In the past several years, this former Mickey Mouse Clubber has positively captivated the ladies of my generation. Here's a clip. Why? Because I like you!
Funny to think that in his early career days (Mouseketeer notwithstanding), he was known for playing teenage psychopaths.
Then The Notebook happened. You know, I'd love to say I was a huge fan beforehand, but like everyone else I know, I went all Team Ga-Ga Gosling when I saw that kiss in the rain. Though really, I got more turned on when Noah removes Allie's stocking. It's hard (ha ha) for actors to convince me they really want to have sex with their leading ladies, but that hungry look in his eyes . . . when I watch that scene, I need to be alone, if ya know what I mean.
Also, he repeated the iconic rain kiss with costar Rachel McAdams at the MTV Movie Awards that year. Yum.
But it's more than his beardy and non-beardy sexiness. Gosling exudes intelligence, not only in his career choices but in his obvious respect for his female costars. He had a lot to say when the sex scenes of his most recent film, Blue Valentine, put the film in danger of an NC-17 rating:
You have to question a cinematic culture which preaches artistic expression, and yet would support a decision that is clearly a product of a patriarchy-dominant society, which tries to control how women are depicted on screen. The MPAA is okay supporting scenes that portray women in scenarios of sexual torture and violence for entertainment purposes, but they are trying to force us to look away from a scene that shows a woman in a sexual scenario, which is both complicit and complex. It's misogynistic in nature to try and control a woman's sexual presentation of self. I consider this an issue that is bigger than this film.
When he wasn't singing the My Little Pony theme song:
Indie girl/80's nostalgia SWOON.
Even when he's playing characters that range from flawed to downright frightening, I just can't quit the Gosling.
Hey girl, if you consider yourself a Gosling aficionado, stay tuned for tomorrow, when I review his two most recent movies, All Good Things and Blue Valentine!
About two years ago, I seriously considered moving to Los Angeles.
I'd just had a falling-out with someone very close to me, which I thought at the time would be permanent. One of my closest friends in the world was living in L.A. at the time. And, well, it was a Chicago winter. Who ISN'T California dreamin' in February?
I got to the point of looking for jobs when I realized: a) I hate driving and the City of Angels may as well be called the City of Freeways, b) apart from one friend, it was further away from my other loved ones than I wanted to be, and c) falling-out or no, I friggin' love Chicago. It's home to me.
And let's face it, L.A. is weird. It's gorgeous and ugly at the same time. Because people are used to perfect weather, they freak out when it rains (whereas in the Midwest, that's called "Tuesday"). And this extends into their lives: Angelenos expect everything to be as flawless as the weather, whereas Midwesterners get on with it. Snowing ten inches? You still have to go to work, so put on your boots and suck it up.
This weekend I saw Sofia Coppola's Somewhere, which reminded me why staying in Chicago was a very good decision.
The movie opens with the main character, Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff, who never did it for me before this movie, but DAMN), circling around and around in his black Ferrari. Noise and movement aplenty, but ultimately he's going nowhere. Some might argue the symbolism is heavy handed, but I thought it was a great introduction into Johnny's life.
The guy is a major movie star, yet he lives at the Chateau Marmont hotel. He smokes, drinks and parties, but even when there are pole-dancing twins in the room--who Johnny seems to keep on retainer--he's forever alone. And what's crazy is how people kowtow to him: assistants, publicists, actors who want a piece of what he's got. He wants for nothing, but he lacks everything that's important.
Enter Cleo (Elle Fanning, Dakota's kid sister), Johnny's eleven-year-old daughter. She lives in the same city, but he's so emotionally distant from her he doesn't know she's been ice skating for three years. We assume Cleo's mother has been the primary caretaker, but she seems to be about as stable an influence as absentee Johnny. Case in point: Johnny receives a phone call from Cleo's mother, who says she's "going away for a while," and Cleo is in his care for the several days before she departs for camp.
You might be thinking this is a Three Men and a Baby scenario. Think again. There are virtually no problems. Cleo's a lovely kid: she reads her book during press conferences; when tagging along to Milan with her dad, she's just thrilled with their private swimming pool; and she can make eggs Benedict. What's sad is, you get the sense this isn't Cleo's best behavior. Rather, she's probably like this all the time, being good for both parents, knowing exactly when she needs to disappear, never asking too much.
Because he only has her for a few days, Johnny doesn't really learn how to be a good dad. He doesn't have to. And Cleo doesn't ask that of him. Probably because she knows he can't be.
I loved Somewhere for many reasons: cliches that turn out not to be, a portrait of a movie star who doesn't make tabloid waves but is messed up in deeper ways, a child I came to care about and worry for. No child is perfect, but Cleo is sweet and smart, and Johnny could probably be a decent father if he tried. By the end, I really hoped he would try.
Keep in mind this is a Sofia Coppola movie. All her trademarks are there: long camera shots, characters contemplatively staring out windows, moody music, usually some example of foreign pop culture weirdness. And unless it stars Bill Murray, you can't watch a Sofia Coppola movie for its dialogue, because it will be sparse and sound like real people talking.
But all this works for me. I like how Coppola can tell a story with only a few words and lots of pictures. How by the film's end, she had me rooting for her two main characters, hoping Cleo would ask for the love she deserved and Johnny would realize he had to snap out of his L.A. coma and step it up as a parent. How well she casts her players, especially Elle Fanning, whose goofy smiles and intermittent skipping were so perfectly eleven years old. How with every shot or word, I know how she wants me to feel--and rather than get angry at the manipulation, I feel it.
The more I think about Somewhere, the more I love it. Yeah, it's a tale as old as time: money and fame can't buy you happiness and love. But when illustrated in such an evocative way, even the most tired tropes reveal their truth.
Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the local. I live in a neighborhood that yes, is more gentrified than it was ten years ago, but still boasts a bevy of indie coffee bars, clothing stores, restaurants, brunch-y type places, you name it. It's one of the reasons I pay more rent than I should--I love being surrounded by the ingenuity of my fellow (wo)man.
But today, I cry for a corporate behemoth on Chicago's Mag Mile.
You see, last weekend Borders on Michigan Avenue closed its doors forever.
And I, the alterna-girl, am heartbroken.
I have a special affinity for Borders, for many reasons. I love, love, love to read and those SOB's have everything. I get killer coupons in my email and I don't even have to print them out: just show them on my smartphone and we're copasetic. Their Seattle's Best coffee kicks ass and their spinach omelet sandwiches are like delicious, eggy crack.
More importantly, however, Borders is my mothership, my point of return at the various stages of my life.
After I lost my virginity and the lucky man had to go to work, I went to Borders, plopped in an armchair, and contemplated how I felt: at once forever changed and exactly the same. In law school, I went to the local Borders so often the staff knew my name (and I even taught some of them at the university). When I was a temp in downtown Chicago, I'd head to the State Street location on my lunch break and just browse around, smelling that irreplaceable new-book aroma. (I've never been an eating-at-your-desk type because I can just feel my ass getting wider with every bite.)
That same year, I even worked at my neighborhood Borders over the Christmas season, dealing with preppy college students, cranky oldsters, and indie rockers--and that was just the staff. I remember riding the elevator with some of my coworkers after closing late one night. Someone cracked a snarky joke and I knew that this was my crowd, my neighborhood, where I fit in best. I knew right then I'd made the right decision to move back to Chicago.
(Not to mention I had a really gorgeous coworker. Yes, he could be a real douche, but he was also 6'5" and would shelve the books little 5'4" me couldn't reach. In return, I would work on the bottom shelves for him, as it hurt his knees to squat. Plus, we would rock paper scissors for who got to work the register. It's the little things.)
And the Michigan Avenue Borders, well, it was a gateway to all of the above.
I first moved to the city as a college freshman, wide-eyed and innocent as the cows in the farm town from whence I came. I couldn't believe my luck when I happened upon the Borders--three floors devoted to books! Imagine that. My college's downtown campus was just down the street, and for four years I took advantage of the free shuttle service. Sometimes I'd take homework, but more often I'd grab a stack of books and read to my naive little heart's content.
This past year, I experienced a serious bout of sadness and stress. I got in the habit of taking long walks to clear my head, and more often than not I'd find myself at the same Borders, choosing some titles and feeling more content for just a little while. It was on one of these nights a couple months ago, that I heard a cafe employee break the bad news: soon, the store would be no more.
I'm not a huge fan of downtown, especially on weekends. I've also had a friend work at this Borders, and she's had to deal with more annoying asshole tourists than anyone should have to see in a lifetime. I can never understand how so many people think Chicago is the Mag Mile and that's it. It's so much more.
But I'll always be grateful to this Borders. In some ways, it's watched me grow up, from a college-age pixie to an ambitious temp-by-day to a semi-serious adult still figuring my shit out. I'll miss the pretty view of the Old Water Tower, the smell of chocolate from the Hershey store, the sounds of hustle and bustle mixed with quiet contemplation.
Downtown will remain, of course, but it'll never be the same to me.
Normally, I'm not a big fan of New Year's resolutions. Mainly because for two weeks, the dance and yoga studios will be chock-full with rude heavy breathers who take no heed of people who, you know, actually work out regularly. (Note: by "heavy breather," I'm not judging people who are overweight and out of shape. I'm just saying if you really DO want to get healthy, pace yourself and pay attention to the etiquette and habits of people who attend class in months other than January. You might learn something!)
That said, this is an interesting new start. I'm 30 now. I'll be looking for a new apartment in a couple of months. I want to make some other changes and advances as well, while still retaining my own life, which is fabulous and I adore it.
So without further ado, here are my New Year's Resolutions, pop culture and otherwise:
1. Go to the movies. All the time. Even if it's a busy period at work and I don't want to get my ass off the couch. I always feel better when I go to the movies. Case in point: the week between Christmas and New Year's was a film-o-palooza for me. And it was awesome.
2. Write about said movies!
3. When someone says I absolutely need to watch/read some fantastic new Oscar-bait movie/super-intense TV series/New York Times bestseller, consider watching/reading it rather than saying in my head, "if this many people are telling me to do it, I don't wanna."
4. Get some kind of paid writing gig. Not that I don't love getting "paid" in free DVD's and books, but I've been told I'm not too bad at this writing thing, so I might as well seek a little compensation.
5. Keep a Moleskine and pen by my bed so when I wake up from some really cool/weird dream that would be a good idea for a story, I don't forget it in my insane apply contacts/get dressed/lift cat off of stuff pre-work apartment race.
6. Get in touch with Dan Savage, whether it's a message for the Savage Love podcast or a fan-girly email. Because I love him.
7. Sign up for another burlesque class. It's fun as hell, combats stress and makes me happy. Come to think of it, just dance as much as freaking possible.
8. Be open-minded when it comes to music, movies, TV shows, books, anything culture-y. Specific tastes are fun, but discovering cool new stuff is even better.
9. Work on creative writing. A LOT. This includes:
a) Getting my current draft of my 2009 NaNo all shipshape and perfect, so I can start sending it out to agents again,
b) Working on my 2010 NaNo, which may never ever sell but was still a story I loved telling and want to work on more,
c) Think of tons of new ideas and pick the best one for NaNo 2011.
d) Take classes: one-offs and hopefully longer-term if I can afford it.
e) This summer, apply for another writing residency.
10. And finally: try to post here more. I LOVE all of my readers and am so grateful you listen to me natter on every week, and I want to give you more of what you want.
What are YOUR New Year's resolutions, pop culture and non?
I'm a really big fan of the "new adult" genre that publishers are kicking around: lit geared toward the 18-25 set, about coming of age in a world very different than that of our parents. (Last year's Commencement is a poignant, funny example.) In some ways, angsting in one's early twenties might seem like whining of the White Girl Problems or Stuff White People Like kind: many recent liberal arts college grads have parents who won't let them starve, a host of knowledge, and free time to burn, so what's the problem?
Maybe I'm outing myself as a liberal arts college grad here (in case the rest of this blog wasn't any indication), but there are a lot of problems.
Liberal arts degrees might not score you a plum job in the working world, but in this economy, neither will more "practical" areas of study. More and more college grads are having to move back home for financial reasons. And the early twenties are weird. You're not quite a kid, not quite an adult. The older generation might scold you for perpetuating adolescence, but with no direction or means of support, what the hell else are you supposed to do?
In her debut film Tiny Furniture, Lena Dunham explores these issues more or less successfully. She plays Aura, a newly-minted film theory grad who's spent the last four years in Ohio (if I had to venture a guess, I'd say at Oberlin) and is now returning to her native Tribeca. Aura's single mom (played by Dunham's real mother) is an artist who never really held a day job, so she's not pushing her daughter into the realms of full-time employment. Though Aura could use some direction. She's recently been cut loose by her boyfriend, is growing more distant from her best friend who's still in Ohio, and just wants someone to tell her who she should be.
As Aura drifts through a hostessing gig and flirts with two losers (one of whom would be cute if he lost the hipster 'stache, the other way too hirsute and lispy for my taste), hanging out with her "bad influence" of a childhood best friend (Jemima Kirke, who's fantastically British and offbeat), I kind of wanted to shake her. Tell her she's been given every advantage and just to snap out of it already. And to be fair, she does get quite whiny, she has terrible taste in dudes (her ex-boyfriend doesn't sound like much of a prize either), and Dunham isn't always the best actress (neither is her mom--their scenes range from touching to downright painful).
When I didn't want to smack Aura, though, I recognized the early twenties experience in all its teeth-gritting uncertainty.
Because it's a time when the world expects you to emerge from college fully formed, knowing exactly who you are, when you're only just beginning to figure it out. It's a time when you realize the hothouse university environment, enriching as it may be, hasn't taught you any actual survival skills, and you're going to learn more from your mistakes than the things you do right. It's a time when relationships change, especially family dynamics (Aura's relationship with her overachieving teenage sister, played by Dunham's real-life sister, is incredibly real in its up-and-down nature). It's a time when you have to reassess exactly who and what you want to be, and even though you'll learn down the line that you'll constantly change your mind, at this point you just want to make a decision and be done with it.
So, sure, Tiny Furniture can be aimless and totally twee, but it also speaks a lot of truth. Kudos to Dunham for not backing down and giving the quarterlife crisis a fair, honest representation.
Though I do wish the ending would have been more concrete.
(And I realize in making that wish, I may be missing the point.)
What do you think of this "new adult"/quarterlife genre? Any recommendations? Leave a comment!
Yes, I still watch Glee. As skeevy as Mr. Schu can be, Matthew Morrison is yummy and has an incredible voice (still jealous that my mom got to meet him in 2002 when he was in Hairspray on Broadway). As annoying as Rachel can be, Lea Michele can sure wail. Quinn and Sam are cute. Brittany's funny when she's part of the C plot and the occasional A plot. Mike O'Malley's the best dad ever, and the Darren Criss-led "Teenage Dream" has inspired obsession from me and my sister. (O hai, Darren Criss. Please don't be gay. Please.)
Speaking of "Teenage Dream," I hate the original version. So why do I love the cover, other than the fact it's sung by people who can actually sing?
The fact that it's a cappella.
You see, I am an a cappella nerd. When I was in college, I auditioned for my university's group to no avail. My brother, lucky bastard, has been in two different groups, one of which paid him to sing all summer. And when Ben Folds released his University A Cappella album last year, it was like peanut butter meeting chocolate for me. My only complaint is that there wasn't a version of "Zak and Sara" (my all time favorite Ben song).
Last year, I got into a little show called The Sing-Off on NBC, a mini-series of sorts in which a cappella groups from around the country competed for a big cash prize and a record deal. I loved it, down to host Nick Lachey, his corny puns, and his constant, constant insistence that it was A CAPPELLA, NO ACCOMPANIMENT, JUST VOICES, DID I MENTION IT'S A CAPPELLA, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS IT'S NO VOICES!
This year, it's even more indulgent, more group-y, more dorky and therefore more awesome.
Here's how it works: ten a cappella groups compete for, once again, a cash prize and a record deal. You've got everyone from a high school group where EVERYONE'S TOTALLY DIFFERENT (but of course the Homecoming Queen is the lead singer, and I spy a purity ring, EW) to the pretentious yet virginal Whiffenpoofs from Yale to a bunch of old dudes led by someone named Jerry Lawson who apparently was a big deal back in the day (anyone?).
You also have an L.A. group called the Backbeats, featuring one of Bob's friends, who happens to have a really good voice and looks adorable on TV.
Judging these musical folk are former Boyz II Men falsetto Shawn Stockman--who's largely useless, aka The Randy, Pussycat Dolls (former?) member Nicole Scherzinger (need I say she's the Paula? Slightly more coherent though), and one of my personal musical heroes, the incomparable Ben Folds (who unlike Simon isn't an asshole with man boobs, but who like Simon gives good, helpful critiques).
A cappella takes a tremendous amount of skill, which I could never reach despite years of voice lessons and choirs. You must possess a flawless ear: so you can pick up your own part in an arrangement and also so you can tune out the seven singers around you who are all blaring different things. No divas, please--you must be able to blend. Beatboxing helps. It's intense.
Also, most a cappella puts a new spin on songs, unlike more and more of Glee lately (I do not need another shot-for-shot Britney Spears video. Come on, Ryan Murphy).
My personal favorites are the aforementioned Backbeats (come on, one of them slept on my couch last year! Oh yeah, and they're really good), Street Corner Symphony (gotta love Southern hipster boys), and Groove for Thought (oh my God, they're a group of music teachers from Seattle that include a father and daughter, and they're soooo dorky but they totally own it). I also hesitated to root for Committed because they are really, really religious and that weirds me out, but my God, they sound like Boyz II Men 2.0 and I was a huuuuge Boyz II Men fan in the '90's. When I was 14, all I wanted was to dance to "On Bended Knee" with a boy who loved me.
So let's sum this up: The Sing-Off is just like Glee, only without:
Auto Tune
That stupid "school jazz band" that conveniently appears and disappears whenever
Finn (need I say more?)
Santana and Brittany's manufactured fauxbian drama (either do a queer-girl storyline--please do, it would be interesting!--or don't. And give Santana some motivation for her actions other than just being a heinous bitch).
Pregnancy
How can you NOT? Tune in Monday and Wednesday this week!
Remember in the heyday of Sex and the City (or, hell, seven months ago when that abomination of a fanfic-gone-bad second movie came out) when ladies and gay guys were all, "I'm a Carrie/Charlotte/Samantha/Miranda?" (My friend Bob swears that calling oneself or someone else a "Carrie" is the very opposite of a good thing.) I will admit that I more or less participated, as my sister swears I'm Miranda 2.0. Thank God my ex didn't knock me up after getting one of his balls removed.
So, okay, I'm somewhat of a Miranda. But even more these days, I'm a Britta.
Last May, I posted a tribute to one of my favorite shows now or ever, Community. This season, the show's gone in some new directions (not to be confused with New Directions on Glee, which I have a love/hate relationship with, but that's a whole 'nother post): more episodes that are stand-alone, more objectification of Joel McHale (not that I'm complaining), and most of all, more of an ensemble feel. What began in the pilot as a morality tale of a lying asshole being put in his place has evolved into a story of a group of friends, at once archetypal and multi-layered, stumbling and grappling as they search for the next stage in life.
It's been fun to watch everyone grow--even old-man Pierce has his moments, falling into the "wrong crowd" with a clique of sassy old people known and feared as the Hipsters. However, one of my favorite character evolutions has been Gillian Jacobs' Britta, who's gone from bland everyalternagirl love interest to full-fledged human being, equally misguided and wise as she frequently knocks heads and boots with McHale's Jeff Winger.
By "favorite," I sometimes mean "painful." Britta's blundering antics can be wincingly hard to watch. Because at times, they are so much like my own. Here they are, the top 5 reasons I relate to Britta more than any TV character ever:
1. Terminally unique, for better and for worse.
When I was an obnoxious pseudo-goth-depressed law student, one of my favorite professors warned me against alienating my preppy classmates by being "terminally unique." My dark and despairing but stubborn mind had no idea what she meant then, but now I look back and wince at what a poseur I was. Throughout my late teens and twenties, I fell right into the hipster trap of disdaining things I deemed mainstream and embracing the alternative. There's nothing wrong with doing this, if that's genuinely what you believe. Not me--I loved indie bands but also secretly cranked the pop music I publicly denigrated.
Even though we don't see flashbacks, Britta stands out as the girl who never quite fit in. She's a high school dropout, she wears leather jackets, she's lived in New York and is a vegetarian. And she's very, very vocal about all of this. I like to think I've evolved past terminal uniqueness (and yes, I know this is an NA/AA term), and I just own it. However, sometimes my friends tell me otherwise. We're growing into who we are, Britta and I, and hopefully we'll get to the point where we don't need to advertise, we'll just be.
2. "I don't think straight with nothing to prove."
Oh, how I identify with this Fun. quote. And if she knew about it, maybe Britta would too.
It was revealed in Season One that Britta is a high school dropout, and part of the reason she's at community college is to get back at everyone who thought she was a failure. It's unspoken that many of these people have forgotten about her, or give even less of a crap than they did ten years ago.
I did graduate high school; however, I was almost held back in kindergarten. Not because I was behind academically, but because I was shy and physically a little behind. Upon getting confirmation that my smarts were more than up to speed, my mom and dad (the latter of whom studied to be a teacher), basically told my teacher she was full of crap.
I found this out in seventh grade, when I ALREADY felt like a freak amidst my loud, athletic, pink around the collar classmates. It made me even more determined not to be like them.
I graduated valedictorian (and a kickass dancer to boot).
Even now, at age 30, I often feel like I'm two steps behind everyone else. And I need to catch up at all costs. No matter what I accomplish, it isn't quite enough for me to prove that I'm no longer the shy little farm-town girl who walked slower and talked quieter than the rest of the class. Ridiculous? Yeah. But like Britta, I constantly feel the need to "show" everyone. Even though--surprise!--nobody cares.
3. Likes all the wrong guys.
Even though she's a smart, tough chick, Britta's romantic judgment often leaves a lot to be desired. In season one, she had two main hookups: professional Hacky Sack-er and hippie musician Vaughn, who eventually wrote a song declaring Britta a "gee dee bee" (figure it out), and cocky lawyer/fellow Spanish 101 survivor Jeff. When Jeff's former girlfriend Professor Slater decided she wanted him back, Britta used her status as candidate for Transfer Queen to make a declaration of love she wasn't sure she felt.
Been there. Oh God, have I been there.
I tend to go for the guys who are confident to the point of arrogance, smart-ass to the point of borderline disrespectful. I like the ones who flaunt their brain cells in the face of those less astute. And sometimes, these guys turn out to be jerks, but oh no, I keep coming back.
Vaughn is long gone, but Britta and Jeff's relationship remains interesting in its stickiness. Do they have a genuine love connection? Probably not. Jeff's a preppy douche, Britta's a wannabe hipster. But they're both cynical, darkly humorous, and enjoy a good argument. I don't know if either is looking for romance, yet they're perfectly suited as friends with benefits. I joked the other day to Bob that I may as well wear a T-shirt saying, "Looking for Jeff Winger." 'Cause snarky friend with hot benefits sounds pretty amazing right now.
4. Opinionated, yet goofy.
Britta goes to protests, eschews meat and takes women's studies courses. Yet she also does the robot, spews awkward comebacks, and once dressed as a flower for a dance recital. Sure, the quirky not-quite-together gal has been around since Mary Richards and Diane Chambers, but rarely have I connected more with one.
I hate it when TV shows and movies manifest female quirkiness in the form of manic pixie dream girls (see also: Natalie Portman in Garden State. I have never wanted to murder a fictional character more). Everyone has their little weirdnesses, but it doesn't mean they're a) dumb, or b) a plot device for a sad sack whiny male to realize that life is awesome. Britta and I both try too hard to be different sometimes, without realizing that we're strange already--just not in the ways we pretend to be.
5. "I try to act compassionate, because I'm afraid I'm not."
This line, uttered after Britta and Jeff's paintball game tryst in the seminal "Modern Warfare" episode, hit me in the gut like a ton of bricks. For a rare moment, these two stop posturing and sexual-tension squabbling and have an honest conversation which results in Britta's confession. And it makes so much sense for her character, a vulnerability that feels real rather than put upon. Britta's proud of the white liberal shell she's built around her, but deep down she's worried she's just not nice at heart. (Jeff has similar struggles as he realizes more and more that he's not as clever as he thinks he is.)
Yeah, this hit home. I mean, I donate to charities whose work I believe in. I work for a nonprofit about whose mission I am passionate. I try to be a good friend to those with whom I am close.
Yet I struggle with the fact that I'm probably not a nice person. I'm snarky. I'm judgmental. I like to think I'm better than I used to be, but maybe I'm not. And it wears on me a lot more than I'd like to admit.
That one line, so succinct and earnest, is the one that made me sit up on my couch and say, "Damn." It put into words what I'd never been able to verbalize.
So yeah, I love Britta. It may be weird to identify with a fictional person so deeply, but I do. Might as well own it, right?
I think I should add Gillian Jacobs to the list of Celebrities I Never Want to Meet. Because I'm sure I'd blather, "Omigod, I am SO Britta," and I'm sure she gets enough of that noise.
