Ne, Ne, by 追川うそ
I always laugh way too much when this happens across my dash
Pandasez - I know I know…I’m going to my room.
No, don’t go to your room, stay here and cackle at this with me.
"When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move. Your job is to plant yourself like a tree by the river of truth, and tell the whole world —
—No, you move.” ~ Captain America
I was tagged by my most excellent friend @yogawithkarel to #stopdropandyoga #TreePose #yogageek
Not really sure if this counts, but if you have a favorite super hero/comic book quote and want to share feel free to tag it on here I’d love to read them.
Namaste . . !
Partially for westgateoh, and partially because I’d been meaning to post this.
A few months back I agreed to be ‘best man’ for my friend’s wedding. I got to wear a tux and everything. Around the time my friend asked me to do this thing for him, he also inquired as to my favorite Marvel comics hero.
The answer was obvious, and I said Hawkeye.
What I did not realize was that, due to the wedding being a Jewish ceremony, the groomsmen would be wearing kippot, as would most of the men in the hall. Being ‘best man’, I got one too (the rabbi and I were the only women wearing kippot). My kippah is picture above, in all its black and purple glory.
So, I was Hawkeye for my friend’s wedding. He was Iron Man (this is really too appropriate, because next to my husband, this guy M is my best friend). Groomsman R was Captain America, and Groomsman J was Wolverine. Absent Groomsman J2 was Spider-Man. So we technically were all Avengers, watching our buddy get married.
This was an awesome wedding, we all had fun, we laughed a lot (despite wearing winter weight tuxedos in Ohio in July) and we all wore our Marvel flags proudly.
The point of this story is to show off how awesome my friend was at his wedding, despite being a nervous wreck until the moment he saw his bride-to-be (and to say she looked stunning doesn’t do her justice; she looked exquisite).
The final joke being: Hawkeye was Iron Man’s ‘best man’ while he finally tied the knot with a gorgeous redhead.
I need these so I can command armies and control legions. I would be GLORIOUS!
This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.
As an employee of a used bookstore, I can attest that we’re all pretty much like this Keeper Of The Book. We remember people by their books; we don’t remember names, but we remember their books. I salute you, brother Keeper Of The Book.