They Come Out So You Don't Have To

In honor of National Coming Out Day, we at The Boob Tubers encourage our GLBT visitors to find the courage they need to fly their rainbow flags high... through, of course, the magic of television. Without further ado, my favorite TV queers:

1. Willow & Tara on Buffy the Vampire Slayer
These two were the first lesbian couple to appear on primetime TV. What a difference a few years makes. Willow's metamorphosis from a cutesy, stammering nerd larvae into a big, beautiful, Wiccan lesbian butterfly was one for the ages. The singular Buffy writers made her sexual awakening believable and relatable (except for the being able to float part). And Tara was her sweetie who, despite being a fairly minor character, got a show-stopping number in the Buffy musical, Once More With Feeling. You make me come...plete indeed.



2. Jodie Dallas on Soap
Frankly, I know very little about this character, as I was but a twinkle in my mama's eye when this show aired. But Billy Crystal grew up one town over from me (Strong Island WHAT!) and he played this dude, the first openly gay regular character on an American series.

3. The Fab Five on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
They're a little past their prime, but they shaped Bravo into the delightfully flamey network it is today. Tim Gunn, you betta recognize!



4. David & Keith on Six Feet Under
That crazy HBO. It wasn't enough for them to have a gay couple, they had to be a gay interracial couple as well! What's next, elaborate fantasy sequences involving the Corpse of the Week and some kind of musical number? I keed, I keed. David and Keith stand out because they were given as much screen time and drama as any other couple on Six Feet Under. They were alternately wretched and adorable, but by the series finale I was convinced they were meant for each other. Granted, whenever I watched the show with my dad he carried on so much you'd think the sight of two men kissing was burning the eyeballs right out of his head. So the social value here is negligible, if my dad is your sample population.

5. Shane on The L Word
This show is pretty much terrible and preposterous, but Katherine Moennig as Shane is the sexiest dirtbag to ever grace television. I want to both wash her hair and make out with her.



6. Rickie Vasquez on My So-Called Life
Rickie is the gay best friend every girl wants to have. He did his makeup with BFFs Rayanne and Angela in the girl's bathroom and secretly, sadly was infatuated with Jordan Catalano. (Who WASN'T?!?) I recently heard a crazy story: actor Wilson Cruz was kicked out of his home for being gay while filming. When his father saw the ironically parallel episode in which Rickie also ends up on the streets, he invited Wilson back home and they reconciled. See, TV does heal all wounds.

7. Mr./Ms. Garrison on South Park
Well, I just made a mockery of this whole list, didn't I?

Jeanette's Stream of Consciousness, 10/9/06 Studio 60 , Reliving Jay Mohr's Nightmare (it's not waking up each day realizing he's Jay Mohr)

Since my posts are done when I am at work, it's becoming harder and harder for me to write manifestos as we have seen other tubers do, namely regarding Lost. Jesus, I didn't get a word of that. OTHERS? POLAR BEARS? COCONUTS?! WHAT?! WHO IS WITH ME!? ABC, you so crazy.

So here are my television thoughts for Tuesday, October 10th...

I do not understand entertainment trade publications and their need for nicknames. When CBS is referred to solely as the eye, it makes sense. It is easier to say eye than it is to say CBS. The same can be said for NBC being referred to as the peacock. Say them both out loud...now which is easier? Why, peacock of course, both for its lack of a third syllable and its tendency to give you the giggles! But calling ABC the alphabet network and its parent company Disney the Mouse House, while cute, does not save breath or trees. It does, however, make any speaker invoking the slang sound just as cool as Ari Gold.

Last night, the second half hour of Studio 60 was magnamulous. I continue to be thrilled to see Evan Handler in a meaty, post Sex and the City role. Last night, Evan's Ricky Beck handled chaos with grace as Dylan (Bradley Whitford) and Matt (Matthew Perry) dealt with plagarism from the writer's room. Simon's (DL Hughley) abnormally funny rant on the Studio 60 version of Weekend Update was reminscent of a piece written much earlier by someone else... In Gasping for Airtime, Jay Mohr recalls a similar incident , where he blatantly steals a bit from Rick Shapiro's stand up. If it is the first month of Studio 60 and we have already seen them deal with this issue, and other predictable live TV show issues such as power outages, where do we stand with plot development, you may ask. I say we still haven't seen Dylan do blow off a hooker's ass, so this show has room to grow!

And also, please don't accuse me of getting on the box full of peacock soap that pays my rent, but feel free to enjoy tomorrow night's premiere of 30 Rock. I have seen the pilot which is certainly better than any 30 minute comedy out there on network TV (Ahem, Two and a Half Craps, eye network). But even if tomorrow's show doesn't 100% strike your fancy, please tune in next week, when the show is supposed to be HILarious.

Lost, 10/4/06: How did The Others get DSL???

This week on the Lost premiere: Jack, Kate, and Sawyer (for love triangle purposes, I'll just call them Skack) are in Otherville, which turns out to be a suburban utopia complete with muffins, book clubs, and high-speed access to Australian autopsy reports. Unfortunately for our protagonists, they're being held in the rough part of town.

Jack's in a 24-esque prison cell, where a cute blond named Juliet quickly breaks him like the pansy with daddy issues that he is.

Sawyer's in a bear cage, where he mostly glowers, quips, and figures out how to get a fish biscuit, but much more slowly than the bears did. Heh. Sawyer's dumber than your average bear.

Kate gets to don a dress and handcuffs for a beachside breakfast with The Artist Formerly Known as Henry Gale. TAFKAHG tells her to enjoy, because the next two weeks are going to be rough. Oh, shit. Two weeks in Lost time is like a full television season in the real world.

The rest of the Losties are nowhere to be found. We still have no idea whether Locke, Desmond, and Mr. Eko are alive after the hatch-splosion. Wait, that's not true. The actors' names are all in the opening credits. Mystery solved. However, I wish episode 3.1 could have tackled at least one question instead of dwelling, once again, on a Jack flashback (Jackback?) in which our hero is so put upon by the world. Sorry, when I consider the tragic backstories of other characters (Locke's dad stole his KIDNEY??? Sawyer witnessed his parents' murder-suicide???) I can't drudge up much sympathy for a self-rigteous jackass with such garden-variety problems as a drunk dad and a cheatin' wife.

Now, I'm not one to complain about Lost's deliberate pacing and cornucopia of mysteries. I enjoy its multilayered WTF-ness; it's what keeps me coming back. However, I agree with one Television Without Pity poster who said that the trouble with the show is that when it does answer questions, it only addresses the whats, never the whys or hows. For example:

Q: What cause the plane to crash?
A: An electromagnetic pulse emitted by the hatch.
Q: But... why? Why did the hatch have world-destroying electromagnetism that was diffused by pushing a button? Who made it so? Now that the hatch exploded, where does the EMP go? How will that effect the island?
A: Shut the fuck up.

My advice to the Lost team: Get crackin' on those whys soon, or you'll soon end up with a X-Files Season 11 mess. Also: Sawyer looks warm in that cage in the middle of the jungle. Maybe he should take his clothes off.

Hugh "BFF of Jeanette and Alanna" Laurie to Host SNL

Sure, we've been bashing SN-Smell and NBC lately, but this news offers a glimmer of hope for the anorexic Saturday Night Live. Unlike most hosts, Hugh Laurie actually has a background in comedy and could theoretically write some of his own material. Is it foolish to hope we'll be spared the typical audience plant, "Oh hey, I didn't know you were British!" opening monologue antics in favour of an actual, you know, monologue? If not, Hugh's one host who I wouldn't mind to see singing instead of making jokes about car accidents (cough*DaneCook*cough). If you haven't ever experienced Hugh Laurie's lyrical stylings, check out season 1, episode two of Jeeves and Wooster. Hidy hidy hidy ho, indeed.

In any case, this calls for a blogtastic countdown to Hugh's SNL gig, which Jeanette and I will be DVR'ing because we're throwing a Halloween party that night. Yes, we're actually forgoing real time television. No, you're not invited.

So check back here throughout the month for Hugh-themed countdowns to October 28, AKA The Day Which Shall Live in Infamy. We'll post our favorite House bon mots, photographs, and whatever else we feel like when we're too lazy to come up with an actual update.

COUNTDOWN STATUS: 24 DAYS UNTIL HUGH LAURIE HOSTS SNL

Weekend Round Up, Degrassi, SN-SMELL, Saved by the Smell, Discovery Smell-las (which one doesn’t really work…)

The new season of Degrassi: the Next Generation started Friday night. Let me say it is a good thing that our neighbors to the north are liberal, because when I get picked up for seducing a minor (AKA, Daniel "biceps" Clark), I want to be tried in a bleeding heart court of love. As Dr. Gregory House said, “You can’t stop our love!”


Pictures of Daniel on the Internet are scarse, but that’s probably for the better. I don’t want to end up being interviewed by Dateline’s Chris Hansen with my pants off.

Anyway, I give the premiere four out of five chunks of Gouda, because it was cheese-tastic!

I want nothing more than to love Saturday Night Live. Ever since I was a four-year-old, flat-boobed tuber, watching Nick at Nite, asking my mother what consumption of mass quantities meant, the humor has reached out to me like no actual friends or emotional bonds could.

By the end of the 31st, 2005-2006 season, though, some would argue that it was as if Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker, himself had jumped on top of the show, leaving a pile of kindling (and the remains of Chris Parnell, Horatio Sanz, and Finesse Mitchell’s careers) to be swept up by Jane, the Studio 8H cleaning lady.

I have spent too many early Sunday mornings drunkenly quoting Amy Poehler’s Caitlin to be completely down on season 31, or the show in general. But when you have a weekend update team that is supposed to have more chemistry than Fred and Ginger, and they only get mild chuckles, Lorne Michael’s pulse has probably increased from ‘Canadian’ to ‘concerned.’ I’m not giving up yet, and stay tuned here as I will let you know how the new, streamlined cast is doing…


I’m certainly not breaking the news to blog land that Dustin Diamond, aka Screech of Saved by the Bell fame has had a sex tape leaked. But I am breaking social mores when I out myself and fellow boob tuber Alanna for following his lead. We spent our entire Saturday night giving each other fake dirty sanchezes from unknowing providers of…special moustache paint. Too much?


DVR is waiting for me to watch the first installment of the Discovery Channel’s new series Discovery Atlas. The Discovery Channel and I have had a tight relationship ever since they showed me my first naked boobies that weren’t my mom’s. Now they continue to fascinate me with this installment that will spend two hours simply profiling a different country this week. If you saw it, let me know what you thought of last night’s premiere on China (read: let me know which dog recipe looked best). Italy is featured next Sunday at 9 PM!

We Could Be Heroes, if We Weren't So Sloppy With Plot Development

Unlike Jeanette, I am free to trash NBC up and down Broadway (and other popular thoroughfares.) I can tell you that Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is a self-important snore, a masturbatory tribute to TV-making, fraught with typical Aaron Sorkin non-humor. Example: the cutesy dialogue between Matthew "Oxycontin" Perry and Bradley "Wha...? Zzzz..." Whitford in the second episode, "The Cold Open." Brad asks Matt if he still loves some chick named Harriet, and Matt's like nah, I just appreciate her talent, and her convictions, and her legs. Brad's like, Oh man, you're in trouble, and Matt's like, yeah I know. HILARIOUS RIGHT?

So that blows. And NBC's most popular show still involves people yelling at girls with bad boob jobs to open suitcases. HOWEVER. I caught Heroes the other night, and like the suckiest of suckers, I was sold. The show may rip off X-Men shamelessly with a little bit of Lost thrown in, but it managed to hook me despite some cheese. Let's compare the good with the dairy-based:

Good:
* Several genuine moments of surprise. Par example: at the end of the pilot, we learn that a main heroine's father is also the creep pursuing a different protagonist for his possibly revolutionary scientific theories.
* Unpredictable reactions to discovery of superpowers. Por ejemplo: aforementioned cheerleader is appalled to discover she is indestructible. This makes her a socially-unacceptable freak, she reasons. Yeah, because broken bones are the new black.
* Diverse cast includes East Asian, South Asian, and drug addict characters. Oh wait, that's Lost. * OK, we'll let that go because the East Asian character is hilarious!
* And the South Asian is HOT! What's up with me and the subcontinent lately?
* It takes place in New York.
* Ensemble cast guarantees you'll like at least some of them.
* Special effects look quite promising so far. If the show can keep up a hefty budget, viewers have some neat sci-fi tricks to look out for.


Dairy:
* Thus far the show leans heavily on the ever-popular "serendipitous encounters" motif.
* Writers show a propensity for dialogue of the anvils raining from the heavens variety. People, how many workshops do you need before you grasp the "Show, Don't Tell" rule? There are ways to provide backstory that don't involve dialogue like, "Well, good thing I'm a politician and our mom is dead and you were always such a dreamer!"
* Why is everyone's power cool except for the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold character, who has a terrifying, evil doppelganger? OK, that's not cheesy, but it's a plot wrinkle.
* I mean, this is VERY X-Men. I hope the showrunners decide to wriggle out of the formula a bit. Lost did new and exciting things, like break TV's language barrier and use flashback in innovative ways. Heroes needs to find its own schtick if it plans to stick around.

Or Hugh Jackman could join the cast as Wolverine, in which case I would gladly watch each week. Jeanette says that Hugh Jackman is too fruity to crush on, but come on. Jeanette likes Ewan MacGregor, who starred in two of the queerest films ever made: Moulin Rouge and Velvet Goldmine. He should make a sequel, Velvet Rouge, which concludes with Ewan spontaneously combusting into a pile of glitter and old Liza Minelli CDs.

Jill's in the Dawg Pound!

Sure it's easy to sit back on our Ikea couch that we dragged in from the street, watch tv on a 13 inch screen, and throw occasional insults at the screen in between mouthfuls of the inexpensive, frozen delicacies that make up our dinner hour...and then waste even more time writing about it on the internet. That's why I am proposing that BoobTubers be more proactive about resolving the topics of our kvetching (SP? Help me out, Juden). Starting now, the BoobTubers will bear the burden of finding the FUTURE TALENT OF TELVISION vision vision vision (see what I did there?).

Let's start with a plug for my former co-worker and friend Jill's appearance on yesterday's episode of Martha Stewart. She sang for guest Randy Jackson, in the hopes of being swooped up for the next season of American Idol to save viewers and listeners from travesties like Bucky Covington. Blech.

Anyway, check Jill out! Click the link and go to the first Randy Jackson/spaghetti squash segment. Even if you don't like curly headed crooners, you can learn a great autumnal recipe. MMMM.

Insert George Michael Pun Here

Fox's recent announcement that it will launch a division dedicated to films with Christian themes reveals that the network best known for feeding people cow eyeballs is tapping into a significant but much-overlooked market. We at the Boob Tubers can only hope that this project will be such a success that Fox will also create new TV programming dedicated to the J-Man (that's Jesus, for you uninitiated heathens.) Here are some titles we think would be appropriate for a hypothetical channel that is ALL CHRISTIAN! ALL THE TIME!

* Fear of God Factor
* Hell's Kitchen (Is Where Jews Go When They Die)
* House of the Lord, M.D.
* The JC
* King of the Sacristy
* So You Think You Can Recite Scripture
* Trading Chapels: Meet Your New (and More Ungodly) Sect
* The Passion of the Christ: The Series

Any other shows we might look forward to?

The Fifth Character

In the spring of 2005, shortly after I finished my college thesis (which was not, you’ll note, written on Sex and the City) I found enough spare time to immerse myself in S&TC DVD extras. Somewhere in the requisite cast and crew interviews the costume designer argued that New York truly was "the fifth character" in the series.

The implication is that New York framed the show as much as any of the characters. I’ll buy that to a point. But the truth is that New York is a much better character than any of them. It has everything they don’t: nuance, grit, at least one set of size C breasts, and a genuine (if subtle) humility.

If you ask me, the series tragically under-exploited New York (I’m including all five boroughs). For Carrie and the gang, "New York" meant SoHo, the Village, Chelsea, Midtown, and the Uppers. But where was the "Carrie Goes to Brownsville" episode? You don’t think she could’ve had colorful adventures making love at the peak of Fort Tryon Park or getting wasted at the beer garden in Astoria? Tell me Samantha wouldn’t have learned some valuable life lessons from blowing a crack addict in Mott Haven.

On rare occasions when the show deigns to include an outer borough, it is presented as faceless and depressing. Miranda and Steve move to Park Slope without an acknowledgement of the neighborhood’s name. And moving there was presented as some huge compromise for her. Park Slope?! It's Carnegie Hill without the three Hispanic people.

Sorry, but Manhattan snobbery died forty years ago when Manhattan stopped being worth being snobbish about. The city’s intrigue is found on the fringes of the island and in the nooks and crannies of the outer boroughs, where authenticity comes naturally and there’s more to nightlife than $10 mixed drinks and trying to find Kate Hudson playing beer pong.

It has become a cliché to bemoan Manhattan’s abundance of luxury condos and Starbuckses, but that isn’t even really the problem. The problem is that the family-owned coffee shop the Starbucks replaced wasn’t that good to begin with. The ethnic enclaves were always more real and more interesting outside Manhattan. Manhattan had glamour, maybe, but glamour is elusive. Perhaps there have been periods of time in Manhattan’s history when it was genuinely glamorous. This ain’t one of them.

In some ways Sex and the City gets that exactly right. Carrie’s disappointment at the hollowness of club openings and Manhattan’s suffocating insularity comes through from time to time. But mostly we get a fantasy Manhattan, as bubbly and one dimensional as the ladies themselves.

I voted in the Democratic primary yesterday at a cramped, under-funded Brooklyn elementary school. The kids were screaming, and the incompetent poll workers couldn’t find my name in the book even after I pointed to it. But there were free blintzes and coffee available to all. That’s New York as she should be, and it doesn’t take three apple-tinis and a $400 pair of shoes to make her worth the while.

Only the Lonely(girl15)

Many critics have been saying that we are currently in the midst of a golden age of television. (To which I say, And where does Survivor: Third Reich fit into that?) But those well-versed in this Internet I've been hearing so much about know that YouTube is where it's at. And the recent revelation about Lonelygirl15 proves that compelling, new forms of entertainment media are on the rise.

For those of you who don't have the time to creepily fixate on jailbait with video blogs, I'll get you all caught up on the Lonelygirl15 saga. LG15 purports to be Bree, a 16-year-old home-schooled kid. She's bright, fresh-faced, and a little sheltered, carrying on a clandestine romance with her awkward video editor, Daniel. Bree is engaging and believable (though not so believable is the flawless quality of her videos. No camgirl was ever so perfectly lit.) Her family is into some vague religion that creeps Daniel out. Recently, viewers noticed a framed photo of Alistair Crowley in Bree's room that led them to question... could it be Satan???

Little clues like these add to the intrigue, but LG15's sweet, innocent demeanor and overall ridiculous cuteness are what draw thousands of readers to her videos every week. Of course, many suspected that this was an elaborate hoax, and the above article reveals that they were right- sort of. The LG15 project was intended to introduce folks to an episodic version of a movie created by novice filmmakers. These clever guys caught on to the power of YouTube, which has already sent networks scrambling (see NBC frantically pulling SNL skits left and right from the site) and has producer types unnerved about the meteoric rise of home movie appeal among the 18-34 demographic.

And why not? Bree is a character whose everyday mini-dramas young people can relate to (oh, except for that devil worship part). Watching her show is free, and there are no plugs, advertisements, or censors weighing it down (though the nagging sense that Bree is just a promotional tool has turned off some.) With daily videos functioning as amateur, mini soap-operas, Lonelygirl15's episodes seem like something anyone can do - but no one else has yet.

The question is whether viewers will continue to tune in to LG15, now that the jig is up. I'm betting they will, and that other filmmakers will quickly follow suit. It's a highly effective and cheap marketing tool, and the Artist Formerly Known as Bree (actually a Kiwi named Jessica Rose) could easily move to larger screens now, bringing an army a loyal fans with her.

WTF

This Monday, the five year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, CNN Pipeline will air CNN's original television coverage of that day in real time. Anyone else think this is, like, the worst idea ever?

House 9/5/06: How Many Times Are They Going to Use That Rolling Stones Song?

Last night on House: The doctor who singlehandedly increased the appearance of the word "curmudgeon" in entertainment mags triplefold appears all healed up from last season's gunshot wound / ketamine coma. See Greg run! See Greg skateboard (badly)! See Greg remain Vicodin's bitch! House and the House-ettes tackle two patients this week, one of whom has scurvy, the other of whom has... brain damage? Addison's disease? Pituitary gland problems? I still don't really know. I do know that Cuddy follows House's hunch and cures the guy, and Wilson doesn't want his BFF to know or his head will get too big. As if House's head could get any bigger.

Oh, the joy that filled our vermin-infested abode last night. Our #1 TV hottie of all time returned to our small (read: 13 inch) screen last night, radiating hotness powerful enough to defeat all the world's mice.

The episode was far from the best House, continuing an awkward season premiere tradition in which the actors wrestle with clunky, exposition-heavy dialogue, as though to say, "Welcome, new viewers! Let me get you all caught up on the 48 episodes you missed! No wait, don't change the channel to 7th Heaven reruns!" It also saw the recycling of the classic tune "You Can't Always Get What You Want" over the ending credits, as though to say "The rights to this cost a fortune! We better milk Mick Jagger for all he's worth! No wait, don't change the channel to Anderson Cooper 360!"

The Patient(s) of the Week plotlines were confusing, but the crux of the episode seemed to be House wrestling with his emotions (or lack thereof.) Now that he's as limber as Christina Aguilera and drug-free, Greggy-poo can't block out all those pesky human feelings with Vicodin. He takes on non-interesting patients because he wants to help, and then becomes so uncomfortable with this that he subjects them to a barrage of painful tests just to spice things up. It's kind of like what would happen if Spock stopped being whatever he was (OK, I never watched Star Trek) only funnier. By episode's end, House is forging Wilson's signature on a prescription for his trusty Vicodin. Must... defeat... the kindness...

Jeanette and I related to this theme perfectly. We both pride ourselves on having no souls (we even have the script memorized for our imaginary program, "The We Have No Souls Show") but of late we've found ourselves inexplicably moved by... well, the types of things ordinary folks find poignant. For instance, we both... cried... over summer reading. It's really weird - is this a hormonal, twenty-something thing? Or delayed reactions after years of repressing things without the aid of prescription drugs, but with the sheer willpower that must wear off at some point?

I hope it doesn't last, for us or for House.

Some thoughts on the television day, 9/5/06

So Rosie's View Debut was today. I have always been a huge fan of Rosie. My mother will tell you how I bullied her into getting tickets to be in the studio audience of The Rosie O'Donnell show as soon as it was physically possible. Even when she seems to be completely bonkers/an insane bitch, there's just something I love about Rosie's ability to keep it real. Let this serve as enough background to prove that I was pulling for her. Anyway, as moderator Rosie may be expected to have more voice than her co-hosts, even the ever-degenerating Baba Wawa. But, in typical Rosie fashion, Rosie couldn't seem to keep her mouth shut, or as she might write on her own blog:

i couldnt shut the
pie hole
got spit in bab's eye
but its just day 1
im still a lesbian mom

Anyway, I can see Ro working out, but I hope she tones it down a bit in the future. I barely heard Joy Behar's voice this episode. And Joy Behar's voice is like a lullaby. A sweet, sweet lullaby to get me through the 11 AM hour.
--------------------
Boss' nanny out of commission today = boss bringing kids to work = Jeanette using her college degree to babysit = Jeanette's view into the fascinating pop culture world of 4-7 year olds.

What I discovered today was...fascinating. I'm still not quite sure what to make of it and really couldn use your help, blog land. Please enjoy this promotional music video for the Disney Channel's Handy Manny. Despite what the video may tell you, Wilmer Valderama is not only Manny's friend and customer, but also the voice of Manny. Who knew that the logical step in show business went from talking about banging Ashlee Simpson and Mandy Moore on Howard Stern's show to children's television?!

ANNNND Tag, Alanna! Come back soon to see my fellow boob tuber's thoughts on tonight's highly anticipated premiere of House!

My Telitinerary for Fall 2006

Because the Boob Tubers are undeniable experts in their arena, it’s natural that you will want to base your Fall 2006 TV viewing habits completely on ours. I know Alanna was dying for me to write about my feelings on “Survivor: Third Reich,” but instead I want to first fill you in on what I will (and will not) be watching this upcoming season.

Sunday
Note: Some schools of thought believe the week, particularly the television-viewing week, begins with Monday. As a young girl, I was introduced to this fact in a rather brutal matter. While attending some sort of children’s program at my local public library, Mrs. Cunningham, the then children’s librarian, led us in some sort of song regarding teddy bears and their daily habits that we were to recite with her. When all the children began the chant with Monday, I said Sunday. Mrs. Cunningham corrected me, telling me to say Monday, but I told her no, the week begins with Sunday. She said sometimes people just start with Monday, particularly in regards to teddy bears. I was devastated, and therefore now I insist on starting my weekly run down with Sunday.

Anyway, Sunday.
There is really nothing on the network side that interests me about Sunday nights. I am staunchly anti Desperate Housewives, and I have seen Brothers & Sisters, which ABC has bestowed the beloved former Grey’s Anatomy time slot on, and it blows. Therefore, I believe I will be a casual Family Guy Viewer at 9 PM EST on Fox, and leave myself open for when HBO sends some new Sunday night goodies our way (particularly more Sopranos and Big Love come spring).

Monday
8 PM ABC- Wife Swap. I’m a sucker for reality guilty pleasures, and this is one of my favorites. Check out the season premiere featuring a family that embraces all things pirate.
9 PM NBC- Heroes. I’ve seen the pilot and it is…not bad. This will easily fill your desire for network fantasy if Lost is too ‘out there’ for you. (Polar bears on a tropical island? I will believe it when I see snakes on a plane). While the first plot line is a little melodramatic, I see this show gaining some good footing once all the heroes become aware and accepting of their powers. Plus, cut me off a piece of Milo Ventimiglia!

10 PM NBC- Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. The first episodes of Studio 60 is very industry heavy in lingo and plot content, but the show runners have learned their lesson, and this should turn into a great display of chemistry between Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford. My one complaint is I LOVED Jud Hirsch in the pilot and am bummed that this is a cameo that doesn’t look to be a recurring one.

Tuesday
8 PM Fox- House. Oh. My. God. Cannot wait for this Tuesday.
DVRing 8 PM CW- Gilmore Girls. I am nervous to see what this season will bring since brilliant show runner and creator Amy Sherman Paladino (and husband Dan) have called it quits on Gilmore. I am hoping that the show has gained enough of a voice by now that the crackerjack writing team can give us one more season for Rory to dump Logan and for Laurelai to marry Luke!
10 PM CBS- Smith. Unfortunately, all I can say for this pilot is that it wasn’t horrible. It has peaked my curiosity enough to watch this band of criminals, especially because it seems to succeed where earlier this year, NBC’s Heist failed. Also, Ray Liotta is a fine actor and human being. Actually, I know nothing about him as a person.
DON’T WATCH 9:30 PM ABC- Help Me Help You. Ted Danson is no stranger to television, successful television at that. Neither is Jane Kaczmarek. But this comedy shot on film about a group therapist that needs help on his own brings the concept cliché to new cliché levels. What a waste of an above average cast.

Wednesday
8 PM NBC- 30 Rock. Sentimental value and Tina Fey allegiance will make me a regular viewer. This was by far the most promising half hour comedy of the new season, with some laugh out loud moments in the pilot. I just hope they don’t cut poor Rachel Dratch out completely before they're through…
DON’T WATCH 9 PM ABC- Lost. No matter what Alanna tells you, just don’t do it!

Thursday
8 PM ABC- Ugly Betty. This hour-long comedy is not for thinkers. Also, watching the pilot tied up enough loose ends to make you feel like you were watching a movie. Also, watching the pilot made you feel like you were watching The Devil Wears Prada. But it was cute. I will probably channel surf between this and My Name is Earl on NBC for the first half…but switch to
8:30 PM NBC- The Office. This show deserved its Emmy. Even if my heart still remains with Ricky Gervais, this is the best comedy on network television.

Friday
DON’T WATCH 9 PM ABC- Men in Trees. Anne Heche looked like she was WASTING AWAY in the pilot, which is enough for me to boycott. This show follows Heche as a down and out motivational speaker making a fresh start in Alaska, living in a town populated mostly by men. It’s hard to buy any show that gets a Friday night time slot, even though CBS’ Ghost Whisperer is a modest returning success after premiering on this night, but its especially hard to invest in this predictable show that feels more like a Nora Ephron piece gone wrong.

Saturday
Wow, look at this crap. I guess I’d better learn to like college football. However, keep your eyes open for the return of…
8 PM NBC- Dateline. Particularly Dateline predators. Nothing brings more satisfaction in life than watching a shoeless, toothless Floridian with the screen name “HardForBritney69” convince a Dateline correspondent that is visiting a little girl who is home alone to fix her roller skates.

Keep in mind that this schedule doesn’t mean I won’t be watching, oh I don’t know, everything else ever. But if quality is your middle name like it is mine (and by quality I mean Kathryn) check these shows out. Wow, I just felt like one of those three kids reviewing a book on an episode of Reading Rainbow.

100% customer satisfaction

TV, it is a-changing in the Boob Tubers' household (and by household I mean shoebox-sized, mouse-ridden, pre-war apartment wedged between a happy ending massage parlor and a drug rehab center.) Jeanette and Viv decided to get DVR, and along with that magical recording device we also gained about 100 new channels. So far we've taped such gems as Buffy reruns, every episode of Degrassi: The Next Generation, and a Cosby Show episode that plays like propaganda for Bill's idea of the model black American citizen.

The most interesting product of our increasingly ludicrous cable package, though, is Morgan Spurlock's 30 Days. The show plays less like reality TV and more like serial documentary, with the ever-genuine Spurlock presenting us with thirty perspective-altering days in the life of himself or someone else. One episode featured a man whose job had been outsourced traveling to India to meet the people who now work for his former company. Another has an atheist mom live with a devout Christian family for a month. Spurlock avoids the sensationalist trappings of other such switcheroo programs (I'm looking at you, Wife Swap) and instead presents his subjects as nuanced individuals without the predictable stereotypes.

In the episode the Boob Tubers watched last night, Spurlock submitted himself to thirty days in a county prison. He roomed with convicted felons, ate in the prison cafeteria, and even volunteered to do 72 hours in solitary confinement. Spurlock is nothing if not an extremist, regularly inserting himself into deeply unpleasant situations, as in his somewhat obvious doc, Super Size Me.

This 30 Days piece was more effective than his anti-fast food film, though. We see Spurlock socializing with a series of men who clearly do not belong in prison: a schizophrenic dependent on the goodwill of another inmate, a young man detoxing from heroin, several good-natured guys who have never committed a violent crime. We learn about a system that not only fails to rehabilitate, but seems to instill behaviors that will only land these people in prison over and over again. And it drains millions of dollars from taxpayers. It's unsurprising, then, when we learn that the friends Spurlock made are back on drugs or in jail.

It's rare that the Boob Tubers will have a legitimate discussion about a TV show once it's over. A typical discussion begins and ends with "J.T. York is totally my Degrassi little brother!" or "What exactly does 'Danity Kane' mean?" But last night we actually talked about the prison system, addiction, and mental illness. 30 Days distinguishes the often-sleazy FX from the big networks in that it presents high-quality reality TV - who knew it was possible?

And on the topic of reality TV, tune in soon for Jeanette's take on Survivor's embrace of old-school segregation this upcoming season!

Real time Emmys coverage

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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?

Breaking News: Walnuts Strikes Back

The Real World: Key West's beloved Paula Walnuts persists in her attempts to seize Tanya's title as Most Unbalanced Female to ever appear on one of the show's 17 seasons. Though some of us may admire the perserverance and discipline** required to have anorexia (I'm looking at you, Fleish), few would applaud biting one's own boyfriend to gain re-entry into his home. But hey, maybe this is the only way this faux-famine victim can get her revenge for the time the dude landed her in the hospital. Or maybe, as Defamer speculates, Paula abruptly decided to return to solid meals with the nearest meat in her vicinity.


**disquieting compulsive tendencies

Emmys, Shmemmys

As Alanna's Favorite TV Character™ Al Swearengen once said, "I'm not pissed; I'm in fucking wonderment."

The Emmy nominations were announced today, fulfilling Soledad O'Brien's long-held wish of interviewing that nerdy guy from Two and a Half Men. Speaking of which, why does drivel like that show and King of Queens (who knew that was still even on the air?) get loaded up with noms when the comedy categories should have been filled with every actor, writer, and gaffer from Arrested Development? And Julia Louis-Dreyfus, hooray for you and breaking the Seinfeld curse with your The New Adventures of A Presumably Older Woman Who Still Looks Better than Anyone We Know and We're Supposed to Believe She Can't Get A Date, but I've never met a single person who watches that show and it will get cancelled circa January 07.

It's-Not-TV-It's-HBO leads the pack with 95 shout-outs, but nary a one for my Deadwood. I attribute this glaring oversight to the show's bizarre scheduling. I'm totally on board with the nods for Six Feet Under's Frances Conroy and Peter Krause, but at this point it feels like that show went off the air around the same time as M.A.S.H. did.

Don't even get Jeanette and I started on Grey's Anatomy's trumping of House. OK, get us started. If the two medical dramas engaged in a boxing match, House would shove a giant vial of Ipecac up Grey's ass before you could say "McDreamy." I also think the opening match would be a Lemon-Face-off between Ellen Pompeo and Renee Zellweger.

Finally, I used to be quite the 24 devotee, but when you kill off the only likeable character (President Palmer) and the only hot character (Tony Almeida) it turns a girl off. Woman cannot live on explosions and Chechen rebels alone. This season sucked only slightly less than Season 4, and even a guest appearance from the gone-but-not-forgotten Dr. Romano (of the once-great E.R.) could not save the show for me. Therefore, Kiefer, kindly hand your nomination over to the superlatively sexy Hugh Laurie.

CBS Sunday Morning

Even in a TV Land where there is a year round production schedule, summer can experience broadcasting lulls, especially this week as we celebrate our fine nation's birth. In all my previous entries, I have desperately attempted to be funny. But there is nothing funny about the spacious skies and amber waves of grain that make up America the beautiful, so in honor of America's first gay orgy (AKA the Continental Congress) I am going to focus on one of the finest examples of journalistic television and Americana: CBS' Sunday Morning.

On the Sunday mornings when I wake up from a REM free sleep, wondering if it is really cocaine or that pesty, sixth Zima making my head spin, I don't roll back over and pretend my duvet is a pre-1977 David Cassidy. Instead, I make sure I am at least semi-conscious for the 9 AM EST airing of Sunday Morning. While my devotion of late belongs to Garrison Keillor, prepetual plugger of Powdermilk Biscuits, there is room for two slightly above middle aged presenters in my heart, particularly because something so soothing about Charles Osgood's well meaning intros. No hangover sticks around for long when Charles tell me that I will get a look into the latest trend sweeping Minnesota's dairy farm wife knitting circles!

It is a shame that television's most prime example of journalistic integrity only airs once a week in a time slot where it's main competition is sleep. Take Sunday Morning's weekday counterpart, NBC's Today, for example. A segment on Today follows this horribly vomitrotious format WITHOUT FAIL:
1) Voiceover of topic, followed by a compilation of movie clips to prove this topic to be ubiquitous (Hey, because if the Wilson Brothers face it in their latest romantic comedy, it MUST be a relevant topic).
2) Location shoot of someone who deals with this issue in real life (I know, I was just as upset as you to learn that the antics of the Wilson brothers aren't necessarily real life).
3) Matt Lauer interviews an expert on this topic (note: writing one of those yellow "For Dummies" books is enough for Today to consider you an expert).
And millions of people watch this formula EVERYDAY!!!!

Yet on last Sunday's episode ALONE, Sunday Morning managed to cover the following timely topics with intelligent and creative slants:
The craze of Lucha Libre wrestling
The birthday of the Bikini
A profile of Kris Kristofferso
The touching photos of soldiers in Iraqi combat by Lucien Read

AND I didn't even have to sit through any clips from Beach Blanket Bingo III to prove to me that the bikini is pop culturally relevant!

Tune in, everyone. At the very least, you will have something to talk to your grandmother about.