Two different movies with an unexpected theme in common

A wonderfully weird anime for absolutely everyone

"This facility will embody a people-focused, progress-driven approach to homelessness that empowers and prepares people to come through these doors to improve their circumstances, not a handout, but a...

"This facility will embody a people-focused, progress-driven approach to homelessness that empowers and prepares people to come through these doors to improve their circumstances, not a handout, but a...

"This facility will embody a people-focused, progress-driven approach to homelessness that empowers and prepares people to come through these doors to improve their circumstances, not a handout, but a...

‘Derry Girls’ is a British sitcom about five teenagers living in Northern Ireland during the Troubles

Listen to A Sensual Exploration of Chocolate I am not a religious man. My temples are not made of stone, and my prayers are not spoken in archaic tongues. But I do have rituals. I do believe in communion. I believe in the sacred act of unwrapping a piece of good, dark chocolate. It begins with a sound. The crinkle of foil, a quiet metallic whisper that promises a specific kind of deliverance. It is a more honest sound than most human voices. It never lies about its intent. Then there is the subtle shift in the air’s aroma, the first faint, dusty-sweet note of cocoa that escapes its wrapper. It is the ghost of the thing itself, an overture to the symphony. I hold the bar in my hand. It is cool and solid, a perfect, geometric tablet. There is an integrity to it. I break off a single square. The sound is the most important part of the prelude. A cheap, waxy chocolate will bend and tear with a dull thud. But a good chocolate, a chocolate with character and a high percentage of cacao, will offer a sharp, clean _snap_. It is the sound of conviction. It is a declaration of quality, a promise that it will not melt into cloying sweetness the moment it is challenged by the warmth of your mouth. Then, the communion. I don’t chew. Chewing is a violent, thoughtless act, an act of consumption. This is not about consumption. This is about surrender. I place the square on my tongue and I let it be. For a moment, it is just a solid thing, cool and foreign. And then, the warmth of my body begins to work its slow, patient magic. The edges begin to soften. The carefully tempered structure begins to yield. The first taste is not sweet. It is a profound bass note of bitterness. It is the earth, the bean, the fire it was roasted in. It is the chocolate’s story of origin, and you must honor that bitterness before you can earn the right to its sweetness. It is a test of patience. And then, it happens. The great, slow, velvet flood. The solid becomes liquid. It is a tide of impossible texture, coating my entire mouth in a film of pure, decadent sensation. The flavors begin to bloom. There are notes I can almost hear—a hint of cherry, a whisper of smoke, the faint, acidic tang of a berry I can’t quite name. It is complex and endlessly fascinating. It is a conversation. This is why chocolate is sacred. In a world of transactions, of people who want something from you, of conversations laden with subtext and hidden agendas, chocolate is devastatingly honest. It has no ulterior motives. Its only purpose is to be exactly what it is. Its agenda is pleasure. It does not ask for anything in return. It does not need you to like it. It simply exists in its own profound, delicious truth. When I am frayed, when the noise of the world is too loud, when my anxiety is a swarm of cold bees under my ribs, this is my prayer. The ritual is a moment of pure, grounding mindfulness. It is a small, five-minute kingdom where I am in complete control. I choose the chocolate. I choose the moment. And I surrender to a pleasure that is clean, uncomplicated, and true. The last of it melts away. The flood recedes, leaving behind a lingering, beautiful ghost of its flavor, a warm coating in my throat. The communion is over. The bees in my chest are quiet. My breathing is slow and even. I have been blessed. I have been redeemed. And I am ready to face the world again. If you enjoyed this essay, you might enjoy reading, A Dash of Salt and Pepper by Kosoko Jackson

Listen to A Sensual Exploration of Chocolate I am not a religious man. My temples are not made of stone, and my prayers are not spoken in archaic tongues. But I do have rituals. I do believe in communion. I believe in the sacred act of unwrapping a piece of good, dark chocolate. It begins with a sound. The crinkle of foil, a quiet metallic whisper that promises a specific kind of deliverance. It is a more honest sound than most human voices. It never lies about its intent. Then there is the subtle shift in the air’s aroma, the first faint, dusty-sweet note of cocoa that escapes its wrapper. It is the ghost of the thing itself, an overture to the symphony. I hold the bar in my hand. It is cool and solid, a perfect, geometric tablet. There is an integrity to it. I break off a single square. The sound is the most important part of the prelude. A cheap, waxy chocolate will bend and tear with a dull thud. But a good chocolate, a chocolate with character and a high percentage of cacao, will offer a sharp, clean _snap_. It is the sound of conviction. It is a declaration of quality, a promise that it will not melt into cloying sweetness the moment it is challenged by the warmth of your mouth. Then, the communion. I don’t chew. Chewing is a violent, thoughtless act, an act of consumption. This is not about consumption. This is about surrender. I place the square on my tongue and I let it be. For a moment, it is just a solid thing, cool and foreign. And then, the warmth of my body begins to work its slow, patient magic. The edges begin to soften. The carefully tempered structure begins to yield. The first taste is not sweet. It is a profound bass note of bitterness. It is the earth, the bean, the fire it was roasted in. It is the chocolate’s story of origin, and you must honor that bitterness before you can earn the right to its sweetness. It is a test of patience. And then, it happens. The great, slow, velvet flood. The solid becomes liquid. It is a tide of impossible texture, coating my entire mouth in a film of pure, decadent sensation. The flavors begin to bloom. There are notes I can almost hear—a hint of cherry, a whisper of smoke, the faint, acidic tang of a berry I can’t quite name. It is complex and endlessly fascinating. It is a conversation. This is why chocolate is sacred. In a world of transactions, of people who want something from you, of conversations laden with subtext and hidden agendas, chocolate is devastatingly honest. It has no ulterior motives. Its only purpose is to be exactly what it is. Its agenda is pleasure. It does not ask for anything in return. It does not need you to like it. It simply exists in its own profound, delicious truth. When I am frayed, when the noise of the world is too loud, when my anxiety is a swarm of cold bees under my ribs, this is my prayer. The ritual is a moment of pure, grounding mindfulness. It is a small, five-minute kingdom where I am in complete control. I choose the chocolate. I choose the moment. And I surrender to a pleasure that is clean, uncomplicated, and true. The last of it melts away. The flood recedes, leaving behind a lingering, beautiful ghost of its flavor, a warm coating in my throat. The communion is over. The bees in my chest are quiet. My breathing is slow and even. I have been blessed. I have been redeemed. And I am ready to face the world again. If you enjoyed this essay, you might enjoy reading, A Dash of Salt and Pepper by Kosoko Jackson

“It's hard to get some oxygen in there for revitalization or redevelopment, when every other store is a liquor store or it's a motel that's engaged in prostitution and in drugs'

“It's hard to get some oxygen in there for revitalization or redevelopment, when every other store is a liquor store or it's a motel that's engaged in prostitution and in drugs'

Is Los Ondas the future of the franchise?

Despite the Democratic nominee for NYC mayor being labeled a communist, his agenda actually promises something much more ideologically modest.

This artbook is an over-the-shoulder look at how Radiant came to be

Eat your heart out, David Cronenberg: Coralie Fargeat’s body horror flick is the best film of its subgenre in years

We live in a world that worships the sleek and the weightless. Laptops get thinner, phones lose their heft, and everything is made of some space-age polymer that feels like a hollow lie in your hand. We’ve been convinced that substance is a flaw. I am here to lodge a formal protest. I am here to sing the praises of the perfectly weighted object. For me, an object’s story is told through its mass and its texture. A cheap, flimsy plastic thing feels like it has no history and no future. It is a temporary convenience, designed for the landfill. Its lightness is not a feature; it's a sign of its own insignificance. But a well-made object… a well-made object feels like a promise. Consider the profound, understated joy of a perfectly balanced ceramic mug. I have one I use every morning. It’s heavy enough that you know it’s there, its heft a warm, solid anchor in my hands. The handle is thick enough to feel trustworthy. When you set it down on a wooden table, it makes a low, satisfying thunk, a sound of substance, of presence. It’s a small, daily declaration that this moment—this coffee—is real and has weight. Or consider the old-school television remote. Not the slick, minimalist wands of today with their flat, featureless touchpads, but the chunky, reassuring bricks from the 90s. The ones with big, rubbery buttons that push back at you with a decisive click. Each button had its own shape and texture—the concave circle of the power button, the cross-shape of the directional pad. You could navigate it purely by the braille of its design. Its weight in your hand felt like control. It felt like it could survive a fall. A good pen has this quality. Not a disposable Bic that feels like a hollow straw, but a solid metal pen with a bit of density to it. The weight makes your hand move with more intention. It feels like your words have substance before they even hit the page. These things are my allies. In a world that often feels ephemeral and uncertain, these small pockets of physical integrity are a source of profound grounding. They are a rebellion against the flimsy and the fleeting. They are a reminder that some things are built to last, to feel right, to have weight. And holding them feels like holding something true. If you enjoyed this essay, you might enjoy reading, Blind: A Memoir by Belo Miguel Cipriani.

On twisting the human form to make a point

Removing Leigh Janiak, Fear Street’s original director and co-writer, was a creative blunder

We live in a world that worships the sleek and the weightless. Laptops get thinner, phones lose their heft, and everything is made of some space-age polymer that feels like a hollow lie in your hand. We’ve been convinced that substance is a flaw. I am here to lodge a formal protest. I am here to sing the praises of the perfectly weighted object. For me, an object’s story is told through its mass and its texture. A cheap, flimsy plastic thing feels like it has no history and no future. It is a temporary convenience, designed for the landfill. Its lightness is not a feature; it's a sign of its own insignificance. But a well-made object… a well-made object feels like a promise. Consider the profound, understated joy of a perfectly balanced ceramic mug. I have one I use every morning. It’s heavy enough that you know it’s there, its heft a warm, solid anchor in my hands. The handle is thick enough to feel trustworthy. When you set it down on a wooden table, it makes a low, satisfying thunk, a sound of substance, of presence. It’s a small, daily declaration that this moment—this coffee—is real and has weight. Or consider the old-school television remote. Not the slick, minimalist wands of today with their flat, featureless touchpads, but the chunky, reassuring bricks from the 90s. The ones with big, rubbery buttons that push back at you with a decisive click. Each button had its own shape and texture—the concave circle of the power button, the cross-shape of the directional pad. You could navigate it purely by the braille of its design. Its weight in your hand felt like control. It felt like it could survive a fall. A good pen has this quality. Not a disposable Bic that feels like a hollow straw, but a solid metal pen with a bit of density to it. The weight makes your hand move with more intention. It feels like your words have substance before they even hit the page. These things are my allies. In a world that often feels ephemeral and uncertain, these small pockets of physical integrity are a source of profound grounding. They are a rebellion against the flimsy and the fleeting. They are a reminder that some things are built to last, to feel right, to have weight. And holding them feels like holding something true. If you enjoyed this essay, you might enjoy reading, Blind: A Memoir by Belo Miguel Cipriani.

"Read is considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached by members of the community."

"Read is considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached by members of the community."