July 2011
71 posts
I NEED INTERNS!
I’m currently reviewing internship applications for the fall! Do you want to intern for me at Marvel HQ in NYC? Sure ya do!
Apply here: http://marvel.com/corporate/internshipform?interest=Web+Editorial
Get more info here: http://agentmlovestacos.com/tagged/interns
Apply for other Marvel internships here: http://marvel.com/corporate/interns
Former interns of mine are now: working for me and getting actual paychecks, working for Comedy Central, heading up social media for a major hospital, running a comic book store, fighting dragons and more!
Also, my fall interns will get to work with us at New York Comic Con, which will be fun and crazy and probably a little frightening. Can you dig it?!
I’m pretty sure the woman I was sitting next to on the subway this morning was reviewing resumes for Marvel. I should have slipped my resume into the pile. Interns make six figures, right?
“
I thought about all the times I’ve stood in a fitting room and stared up at the lights and bit my lip so hard it bled, just to keep myself from crying about how nothing fits the way it’s supposed to. No one told me that it wasn’t supposed to. I guess I just didn’t know. I was too busy thinking that I was the one that didn’t fit.
I thought about that, and about all the other girls and women out there whose proportions are “wrong,” who can’t find a good pair of work trousers, who can’t fill a sweater, who feel excluded and freakish and sad and frustrated because they have to go up a size, when really the size doesn’t mean anything and it never, ever did, and this is just another bullshit thing thrown in your path to make you feel shitty about yourself.
I thought about all of that, and then I thought that in elementary school, there should be a class for girls where they sit you down and tell you this stuff before you waste years of your life feeling like someone put you together wrong.
” —It makes me really happy to see this essay getting reblogged.
“Pulitzer Prize winner Jeffrey Eugenides was assaulted last week on a New Jersey train by a drunken lout allegedly obsessed with his own genitalia.”
—
Tell me more!
No really, +1000 points for Jeffrey Eugenides.
“There are certain words a man cannot use with a woman, demand and insist being just two. If you are a male imbecile, jot that down.”
—William Giraldi, from Busy Monsters (via wwnorton)
Anthony Bourdain: The Red Sauce Trail →
anthonybourdain.tumblr.com
As a third-generation Italian-American who grew up with grandparents that kept a pot of red sauce on the stove at nearly all times, I cannot wait to watch this tonight. Travel Channel. 9pm.
Another third-generation Italian-American here. My mother would make vats of red sauce and freeze it. We had macaroni twice a week, every week: Wednesday for supper and Sunday dinner after Mass. It was my father’s mother’s recipe; growing up I knew that you learned how to make the sauce from your husband’s mother so that you could make it just the way he liked it. Of course, we called it gravy.
We didn’t call it gravy. My grandmother always told us that only people from Federal Hill called it gravy. My great-grandparents were insistent on raising their children away from there, and instead settled in what was then a fairly rural East Providence. They did, however, call it “sorce” in the classic Rhode Island accent.
Oh man. I could talk about red sauce for days. When my brother and I grew up, we abandoned “gravy” and started calling it “sauce.” This transgression was allowed. However, calling macaroni “noodles” was akin to high treason. We were taught that only Irish people said “noodles.”
I think I was 20 years-old before I used the word “pasta.”
Anthony Bourdain: The Red Sauce Trail →
anthonybourdain.tumblr.com
Growing up in New Jersey back in the bad old days of American gastronomy, “Italian” food inevitably meant the same thing, wherever you found it: deep fried, breaded and pounded veal cutlets, swimming in red sauce with a raft of gluey semi-melted cheese on top, overcooked spaghetti, usually…
As a third-generation Italian-American who grew up with grandparents that kept a pot of red sauce on the stove at nearly all times, I cannot wait to watch this tonight. Travel Channel. 9pm.
Another third-generation Italian-American here. My mother would make vats of red sauce and freeze it. We had macaroni twice a week, every week: Wednesday for supper and Sunday dinner after Mass. It was my father’s mother’s recipe; growing up I knew that you learned how to make the sauce from your husband’s mother so that you could make it just the way he liked it. Of course, we called it gravy.
