https://sf.curbed.com/2018/3/20/17030006/att-park-sf-giants-map-seating-food-transportation https://sf.eater.com/2018/3/29/17166036/att-park-san-francisco-food

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killing eve 108

I think about you all the time. I think about what you’re wearing, and what you’re doing, and who you’re doing it with. I think about what friends you have. I think about what you eat before you work, and what shampoo you use. What happened in your family. I think about your eyes and your mouth and what you feel when you kill someone. I think about what you have for breakfast. I just want to know everything.

https://tv.avclub.com/i-really-liked-you-the-killing-eve-finale-left-the-a-1826191996

https://www.netflix.com/browse/just-added

https://johnaugust.com/2018/true-confessions-of-a-knife-juggling-bear

I don’t second-guess whether it’s a good idea, or get fixated on what might go wrong. I don’t ask permission. I just assume I’m not any worse than someone else, and I’ll figure it out. That’s how I started writing my first script, my first musical and my first novel. But I also leave a lot of projects half-finished. Sometimes they finally come into being years later (Writer Emergency Pack), yet often they don’t (an animated short; a new stage musical; my next directing project). Giving yourself permission to move on to a better idea is tough. You’re always wondering if you’re one draft away. This will be the one that does it. But as I look back over the past 20 years, most of my successes — both creatively and commercially — have come from the projects I was excited to do rather than the projects I felt an obligation to start or finish. I’ve also had things I love fail. It’s heartbreaking. But the projects I never really cared about? They’re worse in a way, because it was just wasted time.

In a Dungeons & Dragons campaign August is currently entangled in with some friends, he plays as a character called a Kenku, a bird-like humanoid creature. On the outside, it looks like a crow wearing a brown cloak; underneath it carries tools and weapons. Its alignment? Chaotic neutral. "John's stroke of brilliance was to decide his particular Kenku was more like a parrot, so he's incapable of saying anything out loud unless he's heard someone else say it," Craig Mazin writes to me in an email, issuing an all-caps "DEEP NERD WARNING." "And he has to say it exactly like they do. Seriously. The dude keeps a list. His character is smart, but limited by circumstance (and the bizarre random phrases he happens to hear our characters saying), and the result has been the funniest, most creative ongoing performance I think we've ever had in our game. I don't think any of us would have ever thought to do that in a million years." After a dozen sessions, his Kenku has created its own lexicon of phrases, a language picked up through resilience and savvy. It's an apt metaphor for the way August has navigated an industry that remains in a state of flux. Keep moving. Glean what you can from others. Struggle. Persevere. Grow. It's a simple formula, but it allows him to approach the perceived genius of more brand-name Hollywood figures.

call sweden tabs

http://edition.cnn.com/travel/article/countries-that-dont-exist/index.html https://www.contagious.com/blogs/news-and-views/insight-strategy-the-swedish-number http://www.cnn.com/travel/article/sweden-phone-number-launch/index.html http://www.adweek.com/creativity/swedes-are-asked-to-called-the-syrian-number-in-sobering-spinoff-of-the-swedish-number/ http://www.independent.co.uk/environment/sweden-s-recycling-is-so-revolutionary-the-country-has-run-out-of-rubbish-a7462976.html https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demographics_of_Sweden https://www.parents.com/toddlers-preschoolers/feeding/recipes/what-toddlers-eat-around-the-world/ https://thepointsguy.com/2016/04/testing-out-the-swedish-number/ https://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2016/04/swedish-number-migration/478122/ https://www.independent.co.uk/environment/sweden-s-recycling-is-so-revolutionary-the-country-has-run-out-of-rubbish-a7462976.html https://www.theguardian.com/film/filmblog/2009/dec/14/where-the-wild-things-are http://fortune.com/2016/01/26/democrat-bernie-sanders-scandinavia-socialism/ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Demographics_of_Sweden https://cupofjo.com/2015/10/parenting-in-sweden/ "the french number" https://doctorspin.me/storytelling/swedish-idioms-in-english/ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Third_culture_kid https://sverigesradio.se/sida/artikel.aspx?programid=2054&artikel=5433652 https://www.buzzfeed.com/violag2/54-delicious-swedish-meals-everyone-should-learn-t-fj6w?utm_term=.dxooAG878y#.am0X3eYAY5

https://lithub.com/lorrie-moore-its-better-to-write-than-be-a-writer/

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https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2018/05/im-not-black-im-kanye/559763/

I want to tell you a story about the time, still ongoing as of this writing, when I almost lost my mind. In the summer of 2015, I published a book, and in so doing, became the unlikely recipient of a mere fraction of the kind of celebrity Kanye West enjoys. It was small literary fame, not the kind of fame that accompanies Grammys and Oscars, and there may not have been a worse candidate for it. I was the second-youngest of seven children. My life had been inconsequential, if slightly amusing. I had never stood out for any particular reason, save my height, and even that was wasted on a lack of skills on the basketball court. But I learned to use this ordinariness to my advantage. I was a journalist. There was something soft and unthreatening about me that made people want to talk. And I had a capacity for disappearing into events and thus, in that way, reporting out a scene. At home, I built myself around ordinary things—family, friends, and community. I might never be a celebrated writer. But I was a good father, a good partner, a decent friend. Fame fucked with all of that. I would show up to do my job, to report, and become, if not the scene, then part of it. I would take my wife out to lunch to discuss some weighty matter in our lives, and come home, only to learn that the couple next to us had covertly taken a photo and tweeted it out. The family dream of buying a home, finally achieved, became newsworthy. My kid’s Instagram account was scoured for relevant quotes. And when I moved to excise myself, to restrict access, this would only extend the story. It was the oddest thing. I felt myself to be the same as I had always been, but everything around me was warping. My sense of myself as part of a community of black writers disintegrated before me. Writers, whom I loved, who had been mentors, claimed tokenism and betrayal. Writers, whom I knew personally, whom I felt to be comrades in struggle, took to Facebook and Twitter to announce my latest heresy. No one enjoys criticism, but by then I had taken my share. What was new was criticism that I felt to originate as much in what I had written, as how it had been received. One of my best friends, who worked in radio, came up with the idea of a funny self-deprecating segment about me and my weird snobbery. But when it aired, the piece was mostly concerned with this newfound fame, how it had changed me, and how it all left him feeling a type of way. I was unprepared. The work of writing had always been, for me, the work of enduring failure. It had never occurred to me that one would, too, have to work to endure success. The incentives toward a grand ego were ever present. I was asked to speak on matters which my work evidenced no knowledge of. I was invited to do a speaking tour via private jet. I was asked to direct a music video. I began to understand how and why famous writers falter, because writing is hard and there are “writers” who only do that work because they have to. But it was now clear there was another way—a life of lectures, visiting-writer gigs, galas, prize committees. There were dark expectations. I remember going with a friend to visit an older black writer, an elder statesman. He sized me up and the first thing he said to me was, “You must be getting all the pussy now.” What I felt, in all of this, was a profound sense of social isolation. I would walk into a room, knowing that some facsimile of me, some mix of interviews, book clubs, and private assessment, had preceded me. The loss of friends, of comrades, of community, was gut-wrenching. I grew skeptical and distant. I avoided group dinners. In conversation, I sized everyone up, convinced that they were trying to extract something from me. And this is where the paranoia began, because the vast majority of people were kind and normal. But I never knew when that would fail to be the case. On top of the skewed incentives, the wrecked friendships, the paranoia, the ruin of community, there was a part of me that I was left to confront. I was the loneliest I’d ever felt in my life—and part of me loved it, loved the way I’d walk into a restaurant in New York and make the wait disappear, loved the random swag, the green Air Force Ones, the blue joggers. I loved the movie stars, rappers, and ballplayers who cited my work, and there was so much more out there waiting to be loved. I loved my small fame because, though I had brokered a peace with all my Baltimore ordinariness, with how I faded into a crowd, with how unremarkable I really was—and though I decided to till, as Emerson says, my own plot of ground, whole other acres now appeared before me. It almost didn’t matter whether I claimed those acres or not, because who are you if, even as you do good, you feel the desire to do evil? The terrible thing about that small fame was how it undressed me, stripped me of self-illusion, and showed how easily I could be swept away, how part of me wanted to be swept away, and even if no one ever saw it, even if I never acted on it, I now knew it, knew that I could love that small fame in the same terrible way that I want to live forever, in that way, to paraphrase Walcott, that drowned sailors loved the sea. But I did not drown. I felt the gravity of that small fame, feel its gravity even now, and it revealed securities as sure as it did insecurities, reasons to preserve the peace. I really did love to write—the irreplaceable thrill of transforming a blank page, the search for the right word, like pieces of a puzzle, the surgery of stitching together odd paragraphs. I loved how it belonged to me, a private act of creation, a fact that dissipated the moment I stepped in front of a crowd. So, that really was me. But more importantly, I think, were things beyond me, the pre-fame web of connections around me—child, spouse, brothers, sisters, friends—the majority of whom held fast and remained.

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giants as dinosaurs

https://sfgiants.mlblogs.com/5-14-5-20-giants-photos-f81846ad678

ed is fond of you!

http://www.indiewire.com/2013/10/lorrie-moore-talks-watching-television-and-how-leisureliness-can-allow-for-great-storytelling-33432/

https://www.shorescripts.com/tv-series-bibles/

https://www.vox.com/platform/amp/culture/2017/5/16/15633120/why-tv-shows-get-canceled-ratings-arent-everything?__twitter_impression=true

best caps

brewers glove logo pirates pillbox hat any hartford whales hat cubs baby bear?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaGAY_uMmcQ https://www.thecut.com/2018/04/killing-eve-best-style-moments.html

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duane kuiper [on ten years for evan longoria]: as a kid you ask for one day. when you get that one day... you start thinking about a little bit more

https://invernessoutlanders.wordpress.com/2018/05/06/inverness-outlander-map/

coooool

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