everytime I hear about children of the corn I think about the guy I met at comic con who actually lived in the town they filmed that movie at, and on the farm where they filmed in the corn.
he was a teenager at the time and him and his friends would get drunk on moonshine and rustle the corn and let the air out of the tires of the production team’s trailers and shit.
and now there’s Wikipedia pages about how the children of the corn set was haunted and they thought they angered god but it was really just drunk hillbilliesI don’t like adding to posts but I also have a funny story like this, so I was watching the movie the Blair witch which takes place in burkettsville maryland, which to me is so funny because that is were my grandfather lives and the town is literally just old people and cows with their main street consisting of a post office. Well anyway he told me that after it came out people were coming in like bus loads to the town to find the witch and my grandfather lives up in the Mountain area and people were up in his property trying to find the witch and it made him angry so he went out and hung up stick people and stacked rocks and it freaked the people out so they started thinking something was out there when really it was my 80 year old Italian grandpa who wanted people out of his woods.
We had ghost hunters come to a historic house in my town to film and if you think every high school kid in town respectfully stayed at home that night instead of going to fuck up that filming you’re dead wrong.
this is comforting, actually, sometimes paranormal things are just a bunch of bored people dicking around in the woods.
New favorite cryptid: locals
Tag: story time
I took my father to see Rogue One today. I’ve wanted to take him for a while. I wanted my Mexican father, with his thick Mexican accent, to experience what it was like to see a hero in a blockbuster film, speak the way he does. And although I wasn’t sure if it was going to resonate with him, I took him anyway. When Diego Luna’s character came on screen and started speaking, my dad nudged me and said, “he has a heavy accent.” I was like, “Yup.” When the film was over and we were walking to the car, he turns to me and says, “did you notice that he had an accent?” And I said, “Yeah dad, just like yours.” Then my dad asked me if the film had made a lot of money. I told him it was the second highest grossing film of 2016 despite it only being out for 18 days in 2016 (since new year just came around). He then asked me if people liked the film, I told him that it had a huge following online and great reviews. He then asked me why Diego Luna hadn’t changed his accent and I told him that Diego has openly talked about keeping his accent and how proud he is of it. And my dad was silent for a while and then he said, “And he was a main character.” And I said, “He was.” And my dad was so happy. As we drove home he started telling me about other Mexican actors that he thinks should be in movies in America. Representation matters.
Mom is forcing the family to play D&D on our holiday. Dad has decided to play a dwarf rogue named Thunderfuk.
Little Sister is now asking what kind of weapon Santa would use
Ofc he’d use a mace! Its all the swinging action of his sack but it packs a bigger punch!
Consensus seems to be he is bludgeoning people with a sack of presents with the stats of a +1 mace :’D it’s enchanted with the magic of Christmas
Naughty children get 1d6+1 bludgeoning damage
A Story
(about the time I met Carrie Fisher)I know I told this, sort of, in August at the time that it happened, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot today.
I was working at Wizard World Chicago in August 2016, so I had some extra money to spend as I was on an exhibitor pass. I couldn’t pass up a Carrie Fisher autograph so I bought a ticket, but I waited too long and ended up in group B on Saturday afternoon.
Group B was supposed to start at 5:00 PM. I got in line at 4:30 and waited. And waited. And waited. The convention floor closed at 7 PM; I (hi, line friends) waited. She’d been signing autographs, more or less, since 10 AM. We could see Gary next to her, his tongue sticking out.
I got to the front of the line at around eight o’clock at night. I was tired; I’d been working the booth all day and perpetual cheerfulness is exhausting. I can only imagine how tired she must have been. “No personalizations,” said the assistant as I handed her the book I’d brought to have signed, which I understood (I was the front of Group B, and there were easily another fifty people at least behind me).
A minute later, I was standing in front of Carrie Fisher. I’m pretty sure, being a creature of vast social awkwardness, I made a stupid joke about being on the wrong side (I was wearing my Imperial Officer uniform).
She looked up at me, opened the book, and said, “They’re trying to stymie me. I will not be stymied. Who would you like this made out to?”
I will not be stymied. A life in five words, and all I can say is that I’m so, so very glad I stayed in line.
“The first report card I ever brought to my parents was from my college entrance exam. My parents had never asked to see my report card before. I never even heard them telling me to study. Instead they told me to meet and experience a lot of people. When I was a freshman in high school, I partook in a broadcasting club. But while I was taking a part of that organization, my grades dropped quite low. My homeroom teacher found out and I guess she thought that for my grades, it would be best to quit the broadcasting club. So she called my mom and asked her to come to the school for a meeting. My teacher sat my mom down, and told her I would be better off if she had sent me to after school classes, got me a tutor, and pushed me to quit the broadcasting club to focus on my academics and sort of scolded my mom asking her why she didn’t do that. My mom listened to all of that and asked in return, ‘You also have children, right? They don’t grow as you please, do they?’… and she left.”
“제가 초, 중 고등학교를 다니면서 처음으로 부모님께 갖다 드린 성적표가 수능 성적표였어요. 부모님께서 성적표를 달란 얘기를 단 한번도 안 하셨거든요. 어렸을 때부터 공부하란 소리는 한 번도 안 들어보고 자랐어요. 그 대신 사람들을 많이 만나보고 경험해보라고 하셨죠. 제가 고 1때 방송반을 들어갔었거든요. 근데 방송반하면서 성적이 너무 많이 떨어진 거예요. 담임 선생님이 그걸 아시고는 제 성적을 위해서 방송반에서 탈퇴시켜야 한다고 생각을 하셨나 봐요. 그래서 제 엄마한테 전화를 걸어 학교로 오시라고 하셨대요. 엄마를 앉혀 놓고는, 학원도 좀 보내고, 과외도 좀 시키고, 방송반에서 탈퇴 시키고, 공부만 시키면 충분히 잘할 애인데 왜 안 그러시냐며 훈계를 하셨대요. 엄마가 그걸 가만 듣고 계시다가 이렇게 되물으셨대요. ‘선생님 자녀 있으시죠? 그 자녀분이 어디 마음대로 되던가요?’라고… 그리고 그냥 집에 오셨대요.”
I asked my dad if I have ever made him cry in front of me before, because I don’t remember ever seeing him cry. He said, “Once.” He told me that when I was 3 years old, he laid out a pen, a dollar, and a toy of some sort in front of me. He wanted to see which one I would pick. I think that a lot of Chinese people do that… It represents what you’ll value most when you grow up. Like the pen is intelligence, money, is well, money, and the toy is fun. He was just doing it out of curiosity and boredom. It was interesting for him to see which one I’d pick anyway. He said that I just sat there and stared at the items. He sat across from me and waited patiently. According to him, I crawled towards them, he held his breath, and I pushed everything aside and went right into his arms. He didn’t realize that he was one of the choices. And that was the first, and the only time I made him cry.
You can discover the weirdest things digging into your family history.
For example:
- Apparently, I have a great-great-uncle who was cursed by a witch after stiffing her on the repayment of one-dollar loan. (Why he borrowed a dollar from a witch in the first place is not recorded.)
- I also have a great-grandfather, a beekeeper by profession, who’s alleged to have spontaneously combusted one day while tending his bees.
As far as I can tell, these events are completely unrelated – the two men are on different branches of the family tree, and never met – but I can’t help but imagine that somewhere out there, there’s a witch with unbelievably bad aim.
When Caroline Walter of Freiburg, Germany died at the age of 16, her sister, ,Selma, had a sculptor cast a life size sculpture for the gravestone – Every morning since Caroline’s funeral, a fresh flower was found tucked in the crook of the arm, and still is to this day – Nobody knows who leaves it – Every single morning! – Caroline died in 1867 – For 146 years, someone has been leaving flowers…
Caroline totes had a vampire lover.
This is by far, my favorite theory.
Did tumblr just come up with a better version of twilight
the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger
I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.
Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.
And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.
The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.
They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.
Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.
The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.
*
The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.
The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.
They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride.
They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.
There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.
You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.
*
When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.
When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.
*
The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.
There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition.
You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.
*
It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.
You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.
*
A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.
In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.
You nod to him, and he offers you a cupcake.
This is so awesome.
So a friend of mine, we’ll call him Daniel, is deaf and has been his whole life. Daniel was fired from his job by a manager that openly mocked him for being deaf. So when he needed to go to the unemployment office he asked me to go with him because I have been trying to learn sign language and we can communicate pretty well. We get there and there’s only us and a very elderly old man (EM) sitting in the waiting area. All of the chairs are set up so that we are facing the only receptionist in the room. There seems to be some sort of issue with EM’s paperwork so every few minutes EM would walk up to answer a question of the receptionists’ or to sign what she asked him to sign and then he would sit back down. Daniel being the sweet guy he is, would reach forward and hold the man’s chair every time he went to sit back down.
So me and Daniel are signing back and forth just shooting the sh*t when a few other people come in, including a very loud, obnoxious, white trash couple. Now, as I previously stated, I am just learning sign language so I was concentrating on what I was signing and understanding what Daniel was signing so at first I didn’t notice white trash couple plop down in the seats behind us. Then I heard it “derrr… derrr… I’m a deafie….derr”. I glance behind me without moving my head and in my peripheral vision I can see white trash male mocking Daniel and imitating the noises that Daniel makes when he laughs or gets into a story. White Trash bitch apparently thinks this is hilarious. I realize that because I am super concentrating, I haven’t said anything or given them any idea that I am not deaf. I take a look at the receptionist who looks mortified but seems not to know what to do.
Now nothing would have made me happier than to cause a huge scene but I knew Daniel was already self conscious about getting fired so I did the next best thing. I waited until EM went to sit down again, Daniel reached forward to hold his chair, I spun around in my chair, looked white trashy 1 & 2 and yelled as loud as I could “WHAT THE F*CK IS YOUR PROBLEM!?!” White Trash douche’s jaw drops in shock and the bitch went white as a sheet. I just stared at them. Daniel suddenly realizes I am looking at the white trash couple and signs “What’s wrong?” I told him they kicked my chair. He signs “A**hole” and glares at them.
I guess they felt uncomfortable enough that they decided to slink out of the building. F*ck you and your unemployment check.
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