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@kaptions-blog
Tumblr, while great to start with, is just not quite doing it for me. What you ought to do, if you think I am important (which you do, which I am), is replace following me here with following me at my new WordPress blog, conveniently linked above.
Do it.
Do it now.
Time's PotW!
Today's Time Magazine Pictures of the Week are from Jan 13 - 20th. Enjoy; pics link through to their appearance on Time's site.
Incidentally, if you happen to enjoy seeing when my (now infrequent) updates popup on your dashboard: I'm considering moving over to Wordpress, where I'd probably expand the range of stuff that I post about, making it less of a themed blog. Although captions would probably still be the primary focus. And maybe pictures of food I make, because it seems like everyone has to have one of those.
If you have an opinion about that, do me a quick favor and leave a comment on this post (I have Disqus, which is supposed to let you do that--if not, I dunno, send me a message through the Ask A Question function). If you don't have an opinion, I hope you get diarrhea.
All pictures not owned by me. Hover your mouse over the images to get the alt-text.
Burmese opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi makes like she's going to high-five supporters, but then leaves them hanging.
North Korean light filters in through filthy windowpanes. Pak Eunju stands by the window. The day is long, but it wanes. The year is long, and it has just begun. Kim Jong-Il is dead, and little has changed. She can think of nothing but her symbolic matryoshka: the goldfish in their plastic box; she in this room; this room in North Korea. Like the fish, she is captive in a bubble, an enclosure stranded in a universe of unbreathable atmosphere. There is physically nowhere she can go, she is too much a creature of this environment, and leaving, if the ones who watch her didn't do it first, would eventually kill her. Some days, she wishes the yellow goldfish's scales would fluff and grow into feathers, gills seal and eyes bead, fins elongate into airy wings, scrawny clawy legs sprout, thick gaping lips petrify and point into small chirping beak, and they would become canaries, flighty animals. Then they would drown under that water, but at least they would die in motion.
Indian soldiers from the Border Security Forces line up atop their sacred camels on the outskirts of town. They prepare themselves for the most deadly of tasks: Camel Polo.
During a farewell ceremony in Chengdu, Sichuan Province in China, the nefarious villain Pandamonium appeared with his Panderizer ray and turned the assembled populace into small stuffed animals. The Bamboozler, Pandamonium's arch-nemesis and erstwhile defender of Chengdu, was not available for comment.
After a spate of austerity measures which involved selling off military assets to cover budgets, the Greek army found itself without vehicles of war. Deprived of tanks and AA cannon, it had resorted to medieval machinery of war, but found that the cost of wood and trebuchet design to also be outside of its budget. Forced down to the bare bones, they resorted to recruiting the Bowling Ball Catapult Troops, here photographed during training exercises.
Giaccamo Belli, entranced by the pretty shinies in the Christmas tree in Vatican City, climbed up and now can't get back down.
New Delhi, India. Paramilitary troops investigate flickering lights they saw off the path to town. They follow them deeper, picking their way between trunks, mist curling at the gentle footpads that stalk beneath camel bodies. At one point, Sandeep says, "Hey; where are we?" and nobody knows. All senses of direction have evaporated, absorbed into the fog. The lights they followed twinkle out one by one, and the troops are left alone beneath a single canopy. Hanif swings a leg over, slides off his camel, and pats it; instinctively the camel kneels, lowers heavy lids, relaxes. Hanif follows suit beneath the tree. "My friends," he says, unbuttoning the regulation brass at his collar, slipping off his beret, loosening his belt, and resting at the foot of the trunk, "I think we're home."
Dusak Simocko of Slovakia in action during the men's 10km sprint individual event. At about km 3, a piston sprung loose; a sprocket overheated and tore through the weakened rubber coating like it was pantyhose; crank-shafts and springs peeled and pealed out with comical sproings and per-twangs, superheated vapor whistled out from miniscule broken seals at his joints. As the coating was shredded by unaccounted friction, a man made of brass and gears and watchworks, steam-powered, punked, was revealed. What am I? Dusak worried, still pumping back and forth rapidly deteriorating limbs. He had, after all, a mission to fulfill.
An Ethiopian Orthodox Christian female pilgrim is pictured at a mass before the annual festival of Timkat in Lalibela, Ethiopia which celebrates the returning of Bumba, the voracious god of spiders. This pilgrim and her child have already been cocooned in silk; at the peak of the festival, they will be fed to the giant spiders of the steppes.
Here's a bit of American folklore for you: back in 1831, Christopher Smith, the uncreatively-named blacksmith of a small town in Texas (it was called Town O' The Six-Times Blessed then, although now it's known more as an unassuming patch of dirt in the Texas plains), was a happily-married man with six young daughters, purtiest things you ever saw. Pressure began to build in those days, as the stage was set for the violent Texas Colonists' Revolt, and in those high times roving bandits were wild with passion. A posse of outlaws rode into Town O' The Six-Times Blessed and caused mighty havok in the square. Smith was taking his daughters for an outing that day, and the outlaws couldn't resist. By the time they rode off into the blood-red sunset, Smith was one blistered eye and six daughters poorer. Before a half-burned town still hot with flames he swore that day that he would kill every man who had rode into town and taken his daughters from him--and every man, woman and child who had stood by and watched it happen. Over the next three years he fulfilled his vow, and forty-seven people lay dead. The ringleader of the band he saved for last, torturing the poor soul with molten metal and all the secrets of pain a blacksmith knows for fifteen months without respite. At last, the law caught up with poor, deranged Christopher Smith, and he was hanged without much ceremony. Christopher's fiery corpse can still be seen sometimes riding the dirt paths between Liberty and El Paso. It is said that when the endtimes finally come, he will take his place beside the Four as the Horseshoeman of the Apocalypse.
This is what you don't know about the process of Gummi Bear manufacturing.
January 18: the 2012 Australian Open tennis tournament in Melbourne. Spain's Rafael Nadal versus Germany's Tommy Hass. Nadal has always been able to do this; it's what makes him such an unstoppable player. At a certain point in the ball's arc, the picture freezes. The moment thins like taffy into an infinitely long gummy thread, sweet and salty and just bitter enough. And the world goes black, everything that is not the sport and his direction is eliminated from the world. Nadal sees only the tiny asteroid of neon fuzz, and the path where he will command it to go. And for some reason he's never been able to filter out the ball guys just off the side of the court.
Private Xinjuan Ai! You think it's funny to fall asleep in line? This oughta wake you up!
The Royal Yacht Britannia, in dry dock at Forth Points in Edinburgh, Scotland, models its dainty legs for a magazine ad.
White bishop to G5, king in check.
At the Sharif Islamic Committee, a community center operated by the Muslim Brotherhood in a neighborhood of Cairo, Imperial Snowtroopers offer free health and education services.
The severe depletion of military camels due to the violence of Camel Polo and a whole mounted unit just straight up disappearing into the woods, the New Delhi Indian Border Security Force has had to cut back on transportation costs. It now requires all troops to carpool to work.
This is a series of games written, marketed, and done all sots of crazy stuffs by my very good friend. You should buy it if you like smarts. If you work with kids, or know someone who works with kids, or has kids, or just like knows a kid, you should make them buy this and try it. I tried it, and it made me a thousand times smarter. Just think what it can do for you. Think of the children, man, think of the children.
Wotcha, looket these! These little guys are called Russian scientists, and this group is a real beaut. Watch them group around their little equipment boxes. six months a year, these critchers come down with equipment and bright coats and like to mess around in the snow, foraging for science. Like most wildlife down here, they migrate north during the winter seasons, returning like clockwork the next year. We'll be back after these messages.
From The National Geographic Photo of the Day.
Harrison inhales, a thumbed, halting Morse code of a breath, his thumb rolling the aperture of the glass pipe like a telegraph or a nipple. "But do you see it, buddy?" he forces out in budgeted bursts of the delicious vapors percolating in his lungs.
John is lying on a pile of old laundry. He is flipping through Harrison's collection of vintage vinyl albums, selected for their images since Harrison has no and has no interest in acquiring a record player. John lifts one: Sour Cream & Other Delights, by The Frivolous Five. There are five women, covered with billowing, swirling, Van Goghian clouds of what white confection you might expect. John can't imagine being covered in that much sour cream. But each woman enjoys it--he can tell that they like the tactile sensation, they aren't ashamed, but they know there's something maybe to be ashamed of--their enjoyment is self-satisfied but defiant. The woman in the center holds a rose; John wonders who it's for, if maybe it's for him. He takes the pipe from Harrison.
"I don't know what you're talking about," John says, at last.
Harrison has the pipe again, somewhere between now and his last thought about roses the molded glass has been taken from John, has been refilled with model train tree fluff, primo buddy, is being now scolded by a gas station lighter. "If you look hard you can see things in the smoke. I don't mean they're there, like, hallucinating.
"Although I know a guy." Morse code again, inhalations. The box is hot, they're in a closet, and since there does seem to be a coalescing, inveigling opacity, John peers bleary into the distributed carcinogens. Nothing.
"I mean that you can see where there might be something in the gas, you know, imagination, set yourself a scene. Where do you want to go? If you try hard enough, maybe you have to squint, you could see it."
The Frivolous Five have been painted with such thick brushstrokes of sour cream, turbulent patterns, laid thickly with manic and sensual energy. Harrison thinks of Arles, and peers into the mists of vapor that did seem to strangle him; he can almost make out, if he squints, and thinks of passionate defiance, the tower from which he imagines an unstable Vincent laying thick on canvas. Arles: a smoky night.
Leon Borenszjgktrsxvzein Pictures America
Leon Borensztein was apparently an awesome photographer. He made some money before he got big and/or a Guggenheim fellowship by taking portraits of Americans, and apparently the pictures he took while he was doing that, using most likely his commercial equipment and stuff, say some powerful nonsense about America or whatever. They look like they could've slipped in easily with the regular photos, and some of them probably are from his little business, but maybe that's what makes them so good?
Anyway, his pictures are great, if off-beat and a little weary. These below come from Time Magazine's slideshow of Leon Borensztein's 'American Portraits.' Pictures link through to the slideshow, none of the photos are owned by me.
In the first years after Pinocchio's triumphant and sanguine return, Geppetto relished the time he spent with his son. But the relationships between a man and his puppet and a man and his son are different; a puppet is not disappointed, a son disappoints, and in those days there was nothing to be done when the inevitable chasm opens between a man and his progeny. Disgusted with his father, unable to stomach a woodcarver's boredom after the adventures of his youth, Pinocchio once more left, this time for good, and Geppetto was left again alone.
At first he turned to drink, and was himself eaten by the Monstro of the bottle. Adrift, trapped in a fleshy cage beneath a roiling sea of liquor. As most alcoholics of any epoch will tell you, he found no solutions there. In a final drunken rage he cursed the Blue Fairy, caterwauling obscenities through the night at falling stars and flickering lamplights until, unable to bear it any longer, the Blue Fairy appeared before him and cursed him with sobriety.
His head suddenly evacuated of the ether of alcohol, yet his rage unspent, a dark fire built within and he turned on the Blue Fairy who moralized at him, gesticulating with her wand (which dropped tiny sparklets as she did so). She was immobilized with surprise when in that moment Geppetto grabbed a nearby woodcarver's mallet and bashed the Fairy's head in. Unremoreseful, and demonically animated by some strange interaction of the Fairy's magic, he cooked and ate her body until nothing was left. Through this, he gained her powers of magic.
"I shall make a new puppet, and this time no fooling around," Geppetto grumbled to his tools and the blank faces of his oaken inventory. But his stock was poor and his judgment poorer (sobriety comes too late to brain damage), so Geppetto went out in search of material for his new companion.
From a local missionary he took a torso (only the purest of hearts for this boy, he'd learned his lesson), from the lady at the fruit stall he collected two shapely legs. To add a dash of color he took the hands of the neighbor's daughter who loved to play cowboy.
When he returned home he realized that he had forgotten a head; but none in the village would satisfy him, anyway. These were people he neither wanted to look at nor be looked upon by. So he took a lump of clay and molded it into as best a head he could; rent hair from his own head (grown long and dank from years in the gutter) and affixed it to the Golem's head of clay with a cushion full of pins, and animated the horrid beast into life.
"Come here, my boy, give Papa a hug!" Geppetto beamed at his new son. But this creature had no concept of strength or human tensile strength, and Geppetto was immediately crushed to death. Confused, the Golem wandered the streets, causing destruction and havoc. Gendarmes fired useless bullets into his irrevocable chest, poked ineffectually at the beast with bayonets.
Not until Mario "Bambino" Fenini, the three-foot Chief of Police of Pleasure Island, was called in could they devise a strategy to quell the beast and take it in for questioning. Above, the Golem's mugshot, warily supervised by Fenini.
Madeleine had led a hard life up to her twenty-ninth year. As a child, her freakish, brute strength had earned her the contempt of her peers; as she grew older, her massive height (just shy of eight feet tall) further isolated her. Ostracized from a "normal" society that couldn't even bear to sit beside her at L'Academe d'Amanuensis, she ran away to the circus where she found a modest living biting apart medium-size logs of wood as the Beaver Woman.
And then one day, sipping poorly-brewed coffee on the outer rings of the circus campgrounds, Henri "le Fils" Montrachet approached her shyly. "You were lovely last night," he said. Madeleine blushed, as she had never been complimented so earnestly before. "Thank you," she said. "I like your tie."
That was three years ago. Today, they are engaged, and Henri and Madeleine have never been happier. And the sex? The sex is fantastic.
This man is an utter piece of shit. He tattooed a swastika on his chest; who does that? Anyway, here's the photo from a couple of minutes before he is beheaded for unrelated crimes.
After her real daughter died of tuberculosis, Nicole spent years perfecting a simulacrum of her departed Carol. Immaculately sculpted, elegantly tended, Nicole's puppet daughter was a heartbreaking work of art, and it was with this 'family' that the Blue Fairy first took to turning false children into the real thing.
Before he developed into the sketch comedian we know today, Fred Armisen enjoyed a brief stint as the dandy leader of the Mexican street gang Las Aguilas Sangrosas.
Maxine, left, and Paulina were born in 1935 to a Louisa June Posey, virgin-impregnated by the lunar goddess Artemis after Louisa unknowingly jilted the goddess's brother Apollo. The two daughters have no special powers or abilities save for one: as the month progresses, weight shifts from one daughter to the other. At New Moon, Maxine weighs 322 lbs, and Paulina 87; at Full Moon, their hefts are reversed. Judging by this picture, taken in April 1963, it must be the 12th or 13th.
Time's Po(t)W!
Hiatus of posts concluded! Chicago was awesome. Possibility of caption album from trip, but we'll see how I feel. Meantime, work work work:
Time Magazine's Pictures of the Week, Jan. 6-13, 2012. Images are copyright them, I guess, and photo credits appear under the originals. Pictures link through to location in album.
The pirates encircle the shipping frigate, dark gleams in Somalian eyes, cruel dilapidation in their rusty schooners. "Divide and conquer, my man!" Captain Edward J. O. of the Rena shouts to his first mate, spittle flecking from his bottom lip and hanging there like limpets. But captain, First Mate Shiner thinks, doesn't that only apply if there's more than one of us?
Never is there a clearer indication of the passage of time in Syrian President Bashar al-Assad's life as when he look upon his depictions. My god, I looked so young then, his icon thinks, present image staring at past. So innocent, and energetic. What a fool I was. And what a weak chin.
GOP photographers spy on an old lady's votes.
After years of planning, G.O.P leaders finally trap President Obama in the Phantom Zone.
"Wet Paint"
Concerned about recent advances in Pakistani flying drone technology, India attempts to develop its own airborne military capacity.
Amongst the Southern folk is the belief that elves could spirit away children, and even adults, and take them back to their own world. Often, it was thought, a baby would be snatched and replaced with a simulation of the baby, to be suckled by the mother. The real baby would be treated well by the elves and would grow up to be one of them, whereas the changeling baby would be discontented and wearisome.
Source: Wikipedia.
Part of a Scientologist international outreach program, children offer themselves up to Xenu in Ahmadabad, India.
We have moments of clarity, sometimes. Places where scales drop from the eyes (we can even hear them, so silent does the world become), where fear and love and all earthly strings fall away like anchors from a hot air balloon, and our spirit soars. It's not just your life that flashes before your eyes, it's everyone's and everything's: such magnitude that when the moment is passed it's irrecapturable, and we can't say that we've had an out-of-body experience because we were the universe, we adopted the whole of creation as our body. These moments are rare, but they appear most often in the last second (which draws out, becomes an hour or a year or a billion of them), right before we hit the pavement.
Picket signs convene to protest their unfair, uncompensated use in the Occupy Wall Street movement.
In a residential neighborhood of the Silphukhuri area in Guwahati, Indian laborer Sanjit Bakhal demonstrates techniques to the inaugural class of his brand new martial arts school, Leopard Fighting.
Movie rights have been purchased for an adaptation of Bakhal's life story, set to star Rajini Kanth.
Nasty Buddha knows what you're thinking, and he likes it.
German Chancellor Angela Merkel, left, rehearses with Italian Prime Minister Mario "Darth" Monti, second from left, for the annual International Star Wars Re-Enactment.
Republican presidential candidate, former Pennsylvania Sen. Rick Santorum casts a spell on a town hall meeting in Sun City, S.C.
Ron Paul is on top of the world.
He loves this part, right before the cameras go live, where he can see himself in the monitors, the thrill humans get when looking in the mirror but this time it's also his sneak peak at live national TV. He sees what you will see, in a little. He's in control. His hair smells like spray and his face like makeup and his blazer and sweater-vest like mothballs, but it's not camphor fumes that have him this giddy. It's the game, you see, the game of politics: parrying, riposting (reposting), mind games and word games. He think of inter-party debates and town hall meetings as third-order Apples to Apples, who throws out the best card wins, you just have to know who you're playing for. And he knows, or thinks he knows, and knows that you can never be so sure as he is but that's why he loves it. Power. Manipulation. Choices, and Agency. These are cards that are missing from his daughter's Apples to Apples because he's nicked them and keeps them in his right breast pocket (in the left, of course, is his Bible). He is in these cards.
Fifteen minutes ago, he studies his talking points; neatly handwritten (printed, fontlike in regularity, never cursive or shorthand) on 3.5 x 5" index cards, color-coordinated. He lays them on the veneer table like Tarot, seeing in them his Presidential future. And to the left of his Celtic Cross he lays his Trumps: Power, Manipulation, Choices, Agency. He sleeps with them, beneath his pillow, slipping them there when he hears Carol's breathing is soft and regular. They have his energy, and he theirs.
Some politicians will banter with the crew before the interview goes live. Not Ron Paul. He sits in solemn silence, the deep waters of his future lapping at his feet, but his dock is not dark, nor is it a cheap and chippy chopper that will lay him on the block. He likes to feel this moment all to himself. The timer in his head is synced to that of the studio. He is ready.
Ron Paul takes a drink of water with a dash of lemon, and smiles.
Hilary, "the Penguin" Clinton.
CHIatus
Gonna be roadtripping to Chicago for the next week, so new captions will be sporadic and intermittent. Expect heavy rains and for posts to be more frequent after the 12th.
Captions in the real world.
This is what a REAL rape prevention campaign looks like
All the awards.
DO ME A HUGE FAVOR AND REBLOG THIS!
Because sometimes captions are serious.
You Know You Need Unique New Year
Check out the New York Times's slideshow of New Year's around the world.
As a side note, I want to comment that the intention is for these captions to be read alongside the originals. I'm a huge fan of the professional photographers' work, and wish to support them; you should, too. I also occasionally reference the originals in my captions, so you're really just furthering everyone's experience here.
Photographer credits are all in the original slideshow. None of these images are copyright me.
Seaman Michael Capolla kissed Army Lt. Dwight Webster's wife, Maha, amid a mass of New Year's Eve revelers.
Lady Gaga makes sexual advances on Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg, using the extremely phallic ball-button as an avatar for the Mayor's esteemed penis.
Thousands of people entered anyway on New Year's Eve in Times Square.
Justin Bieber accidentally slams the piano shut on his fingers during a performance with Carlos Santana at Times Square.
Big Ben gets so fed up with those horrible horns that everyone blows on New Year's that it literally blows its top.
Villages performed the Tar Baal combination witch-hunting and lynch-mob ceremony in Allendale, England.
As was prophesied centuries ago, the skies were rent asunder on New Year's Eve 2012, and Victoria, the Roman goddess of victory, returned upon a fiery chariot to wreak havoc among the citizens of Brandenburg, Germany.
Zeus pops in to watch the festivities atop the Acropolis in Athens.
Achmed is really unimpressed with the New Year's celebrations in Jakarta.
The Leading Ladies
First post of the new year!
The Jane Dough has a little feature on stock photos of female CEOs.
This is all you have for me? Brad, Brad, we talked about this... I thought you liked your kneecaps.
At the late age of 57, Martha Haskins discovers porn.
No see here's your problem... your computer's full of malware because you keep torrenting Teen Mom episodes and looking for Justin Bieber nipslips.
"Honey, you've been sitting at that desk for hours. Please put down the pen and eat something?"
"No, Gloria. The world needs the next episode of my Rebecca/Sirius fanfic, and my public will not wait. And neither will my muse. Begone, woman."
Poor Lucy McAllister was blinded in an unfortunate backyard bottlerocket accident last week, bu she's only been employed at Morty's Construction & Co. for two weeks and her health insurance hasn't activated yet--she's afraid that if she lets her superiors know, they'll let her go. As a result, her interactions with clients have been unsettling; the missed gazes, off-center handshakes, glazed, terrified smile. She's doing herself more harm than good here.
Marcia, you said your stalker is the one in the green jacket? Okay: I'm going to kill him with my mind powers.
This is my list of reasons I should care about you.
I'm really hopeless at this computernets thing. I think I might have transferred all the company's funds to an offshore account in the Caymans and purchased a one-way flight to a highly secure compound in Cambodia? But I'm just a woman, so what do I know?
Air Sports One
Time Magazine's photo slides of the First Family visiting a Christmas celebration at Marine Corps Base Hawaii in Kaneohe. Photos copyright them, I guess.
You will always remember the day that the President of the United States and the First Lady showed up at your podunk community Christmas celebration, surprise!, and you decided to wear schlubby shirt and jeans that morning.
Her power is waning; the shoulders begin to hunch, the eyes sag in their sockets, it takes all her energy to maintain the creaking wide smile that the public demands. But the pain will be over soon: Michelle Obama prepares to draw the lifeforce out of this willing Good Citizen of the US. When she is revitalized, suppleness of skin and straightness of spine restored, she will send gift baskets to the woman's family.
President Obama and some kids are Photoshopped into some random background for Christmas.
President Barack Obama greets blogger extraordinaire Kim "Kimviews" Hailama for the first time. Pres. Obama has been excited about this for like six months, it's his little Christmas gift to himself; he's been following Kim Reviews Movies(.blogspot) for like two years, he was there before it got big even, and is totally geeking out right now, sorry, Kim, I'm sure you get this all time time. Kim, for his part, thought the President would be more, um, imposing?
Mr. & Mrs. President pick out their new child from the assorted offerings. This one looks a little scrawny, but she's got great heart.
International Christmas of Mystery
The Society Pages (nee Contexts.org/socimages) is a feminist/social justice blog that does a lot of articles (guest-written or non-) on economic justice, racism, sexism, rape culture, lots of other stuff. Incredibly edifying material for anyone looking to be more... aware of the contexts in society (get it now?).
Anyway, this week they had a post on Christmases around the world. Multiculturalism!
Oh blessed Father, for Christmas this year I would like peace on earth, and for my mother to become healthy once more, and for father to have a good year, and maybe because I think I've been a very good girl this year can you maybe see it in your heart to let the pastor untie my hands, because it's been like two years and the beads are starting to chafe.
Yo dude I just can't get over how Govind's eyes don't close when he passes out, this is creeping me right up a wall. Oh oh write "Maneesh rules" next, and then maybe draw a penis.
"We wish you a merry Christ-mus, we wish you a merry Christ-mus, we wish we had elec-tri-city, and a happy new year!"
Okay, Gush'narl the Ravenous, just use this joystick here to guide the claw-lamps over the humans you want, and when you press this big red button the claw will drop and pick up hopefully the one beneath it. But you have to be careful bringing the claw back to the slot because sometimes they slip out.
HO HO HO YES BRING YOUR TRIBUTES TO ME, FATHER WINTER, KING OF CHRISTMAS, OFFER UP THE PRECIOUS TITHE OF YOUR YEAR'S TIDINGS. IF YOU CAN'T REACH MY HAND, GIVE THE SACRIFICES TO MY CHILD SLAVES HERE, THEY WILL BE PASSING AROUND WITH BASKETS.
I just spat cider. EVERYWHERE
It's like Disney Face Swap only... almost exactly like Disney Face Swap.
Thyme's Pictures of the Wreak
These pictures are from Time Magazine's Pictures of the Week, December 16 - December 23. The pictures link to the photos as they appear on Time Magazine's slideshow. All photos are copyright Time Magazine, I guess.
A Korean lady stubs her toe on Kim Jong-Il's memorial confection.
Ah crap. Now how do I get out.
In Pakistan, because of limited funds for maintaining greenery, golf courses are packed really tight.
Indian men bathe on a water pipe above a sewage drain on a cold and foggy morning in New Delhi, unaware that they are about to be eaten by the fearsome Chaudharan Roc, a fearsome creature.
With the Blue Fairy's help, Pinocchio was finally able to become a real boy. Unaware of the genotypic past he carried now unexpressed inside him, Pinocchio met and fell in love with a lovely woman. But when she became pregnant, it emerged that she too was a carrier for the wooden puppet gene. This is Pinocchio's son.
People stand near the statue of Czechoslovakia's first president Thomas Gariggue Masarykas. The crowds are so thick that in order for him to get to the front where he's supposed to be, the statue has to walk on their heads.
