The Network Marriage Plot

We nowadays are too anti-romantic to quite embrace them--even the excellent book called The Marriage Plot does not (spoiler!) end with true love gratified--but marriage plots do, mercifully, live on, in the form of the classic, slow-build network sitcom romance. Our Darcys and Lizzys are Ross and Rachel, Jim and Pam, Will and Emma--subjects of will-they-won't-they teasery spread languidly over episodes and seasons.

To my utmost delight, Fox has fashioned a Tuesday night with back-to-back sitcoms of the best kind, starring lead ladies with Lizzy wits. New Girl's Jess is zany and adorable, as only Zooey Deschanel can be. She means well all the time and risks harming others only by annoying them with excessive cheer. Mindy of The Mindy Project is also zany and adorable, but with a twist of caustic Kaling lime. Jess is willing to impersonate Elvis at a funeral to help her roommate (who is also her Darcy); Mindy freely admits that she expects to go to hell because she loves gossip and doesn't "really care about the environment."

If such leading Lizzys weren't wonderful enough, we are so lucky as to get True Darcy Types (TDTs) cast opposite them. In order to explain what I mean by a TDT, I must remind us why Pride and Prejudice is the greatest book ever written. (Do not bother to quibble with this statement of plain fact.) Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennett are not merely an unlikely or seemingly ill-suited couple. They are enemies. Darcy becomes our beloved in time, but we first see him swagger haughtily into the ballroom, acting like a total dick. He won't deign to dance with Lizzy, calling her "tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me."

We may be intrigued by this "fine, tall person" with his rep of ten thousand a year and a massive estate in Derbyshire, but his ill manners warn us away. A TDT, then, must be handsome (but not obviously, sweetly or cloyingly so), and a source of both fascination and repulsion. Beneath the dickish exterior he must be shy, wounded, noble, misunderstood, and in need of a softening touch. In other words, perfect for being so imperfect.

All of which aptly describes both Nick, the law school dropout, scruffy bartender and premature curmudgeon opposite Jess; and Danny, the well-exercised, misanthropic obstetrician with a Staten accent opposite Mindy. Each is disagreeable, handsome as if by accident, and initially, officially treats the lady in question with mockery--though of course we know the Darcy will inevitably be drawn to the Lizzy, perhaps for being so sunnily unlike himself.


TRADITION holds that sitcom marriage plots should unravel as slowly, circuitously and infuriatingly as possible--the more fateful twists and alternate suitors the better. New Girl's writers have been bold, placing their pair in coitus by Season Two. The Mindy Project is still in its first season, and, hewing closer to tradition, merely hints at a Mindy-Danny thing. Done right, the earliest of such hints are so imperceptible as to just give the viewer an inexplicable sense of wishing to see the pair together, as if no one else had conceived the idea. So it went on New Girl. When Nick and Jess kissed this season, we who saw it coming before they did (i.e. everyone) got to experience the satisfactions of both love and our own uncanny predictive powers fulfilled.

Whether these pairs will actually be united, and how many plot twists and hurdles will have to be put in their paths to keep the shows moving along in the meantime, remain to be seen. But this much is already certain: love and sitcoms, both so hopelessly old-fashioned, are alive and well.

The Format Pleasure of Harlem Shake Videos

Amid the internet-wide arguing about whether Harlem Shake videos have redeeming cultural value or demonstrate the "real" Harlem Shake (answer to the latter being a clear negative), I think the point is lost. 

If you've not yet been bombarded with Harlem Shakes and need an introduction to the phenomenon, here is a good one.






The point of a Harlem Shake video is not expression of brilliance, nor creation of a lasting work, and it's damn sure not ability to dance. It's creative exploitation of a tidy format. Each Harlem Shake video will begin with a rumble of ordinary activity, often punctuated by the foreshadowing movement of one person, and then--and you know just when it's coming! as the beat kicks in!--explode into mayhem.











If one's pleasure in watching them could be charted on a graph, the line would rise steadily for a while, as each fresh click of the triangular YouTube arrow reveals an unexpected scenario conforming to an expected format. (The line would of course turn negatively-sloped as one hit diminishing YouTubing returns.) Sure, they're dance videos without good dancing, and have Harlem in the name while having naught to do with Harlem. The irrationality is part of the delight.

The predictable and the unpredictable, perfectly aligned. Doesn't all great entertainment give us just that?

Tale of the Badu Night PART FOUR

Start at the beginning.

AS WE LEANED against a wall backstage--me awkwardly, Adria looking inexplicably at ease--a fellow passed by and smiled and asked if we were having a good time. He was the selfsame fellow who'd been in front of us onstage, with the triceps and the cornrows.

After awhile we bravely parted from the wall and made our way back to the exclusive-seeming room where the tub of Jif was kept. It became evident upon entry that this was the smoking room, and the Jif tub suddenly made sense. Most of the people who had been onstage were there, puffing and passing. And if you ever wondered what Badu players listen to when they smoke weed backstage, the answer is good kid, m.A.A.d city, the great Kendrick Lamar album.

Adria was making fearless chitchat. The cornrow man appeared and commenced flirting with me. (Do recall: I had on leggings.) His expression was that of a very high person and his voice that of a subdued Texan. I was being shy and coy, and coy just because I actually felt shy, and coy because that is how one is when any unknown man wants one's number.

The fact that this fellow was on close personal terms with one Erykah Badu was not lost on me. It certainly was not lost on Adria. A happily married woman, she was not about to flirt herself, but nor was she averse to coaxing the flirtation between Cornrows and me. As it turned out, he had played a major role in the creation of Worldwide Underground, and as I handed back his blunt I noticed a glimmer in his eyes that looked like the sparkly opening of "Back in the Day" sounds. He invited us to come back to the hotel for an afterparty.

Did we meet Erykah? No. We did not. We ended up in Cornrows' room at the Marriot, where he'd left CNN playing all night. I inquired what had happened with the fiscal cliff; he said a deal had been reached. The afterparty to which he'd referred was two whitegirls and him and a fresh blunt. And if you're wondering what a travelling musician plays on the laptop in his hotel room when he has brought two ladies back to it, the answer is "I'm Different" by 2 Chainz. Which has a really nice beat once you notice it.

Now allow me here to say that I have utmost respect for groupiehoes. I mean it. I consider bedding famous music people, or even slightly famous-by-association ones, to be adventurous and cool. And I may well have been, in this situation, a blowskie away from meeting Badu. But I didn't do it. I didn't even really consider it, much as I did enjoy taking home a scrap of Marriot stationary with his phone number scrawled upon it. (How quaint, right? I don't know why I didn't put it in my phone.) 

The night had been adventure enough for me already. And I had a gentleman with yet nicer arms I was already looking forward to seeing later that very late night. And Adria's kids would be up a few hours hence. So we left the hotel room, with one last eye glimmer smile from Cornrows, and headed back out into the Oakland night. We were both happy. And ready to go home.

THE END

Tale of the Badu Night PART THREE

Read PART ONE HERE and PART TWO HERE.

I wish I could better, or more narratively, remember the show. I recall it only in kaleidoscopic pieces, as befits a religious experience. We positioned ourselves in the left wing of the stage, behind scattered members of Badu's band (the one directly in front of us had cornrows, broad shoulders, nice triceps) and I could clearly see Erykah's colorful bra straps, and when she tired of and removed her heels I could see her toenail polish, which looked white. It is silly to worship people as idols, but I couldn't help it: being that close to Badu made me feel imbued with magic powers.

And Erykah is in that rare echelon of artists whose fans comprise a world and culture unto themselves. When she started humming the "whoa-ooh-whoa-ooh-whoa" from "Bag Lady," we all knew how to join in and where this was going, just as any shul-going Jew knows how, and with what reverence, to join in the Sh'ma. Any concert can have a sing-along; this meant more. Erykah bypasses the usual levels on which artists relate to fans, and cuts straight to the soul. I don't know how she does that.

Adria is a Mama's Gun fiend. But my favorite Badu album is, and likely will always be, Worldwide Underground. The fact that few fans cite this as their favorite of course makes it an even cooler favorite to have. Apart from "Danger," which you can hear on the radio, and which isn't much like the rest of the album, the tracks from Worldwide Underground are not especially popular. 

So while Adria and I were making utter fools of ourselves among the relaxed backstage elites (who may or may not have made bemused audible comment upon the pair of unhinged whitegirls) when "The Healer" and "Didn't Cha Know" happened, I retained some shred of dignity right up until I heard the sparkly sounds that foretell that quintessential Badu jam "Back in the Day." (Have you ever seen the part of Dave Chappelle's Block Party when Badu plays "Back in the Day"? If not: watch that shit.) I may have sung along dweebily; I may have davened and swayed; I don't whatsoever remember.

Three other things I am sure happened: 1) our butts were pinched in unison, and we turned about to see Shady, presuming the privilege (and when Adria later felt guilty that we hadn't been able to give him much cash in exchange for his great favor, I noted that each pinch was worth $50 at the very least); 2) at midnight Adria reached up for my face and gave me a smooch on the lips, which was adorable; and 3) Raphael Saadiq tripped over my coat as he hurried onstage. Like all celebrities, he is shorter than you expect.

When the show was over I assumed we would use the incredibly nice backstage bathroom and head home sated, but Adria sensibly observed that, you know, we were backstage after Badu. So we stuck around.

To be concluded...

Tale of the Badu Night PART TWO

Read PART ONE here.

When I found Adria and the five others they were already several phases into devising crisis strategies. The coreligionist who had bought the tickets simply could not find them. She had hoped to offer records of the purchase at the box office, but this was to no avail. Online tickets leave a trail, but tickets bought the old-fashioned way are like cash: terrible to lose. She was willing to re-purchase for everyone, but the show was sold out. Any personage who seemed to work at the Fox had been pleaded with, also to no avail. No scalpers were in sight. One of the ladies had even been lured by a shady-looking character who swore he could get us in backstage, but when he started leading her around the dark street corner she turned tail.

So there we stood, watching other people clamor excitedly in to see Badu. It was not long til midnight. A final plan was hatched to return to the scene of the ticket loss for a last, desperate search. We hailed a cab, but realized seven people cannot fit in a cab. So Adria and I stayed behind. She pursued further pleas with Fox ticket takers while I stood uselessly beside her, looking, I hoped, sympathetically pitiful.

Then the shady character returned, repeating his claim that he knew Erykah and could get us in. This man did not look like he knew Erykah. In fact he did not look like he belonged here, in this happenin crowd, in the present day, at all. He looked like a greasy, troubled backup musician from the 50s; like an extra from Cadillac Records, with a shellacked perm and grandfatherly attire. Adria was sensibly fending him off.

But: we were desperate. Though we kept repeating to each other that it would be fine and we'd have a fun night no matter, we were both going to be sad as fuck if we missed this show. Being a woman of significant stature, I felt that, if it really came to it, I could take this guy. My spine may not work too well, but he wasn't exactly in his prime. I put a protective arm around the petite Adria and said we might as well give this a try. Maybe we'd be murdered, but maybe we'd see Badu.

The shady character led us around the corner and down 18th, to what in fact was the backstage gate to the Fox. He handed a backstage pass to Adria and held up his own for the gate guard. The guard was unimpressed.

"Three people, three passes."

Shady backhand-slipped me his pass and I held it up for the guard, quite sure he wasn't going to buy this cheap ruse. And in fact he probably didn't. But he let us in anyway.

At that moment our fortunes changed. Moments ago we'd been poor unfortunates begging to be let in; now here we were being ushered through secret back channels like VIPs. We kept staring at each other and squealing, and Shady wanted lots of apologies for our prior lack of faith. We arrived in a backstage room stocked with beers and a tub of Jif peanut butter. A preternaturally beautiful woman in leggings and bare feet sashayed past and wished us a happy new year, braids grazing her knees. She was Erykah's sister, Nayrok, who sang backup that night.

The year was about to end, and Badu was about to get on stage, and we were about to have one crazy night.


To be continued...

Tale of the Badu Night PART ONE

A funny thing happened to me in the last moments of the old year and first moments of the new one. It also happened to my friend Adria, the only person I know whose Baduizt fervor might exceed--yes, exceed, my own. I'd dreamt for years of going to see Badu with Adria. I knew that no matter how zealous and ridiculous I became at the high holy day service of Badu, Adria would be no less zealous and ridiculous. 

So when Adria told me Erykah would be at the Fox Theater in my very own city on New Year's Eve--just in time for me to be sufficiently spine functional to stay out all night doing something fun, which I'd not done in a couple years-- you can imagine my delight. A plan quickly hatched, involving we two and five other coreligionists, one of whom worked near the Fox and kindly offered to buy everyone's tickets at the box office, so we wouldn't have to pay online purchase fees.

As the Eve approached I felt nervous. I never really know how my spine will behave. It's more like I guesstimate the odds. In the week before, I was able to predict a 25% maximum likelihood that a spinal disaster would ensue, and decided I couldn't say fairer than that. I dishonestly texted my mom that I was doing great and was quite sure the show wouldn't be a problem. 

I took precautions. I planned to arrive late, and miss The Coup, who were opening. I declined a pre-party invite from the coreligionist who'd bought the tix. Adria stopped by for a pre-pre-party at my house, and made me a shirt with iron-on Badu lyrics, to match the one she'd made for herself. Her back said, You don't have to believe everything you think/We've been programmed, and my chest had the next line: Wake up/We miss you. We were gloriously nerdy in our shirts.

We smoked a few puffs before Adria took off. We'd meet at the Fox. I spent the next hour stressing about parking downtown on New Year's, about spine, about which shoes would be least aesthetically and ergonomically offensive. But I made it, happily sacrificed $15 for a few hours in a $5/day lot, and headed toward Broadway in my coat and leggings and boots. I'd hardly been downtown the last couple years, and here I was amid the hip New Year's crowd, cold air in my face, hair flying. I was feeling myself. I called Adria, but the connection sucked. I figured I'd find her there. She called back, however, because she had to tell me something rather dire.

The tickets. They were gone.

Rain

THE CHANGING of seasons can be especially welcome when life has not been going very well. Because the best fact pertaining to hard times is this: Things change. New seasons are solid reassurance of just how deeply rooted this fact is. Some places have four true seasons, but California really just has the one great switch, sun to rain and back again. Where I grew up, in the desert, the rain part wasn't much. Maybe that's why rain does not carry, for me, the gloomy associations it does for many.

I miss rain now just as much as I miss sun each February. It's October and hot. My spine didn't quite work well enough this summer for my garden care to compete with four months of pure Cali sunshine. The south-facing slope is Riverside-baked. Ten-foot cardoon skeleton. Strawberries leaves brown and crisp. Young lavenders are pulling in on themselves. The alyssum is all stem and seed stalks. Even the crabgrass is yellowed, though still cocky as shit. The Gambusia fish in the water garden are sick to death of having to rely on me to treat water for chloramines and add it to their habitat.

The Gambusias are waiting for rain and the plants are waiting and the worms are waiting and the dusty car is waiting and I am waiting for rain.

We humans can only be briefly in love with the feel of rain. It is exhilarating for a few dozen drops (more if you are in The Notebook or East of Eden), but irritating after that.

But the smell of rain! Ah! What is it? Is it made in the atmosphere or does it result from drops contacting the stuff of Earth? Is it an earthy smell or, like Steinbeck says, "the sweet odor of ozone"? How much of it can be replicated watering a dry yard? This would be a good test.

And the sound of rain! Really an orchestra of sounds: water drop percussion on every exposed surface. Floppy drumming on calla leaves, soft and absorptive concrete contact, pattering on windows while you sleep.

You can grow tired of rain--or sun, or snow. But a force of nature you haven't experienced in a while has magic. No point trying to remember what it felt like to be sick of rain, and longing for sun.