But the Toast's biggest gift to me was permission to rethink my relationship with a lot of the Western canon. It took a long time to realize that much of the art I was told is good did not anticipate me in the audience. The Toast's satire was medicine for the slight tightness in my chest when I walk into another museum filled with paintings of clothed men and dead-eyed, nude women, or my inability to swallow yet more novels with self-serious male anti-heroes and decorative women (here's looking at you, Jack Kerouac). It's like the old saying: Laughter is the best cure for the nauseating omnipresence of the male gaze. Thanks, the Toast.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-intersect/wp/2016/07/01/the-toast-has-ended-and-its-fans-including-hillary-clinton-are-feeling-feelings/?noredirect=on&utm_term=.9eb8b27d5a70
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