Fall is here, which means it’s officially “Gilmore Girls” Rewatch Season. All the dramady sluts out there like me are lighting their candles, gathering their coziest blankets and remembering just how emotionally stunted they are. A show won’t fix you, heal you, or replace the need for human interaction! But “Gilmore Girls” comes pretty goddamn close.
If you watch “Gilmore Girls,” you probably like to fucking eat. A juicy fried chicken sandwich will comfort you and suppress your sadness, as will Lorelai’s witticisms and Kirk’s dancing skills. So this fall, we’re imagining which of Stars Hollow’s finest would join us in our stress-eating and be down for a late-night trip to the taco truck. Let’s find out exactly where these characters rank for least chill to chillest with street meat.
50. Michel
Absolutely not. Michel is a meticulous French concierge who wouldn’t be caught dead with a greasy kebab. He is repulsed by bagels, committed to the egg-white omelet and has a meltdown when he realizes he’s been drinking 2% instead of skim milk for a week. In fact, Michel might have an eating disorder disguised as early 2000s diet culture. Regardless, no street meat for Michel.
49. Mrs. Kim
A drill-sergeant parent and a zealous Seventh-Day Adventist with a strict, likely religiously imposed diet. John Kellogg was a Seventh-Day Adventist, and he invented a bland cereal so that people would stop masturbating. Sylvester Graham also tried his luck at getting a boring fucking cracker to get people to stop self-pleasuring. Apparently it was an issue of the time. Anyway, Mrs. Kim is a hard pass.
48. Taylor Doose
I just have this feeling that Taylor is eating sweets at all hours of the day. He kicks off his morning with a cinnamon roll and ends his day with a fudge sundae, skipping lunch in between. His taste buds rarely crave a juicy, savory french dip. Also, he’s a little bitch who is the type to say shit like “back in my day, we didn’t receive participation trophies,” so here you go, Taylor – no participation trophy.
47. Mitchum & Shira Huntsberger
Mitchum seems like the type to subsist off black coffee, pills, martinis, and filet mignon. Shira seems like the type to subsist off protein shakes, Diet Coke, and salmon salads. They think Cubano is a type of ballroom dance and not a buttery sandwich with pork, ham, pickles, and mustard on toasted bread. And frankly, it’s better that way.
46. Miss Patty
No, Miss Patty wouldn’t be cool with street meat. Not unless we’re talking about a male prostitute.
45. Sherry Tinsdale
Sherry is a chamomile-tea-and-kale-chips bitch who would scoff at the suggestion of souvlaki. While she would absolutely slay at healthy weekly meal planning, she would rather have her Mary Kay credit card get revoked than eat a hotdog outside of the stadium.
44. Tristan Dugray
Nope, Tristan is a fork-and-knife, country club kid who probably has never seen a menu with numbered meals. He’s skeevy, he’s scummy, and he’s a sexual predator–so even though he’d fit right in a dark corner of a dive bar, he’s more inclined to harass waitresses at high-end establishments.
43. Doyle
Doyle is high-maintenance and a bit sheltered, so I don’t think he’d do well with spontaneity, which is half the fun of street meat. He seems like the type to get a tummy ache from eating basically anything and then complain about it all night long. He chronically forgets his Lactaid and then makes it your problem. I’d make sure this guy stays away from chili dogs, and me.
42. Lorelai Gilmore Sr. AKA “Trix” Gilmore
She’s the eldest Lorelai and the namesake of the whole god-damn clan. Because of her eugenicist-esque obsession with pedigree, I wouldn’t expect to find her inhaling a hoagie. On the other hand, she did rent a house to Korn. On the other other hand, she was a landlord. It’s a no from me dog.
41. Nicole Leahy
Nicole is a lawyer (one strike) who cheats (two strikes) and who enjoys the types of salads that we’re being served in a diner in Nowhere, Connecticut in the early 2000s (three strikes). You know the ones–iceberg lettuce devoid of all chlorophyll topped with coins of carrots, black olives, shredded mozzarella cheese, and some Newman’s Own Italian Dressing. So no, she sure as hell wouldn’t be found eating a beef taquito from her local 7/11.
40. Max Medina
Nah, Max isn’t a food truck guy. This prep-school professor is a bit of a simp, so the only way he could be found eating a bucket of chicken would be to give a woman the impression that he’s a chill dude without a stick up his ass. But he actually kinda has a stick up his ass. And it’s not a KFC drumstick.
39. Logan Huntzberger
He was raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, and he can still be found sucking on it from time to time. He might indulge in a lobster roll when on vacation in the Vineyard, but he’d look at a sausage roll with skepticism. London’s street food scene is wasted on this pretty boy.
38. Troubadour #2
Since he’s a busker, you’d would think he’d be pretty comfortable with grabbing a late-night brat. But actually, this Troubadour is a dirty, crunchy vegan who slacklines and refuses to wear shoes, only going barefoot. He runs his own produce stand and definitely got scammed into buying some essential oils one time.
37. Jason Stiles
Jason is the human version of a $250 omakase menu. He likes confined spaces and tiny bubbles. He can’t sleep in a bed with another person and hates fast food. Get a life, Jason. He’s not dead last because he was willing to eat a giant grocery store egg roll, but still, he’s nowhere near the gold.
36. Christopher Hayden
Chris would try an empanada, but he would mispronounce it and then embarrassingly defend himself. He would get so flustered that he wouldn’t even care about the delicious, steaming little pocket of beef and onion in front of him, only taking one small bite and then letting it get cold while he talked incessantly about his experience studying abroad.
35. Marty
Marty gives off “nice guy” Midwest vibes. He fucks with ranch, blue cheese, heavy cream, sour cream, whipping cream and cream cheese. He’s seen a hotdish in his day. I just imagine his upbringing in a depressing ’90s dining room with a distant father and saccharine mother, a la “Freaks and Geeks.” He’s a bit sheltered, and I just don’t think he’s the first to reach for a sambusa.
34. Emily Gilmore
Emily Gilmore doesn’t know what “street meat” is. The only reason she made it this high is because she had a meltdown in a mall and then ate food-court Sbarro pizza with a fork. But still, she ate it.
33. Luke Danes
Stars Hollow’s beloved-yet-curmudgeonly diner owner can be found serving up bacon and eggs every day. His career choice makes it seem like he’d be down to clown on some chimichangas, but Luke is actually an Almond Mom. Not only does he prefer turkey burgers and carrot sticks to ground beef and fries, but he also gleefully judges people who don’t share his healthy habits.
32. Sookie St. James
Sookie is what one might call a “foodie.” A classically trained chef, I think Sookie is happy eating anything from tacos to steak tartare, as long as it tastes good. But Sookie cannot relinquish control, and one component of enjoying street meat is removing yourself from the process. You just gotta close your eyes and dive straight into that dumpling, but Sookie would say something like “hmm, it needs chives,” and frankly, it would kill our vibe.
31. Jackson Belleville
Jackson is a local produce supplier–he can always be found with his arms full of blueberries, zucchini, mushrooms, and rasp quats (don’t ask). Plus, he’s sleeping with–okay, married to– the best chef in town. Would he turn his nose up to Pelmini if offered? No. But does he have the inherent makings of a street meat savant? Also no.
30. Colin & Finn
Logan’s chaotic and deluded besties, these two would only be found eating a corndog on some sort of crude fraternity dare. But guess what? They love crude fraternity dares. They tend to be the hazer, though, not the hazee.
Group entry is usually staggered in a haunt to prevent overcrowding, so the line is long. To keep the energy up haunts usually have scare actors walking through the lines, providing a creepy ambiance and the occasional jump scare. A24 brought its own unique spin to crowd work. Gone were the killer clowns and executioners. Instead, there was the distraught-looking 40-something stumbling from group to group confessing that she didn’t know how to be a mother. There was a man clearly just going through the motions in a conversation with his girlfriend. There were British club dancers with no script.
When we made it to the front of the line we were greeted by a man dressed in an academic-looking suit who was somehow lit by neon wherever he went. He approached each member of our party, and with a paternal energy bluntly expressed why they were a disappointment to him before ushering us into the first room.
In a spooky old room with decrepit furniture and cobwebs everywhere (neon-lit) a coffin is opened by someone inside. The man who emerges is plain-looking and distraught. He wears a sign hung around his neck which reads “Not Dracula.” He approaches your group seemingly on the verge of tears and confesses that he doesn’t know how to be a mother. It is immediately clear that this isn’t you’re typical cheap-thrill spookehouse.
You enter a bedroom lit in a neon color palette. A young woman texts from her bed, seemingly bored and unaware of your presence. Suddenly, she looks distraught. She texts frantically chanting “No, no no…” until the phone drops from her shaking hands. A scream builds on her face but never comes out. If you ask what’s going on, the host puts a finger up to your lips and tells you not to embarrass him. This goes on for 7 minutes.
Dispelling the notion that they’re too pretentious for good ole Halloween fun, A24’s next room features a Universal classic-style mummy, though he does not emerge from a tomb. He is seated at a laptop computer, interviewing for an events coordinator position with Sallie Mae. You can tell this job would be a game changer for The Mummy, and at first, he seems confident, but it just doesn’t go well. The Mummy grows alienated and despondent, barely able to muster a “thank you for your time” at the end, which is not reciprocated. He may be thousands of years old, but this Mummy clearly feels like an imposter in a world of adults.
The setting is an Irish pub where everyone seems to know each other, and seems unwilling to interact with a Cyborg patron who moseys from group to group unable to penetrate conversations. Our host explains that the Cyborg was once a welcome member of the community, but was accused of an unspeakable crime, and though proven innocent, the stigma still follows him.
The make-up is top-notch, matched only by the grounded, all-to-real performance of the two zombie actors, who feign amicability as they sign divorce papers. They congratulate themselves on being mature and able to maintain a friendship despite the breakup, but it rings false. One of them notices your group and suggests eating you. The other zombie mumbles some affirmative reply, but they don’t move. Clearly, there is too much unresolved conflict between them for the zombies to function, and they’re both in denial about it. Haunting stuff.
Yes, the “Spring Breakers” star himself is there, and after a quick initial greeting, he will try to sleep with you. When rebuked, he will immediately claim that he only tried to sleep with you as a method-acting exercise for a role he’s preparing for and that he thought you were 18. When you tell him you’re actually older than 18 he will reply “Gross.”
The transformation uses movie-quality special effects, it’s really impressive, but then once he’s a wolf he just kind of goes shell-shocked describing an accident he saw that’s clearly traumatized him. He doesn’t howl or anything. He just keeps mentioning the empty baby seat he saw, and you really don’t know what to say to the guy.
As fans of the movie, we were pumped to see a “Green Room” themed haunt. The place was made up like a dive bar and filled with people you didn’t want to mess with. Your host then impatiently tells you to get on the stage and do your set. We tried our best, but half of us had never even played an instrument before, and we felt real danger getting off that stage.
Like, for real, it’s a hospice room with an actual terminal patient hooked up to a bunch of machines. His family is there and they can’t stop crying.
You turn a corner and bam, Art The Clown from the Terrifieer movies jumps out at you. I guess they figured throwing some traditional haunted house scares in there would help satisfy everyone, but at this point, we’re all too despondent to react.
Witness the horror of real people discussing the lowest moments of their lives they were driven to by chasing the highs and lows of irresponsible gambling in what they believe to be a safe environment.
Apparently, they were adopted and they are really hung up about it, which seems clear to everyone except the creature. Denial. Trauma. Neon lighting.
In the “Men” themed room every scare actor has had their face replaced with that of Rory Kinnear. It’s an impressive feat, and we can’t imagine how they were able to do CGI in real life, but the meaning of the face swap completely eludes us.
Happy Star gives the occasional like and is barely online. They’re just glad to be here, quietly chilling in your connections list. Easily the least annoying of the bunch, only weird when they start posting about their New Age interests. Apparently they’ve gotten into crystal energy healing in Arizona and have started offering “wellness courses.” Anyway, this Happy Star is most likely enjoying life away from their computer, and they’ll sometimes remind you about that with a post.
Sure, he’s from your distant past, but this little fella is a lurker. Why is he always looking at your page? You can always rely on seeing this guy in your notifications. You give him a pass because it’s Taco Bell and that’s still your fast food of choice, but this dude will even like and comment on sponsored content. Typical chihuahua, responds to anything. Mostly in barks and quivers – don’t move too quickly around him.
Who is on LinkedIn posting advice at 5 a.m.? It’s Birdie. The early bird gets the worm and apparently hijacks the algorithm, so you’re constantly seeing her posts. But there’s some sound advice in there, so you don’t mind. Sometimes you’ll screenshot one and, like most people, never look at it again. She was apparently the first female McDonald’s mascot so, if anything, Birdie is a trailblazer. Also, she seems to actually be into eating worms.
Too many selfies from the Jollibee Bee, plus they post way, way too often. Interacts with anything you post, too. Lots of emojis, especially the awful “laugh-cry” to punctuate sentences. You don’t exactly know what they do, but they are always sharing “wins” or excited about some new campaign. Constantly networking, always busy. They’re a fucking bee, afterall. But there’s something weirdly comforting about seeing a giant red bee at all of these events. You remind yourself that it’s just a parasocial relationship, you don’t actually know this bright red bee. But you know they spoke on multiple panels last year and made Forbes 30 Under 30.
Grimace treats LinkedIn like Facebook, sending unsolicited messages and oversharing constantly. Anytime a celebrity dies, Grimace posts a long rambling post about how much this “visionary” meant to them, somehow bringing it back to a recent injury or a clogged toilet. Way too many mentions of clogged toilets. Every other post is about a clogged toilet. Makes you consider Grimace’s anatomy in a way you never wanted to. What the fuck even is Grimace? Either way, you have a message from him on LinkedIn waiting for you.
Announces every job transition as though he were the fucking President resigning. Every career transition is like an awards acceptance speech, with multiple people tagged and awkardly thanked. Conjures up the most bland lessons learned imaginable. Wow, “teamwork makes the dreamwork,” huh? How long did that one take? The Little Caesar’s guy distributes half-hearted compliments to everyone before sharing a “quirky” office photo that makes absolutely no sense. Has honestly quoted lyrics from Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” when discussing his career change. Also, for some reason, frequently repeats his comments and types in all caps.
We all have that LinkedIn connection that makes you wonder: How the fuck do I even know this person? Their name is vaguely familiar, at best. You’d click on their profile, but the last thing you need is them knowing you’ve looked at their profile page. This is basically The Noid. He’s familiar but also kinda not, like a dream or the shittiest déjà vu you can imagine. Anyway, the Noid uses posts as a way to talk about recent “personal challenges,” mostly about stopping pizza deliveries in his neighborhood. What is this dude’s deal?
Self-titled albums are usually either a band’s debut LP, or a back to basics effort years and/or albums later. This one is neither, which makes it quite tough to talk about, especially after the band’s almost perfect breakout first ska-punk LP, and their dark follow-up sophomore hardcore album. This one may have been held in higher regard if it was the band’s first album, but it sadly sounds like a cash grab, which we know is the goal of a major label release, but we’re still mad salty and sour here. Still, we find it extremely hilarious that Disney’s Hollywood Records thought that a band called The Suicide Machines would break into the mainstream like Belle and the Beast, and even more so with this album. In closing, while the first two tracks on this record have stood the test of time, the others sadly haven’t.
No one, not even Julius Caesar or Harry Potter, was expecting a new The Suicide Machines LP in the 2010s, let alone in the 2020s FIFTEEN years after their truly great album predecessor “War Profiteering Is Killing Us All,” but Jason Navarro and company love to keep ya guessing, and delivered this decade one of the better ska-punk intentionally-or-unintentionally throwback records. The band’s seventh album “Revolution Spring” came out via Fat Wreck Chords six days into Spring 2020, and just days after the Covid lockdowns started, which was a freaking romp of an empty time. Still, despite you thinking that we are eternal contrarians, we really don’t think that cold, cold, cold Detroit is the new hot, hot, hot Miami, even though it may resemble the Whole Foods known as Williamsburg with far more crime right now.
We’ll get to their most underrated LP later, but “Steal This Record,” the band’s fourth album and last major label release, is certainly The Suicide Machines’ second most underappreciated effort in their seven-album catalog. Funnily, they pulled a Chumbawamba by telling/advising/notifying/commanding people to steal an actual record, which is technically criminal behavior sans honor, that likely cost Hollywood Records six figures to make, which should also be illegal. Stand up if you agree, and provide a killing blow if you don’t. We’re unsure as to what caused the frenetic direction of this full-length, but it definitely sounds angry front to back, and most certainly more so than the band’s third and self-titled studio album. The record also came out fourteen days after the awful 9/11 tragedy, and said disaster put a pin in the band’s first single “The Killing Blow” before it even had a chance.
The fifth LP from The Suicide Machines and their first of two non-major label releases to be released on SideOneDummy Records, former home of the now disgraced Anti-Flag, likeminded Big D and the Kids Table, the impossible to describe Gogol Bordello, and Dio. For many hardcore fans of TSM, this record served as a glorious return to form after its elimination on album #3. The Suicide Machines’ highlight track from this album, which has a surprisingly high number of public streams, “High Anxiety,” is a killer ska-punk anthem, and was even featured on the soundtrack to “Tony Hawk’s Underground 2”… Do you even skate, bro? A cool point to mention is that “A Match and Some Gasoline” is the first of two TSM LPs to be recorded in The Blasting Room by Descendents’ Bill Stevenson, and The Virginia Sisters’/Blood Brothers’ Jason Livermore.
The band’s sixth/last LP for quite some time known as “War Profiteering Is Killing Us All” is the band’s best record from this century and serves as a similar sequel to 2003, like 1998 was to 1996’s for the band in genre form, songwriting prowess, and a tasty, tasty, tasty rectangular pan pizza with a crisp crust, but not a crust punk, hosers. Overall, it is a critique of the bottomed-out George Walker Bush, the meh sequel to George Herbert Walker Bush’s administration, which was very common in the punk rock world between 2000-2008, but The Suicide Machines executed its bitter sentiment better than most. Also, the tune “I Went On Tour for Ten Years And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt” is not only rad/long/fun/vibey AF, but it is one of the better song titles from a band in the Warped Tour scene.
The Suicide Machines’ sophomore LP “Battle Hymns” is BY FAR their most underrated in their vast catalog, and we would’ve love loved/hate hated to see what the goons on Twitter would’ve said about this one if it was around in the late-’90s, but happily, Elon Musk was doing way cooler things then than his troll high society billionaire shizz now. Please speak no evil about this record, as we can’t take that kind of rejection from you all; sympathy for the devil. As objective/subjective masters of our craft, we theorize that the unjustified hate for this record is because it was such a departure, and even Hollywood Records agreed, despite the fact that they are the premier hardcore punk label in all of, err, Hollywood. Like album #4, the bad babies in The Suicide Machines encouraged theft for this one, which is step one for cockblocking your work.
Like its three mega conglomerate label sequels, The Suicide Machines’ debut and groundbreaking LP “Destruction By Definition” was produced by their A&R label dude, and revered songwriter Julian Raymond, who also worked with Fastball, Cheap Trick, Mutemath, and Robert Johnson. Mr. Raymond killed it here, and the proof is in the pudding regarding track four, “No Face,” which received radio and MTV play for a lil bit, and in the band’s best song “Break The Glass,” which was on the soundtrack to the Oscar-winning “An American Werewolf in Ann Arbor.” A badass opinion is that the band’s bonus track “I Don’t Wanna Hear It” is a solid ska-punk rendition of your straight edge second cousin’s favorite song. S.O.S.: In closing, B-Rabbit opened for The Suicide Machines at the world-famous St. Andrews Hall in 1996, got booed off the stage, and wept.