[A Google search frequency query for “pokemon” shows a graph from 1800 to 2014. The line rises steeply in the mid-1990s, but there is a small blip around 1880.]
bookshop:

solongasitswords:

nullbula:

thesylverlining:

what happened in roughly 1870 though
why was there temporary internet
with a few people searching for pokemon?

It’s a search of Google books, but the question still stands, what the Fuck happened in 1870

I CAN ANSWER THIS!!
In the Cornish dialect of English, Pokemon meant ‘clumsy’ (pure coincidence).
In the mid 1800s there was a surge of writing about the Cornish language and dialect in an attempt to preserve them with glossaries and dictionaries being written. I wrote about it HERE.


I just love that this post happened to find the ONE HUMAN ON THE INTERNET who had the answer to this question
[A Google search frequency query for “pokemon” shows a graph from 1800 to 2014. The line rises steeply in the mid-1990s, but there is a small blip around 1880.]

bookshop:

solongasitswords:

nullbula:

thesylverlining:

what happened in roughly 1870 though

why was there temporary internet

with a few people searching for pokemon?

It’s a search of Google books, but the question still stands, what the Fuck happened in 1870

I CAN ANSWER THIS!!

In the Cornish dialect of English, Pokemon meant ‘clumsy’ (pure coincidence).

In the mid 1800s there was a surge of writing about the Cornish language and dialect in an attempt to preserve them with glossaries and dictionaries being written. I wrote about it HERE.

I just love that this post happened to find the ONE HUMAN ON THE INTERNET who had the answer to this question

(Source: neilcicierega)

Tags: # language
255,888 notes   » Reblogged from tehfanglyfish
Pastor: In Ferguson Police Crackdown, I Need a Gas Mask More Than My Clerical Collar

latinosexuality:

Rev. Osagyefo Sekou, he officiated a good homies wedding in NOLA a few years back.


6 notes   » Reblogged from latinosexuality

elegantly-tasteless:

Spreading/sharing information is activism 

Thank you! Telling people they need to be “hitting the pavement” (in the words of one speaker last night) in order to be doing something is sooo ableist.

I got there early and was able to stake out a bench near the center of the speech space. I sat through the whole vigil. I sat through the story sharing afterward. I got home dizzy with pain.

Don’t tell me it’s my job to fucking march if I can barely sit.

Tags: # activism # ableism
185 notes   » Reblogged from labrujamorgan

I’m really exhausted from the vigil tonight, but I just want to state my absolute love and awe for Black people. So much brilliance in Boston tonight, so much trust and love in sharing stories, rage, fear, hurt, grief.

A lot of my feelings went into my observations on @BlackAndPinkBos. I have more to say later, for now I’m tied up in knots.

"I Sing the Body Electric, Especially When My Power Is Out," Andrea Gibson

punch-in-the-face-poetry:

Video transcript:

You know how you go through times in your life when you are having a hard time with your body? It’s hurting or something, or just making you angry or whatever. I’ve been kind of going through that lately. Um, not feeling so awesome, um, not feeling so well. And I’ve-i’ve been having days when I was feeling just really bad, um, what I decided to do was write a love poem in the days that start writing a love poem to my body. You know the Walt Whitman poem, “I Sing the Body Electric?” Okay, so th— I titled this “I Sing the Body Electric, Especially when My Power Is Out.” [Laughter] And um [takes a sip of water] thanks for being open to this, um, new experience.

This is my body.
I have weathervanes. They are especially sensitive to dust storms and hurricanes.
When I am nervous, my teeth chatter like a wheelbarrow collecting rain
I am rusty when I talk:
It’s the storm in me.

The doctor said some day I might not be able to walk
it’s in my blood like the iron
my mother is tough as nails,
she held herself together the day she could no longer hold my niece
we said,
"Our kneecaps are our prayer beds
everyone can walk further on their kneecaps than they can on their feet.”

This is my heartbeat
Like yours, it is a hatchet.
It can build a house or tear one down.
My mouth is a fire escape,
the words coming out don’t care that they are naked,
there is something burning in here.
When it burns,
I hold my own shell to my ear,
listen for the parade when I was seven.
The man who played the bagpipes wore a skirt
he was from Scotland;
I wanted to move there,
wanted my spine to be the spine of an unpublished book,
my faith the first and last page
the day my ribcage became monkeybars for a girl hanging on my every word
they said,
"you are not allowed to love her,"
tried to take me by the throat to teach me
I was not a boy,

I had to unlearn their prison-speak
refuse to make wishes on the star on the sheriff’s chest,

I started asking the sun about the Big Bang
the sun said, “it hurts to become.”
I carried that hurt on the tip of my tongue
and whisper “bless your heart” every chance I get
so my family tree can be sure I have not left
you do not have to leave to arrive, I am learning this slowly

So sometimes when I look in the mirror
my eyes look like the holes in the shoes of the shoe-shine man
my hands are busy on the wrong things.
Some days, I call my arms wings while my head is in the clouds
It will take me a few more years to learn flying
is not pushing away the ground
safety isn’t always safe
you can find one on every gun.
I am aiming to do better.

This is my body.
My exhaustion pipe will never pass inspection
and still my lungs know how to breathe like a burning map
every time I get lost in the curtain of her hair
you can find me by the window
following my past to a trail of blood in the snow
the night I opened my veins,
the doctor who stitched me up asked me if I did it for attention.
For the record:
If you have ever done anything for attention,
this poem is attention.
Title it with your name
it will— scour the city bridge every night you spend kicking at your shadow,
staring at the river,
it does not want to find your body doing anything but loving what it loves
love what you love
Say “this is my body,
it is no one’s but mine,
it is my nervous system
my wanting blood,
my half-tamed addictions,
my tongue tied-up like a ball of Christmas lights

if you put a star on the top of my tree, make sure it is a star that fell,
make sure it hit bottom like a tambourine
'cause all these words are stories for the staircase to the top of my lungs,
where I sing what hurts
and the echo comes back
"Bless your heart"
Bless your body.”
Bless your holy kneecaps, they are so smart
You are so full of rain,
there is so much growing,
hallelujah to your weathervanes,
hallelujah to the ache
hallelujah to your full, to the fall,
hallelujah to the grace,
and every body
and every cell
of us all.


114 notes   » Reblogged from punch-in-the-face-poetry
Take boots, for example. [Vimes] earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.

But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years’ time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

—Terry Pratchett, Men at Arms (via rascalbot)

This is how it is really expensive to be poor. 

(via everydayworldasproblematic)

This resonates so deeply with me. Poverty feelings.

martindoherty:

*drops something* well i guess thats there now


87 notes   » Reblogged from ashcanranting

relax-o-vision:

nepetaz:

fucking god bless my anthropology teacher cause he said “A lot of people have the wrong idea about Feminism. They think butch haircut, man hating crazy people. Guys out there, if you believe a woman should be treated equally and paid equally for doing the same work you do, congratulations you’re a feminist. ” fucking thank you

I hope you realize that this teacher made a huge deal out of seperating you from the women who are the backbone of feminism, always have been. Those butch lesbians, man hating “crazy” people have fought tooth and nail for every scrap of right that you currently enjoy. 

What have you done lately except for parroting your misogynistic teacher’s ideas? What has he ever done except incite women against each other? 

I hope next time he even says the word butch his tongue rots in his mouth. And I sincerely hope you will not let yourself be poisoned by the man any longer.

[Image: queer liberation means a world without prisons]
filth-thezine:

Black and Pink: Chicago is an open family of GLBTQ prisoners and “free world” allies who support each other.


If you want to know anything about Black and Pink, ask me! [Image: queer liberation means a world without prisons]

filth-thezine:

Black and Pink: Chicago is an open family of GLBTQ prisoners and “free world” allies who support each other.

If you want to know anything about Black and Pink, ask me!

Tags: # Black and Pink
1,456 notes   » Reblogged from blackfeminismlives
Indian Census counts transgender people for the first time, finds half a million

nisfi:

bisexualpoc:

transmanpartner:

I hope this helps widen the world’s sometimes super-white reading of trans folks and their partners/community - this is so interested to read. Boyfriend and I are both not white so I’m always excited to read about intersections of gender identity and race!

Of the half-million who identified as trans, over a tenth of them were children under six who were counted by their parents! So awesome!

just thought it might be relevant to mention that the reason many of these trans people were excluded from the census in the first place was because of the transphobia and overall queerphobia deeply instilled in colonial south asia by british colonists. not because of ‘dirty ignorant indians’ as many white queer people may assume. this is a huge victory for india in overcoming its postcolonial conditionings.

(Source: projectqueer)

Tags: # !!!
8,773 notes   » Reblogged from the-original-dtwps
And how hard is it to land even a minimum-wage job? This year, the Ivy League college admissions acceptance rate was 8.9%. Last year, when Walmart opened its first store in Washington, D.C., there were more than 23,000 applications for 600 jobs, which resulted in an acceptance rate of 2.6%, making the big box store about twice as selective as Harvard and five times as choosy as Cornell. Telling unemployed people to get off their couches (or out of the cars they live in or the shelters where they sleep) and get a job makes as much sense as telling them to go study at Harvard. "Why Don’t the Unemployed Get Off Their Couches?" and Eight Other Critical Questions for Americans (via seriouslyamerica)
Tags: # class rage
50,935 notes   » Reblogged from arabellesicardi

folkmessiah:

getting spoken to as if i’m straight by straight people who assume everyone is straight, subsequently feeling like the world’s most useless and irritated secret agent

(Source: gonzomessiah)


41,393 notes   » Reblogged from truthofnostalgia

manhatingbabyeater:

If you say disabled people deserve to get paid less than minimum wage then you are saying disabled people don’t deserve to have a home, or adequate food, water, heat, and medical care, a phone, or assistive devices, or weather appropriate clothing, or to provide all of these things for their children, etc. We can’t even afford all of this to begin with on a minimum wage job (or SSI benefits), and yet they want to pay us even less than that.

In a word: yep.


1,855 notes   » Reblogged from madamethursday

gaydicks420:

shuckl:

shuckl:

shuckl:

untapped aesthetic: surrealist jock

a varsity jacket but it has three arms and it’s melting

your football shoulder pads have grass growing out of them and they constantly hum

you shove nerds not into lockers, but into other planes of existence. your football is always singing, singing, singing. the astroturf changes colors beneath you, and whispers the name of every person you’ve ever loved.

(Source: aidn)


16,842 notes   » Reblogged from ashcanranting

haialyy:

backtobellatrixblack:

Remus and Harry make me so sad. Think about the first time Harry met Remus, on the Hogwarts Express. Remus is staring at this teenager, this boy that is so painfully Lily and James’ son. In another life he would have been ‘Uncle Remus’, swinging by every Sunday for supper, babysitting Harry with Sirius. Instead he’s a complete stranger.

RIGHT IN THE HEART

Reaction: touching my threat choking out “oh no, why God, help” as I fell sideways onto the bed.

Tags: # lupin
40,165 notes   » Reblogged from superlen
   Next page

1 / 140