Caitlin

This mix tape is all about the best things in life: love, drugs, and sex. A couple of songs, such as “Take Ecstasy with Me,” discuss all three topics. While The Bygone Bureau does not officially promote or discourage any of these activities, it’s hard not to feel pressure from Antony Hegarty (who sings a version of Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day”) to fall in love, refuse Jeff Tweedy a drug binge, or resist an invitation for sex from Beck.

Jordan

This mix tape, aptly titled “Chocolate Barf Fairies” (Volume Seven, of course) is an extension of my conflicting moods. That is, this mix tape attempts to contrast songs that are identifiably barfy and loud against songs that are much more fairy-esque. Get it? Well it doesn’t matter: if Autechre’s “paralel Suns” [sp] doesn’t emit a vomit-like feeling from your gut, I’m not sure what does. Some songs, like Goldfrapp’s fantastic new song “Eat Yourself,” are a strange combination of the two feelings. The mix tape reels from one spectrum of quiet, serene speculation to crass noise-excrement fairly quickly, so please feel free to press pause when you get a little queasy.

Drew

Sometimes I listen to a song and say, “All this is missing is a great video.” Mark Romanek is a maker of beautiful music videos. He’s never subtle, but that’s what sets him apart. Blatant religious icons (Nine Inch Nail’s “Closer”) and overly dramatic sets (Lenny Kravitz’s “Are You Gonna Go My Way”) are perfect in music videos. Artists are allowed to stare in the camera in a video, and I think they should. Fuck faux concert footage.

The following is a mix of songs that could use big sweeping camera shots, an overwrought premise, and a $15 million dollar budget.

And One Hour Photo sucked, Mark. Sorry.

Kevin

When I put together a mix tape, I think of it as musical accompaniment to something specific I’m doing or will do. For example, I have a mix for running, doing homework, cooking, and, of course, driving. My pretentiously titled “Magnifique Pacifique” mix is what I want to listen to when I’m in a submarine, which is something I plan to do after getting my degree in marine biology (a.k.a. renting The Life Aquatic). I can’t imagine a more fitting soundtrack to deep sea exploration than low-key indie pop and electronica.

Nick

The most important thing about this mix, like any mix, is that it begins with LCD Soundsystem’s “Tribulations.” Please feel free to use this rule to evaluate the entries from the other Bureau writers. You’ll also note that I’ve taken the unconventional strategy of placing a nine-minute song in the prime third slot. It’s a risky move that has sunk many mixes, but I’m confident about its execution here because it’s impossible to listen to “Swans” too many times. Believe me. Finally, I have included one leaked song, the Silver Jews’ “Suffering Jukebox,” which makes my mix even more illegal than the already blatantly-criminal nature of this entire Muxtape endeavor. This extra delinquency, I think, gives my mix the X-factor it needs to go deep in the playoffs.

Luckily, I backed up our database before the failed upgrade, so almost the entire site has been restored. A few images are missing, among a few other kinks, but if something doesn’t look right, please let us know. I appreciated all of your sympathetic emails during our brief downtime. We’re glad you folks care as much as we do.

But otherwise, things are well here at The Bygone Bureau headquarters in scenic Tacoma, Washington. We recently published our first printed edition, which collected a sampling of some of our favorite works from the past few months; we’ll be uploading a PDF of the print version to the site soon.

Additionally, I’d like to encourage budding writers with something to say to check out our Submissions Policy. We’ve published a few unsolicited submissions over the past few months, and we’d like to see more.

Oh, and you can listen to the radio promo that Caitlin and I recorded for the Bureau.

That’s all for now. Have a lovely day.

Technical explanation of The Bygone Bureau’s downtime:
Due to anomalies in the core reactor, a system-wide extrapolation of the flux capacitor caused a chain reaction of hydrochloric meltdowns, disabling FTL drives throughout the server. Fortunately, the crash was brought to justice by heroism overcoming adversity against all odds.

The greatest critique of the internet’s most recent fascinations—I Can Has Cheezburger, for example—is the “any idiot can do that” factor. Given that we, here at the Bureau, deem ourselves able to do anything that other idiots can, tried our hand at a few Dinosaur Comics of our own.

Click for a more legibly sized comic.

Jordan

Caitlin

Kevin

Nick

Caitlin

Female Independence
I used to think feminism was really stupid. That might sound odd for a woman to say, but I don’t think that it’s unusual for men and women in my age group to agree. I was of the opinion that the Women’s Rights Movement was over and done with. I’m glad it happened, but get over it. I am treated equally to males in school, work, and social situations.

That said there are many times when I feel unsafe or threatened just because I am a woman. Almost every time I am walking alone in the dark (and sometimes in daylight), I am honked at or yelled at in a way that makes my adrenaline overload. I form a fist in one hand, have my phone ready in the other, and quicken my pace. To the best of my knowledge, this does not happen often to men. I discussed the “honking at girls” fetish with a male classmate in high school who liked to do this. He described it as a way to let a woman know you thought they were attractive, and he didn’t think it was a big deal.

That’s bullshit.

For one, how do you even know if it’s a woman in the dark and how can you tell what she looks like? Secondly, it is an extremely threatening gesture to honk and yell at a woman or group of women. Do you think this behavior makes me wish you’d pull over so I can give you my phone number?

After experiencing yet another honking episode while walking home alone from a friend’s last night, I began to think about my level of independence. I would have felt much safer if I had been walking with a male friend. I realize it’s common sense to always walk with a friend or group in the dark, but it annoys the hell out of me that it might not be so necessary if I weren’t a girl.

If you’re a honker, you should quit it. As for feminism, I’m considering joining up.

Kevin

Universal Health Care
I used to think that free health care was a silly idea. The costs would weigh down our economy, burdened by an aging, retired population. It’s currently a problem in Europe.

But as it stands now, our health care system is bloated, and unless we put the squeeze on providers, we’ll never see an affordable trip to the doctor’s office.

Maybe it’s the focus health care reform has received from this presidential race, the influence of Michael Moore’s surprisingly convincing documentary Sicko, or my own selfish fear of losing my paycheck to COBRA when I graduate from college, but I suddenly find it ridiculous that the United States is the only developed economy that doesn’t guarantee health care as a right of citizenship.

I suppose this doesn’t resolve the fact that Europe’s elderly carry a heavy financial burden on the working population, but our neighbors across the Atlantic seem to be doing just fine regardless. And there’s probably something inherently backwards when we see keeping people alive as a problem.

Jordan

Fiction is Essential and Relevant
As a college student I’ve had a lot of time to consider my English literature major (which I dropped just recently). In the beginning, I had justified the study of fiction as one of extreme importance—that the literary canon contained the secrets of existence and truth, if I could only read them all. My hesitance towards this viewpoint began to wane as I was subjected to literary criticism. To be a literary critic means to examine a work with extreme detail; I have been taught that every word and comma is critical in meaning and expression. At the same time I had an impending sense of irrelevance when reading about how Sarah Orne Jewett’s A Country of the Pointed Firs is a curious expression of empire and racial purity. I shrugged off the notion, but with each new class, the feeling resurged, stronger than before. I slunk further into my chair, weighed down by a wasting sense of irrelevance.

I eventually had to confront it. Why is fiction—namely classic, canonized fiction—so essential and worthy of obsessive study?

I came to realize that fiction isn’t imperative or relevant: I don’t need to read everything to achieve a state of Howard Bloomian wisdom. This change of mind was refreshing and a lifted burden. Instead, fiction has become something purely aesthetic: There is nothing essential in determining literary themes—it’s simply the self-extracted meaning that remains. It’s not about character or plot but the self-created sense of significance that determines worth. When you finish a novel, all that remains is the quiet conversation between you and the work. Once I understood the necessity of finding my own significance in a work—whether meaningful or not—the clumsy trappings of literary criticism left me. That sense of literary duty that has undermined me for so long has left.

Instead of persecuting a work in pursuit of its significance, I am free.

Kevin Nguyen: Hillary Duff

Election Day may be a year away, but I already know that my vote is going to Hillary. Hillary Duff, that is.

According to Wikipedia, Duff is an actress, singer, songwriter, spokesperson, fashion designer, and entrepreneur. President of the United States of America is the only occupation she has yet to conquer. And honestly, I think she’d be the only sure bet, regardless of the party she ran for. As a Republican candidate, she would be the second most intelligent, next to Ron Paul; as a Democrat, Duff would be the second cutest girl, next to John Edwards.

But how will Ms. Duff fund her campaign, you say? Below is a chart comparing the combined domestic and international box office revenue of The Lizzie McGuire Movie (adjusted for inflation) with the total funds raised from the top three candidates ion both sides. Clearly, Duff is able to edge out her opponents fiscally.

Sure she doesn’t meet the age requirement of 35, but I think we can make an exception for the former star of Lizzie McGuire. In fact, her youth guarantees a no compromise diplomatic demeanor, which would be particularly useful when establishing order in the Middle East. Just look at this line from her smash hit, “Come Clean (Let the Rain Fall Down)”:

Cause perfect didn’t feel so perfect
Trying to fit a square into a circle
Was no life
I defy

See that? Duff defies, plus she’s no square. This kind of pre-pubescent logic is the only solution to our current administration. Now, she has a clothing line called Stuff by Duff. Everyone should get ready for Foreign Policy by Duff, because when it comes down to it, there’s no other triple-platinum presidential candidate.

Jordan Barber: Jonathan “The Impaler” Sharkey, Patriotic Satanist

I couldn’t help it, but Mr. Sharkey is actually running for president.

One of the things that most attract me to Mr. “The Impaler” Sharkey—besides his charming looks and his credentials as a Hecate Witch—is his honesty and ability to protect America. As a former candidate for governor of Minnesota and as a professional boxer, I feel that Mr. Sharkey has the will and experience to protect us from the evils lurking outside America, like terrorists or Mexicans. Mr. Sharkey’s policies are bold and clear: once in office, he has promised to impale current president George W. Bush (among others) for their terrible crimes against humanity. As quoted on his official website: “While Bush is IMPALED, I vow to drink his BLOOD!” Now we can all rest assured.

But he’s also a very caring person. After his long list of people to be impaled, he includes a sincere note: “PLEASE NOTE: If any women who belong to a group scheduled to be executed are pregnant at the time, they will NOT be executed!”


Ladies and gentleman, this man cares for America. Earlier in his career he began the program VWPAID: Vampyres, Witches, Pagans Against Impaired Driving. He is also currently at work on his first musical album, entitled A Vampyre Sings Elvis Love Songs. I know who will be getting my vote this year. This is the man—or vampire, rather—for America.

After all, asks Mr. Sharkey on his campaign website, “Would you love to live in a nation that reminds you of Camelot?” I think we all know the answer to that one, Mr. Sharkey. 



Caitlin Boersma: Wilford Brimley

I was going to run for president myself until I went through this worksheet and decided the job wasn’t for me.

I thought about what I valued most in a leader and came up with this list: mustache, cowboy hat, diabetes, and a wealth of knowledge about medical supply companies. Only one man could fit this description. Wilford Brimly. He also played William Howard Taft once in a movie . No one could be better qualified for this job.

Vote Wilford Brimly and call Liberty Medical 1-800-376-1599.

Jeff Merrion: N/A

Jeff Merrion is a convicted felon and, as such, is unable to vote in United States elections.

Nick Martens: Kevin Drew

First of all, dude’s dating Feist. This fact saves us from having to worry about him fooling around with “curvy” interns and causing a ridiculous national crisis.

More importantly, Drew isn’t afraid to speak his mind. At a recent Seattle show, he berated the venue in which he was playing throughout the entire set. We need this kind of fearless break from politics-as-usual to bring our country back on track. Is North Korea being a little bitch? President Drew will not be afraid to call them on their bullshit.

Drew also comes equipped with a suite of Broken Social Scene members qualified to fill out important cabinet positions. Brendan Canning will shake up the office of the Secretary of Defense by replacing the usual credentials of a military background and strategic mindset with aggressive bass lines and energetic stage presence. Drew’s is the only administration that will play “Almost Crimes” at the State of the Union.

Also, he’s Canadian, so maybe he can finally get us some fucking sensible health care.

On the positive side, the Bureau has received a bit of attention lately, for which we are extremely grateful. We watched, slack-jawed, as the hits poured in from links to “Indie Rock T-Shirts That Would Never Sell” and Nick’s response to the announcement of Radiohead’s new album, “‘Rainbows’ Reveals a Brighter Tomorrow.” (By the way, I’m currently in love with In Rainbows.)

So for all you new readers, Nick and I have selected a few of our favorite articles from The Bygone Bureau’s expansive four month archive. Enjoy.

• The Great E-Dating Experiment
• Fuck the Grand Canyon
• Smart Design
• Taiwan: He Mama’s Ice
• My Summer Affair with Alton Brown or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Food Network
• To Charlie the Giant Fucking Bear, Wherever I May Find Him
• Staff List: Game Shows

Thanks for bearing with us.

“Dude, you don’t understand,” the young man said. “Their live show will change your life.”

Obviously, this person was an idiot. We immediately shooed him out of the office with our official “philistine broom,” but he got us thinking. What kind of music gets dismissed too hastily or ignored undeservedly? We decided to approach the topic with a broad focus: anything from misunderstood albums to forgotten genres would qualify for this list. Here’s what we came up with:

Nick Martens

Daft Punk’s Human After All

Can someone, please, tell my why Human After All is so maligned? What, I ask, were you expecting from a Daft Punk record?

Yes, Homework is transcendent and Discovery is euphoric, footsteps in which Human After All does not quite follow. But listening to the worst Daft Punk record is like sleeping with the least attractive Bundchen sister. Maybe your life could be spectacular instead of merely great, but you still have no right to complain.

Let me put it to you this way: I need as much Daft Punk in my life as I can get. Granted, 90% my Daft Punk Time consists of listening to “Around the World,” but I’m damn grateful to have “Robot Rock,” “Human After All” (the song), and “Television Rules the Nation” to help me fill in the remaining 10%. All of you HAA haters should take this to heart. If you’re happy with only getting “Daft Punk remixes Daft Punk” for the rest of your life, keep on bitching. But if, like me, you would like our glistening robot lords to grace us once again with brand new music, start by being grateful for what they have already given you.

Jordan Barber

The Warsaw Village Band & World Music

No one is as perturbed as I am when it comes to underrated music. While majority of independent music critics are careful to give full reviews to an array of genres and styles, they still know what people would rather hear. Similar to how “Literature” (aka LITERATURE!!!) always sidelines any “lesser” genre in the ranks of important English novels, “rock” and “pop” are the predetermined favorites among the indie crowd. I’m happy to hear that artists like M.I.A. have deservedly garnered so much critical attention, but I’d like to hear more about my pick for underrated music: the Warsaw Village Band.

They’re underrated because their genre kills them straight off the bat. They’re from Poland, and they play traditional folk music, all sung in Polish. Their genre? World music. Yeah, they’re doomed. Who the fuck listens to world music? I guess some people: the BBC and NPR like to talk about it, but that’s about as far as it goes. So I think the Warsaw Village Band is forever destined to be a niche band, even though they’re notable for reviving near-extinct folk traditions in Poland. They’ve had a couple of notable interviews, available online, with a variety of interesting audio clips. Check them out—if not for yourself, for Poland. For world music.

Jeff Merrion

Low

One word: Low. Lots of people have heard of them, but few listen. True, their music is depressing, slow, and harrowing. But it’s never lugubrious. Low has as many shades of melancholy as Seattle has types of rain. Their vocal harmonies are the sounds of angels playing in an abandoned strip mall. Their music is the sound of a glacier being used as a cello bow. Actually, in hindsight, those silly metaphors are everything Low’s music is not. Low is, first and foremost, human. Their music is the sound of humans, sometimes frustrated, sometimes enamored with the world. Nothing I could ever write would do this band justice. Their music means a lot to me, and speaks to me in a way no other band ever has. So give them a listen.

Caitlin Boersma

Oasis

I wasn’t sure if I should write about underrated music by regular standards or by hipster standards. For example, normal people love Justin Timberlake’s FutureSex/LoveSounds because it’s such a well-produced, fun album. Hipsters hate it because, well, it’s JT. Anyway, my point is that this topic is entirely dependent on the tightness of your jeans.

That said, I’m going to defend Oasis. I realize they’re a big joke and their last three records were crap, but that’s no reason to write off their first three. Definitely Maybe and Be Here Now are distinctive nineties alternative rock albums, and (What’s the Story) Morning Glory could be used to define the genre. The Gallagher brothers may be good for a laugh nowadays, but “Champagne Supernova”? That’s a quality tune.

Kevin Nguyen

The Guillemots’ Through the Windowpane

My favorite album of 2006 is the Guillemots’ Through the Windowpane, which, in spite of glowing reviews, is a record nobody talks about. Why isn’t this band famous? The Guillemots are brilliant.

Frontman Fyfe Dangerfield has a penchant for cinematic flair and simple melodies. There’s a candid, personal charm in his songwriting. Windowpane demonstrates the band’s range from straightforward pop songs like “Trains to Brazil” and “Annie, Let’s Not Wait” to slower, methodically constructed build-ups such as “Made-up Lovesong #43″ and “We’re Here.” “Sao Paulo,” the album’s final track, is both intimate and epic in ways we’ve seen only from the likes of Sufjan Stevens.

There’s a whole lot to love on Through the Windowpane. You can check out a couple of their “Take Away Shows” then buy the album through Amazon’s swanky new mp3 download store.

The question was, “On which game show would you most like to be a contestant,” and the responses are reprinted below. The editors’ responses are included due to the fact that they were at the tail end of a four-day “coffee marathon” at the time, and forgot that they didn’t need to apply to their own site.

Nick Martens

The correct answer to this question is obviously Family Feud. The real question is: which host do you want? The current host, who played J. Peterman on Seinfeld, is out for obvious reasons. The previous host, Richard Karn of Home Improvement “fame,” is also disqualified, due to beard-related issues. This still leaves three excellent choices: the chronic sexual harasser, Richard Dawson, the Prozac addict, Ray Combs (who later killed himself), or Louie Anderson, who needs no introduction. Combs might be interesting because of his 4’ 6″ stature and for the fact that you could see the repressed despair of a broken man in his eyes, but he’s probably the least fun of the bunch. Louie Anderson would be… oh, just look at him:

I mean, tempting. But the real winning choice is Dawson, who in addition to groping each contestant backstage was also a rage-filled narcissist. To get the most out of my experience on Feud, I would need to make a few tweaks. The most important step would be to abandon my real family in favor of a troop of hot chicks. I’m thinking Pussycat Dolls. Now, this substitution is not solely for personal benefit. See, Dawson could barely control his wandering hands in the presence of fifty year-old housewives from Kansas. Given a line-up genuine gussied-up skanks, Dawson’s will would surely break, and he’d hurl his skinny microphone at his producer before molesting the closest Doll in sight. This is television history we’re talking about here, and I want to be part of it.

Plus, I have my finger on the pulse of the American public consciousness. Check it out: “Which fruit or vegetable is most likely to lead to a visit to the proctologist?”

Survey says! Potato.

Kevin Nguyen

I have a couple candidates, both of which are inspired from my childhood in front of the tube.

A few of my friends are convinced that Nickelodeon’s GUTS was the coolest thing since the ‘90s reintroduction of Creepy Crawlers, but I have always been more partial to the lesser-known Legends of the Hidden Temple. At the beginning of the show, there are six two-person teams, and after several rounds of elimination, the final pair is allowed to take on the Temple Run. The temple itself was a cutaway facsimile of a Mayan temple, with a series of booby-trapped rooms and dead ends. (I forget what the contestants were looking for in the temple—I think magical pendants or some shit like that.)

If nothing else, I’m always tempted to buy a Hidden Temple t-shirt. (Note: The Bygone Bureau is in no way associated with Bygone Shirts, although I must commend them on their excellent site name.)

My other childhood game show was Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? I learned less about geography, and more about how little people knew about geography. During the show’s final stage, ominously called The Map, contestants were given a list of a dozen countries to locate on a giant floor world map. Planting these odd sirens correctly would somehow enable you to capture Carmen San Diego. If the contestant was successful (which rarely happened), the grand prize was a free trip to any place in the country. I find this free flight unbearably cheap, considering that the show wasn’t called Where in the Continental United States is Carmen San Diego? But judging from the geographic know-how of the contestants, complimentary international travel would probably land them in Sudan instead of Japan.

Oh, and speaking of Japan, I can’t deny an attempt at the four-stage obstacle course of Sasuke, or as it’s been renamed in America, Ultimate Ninja Warrior. (For the record, the show has absolutely nothing to do with ninjas—unless you assume that all athletic Japanese people are ninjas, which seems fair.) After a few drinks, I usually convince myself that the obstacles are easier than they look, despite the fact that only two individuals have ever climbed to the top of Mount Midoriyama. While there is almost no chance that I could ever succeed, the title of ‘Ultimate Ninja Warrior’ would look impressive on my résumé though.

Caitlin Boersma

I hate watching game shows. I’m also sure I wouldn’t like to be on one. I can’t stand being embarrassed, and I don’t want to hug or kiss any smarmy host. Even with those conditions considered, there are three game shows I wouldn’t mind trying. Two of them are no longer on air.

Wheel of Fortune: I never got how the buying of letters worked, but I’ve always wanted to spin that wheel and applaud as it went around.

Classic Concentration: It would be a lot easier than Jeopardy! and I’d still get to meet Alex Trebek.

Scrabble: The television adaptation sounded quite different from the board game, but I think I could hold my own. I once memorized all the two-letter legal word combinations and made a start on the threes. I went through a phase in high school.

Jeff Merrion

Before Bob Barker retired (died?), he was the archetypical sleazy game show host of The Price is Right. He was a true progressive; he was a complete letch to every single woman that appeared on the show, regardless of race, creed or color. And the show itself; what magnificent genius! An hour-long advertisement, bookended by advertisements, and marketed to the section of the population with the most disposable time and income: the pensioned elderly. We can thank The Price is Right for the proliferation of RV’s that today grace America’s highways. I only wish I could travel back in time to Bob Barker’s 1970’s heyday and win second-rate home furnishings advertised by network TV’s Hugh Hefner. My only worry would be that I wasn’t strong enough to spin that giant wheel. How did all those old ladies spin that giant thing? The show even flew in the face of the laws of physics.

Jordan Barber

I’ll admit that I cheated when I applied to write for the Bureau. I felt that devoting my time to Amy Tan novels was far more important than filling out an application, so I had my game show-loving grandmother, Georgia Barber, write it for me. Here’s what she wrote:

“What gameshow would I like to be on? I’ll tell you one thing about game shows: I’m not watching The Price is Right ever again. Not once in this lifetime am I ever again watching it. I might even avoid that channel entirely, except during the daytime because The Young and the Restless is on. Did you know that it’s the highest rated daytime drama on television? But really, since Bob Barker retired that sloppy excuse for a man–Drew Carey–has been calling the shots. I usually don’t like anyone with two first names, Laurie Ann two doors down also has two first names and I don’t like it one bit. Her house usually smells of cat urine. It makes me sick, it really does. I can’t imagine seeing Drew Carey’s fat body lollygagging over the stage like some sea lion stuck out of water. But that Bob, he was somethin’ else. What’s the world coming to? Is Drew Carey sexy? I’ll tell you one thing: not to me. I might be 87, but I still know what turns me on. And it’s not Drew Carey.”

All of this got us thinking about endings and which ones we like best. Any ending would do, whether from a book, a movie, or a visit to an “Asian massage parlor.” As long as there wasn’t anything after it, we’d put it on our list. Here’s what we came up with.

Jordan Barber

I often don’t remember the endings of books, movies, conversations–anything really. Sometimes I don’t even remember the beginning or middle. I don’t think it’s due to an infantile memory capacity, but rather things that just aren’t interesting.

That’s why I should introduce everyone to a wonderful lady named Flannery O’Conner. O’Conner was a great southern short story writer, who really pens memorable endings. Her stories meander on about some poor trash who’s caught in a mess—this blather painfully draws on for about 10-15 pages—and then in the last couple of pages there’s some shocking, unspeakably violent event. It makes you stand up and go “Oh God, what the fuck just happened?” because you thought you were reading about something boring.

I have no idea what the rest of the story is about, but I definitely remember when that old hag gets blown away with a shotgun.

Kevin Nguyen

As far as films go, the best ending definitely goes to Dude, Where’s My Car? Ashton Kutcher and Seann William Scott eventually find their car. Epic.

Caitlin Boersma

The way the movie Get Carter (the 1971 Michael Caine version, not the 2000 Sylvester Stallone version) ends is quite good. In case you haven’t seen it, I’m going to ruin it for you: he dies. After attempting to avenge his brother’s death throughout the entire movie, Carter finally finds his brother’s killer. Carter mildly tortures him and receives satisfaction from drawing out his death. Once the deed is done, the audience sees Carter walking along the beach resting his shotgun on his shoulder. His face is a picture of relief and contentment. Then a sniper shoots him in the head.

It’s a great ending because it makes Carter’s vengeful mission rather ironic. He killed everyone in his path to find his brother’s murderer, but the moment after Carter becomes content with his work, he is shot down. For what purpose were those murders and was it justified to commit them over his brother’s death? Was it worth it for only those few moments of fulfillment? Even though the audience is on Carter’s side by this point, the viewer knows that he has to die. It couldn’t end any other way.

Jeff Merrion

Album: At the end of Mogwai’s Come On Die Young, after an album full of quiet, moody instrumentals, comes a song called “Christmas Steps.” It starts slow and funereal like all the other songs on the album, but builds to a crescendo that sounds like it was culled from an epic doom metal album. It scares the shit out of me (figuratively, but the song has enough bass to be a catalyst for a non-metaphorical shit-scaring).

Film: At the end of the movie Being There, Peter Sellers’ character, a dullard named Chance, inexplicably walks on water during a funeral service. Maybe the best “What the fuck?” moment in cinema.

Book: At the end of Brave New World, when Bernard hangs himself and the closing image of the book is of his feet dangling towards each of the cardinal directions.

Nick Martens

J.K. Rolwing had it easy. From the first book on, everyone knew the climax of her series: Harry vs. Voldemort. Sure, there was some suspense as to whether Harry would die, but ol’ Voldy was toast no matter what. There was little real chance of being surprised by the finale of The Deathly Hallows.

Stephen King was in a much tighter spot when it came time to wrap up his seven-book series, The Dark Tower. In the novel of the same name, King had to answer a question that had been building for thousands of pages and over 20 years. What is the Dark Tower? (If you’re reading the series or have any intention of ever doing so, I beg you, LOOK AWAY NOW.)

Big Fucking Spoilers: The main character of the Lord of the Rings-inspired Dark Tower series is the gunslinger Roland. He begins his journey trudging across the desert in pursuit of a man. The series opens: “The man in black fled across the desert, and the Gunslinger followed.” Roland is on a journey to find the fabled Dark Tower, and it takes him seven books, averaging probably 500 pages each, to get there. King began the series in 1982 and finished in 2004.

Seriously, spoilers: At the very end of the seventh book, after two clever fake-out endings and a severe breach of the fourth wall, Roland enters the tower. He ascends gradually, viewing artifacts from his life in each room along the way. He quickly becomes impatient and begins running up the stairs, up and up for what seems like an eternity until he gets to the door at the top, opens it and…

Don’t read this: He’s back in the desert. He panics for one desperate moment, but soon the feeling is gone. The series ends perfectly, brilliantly with: “The man in black fled across the desert, and the Gunslinger followed.” I don’t care if it’s been done before; reading it was amazing. King’s right: it was the only way to end the series.

Caitlin Boersma

I always thought the “Last Meal” question was rather odd. I wouldn’t feel like eating much of anything if I knew I’d die in a few hours. Other than that I took it to be an extreme way of asking one’s most favorite meal. I’ve rethought that. For my last meal I would select something intensely comforting. I would order my grandmother’s chicken and broccoli casserole. I think it could probably found on the back of a Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup can. I’d want the casserole, some fresh strawberries, and tiramisu from Costco. The precursor being about four gin and tonics (it was my grandpa’s drink after all). Even if I couldn’t bring myself to eat at all, the smells alone would bring me some calm.

Jeff Merrion

At first, it seems kind of trivial to think of the importance of a last meal; if I am going to die, what difference does it make what I eat? But if you mull it over a bit more, you realize that it is your last chance to demonstrate your freedom before your life is taken away against your choice. So, as my last manifestation of freedom, I would start with some sushi (eel, maybe some yellowtail tuna) and sake. I would have for a second course some Italian chicken dish, and for desert, I would have rum cake. Only not just any rum cake. We have a regular customer at work who sometimes brings us homemade rum cake. She is a bit advanced in age, and usually, she forgets to cook out the rum (so her cake is pretty much just angel food cake soaked in uncooked rum). So I would eat about seven or so pieces of cake, and I would go to the guillotine a happy man, drunk on cake. Showing up to my own execution intoxicated by cake would be the ultimate “fuck you” to my executors.

Jordan Barber

I can’t imagine what it would feel like if you knew your death was impending. I’d probably only want Wheaties; gotta stay strong. But I’d eat them very slowly, maybe even until they got soggy, so that I may relish my last moments alive on earth.

Kevin Nguyen

If I’m on death row, chances are I’m responsible for some stupid act (murder) and carried it out in some stupid place (Georgia). At least you’re granted a final meal of your choice before facing the death penalty, I mean, capital punishment. Might as well make the most of it. I would take a hot bowl of pho, a medium-rare steak (any cut), two-dozen eel sushi, grilled Ahi tuna, steamed dumplings, Lebanese meze, full rack of baby back ribs, pulled-pork sandwich, fried calamari, Honey Dijon Kettle Chips, and cheese ravioli. For dessert, I’d like New York cheesecake (which is, to my knowledge, the only good thing New York produces) and good ‘ol fashioned apple pie a la mode. Oh, and to start off the meal, maybe a salad with dressing on the side. I have to watch my figure.

Nick Martens

When I was three years old, my family moved to a house in the foothills of Denver, Colorado, and has been there ever since. The story goes that, the very first day we moved in, my parents bought pizza from the only pizza joint within 10 miles of the house, Guido’s Pizzeria. That was also the day I fell out of a second story window. Despite the minor head trauma, Guido’s has been my favorite pizzeria for as long as I can remember.

Although you, the reader, have probably never been there, you can tell the pizza is good because it ranks in the top-ten Google results for “Guido’s Pizza,” which seems to be the most common name for independent pizzerias in the country. What makes Guido’s great to me is more than just their genuinely excellent New York style pies. The place has a real character, from the ski-bum owner Rick to the legion of stoners that have staffed the place for decades. As far as I know, at no point has anyone named Guido been even remotely associated with the place.

My favorite part of the place, though, has little pertinence to executions. Nearly every time you walk into Guido’s, an unusually attractive girl is working the register. The girl is almost always different, and I’ve never seen her do anything besides take money, call out orders and distract the real employees. I have to give my respect to a restaurant that will hire a cute girl for the sole purpose of increasing tips, thereby allowing the decrease of actual wages. It’s a stroke of economic genius.

Anyways, I think a few slices of Guido’s Pizza would bring back all of these good memories before I was carted off to the chair for selling delicate national secrets to the Germans in a drunken Oktoberfest haze.