Years ago. We were fans of AR from close to the beginning. Back then fans bought the DVDs, which included extras.
In one candid sitting-in-the-stair-car moment you tell Michael Cera that you wanted a b.j.—a reference to oral sex–when Michael was a minor and the comment was in no way appropriate.
Your NYT interview rings amiss if we confuse your various on-screen personae with “the real you.” But that clip has haunted me.
You are not just responsible for attempting to excuse Tambor for inexcusable behavior, that clip with Cera suggests you need to make some changes, and some apologies–for yourself.
Nine years ago I sat in a ob-gyn office looking at a pamphlet on domestic violence. I thought my partner is not the problem, but I am a domestic violence victim nonetheless.
During that pregnancy my adopted daughter kicked me in the stomach. During those years she subjected me to verbal abuse, kicked, punched, and hit me. We called doctors, the police, mental hospitals. Her anger was explosive and violent, but nothing she has ever done is worse than the things her brother did in secrecy.
Back then I did research. There was no support or process for parents attempting to pursue legal avenues of protection against abusive children.
I persisted. I attempted to get her charged with assault. I asked the police to take pictures of the marks she left.
They told me she was too mentally ill to be incarcerated. They told me to tie her up.
Juvenile court dropped the charges.
When I look back to the long-ago beginnings of my relationship with these two very broken people I see that their violence defined the relationship throughout. When young children with stories of neglect and abuse act out we may think there are solutions for caregivers in consistency, therapy, research, and time.
I never found those solutions. I found that their problems were bigger than us all, that I was lucky to have survived at all. Despite all our good intentions the advice I wish someone had given me twenty years ago—
Run fast, run far.
The Congress of the United States passed by an overwhelming margin an act authorizing the US embassy in Israel be located in its capital–Jerusalem…during Clinton’s presidency.
He refused to sign it.
We decided this as a representative democracy more than 20 years ago.
70 years after the birth of the modern state of Israel and 73 years after the end of the Holocaust.
We name the fox Kristofferson after the character in the Wes Anderson movie. He sticks to the shadows but when he emerges you know it is him–not a cat or stray dog, too vulpine to be anything else and we are worried because the kittens are in the woods somewhere while their mother is out.
What can I do?
Leave the children in the running car? Leave the headlights on? Turn on the flashlight? Stomp through the tall grass into no-man’s-land? Keeping eye contact with him all the while? As if I could just scare him off from where the young ones are?
…pray they survive the night.
The ghost of the girl turns to the ghost of the boy and says something inaudible about grief, the way it can turn up unannounced reminding any real person of the placeholder tree, all previous attempts at triage, some of the missing, the velocity of loss…the age the child would have been
Matthew 1:3,5-6 NIV
 Judah the father of Perez and Zerah, whose mother was Tamar, Perez the father of Hezron, Hezron the father of Ram,  Salmon the father of Boaz, whose mother was Rahab, Boaz the father of Obed, whose mother was Ruth, Obed the father of Jesse,  and Jesse the father of King David. David was the father of Solomon, whose mother had been Uriah’s wife,
It can be tempting to ask why all their names are not there.
It can be tempting to ask why Uriah never got a son, or why Judah was such a freaking loser but still got to be on the list.
But they are there–the prostitutes, the good girls, the chronically misunderstood. Most of them anyway, because the God of Sarah, Leah, and Mary told the Israelites keep all the babies, they all matter to Me.