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T H E S C A R Y C H E R R Y C O C K T A I LLink reblogged from Holy Hangover, Batman with 13 notes
Tintin as a Gonzo Journalist. →
I love it. The reasons being: he packs heat, he never takes notes, his sidekick is a drunk, he never files expense reports, he’s 14, and the story is always about him.
My favorite quote on this entire page comes from the comments:
Source: davepress
Photo reblogged from Phobs,heh. with 172 notes
![europe1850-1930:
“Journalist on a mooring in the port of Amsterdam, taking photographs of the French president Armand Falliéres [in] Holland c.1911.” (Nationaal Archief)
Journalism- it didn’t used to be about sitting around watching camera footage and eating chips](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvincdVvka1qjkcuso1_500.jpg)
“Journalist on a mooring in the port of Amsterdam, taking photographs of the French president Armand Falliéres [in] Holland c.1911.” (Nationaal Archief)
Journalism- it didn’t used to be about sitting around watching camera footage and eating chips
Source: Flickr / nationaalarchief
Photo reblogged from ploutonsTumor with 144,512 notes
thor…?
v for vendetta
WELP
KILL BILL.
Oh.
The Rum Diary
Sweet.
Source: tomblr2
Photo reblogged from Musings of a Vagrant with 16 notes
The Chair Leg of Truth calls…
Source: malabo
Photo reblogged from Amanda Rae Was Here... with 5 notes
![amandaraewashere:
“It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with a balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened. I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real.” —The Rum Diary
I might say the same about Woody Creek Tavern, which I visited yesterday afternoon on my way out of Aspen, Colorado.
Dr. Thompson himself would probably bark, “Gibberish!,” from the grave, but I stand my ground: it was a surreal experience (and I felt undeservedly special there)…yet it was oddly comforting at the same time.
I perched myself on a bench in the corner of the dimly lit watering hole; it was tufted with cheetah-print fabric. Eyes wide, I scanned the photos, magazine clippings, stickers, and nostalgia tacked to every inch of wall space; the spiderwebs of multi-colored lights and Mardi Gras beads from the pressed-tin ceiling; the bull skulls and straw fedoras; the sparkling disco ball churning lazily overhead.
When the waitress approached to take my order I admitted that I was so overwhelmed with the scene that I hadn’t even looked at the menu. No problem, she said, relax and enjoy.
(I settled on fish tacos, since I had heard that the place served excellent Mexican. It’s true.)
Later, during one of our sporadic conversation about life changes, the bartender, Tim, stopped me mid-sentence.
“You should move here. You should WORK here,” he enthused. “I don’t know, I’m not psychic or anything, but I have a good feeling about this…”
He snapped some photos (top) for the wall. We talked about Aspen, and how different this place was from the glitz and glamour just ten miles away. He pulled up a chair so as to whisper in close.
“The people who come in here—you’d be amazed,” he said. “Like that guy with the cowboy hat…”
“The one sitting at the bar?” I asked.
“Yeah. He wrote the song ‘Wipe Out.’ He still gets his check every month…comes in here all the time with his girlfriend. Just hangs out at the bar…”
And then, Tim’s voice so low I could barely hear him: “Have you heard of the Mall of America?”
“Mall of America—what’s that?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“That woman over there,” he said, tilting his head toward the table adjacent, “her family owns it.”
Huh! “Well,” I said, “maybe that goes to show that on a basic human level it doesn’t matter how much money you have; good people will always be innately attracted to places that are comfortable and free of bullshit.”
“Yeah, I think that’s it,” he agreed.
Knowing that I was hitting the road soon, Tim mixed up a margarita-in-a-waterbottle—the tavern sits next to world-class bike trails, he explained—for me to enjoy once I arrived at my campsite later that night. I put it on ice.
“Come back after California!” Tim said, grinning, as I left. “Our season doesn’t even get going until December…”
I might.
[Woody Creek, September 12, 2011]
ATTENTION EVERYONE
WE ARE TAKING A WEEK OFF IN DECEMBER TO HOP TO COLORADO](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lrh4kx51gX1qloi1ho1_1280.jpg)
“It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with a balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened. I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real.” —The Rum Diary
I might say the same about Woody Creek Tavern, which I visited yesterday afternoon on my way out of Aspen, Colorado.
Dr. Thompson himself would probably bark, “Gibberish!,” from the grave, but I stand my ground: it was a surreal experience (and I felt undeservedly special there)…yet it was oddly comforting at the same time.
I perched myself on a bench in the corner of the dimly lit watering hole; it was tufted with cheetah-print fabric. Eyes wide, I scanned the photos, magazine clippings, stickers, and nostalgia tacked to every inch of wall space; the spiderwebs of multi-colored lights and Mardi Gras beads from the pressed-tin ceiling; the bull skulls and straw fedoras; the sparkling disco ball churning lazily overhead.
When the waitress approached to take my order I admitted that I was so overwhelmed with the scene that I hadn’t even looked at the menu. No problem, she said, relax and enjoy.
(I settled on fish tacos, since I had heard that the place served excellent Mexican. It’s true.)
Later, during one of our sporadic conversation about life changes, the bartender, Tim, stopped me mid-sentence.
“You should move here. You should WORK here,” he enthused. “I don’t know, I’m not psychic or anything, but I have a good feeling about this…”
He snapped some photos (top) for the wall. We talked about Aspen, and how different this place was from the glitz and glamour just ten miles away. He pulled up a chair so as to whisper in close.
“The people who come in here—you’d be amazed,” he said. “Like that guy with the cowboy hat…”
“The one sitting at the bar?” I asked.
“Yeah. He wrote the song ‘Wipe Out.’ He still gets his check every month…comes in here all the time with his girlfriend. Just hangs out at the bar…”
And then, Tim’s voice so low I could barely hear him: “Have you heard of the Mall of America?”
“Mall of America—what’s that?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“That woman over there,” he said, tilting his head toward the table adjacent, “her family owns it.”
Huh! “Well,” I said, “maybe that goes to show that on a basic human level it doesn’t matter how much money you have; good people will always be innately attracted to places that are comfortable and free of bullshit.”
“Yeah, I think that’s it,” he agreed.
Knowing that I was hitting the road soon, Tim mixed up a margarita-in-a-waterbottle—the tavern sits next to world-class bike trails, he explained—for me to enjoy once I arrived at my campsite later that night. I put it on ice.
“Come back after California!” Tim said, grinning, as I left. “Our season doesn’t even get going until December…”
I might.
[Woody Creek, September 12, 2011]
ATTENTION EVERYONE
WE ARE TAKING A WEEK OFF IN DECEMBER TO HOP TO COLORADO
Source: amandaraewashere
Photo reblogged from The Coquette with 106 notes
…and I shall wear an enormous hat.
Source: gallivantingandgrass
Photo reblogged from Optimisme with 11 notes
“He who makes a beast out of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”
Quote reblogged from The Quote is a Lie with 30 notes
Tomorrow lies ahead of you, promising infinite possibility. Prepare to spend the day overwhelmed, terrified and shaking in a corner.
Source: quotelie
Photo reblogged from Charlie Don't Surf. with 4 notes
Spider Jerusalem (ver. 2)
See original.
Source: barrymanifold
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