“JOHNNY: Daffy comes round here, tries to buy three grams of whizz with a tortoise. LEE: That weren’t his tortoise. That’s my sister’s tortoise. JOHNNY: Well, now it’s my fucking tortoise. Little bugger pisses everywhere. It pisses pints. It’s like the TARDIS.”—
Experimental/occult/drone/ritual yew music. Free download over Hallowe’en!
"Each year on Hallowe’en and 31 July the Angelystor is said to appear in the medieval church of Llangernyw in Conwy. On those dates it solemnly announces, in Welsh, the names of those parish members who will die shortly after."
Below is a short piece written by Warren Ellis, a writer who has worked on novels, comics, film and much more. Originally a part of a book he was working on about writing for comics, the project was scrapped and he felt the advice was good for writers and creative types in general. There’s some…
Maybe I’m an old fuddy-duddy who likes to do email in a desktop client and looks forward to the eventual peace of the grave, but you can’t help but wonder what Google would learn if they kept us alive forever…
Hey Kelly Sue! Currently engaged in a fantasy-genre collaborative project and dealing with the old 'women aren't strong enough for combat' debate. My first line of argument is that if you're willing to buy giant flying magic lizards there's no excuse for saying women can't fight because realism. But was also wondering if you had any historical or other resources to consult in my efforts. And also, I guess I'm reconsidering the wisdom of this collaboration after typing this question.
Forget our stature—it’s our tits! When they don’t hurt, they’re just so fucking hot. We have this biological need to lay down and knead them like a cat making biscuits every once in a while. That need strikes in the middle of battle? Shit gets ugly, man.
Also? PERIODS. Little known fact: before Midol, for one week a month housework had to do itself!
We have cycles, dude. Deeply, deeply disturbing cycles. That’s why only post-menopausal women should hold office. Bitches can’t have their finger near the button during That Time of the Month, amirite?
Collaboration is great. Trick is, you want to choose collaborators who are at least as bright as the lamp that sits next to you. I’d be willing to bet that the dudes you’re collaborating with are married to what they’re utterly and completely certain is “common sense.” Know this: there’s an unbelievable amount of bullshit that masquerades as “common sense.”
Not only does this particular bullshit conviction indicate that your collaborators are not terribly clever, but—worse, for your purposes—they’re not terribly imaginative.
Who’s the scariest bouncer at the club? Is it the big guy? No. You know exactly how the big guy got the job. The scariest bouncer is the little tiny guy. How the fuck did that little dude get the gig that may—at any moment—mean he’s going to have to drag a belligerent drunk out onto the street?
The big bouncer? He was born with a natural intimidation factor. He may or may not have ever actually been in a fight.
The little bouncer? He was born with guts and cunning and he fights dirty. I guarantee you he’s the scariest fucker in the room.
My own personal experience with notion —
I had a bad time at a club when I was a young woman — a drunk pinned me against a wall and tried to get his hands in my pants. I had a cigarette in my hand [Yes, I smoked — I was young and stupid and apparently thought it would make me more attractive to smell like shit] and I held that cigarette out of that guy’s face with my stronger right arm while I tried to push him off with my weaker left.
I should have put it out on his cheek.
I have been conditioned since I was wee that it’s more important to be pleasant than safe, and more important to be safe than equal. So really? I shouldn’t have been in that club at all. What did I expect, putting myself in that space? My bad.
The guy was suuuuuper drunk and I basically ducked under him and got away, but the experience fucked me up nonetheless. I eventually ended up taking a full combat self-defense course that I LOVED and could go on and on about but this is already too long.
Here’s what I learned that I want you to know:
I am five feet tall. As a lever, I’m not terribly functional. Also: if we arm wrestle, you’re probably going to win.
If I drop to the floor and fight you with my legs? I can defend myself. Even my wee legs are longer and more powerful than your arms. You have been taught to fight with your upper body. Unless you’re a trained fighter, that’s how you think, that’s how you move.
Did you just grab my leg? I’ll flip over and kick you with the other. Wait, now you have both legs? Oh no! What will I do?? Let’s see… hang on! You need both arms to hold both my legs. Know that that means? I can sit up and jab my fucking fingernails in your eyes.
When you let go of my legs to get my hands out of your bleeding eye sockets, I can kick you in the balls until your grandpa’s grandpa pukes in his grave. (My tender bits are on the inside, where they belong.)
Then, if I have to — if, say, help and safety is more than a couple blocks away and I don’t think I can outrun you — while you’re down I can position myself near your head and bring the heel of my boot down on your nose hard enough to break it. And I can keep doing that, if I have to, until I collapse your fucking skull.
Women can fight, dude. We’re only guaranteed to lose if we hold ourselves back and try to fight like men.
Or if we wear a chain mail bikini. That shit chafes.