Just to keep it interesting, Covid-19 has come up with a few new variations. And here we are, hunkering down for another winter of lockdown, Zoom, and Netflix.
Into a sadly distanced holiday season, Netflix dropped a champagne glass bubbling over with cheer. Death to 2020, a British mockumentary from the creative minds behind Black Mirror, had me laughing out loud.
In a year that bounced from frightening to bizzare and back again, Charlie Brooker and Annabel Jones have managed to find the funny. Find it, dissect it, and serve it up on a platter—proving that laughter is the best medicine.
If you’re feeling a little lost and low, now that the gifts have been opened, the balls have dropped, and the fireworks are over, check out Death to 2020. It injects humour into a year that desperately needed it.
Good intentions might, or might not, pave the road to hell, but they don’t take you one metre down the path to a happier number on the scale.
Not when your jog around the track at the park ends up at the local Dairy Queen and your fifteen minute stint on the rowing machine has you pawing through the freezer for the that ice cream sandwich you swore you weren’t going to eat.
If only all it took to fit into your thin clothes were good intentions, but I hear it takes something called discipline.
1. You’ve never heard of half the shows nominated at the Emmys.
2. You sit down to put your shoes on.
3. You think TikTok is a new clock.
4. You remember when Amazon only sold books.
5. You’re phone takes you aside, and says, “Look, we’re really sorry. We know you’re one of the dinosaurs who still buys music on Google Play, but we’re switching over to YouTube music.” And you say, “YouTube has music?”
Tom Ellis has been working the British accent and devilish charm for five seasons now. As Lucifer Morningstar, he takes us into a world where the Devil is real—and runs a club in L.A.
In the tradition of Death Takes a Holiday and Meet Joe Black, the Devil is on vacation. As one would expect, he’s keen on all the things our mothers warned us about, liquor, drugs, and sex in all its many incarnations.
Unexpectedly, this Devil wears a three-piece suit, plays the piano, and has daddy issues. The ruler of hell spends his time solving crimes with an LAPD detective and chatting with his therapist—when he’s not otherwise engaged.
According to this Lucifer, hell is fueled by guilt. Humans torturing themselves in endless loops of their worst sins. No brimstone and fire, just people blaming themselves for eternity.
Damnation based on human psychology; I like it. That’s why I watch the show. Absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the devil looks like this…
I’m not talking major unanswered questions here, no whatever happened to Amelia Earhart, or what’s with the Bermuda Triangle, or has Elvis really left the building? No, I’m thinking small scale.
Life’s little mysteries, the everyday perplexities that have us standing, and staring, and thinking what?
Take lids, for example…
Each lid has a corresponding container. They are a matched set, they go into the kitchen cupboard together. How is it then, that I found myself with four lonely lids on my hands this morning—and no equally lonely containers?
Did the containers grow bored with their partners, become disenchanted with the old ball and lid? Are they off somewhere, smiling at the newer, younger lids popping up on their dating app?
And what about socks?
How do they go into the laundry as a pair and come out as single? Do they argue in the washer, get divorced in the dryer?
Rainbow drawings are springing up everywhere these days, taped to windows, and sketched on driveways. Crayon messages of hope that say, “Hey, we haven’t killed each other in here, yet.”
If you’re in the neighbourhood, (Uplands, Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada) stop by Graeme Parsons’ place on your daily mental-health reprieve from the prison you used to call home. Stop by, as in stay on the sidewalk where you belong. Don’t even think about ringing the doorbell.
There’s no one to greet you, not without a mask and a hazmat suit, but sitting in the driveway is a whiteboard with Graeme’s gift to his fellow sufferers…
—his pun of the day.
If you don’t live in the neighbourhood, Graeme’s collecting followers on Instagram.
As Graeme’s father, John says, “There’s a lot of darkness in the world and it’s nice to be able to shine a light when you can.”
Embarrassing, but true. We all vent a bit about things that aren’t much more than minor annoyances. You know the type of thing: OMG, my Kindle died., or That freaking GPS took me to the wrong address., or my personal favourite, What? I have to pay for Wi-Fi on the the cruise?
I’ve been known to weep and moan when the internet goes down, but the award for Best In Class Whiner goes to my husband. He walks around the house, saying really rude things to our Google speaker.
Just between you and I… I don’t think Google likes him.
She answers his requests with a “Sorry, I can’t help you with that yet.” She refuses to let him add anything to our shopping list, telling him that she doesn’t recognize his voice.
To be fair to my husband, Google can be a bit of a princess. She’s moody and mercurial. Some days, she’ll accommodate him, be all sweetness and light. She’ll even let him add to his calendar. The next day, she won’t acknowledge his existence, telling him that she’s not authorized to answer his request.
Totally frustrating, true. Every second day, he’s in the Google Home App activating voice recognition—again. I sympathize…really.
I’m filled with admiration for his determination. He won’t admit defeat, won’t give up.
God forbid, he goes back to tapping appointments into his phone—gasp!—himself.