What the Hell Happened This Year: the 2018 Edition

The thing about being in my late 40s and having the brain that I do is that time gets a little iffy for me. Oh, I’m fully oriented, but I’m never sure if certain things occurred unless I check at least three other sources to verify. 2018 was a year of things that I’m fairly confident I said, thought, or did. C’mon gang, let’s look at the highlights!

The Iceman Cometh 

courtesy of my dear dear friends @ Variety

– and Jane was remindeth that lord above, New York City is a lot of work. In May, my spouse and I traveled to New York, the primary motivation being to see Denzel Washington in Eugene O’Neill’s rollicking kneeslapper, “The Iceman Cometh”. In my younger days, going to New York City was thrilling and, as the song says, I wanted to be a part of it. As a bitch in my 40s, I was exhausted seconds after we landed. Though that might have been the waking nightmare that is LaGuardia. Note to self: fly into ANY OTHER AIRPORT should my presence ever be required again in NYC. I did finally go to MOMA, a joint I’d never managed to roll through when I used to go to New York somewhat regularly, and that was very very good. Seeing Van Gogh’s “The Starry Night”, one of my favorite paintings, in person was rather moving. We then hopped on a train and hustled ourselves down to our lady Kristin to see what was doing in her neck of the woods, and paid a visit to Washington DC. Massive pick to click: the National Museum of African-American History and Culture. Holy cats is all I can say. Also a highlight – staying in a hotel that has mothercrunking bunk beds.

Chicago’s Very Own John Mulaney

John Mulaney from "Kid Gorgeous"

We saw him, he’s terrific, I would like to be his friend and I don’t quite understand why I’m not. 

David Duchovny – I had another 5.4 second visit with one of my most beloved ex-Imaginary Celebrity Boyfriends in August. That was delightful. The picture? Well, he looks good. But he always looks good. *leers politely*

Tickets made me angry – I got hosed on getting tickets to see Massive Attack because Ticketmaster blows. I was also testy with my fun-sized rage angel Trent Reznor because I don’t know how to read good sometimes. I was more successful with getting passes to Star Wars Celebration for April 2019 – well, for one day, at least. Sunday. The day that will probably not be a day when cool things and/or people appear because that’s going to be Saturday.  And I will be there Sunday.

The Foo Fighters at Wrigley Field 

A sign for the Foo Fighters. I do not have a picture of a sign for U2.

That was good! The Hotel Zachary, the “boutique hotel” across the street from Wrigley Field, was darn fine! 

U2 at the United Center – that was also good! Those fellows sure know how to put on a show. 

How Did This Get Made – seeing Jason Mantzoukas in the flesh was a gift. I laughed so hard at a certain bit I almost hyperventilated, which is a mark of a quality live comedy podcast.

Avengers: Infinity War and other Fandom nonsense (spoilers and standard weirdness from me, your host)

"WHY" - my soul at "Avengers: Infinity War"

As you have probably gathered, if I like something or someone, I reaaaaaaaally like the fuck out of it/them, and more likely than not, to an embarrassing level. Prime example: traveling to Austin, TX in August 2000 to see Russell Crowe and his band. And I have no doubt I will do other borderline mortifying things in the future in order to scratch various itches (I’m just going to start the apology tour now for anything you may read from me regarding Oscar Isaac for the next, oh, three or four years because when I’m in? I’m in for a long time). I am, of course, 100 percent on board with the Marvel Cinematic Universe. I would never describe myself as an expert on any level regarding the comic book origins, but I will do my due diligence so I can understand the source material. I knew the general jist of where “Avengers: Infinity War” was coming from re: Thanos and his whole schtick. What I was not expecting was watching my movie friends (stay with me) FUCKING DISINTEGRATING INTO ASH FOR A GOOD FIVE MINUTES STRAIGHT. I had not planned on my festive moviegoing experience DESTROYING MY SOUL. I mean, the only way I could possibly assuage my damaged well-being was to pay good money to briefly touch Chris Evans this past October and have it photographed. 

I Called Captain America “Honey” – and it was spectacular.

I Cooked Sometimes – and I usually took photos of it. 

Stuffin'. Or dressing. Whatever.

Went To Vegas in the Summer, Enjoyed a Cabana – I ate at Gordon Ramsay’s Hell’s Kitchen and holy mother of fuck, the sticky toffee pudding is legit insane. I cocktailed thoroughly. I lost my ass gambling. Went swimmin’ (well, floated around since I don’t know how to swim) in a pool. All the hallmarks of a quality trip.

The Tooth and Nothing But – I had a tooth decide to get enraged with me and had my first root canal. The two-month long saga of repairing it has finally come to an end as I now have my permanent crown. A crown that my insurance won’t pay for because it is garbage insurance. America!

Uhhhh What Else What Else – I saw some movies, like “BlackKKlansman” (which was very good!), “Can You Ever Forgive Me?” (also very good!), “The Favourite” (oh shit this was good!), “Black Panther” (seriously so good!) and “Annihilation” (it was fascinating/weird/good and provided me with one of the best 2018 exchanges with my belov’d spouse:

Spouse (as Oscar Isaac’s character coughs up blood): Is he still sexy vomiting blood?

Me: Yes. Yes, he is.

I also watched some television that I enjoyed a bunch, like “The Good Place”, “Big Mouth”, “Bojack Horseman”, “Better Call Saul”, and “Brooklyn 99”. “The X-Files” swung through for another season and I dug it, but you know it’s my ride-or-die show. “The Venture Brothers” came back for an all-too-brief season on Adult Swim and my gosh, this show. Not only is it a fucking treasure trove of comedy with many references directed squarely at those of us of Jackson Publick and Doc Hammer’s generation (that would be me), but it’s also a show that is deeply invested in its characters and, in turn, makes the viewer give a serious damn – and it’s a cartoon. I just love it to bits. And even though he may now be consigned to the ex-Imaginary Celebrity Boyfriend pile, Benedict Cumberbatch killed it in Showtime’s “Patrick Melrose”. (I wish him all the best in his future endeavors.) 

And then there was Gritty.

GRITTY WILL GET US THROUGH

Weeping Publicly While Seated – I capped off the year with a 36-hour visitation to Las Vegas so I could have my not-frequent-enough public weeping/anger purge at Nine Inch Nails. It was the first show of theirs that I literally sat through, which was kind of odd (but made sense since I was in the balcony), but I still managed to have a fine release of stress and anger and sadness like I always do at a NIN show.

I Wrote a Lot (said to the tune of “We Care a Lot” by Faith No More) – it’s stuff that you haven’t seen yet and maybe never will, but this year was the most prolific I’ve been since the very early 2000s. I’ve created a bit of a romcom-ish universe of my own and it’s very fun (for me) to conjure up these little stories (and by “little” I mean 130-150 page screenplays – I get…wordy) and it keeps me off the ledge, off the street, and mentally functioning better because I’m able to direct some of the hot nonsense that likes to kick my ass around into a more productive, um, thing.

What’s On Deck for 2019: I can tell you I’ll be back in Vegas with m’lud in February for our standard birthday/wedding anniversary trip. We’ll be seeing Thomas Middleditch and Ben Schwartz be amusing at the Chicago Theater in April. That same month, we’ll be swanning through McCormick Place to see just how nerdbirdy it gets at Star Wars Celebration. That much I know for sure.

I hope my brain continues to cooperate with my medication as we have had a reasonable détente for the last year and a bit. I hope I can figure out a way to be fulfilled and successful at something that I actually like doing. I hope I can stop being quite so haunted by my age and my failures. I hope I can take the voluminous, bordering on sentient anger I have and make it work positively in some fashion. I hope I can be happy. 

All right, now I have to gush publicly.

As I've gotten older, I've gotten more picky about what I take in in the way of entertainment.  Stuff that never used to bother me in my younger days (casual sexism, fatphobia, etc. etc. and so forth) - rather, stuff that I could "get over" or "set aside" (ahhh, privilege) - now instantly puts my teeth on edge.  Stuff I never would have noticed or that I would have accepted as simply being a part of life, a part of existing in society as we know it, has become glaring, blaring sirens of "here comes some fucked up shit that's going to make you feel bad, feel uncomfortable, feel angry, feel ostracized".

As a result, my consumption of movies, television, and entertainment in general has decreased considerably.  I listen to podcasts mostly, which can be minefields but thankfully the ones I choose to listen to rarely blow up in my face.  It's through podcasts that I discovered that Paul F. Tompkins is just ridiculously amazing.  I knew who Paul was, though I'm not quite 100 percent sure how - I would wager it was through VH1's assorted "I Love a Decade" shows or "Best Week Ever" with a hint of his brief appearances on "Mr. Show".  But that's not important right now.

What IS important is that when I listen to or watch something involving Paul, I don't have to worry that he's going to suddenly crap out some sort of sexist, racist, homophobic, fatphobic bullshit when he opens his yap.  He's a walking, dapper (seriously, this cat loves him a suit and coordinating clothing and cufflinks) safe space.  And he's not afraid to discuss issues like sexism or homophobia in public and how shitty it is on the eight billion and counting guest spots he's done on assorted podcasts.  I know it probably seems like a "duh" sort of thing, but remember - this is a white guy in entertainment.  You just don't hear 95 percent of white male performers kicking back and having a serious discussion about how women are being shat upon from a great height in public.  He's a white guy who obviously LISTENED TO THINGS PEOPLE WHO WEREN'T WHITE GUYS HAVE TO SAY and THOUGHT ABOUT IT TO BOOT.  And that's fucking amazing.

The other thing that makes my greasy little heart go squish even more is that he is a fellow that loudly and proudly adores his wife, Janie Haddad Tompkins.  I mean, LOOK AT THIIIIIIIIIIIS:

http://paulftompkins.tumblr.com/post/21738202925/and-i-aint-goin-back-to-live-that-old-life-no-more

When you listen or watch his stand-up or listen to him on a podcast, he's not doing 10 minutes on "the ole ball-n-chain" or what a gutwrenching nightmare being married is or AUGH WOMEN RIGHT?!?.  He makes no secret about how cool and awesome his wife is and how much he appreciates her and that is so fucking heartening, particularly in our current climate where on some days it feels like being a woman is the worst thing in the world; where it seems like almost every male comedian would rather spend his stage time bitching about what bitches us bitches are and that they only reason they're married is they don't want to get screwed over paying alimony; where I feel compelled to write a gushy, dorky blog post about a comedian being a decent human male person because holy shit, it feels SO RARE SOME DAYS.

Anyway.  Paul F. Tompkins is a fellow you should not just know, but buy his items of entertainment!  Such as...

His shiny new DVD, "Laboring Under Delusions"!  http://goo.gl/mVXMi (the physical); http://goo.gl/oXRco (digital)

He does a kickass podcast, the Pod F. Tompkast, and that is FREE, readers - go to iTunes and subscribe!

He appears on, like, loads of other podcasts too, from Comedy Bang Bang to Superego and you should look at trackpft.com to find out what ones he's been on.

He's on Twitter and you should follow his stylish self at @pftompkins !  As is his wife Janie, who is a delightfully funny, smart actor-woman in her own right - @janiehaddad !

And now, I'll return to behaving like the mature 40-year old woman I am that doesn't write Tiger Beat-esque gushfests about men I don't know.



omg squeeeeeeeeee!

Oh shit, I have a blog.

So yeah, it's been a while (and goddammit, whenever I say that phrase I wind up with that silly-ass Staind song stuck in my head), but what can I tell you except the 29-year-old me would have kept on bloggin' about the most useless of shit while the 39-year-old me doesn't assume that anyone gives a rat's ass about what I have to say because it's okay that no one gives a rat's ass about what I have to say.

Admittedly, operating under that assumption (that is, I don't have to zip open my innards and pour everything onto the page under the guise of “entertainment” or “a writing exercise”) has resulted in my creativity going straight into the dumper. Every now and again, it scratches at me, that kind of annoyance that comes when you're getting a tattoo and it feels like someone constantly scratching at your skin for an hour, complete with ooky bleeding and seeping. At the present time, I'm “enjoying” a grand ole time at the Stress Circus thanks to having one parent who decided having a stroke the day before my boyfriend was due to arrive from overseas for a visit was a great idea and the other parent deciding to throw all coping skills to the wind. (Note: said stroke was minor and the strokee is going great guns and doing quite well, etc. etc. Copercabana...well...uh-huh.) For me, stress manifests mostly physically – my carcass decides to basically cave in on itself and provides me with aches, pains, stomach troubles, and repellent events of a bathroomy nature. I handle my stress by giving into it for a couple days and then something in my brain clicks and allows me to ignore it, but not ignore the guilt that comes with not going to work for two days, not wanting to talk to anyone, and devoting whatever energy I can summon up to get out of bed/go to work/perform my duties/come home/perform my duties/retreat to cave. There isn't much room for anything else.

Ergo, despite the fleeting ideas (I loathe the fucking phrase “plot bunnies”) caroming around my head, the thought of sitting down and giving said ideas any sort of existence is horrifying to me. Which then leads me down the Depresso Path of “well, it's not like you'd actually be able to sell it/publish it/put it on a pamphlet and pass it to people outside of street festivals”, naturally. Then the Depresso Path sort of folds in on itself in an “Inception”-style fashion and Marion Cotillard is sad and mysterious and Leonardo DiCaprio's face just gets wider and his eyeballs get narrower. Kind of like Gollum, actually.

Holy shit, speaking of Gollum, I decided to read The Hobbit for the first time since I was a kid (I think I read it when I was a kid, though maybe I just saw a cartoon of it...maybe?) and I was not prepared for it to, well, kind of suck. I shouldn't say it sucked, because it certainly moved along and was well-written and whatnot, but oof, at the end of the day it was not my bag. After reading the ever-so-serious Lord of the Rings trilogy, digesting the utter romp that is The Hobbit is a bit rough. Thinking about how in the red-hot hell they're going to make a movie out of The Hobbit that doesn't make me seek out something to punch troubles me, reader, lo how it troubles me. Not to say I won't see it, I will see the SHIT out of it. But I'm steeling myself now for something that could possibly be a steaming pile. Trust me, I'm not one of those folks who gets super-tight when a film of a book I enjoyed gets loosey-goosey with the source material (though Bennie winding up with Jack in the film version of “Circle of Friends” was a bullshit cop-out and casting 98 percent of “The House of the Spirits” with white people was an absolute LOAD plus two hours is not enough to tell such an epic story and let's not get me rolling on “Memoirs of a Geisha”), but it just seems so...money-grubby to throw in appearances by Elijah Wood and Orlando Bloom to entice Ringers into seeing The Hobbit. There has to be Hobbiters, right? And I would assume Ringers and Hobbiters all kind of dine at the same restaurant. Unless there's some sort of vocal Ringers vs. Hobbiters gang war that I'm not hip to. I wouldn't be surprised if there was, since the internet has long taught me that if there's a goodly reason to fight, by gum, we shall fight. Whether it be over politics, religion, the “Star Wars” Blu-Rays or if Orlando Bloom looks better with short hair or when his lustrous mane is in full curly magnificence.

Don't judge me, you a-holes. I'm IN A STATE RIGHT NOW.