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Greetings, friends. I am in Canada. It is cold and snowing and the cable is similar but different and it’s a nice place minus the weather.

Now, you don’t even need a hit to have a moment of wonder.

Perhaps you remember Jeremy Meeks, the handsome felon turned Internet sensation.

Last June, the photograph of the 30-year-old “mug shot hottie” ricocheted around the web, from the Facebook page of the police department in Stockton, Calif., to a Twitter hashtag #FelonCrushFriday to, soon after, stories on “The Colbert Report” and “Good Morning America.” Mr. Meeks signed with an agent who was quoted in The Daily News saying that he could earn up to $100,000 a month for modeling and other gigs.

So where is Mr. Meeks today? He remains incarcerated. That agent, Gina Rodriguez, no longer represents him. And the Twittering class has moved on.

TINY WHISK NECKLACE OMG

It’s about time godly people started acting godly.

At Bitch Flicks, Ren Jender reviews Mommy.

The misunderstood, screwed-up manboy/hero is such a persistent trope in films that audiences are often tricked into empathizing with characters whose actions are more deserving of our scorn. At the end of Blue Valentine, when Ryan Gosling’s character separates from his wife, the Michelle Williams character, and leaves the daughter they’ve raised together, I heard someone nearby say aloud, “Poor guy.” But Gosling had, just a scene before, shown up drunk at Williams’ workplace to terrorize and humiliate her (and ends up assaulting her boss, which results in her losing her job). The director and co-writer, Derek Cianfrance, could barely manage to see these actions from the point of view of Williams’ character: the one with whom our empathy would more naturally lie.

I went into Mommy, the magnificent, new film from out, gay, Québécois prodigy Xavier Dolan (he’s 25 and this feature is the fifth he’s written and directed) knowing that Anne Dorval, who plays the title character, was being touted in some awards circles as a possible nominee for “Best Actress” (she’s flawless in this role, certainly better than the other Best Actress nominees I’ve seen)–as opposed to “Best Supporting Actress.” But this film (which won the Jury Prize at Cannes) kept surpassing my expectations by keeping its focus on her and not the one who would be the main character of any other film: her at turns charismatic, obnoxious and violent 15-year-old, blonde son, Steve (an incredible Antoine-Olivier Pilon).

Self improvement for better sex. Yes, yes, yes.

Since the dawn of time—or at the very least, since the early days of Cosmopolitan—we’ve been preoccupied with the question of whether we’re good in bed. There’s no shortage of surgical or pharmaceutical options available to make us harder, better, faster, and stronger. More recently, we’ve even started using sex-tracking apps, so we can record every thrust and whimper between the sheets.

But all of these hacks we employ to improve our sex lives have the disadvantage of being relatively impermanent. No matter how many pills we pop, sex toys we buy, or Tantra workshops we take, there’s no way for us to permanently hack our own bodies to become the sleek, ultra-libidinous pleasure machines some of us so desperately want to be.

Rich Lee, a 32-year-old salesman from St. George, Utah, thinks he’s found the solution to this problem. He calls it the Lovetron9000, and it’s an implant embedded underneath the male pubic bone that causes the penis to vibrate. His goal, he told me during a phone conversation a few weeks ago, is to “turn your boyfriend into a vibrator.”

OUCH.

On the gentrification of racial humor.

I love making fun of white people. I do it every day. It garners laughs, which, as a humorist, is what I want most in this world. (The thing I want second most? For white people to stop trying to pass off casseroles as real food.)

But as a black woman, there’s also another, more elemental reason for telling jokes at white people’s expense. The reason is not that I hate white people (some of my best friends are white!) but that this sort of racialized humor is an instrument that people of color can use to placate themselves in the face of the overwhelming reality: It’s just better to be Caucasian. By making fun of white people, people of color can, in a small way, push back against stereotypes, opposing racial humor by inverting it.

Amazing library vault.

Adam Serwer and Katie Baker took a look at the man behind the men’s rights movement.

The first time Bonnie met her father, Paul Elam, he cried like a baby. It was a summer day in 2005, nearly 25 years after Elam relinquished his parental rights in court and refused to pay child support for Bonnie, whose name has been changed, and her younger brother. Bonnie and Elam felt awkward at first as they smiled through their tears across a restaurant table, marveling at how much they looked alike. Elam told Bonnie that he was sorry he had failed her and that he wanted to develop a relationship.

The last time Bonnie saw Elam was in 2011, after Elam spanked her son for opening a refrigerator door. In the years between, Elam struggled to be a good father to Bonnie and a good grandfather to her sons, and Bonnie and Elam eventually became strangers to each other once more. But Elam did become a father figure of sorts to scores of men who feel disenfranchised from what they see as an increasingly feminized society. They call themselves men’s rights activists. Over the past few years, Elam has established himself as their most vocal and controversial leader.

Denver is getting a new drive-in movie theatre!

RICH PEOPLE LOL

Did you know that snow farms were a thing? Now you do.

Sports Illustrated would like cookies for featuring a “plus-sized” model.  ROLL YOUR EYES WITH ME.

Alas, Google Glass.

Michelle Tea had a baby.

Readers of Blog, I’ve done it again — after begging you all to come prancing through my pregnancy attempts with me, dragging you through my miscarriage, clinging to you through my pickle-guzzling first trimester and then — poof! — I put on the vanishing cream and was gone.

I’m sorry to anyone who felt abandoned. Basically, being pregnant was totally exhausting, and I spent my entire second trimester doing something I never do — napping. Napping makes me feel like I stayed up all night on speed and my life is falling apart. Why else would a person need to sleep during the day? It’s a sign of depression, or being a resident of Portland.

Malcolm Burnley writes about his biracial life.

It’s 1:30 a.m. on a Saturday night at the barren 24-hour Melrose Diner in South Philly. I’m there alone. The hostess is hawkeyed at the cash register, as if I’m going to steal her silverware. She eventually moseys up to my booth. “Do you have a tan, or is that your natural skin color?” she asks. Natural, I tell her. “What are you?” I give her three guesses. “Hawaiian?” Nope. “Samoan?” Getting colder. At this point, a nearby server who’s been eavesdropping on the conversation decides to join in. “Puerto Rican,” he says. Wrong. “Dominican.” Wrong again. Then, five minutes after I’ve told them my ethnicity, a third member of the waitstaff comes up to me. “Hey, I like your skin color — what are you?”

This one time, a critic reviewed a movie she hasn’t seen.

DELICIOUS BIG BABY NOM NOM NOK

LOL HUSTLE

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