#what can i say i love beautiful computer-born specimens

[swagliostro]

now for something totally different: the freakamaid + extras (old-ish art)

[my-own-oracle]

Hey for the valentines ask can you do MTMTE Megatron giving the reader an anonymous Valentines poem and maybe reader gives megs one too?

I really enjoyed writing this one; I hope you like it as well. (ask box is still open for valentines asks till the last 3 days of February)

Megatron couldn't help himself, not when it came to you. No matter what he did, you held a piece of his processor captive. 

You and your team had been assigned as ambassadors of sorts. Your job was to put a good impression of the human race out into the galaxy, Keep tabs on the "cybertronians of interest," as your government called him and a few others, and report once a week to your home planet and leading government officials. 

A whole crew of humans and you had snagged his optic from the beginning. It had been little things, like saying good morning to everyone you saw. Over time larger items caught his eye as well, like taking the time to learn nearly every designation of every cybertronian on board (he still had no idea how you did that, but he was impressed). But the thing that stood out most of all was this little storytelling session.

 Once a week, you came to the observation deck and told stories. It has started with just a handful of bots you had grown close to, but thanks to "word of mouth," that little group has grown—eventually, the news settled into the audials of Megatron, who came to listen. The large silver-grey mech stood in shadows, out of sight, listening to the history of your planet, personal life stories, human fiction, and folk tales. You explained everything you could to anyone who wanted to attend. 

"Let me get this straight," a young bot closer to the back interrupted. Megatron watched as you paused your story with a smile. "There's a holiday all about love on your planet. And it's celebrated because a human man was killed?"

You laughed. It was bright and soft, are too precious of a sound to Megatron's ears. "that is an extremely simplified version of the events, but yes. At least that's how the stories go."

Another bot sat up straighter "you mean there's more than one story?"

"Yes, like I was saying." You smiled, scanning the little audience you had. " There are two stories about St. Valentine's death. There's no real answer to which one is right or if there was more than one man named Valentine. But the most common one follows a simple storyline." 

Megatron watched as you got lost in the short story recalling the harsh laws of ancient Rome and the outlaw of marriage for young men meant to be soldiers. 

He was captivated by how your eyes shined, how you played with your fingers when you came to the romantic part of the story- you talked about the man who married young lovers. Risking his own life to spread love in his homeland and his murder for defying his leader. 

"overtime the day of remembrance,  it morphed into a holiday about spreading love. Sharing poems and cards and other sweet mementos" You paused. Then hurried to a small bag on the floor near you. 

"I have a few that I've gotten over the years." You pulled out paper cards, handing them out to be seen by the bots closer to you. "I've never gotten any real romantic ones or any from a secret admirer, but these kinds of cards are often given to family and friends." Your smile had vanished for a moment. Causing the ex-warlords spark to sink. 

No one had ever given you a romantic gift? That seemed impossible. You were a beautiful and kind person. So patient and understanding. The ideal specimen of your species. And no one had taken a romantic interest in you?

Megatron silently left his dark back corner. Making the long trek back to his hab-unit. He would have to fix that. 

*****

Eyes that shine brighter than the stars above. 

So foreign yet so familiar to me.

And inferno of kindness and of love.

Showing this mech what it means to be free.

I wish I knew how to speak to your heart,

Instead, I hide from you, suddenly mute. 

My mind, fixated when we are apart. 

In a way, my silver tongue can't compute.

A feeling stronger than any other,

I hide these feelings deep within my spark.

Knowing you are better with another.

I do not belong in your human heart.

A mech once born as a humble miner,

Transformed, your secret admirer.

Megatron read over his work a final time. It wasn't his best work due to the format being so foreign to him. The style was called a 'Shakespearean sonnet' and, according to his research, was considered romantic on earth. 

He had taken a few hours to compose the piece. Studying the style's intricacy and finding the right words to what he needed to say to you. 

The datapad was the third and final draft. The only thing left to do would be to deliver it. You hadn't been in your hab-unit all day, according to your unit mates. He had overheard them talking about you and took that as his cue to leave the datapad for you there. Leaving before anyone could know, he has stepped into your little home away from earth. 

It gave him a feeling of pride. Knowing he was the first to express such feelings to you in your culture's romantic way of expression. And in a form, he had only briefly studied. 

*****

A purple datapad sat on his desk. He had no clue how it got there. All of the ones he currently possessed were blue, and Ravage refused to do anything other than laugh when he asked. 

It held only a single document. 

Three little lines of text. 

He reached for the datapad he had on human poetry forms. It looked familiar to the Hiku he had briefly thought about looking deeper into. 

  Towering giant,

  You stole my heart at first glance,

  I wish you were mine.

Megatron felt his spark hum for a moment.

"Keep smiling like that, and someone's going to think you're losing your mind." Megatron glared at the Felicon, who chuckled in response. 

"Are you sure, my small friend, you don't want to share any knowledge on this poet?"

"You already know who sent it." Megatron looked back to the simple poem, yes. And it made his spark him, knowing it was from you.

.

[letstalksymphogear]

Symphogear, EP.7 (Cont.)

“i have not now, nor ever, liked this creepy ass church elevator.”

“kanade please get out of my head, just because im hungry doesnt mean you have to tell me every time i am”

Hibiki finishes getting a full body X-ray. She’s fine.

“that anime protagonist immunity is really kicking in well!”

“by the way, your wife is here! and she’s looking mighty miffed., as opposed to me, mighty milfed.”

“you dont strike me as a mother figure but ill play along for now”

“i just hope miku’s okay...”

“oh, she’ll be fine! see, i’ve seen these kinds of plots before. big secret revealed, another lover is shown, the victim watches as they’re thoroughly cheated on, and they get to lik-”

“please stop breathing”

Genjuro’s wasting away again in Margaritaville. Looking for some daughter to adopt. SOME PEOPLE SAY THAT THERE’S A, WOOOOMAAAAAN TO BLAAAAAAAAAAME, BUT HE KNOWS

XYLOPHONE RIFF

THAT’S IT’S ALL HIS FAULT

XYLOPHONE RIFF

“i hate it when he gets like this. jimmy buffets not a good look for him.”

“for once you and i agree. seeing the commander sulk like this like a middle aged perma-tourist is genuinely miserable”

“hey homies! im back and i brought some bitches! oh, jesus, why does this place smell like mistakes in miami?”

“its me. im sorry. every time i feel like i failed as a dad, my anti-dad energies manifest. imagine every midlife crisis rolled up into a single ball, smacked into the face for eternity. thats the depth of my pain for failing this girl.”

In a moment of positivity, the friendship between Tsubasa and Hibiki is cemented.

> Tsubasa has joined the party.

“FRIENDSHIP!”

“fweindship.”

“uuuuhhhhh... dadship? yeah thats close enough.”

“WE’RE ALL GOOD FRIENDS!”

“ya tiddies are ringing again, better go get it”

Ryoko also points out that Hibiki’s relic is fusing with herself at an alarming rate. This is important to keep in mind.

Meanwhile, at night.

Miku is posing in the motherly “you done fucked up, where have you been young lady” position. A cold scolding is coming.

“.........................hey miku......”

“you can come in. are you worried im gonna bite? you suplexed a car. that shouldn’t be an issue anymore.”

“miku, i.... i wanted to tell you.... but.... the plot wouldn’t let me, miku....”

“should’ve told the plot to fuck off anyway. now you’re gonna live with that. you’re sleeping... on the bottom bunk.”

“b.... b..... b...... b.... b...... bottom bunk...?”

They slept separately that night. God, this is so stupid. All of this is so goddamned stupid. “I’m so mad at you even though you saved my life.” This is just so. AUGH. THIS IS DUMB. KANEKO WRITE BETTER ANGST THAT MAKES SENSE THAT ISN’T THIS.

Meanwhile, far away from this garbage...

Chris, having been evicted from Fine’s McMansion, wanders the streets of mumblemumble aimlessly. Don’t be fooled by her new fancy dress. Basically, she’s a combat-competent hobo.

“no food. no home. no victories. this sucks. whyd you do it, fine? we coulda been great together. but no. ya fired me. now i look like im prancing the red light district with a highly advanced superweapon around my neck.”

“no... hibiki’s to blame. ever since that genderbent little mac showed up to fight me, it’s been all downhill. fine thought me a laughstock because i couldnt take out her oversized boxing gloves, and now she beat me while i had nehushtan. god... i wish i never met that damn hamster faced chubby cheeked nerd.”

“wait, whats that crying”

Chris spies two kids talking to each other, one of them crying. Chris immediately makes an assumption, believing the big bro is bullying his sis.

“hey! stop nicking her lunch money, twerp”

Chris currently is a firm believer of corporeal punishment.

But the sister deflects the blow. Chris can’t even defeat children right now. Truly, this is a record low for her. You know you blew it when even kids are schooling you on basic morality. She then tells the little girl to stop crying, ironically mirroring her brother.

The infamous double T-Pose maneuver. Chris, you might as well get a shovel and start digging your own grave.

“i keep doing bad things badly, and now im doing good things badly... when fine said i was bad... did she just mean im not talented?”

Chris, finally, does a good thing and helps these kids find their parents.

“yeah. hibiki saved a kid when she got her gear. guess what? bam! im saving two! that’s fifty percent more kid per kid saved. take that, weirdo.”

The kids call her out on Chris singing unconsciously, and Chris gets flustered over it. Dawwwwww.

Chris manages to get them to safety to their Dad...

...while brutally lying about it, making Chris look like a predator. There’s a very crushing irony at play here, given who Chris used to serve.

“ugggggggggggggggghhhhhh hes not even gonna payyyyy meeeeeee why the fuck did i dooooo thiiiiiiissssss”

“hey, you know. you kids have a really nice relationship with one another. care to give me tips on how to be an empathetic human being capable of making friends?”

“maybe we’re born with it”

“maybe its maybeline”

“maybeline...”

Meanwhile...

A cold wind blows through Lydian Apartment 69-L. (I don’t actually know if that’s their room number, I just made it up.)

“jesus take the wheel, because i’m jumping out the passenger seat to save this current wreck of a relationship”

“miku please i saved your life, doesnt that count for anything”

“you already killed me the moment you lied. also im taking the bottom bunk so i dont have to see your face coming down the ladder.”

“miku you cant hide in this depression den forever. i know i hurt you and im sorry for it, but please understand i literally couldnt do it. you saw there were punches and violence and stuff... i didnt want you tied to that...”

“what was that? i cant hear your apologies over my incredibly loud snoring. SNOOOOOOORE. SNOOOOOOOORE. SNOOO- fuck, i just swallowed my spit, fuck”

“i hope this cocoon of displeasure you’ve made for yourself lets you erupt into a butterfly of acceptance so i can fly with you again.”

“......thats not fair. you cant say those beautiful metaphors and get away with it. let me be mad... sniff... let me be mad...”

Sadness wafts in the den of lies Hibiki has been forced into.

No music plays. There is only heartbreak, and woe.

In the midst of this pain...

Ryoko loredumps about how the Symphogears work and are immune to the noise on her blog, ‘hornyonmainforscience.org’, her hybrid science journal slash kink zone. It’s mostly a recap with some pretty good soft techno beats in it.

“i made a custom brew of red bull, five hour energy drink, coffee, and cream. i call it gamer girl piss.”

“damn. that’s some good piss.”

She muses about how Hibiki has managed to break the limitations of her Symphogear, making her a totally unique specimen. Wait, where have we heard this before...?

Hey... Ryoko... let’s just... cool it a bit with the Hibiki pictures... come on...

Ryoko touches upon the Custodians and the Curse of Babel. We ain’t touching that shit until later, because that’s another shitfuck box of crazy just ready to jump us in a dark alleyway to rob us of our wits.

Back to Lydian:

“miku whats the answer to the first three multiple choice questions”

“B. A. D.”

“oh, thanks. huh, BAD.”

“yeah. you are.”

“mmm. taste likes dissapointment. just like my life.”

“hey table for two haha get it cause there’s two chairs and miku for the love of god, please, forgive me”

“ive surgically removed my eyes and drew eyelashes over them with sharpie so i dont have to see your bird bangs.”

“thats very rude to both me and my hair. also, wig.”

Even Hibiki’s meal is judging her. Mainly for not eating it. Fucking look at this. God, that looks amazing. Fuck, why did I write this while I was hungry.

“miku you cant do this forever. i might die and youll end up crying on my tombstone going ‘oh god, why, oh god’, and really, i cant live with myself if that happens. mainly because id already be dead by then”

The Anime Janai crew show up to break some icebergs with a goddamn sledgehammer. As the self-aware Gods of this realm, they got very tired of this poor display of angst, and have decided to directly intervene.

Nevermind. They came for her kneecaps, and they most certainly got them.

PLEASE. I’M BEGGING YOU. END THIS GARBAGE PLOT THREAD.

“look. imma lay down the facts. yall are gay. yall are in love. yall are angry for the wrong reasons. its nobody’s fault here but the writer. so please kiss and make up. pretty please.”

“kaneko... you fool... we all know what the original sin is. its your hack writing making this stupidity in the first place. let the pencil go, asshole!”

They bring up the fact that Hibiki isn’t doing her work and wonder if she has a job on the side, which isn’t allowed by the school. Miku gets annoyed and bails, with Hibiki running after her. Unfortunately, Miku runs faster...

“oh god miku not the rooftop whatever you’re thinking just dont do it! please!”

“no. i came here to angst, since this is the Maximum Angst Zone.”

“i..... okay! okay, that’s fair! rooftops are the perfect place to look sad while getting proper air ventilation, thats fine”

It really would have been better played if it was played off that she felt hurt not because of the lie, but because she felt like she could have helped her better having known the truth, and it being a self-loathing sort of scenario for not being there better for her and not fully understanding the risk at play.

But no, instead, we get this.

Absolutely obliterated. A heart ripped, shredded, and sent to the Shadow Realm.

The episode ends on that note, but has a post credit scene.

Naked. On an old timey telephone. On a computer. Wearing stockings and long gloves.

The main antagonist of the series, everybody.

She’s talking the best English possible to some random-ass American when suddenly bursting through the scene is none other than:

“I WANT WORKERS COMPENSATION YOU BITCH, BEFORE I UNIONIZE YOUR NAKED ASS”

“AND I WANT A GOOD REFERNECE FOR MY FUTURE EMPLOYER, AND ALSO A SEVERANCE PACKAGE SINCE I’M FUCKING HOMELESS”

“i paint my eyelashes with mascara made from the tar of freshly carbonated corpses manufactured through noise, what on gods green earth compels you to think id give a rats ass about you?”

“so you never cared, huh! you’re just a nasty naked hedonist trying to- trying to- what the fuck are you even trying to do?!”

“i want to live the dream every spicy little fossil like me yearns for.”

“I WANNA FUCK GOD!”

“how- what? what? how do you even- what? are you- do you want to be the pope? is that it? does the pope get to fuck god? are you- is this a larping thing? you’ve really been into larping lately! i don’t like this!”

“youve never read the old testament, have you. ass out, pussy bare, hips up and barefoot. that’s how god’s always liked it.”

“now get lost, punk. you tipped off my hand to genjuro and now you being here is going to ruin everything. if you still feel any semblance of devotion, eat one of your own bullets and call it a day.”

“it’s 2012 bitch, if the mayans dont get you, I WILL”

“what god gives, He takes away, and so do i. i built you from the ground up. your relic, which was good for jack shit on you. the nehushtan, which you failed to do anything with except zap a couple hundred people. stop wars? you’re a walking war, waged by me, for me. and your cartridge has just run out of bullets.”

“uh oh! hand’s acting up again! better bail before i send you back to smacktown where all the bitter little shittalkers like you strut around spending their lives being useless as hell.”

“ah fuck, im not dealing with no manos: the hands of fate bullshit again”

“and guess what else i got on motherfucker”

“i see the union efforts have officially been busted. understandable, have a nice day ma’am”

“LEAVE.”

“I’M GOING, I’M GOING”

[residesatshamecentral]

Unasked-for Blade Runner 2049 review I just need to get off my chest

I saw it.

Okay. All right. I am fine.

But.

These are a few issues I just need to draw peoples attention to for the sake of mankind. If you are reading this, please reblog. Why? because one day God will call to account everyone involved in this Blade Runner sequel, and you will be able to say you did your bit to salvage the situation.

First, what was Blade Runner? The original film? Philip K. Dick may have planted the seed, but ultimately Blade Runner was its own thing - a futuristic Film Noir rooted ultimately in the theme of an unjust and abusive system and the place of an individual within it. It also deals subtley with the question of how memory, identity and emotion interact; does experience create an emotional response, or is it a cushion for emotion? Deckard (Harrison Ford), the hard-drinking antihero, is a ‘Blade Runner’ - a troubled cross between a detective and a hit man. His job is to eliminate runaway ‘Replicants’ - members of a slave class denied even the right to a normal human lifespan. When he falls for Rachel  (Mary Sean Young), an experimental Replicant who has been duped with a set of false memories, Deckard begins to seriously question his role in the system.

The strength of the film lies partly in the story - simple, arresting, yet allowing for a complex look at how memory shapes human identity, and at the problematic role a policeman plays in a corrupt social order. The famous visuals, incredibly beautiful, have dated well, even as technology catches up to the sci-fi setting. This is because a canny mix of futuristic and retro elements prevents the setting from being tied to one time.

The new film,matches the original for visual grandeur. It is also proof that without good writing, visuals are not enough. The writing has all the flaws of a first draft, all the worse because there are genuinely interesting elements here.

Set 30 years after the original, the plot follows K. a Replicant Blade Runner played by Ryan Gosling. K. stumbles on evidence of a secret that could foment rebellion: a child, born 30 years ago, to an early model Replicant. The sequel very firmly establishes that Replicants are bio-engineered (originally left slightly ambiguous) so proof that one can give birth is a weight that could tip the political balance. Meanwhile, the current manufacturer of Replicants is having production problems, and wants a specimen to help his planned breeding programme... 

This set up is a promising start. It takes the darkness and corruption of the original setting and brings it to the fore, extrapolating on the political problems and trends. The use of a slave to execute runaway slaves is a good extension of the regime’s horrible corruption, an almost Nazi solution to society's squeamishness. It has fascinating answers to how this society might control its slaves: K. is repeatedly subjected to a strange personality reading. Taking place in a bare white cell, an aggressive call-and-response dialogue reveals his mental state to his interrogators. K. does not even have freedom to think and feel as he likes, a fact he is expected to take for granted. 

Another creditable aspect of the film is the underlying theme of a search for authenticity. K. views himself as a fake. He has been denied truth in any aspect of his life. His girlfriend (Ana de Armas, slightly annoying) is a hologram produced from his home computer, and downloadable into a portable hard drive. His interactions with her are poignant because they are the only times he can let his guard down. And his apparent affection for his constructed beau is sincere. His search for authenticity in part drives the plot. The final resolution of this sub-plot is pessimistic, but moving.

The exasperating thing is that these themes are overshadowed by the films failings. The first bad sign is the determination to make the film a sequel. The scriptwriter needily integrates elements and footage from the first film at every turn. Rather than spread its wings, the sequel clings to its origins. This indicates lack of confidence in the material, which might be forgivable, but it also constantly forces comparison with a film that the sequel is obliged to match. The result highlights all the places in which the film falls down, ensuring that it cannot stand on its own. 

The second problem is the truly terrible writing. The decision to bring politics to the fore catapults the film into territory the plot is not equipped to deal with. Attempts to juggle K.s personal journey with corporate conspiracy and a political insurgency mean that the best elements of the film are swallowed. There is simply no room to examine them properly. The characters meander through this thematic maze with apparent puzzlement, perhaps at their own unlikely personalities: Jared Leto as Niander Wallace is cartoonishly evil, a very poor heir to the original's Eldon Tyrell (Joe Turkel). His Replicant assistant, Luv (Sylvia Hoeks) is potentially fascinating, but her character just ends up incoherent. The best character writing goes to Robin Wright as K’s unpleasant superior, but otherwise characterisation is first-draft quality.

The final, galling problem is the sheer amount of violence and misogyny. Female nudes are treated as set dressing, while male nudity is conspicuously absent (except in the scenes of sleeping clones, which are un-erotic by nature.) Women are slashed with knives, spayed, drowned in lengthy close-up. A woman is imprisoned in a sterile cell. Where on earth did this come from? If anything ensures the non-immortality of a film it is the needless and vicious degradation of women. People do not like it. They do not want it. And in a sequel to a classic, what is it doing there?

Overall, it might have been less frustrating if this attempted sequel had been an utter dud. Anyone who loves the original cannot help but be frustrated at the seeds of a genuinely good film evident in this failed sequel. It does the original no favours. At best, this film can be treated a a sci-fi B movie in its own right. But a sequel to a classic should be made properly or not at all.

[anneedmonds]

Makeup in the Valley of the Damned

To say that I haven’t been getting out much is a bit of an understatement. I feel as though I’ve been locked in my office for months, though it’s really only a matter of weeks if I count it up properly. Still, I’ve been doing the intense sort of work that means you miss lunch, dinner and bedtime and suddenly look up from the computer screen to find that it’s nearly morning again. I’ve been forgetting to go to the toilet and I’ve been losing all feeling in my legs from sitting in one position for so long.

So I’ve not really left the confines of the top floor other than to watch the odd episode of The Good Fight on Amazon Prime with Mr AMR (I love it, it’s better than The Good Wife I think) and pop to Sainsbury’s to stock up on healthy things that I then completely forget to eat. (Fridge is probably full of slimy salad leaves and fish that’s past its best and aubergines that have turned into purple, leathery sacks of mush.) Wearing makeup hasn’t been at all necessary.

Although: I should point out that I did scare the absolute bejeezus out of a man at the petrol station. I think he thought I was some kind of demon that had crawled up from the underworld. My hair was long and tangled, the circles beneath my eyes were almost jet black, as though I’d drawn them on with kohl and smudged them out with a cotton bud. My skin had the pallid waxiness of a nineteenth century invalid, my lips looked cracked and parched, my eyebrow hairs were pointing in every possible direction. To top it all off, I was wearing a huge old cardigan that looked like a cape.

The old man turned around from the cash tills where he’d been paying his bill and was confronted with this shocking, bedraggled specimen that looked as though it had been winched up from the bottom of a disused well. He visibly jumped out of his skin and turned back to the cashier with a look that said

“call the exorcist Barbara, for the love of God, before it starts projectile vomiting on us!”

Nobody called the exorcist but all was quite silent in the shop as I paid for my petrol and singular cereal bar. I could see the cashier trying not to make eye contact as she told me to enter my card pin. Do you need a VAT receipt Madam or do you not do tax returns in the valley of the damned?

Anyway, all of this did make me think that maybe I should take a bit more care with my appearance, so I whacked a few drops of gradual tanner into my moisturiser the next day (the Tan Luxe one, though I’m not convinced it’s better than Hylamide Glow which is still my favourite face tanner of all time) and then put on some maquillage.

I kept it simple to ease myself back in and went for creamy, plumptious textures to make my knackered skin feel fresh and youthful. I used tinted moisturiser rather than a full foundation, some creamy bronzer and blush, a bit of a sheen on the lids and a lick of brown mascara. It wasn’t one of those dramatic before-and-after deals where I barely recognised myself in the mirror, though I’m sure it would have been dramatic had I gone back to the petrol station in my cape cardy and surprised the old man again.

“Praise be, Barbara, the demons have been purged!”

I rather like layering up lots of cream makeup formulas. It gives a very natural finish, miles away from the flawless, polished perfection that you might get from a full coverage foundation with powder cheek colour set over the top. Yes, maybe it shifts a little throughout the day whereas a powdered full base wouldn’t, but I don’t mind that too much because it’s all so subtle anyway. It all just feels flexible and… accommodating.

In a departure from the norm, my little makeup video is up on Instagram IGTV rather than Youtube. You can watch it here, though I’m not sure what happens if you’re not on Instagram, like my Mum and many of my friends. Wise people, it’s a bloody black hole of wasted time, I tell you. I automatically click on Instagram whenever I open my iPhone – sometimes I go to do something totally different, like use the calculator or check the weather forecast, and I find myself reading comments on a controversial post about seal pups written by a bearded man who lives in Alaska. Then I click to see what his wife looks like and whether they have children – oh the daughter is so cute! I wonder what she looked like as a newborn? Ew, not so cute. But she was born in the same hospital as my cousin’s friend’s baby so that’s good. Does the hospital have an Instagram account? More to the point, does my cousin’s friend? How’s that baby shaping up?

Five hours later.

If you don’t (or can’t) watch the IGTV then I’ve listed the products below with links to find them online.

I’ll be doing a separate review of the Code8 BB cream because it’s a lovely face base – surprisingly good coverage but a nice juicy finish – and if you want more words on the Chanel cream bronzer then you can read a very old (but still accurate) review on it here.

Products Used in my IGTV video:

Code8 Beauty Radiate BB Cream in shade W20

Chanel Soleil Tan de Chanel*

Trinny London Blush in Electra*

Loreal Glow Mon Amour in Loving Peach

Armani Power Fabric Concealer in Shade 2*

Trinny London Virtue Shadow*

Charlotte Tilbury Cream Shadow in Bette, I think! Loads of the cream shadows from CT are quite similar but they are all absolutely beautiful, I would advise trying to swatch instore*.

L’Oreal Telescopic Mascara*

Clarins 4D Mascara Brown*

BUT BETTER IMO, Clarins Supra Mascara in Brown*

Glossier Boy Brow in Blond*

Charlotte Tilbury lip Liner in Hot Gossip*

Lancome L’Absolue Mademoiselle Shine in Mademoiselle Plays*

The post Makeup in the Valley of the Damned appeared first on A Model Recommends.

Makeup in the Valley of the Damned was first posted on August 10, 2019 at 6:00 pm. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at contact@amodelrecommends.com Makeup in the Valley of the Damned published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

[redherringquotes]

John Greaves Nall, Great Yarmouth and Lowestoft: A Handbook for Visitors, 1866

Page 13: Footnote: Thomas Nashe was a Lowestoft man, born in 1558, a B.A. of St. John’s College, Cambridge, and one of the ablest Euphuistic writers of the Elizabethan age. His very rare tract on Great Yarmouth, reprinted in the Harlan Miscellany, vol. II, is a characteristic and favorable specimen of the literary fustian of his day;— “Taffeta phrases, silken terms, precise, Three plied hyperboles, spruce affectation, Figures pedantical.’ It is entitled “Nashe’s Lenten Stuff concerning the description and first procreation and increase of the town of Great Yarmouth, in Norfolk, with a New Play never played before, of the Praise of the Red Herring. Fit of all Clerks of Noblemen’s kitchens to be read; and not unnecessary by all serving men who have short board-wages to be remembered.” The principal passages of this scarce and curious work are given in the Appendix. Page 273: Footnote: Formerly, in many parts of the kingdom, in the Shrove Tuesday procession, was a man called Lenton, to represent Lent, clad in white and red herring skins, and his horse had trappings of oyster shells. Page 341: Gillingwater relates that in 1776 a panic set in amongst the herring merchants of Lowestoft, an extinction of their fishery being apprehended from attempts at that time commenced by the merchants of Scotland, the Isle of Man, and Liverpool, to introduce at their respective stations the red herring cure. ‘Towers’ from Lowestoft and Yarmouth were engaged to teach the processes, and an endeavor was made to displace the English East Coast herrings in the markets of the Mediterranean, the larger coarser fish of the North being introduced at Leghorn, and in the Levant, at lower prices. After several years’ operations, the attempt was abandoned as a failure, the nature of the Scotch herring proving unsuitable, their fat and oily quality rendering the fish both difficult to smoke, and unpleasant to the taste, the season also at which they were caught — in the heat of summer — affecting the cure. Page 344: Foonote; The Yarmouth red herring exportation has almost rom the first labored under grievous disadvantages. The heavy freight incurred by the lengthy voyage to the ports of the Mediterranean is a great drawback to its profits. Add to this the onerous duties and local charges, and the result has been that with some countries it has been carried on under conditions almost prohibitory. In Spain and Portugal they are quite excluded. Page 346: This would however be a great underestimate, inasmuch as it is computing the entire catch, at the weight of full, fresh, or ‘wet’ fish of the largest size. The smoked red herring, the curing of which absorbs nearly half the Yarmouth catch, loses much of its weight in the process, and a barrel of 2 cwt. will contain 1,000 fish and upwards. A proportion (about a fifth,) of the catch are shotten herrings, and of these a last will be just half the weight of the full fish. A barrel of Yarmouth herrings, as regards its weight and contents, is anything but a fixed quantity, and if a dozen persons in the fish trade be asked to define it, the probability is that a different answer will be made by each, the most frequent reply would give 500 fish to the cwt.; the red herring forming the staple of the local trade. Page 353: “The puissant red herring, the golden Hesperides red herring, the Maeonian red herring, the red herring of Red Herrings Hall, every pregnant peculiar of whose resplendent laud and honor to delineate and adumbrate to the ample life, were a work that would drink dry fourscore and eighteen Castalian fountains of eloquence, consume another Athens of fecundity, and abate the haughtiest poetical fury betwixt this and the burning Zone, and the tropic of Cancer.’ “There are of you, it may be, that will account me a palterer for hanging out the sign of the Red Herring in my title page, and no such feast towards, for aught you can see. Soft and fair, my masters; you must walk and talk before dinner an hour or two, the better to whet your appetites to taste of such a dainty dish as the red herring.” — Nashe’s Lenten Stuff. Page 358: The proverbs of a people are its most genuine cardiphonia, the fireside communing of a nation, the deliverance of its collective wisdom on the subjects which most engross its thoughts. In Dutch proverbs the herring occupies the foremost place. The national importance of their fishery to the comfort and well-being of the country is illustrated in their, — ‘Herrings in the land, the doctor at a stand.’ Their ‘Don’t cry herrings till they are in the net’ is the expression of a caution conveyed in a hundred shapes in other languages. There is a curious disparagement of the larger fish conveyed in their — ‘Big fish spring out of the kettle’ — ‘Big fish devour the little ones’ — ‘Great fishes break the net’ — ‘Little fish are sweet.’ Our English — ‘It’s neither, fish, flesh, nor good red herring’ is complimentary to the latter. An obsolete English proverb is that of ‘Luck in a bag, and then you may wink and choose, for the devil a barrel the better herring amongst the lot.’ The Scotch proverb of, ‘Let ilk herring hing by its ain head,’ smacks more of the latitude of the Yarmouth curing houses, but their ‘Dinna gut your herrings till you get them’ is perfectly characteristic. ‘O’ a’ fish i’ the sea, herring is king,’ is an old Scotch saying, another is, ‘It’s but kindly that the pock savor of the herring,’ of which, ‘the cask still stairs o’ the herring’ is a variation. A rhyming saw is that of — If you would be a merchant fine, Beware of o’ auld horses, herring, and wine. The first will die, the second stink, and the third turn sour. The Danish proverb, ‘Better a salt herring on your own table than a fresh pike on another man’s,’ is a homily upon contentment which the world is more apt to preach than listen to, and but sorry comfort can be extracted from their ‘Of bad debtors you may take spoilt herrings.’ ‘As straight as the backbone of a herring,’ is one of the proverbial sentences collected by Ray. In the Isle of man the two Deemsters or Judges, when appointed, declare they will render justice between man and man, “As equally as the herring bone lies between the two sides,” and image which could not have occurred to any people unaccustomed to the herring fishery. ….. Footnote: Among the proverbial observations gathered by Ray, is an obscure one relating to its cookery — “Red herring ne’er spake but e’en (once), Broil my back, but not my weamb.” The bony strictures of the herring has supplied an appellation to herring bone masonry, courses of stone laid angularly, and to the herring bone cross-stitch in seams, used chiefly in woolen work. ….. The herring has furnished the theme for a variety of similes, which abound in the works of our dramatists and slang writers. ‘Dead as a herring; Packed as close as herrings in a barrel; Scragged, lagged or sent across the herring pond,’ the felon’s irreverent Old Bailey formula for the terrors of the law, may be instanced. The sporting freak of laying hounds on a red herring trail, on a blank or frosty day, has supplied that caveto to an enlightened public, which ‘decies repetita placebit’ — not to be put upon a false scent, and distracted from the game in view. ‘A shotten herring’ has passed into literature amongst the bye words of contumely. “If manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shooter herring,” exclaims Falstaff. In Quevedo’s description of the ‘House of Famine,’ “the master was a skeleton — a mere shotten herring.” Page 361: Burton, in his ‘Anatomy of Melancholy,’ discussing diet, quotes in commendation of sea fish Gomesius, an authority in whom one’s faith later on gets terribly shaken, on finding him declaring that fishes ‘pine away for love and wax lean.’ Galen pronounces fish to be melancholy food, but seems to have been a dyspeptic critic somewhat hard to please, and condemning beef and mutton as open to the same objection. Besides he is flatly contradicted by Cicero, who affirms that for some distempers of the mind fish will be found a better prescription than philosophy. A writer of our day has ingeniously sought to prove that Shakespeare was profoundly versed in medicine. We have not seen his book, and therefore do not know what weight of authority he attaches to Falstaff’s declaration (2 Henry iv, Act. 4): “There’s never any of these demure boys come to any proof; for their drink doth so overcool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that they fall into a kind of male-green sickness; and then, when they marry, they get wenches.” Sir Toby Belch was of Sir John’s way of thinking. ‘A plague o’ these pickle herrings!’ is his drunken apostrophe to the disguised Viola. Whilst some writers have dwelt on the ‘cold phlegm of a fish diet,’ others have criticized its heating tendencies. ‘To think on a red herring,’ exclaims Nashe in his ‘Lenten Stuff,’ ‘such a hot stirring meat it is, is enough to make the cravenest dastard proclaim fire and sword against Spain. The most itinerant virgin wax phisnomy that taints his throat with the least rib of it; it will imbrawn and iron-crust his flesh, and harden his soft bleeding veins as stiff and robustious as branches of coral.’ Page 366: Of all fish that swim the sea, none has been more bountifully and abundantly supplied by a wise Providence for the sustenance of man than the herring; and, considering its cheapness, its excellent flavor and wholesomeness, no article of diet has undergone so absurd a proscription from the tables of the wealthy and great. That vile purse pride of the vulgar rich, which would fain protest with Peter that it had ‘never eaten anything that is common,’ has in this instance but obeyed with a servile fidelity the culinary edict which has banished the beautiful but plebeian fish from the menu of fashionable society. This ostracism of the herring is a thing of modern date, for turning over the leaves of our old cookery books, the reader will be surprised at the important place the red herring formerly occupied in the household menage, and the multiplicity of ways in which it was brought to table — stewed, potted, baked, boiled, roasted, fried, made into pies, soups, ragouts, terrines, puddings, etc.; dressed with cabbage, pickled with mushrooms, boiled with carrots, dished the Italian way, the Spanish way, as Virginia trouts, cum multis alitis, quoe etc., the choice offered to the gourmand is quite bewildering, whilst the recipes given for a variety of epicurean banquets on fresh herring roes, by Carême, prince of modern cooks, and others, would rouse the palled appetite of a Lucullus. Page 367: It is to be regretted (fàcheux) he observes, that the red herring does not enjoy in general a reputation sufficiently exalted to gain it admission to the tables of the great, and that the ostentation of rich people has banished it to the cookery of the people. It wakes up the blaséd appetite, it rouses vigorously the relaxed nerves. Served up as a hors d’oeuvre (side-dish) it prompts one to do justice to the entrées; cut in small morsels and mixed with the salad it gives it piquancy. Moreover it has a variety of exceptional uses, and if taken with moderation ought never to be entirely banished the table. It has besides an excellent virtue, one, of which the wine imbiber gratefully admits the value — it excites thirst, and renders him indulgent as to the quality of the wine. From all this one may conclude that maugre its defects — the red herring, like many people of merit, is of a much greater value than its ordinary reputation. Page 388: A cheap family Scotch dish is that of several pickled herrings, washed and put in a stone pan, or close covered pot, filled up with peeled potatoes and a little water, and baked in the oven or boiled till done. The herrings should be placed uppermost. A red herring sandwich is one of the standing list of articles supplied at the new model dining rooms opened in Glasgow. Page 399: Footnote: The reader may consult for much curious heraldic lore, treated very attractively, Moule’s Heraldry of Fish, 8vo. 1842, to which we are indebted for part of the foregoing. Mat: Thy lineage, Monsieur Cob, what lineage? what lineage? Cob: Why, sir, an ancient lineage, and a princely. Mine ancestry came from a king’s belly, no worse man; and yet no man neither (by your worship’s leave, I did lie in that), but Herring the king of fish, (from his belly I proceed), one o’ the monarchs o’ the world, I assure you. The first red herring that was broiled in Adam and Eve’s kitchen, do I fetch my pedigree from, by the harrot’s book. His, Cob, was my great great-mighty-great-grandfather. Mat: Why mighty, why mighty? I pray thee. Cob: O, it was a mighty while ago, sir, and a mighty great Cob. Mat: How know’t thou that? Cob: How know I? why, I smell his ghost, ever and anon. Mat: Smell a ghost! O unsavory jest! and the ghost of a herring, Cob.”—Every Man in his Humor. Page 400: ‘Be of good cheer, my weary readers, for I have espied land,’ breaks out Nashe, towards the close of his mad rhapsodical fantasias on the praises of the red herring. ‘Fishermen, I hope will not find fault with me for fishing before the net, or making all fish that comes to the net, in this history,’ he adds, and we would crave the same indulgence for this discursive, gossiping narrative. Our space imperatively requires us to take leave of this fascinating theme which has encroached so largely upon its originally allotted limits. We quit it with the greater reluctance, at leaving our tale but half told. More than half our materials, — illustrating the history of the herring fishery in Scotland, Ireland, Holland, and the Baltic, — and tracing the origin and growth of that romance of natural history, the herring migration theory, are per force thrown over for some future opportunity. Page xxii: A Ramble Round Old Yarmouth: …. “To fetch the red herring in Trojan equipage, some of every of the Christ Cross alphabet of outlandish cosmopolite furrow up the rugged brine, and sweep through his tumultuous ooze. For our English Microcosmos or Phoenician Dido’s hide of ground, no shire, county, count palatine, or quarter of it, but rigs out some oaken squadron or other to waft him along Cleopatrean Olympickly, and not the least nook or crevice of them but is parturient of the like super-officiousness, arming forth, though it be but a catch or pink, no capabler than a rundlet or washing bowl to imp the wings of his convoy. Holy St. Taurbard, in what droves, the gouty bagged Londoners hurry down, and dye the watchet air of an iron russet hue with the dust that they raise in hot spurred rowelling it on to perform compliment unto him.”