Netflix has me pretty much entangled in an euphoric high wire that is no danger of being clipped.
I have been confined to watching shows on my iPhone since I left my comfy abode in New York City to pursue a life in Los Angeles.
I have purposely made it my mission to eliminate the filth of Reality TV because those shows were subtracting a lot more than they were adding to my fragile existence.
The truth is that once the Housewives and Hip-Hop elite disappeared from view — I became a creative ninja without a filter.
All this to announce that I have found the show that scarily gives me rainbow vision — every time it skates though my screen on command.
It’s called Lady Dynamite! And it’s unassumingly awesome.
I love everything about it. Even the title gives me reason to stand at a salute whenever the explosively neon credits roll in — and unleash a new tale furnished with rejuvenating vigor by real life stand-up comedian actress — Maria Bamford.
You see, the reason why her chaotic presence on the small screen is energetically applauded is due to her uncensored need to reveal the continuously unwinding threads of her life.
Bamford has suffered with bipolar disorder for most of her life. She spent considerable amount of time under psychiatric care — seeking treatment for her condition.
Instead of buckling under the pressure of her lifelong predicament — Bamford’s remarkably turned her bad fortune into an inspirational wonder in the form of her very own show that depicts the highs and lows of a character that is instantly seductively memorable.
Maria Bamford is Lady Dynamite.
All her trials and tribulations are stunningly detailed without much of a filter which seems to be the code for living these days.
No, Maria just spent six months of her life in a psych ward and upon her release — she’s desperately trying and hoping to revive her stagnant career in the City of Angels — with the help of an agent who seems to be a lot loopier than she is.
My first reaction after peeping the pilot was fuck! This is the show I wish I had written. Such brilliance can only be funneled through human experience.
The second thing that overcame me — was the gorgeousness of Maria’s madness.
Her messiness is comforting and assuaging in ways that I rarely get from any character of color currently dominating the landscape of television.
Olivia Pope is a smothering bad ass but no matter how many Scandals she epically diffuses — she represents the exact same thing that Superman provided when I was a wide-eyed teen.
Being Mary Jane isn’t completely unrelatable. But it still presents a woman of color who seemingly has it all — except the mandated man of her dreams.
Viola Davis kicks ass as renowned attorney — Annalise Keating on How to Get Away with Murder — but the woman she plays doesn’t leave much of a dent on my psyche.
Black women aren’t given any room to be explorative so the range of emotions and responses are regulated to heightened bolts of intensity.
Shonda Rhimes has excelled at perfecting this formula and despite the immense popularity of her offerings — I’ve always remained neutral and silently ambitious.
I want to create the vehicle that showcases the black woman that nobody saw coming or knows how to handle because she’s seriously nuts.
White women have historically set the bar when it comes to owning the inherent pleasures of neurosis.
Lady Dynamite fits the bills splendidly and for me — it’s heaven to partake of each episodic combustion.
I say that because I’m also radically inclined.
My mind tethers at a rate that is beyond comprehension and I experience jarring sessions of uneven tempos.
A litany of positive vibes and dancing under a radiantly blue sky can abruptly evacuate and surrender to the nagging need to head to Venice Beach — with the mission of disappearing without a trace.
It’s really that simple.
Bamford’s imperial testament plays out exactly the way it should. In a flood of comical fodder, devastating flashbacks and the resounding alluring present.
We want her to win. No, we need her to win.
She’s a survivor who is surviving what she she narrowly survived.
I dig it.
In a world where selfies, big butts and big money — rule supreme — it’s calming to tune into the symphony of a woman who has no category to be slotted in because she is joylessly complicated.
I never realized just how messed up I really was until I witnessed Maria’s instrumental rants.
There was a pride of kinship that developed on my end that is yet to be transferable but in the meantime it stews in the bowels of the knowledge that crazy isn’t as crazy as you think.
It can be a fantastical indulgence that introduces a forty-five-year-old woman — who is trying to salvage the better years — against all the odds that she erects without effort.
It’s a Dynamite journey and I’m so grateful and privileged to be along for the ride.
Unwired insanity never looked so good and the requited validation of my constant unhinging has emancipated my version of the joy of madness.