Skip to main content

Married Life

 My husband and I left early from a party; we wanted to watch "SVU." 


It didn't matter that the episode seemed to have been written by AI. (Big plot holes troubled me. Parents are upset that Olivia has allowed a child-torturer to walk free; in the next scene, the same parents have cheerfully loaned their own tween to Olivia for an improvised game of baseball. Also, cops talk about the "intelligence" of a particular predator--but the predator drives around with a gun on display, even as a victim is shouting in the trunk.)


At the party in question, Marc and I were pleased to find another SVU fan. Neither my spouse nor I have any idea what we should be discussing at parties--to be gay in a sea of straight people is to be mostly puzzled (hour after hour). I generally find myself summarizing the plots of recent films for an uninterested listener. But meeting another SVU addict--that's a game changer. This particular addict had "intel": If you skip the first few seasons of the Hugh Dancy reboot, you'll find that things "get good" around 2024. Also, the most recent SVU season was a milestone because of its new showrunner; this is the first time in history that the voice behind SVU (Michele Fazekas) has been a woman.

I always send GoogleCal invites for a new episode. (The finale even had an AI-adjacent episode title; it was hastily labeled "Monster.") It's a particular pleasure to watch with my spouse, who tends to be a credulous, breathless viewer. ("He caught that conversation ON A PHONE? He was recording ON HIS IPHONE????!!") We have no plans to see Mariska on Broadway--"audience participation" is not my cup of tea--but, also, life is strange. Tides could change. I'm not convinced I will skate through the run of "Every Brilliant Thing"--without having made my own ticket purchase.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more