Every summer, as the temperatures rise, we start seeing PSAs and reminders about not leaving dogs locked inside of cars in the hot sun — because it can literally kill them. Temperature rises quickly inside of a car, even on milder days, and leaving a window cracked isn’t enough to keep a doggo from developing heat stroke.
But we all know that, right? So why do we have to keep hearing all of these reminders?
BECAUSE SOME ASSHOLES NEVER LEARN.
Take, for example, the asshole in Roswell, Georgia who decided to leave two small dogs locked in their car on a 90 degree day. Not for a quick jaunt into the drugstore or something, but for the ENTIRE LENGTH OF A MOVIE. Yup, they were in a nice air-conditioned theater while their dogs were trapped in a car. Sure, the window was cracked. But when the police arrived (after a decent human being called 911 and reported the situation — thank you, decent human being!) and scanned the internal temperature of the car, it registered over 160 degrees. The dogs at that point had been in the car for over an hour. I wouldn’t want to sit in a 160 degree car, and my body can actually sweat! Dogs don’t have that luxury. And in fact, one of the dogs had to be rushed to a fire hydrant to cool off because it suffered — yup, you guessed it — heat stroke.
The police forced the movie theater to stop all screenings and ordered the owner of the vehicle to step outside. The cherry on top? She asked the theater for a refund because she didn’t see the end of the movie. Which, like, really? REALLY? Shouldn’t she be paying for everyone else’s tickets since she’s the reason the theater had to stop the movies? And what movie do you think she was watching, anyway? My money is on Despicable Me 3.
Anyway, the dogs are remaining in police custody until the owner goes before a judge. And the part of the story that really gets me? She would have been carted off to jail, but because she had several young children with her, she received a ticket instead. Which I think is a fair call on the part of the cops — no complaints from me. But if nobody had called 911, would she have brought those kids out of the theater to a car full of dead dogs?
If you’d like to see a full local news story on the situation, click here and get ready to feel angry all over again.
So, one more time: Do not fucking leave your dogs in hot cars, and if you see a dog in a hot car, find the owner or call 911.
As the world descends into further chaos and embarrassment, exacerbated by the Cinnamon Challenge Gone Wrong In Chief and his clan of subpar Fredo Corleones, we find ourselves taking more solace than usual in pop culture. Hey, the planet is probably doomed and will be destroyed by a temper tantrum over retweets, so why not enjoy a movie or two before it happens? If you ignore the screaming agony 2017 has caused so far, there’s actually been some pretty damn good pieces of entertainment out there. We’re more than halfway through the year and the sumptuous array of film, TV, music, podcasting, literature, and much more on offer has helped to ease much of our pain, or at least delay the inevitable for a while. In the spirit of sharing, and encouraging some discussion, I’m offering up some of my favourite pieces of pop culture from 2017 so far, and I hope you will too.
I am naturally inclined to love American Gods — it’s adapted from a book I love and the show-runner made my all-time favourite TV show — but even with my lofty expectations, I found myself utterly blown away by this hallucinogenic ode to the immigrant experience and the follies of faith. Where the novel is a disjointed but thrilling take on the Americana road trip, Bryan Fuller and Michael Green’s show revels in a baroque sensibility that’s part neon frenzy at a Vegas strip club, part high camp opera. The plotting is a little uneven, much in the same way the frequently plotless book is, but their show’s as intensely cathartic as American Gods: From the infamous night with Bilquis to the disintegration of Laura Moon to Media’s appearance in David Bowie mode to the staggeringly moving and deeply sensual love-making between Salim and the Jinn. While raunch is ten a penny on prestige TV, only this show managed to portray it in such bizarre, thematic and passionate ways. It’s a perfect mix of creator and adapter, as Fuller in particular is given free rein to paint his canvas with pools of blood and giddy excess. The best part? After a mere 8-episode first season, the fun is just getting started.
I must admit that I hit superhero movie burnout pretty quickly, and skipped out on pretty much everything Marvel and DC were churning out sometime after Avengers: Age of Ultron. The formula was fine but it did little to hold my interest, particularly since it seemed to be impossible to escape in the current industry of expanded universes and endless sequels. I wasn’t even going to see Logan until one of my editors asked me to write about it, but I am so glad I did. The experience of watching James Mangold’s neo-Western take on the Old Man Logan mythos overwhelmed me in ways I’m still trying to express coherently. This bleak, intensely political, sharply violent and fascinatingly metatextual film stunned me. I’ve seldom been this emotionally invested in a comic book character, but found myself close to sobbing by the film’s end. For all its darkness, Logan remains committed to hope (and a few much welcome laughs), which offers Hugh Jackman the opportunity to give arguably a career-best performance, not to forget the rest of the brilliant ensemble. Logan is the meditation of ageing and ennui you didn’t know you needed, and damn if it didn’t consume me emotionally and mentally.
No, this isn’t Shakespeare. Lady Macbeth was one of the year’s great surprises. I would tell anyone remotely interested in the film to stop reading here and just go watch it, because it’s best experienced with no prior knowledge. Here is a real diamond in the rough: A period drama that avoids the staid clichés of the genre, dives into darkness that evokes Haneke as much as the Brontes, and offers what may be one of our era’s great examinations on the perils of white feminism. Florence Pugh, who will be one of the great actors of our time in the next decade, I guarantee it, gives a chilling performance that consistently surprises. In the role of Katherine, a young woman trapped in a loveless marriage who finds emotional freedom through an affair with the stablehand, Pugh manages to tread tricky territory between sympathy and horror. The moment you think the story is going to go in one direction, it violently turns another way before returning to its cool stillness. What seems to be a tale of female liberation slowly reveals itself to be a power play of whiteness. This is historical drama for people sick of bonnets and posh people.
Priestdaddy by Patricia Lockwood
Patricia Lockwood made her name through her delightfully bizarre social media poetry, published work in the New Yorker, and the viral hit «The Rape Joke». Her mixture of smutty metaphors, surreal tangents and emotional whiplash saw her given the moniker of Poet Laureate of Twitter. Her first dive into prose takes the form of a memoir, centred on a return to her family home. After a medical emergency drains Lockwood and her husband of their savings, the pair move back in with her parents, including her Catholic Priest father. Having found a convenient church loophole, Father Greg was able to become a priest while retaining his wife and children, and so Lockwood found herself growing up with a gun toting, guitar shredding, right-wing Priest for a father, one who liked to wear nothing but the worst pair of underwear possible around the house. The set-up sounds like a Portlandia gag, and occasionally Lockwood’s tangents veer into self-satisfied quirkiness, but Priestdaddy excels when she interrogates the constant contradictions of her dad: Pious but selfish, driven but weird, a family man who doesn’t hesitate to call his own daughter a Feminazi. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll think about semen a lot.
You Must Remember This: Dead Blondes
Karina Longworth’s podcast series on the secret and/or forgotten history of Hollywood’s first century has consistently been one of the strongest and most fascinating shows in the medium since its inception. In a crowded field where everyone seems to have a podcast (shameless plug!), it takes a careful mix of mainstream potential and passionate specificity on your chosen topic to rise above the ruckus and become this popular. After taking on MGM Studios, Joan Crawford, the Hollywood Blacklist in the McCarthy era, and Charles Manson himself, Longworth dedicated a season to the morbid topic of dead blondes. Under this framework, she examined the history of the film industry itself and the particular brand of women it likes to make its stars and ultimately its victims. From Peg Entwhistle, who committed suicide by jumping off the Hollywood sign, to Dorothy Stratten, the Playboy centerfold turned muse of Peter Bogdanovich who was murdered by her husband, the Dead Blondes season is Longworth at her best: detailed, passionate, always rooted in empathy, and just pissed off enough at the world that allows such tragedy to happen over and over again. The set-up may have piqued the attention of the true crime nerds in the podcasting genre, but Dead Blondes was far more interested in the lives at the centre of such pain.
I may never find the words to express how much I love this season of Twin Peaks, which seems fitting. This confusing, often frustrating but deeply rewarding experience has yielded some of the most intensely satisfying moments of television I’ve ever seen, and there’s such joy to be found in giving yourself over to a show that seemingly has no desire to do anything other than please itself. I love reveling in the inimitably Lynchian dizziness of it all, and can’t help but get giddy every week when I remember we live in a world where there are new episodes of this show. Not for much longer, of course, as we’re halfway through this 18-episode run, but I doubt it’ll leave my mind quite so speedily. Damn good show.
I wish Grete Sadeiko all the best. She’s the RG3 slam piece that he was slamming while still married to his first wife, who gave birth to RG3’s baby girl in May 2015. Quick math here: RG3’s first baby was just over a year old when Rob was knocking up his side piece. I’m telling you, this guy has had a BIG 14-15 months.
Now 27, RG3 is unemployed, has a baby and baby mama (remember when he was possibly texting the Hooters waitress on his wedding day?) to pay for 18 years and now has a new baby mama from Estonia who has a giant rock on her hand. I also checked real estate listings and RG3’s still trying to sell his first marital home. The house was yanked off the market in May with a price tag just under $ 2.7M.
I know what you’re thinking: this is trouble for RG3.
There’s currently an enticing job listing over in the Scottish Borders for a family who needs a nanny. The pay is over $ 63,000 a year, the kids are five and seven years old, and you’d get to live on a beautiful historic property that is absolutely, insanely haunted.
Fyre Festival attendees certainly suffered when they arrived in the Bahamas and found a dirty island filled with rabid dogs and no shelter in sight. And now some of those festival-goers are trying to make a little coin on Ebay with merchandise from an event that is going down as one of the most disastrous—if not the…
On the heels of their break with Kathy Griffin, CNN has severed ties with Believer host Reza Aslan—and also, seemingly, for Trump-related reasons. Aslan recently referred to Donald Trump as a “piece of shit” on Twitter. Who among us, truly?
Woe has been Mischa Barton for a while. She got shuffled off to the hospital (after she claims she got GHB’d), she had to deal with two exes trying to peddle fuck tapes starring her, she had to suffer through Dancing with the Has-Beens, her Volkswagen nearly got snatched by the repo man and she sued her mom for allegedly stealing money from her. But it looks like grey skies have cleared up for Mischa and her face is being graced by the warm, sparkly rays shooting off of her new man’s gold Rolex. E! News says that Mischa has found love, which is great if that’s your thing or whatever, but what’s even better is that her new boyfriend, James Abercrombie, may one day inherit $ 574 million. That sound you hear is the sound of Mischa’s creditors pounding on their keyboards while trying to find a phone number for James since Mischa has blocked them all.
E! says that James is an Australian “model” and also the son of Andrew Abercrombie (no, he doesn’t know Fitch). Andrew Abercrombie used to be the Victorian Liberal Party treasurer and is #122 on Australian Financial Review’s richest bitches list. Mischa and James met at a party in L.A. and recently went to Cannes together (see: picture above of them in Cannes). The director of James’ modeling agency, FRM Model Management, told The Daily Mail that his client is dating well known actress Mischa Barton. Just pretend it’s 2005 again and nod your head at “well known actress.”
“James is currently dating well known actress Mischa Barton. He was recently on a ski trip to Aspen, after which he headed to Los Angeles- where we are currently making appointments for him to seek representation. James met Mischa at a party in Los Angeles just on a month ago. They then headed off on a small trip to France. He is now back in Los Angeles and they are spending a lot of time together.”
Everything about that statement screams fame whore fame whore fame fame whore. It’s like he’s using well known actress Mischa Barton for attention. Who knows, maybe it’s true, organic love? I don’t know, but I do know that on a yacht in Europe today, a sheik’s eardrums probably shattered from Lindsay Lohan screaming over Mischa Barton nabbing a half-billionaire boyfriend.
It’s time for the World Long Drive Championship on Golf Channel! It’s also time for the French Open quarters on the Tennis Channel. Isn’t it strange how the French Open has all but disappeared from the sports world? ESPN won’t even mention it. You’ll also get a WNBA doubleheader.
Game 2 of the Stanley Cup Finals on NBCSN…the French Open is on the Tennis Channel all day…there’s the normal baseball to ignore and check your local listings for WNBA action. I’m still trying to figure out why the French Open is on a specialty channel that’s hard to find. How does this happen to a major?
I tend to buy bras off the clearance racks, which makes it next to impossible to find perfect replacements once they’re too worn. So I’d trudge through the day, pulling the straps back up onto my shoulder when they would slide down because I had stretched and washed away all of the elastic. Then, this tiny piece of…