Classifieds
Call: #734-418-4115
Email: dailydisplay@gmail.com
ACROSS
1 Better protected
6 “Poppycock!”
10 Badlands Natl.
Park site
14 Coarse
15 Suspicious of
16 Pup follower?
17 Up for grabs, in a
way
18 Lit. intro
19 “Willard”
antagonists
20 The joke at the
audiologists’
convention __
23 Solo, say
24 Indian author
Santha Rama __
25 Century-starting
year
26 The joke at the
chemists’
convention __
32 Not treat lightly
34 Normandy river
35 “Defending Our
Nation. Securing
The Future” org.
36 __ swings
37 “POV” airer
38 Extreme degrees
39 “The Trumpet of
the Swan”
monogram
40 Boxed dozen
42 Vail topper
44 The joke at the
firefighters’
convention __
47 Part of a
friskiness
metaphor
48 Jersey’s chew
49 “The Simpsons”
leisure suit
wearer
52 The joke at the
cashiers’
convention __
56 Not even close
57 Lightest meson
58 Ex-TV host
Stewart
59 Kick back
60 Required bet
61 “R.U.R.” writer
Capek
62 Language that
gave us “bard”
63 Old Royale 8’s
64 Gambling aids:
Abbr.
DOWN
1 Shining target
2 Journey frontman
Pineda
3 Mature
4 Henry James
biographer
5 Backtalk
6 The Carpenters,
e.g.
7 Regarding
8 Mississippi
travelers
9 “Meet the
Fockers” co-star
10 Channel relative
11 Word John
doesn’t want to
see?
12 They’re seen in
columns
13 Lapidary’s meas.
21 Some flatbreads
22 Nero’s “Behold!”
27 Ref. shelf filler
28 Singer Rihanna’s
first name
29 Where a love
story may be
written
30 Workers’ rights
org.
31 Tweed
lampooner
32 Drake, maybe
33 Start of a
dramatic
question
37 Like new snow
38 End to peace?
40 Evita’s man
41 As expected
42 Complacent
43 Grizzly
Alaskans?
45 Walk wearing
Luvs
46 Dramatic units
50 Principle
51 Dividing range
52 When one __
closes ...
53 Hardly blessed
events
54 Till opener
55 Crack up
56 NFL team with a
home field
bleachers section
called the Dawg
Pound
By Amy Johnson
©2015 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
09/25/15
09/25/15
ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:
RELEASE DATE– Friday, September 25, 2015
Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle
Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis
xwordeditor@aol.com
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6A — Friday, September 25, 2015
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Ryan Adams covers
Taylor Swift’s ‘1989’
PAX AM
Does my hair look like Taylor Swift?
By CHLOE GILKE
Managing Arts Editor
Ryan Adams really takes Taylor
Swift seriously.
Swift’s
infectious,
critically
beloved 1989 is
a pop triumph,
so
Adams’s
choice to cover
the album in its
entirety seems
a little baffling
at first. But then
again,
this
is
Ryan
Adams.
He has recorded
15 albums in as many years, not
including many unreleased ones
(a track-by-track cover of The
Strokes’s Is This It among them).
This is Ryan Adams, recently
divorced and newly heartbroken,
who wants to shed some teardrops
on his guitar and reach out to Tay-
lor Swift for inspiration as so many
of us do.
1989, then, is a logical choice for
Adams’s cathartic breakup album.
It’s Swift’s most cheerful album by
a long shot, but even in her “Shake
It Off” bubblegum, Swift shows
echoes of the heartache and regret
that led her to the dancefloor in the
first place. In retreading her emo-
tional steps and appropriating her
words to fit his own voice, Adams
is recording the ultimate love let-
ter to Swift and the power of her
lyricism.
If only Adams had done more
with the material. I’m not sure
anyone would point to the lyrics on
1989 as a pillar of Great American
Songwriting (“His hands are in my
hair / His clothes are in my room”),
but Swift covers a great deal of
emotional bases with a diverse col-
lection of retro-inspired pop beats.
Adams keeps his covers simple,
often using only acoustic guitars
to accompany his driving voice.
Sometimes, as in the standout
“Out of the Woods,” the plainness
of his arrangements scrubs the
music of any pretense and allows
the listener to bathe in his begging,
crying timbre. Much of the time,
though, Adams drowns in his
own sadness and self-pity, losing
sight of the emotion that makes his
other tracks so strong. “This Love”
is a drag of a song, lasting nearly
five minutes with nothing to offer
except a few repeating piano notes
and vocals that sound like Adams
is doing his best impression of a
sleepy Bono. The bad and boring
far outweigh the album’s innova-
tive material, which is a shame,
because Adams attempts some
radical style on this record.
While 1989’s simplicity is its
downfall, the more experimen-
tal tracks are where Adams truly
shines. “Style” is a messy cluster-
fuck of a song, but upon a second
listen, his sonic influences become
more clear. The jabbing energy
of the guitars is reminiscent of
’80s-era Sonic Youth (Adams
also makes a lyrical shout-out to
that “Daydream Nation look in
your eye”). Before he released the
album, Adams noted that he was
attempting to cover 1989 in the
style of Bruce Springsteen and The
Smiths. When he really leans into
his inspiration, as on the album’s
opener, “Welcome to New York,”
Adams’s experimentation pays off
with some interesting sounds he
hasn’t utilized in his discography
to date.
Despite the tributes galore,
Adams imbues most every song
with his signature alt-country
sensibility. Even the sparse and
depressive “Blank Space” is imme-
diately recognizable as a Ryan
Adams song; I wouldn’t be sur-
prised if, at this very moment, one
of Adams’s many cool-dad fans is
queuing up this album for a drive
upstate, and doesn’t realize until
“Bad Blood” that the lyrics are
actually Taylor Swift. Adams puts
a lot of faith in those lyrics he’s
borrowing from Swift — the cover
album operates on the meaning
and merit of those words on their
own, the fact that he can change
the arrangement and strip down
the beats to a few guitars and the
essential Taylor Swift feelings will
still be there to drive the album to
its hopeful close.
Adams’s faith in the timeless-
ness of these songs is sometimes
bizarre. He attempts to pass
“Shake It Off” as an ode to late-
night desperation and white boy
sadness, which is absolutely ridic-
ulous considering that the lyrics
are all about dancing and having
fun. But some of these songs legiti-
mately work in a weird, raw and
compelling way. He’s serious, com-
pletely committing to feeling the
way he does, accepting the imper-
fections of how it all turns out on
playback. Through its highs and
lows, 1989 sifts through Adams’s
broken-up psyche, one acoustic
guitar and Taylor lyric at a time.
B
1989 PAX
AM
Ryan Adams
PAX AM
TV REVIEW
‘Rosewood’ brings
standard cop tropes
By SOPHIA KAUFMAN
Daily Arts Writer
Fox’s new “Rosewood” feels
like a compilation of plot devices
and characters and dialogue from
every other cop
or crime show
on
television
right now (or,
really,
ever)
and leaves you
unsure
even
after forty min-
utes
whether
they’re
going
for light com-
edy or drama
with some depth. It’s not even
a combination of the two — it’s
just ambiguous. And though the
show is funny at times, overall it
doesn’t really work.
Dr. Rosewood ( Morris Chest-
nut, “Nurse Jackie”) is confident
to the point of being cocky, but
he hasearned the right, as the
best pathologist in Miami. The
pilot begins with him running
— literally — into what looks
like a grisly murder case. Very
“CSI Miami,” except Rosewood
cracks the case within two min-
utes instead of 45, irritating the
guy who is supposed to be solving
the crime. We then learn he runs
his own pathology lab with his
sister and his sister’s fiance, and
they do private consultations on
cases. The plot begins to pick up
when his mother (Lorraine Tous-
saint (“Orange is the New Black”)
comes to ask him for a personal
favor in the form of a second
opinion on the case of her former
student. It had been deemed as an
accidental death, but she feels it
was something more sinister.
Unfortunately, the writers buy
into the idea that we wouldn’t
possibly keep watching their
show unless there’s a possibil-
ity of a sex scene sometime in
the not so distant future. Rose-
wood checks into it, discover-
ing that the case is in fact more
than it looked at first glance, and
learning that the new homicide
detective from New York, Annal-
ise Villa (Jaina Lee Ortiz, “The
After”) isn’t as impressed by
him as he is. In order to solve the
case — and obviously, catch the
bad guy — the two have to work
together, which is more than fine
by Rosewood. It doesn’t take too
long for Villa to warm up to him
enough to keep him clued in, but
he still irritates her the majority
of their time together. “It’s unde-
niable — we make a great team,”
he smirks, after setting some
guy’s nose that Villa just broke.
The sexual tension between
Rosewood and Villa is stale. It’s
too obvious and overdone.
“Rosewood” brings the same
kind of humor to a mystery crime
that USA’s “Psych” did, which
makes sense as it is the brain-
child of Todd Harthan, who also
worked on “Psych.” But Rose-
wood goes a little deeper than
“Pysch” ever did. It feels like the
writers are trying to show more
respect for dead people than
the usual procedurals that use
glimpses of mangled bodies in
the first or last five minutes of a
show as a plot driver — especially
with a couple almost teary lines
delivered seriously by Toussaint,
who doesn’t get as much screen-
time as she should. This may also
be because both Rosewood and
Villa have complicated relation-
ships with the concept and con-
sequences of death — especially
the kind that you can’t see com-
ing, and can’t solve.
For a show that’s supposed
to feel like easy viewing, this
dichotomy between trying to be
thoughtful about life and hav-
ing every other line be a cute
little quip doesn’t work. It makes
you laugh, but only because the
humor in it is so familiar.
Like
“Minority
Report,”
another new show on Fox,
“Rosewood”’s main characters
are people of color, and one
of them has a lesbian fiance
(which is worth pointing out
as there is still a lack of shows
featuring main characters who
are anything other than het-
erosexual). So at least there,
Fox is making some great deci-
sions. Though I do wish these
shows would stop having even
their women characters insult
male criminals by calling them
“scared little bitches” — but I
guess Fox thinks we really can’t
have it all.
B
Rosewood
Series Pilot
Wednesdays
at 8 p.m.
FOX
ALBUM REVIEW
T
hey say you’re likely to
meet “the one” in col-
lege. And by “they” I
mean my overzealous relatives,
the ones who spew not-so-sage
advice at fam-
ily gatherings
after throwing
back one-too-
many glasses
of wine. How-
ever, in my
case, they were
absolutely cor-
rect. Though
I’m confident
my kin’s defi-
nitions of “the
one” differs from the clothing
companion I’ve grown to adore,
I’m happy and in love.
In short, the undergraduate
college experience is a wondrous
four-year experiment. You’re
able to truly test your limits, push
some boundaries and, above all,
step outside of your sartorial
comfort zone. For me, a distant
dream once reserved to the truest
of trendsetters became a reality
and a staple of my wardrobe.
The year was 2014, and the
romper and I endured an extraor-
dinary love affair and never
looked back.
What truly captured my heart
about the romper was its ease;
similarly to the powerful effects
of a good coat, I could instantly
transform from a rundown, slop-
pily dressed college student into a
somewhat-polished pseudo-adult.
Though the romper is subject
to endlessly endearing qualities,
what truly stole my heart was the
uncanny semblance it bears to my
pajamas of choice, the infant sta-
ple, the one-piece-wonder that is
the onesie. Rompers changed the
game by being a sort of socially
acceptable pajama-esque garment
for all occasions other than sleep.
It was genius. It was everything I
didn’t know I needed. The hybrid
of a top and cropped trouser had
a seductive simplicity. You lit-
erally just slide it on and you’re
dressed in a full ensemble. That
right there easily saves you seven
minutes of dreaded morning out-
fit indecisiveness.
While I’m aware the romper
reemerged around spring 2011
after its metallic triteness and
extended legs of the ’70s, along
with countless identity crises (i.e.
often resurfacing during festival
season as its somewhat washed
up cousin, overalls), I was ini-
tially a skeptic. As with most
bourgeoning trends, I assumed it
would eventually fizzle out, and
my inherent aversion drew me to
avoidance. I was naïve, uneasy
with the concept of abandon-
ing my beloved closet of endless
separates that structured suffi-
cient portmanteaus. As bloggers
and trend-forecasters badgered
us hopeless wannabe style-icon/
internet-trolls with the news, I
resisted. In my defense, I was a
long, lanky, clueless high-school
freshman
when
the
romper
reemerged — too under-confident
to rock anything other than my
trusty, extra-long (thanks be to
Lulu’s special order) yoga pants.
Yet,
the
romper
persisted
with a strong social media pres-
ence, immaculate appearances
on the runway and rave reviews
of esteemed fashion critics; but I
regrettably fell victim to the spell
only as of late. Forgive me, romper,
for not realizing your true poten-
tial until I fully trusted you. But
now, here we are, two kindred
spirits who just needed to mature
apart before we could grow
together.
As with any great love, the
search wasn’t easy. It was a pains-
taking pursuit.
For starters, rompers are sized
stranger than any garment I have
ever come across. You’d think
they’d be cut similar to the stan-
dard dress size — bust, hips, waist,
boom — the whole awful, humiliat-
ing, as-if-I-needed-to-be-reduced-
to-yet-another-number shebang.
But no, it’s absolutely nonsensical
and against all cloth-cutting logic.
Yet, these offsetting qualities
seemed a necessary roadblock in
the attainment of a quasi-nirvana
level of satisfaction. I knew “the
one” would never be wholly, one-
hundred-percent perfect. I had
to assess my options, not merely
settle for what was there. I knew
true love was all about the chase
and the challenge.
My first rendezvous with the
romper was flawed, awkward
and uncomfortable. Essential-
ly, it didn’t fit. It didn’t com-
pliment my body, it didn’t play
off my prominent features and
again, it was a downright bore.
Like a tragically awful first
date, it was all wrong. What’s
worse was that I tried to like
it. I searched endlessly for its
redeeming qualities, and by
the time I counted seven off-
setting attributes, I knew the
end wasn’t near, it was there.
Though I don’t doubt the
first romper prompted me to
test my limits, it was suffocat-
ing in ways I knew would hurt
us in the long term. But even-
tually, one day when the sun
shines overhead, or in my case
the April showers quickly esca-
late into a torrential downpour;
sometimes, when you least
expect it, you’re seeking shel-
ter in a department store. You
glance to your left and there,
on a mannequin, waiting to be
ripped off, is the one.
Filips’s arm is stuck in te neck
hole of her romper. To offer your
assistance, email carofil@umich.edu.
STYLE COLUMN
Ode on an
Undergrad Romper
CAROLINE
FILIPS
The romper and
I endured an
extraordinary
love affair.
Against all cloth-
cutting logic.