Reblog If, No Matter The Size Of The Role, You Would Agree To Work With The Muppets If Offered The Chance

HOLY SHIT WHAT???

I’ve always had a fascination with early Antarctic Exploration. But I’ve mostly sidestepped the related early Arctic exploration except where the two directly intersect; now I’m reading Furthest North, which goes through the early exploration (from the 1500s to 1926), and focuses on telling the stories through eyewitness accounts. It's a great book, but man, arctic exploration is so much more depressing than Antarctic exploration.

Like, the usual Antarctic exploration story will be something like, “The 26-man expedition lost 1 man when he was driven mad by the sunless winter and died for no clear medical reason, and 1 man to scurvy because he refused to eat seal meat, but the other 24 safely returned home, having mapped huge previously unknown areas and achieved immense scientific research. And also there were several delightful stories of penguin encounters, and here's a photo of the most badass member of the crew adorably snuggling some puppies.”

And the usual Arctic story will be, “25 men laboriously dragged their ship across the endless fields of ice to find the legendary Open Arctic Ocean. At first, they somehow managed to make 15 miles a day, but due to the southward flow of the ice, they only gained a net 17 yards per day. As they one-by-one got scurvy, they started losing ground. Things took a turn for the worse when the captain suddenly died of a mysterious illness; a century later, his body was found buried in the ice, and the mass levels of arsenic suggests he may have been right when, in his dying words, he accused the expedition’s doctor of poisoning him because they were writing love letters to the same girl back home. Without their navigator, they finally gave up and attempted to drag the ship back to the open sea so they could get back to land. But just as they were approaching open water, the ice trapped the ship and crushed it. They reverted to their lifeboats, one of which disappeared in a light fog, never to be seen again. The exhausted, undernourished, fatally sick final survivors made it to a desolate island. There they all slowly starved to death while the one healthy man among them was three days’ travel away, trying and failing to communicate to the confused Siberians he’d found that there were people who urgently needed rescue. He finally moved onto a second village, where one guy spoke German for some reason, and he was able to mount a rescue party. They arrived two days after the last journal entry of the expedition leader:

“ ‘October 28 - Hungry. Ate last of the boots yesterday. Feet cold. Spirits high.’ “

I have been thinking a lot about what a cancer diagnosis used to mean. How in the ‘80s and ‘90s, when someone was diagnosed, my parents would gently prepare me for their death. That chemo and radiation and surgery just bought time, and over the age of fifty people would sometimes just. Skip it. For cost reasons, and for quality of life reasons. My grandmother was diagnosed in her early seventies and went directly into hospice for just under a year — palliative care only. And often, after diagnosis people and their families would go away — they’d cash out retirement or sell the house and go live on a beach for six months. Or they’d pay a charlatan all their savings to buy hope. People would get diagnosed, get very sick, leave, and then we’d hear that they died.

And then, at some point, the people who left started coming back.

It was the children first. The March of Dimes and Saint Jude set up programs and my town would do spaghetti fundraisers and raffles and meal trains to support the family and send the child and one parent to a hospital in the city — and the children came home. Their hair grew back. They went back to school. We were all trained to think of them as the angelic lost and they were turning into asshole teens right in front of our eyes. What a miracle, what a gift, how lucky we are that the odds for several children are in our favor!

Adults started leaving for a specific program to treat their specific cancer at a specific hospital or a specific research group. They’d stay in that city for 6-12 months and then they’d come home. We fully expected that they were still dying — or they’d gotten one of the good cancers. What a gift this year is for them, we’d think. How lucky they are to be strong enough to ski and swim and run. And then they didn’t stop — two decades later they haven’t stopped. Not all of them, but most of them.

We bought those extra hours and months and years. We paid for time with our taxes. Scientists found ways for treatment to be less terrible, less poisonous, and a thousand times more effective.

And now, when a friend was diagnosed, the five year survival odds were 95%. My friend is alive, nearly five years later. Those kids who miraculously survived are alive. The adults who beat the odds are still alive. I grew up in a place small enough that you can see the losses. And now, the hospital in my tiny hometown can effectively treat many cancers. Most people don’t have to go away for treatment. They said we could never cure cancer, as it were, but we can cure a lot of cancers. We can diagnose a lot of cancers early enough to treat them with minor interventions. We can prevent a lot of cancers.

We could keep doing that. We could continue to fund research into other heartbreaks — into Long Covid and MCAS and psych meds with fewer side effects and dementia treatments. We could buy months and years, alleviate the suffering of our neighbors. That is what funding health research buys: time and ease.

Anyway, I’m preaching to the choir here. But it is a quiet miracle what’s happened in my lifetime.

why the fuck does english have a word for

but not for “the day after tomorrow”

???

Red Sparrow

Jennifer Lawrence is perhaps the most American actress alive - which is to say, entirely intuitive, impassion, and non-theatrical. It's ...

My review of Red Sparrow -- a great showcase for Jennifer Lawrence, but a deeply unpleasant film otherwise.

Neurotypicals will be like “I know you have a disability that affects your ability to stay organized, manage your time properly, socialize, or control what you’re able to think about or focus on, but that’s not an excuse to have trouble staying organized, managing your time properly, socializing, or controlling what you need to think about or focus on.” And then demand that they aren’t ableist. I’m tired.

A new update to my blog.

12. If I acknowledge that Ark is a brilliant masterpiece that massively advances what the series is capable of, can I prefer Genesis anyway?

16. Better than Morbius? Best solo one, sure, but...

22. Revelation? Not as good as Vengeance and flops at the end, but not embarrassing.

6-2. Can I agree that it technically accomplishes that but still prefer Let's Kill Hitler and Wedding of River Song for actually being fun?

8-2. What if I liked the idea of Kill the Moon but not the execution?

Just seeing if there are mitigating factors to at least reduce the sentencing down from eternity.

Edge of Destruction is better than The Daleks

The Rescue is better than The Dalek Invasion of Earth

The Gunfighters is better than The Celestial Toymaker

Power of the Daleks is better than everything, ever.

Enemy of the World is better than Web of Fear

The Mind Robber is better than The...

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