Wonderment is hard to come by as an adult, but at least there are dinosaurs to think about.

Maybe the most wondrous moment of Jurassic Park — a movie that’s basically back-to-back-to-back-to-back wondrous moments — is when the brachiosaurus comes into view for the first time. It’s truly awe-inspiring, no matter your age. I watched this movie for the first time recently, in my never-ending quest to fill in childhood blanks, and seeing their long, swooping necks was completely unreal.

I’m a little bummed I never saw this magnificent movie when it came out. I would’ve been six years old, maybe too young, maybe easily spooked, but I think I would have loved it, and I think it would’ve had a profound effect on me. I was a very sci-fi averse child, mostly because no one was telling me how cool it was, and I think I would have had a stronger connection to stuff I’m just now learning about, like this flick.

But watching it in my late 20s, and watching it with someone who did watch it back then and adores it to this day, I found myself with a different kind of appreciation for it. He pointed out the brilliance of John Williams’ score and the tightness of the editing, which I know I would’ve glossed over as a kid. “Every shot had a purpose,” he also said, which is such a lovely observation. I realized just how much we take certain blockbuster-level directors like Steven Spielberg for granted. Guy knew exactly what he was doing, and undoubtedly still does. That’s why Jurassic Park turned out as magically as it did.

The dinos are the obvious centerpieces of this movie, of course, as their other-worldliness captivates kids and adults alike. But there’s beauty beyond the visuals, too. I especially loved how the children were portrayed — sweet, resourceful — while most of the adults were annoying and acerbic. Some were benevolent, like Sam Neill’s Grant, Laura Dern’s ass-kicking Ellie and Jeff Goldlbum’s Jeff Goldblu–er, Malcolm. (He’ll never not play himself, which is fine.) Both were scientists, pitted against the business-minded fogeys who ran the theme park and tasked with making sure it was safe. But without the presence of the kids — the grandchildren of one of the fogeys — grounding the adults with some of that aforementioned wonderment, the movie would have been too weighty, even cynical.

I’m not exactly on the edge of my seat to see the sequels or the reboot. I might read the book. But for now, I just want to continue to live in the world of 1993, when this movie (and dinosaurs) were maybe as real as they’ll ever be.

Why hasn’t Paul Reiser starred in a Woody Allen movie yet?

Yes, a quick internet search reveals that he was in an Allen play, “Writer’s Block,” which sort of counts. But it doesn’t count completely. I long for a permanent filmic recording of Reiser going full neurotic.

Diner is very nearly that. As Modell, he is a surrogate Woody, providing both the comic relief and the voice of reason in a circle of friends who are mostly rooted in reality. I love all the other adorable dudes in this cast, but Reiser edges them out for Most Charming because he’s more of a minor player — and thus leaves us wanting more.

Now for those other adorable dudes. Steve Gutenberg is Eddie Simmons, the soon-to-be husband of the never-seen Elyse, and he has a hell of a grin and a hellish attitude toward his mother. But there’s something about Barry Levinson’s relatable, non-sequitur-filled writing (and the cast’s improvising, I’m sure) that makes me ignore his cockiness and, instead, revel in it.

The same thing goes for Kevin Bacon’s Fen — he’s sweet, stupid and troubled, all wrapped into one, the guy who’s easy enough to let go of because he’s too much agony to deal with, but hard to let go of because he’s impossible not to care about. Current — crispy, you might say — Bacon’s roles have been hardened, unemotional, stoic in the face of challenges, so it’s nice to check back in on the early 80s and remind ourselves of what a softie he was.

I also enjoyed Tim Daly as Billy, though I found his early-80s mien indistinguishable from present-day Chris Hardwick’s. (That’s a compliment to both.) I equated Daniel Stern’s Shrevie with a hybrid of Josh Charles and Ben Schwartz, too, also flatteringly. Finally, though, Mickey Rourke blew my goddamn mind as Boogie. He rolls in right at the end here:

I didn’t even know it was Rourke until I looked it up. I hate to be superficial for a second, but I must: DREAMBOAT ALERT. MY GOD.

I’m back. That scene is exemplary of the movie as a whole. There’s love in the pointless banter, and poetry, too. As these gents gear up for Eddie’s wedding, they cover a lot of emotional ground. It’s pretty unrealistic how much ground they cover, considering the movie is supposed to take place over the course of a single night, but disbelief is worth suspending in this case. I think coming-of-age movies are at their best when they’re simplified, when they focus on a particular event rather than trying to span decades of growth. The growth happens in bursts, in meaningful moments, mostly around a plate of fries at a diner.

Before there were fingerprints, scripts were a lot easier to write.

That’s no disrespect to current screenwriters; on the contrary, setting your crime story in the olden times is a smart move, one that maybe lets you play down the special effects mumbo-jumbo (that’s the technical term for it) and play up the plot development.

And that’s exactly what the Coen Brothers did in Miller’s Crossing, all the way back in 1990. I had been told to watch this movie many moons ago but only got around to it in the past year, perhaps as a subconscious palate cleanser for their most recent release. It did the trick.

It’s a quick, dirty noir that’s never grimy, thanks in large part to Carter Burwell’s warm score. The juxtaposition between the movie’s gangster darkness and musical lightness is refreshing, and it’s exactly the type of unexpected touch you’d expect from the Coen Brothers, even back then. They have a penchant for lightening darkness, usually with hilarious dialogue (mostly from Frances McDormand), and so the music takes them down a different tonal path.

The Coens also bring out the asymmetry in Hollywood’s most symmetrical elite. Gabriel Byrne and Marcia Gay Harden fit quite nicely into the world of Miller’s Crossing; Byrne is no stranger to mob stories, but he always gives off an outsider air. Here, he’s in it the thick of it as someone else’s consigliere Tom. Byrne is Tom Reagan, second-in-command to Leo (Albert Finney) and first in bed with Verna (Harden), who’s also seeing Leo.

Two of the Coens’ usual suspects stand out in that stacked cast: Steve Buscemi, as unlucky Mink, and John Turturro, as bookie Bernie Bernbaum. In fact, I’d say Turturro gives the performance of his life as Bernie, who is embroiled in a war between Leo and his rival, Caspar (Jon Polito). He is cocksure to some, groveling to others, never confident in himself and always willing to reassign his loyalty. He runs such a gamut of emotions that you’re never sure what you’re going to get, but you know it’s going to be real in that particular moment. Bernie is pathetic, but he’s not unsympathetic. I can’t believe this guy hasn’t won an Oscar.

Miller’s Crossing is peak Coen before their peak. (And I’m not entirely convinced their peak has happened yet.)

We’re living through the Melamedassance.

You can’t throw a stone or turn on an indie movie or TV show without hearing the silky, booming voice (and then seeing the flecked, impeccably groomed beard) of one Fred Melamed. Ever since In A World… came out a few years ago, the alt-comedy community has been casting him as Stern, Overpowering Male Figure in everything. New Girl and Casual stand out to me, since I watch those shows regularly, but his IMDb page is bursting at its electronic seams. He’s cornered the market.

Which is why his role in Lady Dynamite is so refreshing. He’s a Male Figure, sure, but he’s neither Stern nor Overpowering. In fact, the show plays with the implicit gravitas of his voice and forces him into a role you wouldn’t expect. He is Bruce-Ben Bacharach, agent and fanboy to Maria Bamford, and it’s utterly delightful. The dignity he oozes in literally every other part he’s done is completely erased here, and what’s left is a nervous, bumbling, obsequious, occasionally high-pitched (read: tenor) man who’s still figuring out his shit. He’s a terrible agent.

Melamed is also my favorite part of Lady Dynamite, which I hate to say I found both hit and miss. I love Bamford deeply, and I echo nearly every comedian’s sentiments when I say that she’s one of the most brilliant standups alive — seriously, go see her, it’ll change your life and your perception of how vocal chords work — but as I’ve said about other brilliant standups, sometimes the stage is their best medium for a reason. Bamford knows herself incredibly well, and knows what she’s capable of handling — which is actually something she addresses really poignantly in the show, about how it’s okay to say no to gigs — and I completely get why she took this opportunity to make a show. But the way her mind works is almost too complex, too multi-dimensional, too far-reaching to fit within the confines of a TV series. There’s nothing that can do justice to her comedic genius besides standup.

Admittedly, the subject matter she chose to cover didn’t make it easy. She decided to explore her own journey with mental illness, an incredibly brave and important selection, and aspects of the show were incredibly enlightening. I loved, for example, how the lighting, tone and wardrobe of the show changed according to which stage of her life she was in. Back in Minnesota, going through her lowest bouts of mania, the screen and her pajamas were every shade of grey. In LA, in her high points of mania, the colors seemed exaggerated, as did her smiles and her hair and even the enthusiasm with which she spoke. In present-day LA, everything evened out. But switching between these three timelines got confusing very quickly, especially because Bamford played herself in all three scenarios. I’m glad she did, but because she’s got this incredibly youthful face and presence, it was difficult to tell which storylines preceded the other, and therefore if she was still experiencing a manic episode.

Netflix also didn’t bestow the show with a huge budget, which is unfortunate because I think it would have been beneficial to have a little more money, especially considering the scope of the storytelling. A lot of scenes fell flat because of bad CGI, giving the show an undeserved campy feel. Bamford deserves better than that, as evidenced by the huge number of guest stars who obviously weren’t doing the work for money — Mary Kay Place and Ed Begley, Jr. played her parents, Ana Gasteyer played another agent, Lennon Parham and Bridget Everett played her “friends,” Jason Mantzoukas and Jenny Slate played therapists, Mo Collins played her sister, Dean Cain and Ólafur Darri Ólafsson played love interests. The list goes on. I think she also deserved to give some of the good lines to herself. On stage, she has such a singular presence, but on the show she’s basically a straight woman to the zany antics of those around her. Ólafsson, as her boyfriend, seems to be the only one who’s more grounded than she is, which is maybe why they’re perfect for each other. He lets her be the funny one.

“Loaf Coach” is my favorite episode of the lot, since it contains appearances from the very precious Mantzoukas and Slate. It also made me laugh aloud more than other installments, which is unfortunate. Bamford live makes you laugh and gasp on a loop — it’s a visceral experience. I wanted more of that from her TV show, but most of what I got was a few chuckles and sighs. Maybe Season 2 will be better.

I still think Charlie Sheen should’ve thrown out a first pitch.

Wouldn’t it have been delightful? I mean, I completely get why the Indians didn’t allow it to happen. He’s a perpetual liability, and the organization is already dealing with the fact that it’s got the most racist mascot and logo in baseball. Plus, from the Cubs’ perspective, who knows what would have happened? If Wild Thing had been allowed to toss one instead of [wow, I remember zero of the Progressive Field first-pitch throwers from the World Series and I was literally paid to watch all seven games], maybe history would have taken a different turn. Maybe Cubs fans would still be in their perpetual state of dissatisfaction instead of uncomfortably struggling with the feeling of “winning.” Hey, winning! This paragraph has come full circle.

Sidebar: I may not remember the names of the people who threw the first pitch at the four Cleveland home games during the Fall Classic, but I damn well remember the guy who sang the National Anthem a bunch of times at Dodger Stadium during the postseason. I love him. Francis Scott Key may not have known it, but he was writing “The Star-Spangled Banner” for Keith Williams Jr. to completely slay in 2016. Watch him and try not to feel American as hell.

Anyway. The point of this blog post is for me to tell you that I watched Major League for the first time in the same year that the Indians went to the World Series, and that’s a fun coincidence. I’d say I’m sorry they didn’t win, but I’m not, because I was rooting for the Cubs. (Though it was either team’s to lose by Game 7, and both should be wholly proud of the way they played. Rajai Davis and Coco Crisp, maaaaaaan.) And the more specific point of this blog post is for me to praise the hell out of Sheen’s “Wild Thing” hair. What a masterpiece. You can see the lightning-shaped buzz peeking out from underneath his despicable Chief Wahoo cap. Please disregard the incredibly bigoted fan costumes, if you can.

Major League is an exemplary product of its late-80s time for many reasons. One, its stars — Sheen, Dennis Haysbert, Wesley Snipes, Tom Berenger, to name a few — are at their peak and have since… well, you know. Maybe that’s unfair to say of Haysbert or Berenger. But they’re all deeply unrecognizable. Two — and this is something I can get behind — the Yanks are the enemies! Three, the topic of athletes cheating plays a prominent role, which grounds the otherwise very absurd film in something seriously real and dark about baseball. Unfortunately, and fourth, the movie shrugs off of sexism, as Berenger’s Jake Taylor courts Rene Russo’s Lynn by stalking her, yet it’s supposed to be romantic. We’re used to this by now.

But, like … it’s silly. Bob Uecker is in it. That’s fun. So is Neil Flynn. You’ll laugh, and you’ll love baseball more for not being quite as stupid as it used to be, and you’ll wish for better walk-up music from your team, and you’ll check your calendar to see how soon Opening Day is.

Hi. I’m a Rory.

I’ve been called a Miranda before. I’ve admitted to disliking Hannah the least. I’ve fantasized about growing up to be Ilana. But the truth is, I am a bona fide Rory.

Given the direction of 2016 Rory’s life in “Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life,” this admission isn’t exactly something I’m proud of. In talking with friends about the four new Netflix episodes, I found their opinions (and those of the internet) were almost unanimous — the whiny-but-tolerable qualities Rory possessed in the original series (2000-07) have been comically magnified over the past nine years, and she’s mutated into an insufferable adult.

I don’t disagree. 32-year-old Rory claims to be a journalist, but she’s coasting on praise from one New Yorker byline. She takes a stab at a thinkpiece for GQ, but she backs out after missing the point of the piece entirely and fumbling her way into a one-night stand. She asks for a meeting with the eponymous head of Sandee Says (a clickbait media outlet that’s been pursuing her), expecting it to be an ego boost and a sure thing, but she can’t generate a single pitch for the site. Oh, and she’s also stringing along some guy, Paul, who deserves much better than a woman who keeps forgetting to break up with him and is still involved with her engaged, overseas ex. She’s a spoiled brat.

All this after being raised with supportive friends and family and financial privilege, graduating Valedictorian from Chilton, ascending to Editor-in-Chief of the Yale Daily News and reporting on Barack Obama’s Presidential campaign trail immediately after college. Rory had so much potential. You’d think she would have made something of herself.

You’d think I would have, too.

Growing up, I made friends that I’m still close to and had parents that put my needs before theirs. I was Valedictorian of my middle school class and attended a prestigious college prep high school. I double-majored in Mass Communications and Linguistics and was the Arts and Entertainment Editor of my college paper. My first job out of college was as a TV critic. There was a path, somehow, and I was following it.

And then, I don’t know … I wasn’t. The recession happened, a layoff happened, a tech job emerged, said tech job with a salary and benefits was taken, and five years later I found myself restless. Or, rather, I had been restless the whole time, but I finally admitted it. I decided to leave the Bay Area and move to New York, hoping the restlessness would morph into productivity.

It’s been two years, and it still hasn’t. I’m 29. The only job I’ve been able to get here is the one I currently have — I’m a copy editor. I earn a very modest hourly wage that forces me to drain my savings in order to live comfortably, I work night and weekend shifts that almost completely negate my social life, and I’ve had to rely on Obamacare because I’m considered a seasonal (read: part-time) employee.

I’m not asking for pity here; I know if I did, my membership card to the Ungrateful Club would arrive yesterday in the mail. I’m grateful to be employed, grateful to live in this absurd metropolis and even more grateful to have the aforementioned savings. I’m not asking for help or advice, either; I’ve received plenty of it, mostly in the form of links to job listings and “informational interviews” that generations ahead of me have insisted upon over the years.

Watching Rory biff it in those meetings hit really close to home. I’ve been in that room, with those people, with that fear and insecurity. I, too, thought I could float along on my intelligence, my conversational charm and my handful of “impressive” Huffington Post bylines. But that shiny teenage cockiness dulls exponentially when you spend your twenties letting your resume gather dust. (Then again, I also spent my twenties being in my twenties. That’s not such a bad thing, considering I hardly spent my teens being a teen.)

I’m a Rory because I, too, marched blindly into the abstract “Plan A” of journalism. Except journalism wasn’t my “Plan A.” I didn’t even have a plan, lowercase, let alone an uppercase one with a letter affixed to it. Entering college, I was told I’d be good at journalism. I ended up being decent at it, but mostly I was just better at it than math or biology or clarinet or grilling meats or snowboarding, and it never occurred to me to just try something completely different. I liked the idea of being good at journalism, and I assumed I’d always be good at it because being good at stuff was what I was good at. “Being good at being good at stuff” isn’t a life skill, though; it’s a way to get A’s in high school.

I gravitated towards Arts writing in college because I liked movies and music more than politics, and those were my choices when I applied for the paper. Arts also allowed me to say what I thought without having to listen to what other people thought, i.e. “interview sources,” i.e. “avoid most phone conversations.” I churned out a couple of reviews that I’m still proud of, but I often felt like a fraud for getting free concert tickets while my fellow writers, editors and photographers were pulling all-nighters to cover City Council meetings and student government elections.

Honestly, I didn’t even think beyond the actual word “journalism.” I definitely had no “Plan B,” because I didn’t think I had to. I still don’t have one. I don’t think Rory did — or does — either. We’re both floating, unmotivated, unable to kick our own asses, unable to find creative fulfillment because we’d have to take a risk and be bad at something in order for the good to emerge. We’re also unqualified for a lot of the jobs that we’re trying to apply for now, because in college, we envisioned careers that don’t really exist anymore. As frustrating as Rory was for most “Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life” viewers to take in, I felt relieved knowing my true kindred spirit — albeit a fragile fictional one — is out there.

Of course, given that she’s fictional, she also comes with her own convenient plot twist and resolution: an unplanned pregnancy (which, ironically, could have been prevented with “Plan B”) and a book. I’m not in the market for a baby, but I have been mulling over the idea of a book. Maybe I can draw some inspiration from my soulless sister. We’ll see. (Don’t ask me about it.)

You might know a Rory. You might know me. You might feel the urge to give us help or advice because you’re nice and you think we have potential.

Thank you, but don’t. We’ve been hearing that word, potential, our whole lives, and we’re sick of the pressure that comes with it. If we ask for help, that means we trust you, and we will ask.

We need to know that we’re mediocre at most things, and we need to just be mediocre. We need to fuck up. No one has let us fuck up before. Fucking up is perfectly fine. Turns out we’re good at fucking up because we’re good at being good at stuff. How’s that for a plot twist?

Oh, and if you’re wondering, Team Jess ‘til I die.