Everybody’s favorite Captain Cheesecake, John Barrowman, has an identity thief trying to lure people away from his actual Twitter account. At least once, I believe, this faker has tried to get people to donate to some charity. (You can go ahead and use air quotes around the word charity, as I’m…
sweet baby jesus it’s a pink and orange wedding
the colour combo is killing me
bless this perfection
Are you a teen with a story to tell? NPR and Radio Diaries want to hear it. Write it down, photograph it (and record it if you want) and then submit it to the storytelling site Cowbird.com
Beginning in 1996, Radio Diaries gave tape recorders to five teenagers to create audio diaries about their lives. Starting on May 6, All Things Considered will revisit these original diarists, now in their 30s, to document their lives for NPR listeners.
And now the hunt is on for new teen diarists.
We are looking for personal, surprising stories from teenagers today. You can write about anything as long as it’s true – like, the first time you fell in love, your most favorite place in the world, the moment you knew you weren’t a kid anymore, something compelling about your family.
If you’re a teenager who wants a chance to produce a radio diary for NPR, please submit your story to Cowbird through May 31. Two will be picked to produce audio stories with Radio Diaries, and a selection of these stories will be featured on NPR.org next week.
If you’re a teen, please consider submitting your story!
I know the guy in charge of this project and he is the sweetest, smartest, most trustworthy dude in the world — so if you’re interested in making a radio story, go ahead and submit something! It’s not gonna go to some weird creep.
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
|—||Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)|
How dare you assume that simply because someone has curves and is working out, they are trying to lose weight.
How dare you assume they are on any journey at all—that they must be attempting to change something about themselves, about their bodies, because how could they possibly be content and…
See the editing? Two cuts, three shots. You can’t do that over-shoulder draw in one take. You’ll run out of arm before the sword runs out of scabbard. Good dragon, though.
Yeah, he’s complaining about realistic weapon skills in something that has a dragon in it. Pathetic, really… :->