By Susan Gelfand
©2019 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
01/16/19

Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle

Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis

01/16/19

ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:

Release Date: Wednesday, January 16, 2019

ACROSS
1 Aesop’s “The __
in the Lion’s Skin”
4 Rips off
8 Batter’s position
14 Phone ringing
onstage, perhaps
15 “Star Wars” critter
16 More homey
17 “Don’t know yet,”
on skeds
18 iPad model
19 Ways to go
20 “The Iceman
Cometh”
playwright
23 Emmy category
24 Fed. accounting
agency
25 Winery vessel
28 Sir Winston
Churchill’s
ancestral home
33 Pulled in different
directions
34 High-end watch
35 Quick punches
39 Victim of Artemis,
in some accounts
42 Cream of the
crop
43 Pungent
45 “NFL on CBS”
sportscaster
Gumbel
47 Cocoa butter
treat
53 Stage
background
54 “__-ching!”
55 Single-handed
57 Passenger
compartments,
and an apt
description of this
puzzle’s circles
61 Italian sub meat
64 Facility
65 Stroller rider
66 Gets dolled up
67 British singer __
Ora
68 “True Detective”
network
69 Certify
70 No longer fizzy
71 “Uh-huh”

DOWN
1 Played the part
2 Commuter’s
destination
3 Action star
Steven
4 Leftover

5 Toddler’s scrape,
to the toddler
6 Irish singer/
philanthropist
7 Onion exterior
8 Act frugally
9 Handy strip of
computer icons
10 Blue, in
Barcelona
11 Insect egg
12 Chute opening?
13 Stumbling
sounds
21 Suffix with morph
22 Around the 30th:
Abbr.
25 Low-lying area
26 Breezes through
27 Written words
29 Follower of boo,
woo or yoo
30 Choose answer
(a) instead of (b),
say
31 “The Princess
Bride”
swordsman __
Montoya
32 Arcing shot
35 Top-grossing film
of 1975
36 Ice pack target
37 Tube rider,
perhaps

38 Grab a chair
40 Tolkien creature
41 “The Matrix”
hero
44 Literally pulls up
stakes
46 Give the evil eye
48 Resurrection
figure
49 Japanese yes
50 “True
Detective” star
Mahershala __
51 Like some grins

52 Dress for the
choir
56 Legally prohibit
57 Got to the
party
58 Lightweight ball
brand
59 Shadow
60 “¿Cómo __
usted?”
61 Massage venue
62 Hotel lobby
display
63 Illuminated

Most of my interactions
with
other
humans
these
days — more often than not
— are centered around “The
Marvelous
Mrs.
Maisel.”
Have I seen it? What do I
think about it? It’s about a
Jewish,
female
comedian,
that’s like all of your defining
attributes! You must love this
show, correction: live this
show. No, I am not an absent
mother in 1950s New York
City working as a stand-up
comedian, but I am writing
this column dressed in a
smart turtleneck tucked into
sophisticated trousers, with
a homemade brisket in one
hand and a slender cigarette
in the other. So no, I am not
Midge, but I am pretty damn
close.
Amy
Sherman-Palladino’s
brilliant series has a very
special place in my heart,
right
between
coffee
and
Nick Kroll. The witty banter,
the expertly crafted stand-
up routines, the smattering
of Yiddishisms — I swear it
feels like Amy is spying on
me. OK, so I’m not buddies
with Lenny Bruce or some
reimaging of him, and you’re
right, I’m not actually from
New York. I’ve only ever lived
in Ohio. And you would be
correct if you reminded me
that I do not in fact measure
myself on a regular basis, but
I can prove I have other body
issues, I promise. No, I have
never made a brisket myself,
but I’ve eaten many cooked by
my mother and grandmother
and I think I could knock out
a pretty good one if given the
right kitchen and the right
circumstances.
No, I’ve never actually tried
my hand at stand-up comedy.
Why,
you
ask?
Is
it
my
crippling anxiety and fear of

failure? Perhaps it’s that I’ve
never had the opportunity
or desire to try it. Maybe
it’s because I am not funny.
Maybe it’s because I am an
alien
disguised
in
human
clothing, tricking everyone
around me into thinking I
am a real person and the
only way to reveal myself as I
truly am is to perform stand-
up comedy. Or maybe I’m
just scared shitless. That is

another column for another
time, dear reader.
Self-pity aside, Mrs. Maisel
and Ms. Sherman-Palladino
have made a beautiful thing
together. The show makes
me feel seen and I’m sure
scores of others feel similarly.
Watching a neurotic Jewish
comedian tell jokes and win
Emmys and Golden Globes
for it makes me kvell like
my
grandmother
during
graduations. But as much as
I love the character of Midge,
I
have
to
remind
myself
that she is not real. Midge is
more like the construction
of
a
Jewish
comedy
Frankenstein, assembled with
the spunk of Joan Rivers,
the rebelliousness of Lenny
Bruce and the bad-assery of
Fanny Brice. She takes men
down with her pinky finger
and irreverent wit, all while

looking like a mannequin at B.
Altman. Midge is what I’d be
if I were a skinnier unfiltered
version of myself. But I guess
that’s why I aspire to be her.
It took me far too long to
reach the conclusion that I
am not Midge Maisel. I think
I became so absorbed in it,
bingeing every episode with
a fistful of macaroons (The
Jewish ones not the French
ones), that it became all too
easy to replace my boring
life with her exciting arcs. At
points I even felt jealous of
her. She is out in the world,
making
her
name
known
while simultaneously banging
a hot doctor she bagged in the
Catskills. What a score!
People laugh at what she has
to say because she makes them
pay attention. She stands in
the spotlight like she was born
there, a sort of comfort I can
only relate to my bed. Midge
is creation of Amy Sherman-
Palladino’s imagination; an
amalgamation
of
borscht
belt heroes with breasts; a
Jewish Lorelai Gilmore with
a microphone.
Coming
to
terms
with
the fiction of Midge is both
liberating and terrifying. On
one hand, it is a reminder
that her authors crafted her
because she is a character
worth writing, seeing and
hearing. She is an imaginary
representation of Jewishness,
femininity
and
humor
reflective of her very real
predecessors. On the other
hand, perhaps Midge only
exists in the realm of fantasy
and I am kidding myself trying
to become some version of
her. But maybe that’s OK. No,
I am not Midge Maisel and I
don’t think I should try to be.
I am Becky Portman, and I am
damn happy with that.

DAILY HUMOR COLUMN

BECKY
PORTMAN

Gillian
Anderson
(“The
X-Files”)
could
read
the
Maricopa County phonebook
for eight hours and it would
probably be the most riveting
television
of
the
year.
Instead,
probably
for
the
better, she has opted to star in
Netflix’s splendid new “Sex
Education,” a British coming-
of-age
dramedy
brimming
with charm and sincerity —
and yes, considerably better
than the phonebook.
Lovely
as
it
is,
“Sex
Education”
isn’t
for
the
puritanical.
If
the
snort-
inducing,
did-they-really-
just-say-that, risqué Anglo
humor
doesn’t
offend
your
delicate
American
sensibilities, its inclination
toward the gross and graphic
— on display from the opening
scene
—
almost
certainly
will. It’s raunchy, explicit
and totally unapologetic. But
more importantly, it’s smart
and
bracingly
thoughtful,
with plenty of heart. And
also, um, some other organs.
Anderson’s Jean Milburn
is a progressive sex and
relationship
therapist
and
doting single mother to Otis
(Asa
Butterfield,
“Hugo”),
a
perpetually
mortified,
neuroses-ridden 16-year-old
so disturbed by his mother’s
line of work that he can
hardly stand to think about
intercourse, let alone do the
deed. A certain Philip Larkin
poem about parents comes to
mind: “They fuck you up, your
mum and dad / They may not
mean to, but they do.” When
school bully Adam (Connor

Swindells, “The Vanishing”)
comes over one day to work on
a class project, Otis whizzes
about the house sweeping for
any lingering phallic statutes
or
framed
Kama
Sutra
illustrations that might give
his mother away.
Alas, to no avail. Adam
stumbles
into
the
wrong
room — Jean’s private office
— and in that horrible teen
movie
way,
Otis’s
secret
quickly becomes the talk of

the hallways. The renegade
Maeve (newcomer and Margot
Robbie dead ringer Emma
Mackey),
entrepreneurial
and
fearsomely
beautiful,
suggests to Otis that he turn
his shame into something
of a hustle, using what he’s
gathered from being raised
by Jean to help his sex-crazed
schoolmates
sort
through
their
own
relationship
problems.
Butterfield’s Otis is the

rare,
refreshing
on-screen
nice guy who isn’t a Nice Guy.
Earnest, sweet and impossible
not to root for, he shares his
mother’s patience and care in
being non-judgmental. And
he’s surrounded by an equally
winsome supporting cast in
Mackey’s Maeve and openly-
gay best friend Eric (Ncuti
Gatwa, “Stonemouth”), both
of whom are given their fair
share of screen time.
“Sex Education” is littered
with
high
school
tropes
—
there
are
swim
team
jocks, catty cliques, lunch
money
robberies
and
so
forth. But the show nicely
subverts those by showcasing
everyone’s
vulnerabilities.
It
will
inevitably
draw
comparisons to other teen
television in Netflix’s arsenal
of originals: the transgressive
drama of “13 Reasons Why,”
the
melancholy-punctuated
breeziness of “On My Block,”
the
referential
satire
of
“American
Vandal.”
Still,
though, “Sex Education” feels
like something we haven’t
seen before. That’s true on
a literal level: It’s shot like a
clever, colorful period piece
— what the romantic comedy
might
look
like
if
John
Hughes swapped Chicagoland
for the expansive English
countryside. But it’s also clear
in a greater, thematic sense:
As ABC airs a season of “The
Bachelor” intent on breaking
the Guinness World Record
for Most Virginity Jokes Made
in an Hour, “Sex Education”
stands out as television that
could so easily be cruel, but
instead makes the braver,
much more interesting choice
to be positive, affirming and
joyful.

NETFLIX

TV REVIEW

“Sex
Education”

Netflix

Season 1

AMAZON PRIME

Becoming Midge Maisel

Fun Fact: I discovered who Randy
Houser was last night. I read up a bit about
him on Wikipedia, and (spoiler) he’s no
Taylor Swift, but apparently he’s a bit of
a hot shot in the country community. He
has had a few top-20 country hits, decent
airplay and a neck beard going for him.
However, he’s not particularly fond of his
accomplishments over the last decade.
In a recent interview with Billboard, he
reflected on the progression of his music,
stating that “It started to feel like that it
wasn’t about music as much anymore as it
was just entertainment.”
As the quote suggests, Houser’s most
recent fifth studio album Magnolia is
meant to distance itself from mainstream
country
appeal.
I
sampled
some
of
Houser’s older music to get a feel for what
this could possibly mean. Less cowbell?
More narrative based cuts rather than
braggadocious drinking anthems? Or is
it all just a marketing ploy? Whatever it’s
supposed to be, I hoped I would catch on to
it for this review’s sake.
It didn’t take more than a few seconds
into the first song, “No Stone Unturned,”
to understand what exactly makes this a
“different” country album. An introspective
ode to self-discovery, the track serves
as the perfect introductory piece to this
album, effortlessly wafting into various
rights of passages throughout Houser’s life,
from leaving home to pursue his dreams in
Nashville to having his heart broken for the
first time. It glistens under its instrumental,

building from slow, gentle guitar plucking
to spaced-out drum beats and a faint bass
in the chorus. It did not take long for the
album to prove my assumptions — that it
would be 48 minutes of shit — wrong.
Unlike
much
of
Houser’s
previous
work, Magnolia strives for an appeal that
is strictly nostalgic. Whereas past tracks
like “Anything Goes” or “Like a Cowboy”
only ever reflect as far back as a recent
one-night stand, Magnolia is willing to
linger in experiences and emotions that
trail farther behind Houser’s timeline.
We get glimmers and pieces of a Houser
before all the Nashville glitz washed over
him. This heralds a return to a sound that
is more traditionally country and a nod
to his Mississippi roots, down to the very
title; Houser’s late grandmother was buried
under a magnolia tree.
This isn’t to say that Magnolia is a sappy,
emotional conglomerate of redemption
tracks that mourn a simpler past. The album
samples a broad spectrum of emotions from
the mundane to the memorable. Tracks such
as the overly-sentimental “No Good Place
to Cry” (which is just as emo as it sounds)
perfectly display Houser’s bluesy crooning
as he channels his emotions over faint piano
notes in the background that play into brief
moments of silence. Similarly, peppier cuts
on the album such as harmonica-laden
“Whole Lotta Quit” provide a necessary
energy, as Houser details his desire to
abandon his arduous blue-collar job and get
high with his friends. The album ends on a
gracious note, with the song “Evangeline”
reminiscing on a past love that didn’t quite
work out but is still memorable by virtue of
its emotional value.

Regardless of the topic or emotion
conveyed, this album carries itself as a
cohesive piece not only in its nostalgic
energies but its deliberate detailing. Not
a single element feels contrived, forced
or spared as the album makes skillful use
of its negative space, letting melodies
fall to moments of silence and building
them back up. It follows a unique pattern,
dedicating more lavish tracks to the middle
of the album, those more restrained to the

beginning and end.
As
someone
very
unfamiliar
with
country, I can tell you that Magnolia is a
spectacle worth considering for its sheer
emotional value. It doesn’t run the risk
of being overly sappy despite its case as a
redemption album of sorts. It shows that to
be emotional doesn’t necessarily mean to
be sentimental; sometimes it’s just a matter
of appreciating the experiences that have
passed.

ALBUM REVIEW
‘Magnolia’ is surprisingly endearing

DIANA YASSIN
Daily Arts Writer

Magnolia strives
for an appeal
that is strictly
nostalgic

MAITREYI ANANTHARAMAN
Daily Arts Writer

Netflix’s ‘Sex Ed’ is sweet,
smart and oh so salacious

6 — Wednesday, Jnauary 16, 2019
Arts
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