Hojo J. (John Wick's father)

@NASAAdmin @NASASpaceflight I have already been informed to expect your phone call. I hearby publicly accept the mission... I will go to Mars.

NASA is leading the greatest adventure in human history, and it has only just begun.   On Tuesday, we’ll share our plans for the future of NASA across many of our programs.   We’ll see you tomorrow morning for Ignition.

On October 23, 1943, when Franceska Mann arrived at Auschwitz, the Nazis saw just another prisoner. They were wrong. The 26-year-old Polish-Jewish ballerina, once a rising star in Warsaw known for her grace and beauty, faced the gas chamber’s antechamber with dozens of other women. Ordered to undress for a supposed “disinfection shower,” she sensed the deadly lie. Instead of submitting, Franceska used her presence as a weapon. Accounts describe her undressing slowly and provocatively, drawing the leering SS guards’ attention—particularly Josef Schillinger. In a sudden move, she seized his pistol (or, in some versions, struck him with her high heel first), shot him fatally in the stomach (he died hours later), and wounded another guard, Wilhelm Emmerich. Her act ignited chaos. She cried out to the women: fight, because they will kill us anyway. The prisoners erupted in desperate resistance—clawing, biting, attacking the guards with bare hands. For minutes, the power flipped in that room of horror. The Nazis responded with overwhelming force: machine guns, reinforcements, and grenades. Franceska and the other women were killed. Yet she never entered the gas chamber. She died fighting, on her terms, stripping the Nazis of their illusion of total control and proving that even in the abyss, defiance endures. Her story reminds us: courage can flare in the darkest moments. Never forget. Eternally young. Eternally beautiful . Eternally dancing.

@acnewsitics @SusanKBradford So Vance is better?

The 25th Amendment. The real Save America Act.

@implausibleblog @donwinslow Truth, Jeff. Trump first term: Dumb Trump second term: and Dumber

Imagine labeling half your citizenry as an enemy.

Having blown up the world economy with the war he claims to have won, is winning, needs help to win, and needs no help to win, Donald Trump is now heading towards Palm Beach for yet another well deserved, tax payer funded, relaxing day of golfing.

Robert Mueller died last night. He was 81 years old. He had a wife who loved him for sixty years. He had two daughters, one of whom he met for the first time in Hawaii, in 1969, on a few hours of military leave, before he got back on the plane and returned to Vietnam. He had grandchildren. He had a faith he practiced quietly, without performance. He had, in the way of men who have seen real things and survived them, a quality that is increasingly rare and increasingly mocked in the country he spent his life serving. He had integrity. And tonight the President of the United States said good! I have been sitting with that word for hours now. Good. One syllable. The thing you say when the coffee is hot or the traffic is moving. The thing a man who has never had to bury anyone, never had to sit in the specific silence of a room where someone is newly absent, reaches for when he wants the world to know he is satisfied. Good. The daughters are crying and the wife is alone in the house and good. I want to speak directly to the Americans reading this. Not the political Americans. Just the human ones. The ones who have lost a father. The ones who know what it is to be in that first hour, when you keep forgetting and then remembering again, when ordinary objects become unbearable, when the world outside the window seems obscene in its indifference. I want to ask you, simply, to hold that feeling for a moment, and then to understand that the man you elected looked at it and typed a single word. Good. This is not a country having a bad day. I need you to understand that. Countries have bad days. Elections go wrong. Leaders disappoint. Institutions bend. But there is a different thing, a rarer and more terrible thing, that happens when the moral center of a place simply gives way. Not dramatically. Not with a single catastrophic event. But quietly, in increments, until one evening a president celebrates the death of an old man whose family is still warm with grief, and enough people find it acceptable that it becomes the weather. Just the weather. That is what is happening. That is what has happened. The world knows. From Tokyo to Oslo, from London to Buenos Aires, people are not angry at America tonight. Anger would mean there was still something to fight for, some remaining faith to be betrayed. What I see, in the reactions from everywhere that is not here, is something older and sadder than anger. It is the look people get when they have waited a long time for someone they love to find their way back, and have finally understood that they are not coming. America is being grieved. Past tense, almost. The idea of it. The thing it represented to people who had nothing else to believe in, who came here with everything they owned in a single bag because they had heard, somehow, across an ocean, that this was the place where decency was written into the walls. That idea is not resting. It is not suspended. It is being buried, in real time, with 7,450 likes before dinner. And the church said nothing. Seventy million people have decided that this man, this specific man who has cheated everyone he has ever made a promise to, who has mocked the disabled and the dead and the grieving, who celebrated tonight while a family wept, is an instrument of God. The pastors who made that bargain did not just trade away their credibility. They traded away the thing that made them worth listening to in the first place. The cross they carry now is a costume. The faith they preach is a loyalty oath with scripture attached. When the history of American Christianity is written, this will be the chapter they skip at seminary. Now I want to talk about the men who stand next to him. Because this is the part that actually breaks my heart. JD Vance is not a bad man. I have to say that, because it is true, and because the truth matters even now, especially now. Marco Rubio is not a bad man. Lindsey Graham is not a bad man. They are idiots, but not bad, as in BAD! These are men with mothers who raised them and children who love them and friends who remember who they were before all of this. They are not monsters. Monsters are simple. Monsters do not cost you anything emotionally because there is nothing in them to mourn. These men are something more painful than monsters. They are men who knew better, and know better still, and will get up tomorrow and do it again. Every small compromise they made had a reason. Every moment they looked the other way had a justification that sounded, at the time, almost reasonable. And now they have arrived here, at a place where a president celebrates the death of an old man and they will find a way, on television, to say nothing that means anything, and they will go home to houses where children who carry their name are waiting, and they will say goodnight, and they will say nothing. Their oldest friends are watching. The ones who knew Rubio when he still believed in something. Who knew Graham when he said, out loud, on the record, that this exact man would destroy the Republican Party and deserve it. Who sat next to Vance and thought here is someone worth knowing. Those friends are not angry tonight. They moved through anger a long time ago. What they feel now is the quiet, irrecoverable sadness of watching someone disappear while still being present. Of watching a person they loved choose, again and again, to become less. That is what cowardice costs. Not the coward. The people who loved him. And in the comments tonight, the followers celebrate. People who ten years ago brought casseroles to grieving neighbours. Who stood in the rain at gravesides and meant the words they said. Who told their children that we do not speak ill of the dead because the dead were someone's beloved. Those people are tonight typing gleeful things about a man whose daughters are not yet done crying. And they feel clean doing it. Righteous. Because somewhere along the way the thing they were given in exchange for their decency was the feeling of belonging to something, and that feeling is very hard to give up even when you can no longer remember what you gave for it. When Trump is gone, they will still be here. Standing in the silence where the noise used to be. Without the permission the crowd gave them. Without the pastor who told them their cruelty was holy. They will be alone with what they said and what they cheered and what they chose to become, and there will be no one left to tell them it was righteous. That morning is coming. Robert Mueller flew across the Pacific on military leave to hold his newborn daughter for a few hours before returning to the war. He came home. He buried his dead with honour. He served presidents of both parties because he understood that the institution was larger than any one man. He told his grandchildren that a lie is the worst thing a person can do, that a reputation once lost cannot be recovered, and he lived that, every day, in the quiet and unglamorous way of people who actually believe what they say. He was the kind of American the world used to point to when it needed to believe the story was true. He died last night. His wife is alone in their house in Georgetown. His daughters are learning what the world is without him in it. And somewhere in the particular hush that falls over a family in the first hours of loss, the most powerful man and the biggest loser on earth sent a message to say he was glad. The world that loved what America was supposed to be is grieving tonight. Not for Robert Mueller only. For the country that produced him and then became this. For the distance between what was promised and what was delivered. For the suspicion, growing quieter and more certain with each passing month, that the America people believed in was always partly a story, and the story is over now, and there is nothing yet to replace it. That is all it needed to be. A man died. His family is broken open with grief. That is all it needed to be. Instead the President said good. And the country that once stood for something looked away 🇺🇸 Gandalv / @Microinteracti1

This is characteristically vile and predictably deranged, but the important thing to remember is that Trump never said anything remotely so negative or definitive about the death of his long-time best friend Jeffrey Epstein. And he wishes Ghislaine Maxwell well. Think about that.

🤣🤣🤣 yet sad at the same time

⬇️⬇️⬇️ hmmmmm ⬇️⬇️⬇️

@crunchyrugger @Acyn I would like to hear why raping children was not the deal breaker.

@Acyn I don’t wanna see any more of these interviews unless the reporter grills them on what specifically led them to vote for trump. It doesn’t let them off the hook until they answer.

“I'm really scratching my head because I voted Republican, and most of us in the fishing industry did, and we're not seeing the the positives come out of it, why we voted that way.”

@TheCinesthetic "Hunt for Red October" Political Officer speaking ruZZian. Slow zoom in and switch to English. Slow zoom out. Awesome.

That cut in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) from the bone in the air to the spaceship is still unreal. One edit jumps millions of years and says everything about human progress in a single moment.

@sciencegirl Religion. Greed.

What keeps the world from being peaceful

@Mollyploofkins Theory: the shoe is never removed, with the sock concealing a T-47, (less capable than a T-800), prosthetic.

TBH this looks painful

Chuck Norris has arrived in Hell.

Meanwhile none of the men in the epstein files are facing charges for raping and killing kids.

May 16, 1963. Gordon Cooper was orbiting Earth alone inside a capsule barely big enough to turn around in, moving at 17,500 miles per hour. He had been up there for over a day. Then the warnings started. First a faulty sensor screaming that the ship was falling — it wasn't. He switched it off. Then something far worse: a short circuit knocked out the entire automated guidance system. The one that kept the capsule steady. The one that was supposed to bring him home. Without it, reentry was nearly impossible. Too shallow an angle and the capsule would bounce off the atmosphere back into space. Too steep and it would incinerate. The margin for error was razor thin — and every computer that was supposed to hit that margin was dead. Down on the ground, NASA engineers watched the telemetry in silence. They could see everything going wrong. They could fix nothing. Cooper didn't panic. He uncapped a grease pencil and drew lines directly on the inside of his window to track the horizon. He looked up at the stars he had spent months memorizing and used their positions to orient the ship by eye. Then he set his wristwatch. Because when you have no computers left, you become the computer. At exactly the right moment — calculated in his head, confirmed by the stars outside — he fired the retrorockets. The capsule shook. The sky turned to fire. For several minutes, no one on Earth could reach him as plasma swallowed the ship whole. Then the parachutes opened. Faith 7 hit the water just four miles from the recovery ship — the single most accurate splashdown in the entire Mercury program. The man with a wristwatch and a few pencil marks on a window had outperformed every automated system NASA had. We talk a lot about technology saving us. And it often does. But Cooper's story is a quiet reminder that behind every machine, there still has to be a human being who can look out the window, think clearly under pressure, and decide what to do next. The final backup was never the software. It was him.

@jdpoc Methinks he was referring to the big fans that are used to turn the windmills when the breeze is minimal. Akin to the floodlights used at night to charge the solar power arrays. Duh.

American (lack of) education has a great deal to answer for…

actually excited for the first attorney to cite Cooley v Afroman