celebrity, Mental Health, pop culture


Written before the death of Debbie Reynolds at 84 years old, a Hollywood legend and mother to Carrie Fisher. Reynolds was known for Singin’ in the Rain, The Debbie Reynolds Show, and Halloweentown. Reynolds was the president of the Thalians, which was dedicated to mental health causes, and received the Academy Awards Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award in 2016.

Carrie Fisher, 60, died on the 27 of December 2016, drowned in moonlight, strangled by her own bra. Her words, not mine.

Fisher wrote that obituary for herself in her 2008 memoir, Wishful Drinking. The book was adapted from her one-woman stage show, and featured a story from her days shooting Star Wars. George Lucas went up to her and told her that she shouldn’t be wearing a bra.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”

Because, he explained, apparently your body—due to the weightlessness of space—expands while your clothing—or more particularly your bra—do not, thus strangling you.

“Now I think that this would make a fantastic obit—so I tell my younger friends that no matter how I go, I want it reported that I drowned in moonlight, strangled by my own bra,” Fisher wrote.

Fisher spoke publicly about her bipolar disorder and her addiction to cocaine and prescription medication. In 2001, she discussed her drug addiction as self-medication with Psychology Today, particularly the use of drugs like Percodan to curtail the manic aspect of her bipolar disorder. In 2006, she was a part of the BBC documentary Stephen Fry: The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive. She published her memoir in 2008 and discussed her experiences with electroconvulsive therapy on The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson.

In 2016, Harvard College awarded her its Annual Outstanding Lifetime Achievement Award in Cultural Humanism for “her forthright activism and outspokenness about addiction, mental illness, and agnosticism,” which have “advanced public discourse on these issues with creativity and empathy.”

It’s important that Fisher got her last wishes concerning her obituary. It’s important that she’s remembered how she wanted to be. It’s important that she was in control of her story.

So often people with mental illness deal with events outside of their control, inside their heads. We struggle to get to a base level that other people operate from effortlessly. We work so much harder, every day, to get the same things. And sometimes we fall fucking short. We don’t succeed in the way we wanted to.

Carrie Fisher succeeded in the life she wanted. She was an actress, a woman, a parent, a writer, and an advocate. She brought so much light and laughter to a topic that sometimes, sadly, has so little of either. She showed that you can be funny and sharp and there, even if you are struggling with mental illness.

She proved that you can be more than. She was more than Princess Leia. She was more than an actress. She was more than her illness. She was more than her addiction. People will try to label you; to shove you into boxes; to dissect you, understand you, curtail you. But Carrie Fisher showed that you could exist beyond the expectations of people and society. And you can fucking rock it.

She lived a life of advocacy, of humor, of strength, and she died, drowned in moonlight and strangled by her own bra.

I want to extend my sympathies to Fisher’s daughter Billie, and her brother Todd, and her half-siblings, Joely and Tricia.

Life, Rambles, Things Happening RN, Things I Like


I have nothing smart/funny to say, so let’s just talk about what I’ve been loving lately. Such a clever idea.

1). Who? Weekly

A podcast that I found from one of those “Best of 2016” (“best” being so, so relative, you guys). I’m so into podcasts, and I’m always on the hunt for new ones. Who? Weekly is dedicated to all the “who’s” in pop culture—celebrities without name recognition—where you have to go, “You know, they were in that (blank) with (more famous celebrity).” It’s surprisingly amazing, and I say surprisingly because I’m not a person who focused on the 99% of pop. I’m a 1%er. But the hosts are funny, and you’d be surprised as to who they see as Who’s.

2). Ryna (Rob + Chyna)

I never thought I would care so much about gingerbread houses. After all the drama between Rob and Chyna (supposedly to stir up interest in their baby’s E! special—how am I even saying these words??) I, and a friend/intrepid reporter, started looking into Kris Jenner’s gingerbread mansions. She has one in her house, and sends one to each of her clients/children. We were discussing the d.r.a.m.a. that Chyna wasn’t on the main house. I literally never thought I would be thinking this much about the least popular Kardashian. The amount of brain space I’m wasting on Robert. Shocking.

3). Beanies

I bought a bunch of beanies from Old Navy.

4). Jessica Jones

I was looking for something new to watch/binge, and I started watching Jessica Jones. The noir voiceovers turned me off at first, so I stopped after the first episode. But maybe it was Kilgrave controlling me, but I came back and devoured the next twelve episodes. Really good, semi-realistic portrayals of superhumans, and it had the faint tinge of “Have I seen this already?” and you probably have but it’s in the good way where you give it a chance. I’m not a ~nerd~ and even I liked it. I think I might even watch Daredevil because JJ isn’t coming back until 2018 (they’re doing a crossover miniseries in 2017)—omg who the fuck am I?

5). Bookz

I got a Barnes & Noble giftcard for Christmas, and I just requested a bunch of books from the library. Holla at governmental systems providing free content to its citizens!!!

I’m gonna start planning out blogs again. I think it’s the combination of mental fatigue, schoolwork and life, but I’m just drained. I think it’s just been a lot since the election; a lot of my fire has been dampened. But ya boi is gonna start writing about pop culture and politics and queer shit again, because THAT’S WHAT I DO.

holidays, Humor, Life, Rambles, Things Happening RN



I forgot that today was Thursday, so it’s 6:22, and I’m about to go to dinner (rich), so let’s see if I can bang this one out.



I just came back from Old Navy. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t really enjoy shopping as much as I used to. I used to go all the time when I was in high school and in my freshman year of college. It might be the restricted budget, or my “maturity,” but I’m starting to buy smarter (which means buying less, which is super-BLAH).


I’ve been rewatching episodes of The Real Housewives of New York City. It’s arguably one of the best in the franchise, because those ladies are smart, but also crazy, so you’re getting laughs and drama. It’s also made me remember some of the better catchphrases/moments of the series. God, such laughs.


I left this semester with the harrowed breath of someone who just narrowly avoided being eaten by a velociraptor (ugh, Chris Pratt is so hot). As I was sitting on the Amtrak (rich, rich) coming home to Westchester (rich, rich, rich) I felt like I had just closed the chapter on such a shitty semester. It sucks because on some levels, it was amazing. I reconnected with some friends, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone, I LOST TEN (10) POUNDS!!!!!!!!!!!, and blah blah whatever nothing is more important than losing weight. But it was also SO hard school-wise, and as I’ve said before—I’m not used to having to work hard. When you look like I do (hot) and talk like I do (funny), you can really get away with a lot more than you might realize.


I’ve been listening to the Hamilton soundtrack. I’ve been listening to it so much that I referenced it in my essay for my Early American Literature Until 1860 class. I quoted that line from “Non-Stop” where Hamilton says that independence is messy. It was SUCH A FUCKING BOMB ESSAY, YOU GUYS.


My sister and I made Moscow mules last night. I LOVE the idea of holiday (holigay) drinks, and so we went out and got supplies. It’s an amazing drink—the ginger beer is totally spicy and refreshing and masks the taste of vodka; the lime is delish; the mint is SO bourgeoisie.

6). BOOK

I had a great conversation with a girl/friend in my class (she’s both a girl and my friend BUT WE’RE NOT DATING) about fantasy books. I can’t think of a pseudonym for her RN, so I’ll just say friend. But I’ve been rereading Leigh Bardugo’s duology Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom. I’ve been sleeping horribly lately, fraught with rough dreams, so I’m trying to read and do low-eye-tiring activities before I sleep.

7). BOOK PT. 2

(really 6B) I requested a bunch of great books from the library. And by “great” I mean “trash” because during the semester, I read a bunch of nascent American literature, arts criticism and Shakespeare, so I’m decompressing with The Andy Cohen Diaries, some Kathy Griffin, and some teen fantasy-lit. GOD I’M SO NUANCED.

8). I’M HOT

I’m hot. I’ve been feeling SO SHITTY so I keep bullying people into complimenting me. That’s all.





I don’t really feel like posting anything today, but I’m trying to be good about uploading something every Monday and Thursday. I finished my last final today, and I’m just chilling before I start packing.

I’ve been making the most bomb grilled cheese lately; How do I do it? That’s one secret I’ll never tell. Just kidding; I use butter on the bread instead of spray, and I put them both onto the pan and let the cheese get melty before I sandwich them together and put them under a saucepan top. LOW HEAT THE ENTIRE TIME. It’s crispy but not burnt, gooey but not liquid.

I watched the Rob & Chyna birth special (“A Dream Come Throughhhhh” is not what it’s called, but it should be) and doing laundry. It’s making me a little sad to know that this was just a little more than a month ago, and all the drama happened over the weekend.

Whatever, whateva.

This semester was rough, and these last few weeks were rough. I’m glad it’s done, but that also means that I’m closer to graduation, work, and death. HAPPY HOLIDAYS.

Mental Health, Rambles, Things Happening RN


I’m stressed, and I need that to be okay.

I didn’t realize I was stressed until I was sitting in my psychiatrist’s office today. Emotion after emotion, thought after thought, rose up and spilled out of me like I was a cup in the sink overflowing from a tap that was left on accidentally. I was stressed, I was under stress, I was stress. My entire body was made up of the coiling gray wires that I envision stress to be.

I feel like it’s not okay to be stressed. We’re allowed to be “stressed” but not Stressed. We’re not allowed to be Stressed because we’re conditioned to believe it’s a symptom of not working hard enough. If you’re doing poorly in a class, it’s because you’re not applying yourself enough. If something fails in the romantic sense, it’s you. If you can’t find a job or an internship, it’s because you’re not striving towards it with enough vigor.

We’re allowed to be stressed but it must pass. It must be something that can be neatly dealt with. We’re not allowed to be weak with it, weak from it. And I’m weak from it. It’s breaking into my sleeping, my waking, my head.

I’m stressed about a lot of things. Some are personal and I’m not discussing. Some are classes that I just finished up, some are familial, some are the overarching overhangs of life after graduation. I’m stressed but I’m not allowed to be Stressed. Particularly about jobs. Millennials are classed as lazy. We’re not getting jobs because we expect things to be handed to us. We’re too addicted to our phones. We’re self-obsessed and expectant of praise.

We’re told that we need to be the best to get jobs, and even if we’re the best, that might not be enough. You need to get an internship. Already have one? You need one more. Then one more. It’s never ending. We’re also told that there are no jobs; that we’re fucked. So we’re fucked either way: if we work hard and don’t get anything, it’s because the job market can’t sustain us. If we work hard and don’t get anything, it’s because we’re too idealistic. We expect too much too soon.

So that’s making me stressed. I’m stressed that I just finished a class where I was told, over and over, that my career choices were not valid. That what I wanted to do was not realistic. That “real journalists” didn’t do what I did. What I do.

I’m stressed and Stressed and I’m hoping it’ll pass and I know that it will.

college, Things Happening RN


Written hours after seeing a girl running on the treadmill who was an exact replica of Taylor Swift in the commercial where she’s sprinting on a treadmill like a Suburban Girl on Black Friday and listening to Drake. Blunt bangs and all. Still shaken.  

A few days ago, I started seeing someone. It’s amazing and it’s new, so I haven’t talked about it much. I’m always skeptical of love, and it’s not even been a month, but I think I can safely say that I’m in love. God! That’s so crazy to write out!!!

Part of why I haven’t said anything is because this person isn’t really my type. And that’s because it’s a “she.” GUESS WHO’S STRAIGHT.



So why is it that when a friend of mine jokingly asked me to be in a relationship with her on Facebook (because I’m hot), which I did (because I’m nice), people instantly started liking the proclamation. First, it was just a few friends. This is acceptable because I know them and she knew them and they were obviously like “Oh funny haha cute” OBVIOUSLY UNDERSTANDING THE IRONY.

Then, the likes start rolling in. On her end, I understand if people start liking the status without knowing I’m gay. I am, after all, surprisingly good-looking for someone who is this funny. But on my end, people I went to high school with (WHERE I WAS OUT OF THE CLOSET) start liking the status. They don’t know my friend, we don’t talk anymore, so they have no reason of understanding the joke. They just think that I’m straight now.

Side bar: I was the president of my PRIVATE ALL-BOYS CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL’s first Gay-Straight Alliance (which was mostly just a Gay Bulwark or a Homosexual Council). AND I took off all the buttons on my pants and re-sewed them on with pink thread. I mean, you wouldn’t know that unless you were undressing me and I looked like a naked mole rat in high school so that never happened. AND I wore cardigans.


But lately, as my friend Nina has pointed out numerous times, I’ve been dressing extremely “straight” lately (sideways baseball caps, penny board and giveaway sunglasses). That, combined with my height and (again surprising amount of) hotness, turns me into a CockBlock© because people see me with ladies and assume that it’s either A) a relationship or B) a Make A Wish thing and I’m a celebrity.

Side bar: I told someone else that Nina kept calling me a cockblock because everyone thought I looked straight, and she just looks at me, takes a beat, and says, “So this is before they hear you speak, right?” BURN.

But as a new Straight White Male™, I’m still getting used to this newfound level of privilege. I jay-walk whenever I want. I can never recall a time where I didn’t have all the rights. AND I was at Starbucks yesterday during a study-break coffee time, and the girl accidentally charged me one dollar more than I was supposed to, so she comped me a whole extra slice of the lemon pound cake, which is DEFINITELY MORE THAN A DOLLAR. God, I’m swimming in privilege.


Source: Twitter// I started going crazy while writing an essay on Walt Whitman.

In other nudes, besides me being on top of the world, I’m in the midst of finals right now. I spent so much time yesterday staring at a screen that I thought I was gonna vomit. I didn’t, and after getting home from the library I proceeded to watch an hour of Netflix. So clearly, I was fucking fine.

I’m one essay and one article done, one essay and two finals to go. It’s so hard trying to maintain being smart for this long. I almost never do work (when you look like I do and talk like I do, people basically let you get away with whatever you want), so now I’m having to make up for all the work I coasted on because of my charisma. How do regular (-looking) people do this??

I hope that you’re having a good Monday, and that someday, you’ll get to live a life as rich and easy as mine. You probably won’t, but that won’t stop me from dreaming (GOD, I’M NICE TOO? GOD DOES GIFT WITH A HEAVY HAND!).

Life, Mental Health


Sometimes it’s really, really unfair to have depression. Like, duh—obviously, but bear with me.

Sometimes it’s really unfair that I can’t just call out of a meeting “sick with depression.” It makes me really, really mad. And I’m using “really” a lot because…because that’s the only way I can describe it. It sucks. It’s annoying. And it doesn’t stop sucking.

It’s hard explaining it to people; it’s hard saying to someone, “I have depression and it’s bad right now but it’s not like ‘bad bad’ so stop looking at me like I’m a puppy.” With other things, you can explain them in a few words.

“I have a stomachache.” “I have the flu.” “I’m hungover.”

But I can’t just say something like that and have it explained away easily. Most people don’t process things like that—they don’t have the experience to understand. Everyone’s had a cold; everyone’s had a stomachache. But not everyone’s had depression. So you can’t just explain it away.

“Sorry, I would totally come to the meeting but I keep getting sad at unrelated things and then I want to smash a window.”

“Sorry, I want to hang out but I’m going to burrow under a pile of blankets and not move for multiple hours.”

“Sorry, I can’t meet up today—I’m feeling tumultuous.”

I have good days and I have bad days. Being on medication means that my bad days are fewer now—they almost become like bad dreams. Half-remembered and explained away. And I don’t realize a bad day until I’m knee-deep in it. And it’s not that I want sympathy or a pass or anything like that. I just wish we had the vocabulary for us to express ourselves. I wish I could make it clear without couching it as a blanket “mental health day” or lie and say that I’m sick with something else.

I’ve got a touch of depression. Sorry, can’t come to your meeting.

I can still function; I’m not incapacitated. But I’m weak; and I’m sad. It’s not forever, but it’s now. This now sucks completely. This now is me wanting to kind of cry and watch covers of songs from Hamilton and just not have to worry about work or school or romance or jobs. But I can’t say that.

Review, television

Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life—A Revival or a Resurrection?

What is the purpose of a revival?

by Danny McCarthy


Revivals typically come to accomplish one of two things: give the fans what they want, or advance the story.

Some shows debuted before their time and were granted revivals as a second chance. HBO’s The Comeback with Lisa Kudrow debuted in 2005. It was filmed in the style of reality television, a cousin to mockumentary. The Comeback focused on Kudrow’s Valerie Cherish, a former sitcom It girl trying to make her “comeback” through a reality television series. But whereas shows like The Office, Parks & Recreation, and Arrested Development succeeded, The Comeback fell flat. Maybe it’s because widespread reality television like The Real Housewives franchise wouldn’t begin until 2006. That franchise focused on adult women finding the balance, badly, between anonymity and celebrity. But when The Comeback aired, the world didn’t have the context or appreciation of a middle-aged woman clutching at fame with gel nails.

But once the proper context was developed, The Comeback became a cult classic. It was revived nine years later and its second season aired in 2014. Gilmore Girls, first airing in 2000 and finishing its seventh season in 2007, was gone for almost a decade before Netflix revived it. In that time, it had become an archetype of television, fast-paced witticisms and dramedies.

We sailed through six seasons of glorious, witty banter, and one season of tortured agony. The showrunners and creators of Gilmore Girls, Amy Sherman-Palladino and her husband Daniel Palladino, left after the sixth season due to contract disputes, and it showed. It was the prequel to American Horror Story: Murder House, where everything looks the same, but is terrible and, surprise, they’re all ghosts! So when the first hint of a comeback came, first in the possibility of a movie and then through Netflix, it felt like redemption.

Instead, it was horrible.

Gilmore Girls originally aired before social media had taken off, before audiences were divided up into teams favoring one love interest or another, “shipping” or fandoms. But its quickness and humor and heart kept it popular until it became ingrained in television culture. The show was included in TIME’s “All-TIME 100 TV Shows” and Entertainment Weekly’s “100 Greatest Movies, TV Shows, and More.”

Despite the dated references, Gilmore Girls succeeded because of the humor and the story. A mother who got pregnant at 16, and her 16-year-old daughter. A close-knit, quirky small town. Socioeconomic stratification and the pressures of society life. Complex inter-dynamics between mothers and daughters, fathers and daughters. It succeeded because at any age, family remained timeless.

The show became public domain in the way that cult classics become public domain. People grow up with it, but the real attachment bonding comes after the show ends. The reruns, the deep settling in and rote memorization of lines—everything about the show becomes well-worn and memories of the audience become ingrained in the show’s fiber. Gilmore Girls became a “more than” situation: more than a TV show, more than a comedy, etc. And the “more than” and attachment bonding created both fierce possession and hungry longing. “We want the show to come back, but we never want it to be touched.”

So in a way, the Gilmore Girls revival was always doomed. No matter what it did, it would never fulfill the wishes of a decade of longing. It would never, could never satisfy voracious fans.

The revival could’ve gone into either wish fulfillment or plot. Wish fulfillment would’ve put it into the category of the Sex and the City movies. Rotten Tomatoes gave the first movie revival a score of 49%. But the movie was never about creating great content. It was getting those four women back together, having Carrie proselytize, Samantha fuck some strangers, Charlotte be outraged, and Miranda be redheaded. And they did it. And they did it again for Sex and the City 2, except they Abu Dhabi-ed it.

Driven by plot would’ve been something akin to The Comeback—a story to tell and something to prove. But the revival—four 90-minute mini-movies under the overarching title A Year in the Life—somehow managed to accomplish neither of these options. It avoided wish fulfillment and didn’t have enough plot to satisfy one 90-minute movie, let alone four.

Ten years after the seventh season finale, Rory is 32. It’s serendipitously coincidental, because Lorelai was 32 at the beginning of the original series. That sense of “full circle” pervades the entire revival. Lorelai was 32 at the beginning of the beginning, Rory is 32 at the beginning of the end. It begins with death—that of the family patriarch, Richard—and ends with life—Rory’s surprise pregnancy. The sense of cycle feels comforting superficially as the banter of the girls and the warmth of Stars Hollow opens up in the first chapter, “Winter.” No one does winter quite like the Gilmore Girls. But after the initial nostalgia high fades away, the high-definition reveals something that was never apparent in the blurred glow of the original run.


Lines in the faces of the actors. A squeaky-clean, sitcom-like feeling to the kitchen. Everything feels Squeegeed, like the Lifetime Original adaption of Gilmore Girls. And once the initial banter dies down, the characters feel uncomfortable. Their deep appreciation for counterculture has become snobbish hipsterdom. They can’t figure out WiFi; they deride Tweets. Granted, their run was in the time of flip-phones, but Rory became an adult in the iPhone age. She knows how to Tweet. She might even know how to Snapchat.

Everything that was charming—references to The Go-Go’s, the Brady Bunch family, Brad and Jen—has curdled into general misanthropy. Lorelai and Rory seem stuck in the past, almost as if they were forcibly ripped into the future against their wills.

The format seemed to encourage lethargic timelines. Instead of 45 minutes, the showrunners played with 90. However, the general plot morsels seem to be the same, and moments that would be fun and fleeting become prolonged—there’s 10 minutes dedicated to watching a Stars Hollow musical in the theme of Hamilton. Just watching; not even intercut with anything else. Sherman-Palladino didn’t know what to do with the luxury of more time.

When Amy and her husband left the series, she mentioned that there were four words that she had known since the beginning would be how she ended the show. However, they left before its ending and the last four words remained a mystery. She never divulged them in case someday, somehow, the show came back. If there are going to be more seasons in the revival, the showrunners have not yet let on. And if anything were to confirm the opposite, it would be the use of the Last Four Words.

The three storylines—Emily (Lorelai’s mother), Lorelai, and Rory—seemed to have been decided importance in descending order. Emily, a widow after fifty years of marriage, unravels in a posh society that does not abide unraveling. Lorelai, after twists and turns in her relationship with the diner-owner Luke and the ultimate achieval of owning a successful inn, is unfulfilled but doesn’t know why. And Rory, the original ingénue, is resting on wilted laurels from a piece in the New Yorker.

Rory’s was particularly painful to watch. At 32, she’s more unmoored than in the original run. She’s not a very good journalist; she can’t land a book deal. The hits started early, and kept on coming. And throughout it all, you don’t even feel that bad for her, because she doesn’t seem to be trying very hard to change it.

She’s snarky about the woman she’s profiling for the book. She walks into a job interview without a single pitch. On assignment for GQ on the mentality behind people waiting hours in line, she literally walks past a long line at the head of which is just two guys eating a sandwich. Rather than utilizing that—which perfectly exemplifies line culture—she keeps walking. Opportunities, or opportunities at opportunities, seem to be throwing themselves at her, and nothing sticks.

Emily received the richest narrative. Throughout the entire run, her grief is palpable as she redecorates her house, tries mother-daughter therapy with Lorelai, tries to start a business franchise with Luke. And in the end, she curses out her society girlfriends at a function and realizes that the life she’s so desperately trying to fit back together died with her husband Richard. The world of a society wife is not the world of a society widow. So she picks up everything, moves to Nantucket and starts working as a docent at a museum. It’s odd, but it fits.

Lorelai’s storyline was not as satisfying or nuanced, but it still works. Her business partner has up and left, and she’s struggling to figure out how to take her inn to the next level. In the end, a lot of her unhappiness is wrapped up in the fraught relationship with her mother. A failed attempt to go on a Reese Witherspoon’s Wild-worthy adventure ends with actual self-realization with Emily. And after that fog clears up, she asks Luke to marry her, and she looks at properties to expand her business.

As for Rory, things couldn’t pan out because they had never been fully fleshed. Her storylines felt like a series of failed pitches. She’s working on a book with a British author—that falls through. She’s hounded by the wunderkind CEO of an online media site, but when she goes in for an interview expecting a job offer, she’s sorely disappointed. Her attempts at pitching for GQ fail. In the end, she conceives the idea of writing a book about her and Lorelai. It has all the desperation of Valerie Cherish and the ladies of Real Housewives.

This is her “last shot.” But is it? She received a job offer to work at her old high school. She’s still relatively young. She’s Yale-educated. How can writing one book—set aside the reality and rigors of getting something published—be the answer to all of her prayers? A 32-year-old’s last result should not be writing a memoir. She would’ve died on the streets in her 20s if she was so unprepared for life.

So at the end of “Fall,” the last of the four episodes, Rory and Lorelai are sitting on the steps of the town gazebo after Lorelai’s long-awaited wedding. Rory is still lost, but plans to write a book about her and her mother (annoyingly titled Gilmore Girls). She’s ended things with Logan, her one-time college boyfriend, with whom she’s had an on-again/off-again friends-with-benefits situation for the entire revival.

Lorelai muses about being a married lady and doing “married-lady things.” Rory’s hands strangle each other in her lap.

“Hey, what’s going on in there?” Lorelai asks, putting a hand on Rory’s leg. Rory’s eyes—vivid blue and one of the eerie similarities she shared with her mother Lorelai—are swimming with tears.

“I want to remember it all, every detail,” Rory answers. The camera flips to the back of them, watching them as they watch the town.



“I’m pregnant.”


There’s so much left unsaid that at the arrival of the last four words, they don’t ring of series-ending closure. Instead it seems like, somehow, she’s more unprepared than her mother, who had a child at 16, got a job and a degree.

The stories felt unfulfilled in the end. We had no reasoning for Rory’s intense ennui, or Lorelai’s moodiness. They were dredged down. They were weighty. So when the last four words arrived, the question was not, “What happens next?” but “What the fuck was that?”

Even the filming of the final words resists closure. Rather than tacit resolution, perhaps Lorelai grabbing Rory’s hand in comfort and solidarity, or a steady panning out over the town they love—it cuts to black. It’s jarring and more resembles the cliffhanger at the end of a season than a tantalizing peek into future at a series’ end.

The Gilmore Girls revival resisted spoon-feeding the fans what they wanted. It could’ve gone the easy route, made the easy laughs and ended the entire thing with a flourish of guitar music. Instead, it tried to tackle uncomfortable subjects like the death of a parent, or the fallout from a fizzled-out career. But instead of tackling them full on, the show cantered over and hastily wrapped them up with a bow and some emotional music.

I could see where the revival wanted to go. It had a bigger budget, a more cinematic scope, and it wanted to have issues that measured up. But they fell flat and, combined with the overhype, gutted the series of success. Superficially, Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life does what it says. It brings us the Gilmore girls, and takes us through a year in their life. Some years just suck.

pop culture, Review, television


Grade: A for Entertainment, C for Answering Basic Human Questions, D for the fact that it’s not coming back until 2018

If you’ve hung out with me at all in the last few weeks (highly unlikely, as I am a very popular person who spends almost all of his time in bed watching Netflix) you might’ve/probably heard me mention the HBO sci-fi Western Westworld. I’ve been obsessed.

It’s been a while since I’ve been obsessed with a show—the last one was probably Scandal where I fully binged—but it’s been even longer since I’ve been obsessed with a show that’s airing in real time. Sure, at any given point I’m watching at least four different Bravo shows, but that’s less of an obsession and more watching of a real-time science experiment unfold. So the experience of watching a show week-to-week, and ruminating over it and dissecting it and reading about it, is something that I haven’t engaged in for a long time.

The finale of Westworld’s first season is this Sunday (I’m writing this on Saturday), so I think it would be a fun little experiment to write down some of my predictions and theories today (Saturday), watch the show tomorrow (Sunday) and then do a review-cum-recap-discussion for Monday. Sound sexy? LET’S GO. Also, obviously spoilers (SPOILERS) ahead. I have, like, four readers in total, and only one of them watches Westworld and I know she’s up-to-date, so I’m not worried. But don’t come for me.


1). Why did Dolores kill Arnold?

My running theory is that Ford programmed Dolores to kill Arnold. I think this BECAUSE Ford later essentially SPOILER rebuilt Arnold (i.e. Bernard) as the perfect companion—someone who was his “partner” but whom he inevitably controlled. Arnold and Ford had fundamentally different ideas for the park. It seems as if Arnold wanted to see if he could create sentience, and if he did, to set those sentient hosts free. Ford seems undoubtedly more power-hungry and likes being a god in the park, able to control everything. He doesn’t want his subjects to leave. I think Ford had Arnold killed and rebirthed him in a mode he could control. The minutiae of Bernard’s movements, such as the way he cleaned his glasses, leads us to believe that Ford is searching for some semblance of his partner. He wants a version of Arnold.

2). Maeve will die. Like, for good this time.

I DON’T WANT THIS TO BE TRUE, BUT I THINK IT IS. Stay with me. Westworld has been renewed for a second season. Thus, we have to assume that the greater plot of androids gaining sentience and causing ruckus in the park will keep getting bigger and bigger. Maeve is already rapidly—or has even already gained—sentience, and she’s building an army. The Westworld creators have enough story for five seasons, and it’s reasonable to assume that Maeve’s storyline—or something similar—is along that arc. However, if Maeve is already there, then where else can she go without being A) killed or B) lobotomized and shuffled back to square one. I love Maeve and I love Thandie Newton’s portrayal of her, so I desperately hope I’m wrong. But I feel like she’s too advanced for them to keep her around if they want to keep the show on for multiple seasons, so they got our hopes up to dash them.

3). MiB is William, who saw Dolores go through the Maze (reach sentience) and thought that the maze was for everyone and would reach total enlightenment.

Can someone tell me exactly what the Maze is? I saw on a Reddit thread people being like “Duh obviously the Maze is just a metaphor and not a real place” and I was like “oH, ha HA who wuld think that not me obvi not me” back when I totally did and thought that an android-ed version of Arnold was in the center. Now I think it refers to the process of an android gaining sentience. So my theory is that the MiB is William, who followed Dolores on her “Mazing” and becoming sentient. However, he got it completely wrong and thought the Maze applied to everyone, when it just applies to hosts. So when his wife dies and his daughter hates him, he’s looking for meaning, so he remembers the Maze. He thinks to himself, “I’ll find life’s meaning that way!” But the Maze isn’t for him.

4). What will happen to Stubbs and Elsie?

Possibly the worst names, but that’s beside the point. I don’t believe that Elsie is dead until I see her cold rigor-mortised corpse on an examining table. And it can’t be a coincidence that they were both taken by unregistered hosts. Maybe Ford is reworking them to be models for other hosts? I don’t think that they’re dead, but maybe they’re not quite alive either…

5). Someone else will be revealed as a host.

This I kinda hope doesn’t happen, because overusing that trick—like how The Vampire Diaries kept bringing people back from the dead so by the eightieth time you didn’t even blink when a favorite character died—will rapidly grow old. But I think that that would be a good twist if it was someone HUGE we didn’t expect. Who it would be, I have no idea.


(watches it)


1). Dolores killed Arnold because Arnold asked her to.

WOWWOW. Arnold wanted to cripple Westworld into not opening, so he had Dolores kill everybody. Wait, I’m just realizing—He realizes that Dolores has sentience, so he has her kill everyone and then herself? Whatever, I can’t even get into that. Also Dolores was Wyatt all along, which I knew.

2). Maeve DOESN’T DIE.

Thank god(s). Maeve actually has probably my favorite storyline in the entire show, and Thandie Newton deserves an award for her incredible acting. The twist that her “sentience” was part of a program (possibly by Ford) and an “escape” narrative is heartbreaking, and definitely not a twist I was expecting. But her choice to get off the train (thereby undermining her narrative, which was to escape) and go back and search for her “daughter” proves that she is sentient.

3). MiB is William, and William is an asshole.

If you go on Reddit, this one was obvious. But it’s nice to be validated. Also I was SO right about MiB knowing jack shit about the Maze. And the fact that the ‘physical’ Maze ended up being a game reminds me of when Viserys from Game of Thrones wanted his “crown” so Khal Drogo poured molten gold over his head, killing him instantly. Nice memories. Also, William sucked even when he was nice, so it’s no surprise that he sucks when he’s mean, too.

4). Who the fuck knows.

 5). This didn’t happen either.

Although the twist that Ford’s last narrative was a robot rebellion is a nice little twist, and adds a lot more nuance to his character than just the decrepit old overlord god. Also whether he’s actually doing the revolution for the right reasons is yet to be seen. Also I suspect that the “Ford” that was killed was a host-Ford.


The following is adapted from a frantic text I sent to myself while I was walking to the gym.

The gala massacre reminded me a lot of Cersei’s killing of everyone via wildfire (RIP Margaery). It’s the kind of shit that’s beautifully orchestrated, and the viewer gets the spine-tingling pleasure of realizing what’s about to happen right before it happens. Both Ford and Cersei would benefit from everyone opposing them being killed, so that’s exactly what they do. I will admit that the Game of Thrones sequence of that killing is one of my favorite television moments ever.

The gala killing closes the loop that began in the park’s nascence, and reinforces the idea of moving “upward” (towards higher living) through repetition. Change happens when you cycle through. The first loop was Arnold’s orchestration of the massacre for the liberation of the hosts. 35 years later, Ford makes the same loop. His loop contains the question of motive. I do believe that he wants the hosts to be out of the control of Delos, but you have to wonder if his actions were edged in retribution. He would never let anyone else have control over his creations.

Quick side bar—Was Charlotte Hale crying while Ford was giving his speech? And if so, why?

In a larger scheme, the gala massacre is the same methodology that Westworld utilized forever. When things get out of control, you wipe the slate clean. You start from the beginning by destroying everything. Creation out of chaos. That raises the concern of “Was that really the right thing to do?” If the hosts are utilizing the same methods that their oppressors have used, aren’t they just stuck in another loop, albeit from a different perspective?

Maeve’s story served largely as a red herring. You were so preoccupied with her rapid rise to sentience, as compared to Dolores’ relative stagnation that you forgot about Dolores when, at least in the eyes of the show, she was the one achieving true sentience. And the purposeful focus on Maeve makes the admission that her escape is a narrative becomes heartbreaking.

The question ringing through the entire season was, “How much pain are you willing to endure until things get better?” It’s how the hosts gain sentience; it’s their/our cornerstones. In fact, it’s only Maeve who’s really showed the power of pain. In the middle of the episode, Maeve asked Bernard to wipe her memories of her daughter. He refuses, as they operate as her cornerstone memory—the memory around which her entire personality was built—and as such would destroy her.

But it’s her memories of her daughter that end up taking her off the train and heading back into the park. It’s what causes her to override her narrative—to Escape—and it’s what marks, in the end, her sentience. Her pain and her love—entertwined—have evolved her into sentience.

In season two, Westworld will undoubtedly play with a wider scope. The brief foray into “Samurai World” and the fact that Maeve’s daughter is in Park 1 (out of how many?) means that there’s a much wider Delos beast. It leads to a lot of questions: Why was Delos so concerned with Westworld and getting their data? Are all the hosts creations of Ford, even the ones from different parks? Will we start the next season in a different World, and have to go through the same thing again? Is that the point of the show, that we go through the same loops over and over, until the small details build up and become something larger?

I fucking hope not.

See you in 2018, Westworld, when I’m a dead-eyed adult.


Rambles, Things Happening RN



Source: Twitter// Food for thot.

Yesterday I was trapped in a black hole of E! YouTube clips. It began with those two-minute house tours of various “celebrities”—B-list at highest—where the “tour” is just them opening the door, going, “Come on in” showing approximately two rooms in what is inevitably a 30-room house and some light panning that you have to pause the video for because the shots are so tightly sequenced together.

After watching that, I stumbled—“stumbled”—onto a video of four E! anchors discussing Chrissy Teigen’s alleged proposal to act as the surrogate for Kim Kardashian West. It’s kind of weird, given how cossested and incestuous the entertainment industry is, that they were discussing the reproduction habits of two people that they’ve probably met on several occasions. But that’s not the point of me bringing them up.

One of the anchors said that she could never be a surrogate for a close friend for the fearful responsibility. “What if you get into a car accident, and you’re carrying your friend’s child?” I never thought about it, but that paralyzing fear of carrying someone else’s most precious thing must be overwhelming.

But listen, I actually have a point about this.

Today, in Zen Meditation, we had our “final.” We had to push our shoes on and pair up. Once we were in our pairs, we learned what the final was. It would stretch 50 minutes. For 25 minutes, one person would act as the Communicator—eyes closed but allowed to talk. They would be led around by the Guide—eyes open but mute. After 25 minutes, they would switch. The catch is that, for the entirety of the 50 minutes, we had to remain in physical contact.

I was the Guide first, and had the task of leading someone around campus, where there’s trolleys rolling down the road and people and cars and cyclists—the banes of my existence. And for 25 minutes, I was Chrissy Teigen carrying the Kimye baby—which, if it ever happens, I still pray is named Ocean or Galaxy, because HOW BOMB would that be?? I was responsible for someone else, and I couldn’t even say anything. I had to led my partner in silence, guide her with subtle shifting in my arms and hands.

25 minutes suddenly becomes an eternity when you’re silently dragging a blind person around the streets of Boston. We sat on benches, touched branches, walked through leaves, grazed our fingers against plants.

It was actually harder for me to be the Guide than it was to be the Communicator. But not having sight and having no one to answer is a lot like therapy—ALL ABOUT ME. Here are a few things I said while I was blinded:

1). “Isn’t it crazy that butterflies have migration patterns ingrained in their DNA?”

2). “Are you going to push me in front of a car?”

3). “Are we walking up a hill? Wait. No.”

4). (intermittent shrieking as I think something is looming in front of me but it’s just the shadows from the branches above)

5). “Where are we going? Wait, you can’t answer.”

6). “If you could answer, what would your favorite drink be?”

7). “AhH! What was that?!” (a shrub)

8). “If we’re about to get hit by a car, feel free to yank me out of the way. I won’t get scared. I mean, I will get scared, but I’d rather shit my pants than get hit by a car.”

9). “Where are we?” (we haven’t moved)

10). (On stairs) “I could totally do it.”

11). (On you not expecting there to be no more steps and you overextend your footing) “Whoa!”

12). (On underestimating how many stairs are left on the way down) “Whoops!”

13). “I could see why people would be scared if a dog came up to them.”

14). “I wish I had a cane.”

15). “We walked past a fat guy sitting on the sidewalk smoking a cigar—I hope we don’t pass him again.” (Pause). “Omg are we walking past him right now?” (No answer, obviously). (Whispers) “Are we walking past him?” (Obviously, still no answer)

16). “This hill is really big. Or maybe I just think that because I can’t see.”

17). “What was that?!” (Upon hearing a car in the vicinity)

18). (On being able to track direction based on the sun’s movement) “We’re moving north. No. South. No, wait, north.”

19). (On the same train of thought) “Wait, does the sun rise in the east or the west? Fuck.”

20). (On thinking upon it for a little longer) “East.”


In other nudes, I was trying to rip an ingrown hair from my beatific face, and now I have a thumbprint-sized bruise on my cheek, thus completely defeating the point of clearing my skin. It looks like I was hit in the face by a ping-pong ball.

Also, I had this Tweet last night, which got a shockingly large amount of play. Which goes to show you, I have no idea what is funny and what isn’t. Yen will it happen again? Get it?