Spoiler Alert Thursday
It seems we are watching half of the series on CW. First of all, what is with those really, really dumb “CW actors/writers/producers talk about how they used Bing to learn how to act/write/produce”? R-Bils: “The hardest part about this show is learning all the medical stuff. With Bing I can look up the medical stuff and understand what I am talking about.” R-Bils, did you see the “medical” scenes in your show? I did and they make “General Hospital” look like “ER” in comparison. Or Sera Gamble: “It’s a rule that every episode has to deal with a real monster [except when they don't, of course] so we use Bing to find monsters from all over the world.” I tried Bing-ing the words they put in and I didn’t come up with the same results. I guess the ads “worked” because I “used” Bing for the first–and last–time. Here’s a motto way better than “Bing and Go” or “Bing and Decide” or whatever they have: “Bing: the preferred search engine of 32 year olds who watch teen supernatural romance shows on CW.” Or, “Bing: The Pabst Blue Ribbon of Search Engines.” Or, “Bing: Sort of Like an Ironic Moustache.” Or, “Bing: Remember that fifteen minute long commercial with Bill Gates and Jerry Seinfeld?” Or, “Bing: For People Who Can’t Spell ‘Google.’”
“Supernatural” I’m glad they managed to deal with the “Castiel is the new god” thing and set up the new “bad guy” for the season in a single episode. The scene with Castiel and Crowley was enjoyable: Crowley holed up in a shitty trailer in an even shittier trailer park watching Castiel’s exploits on the news. The jokes were a bit more heavy-handed than usual, such as when Castiel appeared in a church during a sermon claiming that God hates homosexuals: “I am indifferent on sexual orientation.” And then he smites the pastor. The smiting of the “Michelle Bachmann” campaign office was also a bit much.
“Hart of Dixie” CW has produced a couple of duds this year. “Hart of Dixie” is one of them; “Ringer” is the other. Anyone else wish that when R-Bils found that alligator on the dirt road in the middle of the night that it was going to be the climatic end of the series where she was eaten? Unfortunately it wasn’t. I was confused when she requested that her assistant go get her a “venti soy latte” and the woman replied that it was “11 miles away.” (“Okay, thanks,” said Rachel.) When the assistant returned, that was clearly not a Starbucks cup. But I digress. A few scenes later, R-Bils and her mother are walking around the “hart” of whatever the fuck the town is called and they both have “venti soy lattes.” So, let me get this straight: they walked 11 miles to get the coffee; walked 11 miles back to the “hart” of the town; and then started to drink the lattes? Oh, and the cups were definitely not “venti” sized. Now, if it seems like I am harping on superficial details, extend this carelessness to the “medical” aspect of the show: if they can’t get a coffee-cup right–or distances for that matter–how well do you think the medical procedures are going to go? I liked you in “The OC” and all, but sometimes you have to retire with grace and accept the fact that you are a one-character, one-role actress.
“The Secret Circle” Contrary to the person calling themselves “The Secret Circle” last week, the episode was not nearly as good as the “Supernatural” episode. The magic crystals are easily the lamest thing I’ve ever seen in a TV show and that’s what makes this fantastic.
“Ringer” Like R-Bils, Buffy really should have retired once she shared the power of the Slayer with all the girls of the world. There’s nothing else on that night, so we’ll keep watching, but fuck does it ever suck.
That brings us to the end of the CW shows.
“Unforgettable” It wasn’t just last week that was “Unwatchable,” it was this week too. Poppy Montgomery: refer to my comments about R-Bils and Buffy above. When “Without a Trace” ended, you should have taken the title of your show as advice. Unsurprisingly, the show is getting high ratings.
“Fringe” I really didn’t like that guy. Lincoln, or whatever he is called. But I liked post-Peter Walter.
“NCIS” Likely the stupidest episode of the series ever. I didn’t really understand the crime or the motive, but they arrested some guy for burning some girl with a taco spatula and that seemed to tie up the loose ends.
“Criminal Minds” More like “Criminal Neverminds.” Quite possibly the stupidest show that is presently on TV and definitely in contention for the stupidest show that has ever been on TV.
“CSI” We watched the first five minutes or so last night. Here’s what I think happened. They hired Ted Danson to replace Morpheus. What they did is tell Ted Danson that his character from “Bored to Death” has begun a new career as a “CSI” in Las Vegas. Ted Danson was happy to comply.
“The Office” We weren’t sure if we were going to watch largely because the show has become un-funny and decadent, but we also like James Spader. Turns out that James Spader was funny; Andy, the new manager, was not. And Pam’s pregnant again? Really? I really dislike pregnant woman–and pregnant men, like Jim.
“Law & Order: SVU” If not for Ice T, I wouldn’t even pretend to watch this show. Remember when Eggs was killed in “True Blood”? If only this episode ended the same way.
“Suburgatory” Jeremy Sisto: c.f., Poppy Montgomery, Buffy, and R-Bils. This is rare for me to say, but I liked Alan Tudyk. Blythe has a new concept for the show: Jeremy Sisto retires from the NYPD/”Law & Order” and moves to the suburbs of New Jersey with his pit bull instead of his daughter (that looks older than my mom–I looked on Wikipedia: she has no age listed; clearly that means she’s easily over 61). His partner–more well known as the guy who wants to “burn this motherfucker down” in “Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle”–stops by occasionally for jokes based upon (1) his weight and/or (2) his skin-color. It is, after all, the suburbs.
I think that’s everything.
Wednesday Food: How To Eat In The Woods
It occurs to me how similar backpacking is to giving birth. In your mind it exists as something exciting and meaningful– of course it’s exhausting, even painful, but you always rationalize it will be worth the effort. When you’re in the midst of it you recognize all the gaping holes of misery your memory conveniently omitted.
Logistically, this excursion was frustrating. I took evening flights with no time cushion to rendezvous with family, leaving everyone poorly rested. There wasn’t enough time to acclimate the first night at the 10,000 ft trailhead, and we hiked in after a 3pm arrival, just in time to set up camp in the dark. We expected overnight temperatures to hover above freezing, but they plunged to lower 20s and our bags were hardly sufficient for keeping warm. A modest summit at New Army Pass hinged on disaster when we got stuck in a thundercloud that dumped rain, sleet, and snow on our thin windbreakers and ungloved fingers. Turns out the ‘Wintry Mix’ phenomenon I thought nonexistent in the Golden State is alive and well. And bear canisters– cumbersome and heavy, the damn things violate every rule of lightweight packing.
Bear canisters are big plastic vessels that are impenetrable by bears and virtually unbreakable. They have a simple opening mechanism that requires opposable digits and therefore are unyielding to any fuzzy woodland critters. They weigh more than a tent and barely fit in a pack, and are surprisingly expensive so you’re likely to have to rent one. But when properly used, they keep bears and campers distanced from one another– good for the campers, but especially good for the bears.
On this occasion my bear canister was packed with the requisite nut and fruit mixtures, bars, hot chocolate (mini marshmallows!), and a few more ambitious meal ingredients…
CURRIED COUSCOUS
On a recommendation from my bike camping post I made a point to try out a couscous dish. Very basic, the plan was to cook the couscous, add a few shakes of curry (pill boxes work well for seasonings, and all the Vicodin and Diamox you’ll need!), some slivered almonds, raisins, and sliced green onion. The couscous cooked quickly, did not require excessive water or fuel, and was a welcomed change from dehydrated food. With the supplemental ingredients it made for a well-rounded meal. Note– Backpacker’s Pantry makes a Cajun Chicken product which is the single most disgusting thing I’ve eaten from a package, primarily because a single serving contains 1940mg of sodium.
SOBA NOODLE SALAD
A great idea, a tasty result, and hell in between. Our second night amongst the marmots, my sister pulled from her canister a box of soba, a package of Silken extra firm, lime, a few shallots, and film canisters of soy sauce and oil. We cubed the tofu, used the packaging as a cutting board for thinly slicing shallots, sauteed both in oil, and then transfered and covered them to cook the soba noodles. Years of experience failed to remind us that soba noodles– in all their starch-heavy buckwheat glory– need thorough rinsing after they’ve been cooked. Without a healthy flush the noodles congeal in their own starch until you have the beginnings of a promising papier-mâché adhesive. Under normal circumstances this is unproblematic, but standing in an isolated meadow with your flushing source limited to purified water from a lake, you’re shit out of luck.
With no other options we patiently purified and heated enough water to rinse the gum from the noodles, and strained it with the lid of a pot.
When respectable, the noodles were tossed with the soy sauce, oil, and lime, the cooked tofu and shallots, and topped with a handful of sesame seeds– that my sister trekked garnish up a mountain is evidence of her gustatory commitment. That she also pulled a Tetra Pak of wine from her pack is evidence of her commitment to my happiness. Thanks, Ness.
In the end, the soba noodle experiment took all afternoon, and great physical exertion (pumping water is not for the faint of heart). It was satisfying, tasted like wholesome, hot food when we were cold and exhausted. But for the circumstances of backpacking it was totally unreasonable.
For now I’m continuing my search for great lightweight recipes. There are so many obstacles– altitude for boiling, water supply, weight and volume of ingredients and tools, fuel, nutritional value– that it’s certainly easier to resign yourself to instant soup. But I’ve got to believe there’s a better way to eat in the woods.
Maybe I can start dehydrating homemade meals, or I just haven’t stumbled upon the perfect combination of ingredients.
Backpacking is a dream: the sublime views, the bucolic serenity, the great peace of unplugging from technology, the cleansing exhilaration of daunting physical feats. You always miss it as soon as you’re relieved that it’s over.
Tuesday Hatred of Guy Tar
I think I went from The Sweet:
to progrock:
hating every kind of rock music in the middle:
.
I was in the car with The Eldest Son and we happened to be listening to an alternative music charts program. The Daughter had apparently left the radio tuned to a non-news channel. After a song or two we gave each other a WTF look, an endless repeat of the same old Pearl Jam song seemed to be upon us. When the countdown was at 7, they called a listener for their top 3 (obviously his n° 1 was in that very spot 7, I hate predictability). It emerged he was himself tops 7 and he clearly did a read-out of what one of his parents had prepared for him including all kinds of praise for the Foo Fighters. This led us to the OMG look.
I hate this constant drizzling guitar whining with corresponding singing without articulation. I hate that as my generation comes to mothering and fathering the whole damned thing makes a come back via the kids. Let them be cool in their own way. My taste may be good or bad but, regardless, I am happy to report that The Kids don’t share it. To be honest I do not have a clue what they like.
Monday Movies is Worth $6 Million, but You Can Have Him for $237,000
In Moneyball, the screen adaptation of the Michael Lewis non-fiction book of the same name, Brad Pitt plays Billy Beane, the general manager of the Oakland A’s. He’s had a near-miss season that resulted in the poaching of his top three players by teams with fatter payrolls. With the help of a 25-year-old Yale economics major named Peter Brand (Jonah Hill, based on real-life Paul DePodesto) he assembles a team based on unsentimental number-crunching, flying in the face of his scouts’ folk wisdom about what makes a great player, e.g. “He’s the kind of guy, he walks into a room, his cock’s already been there for two minutes.” The rest is baseball history, of which I know not a goddamn thing, but suffice it to say that the rough-diamond/ugly-duckling A’s more than hold their own against the Scrooge McDucks of Major League Baseball.
Steven Soderbergh was in charge of the adaptation for a while; reportedly, his rewrite of the Steve Zaillian script mixed documentary footage into Zaillian’s dramatic narrative, and Sony eventually pushed him off of the project. Aaron Sorkin then rewrote Zaillian’s script, and director Bennett Miller shot elements of both versions. (Screenwriting trivia: the designation “Screenplay by Steve Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin” means that Sorkin’s work followed Zaillian’s; a screenplay by “Steve Zaillian & Aaron Sorkin” would mean that the two wrote as a team.) Sorkin’s influence feels present but reined in — it’s a movie about the transformative power of ideas, but the transformations are grinding and stoic, not enacted through cataclysms of persuasive speechifying.
The “sabremetric” approach extinguishes ineffability and sentimentality from player evaluation, both of which are central to baseball movies and have a good hand in storytelling in general. Almost all the players are reduced to their statistical importance; the conflict becomes about whether Beane will be allowed to deploy them as the chess pieces he’s come to see them as. Enjoyably, the movie underplays this conflict rather than making up for its aridity with operatic you-can’t-handle-the-truth-ifying (although Beane does throw a lot of things). Philip Seymour Hoffman’s team manager’s sustained battle with Beane is a gentlemanly war of attrition, with each man moving against the other as if playing a chess match through the mail.
There are two gestures that are repeated three times each and become, in their way, central to the story that Moneyball is telling. One is the presentation of a monetary offer on a piece of paper. “We believe in your son’s ability, and we thing the offer on this piece of paper represents the strength of that belief,” a scout tells young Billy and his parents in a flashback; that same moment gets replayed once, and the gesture is restaged as a final victory, an offer from the owner of a rival club to Billy as an adult that validates the results of his moneyball season.
The second triply played gesture is the liquidation of labor, in this case letting a player know he’s been traded or sent down to the minor leagues. Beane tells Brand it’s part of the job, and teaches him how to do it swiftly: “Would you rather get one bullet in the head, or five in the chest and bleed to death?” Brand delivers the news to one player, and Beane to two others. None reacts with more than a minor show of dismay.
Moneyball is a capitalist underdog story mixed with a Taylorist triumph: Beane, whose baseball career was a classic case of high expectations and dismal results, prevails by rationalizing and disenchanting baseball.
Chris Pratt’s catcher-turned-first-baseman Scott Hatteberg is the only player who gets a baseball romance. Because of nerve damage, he’s a bargain to sign (the ne plus ultra of moneyball) and he can no longer catch, forcing him to learn to play first base. His fear and his ultimate heroic performance are showcased, and he’s as enjoyable to watch here as he is on Parks & Recreation, where his optimistic exertions have made him my favorite character. But Moneyball is not a movie about baseball players.
Friday Afternoon Confessional: An apple a day
I confess that this morning I broke a ten-year streak without a proper doctor. (In that time, I got free adjustments when I worked at the chiropractor’s office, visited one urgent-care clinic for a hair follicle infection, and visited a Walgreen clinic for a bad throat issue — none of those count as “proper” in my mind.) He took my vital signs, drew some blood for routine tests, and gave me a prescription for my allergy problems. He did not, as I feared, diagnose me with a rare combination of cancer and AIDS. Apparently walking everywhere has been good for my health, so I’m hoping for the best on the cholesterol test, despite making no particular effort to avoid unhealthy food — have I mentioned that the staff at Kuma’s recognizes us and knows our names?
I confess that my doctor’s office is in the North and Clybourn shopping area, so I took the opportunity to pick up a couple things. I confess that one of the great joys of my life right now is experimenting with my wardrobe and trying to figure out how best to fill in its gaps. For instance, I’m well-equipped with the gray and black end of the scale in what I call Actual Adult Clothing, but my browns and blues are a bit thin. In particular, I’d like to find a jacket more toward the brown end of the spectrum. I’m even considering some sweater vests for the full-blown Oxford look.
I confess that part of my goal in filling out the brown and blue parts of my wardrobe is being able to justify the purchase of some brown dress shoes, with which I’ve become mildly obsessed due in part to living around the corner from a shoe store.
I confess that I find WordPress’s habit of randomly redesigning their interface disconcerting.
Wednesday Food: On the dole and in the woods
Ebolden is enjoying the lax schedule of unemployment and can currently be found somewhere above the tree line in the Inyo National Forest.
Stay tuned for Food Writing (Part Two), ultra lightweight high energy edibles, and fun with bear canisters!
Drink beer for her.
Spoiler Alert Thursday
While it was the proper outcome that Peter Dinklage won in his category and it while it was great that he famously thanked his dog-sitter, it’d be nice if he stopped using that prong collar on his dog. Anyway, a picture.
Now that she has conquered professional televised karaoke, it would appear that the most repulsive woman alive is moving into competitive belly dancing.
The new TV season is upon us. We’ve had the chance to check out some new shows (sorry, no screen caps this week!). I mentioned “Ringer” last week as being particularly bad. It wasn’t just the pilot that was bad, it was also the second episode. I highly do not recommend this show, but, after watching two episodes, it seems we are committed until cancellation, which I hope is mercifully soon. Sure, it was more teen supernatural romance, but, for what it was, I enjoyed “The Secret Circle.” With “Ringer,” I really don’t care about Siobhan’s motivations for faking her own death; at least with “The Secret Circle” I’ll watch to find out what happened to all their parents. The girl from “Life Unexpected” and the “good witch” are intolerable, but the dark-haired “mean/bad witch” is, if nothing else, entertaining. I’m glad John Connor is getting a pay-cheque, but is this really the best way to prepare for the rise of the machines?
The other new show we watched was “Unforgettable.” More like “Unwatchable.” In a really ballsy move, io9, the sci-fi and cool science stuff website, had a major take-down of the show yesterday. Quite funny. They conclude, “It’s hard to imagine this “human computer” procedural will keep growing its viewership after people realize its premise is basically tedium, laced with incredibly bad drama.” I concur. We only watched the show because Poppy Montgomery was our deceased dog’s, Minnie, favourite actress. (Her favourite actor was Tahmoh Penikett.)
Otherwise, we spent the past week starting and finishing season 6 of “Supernatural” on DVD. We started last Wednesday or Thursday and finished last night. That’s a lot of Sam, Dean, and Castiel. I was disappointed that the sixth disc was scratched out of the box and, as a result, the disc skipped the scene where Castiel kills Balthazar. Unfortunately, I’ve already tossed my receipt and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get a new copy, which obviously sucks. We both had thought Crowley was killed in the season finale–turns out he wasn’t, which is great. I look forward to the possibility of Sam, Dean and Crowley driving around the country hiding from Castiel. “Supernatural” premiers on Friday, along with “Fringe” (which also had Balthazar in it where he is also dead–but he was a robot-man-machine from the other side, so maybe there is another copy somewhere.) And while we’re on the Balthazar track, who was also on “General Hospital” as Jax’s evil brother, I see that James Franco has returned to Port Charles for an extended stay. Too bad it isn’t summer otherwise I’d be more able to watch.
Apparently 1/3 Canadian television sets were turned to the premier of “Two and a Half Men.” No wonder the shows I like are cancelled.
“You’re a witch. We are all witches. There. Done.”
Tuesday Lovred
I’m getting old as fuck. Hating used to come naturally to me. I loved it. As much as I try nowadays however, I don’t quite get to the type of all out hatred that used to be able to make my day. I still hate but, whenever I want to focus my hatred, some understanding sips in and dilutes the experience. It could be a matter of incontinence of my sympathetic gland even if all evidence suggest that growing old is mostly associated to another type of incontinence: that of the supremacy gland.
I don’t particularly hate getting older: to die young never appealed to me and living eternally positively appalls me. This way I can start thinking about my euthanasia request, knowing there will come a time where the mere act of living costs a lot more energy than I’m willing to muster, for anything (one would hope that the age at which one dies would be such as to lower the average such age; I mean, you can’t want to crowd this planet such that younger generations need to make it the largest part of their young life to sustain you in your old life or can you?).
I do hate other people getting older. On the whole they don’t seem to suffer from the aforementioned type of incontinence which may well be an indication of a common birth defect: being born without a sympathetic gland. Rather, they seem to suffer from incontinence of liver fluids (i.e. bile). All in all I think it is the increasing average age of the world’s population that is the root cause for the perceived interruption of progress in the last decades. It works as a double whopper: people on average whine a lot more than they used to (because they’re older and whining comes with old age) and this whining is in the direction of ‘when I was young things were so much better’. In itself both things are of all ages but the tsunami of old bastards refusing to die or shut up has broken the reflexive stability between the progressive and conservative reflexes of the age groups.
Or something like that. What do you think?
I also hate Krugman. The guy is acting like a prima donna. Whenever somebody gives the impression he or she is certain that she or he cannot be right, the risk is that their growing old will not be very gracious. Before Long they will start going on about family values, meaning the values they enforced in their own family. Unfortunately I can’t really hate him, there is a lot of celebrated stupidity out there and it’s only a matter of time before you fight yourself into a position of the stupid celebrity.
Monday Movies Said the Hospital, Not the Morgue
Take Presumed Innocent, add a dollop of Jackie Brown, and voila: The Lincoln Lawyer, an entertainment as well-sculpted as Matthew McConaughey’s torso, i.e. not entirely plausible but way too compelling to elicit much protest. McConaughey plays Mick Haller, a rule-bending criminal defense attorney whose wealthy playboy client is more than he appears to be. It’s super fun to write a sentence like the preceding; you should try it some time.
As suggested, the flavor is somewhere between Scott Turow and Elmore Leonard. Haller is a creation of L.A. crime fiction writer Michael Connelly, whose other mainstay character Harry (short for Hieronymous) Bosch is a private detective, but the Bosch mystery I’ve read doesn’t suggest quite as strongly the sun-bleached, rough-and-tumble Century Freeway L.A. at which The Lincoln Lawyer gestures; more familiar from his work are the northeastern hills that wind up as the setting for most of the film’s action that falls outside of the downtown L.A. courtrooms. A TV pilot is in the works; I hope they wind up pushing that element of it, which was tantalizing in the movie, but faded away after the thriller got into gear.
How about you? Take on any shady clients, by which I mean see any movies?
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Adam’s Shared Items- The Occupy Wall Street non-agenda
- "But I wasn’t trying to shut them down. Not only could they go replenish their cupcake supply..."
- Two Puzzle Pieces
- 'The Managerial Unconscious'
- Emanuel, aldermen dismiss Lake Shore Drive tolls, but like other revenue ideas
- September 27, 2011
- CONDITIONING
- Colin Crouch – The Strange Non-Death of Neo-Liberalism
- The Royal Remains
- The Price of Gold in the Year 2160
- Student Loans, Indenture and Constraints
- Against the Permanent Prisoner
