SAG-AFTRA and the WGA are now filing labor complaints against NBCUniversal for attempts to disrupt their strike efforts.

This includes not only trimming trees that were providing shade to picketers, but tearing up the sidewalk on the picket line, forcing picketers to walk in the streets, which resulted in two picketers being struck by cars.

george and elaine were the original haters. kramer was not a hater he was a pioneer - some people will try to tell you jerry was also a hater but they’re wrong. jerry was a poser. he was a hater in private, which is the worst kind of hater - no backbone. he would nod understandingly at george and elaine’s woes but he would secretly be hating on their hate. too much shame in his game. elaine and george would hate publicly, with their whole chests, ESPECIALLY on each other, that’s how you know it was real

ALT

TREE LAW TREE LAW TREE LAW

Worker solidarity is the future.

Via @WritersGuildF at Twitter. (Not that this’ll help NBCUniversal, particularly when the LA City Department of Urban Forestry comes after them…)

This move, it seems likely, is damage control aimed at attempting to mitigate the situation before LA-based TV news crews show up.

(BTW: images in other threads here and on Twitter apparently confirm that Universal also did this illegal trimming three years ago, and the trees were in the process of trying to recover from it.)

ETA: this from @DanSigner at Twitter, showing images of the trees in previous years.

Last week I accidentally took an edible at 10x my usual dose. I say “accidentally” but it was really more of a “my friend held it out to my face and I impulsively swallowed it like a python”, which was technically on purpose but still an accident in that my squamate instincts acted faster than my ability to assess the situation and ask myself if I really wanted to get Atreides high or not.

Anyway. I was painting the wall when it hit. My friend heard me make a noise and asked what was wrong—I explained that I had just fallen through several portals. I realized that painting the wall fulfilled my entire hierarchy of needs, and was absolutely sure that I was on track to escaping the cycle of samsara if I just kept at it a little longer. I was thwarted on my journey towards nirvana only by the fact that I ran out of paint.

Seeking a surrogate act of humble service through which I might be redeemed and made human, I turned to unwashed dishes in the sink and took up the holy weapon of the sponge. I was partway through cleaning the blender when it REALLY hit.

You ever clean a blender? It’s a shockingly intimate act. They are complex tools. One of the most complicated denizens of the kitchen. Glass and steel and rubber and plastic. Fuck! They’ve got gaskets. You can’t just scrub ‘em and rinse them down like any other piece of shit dish. You’ve got to dissemble them piece by piece, groove by sensitive groove, taking care to lavish the spinning blades with cautious attention. There’s something sensual about it. Something strangely vulnerable.

As I stood there, turning the pieces over in my hands, I thought about all the things we ask of blenders. They don’t have an easy job. They are hard laborers taking on a thankless task. I have used them so roughly in my haste for high-density smoothies, pushing them to their limits and occasionally breaking them. I remembered the smell of acrid smoke and decaying rubber that filled the kitchen in the break room the last time I tried to make a smoothie at work—the motor overtaxed and melted, the gasket cracked and brittle. Strawberry slurry leaked out of it like the blood of a slain animal.

Was this blender built to last? Or was it doomed to an early grave in some distant landfill by the genetic disorder of planned obsolescence? I didn’t know, and was far too high to make an educated guess. But I knew that whatever care and tenderness and empathy I put into it, the more respect for the partnership of man and machine, the better it would perform for me.

This thought filled me with a surge of affection. However long its lifespan, I wanted it to be filled with dignity and love and understanding. I thought: I bet no one has hugged this blender before. And so I lifted it from its base.

A blender is roughly the size and shape of a human baby. Cradling one in your arms satisfies a primal need. A month ago I was permitted to hold an infant for the first time in my life, an experience which was physically and psychologically healing. I felt an echo of that satisfaction holding my friend the blender, and the thought of parting with it felt even more ridiculous than bringing it with me to hang out on my friend’s bed.

i’ve watched only 2 episodes of clone high but nothing is funnier to me than that pic where gandhi is told he has adhd

I feel like practicing any skill would be way more fun if I could have a lil level increase thing that pops up in front of me every time I do good like in Skyrim

“Push ups increased to level 5”

“Writing dialogue increased to level 37”

“Coping mechanisms (healthy) increased to level 18”

I do believe in the power of sitting in your car just a little longer before heading inside, lying upside down on the couch, cloud gazing well into adulthood, taking the time to learn something new, humility, recollecting your dreams, pressing something warm against your belly, small talk w strangers, odes to romance, a lit candle on your countertop while you cook, having a sense of humor about life

oh hey, someone put that thing i was mad about yesterday into words!

I couldn't agree more with OP here.

excellent point by tumblr user zaxal

the unemployed friend waking up at 12pm on a tuesday to scour the internet for some lost thrash metal tape from 40 years ago