At the center of Michels’s practice is the Jungian figure of the Shadow, the occult aspect of the personality that Jung defined as “the sum of all those unpleasant qualities we like to hide, together with the insufficiently developed functions and the contents of the personal unconscious.” In “Memories, Dreams, Reflections,” Jung describes a dream in which he was out on a windy night, cupping a tiny candle in his hand. “I looked back, and saw a gigantic black figure following me,” he writes. “When I awoke I realized at once that the figure was a ‘specter of the Brocken,’ my own shadow on the swirling mists, brought into being by the little light I was carrying.”

[…]

If the Shadow has a flesh-and-blood counterpart in the hierarchy of Hollywood, it is the writer: a pasty loser, whose suggestions are constantly being ignored or overruled. “No one looks to the writer to make the decisions,” one of Michels’s writer patients said. “You’re trying to fulfill everyone’s expectations. They think of you almost as an arm to do their thoughts.” “We’re like carnies, always out there trying to sell some idea,” another writer, who sees Michels, and whose husband, also a writer, sees Stutz, told me. It can be a frustrating, demoralizing job; scripts are bastardized to the point of being unrecognizable, if they get made at all. According to Michels, “Writers always feel beaten up. They always feel like an underclass. How do you maintain a sense of self in this environment?” In sessions with writers, Michels listens to pitches and plot lines, an attentive, albeit paid, audience. He reassures them that they are “off-the-charts smart”—a turn of phrase that some are surprised to learn does not exclusively pertain to them. He has occasionally been known to read scripts and, he says, “I give pretty good notes.”

— May I recommend this old-ish (2011) New Yorker piece on therapist Barry Michels?

emmylou harris and nicolette larson — hello stranger

young teezy

George Jones and Merle Haggard — No Show Jones

The Possum takes you to country school. RIP.

Calvin had captured the bearsnail, and now he had to figure out what to do with it. The animal underneath the upturned mayonnaise jar was fat relative to its length and furry, with long antennae. When he placed it in a more spacious fifteen gallon aquarium, he could see that it had an easily discernible face — a cute face, a bear’s face. Its shell looked like a trapper’s hat. It whistled, but only in minor keys. Calvin observed it for twelve hours, taking notes: it enjoyed being offered strawberries, which it hoarded in one corner of its cage, and it hated when he bared his teeth at it. The bearsnail played with Calvin’s keys. It grabbed them in its jaws and could be convinced to play tug-of-war.

Calvin bought the bearsnail a nest and a water dispenser. It learned a few basic tricks, but after a few days it grew tired of strawberries and apples. Calvin Googled what to feed his bearsnail. The prevailing wisdom was that bearsnails ate mostly psychedelic mushrooms. Calvin had grown attached to his bearsnail, and had begun to wonder why everyone didn’t have a bearnsail or two of his or her own, so he called up his friend Bronwyn to see if she had any mushrooms lying around. She did (she usually did), so Calvin bought a few grams and brought them home to his pet.

It took the bearsnail almost fifteen minutes to devour one cap, because its teeth were very small and so, imagined Calvin, was its stomach. When he offered it another, the bearsnail pushed it back at Calvin and said, “I can’t finish these. And I don’t like to eat alone.” Calvin explained that he had never taken mushrooms, though Bronwyn had offered them many times. “You’ll be fine,” said the bearsnail, “you’re much bigger than I am.” Calvin made himself some tea with the mushrooms and lifted the bearsnail out of its tank in the cup of his hand. The bearsnail sat quietly in his lap for a while, then inched over towards an electrical outlet. It removed a cord from its shell and plugged itself in. Periodically, it glowed purple. Calvin listened to Tame Impala and thought about learning to play the guitar. The bearsnail slid over to Calvin and took a look in his mouth, pointing out which teeth were in danger of rotting. “Thank you,” said Calvin. “I so appreciate this.”

Calvin woke up on his floor in the morning. There was a fresh pot of coffee and a note. The note had been written in paw prints and black slime. It said “XOXO.” He didn’t see the bearsnail for many years until he went to a holiday party at Bronwyn’s. The bearsnail had gotten huge and too fat for its own shell. It was serving drinks at the bar, dressed in a shiny suit. Calvin ordered a gimlet before recognizing the bearsnail, and fumbled to reach for a $20 bill to put in the tip jar. He only had fives. When Calvin got his car back from the valet he saw the bearsnail charging himself in an outlet behind a potted ficus tree.

“Hey bearsnail,” said Calvin. “Get in.”

The bearsnail did.

I have zero fingernails left to bite after 18 hours of the Boston police scanner.

I love my smart friend Molly.

mollylambert:

MAD MEN MANIA! (The Incomplete ML on MM) 

S1E1 “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” 

S2E5 “The New Girl”

S2E6 “Maidenform”

S2E13 “Meditations In An Emergency”

S3E3 “My Old Kentucky Home”

S3E7 “Seven Twenty Three”

S3E11 “The Gypsy and the Hobo”

S3E12 “The Grown-Ups”

S3E13 “Shut the Door. Have a Seat.”

S4E2 “Christmas Comes But Once A Year”

S4E3 “The Good News”

S4E4 “The Rejected”

S4E5 “The Chrysanthemum and the Sword”

S4E6 “Waldorf Stories”

S4E7 “The Suitcase”

S4E8 “The Summer Man”

S4E9 “The Beautiful Girls”

S4E10 “Hands and Knees”

S4E11 “Chinese Wall”

S4E12 “Blowing Smoke”

S4E13 “Tomorrowland”

S5E1/2 “A Little Kiss”

S5E3 “Tea Leaves”

S5E4 “Mystery Date”

S5E5 “Signal 30”

S5E6 “Far Away Places”

S5E7 “At The Codfish Ball”

S5E8 “Lady Lazarus”

S5E9 “Dark Shadows”

S5E10 “Christmas Waltz”

S5E11 “The Other Woman”

S5E12 “Commissions and Fees”

S5E13 “The Phantom”

S6E1/2 “The Doorway”

Bonus Link: The Mad Men Of Mad Magazine

phenomenal photo editing! great job!!

In defense of working from home.

We were all babies once.

brightwalldarkroom:

Hello, everybody. This is Chad, the guy behind this site. I am coming to all of you today, directly, because A Bright Wall in a Dark Room has arrived at a (very promising) crossroads—but if it’s to go any further, we need your help.

It has been vitally important to me over the years to…

Being involved with BWDR over the years has been a really special experience. It’s grown into the kind of site you can easily lose hours exploring — taking a left turn here, wandering over here — and, even though I haven’t been able to contribute in a while because I write about media elsewhere, I’ve always remained a loyal reader. BWDR’s contributors and editors are proud of what they’ve made, and our epic email chains are pretty much the most good-natured, supportive, mutual-admiration-y messages ever sent between 30+ strangers. I mean, two of them got married. That’s hard to beat.

BWDR is now becoming the kind of site I most admire: ad-free, original (artwork too!), and one that’s aiming to pay its writers for the content they supply. Chad has been a years-long internet friend, and he’s one of the most honest and hard-working people I’ve ever IMed with at 1 in the morning about copy-editing, deadlines and theme weeks. I just contributed this week’s fancy coffee stipend to the cause, and I hope some of you who have enjoyed BWDR will consider subscribing or donating as well. Getting paid to write, to illustrate, to create — and that’s the goal here — is so meaningful, and the new BWDR is going to be awesome.

Reggie was in the grocery store when he saw a woman in cut-off jean shorts that did not conceal her lumpy bottom. He took a photo on his phone and posted it on Facebook. He wrote a caption that said, “Skankaaaay!”

The next day, Reggie was back at the grocery store because he drank all of his milk during the night and needed more in order to survive. He went to the dairy aisle and saw the same woman he had seen the day before, but this time she was wearing a big woolen sweater with holes in it and leggings with tiger stripes. Reggie took a picture and posted it on Facebook with the caption “Uglaaaay!”

Reggie got home and opened his milk. It was sour. He went back to the grocery store to return the milk and get a new one. The woman was there again, but she had changed clothes and was wearing a bikini made of sandpaper. Reggie took a photo and was uploading it with the caption “Scratchaaay!” but the woman interrupted him by hitting him in the head with a can of frozen limeade.

Reggie fell to the ground, unconscious. When he awoke, the grocery store was closed and only the fluorescent lights from the freezers were lit. “Hello?” said Reggie. “Hello,” said the woman in the sandpaper bikini. She was sitting on the linoleum in a pool of kefir, eating a piece of Tillamook cheddar and looking through Reggie’s phone.

“What are you doing?” asked Reggie.

“Updating your status,” said the woman.

Reggie realized that he was shirtless, and all of his terrible, disfiguring moles were on full display.

“Please,” said Reggie, “don’t tell anyone about my moles.”

But she did. She told everyone everything about the moles, including the one that resembled a racist pictogram. As Reggie began to cry, the woman in the sandpaper bikini took photos, which she Instagrammed until she was finished with her cheese. Then she left him alone with his moles in the dairy aisle to think about what he’d done.

sam cooke — tennessee waltz

Bob made short ribs. He served his enemies the jelly bits, covering them in lots of sauce. Nobody remarked on it. When everyone was gone, Bob cleared the table and rinsed the dishes. He washed his face before bed and as he dried off, he noticed that his wash cloth was covered with burgundy wine stains. Bob looked in the mirror and saw that his nose had become the stump of a carrot, stewed for five hours over low heat. His eyes were two turnips and his mouth was one big jelly bit. He opened his mouth to scream and pan drippings poured out.

“I hope this is a nightmare,” said Bob.

“It isn’t,” said God.