I really like Top Chef. Last season? AMAZING. The entire season, you got to watch four great chefs battle it out and lay waste to their competitors. And, yes, looking back Angry Voltaggio's win was almost assured (though I was really hoping the Young Santa or Friendly Voltaggio would pull off the win) but the others were amazing competition. And the season before that had Carla! And Stefan! And Fabio! And...okay, I don't even want to talk about the winner, but still - good, good, lively stuff.
This season, not so much. This week was Restaurant Wars, which should be an exciting, drama-filled hour. It is the only time that the average person might see someone almost get decked because they think a Gastro-pub is too "done". But last night had nothing remotely approaching that. The whole struggle of one concept over another, or how much the budget should go to dishes? Nope. It was just "Oh, Restaurant Wars? Ok. Here is our menu. (Commercial Break) And now we have shopped." And then the team with all the normal hallmarks of a loser (awful name, bad front of house) won. And seriously, "EVOO"? Not only does it sound dumb, but I can't be the only one who looked at it written down and immediately heard Rachel Ray's voice in my head.
What struck me most, though, is that by Restaurant Wars the show should be a battle between a bunch of fantastic chefs, whereas this week the judges didn't seem super-impressed with anyone. There's no one you really root for. Maybe Tiffany, who's awesome as a person, and one of the stronger chefs in the season, but I can't help but wonder how far she would have made it in last season's culinary Thunderdome. It's Angelo's game to win at this point, but he's so...off-putting. He's not bad enough to be their actual villain, but he's just sort of pesky. My favorite is Kelly, but she's sooooo low key. And not reality show "generally affable but dropping the occasional wit-bomb" low-key, actual low-key. Every interview seems like they shook her awake at 4 A.M. and started asking questions. And, I mean, I still think she's great, but she's not exactly the sort of person you make a fan page about.
It was just a bit shocking realizing that the show has made it this far with two pieces of dead weight still holding on and no clear top three.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
I say this with love. Nitpicky, judgmental love.
Over the weekend, after spending an afternoon picking raspberries (which is an awfully WASPy activity for someone who meets none of the criteria) my husband and I settled in for our own personal four-episode Buffy mini-marathon. Now we're in the middle of season three (which is an amazing season) and um...isn't Angel's cemetery-adjacent, semi-derelict death mansion awfully...well-appointed? In episode three the place had nothing but some manacles on a sconce (which, P.S., seriously? You've been locking up a werewolf for half a year, and you thought some decorative iron work was a good place to tether your feral ex?), and an Angel-shaped char mark on the ground.
I let it slide when, in the next episode, he suddenly had pants. Maybe Buffy got them for him. Maybe a crisp pair of trousers is the first step on the path to civilization. Maybe you just can't have David Boreanaz running around ass-out on network television. Whatever the reason, I was okay with the clothes. But then, three episodes after he got dropped out of some mysterious hell-place, the guy has a freaking sectional sofa. And it's nice! It's all nice, and modern, and crisp, with beige cushions that you would think might not be the best idea in a graveyard, but whatever, it's a really nice sofa. My sofa is a hand-me-down from my husband's grandmother, and it looks like a hand-me-down from someone's grandmother. Even friends of mine who have notably nicer furniture than mine don't have a sofa that nice - where did Mr. Broody No-Job get the money for that?
For an evil vampire, I get it. You steal from the people you kill, then invest in companies that rip off old ladies or make cosmetics out of baby seal tears. But when you turn over a new leaf aren't you supposed to give all of your ill-gotten gains to under-privileged school children, leaving you to glance sadly about your spartan hovel and contemplate the torment you've visited on those around you? It kind of harms your broody emo street cred when you're mourning all the terrible deeds lurking in your past on some freshly delivered fine home furnishings.
I let it slide when, in the next episode, he suddenly had pants. Maybe Buffy got them for him. Maybe a crisp pair of trousers is the first step on the path to civilization. Maybe you just can't have David Boreanaz running around ass-out on network television. Whatever the reason, I was okay with the clothes. But then, three episodes after he got dropped out of some mysterious hell-place, the guy has a freaking sectional sofa. And it's nice! It's all nice, and modern, and crisp, with beige cushions that you would think might not be the best idea in a graveyard, but whatever, it's a really nice sofa. My sofa is a hand-me-down from my husband's grandmother, and it looks like a hand-me-down from someone's grandmother. Even friends of mine who have notably nicer furniture than mine don't have a sofa that nice - where did Mr. Broody No-Job get the money for that?
For an evil vampire, I get it. You steal from the people you kill, then invest in companies that rip off old ladies or make cosmetics out of baby seal tears. But when you turn over a new leaf aren't you supposed to give all of your ill-gotten gains to under-privileged school children, leaving you to glance sadly about your spartan hovel and contemplate the torment you've visited on those around you? It kind of harms your broody emo street cred when you're mourning all the terrible deeds lurking in your past on some freshly delivered fine home furnishings.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
(Semi-) Shameless Self-Promotion! Yay!
I just wanted to, very quickly, mention that I started an Etsy shop today. Well, last night, but I was too lazy to wander the internet promoting it so basically, today. This won't be turning into a craft blog, and it won't become the sort of thing where every three days I post some "Oh My God, go to my store" shakedown entry. I promise. Mostly because, to be honest, self-promotion makes me queasy.
Anyway, please check out the shop - for now it's just tote bags, but I may branch out down the road.
Click the photo to link to the shop, and experience the nerdiness.
Anyway, please check out the shop - for now it's just tote bags, but I may branch out down the road.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
You're pushing it, Affleck (with bonus sadness)
Over the weekend I caught up with the rest of the world and saw Inception and, along with it, the trailer for Ben Affleck's new movie, The Town. It looks good, it's just...
Look, I've nearly trained myself to suspend my disbelief enough to accept the idea that all good cops and federal agents are well-coiffed, attractive and stylish ("I may have a murderer to catch, but not before I get my roots done"), and I rest just this side of finding the whole "I traumatized her/I love her" thing kind of ridiculous. The casting is mainly what saves it for me - Jon Hamm as the federal agent and Jeremy Renner as the friend who won't let Affleck leave his life crime is enough to make me forgive the more melodramatic stuff. Plus, Renner's character name is Jem, which makes me wish I could get drunk at a party and ask him if the script was "truly outgeous...truly, truly, truly outrageous." Which is why I shouldn't meet famous people.
Anyway, I've done some major digressing. The point is, I can more or less accept all of these components of The Town, and I was ready to give it a shot but...Blake Lively? Seriously?
I have nothing against her as an actress. I don't. But no quantity of cheap tank tops, heavy eye makeup, bad lighting, and really long fake nails can change the fact that that is Serena Van Der Woodsen. Maybe in the movie itself she'll totally surprise me and really embody the role, but so far...no. I can't look at her and say "yes, this is clearly Ben Affleck's hard living, wrong-side-of-the-tracks ex-girlfriend or possibly hard-living, wrong-side-of-the-tracks younger sister. Well, hopefully younger sister because she's like half his age which is kind of gross."
Oh -as I was trying to figure out how to close this out, I came across this unrelated A.V. Club article.
Fox, please just stop it. The Jersey Shore is very popular and funny, in a tragic sort of way, but that doesn't mean you need to get yourself a piece of the action. Or even if you must, does The Situation actually have to be there? Why not just do a show about the whole "Guido culture" without the awkward cameo? Just...stop with all the crossovers. Bones is a really fun show, when no one's consulting The Dog Whisperer, or camping out for Avatar tickets, or solving Constantine's murder. In their new Sienna minivan. While Motley Crue performs in the background.
You don't make Hugh Laurie do this crap.
Look, I've nearly trained myself to suspend my disbelief enough to accept the idea that all good cops and federal agents are well-coiffed, attractive and stylish ("I may have a murderer to catch, but not before I get my roots done"), and I rest just this side of finding the whole "I traumatized her/I love her" thing kind of ridiculous. The casting is mainly what saves it for me - Jon Hamm as the federal agent and Jeremy Renner as the friend who won't let Affleck leave his life crime is enough to make me forgive the more melodramatic stuff. Plus, Renner's character name is Jem, which makes me wish I could get drunk at a party and ask him if the script was "truly outgeous...truly, truly, truly outrageous." Which is why I shouldn't meet famous people.
Anyway, I've done some major digressing. The point is, I can more or less accept all of these components of The Town, and I was ready to give it a shot but...Blake Lively? Seriously?
I have nothing against her as an actress. I don't. But no quantity of cheap tank tops, heavy eye makeup, bad lighting, and really long fake nails can change the fact that that is Serena Van Der Woodsen. Maybe in the movie itself she'll totally surprise me and really embody the role, but so far...no. I can't look at her and say "yes, this is clearly Ben Affleck's hard living, wrong-side-of-the-tracks ex-girlfriend or possibly hard-living, wrong-side-of-the-tracks younger sister. Well, hopefully younger sister because she's like half his age which is kind of gross."
Oh -as I was trying to figure out how to close this out, I came across this unrelated A.V. Club article.
Fox, please just stop it. The Jersey Shore is very popular and funny, in a tragic sort of way, but that doesn't mean you need to get yourself a piece of the action. Or even if you must, does The Situation actually have to be there? Why not just do a show about the whole "Guido culture" without the awkward cameo? Just...stop with all the crossovers. Bones is a really fun show, when no one's consulting The Dog Whisperer, or camping out for Avatar tickets, or solving Constantine's murder. In their new Sienna minivan. While Motley Crue performs in the background.
You don't make Hugh Laurie do this crap.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Diary of a Winner
I threw my tennis shoes away in May.
It wasn't some huge symbolic stand against the perpetual onslaught of diet plans and workout tips aimed at women or anything. I had to throw them away because I'm an idiot. I dropped a Pyrex bowl and my kitchen floor and it shattered (which I didn't even realize was possible. I kind of believe Pyrex to be magically unbreakable), and I - reasonable person that I am - immediately ran to put on shoes so that I wouldn't step in glass as I stood there scowling and crying out to the heavens about the glass-infested chicken that would now have to be thrown out. And, you know, also cleaning up said glass/poultry debacle. The problem is that it didn't occur to me to first check if I'd ALREADY stepped in glass. Which I had. I know this to be the case because, when it occurred to me to take off a shoe and check, I shook out a tiny shard of what once was a medium-sized Pyrex storage bowl. Also, because I was bleeding. So, rather than clean the glass off in the kitchen sink, I risked further injury and put my glass-filled shoes sneakers back on, grabbed a pair of flip-flops, ran to the bathroom, and washed my feet off in the bathtub (because if feet ever go where my dishes go I will never eat or drink anything in my apartment again ever), put on the flip-flops, trashed the sneakers, and cleaned up the chicken.
This is not the part of the story that makes me feel super-dumb (though it ranks).
After this, because I am cheap/broke/lazy/broke, I didn't replace the sneakers and just spent the next 2 months wearing flats all the time. Apparently that's a terrible idea, because the human foot, which is designed to allow you to stand flat on the ground, isn't designed to stand flat on the ground. It's designed to be lifted at the heel and snugly embraced at the ankle by overpriced running shoes. But, since I didn't know that, I scoffed at all manner of air-cushion technologies and walked around wearing what amounts to fabric on balsa wood. And so I ended up hobbling around due to problems involving stressed tendons and anterior Achilles something-or-other and lots of other words that basically amount to "hey, you seem to be hobbling" and end with me being under doctor's orders to immediately buy some super-snazzy running shoes and wear them all day, every day for a month. Seriously all day. His words were "You know when you get home from work and you're ready to unwind, so you slip your shoes off and relax on the couch? Don't do that."
So trying to duck paying $40 for some Shoe Carnival (don't judge me) sneakers, cost me a co-pay, plus running shoes, plus fancy runners' socks since I wore flip-flops to the doctor. That put me down about $90 from where I would have been if I just replaced the stupid shoes in the first place.
That's also not the part that makes me feel dumb.
What makes me feel like a complete moron is this: since I have to wear the running shoes non-stop for the next month, I'm doomed to four work weeks of office wear from the ankle up and big-ass, puffy sneakers from the ankle down. I'm one giant set of shoulder pads away from looking like some long-forgotten extra from Working Girl.
It wasn't some huge symbolic stand against the perpetual onslaught of diet plans and workout tips aimed at women or anything. I had to throw them away because I'm an idiot. I dropped a Pyrex bowl and my kitchen floor and it shattered (which I didn't even realize was possible. I kind of believe Pyrex to be magically unbreakable), and I - reasonable person that I am - immediately ran to put on shoes so that I wouldn't step in glass as I stood there scowling and crying out to the heavens about the glass-infested chicken that would now have to be thrown out. And, you know, also cleaning up said glass/poultry debacle. The problem is that it didn't occur to me to first check if I'd ALREADY stepped in glass. Which I had. I know this to be the case because, when it occurred to me to take off a shoe and check, I shook out a tiny shard of what once was a medium-sized Pyrex storage bowl. Also, because I was bleeding. So, rather than clean the glass off in the kitchen sink, I risked further injury and put my glass-filled shoes sneakers back on, grabbed a pair of flip-flops, ran to the bathroom, and washed my feet off in the bathtub (because if feet ever go where my dishes go I will never eat or drink anything in my apartment again ever), put on the flip-flops, trashed the sneakers, and cleaned up the chicken.
This is not the part of the story that makes me feel super-dumb (though it ranks).
After this, because I am cheap/broke/lazy/broke, I didn't replace the sneakers and just spent the next 2 months wearing flats all the time. Apparently that's a terrible idea, because the human foot, which is designed to allow you to stand flat on the ground, isn't designed to stand flat on the ground. It's designed to be lifted at the heel and snugly embraced at the ankle by overpriced running shoes. But, since I didn't know that, I scoffed at all manner of air-cushion technologies and walked around wearing what amounts to fabric on balsa wood. And so I ended up hobbling around due to problems involving stressed tendons and anterior Achilles something-or-other and lots of other words that basically amount to "hey, you seem to be hobbling" and end with me being under doctor's orders to immediately buy some super-snazzy running shoes and wear them all day, every day for a month. Seriously all day. His words were "You know when you get home from work and you're ready to unwind, so you slip your shoes off and relax on the couch? Don't do that."
So trying to duck paying $40 for some Shoe Carnival (don't judge me) sneakers, cost me a co-pay, plus running shoes, plus fancy runners' socks since I wore flip-flops to the doctor. That put me down about $90 from where I would have been if I just replaced the stupid shoes in the first place.
That's also not the part that makes me feel dumb.
What makes me feel like a complete moron is this: since I have to wear the running shoes non-stop for the next month, I'm doomed to four work weeks of office wear from the ankle up and big-ass, puffy sneakers from the ankle down. I'm one giant set of shoulder pads away from looking like some long-forgotten extra from Working Girl.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A follow-up
Last week I was talking to a couple of friends about my new-found issues with Beauty and the Beast's "Be Our Guest" and a lot of other issues were pointed out. Like the tea comes out of Mrs. Pott's nose (that almost made me vomit) and to eat you're sticking a person's whole head in your mouth. Then, one of my friends made the absolute best point in the whole discussion:
What happened to all of the regular dishes?
Because before the people were dishes, they had to serve off of something, right? I mean, I know that they don't have thumbs (except maybe the wardrobe), but couldn't the people just get down their own plates? Just to save them some dignity?
What happened to all of the regular dishes?
Because before the people were dishes, they had to serve off of something, right? I mean, I know that they don't have thumbs (except maybe the wardrobe), but couldn't the people just get down their own plates? Just to save them some dignity?
It's the principle. And my own cheapness. But mostly the principle
In my head, I imagine this blog to be a really positive thing. I'm coming to realize that that simply isn't the case. I mean, I'm not some bile-spewing attack-blogger (which is, let's be honest, a patently silly phrase) but I'm...peevish by nature so, amidst high-fives to Wonder Woman and Friday-improving playlists, things tend to get a bit peevish here.
I just wanted to acknowledge that now, before I dive into this.
I don't understand paying for autographs. I know that for some people, especially when meeting someone they really idolize, it's totally worth it, but to me paying for an autograph kind of seems to defeat the purpose.
Appearance fees make more sense to me (though the fact that Snooki can probably make more in a few nights of club appearances than I can in a year of working full time does chafe a bit). Sure, the still seem crazy high to me, but you charge what the venues will pay, and then they recoup that increased ticket and door prices, which people are willing to pay because you're there. It's a how market analysis - /supply and demand - /other words I learned in Senior Econ and immediately forgot - thing. Plus, it's not like you really want your free time priced to move. Otherwise you end up contractually obligated to karaoke "Endless Love" at some wedding in Minnetonka.
Charging for autographs, though, seems less like getting a cut of the profits you're helping to bring in and more like actually charging people money for liking you. And it's not like I'm anti-autograph, or like there aren't autographs that I want; for example, Sir Patrick Stewart the king of all things awesome, but for forty plus dollars I'm going to need more than his name on a piece of paper, ten seconds of eye contact and some innocuously charming banter. For forty dollars I need an actual story. We need to split some cheese fries, or talk about who we like on Top Chef this season, or something. Because if that forty dollars gets me no interaction, and a souvenir of the moment where a famous person asked my name and then wrote it down, wouldn't it be just as good to take a quick picture of them signing other people's stuff, and drop the forty bucks some Star Trek:TNG DVDs? Because then, I still get to tell a story about sort-of meeting Patrick Stewart, but I get to do it while watching the episode where the girl had the creepy-ass imaginary friend who was actually a totally non-imaginary Borg.
And, I'm sorry Patrick, but that episode is pretty hard to compete with.
I just wanted to acknowledge that now, before I dive into this.
I don't understand paying for autographs. I know that for some people, especially when meeting someone they really idolize, it's totally worth it, but to me paying for an autograph kind of seems to defeat the purpose.
Appearance fees make more sense to me (though the fact that Snooki can probably make more in a few nights of club appearances than I can in a year of working full time does chafe a bit). Sure, the still seem crazy high to me, but you charge what the venues will pay, and then they recoup that increased ticket and door prices, which people are willing to pay because you're there. It's a how market analysis - /supply and demand - /other words I learned in Senior Econ and immediately forgot - thing. Plus, it's not like you really want your free time priced to move. Otherwise you end up contractually obligated to karaoke "Endless Love" at some wedding in Minnetonka.
Charging for autographs, though, seems less like getting a cut of the profits you're helping to bring in and more like actually charging people money for liking you. And it's not like I'm anti-autograph, or like there aren't autographs that I want; for example, Sir Patrick Stewart the king of all things awesome, but for forty plus dollars I'm going to need more than his name on a piece of paper, ten seconds of eye contact and some innocuously charming banter. For forty dollars I need an actual story. We need to split some cheese fries, or talk about who we like on Top Chef this season, or something. Because if that forty dollars gets me no interaction, and a souvenir of the moment where a famous person asked my name and then wrote it down, wouldn't it be just as good to take a quick picture of them signing other people's stuff, and drop the forty bucks some Star Trek:TNG DVDs? Because then, I still get to tell a story about sort-of meeting Patrick Stewart, but I get to do it while watching the episode where the girl had the creepy-ass imaginary friend who was actually a totally non-imaginary Borg.
And, I'm sorry Patrick, but that episode is pretty hard to compete with.
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