Good & Bad: 'The Walking Dead' (2/8/15)

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Season 5, Episode 9

"What Happened and What's Going On"

Plot: TV’s biggest show whose title doesn’t feature an abbreviation or a city name in it returned last night with an absolute orgy of blood, violence, explosions, more blood, additional explosions and then, just when you thought there wouldn’t be any more, there were EVEN MORE explosions! Plots were twisted, untwisted and then re-twisted again, true allegiances were revealed, new characters were flipping everywhere, and it was complete madness. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, “The Walking Dead” stormed back into our lives with the “take-no-prisoners” attitude we’ve come to know and love from the … oh wait no. The only part of that which actually happened was “The Walking Dead” came back last night.

                Let’s see, in reality, last night’s kind of dull and needlessly fancy episode moved the gang from Georgia to a different part of the south (Virginia) to check out Noah’s old neighborhood. Naturally because it was Noah who vouched for it, when they get there, the place was all overrun with walkers. Noah gets emotional, goes to have a walk around, Ty follows and, because Noah was involved, Ty is immediately bitten by a walker. Ty then spends the rest of the episode in one room having hallucinations of a random smattering of recently deceased characters from seasons passed. Noah alerts Rick, Michonne, and Glenn – who’d spent their part of the episode arguing about where the suddenly globe-trotting gang would go next (they picked Washington, DC)– and they all try to rescue Ty but it doesn’t work and big guy dies and everyone is bummed.

Thoughts

• Bad: Someone in the crew decided that last night’s episode needed to be fancier than your average “Walking Dead” episode. So because of that decision, our opening sequence is essentially a bunch of random images: a shovel digging in loose soil, Fr. Gabe performing some type of funeral, shots of the prison, blood dripping on a picture, shots of rail road tracks, etc. Then, throughout the rest of the episode, those same random shots were repeated over and over again. The intended effect: A very minute, small section of Ty’s life is flashing before his eyes. The actual effect: We’re trying very hard to make this episode where the only thing that happens is we kill off a beloved character different than the last episode where the only thing that happened was that we killed off a beloved character.  
• Good: Ty goes out like a boss. Dude gets bit, then he gets bit again. Then he hangs on and faces his inner demons/regrets – or at least the ones that are played by actors who had a free spot on their calendar, i.e., not Herschel. Ty’s a good guy and if he had to go he deserved a nice ending, which this tried to be even though it wasn't the best executed nice ending.
• Bad: Rick, Glenn, Michonne. She wants to stay in Noah’s neighborhood, Rick says no, then they’re going to DC, but no one’s sure, then they decide to go to DC. Their segments such as they were, were booked like an opening to “Monday Night Raw.” Lots of talking circles around things which could have been resolved very quickly. “Hey so this place is a dump, has no real defenses, is overrun with walkers, and Noah likes it here. Now, he’s already killed Beth and dragged us all hundreds of miles from our home for nothing. Hell for all we know, he’s killing Ty right now. So, long story short, let’s go to the biggest nearby town and see how things are there?” Done.   
• Good: Ty’s demons. Little blonde girls? Yeah, that makes sense. Carol killed them right under his nose. Beth? Meh. His sister sorta got her killed, but I think we can all agree that one was mostly Noah’s fault. Bob? Yeah sure. Mean-Termite guy? Sure, big confrontation a few episodes back. The Governor? Why’s Ty still feeling guilty about crashing at this guy’s pad for like two weeks two years ago? It wasn’t a big deal. Once you found out he was nuts, you left. 
• Bad: Jesus Christ, does Ty have to spend this much time talking to his inner demons? How can a giant lovable teddy bear who wears a winter hat year-round have so many demons? FEWER DEMONS!
• Bad: We get it you guys. There's blood on that picture. And it's the same one from earlier!
• Good: The little blonde girls are all like: “It’s better now!” and the Gov is all “No it’s not!” Classic Gov. It’s not a good or a bad, but rather a missed opportunity. At some point the Gov should have said something to Ty to the effect of: “Look, you need to listen to me because I traveled a long way to talk to you. I’m supposed to be putting together an army of ghosts to lead another doomed-to-fail assault on the prison since that’s the only thing I’m allowed to do on this show.”  
• Bad: On his way to get Rick and company to help Ty, Noah somehow gets trapped under a door and attacked by walkers.
• Good: Ty gets the Herschel treatment. Ty got bit on his arm, so they lop the sucker off and begin a mad dash to rendezvous with the rest of the gang to keep him from bleeding out. Nice call back since Herschel couldn’t make it to Ty’s subconscious.
• Bad: Rick asks Noah if he can hold Ty while they fight walkers. Noah says “Absolutely.” Within seconds, he’s dropped Ty and is about to be torn to shreds until someone else has to swoop in and save him.
• Bad: So, is this “Noah is completely, ridiculously not worth keeping alive for even a second more” building to anything? In just a few short episodes, he’s descended beyond Season Two Carl-levels of “detriment to the gang.” He’s basically become the show’s Gilligan. I’m really excited for the season finale when they get to DC, they meet the President (played by Chris Hardwick) who tells them there’s a cure. Pres. Hardwick shows them a vile full of a mysterious liquid, sitting carefully on top of a pedestal. Noah walks in from the bathroom, trips, smashes the vile and then uses the instructions on how to make more to try to mop it up, ruining them in the process.
• Bad: Worst getaway ever. The car gets stuck in the dirt, Rick hits a truck full of torsos. Noah is asked to do things. If this getaway had been even remotely competent, Ty would be walking around with one arm, a ponytail and dispensing southern-friend wisdom right now.
• Good-ish: The shot of Beth and all the good ghosts driving Ty into the afterlife was pleasant.

That's Not My Name: The Adventures of Guy and Young Fella

If I had to give my ability to form meaningful relationships with other human beings a grade, I think I’d give myself an NI for Needs Improvement. I’ve got a solid group of friends, a long term girlfriend, positive relationships with family members and neither of my cats have attempted to tunnel out of the house to escape me yet. All of those truths have elevated me above the pitiable U for Unsatisfactory level, however, I clearly don’t deserve an S for Satisfactory, either. I’m just far too socially awkward and stunted for any teacher, no matter how lenient, to put that S on my report card.

                Consider this social phenomenon I’ve been observing over the last, maybe two years of my life. It’s something I can only imagine is not a common occurrence in the lives of most.

                I go to the gym most mornings (Disclaimer: I’m not a hero). While at the gym, I approach no one. I put on a pair of headphones, listen to my music or a podcast, go about my routine and leave. I’ve followed this exact blueprint across three separate gyms over the course of nearly a decade. I ask no questions, I make no conversation, I do nothing beyond a friendly nod and smile at whoever happens to be manning the front desk.

                I’m not a dick. If someone talks to me or approaches me, I will absolutely give them the time of day. I’ve even made one or two friends this way during my time spent getting all jacked up and shredded and so forth. I don’t mind talking to people, it’s just not the reason I’m there.

                In addition to the friends, I’ve also made a rather large collection of … undefinables. This is where my social defect is on full display. Allow me to explain.

                I know a guy at the gym. I know he’s unemployed. I know what job he used to have. I know his wife is pregnant. I know it’s a daughter. I know when she’s due. I know what his wife’s name is. I know he hates ab day. I know what kinds of onesies he’s planning on buying her – the daughter, not the wife. Counter to that, he knows what I do, where I work, where I grew up, that I hurt my wrist playing softball a few months ago, and he knows I struggled to get an MRI scheduled for said wrist.

                Guess what we don’t know about each other? Our names. I know intimate details about his personal life and the same goes for him, but we’ve never actually said “Hi, I’m blank.” We just started on page two of the “How to Make Friends” pamphlet.

Illicit Ramblings from Puppy Bowl Media Week

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This Sunday is Super Bowl Sunday which means one thing and one thing only: PUPPY BOWL! That’s right, Puppy Bowl XI will air on Animal Planet this upcoming Sunday at 3 p.m. Yes, sport’s greatest spectacle is upon us once again. Adorable beasts will be pitted against other adorable beasts in a battle of attrition the likes of which is simply unparalleled in today’s world of neutered athletic competition.

                They will chase toys, run up and down an artificial playing surface, probably fall in a water bowl or two, sniff each other’s butts and so on.

                And this year, the competition will be at a level never before witnessed on the Puppy Gridiron. According to a Today.com report, this year the athletes will be divided into two separate teams in lieu of the traditional “every man for himself” arrangement. The two teams will be Team Ruff and Team Fluff and they will battle for the new but already highly-coveted and celebrated “Lumbarki” trophy.

                As is tradition, The Cheese Life submitted a request to Animal Planet to be allowed to participate in Puppy Bowl Media Week and as is tradition that request was denied. Something was said about how “There’s no such thing as Puppy Bowl Media Week, these are just animals, they can’t consent to interviews or even respond to questions in a way that’s able to be written up.” Whatever. I assume it’s because this is a blog and as we all know, Animal Planet is firmly in the pocket of old media.

                Good news: This year a Cheese Life operative managed to sneak into Animal Planet’s corporate headquarters in Silver Spring, MD and get the inside scoop on what we can all expect when the teams hit the field for the only event that matters. Said operative claims to have spent the better part of a week holed up in and around the facility and meeting with many of the event’s key players and officials.

                Now, while I can’t confirm this operative was famed film producer and disgraced corn farmer Drake Stone, I can say that the operative’s notes were left in the third floor men’s room of our very own Cheese Life headquarters. The door to this bathroom was found opened yesterday even though it had been locked since Stone mysteriously vanished, as he had the only key and no one cared enough to call a locksmith. Also, the notes were found in a manila folder with lock of blonde doll hair tied together with a blue and green polka dot ribbon, another very telling sign if you know Drake.

One True and Seven Other Examples of Low-Stakes Fallout from 'American Sniper' Disses

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If there’s one rule we as Americans hold sacred it’s this: Always support things with the word “America” in the title. It’s for that very reason “American Pickers” and “American Restoration” are renewed season after season, AFC and AL teams are more popular, successful and attractive than their nationalist counterparts, and America Ferrera was a thing.

                It’s also for that reason “American Sniper” has made four hundred and seventy bazillion US dollars since its release and will soon become the first feature film to win EVERY Academy Award, even ones it’s not nominated for, with the exception of foreign film because something that patriotic can’t be be called foreign.

                Of course, not everyone loved “American Sniper” with the blinding passion of one hundred thousand suns. A few weeks ago, Seth Rogen and Michael Moore had some, shall we say, choice words on Clint Eastwood’s unimpugnable masterwork. Moore called into question the bravery of snipers in general (even American ones!) and Rogen had the unmitigated gall to say that one movie about a really good sniper reminded him of another movie about a really good sniper, even though one sniper was clearly American and the other was blatantly German!

Ever since, Moore and Rogen have been taking a beating in the court of public opinion. Recently they sustained what might be the … uh … least damaging blow yet. Moore and Rogen have been officially banned from Brann’s Sizzling Steaks and Sports Grille in Wyoming, MI.

According to the image posted by Good Morning America, an electric sign outside the restaurant read: “Michael Moore and Seth Rogan (sic) are NOT allowed in my place.”

Tommy Brann, the owner of the aforementioned establishment, explained their ban thusly:

“It really disturbed me what they said, especially after Chris Kyle dying. He’s far from being a coward. I was mad, it’s my restaurant, I want to do it, so I did it … I have a lot of military friends, my uncle Dave was a prisoner of war in Germany, my uncle Ted served, my dad served. I think it was a slam on the military and a slam on Chris Kyle.”

While Brann’s status as a true American hero is beyond dispute, let’s be honest, I’m sure Rogen and Moore were devastated to hear the news that if they ever find themselves in Wyoming, MI – population 72,125, the third largest community or city in West Michigan, the 14th largest city in the state of Michigan, the 18th largest community in the state and the largest suburb of Grand Rapids, all according to Wikipedia – they won’t be welcomed at that one particular restaurant.

Truly devastating.

Men's Locker Room: A Horrifying True Story of the Macabre

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As I frequently brag about on here, I go to the gym in the mornings. Now, now, please, hold your adulation. Remember: I’m no hero. I’m just a guy who doesn’t mind getting up early in the morning. The teachers, they’re the real heroes. Oh and that cat who scared away that dog that was attacking the kid. So the teachers and that one cat. The rest of you people, step up your games.

                Anyway, after I finish pumping iron, I’ll hop in the gym’s shower to wash away all of the blood, sweat and tears I’ve built up over the course of the last hour and a half or so. Mostly tears. I cry a lot in the mornings. It’s just a thing. Don’t worry about it.

                It was right before one of these showers where I discovered one of my favorite gym characters: the man who hates closed doors. In case you’ve forgotten him, this was the guy who liked to poop with the stall door thrown wide open, and who also showered, once again, with the door open. Different door though, thankfully.

                I created a whole backstory for this guy in my head. I decided he was probably a war vet (he’s got a crew cut and wears gray combat boots) who was probably held as a prisoner for an extended period of time and who developed a deep-seated pathological fear of shut doors. Seems obvious. Oh, addendum to that story: I overheard this guy on the phone the other morning talking to what I can only assume was his young kid. Yup, wrinkle.

That kid’s life with dad-who-doesn’t-close-doors must be a goddamn nightmare, by the way. Oh look, there’s dad having sex with mom again. There’s dad taking a dump again. Maybe we should go to your house to play video games next time.

Last Friday though, I had a bathroom encounter which made dad-who-doesn’t-close-doors seem like Ward Cleaver. I walked into the bathroom on that morning, post workout, to find a lady standing there. An honest to god lady.

Winter Update: One Snow in and I Already Hate Everyone

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I think it was the great philosopher Plato who said: “If you can’t be bothered to shovel a fucking sidewalk, you shouldn’t own a fucking home.” Or maybe it was Madame Curie. I can’t remember. The point being, someone over the course of ancient history knew exactly what he or she was talking about.

           If you’ve ever spent any time in Pennsylvania between November and April, you might have noticed our propensity to get a little snow during those months. We’re not talking Antarctic levels. There aren’t marauding gangs of penguins wandering the streets of the Keystone State, threatening children who are walking to school. But we get a little of the white stuff when it gets cold.

           Last Monday, we got quite literally a little of the white stuff. I don’t have the final totals in front of me, but I’d wager that we received somewhere in the neighborhood of two inches of snow. This wasn’t the heavy, water-logged, destroyer-of-backs snow that the heavens dumped on us last winter. This was light and powdery. It might as well have been left behind by a giant powdered donut who’d walked through the neighborhood sneezing.

My girlfriend and I shoveled our house and the sidewalks in front of our two neighbors, threw down some salt and called it a day. We did our neighbors’ sidewalks because we use the sidewalks and one of our neighbors is an old man and the other is a middle-aged cop who is never home and when he is home, he doesn’t give a shit. Despite the extra workload, we weren’t out there for hours, toiling away while the Snow Meister chucked iceballs at us and laughed wildly. It took maybe half an hour max. As far as shoveling experiences go, this was about as pleasant as you’re going to get.

And yet, that wasn’t enough for some people.

After Monday’s snowfall, the Ice Age happened. It was so cold in Pennsylvania last week that ruffed grouses were literally dropping out of the sky frozen solid. It was so cold that Gov. Tom Corbett’s icy heart was literally the warmest thing in the state. It was so cold that locals assumed the Philadelphia 76ers had won the NBA championship because hell had to have frozen over. It was a chaotic, confusing time for us all.

The Strange and Fearful Art of Buying a Calendar

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It’s that time of year again. The holidays have gone, having momentarily embraced us in their warm and loving arms only to abandon us to the cold and lonely clutches of January. These wretched and vile weeks between New Years and spring are known for many things, none of which are good. Rampant seasonal-affective disorder. Endless global blizzards. Near-constant polar bear attacks – both bear on human and human on bear. But most sinister of all, this time of year is also calendar-buying season.

                Other than finally deciding to get that face tattoo, there aren’t many decisions you can make in January which will impact the next twelve months of your life quite like purchasing a calendar. Choose wisely and you’ll have a constant companion for the next twelve months, one that can buoy you through the rough patches and enhance the positive ones. Choose poorly and you’ll spend an entire year turning into dust like that Nazi at the end of “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” over and over. To clarify, that means you’ll turn to dust, reform, then turn to dust again, and then repeat. All year long.

                Put a little blue check mark icon next to that one because it’s verified.

                How about an example? Last year, I went with a calendar which featured players from the Philadelphia Flyers, my favorite hockey team. Things started off great. I got to celebrate each month with a picture of a different star player. Then it happened. I got to Max Talbot, a player who was no longer with the team. Remember, these things get printed up pretty far in advance. It was OK as the player had left on good terms via a trade which benefited both teams. I still liked him and was content to celebrate March with him. I moved on.

                Then the summer happened. The Flyers shockingly traded away Scott Hartnell, one of their top players, a fan favorite in a lopsided deal which did little to benefit them at the moment. To make matters worse, that trade happened in June. Guess who was the Flyer of the month for August? Yup, Hartnell. Old wounds were torn open. Tears were shed. Curses were levied at the cruel calendar gods. Eventually, as the month ended, I healed. Once again, a little worse for wear, I moved on.

                And then we got to December and the world ended. You see, December’s picture was Ilya Bryzgalov. In case you don’t follow the Flyers or the NHL, Ilya Bryzgalov was a very expensive goaltender who came to the Flyers with lots of hype, who performed below the levels expected, was deemed a weirdo due to the fact that he said what was on his mind, and he was eventually paid around $23 million by the Flyers to go away and never come back. That parting of ways took place … hmm … let’s see … oh right … a year and a half before his image graced my calendar! Who prints these things that far in advance? Or was this just some trick by an employee at the calendar factory who was about to be laid off?