Starlord

Somewhat obscure reference involved....

Hey, stats don't lie.  
 
 

Hey, stats don't lie.  
 
 

Just gonna leave this here.
 

Not sure whether to put this here or in the Advice thread.
 

Billions of dollars

A little good news: In the last year, New Jersey has reduced its population of unsheltered homeless people by 23%, and its latgest city Newark has done so by 58%. Here's a brief story on how they're doing it.
 
https://www.economist.com/united-states/2023/12/20/newark-may-have-found-a-fix-for-chronic-homelessness
 
Evidence that government cansometimes  solve social problems if the people in government want to do so.
 
Dean Shomshak

Jurassic Park: This movie turned 30 this year, and it's still a very good watch. (4K UHD Blu-ray)
 
Serenity: The follow-up to the short-lived TV series, Firefly, it wraps up a number of plots from the series. It was absolutely brutal to watch it in the theater. It's a good watch. (4K UHD Blu-ray)
 
 
 
I've been playing a fair bit of Starfield, and watching Serenity again, I can see a fair bit of things borrowed for the game from it and Firefly.

Look, that's rabbit's got a vicious streak a mile wide!  It's a killer!
 

The End.

Possibly the best cosplay of the year--

Found this awesome post on Facebook, dunno the author to give credit.  Bold emphasis mine
 
Who is the best Marvel movie or TV Marvel villain? Hands down, David Tennant's Kilgrave from Jessica Jones' first season, the perfect embodiment of sexual and domestic violence. He's one of those rare villains who leaves you with unease long after you turn off the TV, and it's because he was there before you turned it on. He's not the best villain because of his personality, though his glee and charm is a large part of it. He's not the best villain because of the scope of his villainy. He's not out to destroy any cities or conquer any galaxies. He's not even out to take down a hero, although that's what he's going to do along the way. You see, Kilgrave's power is this: You have to do anything he wants you to do. Anything at all. Maybe he wants your jacket. Maybe he wants you to have sex with him. Maybe he wants you to become his lover and live with him happily, forever and ever, in a lovely little house for the two of you. Maybe he wants you to murder your mom. You know those intrusive thoughts, the ones you would never in a million years do, the ones that make you wonder if you're a monster? The ones that say, jump over the railing. Hold the match to your sleeve. The dog sure looks happy; why don't you kick its brains in? Kilgrave whispers the very worst things to you, and you do them. Kilgrave makes it your fault when he does what he does to you. Makes it your idea. Does it with your hands. Makes your body something bad. And he makes the people you depend upon blame you for it. So when Kilgrave uses his powers on you, you aren't a victim. You are a villain. And you're utterly, eternally alone in your hurt and your horror. And it doesn't end when it ends. He's got no master plan or secret agenda. He's just following his whims. If he decides he really likes you, he'll bring the trauma back over. And over. And over. He can leave an idea in your head that never goes away, an idea that sits there where you can't see it until it suddenly shows up at the worst possible moment. Creating a villain who generates such revulsion and horror in the audience is like capturing lightning in a bottle. As Dorothy Sayers told us, it’s almost impossible to write the Devil without making the audience root for him, because those attributes that make a villain an opponent worthy of writing about are virtues, or are at least the personality traits that make a character fascinating. If your villain isn’t powerful, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t talented, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t persistent, isn’t charismatic, doesn’t have a good reason to do what they do . . . no story. There is a sense in which it's very hard for us to tell honest stories about evil, because real evil isn't extremely watchable. So instead of making legitimately evil villains, we make villains who are heroes on the wrong side, or villains who are heroes with a streak of malice, or we just take the hero, run through a list of their strengths, and come up with a foil for each bullet point. Those methods make engaging villains. Those are the villains you love to see, because they thrill you at the same time that they horrify you: the Darth Vaders and the Hannibal Lectors, the Moriartys and the Lex Luthors. Those bad guys may not have our allegiance, but they have our attention, our fascination, the stamp of the viewer's approval. But to write a villain who elicits horror in the audience, who’s a perfect counterpoint to all the hero’s strengths, and to have the audience feel sick when he’s on the screen—that’s extraordinary. And in this case, it’s achieved by tapping into a kind of violence that has only rarely been addressed on the screen, and even more rarely shown from the victim’s point of view. It’s not the “violent rape” that politicians discuss, the kind that grabs you in an alleyway with a stranger’s hands. It’s the kind that gets up close and personal in all the other ways, in ways that nobody can see from the outside. And its perpetrator is an emotional toddler, raging for anything and everything they want, right now, as if their whims were as essential as oxygen. There is absolutely nothing appealing about Kilgrave. Zilch. Even his charm isn't directed toward us; it's directed toward the other characters, the ones Jessica needs to believe her and help her, and so we hate his charm. He convinces the audience that he’s powerful, maybe too powerful to be defeated, and we’re right there in Jessica’s misery with her, feeling isolated and despairing. Kilgrave's comic-book villain in Jessica Jones does what speculative fiction does best: turns a mirror on reality. You can make a villain who is stronger than other villains, who rules a bigger empire or has a bigger weapon or is out to kill more people than any other villain ever written. But all you're doing is playing the game of "Oh, yeah? My bad guy is bad times a hundred. No; times a million. Times infinity plus one." Kilgrave tells us what bad really is, and it rings true. Anybody who's had to take out an order of protection knows Kilgrave already. Anybody who's undergone a rape kit knows Kilgrave already. He's the rarest sort of screen villain: the one we were afraid of before he was written.

Found this awesome post on Facebook, dunno the author to give credit.  Bold emphasis mine
 
Who is the best Marvel movie or TV Marvel villain? Hands down, David Tennant's Kilgrave from Jessica Jones' first season, the perfect embodiment of sexual and domestic violence. He's one of those rare villains who leaves you with unease long after you turn off the TV, and it's because he was there before you turned it on. He's not the best villain because of his personality, though his glee and charm is a large part of it. He's not the best villain because of the scope of his villainy. He's not out to destroy any cities or conquer any galaxies. He's not even out to take down a hero, although that's what he's going to do along the way. You see, Kilgrave's power is this: You have to do anything he wants you to do. Anything at all. Maybe he wants your jacket. Maybe he wants you to have sex with him. Maybe he wants you to become his lover and live with him happily, forever and ever, in a lovely little house for the two of you. Maybe he wants you to murder your mom. You know those intrusive thoughts, the ones you would never in a million years do, the ones that make you wonder if you're a monster? The ones that say, jump over the railing. Hold the match to your sleeve. The dog sure looks happy; why don't you kick its brains in? Kilgrave whispers the very worst things to you, and you do them. Kilgrave makes it your fault when he does what he does to you. Makes it your idea. Does it with your hands. Makes your body something bad. And he makes the people you depend upon blame you for it. So when Kilgrave uses his powers on you, you aren't a victim. You are a villain. And you're utterly, eternally alone in your hurt and your horror. And it doesn't end when it ends. He's got no master plan or secret agenda. He's just following his whims. If he decides he really likes you, he'll bring the trauma back over. And over. And over. He can leave an idea in your head that never goes away, an idea that sits there where you can't see it until it suddenly shows up at the worst possible moment. Creating a villain who generates such revulsion and horror in the audience is like capturing lightning in a bottle. As Dorothy Sayers told us, it’s almost impossible to write the Devil without making the audience root for him, because those attributes that make a villain an opponent worthy of writing about are virtues, or are at least the personality traits that make a character fascinating. If your villain isn’t powerful, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t talented, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t persistent, isn’t charismatic, doesn’t have a good reason to do what they do . . . no story. There is a sense in which it's very hard for us to tell honest stories about evil, because real evil isn't extremely watchable. So instead of making legitimately evil villains, we make villains who are heroes on the wrong side, or villains who are heroes with a streak of malice, or we just take the hero, run through a list of their strengths, and come up with a foil for each bullet point. Those methods make engaging villains. Those are the villains you love to see, because they thrill you at the same time that they horrify you: the Darth Vaders and the Hannibal Lectors, the Moriartys and the Lex Luthors. Those bad guys may not have our allegiance, but they have our attention, our fascination, the stamp of the viewer's approval. But to write a villain who elicits horror in the audience, who’s a perfect counterpoint to all the hero’s strengths, and to have the audience feel sick when he’s on the screen—that’s extraordinary. And in this case, it’s achieved by tapping into a kind of violence that has only rarely been addressed on the screen, and even more rarely shown from the victim’s point of view. It’s not the “violent rape” that politicians discuss, the kind that grabs you in an alleyway with a stranger’s hands. It’s the kind that gets up close and personal in all the other ways, in ways that nobody can see from the outside. And its perpetrator is an emotional toddler, raging for anything and everything they want, right now, as if their whims were as essential as oxygen. There is absolutely nothing appealing about Kilgrave. Zilch. Even his charm isn't directed toward us; it's directed toward the other characters, the ones Jessica needs to believe her and help her, and so we hate his charm. He convinces the audience that he’s powerful, maybe too powerful to be defeated, and we’re right there in Jessica’s misery with her, feeling isolated and despairing. Kilgrave's comic-book villain in Jessica Jones does what speculative fiction does best: turns a mirror on reality. You can make a villain who is stronger than other villains, who rules a bigger empire or has a bigger weapon or is out to kill more people than any other villain ever written. But all you're doing is playing the game of "Oh, yeah? My bad guy is bad times a hundred. No; times a million. Times infinity plus one." Kilgrave tells us what bad really is, and it rings true. Anybody who's had to take out an order of protection knows Kilgrave already. Anybody who's undergone a rape kit knows Kilgrave already. He's the rarest sort of screen villain: the one we were afraid of before he was written.

Found this awesome post on Facebook, dunno the author to give credit.  Bold emphasis mine
 
Who is the best Marvel movie or TV Marvel villain? Hands down, David Tennant's Kilgrave from Jessica Jones' first season, the perfect embodiment of sexual and domestic violence. He's one of those rare villains who leaves you with unease long after you turn off the TV, and it's because he was there before you turned it on. He's not the best villain because of his personality, though his glee and charm is a large part of it. He's not the best villain because of the scope of his villainy. He's not out to destroy any cities or conquer any galaxies. He's not even out to take down a hero, although that's what he's going to do along the way. You see, Kilgrave's power is this: You have to do anything he wants you to do. Anything at all. Maybe he wants your jacket. Maybe he wants you to have sex with him. Maybe he wants you to become his lover and live with him happily, forever and ever, in a lovely little house for the two of you. Maybe he wants you to murder your mom. You know those intrusive thoughts, the ones you would never in a million years do, the ones that make you wonder if you're a monster? The ones that say, jump over the railing. Hold the match to your sleeve. The dog sure looks happy; why don't you kick its brains in? Kilgrave whispers the very worst things to you, and you do them. Kilgrave makes it your fault when he does what he does to you. Makes it your idea. Does it with your hands. Makes your body something bad. And he makes the people you depend upon blame you for it. So when Kilgrave uses his powers on you, you aren't a victim. You are a villain. And you're utterly, eternally alone in your hurt and your horror. And it doesn't end when it ends. He's got no master plan or secret agenda. He's just following his whims. If he decides he really likes you, he'll bring the trauma back over. And over. And over. He can leave an idea in your head that never goes away, an idea that sits there where you can't see it until it suddenly shows up at the worst possible moment. Creating a villain who generates such revulsion and horror in the audience is like capturing lightning in a bottle. As Dorothy Sayers told us, it’s almost impossible to write the Devil without making the audience root for him, because those attributes that make a villain an opponent worthy of writing about are virtues, or are at least the personality traits that make a character fascinating. If your villain isn’t powerful, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t talented, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t persistent, isn’t charismatic, doesn’t have a good reason to do what they do . . . no story. There is a sense in which it's very hard for us to tell honest stories about evil, because real evil isn't extremely watchable. So instead of making legitimately evil villains, we make villains who are heroes on the wrong side, or villains who are heroes with a streak of malice, or we just take the hero, run through a list of their strengths, and come up with a foil for each bullet point. Those methods make engaging villains. Those are the villains you love to see, because they thrill you at the same time that they horrify you: the Darth Vaders and the Hannibal Lectors, the Moriartys and the Lex Luthors. Those bad guys may not have our allegiance, but they have our attention, our fascination, the stamp of the viewer's approval. But to write a villain who elicits horror in the audience, who’s a perfect counterpoint to all the hero’s strengths, and to have the audience feel sick when he’s on the screen—that’s extraordinary. And in this case, it’s achieved by tapping into a kind of violence that has only rarely been addressed on the screen, and even more rarely shown from the victim’s point of view. It’s not the “violent rape” that politicians discuss, the kind that grabs you in an alleyway with a stranger’s hands. It’s the kind that gets up close and personal in all the other ways, in ways that nobody can see from the outside. And its perpetrator is an emotional toddler, raging for anything and everything they want, right now, as if their whims were as essential as oxygen. There is absolutely nothing appealing about Kilgrave. Zilch. Even his charm isn't directed toward us; it's directed toward the other characters, the ones Jessica needs to believe her and help her, and so we hate his charm. He convinces the audience that he’s powerful, maybe too powerful to be defeated, and we’re right there in Jessica’s misery with her, feeling isolated and despairing. Kilgrave's comic-book villain in Jessica Jones does what speculative fiction does best: turns a mirror on reality. You can make a villain who is stronger than other villains, who rules a bigger empire or has a bigger weapon or is out to kill more people than any other villain ever written. But all you're doing is playing the game of "Oh, yeah? My bad guy is bad times a hundred. No; times a million. Times infinity plus one." Kilgrave tells us what bad really is, and it rings true. Anybody who's had to take out an order of protection knows Kilgrave already. Anybody who's undergone a rape kit knows Kilgrave already. He's the rarest sort of screen villain: the one we were afraid of before he was written.

Found this awesome post on Facebook, dunno the author to give credit.  Bold emphasis mine
 
Who is the best Marvel movie or TV Marvel villain? Hands down, David Tennant's Kilgrave from Jessica Jones' first season, the perfect embodiment of sexual and domestic violence. He's one of those rare villains who leaves you with unease long after you turn off the TV, and it's because he was there before you turned it on. He's not the best villain because of his personality, though his glee and charm is a large part of it. He's not the best villain because of the scope of his villainy. He's not out to destroy any cities or conquer any galaxies. He's not even out to take down a hero, although that's what he's going to do along the way. You see, Kilgrave's power is this: You have to do anything he wants you to do. Anything at all. Maybe he wants your jacket. Maybe he wants you to have sex with him. Maybe he wants you to become his lover and live with him happily, forever and ever, in a lovely little house for the two of you. Maybe he wants you to murder your mom. You know those intrusive thoughts, the ones you would never in a million years do, the ones that make you wonder if you're a monster? The ones that say, jump over the railing. Hold the match to your sleeve. The dog sure looks happy; why don't you kick its brains in? Kilgrave whispers the very worst things to you, and you do them. Kilgrave makes it your fault when he does what he does to you. Makes it your idea. Does it with your hands. Makes your body something bad. And he makes the people you depend upon blame you for it. So when Kilgrave uses his powers on you, you aren't a victim. You are a villain. And you're utterly, eternally alone in your hurt and your horror. And it doesn't end when it ends. He's got no master plan or secret agenda. He's just following his whims. If he decides he really likes you, he'll bring the trauma back over. And over. And over. He can leave an idea in your head that never goes away, an idea that sits there where you can't see it until it suddenly shows up at the worst possible moment. Creating a villain who generates such revulsion and horror in the audience is like capturing lightning in a bottle. As Dorothy Sayers told us, it’s almost impossible to write the Devil without making the audience root for him, because those attributes that make a villain an opponent worthy of writing about are virtues, or are at least the personality traits that make a character fascinating. If your villain isn’t powerful, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t talented, you’ve got no story. If your villain isn’t persistent, isn’t charismatic, doesn’t have a good reason to do what they do . . . no story. There is a sense in which it's very hard for us to tell honest stories about evil, because real evil isn't extremely watchable. So instead of making legitimately evil villains, we make villains who are heroes on the wrong side, or villains who are heroes with a streak of malice, or we just take the hero, run through a list of their strengths, and come up with a foil for each bullet point. Those methods make engaging villains. Those are the villains you love to see, because they thrill you at the same time that they horrify you: the Darth Vaders and the Hannibal Lectors, the Moriartys and the Lex Luthors. Those bad guys may not have our allegiance, but they have our attention, our fascination, the stamp of the viewer's approval. But to write a villain who elicits horror in the audience, who’s a perfect counterpoint to all the hero’s strengths, and to have the audience feel sick when he’s on the screen—that’s extraordinary. And in this case, it’s achieved by tapping into a kind of violence that has only rarely been addressed on the screen, and even more rarely shown from the victim’s point of view. It’s not the “violent rape” that politicians discuss, the kind that grabs you in an alleyway with a stranger’s hands. It’s the kind that gets up close and personal in all the other ways, in ways that nobody can see from the outside. And its perpetrator is an emotional toddler, raging for anything and everything they want, right now, as if their whims were as essential as oxygen. There is absolutely nothing appealing about Kilgrave. Zilch. Even his charm isn't directed toward us; it's directed toward the other characters, the ones Jessica needs to believe her and help her, and so we hate his charm. He convinces the audience that he’s powerful, maybe too powerful to be defeated, and we’re right there in Jessica’s misery with her, feeling isolated and despairing. Kilgrave's comic-book villain in Jessica Jones does what speculative fiction does best: turns a mirror on reality. You can make a villain who is stronger than other villains, who rules a bigger empire or has a bigger weapon or is out to kill more people than any other villain ever written. But all you're doing is playing the game of "Oh, yeah? My bad guy is bad times a hundred. No; times a million. Times infinity plus one." Kilgrave tells us what bad really is, and it rings true. Anybody who's had to take out an order of protection knows Kilgrave already. Anybody who's undergone a rape kit knows Kilgrave already. He's the rarest sort of screen villain: the one we were afraid of before he was written.