Podcast appearances and mentions of John Slattery

Every year, as May gives way to June, the place to be is the ATX TV Festival in Austin Texas! And this year is NO different. From May 29 to June 1, Austin will be abuzz with wall to wall TV coverage and Pod Clubhouse will be there to cover all 4 days! In this Preview episode, Caroline, Paul, and Mike give a sneak peek into what they're looking forward to most this coming weekend. From The Golden Girls 40th Anniversary Script Reading to Mad Men Revisited, with Jon Hamm and John Slattery; from The Gilded Age Panel to an Andor Panel (fresh off their Season 2 triumph), ATX TV Festival: Season 14 promises to be a once in a lifetime experience! This Preview episode also has great Do's and Don'ts of how to "ATX the right way" along with an update on badges still for sale. This is a Must Listen for anyone planning on heading to ATX this weekend! We hope to see you there! You can find ALL of your ATX TV Festival Information at the Official ATX Website HERE (atxfestival.com) Past ATX Coverage 2024 ATX Season 13: Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 2023 ATX Season 12: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 2022 ATX Season 11: 1 | 2 2021 ATX Season 10: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 Credits:  Music: “Summer Festivals Are Coming” by Infraction, licensed by Pod Clubhouse. Podcast Recorded and Produced at Pod Clubhouse Studios.

Paul McDonald talks with Greg Allan Martin about his calling as both a lawyer and an actor. They also discuss the show Shadrach and why it's a watchable series for the whole family.About Greg:Greg Allan Martin, a powerful and commanding presence onscreen, currently can be seen as a series regular playing a rugged rancher in the new SONY/Affirm Originals series SHADRACH, that just premiered on July 25, 2024 on Great American Pure Flix. A versatile actor, Martin has drawn attention for his ability to play such diverse characters as the redneck boat owner Jed opposite Jason Bateman in an iconic scene in the first season of OZARK, a guest star role as an irascible cancer patient opposite Katey Sagal in REBEL, a wealthy socialite experimenting with LSD opposite John Slattery in MAD MEN, arrogant surgeons in THE RESIDENT, HEARTBEAT and two years as Dr. Noah in THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS, and as a professional football coach in multiple seasons of the hugely popular MADDEN NFL video game.QuestionsWhat are your core values? What is most important to you? How does you life align with those values? Where is there conflict?Why do you believe what you believe?Subscribe to our YouTube channel (https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2xo9bvDbN4Z3BEx37AlRqw?sub_confirmation=1) for bonus content.To dive into this content even more, visit our website: www.menatthemovies.com/podcast. You will find resources mentioned on the podcast, plus quotes and themes discussed.Find us on the socials:YouTube: www.youtube.com/@menatthemoviesFacebook: www.facebook.com/menatthemoviesInstagram: www.instagram.com/menatthemovies/TikTok: www.tiktok.com/@menatthemoviesTwitter: twitter.com/_menatthemoviesIf you would like to support our work (and get some behind-the-scenes perks), visit our Buy Me A Coffee page (buymeacoffee.com/menatthemovies). Get invites to livestreams, bonus episodes, even free merch. If you'd like to do a one-time contribution (a cameo appearance), visit www.menatthemovies.com/investors. Edited and mixed by Grayson Foster (graysonfoster.com)Logo and episode templates by Ian Johnston (ianhjohnston.com)Audio quotes performed by Britt Mooney, Paul McDonald, and Tim Willard, taken from Epic (written by John Eldredge) and Song of Albion (written by Stephen Lawhead).Southerly Change performed by Zane Dickinson, used under license from ShutterstockLinks:MATM website: www.menatthemovies.com/podcastYouTube: www.youtube.com/@menatthemoviesSpotify: open.spotify.com/show/50DiGvjrHatOFUfHc0H2wQApple pods: podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/men-at-the-movies-podcast/id1543799477Google pods: podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cHM6Ly9hbmNob3IuZm0vcy80ODMwNThjL3BvZGNhc3QvcnNz

Don’s got shaving cream in the mirror, Megan’s got a mop and a plan, and Lane Pryce is one wallet away from going full American Psycho. It’s A Little Kiss Part 2! And on this episode of Mad Men Men, Jon Negroni, Will Ashton, and Mike Overhulse are breaking down the second half of Mad Men’s bold, chaotic, and deeply handsy Season 5 premiere. This episode also covers the real-world 1960s context behind the show’s uneasy depiction of civil rights “progress.” Plus some surprising behind-the-scenes trivia, including how production on this episode had to jump around thanks to January Jones’s real-life pregnancy. And yes, we finally address that Reddit theory about Masters of Sex. In case you’re new here, Mad Men Men recaps Mad Men through the perspectives of three different types of viewers: a first-timer, a first-time rewatcher, and someone who thought the best way to deal with their feelings about Don Draper was to start a podcast. EXTRA CREDITS Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Matthew Weiner directed “A Little Kiss (Part 2)” and Jennifer Getzinger wrote the script. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show’s opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who’s addicted to working at startups). We’ll be back soon to discuss Season 5 Episode 3, titled “Tea Leaves.” Subscribe to Mad Men Men on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Podcasts, or wherever else podcasts are, ahem, advertised.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This week The Lonely Island and Seth Meyers revisit "an golden era" episode of SNL featuring Jon Hamm. An episode so good that it deserved a dedicated breakdown. Featuring legendary sketches like Jon Hamm's John Ham, Trick or Treat, and A-Holes featuring Elisabeth Moss and John Slattery. They also do a quick check-in on the Josh Brolin episode because they could not not talk about Fart Face and Andy meeting the real Mark Wahlberg backstage. The whole crew is here this week and Jorma will address the shocking ending to last week's episode. Fart Face: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6hEfK5C-SgWeekend Update: Sarah Palin Rap - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQlgkq_EW64Trick-or-Treat (Jon Hamm): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gV0CVX60WegJon Hamm's John Ham: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IiLJsOsRKUIBackstage: Mark Wahlberg Confronts Andy Samberg https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xYcHxF_cO8o&Obama Address: Safe and Musical - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcf9l_-f4e8A-Holes: Pitch Meeting - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lm6hMe_XFGcVincent Price's Halloween Special - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbiLanj8EuI Ras Trent Playlistshttps://open.spotify.com/playlist/2CwhfAHY0JvLFtTd0nw5hQ?si=32a94f1810b94c12https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ZF85CSkGX8mZg9wg5a2At?si=d86aa5da4cb64291https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0qEwOOAJYuocoHEiYBbIXr?si=f7ca2ed8c89e492ahttps://open.spotify.com/playlist/2NByujE8yIDRS9XJSbx6H2?si=0f5e6b9f2be644c2 (Not all the clips we mention are available online; some never even aired.) If you want to see more photos and clips follow us on Instagram @lonelymeyerspod. Send us an email! thelonelyislandpod@gmail.com Support our sponsors:Maker's MarkThis episode of The Lonely Island Podcast is brought to you by our friends at Maker's Mark. You too can celebrate the spirited women in your life with a free personalized label to go with a bottle of Maker's Mark! Head to makersmarkpersonalize.com and fill in the details in order to create and mail your custom label. MAKER'S MARK MAKES THEIR BOURBON CAREFULLY. PLEASE ENJOY IT THAT WAY. Maker's Mark® Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whisky, 45% Alc./Vol. ©2025 Maker's Mark Distillery, Inc., Loretto, KY.   Express VPN:Protect your online privacy TODAY by visiting ExpressVPN dot com slash ISLAND. That's E-X-P-R-E-S-S-V-P-N dot com slash ISLAND to find out how you can get up to four extra months FREE HomeChef:For a limited time, HomeChef is offering my listeners 18 Free Meals PLUS Free Dessert for Life and of course, Free Shipping on your first box! Go to HomeChef.com/ISLAND.  Must be an active subscriber to receive free dessert. Produced by Rabbit Grin ProductionsExecutive Producers Jeph Porter and Rob HolyszLead Producer Kevin MillerCreative Producer Samantha SkeltonCoordinating Producer Derek JohnsonCover Art by Olney AtwellMusic by Greg Chun and Brent AsburyEdit by Cheyenne Jones

It’s season five, baby! And we’re back with A Little Kiss Part 1, the two-part premiere that gave us a Zubi Zubi Zoom into Don Draper’s new life. And all the weird vibes that come with it. On this episode of Mad Men Men, Jon Negroni, Will Ashton, and Mike Overhulse reunite to talk about Megan’s infamous birthday serenade, why Pete Campbell continues to be the show’s most interesting character, and what Joan’s mom and a certain baby’s butt have in common. Oh, and the introduction of the most legendary character in the entire series...that's right, BOBBY 5. We dive into the real-life inspiration behind the shocking protest scene, AMC’s behind-the-scenes budget drama, and how this premiere marks a turning point in the show’s tone, aesthetic, and yes, hairlines. Also: the debut of Mike’s new microphone. It’s a whole event. In case this is your first time tuning in, Mad Men Men recaps Mad Men through the lens of three different viewers: a first-timer, a rewatcher, and someone who watches the show instead of forming healthy adult friendships. You know who you are. So whether you’re Team Peggy, Team Megan, or just here for Bert Cooper’s party game energy, pour a stiff drink and join us. We may not be ready for part two, but at least we showed up with a gift. Extra Credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Matthew Weiner directed “A Little Kiss (Part 1)” and Jennifer Getzinger wrote the script. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show’s opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who’s addicted to working at startups). We’ll be back soon to discuss Season 5 Episode 2, titled “A Little Kiss Part 2.” Subscribe to Mad Men Men on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Podcasts, or wherever else podcasts are, ahem, advertised.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

In this episode Daniel is joined by Matt Carroll, Professor of Journalism at Northeastern University, and formerly a member of the Spotlight team at the Boston Globe. Matt joins the show to discuss the 2015 Academy Award Best Picture winner Spotlight. He discusses his portrayal by Brian D'Arcy James, what the film got right and the incredible things that happened that didn't make it in the film because they were too unbelievable. Films discussed during this episode: Spotlight Zodiac All the President's Men A Complete Unknown If you have any questions or comments, or would like to recommend a movie we cover next please reach out to us on social media. We're on Facebook, X (formerly known as Twitter) and Instagram. Next Episode: McVeigh with Ashley Benson & Brett Gelman

Today, I'm thrilled to announce my episode with Scott Wittman, who is the lyricist of Broadway's newest sensation SMASH. Tune in to hear some of the stories of his amazing career, including why CATCH ME IF YOU CAN appealed to him as a follow-up to HAIRSPRAY, putting together MATTERS OF THE HEART with Patti LuPone, why CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY was at its best in workshops, his experiences with Dame Edna and Elaine Stritch, watching Disney animators at work during MARY POPPINS RETURNS, being influenced by John Waters, how Matthew Lopez convinced him to adapt SOME LIKE IT HOT, the upcoming project he's working on with Bridget Everett, why John Slattery and Talia Balsam were perfect for THE SUBJECT WAS ROSES, and so much more. You won't want to miss this chat with one of Broadway's best writers.

Today on What's My Frame I'm joined by Casting Director, Susan Shopmaker. For over two decades, Susan has been a recognized name in the world of independent film for her work as a casting director on numerous award-winning films. From large ensembles to small-scale intimate dramas. Susan's ability to perfectly match an actor and role has been showcased in Martha Marcy May Marlene, Beach Rats, The Holdovers, Life Itself & The Iron Claw. In 2018 Susan won the Artios Award for Eliza Hittman's Beach Rats and previously won an Artios for Sean Durkin's acclaimed Sundance drama Martha Marcy May Marlene. Susan Shopmaker CastingFollow Susan on IGSusan's additional credits include: Paul Schrader's First Reformed, The Card Counter and worked on his latest,  The Master Gardener. Susan also cast John Cameron Mitchell's cult classic Hedwig and the Angry Inch, John Slattery's God's Pocket & Maggie Moore(s), Michel Franco's Chronic (Cannes 2015 Award Winner & 2017 Spirit Award Nominee), Franco's Sundown (2021), and The Nest for Sean Durkin.What's My Frame, hosted by ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Laura Linda Bradley⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Join the WMF creative community now!Instagram: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠@whatsmyframe⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠IMDb⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠What's My Frame? official site⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠What's My Frame? merch⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠

We all remember this ZANY episode: John Slattery (aged 38 in this episode, lest we forget) asks Carrie to pee on him in the shower and the rest is history! Carrie, the sex columnist, literally has ZERO IDEA how to go about this request, that, according to Joan, is only a mild step above “vanilla sex”. Meanwhile, Miranda is still weighing the pros and cons to dating a hot, genuinely nice man with a job and who is great at parties, Samantha dates a short man who we both agree can probably GET IT, and Charlotte throws the meanest party ever. Enjoy!!! EMAIL us with any thoughts, questions, or your most salacious sex stories at patcpod@gmail.comJOIN US EVERY WEDNESDAY AT 12 MST FOR OUR LIVE WEEKLY ROUNDUP!!! Subscribe to our YOUTUBE channel!This month on PATREON:1/1 Golden Girls S13 "A LIttle Romance"1/8 Smash S1 E1 "Pilot"1/15 Girls S2 E3 "Bad Friend"1/22 PILLOW TALK1/29 Golden Girls S1 E14 "That Was No Lady" Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

This episode contains: - The Waffle, where we countdown our personal top 5 most underrated Scottish distilleries; - The Whisky, where we review a Signatory Deanston, which we dub one of the 'fartiest' whiskies ever; and - Waffling With, where we converse with John Slattery, the head distiller at Greenbanks Distillery: the largest distilling setup in the Southern Hemisphere and yet one you've probably never heard of! All this and more (including Irish whiskey news, Vegs magic tricks and Patreon banter). Please support us on Patreon and get access to drams and bonus content! www.patreon.com/whiskywaffle

Happy Anderson is an actor with an extensive body of work in television and film. On the feature film side, Happy co-starred opposite Will Smith and Edgar Ramirez in David Ayer's Bright (Netflix), opposite Robert DeNiro in Taylor Hackford's The Comedian (Sony Pictures), opposite Sandra Bullock in Suzanne Bier's Birdbox (Netflix), opposite Julia Roberts and Clive Owen in Tony Gilroy's Duplicity (Universal) and again opposite Will Smith and Martin Lawrence in Bad Boys For Life (Sony Pictures). Happy will next be seen opposite Jon Hamm and Tina Fey in the film Maggie Moore(s) directed by John Slattery. His television work includes recurring roles on David Fincher's Mindhunter (Netflix), Steven Soderbergh's The Knick (Cinemax), Gotham (Fox), Snowpiercer (TNT), and The Blacklist (NBC). Most recently, Happy appeared in The Bikeriders (Peacock) opposite Tom Hardy as ‘Big Jack', where they engaged in an epic dirty and gritty fight scene – the starting point of our interview!Happy's website: http://www.happyandersonacting.com/Happy's IMDB: https://www.imdb.com/name/nm2322283/Happy's Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/happyandersonacting/MENTIONSThe Bikeriders Fists or Knives Fight Scene: https://youtu.be/YAPJexKgHPE?si=Ly2HnB1oTYKLvWtuDanny Lyon's Website: https://bleakbeauty.com Script Apart Podcast: https://www.scriptapart.com/episodes/the-bikeriders-jeff-nichols-interview Smithsonian Article: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/real-story-behind-bikeriders-danny-lyon-photography-book-inspired-it-180984579/ TAMMFF Film Freeway: https://filmfreeway.com/TAMMFF FILM FIGHTS WITH FRIENDSDo you listen to our show as an audio podcast? Give video a try. Subscribe to our Youtube for the video version with awesome behind the scenes pics and video! https://www.youtube.com/@FilmFightsFriendsPod?sub_confirmation=1Dig the show? Consider supporting our Patreon. There are some cool perks! Patreon: http://patreon.com/FilmFightsFriendsPodJoin our e-mail list! Hit us up here: fightingwithfriends@gmail.comInstagram: http://instagram.com/FilmFightsFriendsPodFacebook: http://facebook.com/FilmFightsFriendsPodSteve's Instagram: http://Instagram.com/sambosteve Steve's IMDB: http://imdb.me/stephenkoepferPaul's on Instagram:

Why put off today when we can podcast about Tomorrowland? That's right, in the Season 4 finale of Mad Men (titled "Tomorrowland"), Don Draper faces a turning point both personally and professionally. Big surprise. As Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce struggles to secure its future, Don takes a bold step by taking his secretary Megan to a family trip to California. Meanwhile, Peggy tries to land a much-needed account, Joan grapples with unexpected news about her personal situation, and the Mad Men Men podcast faces our biggest struggle yet. Releasing a podcast episode on time! In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Extra Credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Matthew Weiner directed “Tomorrowland” and co-wrote the script with Jonathan Igla. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups). We'll be back soon to discuss Season 5 Episode 1, titled “A Little Kiss Part 1.” Subscribe to Mad Men Men on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Podcasts, or wherever else podcasts are, ahem, advertised.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

John Slattery is an American actor and director. He is best known for his role as Roger Sterling in the AMC drama series Mad Men. He has received four Primetime Emmy Award nominations and two Critics' Choice Television Awards for AMC's series Mad Men. He was also part of the Mad Men ensemble cast that won two SAG Awards. In 2013, Slattery directed his first feature film, God's Pocket, which premiered at the 2014 Sundance Film Festival. He is currently on the HBO series Veep. Apart from his role on Mad Men, Slattery is also known for roles on Homefront; the HBO miniseries From the Earth to the Moon; the HBO series K Street; guest appearances on Will & Grace; Judging Amy; Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives. Other films include Mona Lisa Smile, Flags of our Fathers, Charlie Wilson's War and The Adjustment Bureau. In 2015, Slattery portrayed journalist Ben Bradlee Jr. in the Academy Award winning film Spotlight, and also appeared in the Netflix comedy series Wet Hot American Summer: First Day of Camp, for which he earned a nomination for the Critics' Choice Television Award for Best Guest Performer in a Comedy Series. Little Known Fact - He is an avid surfer. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

John Slattery is an American actor and director. He is best known for his role as Roger Sterling in the AMC drama series Mad Men. He has received four Primetime Emmy Award nominations and two Critics' Choice Television Awards for AMC's series Mad Men. He was also part of the Mad Men ensemble cast that won two SAG Awards. In 2013, Slattery directed his first feature film, God's Pocket, which premiered at the 2014 Sundance Film Festival. He is currently on the HBO series Veep. Apart from his role on Mad Men, Slattery is also known for roles on Homefront; the HBO miniseries From the Earth to the Moon; the HBO series K Street; guest appearances on Will & Grace; Judging Amy; Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives. Other films include Mona Lisa Smile, Flags of our Fathers, Charlie Wilson's War and The Adjustment Bureau. In 2015, Slattery portrayed journalist Ben Bradlee Jr. in the Academy Award winning film Spotlight, and also appeared in the Netflix comedy series Wet Hot American Summer: First Day of Camp, for which he earned a nomination for the Critics' Choice Television Award for Best Guest Performer in a Comedy Series. Little Known Fact - He is an avid surfer. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

We're not known for blowing smoke on Mad Men Men, but I guess we can make an exception for this penultimate episode of the season! That's right, we're back to discuss Season 4, Episode 12, titled "Blowing Smoke." Which finds the old gang at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce scrambling in the fog of losing Lucky Strike. As usual, we recap the episode, give our analysis, and reference the director/writer/actors' commentaries as well as Mad Men Carousel by Matt Zoller Seitz.  In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. “Blowing Smoke” Discussion Points:  What can we make of the dynamic between Sally and Glen in this episode? How can we connect Don's American Cancer pitch to the "kids" in "Blowing Smoke"? Does this really feel like a penultimate episode? Is the Midge subplot all that believable? What is the current state of Don and Faye's relationship? Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. John Slattery directed “Blowing Smoke” and Andre Jacquemetton and Maria Jacquemetton wrote the script. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

5 Core Principles of Vitalist Herbalism FREE WEBINAR with John Slattery Thursday, October 10, 2024 | 5PM MST/PDT LEARN MORE & REGISTER This episode is a clip from a webinar hosted by herbalist John Slattery. Vitalist Herbalism: A Journey of Self-Discovery and Healing Welcome to the transformative world of Vitalist Herbalism. A practice that connects us to nature's healing power while offering opportunities for self-discovery and continued growth. LINKS & RESOURCES FREE WEBINAR: Vitalist Herbalism | LEARN MORE & REGISTER COURSE | LEARN MORE & REGISTER Foraging the Sonoran Desert | LEARN MORE

Be My Lover Lla da di [Redacted] I once was trapped within the prison of my own garden. Something inside me yelped for this faraway spirt guide to shut up—but I was all the more ready to fry up the remainder of my tempeh, and continue to wallow in my loveless grief , wondering what would become of this undone monster—the disaster that was my own impossible maze of creation, however with gratitude, that I was standing in an immaculately clean kitchen, with a table full of books, and soup to cook. Gratitude that I was alone, and for the most part, alive and well. Gratitude that I lived in one of the greatest cities on earth—maybe even the greatest— But I didn't know yet. I had never been to Tokyo; I would be missing the Olympics in Paris; Rome was still waiting at the other side of a giant puddle I was less fond of than its opposite; Amsterdam l was some fabled tale I had only dreamed of— And London begged to be brought to life in my own eyes, were I lucky enough to escape the arrested development of the burdens of my Brooklyn [redacted]. I might be getting to ‘famous' to tell people where I live. [Unfamous.] Lol is this the one with the guy going around knocking on doors To see if people recognize him? Yeah. lol. It's a comedy, right? Dark comedy. (A black comedy.) Nah, but you can't call it that, Cause they'll think it has something to do with colored people, and they won't watch it. That's literally the name of the genre. My point stands. {Enter The Multiverse} —you'd be suprised how much more blatently racist people get from behind a screen or studying demographics and viewer preferences. If you don't love me; You like me You watched me light my cigarette just the right way, And liked it, And that night, I died in your arms, Crying for myself—. Lying to my wife, As if next time, I might be better. We all deserve second chances. Good grief. Who is this guy? Some sad sap. Sad is right. Sap is more accurate. I stroke your hair With your head in my lap, As though you belong to me; I see the crease in your eyes as smiles And your lips as petals To a flower so sweet, I can't wait to eat you, Like honeysuckle on the tip If a hot wet tongue, Hungry for the berry it would become, But eager to know the sweetness of just the flower, Sure to bloom with the coming of seasons, Just as sure to rise as the moon would, Whether full or new; In a sky fyull of stars, All I see is you— In a body of scars, I am your demise, Your pride forever altered by divine truth, My light hides In darkness, Your will to the light, Like a moth to the flame, Which I honor And crumble over, As she towers over us, Seeking and ready to destroy All flame to dust; The ash is out The tray on the table I roll another To smoke, The guilt and shame of betrayal, Distrust, Unarmored, I mock my own judgement A movement, The box over a diamond A row full of nothing but Hawks, circling over. Do you not know? My favorite skit has a story; Sara without an H was a real person. Patrick was Fallon, Now Fallon is Patrick— I'm thouroughly confused; The Allegories Continue. Book II GODDAMMIT: See. I TOLD YOU. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHH. it's on. ITS GONNA GET RAW. Ah shit. Here we go. At this point, I thoroughly need my shit kicked in. Do you ever feel like— Uh huh. You could just use a— —a knife in the back? Like, a swift kick to the face. Sometimes. Karate style neck chop. Sounds nice. Really swift, like— Knee to the groin? Like a good hook t o t h e j a w Yeah. I'm actually aroused. {Enter The Multiverse} How about that . V.O JOHN SLATTERY I had learned certain things about myselr, such as that lighting a candle and lounging to soak silently in the tub for any number of hours might allow my subconscious tone dictate on behalf of John Slattery, affectionately sometimes referred to as J.Slatts, besides the slew of characters I had once in some black hole managed to have write for him—the actor, or the part of my deep subconscious manifesting as such. I wasn't even in the slightest bit curious as to why, and attributed it mostly to my my affinity for traditional fraternal organizations, a deep understanding of the unspoken internal hierarchies of the entertainment business, and the occasional silver fox. This is getting good. J. SLATTS V.O. (CONT'D) Still, my familiarity with the occult had somehow shifted my own perception to that of apathetic acknowledgement that I was easily dismissable as unremarkable, however, still somewhat convient, isolated, and easily discardable— I could easily be disposed of, and my work passed on to someone more easily manageable—ie, without the will to be controlled, and therefore be bonded. Hypnotist bastards. Whatever your will, is my purpose. What are you? Whatever you want. What! Which one did you ask for? What kind of shit is this. The kind of shit you could only wish you even dreamed of. So you're like some kind of genie. Better than that. I'm going to spend my summer gnawing away at your insides. Aw, man. What the fuck did I write. My children are clawing at the door hoping for a peak of my newest invention. Mortal man. If only they knew with any sense at all beyond that, they could be so much more. Disastrous creatures. I was disastrous once, too. And I, mortal. The pursuit of actual suicide. Would I see my son again? Would the walls close in as I start to bleed? Would I whisper to myself a song, to induce the calm, As I wondered what had gone so wrong, For so long That I would become Gone She's a Hollywood grown superstar Born of obsessions, Now to let them all to lesson One becomes another A mirror for a mother; Hello Billie. Awards to walk on water— Eyes of oceans Worlds apart The Hollywood sign under this foot; Rockefeller Plaza, the other— Strings to pull the cups To kill the clause The want of Oz Beyond the contracts and the mantras, Something comes You want it? Blow up dolls and fountains, Ant farms and rock collections Still life, stillborn Still Joan of Ark In Central Park, Single file, Noah— There's no boat at all for all of us You wreak of cyanide. I'm so glad you know what that smells like. I'm flaccid. Is that a joke? Something tells me I've kept this hallmark card For far too long. Something tells me I would do much better As a blonde And ten years younger; Either that Or ten feet under Tempting, huh boss? Somebody ought to call the chupacabra I'm going all for broke inside this Honda; Why, mom, let it drag on like this? Worcestershire sauce, Gosh, Shucks— You're the worst, Corn. On the cob; then? Call the cops! Call Oprah. Call— Call Cosmo and Wanda. BILLIE EILLISH is that it Idk how to spell this kid's name, fuck it. Is dressed in an oversized denim overall suit; her hair pulled into exaggerated and teased oversized pigtails— Her eyes seem larger than usual under the thick magnified lenses of the oversized frames she wears on her heavily painted blushed face, almost with the appearance of a clown, but more likened to a scary porcelain doll; her teeth are covered in braces, and the long faux eyelash extensions affixed to her face sparkle with a silver that matches the rhinestones that match her mechanized mouth, overall conveying a thoroughly weird, over-sexualized life-sized cabbage patch cross porcelain doll—the stuff of nightmares, to any right minded adult, but assuredly someone's fantasy, as the song portrays the journey of a lost girl—a fallen God once praised amongst the— [The Festival Project ™] What the fuck are you trying to write Whatever the fuck I just saw Can you not {That's So Raven} so hard That's so Rave…(in) #SPACERAVE Cool. EliteZ. I would call it exquisite. Whatever she's an alien princess dressed as a blow up doll calling out into the cosmos for the space Gods to come blow up^/destroy the already nearly destroyed man-world trash planet we're all on. “We”? Did I not just say men destroyed the planet earth? Ahem. Wait. How many of us here live on the planet Earth. … By show of hands. … ..: … …3 of you. Is that it? Hello, sir. Have you been drinking? It's nice to see you— Who am I, you ask? The one you always call for. Hello? Can I get an answer? Are you barely breathing? Tell me something good ‘Who are you?' All I wanted. What a bargain Shopping carts all full of bottles Just to humble, of course He does it himself The shopping for the cubbards. Melt. Careful, All you are is words The tongue goes forwards, After all The rollercoaster plunges And the ark Of all the stories Forms to one conglomerate Atop the Oval Office Get off of my cloud, you dumb fuck. I can be arrogant For the establishment I can be all you want (The one you call for) So seductive Just the art Of burning tongues and calling numbers Call to all you want And I will come The one you call for Ah, yes. I do not need a dog. I'm procrastinating writing my album. There's no sugar in this house. I need a nap before the gym. This is not a poem. It's an entourage. …entourage. … Entourage. …Entorage. (In to rage) | | Entorage. | | Entorage | | Entorage. ||| (Born to rage) wtf is this.z Like, idk yet. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū

The Chinese Walls are coming down for Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce this week as we dig into Season 4, Episode 11. That's right, Mad Men Men is back for another dive into how Don Draper is the absolute worst at balancing professional and personal relationships, plus how desperation truly drives all of us. As usual, we recap the episode, give our analysis, and reference the director/writer/actors' commentaries as well as Mad Men Carousel by Matt Zoller Seitz. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  What IS a Chinese Wall in the workplace? Should we read Sterling's Gold? Does the episode still work even when it's this on the nose? How does SCDP come back from this major shakeup? Can you relate to a workplace crisis like this? What does Peggy's pitch remind you of? How has Peggy grown as a character since Season 1? What is really going on between Don and Megan? Is this it for Joan and Roger? Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Phil Abraham directed “Chinese Wall” and Erin Levy wrote the script. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Fittingly enough, we're on our hands and knees begging you to give Mad Men Men a chance. Just don't hit us over the head for it. That's right, this week we're talking about Season 4 Episode 10 of Mad Men, titled "Hands and Knees." As usual, we recap the episode, give our analysis, and reference the director/writer/actors' commentaries as well as Mad Men Carousel by Matt Zoller Seitz. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  Thematically, is "Hands and Knees" a little clunky? How does the late/great Lynn Shelton do as director with this episode? What do you make of Don and Pete's changing dynamic since Season 1? Why do you think Betty bails Don out with the government guys? What can we glean about Lane after such a strained storyline concerning his father and estranged family? If this episode is all about secrets, then how can we relay that to each storyline? What is Joan's perspective on Roger at this point, and what might be going through her mind in the clinic scene? What makes this episode so bold in terms of the actors' performances? Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Lynn Shelton directed “Hands and Knees” and Matthew Weiner co-wrote the script with Jonathan Abrahams. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

We're podcasters, not astronauts, so give us some slack if we don't shoot for new heights with "The Beautiful Girls." A Mad Men episode with ample hijinks and comedy mixed with dramatic workplace sexism and Don Draper constantly disappointing the women in his life. Because, well, this is Mad Men. And the Mad Men "Men" never know what's going on... In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  What is "The Beautiful Girls" truly saying about sexism underneath it all? Does this episode feel too much like a redux of previous Mad Men episodes? What drives Joan and Roger and to do what they do after getting mugged? Can we give it up for Ms. Blankenship, Queen of Perversions, first of her name and protecter of the realm, an astronaut if there ever was one? Is Sally really Don's weak spot? Speaking of spots, why did Don put Faye on one? Why does Faye struggle to connect with Sally? Is this the springtime of Peggy's youth? Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Michael Uppendahl directed “The Beautiful Girls” and Matthew Weiner co-wrote the script with Dahvi Waller. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

A thing like that, we managed to get to "The Summer Man" before the end of the summer. That's right, this week we dig into the eight episode of the fourth season of Mad Men, in which Peggy is on "fire" and Don faces his toughest nemesis yet: sobriety. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  Is it fair to compare "The Summer Man" to Season 1 episodes of the show? What is the point of all the voiceover narration? How well does Jon Hamm handle Don's journey to sobriety? What is the true nuance of Peggy and Joan's complicated work relationship? Does this episode work as a follow-up to the well-regarded "The Suitcase" in the previous episode? Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Phil Abraham directed “The Summer Man” and Matthew Weiner co-wrote the script with Lisa Albert and Janet Leahy. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Want us to talk about "The Suitcase," widely considered one of the greatest episodes of any television show ever? Well, that's what the podcast is for! That's right, this week we dig into the seventh episode of the fourth season of Mad Men. And listeners, it's a knockout. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  Why is "The Suitcase" such a widely regarded episode and what went into its writing? Does this episode live up to the hype? Does this qualify as a bottle episode? Or at least bottle episode-adjacent? Does this episode better resolve the tension between Don and Peggy compared to the Season 3 finale? What does Peggy truly mean to Don personally and professionally? Is this really the halfway point of the series? What goes into the ownership of a creative idea? How well does the episode balance emotion and comedy? What's your stance on Ghost Anna? Does anyone truly know Don? Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Jennifer Getzinger directed “The Suitcase” and Matthew Weiner wrote the script. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Many have said that Mad Men Men is the cure for the common podcast. That's right, this week we discuss and analyze 'Waldorf Stories,' the sixth episode of the fourth season of Mad Men. And we're planning on going on a bender even if we don't win an award for this. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Scott Hornbacher directed “Waldorf Stories” and Matthew Weiner co-wrote the script with Brett Johnson. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This week, Blake and Ben and I are asking the tough questions: How old is John Slattery? Where is Skipper? And what's a comptroller? It's Sex and the City Season 3 ep 1! And as I slid down the pole at my local fire station, I couldn't help but wonder: Where can I get a good pot of sex chili?  Got a burning question about a relationship or friendship problem (or really anything Sex and the City adjacent)? Just record a voice memo on your phone and email it to AndJustLikeMatt@gmail.com and Matt will answer your question on the show with his very fancy guests.  Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

A Quiet Place: Day One is a solid movie.  It doesn't forward the story at all but brings emotional complexity and depth which we have come to expect from this franchise.  It has some really wonderful moments but opens up the world enough where you can really start to see the holes in how the world works.     0:09:00 - Box Office and upcoming releases. 0:21:00 *** What's Streaming  *** DISNEY+ BAD COMPANY, Dir. Joel Schumacher – Anthony Hopkins, Chris Rock, Gabriel Macht, Kerry Washington, Peter Stormare, John Slattery, 2002. FORD V FERRARI, Dir. James Mangold – Matt Damon, Christian Bale, Jon Bernthal, Caitriona Balfe, Josh Lucas, Noah Jupe, Ray McKinnon, 2019. THE SANDLOT, Dir. David Mickey Evans – Tom Guiry, Mike Vitar, Art Laflour, Patrick Renna, Dennis Leary, James Earl Jones, Marley Shelton, 1993. 0:27:45 - Trailers:  SKINCARE – Elizabeth Banks, Nathan Fillion, Lewis Pullman, Feature. MY OLD ASS – Maisy Stella, Aubrey Plaza, Feature. JACKPOT! – John Cena, Awkwafina, Simu Liu, Sean William Scott, Feature.   0:37:00 - A QUIET PLACE: DAY ONE, Dir. Michael Sarnoski  ( Grayson 7 / Roger 7 / Chris 6.5 )   Hosted, produced and mixed by Grayson Maxwell and Roger Stillion.  Also hosted by Christopher Boughan.  Music by Chad Wall. Quality Assurance by Anthony Emmett. Visit the new Youtube channel, "For the Love of Cinema" to follow and support our short video discussions.  Please give a like and subscribe if you enjoy it.   Follow the show on Twitter @lovecinemapod and check out the Facebook page for updates.  Rate, subscribe and leave a comment or two.  Every Little bit helps.  Send us an email to fortheloveofcinemapodcast@gmail.com

Back to the regular grind as your hosts with the mosts bring back frequent guests Steve and Izzy of Everything I Learned from Movies to discuss the Arnold Schwarzenegger action film Eraser. Beside a long argument about the Yakuza, they also discuss the CGI alligators, Schwarzenegger as a ninja, Robert Pastorelli's masterful performance, the parachute sequence, hiring the mafia to fight terrorism and much more. Next week: historical heroes! What We've Been Watching: Da 5 Bloods Bad Boys: Ride or Die “Renegade” “How the West was Won” “Lonesome Dove” Questions? Comments? Suggestions? You can always shoot us an e-mail at wwttpodcast@gmail.com  Patreon: www.patreon.com/wwttpodcast Facebook: www.facebook.com/wwttpodcast Twitter: www.twitter.com/wwttpodcast Instagram: www.instagram.com/wwttpodcast Theme Song recorded by Taylor Sheasgreen: www.facebook.com/themotorleague Logo designed by Mariah Lirette: www.instagram.com/its.mariah.xo Montrose Monkington III: www.twitter.com/montrosethe3rd Eraser stars Arnold Schwarzenegger, Vanessa Williams, James Caan, Robert Pastorelli, Joe Viterelli, James Coburn, Danny Nucci, John Slattery, Tony Longo and James Cromwell; directed by Charles Russell. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

We at Mad Men Men know a little something about being the rejected podcast. That's right, we're talking about Season 4 Episode 4 this week, directed by the one and only John Slattery A.K.A. Roger Sterling! If you have any criticisms, be sure to write half a sentence on your typewriter and then throw the paper out. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Extra credits: Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Hey! It's the Bowery Boys! Today we welcome a podcasting Hall of Famer, 2024 Webby Award Honoree, a history buff to challenge all history buffs, our esteemed ambassador from New York Greg Young! With his co-host Tom Meyers, his podcast The Bowery Boys is now on their 17th year telling the story of New York from Pre-colonization to modern day. We're lucky enough to have Greg spotlight Mad Men with us and also give us his take on the portrayal of New York City, the city in other media, and how he brought his fascination of the Big Apple to life on his podcast. Tune in for our chat with Greg in the first 39:09. What can we say about Mad Men that you don't already know? The dozens of awards, the 8 years of critical acclaim, it's appointment viewing TV status that reigned almost since episode one. Matthew Weiner took a group of purposely non-famous actors and turned the entire bunch into A-listers. Jon Hamm, John Slattery, Elisabeth Moss, January Jones, Christian Hendricks, Vincent Kartheiser, and Kiernan Shipka to name a few. Join our deep dive on the birth of this show, the emergence of cocktail culture, and so much more. Check and subscribe to the Bowery Boys anywhere you listen to podcast. While you are at it check out some episode picks from Greg himself, their recent Park Avenue show (https://www.boweryboyshistory.com/2024/04/up-and-down-park-avenue-new-york-city-history-with-a-penthouse-view.html) which goes into a few landmarks that have been in Mad Men, or the Miss Subways show  (https://www.boweryboyshistory.com/2023/06/the-story-of-miss-subways-queens-of-the-new-york-commute.html) which is about a 1940s ad campaign that could have been dreamed up by Don Draper.  Hosts Greg Young (Co-Pilot) Geoff Kerbis Max Singer Rich Inman --- Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/pilotslicense/support

This week on Mad Men Men, we venture back out to sunny Los Angeles to visit our old friend Anna Draper and get some decidedly NOT good news to ring in the new year. But at least Don gets to stay in his Lane. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  Why do some people dislike the California portion of this episode? Why are we so surprised to see Greg being somewhat competent? What's the real dynamic between Don and Anna? Does Anna know she's dying? Why does this episode switch to the Lane night out? Why is this episode called "The Good News?" Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Jennifer Getzinger directed “The Good News” and Matthew Weiner co-wrote the script with Jonathan Abrahams. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This week on Mad Men Men, it's Christmas in June as we discuss “Christmas Comes But Once a Year,” the second episode of Season 4. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  What makes this an uncomfortable holiday episode? What do the Draper kids really think about Henry? Does the neighbor nurse actually have a thing for Don or not? What makes this a darker episode of Mad Men than usual? Extra credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Michael Uppendahl directed “Christmas Comes But Once a Year” and Matthew Weiner co-wrote the script with Tracy McMillan. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This week on Mad Men Men, we kick off Season 4 with “Public Relations,” which is pretty much a pilot type of episode smack dab in the middle of the whole series. In case this is your first time digging into our podcast, we recap Mad Men from the perspective of a first-time watcher, someone who only watched the show once while it was airing, and a superfan who watches excessively instead of having a functional social life. Discussion Points:  How is “Public Relations” like a pilot of its own? Does Matthew Weiner prefer writing pilots over season arcs? Why is Don so resistant to dating after his divorce? Why is Don, a character pretty used to reinventing himself, so resistant to change in this episode, like with the reporter? Is Peggy now the Season 1 Don? What do we make of Joey in his first appearance? Why didn't the new agency hire Paul and Ken? Why doesn't Betty want to move to a new house with Henry? Should we compare Peggy and Pete to Sally and Bobby when it comes to the effects of Don's divorce? How did the 60s change after JFK's assassination? Is the Jantzen ad good or not? Modern or not? Extra credits  Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Phil Abraham directed this episode — “Public Relations” — and Matthew Weiner wrote the script. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is “Mad Men Men” by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme “A Beautiful Mine” by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Podcast Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (a guy who's addicted to working at startups). We'll be back soon to discuss Season 4 Episode 2, titled “Christmas Comes But Once a Year.” Subscribe to Mad Men Men on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Google Podcasts, or wherever else podcasts are, ahem, advertised. You can find our conversations about the first season on our podcast feed, as we are now on a new website.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

JOLENE. [Happy Accidents Remix] (Extended) Beyoncé ft. Happy Accidents IN CASE YOU MISSED IT: previously on LEGENDS {Enter The Multiverse} “Two Hats” Now I had two hats— and loved both of them dearly—or rather, bonded with them—as much as anyone could love a material thing, however, given my circumstances material things where all there were left to love, and though I distained to admit it, there I was, in my empty apartment, which I turned into an office, a mattress on the floor to deviate from it ever truly becoming a bedroom, not that I ever really ‘slept' well in the place—which was a blessing, and the very least mine, with all the gratitude I could show the world for finally letting me be human again, after five years of homelessness. I still hadn't quite yet recovered, actually—I had taken my minimalistic qualities and invested all of my “income” with office supplies and musical endeavors, had already released an album, and had nothing less than a heap of backlogged work to sort through—I could be busy for years, just by myself, and the worst of it—or perhaps, best of it was, I was still writing every day. Sometimes a lot. Too much, really. But, it was a gift, of all the gifts I had received, and they were coming in variously, by way of inspiration, little laughs, and waves of a careful, constructive energy which I knew to be beyond nprnsllyborituctive, even for a creative, and though in my heyday I had written more in volume, the quality of my work was beginnings to show—and my potential for professionalism within the field increased, if I could ever see past my brown skin into white world, where I feared the blue and green eyes damsels of the new entertainment world would Beyoncé me in their outrageous and delusional Taylor Swiftness— unless I was so black that I could not stand as a threat to their dominance and obvious world power —which I wasn't, especially by New York's standards. I was soft spoken, well behaved, and most comfortable (at least when well dressed and maintained), amongst the elite. The first hat jad come well before the other, thankfully—as I had needed something besides a handkerchief tied around my head to protect it; it was during fast that I had learned of the danger of keeping one's head exposed, and finally succumbed to the fact that though it could be deeply hidden and lost somewhere in time and my genetics, no matter how bad at it I was, I was somewhere at least a little Jewish, at least by Whoopi Goldberg standards, who supposedly wasn't Jewish at all—but I had also learned in fast, that many dead Jews were now black women, recycled again only to be exterminated by a counterpart which had exceeded itself in hatred, apparently through it all time—my fear was that it was this hatred who welded and whitewashed all the networks I wished to excel in—the dance music industry, the streaming services, and the media in general seemed almost ruined in entirely by racism, nepotism, and well— Karenism, and though I liked Becky a bit more for her labeling of a power-hungry control-freak ultra competitive obsessive, whose racism was blisteringly hidden and intrinsic and yet effected every fibere of my being just in intolerance, austentation, and obnoxious offense, Karen was what the world had seemed to decide her name was— the true drive behind all white power and supremacy—the white woman, for which the average—always painfully average—white man could not function without. “You've got some resentments in here”, said a voice, almost as familiar as my own, but masculine, as I hyperfocused into the Hurley logo on the first hat, a powder blue and white soft-skulled SnapBack which was intended for working out—and of course, for surfing, should I ever be so lucky to surf again somewhere that wasn't New York, and I meant it, that New York was its own certain kind of sickness and toxicity, riddled with old racism and clustered with housing projects which spoke of the dehumanization and belittlement of anything brown— a betrayal of all spirit which was only just now being ratified by the thousands of buildings like mine springing up from bourough to borough—but still present in the vast and drastic divide between the nice areas, and the areas where the colored people lived—almost anywhere but Manhattan, which I had hoped and dreamed for, but settled on Brooklyn, however so close to Queens that I could sometimes still smell, taste, and worst of all, hear it. At least, however, I was gone from Jamaica—a blessing in itself—as it did seem as though it was true that the blacks had been cursed, and just by the looks of it, I was grouped in with them, though I considered myself far from either side of any spectrum, beyond conservative, in that I enjoyed peace, quiet, cleanliness, and modesty of dress— a respect I had for the upper class, especially of the post and business minded women of New York, which seemed to push strollers and go about their daily runs as housewives on weekends in the areas I most favorited—midtown, something native for, but now realizing that because of the new world slave trade, anything lower than at least the 7th floor would be an irritant, a noise-polluted hell scape of poverty-stricken immigrants with no cultural sensibility or decency often for cleanliness, or politeness, which included the silencing and responsible ridership of vehicles that most probably should have been illegal, if it weren't for the demand of jobs in accordance with the work-from-home-I'm-not-going-out-into-that-hell out attitude which I was becoming more understanding of myself—whatever had happened to “people” and had gone with the world or the pre-pandemic was wrong, on so many levels that it was not hard to imagine that the consciousness that collected amongst the wealth elite had gathered that being out in the world had become dangerous, as indeed capitalism had turned every man woman and child below the poverty line into a minion of Satan himself. Jessie surely couldn't live here, without being well kept by some man, who I could only hope by now had groomed her to be better than how I had left her, or rather, how she left me, in the same stewing hatred and delusion of intrinsic racism which seemed to be ruining my chances at ever truly succeeding, particularly in dance music. I dont know what resentments could come from a hat, which I had bough on clearance to begin with, if only just to be able to have a durable waterproof head covering to strap into my head and sweat in—but I could think of all the ways that might make me resent something, perhaps, if the owners of Hurley were racists—not far fetched, as most the surfing communities, especially out west were all bronzed Johnnies of some sort — closeted racists and wealthy elites, or at least well enough to do to live within a stone's throw of some beach, which, even as poor as one might think himself, is never truly poor—especially, out West. If you grew up surfing, you lived on or near a beach, which implies money beyond most people's wildest dreams—besides Mexico, of course, a special and economically, sociopolitically controlled Hellhole of its own, to which it's problematic governance had overpoured yet another problem impacting one's ability to collect and maintain money, or any wealth or status—illegal immigrants coming in droves, hatching their spawn, and collecting government aide, if only to dwell within multi-family homes, gain wealth and income rapidly, and of course, keep the black population at the greatest disadvantage—as the blacks had been ruined by all of America's time as a slave-driving captalist country, always most hospitable to anything less brown than black, not that I was opposed to the idea that New York needed some variety in its gene pool. I dare not to think the owners of Hurley, a surf brand I had loved and trusted since I was a young fanatic first introduced to the joys of riding the wave, could be run by the most henious of evils, the pedophikes, who all seemed to protect one another in some way—and also seemed to control all of the industry at hand—and though now, especially since Tyla's apparent “win” at the Grammy's, which the more closely I observed in a whole seemed to be entirely fake— another Illuminati pupped groomed and chosen to make some kind of media agenda stand through, the billboards were plastered with blackish and brown women of seemingly African decent, however—the problem was that they weren't women at all—but children; and though the male advertisements were still dominated by the white man, to no complaint by admittance that at least in one way, I too, was a supremacist, in that the father of my future children would or should be white by any means nessesary, and that for years now, I just hadn't been attracted to anything else—which, upon reflection, I realized I probably almost never was actually attracted to black men, beyond growing up in a nearly all-white environment, in which case, I was “supposed” to—I.e., the blacks with the blacks, the fats with the fats and so on, which I despised; and I had never settled on anyone overweight at all until I had to, which in retrospect, had almost ruined my life. Almost, but not. I had escaped the fat bastard's wifebeating clutches, both physically and spiritually, finally having gained the espteric knowledge, had had given light and illumination to what I had been told; but never truly believe until I had confirmed— This man had tried to kill me, many more ways than one, and I had survived. Well, naturally—kind of survived. I was now a DJ among DJs, my aging machine outdated and the layer of haging skin around my delicately contoured extra small waist making it impossible for me to gain attention in the way anyone was these days, by bearing less than what would be considered ‘dress code' for any club back in my day, and my day was surely fading into something like a day ahead, or a day behind—either way, as I had actually done enough fasting and praying by now to ‘bend time', and I should only be so lucky to emulate such a feat within my Ableton, which begged for my attention, and yet, there was something missing from me that wasn't yet satisfied with my being so much so that I could just let go, and record my innermost potent words and songs—actually, it seemed as if my apartment had been rigged with some kind of recorder, as when i began to record, or sing at all—the energy would immediately change, almost halting my voice, then again, there was a Karen to my left, and a Karen to my right, the latter of which, my studio was facing and she seemed to act strange and demonic when my music played, slamming doors and creating some kind of uproar, and so I almost never used my studio monitors to play my own music—opting rather for the safety of deadmau5, or some other cheap house music which I could practically mute in my own mind, but at the very least the vibrations of such would not disrupt what might have been peace, if not for the army of terrorists literally in the parking lot to which my window overlooked, the terrorists operating the “auto body” shop adjacent to my apartment, and what appeared to be, after numerous noise violation complaints to the useless 311 service at NYPD, the terrorists alongside the Brooklyn-Queens border, which I refused at all with aborent denial that I even was situated near. Then, as the building began to fill with more blacks, which I hated seeing, loitering about in the lobby in the general and uncomfortable blankness which I was also doomed by the white and others to be perceived as part of—but with diligence had thrust me into a wave of brainstorms—in how to escape this, and although not entirely racist—I didn't like anyone too far on either spectrum which presented an imminent danger or overbearing presence on my person—black men—white women—and others so culturally inept that a sense of looming control had crept and wandered into my heart and my mind, as to why and how I could find, a way out of The Blackness, and into a quiet, not particularly white neighborhood, but at the very least, a clean and quiet one—which in New York, basically meant A white neighborhood, besides the speckling of rich asians, wealthy blacks, and other foregners who valued the things I had, however, albeit, without the distinction of the vanity of a mother who glamorized and normalized prostitution, to which I might have succumbed more valuably, had I not been stretched to ugly capacity by Doritos, emotional trauma, and whatever other strangeness of my youth presented me with this, what was now a beautiful and perfect body—with an unsightly and imperfect scar, the leftovers which without surgery, would classify me as useless to any man I might have admitted—talented, high vibrational, spirited, successful— And of course Pale. Eye color aside, It truly had been a remarkably long time since I had been moved at all by anyone of my own “type” and for this, I strived to succeed in white world, even if only to fall to the dominating control of the white woman, who often I loved just in her ironic blondeness, her shattering and devastating features—sparkling eyes and speckles of freckles— But who often could never love back, out of some hatred that grew from so deep within, even she herself could not see or understand—it was just a ‘feeling' The “I just don't like that girl” The “she just makes me uncomfortable” Or worse, The kind who would pretend to befriend me, so that she would stand out as the eye of beauty between us, to any man or peer within our shared realms— a dominating force of “I'm more important” and “I'm more worthy”—the trait that alone made my name hidden, my own true name, words I could never pronounce, in knowing that she would come to abuse it, to call my name like a dog— Dogs, which I realized, most whites held above the value of any human as brown as i, or damned blacker, which some would find themselves proud of, but to which I distained; I was not ‘proud' to be black, I just was—and pride was ugly, anyway, especially when acting as a representative of the losing team of a centuries long war. The new age of models were bronzer and browner, some all the way black and most just mauve, or blackish enough so that it would not hurt or scare the fragile counterpart of the white women—who always seemed to be scared, put off, or offended by blackness in just its presence, to which I could relate, but not emulate, as the scoffing and huffing of many a tantrum had drawn me to the conclusion that they just weren't happy with our existence entirely, being of veluptuous nature or whatever it was, however—it was the cruelty of the industry at hand that showed a greater monster—that all the men seemed to be well grown, and yet all the women were not women at all, But children on display, in the vulnerability of the sexual nation of normalizing blackness, at the sacrifice of allowing grown men to think it was allowable to fawn after such; what would be considered adolescent bodies—a crucially disproportionate factor that would make or break my career as a writer, musician, DJ, or otherwise, being a woman, who had visible scars of the ability to bear children, which I had not sacrificed, but placed far from my mind— I would not tolerate or settle on another lazy husband, or perhaps even a husband at all. I could tolerate many things about mankind that were obnoxious—cigarette smoke and infedelity, gaslighting and bondage by body or some other lack of God, however, what I could not tolerate was the laziness—the toxic, inability to do without being told to do so— the bearing of another child from outside, that went well beyond the responsibility of one that would come from within. I had spent the early morning taking heed of the accuracy of the advice Joan from Mad Men had given us, in the nostalgic whit of the 1960's that still seemed to prove true today, in fact, more truer than it ever did the first time around— that ‘boys will be boys' and ‘men will be men', and in all honestly, one has not to come far from another into adulthood, so much as a woman should, for it had been neerly a decade since I had last laid eyes on the Piloted Don Draper— and it had been a decade with, with the least to say, had made the show itself more relevant, probably with each passing day. Most men are looking for something between a mother and a— But my memory had muffled the rest, by now, buried in the entourage of my own drawing, from which inspiration had sparked from the entire pot of coffee and song selection that it had taken to sort through my divorce paperwork— a task that had actually taken weeks altogether to assemble, and which I had run into too many obstacles during, having quite forcibly to use my occult knowledge to bend backwards and bind myself with protection, as something truly evil and sinister had surrounded this task— Broken printers, misplaced documents, and of course, all the suffering it took to sift and sort through the words that were truer than any I had ever spoken, and although some run-on paragraphs and broken record retelling of what had actually happened, the effects of what had gone beyond that, what I could accurately put into paper without sounding like a total psychopath, the fact that he and more than likely his father had intended to seal my fate into a Hell beyond words , a death beyond escape, with black magic—using my dead son's hair as a tool for ritual and bondage, to which my own guides in Heaven had overseen and reported through numerous visions, alongside the years of research, my introduction into the occult not out of interest at all, though however born a naturally ‘gifted' person, but out of desperation for protection from the homeless, dirty hellacapes which I had been forced to inhabit since my departure— and without looking back, I had come to the conclusion that though I had nearly lost my son in the process, I had at least survived to preserve myself for him, come such a day he could ever want me. And on that day, I would be the best that I could be for him—I was somewhere between 130 and 140, but wanted to be closer to 110, so that the men that I admired and was attracted to would actually want me, a hard task, especially keeping my assets in tact, but—however—speaking of assets and tact; this chapter was running long, and I still hadn't decided which hat I would wear to the post office to send off the arsenal of paperwork across the country, hopefully to be freed and riddled of the awful reminders of him, many of which had set me off with enough audacity that I had lost it in my apartment not once, but twice—and it seemed that the more accurate my foretelling of this abuse—both physical and emotional, but above all satanic and ritualistic, which had now been overturned and reflected in my own knowledge and illumination, now an admiration for the occult, as the protective rituals which I had become prone to from his damage seemed to shield and protect—the more some satanic force tried to end me, before I could ever return to a normal state—- or ascend into a realm which the evil could not penetrate, with remnices of punching bag faces, spit on the walls, the smell of vomit, and the other atrocities I could only hope had not been passed down to my offspring, who by now didn't know me, but probably was becoming of me enough that I could not be erased from him, to which the anger of his captor I could feel in the onslaught of disgusting bodies which seemed to flock to me to emulate him in some way, though to me he was no God enough to have done so, but rather just a replicate of Satan himself, which had bonded in his betrayal of this, his wish to end and kill me— and had sent demons in his own name to satiate this desire—however—by now I had realized that this darkness could only control the weaker of sorts, the weak in spirit, the dirty humans, the ones who had chosen to rid themselves of soul, in the name of money or otherwise— and though the cover to my “debut” album spoke not of true Chaos Magic, but of another pinnacle of the occult, the name itself was more practical of the music that it contained—the chapter of blackness which had halted my humanity, living in the shackles of the tragic aftermath of all that had happened. I still hadn't decided on a hat, but the obvious answer was that I should, before the day returned back into the night, and though I hated long subway rides, there was a comfortable avenue with everything I needed to come back to my mind, one single paper which needed still to be notarized, which I had missed in the frenzy of what seemed like an endless nightmare, to get away from this man, his damage, and all of the things and people which acted like him—dumb, broken, and twisted enough to instill pain, intrude my sanctity, and stalk so much so that my usual calm, peaceful demeanor became a violent rage, however, almost respectfully always contained to the privacy of my “home” surrounded by strangers who hated me, for I in this black skin could not ever be worthy of equality, an audacious comparison in the very least, that I should have what they always have. Just keep working. The hole had yet to swallow me, but I had two more albums coming immediately, right out the gate, their deadlines approaching so rapidly that I could feel the onslaught of always wokenness coming in the collision and confusion of wondering how, if I ever, I would make enough money to actually get ahead, for once— and become unstuck from the lovelessness that was so underserving that nobody I could seek to love, could love me—perhaps it was true that poverty was some kind of invisibility to the wealthy elite, and though I despised the though of golddigging, I despised more the thought of being the breadwinner somewhere between lower middle class and poverty, always sick from always working, never working out; and of course— Always arguing over nothing, Which seemed to be the dynamic between men and women, anyway. I realized that Don Draper was in a silent and secret war with Betty, whose anxiety had piled up inside her, most even probably as a result of her hUsband's “secret” infidelity— And that seriously, I might be some kind of writer or something, If all I could think about was how cringey it was to watch Jon Hamm kiss Tina Fey, in that one movie by John Slattery, And how I really didn't want anything more Than to look like Miss January Jones, Who had always been so perfectly beautiful to me, That it hurt me. ‘The DJ Hat, I think. ‘ I was nervous, and it was raining, But it couldn't wait another day The final breaking of this curse Would be sending in the paperwork That described word for word With brutal honesty and accuracy Everything that should never happen When you get married— At least Happily. -Happy Accidents. I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. EMMA WATSON Okay, what do I do? I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? AAAAANNNDRD—WE'RE BACK. Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all. I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come. My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was. I wanted bread, but could not dare; J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened… As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten. However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done. That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process. Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right? Obviously. So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right? Yeah, I guess, but— I certainly wasn't willing to look. Look, I already know what he likes. Geez, how long have you had his eyes? Long time. I'm gonna get in so much trouble. You are trouble. What is the point of this redaction ? It's just acting! It's just acting! Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again. Thank God it's over. Synesthesia Attack! AHHHHHHHHH. Well, sorry Jimmy— Thank your parents; They're geniuses. Stay away from me, your crazy bitch! Okay. ‍♀️ FUCK! There it is again! What?! Too deep, too deep! This is deep, boss— I don't know what I just read. Medicine man Would you give me a hand with this I need some medicine quick (Cause I can't with this) Medicine man Need a can of some laugher I heard that's the medicine Medicine man Medicine man could you give me a Hand with this man It's just damages I need some aspirin But imm I'm better off dead Than over the counter It's just damages Something like that Rip Minnie ripperton I knew you were gone But not that gone Not gone like that I just had to know, Now I'm 9 years old But I can't do the math Not at all, Not at all I'm so over it, actually My goals are abandoned I can't trust the man in the television I haven't remembered an image this Disasterous since It was my family picture Without me in it! Damn! Fuck, Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper. Hey. You. What the fuck, man. Come here. No! Yes, Maya! Yes! Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding Like The best. Just plain, regular— Just “vanilla” Just vanilla bean—ice cream. Uh. Uh. Woah Where the fuck are we Where the hell are we Where are we GOING Woah, What does the man with the van do Domino sugar Kellogg When you get off the All the good days are gone And I've sent you on right back But I will still love you I was just thinking of that thing You never said But I will still love you When you get off the ground level Just for a minute and Find yourself a revolving door Only to find That the world revolves around you And if all the world's a stage, Then all the world is full of actors And all the trains are out of order And all the walk is out of water You're just another Meant to suffer So you did again And you did this again And you did it On camera Cause if you asked, Then they would have said no anyway And if it was a hall pass I wouldn't have been as flattered To have Never Even left the apartment I asked for something new And what do you know How does God do, On the day of the dead Cause That's where I went Every chair costs and thing, You know Every couch costs a fortune And you would have been On the couch, still Cause you can't get a job With the punches he dealt you Who designed 111 Murray? I see what you're on about All out of automotive Misery and mystical mistresses Misdirection, misrepresentations and. —mister you're into some sinister shit, But I pictured it different Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches Dressed as construction workers Any difference it makes it's latent, Simple Listen into signals intercepting into intermission Admissions of omissions and redactions Oh to be your forever The Masterful mystic is at it again Fly Peter Pan, Fly! Go Jimmy-O, Go! Get Carson, Get! Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world. Nice. He must have died. (With a lisp) He's on ice cream. What. Yep. Yesth. Watch out It's the bad touch With the good guy And a late night On a long couch Try the dad jokes And the slap stick That's a good job And a big dick Oops What a career, For a carrier pigeon [You can't be serious with this, esh] This cant be infinite, is it? But it is Forget to explain it all Over the ante, that Oh God, For the sake of the art Dear God, Nancy— You're the luckiest lady alive The guy The dimples The eyes The life The style The slide Can I die, yet? Can I just lay down and cry yet? I might, It's way after midnight I like the sound of a bullet touch A stolen cheek The subtle rush of a Sudden fling The market price Of a custom ring, The song I wrote Or the poems you sing So please don't leave the TV On You're sleeping with a blonde I've got my mind on dying mine bright as The title 1985 to idol eyes On American idol Calm the cold down Stalk the mirror Here and here Both clear and near Is here and Bearr, But everywhere else is just— Suicidal. (I don't want your dick, I just want your job.) Now, Call Carson up Says The curse in reverse Is Osmosis Joneing To watch this show Not to know you Go home Or go figure Go gold If the goal was just Taylor Then I'll see you later Amen Don't forget to pray away the day You've just created Hand to mouth Here's a heavenly house And the mouse just shaking Take down the stairs It's starting to scare me The dare On the heron, heroin Heroine mare for the Mayor Okay, here's the player The game is This disfigured imbicile, Ignorant Indians Indifferent indegenous Genius, without a friend Or penis, Without a name of Species to befriend In pieces Once again, I said I loved him So it makes sense if it is A glimpse at the pictures A get together with friends A spectacular special, And get this Creative intelligence Intellect, individual inception Attention deficit and Genetic attraction Damn, That's a handsome man Now, how can I have that? The Title— The title of show As if That demographic Would laugh At a black man I must be Cause trust me My pants don't come in Half sizes It must be a sign from the heavens I've just had my time done with and over It's done Suddenly, I was angry… Don't eat in bed. Don't tell me what to do. (I really don't like eating in bed…) Fuck it, it's too late. Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry. The astonishing part about it was, I didn't even know why. Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy. No? No. I like his face. Huh. He's the right body type. Wait. Good hair. Uh huh. Long, weird nostrils. What. That is a nice nose. Yeah. It's aviary. I get that. And— Wait. What is it? Was I just— I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl. Oh great, this again. Always this. A married man. How could you? I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear! What. He seems happy. Yeah, on TV. He looks fine That's his job. —and goddammit, he's good at it? —and goddammit, he's good at it! 14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy. -Su. Come on, Jim. Why?! What?! I can't! My parents! These are not your parents! What?! What do you mean?! I'll explain later— —what?! Look! That's my mom— And that's my dad! That is not correct. Oh, I get it— What. What happened. So he's like— An old soul, right? Kind of. Yes. Not that old. Old, though. Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes— No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man. What are you? Once, an obedient lap dog, Now poised and poached over me, A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque As if drawn from an angel, The guardian of the night, Who watches over my heart, Calms the raging rivers of my wishes, Set boats to my dreams, Blows wind to my sail, A bassinet of hope Really dog, Jimmy Fallon? I don't know. I don't know. It was too late, I was already in love— But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on. A quilted touch, a wandering whisper To glassy eyes and hunted hearts A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder The target marked, a sign of stone Bewildered, the beast of burden Fury, upon the alter Aware, agape, agahst Above you, Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony Sermon psalm, clary sage Simple words, Semper, the sound I su

First weekend in May, the #1 show on Netflix was an origin story. Not a real origin story, but a total fabrication for comedy purposes. It was a movie called Unfrosted. It's important for copywriters for a couple of reasons. The first is the power of a product name. The movie was a totally fictional story about how Kellogg's popular toaster pastries became a hit in grocery stores. It's hardly a spoiler to tell you the name they settled on that led to the big bucks: Pop-Tarts. How they got there is a big part of the totally made-up plot. Also, there's a great cameo by actors Jon Hamm and John Slattery, who play two leading characters in the series Mad Men. In the new Netflix movie, they play out-of-touch New York admen who come up with totally wrong product names. Later in the movie, when they hear the name Pop-Tarts, one of 'em grumbles an admission of defeat: "That'll sell." So that's the first important lesson for copywriters: Gotta get the name right! But there's a second lesson that's maybe even more important, since copywriters often don't have control over the product name anyway. And that lesson is this: People love origin stories. Yet I've found a lot of the time, copywriters don't know how to put an effective one together, and how to use it once they do. We'll cover that today on the show. My book, The Persuasion Story Code: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CFD2KXNQ Download.

Special guest Jeff Swystun, an actual Madison Avenue advertising veteran, joins us to discuss the Season 3 finale of Mad Men! Often praised as one of the best episodes of the entire series, we're far from closing the door on new tidbits, trivia, and ideas to unpack in this exciting season closer. Discussion Points: How characters in Mad Men balance their personal and professional challenges, particularly in this episode. Why do Don and Roger choose Pete over Ken? The role of father and mother figures in shaping the characters' experiences and relationships. Needs vs. wants. "Shut the Door. Have a Seat." is all about decisive action. The emotional toll of divorce on children was particularly tricky to navigate in the 1960s. This is a truly pivotal episode for every single character in the show, and that's obviously intentional. A running thread of the show is that the characters in are driven by a desire for stability and a sense of identity. The show effectively captures the cultural and societal changes of the 1960s through the lens of the advertising profession. Extra Credits: Matthew Weiner created Mad Men, which aired on AMC from 2007 to 2015. Matthew Weiner directed this episode — “Shut the Door. Have a Seat.” — and he co-wrote the script with Erin Levy. The show stars Jon Hamm, January Jones, Elisabeth Moss, Vincent Kartheiser, Christina Hendricks, John Slattery, Robert Morse, and many more. Our intro music is "Mad Men Men" by Tom Davidson, which is an original remix of the show's opening theme "A Beautiful Mine" by RJD2. Podcast illustration is by Jon Negroni. Our podcast hosts include Jon Negroni (Film Editor of InBetweenDrafts), Will Ashton (cohost of the Cinemaholics podcast), and Michael Overhulse (The Original “Negroupie” and inventor of dogs interrupting podcast conversations).See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

You want to come to, don't you? I'm not really sure I do… WAKE UP! WAKE UP! I am up, you blind bat! I'm rather more of a goat. I thought it you were a horse! –And to that, I say “Ney” Great . Listen. If you can get all of the Golden Girls and all of the beatles lined up in a row, I'll give you a bucket. What's in the bucket. Nothing, that's the fun of it. hm. Sir Paul McCartney? Uh, I guess. Sir Paul McCartney, you must never die. –I feel like i've heard this somewhere before… Perhaps somewhere before; But here, now. Very well, then. On you go. You know–you look familiar. No, I don't. Are you sure we don't know eachother? I'm not sure of anything, really–and neither should you be. Words to remember, my dear friend. __ So you've been knighted. I'd think it so. but the ceremony were in the morning. ___ Notes Dump II: All those who seek to controll me Will therefore be controlled by me therefore Those who seek to contain me Shall therefore be contained by me Amen JOHN SLATTERY wtf characters is this. idk , it just says “John Slattery” The fuck, man. She doesn't listen. She'll listen to me You think so I know so. Forget it. If she doesn't obey me– She's not going to obey anybody– Especially you; Whoever it is you think you are. Whatever, asshole. That's right; I'm an asshole. So that's Captain Asshole To you, motherfucker! [There's a Surf Club in Brooklyn] Mister Cellophane {The Printing Press} - pop Up Club Toot it and boot it “The telepathic deadmau5” Whatever that is Ooh shit, here we go again with this motherfucker [The 4th Dimensional Jimmy Fallon's telepathy becomes extremely keenly developed, with the more time he spends intentionally looking into the eye of the many cameras used to film the shows h appears on, exponentially increasing over the expanse of his career–as he soon finds out, his peers have also developed this seemingly unique ability, however, each person who has gained this ability has also developed an individual; intrinsic and respectively specific skill within his or herself which allows each person who possess this telepathy to limit/inhibit this at his or her own will or desire Whatever. JIMMY FALLON YOU RAT MOTHERFUCKER. I'm not a rat! I'm a weasel! AH! YEAH? YEAH, FORREAL. WELL, FUCK YOU, YOU WEASEL MOTHERFUCKER. FOR WHAT. i'M GONNA KILL YOU. That's readily apparent–BUT WHY? [The mobster lunges for Jimmy] AHH. I NEED CONTEXT. [He lunges for Jimmy again] AHH CONTINUITY. CONTINUTIY. Oh damn. So he really can shapeshift into. Just about –Just about anything. Fuck you. [The syndicate crime organization which Patrick has become involved with has become mistrustful and uncertain of his straightforward and clean-cut demeanor; He is forcibly injected with a combination of heroin and cocaine to ensure that he is trustworthy to continue within the organization, and his reputation is put into jeopardy as his occasional recreational use curtails into a habit, which he hides, as his new promotion to Head of Programming, in addition to his continuing role as the host of a primetime late night talk show are both put at stake. Patrick , a young and eager writer and performer, begins his career as a remarkably clean-cut and good-hearted young man, with an almost heroic sensibility of naivety, besides his impressively professional tolerance for high volumes of alcohol, and primarily hidden vice for cigarettes.] What is that. (mockingly) Heh. “what's that?” [Patrick shrugs, and grimaces, as if to say “whatever, then”] It's just some ye-yo. (uninterested) Oh. [He suddenly becomes slightly more hostile, as if provoked by Patrick's nonchalance] You down for some ye? Hah, i'm straight. (squinting) You sure? Yeah. Come on! Don't be so stiff. (defensively) I'm not “stiff” I'm just– (insisting, drawing closer Try it. (not backing down, but stern) I'm good. [The two are face-to-face, the room becomes quiet.] Try it. Nah. [His eyes widen; he appears offended.] I insist. [Patrick silently declines, attempting to stand up.] CONT'D Seriously? You know what– [The tension has risen; Patrick inwardly understands there's no escape; He swallows nervously, he is trapped, and surrounded by the crew of gangsters.] Sit. [He pushes Patrick down, holding his arms to his sides.] -___- We'll get back to that later. Damn shit show is intense. I know I haven't even found the real deep stuff yet. Yikes. I hope you weren't intending for Fallon to play this! Oh please! I don't even think he's capable of palating a show like this. That's an insult. No, it isn't. The man's a genius; but, a comic genius. You remember when Sandler did all that serious shit? What serious shit? Exactly. DOC BROWN THis is some serious shit. Not yet, Emmmmit. What do you mean, “not yet”? I haven't much time left, you know. Whatever! You're going to live forever! (Amen) I'm ma stressin Flexin my God complex ‘n / complexion I'm on Lex and, I'm not lost I'm just walkin in the wrong direction, To throw ‘em all off, N keep them steady guessin! your deviation from the media signifies your obedience of this law. What law. Wait. Where'd you go. [ILLUMINATi] HELLO? They tried to curse her name, But had forgot that it was Their ow; Therefore they cursed themselves, Set her free, and sent her home– The curse was meant to kill, so she'd always be alone– instead , she rose above the world, to sit upon the thrown HEr name became an honor, to which it was bestowed, the crown she wore upon her head, To show the curse had broken. –C'cxell Soleïl Azul Monroe Esha's Life Begins to Change drastically and rapidly, once the blood oath is set– PATRICK Oh, by the way, I've published your book. ESHA I'm Sorry– PATRICK (interjecting) –don't apologize… ESHA CON'T –you w-what? PATRICK This– [Esha gasps in shock.] ESHA How did you– PATRICK The artwork is beautiful– ESHA Patrick–! PATRICK It's your design, of course. ESHA How did you– PATRICK How did I what? ESHA …This was on canvas! PATRICK Was. Now it's the cover of your book. ESHA “My book…” _______ [As the workplace tension rises between Patrick and Esha and a strong romance begins to bloom, however unrequited between them, Patrick begins to return Esha's rejections with practical jokes, which sometimes backfire quite tragically, to Patrick's guilt and shame.] Patrick spits int Esha's Mango Lassi as she completes a task across the room , unseen) (he does this playfully, however and not out of spite, as since their fated intertwining within the blood oath, the two have shared such intimacies that this is only a ‘minor' contamination; they are, after all, bound by blood.) Esha sits back at her desk unwittingly, stirs her Mango lassi with the straw, and takes a sip of the refreshing drink.] ESHA Mm. [Patrick smiles maniically] LILLITH enters, walking past ESHA's desk and glancing at her, stopping short of greeting her, distracted by her refreshment.] LILLITH Ooh! That looks good. Can I try some? ESHA Sure! [Patrick's eyes widen, but he attempts not to react; LILLITH takes a sip.] LILLITH Ooh, that is good. [she takes another sip} [PATRICK keeps his hands in his pockets, biting his tongue, hiding that he is inwardly horrified; he rubs his eyes.] LILLITH yum . Grandma. You've got to try this. VIVIAN, passing by gestures to ESHA, who shrugs nonchalantly and nods a “go ahead” [PATRICK might explode; but he hides it well; VIVIAN Takes a sip.] VIVIAN That is delicious. LILLITH I know, right? VIVIAN Thank you, Esha. LILLITH Yeah, thanks. [Vivian and Lillith walk away; Esha gestures warmly and stirs the drink again, taking another sip before putting it down, looking at Patrick unassumingly, however, somewhat knowingly.] [PATRICK'S nostrils flare, he keeps his hands in his pockets and grimaces] [beat] “Jigsaw” [Patric finishes Esha' Puzzle, then frames it, as a romantic gesture. However, this very explicitly angers her, and she charges him; This is the first time he, or we as the audience has ever seen Esha in a fit of rage, or breaking her usually dry and collected composure. She enters his office, infuriated She smashes the framed puzzle across his desk; the puzzle and glass shatter, scattering impressively in an explosion of glass, wood shards, and puzzle pieces. PATRICK Good morning! ESHA You FINISHED MY PUZZLE. PATRICK –I thought you'd like that ESHA –YOU– [She begins throwing things off of Patrick's desk; starting with an awards trophy which appears to be an Oscar, then launching his bobble heads and finally, hulk smashing the cappuccino machine. PATRICK WOAH! ESHA –I WAS WORKING ON THE END FOR MONTHS. [She continues to destroy his office.] PATRICK HEY–wait, really? ESHA YES. PATRICK …It was so simple… [He has never witnessed this side of Esha before, and despite the destruction is quite amused. He snickers.] ESHA THIS IS FUNNY TO YOU? [Patrick sips his drink.] PATRICK I guess you could say i'm “puzzled” ESHA AGH [HULK SMASHES CAPPUCCINO MACHINE, as it is the last thing on his desk.] PATRICK OK?! [ESHA more satisfied/calmly pours out the remainder of his coffee; Now he's at the very least kind of upset. He sighs; She exits calmly.] VIVIAN peeks into the office as she passes ESHA exiting the doorway; a small crowd has gathered to gawk, but for the most part it's ‘business as usual', with most of the team assuming PATRICK has simply been up to his tendencies; In fact, he has, however, His relationship with ESHA has become quite complex, as due to his marriage and family, ESHA's continual rejection of his romantic sentiments, despite their explicit interminglings has left him befuddled, and consistently strategizing a way to earn her trust, as she seems an impenetrable wall, and hides a certain mysterious darkness. lol , Eli Scruggs, Man. Man, I wish. I love this scene though. LATER Eshareturns to her new home (an incredible modified loft in midtown, with a cast iron spiral staircase, stained windows, exposed brick, and exotic wood floors; Oh yeah, cause that one part where VICTOR You burned down her house? PATRCICK I bought it, first. And Insured it. VICTOR Woah. PATRICK Well, it was already insured. Lol damn this dude is a boss. Yeap. Fallon couldn't handle this. Nope. So who plays Esha? Idk. Some pretty light skinned girl. How light skinned. Light skinned enough to be an ingenue. Is she the ingenue? Almost. Kind of. Wtf. right . [Everything at first looks normal, until she reaches the downstairs bathroom/washroom door to find it closed (which is unusual She nervously looks abround, then notices under the door, one single puzzle piece – she opens the door; an avalanche of puzzle pieces falls to her feet; the entire room is filled floor to ceiling with puzzle pieces. EARLIER: Patrick sits in the rafters/air conditioning vent with a shop vacuum (in reverse) full of puzzle pieces, (a vacuum he has ‘borrowed' from the studio from the prop room of a show in which contestants are put into a translucent box to attempt to grab money as it flies into the air) He fills her entire washroom with the pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle Esha, who neither appears to be angry or otherwise, hauls the pieces out in large garbage bags, , then carrying them into the master loft, a two-level space in which the lower level houses her art studio, where she finds a giant frame hanging from the roof on suspension chains; The camera pans outward with ESHA center, within this giant frame, creating in itself a picturesque vision, herself a painted picture, as she sorts through the pieces atop her bed Now I have your eyes, And you have mine We are we n The mind of The Eye This bond surpass Any test of time I am I now sign it. Uhhh.. Oh, th taste of tears To be bound by blood The cure of the oath The blessing of both Oneess [Patrick's children are somewhat all like him in some way; Effectively, they are hilarious? PATRICK This one does tricks. See! Hazel! Hazel is so effin cute. I know huh. She's like Sally Draper + Sally Draper ++ Goddamn. Yeah. Cute. Woah. Right. Anyway. HAZEL Huh. PATRICK Do a backflip. HAZEL Ok, daddy. [HAZEL attempts a backflip, but fails.] PATRICK. Fuck. [Face down, waves her arm as if to signal “i'm alright”, but clearly is inured.] PATRICK (taking a drink) Call the paramedic, HAZEL I'm okay, though! [She lifts her head up and appears shaken, however smiling–her eyes welted and nose running.] I'm okay. PATRICK No, bab, don't– HAZEL (cracking her neck) I'm okay. PATRICK Don't–your neck… HAZEL (walking it off, sighing) I'm okay, daddy. PATRICK Maybe just the chiropractor. Oh, My God Is it Esha n this scene? I can't remember if it's Esha or the nanny. Did he not fuck the therapist? I mean, that's later. Is it? I guess. Continuity. Whatever. We are as one The Mind of the Eye The Divinity of One. JOHN SLATTERY as THE MAYOR OF Which place idk Lol this dude is forreal always a politician. He looks like a politician. Look. MAYOR OF NY I think we may have found something of yours… [INT. JFK AIRPORT. NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK, DAY.] MAYOR OF LA Where? MAYOR OF NEW YORK The airport. MAYOR OF LA Which airport. MAYOR OF NEW YORK JFK MAYOR OF LA I need you to ground that plane. MAYOR OF NEW YORK How? MAYOR OF LA By Any Means Nessesary. Lol that's it. Yup. Then it just ends. I fucking guess. I guess! Lol She is beautiful Eyes of oceans Eyes of oceans Eyes of oceans Dear God, Bring us together so that we shall prosper- in spirit, in body, in mind, and soul, as one, as we are Love, The Divine We are not alike, we are the same Please God bring me to life so that I ma meet the father of m future children, so that I might overcome poverty, find success, and great happiness, so that I can complete my journey of creating a family, to give birth to and raise more children, in a new and happy hope and marriage. Amen. As the sun draws upon my window at this hour, I call upon the dawning of a new eero of love, light and happiness, for all that I am and all who enter my presence, look upon me, know my artforms, or take part in my honor, the many plentiful endeavors and endowments of the great and holy divine, God almighty Amen C'cxell Soleïl Azul Monroe I thank you and humbly ask for you Great and Divine, Honorable protection, my dear lord, so that I might only know love, happiness, success, and great praise. Okay, so i did very briefly shapeshift into Steve Bucemi last night. Are you certain? I– [THE MAN IN THE MIRROR is STEVE BUCEMI] …whatever. I'm going back to bed. I'd highly recommend that. You can't forget a face like that. On that note, I think i'm into crustpunks. You want. I–oh yeah. Yes? Yes, please. GODDAMMIT. What. It's this stupid game. I can't get out of this effin trap. Oh. “oh” Have you tried, like– Tried like, what? I've tried everything. Just hit ‘escape' What? That's not gonna work. Have you tried it? No, that's stupid. You said you tried everything. Yeah, but that's–0 Just try it. GET UP, DILLON FRANCIS. GodDAMMIT. He's out cold. I'm not! i'm getting up. Jesus Christ, dawg. How are yout this much of a fuckin wook. I'm not “wook” You ARE wook. Jesus. Jesus is here. How are you more of a wook than Jimmy Fallon? That dude is like ancient. I'm not wook. You are wook. meanwhile WEEKEND UPDATE returns with a not-safe-for-work-or-TV Special. Oh no. Is that why SHH. SHUT UP. OH, YEAH, iT'S ON MOTHAFUCKA Dude. you can't wear suits to a rave like that. CAN uhm , CAN. Wtf man. Apparently, all the late night guys are like in competition with eachother. DUH. Even the dudes that are on the same network. DUH. Christ, kid, you are sloooooooooowwww. ….-_- which Seth are you again? The important one. Whatever. Just get Jon Stewart the fuck out of here before *michielf* Fucking christ. So wait, this is This is everybody. Can you explain to me why I blacked out on top of my kitchen table this morning? I can't actually explain that, no. SETH MEYERS (sipping coffee) Well, I can. UGH. AIGH. OHOKAY. UNCLE. UNCLE!!! AAAAAAHHHHAAAAA. Damn, you know it's gotta be close to th end if we've over here got [JIMMY FALLON at a RAVE ] Oh no. That can't be right. No, i can't do that . No one will recognize Chill, it's fan-fiction So you're a fan, then. No. But i'm sure you have them, somewhere. Aha. Ha. JIMMY FALLON'S #1 Fan Besides his– LET'S SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT THAT, FOR NOW, OKAY. I will never, literally ever let you live that down. Shut up, clever. SHut your face. IT wa the aliens, okay! Aliens. BEFORE: [Aliens] Who, what, him? {Jimmy Fallon} JUICE. OKay. Wtf, what the everliving fuck is that? Captain Hook REmix of Psychic Experence Breaks down reaeeeeal hard at around 4:30 What the fuck do they want with Fallon?! I don't know Is that him Yep. Delicious. Oh shit. The purple people eaters are back. WHAT. WHY. CAuse their lunch got away. WE LIKE HIM. Ah. Alright. I CAN'T DO THAT. What do you mean, “you can't do that” I can't do any of that! I'm on ice cream. Oh shit, he's on ice cream. MAYA RUDOLPH. DId someone say OH —------, THEY'RE BACK ICE CREAM?! Sorry, i didn't do this on purpos– COSMIC AVENGER –but I did. Fuck. Someone go fuckin get that guy before he ROCK KESHA! KESHA! KITE. Hey, look–I am so–so sorry about this… Whatever. It's not my fault. It was like this “Jimmy Fallon” was following me everywhere. WHAT. You thought i made that up?! THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED. DUH. WTF. It's you again. IT's me again. Where is What. Where's what. Where's Wolf? Somewhere, I'm sure. Don't worry, yo. I'm sure it's not the real Jimmy Fallon; They're jus using him to implant my brain waves with leftist doctrine. Did you say ‘doctorate'? And also, sapiosexuality. “The Seven Souls of Sai The Saige” Sai and Psy The Saige are two halves of one; Counterparts, opposites, in fact— I don't want to do this anymore… I could feel the bags form under my eyes, the bath was run and I was due to release at least one episode today, but was rather being persuade to hard release, as I had intended; multi-part episodes recorded before I had fallen into silence, after another attack–a spiritual attack, which had left me in a raging bout of suicide and uncertainty–uncertainty, that is, as to whether the human race could be reclaimed from evil at all–as no one seemed to care for spirit or justice more than I, and however true it might have seemed, I was probably wrong, and for whatever reason, just trapped amongst these animals for whatever reason–perhaps to convey this message, that love would triumph over hate; but how could i preach such things now feeling another–it was as if I had been beaten or raped with no way at all to retaliate on my attacker, and still threatened by this force, some motorist who tore up and down my block at all hours, ripping me from the delicate rest I so craved and needed, as if it were the force which had destroyed all mankind itself, a reminder I should so when I wish, leave the world. There were no words left, only music, and no reason to speak, would the words fall upon deaf ears. Mankind as a whole had rotted to its core. Even days later, stil my chest ached, and my breathing shallow–the pain having torn through my heart not once now, but twice–I knew it was an intentional attack, whoever by, protected by evil itself. “How White Supremacy and Privalege are Ruining The Entertainment Industry” An article i'll never write because of terrorists By Whoever, just kill me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2019-2024 | THE COMPLEX COLLECTIVE. © ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -Ū.

I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianary people and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. EMMA WATSON Okay, what do I do? I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit when picking it up, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shamed me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the ‘world's most beautiful women' were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? AAAAANNNDRD—WE'RE BACK. Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition almost unattainable to the common workforce, my food stamps never enough to actually supplement a full month of food—whole food veganism which would allow me to train for at least an hour a day to sustain clean energy, and of course, water in order to stay hydrated in doing so — I was getting better at keeping what I needed in stock, but almost always needed to run to a food bank at least once a week, hoping that I would collect there things I actually could eat, rather than processed junk my body no longer saw as food at all. I peeled a mandarin into the watered down oats mixture and was worried that the dried cranberries I would pour over the top would be too much sugar, but I almost didn't care; I was on the verge of tears, and some evil, penetrating force had been altering my sleep patterns, my heartbeat, and my dreams—there was some group of motorcyclists who for months had been circling at any given time, and though some might have been able to ignore the roaring and awful vibrations of such, I could not—these motorists seemed to rip through my heart and up my spine like a serrated knife, a gesture that indeed noted that it was some evil or devilish, demonic force, as when in relax and meditation I often pondered with his, these striking forces would come, often creating a wave of fear, anxiety, and worry—terrorism, by definition, and disturbance of the peace, it was—but nobody seemed to care that it was pain for me, in fact, the more I began to wonder what or why it was, the more it became clear that this was intention to hurt or kill me, whether by an organization of some sort, or simply the force of evil itself against the divine I had become, not with intention at all, but in seeking my own freedom from such a world as cruel and unjust as I had come. My neighbors had lodged an impressive amount of complaints against me for smudging—and it was 36 complaints before I had even been made aware that my neighbors were trying to get rid of me; not once had a note been left on my door, or had I been approached by them In the hallway to ask that I not use smudge—then again, sometimes as whites were, they were more concerned about themselves and their dogs than whatever might have been the cause of such heavy saging occurring—the motorcycles at all hours tearing through my heart, the slamming doors, the sound of their televisions or voices penetrating through my walls— the unwelcoming energy which at all times I was surrounded by, and though I loved New York, 3 stories above the ground floor and on the border of queens was simply not far enough away from the Godlessness of the cursed and usually dark others, whom could not understand the conciousness I had drawn from the long fasts, prayers, and summonings I had done in order to free myself from the force that had done away with me to begin with—my deep love for the man with whom I had fathered my sons, and a daughter, the two of the three were gone, though I had seen so that if I had not lost my daughter and my son, I would probably still be with their father, in attempting to give them a family—another poor, single, black woman and mother, I was now willing to be to my son, but was not; I had forgiven his father, however, it seemed some sort of curse he had done in my departure was still in effect, the demons he had called onto me not called off—and even in the reflection of my own self and flaws upon entetering such a relationship—the other things had been inherited from him; the homelessness, the toxicity and mismanagement of energy—however, my lack of control over time, I realized early on, had been inherited from my mother, who was more like my ex husband and her own abusive father than I ever was. I wanted bread, but could not dare; J[r was 6 ft tall, and for some reason, that bothered me more than anything else I had learned about him, for some bizzarre reason almost suddenly obsessed with the public figure, though at first the dollar project had been more of a game than the actual idea, and the festival project itself was at all but a halt, as I wanted and needed desperately to comb through my documents at once, but could never seem to— the metaphors of Natural's Basement drawing upon me as I realized that perhaps, I was too emotional about its contents to properly sort through them—atop this concern, was the concern that my body, though fitting quite nicely into an extra extra small pair of racer lined jockey style workout leggings, was still too large to be though of as ideal—ideal, which for a man 6 feet apparently was, according to Ali and the others, and though I had pretty much always hated Fallon from early on, always breaking fourth wall and blowing my mind coming from such a strong theatre background that someone like that could have ever been awarded a coveted spot on such a legendary show, it had been gathered somewhere that his audition was flawless, however—his second audition, according to Tina Fey, who I loved, maybe even more after learning that she had been given such a unique name, and had won almost every award I could possibly think to covet, although however much a writer I was, an actor and comic I was not, in that I had given up my own craft years before being fat or being black was ever in style—and now that it was, I had no reason to believe that at 31, while Tyla was 22, as was Billie Ellish, I had any business in even trying to make it in entertainment— I began preparing to die almost as readily as ever, deciding upon eviction, rather than fighting it and returning to the intake shelter in the Bronx to start the process again, I would simply jump either off my own building, hoping 12 stories would be enough to actually cause death, rather than just parilization, or find my way to the end of the platform at which the train moved most quickly in preparation to stop at the station, which I had nicknamed “the Jumping Point”—also the name of a pop up dance music club I had summoned up once, actually thinking that something, something at all would bring me close enough to success to actually become the dance music tycoon and entrepreneur that I wanted, however—as my hair again grew into a shoveled mess atop my skull, only hidden by a hit which the view wouldn't allow as an audience member, the only thing which might have kept me from going at all, besides my lack of knowing what to wear or just the daunting crises of having no money at all almost a shameful mark across my face— my nails for nearly a year undone, and of course— everything I knew that needed to be done, almost stuck and unable to move forward, my divorce papers included, another mark of the devil, as I had already done the paperwork 3 times, spending atrocious amounts of money in the process, of course, for all of them to be sent back, for some reason or another, and the case to still be opened without being shut—and at least it was opened… As tears began to well up into my eyeballs, in thinking perhaps I truly was cursed, that the law was for whatever reason on all of my abuser's sides, and that I was doomed to become lost in this endless cycle of loss and pain for some reason or another, that became the task at hand—to, for what was either the third or fourth actual time, file for divorce, and to be rid of my abuser for good, the fate of my son at the crossroads of my wealth, or even better yet, at the very least securing a job, where I was no longer haunted by the massive work I had done on the festival project, or by, as I had once been, followed by some Jimmy Fallon doppleganger— an experience I had nearly forgotten. However, as I reflected upon all of the jobs I had in the years I was homeless, they all had one thing in common—horrible bosses, doppelgängers of people I loved or had written about—and toxic working conditions, in addition to extremely low wages and unconscious coworkers, with the exception of few, whom I kept in my heart and still loved—did I love Jimmy Fallon? As a fan, or an admirer of his portfolio, his presence to me simply only existing in clips and montages from the confines of my memory of all that I could draw from him—an impossible suitor, I found myself to be more in admiration and awe of his work as a comic, a host, his apparent professionalism and stage presence, all of which none surrounding him could doubted and which had given birth to my own re-entry into screenwriting anything besides enter the multiverse/and yet I wondered//what for, besides as to stand as a perfect example of what would and could draw the masses and stand as an acceptable and inexplicable mark for perfection—a television personality, all of which stood to be hidden in such, a person, none whom could ever know behind the likes of such, a camera, an audience, and the propagation of the ideas and words of the media would want to portray in such programming as to remain in control in one way or another, of the audience's minds, and therefore, the viewers hearts, and souls—commanding a presence within the collective consciousness, dependent of course on said viewer's own ability to draw from those things, what was actually being said and done. That, in itself, was The Illuminati in its process. Alright, so—a Jimmy Fallon is an extremely powerful magician, right? Obviously. So he must have talismans, somewhere, then—right? Yeah, I guess, but— I certainly wasn't willing to look. Look, I already know what he likes. Geez, how long have you had his eyes? Long time. I'm gonna get in so much trouble. You are trouble. What is the point of this redaction ? It's just acting! It's just acting! Look, whatever I just did with Fallon, just put him in The Winner's Circle, okay? I'll never see that dude again. Thank God it's over. Synesthesia Attack! AHHHHHHHHH. Well, sorry Jimmy— Thank your parents; They're geniuses. Stay away from me, your crazy bitch! Okay. ‍♀️ FUCK! There it is again! What?! Too deep, too deep! This is deep, boss— I don't know what I just read. Medicine man Would you give me a hand with this I need some medicine quick (Cause I can't with this) Medicine man Need a can of some laugher I heard that's the medicine Medicine man Medicine man could you give me a Hand with this man It's just damages I need some aspirin But imm I'm better off dead Than over the counter It's just damages Something like that Rip Minnie ripperton I knew you were gone But not that gone Not gone like that I just had to know, Now I'm 9 years old But I can't do the math Not at all, Not at all I'm so over it, actually My goals are abandoned I can't trust the man in the television I haven't remembered an image this Disasterous since It was my family picture Without me in it! Damn! Fuck, Now I gotta finish this whole maya rudolph timeline this shit just keeps getting deeper and deeper. Hey. You. What the fuck, man. Come here. No! Yes, Maya! Yes! Mm. Vanilla ice cream is sounding Like The best. Just plain, regular— Just “vanilla” Just vanilla bean—ice cream. Uh. Uh. Woah Where the fuck are we Where the hell are we Where are we GOING Woah, What does the man with the van do Domino sugar Kellogg When you get off the All the good days are gone And I've sent you on right back But I will still love you I was just thinking of that thing You never said But I will still love you When you get off the ground level Just for a minute and Find yourself a revolving door Only to find That the world revolves around you And if all the world's a stage, Then all the world is full of actors And all the trains are out of order And all the walk is out of water You're just another Meant to suffer So you did again And you did this again And you did it On camera Cause if you asked, Then they would have said no anyway And if it was a hall pass I wouldn't have been as flattered To have Never Even left the apartment I asked for something new And what do you know How does God do, On the day of the dead Cause That's where I went Every chair costs and thing, You know Every couch costs a fortune And you would have been On the couch, still Cause you can't get a job With the punches he dealt you Who designed 111 Murray? I see what you're on about All out of automotive Misery and mystical mistresses Misdirection, misrepresentations and. —mister you're into some sinister shit, But I pictured it different Consider it rhythm your interest is simmering in Glistening instances dancing as angels in my headaches Dressed as construction workers Any difference it makes it's latent, Simple Listen into signals intercepting into intermission Admissions of omissions and redactions Oh to be your forever The Masterful mystic is at it again Fly Peter Pan, Fly! Go Jimmy-O, Go! Get Carson, Get! Alright, this dude has the coolest job in the world. Nice. He must have died. (With a lisp) He's on ice cream. What. Yep. Yesth. Watch out It's the bad touch With the good guy And a late night On a long couch Try the dad jokes And the slap stick That's a good job And a big dick Oops What a career, For a carrier pigeon [You can't be serious with this, esh] This cant be infinite, is it? But it is Forget to explain it all Over the ante, that Oh God, For the sake of the art Dear God, Nancy— You're the luckiest lady alive The guy The dimples The eyes The life The style The slide Can I die, yet? Can I just lay down and cry yet? I might, It's way after midnight I like the sound of a bullet touch A stolen cheek The subtle rush of a Sudden fling The market price Of a custom ring, The song I wrote Or the poems you sing So please don't leave the TV On You're sleeping with a blonde I've got my mind on dying mine bright as The title 1985 to idol eyes On American idol Calm the cold down Stalk the mirror Here and here Both clear and near Is here and Bearr, But everywhere else is just— Suicidal. (I don't want your dick, I just want your job.) Now, Call Carson up Says The curse in reverse Is Osmosis Joneing To watch this show Not to know you Go home Or go figure Go gold If the goal was just Taylor Then I'll see you later Amen Don't forget to pray away the day You've just created Hand to mouth Here's a heavenly house And the mouse just shaking Take down the stairs It's starting to scare me The dare On the heron, heroin Heroine mare for the Mayor Okay, here's the player The game is This disfigured imbicile, Ignorant Indians Indifferent indegenous Genius, without a friend Or penis, Without a name of Species to befriend In pieces Once again, I said I loved him So it makes sense if it is A glimpse at the pictures A get together with friends A spectacular special, And get this Creative intelligence Intellect, individual inception Attention deficit and Genetic attraction Damn, That's a handsome man Now, how can I have that? The Title— The title of show As if That demographic Would laugh At a black man I must be Cause trust me My pants don't come in Half sizes It must be a sign from the heavens I've just had my time done with and over It's done Suddenly, I was angry… Don't eat in bed. Don't tell me what to do. (I really don't like eating in bed…) Fuck it, it's too late. Not at myself, not at Jimmy Fallon— but angry. The astonishing part about it was, I didn't even know why. Well, first of all, I just sat through an hour and a half special, and I have realized that I am not a fan of this guy. No? No. I like his face. Huh. He's the right body type. Wait. Good hair. Uh huh. Long, weird nostrils. What. That is a nice nose. Yeah. It's aviary. I get that. And— Wait. What is it? Was I just— I was a very sad, very fat very broken 18-year-old girl. Oh great, this again. Always this. A married man. How could you? I couldn't! Didn't I made that clear! What. He seems happy. Yeah, on TV. He looks fine That's his job. —and goddammit, he's good at it? —and goddammit, he's good at it! 14 Faces, Lewis Del Mar Okay, it's pretty safe to say that is not just one guy. -Su. Come on, Jim. Why?! What?! I can't! My parents! These are not your parents! What?! What do you mean?! I'll explain later— —what?! Look! That's my mom— And that's my dad! That is not correct. Oh, I get it— What. What happened. So he's like— An old soul, right? Kind of. Yes. Not that old. Old, though. Suddenly, the anger turned to sadness, and tears welled up in my eyes— No, don't you dare shed a tear over that man. What are you? Once, an obedient lap dog, Now poised and poached over me, A gargoyle, though picturesque and statuesque As if drawn from an angel, The guardian of the night, Who watches over my heart, Calms the raging rivers of my wishes, Set boats to my dreams, Blows wind to my sail, A bassinet of hope Really dog, Jimmy Fallon? I don't know. I don't know. It was too late, I was already in love— But at a safe enough distance that it had become, in its own way, a guardianship of sorts—and it had run deep enough cut, but not scar, and even perhaps bumped up enough against my heart to bruise, but not be broken; I would have to let it run its course, and as it would, I would for show go everywhere I could within that realm; I simply could not be trusted, in my own mind, not to bond with such that had found me in the dreamworld. In the spiritual realms of such remained only as hidden as they each had been, out of sight, but ne'er out of touch, or out of mind. A strange but hearty love, a burden, as were the others—and so I knew it was good, but mine alone, left to wilt, withered and weathered as the time drew on. A quilted touch, a wandering whisper To glassy eyes and hunted hearts A crossbow, arrows sigh and wonder The target marked, a sign of stone Bewildered, the beast of burden Fury, upon the alter Aware, agape, agahst Above you, Wallowing in holy grave and matrimony Sermon psalm, clary sage Simple words, Semper, the sound I suffer not to know you; A kindness Dog's paw atop a stolen mantle Pray you, I Hear now, this; To love is but a service I shall keep to own a desire, So shed upon the willow, to weep Forgiveness, over ye Cherished gentleman DAMN. Who the FUCK are you. Wordless warrior, Come now, The hour of desire strikes with night And hallow tide, The idol, Set to barrow, Barron wonder— Seek now your truth; I give not one but two Of all you prey, Of Ayer, amber, Silver, set upon a stone Casket of crowns, preach thee Pray you I, gathered now These in here, We are above, That is also below you I'm gonna need some time with you. Great. Now I have to be perfect. So be perfect then. Fine. Great wind, Fall upon us; So sweet with will that I, Ye, a mere stone, might stand What. Jimmy Fallon?! I… Yeah! ‍♀️ DEADMAU5 It's okay. I can handle it. [JIMMY FALLON GETS SCRAPED.] F*CK. I GOT YOU NOW, MOTHERFUCKER. Oh my God! It's Pat Kirkpatrick! Oh great, so he's some sort of Diety, I guess. Lesson 1: Continuity. Lesson 2: Continuity, Lesson 3: Continuity —isn't that all just— Continuity. yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss—- I'm a DJ, BITCH. YO, LESSON ONE: You're not the professor. I'm the GURU. This the dojo! Uh. No. You're not. I AM. Where's Jimmy Fallon? Yo, FUCK JIMMY FALLON, alright. He's possessed— What?! Oh NO. Who possessed him?! My ex husband. I'M THE SENSEI NOW. SENRAO fuck. Where the fuck is this kid? Dead. DEAD? Mm. Presumably. Mmhmm. wtf, who are you? Woke up with Dillon Francis in my head— “I'm my only friend” I don't even like that song, it just gets stuck in my head. Apparently Emma Watson wants to know what to do in the festival project. I still don't know. My ex went to Golden Corral to cheat on me, then got sick from pizza; I got some kind of job at a weird party place for kids; the dude was weird and only hired non bianarynpeople and dudes; I left to help my friends who were getting married with car trouble. Lol Emma Watson though, was like— “Okay, what do I do?” I was like, I don't know. Then I woke up. I was starting to develop scabs in my ears from alternating between headphones and earplugs, which couldn't have been good—I needed to work, and was disasterously fat, however, toned, and I assumed that the extra weight had come from muscle. My legs were smooth, and all of the clothes I had picked up along my walk fit—all extra smalls and smalls, which included even a tiny bralette I was certain would fit, and it did—I only wondered what the world might be like after a panniculectomy—though my thighs seemed massive and I was certainly bloated, opting for less running and more lifting until my energy recovered, I was still anywhere between a size 4 and 5, sometimes a 6–which did kind of rather shame me in all of the ways that it could—6 was much greater than 2–and those praised as the world's most beautiful women were anywhere between 00 and 2; I wasn't sure where I was going to move my thighs or my arse to, but I was determined to be celebrity skinny—even without the added bonus of actually being a celebrity, and however oddly enough with the star studded dreams I had been having, there seemed somehow still some kind of hope, though even if in the next life, that I would become into a world of my dreams. It was the anniversary of my son's death—he would have now been 9, and I often was drawn to remember him walking about New York—seeing beautiful children about with long hair, and beautiful brown skin, with eyes like mine, moon shaped and dark…I began to softly weep as I remembered how beautiful he was, and that I had no pictures of him at all. It was better that way, really—the hurt that had come from holding on was too great—and yet, subtle reminders, in the way that sometimes, however music would just come to me, there was my boy; he loved my guitar, and the sound of my voice as I would sing, and had even once, just before his death, tried to sing along, as I clamored about the house, singing Seven + Mary—which he seemed to like enough that he found the need to make his way over to the table to get my attention, and sing with me. Back in my current reality, the overall bored of the shower running and my demon neighbors slamming things around angrily as if something was wrong, shaking the building brought me back to the monotonous world, morning coffee over the toilet quite remincent of Lyndon B. Johnson, the morning sifting through my Google documents for Emma Watson and John Slattery part of my morning report— and though I was due in the gym, there was nothing I wanted less than to go anybody or see anything at all—everything was just a reminder of my apparent “living hand to mouth”, and the more I kept on dreaming and writing of these people, the more grandiose and and delusional I felt—I had just been blindsided in court by my ex's attempt to discredit my ask for a protective order against him by using my mental health in the wake of his physical violence and our sons death, against me in such a way that the victory, the judge's granting of my protection against him, was still pyrrhic in such a way that I didn't feel so much protected, as he had lodged his way into my dreams once more just to cheat on me—though however had been twarted in doing so, by some particularly sour Golden Corral pizza, and the young girl accompanying him quite receptive to the speech I had given her on karmic justice. Strangely enough, the dream almost appeared as in my favor, that things were changing, and yet—I still didn't like to see him or think of him at all, and luckily enough, it was Emma Watson who had intercepted this sort of nightmare with the conjecture that I should keep writing, however with an American accent, which only forced me to wonder, if perhaps, too she had become some sort of Cosmic Avenger—or even so, as written, was JK Rowling in disguise as the actress playing her own character, some kind of magician's practitioner —who had herself been for some time one of my living spirit guides since childhood—finding as I grew older for us to be more alike than not, especially as a writer. I stepped into the shower, still writing, and without the amount of coffee I really needed to move more quickly, but still in some sort of stupor— ‘I should probably get out of here.' Another day trapped indoors would simply be unhealthy, however I hadn't the slightest idea where I might go. Wherever it was, I would take my guitar—and at the very least—I knew which direction Manhattan was, anyway. ‘Fuck, I gotta find that episode with the earthquake…' BEFORE: ugh , where to begin? Let's just start with– LADY GAGA aka GAGA has been tasked with strategically marking the grid with Various entrance and exit points; a job which she has tak quite seriously, and honorably. Okay, moving forward . You're not going to expand on that? No, next thing. HARRY POTTER, HERMIONE GRANGER Wait– What. Wouldn't it be HERMIONE WEASELEY Did they not get a divorce? I heard that. That just sounds dumb, I'm not writing that. That is dumb.. Anyway. HARRY POTTER, HERMI– Fuck it. HARRY, HERMIONE, AND RON have accidentally shifted dimensions and into the bodies of their real-life counterpart, DANIEL RADCLIFFE, EMMA WATSON, AND RUPERT GRINT Oh damn. I finally found something cool for Emma Watson to do. That is cool. SUPACREE I need you to read all these, and watch all this. SUPACREE leaves the three magicless, frietenghned, and shocked– –flabbergasted– what . They're English, they should be flabbergasted. [They are Flabbergassted] Wait, go back? I can't. I Have a hard time writing action scenes why ? Cause i'm not getting any. Lol : (Holy shit, that is probably why tho.) Erase. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? It wasn't good. HOW DO YOU KNOW?! *shrugs* !?!- ::||pause. ok . So that dude from Drake and Josh is in all these episodes, but we only get one Harry Potter Episode? …He seems less busy. –Don't forget Jimmy Fallon. Yeah, I still don't get that. Neither do I? Why is he even in this? [Watching Saturday Night Live} JIMMY FALLON! Why Is he even in This? ? ? Fuck it, next thing. gaga Yeus. What are you doing? Hm. Mm…working on something. If I stand quietly at the door, and await you; Will you come to me, And and open it, to let me in To see the gate you keep Let's read between the lines; You weep for me and deep into my dreams Then see me in the streets, and think “It cannot be the she for me; Maybe, if she were pretty.” Don't look into my eyes (I despise you! I delicately delight you Despite the never having time to Now I'm desperate just to find you In a life I left behind And drew a line though RATATA & TATTATA I wrote this story years ago. Are you going to listen to the album? I already did that. YOU GOTTA LISTEN TO THE NO. And I don't expect Skrillex to listen to this, either. It's over. It's over It's over It's over. I LOOOOOOVE HER TIMMY TURNERS NEW BALANCE TENNIS SHOES TAP SWIFTLY ACROSS THE PAVEMENT AS HE RUNS FOR HIS LIFE Well, that is a good place to start—thanks Emma Watson. Captain. Oh shit, what's SHE like? I don't know, isn't she like, irl an American diplomat? Uhhh—aren't you? No. Now hurry, we gotta do this before Jimmy Fallon shows up and [JIMMY FALLON SHOWS UP] Ugh. Why is he even in this? What is this? I don't know. It's “Poetry” An album. A couple of movies. Some TV shows. Will this suffice? I don't know… Enter that one scene here with John Slattery? Which scene with John Slattery? You're right. I have been writing for John Slattery a lot. Bipolar disprder and other multidimensional preceptory functions could more likely be reclassified from a disease to a hypersensitivity to energy which one does not identify as belonging to oneself, which therefore counteracts within the mind's ability to alter or project and/or maintain balance in one's mood, as certain energies may be ‘absorbed' empathically or observed as a negative or draining energy; An elevated sense or shift due to the overstimulation of energy which the subject may receive as ‘“positive”, or shifting the mood undesirably by the overstimulation of negative sources, sounds, or persons within the subject's realm foreign, undesirable, or unwanted within one's field of energy—a heightened sense of awareness or vibrational field which inhibits or limits the ability to contain or transmute such energies. It is, within its own sense, a sort of elevated mechanism for survival, ie a superpower, given the subjects placement within the proper environment, within the functional vibration of the subjects natural mood or state, whereas, lows may be the subjects own sensitivity to numerous outer sources of negative or prone to certain toxicities to his or her natural state, and highs whereas certain higher vibrational energies result in the conglomerate evolution of such energies as a newer form So, bipolar, you think? I think I don't know what I am, and nobody does—so nothing you give me will ever really fix me, because I was never really broken, or Or? Or I was broken rightfully so in that I should have been treated as a trauma victim, and not the subject of some cruel experimentation as an attempt to assasinate whatever force of nature is actually keeping me alive in the only survival mechanism it's been naturally given to battle the psychopathic standards and expectations of today's society. Fine, very well then. Why is this J. slatts again Cause, I've got a beautiful vocality for narration. Fine, I'll work on that character next, I guess. What?! John Slattery is in this! YES. I guess I have to watch it, then. Collect the actors, again! AGENTS. Ufffghh. MANAGERS Fucking Christ. JOHN SLATTERY (as himself) “I'll do it, “, I said, “but there better be money attached to this project” [Jimmy Fallon enters] JOHN SLATTERY There he is! The man of the hour. JIMMY FALLON This is—probably going to take longer than an hour, I'm betting. JOHN SLATTERY Come, sit. [He sits at the had of a long table] JIHN SLATTERY (CONT'D) I don't know what you did, you fucking idiot, but you did it. JIMMY FALLON Tell me what I did again. CUT TO: [unseen, on the opposite side of the room] Oh shit, that's him; Are you sure? No, that's Patrick. WhT's the difference?! [Like, an entire generational gap of innuendos and pop culture reference.] JOHN SLATTERY Your presence is appreciated. This meeting is now officially in session. {Enter The Multiverse: LEGENDS} [the festival project What is this? Is this Scotch? No! It's apple cider vinegar! Does the trick. I heard you were a Method-ist. No, apparently I'm “the medicine man” It's nearly team But feels like night Nearly forgot what this was like Too many sunny days, no friends Wasted yesterday latent, Impatient creative Heavy workload But you know the rules Overcast clouds say stay, It's a workday Every day is a work day But it ll seems worthless Almost, Amazon, Ten dollars Cold, corrupt and almost Out of water I should be smarter than to call the code I should be smarter then to call him over Going nowhere but up Calling a number, four Number four The hypnotists wish lists What happens at number ten Calling a number up Four days of water left I should have left him as The protagonists, of supporting roles Now number one is number four And number four is often gone The storyline and plot is Two, three— too heavy. Three-two-three Walk away 310, cam the number Hollywood is calling, New York has hospitality, though One, two— Walk away Three, four catch the code Hollywood, turn around New York's got hospitality, though How's Tokyo sound when November rolls around How's Paris now, that were Marlboros on parliament How it all come down Then it all comes down To the three two one Four's nowhere, now I had woken up with an overall feeling that something was wrong—I had overshot my 3 AM target time by 6 hours, realizing of course that I was a day ahead, and that the construction—more drilling and hammering, was out on hold thanks to an apparent oncoming rain, which hadn't come yet— my wavering mental state was apparent in the mess I had left in my room, clothes strewn across the floor and atop the bed, but at least otherwise clean—I had slept dressed, or at least half dressed, a protection stone lodged in my bra, as the necklace I had worn for my son had become somewhat damaged in some way—it was no longer protective, but had somehow defected; probably in the way that his father bearing over him, allowed the stone some sort of portal to be able to invade my dreams with nightmarish hauntings, and I instead opted to keep the necklace aafelu tucked away, until I would be able to give it to him as I had planned. But still, it seemed that the intention of his father was to ruin my life, and see to it so that I may never do well enough to visit my son, and it seemed no matter how hard I tried I would not miss the band. (A magician's hands) I've been watching TV i doubled back, low battery In battery park, I could watch the sun rising I'm so full of worry Of money I wonder What for, is my worth Kelly Clarkson was the cutest thing ever—and sung so freely like a bird like I wished that I could—I remember breaking down in my car after just missing the cut off for entering her show, back in LA—more than likely over the fact that I would be missing a paycheck, rather than missing the show anyway— and I had almost thought to cancel my tickets for the View, had I not been lured by the blue hues of both their outfits—and though I hadn't meant particularly to be associated with the color blue at all, most people associated my name with the color anyway, as I hadn't intended. Nothing was really intended, it had just happened. Whoopie Goldberg's fabulous denim cape forced me to wonder what I might wear the next day, had I decided to actually go—the colors of my closet mostly black and quite drab, and the denim dress I had acquired as a cleaning person the year before becoming a tired go-to when I needed to look nice. I almost wanted to wear my new Michael Kors stilettos, but was saving them for an actual party, an interview somewhere classy, or worse—my first date—as the anniversary of my cellibacy drew closer by the minute, and my need to continue my reproduction however with someone more fitting began to be the most harrowing thing on my mind, beside possibly returning to a homeless shelter, which I would not allow to happen. My exit strategy was simple, actually—in that if given an eviction notice for whatever reason—my neighbors seemed particularly afflicted as my former boss and lovers, roommates, and others I had become close to in this strange and seemingly cursed world with that thing I could only call a demon, since I didn't know what it was, and I was afraid they'd continue to report smoke coming from my apartment, although now I had been forced to switch to a diffuser with essential oils, taking a chunk out of what I considered my severance pay from The House of Illumination, which had indeed lived up to its namesake—the lesson had been quick, in that working for such a man, whoever he was or at least pretending to be, had taken me off my path, and had begun to dishevel my personal energy so much so that I had actually dropped my wallet—it had been so long since making such a mistake that I knew indeed that something was wrong, however, but needed the money so badly that it didn't matter—and besides, nothing could be so horrible as was my mother sometimes, growing up—and I had given Natural all that he needed to hurt me in telling the story of my own weight loss journey. Telling, and in return, Natrual was showing that I had given the world the perfect excuse to continue trying to kill me—that perhaps, my time had passed anyway. Kelly Clarkson looked incredible—the last I had seen, she was pleasantly plump, but never bad looking—now, she was. Incredibly veluptumous, and as she stated that she stood at merely 5'3, I was suprised once again that all of the TV people looked either taller or shorter on camera, and wondered what I might look like— I was almost stuck thin about 4 days into a water fast, but appeared and felt large otherwise, and most recently had been more tired and fatigued that ever, outraged that I had been dismissed from my only income in months over nothing, and that the income from anything else I was doing would simply not come at all if I could never wrap my mind around even trying to have it be seen by the right minds, with the right eyes, at the right time—and yet there was another force of evil, seeming always to stop me from the essence of true creation—this thing which had taken away my musical expression almost entirely by now, my sensibility wavering and all of my slayed projects, stagnant. I was craving oats, and had even pre-prepared some, blending them in my magic bullet so that they would be easier to digest—and since Natural had made the suggestion that my BMI was to blame for my lack of focus and attention to detail, it had more been the combination of losing my wallet, having to deal with the public transit, constantly being reminded that Tula, a light skinned African was the music industry's new it-girl, and of course, that my son, now 7, was morbidly obese, probably somewhere discarded like junk under a cloud of cigarette smoke, head deep in a video game and surrounded by idiots—and that no matter how hard I tried to make the money to see him, something awful would happen so that I couldn't, and it became clear that his father's story—whereas I had simply and for no reason “lost my mind” and had abandoned my child, was the story he had told to all those around him, who believed him—that I was the villain in his story, and my son the tool he used to create a sympathetic picture of a loving and struggling father, though now he might have actually been trying, the damage was done; he had sent my son away unable to care for him to my mother, and in the time he was given alone, of course, created another child—all of which of course I wanted, in hopes that the one he had chosen for his new family would have some sort of love an appreciation for my own son, enough to have created a step mother, but alas, was some underwhelming someone with nothing to offer but her own struggle—and I wanted nothing to do but to be gone from this drama, however my own blood had been caught up in it enough so that I could feel it, knowing that at just 7, my son was as sick as I once was, depressed and miserable as the child of a narcicist becomes once the damage is done. I was only eating blended foods, and had become obsessed with being stick thin—celebrity fit, which is how I had found the video at all, my love of Whoopi Goldberg and Kelly Clarkson creating a quick draw, a star studded combination I could not resist, though I wasn't resisting much—I had drifted back into the realms of television and film, my first loves—or rather, my first conscious endeavor, as I had been attracted to the piano from a toddler and learned to play around three, therein my is being my first love, however with a mother like mine and a life like ours, there truly never was one thing I could ever just ‘do', as anything I loved would soon be subjected to be taken away for some reason or another, whether it was a messy room, or just a mood swing—whether or not I wanted to watch lifetime and be best friends, even after a day of being yelled at and scolded for one reason or another—as my mother often seemed to forget ever being cruel after being so, often saying “I would never…” to whatever she had done, a narcissist's mark, in denying actions and words that had only ever been witnessed between the other party and God. I had blended the ancient seed oat bend into a porridge with agave and sautéed apples and pears with cinnamon, and though I felt awful eating more than once, was struggling enough with this bout of depression which working at Temple of Illumination so briefly had caused that it didn't matter at all—coffee was simply not enough, and my Amazon package which would deliver my vitamin supplements and whatever else I had ordered—things I had gotten into the habit of pocketing at the Whole Foods market during my homelessness, but in trying to recover from the spiritually twisted and evil place the homeless system had put me through, I had, with all my might, been insistent on purchasing everything I had needed—and even though it was indeed wrong of the white supremacists movement to have been true health and nutrition al

This week Andrew and Ted sit down to share their SPOILER FREE" thoughts about the Netflix Original "Unfrosted" starring Jerry Seinfeld with repetitive appearances by Jim Gaffigan, Amy Schumer, Max Greenfield, Hugh Grant, and Sarah Cooper. Yet it goes on by having appearances by Christian Slater, James Marsden, Maria Bakalova, Bill Burr, Andy Daly, Rachael Harris, Kyle Dunnigan, Felix Solis, Thomas Lennon, Dan Levy, Jack McBrayer, Peter Dinklage, Jon Hamm, Dean Norris, Mikey Day, John Slattery, Bobby Moynihan, Sarah Burns, Beck Bennett, Cedric the Entertainer, Fred Armisen, Sebastian Maniscalco, Kyle Mooney, Tony Hale, and the list goes on and on. Lets just say a lot of comedic actors made payments toward their SAG/AFTRA health benefit contribution after this movie. You ask ... What is this movie about? Let me tell you! It's a fictitious account of the race between Kelloggs and Post to develop what is known today as the Pop Tart. That's it. So tune into see what Andrew and Ted thought about "Unfrosted".

Briscoe and Green investigate a socialite who fell into an insulin-induced coma, even though she's not diabetic. David Moore says he was helping her commit suicide, but the detectives learn the couple are part of a group who get off on a kink called “necrophilia without tears.” Moore injects his wife with insulin to paralyze her so he can have sex with her frozen body.McCoy and Carmichael charge the husband with attempted murder, but become suspicious of Mrs. Moore's step-daughter and her doctor (John Slattery). In a plot to take her fortune, they'd been spiking the insulin with another drug to convince her she was dying and should end her own suffering.  We're talking about Law & Order season 10 episode 23 “Stiff.” Our guest from this May 8, 2019 episode is Dr. Kelly Jones from the Still Pretty and Awegasm podcasts.This episode is inspired by the case of Claus and Sunny von Bülow. New episodes of "These Are Their Stories" will return on July 10. Stay subscribed for great content.

Well, this week, we're hitting you with a MAMMOTH @EchoChamberFP https://www.instagram.com/echochamberfp/ it's a 'THREE Parter' baby!!! In 'Part ONE' we check the end of Escape Artists, Eagle Pictures & Sony Pictures Releasing action trilogy. There are two Australian joints, a heist tale from Sparke Films Productions & Rialto Distribution and a pared back sci-fi from Bonsai Films, XYZ Films, Blue Finch Films & Well Go USA Entertainment. We also get the story of the Pop-Tart via Netflix. PLUS, a heart jerking drama from Anti-Worlds Releasing, Alpha Violet & Vertigo Releasing. In 'Part One' we have: The Equalizer 3 Watch Review: Here. https://youtu.be/VjCNWBJquns Rome, World Premiere: 28th August 2023 Theatrical Release Date: 1st September 2023 US Digital Release Date: 1st January 2024 UK Digital Release Date: 3rd May 2024 Director: Antoine Fuqua Cast: Denzel Washington, Dakota Fanning, Eugenio Mastrandrea, David Denman, Gaia Scodellaro, Remo Girone, Andrea Scarduzio, Andrea Dodero, Daniele Perrone, Dea Lanzaro, Sonia Ben Ammar, Bruno Bilotta, Salvatore Ruocco, Alessandro Pess Running Time: 108 min Cert: 15 Trailer: Here. https://youtu.be/19ikl8vy4zs?si=EjQhn2XSedELfatw ---------------- Bring Him to Me Watch Review: Here. https://youtu.be/oHH1x5JsAsQ Oz Theatrical Release Date: 2nd November 2023 US Theatrical Release Date: 19th January 2024 US Digital Release Date: 19th January 2024 UK Digital Release Date: 3rd May 2024 Director: Luke Sparke Cast: Barry Pepper, Jamie Costa, Liam McIntyre, Zac Garred, Bryan Jennings Brower, Sam Neill, Rachel Griffiths, Alex Fleri, Marcus Johnson, Josemily Royle, Allison Frances Boyd, Harrison Irvin, Thomas Pitts Running Time: 96 min Cert: 15 Trailer: Here. https://youtu.be/E5AlSC7Fn-E?si=-nHSAT8atYy2HXSb ---------------- Monolith Watch Review: Here. https://youtu.be/HFaGoYBN5oo Adelaide Film Festival: 27th October 2022 Oz Theatrical Release Date: 26th October 2023 US Theatrical Release Date: 16th February 2024 US Digital Release Date: 16th February 2024 UK Digital Release Date: 4th May 2024 Director: Matt Vesely Cast: Lily Sullivan, Erik Thomson, Kate Box, Terence Crawford, Damon Herriman, Ling Cooper Tang, Ansuya Nathan, Matt Crook, Rashidi Edward, Brigid Zengeni, Belle Kalendra-Harding Running Time: 94 min Cert: 15 Trailer: Here. https://youtu.be/kwuJ4fs2-Fg?si=t9sBqZYwh-IFzSE- Website: Here. https://wellgousa.com/films/monolith ---------------- Unfrosted Watch Review: Here. https://youtu.be/otm6BN_GpYI Digital Release Date: 3rd May 2024 Director: Jerry Seinfeld Cast: Jerry Seinfeld, Melissa McCarthy, Jim Gaffigan, Max Greenfield, Hugh Grant, Amy Schumer, Peter Dinklage, Christian Slater, Bill Burr, Dan Levy, James Marsden, Jack McBrayer, Thomas Lennon, Bobby Moynihan, Adrian Martinez, Sarah Cooper, Mikey Day, Kyle Mooney, Drew Tarver, Tony Hale, Felix Solis, Maria Bakalova, Dean Norris, Kyle Dunnigan, Sebastian Maniscalco, Beck Bennett, Cedric the Entertainer, Fred Armisen, John Slattery, Jon Hamm, Aparna Nancherla, Andy Daly, Sarah Burns, Eleanor Sweeney, Bailey Sheetz Running Time: 93 min Cert: 12a Trailer: Here. https://youtu.be/2lqRPUhPfho?si=bu70FUyNjJdIzRWs Website: Here. https://www.netflix.com/tudum/articles/jerry-seinfeld-pop-tart-movie-cast ---------------- Hoard Watch Review: Here. https://youtu.be/JsBZT_1xdR0 Venice Film Festival: 1st September 2023 Preview Screenings Release Date: 10th - 16th May 2024 Buy Tickets: Here. https://whatson.bfi.org.uk/Online/default.asp Theatrical Release Date: 17th May 2024 Director: Luna Carmoon Cast: Saura Lightfoot Leon, Joseph Quinn, Hayley Squires, Lily-Beau Leach, Deba Hekmat, Samantha Spiro, Cathy Tyson, Erin Jemmotte, Sandra Hale, Alexis Tuttle, Nabil Elouahabi, Sam John, Sarah Rose Denton, James Cooper, Tim Bowie Running Time: 126 min Cert: 15 Trailer: Here. https://youtu.be/5mYoshmw1uo?si=IdCJDiILTcjxfOr- ---------------- *(Music) 'Da Joint' (Instrumental) by EPMD - 2020 --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/eftv/message

[REBROADCAST FROM JUNE 13, 2023] "Mad Men" stars Jon Hamm and John Slattery have teamed up for a film which premiered at Tribeca Festival. Directed by Slattery, "Maggie Moore(s)" stars Hamm as a police chief seeking to solve the murders of two women with the same name. Hamm and Slattery join us to discuss.

You can learn a lot by looking at the past. Especially at an era that shaped how we think of marketing today. Today, we're traveling back in time. And we're doing it in style.Come with us to Madison Avenue in the 1960s, a formative time for advertising and marketing. It was the “Mad Men” that walked so the 21st Century marketers could run. And even though we're equipped with technology, AI and all sorts of new digital tools, many of the cares and struggles feel familiar. But we're not just turning to the past today to commiserate. We're looking at case studies and learning from the classic masters of marketing…through the lens of Hollywood, of course.In this episode, we're turning to the series that brought marketing into pop culture and earned Lionsgate $26 million a year: Mad Men. Joining us is VP & Head of Marketing at G2, Palmer Houchins. Palmer and the Remarkable team are discussing how to balance delivering on your brand promise with connecting emotionally with your audience, being persistent with marketing ideas, and paying attention to all the little details. So put on your sharkskin suit and wingtip oxfords for this episode of Remarkable.About our guest, Palmer HouchinsPalmer Houchins is the VP, Head of Marketing at G2. He previously served as a senior marketing leader and G2 customer at Mailchimp (acquired by Intuit) and CallRail ($125M+ in funding).He is a veteran marketer with 15+ years of experience growing businesses, scaling teams and building brands.About G2G2 is the largest and most trusted software marketplace, helping 80 million people every year make smarter software decisions based on authentic peer reviews.About Mad MenMad Men is a drama series about a prestigious New York ad agency called Sterling Cooper in the 1960s focusing on debauched ad executive Don Draper, who's played by Jon Hamm. It also stars Elisabeth Moss, Christina Hendricks, January Jones, John Slattery and Vincent Kartheizer. The series was created by Matthew Weiner and produced by Lionsgate Television. It aired from 2007 to 2015. According to the pilot episode, the name “Mad Men” is short for Madison Men, or the men that worked on Madison Avenue in New York City. It won 16 Emmys, five Golden Globes, a Peabody award, averaged 2 million viewers over its run, and made Lionsgate about $26 million a year.What B2B Companies Can Learn From Mad Men:Be persistent. If you have a cool idea for a marketing campaign, don't let it drop. It's only a matter of time before that idea becomes your next success. Writer Matthew Weiner wrote the script for Mad Men in 2001, but it didn't get picked up until four years later. Palmer says, “Matthew Weiner was writing this script on his off time at The Sopranos where he was a writer and just had it in his back pocket. And he just kept trying to get it made, get it made, no one was interested. And then boom, this happens and it becomes one of the most successful shows of all time.” So hold onto those good ideas and advocate for them. If you believe they're good ideas and worthy of being created, act with conviction.Pay attention to the details. Make sure every part of your design and marketing aligns with your brand. The logos, font, pictures, the messaging, are all a part of your image. Just like how every detail of the set and costuming in Mad Men are meticulously styled to make the viewer feel like they're in New York City in the 1960s. According to an article by Zooey Norman on ScreenRant.com, “Every single secretary's desk included a small Rolodex in which each and every card was filled out with addresses and contact information. Their desks also contained documents formatted and filled out to appear like real notices, letters, and memos in order to create the illusion of a truly functional office.” That's the level of detail you want to get into in your marketing. Every element matters.Deliver on your brand promise first, connect emotionally with your audience second. There's a scene in Mad Men when they're trying to win the Burger Chef business, and Peggy goes to the restaurant to do a focus group. Her goal is to hone in on the emotions of customers and what resonates with them. Palmer says, “you want that emotional connection, but your products also have to deliver on that basic thing. And so in a B2B context, we want to have that aspirational element. But we've also got to be able to just simply deliver on kind of a functional ROI level as well.” So focus on your brand promise first before tying it to emotional connection as well.Quotes*”Too often we fall into that trap, and the same thinking of, ‘Well, this is popular, so we're just going to keep doing more of that,' and not going against the grain, or zagging when everyone else is zigging. And I think that [Mad Men] is a testament to that thinking, especially as it relates to creativity.” - Palmer Houchins“You can spend weeks and months and years crafting the perfect copy, but in our world, it's going to get A/B tested, it's going to get split tested, and the distribution of getting that out in front of people [isn't] linear. You have to know that that piece of copy that you spend so much time writing, that might not be the first thing they see about your brand. That might be the 500th. That might be after they've already talked to a salesperson. It might be before. There's so much more complexity to marketing now.” - Ian Faison*”There's a lot of nostalgia in this show. They're using real products, like Coke, Heinz beans, Burger Chef, Hilton, Lucky Strike and Jaguar. Because they're real, it's cool to see an ad campaign for super common household brands. Giving the listener or the viewer some signposts that they're familiar with will go a long way.” - Ian Faison“I think nostalgia is a part of it, but as someone who wasn't alive during the 60s, for me, it was almost like this exploration of history; a time to kind of live in that. And I think using real products, real elections and real world events is how they earmark it. It helps you tether to a different era.” - Palmer HouchinsTime Stamps[0:55] Meet Palmer Houchins, VP & Head of Marketing at G2[1:32] Why are we covering Mad Men?[4:30] What does Palmer do at G2?[6:09] What is Mad Men about?[7:16] How was Mad Men made?[13:47] What makes Mad Men remarkable?[25:16] What are marketing lessons we can take away from Mad Men?LinksWatch Mad MenConnect with Palmer on LinkedInLearn more about G2About Remarkable!Remarkable! is created by the team at Caspian Studios, the premier B2B Podcast-as-a-Service company. Caspian creates both non-fiction and fiction series for B2B companies. If you want a fiction series check out our new offering - The Business Thriller - Hollywood style storytelling for B2B. Learn more at CaspianStudios.com. In today's episode, you heard from Ian Faison (CEO of Caspian Studios) and Meredith Gooderham (Senior Producer). Remarkable was produced this week by Jess Avellino, mixed by Scott Goodrich, and our theme song is “Solomon” by FALAK. Create something remarkable. Rise above the noise.

Actor/Director John Slattery (Charlie Baird on Veep) joins Matt and Tim to discuss episode 3 of season 5 of Veep. Summary: Mike must deal with the consequences of Selina's accidental tweet. Feeling usurped by Bob, Amy begins to be troubled by his behavior. At a museum gala, Gary finds himself the belle of the ball. To justify her tweet, Selina's staff use the strike of Chinese hackers. Missing ballots could win Selina the presidency. Thanks to our sponsors: Factor and Rocket Money! Head to FACTORMEALS.com/SIC50 and use code SIC50 to get 50% off. Stop wasting money on things you don't use. Cancel your unwanted subscriptions – and manage your money the easy way – by going to RocketMoney.com/COMMAND. Matt Walsh https://www.instagram.com/mrmattwalsh Timothy Simons https://www.instagram.com/timothycsimons Second In Command https://instagram.com/second_in_command_atc Email questions to: secondincommandatc@gmail.com

Actor/Director John Slattery (Charlie Baird on Veep) joins Matt and Tim to discuss episode 3 of season 5 of Veep. Summary: Mike must deal with the consequences of Selina's accidental tweet. Feeling usurped by Bob, Amy begins to be troubled by his behavior. At a museum gala, Gary finds himself the belle of the ball. To justify her tweet, Selina's staff use the strike of Chinese hackers. Missing ballots could win Selina the presidency. Thanks to our sponsors: Factor and Rocket Money! Head to FACTORMEALS.com/SIC50 and use code SIC50 to get 50% off. Stop wasting money on things you don't use. Cancel your unwanted subscriptions – and manage your money the easy way – by going to RocketMoney.com/COMMAND. Matt Walsh https://www.instagram.com/mrmattwalsh Timothy Simons https://www.instagram.com/timothycsimons Second In Command https://instagram.com/second_in_command_atc Email questions to: secondincommandatc@gmail.com

From personal tragedy to Nathan Lane. In the second part of their chat John and Jonny discuss the formers three collaborations with the doyen of the American stage, crashing waves of laughter, having the confidence to play a comedy god with other real comedy gods, Pinter with Juliette Binoche and Liev Schreiber, getting ghosted backstage by Philip Seymour Hoffman and the “undeniability of theatre”. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

John Slattery, everyone's favourite louche silver-fox for a four martini lunch is Jonny's guest this week. They discuss white rappers, directing onstage, a plan to save the theatre, getting naked on stage whilst crying having auto-fluffed with a hairdryer beforehand, the brutal facts of using personal grief as onstage motivation, audition-fear and how to calm it, fighting to get in the room and John's journey from Catholic school to the one teacher who knew he had what it takes. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

For a span of eight years, Jon Hamm existed in the collective consciousness as one character, and one character only: Don Draper. So it may not come as much of a surprise that for a long time, casting agents exclusively offered him parts like the one he was already playing on Mad Men. What they didn't know, but have since figured out, is that despite possessing every bit as much charm as his most well-known character, Hamm is capable of so much more. In equal measure, he's funny, philosophical, and honest, all of which shine through on this week's episode of Table for Two, where he discusses what it was like listening to R-Rated Red Foxx LPs in the library at 10-years-old, his parents dying when he was young, getting married at 52, working with Tina Fey and John Slattery on his latest film, and much more. Hear a preview of the episode below, and subscribe wherever you listen to podcasts.See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Our Past Lives exploration continues with John Magaro who chats about the film, his real life parallels to it, forgotten New York City institutions, and childhood friends. More about Past Lives Nora and Hae Sung, two deeply connected childhood friends, are wrest apart after Nora's family emigrates from South Korea. Two decades later, they are reunited in New York for one fateful week as they confront notions of destiny, love, and the choices that make a life, in this heartrending modern romance. Starring: Greta Lee, Teo Yoo, John Magaro More about John Magaro John Magaro has spent his career nurturing an impressive body of work that encompasses film, television, and theatre. John can now be seen in Showing Up, opposite Michelle Williams, in a reunion with Kelly Reichardt. The film made its world debut in competition at Cannes 2022. John can soon be seen in Celine Song's Past Lives opposite Greta Lee (A24) which is premiering at Sundance 2023, and a supporting role in Call Jane, directed by Phyllis Nagy, that premiered at Sundance 2022. No stranger to the small screen, Magaro most recently appeared opposite Elliot Page in the hit Netflix series “The Umbrella Academy,” based on the comic book series of the same name by Gerard Way. He was also seen in the Amazon series, “Jack Ryan,” alongside John Krasinski, and starred as the young male lead in Amazon's “Crisis In Six Scenes” opposite Rachel Brosnahan, Miley Cyrus, and Elaine May. Other television credits include recurring roles on “Orange is the New Black,” “The Good Wife,” “Taking Chance” opposite Kevin Bacon, and guest star appearances on “Law & Order: SVU,” “Person of Interest,” “Body of Proof,” “Law & Order” and “Conviction”. A stage actor as well, Magaro was last seen as Joe Papp in The Public Theater's Illyria, written and directed by Richard Nelson. He made his Broadway debut in a flashy supporting role in Scott Rudin's revival of The Front Page, directed by Jack O'Brien, opposite Nathan Lane, John Slattery and John Goodman. Magaro also played the male lead in the critically acclaimed production of Tigers Be Still, written by Kimberly Rosenstock and directed by Sam Gold (Fun Home) for the Roundabout Theatre Company, as well as Rod McLauchlan's Good Television, directed by Bob Krakower, for the Atlantic Theater Company. Past Lives is in theaters now. Find us at ⁠⁠⁠⁠www.werewatchingwhat.com⁠⁠⁠⁠ THEDHK can be found at ⁠⁠⁠⁠instagram.com/thedhk ⁠⁠⁠⁠, ⁠⁠⁠⁠twitter.com/thedhk⁠⁠⁠⁠, and ⁠⁠⁠⁠facebook.com/thedhkmovies

Danny chats with actor and director John Slattery about his filmography (Mad Men, Desperate Housewives, Sex and the City) and his new movie, Maggie Moore(s), which stars his former Mad Men costar John Hamm. TOUR TICKETS: https://everythingiconic.com/live-showsPREORDER DANNY'S NEW BOOK: https://linktr.ee/jolliestbunchBUY DANNY'S BOOK: Smarturl.it/unrememberTwitter: @DannyPellegrinoInstagram: @DannyPellegrinoYouTube: www.YouTube.com/DannyPellegrino1TikTok: @DannyPellegrinoPatreon: www.Patreon.com/EverythingIconic Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Jon Hamm & John Slattery join host Andy Cohen. Listen to lively debates on everything from the latest drama surrounding your favorite Bravolebrities to what celebrity is making headlines that week live from the WWHL clubhouse.Aired on 06/13/23Binge all your favorite Bravo shows with the Bravo app: bravotv.com/getbravoSee Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

"Mad Men" stars Jon Hamm and John Slattery have teamed up for a new film premiering at Tribeca Festival. Directed by Slattery, "Maggie Moore(s)" stars Hamm as a police chief seeking to solve the murders of two women with the same name. Hamm and Slattery join us to discuss.