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Heart of Ann Arbor, 5 min walk to
UM. Avail
able for fall. $2400. Please
contact 734 769 8555 or 734 277
3700.
By Jerry Edelstein
©2019 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
02/06/19
Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle
Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis
02/06/19
ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:
Release Date: Wednesday, February 6, 2019
ACROSS
1 Area with pews
5 It’s saved for a
rainy day
9 Monster party
13 Constrain
14 Singer Adams
15 Spanish “this”
16 In first place
17 Does really well,
for a weekend
golfer
19 Sophs, come
Sep.
20 “Who Dat Girl”
rapper __ Rida
21 Corkscrew
pasta
22 “Next time’s for
real”
26 Hurry, old-style
27 Leaf-clearing
tool
28 Hairy spider
33 It stings
36 Cardiologist
40 Energy unit
41 Looks through, as
a keyhole
42 Tennis immortal
45 Spanish “that”
46 Jewish deli meat
53 Learn from A to Z
54 Little newt
55 Bloke
56 “America’s Got
Talent” judges’
concern
58 With 62-Across,
handyman’s
assortment, and
a hint to what’s
in each set of
circles
60 Latvian seaport
61 De __: again
62 See 58-Across
63 Cocktail garnish
64 Gets the picture
65 Keep up (with)
DOWN
1 ’60s jacket style
2 “What __!”: “Ick!”
3 By way of
4 See 28-Down
5 Musk’s electric
car brand
6 Limited in scope,
as a committee
7 Grande opening
8 Illinois city that
symbolizes
mainstream
America
9 Lifelong pal
10 Clinton’s
first Defense
secretary
11 Sporty Ford, to
devotees
12 Big name in
spydom
13 Pilgrimage to
Mecca
18 Clock sound
20 Guitar neck
features
23 Whaling direction
24 Pub order
25 Copy on a
transparent sheet
28 With 4-Down,
fairy tale’s last
words
29 Fizzy prefix
30 Tattered cloth
31 Word with class
or case
32 Blues legend
John __ Hooker
33 Storage
container
34 Approximate fig.
35 WWII arena
37 “__ my case”
38 Exec’s hire,
perhaps
39 “Tell the truth!”
42 Starlike
43 Fox News anchor
Smith
44 Wading birds
46 Five-time
Olympic
swimming gold
medalist Ledecky
47 Missouri river
48 “Pet” irritation
49 High dos
50 Greek
marketplace
51 Smelling of mold
52 Lithographer
James
53 No. on a new car
window
57 Misery
58 CD predecessors
59 Breakfast grain
Classifieds
Call: #734-418-4115
Email: dailydisplay@gmail.com
FOR RENT
Last Tuesday, I was awakened
from
my
mid-afternoon
nap
to what sounded like a party
happening on the second floor.
When I came down from the frigid
attic I call my bedroom, I was
greeted by the most wonderful
of news: For only the third time
in 40 years, the University had
cancelled school, and not just
for one day, but for two. With my
schedule already perfectly aligned
to give me Fridays off, I was now
looking at an early spring break.
How did I spend it? Did I catch
up on all of the work I had? Did I
finally get around to applying to
all those internships I had been
talking about? Well actually, yes
I did. But before I got around to
doing all the important things, I
woke up on Wednesday and spent
the first four hours watching two
documentaries I had been hearing
about that both happened to be on
the same subject.
Fyre Festival. It has become a
meme twice over now, once when
the event originally took place
and again now that Netflix and
Hulu have brought it back to the
forefront of public scrutiny. For
my part, I had no idea what the
festival was until I started hearing
about the Netflix documentary
last week — maybe that’s just how
out of touch with social media
I am. I happened to watch the
Hulu documentary first because
the friend I was watching with
had already seen the Netflix one,
and I was introduced to Billy
McFarland, the Fyre Festival, and
a whole host of con artists, shady
businessman, unfortunate victims
and rich Instagram models. As
the hours went by and I slowly
became an expert on the biggest
concert turned train crash in
modern history, I found myself
more and more fascinated and
simultaneously more and more
confused.
Almost every facet of the Fyre
Festival boggles my mind. It was
absurd that people were willing to
pay tens of thousands (or in some
cases hundreds of thousands) of
dollars to go to a concert that didn’t
exist. Billy McFarland’s entire
gimmick of using a bigger scheme
to pay off his last scheme. The
bizarre timing of both Hulu and
Netflix releasing documentaries
about the Fyre Festival within
days of each other and the strange
way in which the documentaries
almost feel like two halves of a
single whole. All of this stuns me.
I’m just waiting for some third
party to come along and tell us the
meta-story of Hulu and Netflix’s
competing desire to cover this
purely 21st century debacle. How
could both companies possibly be
making a movie about the exact
same thing and then release
them at the exact same time? Did
they plan that? Is this some new
kind of corporate synergy? And
what are we to make of the fact
that Hulu paid McFarland for his
appearance, but Netflix’s doc was
produced by Jerry Media, the
same company that promoted the
Fyre Fest to begin with?
One
of
my
roommates
became annoyed with the Hulu
documentary because he thought
it
was
attacking
millennials
unnecessarily. The Hulu doc does
argue that millennial culture and
the pretend world of Instagram
are things that make possible a
world where something like the
Fyre Festival can exist. But the
Hulu doc also went to a place that I
found even harder to understand:
It argued that in today’s society
anyone who isn’t on twitter or
Instagram in essence does not
exist. The film actually doesn’t
argue this so much as it states it
as a fact of the digital age. At first
I found this to be a preposterous
assumption. I hardly ever tweet
and surely I exist. Surely even
if no one in my house so much
as exited the front door on that
frostbite inducing day we would
still exist. To think otherwise
would be to give ourselves over
entirely to a digital world where
all that matters is perception
and reality is meaningless. Or
in this digital framework, has
perception become reality? We
do, after all, live in a world where
it is increasingly obvious that
politicians do not have to say
anything resembling the truth in
order to get elected and where our
executive branch treats the truth
with such a lack of regard as to
render it almost meaningless. If I
do not post a picture on a beach,
did I really go on vacation? If a
tree falls in the forest and no one is
there to hear it, did it really make
a sound?
Although my roommate was
disturbed by the notion that
millennial culture caused the Fyre
Festival and that he didn’t exist
because he wasn’t on Instagram,
a few days later I brought up the
subject at a club meeting and half
the room agreed that if you are not
a prevalent person on social media
you basically do not exist. This
shocked me. Again I reiterated
that I was sitting right in front
of them, I was speaking in the
room, they were hearing me, and
this alone was proof that I exist.
They assured me that, no, in fact,
I did not exist. They admitted that
they probably didn’t exist either
and that even if they posted on
Instagram right than and there
if the algorithm didn’t push their
post to the front of people’s feeds
it wouldn’t functionally be in
existence, for how can the post
exist if no one has liked it? This
line of reasoning seems dangerous
to me. Every person is the center of
their own universe, the key factor
in their own continued existence.
There are people on this
campus I have never spoken to. To
me, perhaps they do not exist. But
that does not mean they are not
there. Collectively, the anonymous
figures I walk past on campus
have an impact on me, but more
importantly they have an impact
on themselves. You do not need
the outside world to tell you your
life is worthwhile. Is the support
and love of your friends and family
not enough? Is it not enough to
sit inside on a snow day and text
no one, post nowhere, call not a
soul, and enjoy a calm peaceful
day with your roommates and
a Netflix documentary? Maybe
not. But if watching four hours
of footage about the Fyre Fest
has taught me anything, it’s that
you don’t need to pay $250,000
to attend a concert and you don’t
need to post on Instagram in order
to prove you exist. Just take a look
in the mirror and sing a song in the
shower. Descartes said, “I think,
therefore I am.” In this age of
Hulu and Instagram, I think I’m
still inclined to agree with him.
IAN HARRIS
DAILY ENTERTAINMENT COLUMN
The fury of Fyre Festival
Prior
to
the
release
of
Boogie’s Shady Records debut
album, it was unclear how
the
label’s
backing
would
assist him. After all, Shady
Records is not exactly known
for promoting its newly signed
artists or giving them creative
freedom; just look at the label
debuts
from
Conway
and
Yelawolf. It’s clear that Yelawolf
had little creative
control over his
own project, and
Conway’s mixtape,
while
good,
received virtually
no promotion and
generated no buzz.
However, this was
not the case for Boogie.
Right out of the gate, it was
clear that the album came out
exactly how Boogie imagined.
“Tired/Reflection,”
the
opening track of Everythings
for Sale, is highlighted by lush,
soulful
productions
littered
with vocal samples. On the
song, Boogie questions
his
critics and, in turn, himself. He
ponders their critique and if it’s
even worth trying to change
himself as he continues to
make mistakes. As he reflects,
a gunshot rings out and the
beat becomes more intense.
On the chorus, Boogie raps,
“(C)ome and save me, I feel
threatened / Think I ran into a
dead end, uh / Ain’t no point in
using weapons, no / I’m at war
with my reflection, uh,” fully
explaining
his
predicament
that will carry across the entire
album.
Boogie is at his best as he
reflects on his relationships,
his shortcomings in them and
his attempts to get better.
“Swap Meet” is an appreciation
of Boogie’s girlfriend, stating
that he is willing to bargain
everything he has, no matter
how little he brings to the table,
in exchange for her love. Album
highlight “Skydive” finds the
Compton
rapper
pleading
with his partner to be sure
of their relationship before
they
both
find
themselves
jumping into it too quickly.
Even the more uptempo songs
on the album, like “Soho”
featuring
JID
and
“Rainy
Days” featuring Eminem, are
mostly contemplative. “Soho”
outlines Boogie’s discontent for
the lifestyle that others expect
from him. He wants to live his
own life without having to deal
with the industry expects from
him. These songs, as great as
they are, stick out like a sore
thumb in an album reliant on
somber, introspective tracks.
The main problem with this
album is its pacing. It jumps
from slow, laidback cuts to
high tempo songs, even though
each track delves into similar
themes. It is a little jarring to
listen to “Rainy
Days”
and
then, two songs
later, hear the
heartbreaking,
Christian Scott
aTunde Adjuah-
assisted “Whose
Fault.” The lack
of
sonic
cohesion
between
songs hurts the album a little,
but by no means does it ruin it.
On
Everythings
for
Sale,
Boogie manages to find his
sound and his place in the rap
scene. Given that he has a great
ear for beats, all he needs to
do is fine-tune the synergy
between his sound and his
subject matter. With this in
mind, it is clear that Boogie
has an incredible album within
him, but it is a matter of him
taking his time and realizing
exactly what it is that he wants
to accomplish.
ALBUM REVIEW
Boogie’s latest is the future
JIM WILSON
Daily Arts Writer
Everythings for Sale
Boogie
Shady Records
Robert Smith said that after
he wrote “Friday I’m In Love,”
he slipped into a kind of “drug-
fueled paranoia” in which he
found himself calling everyone
he knew in the music business,
panicked because he was sure
that he had somehow plagiarized
the chord progression. There was
an effusive quality to the melody
that felt too familiar, too easy, too
obvious to be real, as if the song
had always existed.
I don’t blame him for being
paranoid — it’s a perfect song.
Like really, fully, honest to God
perfect — the kind of classic I
can imagine playing softly on the
last radio on earth after plural
apocalypses. The world could
burn, but “Friday I’m In Love”
would remain and the aliens
would at least have something
beautiful to remember us by.
It’s built out of the sort of joy
that lifts you from your feet, but
is still suffused with a sweet,
sad urgency in Smith’s voice that
pierces through the warmth the
song’s scaffolding is built on.
You’ve never once had to think
about the lyrics to understand
perfectly what the song is about,
but if you do think about them
you’re pulled into a swirling rush
of love and longing. With every
verse another week has passed,
and when you reach the bridge,
“sleek as a shriek / spinning
round and round,” you’re brought
to a new place entirely.
Smith, who was probably best
known at the time for writing
moody, gothic pieces notorious
for their brooding complexity,
told
Spin
Magazine
in
an
interview that he went through
hundreds of drafts for “Friday’s”
lyrics, trying to, “...hit something
that’s not cringing — a simplicity
and naiveté that communicates.
There’s a dumbness that sort of
cracks.”
I’ve
been
thinking
about
that a lot lately — about art
that doesn’t exactly articulate
anything
complicated
or
particularly specific but cracks
you open anyway, not with a
blunt force punch of drama or
pathos, but with the sweet and
awful earnestness of witnessing
something unbearably true. It’s
like this time, a few winters ago,
I was in the dining hall, freezing
cold, panicking about something
that was probably dumb and
looking over at the table next to
me where there was a couple.
They were holding hands and
staring at each other with an
open-hearted tenderness all over
their faces. I had to look away
almost
immediately
because
it was way too intimate, too
embarrassing to watch people
feeling so deeply and so openly.
There’s a reason we say “I feel
so attacked right now” — when
a feeling is precisely rendered,
its intimacy feels like violent
intrusion.
I think the art that depicts joy
the best has a similar effect. It’s
rare, but I’m finding myself less
and less interested in anything
that doesn’t hit this hard, mostly
because the medium through
which I discover 99% of the art
I love — the internet — makes
me numb. Not in the sense that
it bores me, but that I think
it’s done something to me on a
psychological level that’s difficult
to define, but feels real anyway.
There’s that scene in “Eighth
Grade” where Kayla is lying
in bed, scrolling through her
phone and we see the changing
colored lights flashing across
her face along with a montage
of all the things she’s seeing — a
Jimmy Fallon clip, a Tumblr post
about the bees, a picture of the
cool girl in class on Instagram,
a catty tweet, a Trump tweet, a
steady IV drip of information —
and it feels so familiar. I’ve been
Kayla so many times, sitting for
hours experiencing content with
nothing really reaching me. My
attention is captured but my heart
isn’t and the result is a feeling of
relentless sameness in the art and
media I’m consuming day in and
day out.
Some days just feel like an
unending feed of content that flits
by in a listless haze, everything
blurring together and humming
at
the
same
frequency,
an
inescapable low drone. It leaves
me uneasy when I look up from my
computer, like I’m in this liminal
space between thinking and not
thinking, feeling and not feeling.
Bo Burnham said in an interview
with Rookie: “(The internet) is
everything. It’s overstimulating,
it’s
numbing.
We’re
hyper-
connected, we’re super lonely ...
the problem with the internet is
indescribably subtle and I just go
to bed at the end of the night and
I have a nervous stomach for no
reason and I don’t know why.”
It’s not that “Friday I’m In
Love” is the cure (see what I
did there) to this problem — and
besides, “problem” is the wrong
word. I don’t think the Internet
is a discrete positive or negative
thing at this point in the culture
so much so as it operates like
a lysogenic virus, embedding
itself into the DNA and growing
as the host, the user, does. It’s
only lately I’ve noticed a shift. It
makes me feel, like Burnham, sick
to my stomach for reasons I find
really difficult to explain. I don’t
know how to fix it. I don’t know
if it can be fixed, or if it’s all in my
head, or if something completely
inscrutable and terrifying really
has happened to my brain.
But I know I feel a sense of
relief when I listen to that song,
or read a book that feels essential
in that similar feverish way. I
feel, at this point, so allergic to
anything ironic or numb in art,
whether that’s how it’s made or
how I engage with it. So I’m on
the hunt for a dumbness that
cracks me right open, past all the
bullshit and the soundbites and
the endless humming monotone
that fills up my internet, and
cuts to the feeling. I don’t know
how often I’ll encounter it, or if
I’ll be able to tune out the noise
long enough to pay attention to
the things that matter. In the
meantime, I’ll be listening —
tentatively, carefully.
On loving earnestly, in full
ASIF BECHER
Daily Arts Writer
GAFFEN RECORDS
NEW MEDIA NOTEBOOK
6A — Wednesday, February 6, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com