Solarbird the Lightbringer leads the supervillain elfmetal band known as Crime and the Forces of Evil.
Reblogged from mightyhunter  67,878 notes






Scottish Tumbr Photoset #9


British Tumblr photoset #8

Canadian Tumblr Photoset #10

This is the country my friend crocsthemusical is from/in and it makes me smile.

"Well, fuckin’ stop doin’ it then, ya evil bastard!" - best part


Hey hey hey!

Proper football is also played there.

good point well made.

Reblogged from ysabelfaerie  1,397 notes



"Talk Dirty to Me" covered by Postmodern Jukebox

This week, we decided to find out how Jason Derulo’s “Talk Dirty” would sound if it was written as a traditional klezmer tune. Robyn even painstakingly translated the rap by 2 Chainz into Yiddish (file that one under: Things You Can Only See on the Internet).

This is incredible.

This may be the best they’ve done yet. It’s certainly the most amazing I’ve seen.

Reblogged from numb3r5ev3n  67,878 notes




Scottish Tumbr Photoset #9


British Tumblr photoset #8

Canadian Tumblr Photoset #10

This is the country my friend crocsthemusical is from/in and it makes me smile.

"Well, fuckin’ stop doin’ it then, ya evil bastard!" - best part


way too much to dislike at this point

So, yeah. “The Caretaker.”

I’m getting pretty close to “ring me up when Moffat is gone from Doctor Who.” And I’m not that entirely sure I’m going to turn on my phone’s ringer. Because right now, there is so very little to like and so very much not to, and I am out of patience with Mr. Moffat.

I don’t like – to paraphrase James Nicoll – that at the rate we’re going, we’ll end up with an entire episode consisting of the Doctor negging Clara for 50-odd minutes straight by the end of the season.

I don’t like Clara again being defined so entirely by what men think about what she’s doing. I particularly don’t like – as James on The Doctor Who Podcast said – that it feels like some sort of competition of who is better at taking care of her. She’s a goddamn adult, she doesn’t need taking care of.

I don’t like Danny Pink anymore, in no small part because of what I just said. I kind of liked him in the first episode; since then he’s become more and more weirdly erratic and demanding in ways that set of alarm bells for me. (I did like him when he went all soldier-and-officer on the Doctor, though, in this episode. I’ll say that.)

I don’t like the Doctor demanding explanations about Clara’s boyfriend, even if I don’t like that character. Wanting to know? Sure. Feeling hurt or isolated if he’s kept out of the loop? Okay, I can see that. Demanding like he has some sort of goddamn right? Fuck you, Doctor.

This show has made me think, “FUCK YOU, Doctor. FUCK you.” And wow, do I not want to be thinking that.

I can take an abrasive Doctor. Sometimes I like it. It’s a delicate balance, a challenge, and I’m not convinced it’s a good idea, because in episodes like this, you end up with nothing to like about this Doctor, or any of these characters. Don’t get me wrong, that can work. You weren’t supposed to like anybody in Absolutely Fabulous either, and that didn’t stop it from being completely genius.

But I think the way Moffat is running this version only works if you have previous regenerations of the Doctor in your head. One, to remind you that eventually he’s not like this, and for another, to place this into contrast, which makes this in turn more interesting.

That’s called “writing entirely for the fans,” and over time, it’s a really bad idea.

But most of all – on top of everything else, the thing that really punched me in the face, the thing that’s making me think that maybe I’m done…

I really, really don’t like the Doctor turning the black maths teacher into “the PE instructor” over and over again.

I really do not fucking like the Doctor playing racist tropes as dismissals.

See, here’s the thing. I can take my own ox being gored with more … grace? With having more stomach? I can more easily deal with problematic material that’s problematic towards me than I can with problematic material that’s that so very problematic towards others. It’s one thing to be all dismissive of humans, I’m fine with that. It’s another to be pulling out racist shit.

Now, I’m willing to listen to people to say this isn’t such a fucking racist trope in the UK. I only want to hear it from Britons, and really, I prefer to hear it from Britons of colour. But I’m willing to listen to that.

Something tells me, though… I don’t think it’s that different.

Mirrored from Crime and the Blog of Evil. Come check out our music at:
Bandcamp (full album streaming) | Videos | iTunes | Amazon | CD Baby

Reblogged from hello-the-future  16 notes

So I got hit by a car on Saturday…


I got hit by a car on Saturday as I was walking through a zebra crosswalk in Capitol Hill. 

Seattle has gobs of zebra crosswalks with no lights or stop signs, and you just have to trust that the cars will stop, and this one didn’t.

I saw it slow down, but it didn’t slow down enough.

I took the impact on my left butt and fell forward onto my hands and knees and—well, I’m realizing now that it was a damned lucky thing that the car hit me as it came to a full stop in the middle of the zebra crosswalk, because if it hadn’t I might have been properly run over.

My first thought was “what the FUCK?!” and my second thought was “okay, I’m fine.” Like, I stood up and did a very quick check-in: is everything in alignment? anything weird in my spine or neck? anything feel broken or bruised? and my immediate reaction was “okay, thank goodness, I’m fine.” 

The woman driving the car got out and said “are you okay?” and said that she hadn’t seen me because the sun had been in her eyes. I said “yeah, I’m fine, and this is a zebra crosswalk, and it’s a zebra crosswalk every time you drive down this street,” and then I started to walk away.

And then the people standing outside of the bar on the corner, who had seen everything, said “get her insurance!”

And I turned around and she was driving off.

The people at the bar hollered at me for a few minutes for not getting her insurance, but other people told me later on that the woman should have offered her insurance, it wasn’t actually my responsibility to know what to do when a car hits a pedestrian. (Also, she was gone within five seconds—maybe less than that—of me leaving her car. I barely had a chance to be responsible.)

And, technically, I think we should have called the cops. Not sure about that. I called the cops afterwards and they said to contact them if I was injured, and aside from a bit of soreness that I told the doctor was a “0.5 on the pain scale, less soreness than I get from rock climbing,” I still think I’m fine. I went to a clinic and got a clean bill of health, and the doctor told me I was incredibly lucky (and also to come back right away if anything changed).

I think my mistake was not wanting this to have happened. The minute I got up and checked in with myself and said “you are fine,” my next thought was time to move on. (And my thought after that was protecting other people, since the only thing I told the driver was to never drive through that zebra without slowing down again.)

The memory of the actual car hitting me is kind of coming back. Like, last night on Twitter I was all “lolz, I got nudged by a car in my butt,” but seriously, getting hit by a car hurts. It’s a damned shame that I don’t actually remember it hurting until now. 

The part of me that floats above my own experiences is all “wow, this is a really interesting way to understand how people who experience trauma process things,” while simultaneously acknowledging that as far as trauma goes, it wasn’t that traumatic—and yet the part of me who is all “ish, I’m not a victim here” is the same part of me who walked away without thinking about how to protect herself (getting the license plate, the insurance, anything else I might need in case there’s some latent injury that shows up).

But it was also an act of self-protection, in the moment, to walk away from the car and essentially say “fuck you, I don’t even want to deal with you, your stupid mistake is the smallest of concerns in my amazing life.”

But see, now, an evening later, I can remember the heat of the car as it pushed me to the ground. 

I still think I’m going to be fine. But I can feel the tension inside me, and the anger that I didn’t know how to protect myself, and the anger that the person who hit me didn’t take the time to protect me either—or give me what I am legally owed.

So that’s what I’m thinking about, tonight.

(Turned into a reblog because turns out you can only answer once, I tried twice, the second overwrote the first.)

I still don’t remember being hit by the car that knocked me unconscious for nine days in the ICU. (They too drove off, leaving me bleeding and unconscious in the street. I was found 20-ish minutes later, they think.) I’m think I’m kind of OK not remembering that… but I still don’t bike anymore.