Bring back the following words, in the following context: “swell,” as in ‘That’s great,’ not as in ‘That’s enlarged;’ “sore,” as in ‘I’m sore at you,’ not, ‘I’m sore from you;’ “hoosegow” in place of jail — or anything. (it’s just a kick-ass word.)
Officially declare three a magic number.
Invent and make mandatory the front goddamned brake light: Why is it the only angle you can’t see whether a car is slowing down is when it’s coming straight at you?
Atheists: admit it’s a faith.
Faith: admit it’s a science.
Science: make pets outlive us.
Add the Prius to the list of douchebag cars, joining BMW’s, Range Rovers and the Hummer H3.
Ban seatbelt laws. Americans have the right to be stupid.
Change the national anthem to ‘America the Beautiful.’
Stop using “impact” as a verb; it’s not.
Adjust daylight savings time so regular people care: “jump back” at 6 a.m. on a workday and “jump forward” at 4 p.m. on a workday.
Redefine rich. If a) You can buy anything on a restaurant menu or b) You believed you could be anything as a kid; you’re rich.
For every demand that’s not met, a hostage gets it. Beginning with “impact.”
In the meantime, I claim the following words, just because I don’t want them prostituted by the vernacular
Technically, this story contains spoilers to a show some unfortunate souls have yet to see. If so, read no further. However, in this Twiteration, any plot point not revealed 30 minutes after a show airs constitutes less a ‘spoiler’ than an ‘archaeological find.’
First, a firm and earnest caveat: I am perhaps the planet’s most ardent fan of Breaking Bad, and it remains my favorite show of all time (though Mad Men, considering its subject matter, may be the greatest). So I realize this is blue meth heresy.
But the fifth and final season pales in comparison to the first four, and, however slightly, tarnishes the show’s legacy.
That’s not to say the fifth season wasn’t awash in genius. Todd and “Ozymandias” should take their rightful place as two brilliant offspring of their (crystal) Glass parents. “Ozymandias” may be the most tense, melancholy and heartbreaking 42 minutes of television.
But consider the first four seasons as a whole: It was unique in that it a) Turned middle class rage inside out and b) Paid attention to the grisly, pesky details of death.
Walt was the ultimate nerd anti-hero. And who was the show’s greatest villain? Fast food manager Gus. Our relatable hero? Jesse, a skinny junkie who sucks at math. It took three episodes (its first shows) to dispose of two bodies, blasphemy for a crime drama.
And remember: Vince Gilligan and writers weren’t sure whether the show would be picked up for a fifth season, so he wrote the fourth-season finale, “Face Off,” as a prospective show-ender.
And what an ending it was! Never has a book seen a more elaborate final chapter. Walt, ever the chemist, luring Gus into one more bump from the one dope he could not resist: vengeance. Gus and Tio’s final, wordless exchange. That Walt simply provided users the tools of their destruction (much like his meth to junkies) proved a perfect, explosive finish, as did the upbeat-yet-bittersweet postscript of the poisonous depths Walt was willing to plumb.
But overdue popularity made a fifth season (and its drawn-out cash-in over two years) inevitable.
And let’s be honest: The fifth season didn’t match the previous in subtle decadence.
For one, the fifth season finale is terribly derivative of the fourth: Jesse, imprisoned in a lab, forced to cook for evil dealers while an armed Walt with uncertain motives arrives for the showdown.
The fifth-season nemeses, as well, lacked that unexpected villainy. Aside from Todd and Lydia, our evil-doers are white supremacists with prison records and swastikas tattooed on their necks. Not hard to hate — or spot, in a run-of-the-mill crime story. Our fifth season cliffhanger is a dying killer on the lam with nothing left to lose. It can turn out only one way.
And to have Walt’s cancer return was a misstep. It made his death a certainty and his life a waste. Walt needed to die from the life he’d chosen (even if it’s by Jesse’s or Skyler’s hand), not from the genes he inherited. His dramatic turn on Jesse, from protector to predator, strayed the what were always the show’s true addictions: Jesse’s need for a father fix; Walt’s high from dealing it.
Of course, this is to critique a Monet. That the show invited such fine-toothing, debate and dispute is to testify to its greatness.
And yes, I still know your name. You’re that high school chemistry teacher. The one with the doting-but-watchful pregnant wife and the high school son with Cerebral palsy that you’re desperately trying to still impress.
I’ve never been big on ceremony, traditions and resolutions that kick off on a calendar date (though I am considering three New Year’s Resolutions: to take up smoking, gain a little weight and exercise absolute authority at the expense of others; it just takes willpower). But I’ve discovered one of my own.
On Christmas Day, I give a $20 bill to the first homeless person I find. Usually it’s in front of the 7-11, though I’m finding the Circle K to be a bigger catch basin of the city’s human jetsam.
It started out of guilt. I was buying a Big Gulp with a $20 several years ago outside the 7-11 in Westwood. It was particularly cold (at least for California — I’ve become so wussified I don’t know cold anymore), and a homeless guy asked if I had change. I had a ton. I told him I had none.
When I got back to the car, I reached in my jacket pocket and fumbled through all the change and bills as I felt for the keys. Heard the wrong song when I turned on the car — April Comes She Will — and decided to give him all the change in my jacket. When I reached him, I decided everything in my jacket. He was so surprised he shook my hand with both hands, a gesture I’ll never forget. The only Christmas embrace that day, and one initialed on the wet cement of of my brain.
So every year, there is that. Never again the reaction I had that day. Once the guy just nodded, no thanks. But it makes me feel the day. And what’s more important than recognizing the day, than feeling it?
It was reinforced a couple years ago, when I had to walk home from getting my motorcycle fixed, a mile away. I didn’t want to haul the helmet and heavy jacket, so I piled them into an abandoned shopping cart left on Sherman Way, and began the trek home.
Despite holding at least $600 worth of motorcycle gear in my cart and an iPhone in my hand, no one on the walk home looked me in the eye. One neighbor stood on his porch til I passed to cross the sidewalk and get his mail. A young couple walked on the lawn instead of passing on the same pavement strip. Not one nod. Not one look in the eye. And I realized: maybe poverty has nothing to do with items. It has to do with acknowledgement. Am I ever so poor, afraid or simply circling our own orbit we are not flush with that, holiday or no?
So yes, I guess I am one for tradition, though I’ve had it recognized by several friends as a likely flush of cash. You know, they say, that money is going straight to the liquor store.
They are all probably right. To which I say, to them and all the Secret Santas I can look in the eye:
