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mattyhewhealy:

Matty being very proud of his pink top



trailofdesire:

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.

I thought I knew all the cool bookstores in Seattle, but this one has eluded me. *plots*

trailofdesire:

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

I thought I knew all the cool bookstores in Seattle, but this one has eluded me. *plots*


Always remember, friends. You can like an artist’s music without liking them as a person, and vice versa!!!


2srooky:

genderfluid-carlos:

ppl who don’t dress up for halloween bc it’s too childish are halloweak

More like halloweenies.


zooophagous:

prokopetz:

skittles-n-gravy:

perpetual-galaxies:

Jack is hardcore as fuck

scare me like one of your french girls

For money money, the most interesting thing about this confrontation is how completely it inverts the final scenes of a typical Disney film. In most cases, the hero is physically and/or supernaturally outmatched, and triumphs through determination and ingenuity; here, the villain spends the the whole fight running scared, while the protagonist casually no-sells everything that’s thrown at him. And there’s no ironic Disney Death keeping the protagonist’s hands clean, either. Jack just straight-up murders Oogie with malice aforethought while Oogie is running away - and by having Santa Claus himself strike the final blow, the film legitimises Jack’s killing of Oogie as the morally correct course of action.

You don’t fuck around with the motherfucking pumpkin king

zooophagous:

prokopetz:

skittles-n-gravy:

perpetual-galaxies:

Jack is hardcore as fuck

scare me like one of your french girls

For money money, the most interesting thing about this confrontation is how completely it inverts the final scenes of a typical Disney film. In most cases, the hero is physically and/or supernaturally outmatched, and triumphs through determination and ingenuity; here, the villain spends the the whole fight running scared, while the protagonist casually no-sells everything that’s thrown at him. And there’s no ironic Disney Death keeping the protagonist’s hands clean, either. Jack just straight-up murders Oogie with malice aforethought while Oogie is running away - and by having Santa Claus himself strike the final blow, the film legitimises Jack’s killing of Oogie as the morally correct course of action.

You don’t fuck around with the motherfucking pumpkin king


flyfella:

Do people know how the US government works? Cuz a lot of you are like “Why isn’t Obama doing this thing that he’s completely not allowed to do?


chubby-punx:

My goal is to be very, very cute but also very, very spooky


zultanmalik:

ed: thank u everyone for coming out! i love u all ! 

ed: *stares niall down in the crowd* 

ed:

image


ellenpageofficial:

kobetyrant:

llttlemermaid:

OHHHH MY GODDDD I THOUGHT SHE WAS GONNA DO BLACK FACE BUT IT TURNED OUT SO MUCH BETTER THAN I EXPECTED