Another Week: Number 132

We moved into this house 20 years ago this August, and one of the main things I remember was the quiet. The living room window was open, and all you could hear was the sound of crickets in the backyard. It felt like we were camping in South Dakota or something.

This past year has been relentless noise — construction on the school across the way, a street torn out on the next block. Everybody’s pickup truck is louder than the next guy’s, and they like to idle in front of my house for 20 or 30 minutes at a time, beginning at 6 a.m.

And then there’s fireworks season, which has gradually escalated since Memorial Day — a cluster of pops here, a bird-scattering blast there. Friday, the Fourth, was the anti-climax. It felt like the entire city was trying to force an unsatisfactory orgasm.

At a professional fireworks show, there is rhythm and pacing. The oohs and ahhs are plotted out. Some of the pieces are truly breathtaking. There are surprising variations and spectacular punctuations, and the whole thing builds to a crescendo — then ends.

But when every schmo on every block in town sets off consumer-grade explosions on impulse, the exercise becomes desperate and headache-inducing. Each rocket launched raises expectations that are immediately frustrated, over and over again, from late afternoon until well after midnight.

I sat on my front step and observed for about an hour. The more interesting sound was the big Latino party on the next block. It sounded like they had a band, and the band included a tuba. There were strange, hypnotic throbs and musical games. I wished that some passerby would invite me over, but she never appeared.

I’m seeing scads of fireflies in my yard this year, and they put on a better show than the neighborhood pyrotechnicians — in complete silence.

Maybe my isolation is a natural stage of rebuilding. While I’m sorting things out, I sit on my couch and watch sports. On Tuesday, the Indiana Fever won the Commissioner’s Cup Championship even without the injured Caitlin Clark. On the Fourth, the Chicago Cubs hit eight home runs at Wrigley for the first time in history. I smiled.

Meanwhile, Donald Trump’s gutting of USAID is expected to lead to the deaths of 14 million people over the next five years. This week, his main package of loathsome legislation worked its way through the House and the Senate like a tapeworm, and he reportedly signed it into law on the Fourth. 

The same day, news was breaking about horrific flooding in Kerr County, Texas, with dozens of girls missing from a Christian summer camp. Lt. Gov. Dan Patrick called specifically for the “on-your-knees kind of praying” that would help find the girls — making me wonder what sort of God sweeps his young followers away to extort extra appeasement.

I walked 6.78 miles this week.

Diagram of the century: “Pumice Stone”

Shorts-and-slippahs season is here — but one of the drawbacks to black rubber flip-flops is the dirty smudge they can leave on your heels, which mere soap will not remove. For this, you need a pumice stone, so I bought a pumice stone at Walmart.

Back at home with the blister pack, I discovered graphic design nirvana on the cardboard backside.

If I had any questions about what the lone, oval object in my “Pumice Stone” package might be, the numbered (!) diagram on the back helpfully identified it as a Pumice Stone.

This brought me deep joy as I imagined some management type — possibly in China — asking a graphic designer whether the diagram for the back of the pumice stone package was ready to go.

Stick (Apple TV+)

I have listened to Marc Maron‘s WTF podcast for years and sampled many of the TV and movie projects he’s participated in. This year, he’s been mentioning this Apple TV+ series featuring Owen Wilson and golf — and I finally remembered that I have Apple TV+ for a few more days as part of a three-month deal, so I have now seen all seven available episodes of this season’s ten.

Maron has been underselling the show. It’s an entertaining story with some laughs, a few tears, and a lot of humanity.

Wilson plays Pryce Cahill, a former star professional golfer who has since fallen apart due to profound grief. He is adorably optimistic as usual, but also moving when necessary.

Maron is Mitts, Pryce’s friend and former caddy. He doesn’t get a whole lot to do during the first six episodes except drive the RV, fire off curmudgeonly wisecracks, and model his aging hipster wardrobe.

In episode one, Pryce encounters Santi Wheeler (actor Peter Dager), a 17-year-old golf prodigy who quit the sport when his coach/father left his mom. Mariana Treviño plays that mom — Elena — who passionately expresses her values and exercises her business savvy. There’s also a young love interest: the gender-fluid Lilli Kay as Zero, a resolute wanderer who joins the makeshift family. Timothy Olyphant will soon enter the story in the role of a rival golfer.

As an offbeat, Apple TV+ sports dramedy with heart, Stick isn’t quite on par with Ted Lasso right away, but it’s very engaging and genuine. Treviño’s Elena especially stands out to me as a breakthrough character, but the whole cast makes you want to go along for the ride.

The Studio (Apple TV+)

Making the most of my few remaining days of Apple TV+, I also watched five episodes of The Studio, starring Seth Rogen as a movie studio executive who wants to think of himself as a virtuous cinephile but is under constant pressure to meet profit expectations.

The show reminds me of several others — for one, Poker Face, because of its mid-century titling, guest stars, and self-contained episodes.

For another, there was 30 Rock, which was a firehose of clever writing in constant motion. The Studio is all tracking shots with lots of walk-and-talk. There’s even an episode shot as a one-take. As a viewer, you may not laugh so very much, but you’ll think “Oh, that’s very good” frequently.

I’ve seen The Studio described as biting satire, but I disagree. The show is set in Hollywood because that’s so handy. It includes plenty of movie business in-jokes as a way to draw the viewer into its premise, but there’s no big unmasking here. You knew that studios exist to make money, right?

Seth Rogen is the most enjoyable I have seen him, as he vacilates between aspiration and duty. He is supported by Ike Barinholtz, Chase Sui Wonders, Catherine O’Hara, and Kathryn Hahn, who are all great. The choreography is intricate and precise, the writing brainy.

Now and then, there are even a few solid laughs.