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When they said no, cops asked for IDs. Again, they answered no, which prompted cops to handcuff Batman.
That's when Superman took off, screaming, "I'm not getting arrested."
But a crowd of police took him down and brought him to a special Fortress of Solitude -- the Midtown South station house.
John Keel, longtime investigator of the paranormal and author of The Mothman Prophecies and many other books, has died.
In his decades-spanning career, Keel chronicled much of the weirdness that didn’t make the headlines. People might know names like “Bigfoot” and “Nessie,” or look to the skies for flying saucers, but Keel searched for the unknown parts of the unknown. He went to spots where our reality gets thin, and probed the cracks.
As far as his theories went, Keel seemed convinced that there weren’t actually wild ape-men in the forest, or aliens visiting the earth like a tourist spot. He studied history and myth, and found that the names have changed, but the phenomena have been with humans as long as we’ve been telling stories and writing stuff down. We’ve called them fairies, demons, angels and monsters, but they have always been there, out at the edge of the light.
Keel himself posited that there were beings on this planet, much older than us, who enjoyed toying with us. Occasionally, they show up, whether as a hairy monster or a silver-suited spaceman, just to play havoc with our lives.
He formed this theory after the events in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, which ended in the Silver Bridge collapse that killed 46 people. From his writing after that, he seemed fairly convinced that whatever these things were, they didn’t have our best interests at heart.
People can differ about the reality of the paranormal. I go back and forth on it myself, all the time. But Keel produced volumes of fascinating, challenging work that forever altered the way I look at the world. My writing would be a lot emptier and duller if I hadn’t been exposed to Keel at an early age, and if I didn’t go back to him often, looking for the strangest parts of the strange.
He introduced me to some amazing concepts. Now I get to play with them full-time, and I’m in his debt.
Meanwhile, the greatest story in the history of journalism.
Tonight's waste of time obsession: Fuck yeahs. One topic Tumblr blogs about something that's like, you know, fuck yeah.
Like Fuck Yeah Team Venture.
But why read this, when you can get meta and go to Fuck Yeah Fuck Yeahs and find exactly the Fuck Yeah you're looking for.
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Joyce Moore: And he went through about a 10- or 15-minute period where every time he went "UGH," he would have to fix himself. And Michael was there, and he's watching this from the side of the stage.
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Deborah Landis: Michael was a man of great style. He loved wearing loafers and white socks, and that's a look he got directly from Fred Astaire.
Michael Jackson likes how he looks, he's happy with himself and he doesn't have to change at all.
This saddens me in a way I can't really explain.
Found by Cory Doctorow on BoingBoing.
I could digress and say that you have the ability to give magnificent gentle kisses, or that I love your tan lines or that I love the curve of your hips, the erotic beauty of you holding yourself (or two magnificent parts of yourself) in the faded glow of the night's light - but hey, that would be going into sexual details.
Today the discussion of serious public policy subjects is as surreal, as stuffed with contradictions, misunderstandings, denials and real or phony outrage as the Yale literature studies seminar where I first heard the name Derrida. We have many more roads to the truth, but no way to be sure we've arrived.
Fourteen years ago I was stabbed in the throat. This is kind of a long story and it’s not the point of this essay. The point is that after my unsuccessful murder I wasn’t unhappy for an entire year.
Lisa, are you aware of Diversity, the dance group that beat the YouTube wonder?
Alas, no embedding allowed, but:
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