an email intended for the jana hunter who writes sitcoms
BERNIE WOO(30) world renowned physicist, engineer, Robot Designer, and “Lonely Nerd” has Secretly created the Ultimate Female Robot TOBORA (“a robot” spelled backwards) and MARRIED HER in VEGAS.
TOBORA(22) is smokin’ hot. And when BERNIE and TOBORA are forced to move in with Bernie’s Parents and younger siblings, in his old neighborhood, life gets comically complicated.
This is the first comedy that shows just how funny Machines and Humans can be together. Especially when TOBORA can communicate with the toaster, microwave, fridge, and every Satellite that orbits the Earth.
Why do you think a 'POC' deserved the grammy more? Just cause they are black, huh? Wow. And you assume that just cause Macklemore is white (and straight, like that has anything to do with anything) he shouldn't get an award? Just cause a rapper is black, doesn't make him better than all other rappers that are from different backgrounds. My favourite rapper is Punjabi. But maybe he would be ok with you, cause you know, he isn't white. Do you have any idea how racist you sound?
Jesus. What can I say? You’re right, and I’m sorry. I feel especially bad in light of the fact that several of my friends, and relatives, are both white, and rappers. And I wasn’t thinking about them. I was thinking about myself. I wasn’t thinking about all the straight, white men that go out there every day or at least a couple days a week and stare prejudice and some other kind of obstacles in the face and, as white men, straight ones, rap anyway. I’ve always had some kind of sympathy for a couple of them, and I never thought too hard about what that meant, but I guess that’s what it was. They have it hard. No one can possibly understand what they go through every day, just to be white, and straight, and a dude, and to be rapping in this mixed up world. And me a white person myself. It’s shameful. I’m sorry, Mickey. I’m sorry, Hunter. Sorry, Frank.
But I promise you this: I’ll fix this. I re-dedicate myself to my race. I’ll even start thinking about straight people in less dismissive terms. I’m sorry, Mom and Jimmy, and all you other straights; I haven’t been giving you a fair shake for a long time. Me and all the others, we get together and we just go around in circles, making fun of straight people in a catty, hilarious manner that doesn’t befit queers of our ilk. It’s pathetic. But it’s true. So true. What I’ve been thinking, I can’t say. Straight, white people, I’m sorry. You deserve all the Grammy’s. You deserve all the Golden Globes (thank God that turned out ok…mostly) and all the Emmy’s and the Oscars and the, um, People’s Choice Awards, and some others, too. After all, you’re better. You’re better than all the rest of us. Inherently. If you weren’t, things wouldn’t have been the way they are for such a long, long time. And if there’s anything that history has shown us, it’s that the good guys always win.
R U CONFUSED ABT WHY SOME PPL R MAD THAT MACKLEMORE SWEPT THE GRANMYS?
ok. that’s ok. let’s talk about it.
Macklemore & Ryan Lewis may be good guys, though I have no respect for their musical abilities, but whatever floats your boat. However, they’re straight, white guys that won a lot of awards (that POC deserved) for writing a pro-same-sex marriage song (and have widely been lauded as some sort of pioneers for having done so.)
Macklemore won awards that essentially commended his support of equal rights instead of his abilities. Because he’s a straight, white guy.
And the Grammy’s are supposed to be awarded based on merit. And that’s the thing you might be stuck on. Many of you will agree that, in that respect, the Grammy’s are a joke. Well of course they fucking are. All awards shows are jokes. They obviously don’t serve that purpose. So what purpose do they serve? Why do the Grammy’s matter?
??? million people watched the Grammy’s last night. I can’t, and I can’t imagine that you can, escape that shit on your social media feeds today. And though you may be so enlightened as to see straight through this elaborate cultural farce, not everybody is. Some people do NOT realize that it’s ridiculous that a ~shitty white rapper won instead of unquestionably more talented black rappers. Some people do NOT realize that it’s an insult to many a queer musician that Macklemore is now the public face of Marriage Equality Pioneering in Music (<——what he won awards for, lol .)
It’s great that there are straight, white dudes out there who manage to overcome being straight, white dudes to the point that they can recognize the worthiness of the minorities that invent literally every fucking thing one could legitimately call cool but it’d be a whole lot cooler if meritorious people of color and the LGBTQ community got recognition for their immeasurable cultural contributions right where all those tens of millions of eyes are pointed.
eating something soft and biting down unwittingly on a piece of metal
being shot in the head somewhere in the isosceles triangle formed by the bridge of your nose and the two corners of your mouth. bullets that enter the skull through this triangle almost always pass through the brainstem on their way out of it, interrupting the signals that control breathing and heartbeat
being present during the loading of a cremation oven in which dozens of dead housepets are going be reduced to ash together
insects with mouthparts that suck or puncture
swollen and inexpressible respect for another person
bleeding that cannot be stopped
a rapaciously convincing schema for the world that dries up the flow of your intuition
freefall into poverty, as opposed to your life in it
drowning: the need to cough that can’t be answered and which grows more and more urgent until it consumes your whole awareness and you lose consciousness
that octaves of meaning and organization exist which no intuition is subtle enough to perceive nor words ductile enough to construe: that if god (among any number of other things) is real, any feature of its existence might easily be beyond our capacity for faith
your mother dying
awards, prizes and brass rings of all kinds
colicky frustration in public
vomiting in public during the daytime
the first coup of the US government
being present for a preventable death you can’t prevent
narrow passages in caves that turn out to be too narrow to go through and too tight to back out of
anyone in any position of power who hasn’t had a deliberate, private, and extended conversation with a person who is homeless
" " " " with a person who is in recovery
" " " " with a person who is on the other end of the greatest run of economic prosperity the Western world has ever experienced
big black sunflowers late in the season after their petals have withered, when the heads are so heavy with seeds that they droop towards the ground
“When a boy of fourteen or fifteen discovers that he is more given to introspection and consciousness of self than other boys his age, he easily falls into the error of believing it is because he is more mature than they are. This was certainly a mistake in my case. Rather it was because the other boys had no such need of understanding themselves as I had: they could be their natural selves, whereas I was to play a part, a fact that would require considerable understanding and study. So it was not my maturity but my sense of uneasiness, my uncertainly, that was forcing me to gain control over my consciousness. Because such consciousness was simply a steppingstone to aberration, and my present thinking was nothing but uncertain and haphazard guesswork.”—Yukio Mishima, Confessions of a Mask (via quijotist)
how do you feel about rob delaney becoming that guy selling his new book on here?
Imagine being so beholden to alcoholism that you can work a marketing job without acing yourself. Imagine getting so drunk that you drive your car into a wall. This wreck smashes one of the bones in your arm so badly that, to this day, you have a metal plate screwing its pieces together. The wrist on your other arm is also broken.
After coming out of the anesthesia from your surgeries you’re allowed the marginal pleasure of learning you didn’t kill anyone. But immediately after this you’re swept off the table where normal people live, down onto the floor of the world. In rehab, the stigma of having failed at life pushes the baited hook of your addiction all the way into your mouth, all day, every day. For months, you learn to live with that hook in your mouth, slowly—slowly—coming to realize that the slightest swerve from a tightly defined vector of recovery will sink that hook, make its line snap taut and haul your body into a darkened corner that no one ever leaves.
Imagine putting one foot in front of the other for months on end. Imagine forcing yourself not to hope for anything except one more day without drinking alcohol. Imagine the fear of having to go back into a world where advertising sells beer by envisioning it as an unstoppable silver freight train, barreling past the crystal clear streams of the Rocky Mountains, down Fifth avenue and straight into your mouth.
Imagine strapping those spurs onto your calves that linemen use to climb power poles. Imagine driving in piton after piton and ascending a leg of the table whose edge you drove off. Imagine getting to the top by a superhuman feat of endurance. Now imagine that that’s just the start of the struggle. That baited hook is always right there, swinging back and forth at the edge of your vision. Imagine that the best you can hope for, for the rest of your time on Earth, is to have this thing making its lazy arcs on the horizon of your life. Imagine that every time you get angry, every time you feel stupid, every time you want a reward for doing something unpleasant—it’s right there next to you, bobbing at head-height.
Imagine starting to live again. Imagine getting really good at making jokes. Imagine taking that talent you always had for being the center of attention, for being quick on the draw, and taking it apart. Learning the limits of talent and the usefulness of craft. Imagine making a joke no one thought was funny and the pleasure of knowing how to fix it.
Imagine getting married.
Now imagine that you get your old job back. You work it like a farmer before steampower. You do a pointless and trivial job as well as you can, not because you love it or because you believe in it, but because it is an anchor of your sobriety. All day, every day you work on the problem of selling different teenagers the same old acne cream. Imagine coming home to your family. When you sit down to dinner, you see your wife and kids lined up around the table like little Norman Rockwells and—in that moment where all your anchors are right there in front of you and are pulling in unison—the baited hook is as far away as it is possible for it to be.
But now imagine you’re Rob.
You don’t get your old job back. Instead, you force yourself into a occupation where every time you do your job, there is a bar in your line of sight. A job where, if you fail and are publically humiliated for being boring, you are in the same room as shelf upon shelf of alcohol. A job where, even when you succeed, there’s an endless line of half-drunk gladhanders who would love nothing more than to buy you a drink.
Imagine threading that needle, night after night.
Now imagine that someone gives you the chance to tell your story. Imagine that someone wants to pay you actual money you can spend on your kids in exchange for a book that says: “Crippling alcoholism isn’t a terminal disease!”. Imagine that they want to buy advertisements on busses to promote that message. Imagine that your big, grateful face is beamed into millions of houses as you say this to talk-show hosts. Imagine that you’ve been given the chance to make the tenacious fight for an ordinary life seem like just enough.
What would you do?
I would hire skywriters out of my own pocket to sell this book.
"In the 1971 anthology “No One Waved Good-bye: A Casualty Report on Rock and Roll” (edited by Robert Somma), Reed wrote, anent his job, “It simply requires a very secure ego to allow yourself to be loved for what you do rather than who you are, and an even larger one to realize you are what you do. The singer has a soul but feels he isn’t loved off stage. Or, perhaps worse, feels he shines only on stage and off is wilted, a shell as common as the garden gardenia. But we are all common as snowflakes, aren’t we?” That was Lou, gardenia and snowflake, so many varieties of common as to be wildly uncommon." - Luc Sante
“When religion and politics travel in the same cart, the riders believe nothing can stand in their way. Their movements become headlong - faster and faster and faster. They put aside all thoughts of obstacles and forget the precipice does not show itself to the man in a blind rush until it’s too late.”—Frank Herbert, Dune
Among us English-speaking peoples do the praises of poverty need once more to be boldly sung. We have grown literally afraid to be poor. We despise any one who elects to be poor in order to simplify and save his inner life. If he does not join the general scramble and pant with the money-making…