Musical Muse Clues: Mix Tape of the Mind

Clockwise: The Beatles, 1; Beck, Odelay; Better Than Ezra, Greatest Hits; The Black Keys, El Camino

One of my favorite new(ish) TV shows is Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist.  Not to be confused with the movie Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist, this NBC hour-long dramedy is in its sophomore season and is about an endearingly dorky coder named Zoey (Jane Levy) who goes into an MRI machine and emerges being able to hear people's feelings as songs.  As if having an MRI weren't traumatic enough without that added emotional baggage!  

This is probably a good time to mention that when it comes to musicals, I'm usually like, what, people randomly bursting into song?  Pass!  But instead of coming off as a gimmicky Broadway device, the songs in Zoey are real cries for help that add depth to the characters -- and underscore Zoey's responsibility to them.  Zoey's powers are all the more meaningful because they help her connect with her dad (Peter Gallagher), who's dying of a disease that prevents him from speaking, and empathize with her mom (Mary Steenburgen).  Her powers also become valuable as she steps up to boss lady status in male-dominated Silicon Valley, a gig that's fraught with stress and challenges.  Finally, being a mind reader is uber important as Zoey navigates the sometimes-murky-sometimes-rose-colored waters of dealing with love interests Max (Skylar Astin, who was made for this show) and Simon (John Clarence-Stewart).  Max is an earnest and sweet fellow coder that Zoey's known for years, and Simon is a suave yet brooding marketing whiz who understands the pain of losing a father.  When it all gets to be too much, Zoey confides in her annoying neighbor-turned-bestie Mo (Alex Newell), a no-nonsense trans woman with wigs for days.  

Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist appeals to me because it's very much like a book.  Layered and character-driven, it opens a window into people's heads and hearts that usually remains firmly closed.  Fortunately, the heaviness of the revelations is offset by the jazziness of the dance numbers.  

Needless to say, I was psyched when I heard that Jane Levy is nominated for a Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Television Musical Series or Comedy.  In a world where streaming services reign supreme, that's a rare feat for an actor from a network show.  Which means that this nom is -- yes -- something to sing about!  Award category notwithstanding, Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist is still more dramedy than comedy (because you have to be jump-off-a-cliff depressing to qualify as a drama for any award).  It hits all the high notes of the genre, including colorful sets and costumes, romance, heartache, and a sometimes-lighthearted-sometimes-stirring spotlight on self discovery and personal growth.

Zoey doesn't always get it right.  She's as mixed-up as any of us, or indeed as any mix tape made from a radio top ten list circa 1995.  But she's trying and she's learning, and her journey shows us that it's always worth it to walk a mile in someone else's shoes.

Or, at the very least, to listen to a song on someone else's playlist.

Cake Talk: They Say it's Your Birthday

Yesterday, January 6, was the twelfth day of Christmas, a.k.a. the Epiphany, a.k.a the day that that guy or girl gets a partridge in a pear tree and a boatload of other weird stuff from his or her true love.  They say that love means never having to say you're sorry, but I say it means not sending someone you love live poultry.  Anyway, this year, January 6 was also the Golden Globes.  And, as usual, my birthday.  (Fun fact: Past Golden Globe winner Eddie Redmayne and I share a birthday and birth year.  You'll get why that's relevant later.)     

When it comes to birthdays, most people fall into one of two camps: people who love them and people who hate them.  Spoiler alert: I fall into the former (as does anyone who regularly writes about herself).  This year, I turned thirty-seven.  Ten or even five years ago, this would've struck me as en route to old and yesterday, as if on cue, one of my rogue white hairs resurfaced.  But then I got carded to sit in the bar at a restaurant.  So I'm going to say I broke even.

The husband baked me this cake.  It's a hummingbird cake, which, in case you don't know, is a spice cake with pineapples, carrots, and bananas (also walnuts, but I said no to those).  I'm ashamed to say that when he first told me he wanted to make it, I was less than gracious because I thought I wanted something -- gulp -- store-bought.  I didn't like the idea of someone else, even the husband, choosing my birthday cake flavor and, um, aesthetic.  Typing this now, that seems absurd.  But sometimes I have tunnel vision and choose style over substance (as evidenced by my use of the word "aesthetic" to describe baked goods).  In the end I realized that having a husband who loves me enough to make something special and personal from the heart for me (not to mention my family) is worth more than some designer stale cake that a minimum wage baker sweat/spit/dropped boogies in before going home to beat his chihuahua.  (Don't look at me like that -- you don't know what goes on at Entenmann's.)  The hummingbird cake was, of course, scrumptious, a cross between carrot cake and banana bread, both tropical and down-home delicious.  Also, it was lovely to look at, with a hummingbird not only in it (figuratively speaking; I think that's the pineapple), but on it.  We see you, "Portlandia."

I'm not sure why I told that story.  It certainly doesn't put me in the best light.  Maybe because it helped me purge my conscience.  But also, I think, because it taught me that birthdays aren't just about you and what you want (or, for that matter, Eddie Redmayne).  They're about the people who love you.  That was a little more Hallmark network than IFC, but sometimes schmaltz can't be avoided.

That said, in the spirit of celebration -- and self-indulgence (because this is still my day, dangnabbit) -- here are a few recent-ish pics of me in outfits and settings I like. 

Pulling a face in my new parka. 

Crafty in the craft room (did I really just type that?!).  A prize goes out to anyone who can spot the Mr. Crabs, Hello Kitty, and creepy cupcake doll.  No promises that the prize isn't a chihuahua.  Or live poultry. 

With the husband post great cake debate.

Kickin' it before the big birthday hoedown.  Because, boots.

Love may mean never having to say you're sorry and not sending live poultry.  But sometimes it does mean swallowing a little crow.  

Or, in this case, hummingbird.  

If Y is for Yellow, then J is for Jaune, er, Jane

 Sassy Stripes Gumball Necklace

Top: Bisou Bisou, JCPenney

Skirt: Bisou Bisou, JCPenney

Shoes: Venus

Bag: Xhilaration, Target

Belt: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Sunglasses: JCPenney

 Lock it Up, Love Necklace

Top: Self Esteem, JCPenney

Skirt: Xhilaration, Target

Shoes: a. n. a., JCPenney

Bag: Marshalls

Sunglasses: JCPenney

 Mighty Bright Medallion Necklace

Top: Merona, Target

Skirt: Eric and Lani, Macy's

Shoes: Guess, DSW

Bag: Bisou Bisou, JCPenney

Belt: Marshalls

Sunglasses: JCPenney

Yellow is one of my favorite colors.  Sunny, happy, and vibrant, it sets any scene or ensemble ablaze.  So, as spring ripens into summer, I'm always glad to see it take center stage.  Just like I'm glad to be painting my toenails after months of hibernating in closed-toe clodhoppers, taking walks without a jacket, and ordering ice cream instead of hot chocolate.  But amidst all these warm weather welcomes skulks the bittersweet threat of good-bye.  That's right, I'm talking about TV series season finales -- finales that, more often than not, leave us teetering on the edge of gut-wrenching cliffhangers.

Of all the shows I watch, the one dangling upon the most precarious precipice is Jane the Virgin.  As soon as I tuned in to this CW freshman dramedy, I was hooked.  A kind of cerebral soap opera that pokes fun at itself through the wry observations (and captions -- no multi-tasking while watching this one!) of a world-weary narrator, this Miami-based, more-than-a-melodrama lauds and lampoons the telenovela genre, delivering intrigue and heart through an impressive network of original plot lines, the, ahem, mother of which is Jane's accidental pregnancy via artificial insemination.  Jane's virginity complicates an already surreal situation, challenging her relationship with fiancé (and local detective) Michael while tossing her into the maelstrom of madness that is the Solano family.  For, the father of Jane's little miracle is married former playboy and Marbella Hotel heir Rafael Solano, who just happens to be, in a telenovela-worthy twist, her boss.  But at an exceptionally grown-up twenty-three, Jane is level-headed enough to handle it all with grace, humor, and a sense of adventure.  And why not?  She's got the live-in emotional support of fiery, aspiring singer mom Xiomara and straitlaced but sweet grandmom Alba, not to mention a sure-thing future as a teacher.

But then things begin to unravel.  Jane discovers that the father she never knew is the purple suit-clad, obliviously vain (and hilarious!) star of her favorite telenovela.  She forges an unlikely friendship with Rafael.  And she turns down a teaching job to pursue her dream of becoming a writer.  What's more, weird stuff starts happening at the Marbella, casting suspicion upon the entire Solano family, a development that conveniently requires the services of one Detective Michael Cordero.

Employing a well-rounded arsenal of satire, flashbacks, dream sequences, and eye-catching outfits, Jane the Virgin is the everything bagel of the TV breakfast buffet (even though I hate bagels).  It's at the same time dazzling and deep, smart yet surprisingly poignant.  Which is why, I suppose, the season finale packed such a punch.

So what, pray tell, was the shocker?  For once, I'm not going to say.  I'm going to practice restraint and retain some mystery.  Not that the answer isn't lurking in about a zillion other internet outlets or in your very own memory given the show's popularity (that, and the finale aired a whole week ago).

Speaking of which, I recently caught Golden Globe winner Jane, or rather, Gina Rodriguez, on Access Hollywood or Entertainment Tonight or one of those shows being interviewed about her skyrocketing stardom.  "How does it feel to know that you can buy those shoes?" archly asked the reporter, no doubt referencing Louboutins or some such seemingly hallowed brand.  Gina looked baffled before offering a very Jane-like response: "Uh, I gave some money to my grandmother?"  Now, I like shoes as much as the next girl, but I thought that this was as good and genuine an answer as any.

Alba would be proud.