If you don’t know what to do with yourself on this afternoon, might I recommend treating yourself to Robert Benchley’s “What–No Budapest?”

As you may or may not have heard, our own beloved Roxane is in the hospital laid up with a badly broken ankle, so we’re pushing the launch of the Butter back for a while.

An Obstetrician In Paris has a nice sort of sound to it, I think.

No big deal, we just ran an interview with Tanjua Desai Hidier this week.

What a nice harvest it’s been, let’s not murder anybody

Oh bless all of your HEARTS:

Rent became a sort of cultural currency among the theatre kids in my high school. We made a competitive/collaborative show of sing-shouting “La Vie Boheme” in the hallway after school, a feat of both memory (given its We-Didn’t-Start-the-Fire-esque catalogue of lyrics) and boldness (it took a special sort of Hoosier teen to yell “SODOMY, IT’S BETWEEN GOD AND ME” on school property in the early 2000s).

 

Can you guys read Hey Ladies without having to peek from through your fingers? BECAUSE I CAN’T.

*Morrissey voice* So ask me, ask me, ask me and don’t talk over Muslim women who want to talk about their experiences.

I have continued my streak of only reviewing movies about vampires, haunted catacombs, and Hercules this year with Dracula Untold: The Saddest Dad. It’s made me very happy.

ABORTIONS FOR EVERYBODY IN FICTION