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.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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.
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?
* 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?
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
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?
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, September 01, 2006
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.
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!
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!
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Saturday, August 26, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, August 18, 2006
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
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
Thursday, August 17, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, August 07, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, August 04, 2006
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?
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?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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...
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...
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
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