Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 24, 2025
Sunday, December 21, 2025
What’s Not to Like?
Similes! I have hundreds of them on three-by-five notecards, highbrow and lowbrow, copied from newspapers, comic strips, sonnets, billboards, and fortune cookies. My desk overflows with them. They run down to the floor, trail across the room into the hallway. I have similes the way other houses have ants.
Why? To start, for the sheer laugh-out-loud pleasure of them. “His smile was as stiff as a frozen fish,” writes Raymond Chandler. “He vanished abruptly, like an eel going into the mud,” writes P. G. Wodehouse, the undoubted master of the form. Or Kingsley Amis’s probably first-hand description of a hangover: “He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning.”
From time to time, I’ve tried to organize my collection, though mostly the task is, as the cliché nicely puts it, like herding cats. Still, a few categories come to mind. The Really Bad Simile, for instance. Examples of this pop up like blisters in contemporary “literary” fiction. Here is a woman eating a crème brûlée: “She crashed the spoon through the sugar like a boy falling through ice on a lake.” (Authors’ names omitted, per the Mercy Rule.) Or: “A slick of beer shaped like the Baltic Sea spilled on the table.” Sometimes they follow a verb like tin cans on a string: “The restraining pins tinkled to the floor like metal rain, hunks of hair tumbling across her face in feral waves.” Or sometimes they just make the page itself cringe and curl up at the corners: “Charlie’s heart rippled like a cloth spread across a wide table.”
Donne’s simile belongs to another category as well, the epic or Homeric simile. Every reader of the Iliad knows something like this picture of an attacking army as a wildfire:
“As when the obliterating fire comes down on the timbered forest / and the roll of the wind carries it everywhere,” and so the Achaean host drives ahead for another five lines. Modern prose writers can also unscroll a simile at surprising length. John Updike dives right in: “The sea, slightly distended by my higher perspective, seems a misty old gentleman stretched at his ease in an immense armchair which has for arms the arms of this bay and for an antimacassar the freshly laundered sky. Sailboats float on his surface like idle and unrelated benevolent thoughts.” And one would not like to have been the beefy Duke of Bedford when Edmund Burke imagined how revolutionary mobs might regard him: “Like the print of the poor ox that we see in the shop windows at Charing Cross, alive as he is, and thinking no harm in the world, he is divided into rumps, and sirloins, and briskets, and into all sorts of pieces for roasting, boiling, and stewing.”
It takes a dramatic mind to carry a comparison through so logically and so far. The Homeric simile evokes a world far larger than a single flash of thought, however clever. Its length creates a scene in our minds, even a drama where contraries come alive: an army driving into battle, an ocean tamed into a harmless old gent, a bloody clash in the streets between aristocrats and rebels.
“Perceptive of resemblances,” writes Aristotle, is what the maker of similes must be. There is one more step. The maker of similes, long or short, must perceive resemblances and then, above all, obey the first, and maybe only, commandment for a writer: to make you see. Consider Wodehouse’s “He found Lord Emsworth, as usual, draped like a wet sock over the rail of the Empress’s G.H.O.,” or Patricia Cornwell’s “My thoughts scattered like marbles.”
The dictionary definition of metaphor is simply an implied comparison, a comparison without the key words like or as. The most common schoolbook example is, “She has a heart of gold,” followed by, “The world is a stage.” Latching onto the verb is, the popular website Grammarly explains, “A metaphor states that one thing is another thing.”
Close, but not enough. There is great wisdom in the roots of our language, in the origin of words. Deep down, in its first Greek form, metaphor combines meta (over, across) and pherein (to carry), and thus the full word means to carry over, to transfer, to change or alter. A metaphor does more than state an identity. In our imagination, before our eyes, metaphor changes one thing into another: “I should have been a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.” Eliot’s metaphor is a metamorphosis. Magically, we see Prufrock the man metamorphosed into a creature with ragged claws, like a hapless minor god in Ovid.
Too much? Consider, then, what the presence of like or as does in a simile. It announces, self-consciously, that something good is coming. The simile is a rhetorical magic trick, like a pun pulled out of a hat. A metaphor, however, feels not clever but true. Take away the announcement of like, and we read and write on a much less sophisticated level, on a level that has been called primitive, because it recalls the staggering ancient power of words as curses, as spells to transform someone into a frog, a stag, a satanic serpent.
A better term might be childlike. Psychologists know that very young children understand the metamorphosing power of words. To a child of three or four, writes Howard Gardner, the properties of a new word “may be inextricably fused with the new object: at such a time the pencil may become a rocket ship.” Older children and adults know that this isn’t so. But for most of us, and certainly for most writers I know, the childhood core of magical language play is not lost. It exists at the center and is only surrounded by adult awareness, as the rings encircle the heart of the tree.
Still too much? Here is Updike, making me gasp: “But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark.” No labored comparison, no signal not to take it literally. Like the pencil and rocket, their hands have become a starfish. Or Shakespeare, metamorphosing himself into an autumnal tree and then an ancient abbey: “That time of year thou may’st in me behold, / When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, / Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.” Pure magic.
Yet why be a purist? At the high point of language, James Joyce blends simile, metaphor, and extended simile into one beautiful and unearthly scene, an image created by a sorcerer.
A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane’s. … Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird’s, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.
The passage is like a palimpsest. A reader can see through the surface of the language. A reader can penetrate to the traces of the real person still visible beneath the living words that are, as they move down the page, quietly transforming her. It is as if we are looking through the transparent chrysalis to the caterpillar growing inside, watching its slow and perfect metamorphosis into the butterfly. Too much? No.
Why? To start, for the sheer laugh-out-loud pleasure of them. “His smile was as stiff as a frozen fish,” writes Raymond Chandler. “He vanished abruptly, like an eel going into the mud,” writes P. G. Wodehouse, the undoubted master of the form. Or Kingsley Amis’s probably first-hand description of a hangover: “He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning.”
Writing about sex can drive a writer to similes of unparalleled badness. Someone has borrowed my copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but these more recent examples might do, from The Literary Review’s “Bad Sex in Fiction Award”: “Katsuro’s penis and testicles became one single mound that rolled around beneath the grip of her hand. Miyuki felt as though she was manipulating a small monkey that was curling up its paws.” Or this loving, if somewhat chiropractic moment: “her long neck, her swan’s neck … coiling like a serpent, like a serpent, coiling down on him.” Or finally (my eyes are closed as I type): “Her vaginal ratchet moved in concertina-like waves, slowly chugging my organ as a boa constrictor swallows its prey.” (...)
Donne’s simile belongs to another category as well, the epic or Homeric simile. Every reader of the Iliad knows something like this picture of an attacking army as a wildfire:
“As when the obliterating fire comes down on the timbered forest / and the roll of the wind carries it everywhere,” and so the Achaean host drives ahead for another five lines. Modern prose writers can also unscroll a simile at surprising length. John Updike dives right in: “The sea, slightly distended by my higher perspective, seems a misty old gentleman stretched at his ease in an immense armchair which has for arms the arms of this bay and for an antimacassar the freshly laundered sky. Sailboats float on his surface like idle and unrelated benevolent thoughts.” And one would not like to have been the beefy Duke of Bedford when Edmund Burke imagined how revolutionary mobs might regard him: “Like the print of the poor ox that we see in the shop windows at Charing Cross, alive as he is, and thinking no harm in the world, he is divided into rumps, and sirloins, and briskets, and into all sorts of pieces for roasting, boiling, and stewing.”
It takes a dramatic mind to carry a comparison through so logically and so far. The Homeric simile evokes a world far larger than a single flash of thought, however clever. Its length creates a scene in our minds, even a drama where contraries come alive: an army driving into battle, an ocean tamed into a harmless old gent, a bloody clash in the streets between aristocrats and rebels.
“Perceptive of resemblances,” writes Aristotle, is what the maker of similes must be. There is one more step. The maker of similes, long or short, must perceive resemblances and then, above all, obey the first, and maybe only, commandment for a writer: to make you see. Consider Wodehouse’s “He found Lord Emsworth, as usual, draped like a wet sock over the rail of the Empress’s G.H.O.,” or Patricia Cornwell’s “My thoughts scattered like marbles.”
The dictionary definition of metaphor is simply an implied comparison, a comparison without the key words like or as. The most common schoolbook example is, “She has a heart of gold,” followed by, “The world is a stage.” Latching onto the verb is, the popular website Grammarly explains, “A metaphor states that one thing is another thing.”
Close, but not enough. There is great wisdom in the roots of our language, in the origin of words. Deep down, in its first Greek form, metaphor combines meta (over, across) and pherein (to carry), and thus the full word means to carry over, to transfer, to change or alter. A metaphor does more than state an identity. In our imagination, before our eyes, metaphor changes one thing into another: “I should have been a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.” Eliot’s metaphor is a metamorphosis. Magically, we see Prufrock the man metamorphosed into a creature with ragged claws, like a hapless minor god in Ovid.
Too much? Consider, then, what the presence of like or as does in a simile. It announces, self-consciously, that something good is coming. The simile is a rhetorical magic trick, like a pun pulled out of a hat. A metaphor, however, feels not clever but true. Take away the announcement of like, and we read and write on a much less sophisticated level, on a level that has been called primitive, because it recalls the staggering ancient power of words as curses, as spells to transform someone into a frog, a stag, a satanic serpent.
A better term might be childlike. Psychologists know that very young children understand the metamorphosing power of words. To a child of three or four, writes Howard Gardner, the properties of a new word “may be inextricably fused with the new object: at such a time the pencil may become a rocket ship.” Older children and adults know that this isn’t so. But for most of us, and certainly for most writers I know, the childhood core of magical language play is not lost. It exists at the center and is only surrounded by adult awareness, as the rings encircle the heart of the tree.
Still too much? Here is Updike, making me gasp: “But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark.” No labored comparison, no signal not to take it literally. Like the pencil and rocket, their hands have become a starfish. Or Shakespeare, metamorphosing himself into an autumnal tree and then an ancient abbey: “That time of year thou may’st in me behold, / When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, / Bare ruin’d choirs where late the sweet birds sang.” Pure magic.
Yet why be a purist? At the high point of language, James Joyce blends simile, metaphor, and extended simile into one beautiful and unearthly scene, an image created by a sorcerer.
A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane’s. … Her thighs, fuller and soft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird’s, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.
The passage is like a palimpsest. A reader can see through the surface of the language. A reader can penetrate to the traces of the real person still visible beneath the living words that are, as they move down the page, quietly transforming her. It is as if we are looking through the transparent chrysalis to the caterpillar growing inside, watching its slow and perfect metamorphosis into the butterfly. Too much? No.
by Max Byrd, American Scholar | Read more:
Image: locket479/Flickr
Friday, December 19, 2025
Favorite Rob Reiner Credits
When Rob Reiner was killed earlier this week, along with his wife and creative partner Michelle, the world of film lost one of its most beloved and respected figures, an artist who had done very good and extremely popular work in a variety of genres, first in front of the camera, then behind it as a writer, producer, and director, and then again in his later life as an actor. All the while, Reiner maintained a spotless reputation as a mensch, in an industry with vanishingly few of those. He was one of the most sophisticated and successful political activists in California, and his work (and money) helped pass the state's groundbreaking marriage equality law. Few filmmakers have had as vast or varied an impact on American life over the last 50 years, which is something that Reiner would surely have found very funny. Here are some of Reiner's films and roles that we love:
Stand By Me
Stand By Me is probably the purest chunk of schmaltz in Rob Reiner's generational early-career run. The movie is oozing with sentiment, factory-designed to squeeze profundity out of every otherwise mundane childhood interaction, and some not so mundane. It pulls out every trouble-at-home cliché to make you root for the kids and add dramatic heft. Richard Dreyfuss's narration should come with an insulin pump.
And yet it works! It works. You root for the kids, and you identify with them; you laugh when you're meant to laugh and cry when you're supposed to; and yes, through the sheen of memory, all those moments with your own childhood pals take on a patina that preserves them as something meaningful. It's distilled nostalgia, which in moviemaking is much easier to fuck up than to get right.
Weapons-grade middlebrow competence was Reiner's strength. That's a compliment, to be clear, especially as Hollywood has come to devalue that skillset and the type of work it produced. He was visually unflashy, almost to an extent that it became his signature as a director. I'm not sure what a Rob Reiner film "looks like." He mostly picked great scripts, made his visual and storytelling choices, and got out of the way to let his actors cook. In Stand By Me, his first crucial decision was to give the movie a main character; the novella focuses on all four boys equally. The second was the casting. Reiner reportedly auditioned more than 300 kids, and got all four exactly right. A Mount Rushmore of child actors could credibly just be the four boys from this film.
It can be easy and is tempting to think of a movie as something that just sort of happens, and succeeds and fails for ineffable reasons, but it's really just a collection of a million different choices being made—most of the big ones by the director—and any one of which, if misguided, could torpedo the whole thing. Stand By Me doesn't work if the kids don't work. For its flaws, every choice that Reiner needed to nail in this movie, he nailed. You can more or less say the same for his entire first 12 years of directing. His hit rate was a miracle—no, not a miracle, that denies agency. It is the collective work of a real-deal genius. (...)
- Barry Petchesky
When Harry Met Sally
It’s like 90 minutes, and all of them are perfect. Harry and Sally might suffer for their neuroses, but the greatest gift a director can give an audience is a film whose every detail was obsessed over. New York, warm and orange, has never looked better. Carrie Fisher says her lines the only way they could ever sound: You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right. I want you to know that I will never want that wagon wheel coffee table.
That a film so brisk can feel so lived-in owes to Nora Ephron’s screenplay and also to Reiner’s neat choices, like the split-screen that makes it look like Harry and Sally are watching Casablanca in the same bed, an effect dialed up later in a continuously shot four-way phone call scene that took 60 tries to get right. Every time I watch When Harry Met Sally, I think it must have been impossible to make; the coziness of the movie is cut with something sad and mischievous and hard to describe. Estelle Reiner’s deadpan line reading at Katz’s Deli is a classic, and every family Pictionary night in our house began with someone guessing “baby fish mouth,” but the bit that came to mind first was this scene set at a Giants game: Harry tells Jess about his wife’s affair between rounds of the wave.
- Maitreyi Anantharaman
Stand By Me
And yet it works! It works. You root for the kids, and you identify with them; you laugh when you're meant to laugh and cry when you're supposed to; and yes, through the sheen of memory, all those moments with your own childhood pals take on a patina that preserves them as something meaningful. It's distilled nostalgia, which in moviemaking is much easier to fuck up than to get right.
Weapons-grade middlebrow competence was Reiner's strength. That's a compliment, to be clear, especially as Hollywood has come to devalue that skillset and the type of work it produced. He was visually unflashy, almost to an extent that it became his signature as a director. I'm not sure what a Rob Reiner film "looks like." He mostly picked great scripts, made his visual and storytelling choices, and got out of the way to let his actors cook. In Stand By Me, his first crucial decision was to give the movie a main character; the novella focuses on all four boys equally. The second was the casting. Reiner reportedly auditioned more than 300 kids, and got all four exactly right. A Mount Rushmore of child actors could credibly just be the four boys from this film.
It can be easy and is tempting to think of a movie as something that just sort of happens, and succeeds and fails for ineffable reasons, but it's really just a collection of a million different choices being made—most of the big ones by the director—and any one of which, if misguided, could torpedo the whole thing. Stand By Me doesn't work if the kids don't work. For its flaws, every choice that Reiner needed to nail in this movie, he nailed. You can more or less say the same for his entire first 12 years of directing. His hit rate was a miracle—no, not a miracle, that denies agency. It is the collective work of a real-deal genius. (...)
- Barry Petchesky
When Harry Met Sally
It’s like 90 minutes, and all of them are perfect. Harry and Sally might suffer for their neuroses, but the greatest gift a director can give an audience is a film whose every detail was obsessed over. New York, warm and orange, has never looked better. Carrie Fisher says her lines the only way they could ever sound: You’re right, you’re right, I know you’re right. I want you to know that I will never want that wagon wheel coffee table.
That a film so brisk can feel so lived-in owes to Nora Ephron’s screenplay and also to Reiner’s neat choices, like the split-screen that makes it look like Harry and Sally are watching Casablanca in the same bed, an effect dialed up later in a continuously shot four-way phone call scene that took 60 tries to get right. Every time I watch When Harry Met Sally, I think it must have been impossible to make; the coziness of the movie is cut with something sad and mischievous and hard to describe. Estelle Reiner’s deadpan line reading at Katz’s Deli is a classic, and every family Pictionary night in our house began with someone guessing “baby fish mouth,” but the bit that came to mind first was this scene set at a Giants game: Harry tells Jess about his wife’s affair between rounds of the wave.
- Maitreyi Anantharaman
Michael "Meathead" Stivic in All In The Family
Rob Reiner was proof that every once in a rare while, nepotism is a great idea. Of all the lessons he could glean from his father Carl, one of this nation's undisputed comedic geniuses, he put nearly all of them to best use over his voluminous IMDB page.
The credit that Reiner broke out with was the one that seemed with hindsight to be the least consequential of them all—his straight man/son-in-law/earnest doofus role in the Norman Lear sitcom All In The Family. The show, which for several years was the nation's defining situation comedy, ran through the risible but weirdly prescient venom of Carroll O'Connor's towering performance, and positioned Reiner as the stereotypically liberal son-in-law and foil for O'Connor's cardboard conservative Archie Bunker. Reiner helped frame the show, while mostly serving up setups for O'Connor. He played the part well, but it was not an especially dignified one. I mean, his character's name was Mike Stivic, but he became known universally as "Meathead" because Bunker only referred to him as such. Reiner learned from his father's years with Mel Brooks how to be that acquiescent foil, and if his work in that part did not make him a recognized comedian except to those folks who knew how comedy actually works, it indisputably gave him an eight-year advanced education on all the things required to make funny. Those studies would serve him well in his director's chair. His gift was not in being the funny, but in building sturdy and elegant setups for the funny, and there has never been a good comedy movie without that. The Princess Bride doesn't work for 10 minutes without Cary Elwes, and Elwes's performance wouldn't work if his director did not repeatedly put him in position to succeed.
Maybe Reiner would not have gotten the AITF gig without being his father's son—Richard Dreyfuss also wanted the role and Harrison Ford turned it down, for what that may be worth—but sometimes nepotism works for those outside the family. Reiner wrote three of the 174 episodes in which he appeared; he learned to thrive behind and off to the side of the camera. It all counted, it all contributed, and every credit Reiner is credited with here owes some of its shine to that television show, which in turn owes its existence to The Dick Van Dyke Show and his father and Mel Brooks's work with The 2000-Year-Old Man and Your Show Of Shows. That takes us back 75 years, into the earliest days of the medium, which may as well be the entire history of American comedy. Every giant stood on the shoulders of another, and that giant did the same. It is all of a piece, and IMDB would be half as large a quarter as useful without them, and him.
- Ray Ratto
This Is Spinal Tap
In a particularly on-brand bit of trivia, I first became aware of This Is Spinal Tap through Guitar Hero II. The titular band’s hit “Tonight I’m Gonna Rock You Tonight” was downloadable content for that game, and I spent hours trying to perfect it before I ever thought about watching the movie it hailed from. I did eventually do it, and I remember exactly where I was—in Venezuela in the summer of 2007, traveling around for the Copa América—because Spinal Tap is a near-flawless movie, and one that seared itself into my brain. I can’t recall with certainty, but I’m pretty sure that this is when I first became aware of Rob Reiner—I knew his dad from Ocean’s Eleven, another perfect movie—and Spinal Tap is such a stunning collection of talent that it’s hard to pick out a favorite role or MVP. Here’s the thing about that, though: The best and most important performance in the film might be from Reiner himself, because the movie doesn’t work as well as it does without him.
On the one hand, this is obvious; he directed the movie and co-wrote it, so his fingerprints are quite naturally all over it. And yet, in a movie full of massive characters and comedians perfectly suited for those roles, Reiner’s performance as the flabbergasted documentarian is what makes the whole thing hang together. Reiner was a comedic genius in his own right, but I think the thing I appreciate most about Spinal Tap whenever I watch it is how much he understands about his cast’s strengths and how much he allows himself to recede into the background while still working to guide the jokes to their best conclusions. Every great comedy needs a straight man, and Reiner’s Marty DiBergi is certainly that, but the movie is so funny, and Reiner is such a welcome presence on screen, that even DiBergi gets to be effortlessly hilarious. He does this, for the most part, just by playing an ostensibly normal person and turning that all up to, well, 11.
Let’s take what I consider one of the most iconic comedic scenes of all time, and certainly the one that I have quoted the most in my life: “It’s one louder.”
Christopher Guest is perfect in this scene, unsurprisingly; his Nigel Tufnel is an idiot, and the movie gets a lot of humor out of that fact throughout, and especially here. However, Reiner’s plain-spoken incredulity over the idiocy is what really elevates the scene to me. You can feel his character grappling with this concept throughout: First with a plain-spoken revelation (“Oh I see, and most of the amps go to 10”), but then he comes in with the setup: “Why don’t you just make 10 louder and make 10 be the top number, and make that a little louder?” Every single time I watch this scene, the pause before Guest goes “These go to eleven” makes me giggle in anticipation.
Spinal Tap is hilarious in its own right, and also birthed the mockumentary genre; it’s crazy to think about all of the things that the movie directly influenced, from Guest’s own filmmaking work (shout out Best In Show), to Drop Dead Gorgeous, on through Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping. God, I love that last one, and so many things that work in Popstar are directly traceable to the work Reiner did on Spinal Tap. (Spinal Tap also birthed a sequel just this year; I haven’t watched it yet, mainly because of how much I love the original and don’t need more from this stupid British band, but I am relieved to report that I’ve heard it’s a fine enough time at the movies.)
That This Is Spinal Tap was Reiner’s directorial debut only adds to the absurdity. Who produces not just a masterpiece, but such an utterly distinctive piece of work in their first real attempt? The answer, really, is that Reiner was a master, and he would go on to prove that over a historic run over the next decade, making Stand By Me, The Princess Bride, When Harry Met Sally, Misery, and A Few Good Men in just eight years. Ridiculous. This Is Spinal Tap is my favorite of all of those, though, and one of the most rewatchable movies ever made. Hell, as I’m writing this, I just remembered the scene where Reiner reads the band some reviews (“The review you had on Shark Sandwich, which was merely a two-word review just said … Shit Sandwich”) which is also among the funniest things put to film. The whole movie is strewn with gems like that. What a gift.
- Luis Paez-Pumar
[ed. See also: As You Wish: Rob Reiner (1947-2025). Ebert.com]
Rob Reiner was proof that every once in a rare while, nepotism is a great idea. Of all the lessons he could glean from his father Carl, one of this nation's undisputed comedic geniuses, he put nearly all of them to best use over his voluminous IMDB page.
The credit that Reiner broke out with was the one that seemed with hindsight to be the least consequential of them all—his straight man/son-in-law/earnest doofus role in the Norman Lear sitcom All In The Family. The show, which for several years was the nation's defining situation comedy, ran through the risible but weirdly prescient venom of Carroll O'Connor's towering performance, and positioned Reiner as the stereotypically liberal son-in-law and foil for O'Connor's cardboard conservative Archie Bunker. Reiner helped frame the show, while mostly serving up setups for O'Connor. He played the part well, but it was not an especially dignified one. I mean, his character's name was Mike Stivic, but he became known universally as "Meathead" because Bunker only referred to him as such. Reiner learned from his father's years with Mel Brooks how to be that acquiescent foil, and if his work in that part did not make him a recognized comedian except to those folks who knew how comedy actually works, it indisputably gave him an eight-year advanced education on all the things required to make funny. Those studies would serve him well in his director's chair. His gift was not in being the funny, but in building sturdy and elegant setups for the funny, and there has never been a good comedy movie without that. The Princess Bride doesn't work for 10 minutes without Cary Elwes, and Elwes's performance wouldn't work if his director did not repeatedly put him in position to succeed.
Maybe Reiner would not have gotten the AITF gig without being his father's son—Richard Dreyfuss also wanted the role and Harrison Ford turned it down, for what that may be worth—but sometimes nepotism works for those outside the family. Reiner wrote three of the 174 episodes in which he appeared; he learned to thrive behind and off to the side of the camera. It all counted, it all contributed, and every credit Reiner is credited with here owes some of its shine to that television show, which in turn owes its existence to The Dick Van Dyke Show and his father and Mel Brooks's work with The 2000-Year-Old Man and Your Show Of Shows. That takes us back 75 years, into the earliest days of the medium, which may as well be the entire history of American comedy. Every giant stood on the shoulders of another, and that giant did the same. It is all of a piece, and IMDB would be half as large a quarter as useful without them, and him.
- Ray Ratto
This Is Spinal Tap
In a particularly on-brand bit of trivia, I first became aware of This Is Spinal Tap through Guitar Hero II. The titular band’s hit “Tonight I’m Gonna Rock You Tonight” was downloadable content for that game, and I spent hours trying to perfect it before I ever thought about watching the movie it hailed from. I did eventually do it, and I remember exactly where I was—in Venezuela in the summer of 2007, traveling around for the Copa América—because Spinal Tap is a near-flawless movie, and one that seared itself into my brain. I can’t recall with certainty, but I’m pretty sure that this is when I first became aware of Rob Reiner—I knew his dad from Ocean’s Eleven, another perfect movie—and Spinal Tap is such a stunning collection of talent that it’s hard to pick out a favorite role or MVP. Here’s the thing about that, though: The best and most important performance in the film might be from Reiner himself, because the movie doesn’t work as well as it does without him.
On the one hand, this is obvious; he directed the movie and co-wrote it, so his fingerprints are quite naturally all over it. And yet, in a movie full of massive characters and comedians perfectly suited for those roles, Reiner’s performance as the flabbergasted documentarian is what makes the whole thing hang together. Reiner was a comedic genius in his own right, but I think the thing I appreciate most about Spinal Tap whenever I watch it is how much he understands about his cast’s strengths and how much he allows himself to recede into the background while still working to guide the jokes to their best conclusions. Every great comedy needs a straight man, and Reiner’s Marty DiBergi is certainly that, but the movie is so funny, and Reiner is such a welcome presence on screen, that even DiBergi gets to be effortlessly hilarious. He does this, for the most part, just by playing an ostensibly normal person and turning that all up to, well, 11.
Let’s take what I consider one of the most iconic comedic scenes of all time, and certainly the one that I have quoted the most in my life: “It’s one louder.”
Christopher Guest is perfect in this scene, unsurprisingly; his Nigel Tufnel is an idiot, and the movie gets a lot of humor out of that fact throughout, and especially here. However, Reiner’s plain-spoken incredulity over the idiocy is what really elevates the scene to me. You can feel his character grappling with this concept throughout: First with a plain-spoken revelation (“Oh I see, and most of the amps go to 10”), but then he comes in with the setup: “Why don’t you just make 10 louder and make 10 be the top number, and make that a little louder?” Every single time I watch this scene, the pause before Guest goes “These go to eleven” makes me giggle in anticipation.
Spinal Tap is hilarious in its own right, and also birthed the mockumentary genre; it’s crazy to think about all of the things that the movie directly influenced, from Guest’s own filmmaking work (shout out Best In Show), to Drop Dead Gorgeous, on through Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping. God, I love that last one, and so many things that work in Popstar are directly traceable to the work Reiner did on Spinal Tap. (Spinal Tap also birthed a sequel just this year; I haven’t watched it yet, mainly because of how much I love the original and don’t need more from this stupid British band, but I am relieved to report that I’ve heard it’s a fine enough time at the movies.)
That This Is Spinal Tap was Reiner’s directorial debut only adds to the absurdity. Who produces not just a masterpiece, but such an utterly distinctive piece of work in their first real attempt? The answer, really, is that Reiner was a master, and he would go on to prove that over a historic run over the next decade, making Stand By Me, The Princess Bride, When Harry Met Sally, Misery, and A Few Good Men in just eight years. Ridiculous. This Is Spinal Tap is my favorite of all of those, though, and one of the most rewatchable movies ever made. Hell, as I’m writing this, I just remembered the scene where Reiner reads the band some reviews (“The review you had on Shark Sandwich, which was merely a two-word review just said … Shit Sandwich”) which is also among the funniest things put to film. The whole movie is strewn with gems like that. What a gift.
- Luis Paez-Pumar
by Defector Staff, Defector | Read more:
Images: Andy Schwartz/Fotos International/Getty Images; Harry Met Sally, Spinal Tap (YouTube).]
Images: Andy Schwartz/Fotos International/Getty Images; Harry Met Sally, Spinal Tap (YouTube).]
Thursday, December 18, 2025
Tuesday, December 16, 2025
Scenes from the “This Is Spinal Tap” Cutting-Room Floor
In 1982, I began shooting an almost entirely improvised film,“This Is Spinal Tap,” which also happened to be my first as a director. It transformed my life and the lives of my three friends, co-writers, and co-stars: Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer.
We also decided that it was time to tell the full story of the making of the original “This Is Spinal Tap.” What you are about to read is a short excerpt from that account.
Early on in editing “This Is Spinal Tap,” it became obvious that some of the film’s plotlines would have to be thrown out altogether. For example, Spinal Tap initially had an opening act, a New Wave band called the Dose. The guys are against having the Dose tour with them. They feel that the group’s punky music isn’t a good fit with heavy metal. But then, during a sound check, they catch sight of the Dose’s lead singer, Stellazine, played by Cherie Currie, the former lead singer of the Runaways—a beautiful, sexy, young blonde in a skintight, metallic-blue catsuit.
After a deliberation of about an eighth of a second, the band does a one-eighty and insists to Ian (Tony Hendra) that it’s critical the Dose be their opening act for the entire length of the tour. Ian obliges and books the band. But there’s a problem: Stellazine is what one might deem a “free spirit.” After a scene in which Nigel (Guest) is seen making time with her, he turns up with a herpes sore on his lip. Next, we see David (McKean) pairing up with Stellazine, after which he, too, sports a herpes sore. Stellazine then hangs out with Derek (Shearer) and then Viv (David Kaff), both of whom subsequently also display the herpes badge.
A band meeting is called: Should the Dose remain on the tour? The four herpes-afflicted Tap members vote the Dose out. Mick (R. J. Parnell), who is clueless and herpes-free, votes for the Dose to stay.
Currie’s scenes were terrific, but the travelling-herpes show took way too long to play out. So, unfortunately, the sequence had to go. There is, however, a remnant of this subplot in the scene in which Nigel and David defend the “Smell the Glove” album cover to Bobbi Flekman (Fran Drescher). Nigel has a sore on his lower lip, and David has one on his upper lip. Conspicuous as these blemishes are, they go unexplained. Depending on your take, this is either a complete non sequitur or an ambiguous “What the hell is going on?” moment. Regardless, it always got a laugh—which surprised me. (...)
There was also a subplot about Derek going through a painful divorce. We filmed a number of scenes of him on the phone, getting the latest bad news from his lawyer. In one scene, he learns that his soon-to-be ex has taken out a full-page ad in the New Musical Express laying out her settlement demands. In another, he is seen saying, “She can’t have the Lamborghini. . . . O.K., she can have the Mini.” Again, it slowed the momentum. So the audience would never learn of Derek’s crumbling marriage.
Parnell, who had no background in acting, delivered an incredible performance in a scene we cut. The setup was that Artie Fufkin (Paul Shaffer) had succeeded in getting the band to do an earlymorning radio-station appearance. What Artie didn’t know was that, on that day, the station had changed its programming format from sports talk to rock and roll. One caller, who wasn’t aware of the change, asks the band, “Can you settle a bet I have with a buddy of mine? I think Ferguson Jenkins had fifty shutouts with the Cubs. He says he had forty-four. Who’s right?” Just as the radio host is about to brush off the question, Mick—shades on, cigarette in hand—answers, “Actually, you’re both wrong, mate. Ferguson Jenkins has had forty-eight career shutouts, and not all of them were with the Cubs.”
Then, in his sleepy drawl, he proceeds to deliver a complete statistical breakdown of Jenkins’s career. But since we ended up losing the radio-station scene, we lost with it Parnell’s eloquent Ferguson Jenkins soliloquy.
I not only cut scenes we had planned. On any given day, brilliant stuff would spontaneously fly out of someone’s mouth. A lot of that stuff had to go, too, to keep the film’s motor running. In particular, I remember a dissertation that David delivers to Marty (as played by me) about slime molds:
So we sculpted away. Originally, the scene in which the band gets lost trying to find the stage had more dialogue between the band and the maintenance man who gives them directions (played by a terrific actor named Wonderful Smith). We had a bit in which Nigel positions himself in a fixed spot, shouting, “Hello! Hello!” so that the other guys would have a reference point to prevent them from getting even more lost. But this took away from a more important bit, the band’s efforts to amp themselves up for the crowd. (It was in this spirit that Harry shouted out a line that became one of the film’s most quoted: “Hello, Cleveland!”)
The “Australian’s nightmare” scene, in which Ian ridicules Jeanine and quits, used to include a series of filthy comebacks improvised by Chadwick, with Jeanine calling Ian a “bumbling, dwarf-willied prick,” a “fucking twit full of shit,” and an “impotent bat ’n’ balls full o’ crabs.”
As tempting as it was to leave these moments in, all they did was give the elephant a second trunk. When it came to the scenes we shot depicting the seamy sex-and-drugs side of rock and roll, we made the decision to play that aspect down. There is a fleeting moment in which you can see some groupies sniffing powder. But we cut the other scenes showing drug use, and one in which Nigel has his arm around a topless girl. We felt it went against the tone of the film.
For me, looking back after forty years, all I see are the flaws that stayed in the movie, such as the continuity mistakes that I would have been able to avoid in a scripted film. With an improvised film, there are times when you just have to live with the mismatches. For instance, in the scene in which the band reacts to the all-black cover of the “Smell the Glove” album, you’ll notice that Nigel’s position keeps changing from shot to shot. First, we see him standing to the right of Ian. Then, after a cut to David and Jeanine, we go back to Nigel, who is now standing to Ian’s left as he observes, “It’s so black. It’s, like, how much more black could this be? And the answer is: none. None more black.” Normally, you want to avoid that kind of gaffe. But it was the only take in which Chris said, “None more black,” so we lived with it.
Few viewers pick up on this stuff. The editor Bob Leighton, with whom I worked on this and many of my other films, has always said that it’s more important to make the audio work smoothly than the visuals. A jump in sound is much more jarring than a jump in picture.
We also decided that it was time to tell the full story of the making of the original “This Is Spinal Tap.” What you are about to read is a short excerpt from that account.
After a deliberation of about an eighth of a second, the band does a one-eighty and insists to Ian (Tony Hendra) that it’s critical the Dose be their opening act for the entire length of the tour. Ian obliges and books the band. But there’s a problem: Stellazine is what one might deem a “free spirit.” After a scene in which Nigel (Guest) is seen making time with her, he turns up with a herpes sore on his lip. Next, we see David (McKean) pairing up with Stellazine, after which he, too, sports a herpes sore. Stellazine then hangs out with Derek (Shearer) and then Viv (David Kaff), both of whom subsequently also display the herpes badge.
A band meeting is called: Should the Dose remain on the tour? The four herpes-afflicted Tap members vote the Dose out. Mick (R. J. Parnell), who is clueless and herpes-free, votes for the Dose to stay.
Currie’s scenes were terrific, but the travelling-herpes show took way too long to play out. So, unfortunately, the sequence had to go. There is, however, a remnant of this subplot in the scene in which Nigel and David defend the “Smell the Glove” album cover to Bobbi Flekman (Fran Drescher). Nigel has a sore on his lower lip, and David has one on his upper lip. Conspicuous as these blemishes are, they go unexplained. Depending on your take, this is either a complete non sequitur or an ambiguous “What the hell is going on?” moment. Regardless, it always got a laugh—which surprised me. (...)
There was also a subplot about Derek going through a painful divorce. We filmed a number of scenes of him on the phone, getting the latest bad news from his lawyer. In one scene, he learns that his soon-to-be ex has taken out a full-page ad in the New Musical Express laying out her settlement demands. In another, he is seen saying, “She can’t have the Lamborghini. . . . O.K., she can have the Mini.” Again, it slowed the momentum. So the audience would never learn of Derek’s crumbling marriage.
Parnell, who had no background in acting, delivered an incredible performance in a scene we cut. The setup was that Artie Fufkin (Paul Shaffer) had succeeded in getting the band to do an earlymorning radio-station appearance. What Artie didn’t know was that, on that day, the station had changed its programming format from sports talk to rock and roll. One caller, who wasn’t aware of the change, asks the band, “Can you settle a bet I have with a buddy of mine? I think Ferguson Jenkins had fifty shutouts with the Cubs. He says he had forty-four. Who’s right?” Just as the radio host is about to brush off the question, Mick—shades on, cigarette in hand—answers, “Actually, you’re both wrong, mate. Ferguson Jenkins has had forty-eight career shutouts, and not all of them were with the Cubs.”
Then, in his sleepy drawl, he proceeds to deliver a complete statistical breakdown of Jenkins’s career. But since we ended up losing the radio-station scene, we lost with it Parnell’s eloquent Ferguson Jenkins soliloquy.
I not only cut scenes we had planned. On any given day, brilliant stuff would spontaneously fly out of someone’s mouth. A lot of that stuff had to go, too, to keep the film’s motor running. In particular, I remember a dissertation that David delivers to Marty (as played by me) about slime molds:
Slime molds are so close to being both plant and animal that it’s like they can’t make up their mind. And they’re thinking now that maybe this is who’s been running the earth all this time: these layabouts who can’t commit.It’s easy to become self-indulgent. You fall in love with things that make you laugh, and you want to leave it in, even though it doesn’t help sculpt the elephant. But you have to be ruthless. If you indulge, you lose the audience.
’Cause there’s more slime molds than any other form of protoplasm on the planet. And if they wanted to—if they finally made up their minds to commit to being either plant or animal—they could take us over like that. You’re walking down an alleyway. You slip and twist your ankle, maybe. It wasn’t an accident. It was an attack...
So we sculpted away. Originally, the scene in which the band gets lost trying to find the stage had more dialogue between the band and the maintenance man who gives them directions (played by a terrific actor named Wonderful Smith). We had a bit in which Nigel positions himself in a fixed spot, shouting, “Hello! Hello!” so that the other guys would have a reference point to prevent them from getting even more lost. But this took away from a more important bit, the band’s efforts to amp themselves up for the crowd. (It was in this spirit that Harry shouted out a line that became one of the film’s most quoted: “Hello, Cleveland!”)
The “Australian’s nightmare” scene, in which Ian ridicules Jeanine and quits, used to include a series of filthy comebacks improvised by Chadwick, with Jeanine calling Ian a “bumbling, dwarf-willied prick,” a “fucking twit full of shit,” and an “impotent bat ’n’ balls full o’ crabs.”
As tempting as it was to leave these moments in, all they did was give the elephant a second trunk. When it came to the scenes we shot depicting the seamy sex-and-drugs side of rock and roll, we made the decision to play that aspect down. There is a fleeting moment in which you can see some groupies sniffing powder. But we cut the other scenes showing drug use, and one in which Nigel has his arm around a topless girl. We felt it went against the tone of the film.
For me, looking back after forty years, all I see are the flaws that stayed in the movie, such as the continuity mistakes that I would have been able to avoid in a scripted film. With an improvised film, there are times when you just have to live with the mismatches. For instance, in the scene in which the band reacts to the all-black cover of the “Smell the Glove” album, you’ll notice that Nigel’s position keeps changing from shot to shot. First, we see him standing to the right of Ian. Then, after a cut to David and Jeanine, we go back to Nigel, who is now standing to Ian’s left as he observes, “It’s so black. It’s, like, how much more black could this be? And the answer is: none. None more black.” Normally, you want to avoid that kind of gaffe. But it was the only take in which Chris said, “None more black,” so we lived with it.
Few viewers pick up on this stuff. The editor Bob Leighton, with whom I worked on this and many of my other films, has always said that it’s more important to make the audio work smoothly than the visuals. A jump in sound is much more jarring than a jump in picture.
by Rob Reiner and Spinal Tap, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Embassy Pictures / Everett
Friday, December 12, 2025
Saturday, November 29, 2025
Speed Negotiations
[ed. Funny. Never seen this clip before (NewsRadio). Finding the right one takes time (the wrong one, not so much).]
Friday, November 28, 2025
Arlo Guthrie: Alice's Restaurant - Illustrated
Alice’s Restaurant. It’s now a Thanksgiving classic, and something of a tradition around here. Recorded in 1967, the 18+ minute counterculture song recounts Arlo Guthrie’s real encounter with the law, starting on Thanksgiving Day 1965. As the long song unfolds, we hear all about how a hippie-bating police officer, by the name of William “Obie” Obanhein, arrested Arlo for littering. (Cultural footnote: Obie previously posed for several Norman Rockwell paintings, including the well-known painting, “The Runaway,” that graced a 1958 cover of The Saturday Evening Post.) In fairly short order, Arlo pleads guilty to a misdemeanor charge, pays a $25 fine, and cleans up the thrash. But the story isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Later, when Arlo (son of Woody Guthrie) gets called up for the draft, the petty crime ironically becomes a basis for disqualifying him from military service in the Vietnam War. Guthrie recounts this with some bitterness as the song builds into a satirical protest against the war: “I’m sittin’ here on the Group W bench ’cause you want to know if I’m moral enough to join the Army, burn women, kids, houses and villages after bein’ a litterbug.” And then we’re back to the cheery chorus again: “You can get anything you want, at Alice’s Restaurant.”
We have featured Guthrie’s classic during past years. But, for this Thanksgiving, we give you the illustrated version.
by Open Culture | Read more:
[ed. Never gets old (maybe a day late : ) We've got tons of Christmas songs but this is the only Thanksgiving song I can think of.]
Wednesday, November 26, 2025
I Work For an Evil Company, but Outside Work, I’m Actually a Really Good Person
I love my job. I make a great salary, there’s a clear path to promotion, and a never-ending supply of cold brew in the office. And even though my job requires me to commit sociopathic acts of evil that directly contribute to making the world a measurably worse place from Monday through Friday, five days a week, from morning to night, outside work, I’m actually a really good person.
But I absolutely intend to leave at some point. And when I do, you should define me by whatever I do next, unless it’s also evil, in which case, define me by how I ultimately spend my retirement.
Because here’s the thing: It’s not me committing these acts of evil. I’m just following orders (until I get promoted; then I’ll get to give them). But until then, I do whatever my supervisor tells me to do, and that’s just how work works. Sure, I chose to be here, and yes, I could almost certainly find a job elsewhere, but redoing my résumé would take time. Also, I don’t feel like it. Besides, once a year, my company mandates all employees to help clean up a local beach, and I almost always go.
Speaking of the good we do at work, sometimes I wear a cool Hawaiian shirt on Fridays, and it’s commonly accepted that bad people don’t wear shirts with flowers on them. That’s just a fact. There’s something so silly about discussing opportunities to increase profits for international arms dealers while wearing a purple button-down covered in bright hibiscus blossoms.
And when it comes to making things even, I put my money where my mouth is. I might make more than 99 percent of all Americans, but I also make sure to donate almost 1 percent of my salary to nonprofits. This way, I can wear their company tote bag to my local food coop. Did I mention I shop at a local food coop? It’s quite literally the least I could do.
Let me give you an example. Last quarter, I led a team of engineers on an initiative to grow my company’s artificial intelligence data centers, which use millions of gallons of water per day. My work with AI is exponentially accelerating the destruction of the planet, but once a month, I go camping to reconnect with my own humanity through nature. I also bike to and from the office, which definitely offsets all the other environmental destruction I work tirelessly to enact from sunup to sundown for an exorbitant salary. Check out this social media post of me biking up a mountain. See? This is who I really am.
Does the leadership at my company promote a xenophobic agenda and use the wealth I help them acquire to donate directly to bigoted causes and politicians I find despicable? Yeah, sure. Did I celebrate my last birthday at Drag Brunch? Also yes. I even tipped with five-dollar bills. I contain multitudes, and would appreciate it if you focused on the brunch one.
Mathematically, it might seem like I spend a disproportionate amount of my time making the world a significantly less safe and less empathetic place, but are you counting all the hours I spend sleeping? You should. And when you do, you’ll find that my ratio of evil hours to not evil hours is much more even, numerically.
I just don’t think working at an evil company should define me. I’ve only worked here for seven years. What about the twenty-five years before, when I didn’t work here? In fact, I wasn’t working at all for the first eighteen years of my life. And for some of those early years, I didn’t even have object permanence, which is oddly similar to the sociopathic detachment with which I now think about other humans.
And besides, I don’t plan to stay at this job forever, just for my prime working years, until I can install a new state-of-the-art infinity pool in my country home. The problem is that whenever I think I’m going to leave, there’s always the potential for a promotion, and also a new upgrade for the pool, like underwater disco lights. Time really flies when you’re not thinking about the effect you have on others.
Mathematically, it might seem like I spend a disproportionate amount of my time making the world a significantly less safe and less empathetic place, but are you counting all the hours I spend sleeping? You should. And when you do, you’ll find that my ratio of evil hours to not evil hours is much more even, numerically.
I just don’t think working at an evil company should define me. I’ve only worked here for seven years. What about the twenty-five years before, when I didn’t work here? In fact, I wasn’t working at all for the first eighteen years of my life. And for some of those early years, I didn’t even have object permanence, which is oddly similar to the sociopathic detachment with which I now think about other humans.
And besides, I don’t plan to stay at this job forever, just for my prime working years, until I can install a new state-of-the-art infinity pool in my country home. The problem is that whenever I think I’m going to leave, there’s always the potential for a promotion, and also a new upgrade for the pool, like underwater disco lights. Time really flies when you’re not thinking about the effect you have on others.
But I absolutely intend to leave at some point. And when I do, you should define me by whatever I do next, unless it’s also evil, in which case, define me by how I ultimately spend my retirement.
Because here’s the thing: It’s not me committing these acts of evil. I’m just following orders (until I get promoted; then I’ll get to give them). But until then, I do whatever my supervisor tells me to do, and that’s just how work works. Sure, I chose to be here, and yes, I could almost certainly find a job elsewhere, but redoing my résumé would take time. Also, I don’t feel like it. Besides, once a year, my company mandates all employees to help clean up a local beach, and I almost always go.
Speaking of the good we do at work, sometimes I wear a cool Hawaiian shirt on Fridays, and it’s commonly accepted that bad people don’t wear shirts with flowers on them. That’s just a fact. There’s something so silly about discussing opportunities to increase profits for international arms dealers while wearing a purple button-down covered in bright hibiscus blossoms.
And when it comes to making things even, I put my money where my mouth is. I might make more than 99 percent of all Americans, but I also make sure to donate almost 1 percent of my salary to nonprofits. This way, I can wear their company tote bag to my local food coop. Did I mention I shop at a local food coop? It’s quite literally the least I could do.
by Emily Bressler, McSweeny's | Read more:
Image: Illustration by Tony Cenicola/The New York Times
Wednesday, November 19, 2025
[ed. See also: The Escapist Tragedy of ‘Calvin and Hobbes’ (Harvard Crimson).]
Wednesday, November 12, 2025
Everything That’s Wrong About Raccoons
Too many people want you to dismiss a raccoon’s deal of “Oh they’re mischievous cat-dogs with friendly washed hands and a jewel-thief face” when it’s really an ALL-HANDS NO-FEET TRASH-CAT WITH A DOG’S STOMACH AND A POSSUM’S HEART.
It can put itself up in trees but it waddles on the ground, I can’t be in trustment of a beast that clambers and waddles both; either be graceful and lithe all of times, or be clumsy and relatable on the ground. Seals can barely pull off “limber in the water, silly on a rock” and raccoons, you are not seals, you do not have their wise old laugh-faces, you just seem creepy and duplicitous.
Once when my dog died a passel of raccoons showed up in the backyard as if to say “Now that he’s gone, we own the night,” and they didn’t flinch when I yelled at them, and I found it disrespectful to 1) me personally and 2) the entire flow of the food chain. Don’t disrespect me if you can’t eat me, you false-night-dogs.
YOU SCRUBBLEMENT UP YOUR WITCH HANDS AND I DON’T TRUST IT, THAT IS A HUMAN ATTRIBUTE AND I WANT YOU TO LEAVE THAT TO US, STOP BEFORE-WASHING AND RUBBLE-SCRITCHING YOUR FUR-FINGERS, YOU MASHED-DOWN SMALLBEAR
They’re a dense badger lie
THEY CAN POINT THEIR FEET BACKWARDS TO CLIMB DOWN TREES, THEY CAN SWIM, THEY CAN SWEAT LIKE A YOU OR ME, A PERSON OR PANT LIKE A DOG TO COOL DOWN AS THEY CHOOSE, THEY IDLY AND INSOLENTLY SLIDE BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND THE HUMAN WORLD AND IF THE ISLAND OF DOCTOR MOREAU TAUGHT ME NOTHING ELSE IT’S THAT THAT IS FUCKED UPWARDLY
I don’t like the word “chittering” and that is the only sound a raccoon makes
MAYBE THEY ARE AN ASSEMBLAGE OF VERY CONDENSED SQUIRRELS THAT POWERED UP INTO A MEDIUM-SIZED BEASTIE AND THAT WOULD BE INAPPROPRIATE, IF SQUIRRELS HAD DEVELOPED POWER-RANGER-LIKE ABILITIES
I hate the way they wobble-squample across the street at night when you see a shadowy mass under a streetlight and then it turns out to be like seven fur-children
A raccoon is the child of a cat and a wizard and it walks in too many worlds for it to be allowed to stay in this one
It can put itself up in trees but it waddles on the ground, I can’t be in trustment of a beast that clambers and waddles both; either be graceful and lithe all of times, or be clumsy and relatable on the ground. Seals can barely pull off “limber in the water, silly on a rock” and raccoons, you are not seals, you do not have their wise old laugh-faces, you just seem creepy and duplicitous.Once when my dog died a passel of raccoons showed up in the backyard as if to say “Now that he’s gone, we own the night,” and they didn’t flinch when I yelled at them, and I found it disrespectful to 1) me personally and 2) the entire flow of the food chain. Don’t disrespect me if you can’t eat me, you false-night-dogs.
YOU SCRUBBLEMENT UP YOUR WITCH HANDS AND I DON’T TRUST IT, THAT IS A HUMAN ATTRIBUTE AND I WANT YOU TO LEAVE THAT TO US, STOP BEFORE-WASHING AND RUBBLE-SCRITCHING YOUR FUR-FINGERS, YOU MASHED-DOWN SMALLBEAR
They’re a dense badger lie
THEY CAN POINT THEIR FEET BACKWARDS TO CLIMB DOWN TREES, THEY CAN SWIM, THEY CAN SWEAT LIKE A YOU OR ME, A PERSON OR PANT LIKE A DOG TO COOL DOWN AS THEY CHOOSE, THEY IDLY AND INSOLENTLY SLIDE BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND THE HUMAN WORLD AND IF THE ISLAND OF DOCTOR MOREAU TAUGHT ME NOTHING ELSE IT’S THAT THAT IS FUCKED UPWARDLY
I don’t like the word “chittering” and that is the only sound a raccoon makes
MAYBE THEY ARE AN ASSEMBLAGE OF VERY CONDENSED SQUIRRELS THAT POWERED UP INTO A MEDIUM-SIZED BEASTIE AND THAT WOULD BE INAPPROPRIATE, IF SQUIRRELS HAD DEVELOPED POWER-RANGER-LIKE ABILITIES
I hate the way they wobble-squample across the street at night when you see a shadowy mass under a streetlight and then it turns out to be like seven fur-children
A raccoon is the child of a cat and a wizard and it walks in too many worlds for it to be allowed to stay in this one
STOP LOOKING AT ME, YOU RIVER-DABBLER
by Mallory Ortberg, Toast | Read more:
Image: uncredited
[ed. Still traveling so here's a repost of a perennial favorite. See also: So You've Decided to Drink More Water]
Wednesday, October 29, 2025
What To Know About Data Centers
As the use of AI increases, data centers are popping up across the country. The Onion shares everything you need to know about the controversial facilities.
Q: What do data centers need to run?
A: Water, electricity, air conditioning, and other resources typically wasted on schools and hospitals.
Q: Do data centers use a lot of water?
A: What are you, a fish? Don’t worry about it.
Q: How are data centers regulated?
A: Next month, Congress will hear about data centers for the very first time.
Q: Do I need to worry about one coming to my town?
A: Only if your town is built on land.
Q: How long does it take to build a new data center?
A: Approximately one closed-door city council vote.
Q: What’s Wi-Fi?
A: Not right now, big guy.
Q: What will most data centers house in the future?
A: Raccoons.
Image: uncredited
Sunday, October 26, 2025
Thursday, October 23, 2025
Six-Seven
It originated in a rap song, then featured in South Park, and is now the bane of schoolteachers in the US and UK as pupils shout it out at random. How did it become such a thing?
What does six-seven signify? You know, just six-seven. Six-sevvuhnn!
Is it a code? No, it’s six-seven!
Name: Six-seven.
Age: Less than a year old.
Appearance: Everywhere.
Age: Less than a year old.
Appearance: Everywhere.
Is it a code? No, it’s six-seven!
Is it a cool way to say someone is at sixes and sevens, ie in a state of disorder or confusion? It is definitely not that.
Then what does it mean? It’s just something the young people of today are saying. Or shouting.
You mean it’s fashionable to yell out two consecutive numbers? It’s more than fashionable – it’s a plague. Six-seven has become the bane of school teachers everywhere.
Why? Because it’s maddening. Imagine telling your students to turn to page 67, only for all of them to shout “six-seven!” at you.
No, I mean why are the children doing that? Even they don’t know why.
It must come from somewhere. Yes, but I should preface any explanation by saying: it’s a long story and it doesn’t matter.
I’ll be the judge of that. Fine. The phrase “six-seven”, in its modern sense, appears to originate with the Philadelphia rapper Skrilla’s 2024 track Doot Doot (6 7), in which it’s either a reference to police radio code, or 67th Street, or something else.
I see. But it really went viral when the song was repeatedly used to soundtrack video clips of the NBA basketball star LaMelo Ball, who is, as it happens, 6ft 7in.
OK, I think I get it. Trust me, you don’t. Somewhere along the line the phrase acquired an accompanying hand gesture: two upturned palms alternately rising and falling, like weighing scales.
You mean it’s fashionable to yell out two consecutive numbers? It’s more than fashionable – it’s a plague. Six-seven has become the bane of school teachers everywhere.
Why? Because it’s maddening. Imagine telling your students to turn to page 67, only for all of them to shout “six-seven!” at you.
No, I mean why are the children doing that? Even they don’t know why.
It must come from somewhere. Yes, but I should preface any explanation by saying: it’s a long story and it doesn’t matter.
I’ll be the judge of that. Fine. The phrase “six-seven”, in its modern sense, appears to originate with the Philadelphia rapper Skrilla’s 2024 track Doot Doot (6 7), in which it’s either a reference to police radio code, or 67th Street, or something else.
I see. But it really went viral when the song was repeatedly used to soundtrack video clips of the NBA basketball star LaMelo Ball, who is, as it happens, 6ft 7in.
OK, I think I get it. Trust me, you don’t. Somewhere along the line the phrase acquired an accompanying hand gesture: two upturned palms alternately rising and falling, like weighing scales.
In that case, perhaps it’s a reference to something being nothing special, ie a six or a seven on a scale from one to 10? Nice try, but no. The phrase has become such a phenomenon in the US that it was the basis for last week’s South Park episode, in which it sparks a moral panic.
And it’s now reached the classrooms of the UK? Apparently it has. Thus ends the story of six-seven.
You were right. That was long, and it didn’t matter. Not in the least. It’s a bit of meme slang that refers only to itself, advertising nothing beyond the average 13-year-old’s capacity for being annoying and a corresponding willingness to flog a dead horse.
What can be done about it? Some teachers have banned it, but others have incorporated six-seven into their teaching.
I suppose it will be over soon enough. Adults are talking about it, so it already is.
And it’s now reached the classrooms of the UK? Apparently it has. Thus ends the story of six-seven.
You were right. That was long, and it didn’t matter. Not in the least. It’s a bit of meme slang that refers only to itself, advertising nothing beyond the average 13-year-old’s capacity for being annoying and a corresponding willingness to flog a dead horse.
What can be done about it? Some teachers have banned it, but others have incorporated six-seven into their teaching.
I suppose it will be over soon enough. Adults are talking about it, so it already is.
by Pass Notes, The Guardian | Read more:
Image: Alarmy
[ed. I tested it out on my grandkids yesterday (ages 7 and 9) and they were both well aware of it, but as a 'thing', thought it was kind of lame already. But! As one commenter noted, if you multiply six and seven you get 42 - “the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything” in Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. So there's that.]
Sunday, October 19, 2025
Biologists Announce There Absolutely Nothing We Can Learn From Clams
by The Onion | Read more:
Image: uncredited
Saturday, October 18, 2025
Nation Figured Everything Would Run On Some Kind Of Cubes Of Blue Energy By Now
Expressing their disappointment and frustration at the current state of technology, citizens across the nation reported Thursday that they figured everything would run on some sort of cubes of blue energy by now.
Americans of all ages and demographic groups explained to reporters that they thought the cubes would be “basically everywhere you looked at this point,” saying they could not understand why translucent, pulsating blue cubes of energy did not yet exist, and why they were not currently being used to power appliances, lighting, various modes of transportation, and all manner of personal electronics.
“The cubes wouldn’t hurt people; they would help people,” Garcia continued.
Additionally, many Americans surveyed said that the blue cubes of energy would be incredibly durable and would never break, even if they were dropped on the ground or a drink was accidentally spilled on them.
But by far the biggest recurrent complaint reportedly stemming from the lack of blue cubes of energy was that further technological advances—namely “even faster” blue cubes of energy—were being held back due to the cubes not yet having been invented.
“How are we all supposed to live in space if we don’t have the blue cubes of energy?” said David Reston of Batavia, NY, later adding that NASA would probably develop its own special “super” blue energy cubes. “We need those cubes for our spaceship boosters to get us around in space. And how are we going to live in our houses up on Mars without those cubes?”
“At this rate, we’ll never have the red, floating spheres that make you live forever,” Reston added.
[ed. See also: Five technological achievements! (That we won’t see any time soon.) (Crooked Timber).]
Americans of all ages and demographic groups explained to reporters that they thought the cubes would be “basically everywhere you looked at this point,” saying they could not understand why translucent, pulsating blue cubes of energy did not yet exist, and why they were not currently being used to power appliances, lighting, various modes of transportation, and all manner of personal electronics.
Many theorized that the blue cubes of energy would last between 50 years and forever, and that those in need of more cubes would simply be able to pick them up at a local “cube station.”
“All you’d have to do is pick up the cube and put it on a thing you want to have power, and that would give it power—why can’t I do that yet?” said Lawrence Faber of Tampa, FL, one of millions of Americans who was confused that he was currently unable to fully charge his iPhone battery “in, like, 10 seconds” simply by holding the device in the vicinity of a blue cube of energy. “They’d be these cubes and they’d just be there and make everything work, like computers and TVs and stuff.”
“You know, like blue energy cubes,” Faber added. “We should have those.”
Although the majority of people surveyed were unable to verbally describe the cubes beyond “blue” and “glowing,” many pantomimed box-like shapes with their hands to demonstrate their best guess as to the general appearance of the blue cubes of energy, often adding, “like this.”
“I figured there would be a real big cube that would sit in the middle of town that powered all the streetlights and things like that, and then a smaller cube in your house for your refrigerator and your heaters and everything else,” said Youngstown, OH resident Kendra Morgan. “And then you’d have some littler cubes that you could carry around with you in your pocket for whatever else you needed them for, like a blow dryer or a coffee machine, and the cubes would make all of them run.”
Many theorized that the blue cubes of energy would last between 50 years and forever, and that those in need of more cubes would simply be able to pick them up at a local “cube station.” Others speculated that the cubes would be far more powerful than today’s energy sources, including oil, coal, and natural gas, because “they would have so much energy inside of them.”
Most Americans agreed, however, that the cubes would be affordable, noting that every citizen would have “a bunch.”
“You wouldn’t have to plug them in—they would just sit there and make power,” said Stephen Garcia of Mesa, AZ, later adding that everyone would be able to make their car run by simply placing the cube in the automobile’s “cube holder.” “But they would be really quiet, too. And when you carried them around, they wouldn’t zap you or be too hot to hold or anything, even though all the energy would be whirling around inside.”
“You know, like blue energy cubes,” Faber added. “We should have those.”
Although the majority of people surveyed were unable to verbally describe the cubes beyond “blue” and “glowing,” many pantomimed box-like shapes with their hands to demonstrate their best guess as to the general appearance of the blue cubes of energy, often adding, “like this.”
“I figured there would be a real big cube that would sit in the middle of town that powered all the streetlights and things like that, and then a smaller cube in your house for your refrigerator and your heaters and everything else,” said Youngstown, OH resident Kendra Morgan. “And then you’d have some littler cubes that you could carry around with you in your pocket for whatever else you needed them for, like a blow dryer or a coffee machine, and the cubes would make all of them run.”
Many theorized that the blue cubes of energy would last between 50 years and forever, and that those in need of more cubes would simply be able to pick them up at a local “cube station.” Others speculated that the cubes would be far more powerful than today’s energy sources, including oil, coal, and natural gas, because “they would have so much energy inside of them.”
Most Americans agreed, however, that the cubes would be affordable, noting that every citizen would have “a bunch.”
“You wouldn’t have to plug them in—they would just sit there and make power,” said Stephen Garcia of Mesa, AZ, later adding that everyone would be able to make their car run by simply placing the cube in the automobile’s “cube holder.” “But they would be really quiet, too. And when you carried them around, they wouldn’t zap you or be too hot to hold or anything, even though all the energy would be whirling around inside.”
“The cubes wouldn’t hurt people; they would help people,” Garcia continued.
Additionally, many Americans surveyed said that the blue cubes of energy would be incredibly durable and would never break, even if they were dropped on the ground or a drink was accidentally spilled on them.
But by far the biggest recurrent complaint reportedly stemming from the lack of blue cubes of energy was that further technological advances—namely “even faster” blue cubes of energy—were being held back due to the cubes not yet having been invented.
“How are we all supposed to live in space if we don’t have the blue cubes of energy?” said David Reston of Batavia, NY, later adding that NASA would probably develop its own special “super” blue energy cubes. “We need those cubes for our spaceship boosters to get us around in space. And how are we going to live in our houses up on Mars without those cubes?”
“At this rate, we’ll never have the red, floating spheres that make you live forever,” Reston added.
by The Onion | Read more:
Image: uncredited
Friday, October 17, 2025
Tuesday, October 14, 2025
The Gospel According to South Park
Somehow, five years have passed since the COVID summer of 2020. My son had just “finished” fourth grade. His mother and I were distracted parents of him and his seven-year-old sister, both of us teetering from cabin fever. It felt like we were hanging on to our sanity, and our marriage, by a thread.
We held on to both, thankfully. Our kids seem to have recovered, too. But by this time that summer, it’s fair to say we had completely “lost contain” of our children. Even under normal conditions, we’ve favored a loose-reins approach to parenting, with a healthy dose of Lenore Skenazy-style “Free Range Parenting.” But that summer? I gave up entirely. I let my son watch TV. A lot of TV.
By the time school resumed, he had watched every episode of The Simpsons and every episode of South Park.
At the time, I felt more than a little guilty about letting a 10-year-old binge-watch two decades of South Park. It was a bit early, I thought, for him to be learning proper condom application techniques from Mr. Garrison. When I told friends later, the story always got a laugh – a kind of comic confession from a parent who’d fallen asleep at the wheel.
But as my son made his way through middle school and into high school, something changed. One night over dinner, we were talking about wars when I mentioned Saddam Hussein. My son chimed in casually – he knew exactly who Saddam was. I asked him how. His answer: “South Park.”
That kept happening. From Michael Jackson and Neverland Ranch, to Mormonism, to the NSA, to wokeism … my son was not only familiar with these topics, he was informed, funny, and incisively skeptical. I realized that this crash course from Butters and Cartman and Mr. Mackey had functioned like one of those downloads Neo gets in The Matrix; except that instead of instantly learning martial arts, my son had instantly become culturally literate. And, just as important, that literacy came wrapped in a sense of humor rooted in satire, absurdity, and a deep mistrust of power, regardless of party affiliation.
He jokes about Joe Biden’s senility and Trump’s grifting grossness. He refers to COVID-era masking as “chin diapers,” a phrase South Park coined while many adults were still double-masking alone in their cars. It struck me: my greatest parenting lapse had somehow turned into one of my best decisions.
Of course, it’s not just that South Park is anti-authority and unapologetically crude. So was Beavis and Butthead. The difference is that South Park is crafted. It endures not just because of what it says, but how it’s made – with discipline, speed, and storytelling intelligence.
South Park co-creators Matt Parker and Trey Stone are master storytellers. In a short video that should be required viewing for anyone who writes, they explain that if the beats, or scenes, of your story are best linked by the phrase “and then,” you’re doing it wrong. Instead, each scene should be connected by “therefore” or “but.” It’s deceptively simple, and it’s the single best explanation of narrative momentum I’ve ever seen. (Watch it here.)
Combine that storytelling mastery with a relentless work ethic that has allowed them to churn out weekly takes on almost every major current event of the last three decades, and you get the South Park that we know and (that most of us) love today. A generational institution that’s still funny.
And still winning.
Just days after closing a new five-year, $1.5 billion deal with Paramount+, South Park opened its 27th season with an episode titled “Sermon on the Mount,” which gleefully eviscerated both President Trump and Paramount+. What’s the point of having “fuck you money” if you never say “fuck you”? (...)
And the difference between South Park and the late-night crowd isn’t just about the comedy. It’s about the message. During COVID, while Colbert and others were fawning over Fauci, hawking Pfizer ads, and pushing for school closures, South Park was mocking all of it – the masks, the panic, the bureaucratic gaslighting. As a concept, “chin diapers” wasn’t just funny – it was accurate.
When comedy becomes propaganda, it stops being funny. Parker and Stone have never forgotten that the job is to make people laugh. That means skewering whoever is in power, without asking for permission.
Late night talk shows are dying, not entirely but primarily because the product is borderline unwatchable. But, despite the best efforts of the hall monitor, cancel culture crowd, satire – real, cutting, offensive, hilarious satire – is alive and well. My son, now in high school, is living proof. He is a great conversationalist, comfortable speaking with just about anyone of any age; in large part, thanks to a show I once felt guilty for letting him watch.
As it turns out, enrolling my son in summer school at South Park Elementary wasn’t a parenting blunder at all. And, of course, Parker and Stone had it right from the beginning.
We held on to both, thankfully. Our kids seem to have recovered, too. But by this time that summer, it’s fair to say we had completely “lost contain” of our children. Even under normal conditions, we’ve favored a loose-reins approach to parenting, with a healthy dose of Lenore Skenazy-style “Free Range Parenting.” But that summer? I gave up entirely. I let my son watch TV. A lot of TV.
At the time, I felt more than a little guilty about letting a 10-year-old binge-watch two decades of South Park. It was a bit early, I thought, for him to be learning proper condom application techniques from Mr. Garrison. When I told friends later, the story always got a laugh – a kind of comic confession from a parent who’d fallen asleep at the wheel.
But as my son made his way through middle school and into high school, something changed. One night over dinner, we were talking about wars when I mentioned Saddam Hussein. My son chimed in casually – he knew exactly who Saddam was. I asked him how. His answer: “South Park.”
That kept happening. From Michael Jackson and Neverland Ranch, to Mormonism, to the NSA, to wokeism … my son was not only familiar with these topics, he was informed, funny, and incisively skeptical. I realized that this crash course from Butters and Cartman and Mr. Mackey had functioned like one of those downloads Neo gets in The Matrix; except that instead of instantly learning martial arts, my son had instantly become culturally literate. And, just as important, that literacy came wrapped in a sense of humor rooted in satire, absurdity, and a deep mistrust of power, regardless of party affiliation.
He jokes about Joe Biden’s senility and Trump’s grifting grossness. He refers to COVID-era masking as “chin diapers,” a phrase South Park coined while many adults were still double-masking alone in their cars. It struck me: my greatest parenting lapse had somehow turned into one of my best decisions.
Of course, it’s not just that South Park is anti-authority and unapologetically crude. So was Beavis and Butthead. The difference is that South Park is crafted. It endures not just because of what it says, but how it’s made – with discipline, speed, and storytelling intelligence.
South Park co-creators Matt Parker and Trey Stone are master storytellers. In a short video that should be required viewing for anyone who writes, they explain that if the beats, or scenes, of your story are best linked by the phrase “and then,” you’re doing it wrong. Instead, each scene should be connected by “therefore” or “but.” It’s deceptively simple, and it’s the single best explanation of narrative momentum I’ve ever seen. (Watch it here.)
Combine that storytelling mastery with a relentless work ethic that has allowed them to churn out weekly takes on almost every major current event of the last three decades, and you get the South Park that we know and (that most of us) love today. A generational institution that’s still funny.
And still winning.
Just days after closing a new five-year, $1.5 billion deal with Paramount+, South Park opened its 27th season with an episode titled “Sermon on the Mount,” which gleefully eviscerated both President Trump and Paramount+. What’s the point of having “fuck you money” if you never say “fuck you”? (...)
And the difference between South Park and the late-night crowd isn’t just about the comedy. It’s about the message. During COVID, while Colbert and others were fawning over Fauci, hawking Pfizer ads, and pushing for school closures, South Park was mocking all of it – the masks, the panic, the bureaucratic gaslighting. As a concept, “chin diapers” wasn’t just funny – it was accurate.
When comedy becomes propaganda, it stops being funny. Parker and Stone have never forgotten that the job is to make people laugh. That means skewering whoever is in power, without asking for permission.
Late night talk shows are dying, not entirely but primarily because the product is borderline unwatchable. But, despite the best efforts of the hall monitor, cancel culture crowd, satire – real, cutting, offensive, hilarious satire – is alive and well. My son, now in high school, is living proof. He is a great conversationalist, comfortable speaking with just about anyone of any age; in large part, thanks to a show I once felt guilty for letting him watch.
As it turns out, enrolling my son in summer school at South Park Elementary wasn’t a parenting blunder at all. And, of course, Parker and Stone had it right from the beginning.
by Jeremy Radcliffe, Epsilon Theory | Read more:
Image: South Park
Image: South Park
[ed. They'll pick it all up from classmates anyway. I think my son was near that age, maybe about 12, when I took him to see Pulp Fiction.]
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