Robot Jazz

  👄👄👄This is your regular reminder that we are 259 days into Donald Trump's Epstein cover-up. 👄👄👄👄 The last two weeks in my neck of the sprawl have been rather warm. This is not unusual. I recall one October a decade or so ago when it got so warm that the kids were passing out in their Halloween costumes! While it hasn't been quite that bad this October, it has definitely felt like we are suffering through Autumn's summer. As such, a weird sort of malaise has taken hold. For me, those cool, crisp days of fall bring with them a burst of energy, a need to fully and enthusiastically embrace the joys of indoor living, something I consider encompasses everything from scrubbing the house from top to bottom after a summer of neglect, to more frequently planting my butt in front of my electronic dream machines to imbibe the pleasures of a wired age. And while I have made some progress in those areas since Autumn has officially begun, it has felt like an uphill battle as the ...

  "Don’t feel bad. Your tutor was Noah Hawley.” “Everyone’s a critic!” So goes the complaint of creatives the world over. And in a world awash in social media, where monetized outrage can turn a hate channel into a revenue stream, it’s easy to see why. While I can be critical of entertainment, I like to think I’m forgiving with most creative efforts. Case in point: I recently watched a much-lauded Korean neo-noir that struck me as disappointingly cornball, with action sequences so outlandish they’d make Michael Bay blush. I didn’t care for it—but I could see why others might. Hence, no takedown from me. But every now and then, you encounter something so poorly made, so narratively botched, that silence would be a disservice to fandom at large. Like a pool of acid, it demands barriers, warning tape, and a hazmat suit. That spill is Noah Hawley’s Alien Earth . And this post is your warning to avoid it like the wreck of an otherworldly spaceship on LV-426.  👽👽👽👽👽 To be clear...