Hey, it's Sean Fennessey. We've got something special cooking on the Prestige TV podcast.

I'll be recapping one of my favorite shows, HBO's Barry, every Sunday night with the writer-director star of the show, The Great Bill Hater.

We'll talk about the show's wild twists and turns, its special brand of dark comedy, and how it all came together.

So on Sunday nights, immediately after a new episode airs,

you can hear Bill and I break it all down on the Prestige TV pod.

Subscribe on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.

In the summer of 1989, new kids on the block performed live at the Medina County Fair. That's Medina County, Ohio.

Spelled like Medina. It's the Burbs. I grew up there, half hour south of Cleveland. I was not in

attendance at the New Kids show, but I heard the jubilant screams of the amassed hordes of primarily teenage girls.

I heard these screams from my house 2.5 miles away.

That song holds up the right stuff. That song holds up the right stuff.

That song holds up the right stuff.

Sorry, you got it, parentheses, the right stuff.

I've been looking into whether I'm lying about this.

This claim sounds hyperbolic.

Yes, did I, at the time an 11-year-old boy of Unremarkable? Some people on Twitter now might even say mediocre hearing ability.

Could I physically hear the jubilant screams of primarily teenage girls who would not talk to me?

Could I hear those girls jubilantly screaming from 2.5 miles away? Yes. Yes, I could. Yes, I did. I looked

into it. I found some concert noise equations. Equations that factored in the weather. I just remember

my mom standing at her open bedroom window and being like,

hey, Robbie, come here, listen. And I heard it. I heard them. Primarily the girls. Their jubilant

screams, their elation, and perhaps their nascent lust, which I could not inspire ignited by new kids on the block and born on a tempestuous Ohio summer wind.

...