Last night I went on BritBox to watch the third episode of “Douglas Is Cancelled” and couldn’t find it anywhere. It was not there under “Continue Watching” – as it was a few nights ago – and it was not there under “Recently Added.” And I thought: Has “Douglas Is Cancelled” been cancelled?
Or, after yesterday’s post, have I been banned from it?
I’ve been looking forward to “Douglas Is Cancelled” (now on BritBox) since reading a glowing review of it in The Spectator last year. For one thing, nobody is killed in it, only cancelled. Plus, it seemed to address, as few shows do today, an important aspect of contemporary life. And to do it, as the review made clear, with great humor.
Watching the first episode, I occasionally laughed out loud. The writing is brilliant. (Husband to wife about their teenage daughter: “It’s like we’ve lost her to a cult.” Wife to husband: “We’ve lost her to a university, which is the same thing only you still have to do their laundry.”) But the characters seemed a little undeveloped, as if their sole purpose was to deliver great lines. The writing got in the way of the drama. I thought of "The White Lotus," where none of the characters utter witty lines but the show is full of understated humor and suspense.
Last night we watched the second episode, which was even more disappointing. The characters seemed to be caricatures, with fewer good lines and lot of exaggerated behavior. It’s still interesting, and better than a lot of things we stream, but not the modern classic I had hoped it would be.
Yesterday I gave a friend my tour of Miami, which I hadn’t given in a while. This one, unlike all my previous ones, began at the historic Gesu Church downtown, where Andy had attended 8:30 mass. I had never been inside before and, looking for the men’s room, we nearly entered a confessional. Andy commented on the ceiling, which he thought was surprisingly low for such a large sanctuary, and wondered if it was because of hurricanes. The church was built in 1922.
From there we headed to Coconut Grove, Andy taking pictures of some peacocks, and then – because he expressed an interest in coffee – to Calle Ocho. Unfortunately, a large section of the street was blocked off for the weekend festival, eliminating a good number of ventanitas, so we settled for Versailles, where a group of women from Argentina queued for cafecitos.
Refreshed, we drove down Ponce de Leon to Coral Gables, turned right on Miracle Mile, and then left onto Columbus Avenue with its fairy tale tunnel of sculpture-like ficus trees. At the Biltmore we strolled through the cool, high-ceilinged lobby – admiring the birds in their cages – and the never-ending swimming pool (at one time, the largest in the country). On the way out, we spoke to the receptionist at the spa, who was born in Russia, adopted, and then grew up in Austin, Texas. She had moved to Miami a few years ago from Minnesota. She looked to be in her 20s and had already lived an interesting life.
Brunch at Bulla, which has some of the best eggs Benedict in South Florida – though they call them huevos Benedictinos. (Take that, Trump.) Our waitress was from a small town outside Havana. Then we stopped at Chocolate Fashion for a flourless chocolate cookie.
A spin up Coral Way, to admire the thick green line of banyan trees, and then on to 95 to the Design District, a quick drive through, and then Wynwood, where we parked and walked the streets crowded with tourists. At Panther Coffee we saw a man doodling quite beautifully on an iPad. I asked if he was an artist, and he said he was. I asked if he lived in the neighborhood, knowing that few artists do these days. No, he said, he lived in Brooklyn.
The recent photo of Elon Musk standing in a cabinet meeting in T-shirt and ballcap brought back an unpleasant memory for me.
In the spring of 2008, I was summoned to the managing editor’s office to discuss a redesign of the Travel section, which I had been editor of for 18 years. The m.e. sat quietly at her desk while a ballcapped young man I had never seen before explained his plans for my section. These involved discontinuing long travel narratives – three of which had landed in The Best American Travel Writing anthologies – and diminishing my presence. My column, he noted blithely, would now appear below the fold and jump inside.
I had no idea who this man was. I wondered, naturally, about his background – his knowledge of travel writing, his experience of travel. I assumed they were slim, and that he had been given the job of remaking the section primarily because of his age and his presumed ability to connect with younger readers (an oxymoron even back then).
I sat mostly speechless, and with the sudden realization that the world had changed, at least in the newsroom, and that people like me were no longer welcome. A few months later, I was laid off.
In “A Thousand Clowns,” the unemployed writer Murray Burns often goes to the docks in Manhattan to shout “Bon voyage!” at the people leaving on ocean liners. I loved this about Murray, one of my favorite literary characters in high school, but I’ve learned over the years that it’s more fun to watch people arriving.
So I don’t really mind when I have to pick up friends at MIA (as I did last night). I get to the International Arrivals Hall early and wander about, trying to guess the provenances of the people filing out or, sidling up to small groups, the languages being spoken. The last time I was there I got a nice photo of a little girl sitting with her father under a cluster of “Welcome Home” balloons. And then of course there are all the emotional reunions, the lovers’ kisses and the inter-generational, no-holds-barred bear hugs.
Last night, to my dismay, the hall was quiet and there was little to see. When our friends finally emerged, they said their flight from Paris was practically empty. I felt a little cheated.
Yesterday I posted a cartoon I had drawn of two men, one saying to the other: “I’m giving up Trump for Lent.”
Then in the evening (it was still Fat Tuesday) I watched his address to Congress. As he walked into the chamber, I thought he looked quite presidential. At least he wasn’t wearing a cap. Then he started to speak and all sense of him as a statesman, a leader, even a normal human being, immediately vanished.