So it was that in pursuit of general understanding of an apparently important cultural moment, I found myself sitting in a movie theater preparing to experience THE AVENGERS. I had no connection to the material, having never read the comics or feeling any real connection to the characters other than seeing most of the previous blockbuster superhero movies in which they appeared. Still, I had been hearing nothing but positive things about the movie, I had reasonably enjoyed some of the individual Marvel Comics movies, and most of all I was beginning to feel really left out since it seemed everyone else in the world saw the damn thing on opening weekend. So off I went, plunking down my $20 (or however outrageously high the ticket price was) and settling in for what I expected would be a positive communal experience.

The crowd was certainly into it. A week after opening the matinee screening was still filled up. As the movie started, it became clear that everyone was really into the film. With the appearance of each hero, villain, and zingy one-liner, the crowd swooned. This wasn’t like the numb audiences I’d shared through the last two TRANSFORMERS sequels, who seemed to be there simply because a blitz of marketing and American pop culture had brainwashed them into thinking it was mandatory. This was an audience that specifically wanted to see a movie with a bunch of comic book characters running from explosions, causing explosions, flying over explosions, and fighting some kind of robot-ish monster army (spoiler alert).

The film itself is both easy to attack and easy to defend. It’s not a good movie, but clearly it works in engaging an audience emotionally and leaving them satisfied. And really, how nuanced can a movie be combining a man in a robot costume, a bastardized god from Norse mythology, a big green cartoon character, and a “super soldier” whose only weapon is a shield? There’s plenty of witty(?) banter and impressive effects, so everyone leaves happy, not caring that the plot was stolen from an episode of MIGHTY MORPHIN’ POWER RANGERS.

When I was on the cusp of teenage-hood, I went through a period where I was really into comic books. It only lasted a few years (luckily, since it’s a surprisingly expensive habit), but aside from avoiding most Marvel books, I tried to read a bit of everything, or at least keep up with what was going on via Wizard magazine. I loved some of the stories dearly, yet always I felt a hint of shame in my enthusiasm. I knew deep down that most of what I was reading was trash, poorly written, clichéd, and sometimes blatantly plagiarized. Because of this, I didn’t like the message I sent out reading them publicly. I didn’t want some imagined sophisticated older person to see me and assume this was the only thing I was into, or that I was just some fanboy. So for the most part I kept my comic reading confined to my bedroom. Some 12-year-old boys had a porn stash; I had my comics collection (which ironically could serve the same function as porn in creating in a young man wildly wildly delusional expectations for the female form).

I bring this up because while sitting in the theater surrounded by people of all different stripes who were fully engaged in what has become the most popular movie in the world, I suddenly found myself overwhelmed with the same sense of shame I felt when I was spotted reading a comic book when I was 12. I know it’s completely irrational, but I felt like what I was watching was almost too childish and I didn’t want to be identified with it. This is of course absolutely ridiculous, but the feeling was there, and it only got worse as the two hours and change unspooled on screen.

So in its way, you could say THE AVENGERS made me feel like a kid again. It’s a film for children, and it’s no wonder kids go out of their minds for it. But it is a little surprising that adults seem to be going just as gaga over something that is really a very expensive Saturday morning cartoon. Maybe I’m just jealous of their enthusiasm, but it does strike me as a little sad. It’s disappointing that as a 12-year-old I felt embarrassed for my childish enthusiasms, not wanting some imagined adult to think me immature, only to grow up and find out that immature has become the popular thing.

It might be silly and pointless on my part to rail against such an inoffensive summer movie, but if you’re over the legal drinking age, maybe you should temper your enthusiasm for THE AVENGERS just a tad. If it’s something that a 12-year-old would be embarrassed to like, maybe a 30-year-old should feel a little shame at tweeting about how awesome it is. Save some of that excitement for a film more appropriate to your age and sophistication. I think BATTLESHIP comes out this weekend.

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Recently, my boss called me in to her office and gave me a counseling notice and said I had 10 days to improve my performance. Should I be worried? Am I going to get fired?

– Called into the Principal’s office

Dear Called,

Yes… Probably… I don’t know.

I’m doubtless not saying anything shocking when I relate that most people hate conflict, hate giving people bad news, hate confronting anything unpleasant in general. Just because the corporate gods have shined down upon your manager and christened her a “Manager” doesn’t automatically make her better at any of that. Or make her willing to deal with it either. That is what HR Departments are for, right?

Here’s what I do know, your boss HATED having to give you that counseling notice. Now, I don’t know what it was for, but I’m guessing this is how the conversation between your boss and your HR department went:

Your Boss: I want to let my employee, Called into the Principal’s Office go

Your HR Dept: Have you discussed this performance issue with her?

Your Boss: No, I just want you to let her go, she doesn’t listen to me and her work is sloppy

Your HR Dept: Have you given her any feedback on her work, told her what your expectations are, how she can improve?

Your Boss: No, just get rid of her

Your HR Dept: (clicking keys in the background) I see that you gave her a 4.5 out of 5 on her last performance review

Your Boss: I don’t care, I just want her gone, just deal with it

Your HR Dept: Yes, but first we need to document something…

At which point your HR Department gave your manager a nice long lecture on the importance of documenting things like this, mitigating risk to the company, blah, blah, blah during which time I GUARANTEE “doing the right thing for the employee” never really came up. They probably have a whole power point presentation, that they presented at some long ago Manager’s retreat held in some dusty downtown Marriott conference room.

So, there you are with your freshly photocopied Written Counseling Notice and a sick pit in your stomach. Are you going to get fired? Yes, probably– because this is usually the first step. The decision has already been made and this little piece of paper which is supposedly designed to communicate to you where you need to improve, and in theory provide a commitment to you that you will be allowed to improve, is just a formality. But, managers are lazy and conflict resistant (see above), so unless you are sacrificing small brown eyed puppies on a daily basis you might just be able to coast through this. The longer I work in corporate America the more I learn that most problems can be solved by patience. Things change, managers change, organizations change all the time.

Here’s some actual advice you can use: Whatever you are doing that they’ve called out by giving you this notice, stop doing it. If you are coming in late every day, taking long lunches, getting drunk in the parking lot during your break, STOP doing that. If it is more work or skill related, ask for training, show some effort and willingness to learn and improve. Many times the notice will include actual remedial steps. Do these. Sure, maybe you are just putting off the inevitable, but I swear I’ve had employees stick around for years just teetering on that precipice. I remember one guy — every time we wanted to push him off, he’d shine up his loafers, set his alarm 30 minutes earlier in the morning and for a little while, try. He was still there when I left the company and is probably still there now.

But, if your boss is just crazy and hates you, and you have a weak HR department and none of the things above are relevant or will even work, then well, I’d say dust off the old resume. Please spell check it first, and don’t print it on blue paper, for the love of Mike. And your name at the top? You don’t have to find the frilliest font in the MS Word oeuvre for just your name, you really, really don’t. Whoever told you to do that has never received 300 resumes in one day for one job posting.

And, if it makes you feel any better, when they finally do call you up to the great HR Department in the sky, they probably won’t say “You’re fired.” About four years ago I spent a long road trip with my grandmother telling me all about how Donald Trump has made it acceptable again for companies to say “You’re fired.” It sticks out in my mind for many reasons: 1. This is a woman who hasn’t actually been in the workforce for over 20 years, 2. She was wearing this extremely un- age appropriate rhinestone and denim outfit that made her look like Dolly Parton was her personal shopper , and 3. She was wrong. I once had to do a find/replace in a large turnover strategy document I had prepared replacing the word “terminated” with “separated” because saying someone was “terminated” was too negative. I really wish I was making this up.

So, are you going to get fired? No, but you might get separated (or my favorite, when I was laid off from my job in London, England, they said I was being “made redundant,” how am I not supposed to take that personally?). But it’s not the end of the world, even in today’s economy, I swear. At least you can file for unemployment (unless you WERE actually killing puppies, they’d probably deny you for that).

Good Luck out there,

Madame HR

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I went on a date with this guy and everything was AMAZING. He is absolutely perfect except one thing: apparently he and his last girlfriend broke up because he cheated on her. I know the whole “once a cheater, always a cheater” adage but is this always true? I don’t want to be his next victim. Should I even bother going out with him again or should I ignore his calls?

Sincerely,
Trepidatey Katey

Dear TK,

Before you completely blow him off, perhaps the circumstances surrounding his indiscretions could be looked into. There are many different reasons people cheat. I know the stock answer is supposed to be, “Run – Don’t Walk from this Jerk!” But you know, life is more complicated than instant answers. One size does NOT fit all. Although it is a rule, “once a cheater always a cheater” there are exceptions. How did this information come to light? Admitting to his dalliance could be a big bonus in this fellow’s favor. A massive way to gain closeness and increase intimacy is through the disclosure of personal information that you would only tell a significant other. Is it possible he is trying to turn a new page in his life and begin on a clean slate filled with honesty?

That being said, when it comes down to it, you MUST rely on your instincts. What does your gut tell you? If you really like this guy, tell him about your trepidation. Pay attention to what is both said and not said but especially examine how you feel in and out of his presence. I am not suggesting you over-analyze, just be open to the real emotions you are experiencing and the truth will be revealed.

Lust & Happiness,
Dr. Miro

featured image credit: dhammza

Back in November, however, one day after I had an extensive conversation about how rock climbing could boost my strength and temper my anxiety, a deal popped up for an indoor rock climbing gym. It seemed like one of those glorious, coincidental timing things. So this girl, who is usually only swayed by discounted massages, bought a climbing session.

I printed the voucher, but the Groupon languished, magnetized to the fridge. Every time I reached for a snack, I was reminded that I was a total slacker who needed to climb. With only a week remaining before my deal expired, I called and made the appointment to do just that.

Rockreation Wall

After slipping on my rental climbing shoes (the source of the foot smell near the front desk) and stepping into a rental harness, I needed learn how to securely attach myself to a rope and how to anchor the rope for my climbing partner (the anchor person on the ground is called a belayer. Knowledge is power!) This is where Dennis comes into my life. A fit, slightly aging hippie, he teaches a thorough, yet entertaining, 2 hour class called “Fight Gravity 1″ for beginning climbers. After a little over an hour of instruction on knots (choke and poke the alien to make a figure 8) and attaching the belay equipment to your belt, the class of 11 students grouped into 3 pods. I paired off with my husband and two other, very nice, guys and prepared to climb. Lucky me. I got to go first. By this point I completely forgot we were there to climb.

Facing the wall, I barked the commands we were taught: “Belay on?” to which the response from your anchor should be “Belay on.” Then I gulped down my fear of heights, my worry that the vertigo would return to over take me and loudly proclaimed “CLIMBING!” My belayer said “Climb on…Dude.”

I climbed on. The first trip, I made it about 3/4 of the way up the 45 foot wall. Anxiety overtook reason, handholds blurred, my skin turned icy and electric. Then my breath left me. So I sat back in my harness, stuck my butt into the wind and walked down to Mother Earth. I can tell you that a big butt, mixed with a climbing harness pulled tight to keep you secure as you descend, is not a flattering look. But vanity be damned. I wanted to try again. I needed to make it to the top.

After my three pod mates climbed to the top, and I discovered I was a very good belayer, I gave the climbing wall my best blue-steel gaze and again yelled “CLIMBING!”

Sure enough, I was about 3/4 of the way to the top of that wall when I felt my breath go shallow, no hand hold seemed secure, my feet started to sway. But I would not be bested by a bumpy wall again. This time I relaxed. Stopping for a moment, I refocused, shifted from one foot hold to another and viola! within moments I was at the top. This time the rush I felt was exhilaration, not fear. My hand smacked the ceiling above me and I said “LOWER!” stepping one foot under the other until I was back to terra firma.

Today, in addition to a sense of accomplishment, I have sore arms, legs and abs. I see more rock climbing in my future, indoor and out, with ropes or just boulder hopping. All that came from opening an email and buying a Groupon. What a deal.

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featured image credit: spikeyhelen
lady rock climber credit: The Opus

On Friday, Dark Shadows is officially opening and I’m going to be sitting in a theatre sometime that day, watching the big horror offering of the summer movie season. Probably on an Imax screen. My tiny bit of ambivalence is swamped by fierce anticipation. While quick to say I don’t like horror movies, is this really a horror movie? Seems to me, from watching the trailer a number of times – and reading up a bit to try to sort this out – that Dark Shadows is closer to another billing given it: comedy and fantasy. Isn’t this new production going to be more like Rocky Horror Picture Show? This suspicion is strengthened by learning that TV Guide lists Dark Shadows as one of the Top Cult Shows Ever.

Come on. This is a Tim Burton movie which stars Johnny Depp. The trailer has that polished, campy look of current movies looking back to the 1960s or 1970s, a sheen of high production values, and a cast of beauties including Helena Bonham Carter, Michelle Pfeiffer, Eva Green, Chloé Grace Moretz and Bella Heathcote. Surely these ladies will lift the tone, at least a little. All this is very seductive, never mind the faultlessly charming Mr. Depp, or should I say the vampire Barnabas Collins?

Never saw the soap opera produced by Dan Curtis on ABC in the late 1960s. Reading now about the series, I recognize a classic setup, beginning an involved plot with a young girl on a train heading to a gloomy seacoast town in Maine and a mixed reception from residents and family. This blend of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Turn of the Screw, and plots increasingly driven by mystery and the supernatural were a perfect foil for paperbacks published in the 60s and 70s. The soap opera was also apparently blessed with creatures like ghosts, werewolves, zombies, witches and that tragic romanic lead — the vampire. Well, all this sounds like a gothic romance careening well out of control, and who doesn’t love watching a train wreck?

Not literally of course, although the train wreck in The Fugitive (you remember, Tommy Lee Jones? Harrison Ford? the doctor who didn’t kill his wife), well, that was spectacular. In the past few days, it’s been fun learning about the original Dark Shadows, described repeatedly as the “long-running vampiric soap opera saga”. But I didn’t know any of the background when I first made up my mind. Dark Shadows had me the first time I saw the trailer — and I’m going to go see the movie.

KINDA WANNA GO

George Barris at work

This Saturday, May 12 between 9 am and 3 pm, Culver City will close Culver Blvd and Washington Blvd between Duquesne & Ince to through traffic for a car show. George Barris, who customizes cars for individuals, movies and television (Batmobile, The Munsters‘ Koach, the Beverly Hillbillies‘ jalopy and others) has lent his name (and some of his creations) to the event. Hot rods, muscle cars, classics, and movie props—what a mix of nostalgia and memory! Reportedly there will be live music, at least one well-known comedian, Jeff Dunham, food booths and probably food trucks, and more than 400 cars competing for a couple of dozen trophies. Free to the public. Worth checking out, I am told by those who have attended past shows.

Note: parking may get a little tricky, but the downtown lots will be open. Once you are there, you have a chance to wander around the lovely downtown district. There are maps at the show web site (www.culvercitycarshow.com). Living close enough to walk “into town” makes this a definite maybe.

SORTA WISH I COULD AVOID

This weekend, Sunday is Mother’s Day. Take your mother, or stepmother, grandmother, aunt, sister, friend or another mother out to lunch, buy her a card, candy, or flowers, offer her attention and whatever gifts you like. I like Mother’s Day. However, this election year, I have especially mixed feelings about this lovely sentimental holiday. There are such tough practical issues facing mothers (and fathers) these days.

Anna Jarvis would not be surprised by the turn celebrating the holiday has taken. A West Virginian inspired by her mother, Ms Jarvis campaigned at the turn of the 20th century for a day to recognize mothers and motherhood. In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson made Mother’s Day an official American holiday; as early as 1920, Anna Jarvis publicly declared the holiday too commercial.

More than 100 years later, a politically fractious America doesn’t feel as friendly to families as we might wish for. After the Civil War, Julia Ward Howe — remembered as an abolitionist and as the author of the Battle Hymn of the Republic— suggested women band together for a day on which they would speak out for peace, another early push for a Mother’s Day. In 2012, I would be happy for a day in which Americans campaigned for mothers—a real Mother’s Day!

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My gorgeous, brilliant, wife and I have really busy lives between our fulltime jobs, volunteer work and newly adopted twins lets just say: not a lot of together-alone time. I’m really worried we are going to have Lesbian Death Bed and as a result I wanted to try to schedule some times for us to have sex but she got angry at the idea saying I’m being selfish, our relationship is obviously in danger if we need to plan things like that and I should’ve thought of this before the adoption went through. This all really hurt me. Also, I thought she’d like the idea of putting this on our to-do list but no. We used to have amazingly passionate filled days and nights but there hasn’t been any of that since the babies arrived. How can I bring this up again with out feeling totally rejected or sounding resentful of the kiddies (because I’m not)?

Sincerely,
Lacking Sleep & Sex

Dear LS&S,

First of all, congratulations on your twins – how wonderful and exhausting for you both! The idea of scheduling sex for busy couples is really important. Special Sexy Mommy Time is crucial for maintaining that sensual bond that brought you together in the beginning. When you are sleep deprived from such a hectic life style it is hard to react to things upon initial hearing in a sane manner so, it is understandable your wife may have reacted in the manner she did. While on the surface the ideas of having a sex life AND raising twins being mutually exclusive may seem true, it does not have to be. Of course you are feeling hurt! You were already having attachment issues and this pushed you away further. It is not selfish to want to connect sexually with your Life Partner.

You do need to consider when to broach this topic in a way that won’t continue to push her away. Bring up your feelings of disconnect in a way devoid of pressure. Start with appreciation. Do not point fingers about how lacking you are or how she may not be giving as much as you want. This will go sourer than that day old milk on the binky. Let your Bride know how much it means to you that you have such full lives together. Describe the happiness and joy she and your babies bring into your life. A lot of times when couples start a family, all energy is focused onto the child(ren), which can make one, or both of the parents feel neglected. By the time you get to Adult Time, emotional and physical resources have been depleted. As a result of this, it is OK to ask for some of your physical and emotional needs to be met within the context of your relationship at an agreed upon time. This is healthy and can prevent permanent riffs in your partnership’s future. The fact you are acknowledging your desires is important! It does not mean your marriage is necessarily in danger. It, more than likely, means you are attempting to keep it out of that danger zone. Talking about this, when you have both had a bit of sleep, will actually strengthen your physical bond especially if you can hold hands while conversing.

This brings us into infamous “Date Night” territory. Many folks initially feel by scheduling sex and or Date Night, it takes all the fun and spontaneity out of your sensual life together. But then, how much sensuality is there in your life right now? So, spontaneity is the least of your worries (except maybe in the catching of projectile fluids from your twins). Sometimes just knowing there is a scheduled night to be alone together can be pretty exciting. The days leading up to this, in and of themselves, can be a kind of fore play. Invest in a babysitter. This is all about priorities. Also, is your relationship bond more or less important to you then one of the organizations you do volunteer work for? Yes, it is wonderful that you are doing so many fabulous things but it may be time to trim it down. Remind your beautiful wife of how much pleasure you wish to give her and how much you are looking forward to loving her after all she has been giving. Frame your desires in a way that are complimenting, encouraging and loving as opposed to demanding and threatening. This is not something to simply cross off a to-do list and get done! This is an opportunity to make your marriage stronger and as a result your parenting and professional life will flow a bit easier. It can seem like magic the way it all connects!

Lust & Happiness,
Dr. Miro

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featured image credit: Courtney Dirks

Anyhow, let’s say hypothetically you did accidentally kill Guy Fieri and drop his body in a swamp- well- that would be something to be really embarrassed about- way more embarrassing than watching Murder, She Wrote on TV Land every night, which is the only thing I’m guilty of- even if I am watching it on DVR, so there’s no possible way I can say that I watched it by accident. After all, DVR implies intent, malice, forethought and cold blooded calculation as was demonstrated in the landmark Supreme Court Case The People of California vs That Dude at Work Who’s Always Talking About the Kardashians Even Though He Swears He’s Only Watched Khloe and Lamar Like, Once And He Only Did That Because He’s a Such A Huge Hoops Fan (Barack Obama). I mean, come on, after the 15th consecutive hour, there’s no way in hell I can say I just happened to watch Murder, She Wrote by accident since I was flipping channels to get away from Guy Fieri (the television love child of Rachel Ray and Emeril. By which, of course, I mean he must die. But how to make it look like an accident?) and Murder, She Wrote just HAPPENED to be on.

So, OK, now that I’ve admitted it- you may be wondering why I would choose to devote my time, attention and, most importantly, DVR space to a senior-citizen crime solver in Maine, rather than a more socially acceptable hipster TV show like Mad Men (skinny ties, vintage dresses, lung cancer and misogyny- the early 60’s were indeed a golden age.) Well, I’ll tell you why: (Oooh, wait – I know – I could suffocate Guy Fieri with peroxide fumes and make it look like a tragic hair-dying accident. Nice and easy!)

Spending Time with the Greatest Generation Before Things Really Started to Suck For Them

Remember when visiting your grandparents was fun and exciting, not depressing and sad? When they were old enough to relax and enjoy life but still young and energetic enough to do fun stuff like go on cruises or take you on shopping sprees or remember your name? Well, that’s what Jessica Fletcher is like on Murder, She Wrote. She’s living the septuagenarian dream: she gardens, she writes mystery novels, she travels the world, she solves crime — hell, it’s Retirement Porn.

It’s even better than those “first day” commercials that make me want to call in sick for the rest of my life. She reminds me of my grandmother on my dad’s side who travelled around the world after her husband died and had a huge fishbowl full of matchbooks she collected in remote and mysterious locations (like Hong Kong and Palm Beach). Or my grandfather on my mom’s side who had every car gadget imaginable including a radar detector so he would know just when to slow down from 45 to 40 (stick it to the Man, Pop-Pop!) and one of those compasses that looks like a black marble floating in gefilte fish jelly or an evil chubby black alien fetus floating in amniotic fluid that can always find magnetic north (selected as one of the Top Five Grandpa Gadgets of all time along with the extremely tiny flashlight, Swiss Army knife and train paraphernalia by We Sent You a $10 Check for Your Birthday, Did You Get It? Grandparents’ Gazette.)

Mrs. Fletcher is a shining example of just how golden the golden years can be and a bittersweet reminder of how fleeting those years are for those that even get to enjoy them at all. And since no one in my generation is going to be able to retire at all because the Baby Boomers (the Greatest Burden) are gonna suck up all the Social Security cash (I mean, don’t get me wrong, we love you guys, but do you really have to bogart all the Government dough?) Murder, She Wrote is a tantalizing glimpse into what I’ll be missing when I slump over dead in my office at the age of 95 or next week. (Ooooh, wait- here’s a good one- what if Guy Fieri’s wallet chain “accidentally” got caught in a pizza oven and his hair caught fire and exploded? He’d be incinerated for sure! Just another tragic “accident” on the road to Flavortown.)

Guest Stars! Guest Stars! GUEST STARS!!!

Look, a lot of shows have had celebrity guest stars- from The Love Boat to Criminal Minds which is The Love Boat for serial killers with C. Thomas Howell as Charo (the Cuchi Cuchi killer.) But the special guest stars on Murder, She Wrote were very special indeed (not in the small bus way.) For Van Johnson, Mickey Rooney and countless other stars of Yesteryear, this was a way station – an on-camera oasis on the long anonymous road from the silver screen to the In Memoriam tribute at the Oscars. And like the In Memoriam tribute, the sight of these fading greats and near-greats evokes a little sentimental sigh and shake of the head from those who saw them in their heyday – which is 50% sadness at how old they look and 50% surprise that they weren’t dead already.

And for those of you cynical youngsters who scoff at this behavior, just wait til the Grammies when you’re all choked up during the MCA tribute, just like your grandma when Buddy Hackett died. (Adam Yauch is dead and Vanilla Ice is on TV making millions in real estate? Not cool, Reaper, not cool. If you’re not gonna be a real hip-hop fan, then you shouldn’t rock the hoodie. Fuckin’ poser.)

And then, of course, there’s Ken Howard, who appeared on the show six times, playing five totally different characters- a remarkable achievement for an actor with absolutely no versatility. Clearly he’s talented enough to play the President of SAG and President of AFTRA at the SAME TIME. Not to mention Jerry “versatility is for pussies” Orbach who played Harry McGraw six times on Murder, She Wrote from 1985-1991 before playing Lenny Briscoe 274 times on Law and Order from 1991-2004 and playing a Corpse 2,687 times from 2004 to the present. Now that’s dedication! Suck it, Vincent “Oh, no- my delicate little sensitive actorly constitution doesn’t allow me to possibly do more than six Law & Order episodes a year because I’m such a little whiney bitch-ass actor artiste” D’Onofrio. You’re a disgrace to the badge.

She Never Learned How to Drive

I mean, come on, how can I not love that? I think that never learning how to drive is one of the reasons why she was so successful — I mean, I’ve often thought of helping the police solve crimes just as a way to get a ride home from work. (Wait, that gives me another great idea- I can cut the break-lines on Guy Fieri’s Camaro and then when he drives it off a cliff, we can just say he was blinded by the sun because he wears his sunglasses on the BACK OF HIS FUCKING NECK. I mean, who does that? If you’re so damn concerned about harmful UV rays harming your neck then wear some fucking sunscreen. I’m telling you, this could work! Plus, I could totally get the sheriff to give me a ride home from the crime scene.)

Mama Mia! That’s a Spicy Stereotype!

The writers of Murder, She Wrote grew up in a simpler time when men were men; women were women; Italians were hot-tempered greaseballs in dark suits with guns; Irishmen were whiskey drinking cops with the gift of gab; Jews were little bearded men obsessed with bagels and lox; Southerners were Blanche Dubois, Maggie the Cat or Big Daddy; Russians were Ruskies (insert backwards “R” here); Englishmen carried umbrellas; cab-drivers, and lowlifes all spoke with Bugs Bunny Brooklyn accents even if they came from Orange County or Saint Louis (aka Saint Looey); and New Englanders were all crusty curmudgeons obsessed with “lobstah”. In 12 years on the air, Mrs. Fletcher traveled all around the world to every corner of the Universal Studios back lot and reduced a diverse array of rich cultural traditions to catchphrases, quirks and terrible accents (Kevin Costner terrible. James Bond villain terrible. MADONNA DURING THE GUY RITCHIE YEARS terrible.)

I should add that African Americans were actually an exception to this- as they were typically presented with great dignity and grace- but that’s just because all the writers on the show were a bunch of guilty liberal Hollywood Jews. Typical.

And just in case the ludicrous accents and borderline-offensive stereotypes weren’t enough to give a sense of place, the production team stepped up by providing all sorts of visual clues to remind the viewers where the episode was taking place. In the New Mexico episode, for instance, there are cactuses FUCKING EVERYWHERE. There’s a cactus on the patio, a cactus in the living room, a cactus in the bedroom, a cactus in the den, a cactus in the public library, a cactus in the sheriff’s office even a cactus in a hallway, which they spend all of two seconds in before going into an office that has a cactus on the corner and another little cactus on the desk.

The director, you see, was very concerned that the viewer would be bonked on the head with a coconut halfway through the episode and contract sudden and complete amnesia (see DSM V under “Gilligan’s Syndrome”) and wanted to make sure he would could look up at the screen and say “Oh, right. Jessica Fletcher is in New Mexico this week. Thank God they put in all those cacti. Now what the hell was my name again?”

“Listen, lady- you can’t prove a thing”

 Of course, it’s probably a good thing they made the locations so obvious since, like the houses in a comfy suburban development, every episode pretty much looks the same. Much like suburban homes, they are distinguished from each other only by some kitschy narrative garden statuary: ethnic stereotypes, funny accents, stock footage to establish location and all those fucking cacti (which BTW are way more “Arizona” than “New Mexico”. My parents made me write that. Albuquerque in the house! Albuquizzie in the hizzy? No, never mind, that’s terrible. I’m a disgrace to hip-hop. Sorry, MCA. Free Tibet Now :) #suckinguptodeadpeople #toosoon?)

So, yeah, sure, every episode has it’s unsympathetic murder victim, parade of suspects making damning statements (“someday, old man, somebody’s gonna teach you a lesson.”), Mrs. Fletcher’s falsely accused relation (how many nephews and nieces does this lady have? Her family’s half Catholic, half rabbit), well-intentioned bumbling police officer (except for the Native American Sheriff who was, of course, mystical and wise ‘cause the Commie pinko Jew writers just had to write him that way. Typical.) And you know what, all this sameness was just part of the show’s appeal. I mean, variety may be the spice of life, but sometimes I just want a grilled cheese sandwich and that’s when Murder, She Wrote hits the spot.

Of course, the best part of the formula was the Killer’s Confession. This is an essential component of any whodunit – and Murder, She Wrote nailed it every single time. There are three essential beats to a good confession scene:

Beat 1: Confrontation / Denial:

Mrs. Fletcher: You see, only one person could have slipped the rat poison into Evil Rich Bastard’s brandy at the party that night. And that person, Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect, was you.

Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect: Me? But that’s preposterous. I think your writer’s imagination is getting the best of you, Mrs. Fletcher.

Mrs. Fletcher: I’m afraid not (proceeds to explain in precise detail exactly how the murder was committed. She’s never wrong.)

Beat 2: Mrs. Fletcher Presents Damning Evidence

Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect: Well, that’s a very interesting theory.  Good thing for me you can’t prove a word of it.

>Mrs. Fletcher: Oh, I think I can. You see, when I told you that Evil Rich Bastard was dead you said ‘I knew sooner or later, somebody was going to kill that red-shoe wearing jerk.’ But Evil Rich Bastard just bought those red shoes two days ago and hadn’t even worn them yet. They were sitting in his closet- right next to the rat poison. Only the killer could have known about them. You slipped badly when said that, Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect, and you gave yourself away.

Beat 3: Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect Confesses and Totally Loses His Shit

Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect: OK, Mrs. Fletcher. You got me. That’s right, I killed him. What was I supposed to do? I put up with his abuse for 25 years just waiting for my chance to take over the firm and finally the day he’s supposed to retire, he tells me that he just sold the firm to Millionaire Red Herring Obvious Suspect? Well, there was no way I could let that happen. I wasn’t going to stand by and watch everything I worked for go down the drain. When I saw that rat poison in his shoe closet, I knew exactly what I had to do. So no, I’m not sorry I killed him- but I am sorry for what I have to do now (pulls out pistol)

Mrs. Fletcher: You don’t have to do that

Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect: Oh, I think I do. You see, you already know way too much, there’s no way I can let you walk out of here alive (points pistol at Mrs. Fletcher, Well Intentioned Bumbling Police Officer bursts through door)

Well Intentioned Bumbling Police Officer: Put it down, Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect (Mild Mannered Unlikely Suspect puts the gun down. Well Intentioned Bumbling Police Officer handcuffs him. He makes eye contact with Mrs. Fletcher. She looks at him sadly and shakes her head with profound disappointment. Another killer caught.)

See — perfect! So what if absolutely none of her evidence would ever possibly hold up in court — who gives a shit? If I wanted to care about that sort of crap, I’d watch Law & Order, and since Jerry Orbach is dead, why the hell would I want to do that? Plus it was cancelled in 2010 (did you know it was cancelled in 2010? I just found out on IMDB. THAT’s how little I give a shit if her evidence would stand up in court.)

BTW, how badass is Jessica Fletcher? Even when they’re trying to kill her, people still call her Mrs. Fletcher. The last person to call me Mr. Sims was my middle school principal and she followed it up with “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

Spending Time in America Before Things Started to Really Suck Here

Jessica Fletcher probably believes in God. She has a clear sense of right and wrong. But you know what? She’s not batshit crazy about it. She’s tolerant of other cultures, a believer of science, committed to the arts, opposed to censorship, open minded, even tempered and abhorrent of violence. She’s like the anti-Jan Brewer. A woman who embodies the great 20th Century America we used to be and not the 21st Century Global Disgrace we’ve become. She’s a reminder of a time in this country when “freedom” meant more than just the “freedom” to carry a gun and believe in Jesus (and nobody else.) Plus, there’s nothing meta, self-aware of ironic about the show — it just is what it is, a murder mystery in the great tradition of the classic whodunit — and there’s not a damn thing wrong with that.

So, yeah, it’s a great show. And you know what? I’m not one bit embarrassed to be watching it? And you know what else- I’m not embarrassed to have killed Guy Fieri either. After all, it was the perfect crime. There’s no way anybody could possibly catch me. Oh wait, there appears to be someone at the door.

Huh- it seems to be a Bumbling Well Intentioned Police Officer and a Retired School Teacher from Maine.

Why, yes, I did hear Guy Fieri was murdered when somebody cut his brake-lines. What does that have to do with me?

What? You can’t be serious. Listen lady, I think you’re writer’s imagination is getting the best of you.

Uh-Oh

This post was dedicated to Adam Yauch. He fought for Tibet’s right to party but probably fucking hated Murder, She Wrote. May his memory be for a blessing.

File Photo: Me recovering my sinus infection (note the snot from which I make my escape)

I rise from the NyQuil ashes like a mythical phoenix with a stuffy beak. So kick of your shoes, throw on some Foghat, and pour yourself a mojito/margarita/Arnold Palmer/water(?). This Fierce Anticipation is all about summer time, and the living is nerdy.

Fiercely Anticipating 

Previously, I spoke about how here in South Florida, our changing of the seasons is about as noticeable as a mouse fart (read: not very). The one season we do notice quite well is Summer. You can best notice summer ANY TIME YOU WALK OUTSIDE when you are hit with one of two things: 1) a crushingly severe heat and humidity like being wrapped in a blanket that is both on fire and damp at the same time, or 2) a thunderstorm that rivals The Tempest, which we affectionately call “3 pm.”

Despite it being hotter than the devil’s taint, summer in South Florida is something I do, oddly, enjoy. Now, I say “oddly” because, genetically speaking, I am well insulated (hairy and chubby) which does not bode well for the tropical, near equatorial summers of South Florida. I’d be bet suited for a colder, more Northern climate. Like a viking, or a bear.

My summers, however, are amazing for me for several reasons (if you’ll indulge me while I gloat about how awesome I am). For one, I work at a summer camp. My job, aside from being a counselor, is Director of Fun. I am not making that up. My actual title is Director of Fun. I ensure the fun of every camper and staff member, rain or shine, sun up to sun down. If you aren’t smiling, tough shit! Get smiling! I see this as an opportunity for walking around in graphic tees and sandals, rocking a boom box, doing impressions and cracking jokes, all while collecting a paycheck. The camp would rather see me run activities, ensure safety, and otherwise maintain order, but hey, you get what you pay for. But it’s a great gig. I get a tan (finally), as much juice and cookies as I can eat (which is a lot), and it’s a fun way to beat the heat (except for when it’s not).

This gig takes its toll on you

For the amount of time I spend sweating outside, I make up for it with air-conditioned movies, as the the season is ripe for the blockbuster movie. By that, I don’t mean the long forgotten video store chain, but rather the time honored tradition of blowing things up for two hours. Whatever little money I make from my summer job goes right back into my cinema fund. Thank goodness I don’t have a crippling drug habit, or I’d NEVER get to see Prometheus!

On the Fence About

Going to Disney World. Living in South Florida means that at any time, you can pick up, hit the highway for 3 hours, and be in Disney World (unlike LA where it’s an hour or so to Anaheim, except when there is traffic, then you might as well be driving to Orlando).

Disney is great. It is. I always forget how magical it really is until I step foot in the park. I go on a few awesome rides, marvel at the clinically insane attention to detail, and just sit back with childlike wonde—GOOD LORD IT’S HOT! Do you pave this place with lava?!

Disney World is magical for a few hours, then the heat, crowds, smells, chafing, screams, foreigners, unattended children, chafing (it bears repeating), and cheerfulness all starts to wear on you. By the end of every trip into Disney, I find myself saying the same thing: “I am NOT coming back here until I have to; when I have kids of my own!” And then one of my friends coerces me into going back.

"This is worse than our trip to Neverland Ranch!" (too soon? too bad)

It’s a fun nightmare. And I am sure I will go back this summer to drink around the world at Epcot. That’s when magic meets mayhem. Usually around Germany for this Jew.

I’m Really Not Looking Forward to

All these friggin kids out of school. “Where the hell are your parents?!” is what I find myself yelling, like Carl from Aqua Teen, daily during the summer… when not at camp, of course. During the summer months, parents just dump their kids at public locales (movies, starbucks, malls, even supermarkets), expecting that whatever authoritative figures on-site will take responsibility for them for a few hours.

I get it. They need a break. But these kids wander around, talk loudly, cause scenes, break stuff, and are otherwise just disruptive tools. I am not sure if this problem is localized to South Florida, but I have a feeling it’s a pandemic. Kids, of all ages, go completely unsupervised. This wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the mere fact that kids are assholes when unsupervised. They are just self-absorbed, mannerless jerks when not in the company of their parents (and a lot, around here, could care less if their parents were there).

Then sent to Neverland Ranch... nah that's an empty threat, now. (I got a million of'em)

Look, I am not a cranky old man. Far from it. I wouldn’t care except that during the summer I am in camp-mode, and the rest of the year, I am in teacher-mode. I can’t switch it off. If a parent lets their child run around unattended at a restaurant, I wait until said kid makes eye contact with me, and then I give it the “Hey…Not again” face. My friends say I am an asshole. But I say back to them (in my best Alec Guinness) “Who is the bigger asshole. The asshole, or the one who lets their child run amok?” I was a kid once, and I was probably a bit unruly. But if my parents ever found out, you could rest assured I was going to pay for it. Once at the mall with some pals, I tried to act cool and curse loudly. Sure enough, my mother’s friend was present and she ratted me out. I pumped the hand soap into my own mouth that night, while my family stood by and watched. And now I am awesome. It’s science.

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Levon Helm, drummer for The Band, died last week. When I heard the news my thoughts inevitably turned to old family Thanksgivings. I think for most people, Thanksgiving is filled with WASPy simmering and unspoken frustrations, touch football and trying desperately to come up with something for which you are thankful before it is your turn to speak up before you can dig into your stuffing.

Like most festivities in my house, Thanksgiving was barely civilized. I am the middle daughter of six intense and active children of two very passionate hippie parents. The one constant we had in holiday was The Last Waltz played on loop. Martin Scorsese filmed the last concert The Band performed on Thanksgiving in San Francisco. The Band wished everyone a happy Thanksgiving before performing for the last time with some of the eras most brilliant musicians, everyone from Bob Dylan to The Staple Singers. Even last Thanksgiving, which I spent in Paris, did not pass without me playing “The Weight” half a dozen times in my Saint Germaine hotel room. I didn’t need the turkey, but I did need The Band and the happy memories it evoked.

Musicians and the culinary laborer have always shared a similar fringe existence. No weekends off, not eating until two AM and the dream of being so damn good that one day you are worshipped as a god by adoring groupies. That is why chefs like Anthony Bourdain are so quick to site their influences of greats like Thomas Keller and Julia Child with the same reverence and praise as The Ramones and The Clash. The chef and the rocker can both understand the long nights, no healthcare and the constant struggle of trying to touch people with something phenomenal and unique.

The first thing that I ever do when cooking is put on music. I’ve had many a friend tell me that they would never consider the torture of cooking in a kitchen without music. In order to create something beautiful or enjoy something beautiful, you will always need all of your senses. That is why you will always have a candle lit dinner to violin music and will always get greasy delicious food truck grub at Coachella. Sparking a conversation with someone about a great record or an amazing meal will most likely share a similar passionate intensity.

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What’s wrong with my husband? At least once a week he’ll wake me up for late night sex, and the next day he won’t remember! Sometimes it even happens multiple times in a night and I have to push him away. How can he not recall this? Could it be me? Am I so unmemorable? We love each other but when I mention it he refuses to believe me. Another thing, the sex is actually really amazing with him more (ahem) attentive and, uh, giving, so I don’t exactly want it to stop completely but sometimes it’s way too much and I feel pressured and yucky. Mainly, I just want him to remember it. We aren’t on any medications and hardly ever drink so that isn’t it.

Sincerely,
Would Like to Make An Impression

Dear WLTMAI,

How crazy making for you! Sounds like your hubby may actually suffer from a condition called Sexsomnia, one of the newest classifications of sleep disorders. We all accept that there are folks who walk, talk and eat in their sleep, right? So, being intimate is not that far of a leap from all of those others. The first paper recognizing this rare disorder was not published until 1996 and labeled the condition “Sexual Behavior in Sleep” or SBS. Generally, SBS is triggered by lack of sleep on previous nights, stress, excessive alcohol or drugs. Since the latter two can be ruled out, see if there is a pattern in regards to his stress levels.

Alert your betrothed to this and make sure he understands the serious implications in a frank and open discussion without any finger pointing. This can be just one manifestation of other sleep issues he is facing. Unfortunately, there is often a lot of blame and shame in these situations for both the “perpetrator” and the “victim”. Although it may go without saying, I must mention it anyway: if he is attempting sexual relations with you against your will that is rape. You may not see it as that serious and actually enjoy some of the encounters but what you will start to see are resentments and feelings of negativity build-up against your partner. Some folks who suffer from SBS also sleep walk, talk and become violent. Fortunately, you seem to have a man who is a good lover in his unconscious state! Nonetheless, try to avoid anyone feeling like a victim in this dynamic. There are some medications that have had somewhat good results like Clonazepam and sometimes people have been greatly helped by Melatonin. Before you put him on anything, PLEASE find a Psychiatrist or Psychologist who specializes in sleep disorders.

Lust & Happiness,
Dr. Miro

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