Television

A Choice Story

Yeah, Another Blogger118 Comments

In May of this year, Apple Music sent me an email that offered three months of their service for free. Considering that up until about 15 years ago I was a full-fledged music junkie, and that I’m still a major lover of music, it’s kind of surprising I wasn’t already enrolled in Apple Music or in one of its music-streaming peers, such as Spotify. Anyway, I hemmed and hawed for several weeks, eventually accepting the offer. Man, I’m close to ecstatic that I signed up. It blows my foggy mind that residing within my phone’s Apple Music app are countless thousands of albums, many of which I became intimately familiar with during the approximately 45 years that comprised my music-junkie era (I own circa 1,200 physical albums and used to attend concerts right and left). And as for the incredible number I was unfamiliar with but was interested in checking out, well, I’ve made a slight dent in that mountain. New-to-me albums by some of my very favorite artists (Sun Ra, Howlin’ Wolf, Bruce Springsteen and Ella Fitzgerald, to name but a few) and by at least 100 other artists have reached my ears thanks to Apple Music. I’ve been in music heaven the past two months, and possibly am on my way to becoming a long-term junkie again. There would be worse fates than that.

Yet, I have to say it almost seems wrong to have such an overwhelming amount of musical choice a mere handful of taps away. I mean, do I, or does anyone, deserve such unimaginable bounty? Am I, or is anyone, that entitled? I suppose those questions are moot. After all, billions of people own smartphones, laptops, etc., and each of those devices easily can access near-infinite amounts of content on any subject under the Sun. That’s where we are in the 21st century. It’s the new reality, something we usually or always take for granted. The digital world is a wonder of the highest order (though not always in good ways), and it is ever-expanding.

Which leads me to another corner of the streaming universe, that which supplies humanity with more series and movies than a person could consume in 1,000 lifetimes. So many choices! Most evenings, my wife Sandy and I click onto a streamer and watch a series for an hour or two. We’ve breezed through 27 series so far this year. I’ll briefly mention two I enjoyed immensely: The Residence, a whimsical, sprightly murder mystery set in the White House in Washington D.C., and The Pitt, a drama that follows a harrowing 15-hour shift in the emergency room of a Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania hospital. The Pitt contains more than a couple of graphic, bloody scenes, I should note. To my amazement, I didn’t close my eyes during them. Shit, I think that means I should go to medical school! If I start next year, I’ll become a licensed physician at age 84 or 85. What, you wouldn’t want an octogenarian diagnosing and treating you? I’m offended! By the way, you’ll find The Residence on Netflix, and The Pitt on HBO Max.

Last week, while I waited at an auto service center where my car was undergoing an oil change and safety inspection, Apple Music once again proved its amazingness to me. Nestled in a lounge area, I read a text message my brother Richie had sent to me regarding Terry Reid, a British rocker who passed away on August 4th at age 75. Richie mentioned that Reid was an opening act at a Rolling Stones concert he and I attended (at New York City’s Madison Square Garden) in November 1969. I have no recollection of Reid’s performance. And I have only partial memories of The Stones’ work.

Fortunately, recordings of The Stones from the show we were at, and from three other Stones concerts that November, appear on a classic Stones album, Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! I hadn’t heard the record in eons. Listening to it was the obvious choice for me to make. So, I tapped on my phone’s Apple Music app for a few seconds and — voila! — the album presented itself to me. I sat back and, via earbuds, listened all the way through. It’s a beauty.

It wouldn’t be a bad idea for me to conclude this piece with one of the tracks from Ya-Ya’s, right? I’ll go with Street Fighting Man. I’m a big fan of hard rock, as long as the songs are top-notch and the musicians are wailing like nobody’s business. This recording meets my criteria.

A Tale Of TV

Yeah, Another Blogger166 Comments

When I sat down to compose this piece about television, I was of the opinion that I’m a casual TV-viewer rather than a TV-viewing addict, seeing that I engage with the boob tube for an average of one and a half hours per day. That’s a fairly modest amount of time. As has happened frequently before, however, working on stories for Yeah, Another Blogger has led me, as if by magic, to discern the truth about things. Meaning, I now realize I’d go half-mad were my TV-watching privileges ever to be revoked. Anyway, what would I replace those hours with? Learning to crochet erotic hand puppets? Attempting to become one of the world’s best tiddlywinks players? Hell, I don’t even want to think about life without television, because I absolutely need TV. I’m addicted!

An ace dial-flipper, I regularly tune in to bits and pieces of news, sports, nature, cooking and late-night talk shows. I’m all by my lonesome when viewing the majority of those bits and pieces. What I catch the most of, by far, though, are scripted drama and comedy series. And I always watch them — in their entireties, unless we ditch them because we decide they suck — with my spouse Sandy. It’s one of our favorite things to do, for we have similar tastes in series fare. Let’s take a look at two shows that entertained Sandy and me recently.

Have you seen Adolescence, a British miniseries? It is a huge Netflix hit and has garnered a lot of media attention. Justifiably so. I place it in the pantheon of series, up there with The Queen’s Gambit, Anxious People, The Investigation and Call My Agent, to name but a few. Adolescence is really, really good.

Foremost among its explorations, Adolescence delves into the mind of Jamie Miller, a seemingly normal 13-year-old lad who, his insecurities enflamed by the taunts of a female classmate, loses all control and murders that young lady after meeting up with her one evening. The foul deed turns his life upside down and deeply damages the lives of the people who love him the most: his parents and older sister.

The show probes its subject matters with precision and honesty. The third episode hits especially hard. Set in the youth detention center where Jamie is being held, nearly all of its 52 minutes are devoted to a talk between Jamie and a court-appointed psychologist. The episode left Sandy and me shaken, so powerful and disturbing are Jamie’s words and actions as the session progresses. In my opinion, Adolescence is not to be missed. Its scripts are as tight as square knots, and each main member of the cast performs magnificently. First-time actor Owen Cooper, for example, is incredible as Jamie. Equally splendid is Stephen Graham, who not only plays Jamie’s father Eddie Miller, but co-created and co-wrote the production. What a talent he is. Adolescence, I believe, will stay in my mind for quite a while.

And then there’s the frothy Loot, a series that tips heavily into the wacky–as–hell category. Your life won’t be incomplete if you skip Loot, whose two seasons are available on Apple TV+. If you decide to tune in, however, you might end up digging it as much as Sandy and I did. It’s light, but it’s also refreshing.

Maya Rudolph shines in Loot, her comedic and dramatic talents fully on display. The show centers around her character, Molly Wells, who goes ballistic when she discovers her husband John has been cheating on her. She loses no time in divorcing him. The dissolution sends Molly reeling. She’s in pain. She’s also unimaginably wealthy, to the tune of over 100 billion American dollars, her share of the assets she and John, a tech industry genius, had jointly owned.

What to do with all that dough? Well, Molly, spoiled but possessing a heart of gold, doesn’t go for the usual approach of attempting to become even richer. Instead, she opts to give it all away, to groups and social causes that will better the human condition. The conduit for her generosity becomes the Wells Foundation, a do-good organization Molly founded while married but then totally forgot about until after the divorce came through.

I’m going to leave it at that, except to note that crazy situations have no trouble finding and enveloping Molly and her Wells Foundation employees, and that I laughed my ass off at some of the lines tossed out by the actors.

Till next time, boys and girls! If you have any series recommendations, please let me know. Sandy and I always are on the prowl for viewing options.

A Friends-Centric Story

Yeah, Another Blogger162 Comments

I’d been vaguely kicking around friends-centric story ideas for a few days when, on Monday of last week, none other than David Schwimmer popped up on my TV screen. He was a guest on The Late Show With Stephen Colbert. Schwimmer, as many people know, was one of the stars of Friends, an immensely popular American sitcom that ran from 1994 to 2004 and whose episodes have been rebroadcast on traditional television channels, and have been available on various streaming services, for years.

Even though I’m almost completely ignorant about Friends, having seen a grand total of maybe six minutes of the show, I took Schwimmer’s appearance to be a forceful cue from the WordPress gods. Who wouldn’t have?  I was not about to give those deities, famed for being short on patience, any opportunities to wreak vengeance upon me. Hence, the following day I lowered my bony ass onto the chair beside my computer and began to peck away in earnest. What follows, then, is all about friends.

Man, if there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s this:  You can’t have too many friends, good ones especially. We’re social creatures, after all. Just about everyone, anyway. We want to feel loved and appreciated. And we need to laugh and shoot the shit and, when necessary, to be comforted and helped. The more close friends we have, the more regularly and satisfactorily those requirements will be met, and the more at ease and comfortable in the world we will be. Of course, having but one good friend absolutely will suffice. The game of life, though, becomes merrier and richer when multiple individuals who meet the good friend description are within our orbits.

I’m fortunate to be able to say I have a pretty nice number of good friends. I can depend on them and they can depend on me. I’m talking about my wife and some other relatives, and a bunch of pals to whom I’m not related but with whom I share mutual love and similar wavelengths. I have nothing whatsoever to complain about.

Still, I worry a bit about my situation. That’s because it has been many, many a moon since I formed any friendships that have gone beyond the casual stage. Much to my amazement, I made several good friends while in my early 60s. Since then, however, not a one. I’m now well past the halfway point of my 70s, and wouldn’t at all mind having at least a couple more people to hang out with, folks whose vibes and interests mesh with mine. But how the hell might I meet them? By striking up conversations with strangers? By enrolling in adult ed classes whose subjects wow me? I suppose so. I sure can’t think of a lot of other ways. The odds, though, are that my circle of friends will not expand. Seeing that we reside in an ever-expanding universe, however, everyone’s circle of friends automatically would follow suit if it were up to me.

Many songs have been written about friends and friendships. I’d like to conclude this contemplation with two of them. You’ve Got A Friend, composed by Carole King, would be an obvious choice. But I’m going to go with others I prefer to the King opus.

In 1968, a very low point in their career, The Beach Boys released Friends, an album as beautiful and calming as a forest pond. It barely made a dent in the record industry’s sales charts. One of the relative few who bought it back then, I quickly fell under its spell. From it, naturally, I’ve chosen to present the title song, a sweet thing in waltz time written by four members of the band (Brian Wilson; Carl Wilson; Dennis Wilson; Al Jardine).

We’re Going To Be Friends (written by Jack White) is my second pick. The tune appears on White Blood Cells, an album thrust into the world in 2001 by The White Stripes, a now-disbanded duo composed of Jack and his then-wife Meg White. Best known as thrashing rockers, The White Stripes had a gentle side too, as We’re Going To Be Friends demonstrates.

For your listening pleasure, here are those two celebrations of human connectivity:

The Bad (Trump) And The Good (TV Shows)

Yeah, Another Blogger124 Comments

I’ve met but one fellow WordPress scribe in the flesh. And the person in question, Andrew Ferguson, proved to be even warmer and more gracious than I’d anticipated. My wife Sandy and I spent a day with Andrew and his wife Alison in 2019 on their home turf — Scotland — where Sandy and I were vacationing. I bring up Andrew right now because his thoughts on my country’s (i.e., the USA’s) recent presidential election are totally in tune with mine. Here’s what he wrote:

“We woke up . . . to the news that more than half of the US voting public had taken leave of their senses and voted for Trump — again. If you didn’t enjoy the first movie, Trump II: This Time It’s More Mental promises to have even more bad actors. Coming to a political and environmental shitshow near you in January.”

Even though Andrew’s analysis is perfection (click here to read the wide-ranging article in which his Trump commentary appears), there’s plenty I can add. Such as this: Oy frigging vey! Are you shitting me? A riot-inciter and convicted felon is soon to wield immense power for a second term? Man, sometimes bad dreams come true. This is one of those instances.

I could go on and on about the president-elect. But I won’t, as my blood pressure is starting to rise like a hot air balloon. That’s what writing about a vindictive, freedoms-suppressing bully does to me. It’s time, then, to steer this essay into currents I’m comfortable navigating. So, excuse me for a moment while I allow my aged systems to decompress. Ahh, I’m feeling better already. Onward to an agreeable topic.

Since early 2020 I’ve watched an hour or two of television series most evenings, something I hadn’t done in years. I turned to TV because of the COVID pandemic, which left my spirits in need of some boosting. Series-viewing was just what the doctor ordered. I became infatuated right from the start, and the infatuation hasn’t lessened at all. My mind continually is blown by the gargantuan number of available series, and by the good-to-great quality of a sizable percentage of them. I’m certain I won’t terminate what has become one of my favorite activities until the Grim Reaper confronts me and utters words to this effect: “Your days are more than numbered, schmuck. They now are over.”

Not being one who is enamored by advertisements, the vast majority of the series I’ve seen have been on streaming services, as opposed to traditional television. Sandy is my steady viewing companion, I hasten to add. We possess quite similar tastes in series fare. And each of us appreciates having someone a foot away who can offer help when uncertainty arises about what the hell just happened in a scene or about what a character meant by what they said. I’m not ashamed to say that I get puzzled a whole lot more frequently than my spouse does.

Do you have any series recommendations? I’m always eager to learn about shows I’m unfamiliar with. Here are a few I watched in 2024 that I think highly of: Lessons In Chemistry; The Last Days Of Ptolemy Grey; John Adams. The first two are on Apple TV+, and the latter can be found on MAX.

Speaking of MAX, Sandy and I are fans of that broadcaster’s Starstruck, a series I hadn’t heard of until two months ago. Starstruck, which originally ran from 2021 to 2023, consists of 18 episodes spread over three seasons, each installment a mere 23 or so minutes in length. Truly hooked, Sandy and I polished off Starstruck in about one week.

Though a rom-com, Starstruck doesn’t head in directions you might expect. Its main storyline follows Jessie, a gal in her late 20s at series’ start, and Tom, who maybe is a few years older than that. They first set eyes on one another in a pub in London, England, on New Year’s Eve. Natch, they end up spending the night together, sparks flying to a decent extent. Eventually they begin an on-again, off-again romance that frustrates and confuses them both. Are they mismatched socio-economically? Jessie, after all, struggles to make a living, while Tom is a pretty well-known movie actor.  Tom, an unassuming sort, isn’t concerned about their financial and fame disparities, though. The show incisively reveals that the reasons behind their fits-and-starts relationship are far more meaningful.

Rose Matafeo, previously an unknown to me, created, co-wrote and stars (as Jessie) in Starstruck. The inspiration for the series, I’ve read, came from incidents in her personal life. She’s a talent. The show is full of witty repartee and spot-on zingers, and has its share of moments that seriously tug at your heart. And Matafeo’s Jessie is completely believable as an uninhibited cum vulnerable young lady. It doesn’t need repeating, but I’ll say it anyway: I like Starstruck a lot.

This Is My 350th Story

Yeah, Another Blogger214 Comments

Huh? What? Are you shitting me? I can hardly believe that 350 stories have emerged from my cobwebby mind. I mean, when I first began pecking away at my computer’s keyboard a little over nine years ago, writing an initial batch of articles that the WordPress gods were good enough to allow to be published, I doubt if I’d have guessed that the number of opuses residing within Yeah, Another Blogger eventually would turn out to be somewhat impressive.

Sure, many scribes publish stories at a pace incredibly faster than mine. (Take a look, for instance, at bluejayblog, penned by an anonymous gentleman whose handle is swabby429. He produces a piece every single day, and many of them are as astute as all get out.) Still, I’m fairly proud of myself. Writing ain’t easy, for me anyway. But my plan is to continue turning out product, and I’d like to think that I have many more stories in me. As I often note on these pages, though, I’m older than dirt, so my future isn’t necessarily wide open. As it always does, of course, time will tell.

Speaking of which, time has been on my mind a lot of late, along with some of its related matters. Many of us, including me, take time for granted. But, amorphous and difficult to conceptualize as it is, time nonetheless rules. Seeing that we each have only a finite number of days to spend above ground on Planet Earth, it seems pretty clear that trying to become better versions of ourselves should be among our priorities. Pursuing our peaceful dreams, for example, is where it’s at. As is standing up for the little guy. Most important, though, I’d say, is being as open, respectful, loving and kind as possible. Can you imagine how fine the world would be if those four qualities increased by twenty percent or more among humankind? Why, we’d almost be living in paradise.

Believe it or not, my thoughts have been running in these directions because of a television series my wife Sandy and I devoured over the last several weeks. Sandy purchased a new smart phone recently, and with it came a free trial subscription to Apple TV+. There was no reason to put that subscription to waste. Thus, a few days later we began to watch Ted Lasso, which probably is Apple TV+’s most well-known production. I’d heard of Ted Lasso, but knew nothing about its premise. Sandy, on the other hand, knew plenty. And was champing at the bit to discover if the series’ popularity is deserved.

The answer is yes. Ted Lasso isn’t perfect, mind you. The acting and dialogue fall flat here and there, and the occasional plot line heads nowhere in particular. However, little matter. For the most part, Ted Lasso goes down as satisfyingly as your favorite beverage, and provides uplifting messages along the way. It’s inspirational, just what the doctor ordered to get your mind off the world’s woes and to inject you with hope for the human race. The show sure as hell made Sandy and me feel better about things for a little while, as it has done for millions of others.

Ted Lasso boasts an enormous cast, most of whose members receive generous amounts of screentime over the course of the series’ 34 episodes. The show’s biggest focus, not surprisingly, is its title character, a coach of American-style football at a college in Kansas, USA, who, in the series’ first episode, is wooed by the owner of an association football (i.e., soccer) team in England. Almost inexplicably, she wants Ted (portrayed by Jason Sudeikis) to become her squad’s head coach, despite the fact that Ted’s knowledge of association football/soccer is nonexistent. Nonetheless, due to problems in his personal life, he accepts the offer and moves to England.

For me to say much more would spoil the series for anyone who might be thinking of giving it a try. So, I won’t. Except this: Ted is a hell of a fine guy. He’s kind, gentle, empathetic and smart as a whip. He sees the good sides of people, tries to instill self-confidence in those who need doses of same, and unwaveringly supports everyone within his circle. He’s a difference-maker, in other words, in nothing but positive ways.

I also should mention that F-bombs, in a dazzling variety of iterations, drop pretty much continuously throughout each episode. Ted Lasso, therefore, should be avoided by anyone with sensitive ears. My ears are anything but. Which is one reason I liked the show as much as I did. And so, in closing, let me remind everyone that time totally fucking flies. Hence, for anyone so inclined, now is the time to try and become even better than they already are.

Amen.

A TV Series, A Confectionery, A Song

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

“Neil, how come you usually write about things you enjoy, rather than about those that, in your opinion, bite the big one?” I asked myself the other day.

“Well,” I answered, “I’ve ripped into people I loathe. Trump and Putin, primarily. And I’ve discussed situations that worry me or piss me off. But there’s no denying that my natural orientation is to comment about aspects of life that ring my bell.”

“I understand,” I replied. “There’s no reason right now for you to mess with your natural orientation. So, let’s take a look at some of your recent bell-ringers. And, maybe, your readers then will tell you what they’ve been into of late. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong!”

Okay! First up is a miniseries my wife and I watched two months ago: Escape At Dannemora, seven episodes in length and available on Paramount+ and elsewhere. It had been on our to-be-viewed list for a couple of years. Fortunately, we finally got around to it. It bowled us over. I place Escape in the pantheon of miniseries I’ve encountered, along with The Queen’s Gambit, Anxious People, The Investigation, Godless and a handful of others.

Escape At Dannemora came out in 2018, three years after the true events from which it draws its inspiration. Set in the town of Dannemora, in rural upstate New York, the show aims its beam at David Sweat and Richard Matt, convicted murderers imprisoned in Dannemora’s Clinton Correctional Facility, and at the married prison employee (Joyce Mitchell) who became emotionally and sexually involved with them. Ultimately, Mitchell helped them escape from jail.

Escape At Dannemora is not a docuseries. Anything but. All, or nearly all of its dialogue is imagined. After all, it’s not as though conversations between Sweat, Matt, Mitchell and the story’s other principals were recorded. And what dialogue! Completely realistic. No artificial ingredients. I’d never heard of the scriptwriters (Brett Johnson, Michael Tolkin, Jerry Stahl), to whom I now publicly tip my hat. As I do to Paul Dano (Sweat), Benicio del Toro (Matt) and Patricia Arquette (Mitchell), the actors who employed the scripted words to create characters as nuanced as French pastries. Ben Stiller directed the production with economy and precision. As couldn’t be more obvious, I highly recommend this show.

My dad loved halva, a moist, semi-sweet treat that, as I learned from doing a bit of research for this piece, originated well over a thousand years ago in Persia (present-day Iran). Unlike him, I wasn’t infatuated with the product, but ate it now and then while growing up. Halva disappeared from my diet, though, when I was in my 20s, maybe earlier, for reasons I’m not sure about. Possibly my obsessions with pizza and Cheez-It crackers left no room for halva, a product that isn’t easily found in stores in my country (the USA), and which the majority of the world’s population likely never heard of.

And probably I’d never have had halva again were it not for my pals Cindy and Gene, who bestowed sesame-based halva, the variety I am familiar with, upon me and my wife Sandy twice in the last several months (there are other types of halva in addition to sesame-based, as the Wikipedia article, the link to which is in the above paragraph, explains).

“This a weird gift,” I thought to myself when I saw what Cindy and Gene had presented to us on the first occasion. Man, how wrong I was!  Halva was the perfect gift. That wouldn’t have been the case with the too-dense halva made by the Joyva company, the brand I knew in my youth. But the halva they’d chosen, from the Seed + Mill firm, is incredible. Its sesame paste is perfectly balanced with chocolate and salt. And the texture, light and slightly granular, is wonderful. Hallelujah, I’ve been blessed!

And finally: Some songs have the power to bring you up short and make you say, “Holy shit, this is fantastic!” I Want To Know, by the quite obscure rhythm-and-blues group the Gay Poppers, did such to me two weeks ago when the tune burst forth from SiriusXM Radio’s Carolina Shag channel.

I Want To Know came out in 1960, and the Gay Poppers were from North Carolina, USA. Not much else about the song or about the group can I find online. Except that the recording at some point became popular in parts of the dance-club world. It makes me want to dance, because its beat won’t quit, and because the Gay Poppers’ vocal prowess damn well is off the charts. Without further ado . . .

It’s A Wonderful Life . . . Or Is It?

Yeah, Another Blogger153 Comments

My better half and I jointly watch an hour or more of television fare five or six evenings each week. Mostly we dial up series, with the occasional movie thrown into the mix. During the second half of December, however, we went movie-crazy, by our standards, what with five flicks passing before our eyes. In chronological order, they were: A Thousand And One; A Million Miles Away; Maestro; Rustin; It’s A Wonderful Life. All came out last year, excepting It’s A Wonderful Life, which, since its release in 1946, has ascended to an exalted status reached by few films. I’m now going to devote a few words to it and to A Thousand And One, as they, unlike the others on the list, seem to be in no hurry to fade from my mind. They made a strong impression on me and got me thinking.

I’d seen It’s A Wonderful Life once or twice before, but not in ages. Not blessed with the world’s finest memory, I might as well have been viewing it for the first time last month, so few of the scenes did I recall. Well, all I can say is, “Wow!” IAWL deserves its immense popularity and the high esteem millions of folks hold it in. This is a great movie, one that pulls at your heartstrings and does its darnedest to make you believe in the basic goodness of humankind. Hats off to that.

Frank Capra, also of Mr. Smith Goes To Washington and It Happened One Night fame, directed It’s A Wonderful Life. For those of you who haven’t seen the film, be aware that spoilers lie ahead. I’m confident they won’t lessen your enjoyment should you choose to view it.

IAWL tells the tale of George Bailey (played flawlessly by James Stewart), a generous, caring individual who discovers that his company, through no fault of his own, suddenly is on the verge of bankruptcy. Distraught, and finding no way to right the sinking ship, he decides to put an end to his earthly existence. The money his wife Mary (the superb Donna Reed) then would collect from his life insurance policy would keep her and their children sheltered and fed for a long while.

Moments before George is about to carry out his plan, a heavenly force — Clarence, a low-level guardian angel trying to earn his wings — intervenes. Clarence’s efforts, and those of Mary, save the day. George learns that his importance to his family and community is immeasurable, and that his many friends truly love him. Anyone whose heart is not encased in granite will find themselves tearing up at It’s A Wonderful Life’s happy ending, an ending that implies that never again will George allow despair to conquer him. George will be okay.

But will Terry, a main character in A Thousand And One, be okay? That’s a worrisome unknown in the powerhouse drama written and directed by A.V. Rockwell.

We first meet Terry (played by three actors, one for each time period the movie covers) in the mid-1990s. He’s six years old at that time, a foster-care child lonely for his absent mother Inez. Portrayed with swagger by Teyana Taylor, Inez is armed with eyes that don’t miss a thing.  She is barely into her twenties and always has lived on society’s edges. Inez re-enters Terry’s life after being released from prison, soon taking him, illegally, from his foster parents. For the next eleven years she tries as best she can to raise him. Ultimately, however, circumstances catch up with them big-time.

A Thousand And One pulls no punches. Set mostly in New York City’s Harlem section, it often is as gritty as a sandstorm. I’ve given away much of the ending of It’s A Wonderful Life. I won’t do the same with A Thousand And One, whose concluding scenes I didn’t see coming. Those scenes left me concerned, not for street-savvy Inez’s prospects, but for those of shy and gentle Terry. For the most part, I’ve led a stable and comfortable life. A Thousand And One has me counting my lucky stars.

What a world we live in. So much poverty and inequality. So much violence and emotional trauma. So much intolerance, indifference and deception. That’s the way things always have been. And, I believe, always will be. There also is beauty in our world, of course. And love and joy and kindness. It can’t be denied, though, that life is a very rocky road for multitudes of people. Too many Terrys, and other unfortunates, are out there. If only it were otherwise.

I Like Them (A Book, A TV Series, A Song)

Yeah, Another Blogger144 Comments

Nine Inches, a collection of fiction stories from the pen of Tom Perrotta, and published in 2013, seemed to be calling to me last month as I browsed the shelves of my local library, though I’d never heard of Perrotta before. I should have been familiar with his name, however, since, as I later learned, he’s a successful author. In fact, two of his novels (Election; Little Children) have been turned into movies, and another (The Leftovers) into a television series.

With nothing to lose, I brought Nine Inches home. I’m glad I did. I mean, Perrotta can write. He sharply examines the human mind and emotions, effortlessly illuminating the quirks, insecurities, maladjustments and f*cked-up decisions that run rampant in our species, and which can propel people’s lives in unanticipated directions, some of them most unfortunate. He does so with sentence after sentence that go down as easily as your favorite comfort food and also, when needed, pack a hell of a punch.

Take the opening story in the volume, for instance. It’s titled Backrub, and chronicles the days and nights of Donald, a bright kid just out of high school. The victim of misaligned stars, he was rejected by every college he applied to. Wobbled by this injustice, he takes a job as a pizza delivery person and, after a while, not caring enough to want to try and right his ship, slides comfortably into dealing drugs. Perrotta’s gift for language shines in this paragraph near the story’s conclusion.

It all went down so fast. I barely had time to register the lights in my rearview mirror when I saw two more cop cars right in front of me, blocking the intersection. I got out with my hands on my head, like they told me to, and the next thing I knew I was lying facedown in the street, with my hands cuffed behind my back.

Perrotta’s writing style agrees with me. It’s taut and uncomplicated. He takes on a wide variety of subjects in Nine Inches (unfulfilling marriages, a lonely widow, an insecure teacher, to name a few), and brings them to life with clarity. While reading Perrotta’s stories, I subconsciously kept thinking to myself, “Man, this seems real.” That’s a solid compliment.

On the other hand, not all that much about the television series The Lincoln Lawyer seems truly real, except for some courtroom scenes. But that’s more than okay. Sure, Mickey Haller — aka The Lincoln Lawyer — is preternaturally quick on his feet. But that only adds to his likeability. He and the show’s other main characters are good people, loyal to each other, and don’t take shit from anyone. I’m down with all of that. (By the way, a film version of TLL came out in 2011. It’s good.)

My wife Sandy and I polished off season two of The Lincoln Lawyer recently, after watching season one earlier this year. Both rock, two even more than one. In the second season, Haller (played by Manuel Garcia-Rulfo), who does a good bit of his best work-related thinking while driving or being driven in one of his Lincolns, finds himself defending a lady accused of murder. Not all that many hours before she is brought up on charges, she and Haller were in bed together, enjoying the heck out of one another. What, you’d expect otherwise? But, hey, don’t prejudge the show. It’s quality escapist fun. The plot lines are tricky. The dialogue sparkles. And the actors give it their all. Sandy and I, for sure, are hoping that Netflix will renew The Lincoln Lawyer for a third run.

Which brings us, rather haphazardly, to another creation — The Well, a new song that instantly grabbed me when I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks ago. It’s the work of Briscoe, a group from Texas, and will appear on Briscoe’s first album, which is scheduled to be released next month.

The two main guys in Briscoe — Truett Heintzelman and Philip Lupton — are in their 20s. But they are looking far into the future in The Well, pondering whether memories of the joys of youth will help to sustain old age. I think the Briscoe boys are concerned about something that isn’t going to happen. They’ll be just fine, enjoying the moment, when they reach their “golden” years.

That quibble aside, there’s no denying that The Well, an old-timey type of song brought to high places by rocking drums, is catchy as can be. The blend of the stringed instruments with the quivering, giddy vocals makes me go weak in the knees. I’m smitten!

So, those are a few of the things that have rung my bell of late. What’s rung yours?

One Loser, Three Winners

Yeah, Another Blogger139 Comments

As I’ve mentioned any number of times before on these pages, streaming services such as Netflix and Amazon Prime Video helped keep me sane during the days when the COVID pandemic wreaked havoc with humankind. Even though the worst is behind us, COVID-ly speaking, my addiction to the streamers hasn’t abated in the least. Man, five or more nights each week my wife Sandy and I tune in to one series or another for an hour or two. This practice pleases the hell out of me, an entertainment hound. Basically, I love it!

Sandy and I enjoy nearly all of the series we watch, partly because we do a fair bit of research before hitting a production’s Play button. We’re not about to look at anything that gets less than a strong rating on IMDB, for instance. Nevertheless, losers occasionally pass before our eyes, such as the Netflix series Marcella, a detective show whose first season we dialed up a few months ago. It’s beyond me how Marcella has garnered a 7.4 on IMDB. With way too many plotlines and riddled with ludicrous situations, it started rubbing me the wrong way in a very big way after two or three episodes. At that point I said “F*ck this!” and, with Sandy’s blessing, tossed the series aside. I’m not fabled for making good decisions, but saying bye-bye to Marcella was the indisputable proper move.

There were no complaints from me or Sandy, however, earlier this month as we polished off, consecutively, three series that kept our eyes glued to the TV screen and our emotions running high.

First up was season one of The Night Agent, released this year on Netflix. In this tale, Peter Sutherland (played by Gabriel Basso), a low-level FBI agent, becomes involved up to his neck in a murder investigation that in no time has him questioning whom he can trust. It all starts when Sutherland becomes the unwitting protector of Rose Larkin (portrayed by Luciane Buchanan), who has witnessed the assassinations of her aunt and uncle and is on the run from the killers. Why were the aunt and uncle killed? Who was behind the murders? Will Peter and Rose solve the mystery and not get whacked?  I can be a dumbshit, but by the end of the final episode I had a pretty good understanding of what the hell had been going on, which is not always the case with me and thrillers. Sandy and I hope that the already-promised season two will fly as high as the initial run does.

Next on the bill was The Diplomat, another new Netflix series (its season two also has been OK’d). A drama starring Keri Russell as Kate Wyler, the newly appointed U.S. ambassador to Great Britain, the show deftly, and in a stylized manner whose wryness agreed with me, douses its viewers with political maneuverings and negotiations.

Wyler isn’t sure she’s cut out for her new job. But from the get-go she proves that she’s got what it takes. Adept at getting her points across, she helps to avert an international crisis and likely a war by convincing the U.S. president that Iran, the presumed culprit, was not behind the attack on a British naval vessel that killed dozens of sailors. As a result, the cagey British Prime Minister, for now neutralized, doesn’t retaliate against Iran. But murky waters lie ahead nonetheless. Things are not what they seem to be, Kate learns more than once. And a seemingly innocuous situation leads to a cliffhanger of major proportions, guaranteeing that Sandy and I will return for season two upon its release.

You know, I’m a rock and roller at heart. I would have loved living the life of a rock musician. There was and is one problem, though: I have zero musical talent. So, I’ve lived that life vicariously, and continue to do so even now at my ridiculously advanced age. All of which means that I was smitten with Daisy Jones & The Six, a ten-part Amazon presentation released this year and based on the novel of the same name by Taylor Jenkins Reid.

The (fictional) saga of the titular band that, during the 1970s, rose to lofty heights and then fell apart, Daisy Jones & The Six has all that you might expect: sex, drugs and heaps and heaps of rock and roll. The series chronicles the group’s history and brings the story into sharper focus by including interviews — conducted 20 years after the band’s dissolution — with band members and their inner circle, none of whom had spoken publicly before about why the implosion took place.

Armed with good scripts and actors who do justice to the words written for them, Daisy Jones & The Six has a lot going for it. What’s more, much to my astonishment, the series made me think . . . about love’s complexities, for love in various stages of development and strength lies at the heart of the show. Billy Dunne and Daisy Jones (brought to life by actors Sam Claflin and Riley Keough, respectively), the leaders and vocalists of the band, have a contentious association at first, which mellows with time and then morphs into something far more nuanced and intimidating. I’ll say no more, except to reiterate that love and relationships damn sure can be complicated.

Thanks for reading, boys and girls. Sandy and I would be happy to learn about the shows you recommend. We’re always on the lookout for series to watch. We thank you.

Streaming Services, Where Would I Be Without You?

Yeah, Another Blogger152 Comments

A few months before the COVID pandemic erupted in early 2020, my wife Sandy signed us up for Netflix, a streaming service. She immediately dipped into its vast catalog of offerings, but I didn’t. This was predictable, since, for years, I’d been watching very little TV. However, when the pandemic halted the activities that until then had shaped my life significantly — such as going to concerts, movies, museums and restaurants — I was in need of high doses of entertainment. So, I turned to Netflix and HBO, another streamer, in order to fill the gaping void. (We already were HBO subscribers, because Sandy loves Last Week Tonight With John Oliver.) I’m damn glad that I did. Man, it became a five-to-seven-nights-a-week ritual, which has continued to this day, for Sandy and me to watch an hour or two together of one series or another, or sometimes a movie instead.

And the selections available to us expanded luxuriously about a year ago when we decided to give Jeff Bezos some needed cash by becoming members of Amazon Prime, one component of which is Prime Video, a streamer supreme. Around that time, too, we transitioned from HBO to HBO Max, as Max offers shitloads more series and movies than traditional HBO does. Holy crap, my mind was and remains blown by the nearly infinite mass of scripted, ad-free visual content a few clicks away from me. Though the world in many ways is a nightmare, its streaming realm is f*cking miraculous.

It was a good move on my part, at the start of my infatuation with streamers, to begin compiling a list of the series that Sandy and I jointly watch on television. After all, in a way the list is a partial record of our lives. The list also includes the series that she and I have viewed individually, but there aren’t many of those. Well, I ain’t lying when I say that the list has become really long. The number of productions that we’ve seen in tandem absolutely astounds me: 87, comprising limited series and also multi-season series of which we’ve taken in one or more seasons. Yup, though I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the tube, I’m a freaking streaming addict nonetheless. I haven’t partaken of scripted fare to this extent since I was a kid ages ago, when I feasted regularly on innumerable network-television series: Bonanza, Have Gun Will Travel, and Peter Gunn, to name but a few.

A good indication of the strength of my addiction (and Sandy’s too, it must be noted) is the fact that, as a team last month, we polished off every episode of Mo, A Very English Scandal, Entrapped, and Wednesday. We also devoured season one of The White Lotus and the first two seasons of Catastrophe (we’ll watch the remaining two seasons in February). I liked all the shows, one especially so.

The standout is Catastrophe. It initially ran on the United Kingdom’s Channel Four, ending in 2019. Prime Video started carrying it somewhere along the line. A rip-roaring rom-com that isn’t all fun and games, Catastrophe tells the mid-life tale of Sharon Morris, an Irish lass living in London, and Rob Norris, an American who hails from Boston. At the start of the show, Rob is in London on business. Friendly, frisky and 40-ish, Sharon and Rob like what they see in each other when they meet by chance in a pub, and lose no time in getting it on, repeatedly, over the next week. Rob then returns to the States where, some weeks later, Sharon phones him to announce that she is pregnant. Well, though they barely know one another, Rob moves to London, Sharon decides to have the baby, Rob proposes to Sharon, who says yes, and a married couple they become. A few hours after the wedding ceremony concludes, the unborn child silently proclaims that it is ready to meet the world ahead of schedule.

I won’t say any more about the plot. I will add this, though: Catastrophe (created by, written by and starring Sharon Horgan and Rob Delaney, who, as best I can determine, were/are not romantically involved) leaves me breathless. Its eight or so principal characters are beautifully drawn and played, its dialogue whip-smart. The show, however, is not for anyone who isn’t up for getting drenched with candid sex talk and robust sexual situations, all of which, mind you, Catastrophe presents with a twinkle in its eye. Catastrophe truly is something else.

So, that’s the latest on the TV-viewing front from my abode. Seeing that Sandy and I always are on the lookout for series and movies to watch, we’d love to learn what you recommend, on streaming services or elsewhere. Thanks!