As someone who has a.) bought a couch and b.) shopped at West Elm, but c.) never bought a couch from West Elm, I found this piece on the shoddiness of the West Elm couch “Peggy” to be rather entertaining. Entertaining and informative! Because people are ginormous spendthrifts, apparently.
An executive at a major company dies, alone, in his darkened office: a heart attack. He was an associate of the year or some such, a real hard-charging type. A letter from a health spa in central Europe sent by the man’s mentor, the CEO, sits unopened on his desk. Starkly shot—with crisp close ups, slow pans, slower reveals, and a perfectly framed collage of screens pumping out stock data as the film’s title appears above them—and modestly tense, and a teensy bit funny, this prologue sets the stage for the film’s 146 minutes.
Well, impending heart attack. If we keep shoving fried-chicken-covered tacos down Vic’s gullet, he’s not going to be with us much longer. Subscribe! Leave a review! Every time you leave a review, Donald Trump promises to do a 77-minute press conference. You don’t … hate the press, do you?
So, on Wednesday evening, I finished Resident Evil VII: Biohazard. Or possibly “Resident Evil VII: Biohazard”; I don’t know what the preferred style on video game titles is, and I refuse to look it up. Because I don’t review them. Because I only very rarely play them.
I am a casual gamer. This is my confession.
Before we get to what really mattered last night—the advertisements—I must admit to taking some small amount of pleasure in the Patriots beating Atlanta in a way that almost perfectly mirrored the manner in which Donald Trump beat Hillary Clinton. Lord knows, I’m no fan of either the Pats or the Donald, but after hearing all the stories about how Tom Brady Is Bad Because He Likes Trump And We Should Denounce Him Because That Is What Righteous People Do And No Good Pats Fan Can Cheer For Dastardly Republicans, well, you know. It was amusing, is all I’m saying. If you turned sports into a proxy battle over your political discontent—as if the NFL were the WWF and the Patriots were the Iron Sheik and the Falcons were Sgt. Slaughter—you kind of deserved what happened last night. I’m just surprised Roger Goodell didn’t send John Podesta out to hand over the trophy.