COLUMN: Best of 2023 - TV

There is not a time when I am conscious in my house that a television isn't on. When I come home from work, the remote is the first thing I grab. When I go to bed, I set a sleep timer so I don't dare nod off without the comforting light of the idiot box lulling me to dreamland. I honestly don't want to know how many hours of my life I waste staring at talking heads and fictional people with lives far more interesting than my own.

The only GOOD thing about being a television addict is that it makes me somewhat uniquely qualified to write my annual year-end recommendations for the best TV of 2023:

#10 - RIVERDALE (The CW) - Okay, so maybe I shouldn't call this a list of the BEST television. Riverdale is NOT a great show. It's not even a good show. But for seven glorious seasons of nonsense, it's been my favorite popcorn escapism. Having exhausted every conceivably ludicrous plotline from murder to cults to aliens to superheroes, the last surviving remnant of the CW's glory years transported its residents back to the 1950s for its final season, actually making the show loosely resemble the Archie comics it was loosely based on. Farewell, Riverdale. I will miss your brainless greatness.

#9 - THE GREAT BRITISH BAKING SHOW (Netflix) - I'm so bored of putting this show in my best-of every year, but it just keeps deserving it. In a world of division and turmoil, we at least have ONE show left to teach us what "reality" should be. It's always refreshing to witness a competition show where the winner gets little more than a plate and bragging rights, where contestants become friends who help and encourage one another, and the losing players get hugs and love from the judges instead of scolding and derision. It's the perfect antidote to the evening news.

#8 - SCOTT PILGRIM TAKES OFF (Netflix) - Edgar Wright's movie adaptation of the fantastic Scott Pilgram graphic novels was great, but this new animated series stays even truer to the aesthetic of the source material (while getting the entire cast from the 2010 movie to reprise their roles.) The result is infinitely watchable and a refreshing new dive into a world I've loved for years.

#7 - TED LASSO (Apple+) - The third season of Ted Lasso is admittedly a bit uneven. A show about a soccer team works best when it focuses on the team dynamic, and much of the show's presumably last season has its main characters separated from one another and leading their own storylines. Some of those storylines work and some falter. But despite its inconsistencies, Ted Lasso remains a show worthy of every ounce of its feel-good reputation and acclaim. Will there ever be a fourth season or a spin-off? Like Ted, I choose to believe.

#6 - MUPPETS MAYHEM (Disney+) - When I heard Disney was creating a show based around the Muppets' house band Doctor Teeth and the Electric Mayhem, I had my doubts. But the end result was a wonderful send-up of music documentaries and the rock lifestyle, complete with some amazing cameos, inside jokes for music nerds like me, and gut-busting laughs for kids and kids-at-heart alike.

#5 - SEX EDUCATION (Netflix) - My all-time favorite Netflix show had its swansong this year, and it didn't disappoint. I've always had a tough time describing this show, and I think that's what the show's creator Laurie Nunn was aiming for. Is it set in England or the U.S.? Is it set in the 80s or modern times? The show purposely blurs those lines to make it accessible to anyone of any generation or background. I read a review once that called it "wholesomely filthy," and that's spot on. It's a coming-of-age teen sex romp with a heart and earnestness that constantly runs the risk of overblown wokeness, yet still manages to be more fun and quirky than outright preachy.

#4 - SHRINKING (Apple+) - I didn't think Apple could make a comedy better than Ted Lasso, but it took the Lasso team to do it. Helmed by Ted Lasso creator Bill Lawrence, actor/comedian Brett Goldstein (Lasso's Roy Kent), and star Jason Segel, Shrinking stars Segel as a therapist coping with the grief of his wife's death by breaching conventional ethics with his patients and getting directly involved in their lives. It's a tour de force for Segel, and adding Harrison Ford as Segel's harrowed boss is the icing on the cake of this exceptional series with such potential.

#3 - POKER FACE (Peacock) - Critics were anticipating the premiere of this Peacock mystery series with bated breath, and the hype was every bit deserved. Poker Face is the brainchild of Knives Out director Rian Johnson, who wanted to craft a "murder-of-the-week" detective procedural in the vein of Columbo. But instead of the hero being a detective, it's Natasha Lyonne as Charlie Cale, a cocktail waitress who's on the run from the mob, keeps stumbling into murders, and has the uncanny ability to discern when people are lying. It's some of the smartest mystery writing you'll ever see, and if Lyonne doesn't win ALL the awards this season, the system's broken.

#2 - WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS (F/X) - It's very rare when a TV series based on a movie ends up better than the source material, but WWDitS somehow manages to be even funnier than the 2014 movie of the same name (which was pretty great on its own.) This stellar mockumentary about four dysfunctional vampires and their long-suffering human familiar just announced its farewell season next year, so jump on the bandwagon while there's still time and learn why it's earned 21 Emmy nominations in its short run.

#1 - EXTRAORDINARY (Hulu) - If this column serves ANY purpose, it's to beg you to jump on Hulu and check out this unheralded show that I stumbled into one fateful night and ended up binging the entire series in one sitting while laughing myself silly. The first solo project of creater Emma Moran (who wrote the script while in grad school,) Extraordinary takes place in a dystopian future where nearly everyone on Earth develops superpowers when they turn 18 -- except Jen, a 25-year-old jealous slacker underdog still waiting for her transformation. Jen lives with her roommate Carrie, a timid soul with the power to channel the dead, which they primarily use to summon and berate an indignant Hitler whenever they need a pick-me-up. It's a cynical, jaded, and hysterical look at the power of being powerless, and it's easily the best thing I've watched this year.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have, like, 273 other shows to watch. Except I'll probably just watch Extraordinary again - it's THAT good. Happy New Year, all.     

COLUMN: Best of 2023 - Music

Wait, what's that? You say our company's hired a full time entertainment writer with fairly stellar tastes who's already written a great piece about the best albums of the year? And it'd probably be a little redundant and confusing if I wrote one, too? Oh, but you also understand just how much of a crazy music nerd I am and how I'd probably go insane if I wasn't allowed to do my own year-end best-of list? Whew. Thank goodness we got that cleared up. Therefore, behold my favorite records of 2023:

#10 - Drop Nineteens - Hard Light - When I was in college, I was obsessed with the ethereal distortion and sonic maelstrom of the shoegaze music genre. Shoegaze was born in the UK, but there was ONE American band oft lumped into the original purveyors of the scene: Boston's Drop Nineteens, who blessedly reunited in 2023: a bit older, a bit more polite, but every bit as lovely. The most welcome return of the year.

#9 - Sufjan Stevens - Javelin - I don't wish ill upon Sufjan Stevens, but America's greatest singer-songwriter is oft at his best when inspired by tragedy. This year, Stevens sadly lost his long-time partner AND had to re-learn to walk after a lengthy hospitalization for Guillain-Barre Syndrome. Consequently, "Javelin" is one of the best and most emotional records he's ever made.

#8 - Post Malone - Austin - Not every record has to be a statement on the human condition that takes you on an emotional roller-coaster. Sometimes you can just sing about how sick your Lamborghini is and have it be every bit as satisfying. "Austin" is Post Malone playing by his own rules, genre-jumping with glee, and proving his chart-topping success hasn't just been a fluke. 

#7 - Carla J. Easton - Sugar Honey - Scotland's best-kept secret returns with another record of coarse bubblegum majesty, where layers of unpolished synthpop perfection hide songs of melancholy, defiance, and strength. If she lived in the Quad Cities, we'd either be friends or I'd be WAY too afraid to talk to anyone so awesome.

#6 - Sigur Ros - Atta - Iceland's leading purveyors of moody atmospherics hadn't released a proper album in a decade, and many thought the recent scandalous departure of their drummer would be the death knell for one of the world's most hauntingly beautiful bands. Instead, they soldiered on, replacing the drums with a 41-piece orchestra and a passion that doesn't need percussion. It's apparently about climate change, but all I hear is catharsis.

#5 - Emma Anderson - Pearlies - The seminal UK band Lush attempted a reunion in 2016 that fizzled after just one (brilliant) EP. But rather than chuck everything into the bin, co-leader Emma Anderson continued working on the new material she'd brought to the table, resulting in her first solo record. "Pearlies" doesn't exactly break new ground, but carries on Lush's legacy of shimmering austere dreampop, which has been much missed at my musical table.

#4 - Vagabon - Sorry I Haven't Called - Born in Cameroon but raised in New York, Laetitia Tamko has been something of a musical chameleon under his guise as Vagabon. Her first record was crunchy DIY indie rock, and its follow-up was a soupy R&B-laden mish-mash. On her new record, she's escaped the mire into a world of foggily charming electropop. When Tamko's fragile hooks rise above the clouds, it's magic.

#3 - Hotline TNT - Cartwheel - We've established that I love the fuzzy bliss of shoegaze, but too often, modern shoegaze bands focus more on the effects-laden production of their records and forget to write decent songs along the way. Not the case with New-York-by-way-of-Minneapolis noisemakers Hotline TNT, who often get lumped into the shoegaze genre but owe just as much of their sound to bands like Husker Du and early Teenage Fanclub. The result is a hybrid mix of shoegaze and powerpop that results in blissed-out sonic fury you can still sing along to in the shower. It's a triumph.

#2 - SUSTO - My Entire Life - I never thought a country-tinged South Carolina roots rock band would become one of my favorite groups of all time, but that's the power of SUSTO. An ever-changing vehicle to deliver the songwriting of frontman Justin Osborne, SUSTO won my snobbish tastes over in record time and I'm officially a fanboy. Specializing in psychedelic country rock with pop sensibilities, Osborne's refreshingly honest lyrics continue to charm and amaze. It's a pleasure listening to him grow up.   

#1 - RAYE - My 21st Century Blues - British singer RAYE (real name Rachel Keen) spent years locked in a fruitless record deal, unable to make the solo album she dreamt of while lending her vocals to multiple chart-topping dance hits from DJs like David Guetta and Joel Corry. Eventually, she put her record label on blast via Twitter, got booted from her contract, and retreated to the studio to finally craft her dream album. The result is a stunning tour-de-force of fiery rage, captivating storytelling, heartache, survival, and freedom. RAYE attended the same prestigious music school as Amy Winehouse and Adele, and it shows. Largely self-written and self-produced, its the sound of someone capturing their self-confidence and finding their own voice in real time. I hope it's everything she wanted it to be. It's certainly the best thing I've heard all year.

Next stop, 2024. Thanks for letting me nerd out a bit, gang. Go buy some records, they're good for your soul.  

COLUMN: Holiday Murder

If you were hoping your true love would give you two turtle doves on the second day of Christmas, I may have some bad news.

This morning started out like most, with my alarm going off at a criminally early hour and me groggily stumbling out of bed, powering up the Today show, and pouring myself a bowl of cereal. I was two bites into the Raisin Bran when my morning ritual was rudely interrupted.

BAM!

The noise was sudden, loud, and startling. It sounded like someone had just thrown a fastball at the side of my house. This was rapidly followed by an assortment of bumps and knocks that were most definitely coming from my front porch.

There was only one assumption to be made: Someone was trying, not especially quietly, to break into my house. In a sad testament to our modern times (and perhaps the neighborhood I call home,) my first conscious response was NOT "oh no, how shocking, appalling, and unexpected. Surely this can't be happening!" Instead, my only response was, "at 7 a.m.? Seriously?"

Immediately, I ran -- okay, let's be realistic, I briskly stumbled -- to my phone and started to dial 911. Before I hit the call button, though, I decided to pull up my outdoor security camera feed to catch a glimpse of my would-be intruder. I'm glad I did. This would've been a weird one to explain to the cops.

The loud bang I heard was NOT a gunshot or someone throwing rocks at my house. It was, in fact, a turtle dove from somewhere high above, freefalling headfirst onto my front porch. The assorted bumps that followed were from the Cooper's Hawk that had chosen my porch for an impromptu breakfast murder. What in the serious Wild Kingdom was happening?

I grew up in the country. Urban living has its assorted ups and downs, but I always assumed one of the biggest perks would be NOT having to routinely witness nature's circle of life playing out on one's front porch. But this morning, it played out in hi-definition 3D technicolor before my very eyes. What happened next was the kind of stuff they don't even dwell on in nature documentaries. The kind of stuff they blur out on true crime shows.  

I was hoping my new friend Harvey the Christmas Hawk would've at least had the decency to fly off somewhere private with his prey. Nope. Unfortunately, Harvey decided he was in the mood to dine-in instead of carry-out. I'd like to tell you I looked away, but I was transfixed. And it was REALLY unpleasant. Let's just say I now know why we deck our halls with boughs of holly instead of bloody entrails. It was markedly less than festive. It was NOT a beautiful sight. I was NOT happy tonight.

The only one even MORE transfixed than me by the unfolding real-time yuletide carnage was my cat. She, too, had heard the commotion and poked her head around the blinds to check out the scene. Her only comment was "k-k-k-k-k-k-k" in that weird creepy cat chatter they make when their instincts get the best of them. When I poked MY head around the blinds, I expected Harvey to fly off in a hurry. Instead, he stayed motionless, except his head spun around and gave me a look that CLEARLY said "you're next" before turning his attention back to the gruesome task at hand.

There was little I could do but gently put the blinds back in place and return to my own (considerably less visceral) breakfast while trying to ignore the fact that my security cameras were capturing a holiday snuff film mere feet away. 

Surely this was a sign, no? Hawks don't just show up on porches without it being some kind of omen, right? What ominous portents could a morning raptor be bringing me? My divination skills are rusty at best. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that either (a) a pox is now destined to befall my poor family, (b) next year's harvest will be bountiful, or (c) thou wilst be cursed to eat some seriously soggy Raisin Bran this morning.

I was curious, so I looked it up later that day (and definitely NOT while at work because that would be a horrible waste of company resources.) I found a website called Mindbodygreen.com and their interview with psychic and astrologer Stina Garbis. According to Garbis, the spiritual meaning of a hawk with its prey supposedly represents abundance and "successful attainment. It means you'll always be able to care for yourself and your family."

So thanks, Harvey. Maybe this Christmas WILL be holly and jolly after all, even if someone's true love will be shy one turtle dove come this second day of Christmas. I figure it's okay, though, because if you add up all the gifts from all Twelve Days of Christmas, they're still ending up with 183 birds in all, which seems less of a gift and more like a crime by that point. If your true love shows up at your door with 184 birds in tow, YOU SHOULD PROBABLY RUN -- otherwise on the 13th day of Christmas, your true love might also give to you a visit from the police, the ASPCA, ICE, and whatever unfortunate government agency is tasked with overseeing lords a-leaping.

Now if you'll excuse me, there's a murder scene on my porch that needs a holiday hosedown. Fa la la la la....  

COLUMN: RIBCO

This is a story about change. I hate change.

I must have been 22 or so, around the time I thought it would be best to put my newly-acquired college degree to use by... DJing at bars and working part time at a record store. My friend Michelle had recently opened Co-Op Records in the District of Rock Island and invited me to come work for her. It was one of my first weekends there, manning the counter during my first-ever summer District festival, when an imposing figure walked into the store.

I didn't know the guy at all, but it was clear the other employees did. He was loud, commanding, confident, and everything I wasn't. As a young and cocky music snob who clearly already had life 110% figured out, it was my duty to be unimpressed as this guy held court at the front counter, offering up his unfiltered opinions on everything from the store to the festival to Rock Island politics.

"Who was THAT know-it-all?" I sneered as he left.

"That," it was quickly explained to me, "was Terry Tilka. He owns RIBCO. And when it comes to Rock Island, he pretty much DOES know it all."

It would be a few years later when I got a surprising phone call from that same man. By then, I had left the record store and taken a job at the local newspaper -- you know, until I figured out what to do with my life (cough.) But then Terry called. A band had cancelled at RIBCO at the last minute, and he wondered if I might be available to spin a set in their absence. I hadn't DJed in years, but I was bored and broke, so I took the offer.

That night went well, and I ended up covering a couple more cancellations that summer. Eventually, it led to a permanent gig as RIBCO's resident DJ. When the bands would get done around 1 a.m., I'd jump on and spin records until closing time. One day, Terry pulled me aside, told me he'd bought the building next door and wondered if I might want to work there if he turned it into a dance club. That building became the nightspot known as 2nd Ave., and it was my home every Friday and Saturday night for the next decade.

It's been over a decade since the decade I worked there, but the news of these two legendary bars closing this month has hit me especially hard. Terry Tilka has decided to call it a career, and with it, perhaps the most storied party spots in all the Quad Cities. For Terry, a well-deserved retirement beckons, grandkids beckon, and I'm going to venture a guess that Florida beckons. A Quad Cities without RIBCO is tough to imagine, though.

Pretty much every local band I can think of owes a portion of their career to Terry and the RIBCO stage. I was fortunate enough to see HUNDREDS of great shows there over the years, from young locals taking their first steps outside the garage to storied pros coming to town for once-in-a-lifetime sets. From my catbird seat in the RIBCO balcony, I got to see blues greats like Junior Wells and Koko Taylor. I saw bands like the Wallflowers and Barenaked Ladies before they became some of the biggest bands in the world. I saw the disco fury of The Travoltas so many times that I had their setlist memorized. I once saw Mike Mills from R.E.M. play to a crowd of about two dozen people with his supergroup, The Baseball Project. Time and again, I got to witness musical magic.

There's two ways the bar business often goes. Either you do it wrong and you're closed within a year or two, or you do it right and you get to leave on your own terms. Terry did it right. He treated artists with fairness and respect. He always had the proper permits. He always paid the taxman. If you were fortunate enough to earn a free beverage from Terry Tilka, you'd also have to sit there and watch as he pulled three bucks out of his wallet to pay his own register. 

Was Terry the easiest guy to work for? Absolutely not. If you didn't pull your weight, he'd let you know. If you did something stupid, he'd let you know. Being a RIBCO staffer, you learned right away that working at a bar wasn't all fun, it was WORK -- and the work was making sure everyone had fun. If you left work NOT feeling like you just ran a marathon, you did something wrong -- even if you're just the guy making a side hustle standing in a box playing records all night.

God, I'll miss that place. The weird slanted floor. The allure of a fresh burger basket. Leaning on the side rail of the stage where true music geeks could stand inches away from their musical heroes. That peculiar smell of wood polish and stale beer that was intrinsically RIBCO. 

But what I'll take with me forever from those glory days are the memories of the people I was privileged to call my friends. Bartenders like Bailey, Paulie, Ryan, Keppy, Tommy T, and the master, Janos Horvath. The cackling laugh of Amanda Baker Wright. The late night fishing trip tales of Tommy McGivern. The best sound engineers to walk the earth: Mark Burrage, Lonny Benge, Mouse, Mike Gentry, and the late great Al Dimeo. Dozens of door guys and security staffers. All brought together under the watchful eye of one Terry Tilka: boss, ringleader, mentor, and if I'm bold enough, friend.

Me? My favorite RIBCO memory belongs to me and me only -- a ritual I don't think anyone ever noticed. Whenever the Travoltas would play an outdoor show in the District plaza, I'd arrive just early enough to wander out to the back patio at 2nd Ave., where I'd often sit by myself for a few minutes, staring up at the WHBF tower rising over the Rock Island skyline like a giant Tinkertoy, feeling the swell of adrenaline slowly build, knowing that in three or four songs, a throng of humanity would file into the club, where me and two turntables would soon commence battle to keep their business for the rest of the night. I don't know if I've ever felt more alive in my life.

Here's to you, Terry T. Thanks for taking the Quad Cities on a mad, musical voyage, and thanks for letting me tag along for part of that ride. Here's hoping someone buys those buildings and carries on the legacy you've carved out. And if that someone ever has a band cancel on them at the last minute, hopefully they know how to reach me.     

COLUMN: Genie

It only took 50-some-odd years, but I might be turning into my father.

There are some who would say that's a good thing. My dad is, after all, a superhero. He built the house I grew up in. I can barely build a sandwich. When I bought my house, Dad single-handedly finished my basement for me. About the only thing I'm capable of finishing is a box of donuts, and now I have a team of doctors preventing me from even doing that.

I lucked out in the dad lottery. I'm sure everybody thinks their dad is the best dad of all time. You're all wrong. If you don't believe me, feel free to challenge my dad to a no-holds-barred cage match. Unfortunately, my father won't be able to attend because he'll be too busy pointing out the structural deficiencies in the cage and volunteering to design a new one. And yes, it will likely be hand-carved and made of wood.

But there's one thing my dad can't do. For as long as I can remember, my dad can't sit through a comedy on TV. Dad's favorite entertainment is usually any movie involving guns, wars, spies, tanks, and/or explosions. This contrasts greatly with my mom, who brought me up on a steady diet of romantic comedies and sitcom silliness. When dad had the helm, he would want to watch an entire movie about some Bridge over the River Kwai. When mom controlled the TV, the Love Boat soon would be making another run. And since the only OTHER thing my dad can't seem to do is operate a remote control, mom usually won those battles.

When a silly comedy comes on TV, you can actually witness my dad getting flustered in real time. If a hapless character gets embarassed on-screen, dad gets embarassed, too. If the romantic hero gets put in an awkward situation, my dad starts to fidget. I'm pretty sure he's incapable of suspending disbelief long enough to laugh at anything silly or ridiculous. Invariably, he will stand up, say something like, "I can't watch this nonsense," and leave the room, often to bury himself in a book of wholesome family entertainment wherein some loose cannon on a lone search for justice single-handedly lays waste to an international terrorist organization. You know, believable stuff.

I'm Team Dad all the way, but my taste in pop culture has always been more in line with my mom's. I love silly romantic comedies and bad sitcoms. I'm the weirdo who secretly watches Hallmark Christmas movies every year, no matter how groan-worthy they are. But the older I get, the more my brain is getting incapable of suspending disbelief. I think I might be slowly turning into my dad.

This year, there was one new holiday movie I was eagerly awaiting: "Genie." After all, how could you possibly lose when you put comic powerhouse Melissa McCarthy into a movie written by Richard Curtis, the genius behind such classics as "Four Weddings and a Funeral," "Notting Hill," "Bridget Jones' Diary," and the perennial Christmas favorite, "Love Actually"?

Spoiler: It's possible. "Genie" does NOT capture magic in a bottle.

The plotline is simple enough: Bernard is a hard-working antiquities expert whose life is falling apart. When his evil boss forces him to work late and miss his daughter's birthday, his wife leaves him. The next day, he loses his job. Despondent, Bernard absent-mindedly opens an ancient box he'd brought home from work and unleashes Flora, a 2000-year-old genie (played with the usual gusto by McCarthy) who grants Bernard endless wishes.   

Comedy gold, right? From here, the movie could practically write itself. Obviously, Bernard's going to get his family back in the end and holiday merriment will prevail. Along the way, Bernard's probably going to learn a lesson about materialism and discover that money and power can't buy happiness, yada yada yada. But the movie falls apart quickly.

For one, Flora's just spent 2000 years in a box. We get a glimpse of her early days as some kind of feral warrior before a sorceror condemns her to the genie life. Yet when she pops out the box, she speaks perfect English. I was okay with that, because, hey, genie magic, I guess. But she ALSO somehow knows American slang and colloquialisms, which is just silly. Also, she's been in a box for 2000 years with no exposure to modern society. New York City should terrify her. Heck, electric lighting alone should terrify her. Instead, all we get is a tired joke where she doesn't know what hand sanitizer is and tries to eat it.

At one point, Bernard wishes for a pizza from his favorite eatery and it magically appears, despite a multitude of jokes about Flora not knowing what pizza is. You shouldn't be able to have it both ways. Either you're omniscient and come out of the bottle knowing everything about everything, or you should be woefully clueless about everything and screw it all up. This is Genie 101 stuff, people.

It reminds me, in a not-great way, of the only movie I have ever fallen asleep in a theater to: the horrible Will Ferrell/Nicole Kidman remake of "Bewitched," a rare mis-step from the late, legendary Nora Ephron. There's a scene in the beginning of that movie where Kidman's witchy Samantha character first arrives in Los Angeles. She drives around and spots her dream house. She then twitches her nose, and thanks to her witchy powers, a "For Sale" sign appears in the yard and a realtor magically walks out of nowhere and sells her the house.

I love silly comedies. I love laughing. But to this day, I haven't been able to shake the thought: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FAMILY THAT LIVED IN THAT HOUSE? Did the heroine of the story just snuff innocent people out of existence with a twitch of her nose? Using your witch powers to clean your house or fly through the air is one thing, but she just bent the fabric of time and space, potentially committed multiple homicides, and forever altered history. And where did the realtor come from? Is it a demon from hell? Otherwise, you just zapped a realtor into some weird new existence, added a new listing to the national MLS database, and reprogrammed the realtor's brain to not question where she was or what she was doing. That's one heck of a nose twitch.

For all I know, "Genie" might NOT have a happy ending. Maybe Bernard never gets his wife and/or life back. I'll never know. I switched the TV off halfway while muttering, "I can't watch this nonsense." That's when I realized I might have more in common with my old man than I ever thought.

I still can't build a house, though. But I might be able to tell you when a movie's bad and you should skip it.