Keegan And Logan

You Can’t Find My House

I just got off the phone with mom, and we came to the realization that my family has lived in a series of unplottable houses for a couple generations now.

-The First Unplottable House is on my dad’s side of the family, in Delphi, Iowa.  The directions to it are the stuff of Buried Treasure:  Turn off the county road with a fraction in it’s name, to the Named Dirt Road, then turn at The Discount Eggs Sign on to the Unnamed dirt road that takes a meandering path THROUGH a corn field, DO NOT take any forks on that road or the farmer will shoot your ass, then take the paved road that dead-ends on ALL the way to the end- No, farther, the road keeps going it’s not a cliff-The only indication that You Have Arrived At The Correct Driveway is that a fat gray pony will charge the car, screaming, then escort you the rest of the way there.

It’s on the side of an enormous river, they’ve owned the property since 1911, and that’s the ONLY route there.

-The Second Unplottable house is in Bedford, Ohio and belonged to my mother’s parents.  It’s at the corner of two side-streets, right across from the tiny Italian grocery store.  Due to strange development decisions, the house is about 30 feet above street level and rendered invisible by a chestnut tree so majestic Hyao Myazaki would probably put it in a movie.  The driveway, however, is VERY visible from any of the surrounding houses, the grocer, or the street.  

At least in theory and old photos, becuase if you actually GO there,  your eyes slide right past it to the neighbor’s lillac bush, or to the retro neons of the grocery store or up the Chestnut tree.  it is literally HARD to look at that driveway, all the world around it wants to pull you away.

-The Third Unplottable house is in Salinas, CA, home of my paternal grandparents.  It is the single most BORING house possible- like, if you were to ask a third-grader to draw a prototypical house, they would draw my grandparent’s house.  Utterly Unremarkable. 

Except for the part where my Grandfather, spurred by his success with the “non-fruiting” peach tree, decided to plant a California Redwood Tree, and it grew to approximately 150 feet over the course of a few short decades.  It is the tallest damn thing for miles around, and SOMEHOW deliveries keep being missed, mail is delivered to the neighbors, and any non-blood family that tried to visit would end up on the other side of town.

-The Fourth Unplottable House was the one I grew up in CA.  The Directions to it are as follows:  It’s the Bright Orange house Right Across From The School.  You know, the one with six flamingos and the Volunteer Avacado Tree.

SOMEHOW, we got everyone’s mail but OURS (we still wonder about the letter from Fort Knox for Mr. Thomas Saxophone), the other kids got lost trying to visit and ended up in Mr.Phan’s yard on the other end of the block.  Officer Brown, Mom and Dad’s friend, who had GPS back in the early 90′s becuase silicon valley, regularly got lost looking for our place.  The Flamingos did nothing.

-My parent’s current house is the second house on the right  after two right turns off the state highway that runs through town.  Sounds easy, right?  

Except that due to a couple small trees and a bend in the road, the house is invisible from the road.  I have to stand out in the road if i want my pizza delivered.  The Mailman is the only person who could reliably find the box, but he drives a subaru that’s older than my sister from the passenger side by leaning over, and delivers mail based on the aztec lunar calendar, so he’s probably not actually human.  I tried to host a party, tied rainbow balloons to the mailbox, and all nine friends had to be waved in from the street.

-My current apartment building Does Not Exist, according to my Bank, medicaid, Google, and City Hall which was a bit exciting when I first moved in and had to call everyone that yes, I was sitting in a building that really exists.   

Unless it’s my classmates, becuase they can apparently come to parties I don’t host. This Friday I had a friend telling me she had a great time at my place last Teusday… when I was home alone.  She assures me that I held a houseparty with “Those polish things you make” (I make great mini klatchky, but haven’t served them to her) and that “You were definitely there, we talked about Carvaggio and you drive me home”

which one of u was going to tell me that tea tastes different if u put it in hot water?

Steve and Robin should always be on the same shift. It will annoy all their coworkers for sure but it won’t annoy them as much as when Steve and Robin are not working together.

He's not evil he's just drawn that way.

Each person gets two! As long as the kids are big enough to eat two and not get sick.

Cnetizens: If we get married and have two kids, and there are eight cake rolls in one box, how do we split them?

A full-time housewife posted a video on douyin about her husband's reaction to her eating two cake rolls in one box of swiss rolls. Cnetizens got furious after watching the video and felt that's ridiculous. So girlfriends and wives went and asked their boyfriends and husbands the question lmao.

(*Swiss rolls refer to the popular creamy roll cakes and it didn't seem to originate in Switzerland, more like it should have originated in Austria or Hungary? The term came over from tokyo anyway and that's what people used to call it)

I think the blond interpretation from the Clone Wars series was because those were predominantly New Mandalorians, of, uh, Kalevala? Or Sundari. The Mandalorian sector has several planets with several moons, we were only getting a peek at one specific population. Or, conversely- we can consider that the ethnic homogeneity of the New Mandalorians was a feature of result of their politics. Perhaps Concordian folks are both darker skinned AND more likely to prefer their armor and older ways. Perhaps the Core-influenced politics DO skew humanist, and that's reflected in the New Mandalorian's population. They're a specific political faction in a specific locale. (Or they were saving their animation budget for Jedi backflips.)

I love when the clones are somewhat mandalorians by culture but seriously if I have to read one more time “the mandalorians were all blond and pale, thin and slander, not like us, the vod’e were too broad with dark skin” mandalorians adopt absolutely anything and everything why do you make the clones feel like they can’t ever be accepted as mandalorians cause of their ethnicity??? This galaxy is the epitome of diversity, racism against clones exist, specism exist, but at least wait for the empire to write about racism between humans pls

still looking for evidence -> they didn't have the evidence before

they're just straight up admitting they didn't have evidence for the terrorism charge when they indicted him. they just made that up. they charged him with terrorism because they felt like it.

Upholding Luigi Mangione as a class hero isn't actually helping anything; not because killing the ceo was wrong (it wasn't) but because the man still maintains his innocence. You're doing no better than the cops and fraction of the public against the shooter's actions by treating Mangione as if he's unequivocally guilty.

Redirect your energy to fighting the police's bullshit prosecution and blatant public defamation of his image. Stop supporting him on the grounds of heroic actions. Support him on the grounds of there's still literally no proof he actually fucking did anything.

pulled an all-nighter and then promptly passed out, i drew this sometime and have no recollection but i think i get what i was going for

The radio crackled on. Robin clutched the microphone as steady as she could, the poor thing not used to the rough location of Steve's beat up Beemer.

"Evening, Hawkins," she announced into the mic. Not in her typical bravado. This was all Robin: trembling, scared, but defiant against it. "This is Rockin' Robin, here with Sailin' Steve in what very well may be our last broadcast."

She adjusts her spear, getting Steve to double check his shield. Not easy to do while speeding down the road, but when their destination is the same no matter where he goes, it doesn't quite matter anymore, does it?

"It's been a pleasure serving you lovely people and WSQK Radio," Robin continues, her voice shaking less as the certainty of her words takes over. "But it's time for us to sign off one last time."

"The end of the world is calling, baby," Steve says, loud enough for the radio to pick up. It's the first time he's ever dared to speak into it, and the wave of power it gives him makes him feel possessed. With the way his hand moves off the wheel to twist the knob of the barely functioning sound board between them, turning the music up as he accelerates and fueling his words, he may as well be. "We're here to pick up the call."

Steve grips the stick in front of the sound board, clutching the leather as familiar as the denim beneath his war clothes. "We've got one final song for you all, dedicated to an old friend of mine."

He smells ash. Tastes blood on the tip of his tongue. Feels the sting in his sides like a call from the other side.

Not painful. Hopeful.

Daring.

Trusting.

Fueling.

"We're gonna finish what you started, bud. I'm gonna make him pay."

As the first notes of the guitar solo to "Crazy Train" begin rattling his car, as his fingers tighten impossibly more on the wheel and a tear rolls down his cheek, he feels the ghost of a hand on his shoulder.

Ring laden.

Strong in its fear. Familiar in its loss.

Steve grits his teeth. Takes a deep breath as a calmness burns just as bright as the fire of vengeance.

"Eddie Munson, this is for you."

Then he shifts the stick, grips the wheel, and speeds straight into the apocalypse.