On a summer day in 2013, my brother and I made a trek to the San Fernando Valley to go see the house where “Malcolm in the Middle” was filmed. When we arrived, we saw that the iconic house had been replaced by a sleek, modernist cube. Nonetheless, we felt like we were standing on sacred ground. Growing up, we would joke that “Malcolm in the Middle” was our Torah and the cyclical reruns on Fox were our weekly Torah readings. Every time we would rewatch, we had a fresh interpretation. The Fox sitcom, airing from 2000 to 2006, was about a quirky suburban family relishing in mediocrity. Frankie Muniz starred as Malcolm—a neurotic, genius middle child with a penchant for breaking the fourth wall. Years after our failed pilgrimage to Studio City, my brother told me that two Australian teenagers had been making a podcast titled The Weekly Muniz, that was devoted to the lead actor’s life. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of regret that we didn’t think of this idea first.
Until I listened to “The Weekly Muniz,” I had assumed that other than my brother and I, nobody really bothered to do a weekly welfare check on Frankie Muniz’s IMDB page. Hayden Bleechmore, now 20, and Duncan Peat, 21, have been recording their podcast for the past two years in Melbourne, Australia. They grew up watching “Malcolm in the Middle” reruns on network TV, where it enjoyed a prime-time slot. The two met at a high school drama club, and later formed a comedy duo. Their first foray into Muniz-related content was “Agent Cody Banks 3: Trouble in Iraq”—a spoof trailer they made for a film studies class. While the obvious approach to a Muniz-themed podcast would be to ruthlessly mock his fall into obscurity, The Weekly Muniz does something a lot more special by taking a deep-dive into the minutiae of his existence—“Malcolm in the Middle” trivia, Muniz’s TV cameos, his open-wheel racing career, his social media presence, various rock bands he’s been in, and most recently, an appearance on “Dancing With The Stars.”
Last night, Vice’s gaming site, Waypoint, went rogue and posted a statement in light of the recent allegations of sexual harassment at the company detailed in a Daily Beast article published on Wednesday.
When we came here, each of us had our own reservations about VICE. We have all, publicly or privately, spoken about our desire to be a force of positive change at VICE, a company which we believe has both a torrid history and a great deal of journalistic excellence. In light of the Daily Beast’s story, we have realized how important it is that we not only push for change in private, internal meetings, but that we also must use our platform to publicly hold accountable our own workplace.
In addition, Vice’s editorial union posted a statement on Twitter:
Vice Union statement on workplace sexual harassment: pic.twitter.com/YbGlZSuQgJ
— VICE Union (@viceunion) November 15, 2017
It doesn’t take a tea-leaf reader to see that these, along with a very odd (and previously unbylined, now attributed to Oliver “Oli” Coleman) Page Six item lightly threatening Shane Smith, plus a lot of rumors I have personally been hearing for WEEKS, portend a big story is on the way, almost certainly in the New York Times, detailing a larger investigation into the company’s less than stellar record in the workplace sexual harassment department.
Remember when I was like, “The only good thing about November will be the new Kompakt Pop Ambient collection“? Well? Was I wrong? Anyway, it’s here, enjoy.
★★★ Everything was clear except in the far distance, where a muddy haze smudged into the purple hills. Workers were planting ornamental cabbages in the forecourt. The breeze came in the door and flapped at the elevator-out-of-service notice taped to the lobby wall. It was cold enough for a real coat but safe to leave it unbuttoned. The light mellowed and colored on its way out. The six-year-old bounced around in the night so excited to have his new gloves that he somehow cast off a shoe.
There’s terror going on in the world and we need hard men, the right men. Men with Heckler & Koch MP5s, silencers and holographic sights. Men who know how to wear a balaclava and fingerless gloves. Above all, we need men aware that the only thing protecting us from the be-bombed madmen of the world is the judicious application of extreme violence and a little enhanced interrogation. At least, that’s what Tom Clancy taught me.
But Clancy’s takes on terrorists and on terror were backwards at best and are what makes us morons on the subject at worst. Despite being 16 years into the War on Terror, the U.S. is still bumbling around as if the causes of extremism and ideological violence were unknowable, and as if the only tools to fight them belonged to the Pentagon; as if Patriot Games and The Sum of All Fears were our operating manuals. Every new attack meets with fervent calls for more action, more military response. Terrorists are enigmatic figures waiting in the wings of Clancy’s books, but in the real world, terrorism arises from causes that are always political and knowable.
11/16 8:25 ET At Pittsburgh -7 Tennessee
Hot breath on windows
French fries in hot sandwiches
Gravy on the side
11/19 1:00 ET Detroit -3 At Chicago
There are unseen things
Floating upon the corners
Of everything blue
11/19 1:00 ET Kansas City -10.5 At NY Giants
Answer the door bell.
It’s a different you who just
Forgot their house keys
It is as if I can almost still remember.
As if I once perhaps belonged here.
The mountains a deep heavy green, and
The rocky steep drop to the waters below.
The peaked roofs, the white-plastered
Brick. A clothesline in a neighbor’s yard
Made of sticks. The stone path skimming
The ridge. A ladder asleep against a house.
What is the soul allowed to keep? Every
Birth, every small gift, every ache? I know
I have knelt just here, torn apart by loss. Lazed
On this grass, counting joys like trees: cypress,
Blue fir, dogwood, cherry. Ageless, constant,
Growing down into earth and up into history.
It was a shock to be allowed in, for once
Not held back by a painted iron fence.
And to take it in with just my eyes (No Photos
Signs were discreet, yet emphatic). Coins,
Bills on a tray. Two women and then a man
Bowed before a statue to pray. Outside
Above the gates, a sprung balloon
And three kites swam east on a high fast
Current. And something about a bird
Flapping hard as it crossed my line of sight—
The bliss it seemed to make and ride without
Ever once gliding or slowing—the picture of it
Meant, suddenly, youth, and I couldn’t help it,
I had to look away.
Wait, Thanksgiving is a week from today? What the fuck, Time? I thought the deal was you would drag ass at a pace so glacial it would barely be perceptible and we would spend all those endless hours wishing we were dead. Now’s when you decide to pick it up? Fuck you! Anyway, here’s music. Enjoy.
★★★ The light had dulled after a bright and promising beginning, but north of the zenith the sky was an attractive tangle of white wisps on blue. Sunward, things were bleached and smeary. Half-strength shadows pointed up the sidewalk, then faded away entirely. It was too hot indoors for the right amount of clothing. The distance between the buildings and the contours of the clouds was just close enough for the eye to measure them against each other, making the city feel stubby and squashed. No matter what the sun seemed to be doing, it was always about to do something else.