CRIES and also some whispers.
I will always love this—even if I don’t love Peppermint Patty—and even if it’s haunted by the liminal awareness that most of these children have been abandoned by their parents for Thanksgiving.
But there’s something oddly… enticing (?) about a meal comprising buttered toast, jelly beans, and popcorn, but that probably speaks to my parents’ own inattentiveness to what I was eating during my childhood years more than anything. I’m not sure if it falls under the rubric of neglect,…
Oh, I remember Tammy Faye. As a child in the 1980s you couldn't flip through the channels and not be momentarily transfixed by the spectacle of this weeping cartoon-voiced woman who had enough makeup running down her face to kill a couple dozen lab rabbits. Even in the maximalist context of that decade, this just wasn't normal.
I have no abiding love for biopics. They're often flavorless reenactments of the bullet points from a celebrity's life. Though they purport to…
For as long as I'll live, I'll always remember Little Women as the movie my father and I watched on our first Christmas without my mother. He and I had never been particularly close. We argued a lot, sometime viciously—and now we were left alone without our mediator. My mother didn't care much about politics or her husband's authoritarian tendencies. She just wanted peace... a nice dinner... some quiet conversation. I don't think she ever really understood why my father…
Thought I'd give this one a rewatch last night and I fully expected to eat proverbial crow about past declarations that it was lower-tier Lynch—especially since I've only seen it twice before and both those times were in the 1990s when I was clearly not as enlightened as the Space Truckers-watchin' Golden Girls superfan you see before you today.
No such luck.
But hold on there, folks. In my book, lower-tier Lynch is still a hell of a lot better…