Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and the pursuit of happiness

"This is definitely what happy feels like! What's wrong with you?"

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend has no business being so fucking charming.*

*Musical numbers aside, which I will get to, because hell yes musicals. 

The show goes out of its way to make its heroine, as played by the stupid-talented Rachel Bloom (seriously. How great she is makes me dumber), a new class of awful anti-hero. She’s selfish. She oblivious. She’s insecure and uncertain even while being able to bulldoze over anyone in her way. She’s struggles with mental illness and participates in so many moments of thoughtless cruelty that it’s maddening.

And, god dammit, I’m rooting for her so hard.  

You're the Worst - Love is for suckers

"Well, as my grandma used to say, it's only a walk of shame if you're capable of feeling shame." 

Fine. I'm doing it. I'm going back and following my own rules and I'm writing again. (Not being able to sleep helps a lot with this. Also I care about you guys. That too.)

TV blogging. The masses have spoken and who am I to deny them?

The bad news is that I'm not going to talk about something you guys care about.

Because my favorite show of last year was "You're the Worst."

Not enough people I like are watching it, which is just flat-out unacceptable. The show's not even coming back until July. This is not a 'watch it now or you'll miss out' plea. This is a, 'good god guys, get your shit together and watch this thing because I'm sad you're not in on my favorite jokes' thing. There's less urgency, but more desperation behind it.

You see, "You're the Worst" is a love story, kinda.

No, sorry, that's wrong.

"You're the Worst" is a like story.

And that's way more impressive than a love story.

Breaking Bad 5x07 - Say My Name

"Now. Say my name." 
"You're Heisenberg." 
"You're god damn right." 

Before the start of this season, I read a really interesting interview with Bryan Cranston in which he was asked when he thought Walt 'broke bad' past the point of being redeemable to the audience.

I don't remember Cranston's response, but I do remember many examples of what that moment has been for fans.

Spoilers for the latest "Breaking Bad" under the cut.

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

“Headline?" he asked.
"'Swing Set Needs Home,'" I said.
"'Desperately Lonely Swing Set Needs Loving Home,'" he said.
"'Lonely, Vaguely Pedophilic Swing Set Seeks the Butts of Children,'" I said.

Having lent out both of the novels I own by him last week to people*, I figure that now is a great time to talk about John Green's books. Because why be practical about this 'reviewing' process when I could follow my impulses and be vague and obnoxious instead? Particularly since, you know. He and I are now bestest buddies in the whole wide world.

* I did that a month ago. Yes. This has taken a month to write. Writing blog stuff is hard, okay? And no. They haven't given the books back. Impatience goes here.

Note before I get too deeply into this that I'm going to be exerting a lot of effort in staying somewhat focused on the book, since I find many things about John Green fascinating. Keeping in mind that I usually am content to analyze authors from afar while enjoying their work rather than engage with them in any real sense, I find it both awesome and a bit problematic that Green is so damn accessible to his readers/fans, and I can't help but wonder how that changes the reading process. I want to draw the easy comparison (which, therefore, probably wouldn't be accurate at all) to a Letters/Rilke scenario, but on a much larger scale and through much more immediate mediums. (And also regarding non-authory things.) There's also my personal hobby horse of proclaiming popular YA fiction as important social indicators for a culture and a good way to track the trajectory of societal norms, which is something I always want to rant about... (Even if John Green is less inclined to. I forgive him though. Because we're BFFs and all.)

But, instead. Books. Let's talk about his books. Because I've read two of them and I like them a great deal. For the sake of making things slightly easier for myself, I'm going to stick with The Fault in Our Stars, since I finished that one most recently and I like it more. (Sophisticated analysis, to be found right here ladies and gents.)

That excessive preface out of the way...

I started reading The Fault in Our Stars knowing that it was about a sixteen-year-old girl, Hazel Grace Lancaster, with terminal cancer who falls in love.

Mad Men 5x13 - The Phantom/Season 5

"Are you alone?"

I have never tried to write about "Mad Men" before for a lot of reasons. Mainly:
a) It seems hard.
b) There are a lot of people who do it better than me. (And funnier than me.)

But after a season that's been an anomaly in a lot of ways, I'm left with many questions. So I'm going to tackle the beast so you can all then help me out. Generous, right?

Spoilers for the fifth season (and every season, really) of "Mad Men" below the cut. I'm also going to link to some of the more interesting articles I read throughout this post, virtually all of which will also contain spoilers. Be forewarned!

Awake - Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

At the end of each airing season, a bunch of shows just coming off of their freshman years get canceled. Usually, I don't feel too badly about this. It's not that there aren't brilliant shows that had really terrible first seasons (yes, "Parks and Recreation." I am looking at you), but most brand spanking new shows aren't going to be all that great. It would be nice if such shows were nurtured like the lovely snowflakes they have the potential to turn into, but people don't typically have that kind of patience for this sort of thing. This is true of cable television (fare thee well, "Luck." Some day, David Milch will get to finish a story he comes up with), but network TV has it infinitely worse, and the casualties this year were brutal, even by the typical year-one slaughter standards.

Dozens of shows were taken off the air, but the one that's going to torture me is "Awake," a show about a detective who - after a terrible car crash kills a member of his family - embraces an elaborate delusion of living in two separate worlds rather than be faced with the reality of the death of either his wife or son.

First, we have to understand the man behind the curtain, Kyle Killen. This guy has written three things in his entire career. 1) A show called "Lone Star" about a scheming would-be oil tycoon living two lives, by two names, and with two women. This show aired was hailed as one of the best pilots of the year in 2010, but alas, after two episodes it was promptly canceled. 2) A movie entitled "The Beaver," the story of a troubled husband and executive who adopts a beaver hand-puppet as his sole means of communicating. 3) "Awake."

Girls - Perseverance and Pithy Tweets

So I haven't written in this for a great many months, clearly defying the first of my many important rules. I would make excuses, but that seems like a great deal of effort that I'd rather spend pretending that I've been doing a bang-up job at this 'blogging' nonsense and carrying on about my business. Seeing as how you're all eager and gleeful followers, I know you won't mind. (You're all super gracious too. And pretty.)

I'm going to spend some time talking about "Girls," because that's what everyone else in TV land has been doing, and I'm nothing if not a slave to trends. (Crocs, snuggies, irony. I have been helpless in the face of their respective siren songs.)

I started hearing a lot about "Girls" around a month ago, and I got very excited for a very silly reason. See, I heard that the show was going to be about four twenty-something ladies living in Brooklyn, being piss-pot poor, and mostly put-upon. Best of all, it was going to be written, directed, and staring Lena Dunham, a real-life 25 year-old with a distinct (hilarious) voice and something to say, dammit.

"At long last!" I cried to my 14 Tumblr followers, "This is will be a show about MY LIFE by someone who GETS IT."

Minor spoilers under the cut for the first three episodes of "Girls."

Shameless - Making Failure Fun

This is a draft I never finished from over a year ago.

I know, I suck. Read me being insightful about the important world of television. You'll forget how terrible I am after a while, honest. Note that this is a year old, so it's only about the first season. Which was awesome.

I haven't watched the second yet. Because, again, I suck.

Look! My excellent words about stuff that makes you forget about how inadequate I am.


"Shameless" is the story of the Gallaghers. The family consists of a mother who walked out eight years ago, a drunk dad who couldn't give two shits, and six children who have had to rally around each other to keep their ramshackle group together. Fiona, the eldest of the kids, is the one charged with keeping the bills paid, food on the table, and everyone alive long enough to get out of the house, and it's only because of her that the family's been able to keep on keeping on.

As a show that tries to make people laugh to keep them from crying, "Shameless" has the difficult task of being hilarious while also being poignant. And while sometimes the tone of the episodes can veer wildly into one direction or the other, more often than not the series is able to find the perfect balance between comedy and drama, the result of which is a damn fun TV show.

The Memory Artists by Jeffrey Moore

I initially read The Memory Artists when I was fifteen, and it was the first time that I realized that contemporary fiction had something different and interesting to offer that the brilliant old books couldn't.

Which - and I must emphasize this before I get pelted with stones - doesn't mean that they're better. Or even a fraction as good. Or worth the paper they're written on. Or whatever.

What it does mean is that by virtue of being newer, they can act as reactionary commentaries of the times in which they're published. A current commentary of the universe as it stands at a particular moment. (Which is also a reason why I like television so much, should anyone care.) There are also printing methods available now that Homer couldn't really get his hands on. Books can include pictures, colors, different font types and news article clippings. The comprehensive view of the world has changed from now from back in the good old days, and we can be more connected to people half way around the world than we are with those next door. It's not to say that these 'bells and whistles' can't become crutches that novels lean on, but when these little tricks work? The results can be pretty cool.

Adulthood - Lollygaging and Leases

A general question for our lively audience - when do you have to call yourself a grown-up?

And yes, I mean 'have.' I've never wanted to be an adult. It always felt that admitting to being mature was a sort of concession to giving up everything fun, interesting, and exciting about life as I know it. Of course, this isn't exactly true, but I nevertheless find the prospect of becoming a 'real person' a depressing one. All the more obnoxious because I find myself dealing with more and more 'real' problems as I edge my way closer to my mid-twenties. (I maintain that I'm not in my mid-twenties yet. At 23, I'm in my early twenties still, dammit.)

Spirit - The Dog Of Dogs, and Champion of Champions

When I was in the fifth grade, my dad and I talked about getting a dog.

I don't remember the actual conversation, but I do remember us being at Mark and Monica's (a pizza joint where he would eat a sandwich and drink a beer, and I would eat a personal pizza and drink a root beer (because it had 'beer' in it, and I wanted to be like my dad)) coming up with a few basic guidelines. a) the dog should, obviously (due to my love for all things golden) be a Golden Retriever and b) the dog's name would be Spirit. (My recommendation, based off a She-Ra's horse. Because I was/am awesome.)

The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart

Traditional autobiographies wish to help you understand how the adult was "formed." I suppose most human beings, like clay chamber pots, are "formed" - and are used accordingly. But I? I am born anew at each green fall of the die, and by die-ing, I eliminate my since. The past - paste, pus, piss - is all only illusory events created by a stone mask to justify an illusory stagnant present. Living flows, and the only possible justification of an autobiography is that it happened by chance to be written - like this one. Someday a higher creature will write the almost perfect and honest autobiography: "I live."

Sophomore year in college I bought a really idiotic book called something along the lines of, America's Best Cult Fiction. What can I say? I wanted (okay, fine - want) to be a cool kid, and that meant (means) reading more obscure - but good - books than anyone else. So I read a book to tell me what books to read to be cool. (See that awesome logic there?) Ultimately, being the poor person I was (am), I could only afford to buy one real book after the purchase. So, after carefully studying my options, I bought The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart (which is a pen name - henceforth when I'm speaking about the author, I'll refer to him by his real name, George Cockcroft (yes, that is a ridiculous surname) to avoid confusion). I then ignored it for three years. I do that a lot, I know.

Two months ago I hauled it back with me to New York from California, and I finally got around to starting it last week. And couldn't stop. Which, for the first time in my history as a reader, actually worried me a bit. There was something freakishly seductive about the book and the lifestyle it was fictionalizing, something oddly compelling about abandoning the construction of self for a life lived purely based on the whims of chance.

The premises of the book is thus: What if you left every decision up to the roll of a die?

Breaking Bad 4x04 - Bullet Points

Jesse: This is the part where I'm supposed to beg you not to do it? "Oh please, please!" And then what? I'm supposed to promise, cross my heart, to like, straighten up, fly right, or toe the line or some other crap that I'm not gonna say? Is that what your little show here was all about?

Jesus H. Christ. My heart can't take a show like this. I swear. The suspense, anxiety tension - pick a word. Whatever it is, it's going to kill me.

Spoilers from the latest "Breaking Bad" under the cut...

Breaking Bad - Villainy 101

So after the Month of Death (TM) that was June, I've been meaning to write a lot for this thing. I want to talk about all the episodes I ruthlessly skipped over for "Game of Thrones," along with a recap post that has book spoilers in it. I want to do a recommendation for the excellent psycho-thriller show "Luther" that has Stringer Bell (Idris Elba) playing a good cop and Jane Eyre (Ruth Wilson) playing a crazy killer. I want to write reviews of A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. I wanted to bitch about the Fourth of July Curse, the stress of trying to find a real job (or even a fake one), and do another Bar Quest post...

But after finishing up thirteen hours of insane, brilliant, brutal television, I've got to do something else.

I have to order anyone who isn't watching "Breaking Bad" to start. Now. You all have five days until the the fourth season begins. Just stay home sick from work and watch 13-odd hours of TV every day, and you'll be ready for the continuation of some of the best damn TV you're likely to come across.

No spoilers to be found, just lots and lots of squee. 

Staying, Leaving, or Quietly Imploding Beneath a Serene Facade - Considering New York

As time goes on, more and more of my friends who came to New York from far off places are starting to hate the city, and a lot of them are making plans to leave. I've been thinking about this myself for months now, changing my mind depending on my mood and my career prospects and whatnot.

But slowly yet surely most of the people I get along best with here are making motions to head elsewhere. And nothing makes somebody seriously consider their attachment to a place quite like the prospect of being left alone there.

So, after a long think (and an even longer rant/self-scolding diatribe below the cut), I've reached an honest-to-god decision.

I don't like living in New York because it makes me uncomfortable. And because of that I'm going to stay.

Killing the Bar, but Keeping the Change - Bar Quest, Part Two

Work is insane, so obviously any real post involving TV or books is simply not possible. I haven't got the time to get my work done properly, much less type up my (oh so sophisticated) thoughts on popular culture and literature...

Or I'm just super lazy and can't muster up the energy to talk about things in a semi-intelligent manner. Which ever option you like best. So what the hey! Let's talk about NYC bars again!

Nearly a year into living in NYC, and my list of frequented bars has increased! I would claim to be cultured, but let's be honest - I'm too broke for culture. As is, I've got me a huge list of dives I've been to and liked, and as such I feel the need to share them all with you. Note that my original aims of finding 'the' bar have faded into a desire to not spend all of my money for a particular pay period in one night. As such, this list is not only limited, but incredibly biased. But cheap! Which could be a deal breaker when chilling in one of the most expensive cities in the world. See? Look at me. Being useful. Maybe.

...

Look! Stuff about bars!

Game of Thrones 1x04 - Cripples, Bastards and Broken Things

Daenerys: I am a Khaleesi of the Dothraki. I am the wife of the great Kahl and I carry his son inside me. The next time you raise a hand to me will be the last time you have hands.

Four weeks in, and I've missed two episodes. 50/50 isn't nearly as bad as it could be, right?

Spoilers for the latest "Game of Thrones" after the cut...

Seven Types of Ambiguity by Elliot Perlman

"The peculiar striations that define someone's personality are too numerous to know, no matter how close the observer. A person we think we know can suddenly become someone else when previously hidden strands of his character are called to the fore by circumstance." 

The problem with a book that has ‘ambiguity’ in its name (or worse, that claims ambiguity as a theme) is that it can get away with anything. “But you’re not supposed to get it. It’s ambiguous. Like in the title. Pay attention, dumb ass.” This makes Elliot Perlman’s Seven Types of Ambiguity problematic, because as interesting and creative as it can be, it can also lose itself in its own gimmick. 

 The plot of the book is simple. One day, a man (Simon) picks up an ex girlfriend (Anna)’s son (Sam) from school without her permission, gives him a glass of chocolate milk, and gets arrested. From that starting point Perlman creates a six-hundred page unconventional mystery. Not that we’re ever wondering ‘who done it’ as the story progresses. Instead, we have to speculate on  how characters react, how situations unfold, and what motivates the people moving the story forward. This is complicated by the division of the book into seven sections, each with a unique narrator who illuminates the developing story of the novel in unexpected ways. We often backtrack through the story, frequently take unexpected turns, and sometimes enter an entirely new structure of text, all the while making our way through the series of consequences that come about for a multitude of people when a man makes a stupid decision out of desperation. 

Cougar Town - The Name Game

Jules: Good morning! I've been up for hours.
Grayson: I had eggs for breakfast.
Jules: What?
Grayson: Oh I'm sorry, I thought we were sharing incredibly boring facts about each other.

I never, in a million years, thought I would be trying to defend a show called “Cougar Town.” Forget defending – I never that I would genuinely enjoy a show called “Cougar Town.”

This is a very odd moment for me.

Let me preface – I wouldn't have given this show the time of day if I wasn’t coming off of a week hosting family followed by a week of being poor with nothing to do but sit on my ass and attempt to entertain myself. I’m bad at doing this without television, so I thought I would give this show that I had heard surprisingly good things about a shot. 

Good decision, self. If only all the other stupid hobbies I took up were as rewarding.

Game of Thrones 1x01 - Winter Is Coming

Tyrion: Let me give you some advice bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you.
Jon: What the hell do you know about being a bastard?
Tyrion: All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes.

In case you all didn't know, I want to get better at writing about TV. I like TV, and I like talking about TV with people. So I'm going to try to make a weekly schedule for myself on this blog to write about different TV things, one of which will be an episode-by-episode look at "Game of Thrones." Because practice makes perfect, right?

I'm going to handle these reviews in the same way my TV critic hero (yes these sorts of things exist in my brain), Alan Sepinwall, does. Overall thoughts of the episode followed by general bullet-point items at the end. Spoilers ahead for all of those who have yet to watch the episode (no worries to those who haven't read the books - I'll keep the review clean!), and let's begin, shall we? 

Mothering for Those Terrified of Children - Excitment and Concerns for Game of Thrones

Sean Bean as Eddard Stark = perfect casting

Let me preface this by saying that A Game of Thrones was the first book I read for fun that made my brain hurt. Keep in mind that I was twelve and just getting into reading, and that while I got all the sex, murder and intrigue on some level, I was coming off of Tamora Piece’s excellent (but oh-so-fluffy) teenage heroine fantasy quartets. They... aren't the same.

So I didn’t really get how good these books were until I was older and re-read them. At that point, I began to understand exactly what the novels were about. Not huge cool wolves and dragons, but an intriguing and wide-sweeping political drama told through a multitude of narratives and in a ‘fantastic’ setting. It was still cool, but it was also a lot more meaningful than it had been back in the days of, ‘Yay! Magic stuff!’ (I repeat – I was a bad-ass back in the day.)

Point is, I have a soft spot for these melodramatic, emotionally pulling books of epic proportions, so you can imagine my delight (and slight terror) when HBO announced that they were bringing them to the small-screen on April 17^th. Delight because one of the most epic series of books to be made during our time is going to be put in just the visual medium it was meant for (movies are great, but for something like A Song of Ice and Fire? TV is so much better), with competent people in charge and a kick-ass cast.

Terror because if they mess it up I will be traumatized for life.

Self-Made Man by Norah Vincent

I curtailed everything: my laugh, my word choice, my gestures, my expressions. Spontaneity went out the window, replaced by terseness, dissimulation and control. I hardened and denied to the point almost of ossification.

About a two and a half years ago I started becoming interested in feminism when a guy in one of my classes couldn't read feminist literature without discomfort. He felt attacked, couldn't take it seriously, and thought that it had no relevance. He couldn't get past his prejudices long enough to see what these books were commenting on.


After that encounter, I started gearing my literary studies toward feminism and women writers, and the further I read into the field (strictly literature, mind you. I leave the theory to the intense folk) the more I realized that, as much as I disagreed with him, my classmate had a point. Not that I think he was being attacked by the feminist movement, or that he shouldn't have taken feminism seriously (or more importantly - been a feminist), but that the role of men in relation to feminism can often be incredibly problematic.

So a year later I got Self-Made Man: One Woman's Journey Into Manhood and Back Again by Norah Vincent on a whim. A year and a half after that (also known as last week) I actually read it, with fascinating results. The book itself is pretty much what it says on the tin. For a year and a half the lesbian, feminist, and philosopher extraordinaire Norah Vincent lives her public life as a straight man and decides that it's a lot less fun than she had thought it would be.

Breakfast and Obesity - The Wonder of Parks and Recreation

Leslie: Pawnee's library department is the most diabolical ruthless bunch of bureaucrats I've ever seen. They're like a biker gang. But instead of shotguns and crystal meth, they use political savvy... and shushing.

There are a good number of great comedies on TV right now. (There are also a good number of crappy comedies on TV that make me want to stab out my eyes and destroy every laugh track in the universe. But let’s not talk about those…) My favorite among these is the delightful, warmhearted and cheerfully insane "Parks and Recreation".

The show's about the Parks and Recreation Department of government in a small town called Pawnee. This  town's sole claim to fame is the raging obesity crisis throughout the area. Suffice to say, it doesn’t have a lot going for it. Despite that (or perhaps because of that), Leslie Knope, the Deputy Director of the Department, is a woman who is terrifyingly enthusiastic about the place, about government, and about parks.

She’s a little odd. 

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers

"We have advantages. We have a cushion to fall back on. This is abundance. A luxury of place and time. Something rare and wonderful. It's almost historically unprecedented. We must do extraordinary things. We have to. It would be absurd not to." 

I feel like people have a lot of opinions about Dave Eggers for being, well. Dave Eggers. Personally, I have no idea what all the fuss is about. He supports good authors, he wrote a movie with his wife that I like (although the world seems to disagree with me on “Away We Go”…), and his name is being bandied about as one of the most influential contemporary authors of our day.

Since I sort of study contemporary authors (emphasis on ‘sort of’), it has looked pretty bad that I haven’t read him at all until a month ago. Happily, I borrowed his first book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, from a coworker, and now the masses can stop mocking me behind my back.

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius is a memoir, kind of. It’s Eggers’ real story as told by him, and is mostly based on fact and experience. The story itself is (as the title indicates) a heartbreaking one. When Eggers is twenty-one, his parents die within a few months of each other. He and his siblings are left trying to reconstruct their lives in the wake of this loss, and Dave is given the burden of taking care of their youngest brother, Toph. By itself, this story is an interesting, sad one that shouldn’t be dismissed as fictional trite nonsense. Because, well. It’s real life.

Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

“Most of the members of the convent were old-fashioned Satanists, like their parents and grandparents before them. They'd been brought up to it and weren't, when you got right down to it, particularly evil. Human beings mostly aren't. They just get carried away by new ideas, like dressing up in jackboots and shooting people, or dressing up in white sheets and lynching people, or dressing up in tie-dye jeans and playing guitars at people. Offer people a new creed with a costume and their hearts and minds will follow.”

People have been telling me to read Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett for about eight years now. And I, in response to their well-meaning advice, have been nodding pleasantly, smiling, and then continuing on about my business reading my epic Dragon Lance novels. (Because I have always been one of the cool kids.) 

Back when I was a young and tender thing without the wisdom and insight I have today, I used to hate reading. Well. That’s not true. I just wasn’t any good at it. I’m certainly not dyslexic, but anyone who has heard me attempt to read aloud knows that the mechanics of my reading abilities are somewhat compromised. It makes spelling fun!

Trials and Tribulations of Public Education - My Mostly Informed Opinions

My job is working with public school teachers here in New York City. I'm managing 95 educators as they attempt (with varied success) to implement service-learning lessons and service projects into their classrooms. This, alas, is more challenging to pull off than it may sound like. Happily, I don't want to talk about my job. Instead, I want to talk about public education. Because despite everything, I really do think that public education can work. Sorry, let me rephrase that. I think that we have an obligation to make certain that public education works.

Rec and Warning - Skins - Imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery when done poorly

Left -awesome. Right -strange guy trying to tear his shirt off.

There are so many reasons why the US version of "Skins" is a mockery of the original, and going over them all would take far too much time, effort and energy. Plus it would be depressing. So instead, I'll just demonstrate why the US version of "Skins" sucks by explaining why the first season UK version is pretty freaking awesome, if cracktastic.

Show Rec - Miranda - "You know when you get nervous socially, you end up lying to impress?"

Miranda and her ridiculously hot friend Gary.

Gary: Look, I just popped in to ask, you're not with anybody or married or anything, are you?

Miranda: Yep, yep. Of course, yeah.

Gary: Really? Kids?

Miranda: Yeah, got two. Orlando and... Bloom. You?

Gary: No, no. Still single.

Miranda: Me too!

Gary: You just said you were married.

Miranda: Divorced now.

Gary: And the kids?

Miranda: Dead.

Gary: Really? What happened?

Miranda: They froze. They froze to death, Gary. It's a funny story, actually. Well. Not funny haha, but funny in that it's almost unbelievable. You see, we were on holiday in the Himalayas at base camp of Everest and they were just running around in shorts and a T-shirt. And I kept saying,  'Put your coat on! You'll catch your death!' And they did!

I watched the entire aired series of Miranda in a day and a half. It would have been less, but I had to work and sleep. Stupid work and sleep, getting in the way of awesome.

Miranda is me. Granted, she's British, seven inches taller, eleven years older, has an incredibly hot friend Gary, and a name that's spelled properly, but still. If I unleashed all of my social anxiety and quirks, I would sound British, grow seven inches, and age a decade quick enough. It shouldn't be too difficult to find myself a ridiculously hot man to pine after, and I suppose I could legally spell my name right if I really wanted to make the comparison complete.

See, Miranda sings in public. Not just little jingles, but entire songs. She dances often. And badly. She lies compulsively (and outrageously) when in the presence of any mildly awkward social situation. Her mother is ashamed of her, her friends are embarrassed by her, and she has to be the most amazing mostly-fictional character ever.

Social Awkwardness and Making Friends for Dummies (AKA, Me)

At the hardened age of twenty-two, I've come to a depressing realization.

I have no idea how to make friends.

I'm terrible at it. Which is hilarious, because back when I couldn't form a complete sentence I could still sit in a circle with a bunch of other toddlers and play with my blocks in a companionable fashion. Now, I sit in a group of unfamiliar people and I stare as charmingly as possible at the table while trying not to say anything too unintentionally offensive. If I can stumble my way through small talk without making anyone chuckle nervously before edging away, I consider the evening a success. Making an actual friend during one of these awkward encounters? Only if they have an even greater social handicap than I do, and who really wants to hang out with those guys anyway?

Petition for Riker as Sacramento's Villain - Home and (resisting) Growing Up

I don't believe in outgrowing things.

Theoretically, I can understand the idea of maturing beyond a love for pacifiers and applesauce, but really whenever people claim to have outgrown something, I think they're really just saving face. I, on the other hand, have no shame of any sort.

I still love Gargoyles. Ponies are still awesome. A test during this holiday break proved that The Lord of the Rings is still the best trio of movies ever. (Granted, my commentary is slightly dirtier than it was back in 2001.) I still think that a pint of ice cream should constitute a complete meal, that broccoli sucks, and that peanut butter tastes better with some sugar. (Yes, this is a heart attack waiting to happen.) Disney movies are an acceptable form of group entertainment. (It's the songs. They're delightful.) And okay, I may not adore ponies with the same ardor I once had, but that doesn't mean I don't get giddy when I see one looking pretty off in the distance.

I say this because I just got back to the big city after my vacation in my home town, and I admit that I'll miss it a lot. Which I think confuses a lot of people. "But, you're living in New York City!" Well, yes. But as amazing as New York City is, and as much as I don't want to leave any time soon, it isn't home.

When I take people to Sacramento, they're typically not all that impressed. It's hard to explain that a place isn't just made up of bright lights, attractions, and local landmarks (although, let me just point out, Sacramento has all of these. In smaller amounts than other places, but still). A place is memories. And Sacramento is, understandably, saturated with them. Trying to explain that a restaurant is actually the site upon which many a dramatic teenage conversation was had about life doesn't seem to impress people. The taffy shop in the old part of town where many a cavity was aggravated doesn't convey a sense of warmth to others. A bar that feels just right, without flash or dramatics, shouldn't be nearly as exciting as I find it to be. A cinnamon roll on Christmas day with baby sausages don't really warrant the joy I appoint to them.

Maybe it's a flaw on my part, but I get enthusiastic about the familiar. It's not to say that I'm not going to plunge into the big wide world and have some adventures, but it does mean that coming home will always be my end-game. And maybe my definition of 'home' will change in the future, but Sacramento will always be like Gargoyles to me. I will always love it, it will always remind me of awesomeness, and I'll always want to return to it, for the memories. (The only downside is that Sacramento, alas, doesn't have Riker from Star Trek playing the villain. This is a terrible oversight on Sacramento's part, and I'll be complaining about it in the near future.)

Empowerment Pies - Waitress and Real-World Feminism

I love romantic comedies.

Which is more than a little bit embarrassing, since I'm supposed to be an 'enlightened' and 'educated' young woman of means (ish) and I should know better. (Please don't get me started on my favorite musicals.)

The point - I sorta think Waitress is one of the most feminist films I've seen. At least, according to my skewed version of feminism.

Feminism is something that I - to some extent - grew up with. I always knew I had a choice. That I had a certain amount of power and freedom and privilege. Which isn't to say my life was populated by a huge number of strong women (because it wasn't), or that I never felt trapped (because I did), but I never directly felt the crushing weight of patriarchy on my shoulders. The idea at the heart of feminism - the notion that power isn't something to be taken by those who are the strongest, but a right to be given to all - is one that I've always known. Because I've been damn lucky.

Which is why I like Waitress so much. Because the experience of the women in this film is exactly opposite of mine. They haven't had choices, they've had no power, and they know what it means to be utterly confined to a life you can't stand because you have no other options. Waitress is impressive because it doesn't try to dress up Jenna's situation, doesn't make light of the fact that her circumstances are fairly hopeless (and sometimes dangerous), but it still manages to be funny. And charming. And romantic. And even empowering. And it does all this without giving anyone a traditional 'happy ending,' without mocking the people it portrays, and without stepping too far outside of the realm of reality.

Don't Kill The Bar, Man - Finding "The" Bar

McGee's Pub, West 55th Street

There are lots of reasons why people want to move to New York City, and I feel like a tiny part of every person wonders what it would be like to live here. (Not that any of the sensible ones would ever admit to it.) Whether for the Broadway shows, the 'ultimate' experience of "city life," an amazing music scene, more different types of diversity (oh yeah. I just said that) than you can shake a stick at, a culture of reading that I haven't seen in such concentrations anywhere else (yay!), or some omitted gem of wonder that I can't guess at, New York has a lot of dreams taking residence in its dirty streets and crowded subways. (And well it should.)

That's not to say that everyone who secretly yearns for a bit of New York would ever actually want to live here. After all, a piece of New York is way different than the whole shebang, and god knows I wouldn't have worked up the gumption to move here if opportunity hadn't have come knocking, despite my little dream. (Or how much I'm enjoying the city now that I'm here actually here.)

But a dream I did have. A small vision of what New York City could offer me. A reason beyond all others to quest after this indomitable city, to aspire to one day exist in this bustling metropolis.

I want to find the bar, dammit.

Xena vs. Sherlock - Stocking My DVD Shelf

Not all TV should be great.

Which isn't to say that I think all TV should be bad. But good television comes in many forms, and I don't really think that all of those forms are necessarily universal. It's like a really fantastic mystery novel. I have no doubt that the best of them are truly amazing, and that people who like that kind of thing have a moment of utter bliss upon the ultimate crime ever conceived of in fiction being solved by some brainy detective or bumbling buffoon.

But I don't like mystery novels, which has been a great source of self-loathing and rending of hair throughout the years. I mean, I've tried to read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes three times, have gotten through "A Scandal in Bohemia" on each occasion, and have then decided upon each conclusion that I couldn't be bothered with the rest of the book. I just felt that one story was all I really needed. It's not that I think the story wasn't good, or that other people shouldn't love the collection... It's just that I couldn't bring myself to enjoy it all that much.

Dexter 5x08 - Take It! (and seasons 1 through 5)

I love "Dexter."

I've loved it from episode one. A friend shoved the DVDs at me three-odd years ago, made me watch the pilot, and I didn't stop for eight hours. For this I am forever in Josh's debt. And he knows it.

There's something about Michael C. Hall (aside from my raging infatuation with him) that makes it impossible for me to look away when he's onscreen. (Admittedly, the crush helps with this.) Whether he's playing David Fisher on "Six Feet Under" (an amazing show that I'm slowly making my way through - and will be writing a ton about once I finish up), an utter psycho in what I maintain is the stupidest movie ever made, "Gamer,"or a serial killer with a heart of gold, I'm riveted by how well he can inhabit a role and make me care about the character. Especially impressive as Dexter Morgan, a man who has to kill in order to satisfy his 'dark passenger.' After all, it's no easy task to make someone feel compassion for a man whose past-time is to systematically slaughter people. Which is sort of the point. The question we, and Dexter, are forced to grapple with throughout all of the first season of the show is whether or not a murderer has to be a monster. (The exploration of this topic is one of the many areas in which the source material - Jeff Lindsay's Darkly Dreaming Dexter series - and the show depart paths. But I digress...)

It's a good question, and it's a credit to Hall that he can bring enough humanity to the role that we don't dismiss it immediately upon seeing him kill his first victim of the series - all of three minutes into the pilot.

To be fair, "Dexter" has changed a lot since season one. I'm glad the excessive melodrama has been replaced with a wry, sarcastic wit, and I'm happy that the voice-over from the days of olde has ceased to be a crutch for the writers and has become an enjoyable story-telling device, truly a character all its own.

That being said, not all of the show has been good. I hated season two, was bored to tears by season three, and was suspicious of season four until John Lithgow proved just how much of an acting bad ass he was and jumped up to my favorite series guest star in the history of ever. (I would have never guessed how brilliant he is just from watching "3rd Rock From the Sun." Go figure.) Good characters (and actors) were squandered, stupid characters were expanded upon in far too much detail, story arcs were plain idiotic, and many a filler episode was to be had.

But dammit, I haven't been able to stop watching.

And thank goodness, because season five and the role Julia Stiles's character is playing in Dexter's life would have been a shame to miss.

(Spoilers for the whole series. Back, yee who do not watch!)

Glee 2x06 - Never Been Kissed

When I snagged this (very idiotic, in retrospect) domain name about two-odd years ago, the intention was to just talk about TV. Because, hey, I watch a lot of it and have plenty of opinions about it.

Except I never have terribly reliable access to it (we don't even own a TV set at my place), I usually never watch things until a week after I have access to them anyway, and I haven't seen plenty of shows that any TV connoisseur would punch me in the face for. (Seriously. I've been threatened.)

So this leaves any TV blog I try to write in an awkward place. I'm writing about stuff a few days/weeks after it airs, a few years after it airs, or seconds after consumption. In any case, it seems sort of silly to even bother, given TV blogging culture and how, by it's very nature, it needs to be immediate, relevant, and, you know. Smart.

But, then I realized, hell. It's my blog. Forget convention. Let's be bold!

Let's talk about "Glee."

Side Note -

BTW, I had no idea about the comments people had already posted on various entries.

I heart comments. Communication through comments is awesome.

Rules are just posted to satisfy my paranoia before I get super-nuerotic.

Which, you know. I do.

A lot.

Poop is Private - Rules for Reading/Writing this Blog

I have never written a public blog before. Where people know it's me, I don't place my settings as 'friends only,' and I try to have actual opinions about stuff.

Two posts in, I'm not sure if I like it all that much.

See, last night I had a conversation that went (loosely) like this:

Z: Why do X and Y keep having facebook updates about poop?
W: I don't know. They're bored and have nothing better to do? They want to warn us all about the dangers of eating too many beans and not chewing corn properly?
Z: They might think it's cute. I wouldn't know why, but still. Their optimism about the adorableness of their bodily wastes is to be appreciated.
Me: *with the utmost seriousness and terror* No one in the history of all creation could think poop is cute.
W: The history of all creation?
Z: I'm sensing deep-seated issues here.
Me: No. It's just, well... Poop is private.

Gang, this blog is designed to be my poop.

This is the stuff I've consumed (media, life interactions, books, etc.) and digested (thought about some). It looks gross (or reads like the confessional of a neurotic eleven year-old watching TV she really shouldn't have access to without adult supervision (no offense to any eleven year-olds in the crowd)), reeks (of pretentiousness, narcissism and self-importance), and is a bit embarrassing to show to other people.

First of all, it should be clear by this point that no one should ever show off poop to me. Good? Great.

Second, I'm abandoning the poop comparison, because now it's just getting weird.

Third, I think it's time to set some ground rules. For me, for you, for the great internetz at large. Just so I can go through the 'verbalizing' portion of my insanity and move onto a good emotional place for blogging.

(Yes. For me blogging is an emotional space I'll be occupying. And yes, you should be mocking me now.)

So, without further delay...

Thoughts on a Cosmological Scale - No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July

Today on the train I finished No One Belongs Here More Than You by Miranda July.

Maybe I'm not deep enough, but I really didn't enjoy the collection until the last story, which is probably because I don't typically like shorter pieces of prose. There's something about growing with a book that I appreciate, and that I can't seem to get out of short fiction. It's not that collections can't impact me, because they can. And it certainly isn't because they're not any good, because they are. It's just that when reading shorter stuff, I never feel as if there's enough time for the stories to really capture me.

Artistic Visions and Other Illusions of Grandeur

There's something about New York that makes me want to be an artist.

And it's incredibly irritating.

Don't get me wrong - I admire the great creative, holistic, and embracing romantic spirit as much as the next person, and I don't mean to dismiss the pursuit of it. But me? Being an 'artiste' (with an 'e')? It doesn't compute.

CHUCK!
...For Dummies.

Nurse Jackie 1x06, "Tiny Bubbles"

“Nurse Jackie” is my favorite thing airing this summer. A large part of this is because Edie Flaco is amazing in practically every way. She could blink at the screen for twenty minutes and I would be riveted. She was brilliant in “The Sopranos,” and it’s wonderful to see her acting again in this convoluted role as a nurse who isn’t nearly as saint like as she sometimes gets painted out to be. (Unlike “HawthoRNe,” where Jada Pinkett Smith plays the Virgin Mary reborn every week.) The other half of why this show is so good is because it’s subtle enough to let the audience draw their own conclusions and it’s complex enough to tackle dark humor in conjunction with genuine tragedy and loss.

Long Live Jeffster!

In case my intention isn’t clear yet (oh nebulous void that is the readership of this blog), I’m trying to catch up on stuff. Not everything, as that would take roughly the rest of my natural born life, but there’s stuff that I’ve heard is good and that I want to watch, so I have been at my leisure. But I don’t exist solely in the past! I’ll be writing a review of the latest “Nurse Jackie” episode tomorrow, and I’ll be responding to “Torchwood” once it finishes its shortened season.

But right now I’m going to talk about the gem of critics and fan-boys eyes, the amazingly charming “Chuck.” Buffy meets Bond meets “The Office” meets all of that left over pop culture from the 80s. It’s a combination that really shouldn’t work, but somehow does through charm and a wonderful sense of fun.

The Wire


This show could be good watching if…

- You like your shows with a liberal smattering of social commentary
- You’ve got the patience of a saint and an eternal attention-span
- You think that there aren’t enough multi-racial (okay, okay – bi-racial) casts on television
- You have an appreciation for Greek tragedy

Interested yet? Well hopefully you are, because this is by far the best show that I've ever had the good fortune to come across.

I love “The Wire.” It’s just… GUH.

Okay, right. Not squeeing. Converting people over to my new twisted obsession. 

The Big Bang Theory and the Wonders of Schrodinger's Cat

I don’t usually like many sitcoms. I think that the writing, by nature, has to be cliché, that the characters tend to be shallow, that the plot is limited to one, maybe two episode story arcs, and that laugh tracks are the most annoying things ever. Every now and then, however, there’s a sitcom that breaks all the rules and proceeds to rule my heart above all others. (“How I Met Your Mother,” I’m looking at you, even with your inconsistent writing. And your annoying but necessary laugh track.)

This leads me to “The Big Bang Theory,” which while not quite taking over a portion of my soul, is a lot closer than is probably comfortable for my cardiologist. Take two physics geeks working at a university, a young hot thing arrived in LA to become an actress, geek-tastic jokes, sci-fi references like whoa, stir well and you have a little taste of “The Big Bang Theory.” It’s a show where those on the fringes take center stage and people like us (you, me and to a certain extent Penny) get to sit back and watch them in their ‘natural habitat.’ It’s a hilarious if slightly corny show, with good actors (in the case of Jim Parsons in his role, even great ones) and a love story bound to keep us entertained for quite some time… But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t flaws.

TV is awesome

TV is still something I feel the irrational need to apologize for. It’s not really taken seriously by many people, it’s ridiculously easy to exploit, and the best stuff is usually ignored. Why?

I think there’s the perception that TV is nothing more than mass entertainment. Alas, in the case of a great deal of television, that’s definitely true. I could list off a huge list of current television shows that don’t serve much of a purpose other than to keep us glued to our boob-tubes… However if I did that I would probably upset a great many people, including my inner softy self. (I’m notoriously hard to impress when it comes to television – not hard to please, but it’s certainly difficult for a series to earn my respect. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy them regardless!)

Glee is opening yourself up to joy...

The problem with a first post, no matter what it is that you're trying to do or in what format you're trying to do it in, is that there's just no way to encapsulate everything that you're attempting in a single entry. Plus, you also sort of have to have this grand 'mission statement' about yourself implied to boot, as if right off the bat you're supposed to have your goals, aspirations, dream date, and favorite Backstreet Boy all picked out and ready. (As if I can pick just one of my boys...)

That's the same way I feel about pilot episodes. What jerk decided that a first episode has to have everything already worked out? It's supposed to be a tester, you know? A feeler. A little mini piece of potential that may or may not come out as originally intended.

All that being said, if I really had my way pilots honestly would be the best episode of a show, and all of the kinks would be worked out and any changes that occurred there after would be simply improving upon something that's managed to be awesome instantly. Yep, that's what I want. But as a person with no power to enforce these unrealistic expectations upon poor, hapless TV writers, I get to feel indignant about it on their behalf. Wonderful, how that works out, eh?

Which brings me to "Glee."