digital-rawness

[tavolgisvist]

You know Linda has taken the same kind of shellacking Yoko got and we have a deep sympathy for her because we know what she’s been through. She got the same kind of insults, hatred, absolute garbage thrown at her for no reason whatsoever other than she fell in love with Paul McCartney. It’s just a crying shame the way both Linda and Paul— uh, Linda and Yoko were treated. It’s just a reflection of the state of the minds of people in the media who should know better. I mean, they’re bloody educated people, aren’t they? But they can be so narrow and petty and stupid. They were insulting them on such a personal level— about the way they look and things like that, that they would never do to anybody, man or woman, in person. I mean, how dare they? I mean, that fed the fires of the public who picked up that attitude. The attitude was absolutely created by the press—the females, too, in the press. Women are their own worst enemies a lot of the time. A lot of these women are still digging in.

(John Lennon, 1980, All We Are Saying by David Sheff, 2020)

[fallenangelsrollthedice]

If you're not reading multiple books and watching multiple TV shows at once are you even having a summer?

[fallowhearth]

Kyr is an absolutely perfect protagonist because she is such a petty bitch about everything and is spiritually a hall monitor. Sure she's a true-believer fascist raised on propaganda but she's also stupid and a horrible dweeb. She's like what if a jock was unpopular and a teacher's pet. I want her to get beaten up by sexy androgynous aliens in a homoerotic way.

[h0ney8ee]

just finished gone girl. i was upset amy decided to come back but thinking about it more......... i do love when two toxic people bring out the worst in each other

[not-rude-ginger]

Listening to Jurassic Park on Audiobook. Here are thoughts as I go through the story:

Spoilers galore on a 33 year old book with one of the biggest films ever, I guess. Also some gore mentions.

Jesus wept Crichton, that's certainly one way to open a story. They ate the baby's face!!

When I tell you the fear that settled in my soul when Tina picked up the tiny dino - I know this series!!! I was expecting so much worse, but it was still bad. Merci for the gore discretion scene POV change there Crichton.

What's the craic with the dino spit? What have you done Wu??

I kinda like that the secrecy of 'dinos be back baby!' is more by human apathy and shrugging off things than Hammond's magical will which is the only explanation we get in the film.

Yes Crichton, we can see you like science stuff and explaining how things work, we see it.

The film did the moment they see the dinos better. I almost missed it while making lunch in the book. Spielberg Win there - but tbf that's hard to beat on paper compared to a film with scale and swelling music.

I swear the narrator is picking up the film actors inflections when he does dialogue. Especially Nedry, I can hear Wayne Knight in his voice even though he isn't really doing distinct voices. Same with Sam Neil in Alan.

I am so glad they made Lex the older kid in the film - she's a classic annoying little sibling in the worst way in the book. She is bored of dinosaurs after a couple of hours! I can't decide if that's the most unrealistic or the most accurate thing in the book -- kids get used to wild things very quick.

I gotta be honest, I'd probably work in a Dino Nursery too.

I adore Richard Attenborough's Hammond, but the book version helps explain far better why things go so wrong. He's just a Bezos or Musk.

The debate with Wu about Version 4.4 is very interesting. Hammond thinks having the original wolf is what people want but Wu is probably right that what people really want is closer to a dog, even if they say they want the wolf. Anyone who actually wants the wolf is looking for a Darwin award.

When Crichton made sure to include an explanation of what a CD player was I cracked up laughing, because it may have been new enough in 1990 to need a quick explanation, but it will most definitely need it for the future given how CDs are being made obsolete. 😕

Interesting how Arnold (Sam Jackson) describes the dinos as 'precious and delicate'. It makes sense, but it wasn't carried over to the film where it's more ... wonder and awe and 'how could something so magical go wrong?' But the book does talk about how many dinos have died in the project from all sorts of things, so they must seem so fragile when you're buried into it.

Also interesting that even though they made sure all the dinos were girls (great work there Wu, no notes!) they admit they still call the 2 T-Rex (yes there are 2!! A juvenile and an adult!) 'him'.

To be continued when I listen to more - we're about to reach Rexy's Enclosure for the first time.

[threads-and-pages]

about halfway through reading the second book of the Vampire Kisses series, and until further notice I'm convinced Jagger is Alexander's angry ex.

Also very impressed with how reasonable Raven can be in the face of danger. You go girl! Give us caution!

[ninsiana0]

Read THE DAUGHTER OF DOCTOR MOREAU by Silvia Moreno-Garcia if you like feminist reimaginings, historical conflicts, medical fuckery, beasts, the unbearable pain of longing, the unbearable pain of existing. transformations, broken hearts, found family, isolated locations, class dynamics, and endless cups of tea.

[blackberryjambaby]

yeah i annotate my books (drew a sad face in the margins)

[februerik]

reading a book and being able to so vividly "see" the live action adaptation in your head and not actually have it in real life is torture

[tavolgisvist]

At Laudate in Newdigate I decided that Saturday to take a very modest 250 milligrams of LSD in a final cup of tea with Joan before setting off for St John’s Wood to pick up Paul McCartney and Peter Asher and Tony Bramwell, the Apple team due next day at Bradford. <…> Paul seemed very positive and played us some rare recordings; ‘dubs’ he had made of songs, written by him for others, dubs on which he was singing for the first and last time. Maybe one day they will make an album of them, but maybe it will have to be over his dead body for I don’t see him wishing to complete that particular symphony in his lifetime. I said I had taken a dollop of the dreaded heaven-and-hell, and Paul said it should be an interesting journey, and it was. We stopped at a pub on the way up and I astonished myself by coping remarkably well up until the point where I asked the barman if I could buy a filthy table which stood in a corner covered in cigarette burns and the stains of long dead pints. <…> ‘Drink up,’ said Paul, seeing the signs and playing Dad. ‘Write your name here please, Paul,’ said the barman and we left.

We arrived in Bradford after dark. Some disabled people were operating rowing machines in a charity marathon in a local showroom. We wandered in and looked, leaving some silver in the collecting boxes, neither the first nor the last of the small spenders. It was midnight as we checked into the hotel. There wasn’t a soul or a sound except for the red-nosed night porter, as old as Moses. Paul had brought Martha (My Dear) with him – the sheepdog of the same name. ‘Can you shampoo her?’ he asked the porter who recoiled in terror. ‘It’s her arse,’ said Paul, and he put his fingers in the thick curls around Martha’s back passage and pulled off a cluster of clinkers. ‘Look!’ I nearly fainted. ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the porter. It was very late after all. Next morning, another lovely day. I felt very nice and clean around the brain, always have a lovely morning after acid. A few months earlier Paul and I had gone shopping for suits; he had told me navy blue pinstripe was already on the way back (meaning that he wore it) and I fell for it – and ordered one. I had taken it with me to Bradford; just right for Bradford I said. I wore it down to breakfast and then we went off to the Victoria Hall where the Black Dyke Mills Band were waiting on hard wooden chairs, looking bloody marvellous and real and solid and honourable and stocky and lots of other words like that. Paul had on a magenta shirt and a white jacket, double breasted, with black trousers (no one had ever told him they were on the way back), and the Black Dyke Mills Band was quite stunned by his charm and by the way he handled the music. Marvellous recordings were made, indoors and later in the street, of both ��Thingumybob’ and ‘Yellow Submarine’. It was a good morning for everyone because the portable recording unit worked, the band and McCartney worked, and the press worked out beautifully – I saw dozens of old friends and we had a few pints and then lunch. At around three o’clock, as we filmed the last TV interview (‘How do you like Bradford?’ ‘It’s great …’; fast-moving stuff like that) I decided to off the suit and black shoes, put on a pair of red corduroys and a white Mexican cotton shirt from Olvera Street, Los Angeles, a couple of beads, an Indian scarf and down my throat went another 250 milligrams of the dreaded heaven-and-hell drug. What a day for a daydream. ‘Should be an interesting journey,’ said Paul. The chauffeur said: ‘Back to London?’ and we said ‘yes’, not sure that it was the right answer.

<…> As we rolled away from the South Midlands and approached the Northern Home Counties the acid really started to bounce. It was late afternoon and if there was a heaven to be found on this soil, then I reckoned it would be found this evening, in the green and gold of this divine countryside. ‘Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?’ ‘Yes,’ said Peter Asher. ‘Where would you like to go?’ I asked. ‘AA Book,’ said Paul. ‘Pick the most beautiful name in Bedfordshire,’ I said, ‘that’s where we should go.’ Peter looked at the map for what seemed like two hours or more. ‘Harrold,’ he said, after fifteen seconds. ‘Harrold?’ said the driver, naturally knocked out with delight to leave the M1 and crawl down B, C and D roads to a village no one in the car, including himself, had ever heard of. We wound through Bedfordshire checking off the signs steadily until we reached the village sign: Harrold. Oh, it was a joyful Sunday sight. It was the village we were supposed to have fought the world wars to defend, for which we would be expected to fight the third when told to, but won’t. It was a Miniver hamlet on the Ouse and there were notices telling of the fete next Saturday, and a war memorial which made me weep. Thrushes and blackbirds sang and swallows dived into thatches and a little old mower wheezed as we walked down the only street there was past the inn which was closed, past the church which was open, nodding to a sandy man with a 1930s moustache and khaki shorts as he clipped his hedge and stared at these city people with funny hair and clothes. It was seven o’clock and acid or no acid, it was opening time and I steered us into the most beautiful village inn the world has ever known and there were three or four people in there, or more or less; magical antique villagers with smocks and shepherd’s crooks and also there was a fruit machine offering Jolly Joker tokens. Through the dancing lights, past the sparkle of the green and tawny bottles, I saw the sandy man with the khaki shorts. <…> ‘Welcome to Harrold, Paul,’ said the sandy man, the local dentist, downing the rich gold beer he had earned with his shears. ‘I can hardly believe it, in fact I think I’m dreaming.’ We next found ourselves in his house, below dipping oak beams, a banquet provided for us, hams and pies and multi-jewelled salads, new bread and cakes, chicken and fruit and wine; and the dentist’s wife, a jolly lady, still young beyond her maddest fantasies, bringing out her finest fare. Paul McCartney was at her table in the village of Harrold.

Hiding at a turn on the crooked staircase stood a little girl, shy and disbelieving. But she had brought a right-handed guitar and landed it in Paul’s (left-handed) hands but the wizards were producing this play by now and floating with the splendour of this, the strangest Happening since Harrold was born, the dentist and his wife, and the neighbours as they crowded the windows and the parlour, and the children, all caught their breath as Paul McCartney began to play the song he had written that week: ‘Hey Jude,’ it began. I sat peacefully, full of the goodness you can find within yourself when goodness is all around and the dentist’s wife picked up on it and asked why life couldn’t always be like this and I told her there was nothing to fear, nothing at all and the dentist brought out the wine he had been saving for the raffle at the fete next Saturday and we drank that to celebrate the death of fear and the coming of music to Harrold and then, and gradually, the dentist was freaking and he asked me what I thought I was talking about and for a moment it was very tough, very. Ah, but Dr Leary’s medicine was good that day and we came back to a good position again, but I didn’t feel quite right about the dentist after that, and I don’t think he felt quite right about me, but how was he to know and what was I to do? You don’t just tell strangers you’ve been taking that naughty old heaven’n’hell drug. It was now eleven o’clock and we were still in the house and the inn was closed but a winged messenger came to say that as this was the night of nights, never to return, the inn was to be re-opened. ‘In your honour, Paul.’ It was 11 p.m. Paul had The Look on his face, the ‘do we don’t we?’ I nodded: tonight we should. The pub was absolutely full. The whole village was here. Paul played the piano until at three o’clock a woman stood and sang ‘The Fool on the Hill’ and he left the piano to dance with her and kiss her on the cheek and then I went and sat in the little garden and cried for joy that we had come to Harrold. It was a most beautiful garden, with hundreds of old-fashioned flowers, lupins, foxgloves – that sort of thing, and Alan Smith came out, pissed as a newt and said, ‘Why so sad, old friend, why so sad on such a night?’ ‘Not sad,’ I said, ‘not sad, old pal, just happy to be alive.’ We left then, waved away by the Harrolds, by all of them, and we never went back and I never looked at the map again, not even to see if Harrold was there.

(As Time Goes by Derek Taylor)

(Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI)

Add to this

[ofallplaceswhythis]

tcoptp thoughts (pt 1)

Chapter 2:

Remus acting a posh when he isnt? Him hating his dad? Why is all this happening?

HE HAS A DOG

what happened to hope??

Chapter 3:

Remus already annoying a driver 💀.

Obsession with chocolate !!!

LILY YESS.

ugh snape. should've known

and he's already annoying

queen lily i bow down to you.

Lily's in Ravenclaw?? what??

at least she's still a prefect.

Chapter 4:

Shit Remus thinking that Lily doesn't actually want to be with him hits right in the guts.

AYYY THE REST OF THE GUYS

love how Remus got flustered by Lily when she reached over him and then proceeded to call James 'handsome' as his first impression of him

Love how it took an entire paragraph with 8 lines to describe Sirius.

Ok im kinda worried that Sirius won't like Remus in the first Chapters but its ok ig.

[im-secretly-a-frog]

Debating making a third cup of tea...

[crystalizedirongoblin]

I've succumbed to peer pressure

[h0ney8ee]

20% through gone girl and so far my only thought is that amy is insufferable. i don't even care that she's missing. plots done book over

[specialshinytrinkets]

So that April Fools Sonic game

[tyrilstarfury]

OK so I know I said I was whipped by Lancelot... But Arthur tho... 👀