’s imagination and understanding that mesmerising painting requires an IQ just as much or higher as scoring a cent per cent in a math test. He investigates why a boy who could paint like a pro fail to do a simple elementary math operation. He decided to lay aside the ordinary teaching methods and sought to teach the boy by using the sense of touch and sound. Writing in sand, moulding dough to form letters, audio to understand phonetics taught the kid what repetitions and examinations could not. This style of teaching has now become the new standard and sought by most or all parents.

It is essential to keep one’s mind open to boundless possibilities, accepting that there are other ways to a solution to a problem that is different than one’s own, acknowledging that every individual’s brain functions differently and that doesn’t make it wrong. If someone doesn’t lead the life as you do, doesn’t believe in things you do, doesn’t hold the superstitions you do, doesn’t eat, drink or dress just like you, it doesn’t mean that that person is wrong; it just says that they are human, have a brain of their own and think differently than you do. After all, there is more than one way to get to Rome.

Read the other part of this Duolog(ue).

Homogeneity isn’t the Goal

Last week’s question was how strongly do we hold on to our beliefs before those very ones become the reason for our fall; before irrelevance makes us the dinosaur we as a race are trying hard not to become.

[marykenyon-blog]

Day 5

This morning felt like heaven because I got to sleep in until 9:30, but also not so good because we stayed out until 3 am. We ended up checking out a place called De Kroon which we had heard about before. When we got to the bar we were a little surprised by how many men there were. While we were ordering drinks we met two boys from California that are our age and traveling through Europe like we are. It was nice to meet some people that spoke fluent English. While we were talking to them we all started to get the vibe that it might have been a gay bar. Either that or European men are just very touchy with each other. The bouncer at the door had given us free passes to another club down the road so we thought we’d try that one out instead. They boys came with us. The second place, Escape, was much cooler than the first. There was a big dance floor and flashing lights and a live saxophone player and singer along with the music being played through the speakers. Luckily it wasn’t super crowded but some of the guys were strange. I’ve been noticing that Europe has sneaky ways of making money. Yesterday I mentioned being charged for a bag at the store and last night and today we had to pay 50 cents each to use the bathroom. Other than that the night was a success and we were glad we got to experience what Amsterdam is like at night.

Using the groceries we bought we made ourselves scrambles eggs and toast and then headed out the door for our bike tour. Mikes Bike tour was about 15 minutes from our place. The whole walk there we were commenting on how nice the weather was because the sun was out and it wasn’t rainy like London. Well, we jinxed it. Five minutes into the bike tour it not only started to pour, but we got pelted by hail. The guide stopped and called his coworker who brought us ponchos. The tour continued on. It was cool to experience getting around in Amsterdam like locals do. There are more bikes than cars and the guide told us that cars respect cyclists and will always yield to them. It’s crazy to me seeing some of the people biking with babies. One woman had a plastic milk crate tied to the front of her bike and just put her baby in that while she rode her bike. It seemed so dangerous to me but that’s just their way of life and what they are used to. We almost got hit by other bikers a couple times but we survived. The guide took us all around the city and showed us different areas and districts. Every so often we would stop and he would give us some information about what we had passed and where we were stopped. The group was about 10 people. I think that was an alright number. If it was any bigger it would have been too hard to get around. We definitely looked like a bunch of stupid tourist biking around in giant ponchos blowing in the wind but it kept us dry so I wasn’t complaining. One plus about doing the bike tour was that we got to see so much in the three hours and if we had tried to walk it would have taken forever.

That tour ended around 3 pm so we walked back to the area of our Airbnb and got lunch at the Old Bell which we had looked at before coming here this weekend. The menu was small for lunch but had options we were interested in so it was nice. Sadly, we didn’t sit outside because we were still damp from earlier and the wind was picking up but it was nice inside as well. We went back to the apartment to change and warm up before heading back out. We walked to the area of the I Amsterdam sign. It was literally crawling with people. There were people climbing on top of the letters and hanging off them. Some street performers decided to set up right in front of the sign which drew a crowd and we couldn’t get any pictures which was kinda frustrating but oh well.

One of the things we wanted to do the most was see the Anne Frank House so that was our next stop. The line was ridiculously long and we walked 35 minutes to get there but it’s something you can’t miss. While waiting in line we were outside of a ticket sales agency and we ended up buying fast track tickets for the Van Gogh Museum tomorrow and for something called the Ice Bar which is a bar that is -10 degrees Celsius and everything is made out of ice. The deals were really good and we figured we were already there so we may as well get the tickets in advance. Once we were inside the Anne Frank House we were given a device that you hold to your ear and plays audio for each room of the museum. The whole time I was there I kept having to remind myself that that’s actually where Anne and her family hid for two years. It’s not just some recreation. There are still pencil markings on the wall to show how much Anne and her sister Margot grew while in hiding. There were also pictures on the wall that Anne had put up. In one of her diary entries she talks about how plain the rooms were until she plastered the pictures on. She also wrote an entry about wanting to grow up and publish a book. She literally says she hopes her diary gets published and is called “The Secret Annex”. Crazy to think that it actually happed and she wasn’t able to be the one behind it.

During the walk back from the museum I kept trying to picture me and my family hiding for two years. They weren’t allowed to run the water or talk or walk about their hide out during certain times of the day because the neighbors might hear them. It’s such a terrible way to live but the alternative was even worse. I liked having the audio guide because you could move at your own pace and everyone was listening to their device so there wasn’t much chatter.

By the time we made it back to the apartment I thought my feet were going to fall off. We traveled over 12 miles in one day. Since we were all exhausted we just sat and relaxed for a while and then Erica started to make us dinner. She cooked barbeque chicken, rice, sautéed vegetables, and an amazing focaccia and herb bread. It felt good to eat a meal at home and not in a restaurant.

We had one more adventure after dinner and that was to the Red Light District. I don’t think I’ve ever had a more mind boggling experience than tonight. The streets are packed with people. I don’t even know how to explain the experience because it was so wild to me that this is what happens every night and that its legal. I was sad to see the girls in their windows trying to entice people to come in. It was also interesting to see some girl who just weren’t interested, they would be on their phones or just chatting with each other. We got to witness several men enter one of the rooms and the curtains be drawn. It’s something that I’m glad to have seen because it’s part of their culture and part of the Amsterdam experience but it also made me value myself so much more than I ever have.

Tomorrow we are going to the Kuekenhof flower gardens before we do the Van Gogh museum. It’s a little over an hour away so it’ll probably be another early morning for this girl. Hopefully there is no hail tomorrow but wait we’ll see. I’ve learned my lesson and I will now bring my umbrella everywhere, no matter the forecast.

[touristguidebuzz]

How to Visit Paris on a College Budget

Whether you’re a student studying abroad, or simply an avid TPG reader who’s taken advantage of one of those amazing fare sales to Europe we’ve been seeing recently, Paris is a hot destination. Between the flights, hotels and transportation around the city — oh, and don’t forget the food and drinks — costs can add up pretty quickly. Here, I’ll share several tricks I used while I was studying in Paris for 10 weeks that helped me make sure I was able to do everything I wanted without breaking the bank, as well as a few places that are definitely worth your money.

Start Saving as Soon as You Arrive in Paris

Paris has one of the most thorough subway systems of any major city. 16 Metro lines connect to five RER commuter lines and nine light-rail tram lines, making every block of the city easily accessible via public transit. The paper tickets you can buy at any station are easy to lose and confusingly priced, but if you plan ahead and order a Navigo Pass, you’ll watch your savings rack up — you can put an unlimited one-week pass on this plastic, chip-enabled card for just 22.15 euros (~$23). As a point of comparison, my friend who didn’t have a Navigo Pass spent more than 40 euros (~$42) on Metro tickets over the course of the five days he was there. Just don’t forget that trains stop running around 1:00am, so make sure you have a plan to get home if you’re staying out late, or else you’ll end up emptying your wallet for a cab! And if you do use the paper tickets, don’t toss them out once you’re past the turnstiles — some stations require you to use them to leave as well as enter.

With 30 lines to choose from, you’ll find zipping around Paris to be quite convenient. Image courtesy of the Régie Autonome des Transports Parisiens.

Meet the Store That Made Coming Back to the US Nearly Impossible

Fancy meals are fun, and you should take every opportunity to try the exquisite Parisian cuisine. But that doesn’t mean you need to spend big every time you get hungry. Enter Lidl, the German grocery chain that turned into my second home during my study-abroad program in Paris. The ability to buy a week’s worth of groceries for the equivalent of $25 was amazing, but I was usually content to pick up a fresh baguette and a few pastries for about 50 cents each, maybe a one-euro (~$1) bottle of wine and call it a day. It gets the job done, and you’ll learn pretty quickly that there’s no such thing as bad bread in Paris.

Stay tuned: European discount grocery chain Lidl is set to open its first US location in 2018. Let’s just pray they bring the baguettes with them. Image courtesy of Shutterstock.

Why Spend $50 on a Steak When You Can Spend $20 for Two?

People give me a funny look when I tell them that my favorite steak place in the world is a Parisian chain restaurant with only one item on the menu, steak frites. But how much do I love Le Relais de l’Entrecote? Enough that I went back to Paris this summer just for a steak — or at least that’s what I told my waitress. Sometimes the best food is the simplest. You walk in, sit down and the server will simply ask you how you want it cooked. There are no menus to distract you, just a wine list — I highly recommend the Relais house label — service is faster than you can imagine and they’ll break out a glorious plate of steak frites covered in a delicious green butter sauce. Wonderful, right?

Sorry to spoil the surprise, but just when you think it’s done, there’s more. Instead of clearing your empty plate, the waitress will bring out the second half of the steak that they’ve been keeping warm for you back in the kitchen. That’s right, 20 euros buys you two full steak dinners for the price of one. Want a drink after dinner? Of course you do, it’s Paris! While it may not be the cheapest place around, stop by La Coupole right across the street from Le Relais de l’Entrecote on Boulevard Montparnasse. Over the years, this bar-turned-restaurant has served as a watering hole for some of the most famous European writers and artists of all time, including Albert Camus, Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso and Jean-Paul Sartre, to name a few.

Meet the Green Fairy

And speaking of famous European artists… So poorly understood by those who’ve never tried it — thanks to the fact that it was long illegal in the US and much of Europe — absinthe is more readily available in Paris. While many places will tout their absinthe cocktails, it’s best experienced by itself. Only a handful of bars serve it the correct way, with a slotted spoon and sugar cube cradled under a tediously slow drip of ice water to create the perfect drink. A few blocks from the Bastille metro stop in the heart of one of the city’s best bar districts, Le Fee Verte will give you the authentic experience you deserve — you can even grab a quick dinner at any of the nearby restaurants and keep hopping around the neighborhood if you’d like. This is the perfect place to start or end your night, or else makes a great stop in the middle of it.

What do Marilyn Manson, Oscar Wilde, and Vincent van Gogh all have in common? A deep, deep, deep love of absinthe. Image courtesy of Shutterstock.

The Champ De Mars Will Entertain You for Free

I don’t blame you if you’re standing at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower thinking, “What could I possibly do to save money here?” Aside from scoring a student discount, for which you’d need either an EU passport or a Parisian student ID, there’s not much to it other than buying your ticket and going up to the top. But less than 100 feet from one of the largest tourist traps in the world is my favorite spot in the city. Grab a bottle of wine and a blanket and find a spot on the giant National Mall-like grassy field that stretches southeast from the tower (i.e., the Champ de Mars). Here’s the trick: Dozens of vendors will be wandering around selling wine and beer, and while a 10-euro (~$10) bottle of French wine might sound like a steal to an American tourist, it’s a blatant ripoff in Paris — you can stop by a Lidl store (mentioned above) before you go, or really any other grocery store, and buy 10 bottles for the same price (although if you’re going to do that, I’d suggest sharing).

I’ll take this view over the one from the top any day. Image courtesy of Shutterstock.

No Trip to Paris Would Be Complete Without a Crepe

Or a galette, if you prefer savory to sweet. While there are hundreds of stands ands carts making fresh crepes around the city, the best one I’ve ever had is from a little place housed under a small, nondescript brown awning right next to the Cité Internationale Universitaire de Paris. (If you’ve ever studied in Paris, you’ll be familiar with this collection of international dorms that provide cheap housing to foreign students, and if you haven’t, it’s three stops on the RER B line from the Luxembourg Gardens.)

What really sets these crepes apart is the people who make them. Grab a steaming cup of spiced tea on the house while you wait for your food, and strike up a conversation. Over the 10 weeks that I was fortunate enough to live right next to this stand, I watched the owners help a man fix his bike after it was hit by a car, assist my friend in replacing his phone after it was stolen and find complete strangers places to stay during their travels throughout Europe. It’s easy to see how genuine they are, which is why when I was lucky enough to go back to Paris this summer, my first point of business off the plane — yes, at 8:00am — was a crepe there. Once you grab your food, walk back across the street and check out Parc Montsouris behind the train station. It’s an incredibly underrated patch of greenery, complete with running tracks, a beautiful pond, and plenty of space to relax and step back from the hustle and bustle of the city, if only for a minute.

Do Me a Favor, Would You?

I have a pretty convoluted relationship with the city of Paris. While my program was eye-opening in ways I’m still only beginning to understand, it also coincided with one of the worst terrorist attacks Europe has ever seen. When it was time for me to come home just a few weeks later, the city was still in a state of limbo and I didn’t know if things were going to return to normal or if fear and hatred would fill the void. And while time has done wonders to heal the physical and emotional wounds that were inflicted that day, there’s still a long way to go. So whether this is your first time visiting this magical city, or like me, it feels more like you’re going home than going on vacation, go out of your way to spread some kindness. Do a good deed, help a stranger, buy a homeless child a meal. The city needs more love, and so does the world.

Do you have any tips for saving money in Paris? Let us know, below.

Featured image courtesy of AleksandarNakic via Getty Images.

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[teddywancurlobi]

pretty little liars [01.16]

previously on pretty little liars:

aroo: i think that bad feeling is called jealousy.

me:

he’s getting it in with a snacc

she needed to borrow hitch a ride with on you. curious.... curious.

chemistry? was that supposed to be foreshadowing? or was it just fucking ironic?

spemily... still leagues better than ezoria and ezero himself.

how the hell did emily miss that big ass book sticking out? maybe she should have tripped on it.

spencer: i owe you an apology.

me:

emily: you should apologize to him, not me.

YAAAAAAS.

he was twitching because he was hiding the fact that he was deep sea diving in ella's depths.

NO ONE CARES ABOUT EZERO OR EZORIA. DAAAAAAMN IT.

i think i just heard a dam break. hanna, was that you?

but it's really annoying.

hanna's quips are really me.

a: caleb's quiet, but how r u gonna shut ME up?

i'm pretty sure A is me. A coming out with this savage lite. honestly, i would not even toy with her since i would tell aroo right after sending hanna that text.

pll theme plays

SHUT UP, PARGE. this is why no one likes your ass.

ella, i wanna walk with you, hold your hand.... i’ll stop there. (see tags for more information)

pre time jump hanna is definitely me.

i don’t trust anyone either. toby’s got the right idea

i wouldn’t come in.

i can certainly try staying away from you.

who would want to be alone with ian?

i may not be toby’s biggest fan, but his is better than ian.

more conclusion, but this time by the adults.

rosewood: where stupid is contagious.

it’s better to have a well managed schedule and my dear spencer knows how to do that very well. hell, i would even let her tutor me.

byron.... gross.

aroo: was that..... mom?

yes.

mood: toby calling spencer out.

spencer is auto piloting through emily’s homework

you learn nothing doing that.

what are they doing? the are doing the nasty in the stacks. please don’t finish in that book.

aroo is surprised? why?

they are cheating on each other with each other. that’s a real affair there.

you are not that slick, hanna

parge should’ve wrecked more than her bike.

i do hate you, parge. thanks for reminding me.

spencer looks so adorabale. that navy blue looks so good.

he stiffened up so fast... in more ways than one.

do all of the liars get moist this fast? romancing too damn quick. i get they are playing teenagers, but get fucking real.

guess emily didn’t have standards.

so maya is the furthest though from her mind.... parge ain’t the special, bitch.

A: almost got you busted. wanna know how? ask hanna.

A, i would have told aroo right away and then told aroo’s parents with proof of the illegal relationship. EZERO FOR PRISON.

aroo: but there is nothing A would threaten me with that would make me do that to you.

season seven aroo: bitch, hold my black hoodie.

if parge wasn’t so overly aggressive and obsessed with emily, i think i would be fine with her; like bitchy alison and emison, but looking back at it ali was too damn rough for comfort when it came to emily.

awww. poor, poor aroo. she mad. idc.

cleb is still annoying as fuck, but he wins points for staying with hanna.

no one wants ian so....

demon spawn.

we’re pregnant? is ian knocked up too?

[teddywancurlobi]

pretty little liars [01.04]

previously on pretty little liars

mona: why are you taking sean’s car?

me: to get the fuck out of rosewood.

too bad hanna attracts police like she does gnats.

ashley: there is nothing i can do to fix this.

me: good. let her learn that her poor actions have consequences. drown in them. it’ll teach her that her mother’s pussy cannot get her out of everything.

hanna: oh. like little headstones.

me: where’s the lie?

so... there’s only one cell phone distributor in town? no one else is allowed and everyone has the exact same phone plan.

please aria. do act a little more suspicious for everyone so they can figure out that footz and you have been tongue fucking on the regular.

hanna: we’re officially “a”-proofed

me: nope, but nice try.

melissa can retail therapy for the rest of her life. those clothes will never be able to cover up up her ugly personality. gotta grow up for that one.

daddy’s little princess gets a call from her dad after he fucking walked out. too bad it is never as sweet as it seems.

every scene ezoria has together, i lose five years off my life.

his legs aren’t that great tbh.

aroo: maybe this isn’t smart.

me: nah. it’s the smartest thing you’ve done. /sarcasm: offline.

seven is the magic hour apparently

if i were headed to a chemistry class and i was em, i’d put that scarf in the locer too. don’t want it to get dirty from whatever chemicals you may come into contact with.

toby: it looked good on you.

everything about this line and how it is delivered screams creepy red herring.

show him what he’s been missing, ashley.

nice joke, tom. you’re fucking hilarious. /sarcasm: offline.

aroo: .... i am a child and i should mind my own business.

me: exactly. you are throwing a little fit with your adult teacher. you are acting like a child and should not butt your nose into grown folks business. moving on.

aroo: if i am such a child, why did you ask me here?

ezero: i asked you here because i don’t see you as a child...

me: if only i could have stopped him here. 

ezoria: both immature and moronic to the end.

awww... what a joyous occasion when jocks giggle and laugh like little school girls with a glint of mischief about the destruction of school property.

isabel: i’m so happy to meet you, hanna.

me: bullshit. no, you aren’t.

wren: i tried call you, but you were blocking my number.

me: suspicious. too bad what happens to you. you’ll shine forever.

ezero: i really don’t know anything about you.

what should have happened:

“now get out. this, whatever this was is over.“ he finishes expressing his thought. after the completion of his coherent thought, aroo exhales shakely and exits his apartment, leaving behind the ill advised moments between them, and the door shuts. the jarring ache in her heart only becoming more intense, but thinks that it is for the best

what really happened:

HE SHUT THE FUCKING DOOR.

spencer: she’s my sister.

me: she’s our half sister, but okay.

isabel and kate both had their sense of humor surgically removed.

toby+emily: “i’m sorry,” “i’m cool with that,” and “tomorrow.”

when is ezero getting fired? i’m still waiting. i’m still waiting for him to get put in that fucking prison issued jumpsuit.

it took aroo OVER A FUCKING YEAR to figure out that her fucking parents need to sort out and fix their own relationship issues.

ezero: you could..... stay.

me: POLICE! FBI! CPS! HELP!

i think i heard a pair of panties drop.

a got there before you did, aroo. should have done it when you found out.

next time on pretty little liars:

[teddywancurlobi]

pretty little liars [01.12]

previously on pretty little liars

me every single time i watch this show:

jesus is coming. look busy. it definitely sounds like a better sticker to me than this humpty dumpty motherfucker.

dangers lurk at home too, spencer.

emily saying “sweet” like that is kind of sweet in itself.

now, i want a poptart.

spencer, i love you. that was adorable.

borrowed money is stolen money so.... at least hanna said it.

ashley’s problem with inadvertently affect hanna as well so both of you have a problem.

she kills with kindness? i’m waiting to see that from season one pam fields.

maya was adorable. she and i definitely would have been friends.

get hanna’s assignment? bullshit. i’m surprised that they never thought to make out in the damn classroom since they obviously couldn’t shut up about their relationship.

you can’t trust anyone’s promises.

ezero: lets not talk about this here.

ummm... y’all have done nothing, but openly discuss your vile relationship in this classroom more than once. you’re worried about it now? come on. y’all have never been fucking subtle about it. just everyone in rosewood is an idiotic dipshit.

she won’t want it. she’s clearly not in the party mood. her leg is in a cast and wrapped up in a cast; not exactly great party attire.

wow, noel. blackmail? and just the principal? i’d happily bring the police in as well. i’ll beat the principal to the punch.

nah... i think that paper deserves an F.

me @ the rest of this bullshit:

that’s really sweet. all i need is a ring pop.... or may’as father’s idea of drawing the ring and then it being traced over with a tattoo.

mona: oh hush baby jane.

y’all just had to bring what ever happened to baby jane into this show, didn’t you?

when wasn’t alison bored though?

lucas with the ‘tude? i’ll smack the fuck out of him.

you have to know to come outside now. never know when your children are making out on the porch.

ohmygod. it was a C. better than the F i’d give you.

i would’ve invited toby to the party. fuck those other bitches.

should’ve told them and then called it off, but i get it (not really) hormonal teenager falls in love hazy teenage lust with her teacher. FULL FUCKING STOP.

dude.... lucas. you already like her, you are just upset with her.

wow.... aroo actually making sense about not jumping on the noel is A train.

jenna: sister of the fucking year. /sarcasm: offline

i still hate you, peter. you dirty dick giver.

alison was gettin’ the hilton head. i’ll leave now.

you’ll get your money if you do what i say. sweet dreams. -- A

.... shit.

until next time.