Have you ever wanted to punch the corporate drone on the other end of the line? Unable to do so, have you ever wanted to punch the [expletive] out of your wall? Instead of a break-up, have you cited insurance companies as the reason for all the broken dinnerware in the kitchen? If anyone from United Health Care to Cobra has made you see crimson, read on. I hope it helps.
[The following is a letter I wrote to my insurance company's vice president after experiencing some horrifying customer service. Names and certain phrases have been excised to protect the helpless.]
Dear Sir,
Actually, the subject of this e-mail puts things rather mildly - I don't just have a complaint with your customer service department; I have a genuine hatred for the way your company deals with patients. So, to the publicist or secretary who will inevitably screen this e-mail before passing it on, please remember that I am writing on the grounds of legitimately bad service, and I mean each of the following words.
This afternoon, I was trying to call [insurance company] of [state] so I may secure a reasoning as to why the claims submitted by my psychiatrist, Dr. [So-and-So], for the time period of Nov. 2010 to Dec. 2010, were not being paid, due to what [insurance company] called a pre-existing condition, despite the fact that I'd been signed on to [insurance company] in August 2010, when they were aware of my severe depression and anxiety. I didn't know which department would cover this question, so I kept trying to access a generic help department who might direct my call. Unfortunately, a steely mechanized voice coldly informed me that I was being transferred to the benefits department. Inevitably, after hearing me out, the representative informed me that my question was related to claims, and that I'd be transferred. "Alright, then, I'll hold."
Next came a song-and-dance routine of indescribably bad jazz and useless announcements about how I'd be able to access the same information I was seeking online. There were several far-off ghostly buzzes and clicks, each punctuated by that most trite of customer service phrases, "All of our agents are busy. Your call is very important to us. Please stay on the line." Then: silence. The steely mechanized voice returned to inform me, "Your call did not go through. Please hang up and try again."
At this point I wondered, why is it my fault the call did not go through? I was not playing Tetris on my phone and consequently did not hit any ancillary keys that may have aided in negating the call's transmission. The representative has a call-back number for me - which they strangely demand each time, despite the fact that I'm sure they have it in front of them, on my computerized file - so why shouldn't I expect customer service to do its part? Like "Do you think there's a heaven?," there are no answers to questions like these.
I redialed [insurance company]. I waited for the knife-like voice of the female automaton to steer me to claims, but for some reason she kept quizzing me on my provider's tax ID. I just had a question, about some unfilled claims. Why do I need to proffer [Dr. So-and-So] W2 details so Hal from "2001: A Space Odyssey" can eventually just say, "Sorry, I didn't catch that"? Needless to say, the call did not to wind up at claims. I don't think I spoke to anyone on this second call, but I don't really remember: anger blinded me like Athena blinded Tiresias. Unfortunately, unlike Tiresias, my blindness was not amended by the gift of augury, or perhaps I'd have been able to predict the future and foreseen how my next attempt would go. No, my blindness somehow propelled me to make a third call.
This time, I spat out my ID to Rosie the Robot (except she isn't half as helpful as the one on 'The Jetsons'). Each digit dripped with pure disgust. After a series of the familiar far-off ghostly buzzes and clicks, someone named Marsha, blissfully from the claims department, answered. ... she heard me out for a moment and then said, "Oh, we'll give you coverage even if you have a pre-existing condition, but that doesn't mean we'll pay all the claims."
Pardon me for a moment: Is this legal? Because if it is, I promise you, I will move to Washington, D.C. tomorrow and work for free for any lobby that wants to pass and protect health care legislation. This is a filthy practice, and I hope you know that.
To continue: Marsha did inform me, however, that the claims for the dates in question had just been processed. Today, as a matter of fact. I did not pause to ask Marsha if she could perhaps explain, then, why I'd spent nearly forty-five minutes trying to ascertain this simplest of resolutions.
"So things are in the clear?"
"Yes. We'll send a payment of $[amount] to Dr. [So-and-So]."
Shocked silence.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"No, thank you, you've been very helpful."
"Okay, you have a good day." "You too."
Do you think, sir, that this is the best way to treat your patients? Sorry - your customers? Because as I continue to deal with your insurance company, I am increasingly aware of the fact that [insurance company] doesn't really treat its members as patients suffering and struggling with illnesses and bills in day-to-day life. [Insurance company] is run like a business, where the objective is to make money, patients be damned.
It astounds me to think that customer service behaves like this. Does it not perhaps occur to you that the people your employees speak with on a daily basis, such as myself, deal with mental illness? Depression and anxiety, ugly combination that they are, really aren't aided by a thoroughly flawed system and irresponsible customer service practices. Sure, I can take an anxiety pill or two afterward to calm myself down, maybe even chalk up today's three calls to experience. But honestly, I think you deserve my complaint instead.
Stunned,
[Me]
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Go On, Be a Good Egg
With versatile ingredients, it's not difficult to come up with a good sandwich every day. Save yourself a few bucks and make lunch at home. You'll be happier when noon rolls around.
Today's lunch: You'd think you wouldn't need more than bitter arugula, salty shallots and slivers of avocado. But add a fried egg and reach post-prandium pacem. (Yes, I know that's not grammatically correct; it's been four years since I sat in a Latin class.)
The recipe:
2 pieces of whole grain bread
1 egg
Arugula, about a cup
1 shallot, sliced
1 avocado, sliced
Olive oil
Salt+pepper
For the dressing: Take 2 1/2 tbsps. of raspberry jam, and mix it with one generous tablespoon of good, grainy mustard. Add salt and pepper to taste, and pour in some olive oil till it reaches a spreadable consistency. Put the spread on one piece of bread; save some mustard for the other slice.
1. Heat 1 tbsp. of olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Grind some pepper into it to check for crackle. If there are nice gentle pops, crack in your egg and fry, for about 7 minutes.
2. Pile arugula on the jam-med slice of bread. Slide the egg over the greens, while keeping the stove on.
3. In the remaining oil, fry the shallots with liberal pinch of salt. Wait for them to brown, and slide them on the mustard-ed bread.
4. Avocado slices go on top of the onions. Take this bread and turn it over fast on top of the egg. Don't worry, the sandwich's shape holds up pretty well.
5. Eat up! And repeat as necessary.
Today's lunch: You'd think you wouldn't need more than bitter arugula, salty shallots and slivers of avocado. But add a fried egg and reach post-prandium pacem. (Yes, I know that's not grammatically correct; it's been four years since I sat in a Latin class.)
The recipe:
2 pieces of whole grain bread
1 egg
Arugula, about a cup
1 shallot, sliced
1 avocado, sliced
Olive oil
Salt+pepper
For the dressing: Take 2 1/2 tbsps. of raspberry jam, and mix it with one generous tablespoon of good, grainy mustard. Add salt and pepper to taste, and pour in some olive oil till it reaches a spreadable consistency. Put the spread on one piece of bread; save some mustard for the other slice.
1. Heat 1 tbsp. of olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Grind some pepper into it to check for crackle. If there are nice gentle pops, crack in your egg and fry, for about 7 minutes.
2. Pile arugula on the jam-med slice of bread. Slide the egg over the greens, while keeping the stove on.
3. In the remaining oil, fry the shallots with liberal pinch of salt. Wait for them to brown, and slide them on the mustard-ed bread.
4. Avocado slices go on top of the onions. Take this bread and turn it over fast on top of the egg. Don't worry, the sandwich's shape holds up pretty well.
5. Eat up! And repeat as necessary.
Silent Spring
A friend of mine told me there are countless blogs which tell people's stories. Dial down the personal and up the criticism, he said. Excellent advice. But if you will indulge me today, I need space for my frustration.
One of the things depression takes away from you is your self-confidence. And without faith in your abilities, your efforts begin to seem worthless. I've been mired in the job hunt for several months now. Sending resumes into the ether can only go so far, and when interviews fail to translate into a position, I tend to be self-destructive and upset. I am a financial burden to my parents, whether or not I am ill. But I am ill. The cost of depression in emotional terms is incalculable. Monetized, however, the price comes to about $300 a month.
I realize the economy is in ruins and New York City is probably one of the harder places to get a job. My dad, after eight months of daily hunting, just became employed again. In a recent conversation he told me how strange it was, to be jobless for so long, and now being in the position to hire people. Only my mother knows how she made do on a teacher's pitiful salary for nearly a year. I ached, when I was last home, to see my parents shopping at Wal-Mart, planning to cut their wan budget further and calling the cable company to stop service. They don't deserve it. No one does, really.
But as "The Wire" so eloquently put it in its pilot, "Deserve ain't got nothing to do with it." So it doesn't matter, really, that there's a girl in group therapy whose parents can afford her rent in a very nice part of the city. She goes to neither class nor therapy, but goes to clubs with friends. And she is indifferent to the group leader's questions about what she does with her parents' money. She was sitting next to me. Tall, skinny. Dressed beautifully, with a bag I'd seen in the windows of Madison Avenue. I nearly sliced my tongue in half to keep my mouth shut. Yes, she has problems. Yes, she too is ill. But she has resources I can only dream of.
At my therapist's office shortly afterward, I wept bitterly. Anger rose up in me like a cyclone, tearing through any empathy I may've had for my fellow patient. Why was it, I asked Dr. M, that everyone I know is employed one way or another, and after over 60 applications I am nowhere? Why do others have more and don't see it as a gift? I probably said a whole lot of other things I don't remember, but I did say this before I left: "I forget, though, that there are no answers in therapy. This is just chatter. And when I leave nothing will have changed. The F train will be late, the line at Trader Joe's too long to enter, and my checking account will still read 0.00." Dr. M agreed.
Reader, I do not pity myself. I'm not the first nor the last to go through this. I'm just angry, is all. I was watching the 'Mad Men' season 2 episode "Three Sundays" today, and was struck by Peggy's sister's confession to Father Gil (a superb Colin Hanks). She is angry with the seeming acceptance of her sibling's illegitimate child, the help everyone offers her. During her act of contrition, she says she hates her sins.
Cognitive behavioral therapy, DBT's more severe cousin, aims to eliminate your negative thoughts or patterns. I never got the impression I was particularly good at it. My first therapist practiced CBT and was encouraging, but I just couldn't let go. I felt angry and envious and sad. Why wasn't that alright? But today, I find myself questioning these "sins." Perhaps the answer is in empowering oneself, and refrain from internalizing what others say or practice. I'll put it on the schedule, shall I, for the next time I'm in group. And I make no promises.
One of the things depression takes away from you is your self-confidence. And without faith in your abilities, your efforts begin to seem worthless. I've been mired in the job hunt for several months now. Sending resumes into the ether can only go so far, and when interviews fail to translate into a position, I tend to be self-destructive and upset. I am a financial burden to my parents, whether or not I am ill. But I am ill. The cost of depression in emotional terms is incalculable. Monetized, however, the price comes to about $300 a month.
I realize the economy is in ruins and New York City is probably one of the harder places to get a job. My dad, after eight months of daily hunting, just became employed again. In a recent conversation he told me how strange it was, to be jobless for so long, and now being in the position to hire people. Only my mother knows how she made do on a teacher's pitiful salary for nearly a year. I ached, when I was last home, to see my parents shopping at Wal-Mart, planning to cut their wan budget further and calling the cable company to stop service. They don't deserve it. No one does, really.
But as "The Wire" so eloquently put it in its pilot, "Deserve ain't got nothing to do with it." So it doesn't matter, really, that there's a girl in group therapy whose parents can afford her rent in a very nice part of the city. She goes to neither class nor therapy, but goes to clubs with friends. And she is indifferent to the group leader's questions about what she does with her parents' money. She was sitting next to me. Tall, skinny. Dressed beautifully, with a bag I'd seen in the windows of Madison Avenue. I nearly sliced my tongue in half to keep my mouth shut. Yes, she has problems. Yes, she too is ill. But she has resources I can only dream of.
At my therapist's office shortly afterward, I wept bitterly. Anger rose up in me like a cyclone, tearing through any empathy I may've had for my fellow patient. Why was it, I asked Dr. M, that everyone I know is employed one way or another, and after over 60 applications I am nowhere? Why do others have more and don't see it as a gift? I probably said a whole lot of other things I don't remember, but I did say this before I left: "I forget, though, that there are no answers in therapy. This is just chatter. And when I leave nothing will have changed. The F train will be late, the line at Trader Joe's too long to enter, and my checking account will still read 0.00." Dr. M agreed.
Reader, I do not pity myself. I'm not the first nor the last to go through this. I'm just angry, is all. I was watching the 'Mad Men' season 2 episode "Three Sundays" today, and was struck by Peggy's sister's confession to Father Gil (a superb Colin Hanks). She is angry with the seeming acceptance of her sibling's illegitimate child, the help everyone offers her. During her act of contrition, she says she hates her sins.
Cognitive behavioral therapy, DBT's more severe cousin, aims to eliminate your negative thoughts or patterns. I never got the impression I was particularly good at it. My first therapist practiced CBT and was encouraging, but I just couldn't let go. I felt angry and envious and sad. Why wasn't that alright? But today, I find myself questioning these "sins." Perhaps the answer is in empowering oneself, and refrain from internalizing what others say or practice. I'll put it on the schedule, shall I, for the next time I'm in group. And I make no promises.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Cookies+Elmo+Target=Best Top Chef Episode Ever
Before I begin, I want to list my top three pet peeves about "Top Chef":
3. Trash talking: Producers probably love it because it generates definitive characters for viewers to root for or against. But nothing enrages me more than contestants on "Top Chef" - trained, professional masters of the kitchen - berating each other. If you, like me, love food, you're watching for the chefs' technique and what time allows them to come up with. Mocking Blais and his penchant for liquid nitrogen or cursing a blue streak about what havoc (you let) Angelo wreak on your dish is completely uncalled for. And instead of generating dimension, this most irritating of habits makes everyone seem even more shallow, despite their evident talent.
2. "This next shot is a close-up of Padma's jewelry line. Wait, what? The guys are chopping like fiends? ...Nah, who wants to watch that?": The show is called "Top Chef." And as such, I'd like to think the chefs' mastery of their art should be on display, not Tom Colicchio's great, big head nodding or Padma's scar. I understand why they do this, of course - shots of the contestants running back and forth and yelling creates energy and speed, which helps the show pulsate (read: ratings). But the only episode where I can remember the cameras really focusing on everyone's, say, knife skills, was when David Chang came by for the quickfire (above left). He approved or denied each team's submission of minced garlic, butchered lamb ribs and cleaned artichokes. The result of that very challenge illustrated an interesting lesson about cooking: the teams which finished technique last did not have dishes that placed in the top. Cutforth & Co., more challenges like this, please!
1. Surely Eric Ripert and David Chang are busy: While Le Bernardin is a fine restaurant and I love Momofuku et al, I'm tired of the stilted guest judges' rotation on 'Top Chef.' Where are the Stulmans and Applemans, the Canoras and Takayamas? If there's a gastropub challenge I'd love to hear April Bloomfield's take on things. And what is the delay in getting Christina Tosi, recent James Beard Award semifinalist, on a pastry quickfire?
So, last week's episode. "Lock Down" began with the same filler of who-got-eliminated-and-how-that-made-me-feel chit-chat. And while it was sad to see a replay of Jimmy Fallon's indictment of Fabio's "meatball burger," things got off to a running start with a visit by Elmo, Cookie Monster and Telly for the quickfire. It was such a relief to see the war-weary chefs smiling and laughing at the Sesame Street residents' antics. And of course, a visit by The Big C and his crew mandates a cookie challenge. The stakes are high - not only is the reward $5,000, but it turns out a few of the chefs have never made a cookie from scratch. Plus, Blais decides to aim high and meet Elmo's challenge of a zucchini cookie. This oughta be good.
I don't think Top Chef has ever managed to be so enjoyable. This season's restaurant wars went down well, but when Elmo heckles Mike Isabella for dropping an orange, or Dale pours ruffled potato chips into a food processor and gets an earful from Telly - oh man, nothing could make me happier. Except something did. And that was Cookie Monster chomping down the tablecloth because "Me no can take it!" (Plus, Elmo gave a loving shout-out to Blais' daughter Riley. Aw!)
Unfortunatey, with such gourmands at hand, a few people "needed help," especially Blais' ice cream hockey pucks and Angelo's dry whatevers with rose petal sugar. But Dale, having taken a page out of the Christina Tosi handbook, wins with his salty-sweet concoction: pretzel and potato chip shortbread cookie with salted caramel chocolate ganache. I've long believed Dale is one of the most talented chefs on the show - as chef de cuisine at Buddakan NYC, he has an excellent handle on food trends and proves his chops consistently. I look forward to seeing him in the finals.
This week's elimination challenge hits the bull's-eye, literally: the chefs have to construct their own kitchens and cook for 100 people inside a Super Target. In the middle of the night. No one's at ease - Angelo and Mike even team up. And Tiffany uses - gasp - a prepared spice mix. Due to her late start Carla ends up on the bottom - the flavors of her curried apple soup never developed properly. Angelo was felled by the Achilles' heel of cooking: oversalting.
But it was Tiffany's attempt at nostalgic home-cooked food that interested me the most. She made a jambalaya with chicken, sausage and shrimp that ended up over-seasoned, rubbery and bad all around. But her motivation was a dish by her mother from her childhood, which, you know if you cook at all, can actually be a great goal for a dish. The most beautiful example of this was in 'Ratatouille' - the way Ego's eyes reel in shocked delight, as the titular dish, prepared by Remy the rat, takes him back to a French country cottage, a loving mother and a steaming plate of comfort.
But as Colicchio wisely pointed out, you can grow up with dishes and have an affinity for them, but they may not actually be good. This is probably true for anyone who swore by Shake 'n Bake as a kid. I know the delight of getting smells and tastes of my mother's cooking right, and when I don't, it's a true let-down, because all you're attempting is a recapture of a beloved memory.
So it took me completely by surprise that Tiffany did not go home this week. I'm a fan of hers from last season because she never talks nonsense about anyone, and a sincere chef to boot. But the judges couldn't forgive Angelo's salting error, so Mr. Sosa tearfully packed his knives and headed for home.
Oh, the good news: Antonia's runny egg-crostini-and parm combo looked great and was greeted with gusto by all the judges. Kudos to her for serving up 100 eggs at 3 AM. Blais had a nondescript pork dish that won accolades for flavor (he started cooking first). But it was Dale's trademark of hitting the stoner-food nail on the head that won him $25,000: he made a rib-eye panini, seared by irons, in a spicy tomato soup. Sometimes the simple way is the best way. (Mike ended up in no-man's land for his coconut soup. I pray for the day Padma orders him to leave.)
Final thoughts: The editors cleverly misled us to think it was Tiffany's time to go, so Angelo's departure was surprising, and personally, a relief. As always, the show spent so much time watching everyone run 100-yard sprints and setting up tables that we never got enough of an insight into the cooking process. But this was such a fun episode, with the talented Dale emerging victorious, that I have no real gripes. Additional points for the smooth flow of this episode, and the neat narrative, which allowed for Colicchio, Bourdain and guest judge Ming Tsai (hey, PBS alum makes a move to cable!) to appreciate the difficulty of the challenge.
Next week: the butter, the cream, the horror - Food Network loudmouth Paula Deen is on the show. There's a chance I won't be watching.
 |
| Trash talking offender numero uno: Mike Isabella. |
2. "This next shot is a close-up of Padma's jewelry line. Wait, what? The guys are chopping like fiends? ...Nah, who wants to watch that?": The show is called "Top Chef." And as such, I'd like to think the chefs' mastery of their art should be on display, not Tom Colicchio's great, big head nodding or Padma's scar. I understand why they do this, of course - shots of the contestants running back and forth and yelling creates energy and speed, which helps the show pulsate (read: ratings). But the only episode where I can remember the cameras really focusing on everyone's, say, knife skills, was when David Chang came by for the quickfire (above left). He approved or denied each team's submission of minced garlic, butchered lamb ribs and cleaned artichokes. The result of that very challenge illustrated an interesting lesson about cooking: the teams which finished technique last did not have dishes that placed in the top. Cutforth & Co., more challenges like this, please! 1. Surely Eric Ripert and David Chang are busy: While Le Bernardin is a fine restaurant and I love Momofuku et al, I'm tired of the stilted guest judges' rotation on 'Top Chef.' Where are the Stulmans and Applemans, the Canoras and Takayamas? If there's a gastropub challenge I'd love to hear April Bloomfield's take on things. And what is the delay in getting Christina Tosi, recent James Beard Award semifinalist, on a pastry quickfire?
I don't think Top Chef has ever managed to be so enjoyable. This season's restaurant wars went down well, but when Elmo heckles Mike Isabella for dropping an orange, or Dale pours ruffled potato chips into a food processor and gets an earful from Telly - oh man, nothing could make me happier. Except something did. And that was Cookie Monster chomping down the tablecloth because "Me no can take it!" (Plus, Elmo gave a loving shout-out to Blais' daughter Riley. Aw!)
Unfortunatey, with such gourmands at hand, a few people "needed help," especially Blais' ice cream hockey pucks and Angelo's dry whatevers with rose petal sugar. But Dale, having taken a page out of the Christina Tosi handbook, wins with his salty-sweet concoction: pretzel and potato chip shortbread cookie with salted caramel chocolate ganache. I've long believed Dale is one of the most talented chefs on the show - as chef de cuisine at Buddakan NYC, he has an excellent handle on food trends and proves his chops consistently. I look forward to seeing him in the finals.
This week's elimination challenge hits the bull's-eye, literally: the chefs have to construct their own kitchens and cook for 100 people inside a Super Target. In the middle of the night. No one's at ease - Angelo and Mike even team up. And Tiffany uses - gasp - a prepared spice mix. Due to her late start Carla ends up on the bottom - the flavors of her curried apple soup never developed properly. Angelo was felled by the Achilles' heel of cooking: oversalting.
But it was Tiffany's attempt at nostalgic home-cooked food that interested me the most. She made a jambalaya with chicken, sausage and shrimp that ended up over-seasoned, rubbery and bad all around. But her motivation was a dish by her mother from her childhood, which, you know if you cook at all, can actually be a great goal for a dish. The most beautiful example of this was in 'Ratatouille' - the way Ego's eyes reel in shocked delight, as the titular dish, prepared by Remy the rat, takes him back to a French country cottage, a loving mother and a steaming plate of comfort.
But as Colicchio wisely pointed out, you can grow up with dishes and have an affinity for them, but they may not actually be good. This is probably true for anyone who swore by Shake 'n Bake as a kid. I know the delight of getting smells and tastes of my mother's cooking right, and when I don't, it's a true let-down, because all you're attempting is a recapture of a beloved memory.
So it took me completely by surprise that Tiffany did not go home this week. I'm a fan of hers from last season because she never talks nonsense about anyone, and a sincere chef to boot. But the judges couldn't forgive Angelo's salting error, so Mr. Sosa tearfully packed his knives and headed for home.
Oh, the good news: Antonia's runny egg-crostini-and parm combo looked great and was greeted with gusto by all the judges. Kudos to her for serving up 100 eggs at 3 AM. Blais had a nondescript pork dish that won accolades for flavor (he started cooking first). But it was Dale's trademark of hitting the stoner-food nail on the head that won him $25,000: he made a rib-eye panini, seared by irons, in a spicy tomato soup. Sometimes the simple way is the best way. (Mike ended up in no-man's land for his coconut soup. I pray for the day Padma orders him to leave.)
Final thoughts: The editors cleverly misled us to think it was Tiffany's time to go, so Angelo's departure was surprising, and personally, a relief. As always, the show spent so much time watching everyone run 100-yard sprints and setting up tables that we never got enough of an insight into the cooking process. But this was such a fun episode, with the talented Dale emerging victorious, that I have no real gripes. Additional points for the smooth flow of this episode, and the neat narrative, which allowed for Colicchio, Bourdain and guest judge Ming Tsai (hey, PBS alum makes a move to cable!) to appreciate the difficulty of the challenge.
Next week: the butter, the cream, the horror - Food Network loudmouth Paula Deen is on the show. There's a chance I won't be watching.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Feb. 17 - Thursday Night TV, Part 2
Okay, okay - so I didn't get around to posting yesterday or Saturday. After oversleeping on the latter, I had the delightful chance to go to The Fat Cat with my friend V. and his girlfriend. Since I'd never been, I was quite taken with the place - the thumping live jazz and heavily thronged ping pong and pool tables all made for a pretty raucous atmosphere. We played Scrabble for three very enjoyable hours - I came in second place - then we went to Five Guys (I just realized their vegetarian burger wouldn't have anything on it unless you asked for the toppings). And because we were in the neighborhood and couldn't resist, plus V. and I had had such a blast feasting there back in November, the three of us nipped over to Rocco's (above right), one of my favorite pastry shops in the city. Nothing like cake and steamed milk to end one of the most enjoyable evenings in recent memory.[Side note: recommended dishes at Rocco's: cannoli, s'mores cheesecake, tiramisu cake, eclairs, steamed milk flavored with anything.]
But I digress. Today's subject is this past week's episode of '30 Rock,' titled "It's Never Too Late For Now."
I am a big fan of the theory that comedy is tragedy plus timing. That pain of any kind could form a desire for laughs seems reasonable, and rooted in an unconscious study of funny people over the course of history. You could argue, of course, that cynicism is just as much a source of humor because it provides edge, the zing you feel when a joke lands well. So when a veritable show like '30 Rock' allows its forlorn Liz Lemon to experience the softer side of humor, it's a welcome change of pace.
Shows like 'Community' and 'The Office' are adept at this sort of thing, because their casts function as ensembles, and as such tend to experience things together (e.g., the entire office commenting on, attending and participating in Jim and Pam's courtship/wedding, especially Michael's heartwarming smile at "I do"; the emotional beauty of "Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas"). This allows them to bond faster than Liz et al, who while are influenced by and ask for advice from others, tend to go it alone.
So you'd understand why our recently single Liz (hey, if your ex is Matt Damon, I think you're on the right track) would attract the attention of her near and dear. Frightened by her fanny pack, off the cuff knowledge about 'NCIS,' and adoption of a cat depressingly named Emily Dickinson, the crew, Jack and Jenna go to work creating a hope-reviving night for Liz. Things line up perfectly - so perfectly, in fact, that Liz begins to smell a rat. That is, several rats, working in tandem to let her know that she shouldn't give up.Turns out, everyone from Girl Writer to Kenneth to Pete collaborated to get Liz to a club with no ostensible annoyances, a nice guy who shares her fondness for white wine spritzers and - surprise! - with knowledge of Pete's motto du jour, "It's never too late for now."
The final scene has Liz proposing a complex (MOTOE-style) and a simple (lovely coincidence) explanation for her wonderful night. As a lifelong Agatha Christie fan who owns a well-thumbed copy of 'Murder on the Orient Express,' Liz's detection a la Monsieur Hercule Poirot now holds a special place in my heart. And just as the well-dressed Belgian, out of sympathy for the murderers' pain, opted for the simple, our awkward, Spanx-ed and visibly moved Elizabeth does the same. Because, she says, no one could be so lucky for the other to be possible.
This episode immediately reminded me of 'Anna Howard Shaw Day,' last season's amazing Valentine's Day episode. Liz can't find anyone to take her home from the dentist after anesthesia, and she decides to concoct a boyfriend to escape the litigious clutches of the hysterical Jamaican nurse. Of course, she doesn't get away with it, and monologues about how she longs for someone. While the episode dealt with Liz's loneliness in a very funny way (imagining Floyd, Drew and Dennis as Jamaican nurses is comic gold), the kicker's at the end, when Liz, in her drugged state, says to the camera, "Happy Valentine's Day, no one!" The message, I think, is that Liz has too many experiences that sour her opinion of a loving, sustained relationship. She doesn't believe in it because it's never worked out for her. This is why she calls it a day after the break-up with Carol. 
It's tough being Liz, to be sure, especially regarding dating. But "It's Never Too Late For Now" reminds us that she - and hopefully, the rest of us - is dear to people who would never let her commit to misery. Sure, the guy in question might be a Swiss prostitute recommended to Jack by Martha Stewart, and Jenna may have drugged Liz with organ-slimming/meth pills, but hey, they care! '30 Rock' has always been a show which cartoon-ized its characters a bit, so their offbeat attempts are forgiven. And what would friendship be, if not a collection of bizarre, hilarious and loving moments which leave you revived, grateful and secure?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Feb. 17 - Thursday Night TV, Pt. 1
If I had my druthers every single one of you would tune into NBC at 8 PM every Thursday night. Why? Because unless you'd like to turn your brain cells into unidentifiable substances by watching 'CSI', I recommend Community.
This ensemble comedy, currently in its second season, is set in a community college in Greendale, CO. Since the show takes its cues from John Hughes' 'The Breakfast Club,' the characters' interactions take place largely in a study lounge in the school library (left). Some of the cast may seem familiar - the indomitable Chevy Chase, Alison Brie (Trudy of 'Mad Men'), John Oliver of 'The Daily Show' and everyone's favorite Chinese guy, Ken Jeong, not to mention Joel McHale from E!'s 'The Soup.'
I'm not about to recap two seasons' worth of episodes - though if you have the time, put it on your Netflix queue! - so let's start with last night's 'Intermediate Documentary Filmmaking.' Pierce Hawthorne (played with prickly ease by Chevy Chase) has decided to exact revenge on his study group because he's been ignored by them. After passing out in a painkiller-induced haze in last week's episode, Pierce lands in the hospital, where everyone in the group gathers, concerned.
The revenge plan? Tell everyone he's dying. Further revenge plan? Bequeath possessions of ostensible sentimentality to everyone in the group. It doesn't take long for the mind games to start.
It wasn't until eight minutes into the show that I remembered Abed (Danny Pudi, left) was behind the camera, in one of his innumerable efforts to make a documentary. This lends the episode an all-encompassing quality: everyone gets to have an arc, which in turn is observed through Abed's trademark prism of objectivity.
Let the bequeathals begin: Britta (Gillian Jacobs) is handed a check for ten grand, which she'd under normal circumstances hand over to the nearest Central American feminist collective. But there are bills to consider - rent, credit card, gas. Annie (Alison Brie) receives a glittery family heirloom tiara from Pierce, purely for being "his favorite." (Annie's response: "What does that mean?!") And all Troy (Donald Glover) wanted was a signed photo of LeVar Burton "because a photo can't disappoint you." When Pierce's vast funds facilitate the arrival of Kunta Kinte himself, (above right) Troy's catatonia becomes spectacular.
The most important plot of the week: the impending arrival of Jeff's (Joel McHale) father. The two have been estranged since young Winger's childhood, and watching McHale agonize over Pierce's promise that Winger Sr. is going to roll up at the hospital is one of the episode's purer pleasures. But it is also one of the crueler set-ups Pierce puts into motion, because the audience is aware of Jeff's daddy issues, and how Pierce and Jeff trade off on being surrogate dads to each other. So when Jeff pounces onto the black Cadillac and discovers the driver is indeed Pierce, he whales on him, interspersing his punches with some choice phrases we realize he's been saving for his father. There's clearly more to all this, and I hope we see the storyline develop over the rest of the season.
But the best thing about this episode was its format. On a quick, roll-with-the-punches, movie-camera-sitcom like 'Community,' it's easy to tell when something changes. And while the show has gone the bottle episode route before ('Cooperative Calligraphy'), adding the mockumentary format was a cool surprise because the characters on 'Community' almost never break the fourth wall. Plus, the writers got to deride shows which consider mockumentary their bread and butter - as Abed puts it, "It's easier to tell a complex story when you can just cut to people explaining things to the camera." (And, as the AV Club wisely points out, if you compare the ratings of 'Modern Family,' 'Parks and Rec' and 'The Office' to 'Community,' you'll see why this is true.)
Conclusions: Annie comes to a convoluted solution about the motives behind the tiara (which Pierce accepts, but says, "It's really only because she's my favorite"). Troy never recovers, sobbing on the floor of a bathroom while singing the theme to 'Reading Rainbow.' Britta hands over every penny to the Red Cross, but only because she knows she'd keep it if a camera crew hadn't been there. Most interestingly, Shirley (left) is afraid to play a CD which Pierce says records the study group talking about her. After Britta plays the CD - where the group defends her to Pierce - Shirley's a bit lost. When Abed catches her speaking forlornly to the camera in a hospital supply closet, he backs out quietly, and Shirley continues describing her fears about not fitting in with the group. It's an emotional, safe moment, filled with valid apprehensions that we can guess probably aren't unique to Shirley.
For his part, Jeff curls up in a blanket in Pierce's hospital room, as though ready to explore the symbiosis between himself and this weird old man who might be his best shot for a father figure. The way everyone comes full circle makes the playing field even again, and while 'Intermediate Documentary Filmmaking' may have had its emotionally troubling moments, it's filled with the hilarity and warmth that promises these misfits, despite their individual anxieties, will go on together.
And that's what good TV is all about.
Tomorrow's reviews: '30 Rock,' 'Outsourced'
I'm not about to recap two seasons' worth of episodes - though if you have the time, put it on your Netflix queue! - so let's start with last night's 'Intermediate Documentary Filmmaking.' Pierce Hawthorne (played with prickly ease by Chevy Chase) has decided to exact revenge on his study group because he's been ignored by them. After passing out in a painkiller-induced haze in last week's episode, Pierce lands in the hospital, where everyone in the group gathers, concerned.
The revenge plan? Tell everyone he's dying. Further revenge plan? Bequeath possessions of ostensible sentimentality to everyone in the group. It doesn't take long for the mind games to start.
It wasn't until eight minutes into the show that I remembered Abed (Danny Pudi, left) was behind the camera, in one of his innumerable efforts to make a documentary. This lends the episode an all-encompassing quality: everyone gets to have an arc, which in turn is observed through Abed's trademark prism of objectivity.
Let the bequeathals begin: Britta (Gillian Jacobs) is handed a check for ten grand, which she'd under normal circumstances hand over to the nearest Central American feminist collective. But there are bills to consider - rent, credit card, gas. Annie (Alison Brie) receives a glittery family heirloom tiara from Pierce, purely for being "his favorite." (Annie's response: "What does that mean?!") And all Troy (Donald Glover) wanted was a signed photo of LeVar Burton "because a photo can't disappoint you." When Pierce's vast funds facilitate the arrival of Kunta Kinte himself, (above right) Troy's catatonia becomes spectacular. 
The most important plot of the week: the impending arrival of Jeff's (Joel McHale) father. The two have been estranged since young Winger's childhood, and watching McHale agonize over Pierce's promise that Winger Sr. is going to roll up at the hospital is one of the episode's purer pleasures. But it is also one of the crueler set-ups Pierce puts into motion, because the audience is aware of Jeff's daddy issues, and how Pierce and Jeff trade off on being surrogate dads to each other. So when Jeff pounces onto the black Cadillac and discovers the driver is indeed Pierce, he whales on him, interspersing his punches with some choice phrases we realize he's been saving for his father. There's clearly more to all this, and I hope we see the storyline develop over the rest of the season.But the best thing about this episode was its format. On a quick, roll-with-the-punches, movie-camera-sitcom like 'Community,' it's easy to tell when something changes. And while the show has gone the bottle episode route before ('Cooperative Calligraphy'), adding the mockumentary format was a cool surprise because the characters on 'Community' almost never break the fourth wall. Plus, the writers got to deride shows which consider mockumentary their bread and butter - as Abed puts it, "It's easier to tell a complex story when you can just cut to people explaining things to the camera." (And, as the AV Club wisely points out, if you compare the ratings of 'Modern Family,' 'Parks and Rec' and 'The Office' to 'Community,' you'll see why this is true.)
Conclusions: Annie comes to a convoluted solution about the motives behind the tiara (which Pierce accepts, but says, "It's really only because she's my favorite"). Troy never recovers, sobbing on the floor of a bathroom while singing the theme to 'Reading Rainbow.' Britta hands over every penny to the Red Cross, but only because she knows she'd keep it if a camera crew hadn't been there. Most interestingly, Shirley (left) is afraid to play a CD which Pierce says records the study group talking about her. After Britta plays the CD - where the group defends her to Pierce - Shirley's a bit lost. When Abed catches her speaking forlornly to the camera in a hospital supply closet, he backs out quietly, and Shirley continues describing her fears about not fitting in with the group. It's an emotional, safe moment, filled with valid apprehensions that we can guess probably aren't unique to Shirley.For his part, Jeff curls up in a blanket in Pierce's hospital room, as though ready to explore the symbiosis between himself and this weird old man who might be his best shot for a father figure. The way everyone comes full circle makes the playing field even again, and while 'Intermediate Documentary Filmmaking' may have had its emotionally troubling moments, it's filled with the hilarity and warmth that promises these misfits, despite their individual anxieties, will go on together.
And that's what good TV is all about.
Tomorrow's reviews: '30 Rock,' 'Outsourced'
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Fanny & Alexander & Therapy & Metaphors
(who dies in a fire at his own home), and fully integrated back into the Ekdahl clan.
Their mother Emilie (left) is moving from room to room in the spacious family home, attending to matters between relatives. She is at ease, free of the abusive clutches of her ex-husband; her very posture relaxed, her gait swan-like.Her son Alexander has been watching his mother's movements. As soon as she disappears into a lengthy corridor (Emilie's walk starts at 5:38), the film cuts to Alexander walking back to his room, happily nibbling on biscuits. Suddenly, the bishop's specter appears behind him, his gold cross hanging ominously inches from Alexander's face.
Within seconds he pushes Alexander to the floor and walks on. He pauses, turns around to look at Alexander and says, "You'll never escape me."
Which brings me to today's therapy session. Bills - insurance, loans, hospital, you name it - are an enormous burden. I get about five to seven of 'em a week. They're a reminder of responsibilities that are mine and mine alone. It's a source of constant anxiety. I told Dr. M I wished I could step away from it all and not be blamed for taking a break. Or at least have someone help me with all the effort it takes to patiently wait on hold with loan distributors, financial aid departments and hospitals. Dr. M asked if there was a way to moderate this stress, maybe a way to approach the paperwork differently. I replied, "To be honest, I wouldn't know what that'd be." I'm so frustrated I even explained it to Dr. M using the example of what haunts Alexander. The bills will always be there. And to me, if I'm not on top of it all, it's as though something truly terrible will happen. Maybe a massive bill that has to be paid off in a week. Maybe a call from a collection agency, promising to send my credit rating to the bowels of hell.
There's a philosophy in DBT known as radical acceptance. It's a practice that lets you, the patient, without misgivings or judgment, accept a certain condition. Your mom doesn't understand depression? Fine - employ some radical acceptance, and take educating your mom off your to-do list. Your father isn't a big fan of medication, and rants about this to you? Radically accept his attitude as something you're not responsible for, and move on.
[Side note: here's an interesting article about radical acceptance that focuses on Conan and his graceful departure from 'The Tonight Show.']
It's not gonna happen today. But therapy is a process. Or so They - my dear mental health providers - tell me. In the meantime, if one of you understands insurance guidelines better than I do - help!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Hello, Internet
Not every girl can say group therapy helped her realize her blogging ambitions.
This afternoon, my fellow patients and I were discussing long-term goals. Dialectical behavioral therapy preaches that while it's positive to objectives for the future, it's important to break them down into small, manageable steps. It really seems to work for some people, and the group's response reflected as much. Paranoid overthinker that I am, I mentioned my goal of wanting to work in television someday, and how breaking that down seems impossible. I've always been forced to sit tight after sending resumes into the ether. And my efforts don't feel like they're taking me anywhere.
So our group leader, whom I'll call J., recommended that while career goals are great, I needn't stress. And that these steps take a while. In the meantime, I could do something to de-emphasize the strain I place on myself. Probably good advice. As I stared at the David Hockney print on the wall, I thought, why not write? Not something on Microsoft Word that I obsess over for months, but something quick. Hopefully relevant. About things I love. And, most importantly, for me.
So in these vast emptiness that is a new blog, you can expect to read about the following - cooking, TV shows, books I'm reading, psychotherapy, NPR, restaurants, art, college - and things I've not thought up yet. I hope you enjoy it.
This afternoon, my fellow patients and I were discussing long-term goals. Dialectical behavioral therapy preaches that while it's positive to objectives for the future, it's important to break them down into small, manageable steps. It really seems to work for some people, and the group's response reflected as much. Paranoid overthinker that I am, I mentioned my goal of wanting to work in television someday, and how breaking that down seems impossible. I've always been forced to sit tight after sending resumes into the ether. And my efforts don't feel like they're taking me anywhere.
So our group leader, whom I'll call J., recommended that while career goals are great, I needn't stress. And that these steps take a while. In the meantime, I could do something to de-emphasize the strain I place on myself. Probably good advice. As I stared at the David Hockney print on the wall, I thought, why not write? Not something on Microsoft Word that I obsess over for months, but something quick. Hopefully relevant. About things I love. And, most importantly, for me.
So in these vast emptiness that is a new blog, you can expect to read about the following - cooking, TV shows, books I'm reading, psychotherapy, NPR, restaurants, art, college - and things I've not thought up yet. I hope you enjoy it.
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