Couch Potato 2017

I watch a bit of TV but not all of it; I don’t have as much free time as the president. This is a loose ranking of what I watched this year. If this list missing a big critical hit, it’s probably because I haven’t seen it yet.

71. House of Cards. I just have to put it out there that it’s not sour grapes to say that even without Kevin Spacey’s disgrace, this was just not a good show this year. It started well, with the presidential election thrown into chaos, but then the show glossed over the minutiae of the Constitution, which I find fascinating, and that sorely disappointed me. What did the show delve into instead? Claire’s affair with Tom, a badly written character played badly. That sad sack sucked the air out of every scene he was in and I was thrilled when Claire killed him. House of Cards will continue next year with Robin Wright and without Spacey, which will make dramatic sense and won’t lose much without the former president.

12. American Gods. I like the introduction of the various gods and exploring their worlds and how they manifest on Earth.

11. Veep. This was good but not as much as previous seasons with Selina in office. Julia Louis-Dreyfus is still a national treasure.

10. Feud: Bette and Joan. This ended up being more compelling than I expected, adding potent commentary on how we treat aging actresses and aging women onto the story of the fight between these two actresses. The fight stuff is fun too, particularly a dazzling episode showing the 1963 Oscars. Susan Sarandon was good as Bette Davis (a little wooden in the Baby Jane scenes) and Jessica Lange was wonderful as Joan Crawford. I sympathized with both of them. 

9. GLOW. Who remembers the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling from the ‘80s? I do! This was a fun look at the women wrestlers behind the TV show. I liked the exploration of the process of casting but if the show continues, I’m hoping for a little more actual televised wrestling, as that happened only late in season one.

8. Gifted. This show is just a fun megamix of all the concepts of the X-Men mythos, involving creations from Stan Lee, Chris Claremont and Grant Morrison. I’m enjoying how it uses characters from the rich 50-year history of the comics: Polaris from the ‘60s, Thunderbird from the ‘70s, Fenris from the ‘80s, Blink from the ‘90s and the Stepford Cuckoos from the ‘00s. My favorite is Mrs. Strucker (don’t know her full name), one of the smart, level-headed people on the show, smartly written.

7. Stranger Things. This show really lucked out getting a cast this good, especially the kids. I was just as amused by the second season as the first (except that pointless episode with Eleven and the punk kids).

6. Legion. This series comes pretty close to the spirit of the original Legion story in New Mutants comics by Chris Claremont and Bill Sienkiewicz, with visits to the beautiful, bizarre, reality in David Haller’s mind. Aubrey Plaza was fantastic as the longtime X-Men villain Amahl Farouk/the Shadow King.

5. Mr. Robot. Elliott and Darlene try to undo the Five/Nine financial shenanigans, even as the next phase of the plan gets thousands of people killed as 71 Ecorp buildings explode. This was a great look at how those with true power manipulate the world stage. The one-take episode was a ton of fun, especially that overhead shot of the office and the rioting crowd outside that emphasized that Angela, despite her consequential actions, is still just a cog in a machine.

4. Game of Thrones. Everything is set for the last season, which apparently will feature an ice zombie dragon and the incestuous pairing of Jon Snow and Daenerys. This season wasn’t as entertaining as the last few but it was memorable.

3. The Deuce. This was a sometimes subtle, always compelling look at the prostitution industry in 1971 New York City, as the sex scene turned from street corners to massage parlors and eventually to legal porn. It was an implicit critique of capitalism, as the only people making real money were the pimps and corrupt men behind the scenes, not the women walking the streets. Maggie Gyllenhall gave a standout performance as the prostitute eager to turn to porn—not as a performer but a director. She looks like she can do it, too. The show optimistically showed she’s going to make it, and I loved how the scene where Eileen attended the Deep Throat premier had an almost biopic feeling, like we were looking at a crucial moment for someone who later became important. They can engrave Gyllenhall’s Emmy now.

2. The Americans. Just because it a slower year than the amazing season four, I don’t want to penalize season five (pretty much anything would pale in comparison to season four). This year, it was all about the slow process of the USSR, and the Jenningses’ trust in it, falling apart. It was a very slow burn this year but there were still some scenes that haunted me. Elizabeth and Phillip killed fewer people but those murders they committed (or were adjacent to) resonated, like the innocent guy in the lab, the Nazi sympathizer and that poor kid Tuan convinced to slit his wrists. The Jenningses really had to take a hard look this year and see the destruction they’ve caused, with Pastor Tim pegging them as monsters for their treatment of Paige. It looks like Elizabeth will be going on one last mission, and I can’t wait. This was not the best season of the show, but a lot of moments stayed with me. Plus, they went to Benningan’s.

1. Better Call Saul. In its third and best season, Better Call Saul has become a worthy prequel/successor to Breaking Bad. The drug cartel stuff is fun, especially the plot last year to poison Hector Salamanca, but I am really invested in the courtroom chicanery, the relationship between Jimmy and Kim, the fate of Kim’s legal practice, and Jimmy’s turn toward Saul Goodman. The stakes are smaller here but they’re riveting. The real jewel of this season was the destruction of the brotherly relationship between Jimmy and Chuck. Jimmy’s courtroom examination of Chuck, where he proved his brother’s allergy to electromagnetism was all in his head, was brilliant and cruel. Chuck’s subsequent brief recovery from his mental problems, followed by his slide into full insanity and suicide, was completely devastating. Michael McKean gave the TV performance of the year and it was a disgrace that the Emmys passed him over.

Best Music of 2017 From My Admittedly Limited Perspective

There were a number of albums that I liked in 2017. I’m by no means a connoisseur of music, at least not on the level of a professional reviewer, and I have permanently written off entire genres of music. So this is by no means comprehensive but it’s what I liked this year.

Honorable mention. Prince, Purple Rain (remaster). Why is a 1984 album in the 2017 countdown? Not much more praise needs to be offered on the titanic original album or B-sides, all of which had been in desperate need of a remaster for years. But the new-to-me outtakes on the bonus disc were up there with the best of the year’s new music. “The Dance Electric” is an 11-minute ‘80s dance workout that should have been a single and “Possessed” is slinky and weird. Best of all is the “Hallway Speech Version” of Purple Rain track “Computer Blue.” It’s expanded into a 12-minute suite here and it’s astounding, all fiery guitar solos and intricate synths. It’s the bridge between the erotic spoken word fever dream of 1999 and the more polished rock of Purple Rain. I thought I was used to Prince’s brilliance but it shocked me how great this was.

8. Depeche Mode, Spirit. It’s frustrating that album cycles are so long nowadays that a band can take four years to make something disappointing. Some of the music was good but it’s such a negative album. It’s supposedly protesting Brexit and Trump but not giving people much to inspire them to rebel. I don’t care for the tone of the single “Where’s the Revolution?” David Gahan sings “Where’s the revolution?/ Come on, people, you’re letting me down.” Oh, sorry if you don’t approve of how we’re handling things.

7. Tori Amos, Native Invaders. I love “Up the Creek” and its feel of a wild ride through the woods, and “Reindeer King” is OK. But there’s just not much passion on this album. “Benjamin” is embarrassing. It will inevitably work my way into my rotation, since it’s Tori, but I don’t have too much desire to revisit it.

6. Beck, Colors. It seems like we’re a critical minority but I’m one of the people who likes Happy Beck better than Sad Beck. So I loved Midnite Vultures and hated Sea Change. This album is fine. I will probably often turn to upbeat tracks like “Up All Nite” and “Dreams” and the oddly melancholy “Wow.”

5. !!!, Shake the Shudder. It’s just a really fun, danceable album, with highlights including “Dancing Is the Best Revenge.” To sum up—!!!: !!!.

4. LCD Soundsystem, American Dream. It doesn’t really bother me that LCD Soundsystem went back on its claims of retirement to release American Dream. People were disappointed that they had that big farewell concert and then came back anyway but I just thought, “I could go for some more music again.” There’s nothing revolutionary here but it’s a solid album, with highlights being the sweeping “Call the Police” and the creepy “How Do You Sleep?” which sounds like the Cure from the early ‘80s. I did think the 12-minute Bowie eulogy “Black Screen” was a little indulgent and ridiculous.

3. Goldfrapp, Silver Eye. This is a fun album full of electronic sleaze, which is my favorite mode for Goldfrapp. It starts with the heavy, trashy “Anymore” and “Systemagic” and ends with the introspective “Ocean.” The solid, pulsing sounds are welcome after the quieter Tales of Us.

2. Grizzly Bear, Painted Ruins. Grizzly Bear is, for me, the sound of a lazy, serene summer day, of lying outside and watching the clouds shift over the sky. Painted Ruins is a little more charged, with a bit of an edge to songs like “Mourning Sound,” “Three Rings,” “Losing All Sense” and the flirty, sighing “Neighbors.” I don’t have much insight to offer than that I really enjoy this album.

1. St. Vincent, MASSEDUCTION. I like this album so much that I will forgive its incorrect capitalization of a word that is not an acronym. This album is a riot of rock guitars and new wave and synthesizers, criticizing shallowness and plasticity. It’s a fun album with lyrics that can sometimes be raw. Some of the tracks are peppy on the surface but have a darkness, as “Pills” criticizes our tendency to overmedicate and the title track has Annie Clark singing “I can’t turn off what turns me on.” “New York” has a definite sadness, with Clark mourning a lost loved one. When she sings “You’re the only motherfucker in the city who can handle me,” it sounds like the funny anecdote in the eulogy where the mourners laugh through their tears. My favorite is the back-to-back “Surgarboy” and “Los Ageless.” The former is a chaotic attack of sound celebrating the sweet and superficial, like “Boys Keep Swinging” mixed with “I Feel Love” with a hefty dollop of Prince thrown in. The synthesizer motif slows down and transitions into “Los Ageless,” as Clark jadedly criticizes a city where nobody seems to age, then breaks into an anguished call of “How can anybody have you and lose you and not lose their mind?” MASSEDUCTION is Annie Clark’s power move: She knew what she wanted, she went for it, and she got it.  

Moments I Will Not Get Back

That 4 seconds looking at your cart in the rice/mayo/stuffing aisle not moving quickly enough for me, interrupting my balletic sprint to eggs and cheese.

Those 2 minutes behind your bumper sticker stalled at the last light before the temporary bliss of the highway because you could not find the gas pedal.

Those 6 moments lingering at checkout as you fumble for your wallet like you were unsure you'd have to pay until the cashier asked you.

These are moments I will not get back. I add them all up in my head as the total looks like an outrage, like an unconscionable theft of time. But I get home and it's all just moments in between car commercials, waiting for the exact hour snacking can begin and when I can recline deeper and deeper. I would not know what to do with that time if they ever refunded me.

I'm done messing around

I have had it. The lightbulb in the lamppost on our front lawn has burned out again. I just changed it less than a month ago.

It’s one of those floodlights and I just used a regular incandescent lightbulb. Even with the long December nights, it shouldn’t have burned out that fast. I remember when you could at least count on a few months from a lightbulb. You bought one knowing you would have a little time to spare. Now nothing lasts. Is this the state of American manufacturing?

Our neighborhood is dark, not having streetlights, so I don’t like not having the light lit. So I had to trudge out, in the middle of Christmas shopping, to buy yet another light. Usually I just buy one light, and it’s the cheapest one I can find. I figure I’ll just pick the cheap option for now, just so I can get by. This is human nature: We put Band Aids on everything and expect to solve the problem permanently at some later date, but we never do.

Well, this time I was smart. I picked up a pack of two lightbulbs. And they’re LEDs, which the package says should last two years. It cost something like $15.99, but I threw caution to the wind and swiped my card. Now I can rest easy. The second bulb will be waiting for me when the first bulb burns out, hopefully in late 2019, and I can just replace it immediately, having already invested two years prior.

I’m done messing around with lightbulbs.

Keep 'Mas' in 'Christmas'

This Christmas season, with the elevation to president of Donald “l’état, c’est moi” Trump, the War on Christmas is finally over after eight long years and we can finally celebrate the holiday as it was meant to be.

Americans speak only in whispers of those Christmases from 2009 to 2016, dark years when the only joy allowed was nondenominational “holiday” joy. We all know someone who was persecuted by the government in those days—the clerk at the Wal-Mart who wished her first and last customer a “Merry Christmas,” the suburban dad who tried to erect a glow-mold nativity set on the lawn, or the office worker who wore a Christmas sweater to a work holiday party—and was never seen again, vanquished by the forces of the Obama administration’s PC police.

Yes, those Christmases, the houses were dark, stripped of their holy LED or incandescent glory. You looked in the windows of houses and saw not a family basking in the glow of a Christmas tree, but several unrelated adults watching Lena Dunham and calling everything “problematic.” The streets were stygian and secular, and department stores in December were indistinguishable from department stores in March. Even shades of red and green clothing got the side-eye. Only the truly daring political dissidents would whisper a furtive “Merry Christmas” to their likeminded neighbors—and even then, in fear of the gulag.  

Formerly-cowed Christians throughout the nation can finally drag their Christmas trees, covered with eight years of heathen Democratic dust, out of the attic. This will be the year or reacquainting ourselves with the sight of things like nativity sets and wholesome ornaments. The other day, I heard “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and barely recognized the melody at first because I hadn’t heard it since the Reagan administration.

The War on Christmas is finally over. If only Bill O’Reilly had lived to see this.

In conclusion, let’s keep the “mas” in “Christmas.”

For Sale: Baby Shoes, Didn't Fit

There’s a (very) short story that, in its entirety, goes “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” It’s attributed to Ernest Hemingway, although his authorship is disputed. A lot of people interpret this as meaning the baby died before he or she could wear the shoes that somebody bought. That’s a horrible story, telling of a life that ended before it could really begin, and so much potential and joy snuffed out. But there could be a less morbid explanation for that fictional want ad. What if the shoes didn’t fit, like if the baby’s feet were abnormally wide or something? What if the parents were vegetarians or vegans who got leather shoes and objected and had to sell the shoes? What if the parents got some shoes that were just ugly and they didn’t have the receipt (or felt awkward asking for the receipt from the domineering grandparent who bought them and who, if she found out the parents returned the shoes, would make passive-aggressive comments about the shoes until her child and spouse finally put her in a home for dementia) and had to sell the shoes on Craigslist? What if the shoes were in some weird material or color that the parents hated, or had some ugly design feature like clashing patterns or a weird ruffle? What if the shoes were pink or or blue and the parents did not want to reinforce stereotypical gender norms for their kids and sold them for black or beige shoes? So there could be a perfectly innocent, non-dead-baby explanation for those shoes for sale and maybe we shouldn’t automatically jump to the most morbid explanation possible. God, stop being so negative all the time.

St. Vincent: Fear the Future Tour

Annie Clark, the singer and guitarist who performs under the moniker St. Vincent, is absolutely riveting to see live. She was the only performer on stage the other night at the Electric Factory and was completely engrossing. Clark is a surgeon on the guitar. Her Fear the Future Tour, from musicality to visuals to overall concept, was one of the best shows I’ve seen in a long time.

Clark opened under a single stark spotlight, dressed in a hot-pink leotard and thigh-high boots, singing “Marry Me” on the edge of the stage with the curtain opened just slightly. There was a huge cheer at the end of the song when an assistant handed Clark her first electric guitar of the night. The curtain opened a little after each song to reveal more and more of the stage as she went chronologically through St. Vincent’s first four albums, shredding songs such as “Actor Out of Work” and “Cheerleader.”

A trio of the best of the songs from the St. Vincent album came next as the stage opened up a little more to reveal a backdrop of a woman’s face stylized to look like a vampire. “Digital Witness” and “Rattlesnake” were intense, while the can’t-sit-still “Birth in Reverse,” sounding like a lost track from Prince’s Dirty Mind or Controversy, was apocalyptic.

Everybody figured out pretty fast where the set list was going, so it wasn’t a surprise when after a short intermission, Clark performed the recently released St. Vincent album, the simply fantastic MASSEDUCTION, in its entirety. At this point, the simple but effective stage exploded into Technicolor, with a unique video playing behind Clark for almost every song. (The concert also was preceded by a short film directed by Clark, The Birthday Party, involving a woman whose husband drops dead shortly before her child’s birthday party and she dresses him in a panda suit to keep the girl from finding out about it. It was a comedy.)

There was a lot to unpack in the videos (which were more like repeating loops of images than a coherent story) but in them, Clark appears as some sort of model inspecting the odd world around her almost like an alien, with a distinct ‘60s primary-color vibe. You could read her facial expression as bored or detached or thoughtful, and I’m not sure what to make of it, but it was very compelling.

The videos added much to the performance, depicting Clark as a comment on sexiness while being sexy at the same time. This worked for the more fun tracks on MASSEDUCTION, like the title track, “Pills” and the Bowie-influenced “Sugarboy” but also worked for the more introspective songs. There was some detachment and artifice in the images, a contrast to the sometimes raw lyrics of songs like “New York,” “Happy Birthday, Johnny,” “Smoking Section” and “Los Ageless” (“How can anybody have you and lose you and not lose their mind too?”).

Throughout the show, the crew kept taking away used guitars and bringing Clark fresh color-coded guitars, almost after every song. I assumed this was to retune the instruments from being banged up from a performance. But every time someone took a used guitar away from Clark, it seemed more like she was done with it forever, like she broke it through sheer exuberance and skill, and nobody could use it again. Like each guitar was just another body she ravaged with her intensity.