Everything That Happens Will Happen Today

Years ago, while toiling in the #content mines of a company whose name I will not dignify by sharing in this hallowed space, I had a direct report whose youth, eagerness, and raw, abundant talent were in the process of slowly but surely being weaponized against them by an upper management caste that viewed its editors as just a slightly more expensive flavor of grist for the mill. This person had been placed in charge of the brand's budding news team, a team I'd assembled in collaboration with its former editor, who'd wisely fucked off the moment he was able to whiff out the odiferous hulk of the elephant in the room.

I was the features lead, which meant that even though the news lead reported to me, I wasn't always around when things went sideways for the news team. We all allegedly worked regular shifts, but we were all also perpetually vulnerable to cluelessly belligerent calls from the maniac I reported to — none more so than my aforementioned report, whose inexperience and people-pleasing nature were wielded, clublike, by said maniac whenever some damn thing wasn't published as quickly as he would have liked. This kind of thing happens a lot with underpaid digital news teams, especially when they're mostly staffed by freelancers who tend to rightly expect flexible hours in exchange for offensive compensation and zero benefits or job security. This was a thing I often pointed out to the maniac — it was probably the source of most of our arguments — but it didn't stop him from hassling his news editor after hours on a regular basis.

My ability to truly protect my report from this treatment was minimal, so I tried to use our biweekly 1:1 meetings to mold them into the type of person who not only had an appropriate appreciation for their own talent and innate worth, but was also willing to put a professional thumb in the eye of anybody who sought to take advantage of their need to earn a paycheck. We talked a lot about the erratic demands and all-consuming nature of news coverage, and during particularly busy shifts, I would sometimes say, "Everything that happens will happen today."

Like a lot of the crap that came out of my mouth in the presence of this report, I'm not sure it was fully understood, which is mostly my fault — I'm sure I prefaced my first utterance by asking whether they'd ever listened to the David Byrne/Brian Eno album with that title, while also hastening to add that I hold no particular affection for any of the songs — but I'm certain that the gist was gotten. You don't have to work in a digital media news department to experience the type of shift that feels like everything is happening at once and it won't fucking stop. We've all gotten to the end of a day and wondered where, exactly, the hell it went. We aspire to live with intentionality, to be present in the moment, but life — or the way we live it in our current place and time — conspires to shove us toward the outer edges of reactivity. What I'm saying, man, is that there are times when everything feels like a whole lot.

I've had a lot of those days lately. This is more of a statement than a complaint, although if I'm being honest, it's at least a little bit of a complaint. I mean, I'm juggling a lot, and it has been taking a toll, but most of the stuff I'm trying to keep in the air is some sort of blessing. My job has been kicking my ass for the last few months, but that's because I was promoted by people who value my skills and experience; although I'm hanging on by the skin of my teeth while I figure out the gig, I love the work, and I enjoy the people I'm doing it with. There's a lot of family stuff going on, and it all needs more time than I can afford to offer it, but those are the types of headaches you tend to miss after they subside.

On the other hand, weight is weight, juggling it takes energy, and I feel like we the people are collectively facing a grave and increasing shortage of the type of energy required to do much more than keep on putting one foot in front of the other. It's true that I no longer have the type of job I can comfortably manage while reliably leaving room for fun stuff on the side, but I don't think that's the whole issue. More than once in this space, I have used the words "ambient horror" to describe the overriding feeling of our present moment, and now I'll do it again: There's a weight on our chests, one that's been increasingly uncomfortable for at least a decade, and it's shifted our baseline view of the world in ways we don't yet fully understand.

I recently traded some emails with a friend who shared that he feels like he's always on the outside looking in — that while he knows there are people in his life who appreciate/like/love him, they just don't have room in their lives to hang out with him. Even though I don't know anything about those relationships, I told him I doubt it really has anything to do with him as a person, and I meant it; once we reach a certain age and/or accrue a certain number of responsibilities, it becomes a lot harder to make plans with people, no matter how fond of them we might be. Other shit is always getting in the way. There aren't enough hours. Everything that happens will happen today.

That's an old story, and one you might be living yourself right now. But what I didn't consider during that conversation, and having been thinking about a lot lately, is that aforementioned ambient horror, and how it might be affecting our ability to connect — not just with others, but our own selves. When the world is overwhelming, constantly, for years on end, how can you help but go at least a little bit numb? I mean, that's kind of the endgame for the people inflicting the horror, right? That the inflictees will eventually wear down and accept it as the natural order?

We aren't there yet, and I hope we never get there. But I do feel like I can sense a certain resigned silence building in my circle, a hunkering down. I can feel it in myself too. There was a time when, if I had something I felt like I needed to write, I wouldn't let the day end until I'd clawed back enough time to at least feel like I'd gotten a hand around the throat of that thing. These days, that reservoir of words lies still, and I'm trying to be patient and zen about it. To everything there is a season, and all that. But I'm also aware of this feeling I've been trying to stab at for the last few paragraphs — the feeling that the recently expanded gap between the thoughts in my brain and my ability to express them isn't just about work and family responsibilities. That maybe it's also about the smothering, corrosive effect of being forced to bear witness while some of the worst people in the world have access to far too much power, and gleefully use it in cruel and selfish and unlawful ways, and the only consequences are the ones borne by their targets. Of being unable to tune it out, because there's no safe space from the fear and hurt and outrage of it all. I think maybe, eventually, there's a sort of hibernation that sets in. I think it manifests itself in various ways, too. Maybe you're subconsciously back-burnering friendships. Maybe the enjoyment or excitement that used to be part of discovering new music has begun to fade. What I'm saying is that when every news story feels like a lash against the tenderest parts of your soul, feeling anything at all may become a luxury that's indulged only in the safest of spaces.

I'm not saying I'm there yet. But I am acknowledging that things have felt more... effortful over the last few weeks, and I'm trying to thread the needle between fighting against that while also giving myself space to feel it. Whenever this publishes, it will have been days since I started writing it, which is unusual for me; I tend to be the type of writer who chucks things out of the oven as fast as possible. I have other posts lined up, but didn't want to think about them until I managed to finish this one — partly because it explains some of where my head's been for the last month or so, and partly because I think it might strike at least part of a chord with how you're feeling these days.

Long story short, while it may be a little more difficult and/or slower at times, I vow to continue to forge ahead and find ways to post in this space, because it's fun, and I think some folks enjoy it, and it nourishes my soul, and fucking hell do we need that right now. I'm going to take it where I can, friends, and I suggest you do the same.

How about we wrap this up with some Cultural Consumption notes? I haven't done that in a while...

Watching: Apple TV continues to be the trendy pick for writers who want to publish posts about "the best streaming service no one's watching," and I dislike being trendy, but I can't deny that they have a far higher batting average with me than any other streaming platform. Widow's Bay was the trendy television pick of the spring, and if you need one more person to nudge you toward enjoying its expert blend of comedy, suspense, and (really pretty mild) horror, I'd be honored to be that someone. I enjoyed every episode, and they really only got better as the season wore on.

Speaking of things getting better as they go on: I thought Season 1 of Your Friends & Neighbors was a decent enough watch, albeit also a show whose nifty premise got bogged down by the writers' evident desire to tell a story about how rich people are all very sad. I wasn't all that excited about Season 2, but to my surprise, it kinda kicks Season 1's ass — instead of getting bogged down in the secretly miserable lives of the aggressively wealthy, it leans into turning the screws on its protagonists, all of whom have made (and continue to make) deeply ill-advised decisions for what seem, in the moment, to be all the right reasons. Slick and soapy, but not without substance.

With Widow's Bay and Your Friends & Neighbors in the rear view, I've settled in with Maximum Pleasure Guaranteed (also Apple TV), starring Tatiana Maslany as a single mother whose fight for custody of her daughter is complicated by... well, in the interest of not spoiling too much, let's just say she ends up attracting the attention of the NYPD for reasons having very little to do with anything she actually did. This is not to say she's a blameless protagonist, but if you've ever watched Maslany in action, you know she excels with layered characters, and Pleasure is a brilliant showcase for that ability. She's nothing short of magnetic as a woman who's targeted, victimized, and then... doesn't do what anybody expects, least of all the viewer. Highly recommended.

On the movie front, it will hardly surprise you to know that I inhaled Questlove's Earth, Wind & Fire documentary (HBO). It unfortunately commits the usual sin of glossing over and largely omitting everything the band produced after its commercial prime, but it still tells the story of a remarkable career in consistently absorbing fashion. Hell of a soundtrack, too.

I can also offer a gentleman's pass to Is This Thing On? (Hulu), starring Wil Arnett and Laura Dern as a long-term couple whose breakup teaches both of them things they'd forgotten or never knew about themselves and each other. It's a pretty familiar premise, and director Bradley Cooper — who, along with Arnett, co-wrote the script — doesn't actually do anything truly novel with it. At its core, this is a movie that's mostly about white guys of a certain age and their problems, which means that at its core, this is a movie that is somewhat tiresome. It's elevated, however, by some very strong performances, as well as a script that repeatedly finds ways to subvert expectations even as it follows an arc most viewers would be able to spot from the moon.

Not quite as enjoyable: Send Help (also Hulu), which continues Sam Raimi's long streak of flailing attempts to navigate the studio system while preserving the unique, intoxicating POV that defined his earlier output. As often tends to be the case with Raimi's stuff, the premise isn't bad: After being insulted and passed over for a promotion she'd been promised, a mousy office worker (Rachel McAdams) is invited on a business trip by the bro CEO (Dylan O'Brien) who just inherited the company. The plane crashes en route, those two are the only survivors, and the CEO quickly discovers he's severely underestimated her, to put it very mildly. Raimi's good at comedic comeuppance, and the setup's good for about an hour of medium fun, but I thought it flew pretty far off the rails at the end. Your mileage may vary.

Reading: I've been on a non-fiction streak this year, starting with Michael J. Fox's wafer-thin but still enjoyable Future Boy: Back to the Future and My Journey through the Space-Time Continuum, which looks back on the gonzo filming schedule he endured while making Back to the Future and also taping Family Ties. I was also happy to read Bill Janovitz's The Cars: Let the Stories Be Told. This is a mammoth biography of a band I never thought much about when they were popular, and reading it didn't make me more of a fan, but that didn't much matter; Janovitz supports the book's length by focusing on the human dramas that made the group click until they simply stopped clicking. If there's a weakness, it might be how hard Janovitz tries to portray Ric Ocasek as something other than a heartless dick, despite the mountains of evidence to the contrary; on the other hand, people contain multitudes, and you can be a heartless dick while also possessing a ton of talent and occasionally showing genuine love for your fellow man.

Then there's Raised on Radio: Power Ballads, Cocaine & Payola — The AOR Glory Years 1976-1986, by Paul Rees. It's a loving look back at the records that helped shape my formative listening years, and it's an oral history besides, so there was no way I wasn't going to absolutely devour this thing. It's flawed for sure — I'm not sure I agree with some of Rees' fundamental conclusions, he definitely played favorites with his subjects, and a lot of what you read here comes from archival interviews conducted by other writers (including your pal and mine, Matt Wardlaw). Still, there are plenty of good stories in here.

Last but not least, I'm currently reading Mark Malkoff's Love Johnny Carson: One Obsessive Fan's Journey to Find the Genius Behind the Legend. If you know anything about Carson, you're likely aware of his reputation as a guy whose huge popularity and enduring fame stood in contrast to his intensely private nature. Rather than trying to pull back the curtain on Carson as a man, this book wisely focuses on him as a late-night host, following his career before and during The Tonight Show by telling a series of stories about the stuff that went down on either side of the cameras. As a kid, I was much more of a Letterman viewer; Carson always seemed corny and lame in comparison. Nearly 35 years after he left the air, however, I've developed exactly the sort of nostalgic appreciation you'd expect, and this book is a perfectly breezy way to indulge it.

Around the Corner: One never truly knows what lies around the corner, does one? But if I had to guess, I'd say we're due for a dispatch from the 198oth dimension. Stay tuned...