Wednesday, October 30, 2019

October 30

I am in the brief writing zone. When this happens, it is like everything else just falls away and all I can focus on, like Claire Danes in Homeland is the case law and the arguments I am structuring. I get to work early. I am incredibly productive. I am writing and editing, composing and rearranging, tweaking and copy and pasting things with clarity. But everything else is just noise. I will forget to eat or use the bathroom. Papers pile up and I dig through them to find the phrase I need. I have five different tabs open on my computer, toggling between the brief and Lexis Nexis, back and forth, trying to find just the right words put in just the right order to make my case. It is exhausting but exhilarating.

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Tuesday, October 29, 2019

October 29

I went on a second date with someone yesterday. We met for lunch. It was a good sign when she texted to tell me she would be a few minutes late but would be there in "two shakes of a lamb's tail" and I immediately recognized that somewhat obscure quote as being from Pulp Fiction. Lunch itself was good and the conversation was enjoyable. The thing is, no matter how well I might get along with her, there is a nagging part of me that makes it *really* hard for me to to be open. To trust. To not be on constant alert for the slightest hint of a character flaw that sets off an alarm.


It is weird. I just read Malcolm Gladwell's newest book. One of the things he talks about is how we default to trust and ordinarily that makes sense because trusting people is the correct way to view the world. In doing so, however, we open ourselves up to sometimes being taken advantage of because some people are shitty and will use your willingness to trust against you. While Gladwell notes that some skepticism is healthy, too much is bad. And that is really my problem. I invariably expect that other shoe to drop (if only because IT USUALLY DOES) and so, do I end up sabotaging things before they are even given a chance or end up getting fucked over because I stepped on the same rake for the bazillionth time?

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Monday, October 28, 2019

October 28

This is one of those weeks I know is going to suck based solely on the things I know I have to do. I'm not even accounting for the random shit that pops up in the ordinary course. These are the worst weeks and it is hard to be in the right mental space to get through them. Typically, I focus on being task-oriented, just getting through one thing at a time, knowing I can't do everything at once. Sometimes it works, sometimes my reservoir of patience wears out and I start snapping at people and losing my shit. I don't deal with this kind of pressure as well as I once did, so it could be a bumpy ride.

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Sunday, October 27, 2019

Has The Good Place Run Out of Things to Say?

About midway through The Good Place’s third season, Michael, an evil demon who went from torturing humans to helping them, makes a startling discovery - modern life has become so fraught with unintended consequences that even the most virtuous among us is resigned to eternal damnation. If the morally upright have no chance of making it to the good place, what chance do the merely mediocre have of a heavenly afterlife?

The Good Place has always been interested in the ethics of living. It is a morality play inside a love story inside a high brow social commentary with enough twists and turns along the way to keep viewers on their heels. The show began with a simple premise - what would happen if a self-proclaimed Arizona dirtbag named Eleanor Shellstrop, a “bad” person who lived venally, selfishly, and with little regard for others, was accidentally sent to heaven instead of hell? But with its plot twist season one finale, in which we learned that Eleanor, along with her three friends Chidi, Ta-Hani, and Jason, were actually in a simulacrum of the good place being operated by the guy they thought was a benevolent guide, and were actually lab rats in a bad place experiment he created to see how long they could torture each other, the show entered the cultural zeitgeist. 

The show’s second and third seasons did much to prove that acclaim was well-earned. At first, Michael merely snapped his fingers and relaunched his experiment, but over 802 reboots, his four self-proclaimed cockroaches kept figuring him out. THIS IS THE BAD PLACE! Eleanor would inevitably realize (except reboot #649 when Jason figured it out, which really hurt) and <snap> another attempt would launch. Along the way, the show mused on goodness and morality and whether people can become better. 

As to the final question, the show creator, Michael Schur, gave an emphatic yes. Eleanor and Jason, both shady characters during their lives, find grace in the afterlife. But beyond that, intention also came into view. Ta-Hani was a philanthropist motivated by a desire for adulation, not altruism. Chidi was so paralyzed by his own indecision that he never found love even though he lived his life by the tenets of the philosophers he revered. Each had their own hurdles to overcome, their own reckoning to acknowledge. 

There was something intuitive about the show’s mediation on our lives on Earth. Every day, we calibrate our behavior, navigating the tricky calculus of right and wrong and good and bad. That these choices could be assigned values that would determine whether our after life will be spent in Eden or an eternal hell of penis flattening, bees with teeth, or an unremitting succession of New Yorker magazines has a facile logic. 

By closing its bravura second season with a different kind of reboot, this time sending the humans back to Earth with a second chance at life after what were now just near death experiences, The Good Place looked to be firing on all cylinders. The show use that finale and the early part of the third season capturing what I think is at the core of much of the human condition. We try, we fail, we try again. We might be better but then we backslide, dust ourselves off, and give it another go. But the characters were never given a full opportunity to see how they would do without interference from the higher powers. Ever since, the show has relied on constant reinvention to mask a shrinking reservoir of plot. It is easy to miss the forest for the trees because the sleights of hand are so frequent (and executed so deftly) but at bottom, the core points the show was driving at - that it is possible to become a better person and that modern life is littered with too many unintentional consequences for anyone to make it to the Afterlife Hall of Fame - were made halfway through the third season, the show has treaded water ever since. 

Do not get me wrong, at the granular level, The Good Place still delivers good laughs and witty banter, but thematically, it is a spent force. Rebooting the neighborhood with new characters would feel like a jump the shark moment except these new characters do not even rate, they are so underdeveloped as to be afterthoughts, barely given any time to shine. If the proof of concept is that the Soul Squad can get an entitled, middle aged white man to be slightly less of an officious jerk and a gossip blogger to be a touch less catty, that is fine, but should the future of all humanity rest on such a thin reed? Placing Chidi’s girlfriend in the mix is sort of interesting, but she was already a good person and her placement feels like a jerry rigged way to address the Chidi/Eleanor storyline. Ultimately, the early episodes of season four have felt like so much filler. 

Schur should be applauded for creating a show of such originality that packs sight gags, snappy dialogue, and larger questions of the human condition into twenty-two minute chunks of deft storytelling, but a third of the way through the show’s final season, it looks like The Good Place ran out of runway. 

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Links to reviews of Seasons One, Two, and Three

October 27

It is a very rainy day in the Garden State today. I was out in the mess early to grocery shop and then went to the gym in what was a steady, sometimes driving rain. Now I am home, will turn on the gas fireplace to keep everyone nice and warm and lay on the couch for the rest of the day (which is what you are supposed to do on days like this).

Go Nats!

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Saturday, October 26, 2019

The Miami Dark Star Show

Thirty years ago today, the Grateful Dead ended what was arguably their best tour of the 1980s. What began in Hampton, Virginia 18 days before with two unannounced shows that included the reintroduction of foundational songs like Dark Star, Attics of My Life, and the return of the three-part suite of Help on the Way > Slipknot > Franklin’s Tower then traversed up I-95 for five nights in East Rutherford, New Jersey (including a no-doubt-about-it candidate for show of the year on Weir’s birthday), down to Philly for a three-night run that found the band commenting on an earthquake that hit their home town of San Francisco, to a quick two night stint in Charlotte, had landed at the water’s edge in Miami. 

Much has been written about what happened on that final night - murmurings of dark energy that caused fans to flee the arena, itself parked in a dicey part of town, and we will get to that, but the hints of anything other than a capable ending to an exceptional three weeks of music were not present when the band opened with a cheerful version of Foolish Heart. This late-era addition to the band’s repertoire was still finding its place within the set list but Weir’s cover of Little Red Rooster offered a counter point to the show opener’s upbeat tempo. Brent Mydland’s verse turn and B-3 leads gave the song a menacing tone and Garcia’s selection of Stagger Lee - a revenge tale with a bad ending - picked up on the theme. Weir’s cowboy combo of Me and My Uncle > Big River offered more tales of loss and duplicity with a rollicking beat and frisky interplay among the musicians. 

After a perfunctory Brown-Eyed Women the band took up Victim or the Crime, the point at which many people who have written about the Miami Dark Star show point to as the guidepost for the insanity to come. To be sure, Victim which, like Foolish Heart, was a song the band was still figuring out musically (they would receive a fair amount of criticism for playing it immediately after midnight on January 1, 1990, essentially heralding the new decade with a downer of a song that freaked people out) but its weirdness was already well-established. This night would be no different, with nearly two minutes of spacey feedback that lands on a breezy version of Don’t Ease Me In. It was as if the band was giving the audience a taste of its power without overwhelming it. 

Whatever restraint the band showed in closing out the first set was nowhere to be found when they waltzed out to some brief Finniculi tuning and then plowed into a muscular version of Estimated Prophet, in a rare second set opening position. Here, we see the band in peak fighting shape, a sharpened blade of musical force honed over the dozen shows that preceded it, every lead landed, every musical handoff flawless, with a splash of Healy-inspired vocal creepiness as another bread crumb of whatever psychic vibe was passing through South Florida. The outro jam led into Mydland’s signature tune Blow Away, a divisive song among Heads at the time and one that the manic-eyed keyboardist performed with an intensity that could only come from a source of pain and anguish, which made sense, considering the song was about his crumbling marriage. 

At this point, things come to a bit of a halt. This would be the first and only time the band opened a second set with Estimated > Blow Away and the extended pause taken to consider their options suggests they might not have been entirely sure what to do. That they chose Dark Star was fitting. This iconic song had been in mothballs since 1984, but the band’s revival of it at the beginning of the East Coast tour in Hampton became a touchstone for the legend that grew around this five-city romp. The Hampton version was strong although not overly ambitious, as if the band wanted to make sure it had a proper foundation before stretching it out to celebrate Weir’s 42nd birthday in New Jersey seven days later. Each of these three versions is revered for different reasons, but the words most associated with the Miami Dark Star are some iteration of “out there.” 

The band’s performance is strong from the start. The musicians’ confidence in both the melody and the detours they could take to explore different themes is evident soon after the two minute instrumental melts into the first verse. Garcia sets the tone with various MIDI-influenced notes that his band mates circle around and comment on. And just as it appears the jam might flag, the band segues back toward firmer ground, finding the second verse in a way that might leave you thinking perhaps they had decided to cut the proceedings short, but it is then that the real freak show begins. 

For the next ten minutes, the band engages in what one reviewer called a sonic drive by shooting, as if they were unloading every creepy sound effect and negative piece of energy that had been stored within their beings. It is at best uncomfortable to listen to, and at worst, a hair raising aural adventure that I can understand people walking out on (especially if they were dosed). It is more than a simple Space, less benevolent and experimental and more hostile and aggressive. This Dark Star is not meant to be tripped out to, it is meant to be freaked out on - a direct challenge to the listener to see how much they can take. The tone is unremitting and unrelenting, loud, ugly, and in your face. 

To call it white knuckle listening does not do full justice to the musical carnage that the band leaves in its wake. Clocking in at nearly thirty minutes, the entire version is exhausting and the Drums > Space that follows suggests the band needed to catch its collective breath. Even The Wheel that rounds the bend toward home is modest, while Watchtower picks up the intensity level, that too is short-lived. Garcia’s reading of Stella Blue is traditional, with a few lovely, shimmering leads as the song builds to its conclusion. The set closes with a free spirited (albeit MIDI-heavy) Not Fade Away that cleanses the palate, as if the windows were opened to air out whatever dark forces still remained. The band ended the night spiritually with We Bid You Goodnight, another Hamptons “bust out” that had not been heard live in almost two decades. The mellow vibe and a cappella rendering providing a final salve of redemption and call for love during a night when neither was in much supply. 


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Friday, October 25, 2019

October 25

I am FUMING. Just spitting nails. There are days when I walk out of my office and just want to tell my boss to fuck off and quit. But here's the thing. I make good money and I'm old. Starting over is not the kind of thing you do at my age. You (mostly) tamp down your frustrations and anger and just grin and bear the humiliations, the petty slights, the mistreatment, because when you walk out of the office, your life is your own. Today, I let a bit of my frustration out and in the wrong way - email - but I was so mad I did not care. I will undoubtedly pay a price come Monday morning, but for now, I am putting my shit job and my shit boss out of my mind.

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Thursday, October 24, 2019

October 24

Caught a new case at work yesterday. I do not do much litigation anymore, and I do not like it (the older I get, the more my anxiety kicks in before a judge) but what are you going to do? On the plus side, the Nats won (again). I go to bed every night they play assuming they will lose and wake up the next morning to find they won. Last night, they were up 2-0 and promptly killed their own rally when I changed over. I flipped back and SS gave up a 2-run home run. It is very on brand as a Jew to assume you're bad luck - that you cannot watch a team you love or they will lose, so you have to not watch in real time and just catch the highlights the morning after. 

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Wednesday, October 23, 2019

October 23

Writing is hard. Even coughing out a couple of sentences on a blog each day can be tricky, but when I try to write longer pieces, it can seem impossible. I have two going right now - one on The Good Place and one on the cover story in New York magazine (from a month ago!) with a third in mind (a review of She Said). Between work and home and the other things I need to do during the course of a day, it is easier to abandon ideas than complete them.

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Monday, October 21, 2019

October 21

I have been tracking the monthly mileage on my new car. Last month (beginning with the day I bought the car, not the first day of the month) I drove 518 miles. In New Jersey, that is nothing. Some people drive that in a week, but here I am, in my car less than 20 miles a day. 

A lot of it (I think) is how deeply I was affected by my car accident last year. It easily could have been worse and in the immediate aftermath, my concern was not for my own well-being, but how I would have been able to care for my cats if I had been seriously injured. I am also driving a lot more defensively (which, in New Jersey is something you have to do on everything from the Turnpike to neighborhood streets, drivers are SO aggressive). It's not great. I am avoiding traveling anywhere I do not need to, and so, you get this really low mileage. I'm not sure there is anything that can be done about it, and will likely get even more extreme once winter starts because I hate driving in bad weather.

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