Tracks to back home. The Lunar Rover tracks lead back to the Lunar Module during Apollo 15. The July 1971 mission saw the first use of the LRV with David Scott becoming the first to drive on the moon. He and Jim Irwin spent 3 days on the moon with Command Module Pilot Al Worden orbiting above.

Space-themed charm bracelet with Apollo 11 space capsule by Monet, 1969

gonna start saying “you couldn’t make x movie today” but for reasons unrelated to political correctness

you couldn’t make Home Alone 2: Lost in New York today because the strict airport regulations put into place after 9/11 make it nigh impossible for a child to simply walk onto the wrong plane

You couldn’t make American psycho today because Christian Bale would actually kill Jared Leto for real

I don’t see that as a deal breaker.

peek-a-boo

(commission for a lovely person on twitter!)

mistakes are so normal and human and inevitable and necessary and real. if i make one however please put me to death

ALT

A recent cartoon for New Scientist.

Gamer moment

true gamers are equal opportunity haters

I used an enby pride flag in league (which gives you a little flag trail behind your character) and someone said to me:

"What are your pronouns so I can insult you properly"

Guten Morgen, Berlin, was is da los? 🦁 Aber gut, sonst war es immer das Krokodil im Baggersee...🤷‍♀️

Ja, normaler Tag im Sommerloch.

Tabletop RPG about a band of epic heroes with full sentences for names on a quest to murder God and shatter His throne, as one does, except the epic heroes in question are a mob of foot-tall gremlinny critters who are not 100% sure what "God" actually is, and they're not about to let that stop them. The game features an elaborately statted-out bestiary of "divine beasts" to fight which the human reader will recognise as things that are neither divine nor beasts; the climactic battle of the example scenario involves the player characters going Shadow of the Colossus on what is clearly a windmill.

What if I just...

(This really wants to be an eighteen-entry table, but twelve should be more than sufficient for a first draft. Also, no bonus points for spotting exactly what each Art's writeup is a reference to, because the overarching theme is – I hope! – extremely obvious.)

#christ dude just fuckin make a game on a whim why don't you (@firemarshallily)

I think that's kind of become my brand at this point.

(Also, my current working draft of this dumb thing was bashed together from bits and pieces of like five other game ideas I'd previously scribbled down some ideas for, so it's not like I started from scratch. This is why writers should always keep a notebook!)

well, thats ominous

(do not tag as kin/oc; speedpaint link under cut)

Keep reading

love and feathers

Consumed by Hatred

Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.

Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.

Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.

You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.

As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.

Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.

This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.

A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.

I do enjoy the comedy of welcoming redditors to the platform with open arms like shhh you'll be safe here and then our house immediately bursts into flames behind us