Friday Night Lights

Where has this show been all my life?

Heading into the last disc of Friday Night Lights, Season 1, I've been rendered speechless
by how good this show is. Why is nobody watching this? Is it all the football? All the Texas? All the preposterously attractive young peeps in tight outfits and occasional slow motion? (No, it can't be that). I don't know what the story is, but I'm here to tell you that this show is so good, (not sure if I can actually bring myself to type this)...that I actually felt a little disappointed when season 4 of The Wire (aka, Best Show on TV) hit the streets before I'd had a chance to finish with FNL. Obviously, the Wire takes precedence, but still I find myself jonesing for a little FNL. This show is really, really, really good. Like one tiny notch below HBO good. If not better. Friday Night Lights certainly kicks Carnivale's ass. Ditto John from Cincinnati, Deadwood, Extras, and (shudder) Def Poetry Slam.

Usually when I like a show this much, it's all about the writing, the characters and the acting. I could care less what the show is actually about, and FNL is no different. High school football is just a backdrop, FNL's version of the mortuary industry (Six Feet Under), Mormonism (Big Love), or Hollywood (Entourage). Two things are paramount: that the characters are richly drawn, fascinating, three-dimensional "people", and that their world is presented in such a way that the experience takes on something of an anthropological flavor. I'm telling you, regardless of how you consider the sport of football, it's fascinating to become immersed in a culture wherein a town full of grown, otherwise upstanding citizens spend their lives obsessing over a group of children playing a game. Remember your earliest days of having a driver's license, cruising around in your beat-up junker, going nowhere in particular for the fun of it? Well, imagine every radio station on the dial playing talk radio call-in shows devoted to your performance at last week's game. Imagine the mayor giving you a hard time about your hustle. Imagine having a billboard erected in your front yard, trumpeting your name, number and position. Imagine living in a town spilling over with fat, pathetic assholes still basking in the glory of their bygone trip to "State", shoving blocky Championship rings in your face.

Now imagine being the new, young head football coach in a town like this. A football coach whose job, most feel, is owed solely to having served as longtime mentor to the town golden boy, quarterback Jason Street, who promptly gets paralyzed during the first game of the season, leaving the new coach with an untested, meek JV quarterback at the helm and the burdens of small town Texas football on his shoulders. Kyle Chandler is absolutely brilliant in this role. Each episode seems to bring a new layer to his performance as a man living his life in the eye of the storm. I'm going to go all out and say Chandler is treading hallowed TV drama ground here. He's one of the best I've seen, his performance practically Kristen Bell-ian (whose lights out work as Veronica Mars almost wore out my remote control's Rewind button. Chandler's like that, too, full of small asides, gestures, nuanced movements you need to see again, immediately).

And then there's Connie Britton, as Coach's sexy, wise, guidance counselor wife. Britton pretty much matches Chandler beat for beat, and the way they carry themselves is fascinating to watch, great parents struggling to figure everything out, the perfect symmetry of their relationship a testament to both who they are and were, the high school quarterback and the gorgeous Texan blond (cheerleader?) made good. It can often feel like they are the entire town's parents.

One more shout-out: Brad Leland as local businessman, former UT player, head of the Dillon Panthers booster club, all-around sleazy guy, and above all else football OBSESSED Buddy Garrity is just...unspeakably brilliant. Right down to his physicality, fat necked squeezed into tight shirt collar, skin just this side of red and sweaty, that Texas drawl, the perpetual big boy grown up look of him, all snake-oil salesman and defacto spiritual leader to Dillon's football-worshiping zealots. Leland's is one of those delicious supporting performances that makes a show so textured and great.

Friday Night Lights in in no way without its faults. As with any show featuring this many characters, some are more intriguing than others, some plot lines more compelling, some less. A few lowlights:

1. Jason Street, erstwhile football God, now stuck in a wheelchair, is quite possibly the most whiny, annoying character on network TV. I have been known to audibly grown whenever the show cuts back to his plotline. Scott Porter is terribly cast. In a town full of shockingly attractive young people, even his good looks are the most bland. Ugh. I can't stand this guy, especially now that he's gotten into quad rugby and does stuff like get "Peace" tattooed on his wrist in Sandscrit. What is this, the BU dorms circa 1994?

2. Every game, and I mean every game, somehow culminates in the Panthers being down with three minutes to go, only to either a) stage a highly emotional, even more highly improbable comeback, or b) lose in a thoroughly heartbreaking, only on TV manner. For a show about football, the football is the least interesting part.

3. God, I hate Jason Street. Seriously, he's the worst. Man, I wish the injury could have affected his whine bone.

But seriously, this show is amazing. I don't watch a lot of TV, and when I do I almost invariably think everything is dramatically overrated (30 Rock? The Office? Average, at best). But this is good stuff. Now I just need to fly through the Wire and get back to it.

Uptown

I lived in NYC for just short of 8 years, and in that time I think I ventured uptown perhaps four times. Furthermore, I'm a hardcore East Side kind of guy, and so the Upper West Side is like a complete and utter mystery. I have absolutely no idea what goes on up there. No idea.

Until now. I've spent the past 3 days up on 105th and West End. Some quickie first impressions:

1. Homeless people up here are either strangely well dressed or absolutely out of their fucking minds. I just walked by a group of the latter and felt like I'd wandered onto the set of Panic In Needle Park.

2. It seems that wifi has yet to be invented, much less free wifi. This includes the supposedly amazing, borderline legendary Hungarian Pastry Shop, or whatever it's called. When I politely asked the barista whether there was wifi, she looked at me like I'd just stumbled in from Hungary.

3. So that's where the Seinfeld diner is.

4. Lo and behold the 1 train. Where have you been all my life? This has got to be the best subway line in Manhattan. Wow. I'm meeting a friend at the Ear Inn tonight and can't believe I'm not dreading the schlep over there. It's a Brave New World on the West Side, let me tell you.

5. Cats are absolutely disgusting (ok, perhaps that transcends the Upper West Side. not sure). Seriously, though, are they supposed to go days without eating? Is this normal?

6. If you happen to be a racist, there's a wonderful Avenue by Avenue segregation thing going on up here. Whitey, stick to Broadway. Blacks, you take Amsterdam. Repeat.

7. Tired of crowded cafes? Try the ghost town-like Upper West Side!

8. I haven't witnessed many things as pretty and romantic as Morningside Park in a light rain. Wow. By the way, there's a place in NYC called Morningside Park. News to me.

9. Waking up to NY1 again is like coming out of a thirty year coma and being greeted by your wife Cate Blanchett who tells you you've just hit the Powerball jackpot. My God, how I've missed In The Papers.

10. I'm literally half a block from Riverside Park, which I hear is quite awesome. Of course, I've been too lazy to check it out. Oh, well. Maybe next time.

I'm Not There

First of all, I'm back in NYC for the week, doing a little cat-sitting for a friend on the Upper West Side. The cat is stand-offish, which is absolutely perfect for me, as I'm not doing this to make friends. I figure if the cat is still alive when its owner gets back, then I've done a good job. Can I go 7 days w/o petting the cat? We shall see...

NYC feels like a warm, comfy blanket. Yesterday morning, I got coffee and plopped down on a bench in the median smack in the middle of Broadway, just watched the cars and people going by, remembering, oh yeah, this is what it feels like to be not dead. DC has sort of started to grow on me in a way, but it still feels like a place where dreams (and social lives) go to die. But maybe it's best to live somewhere else and spend one week per month in NYC. It's like rediscovering the city over and over again. Kind of nice, at least for now.

I saw I'm Not There at Film Forum and really, really liked it. I'm not a big Dylan fan. I'm not a big Todd Haynes fan, either (in fact, Safe is on my 10 Most Overrated Films of All Time List. It's no Children of Men, but it's close), though his latter day work has really impressed me. I spoke with a few people who felt you needed to know a ton about Dylan to get the film, but I disagree with that. I'm a casual fan at best. I know the broad strokes, but not much else. I probably got maybe 30-40% of the references...but I didn't feel this took away from the experience at all. In fact, I didn't think the success of the movie hinged on getting/catching all the details. It was a surreal, trippy couple of hours. If it's Dylan minutia you're after, that's easily attainable (I saw a Rough Guide to Dylan in a used bookshop after the movie). This was more like a dream of Dylan. For a performer who's mythological persona might be even more relevant than his music at this point, I'm Not There is a perfect approach to his "story", especially when you consider the alternative: another paint by numbers musical biopic ala Ray or Walk the Line or countless others. I feel i know Dylan better, in a deeper way, than I would have after sitting through 2 hours of conventional rock star behind the music cliches. And if nothing else, I'm Not There feels totally new, which is a feat unto itself. Is it uneven? For sure. But excitingly so.

And Cate Blanchett can do nothing wrong. Wow.

DC, My New Home

Overheard this afternoon on the 14th Street Bus:

"I think from now on, before I have a child with a guy, I'm gonna find out a little bit about his background."

I Am An Old Man

Once upon a time, I really enjoyed the game of tennis. Right around 7th Grade, it became kind of cool to spend summer evenings playing under the lights at the local municipal courts. Cool kids got there via moped. I rode my bike. I read Tennis magazine and attended the US Open every September, but mostly I just liked hitting the ball around. There was something strangely satisfying about hitting a perfect shot, or chasing down a lob, or tending the net. And I always felt kind of cool being the only kid to play left-handed, as if this slight (and probably mostly psychological) advantage made up for what was, at the end of the day, a totally average set of skills. Also, since most lefties seem to be at least a little ambidextrous, I felt extra cool running down particularly tough shots to my right side, switching hands, and returning them right-handed. I doubt anyone even noticed, but to me this was the absolute height of 7th Grade
Tennis Cool.

At some point during high school, I realized that my playground game wasn't going to cut it if I actually wanted to play in any official capacity. So I started taking lessons once a week, and progressed to the point where I was able to break into the Varsity squad my senior year. Our school had a good team by south Jersey standards (meaning we won our division, but got slaughtered at county or state tournaments or any occasion which pitted us against opponents from the more populous northern portions of the state), and while the rest of the team was pretty polished (though still quirky), my doubles partner Jon and I probably clashed a bit with the others, at least in terms of playing ability. We were Second Doubles, the lowest members of the Varsity team, and were periodically challenged by JV players, who could have taken our spots by beating us at practice (they didn't). Point being: the rest of the team didn't have to deal with this crap, since they were actually good at tennis. We were only marginally good. But that's what was fun about it. While Brian, at First Singles (the best player), had to pretty much play like a machine to compete against each school's best player (even schools w/ incredibly shitty teams had one good guy Brian had to face), Jon and I were free to be our scrappy, marginally good selves. I could hit forehands from both sides, throw my racket after bad shots, and dive around the court like an idiot. Jon, even worse, would smoke in between games, eat McDonalds cheeseburgers during court changes, and once climbed up the high chain link fence surrounding the court and started screaming for someone to let him out of his cage. I think we were losing at the time. On more than one occasion, we were reprimanded by the other team's coach, which really takes some doing. But man, this was fun!

[Jon later got arrested for grand larceny and extradited to West Virginia. True story.]

[Totally Skippable Tennis Note, for anyone interested: the way a team tennis match works is this: there are 7 Varsity Players. The top 3 play singles, the next 4 doubles. So, each match is actually comprised of 5 matches (3 singles, 2 doubles). Whichever team wins the best of 5, wins the match. So screwups like me and Jon actually figure in evenly with the real players.)

ANYWAY, then I got to college and sports weren't cool anymore. What was cool? Let's see: hair dye, nose rings, apathy, flannel, thrift shops, Seattle, coffee, and etc. I put down my racket and didn't play tennis again for another 16 years. Which brings us to this past Monday.

Holy unbelievable crap, I am an old, slow, and easily-winded semblance of my former self. I am an embarresment to terrestrial creatures of all shapes and sizes. I am a lumbering oaf with the soft touch of a rhino. I am a sack of bones and soft shapes where once were muscles. I am very, very bad at tennis. When I say I was sore after playing a single set, what I mean is that two days later I was begging my girlfriend to please rub my right buttock, which throbbed with an intensity of pain normally associated with makeshift Civil War field hospitals (like any right-minded person, by the way, she demurred). Four days of absolute misery. Here's what I couldn't do without yelping in pain after playing one set of tennis: put my pants on, brush my teeth, walk down a flight of stairs, drive, tie my shoes. I mean, this was a serious wakeup call. I am no longer young.

But damn, I don't wanna go out like this. I played again on Friday, and this time was able to last a set and a half. I was sore all weekend, but nothing like the first time (now my soreness was of a more reasonable variety: feet, ankles, that sort of thing). Thing is, while plodding around the court the second time, I was struck over the head by the knowledge of what getting old, and I mean really old, will feel like. As I shuffled about, hitting balls into the net, way past the baseline, or not at all, I experienced a dramatic disconnect between brain and body. In my head, I was still the same me as ever. My "I" — whatever it is that makes me feel like me — hadn't changed at all. The brain was still in perfect shape. I knew exactly what shots I wanted to hit, where I wanted to place them, what spin I wanted to put on them. The whole game came flooding back to me almost immediately, as if my last match were 16 hours ago, not 16 years. But actually doing it? Totally different story. I just can't. It just doesn't happen. My body knows the truth, whether or not my brain can relate. I think this is what getting old must feel like, a series of surprises, the gradual incremental knowledge that, in fact, you aren't really you anymore, regardless of what you think.

I Have A Fever

I'm in bed and I'm freezing, then I'm sweating, then I'm freezing again. It's not fun. Not fun at all.

DC en Fuego

Two nights ago, I happened to fall asleep at a decent hour only to be quickly jolted out of bed by what sounded like a car accident. I stumbled about trying to find my glasses, then managed to open the shades after only the briefest of struggles. Now, I'm always convinced I hear something, like an intruder, a ghost, a knife fight in the street (hey, this is DC, after all). And it's always nothing, just the wind or the chronic ringing in my ears or (where have you gone?) my imagination. So imagine my surprise at the sight of a gigantic fireball 3 doors down, with a pickup truck in the middle. That's right: a truck blew up on my street. The truck was totally engulfed, like it was protesting the war in Vietnam. You could sort of make out the truck in there, but it was really just a giant ball of fire. Obviously, I felt pretty great that my own car was parked 4 spots behind the fireball.

Like the rest of my new neighbors, I stumbled out into the frigid night, wearing only my jammies and a look that suggested, "where the hell have I just moved to?" Amy stayed inside and watched from the windows, missing all the neighborly chitchat. Soon, we were herded aside by the incomparable DC police force (none of whom, unfortunately, brought their Segways), while the fire department got things under control in a matter of moments. The most excitement came when a stretcher was wheeled toward the truck, bringing gasps from all assembled. Was there actually somebody in there?

Fortunately, there was not. But maybe if there had been, I'd actually be able to dig up a shred of news concerning this event. A truck BLOWS UP on my street, two white males are observed fleeing the scene, and, well: NOTHING. You can't imagine how disconcerting this is. Where's the media? Where's like the police department Press Release, or something on the website, or, I don't know, a tiny item in the next morning's paper. Has DC slid so far down the drain that a vehicle being bombed doesn't warrant any follow-up? I mean, I can't even find anything about it on my neighborhood's crime blog...which, by the way, is even more disconcerting. My neighborhood has a crime blog. And the posts don't read like "Got a parking ticket on 15th Street". Oh no, these posts are more along the lines of "Girl raped in broad daylight outside convenience store" and "My boyfriend was jumped by 3 black guys in an alley off Mt. Pleasant." This is not good.

Neil Diamond's "I Am...I Said" just came on the shuffle: "LA's fine, but it ain't home. New York's home but it ain't mine no more."

I need a drink.