I put Calzona and Merder in a house together for my Sims 4 review. Shit got scandalous. CalDer went down and Arizona turned into a monster.
Let go your earthly tether. Empty, and become wind.
Nicki Minaj speaking on why she hired Vlogger Beat Face Honey as her personal makeup artist
"She shook her ass in a video and she raps about sex. She’s a terrible role model."
Thousands of people aren’t happy with “Exodus: Gods and Kings” director Ridley Scott‘s decision to cast all white leads as Egyptians in the upcoming Biblical drama, but there’s a method to his madness: He just really likes Christian Bale and Joel Edgerton.
When asked to expand on his self-described “careful” casting of the 20th Century Fox Dec. 12 release, Scott told Yahoo he knew Bale “was the right actor for the role” of Moses.
“I was thinking about the idea of ‘Exodus’ and Moses being this kind of larger-than-life character who, at the same time, has to be played definitively as a very real person, that I thought of Christian and I knew he was the right actor for the role,” Scott said. “It’s not a fantasy. Ramses certainly wasn’t a fantasy and somewhere Moses is very much written down and indicated and believed. So it’s a real thing.”
right so moses was a real historical person so you cast a white welshman?? accuracy??? this makes zero sense on top of being racist bullshit.
I reached that point in this Sims 4 playthrough where all my Sims are old an infirm.
And then realized Arizona and Callie never had a kid. Callie’s miserable but Arizona is happy…
Because I gave her the “Evil” character trait.
I’m reviewing Sims 4 for work and all my characters are based on Grey’s Anatomy and I think I played too much today…
A Matter Of Life And Death (Michael Powell, Emeric Pressburger, 1946), Captain America: The First Avenger (Joe Johnston, 2011).
For more film and television comparisons visit www.teaandamovie.tumblr.com.
Alex Cranz and Rebecca Jane Stokes are breaking down Grey’s Anatomy, episode by episode, in this weekly podcast from FemPop. (x)
So maybe I started this Grey’s Anatomy podcast and I’m stupid proud of it. You don’t know.
Also you should totally listen to it.
Song: Godzilla is FIERCE
umm so i heard this instrumental and then i just put FIERCE by Azealia Banks on top of it
PLEASE FUCK ME UP
THIS WHY IM ALIVE
THIS IS SO IMPORTANT
The Feenix Autore gives gamers a gorgeous minimalist keyboard, but anemic gaming features.
If you’re curious as to what I’ve been doing since last we spoke sweet internet. Here is a keyboard review I wrote.
More super whizbang stuff like this may find it’s way here. Or maybe this will continue to be a space for ranting about how Hollywood can be a load of d-bags when it comes to portraying anyone who isn’t a straight white male dude or Godzilla.
Oh my goodness gentle fair beautiful readers. How long has it been. What have you been up to? What exciting TV have you consumed? What exciting tech have you frolic’d with?
WHAT THE HAPS?
You’ll notice things at FemPop have been a little slow of late. With Rebecca Jane Stokes off being fantastic (and getting paid) over at XOJane and Hairpin and the like and the shows we regularly recap here on a bit of a hiatus I took a step back from things. But over the last month I’ve been working myself up to come back here to FemPop.
That’s meant a call for new contributors. (Those of you who have applied will hear back very shortly and those of you who haven’t applied are encouraged to do so ASAP.) But the biggest hurtle I’ve faced is purely an internal one.
When you’re in the “social justice” game it can be exhausting. Covering every failure from Hollywood–every slight to the less privileged–wears on you. Its easy to emotionally flame out in a glory of “fuck you movies and television and comics and games” and find yourself so miserable with the state of pop culture that you disappear into a hole of the previously established “good” stuff.
But after a lot of revelry in the good stuff and avoidance of the bad I’ve found myself ready to wade back into the cesspool of sexism, racism, and good ol’ boy celebrations that is the culture I exist in.
But it is more than being reinvigorated.
Because in the time since I last really passionately embraced FemPop I’ve seen a lot of people say “why” whenever someone gets up in arms over a television show or a movie or a video game. What’s the point of talking about these shows? Or getting mad about all the films that exist to wallow in manpain?
Why does Orange is the New Black matter? Or The Fosters or Under the Dome or Kick Ass 2? What makes Saints Row 4 or Finatticz’s “Don’t Drop That Thun Thun” critical to the discussion?
Because media matters.
Because as a very white kid growing up in a very white household Roc and True Colors and The Cosby Show reminded me that the world didn’t all look like curdled milk.
Because as a kid of divorce in a blended family with two siblings and three step siblings Step By Step showed my family on the screen every Friday night.
Because as a sheltered young woman taught that sexuality was a binary Gabrielle and Willow showed me it was a spectrum and you could move around on it as you damn well pleased.
Because as a woman who always hated dresses Skin‘s Frankie showed me it was okay to just dress just like me.
Because my uncle didn’t know many gay people but he saw Callie and Arizona get married and now he knows there isn’t always a husband or a wife in a marriage.
Because my twelve year old neighbor didn’t grasp the concept of state sanctioned genocide until he saw the Ishbalans systematically slaughtered in Fullmetal Alchemist.
Because Djimon Hounsou’s son wanted to bleach his skin so he could look like a superhero because all superheroes seem to be white.
Because Whoopi Golderberg went into film and Mae Jemison became an astronaut after growing up seeing Nichelle Nichols on Star Trek.
Because kid’s television boosts the self-esteem of little white boys but makes little white girls and every child of color feel worse about themselves.
Media has the ability to build us up. It has the ability to break us down. It comforts us every evening. Prepares us for every morning. It is the background radiation of our lives. It matters. Critiquing it matters. Praising what it does right and condemning what it does wrong matters.
And I’m really excited to continue to explore the relationship between us and our media.
The original Doctor Who was a campy fantasy show. One I’d watch with family on Saturday night, safely ensconced in a giant blanket, and clutching a tup of homemade popcorn in my little hands. The show had charm and Daleks filled me with terror, but as I grew older and the reruns tapered off I didn’t really give the show much thought.
Then Russell T Davies had an indie actor darling with a Northern accent grasp the hand of a fading teen pop star done up like a chav and urgently say the one word that would become synonymous with the present incarnation of the show.
It was a bold proclamation of what this modern interpretation of a British institution would be. This was escapism raised to an art form. Rose, Martha and Donna were more than assistants. They were each of us, plucked from obscurity and the boredom of our lives and cast in adventures spanning space and time. They had moms who worried, granddads that cheered and sisters and boyfriends who looked on with a tinge of jealousy. We were Rose and Martha and Donna. We were the girl who poverty condemned to one location her whole life, the workaholic in need of a little holiday with a cute guy, and the temp thirsting for more but lacking the esteem to be bold.
When Steven Moffat took the reigns it was easy to be excited. Davies had always fumbled the finales, and he sometimes got too dark for comfort, and he forced Donna to forget all her growth and one time the monster of the week was a chubby baby looking alien that farted a lot. Moffat had Jekyll, Coupling, and he’d written, hands down, the best episodes of Davies’ run.
But by the second episode of Moffat’s first season as showrunner it became apparent that he wasn’t Davies. The companions who’d risen to be the Doctor’s equals despite being mere humans, would not be escapist fantasy avatars. They would barely be characters.
They would be puzzles. Moffat’s Doctor, sans Davies’ influence, was a dear old uncle who was smarter than everyone else in the room. He didn’t travel to stand in awe of the wonders of the universe. He’d seen them all, and was more content to dotter around the house puzzling out young women’s existences. These companions weren’t taken on adventures, they had to urge him to go on one.
"Run clever boy."