whatifoundthere

• Untying, a Twin Peaks story about how Audrey Horne is a TOTAL BADASS.


• I am pretty into this pulpy, porny story about the Lady Gaga and Beyoncé we see in the "Telephone" video.


• This story about Strindberg and Helium is sweet and rather sad! And ILLUSTRATED.


• I love Astrid from Fringe forever, and this is a very sweet story about how she is amazing and nobody even knows.

whatifoundthere

creases

1. The music video for "Bad Romance", which deserves its own list of reasons why I am happy about it.
   
   
   
   
   1. the tendons in her hands (I like hands in general and hands that are strong or capable at something in particular, and hands that are tense and holding on tightly, and seeing things in outline moving underneath someone's skin—I also like collarbones for this reason)
   2. the creepy jerky monster dance with outstretched fingers
   3. the bird? masks everyone is wearing
   4. her ridiculous makeup when she's in the bathtub
   5. the CLOAK which is a BEAR
   6. the crazy glittery lobster-claw shoes
   7. oh my god, her legs
   8. the hurling-themselves-to-the-ground dance in the dark with everyone dressed in red
   9. the FIREBALL everything explodes into near the end
   10. OH MY GOD WHAT.



2. The attack on the "oh-oh-oh-oh-oh" section of "Poker Face"!



3. "Paparazzi" initially made me kind of unhappy, because I think it is a genuinely creepy song, and people don't always know when they are being creepy, and that is creepy. But then she performed it at some MTV awards show, and ( spoilerCollapse )



4. This magazine cover, where she is topless and wearing pointy-fingered gloves (the hands thing again!) and ( a strap-onCollapse )
   
   
5. This live performance of "Poker Face", which is ( ridiculous in a completely different way from the way the rest of her stuff is ridiculousCollapse )
   
   HER HAIR IS A BOW, YOU GUYS. And her big goofy GRIN.



6. Probably more reasons but now I am thinking about her hands and can't concentrate.

(A) George was an old and almost worn out ghost who lived in the rundown mansion on Spruce Street. The End

(A') He was an old and almost worn out ghost, living in the rundown mansion on Spruce Street. The End

(A'') George was an old and almost worn out ghost who lived in the rundown mansion on Spruce Street. He shared his abode with two other ghosts, both of them also named "George", who were also old and almost worn out. The End

(B) There were ghosts about. The old rundown mansion on Spruce Street was home for some of them. The End

(B') There were ghosts about. The old rundown mansion on Spruce Street was home for some of them, including one named "George", no doubt, since at that time all ghosts were called George. The End

(B'') There were ghosts about. The old rundown mansion on Spruce Street was home for some of them. A light was on in the attic. A ghost must have gone up there—only one, since ghosts like to be alone in attics. The End

Fortune at last smiles upon my patience, which has been heavily tried by all these prudent retreats and particularly by the fierce heat of the dog-days.  A Spider suddenly rushes from her hole: she has been rendered warlike, doubtless, by prolonged abstinence.  The tragedy that happens under the cover of the bottle lasts for but the twinkling of an eye.  It is over: the sturdy Carpenter-bee is dead.  Where did the murderess strike her?  That is easily ascertained: the Tarantula has not let go; and her fangs are planted in the nape of the neck.  The assassin has the knowledge which I suspected: she has made for the essentially vital centre, she has stung the insect’s cervical ganglia with her poison-fangs.  In short, she has bitten the only point a lesion in which produces sudden death.  I was delighted with this murderous skill, which made amends for the blistering which my skin received in the sun.

A Spider is not an insect, according to the rules of classification; and as such the Epeira seems out of place here.  A fig for systems!  It is immaterial to the student of instinct whether the animal have eight legs instead of six, or pulmonary sacs instead of air-tubes.  Besides, the Araneida belong to the group of segmented animals, organized in sections placed end to end, a structure to which the terms ‘insect’ and ‘entomology’ both refer.

Formerly, to describe this group, people said ‘articulate animals,’ an expression which possessed the drawback of not jarring on the ear and of being understood by all.  This is out of date.  Nowadays, they use the euphonious term ‘Arthropoda.’  And to think that there are men who question the existence of progress!  Infidels!  Say, ‘articulate,’ first; then roll out, ‘Arthropoda;’ and you shall see whether zoological science is not progressing!

Michelet has told us how, as a printer’s apprentice in a cellar, he established amicable relations with a Spider.  At a certain hour of the day, a ray of sunlight would glint through the window of the gloomy workshop and light up the little compositor’s case.  Then his eight-legged neighbour would come down from her web and take her share of the sunshine on the edge of the case.  The boy did not interfere with her; he welcomed the trusting visitor as a friend and as a pleasant diversion from the long monotony.  When we lack the society of our fellow-men, we take refuge in that of animals, without always losing by the change.

I do not, thank God, suffer from the melancholy of a cellar: my solitude is gay with light and verdure; I attend, whenever I please, the fields’ high festival, the Thrushes’ concert, the Crickets’ symphony; and yet my friendly commerce with the Spider is marked by an even greater devotion than the young typesetter’s.  I admit her to the intimacy of my study, I make room for her among my books, I set her in the sun on my window-ledge, I visit her assiduously at her home, in the country.  The object of our relations is not to create a means of escape from the petty worries of life, pin-pricks whereof I have my share like other men, a very large share, indeed; I propose to submit to the Spider a host of questions whereto, at times, she condescends to reply.

To what fair problems does not the habit of frequenting her give rise!  To set them forth worthily, the marvellous art which the little printer was to acquire were not too much.  One needs the pen of a Michelet; and I have but a rough, blunt pencil.  Let us try, nevertheless: even when poorly clad, truth is still beautiful.