Woah! Get in on this before it’s too late.
FYC PROMOTION WITH MANUAL FOR SPEED: Don’t say we never give you anything!
This is it, the final day and have we got a surprise for you. For the final prize, we’re giving away one of the two above jerseys!
Rules:
- You must be following both FYC and MFS.
- Reblog this post (one reblog per person per post)!
- Make sure that you’ve got your ask box open so we can contact you if you win.
If you have any questions, please contact us (either FYC or MFS) and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. And, yes, this contest is open to everyone!
Everyone give a huge thank you to the MFS guys for all the great giveaways! Make sure to keep following both tumblrs for lots of great pictures. And thank you to all our followers — old and new! We’re glad to have you around.
Okay, I’ll bite.
“What American English sounds like to non-English speakers”
Prisecolinensinenciousol, a parody by Adriano Celentano for the Italian TV programme Mileluci is sung entirely in gibberish designed to sound like American English.
Somehow, you’ll still try to understand the words.
“Ambience scores are transcriptions into language of the ordinarily unheard sounds of place.”
A youthful, dopey thing that young dopes do is buy a typewriter under the pretense that they’re going to use it to write. Romantic notion, eh? Plopping this clackety thing on the kitchen table, jabbing out a draft, then harrowed pencil marks, then a new draft, and so on. It’s completely impossible to do this, of course. In my own young and dopey days I faced down a typewriter ribbon and wrote pages upon pages about the experience of writing on a typewriter. Writing on a typewriter is all one can think about when writing on a typewriter, so divorced is it from one’s ordinary mode of working, one’s fluent mode of thinking. Using a typewriter to bang out prose is a bad party. It’s talking about how wasted you are, and thinking you’re fascinating for doing so.
There are times I still bother to notice things. On this sleepy afternoon: the featheriness of the clouds, the grooves-and-gravel texture of my building’s rear façade, the hundred-year history of paint upon rust upon paint upon rust of the fire escape. Nothing interesting, I don’t mean to imply that any of these things are interesting. But now that my phone has displaced my physical surroundings as most-likely-to-be-viewed, I find that the act of noticing has joined the act of typing in its descent to the level of novelty. “Weird, I’m studying the texture of a wall,” I mention to myself, thereby lifting my focus from the wall to the act of noticing the wall, thereby sort-of killing the actuality of the wall itself. What is the texture of the wall? It’s a thing I’m supposed to congratulate myself for noticing. I will congratulate myself using my phone, make my congratulations public, make sure that people know I’m the kind of guy who notices a thing.
I’m very sad about this, of course, but it’s too late to pretend that typing on a typewriter is any kind of way to go through life, or that looking at clouds is anything other than a bad party.
Men’s Keirin Melbourne 2012 World Championship Track Cycling (by jouwbuizer)
I wanted to post this yesterday but couldn’t find non geo-restricted footage. Chris Hoy has tweeted this link today so hopefully it works and everyone can view this keirin final. Even if you don’t like track normally, you’ll appreciate what Chris Hoy does here. It’s amazing stuff.
(co-mod natalie)
Chris Hoy slices like a hot knife through butter at 4:35.
“You can do lots of things with Crisco, like slather it on a watermelon and play with it in the pool.” -Quanny, while frying donuts
Bikes of San Francisco
Designed by Tor Weeks
Spot on.
Path puts a silly amount of trust in its avatars, especially given their tiny size. I never know who the shoes are.
Path is more tappy than typey. That’s fine, I suppose. It certainly makes for a clean flow.
Path is tappy and its content reads like the content of taps. “I am in a place,” you tap. “:)”, come the replies.
Path is pretty in the same designy way as our modern museums. They are shaped like battleships and grain silos and crumpled souffles. There is much said about flow and fatigue and how one of these has been optimized and the other one reduced.
These museums are very exciting when they open. You show up and marvel along with all of the other fans of architecture. Maybe you return for one of those nights where they stay open late and there is a band and drinking. “A great space,” you think. Maybe one day you’ll be rich and rent out the atrium for a private party.
The art doesn’t get talked about so much at these museums. The museum itself is the “social object,” as it were.
Eventually the particulars around which the museum was designed fall out of fashion. A fresh crop of architects finds it to be too flashy, or too dull, or to have been guided by faulty principles. There is congestion where there should be flow. Certain rooms are simply exhausting. Maybe it is even an eyesore.
This is good for the museum. Now they can really fuck up the place. Fill a room with a thousand cubic feet of lead. Let Matthew Barney dangle from a rope and scribble some shit high on a wall where no one can see it. Or: just let their rooms be dull rooms filled with rousing art.
Path is a monument to Path. It is no place to scribble in. I wish it longevity so that it might find shabbiness.
