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The most important news of the week, more important even than Sansa, is that Animaniacs is now on Netflix.

Gordon Korman was MY LIFE as a kid, and those books are still my Xanax and this profile filled me with pure bliss:

The plots are gentle in a way that, in retrospect, feels particularly Canadian. There are no real villains to hate, none of the cruelty of a Roald Dahl book or the social realism of Judy Blume. Ed Keenan, the Toronto Star columnist and a former Korman fanatic, described his books to me as “Ferris Bueller avant la lettre,” which feels exactly right. When you’re a kid, the stakes are low, but feel enormous. Things are maybe a little stupid, but then, so is childhood. Bruno and Boots don’t want to be split up. Bugs Potter, the hero of pair of early Korman novels, wants to sneak around downtown Toronto clubs and play rock music. Rudy Miller from I Want to Go Home just wants to escape his awful summer camp. The pleasure in the books is in the creativity of the schemes, the quality of the gags, the evident love between the characters, and the streak of anti-authoritarianism that, to a ten-year-old, felt thrilling.

one of the most beautiful things I have ever read

I found this history of fire escapes COMPLETELY delightful:

One of Andy Warhol’s first videos was shot on a fire escape, a short of his boyfriend, scissor in hand, giving Edie Sedgewick a pixie cut. An impossibly young Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe posed next to the iron railings in ripped jeans and white tees, punk poet and photographer in repose. On Wu-Tang’s song “C.R.E.A.M.,” Raekwon raps about “running up in gates, and doing hits for high stakes/Making my way on fire escapes.” James Baldwin’s short story The Rockpile, the two main characters, a pair of stepbrothers in Harlem, survey the landscape below them from the fire escape outside their window. Paul Simon looks out from a fire escape on Crosby Street on the cover of Still Crazy After All These Years. Robert Moses and Jane Jacobs dueled over Greenwich Village neighborhoods such as Hell’s Hundred Acres, where fire escapes with pots of geraniums signaled the home of an artist, likely an illegal squatter.

hell no:

3. My coworker refuses to learn how to use a computer or a printer

I have a coworker who refuses to learn how to use a computer or a printer and handwrites everything. Most people in the office are used to it since everyone has worked here for 20+ years. She has worked here for 30+ years and never learned how to use any machine. Since I am the front desk, she hands me all of her work to type up and she has me print stuff out for her all the time. In the beginning, I did not mind and was eager to help. Now, I am finding myself becoming irritated when asked to help. She usually has a million corrections and changes her mind. Plus, it’s pages and pages of things to be typed and, what is more irritating, she will put a rush on it. I honestly don’t know how someone can be employed for that long at a company and refuse technology especially working in a office. I need some advice on how to handle this situation.

Please enjoy the BANANAS video for Toto’s “Africa”:

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I found myself PROFOUNDLY MOVED by Seth Meyers talking about the birth of his kid but also my period is starting soon, so YMMV.

The replies to this are completely hilarious:

Melissa Gira Grant’s exceptional piece on a sex worker who killed a serial killer in self-defense and what happened after:

Heather really is busy. She sits cross-legged on the far end of the couch, a notebook on her lap. In round script, the cover lists first names: I recognize my own. Tomorrow Heather will go again to try to get an ID, get signed up for health insurance, figure out where to move, to work. Outside Charleston, a city where there is no organized and visible sex worker community, across the country and the world, other sex workers were sharing her story — or what they knew of it from media reports, from inference. But in Heather’s apartment, it was just one more day in the place where she fought for her life.

 i mean:

Upon being fired, Mr. Evans said, he had a problem. “For me, I was just wondering: How am I going to get my juice?” he said.

He bought every juicer he could find, but he was never satisfied. “It didn’t have the magic that I was accustomed to.”

So he resolved to create a miniaturized version of the industrial presses he had used at Organic Avenue. Working with freelance welders and machinists, he built prototypes in his Brooklyn kitchen. By 2013, he had a working model, albeit one that occasionally blew apart, sending pieces of metal and food scraps flying across the room.

this woman is the greatest living human

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