i know a lot of us would like to see Holster playing in the NHL one day, but consider this:
adam “holster” birkholtz, the sassiest goddamn referee in the NHL (after mike leggo, of course)
here is some evidence:
he knows the rules, is an excellent skater, and likes to judge people
he is a Giant who can break up any and all fights
all the danger of an NHL game without the constant fear of being traded
his terrible fashion sense can still be represented in this ugly-ass uniform
still gets to wear a helmet so no one can see his awful hair cut
he still gets to curse, fine, and maintain control over the Sin Bin
he would 100% do this:
it would be really funny if this happened:
in summation, please make Holster a ref in your next fic because it’s A. hilarious and B. probs more realistic and C. DID I MENTION HOW FUCKING FUNNY IT IS
holy. fucking. shit. holy shit. THI S IS TOO PERFECT HOW IS IT SO PERFECT?????? A+ good job 100% gold star. I loveit. also now I have something I can use this pic as a reference for.
Binding is not safe. Long term, it is detrimental to your physical health. While the social and psychological benefits might outweigh the physical risks for many people, the choice to bind should be made with the understanding that the risks cannot be eliminated even with great care to ensure good fit and avoid overuse. Tightly compressing a large part of your body with many complex skeletal and muscular connections on a regular basis damages your body over time. Take off-days, wear the proper size from reputable makers, don’t sleep or exercise in them, and take them off as often as possible – all good advice that you absolutely must follow to be as safe as possible, but it’s impossible to guarantee that there will not be complications.
People tend to downplay the physical risks of binding because the payoff for self-confidence can be so profound. But seriously – even responsible binding is likely to cause complications ranging from sharp pains, nerve damage, dramatically decreased lung capacity, fluid buildup, skin issues, and back injury. Do not take it lightly just because it’s a piece of clothing that can be removed and does not need a doctor’s approval or informed consent to use.
If you must bind, be gentle with yourself. On your off-time, or if you choose not to bind at all, puffer vests are your new best friends. Seriously. Get your Marty McFly on. Not your style? Your loss, you unfashionable fool, but scarves, loose-fitting button-downs, and bomber jackets can help as well.
Okay shut the fuck up.
If it’s a decision between hurting myself but feeling confident, or killing myself because I don’t feel like I belong in my own body, I think I’d choose the former.
That’s your prerogative. I never told anyone NOT to wear a binder. However, it’s a major medical decision, and minimizing or dismissing the very real and common side-effects is not good for anyone, especially young people just beginning to transition. Like I said, sometimes the psychological benefits outweigh the physical costs – if not wearing a binder makes you suicidal, then clearly continuing to wear a binder is the correct decision for you.
The problem lies in presenting binders as a miracle solution that everyone can and should try if they are distressed by the appearance of their chest, or that only “incorrect” binding (as with ace bandages) poses any dangers. Some people may develop complications that make it impossible for them to continue binding. It is vitally important that people are aware of the potential harm before they begin and are able to make informed decisions by weighing their own priorities and exploring alternatives.
Unlike surgery or hormones, binders are not medically regulated and don’t require you to understand what you’re getting into. That means we have to look after each other, and in this case, that means being honest about safety.
Okay, now shut the fuck up twice. People are pushing the agenda, and have been pushing the agenda, for making studies about binding for YEARS. And some traito…. I mean, trans people, are advocating for it to happen, and advocating for medical personel to overlook trans person’s binding as a medical procedure in need of ‘professional regulating’. I don’t fucking care about you or your self-righteous quasi fight for ‘heath of trans people’, because it’s just gatekeeping, plain and simple. Now, get the fuck out off my face, you tool.
[Deep breath.]
I… really don’t know where to start with this. Are you suggesting that peer-reviewed scientific studies on the long-term effects of binding are a bad thing, and that trans people who want this information to exist are “traitors”? Is that honest-to-god what you’re saying here?
I’ve never met anyone advocating for binding to be “regulated”. If that’s what you think I’m saying, please read my post again. Binding can affect your body dramatically and irreversibly, and trans people deserve access to information about their health so that they can make informed decisions about their bodies.
Reliable information on trans health issues is virtually nonexistent because it hasn’t been widely formally studied over decades. It’s nearly impossible for trans people to make genuinely informed decisions about their health. If we cannot talk about the risks or are shushed for talking about our experiences, people get hurt and make decisions they may later regret. Just read through the notes on this post for many, many examples.
Hiding or downplaying the risks of binding, especially from young people, is wildly irresponsible. I have no respect for you at all if you think that it’s better for kids to accidentally hurt themselves because they aren’t aware of potential dangers, than to “gatekeep” by asking them to consider their options carefully before proceeding.
The nerve damage on my left shoulder blade that causes gentle hugs to be agonizing is not an “agenda”. The fact that I can no longer safely enter water deeper than my neck because my lungs and ribcage can only expand to a fraction of what they used to is not an “agenda”. The constant aches, the faint wheeze, the tissue degradation, the fact that I’m unable to truly pursue the active, outdoorsy life I hoped for until and unless I get a surgery I can’t afford? Not an “agenda” either. I’m lucky in that I can still bind routinely and function throughout the day.
I wish I had known what I know now before I started binding. Would I have made the decision to bind anyway? Yeah, I really think I would. But I am furious that no one hit me with hard truths beforehand so my decision could have truly been informed.
Reblogging for my followers who might have trouble remembering whether or not they’ve taken their medicine!
OH MY GOD, THIS WILL HELP ME SO MUCH. I GET SO SCARED WHEN I DON’T KNOW IF I JUST TOOK MY MEDS TWICE.
THANK YOU, I’M ABOUT TO CRY.
Let me share with you guys a product that super helps me remember if I took my meds or not (because while the above is great, I still would manage to confuse myself):
They count as soon as you put the top back on. So if I don’t know if I’ve taken my medication for the day, I can check the cap to see how long ago I opened the container! It’s brilliant!
JFC THIS IS A GAME CHANGER.
I KNOW THIS IS MY ART BLOG BUT EVERYONE WHO TAKES MEDS SHOULD SEE THIS.
when i heard there’s only one wizarding school in america, i laughed incredulously, and i know i’m not the only one. one school for the whole huge country? obviously brits don’t have any idea how big america is! cue derisive anecdotes about visitors who thought they could visit hollywood as a day trip from new york.
but recently something’s occurred to me: what if ilvermorny IS the only ‘wizarding school’ in america, with ‘wizarding school’ being defined as a wizard-only establishment where they teach nothing but magic?
aside from how unprepared that leaves kids for the rest of life, there just isn’t the population density to support wizard-exclusive pocket-universe enclaves anywhere but the east coast and possibly los angeles. even chicago is more spread out than that, and when it comes to mid-size cities like minneapolis and st. louis, forgeddaboudit. not even wizards would choose to live crammed cheek by jowl on quaintly crooked pedestrian-only streets when they could have a three-bedroom prairie-style on a wooded half-acre in edina.
so i’m thinking, yeah, ok, most american magicals don’t send their kids to wizard school. kids go to regular school and have wizarding clubs and retreats and summer camps instead. gives new meaning to “one time at band camp.”
the pureblood prejudice never developed in america? well, of course not, no one but the hamptons set goes even a single day without interacting with muggles. most of your friends are going to be muggles. there aren’t enough magical jobs for everyone, so most people’s coworkers will be muggles. except we wouldn’t call them muggles, of course, and certainly not ‘no-maj’ – that sounds like something that was said for a while by one particular new york jet set clique in the 1920′s and got written down in an english etiquette book as ‘what americans say’. we’d probably call them ‘mundanes’ or ‘normals’ if we called them anything at all.
the stuff about wand permits and other odd regulations makes sense for a small bureaucracy that doesn’t really understand why it can’t control things the way european magical governments do. it’s kind of a cargo cult legislation. probably most americans don’t even use a wand most of the time. european wand-focused magic might be the Done Thing among the WASP contingent, but everyone else undoubtedly knows at least something about navajo healing ritual, haitian voodoo, lakota dance magic, chinese feng-shui warding techniques, etcetera. taking away a person’s wand doesn’t take away their magic. you can’t say ‘corn pollen permit’ with a straight face and they sell chalk at the corner store.
i expect american wizards look at the hogwarts set as kind of a weird sect with weird restrictions and weird costumes. like the amish, but instead of furniture and quilts, they export clueless young men.
if I lick your brain will I gain your creativity?
i don’t know but it’s worth a try
also no one else will be able to eat it because it’s got your germs on it, which will be handy if zombies
this has always pretty much been my whole exact understanding of the hp universe
i also figured a lot of american magic is in english instead of the pseudo greek/latin British spells since, unlike British schools, most Americans never study those, so our spells are like ‘Fire’, ‘Unlock", “Magic Missile’
also american wands have gun grips or are baseball bats
when i was a kid i made a wand out of a piece of copper pipe with brass end caps, and carried it around with me for most of a year; i know a lot of kids who had walking sticks from summer camp or hiking, and pretended they were magic. hell, i bet a lot of wizard kids learn to cast with a #2 pencil, just from idly messing around.
also, spells based on superhero powers: definitely a thing.
imagine some baddie trying to AK someone and getting hit by SHAZAM in return.
american wizards learn how to do spider-man webbing out of wands the way kids learn to do that one S symbol
source: remember those dumb/racist comics ron had in his room? that’s all they got. britwizards don’t know a single spider-man
spells based on d&d too, i bet. and not nearly as much distinction between ‘dark arts’ and the rest, largely because a lot of the nonwhite arts got classified as Ebil Scary Bad by anglos, and the rest of america wasn’t having it. in louisiana, knowing the voodoo lady can raise the dead just speaks to the high quality of her marching powder.
florida wizards can use pool noodles as wands
not a single british wizard has ever returned from florida
dude florida is just one big messy cryptid zone, the ‘florida man’ phenomenon is real and ‘hold my beer’ is a very powerful spell
edit: ok, wizarding america IS silly, just not the way rowling thought
An SR-71 Blackbird once flew from LA to Washington DC in 64 minutes. Average speed of the flight: 2145mph.
“There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.”
-Brian Schul, Sled Driver: Flying The World’s Fastest Jet
and the guy in the F18 learns, as most people eventually do:
you will never, ever, be safe in assuming that you are the biggest fish
you can think you’re hot shit, but if you start trying to show off, someone bigger will come along. someone who doesn’t care, and who thinks you’re being a dumbass.
i’d say the takehome is: if you want to continue being proud of being the F-15 in your airspace, maybe don’t brag on it too much, because somewhere out there is a Blackbird who thinks crushing your ego is a fun teambuilding exercise.
just moving along like everyone else 