Day: April 3, 2025

In that recently posted Club Random chat between Bill Maher and Maureen Dowd, Maher shared an unusual anecdote about visiting Ireland. Unusual for Maher, I mean, as he’s not the emotional-sharing type.

Maher’s jet was approaching Irish soil (presumably Dublin airport), he recalled, and just as as it touched down on the tarmac he melted…something took over and he began to cry. Some atmospheric whatever got to him, something that his body or spirit recognized…a homeland vibe.

My ancestral roots are British and not Irish, but I felt almost the same thing when I visited Dublin in the fall of ’88. Maggie and I and five-month-old Jett flew to Dublin from London, and right away I felt something. One of my first thoughts as we left the Dublin region and drove into the countryside was “I could die here.”

Related: A similar thing happened in London in 1980. For the first time in my life I heard my last name pronounced correctly, or at least in a richer, more tonally satisfying way than I myself had ever pronounced it.

It’s an English name, of course, so no surprise that I experienced my “woke” moment when a British Airways attendant said “Mr. Wells?” He said it with a zesty, just-right emphasis on the “ell” sound. (I tend to use an “euhll” sound.) The British Airways guy had it down…made me feel proud of my heritage.

I haven’t spelled it out in so many words, but the Big Memory-Lane Question is this: try to recall a moment on foreign soil when you immediately and perhaps inexplicably felt at home…at peace…welcomed…relieved.

Because of some sudden wash-over feeling…maybe a person or persons you ran into on a bus or subway or an Uber into town…maybe the way the early-morning air or a curbside food stand smelled…some hard-to-pin-down scent or vibe that seeped into your pores and took you back to a place of ease and familiarity or even serenity.

I’m not talking about hotel-brand comfort (“feels just like checking into a Comfort Inn in Pensacola!”)…some travelers take pleasure in familiarity, I realize, but that’s not what this is…I’m speaking of a feeling that snuck up on you, an air-sniff or a Bill Maher-like (or Bill Murray-ish) nudge of surprise…an out-of-the-blue thing in Guatemala or Scotland or Wagga Wagga (west of Canberra) or the southeastern coast of Spain.

Bill Burr to red-carpet journalist who was asking about Luigi Mangione and Elon Musk, prior to Conan O’Brien Mark Train tribute at Kennedy Center (several days ago):

“I don’t think you should be asking a comedian [about this stuff]. You’re a journalist. No, no, that’s weak. That’s you guys passing the buck. You guys need to have balls again. Which you don’t. You guys always say, ‘Should we be thinking this?’ You guys present stuff like that. You need to get your balls back.”

Last night I slammed my way through all four episodes of Adolesence, Jack Thorne and Stephen Graham‘s British miniseries that’s been streaming on Netflix since 3.13.25.

It’s basically about a mood of anti-female malevolence and hostility among young teenage males, and about how it’s all hidden or simmering under the surface, and as such doesn’t feel especially real or recognizable, or at least not to me and my understanding of things.

Yes, teenage knifings have become a thing in England over the last two or three years but the Andrew Tate manosphere — toxic masculinity, bullying, incel inferences — carries a very weird vibe, and I didn’t know what to do with it. What’s wrong with these fucking kids? What’s gotten into their blood? What’s the disease?

All four episodes are “oners” — real time, no cuts. The first thing I asked myself was “how would these episodes play if they’d been shot in the usual way?”, and the answer, I told myself, was that they’d feel more tightly focused and concise and perhaps more dramatically affecting. That’s not to say I found the “oner” approach unworthy or frustrating, but there is a general feeling of cinematic technique exerting more control than the serving of dramatic basics.

The strongest episode by far is part 3, which focuses entirely on a gentle interrogation of Jamie Miller (Owen Cooper), a 13 year old accused murderer, by forensic psychologist Briony Ariston (Erin Doherty).

There’s a fair amount of dodging and denial on Jamie’s part, as the cops have video of him knifing the deceased victim, Katie, so his evasions and whatnot feel decidedly strange as well as futile. The atmosphere intensifies when Briony asks about Jamie’s sex life, which seems odd in itself as he’s slight and kid-like and tweener-ish. One gradually detects currents of suppressed hostility that are rooted in rejection and whatnot. Jamie’s mood fluctuates between amiable and resentful, wich leads to a sudden, standing-up outburst. The session ends with Briony telling Jamie this will be their final meeting, which triggers anxiety and pleading and then another outburst.

Who is this kid? What’s with the lying and denial? Where has all the “red pill” anger, insecurity and rage come from?

What does “nonce” mean again? Something to do with sex offender?

Last weekend Kevin Dougherty‘s Drew Friedman: Verneer of the Borscht Belt screened at the Aero, followed by a q & a with Friedman, Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski + various rogues and scalawags.

I’m not understanding the why or how of the Aero screening as the the doc initially surfaced six years ago. But Friedman did me a solid 32 years ago when he inked a Last Action Hero fallout cartoon, which was published in Spy…hence my loyalty and affection.