K-Pop Demon Hunters (Movie Review)

Yesterday I watched K-Pop Demon Hunters for the first time. I know, I’m like 6 months late, but I was just not in the mood for something animated when it came out and then it felt like I’d waited too long to hop on the craze. Then the voice artists from the movie sang in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and I realized that the song “Golden” totally slaps, so that convinced me it was time to watch it. 

The animation was interesting in that it kind of felt like a cross between Pixar in its drawing style and claymation in its editing style. It reminded me a little bit of Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse in that regard, which was fun. I haven’t been big into K-Pop thus far in my life, so I enjoyed seeing a snippet of that part of pop culture. I also thought the art design for the demons was very cool and felt like it was original. 

Most importantly, I thought there were a lot of bangers on the soundtrack. I was kinda surprised that the lyrics were so overtly demon-hunter-y considering they were supposed to be perceived as just pop stars, but I decided to suspend disbelief on that and not let it be my problem. 

Overall a fun, easy watch after a long day of work. 

Thanks for reading!

Holly

The Rattlesnake

The merchant’s wagon rolled into the sunset. It would be dark soon, and that was going to be a problem. This part of the desert wasn’t kindly to strangers, especially those who had goods to sell.

The wagon hit a log that the horses had managed to step over. A spoke in the front left wheel snapped, collapsing the whole damn thing. The merchant hopped down from his seat, sweating. Changing a broken wheel in the dark wasn’t easy, especially when doing it alone. He decided he would camp for the night.

 

The merchant made no fire, for fires in dangerous country can attract dangerous persons. But that wouldn’t matter tonight; a dangerous person arrived all the same.

 

As the merchant curled up in the back of his wagon, surrounded by potions and knick-knacks, he heard a young woman’s voice in the night.

 

“Hello there! Is anyone home?”

 

Now, the merchant wouldn’t usually respond to callers in the dark of the night, but the voice sounded friendly enough. The old salesman poked his head out the back and saw a young lady, no older than twenty.

 

“Why, hello there good sir! I’m so sorry to disturb you upon this dreadful hour, but I fear I had no choice. A rattlesnake spooked my horse when I was relieving myself not an hour ago, and I haven’t found the old donkey. Might I join you in the back of your wagon for warmth?”

 

The merchant was new to these parts, but naive he was not. The desert had neither wolves nor sheep, but the old man could recognize a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

 

“I don’t meet a lot of young ladies these days who speak of their bowel movements with such liberty” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about your horse, but I’m afraid I barely have enough space back here for myself.”

 

The young woman frowned. “Are you certain, mister? I don’t take up much space at all, and your generosity might save my life!”

 

“I’m certain as the setting sun. But, I can spare a tonic to help carry you through the night.” He reached into the back and pulled out a bottle harboring a viscous clear liquid.

 

The lady reached out to accept the old man’s offer, when the man chucked the bottle at her feet. Before the woman could respond, black bile started pouring from her mouth, eyes, and ears. She wailed a wail that would keep the old man up at night for the months to come. 

 

As the “lady’s” body emptied of bile, she shrank and shriveled up until she was nothing but a a four-foot serpent. The reptile hissed at the old man and took off into the darkness.

 

The merchant shook his head. “Hm. Rattlesnakes.”

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Thanks for reading!

Rudolph

Spicy

There’s a great misunderstanding plaguing our culinary landscape, one that has left many of us sweating, crying, and questioning our life choices in the middle of restaurants that describe themselves as “casual dining.” It is the assumption that if you say you like spicy food, you are automatically volunteering to enter the Hunger Games.

Let’s clear this up: I like spicy. I do not like signing a medical waiver to consume lunch.

Somewhere along the way, “spicy” was kidnapped by extremists. It became less about taste and more about proving oneself in a gladiator arena constructed entirely of ghost peppers and poor decisions. Now, simply admitting you enjoy a Bloody Mary with zing or a spirited buffalo wing is enough to have someone challenge you to eat something called “The Widowmaker” or “Satan’s Toenail.”

I’m sorry, why? How is this hospitality?

Here’s the truth: I love spicy flavor. Flavor. You know, that thing that makes food good? Give me wasabi that clears my sinuses just enough to remind me I’m alive, but not enough to send me into a dissociative episode. Give me a buffalo wing that bites back a little.

But somewhere along the line, the spice world split into two camps: Camp A is comprised of people who enjoy eating. Camp B is comprised of people who think eating should be an extreme sport. Camp A respects boundaries. It says, “Let’s heighten flavor.” Camp B says, “Let’s heighten your blood pressure, your body temperature, and your sense of regret.”

I want to savor my food, not sign an affidavit saying I won’t sue if my tongue falls off.

Wasabi is the perfect example. It’s dramatic, but it also knows when to leave. It hits, it hollers, it bows politely and exits. It’s the Meryl Streep of condiments. Meanwhile, some hot sauces cling to your taste buds like a guest who doesn’t know when it’s time to say goodnight. Long after the meal is over, you’re still dealing with the consequences.

And don’t get me started on restaurants that brag about their “Level 10 Heat Challenge,” complete with a wall of fame showcasing people who look like they’ve just seen the face of God, and not in a peaceful way. Their smiling photos say, “Please validate me” but their eyes say, “I’ve made a mistake.”

I am not here to ascend to a higher plane of suffering. I just want dinner.

Spice, when used correctly, is delicious. It brings character, brightness, zing. It elevates. It adds personality. It reminds you that food is supposed to be fun, not a dare, not a threat, and definitely not a path to enlightenment through gastrointestinal distress.

So to all the chefs, friends, and well-meaning spice evangelists, if I say I like spicy food, do not challenge me to mortal combat. Just pass the wasabi, the buffalo sauce, the fra diavolo. Let’s keep things lively, not life-threatening.

After all, eating should be satisfying. Not an accomplishment.

 

Apparently New York's Best Kept Secret

Today, as I often do, I spent the day in the city. I took the train into the city and took the subway around the city. As I was maneuvering my way about, I was thinking about how courteous New Yorkers actually are. I know our reputation is that we are not nice, but that is really not warranted. Will we get impatient with you if you stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk or are unaware that people who want to stand on the escalators should stand to the right (leaving room for walkers on the left)? Yes, absolutely. But that is because you interfered with the flow of traffic, and traffic flowing smoothly is a necessity with literally millions of people walking around.

On the subway today, there was an elderly Asian couple who had just walked on. Seeing the old man was unsteady, an equally aged white woman bolted out of her seat and nodded to his wife to put him in the seat.  At that very moment, the train lurched forward and the old guy reached out to grasp the pole, but his hand never made it. I tightly caught the middle of his arm to prevent him from creating a pile up.  Two other people from the other side got him in his seat. No words were exchanged, no eye contact amongst the train riders. I think the wife said thank you. We do things. We don’t make a big deal about it.

On another subway, an African American young girl dropped her phone on the stairs. I looked at the phone, looked at the quickly moving girl, looked at the phone again.  Wasn’t sure what to do first since picking up the phone meant losing the girl to the arriving train.  A white woman stepped in front of the girl and pointed “you dropped your phone! You dropped your phone!” A few other people just stood still so as to make way for her to get it on the stairs before somebody else wiped out. I heard another person just keep saying “oh no, oh no” like how could you live without your phone. It cracked me up. Maybe 15 seconds and done. Everybody moved on.

On the train home today, an older white guy got up from his seat and left his manbag.  He was two steps from getting off the train and I shouted “Sir, I think you left your bag!” He responded “oh, it’s always attached to me so I didn’t even think about it.” Tick tock, tick tock.  It was quickly becoming obvious to me that he was not going to walk fast enough to retrieve his bag and make his train stop. But then suddenly, a Hispanic teenager who was in the aisle stuffing her face with popcorn, immediately said “I’ll get it!” and moved faster than any of the rest of us could. Simple. Done. No big deal.

New Yorkers may not feel the need to make eye contact with the hundreds of people they walk past each day, nor greet them. Nonetheless, they are aware of what is going on around them and they jump in when needed. That’s both nice and more sincere and I will take that any time over a sugary “how are y’all doing today?”

Thanks for reading!

Eve

Hamnet (Movie Review)

Today I saw Hamnet again for the first time since September when I saw it at the Telluride Film Festival.

It continues to be a perfect film for me. I gave it 5 stars when I first saw it and added it to my Top 4 on Letterboxd, and seeing it again only furthered that opinion. I brought a friend who likes Shakespeare with me to see it and had the forethought to bring tissues, which was good because it’s a devastatingly beautiful film.

Hamnet features the best performance I’ve seen from Paul Mescal, whom I think is very talented and has given many great performances.

The biggest win for me though is Jessie Buckley. She and Chloe Zhao bring us along this heartbreaking journey of motherhood and grief, and she is so powerful that I will sue the Academy if she doesn’t win Best Actress this year.

Also, last time I saw Hamnet, I didn’t know that the actor who plays Hamnet, Jacobi Jupe, is real-life brothers with the actor who plays Hamlet in the play when it’s performed in the film, Noah Jupe. They do look quite similar, but knowing this fact made the parallels between their characters all the more real.

This film made me appreciate Hamlet the play on a new level. I’ve never held much space for the character of King Hamlet outside of the context of the play, but seeing “Shakespeare” perform that role made me see it in a new light, and recognize the apology and love letter that is the story of Hamlet. I cannot recommend this film enough to everyone and will probably be going to see it again before the year is out.

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Thanks for reading!

Holly

Rudolph's Favorite Books of 2025

We’re doing favorites! I’m starting with books, because I don’t know how many more I’m really going to get through before the end of the year. Hopefully two more! Or I won’t reach my Goodreads goal, which would be humiliating.

I’ll confess from the start, this has not been my best reading year. Usually, I set a goal for myself of 12 books a year (that’s one per month if you don’t have your calculator). This year, I set a goal of 8. I was planning on reading “Wind and Truth” by Brandon Sanderson, a 1300+ page fantasy book that I knew would take me at least 4 months to read. I did not do this. Which makes it even more humiliating that I’ve barely finished my 7th and it’s December! Whatever.

 

Here are my top three books of the year:

 

3

MCU: The Reign of Marvel Studios, by Joanna Robinson

 

As a former pretty big Marvel fan, I was concerned that there wouldn’t be much in this book that I hadn’t already heard/read about over the years. Instead, I found a very fun romp through the years that had some enjoyable exclusive stories about Hollywood’s most successful studio of this century. I’m kind of a sucker for all stories about movie-making, so the BTS quality of this made it a fun read. The politics behind how movies get made are both endlessly demoralizing and fascinating.

 

2

Piranesi, by Susanna Clarke

 

I had seen this book on fantasy recommendation lists for years and decided to finally give it a try. The less known about this one the better, so all I’ll say this is about a man who lives in and cares for a mysterious labyrinth. I was touched by the protagonist’s earnestness and love for his home.  Piranesi might technically be a mystery novel, and the mystery aspect does take a little bit to pick up. But once all was resolved, I found myself not caring about it so much, and instead valuing the protagonist’s perspective and adoration for the world around him. A pleasant read!

 

1

Nexus, by Yuval Harari

 

AI bad? Probability a little bit! Nexus is both a history of information networks (e.g. the written word or the internet) and a hypothesis of how artificial intelligence will play out based upon that history. That description might sound boring, but I can’t stress enough how much I appreciated Harari’s accessible and level-headed approach to a hot button issue. The first half or so is a history lesson, and a very engaging one at that. His predictions about AI are compelling and refreshing perspective in a moment with a lot of hype from the tech world. 

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Thanks for reading!

Rudolph

The Vanishing Gift Box: A Holiday Tragedy

There was a time not so long ago that holiday shopping in person felt like a noble quest. You’d brave the crowds, the elevator carols, and the perfume spritzers lying in wait like airport security agents armed with atomizers. But you did it anyway, because there was something about holding the gift in your hands, knowing it wasn’t just a product, it was thoughtful. And when you finally made it to the register at Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s, you got your reward: a crisp, perfectly sized gift box.

That, dear readers, was your trophy for surviving the retail gauntlet.

Fast forward to now, and you’ll find yourself clutching a sweater for Aunt Beatrice and asking, ever so politely, “Could I get a box for this?” only to be told, “Sorry, we’re out.” Or worse: “We don’t do boxes anymore.” No boxes. No tissue paper. Just a sad plastic bag and a QR code for a survey asking how likely you are to recommend their “holiday experience” to a friend.

The nerve! We’ve been told to come back to the malls to support brick-and-mortar retail and to revive the Christmas spirit. But if we’re going to put on real pants, pay for parking, and risk losing a shoe in the Bloomingdale’s handbag department, the least they can do is hand us a box. The online people don’t need one, Amazon ships everything in its own climate-controlled sarcophagus. But those of us out here doing the Lord’s work of in-person shopping deserve something for our trouble.

A box isn’t just packaging. It’s a symbol. It says, “I didn’t just click ‘Add to Cart.’ I chose this. I stood under fluorescent lighting for 40 minutes while someone ahead of me returned a half-used candle, and I still emerged victorious.” That box is validation. It’s retail’s version of a participation trophy. We’ve earned it.

Instead, we now find ourselves at home with piles of gifts and nothing to put them in. Cue the annual rummage through the “box bin,” where you’re faced with the difficult decision of using a flattened Tiffany box from 2012 that you can’t bring yourself to reuse because it feels like false advertising, or a box from a store that went out of business eight years ago. Once you realize that one only has a top, no bottom, the Tiffany box starts looking pretty good. So you wrap the sweater freehand, and the corners look like they were folded by a raccoon wearing mittens.

Meanwhile, the store executives are on CNBC talking about how they’re “re-imagining the customer experience.” Great. Start by re-imagining the box.

So here’s my modest holiday proposal: if you’re a department store and you still expect people to come in person, the price of admission should include a complimentary, well-fitted gift box. I don’t need a latte station or a TikTok wall or whatever “immersive experience” you’re cooking up this year. Just give me a box so I can wrap my gifts like a functioning adult and not like someone who just fought an actual bear over the last cashmere scarf.

After all, Christmas isn’t just about giving, it’s also about boxing.

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Thanks for reading!

Frosty