Jdanehey

The Toast’s previous literary pilgrimages can be found here.

Growing up in the heart of New York City, I hardly believed places like Nebraska and Kansas were real; they sounded as foreign to me as Madagascar and Timbuktu. I took my first cross-country drive at age 19 and was immediately and irreversibly enchanted by the cows and cornfields, enormous sky and straight, hypnotic highways of America's heartland. 

So naturally I signed up for the "Literature of the Midwest" class in college, where I first read O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, whose most famous works—O Pioneers!, My Antonia, and The Song of the Lark—are some of literature's most evocative portraits of life on the prairie. (For grownups, that is. Little House on the Prairie these ain't.)

Cather's father moved the family moved to Red Cloud, Nebraska in 1884, when Willa was 10 years old. The town was only a few years older than she, "a few seasons from raw prairie" she wrote. She didn't take to the prairie right away, thought it, "naked as the back of your hand." But long after she left Red Cloud to attend college, returning only for visits after that, she realized, "That shaggy country has gripped me with a passion I have never been able to shake.”

Yeah, me too. I've made the pilgrimage to Red Cloud twice and probably will again. From my home in Dallas, I drive six hours to Wichita, Kansas where I spend the night, then another three-and-a-half hours north through a landscape like an alpha wave: gently rolling prairie and farmland punctuated by picture-book barns and farmhouses. (You could also fly into Omaha and drive three hours from there.) Red Cloud is very much a pilgrimage; it is not on the way to anything and there's nothing nearby but prairie and cornfields, so if you are going to go there, you go there. 

Read more Red Cloud, Nebraska: A Literary Pilgrimage to Willa Cather Country at The Toast.

William Holman Hunt, The Awakening Conscience, 1853

Scrolling through Retronaut, you might run across a 1927 pamphlet called “Examination of Conscience for Boys and Girls,” which the site resurfaced last year. It’s a Catholic publication by a Jesuit brother named A.J. Wilwerding, distributed by something called “The Queen’s Work” in Saint Louis. The first few pages are pretty straightforward—the author defines different kinds of sins and helpfully distinguishes them by typeface: venial, venial (at risk of becoming Mortal), and MORTAL. Did the child DENY he was a Catholic? Did he curse? Did he misbehave in church? And then you reach the fourth page:

And maybe you cry, and you think that these are not bad rules to live by. Not just for kids. Certainly not just for Catholics. And that it’s not easy; as Morrissey said, it takes guts.

Of course, then you keep reading:

DID I WILLINGLY TAKE PLEASURE IN USING IMPURE WORDS?

DID I WILLINGLY TELL IMPURE STORIES AND TAKE PLEASURE IN THEM?

DID I LIKE TO LISTEN TO IMPURE THOUGHTS?

DID I TAKE PLEASURE IN SINGING IMPURE SONGS?

DID I WANT IMPURE THOUGHTS AND DID I TAKE PLEASURE IN THEM?

DID I TEACH OTHERS TO COMMIT IMPURE SINS?

DID I TAKE PLEASURE IN TOUCHING MYSELF OR OTHERS IN AN IMPURE MANNER, OR LET OTHERS DO SO TO ME?

DID I COMMIT AN IMPURE ACT?

DID I REALLY WANT TO LOOK AT IMPURE THINGS OR PICTURES?

This is a relief.

That’s better, you might think. That’s imposed enough distance and history and sadness on the whole thing. Irony, or contempt, even. Easier to forget that one page, I think. Probably all of it. Although I do rather like the notion that italics are a venial sin.

Ben Yagoda has a piece at Lingua Franca about one of the New Yorker‘s weird stylistic tics I don’t think I’d noticed:

Among the various quirks of The New Yorker‘s house style, maybe the quirkiest is the insistence on got as the past participle of get—that is, to write had got instead of had gotten to mean “become” or “obtained” or any of the numerous other senses of get. Just a few of the most recent examples:

● “I had got such satisfaction out of the systems she introduced, the sharp pencils and crisp manila folders.”—Lena Dunham, September 1, 2014
● “It drove away, but not, Kwasman told a reporter, before he had got a look at the passengers.”—Amy Davidson, July 28, 2014.
● “Kennedy got about seventy per cent of the African-American vote, much more than Stevenson had got.”—Louis Menand, July 21, 2014.

Every other publication would have used gotten. Every other publication in the United States, that is. In the British Isles, gotten got unfashionable in the early 1800s and disappeared from the scene. When Henry Higgins sings,”I think she’s got it,” he means “I think she’s gotten it,” not “I think she has it.”

I also didn’t realize how bizarre the US gotten sounds to others:

I was once interviewed on an Irish radio station about my blog, Not One-Off Britishisms, and was asked for an example of a British usage that had popped up in the United States. I mentioned The New Yorker‘s preference for got over gotten. The host was gobsmacked. “GOT-ten?” he bellowed. “GOT-ten? Do you expect me to believe people over there actually say GOT-ten?”

I like the fact that Yagoda started a Facebook group called “Get The New Yorker to Start Using ‘Gotten.’” Needless to say, it had no effect, and he’s “accepted got as a New Yorker eccentricity, like doubling consonants in words like marvellous and travelled, and being militant in identifying nonrestrictive elements of a sentence.” I wonder how a publication so strongly identified with an American city came to adopt and stubbornly cling to these very un-American usages?

Gabriella Paiella’s previous work for The Toast can be found here.

I had a nice childhood. I didn’t want for much, save for three things that my parents refused to budge on. They were, ordered by the magnitude of associated tantrums that I threw:

1. an Easy-Bake Oven

2. an American Girl Doll

3. a movie ticket to Spice World

I eventually came to understand that my first two white whales were just exorbitantly priced tiny pieces of plastic. But banning Spice World was emblematic of how frustratingly arbitrary my parents’ rules for media consumption were. Spice World was deemed overly inappropriate, while I was parked in front of SNL, Naked Gun (2 ½, 33 ⅓), and every Mel Brooks movie by the age of 6. Apparently shots of Leslie Nielsen in a full-body condom were fine, but an occasional crop top would do irreversible damage.

Though repeatedly watching the Robin Hood: Men In Tights VHS as a child gave me the cultural capital I would need later in life, not watching Spice World robbed me of it when it truly mattered — as a chubby 8-year-old living in cruel, unforgiving suburbia, where everyone else had already seen it. It only took 15+ years for me to realize that I had the capability to watch Spice World if I wanted to. And even better, I’d be doing it is an adult.

For those unfamiliar with the plot or who need a refresher, the film follows the Spice Girls — Posh, Baby, Sporty, Ginger, and Scary — as they’re gearing up for the biggest gig of their career at Albert Hall. (Think: A Hard Day’s Night minus the Beatles, plus tube tops and platform shoes.) But things aren’t as simple as we’d like to think they are in dreamy Spice World. The band is plagued with an overly demanding manager, a nefarious reporter trying to tarnish their reputation, a pesky documentary filmmaker, and two bumbling writers can’t stop pitching idiotic potential screenplays to the Spice Girls’ manager. They also learn that their collective best friend, Nicola, is single and pregnant; as the girls try to make time to be present for the birth of her child, they begin to realize that the demands of fame are starting to encroach on their personal life. (If this band was formed today, there would almost certainly be a Xanax Spice.) Amidst all this strife, there is dancing, lip-syncing, and a fuckton of glitter.

I was never a heavily invested Spice Girls fan, but their personas were undeniably alluring; I was especially captivated by Baby Spice and Posh Spice back in the day. As an awkward, bookish child they distinctly represented a feminine ideal that was appealing to me because it seemed so far off from something I’d ever be able to replicate. Baby was very blonde, Posh very thin, and both were perfectly manicured; whenever we “played” Spice Girls at recess I longed to be them — but so did everybody else. I was fairly indifferent to Ginger and actively shied away from Sporty and Scary (THE BLACK MEMBER WAS CALLED “SCARY,” #NEVERFORGET – Ed.)

Within ten minutes of my screening, I was completely smitten with Sporty Spice, or Mel C. It was the irresistible combination of her slightly brusque accent, her tribal band bicep tattoo, her impeccable ‘90s fashion, and her habit of lifting weights and sneering while the rest of the girls hung out in the tour bus discussing clothes and horoscopes. She was a stone fox who could could seemingly kick anyone’s ass, and I was glad to come to my senses later in life.

And though I was hyper-aware of it, I chose to suspend disbelief about how unrealistic it was that the tour bus interior looked as cavernous as it did when the exterior appeared to be a standard double-decker. Look at me, retaining childhood wonder!

There were a few other upsides to first seeing Spice World as a cognizant adult, namely the cameos that would’ve flown over my head years ago:

Richard E. Grant (better known as Jessa’s druggie friend on Girls)

 George Wendt

Alan Cumming

Meat Loaf

Read more Watching Spice World For the First Time as an Adult at The Toast.

If you are a particular type of person living in a city, you almost certainly have at least two or three friends who have recently shared the ongoing saga of the Maine Hermit, who was arrested last year and was recently featured in a rather gushing (five-page!) GQ profile. Please do not be impressed by his story; there is no need. There are other heroes more worthy of your distant adulation.

No one who lives in the country is impressed with the Maine Hermit; no one with an up-to-date hunting license or who owns a rifle or who has slept more than one night out-of-doors in the last six months finds Christopher Knight’s story captivating. His acolytes are largely young urban people who spend most of their days sitting in front of a computer with a picture of their last trip to Yosemite as the background on their smartphone, who enjoyed Hatchet in elementary school and like to think of themselves as the sort of person who would survive a zombie apocalypse, which is a fictional problem.

Thirty years in the woods! That’s a long time. I remember how that kid from My Side of the Mountain learned to build a fire and construct a lean-to that connected to an old oak tree, and teach a hawk to hunt for him, so this guy must have been pretty resourceful –

With an expert twist of a screwdriver, he popped open a door of the dining hall and slipped inside, scanning the pantry shelves with his penlight.

Candy! Always good. Ten rolls of Smarties, stuffed in a pocket. Then, into his backpack, a bag of marshmallows, two tubs of ground coffee, some Humpty Dumpty potato chips. Burgers and bacon were in the locked freezer. On a previous raid at Pine Tree, he’d stolen a key to the walk-in, and now he used it to open the stainless-steel door.

Oh.

Knight stated that over all those years he slept only in a tent. He never lit a fire, for fear that smoke would give his camp away. He moved strictly at night.

Oh.

He confessed that he’d committed approximately forty robberies a year while in the woods—a total of more than a thousand break-ins. But never when anyone was home. He said he stole only food and kitchenware and propane tanks and reading material and a few other items. Knight admitted that everything he possessed in the world, he’d stolen, including the clothes he was wearing, right down to his underwear.

Oh, right-ho. 

That works out, by the way, to about 1200 robberies, give or take, of “food and kitchenware and propane tanks and reading material and a few other items” and also “everything he possessed in the world.”

It’s fine to like camping and to not like people. It’s fine to withdraw from society, if that is your particular bag. There is nothing in the world wrong with being socially awkward and feeling ill at ease around other human beings, of being afraid of coming into contact with someone else, of finding eye contact uncomfortable.

Should you desire to spend the majority of your life in the woods, you are free to do so; there is no limit to how often an American may go camping. You can work a summer job and save up enough cash to buy a polar sleeping bag, a few MREs and various basic supplies, and go forth (ugh, you probably have to get permits, though) to live off the fat of the land, and to cultivate a life of solitude and silence.

It is slightly less understandable, and altogether less admirable, to steal candy from children:

At a homeowners’ meeting in 2002, the hundred people present were asked who had suffered break-ins. Seventy-five raised their hands. Campfire hermit stories were swapped. One kid recalled that when he was 10 years old, all his Halloween candy was stolen. That kid is now 34.

Man, if you take only one thing away from this story, it is this: If you must live in the woods in complete solitude, and you absolutely refuse to learn to hunt or fish or build your own shelter, and you have to steal from your neighbors in order to eat, and you’re really in the mood for some candy, please steal just a few pieces of candy from multiple kids, so you don’t completely ruin any one particular child’s Halloween. Don’t make this year “the year the man who lives in the woods took all my treats.” That’s so cruel!

(By the way, it is super messed up to bury empty propane tanks willy-nilly. Please properly dispose of empty propane tanks.)

Knight was ordered to spend about seven months in prison, which is an unbelievably light sentence, all things considered.

The generosity of that prison term in the face of decades of theft must be contrasted with the shooting death of Michael Brown, whose murder by police was later justified because he had previously stolen a box of cigars. Just the once; not on and off for thirty years.

The fact that Knight was never shot by nervous homeowners, that he was arrested safely and without violence, that he will spend less time in jail than he spent stealing other people’s propane tanks, is enormously lucky; it is hard to imagine a man who was not white doing the same thing for thirty years and getting off quite so easily. But perhaps that is neither here nor there!

Nothing seemed to stop him. Or her. Or them. No one knew. A few desperate residents even left notes on their doors: “Please don’t break in. Tell me what you need and I’ll leave it out for you.” There was never a reply.

How sad, that the people in his community were still so willing to help him even after he had entered their homes and stolen from them, and that he was not willing to take them up on their generous offer. Society was ready to give him what he was already taking without asking. Frankly, I want to hear more about the resourceful, ingenious homeowners who banded together to non-violently solve a problem in their neighborhood.

So: what do we have, exactly? An unfriendly man spent twenty-seven-and-a-bit years living in some very cold woods.

“To put it romantically: I was completely free.” (And the article does put it romantically; if you have seen this scene from Seinfeld you have read this article.)

Almost completely free! Except for the part where you literally depended upon the labor and possessions of others to meet your every physical need. It says, you know, kind of a lot about the life you have chosen that “constant stealing” and “independence” are not mutually exclusive.

Hopefully, the man at the center of the myth can avail himself of the help that has already been offered him; hopefully he will not spend another winter walking up and down the length of his tent to keep his feet from freezing off. I do not think Christopher Knight ought to spend the rest of his life in prison or be turned into a local pariah.

But the mythos. The fanboys! The adoring fanboys whose dream it is to live in their own filth in the wood, Nobly Living Alone And Also Eating As Much Fluff As I Want, and Never Having To Talk To Anyone About Awards Ceremonies, And Literally Stealing From Children, the Chris McCandless boys who want nothing more than to live out the last five minutes of Shane on a daily basis, who mistake male-induced anti-social behavior and chronic theft for true independence; what my friend Chris called “the romantic transcendence of listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd for hours while slowly dying from an all-marshmallow diet” — all that must GO.

It is very silly that we live in a country where the conversation about people who rely on government assistance runs generally along the lines of “DON’T TAKE HANDOUTS,” while white men who steal from their neighbors are touted as tragic symbols of noble self-reliance! You can spend as much time in the forest as you like; this is America and no one will stop you. Put aside your needless, trumped-up sense of social persecution (“I MUST ESCAPE FROM HUMANITY, but can I have your magazines?”).

At the very least, whittle something to leave on the doorstep of the people you steal from most often so they have a whimsical gift from the forest in exchange for a brand-new canoe and a brace of fresh steaks.

The mythos must go. Let us puncture it now and watch it deflate.

For your analysis: 

“I don’t know your world,” he said. “Only my world, and memories of the world before I went into the woods. What life is today? What is proper? I have to figure out how to live.” He wished he could return to his camp—”I miss the woods”—but he knew by the rules of his release that this was impossible. “Sitting here in jail, I don’t like what I see in the society I’m about to enter. I don’t think I’m going to fit in. It’s too loud. Too colorful. The lack of aesthetics. The crudeness. The inanities. The trivia.”

What kind of colorful, non-aesthetic crudeness do you mean, Maine Hermit?

“I gorged myself on sugar and alcohol,” he said. “It’s the quickest way to gain weight, and I liked the inebriation.” The bottles he stole were signs of a man who’d never once, as he admitted, ordered a drink at a bar: Allen’s Coffee Flavored Brandy, Seagram’s Escapes Strawberry Daiquiri, something called Whipped Chocolate Valley Vines (from the label: “fine chocolate, whipped cream & red wine”).

We covered hundreds of topics while chatting in jail, and nothing received higher praise than Lynyrd Skynyrd. “They will be playing Lynyrd Skynyrd songs in a thousand years,” he proclaimed.

I unearthed a stack of National Geographics with the dates still legible: 1991 and 1992. I also saw People, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, and Vanity Fair. There was even a collection of Playboys.

He also stole the occasional handheld video game—Pokémon, Tetris, Dig Dug—but the majority of his free time was spent reading or observing the forest. “Don’t mistake me for some bird-watching PBS type,” he warned.

I dug through his twenty-five years of trash, buried between boulders, and kept inventory: a five-pound tub that once held Marshmallow Fluff, an empty box of Devil Dogs, peanut butter, Cheetos, honey, graham crackers, Cool Whip, tuna fish, coffee, Tater Tots, pudding, soda, El Monterey spicy jalapeño chimichangas, and on and on and on.

“I went to the woods to live simply. To escape from the hubbub and noise of modern life. To listen to Skynyrd while eating only Fritos and reading the occasional Vanity Fair. Eating Tater Tots and playing some kid’s Pokémon. Are you going to finish that chimichanga.”

It is incredibly telling that GQ‘s “artist’s impression” of the Maine Hermit looks like this:

(Artist Tim O’Brien)

This could easily be a concept sketch of Radagast the Brown from the Lord of the Rings. See the ruggled, grizzled face ennobled by solitude and hardship graced with a manly beard; the sleek, modern-looking backpack with…a handful of twigs strapped to it, for some reason; the long, determined, manly stride; the literal fucking birds swarming about him like he’s goddamn St. Francis of fucking Assisi. This is White Male Solitude at its most cartoonish; this is a drawing of the song “Desperado.”

Whereas the actual Maine Hermit looks like this:

[Image via]

Read more “I Went to the Woods So I Could Steal Candy From Children”: The Maine Hermit Is A Terrible Hero To Have at The Toast.

From when Jason Priestley was such a hot piece he attracted the notice of Bruce Weber.

Previously: Martin Prince, the Queen of Summer.

The world owes a great deal to minor Simpsons characters, and I have taken it upon myself to periodically-yet-irregularly celebrate them as the spirit moves me. Today we honor Ralph Wiggum.

There is no place on the social structure for a second-grade boy who thinks rats are “pointy kitties” and calls his teacher “Mommy.” Kids can be misfits (Milhouse), or they can be brownnosers (Martin), or they can be troublemakers (Nelson), or they can be tattle-tales (Sherri and Terri), but being Ralph is simply not a taxonomically viable option.

Ralph is not a rule-follower like Lisa, nor a rule-breaker like Bart; Ralph does not observe the rules because he is almost completely unaware of them. More than any of the other students at Springfield Elementary, Ralph is a child. Bart and Lisa and Milhouse and Nelson and Janey are kids, and therein lies the difference. Ralph sees things that aren’t there (“Ralph, remember the time you said Snagglepuss was outside?” “He was going to the bathroom!”), eats paste, picks his nose, volunteers unprompted, nonsensical declarations (“My cat’s breath smells like cat food”) disguised as Zen koans. His character is sometimes written as dim-but-profound, sometimes borderline-psychotic, and occasionally developmentally disabled, but more than anything else, Ralph like what he is: a child who hasn’t yet aged into a kid, which is one of the most embarrassing things a child can be.

In Season Three’s “Lisa’s Pony,” Ralph makes one of his earliest speaking appearances, although his voice sounds entirely different and his character is nothing like what we will see in future episodes. Lisa gallops past a clutch of second-graders on Princess, and Ralph exclaims in upper-crust tones: “Yes, but what man can tame her?”

Later, in “Lisa the Beauty Queen,” Ralph plays half of a Pat-and-Mike routine that gets off one of the best lines in Simpsons history after watching Lisa totter by in her lightning-blackened Little Miss Springfield ensemble:

Blonde Boy: Love that chewing-gum walk!

Proto-Ralph: Ver-ry Wrigley!

It’s still nothing near the canonical Ralph who will go on to bend his Wookie and get too many nosebleeds, but it’s a scene I could watch on repeat for hours. Part of me wishes there was still a place in Springfield Elementary for two tiny, patter-talking Casanovas.

By Ralph’s first turn in the spotlight in “I Love Lisa,” his characterization is set: he’s not allowed to use scissors, not even the safety variety. Ms. Hoover — hardly a defender of the defenseless to begin with — tells him that “the other children are right to laugh.” And they do.

The other students start distributing Valentines to one another, and Ralph slowly realizes that no one — no one — is going to give him one. It’s one of the relatively few moments on the show where Ralph seems aware of how other people see him, that he’s friendless and weird and utterly unacceptable, and it’s absolutely heartbreaking.

Lisa can’t stand watching Ralph cry any more than we can, and she tosses him a hastily-signed card that reads “I Choo-Choo-Choose You,” and Ralph is utterly delighted. It’s a particularly lovely moment, not just because Lisa saves him from humiliation, but because it’s one of the rare moments when Ralph is in on the joke. How often does Ms. Hoover take the time to make sure Ralph understands what he’s reading? He spends all day in school, and Lisa’s the first person to ever take a second to teach him. The train goes choo-choo, and she choo-choo-chooses him.

He gets the joke, and for once the punchline isn’t him.

One of the most endearing parts of Ralph’s backstory is how supportive and warm his home life is. Anyone who fits in that badly at school deserves a loving set of parents. They don’t always get it.

His father, Chief Wiggum, is usually depicted as Ralph with a nightstick and a gun (which is part of what makes Chief Wiggum ridiculous while Ralph remains lovable; Ralph has no actual power to abuse), and regularly takes his son out on patrol with him. He’s happy to tolerate Ralph’s quirks (Wiggle Puppy — the character Ralph inhabits when he drops to all fours, runs around in a circle, and barks — comes foremost to mind) and quick to dispense fatherly advice when Ralph comes to him with girl problems. “A woman’s a lot like a nut, son,” Chief Wiggum says, before pulling out his gun and shooting a walnut open in frustration.

But Ralph is more than Chief Wiggum minus power. Ralph’s goodness is not the absence of malice. Ralph’s goodness is pure and unself-conscious. “Was President Lincoln okay?” he asks Ms. Hoover worriedly after learning of the Ford Theater assassination. It’s the last day of school, and everyone else has already left for the summer. Ralph’s not leaving until he makes sure that President Lincoln is doing all right.

Ms. Hoover does the only thing. “He was fine.”

Ralph can go home after that. No one will suffer alone as long as Ralph is around.

Unfortunately for Lisa, Ralph does not know how to love by halves. It would be easy to mistake Ralph for an early version of the Dogged Nice Guy, who can’t take no for an answer, but that’s not the case at all here. Lisa’s too nice to tell him that while she feels sorry for him, she doesn’t actually want to be around him; she’s kind enough not to let him get hurt, but not so kind she’ll be friends with someone who calls Superintendent Chalmers “Super Nintendo Chalmers.”

He thinks she’s his girlfriend, but she’s not even really his friend. He doesn’t know any better. Ralph never does.

Lisa finally snaps when Ralph announces they’re boyfriend and girlfriend at the Krusty special — “I don’t like you, I never liked you,” she says.

“You can actually pinpoint the second when his heart rips in half,” Bart says later, watching the rejection on tape, then gleefully rewinding it.

I love that Lisa has a little bow in her hair and a larger strand of pearls, and that Ralph is wearing a coat and tie. That’s exactly how two little kids dressed up by their parents for a formal event would look; it makes his heartbreak look all the more adult.

One of the funniest, most poignant moments in the episode come when Ralph delivers a bravura performance as George Washington in the school play (“But couldn’t we just give in to the British?” “NEVER!“) and Patty, overwhelmed, sinks into her seat and mutters, “Now there’s a real man.” Ralph is full of hidden surprises.

What I love most about the ending to “I Love Lisa” is that it puts Lisa and Ralph back on equal footing. He’s revealed a surprising depth of character — she’s made her feelings explicit with a new Valentine’s Day card (“Let’s BEE friends!”) — and they swing under the watchful gaze of Chief Wiggum, who turns off the radio after reports of a robbery in progress. He’s not the Chief of Police tonight. He’s just a dad.

This moment in “Lisa’s Rival” is the quintessence of Ralph; his life is equal parts charmed and cursed. He’s won the diorama fair that both Lisa and Allison have half-killed themselves for by bringing in a box of Star Wars figurines in their original wrappings…which he trips and falls over before uttering the now-famous line, “I bent my Wookie.”

When Lisa and Allison invite Ralph to come over and play anagrams with them, they find a way to challenge without hurting each other. It’s clear that the field is not level — has never been level — and the object becomes no longer to win but simply to play.

Lisa: Hey Ralph, want to come with me and Alison to play “Anagrams”?

Alison: We take proper names and rearrange the letters to form a description of that person.

Ralph: My cat’s breath smells like cat food.

Ralph’s answer isn’t right, but he’s telling the truth.

Let us pause in a moment of silence for Milhouse, whose hopeless affection for Lisa will never be returned; even in her worst fears for the future, the worst thing she can imagine (“Lisa the Simpson,” Season 9) is being married to Ralph. Being married to Milhouse is not even an option in her worst nightmares.

Ralph is so memorable in part because he is the most real of all the Simpsons characters; as outlandish as his behavior can sometimes seem, he’s as real as a cartoon boy gets. He’s covered in chocolate. His toys are sticky. He gets stuck in Chinese Finger traps, and his mom has to arrange playdates for him.

Look at what happens to the two students who “obviously had no help from their parents” during the school pageant in “$pringfield”:

Even Lisa, one of the smartest kids in school, can’t do better than Homer’s thrown-together foam-rubber number. And Ralph? He’s Idaho. Everyone can tell he’s Idaho.

“I’m Idaho!” Ralph announces.

“Yes, of course you are,” Principal Skinner says, and he’s right.

In “Lisa The Greek,” Ralph gives a report about “the happiest day of his life” to the rest of Miss Hoover’s class. It was the day the doctor told him “[he] didn’t have worms anymore.” The children laugh at him, and maybe, as usual, they’re right to — it’s a bit too personal, a little ridiculous, a little childish, especially compared to Lisa’s subsequent ode to professional sports — but if you were just eight years old, and you had worms, and the doctor got rid of them for you, well, that might be the happiest day of your life, too.

Ralph knows how to be happy. You don’t have to be happy for him. He’ll be happy enough for himself.

Read more Not Allowed In The Deep End: Ralph Wiggum’s Finest Moments at The Toast.

Released this week, FKA twigs' debut album, LP1, is, by and large, sex-themed music that is conducive to actual sex . (Try it, you'll like it, promise.) The same cannot be said for all music that was made for the purpose of making babies—some is too on the nose, some is too ridiculous, some is just cheesy. The last thing you want to do with your sex soundtrack choice is distract from the actual sex. I generally think it's best to be as obscure as possible , so as not to remind your partner of his or her past, but I also think that some pop songs are far worse than others.

Read more...

Looks like Madame, the outrageous puppet who owned the '70s, is about to make a comeback (minus Wayland Flowers, who died of AIDS in 1988).

From a press release:

Everybody LOVES  Madame!  That sassy, outspoken but loveable “old broad” is making a HUGE COMEBACK and  she is calling on all of her old friends, past co-stars, co-hosts, co-workers and especially her “frenimies” to help spread the word on the CROWDFUNDING Campaign that will help bring back one of the most celebrated and beloved celebrities of all times.   The Campaign OFFICALLY launches 1 September 2014, but we are reaching out now to fans and friends to  gear up and  help make this VIRAL via TWITTER, FACBOOK, VINE & INSTAGRAM on 1 September. Madame is also in the process of booking LIMITED radio and TV (traditional and new media) chat shows along with her manager Marlena Shell (formerly Wayland Flowers manager and owner of the rights to Madame) When tweeting, etc we'd love the usage of #EverybodyLovesMadame

Saturday is the 40th anniversary of President Nixon’s resignation, an anniversary that has prompted any number of high-minded reflections. PBS is premiering a new documentary tonight about Dick Cavett’s coverage of the Watergate scandals. The library of Nixon-related books grows ever longer.

(Columbia Pictures)

But if I may, I would like to recommend an alternative. If you can find a copy of it this weekend, you should absolutely watch the best movie about Nixon and Watergate, the 1999 teen comedy “Dick.”

As its title might suggest, “Dick” is a loopy alternate history. Two teenage girls, Betsy (Kirsten Dunst) and Arlene (Michelle Williams) witness the break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters during a sleepover at Arlene’s mother’s apartment in the Watergate. In an effort to neutralize the girls, who have no idea what they have witnessed, the Nixon administration makes them Checkers’ official dog-walkers. When the relationship sours, the girls turn to The Washington Post for revenge.

If this sounds manifestly silly, that is precisely the point. Betsy and Arlene are ineffably teenaged. Arlene develops an agonizing crush on the president and leaves a mash note of a message on his tape recorder, which will become the famous 18-and-a-half minute gap in the recording. Betsy seduces H.R. Haldeman’s (Dave Foley) son (Ryan Reynolds). The girls get Nixon (Dan Hedaya) completely and utterly stoned.

The adults are equally absurd. Nixon is awkward and crabby and secretly hates the dog he has adopted as an attempt to render himself more likable. “I’ve got a way with young people,” Nixon insists at one point. “They trust me.” Haldeman is simultaneously contemptuous of Betsy and Arlene and utterly befuddled by them. Will Ferrell and Bruce McCulloch play Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein as squabbling rivals — Bernstein is constantly tossing back his shoulder-length hair.

Our memory of Watergate needs this sense of the ridiculous. The humor writer Veronica Geng recognized it when she reviewed the Nixon tapes as if they were jazz records. “Dick” recognizes it. Ultimately, a president of the United States had to resign because of his own hysterical paranoia and insecurity and because his aides thought they could play spy. And he further tarnished his reputation with recordings that stripped his character down to its essential, embarrassing elements. Or, as Betsy put it, “You kicked Checkers, you’re prejudiced and you have a potty mouth!”

Just because “Dick” finds Nixon risible does not mean that the people who brought him down were giants of civic virtue. “How dare those people treat us like we’re stupid teenage girls,” Arlene fumes. “We’re human beings, and we’re American citizens. And four score and seven years ago our forefathers … did something.” Sometimes heroism is an accident, a lesson worth remembering even though we now know the real identity of Deep Throat.

Unfortunately, “Dick” is difficult to track down. Netflix has it only on disc, as does Amazon. You cannot buy or rent it through iTunes or Google Play. The movie is no longer streaming on Crackle. And though it is available through Verizon’s Redbox rental service, you can no longer join Redbox because its registration process was misused as a tool for credit card scammers. “Dick” is a terrific example of the limits of our new media environment, which has made a great deal of content, but not all of it, available.

But if you can find a copy, “Dick” is a delightful jab at history with a serious point about how people gain and lose faith in politics and politicians. Betsy and Arlene may have chosen the sincerity of Nixon’s affection for his dog as their measure of his worthiness to be president. But they made the right choice, even if it was by accident.

Photo via Roadtrippers.com.

I need to tell you about a place. It’s a place so massive, so amazing, so thrillingly weird and kitschy and creepy and utterly awe-inspiring, that I’m actually not sure I can find the words to adequately describe it, and I am never at a loss for words. But this place truly defies human language. I first visited it last month, on a spur-of-the-moment trip with my girlfriend, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I don’t think I ever will.

The place is called the House on the Rock. It’s in Spring Green, Wisconsin, about an hour west of Madison, and I am 200 percent certain that it needs to shoot straight to the top of your list of dream vacation destinations. Forget amusement parks and water parks—go find the nearest licensed driver and demand to be taken to this WONDERCREEPLAND OF J’AMAZEMENT.

Like I said, it’s really impossible to convey its mystery and majesty in words, but here are some basic facts: The House on the Rock was designed by one Alex Jordan, a man who was fond of picnicking on Spring Green’s tall, craggy sandstone formations known pinnacle rocks. In 1945, he started work on a house he was building from scratch on Deer Shelter Rock, a 60-foot-tall column of rock in the middle of a huge forest. People in the area got interested in what he was doing, so he began charging admission to see his building site and completed rooms. And then…he just kept building! Using the money he was charging people to see his growing house, Alex Jordan, always a collector of antiques, kept obsessively adding more and more rooms to contain his various collections. He collected everything, you guys: toys, cars, instruments, nautical stuff, taxidermy, guns, glassware, dolls, circus memorabilia, Victorian antiques—anything you could possibly think of to collect. He opened the house to the public for official tours in 1959 and kept right on adding to it until his death in 1989, an event that did nothing to quell the public’s fascination with the place.

I know that this is the first time most of you have even heard of the House on the Rock, but it’s actually a huuuuuge tourist attraction in the Midwest. When you’re a kid growing up in Wisconsin, like I was, there are school trips to the House on the Rock, and it’s a totally common thing to hear someone talking about a weekend trip they just took there. For some reason I cannot even begin to understand, however, my class never took a trip to the HOTR, and my parents never wanted to go. HOW COULD YOU NOT WANT TO GO TO THE HOUSE ON THE ROCK? From the moment I heard about it, in about second grade, I was frothing at the mouth to go. My school friends would return from trips with their OBVIOUSLY FAR MORE SENSIBLE families changed people. They would try, in dreamy voices, gazing off into the middle distance, to describe the things they’d seen: There were stories of giant indoor carousels and whole rooms full of porcelain doll, of hundreds of instruments that played themselves and endless hallways of miniatures. Apparently there was a whole town, with streets and houses and carriages, inside this house. I heard there was a sea monster bigger than anything I could imagine in the basement. Everything about this place sounded wonderful and scary, and I was clearly wasting my life doing anything but going straight there.

It took more than a decade for me to finally make this lifelong dream come true. But I did it, you guys. I saw the House on the Rock with my own eyes. Last month, finding ourselves with an extra day off work and a car in working condition, Jen and I decided to drive the three hours from Chicago to Spring Green. And let me tell you: WE WERE NOT READY.

Apart from the enormous dragon sculptures decorating the long driveway leading to the building, the House on the Rock looks fairly normal from the outside. It’s a big (but not mind-bendingly enormous) brown house surrounded by gardens.

Photo by Brian Jacobson, via Dial Urban Milwaukee.

Much of the structure is underground or hidden by trees, so it’s impossible to tell how big it really is until you’re in it. First-time visitors have no idea what they’re in for.

We stopped at the (totally normal and beige!) visitor’s center to buy tickets and pee, and that was when I saw the first hint of the hidden weirdness of the place. The bathroom looks like this:

OK.

The HOTR is divided into three enormous sections. There’s the Infinity Room, which juts out 218 feet, with no visible support, over the forest floor, scaring the crap out of anyone with a fear of heights (hi there) with its panoramic views from more than 3,000 windows.

Image via La Lovetta.

Here I am inside the Infinity Room. I am pissing myself in fear only just a little. (Photo by Jen Larson.)

There’s Alex Jordan’s mod-yet-caveman-y original living quarters, lit with dim red lights because, as one of the docents explained, “he liked it that way.” There’s the Streets of Yesterday, an entire replica Victorian town, complete with furnished houses and shops you can look into, streetlights, and eerie old fortune-telling machines on every corner.

Image via Light at Home.

Image via The House on the Rock Journal.

There are indeed, as my classmates testified, entire rooms filled with automated musical instruments, some of which play endlessly, whether anyone’s watching or not, and some that need tokens (they give you tokens when you buy your ticket) to turn on and play. Clumps of visitors stand around lavishly decorated rooms in shocked silence, watching full orchestras play themselves. I think we can all agree that there is something inherently creepy about instruments that play themselves; it was in one of these rooms that we saw our first (but far from last) crying kid.

Nooooothing scary about instruments that don’t need players. (Image via The Golden Sieve.)

Read more Scenes From Zoe Saldana’s Most Popular Movies With Center Stage Quotes Instead at The Toast.

Previously on Femslash Friday: Mean Girls’ Lesbian Layers.

A League Of Their Own is part of a cadre of movies that made up the definitely-feminist, almost-lesbian boom of the early ’90s, alongside Thelma & Louise, Tank Girl, and Fried Green Tomatoes. A League Of Their Own is to a particular type of women what The Shawshank Redemption is to a particular type of man — if it’s on TV, we’re going to drop whatever in order to watch it to the end, and it’s almost always on TV.

Rather like Thelma & Louise, Tank Girl, and Fried Green Tomatoes, A League Of Their Own looks like a movie that was filmed in a separatist lesbian paradise, then four days before wide release, someone told the producers to try to make every female character plausibly straight. The compulsory heterosexuality is a sloppy afterthought — Rosie O’Donnell gets a boyfriend back home, Geena Davis pines after a distant husband, Madonna gets to dance with a few drunk soldiers, and everyone prayed that would be enough. No one bothered to do anything about Lori Petty’s character; it was too late to try.

There are certain phrases — “confirmed bachelor,” “keeps to herself,” “career woman,” “eccentric gentleman,” “as single as they come” — that connote queer plausible deniability; to a straight person they might just refer to someone a bit odd, but to the right listener it’s the same as screaming “GAY GAY GAY.”

Lori Petty’s Kit is all ears and elbows and mud-streaked determination and she’s GAY GAY GAY, and that’s marvelous. Remember how she gets announced on the field?

“Then there’s pretty Dottie Henson, who plays like Gehrig, and looks like Garbo. Uh-uh, fellas, keep your mitts to yourself; she’s married. And there’s her kid sister Kit, who’s as single as they come.”

Lori Petty in “Tank Girl,” with her girlfriend Jet Girl (YES HER GIRLFRIEND I REFUSE TO ACKNOWLEDGE HER KANGAROO BOYFRIEND [it's a weird movie])

Lest we forget, Josephine D’Angelo (the real-life ball player whose life inspired A League Of Their Own) was an out lesbian who was fired from the league for getting a “butchy” haircut. However you want to define Dottie, you have to admit her eyebrows are at the very least bicurious. Those eyebrows have gotten at least one Rockford Peach out of her blouse.

Obviously, any movie set in a nearly all-female environment (all the boys are off at war, WHERE THEY BELONG) or focusing on women who play sports is going to have, you know, a lesbian skeleton; whether or not the movie pings depends on how well the gun-shy producers can hang a few heterosexual scarves to cover up those gay, gay bones. And, you know, there are not so many movies focused on women’s non-romantic relationships (with their sisters, with their friends, with their employers, with themselves) out there that I want to take away one of the very few that do, so if you want to keep this, straight ladies, I’m not going to get mad.

But replace “baseball” with “lesbianism” in the following exchange, just as a fun thought experiment:

Jimmy Dugan: This is chickenshit, Dottie, if you want to go back to Oregon and make a hundred babies, great, I’m in no position to tell anyone how to live. But sneaking out like this, quitting, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Baseball is what gets inside you. It’s what lights you up, you can’t deny that.

Dottie Hinson: It just got too hard.

Jimmy Dugan: It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard…is what makes it great.

This pose is known as Queen Of The Dykes

AND THERE’S MORE. I would like to posit a slightly different angle on the Madonna/O’Donnell (MADONNELL) relationship, one that will not require you to adjust your set in the slightest. It is a difference in degrees, not in kind. They are presented as a pair of boisterous, working-class best friends — Madonna is the TOUGH SLUT to Rosie’s BRASSY BROAD, and they brawl together like the Titans of old. They fight out of an superabundance of energy and joy; they fight as gods play.

Their relationship comes across less Lucy-and-Ethel from I Love Lucy and more like Ralph-and-Alice from The Honeymooners. It’s all slap-slap-kiss (with the kiss remaining firmly off-screen); half of their squabbles are about Madonna’s sexuality (“Every man here has seen your bosoms”) and Rosie’s frustration at her love of male attention.

You don’t fight like that with your sex-loving best friend, you fight like that with your charismatic girlfriend whose flirting and experience makes you jealous and lonely. NOT THAT I WOULD KNOW.

I was once thrown out of a bar in Pasadena after becoming convinced the employee attempting to clean up a spill in the vicinity of my lady-friend was in fact attempting to hit on her because he did not respect our relationship. He was not; he was trying to pick up glass. I spent a few hours on the curb waiting for her until she was ready to come home. The fault, in retrospect, was largely mine. I have been Rosie O’Donnell. Dating Madonna is like dating a meteor — it is a struggle to keep up and you are as dazzled by the light she gives off as everyone else. When she goes, you are quickly left behind.

Read more Femslash Friday: A League Of Their Own at The Toast.

Hey teens and adults without a dealer, are you looking for a way to get a extra shot of mojo, just a little boost to make you feel like you can do anything? Why not try the choking game , which has been providing a shot of euphoria through cutting off the brain's oxygen supply to...let's call them curious parties for decades. This weekend, Lifetime investigated this phenomenon in a fictional piece of camp propaganda that was aptly titled The Choking Game.

Read more...

Bop Magazine, founded in 1983, has ceased monthly publication, becoming an occasional special. Those in the teen world recognize Bop as a staple of the scene, a go-to for whatever makes tweens squeal. The publication was initially black-and-white with color pinups, but had, over time, become all-color.

The company that owns Bop, Laufer Media, also owns a slew of other '80s and '90s teen titles that have changed hands over the years, such as 16, but its only regular publication at the moment is the ultimate teen mag: Tiger Beat, born in 1965, which is as of the first quarter of 2014 the #1-selling teen-entertainment magazine. Still!

How many of these people do you recognize???

Perhaps if there is another teen invasion, Bop and other titles from the past will see re-inventions. You may think there is a current teen invasion, with big stars like Justin Bieber and One Direction in the news on a daily basis, but most of the big-time teen stars of today are old news. New blood is needed—stat.

Good luck to Tiger Beat—it's a keeper!

The Toast’s previous literary pilgrimages can be found here.

As soon as I say the word “Concord” to the woman selling rail tickets, I’m terrified that she knows everything about me.

After all, if you don’t have a car of your own, you have to actually tell someone you want to go to Concord before you can get there. With a population of only 17,000, it’s not a destination for anyone to visit casually. You either live there, or you’re going on a pilgrimage.

I was, on that day in 2010, wearing the Kate Beaton shirt that features the three Brontë sisters. I had a notebook. There was only one place I could be headed.

Orchard House is about a mile and a half away from the rail station. You take the Fitchburg/South Acton line, get off, and walk.

I’m nervous that everyone I pass on the road knows everything about me.

You have to pass Emerson’s house before you get to the Alcott home, and I felt like he was watching me from the transcendental beyond and feeling a bit snubbed. Most people I saw on the road were headed towards Orchard House. Gillian Armstrong has yet to make a film about Ralph Waldo Emerson that stars Winona Ryder and Christian Bale.

I mean, to be fair, I loved Little Women before the 1994 movie. I think most of the people who take the Fitchburg/South Acton line out to Concord and then walk the dusty road in the shadow of the same trees that shaded Louisa May Alcott and her sisters (and Emerson too, whatevs) loved Little Women before the 1994 movie.*

We carry with us the sister we are “most like” (Amy, thanks to the whole talent isn’t genius chapter, though I’ve felt like all of them at various points in my life) and the film adaptation we like most (sorry, Katharine Hepburn). We have very, very strong opinions about Professor Bhaer.

Little Women is one of the rare books that still has something to teach us every time we read it. It’s telling that the story opens with each sister receiving a book that they are intended to read and re-read throughout their lives, but most of us these days skip Pilgrim’s Progress and re-read Little Women instead. Alcott literally outwrote her source material.

Those of us walking along the path to Orchard House have probably also seen the Armstrong film at least five (or fifteen) times**, which is why the building itself is instantly familiar, and why I had the strange sensation, standing in the Alcotts’ parlor, that I had been there before. Unlike previous Little Women films, Gillian Armstrong and her team recreated much of Orchard House for the 1994 movie (pictured). Once you’re inside, you already know where to turn to see the stove where Amy dropped the potato or the table where Marmee and Aunt March sat for tea.

In the film, of course, the house is bigger. Here, there is barely space for six people in any individual room, along with the slightly bored docent who explains quickly at the beginning of her presentation that when she is not docenting she is a professional actor, as if to apologize for being the only person in the room who isn’t happy to be there.

(The majority of the people who have made the pilgrimage to Orchard House that afternoon are female and white, although there are also several people of color taking the tour. There are women who have come alone and there are families. The person who appears most excited to be there is a young boy, who is very eager to answer the docent’s apologetic, rote trivia questions.)

The two most striking parts of Orchard House are not included in the Armstrong film: Louisa’s desk and May’s walls. Louisa’s desk — “she wrote Little Women here,” the docent explains as if that weren’t a miracle — is tiny, a half-circle of painted white wood placed into a wall between two windows. Her father built it for her.

Amos Bronson Alcott also constructed May’s room. The doors and ceilings are designed both so that the unusually-tall May would not have to stoop, and so she could use them as a perpetual canvas, painting over the sketches she did not like and keeping the ones she did. Her drawings still remain, all over the walls and the woodwork.

There is something wonderful about Amos Bronson Alcott building his family home so that Louisa could write and May could draw. (The feminist part of me knows that his wife Abigail Alcott must have been involved too, although the docent presents this information as if it were entirely Amos’s work.) I’d like to assume that he would have built equal space for his other daughters Anna and Lizzy, had either of them claimed Orchard House as their home.

That’s the big reveal, of course; the one that even the docent knows is a disappointment. Louisa May Alcott may have written Little Women at Orchard House, but she and her sisters never lived there as children. In fact, the four sisters never lived together at Orchard House at all. Anna Alcott lived there for only two years before marrying John Pratt in 1860, and Elizabeth Alcott died before the family took residence.

It’s a sharp reminder that even though you feel like you’ve seen this home before, like you know it as well as you know the Von Trapp estate from The Sound of Music or the stairs that lead to the spare room in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, you don’t actually know Orchard House at all. It doesn’t carry the memories you think it does; those were crafted later, by a woman at a small desk shaped and painted like a half-moon.

And so I returned from my pilgrimage a bit wiser, passing women along the road heading in the opposite direction and thinking I knew everything about them — and they, in turn, everything about me: that we would walk the mile-and-a-half from the commuter rail station to see a building where a book was written because we loved the story that much, and because we thought the characters in that book lived there.

I walked away from Orchard House knowing half of that was still true, and asked for a ticket back to Boston.

*

*Except people born after 1994 who are somehow old enough to read this article because time works in mysterious ways and I wish that time would just stop working like that.

**Unless you were born after 1994 and spent the entire time watching Hannah Montana or something; I have literally no idea what you did with your lives.

Read more Little Women: A Literary Pilgrimage at The Toast.

An early illustration of Saint Wilgefortis.

If you had asked me two days ago if there existed any Catholic-themed YouTube video stranger than the one where G. K. Chesterton battles a cartoonishly evil Nietzsche, I would have said, “Of course not.” But that was before I saw this group of French feminists in beards paying tribute to Saint Wilgefortis.

Wilgefortis is described by the Catholic Encyclopedia as “a fabulous female saint known also as UNCUMBER, KUMMERNIS, KOMINA, COMERA, CUMERANA, HULFE, ONTCOMMENE, ONTCOMMER, DIGNEFORTIS, EUTROPIA, REGINFLEDIS, LIVRADE, LIBERATA, etc.”; her attributes are listed as “bearded woman; depicted crucified, often shown with a small fiddler at her feet, and with one shoe off.” Considered a “pious fiction”—that is, a sort of unofficial folktale—she enjoyed popularity throughout Europe. Before the Church removed her commemoration in ’69, July 20 was her feast day.

Though her cult is thought to date to the fourteenth century, concrete details are sparse: generally, Wilgefortis is described as a young, Christian, sometimes Portuguese, occasionally septuplet princess who, rather than marry a pagan against her will, prayed for disfigurement. Her prayers were answered in the form of a beard. Her father, furious with this development, had her crucified. Nowadays, it’s thought that the Wilgefortis story—as well as the related fiddler/shoe legend—evolved from a misinterpretation of the famous Volto Santo crucifixion sculpture in Lucca, Italy. The art historian Charles Cahier wrote,

For my part, I am inclined to think that the crown, beard, gown, and cross which are regarded as the attributes of this marvelous maiden (in pictorial representations), are only a pious devotion to the famous crucifix of Lucca, somewhat gone astray. This famous crucifix was completely dressed and crowned, as were many others of the same period. In course of time, the long gown caused it to be thought that the figure was that of a woman, who on account of the beard was called Vierge-forte. 

Although the cult was vigorously debunked in the Gothic period, several famous representations still exist—and she is, after all, a distinctive figure. Wikipedia describes “an especially attractive carving in the Henry VII Chapel of Westminster Abbey of a beautiful standing Wilgefortis holding a cross, with a very long beard”; another “very lightly bearded, on the outside of a triptych door by Hans Memling”; and, at the church of Saint-Étienne in Beauvais, a sculpture in which she is “depicted in a full blue tunic and sports a substantial beard.”

Whither the French feminists, you ask? Wilgefortis is the patron of tribulations, with a special focus on those women who wish to be disencumbered from abusive spouses. If you wish to commemorate Encumber (that’s her English name) without any social overtones, and you happen to be in London, you’re in luck, or you would’ve been yesterday. According to the page of a beard-enthusiast group called the Capital Beards,

The Capital Beards will next meet along with the rest of The British Beard Club on July 20th for St. Wilgefortis’s feast day. St. Wilgefortis is a notably bearded saint, and so we try to meet up on her feast day every year.

Our venue will be the Buckingham Arms on Petty France. A pub notable for being one of only two in London to have been in every edition of CAMRA’s Good Beer Guide.

As normal we should be there from about Midday.

Jonathon Green, slang lexicographer extraordinaire, has a BBC News piece called “Mullered and 61 other words for beaten at sport” that makes enjoyable reading; I particularly like some of the ones that have fallen by the wayside, such as “shend (to humiliate, put to shame by superiority and linked to the German schande, shame), overwin (the aggressive antithesis of the persuasive “win over”), scomfit (ie discomfit, which also meant defeat 200 years before it evolved into confuse or disconcert), cumber (to encumber, presumably with embarrassment) and fenk (from French vaincre, to conquer).” Fenk — what a great verb! Only three citations, the last two from the mid-14th century (Alisaunder 323 “Philip fenkes in fyght” and Alexander and Dindimus 339 “Haddest þou fenked þe fon.. þat in þi flech dwellen”), but I think it should be brought back. “Curses, fenked again!” Green ends with some more recent ones “that seem to have slipped through the net”: ramscootrify, rumbusticate, spiflicate, and scrumplicate. The BBC called for submissions from readers, which they’ve now run in “Readers’ 48 words for defeat,” from gub to beat hollow. (Thanks, Eric!)

Image: Pierre Alechinsky, Sun Slit Throat

"Andrew Solomon is here in Romania."

We had been discussing the big Romanian release of The Noonday Demon, his big nonfiction book about depression, and my friend was asking me if she should read it. I told her: only if you think prescription medication for depression is the way to go. It had been a rare thing when it was released, a thoughtful book on depression, so it was easier to overlook its many flaws. Now there are many very good books about depression, it can be safely ignored.

But now today I am remembering my response to her telling me Solomon was in Bucharest: "I bet he's only here for a few days but he writes about the state of Romania anyway."

Yesterday Andrew Solomon's piece about the state of Romania went up at the New Yorker. He was in the country for six days, which, come on, isn't even enough time to get the jet lag off of you. Funnily enough, he found exactly what he expected to find: that Romania is a backwards, dirty, horrible place.

"I had hoped she might not be entirely right, that this European source of the family would be at least picturesque, that I’d have a surprising sense of identification with the place. I didn’t know how despondent it would make me to imagine being trapped in that life. I’ve reported from war zones and deprived societies for decades, but they have always been profoundly other, and this felt shockingly accessible—I could have been born here, and lived and died like this."

At first I was shocked that the New Yorker published this, as Solomon shows no historical understanding, let alone understanding of Romania's current situation. He also presents America and himself as shining beacons of hope to the poor Romanians, like some sort of Christian missionary among the savages. But then I remembered this piece the New York Times wrote about Ecuador a year ago, and I realized it wasn't surprising at all.

In it, Ecuador is also presented as squalid and backwards, although the reasoning is this:

"There are only three laptops and two desktop computers on display at the store in one of Quito’s top malls, plus two iPads, an iPad mini and a couple of iPods. The tiny shop is nowhere near the size of one of Apple’s flagship emporia in New York or other major cities."

Guys. They don't even have an Apple store. Which is obviously baseline for livability. The article did not use the term "third world" but you can hear it sneering through the text.

This isn't about shaming two travel writers, it's more that travel writing is in a very bad place. It seems to have divided into two camps, one where it's all about the self, the crazy thing that happened to me, and the exotic country is just dramatic backdrop. This camp is mostly populated by women. Then there is the colonial travel writer, who doesn't speak the language, has no real ties or sense of the history beyond a Wikipedia page, but comes back to tell people about how it is there. This camp is mostly populated by men. This is not because women are more self-involved or men are more chauvinist, it's because women writers are encouraged and groomed to write about certain things, and vice versa. Women are supposed to be self-reflective, men are supposed to be experts, that is just the way things are set up right now.

(There is an interesting variation in the self travel writing, bro writers who go off to Cambodia, who think that because they go zip-lining through the jungle and have avoided getting an office job, they are somehow living heroic lives. Timothy Ferriss is this travel writer's patron saint.)

The result is some terrible travel writing. There are travel writers working today who I think are brilliant, and I will tell anyone who will sit still long enough all the ways Stasiuk's On the Road to Babadag is amazing. But for the most part, the travel writing that I read is not only shallow but also prejudiced and chauvinist. People going to places they don't understand and don't feel they need to try to.

(Here is usually where someone says "John Jeremiah Sullivan" as an example of contemporary travel writing's greatness, but I will counter with, "Read his Ireland piece." He just lines up every cliche about Irish travel writing, one by one: James Joyce, genealogy, the Famine, small local pubs, tweed caps. Contemporary Ireland is a very interesting and complicated place, economically and culturally and politically, which is not something you would know from reading Sullivan's piece.)

What is needed is a travel writing revival, writing like Stasiuk or Geert Mak's In Europe. Thoughtful, immersive work that smashes cliches and the images we have of what certain places are like before we even go. Travel writers who if they find exactly what they expected when they go somewhere question why that might be. Travel writers who have more than six days in a country before they start telling us about how the whole thing works.

Who doesn't love The Golden Girls (1985—1992)?

If you're one of those who doesn't, please skip this mega-post, in which I struggle to count down my own personal 40 favorite guest-starring appearances on the show, with another 60 honorable mentions...for a total of 100.

I am counting anyone, outside of the four main cast members, who ever appeared on the show, whether it be a brief cameo, a one-off or a lengthy, recurring role. No animals, so “Dreyfuss” the dog, the piano-playing chicken and “Baby” the 29-year-old pig are outta luck.

There are many more appearances that just didn't grab me enough to warrant making my list, but that doesn't mean they were not valuable contributions to the show.

But the beauty of personal countdowns like these is that you can comment below with your own favorites and remind me of some I may have forgotten!

Of the 40 I picked, I provided as much info as humanly possible...and there are lots of criss-crossing connections and wonderfully HUH? factoids about what some of the lesser-known guest stars later did with their lives and careers.

Please share this if you're so inclined...and thank you for being a friend...

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This TV thing is just a fad!

#40

Lynnie Greene as young “Dorothy Zbornak” in various episodes (1987—1991)

Lynnie Greene (b. May 21, 1954) had the misfortune of being in those flashback episodes of GG, the ones I and at least some other fans never liked as much—they gave Estelle Getty a crack at looking closer to her true age, but the backstory of “Dorothy,” “Sophia” and “Salvatore” (played by Sid Melton, May 22, 2017—November 2, 2011) just wasn't what we came to the show to see—we wanted to see older women dealing with contemporary problems with style and humor.

But Greene makes my list because she uncannily resembles Bea Arthur in appearance and mannerism, and that's pretty tough when the subject was previously thought to be inimitable! Her best appearance was probably in “One for the Money” (September 26, 1987), in which “Dorothy” and “Sophia” discover they've been working extra-hard in order to buy TVs for each other. (“Sophia” mentions that “new show” Make Room for Daddy, on which Melton, who plays “Salvatore” in the same episode, was a regular.)

Greene has acting very rarely on TV, beginning with a regular role on the Bess Armstrong (b. December 11, 1953) vehicle On Our Own (1977—1978). She made several guest appearances on big-name shows [and on the unsold pilot game show Get Rich Quick! in '77 with three beloved TV actors who died way too soon: Debralee Scott (April 2, 1953—April 5, 2005), John Ritter (September 17, 1948—September 11, 2003) and Robert Urich (December 19, 1946—April 16, 2002)], but her greater successes came as a writer and producer, working on Nip/Tuck (2006—2010) and Masters of Sex (2013), among others.

Greene in recent times—she's really gone to the dogs!

Her most interesting theatrical claim to fame is originating the role of “Emma Goldman” in Stephen Sondheim's (b. March 22, 1930) Assassins in 1990 Off-Broadway.

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He cares for her very much.

#39

Cesar Romero as “Tony Delveccio” in “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun...Before They Die” (November 24, 1990)

Cesar Romero (February 15, 1907—January 1, 1994), a dashing, Golden Age of Hollywood leading man, made a cute love interest for “Sophia” in this episode, which finds her in bed with the guy after some passionate lovemaking (You're good, he says. By way of explanation, she replies, I live with a slut.), telling him she loves him. All he can muster is a wimpy, “I care for you.” They wind up sharing photos of their late spouses. Awww!

Romero, a close confidante and frequent date of Joan Crawford's (March 23, 1906—May 10, 1977) and of many other glamorous leading ladies of the '30s and '40s, was gay. He once explained away his confirmed bachelorhood:

“How could I [get married], when I had so many responsibilities? Could I tell a girl, 'Let's get married, and you can come live with my father, my mother, two sisters, a niece and a nephew'? I have no regrets, no regrets.”

Despite being a Cuban homo in a conservative era (maybe it helped that he was a conservative), Romero never hurt for work, and was adroit in a variety of roles, whether it be stereotypical Latin lovers, cowboys, villains, leading men or colorful characters.

He's got the (Tyrone) Power! (May 5, 1914—November 15, 1958)

Two of the most famous movies in which he appeared are the Marlene Dietrich (December 27, 1901—May 6, 1992) classic The Devil is a Woman (1935) and Shirley Temple (April 23, 1928—February 10, 2014) starrers Wee Willie Winkie (1937) and The Little Princess (1939).

In truth, Romero was more likely to be in temporary crowd-pleasers than enduring, deep classics. He worked in hundreds of films and made just as many TV appearances.

In the latter medium, Romero is forever famous as “The Joker on Batman (1966—1968), but was also a recurring character on Julia (1970), Alias Smith and Jones (1971—1972) and Falcon Crest (1985—1988), played Freddie Prinze's (June 22, 1954—January 29, 1977) dad on Chico and the Man (1977) and made multiple trips to Fantasy Island (1979—1983) and on The Love Boat (1984—1986). He was also a silver-haired villain in a series of Walt Disney films starring young Kurt Russell (b. March 17, 1951).

He died of pneumonia.

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If he can find it, he can have it...“Ernie” was probably the worst lover “Rose” has ever had.

#38

Richard Herd as “Ernie Faber” in “The Impotence of Being Ernest” (February 4, 1989)

Richard Herd (b. September 26, 1932), who looks more like Karl Malden (March 22, 1912—July 1, 2009) than Karl Malden did, is “Rose”'s impotent boyfriend in this A-plus episode, even getting to play in what has to be one of Betty's Top 3 scenes of the whole series:

Rose: “If you ask me, people rely too much on sex in relationships, anyway.”

Ernie: “You're right. I mean, what is sex, after all?”

Rose: “Two clunky old bodies thrashing around against each other. Like animals.”

Ernie: “Get all sweaty and flushed.”

Rose: “Hair get mussed.”

Ernie: “You lose your breath.”

Passing on dessert

Rose: “You lose your earring.”

Ernie: “Your mouth waters.”

Rose: “Your nose runs.”

Ernie: “Your heart races.”

Rose: “Your blood races.”

Ernie: “Rose...”

Rose: “Say it, Ernie!”

Ernie: “It's time, Rose.”

Rose: “Check! Please!”

Herd was a classically trained stage actor whose first movie was an Arnold Schwarzenegger muscle flick in 1969, before logging appearances in some of the most famous films of the '70s and '80s, including All the President's Men (1976), The China Syndrome and The Onion Field (both 1979), Private Benjamin (1980) and Planes, Trains & Automobiles (1987).

When you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go...downtown.

Herd has worked steadily, including regular roles in SeaQuest 2032 (1993—1994) and Star Trek: Voyager (1999—2001), but he's probably stopped on the street most often and complimented on his role as “Mr. Wilhelm,” “George Costanza”'s brainwashed boss on Seinfeld (1995—1998). They call him “Sheila.”

Interestingly, Herd reunited with Betty White for her 2012 hidden-camera series Betty White's Off Their Rockers. I guess it was time.

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Doesn't wear Avon, has a mop, is still paying for an encyclopedia her son used just once to look up sexual genitalia: female.

#37

Priscilla Morrill as “Lucille Beatty,” the wife of the dude “Rose” sexed to death, in “A Bed of Rose's” (January 11, 1986)

Priscilla Morrill (June 4, 1927—November 9, 1994) has a memorable spotlight scene in this, the episode that won Betty White her Emmy for the series. As the wife of “Al” (Richard Roat, ), Morrill starts out tart when “Rose” shows up to discuss her fling with the man she hadn't realized was married, but dissolves into shock when “Rose” breaks the news that “Al” has died after a night of adulterous passion.

Her husband died doing what he liked to do best!

Morrill's speech is classic:

“Well, you must have the wrong Al. You've been sleeping with someone else's Al. My Al is as healthy as a horse...it can't be him. Al Beatty from Boca Raton? You're telling me Al is dead? A heart attack is crazy—he was a runner, he couldn't have a heart attack. I'm talking so it can't be true, you know what I mean? If I keep talking, it isn't true. All I have to do is talk forever. Oh, God...Al! I'm all right—I'm okay. Al...the big jerk. I loved him.”

The scene brilliantly transforms from the other woman consoling a widow to the widow consoling the other woman!

“Mrs. Graaant!”

A stage actress, Morrill made her TV debut in 1955 (in a filmed version of the Broadway show Dream Girl) and worked steadily in the medium, especially in the '70s and '80s. She's very familiar to fans of The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1973—1975) as “Lou Grant”'s ex, “Edie,” and worked with Bea Arthur and Rue McClanahan on Maude twice (1973—1975). She was “Chrissy” aka Suzanne Somers' mom on Three's Company (1977) and had a recurring role on Newhart (1985—1989). One of her longest gigs was on the soap opera Santa Barbara (1985—1986). Her final recurring TV role was on Coach (1989—1992).

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“I've always felt that the stunnin' classical beauty if an Eye-talian woman should be admired like a fine work of art.”

#36

Murray Hamilton as “Blanche”'s father “Big Daddy Hollingsworth” in “Big Daddy” (May 3, 1986) 

Murray Hamilton (March 24, 1923—September 1, 1986) played “Blanche”'s often-referred-to father in only one episode. In “Big Daddy,” the titular character—keep in mind that Hamilton was only 11 years older than Rue McClanahan—shows up to reveal he's going to fulfill his dream of being a singer. “Blanche” is mortified by his embarrassing plan, and must come to terms with the fact that her father is a flesh-and-blood, mortal man with his own ideas of how to live his life independent of her larger-than-life image of him.

Active (and Tony-nominated) in the theater and in film, Hamilton is perhaps best-remembered as hey-hey-hey “Mr. Robinson” in The Graduate (1967) and as the soulless mayor in Jaws (1975), but he also has the distinction of appearing in the film that contains Rock Hudson's best (only great?) performance, Seconds (1966).

On TV, Hamilton's episode of The Twilight Zone is one of many classics from the series:

Unfortunately, Hamilton died of cancer less than four months after his GG performance aired. The next time “Big Daddy” showed up, he was played by David Wayne (January 30, 1914—February 9, 1995).

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Ida & Sophia wax philosophical about aging. Ware was 71, Estelle Getty was 65.

#35

Herta Ware as “Ida,” homeless senior in “Brother, Can You Spare That Jacket?” (December 3, 1988)

Herta Ware (June 9, 1917—August 15, 2005) was a highlight of the rather heavy episode (that lady singing “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” really put it over the top) about homelessness, playing a woman who admits she never realized it cost money to get old. When Sophia tells her to hang on 'til tomorrow, Ida says, “Sophia, it is tomorrow.” Deep.

Herta with Ryan Phillippe in Cruel Intentions (1999)

Herta was a stage actress who made her debut in 1936 opposite her husband, the (secretly gay) Will Geer, who much later was “Grandpa Walton.” They divorced but remained friends throughout Geer's blacklisting for his leftist beliefs, which she shared—did I mention that Herta was the granddaughter of the co-founder of the Communist Party of the United States? She was also mom-in-law to Larry Linville (September 29, 1939—April 10, 2000), aka “Frank Burns” from M*A*S*H, whom she outlived.

She was most recognizable for her appearances in Cocoon (1985) and Cocoon: The Return (1988).

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“Charmaine” is so refined and vivacious and charmin'—boy, she's really changed!

#34

Barbara Babcock as “Blanche”'s roman a clef-writin' sister “Charmaine Hollingsworth” on “Sisters and Other Strangers” (March 3, 1990)

Barbara Babcock (b. February 27, 1937) has fun as a slutty Southern belle, playing “Blanche”'s no-good sister. “Charmaine” is in town promoting her new novel Vixen: Story of a Woman, and the visit starts out promisingly...maybe the old rivals can patch things up and be sisterly again? When “Blanche” gets around to reading “Charmaine”'s book, she decides it's a thinly-veiled tell-all about herself, which threatens to drive the sisters apart forever.

It was a good episode for the end of a show's fifth season, also featuring a fun, Ninotchka-derived performance from Marian Mercer (November 26, 1935—April 27, 2011) as “Stan”'s Eastern European cousin “Magda.”

Babcock is of course well known for her stint on Dallas (1978—1981), her Emmy-winning role as “Grace Gardner” on Hill Street Blues (1981—1987) and her 1993—1998 regular role on Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

In the famous November 22, 1968, “Plato's Stepchildren” Star Trek episode in which “Kirk” & “Uhura” kiss

She hasn't acted in film or on TV in over a decade. Our loss!

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Somebody here doesn't remember Prom Night 1946...and I'm that somebody!

#33

Anne Francis (September 16, 1930—January 2, 2011) as “Dorothy”'s boundary-less old frenemy “Trudy McMann” in “Till Death Do We Volley” (March 18, 1989)

Anne Francis (September 16, 1930—January 2, 2011) brings real verve to her part as an old friend of “Dorothy”'s in this lively, practical-joke laced episode. “Trudy”'s arrival brings with it a cloud of catty repartée, one that seemingly ends when Trudy drops dead during a heated tennis match vs. “Dorothy.” When it turns out that the whole thing was a tasteless practical joke, only “Dorothy” has predicted it—and she's waiting in bed with Trudy's husband to get her own brand of revenge.

“Dorothy” envies “Trudy” for her breast implants.

A child actress on the stage, Francis became true TV royalty after appearing in a number of interesting and popular '50s flicks, like Bad Day at Black Rock and Blackboard Jungle (both 1955), and Forbidden Planet (1956). On TV, she appeared in a number of dramatic roles throughout the '50s and '60s, most memorably as a confused woman seeking a gold thimble in the 1960 Twilight Zone episode “The After Hours”—if you've seen it, you've never looked at a department store mannequin in quite the same way again!

Looking very vintage-“Barbie” in Susan Slept Here (1954)

Her breakthrough came when she landed the sex-ay title role on the fondly remembered, short-lived, Honey West (1965—1966).

The original and remake episodes of “The After Hours”:

Francis guest-starred on almost every one of the most popular series from the '60s to the '90s, including recurring roles on Dallas (1981), Riptide (1984) and The Drew Carey Show (1998).

One of her most famous roles was mostly left on the cutting-room floor—in 1968, she played “Georgia James” in Funny Girl, but clashed with star (and eventual Oscar winner) Barbra Streisand. Francis said of the experience:

“[Barbra Streisand] told Harry Stradling how to [photograph] her and Wyler how to direct. It was all like an experience out of Gaslight. There was an unreality about it...I had only one unpleasant meeting with Barbra during the entire five months of rehearsals and production. But the way I was treated, it was a nightmare. And my scenes were whittled from the very good ones and a lot of other ones, to two minutes of voice-over in a New Jersey railroad station.”

So screwed it wasn't even Funny

Francis never achieved movie stardom, but worked steadily in TV until her battle with pancreatic cancer made work impossible. She died in 2011.

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Van Dyke earned an Emmy nomination for his 1989 performance.

#32

Dick Van Dyke as “Dorothy”'s clown love interest “Ken Whittingham” in “Love Under the Big Top” (October 28, 1989)

Dick Van Dyke (b. December 13, 1925) gives it his all as one of “Dorothy”'s many serious boyfriends with an issue that drives them apart—in this case, her discomfort with his desire to give up lawyering in order to be a clown. The episode, which sneaks in some good-hearted propaganda about dolphins being killed by tuna fishermen, culminates with a (goofily) dramatic courtroom scene in which “Ken” has to argue a case in full clown regalia.

Whip out your Cockney!

The Tony- and Grammy- and Emmy-winning Van Dyke, obviously, has been working non-stop since his TV debut in 1957, most famously on The Dick Van Dyke Show (1961—1966), one of the best series of all time. After decades of illustrious film roles in the likes of Mary Poppins (1964) and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968) and countless hours of episodic television, he had a 180-episode run with TV's Diagnosis Murder (1993—2002), whose demographic was in the “Sophia” range.

In his personal life, Van Dyke was involved with Michelle Triola (November 13, 1932—October 30, 2009), the woman who sued Lee Marvin for palimony (and lost) for over 30 years. Triola was represented by Marvin Mitchelson (May 7, 1928—September 18, 2004), who made an appearance on GG toward the end of the series in 1991.

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Who wouldn't like to help him mold his clay or buff his marble any time???

#31

Tony Jay as glass-closeted sculptor “Laszlo” in “The Artist” (December 19, 1987)

When all three women are smitten with world-famous artist “Laszlo,” it makes for a cold war. All three pose for the handsome old dude—playing suavely by Tony Jay (February 2, 1933—August 13, 2006)—the results are a mish-mash. Far more surprising is the real object of his affection...a dude.

“I see a woman with a fuller figure, wider hips, wider eyes...”

Jay, a British-born thesp, had the kind of deep, sinister voice that kept him busy. Interestingly, he appeared on the U.S. TV series Beauty and the Beast for several episodes in 1987 and voiced “M. D'Arque” in the Disney animated film Beauty and the Beast (1991). His work for Disney extended when he voiced “Judge Claude Frollo” in The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996).

The evil “Frollo”

His voice made him a popular addition to many other cartoons and various video games, including “Megabyte” in ReBoot.

“I thought you knew...” was very “Nobody's perfect!”

Sadly, Jay died following surgery to remove what turned out to be a non-cancerous tumor from his lung.

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“Attila the Sub” taught him English at Eastwick High in '75, when Mr. Martinez had his sex change.

#30

Tom Villard as “Randy Becker” on “Rose: Portrait of a Woman” (March 7, 1992)

Tom Villard (November 19, 1953—November 14, 1994) appeared on GG twice, the first time in the 1986 episode “Vacation” as one of a group of guys battling a monsoon on a tropical vacation the ladies decided to take.

In that episode, Villard was a platinum-blond smart-ass upset at having to share a bathroom with Grandma Moses and the Mosettes.

The blonde bimbo from We Got It Made went on to become a right-wing Christian speaker.

But Villard had a more central role in “Rose: Portrait of a Woman,” in which he plays an old student of “Dorothy's who has made it big in the video-game industry and offers to hire her for a high-paying job as a motivational speaker for his sales force. It doesn't work out when the men resist learning anything at all; for some reason, Dorothy turns down a great salary, benefits and no work!!!

Villard's least-cute role, in Popcorn

Villard is one of my favorite '80s actors—not only was he cute as a button, he had a wonderfully sweet vibe. He's most known for his role as adorkable “Jay Bostwick” on We Got It Made (1983—1984, 1987—1988), but also appeared in the TV movie that launched Love, Sidney in 1981, in the films Parasite and Grease 2 in 1982, in the Clint Eastwood (b. May 31, 1930) film Heartbreak Ridge (pictured) and the John Cusack (b. June 28, 1966)/Demi Moore (b. November 11, 1962) romp One Crazy Summer (both 1986), in Ken Russell's (July 3, 1927—November 27, 2011) Whore, in the slasher flick Popcorn and in the hit My Girl (the latter three all in 1991).

Barely keeping a straight face with Catherine Oxenberg in the TV movie Swimsuit (1989)

Villard made a number of appearances on game shows, including this funny fake-out of an opening on Password with Constance McCashin (b. June 18, 1947), who is a therapist in real life now:

Here is Tom winning his partner $10,000, and here he is undertaking the unenviable task of playing against Betty White in 1991 on The $100,000 Pyramid:

Villard was gay and battling AIDS for the last several years of his life, a fact he bravely confirmed in a 1994 interview with Entertainment Tonight. He spoke out, asking for help because his acting jobs had dried up; the plea led to some work from various quarters, including a role on Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (1994). Villard gave a frank interview about the challenges of living with AIDS that ran in the December 1994/January 1995 issue of Poz Magazine.

Sadly, he succumbed to AIDS as his Poz interview was hitting the stands.

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Uncle Angelo was pleased to meet a pair of nuns collecting lingerie for needy sexy people.

#29

Bill Dana as “Dorothy”'s daffy “Uncle Angelo” on 6 episodes (1988—1992)

TV legend Bill Dana (b. October 5, 1924) arrived in 1988 as “Sophia”'s 90-year-old big brother (an age he is reaching only now), a man everyone thought was a priest. To protect his delicate sensibilities, “Sophia” convinces “Dorothy” and her ex, “Stan”, to pretend they never got divorced. Problem is, “Dorothy” hates “Stan.” Second problem is, “Angelo” is no priest. Hilarity ensues.

Angelo's best moments probably came on that and on his final appearance, Season 7's Ebbtide VI: The Wrath of Stan, in which his dissatisfaction with a crummy building he's living in leads to a court case against “Dorothy” and “Stan.”

Dana, a WWII vet, cut his teeth in the biz writing comedy for the likes of Steve Allen and Don Adams (Dana's brother wrote Get Smart's theme), and performing on the nightclub circuit with Imogene Coca, Martha Raye and others. His unforgettable character at the time—whom he played on no fewer than a half dozen different TV series—was known for uttering, in a heavy Mexican accent, “My name José Jimenez.” The whole funny-accent shtick got old, so Dana ditched it. Speaking of changing with the times, it was Jimenez who wrote Sammy Davis Jr.'s famous 1972 episode of All in the Family.

After finishing up on GG in 1992, Dana made an appearance on the spin-off series Empty Nest, and then retired.

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She was thinking of a permanent arrangement.

#28

Doris Belack as “Dorothy”'s rich-bitch sister “Gloria Petrillo-Mayston” in “The Custody Battle” (December 7, 1985)

Doris Belack (February 26, 1926—October 4, 2011) had a tough job in this early episode—she had to lock horns with Bea Arthur as her annoying, spoiled sister from California, the one who'd married well. Making matters worse, it turns out her visit has an ulterior motive: She wants her mom “Sophia” to return to her mansion with her and live out her days there, being waited on hand and foot, a country away from “Dorothy” and the other girls. 

Why wouldn't “Sophia” want to go? After all, she'd be doing her grocery shopping with Bert Convy!

Belack played “Fish”'s wife on one episode of Barney Miller when Florence Stanley (July 1, 1924—October 3, 2003) was unavailable.

Belack had a recurring role on Law & Order and Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (1990—2001), but her TV roots went back to a 1947 (!) episode of the early The Borden Show. She made many episodic appearances and did several soaps, but a stable hit eluded the familiar character actress.

Still, all her soap opera experience probably helped inform her role as a soap producer in the classic '80s comedy Tootsie (1982).

Belack during her final stage appearance in 2002 in Surviving Grace in NYC

Her final TV role was on Sex and the City (2003) and her final film role was in an indie about a Jewish woman and a Muslim woman entering arranged marriages (Arranged, 2007), but her last job of any kind was providing her distinctive voice to...Grand Theft Auto IV.

I think Belack's performance as “Gloria” is pretty flawless, eclipsing a later appearancs by the otherwise fabulous Dena (“It's not nice to fool Mother Nature!”) Dietrich as the same character in 1991. Dietrich was perfectly cast, physically, as a sibling of “Dorothy,” but she had the misfortune of appearing at a time that came closer to the end of the series, when the writing wasn't as sharp.

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Can't you see Patrick is in the middle of an EX-quisite performance?

#27

Lloyd Bochner as “Patrick Vaughn” in “The Actor” (January 17, 1987)

Lloyd Bochner (July 29, 1924—October 29, 2005) was on two episodes (he was the ridiculously untalented hairdresser “Eduardo” in the other), but it's his deadpan, Airplane!-like performance as pretentious—and horny—actor “Patrick Vaughn” that brings out the HAs. In “The Actor,” Bochner is the star of a local production of Picnic, and he's trying to canoodle with all three of our girls behind each other's backs. In a hysterical twist, it turns out he's also sleeping with another actress in the play (Janet Carroll, December 24, 1940—May 22, 2012)...and the entire rest of the cast!

But not with that damned liar, “Ed,” the stage manager (Frank Birney, b. ?).

I could eat...

Canadian Bochner was a child actor before WWII and appeared on such early TV as One Man's Family in 1949 and, later, as a regular on Hong Kong (1960—1961). He never broke through to stardom, yet he was all over television and is an instnatly recognizable face—and voice. That voice!

Bochner's most famous role has to be as the star of one of the best Twilight Zone episodes, “To Serve Man” (1962). To this day, “It's a cookbook!” (as shrieked by Susan Cummings, b. July 10, 1930) means something to most TV fans. He also worked as “Cecil Colby” on Dynasty (1981—1982)—and had quite the massive heart attack while sticking it to Joan Collins (b. May 23, 1933)!

I like father, I like son.

Somehow, I never put two and two together to realize he was the father of one of the sexiest men of all time, actor/director Hart Bochner.

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He loves leftovers.

#26

Billy Jayne/Billy Jacoby as “Blanche”'s bratty grandson “David” in On Golden Girls (October 26, 1985)

You've got to give Billy Jayne (b. April 10, 1969) major props for playing an annoying kid so well you cheer every time you watch “Sophia” smack him, even if you're against corporal punishment.

In this episode, “David” is nowhere to be found on his flight to Miami, turning up later when brought to the ladies' home by a cop. He promptly invites over a bunch of random punks (one has a tail!) and blasts fantastic fake rock music in the living room in the middle of the night. Making matters worse, “David” enjoys taking potshots at all the women's ages, which for the record were 63 (Betty White), 63 (Bea Arthur), 62 (Estelle Getty, though she was playing 20 years older) and 51 (Rue McClanahan).

Jacoby the teen idol

“Blanche” is able to figure out that “David” is acting out thanks to his self-centered parents, and in a brilliant move, she manipulates her daughter over the phone by threatening to take custody of the wayward boy, who becomes humbled and loving in the space of the episode.

As obnoxious as this character was, I still enjoy this episode more than the “Dorothy's Prized Pupil” from 1987 with an embryonic Mario Lopez (b. October 10, 1973), which comes off as a bit preachy.

Jayne, who always reminded me of a combo of the famous '80s Corys, was an acting veteran by the time he filmed this episode at age 16—he's been working since 1977. His steadiest gigs were in the 1979—1980 TV version of The Bad News Bears and on some other quickly-forgotten TV bombs like Miriam Flynn's vehicle Maggie (1981—1982) and It's Not Easy (1983). But Jayne is more familiar for a recurring role on Silver Spoons (1985—1987) and his biggest job, as a regular on Parker Lewis Can't Lose (1990—1993).

Scott Jacoby as “Michael” &  Rosalind Cash (December 31, 1938—October 31, 1995) as “Lorraine” on 1988's “Mixed Blessings”

All of his siblings and his ex-wife are actors. In fact, his Emmy-winning (as the son of a gay man in 1972's That Certain Summer) brother Scott Jacoby (b. November 26, 1956) played “Dorothy”'s aimless son “Michael Zbornak” in three episodes of The Golden Girls—then retired from acting in 1991 after an appearance in a horror flick.

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A little problem

#25

Brent Collins as “Dr. Jonathan Newman” in “A Little Romance” (December 14, 1985)

Brent Collins (October 31, 1941—January 6, 1988) played an early love interest for “Rose,” and a challenge to the other ladies, who presumably consider themselves open-minded—because “Rose”'s mysterious doctor boyfriend turns out to be a little person. The women are really thrown for a loop; when he says he's “Dr. Jonathan Newman,” “Dorothy” shoots back, “Are you absolutely sure?”, and when bringing out hors d'oeuvres for a cozy, getting-to-know-you dinner at home, “Blanche” blanches after calling out, “Shrimp?”

“Rose” agonizes over whether this relationship can work in spite of their differences, only to discover in the end that it's “Dr. Newman” who can't handle their differences—see, “Rose” isn't Jewish....

Be our guest

Collins was memorable in this, one of his only parts (he worked on only a few projects in the '80s, notably as “Mr. Big” on As the World Turns (1982—1983) and as “Wallingford” on Another World (1984—1988) before dying at an early age of the incredibly rare Marfan disease). Also, all the little-person anguish provides an opportunity for the most famous dwarf in Hollywood history—Billy Barty (October 25, 1924—December 23, 2000)—to pop up in a dream sequence playing “Rose”'s father; Barty was just one of many Old Hollywood vets to grace the show. In an even more random appearance within the same sequence, famed psychic Jeane Dixon (January 5, 1904—January 25, 1997) emerges to make predictions involving Brooke Shields, Lady Di, Jackie O...everyone but “Rose.”

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She's dyin'...no wonder she's lookin' so much older than Blanche.

#24

Sheree North as “Blanche”'s kidney-coveting sister “Virginia Hollingsworth” on “Transplant” (October 5, 1985) & “Ebb Tide” (December 9, 1989)

Sheree North (January 17, 1932—November 4, 2005) brought convincing sex-kitten oomph to her role as “Blanche”'s younger (she was two years older in real life) sister, one with whom “Blanche” has always endured a rivalry. But in her first of two appearances, “Virginia” throws “Blanche” for a loop when she announces, in her Southern twang, I'm dyin'.” She needs a kidney, and “Blanche” is her only hope. She winds up living and “Blanche” keeps both of her kidneys, which is just as well, since the two wound up quarreling over their “Big Daddy”'s funeral on North's second, 1989 appearance.

Dancer and stage actress North was one of the curvy blondes being groomed by rival studios to compete with Marilyn Monroe in the '50s, but her star never ascended in the way Jayne Mansfield's did, albeit briefly. North played Monroe's mentally unbalanced mom in the 1980 TV biopic Marilyn: The Untold Story.

The whole Next Marilyn thing bombed, but North went on to become a prolific and effective TV actress, rarely in recurring but always in interesting roles. She wasn't averse to tossing her natural glamourpuss tendencies out the window, but they came in handy when she played “Lou Grant”'s sexy GF on The Mary Tyler Moore Show (1974—1975) and a hooker (for which she received an Emmy nomination) on Archie Bunker's Place (1979).

The world's flirtiest women's room attendant

Along with making an impression as “Blanche”'s sis, North's most family TV gig has to be one of her final performances—she was “Kramer”'s mom “Babs” on Seinfeld in a 1995 episode in which she revealed her son's real name: “Cosmo.”

She also returned for the series finale in 1998; her Seinfeld turns were her third- and second-to-last roles before her cancer-related death in 2005.

North was very, very popular on TV.

There is a Sheree North Room in NYC's Chelsea Pines Inn, in which memorabilia from her career is on display.

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Blanche is single, free Saturday night and can arch her back until her head touches her heel.

#23

TIE: George Clooney as “Bobby Hopkins & Joseph Campanella as “Al Mullins in “To Catch a Neighbor (May 2, 1987)

George Clooney (b. May 6, 1961) and Joseph Campanella (b. November 21, 1924) packed a powerful punch as a cop duo using “Blanche's house as HQ to spy on some jewel thieves who've moved in next door. Clooney was in his TV guest-star phase, and really brought the mega-watt charm. It's not at all surprising to look back at his performance and realize he would go on to become a superstar.

Blanche graciously says Dorothy can have the boy.

You pretty much know everything there is to know about Clooney, so let's not run off his credits here.

WWII vet Campanella—who my mom spotted in Walt Disney World in the '70s and snapped with his kid, with his kind permission—is an extremely prolific actor of the stage, screen and TV, also doing lots of voice-over work.

Some of his biggest TV roles were on Naked City (1961—1962), The Bold Ones: The Lawyers (1969—1972), Mannix (1967—1972), One Day at a Time (1976—1982) and The Colbys (1985—1986).

On the latter, he was Barbara Stanwyck's (July 16, 1907—January 20, 1990) last on-screen love interest.

Campanella has been a pitchman in countless TV ads.

His longest-running gig was on The Bold and the Beautiful—he was with the soap from 1996 until 2005, at which time he was over 80 years old.

Campanella's most recent performance was in 2009.

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“Candy” is dandy.

#22

Meg Wyllie as “Candy” the stewardess in “Nothing to Fear, But Fear Itself” (October 24, 1987)

Meg Wyllie (February 15, 1917—January 1, 2002) made four appearances on GG as different characters, but my favorite (and yours?) was her brief bit as “Candy,” the aged stewardess on that flight to the Bahamas that was allowing “Rose” to overcome her fear of public speaking, “Dorothy” to overcome her fear of flying and “Blanche” to overcome her fear of a recurring ...

May your Sperrys give you blisters, may your son be uninterested in inheriting your Patek Phillipe.

May your housekeeper be an American citizen; may she have an up-to-date OSHA regulations handbook in her purse at all times.

May you forget to update your summer residence information in time to make it into the Social Register’s Dilatory Domiciles this year.

May you develop carpal tunnel your first year of Princeton crew; may you be invited only to the dinner clubs founded after 1950.

May your summer internship be affected by your Gentleman’s C.

May your first divorce remove you from the rolls of the St. Cecilia’s Society; may your ex-wife be named next year’s Social Chair.

May the board vote no.

May your middle name be misspelled when your country retreat is featured in Architectural Digest.

May your second wedding be absent from the Marriages section of the Sunday Times; may your first wife’s remarriage receive two fat columns and a 400×500.

May your invitation to the Bohemian Club be lost in the mail; may you be forced to visit your wife’s relatives in Pasadena this year.

May the bridge named after your great-grandfather collapse, killing fourteen.

May all of your private jets disappear in the fog over Martha’s Vineyard.

May your daughter remain waitlisted even after your generous donation to Harvard.

May your mistress and your wife buy the same model of yacht, so that you can never be sure if you’re keeping the bills separate.

May your stroke never improve, may your Tom Collins always be watered down at the nineteenth hole, may the links be always affected by ongoing club construction.

May your son’s fraternity be visited by scandal and defeats in both polo and lacrosse.

May all your employees demand comprehensive health insurance; may the hospital wing named after your father fail to develop any interesting cures this year.

May your ex-husband marry Wendi Deng and change the terms of your children’s trusts in her favor.

May something terrible happen to The Markets.

May your Fraxel session leave you reddened for an extra three days; may all of your tennis bracelets have to get resized. 

May all of your sons become DJs, may all of your daughters design handbags.

Read more Rich People Curses at The Toast.

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Until last night, I had never heard of 1983′s Class, starring Rob Lowe and Andrew McCarthy. Until last night, I thought the only movie about sleeping with someone’s mom was The Graduate, LIKE A CHUMP. The Graduate sucks eggs and Class rules. You should watch Class and never watch The Graduate ever again.

Class and The Graduate both attempt to answer the same two central questions, namely Is It Rad To Sleep With A Lady Who Is 40 and Were The 1960s Any Good, but only Class gets it right (Yes and No, respectively).

Class Features A Scene Where A Good-Looking Character Says The Line “Welcome to [Name of Academy] Academy”

That’s always a sign of a really good movie. I’m pretty sure someone says it in School Ties. For sure they say it in Cruel Intentions, I bet. Probably they say it in Dead Poet’s Society; I don’t know, I’ve only ever seen the scene where Robin Williams makes everyone rip up their books and then the bit at the end where Robert Sean Leonard hangs himself because he can’t be in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In Class, Rob Lowe says it, and the name of the academy is VERNON Academy, which I think is the name of the mean dean in Animal House, so it’s pretty great.

Nobody says “Welcome to [Name of Academy] Academy” in The Graduate, I’m pretty sure.

Class Is A Freaking Murderer’s Row Of Teens And Babes

Holy smokes, you guys, pretty much everyone in Class became a high-ranking member of the Powers and Principalities Of 1980s Sex Romps — Cameron from Ferris Bueller is in it, John Cusack is in it, Joan Cusack is in it, Virginia Madsen is in it but I didn’t catch which character she played, plus teeny tiny Andrew McCarthy and Rob Lowe! Only it was like…four years or so before their biggest hits, so they’re all actual teens, with tiny baby faces.

hi im definitely an actual teen; whats sex ive never even had it

Did you know that when Dustin Hoffman filmed The Graduate, he was already 57? Plus there’s like, a four-hour-long party scene where someone tells him to go into Plastics, which is a metaphor for Hypocrisy and The Banality of The Suburbs, and he never smiles or has a good time even once.

Class Has The Best Fight Scene Of Any Teen Sex Romp Ever, Bar None

There’s a really tremendous fight scene between Rob Lowe and Andrew McCarthy near the end of the movie. It’s perfect; weird and stuttered and full of long pauses, like an actual fight between two guys who don’t fight a lot would look like, because they’re not sure exactly what to do next and also they’re a little winded. All fight scenes in non-action movies would do well to take their cues from this fight scene.

why are we pretending that she is older than him

If you want to see a ninety-year-old man pretend to be a college student and, like, unhappily ride public transportation with Lana Del Ray, then by all means, crank up your Victrola VCR and watch The Graduate. If you want to watch Rob Lowe meaningfully punch Andrew McCarthy in the goddamn face, watch Class. 

There Is A Scene In Class Where Somebody Tells An Authority Figure To “Fuck Off” And Then When He Walks In The Lunch Room All The Guys Give Him A Standing Ovation 

That never happens in The Graduate even once.

Rob Lowe Is A Goddamn Delight

He plays a guy named Skip and he screams at a Calculus book. He looks like he is both A) really committed to playing the character of Skip as three-dimensionally as is possible when your character is named Skip and B) having a great time, which is legitimately difficult to pull off. I love Rob Lowe; he is a Goofy Dad who was imprisoned for years in a Hot Dude’s body and I rejoice that soon he will be entirely free of his Handsome Carapace. I wish we were in a book club about Civil War biographies together.

Andrew McCarthy Is Both Brought Low And Later Redeemed By Lady’s Panties 

On his first day of school, Andrew McCarthy gets tricked into wearing ladies’ underwear by crafty ladies’ underwear-wearing Rob Lowe, only it’s a trick because Rob Lowe shuts Andrew McCarthy outside of the dorms and everyone laughs at him.

Andrew McCarthy gets Rob Lowe back by pretending to hang himself over Rob Lowe’s bed, so that Rob Lowe believes he has driven a young man to suicide. After this they become friends. Andrew McCarthy knows how to end a prank war. No one hangs themselves in The Graduate, but perhaps they should have.

Later, Andrew McCarthy brings back a pair of ladies’ underwear from his Sex Trip to Chicago. Rob Lowe does not realize it at the time, but they are the panties of his very own Rob Lowe Mother, who Andrew McCarthy does it with a bunch. They seem like they have a great time.

No one has a great time in The Graduate. Class has Panty Motifs and also people having a good time during sex. The Graduate has that cool white stripe in Anne Bancroft’s hair, I guess.

In conclusion, The Graduate sucks eggs and I should never have watched it that one time in high school.

Read more Class Is 1000% Percent Better Than The Graduate And You Should Watch It Instead at The Toast.

BRAS. Victoria’s Secret bras are designed to perfectly cup and support the breasts.* While the ideal Victoria’s Secret customer is a B- or C-cup, we do cater to those less fortunate. For small-chested women, we have a range of bras enhanced with six inches of foam padding or one liter of gel filling in order to achieve a presentable appearance. The busty woman can occasionally find a bra of her size in mustard yellow or neon giraffe-print in one of our bargain bins. Any customer, however, who requests an uncommon size, such as 30AA or 40G, should be answered with a pitying stare and a vigorous shake of the head.

*Of a mannequin.

PANTIES. Victoria’s Secret panties also come in a range of sizes and styles. A size XS was modeled on the derriere of a capuchin monkey; they go up from there. Though the amount of material varies wildly among styles and sizes – an XS V-String is basically a rubber band and a fabric Dorito, while an XL Brief could double as a baby sling – the prices are the same across the board. Each style of panties should be separated into four categories: normal solids (black, white, gray), normal prints (polka dots, stripes, hearts), neon solids, and “Slutty Lisa Frank.”

ART. Art is integral to the Victoria’s Secret customer experience. In every store, hundreds of retouched, airbrushed, black & white, candlelit photographs of Victoria’s Secret “Angels” are mounted at eye-level. Once ushered into a fitting room, the customer will encounter a 16×20, framed print of supermodel Adriana Lima’s flawless posterior, directly to the left of the mirror. Studies have found that 35% of customers will bypass the fitting process and head directly to the cashier to avoid the paralyzing indignity of direct comparison to Adriana Lima.

LIGHTING. Similarly, the lighting in Victoria’s Secret fitting rooms is of the utmost importance. It must be dim enough to conceal any dust bunnies, wads of hair, or questionable stains on the carpet, yet strategically angled to illuminate the stomach, buttocks and thighs in a way that spotlights every mole, dimple, stretch mark, and spider vein. When a customer turns to check her behind in a rhinestone-encrusted Cheekini, it is imperative that she nearly pull a hamstring trying to figure out if that’s a previously undiscovered birthmark or just a shadow. It is no coincidence that as she flees the fitting room, she will run straight into our beauty section, where we have a perennial sale on our various bronzers, self-tanners, and shimmer lotions designed to conceal human skin.

SALESPERSONS. In the average store visit, no less than 18 employees should interact with the customer, a strategy known as “Angel Ambush,” the end goal of which is to commit her to a Victoria’s Secret Angel Credit Card. When a customer first enters the store, she is to be greeted and then eyed up by a hulking male doorman/bouncer. In an attempt to avoid the scrutiny of the bouncer as she peruses and selects undergarments, the customer will move deeper into the store, at which point her path is to be blocked by a salesperson. This salesperson will offer to sign her up for the credit card. If the customer refuses, eight more salespersons are to confront her within the next five minutes. Employees are encouraged to use increasingly condescending and/or vaguely threatening tones with each additional offer.

CASHIERS. Once at the cash register, if the salespersons have failed to acquire the customer’s Social Security Number, the cashier should casually request her e-mail address and zip code. If asked for a reason, the cashier should mutter something unintelligible, inserting words like “receipt,” “standard procedure” and/or “free birthday thong” among the gibberish. Under no circumstances should the cashier inform the customer they will receive 12 e-mails a day and 35 catalogs a month for the rest of their life. Once the transaction is complete, the cashier should hand over the customer’s purchase in the largest available iconic blood-red-and-hot-pink Victoria’s Secret bag. Don’t forget to include the free matching duffle bag where applicable!

Read more Excerpts From the Victoria’s Secret Employee Handbook at The Toast.

Previously: Every English novel ever.

1. A Philosophical Murder

2. A Washerwoman Is Insulted

3. The Student’s Emotional Isolation Is Complete

4. The Estate Is Sold Off

5. Uuuuuughhhh

6. An Argument That Is Mostly In French

7. It’s Very Cold Out And Love Does Not Exist Also

8. The Nihilist Buffs His Fingernails While Society Crumbles

9. There Is No God

10. 400 Pages Of A Single Aristocratic Family’s Slow, Alcoholic Decline

11. Is This A Dinner Party Or Is This Hell?

12. The Wedding Is Interrupted

13. Friendship Among The Political Prisoners

14. A Lackluster Duel

15. The Countess Attempts Suicide

16. Back From Siberia, Unexpectedly

17. A Fit of Impetuousness

18. Someone Middle-Class Does Something Awful

19. A Prostitute Listens To A Ninety-Page Philosophical Manifesto

20. I Advise You To Display More Emotional Control In The Future

21. The Manservant Dies Alone

22. Is This A Murder Mystery Or An Exploration Of The Nature Of Religious Faith? Turns Out, A Little Bit Of Both

23. The Mayor Tells A Self-Serving Lie

24. The Countess Finds Religion

25. New Political Waves of Liberalism, Radicalism, and Nihilism Wash Over Russia

26. The Time When We Might Have Found Happiness Together Has Passed

[Image via]

Read more Every Russian Novel Ever at The Toast.

I had never been to Connecticut before. I find the entire East Coast unsettling; everything about it is just a little bit wrong, like the landscape in a nightmare. I had to be periodically reminded of the location of (what seemed to me like) perpetually shifting city-states that continually switched positions on the map as soon as I glanced away (“Boston is north of New York City?”). The ocean was on the wrong side. How could I be heading south with the ocean on my left?

Without looking at a map, I cannot tell you with any certainty if Connecticut (whence that hidden c? What is its dark purpose?) is in fact south of New York City; maybe I was heading north. But I believe it was south. South I went from New York City; south I rode the train.

I was going on a lot of informational interviews in those days. I didn’t know exactly what an informational interview was, and I still don’t. Probably more than anything else, it is the professional equivalent of that “Sanctuary!” scene from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It’s an attempt at sympathetic magic; the hope that having coffee near enough successful people will somehow turn into success for yourself. You seem like you have a home and a place to go all day. Tell me how. Tell me the incantations. Midway through the journey of our life, I have found myself within a dark wood, for the right way had been lost. Rub your employment all over me. 

I’d lost my first job right out of college on the same day my girlfriend lost hers. We compared notes and concluded it was almost certainly because one of my coworkers had found out we were dating, but that it was impossible to prove and anyhow there wasn’t anything we could do about it now.

I was conscious for the first time of a rising sense of panic over an irreversible decision. I’ve made the wrong choice, and I can’t take it back. I had always been able to take things back before. I shouldn’t have gone to an evangelical Christian college. I shouldn’t have gone to an evangelical Christian college with a five-times-a-week chapel requirement and strict rules against homosexual conduct. I shouldn’t have gotten a job and a girlfriend from that Christian college at the same time. It wasn’t a good school. I hadn’t learned anything. I’d made a bad decision, and now it was over, and all of my prospects had vanished. The only job leads I knew of were for youth pastors and graduate school.

In the face of adversity, I did not acquit myself becomingly. I panicked in slow motion and without a plan. I was so used to things happening to me that the possibility that I was going to have to make something happen by myself was paralyzing. I sold my stuff on Craigslist. I applied to every job in the world. I went to In-N-Out and hid the garbage in the Dumpster so my roommate would still ask me to go to In-N-Out with her for dinner, which she wouldn’t if she knew I’d already had it for breakfast. It was 2009, and the world was not interested in a theology minor with some waitressing experience. I was not interested in her either, to be perfectly honest.

The money ran out, and the jobs never came, so I broke the lease and broke up with the girlfriend and rode up Big Sur in a U-Haul with my mother.

“You can live at home for up to a year after college,” my parents had always told us. “To save money for a house or for grad school or whatever else you want, but after a year you have to leave.”

So I lived at home for a year after college, and I waited tables, and I recapped The Vampire Diaries for a website based in Washington D.C., and I worked at a hyper-conservative think tank in Palo Alto four days a week, to save money for what I wanted (which was “to have money”) and after a year I decamped for a studio under the freeway in San Jose and an editorial assistant’s position for a college textbook publisher forty-five minutes up the 280.

There were many nights when I would worry myself out of a dead sleep and think Christ, I’m not doing it yet, and I’d think, doing what, and I’d think back, the thing I’m supposed to be doing, the special thing, I’m not special yet, and I’m going to die if I don’t do it, and I’d think well what is it but I refused to elaborate.

So I went on a lot of informational interviews. Anything not to be paralyzed, anything to not go to In-N-Out, anything that would help me find the thing that would help me not feel like I was dying if I did it. I wanted to work every minute I was awake, or at least go through the motions of working — getting dressed and making phone calls and returning emails.

This is what we in the business call setting the scene. It feels pretty set now, so I’m going to take us back to Connecticut. I was in New York with a backpack full of honey-peanut Power Bars I’d stolen from my dad’s office (he always keeps a Trader Joe’s bag full of them in his closet) and little else, and I’d asked around in the vaguest of ways for informational interview leads. (“Does anyone know anyone who’s good at their job?”)

Someone knew someone who did, and sent me the name of a man. The man in question was presented to me as a sort of career counselor; I later found out he was more of a CEO headhunter for high finance. I received a hastily-tossed-off email forwarded from the woman I sort-of-knew in common.

Have you ever received an email from an important man over the age of forty? They’re tremendous. It’s the least professional thing in the world. They spell your name wrong, they spell at least four other things wrong, one of the sentences just ends without finishing itself. It’s a mess. But he said, “Oh, you’ll be in New York, come down to Greenwich, it’s very close, [Common Acquaintance] will meet you at the train station.”

Greenwich did not seem very close to New York to me, but then I also didn’t expect it to be pronounced “Grehnitch,” so the day was full of surprises.

The first thing I noticed, when she brought me to the office, was that the walls were covered in oil paintings of yachts. The second thing I noticed is that every man in the building was at least 45 and had an office overlooking the bay (or the sea, or the river, or the inlet, or whatever it is that’s in Connecticut), while every single woman was under 25 and penned into an open-plan set of cubicles. Just like in the past, I thought. Then: But I’m a woman under 25. This does not bode well. 

The Important Man was not ready just yet. I was led to an inner room with more oil paintings of boats on the walls, and also a photograph of the Important Man with Ronald Reagan. I was offered a soda, and I demurred, which is the one mistake I will admit to having made. I should have taken the soda. Do you know how often in life you are offered a free soda? Elderly financiers do not regularly proffer free sodas to pleasant-faced bloggers; this offer has never been repeated and I have regretted my choice ever since.

The Important Man entered the room; the Important Man shook my hand; the Important Man sat down. A woman brought him a Diet Coke in a glass, with ice and a red-and-white striped straw, just like in Diet Coke commercials. He never once touched it. Perhaps it was a power play. She seemed only to exist to bring him Diet Cokes. It made me wish I had a Diet Coke of my own, but I dared not ask now.

“The best piece of advice I can give you,” he said in a broad and cheerful tone, “is to find a rich husband.”

“Oh,” I said, in absolutely no tone at all.

“Yes, that is the best advice I could give you,” he said again. “Find a rich husband, and then you can work at whatever you like on the side, and it doesn’t matter, because you already have money.”

The goal of the informational interview was no longer to glean what wisdom I could from someone with a different life experience from mine. The goal now became to agree with him so readily and so blandly on all points that he would release me from this boat-festooned room and I could return to California, where people behaved normally and women were allowed to have offices and Diet Coke handmaidens were allowed to run free. I could not argue with him. I could not laugh, no matter how outrageous his advice became. I could not betray a moment of independent thought; this was the most serious improv exercise of my life and I was going to “Yes, and…” my way out of this windowless prison.

I was going to live through this.

“The first thing I noticed about your resume,” he said, “was that it needs to be longer. Four or five pages longer.”

“Of course,” I said. “Four or five pages.”

“You should put your height and weight on it, and mention that you never get sick.”

“Never…get…sick…” I wrote it down.

“You look healthy. They should know you’re a healthy person.”

“Height and weight…resume…” I wrote that down too. I focused all of my energy on becoming, if only temporarily, the exact kind of person who would agree with this. If I smiled even a little, the act would crumble, and I would laugh until I died, and in his anger he would leave me to rot here in his dungeon, and I would never be set free.

“You should put down your father’s job. What your father does is very important. People will have heard of him. You should put down his occupation.”

“Should I put that with my height and weight, or…?”

“Put it at the beginning. But again, I really think your best option is take an internship at a firm in the city for a year or two and find a husband there.”

“That would be ideal,” I said.

“That’s what my daughter did. She’s married to a man who handles other people’s money for a living. They live in Northern California and she writes books about horses that no one reads. It’s a perfect situation. He makes all the money and she gets up at five in the morning to write for a few hours before she takes care of the children.”

“Maybe I should ask her for an informational interview too,” the person I had become said to him.

“Yes, that’s a good idea. Here’s her card. No one reads her books. It’s ideal.”

“Truly ideal.”

I learned a great many things that day; I learned that the Important Man and his wife were married for many years very happily, which was genuinely sweet. He apologized for implying that I had had premarital sex when he went on a bit of a tangent about how people today cohabit before getting married (“I don’t mean you, of course; I know your family”), which was still sweet, if enormously misguided. I learned which of his sons he liked more than the others (although his daughter, who wrote the unpopular horse books, remained his favorite). He never touched that Diet Coke, even once.

“Don’t forget about that rich husband,” he said again, smiling, before I left.

“I won’t,” I said, smiling with my mouth. He was only trying to be helpful. He was a war veteran, and a real person, and it was genuinely kind of him to take the time to meet with me. I wrote him a thank-you note on the train.

I learned that nothing was going to happen to me. I went back to New York; I went west on a plane. Eventually I quit my job, then another, then another, until I had a job I’d invented for myself and I didn’t want to quit anymore.

I now live and work in such a way that I have little to no professional contact with men; I can go entire days without having to consider what a man — any man — thinks of my work.

I am drinking my own Diet Coke as I write this.

Read more The Only Time I’ve Ever Been To Connecticut at The Toast.

“Age is nothing but a number that’s also a perfectly accurate description of just how old you are.”

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing, and also because of the actual, irrefutable passage of time, regardless of how much we play.”

“You’re only as young as you feel, and also you’re as old as you actually are.”

“In one sense, she’s an old soul. In another, truer sense, she’s literally 20.”

“Age is mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter, except for in a physical and irrefutable sense.”

“Wrinkles show where your smiles have been, and also where your skin has lost significant amounts of collagen due to glycation, sun damage, and the natural effects of time.”

“Age is something that doesn’t matter, unless you’re a cheese, or anything else subject to the natural processes of death and decay.”

“Age has no reality except in the physical world, which is of course the only world that any of us live in.”

Read more Age Ain’t Nothing But A Perfectly Accurate Representation of How Old You Are at The Toast.