Becky the Ferreira

Popular Science and Bust!

2011-01-25T06:31:00.000-08:00

Hey peeps! Right now I have a cover story in both Popular Science (February) and Bust (Feb/March) magazines! Check out pages 48 and 50 of Popular Science and page 60 of Bust. Also, I used my famous raptor head picture as my author photo in the latter, and that might be my proudest accomplishment of the New Year.

America and Stuff

2011-01-17T06:37:00.000-08:00

This is me celebrating July 1st, Canada Day. I am politely and happily expressing my Canadian pride and identity, in keeping with my reasonable nation.

These pictures are from Independence Day celebrations I've known, loved, and forgotten due to debauchery. I am expressing my American pride in less subtle ways than I express my Canadian pride. So it goes.

Last Friday, I sat down on the subway next to an old man. If I may reveal my own prejudices before launching into this story: I typically avoid sitting next to old people. It is not out of disrespect so much as it's out of self-preservation. There's few things I enjoy more than being a little tired and out of it on the subway and sinking into my most recent podcast or album until my stop comes (...I frequently miss my stops due to the depths of these subway meditations). I am kinda sick of people hating on how plugged in everyone is now. I personally love being able to learn as I commute, or choose a soundtrack for my surroundings. I find it really relaxing and liberating. Of course I hate the commute sometimes, as we all do, but I love that it gives me an excuse to do nothing but listen to something smarter than me, or calmer than me, something that can inspire me in the specific ways I am looking for inspiration. I am genetically a fussbudget, I can't fight it, and I barely ever truly unwind because I always feel I could be doing something productive. The subway is the one place where I am rendered incapable of doing anything productive, and thus it's one of the only places I feel able to sincerely relax.

Now to the old people problem: old people are much more likely to suddenly puncture my meditations with their thoughts. We all know the stereotype and we all know it mostly hangs true. Old people want to talk to anybody - I mean, anybody - about their lives. On some level, I have total empathy for that. If you are an American 80-year-old, say, you grew up in the Depression, you saw WWII as a young adult, you saw your country drop A-bombs. You saw the Cold War - the ultimate (though illusory) good guys versus bad guys game - and the moon landing, and the successful failure of Apollo 13. You experienced the vast cultural and economic shifts of the 70s, 80s and 90s. You saw the Internet revolution, but you were likely too set in your ways at that point to want to participate in it, or in anything else the younger generations mould their lives with. You have far more experience being a human being than most people on the planet.

And it's hard, because being old means being severed from your world year by year, and I understand the compulsion to desperately tell the new generations about how it used to be. If you don't, maybe those values and events will be forgotten forever, and that's painful, because those are the things that shaped you as a person, and you don't see it (or as much of it) in any of your successors. That means maybe your values weren't absolutes. Maybe cultural values shift over the decades, and the ones you were raised with are becoming obsolete. I can only imagine the terror of that revelation, whether it's conscious or not. I'm aware that if I'm lucky enough to live to old age, I'll feel it firsthand. Values are indeed rarely absolutes, but it doesn't make it any easier to watch yours be systematically undermined by those who will replace you on this planet. Maybe if you tell others, it will stick? Leaving a legacy is a desire bound up in the helixes of every human being's DNA, and if you're at an age when you feel your mortality viscerally, you are all the more desperate to secure yours.

So, I understand it. But I have what I've heard called "a listener's face." I appear approachable. I get very strange conversation starters from children, teenagers, middle-aged people and the elderly - oh, especially the elderly. I love to be combative with people I actually know, I love to debate and lay ideas out and yell and laugh, but I am almost problematically non-confrontational with strangers. And that aura of receptiveness - I put it out by accident, but it brings in this harvest of people who want to unload their experiences, perspectives or feelings on me, and who succeed because for f*ck's sake, I am a CANADIAN raised by BRITISH parents, and I am just disgustingly, frustratingly polite. I used to be much more accepting of it, but somewhere along the line in New York, I grew tired of it and tried to prevent new conversations by having my earbuds in every time I'm anywhere in public. And, as mentioned earlier, I really avoid proximity to the elderly, who are just ticking time bombs conversation-wise.

Okay, digression complete. I sat next to this old guy on Friday. Somewhere along our commute, he tapped me on the shoulder. I took my earbuds out. The following conversation ensued:

Old guy (pointing to two Indian men who are speaking Hindi): Them using language like that really makes me mad.

Me (assuming he meant profanity): They're swearing?

Old guy: No, they're not speaking English. I fought for this country in the Korean War - seeing two men like that not even respect it makes me wonder if it was worth it.

Time out - so, obviously, I realize I'm speaking with a bigot here. His idea of what America should be is very different from my idea. But I loooove learning the "rules" that bigots go by, and I am in a unique position to learn them, because those two Indian guys are likely much more American than me in that, chances are they ARE American, either by birth or naturalization, and are speaking Hindi because that's one of the great promises of America: do what you want so long as it doesn't infringe on others' rights. This old guy is so encumbered by his own prejudice that he thinks the very act of hearing - is there any more passive sense?! - just hearing another language in his country can be categorized an infringement on his rights. I am in this conversation now to learn his "rules." Time in.

Old man (continued): People like that are not making the kind of sacrifices Americans like you and me make.

Time out - didn't expect an invitation to explode his rules so easily! Time in.

Me: I am not American.

Old man: Oh. (pause). Sure, but you're not like them.

Me: You mean I'm white?

Old man (very naturally): Yes, but also you speak English. People like that, they don't care about America.

Time out - so whatever, he rambled more racist things about getting a big broom to sweep Pakistanis out of his neighbourhood, how all homeless people are black, how Obama is ruining the country, etc. He was just a severed hose of toxic opinions. He very tactfully did not ask me where I was from; if he had, I would have said Russia, not Canada, because I like bluffing to get extreme results as much in life as in card games. And don't get me wrong - this guy may be a bigot, but I realize he's also a human being and I see him as both things. But respectfully, his "rules" ended up being if you look and sound different than me, you need to get out of my country, even if you are American. However, if you are white like me and speak English without an accent, you can stay, even if you are not American.

Isn't this the precise reason why our generation is somewhat eager for the passing of the elderly? Despite the fact that a man like this has lived in New York City for about nine decades, he's seen injustice firsthand, he's fought in wars, and yet he has still been unable in all that time to bother to expand his perspective to include non-white people as Americans, even if they are, um, actually Americans? This guy is basically a Civil War throwback, and one of the reasons the U.S. will always get a bad rap internationally is this dominant mindset that what is foreign is bad, and you can determine whether it is foreign or not by how much it looks and sounds like you.

One of the "points" he made is something that frequently inflames me, and that a lot of Americans think about immigrants: they don't appreciate America like "real Americans" do. I want to explode when I hear this. Take it from me, dumbasses: Nobody appreciates America more than its immigrants. First of all, we chose to live here. You didn't. Your citizenship is an accident, ours is a decision. If you knew the bullshit we have to go through just to live and work here, you would be ashamed of yourselves - and this is coming from a Canadian who has had a lot of luck getting student and work visas, and is now married to a U.S. citizen...I've gone through pretty much the easiest route possible. Yet it's still a bunch of unnecessary, stupid shit, like checking "no" to "I am a terrorist" or "I am responsible for genocides" on form I-485 (which you should check out at the USCIS website if you want to see the other atrocities we check "no" to).

I have known since I was a child that America was built on double-identities, which is why the idea of superheroes is so uniquely American (not to mention, uniquely immigrant-American). America needs its ugliness to project its dynamism. A common joke I tell when I do standup is a riff on Douglas Adams' idea that if countries were people, Canada would be a 35-year-old sensible woman while America would be a 16-year-old belligerent adolescent boy. And I am so proud of being Canadian, because I feel a deeper connection to the world and frankly, to logic, than I think most Americans do, simply because most do not have the privilege of exposure to it. I would rather be raised by the 35-year-old sensible woman. But the joke is, who would I rather actually be? The one that gets frustrated and sidelined and never develops the momentum to be heard, or the one that goes on adventures and rampages, making heinous mistakes alongside brilliant discoveries, and whose voice echoes across the world? There is no right answer; both have good and bad elements. But people who immigrate to America, like me, are doing so because they deeply respect the dynamism of this country, which is embedded deep in the seeds of its history and which will never fade.

The shame I feel about trying to immigrate to the U.S. whenever the flip-side of that dynamism - lunacy - shows itself, is very deep. The Arizona shootings, the racial backlash against Obama, the prevalence of religion, basically Bush's entire two terms, the complete failure of an education system, the arrogance, the xenophobia - there is so much to be deeply embarrassed by if you are an American, and someone who is in the process of trying to be an American feels that as acutely, because this is the country you actually chose. What was I thinking?!?!

But you can't have one without the other. That's what freedom is, and I respect why America is so very obsessed with the word "freedom" even when it becomes a ridiculous Yosemite Sam cliche. When I first moved here, I loved the brilliance of the U.S so much that I denied that the lunacy existed. I have since learned that there is no way to blinker oneself against the crazy side, and have accepted it. America will always be a broad bell curve: there will be more geniuses, but there will also be more idiots; there will be more excitement, but there will also be more frustration; there will be more discovery but there will also be more ignorance; there will be more innovation, but there will also be more banality; there will be the arrogant Bruce Wayne, the sheepish Clark Kent, the vulnerable Peter Parker, but there will also be Batman, Superman and Spider-Man. It will always be a country of extremes.

And when I finally accepted the dark side of the country, I realized I could even thrive on it. I sensed from such a young age I'd need to live in America because I felt there was more at stake here. Now I realize that I, like everyone else who shares these borders, have a strong opinion of what this country should be. The closer I become to being one of its citizens, the more I feel legitimized about joining the national debate and becoming an influence on its development. That's the U.S.'s great promise: you have the utmost freedom to do what you can to make it your utopia. You just have to compete with about 300,000,000 other peoples' vision first. If that isn't an inspiration to go out there and develop your ideas, your beliefs and yourself, there is none. And that's why people choose to move here, and would like to say to the old man on the train: we appreciate America in more complex ways than you can conceive.

I want to step back and acknowledge that as a Canadian, I chose to leave one of the best countries in the world for America, a nation that on paper comes off much worse. I am not some person fleeing political or economic conditions. I fled an actual utopia! But the Canadian attitude (by and large) towards the U.S. is one big reason why I did leave: it is boring. It is undeveloped. It is banal. If I was in denial when I first moved here about the lunacy of the U.S., then I feel most Canadians deny its brilliance. And that comes from a place of extreme national insecurity, of Canadians feeling like their own sensible star is outshone by this louder, stupider star next to it. If you're a Canadian reading this, I beg you to not be so easily won over by our nation's inferiority complex. Remember that Molson Canadian commercial about 10 years ago, in which Joe the Canadian says "I don't live in an igloo, I believe in peace-keeping, not policing, blah blah, this whole commercial is about American stereotypes of Canadians?" I said it when that commercial came out and I'll say it again: Canada, that's pathetic. That's what a little brother who hasn't figured out what he wants to do with his life would say. Canadian identity will never develop if it is always measured as being not-the-American identity, which is a shame, because unfettered Canadian identity would create a more empowered country that could shape the world in much more tangible ways than it currently does.

Other common Canadian anti-American sentiments? You guys talk about America holding itself back. That's a projection if I ever heard one! You talk about how uneducated and unoriginal Americans are. Own a Mac product? American. Use Google? American. Proud that we put a man on the moon? American. Watching some really quality TV these days? American. ARE YOU HAPPY TO BE IN A DEMOCRATIC COUNTRY? American. You get my point. I'm not saying American accomplishments make the nation beyond reproach, I'm saying please acknowledge the accomplishments. This country is not the insecure Canadian projection of rednecks shooting guns into the air anymore than it is the country with the best universities in the world. It is both countries. If you're proud of being Canadian, do something about it. If you think innovation is so important, innovate. If you think national character matters, improve yours. You don't have to stop being critical of the United States but you do have to stop being only critical of the United States because everybody's really bored with it. It's quite obviously a copout. Take a cue from the superhero side of America and actually take things into your own hands. And make sure your hands have mittens on them because holy cow, Canada, you really are very cold. PS. I love you.

So this is a long rant about a lot of things that are important to me and I have no idea how to end it other than to acknowledge that Josh Bowman's wonderful site www.tenthingsivelearned.com is where I got the idea to put important phrases in bold.

I am very proud to be a British AmeriCanadian, and ashamed of all three as well. I'm happy both feelings can exist because otherwise this whole life thing would be pretty damn tedious.

ADDENDUM: Nicole made an excellent and hilarious point to me over gchat just now, and I'm running a correction. In all it's glory: "My only argument with your blog post is that if we don't check if you're a terrorist, then it's our embarrassment when you blow up the country. It's just about saving face. If we don't ask, it's on us."

Bears Naked

2011-01-16T15:22:00.000-08:00

A frequent hobby of mine is to scroll through National Geographic's online archive of nature photography. Although I typically use this as a method of procrastination, it works better than Facebook, Youtube, blah blah social media stuff, because basking in the glory of nature is a pretty legitimate time-passer. I may not get my newest assignment done, but that's okay, I rejoiced about being born on this amazing planet, in which every fold, nook and curve reveals wonder, life and beauty! It wasn't as if I was watching dick jokes on College Humor! Oh, how I struggle for my own legitimacy.

Anyway, today I found two unique photos of bears, that to me seemed to be telling a very romantic story. Part one: boy bear meets girl bear, boy bear likes girl bear, they hold hands. Part two: Boy bear now a man bear, girl bear now a woman bear, each bear knows the other is their soul mate, man bear proposes to woman bear.

Pretty adorable, right? Just let me anthropomorphize this once.

Come to TOLD tomorrow!

2010-12-19T08:49:00.001-08:00

These are the remains of Tintagel Castle, a fortress built in the 12th Century. The site itself, however, is believed to have been a Roman stronghold since the 5th Century. It's most famous for being the supposed birthplace of the legendary King Arthur.

Tomorrow at Seth Lind's awesome story-telling show TOLD: Magic edition, I will tell the story of the vision-quest that led me to this castle when I was 17. I kinda thought we were all supposed to have vision-quests before moving away from our hometowns, but some of my peers were smart and stable enough to dispense with the formalities of confronting maturity and they just bravely went ahead and tucked in to adulthood like it was no big deal.

I have not dispensed with any formalities associated with maturity. I pretty much need a vision-quest for everything.

Tintagel Castle was said to be impenetrable to any army. The fortress is built on a craggy cliffside, and any soldiers who dared attack it risked falling to a bloody death on the rocks below. It was also said to be a place of powerful dark magic, and the notoriously spooky Merlin's Cave gapes ominously below the castle walls. These were considerations FOOLISHLY IGNORED when I broke into it at around 3am on that fateful night in the summer of 2002 and achieved the pinnacle moment of the vision-quest, in all its terrifying, wonderful splendour.

COME HEAR THE FULL STORY TOMORROW - MONDAY, DECEMBER 20TH - ALONG WITH MAGICAL STORIES FROM VETERAN STORYTELLERS!!! There will also be magic tricks! Oh la la. 7pm at Under St. Marks Theatre at 94 St. Marks Place in the East Village. Facebook invite is here! http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=176369429054554&index=1

I will also be revealing one of the surefire sentences to get into my pants during this show. May or may not have to do with navigating Sherwood Forest.

Retrofuturism Redux

2010-10-28T19:30:00.000-07:00

Albert Robida is a retrofuturist's wet dream. Stay tuned for more about him.

Some Dead Darlings

2010-09-22T17:03:00.000-07:00

Bust magazine is planning to publish an article I wrote in their December/January issue, and I am so excited. Bust is one of my favourite magazines ever, so come on, pleeeease pick it up when it comes out. I'll be watching all of you that month just as Santa will be.

Since we heard so much about men cheating on their wives this year, the article is a list of the top ten adulteresses of all time. It's getting edits right now; Bust wanted only super-strong, positive women in there, of which I had eight. The two cuts were a pair of sad sacks and a crazy astronaut, and I'm sharing those entries with you below because the main reason I am proud of the article is the space puns. I really went the extra parsec on those.

The edits I got were really good, and this article will now have two new fantastic and fascinating women in addition to the eight that were already hanging out in it. But please say a prayer for my now killed darlings, who were not tough enough to hang around the in-crowd:

Anna Karenina/Madame Bovary: Anna and Emma are conflated here because it’s the same basic story: if you’re married to a nice guy but you have a taste for bad boys, you’re probably going to end up under a train or filled with arsenic. Or at least you will if you’re created by a 19^th century moralizing male novelist. Most of the women on this list own their infidelities, but these two let their infidelities own them. I hate to say it, but if you’re going to model yourself after a fictional adulteress, you would do better to be a ditzy, amoral farthead like Daisy Buchanan than either of these two sad sacks. At least then you’re not the one dead by your own hand at the end – your lover is. Much happier ending, right? F. Scott Fitzgerald = Pollyanna.

Lisa Nowak: Astronauts have to endure an insanely rigorous training program in order to become indestructible physically and mentally. Yet NASA somehow neglected to prepare their astronauts for the toughest challenge of all: a broken heart. In 2007, Captain Nowak, an astronaut and flight engineer married to fellow NASA employee Richard Nowak, embarked on a solo mission with the objective of attacking and kidnapping Captain Colleen Shipman, the new girlfriend of her ex-lover Commander William Oefelein. She just wasn’t sensing that same buzz (Aldrin) with Oefelein so she really had no choice but to get (Neil) armstrong with his new girl. Oh yeah, she was also wearing diapers and was armed with a BB gun, pepper spray, rubber tubing, a 2-pound drilling hammer and a 8-inch folding knife, so it’s clear that she was seriously moonstruck. The silver astro-lining? It’s a fair bet that men actually are from Mars, given how desperately Nowak has always wanted to go there.

Rocket Summer Rules

2010-08-19T11:34:00.000-07:00

Summer Rules is an awesome tumblr run by my equally awesome friend Lee. This is my all time favourite pic yet, made my belly all warm and such.

Also, it's EXTREMELY unlikely you haven't seen this, but here's an amazing music video called "Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury" by Rachel Bloom that was pumped by Neil Gaiman, Wired, and countless others. I am briefly in it wearing a hell of a sweatervest.

Jason Shebiro is a Doosher

2010-07-27T08:06:00.000-07:00

Jason: oh man

gross of me

dont tell anyone im a doosher

I'M NOT A TRUSTWORTHY GCHATTER, JASON!!!

Hey. It's Me.

2010-07-23T07:36:00.000-07:00

I recently learned through Nicole that I'm not the only one who often hears Admiral Ackbar's "It's a trap" line echo in my head (my head's generally pretty cavernous and empty, thus the echoing) about a whole ton of stuff in my life. I guess that means I'm really, really not the only who hears "I have a bad feeling about this" all the time.

Yet, I'm never reminded of upbeat Star Wars lines when good stuff happens to me; it's generally cautionary. I'm gonna make this pledge to you, world - I'll try to change that. More C3PO lines like "I never knew I had it in me," more Lando lines like "Here goes nothing," more Leia lines like "Count me in," and a fuckton more cocky Han Solo lines for sure, starting with "It's your imagination, kid. Come on. Let's keep a little optimism here."

You may notice that all those positive lines come from Return of the Jedi. That's cuz, well, don't know if you noticed, but the other two be deeeeprreeeeesssinggggg.

PS. FUTURAMA LAST NIGHT WAS GOOD AGAIN, OMG OMG OMG YAY!

ROCKET TALK AND ANNETTE FUNICELLO'S BEACH PARTY!

2010-07-20T06:59:00.000-07:00

This is happening next Monday! BE THERE, DUMMIES!

Books that Actually Exist

2010-07-09T10:24:00.001-07:00

Microwave your wine! And your loneliness :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :(

This is actually an amazing book title, so it's too bad the "Devotionals for Teens" label will probably make "awesome" highly synonymous with "JESUS-JESUS-JESUS-LOVE-YOU-JESUS!"

A whole book on this. A whole book.

Covering what the first edition missed about not being in the way of a huge ship.

A FELLOW EDMONTONIAN

2010-07-07T08:04:00.000-07:00

On a big ol' Kids in the Hall kick right now. I love all of Bruce McCulloch's monologues so much but "Sandwich People" and "Open Letters" (Part 1 and Part 2) are my favourite. ENJOY THEM NOW!

141 Years Young, True North!!!

2010-07-01T09:20:00.001-07:00

BACK...TO THE FUTURAMA!

2010-06-30T06:58:00.000-07:00

That subject line is probably the best thing I've come up with in 2010. Read more on the return of Futurama from myself and the inimitable Miles Klee, here.

THIS IS HAPPENING NEXT MONDAY, JUNE 28TH AND I'M SO EXCITED 'BOUT IT!

2010-06-23T06:28:00.001-07:00

Forgot about Gary

2010-06-20T18:38:00.000-07:00

I have been meaning to post pictures from the day Chris and I visited Gary, Indiana for almost a full year. It seems like the rest of the world, I just can't help but forget about Gary.

Here's some of our fabled pictures:

We couldn't figure out how to get off the train when we got to Gary. Seriously. It was confusing. So we ended up overshooting our trip, and spending an hour in Miller, Indiana. This is what Miller looks like:

Then we got to Gary and watched a baseball game. There was a Bennigan's in the ballpark that seemed to be getting at least as much attention as the Gary South Shore Railcats. Nobody at the park was from Gary proper, apparently, because once the game was over, they all got in cars and drove to other parts of Indiana/Illinois/other blank places. Chris and I walked over to downtown Gary. It was completely deserted on a summer Sunday afternoon. We saw about two other people during the hour and a half we explored, and they were unsettled by our presence as we were by theirs.

Here's a garbage can I found to be really horrendously poignant. "City of the Century." Of course, that refers to the 20th Century. Even Gary's slogan acknowledges that its best days are over. How heartbreaking is that? Answer: a billion heartbreaks. Also, the town logo is the entire earth being coated in steel. We're happy Gary's proud of its resources but they do say that there can be too much of a good thing. And smothering our planet with steel crosses the "too much" line.

STEEL-MINERS STATUE.

We couldn't figure this pavilion out. There was no explanation. It was just celebrating 1998, I guess. And why not? The Lunar Prospector was launched that year AND Hello Nasty came out. There's a reason they call it 199-Great. They being me, and probably some other cool peeps.

We found some weird lifeform near the train station. Likely just a fungus, but could've been an alien. We poked it with a stick: no change.

This is the first house built in Gary, and is allegedly a museum, though it was so dilapidated, unprotected and generally sad-looking that even two Canadians could've easily broken in. We didn't though. We're Canadians.

And finally this. This. This was the coup de grace:

It reads: "To the man who works, the man who sweats, the man who pounds and rolls the iron, who plows the fields, and sows and reaps the golden harvest, the clerk, the student, the schoolteacher, the mechanic, the laborer, in fact to the millions of toiling men and women of the earth, who hope to rest their weary bodies in the great afternoon of life on something better than blasted hopes and vain regrets this wall is dedicated."

That should hit you where it counts no matter how or where you read it. But if you read it in an American town that boomed, then busted, and currently seems to just be aching for something else to happen before it's reclaimed by nature, and if the poem's presentation itself is painfully emblematic of the city's own historic arc, barely legible due to decades of neglect but clearly once spectacular and widely admired, and if the energy and optimism encased in the words are desperately at odds with the fatigue and hopelessness of the city it's supposed to represent - if you see it like that, you're allowed to tear up a little, or you are if you are me.

Colour Me Bacchanalian

2010-06-13T20:27:00.000-07:00

When it comes to Greek gods (and with me, it often does come to Greek gods), I usually like to think of myself as kind of an Artemis tomboy/a female Hermes. Recently, due to some kind of reverse seasonal affective disorder which is nudging me into becoming a kind of gross, hedonist slob, I'm channeling Dionysus in a bigger way.

I really like Googling Image-searching Artemis and Hermes; they are both super-sexy deities. Identifying with them makes me feel like I could also be swift and lean and foxy and you know, able to fly a moon-chariot/shoot around the world on wing-sandals - these are mere variations of my ever-waxing rockets-in-my-buttcheeks motif.

However, I had never Google Image searched Dionysus before tonight, and I think the fact that this picture was the first hit is a sign I should really try to crawl back to archer-goddess/messenger god territory instead of plunging headfirst into the arms of the wine god.

Seriously, Dionysus. You are one drunk, sad baby and chances are you'll be sleeping in that piss. Get it together.

Krokodyl!

2010-06-10T14:25:00.000-07:00

This is a Polish edition of Crocodile Dundee, and I don't think you need any more information than that.

Daily Han

2010-06-09T10:37:00.000-07:00

Get off your high tauntaun, Tim Siedell

2010-06-03T11:40:00.000-07:00

I really hate this article. HATE IT. I know I've written about Sex and the City too much before. Maybe ignoring it instead of actively hating it would be better. But I can't. This is my duty. THIS WILL NOT STAND. Get off your fucking high tauntaun, Tim Siedell.

Listen dickbomb, it is not even remotely acceptable to imply that women like Sex and the City. No. It's not women. Women aren't the audience. It's lame-tards who like it. Lame-tards who happen to have a double X all up in their helix. The Venn diagram between lame-tards and women, I hope, has a small overlap. I don't know, but I hope. I do know that everything within that overlap is a Sex and the City fan. And the rest of us aren't. Don't you even THINK of insulting us with your lazy, worthless observations. And if you wrote it based on your own experience with women, then I'm really sorry for you. Don't get me wrong: I'm sorry for you in absolutely the most condescending way possible. No sympathy here. Just harsh pity.

By the way, SATC is not our Star Wars. You want to know what our Star Wars is? Motherfucking Star Wars, asshole.

Don't you dare make having a dick a requirement for good taste.

Talking 'Bout Napoleon with My Boyfriend

2010-05-23T14:45:00.000-07:00

Will: just the worst love life, that guy

me: he conquered continental europe and she fucked someone else

hahaha

i know

Will: WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO IMPRESS A GIRL, JEEEEEZ

5:05 PM me: THAT'S HOW HE'D SAY IT!

baby, can you conquer continental europe for me, pwwweeease?

Will: and then you'll let me rub my stub on you?

5:06 PM me: haha

sigh....FINE nappy

(napolean's nicknames would all be gross...nappy, poleo)

5:07 PM Will: leon

polly

baby naps

me: nappol

Will: elo

me: lil leo

Will: Nonny

me: cap'n nap'n

Will: LOVE THAT

me: hahah

Will: general kid

me: ha

5:08 PM sir little league

Will: hahah

two foot frank

stub

me: mr. stumpy

Will: Neenopeen

5:09 PM me: ha

napolebum

Will: apple worm

me: lil big shorts

Will: lil' girl-bottom

me: dumpy stumps

Will: hahaha

baby big hat

5:10 PM me: le petit ogre

Will: microjerk

me: corsicandy

Will: the corsica inch

me: haha...i like microjerk

5:11 PM Will: baby blue

me: wiwwle emperor

oooo!

5:12 PM liddle empewor wid a big temperer

Will: heehee

that's my reaction but it also works as a nickname

sweet devil child

me: red ant

Will: hahah

mean boy

5:14 PM the bug

me: evil weevil

Will: excellent

me: as bill and ted would surely say

Will: colonel bee

me: hahahaha

5:15 PM bonafart

bonerpart

bonerfart

etc

Will: bonerfart… wow

5:16 PM le petit queef

me: lonerparte

not as good as bonerfart

5:17 PM crapoleon

captain nap crap

Will: hahah

captain nap crap

5:18 PM cherry twig

me: hahaa

!!!

love that

acorn

Will: it's just so feminizing and delicate

tweeleaf

me: hairball

Will: choo choo twain

5:19 PM me: corsican't

Will: oouch

me: real personal there

Will: napolealmost

me: josepeen's cuckold

Will: haha

josepeen's bonerpartner

me: ho'sephine's cuckold

5:20 PM napoleoff

Will: youch

5:21 PM napleame

5:23 PM me: runty meatball

Will: haha

scab

me: napoledumb

5:24 PM Will: shitoleshit

general littleshit

me: haha

captain toddler

5:25 PM Will: child soldier

me: general teensy ween

5:26 PM Will: haha

5:30 PM me: obviously i'm putting all of these on my blog

Will: dooooit

lord dork

5:31 PM me: hahah

darth gayder

Will: hah

5:32 PM me: sargeant biscuit

5:34 PM Will: love that one

5:35 PM me: toto, as in dorothy's dog

5:36 PM Will: yes

thimbleseed

me: haha

thumbelina

1%

2010-05-20T06:15:00.001-07:00

There are lots of things that are stupid about being human, but one thing that's great is what happens when our big ol' brains and our big ol' hearts are simultaneously thrilled. When I saw this breakthrough discovery about how matter beat out antimatter right after the Big Bang, I got that warm fuzzy feeling both in my brain and in my gut. For the former, let's reflect once more on how fucking cool it is that we've even devised a way to test this. There are people in the world that 1) observed that matter and antimatter particles always destroy each on contact, 2) wondered how matter has managed to be prevalent if that's the case, 3) figured out that they needed a particle accelerator to test this, and 4) built a particle accelerator. Seriously fellow humans: when we're good, we're great.

That's on the brain level. On the gut level, there are so many narratives that reflect this dynamic, in which the solid, honest and brave characters win out over the evil, deceptive and (at heart at least) cowardly characters, even if it's just at the same 1% rate that matter survives clashes with antimatter. That 1% made our entire universe, guys, and that 1% also made Luke Skywalker.

In fact, is it fair to say that the human race's central narrative is good wins over evil, even if it's only by a margin of 1%? I mean, minus Ragnarok, obviously.

We're kind of suspended between robot and animal, with an advanced mechanical intelligence in the first instance and a deeply instinctual emotional core in the second (and don't you even start with me about whether or not animals are emotional, you species-ist jerkface). When there's say, a giant oil spill, it sucks, because you can feel our failure intellectually and emotionally. But when we make a discovery about how our universe was conceived, and that discovery weirdly echoes the mythologies we already surround ourselves with, I mean...well done, humanity! Sometimes, the stories that we tell are beautiful and poignant in exactly the same way as the stories telling us.

PS. If you think that sentiment is corny, you have no place reading this blog. Get OUT!

Chorus-saurus

2010-05-18T13:26:00.001-07:00

These theropods all have jazz hands.

Seriously, giant lizards. Out of character.

I'm Having a...

2010-05-13T13:29:00.000-07:00

Today, my Wikipedia noodlings led me to a thing called an "anomalous magnetic dipole moment." It's something about Feynman diagrams and loops and a g-factor. But given that it ends with "moment," this just makes me think of people saying "I'm having a senior moment" or "I'm having a diva moment" or whatever.

I really want to be in a situation where I can say, "Jeez guys, I'm so sorry, I'm really having an anomalous magnetic dipole moment."

Let's make it happen, world.

A Story Begun. A Story Completed.

2010-05-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

Chanson of A Bitch - Mostly Galle and Gainsbourg

2010-05-12T06:45:00.000-07:00

Hey pals! I have a new tumblr with an extremely simple but important goal: to provide a few French songs (chansons) a week. If you are looking for a raison d'être or a cause célèbre or just some of that plain ol' je-ne-sais-quoi, don't commit a faux pas by ignoring ma petit cherie: ChansonOfaBitch.tumblr.com.

Oh la la!

Bradbury Locks it Down

2010-05-11T14:10:00.000-07:00

There's an aggressively inscrutable scene in Donnie Darko where Drew Barrymore's character recounts this idea that "cellar door" is the most phonoaesthetically pleasing phrase in the English language. You can almost hear Richard Kelly jerking off behind the camera, whispering "What're they gonna think of this new allusion?"

Anyway, it's a weird old idea, and I never understood it, not only because I don't think "cellar door" is a particularly attractive pair of words but because I think it's weird to declare two words winners of anything. The English language is not a beauty contest. There is no Miss Latin-Derived Noun or Miss Etymology-Unknown Verb (though if there was, the latter, as a linguistic orphan, would obviously win. Big inner beauty points for that one are assured, compared to words with detailed pedigrees).

I thought this until I discovered the actual most phonoaesthetically pleasing phrase in the English language, courtesy of Ray Bradbury (and co-opted as a band name thereafter).

Rocket Summer.

Yeah, I get that part of the "cellar door" appeal was that it was supposed to be beautiful even when isolated from its semantic meaning. There's no question that "rocket summer" is enhanced by its meaning; they're two fantastic nouns apart and they're the hottest couple you've ever seen when they're together. They're Brangelina if Brangelina was fun and quirky (by the way, how do you conjugate verbs with these celebrity portmanteaus - is it as if they are a couple or one entity? Us Weekly writers would know...).

But who cares about the details, you linguist purists? Just say "rocket summer" aloud. Do you have tingly little sparkles in your mouth after? I do.

.....or does that mean I'm having a stroke?

Lil Blackbook

2010-05-07T13:29:00.000-07:00

A neat interview for Blackbook Mag here. Thanks, Ortved!

Cutest Thing Ever!

2010-05-06T08:20:00.000-07:00

I want to be a baby bonobo!!!

Gross Things I Resort to Eating When I'm Poor

2010-04-30T17:49:00.000-07:00

My Mum, who is cooler than anybody you've ever met or will meet, reads this blog. For her sake, I am going to try to avoid making this sort of post a habit. She worries! (PS. Love you Mumma! Xoxoxoxo).

Okay, disclaimer over, now here's some stuff I ate earlier this month when I had less money than I currently have. Contact me if you want the full recipes for these meals, which require no more than two steps to prepare, and much desperation to actually ingest.

SPLIT PEA "SOUP"

I know what you're thinking: "Becky, a lot of soups come out of the can that way." Sure, but do a lot of soups stay that way once they're out of the can? I took this photo after this gelatinous cylinder had been cooking for five minutes. This is the closest my life has come to being an RL Stine novel since my hamster became some kind of slime zombie in grade school.

WATERY BEANS ON SPINACH TORTILLA:

I don't think I need to elaborate on this one.

I am leaving my job in September, so more of these easy-to-make, hard-to-swallow, unemployment-appropriate monstrosities are to come!

Pastor on Board

2010-04-30T17:30:00.000-07:00

It's not that I want to imply that buying a "Pastor" bumper sticker flanked by two crosses is super gauche and self-indulgent but I definitely, unequivocally, beyond-a-shadow-of-a-shadow-of-a-doubt do in fact believe that buying a "Pastor" bumper sticker flanked by two crosses is super gauche and self-indulgent.

You'll be happy to know I dutifully farted at this van.

Snooki Provokes Deep Inner Conflict

2010-04-28T07:09:00.000-07:00

The Dionysian, Rampage-loving, impulsive, indulgent, "let's set the basement on fire then get drunk and stoned on the roof" side of me (aka my "Bender" side) is really at war with the workaholic, responsible, to-do-listing, chart-making, "we have a moral obligation to heed obvious cries for help" side of me (aka my "Turanga Leela" side) over this picture:

PS. Is she by herself?

Johnston, Redux

2010-04-27T09:05:00.000-07:00

Dru Johnston is less wrong than originally thought. Still, don't fear aliens. For every Sith, there is an Ewok.

Aliens, Redux

2010-04-27T08:07:00.001-07:00

The day after my last post, Stephen Hawking went and said that he thinks we should fear aliens as opposed to trying to contact them, since they're more likely to be aggressive than peaceful.

"We only have to look at ourselves to see how intelligent life might develop into something we wouldn't want to meet. I imagine they might exist in massive ships, having used up all the resources from their home planet. Such advanced aliens would perhaps become nomads, looking to conquer and colonize whatever planets they can reach."

I think it was the wrong thing to say, not only because that it's super presumptive but also because it casts a huge shadow on SETI and all their efforts. Kevin Hines agrees with me, and I'm pretty sure he's the person that makes assertions into facts. So now, it's a fact that Stephen Hawking said the wrong thing.

That's why Dru Johnston should be especially embarrassed to take the side he took. Observe the victory of peaceful aliens:

I Will Find a Way to Kill Carrie Bradshaw

2010-04-23T07:01:00.001-07:00

I had a conversation with some girl with different priorities than me about what we'd most like to happen in the world in our lifetimes. Hers was woman President: totally noble and good and stupidly likely. Mine is hands-down making contact with aliens; unlikely, but I would be so unbelievably grateful to have been alive for such a momentous event.

She looked at me like I was the alien, though, and laughed very condescendingly. It was that sort of uncommitted laugh, as if she was putting out feelers to test whether I was actually serious. Well, I'm sorry, boring-face, but if you're not excited by the prospect of communicating with extraterrestrial life, that's not a problem with me, that's a problem with you. I bet when you see the word "cosmos" you think it's short for cosmopolitans. That's a lame cocktail and you're a lame person, and the first female President is going to think you're lame too. Despite what Sex and the City 2 tells you, simply being female is no longer enough to give you social currency. There are far too many super-cool girls out there for that to work anymore.

Parents: please indoctrinate your daughters with The X-Files, Star Trek, Futurama, Carl Sagan's Cosmos, E.T., Star Wars, etc., so that more girls end up emulating Turanga Leela, Dana Scully, Deanna Troi and Leia Organa (I don't like calling her "princess") instead of four grating, shallow women who are going to Abu Dhabi for some reason in a sequel. Or just indoctrinate them with Pixar movies, even though Pixar's blockbusters remain pretty boy-centric as far as main characters go. Whatever, girls will figure out how to use Wall-E as a role model, regardless of his robot gender.

Yes, I am being weird and militant, but ever since seeing the Sex and the City 2 trailer, and in anticipation of all the stupid promotion that is to come, I am basically on a mission to excise Carrie Bradshaw and all her stupid clothes from existence, using some kind of black hole missile strapped to a T-Rex.

Books on Trains

2010-04-18T19:08:00.001-07:00

I saw someone reading a book called The Witch Doctor's Wife on the subway today. It reminded me of the first time I heard about The Time Traveler's Wife. I have not read the book, so I won't trash it even though the title makes me desperately want to. Indeed, few titles have filled me with more immediate rage. You have a time traveler on your hands and you're going to deal with his boring old wife?! That's like making contact with extraterrestrials and worrying about whether you forgot to turn the oven off (you're a scientist, so you probably did, and anyway: ALIENS!).

Can we just agree to name our books after their most interesting characters from now on? Just call it The Time Traveler or The Witch Doctor, and if you want to be feminist, make said interesting characters female. That's why the working title of my novel is The Capricious She-Huntress of Arcturus: A Rocket Saga.

I also saw a very old man reading one of the Twilight books, which warmed my heart. I wonder whether he's an Edward or a Jacob man.

Birds With Attitude

2010-04-15T14:12:00.001-07:00

Rife with Meaning

2010-04-11T19:27:00.000-07:00

One of the awesome things about my new apartment is that it is within walking distance from the Creek and Cave, where I spend a lot of my time eating fries, drinking beer and telling poop jokes on and off stage.

Plus, there's some weird stuff on the walk home from the Creek, such as this piece of artwork on the Pulaski Bridge.

Without the vandalism, this would look like parents abandoning their child, which is almost as disturbing than the picture post-genital scrawlings. Now, to me, it looks like a horny couple that are about to have unprotected sex, while the specter of their as-yet-unconceived child follows shortly behind. THAT'S WHY I SAID "ALMOST AS" CREEPY!

I also like that you get to the middle of Pulaski Bridge and are suddenly hit in the face with a big Manhattan. Not like, punched. Lovingly slapped, like, "Hey, did you forget you live here?! That was stupid of you!"

Why Didn't Anyone Tell Me About Robot Dinosaurs?

2010-04-09T11:50:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted for a while because I just moved to Greenpoint and won't have internet in my apartment until Saturday.

By the way, why did you all let me live in not-Greenpoint for so long? Jerks.

Another reason that I haven't posted is that I have been utterly obsessed with getting a Pleo. Please send one or two or many to me. They will be so well-cared for! I am still deciding on what I am going to name my first Pleo, but it will be really hard not to name him/her Little Foot. And after that, the next challenge will be accomplishing anything except cuddling wid my wittle robot dinosawr.

Toon Murder on the Rise

2010-03-27T16:11:00.000-07:00

Is this a good ad for Monroe College? Here are some reasons I'm skeptical that it is:

1) Student appears to be studying an old urine stain. Said urine stain would have to be entirely unrelated to the crime, unless the victim's urethra was on his neck.

2) Student is equipped only with a magnifying glass and a folder labeled "evidence." Much though I fondly remember my childhood notions of how detective work is conducted, I now understand by way of The Wire and whoever's dad it was who spoke to us in sixth grade about forensics that it's a lot of paperwork and bureaucracy and the exciting blood/guts aspect wears off and even becomes emotionally destabilizing for some. Don't try to pull this magnifying glass crap with us; we know we're not going to Monroe College to solve the mystery hauntings on Whispering Island like in Enid Blyton's The Famous Five Have A Mystery to Solve. Yes, my parents are British, and yes, this means I was indoctrinated me into the British mystery tradition. We have Sherlock, Poirot, and the Five. What do you have, Yankees? The stupid Hardy Boys? Don't make me laugh!

What's that? Oh...you have McNulty. Oh my GOD, you have Mulder and Scully! Okay, fine, I surrender! American Revolutionary War Pt. 2 once again goes to you! I will step the fuck off! I will lay my Redcoat upon this puddle so your nice, expensive shoes don't get dirty walking through it. Then I will retreat to a small, rainy island and develop a tea addiction.

3) Victim appears to be a shapeless cartoon man with claws instead of hands.

Reasons this ad works:

1) Student has nice ass.

2) Apparently, this has been the eight toon murder in a toon serial killing spree.

3) Student's jeans really a good fit, emphasizing aforementioned nice ass.

Sketchy Dude on G

2010-03-25T09:33:00.000-07:00

You looked so confused by the fact that everyone was avoiding you. Here's why: you were wearing a toque that said "It's not illegal if you don't get caught." That shit's weird, dude. Put something less threatening on your hat, like "It's not illegal if it's....CUPCAKE TIME!!!"

Portrait of a Becky as a Young Mother

2010-03-23T05:10:00.000-07:00

Last night coming home on the train, a mother stuck her kid next to me while she sat on the other side of the seat. It was a very unspoken stranger-please-take-my-kid-while-I-sleep-for-four-minutes moment. I'd peg this kid at 8 or 9. He had a video game with him which he played while he slowly shifted his weight onto me, leaning back into me like I was his recliner. I did not reciprocate this accidental affection, obviously. That would be super weird and creepy. In fact, I was worried that the mother was going to look over and assume that I was like, Pied-Piper-ing her son into a dreamlike state or something, so I tried to prop him up again without making him feel self-conscious for leaning so far into a stranger's lap in the first place. I failed. It was clear that the mother didn't care. So I just let this little boy deepen his snuggles with my left side.

A friendly guy that got on the train a few stops after me gave me a "your kid's cute" look. Now I was actively getting credit for being this kid's caretaker. The guy got off at Bedford-Nostrand with me, after I had propped the kid back up on his seat (the kid looked at me with a little confusion at first, but then just kept playing his game), and he approached me and said, "I thought that was your son!" I wanted to say something like "It was; I am finally rid of him," but instead I told him how I felt like I had gone halfway through the stages of adoption in that train ride.

I used to babysit a super-cool girl who actually kind of looked like me, and most people presumed that I was her mother. Being that cool girl's mom or being this train boy's mom would mean I would have had the kid in high school. It makes me so weirded out to be viewed as a teen mom now in in her mid-twenties, hanging around New York with her kid. It could not be farther away from what my life is - if they knew how poorly I take care of myself, they'd understand that child services would've taken any kid of mine long ago - but hey, if there's a kid there acting like you're their mom, that's what the world thinks you are. I can't blame the world for judging books by their covers. I own several books for the same reason.

I am not someone who dislikes kids or is ambivalent about having them one day: I want them. I wish I didn't, but I really, really do. Seriously, you fall in love with a person so hard that you think, "actually yeah, I could be with you forever," and then you get to make a new PERSON with them by expressing your love for them physically? WHAT? That's amazing! That's some kind of dreamland fantasy scenario, and I definitely don't want to miss out on it.

But yeah, nobody wants a kid at 25. Well, not true. I don't, and nobody I know personally does. So in these temporary moments where the universe shows me what an alternate reality version of myself as a young mother would look like, I become eternally grateful that I was so unattractive as a teenager, and that my high school boyfriend was Christian enough to insist that premarital sex was a sin. I didn't like it at the time, but I like it every time I skip over "dependents" on a tax form.

10 Ways I Could Really Nail My Callback

2010-03-21T17:03:00.000-07:00

1. Stay on the back line the whole time. Sweep edit one scene, but go right to the back line afterwards. Stare at the ground, pre-execution style.

2. Walk on in every scene as a different character.

3. Walk on in every scene as the same character.

4. If somebody else initiates a grounded scene, respond by screaming, "Why aren't you more worried about this rocket's collision course with the Sun!?!?"

5. If somebody initiates a wacky scene, respond by saying, "This is all in your head! We're actually both in a mental institution. I'm your doctor and you're the patient, and it's the year 2000. You think you have Y2K in your brain. Your name is Jerry, mine is Dr. Grubenparker." Then turn to the people watching and say "How's that for who, what, when and where?" Then edit the scene.

6. Take "back line support" to mean making bird, ocean and lawnmower sounds to create the appropriate atmosphere, even if none of those things is mentioned in the scene.

7. Sit down with the panel and give them business cards. Tell them it's for "when they're ready to get a real job."

8. Play a character that only vomits.

9. Play a character with explosive diarrhea, and make loud fart noises if anybody tries to make the scene not about the very funny diarrhea.

10. Yell, "SCENE!" at the end of every scene.

Incredibox

2010-03-17T19:20:00.000-07:00

Usually when I waste 45 minutes procrastinating on the internet, I give myself a hell of a self-flagellation that typically doubles as another 45 minutes of procrastination. Not this time! I just spent 45 minutes on Incredibox (go to it here!!!), and I deem every nanosecond of it a success. I have made several fantastic songs, and been romantically involved (in my imagination) with at least four of these French musicians. Because after all, I like my men like I like my coffee: skinny, sallow, sleep-deprived and sexily disinterested in their own creative abilities.

It sort of applies to coffee too. Shut up. Did you at least like the alliteration?

Virtually Scarless...

2010-03-13T14:45:00.000-08:00

...is the equivalent of saying "scarred for life."

Glamour Cuts

2010-03-05T17:22:00.000-08:00

The Glamour thingy that ran a week or so ago had to be edited down to five rules for single men, though I had written a few more. I just realized I have a blog and can post the ones that didn't make the team. For your pleasure (but really for mine) here are the runners-up:

1. Take note of her body language. Is she leaning towards you, playing with her hair, reaching out to touch you gently on the arm? Watch out! She probably has lice, and now so does your arm!

2. Make sure she's aware that you can show her the world; shining, shimmering, splendid. Invite her to tell you - and throw in some extra charm here by calling her "princess" - now when did she last let her heart decide? Note: make sure you have access to a magic carpet and a monkey sidekick.

3. Only fart if you're certain it's going to sound hilarious. Or if you've trained your butt to ask for her hand in marriage.

4a) Try not to mention your ex-girlfriends. Unless you dated the actress who played Alex Mack. We'll feel so bad about ourselves comparative to that mystery dream girl that we'll immediately put out. Or we'll get intimidated and leave, rethink it, call you in the middle of the night outside your house and then immediately put out. Like, I'm talking in-your-building's-stairwell immediately.

Nim Chimpsky

2010-03-03T13:25:00.000-08:00

The longest sentence Nim Chimpsky (he was, I believe, the first chimp to learn sign language) ever said to his trainers was "Give orange me give eat orange me eat orange give me eat orange give me you."

I love this chimp, and I hope he got an orange out of this.

Some New Stuff

2010-03-03T10:54:00.000-08:00

A funny video I am briefly in here.

An article about a book about atheism and potato kugels here.

My rant about how great Spain bar is here.

A dog wearing a naked human bum thing here.

Some more

2010-02-26T11:16:00.000-08:00

Jurassic Park: Cake edition

2010-02-26T10:40:00.001-08:00

Be George Bailey!

2010-02-26T06:07:00.000-08:00

My wonderful friend John asked me to provide some tips for single men for his Glamour column. Click here to see!

Also, alert: I am posting semi-occasionally to a tumblr now. Some posts will be the same as here, others will be tumblr originals. Pretty exciting. Tumblr here.

HAHAHAHAHAHA!

2010-02-24T13:39:00.000-08:00

Tasha Robinson

2010-02-21T16:51:00.000-08:00

Let's get one thing straight right away: I am a very loyal AV Club reader/listener.

However, I feel I have to voice my respectful discord with pretty much everything Tasha Robinson has expressed in writing or podcast form. I hope she does not have a Google alert for her own name (I do for mine, so don't talk shit about me! Or that Christian pre-school teacher also named Becky Ferreira!). Even though everything to come is mild, I'd still feel guilty. Please, you know I would not post bitterness against any AV Club writer without much consternation first. I have seriously consterned over this.

Some qualifiers: I no longer know whether I actually disagree at heart; I just know that I am on whatever side she's not. There's a reason for this. Over the course of my AV Club fandom, I have read a lot of her articles. I am a devoted AV Talk subscriber. She has made many points that I find boring or most often, just blandly irrelevant. She'll shy away just when the discussions get interesting. Even so, she's usually mere increments off of what I actually believe, but she's far enough often enough to consistently annoy me, especially in contrast to the rest of the AV Club writers. I've developed a sort of Pavlovian conditioning to her work; I am so used to being irritated that it doesn't matter whether I agree with her or not anymore. Just as the dog salivates when exposed to certain stimuli, so too will I take the contrary opinion of whatever she says. She's that person I sometimes run into at parties who seems completely nice and smart and cool and yet for some reason, I want to argue her into the ground about everything.

By the way, I am convinced Keith Phipps feels the same way. The more AV Talk I listen to, the more frustrated he seems with her. I fully accept that this is probably wanton projection, but in the Tooth Fairy and Shutter Island podcasts, he does seem genuinely irritated when she misconstrues what he's just said (which, in my obviously biased opinion, she does at least twice in each podcast).

I've felt this way about Tasha Robinson for months, but it took something special to actually goad me enough to post about it. Like I said, she's smart and clearly awesome: I respect her. She's just becoming my nemesis is all, and a week or so back, she really took the plunge into arch enemy territory. In anticipation of Valentine's day, the AV Club posted a Q&A called "Falling Out of Love Hard" about things the staff writers loved at a certain stage in their lives but that didn't hold up later. Great choices abounded, such as Lost in Translation (proud to say I always hated it!), American Beauty and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Tasha Robinson's choice? THE CURE. The motherfucking CURE! Now, you may already know this, but I love me some Cure. I don't think I qualify as a mega-fan of any band (have you seen the shit real mega-fans do?) but if I were, that band would be the Cure. The Cure is the only band that has remained a staple since I first started getting into music all the way through to today, with the exception of Queen. However, Robert Smith comes slightly closer to touching my soul than Freddie Mercury, which is crazy, because if you read this blog, you'll know that about a month ago Freddie Mercury actually hitchhiked in the backseat of my soul for a while. Well, Robert Smith has been hanging out in that backseat since 1994.

Anyway, I'll let Tasha speak for herself:

The first thing that leaps to mind for me is The Cure. I discovered them in college, which was maybe already a little too far past my mopey, lovesick, self-absorbed-pain phase of life for them to really hit the emotional sweet spot of a band that says what you’re thinking. At the same time, they were something new for me: I’d never been into punk, I’d never heard of goth, and I’d never heard music that touched on so many genres at once. It was like finding a Rosetta Stone that let me translate between the pop I was used to and all the music I’d never been exposed to and was just then discovering. I listened to The Cure a lot for a couple of years. And then… I moved on. Fairly recently, I saw some cheap Cure CDs and picked them up and re-exposed myself, and lo and behold, what once seemed innovative and deep and emotional now just sounded like a bunch of samey whining. The music hasn’t changed, but I have; that’s just how it goes.

The thing that frustrates me so much is that once again, she is only a few degrees off of articulating something great (ie. my opinion), and then just veers off into awful-land. Of course, one of the reasons the Cure is so great is that they evoke so many genres in their songs, and she really summarizes that perfectly. Similar to Tarantino, Robert Smith really wants you to geek out about recognizing homages to his music idols in his work. He wants you to seek out his influences, and he wants the musicians he inspires to have a broad tapestry to draw from. She gets it! She momentarily gets the Cure! Then she fumbles, hard!

One of the things that has always astonished me about people's perception of the Cure is that they are, in her words, a band of "samey whining." They are viewed as just this moody goth band for teens. I'm aware that a lot of their songs live up to that reputation (though I would argue those songs are way better than most moody goth songs for teens). But for fuck's sake, people! This is the band that gave us great slow punk songs like "Accuracy" and great sexy synth songs like "Let's Go to Bed" and so many great ecstatically happy pop songs like "Just Like Heaven," "Hot Hot Hot," Close to Me" and "Friday I'm in Love." My favourite Cure songs represent just how un-samey Robert Smith is, and obvzzz, I'm prepared to provide examples. First of all "The Lovecats." I'm sorry, but try to find a song like that anywhere. Come back to me with a song that sounds like "The Lovecats." Deliver that to my doorstep, world. It's one of the weirdest, coolest songs ever written! IT ENDS IN A MEOW CRESCENDO!!! And there's another favourite, "Wrong Number," which is basically proof that Robert Smith went into space at some point and wrote a pop song there. Of course, there's also "Why Can't I Be You?" which spends a decent amount of time being my favourite pop song, frequently usurping "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen or "I Want You Back" by the Jackson 5 for the spot. Seriously, if you've never listened to "Why Can't I Be You?" do yourself a favour and buy it right now, and feel like you are on a billion hits of ecstasy for three minutes and fifteen seconds.

And the song that got me into the Cure, the song that has remained my favourite song if I had to name a favourite song, not just from the Cure but FROM ANY BAND EVER: "Lullaby." Heard it when I was around 10 or 11 and loved music thereafter. It has insinuated itself so far into the fabric of my neurons that I still have recurring dreams about giant spiders with candy cane legs invading snowy Who-like towns in the night. Bear in mind that at around the same time I got into the Cure, I was also obsessed with Tim Burton movies, especially Beetlejuice and The Nightmare Before Christmas. So I really had no choice but to have recurring dreams about giant spiders with candy cane legs invading snowy Who-like towns.

Listen, I get growing out of bands. The band I listened to the most in junior high was Our Lady Peace and the band I listened to the most in high school was Nine Inch Nails (hands fucking down!). I grew out of both, with the exception of Pretty Hate Machine. Seriously guys, that's still an amazing album! My BFF Chris Dingwall knows it, and I know it, and that's really all that should matter.

But this claim that the Cure didn't change, while Tasha Robinson did: it irks me. The Cure is one of those special bands like the Beatles, Queen, Springsteen or Led Zep that doesn't need to change. Digression: "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" was one of my favourite songs when I was a kid, because kids love fantastical imagery and the otherworldly soundscapes. Also, my sister's name is Lucy, and I took it very literally to be a song about her going diamond-hunting in space. The song didn't change, but it meant something different to me as a pseudo-rebellious teenager, when I knew LSD had actually catalyzed the fantastical element. It means something different to me again today: an awesome ballad about the joy of exploration. The song will continue to accrue meanings for as long as I return to it, and it will also never lose the past meanings. It's still a song about my sister finding diamonds in the stars as much as it is a discovery song. The song doesn't change, but it doesn't have to. Who does Tasha Robinson think she is, demanding that the Cure change with her?

The first time I listened to "Lullaby," I liked it because it reminded me of Danny Elfman. Today, I have put layers upon layers of new meanings on that song, and tomorrow I'll dump even more on it. You have a relationship with a band not dissimilar to the kind you have with a person. That's why when bands make music we love, we feel understood, and when they stop making music we love, we feel cheated.

And that's the thing that bugs me about Tasha Robinson's falling-out-of-love with the Cure: it doesn't seem like she was ever genuinely in love with the Cure. She is judging them by the stereotype pinned to them by outsiders, who have noticed Robert Smith loves to wear make-up and black clothes and extrapolate (very incorrectly!) from there. And I think it's what bothers me about her generally. I follow the AV Club because I love being an uber-fan of uber-fans. I love nerding out over nerds nerding out. Tasha Robinson has never persuaded me that she's an uber-fan of anything. She never has that excitement in her voice on the podcast, and her reviews are flat out clinical. I'm having serious doubts about whether she's actually a nerd at all. In fact, I'm pretty positive she's not. I think she's just a smart, calm person pretending to be a nerd, a wolf in geek's clothing.

As Robert Smith would say, "HEY! HEY! HEY! Yes, I like it when that lightning comes/ HEY! HEY! HEY! Yes, I like it a lot/ HEY! HEY! HEY! Yes, I'm jumping like a jumping jack/ Dancing, screaming, itching, squealing, fevered feeling HOT HOT HOT!"

Those lyrics mean something to me because I'm a fan, bitch.

Important Scientific Advances

2010-02-19T15:30:00.000-08:00

The lovely and talented Dru Johnston has allowed me the opportunity to guest blog on his awesome website Year of the Blog. Please do check it out - Dru has been creating a new blog every day since last April which means he has been unfailingly hilarious DAILY for almost a full 365 days. The only other person that's that funny that often is Jerry from accounting with all his googly eyes and whoopee cushions! What a cut-up!

I blogged about an emerging new field called paleocosmology: the study of dinosaur activity in outer space. If this fascinating new discipline piques your interest, you can read more about it here. I will be posting new discoveries as they come.

Also, I want to note that today I stepped into an elevator with a man and his dog. You know what I bet dogs think when they ride elevators? That the elevator is a box to hide in while the entire world outside rapidly changes. The door doesn't slide open to a different floor. That's a whole new world they step out into.

What do we want? FRY'S DOG! When do we want it? FRY'S DOG!

2010-02-17T13:34:00.001-08:00

Every so often, my favourite Futurama episode's last scene pops back into my head and I'm suddenly filled with bittersweetness.

HEAVY SIGH.

PS. I apologize for the alarming increase in posts about bittersweetness recently. I think I am in a feedback loop for bittersweetness. I can't say whether or not it's a positive or negative feedback loop because with bittersweetness, it's both and neither.

PPS. Bittersweetness is probably not an actual noun.

PPPS. Bender: (after retrieving Seymour) And that's why they call me Bender the magnificent! (eyes melt) Hey! Where'd everybody go?

Ebert

2010-02-17T09:33:00.001-08:00

I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn't always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

Srsly

2010-02-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

"I like...I like me. My wife likes me. My customers like me. 'Cause I'm the real article. What you see is what you get."

-Del Griffith to Neal Page, 1987

If you don't tear up a little when John Candy delivers this line, then I am sorry to be the one to inform you that you are a robot parading around as a human. And you're not a Wall-E/Iron Giant/Nufonia Robot. No way. They'd all get it. They'd tear up together in a heartfelt robot lovefest.

Shit, you're not even a Terminator; at least it had a CPU programmed to adapt and learn about its environment, which includes learning about how moving Del Griffith asserting his dignity can be. You also can't pass as a Roomba, ever since Tom Haverford introduced the adorable and charismatic DJ Roomba to the world in what is my second favourite Parks and Recreation moment (it does not beat the sugar rush dance party).

You're basically just some boring appliance, like a can opener, hair dryer or a toaster oven. Like I said, sorry to have to be the one to inform you. Now open this soup can, robot!

Wednesday Brautigan

2010-02-10T09:04:00.001-08:00

Mating Saliva
by Richard Brautigan

A girl in a green mini-
skirt, not very pretty, walks
down the street.

A businessman stops, turns
to stare at her ass
that looks like a moldy
refrigerator.

There are now 200,000,000 people
in America.

Muldoon

2010-02-08T20:45:00.000-08:00

Been thinking about this character a little lately. He is one of only three people who gets eaten by a raptor in the movie. He is also the only white person to be eaten by a raptor. I don't know if that's circumstance or raptor preference. Well, I can make inferences. The raptors looked like they were really into eating Tim and Lex, and the one that ate Arnold (Samuel L. Jackson) would totes have eaten Sattler too, if she hadn't somehow outrun it despite her broken foot and Laura Dern-specific hysteria. So probably circumstance. Still, there are only two black characters and both are raptor'd. Slightly suspicious.

Anyway, the point is, Muldoon is underrated, because you have the strong personalities of Ian Malcolm, John Hammond, Alan Grant and Dennis Nedry to deal with, so it's hard to see this secondary character for the gem that he is. He has three wonderful moments in the movie. Priceless, beautiful lines. The first is in the opening scene, with his frenzied shriek of "SHOOOT HER!!!" as the first black victim of a raptor is being dragged into the raptor box. It is as intense as Muldoon ever gets, including his own death.

The second line is my favourite from him. Muldoon is not onboard with the whole park idea, and probably never has been. He's doing his job, and you get the sense he does it with reluctance. After all, nobody knows the raptors like he does. Grant may be the scientific expert, but none of the fossils he's unearthed have ever pulled a living man out of his hands and into a raptor box for violent consumption. You know? That changes a dude! So when Muldoon is describing how the raptors never test the same part of the fence twice, warning ominously that "they remember," (that's it; my favourite line from him) the scene gets really weighty. Muldoon's been watching the raptors and learning about them, but he also recognizes that the raptors are watching him and learning how to systematically test for vulnerabilities in their captivity. Muldoon and the raptors have been facing off for a long time. Like, literally facing off: actually just staring at each other and becoming insane with rage and respect on both ends. That's definitely my interpretation of it, but this is my blog, so don't even try to revoke my poetic license.

The last line is his most famous. Having been tricked into following a decoy raptor while the alpha raptor stalks him to his left, Muldoon realizes that he has been outsmarted and the battle of wits is finally over. He congratulates the raptor like the gentleman he is, saying "clever girl" and then he gets his head chomped on really hard, and the rest is obscured by a palm frond.

That's a really good story arc for a secondary character. I'd like to see more Muldoons in other movies, regardless of genre. It would be a genuine motivator. If the Valentine's Day poster had a Muldoon in one of its little star boxes, I'd think about going, instead of thinking about puking just a little bit on each individual A-lister.

Make Way for Make Way for Tomorrow

2010-02-08T13:45:00.001-08:00

The last time I was in LA, my friend Simon took me to the Billy Wilder Theater to see something called "Curated by Guy Maddin." You know what it was? Two old movies Guy Maddin wanted us to see. Simon knows exactly what is aces. He is also the discoverer of the Institute of Jurassic Technology; I'm convinced it didn't exist until he saw it.

The first movie was called Secrets, and was awesome and schmaltzy and ridiculous and very, very full of Mary Pickford. It's not the one I care so much about.

The second was Make Way for Tomorrow, and is is the one I care very much about. It seriously made my soul explode. It is the most wonderfully sad film ever made. You may say, "that's a huge assertion, Becky. You haven't seen every sad movie there is." And I'd say "F*ck you! That's the kind of bullshit someone who hasn't seen this movie would say!" I'd apologize to you for overreacting, but I'd still secretly know if you were in my position, you'd have been just as passionate about it, and would have used as many if not more expletives in your response.

After I glued my exploded soul back together, I was to be further disappointed to find that this movie wasn't available on DVD. Now, Criterion has solved this problem for me, and given me a Seth-illustrated cover to boot. Please do yourself a favour and buy this movie. I don't want to ruin anything so I'll only say this: you will feel feelings.

Mum, Don't Read This Post!

2010-02-06T14:53:00.000-08:00

Last summer, my awesome friend Aaron Strate introduced me to Aidonia and I have listened to this song about once a week since then. It's been in my head so often that I've sort of started just singing it under my breath on the streets and the subway. I don't even try to emulate his accent, so it ends up that I just really clearly state that "she had the tight pussy walk." I'd be embarrassed except I kinda think I'm pulling the badassery off.

Fuck It

2010-02-06T14:45:00.000-08:00

The "it" to be fucked is my resolution to post less dinosaurs, made less than five hours ago. Guess what else I've made since then? THIS!

Reinforce my Identity!

2010-02-06T09:45:00.000-08:00

If you are someone who likes me and has hundreds of dollars to burn, please consider giving me one of the below gifts.

Incidentally, I am going to try to restrict how much I post about dinosaurs, because even I can see it's becoming unhealthy. However I can guarantee you that even with my awareness of the problem, I will ultimately always fail to curb dinosaur posts.

An Illustrated Guide to My Thoughts Today

2010-02-05T10:34:00.000-08:00

Thursday

2010-02-04T12:13:00.000-08:00

Some days, you wake up from a dream where you had rockets in your butt cheeks, and you just have to accept that the day will probably be lived under that rather crippling shadow.

Mammalian Empathy Gone Mad

2010-01-31T12:00:00.001-08:00

I just felt pity - real pity - for a rat. He was only a tiny little guy, running on the sidewalk near my house. He stopped as I walked by him. He looked super-cold and kind of down on his rat luck. And I truly thought, "awww, poor lil guy having to hustle around in this weather. And on a Sunday!"

Meanwhile, I hate most domestic cats for being smug. I need to get my inter-species priorities straight.

When Lil Harry Met Sally

2010-01-28T20:13:00.000-08:00

I was walking past a fancy apartment building on my way home from work today, one of those ones with a super-chic lobby and a doorman with his very own big shiny marble desk. A kid on the street was yelling at someone inside; these were his sage words: "I'm just saying, you're wasting your time on her!" I looked to see who he was doling romantic advice out to - it was another kid! In response kid #2, gave kid #1 a look that was sort of a cheerful "back me up here!" type thing! Then he proceeded to head to the elevator with confidence, as men in movies do when they've realized that the girl they always took for granted is the one they want to be with forever and they have to tell her so right the fuck now before she marries Rob Lowe. And that speech better be crazy sweet and articulate, too, because Billy Crystal truly set the bar very high in When Harry Met Sally, and it's not going to drop just because your heart is on the line.

To see the climax of a traditional romantic comedy play out before your eyes is not really that rare in New York. Men are always dropping down on one knee, women are always given meaningful sidelong glances, etc. But to see two 10-year-olds do this was absurd and jarring and totally spectacular. I wish so badly I knew the context and the resolution for what I witnessed. I want to know all the buddy stuff these two kids talk about, and I want to know everything about the lovelorn kid's girl. For example, her age. Is she also 10? Or is she in her thirties, like in Big? Universe, can you just give me this information, please? Please, universe? Even if it's just because you're glad somebody's not asking you about dark matter for a change?

I could nail being an extra in a romantic comedy now; I could Stanislavsky the crap out of it, because I've really lived the part. I know how it feels to be stunned as somebody you've never seen before makes the most important decision of their life and follows through with it before your eyes.

Kid, I hope you kicked Billy Crystal's bar right out into the stratosphere!

What happens when...

2010-01-27T21:44:00.000-08:00

...the band Phoenix plays in the city Phoenix?

Or Boston in Boston. Chicago in Chicago. Kansas in Kansas. Europe in Europe. Phantom Planet on a phantom planet.

Something special has to happen, right?

Exceptions

2010-01-25T19:58:00.001-08:00

Generally, I eschew all belief in people-centric otherworldly things. I believe there are infinite things in the universe that would absolutely blow my mind open, but ghosts, gods and fate I am against: I think it's hubris to expect the universe to waste any of its energy (potential or kinetic) on lil ol' us. It's huge and mysterious, guys. It makes quasars, nebulas and comets (those are things we actually know about - think of the shit ton we don't!). It has more important things to do than humour humanity by carefully weaving destiny into our lives and afterlives.

Plus, even if it was going to bother with investing in life on earth, don't you think it would have chosen the dinosaurs over us? I would have, if I was the universe.

However, when you are running in Fort Greene Park on the first warm night in New York in months and there's a gibbous moon in the sky and the grass is shining from the afternoon's rain and then you suddenly get the feeling that you are not just listening to Freddie Mercury on your iPod, but that somewhere along the way, he has kind of just hopped into your soul to say hello and hang out with you, you don't say no to him because 99% of the time you don't believe this kind of thing can happen.

The Most Narcissistic Thing I've Done in 2010

2010-01-25T04:21:00.001-08:00

John Edwards' Daughter is Not Currently An Asshole, But Will Be

2010-01-22T10:32:00.000-08:00

The Daily News ran an article today listing reasons why Frances Quinn Hunter, the illegitimate daughter of John Edwards, does not deserve to have a douchebag father.

Of course, she doesn't. She's a baby; picture of innocence. However, chances are that every person will grow to deserve their parents, whether that means our parents were good and we try hard to live up to them, or whether our parents were bad and we fail to break the cycle of their dysfunctions. Obviously, that's reductive: all of us probably oscillate somewhere in the middle, inheriting good and bad traits and producing our own good and bad traits to pass along to our unsuspecting progeny. But this is a blog post and so I'm allowed to be reductive.

As mentioned in my previous post, listening to the Hater podcast a lot has given me grounds to hate demographics that are usually taboo to hate. Well, not so much grounds as safety in numbers. Such taboo demographics include the baby population. How can you hate a baby? It's not even anything! True, but I can hate the potential the baby has to be an awful adult, and because hating something as nebulous as a potential thing is unsatisfying, I'm going to go ahead and just transfer that hate right back onto the actual baby.

This Edwards lovechild baby is nothing yet, but she will be something, and the odds are really high that that something will be an asshole. The New York magazine story on the Edwards affair reveals some really spectacularly detestable characters, but I have to say, none of them top Rielle Hunter, who is that perfect storm of stupid, selfish and confidant. She believes in New Age bullshit and had no problem disrespecting hardworking staffers. She flaunts that same revolting brashness of the Sex and the City character who's always fucking men for no reason (and the whole time we're supposed to believe desperation has nothing to do with it). I hate Edwards too; don't get me wrong. But he comes off more like a conniving idiot narcissist, whereas Hunter comes across as the worst kind of idiot narcissist: the crazy, self-righteous variety.

So I kind of hate this baby, because the chances are she's going to grow up to be one of the most intolerable human beings ever. She will have Mum's crazy, Dad's dishonesty, and double the narcissism of each. The smart choice is to just hate her now; it will be the equivalent of investing in Google before the stock exploded.

Conan Supporters Versus Leno Supporters

2010-01-21T06:36:00.000-08:00

ROUND-UP!

Conan has Patton Oswalt, Howard Stern, Jimmy Kimmel, David Letterman, Stephen Colbert, Tina Fey, Ricky Gervais, Quentin Tarrantino, a lot more talented humans above 40 and really, any human under 40.

BUT Leno has Paul Reiser and his son. All in all, pretty equal.

For the best response rebuttal to the Reiser-torial above, please listen to the AV's Hater podcast about it. I love the Hatecast so much, for consistently making it okay for me to really hate certain children.

New Review

2010-01-13T14:57:00.001-08:00

Some Israeli-Palestinian conflict can be found here.

2010: Discovery!

2010-01-06T11:41:00.000-08:00

Hi. I went to Mexico for a while. I am back now. I won't leave again! (I will).

I am working on an secret dinosaur project, which you will hear about later in the coming months. It involves dino-research. For now, I want to introduce you to an underrated paleontological chimera: the Achillobator. It's a late Cretaceous raptor, and it has a rad-sounding name, derived from a rad Greek warrior. According to one blog post I read about it, it could sail and made a profitable trade as a pirate. It's the kind of fact that nobody wants checked.

All hail 2010 Discovery #1: Achillobator!!!

Pictured next to...Mila Kunis? Regardless of what fashionable actress/model is being used as a scale, it's good to know she spent her last moments looking fab.

Discovery #2! While reading this important Slate article, I learned of the existence of conjoined twins Lazarus and Joannes Baptista Colloredo for the first time. Twins who resemble a royal card! I want to make a deck of cards that is asymmetrical - the top part is Lazarus, a kind of well-traveled, cavalier and handsome hustler, and the bottom being an insensate but irrefutably alive Joannes Baptista. The cards would have a tiny coat attached, to allow Lazarus to cover his brother up if the occasion called for it.

I love so many things about the Wikipedia page for these brothers. One line reads: "Contemporary accounts described Lazarus as courteous and handsome but for his brother who just dangled before him."

That's a huge "but." That's not like saying "He's cute, but he could use a little weight." It's "He's cute, but he could lose that other human being, uncommunicative, whose head and leg are dangling upside down from his chest."

"Hey, honey, this house is great! Except it's upside down and filled with wolverines."

This etching of the brothers is also incredible. Lazarus seems to be saying "What're you looking at?" And why shouldn't he say that to me? I can't condescend to him. He undoubtedly had a much richer and more adventurous life than I will lead. All respect to him, and his bro JB.

Conversely, he could be saying "Does this conjoined twin make me look fat?"

There is Some Meaning to be Found Here!

2009-12-19T04:21:00.001-08:00

You know you're sentimental when you spend 15 minutes in Petco almost tearing up as you stare at two hamsters run on the same wheel.

Friday Double Brautigan: "These Hopefully Don't Reflect My Shallowest Anxieties" Edition

2009-12-11T06:50:00.000-08:00

15%

She tries to get things out of men
that she can't get because she's not
15% prettier.

Please

Do you think of me
as often as I think
of you?

Purple Pants: Take Three

2009-12-06T12:13:00.000-08:00

The Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater has promos up all over town, in which a muscle-flexed male dancer is leaping through the universe in purple briefs. I pride myself on rarely coveting items of clothing, but shit, even I have limits. You would have to be certifiably insane to see these purple pants and not desperately want a pair. If I owned these, I would absolutely refuse to wear anything else for the rest of my life, amen. They're that perfect.

Certain subway ads have a way of attracting more graffiti than others, and Mr. Flexy Purple-Pants has seen his fair share, as I've demonstrated below. The first picture is from the Lorimer L-train stop, and is a little more high brow than the other two (high brow in this instance = no penis involved). The second and third pictures are both from my home stop: the inimitable Bedford-Nostrand, where I've seen two men openly masturbating and one taking a shit off the side of the platform. They both involve dicks: dicks are a big part of Bedford-Nostrand graffiti. After all, it was at my fine stop that I witnessed the zenith, apex, pinnacle of all subway art: Shark Man Penis (pictured below, for your reference). I hope you enjoy the collection of defiled Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater promos I've carefully curated.

Shark Man Penis (for your reference only):

Part 1: Lorimer Stop Flexy Purple-Pants:

It's a little hard to read, so here's a blurry close-up:

A speech bubble has been added that originally said "I won't buy ExxonMobil" but was then revised to say "I won't buy Gitgo," only to be revised a third time into a final, definitive message "I won't buy Bilbo." The last declaration is probably the most reasonable of all three: buying hobbits is truly inadvisable. They are fictional.

Part Two: Bedford-Nostrand Flexy Purple-Pants, Bedford Exit:

Again, you may need a closer look to get the scope of this creative addition:

As you can see, the artist has added an extremely large phallus to this ad, and to clarify (or is it to obfuscate?) his/her intentions, has written the word "molecules" and then parenthetically specifies his statement, adding "(sprem)." Everything here is so lovable; the misspelling of sperm as sprem is one of the funniest things I've seen in subway art, especially considering the artist seemed to be trying to help the viewer out: "these molecules I drew here, coming out of this hairy-balled penis? Don't worry, that's just sp[er]m." And yet, despite the obvious charm displayed here (can I quickly note, I am really, truly in no way being facetious about any of this?) it is not quite my favourite, and I think you'll see why with the third installment.

Part Three: Bedford-Nostrand Flexy Purple-Pants, Nostrand Exit:

As has become customary, a close-up:

Now, this one, to me, is a clear winner. It's so simple. It's what I believe to be a penis coming out of Flexy's bum (it could also be a poo, or a small arm). In contrast to the molecule-(sprem)-phallus that appeared to be about to go into the buttocks, this is some disembodied penis that is emerging from Flexy's rump. Exremely original, visually arresting, simple. It is the masterpiece of Flexy Purple-Pants graffiti.

A Lil Softcore SciFi

2009-12-05T09:16:00.000-08:00

I wrote a flash fiction story! It was online-published here. If you like it, tell me so! If you don't, shut your smug mouth!

Celebrity Insult Hour!

2009-12-02T04:41:00.000-08:00

How did a duck get into the Rhys-Meyers lineage?!

(Because he kinda looks like a duck).

Some Female Writers I Hate Right Now

2009-11-23T14:17:00.000-08:00

That they are female is incidental, maybe. Maybe not. I'm going to leave the title how it is for now.

Mara Reinstein is first, with her article today about how, OMG, Twilight sucks so much! YUCK, TWILIGHT, RIGHT?! THE WORST?! WORSE THAN ANYTHING?! RIGHT?!

Hate-inducing quotes:

"As an Us Weekly writer, it pains me that they're (Twilight stars) mentioned in the same "should we put them on the cover?" breath as La Brangelina and La TomKat."

I know she's being a little facetious, but not enough to make me regret discovering what it is that pains US Weekly writers. Because this sentence appears to say, "AHHH! Protect the trivial thing I like from the trivial thing that other people like" and don't you know that that is the whole problem with humanity, Reinstein!?!?!?

Hate-inducing quote 2: ("Every girl can relate to Bella," she carefully explained in a makeshift Twilight intervention.) I anticipate similarly themed "Grow a heart, you soul-less witch" responses from this essay."

First of all, you didn't write an essay, you wrote a poop. Secondly, if I was an Us Weekly writer, my rejoinder would be "Grow a brain first!" and then I'd high-five my nearest girl friend (first things first). Then I'd turn back to Reinstein and add, "but also, for real, grow a heart too." It would be so sassy, her face would be sassed right off.

Listen bitch, if somebody finds a fictional character relatable, that's a really sacred bond, and you'd be wise to step the fuck off. It does not matter whether the character is insipid - as Twilight's Bella is - or completely evil. Identify with Dostoevsky's Stavrogin, if you want! Sure, he is among the most convincing psychopaths in literature (I don't buy the whole guilt catching up with him thing), and truly empathizing with him probably does betray some moral shortcomings on your part, or at the very least, uncertainties. But the act of conflating your identity with him is a conscious act of acknowledgment, and it is truly a rare case when the identifier comes out less interesting for developing that bond.

This really makes it seem like I identify with Stavrogin, and am trying to justify it to myself. I actually don't. It's just an example, for the record. Is the record straight?

K, moving on: as for banal characters, were you ever a child? A teenager? If you want to deprive all these rabid Twilight fans of their enthusiasm and happiness, you better go back in time and destroy virtually every Disney heroine and teen heartthrob we grew up with too. I don't care if in retrospect Disney's Maid Marian is kind of a pushover vixen. I wanted to be her! She had great clothes and a vivacious hen friend and a famous fox boyfriend, who I still think has the sexiest voice in all of animated history. If I'm honest, I still kind of want to be Disney's Maid Marian. And I'm less insipid than you!

I mean, you even admit you were a fan of Lost Boys! Don't get me wrong, I love a Haim/Feldman movie as much as - actually, likely more - than any child of the 80s. Plus, I originally watched Lost Boys out of love for Alex Winter, who the world forgot (so I'm more genuine than you, I think is my point). But you are complaining about the blandness of modern vampires, and then getting nostalgic about a movie that is basically about Kiefer Sutherland being the dreamy Canadian he is. Consistency!

Now, I haven't cracked a Twilight book or seen the movies, but I have been part of fan crazes before, and they are fun. You are not. You hate fun, and you especially hate it when others have it. You say, "ew gross, this movie is not good, stop liking it!" If we were to pluck every not good but likable thing from our lives, we'd explode very suddenly with boredom. Is that the world you want? Exploding bored people land?!

Moving on, I also don't like Michiko Kakutani, and I don't understand how she has a job or a Pulitzer. Too exhausted from rant 1 to write rant 2, but trust me. I have reasons.

Guess What, World? I Have a Favourite Italian Renaissance Painting!

2009-11-22T11:19:00.000-08:00

Below is an early Italian Renaissance painting by Stefano di Giovanni (also known as "il Sassetta"), who lived from 1392-1450.

You may note that this is definitely a contender for the weirdest painting of all time, and it certainly wins Weirdest Renaissance Painting. And although Sassetta took pains to make his intentions as specific as possible by entitling the piece The Blessed Ranieri Rasini Delivering the Poor from the Prison in Florence, 1437–1444, I think we all know that it would be much more appropriate to call it Rocket-Man Going on a Fiery Rampage and Scaring Everyone Away Except a Man Who Lives In a Mouse Hole, 3033-3040 (Also, Is Red-Shirt-Man Grabbing His Crotch or Is That Just a Hole in His Pants?).

Fainting Goats

2009-11-22T09:28:00.001-08:00

This is the weirdest, funniest thing I've seen genetics do in a while.

Advice

2009-11-14T19:39:00.001-08:00

Try to curb your use of pet adverbs. I just realized that I use "genuinely" so indiscriminately that anyone who knows me well now has grounds to assume that if I don't use it in a sentence, there's a good chance that I'm being insincere.

Friday Brautigan: "Becky Misses the Pacific" Edition

2009-11-13T13:15:00.000-08:00

Our Beautiful West Coast Thing
by Richard Brautigan

We are a coast people
There is nothing but ocean out beyond us.
—Jack Spicer

I sit here dreaming
long thoughts of California

at the end of a November day
below a cloudy twilight
near the Pacific

listening to the Mamas and the Papas
THEY'RE GREAT

singing a song about breaking
somebody’s heart and digging it!

I think I'll get up
and dance around the room.

Here I go!

New Review

2009-11-12T04:50:00.000-08:00

Some Calvin & Hobbes'in' here.

You ever notice how people are always noticing things?

2009-11-07T17:16:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday and Thursday night this week, I went to stand-up shows. BUT NOT JUST ANY OL' STAND-UP SHOWS. You should be seriously jealous for the big shot of comedy I got injected straight into my...FUNNY BONE! (This is a great example of what I secretly hope I will be like as a stand-up. Just the worst, pedestrian jokes but man: my commitment to them).

Okay, so, Wednesday night: a month ago, Will emailed me something along the lines of, "I just got this heads-up that Ricky Gervais is performing at a kind of low key thing. Wanna go?" Sometimes, you have to write responses using only capital letters and exclamation points. You just don't have a choice about it.

Of course, it was amazing. Todd Barry opened: I've never been disappointed by anything that guy has done. Louis CK did a funny video bit about Gervais drinking millions of gallons of cum. I laughed at it, guys. I laughed at the cum joke, because guess the fuck what? If we're living in a world where hot, gooey viscous stuff filled with millions of potential humans shoots out of a tube-like appendage and causes intense pleasure for a man, well, I'm going to go ahead and think anything remotely related to that fact is funny.

Gervais was awesome as expected. I realized recently in a kind of roundabout way that I must be totally obsessed with him. I have watched each episode of the British Office between 20-30 times. I have listened to each episode of his podcast close to that many times too, and have downloaded all of the original XFM shows he did due to my insatiable need for Merch/Pilk/Gervz. I am the only one I know besides Will who enjoyed The Invention of Lying despite its faults. I have watched his Inside the Actor's Studio interview TWICE. I have watched all his previous stand-up shows at least twice. The only book I own both in hardcover and paperback is The World of Karl Pilkington. All the evidence points to me being unequivocally captivated and yet my own acknowledgment of my obsession came very casually. I was listening to an old episode of the podcast on the train home one night, back from the Creek. I was the only one on the car, and I knew most of what Karl Pilkington was going to say before he said it. So when Ricky asked Karl what he thought the plural of mongoose was, I said it aloud with him: "mongs." I am the only person in New York City to get on a train, say one word during the ride, and have that word be "mongs." For whatever reason, the obsession was laid bare, and no sooner had I acknowledged it than I had come to terms with it.

Anyway, Ricky lived up to the obsession.

Thursday: I went to Bleak Comedy's Creek show, at which Donald Glover was doing a 30-minute set in preparation for tonight's Comedy Central thingamy. My friend Rachel was the first stand-up to go, and rocked it out. It was the first time I've seen her do stand-up - I have been thwarted from attending many of her past shows for increasingly absurd (but true!) reasons. She is one of my favourite people to do improv with and I've seen many a sketch penned by her, and so it's not like I was shocked that her comedic talents also shone through with stand-up. But there's always an awful moment where you consider that you might not appreciate your friend's performance. That moment was record-breakingly brief for me; she really made no bones about letting everyone know immediately that she had the goods.

Donald Glover was hilarious in that way where it's like: "Good, you have met the expectations I had, which I had hitherto believed were impossibly high." A lot of the audience was obnoxious and drunk, since there had been 10 comics since Rachel opened, plus hosting bits. A girl behind me kept editorializing on Donald's jokes, sort of along the lines of "Oh that's funny what he said, let me use it as a jump-off point to tell you this fucking inane story about myself." Everyone knows that an important component of self-esteem is to have the confidence to speak your mind and not abandon your views, but I think there is also a way more underrated element to a healthy ego: having the confidence to recognize your talents relative to others, and to not be threatened if you come up short. Not that I've completely mastered that - a little professional jealousy can be a real motivator - but hey, I will certainly never believe that I am the person to upstage Donald Glover. It will just never happen. And I am kind of genuinely proud of that.

Early November stand-up stories: fin.

"And why haven't we been properly shelved, hmmmm?"

2009-11-04T04:18:00.000-08:00

When I woke up today, the shoes I wore yesterday were in the middle of floor, positioned with one at a slight angle to the other.

It looked like they expected something from me.

Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer

2009-11-03T10:08:00.000-08:00

Don't eat meat, guys, forrreaaalzzzzz! My feature about Jonathan Safran Foer's fantastic new book here.

Tuesday Brautigan

2009-11-03T09:15:00.000-08:00

This poem is dedicated both to another great Halloween weekend and to the fact that the ghost of Janis Joplin definitely just threw a basket at my friend Jessi. I won't go into details on the event except to say that it's pretty clear that no other explanation is possible.

BOO, FOREVER
by Richard Brautigan

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I’m haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

Sunday Brautigan

2009-10-25T13:18:00.000-07:00

Your Catfish Friend
by Richard Brautigan

If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."

Sea Love

2009-10-22T04:54:00.000-07:00

Give me a budget and I'll give you this pilot episode for the next groundbreaking drama:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fcett5sPx_0

Thanks, Subconscious!

2009-10-20T18:35:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend, I woke up from a dream that has either proved that my brain is a vacant wasteland of pop cultural references or was a forewarning that I am the One (Luke Skywalker, John Conner, Neo, Jesus, Mohammed, Abraham, Frodo Baggins, Atreyu, that fat kid that got Peter Pan's sword at the end of Hook, Max from Where the Wild Things Are: whatever your narrative understanding of the One is, I mean that).

The dream began by making it very clear that Sarah Conner was my mother and protector. Linda Hamilton Sarah Conner, none of this Lena Headey bullshit. Sarah Conner was my mother and we were in some sort of version of Jurassic Park. Naturally, though, the dinosaurs were super-intelligent and could talk. THAT DON'T MEAN THOSE BITCHES WEREN'T AFTER US, THOUGH! If there's one thing my frequent dinosaur dreams have taught me, it's that imbuing dinosaurs with the ability to reason and communicate with humans doesn't mean they aren't still just going to attack you out of nowhere. In fact, the suspense is even thicker when you can reason with them. How much more freaky is it when the dinosaurs can articulate, from several hundred yards away, their desire to eat you? It's significantly freakier, trust me on this one. I've conversed with my fair share of sentient dinosaurs in my sleep!

So here we are on this island with super-intelligent dinosaurs. Some of the smaller ones are helping us. Anything over ten feet is trying to stop us from escaping the park, the preferred preventative method being ingestion. There is an Albertosaurus on our tail, and that thing from Jurassic Park III (I've heard it called both a Spinosaurus and an Egyptosaurus) is apparently behind every large-ish tree.

Let me tell you, I've been eaten before in these dreams, and it is a real bummer. Thankfully we got out of this park alive, both Mumma Sarah and me. The dinosaurs were held back by a transparent fence. They grimaced at us and made it clear this wasn't over, etc. For the time being - this dream - it was over. For my life, however, I'm sure the battle is still in its infancy.

The next part of the dream was just a haze of running through the jungle. If my dream was a movie and I was its editor, I'd probably cut this scene. Seemed extraneous and generally didn't fit with the tone of the rest of the dream. But I feel like I'd be a liar if I didn't note that there was a little bit of jungle-running. There was, and there you have it.

At some point, Sarah Mums showed me a secret passageway on the forest floor. It was at this point that I realized that the jungle had mellowed and started to look distinctly Endorian. Or rather, it looked forest-moon-of-Endorian. It looked pretty Ewoky, is my point. We opened the passageway and found ourselves in the middle of a big, huge, crazy Sith-meeting. Just a bunch of Sith in there, discussing their nefarious plans. We were hiding behind a pole or a door, so they didn't even seem to notice, and I guess didn't have that much security in their meeting. My mother and I knew what was what. We started taking some serious notes on their plot to kill good things, knowing we could help out rebel friends (rebels against Skynet or the Empire, who knows and who cares?) I'm pretty sure we were discovered and that's what prompted me to wake up, but I did not wake up panicked or in fear. I woke up feeling like I was the bees fucking knees. It should have been a nightmare - I was in danger the entire dream. But some neuronal firing had conspired to make it fun, not petrifying. Thanks, brain!

This dream combined three of my all-time favourite high-stakes trilogies and made me absolutely, unequivocally the focus of each one. Terminator was the running thread that helped me escape Jurassic Park and venture into Star Wars territory. How wonderful of my brain to synthesize these things and give me a chance to simultaneously star in all three. Or how depressing, depending on whether or not you think dreams should be about being in your house except it's kinda sorta not your house and there's a fish jumping out of the floor and your best friend is there except it's not really him, or it's him, but five years younger. YOU BORE ME.

Dear Sweet Jefferson Market Librarian

2009-10-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

You don't have to apologize to me every time my fines have accrued to the point where I have to pay them if I want my next book. You don't.

I'm very irresponsible. I'm the kind of irresponsible that is not forgetful, just negligent. I know when they're due. I just don't return them. Don't implicate yourself in my failures. You want to know something? I don't even implicate myself in them.

Love,
Becky

PS. The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch is unlikely to be back in your hands by November 2.

Domestic Tip

2009-10-10T11:25:00.001-07:00

Listening to early Cure albums while washing dishes makes for vigourously scrubbed dishes!

OPINION VISION!!!!!!

2009-10-10T07:37:00.000-07:00

Regardless of whether it was politically astute to award Obama the Nobel Peace Prize, I am dead set against this argument that's flourished that he didn't deserve it. And even Obama admitted he didn't think he did. HE IS WRONG.

I'm sorry, he devoted years and years of his life to revitalizing one of the most downtrodden and neglected urban areas in America, and building it into a politically and socially active community. He did it by LISTENING to people, a tool almost nobody in politics employs, but which he has continued to use since, in his time in the famously corrupt world of Illinois politics, and then the broader world of national politics. He has written two bestselling books, one of which is deeply moving on a personal level and groundbreaking in its ideas about racial identity, while the other is one of the most extensive modern tomes of diplomacy out there. With these books alone, he has inspired millions of people, and not only Americans. Not enough?

Okay, he is one of the best orators in American history. He has reached out specifically to Europe, Asia and the Middle East and improved America's image worldwide within mere months. He is the first president ever to not only empathize with non-American cultures, but to have lived in them, to have had them deeply shape his identity and philosophies. He is the first black president in a country divided bitterly over race.

He is at the beginning of his years of true international achievement and anything could happen in those years, I agree. But this fact does not invalidate his past achievements.

Yes, this is a wrench thrown into his spokes, yes, he does not technically fit the description of the Peace Prize, but then how did Al Gore fit it?, yes, it's a wry political move on the part of the Nobel committee who really are just slapping Bush in the face, yes, it would have been better to award this to him post-presidency, yes, he is making war in Afghanistan rather than preventing it, yes, the Peace Prize was awarded to Arafat but not Gandhi, rendering it pretty illegitimate but holy fucking shit guys, do not tell me Barack Obama doesn't deserve it.

Norwegian Westerns & Fictional New Yorkers

2009-10-08T14:31:00.000-07:00

A few months back, I interviewed the amazing graphic novelist Jason. He is the best thing in comics since Bill Watterson. Genuinely. Read the interview in which I nerd out a little too evidently here. I am such a sycophant, but at least I'm a sycophant with taste.

I also wrote of a review of a neat book called Knickerbocker which you can read here.

MORE STUFF SOON!

SIPs

2009-10-05T16:51:00.000-07:00

I only just noticed that Amazon.com lists Statistically Improbable Phrases (SIPs) below the summaries of each book page. Seriously, how awesome is that?! I have listed some of the SIPs of my favourite books below:

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

"Kid spat" is the only one listed. Sparse as Cormac himself.

The Elegant Universe by Brian Greene

vibrational string patterns, sliding clock, stationary light clock, familiar extended dimensions, quantum undulations, three extended spatial dimensions, superpartner particles, circular girth, resonant vibrational patterns, quantum jitters, five string theories, given string theory, second superstring revolution, circular dimension, energy denomination, perturbative tools, spatial fabric, string theory offers, nine space dimensions, observational vantage points, winding energies, string coupling, string theorists, perturbative framework, elegant universe

The Philosopher and the Wolf by Mark Rowlands

irish ferries, happiness junkies, simian intelligence, epistemic duty

Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem

garbage cop, ambulance ramp, phone downstairs, homicide cop

The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon

cloud factory, giant women

Pale Blue Dot by Carl Sagan

great demotions, deflection technology, pale blue dot, scaling heaven, spacefaring nations, cometary fragments, gravitational tides, human missions, first spacecraft, other planetary systems, planetary society

The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien

queer lodgings, fourteenth share, unexpected party, old thrush, wood elves, other dwarves, lake men, gob lins

Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.

These ones take the cake. I mean, seriously, DFW was a master of employing statistically improbable words, let alone phrases:

medical attaché, annular fusion, entertainment cartridge, improbably deformed, howling fantods, feral hamsters, dawn drills, tough nun, professional conversationalist, new bong, ceiling bulged, metro boston, tennis academy, red leather coat, soupe aux pois, red beanie, addicted man, magnetic video, littler kids, little rotter, technical interview, police lock, oral narcotics, sober time, veiled girl.

Turns out...

2009-10-04T05:34:00.000-07:00

...I'm a real sucker for statues, erected posthumously, of artists conversing with their creations. One thing death does, which can be both good and bad, is release the deceased into Legend Land. Kermit and the Cat in the Hat, being fictional, are long-time residents of this legend-realm. To me, these statues approximate what it looks like for them to welcome their creators into this place, both showing them the ropes and celebrating that they are finally able to interact with each other on the same plane of existence. I love how Jim Henson and Kermit look like old friends catching up, and Seuss and the Cat in the Hat look like they are taking a break for a quick, silly photo op, and will return to reminiscing directly after.

Jim Henson and Dr. Seuss died in 1990 and 1991 respectively, and I remember hearing about both of their deaths as a 6 and 7 year old (especially Henson's). Not only were they mourned out of respect for their work, they were mourned for consistently being stand-up dudes; they were loyal, empathetic, honest, it seems like they didn't let talent and fame rob them of very much. Because I was a kid, I know I conflated them with their work, and I wasn't always clear which side of reality/fantasy Miss Piggy and the Lorax were on as opposed to Henson and Seuss. These statues are a little bit of validation for the haziness of the kid me's conception of creator/creation.

My Heart Will Melt...

2009-10-04T05:32:00.001-07:00

This is in the mail to me and it should be in the mail to you too.

What's so amazing/ That keeps us star-gazing...

2009-09-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

Thesis: working as a non-American in America is very confusing. I have a job that sponsors me and an immigration lawyer and I am Canadian (I can't think of a more entitled nationality to be: being Canadian basically means you get carte blanches from everybody no matter where they're from. It's awesome).

Lawyer, job, Canadian cred - it all makes it easier by 3000% to stay in the USA legally. I do not even want to think about what a drag it is to not have those things because even with them, I have basically gone through a month-long nervous breakdown over what the proper process to stay is. It finally ended yesterday, and I have felt like I'm floating through warm, soft clouds of joy and relief ever since. This shit is terrifying. For realzzzz.

About a month ago, I called the American Embassy in Toronto to make sure everything was set for me to be under my very lovely H1B work status as of October 1st. By the way, you have to pay a flat rate of $35 to even call the American Embassy, and then a $2/minute charge after that. And the representative put me on hold. WTF-vision!!!!!!

The embassy said: no, no, don't take the instructions your lawyer or the H1B approval notice gave you. Drive to the Canadian border within 10 days of October 1st with every record of being in the United States you have, plus more visa fees, plus more forms, plus a bunch of other documents. They will then decide if you should come back in. I trusted them, because their whole thing is knowing what to do with visas. I have lived and worked in the United States on and off since 2003, under three different kinds of visas, and I have two Social Security numbers, and it all seemed pretty daunting. I really hate looking at my immigration document collection.

So this was fucking scary! I was going through the whole "am I going to get kicked out?" fear all over again, which was basically the only thing that has marred an otherwise stellar year. But I gathered all these documents and stressed out for a month and booked a car and prepared to go. In the back of my head, I was always thinking, "What happens if they don't let me back in?" The panic and dread and stress over that thought had increasing effects as the weeks went by - terrible chest pain and lack of sleep and most egregiously, exposing my wonderful, patient friends to bouts of whining and hysteria. Josh Bowman, Simon McNabb, Chris Dingwall, Will Storie and Nicole Drespel are the only reasons I did not become completely unhinged. I thank them.

This week, the anxiety hit its fever pitch. Before this passing Wednesday's Jason Anderson show, I was looking up every single thing I needed on the consulate web page, and getting a billion different answers about what I should be doing. By the time I got to Pete's Candy Store, I was in a cold sweat. Just really in a bad way. I tried to smile and swallow it for about two seconds while Lee and I ordered beers, but then basically blasted him across the room with high-frequency anxiety. I described in detail the physical effects of the dread I was experiencing and challenged him to think of a time when he felt the same way so that I could have a commiserator (not the best social instinct, but also not the worst; you have to give me that). When he told his version, I became angry, basically because it wasn't my version. All my emotions over this were so strange - the anger, the fear, the frustration, the nerves. By no means am I a stalwart reason-over-emotion person, but I am almost never sucked into feedback loops of negative emotions. I am good at happiness: I like very small accumulations of weird, good things, and I like building them up into weird, great things. Probably 90% of my thoughts follow this pattern. I like problems with no solutions, and making makeshift answers to them that are satisfying because they are not definitive, because they are more just a record of an interaction between yourself and the problem. I also am lucky enough to have one of those things in my brain that refuses to accept shitty experiences as being totally negative, even if it's clear that they actually are. All things bad are a deposit in the ol' bank of character, and such. So to be stuck bouncing between every variety of bad emotion - and really recognizing that this was all just negative - was weird and scary and kind of felt like being on a bad drug trip that you can't stop. I had no tools for it. Humans hate it when there are no tools!

Luckily, a discussion of Lee's vaginal bats sketch was enough to distract me from it temporarily, and then of course, there was Jason Anderson. It bears mentioning that on the evening where I've truly come closer to a mental breakdown than I can remember, my nerves were gone about 5 minutes into the show and didn't come back until the next day. So he's magic, definitely.

I emailed Will that night to warn him that any interaction with me in the next few days was going to be tainted by my accumulation of panic-induced craziness. He responded only by asking when he could see me, which I thought was pretty fucking sweet, given it was so extremely masochistic of him. To respond to your girlfriend when she's like "I'M BATSHIT CRAZY RIGHT NOW!" with "WHEN CAN I BE IN THE LINE OF FIRE?" is a sign of an aces dude.

Simon was the person who really questioned what I was doing (I called him very late on Wednesday for reassurance). Being a Canadian working in LA, also with nebulous visa issues occasionally, he knew how to talk to me about it. He didn't think anything the embassy had said sounded right, and he recommended I call many immigration lawyers about it. I count on him to be my intuition from time to time. I should really look into getting my own intuition installed so I don't always have to borrow his.

I called many immigration lawyers, all of whom said the embassy had given me $50 of bullshit. I don't need to leave the country. I don't need a consular appointment. I don't need any of the documents I gathered. I don't need to pay any more fees. I just need to put the approval notice I already had - have had for months - into my passport on October 1st. The most impressive lawyer of all was Josh's, who got a visa for Josh in less than three months earlier this year (unheard of!), who called me right away and set me straighter than an arrow. Half my notes from our conversation are about how safe I am with what I have and the other half are about how awesome he thinks Josh is.

I was in a bland euphoric haze for almost all of yesterday, and slept better last night than I have in weeks. Which makes all the stress worth it? Yes, because I know I have awesome friends - all compassionate but not at the expense of pragmatism - and I also know there is apparently no limit of bullshit I will take in order to stay in this country. Everyone knows it's a horrendously flawed nation in a billion different ways, but...I love it here.I really do.

I had a Muppet dream last night. It's been a Muppet-heavy few weeks. I read a screenplay for a Jim Henson biopic and I am fanatical about Josh and Chuck's "How Muppets Work" podcast a few weeks back, and in general, have been thinking Muppet-y thoughts. I woke up this morning with this very specific image in my head of Kermit in New York, vivid enough that I was sure it was something I'd actually seen somewhere before. An extremely quick Google Image search led me to it. I can't articulate why the salve that my unconscious provided to relieve the upset of this past month was this image, but it seems so unbelievably appropriate that, I'll admit, I cried a little:

ADDENDUM: On Friday night, Simon texted me this: "There's a line in Jurassic Park 3 where Macy says "We've got enough juice for one call - and don't call the US Embassy, they won't do a damn thing!"

SIMON MCNABB AND JURASSIC PARK 3 FOR THE WIN!