Recetas tradicionales

La comediante Jennifer Salzman abre un salón de cócteles y entretenimiento en Brooklyn

La comediante Jennifer Salzman abre un salón de cócteles y entretenimiento en Brooklyn

Salzy Cocktail & Entertainment Lounge será un lugar para excelentes bebidas y risas en Park Slope

El menú de bebidas cuenta con cócteles clásicos y "especiales Salzy".

Jennifer Salzman está ampliando su título como cómico y productor de eventos para incluir a la propietaria del salón con la reciente apertura de su nuevo bar de cócteles y espacio para eventos privados, Salzy, en el Pendiente del parque barrio de Brooklyn.

Este año, Salzman dejó su exitosa carrera como reclutadora en WPP, una agencia de publicidad y marketing, para dedicarse a la comedia y la hospitalidad. Su último esfuerzo combina sus pasiones en un lugar único para el entretenimiento y cócteles artesanales de calidad.

“Salzy es la expresión perfecta de mi pasión por la hospitalidad y la producción de eventos únicos que exhiben artistas talentosos”, dijo Salzman en un comunicado. "El bar de cócteles en la parte delantera del lugar será un lugar de reunión divertido y sofisticado para ponerse al día con bebidas y bocadillos, y el espacio de actuación se convertirá en un centro para que los cómics, DJ, bandas y otros creativos se reúnan y actúen".

El menú de cócteles de Salzy fue encabezado por el actor y artista nativo de Brooklyn Luke Forbes, quien se ha capacitado con profesionales mixólogos como Tony Abou-Ganim y fue miembro del equipo fundador de The Garret de Den Hospitality.

Salzy se encuentra en 506 Fifth Avenue en Brooklyn, Nueva York.


Escena de karaoke de Justin Theroux en Los restos Me está atormentando ahora mismo

La actuación inestable de Kevin Garvey de 'Homeward Bound' de Simon y Garfunkel me está trayendo esperanza en cuarentena.

Kevin Garvey está solo en el escenario del bar de un hotel, escaneando ansiosamente a la multitud mientras se atraganta con el micrófono. & ldquoSta-start it, & rdquo, murmura. Los primeros acordes de guitarra comienzan a tocar. Es & ldquoHomeward Bound & rdquo por Simon y Garfunkel. Kevin canta. Estoy sentado en la estación de tren y obtuve un boleto para mi destino. Aunque el exjefe de policía interpretado por Justin Theroux realmente no puede mantener la melodía, la letra parece sacudir algo dentro de él. Durante los últimos años, este exaltado potencialmente esquizofrénico se ha estado alienando de todos los que conoce y ama. Perdió a su esposa. Su hijo. Su padre. Y, por supuesto, unos cuatro años antes, el dos por ciento de la población mundial desapareció a su alrededor sin dejar rastro. Pero en lugar de buscar terapia o religión para ayudar a sobrellevar esta pérdida indescriptible, Kevin ha levantado sus anclas y se ha entregado al abismo. He & rsquos ha estado a la deriva.

Sin embargo, aquí, en este hotel remoto, Kevin se ve diferente. Vestido con el uniforme completo, sus ojos pasados ​​por alto, una levedad en su voz, parece que Kevin está comenzando a flotar de regreso a la orilla. Puede que hayan sido necesarias dos experiencias cercanas a la muerte, pero Kevin está listo para admitirlo y quiere irse a casa.

Lo sé, es un poco en la nariz, escribir sobre Los restos ahora. Para ser claros, la serie post-apocalíptica de HBO no es realmente comparable en absoluto a la crisis del mundo real que enfrentamos hoy y al menos no de una manera sustancial que valga la pena discutir. El programa muestra los tumultuosos años que siguen a la misteriosa desaparición del dos por ciento de la población de la Tierra. Pesado en la alegoría religiosa, Sobras pasa la mayor parte de su tiempo con Kevin de Theroux, el jefe de policía enojado y sin rumbo que podría ser simplemente Jesucristo. Encontramos a Kevin cantando karaoke en un lugar de otro mundo en el final de la segunda temporada, "Vivo aquí ahora". Es una escena poderosa con un gran trasfondo espiritual. Pero ya sea que el hotel represente el cielo, el infierno o el purgatorio, es puramente ficticio. Aquí, en nuestro mundo real, no hay extraños viajes al más allá. Sin profetas. Sin milagros. Solo hospitales, ventiladores y los trabajadores esenciales que arriesgan sus vidas todos los días para evitar que todo se derrumbe.

Yo & rsquom viendo Los restos por primera vez ahora mismo. Y lo admito, podría haber sido una elección masoquista. Aunque es una fantasía, la serie seguro que se siente familiar y específicamente en la forma en que revierte ese cóctel venenoso de melancolía e incertidumbre que siempre estará asociado con la vida durante esta pandemia. Acurrucados aquí en mi pequeño estudio con mi novia en Crown Heights, Brooklyn, realmente no tenemos mucho espacio para aclarar nuestras mentes. A diferencia de nuestros alimentos reconfortantes habituales de galletas caseras y Siempre soleado, este programa apocalíptico de HBO no ayuda mucho a levantar el ánimo. Demonios, con todos los personajes tristes tratando y fallando de encontrar un significado en sus vidas irrevocablemente alteradas, apenas les proporciona un escape.

Pero Los restos, como siempre hacen las mejores series, me enganchó bien. Y mientras ingería episodio tras episodio en la oscuridad antes de acostarme cada noche, la línea entre nuestro mundo y el mundo de Miracle, Texas realmente comenzó a desdibujarse.

La ira inquebrantable y omnipresente del Guilty Remnant, el culto de fumar empedernido del show & rsquos dirigido por Ann Dowd, evocó esa rabia específica que siento cada mañana cuando me despierto y descubro más sobre la negligencia de nuestro gobierno. Vestido todo de blanco, el Remnant es un recordatorio constante y agresivo de las personas que desaparecieron. No quieren que los sobrantes sigan adelante y empiecen de nuevo. No van a fingir que no ocurrió algo horrible. Y ciertamente no van a tolerar ninguna mierda de "Todo sucedió por una razón". Como ellos, gané y pronto olvidaré lo que pasó aquí.

Jill Garvey, la joven hija interpretada por Margaret Qualley, caóticamente aburrida, da vida a una actitud más destructiva en el programa. Como su padre, Jill está en espiral. Pero no es sólo la Partida lo que la hace salir a chorros. Ella ha sido privada de lo que deberían ser los mejores días de su vida. Y sus padres la han mantenido al margen de su divorcio. Todo se siente injusto. Entonces Jill se rebela. Golpea puertas, abusa de las drogas y roba casas. En una situación dolorosa, Jill juega un juego de contener la respiración que se encerra en un refrigerador en el bosque. La compulsión de atacar y destruir es tan tentadora en este momento. Lo entiendo.

Ningún personaje de la serie se siente tan cerca de mí como Kevin Garvey, el jefe de policía de olla a presión que siempre se lanza silenciosamente hacia la inmolación. Las fijaciones mórbidas y las obsesiones violentas de Kevin se llevan al máximo en la segunda temporada. Anhelando tanto su pasado, Kevin se encadena a la cama todas las noches por temor a que él y su hermano huyan en su búsqueda. Como todos nosotros que estamos tapiados lejos de nuestras vidas anteriores, Kevin & rsquos ardiendo en busca de un escape. Resulta que el escape que busca es el último y ndashdeath. Pero cuando finalmente llega a un escenario cantando "Homeward Bound", el remoto mundo de los muertos solo lo hace desear lo que ya tenía y su familia. Sus amigos. Esa mirada tranquilizadora en los ojos de su esposa afuera junto a la piscina en una noche fresca de verano. Todos esos pequeños momentos que dio por sentado hace tanto tiempo.

Extraño el karaoke. Extraño a mis padres, extraño a mis amigos. Extraño quedarme dormido en la ventana de un tren subterráneo y extraño hablar con un extraño borracho en la fila del baño de un bar. Cuando mi novia trajo sus maletas, su gato y su caja de arena a mi apartamento hace cuatro semanas, pensé que este lugar se sentiría como nuestro nuevo hogar. Pero no es así. Se siente como el hotel. Tenemos suerte, tenemos una cama caliente, agua corriente y suficientes cajas de pasta para que nos duren hasta Navidad, pero estamos en una isla aquí. Los informes de muertes en nuestro edificio se están sumando, nuestro superintendente ha contraído COVID-19 y tenemos miedo de salir del apartamento. Incluso el mundo exterior, con todas las máscaras y guantes de látex por todas partes, se siente extraño. No es que quiera escapar de mi apartamento o de mi vida o de este plano de la realidad, es que, sea lo que sea, haga lo que hagamos separados todos los días, no se siente como en casa. Y solo quiero salir de este maldito hotel.

Los restos es un poco difícil de asimilar en este momento. Pero cuando Kevin finalmente regresa al final de la segunda temporada, al ver a su hija, su hijo, su ex esposa, sus amigos, todos ellos parados en su casa esperando para recibirlo, esa mirada cálida y difusa en su rostro ciertamente hizo que el hogar se sintiera un poco más cerca para mí. Con suerte, pronto volveremos a casa.


Escena de karaoke de Justin Theroux en Los restos Me está atormentando ahora mismo

La actuación inestable de Kevin Garvey de 'Homeward Bound' de Simon y Garfunkel me está trayendo esperanza en cuarentena.

Kevin Garvey está solo en el escenario del bar de un hotel, escaneando ansiosamente a la multitud mientras se atraganta con el micrófono. & ldquoSta-start it, & rdquo, murmura. Los primeros acordes de guitarra comienzan a tocar. Es & ldquoHomeward Bound & rdquo por Simon y Garfunkel. Kevin canta. Estoy sentado en la estación de tren y obtuve un boleto para mi destino. Aunque el exjefe de policía interpretado por Justin Theroux realmente no puede mantener la melodía, la letra parece sacudir algo dentro de él. Durante los últimos años, este exaltado potencialmente esquizofrénico se ha estado alienando de todos los que conoce y ama. Perdió a su esposa. Su hijo. Su padre. Y, por supuesto, unos cuatro años antes, el dos por ciento de la población mundial desapareció a su alrededor sin dejar rastro. Pero en lugar de buscar terapia o religión para ayudar a sobrellevar esta pérdida indescriptible, Kevin ha levantado sus anclas y se ha entregado al abismo. He & rsquos ha estado a la deriva.

Sin embargo, aquí, en este hotel remoto, Kevin se ve diferente. Vestido con el uniforme completo, sus ojos pasados ​​por alto, una levedad en su voz, parece que Kevin está comenzando a flotar de regreso a la orilla. Puede que hayan sido necesarias dos experiencias cercanas a la muerte, pero Kevin está listo para admitirlo y quiere irse a casa.

Lo sé, es un poco en la nariz, escribir sobre Los restos ahora. Para ser claros, la serie post-apocalíptica de HBO no es realmente comparable en absoluto a la crisis del mundo real que enfrentamos hoy y al menos no de una manera sustancial que valga la pena discutir. El programa muestra los tumultuosos años que siguen a la misteriosa desaparición del dos por ciento de la población de la Tierra. Pesado en la alegoría religiosa, Sobras pasa la mayor parte de su tiempo con Kevin de Theroux, el jefe de policía enojado y sin rumbo que podría ser Jesucristo. Encontramos a Kevin cantando karaoke en un lugar de otro mundo en el final de la segunda temporada, "Vivo aquí ahora". Es una escena poderosa con un gran trasfondo espiritual. Pero ya sea que el hotel represente el cielo, el infierno o el purgatorio, es puramente ficticio. Aquí, en nuestro mundo real, no hay viajes extraños al más allá. Sin profetas. Sin milagros. Solo hospitales, ventiladores y los trabajadores esenciales que arriesgan sus vidas todos los días para evitar que todo se derrumbe.

Yo & rsquom viendo Los restos por primera vez ahora mismo. Y lo admito, podría haber sido una elección masoquista. Aunque es una fantasía, la serie seguro que se siente familiar y específicamente en la forma en que revierte ese cóctel venenoso de melancolía e incertidumbre que siempre estará asociado con la vida durante esta pandemia. Acurrucados aquí en mi pequeño apartamento tipo estudio con mi novia en Crown Heights, Brooklyn, realmente no tenemos mucho espacio para aclarar nuestras mentes. A diferencia de nuestros alimentos reconfortantes habituales de galletas caseras y Siempre soleado, este programa apocalíptico de HBO no ayuda mucho a levantar el ánimo. Demonios, con todos los personajes tristes tratando y fallando de encontrar un significado en sus vidas irrevocablemente alteradas, apenas les proporciona un escape.

Pero Los restos, como siempre hacen las mejores series, me enganchó bien. Y a medida que ingería episodio tras episodio en la oscuridad antes de acostarme cada noche, la línea entre nuestro mundo y el mundo de Miracle, Texas realmente comenzó a desdibujarse.

La ira inquebrantable y omnipresente del Guilty Remnant, el culto de fumar empedernido del show & rsquos dirigido por Ann Dowd, evocó esa rabia específica que siento cada mañana cuando me despierto y descubro más sobre la negligencia de nuestro gobierno. Vestido todo de blanco, el Remnant es un recordatorio constante y agresivo de las personas que desaparecieron. No quieren que los sobrantes sigan adelante y empiecen de nuevo. No van a fingir que no ocurrió algo horrible. Y ciertamente no van a tolerar ninguna mierda de "Todo sucedió por una razón". Como ellos, gané y pronto olvidaré lo que pasó aquí.

Jill Garvey, la joven hija interpretada por Margaret Qualley, caóticamente aburrida, da vida a una actitud más destructiva en el programa. Como su padre, Jill está en espiral. Pero no es sólo la Partida lo que la hace salir a chorros. Ella se ha visto privada de lo que deberían ser los mejores días de su vida. Y sus padres la han mantenido al margen de su divorcio. Todo se siente injusto. Entonces Jill se rebela. Golpea puertas, abusa de las drogas y roba casas. En una situación dolorosa, Jill juega un juego de contener la respiración que se encerra en un refrigerador en el bosque. La compulsión de atacar y destruir es tan tentadora en este momento. Lo entiendo.

Ningún personaje de la serie se siente tan cerca de mí como Kevin Garvey, el jefe de policía de olla a presión que siempre se lanza silenciosamente hacia la inmolación. Las fijaciones mórbidas y las obsesiones violentas de Kevin se llevan al máximo en la segunda temporada. Anhelando tanto su pasado, Kevin se encadena a la cama todas las noches por temor a que él y su hermano se escapen en su búsqueda. Como todos nosotros que estamos tapiados lejos de nuestras vidas anteriores, Kevin & rsquos ardiendo en busca de un escape. Resulta que el escape que busca es el último y ndashdeath. Pero cuando finalmente llega a un escenario cantando "Homeward Bound", el remoto mundo de los muertos solo lo hace desear lo que ya tenía y su familia. Sus amigos. Esa mirada tranquilizadora en los ojos de su esposa afuera junto a la piscina en una noche fresca de verano. Todos esos pequeños momentos que dio por sentado hace tanto tiempo.

Extraño el karaoke. Extraño a mis padres, extraño a mis amigos. Extraño quedarme dormido en la ventana de un tren subterráneo y extraño hablar con un extraño borracho en la fila del baño de un bar. Cuando mi novia trajo sus maletas, su gato y su caja de arena a mi apartamento hace cuatro semanas, pensé que este lugar se sentiría como nuestro nuevo hogar. Pero no es así. Se siente como el hotel. Tenemos suerte, tenemos una cama caliente, agua corriente y suficientes cajas de pasta para que nos duren hasta Navidad, pero estamos en una isla aquí. Los informes de muertes en nuestro edificio se están sumando, nuestro superintendente contrajo COVID-19 y tenemos miedo de salir del apartamento. Incluso el mundo exterior, con todas las máscaras y guantes de látex por todas partes, se siente extraño. No es que quiera escapar de mi apartamento o de mi vida o de este plano de la realidad, es que, sea lo que sea, haga lo que hagamos separados todos los días, no se siente como en casa. Y solo quiero salir de este maldito hotel.

Los restos es un poco difícil de asimilar en este momento. Pero cuando Kevin finalmente regresa al final de la segunda temporada, al ver a su hija, su hijo, su ex esposa, sus amigos, todos ellos parados en su casa esperando para recibirlo, esa mirada cálida y difusa en su rostro ciertamente hizo que el hogar se sintiera un poco más cerca para mí. Con suerte, pronto volveremos a casa.


Escena de karaoke de Justin Theroux en Los restos Me está atormentando ahora mismo

La actuación inestable de Kevin Garvey de 'Homeward Bound' de Simon y Garfunkel me está trayendo esperanza en cuarentena.

Kevin Garvey está solo en el escenario del bar de un hotel, escaneando ansiosamente a la multitud mientras se atraganta con el micrófono. & ldquoSta-start it, & rdquo, murmura. Los primeros acordes de guitarra comienzan a tocar. Es & ldquoHomeward Bound & rdquo por Simon y Garfunkel. Kevin canta. Estoy sentado en la estación de tren y obtuve un boleto para mi destino. Aunque el exjefe de policía interpretado por Justin Theroux realmente no puede mantener la melodía, la letra parece sacudir algo dentro de él. Durante los últimos años, este exaltado potencialmente esquizofrénico se ha estado alienando de todos los que conoce y ama. Perdió a su esposa. Su hijo. Su padre. Y, por supuesto, unos cuatro años antes, el dos por ciento de la población mundial desapareció a su alrededor sin dejar rastro. Pero en lugar de buscar terapia o religión para ayudar a sobrellevar esta pérdida indescriptible, Kevin ha levantado sus anclas y se ha entregado al abismo. He & rsquos ha estado a la deriva.

Sin embargo, aquí, en este hotel remoto, Kevin se ve diferente. Vestido con el uniforme completo, sus ojos pasados ​​por alto, una levedad en su voz, parece que Kevin está comenzando a flotar de regreso a la orilla. Puede que hayan sido necesarias dos experiencias cercanas a la muerte, pero Kevin está listo para admitirlo y quiere irse a casa.

Lo sé, es un poco en la nariz, escribir sobre Los restos ahora. Para ser claros, la serie post-apocalíptica de HBO no es realmente comparable en absoluto a la crisis del mundo real que enfrentamos hoy y al menos no de una manera sustancial que valga la pena discutir. El programa muestra los tumultuosos años que siguen a la misteriosa desaparición del dos por ciento de la población de la Tierra. Pesado en la alegoría religiosa, Sobras pasa la mayor parte de su tiempo con Kevin de Theroux, el jefe de policía enojado y sin rumbo que podría ser simplemente Jesucristo. Encontramos a Kevin cantando karaoke en un lugar de otro mundo en el final de la segunda temporada, "Vivo aquí ahora". Es una escena poderosa con un gran trasfondo espiritual. Pero ya sea que el hotel represente el cielo, el infierno o el purgatorio, es puramente ficticio. Aquí, en nuestro mundo real, no hay extraños viajes al más allá. Sin profetas. Sin milagros. Solo hospitales, ventiladores y los trabajadores esenciales que arriesgan sus vidas todos los días para evitar que todo se derrumbe.

Yo & rsquom viendo Los restos por primera vez ahora mismo. Y lo admito, esa podría haber sido una elección masoquista. Aunque es una fantasía, la serie seguro que se siente familiar y específicamente en la forma en que revierte ese cóctel venenoso de melancolía e incertidumbre que siempre estará asociado con la vida durante esta pandemia. Acurrucados aquí en mi pequeño apartamento tipo estudio con mi novia en Crown Heights, Brooklyn, realmente no tenemos mucho espacio para aclarar nuestras mentes. A diferencia de nuestros alimentos reconfortantes habituales de galletas caseras y Siempre soleado, este programa apocalíptico de HBO no ayuda mucho a levantar el ánimo. Demonios, con todos los personajes tristes tratando y fallando de encontrar un significado en sus vidas irrevocablemente alteradas, apenas les proporciona un escape.

Pero Los restos, como siempre hacen las mejores series, me enganchó bien. Y a medida que ingería episodio tras episodio en la oscuridad antes de acostarme cada noche, la línea entre nuestro mundo y el mundo de Miracle, Texas realmente comenzó a desdibujarse.

La ira inquebrantable y omnipresente del Guilty Remnant, el culto de fumar empedernido del show & rsquos dirigido por Ann Dowd, evocó esa rabia específica que siento cada mañana cuando me despierto y descubro más sobre la negligencia de nuestro gobierno. Vestido todo de blanco, el Remnant es un recordatorio constante y agresivo de las personas que desaparecieron. No quieren que los sobrantes sigan adelante y empiecen de nuevo. No van a fingir que no ocurrió algo horrible. Y ciertamente no van a tolerar ninguna mierda de "Todo sucedió por una razón". Como ellos, gané y pronto olvidaré lo que pasó aquí.

Jill Garvey, la joven hija interpretada por Margaret Qualley, caóticamente aburrida, da vida a una actitud más destructiva en el programa. Como su padre, Jill está en espiral. Pero no es sólo la Partida lo que la hace salir a chorros. Ella se ha visto privada de lo que deberían ser los mejores días de su vida. Y sus padres la han mantenido al margen de su divorcio. Todo se siente injusto. Entonces Jill se rebela. Golpea puertas, abusa de las drogas y roba casas. En una situación dolorosa, Jill juega un juego de contener la respiración que se encerra en un refrigerador en el bosque. La compulsión de atacar y destruir es tan tentadora en este momento. Lo entiendo.

Ningún personaje de la serie se siente tan cerca de mí como Kevin Garvey, el jefe de policía de olla a presión que siempre se lanza silenciosamente hacia la inmolación. Las fijaciones mórbidas y las obsesiones violentas de Kevin se llevan al máximo en la segunda temporada. Anhelando tanto su pasado, Kevin se encadena a la cama todas las noches por temor a que él y su hermano se escapen en su búsqueda. Como todos nosotros que estamos tapiados lejos de nuestras vidas anteriores, Kevin & rsquos ardiendo en busca de un escape. Resulta que el escape que busca es el último y ndashdeath. Pero cuando finalmente llega a un escenario cantando "Homeward Bound", el remoto mundo de los muertos solo lo hace desear lo que ya tenía y su familia. Sus amigos. Esa mirada tranquilizadora en los ojos de su esposa afuera junto a la piscina en una noche fresca de verano. Todos esos pequeños momentos que dio por sentado hace tanto tiempo.

Extraño el karaoke. Extraño a mis padres, extraño a mis amigos. Extraño quedarme dormido en la ventana de un tren subterráneo y extraño hablar con un extraño borracho en la fila del baño de un bar. Cuando mi novia trajo sus maletas, su gato y su caja de arena a mi apartamento hace cuatro semanas, pensé que este lugar se sentiría como nuestro nuevo hogar. Pero no es así. Se siente como el hotel. Tenemos suerte, tenemos una cama caliente, agua corriente y suficientes cajas de pasta para que nos duren hasta Navidad, pero estamos en una isla aquí. Los informes de muertes en nuestro edificio se están sumando, nuestro superintendente ha contraído COVID-19 y tenemos miedo de salir del apartamento. Incluso el mundo exterior, con todas las máscaras y guantes de látex por todas partes, se siente extraño. No es que quiera escapar de mi apartamento o de mi vida o de este plano de la realidad, es que, sea lo que sea, lo que sea que estemos haciendo separados todos los días, no se siente como en casa. Y solo quiero salir de este maldito hotel.

Los restos es un poco difícil de asimilar en este momento. Pero cuando Kevin finalmente regresa al final de la segunda temporada, al ver a su hija, su hijo, su ex esposa, sus amigos, todos ellos parados en su casa esperando para recibirlo, esa mirada cálida y difusa en su rostro ciertamente hizo que el hogar se sintiera un poco más cerca para mí. Con suerte, pronto volveremos a casa.


Escena de karaoke de Justin Theroux en Los restos Me está atormentando ahora mismo

La actuación inestable de Kevin Garvey de 'Homeward Bound' de Simon y Garfunkel me está trayendo esperanza en cuarentena.

Kevin Garvey está solo en el escenario del bar de un hotel, escaneando ansiosamente a la multitud mientras se atraganta con el micrófono. & ldquoSta-start it, & rdquo, murmura. Los primeros acordes de guitarra comienzan a tocar. Es & ldquoHomeward Bound & rdquo por Simon y Garfunkel. Kevin canta. Estoy sentado en la estación de tren y obtuve un boleto para mi destino. Aunque el exjefe de policía interpretado por Justin Theroux realmente no puede mantener la melodía, la letra parece sacudir algo dentro de él. Durante los últimos años, este exaltado potencialmente esquizofrénico se ha estado alienando de todos los que conoce y ama. Perdió a su esposa. Su hijo. Su padre. Y, por supuesto, unos cuatro años antes, el dos por ciento de la población mundial desapareció a su alrededor sin dejar rastro. Pero en lugar de buscar terapia o religión para ayudar a sobrellevar esta pérdida indescriptible, Kevin ha levantado sus anclas y se ha entregado al abismo. He & rsquos ha estado a la deriva.

Sin embargo, aquí, en este hotel remoto, Kevin se ve diferente. Vestido con el uniforme completo, sus ojos pasados ​​por alto, una levedad en su voz, parece que Kevin está comenzando a flotar de regreso a la orilla. Puede que hayan sido necesarias dos experiencias cercanas a la muerte, pero Kevin está listo para admitirlo y quiere irse a casa.

Lo sé, es un poco en la nariz, escribir sobre Los restos ahora. Para ser claros, la serie post-apocalíptica de HBO no es realmente comparable en absoluto a la crisis del mundo real que enfrentamos hoy y al menos no de una manera sustancial que valga la pena discutir. El programa muestra los tumultuosos años que siguen a la misteriosa desaparición del dos por ciento de la población de la Tierra. Pesado en la alegoría religiosa, Sobras pasa la mayor parte de su tiempo con Kevin de Theroux, el jefe de policía enojado y sin rumbo que podría ser simplemente Jesucristo. Encontramos a Kevin cantando karaoke en un lugar de otro mundo en el final de la segunda temporada, "Vivo aquí ahora". Es una escena poderosa con un gran trasfondo espiritual. Pero ya sea que el hotel represente el cielo, el infierno o el purgatorio, es puramente ficticio. Aquí, en nuestro mundo real, no hay extraños viajes al más allá. Sin profetas. Sin milagros. Solo hospitales, ventiladores y los trabajadores esenciales que arriesgan sus vidas todos los días para evitar que todo se derrumbe.

Yo & rsquom viendo Los restos por primera vez ahora mismo. Y lo admito, podría haber sido una elección masoquista. Aunque es una fantasía, la serie seguro que se siente familiar y específicamente en la forma en que revierte ese cóctel venenoso de melancolía e incertidumbre que siempre estará asociado con la vida durante esta pandemia. Acurrucados aquí en mi pequeño estudio con mi novia en Crown Heights, Brooklyn, realmente no tenemos mucho espacio para aclarar nuestras mentes. A diferencia de nuestros alimentos reconfortantes habituales de galletas caseras y Siempre soleado, este programa apocalíptico de HBO no ayuda mucho a levantar el ánimo. Demonios, con todos los personajes tristes tratando y fallando de encontrar un significado en sus vidas irrevocablemente alteradas, apenas les proporciona un escape.

Pero Los restos, como siempre hacen las mejores series, me enganchó bien. Y mientras ingería episodio tras episodio en la oscuridad antes de acostarme cada noche, la línea entre nuestro mundo y el mundo de Miracle, Texas realmente comenzó a desdibujarse.

La ira inquebrantable y omnipresente del Guilty Remnant, el culto de fumar empedernido del show & rsquos dirigido por Ann Dowd, evocó esa rabia específica que siento cada mañana cuando me despierto y descubro más sobre la negligencia de nuestro gobierno. Vestido todo de blanco, el Remnant es un recordatorio constante y agresivo de las personas que desaparecieron. No quieren que los sobrantes sigan adelante y empiecen de nuevo. No van a fingir que no ocurrió algo horrible. Y ciertamente no van a tolerar ninguna mierda de "Todo sucedió por una razón". Como ellos, gané y pronto olvidaré lo que pasó aquí.

Jill Garvey, la joven hija interpretada por Margaret Qualley, caóticamente aburrida, da vida a una actitud más destructiva en el programa. Como su padre, Jill está en espiral. Pero no es sólo la Partida lo que la hace salir a chorros. Ella se ha visto privada de lo que deberían ser los mejores días de su vida. Y sus padres la han mantenido al margen de su divorcio. Todo se siente injusto. Entonces Jill se rebela. Golpea puertas, abusa de las drogas y roba casas. En una situación dolorosa, Jill juega un juego de contener la respiración que se encerra en un refrigerador en el bosque. La compulsión de atacar y destruir es tan tentadora en este momento. Lo entiendo.

Ningún personaje de la serie se siente tan cerca de mí como Kevin Garvey, el jefe de policía de olla a presión que siempre se lanza silenciosamente hacia la inmolación. Las fijaciones mórbidas y las obsesiones violentas de Kevin se llevan al máximo en la segunda temporada. Anhelando tanto su pasado, Kevin se encadena a la cama todas las noches por temor a que él y su hermano huyan en su búsqueda. Como todos nosotros que estamos tapiados lejos de nuestras vidas anteriores, Kevin & rsquos ardiendo en busca de un escape. Resulta que el escape que busca es el último y ndashdeath. Pero cuando finalmente llega a un escenario cantando "Homeward Bound", el remoto mundo de los muertos solo lo hace desear lo que ya tenía y su familia. Sus amigos. Esa mirada tranquilizadora en los ojos de su esposa afuera junto a la piscina en una noche fresca de verano. Todos esos pequeños momentos que dio por sentado hace tanto tiempo.

Extraño el karaoke. Extraño a mis padres, extraño a mis amigos. Extraño quedarme dormido en la ventana de un tren subterráneo y extraño hablar con un extraño borracho en la línea del baño de un bar. Cuando mi novia trajo sus maletas, su gato y su caja de arena a mi apartamento hace cuatro semanas, pensé que este lugar se sentiría como nuestro nuevo hogar. Pero no es así. Se siente como el hotel. Tenemos suerte, tenemos una cama caliente, agua corriente y suficientes cajas de pasta para que nos duren hasta Navidad, pero estamos en una isla aquí. Los informes de muertes en nuestro edificio se están sumando, nuestro superintendente contrajo COVID-19 y tenemos miedo de salir del apartamento. Incluso el mundo exterior, con todas las máscaras y guantes de látex por todas partes, se siente extraño. No es que quiera escapar de mi apartamento o de mi vida o de este plano de la realidad, es que, sea lo que sea, lo que sea que estemos haciendo separados todos los días, no se siente como en casa. Y solo quiero salir de este maldito hotel.

Los restos es un poco difícil de asimilar en este momento. Pero cuando Kevin finalmente regresa al final de la segunda temporada, al ver a su hija, su hijo, su ex esposa, sus amigos, todos ellos parados en su casa esperando para saludarlo, esa mirada cálida y difusa en su rostro ciertamente hizo que el hogar se sintiera un poco más cerca para mí. Con suerte, pronto volveremos a casa.


Escena de karaoke de Justin Theroux en Los restos Me está atormentando ahora mismo

La actuación inestable de Kevin Garvey de 'Homeward Bound' de Simon y Garfunkel me está trayendo esperanza en cuarentena.

Kevin Garvey está solo en el escenario del bar de un hotel, escaneando ansiosamente a la multitud mientras se atraganta con el micrófono. & ldquoSta-start it, & rdquo, murmura. Los primeros acordes de guitarra comienzan a tocar. Es & ldquoHomeward Bound & rdquo por Simon y Garfunkel. Kevin canta. Estoy sentado en la estación de tren y obtuve un boleto para mi destino. Aunque el exjefe de policía interpretado por Justin Theroux realmente no puede mantener la melodía, la letra parece sacudir algo dentro de él. Durante los últimos años, este exaltado potencialmente esquizofrénico se ha estado alienando de todos los que conoce y ama. Perdió a su esposa. Su hijo. Su padre. Y, por supuesto, unos cuatro años antes, el dos por ciento de la población mundial desapareció a su alrededor sin dejar rastro. Pero en lugar de buscar terapia o religión para ayudar a sobrellevar esta pérdida indescriptible, Kevin ha levantado sus anclas y se ha entregado al abismo. He & rsquos ha estado a la deriva.

Sin embargo, aquí, en este hotel remoto, Kevin se ve diferente. Vestido con el uniforme completo, sus ojos pasados ​​por alto, una levedad en su voz, parece que Kevin está comenzando a flotar de regreso a la orilla. Puede que hayan sido necesarias dos experiencias cercanas a la muerte, pero Kevin está listo para admitirlo y quiere irse a casa.

Lo sé, es un poco en la nariz, escribir sobre Los restos ahora. Para ser claros, la serie post-apocalíptica de HBO no es realmente comparable en absoluto a la crisis del mundo real que enfrentamos hoy y al menos no de una manera sustancial que valga la pena discutir. El programa muestra los tumultuosos años que siguen a la misteriosa desaparición del dos por ciento de la población de la Tierra. Pesado en la alegoría religiosa, Sobras spends most of its time with Theroux's Kevin, the angry, aimless police chief who might just be Jesus Christ. We find Kevin singing karaoke in an other-worldly place in the Season Two finale, "I Live Here Now." It's a powerful scene with big spiritual undertones. But whether the hotel represents heaven, hell, or purgatory, it's purely fictional. Here, in our real world, there are no freaky voyages to the after-life. No prophets. No miracles. Only hospitals, ventilators, and the essential workers who are risking their lives every day to keep everything from falling apart.

I&rsquom watching Los restos for the first time right now. And I'll admit, that might have been a masochistic choice. Though it's a fantasy, the series sure does feel familiar&ndashspecifically in the way it reverse-engineers that venomous cocktail of melancholy and uncertainty that will forever be associated with life during this pandemic. Hunkered down here in my tiny studio apartment with my girlfriend in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, we don&rsquot really have a lot of space to clear our minds. Unlike our regular comfort foods of homemade cookies and Always Sunny, this apocalyptic HBO show doesn&rsquot quite help to lift the mood. Hell, with all the sad characters trying and failing to find meaning in their irrevocably altered lives, it barely even provides an escape.

Pero The Leftovers, as the best series always do, hooked me good. And as I ingested episode after episode in the dark before bed each night, the line between our world and the world of Miracle, Texas really began to blur.

The unyielding, ever-present anger from the Guilty Remnant, the show&rsquos chain-smoking cult led by Ann Dowd, evoked that specific rage I feel every morning when I wake up and discover more about the negligence of our government. Dressed all in white, the Remnant is an aggressive, constant reminder of the people that disappeared. They don't want the leftover folks to just move on and start over. They're not going to pretend like something horrifying didn't occur. And they're certainly not going to stand for any "It all happened for a reason" bullshit. Like them, I won&rsquot soon forget what happened here.

Jill Garvey, the young daughter played by a chaotically-bored Margaret Qualley, brings to life a more destructive attitude in the show. Like her father, Jill is spiraling. But it&rsquos not just the Departure that has her spurting out. She&rsquos been deprived of what should be the best days of her life. And her parents have kept her in the dark about their divorce. Everything feels unfair. So Jill rebels. She slams doors, abuses drugs, and burgles houses. In one gristly situation, Jill plays a breath-holding game that gets herself locked in a refrigerator in the woods. The compulsion to lash out and destroy is so tempting right now. Lo entiendo.

No character in the series feels as close to me as Kevin Garvey, the pressure-cooker police chief that is always quietly hurtling towards immolation. Kevin's morbid fixations and violent obsessions are pushed to the maximum in Season Two. Longing so much for his past, Kevin chains himself to the bed each night for fear that he&rsquoll run off in search of it. Like all of us who are boarded up away from our former lives, Kevin&rsquos burning for an escape. As it turns out, the escape that he&rsquos seeking is the ultimate one&ndashdeath. But when he finally gets there on a stage singing "Homeward Bound," the remote world of the dead only makes him long for what he already had&ndashhis family. His friends. That calming look in his wife's eyes outside by the pool on a cool summer night. All those little moments that he took for granted so long ago.

I miss karaoke. I miss my parents, I miss my friends. I miss dozing off on the window of a subway train and I miss talking with a drunken stranger in the bathroom line of a bar. When my girlfriend brought her suitcases, her cat, and his litter box to my apartment four weeks ago, I thought this place would feel like our new home. But it doesn't. It feels like the hotel. We're lucky, we have a warm bed, running water, and enough boxes of pasta to last until Christmas&ndashbut we're on an island here. Reports of deaths in our building are adding up, our superintendent has contracted COVID-19, and we're afraid to leave the apartment. Even the outside world, with all the masks and latex gloves everywhere, it feels foreign. It's not that I want to escape from my apartment or my life or this plane of reality, it's that, whatever this is, whatever we're all doing separated from each other every day, it doesn't feel like home. And I just want to get out of this god damn hotel.

Los restos is a little rough to take in right now. But when Kevin finally gets back in the finale of Season Two, seeing his daughter, his son, his ex-wife, his friends, all of them standing there in his house waiting to greet him, that warm and fuzzy look on his face certainly made home feel a little bit closer for me. Hopefully, we&rsquoll all be homeward bound soon.


Justin Theroux's Karaoke Scene in Los restos Is Haunting Me Right Now

Kevin Garvey's shaky performance of Simon and Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound' is bringing me hope in quarantine.

Kevin Garvey is standing alone on the stage at a hotel bar, anxiously scanning the crowd as he chokes up to the microphone. &ldquoSta-start it,&rdquo he mumbles. The opening guitar chords begin to play. It's &ldquoHomeward Bound&rdquo by Simon and Garfunkel. Kevin sings. I'm sitting in the railway station got a ticket for my destination. Although the former police chief played by Justin Theroux can't really hold a tune, the lyrics seem to shake something loose inside him. For the past few years, this potentially schizophrenic hothead has been alienating himself from everyone he knows and loves. He lost his wife. His son. His father. And, of course, about four years prior, two percent of the entire world's population vanished around him without a trace. But instead of seeking therapy or religion to help cope with this unspeakable loss, Kevin has instead pulled up his anchors and surrendered himself to the abyss. He&rsquos been drifting.

Here in this remote hotel, though, Kevin looks different. Decked out in full uniform, his eyes glossed over, a lightness in his voice, it looks like Kevin is beginning to float back to shore. It may have taken two near-death experiences, but Kevin's ready to admit it&ndashhe wants to go home.

I know, it&rsquos a little bit on-the-nose, writing about Los restos right now. To be clear, the post-apocalyptic HBO series is not really comparable at all to the real-world crisis we&rsquore facing today&ndashat least not in any substantial way worth discussing. The show charts the tumultuous few years that follow a mysterious disappearance of two percent of the people on Earth. Heavy on religious allegory, Sobras spends most of its time with Theroux's Kevin, the angry, aimless police chief who might just be Jesus Christ. We find Kevin singing karaoke in an other-worldly place in the Season Two finale, "I Live Here Now." It's a powerful scene with big spiritual undertones. But whether the hotel represents heaven, hell, or purgatory, it's purely fictional. Here, in our real world, there are no freaky voyages to the after-life. No prophets. No miracles. Only hospitals, ventilators, and the essential workers who are risking their lives every day to keep everything from falling apart.

I&rsquom watching Los restos for the first time right now. And I'll admit, that might have been a masochistic choice. Though it's a fantasy, the series sure does feel familiar&ndashspecifically in the way it reverse-engineers that venomous cocktail of melancholy and uncertainty that will forever be associated with life during this pandemic. Hunkered down here in my tiny studio apartment with my girlfriend in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, we don&rsquot really have a lot of space to clear our minds. Unlike our regular comfort foods of homemade cookies and Always Sunny, this apocalyptic HBO show doesn&rsquot quite help to lift the mood. Hell, with all the sad characters trying and failing to find meaning in their irrevocably altered lives, it barely even provides an escape.

Pero The Leftovers, as the best series always do, hooked me good. And as I ingested episode after episode in the dark before bed each night, the line between our world and the world of Miracle, Texas really began to blur.

The unyielding, ever-present anger from the Guilty Remnant, the show&rsquos chain-smoking cult led by Ann Dowd, evoked that specific rage I feel every morning when I wake up and discover more about the negligence of our government. Dressed all in white, the Remnant is an aggressive, constant reminder of the people that disappeared. They don't want the leftover folks to just move on and start over. They're not going to pretend like something horrifying didn't occur. And they're certainly not going to stand for any "It all happened for a reason" bullshit. Like them, I won&rsquot soon forget what happened here.

Jill Garvey, the young daughter played by a chaotically-bored Margaret Qualley, brings to life a more destructive attitude in the show. Like her father, Jill is spiraling. But it&rsquos not just the Departure that has her spurting out. She&rsquos been deprived of what should be the best days of her life. And her parents have kept her in the dark about their divorce. Everything feels unfair. So Jill rebels. She slams doors, abuses drugs, and burgles houses. In one gristly situation, Jill plays a breath-holding game that gets herself locked in a refrigerator in the woods. The compulsion to lash out and destroy is so tempting right now. Lo entiendo.

No character in the series feels as close to me as Kevin Garvey, the pressure-cooker police chief that is always quietly hurtling towards immolation. Kevin's morbid fixations and violent obsessions are pushed to the maximum in Season Two. Longing so much for his past, Kevin chains himself to the bed each night for fear that he&rsquoll run off in search of it. Like all of us who are boarded up away from our former lives, Kevin&rsquos burning for an escape. As it turns out, the escape that he&rsquos seeking is the ultimate one&ndashdeath. But when he finally gets there on a stage singing "Homeward Bound," the remote world of the dead only makes him long for what he already had&ndashhis family. His friends. That calming look in his wife's eyes outside by the pool on a cool summer night. All those little moments that he took for granted so long ago.

I miss karaoke. I miss my parents, I miss my friends. I miss dozing off on the window of a subway train and I miss talking with a drunken stranger in the bathroom line of a bar. When my girlfriend brought her suitcases, her cat, and his litter box to my apartment four weeks ago, I thought this place would feel like our new home. But it doesn't. It feels like the hotel. We're lucky, we have a warm bed, running water, and enough boxes of pasta to last until Christmas&ndashbut we're on an island here. Reports of deaths in our building are adding up, our superintendent has contracted COVID-19, and we're afraid to leave the apartment. Even the outside world, with all the masks and latex gloves everywhere, it feels foreign. It's not that I want to escape from my apartment or my life or this plane of reality, it's that, whatever this is, whatever we're all doing separated from each other every day, it doesn't feel like home. And I just want to get out of this god damn hotel.

Los restos is a little rough to take in right now. But when Kevin finally gets back in the finale of Season Two, seeing his daughter, his son, his ex-wife, his friends, all of them standing there in his house waiting to greet him, that warm and fuzzy look on his face certainly made home feel a little bit closer for me. Hopefully, we&rsquoll all be homeward bound soon.


Justin Theroux's Karaoke Scene in Los restos Is Haunting Me Right Now

Kevin Garvey's shaky performance of Simon and Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound' is bringing me hope in quarantine.

Kevin Garvey is standing alone on the stage at a hotel bar, anxiously scanning the crowd as he chokes up to the microphone. &ldquoSta-start it,&rdquo he mumbles. The opening guitar chords begin to play. It's &ldquoHomeward Bound&rdquo by Simon and Garfunkel. Kevin sings. I'm sitting in the railway station got a ticket for my destination. Although the former police chief played by Justin Theroux can't really hold a tune, the lyrics seem to shake something loose inside him. For the past few years, this potentially schizophrenic hothead has been alienating himself from everyone he knows and loves. He lost his wife. His son. His father. And, of course, about four years prior, two percent of the entire world's population vanished around him without a trace. But instead of seeking therapy or religion to help cope with this unspeakable loss, Kevin has instead pulled up his anchors and surrendered himself to the abyss. He&rsquos been drifting.

Here in this remote hotel, though, Kevin looks different. Decked out in full uniform, his eyes glossed over, a lightness in his voice, it looks like Kevin is beginning to float back to shore. It may have taken two near-death experiences, but Kevin's ready to admit it&ndashhe wants to go home.

I know, it&rsquos a little bit on-the-nose, writing about Los restos right now. To be clear, the post-apocalyptic HBO series is not really comparable at all to the real-world crisis we&rsquore facing today&ndashat least not in any substantial way worth discussing. The show charts the tumultuous few years that follow a mysterious disappearance of two percent of the people on Earth. Heavy on religious allegory, Sobras spends most of its time with Theroux's Kevin, the angry, aimless police chief who might just be Jesus Christ. We find Kevin singing karaoke in an other-worldly place in the Season Two finale, "I Live Here Now." It's a powerful scene with big spiritual undertones. But whether the hotel represents heaven, hell, or purgatory, it's purely fictional. Here, in our real world, there are no freaky voyages to the after-life. No prophets. No miracles. Only hospitals, ventilators, and the essential workers who are risking their lives every day to keep everything from falling apart.

I&rsquom watching Los restos for the first time right now. And I'll admit, that might have been a masochistic choice. Though it's a fantasy, the series sure does feel familiar&ndashspecifically in the way it reverse-engineers that venomous cocktail of melancholy and uncertainty that will forever be associated with life during this pandemic. Hunkered down here in my tiny studio apartment with my girlfriend in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, we don&rsquot really have a lot of space to clear our minds. Unlike our regular comfort foods of homemade cookies and Always Sunny, this apocalyptic HBO show doesn&rsquot quite help to lift the mood. Hell, with all the sad characters trying and failing to find meaning in their irrevocably altered lives, it barely even provides an escape.

Pero The Leftovers, as the best series always do, hooked me good. And as I ingested episode after episode in the dark before bed each night, the line between our world and the world of Miracle, Texas really began to blur.

The unyielding, ever-present anger from the Guilty Remnant, the show&rsquos chain-smoking cult led by Ann Dowd, evoked that specific rage I feel every morning when I wake up and discover more about the negligence of our government. Dressed all in white, the Remnant is an aggressive, constant reminder of the people that disappeared. They don't want the leftover folks to just move on and start over. They're not going to pretend like something horrifying didn't occur. And they're certainly not going to stand for any "It all happened for a reason" bullshit. Like them, I won&rsquot soon forget what happened here.

Jill Garvey, the young daughter played by a chaotically-bored Margaret Qualley, brings to life a more destructive attitude in the show. Like her father, Jill is spiraling. But it&rsquos not just the Departure that has her spurting out. She&rsquos been deprived of what should be the best days of her life. And her parents have kept her in the dark about their divorce. Everything feels unfair. So Jill rebels. She slams doors, abuses drugs, and burgles houses. In one gristly situation, Jill plays a breath-holding game that gets herself locked in a refrigerator in the woods. The compulsion to lash out and destroy is so tempting right now. Lo entiendo.

No character in the series feels as close to me as Kevin Garvey, the pressure-cooker police chief that is always quietly hurtling towards immolation. Kevin's morbid fixations and violent obsessions are pushed to the maximum in Season Two. Longing so much for his past, Kevin chains himself to the bed each night for fear that he&rsquoll run off in search of it. Like all of us who are boarded up away from our former lives, Kevin&rsquos burning for an escape. As it turns out, the escape that he&rsquos seeking is the ultimate one&ndashdeath. But when he finally gets there on a stage singing "Homeward Bound," the remote world of the dead only makes him long for what he already had&ndashhis family. His friends. That calming look in his wife's eyes outside by the pool on a cool summer night. All those little moments that he took for granted so long ago.

I miss karaoke. I miss my parents, I miss my friends. I miss dozing off on the window of a subway train and I miss talking with a drunken stranger in the bathroom line of a bar. When my girlfriend brought her suitcases, her cat, and his litter box to my apartment four weeks ago, I thought this place would feel like our new home. But it doesn't. It feels like the hotel. We're lucky, we have a warm bed, running water, and enough boxes of pasta to last until Christmas&ndashbut we're on an island here. Reports of deaths in our building are adding up, our superintendent has contracted COVID-19, and we're afraid to leave the apartment. Even the outside world, with all the masks and latex gloves everywhere, it feels foreign. It's not that I want to escape from my apartment or my life or this plane of reality, it's that, whatever this is, whatever we're all doing separated from each other every day, it doesn't feel like home. And I just want to get out of this god damn hotel.

Los restos is a little rough to take in right now. But when Kevin finally gets back in the finale of Season Two, seeing his daughter, his son, his ex-wife, his friends, all of them standing there in his house waiting to greet him, that warm and fuzzy look on his face certainly made home feel a little bit closer for me. Hopefully, we&rsquoll all be homeward bound soon.


Justin Theroux's Karaoke Scene in Los restos Is Haunting Me Right Now

Kevin Garvey's shaky performance of Simon and Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound' is bringing me hope in quarantine.

Kevin Garvey is standing alone on the stage at a hotel bar, anxiously scanning the crowd as he chokes up to the microphone. &ldquoSta-start it,&rdquo he mumbles. The opening guitar chords begin to play. It's &ldquoHomeward Bound&rdquo by Simon and Garfunkel. Kevin sings. I'm sitting in the railway station got a ticket for my destination. Although the former police chief played by Justin Theroux can't really hold a tune, the lyrics seem to shake something loose inside him. For the past few years, this potentially schizophrenic hothead has been alienating himself from everyone he knows and loves. He lost his wife. His son. His father. And, of course, about four years prior, two percent of the entire world's population vanished around him without a trace. But instead of seeking therapy or religion to help cope with this unspeakable loss, Kevin has instead pulled up his anchors and surrendered himself to the abyss. He&rsquos been drifting.

Here in this remote hotel, though, Kevin looks different. Decked out in full uniform, his eyes glossed over, a lightness in his voice, it looks like Kevin is beginning to float back to shore. It may have taken two near-death experiences, but Kevin's ready to admit it&ndashhe wants to go home.

I know, it&rsquos a little bit on-the-nose, writing about Los restos right now. To be clear, the post-apocalyptic HBO series is not really comparable at all to the real-world crisis we&rsquore facing today&ndashat least not in any substantial way worth discussing. The show charts the tumultuous few years that follow a mysterious disappearance of two percent of the people on Earth. Heavy on religious allegory, Sobras spends most of its time with Theroux's Kevin, the angry, aimless police chief who might just be Jesus Christ. We find Kevin singing karaoke in an other-worldly place in the Season Two finale, "I Live Here Now." It's a powerful scene with big spiritual undertones. But whether the hotel represents heaven, hell, or purgatory, it's purely fictional. Here, in our real world, there are no freaky voyages to the after-life. No prophets. No miracles. Only hospitals, ventilators, and the essential workers who are risking their lives every day to keep everything from falling apart.

I&rsquom watching Los restos for the first time right now. And I'll admit, that might have been a masochistic choice. Though it's a fantasy, the series sure does feel familiar&ndashspecifically in the way it reverse-engineers that venomous cocktail of melancholy and uncertainty that will forever be associated with life during this pandemic. Hunkered down here in my tiny studio apartment with my girlfriend in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, we don&rsquot really have a lot of space to clear our minds. Unlike our regular comfort foods of homemade cookies and Always Sunny, this apocalyptic HBO show doesn&rsquot quite help to lift the mood. Hell, with all the sad characters trying and failing to find meaning in their irrevocably altered lives, it barely even provides an escape.

Pero The Leftovers, as the best series always do, hooked me good. And as I ingested episode after episode in the dark before bed each night, the line between our world and the world of Miracle, Texas really began to blur.

The unyielding, ever-present anger from the Guilty Remnant, the show&rsquos chain-smoking cult led by Ann Dowd, evoked that specific rage I feel every morning when I wake up and discover more about the negligence of our government. Dressed all in white, the Remnant is an aggressive, constant reminder of the people that disappeared. They don't want the leftover folks to just move on and start over. They're not going to pretend like something horrifying didn't occur. And they're certainly not going to stand for any "It all happened for a reason" bullshit. Like them, I won&rsquot soon forget what happened here.

Jill Garvey, the young daughter played by a chaotically-bored Margaret Qualley, brings to life a more destructive attitude in the show. Like her father, Jill is spiraling. But it&rsquos not just the Departure that has her spurting out. She&rsquos been deprived of what should be the best days of her life. And her parents have kept her in the dark about their divorce. Everything feels unfair. So Jill rebels. She slams doors, abuses drugs, and burgles houses. In one gristly situation, Jill plays a breath-holding game that gets herself locked in a refrigerator in the woods. The compulsion to lash out and destroy is so tempting right now. Lo entiendo.

No character in the series feels as close to me as Kevin Garvey, the pressure-cooker police chief that is always quietly hurtling towards immolation. Kevin's morbid fixations and violent obsessions are pushed to the maximum in Season Two. Longing so much for his past, Kevin chains himself to the bed each night for fear that he&rsquoll run off in search of it. Like all of us who are boarded up away from our former lives, Kevin&rsquos burning for an escape. As it turns out, the escape that he&rsquos seeking is the ultimate one&ndashdeath. But when he finally gets there on a stage singing "Homeward Bound," the remote world of the dead only makes him long for what he already had&ndashhis family. His friends. That calming look in his wife's eyes outside by the pool on a cool summer night. All those little moments that he took for granted so long ago.

I miss karaoke. I miss my parents, I miss my friends. I miss dozing off on the window of a subway train and I miss talking with a drunken stranger in the bathroom line of a bar. When my girlfriend brought her suitcases, her cat, and his litter box to my apartment four weeks ago, I thought this place would feel like our new home. But it doesn't. It feels like the hotel. We're lucky, we have a warm bed, running water, and enough boxes of pasta to last until Christmas&ndashbut we're on an island here. Reports of deaths in our building are adding up, our superintendent has contracted COVID-19, and we're afraid to leave the apartment. Even the outside world, with all the masks and latex gloves everywhere, it feels foreign. It's not that I want to escape from my apartment or my life or this plane of reality, it's that, whatever this is, whatever we're all doing separated from each other every day, it doesn't feel like home. And I just want to get out of this god damn hotel.

Los restos is a little rough to take in right now. But when Kevin finally gets back in the finale of Season Two, seeing his daughter, his son, his ex-wife, his friends, all of them standing there in his house waiting to greet him, that warm and fuzzy look on his face certainly made home feel a little bit closer for me. Hopefully, we&rsquoll all be homeward bound soon.


Justin Theroux's Karaoke Scene in Los restos Is Haunting Me Right Now

Kevin Garvey's shaky performance of Simon and Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound' is bringing me hope in quarantine.

Kevin Garvey is standing alone on the stage at a hotel bar, anxiously scanning the crowd as he chokes up to the microphone. &ldquoSta-start it,&rdquo he mumbles. The opening guitar chords begin to play. It's &ldquoHomeward Bound&rdquo by Simon and Garfunkel. Kevin sings. I'm sitting in the railway station got a ticket for my destination. Although the former police chief played by Justin Theroux can't really hold a tune, the lyrics seem to shake something loose inside him. For the past few years, this potentially schizophrenic hothead has been alienating himself from everyone he knows and loves. He lost his wife. His son. His father. And, of course, about four years prior, two percent of the entire world's population vanished around him without a trace. But instead of seeking therapy or religion to help cope with this unspeakable loss, Kevin has instead pulled up his anchors and surrendered himself to the abyss. He&rsquos been drifting.

Here in this remote hotel, though, Kevin looks different. Decked out in full uniform, his eyes glossed over, a lightness in his voice, it looks like Kevin is beginning to float back to shore. It may have taken two near-death experiences, but Kevin's ready to admit it&ndashhe wants to go home.

I know, it&rsquos a little bit on-the-nose, writing about Los restos right now. To be clear, the post-apocalyptic HBO series is not really comparable at all to the real-world crisis we&rsquore facing today&ndashat least not in any substantial way worth discussing. The show charts the tumultuous few years that follow a mysterious disappearance of two percent of the people on Earth. Heavy on religious allegory, Sobras spends most of its time with Theroux's Kevin, the angry, aimless police chief who might just be Jesus Christ. We find Kevin singing karaoke in an other-worldly place in the Season Two finale, "I Live Here Now." It's a powerful scene with big spiritual undertones. But whether the hotel represents heaven, hell, or purgatory, it's purely fictional. Here, in our real world, there are no freaky voyages to the after-life. No prophets. No miracles. Only hospitals, ventilators, and the essential workers who are risking their lives every day to keep everything from falling apart.

I&rsquom watching Los restos for the first time right now. And I'll admit, that might have been a masochistic choice. Though it's a fantasy, the series sure does feel familiar&ndashspecifically in the way it reverse-engineers that venomous cocktail of melancholy and uncertainty that will forever be associated with life during this pandemic. Hunkered down here in my tiny studio apartment with my girlfriend in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, we don&rsquot really have a lot of space to clear our minds. Unlike our regular comfort foods of homemade cookies and Always Sunny, this apocalyptic HBO show doesn&rsquot quite help to lift the mood. Hell, with all the sad characters trying and failing to find meaning in their irrevocably altered lives, it barely even provides an escape.

Pero The Leftovers, as the best series always do, hooked me good. And as I ingested episode after episode in the dark before bed each night, the line between our world and the world of Miracle, Texas really began to blur.

The unyielding, ever-present anger from the Guilty Remnant, the show&rsquos chain-smoking cult led by Ann Dowd, evoked that specific rage I feel every morning when I wake up and discover more about the negligence of our government. Dressed all in white, the Remnant is an aggressive, constant reminder of the people that disappeared. They don't want the leftover folks to just move on and start over. They're not going to pretend like something horrifying didn't occur. And they're certainly not going to stand for any "It all happened for a reason" bullshit. Like them, I won&rsquot soon forget what happened here.

Jill Garvey, the young daughter played by a chaotically-bored Margaret Qualley, brings to life a more destructive attitude in the show. Like her father, Jill is spiraling. But it&rsquos not just the Departure that has her spurting out. She&rsquos been deprived of what should be the best days of her life. And her parents have kept her in the dark about their divorce. Everything feels unfair. So Jill rebels. She slams doors, abuses drugs, and burgles houses. In one gristly situation, Jill plays a breath-holding game that gets herself locked in a refrigerator in the woods. The compulsion to lash out and destroy is so tempting right now. Lo entiendo.

No character in the series feels as close to me as Kevin Garvey, the pressure-cooker police chief that is always quietly hurtling towards immolation. Kevin's morbid fixations and violent obsessions are pushed to the maximum in Season Two. Longing so much for his past, Kevin chains himself to the bed each night for fear that he&rsquoll run off in search of it. Like all of us who are boarded up away from our former lives, Kevin&rsquos burning for an escape. As it turns out, the escape that he&rsquos seeking is the ultimate one&ndashdeath. But when he finally gets there on a stage singing "Homeward Bound," the remote world of the dead only makes him long for what he already had&ndashhis family. His friends. That calming look in his wife's eyes outside by the pool on a cool summer night. All those little moments that he took for granted so long ago.

I miss karaoke. I miss my parents, I miss my friends. I miss dozing off on the window of a subway train and I miss talking with a drunken stranger in the bathroom line of a bar. When my girlfriend brought her suitcases, her cat, and his litter box to my apartment four weeks ago, I thought this place would feel like our new home. But it doesn't. It feels like the hotel. We're lucky, we have a warm bed, running water, and enough boxes of pasta to last until Christmas&ndashbut we're on an island here. Reports of deaths in our building are adding up, our superintendent has contracted COVID-19, and we're afraid to leave the apartment. Even the outside world, with all the masks and latex gloves everywhere, it feels foreign. It's not that I want to escape from my apartment or my life or this plane of reality, it's that, whatever this is, whatever we're all doing separated from each other every day, it doesn't feel like home. And I just want to get out of this god damn hotel.

Los restos is a little rough to take in right now. But when Kevin finally gets back in the finale of Season Two, seeing his daughter, his son, his ex-wife, his friends, all of them standing there in his house waiting to greet him, that warm and fuzzy look on his face certainly made home feel a little bit closer for me. Hopefully, we&rsquoll all be homeward bound soon.


Justin Theroux's Karaoke Scene in Los restos Is Haunting Me Right Now

Kevin Garvey's shaky performance of Simon and Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound' is bringing me hope in quarantine.

Kevin Garvey is standing alone on the stage at a hotel bar, anxiously scanning the crowd as he chokes up to the microphone. &ldquoSta-start it,&rdquo he mumbles. The opening guitar chords begin to play. It's &ldquoHomeward Bound&rdquo by Simon and Garfunkel. Kevin sings. I'm sitting in the railway station got a ticket for my destination. Although the former police chief played by Justin Theroux can't really hold a tune, the lyrics seem to shake something loose inside him. For the past few years, this potentially schizophrenic hothead has been alienating himself from everyone he knows and loves. He lost his wife. His son. His father. And, of course, about four years prior, two percent of the entire world's population vanished around him without a trace. But instead of seeking therapy or religion to help cope with this unspeakable loss, Kevin has instead pulled up his anchors and surrendered himself to the abyss. He&rsquos been drifting.

Here in this remote hotel, though, Kevin looks different. Decked out in full uniform, his eyes glossed over, a lightness in his voice, it looks like Kevin is beginning to float back to shore. It may have taken two near-death experiences, but Kevin's ready to admit it&ndashhe wants to go home.

I know, it&rsquos a little bit on-the-nose, writing about Los restos right now. To be clear, the post-apocalyptic HBO series is not really comparable at all to the real-world crisis we&rsquore facing today&ndashat least not in any substantial way worth discussing. The show charts the tumultuous few years that follow a mysterious disappearance of two percent of the people on Earth. Heavy on religious allegory, Sobras spends most of its time with Theroux's Kevin, the angry, aimless police chief who might just be Jesus Christ. We find Kevin singing karaoke in an other-worldly place in the Season Two finale, "I Live Here Now." It's a powerful scene with big spiritual undertones. But whether the hotel represents heaven, hell, or purgatory, it's purely fictional. Here, in our real world, there are no freaky voyages to the after-life. No prophets. No miracles. Only hospitals, ventilators, and the essential workers who are risking their lives every day to keep everything from falling apart.

I&rsquom watching Los restos for the first time right now. And I'll admit, that might have been a masochistic choice. Though it's a fantasy, the series sure does feel familiar&ndashspecifically in the way it reverse-engineers that venomous cocktail of melancholy and uncertainty that will forever be associated with life during this pandemic. Hunkered down here in my tiny studio apartment with my girlfriend in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, we don&rsquot really have a lot of space to clear our minds. Unlike our regular comfort foods of homemade cookies and Always Sunny, this apocalyptic HBO show doesn&rsquot quite help to lift the mood. Hell, with all the sad characters trying and failing to find meaning in their irrevocably altered lives, it barely even provides an escape.

Pero The Leftovers, as the best series always do, hooked me good. And as I ingested episode after episode in the dark before bed each night, the line between our world and the world of Miracle, Texas really began to blur.

The unyielding, ever-present anger from the Guilty Remnant, the show&rsquos chain-smoking cult led by Ann Dowd, evoked that specific rage I feel every morning when I wake up and discover more about the negligence of our government. Dressed all in white, the Remnant is an aggressive, constant reminder of the people that disappeared. They don't want the leftover folks to just move on and start over. They're not going to pretend like something horrifying didn't occur. And they're certainly not going to stand for any "It all happened for a reason" bullshit. Like them, I won&rsquot soon forget what happened here.

Jill Garvey, the young daughter played by a chaotically-bored Margaret Qualley, brings to life a more destructive attitude in the show. Like her father, Jill is spiraling. But it&rsquos not just the Departure that has her spurting out. She&rsquos been deprived of what should be the best days of her life. And her parents have kept her in the dark about their divorce. Everything feels unfair. So Jill rebels. She slams doors, abuses drugs, and burgles houses. In one gristly situation, Jill plays a breath-holding game that gets herself locked in a refrigerator in the woods. The compulsion to lash out and destroy is so tempting right now. Lo entiendo.

No character in the series feels as close to me as Kevin Garvey, the pressure-cooker police chief that is always quietly hurtling towards immolation. Kevin's morbid fixations and violent obsessions are pushed to the maximum in Season Two. Longing so much for his past, Kevin chains himself to the bed each night for fear that he&rsquoll run off in search of it. Like all of us who are boarded up away from our former lives, Kevin&rsquos burning for an escape. As it turns out, the escape that he&rsquos seeking is the ultimate one&ndashdeath. But when he finally gets there on a stage singing "Homeward Bound," the remote world of the dead only makes him long for what he already had&ndashhis family. His friends. That calming look in his wife's eyes outside by the pool on a cool summer night. All those little moments that he took for granted so long ago.

I miss karaoke. I miss my parents, I miss my friends. I miss dozing off on the window of a subway train and I miss talking with a drunken stranger in the bathroom line of a bar. When my girlfriend brought her suitcases, her cat, and his litter box to my apartment four weeks ago, I thought this place would feel like our new home. But it doesn't. It feels like the hotel. We're lucky, we have a warm bed, running water, and enough boxes of pasta to last until Christmas&ndashbut we're on an island here. Reports of deaths in our building are adding up, our superintendent has contracted COVID-19, and we're afraid to leave the apartment. Even the outside world, with all the masks and latex gloves everywhere, it feels foreign. It's not that I want to escape from my apartment or my life or this plane of reality, it's that, whatever this is, whatever we're all doing separated from each other every day, it doesn't feel like home. And I just want to get out of this god damn hotel.

Los restos is a little rough to take in right now. But when Kevin finally gets back in the finale of Season Two, seeing his daughter, his son, his ex-wife, his friends, all of them standing there in his house waiting to greet him, that warm and fuzzy look on his face certainly made home feel a little bit closer for me. Hopefully, we&rsquoll all be homeward bound soon.