HMS Got 'Em

KILL 'EM ALL,
LET TOM CLANCY SORT IT OUT
(IN HIS BOOKS)

chrisgriswold:

uncannybrettwhite:

khealywu:

ballpitfucker:

it’s called AAVE, you FUCKTRUCK
I hate how people here think that “proper general English” is the only way to speak English and all the others are considered “idiocy” like if language has anything to do with intelligence. I’m not even from the U.S. and I know this better than most of you.
Below is a list of all English dialects in North America:
American English - Standard American English is the general form
Cultural
African-American Vernacular English (AAVE)
Chicano English
New York Latino English
Pennsylvania Dutch English
Yeshivish
Yinglish

Regional
New England English
Boston accent
Boston Brahmin accent
Hudson Valley English
Lake Dialect or Lake Talk
Vermont English

Inland Northern American English (includes western and central upstate New York)
Northeast Pennsylvania English

Mid-Atlantic dialects
Baltimore dialect
Philadelphia dialect
Pittsburgh English
New York dialect
New Jersey English dialects

Inland Northern American English (Lower peninsula of Michigan, northern Ohio and Indiana, Chicago, part of eastern Wisconsin and upstate New York)
North–Central American English (primarily Minnesota, but also most of Wisconsin, the Upper peninsula of Michigan, and parts of North Dakota, South Dakota, and Iowa)
Yooper dialect (Upper Peninsula of Michigan and some neighboring areas)

Midland American English
North Midlands English (thin swath from Nebraska to Ohio)
St. Louis
South Midland (thin swath from Oklahoma to Pennsylvania)

Southern English
Appalachian English
Tidewater accent
Virginia Piedmont
Virginia TidewaterCoastal Southeastern (Charleston, South Carolina, Savannah, Georgia area)
Cajun English
Harkers Island English (North Carolina)

Ozark English
Southern Highland English
Gullah or Geechee
Texan
Yat dialect (New Orleans)
Ocracoke

Western English
California English
Boontling
Pacific Northwest English

Hawaiian Pidgin
Canada
Canadian English:
Newfoundland English
Maritime English
Cape Breton accent
Lunenburg English

West–Central Canadian English
Northern Ontario English
Quebec English
Ottawa Valley Twang
Pacific Northwest English

Bermuda
Bermudian English
Native/American indigenous peoples
Native American/indigenous peoples of the Americas English dialects:
Mojave English
Isletan English
Tsimshian English
Lumbee English
Tohono O’odham English
Inupiaq English

The Hudson Valley English link blew my mind! My mom was born in Boston but grew up in Poughkeepsie and that article nails her accent.
I am so guilty of that mountain (moun-in) pronunciation, oh man.

I can’t find the accent for Middle Tennessee! East and West are in there!

Seriously, look into that Pittsburgh English entry sometime. It’s FASCINATING.
Also reblogging because I thought I was the only person who’d used the term FUCKTRUCK

There’s an AWESOME book (which I have just learned is a series of books?) by H.L. Mencken that covers the development of the American language as it compares to its British origins:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_American_Language

The main thrust (I mean there’s a lot of them) is that the thing that made the American language distinct from stuffy old B.E. is one, an intense reliance on idiom and metaphor, and two, an ever-increasing shortening of word sounds and sentence structure. In other words, the EXACT things that we associate with African American Vernacular. Hugely-mocked elements of it like the verb construction “I be” or using “he” as a single word to indicate possession are in fact direct descendants of these patterns and represent the next stage of development in our tongue.

The next time some asshole tries to point out how “funny” AAVE is, just remind them that the reason it sounds off to their dumb ears is because its practitioners are LITERALLY SPEAKING THE FUTURE.*

* - because white people steal everything, is a thing that goes without saying

chrisgriswold:

uncannybrettwhite:

khealywu:

ballpitfucker:

it’s called AAVE, you FUCKTRUCK

I hate how people here think that “proper general English” is the only way to speak English and all the others are considered “idiocy” like if language has anything to do with intelligence. I’m not even from the U.S. and I know this better than most of you.

Below is a list of all English dialects in North America:

American English - Standard American English is the general form

Canada

Canadian English:

Bermuda

Bermudian English

Native/American indigenous peoples

Native American/indigenous peoples of the Americas English dialects:

The Hudson Valley English link blew my mind! My mom was born in Boston but grew up in Poughkeepsie and that article nails her accent.

I am so guilty of that mountain (moun-in) pronunciation, oh man.

I can’t find the accent for Middle Tennessee! East and West are in there!

Seriously, look into that Pittsburgh English entry sometime. It’s FASCINATING.

Also reblogging because I thought I was the only person who’d used the term FUCKTRUCK

There’s an AWESOME book (which I have just learned is a series of books?) by H.L. Mencken that covers the development of the American language as it compares to its British origins:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_American_Language

The main thrust (I mean there’s a lot of them) is that the thing that made the American language distinct from stuffy old B.E. is one, an intense reliance on idiom and metaphor, and two, an ever-increasing shortening of word sounds and sentence structure. In other words, the EXACT things that we associate with African American Vernacular. Hugely-mocked elements of it like the verb construction “I be” or using “he” as a single word to indicate possession are in fact direct descendants of these patterns and represent the next stage of development in our tongue.

The next time some asshole tries to point out how “funny” AAVE is, just remind them that the reason it sounds off to their dumb ears is because its practitioners are LITERALLY SPEAKING THE FUTURE.*

* - because white people steal everything, is a thing that goes without saying

I’m from the same town as Scotty Pippen. He still comes around some times, and he built a golf course here. Since there are are only 3,000 people it’s a bigger deal to us than most everybody else, but I think it’s pretty neat.

oh, duh

we become our parents to attract people who had parents just like them

khealywu:

mikeluciano:

This is almost surreal to watch… Lorne Michaels & the original cast of SNL on Tom Snyder in 1975 a couple of weeks before the show debuted.

Uuuuutterly bizarre.

that belushi “fuck you chevy” ten second finger scratch! that post-muppet gilda wiggle at 3:50! i don’t know if it’s just after-the-fact reasoning but it seems like you can already tell from the body language which ones are gonna be stars

“I sometimes think of this Marilyn Monroe quote. ‘If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything.’ If the goal of a poet is to take the language, or the reader, or the self, to someplace they have never been before, to a place where the last two words of her quote—‘do anything’—can happen, humor can crowbar open the audience to ‘an anything’ they are resistant to imagine. If you can make people laugh, you have their attention. Those eyes and ears are beams of light. You hold mirrors. You can point them at anything. It can be at another joke. Or an unforgettable glimpse of hell. Or a gesture of universal love for all humanity. Or lyric.”

– Mark Leidner (via kdecember)

The Secret

Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.

I who don’t know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me

(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even

what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,

the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can’t find,

and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that

a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines

– Denise Levertov

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

– "The Black Art" by Anne Sexton

tphd:

THERE’S NO LAW REQUIRING CROWDS TO GATHER AROUND SHALLOW OUTRAGE WHILE THE WORLD’S RESOURCES ARE SQUANDERED BY THE WEALTHY AND IRRESPONSIBLE

IT’S A CHOICE WE’RE MAKING

You're not going to win this one. »

emilyhoffman:

asie:

emilyhoffman:

asie:

emilyhoffman:

On Sunday I decided to take myself to the movies. It was a last minute decision and since it was a movie that would be inevitably disappointing I went alone.

I got on the subway. It was a semi crowded car and when I saw an empty seat I decided I would be better off taking it…

You might have saved yourself a lot of grief if you would have tried saying “excuse me” before you sat down. 

Maybe I would have been saved the grief of that particular conversation but I am so tired of having to justify my existence. Too often I (and others I know) preemptively apologize or ask permission for the most basic considerations. It’s a habit I’m actively trying to kick.

I thought about saying “Excuse me,” before I deliberately decided that sitting down was not something for which I needed an excuse. 

Just because you’re a nice white lady doesn’t mean you are except from common courtesy. We all have to live here together, it’s not just you versus the world. If you’re looking to see who has wronged you, waiting for people to disappoint you — living in one of the world’s most densely populated cities, you will find it.

I just wonder if you wouldn’t be going around arguing with strangers and crying on the train if you choose to act in a more courteous and assertive manner rather than in a passive-AGGRESSIVE one.

I’m not trying to steal your shine, you want to yell at strangers in cars? You want to feel victimized in New York City and in life? I can’t stop you but as a woman who has lived in the city for almost 10 years I’m just sharing that it’s not your only choice. 

Thanks for your opinion, stranger. I chose to share two isolated incidents that exist among many others that happen all the time. I truly don’t believe that silently taking a tiny seat between two strangers’ spread out legs is passive aggressive. Actually, I find saying “Excuse me,” when you really mean “Move,” to be much more passive aggressive. In both instances I wouldn’t have said a word had I not been confronted with such dominance. I was born in New York City and have lived here full time for the past six years. I’m not new to negotiating space or being courteous to others in tight spaces but courtesy doesn’t mean submission.

Nobody wants to be a victim. I certainly don’t. Nor do I want to “yell at people in cars” but it feels so much worse to just let my body be made public property and not speak back. It feels terrible to have to ask a stranger’s permission to sit down when he thinks he’s entitled to multiple seats. If I don’t speak up I feel shitty. If I do speak up, folks like you make me feel shitty.

super way to go to bat for UNPROVOKED DUDES WHO YELL AT STRANGERS person

if anything (and em i hope you recognize this is in no way blaming you), it was her “courteousness” in taking multiple motions to sit down that invited this asshole’s attention. awful people are built to prey on what they perceive as weakness. it’s hard to do (and certainly way way way harder if you don’t have the benefit of being a “nice white man”) but if you just sit down stridently and confidently in such a way that indicates you will invite no consideration of who this unoccupied space belongs to, they won’t say shit on account of they’re weak babies inside. maybe it’s not the sort of thing to be proud of, but i have generally noticed when i’m getting a strong “DON’T FUCKING SIT HERE” vibe on a crowded train and i go and calmly maintain only my own position (closed legs forever) there’s always a moment before a minute passes when i can feel their auras quiver.

kudos on you for trying to assert yourself against the forces of entitlement. i wish the world didn’t make it so difficult all the time.

So I’m reading poetry in a public library, and I guess the thing is, I’m so happy I could choke.

Today, I took a personal day, for a wrenched back that has thoughtfully agreed to recede, and right now the air is conditioned and the couch real comfortable and already two interesting race-related arguments have broken out.

The bulk of 2013, I spent falling out of love with New York City. Hard. The way you can only do with anyone who has really, truly meant something to you, when one day you have to stand up and swallow deep and admit to yourself the sight of them makes you want to puke. What did it was a creeping sensation that I had somehow seen everything.

The first few years you live here, it seems like every day you encounter a part of the world you’d never imagined existed. Each new subway stop brings with it the awesome feeling that you are a pioneer, recording for all history a new collection of parks and playgrounds and bridge overpasses that will one day serve as an essential stopping point in the world’s most important story. Then, after a series of gray dismal Sundays, you look around and realize it’s all just stores that are exactly the same.

It didn’t help that I had been letting substances get the best of me for the better part of a decade. Those twelve months certainly represented a nadir in letting my life and work and relationships come to rot. For a long time (too long), there wasn’t a friend I didn’t forget or a job I didn’t tell to fuck off, because, after all, who needs stability or smiles when you are only ever one text away from retreating to a pot-saturated prison?

The past six months, I’ve gotten what I hope is way more of a handle on that side of things. I haven’t talked about it much—mainly because I didn’t want to jinx myself. But also because it’s the not the sort of thing you can really work into those fleeting “HOW are you” conversations. That’s not knocking them. As much as I (everybody?) would like it to be true, if we ever actually tried to let all our best and scariest and most important feelings out every single second, we’d die from exertion before the end of the first week. It’s not some prize to be made consistently sad by that fact, even if I am (too) proud I strive to exist more in those spaces.

The tipping point was last fall, when I had a real important adult conversation with my mother. She is the best and responsible for everything good about me, but we are also so different spiritually and intellectually that I can’t help but sometimes feel like a total alien around her. “I’m sorry I’m such a failure,” I said. For the first time. I’m sure you know the feeling. I had moved here eight ugh years ago with high hopes and huge grins and all the vast potential various stand-in principals had spent my life swearing I had. Surely it was only a matter of time before the world opened for me, like a walnut, and shared the sweet fleshy center it was my own sacred right to receive.

Naturally, it didn’t work out that way.

Instead I spent my time blowing opportunities and wounding people and butting my head against walls I could not believe weren’t letting me breeze through. That’s maybe the arrogance we all have at those ages, but part of what hurt so bad was that I had for so long been such an awful example of it. I had allowed myself to be puffed up and ground down and knocked out, and the only way I could try express that to her was to say: “I wish I could have been the son you deserve.”

That might be the sort of thought you say only to deify yourself, but it’s certainly not at all the way I meant it. Just an acknowledgment that my whole mission in life had been to buy her a real live house, an admission that I had come to terms with the fact that that was probably never going to happen. To her credit, she seemed shocked.

"What are you talking about," she said. Sweet woman. "I have four kids and you’re the only one who doesn’t still need to ask me for money." True, if not as true as I’d like it. "You live in New York and do all those comedy shows." Of course, through no fault of her own she has absolutely no idea what that’s like. Then she said something that has stuck with me through all the after months.

"You have to give yourself credit for the things you do."

Boom. That was it. Like a buglight, right? The dumb and simple answer that has always been staring you in the face, if you weren’t too much of a self-absorbed idiot to see it. Credit. For the things you do. Not for what you could do, or would have done. But for what you’re doing right now. Not big things, like achieving your dreams. But little things, like meeting someone’s eyes, or paying the goddamn rent on time.

"You have to remember that stuff to appreciate where you came from."

For everyone the answer will vary, but mine is maybe the dark—certainly not the darkest—side of the shade. I grew up in dog ditches and trailer parks. Halves of houses split with other families who were also trying to worm their way into better public schools. Places where I did not have a bedroom ‘til after puberty and the only male figures were shitty sisters’ husbands, who often lacked teeth and more often lacked backbone.

It’s not a plea for sympathy or understanding (even when it is), just a recognition that it is a complete statistical anomaly that I made it here and something that I and you are completely stupid for not feeling grateful for at every instant. In my life, I have met the best list of the world’s most interesting people. I have worked with and around movie stars and comedic institutions and websites that almost every urbanite in the country has heard of.

By all rights, I should have turned out a backwoods gap-brain with awful hygiene and worse ideas, but instead I free-floated my way into the world’s best educational institutions. My father was an ex-con drifter who died sleeping on couches, and I have loved and been loved by the daughters of famous comedians and museum directors and dead-eyed Dick Cheney looking millionaires. Once, I was in a room at a beautiful house, on the best night, with all my friends in the world, and it stayed eight o’clock for sixteen hours. You can look it up, if you were there (Drugs aren’t all bad).

I live in a city where on one train ride I can see a baby spit and an old man shit and someone save a complete stranger’s life, if only by not looking away when they ask for change. Today, I woke up early and had coffee in my bed and bought some books I can’t afford. Later I will get to stand up in front of a crowd of peers and make them laugh with silly solemn voices. It is a fault of our design that we ever allow ourselves to not feel how wonderful that is.

You don’t have to come from circumstances—and how can you feel bad about a world that has Achewood—to recognize that you spent most of your life stuffed in schoolrooms with people who you would not spit at if they were on fire, if only because they seemed to have a broken capacity to recognize they were burning. The world could have crushed you into a coward or a creep or even just a guy who is totally okay with 60 hours of Staples and a car on which he can choose between six colors (and there is nothing wrong with that). But instead it turned you into YOU. You, with all your ponderous magnificence. YOU, who does things every hour that nobody else in the world could do. YOU, who, even if we have only met for a second, I and everyone else loves indescribably much.

Earlier some prick on a periwinkle scooter yelled at me for taking a step into the bike lane. He pushed me as he went past. Then he stopped, for half a second. I just stared at him and smiled. He flinched; and I could suddenly see every little thing he had ever been afraid of. My heart ached. Of course I still wanted to hurt him.

Instead, I just told him to have a nice day.

You guys. We spend so much of our lives wrapped up in darkness. We start as babies and basically never stop. We don’t have what we want, or enough of what we get. We think everyone is brighter, and braver, and breaking off conversations only to go laugh at everything we are. The funniest joke in the world is it’s exactly the opposite. No matter who—or how big a shithead—you are, to somebody (lots of people), you’re an example of everything that’s right in existence. Sometimes I like to try to step back from talking circles and imagine it’s just a gathered shape of a whole bunch of people who can’t find the right moment to tell everyone else how amazing they are.

Those are the thoughts I want to keep encouraging. Lately it’s been working. Right now, I’m in the midst of what seems like a big creative renaissance. I don’t know what shifted but it feels like something about my process finally clicked. I’m taking steps to be better, to everyone, if only because I want to try and be the sort of person they deserve to meet. It’s not easy, and there’s always that voice in the back of your head that wants to tell you it won’t last. That you’re not worth it. That it’s already been too long.

But who cares? The bottom will drop out and break you many times in the years to come. The shadow can, and will, come back, whenever you least expect it. It’s a fact of life, and one we should not forget. Or fight.

But we’ll also be damned if we ever allow ourselves to stop remembering—

It only exists on account of all the light.

But in his native wisdom he said a saving thing to her, said the magic and simple words that kept her alive at least a year beyond her time and made The Awful Rowing Toward God a possibility.

"God is in your typewriter," he told her.

– Maxine Kumin on Anne Sexton

liartownusa:

AB Positive Blood Anti-Discrimination Posters: “Changing Minds, Changing Lives”

liartown is consistently light years beyond everything we know

The problem with sleeping with singers is, you can put their songs on for the rest of your life.