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The Sweet Sixteen

We at the Boob Tubers have no problem appropriating the work of other, more successful blogs. Hence, we've stolen the idea of ranking our favorite TV hotties from a recent post at The Film Experience. You might know The Film Experience as the blog where everyone ignores my comments because I always hate on Moulin Rouge.

ANYWAY. Without further ado, the First Annual Boob Tubers Sweet 16 of TV Hotties:

1. Hugh Laurie as Dr. Gregory House (House, M.D.) At least 2 out of 3 female Boob Tubers would be willing to get rid of their strict, "exit only" policies for House's cane...

2. James Marsters as Spike (Buffy) He got a little funky toward the end there, but we remember him for his early days as a dashing, bleach-blond creature of the night who was just too sexy to stake.


3. Joe Lando as Byron Sully (Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman) Sure, there was only evidence of Sully bathing about once ever season, but that just made his buffalo hide pants stick to his sweet, sweet rump all the better.

4. Timothy Olyphant as Sheriff Seth Bullock (Deadwood) The hottest man to ever sport a handlebar mustache, Bullock nails society ladies and shoots bad guys with Wild Bill. Swoon.

5. David Cassidy as Keith Patridge (The Patridge Family) When you think you love him, there's nothing to be afraid, especially not being unsure of a love there is no cure for. (See what I did there? What? You don't? I'm the only one even remotely familiar with David Cassidy lyrics? OK.)

6. George Clooney as Dr. Doug Ross (E.R.) If he were my child's pediatrician, I'd dump the kid on the hubby and gallop off into the sunset with the doc.

7. Chris Meloni as Det. Eliot Stabler (Law and Order: SVU) We want Detective Stabler to specially victimize us with his unit.


8. Jason Lewis as Smith Jerrod (Sex and the City) Normally I trust a blonde man as far as I can throw him, but Smith Jerrod was a modern day Greek God for sure.

9. Tie: Jesse L. Martin and Benjamin Bratt as Det. Ed Green and Det. Rey Curtis (Law and Order) After Stabler, we'll take a dose of protecting and serving from these two any day.

10. Danny Gerard as Alan Silver (Brooklyn Bridge) So apparently Danny Gerard has disappeard off the face of the planet, leaving no photographic proof of his 1950s, slick hair, tucked in shirt cuteness. Take my word for it.

11. Josh Holloway as James "Sawyer" Ford (Lost) As television's most lovable prick, it's no surprise the Lost producers make Josh take off his shirt as much as possible.

12. Jared Leto as Jordan Catalano (My So-Called Life) Teen angst never felt so good, and never since has there been a TV high school student more worth popping a zit for.


13. Neil Forrester as Himself (The Real World: London) Neil was the most xhardcorex Real World housemate. Despite tongue amputations and pig hearts, we just knew there was an adorable softie somewhere in there.

14. B.D. Wong as Father Ray Mukada (Oz) You can't go wrong with a Gaysian priest in a maximum security prison.

15. Jake Epstein as Craig Manning (Degrassi: The Next Generation) We know you're wondering what we could be thinking aboot, putting a minor on this list… but Craig certainly has a way with the ladies, when he's not too busy having an "episode."

16. Adrian Grenier as Vincent Chase (Entourage) Sure, he is completely clueless and lacks any evidence of common sense, but when you look like him and hang out with only ugly guys, you're a prize.

I love the smell of explosive rage in the morning

Spike Lee's Katrina documentary, When The Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, premiered on HBO last night. I can't imagine that the second half airing tonight will close the story on a promising note, given the relentless images of devastation and outrage in the first two acts.

When The Levees Broke is not exactly chock full of new information, but it does serve as a necessary reminder of the shameful mucking about of our administration while people's homes and lives were being uprooted. Some of the diverse group of New Orleanians recall their stories in a formal setting, while others scream in front of their ruined houses about the incompetence and disrespect of their representatives. There is also plenty of footage that will be familiar to anyone who was glued to CNN in late August last year. A few of the Katrina survivors return to the infamous sites where they were herded like cattle and denied food, water, and medical treatment: the Superdome, convention center, and airport. Though it appears now that these places were never home to disaster, the interviewees' anger has hardly faded.

The politicians get a chance to speak for themselves, but even then they can't keep from looking foolish. Mayor Ray Nagin speaks in slang that seems carefully manufactured to portray him as "down" with his constituents, and it comes off about as genuine as President Bush's familiar "aw, shucks" routine. Governer Kathleen Blanco pays a lot of lip service to her desperation and pleas for help at the time, but political analysts seem to think she was more concerned with her long-held grudge against Nagin. Most infuriatingly, Bush's smirking, simpering face is intercut with images of corpses floating in stagnant water and recollections of elderly people being left for dead outside the convention center. We are reminded that the president took his sweet time getting to New Orleans, and that his underlings (Cheney, Rove, Rice) were more concerned with business meetings and shopping for Ferragamo than averting a crisis. At this point, if you don't want to reach through the TV and slap them like you're a Jerry Springer guest, you're a better person than me.

There are a few missteps in this otherwise wrenching film; for instance, Nagin at one point implies that Katrina was a worse disaster than 9/11. Playing the "Who had it worse?" game isn't productive. But as a most nagging reminder, Levees reveals the continuing struggles and injustices with which Katrina victims must contend, and perhaps tonight's segment will offer some suggestions on where to go from here.

Your Tribe Has Spoken: Getting the Boot while America Watches

My week was more or less void of television with the exception of watching Nicki Cox on my Las Vegas in-hotel channel inviting me to try all available amenities and a B/C list celeb spotting in a locals casino coffee shop (star of stage and small screen, sans the stage, Tom Green, who wowed me with his wit as he asked me “Hey, how are ya doin’?).

Last night, as I drifted off into a much needed post red eye flight/day of work sleep, my inauguration back into TV Land came as I watched HGTV’s reality jaunt Design Star. The formula is the same as every other competition show since Survivor’s launch: contestants face challenges and then, based on their performances, are eliminated by a panel of their peers and/or esteemed judges (this time including everyone’s favorite Gaysian*, Vern Yip of Trading Spaces fame).


When Texas native and former flight attendant Donna Moss was eliminated this week, she was told to leave with the simple catch phrase that her show had been cancelled while remaining contestants waited in a green room.

Wait. That’s it? This is a show about interior design. Couldn’t the contestants have been waiting in the architectural drafter’s den? Or maybe the color scheme salon. Or maybe we could get some corporate sponsorship and stick them in the Loews lair of fabric layering. The Benjamin Moore master suite. I COULD DO THIS ALL DAY!

Seriously, though, the elimination is what makes it reality television. Nothing is more indicative of real life than rejection, alongside the minute chance of success. Let’s look into the past (The past, Conan?) and recall some classic, reality show elimination scenarios.

Survivor. The tribal council remains the defining standard for reality show suspense. At least 60 seconds of footage is granted every episode solely to watching the survivors canoe and hike to the council’s location. INTENSE! Tribe members from season one and Jeff Probst alike have attested to the fact that at each council, the torch of the contestant about to be eliminated would somehow blow out before Jeff had the chance to perform the symbolic deed himself. OMG! NO WAY! What are the odds that on the freaking Galapagosahamian Islands there would be some sort of natural occurrence like wind or rain strong enough to blow out a small flame.

The Weakest Link. Haled as being the latest British Invasion back in 2000, Anne Robinson gave me catch phrase chills with her no-Anglo-nonsense quip, “You are the weakest link, goodbye!” It would take four years and Trump’s no nonsense “You’re fired!” to give my T-shirt collection a comparable boost!

But my favorite, all time, reality show elimination process can be found on

Making the Band Three, Seasons One and Two. Reality TV, Diddy style takes the dreaded and beloved elimination segments of yore, stomps all over them with Tims, drives repeatedly on top of them with Yukon Denalis, and then eats them for lunch…with fried chicken, of course. Imagine chaos as described in Milton’s epic poem Paradise Lost, except with Diddy at the reigns and you have MTB’s process of elimination…as in there is NO PROCESS! Watch the show now and you see the finely edited antics of Danity Kane. If you watched back in season two, Diddy would just saunter in during random moments of girl band bootcamp, point to people, sometimes with a cane, and tell them to leave for varying reasons, including weight and tone deafness. Other times he would point to white girls and accuse them of being at least quadroon, because there was no way a white girl could dance like they were. Okay, maybe he didn’t use the word quadroon, but you get the point.

Way to Endorse democracy, Sean Combs!


*I will entertain arguments that B.D. Wong holds this title

Deadwood 8/13/06: Like a history class, only I don't fall asleep

When I was very young, my parents for some reason submitted me to IQ testing. No, this wasn't done in the hopes of getting me into an elite Manhattan pre-school. We're not *that* Jewish. Anyhow, it turned out that I was an all-around clever kid (by which I mean I tested well), but the section on memory was my stand-out: I tested at genius levels. This flicker of brilliance has been helpful in some ways (i.e. holding grudges, remembering exactly how much money someone owes me) and unfortunate in others (the crystal-clear recollections of my junior high school torment).

My Mensa-worthiness falters, however, when it comes to particular subject areas. For instance, the only thing I recall from four years of high school history classes is the phrase "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too." Just the phrase; I have no idea what it actually means. I guess I'm a sucker for alliteration. I chalk this up to the fact that I spent the majority of my time in history class doing one of the following:

* Sketching the intricate network of lines on my palm, which were far more interesting than the Spanish-Indian War (is this an actual war or am I making it up? I really don't know);
* Wondering what my formidable history teacher, Mr. Ehrman, AKA The Ehrmanator, must have been like as a child;
* Sleeping

Funny then, that my weekly Deadwood viewing should serve not only as entertainment, but as the fabulous American History lessons I never had. The shout-y, ominous Al Swearengen even serves as a stand-in Ehrmanator: I find my mind wandering back to the old photos I found of a thirty years younger Ian McShane, when he was HOT! WHAT??

Throughout the past three seasons of Deadwood, there have been frequent, contemptuous mentions of "The Pinkertons," AKA the agents of the powerful Pinkerton Agency. Clearly detrimental to working men, would-be unionists, and those who aren't shy about slitting a throat now and then, characters usually refer to the Pinkertons as "shitheels." Intrigued, and a little ashamed that the casual discussion of Pinkertons meant that I should know who they were, I did a little research on The Internets and discovered some fascinating info on the Pinkies (as I call them).

These guys had a hand in every sinister undertaking of the 1800s, including the Haymarket Square Riot and the quashing of the Molly Maguires. They were founded by a reactionary and hired out by bigwigs like Andrew Carnegie to keep the poor folk in line. And check out the Pinkerton logo at the bottom of this entry. EEEEP! Even more interesting, the Pinkerton Agency still exists today, under the auspices of another security force called SECURITAS, which sounds a little Orwellian to me. You have to wonder whether there are any Pinkertons mucking about in Iraq, eh?

All this is to say, perhaps if The Ehrmanator had begun classes by calling all the students c*cksuckers, shooting someone in the foot, and then using the shooting as a metaphor for the bloody origins of capitalism, I would remember which President authorized the dropping of the atomic bomb.

Qué fantástico

Hope no one minds if I use this blog to write about television, rather than to engage in adorable Internets battles with my significant other! Oh, that Jeanette and Langlieb. When will they ever learn?

In the midst of the summer pop culture doldrums, in which the best the average American viewer can hope for is another Lohan hospitalization, one little show soldiers on. The program, hosted by the silver fox Don Francisco, has held steady week after week, on one network, for twenty years. There has never been a repeat. The show incorporates elements of practically everything else on TV: Idolesque singing competitions with Gong Show finishes, Jerry Springer Schadenfreude, the hard bodies of Baywatch's halcyon days, and the leadership of Don Francisco, a man leaking the charisma of a Conan O'Brien - Fidel Castro lovechild. The show, of course, is Sábado Gigante, a mega variety show with the staying power of the Law and Order franchise.

Sorry ladies, no Latin-flavored Detective Stablers for you to drool over here. However, the menfolk will be more than taken care of, with Don Francisco's menagerie of raven-haired, ample-bosomed assistants spicing up Univision's Saturday mornings. I must confess that I did not first discover Sábado Gigante in my college "Hispanics in the U.S." class, when we were all assigned various telenovelas and Spanish talk shows to study. Nay, Sábado and I first met one day when I heard frenetic Spanish chatter blasting from my parents' kitchen TV, and entered the room to discover my father sipping coffee, eyes glued to the set.

"Why are you watching this?" I asked my monolingual father, who insists on calling all Latinos (including Brazilians) "Spanish people."

"These Spanish girls have big bazoombas," he said.

So they do, Dad. So they do. And since that enlightening weekend morning, I know to leave my old man to his Sábado Gigante, because everyone needs a little guilty pleasure. Even when you are so far out of that guilty pleasure's target demographic, it's not even funny.

Getting it off my chest

One of the downsides of having a complete idiot for a girlfriend is her tendency to post half-naked photos of you on her television blog. The good news is that I have several snapshots of the illustrious Jeanette in positions far more compromising than what is posted below. I have photos she doesn't even know about since they were taken while she was asleep or otherwise occupied in the bathroom of a Burger Heaven.

These photos will be making appearances in my periodic Sex and the City posts. They may seem apropos of nothing, but don't be fooled. Consider the preceding towel shot Pearl Harbor, and anticipate a series of Nagasakis and Hiroshimas in the coming months. Petty revenge or site traffic-improving gimmick? You decide.

Ultimately we must confront the reality that the internet has added permanence to our mundane daily lives. There was a time when I dreamed of running for alderman in Brooklyn's third ward. But with that easily searchable chest-bearing photo online for all the world to see, I suppose my political aspirations are finished. Or are they?

Truth be told I'm not really mad at Jeanette because I'm not ashamed of my body. And why should I be? I look half my age, which is quite an accomplishment when you're 23. Also, chest hair can be removed, which is more than I can say for the deep seated emotional problems that fester inside Jeanette like an infected sore.

LOL!

Deconstructing "Harry"

Well, if you haven’t noticed, loyal readers, the late summer television lull has caused a lack of relevancy in the boob tubers’ recent posts (see Viv’s rant about our neighbor).
We will be back in the proverbial saddle when Fox gives meaning to life once again with the September 5th premiere of House.

Until then, please bear with us for some more syndication fodder as I wax poetic about our resident Sex and the City expert, Langlieb…

It may strike you as odd, dear readers, that even though we have plenty of people within SATC’s target demographic (read: BOOB tubers), our SATC commentary comes from a twenty something, seemingly heterosexual male. What is the appeal for him? Is it that Carrie’s shoe obsession reminds him of those lazy, kindergarten afternoons spent trying on shoe after shoe from mom’s closet? No. Is it the opportunity to see the prototype of modern-day female beauty in all its [nude] glory? Most definitely not. We are all waiting with baited breath for the day when Langlieb, a self admitted fan of junk in the trunk, rants about being able to see one too many of Samantha’s ribs during a Richard, cunilingus scene.

Instead, I think The Turner Broadcasting System may have struck a chord as to why Langlieb’s got Carrie fever. Each commercial break of the series that airs on TBS comes complete with commentary from the MEN of sex and the city because…well, let’s face it, Mario Cantone certainly has less of a career than EssJess Parker (see what I did there?). But maybe, men all over America are not musing about whether or not they’re a Miranda or Charlotte, and instead wonder if they’re a Steve or Aidan? And Langlieb’s answer, well, he’s a Harry.

Firstly, there is the fact that Langlieb’s entire previous post justifies Harry’s presence with so much passion, it is almost as if to curse Jennifer McNamara for not casting Langlieb himself. I hear she is a huge fan of his work as a child actor, particularly the commercial for Tiger Toys!!!

Secondly, I think it is time to investigate Langlieb and Harry’s uncanny physical resemblance. Especially once Smith entered the scene, Harry has been deemed the unattractive SATC guy by slumber parties everywhere. But really, nowhere is there a finer example of Judaic features:


Except for one place...here...


I mean come on, shave Langlieb's head, and I guess Langlieb in general, and you are dealing with two, identical specimens of the anti-master race.

So we have our Harry, but gentlemen, which one are YOU?

DR. WASHING MY PANTIES, or how I came to hate the creepy SVU-Episode-Waiting-To-Happen guy down the hall

Something I learned just now, briefly after having returned from picking up my laundry: there are truly only two people in the world whom I sincerely mind washing my underwear... my father and the creepy SVU-Episode-Waiting-To-Happen guy who lives down the hall. Paternal being a normal taboo, I hope we understand. But MY GOD, I fucking hate the creepy SVU-Episode-Waiting-To-Happen guy who lives down the hall with the fires of Satan's unresolved yeast infection.

Right now he is sleeping on his floor and snoring loudly to the melodies of RIDICULOUSLY-VOLUMED television/radio. I know this for a fact because his fucking door is open and in so being, wafting the aromas of already-smoked marijuana--to which I protest (in my head), "CLOSE YOUR EFFING DOOR!!! I am uninterested in seeing your bare ass two inches from our communal hallway!" and, "As much as I am generally tempted by the smells and tastes of a good toke, the very idea of sharing a marijuana cigarette with you repulses me in way paramount to the time I aborted a direct descendent of J. Christ and wrote a poetic sequel to "The Da Vinci Code" (sestina) in a frenetic moment of catharsis. GOD! I hate that guy!

...

In fact, just thinking about creepy SVU-Episode-Waiting-To-Happen guy washing my panties makes me want to cry...

Here's a haiku, kiddos.

I quit my job to
watch SVU. Not having
money makes me cry.

He's just not that into Jew

No New York sitcom could be complete without an occasional Jew. You don’t have to be Mel Gibson to notice that Manhattan is teeming with them, and if you’ll allow me a brief jaunt into Prejudiceville, we’re the funniest people in the world.

The creators of Sex and the City seemed to forget this until the very end of Season 5, when it occurred to them they were sitting on an untapped well of comic gold. Mr. Gibson would have you believe it’s because the Jews were guarding the gold so closely, but that’s just revisionist history. I think the dearth of Jews up until Season 5 can be chalked up to S&TC’s attempt to appeal to a broader American audience than the typical New York sitcom – to be hip and edgy everywhere instead of just on the coasts. And the show’s sexual politics were controversial enough without Carrie spouting off about the perils of withdrawing from Gaza every five minutes.

Of course, you don’t have to be a raging anti-Semite to acknowledge that there are lots of Jews in show business. As a result, there tends to be a higher ratio of Jews on television to Jews in America. It always amazed me that Seinfeld was so popular. I still have trouble imagining Joe and Jane Sixpack of Bismark, North Dakota doubling over in laughter while a mohel botches a circumcision. A friend of mine once hypothesized that Kramer kept Seinfeld on the air since he was the only character most Americans found amusing. "Ha ha!" he’d say, imitating the down syndromed cadence of your average suburbanite drip. "Kramer fell down again!"

But I digress. I suppose that once Sex and the City got a toehold in Peoria, the producers felt it was safe to have a big ol’ Jewish plot line. And I would submit that the Harry/Charlotte episodes are some of the best in the series. All of my tribe’s juiciest neuroses (mother issues, schiksappeal, domestic nudity) are exploited to full comic effect. On top of that, Charlotte finally gets some definitive answers to life’s questions. Yes, Prince Charming is out there. Yes, you have to make compromises to get him. And no, Jesus Christ was not the Messiah.

Lost Casting Bonanza

Because Lost doesn't already have enough superfluous characters (Charlie, I'm looking at you), producers Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof have thrown buckets of cash around for three new cast members. Most promising of the bunch is Rodrigo Santoro, AKA the Brazilian guy Laura Linney ditched in Love, Actually to hang out with her retarded brother. I could see Rodrigo as a hot gay torn between his Catholic upbringing and his homosexualidad- that would at least correct the dearth of queer characters on the otherwise-diverse show. More likely, however, is that Rodrigo will form the fourth side of a boring ass love quadrangle with Jack, Sawyer, and Kate.

Oh, and apparently Rodrigo is considered the "Tom Cruise of Brazil." I can only hope this means he'll turn Charlie and Eko's abandoned church project into a Craphole Island Scientology Center.

There are also rumors that Natasha Henstridge, currently unemployed from the defunct Commander-in-Chief, will become a new Lostie. I'm wracking my brain as to how she'd be introduced into the cast. No way could she have been on Flight 815 - a hottie like that doesn't go unacknowledged for 60 days, only to suddenly emerge and shock everyone with her Canadian tatas and ability to plunge her tongue through the back of people's heads.

Finally, one Elizabeth Mitchell will also come aboard, apparently as a new love interest for Jack. WHY DOES JACK NEED A NEW LOVE INTEREST? Does he tire of Kate's two facial expressions? (They are: perturbed and pensive.) And, more pressing, why did only the ugly people on Flight 815 perish in the crash? Cuse and Lindelof's promotion of Social Darwinism is beginning to concern me.

I'm hoping these folks are all Others. Otherwise, there would be no logic to suddenly shifting the focus to them as previously overlooked crash survivors. Because why, viewers would be forced to inquire, would the series have focused instead on the likes of whiny, drug-addicted hobbits, preachy, crybaby surgeons, and a fugitive played by the type of actress you hire when a blow-up doll is unavailable?

Deadwood 7/23: More Fun Than a Barrel of TB

This week on Deadwood: The town elders meet to discuss what to do about an increasingly Darth Vader-like George Hearst. They decide to... publish a letter in the newspaper about the miner Hearst had killed, without mentioning Hearst's name. This appeal for decency will, presumably, rile up the town against Major Dad's evil maneuverings. Meanwhile, Joanie and Jane make out, Odell wants to partner with Hearst on a gold claim in Liberia but will probably end up pig food, and Al sends Dan to get some hired guns (who according to the preview for next week's ep are the Earps! BADASS.)

Also worthy of note in last Sunday's episode is Doc Cochran's deteriorating condition. Doc has tuberculosis, but Deadwoodians call him a "lunger," while I prefer to shout in an exaggerated hillbilly accent, "He's got the gallopin' consumption!" Rumblings from the Deadwood fan community (population: 14) suggest that the show may have jumped the shark by making such a beloved character a sure bet for this season's Big Death. I say, at least be thankful we have a realistic portrayal of TB for once.

Doc's condition led me to hearken back to past cinematic interpretations of that once-perilous disease (well, still perilous in Africa, but who cares about them??? Eww, poverty.) And there, burning a hole in my brain, was the memory of that blight upon screens large and small, the film whose popularity and critical acclaim may trouble me even more than the question of God's existence: Moulin F*cking Rouge.

I hate Moulin Rouge with the fire of a thousand suns. I hate its offensive misappropriation of pop songs, I hate its tongue-in-cheek anachronisms, I hate its artier-than-thou, seizure-inducing camera work, I hate its overacting, I hate its ADHD character development, I hate its celebration of vague nouns like TRUTH, BEAUTY, and LOVE, and most of all I goddamn hate Nicole Kidman's limp-rag, breathy, creepy Victorian doll / hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold performance. When her Satine gets TB, she coughs swoonily into a pretty handkerchief and then dies gracefully in Ewan's arms. Even the blood she spits up is dainty and jewel-like. WHATEVER, Baz Luhrman. How's your Alexander-the-musical picture going? Yeah, that's what I thought.

This is to say, kudos to Deadwood for having Doc cough and wheeze to the point of annoying the other characters and me, and having him spew up a repulsive mixture of phlegm and blood. Jumped the shark? At least it's not romanticizing slow death from a horrible disease just to avoid making Nicole Kidman look yucky and un-ladylike.

Please commenters, especially angry anonymous ones, try to change my mind about Moulin Rouge! I love ripping into this crapfest.

Holloway-dar

Those familiar with my past celebrity crushes know that when I decide to take an interest in someone, it's not really just taking an interest, but more like secretly implanting a tracking device in their brains so I may follow their every step, witty phone call, and Starbucks visitation. I'm kind of like the Anthony Pellicano of the blogging world. Past subjects (victims) have included James Marsters (who is now too leathery of face and lame of TV role for me) and Jude Law (cheated with the nanny, ew, and subsequently behaved in a most petulant manner).

My fixation of late is upon one Josh Holloway, of Lost fame. Sure, he's kind of redneck-y and may bear a passing resemblance to a hotter K. Fed, but he's got some kind of X Factor at play here. In any case, I was in a coffe-deprived haze at work this morning, sitting beside some co-workers who were flipping through a copy of Us Weekly. The sound of their conversation about the glossy's contents sounded something like this:

"Mmmfgar mumble mumble blep mumble HOLLOWAY mumble mahhhh."

Well, I honed in like the world's honiest honing pigeon. "YOU MEAN THE GUY FROM LOST?" I said. "WHAT ABOUT HIM?" Once everyone had regained their hearing, they described the blurb written about him. Apparently, according to Us Weekly, Josh Holloway is a nice guy. They know this because someone saw him, out in the world somewhere, being nice. Uh, thanks, tabloid. Couldn't you have given me something juicier, something I don't know?

I already know the following things about Josh Holloway: he's nice, he grew up in the Blue Mountains of Georgia, he turned down the opportunity to play a prickish character in X-Men 3 because he was too busy playing a prickish character on Lost, thereby eliminating the possibility of making X-Men 3 less of a crapfest, and what he wants most in life is the chance to cuddle up to a short, mouthy Jew. And I don't mean Harvey Fierstein.

Which one are you?

During the first three seasons of Sex and the City a group of 15 year old girls couldn't have a slumber party without someone eventually popping the "Which one are you?" question. The way it's been, uh, explained to me is that somewhere in between Never Have I Ever and binging on malomars, some chick inevitably crawls out of her sleeping bag to announce that she most closely identifies with Miranda.

Science has shown that most girls say they're either Miranda or Charlotte. Girls romanticize life and want to see themselves grow up to be either successful career-women or perfect little homemaker princesses. Very few 15 year old girls want to admit they're going to turn into the world's biggest slut or a neurotic codependent who can't write a declarative sentence.

Part of the genius of the show was that female viewers lived primarily through Carrie (the character with whom they secretly identified) while still finding more positive identifications with the supporting cast. Women are complex beings and like to play tricks on their own sense of self awareness. Men are stupid and like beer as you know if you've seen According to Jim or any other show ever.

Also, men never play the "Which one are you?" game because we have more important things to do like confirm John Bolton's nomination to be U.N. ambassador. But if Kofi Annan is Carrie, then Bolton is Jack Burger. And since he's never going to work out his issues with international law, I wish he'd just submit his resignation post-it already.

And that's the story of the dumbest sentence ever written.

Reno, Jesus is Number One

I was beyond excited to do a write up of the new season of Reno 911. The ink from my quill was literally dripping on the page when my phone rang. It was Manohla Dargis, NY Times film critic, telling me she wanted to make the crossover into television, that she though Boob Tubers was the best forum to do so in, and asking could she please please, pretty please write about Reno 911. Ladies and gentleman, I give you Manohla Dargis…

Well, you’re no James Lipton, but thank you nonetheless for the introduction, Jeanette.

As Comedy Central begins airing their third season of hit comedy/mockumentary Reno 911, there is only one thing in the forefront of the minds of critics, fans and naysayers alike: the blatant Christ/Christian imagery invoked by the wacky antics of Reno’s finest.

Oh how obvious, Reno 911, how stiflingly obvious that you would pick the THIRD season to berate us with these symbols. It is as if you are completing your own personal trinity, a theory backed secondarily by…how does that quip go…and baby makes three? Baby Jesus that is! If Trudy Wiegel’s unborn child isn’t the second coming of Christ, then I shall eat my [bishop’s] hat!

Trudie is likened to the Virgin Mary of early Renaissance literature and lore, worshipped for her womanly virtues, namely the ability to withstand the public’s critical eye in face of questionable paternity. Why, Trudie doesn’t have a care in the world, and certainly lacks a scarlet letter of any sort, as she proudly shows her blessed bump, the byproduct of the present day holy spirit (also known as a sperm bank).

The first two seasons have served their purpose in setting Reno up as a place in need of a saviour (a word so heavy in concept it must be spelled the British way). With its legalized dens of sin and its desert like climate, we are brought each Sunday evening to a modern day Sodom and Gamore. Where Dangle’s attempts at leadership have failed, Trudie’s womb fruit will no doubt bring peace.

In conclusion, WOWSA WOWSA WOWSA, I give this season 4 out of 5 BRAND NEW OSTRICH SKIN BOOTS.

Thinking about not watching SVU makes me cry.

Recently I got a job working for THE MAN. I mean, technically my boss is a WOman, but -- censored -- so we'll assume the trope of patriarchal oppression. Needless to say, my long hours spent in the office have given me little opportunity to watch SVU, beloved by me especially in syndication.

Just thinking of this loss, I can't help but cry...

Not about TV, but whatever, part 2

I have to steal some of JJ's blog thunder (blunder?) here and share with you all the following YouTube gem: (click here if you want to watch this on a screen larger than 2" x 2".)

Seems ol' Orson Welles was a victim of Marlon Brando Syndrome long before MBS was ever officially diagnosed. Here we have Mr. Welles fatly and drunkenly warbling through a commercial for California champagne, apparently called Pwah Mwahseeyaaair. (So sad. I found him sort of hot at the beginning of Citizen Kane.)

J.J. IM'ed me about these outtakes last night. Following is a brief recap of our conversation.

JJ (on IM): I can't stop laughing
Alanna's cell phone rings
Alanna: Hello?
JJ: HAHAHAHAHAHHAHHAHAHHAHH!
Alanna: Wow, you weren't kidding.

Not about TV, but whatever

Jeanette and I are fervent Netflix junkies, but lately we've been a little put off by the company's advertising choices. On the inside of every Netflix envelope for the past few weeks has been an ad for You, Me, and Dupree starring Matt "Playing Racist Gets You Oscar Noms" Dillon, Kate "Not Nearly As Charismatic as Mom" Hudson, and Owen "Butterscotch Stallion" Wilson. The clever tagline, likely dreamed up over a course of myriad late-night meetings with the most elite execs is:

"Two's company. Dupree's a crowd."

HA HA HA. Do you see what they did there?

Well, as you know, we are frickin' hilarious. And we like to run any joke not only into the ground, but into the molten core of the earth. So Jeanette and I have devised a series of our own taglines for You, Me, and Dupree which we believe rival the current little nugget of brilliance. They are as follows:

* Baby makes Dupree
* Free to be You, Me, and Dupree
* You and me and the devil makes Dupree
* Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone but Dupree
* Elemen-Dupree, my dear Watson

OK, that last one is a stretch. Can you do better? Comment with your own taglines! We are interactive here at The Boob Tubers.

Langlieb on Sex and the City

I've been invited by the gracious ladies of Boob Tubers to file an occasional guest post about Sex and the City. As I understand it, this is a privilege only reserved for cast members of Sex and the City and people dating one or more of the Boob Tubers. I happen to fall into both categories (see Episode 74: I Love a Charade, during the wedding scene where I can be seen sneaking buffet shrimp into a burlap sack.)

The question must asked: Why blog about Sex and the City at all? It's been off the air for three years and exists only in rerun de-smuttified form on TBS and in the DVD closets of pubescent girls. Much ink has already been spilled on its societal implications...the religious right has demonized Carrie as the archetypal 21st century American hedonist, radical feminists have criticized her level of dependence on men, and television critics the world over have debated which of Kim Cattrall's two facial expressions is less repellent.

So what do I bring to the subject? One thing: I'm a heterosexual male. As of yet, no heterosexual male has written about Sex and the City. This is because only three heterosexual men have seen Sex and the City: Pat Robertson, me, and the Pope one night when he stumbled upon it accidently while flipping around for Veronica's Closet.

Also...somehow or other several of my life's most poignant moments have involved Sex and the City. I'll be discussing these moments in my blog entries. One night in Las Vegas I was watching Episode 83: A Woman's Right to Shoes with my once and current girlfriend when an army of ants invaded the kitchen of the long-term motel where we were housed. My once and current girlfriend screamed when she saw them, and then proceeded to not help at all as I ran to the maitenance building, procured some poison, and sprayed the whole place until it was ant-free. I would not see the entirety of that episode for years to come. She would go on to date other people until she came crawling back, not unlike the ants she didn't help kill.

That last part isn't true, but wouldn't life have come full circle if it was?