Important features in airport seating: The ability to withstand knife attacks, according to the British (of course) airport-seating designer Rodney Kinsman. Kinsman’s company OMK tests out its airport seating in courts and prisons (“If they’ll survive that, they’ll survive anything,” he says), and he even brandished a knife and stabbed his seat at a recent airport-design expo in order to prove his designs’ ability to withstand his homeland’s preferred form of expressing its rage; the scar that resulted from his attack was “barely visible” post-attack, thanks to the strength of his firm’s preferred polymers. One would think that this particular feature would be somewhat beside the point in security-happy Stateside airports — but then again, with holiday fares up 16% from last year over here and conditions at some airports seeming like experiences that one was actually paid 50 cents to endure as a scientific test, it’s pretty obvious how someone could be inspired to get stabby with a spork.

Height: 6’1″.
Body Type: Bear.
Religion: Very serious about Jesus, when convenient.
Sign: Cancer.
Career: Currently unemployed.
Relationship History: Slashy.
Currently seeking: Basically any chick I run into anywhere.

Today the Philly Soft Pretzel Factory is introducing a Philadelphia-themed Frankenfood that seems like a no-brainer when you say it. Say hello to the Cheesesteak Pretzel, which the hometown Inquirer describes as “kind of like a log of baked soft-pretzel dough filled with cheesesteak.” (Steak in a log?) The photo on the pretzel chain’s official site leaves the matter of what type of cheese is used to bind this thing’s innards somewhat unclear, but one would think that the traditional “Whiz” filling would hold up best under preservation-requiring conditions. [Via]

by The Machines

“Nobody is suggesting that the Web should somehow accommodate the rococo glories of The New York Observer’s headlines in that paper’s prime. But the need to attract attention from computer-generated algorithms sometimes makes the headlines seem like a machine thought them up as well.” Machines tell lie in headline! No such illustrative, exciting photos as promised in headline are contained herein! BWA HA HA HA HA. — END COMMUNICATION –

Dear BMX bike rider,

I’m sorry for shunning you after you got up in front of everyone and cried at the personal growth workshop our parents sent us to in Philadelphia.

It was a spring weekend in 1986, and I still shake my head at the thought that I spent it the way we did. Maybe you feel the same way. Or maybe not. We were around the same age, fifteen, freshman in high school. I had recently started getting into trouble at home, getting caught drinking and lying to my parents for the first time. They were psychologists, my parents, former hippies from the ’60s (“flower children” has always been my mom’s preferred term) and they were into a lot of this new-agey self-development stuff. I don’t think they ever did EST per se, but they were in a Marriage Encounter group, and they’d been going to these Insight Transformational Seminars. It was cool for them; they felt like they got a lot out of it. But it was really very strongly not my thing. So when, in lieu of a longer punishment, and in the expressed hope that it would help us communicate better as a family, they signed me up for the youth version, Teen Insight, and insisted I attend, it was one of the times I considered running away from home.

I imagine you can relate. You did back then. You were a skate-rat. And, you said, a professionally sponsored BMX “freestyle” rider. You’d brought your bike with you, in fact, and impressed everyone with what were certainly professional-looking stunts-bunny-hopping down steps, doing a handstand off the seat while balancing on one wheel, that sort of thing. You wore your bangs hanging down over your eyes, and a wise-ass sneer, and some very punk-rock shredder gear that I remember thinking was infinitely cooler than the Brine Lacrosse “Chicks With Sticks” t-shirt that I was wearing, one I’d been very proud of up to that point. You know, because of the double entendre. (Come to think of it, that was probably a girls shirt, wasn’t it? Meh. Lame either way. I’ve never played lacrosse in my life.)

It was called “The Awakening Heart Seminar,” for God’s sake. (I can still taste the puke in my mouth.) But there we were, Friday night, sitting on the floor in the beige conference room of some corporate-park hotel outside Philadelphia, where we were encouraged by a man and a woman with voices like easy-listening radio DJs to take part in first-day-of-camp get-to-know-you exercises with 30 or so other teenagers we’d never met before. There were hand-drawn posters and signs on the walls, daily-affirmation-type slogans written in thick colored marker. “If it takes all night, that’ll be all right. If I can get you to smile before I leave.” Fucking Jackson Browne.

I was very surprised to see how receptive many of the other kids were. Some had done the seminar before, I learned, or ones like it. Many of them, apparently, were there not under duress but of their own volition. And an astounding number of them, the large majority, leapt right in with the sharing and the singing and the hugging and expressing. It didn’t take long at all to get them to smile.

We were smiling, too, though, after a while. And laughing. You and me and a small group of what I considered to be much more normal teenagers had taken to making jokes at the ridiculousness of all of this-often at the expense of the leaders and those so willing to participate. I remember the faces but none of the names. There was the lanky guy with the fake front tooth who wore a denim jacket with the cover to the Smiths’ Meat Is Murder album painted on the back. The black guy, who I think was the only black person there, with the peach-fuzz moustache. And two girls, a shorter one with curly dark hair, and a taller one with glasses. The tall girl was sour and sexy like Catherine Keener and I’m sure we all fell in love with her immediately. I did, anyway. We sat at the far edge of the assembly, this crew, and cracked ourselves up in an enjoyably mean-spirited way. Under our breath, of course. But it was surely obvious to everybody what was going on. We didn’t make much of an effort to hide our disdain.

It was a horrible sort of prison. The hours passed as slowly as hours can. There was great pressure to participate, to open up and share our feelings. But the six of us supported each other in holding out. At one point, I was surrounded by a crowd of the other kids, the ones with awakened hearts, who were urging me take part in one of the exercises-talk about my fears, maybe, or make a list of words to describe my parents or something. Someone literally asked me, “Why are you hiding inside this shell?” It was a difficult moment. They’d backed me into a corner, like in a zombie movie, and I remember frantically looking out over their heads, searching for help. When I spotted you and the Smiths jacket guy standing off to the side, snickering and making eyes at me like, “Ha ha-better you than me,” it was exactly the type of sympathy I needed to get through. Thanks.

The leaders expressly asked that we not use drugs or alcohol for the duration of the seminar, as that could interfere with the sensitive personal growth and development processes that were supposed to be taking place. So of course, during the Saturday lunch break, we got a ride with an older kid with a driver’s license and his parents’ BMW to buy a bag of pot and a case of beer in West Philadelphia and had a really fun party that night in one of the girls’ rooms in the hotel. It was like camp, it turned out, even for those of us who didn’t go along with the official program, in that we got very close very quickly.

We were all bleary come Sunday. Goofy and even more obnoxious, probably, for our lack of sleep. Maybe that’s why things got weird. We were back in the conference room, sitting on the floor in our spot in the back, cracking jokes while people took turns standing at a podium, talking about what they’d learned about themselves so far. It was an extremely emotional scene by that point, there was a huge amount of hugging and holding hands and stroking of hair and stuff-amongst the others, I mean. I can understand how it could happen, a fifteen-year-old kid, hung-over, in that strangely charged atmosphere-but still, it came as a major shock to suddenly see you at the front of the room. You’d been sitting right next to me. I hadn’t even noticed you getting up.

You started hesitantly, mumbling words and hiding behind your bangs. But then your shoulders fell and you let out a loud sob, and then you were bawling and shaking, talking about how much you loved your dad but you couldn’t tell him, about how you felt judged. You cried and talked for a long time. The leaders hugged you when you stepped down. A lot of people hugged you. Regardless of how cultish and after-school-special it all was, I think this was maybe a good thing for you.

Needless to say, it was uncomfortable for all of us when you came back to where we were sitting. You looked at us apologetically-you knew the rules. I think one of the girls might have put her hand on your shoulder. But none of us said anything and I think the other guys were probably like me-avoiding eye contact with you.

You didn’t sit with us for long. There was some other activity soon, and for the rest of the day you joined the others, the participators, in more hugging and crying and stroking hair and talking about feelings. We talked about how weird it was, how we had lost you, and so suddenly, with no warning, as soon as you were out of ear-shot. We made fun of you, as I’m sure you were aware. But I doubt that bothered you. You didn’t look sad. You looked relieved. In fact, you were beaming.

Yes, that’s a real headline, from the Sacramento Bee, and yes, that means one million children on welfare may no longer be. That’s one way to move those poor people off the welfare rolls, am I right? Now that the California budget cuts choices have been announced by recently suspiciously liberal governor Arnold Schwarzenegger, we can say hello to a 10% pay cut for state workers! Essentially an end to school mental health programs! Goodbye, after-school care for low-income children. What’s more, your firefighters may (or also may not!) be paid with the money from a new insurance policy tax! A tax on, you know, the insurance people aren’t paying for the houses they can’t afford. Also greatly reduced in-home care for the elderly. Who you will presumably be eating. So long and good luck!

The founder of the “pairing older ladies with younger men” dating site CougarLife.com is pretty peeved at Google for sticking ads for her site and other similarly themed ones in the “non-family-safe” section of its ad-sales repository, while ads for similar sites that cater to older men looking for younger women (or Americans seeking out brides from abroad) were given the all clear for advertising on, say, Disney.com. Double standard, or just your everyday example of garden-variety sexism? A flack for the search engine/ad company said that the company wasn’t sexist — just that there were certain words and images within the ad copy and sites that triggered adult-content flags in Google’s mysterious ad mechanisms. When a reporter tried to see if “cougar” was on the company’s Naughty Words List, the flack went mum — which is kind of like a non-denial denial, no? Let’s try and untangle the ethical dilemmas posed by this kerfuffle!

• Does it seem sexist that “cougar” sites — where older ladies seek younger men — are deemed R-rated, but “sugar daddy” sites — where older men seek younger ladies — are appropriate for all ages? Yes. (Although many Hollywood producers would probably agree with this characterization!)

• Would a more vague name like “arrangementseekers.com” maybe help CougarLife’s cause? Unclear-to-maybe; the Google rep’s refusal to say whether or not “cougar” triggered the autocensors would seem to say yes. (Then again, we are dealing with the tech world here!) One thing a more vague name would definitely help: An uptick in subscribers among the demographic of “women who are kind of horrified by the idea of using a fake trend-story-derived term to find love.”

• Is the term “cougar” itself sexist, and really stupid, considering that the gender-flipped equivalent is generally “man”? Related: Isn’t it kind of disheartening to see how it “went viral” so quickly? Let us go back to 2005 for clues to the answer to this one, via the news division of the network that now airs Cougar Town:

What do Samantha on “Sex and the City,” and Gabrielle on “Desperate Housewives” have in common?

Sex and relationships columnist Valerie Gibson would call them “cougars” — women who date men more than eight years their junior — and they’re part of a trend that’s coming off the screen and out of the bedroom.

Gibson says the term originated in Vancouver, British Columbia, as a put-down for older women who would go to bars and go home with whoever was left at the end of the night.

But now, it’s more positive — describing women usually their in 30s and 40s, who are financially stable and mentally independent and looking for a younger man to have fun with.

Gibson, who is single but has been married five times — the last time to a man 15 years younger — describes cougars like herself this way: “She’s in control. She’s very attractive. And she’s very sexy.”

The answer to this one would seem to be “God, yes.” Especially if you’ve watched American Idol this season!

• Are we all doomed to every possible romantic interaction being eventually reduced to a term found in a dumb trend piece that was probably sourced by two friends of friends and someone found on Craigslist in the final throes of a deadline? TGIF, everybody!

A confession: I don’t particularly revere the lemon square. I actually don’t think I’d ever even tried one until I made a batch out of curiosity after accidentally turning “lemon squares” into an Internet in-joke. I guess somewhere along the way I got the impression that the lemon square was seen as a childhood delicacy bestowed upon apple-cheeked ten-year olds who loved their stay-at-home moms, which was why I chose it as the quote-unquote peace offering during an era of terrible conflict.

I’m pretty sure I needn’t tell you that I was not an apple-cheeked ten-year-old. But it’s okay, because I’m pretty sure most of you weren’t either. And that’s why you’re my people.

I’ve grown to love the lemon square-and here I’ll proffer another confession-because I get high off the praise and adoration I get when I show up with a batch of them. Maybe that’s a really sad thing to admit? If it is I feel certain you’ll let me know. [Yes. Yes it is. — Ed.]

I also actually enjoy the process of making them as well, because GOD THEY ARE SO EASY. A food processor and a bowl, and like, six ingredients, that’s pretty much all you need. Let’s do it.

Haul your food processor down from the top shelf. Glare it at, knowing that you’re going to have to wash its lid by hand, which is just so awkward and you never really feel like you’re getting it properly clean, because you live in a lillypad of an apartment with no dishwasher and maybe you should have made different choices so you could be married like all your friends, living in the suburbs with oversized, stainless steel appliances and expansive granite countertops on which to set out all the ingredients you’ll need for these baking jags you go on and a farmhouse kitchen table from Pottery Barn where you can sit reading the new Barbara Kingsolver while the base for the lemon squares cools, occasionally sipping from a glass of wine. Then remember that you hate the suburbs and Pottery Barn furniture, find the level of commitment marriage requires ill-suited to your need for independence, and haven’t read Barbara Kingsolver since high school. Wine is still good, though! Pour yourself a glass, throw a few ice cubes in it, and thank God that you live in New York with your weird collection of friends and a 24-hour deli at the end of your block for those emergency rolling paper runs at 1 a.m. Steady yourself.

Measure 2 cups of flour and a half cup of confectioners’ sugar (we all remember what kind that is, right class? Well done! Gold stars for everyone!) into the bowl of your processor. Cut two sticks of butter into small pieces and add them to the flour and sugar. Put on the lid that caused you so much angst and lock it in place. Pulse pulse pulse (isn’t pulsing just the greatest?! Gives me such a thrill!) until the mixture resembles a coarse meal, which is one of those terms you always hear in baking and are just like, “Who what now? When in my life have I ever been in contact with a ‘coarse meal’ to know what such a thing looks like?” But then somehow you actually always end up knowing exactly what coarse meal should look like, and knowing is half the battle, and maybe it’s not a bad idea to have a little more wine.

Turn the mixture out into a 9″x13″ pan or really whatever similarly sized baking pan you have around the house because when do you ever have the right sized pan and if you do have the right sized pan I don’t want to hear about it. I hope you appreciate your granite countertops and stainless steel appliances! How was the new Barbara Kingsolver?

Press the mixture into the pan so that the surface is even and bake at 350° for 20 minutes. The crust should be set and a very light golden color.

While the crust is baking, turn your attention to the filling. I know, you’ve been sitting here mouthing to one another, “Where’s the lemon? Do you think she got so wound up about Barbara Kingsolver that she forgot the lemon?”

I did not forget the lemon.

You’ll need a large bowl, into which you’ll put 4 eggs, 2 cups of sugar and a third of a cup of lemon juice (which should be about 1 lemon, but grab two when you’re at the grocery store just to be on the safe side. If you don’t use it for the dessert peel some of the rind and put a twist in your wine-with-ice! [Sure! You have already ruined the wine by putting ice in it, what difference will a twist make? — Ed.]) and beat them all together. With what shall you beat them, dear Liza? I mean, anything really: A handheld mixer, a whisk, that set of antlers from Urban Outfitters you’ve got hanging on your wall… it’s wide open! Once the eggs are beaten and the sugar thoroughly incorporated, stir in ¼ of a cup of flour and a half teaspoon of baking powder.

Now, you’re going to hate me for this next part because you’re Internet people and therefore are impatient and ADD and hopefully half drunk and here I am about to tell you that you need to WAIT. But yes, you need to let the crust cool COMPLETELY before you pour in the filling. Remember when I confessed that sometimes I stick melted butter in the fridge to cool even thought among proper bakers it’s probably anathema to do so? (You do!?! Gold stars for everyone!) Well right. I’m an impatient and ADD Internet person too! Who is definitely half drunk! So go on and stick that crust in the fridge to cool off, and when it’s ready pour the filling over the top. Back into the 350° oven for 25 minutes or until set.

Allow to cool completely (I know, sorry) before cutting into bars. You can -and should, because hi? What’s a lemon square without powdered sugar on top???-dust the squares with confectioners’ sugar before serving to the teeming masses of hungry admirers and basking in the adoration of people who, for just one fleeting moment, will make you feel like you’re the best thing to ever happen to them.

Jolie Kerr invites you to the very first Commenter’s Bawl at The Scratcher on 17 June at 7 PM. There will absolutely be lemon squares.

Sarah Palin, addressing Anthony List Celebration of Life Breakfast” in Washington this morning, suggested that Republican women are angry and will rise up to protect their children. “You don’t want to mess with the mama grizzlies,” said Palin, who also equated angry women with pit bulls and elephants. I think I have finally figured out the appeal of Sarah Palin: If you leaven your rage with easy-to-understand analogies, it seems somehow spunkier! Also, everybody loves animals, so it’s probably a good idea to mention them a lot.

by Russell Crowe

10. Shall we not begin with my exquisite and well-researched 12-century English accent for ‘Robin Hood,’ a la that f’ing ponce Edward I? It is magnificent and Ian McKellen will be having himself off repeatedly, engrossed in lust and self-hatred, in the theaters, even with his eyes closed, whilst just LISTENING to my squat and vulgar and entirely period-perfect vowels! I’m not dagging you around here!

9. I’m NAE SO CHUNKY any more, so you lasses have less to rest your eyes easily upon in my many naked scenes when I’m bent over using raw sheep fat to lube up my quiver. Ridley Scott, his camera loves my bum, that faggy poofter!

7. Am I the only Academy Award winner to be the target of an al-Qaeda plot? Yes I am. Even her holy artsy-fartsy fanciness Cate Blanchett can’t claim that. Hoo, mates, ya shoulda seen that bitch getting in “character,” with her deep breathing and her eyes crossing and her speaking in tongues.

6. ‘ROMPER STOMPER’ MOTHERFUCKERS.

5. Remember ‘State of Play’ and ‘Body of Lies’? Yah, I know, I can’t remember which is which either with their meaningless almost-a-pun but not quite a pun titles. Remember when everything was like that? It was right after all movies had a single, oh so evocative word for a title. That was a right boohai time. Well this ‘Robin Hood’ shite isn’t like that shite IN THE SLIGHTEST, so therefore you should go see it. I did a right hard yakka on this one!

4. You know what “Robin Hood” is opening against? Some faggoty Amanda “I’m innocent but my rack is spectacular” Seyfried girl flick and an “urban” (THAT MEANS FOR BLACKS) comedy where Queen Latifah falls for a man, so what else are you going to see?

3. I’d give ya three more reasons right now but they’re all BOUND UP IN MY TIGHTS, YA GOT IT?

Russell Crowe is AN ACADEMY-AWARD WINNING ACTOR, SUCKAS.