Pop Culture References Are Timeless, When Done Correctly

Welcome Back Ms. Slim Shady,

Has it really been that long since last our cyber-selves crossed? It’s certainly been at least that long since our physical-selves crossed paths, given that one of us spent so much time in the country that brought us Bob Marley, Usain Bolt, Cool Runnings (one of the best Olympic movies of all time, but more on that later), and rum, because who doesn’t like a good rum reference (see Pirates of the Caribbean, before the second and third movies ruined what should have stopped at one, single, glorious movie that boyfriends everywhere walked out saying “That movie wasn’t half bad.”). Are you tanned? Are you feeling ready for our yearly attempt to conquer the Brooklyn Half? I unfortunately got sick and training has been halted because my lungs feel after one 12-minute mile what they should only be feeling at mile 11. That being said, I’ve decided that the hard work my lungs have been putting in while filled with fluid and mucus (you do not want to see what my t-shirts have been looking like after a run), will make me the living embodiment of Forrest Gump. Do you remember the scene where Forrest is being chased while still in leg braces? As he takes more and more steps, his leg braces start to come off and then boom, he’s like the fastest person in Alabama. Well, I’m looking at this fever, cough, and mucus as my version of leg braces and if I force myself to run, maybe at the Brooklyn Half at some point in the run I’ll be able to shed my lungs from all of the things holding me back and I will finally run a sub-2 hour half. Hmmm…

Anyways, so the so-called “dated” Clueless references of which you discussed previously are not dated. No way. OK, maybe a little, but like the Matrix, the references will last forever. The movies will continue to be the kind of thing that anyone, regardless of age, will stop at to finish while clicking through channels. I think of those two movies, along with Cool Runnings (possibly the best Olympic movie of all time, full of so many references that continue to make people smile. Also, I believe that Disney and the Jamaican bobsled team really dropped the ball by not having a sequel about a Jamaican bobsled team winning it all), The Shawshank Redemption (has there ever been a movie that so continues to astound?), and the greatest legal movie of all time: A Few Good Men. Even if we look at some of the best movies in the last decade, they fail to have the same cultural relevance that some of the movies I just mentioned do. Which brings me to the premise of this somewhat disjointed post: If a movie truly captures the pop culture atmosphere of the time it was created, then that movie will live on forever. Look at movies like The Breakfast Club and Fast Times of Ridgemont High—still watchable even if dated. Still part of the family of movies you are absolutely shocked about when you hear someone say “Wow, I’ve never seen that.”

What can you say about the movies of the last decade? That they made vampires really handsome? Who is going to care about any of that a decade from now other than in the same embarrassed way that people defend flight pants and mood rings. OK, maybe this is a broad generalization that does not do an adequate job of cataloging the many amazing movies that have been released in the past little while, but maybe I just miss that innocent time in my life when I went to see Can’t Hardly Wait 3 times in theaters and that was OK because movies were a cheap form of entertainment.

Anyways, how is training going?

Hope all is well,


Shame Spiral (And Other Dated Clueless References)

Hey Modellian,

Not to be glib, but isn’t shame a legitimate tenet of Catholicism? I don’t know too much about anything, but I know that my mother is a (lapsed) Catholic, and that– by proxy, genetics, or metastasis– I have inherited a proclivity towards shame myself. You are not alone, my friend.

A few stories.

I too had an incident similar to yours on public transportation. I feel like all great New York stories start off on a bus or a train or in the back of a smelly cab. This was on the M4, going down 5th. It was a business day, and I had just been on the Upper East Side to visit one of my clients and was headed back down to my office in Union Square. I decided to take the bus because it would allow me some time to catch up on paperwork, and I’d be above ground so I could have phone and internet service as needed. I remember it being early spring only because I was wearing my brown wedges. There is always that time in early spring when the adorable floral outfits and strappy sandals come out. It is exciting and refreshing but also a transitional period of trial and error, as there are always those days where you bring a jean jacket and it ends up snowing or it hits 85 degrees but you decided to wear knee-high leather boots. On this day, my feet had had months bundled in flat, shearling-lined, ugly winter boots and the balls of my feet were unprepared for a full work day in high heeled shoes. Amateur move, I know.

In a moment of desperation, I took a seat in the very front of the bus and got to work. An elderly white man got on the bus several stops later, but I was too caught up in my notes to really notice and missed the detail that he was wearing a baseball hat that proudly announced that he was a veteran. No one stood for this gentleman, including myself. Normally I spring right up, but on this day I wasn’t really paying attention and also wasn’t particularly motivated to give up my seat. I had work to do, after all. And my feet hurt. That was until some able-bodied but older Upper East Side biddy who was sitting to my right, turned to me and said, “Shame on you. He’s a vet.”

I’m sorry but was I responsible for World War II? Did she think I was Japanese and this was some weird racist shit? If you are really feeling patriotic, why don’t you stand, my lady? If said gentleman was not strong enough to stand for the duration of his trip then he most certainly should not have left his house in the first place– I don’t care if he has a doctor’s appointment to get to. Of course, I didn’t say any of these things out loud.

Instead, I rolled my eyes and relinquished my seat to this old man. The woman then turned to her right to mutter something to her neighbor about how rude young people were these days. I was mortified but irritated and could not tolerate the glares of my fellow passengers, all of whom probably didn’t work, all of whom probably had doctor’s appointments to get to, and all of whom could have probably afforded taxis to get them there. In a clutch decision, I got off the bus at the next stop in search of better juju, but just to prove a point, I pretended to have a fake limp and hobbled off the bus in the most dramatic of fashions. It was kind of like that scene in Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion when Romy tells the suit salesman, “Would you excuse me? I cut my foot before and my shoe is filling up with blood.” Yep, I showed her.

Once I made it to the curb, I cried a little bit on the street and then hopped on the next bus that followed. So not only did I not stand for the war hero, but I also cried in public. Shame.

A piece of me wants to believe in the “I didn’t get you pregnant” rule when it comes to standing for pregnant women on the train, but I also want to support the “Courtesy is Contagious” campaign that the MTA is pushing hard. And they are absolutely right. We all live together in this overcrowded and expensive city, and we all work long hours for not enough pay, and we should all be less douchey to each other, for everyone’s sake. Of course, this is coming from someone who just stepped off a plane from Jamaica where they really, literally say “one love” and “yeah, mon” and fist bump each other like it’s 2008 all over again. I am still in that post-vacation haze, and my new favorite phrase is now “I don’t have problems, I only have situations.” I kind of felt like I was in a movie about Jamaica because no one can be that chill and happy in real life, right? Even the grumpiest man in the country, Mr. Gibbs, was relatively pleasant. It was unreal. Let’s see how long this bliss lasts.

With regard to your other shaming situations, Frankie says relax. Though I have many gripes about getting old and am unfairly hard on myself, I think the point of being in our thirties is that we are supposed to become okay with our bodies, accepting of our religion, and proud of our hobbies. My favorite hobby, for example, is and always will be sitting. I also like to read celebrity autobiographies and to cook and eat pizza. And besides, isn’t Magic having a renaissance right now? I listened to that RadioLab episode you sent me, and Magic is way cooler than sitting. Without sounding too cheesy, your unorthodox interests are what make you unique and differentiate you from all the douchebags taking Ubers across the Williamsburg Bridge this weekend. So let your freak flag fly and finish the Next Great North American Novel, okay?

Speaking of which, Canadians LOVE to go on vacation in Jamaica. I’m talking flocks of Canadians with beads in their hair and maple leaf tattoos who gathered in groups to sing this song like it was their hobby. I’m not kidding. Why would I be kidding about this? If they weren’t Canadian, their nationalism would be a little bit scary.

Though you hate the beach, you would have fit right in. I mean, not really, but it would have been really funny to see you with cornrows in your hair. Mic dropped.

Roberta Marley

PS I’m sorry for the delayed response. I threw my computer away.


Ms. Lived in a Cupboard,

Beach weather is coming soon, and I know that if I liked spending hours on end at beaches (which as you know I do not), I would be feeling pretty self-conscious about my body and how I would absolutely not want to take my shirt off anywhere in public, let alone a place where it is socially expected one wears as little as possible. I often wonder if it is a good thing I need glasses so that on those few occasions when I do go to the beach and take my glasses off, I won’t see people giving me judgmental looks of disdain and/or disgust. Yes, maybe it’s all in my head, but sometimes I’m not so sure. In the past few weeks, I feel like I see “Shaming” all around me. Everywhere I turn, I feel as if, if I looked really closely, I would see an example of the various types of shaming.

1. Seat Shaming. This is the one that really set off this post (and maybe what that first paragraph should have been about). I understand that you should generally offer your seat on the subway to the elderly, the pregnant, or those with a physical handicap, and I generally do, but sometimes when it’s raining and the arthritis in my knees kick in, all I want to do is sit (OK, I always love sitting, as you know having seen me at a number of concerts, but you know what I mean). Usually, this is not an issue. But sometimes, as with what happened last week, it becomes a big issue, as it did when no one got up to offer a certain woman a seat on my way to work. She, who as near as I could tell was in her mid-50’s, said to everyone, “Shame on you all for not offering your seat.” No one got up in response, which is what I imagine is a typical New York response, but I wonder if people burned with shame. I barely looked up, but remember seething with anger. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry, my knees are swollen and the early onset arthritis that sometimes kicks in is doing a number on me, so please shut up.” But I didn’t. I sat there with my eyes down, wondering if I should look up and give her a death stare. And even with my knees hurting, I did feel enormously guilty. It was bad. Alas.

2. Fat Shaming. I told you recently that on Instagram, one of the kinds of profiles I have found myself following more and more are those of people who have lost a lot of weight (those, along with anything to do with comic books, Magic the Gathering and the Toronto Raptors). According to many of these people I now follow, if I were more disciplined I too could go from a one-pack to a six-pack. Because if they were able to do it, anyone can. Well, I hope you are all telling the truth because otherwise, you’re just making me feel bad about myself. And the Before-and-After pictures you post not only make me feel bad about my muffin top, but also about the fact that I don’t know how to post side-by-side photos or any of that collage stuff. Alas.

3. Job Shaming. This mostly comes up when talking with people who are in the arts and/or pursuing the arts. Everyone seems OK with the people who tutor or work at restaurants or who temp while doing their creative thing on the side, but where is the love for the corporate folks? Nowhere, that’s where. It’s as if you have to choose a “pay the bills” job that barely pays the bills in order to receive any sort of “Hey, I totally understand and am with you” kind of looks and/or responses. Alas.

4. Interest Shaming. So, this is something that I’ve brought up with you before, but I’ll do it again. When people ask me what I do on Friday nights, the response from a certain segment of the “cool” crowd is “Uh . . . Yeah . . . .” It’s a slight variation on the reactions I would get in high school or college when I revealed these interests, which were rare given that I knew that having those interests instantly branded me and hurt whatever little social standing I had earned and/or amassed. But, today, these same people love all of the things us nerdy folk loved for over a decade – Game of Thrones, The Walking Dead, etc. Because these people have suddenly fallen in love with these things, it means that these things are no longer things to be embarrassed about liking. In fact, if you don’t like them, you are branded as being uncool or not in the know. I look forward to when something like Magic becomes big, so I no longer have to be embarrassed about my Friday evenings (which should be soon after the movies take off). Alas.

5. Religion Shaming. This one I understand more than the previous ones given that some who adhere strictly to a particular religion can often use those beliefs as a way to hurt others (e.g. that Indiana law that apparently doesn’t discriminate against a particular group. Yeah. Right). That being said, just as those who do adhere to a particular set of religious beliefs should not judge others and shame them if they do not believe in the same things, people should not be judged negatively just because they happen to have a set of religious beliefs. Yes, I understand that in many ways my own beliefs are contradictory—my religion would have me supporting that silly Indiana law, but my personal beliefs say “WTF? Get that law out of here—but at the same time, it doesn’t mean I’m not going to go to church every Sunday or celebrate Easter. Alas.

OK, I think that’s all for now. It’s too nice a day out to be ashamed about anything.

See you soon? Maybe? Alas.



Hi Modellian,

While you are busy listening/watching/singing along/chair dancing to Ella Henderson, let me tell you about some of the great things that have happened to me this week. It is only Tuesday, but I am presently winning at life on multiple fronts. Strap on your seatbelt and make sure your shoelaces are tied tightly because this is what is going on: I have officially entered middle age. This week, Facebook started suggesting egg freezing seminars and kits and services. Did you know that there are egg freezing parties? If you are interested, there is one of April 30th.

Only recently were they trying to sell me ethical engagement rings, but it seems like Mark Zuckerberg has basically thrown in the towel on me ever finding true happiness and he’s basically convinced that I’m going to be one of those grey haired, wrinkly faced, single moms, who bites the bullet at 48 years old and decides to go at it alone. Thanks, Mark. I was then telling my friend about how appalled I was that Facebook would even imply such a thing, and he was like, “So if you’re not into egg freezing, what is going to be your plan then?” I’ll hope for the best? Thanks, friend. I really should open an Instagram account today.

This whole egg freezing thing is actually a legitimate conversation amongst my friends. Am I the only one who still feels like they’re fourteen years old and just getting their sea legs? I can’t think about babies right now! I just want to eat fried chicken and play with my friends and sit in the park and maybe make out with a boy every once in a while.

But that’s just the beginning of it. And then, I come home to the following letter in the mail:

Dear Friend,

There are a number of questions that every family must have the answers to. That’s why Pinelawn Memorial Park wants you to have the information you need right now to provide your family with total protection and peace of mind. Our family planning booklet, “Let’s Face It Now,” will give you specific instructions regarding wills, insurance, memorial property, Social Security benefits, Veterans’ benefits, and more!

Pinelawn Memorial Property is available for as little as $40 a month. Interest free. That’s right. You can buy a memorial site in one of America’s loveliest memorial parks for as little as $40 a month… Learn all about the very real advantages of buying memorial property at Pinelawn before a time of need. You make your decision as a family calmly, unhurriedly and at today’s prices.

-Pinelawn Memorial Park

Yes. That’s right. I am now getting unsolicited mail about funeral plots in Long Island. I don’t have a family to to make a decision at today’s prices! I haven’t even frozen my eggs yet! By the time I do have a family, the sale at Pinelawn will be over. You know how much I love a good sale. I’m almost tempted to send in that postcard to request more information just because I can’t turn down a bargain-basement discount.

The thing is, I’m not even that bothered by all of this. I am like Blake Lively in The Age of Adaline— I will be my eternal age of 28 forever. I know that I am in denial, but I really don’t know when that switch is going to flip and I am all of the sudden going to realize that I am an adult. Also can we talk about The Age of Adaline? Because that is the most ludricrous plot for a movie ever.

And another great thing happened to me this week: I had roast beef for the first time ever. It was delicious.

Talk to you later. Time to get back to my needlepoint.

Old Mother Hubbard

Stark Raving


I am effing mad! I too am mad that I can’t run one full lap around the Park and basically, at this point, can’t last a mile without feeling like I am having an asthma/heart/anxiety attack. Even though I have the cute running tights and the insane colored shoes and the moisture-wicking hat (I went on a hardcore shopping spree last November pre-marathon), I am a gosh darn poser because my legs feel like giant blocks of ham that just want to sit there and watch television all the time. I don’t deserve these cute outfits. Just put me in sweatpants and an oversized and stained tee and let me sit in a room with no mirrors. I wonder if my fitness level peaked last year and I am just going to be continually disappointed in myself for the rest of my days.

Let’s talk about this Instagram thing with which you speak and about which I know very little. I am old school and lo-fi, and though I dibble dabble on Facebook and Twitter, I know that this is not where the cool kids are. The cool kids are on Instagram with their emojis and their gym selfies. The only people left on Facebook are my unemployed high school classmates and my Aunt Bev. Oh, and everyone who has just gotten engaged or had a baby in the last three weeks. People come out of the woodwork during major life events. Literally everyone I know has popped out of a kid, and they were all born, like, 12 to 27 days ago. And I don’t even know who is on Twitter because I still don’t understand it, and now that the Bachelor is on hiatus, I really couldn’t care about it at all.

But sell me on Instagram because I’m not convinced. I know we should have had this conversation a few years back when it really took off, but though I am usually five minutes early in real life, I am very slow to adapt when it comes to the anything else. I hate change. I love the status quo. Anyway, I feel like IG is just another form of media to make me feel fat/poor/unfulfilled/unpopular/alone/awkward/slovenly/pathetic. I guess if you’re not participating and posting yourself, but instead just trolling and stalking, then maybe all of those things are true? I don’t take pictures very often, so this is where the IG business model fails me. I also don’t know who Shaun T or Tania the Machine are, but I bet they don’t get shin splints after running for three minutes on the treadmill and that their faces don’t break out into hives because it’s freaking March and the weather doesn’t know if it wants to be nice to my skin or not. Yes, I am way past adolescence, but I still wake up every morning wondering if I’m going to have a giant zit or abscess or other gross lesion on my face. Or if my skin will revolt and flake off in large chunks like Austin Powers in Goldmember. These are not the things to be shared on Instagram.

The NCAA tourney has made me quite mad, flagrantly mad, as well. I used to follow college basketball more in my twenties because at that time, I would go hard on anything that let me leave work in the middle of the day to drink in a dark bar. I can’t do that anymore for a variety of reasons, mostly because I have a mortgage and can’t get fired. I was never a total diehard, though, because I didn’t go to a big state school and there aren’t that many schools in New York that have a big NCAA presence. I guess St. John’s would be our biggest source of local pride? They’re from Queens, right? Are they a good school? Can you take the 7 train there? And maybe get dumplings along the way? I guess Syracuse might be another contender (not this year)?  Aren’t they sort of closer to Canada and Michigan than to Brooklyn? Can I get behind a school that has a fruit as a mascot? Have we ever thought about how weird this is?

I know Kentucky is having an amazing season and Barack (and everyone else) has backed them, but I never like to root for the favorite. I’m scrappy. I like the underdog. I had initially picked Nova to take it all, against Kentucky, but frantically changed that Thursday morning. In their place, I randomly swapped in Oklahoma (maybe because I love Blake Shelton and have been watching a lot of the Voice? Or because I like the Thunder?), which was a dumb move, but would have made for a decent upset. But then I realized that Oklahoma was the school with all this hella racist stuff happening with SAE, so I decided this morning that I am giving up the tourney for good. Though I appreciate that the school shut down the frat and expelled the two main people in that video, I have real problems with robust athletics programs, where the players are predominantly black, and the rest of the students are total douchebags. All this racist (UVA, Alabama, Maryland, Oklahoma, UGA) and rapey (UVA, Penn State, Duke, Columbia, Harvard)  and frat (UVA, Penn State, NC State) stuff in the news has kind of turned me off to all of this in general. I bet there’s a lot of douchey, horrible, violent things that are happening on these college campuses during this NCAA Tournament, while no one is going to class and everyone is partying. And frankly, I don’t want to be a part of it. So yeah, I’m a little mad. If you want to get mad, you should read this. It is frightening and will make you want to send your hypothetical children to community college. I feel like less rapes happen at commuter schools.

I promise not to wear my heart on my sleeve. I will not be mad when I see you next. I love when Manhattanites some to Brooklyn. It gives you an excuse to wear plaid. And as you know, I have a thing for plaid. It just sticks.

More Soon,

Are You Mad At or With March?

Ms. Two-a-Days,

I am half-way through seven different blog entries and while it would make sense to finish one, I find myself unable to revisit my half-formed thoughts on the Williamsburg Russian Hipster Dervish giving hope to all Knicks fans or the fact that Instagram has become a place teeming with before and after photos of people who want to rub it in my face that they have gone from a one-pack to a six-pack. And because I follow Shaun T and Tania the Machine, whenever I look at Instagram’s suggestions of who to follow, I’m bombarded with people who take mirror selfies showing off all of their hard work. Maybe my utter disdain for these people is fueled by my own desire to be one of them. Maybe I’ll go ahead and start to follow all of these fitness nuts in the hopes that one day, if their before/after photos shame me enough, I might soon be able to up pictures of my own. The reality, however, is that the only way I could put something up that I am proud of is if I used a photo from today as my before and a picture from law school as my after. Sad, but true.

Anyways, how are you feeling about March? I went on my first run outdoors this morning and it was a disaster. I went out stupidly in shorts and a long sleeve shirt thinking that once I got going, I would warm-up. I was wrong. And it was as if all the runners in the world (as in all the runners in Central Park) wanted to go out of their way by mocking me with their running gloves and tights. I felt like a fool. And instead of doing one lap as I had planned to, I barely managed to do half and then started to walk back to my apartment with my head hanging between my legs. And to make matters worse, as if the whole world wanted to mock me, it was too cold to walk back to my apartment so I proceeded to run for 30 seconds and walk for a few minutes all in the hopes of getting back to my apartment as soon as possible. Isn’t it supposed to be spring already? What is going on?

On a completely different topic, though linked by the month we are in, are you a big college basketball fan? Do you partake with the millions of others who fill out brackets not knowing anything about college basketball other than yes, colleges have basketball teams and once a year there is a tournament where the 68 best teams vie for the National Championship? This year, I was not planning on filling out a bracket but did spend Wednesday night helping Pujols fill one out. Other than looking at a Bleacher Report article, the two of us picked teams based on historically good basketball programs. In other words, neither of us had any idea what you we were doing. But if you were following what was happening this year, it didn’t matter! There is no rhyme or reason to who is winning, which is ultimately understandable because everyone forgets that these people soaring above the ring are 20 somethings. And that is not even all that correct, given that the freshman are 28. Wow. But instead of standing on the sidelines, at 11:50am I thought there would be no better way to waste $10 than enter into our firm March Madness tool. Without any time to think about doing researching anything, most of my picks were based on my bracket last year (other than Kentucky, because how can you bet against an undefeated team?). I may as well have flipped a coin. Or just used the $10 to buy myself lunch. It’s maddening.

Anyways, what makes you mad in March?





Oh hey Modellian,

So you’re back? I thought you were dead. Or fallen into a deep, crazy literary rabbit hole, like Jeff Daniels in The Door in the Floor or Mikhail Barishnykov in the last season of Sex and the City. Do not disturb the creative genius.

But, it turns out, that you have been keeping busy attending fancy galas (though I wasn’t that impressed, I must say, and could have eaten another steak for that amount of money), attending basketball games (I’ll eat steak with Shved, the Brooklyn hipster flash, any day), and watching tween films.

You didn’t miss much with the Oscars. I watched with a bunch of people– actors mind you– but of the 6,473 nominated films, only one of us had seen more than two of them. And it wasn’t me. I used to be one of those people that would hold Oscar parties and study the fashion and make Oscar themed food, but guess what? I’m out on the Oscars, and I’m out on you, NPH. You’re not a movie star and you’re not a comedian, so I’m not sure what you were doing there. Also, you might be a little bit racist or, at least, don’t have enough chutzpah to stand up to your racist writers. Shots fired. Shade thrown. Mic dropped.

Let’s talk about the Fault in Our Stars for a minute because I had a very memorable and somewhat embarrassing reaction when I saw this film, at the ripe age of 30. It was last summer, and I was on a transcontinental flight to Europe. I had already chatted with my seat mate– he was on his was to a conference in Geneva, he and I talked out our love of Friends, he offered me an extra blanket. I’m not sure if it’s because I was on vacation and my guard was down and I was out of my element or that I had drank too many of those little bottles of Chardonnay (I love anything free on airplanes– I ask for 2 pillows, I will always accept that mid-flight glass of water, and yes I will have a another bottle of wine. And another. Actually, at the end of this flight I had a layover and had sneakily stockpiled enough extra bottles of wine that I literally just sat there getting drunk by myself and smoking cheap, European cigarettes for the first time in a year while I waited for my next flight. This girl from Athens University approached me in the airport and asked if I would participate in a survey for her Transportation Marketing class. I was at that point in my inebriation where I was starting to get a bit paranoid, and I was convinced that she was going to alert the authorities that I was violating some open container laws or something. And then I realized that I was in Greece where you can drink virtually anywhere), but I was enthralled by the Fault in Our Stars. I couldn’t get enough. My seat mate became visibly concerned as I sobbed through basically the entire movie. My eyes were red and puffy, my cheeks salty and tear-stained, I literally was so happy and so sad that they found love so early then had it ripped away from them. That movie, and I guess that book, was emotionally exploitative. And seriously– and I think you posed this question yourself– just how many fucking kids have cancer in this one town? Move! Get out there! Do not have children there! There is something in the water!

Had I seen this movie while at sea level or in the company of friends, I probably would have rolled my eyes once or twice or gotten up to make snacks and then spent time concentrating hard on eating these snacks. Instead, I was in my sweet spot– perfectly excited about my imminent vacation, content with all the free food and wine at my disposal, and really happy to be able to watch whatever horrible movies that I wanted– that I was in my zone. So cried I did.

It feels good to be back. You’re right– this other writing project is keeping me busy! And I am delinquent but working on it. I just pretend that every day is Thursday.

What else is going on?

Oh, can we talk about How to Get Away with Murder because that shit is bananas. I highly recommend it, if you haven’t yet been introduced. It’s about lawyers! You love Lawyers! Maybe.

Don’t be a stranger,
Antonia Mason

Guess Who’s Back, Back Again


Has it really been over a month since last someone—by someone I mean You or me—took the time to write something on this wee little blog? The question is rhetorical given that I don’t even have to go to Google to get the answer, but rather simply surf onto our page to see that it has been almost two months since last You wrote a post. I know that I had given you a date upon which I expected to return, but I wish now that I had taken a page out of the General McArthur playbook and simply said “I shall return” (I apologize that I have had to truncate his statement, but the phrase “I came through and I shall return” really does not have the same gravitas in the blogosphere).

So, here I am. Or at least, here I am to try to be interesting enough (and consistent enough!) to get you to come back and continue to make astute observations about pop culture and the like. That is, if your other fancy blog will allow you the time to do so.

What I really want to do is hear about—or read about—your thoughts on the Oscars. For many, it seems as if it was a rather disappointing affair other than Common and John Legend’s rendition of Glory and Lady Gaga’s Sound of Music rendition/representation/cannon/whatever it’s supposed to be called please save me and have your brain think of the word I was thinking of. It would be nice to know what a person of your pop sensibilities, and expertise, thought of this year’s extravaganza. If you make it entertaining enough, maybe I will watch it next year instead of crying by myself while watching A Fault in Our Stars.

OK, so there You have it. I am back. I hope You come back too.



Cool Story, Bro

Good Morning Modellian,

Glad to hear that you are alive and breathing, albeit busy and on your way to being a literary superstar. When you do, don’t forget the little people? Also, you need an editor because you have a typo in your last post. Don’t worry– I’ll fix it. Because that’s what friends do.

Also in your absence, it’s looking like I’ll now have to subject our readers to Bach recaps and musings about what it’s like to rewatch the entire series of Friends in a weekend. I am also busy conducting unnecessary research on Limp Bizkit, and I have you to thank for that.

Best of luck and write your ass off.


A Month-Long Hiatus

Blog Master,

Don’t hate me. I know I promised to blog more in 2015 (it’s a resolution, but I know you hate them), but I have a deadline of February 9, 2015 for a writing piece and I need to put all of my energy into it. This does not mean that I am not scribbling notes and other things for future blog entries or that I will no longer be blogging here. It only means that I need some patience on your part so I can get cracking and hopefully finish what I need to finish.

Hoep Hope you understand!