I JUST realized that I hadn’t done this one even though I TOTALLY thought I had. I even have all the screengrabs! Sigh. This one is (in a Strong Bad voice) “puh-retty good.”
Check out the fancy hairstyle on the lady on the left!
It’s like minimalist French Royalty pre-Revolution ‘do. What I think is really important here is that somewhere there is a machine that helps people get their hairs did and the producers of the show aren’t letting us see it. #future
Oh right, the dying captain.
No bandage or anything? Just those weird lobe warmers? Okay, Bev, whatever.
I seem to remember at some point learning that in the TNG future they no longer shock your heart, they shock your MIND but it still seems a little silly. Anyway, dissolve to white screen let’s-see-what-death-looks-like and who’s there to greet the captain?
Federation Jesus?
More like Saint Q-ter.
I’m going to be honest and say that if I were Jean Luc and I got to the afterlife and this joker was there I would book it to hell as fast as my Royal Shakespeare legs could take me. That being said, this outfit seems to get the job done of spirit-Q-al entity. It’s like Honey Bunches of Fabrics up in here though, and good lord that thing must have been warm. Still, if John deLancie can do one thing well, it’s rock a turtleneck with a special Adam’s apple cutaway. That fabric looks like white rhino skin, WHICH IS A PROBLEM.
I’m pretty sure this is Papa Picard, but I’ll be real wit’you, I didn’t go back and re-watch the episode. But look at him—shiny pate, affinity for vests… they must be related. Actually, I think the casting department deserves a *slow clap rolling into standing ovation* for casting someone who looks like he could be actually related to Picard.
His outfit is kind of perfect if only because it looks like exactly the kind of mismatched thing an older person would wear, not in a bad taste kind of way but in a “fuck it, I’m old” kind of way. Those pants! Their waist is so high! That fabric isn’t even half bad, and I’m SURE that Anna could find a use for that belt. The sweater is confusing to me because its sleeves are so short and yet it’s bunched up so much on the belly that I’m led to believe that it’s really long? But it looks wool? Maybe it’s actually a dress? Anyway. Mormon underwear.
Baby Picard!
It might just be because he’s upside down but does lil Jean Luc not look a lot like Wesley??? Anyway, we’ve seen these older unis before. It was nice of whoever stabbed Jean Luc to center his wound so nicely. Belts.
Baby Armadillo or Artificial Heart? YOU DECIDE
So the reason Picard is dying in the opening scenes is that his artificial heart malfunctions or explodes or something, and he has this heart because he gets stabbed at some point during his wayward youth. Q’s giving him an opportunity to change things in his past because you know Q can’t help but fuck with a thing, so, Sherman, let’s power up the Way-Back machine!
Early Federation Jumpsuit Realness
First things first, it’s important to note that JLP has just been SLAPPED by this lady (see him holding his tender cheekbones?) and second of all we should note that this girl’s jump suit is great. It might be a little dark (though that might also be the screengrab) but the parallel lines between the top of the jumpsuit and the shirt she’s wearing underneath is great, and the colors make me think of red wine and chocolate. It looks like something Miss Scarlet from Clue might wear if she was in the future. That weird flower hair thing is, like, whatever and kind of off-brand, but you know what, girlfriend just slapped JLP so she can do what she wants.
Dammit it’s a hairband. A gold hairband.
Maybe it was the style at the time.
Not only did Jean Luc get slapped, but he got slapped in front of an audience?
He must have been quite the sassbox. Also, are these cadet quarters for Starfleet? Because they make my freshman dorm look like a prison.
Who are these fools?
Happy Days’ Richie and Joanie in SPAAAAAAAAACE
Okay I don’t know if it’s been said before but this “casual” half-fastened open flip thing that they do with the old uniforms just looks like a bib. A beige bib. YOU’RE WEARING A BEIGE BIB GUYS.
So the reason we’ve gone back in time is because on this day Picard is supposed to get into a bar fight and get stabbed in the heart. But first he has to get sauced… and maybe a little saucy… with this saucebox…
One part Marie Antoinette, one part Blanche from the Golden Girls
Listen, I never thought I’d say this, but Picard: I think this is too much woman for you. That hair is just like a beautiful copper cloud floating above her head. And those long earrings and bronze top… she knows what she’s doing.
And she’s bringing sexy back
Of course because Picard now has the wisdom and restraint of his years as Captain, he ends up calling this lovely lady “handsome” which of course leads to
Fashions may come and go, but throwing a drink in someone’s face is always in
My HATS OFF to our friends at trekcore.com for nailing this screengrab at the moment of impact. Picard might need a wise, caring bartender to listen to his troubles.
Well, fuck.
Why is this episode so vest-heavy? Looks like someone’s in the pocket of Big Waistcoat, IF YA KNAAAMEAN. Also: has Q been doing some bicep work? I think we have another shot of this outfit.
Don’t mind me, I’m just lounging in my velvet merlot jumpsuit while leaning against this industrial pillow.
I mean, really, what is there to say about this outfit other than I am absolutely SURE that this is what Q wears when he’s just milling about the empty vastness of space.
Meanwhile on the other side of the bar, Baby Ron Howard Knockoff is playing some sort of space snooker.
I won’t lie: I’d play it.
This is one of those “let’s see if we can recreate the cantina scene” attempts, and for the most part, they do fairly well here, including some pretty convincing aliens.
Don’t speak, I know just what you’re saying…
Okay, well, this guy looks slightly like a rip-off of Bib Fortuna, though covering the mouth up is a nice touch (made even nicer by continuing the ridge pattern on top of the head, so it doesn’t just come off as a way of letting the actor breathe… sorry, having Face/Off flashbacks). The outfit says Space Casual, though something a little higher end (and more colorful) than your Banana Space Republic… maybe something you’d find at a Interstellar Express for Men… or… things.
Also, thumbs up to this actor for getting in some serious side-eye underneath all that makeup.
Huh, I didn’t know KISS was guest starring in this episode
Frankly, I’d take the dichromatic makeup of KISS any day over the crazy face prosthetics this guy is sporting
I want to go for a look that says “this garment stitched together out of the dried skins of all of those whom I have killed.” But, you know, with a slim fit.
I mean, there’s not much to say about this outfit other than it would have fit in nicely in Mad Max. The hair ribbons maybe not. It’s tough to do hair accessories and still maintain your mercenary looks.
Anyway long story short, Picard, reliving his past life, decides to avoid the fight that had previously led to his getting stabbed, instead being sensible and cautious. How is he rewarded for his behavior?
Jesus Q Christ.
This bitch is everywhere, though he gets points for the red bowtie.
No, here’s JLP’s real win:
I’m gettin’ close with a lay-day, sittin’ on my bed in the paaaast…
Great job lady, though, wearing the GRAYEST TOP. It must be regulation.
It’s all good because…
Studio Audience: OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO!
Which leads to…
Fuck you gray top, that’s where you belong, on the goddamn floor!
But why those boots?
Actually we recently learned that P-Stew wore lifts, so those could be his or hers. Either way, Patrick strikes me as someone who might have a bit of a feminine step. But, you know, no judgment.
Captain Lucky
Many of you may have seen the highly amusing article on the Toast about the Roving Plants of the Enterprise, but this seems to take it to a new level. Maybe by this point humans have destroyed all nature and so they feel like they have to make up for it by turning every living space into a weird garden?
Time to wake up Jean-Luc.
Well, fuck.
Maybe the best screengrab of the entire series? Certainly in the top 10. Another contender:
HIDE YOUR SHAME CAPTAIN
Listen, I’m going to recommend to everyone that we not think too hard about the sexual implications of the Q, and just move on.
There are a few other scenes in the bar but the basic gist is that by avoiding this fight and keeping his real heart, Picard has turned into a new cadet! And this cadet grows up to be…
Kind of a loser. In blue. A Blueser, if you will.
He’s so discombobulated that he’s sent to sickbay to see the doctor.
OH COME ON
At least he’s still on brand, waistcoat wise. Also, he’s dressed like a doctor from 400 years ago, how does that make any sense? Whatever, Q, Q do Q.
The only other mildly interesting thing that happens in this episode is that Blue Picard (Jean Bluc? I’m still working on it) sits down with Riker and Troi to be like “what am I like, now that I’m a loser?”
Um, well, you’re a loser.
So Q sends him back to that pool hall so he can get stabbed in the chest again.
Aw, shit brah…
Nah, brah, it’s cool!
Look! I fucked with time and now everything’s okay again!
There’s a coda scene where Picard tells Will about what happened (in his brain?) and says something like “Time is a tapestry and if you pull one thread the whole thing unravels” but to me the lessons seemed to be like “if someone offers you a chance to change your past, DON’T DO IT, becuase, hello, time.”
Welcome back to Gabbin’ About God, in which Mallory uses her religious background to explain Christian-y things to Nicole. Most recently: Predestination.
Mallory, can we talk about the false doctrine of transubstantiation, and the evolution of the concept? I've always thought it was weird that Jesus used metaphors CON-STANT-LY and this is the thing people decided was NOT a metaphor but a Real Exact Thing. And is consubstantiation just "yeah, you know, we're doing this in memory, like he SAID" or is it something else? And why do some denominations not drink wine even though Jesus literally made wine that one time? What denominations have Communion or Communion-esque things in their services? Thank you for your time.
PAPISM. (N.B. I love Catholics and feel comfortable that we are far enough removed from the religious wars of the 17th century that I can rib them gently about their WRONGHEADED ADHERENCE TO FALSE DOCTRINES.)
Oh man, the various doctrines around the Eucharist are...something and a half, aren't they?
On Monday, it will once again be Negroni Week. (This is not to be confused with Negroni Season, which is a state of mind, not a time of year.) Hashtag Negroni Week is a recent invention of Imbibe magazine that has since been wholly co-opted by advertising executives and branding consultants employed by Campari America, a subsidiary of the Campari Group, a large corporation that sells, among other things, Wild Turkey whiskey, SKYY Vodka, and its namesake aperitif. Campari is a pink, bitter liqueur, and the signature ingredient in the Negroni, a cocktail that has, in recent years, been adopted by preening gadflys who would like to portray themselves as sophisticated drinkers with a highly discerning palate that allows them to enjoy beverages that are “bitter forward”:
The subtext of the discussion at this mythical world’s-most-awful bar, which might actually exist on the Internet, is that anyone who enjoys negronis has an incredibly distinguished palate which allows them to fully enjoy negronis in a way that most people can’t appreciate. One person told the Times that the negroni is “a sophisticated cocktail, too, for an audience that appreciates the cocktail and the story behind it.” Bon Appetit described the negroni at one point as “a secret handshake, a sign to bartenders that you knew what you liked, and how to order it.” Serious Eats calls it “a serious drink for serious drinkers.” GQ says, “A Negroni, like black coffee or Texas, is an acquired taste.”
The most terrible thing about Negroni Week is not that it will encourage these people to come out en masse to drink Negronis and tell you about how they’re drinking Negronis and that you should also drink Negronis, but that Negroni Week, which began as a fairly off-the-cuff charity drive, is now a full-blown marketing event heavily dressed in a booze-soaked garb of philanthropy when it is engineered to do little more than move bottles of Campari.
Bars and restaurants who sign up to participate in Negroni Week agree to “donate $1 (or more) from each one sold to a charity of their choice from June 1-7.” Whichever establishment raises the most money will see an additional ten thousand dollars donated to the charity of its choice by the Campari Group. This is charitable enough on the part of these establishments, especially the ones donating more than the minimum dollar per drink (or foodstuff); most bars and restaurants, especially in cities like New York and San Francisco, survive on slim margins. But ten thousand dollars is a pittance for Campari. Especially when one considers that, according to the New York Times, last year, the Negroni Week campaign cost just under a million dollars. The net result, according to the Negroni Week website, was “more than $120,000 raised for charities.”
Leaving aside that barely a tenth of the million dollars spent on last year’s campaign actually made it to charities, let’s do some cocktail-napkin math. (Which is hazardous for a number of reasons, not least that participating bars self-report their sales and donations to the organizers of Negroni Week.) Let’s be generous and conservative, and assume that the average amount donated per Negroni was two dollars, or that roughly sixty thousand Negronis were sold by the thirteen hundred bars that have participated in Negroni Week. While proportions (and ingredients) can vary, a classic Negroni contains one ounce of gin, one ounce of sweet vermouth, and one ounce of Campari, meaning that bars might have poured some sixty thousand ounces of Campari down people’s throats. A bottle of Campari is one liter, or 33.8 ounces, so a conservative estimate is that Negroni Week moved at least one thousand, seven hundred and seventy-five bottles of Campari. One bartender in Atlanta told me that the wholesale price per bottle, according to an inventory sheet that is “a few months old,” is twenty-eight dollars; it is markedly cheaper abroad. But given the variabilities of markets and distributor fees, let’s assume that Campari reaps just ten dollars per bottle. That would mean, through Negroni Week, Campari America sold, conservatively, nearly eighteen thousand dollars of Campari, or nearly double what it gave to charity. In other words, the cost of any of the actual charity is being borne entirely by the bars, which have to stock vast quantities of Campari to fulfill the demand artificially inflated by the false premise of good works.
Capitalist enterprises can very occasionally incidentally perform acts of charity. It’s not really charity, though, when the profit-seeking enterprise benefits far more from its charity than any of the causes to which it is supposedly being charitable. Negroni Week is perhaps one of those cases? But like whatever! Go ahead and drink a Negroni next week, if you want. You could even delude yourself into thinking that you are doing a Good Thing. Or you could drink something better—may I suggest somethingwith Gran Classico Bitter, a vastly superior aperitif?—and give some money directly to charity. You know, do you.
I am so glad wealthy women are coming out of their walk-in closets and making it known: the wife bonus as described by Wednesday Martin in the Times — and given serious side-eye by other publications — exists. Oh yes, it is real, and it is spectacular.
As I stroll around the mall on a recent trip to Houston, Texas, moving from designer store to designer store, my mind is crunching numbers. Will I splurge on the elegant $750 French navy Chanel ballet pumps that I’ve been lusting after for months? Or shall I be pulling out my gold card to grab a pair of limited-edition $800 Louboutins, with striking red Valentine’s hearts on the toe, to match their distinctive sole?
As I tally up the total, I can’t help but smile — I can easily stretch to both pairs of shoes, and still have plenty left of my five-figure bonus.
These pricey pairs of designer footwear will join a lineup of Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik, Diane Von Furstenburg and Rupert Sanderson heels and a closet crammed with handbags from Prada, Chanel and Anya Hindmarch. Every single one was bought with one of my annual bonuses — the nod from a happy boss for a job well done.
But, in this case, the boss in question is my husband, Al.
Please don’t stop there, good lady. Please don’t rein in your self-satisfaction, your materialism, your sense of entitlement. Please let it all hang out. I need to know more.
The role he’s rewarding me for is my work as a stay-at-home wife and mother. And the luxury labels are purchased with the “wife bonus” — 20 percent of his own company bonus — that I’m proud to receive for putting his career before my own, and keeping our lives together.
Perhaps this is her alone, though? Perhaps she is one shining example, from which no broader conclusions can be drawn? Ha, you wish.
In Australia, I met a lot of women — and some men — who had sacrificed their own careers to follow their partners around the world. That’s where I first heard about the concept of a “wife bonus” or “bonus gift.”
One friend proudly showed me her collection of Mulberry purses, bought at her behest come bonus time. Another liked to splurge at Tory Burch at the end of the financial year. But bonus gifts, just like the women who receive them, could be very different.
One girl, who couldn’t care less about designer goods, chose a stand-up paddle board as her reward for supporting her husband while he worked the late nights and the early mornings that the oil industry is known for.
While I appreciated the idea of a gift come bonus time, I didn’t feel that my husband bestowing something on me really represented the joint partnership we’d built up together. To me, giving a gift simply reinforced the fact that Al was the one receiving the bonus, whereas giving me a set proportion truly recognized how integral my effort was to his success.
She goes on to say that they agreed, back in Australia, to each take 1/5 of his bonus as individual play money and to bank the rest. I applaud the fairness in that, though her priorities still make my eyes boggle.
The five-figure amount has pretty much stayed the same despite the economy. Last year, I bought a Prada handbag and Burberry raincoat for about $1,500 each. I tend to wait until I’m back home in London to spend my bonus because I can leave Lala with a member of the family and go on a week-long splurge to upscale stores like Selfridges. My favorite labels include Bottega Veneta, Chanel, Prada, Smythson, Erdem and Stella McCartney.
That’s not to say I’m just frittering my bonus away. I also try to save my share for things that matter. My mother passed away shortly before we married, and I used some of the money she left me to buy my bespoke $4,500 wedding dress by the designer Naomi Neoh. I’d like the honor of being able to buy Lala her wedding dress with the money I’ve saved too.
I’m not just frittering my bonus money away, she says; I also use it to buy … designer dresses? I don’t really follow her logic there, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is, I kind of love this woman. I love her shameless shallowness and her rich husband with the “politically incorrect” sense of humor; I love that she owns her lifestyle, to the point where augments this article with photos of herself and her daughter posed in front of luxury stores. She doesn’t make any pretense of thinking that giving some of the money to charity — or even pretending to do so, for PR purposes! — would be a tactful, tactical decision. Bless her heart.
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basically shut up jason but all mad max thinkpieces must be shared
I saw Mad Max: Fury Road yesterday (enjoyed it) but have a few questions.
1. With gasoline in such short supply, I'm surprised the various groups in the movie didn't take more advantage of solar power to generate energy for electric vehicles and such. Sunshine is obviously abundant in post-apocalyptic Australia and from the looks of what was scavenged from before the nuclear war and the ingenuity on display in getting what they found to function, they should have been able to find even rudimentary solar cells and get them to work.
2. Speaking of energy scarcity, I wonder if the troop-pumping-up and opponent-intimidating function of the flamethrowing guitar player was worth all of the fuel spewed out of the end of his instrument and energy consumed by the incredible number of speakers on his rig.
3. The roads in the movie were in remarkable shape, aside from the swampland. Who was responsible for their upkeep? Even dirt roads need maintenance or they develop potholes and washboarding. And for what reason were they kept in such good condition outside of the Citadel/Gas Town/Bullet Farm area? Aside from Furiosa's Rig, the chase party, and two smallish motorcycle gangs, I saw no other vehicular traffic on the roads...and who would have been semi-regularly traveling out past the canyon anyway? To where? For what?
4. What was the political and economic arrangement between the Citadel, Gas Town, and the Bullet Farm? Did the Citadel trade their water and crops for gas and bullets? Or was Immortan Joe, as the defender of the lone source of abundant fresh water in the region, the defacto leader of all three groups? The People Eater and Bullet Farmer certainly came a'running when Joe needed help retrieving his wives. There were obviously other sources of water in the region -- how else did the biker gangs survive? -- so you'd think that Gas Town and the Bullet Farm could have teamed up to squeeze Joe into giving them a better deal or even overthrowing him. Point is, there seemed to be a surprising lack of political friction between the three groups, which seems odd in an environment of scarcity.
5. Surely land was plentiful enough that large solar stills could have generated enough fresh water for people to live on without having to rely on the Citadel for it.
Most weeks, around Wednesdays or Thursdays, I receive the following message: “Brunch this weekend ☺?”
Unless the occasion is a friend’s birthday, my usual response is: “Sorry…already booked!” I don’t feel guilty about my white lie. I simply hate brunch.
I confess my hatred of brunch only to my closest friends, and even then, I get the inevitable reaction:
“But how could you hate BRUNCH?” they would stare at me wide-eyed, as if I had confessed that I hate Beyonce. For the record, I think she is okay.
I like bacon, eggs, and any valid reason to start drinking before noon, but I detest spending $30 for approximately $5 of value. Seriously, check out the breakdown. The chart on the left shows a typical brunch order for four with 17% tip. The chart on the right shows the cost of groceries for the same items, cooked at home.
Low cost items such as eggs, potatoes, and pancakes are easy profit drivers for the restaurant industry. That combined with the standard 3-5x mark up for alcoholic beverages makes brunch an easy financial decision for the restaurant. On the other hand, a nice profit for the restaurant = bad value for us.
My most brunch-addicted friends go brunch at least once a week, at least 50 weeks out of the year. The bill for a standard brunch outing easily surpasses $30/person, but we’ll round down to $30 for ease of calculations. $30 * 50 = $1,500/year, and that’s not taking into account the 3+ hours of lost productivity resulting from the standard drunch (that’s drunk brunch for short). For anyone with a freelance-friendly skill and a side-hustle, those three hours could turn into hundreds of dollars.
There are many things I can buy with $1,500, including but not limited to:
Pay 1 month’s rent in my shared East Village apartment;
Buy groceries for an entire year from Trader Joe’s / Key Food. Whole Foods is still out of the question.
Fund a week’s vacation in Europe, airfare included
As much as I can see the appeal of going out for brunch (catching up with friends, great Instagram opportunities, no clean up), the same experience, or at least a similar experience, can be easily created at home for much less. If Rachel can host a brunch for 40 people in a small apartment, we can at least try to host a brunch for four.
Recipes:
All ingredients are listed under the “Brunch at Home” table.
1) Huevos Rancheros (2 servings)
Total Prep Time: 15 minutes
– Dice Onion and potatoes and fry in a tablespoon of butter over the stovetop
– Add the beans to the skillet and 2 Tbsp of Taco Seasoning (Trader Joe’s has a great one!)
– In a separate skillet (or the same skillet if you are lazy), fry up two eggs sunny-side-up
– As you fry the eggs, microwave 2 cups of salsa (1-2 minutes)
– Place 1 tortilla on each plate, divide the beans + onions evenly, place a fried egg on each, and pour warm salsa over the eggs
– Salt and pepper to taste
Cost per serving: $3.70
2) Eggs Benedict (2 servings)
Total Prep Time: 30 minutes
Hollandaise:
– Melt 7 Tbsp of butter in a saucepan
– In a separate saucepan, combine 2 egg yolks and 1 Tbsp water, and 1 Tbsp lemon juice, whisk vigorously until volume is doubled
– Heat the egg yolk mixture over low heat, and whisk in the hot butter one Tbsp at a time until the mixture is smooth.
– Note: The yolks should thicken rather than curdle, if you find the eggs curdling, take the pot off the heat immediately, and whisk in a Tbsp of cold water.
Poached Eggs:
– In a pot, boil water and lower the heat until the water is at a bare simmer
– Add 1 Tbsp lemon juice into the water
– Crack an egg into a small bowl and slip the egg gently into the water
– Repeat step 3, taking care to keep some distance between the two eggs
– Turn the heat off and cover the pot with a lid, the eggs should be perfectly cooked (runny yolk in the middle) after 4 minutes
– Gently lift the poached eggs with a slotted spoon
The Assembly:
– Melt 1 Tbsp butter in a skillet, half and toast 2 English muffins in the butter
– Remove the English Muffins and place onto separate plates, use the residual butter in the skillet to fry 2 slices of Canadian Bacon until bacon is crispy on the edges
– Place the Canadian Bacon on toasted English Muffins
– Gently place a poached egg on each English Muffin
– Spoon warm Hollandaise over each egg
– Salt and pepper to taste
Cost per serving: $2.83
Mimosas (2 Pitchers)
Total Prep Time: 3 minutes
– Chill both the sparkling wine and orange juice well
– Combine the two in equal parts
– Serve in champagne flutes
Cost per person: $2.25
In my experience, the key to a successful home-cooked brunch is to have groceries on hand, and to start drinking after the majority of the cooking is done. In less than an hour, you could make brunch for yourself plus three! You’d easily wait in line for an hour for brunch at a restaurant, why not save time on your commute, hone your cooking chops, and save a ton of money by brunching at home?
Former Pennsylvania Senator and notoriously anti-gay stalwart Rick Santorum is expected to announce his second bid for the Presidency today. Santorum came in second place when seeking the Republican Party's nomination in 2012 behind Mitt Romney. Political experts question whether Santorum will be able to duplicate or surpass his past success given the crowded field of GOP candidates, many of whom are vying for the evangelical votes that catapulted Santorum so far.
The prospective Republican field already includes four sitting senators, four governors, four former governors, two business leaders and a retired neurosurgeon.
Santorum won 11 states in the last presidential primary contest, yet his early longshot status may keep him out of presidential debates altogether.
Only those who place in the top 10 of national polls will be allowed to participate in the first Republican presidential debate in August, according to guidelines released by network host Fox News. Santorum and fellow 2012 candidate, former Texas Gov. Rick Perry, are among those on the bubble.
Much of Santorum's past success was tied to his performance in Iowa, where he scored a narrow victory over Mitt Romney in the nation's first presidential nominating contest. Facing little competition for the state's influential evangelical vote, Santorum impressed voters by touring Iowa's 99 counties in a pickup truck. [...]
Meanwhile, on the ground in early-voting states like Iowa and South Carolina, Santorum starts off as well-known among voters and key activists. But a new crop of Republican competitors like Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker has been aggressively touring the states in recent weeks as well. And some voters prefer a fresh face in an election season expected to feature Hillary Rodham Clinton on the Democratic side.
Santorum is expected to make his announcement today at 5PM EST.
[W]hat about the countless networking and software companies that are, at their core, trying to improve the efficacy of communications? You know, that little human endeavor that in past generations has resulted in everything from the printing press to the carrier pigeon to the telephone to the Amber Alert? Are those efforts disposable, just because some may be quixotic or callous?
This, it turns out, is a helpful template for defending practically any industry.
Big Pharma is easy to bash with broad strokes, but that doesn’t mean we should.
Big Pharma is teeming with ill-mannered bros whose childhood participation trophies have led them to boast about how their mediocre drugs will change the world. It’s insufferable. Big Pharma is also full of sincere geniuses who wake up every day to work hard on solving serious problems that could indeed change the world. It’s inspiring.
Both of these Big Pharmas exist. Or, rather, they co-exist. And often the dichotomy blurs. For some reason, however, this complexity is being ignored with increasing regularity, in favor of black-and-white caricatures that would be more appropriate in John Oliver’s rant on Big Pharma than in media analysis of the actual industry.
To be sure, I understand the impulse to bash with broad strokes. Particularly as an East Coaster who reads medical sites that drool over new drug treatments as if they’re dying of xeroderma. But for every Viagra or Solvadi that is cited as emblematic of Big Pharma’s vapidness or greed, there is a researcher like Ian Frazer that is developing medicine to help prevent the outbreak of deadly diseases. Is Frazer’s HPV vaccine not solving a “big” enough problem? If successful, does it not “matter?”
Or what about the countless pharmaceutical and bioengineering companies that are, at their core, trying to improve the efficacy of medicine? You know, that little human endeavor that in past generations has resulted in everything from antibiotics to vaccines to Prozac to HIV treatments? Are those efforts disposable, just because some may be quixotic or callous?
Remember, thousands of drugs go through clinical trials each year alone. But only a couple dozen drugs receive FDA approval. The perception and reality don’t match.
Most drugs will fail, and even a majority of the successes will only end up having a minor impact, if any, on wide swaths of people or illnesses. But that would be true even if every single company in Big Pharma was focused on curing cancer (which, by the way, plenty are). Does the existence of Viagra somehow tarnish Phizer? Is a community’s output diminished because its inputs include an over-representation of narcissists and sycophants?
To me, it isn’t.
Big Pharma is far from perfect because, well, because it’s a real place. In New Jersey. It should always strive to improve and be held to account, particularly in areas of equality, charity and relevancy. But to use its flaws as an excuse for ignoring its virtues is lazy and unfair. And it does a disservice to those who legitimately are working to change the world.
Wall Street is easy to bash with broad strokes, but that doesn’t mean we should.
Wall Street is teeming with ill-mannered bros whose childhood participation trophies have led them to boast about how their mediocre bank will change the world. It’s insufferable. Wall Street is also full of sincere geniuses who wake up every day to work hard on solving serious problems that could indeed change the world. It’s inspiring.
Both of these Wall Streets exist. Or, rather, they co-exist. And often the dichotomy blurs. For some reason, however, this complexity is being ignored with increasing regularity, in favor of black-and-white caricatures that would be more appropriate in Oliver Stone’s depiction of Wall Street than in media analysis of the actual place.
To be sure, I understand the impulse to bash with broad strokes. Particularly as an West Coaster who reads finance sites that drool over hedge funds as if they’re dying of xeroderma. But for every Lehman that is cited as emblematic of Wall Street’s recklessness, there is a company like Goldman Sachs that is developing financial products to help predict and prevent the outbreak of underutilized capital. Is Goldman not solving a “big” enough problem? If successful, does it not “matter?”
Or what about the countless hedge funds and financial companies that are, at their core, trying to improve the efficacy of the economy? You know, that little human endeavor that in past generations has resulted in everything from the printing press to the carrier pigeon to the telephone to staggerlying complex financial products that add nothing to the economy but generous enormous sums of money for the firms peddling them? Are those efforts disposable, just because some may be quixotic or callous?
Most hedge funds will fail, and even a majority of the successes will only end up having a minor impact, if any, on wide swaths of the economy. But that would be true even if every fund in Wall Street was focused on advancing capitalism (which, by the way, plenty are). Does the existence of Lehman somehow tarnish Goldman? Is a community’s output diminished because its inputs include an over-representation of narcissists and sycophants?
To me, it isn’t.
Wall Street is far from perfect because, well, because it’s a real place. It should always strive to improve and held to account, particularly in areas of equality, charity and relevancy. But to use its flaws as an excuse for ignoring its virtues is lazy and unfair. And it does a disservice to those who legitimately are working to change the world.
Hollywood is easy to bash with broad strokes, but that doesn’t mean we should.
Hollywood is teeming with ill-mannered bros whose childhood participation trophies have led them to boast about how their mediocre movie will change the world. It’s insufferable. Hollywood is also full of sincere geniuses who wake up every day to work hard on creating art that could indeed change the world. It’s inspiring.
Both of these Hollywoods exist. Or, rather, they co-exist. And often the dichotomy blurs. For some reason, however, this complexity is being ignored with increasing regularity, in favor of black-and-white caricatures that would be more appropriate in HBO’s parody of Hollywood than in media analysis of the actual place.
To be sure, I understand the impulse to bash with broad strokes. Particularly as an East Coaster who reads entertainment sites that drool over celebrities as if they’re dying of xeroderma. But for every Lindsay Lohan that is cited as emblematic of Hollywood’s vapidness, there is a director like Roland Emmerich who is developing films to help predict and prevent societal problems. Is Emmerich not solving a “big” enough problem with a movie like 2012? If successful, does it not “matter?”
Or what about the countless celebrities and directors that are, at their core, trying to improve the efficacy of entertainment? You know, that little human endeavor that in past generations has resulted in everything from the printing press to the stage to the radio to television? Are those efforts disposable, just because some may be quixotic or callous?
Remember, thousands of movies have been terrible. But in history, only around two Paul Blart films were made. The perception and reality don’t match.
Most films will fail, and even a majority of the successes will only end up having a minor impact, if any, on wide swaths of people. But that would be true even if every studio in Hollywood was focused on entertaining the masses (which, by the way, plenty are). Does the existence of Michael Bay somehow tarnish Christopher Nolan? Is a community’s output diminished because its inputs include an over-representation of narcissists and sycophants?
To me, it isn’t.
Hollywood is far from perfect because, well, because it’s a real place. It should always strive to improve and held to account, particularly in areas of equality, charity and relevancy. But to use its flaws as an excuse for ignoring its virtues is lazy and unfair. And it does a disservice to those who legitimately are working to change the world.
The prison-industrial complex is easy to bash with broad strokes, but that doesn’t mean we should.
The prison-industrial complex is teeming with ill-mannered bros whose childhood participation trophies have led them to boast about how their inhumane prisons will change the world. It’s insufferable. The prison-industrial complex is also full of sincere geniuses who wake up every day to work hard on solving serious problems that could indeed change the world. It’s inspiring.
Both of these prison-industrial complexes exist. Or, rather, they co-exist. And often the dichotomy blurs. For some reason, however, this complexity is being ignored with increasing regularity, in favor of black-and-white caricatures that would be more appropriate in HBO’s fictional depiction of prison than in media analysis of the actual place.
To be sure, I understand the impulse to bash with broad strokes. Particularly as an East Coaster who reads law and order sites that drool over corrections officers as if they’re dying of xeroderma. But for every Sheriff Joe Arpaio or Rikers Island that is cited as emblematic of the prison-industrial complex’s cruelty and abuse, there is a company like the Corrections Corporation of America that is developing prisons to help incarcerate and prevent the outbreak of deadly prisoners. Is CCA not solving a “big” enough problem? If successful, does it not “matter?”
Or what about the countless jails and prisons that are, at their core, trying to improve the efficacy of incarceration? You know, that little human endeavor that in past generations has resulted in everything from London Bridewell to the panopticon to the electric chair to the Supermax? Are those efforts disposable, just because some may be quixotic or callous?
Remember, over 2.23 million adults were incarcerated in the United States in 2009 alone. In history, very few corrections officers have ever been convicted of abuse. The perception and reality don’t match.
Most inmates will be released, and even a majority of those will only end up back in jail or prison. But that would be true even if every single facility in the prison-industrial complex was focused on corrections reform (which, by the way, plenty are). Does the existence of Joe Arpaio somehow tarnish CCA? Is a community’s output diminished because its inputs include an over-representation of narcissists and sycophants?
To me, it isn’t.
The prison-indusrial complex is far from perfect because, well, because it’s a real place. It should always strive to improve and be held to account, particularly in areas of equality, charity and relevancy. But to use its flaws as an excuse for ignoring its virtues is lazy and unfair. And it does a disservice to those who legitimately are working to change the world.
Carl Gustav Jung became famous with his theory of a “collective unconscious.” This was an aggregation of all the suppressed ideas and thoughts, which Freud had catalogued half a century earlier. For Jung, the suppressed or unacknowledged psyche existed not as purely individual adaptations, but rather in a universal form residing in the burrows of every human being’s mind.
A semi-psychoanalytic reading of Mad Max: Fury Road
Jung’s theory hasn’t crossed my radar in a long time, but a recent film made it suddenly relevant. The film Mad Max: Fury Road seems to be an eruption of suppressed anxieties about society’s mass fascination with homosexuality. The final cut is likely at odds with the progressive beliefs of its creative team, at least as individuals. I can’t imagine Charlize Theron ever publicly disagreeing with the Human Rights Campaign or with Mary Bonauto. Bonauto is the attorney who eagerly told the Supreme Court that same-sex parenting, including arrangements concocted through surrogacy, is beyond reproach.
The dystopian images of Fury Road depart significantly from the Mad Max films of the 1970s and 1980s. Fury Road presents us with a world where motherhood is commodified to suit an elite class of males who wish to share their property and life ambitions only with other men. Women are hooked up to machines that pump milk from their breasts and held inside dismal barracks, gestating heirs for warlords who show no sexual interest in women. The men of this warrior ruling class derive all their ecstasy from the company of muscular young males eager to labor and soldier for each other and for their male patrons.
I doubt anyone on the production team has read “Breeders: How Gay Men Destroyed the Left.” Hence I am left to conclude that the movie’s pretext embodies everything that “anti-gay” opponents of surrogacy such as myself have been warning, because there is a deep-seated but suppressed anxiety running rampant in Hollywood about just how horrible our society will become if gay men are uncritically awarded everything they demand.
The male body is reduced to its muscularity and force, the female body to its breasts and capacity for birth. The elitists who run the “Citadel” have decided to keep these two objectified classes separate, in precisely the way that mainstream gay culture segregates gay men from lesbians, and both from the heterosexual masses who depend on male-female cooperation to found families and populate the nation.
A number of conservatives have been puzzled by the left’s simultaneous defense of gay men and Islamists. The cognitive dissonance might belie a deeper coherence: both Islamists and gay men aspire to separate men from women, albeit in different realms, to the noted benefit of men and to the obvious rejection of women as autonomous beings with dignity and rights. Lesbians have gone along with sex segregation because they have not examined their own anti-female obsessions (notice how they share with gay men a longing to be ever more manly) and because they believe that gay men are going to protect and privilege them after subjugating women and banishing heterosexual men from their networks of power.
The “men’s rights activists” who are furious about Fury Road seem to have missed the film’s implicit plea to the audience to give heterosexual love a second chance. (The plot features a few details, which I will not spoil the film by revealing, involving male-female love as a necessary “redemption” after the devastation wrought by the sexes withdrawing romantically from each other.)
Within the dystopian context of Fury Road, not all men belong to the homoerotic elite. Those who are part of it control the water, resources, and political process for the hordes of heterosexuals in ragged, torn clothing, who are kept out of the fortress and forced to wander like beggars in the sands of post-apocalyptic Australia.
A group of runaway surrogates escapes the gay Citadel and flees across the desert in a truck, hoping to reach safety among a colony of earthy women called “many mothers.” The all-male elite of the Citadel and the all-female nomads play to gay aesthetics familiar to people who’ve interacted with both gay men and lesbians. (Full disclosure: I am bisexual and was raised by a lesbian.)
The warriors in the Citadel have washboard abs. They range from muscle bears to slender “twinks.” They decorate themselves with silver glitter, facial makeup (eye liner?), and tattoos or brands of other men’s names so their flesh attests to their undying male-male spiritual bonds. Miraculously unworried about being wounded, burned, or struck with skin cancer, the sexy “war boys” carry on all their battles and brute labor under a blazing sun with no armor or covering of any kind, so that everyone can see their lean stomachs and deltoid muscles flex with each thrust and parry. Ten years ago, the film 300 hinted at homoeroticism. Fury Road offers no hint of anything else.
The architecture of the Citadel is unmistakably reminiscent of the gay sex dungeons in which I worked during the 1980s and 1990s in New York (these experiences were the basis for the lurid novel Melville Affair): complete with campy chains and shackles, ostensibly titillating sadomasochism, and lots of masculine steel and cinder. The mass labor and war parties both invoke the orgies that abounded in New York’s gay scene before the same-sex-marriage movement forced “queers” to put on a normal, conservative countenance to the public.
The metonym of the blood tube – something meaningful to anyone who spent the 1990s surrounded by gay men dying of AIDS – appears repeatedly in random ways throughout Fury Road. This film is a creature of society’s collective repressions.
Called by ungracious names like “Manhole,” the underground sex clubs and bathhouses of the 1980s and 1990s were meeting grounds for men who wanted to be in social spaces involving pleasure but no women. Populated with closeted military members and garbed with hypermasculinity based on violent impulses and exclusion of women, those underground clubs were designed to look gritty and hard, just like the images of the Citadel in Fury Road. The Citadel lacks only a St. Andrew’s cross, a fisting sling, and men in leather harnesses ready to pour candle wax on people’s chests.
Watching the film, I feared that at any minute they might start sniffing nitrates and looking for the condom dispensers.
What of the caravans of trucks and motorcycles that sally after the heroines? They might have taken the wrong exit off a highway on their way to the gay pride festival in Palm Springs, California, complete with a glam-chic electric guitar player, motorcycle studs, lots of shirtless twinks perched in convertibles, and multicolored flares. There were even cans of glitter spray on hand. Mad Max meets Priscilla Queen of the Desert.
The colony known as “Many Mothers” contains multigenerational women who possess seeds for future organic gardens. They ride motorcycles draped in sensible outdoorsy gear (they are spared the obsession with shirtlessness that afflicts the gay men of the Citadel). For a moment I awaited the line, “we got waylaid in the outback on the way to the Michigan Women’s Festival.”
Cast as the utopian alternative to the all-male monsters of the Citadel, these butch women are positioned more sympathetically to the audience. But they and the gay male colony are both dying, despite all efforts to live on. The lesbians are dwindling in numbers because they have no males to impregnate them, while the gay men are obviously unable to keep their class of “breeder” women under their control and face inevitable collapse from within.
I won’t ruin the movie by saying anything more. But this film seems to operate like Freud’s model of “dream-work,” a conversion of buried feelings and fears into metaphors and analogies that can escape the repressive mechanisms that force us to keep such things silent for our own self-preservation. In earlier times, we had to suppress sexual urges to survive in a bourgeois society. Now we have to tamp down our natural urge to resist the dangers of sexual events that we know, intuitively, may be harmful, because in a bourgeois society we cannot live freely once we are branded homophobes.
Like the urge to have intercourse, the urge to resist strange and threatening sexualities does not go away as a result of bans or punishment. Freud and Jung were well aware that the urge resurfaces, recast as something less incriminating.
So what is the primal thought the “dream-work” of Fury Road had to repackage as a seemingly un-bigoted post-apocalyptic film? Here’s a guess: what if the normalization of homosexuality is something sinister, and our most basic instincts encourage us to reject it?
Is there a natural survival instinct – homophobia as natural response, not bigotry – that causes revulsion at the separation of humanity into sex-segregated spheres, just as powerful, perhaps, as the survival instinct that leads us to want to make love to the opposite sex?
What if, stripped of stigmas and prohibitions, a generation of men will decide that the best way to get ahead is to cut women and their demands entirely out of their lives, and join an elite of men who limit female interference only to the need for reproduction?
Maybe our species has been here before. Maybe the ancient prohibitions against sodomy arose because of mistakes made by earlier civilizations – not only the Greeks and Romans, but even, perhaps, the pagan cultures that appear so undignified in the Old Testament.
I recently conversed with an exceedingly wise Jewish theologian who told me why homosexuality seems to cause so much more controversy than other sins. According to him, homosexuality is unique among carnal sins, because it is social as well as carnal. It entails not merely a departure from the purpose of our flesh, but also a reorganization of the social realm that fosters a self-destructive tendency in subcultures cut off from the insights of the opposite sex.
There might be no way to protect gay men from stigmas without giving a green light to the all-male networks of power and political control that seem to blossom wherever men find ways to get professional allegiance, social affirmation, emotional support, sexual gratification, and patrilineal legacies strictly from other men without women.
Let us say, for argument’s sake, that anal sex alone is not enough to bring down a civilization. The problem is that where sodomy flourishes unchecked, society becomes reordered. Men who replace procreative sex with anal sex seem given to replacing women everywhere in their lives. If so, then it is logical to imagine that such a wholesale dismissal of women’s necessity will lead to the dehumanization of women, oppression of women, and eventually, marginalization of men who give women a central place in their lives. The “heteropatriarchy” so often maligned by radical leftists is destined to become the 99% against a gay male 1%, if there is nothing about homosexuality that anybody can stigmatize, criticize, or place limits on.
This is what we see in Mad Max: Fury Road. You can censor the doubts of mankind, but they will find some “dream-work” allowing anxieties and misgivings to come up for air.
Carl Gustav Jung became famous with his theory of a “collective unconscious.” This was an aggregation of all the suppressed ideas and thoughts, which Freud had catalogued half a century earlier. For Jung, the suppressed or unacknowledged psyche existed not as purely individual adaptations, but rather in a universal form residing in the burrows of every human being’s mind.
A semi-psychoanalytic reading of Mad Max: Fury Road
Jung’s theory hasn’t crossed my radar in a long time, but a recent film made it suddenly relevant. The film Mad Max: Fury Road seems to be an eruption of suppressed anxieties about society’s mass fascination with homosexuality. The final cut is likely at odds with the progressive beliefs of its creative team, at least as individuals. I can’t imagine Charlize Theron ever publicly disagreeing with the Human Rights Campaign or with Mary Bonauto. Bonauto is the attorney who eagerly told the Supreme Court that same-sex parenting, including arrangements concocted through surrogacy, is beyond reproach.
The dystopian images of Fury Road depart significantly from the Mad Max films of the 1970s and 1980s. Fury Road presents us with a world where motherhood is commodified to suit an elite class of males who wish to share their property and life ambitions only with other men. Women are hooked up to machines that pump milk from their breasts and held inside dismal barracks, gestating heirs for warlords who show no sexual interest in women. The men of this warrior ruling class derive all their ecstasy from the company of muscular young males eager to labor and soldier for each other and for their male patrons.
I doubt anyone on the production team has read “Breeders: How Gay Men Destroyed the Left.” Hence I am left to conclude that the movie’s pretext embodies everything that “anti-gay” opponents of surrogacy such as myself have been warning, because there is a deep-seated but suppressed anxiety running rampant in Hollywood about just how horrible our society will become if gay men are uncritically awarded everything they demand.
The male body is reduced to its muscularity and force, the female body to its breasts and capacity for birth. The elitists who run the “Citadel” have decided to keep these two objectified classes separate, in precisely the way that mainstream gay culture segregates gay men from lesbians, and both from the heterosexual masses who depend on male-female cooperation to found families and populate the nation.
A number of conservatives have been puzzled by the left’s simultaneous defense of gay men and Islamists. The cognitive dissonance might belie a deeper coherence: both Islamists and gay men aspire to separate men from women, albeit in different realms, to the noted benefit of men and to the obvious rejection of women as autonomous beings with dignity and rights. Lesbians have gone along with sex segregation because they have not examined their own anti-female obsessions (notice how they share with gay men a longing to be ever more manly) and because they believe that gay men are going to protect and privilege them after subjugating women and banishing heterosexual men from their networks of power.
The “men’s rights activists” who are furious about Fury Road seem to have missed the film’s implicit plea to the audience to give heterosexual love a second chance. (The plot features a few details, which I will not spoil the film by revealing, involving male-female love as a necessary “redemption” after the devastation wrought by the sexes withdrawing romantically from each other.)
Within the dystopian context of Fury Road, not all men belong to the homoerotic elite. Those who are part of it control the water, resources, and political process for the hordes of heterosexuals in ragged, torn clothing, who are kept out of the fortress and forced to wander like beggars in the sands of post-apocalyptic Australia.
A group of runaway surrogates escapes the gay Citadel and flees across the desert in a truck, hoping to reach safety among a colony of earthy women called “many mothers.” The all-male elite of the Citadel and the all-female nomads play to gay aesthetics familiar to people who’ve interacted with both gay men and lesbians. (Full disclosure: I am bisexual and was raised by a lesbian.)
The warriors in the Citadel have washboard abs. They range from muscle bears to slender “twinks.” They decorate themselves with silver glitter, facial makeup (eye liner?), and tattoos or brands of other men’s names so their flesh attests to their undying male-male spiritual bonds. Miraculously unworried about being wounded, burned, or struck with skin cancer, the sexy “war boys” carry on all their battles and brute labor under a blazing sun with no armor or covering of any kind, so that everyone can see their lean stomachs and deltoid muscles flex with each thrust and parry. Ten years ago, the film 300 hinted at homoeroticism. Fury Road offers no hint of anything else.
The architecture of the Citadel is unmistakably reminiscent of the gay sex dungeons in which I worked during the 1980s and 1990s in New York (these experiences were the basis for the lurid novel Melville Affair): complete with campy chains and shackles, ostensibly titillating sadomasochism, and lots of masculine steel and cinder. The mass labor and war parties both invoke the orgies that abounded in New York’s gay scene before the same-sex-marriage movement forced “queers” to put on a normal, conservative countenance to the public.
The metonym of the blood tube – something meaningful to anyone who spent the 1990s surrounded by gay men dying of AIDS – appears repeatedly in random ways throughout Fury Road. This film is a creature of society’s collective repressions.
Called by ungracious names like “Manhole,” the underground sex clubs and bathhouses of the 1980s and 1990s were meeting grounds for men who wanted to be in social spaces involving pleasure but no women. Populated with closeted military members and garbed with hypermasculinity based on violent impulses and exclusion of women, those underground clubs were designed to look gritty and hard, just like the images of the Citadel in Fury Road. The Citadel lacks only a St. Andrew’s cross, a fisting sling, and men in leather harnesses ready to pour candle wax on people’s chests.
Watching the film, I feared that at any minute they might start sniffing nitrates and looking for the condom dispensers.
What of the caravans of trucks and motorcycles that sally after the heroines? They might have taken the wrong exit off a highway on their way to the gay pride festival in Palm Springs, California, complete with a glam-chic electric guitar player, motorcycle studs, lots of shirtless twinks perched in convertibles, and multicolored flares. There were even cans of glitter spray on hand. Mad Max meets Priscilla Queen of the Desert.
The colony known as “Many Mothers” contains multigenerational women who possess seeds for future organic gardens. They ride motorcycles draped in sensible outdoorsy gear (they are spared the obsession with shirtlessness that afflicts the gay men of the Citadel). For a moment I awaited the line, “we got waylaid in the outback on the way to the Michigan Women’s Festival.”
Cast as the utopian alternative to the all-male monsters of the Citadel, these butch women are positioned more sympathetically to the audience. But they and the gay male colony are both dying, despite all efforts to live on. The lesbians are dwindling in numbers because they have no males to impregnate them, while the gay men are obviously unable to keep their class of “breeder” women under their control and face inevitable collapse from within.
I won’t ruin the movie by saying anything more. But this film seems to operate like Freud’s model of “dream-work,” a conversion of buried feelings and fears into metaphors and analogies that can escape the repressive mechanisms that force us to keep such things silent for our own self-preservation. In earlier times, we had to suppress sexual urges to survive in a bourgeois society. Now we have to tamp down our natural urge to resist the dangers of sexual events that we know, intuitively, may be harmful, because in a bourgeois society we cannot live freely once we are branded homophobes.
Like the urge to have intercourse, the urge to resist strange and threatening sexualities does not go away as a result of bans or punishment. Freud and Jung were well aware that the urge resurfaces, recast as something less incriminating.
So what is the primal thought the “dream-work” of Fury Road had to repackage as a seemingly un-bigoted post-apocalyptic film? Here’s a guess: what if the normalization of homosexuality is something sinister, and our most basic instincts encourage us to reject it?
Is there a natural survival instinct – homophobia as natural response, not bigotry – that causes revulsion at the separation of humanity into sex-segregated spheres, just as powerful, perhaps, as the survival instinct that leads us to want to make love to the opposite sex?
What if, stripped of stigmas and prohibitions, a generation of men will decide that the best way to get ahead is to cut women and their demands entirely out of their lives, and join an elite of men who limit female interference only to the need for reproduction?
Maybe our species has been here before. Maybe the ancient prohibitions against sodomy arose because of mistakes made by earlier civilizations – not only the Greeks and Romans, but even, perhaps, the pagan cultures that appear so undignified in the Old Testament.
I recently conversed with an exceedingly wise Jewish theologian who told me why homosexuality seems to cause so much more controversy than other sins. According to him, homosexuality is unique among carnal sins, because it is social as well as carnal. It entails not merely a departure from the purpose of our flesh, but also a reorganization of the social realm that fosters a self-destructive tendency in subcultures cut off from the insights of the opposite sex.
There might be no way to protect gay men from stigmas without giving a green light to the all-male networks of power and political control that seem to blossom wherever men find ways to get professional allegiance, social affirmation, emotional support, sexual gratification, and patrilineal legacies strictly from other men without women.
Let us say, for argument’s sake, that anal sex alone is not enough to bring down a civilization. The problem is that where sodomy flourishes unchecked, society becomes reordered. Men who replace procreative sex with anal sex seem given to replacing women everywhere in their lives. If so, then it is logical to imagine that such a wholesale dismissal of women’s necessity will lead to the dehumanization of women, oppression of women, and eventually, marginalization of men who give women a central place in their lives. The “heteropatriarchy” so often maligned by radical leftists is destined to become the 99% against a gay male 1%, if there is nothing about homosexuality that anybody can stigmatize, criticize, or place limits on.
This is what we see in Mad Max: Fury Road. You can censor the doubts of mankind, but they will find some “dream-work” allowing anxieties and misgivings to come up for air.
Look what we got here: a junkie. Looks like you haven’t slept in days. Want some of that squirmy wormy? A little bump of ’tode to take the edge off? Of course you do. You’re a slave to this shit.
At the end of writer and director George Miller’s Mad Max: Fury Road¸ a rebooted continuation of his classic post-apocalyptic series, a quote appears: “Where must we go, we who wander this wasteland, in search of our better selves?” The quote is attributed to “The First History Man,” a nod to the time before the apocalypse in question. The sentiment, then, comes not from the world of Tom Hardy’s Max Rockatansky and Charlize Theron’s Imperator Furiosa, the warrior woman at the center of the film’s plot and themes and the indelible figure of the movie. It comes from our world, from the pre-apocalyptic world, which means it confronts us in our figurative wasteland as thoroughly as it does those characters in their literal one. What do we have to do in a world that, though lush and bountiful in comparison to the starved world of Mad Max, is still filled with injustice?
We might see some of that challenge in the negative response to the film from a particular, particularly troubling perspective. The film has earned, and thoroughly deserves, a reputation as a modern action masterpiece, a hyperkinetic journey that proves the continuing relevance of practical effects and character-driven storytelling. Rapturous reviews have implored audiences to go see the film, in order to reward the faith of Miller and his team in the ability to create a summer spectacle that has heart, vision, and integrity. But dissent has bubbled up from a noxious source: the Men’s Rights Activists, or MRAs. The MRA movement believes that feminism has corrupted contemporary gender relations, relegating men to the status of second class citizens and upsetting a natural order where men are born leaders, warriors, and workers, and where women are better served in roles of domestic nourishment. MRAs have made news lately for loudly decrying the plot of Fury Road, in which Theron’s noble warrior and a cast of powerful women drive the action and make the most noble sacrifices. To MRAs, this constitutes an inherent degradation of the character of Max and through him, of men writ large.
(Some have complained that the MRA rage over the film is largely a media exaggeration, thinly-sourced and replicated endlessly. Maybe so! But, I mean, this guy exists. It’s not a wholesale invention.)
Some of the film’s champions have played into this narrative, with many reviews calling the film an inversion of the traditional action film trope of heroic men rescuing at-risk women. Deadspin’s Will Leitch, for example, writes that “Max himself is oddly passive and unimportant to the plot: It’s the women, particularly Theron’s Furiosa, who drive the action and make all the difference,” standing in contrast to “idiotic men and their overcompensating toys, killing each other and everyone else, just as they’ve done since the beginning of time.” That seems to confirm the MRA’s take on the plot, though hardly their political stance towards it. Certainly, such a movie could be made and made well, a radical tale in which men are revealed as inherently incapable of reform. I’d watch that movie with interest.
But that isn’t the movie Miller made. It’s just inaccurate, for example, to call the men passive characters. Max takes many crucial actions in the film, as does Nicholas Hoult’s renegade “Warboy” Nux. Without either of them, the caravan of heroes would never have survived. Indeed, the film’s screenplay is as comprehensively egalitarian as I can imagine: every single character within the group of protagonists plays some essential role in the conflict. Yes, Furiosa is the linchpin of it all, the one whose courageous decision starts the plot into motion, and the most effective combatant and driver in a world where fighting and driving are everything. And it’s indeed great to see a blockbuster action film that is so unambiguous and direct in its portrayal of heroic, competent women. But it seems to me to be a misreading to say that the many potent women characters in the movie succeed by replacing the men. The hero of Mad Max is really a family of heroes. The movie’s commitment to a truly communal vision of heroism is perhaps its most radical, most affecting stance.
Watch this scene.
God, I love this movie.
Yes, in this scene, a man in a group of women advocates for the eventual course of action. But he’s been brought to that place by the decisions of a woman, acting on behalf of other women. And the decision is not his alone. Multiple women join in the dialogue, and the person they are trying to convince, the closest thing the group has to a leader, is a woman. People make their appeal; they state their point of view. The group comes to a decision. This isn’t some Amazonian warrior woman leading by imperious decree. It is, instead, a story of a family of spontaneous heroes who, in a world begging them to focus only on their own survival, find within themselves the courage to sacrifice for the good of others. Watching the film a second time, I felt a kick of aggravation at the endless “Chosen One” narratives that are heaped on us again and again in modern movies. Max Rockatansky is the opposite of a Chosen One. He is a guy who wants to care only about survival, and yet finds within himself angels enough to put his life in danger in the defense of others. I think of Ratatouille’s claim that a great cook could come from anywhere, and realize that the claim here is the same: heroism emerges from the flux of life in the hearts of those who are brave enough to choose it in the face of adversity.
These themes are explored in a brilliant essay by Maria Bustillos. Bustillos has, in a low-key and patient way, explored the relationship between feminism and reconciliation for years now. See, for example, her review of Hanna Rosin’s The End of Men, in which she writes: “I believe that each of us — all human beings who share the same seemingly limitless abilities, and the same unfathomable doom — should be able to develop his or her potential and live freely and on equal terms in a condition of mutual respect and support.” This statement is remarkable in that it is simultaneously natural and unobjectionable, on its face, and yet in context risky, as Bustillos is pointedly contrasting this with the zero-sum school of feminism that she accuses Rosin of. (Accurately.) In the context of contemporary dialogues, such a stance could be easily misrepresented. Some could take Bustillos’s claim as the equivalent of #AllLivesMatter or similar weaksauce derailing, attempts to neuter passionate political rhetoric with waves to vague universal claims as a replacement for the specific demands of outraged people. That isn’t Bustillo’s project, as I understand it. Her goal seems simple and radical, uncomplicated yet challenging: to find within contemporary culture the blueprints for the better society that we must build in order to survive. And she recognizes that we can only make that world together. “Max leaves her at the end of the movie, still the quiet loner who shows no emotions,” she writes. “But I think he’ll be back.” I hope to god George Miller proves her right.
No, men aren’t sidelined in Mad Max. They aren’t considered irredeemable, either. Redemption is in fact that movie’s strongest theme. Max is plagued by visions of the people he has failed to save in his life, a series of hallucinations that strike him at the worst time and contribute to his stance of proud hopelessness. He is granted at least a small reprieve in the course of a film where he helps many women, even though these women are perfectly capable of helping themselves. Nux, meanwhile, is a character that should be as hard to rehabilitate as possible, an angry young man constantly hopped up on chemicals who endured a lifetime of brainwashing and was raised only to be a killer. Yet he is judged and, ultimately, redeemed. When Furiosa leads her caravan to her old clan, a pack of keen-eyed elder warrior women, they initially distrust the two men traveling with her. But Furiosa makes her case, telling them that the men she travels with have helped her and her friends, that they are worthy. So the wise warrior women accept them into their band.
The moment is crucial: yes, men are capable of being redeemed, even in a world ruined by men. But first they must be evaluated. There has to be a reckoning of their individual characters. After all, redemption requires judgment. In order to be redeemed, one most wrestle with one’s past. When Furiosa presents her companions to her clan, she is required to make her case, to assuage their worries, by telling them about the specific actions and character of the men in question. In a similar way, we as thinking, progressive people must be willing to grapple with the past and present of gender relations before we can feel like integrated and valued members of an equal society. None of us are required to answer for the crimes of our gender, and despite MRA rhetoric, essentially no men ever are. But all of us must take stock of the continuing horrors of patriarchy if we are to be part of a feminist, equitable world, and we must be willing to be interrogated on our contribution to the building of that world. Redemption is possible, but only with a willingness to be judged and a commitment to being our better selves.
Mad Max: Fury Road refutes the MRA worldview, then, in two ways at once. It refuses to play to the zero-sum gender narrative that they’ve imagined, where women acting as leaders and warriors must necessarily leave men in the (figurative and literal) dust. But it is unflinching in its portrayal of a world destroyed by men and their violent, rapacious acts. A modern masterpiece, Fury Road doesn’t compel us to hate its titular character or men in general. The film embraces equality, but it’s a hard-won, brutally honest, and adult kind of equality, not the greeting card variety. Without ever falling into moral didacticism or the stereotype both critics and supporters have made of it, the new Mad Max film shows us how rich, entertaining, and challenging blockbuster films can truly be.
Look what we got here: a junkie. Looks like you haven’t slept in days. Want some of that squirmy wormy? A little bump of ’tode to take the edge off? Of course you do. You’re a slave to this shit.
Its really weird reading headlines that say "Girl Scouts will now welcome girls" and "Women's College will now accept women"
The Girl Scouts of America announced a change to one of their policies that now allows transgender kids to become members. A guest post on GSUSA's website, titled "The Meaning of 'Serving All Girls,'" from Andrea Bastiani Archibald confirmed the bold new direction the organization is taking in fostering diversity:
"The foundation of diversity that Juliette Gordon Low established runs throughout Girl Scouting to this day. Our mission to build "girls of courage, confidence, and character, who make the world a better place" extends to all members, and through our program, girls develop the necessary leadership skills to advance diversity and promote tolerance.
"If a girl is recognized by her family, school and community as a girl and lives culturally as a girl, Girl Scouts is an organization that can serve her in a setting that is both emotionally and physically safe. Inclusion of transgender girls is handled at a council level on a case by case basis, with the welfare and best interests of all members as a top priority."
With SNL‘s 40th season wrapped up, we’re taking a look back at the past year to recall the highs, lows, and other memorable moments as the show ended its fourth decade on the air. In this final post, we discuss the cast members on the show. Being in the cast of SNL for season 40 […]
With SNL's 40th season wrapped up, we're taking a look back at the past year to recall the highs, lows, and other memorable moments as the show ended its fourth decade on the air. Here, we discuss a collection of some of the best sketches SNL made this season — the ones that were cut.
Despite the agenda we assume drives Saturday Night Live, its creative process is actually more chaotic than we realize. An episode really is created from scratch in six days: pitch meeting with the host on Monday; all-night writing sessions on Tuesday; table-read on Wednesday; rewrites, rehearsals, and shoots on Thursday and Friday; dress rehearsal and live show on Saturday. At no point in the process does Lorne Michaels declare: "There will be exactly three video sketches, one talk show sketch, one sketch that will offend people, and one dumb song about apples." (Legend has it that late head writer Michael O'Donoghue did at one point spray paint the word "danger" on the wall, but that's pretty vague as far as directives go.) We can watch an episode and infer that the writers wanted to push the envelope or pull punches, but they would claim no agenda other than to throw shit against the wall, see what sticks, and start over again on Monday.
Proof of this chaos are the "cut for time" sketches. These are the sketches that survive the Thunderdome of cuts to the 12-or-so finalists that run during the dress rehearsal, just to be mercilessly dropped last minute. Perhaps they didn't get as big laughs as they did at table read, or they would create too complicated of a wardrobe transition, or the host didn't feel comfortable in them, or "Peripheral Vision Man" ran too long and Lorne made the call halfway through the live broadcast. In the past, these comedy corpses could only reach the light of day via the tales of nostalgic staffers, bonus features on Best-Of DVDs, re-animation in the future by late night hosts, or adaptation into the best sitcom of all time. But now, thanks to the internet, SNL will routinely post online the cut sketches alongside the others (under the less victimizing header "digital exclusive"), immortalizing them for comedy nerds and sites like this one.
The cut sketches from season 40 are a mixed bag — some are brilliant videos that were too long for the lineup, while others are silly character sketches that their episodes were probably better off without. Taken together, these rejects make for an amazing fantasy episode of SNL, like a night of leftovers that tastes even better the second time around.
The Gossipy Coal Miner. For his first time hosting the show, Bill Hader mostly stuck to characters he played before. The exception was Levar, the gossipy coal minor with endless analogies for erectile dysfunction, who, like many of Hader's lesser-known characters, broke down into a giggly mess.
Kids. Mike O'Brien's video was less of a conventional "sketch" than a surreal short film that explored a boyfriend's fear of commitment.
10,000 Tweets. The most elaborate and over-the-top live sketch didn't even make it into its episode (though Woody Harrelson's episode was stacked as it was). Not even a cameo by Edward Norton could save this sarcastic celebration of a relatively minor social media milestone.
Pentagon Presentation. Also cut from the Woody Harrelson episode (though arguably more deservedly so) was this weird premise about a government scientist who wasted $100 million on a dancing robot with huge hands that it does gross stuff with.
Def TED Talks. This clash-of-context between the thoughtful TED Talk presentations and broad Def Jam sets seemed like the kind of irony that works great on paper but, once on stage, sucked the fun out of both worlds.
100 Greatest Guys. As one of the more hit-or-miss nights this season, James Franco's episode could have afforded swapping out some of its weaker moments with its omissions. Notably, this hilarious parody of VH1 talking-head countdowns, with the cast playing eclectic non-celebs gushing about boring, everyday dudes.
Morning News. SNL mostly avoided sketches about the protests in Ferguson, with the exception of this amusing setup about uncomfortable hosts of a St. Louis morning show. Luckily (or sadly, depending how you look at it), the writers were able to repackage this premise as commentators at an empty Orioles game when similar protests broke out in Baltimore months later.
Santa Traps. Martin Freeman's episode worked largely because the Hobbit star's commitment to weird setups, which was clear from this cut commercial for Santa traps that are much more useful for catching bears.
Christmas Romance. This parody of the famous Love Actually scene felt disconnected and random enough that it looked like Pete Davidson was just trying to use weird and crass cue cards to force a smile out of Golden Globe winner Amy Adams. (To be fair, it worked a few times.)
Bruce and Kevin. After two Weekend Update appearances last season, Kyle Mooney moved his hack comic Bruce Chandling to this pre-taped short with him failing to hit it off with Kevin Hart. Bruce's weepy confession in the hall at the Gotham looked like a scene out of Louie or Maron — less about the big laughs than about the character study.
New Playroom. The crowd at dress rehearsal gave little love to this Fifty Shades-inspired premise about the indiscreet construction workers building Christian Grey's new S&M playroom. But with a warmer audience, this sketch could have hit.
Inner White Girl. One of the more unfortunate cuts this season saw Reese Witherspoon as a white female guardian angel to Leslie Jones, talking her through a routine bank visit.
Bruce and Louie. Bruce Chandling might be the first SNL recurring character to live on solely in cut shorts. Shot for the season finale, Bruce merges even deeper into the Louie universe by bumping into the man himself.
Rooftop Party. Also cut from the season finale was this fun turn from Jay Pharoah — perhaps the only time this season we saw him in an original character piece — as Stereo, guy at a barbecue asking to borrow everything, even when it's physically impossible.
Questions answered: whether his guitar actually shot flames (yes), what music he'd play while on set (Led Zep, natch), and whether he'd return for another Mad Max movie if asked (yes, duh). Read the rest
I watched 4 eps of Mad Men in season 1 and never caught up and I'm thankful for this
Mad Men ended before I had the time, or desire, to catch up. What follows is a mercy kill; a humane alternative to a twenty-hour life detour in service of completing an increasingly grim show, executed in work chat on Monday morning.
ME: I’m disappointed the internet hasn’t spoiled Mad Men for me yet
I want this to be over
Won’t someone tweet the fatal tweet
CHOIRE: John I can spoil you so hard
Actually (lol ACTUALLY) it’s so worth watching because there’s like eight white bit-part characters who are all acting their faces off because they’re like IM IN THE FUCKING MAD MEN FINALE.
Like they made $450 and did a day’s work and probably got beaten with a bag of oranges by Matthew Weiner but they did great work.
ME: Is anyone. ANYONE. Dead?
CHOIRE: Ready?
Everyone turns out okay.
ME: Nooooooo
CHOIRE: Except Bob Benson who’s in fag heaven somewhere.
And Betty lol RIP
Oh and I guess Sally who turns into fucked up Betty Jr
ME: What did Betty die of
Betty died of being hated by her creator
Just as we all will
ME: To be clear, Don didn’t die
CHOIRE: His body remains alive yes
ME: Is Peggy president of the United States or is Joan
CHOIRE: Close enough YES
ME: Is PETE dead at least
CHOIRE: Joan is basically white Oprah
Pete is basically Elon Musk
Peggy is Mary Erdoes
God I hope [coworker also in group chat] has watched this or I’m a dead man.
Unlike Don.
Who is alive.
And not dead from falling of a building as foretold.
ME: This is terrible news
CHOIRE: I’m so sorry.
ME: did Sal come back
CHOIRE: No gays were harmed in the making of this episode.
This episode refused to put the dick back in Dick Whitman.
I’m sorry for that cheap joke.
ME: Megan: dead?
CHOIRE: Megan’s probably hanging from the rafters in Laurel Canyon.
ME: did any of the characters’ family members die, perhaps offscreen?
Did anyone get any alarming phone calls at least
CHOIRE: There were many alarming phone calls but they were telephonic icepicks designed to break through various emotional glaciers and so for instance Peggy can have sex with a man again now.
Thank god otherwise what’s the point of life am I right ladies.
ME: I looked up the top songs from 1970 and I have a few questions
did the show use:
RAINDROPS KEEP FALLIN’ ON MY HEAD
No.
WHOLE LOTTA LOVE
No.
BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER
Yes but only where we couldn’t hear it.
ME: Nice
Were there any flash-forwards to, say, a Brand Newsroom
CHOIRE: There was a glimmer of the horror of the future for sure but mostly it was drowning in the metacommentary of each of us lazing about drinking corn syrup in front of our TVs.
ME: So in a way, we are the ones who die
CHOIRE: There’s only one way out and it involves moving to California except now everyone’s already done that so yes we’re dead.
"where people, particularly children born in poverty — if we want to have them to have a chance, it should be a core American value. "
girl bye
Hoping to convince right-wing Christians he's sufficiently bigoted enough to earn their votes this election, former Florida Gov. Jeb Bush doubled down on his opposition to LGBT rights in an interview with Christian Broadcasting Network's David Brody on Sunday.
"To imagine how we are going to succeed in our country unless we have committed family life, committed child-centered family system is hard to imagine," said Bush. "“So, irrespective of the Supreme Court ruling because they are going to decide whatever they decide, I don’t know what they are going to do, we need to be stalwart supporters of traditional marriage.”
He continued:
“It has to be — if we want to create a right to rise society, where people, particularly children born in poverty — if we want to have them to have a chance, it should be a core American value. We have to restore committed, loving family life with a mom and dad loving their children with their heart and soul.”
Bush also reiterated his support for Christian businesses owners' right to refuse service to gay couples:
“A big country, a tolerant country ought to be able to figure out the difference between discriminating someone because of their sexual orientation and not forcing someone to participate in a wedding that they find goes against their moral beliefs. We should be able to figure this out. This should not be that complicated gosh it is right now."
On Friday night, Norm Macdonald appeared on the Late Show for the final time. Already one of the greatest talk show guests of all time, this appearance pretty much sealed it — he did a perfectly Norm standup set before a touching tribute and goodbye to Dave.
This is honestly so interesting and inspiring and probably some other things
Introductory Disclaimer the First: Low-income students who DON'T have the grades to get into a fancy school also deserve to be treated with dignity and not to be bankrupted by their educations.
Introductory Disclaimer the Second: These schools have massive endowments and SHOULD be doing all these things, and you don't need to give them your money. We still feel personally grateful.
After Nicole mentioned having been on full financial aid at Harvard in an interview, she got an email from a current first-gen student on aid, and it caused her to tweet passionately on the subject for several hours. Nikki, also a former student on full financial aid at Johns Hopkins, chimed in, and it resulted in So Many Feelings that they decided to have a more formal conversation about it for the site.
*
Nicole: Let's start off by telling our stories! My parents thought I was BANANAS for applying to Harvard, because we could never afford it in a billion years. I was in Canada, my guidance counselor didn't know squat about American colleges, so I had to figure out all this application and standardized testing stuff out on my own. And what I found out, for starters, is that Harvard would waive my application fee if I was low-income (I literally just had to ask), and the College Board would waive my SAT costs (I think I had to do more than ask.) And then I got in.
Getting in was the second most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. Getting my financial aid letter? THAT was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me.
I was laid off from my job of five years at the end of February. I had known for a while that it was coming, so I’d already been living more frugally than usual, but I tightened up even more once the cord was officially cut. I live in Brooklyn, where it’s easy to spend way too much money on pretty much anything—but it doesn’t have to be that way! Since moving here almost six years ago, regardless of my level of income, I’ve become a staunch advocate for home cooking: I rarely bought lunch during the workweek unless it was a social occasion, and cooking big dinners with friends has been a regular activity.
I cooked most of my own meals even when I was working 40-plus hours a week, but now that my primary obligations are freelance gigs and job searching, I have even more time to kill in the kitchen, so I’ve been making the most of it. Whether I’m digging into cookbooks written by high-end chefs or turning my apartment into a candy factory, I’m grateful for the newfound time I’ve had to experiment—and I’m here to prove that even on a limited budget, fancy-pants eats are not out of reach.
Things to take into account: First, my pantry is always stocked with spices, baking staples and other dry goods. In the estimates below, I’m totaling the cost of ingredients I had to go out and buy, or those that require more than a few spoonfuls—which I suppose demonstrates why you should stock up on the basics while you do have a steady income. When you’re doing that, I recommend buying from ethnic markets, where you can buy spices and grains in bulk at low prices, and Trader Joe’s. Because 95% of the time I use the leftovers of any ingredients I buy, I’m only counting the cost of the amount required in the recipe.
Second, I’m a comfortable enough cook that I don’t usually follow recipes to the letter. I’ll often find a substitute for pricey or less common items—like swapping mascarpone cheese with Greek yogurt—or leave out a couple inessential ingredients, partly for the sake of convenience and also to avoid getting stuck with food I don’t think I’ll use up. Not surprisingly, it’s more economical to use what I already have than to go out and buy something new. Here’s a handy guide to some common food substitutions.
Third, since getting laid off, I’ve charged more food than usual to a credit card tied to the joint bank account I share with my fiancé, David. I usually cook for both of us, and before I lost my job I was making a little bit more money than he was, so I made up for it in extra groceries. Now, he makes slightly more than I did pre-layoff, so most food goes on the shared card. That said, that technically means that even less of the amounts below are coming out of my own pocket—but I think the numbers are still pretty impressive, proving that you can eat well without brunching out.
Here are some highlights from my last couple months of cooking:
An April Bloomfield feast for five (plus enough leftovers for three two-person meals)
After attending an event promoting renowned chef April Bloomfield’s new cookbook, A Girl and Her Greens, David and I had three friends over for dinner as an excuse to test out a few of the recipes. Our friends brought the bread, wine and a couple of dinner ingredients, and I made curried parsnip soup, kale polenta, and grain salad with roasted cauliflower. All were delicious, deceptively simple, and a hell of a lot less expensive than eating at one of Bloomfield’s Michelin-starred restaurants. Plus you don’t have to worry about a reservation, and you’ll have leftovers for days.
Curried parsnip soup
Purchased: Parsnips ($4), apples ($2) and onions ($1) from local produce shop; coconut milk ($1) from Trader Joe’s
Minimal-cost pantry items: Vegetable stock (homemade, from produce scraps kept in the freezer), garlic, garam masala, salt
Total spent: $8
Kale polenta. Note that I only made a half batch of the kale puree.
Purchased: Polenta (about $1 worth) from a local grocery store; Parmesan cheese, not pre-grated (about $1 worth), from Trader Joe’s; 1/2 bunch Tuscan kale ($1.50), leftover from earlier in the week, from the farmers market
Minimal-cost pantry items: Greek yogurt (a less expensive and more convenient replacement for mascarpone cheese); olive oil, salt, garlic, black pepper
Total spent: $3.50
Grain salad with roasted cauliflower
Purchased: Cauliflower ($3) from a local produce shop; golden raisins (about $1), unsalted pistachios (about $2) and wheat berries ($2), purchased in bulk from a local Middle Eastern market; parsley and mint (about $1 worth) and carrot juice (about $1 worth), both brought by friends, but I’ll count them here anyway.
Minimal-cost pantry items: Coriander seeds, garlic, red pepper flakes, olive oil, sea salt, lemon juice
Total spent: $10
Grand total for the meal: $21.50, or $4.30 per person without accounting for leftovers
I recently toured Liddabit Sweets’ production facility in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, where co-owners Liz Gutman and Jen King make an insane selection of candy bars, caramels and other confections. I walked away with a copy of their cookbook and an intense desire to learn how to make everything, and one of my first attempts was their best-selling sea salt caramel. They didn’t turn out exactly how they were supposed to (my fault), but were delicious nonetheless.
Sea salt caramels (about 100 pieces)
Purchased: Butter (about $0.40 worth) and heavy cream (about $0.90) from Trader Joe’s; light corn syrup (about $1.50) and evaporated milk ($1.70) from a local grocery store; wax wrapping papers ($2 worth), purchased online
Cost of 96 caramels from Liddabit Sweets: $64. $8 per box of 12; truly worth it if you have the money—or don’t want 100 caramels, in which case you are crazy!
Homemade-almost-everything tempeh Reubens
I crave tempeh Reubens more frequently than any other savory dish, and it’s hands-down my No. 1 sandwich: seeded Jewish rye or pumpernickel piled with marinated-then-baked tempeh, sauerkraut and Russian dressing. When I have all the ingredients for this already on hand, I’ll eat it for four days straight.
Purchased: Tempeh (about $1 worth) from Trader Joe’s; bread (about $0.50 for two slices) and Swiss cheese (about $0.75 worth) from a local grocery store
Minimal-cost pantry items: Mayonnaise, ketchup, horseradish and a (usually homemade) pickle for Russian dressing; spices, soy sauce, lemon juice and mustard for tempeh marinade; homemade sauerkraut, made for the measly cost of one head of cabbage
One of my closest, classiest friends just turned 30 and had a house party to celebrate. David and I decided that we’ll be making our own (small) cake for our wedding next year, so this is the year of cake experimentation. I went with a 9-inch, two-layer lemon cake, filled and covered with a delicately lavender-flavored frosting. My friend’s friend—who I hadn’t met before—Tweeted that she was still thinking about it the next day. Mission accomplished.
Purchased: Butter (about $1.50) from Trader Joe’s; lemon ($0.50) from a local produce shop; eggs (about $1.50) from a local grocery store; buttermilk (about $0.40), homemade using milk and lemon juice.
Minimal-cost pantry items: All-purpose flour, sugar, salt, vanilla extract (homemade, from used vanilla beans and vodka), culinary lavender (purchased for only $1 months ago), sprinkles
My future mother-in-law was in town over Mother’s Day weekend, and David suggested stuffed French toast, Elvis style, for Sunday brunch. It was a hit (whew!).
Stuffed French toast with chocolate, peanut butter and bananas
Purchased: Bread ($1.50 worth) from a local bakery; bananas for the filling ($0.50) and berries to serve on the side (about $2 worth) from a local produce shop; eggs (about $1.25 worth) and milk (about $0.25 worth) from a local grocery store
Laura Leebove is a Brooklyn-based editor and writer who’s currently looking for full-time work. In the meantime, you can find her in her kitchen. You can follow her often-frugal food adventures on Twitter and Instagram.
I watched this segment and it's the most foreign point of view I can conceive of. I am so sorry you all have to be straight all the time, it honestly sounds like a nightmare, you have to MATE FOR LIFE with your MORTAL ENEMY
Jon Stewart took time last night to look at the trending topic of 'Dad Bods', defined as "a nice balance between a beer gut and working out. The dad bod says, 'I go to the gym occasionally, but I also drink heavily on the weekends and enjoy eating eight slices of pizza at a time.'"
Does this mean men no longer need to lust after the ripped physiques they are so accustomed to seeing on the cover of 'health' magazines (see below)? Stewart brought in Daily Show correspondent Kristen Schaal to weigh in. Schaal commented, "It's finally time that society recognizes that a man's body changes when he has kids." But, what about women? Is there such a thing as a 'Mom Bod'? Sort of. The 'Mom Bod', as Schaal points out, is something slightly different: the Hollywood 'Mom-bshell.' Said Schaal with biting sarcasm and yet scathing sincerity of a news broadcast where a svelte female anchor was flanked by two 'Dad Bod'-ed male colleagues, "If that woman had a belly at all they would not let her on that show."
Watch the hilarious and on-point take-down of this latest trend, AFTER THE JUMP...
Leslie Jones made her very first late night guest appearance on last night's Late Night, where she talked with Seth about how she got into standup, her first season on SNL, how she deals with haters on Twitter, and her role in Paul Feig's upcoming Ghostbusters movie. Watch another clip from Jones's interview below, in which she shares some of the many celebrity selfies she took at SNL's 40th anniversary show.
On Monday, it will once again be Negroni Week. (This is not to be confused with Negroni Season, which is a state of mind, not a time of year.) Hashtag Negroni Week is a recent invention of Imbibe magazine that has since been wholly co-opted by advertising executives and branding consultants employed by Campari America, a subsidiary of the Campari Group, a large corporation that sells, among other things, Wild Turkey whiskey, SKYY Vodka, and its namesake aperitif. Campari is a pink, bitter liqueur, and the signature ingredient in the Negroni, a cocktail that has, in recent years, been adopted by preening gadflys who would like to portray themselves as sophisticated drinkers with a highly discerning palate that allows them to enjoy beverages that are “bitter forward”:
In Fortune, Dan Primack wrote a defense of Silicon Valley:
With SNL's 40th season wrapped up, we're taking a look back at the past year to recall the highs, lows, and other memorable moments as the show ended its fourth decade on the air. Here, we discuss a collection of some of the best sketches SNL made this season — the ones that were cut.
Mad Men ended before I had the time, or desire, to catch up. What follows is a mercy kill; a humane alternative to a twenty-hour life detour in service of completing an increasingly grim show, executed in work chat on Monday morning.
