That’s What SHE Said: Must Eat...er...SEE TV Addictions, Fall 2012

Though it may be difficult to believe upon looking at the lithe, svelte figure that writes before you today (just indulge me here, people), I have struggled with weight issues and body image issues since I was a very young child. 

I know, I know.  Hard to believe, right?  [Shut up.]

I suppose I could hypothesize that my addictive/compulsive esteem issues were rooted in my only-child foundations or in my fatherless upbringing, but I’d rather put the responsibility squarely where it belongs: in the oh-so-delicious, sticky hands of the McDonalds’, Monsanto, Hershey, Coca-Cola corporations.

The mixed messages of dentists collectively (and publicly) disavowing between-meal snacking and the ever-increasing advertisements for Kool-Aid, Jell-O Pudding Pops, and Hershey’s chocolate syrup (poured directly from the can!) made growing up in the 70’s and 80’s a particularly disconcerting time period for a latchkey kid with a rumbly-tummy and a couple of hours free of adult supervision in a house stocked with everything you’d need to satisfy the culinary cravings of an eight year old.

You can tell this is clearly a photoshopped picture of me
from my youth because I only ate COOL RANCH Doritos. 
So ha.  NOW who's laughing?

Three pm to five pm were always happy hours in my house: Butter and sugar on refined, white bread sandwiches.  Individually wrapped Kraft American Cheese slices.  Glass jars filled with air puffed, sugary Fluff, perfectly sized for spooning directly into my mouth as Martha Quinn or Nina Blackwood spoon-fed me the MTV music news.  Only a small stool and a tall shelf separated me from bagfuls of snack-sized mini-candy bars that eliminated the excruciating decision-making process of selecting just one treat—why, in a single sack were three of my best friends, Mr. Goodbar, Senor Krackel, and Madame Milk-Chocolate Hershey herself  (Hershey Dark never made my VIP list—he was simply too bitter and no fun.)    

Of course the party always had to end when my mom came home from work to craft the nutritious meal of red meat, starchy vegetable, and starchy side, dinner roll, and 8-ounce glass of whole milk that every 1982 USRDA/FDA guideline demanded.  (Seriously: Did anyone from this era have a “vegetable” that wasn’t corn or peas or a “side dish” that wasn’t potatoes, rice, or Stouffer’s Stove Top Stuffing?)  And good little girl that I was, I dutifully spooned what I was served into my mouth because I loved my mom and because Slim Goodbody and Schoolhouse Rock's “The Body Machine” told me to do so.

Sure, I’m exaggerating.  But the truth is, I found delicious foods unbearably attractive—whatever biological cue that is supposed to signal satisfaction or satiation from any pleasurable activity was missing from my genetic wiring. (I actually recall thinking that adults who pushed away platefuls of chocolate mousse pie or New York Cheesecake, claiming, “Oh, no.  I couldn’t possibly.  It’s just too rich!” were positively out of their effing minds. I choked, trying to swallow my unshed tears for those anthropomorphized plates of deliciousness that were left behind—dejected, unloved, and uneaten.)

Thank heavens the 1990’s eventually came along and suddenly we were all made astonishingly aware of these things called “fat grams” that lurked insidiously in our foods.  Why, if it weren’t for our good friends at the FDA, my girlfriends and I might never have learned to keep our figures slim by splitting a nourishing bag of Skittles and a single twelve-ounce can of Sprite between the three of us for lunch. 

“At least,” said my best friend, Missy, as she delicately sipped our communal beverage, “this Sprite has ZERO fat grams.”

Not to be outdone, my other best friend, Lisa, shoving a palmful of Skittles into her mouth, added, “And these probably count as a serving of fruit!”

Of course, I realize—NOW—that we stayed trim only by the grace of our teenage metabolisms (and the fact that we were splitting approximately five hundred calories between three people and essentially starving ourselves)…but we were years away from this wisdom.

Apart from those dark, ascetic teenage years, my journey with food has always been about the pursuit of deliciousness.  Finding something I liked, and then obsessing over when I could get more of it.  Food more than sustained me—it gave me entertainment, comfort, satisfaction.  If what I’m telling you has alarmed you in any way, please stop dialing the gentle-folks in Jenny Craig white coats to come collect me.  Put the phones down and step away from the intervention. 

I assure you—my tastes have refined and my indulgences are less suicidal now (I’ve replaced the McDonalds’ french fry fixation with a fascination for creative sushi, I’ve learned that the near-satisfaction from one package of Ramen noodles almost emulates the pleasure of three—and while I can’t say that the thirst for the 23 delectable chemicals that compose a Dr. Pepper doesn’t hit me every now and then, at least I’ve found that water and tea will slake the discomfort a bit.)  Besides, I’ve learned to transfer (thank heaven for modern psychology!) the more obsessive elements of my addictive nature to other outlets: photography involving my children, artistic endeavors with painting and drawing, writing superfluous commentary on pop culture confectionary—celebrity, music, film, television.

We don't need no thought control.

Ahhh.  Television: my other unhealthy childhood addiction.  Next to food, television gave me some of the greatest pleasure of my adolescence—the big box in the living room corner was a veritable smorgasbord of celebrities, music, movies—the world at my fingertips, with the twist of a dial.  (Sorry, pre-2K, folks.  Not every unit had a remote.  However did we survive such barbaric conditions?)

I can still so vividly recall curling up with mom and a Hungry Man TV dinner (how apropos!) and a bowl of Jiffy Pop (pre-historic popcorn you actually made atop the stove and not from the nuclear microwave radiation so common today) to watch The Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Three’s Company, The Carol Burnett Show, Sanford & Son, The Jeffersons, Dallas, and Dynasty.  These were foundational elements of my earliest youth—I learned of romance, dreams, laughter, intolerance, resolve, corruption, and salvation.  And I learned that no matter how painful, debilitating, frustrating, or heart-rending the situation, every challenge could be introduced, faced, reacted to, and resolved in under an hour. 

Let’s face it—television is, and has always been an uneven media.  Television has captured and produced some of the most compelling moments of the last century; the highest of the highs, the lowest of the lows.  (Yes, I’m talking to you, Honey Boo Boo.)  Naw, I’m just kidding.  She won’t be able to read for decades.

Once more, I digress. 

The fall new show season is in full swing, and my response to the buffet before me has me salivating like a Pavlovian experiment.  Like a trans-fat-addicted refugee at the all-you-can-eat-but-only-off-one-plate bar, I’m stuffing my DVR with more morsels than I could ever consume—but I just can’t help myself.  My compulsions have reared their ugly heads and I am an eight year old girl once again, hoarding Kraft single wrappers under her mattress so her mom won’t find out she’d utterly ignored the advice of  those 4 out of 5 helpful leading dentists.  But, oh…the possibilities.  I can’t help myself—I’m dazzled by the steaming deliciousness of the fall lineup.

But it all looks so good, coos my clicker, her siren song inviting me to curl up and lose myself in blissful couch-potato-dom.

Yes, it does, responds the left hemisphere of my brain, her arms folded haughtily.  But didn’t you bank over a hundred and seventy hours of unwatched television LAST year?  When, exactly, do you plan to watch any of that?    

She’s right, you know.  I do tend to amass television shows like an eighty-seven year old lady from TLC’s Hoarders stockpiles ashtrays and used Ziploc bags.  Because I can.  And I just know that one day I will someday find a use for them.  (Seriously—on my first sick day this winter, I’m positively certain that I’ll devour an entire season of something while huddled under a fuzzy blanket and a mountain of tissues.)

It was during this imaginary conversation between my id and superego that I was struck by an epiphany—perhaps, much like my predilection for food, I could learn to manage my television impulses by breaking down my needs, and subcategorizing their relevance and importance to me, thereby creating a recommended weekly allowance of television programming that was substantive and nutritive, yet that would not bloat me or my DVR with unnecessary junk. 

There comes a moment when a healthy metaphor borders on an overwrought conceit—so I will cut to the clichéd chase:  What does the properly balanced television diet consist of, you may wonder?  Here’s my baker’s dozen, categorized by personal value:

Category 1, New Stuff: a.k.a. “New Shows That Look Amazing But I Am Desperately Afraid To Invest In Because Of The Soulless Corporate Assholes Who (historically) Lack Vision And Pull The Plug On Outstanding (or at least worthy of a reprieve to develop a following) Programming While Continually Lavishing Time and Money Upon Derivative Drivel That wouldn’t Entertain a Senile Monkey*.” 

*Note: This classification may also be heretofore referred to as the “Alcatraz, Awake, Invasion, Joan of Arcadia, Arrested Development, Jericho, Firefly, My So-Called Life, Viva Laughlin—We Hardly Knew Ye”- Category.  (Gotcha on that Viva Laughlin one, didn’t I?  Even the fabulous Hugh Jackman couldn’t save that wreck from derailment)—

Suck it, ComEd.

1)   Revolution—  I have always had a penchant for dystopian, alternative, or post-apocalyptic narratives (I count books like “The Stand”, “The Passage”, “The Road”, “The Great and Secret Show”, and every zombie/ biological warfare film among my favorites) and, I suppose I could state that, with the success of shows like The Walking Dead and Falling Skies, there is plenty of evidence that I am not alone.  For me, it’s not the destruction or the bleakness that fascinates—it’s the glimmer of hope that remains seated in the hearts of humanity that I find most compelling; the glory and exultation of even the smallest triumphs of good over evil.  Besides, the production value of Revolution looks pretty exceptional—and it’s got enough studio muscle behind it that Revolution may just join cockroaches and Twinkies in the most-likely-to-survive-annihilation department.  

Why yes, this IS the ritual sacrifice room.
We just had it decorated!

2)   666 Park Avenue—Vanessa Williams, television’s campiest, most-delicious vixen since Joan Collins bitch-slapped Linda Evans across the ABC network, coupled with Terry O’Quinn, cinematic-Stepfather-from-hell and Lost’s incomparable visionary/ demon-host?  As Satanic superintendents of prime New York rental property?  (In the 1980’s, there was a made-for-TV movie starring Susan Lucci as a devil-worshipping high-priestess in a Stepford-like suburb called “Invitation to Hell” that was so-awful-it-was-phenomenal…so you can imagine my excitement over this, right?) I haven’t seen a single episode yet, but there is simply no way this could be bad.  I’m currently preparing blood sacrifices to the dark lords of network programming to ensure that they don’t pull this dark beauty without giving it a sporting chance.  

3)   Elementary—



You can tell it's modern because
the gentleman doesn't feel compelled
to offer the lady a seat.



Why it will work:

·    Growing societal appreciation for nearly all that is quirky-intellectual (e.g. Monk, House, Psych, Dr. Who, etc.)

·    Sexy, B+ level star-power (e.g. Lucy Liu, agelessly appealing, and Jonny Lee Miller, Angelina Jolie’s ex and tasty star of the woefully underrated 90’s tech-thriller, Hackers) and if the previews are any indication, there will be chemistry, if not romance.

·    Gender flipping—Watson’s a woman?!  Cool by me.  Maybe we could get one of those into the White House someday, eh? 

Why it won’t work:

·    In a word?  Saturation.  If there were a maximum-occupancy limit on crime-scene-analysis programming, the fire department would have shut the networks down thirteen CSI/ Law & Order’s-ago.  It will be difficult to capture the viewing population with yet another New York City procedural…but…this one seems just classic-AND-innovative enough that I will give it a shot.  

"Andre, I feel compelled to tell you that I don't think anyone
will notice my performance on this show because you're on it."
"You're probably right, Scott."

4)   The Last Resort—Frankly, I’d watch a show of Andre Braugher grocery shopping.  I simply think he’s one of the most remarkably subtle, deeply talented, and shamefully undervalued actors of our time and long overdue on leading-man status.  Personally, I’m hoping this potentially groundbreaking new drama will finally afford him that opportunity.   

In this media-marinated modern society we live in, where fact-checking begins at the speed of the spoken word and where once-shady-back-door-deals are not only brokered boldly in the light of day, but proudly championed as "peace-keeping"acts of diplomacy, The Last Resort, with its crew of maligned U.S. Navy men and women who dared to question unclear orders to annihilate another country, has the potential to create some powerful dialogue about the frequent inaccuracies of our moral compasses.  The first two episodes were excellent—and I’m genuinely looking forward to the uncomfortable conversations this kind of drama may provoke.    

5)   Partners*, The New Normal* , The Mindy Project, The Neighbors—So, I see you wincing at the fact that I’ve lumped these sitcoms into one, but, to be perfectly honest, I’m hedging my bets.  I already have an exclusive circle of close comedy friends and I’m a bit of a snob about who I let into my crowd.  My taste in comedy is irreverent—to be a part of my comedic clique, a show must dance seductively at the edge of impudent satire, without falling drunkenly into slovenly, derisive ugliness.  (Hence, on my comedic rating scale, shows like Happy Endings get a “thumbs up” and crap like Are You There, Chelsea? get drug out to the back alley and pistol whipped to death.) 

Sadly, the odds are in favor of at least three of my new selections being dumped mid-season.  But I’ll make my case:

Why Partners?  Because Will & Grace was one of my all-time favorite shows and this is the fictionalized relationship of the men who brought that beauty to fruition.  (Plus, it stars Mark Urie, the greatest thing about the greatest show, Ugly Betty, which was filled with some of the absurdly greatest performances and plotlines I’d ever seen.)

Why The New Normal? Equal parts über-creator Ryan Murphy (Glee & American Horror Story), the unflinchingly inimitable actress Ellen Barkin, and the irrational impulse to rubberneck at what may possibly be the show that shakes Americans off the fence regarding divisive issues like gay rights (and even knock a few off their high horses on both sides of that fence).  Simply put—in comoedia veritas. 

Why The Mindy Project?  Mindy Kaling is a brilliant comedic actress, writer, and commentator on this bizarre freakshow we call modern life.  Period.  (As a middle-aged wife and mother, can I possibly relate to her incessant “forever 21”-man-chasing, body-image issues, and rampant “smart-girl-in-a-world-that-doesn’t-value-smart-girls” insecurities, you ask?  Yep.  She’s still in here somewhere.  I’d like to see where Kaling can take her.  That is, if she can avoid the Ally McBeal-ian pratfalls.  One dancing-baby daydream and I’m out.)

Husband, wife, spaceship.  Typical suburban Sunday. 

Why The Neighbors?  Even though I predict it will be the first in line at the sacrificial chopping block, if you live anywhere near the monotonous homogeneity of Suburbia, U.S.A., you’ll know exactly what it’s like to smile and wave at the strangers next door, then go inside to dissect your neighbors’ every action, from their choices in wardrobe to their (quite obvious) mistakes in child-rearing.  If you come for the first episode where you meet the Puritanical cult-like Zabvronian inhabitants of the Hidden Hills subdivision, please make sure to stay for the second episode where the alien observations of the typical American mall-rat hit very, very close to home.  

*As an aside, I simply have to mention that I recently read a couple of scathing commentaries on the portrayal of gay characters from shows like Modern Family, Partners, and The New Normal and, while I can understand some of the frustration expressed by writers like Mark Harris, that the representation of gay men on sitcoms as one-dimensional archetypes is reductive, I would venture to posit that these oversimplifications (e.g. Harris drew attention in particular to MF’s Cameron’s compulsion to “express every feeling he experiences on the scale of a Broadway musical” and Mitch’s “responsible but repressed, fussy” gay male) are no more apparent, simplistic, or insulting than, say, Friends’ finitely drawn archetypes of the American female as a neurotic, uptight controlling hag [Monica], a neurotic, emotionally-ambivalent, child-woman [Rachel], or a neurotic, free-spirited airhead [Phoebe].  I’m just sayin’.  

Category 2, Old Stuff:  a.k.a. “Returning Shows That Survived the Unholy Circle Jerk That Is Apparently the Executive Decision Making Process for Cutting and/or Keeping Programming and For Which We Must All Be Grateful (Lest Said Demons Return Our Beloved Programs to ‘He Who Walks Behind the Rows.’)”

This is totally what junior college is like.  Honest.

6)   Community—THE single greatest half hour of sitcom television, hands down.  Cerebral.  Winsome.  Blasphemous.  Brilliant.  Each character is their own amazing amalgam of insecurity and courage, virtue and vice, acumen and insipidity, made better only by its proximity to the character next to them.  Each episode is a near-perfect, self-sustaining example of cosmic television perfection made better only by its proximity to the episode that came before it.  Community is the love/hate relationship of pop culture and American identity.  I challenge anyone to watch the episodes “Epidemiology” or “Advanced Dungeons and Dragons” and not fall in love with this show.

What?  You still need convincing?  Fine.  They also have a cross-dressing dean, campus paintball wars, Claymation Christmas episodes, and a capuchin monkey named “Annie’s Boobs”, m’kay?   

7)   Parks & Recreation—I could spend pages defining the infinite combinations of characteristics that make this show work, but I will rein in my verbosity and give you a simple, two-word explanation for the P&R phenomenon: 

Ron. Swanson. 

8)   Happy Endings—Like Friends, but funnier.  And set in Chicago.  And where else could you find cocktails that give people awkward sex dreams from a food truck named “Steak Me Home Tonight”?  Once more, a simple two-word explanation for the unwholesome goodness of this program:

Penny. Hartz. 

(Oh, mother of God—why didn’t I see this before?  Ron Swanson, meet Penny Hartz.  Penny Hartz, Ron Swanson. Please procreate.) 



9)   Modern Family—Just your everyday family comedy, if your everyday family is split between three blended families in wealthy suburban Los Angeles putting the “fun” in “dysfunctional”, of course.  But seriously, all snark aside, every single episode of this show that I have seen over the past three years has contributed to a greater message—that a real family can look like anything at all, providing it can laugh at itself.  Every character is a perfect foil to another, and, somehow, their neuroses complement one another in equal measure.  Modern Family is still sharply hilarious, sweetly heartfelt, and just a wee bit hopeful.  If you can think of a better way to spend 22 minutes, then by all means, be my guest.



...'til the one day when the ladies (and
gentleman) met these fellows...

(FYI it's super fun to try and figure out who you are in each family—someone needs to write one of those facebook quizzes “Which MF character are YOU?”  My husband, who fancies himself a “Phil”, long ago deemed me a “Cameron”; it was a perfect choice, really, considering I’d pegged him for a “Mitchell” after the second episode.) 

They are rather ridiculously good looking, aren't they?

10) Supernatural—For six seasons I have been a die-hard fan of the plucky little CW show that could.  Sam and Dean Winchester, brothers, orphaned by the demons their family fought to defeat, served up Supernatural on a silver bullet from the very first episodes and held fast to their fans, hearts and souls.  You think Twihards are fanatical?  Just try messing with a true Supernaturalist or, ‘Saltgunner’, as they often refer to themselves.  (Who…me?  No, not me, of course.)  While I passionately love stories about all the dark things that go bump in the night (hence my affection for Sophomore season sweetheart, Grimm), what drives a Supernatural fan is more elemental than the painfully handsome male leads or the outstanding production value of the weekly mini-horror films they produce—it’s the multiple, interlaced, overarching storylines that weave a powerful chronicle of good versus evil, hope triumphing the chaos of reality.  The faith that, even in a world filled with the darkest abominations, there are still those willing to take up the fight for the innocent. 

As a true fan, I believe the saga should naturally have concluded two seasons ago—but…well…they are painfully handsome.  As far as I’m concerned, carry on my wayward sons…there’ll be peace when you are done. 

11) The Walking Dead—Economic and social collapse.  Failed government security.  Perambulating corpses.  Betrayal of lifelong friendships.  Desperate lustful connections.  The search for meaning in a world in chaos.  Just a day in the life as we know it, right?  



Hide-n-Seek, The Walking Dead Way.
Zombies really shouldn't play with their food.

(Minus the perambulating corpses, of course—unless you count the Kardashian-Jenner clan, I suppose.)   

With fewer than thirty episodes under its belt, it is no small feat that the compelling account of Deputy Rick Grimes and his tiny band of survivors have propelled The Walking Dead into one of the most talked about television shows in history.  The much mythologized saga charges the living remains of society to face the archetypal zombie hordes, fighting demons amidst (and often within) themselves that are far more horrifying than any of the creatures who mindlessly hunger for their flesh.  The scares are thrilling, to be sure—but it is the dull, pulsing ache that resides within the viewer who must helplessly watch the drama unfold that truly eats from within.  

12) Person of Interest—This is the only returning network drama I’ll be following this fall.  I would have put the sublimely innovative, superbly performed, brilliantly original drama Awake here, but midway through its groundbreaking first season, it received word of its impending execution and rushed a hasty conclusion to its final episodes to reward its loyal viewers with some sense of closure.  

Finch, you keep your eyes on the "Person", I'll cover the "Of".
Detective Carter, I'll need you on "Interest" Detail.

Fortunately, Jim Caviezel and Michael Emerson’s cloak-and-dagger guardian angel drama scored enough positive buzz that it was spared from the same unsatisfying outcome.  This is not to say that Person of Interest lacks its own clever hook—the conspiracy of post-9/11 Big Brother’s Patriot Act-paranoid screening of the ignorant American citizen—for our own good, of course—is not a conspiracy after all.  The surveillance comes full circle when the genius mastermind who created the monitoring system employs a haunted former CIA operative and several NYPD officers as a reluctant band of vigilantes hell-bent on saving the genuinely innocent that the well-meaning government deems unworthy of rescue and relief.  The watchers become the watched, and as one electronic puzzle piece slides into place next to the other, the mysteries of our anti-heroes unravel, investing the viewer deeper and deeper into the mythology of big government and the burdens of social responsibility.   

Plus, Jim Caviezel gets to kick so much ass with some cool high-tech toys, so it’s kind of a win-win situation for everyone.  Unless you were an actor on Awake.  Those people got screwed.    

*

So, once more, the baker’s dozen, implies a thirteenth something as a reward for sticking by me this far, right?  I thought about tossing in another show I’ll be watching/ hoarding on my DVR (e.g. I totally omitted my animation selections—the ever-fabulous Family Guy or the subtly brilliant Bob’s Burgers), or a few shows I sincerely wish would make it but that I can almost guarantee will be cancelled before I can even post this on my blog (e.g. Go On, Chicago Fire, Vegas)…but, in the end, I chose to go in another direction altogether.  For your approval, I humbly submit:

Category 3, Off My Radar & my DVR—a.k.a. “Put a Bullet in These Suckers Already.”

Yes, I know.  It sounds like I am being a bit of a bitch, especially in light of the countless amazing shows that were killed far too early, but sometimes I think it’s sadder when great programs were put out of their—and our—misery far too late.  (You know who I’m talking about, Roseanne.) 

Friends almost pulled the plug too late, but made it by a nose (ßinsert Rachel Green rhinoplasty joke there.)  Seinfeld and The Sopranos got the hell out of Dodge before anyone was ready for them to go, pissing off droves of fans—and while many didn’t like the hastily scribbled notes they left on our bedside tables while we slept, no one could ever argue that they overstayed their welcome. 

So, rather unceremoniously, here are the shows that should have stopped while they were ahead and now face that awkward moment with their fans…who just aren’t that into them anymore.  (Look—it really is better this way.  We need to explore and to keep our options open—seeing other shows is a part of growing.)

Law & Order: SVU Who are we kidding?  We should have thrown a toe tag on this one the minute Stabler left the fold.  The new teammates are earnest, but frankly, the past year without Olivia’s better half has been unbearable.  There.  I said it.

Glee: Don’t get me wrong, those scrappy kids from Lima will forever hold a place in my heart.  I just don’t know if I have it in me to invest in a whole new class or to watch the original gang pair off, fade off, break off, die off, or piss off the rest of their lives.  Last season’s finale was the perfect yearbook portrait, frozen in time—a touching tribute to the way I want to remember them for all time.  Will I watch the new season?  Yeah, probably—but while 2013 may be cool, 2012 will always rule…

American Idol: Two of the most annoying personalities on the planet, one with talent and one with none, bickering week in, week out?  Sure, it worked with Simon and Paula, but there’s no way I can get it up for Mariah Carey and Nicki Minaj.  Following Dunkleman’s footsteps a decade later: “Mrs. E.L. Out.”  (No need to google who “Brian Dunkleman” is, kids.  He’ll probably be delivering your pizza later.)

How I Met Your Mother: As the one-time world’s—wait for it—biggest HIMYM fan, I can honestly say that this is difficult for me to admit…but it’s time.  It’s time.  You’ve got to leave if you ever want me to miss you.  (Say goodnight, Barney.)

30 Rock: Funniest woman ever.  Most gifted cast ever.  Most ridiculously innovative plotlines ever.  Run.  Save yourselves…before it’s too late!  (Did you hear that, The Office?  I warned you two years ago.  Damn tiny people in the box never listen to me.)

Two and a Half Men: Honestly, this one is so pathetic that I almost shouldn’t even bother skewering it.  Let’s put it this way, every episode just gives Charlie Sheen another reason to think he was justified and to mutter “Winning!” through his porn-star vacant, coked-out haze.  Isn’t that enough of a reason to just make this show go away?

All CSIs: While all three CSIs were once the staple of my viewing diet, they’ve been over-processed to the point where the quality ingredients that once set them apart from their competitors are nowhere to be seen.  Grissom, Caine, and Taylor: sign the DNRs.  Closure Seems Imminent.

*

Well there you have it—my treatise on the fall television lineup.  (And I only put away three Twinkies and a single Slim-Jim while writing it!)  It feels really good to finally master the addictions that mastered us, doesn’t it?  Now, if you’ll excuse me—I’ve got a DVR to begin unloading.  I should emerge from hibernation around the holidays. 

As always, this is only half the story—why not check out what HE said over at Suburban Acrobat?

That’s What SHE Said: The Soundtrack for Summer, 2012—

The other night we ran out of something that we needed desperately for some valuable reason I can’t recall (and don’t ask me what it was—maybe it was milk or butter…or motor oil?  D batteries, perhaps?  I don’t know…) and as my husband reached for his keys, I practically tackled him to the floor to get out the door first. 

As I crawled across his limp body, I was all “Hey honey, sorry about that—don’t trouble yourself, sweetheart!  Let me get this one for you. You just stay here and relax…with the kids.” 

I was halfway down the driveway before he had pulled himself up enough to salute my generosity with the extension of his middle finger as our daughters leapt upon his back, regaling him with stories from their day and pleas for play time.  An image of insects devouring their paralyzed prey flashed in my head. 

Please don’t misunderstand me.  I adore my children.  I would lay my life down for them in an instant, without hesitation.  They are perfect, precious—extraordinary in every way.  But sometimes, mommy needs a minute of solitude for the sake of her sanity, you know?  I decided to drown out the guilty voices inside my head by cranking the radio.

It was one of those lovely, late summer, purply-pink-pre-twilight times, where slices of sunlight still streaked the western sky, melting the day into the night; at about 83 degrees, it was cool enough to put the windows down and blast the tune that slid through the speakers—Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer”. 

In that moment, as my hair whipped against my cheeks and my left arm found the beat against the exterior of the driver’s side door, I wasn’t a mom or a wife or a homeowner with bills and health care concerns and fifteen pounds that just would not go away (no matter how much I reduced my chicken McNugget intake)—I was transformed.  I was just a kid, hearing this song for the very first time on a similar summer night a lifetime ago—looking forward to back-to-school clothes shopping, seeing which friends were going to be in my classes, lusting after new crushes…just a kid with nothing to lose and everything before her.

It. Was. Awesome. 

I returned home—with my milk or my butter or my batteries or whatever it was—a new woman. 

Refreshed. 

There’s just something about an amazing summer song, isn’t there?  Summer songs represent change—they mark the transitions in life: Elementary to middle.  Middle to high.  High to college.  First love to next love.  Best friends to new friends.  Agony to ecstasy—and back again.  More than birthdays, more than New Year’s Eve celebrations…for me, it is the memories of summers spent that I pull out of the recollection box of my mind—accompanied by their incredible soundtracks—that became the indelible benchmarks for the significant stages of my life. 

To paraphrase the timeless wisdom of LFO’s “Summer Girls” (please tell me that you do see the tongue, firmly planted in the cheek, right???): “Summer songs come and summer songs go—some are worthwhile and some are so-so.” 

Sometimes the value of a great summer song lies in nothing more than a catchy hook (take Shaggy’s ridiculous “It Wasn’t Me”, Will Smith’s infectious “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It”, Haddaway’s absurd “What is Love”, Deana Carter’s irritating “Strawberry Wine”, Ginuwine’s mortifying “Pony”…or any number of the countless blissfully ignorant throwaway tunes from virtually everyone’s summer experiences) but sometimes, there is so much more to a great summer song than you may even realize until you are old and running away and hiding from your family at dinnertime to purchase items you cannot even recall just to have a second to yourself. 

Summer songs, regardless of genre, are about three things only: fun, love, or loss.  Fun songs are as easy to find as they are to lose—they are not forgettable, but after a time, you find yourself rolling your eyes and changing the station as quickly as possible when they come on. The ones that stand the test of time usually require a direct hit to your head or to your heart—but these are more difficult to define because your response to them depends wholly upon who you are and where you’re from.  This got me to thinking about my soundtrack for the summer of 2012—according to the Mayans, our final year together on the planet.  Now at the final chapter of this season, I am left to ponder: Were the songs that dominated our sun-soaked attention spans built to last?  Maybe.  Here are a baker’s dozen that I think measured up—or will at least keep the summertime memories alive until the comet or zombie apocalypse wipes us out on December 21^st. 

In no particular order:

1)    fun., feat. Janelle Monae—“We are Young”:  Stop trying to escape this song.  Don’t run from it; give in to its hypnotic charms.  At some point, we all thought we were invincible and that we would live forever.  This infinitely sing-able testament to the delusional impregnability of youth is not whining—it is calling out to those living in that moment, hearkening them to hang on to it with everything they have.  As for the rest of us, it’s a bittersweet reminder that Mellencamp was right—we should have held on to sixteen for as long as we could; those changes that made us women and men came around a hell of a lot sooner than many of us expected, didn’t they? 

(Runner up, for all the very same reasons: Adam Lambert—“Never Close Our Eyes”)

2)    AIR—“Cosmic Trip”/ “Sonic Armada”:  Okay, so if you don’t think French new wave electronica might be your thing…perhaps you should stop being such a normal person and tap into your inner pretentious ass, hmmm?  No, seriously.  They’re amazing—always have been.  You’ve heard their music countless times (I discovered them in that 1999 Heath Ledger gem, “10 Things I Hate About You”, which led me to AIR’s sublime album, “Moon Safari”), and while their new album is more conceptual and not as divine, sometimes the summer just calls for a great piece of moody music that is sexy, mindless, goodness (e.g. Enigma, Dirty Vegas, Portishead, Basement Jaxx).  I don’t speak French, so they could honestly be singing about toilet paper and athlete’s foot, but I’d still chill to their sound—they’re just that good. 

Let me put it to you this way: if you like the entrancing rhythms and dulcet tones of Ellie Goulding’s “Lights”, you’re already halfway there.  It’s time for you to step away from Nicki Minaj’s starship (which you and I both know is infinitely inferior to her transcendent 2011 single, “Super Bass”, anyway) and get some fresh AIR.  (ßSee what I did there?)

Don't worry; no rockstars were harmed.

3)    Linkin Park—“Burn it Down”:  Why is this song on my list?  Because they’re Linkin-effin’-Park, people.  Don’t make me explain this one—they’re the sole survivors of a dying genre and this new single does not disappoint.  Don’t get me started on what the hell happened to contemporary/ alternative rock or what malevolent force was behind its genocide; suffice it to say, we should celebrate its survivors—especially when they still produce excellent music.  Every summer soundtrack needs a fist pumping, head banger—this is as close as you can get anymore.

(My honorable mention in this category goes to my beloved band, The Black Keys, for their superb new song, “Gold on the Ceiling”.  I gave this one to Linkin Park only because I’ve heard it about a hundred more times, so it’s embedded in my brain.  I’m sure The Black Keys will catch up in no time.)

4)    Mac Miller—“Missed Calls”:  So, I’m probably going to take a lot of heat for this one, but bear with me.  The Pennsylvania native is about the hardest working, self-promoting kid I’ve ever seen.  He didn’t have the backing of Bieber or the Disney machine to create his identity for him.  Mac Miller has been making mixtapes of his laid-back raps about the simple joys of youth—you know, the deep stuff, like Kool-Aid, pizza, and purple kush—since he was fifteen years old.  Fifteen.  [Do you want to know what I was doing at fifteen years old?  Writing “Mrs. Anthony Rippy” on my geometry folder with a sparkly glitter pen and thinking about going to the mall to check out the new selection of “Guess” jeans.] This kid is a beast. 



This kid has got to hate old people like me
who find him completely adorable.

The last couple of years have found the scrappy little rapper quietly growing in popularity and maturity (his adorable doo-woppy ode to the lovability of young people, “Knock, Knock”, was one of my very favorite songs last year)—though he is probably best known for his rhymes about the king of the comb-over, Donald Trump.  While Miller is often compared to a young Eminem, I don’t see it.  He doesn’t seethe and his rhymes aren’t that tight; however, now, at twenty, I see a baby Beastie Boy experimenting with his skills and cultivating his talents under the tutelage of a host of quality hip-hop influences like Wiz, Pharrell, and Weezy.  I’m keeping my eye on him and inviting you to do the same.

In Mac’s honor, I bestow my second place award upon: Gym Class Heroes, feat. Ryan Tedder—“The Fighter” (which, coincidentally, I thought was rapped by Mac Miller the first time that I heard the song.)

5)    The Killers—“Runaways”:  I’ll admit—I’m new to The Killers.  I completely missed their 2008 album (might have had something to do with my creating and birthing and nurturing a new baby or some other such nonsense), so I am dutifully kicking my own ass for arriving so late to this celebration.  But now that I’m here, let me start by placing the nearest lampshade on my head, getting hammered, and dancing on a tabletop—I will be the life of the party.  This new single in particular, is excellent—it brings to mind all the elements of early U2, quality rock and romance that you just don’t hear enough of anymore.  I said the best summer songs involved love or loss—this song commemorates both.



We get it, Alex.  You're just not that into us anymore.

6)    Alex Clare—“Too Close”: Yeah, yeah, the Microsoft commercial song.  Screw that.  Look, let’s be frank.  We’ve all been out driving around and noted that the vehicle beside us was vibrating, pulsating, with music stressing the limits of its speakers, its driver, blissfully unaware of our embarrassed observations as they belt out some tune with childish abandon, right?  Well…if it was this summer, it was probably this song.  (And, YES.  It was probably me.)

In the absence of new work from my favorite trip-hop band of all time—Massive Attack—Alex Clare’s ambitious amalgam of blues, funk, and electronica have made this British soul man my go-to guy all summer.  Every song off his 2011 album “The Lateness of the Hour” is beyond delicious; its prize jewel, “Too Close”, is no emo-heartbreak-crybaby crap.  Clare is clear—it’s not him, it’s you—and he’s just fine with that, thank you very much.  Perfectly satisfied being the anti-hero, every beat of this infinitely listenable song punctuates a step he takes in the opposite direction from the one who made the mistake of loving him.  You know, everyone deserves a fabulous, ass-kicking breakup/ burn song at least once in their lifetime—if this is you, this is that song.

7)    Kenny Chesney—“Come Over”:  If you know me, you know modern country is not really my thing.  So much so, that I’ll admit that I’ve analogized it with beating bags of sick cats against broken glass walls.  Author and comedian Michael Ian Black recently observed: “Every mentally handicapped person I have ever known prefers country music.”  He stressed, “I’m not saying you have to be mentally handicapped to enjoy country music, just that it helps.”  To be clear, HIS words, not mine; don’t kill the messenger. 

My point?  Oh, yeah—don’t you ever say that I can’t be open-minded and fair, because here I am, throwing you a bone.  While Chesney’s “Come Over” doesn’t touch Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now”, I will admit that this song (despite the limitations of its genre) is actually catchy, breezily romantic, and hopeful.  And if we’re going to be honest, what more could I ask of a summer song? (But you still better love me for reaching so far outside of my comfort zone for this one.  You owe me.)

2^nd Place: Eric Church—“Springsteen” (To quote the woefully underrated  cinematic masterpiece, “Showgirls”: “It doesn’t suck.”)

8)    Gotye, feat. Kimbra—“Somebody That I Used to Know”: Breakups make for such powerful summer song fodder, don’t they?  The epic “he-said/ she-said” agonizing over who-done-who-wrong has massive universal appeal—and this absolutely unavoidable song (seriously, just try to run from it—it WILL find you, wherever you hide) perfectly captures every human being’s neurotic compulsion to be perceived as the “wronged” party at the end of a relationship.  All the elements are here— the soothing syncopated rhythm, the haunting refrains of Gotye’s grief (his voice, lilting like an pre-solo career Sting), Kimbra’s gorgeous, measured response to his brooding self-absorption—for the perfect summer song (that is substantially superior to Katy Perry’s “Wide Awake”).  I only wish I found the rest of Gotye’s catalogue as appealing as this song—but if it does end up being a one-off, I won’t whine about it.  I’ll always be grateful for the memory.  It’s not like I’ll pen a ditty called “A Song That I Used to Know” or anything like that. 

9)    GROUPLOVE—“Tongue Tied”:  In spite of the shouty-capitals in their band name, this song is pleasingly adorable and surprisingly effervescent.  I love an indie-band that doesn’t take itself too seriously—and in the case of GROUPLOVE, it would be good if they didn’t, because I predict that they will be completely forgotten in approximately five years (seriously, if you remember the name of this band in the year 2017, you come find me and I will pay you five dollars.  I have a notary standing by as witness), but then again, who cares?  We need stuff to dance to in our flip flops and cocoa butter.  “Tongue Tied” is about as nutritive and filling as a spoonful of sherbet, but on a hot summer day, what could be better?

Michael debuts his "Blue Steel". 
"Magnum" is still in the works.

10)  George Michael—“White Light”:  To understand this selection, you must know something about my love for all that is George Michael—from his exuberant days as the sexy half of Wham!, to his mind-blowing (and hormone-exploiting) album, “Faith”, to his devastatingly resplendent album, “Older”, (which, to this day, if I had to select only ten albums to listen to for the rest of my life would definitely make the cut) this fabulously talented man has created gorgeous musical snapshots for every stage of my life, from the irresponsible ecstasy of adolescence to the heavier reflections of an aging heart.

“White Light” is no exception.  Yes, I’ll admit that when I first heard this song, I shared with a friend that it sounded like a dubstep redux of a mid-nineties Depeche Mode track.  But then I listened again.  And again.  And again.  That is George Michael’s gift…he gets under your skin and in no time at all, his music is running through your blood and living in your heart.  At its very least, “White Light” is a simple summer club banger—but at its best, it is a testimonial to survival, by someone who’s lived hard enough to tell the tale with a measure of authenticity.

11)  Phil Philips—“Home”:  Yes, I know, haters gon’ hate, especially if you’re one of the millions of poo-poo-ers who resent the American Idol machine (you know, the system that rewards the red necked, the white skinned, or the bluesy-acoustic guitar)—but gosh-darn-it, don’t take it out on the kids!  I never read Phil’s “awww, shucks” lopsided grin as insincere or contrived—in fact, I believe that, in time, he may turn out to be the real thing.  While many disparage him for his limited range, comparing him to a discount Dave Matthews or a baby Bob Seger—I think his performance on “Home” hints at a contemporary Simon and Garfunkel. 

Look. I can still feel you fuming at me as you read this, believing it blasphemous for me to make the American Idol winner the only indie-folk rock selection on my summer list, so I’ll just smile bashfully, shuffle my feet, and stare at the floor as I remind you that you have the rest of your lives to listen to Mumford & Sons, Fleet Foxes, and Bon Iver—why not give a few of your summer days to a sweetly endearing love song?  They’re rarer than you may realize.

Not just another pretty voice.
MoZella's hot, too.

12)  MoZella—“Change”:  I discovered MoZella quite by accident.  I’m not embarrassed to admit it: she was a recommended selection from my Adele station on Pandora—but one song was all it took to snag my heart and make it hers.  I’ve been gushing about her for weeks, trying to get anyone and everyone to listen to this sweetly smoky-voiced, retro chanteuse.  If Adele, Dusty Springfield, Duffy (what ever happened to Duffy?), and Christina Perri had a love child, MoZella would be their holy progeny. “Change”, her most recent song, is that perfect, late-summer brand of sentimental reflection on the ever changing nature of our existence—a bittersweet farewell with the tiny twist of hope.

[P.S. Listen, I’m not a demanding person, but considering that Adele is off making her wonder-baby, Dusty Springfield is leading the choir in heaven, Duffy is apparently missing in action, and Christina Perri has settled for being a two-hit (at least, for now) wonder, how’s about we all get this woman into a studio and making some amazing new music, shall we?]

So, the definition of a “baker’s dozen” implies a thirteenth something, right?  A freebie to reward your loyal patronage?  Any guesses about your bonus summer song?  I’m sure you noted how many radio edit top-40’s I blew off, right?  What will it be…what will it be?  Pitbull’s “Back in Time”?  Maroon 5’s “Payphone”?  Pink’s “Blow Me (One Last Kiss)”?  Usher’s “Scream”?  Oh, come on—it’s too easy:

13)  Carly Rae Jepsen—“Call Me Maybe”:  Manifest.  Pervasive.  Infectious.  Three words given more often to blood-borne pathogens than candy-coated pop confectionary, but if the bio-hazardous descriptors fit…

Not since Billy Ray Cyrus (you remember, Miley’s mulletted daddy?) served up his 1992 mega-hit “Achy Breaky Heart” have I seen a song so completely devour the collective consciousness of a society quite the way that “Call Me Maybe” has consumed ours.  Thousands of spoofs—including politicians, Olympians, artists—and countless memes have proven that you cannot escape the tractor-beam pull of a Death Star of this proportion.  

In fact, I’d venture to posit that the complete range of this song’s influence has yet to be measured.  There is no limit to what the marketing machine will make from our (apparently) voracious appetite for this perky piece of pop culture. Though (thankfully) I won’t likely be around to see it, I can almost guarantee that they’ll revive the song 40 years from now to promote “Call Me Maybe”-themed Depend© undergarments or that Carly Rae Jepsen will be on a reality-television celebrity dating game with Snooki, Kristen Stewart, and Bret Michaels’ head, preserved in a jar of formaldehyde.   

Love it or hate it, you can’t deny that 2012 was the year for the cute crush song with the awkward grammar.  It will be a part of your cultural DNA long after you stopped smiling when you heard it.  You will roll your eyes and you will deny you ever sang it.  You will try to forget it—but you will never forget the summer where it took over your world.

(But can I see it absolutely making your day when you’re sneaking away from your noisy kids for a minute of “me-time” and it comes on the radio twenty years from now???  Actually, yes.  Yes I can.  You’ll see.)

Of course, this is only HALF the story. 

For MORE on this subject, you’ve got to see what HE said @ Suburban Acrobat ...