The Amazing Pods, Songs, and Cats That Got Us Through the Week

As first lines go, you don’t get much more withering than “You say you a soldier, but baby I’m a soldier.” So begins the self-affirming “Hardlife,” off the glorious Clear 2: Soft Life EP from Atlanta singer-songwriter Summer Walker. The laconic track is sparse–a groaning guitar, a handful of piano notes, a tsking beat–giving Walker plenty of room to air out her grievances. (“It’s the audacity, what you havе asked of me / You say you want me soft, but givе me a hard life.”) Soft Life is thick with neo-neo soul vibes like a room full of incense, so much so that upon its release last week, “Erykah Badu” trended. (Walker references her “Tyrone” in a track and evokes her pinched vocal stylings at times, notably on “Pull Up.”) I got the sense there was some controversy there, though what I mostly saw was complaining about the complaints about the Erykah parallels, so I’m not sure how big the precipitating controversy was in the first place. Regardless, Clear 2 is proof that more people should be following in Badu’s own referential footsteps. Ingenious sad-girl spring art. —Rich Juzwiack

I’m in love with these ridiculously fluffy cats in the U.K. who get to spend their days in a dreamy backyard garden. I’ve seen posts from this account before, but what got me to follow this week was a viral clip of their owner, known only as Catdad, “donating” the cats’ brushed-off fur to the birds for nest-making purposes. (Yes, there is footage of a bird pulling some fur.)

Teddie, the orange one, literally begs to be picked up, and Casper, the white one, makes air biscuits during belly rubs. They are literal angels and just the thing I need to see to counterbalance all of the very bleak shit I cover. (Though the account also makes occasional U.K. politics jokes.) —Susan Rinkunas

It’s embarrassing for me to admit on a women’s website that I, a woman, often enough indulge in the decisively bro-y Pod Save America. And for the first time ever, I’m recommending that you all join me this one time for Thursday’s episode, “Ron’s Boulevard of Broken Streams,” a dicey little recap of Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis (R) comically disastrous presidential launch via Twitter Spaces this week. The whole affair was something akin to human Chernobyl, as the platform struggled to hold a relatively meager 300,000-member audience. BuzzFeed’s livestream for exploding a watermelon garnered well over 800,000, and the Space was bogged down by mic issues, bout after bout of coughing, and an utter charisma void.

Well, a disaster of such epic proportions by such a loathsome Republican leader who practically oozes loser energy is basically the Super Bowl for the Obama alums, and the sheer amount of fun they have ripping DeSantis to shreds on this week’s podcast is contagious. If you’re flying or road-tripping anywhere this Memorial Day weekend, I recommend giving the episode a listen and having a chortle or two at Meatball Ron’s expense. —Kylie Cheung

As one of the innumerable survivors of sexual assault subsisting in a culture that churns out narratives about the singular—yet all too common—trauma incurred from such, it’s sadly rare that any truly resonate. Prima Facie, the Olivier-decorated, Tony-nominated, play from Suzie Miller, is an exception.

The protagonist, Jodie Comer’s Tessa Ensler—an ambitious attorney from working-class origins—serves as an avatar for countless, often faceless, survivors of sexual assault as she reckons not just with being raped by a colleague, but the inherent flaws of the criminal justice system as she does what so few can: testify against her perpetrator.

Comer, who’s on stage for nearly the entirety of the 100-minute piece, rearranges the set, seamlessly completes wardrobe changes, and emotes in ways that are seared onto my brain from here to eternity. Frankly, I don’t care what anyone says about Jessica Chastain in A Doll’s House, the Tony belongs to Comer.

For those unable to see it, Miller’s play is available in paperback form. (And if you’re visiting NYC anytime soon, Prima Facie runs through July 2 and is obviously well worth the high ticket price.) Whether you represent the 1 in 3 statistic that serves as the basis for Prima Facie or love someone who does, I can’t recommend engaging with this story enough. —Audra Heinrichs

A part of my soul is leaving my body this weekend. Succession is ending. Dramatic? Yes. But so is the show about big business and a scary family that I will miss so much! To prepare for the hole I will feel in my heart when my TV screen is no longer filled with Roman pretending to jerk off during a board meeting or Shiv twisting her pouty lips in lieu of saying how she feels, I have been watching Succession fancam montages.

They are all delusional and almost entirely miss any nuance the show works to create. I’m also certain they are being made by 15-year-olds with too much time on their hands. But, as anyone versed in internet culture knows, 15-year-olds with too much time on their hands are the Leonardo Da Vinci of fan fiction.

Without further ado, I recommend this Kendal Roy fancam of him being a badass (something he is not.) Here is one of Tom and Shiv being soulmates and then naturally Tom and Greg being soulmates. And for good measure, here’s an edit that makes Roman look like a lothario. I’m going to miss this show so much! (Sorry to my colleague Nora, who’s entirely sick of us talking about it.) —Kady Ruth Ashcraft

This sick, twisted, and deeply funny Norgweigan satire (available to rent on Prime Video) has already garnered plenty of rave reviews, but if it’s still managed to fly under your radar, here is your official notification to add it to your watch list.

The main character, Signe, is a manager at a coffee shop, but also a narcissist watching her (equally narcissistic boyfriend) gain fame and notoriety as an artist who...steals furniture to make sculptures. Feeling overshadowed, she starts exploring insane ways she might get a little fame and notoriety herself—and ultimately lands on taking a Russian medication that’s been banned because its worst side effect turns out to be a horrible and disfiguring skin condition. And it’s all as absurd and cringe-worthy as its premise suggests. I can’t remember the last movie to twist my face into such a conflicting expression of laughter, disgust, delight, and repulsion. —Lauren Tousignant

Artificial intelligence and cops…it’s not exactly the dynamic duo I’d expect to be excited about. And yet, here I am, zipping through Class of ’09, FX’s new show on Hulu that lays out the seemingly promising (if you’re an idiot) but ultimately bone-chilling (who would’ve thought!) collaboration between AI and the FBI.

The show jumps between the present (2023), the past (2009), and the future (2034), following four graduates of the Quantico program as their work within the FBI and their personal relationships overlap and then wildly diverge. In the first four episodes, we get actually touching scenes from their bonding at the training program (reminiscent of the Hunger Games’ training sequences—cute!), spy ops in the present, and the surveillance state in the future. There are cool cybernetic implants, lesbian chemistry, straight sex, and a white nationalist terrorist plot.

And none of it is annoyingly complicated, I swear! That’s kind of the beauty of it. So far the reviews have been mediocre, which I understand—the bar set for FX and this cast in particular is high. But I like to look at Class of ’09 as Severance if it mated with Minority Report (cerebral and spooky, but not artistic), or The Diplomat for the sci-fi crowd (smart, but not prestige). If nothing else, it’s another excuse to watch Bryan Tyree Henry do what he does so well. —Sarah Rense

Netflix’s most deranged reality series, which makes Love Is Blind feel sensible, is back and more absurdist than ever. The Ultimatum features six couples, one member of each pair of which has been issued an ultimatum: marriage now and forever or done-zo. In order to discern whether or not they should be together, for some reason, the couples swap “potential wives” and live together in three-week “trial marriages” before returning to their original partnership for decision time. It’s messy as hell. And now it’s gay as hell, too.

The couples this season are made up entirely of queer women—femmes, mascs, and some nonbinary people who use she/her pronouns as they figure out their gender identity. Luckily for us, more queer women mean more potential matches…and the opportunity for one person to date both members of an original couple. Like I said, mess. Once the ultimatum issuers meet the full group of spunky femmes and mascs in bathing suits, their ultimatums seem to fly out the window. Expect lots of mature communication, eye contact, hand-holding, a narcissist, and U-Hauling! —Emily Leibert

This album is likely Kesha’s last album on her contract with Dr. Luke. It’s a collaboration with producer Rick Rubin that makes you think it will be similar to her older stuff. Despite “Only Love Can Save Us Now” and “Something To Believe In,” it’s a rather jarring and introspective album. It’s not that the party-girl persona she’s donned and shed over the last decade is fully gone, but the album feels more like it’s the afternoon after a hard night rather than trying to pick back up the energy at brunch a la her 2017 album Rainbow. As the defamation trial against her goes to trial in July, it seems like this is an attempt at finding a much quieter peace and trying to accept what you can’t exactly control anymore. Play “Eat the Acid” over and over again to bring yourself to some kind of meditative peace as we head into Memorial Day weekend. —Caitlin Cruz

If you’re not already following the hilarious Birkin Boyfriends on TikTok, now would be a great time to start. The bougie Brits have been going viral for some time, just basically for posting ridiculous videos of themselves in which they narrate their own over-the-top dates while prominently displaying their Birkin bags. But they’ve become especially, delightfully unhinged this past week, most notably with this dispatch from a boat cruise set to opera music. If this doesn’t make you laugh I don’t know what will. —Laura Bassett

I finished Emma Cline’s new novel, The Guest, three days ago, and it’s been sitting in my brain, gnawing away any time I’ve fallen into a sense of comfort or contentment. Not because it was bad; the opposite! The Guest is expertly crafted to unsettle you. As my colleague Rich Juzwiask put it in his review last week, reading this carries the risk of developing “an itchiness resulting from the fear that something really, really bad is going to happen and the inability to look away.”

The novel takes place within a single week at the end of the summer in the Hamptons, but otherwise steers away from any logistical specifics in its characters’ lives. We get a few flashbacks from Alex, a 22-year-old (former?) sex worker who is at once depressingly bereft of naivete yet blindingly confident, but we don’t know anything about her life or how she got linked up with the guy she stole an unspecified amount of money from (and who is now loosely, ominously after her). Nor do we know any details about her boyfriend-or-sugar-daddy, Simon, or the semi-tragic young man she links up with in the latter half of the book, whose patheticness and anger issues become more and more apparent as the plot throttles toward the finish line. Alex slides between two worlds—being broke and effectively homeless in New York City, and faking it until she (sort of) makes it in the world of the 0.001%—and on any given page, she is desperately trying to cling on to the latter. What makes this such a good book is seeing just how close those efforts get her, and wondering about how miserable her potential failure might be. —Nora Biette-Timmons

Taylor released a couple of fun little bops on Friday, including a remix of “Karma” featuring Ice Spice and a rerecorded version of “Snow on the Beach” featuring Lana Del Rey singing an entire verse rather than just backing vocals. But while those two might be getting the most attention, the release of “Hits Different,” the bonus track on the Target-exclusive version of Midnights, is her true gift to us all.

For months, I’ve been waking up early on Fridays to see if this song had finally been added to streaming. The lyrics are devastating, yet the melody urges you to dance around screaming, “Oh my, love is a lie!” It feels like a gorgeous convergence of old Taylor (Speak Now, Red) and new-er Taylor (1989, Lover). Plus—and I don’t say this lightly—it has one of her best bridges.

We’ll likely never know why it took so long for it to get added to Spotify (in the past, her bonus tracks have been added a couple of weeks after the album release), but I’m happy as hell I can finally sleep peacefully again on Thursday nights. —LT