Full disclosure: There are spoilers ahead!
So you should click away now if you're not caught up with Breaking Bad.
What? You're not watching it?
Seriously?
No, seriously?
It's probably the best tv show.
Ever.
Yes, I understand that's hard to quantify, but it's the only tv show that centers around a character arc. From that standpoint alone it's worth watching. But the writing and performances - everything - it's razor sharp. The storytelling, the pacing - the thing is flat out brilliant. Brilliantly brilliant. I can assure you that by the series end it will be regarded as one of the best shows ever if not the BEST SHOW ever.
Yes, Sopranos was great, so was Six Feet Under. The Wire. Homeland. Lost. Battlestar Galactica. Walking Dead. I know, I know. There have been a lot of great tv shows. But this thing.
I'm telling you, this thing.
You can Netflix it from the beginning. It'll take a weekend.
How? Because you'll devour it and forgo sleeping and eating.
And then, yes, you might have to On Demand or iTunes the current season, but if you want to catch the wave before it crashes the shore...
It's ok, I'll wait...
Ok, you good?
Are you sure?
Ok, um, let's see. How can I describe last night's episode? Ah, here it is. FUCKINGAWESOMETASTIC!
Every piston in the BB engine was firing max rocketboosters go! It was gut wrenching, heart ripping, and nerve shattering - blah blah blah. You can google the reviews.
Here's how I watched it:
--
Wait, why are we at the very beginning? Where's the hail of bullets from last week? Ah, now I get it. We're opening from where it all started; Walt's innocence, naïveté, the rehearsing of his lies...
Fade out, fade in.
Brilliant.
80 million dollars for Hank's life...
"You're the smartest guy I ever met, and you're too stupid to see he made up his mind 10 minutes ago."
Right, because Walt's whole thing is family.
"My name is ASAC Schrader, and you can go fuck yourself."
Because Hank has always been the hard granite to Walt's wet toast.
Bang.
Oh, shit just got real, yo...
"Found him."
Walt does the slow tiny nod; all crime lord and bitter.
But you loved Jesse, he was like a son.
Of course, I guess Jesse did make this all happen. Wait, no, Hank made this all happen. WAIT, no, Walt made this all happen...
Todd aka Meth Damon; so polite, so gentle, so stone cold and curiously calculating.
"Sorry about your loss."
HA!
“I watched Jane die. I was there. And I watched her die. I watched her overdose and choke to death. I could have saved her. But I didn’t.”
That's the last of the secrets, right? Everyone knows everything. That's that.
Synapse pop, mind blown: Walt dug Hank's grave...so fucking brilliant!
Marie. Oh, Marie. Leave Skyler alone. But damnit, if Walt is really in custody, then she's right.
Damn, every character is played and written to their fullest.
Except for maybe Walt Jr. At least he's not eating breakfast.
The scene with the phone on the counter next to the set of kitchen knives; brilliant. Skyler's totally gonna call 911. She has to. It's over. Nope. She's going for the knives. I guess she needs more immediate assistance...
Rolling on the floor... Someone is going to die here! No one needs to die here! No, no, no!
Phew, no one dies.
"What the hell is wrong with you? We're a family. We're a family."
It's all gone. Poor Walt.
Walt takes Holly because that's all he can control. Skyler chases after Walt in the street. The new dad in me... NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! FUCK NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
But then the call Walt makes near the fire station choking on his inner Heisenberg spewing half-truths and absolving Skyler - the brilliant performance of a brilliant performance. And Skyler knowing, understanding his gift.
This is such a fucking good show! Damn!
DAMN!
It's so fucking good!
Jesse is a meth slave, and Walt is heading to New Hampshire.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
How is this going to end?
Fuck.
Why does Low Winter Sun do this, prolonging the previews to next week? Sigh... Well played, Low Winter Sun, but fuck you!
Ok, ok, will the next episode take place a year later? Or will it be the final episode? Gotta be the next one, right? Yes, has to be. Will Walt redeem himself? Will he exact revenge and save his family from the Nazis? Will he free Jesse? Does he go out all Scarface in a blaze of glory? Does he take the ricin cigarette himself? Does he offer it to Jack? Does Jesse kill Walt? What happens to Skyler, Walt Jr, and Holly? What about Marie? Todd?
So. Fucking. Good.
--
Anyway, that's how I watched it. And except for the season 4 finale of Dexter (for which I pretty much needed a support group), this was one of the best episodes of TV I've ever seen.
Masterful. Fucking masterful.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away
Monday, September 16, 2013
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Pain in the Back
Currently I have a thing with my back. A pinched nerve, a slipped disk, a pulled muscle - I don't know. It hurts like a motherfucker. When I lie down, when I get up - it's like a knife stabbing me in the kidneys, and my hips swivel on a bed of jagged glass.
I'm on painkillers now, and mostly they're working.
I remember a few years ago when I went to see a doctor about my back, another doctor came in and asked what was the matter. The first doctor said to the second, "He came in today complaining of-"
"Hey," I interrupted. "I'm NOT complaining. I don't complain, ok? I deal with it. I don't complain."
It's like I was channeling Clint Eastwood from Gran Torino.
"Sorry, sir," said the first doctor. "It's just part of our jargon, it's how we understand a patient's chief complaint."
"Oh," I said. "Right."
Anyway, it's gotten to a point now where I have no problem complaining. I'm happy to give the details about waking up in the morning, sitting on the toilet for too long, playing with my daughter, and going to bed at night. I can go on about how I feel crooked and hunched, how I am acutely aware of my acute pain.
I've done physical therapy. I've gone to the chiropractor. Tomorrow I see a specialist. But all this is a long way round my elbow to get to my ass about a conversation I was having with my mom the other day.
Mom: It's good you're going to see someone.
Me: Yeah, I hope they can help. Of course, I can't help but wonder if this was 1813 or even 1913. If someone had a pinched nerve or something, would they just live with it?
Mom: Yes, I think so.
Me: But they'd probably die of consumption before it became something chronic, right?
Mom: Uh, probably.
My next stop will be acupuncture if nothing can be done. They've been doing that for thousands of years. Eventually Western medicine and Eastern medicine will meet somewhere in the middle, right? Weastern medicine?
But hey, I'm open to try anything; weird salves, elixirs, herbs... Maybe even a root.
I know pharmaceutical companies have a bad rep; they're evil and unethical, and now they're above the law somehow. But divorced of politics and money, I am a big fan of modern medicine and science in general.
Of course, left to my own devices on a desert island, I'm pretty much coming up with a spoon and a lean-to. And maybe a sharpened stick.
I'm on painkillers now, and mostly they're working.
I remember a few years ago when I went to see a doctor about my back, another doctor came in and asked what was the matter. The first doctor said to the second, "He came in today complaining of-"
"Hey," I interrupted. "I'm NOT complaining. I don't complain, ok? I deal with it. I don't complain."
It's like I was channeling Clint Eastwood from Gran Torino.
"Sorry, sir," said the first doctor. "It's just part of our jargon, it's how we understand a patient's chief complaint."
"Oh," I said. "Right."
Anyway, it's gotten to a point now where I have no problem complaining. I'm happy to give the details about waking up in the morning, sitting on the toilet for too long, playing with my daughter, and going to bed at night. I can go on about how I feel crooked and hunched, how I am acutely aware of my acute pain.
I've done physical therapy. I've gone to the chiropractor. Tomorrow I see a specialist. But all this is a long way round my elbow to get to my ass about a conversation I was having with my mom the other day.
Mom: It's good you're going to see someone.
Me: Yeah, I hope they can help. Of course, I can't help but wonder if this was 1813 or even 1913. If someone had a pinched nerve or something, would they just live with it?
Mom: Yes, I think so.
Me: But they'd probably die of consumption before it became something chronic, right?
Mom: Uh, probably.
My next stop will be acupuncture if nothing can be done. They've been doing that for thousands of years. Eventually Western medicine and Eastern medicine will meet somewhere in the middle, right? Weastern medicine?
But hey, I'm open to try anything; weird salves, elixirs, herbs... Maybe even a root.
I know pharmaceutical companies have a bad rep; they're evil and unethical, and now they're above the law somehow. But divorced of politics and money, I am a big fan of modern medicine and science in general.
Of course, left to my own devices on a desert island, I'm pretty much coming up with a spoon and a lean-to. And maybe a sharpened stick.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Lapornia California, RIP H. Montana...
I woke up this morning and flicked through my Facebook feed. Kids going to school, some lingering Ben Affleck hostility, and a lot of stuff on Miley Cyrus and the VMAs.
I clicked for Miley.
Wow.
Let me say that again.
Wow.
I think we can now all agree that the rumors of Hannah Montana being alive and well have been grossly misreported. She is dead, her body decomposing under the floorboards of a backwoods shack somewhere in Appalachia, or on display in the basement of some Disney Seventh Church of Satan.
But nevermind that, say hello to Lapornia California! She works it, she twerks it, y'all watch out for her foam finger phallus!
Yee hah!
Whoo!
Miley Cyrus's VMA performance is so incredibly awesome, so incredibly fantastic. Yes, it's hard to watch, and sure, it has sort of a grand jet-set 'People of Walmart' vibe, but it is just so incredibly AMAZING.
Behold!
Really, it's like a diamond. There are so many facets, so many sparkly things to look at. It is magnificent.
Truly, in a grotesque way, it really is magnificent. We are so used to polished precise performances. This was UGLY.
Or maybe it was more like the Zapruder film. You have to watch it over and over to see where and when the first bullet hits humanity in the throat; knowing the second bullet will obliterate everything.
Ultimately this is everything 'murica. It is a crock pot of milk chocolate and bacon fat with gummy worms, salted peanuts, and ground beef. It's a pair of Crocs with Jibbitz bling and diamonds on the soles. It is a pimped out truck with chrome teeth that stands twenty feet off the ground and crushes other trucks.
And what was with the big booty mama throwing out candy? It was like something out of dancing bear porn. It was so perfectly imperfect and perverse.
This VMA performance, this entertainment spectacle, this Internet buzz marketing moment - its brilliance is blinding.
However, if I were Miley's manager, no, I wouldn't have let last night's performance happen. It was an epic fail. Like teenage back seat fumblings; all elbows, leg cramps, and ow you're on my hair. It was a total train wreck with bodies everywhere.
But if I were a calculating mastermind manager - hmmm, maybe...
...Miley is going to be cruelly mediated over the next few days unless Ben Affleck decides to address all the Batman Afflack, or one of the cast of Glee goes on a killing spree. She will be defended by a few, and she will be a hero to some. But good or bad, she is going to move a lot of music. And people will continue to talk talk talk and bash bash bash. They will meme and rant.
But in a year (or 5) Miley will come out with an experimental acoustic alt folk album with strange and beautiful heartfelt songs she wrote herself (or were penned by Aimee Mann and/or Beck) that the college set will LOVE. And she'll be quietly doing charitable work with wayward teens that will get 'leaked' online - and she will find #redemption...
To everyone who says her music sucks, well, duh.
And as far as the VMAs are concerned, we need to remember the V comes first, the M stands for mediocrity, and if the the A ever mattered - it was a loooong time ago...
Clearly, there are a lot more things in the world to be appalled by - I'm looking at you, Syria. But as we close the chapter on Hannah Montana and open a new one for Lapornia California, let's not forget Robin Thicke's zebra/referee suit bears some blame, too.
All this said I want to close with South Park. When I watched this particular episode of South Park in 2008, it transcended tv. It was art. High art. I suspect even more so now... It is brilliant. And eerie.
Seriously, take 22 minutes and watch it.
{{ UPDATE 9.9.13 }}
I've since viewed the VMA video again. It's really much ado about not much. It's not that shocking. It's just bad dancing, terrible singing, awful costuming, and an ill-conceived performance.
However, in the end, I've actually come to appreciate Miley's fearlessness and commitment - like a bird leaving its nest too soon, but somehow keeping its wings and skull unbroken after the fall and taking clumsy flight.
You go, girl!
But after seeing her new music video:
I am not so sure about her fearlessness. I feel bad for her, and embarrassed. Because it's not so much about a bird, as much as it's a baby goat prancing about the killing floor.
I clicked for Miley.
Wow.
Let me say that again.
Wow.
I think we can now all agree that the rumors of Hannah Montana being alive and well have been grossly misreported. She is dead, her body decomposing under the floorboards of a backwoods shack somewhere in Appalachia, or on display in the basement of some Disney Seventh Church of Satan.
But nevermind that, say hello to Lapornia California! She works it, she twerks it, y'all watch out for her foam finger phallus!
Yee hah!
Whoo!
Miley Cyrus's VMA performance is so incredibly awesome, so incredibly fantastic. Yes, it's hard to watch, and sure, it has sort of a grand jet-set 'People of Walmart' vibe, but it is just so incredibly AMAZING.
Behold!
Really, it's like a diamond. There are so many facets, so many sparkly things to look at. It is magnificent.
Truly, in a grotesque way, it really is magnificent. We are so used to polished precise performances. This was UGLY.
Or maybe it was more like the Zapruder film. You have to watch it over and over to see where and when the first bullet hits humanity in the throat; knowing the second bullet will obliterate everything.
Ultimately this is everything 'murica. It is a crock pot of milk chocolate and bacon fat with gummy worms, salted peanuts, and ground beef. It's a pair of Crocs with Jibbitz bling and diamonds on the soles. It is a pimped out truck with chrome teeth that stands twenty feet off the ground and crushes other trucks.
And what was with the big booty mama throwing out candy? It was like something out of dancing bear porn. It was so perfectly imperfect and perverse.
This VMA performance, this entertainment spectacle, this Internet buzz marketing moment - its brilliance is blinding.
However, if I were Miley's manager, no, I wouldn't have let last night's performance happen. It was an epic fail. Like teenage back seat fumblings; all elbows, leg cramps, and ow you're on my hair. It was a total train wreck with bodies everywhere.
But if I were a calculating mastermind manager - hmmm, maybe...
...Miley is going to be cruelly mediated over the next few days unless Ben Affleck decides to address all the Batman Afflack, or one of the cast of Glee goes on a killing spree. She will be defended by a few, and she will be a hero to some. But good or bad, she is going to move a lot of music. And people will continue to talk talk talk and bash bash bash. They will meme and rant.
But in a year (or 5) Miley will come out with an experimental acoustic alt folk album with strange and beautiful heartfelt songs she wrote herself (or were penned by Aimee Mann and/or Beck) that the college set will LOVE. And she'll be quietly doing charitable work with wayward teens that will get 'leaked' online - and she will find #redemption...
To everyone who says her music sucks, well, duh.
And as far as the VMAs are concerned, we need to remember the V comes first, the M stands for mediocrity, and if the the A ever mattered - it was a loooong time ago...
Clearly, there are a lot more things in the world to be appalled by - I'm looking at you, Syria. But as we close the chapter on Hannah Montana and open a new one for Lapornia California, let's not forget Robin Thicke's zebra/referee suit bears some blame, too.
All this said I want to close with South Park. When I watched this particular episode of South Park in 2008, it transcended tv. It was art. High art. I suspect even more so now... It is brilliant. And eerie.
Seriously, take 22 minutes and watch it.
{{ UPDATE 9.9.13 }}
I've since viewed the VMA video again. It's really much ado about not much. It's not that shocking. It's just bad dancing, terrible singing, awful costuming, and an ill-conceived performance.
However, in the end, I've actually come to appreciate Miley's fearlessness and commitment - like a bird leaving its nest too soon, but somehow keeping its wings and skull unbroken after the fall and taking clumsy flight.
You go, girl!
But after seeing her new music video:
I am not so sure about her fearlessness. I feel bad for her, and embarrassed. Because it's not so much about a bird, as much as it's a baby goat prancing about the killing floor.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Gardening At Night
I'm a 46 year old man and as I write that out I'm like whoa, how did that happen. But old man or not every night after everyone has gone to bed I go outside, turn on the hose, and water the plants. I water the ones up front by the window until I see the water cascade from the basket. When I can see all the leaves on the ground glisten and reflect light off the streetlights, I bring the hose round back and do those. Same thing. But I water the hanging plants at an angle so they spin; all the way until they have to spin back. 46? I'm barely 17.
(The Chenille plant is always withered at the end of the day, but by tomorrow morning it will have transformed.)
I trudge up to the deck on the garage and water those. I have to be careful not to drag the hose across the solar lights down below because then I have to find the tops in the dark. I water the plants on the ground from up above because I like to think they think it's rain and that I am a god. Also, it's easier. On the garage deck I have one of those upside down tomato planters. It's in its own stand. The yield has been terrible, but once or twice a week I pull off a red cherry and damn if in that moment I don't recognize it as a fruit. I deadhead the marigolds I think are dead, but it's hard to tell because it's dark. Once I'm done I pull up enough slack so I can put the sprayer on the ground before throwing down the rest of the hose. I've broken too many sprayers to know this is the only way. But before I go inside I listen to the whirring drone of air conditioners all around me and the jet that flies overhead. It is not a quiet time, but there is no one and that's nice. The song that goes through my head is just the chorus. 'Gardening at night, gardening at night, gardening at night'.
(The Chenille plant is always withered at the end of the day, but by tomorrow morning it will have transformed.)
I trudge up to the deck on the garage and water those. I have to be careful not to drag the hose across the solar lights down below because then I have to find the tops in the dark. I water the plants on the ground from up above because I like to think they think it's rain and that I am a god. Also, it's easier. On the garage deck I have one of those upside down tomato planters. It's in its own stand. The yield has been terrible, but once or twice a week I pull off a red cherry and damn if in that moment I don't recognize it as a fruit. I deadhead the marigolds I think are dead, but it's hard to tell because it's dark. Once I'm done I pull up enough slack so I can put the sprayer on the ground before throwing down the rest of the hose. I've broken too many sprayers to know this is the only way. But before I go inside I listen to the whirring drone of air conditioners all around me and the jet that flies overhead. It is not a quiet time, but there is no one and that's nice. The song that goes through my head is just the chorus. 'Gardening at night, gardening at night, gardening at night'.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Work
Temporally speaking...
I had to bring the car in to get serviced today. Mid-town Subaru. Nothing wrong. Just maintenance.
I put my bike on the back. The plan was to ride to work, and then ride back at the end of the day to pick it up.
The highway was going nowhere slowly. (It seems when the weather is really nice or really bad in Chicago, people tend to drive poorly.) So I got off on Diversey and headed north. Well, once I passed the Com Ed headquarters and turned left on Irving Park, I started to hit all the K streets. Keeler, Kildare, etc. And that's when I had my epiphany.
Maybe I had bitten off more that I could ride.
But I'm all about a challenge, and I was committed to make it to the lake.
As I neared what I thought was Medieval Times...
...which was actually Lane stadium,
...I saw a person who looked A LOT like Arun. But it couldn't possibly be Arun. I mean, what are the chances?
Well, turns out it WAS Arun.
S: Arun?
A: Steve?
S: Arun!
A: Hi, Steve. Do you live around here?
S: Nope, not at all.
I explained about my car, and Arun explained about dropping off his son at the day care.
S: Ok, man. I'll see you at work.
A: You'll probably beat me. I have to take a bus to a train, so...
I went on my way and Arun on his. Mine was a circuitous route as I went down Avondale (just off the highway) with its beautiful suburban pockets of tranquility. And then over one and down another until I found myself on Addison
and then down to Belmont
and finally the lake.
I used to bike LSD all the time when I lived on Montrose. Man, I loved biking along the lake.
So. Damn. Beautiful.
I locked up my bike and went into work. Who should be getting on the elevator at the EXACT SAME TIME?
S: Arun?
A: Steve?
S: Arun!
A: Hi Steve!
S: How is this even possible?
A: Well, my train caught on fire.
S: C'mon, man. Let's not make excuses.
A: No, seriously. It caught on fire. Everyone had to get off.
S: Seriously?
A: Seriously.
Chicago Tribune
Anyway, that's it. I thought it was weird it timed out SO PERFECTLY.
Epilogue:
At the end of the day I took a more direct line to pick up the car. I took Milwaukee all the way up. And here's the thing. Once you get past Wicker Park, it's like a whole other world. Specifically, Poland.
I had to bring the car in to get serviced today. Mid-town Subaru. Nothing wrong. Just maintenance.
I put my bike on the back. The plan was to ride to work, and then ride back at the end of the day to pick it up.
The highway was going nowhere slowly. (It seems when the weather is really nice or really bad in Chicago, people tend to drive poorly.) So I got off on Diversey and headed north. Well, once I passed the Com Ed headquarters and turned left on Irving Park, I started to hit all the K streets. Keeler, Kildare, etc. And that's when I had my epiphany.
Maybe I had bitten off more that I could ride.
But I'm all about a challenge, and I was committed to make it to the lake.
As I neared what I thought was Medieval Times...
...which was actually Lane stadium,
...I saw a person who looked A LOT like Arun. But it couldn't possibly be Arun. I mean, what are the chances?
Well, turns out it WAS Arun.
S: Arun?
A: Steve?
S: Arun!
A: Hi, Steve. Do you live around here?
S: Nope, not at all.
I explained about my car, and Arun explained about dropping off his son at the day care.
S: Ok, man. I'll see you at work.
A: You'll probably beat me. I have to take a bus to a train, so...
I went on my way and Arun on his. Mine was a circuitous route as I went down Avondale (just off the highway) with its beautiful suburban pockets of tranquility. And then over one and down another until I found myself on Addison
and then down to Belmont
and finally the lake.
I used to bike LSD all the time when I lived on Montrose. Man, I loved biking along the lake.
So. Damn. Beautiful.
I locked up my bike and went into work. Who should be getting on the elevator at the EXACT SAME TIME?
S: Arun?
A: Steve?
S: Arun!
A: Hi Steve!
S: How is this even possible?
A: Well, my train caught on fire.
S: C'mon, man. Let's not make excuses.
A: No, seriously. It caught on fire. Everyone had to get off.
S: Seriously?
A: Seriously.
Chicago Tribune
Anyway, that's it. I thought it was weird it timed out SO PERFECTLY.
Epilogue:
At the end of the day I took a more direct line to pick up the car. I took Milwaukee all the way up. And here's the thing. Once you get past Wicker Park, it's like a whole other world. Specifically, Poland.
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