#Swing Central

[jq37]

I knew Siobhan was gonna get that pangram (The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog) right away when Brennan said the shopkeeper drew it. It's so nice to have players you can count on to interact with your world in specific ways. All of the intrepid heroes have that in their own way. Like, Brennan clearly knew he was gonna get a chance to present Emily with that emotional beat about her mentee and have her be immersed to the point of tears. And he can always count on Zac to do bits and Murph to ask questions. As a DM it's such a great feeling when a player picks up what you're putting down and runs with it.

[marshmelman]

Such weird responses to your survey. Pleasantly surprised that it’s only a handful, but still. :(

I wish people understood there was a way to go about your internet experience without making it about some sort of discourse 24/7. Very unhealthy.

if people understood that there's a way to just avoid things you dislike on the internet and not constantly engage with discourse and meaningless drama of/with people you don't even know, the internet and society itself would be almost unimaginably different.

[thecraftgremlin]

I think the mistake a lot of people have made with Dungeon Meshi is expecting it to be a cooking anime with a fantasy backdrop, when it’s a fantasy about cooking. The expectation for cooking media to be fluffy, plotless, and (urgh) cozy is a whole other can of worms here. And I can understand to some degree why some people feel there’s a bait and switch happening, but it’s not like the story ever set out to deceive the audience. “Cooking but in a fantasy dungeon!” is about as good a descriptor for Dungeon Meshi as the infamous “Lesbian Necromancers in Space” tagline for the Locked Tomb series. Yes the series is technically about that, it's central to the theming and the story would be unrecognizable without it. But it's also massively reductive to everything else the story is about.

[sieglinde-freud]

Thank you for knowing musicians and having a score of 27 to my 3 because I only knew Sabrina Carpenter bc of you & Korn bc of the dragon ball edit.

LMFAO honestly i know a lot less than usual i was kind of disappointed!!!! i mean, i think coachella is more my alley (in terms of artists that perform. while i wouldve loved to have been there for sabrina’s set last year i think i would vomit within the first ten minutes of being there. and then i would have no money) but still… i can do better than this. what the hell.

[stillunusual]

Grant Russell Quartet - Bemsha Swing (2020)

[goldensunset]

i bring a sort of ‘i live a mile away from that place and don’t have a car’ vibe to every short-notice request for my presence that the people i work with don’t really understand

[hyper-coasters]

Serengeti Flyer — As you walk past the elephants you may see something peek over in the distance, and as you walk around Busch Gardens Tampa you will find one of the biggest swings your eyes will ever see. Serengeti Flyer is manufactured by S&S-Sansei Technologies and it is one of their Screamin' Swing models. This one is actually both the tallest and fastest version of the ride. You as the rider swing up higher than the structure, at 135 feet in the air, 30 feet higher than the top of the supports! The ride itself only lasts around a minute and half, but you are swinging back and forth at 68 mph. It gives you a beautiful view of their plains, when you're not facing the ground that is!

[shironezuninja]

As I’m cooling down my “10 foot radius, Mini Juggernaut on the move, Moody” side, that showed it’s ugly nature on the way home this afternoon, I want that Congressman’s 6 year old—who was on the news earlier this week—to be President. He’s got a better shot at being innocent than I’ll ever be.

[mariocki]

The Web (1947)

"Isn't there some way we can get together on this?"

"Oh, sure. You confess and I'll arrest you."

[widowshill]

I’ve been thinking about swing again and rog is absolutely a balboa guy.

[frink-o-matic]

Every now and then I go “my bf is so fucking patient with me. I love him.”

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Financial Times di Oggi lunedì, 16 settembre 2024

[hyper-coasters]

Down for maintenance. March 4th, 2024.

[parttimecosmichorror]

Girlhood is watching your peers from behind a glass divide and wondering why you aren’t like them while also being thankful, in a way, that you’re not

[alanhunt]

From the The New Yorker, June 22, 1935:

A la Belle Étoile

WE went up to Central Park last Tuesday night, to see the dancing on the Mall. Just as we had expected, it turned out to be a fine, cheerful occasion, not in the least like that gloomy little number in the Theatre Guild's revue which shows tenement girls dancing with despair in their hearts. The orchestra was tuning up when we arrived: twenty-five work-relief musicians, stripped to their shirts and ready for action. The tentative squeaks and moans of their instruments had kept the starlings awake past their bedtime; you could hear restless chirps and flutterings in the trees. The benches surrounding the cement dance floor were filled with girls who hadn't any boys, boys who hadn't any girls, men who would probably sleep in the Park that night, and elderly folk who had, like us, come to see the fun. The dance floor was sprinkled with powdered wax, and was unoccupied except by Park employees and playground instructresses, who were to act as chaperons. The rules they had to enforce were simple and few: persons of the same sex were not to dance together; the boys had to wear coats, and couldn't wear hats; no cutting in; no smoking; no dancing in one place.

At eight-thirty the music started. First number was "It's An Old Southern Custom." The boys played it with lots of oompah—all during the evening, in fact, they seemed to lean to wholesome rhythm rather than seductiveness. It was evident from the start that the rule against dancing in one spot was superfluous. The first on the concrete, a tall youth in pimples and horn-rimmed glasses, and his chubby little doxy, covered about thirty feet in their first two seconds. In general, we found the dancing incredibly complicated; we'd watch a couple until they were out of sight in the crowd, and they wouldn't repeat a step. It implied hours and hours of rehearsal, and people no more thought of changing partners than acrobats would think of changing partners. There was tapping; there was stomping; there were twirls, dips, glides, and deep knee bends; there were interludes during which partners separated, strolled in opposite directions, then turned and fled again to one another's arms. It made us feel tired to watch the dancers couple—tired, and a little old.

Several whimsical couples in evening dress showed up, took a turn on the waxed concrete, and went back to their waiting cars. We can't be sure about it until we hear from Lucius Beebe, but we're afraid it's Being Done. We resented these intruders fiercely, and so did all the other people to whom the Mall belongs. But to the really simple and pure in heart (which takes in all our readers) we recommend at least one trip up to the Mall this summer. If you don't want to dance, you can close your eyes and listen to the sound —sweeter than anything, sadder than anything which is a blend of work—relief dance music, leather shuffling on concrete, and thousands of very young people singing as they waltz.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Danny's Hustle

Title: "Hit of the Day"

It had been a rough couple of weeks for Danny Fenton.

Gotham was not the friendliest place for a broke, half-ghost teen. Metropolis had Superman. Central City had The Flash. Gotham had… shadows and crime and a suspicious smell of despair baked into every brick wall. Danny had drifted here after some close calls with ghost hunters and his parents' trial dragging into absurd territory. He figured Gotham's chaos might be enough to help him stay hidden. But what he hadn’t figured was how fast money dried up when you didn’t have an ID, a home, or even a working toothbrush.

So here he was, half-starved, trying to figure out how to make enough cash to survive the week without attracting the attention of either Batman or, worse, one of Gotham’s less-restrained vigilantes. He needed something fast, something eye-catching, and maybe just a little insane.

Luckily, Gotham thrived on insane.

He was trudging along an alley near Crime Alley — fittingly enough — when he heard laughter. Not the fun kind. The cold, wheezing, "somebody's about to be horribly maimed" kind. Rounding a dumpster, Danny froze.

The Joker stood there, wiping a bloody crowbar on a fancy purple coat, whistling cheerily as a few unfortunate henchmen moaned in pain on the ground behind him.

Joker blinked, seeing Danny. “Huh. You don’t look like one of mine. Or Batsy’s. What are you, street meat?”

Danny’s ghost core surged. Not because he was scared. He was furious. He remembered Gotham news reports, saw what the Joker did to kids, families, entire neighborhoods. And here the guy was, strolling around like he owned the block.

Danny’s lips slowly curled into a smile.

About fifteen minutes later, people passing by the alley would stop, turn around, and double back, squinting in disbelief at the sign made from cardboard and duct tape:

"GET YOUR HIT IN ON THE JOKER!"

One Day Only! $5 Per Swing! Bats or Bars or Slippers Provided! No Questions Asked. No Refunds.

The Joker was hanging from the wall — literally. Tied up with a mix of ectoplasm, rope, and some glittery shoelaces Danny had picked up from a donation bin. His crowbar was now neatly propped on a folding table next to a wiffle bat, a nerf gun, a glitter-filled pillowcase, and a set of squeaky rubber chickens. His eyes swirled dizzily, and every few seconds he giggled, hiccuped, and muttered, “Best… carnival… ever…”

Danny, in a stolen hoodie and phantom-form halfway active to keep himself invisible to passing cops, called out to a growing line of locals.

“Step right up, folks! Has your family ever been terrorized by Gotham’s Clown Prince of Crime? Did he blow up your apartment building? Poison your pet goldfish? Steal your car and leave it parked on top of a giraffe? Well, today is your lucky day!”

He slapped the sign cheerfully. “Five bucks per hit! Pick your weapon! Vent your soul! And maybe, just maybe, you’ll sleep a little better tonight!”

People laughed. People paid. People lined up.

A tired nurse smacked Joker with a flip-flop while muttering about missed sleep. A barista pelted him with soggy muffins. A guy in a ratty Penguin mascot suit delivered a dramatic monologue before dunking a pie in Joker’s face.

Danny made bank.

Somewhere around hit number forty-two, Red Hood dropped down from a rooftop, helmet gleaming. He stood, arms crossed, watching a ten-year-old repeatedly boop Joker on the nose with a nerf bat.

“You charging money for this?” Red Hood asked.

Danny grinned. “Five bucks. First hit’s free if you were personally murdered by the guy.”

Red Hood stared.

Then he pulled out a twenty, peeled off the cash, and grabbed the glitter pillowcase.

“Make change,” he muttered before stalking toward the Joker.

Danny leaned back against the wall, counting his earnings, the Joker’s giggles echoing behind him as more people joined the queue. A few bats flew overhead. Somewhere, Batman probably facepalmed.

But Danny?

Danny grinned wider.

In Gotham, pain was currency. And today, Danny Fenton was very rich.

part 2