“The Doctor is cleverer. He allows Clara to think she’s really clever all the time.” Matt Smith.
|—||Jeff Winger, Community (via justsupergood)|
“Alright, that was a cheap joke. Okay, I admit it. And I’m gonna do it again, like four times in the movie, and I’m just gonna apologize up front. I like knocking Norse people out of frame. It makes me laugh. And I like things that make me laugh.”
Joss Whedon during the Avengers commentary
“As far as Firefly is concerned, that will always be unfinished business. Serenity was a Band-Aid on a suckling flesh wound. I think every day about the scenes that I’ll never get to shoot and how badass they were. It’s nice to know that people still care about Firefly but it’s actual grief that I feel. It’s not something you get over, it’s just something you learn to live with.” - Joss Whedon
The pyramid seems to represent the power structures of the world, or what some people see as the justice of the world. It can all be summarised by a pyramid. Turning it upside down is a gesture as to what we think of that.
- Matt Bellamy
The story of Ameila Pond.
Zen Pencils Comics: 33. EDGAR MITCHELL: A global consciousness
Fuckin look. That’s what you’re screwing up.
“All right, that was a cheap joke, okay. I admit it, and I’m going to do it again like 4 times in the movie, and I’m just going to apologize up front. I like knocking Norse people out of frame. It makes me laugh. And I like things that make me laugh” -Joss Whedon on the commentary for The Avengers
“Linguistic humor, How I met my wife”
It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I was very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and consolate.
I was furling my wieldy umbrella for the coat check when I saw her standing alone in a corner. She was a descript person, a woman in a state of total array. Her hair was kempt, her clothing shevelled, [or should that be hevelled?—BES] and she moved in a gainly way.
I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I’d have to make bones about it, since I was travelling cognito. Beknownst to me, the hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very proper, so it would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened. And even though I had only swerving loyalty to her, my manners couldn’t be peccable. Only toward and heard-of behavior would do.
Fortunately, the embarrassment that my maculate appearance might cause was evitable. There were two ways about it, but the chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to become persona grata or a sung hero were slim. I was, after all, something to sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle to, someone who usually aroused bridled passion.
So I decided not to risk it. But then, all at once, for some apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way that I could make heads or tails of.
I was plussed. It was concerting to see that she was communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a pareil like me, sight seen. Normally, I had a domitable spirit, but, being corrigible, I felt capacitated—as if there were something I was great shakes at—and forgot that I had succeeded in situations like this only a told number of times. So, after a terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall and made my way through the ruly crowd with strong givings.
Nevertheless, since this was all new hat to me and I had no time to prepare a promptu speech, I was petuous. Wanting to make only called-for remarks, I started talking about the hors d’oeuvres, trying to abuse her of the notion that I was sipid, and perhaps even bunk a few myths about myself.
She responded well, and I was mayed that she considered me a savory character who was up to some good. She told me who she was. “What a perfect nomer,” I said, advertently. The conversation became more and more choate, and we spoke at length to much avail. But I was defatigable, so I had to leave at a godly hour. I asked if she wanted to come with me. To my delight, she was committal. We left the party together and have been together ever since. I have given her my love, and she has requited it.
Jack Winter. 1994. How I met my wife. New Yorker, July 25.
|—||NME on Muse’s stage (via sleeplessgenius)|