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American Vandal: Criminally Good

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September 29, 2018
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Here at Grammatical Art, we love true crime stories in their many forms: TV miniseries, books, podcasts, and Emmy-nominated, Peabody-award-winning documentary parodies.

The first season of American Vandal followed aspiring filmmaker and amateur documentarian Peter Maldonado and his best friend Sam Ecklund as they attempted to exonerate fellow classmate Dylan Maxwell—falsely accused of spray painting 27 dicks on cars in the faculty parking lot—and uncover the identity of the real dick drawer. Season 2 premiered earlier this month, and in a move exemplary of the kind of simple yet genius comedy that makes American Vandal so hilarious, its central mystery revolves around nothing more and nothing less than no. 2.

Fresh off the viral-video fame of their first investigation and now backed by a Netflix production team (yes, they incorporated the show’s Netflix sensation into the premise), Sam and Peter are called in to unmask the anonymous vandal known as the Turd Burglar, responsible for terrorizing a Catholic high school in Bellevue, Washington with not one, but three poop-related crimes, including spiking the cafeteria lemonade with laxatives, leading to a massive, school-wide pooping incident dubbed “the brownout.”

To reveal much more of this season’s plot would be to ruin the delight of watching the mystery unfold because what makes American Vandal so excellent is that—despite (or maybe even because of) its bathroom humor and parody premise—it actually holds up as a compelling entry in the very genre it’s making fun of. Each of the seven episodes leading up to the final eighth episode ends on a cliffhanger that gives you no choice but to press play on the next one. And if season 1 was a scathing indictment of the way the public education system cuts corners and prejudges students, labeling them as worthy or unworthy just so they can promptly give up on them, then season 2 is a hard look at cover-ups, conspiracies, the preferential treatment of athletes as money makers, and the cost of coming of age in the age of social media.

Investigating the poop crimes at a different school where Peter and Sam are outsiders to the social structures of the faculty and student body lends the season more red herrings, more false assumptions, and more plot twists than the show’s first outing. Season 2 could use more of the filmmakers themselves—arguably the strongest and funniest parts of both seasons are the behind-the-scenes moments of Peter and Sam tracking down leads, discussing strategy, and piecing together clues and motives on their crime boards—but when we do see them, the duo shines and the show is as ridiculous and clever as ever.

Is season 2 as funny as season 1? Close, but not quite. At the end of the day, dick drawing just may be inherently funnier than poop pranks, which is not to say season 2 is some kind of sophomore slump. It’s still laugh-out-loud funny, and just like with season 1, when all was revealed and the Turd Burglar was finally unmasked, I was left wanting more. Not because the solve wasn’t satisfying, but because it was just that damn good.

Seasons 1 and 2 of American Vandal are now streaming on Netflix.

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Book Review: Born to Lose

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September 14, 2018
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Stanley B. Hoss doesn’t have the same name recognition as, say, Ted Bundy, and unlike The Stranger Beside Me, you’ve probably never heard of Born to Lose: Stanley B. Hoss and the Crime Spree That Gripped a Nation. But if you’re a fan of true crime, historical nonfiction, edge-of-your-seat thrillers, or all of the above, then it should be next on your to-read list.

Hoss, a burglar and thief from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, graduated to the national stage when he landed himself on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list in the fall of 1969. His crimes—including rape, murder, kidnapping, and breaking out of prison—eventually earned him a life sentence. Four years into that sentence, with the help of two other inmates, Hoss murdered a correctional officer at Western Penitentiary and as a result, was sent to an isolation facility in Philadelphia, where he hanged himself another five years later, in 1978.

Despite the nationwide manhunt, Hoss’s story is very much a small-town one, as much a product of the local social and political climates as his own violent crimes. What makes Born to Lose so fascinating is the way in which completely external factors and seemingly inconsequential details determined the progress of Hoss’s crimes and the outcomes of his arrests, trials, and detainment. The author, James G. Hollock, a Pittsburgher himself, streamlines Hoss’s chaotic, near-senseless actions into a specific—albeit dizzying—timeline, pieced together from previously sealed state and federal documents, police transcripts, court proceedings, and first-hand accounts. Judges, police officers, prison guards, inmates, Hoss’s wife, his mistress—all on-record for the first time, drawing an intimate, chilling portrait of the evil behind the man.

Worried I’ve given too much away? You shouldn’t be. Born to Lose is filled with the kind of insane circumstances and unbelievable coincidences (Edgar Snyder, the Edgar Snyder was Hoss’s public defender) that make reality so much stranger than fiction.

Check it out now.

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Your Guide to: Back-to-School TV

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August 30, 2018
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Whether you’re already in the middle of your second week of classes or counting down the last precious days of summer; whether you’re putting the finishing touches on your classroom or just finding it difficult to resist the allure of the school supplies section of Target, it’s undeniable—that back-to-school feeling is in the air.

And it’s got me thinking—what better way to ring in the new school year than with a mini-marathon of the best in back-to-school episodes TV has to offer?

So sharpen your pencils and take note because we’re counting down the top three in first-day-of-school TV:

#3. “Pilot” Veronica Mars, season 1, episode 1

Between her missing mom, her murdered best friend, the loss of her reputation, and a list of enemies that includes the wealthiest families in town, as well as their extremely popular children, you’d think Veronica Mars would be too beholden to its twentieth-century take on film noir to find any time for levity or laughs. But in an episode that addresses classism, date rape, and the abuse of power by authority, there’s still time for an Ocean’s–11­-worthy heist that all hinges on a custom-made bong and mandatory locker checks. The heist is enough to seal the deal on Veronica’s series’ long friendship with Wallace, score her a whole motorcycle gang of allies, and make you wish you had the connections and savvy to start off your junior year by embarrassing both the jack ass who makes your high school days a living hell and the local sheriff’s department all in one go.

There’s a reason Veronica Mars—both the show and the character—is a fan favorite. Veronica is everything you want in a female lead—clever, gutsy, funny, witty, tough, determined, principled, vulnerable, emotional—and this first episode is the perfect introduction.

#2. “The Lorelais’ First Day at Yale” Gilmore Girls, season 4, episode 2

The transition from high school to college isn’t an easy one to make—in real life or on TV—and yet that’s exactly how the Gilmore girls make it look, transitioning seamlessly (minus an extra mattress or two) from Stars Hollow to Yale, all while maintaining their signature blend of grace, humor, and mother-daughter devotion.

Any one of a dozen different bits could have qualified this episode to make the cut—the absurd hilarity of Paris showing up as Rory’s roommate, Terrence the life coach and craft corner in tow; Lorelai and Luke’s endless (and rather domestic) bickering over the use of his truck; the coining of Copper boom! as the only acceptable way of ending a conversation in a hurry—but what really secures its place on the list is its honest portrayal of the genuine heartache of being separated. Because despite however excited Rory and Lorelai may be for Rory to start Yale, it also means saying goodbye. It doesn’t matter how many years it’s been since you first left home or whether you ever have—watching Rory stand alone in her empty dorm room and Lorelai come home to an empty house is enough to make anyone homesick.

#1. “Pilot” Pretty Little Liars, season 1, episode 1

How could an episode where the guy from the steamy bar bathroom make-out on the last day of summer is revealed to be the hot new English teacher on the first day of school not top the list of best back-to-school episodes?

And that’s all before the opening credits.

There are enough juicy secrets in this first episode of Pretty Little Liars to fill a blog post all on their own, and that’s precisely what makes it so delicious. PLL is everything you wish high school was and everything you’re so grateful it isn’t: Everyone is way more attractive, way more fashionable, and has way less homework, but everyone is also way more deceitful, way more vindictive, and way more suspected of murder.

But it isn’t just the scandal and the now-iconic mystery stalker A that earns Pretty Little Liars the #1 spot on our list; it’s the ride-or-die friendship between the liars themselves: Aria, Hanna, Spencer, and Emily. It doesn’t matter that they start the episode more estranged than ever, driven apart by Allison’s disappearance. When the police find (at least what they think is) Allison’s body, the distance all but evaporates and they pick up right where they left off, bonded by the secrets they’ve sworn to keep, the ones they share, and even the ones they don’t. For friends like that, all the drama seems almost worth it. Almost.

So, what do you think? Too much murder, not enough comedy? Which shows make you think back-to-school?

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You Can Leave That Book Behind

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August 9, 2018
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Consider this the permission you’ve been waiting for: You can stop reading that book you hate.

Maybe you’ve been reading it the last few weeks—or months—but you’re having trouble finishing it because every time you pick it up it puts you to sleep after three paragraphs. Maybe the writing is too dense—or too simple. Maybe you find the main character obnoxious or the point of view is all wrong. Maybe it’s not a genre that interests you.

Maybe you just don’t like it.

At the end of the day, that’s all that really matters. The “why” is irrelevant. You don’t like it. Stop reading it.

And I get it. It can be hard enough admitting that we don’t like a book, let alone putting it down and walking away. Could be a leftover habit from high school, when we didn’t really get a say in what we read or whether we liked it, when we had to finish books. (Although, let’s be honest, anyone who says they never took advantage of SparkNotes or CliffsNotes is obviously lying.) Could be that we feel guilty for not liking it, for so clearly not enjoying someone’s work that we don’t even want to finish it. But we don’t seem to have the same problem turning off a movie or changing the channel to a different TV show.

So what is it about books?

For one thing, books require more of a time commitment than a two-hour movie or a 45-minute TV show, so there’s the mentality that if we don’t finish a book, all the time we already spent reading it was wasted. (The solution to this one, though, is actually a no-brainer. If you already feel like you’re wasting time, don’t waste any more.) And because books are more of a commitment, our reluctance to step away from them could be as easy to explain as the age-old adage: Nobody likes a quitter.

But here’s the thing—books shouldn’t be a commitment. Outside of reading for work or for school, reading shouldn’t be an accomplishment or a task or a chore. It sounds lame and cliché, but reading should be fun.

Should your opinion really change and you find yourself regretting the decision to move on from a book, you can always go back to it. But until then, leave books unfinished—guilt free—and read whatever the hell you want. Whatever genre, whatever style, whatever author you like, so long as it’s just that: something you like.

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Ode to the Mix CD

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July 30, 2018
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My career making mix CDs dates back to the heyday of LimeWire popularity—remember the dark times before iTunes and streaming services—and continues to live on in 2018 because dammit, it’s an art form I believe in.

Before you start, yes, I know playlists exist, and yes, I am aware that playlists are the iPod and post-iPod era answers to the mix CD, much like the mix CD was the post-cassette tape era’s answer to the mix tape. I love a good playlist. I lived through Windows Media Player hell; don’t think I don’t appreciate the ease and simplicity of a playlist, or the fact that any mix CD I make now starts first in that format and then usually ends up back in that same format in someone’s iTunes library or Spotify account.

But mix CDs have something that playlists don’t: constraints.

And while that is a beautiful thing—who wants to be limited to 80 minutes of music—the loss of constraint in many ways has meant a loss of the craft.

Think about it! Think about the way you make a playlist versus the way you slaved over a mix CD. You don’t have to be as particular when you’re making a playlist—you’ve got all the space in the world, and you can always add more songs or delete them. Order doesn’t matter, either, because you’re probably going to throw it on shuffle and call it a day.

The mix CD is finite. You only had room for 18 or 19 songs, 20 max. You had to pick and choose, keep a specific mood or theme or occasion in mind. 8th Grade Dance Mix. Last Mix of ’05. Travel Mix 2007. Totally Kick Ass Mix. 18th Birthday Mix. Camp Pickle Mix.* Order mattered when half the time you couldn’t figure out to work the shuffle function on your discman anyway, and you had to be sure about it: Once burned, it was burned forever.

I’ll concede that technically you can make a playlist while operating under the mix CD mindset, but even so, you’re missing one other thing: the time capsule effect.

It’s true that a playlist can transport you to a time gone by just like an old mix CD can. After all, it’s the music that brings forth the nostalgia more than anything else. But a time capsule doesn’t just make us think of the past, it is the past, unknown contents unearthed in the present. A playlist, on the other hand, is just that: a list. You know what’s on it before you listen.

But mix CDs? With unhelpful titles like Uber Hawt Mix scrawled across them in our 13-year-old, 17-year-old, 21-year-old handwriting? The magic of the mix CD is that they are relics, antiquated technology that somehow survived into the digital age, and a complete mystery, a total surprise, until you load them up and press play.

 

*All real, actual titles of mix CDs currently in my possession.

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Adaptation Meloncholia

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July 14, 2018
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As an avid consumer of all things movies, books, TV, and music, I tend to keep myself fairly up-to-date on entertainment news—which of my shows are canceled or renewed or brought back from the dead; when a favorite author or artist is dropping a new book or album; which summer blockbuster hits the big screen when—so imagine my surprise when I click over to YouTube last week and I see Netflix’s new trailer for its small-screen adaptation of Jenny Han’s To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.

Not a press release announcing Netflix had optioned the movie rights, not a casting announcement or even a filming notice—the two-minute-long official trailer, complete with release date. And this was the first I was hearing about it.

Even more to my surprise, I didn’t feel excited. It wasn’t just concern about the quality of the adaptation; I felt disappointed, maybe even a little bit sad. (Maybe more than a little bit sad.)

I read To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, the first in a trilogy, last summer. At the center of the book is 16-year-old Lara Jean, who’s loved exactly five boys in her life. Every time she fell out of love with one of them, she wrote them a letter, expressing her love and why she’d moved on. She sealed it, addressed it, and tucked it away for no one to find—until someone does and mistakenly sends all five out with the mail, delivering her private letters to the very people who were never supposed to read them. What follows is a sweetly romantic, wonderfully heartfelt comedy of errors that would only ever take place within the pages of fiction but is all the more magical because of it.

I liked it enough to run out and buy the sequel as soon as I finished it. It was sugar-spun YA fun, a perfect summer read, and Lara Jean—so patently human, endearingly genuine, and almost painfully earnest—was a narrator I loved spending time with.

So why wasn’t I thrilled to see her brought to life? As much as I loved reading about Lara Jean and her romantic mishaps, I wasn’t anywhere near as attached to her story as I was to, say, Harry Potter or the Hunger Games, and I was over the moon about the announcements of those adaptations.

But a book doesn’t have to be a favorite for us to feel connected to it, and unlike the Hunger Games and Harry Potter, no one in my immediate social circle had read To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. I experienced it entirely alone, and Lara Jean’s journey—a very personal one—became personal to me as I read it.

Seeing that trailer on YouTube, a promo for the movie’s wide release, robbed me a little of that feeling.

Reading is, after all, an individual activity, even when we talk about it with our friends and family. What we imagine when we read—the way we imagine it, the way we react to it—all belongs solely to us, in that moment and after we close the book. Sometimes that experience runs so deep, so true, that we want it to stay that way—between us and the page—forever.

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How to Become a Puzzle Lover

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June 24, 2018
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Say the word puzzle, and I feel like most people conjure up images of a group of octogenarians, dressed in beige, sitting around a table in a drab nursing home, working on a nature scene of a lake. There’s some tall reeds and usually a duck. Or maybe they picture a group of children, ages 7-10, who’d rather be anywhere else doing literally anything else, moping their way through a jigsaw puzzle of brightly colored fish because it’s raining outside. Also, at least three pieces are missing, so they can’t even finish it.

Be honest, is that what popped into your head when you first read the title of this post?

Well, today, I’m here to set the record straight: Puzzles aren’t just for old people or rainy days. They don’t have to be boring, and if you store the pieces in a plastic bag and then put that bag in the box, you’re much less likely to lose them.

Let me tell you what puzzles are: Puzzles are Frosted Flakes. They’re GREAT.

First, disabuse yourself of the notion that all puzzles look like suitable cover copies of a Henry David Thoreau novel. It’s 2018. You can make your puzzle experience look like anything you want. Marvel, Disney, maps, spot-the-difference pictures, nature scenes you actually want to look at—the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, volcanoes erupting in the Hawaiian Islands. I even have a custom, Band of Brothers-themed puzzle. (A Christmas gift from a friend; I have a well-known puzzle obsession, which I’m sure you never would have guessed.)

And sure, puzzles are great at occupying your time when it’s raining outside and you want to be on the beach or by the pool, but they’re also perfect for those days that you just want to stay inside because global warming is real and it’s hotter than hell.

Need some quiet, meditative time? Break out a puzzle. Need something to do with your hands while you listen to the latest episode of your favorite podcast? Puzzle. Too tired to read before bed, but don’t want to risk that blue light from your phone or your TV screwing up your REM cycle? Sift through a few pieces of that puzzle. Early morning and you’re still waking up with that Folgers in your cup? P-U-Z-Z-L-E.

Because if the first secret to loving puzzles is finding the right subject, then the second is to plan to not do it all at once. Puzzling is great any time, but it’s not so great when it’s all the time. Unlike both seasons of Stranger Things, puzzling is not best when binged. That’s why they invented puzzle mats. Feeling frustrated? Not getting anywhere? Drop the puzzle piece. Walk away. Come back when you’re feeling it again. There’s something so immensely satisfying about suddenly finding that one piece the next time you drop by to look for it. Trust me.

Which brings us to secret #3: Embrace the simple.

Puzzling has a ton of benefits—it exercises both sides of the brain, improves our memory, produces dopamine, reduces stress—but the real draw is much less complicated than that. Puzzles give us the rules we don’t get in life but wish for: Here’s the big picture before you start. Trial and error? Ultimately the only way to succeed. All the pieces will fit. Guaranteed.

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Review: Marvel’s Cloak & Dagger

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June 10, 2018
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To say that I’ve been eagerly anticipating the premiere of Marvel’s Cloak & Dagger since the series’ order was first announced in April 2016 would be a massive understatement. In fact, you could say that it’s impossible for my excitement for this show to be overstated.

Maybe this calls the objectivity of my review into question, but I would argue it actually makes me a tougher critic. I’m hopelessly terrible at keeping my expectations in check, so my hype for this show? It was high. Way high. Almost alarmingly so.

Boy was I ever not let down.

In case, unlike me, you haven’t watched the trailer a dozen times (lowball estimate) on YouTube, here’s what you need to know: Cloak & Dagger follows Tyrone Johnson (spoiler alert: cloak) and Tandy Bowen (hint: dagger), two teenagers living in New Orleans who first meet as children the night they each suffer a traumatic loss that alters the course of their lives. Eight years later, they bump into each other again—at a party, innocuously enough—a reunion that sparks the discovery of their powers: Tyrone can teleport, and Tandy can turn light into daggers.

Come for the bomb ass set of powers; stay for literally everything else.

Aubrey Joseph and Olivia Holt are perfectly cast as Tyrone and Tandy—young enough to be believable as teenagers; old enough to pull off dynamic, emotional performances. The look on each of their faces as they recognize the other from a night they weren’t entirely certain was real is enough to break anyone’s heart.

The smartest move the show makes, however, is in keeping its stars separated. Tandy and Tyrone spend most of the first two episodes apart, their lives paralleled as we watch them live the same hours of each day—giving the show a chance to establish their two main characters individually, and the audience a chance to become invested in each of them independent of the other.

Which is not to say the chemistry between the two of them isn’t enough to have you on the edge of your seat until they meet again.

Without the ABC Family logo in the corner, Freeform seems more than ready to address our 2018 reality: racism; rape culture; prescription drug abuse; police corruption and police violence, especially against the black community. The show’s coverage of these topics is neither gratuitous nor exploitative; it isn’t in-depth enough to derail its plot, and it’s never in danger of becoming an after-school special. But it grounds an unreal situation in a harsh reality, willing to face up to our issues rather than deny they exist.

The pacing is tight, the secondary characters interesting, and the special effects way better than you’d expect this side of cable TV. It has an amazing soundtrack, which we all know is the mark of a truly great show, and enough surrounding mysteries to keep you on your toes without distracting you from why we’re all really here: the connection between Tandy and Tyrone; their new powers and the link between them—and all the ways we don’t even know they need each other yet.

If you’re looking for a new summer obsession, congratulations. You’ve found it.*

 

*Cloak & Dagger airs Thursdays at 8 pm EST on Freeform.

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Get Ready to Battle

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June 1, 2018
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Growing up with a librarian for a mom means attending 90 percent of the library programming for your age group (not that I’m complaining). Growing up with a best friend whose mom is also a librarian means spending a lot of time at those programs together.

So when that friend becomes a librarian herself and finds out the main city library is hosting one of your favorite programs from when you were kids but for adults, she signs you up without even asking.

Which is how, last summer, I came to participate in the first ever adult Battle of the Books in my area.

Not familiar with Battle of the Books? Take your basic bar trivia night and add a reading list.

Teams of 3-5 sign up to read a list of 6-10 books, then meet a few months later for the main event. The battle is usually three themed rounds—people, places, and events—during which you’re asked multiple questions about each of the books. The team with the most points at the end of all three rounds—and usually a bonus round—wins.

(Pro tip: No one is ever able to read the whole list and keep all of the books straight, so don’t even try. How you split up the books is up to you, but it’s a smart move to double up on readers for each of the titles.)

My team competed in another battle this spring, and we’re getting ready to sign up for a third in a couple of weeks. Between the two tournaments, I was responsible for reading five books I wouldn’t have otherwise read—two on my to-read list I had never gotten around to, and three I never would have picked up on my own. I’ve made three new friends (aside from my BFF, I didn’t know the other members of my team before we became teammates) and even taken home a third-place prize. (Humble brag.)

It’s not really about the points or the prizes, of course, so much as it’s about reading new books and—as corny as it sounds—having fun. It’s another way to interact with books that’s different from your average book club.

If you’re looking to challenge yourself to read more this summer—or you just can’t decide what to read—check out your local library and see what they have to offer.

After all, we may be done with grade school and book reports, but we’re never too old for summer reading.

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Books Were Made to Be Broken

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May 21, 2018
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When I was younger, I worried a lot about keeping my books in pristine condition. No bent spines, no wrinkled pages, no folded corners, and no torn dust jackets. I wanted my books to look nice, as if how nice they looked was a direct reflection of how well I took care of them, and in turn, how much I cared about them.

The first book I properly trashed as an adult was my hardcover copy of The Hunger Games. I bought it for myself on a weekend shopping trip a few weeks into my freshman year of college. It was a story I could read over and over again without losing interest, which is how I ended up carrying it in my backpack every day for the entire fall semester a year later. Because you know what couldn’t hold my interest? Anthropology. The Hunger Games was my cure for perpetual narcolepsy during the six hours I spent in two anthropology classes each week—in a class of thirty students in a lecture hall with seats for a hundred, there’s nowhere you can fall sleep where the professor won’t see you.

A semester spent at the bottom of my backpack wasn’t enough to ruin it, but it took the shine off. Scuffed the edges, dirtied the pages, ripped the jacket. And I was upset about it. This book I loved—that helped me survive the consequences of my misguided thinking that anthropology was the major for me—and I wrecked it.

I ended up carting that copy of The Hunger Games to and from school all four years of undergrad. And somewhere along the way, I stopped lamenting its sorry state. It wasn’t a wreck; it was a reminder. Not of a crappy semester when I took a couple of classes I hated, but of a semester when that book went everywhere with me. Because it saved me.

Use isn’t destruction. It’s a memory: The greasy sunblock stains in my copy of Persuasion a testament to the week I spent reading it at the beach; the chocolate smudge in my copy of The Fault in Our Stars evidence of the days I spent reading it on my lunch break. The broken binding in my favorite Eloisa James novel proof of the number of times my sister and I traded it back and forth to reread it.

My books hold a lot of value, but they aren’t valuables. They aren’t precious because they look pretty on a shelf and wearing them out doesn’t mean that I don’t love them.

It just means that I do.