Wellwellwell….We finally got to the brutal, strange, poetic and sometimes cliche ending to Season 2 of True Detective.
What did you think? *puts finger to your mouth* Sssshhhhh, this is my blog. I’m gonna tell you what YMWIK thinks.
And me think I detect something snarky. I’m not even mad about it.
With the strong dialogue and existential flow of last season people would still try to find something wrong with it. It’s our nature, humans are dicks. But I was surprised to find the biggest problem for other people wasn’t the anticlimactic and rushed ending…it was the lack of a strong woman role.
The story didn’t call for that. And guess what? Not all women in real life are strong women roles. I know plenty of petty beeyotches who wouldn’t know how to represent a real woman if their lives depended on it. So, why are we putting pressure on creatives to jam an ideal woman into every damn story? But alas…the hell fire of woman came raining down on Nic Pizzolatto and I believe he took it to heart.
And then took that heart and twisted the knife so deeply.
Let me front this by saying I’m not sure if I liked the ending last night. I won’t criticize his mind, he wrote what he wrote and if you think you could do better- by all means. But if he wrote his ending as a huge “fuck you” to all the people who complained about his lack of writing good women, then I’ll accept it. Writing is a medium for many things and it’s okay if that thing is to relay a snarky message.
I would like to think Nic started out saying, Oh yeah? You want a strong woman? Here they are, standing tall behind the bodies of men who deserved better than what they ended with. Back shots, desert deaths and “message not sent”. But your message, my friend, was received.
He gave you the women you asked for but the price was the blood of men who protected them.
Or maybe, a happier way to see it is this: maybe he started out feeling snarky but in the end found that a woman’s heart can bring more justice than a broken man’s mind. We are two separate genders who can co-habitat but whose inner gears work on different platforms.
Frank knew how to bring justice to those who worked hand and foot to fuck him over…but he didn’t have the heart to realize a life with Jordan, even if it meant running, would far surpass dying bloodied alone.
Paul had the mind to think he knew what being a good man was, but he didn’t have the heart to live a life he deserved. And in the end, no matter how tactical he was, he was lost in himself and a shot in the back was the only thing that woke him up.
Ray. Oh…Ray. You were the only one who gave the heart a chance but in the end it didn’t matter. He darkened his heart and his life in bringing what he thought was justice to his family. When he had the chance to serve true justice and had the mind to know how, a little red light shone from beneath his car. And the only justice left to serve was making sure Ani didn’t get the same short stick the men in this season had picked.
So we’re left with Ani and Jordan and one lil dude who has his life ahead of him. That little boy, Ray’s spirit resurrected but not his mistakes, is the cherry on top of a vengeful sundae that Ani best serves with a warm heart alongside Jordan. I once said I was sick of women’s strength stemming from the actions of men, but this is the exception. And if you still think Nic can’t write a true woman? You have no idea what a true woman is.
Sidenote: You name a character Felicia and we don’t get one damn “Bye Felicia”….for shame.
I contemplated documenting this through my humor goggles but in the end…I’m a true journalist and I can’t resist the urge to spin a story.
Last night Frankie almost died. I know, it’s hard to swallow but it’s true.
We were sitting there, eating dinner, having a chat when suddenly he made a weird noise. It kind of sounded like a wheeze that got punched in the throat. He then rushed to put his plate down and pointed at his throat.
The following series of thoughts/actions on my part won’t paint me in the best light but in my defense…I totally get the mindset behind people thinking gunshots are fireworks.
Frankie tries to breathe chicken and it doesn’t go well.
Erika (thought): Frankie stop.
Frankie punch wheezes again and frantically points at his throat.
Erika (thought): DID I PUT NUTS IN THE CHICKEN (why the hell would i put nuts in the chicken?)
Frankie stumbles around the living room making horrible sounds.
Erika (thought): Ok this is bad but I think he can handle it.
While I dump responsibility onto him it’s clear he can’t handle it.
Erika (thought): Oh shit this is real. Holy shit i don’t know the Heimlich. EDDIE IZZARD TAUGHT ME NOTHING.
Frankie is now looking terrified that I will just watch him die a slow chicken death.
Erika (words): Uh…Oh my god. Ok. Um. Ok.
Frankie pretty much resigns to the fact that while I’ve practiced in the art of Katniss, Katniss never had to give the Heimlich Maneuver.
Erika dives in and attempts the Heimlich. Erika feels really stupid and it’s not effective.
FRANKIE PROCEEDS TO DIE.
Erika (thoughts): just beat the shit out of him. JUST BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM!
Erika beats the shit out of Frankie’s back and out comes chicken. The splat i’ll hear all of my life.
Erika (thought): Chriiiiiiiiiiiiiist. (and then the worst part) I had to physically cover my mouth so that I would not actually laugh hysterically like my body wanted me to as Frankie is hunched over and backing away from the light.
Erika (actually said out loud): What the hell happened! (wince)
Needless to say the laughing may have been more appropriate than a seemingly angry response.
When all was said and done…. Frankie lived. And we both immediately went on our phones to watch how to correctly Heimlich someone. And I laughed a lot because my body was determined to laugh away the panic.
Side note: Rosie took full advantage of her co-owner almost dying and attempted to consume the rest of Frankie’s chicken on the couch.
I had the great misfortune of watching Magic Mike XXL only once this weekend. Ideally, for research purposes, I would have preferred a few more rounds (twss) while I take an article of clothing off each time.
Oh, I’m sorry. This is a blog, not my fantasy diary.
There’s a point to this post, man boys. Don’t get your banana hammocks in a twist.
Ok, let’s get down to the good stuff (twss). It’s kinda hard to get this out (twss).
But as I watched Magic Mike, purely for pleasure pur…uh, purely for professional purposes, I came…..*wicked grin* to the conclusion that a certain song must have been crafted with science and possibly a little magic.
Once you discard the giggles and penetrate the eye candy- I found a rather interesting theory:
The song “Pony” could get the coldest fish nice and toasty. It’s has to be science. I’m not sure who Genuwine(?) worked with to set up this song but if science isn’t at play then magic is.
The second the song comes on, the moment that first techno bass “yeah” resonates through your bones…it’s on like Magic Mike’s package slamming into your face (this is in the movie, not part of my twisted hopes and dreams).
I can’t explain it. Even this morning, packing up fruit and bottles, the song comes on a playlist that does not contain the Magic Mike XXL soundtrack *cough* and I’m having to restrain from grinding against the fridge. I think my clothes blew off by sheer force of the beat, but I can’t be sure. *looks down to body* Nope, clothes still on.
But on a serious note…there’s nothing serious about this post. I’ve said “banana hammocks” and alluded to grotesque desires containing the song Pony. If you want to be enlightened with profound proverbs, move on. If you want to see the light thanks to being knocked out by an incoming crotch watch Magic Mike, I can’t provide that either. At least not over the web.
The point is this….as my friend said, “Men, send your girls to see Magic Mike and your night will be made about 2.5 hours later.” I can’t push this any harder (twss)…Tatum simulates the nasty as he levitates between the bent over forms of two women. And if that doesn’t do it, there’s a 15 minutes scene in the end that will have her clawing out of that theatre to live out the scenes with you the second she gets in the door. Oh, come on. There’s no harm in her pretending you’re the torso of Channing Tatum with the voice of Matt Bomer.
But if you don’t have the luxury of that set up, you can apparently pull out your magic wand and load up “Pony” on Spotify, pull the drapes (or don’t *wiggles eyebrows*) and let the magic unfold.
Your best night brought to you courtesy of a 14.50 movie ticket (and Channing Tatum’s crotch slamming). Saddle up for a wild ride, my friends.
Ladies. *tips hat, throws hat off stage right*
I’ve been observing a common trend in today’s girls, ladies, women and hoes. I commonly see it in the bathroom (in my defense I’m not literally seeing it, I’m not a perv….mostly) but it’s a technique that can be used in the wilderness as well. And, shockingly enough, it’s more appropriate behind your tent than what I’m seeing in civilization.
You know who you are….Squatters.
Squatting! Above the thing created to house you as you relieve yourself. It even comes designed with a bowl like feature below to catch the effects of um…like…the..you know..the uh..splatter. Of pee! Listen, I’m just the messenger, go with the flow.
I don’t know where this came from. I’d never seen it in my hillbilly days of growing up in Tejas and that says something. We have Wal-Mart there.
But suddenly, a maneuver made to pee in an alley after you hit “da club” or maybe in the seedy ass bar you ventured into after rumors of free pizza with every drink, has popped its squat in restrooms around the world.
Let me tell you a little story and then we’ll get into the science of it: My office restroom is spotless in the morning. Literally and figuratively. But by 3pm, it looks likes a group of male cats sauntered in, ripped up toilet paper and sprayed the porcelain seats of shame. It’s fucking disgusting. Pardon my potty mouth.
Now the science. I’m not doctor or scientist…but I have something far more valuable than “open heart surgery” skills: I can prescribe a hearty dose of common sense.
YOU CAN SIT ON THE SEAT AND NOT CONTRACT DISEASES. It’s science. I’m not going to quote it here because #google. Just take the energy you would have used hovering over a toilet seat and look it up.
Ladies…the screen of your phone is more diseased than the toilet seat. A phone..that you touch with your hands…that you used to wipe the sweat off your lip…that you then touched to a subway pole….is more diseased than a toilet seat. And in your “effort” to be clean, I now have to wipe up your pee everyday…or on most occasions, just roll my eyes and leave the fucking bathroom. I already have to wipe a lil hiney everyday, if I didn’t birth you I shouldn’t be cleaning up your piss.
Can we please go back to the good ‘ol days of ladies around the world sitting on toilet seats? I felt really weird writing that but I digress.
Leave your thigh work outs for the gym and stop spraying our bathrooms like cats in heat. It’s unbecoming.
By now most people have seen, fainted, screamed, laughed, joked, supported or damned the picture of Caitlyn Jenner.
A few tiers of generations have known Bruce Jenner, whether from Olympic stardom or a toy helicopter flying dad trying to avoid the surge of estrogen within his home. But we were all recently introduced to someone that doesn’t fit either one of those images…and with that, came opinions. Of which you’re all completely entitled. Whatever your medium for disapproval and hate, you’re apparently entitled to it.
But that means, by the hand of Zeus, I’m entitled to plaster my disapproval of your disapproval ALL OVER THE INTERNETS.
People…stop being dumb. If you want to be religious, political, God Bless ‘Merica- go right ahead. But you don’t have to be ignorant at the same time.
There is no need to post things about Courage, comparing her picture with that of a war image or a veteran missing limbs, or Macklemore. Courage is a lot of things. A LOT OF THINGS. And you are in no place to decide whose courage was better, stronger, more awful. Don’t be a twat. Until you’ve lived every damn scenario of sacrifice and courage, you my friends, are no judge of courage.
We are complex beings. We suffer and succeed on multiple platforms from psychological, to spiritual, to physical. Our lives are not to be lessened with a Life game of “Whose Dick Is Bigger?”
You don’t have to agree with her choice, you don’t have to support it…but whatever direction you’re coming from, especially religious, you do have to be kind. And you should be open to the struggles of all God’s children, if I might borrow a term I hear often.
Don’t ever take for granted you were born loving who you are (if there’s any person who truly does), there are many people who have no idea what that means and go years before they find the freedom and courage to embrace it.
As a final thought: Just stop throwing shade, dudes.
The train took me on a ride today!
Quite literally, it took me on a ride to work, so that’s cool. But if we’re going the metaphoric route, it also “took” me on “a” “ride”.
I’m first rewarded by seeing the body image campaign #ImNoAngel, wrapped around my train like the lacy black bras displayed on it. Women of all shapes and sizes, smiling and working it. It pumped me up, who doesn’t like to be reminded that they’re awesome even if they aren’t Victoria Secret sized (and those Angels are just as sexy in their bodies. I’m not shaming skinny.)
A few seconds after stepping onto the train, I hear the far away cries of a crazy. I roll my eyes, turn Ben Howard up and dive deeper into The Handmaid’s Tale (the irony of this book selection should hit shortly). My morning was going too well for crazy. But then… a few words pricked my interest. What was he yelling about? Did he need money? Was he a down and out old vet? No. He was a man. Dressed nicely. And saying….
Mother’s Day is Sunday, if you’re real man…if you love your momma….stand up today and give your seat to a lovely woman or mother nearby!
He said it over and over. There was only one man near me, sitting. Did he stand? Nope. He didn’t have earbuds in either, he heard everything. But that’s okay. Because, while this stranger was trying to enlighten men for a moment, he actually caused something else.
In the morning of women’s self confidence came a train full of women, united in the fact that even for one train ride these douchebags wouldn’t stand up. We smiled at each other. We giggled. We rolled our eyes playfully. It didn’t matter that I didn’t get a seat, I connected with a woman. I didn’t spend my time judging a girl for her outfit. Beating myself up because the girl next to me was gorgeous and thin. Constantly eyeing myself in the reflection of the window, are my bangs okay? Do I look good? Should I suck in? I got to experience just one moment of kumbaya towards women, pulsing through the train car like the nice cool a/c.
It was awesome.
Oh, and for the record, one man did stand up and give his seat. He wins life today. All the others? I don’t wish you harm, your douchebaggery waves like a flag and it’ll attract exactly what it promotes.
Good day, sirs. I SAID GOOD DAY.