Squeeze (A revised short story I wrote in the spring of 2011)

Squeeze

    These sirens are killing me. Everyone on the road ought to know by now who the cops are chasing. You’d think they could at least turn the sirens off. Hell, my Challenger’s damn near the only car on the interstate. The news crews must’ve put an alert out.
    We just passed mile marker 117.
    Twenty or so blue-lighters have been bearing down on us for almost two hours now. It’d be game over already if I didn’t have this beautiful angel next to me in the passenger seat: my Penny. She looks so gorgeous right now. Her legs are tucked into her stomach like she’s watching a horror movie, waiting for an inevitable "boo," but I know she’s not scared. She’s the one person in this world who never judged me. Maybe it’s because we know each other's struggles so well. Maybe it’s because without each other, we’d both be face up in a hole somewhere. There’s no “maybe” to it, really; I know.
    What I don’t know is how long I’ve been in this damn Dodge. Everything looks the same on this godforsaken Florida interstate. Feels like weeks, but I know it’s only been since we lit out of Tallahassee around breakfast. You figure all these cops would have something better to do than follow me around. I guess it’s because of my unconventional occupation. And the fact that there’s thirty pounds of cocaine sitting on the back seat.
    Being a drug runner’s no picnic. God knows how long I’ve been running this stuff across state lines. Went into business for myself a few years back. I’m just trying to make a living, same as the next fellow. Dopers gotta have their dope, and I’m the guy that gets it there.
    The drop-off in Tallahassee should’ve been a piece of cake, but the whole deal went to hell in record time. We’re on the road for fifteen damn hours, making tracks all through the night and we turn the corner by the park and see the drop-off swarming with 5-0. Dirk was supposed to be there so we could give him the stuff and that would’ve been that, but the blue boys got him first. “P-p-please Officer, I’m j-j-just out for a s-s-stroll,” he probably said. That skinny bastard always did sound like Porky Pig. Then the cops probably reached in his pocket and found the pipe he always carries. He never learns. After that, he must’ve ratted faster than Leo in "The Departed." I still don’t know how they knew we would be there, but there was no time to think.
    It’s my own fault we were seen in the first place. Slamming on my brakes wasn’t the best idea. The reaction from the fuzz was priceless, though. It was like twenty dogs heard a whistle all at once; their ears perked up and every single head looked in our direction. Almost took out an old lady’s poodle in the process; I don’t think I hit him, anyway. If I hadn’t panicked and lost my head, we could’ve just pulled off the road quietly and headed back west. It’s only because we had a few blocks head start that we’re still on the run.
    The fact of the matter, though, is that we’re in a tight squeeze. Every blue-lighter in the Panhandle is on my ass. There’s enough blow in the backseat to put ten of me away forever; there’s no getting away clean. One way or another, this ride is going to end. I know it. Penny knows it. But she doesn’t care. I know she doesn’t care, because we are each other.
    Everything before this has been nothing short perfect. Hell, how else does a guy like me, someone that barely made it out of high school, stay in the same illegal line of work for damn near a decade? I’d like to think it was all luck, but I know it’s mostly because of Gladiator. I hate the son-of-a-bitch, but he was a smart one when he wanted to be. Everyone used to call him that because he had this giant poster of Kirk Douglas in Spartacus hanging above his bed. It’s a stupid name for a guy that might be an inch above five feet tall. He’s a stubby little bastard, but he can scrap if you push him and he can definitely hold his own. Thinking back on it all, he’s the reason I’m in this game. He was always a good friend to me. Known him damn near my whole life. Went to the same high school in Alabama. Graduated together. What a life we made out of those diplomas. He lived with his older sister, Debbie, over on Tomlinson since both of their parents had been dead since ’85.
    Slinging drugs was something Gladiator always did on the side while we were in school. Ssack of pot here and there was all it ever was, but if you add all that up over four years of high school, you’re talking some serious scratch. I’m sure his sister knew what he was up to, but she didn’t care. It’s probably because he never sold to any of his classmates. He’d always use that old phrase, “Don’t shit where you eat.” After graduation, I had no clue what I was going to do, but Gladiator had saved damn near fifty grand and he knew right quick what he was going to do. Same old, same old. He got a job at the Dothan Grocery, but it was just a front. He moved out of his sister’s place and put a down payment on a house near the outskirts of town that looked like where Norman lived behind the Bates Motel. He’s been there ever since.
    It was soon after that that he asked me if I would run packages over state lines to deliver to certain people every week or so. He said he would pay me right and the drop-offs would be absolutely safe. I knew what was in them, but it never bothered me; I knew what I was getting into. I had no purpose or motivation, anyway.
    Even though he’d been selling since before freshman year of high school, hardly a soul knew outside his own circle. In fact, I bet not even half a dozen people ever knew he sold. Folks who weren’t involved in the transactions, anyway. I don’t know how he did it, but I never asked. That was part of the bond between us: he knew I wouldn’t ask questions and he knew I could be trusted. He’d give me a name, location and the amount of money to be received. It was as simple as that. Of course I always had a snub-nose in my pocket in case things got heavy. We both kept mediocre jobs during the day, but after dark was when the real work happened. The crazy part of it is that neither one of us used. I never even smoked grass. I get drunk maybe five times a year and a needle’s damn sure never come near my veins.
    Once business was booming, there was hardly a drug that Gladiator wouldn’t sell. Meth, coke, smack, you name it. I don’t know where it all came from. I’d leave his house one night, show up the next afternoon and a dozen boxes were there that weren’t the night before.
    “So, you ready to go?” he’d say.
    “Why else am I here? Quality time at the dinner table?”
    The one thing I could never get over, though, was that he would let his close buddies use in his house. His small circle of friends would come by and shoot up whenever the urge struck them, as long as they phoned first. It was always the same people. There was Perry, who came up with us in school. He always had a pipe in his palm, squeezing it so hard you thought it might explode in his hand. Nate and Dean-O never seemed to leave because they were always snorting lines of this and that off the coffee table. Even a few girls, like Rachel and Jen, would come by every now and then and chill out on the couch for a few hours. They were sweet. He had the trust of every last one of them, but I didn’t want to see that shit when I walked in the door. I hated it. Kind of hypocritical that I was taking that garbage from state to state all those years. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.
    Some people say things happen for a reason. It’s a cliche that’s been beaten to death, but by God, I swear it’s true. I’m not religious, but there’s got to be some sort of unseen force in this world that puts you exactly where you need to be.
    I’ll never forget the day: the second one in June. It had been raining for an almost-local-record-breaking two weeks. Seeing the sun felt like seeing a friend who’d moved away long ago. I walked in Gladiator’s front door and stopped cold in my tracks; I don’t think I even shut it. On the couch, in between Nate and Dean-O, sat a young blonde woman, not a day over twenty-two. Her eyes were closed and a tourniquet was wrapped around her left bicep. A needle was dangling from the bend in her arm. Blood and some of the yellow heroin Gladiator just got made a trail down her forearm and into the couch. She wasn’t moving.
    A rush of energy came over me like I’d never felt. I was thrilled, appalled and terrified. She didn’t need to be here. All I wanted to do was to take her and make her better.
    “Who the hell is that?” I said.
    Gladiator appeared from the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal, smiling with squinted eyes as he stuffed his face. For the first time that I had seen, Gladiator looked high. “Come on, man. How many times have you met Dean-O?”
    “I’m not talking about Dean-O! Tell me, who the fuck is she?” I ran over to her.
    “Oh, that’s my cousin,” he said. “First time smacker, he’s helping her. She’s goin’ pretty hard now.” He turned and walked back to the kitchen, still munching on his cereal.
    “You fucking psycho."
    I looked back to the girl. "Come on, baby, we gotta get you up. Come on, let’s go.” I pulled the needle out of her arm and picked her up. As I ran with her to the bathroom, her arms and head bobbed, lifeless. I kicked open the door, laid her on the floor and flicked on the light. All I could think was that this girl was going to die on this crud-covered bathroom floor and Gladiator didn’t even care. I put my hand across her throat to see if there was a pulse.
    Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
    I slapped her face repeatedly, trying to wake her back to life. I grabbed her arm at the top of her shoulder, squeezed and ran my hand down her arm, just above the puncture. Some of mixture came oozing out of her arm like a staph infection that had festered for days. I reached around her back with my left arm, grabbed the back of her neck with my right and held her up.
    “Come on, baby, wake up. Hey! Open your eyes, girl, come on.” I kept shaking her and patting her face. Slowly, she half-opened her right eye and looked at me. She stared into mine for what seemed like eternity.
    Finally, she slurred a few words. “I like you.”
    Then she vomited in my face. Two short projectile bursts. Right in my mouth.
    She immediately reached up to my mouth as if to say, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” The look in her eyes was one of innocent embarrassment. She was still reeling, but she knew what she’d done.
    All I could manage to do was laugh. Nothing about this situation was funny, but, I swear, that’s all I could do. She looked at me, confused, as I continued to laugh. Then she joined in. We both knew how the situation should have turned out, and the relief we both felt manifested itself in the form of howling laughter. What a scene it was: me and this girl I’d seen for maybe sixty seconds laid out on the bathroom floor, covered in blood, drugs and vomit, and we’re laughing like Borat just walked into the room. It was beautiful. I’d never felt such relief.
    After that, I knew she would be all right. But something else was accompanying this feeling, something I hadn’t felt for as long as I could remember. My stomach was turning in such a way that it frightened and excited me. It was love. Pure vomit-covered love. She felt it, too.
    We both stared at each other in silence. Our gazes were connecting us to each other in a way that seemed beyond impossible. Her pupils were a doorway into her past, present and future. But it wasn’t just her future; it was our future. When we saw "The Fellowship of the Ring" for the first time together, her palm in mine as we ate stale popcorn and giggled while Gandalf and Bilbo got blazed on that hilltop in the Shire. Our first dinner date at Mellow Mushroom when she said, “Oh my God, no way! This is my favorite place.” The disappointment in her eyes five years later when we would find out we couldn’t have children. The content in her face when she would tell me, “We have each other. It’s not all bad.” And I could see us growing old together. But I didn’t even know her name.
    “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
    “I’m— I’m— I’m Penny. Who are you?”
    “My name’s Hank.”
    She giggled. “Hank. Penny. I— I like that.”
    With Penny in my arms, I walked out of Gladiator’s door for good. I went into business for myself after that. I haven’t seen him for about ten years, but I know he doesn’t hold any grudges; we squared up pretty easily. He knew I wouldn’t rat on him or steal his business; we always understood each other. If you’re in this gig long enough, one way or another you meet enough folks who need someone like me.
    Penny was always with me. She knew what I was doing was crooked, sure, but she never left my side. Neither of us used. She knew I wouldn’t, and I knew she wouldn’t. I knew how to work the business, and the money was too good to pass up. And I reckon it was the easy way to get paid, but I’m a damn fool for ever thinking we’d make it this—
    “Baby, we’re about to run out of gas.”
    My God, how long was I in my own head? That whole “life flashing before your eyes” line sure has some truth to it.
    We’re passing mile marker 120. The cops are keeping their distance from us. I reckon they know we’re about to run out, too.
    “I really don't know what I'm doin' here, darlin'.” I’ve never been so helpless. It feels like I’m a passenger in a submarine that’s sinking to the bottom of the ocean, the pressure from the water beginning to squeeze the sub like an egg, cracks starting to appear all over it as I realize the impending doom that’s—
    Penny’s grabbing my hand. She’s opened the glove box. On top of old fast-food napkins rest two snub-nose revolvers. There aren’t any bullets. I know what she’s thinking. She knows I know what she’s thinking. And she’s right.
    “Baby, I was dead when you found me. I got to live again because of you. I know that if we get out of this alive, I’ll never be with you again. I can’t live like that, I don’t want to and I won’t. It’ll be quick, and everything will be okay.”
    She always speaks the truth.
    She’s crying harder than I’ve ever seen. There’s an exit up here where I know there’s an enormous cotton field on the right-hand side. If we go there, there won’t be any possibility of others getting hurt. I don’t want that. Penny doesn’t want that. The cops will follow us off-road.
    Penny’s looking at me, surprised like she just had one of those light-bulb-over-the-head moments.
    “We never even turned on the radio.”
    “My God, you’re right.”
    Of all the songs on all the stations on the dial, what will it be? It has to be perfect. I know what I want it to be. “Badlands” by Springsteen. Shit, there’s no better song in the world.
    Keep pushin’ til it’s understood and these badlands start treatin’ us good.
    Penny pushes in the volume knob. I don’t even know what station we left it on.
    Static. That figures.
    Pulling to a stop in the field now. I look over at Penny, my eyes getting lost in hers the same way they did that day in June. She’s no longer crying. Her kisses get me every time. I sure will miss them.
    I have to say something.
    “We did a hell of a lot of livin’, didn’t we?”
    Penny is smiling, and everything is perfect. Everything.

Pop Culture Favorites of 2013

We are assaulted and inundated with information at such an astounding rate on a daily basis. In this age of having any number of social networks at pocket's reach, a breaking news story is forgotten just as easily as a flick of your Twitter timeline. There is so much that we soak in every single day it seems impossible to retain all of it; I feel the same way about the different forms of pop culture media we consume throughout the year. If something I see or hear doesn't strike a chord with me right out of the gate in a blatantly positive or negative way, I end up forgetting almost everything about it. It's like my memory is a sponge and by the end of the year, it gets squeezed and all that's left in the sponge is all that was worth remembering.

Specifically, I can't remember a year where I was more disappointed in cinema than 2013. I'm sure Rotten Tomatoes and scores from other review sites that I frequent build up a movie into something way more than it actually ends up being. People sure know how to make a damn good trailer these days. Yet, somehow, there are more movies on this year's list since I started this three years ago.

Anyway, the following pop culture entities burrowed their way into my brain where they have taken up permanent residence, and they are my favorites of 2013. So, what say we get started with some ass?

The Pretty Damn Goods of 2013

"Do What U Want" by Lady Gaga (feat. R. Kelly)

This song is just like that triumphant trunk above: indisputable greatness. Lady Gaga's on some serious Tina Turner-type soul business in this one. And R. Kelly's verse? Come on. What a jam.

The very end of Captain Phillips

(It's a much-publicized true story, but SPOILERS lie ahead.)

As much as I love Tom Hanks, "Captain Phillips" didn’t do it for me. The movie does a great job of building tension and depicting the type of environment in which the pirates dwell, but it tarried much longer than it should have. That ending, though... Captain Phillips, covered in pirate blood, is being examined by a Navy medic, and he is a stuttering, sobbing mess. He's overcome with shock, grief and relief, and he lets it all out. The movie didn’t quite live up to my expectation, but this moment is Tom Hanks at his most moving and intense since since he spoke to Jenny under the tree at the end of "Forrest Gump." He's still the best, and the ending proves something we already know: when Tom Hanks cries, the world cries with him.

Vampire Weekend - Modern Vampires of the City

Vampire Weekend has always been, for the most part, a group that makes lighthearted music. This album is and feels like something much deeper. Much of the instrumentation in the songs is abrasive, like the entirety of "Diane Young," yet many others, like "Hannah Hunt" and "Hudson," could go unnoticed if the volume isn't up loud enough. "Everlasting Arms," "Finger Back," "Worship You" and "Ya Hey" are probably the best latter chunk of any album in recent years. There's more sonic variety on this album than on the previous two VW albums. Modern Vampires of the City, as silly a title as it may be, is the sound of my favorite band at the summit of sincerity.

The barrel escape scene in 

The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug

Moments like this are why I keep going to movies. It's clearly absurd, but there's no room for plausibility in Middle Earth. Very seldom in my "adult" life have I been hypnotized into a state of childlike wonder, and I was in awe of this entire sequence. The 360 degree POV from the middle of the river, Legolas skipping over the tops of the dwarves heads, Bomber turning into a rolling barrel of slicing death... This scene is nothing short of magic.

Michael Fassbender in 12 Years A Slave

Fuck Freddy Kreuger, Edwin Epps is without a doubt the most terrifying embodiment of pure evil I have ever seen on a screen. "12 Years A Slave" was an absolutely miserable sit, but it's because of Michael Fassbender's fearless commitment to being such a malevolent prick that I was so enamored with his performance. At a pivotal point in the movie, Edwin Epps whips a female slave with such power and relentless viciousness that it becomes almost impossible to keep your eyes on it. The whip lays into her back like a knife through warm butter, and he just keeps piling it on with such ferociousness that he's gasping for breath by the time he's finished beating this poor woman. The fact that any human being can play such an evil person and is able to snap out of it to be a functioning person again is why I have such admiration for Michael Fassbender and the commitment he brings to his body of work. This is one fearless dude.

Favorites of 2013

10. Matthew McConaughey

I liked Matthew McConaughey. If you're an enormous fan of the movie "Dazed and Confused" like I am, it's pretty difficult to dislike him. In all honesty, though, that's all I ever thought McConaughey would be remembered as: Wooderson, the creepy stoner who hung around the Emporium and gave the "just keep livin'" monologue on the fifty yard line.

"Excuse me, sir, would you like a side of crow to accompany your humble pie?"

Matthew McConaughey had a trio of performances in 2013 that cannot be ignored. Southern cinematic mastermind Jeff Nichols' "Mud" was a wonderful adventure, and McConaughey's grungy, eerily sympathetic performance is the key to its brilliance.

His movie-stealing cameo in "The Wolf of Wall Street" will no doubt become the most memorable part of that movie. When he bumps his chest with such goofy confidence in that lunch scene with Leonardo DiCaprio, he cemented his place in American pop culture for all eternity. I can't tell you how many other people I've been around since that movie came out who will, out of nowhere, start bumping their chest and hum a random tune like he does in that scene. It makes no sense, but it catches on like a virus and really does get you pumped up.

His shocking transformation in "Dallas Buyers Club" is one of the ballsiest performances in the history of cinema. He dropped over forty pounds to play Ron Woodroof, a homophobic electrician/bull rider who unknowingly acquires the HIV virus in 1985, a time when the vast majority of Americans were uneducated about the disease and only associated it with homosexuals. Woodroof is a thoroughly despicable character, but, by the end of the movie, you want to give him a big ole hug. His performance solidifies his presence as one of the world's best and most committed dramatic actors. It'll enthrall everyone who watches it.

In 2013, we saw a rebirth of this man, a renaissance, a "McConaissance," if you will. And now I can say with utmost confidence and sincerity, I fucking love Matthew McConaughey.

 9. "Play by Play" by Autre Ne Veut

"Play By Play" might be the most confounding song I've ever heard. It exists on a plane apart from everything else in music today. It defies description and genre placement. Longing, loneliness and torment are the only discernible emotions I can pinpoint. I couldn't even begin to tell you a single instrument that's in the song, other than a drum beat, maybe? Hell, there may not even have been a single instrument recorded for this song, it might just be loops of already existing sounds. I DON'T KNOW. But one thing is damn sure real: Autre Ne Veut's voice. The lyrics make almost no sense on paper, but it doesn't matter. When this man puts every bit of his power, might and soul into singing, it makes the almost stream-of-consciousness lyricism even more powerful. It's primal. The music is put together in a seemingly methodical way, but the lyrics feel like they were freestyle stream-of-consicousness. Whatever the motivation and composition, "Play by Play" makes you feel it all.

8. The Lemmons scene in  

The Wolf of Wall Street

Everyone who went with me to see "The Wolf of Wall Street" loved it. Everyone I've subsequently discussed it with loved it. It seems like everyone loved it; I didn't. I don't deny that the movie's entertaining, because it absolutely is. It's shocking, extravagant, hilarious, profane beyond words and masterfully made. I just had a hard time wrapping my mind around why so many awesome people in the film business would funnel all their efforts and devotion, not to mention over a hundred million dollars, into telling the story of a man who scammed thousands of people's livelihoods to squander it by getting as fucked-up as he possibly could. Why do all these want to do this project? Why did they want to tell this story? Why did they want to make a movie that puts such a humorous spin on despicable people and make it THREE HOURS LONG? I don't get it, but while I was watching "The Wolf of Wall Street" and was on the precipice of completely losing interest, something amazing happened: the Lemmons kicked in.

At a point in the movie, Jonah Hill's character Donnie finds an out-of-date bottle of super intense Quaaludes called Lemmons. Leo's character Jordan Belfort had previously narrates that these pills are no longer made and how unlucky we the viewers are that we'll never know what they were like and blah blah downers are cool yadda yadda yadda. (Sorry, I got carried away.) Anyway, one night both characters end up taking the entire bottle in one sitting because they think the pills have lost effect by being outdated. Jordan goes to his country club to make a phone call on a line that won't be tapped and, in the middle of the conversation, he becomes a spitting, slobbering zombie. He falls flat on his back and spends the better part of five on-screen minutes trying to crawl to his car. By the time he gets to the door, you realize, "Oh shit, this is a Ferrari. The door opens upward! How's he gonna get in this damn thing!" Jordan's grunts, flails and tries his damnedest to get in his car and, when he finally arrives back home, madcap madness ensues. It's brilliant acting on Leo's part, masterful direction by Martin Scorsese and the most memorable scene of any movie in 2013.

 

7. American Hustle

Shortly before I saw "American Hustle" for a second time, I learned something very strange. There is, apparently, a large chunk of people who didn't like the movie at all. I was dumbfounded. How could a movie that I was so captivated by and locked into for its entirety possibly illicit a negative response? How could this feast of incredible acting and hilarious improvisation, this homage to a golden era of enormous lapels, ascots, bad hairdos and great cleavage (both male and female) possibly be considered "bad" by anyone?

When I watched it a second time, I understood. It didn't diminish my experience or my admiration for the movie, but I understood. The movie does kind of take a while to get going, and there isn't really anyone that you particularly root for. I, however, am a sucker for people who bring nothing but their best, and that is what this movie is full of: artists bringing it all.

Christian Bale has a very well-documented obsessive commitment that he brings to bring his characters, and the character of Irving Rosenfeld is a triumph. He's a sleazy con man, but a mostly likeable one. Amy Adams pulls off with sexy perfection the character of Sydney Prosser. You never know what she's really up to or who she's really playing, and it's a wonderfully mysterious performance. Jennifer Lawrence is incredible, but at this point that's the most generic declarative statement you can say; grass is green, the sky is blue and Jennifer Lawrence is good at acting. It's Bradley Cooper, though, that steals "American Hustle." The scene in the interrogation room, the scene in the strobe-lighted club, the scene in the bathroom stall, the scene where he whines and finally screams because Amy Adams' character won't have sex with him... There are too many fantastic B-Coop scenes to recount, but nothing made me laugh harder this year than when he taunts and does an improvised impression of Louis C.K. It had the theater genuinely roaring and it's something I'll never forget.

"American Hustle" isn't without its flaws, but it is one hell of an enjoyable sit.

 

6. Prisoners

Unlike "American Hustle," "Prisoners" has to be one of the bleakest films in existence; it's filled top-to-bottom with dreariness and dread. There isn't a single scene in this two-and-a-half hour where the landscape isn't soaking wet. It brims with emotional and brutally graphic physical torture. It's disturbing, ominous, haunting and can be quite difficult to watch. It's also one of the most beautifully photographed and deliciously mysterious films of the year, starring two of the world's best leading men.

Hugh Jackman is an acting god. He has been sent to Earth from some interstellar place to serve as one of the best entertainers to ever draw a breath on it, all for our enjoyment. His character, Keller Dover, is an abysmally unstable man. He's a blue-collar construction worker who is also a hardcore survivalist. When his daughter, as well as neighbors' daughter, disappear on a rainy Thanksgiving afternoon, he's overcome with grief and panic when he learns that they had been playing near a suspicious RV earlier in the day. The suspect is caught shortly thereafter in the same RV, but without the children. Dover becomes obsessed with the suspect when he is freed due to lack of evidence, and takes matters into his own hands.

Assigned to the case is Detective Loki, played expertly by the peerless Jake Gyllenhaal. He is a quirky, seemingly troubled police detective who is covered in tattoos. Behavior-wise, he is the yin to Keller Dover's yang. Dover is full of rage and lets it out at will, while Loki, who may also be full of his own rage, is meticulous and calm. The way the characters operate and investigate is fascinating. As the movie progresses, Dover stays panicked and frantic, accusing Loki of blowing the investigation by following leads on which Dover believes he's wasting his time. Meanwhile, Loki is busting his ass and tormenting himself trying to sift through so many different clues that seemingly have nothing to do with each other. Neither man has any idea how committed the other is to finding the girls, nor to what lengths they will go to find the truth.

It's a fascinating and thoroughly gripping psychological study of how desperate people behave, and an expertly constructed masterpiece that delivers a fully satisfying cinematic experience all the way through the final act. That's a damn rare thing these days.

5. "Latch" by Disclosure (feat. Sam Smith)

Generally speaking, I like to think I have pretty good self-control, but, no matter where I am, something happens to me when "Latch" comes on. Rather, everything happens to me when "Latch" comes on.

From the moment that ethereal female voice says "never" in the beginning, it's over; I lose all control. I have to move. I have to gyrate. People in close proximity to me are not safe. It's almost as if I'm being possessed by some force that enters my body through my ears and takes me over entirely. I feel sexy, and I want to do exactly what Sam Smith is singing about: "latch onto you." It's the sexiest song out there this side of Prince. There are magic wizard powers in this song; it's not of this world.

Other than the fact that they are brothers, I barely know anything about Disclosure. But I've listen to "Latch" almost every day since I bought the album. It has yet to wear thin, and I doubt it ever will.

4. Bo Burnham - what.

There is no stand-up special like this. It's probably the bravest comedy special I've ever seen. It's not even thoroughly funny. There are laughs to be had, for sure, and there are plenty of the usual piano songs that Bo's fans are accustomed to, but what is most surprising about "what." is that, for one hour, this 22-year-old guy lays his soul bare to the world. He relentlessly mixes one-liner jokes, songs, dance and poetry that will have you guffawing one minute and slack-jawed with shock the next. He inserts a proverbial chest-spreader into his own body and essentially says, "Here are the depths of me, and I'm here to share them with you. I hope you enjoy the show." His words are hilarious, shocking, profane, heartbreaking, inspiring and endearing.

what. is selfishly gratifying on a personal level, as is the case with other Bo fans out there, I'm sure. I'll never forget seven years ago when a friend of mine told me I had to "check out this kid on Break.com." We sat on a couch and watched this hilarious 16-year-old kid sing songs about Ku Klux Klan cookouts, how his whole family thinks he's gay and that Helen Keller is the perfect woman for him. But what., is next-level comedy. It's all over the place. It's simultaneously juvenile and mature. No one is doing comedy like this. It's the most creative hour to come along in years. Bo Burnham is a creative force to be reckoned with, and I'm confident he'll be entertaining us in many forms for many years to come.

You can watch the entire hour right here via his YouTube channel:

 

3. Kanye West - Yeezus

I stopped trying to understand Kanye West a long time ago. Nothing about him or what he does makes any sense. When I saw his performance of "Black Skinhead" on SNL, I immediately thought it was the best set I'd ever seen on the variety show. It was a loud, angry, dark, abrasive, industrial, unintelligible, dick-swinging, contradicting performance with a strobe-light-esque slideshow on a screen behind him that showcased the world how he's "not for sale." How exactly do you make your living, Kanye, other than making content that people pay you for? I don't get it and, like I said, I don't care to get it; all that matters to me when it comes to the subject of Kanye West is the music.

Yeezus starts out with the most abrasive opening maybe ever in "On Sight," and establishes the mood quite appropriately. It's initially unappealing and quite unpleasant, but as you sonically sift through all the scratchy bleep-blorps and laser noises, you find the beat. That's the case throughout the rest of the album. He makes beats out of noises that one would seemingly never think to use, and they work every single time. 

"I Am a God," the third track and my personal favorite on the album, starts out like Nine Inch Nails but with a reggae singer, and then it moves into the meat of Kanye's narcissistic verse with an incessant bass thump. The effect of the song on the listener is a testament to the power of the song; he's rapping about how invincible he is and being the best, yet it empowers you. "I'm In It," easily the raunchiest song of his career, is another example of his baffling brilliance. He raps about all the nasty shit he's gonna do to this chick, yet the chorus of the song is sung by the ethereal voice of Bon Iver's Justin Vernon. Who ever would have thought that the dude who sang "Skinny Love" would be a good fit on a rap song until Kanye West? I doubt anyone. 

However, Yeezus does contain the most blatant lyrical error I think I've ever heard: "I keep it 300, like the Romans." If you haven't heard "Black Skinhead" or don't get the reference, that line refers to the graphic novel and/or movie "300" about Leonidas and the brave 300, who were SPARTANS. How did this song get through without anyone correcting that? Despite that, the rest of the album more than makes up for the carelessness of that mistake.

Yeezus's power and influence reminds me of a scene a toward the end of a movie called "SLC Punk." It's a flashback scene that shows a pivotal moment in the early teenage lives of the main characters, Stevo and Bob, who grow up to be Salt Lake anarchists. Bob comes back to Stevo's basement where they'd been playing Dungeons & Dragons and talks about how they need to be doing more with their mundane lives. Bob comments that Rush, which is what's always been playing through the basement stereo, is good but that "it's not the only music out there, you know?" Against Stevo's wishes, Bob insists that he put a cassette into the stereo. The music begins and Stevo asks what it is. After a dramatic camera zoom into Bob's face as he turns back from the stereo with a smile on his face and confidently responds. "It's new."

2. Nebraska

An elderly man trudges down down the median of a snowy interstate. A policeman pulls over and is politely concerned. He approaches the elderly man.

“Hey, how ya doin’ there? Where ya headed?”

The old man grunts, points ahead and continues trudging.

“Where ya comin’ from?"

The old man grunts, points behind him and continues trudging.

So begins our glimpse into the odyssey of Woody Grant.

Woody (Bruce Dern) is a brooding, hard-headed, quiet and likely senile elderly man living in Billings, Montana. He is convinced that a generic sweepstakes letter he received is a notification that he has won a million dollars. He must go to Lincoln, Nebraska in order to collect his “winnings.” The only problem is that. Woody has no vehicle and no license. His immediate family, which are his wife and two grown sons, all see right through the scam. Woody’s wife Kate (June Squibb) incessantly and bluntly berates him for being a fool. His eldest son, bitter local news anchor Ross (Bob Odenkirk) snarkily tells him it’s a ploy, and his good-hearted son David (Will Forte) tries his hardest to convince his dad that it’s a trick, but Woody won’t hear it. Woody is dead-set on getting to Nebraska if it’s the last thing he does. Finally, David relents and decides to drive him to Nebraska himself.

On the way, Woody is sidelined by a drunken head injury. Against David's initial hopes of going back home, David relents to Woody's insistence and informs him that Woody's relatives in his small hometown of Hawthorne, Nebraska have agreed to put them up for a few days. Neither of them have seen that side of the family in thirty years. Naturally, within the first day of being in Hawthorne, Woody lets it slip at one of the local taverns that he has won a million dollars. Word spreads overnight, and the vultures come out. From there, “Nebraska” turns into a showcase of human behavior that is so chillingly accurate and chest-clutchingly hilarious that it must surely somehow resonate with every viewer.

Watching David watch his father walk among the people and places where he grew up is a profound cinematic experience. He spends the entire movie learning more about his father than he ever knew all while trying to understand everything that he doesn't. The performances are flawless across the board. June Squibb turns some of the meanest dialogue I’ve ever heard in American cinema into the funniest performance of the year. Bob Nelson's screenplay, his first, is unequaled in all of movies. Alexander Payne and Phedon Papamichael make for the best director/cinematographer combo of 2013. The music is stirring and fits the locations perfectly. All of this plays out in glorious black and white.

Never in my life have I been so moved by a film as I was by "Nebraska." I cannot emphasize that enough. I want everyone in the world to watch this movie. It takes some serious cojones to film a studio movie in black and white in 2013, let alone begin it with the over-60-year-old Paramount logo. It's a brazen move, but profoundly appropriate. There is no discernible time period in the movie, because "Nebraska" is, and will forever remain, timeless.

1. "Ozymandias" - Episode Six of the Final Season of Breaking Bad

(SPOILERS)

If you know me at all, you saw this coming. 

Really though, what more can be said about the homestretch of "Breaking Bad" that hasn't already been said? Well, it gives me a final opportunity to harp about the end of my favorite show, and I am happy to perpetuate the cycle.

The year that followed the finale of season five had us all wondering one thing: what is Hank going to do when he gets up from the shitter? What will Hank do now that he knows that Heisenberg, the sole figure that created all of Hank's obsessive misery, was under his nose the whole time? That question disappears the moment Walter pulls Hank's Gus Fring-style tracking device from his pocket and puts it in Hank's face at the end of "Blood Money," daring Hank to catch him.

After that, the Final Season of "Breaking Bad" goes in directions that no one could have anticipated. Every episode picks up immediately after the ending of the previous one. We knew Walt would end up hiding out in New Hampshire, but we didn't know how long it would take or under what circumstances it would be that he was finally outsmarted and forced to flee ABQ. All of what Walt put into motion to cover his tracks, the buried barrels, prison hits and confession tapes, was undone by a lucky cigarette and the memory of a lie.

Jesse. Poor, poor Jesse Pinkman. When he finally puts it all together in that moment toward the end of "Confessions," finally realizing that Walt actually poisoned Brock, we see Jesse do something that we'd never seen; he let the rage take over. One could argue that his fateful decision to not hop in the Disappearer's van is the moment where everything in ABQ begins rapidly descending into horror. The journey of Jesse Pinkman over the course of the series was a difficult thing to endure. While we watched the protagonist become something he wasn't, an ordinary man gradually and willingly becoming evil, Jesse struggled throughout the show to try and exist in a business that he was never cut out for in the first place. He talked a big game because the business called for it. He was a showboating moron who became the only sense of moral ground in the show. We know he's a good person, and when he does bad things, it hurts him. When bad things happen to him, it hurts us, too. Alas, even though he struggles with it, he does continue to willingly aid in bad things. And more than anything else, "Breaking Bad" has always been about one thing: consequences.

Everything that we've seen on "Breaking Bad," all the deceit, murder, havoc and heartbreak that Walter White has wreaked on the vastness of the great American Southwest culminates at "Ozymandias." (What better way to begin the most devastating episode in the history of television than with a flashback to the good ole days? It's a nice taste of what used to be, and it happens right before the show's creators rip your still-beating heart from your chest and wave it in front of you.)

Anyone can claim that any of the dozens of shocking moments in "Breaking Bad" are its darkest, because there are a whole hell of a lot to choose from. There are no less than six to choose from in "Ozymandias" alone, but what ensues when Skylar and Walter Jr. arrive back home to find Walt frantically beseeching them to pack their things and blindly come with him, to trust him, comes pretty damn close. (The darkest moment in the whole show, though, is, without hesitation, what Jesse has to watch in the latter half of "Granite State.") Walt bewilderingly staring at his wife, who is being shielded by his first-born child, is the starkest image of the entire series. The only reason he claimed he got into the business, his "family," now hates him and is terrified of him. He has been turned against and defeated. In a last-ditch effort to hold onto any shred of "family" he might have left, he grabs his infant daughter and heads out the door. The moment when Walt barrels (no pun intended) out of the driveway of 308 Negra Arroyo Lane holding his blood-covered crying daughter while his wife chases after him down the street will forever haunt my mind.

And that phone call... Bryan Cranston's performance as Walter White will always be remembered as one of the best, if not the best dramatic performance in all of television. When Walt makes the phone call to Skylar, fully knowing the the cops are listening in, he pours his heart and soul into sounding like a crazed madman in order to distance his wife from his criminal activity while he attempts to silently stifle abysmal sadness on the other end of the line. It is, in my opinion the apex of Bryan Cranston's acting career and the pinnacle of all dramatic acting.

Now, I have to get something off my chest. I cannot talk about the brilliance of this episode and the series altogether without mentioning one thing that bothered me quite a bit: a continuity error.

At the end of the preceding episode "To'hajiilee," Walter has been arrested by Hank, handcuffed and placed in the backseat of an SUV. Uncle Jack and the Nazis show up and an insane shootout ensues. The very last frame of the episode is this:

Walt, trying to escape the hail of gunfire, digs himself as deep into the floor of the backseat as he can and knocks his glasses off his face. It's an indescribably intense ending that left me theorizing a super specific possibility. "Ok, we know Walt gets out of this somehow, and that he's agreed to do one last cook for Uncle Ja— WAIT! He lost his glasses! Walter White's most iconic accessory! It's the one thing we've never considered being a hindrance to Walt's endeavor. And we know Jesse's hiding around somew— THAT'S IT! Jesse's meth is "just as good" as Walt's, so they're gonna take Jesse instead, force him to make the blue and somehow Walt's gonna get away and end up coming back to Albuquerque to save Jesse! This is brilliant!"

In "Ozymandias," this is the first frame of Walt, still handcuffed in the backseat:

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

How do you miss that? In a show that has been lauded as the most brilliant drama of the century, how do you miss something that glaring? However, it is a testament to said brilliance that, despite what I think is the most egregious continuity error in the history of the medium, it doesn't take away from the episode at all. I immediately forgot about it as soon as they drag him out the vehicle, because what follows is nothing short of the most unforgettable modern horror I've ever seen on television. Nothing else in the world other than "Breaking Bad" could do that. That's the kind of power it held over those of us who went along for the ride, and that's why this show will be lauded, loved and remembered forever.