Flavia Dzodan on (amongst other things) why she doesn’t support gendered recommendations for dealing with undocumented migrants.
MY LIFE MY FEEEEEELS:
There is a weirdly fitting coda to all of this: I was working to finish this essay in a coffee shop in Central London a few evenings ago, and my computer’s battery ran out just as I typed the word “showrunners.” I sighed and took off my headphones and shut my laptop. And then I heard a very familiar laugh: I looked around and did a genuine double take, because Mark Gatiss was sitting about 10 feet away, chatting with a friend. I tried not to freak out. I was paralyzed: a devoted fan and the creator of said fan’s interest just a few feet apart in a random café and where the hell was the fourth wall (made of impenetrable brick) that I needed to keep me from rushing over and making a fool of myself? I didn’t, don’t worry. Too shy or too scared, or maybe, to put a more positive spin on it, too considerate of a private individual having a conversation to interrupt. After he left, the man at the next table turned around and said, “Was that Mycroft!?” So much more than that, I wanted to tell him. I nodded instead. There’s a metaphor in all of this, somewhere.
Naturally, in the years since, other people I met in the early days have died, but those three guys all died within weeks of one another, immediately after I’d left the house. It was like the grim reaper swooped through my pals, cutting them down, saying, “Fuck you clowns. You think this is a joke?” I think of Chris, Arturo, and Luke a lot. I really feel them in me, sort of seated in my heart and along for the ride. I feel stronger when I think about them too. I cry, of course, but they’re not just cautionary tales to me; they’re not excuses to say, “There but for the grace of God go I,” they’re my friends and I sort of think of it like we’re on the path together. They may have vacated their earthly bodies, but they’re welcome to ride in my hairy, borrowed vessel to reach the goal, whatever it may be.
Them’s fighting mots.
I thought this would be dumb but then I looked at each one longingly.
Big books from small presses!
Seems reasonable to me and Liz Lemon.
On being a false rape accusation statistic.
Well, this sounds like a disaster.
The New York Times editorial page guys all hate each other.
