Surprise, I’m focusing on the positive! Because there are still good things, and here’s a short list.

 Pete Davidson and Kim Kardashian

Isn’t this fantastic! Who could have imagined this?? When she broke up with Kanye, it seemed preordained that Kim would hook up with a wealthy Black athlete or maybe another rap “artist”. But no, instead she chose a scrawny white guy and self-professed stoner. Pete has plowed, ahem, his way through every other single female celeb, so maybe it had to happen, or maybe his Big Dick Energy was the attraction? I guess Kim likes her men to be bi-polar, and why not? I hope this goes on for eternity or at least the next few months. Please don’t let me down, Pete and Kim. You’re living your best lives! Take that, Ariana!

The Beatles Documentary. If you’re a boomer or even a culturally literate Gen X or Y, this is just heaven. I actually changed my mind about Paul, who I’ve hated for years and years. Watching these talented, witty, charismatic young men hang out together and create the soundtrack to our youth is enthralling. I never realized their beauty, because I was too young to recognize it. Their glossy hair and beautiful skin and radiant smiles are pure  magic. Just think: we’ve seem more images of the Beatles than of our own families or anything else. They are the best part of us, aren’t they, boomers? George’s style is a nice surprise (to me), as is Yoko’s relative harmlessness. Be prepared for a flood of nostalgia.

Norsemen.  Another gift from TV, Norsemen is a Norwegian series filmed in English, a deranged satire of Vikings, reminiscent of What We Do in the Shadows but more outrageous in it’s extreme battle scenes and it’s over-the-top homo-erotic (or homophobic) subtext. Every actor is totally committed to the deadpan insanity. There are three seasons to binge or savor, on Netflix.

Jean Stafford. What a great writer who I just discovered this year! She won a Pulitzer prize for a collection of short stories, but even more impressive is her second novel, The Mountain Lion. I’m about 3/4 into it and could not be more envious of her brilliance. If you love Flannery O’Connor, I think you will love The Mountain Lion. Jean Stafford has a similarly dark sensibility that seems well-earned, given her miserable life.

Idiotic Word Usage. I am really enjoying the use of “rescue” to mean “dog.” I just heard a news corespondent say “Oh sorry, that’s my rescue barking.” Haha, you idiot, JUST SAY DOG. We’re not giving out points for how you acquired your pet, for fucksake. I’ve read about celebrities enjoying family life with their two rescues. What do you call other dogs….mill-bred? Store-bought?

Then there is “space.”

“In the world, the eating disorder space, and the body positivity space, I don’t think there’s enough time, energy, or resources spent on people on the higher end of the weight spectrum, people who are fat, and people who are gender queer, trans, non-binary,” she said.

This usage is like nails on a chalkboard to me. It was bad enough when “space” meant your apartment. “I like what you’ve done with this space.” Ewwwwwwwwwww! While thinking about this usage, I came across this great glossary of activist terms. It is pretty comprehensive and I would even say poignant. It includes a few words to not use, like “diversity.” Fine with me! Done!

Well, there you go. It’s not much but it’s something. I’m trying to be the shepherd, you know?

If you have some other things to feel good about, let’s hear from you!

I stopped writing here because I felt I had nothing to say that I haven’t already said. I still feel that but now I’m worried that “use it or lose it” might apply to my ability to put words together in a pleasing way. I just read some advice to writers from Ray Bradbury, and most of it involves activating your language skills on a daily basis. I’m not going to argue with Ray Bradbury; he taught me (and most of us) to love reading.

My brain is barely firing, due to boredom, advanced age, or all my meds. I now take a pinch of Adderall with my two antidepressants, not to mention the Ativan for sleep. And the weed of course. I believe this pharmaceutical medley has impaired my thinking but a dull brain is better than one that is squirming like a toad.

I can spend days without one real conversation, because talking to one’s spouse doesn’t count as conversation. It’s more like a series of utilitarian questions and requests, interspersed with sighs and eyerolling.

So let’s talk about TV, because that is my life, second in importance only to my hair.

We started to watch that new Nicole Kidman thing, even though I knew I’d have trouble with her face. The face did not disappoint, and she added a dopey Russian accent. All the elements looked stupid, but I was game to watch until the Dead Son theme reared it’s triggering head. If you watch a lot of cable TV, you will have noticed how often a Dead Son elemement pops up, presumably to supply a dose of grief-porn to the numb viewer.

I am tapped out on this, and can’t take any more unless there’s a compelling reason, which won’t be found in TV dramas. So I refused to watch it. After The White Lotus, it seemed especially pointless, right? I know you loved The White Lotus as much as I did. I hope the hotel manager wins an Emmy! Mike White is such a nut case, in the best possible way. If you haven’t seen “Chuck and Buck,” go find it. You’ll be traumatized, but that’s Art.

Chuck and Buck brings me to a movie called “Humpday” that I watched despite all odds because the NYT suggested it. It’s about a pair of old college friends who decide to have sex for an amateur porn film. Since they are both straight men, hilarity ensues, ahem. More like extreme discomfort, but again, it is Art. I loved it.

I’ve also watched a bunch of violent foreign crime dramas, and there is no body part I have not seen chopped off. There are always hookers and glowering, swarthy bad guys who are hard to tell apart. I have to keep asking my husband, “Which one is this guy?” A perfect example of marital conversation!

Oh wait, I almost forget to recommend “Dave” and “Flatbush Misdemeanors!” They are so delightful, both of them, sharing the virtues of fresh characters, dialogue, and the sense that anything might happen. Go find them and you will thank me.

Finally, I just started watching The Sweet Life Los Angeles. This is going to be my go-to TV when the chopped up body parts and cries of “Putain!” wear me out. It’s a wonderful reality show where everyone is feeling some kinda way, and they refer to each other’s attire as “fits.” It is fucking heaven.

Okay, this is 574 words and I’m hoping Ray Bradbury is satisfied. I really desperately want to communicate, but my tools are either rusty or long gone. Try to bear with me. And let’s hear what TV you’re watching, and what meds you’re on.

I’m pretty sure you people are too smart to waste your time on this awards show, but do not fear, I watched it for you! I missed the beginning with the Justin Bieber performance but it’s safe to say that it was embarrassingly awful.

When I started watching, a huge fat blonde woman was singing a duet with an older black guy. They were sitting down, probably because she was too out of shape to stand. Imagine my surprise when she turned out to be Katy Perry! What happened, I thought, is she still pregnant? I googled her, and she’s already had her baby with its stupid name.

After that, or at some point, that guy The Weekend performed his hit song with his whole face in bandages like an accident victim. I’ll bet there’s a reason but I’m too lazy to google it.

Megan Thee Stallion came out with some sexy dancers and lip synced a raunchy song about how much she loves her body. There is so much body to love, Megan! She is like a Mount Everest of a voluptuous woman. She is a fleshy giant who can twerk with a bored look on her face, which seems like a special talent. You can’t imagine the twerking, literally. I see why she’s a star: She is mesmerizing.

Poor J Lo was left to writhe around on the floor in a sheer leotard thing, FOR NOTHING! She was just an unfortunate also-ran, unable to muster any sex appeal due to the tragic amount of effort she puts out to make a buck. No J lo, please go back to the block.

What else? This guy Something Capaldi who has the most annoying radio hit of 2020 came out to bleat a different tortured heartbreak anthem. I forget what his hit is but you know it if you’ve ever been in a CVS. I saw that he was chubby and sad looking and it made me feel bad for hating him. I will just hate his voice, not HIM, going forward.

I think that Bad Bunny guy performed, or maybe he just won an award.

Billie Eilish performed and it was the usual with a couple of twists. Now that everyone has seen her large chest, she made sure it peeked out of her Kimono thing. She sang in an under-amplified voice and pranced around looking impressed with herself. When she fell backwards off a miniature stage, it was a nice little shock. Otherwise, I’m tired of her shtick now, are you? I want her to knock it off or go away.

A rapper called Doja Cat accepted an award by saying “wow” over and over then raising her arms in triumph as though she’d just won the Olympics. I really really hate her, having witnessed her lack of even a smidgen of talent on another stupid music awards show.

What do you think of smidgen? What would be a better word? I’m pretty stoned so I’m blanking out. A soupcon? An iota? A shred?

Anyway, to sum up, Megan -1, everyone else – negative 100.

A few years ago, I watched the first episode of the British TV series Black Mirror, expecting a clever Sci Fi drama, since it was being compared to the Twilight Zone.

In the episode, a member of the British royal family is kidnapped and will only be released if the British prime minister fucks a pig on live television. A wild, perverse premise with an obvious critique of contemporary culture. One of the actors described the topic as “humiliation, and the public’s appetite for humiliation”. Fair enough, in part.

I still feel shaken as I remember watching it. I think I went from amusement to disbelief to anxiety to abject horror and grief. Notice how this trajectory follows the one we’ve endured with the presidency of Donald Trump!

In the show, we see the varying reactions of TV viewers as they watch the spectacle play out. Many are crying. I cried with them, because I’m sensitive, alright?

I remember complaining for days and weeks that I was permanently traumatized, even though it was only TV.

Now, watching Trump on TV, I feel the same horror welling up, but I’m too scared to cry. Maybe later. Every utterance and gesture is revolting, shameless, viscerally repugnant, like the Prime Minister fucking a pig. When he holds forth at his rallies, his tone strikes me as a mixture of Mussolini and Rodney Dangerfield. I’m actually embarrassed for him, because I’m a human being.

How one stupid fat bully could succeed in corrupting the entire government and breaking the whole country, I will never understand. But here we are.

I keep reflecting on Black Mirror, against my will, because my brain is looking for a reference point, I guess. What I want to know is this: ARE WE THE PIG?

Or is Trump both the pig and the pig fucker?

That’s all I’ve got today, sorry. I just wanted to check in.

Now that I spend my whole life on the couch watching TV, I’ve developed relationships with a bunch of commercials, some involving ritualized behavior on my part.

When the DealDash guy boasts about getting suitcases for less than 40 nollars, I have to shout “NOLLARS!” at him. Check him out below.

Then there’s the lady who says smugly, “I don’t add up my regrets…” and I have to shout, “YOU SHOULD!”

Fuck her, you know?

I hate old ladies bragging about how active they are. I especially hate seeing them play with their grandchildren, that’s how bitter I am.

A new  commercial I’m enjoying is the one for the PureWick female catheter. In this one, a woman asks her incontinent mother how she slept. What I like is their diction and decorum. They speak like Shakespearean actresses. It is so comically unlike caring for my 103 year old mother-in-law, who wants to get up and pee a thousand times a night. All her caretakers have begged her to stop doing this and it is driving everyone crazy.

I could watch those two actresses for hours. They should do a Masterpiece Theater series about staying dry at night.

I know it’s no joke to be old. I’m still going to laugh, though.

I don’t think I’d enjoy a life reduced to worrying about peeing. Now that some of us are privileged enough to be under house arrest, we’re learning how to endure a constricted existence and wondering how much we can take. We’re trying to remember why we ever  cared about the things that took up our time and emotional energy.

We’re debating the value of getting dressed in normal clothes versus wearing sweatpants. I’m tired of this discussion because I just wear jeans every day, like every decent person should do. I wear jeans while I watch the news all day, and while I watch Netflix all night.

See my butt-print on the couch? That says it all.

If this ever ends, I hope I remember how to act like a normal, socialized person. Meanwhile, at least I’m not going to shopping malls. I’m saving millions of nollars, right? And I’m keeping track of my regrets.

Love on the Spectrum is an Australian TV series about single young people on the autistic spectrum, learning to date and looking for love. I don’t know what I expected but I’ve been overwhelmed by how sweet and compassionate it turned out to be.

The series follows several characters, through interviews and during their dates, but it feels less voyeuristic than other reality shows in its gentle and informative perspective. If you’ve had no experience with people on the spectrum, you will see how varied its impact is on their personalities. As the saying goes, if you’ve met one person on the spectrum, you’ve met one person on the spectrum.

Me, I’ve had experience, and I can spot as Aspie from 100 yards, but I’m still learning. I’m increasingly convinced of my own autistic traits, which present in females much differently than in males and are more likely to go undetected even into adulthood.

There are only 5 episodes and I’m putting off seeing the last one because I don’t want to say goodby to its cast. I’ve tried to put a finger on what makes them so endearing, and I believe it’s their sincerity. In an age of studied authenticity, true sincerity is like a beacon of light. When they talk about their hopes of finding a partner, their unvarnished yearning and their simple requirements are almost unbearably poignant.

My inexpressive husband murmured emotionally during one segment, “So heartbreaking.” A guy named Mark was talking about his “disability” and how much he had to offer in spite of it. We love Mark! He is upbeat and positive throughout, although who knows what he’s like off camera. His parents discuss how far he’s come from being a non-verbal and aggressive child. How far we’ve all come from being awful children, but for most of us it hasn’t been such a persistent struggle.

The girls, Chloe and Olivia and Maddie, seem more self-aware and more inclined to joke about their habits. They seem less locked into gender performativity than the guys, who seem keenly aware of what men should act like.

This amorphous gender presentation reminds me of the years I would only wear men’s clothes…until my father threw them away. Even now I feel like a transvestite when I wear a dress and heels. I know I’m female but I feel deeply uncomfortable when someone calls me a “woman”. I’m okay feeling like a gay man in a female body, even though my husband isn’t crazy about this description.

Is it part of my autism? Or just a random trait? As a kid I felt baffled by other kids, who seemed to all know something I didn’t. I love to mimic people and I’m good at it. Females on the spectrum use this skill to blend in, often into adulthood. They are also prone to obsessions with people, who they stalk with unusual vigor. CHECK! Instead of acting out with tantrums like boys on the spectrum, girls are more likely to be afflicted with depression and eating disorders. CHECK! An alarming percentage of girls on the spectrum have been “sexually exploited.” CHECK! Because they don’t know how to say No, and don’t know how to recognize dangerous situations.

My husband and I also love Michael, a 25 year old who lives with his parents and only wants to be a husband. He is so earnest and guileless, it just kills us. What a lovely soul. I think he would make a great husband. Then there is Kelvin, who reacts with horror when a date tells him she isn’t interested in him. “You mean you don’t want to love me?” he screams, as you clutch your heart in agony.

I don’t want to sentimentalize the cast, or to imply that everyone on the spectrum is a saint. I’ve met several who are complete assholes, just like neurotypical people.

But more often, I’ve observed a sincerity that moves me deeply. Defined as “honesty of mind or intention; freedom from simulation, hypocrisy, disguise, or false pretense,” sincerity is a pretty rare commodity. After intelligence, it’s probably what I look for most in a friend. Along with the ability to accept my mimicking, obsessions, and the gay man in a female body thing.

Go watch this show on Netflix and tell me what you think.

This year, I am giving out my own awards in my own categories. You can suggest your own categories if I missed any.

Most Egregious Dress: Duh, this one is a no-brainer, right? The winner is Gwyneth “please hate me” Paltrow, in as awful sheer peignoir that appears to have been shredded in the garbage disposal before she rescued it. Gwyneth is always trolling us, so by now she’s a master at it. Thank u next, Gwyneth.

Most Personally Gratifying Dress Fail: Taylor Swift, in a big floral bedspread that accentuated her round-shouldered posture and added forty years to her face. YES, let’s see more of this, Taylor!

Most Discomfiting Presence: Renee Zellwegar. I almost had to cover my eyes. From the beginning of her acceptance speech, she made it clear how much she resents her peers and critics. Extremely ungracious and neurotic, Renee lived up to her hype as super cray.

Most Unctuous Hollywood Back-Slapping: The Tom Hanks intro and speech, depicting him as god’s gift to acting as though acting itself were god’s gift to humanity. I try to avoid Tom Hanks movies and I don’t plan to forgive him for pretending to be Mr. Rogers or anyone else.

Best Dress Periodt: This Chartreuse Gucci worn by a gorgeous person I’ve never heard of (Gugu Mbatha Raw). God, this is everything.

Best Scene Stealing Red Carpet Look: Perennial winner Billy Porter. Perfection from head to toe.

Most Sickening Couple: Here, we have a tie. is it Bey and Jay? Or is it J Lo and A-Rod? It’s such a tough call. Should we give it to Beyonce just on snobbery grounds? You tell me.

Most Shameless Couple: This one goes to Noah Baumbach and Greta “homewrecker” Gerwig, sitting up front and poised to win, which, haha, they did not.

Most Tragic Dress Fail: Kerry Washington, why girl??

Most Supernatural Boobs: Another duh, Salma Hayek.

Most Starving Actress: This award goes to Nicole Kidman, in a hairline decision over Rooney Mara. Pale, anorexic, desperately hungry….just give up and have a sandwich, Nicole, and stop fucking with your face.

Ickiest Male Sexpot: Brad Pitt, looking like he had to pull himself away from a mirror to accept his award. If only he wasn’t a dope! He can never live down his years as Mr. Angelina, when he adopted all her mannerisms and called everything “grand.”

Most Attractive Male Lunatic: Joaquin Phoenix. The intensity! I am all in. Call me, Joaquin!

Joan of Arc Award: Michelle Williams. She is always suffering for Us, the people. She is so much better than us. Bow down.

Name You Have To Say, or Else: Martin Scorsese. Better yet, just Marty.

Okay, what did I leave out??

There is now a deep indentation where I sit on the couch, not the shape of my ass but a big amorphous blob, almost a sinkhole. I can sit there for six hours if there’s enough TV to watch. I actually hate to get up and my partner enables this behavior by periodically asking if there’s anything he can get me, like cookies or chips or a hit of weed.

“Use it or lose it” is great advice for somebody else. This inertia or paralysis or whatever we want to call it has a silver lining though: my discovery of Money Heist on Netflix. It’s a Spanish series whose real title is La Casa de Papel, referring to The Royal Mint of Spain, the site of a brazen heist designed by a criminal genius called The Professor.

The Professor and the eight desperadoes he’s recruited for the heist will become your own beloved family as the show goes on for 30 addictive episodes. It’s easily the most addictive series I’ve experienced, topping Breaking Bad, with which it shares a certain perverse sensibility. Each episode ends with a cliffhanger that is fucking unbearable. You have to watch the next one, even if it’s 3 a.m.

Trying to avoid spoilers, I’ll just say that this series has EVERYTHING! Suspense, drama, romance, heartbreak, humor, politics, philosophy, art direction, heroes and villains who morph into their opposites, and plot twists that will thrill and confound you. Don’t watch a dubbed version or you’ll miss the actors’ seductive voices and those beautiful Spanish S’s. Thank god it’s been renewed for season 4!

Just to balance the enthusiasm here, let me complain about Sunday night TV,  which has turned into a wasteland of awfulness with the season finale of Succession. Just when I survived the last dregs of The Affair, which was torture, I’m now stuck with Ray Donovan and Shameless. Both of these shows have outlasted any pretense of being watchable tripe. Everyone involved with them needs to die, asap. While watching them, I feel like I’m doing penance for some obscure crime in a past life, but my husband is committed to seeing them through, so I consider it part of my wifely duties.

Plus I hate to get up.

What about you guys, recommendations or complaints?

I was surprised to read a post on Instagram by an African American photographer who said he wasn’t up to watching When They See Us, the new series about the Central Park Five. Even more surprising were the 250+ comments voicing the same feeling. In my simplistic thinking, the series would be a must-see event for black audiences.

Personally, I watched the first episode and could barely get through it. It was crushing. I felt guilty about giving up after one episode. I figured I owed African Americans at least that much, the witnessing of this horrible injustice. But I gave myself a pass, on the grounds that I can only take so much trauma before I break.

Now I see that, duh, it’s a million times more traumatic for African Americans to re-experience this event, even though it’s an important story. The Instagram commenters expressed a literal dread of more trauma. It was simply too painful and not worth it. Their hearts were already broken, many wrote. Parents said that it was too awful to imagine their own children suffering like the wrongly accused teenagers. Many had tried to watch but had found it too harrowing.

So here’s what’s been on my mind. TV is not just entertainment. It’s a powerful agent of communication that can have long-lasting consequences. Like the nightly news or movies on the big screen, TV shows transmit messages into your brain. When you Netflix and Chill for hours and hours, you’re inviting stuff into your brain. And the more well-acted and well-produced the input, the more intense are the effects.

But you never know what will fuck you up! I can watch hours of Charles Manson or Ted Bundy crap without getting upset. I can even watch Jim Jones footage without freaking out. Making I’m just used to those stories or maybe the body count is too high to make an impact. But I’ve seen a couple of true crime documentaries that will haunt me forever, or at least until I achieve full dementia.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been watching an Australian TV series about a chaotic but close-knit family called Offspring. I love it so much! It’s a wonderfully written mix of drama and comedy, with great characters and endless plot twists. But I was shocked when a central character was abruptly killed in a fluke accident. Now, I’m a big baby, everyone knows, but even my husband was speechless. I kept saying, “This can’t happen, maybe he’ll come back.”

I waited for him to open his eyes and be alive again but he was gone. It was “just TV” but in my brain and heart, I experienced a deep shock. It triggered my PTSD and my grief in a way I wasn’t ready for. The next day, still thinking about it, I went back to bed in the middle of the day. I wanted that guy back. Why had they taken him away? I needed him back. It was about that guy and about Max. I couldn’t feel the difference. I still can’t. The character was a gentle young man with a darkness around him like a halo, a sweet face and a wounded boyishness. Max. Not Max but Max.

I skipped the funeral episode. Why would I put myself through it?

That’s how you may regard When They See Us, or Holocaust movies, or even Trump interviews. If you’re dreading it, don’t put yourself through it. You are excused. You are not here to suffer for anyone’s sins except your own.

Beware of your TV. It may know what you want, but only you know what you need.

I’ve become a big fan of IDTV, or The Murder Channel as I like to call it. Most of the time, I find the stories entertaining and even calming. But once in a while, something will trigger a real sense of shock and horror.

A couple of days ago, I watched the story of a serial killer, punctuated by interviews with his now adult daughter. In old photos, you can see the daughter as a toddler and the father as a big, good-looking all-American guy. The daughter describes him in those days as a charismatic family man.

But she recalls that all forms of horsing around with her dad ended up as uncomfortable power plays. Tickling became torture, as she begged her dad to stop. He would pin her arms down and keep on tickling.

Here I began to think, uh-oh.

My dad liked to be physical with me and my sister when we were kids. In one game, we would all get on his big bed and the object was to try to throw him off. Of course, this was impossible. I can’t remember if I enjoyed the struggle. I think I enjoyed this substitute for affection, since my parents divorced when I was three and I was a timid, neglected child.

Other games included trying to get his thumb loose from his fist. He was strong, a weightlifter and tennis player. We could never succeed and he enjoyed our committed struggles. He also enjoyed challenging us to perform some impossible task. When I was around eight, he bet that I couldn’t do 500 deep-knee-bends. Why would a father do this? Beats me, but I was determined to win. I somehow managed to rise to the challenge and I was in agony for days afterward. I remember my mom yelling at him about it.

When we were very young, my dad used to take us out on the freeway in his big Lincoln Continental and he would suddenly let go of the wheel at a high speed. He would turn to whichever of us was sitting next to him and say, “Take the wheel! Hurry up, you have to control the car!” Our terror was hilarious to him. Later, I would have recurring nightmares about a car I couldn’t control. I still can’t drive on freeways.

Back to the daughter of the serial killer, she recalls that her dad used to take her on a walk over a bridge. Halfway across, he would lift her up and pretend he was about to throw her over. She notes that she learned to run away before they got to the halfway mark.

My dad used to take us on a fishing boat that stayed out all day. I liked to fish. But I didn’t like it when he sneaked up behind me and suddenly lifted me off the ground, saying “I’m gonna throw you overboard!”

What fun he had!

The daughter in the story recounts her feelings of shame when her dad flirted with waitresses, crossing over the line of normal friendly banter.

Ditto, with my dad.

She was in high school when her dad was arrested for murder. He confessed to killing at least 8 women, but may have killed as many as 100. One was his fiance, who had rebelled against being dominated and had mysteriously disappeared. The daughter worries about having her father’s genes. She’s glad he didn’t kill her.

My dad died around 8 years ago, never having killed anyone as far as I know. But finding that his behavioral profile was so similar to the serial killer…that is upsetting. What the fuck was wrong with him and why didn’t anyone step in? How many fathers go around terrorizing their children in order to feel powerful? How many kids know that this isn’t normal?

Does this sound familiar to any of you??

As Father’s Day approaches, may my dad rest in peace, but may he stay good and dead.