An occasional look into the television habits of your blogger

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, March 15, 2017 10:46 PM

The last few years have produced some exceptional television, some of it on networks and others on streaming services like Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon. For Kevin and I, the great era of TV started with the first episode of The West Wing. It remains a favorite in this household and still holds up well. It’s more aspirational now than ever. We were also fans of The X-Files, and later 24. We loved ER, and Grey’s Anatomy; earlier there was Thirtysomething and then Once and Again. On pay channels, we fell in love with Homeland and The Newsroom. We found Longmire one Memorial Day weekend when A & E was running a marathon. We liked The Killing which started on AMC and then moved to Netflix. Recently, we’ve found House of Cards and The Fall also on Netflix. We have in the cue Bloodline, Narco and others I can’t remember right now.

Network TV takes a beating with pay channels and streaming, but in the past years they’ve put out some decent stuff. The Good Wife comes to mind, as does Parenthood. I loved Parenthood, which is interesting because I didn’t ever love the film on which it was loosely based. I think I started watching it because I loved Lauren Graham as Lorelai Gilmore on Gilmore Girls. I didn’t think she was great in Parenthood, but the show was phenomenal. I remember crying like a baby at the incredible finale.

This year, my favorite new show has been This Is Us. I know I’m not alone in this. It is, evidently, quite the phenomenon. We watched the first episode because it was so hyped. We liked it; didn’t absolutely love it. Though interestingly we both thought it deserved at least another episode or two before making the ultimate decision. For no reason that I can think of, we never watched that other episode or two.

I’m online all day every day. I work, crafting whatever I need to craft for whichever client is screaming the loudest. And once I email said craft, I tend to surf through some of my favorite news sites to check on what’s happening and to clear my head. I write for different industries and it can be difficult to go from health care to asphalt paving to makeup without taking a brief interlude. One of the consistent stories I’ve seen, in addition to the horror that is the toddler in chief, is This Is Us and how phenomenal it is.

Last week while I was working on a big content upload project that required little creative brain power, I pulled the show up on Hulu. Hulu, like Netflix, is set for autoplay so as soon as one episode is over, it automatically starts the next and so it continues until I manually stop it. And I became completely hooked. Totally in love with the dysfunction and love and wonder of the Pearson clan, much like how I fell in love with the Parenthood Bravermans. Completely flawed individuals, people who are simply living their lives with no more or less drama than the rest of us. It’s incredibly written, beautifully acted, and very believable. 

Last night was the season finale. I watched it today while I was checking and answering emails. Nobody died even though everyone expected at least one of the characters to bite the dust. I guess we’ll have to wait until next season. 

Kevin Fallon who writes for The Daily Beast wrote this: “That’s been This Is Us’s strength all season, creating emotionally huge moments that should be manipulative and off-puttingly earnest, yet pinpointing their universality, no matter how ugly or devastating, and playing them in ways that we relate to in our lives. It’s why we can’t help but cry along. It was wonderful. But we still would have rather watched him die.”

We never watch television shows when they’re actually on for two reasons: we’re on Central Time which means shows start an hour earlier than they do on the east or west coast; and we don’t know when anything is actually on. We record a couple of things to watch later (Madam Secretary, SVU, Shades of Blue) but mostly we just watch on Hulu. This is one of the reasons we can get rid of satellite. We don’t need it. Television viewership has changed. Even ratings factor in both live watching as well as those on DVD or streaming. We’re part of the new way of watching, or not watching. We find what we like, we watch it when we want. And I like it. A lot.

I want to believe

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, February 9, 2016 9:18 PM

Several days ago a small package arrived. It was actually a large envelope, one that was thicker than just some papers, and fit into our mail slot. It was addressed to me and from Urban Outfitters. I hadn’t ordered anything from Urban Outfitters so naturally I was curious. I never thought it would be something fraudulent. People who use your credit card to buy something rarely send it to you. Still, I couldn’t figure it out. 

We drove back to the house – our mailbox is just over a mile away and so we pick up mail only when we’re coming back from somewhere – and dumped our several days worth of bills, credit card applications and my envelope onto the center island. I always do a cursory browse through the envelopes to see if there’s anything remotely interesting. Like a check. Most of my clients pay me electronically, but there are some stragglers. There usually isn’t but I try to believe that there will be. This time, though, I went straight for Urban Outfitters. 

Opening the envelope with scissors, I peered inside. It appeared to be something clothing related. Upon closer inspection, it was a t-shirt – no, two t-shirts. They looked to be identical. I pulled one out and immediately started to grin. A silk screen of a UFO and the words “I want to believe.” Suddenly I remembered my sister telling me that she had ordered something for me and to be on the lookout. The black shirts – one for me, one for Kevin – celebrate the return engagement of The X Files of which we’re big fans. “I want to believe” was on the poster that hung for several seasons in the office of FBI agent Fox Mulder, played with spooky nerdiness by David Duchovny. If memory serves, it was sent to him by one of the people he and Scully (Gillian Anderson) investigated in an early episode, a woman who turned into a wolf. Believe indeed. 

I have that shirt on tonight. It was ridiculously warm here today, unseasonably so according to the weather experts. High 70s. Those same experts are saying it will be in the mid-80s by the weekend. It’s very early to be so warm, unseasonable or not. I’m hoping it’s a fluke. Otherwise, it will be 213º by July. I want to believe that’s not going to happen. 

I want to believe a lot of things. I want to believe that I will somehow be able to get back into my old jeans. I want to believe that my skin will start to look better because of the skin care I’m using even though I know that topical applications don’t really do much of anything to help lines, discolorations and all the other irritations of aging skin.

I want to believe that I will never have any money troubles even though I know that’s not possible. I want to believe I make enough money to not have money troubles and I know that’s not true. 

I want to believe that drinking red wine is good for me. 

I want to believe that I’m immortal. 

I want to believe that I’m relevant. 

I want to believe that there could never possibly be a President Trump. Or even a President Sanders but by a much lesser margin of OMG. 

I want to believe in Santa Claus. I want to believe in miracles. 

I want to believe in goodness and kindness. I want to believe in the possible rather than the impossible. I want to believe that it’s OK to eat potatoes and pasta and red vines though not together. I want to believe in soul mates – and I do. I want to believe in reality – and I do. 

I want to believe in living it out loud. And I do.

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live out loud

X marks the spot

by Lorin Michel Tuesday, January 26, 2016 9:03 PM

The phrase “X marks the spot” is a reference to treasure maps, where long-lost jewels might be buried. X can mean a kiss, the first reference for which can be found in 1765. It can be a horizontal axis on a graph, and a film rating for pornography, a practice that began in the 1950s. An X can be a cross; it can indicate a mistake. It’s the unknown in algebra. “X marks the spot” indicates where something hidden or unknown might be found. In 1813, the Oxford English Dictionary verified that it is to mark the location of something on a map. 

Interestingly it’s a phrase that actually originated in Chicago with gangsters. The newspapers weren’t allowed to publish photos of corpses at the scenes of murderers, like those thought to be committed by the mob. So they started publishing photos with an X used to mark where bodies would be if the public could see them. It marked the spot of death. 

Interestingly X as an unknown and a place to mark the spot has also been in prime view the last two nights in the guise of one of the spookiest, most conspiracy laden, fabulously out there and addictive shows I’ve ever watched: The X Files.

I admit that I didn’t watch the show immediately when it debuted on a Friday night in September, 1993. By then I was single, having divested myself of husband #1, and still young enough to go out on Friday nights, something I did regularly. But it wasn’t long before I discovered the magical mystery of Mulder and Scully. The show never ceased to amaze me, sometimes with humor, often with horror, and occasionally with terror. I’ll never forget watching the episode called Home, alone, after the show had moved to Sunday night. I watched it alone, in the dark. It scared the crap out of me; still does. I can’t watch a rerun of it to this day, much like The Exorcist. I saw that in high school and I still can’t watch it. 

The X Files ran for nine seasons, the last two of which were a bit like afterthoughts since David Duchovny, who played Fox Mulder, had left the series. Gillian Anderson (Scully) hung around for the duration but it didn’t seem like her heart was in it after Spooky moved on. Duchovny returned for the last two episodes of the series, two largely unsatisfying episodes that tried to wrap things up but just seemed bored. The last episode aired the weekend we buried my dad, in 2002. It seemed monstrously symbolic then; not so much today.

There were two films, one during the series one, one after. The first one was OK, the second one horrible. Over the years, I ran through the episodes from season 1 through season 9. I developed my favorites including The Postmodern Prometheus, Hollywood A.D., Jose Chung’s From Outer Space, but they were all good; some were great.

I, like all X-philes, have missed my friends Mulder and Scully. And when I heard the news months ago that they would be back for a limited number of episodes, I could scarcely contain my fear. Fear that it wouldn’t be very good. Fear that it would ruin my memories. Fear that they wouldn’t be the same.  

The show re-premiered on Sunday night after the football game, and they’re not the same. They’re older. They’re resigned. They have an air of acceptance about them. And I’m surprisingly OK with that because they’re back for at least 6 episodes. Mulder and Scully 14 years later, world weary and worn, and back. They’re a treasure waiting to be re-discovered, a cross, the spot where a number of creatures died. X absolutely marks the spot.

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live out loud

Afraid of the scenes

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, October 23, 2013 9:16 PM

As good as television has become in certain aspects, on certain channels, it is also equally bad in many respects. That’s why when we have a show that we love, we cling to it, sometimes irrationally, for too long. We did it with The X-Files, which, let’s face it was a mere shadow of itself in seasons 8 and 9, sans Mulder and the Mulder/Scully chemistry. We did it with Gilmore Girls after Amy Sherman Palladino left after season 5. We kept hoping for the magic to return. We did it with The West Wing after Aaron Sorkin had a meltdown and left his chaotically brilliant show after season 5. The West Wing, though, actually redeemed itself well by becoming about the next campaign for president after the beloved Jed Bartlet would depart to fly home to New Hampshire. It didn’t hurt that the redemption was capped with Jimmy Smits, a personal favorite since LA Law.

So when we find a good show, we savor it like a fine wine, sipping from its delectable dialogue and allowing it to swirl around in our mouths for a while. We wait anxiously every week for a good show. It becomes close to appointment TV, which is what The West Wing and The X-Files were for years. There could be no distractions during appointment TV. If the phone rang, too bad. We simply basked in the warm, gooey – sometimes literally in the case of The X-Files – wonder of great characters speaking great dialogue in believable plots. OK. Not The X-Files. But that show was never about believability. It was about the truth.

These days, appointment TV has dwindled to three, two of which still blow our hair back weekly; one of which is limping along and we’re still in the “it’s going to be OK” phase, hoping it will pull its plot-addled head out of its butt and get back on track. I watching you Homeland.

One of the two is the über-violent, sadistically vile and incredibly rapturous motorcycle scorcher, Sons of Anarchy. There is often no one who is even remotely likable in the cast. They kill randomly. They treat each other badly. They rage against authority even as they push a gun-running trade and pornography, only one of which is illegal. We can’t take our eyes off of it. Now in its 6th and penultimate season, it has become a show that we await anxiously. Is it September yet?

This season started off with a bit too much of a bang. For a show this exquisitely violent and blood soaked, the first episode was nearly over the top. I found myself wondering if we could even continue to watch it. While violence is what the show is all about, it took it to a place that was so abhorrent I worried they had finally gone too far. Being the loyal fans we are, though, we decided to at least watch the next episodes to give it a fair shot. They have come roaring back. The Shakespeare meme – it very loosely mirrors Hamlet – is on full display and I just know that Tara, as the stand in for Ophelia, is going to die and it’s going to unleash Jax in ways we’ve never before seen. Also, it too has Jimmy Smits.

And this is the guy who shot a woman in the head just last night and then ordered his “brothas” to clean it up while he went outside for a smoke. Because smoking inside is frowned upon.

Our other appointment TV is the simply exquisite The Good Wife. We’ve been watching it since its debut. Always good, this season it has veered into goosebump territory. It’s smart, intelligent, the plots make sense, the acting is amazing, the cast superb. We watched this week’s last night because Sunday nights get weird here, with time and football, and Homeland, so we watch Alicia and company On-Demand on Tuesday night.

At the end of this week’s episode, when the newly married Diane leaves Alicia’s office, stops in the hall, a look of realization washing over her face (dog bless Christine Baranski) and stands staring at Will, who is in his own office, meeting with a potential new colleague, Kevin and I were on the edge of our seats. Will and Diane have been in the process of dissolving their partnership and thus their firm of Lockhart/Gardner but as Will absorbed the look and immediately dismissed his colleague, the connection they have shared and continue to share was electric. He knew she knew something that she needed to tell him, animosity be damned. And she did.

Cut to black.

Cut to Kevin and I: Holy crap, batman.

Julianna Margulies’ voice came on and casually asked us to “stay tuned for scenes from our next episode.” Casually, like it couldn’t be a very big deal.

Kevin: “I can’t watch. I don’t want to see the scenes.” He was like a little kid putting his head under the pillow to escape the monsters in the room, only in this case, the monsters were the amazing talents responsible for this show. We were literally afraid of the scenes, afraid to know what was going to happen. At least until we watch it next Tuesday.

That’s good stuff. That’s the best kind of television there is, one that celebrates the audience’s intelligence even as that audience hides in the closet, quivering with anticipation.

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live out loud

The importance of toys

by Lorin Michel Wednesday, May 23, 2012 1:21 AM

I am a grown woman and I love toys. I have them all over my house and I’m proud of that. In my office, directly in front of me when I sit at my desk working is a Samantha Stevens/Bewitched doll complete with hat and broom. On top of the shelf is an antique croquet game. In the corner is an enormous stuffed bear from FAO Schwartz in New York. I have blocks, a Winnie the Pooh, a Piglet, an Eeyore and a Tigger. In the bookshelf are some stuffed animals; atop my bookshelf is a Scarlett O’Hara Barbie doll and a Scully and Mulder Barbie and Ken doll set from the X-Files. They carefully guard a Tasmanian devil and an old metal lunchbox like what I carried when I was in school. On the floor is an antique doll crib with two antique dolls, one a Madame Alexander, another a Heinrich Handwerk, both bisque. Which is not to be confused with Bisquik, another blog post entirely.

Walk down the stairs and at the bottom is a black, limited edition Road Hog tricycle that I bought for Kevin for Christmas several years ago. It has motorcycle aspirations, complete with a tiny saddlebag under the saddle. On top rides a stuffed dog in a leather Harley-Davidson jacket with matching sunglasses. He looks bad-ass. Miniature motorcycles, mostly metal, are on the stairs; miniature bicycles on the fireplace mantle. On the entertainment center is a Marshall Field Tonka truck from 1955 as well as a Smith-Miller Bank of America armored truck, complete with lock.

The real toy collection begins in the bedroom, though. Like typical kids, it’s where we keep most of our stuff so that it doesn’t get underfoot, nobody slips on it, and it doesn’t clutter the living room. A shelf across the sliding glass door houses some of our best toys. Actually, Kevin’s toys. There are countless trucks mostly from the late 1950s/early 1960s including a full set of orange Tonka road crew vehicles. The set even includes road signs. I bought that for him for his birthday some years ago. On the shelf up high is a menagerie of stuff: more trucks, a Sno-Cone maker, an army tank that actually shoots something, an original erector set, a set of Lincoln logs, a metal Snow-Flake sled and a fully-functional (as long as the battery terminals aren’t corroded) King Ding robot complete with his brain, a smaller robot that rides up and down inside King Ding on an elevator.

Pebbles, a replacement of my favorite doll from when I was a child, sits next to the flat screen TV. Kevin found her somewhere on the east coast and gave her to me when we got married. I always loved that doll; she may well have been the only one I ever did love. I suspect because she first belonged to my older cousin Kim and I idolized Kim. When Kim gave her to me, it was like she had given me a million dollars. I’m sure she didn’t think that; she simply no longer had any use for the raggedy piece of plastic with a stuffed body and bad hair.

I’m not sure when or why we got so into toys, and truth be told, we’re getting a little tired of some of them. Thank dog for ebay. Still, we have some pieces that are true collectors items and worth a good deal of money. We’ll keep many of the best trucks, including Marshall Field, Bank of America and all of the trucks above the sliding glass door. They’re all in mint condition. I’ll keep Pebbles for sure. The trike stays, too.

I think toys somehow makes us feel invincible again, they remind us of a simpler time when we had no responsibilities and the biggest question of the day was “when do I have to be home for dinner?” They allow us to use our imaginations, construct worlds that don’t exist except for that day, as we play and move around our trucks and our dolls and our stuffed animals. It’s a way to create, and even to problem solve. There’s also something kind of cool about having exceptionally old, working and pristine toys in your house as an adult when there are no children around. They make people smile.

Toys and games have been discovered at the sites of some of the world’s most ancient civilizations. These discoveries include dolls and animals, whistles shaped like birds and even carts with wheels. Egyptian children had dolls that sported wigs and even had movable limbs. Most of the world’s earliest toys were made from rocks, sticks and clay. Most were made by parents for their children or by the children themselves. There was care given; each toy was more personal than the mass-produced toys of today.

But the reason for being is the same: to develop the mind and the imagination. That’s something adults could use more of, especially during especially trying times. Toys allow us to escape and to play even if it’s just in our minds, even if it’s just for pretend.

Also in the bedroom, in the corner, is Maguire’s bed. I don’t think he slept in it once during his 15 plus years. Instead, it became his toy “box,” holding all of his toys and they were plentiful. Each day, he would trot out anywhere from two to six, and after he was done playing and chewing, he’d leave them wherever he grew bored. He never learned the fine art of cleaning up after himself. Those toys are still in his bed. They allow us to imagine that he’s still with us, to pretend just for a minute that we can still hear the squeak of Pig or Moo or Hedge as he bites down for a chew.

Tonight I’m celebrating toys, celebrating the pretend. Living it out loud.

TV or not TV

by Lorin Michel Monday, May 14, 2012 11:56 PM

One of my guilty pleasures in life is television. I love the telly, the idiot box, the TV. I especially love reruns of shows that I’ve seen a dozen times; ditto movies. Nothing thrills me more than finding an X-Files marathon on SyFy, or a West Wing or Inside the Actor’s Studio marathon on Bravo, a Law & Order: SVU marathon on USA or a Gilmore Girls marathon on ABC Family. I love good television, familiar television, fun television and especially bad television.

I’m not sure where this pleasure came from. Perhaps it is rooted in my childhood when I would rush inside from playing to watch Dark Shadows or Lost in Space. Or even earlier, when we’d watch cartoons on Saturday nights. Or earlier still, when I’d watch The Wizard of Oz on the couch with dad. I never liked that movie, but for some reason, we watched it. Elmira Gulch scared the crap out of me, even more so than the witch (I didn’t know until I was much older that the same actress, Margaret Hamilton, played both parts). Or watching the perennial showing of the Ten Commandments on Easter with my grandmother though I always lost interest after Moses found out he wasn’t a prince of Egypt. I guess, even then, I wasn’t very religious. I just liked all the class warfare and strife, even though I never did much care for Charlton Heston. In fact, I can’t remember a single movie I ever saw him in that I liked. There was the equally religious Ben-Hur, and then the disaster flicks of the 70s. Take Earthquake. Dog! Or that horrendous Airport movie. Was it ’75? I can still remember cringing when he croaked “climb, baby, climb” as his girlfriend, a moronic flight attendant, was flying a 747 over the mountains in Utah. Double dog!

Back to television.

When I was in college, I had an old black and white television that I placed on the top of my dorm room closet. I could climb up into my loft, sit back against the wall and watch any of the two channels I got via rabbit ears. One was the public television station, which coincidentally was broadcast from Durham where the University of New Hampshire was located. That station came in fairly well, clean and crisp. In those days, the channel didn’t broadcast 24 hours a day, at least I don’t think they did. But they often broadcast movies. I remember watching Julia, seeing Reds for the first time, and many old, black and white movies – a plus, since it was the color my television most liked. I watched Vivien Leigh in Waterloo Bridge on a rainy Saturday, perched up on my loft wrapped in a blanket. I think part of me liked the escape.

Part of me still does.

When I was single, I would often have a television on in the house even though I wasn’t watching it. The voices kept me company. I do the same in my office sometimes. The television is behind me so I can’t actually watch it but if I’m having a lonely day, which happens sometimes when you work alone, and especially when I’m having one of those days where nothing is coming easily, quickly or good-ly. It makes me feel like I’m part of society. It’s also another way to escape when I need to.

This morning, I was in my office before 7, yawning already, never a good sign. I turned on the television while my computers got themselves ready for the day. FX was running a movie I’ve seen before. It’s not very good but it was good company. Frequency, with Dennis Quaid and Jim Caviezel. I love Dennis Quaid, I always have. He has a disarming smile, more of a mischievous grin, and he’s almost always good, though rarely great. Maybe that’s why I like him. I’m also partial to more rugged guys and Quaid is most definitely a rugged guy. He’s good even in bad movies, like The Day After Tomorrow, a horrid film about an important subject that was just trivialized. But he was good, even with wooden dialogue. He was great in the remake of The Parent Trap which remains one of my favorite guilty kid movies. He was just charming, plus he had a vineyard in the film, and you know me and wine.

I turned today’s film off fairly early. I didn’t need to see it again. And I was busy and trying desperately to get some good copy done. I didn’t need any distractions; I didn’t need to escape. I needed to concentrate.

That’s the other thing about TV. It’s wonderful when you don’t really want to concentrate and just want to veg. It’s not so good when you need to focus. It’s the age-old dilemma, now in HD, wide-screen, plasma, 1080p color and hundreds of channels. To teevee or not teevee.

But I’m not going to deal with it now because Stage Door is on, with Katharine Hepburn, Ginger Rogers and Lucille Ball. And later, on PBS, is American Masters. I think tonight they’re profiling Johnny Carson. I was never a fan, but Kevin was. We have a big night ahead of us.

Living it out loud. On the couch. With a glass of wine. Feet up. Vegging in front of the tube. 

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