by emily
Grade: C+

You may be completely unsurprised to learn that the new Oxygen! network program The Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency obscenely straddles the fine line between hilarious camp (see: ANTM) and unwatchable dreck (see: The Surreal Life). If you are a fan of the elastic-faced antics of The World's First Supermodel, it might be more rewarding to buy her forthcoming book -- which she discusses at length in this hilariously stupid interview -- than to actually watch this tv show, because the production values are so crappy. For example, in all the pre-recorded segments in which the producers try to give the show a narrative arc by making Janice explain herself directly to the camera, the focus is so cottony-soft that the shot is actually blurry. Seriously -- so blurry that you'll think, "Did my contact just fall out?" Also, the Oh! audience apparently is very old and poor, because most of the advertisements are for incontinence medication, debt consolidation, and Colonial Penn insurance. This can feel degrading. It can also remind you of how inadequate your Tivo-free lifestyle is. Strike two.

But here's the thing: I will watch a tv show just because a character continually spouts hilarious malapropisms. Imagine that! Here are the peak moments of last night's episodes (at least, those that I managed to watch before Henry's pleading that we watch anything, anything, even Rachel Ray but just please not this finally had an effect).

*Janice instructs the nervous models to take some "inhale/outhales."
* "I am so thrilled that you're from The Sudan, because Africa is my favorite place in the whole world."
* "I have two words for people who don't want to work with me. Out!"
* "Are we in agreeance?"

I also really liked the teaser before commercial break that went like this.
VO: "But before the Agency can even open for business, Janice must confront some profound challenges . . ."
(clip of Janice shouting): "YOUR FINGERS NEED BUFFING!"
VO: " . . . that will change everything."

Oh, fuck it, let's keep watching it. Are we in agreeance?

By emily

GRADE: F

Oh, it seems like I’ve been dying to rest my head on something real – too bad ‘realness’ is barely a concept anymore. It’s been replaced by ‘reality,’ which is scary precisely because it pretends to be realness, but isn’t. For example, Ashlee Simpson’s scary fake-realness. Here’s a girl who’s been marketed as the ‘gritty,’ ‘edgy’ ‘punky,’ (and other stripped-of-meaning words) alternative to her prissy, shiny sister Jessica. As everyone over fifteen deduced long ago, Ashlee’s rock realness exists on a purely follicular level – basically, she is Jessica, just with a bad black dye job. But this facile repackaging of the blonde pop ideal was enough to push Ashlee to the top of the charts – and to get her insidiously catchy single loads of insidious airplay. Then, this weekend, she pulled a literal Milli Vanilli, blatanly getting caught lip-synching on Saturday Night Live. She then compounded the heinousness of this embarrassing moment by issuing a bratty ‘apology’ during the traditional SNL all-cast hug-and-laugh closer, in which she blamed her band for starting the wrong song (yeah, blaming your band is so punk rock). Oh, wait, did I mention that she also did a stupid jig? All in all, it was a real catastrofee, as Ashlee’s parents would probably spell it.

There are two scenarios which could play out in the next few days/weeks for Ashlee’s career. One takes place in the land of ‘realness,’ and it goes like this: Ashlee’s integrity-free performance is correctly decried far and wide in the mainstream (read: non-online) media, and her one-hit-wonder days are over. But in ‘reality’—and remember, this is the ‘extreme makeover’ variety of reality we’re talking about here – Ashlee’s sad-face apology will garner sympathy and articles of the ‘I make mistakes – see, I’m so relatable!’ variety in all your fave magazines.

Sigh. Something real . . . I like the way that feels.

By B

Grade:B

Starting Over, in case you didn’t know, is the most revolutionary television program of all times. This brilliant soap-opera-meets-reality-show-meets-Dr. Phil is taking the tired “seven strangers picked to live in an apartment” formula to thrilling new heights of banality, by being on Every Fucking Day. And I am not talking a measly thirty minutes here. No, you can spend five whole hours per week following the life struggles of this constantly rotating armada of completely hopeless women. While Survivor, much as I love it, never seems to linger long enough on the castaways’ petty bickering over rice and coconuts, Starting Over has all the time in the world to devote to the most prosaic of conflicts, such as, Is Josie a Bad Mother For Letting Baby Chloe Chew on a Biscuit and Will or Will Not Deborah (pronounced, duh-BORE-uh) Eat With the Group? In comparison to MTV’s venerable THE REAL WORLD, which is also produced by the reality pioneers of Bunim/Murray, and which is forced to edit five months of exploits into a few barely-there SweeTarts of catfighting and navel-gazing, Starting Over is downright epic. I swear it is Mary-Ellis (RIP) and John’s Iliad, or their Gravity’s Rainbow, or their Remembrance of Things Past. And believe me, I would not put it past them to spend a whole episode on the topic of Precisely How Delicious and Delicate is Towanda’s Little French Cookie?

Continue reading "Starting Over Season 2" »

By emily

Grade: B-

Oh, you poor poor children of the 90s. Not only do you have to get over being named, like, Jack and Seamus and Emaleigh and Skyden, you have to be entertained with such bland, stupid, third rate pop culture. What will you do if you don’t think Anne Hathaway and Jennifer Garner are adorable? What if the filmic oeuvre of Hillary Duff and Chad Michael Murray leaves you cold? What possible alternative do you have to Everwood and 7th Heaven and the Uncle Jesse’s Wife Beach house Show?

Well, you kind of have the N, but even it is not all that. It is mainly notable for the program ‘Degrassi: The Next Generation,’ which is superior to the major networks’ Millenials-themed offerings for a number of reasons. In keeping with the tradition of journalistic excellence that we strive to uphold here at the Universal Review, I have only ever seen about half of an episode of this show. But I did an extensive interview with my cousins (ages 7-14) about it. They appreciate the fact that the show doesn’t shy away from real-life issues, such as abortion, parental gayness, and dressing goth. The only problem is that even though the show is stuck in perpetual Very Special Episode-mode, you can’t take anything too seriously because the characters all have silly Canadian accents. Degrassi, like You Can’t Do That On Television, never overtly mentions its Northern provenance, but if you were to play a drinking came where you drank every time a character said ‘soorry’ or ‘aboot,’ you would get hammered. (Let’s!)

Another reason Degrassi is better than The OC is that the teenagers on it are played by actual teenagers and they lack that Aryan Nation symmetrical-faced blandness (translation: they are dogs, especially the main character girl). This is a step in the right direction. I for one am sick of everyone on tv having the vapid, Midwestern-pretty aspect of those models you see lost on the subway sometimes, clutching their model books and staring vacantly at their reflections in the windows. I feel that having ugly Canadians on tv is better for young people's self-confidence. Maybe I will watch an entire episode of Degrassi sometime.

By B

Grade: A+

How can anyone not love HEART? What is up with all the haters? Even Henry would like them, I bet, because they are kind of like heavy metal. But he probably does not realize this. Henry aside, the reason you should all love HEART is because they satisfy very many thirsts. If you are in the mood for a heart-wrenching power ballad, lucky for you, because they have THESE DREAMS and WHAT ABOUT LOVE. If you are in the mood to hear some ladies really go insane, you are even luckier, because they have MAGIC MAN, BARRACUDA, and, of course, CRAZY ON YOU, which is one of the classic spaz-themed songs of all time. If you are in the mood for a skinny lady, well Heart certainly has one of those. And if you are up for a fat lady hiding behind an ivy-covered Grecian column, well, I’m not saying anything, but you might find that you enjoy Heart as well!!!

We went to see Heart at the Beacon Theater on Tuesday. Fuck, those ladies are amazing. There is nothing quite like watching a lady as old as my mom doing scissor kicks and throwing her hair around while playing the electric guitar! Cameron Crowe is a lucky man. Ann Wilson looked way skinnier than usual, but she shouldn’t have been wearing that weird flowy slip. It was obviously meant to conceal, but I think she would have looked better without it. Anyway, I’m not really into doing concert reviews. I think it is enough to say: You missed it! Better luck next time. I heart Heart.

By emily

GRADE: B+

I would have preferred to see Vanity Fair, but some people will only go to see movies that feature drugs , the drug trade , drug research gone awry leading to someone turning into an ape-beast , Satanists , giving birth to the son of Satan , being possessed by Satan , werewolves , psychics , gangsters , psychic gangsters , or heists. It worked out okay in the end because Maria is such a good flick. It is about a 17 year old pregnant Colombian rose dethorner who, understandably, hates the inescapable boredom and poverty of her life. She yearns for something more, but unfortunately that something can only come in the form of being a drug mule. She is promised five thousand dollars if she can successfully carry 62 kumquat-sized heroin jujubes in her stomach all the way to New Jersey (“a small town near New York,” according to the sleazy dude who recruits her). If she fails, she and her entire family will be killed. If one of the pellets breaks inside her, she’ll die of an overdose. She and her fat best friend are joined on their incredibly tense journey by an older wenchie who looks kind of like the lady at the reception desk of the Y, as well as a sad-eyed lady named Lucy who has made the trip twice before with the intention of visiting her sister (both times failing because of the shame of being a drug mule). Pop quiz: which one of them is going to die?

What I liked about this movie, besides the seamless, documentary-esque realism that Sundance gave it awards for, was its depiction of what it’s like to come to New York. If you came to New York at some point, take a moment to reflect on your experience. Now imagine what that experience would have been like if you knew absolutely no English, had no friends or family to help you out, and were terribly frightened of being killed by drug dealers. Can you imagine still wanting to stay? Watching this movie, I sort of could. Weird.

Normandy and I had the idea a while ago for a new kind of psychotherapy called Putting it in Perspective Therapy. The idea is that you go in, whine about your poor self-image and how your parents just don’t understand your artistic ambitions for a while, and then eventually the therapist is like “That’s nothing. One of my other patients has no arms or legs and is blind, so he couldn’t see what was happening when his house caught fire, and now he is burned beyond recognition.” This movie is kind of like P.P.T. Now whenever I am unhappy with any aspect of my life I can thank my lucky stars that I’m only filled with uncertainty, and not heroin pellets and uncertainty.

By B

ALTERNATE GRADE: F

here at the universal review, we do not always agree on everything. bjork and her new record are a perfect example. (less perfect examples include the question of "is B a good or bad person, generally speaking?") we'll stick to bjork for now.

for reasons best not to get into, i have been subjected to more "a capella" "music" than any sane person should be. my hatred of the "form" is well documented, even if i have been known to do a good job of smiling wanly and pretending to like it. and guess what!? i also loathe and despise bj'o'rk. yes, i did have a brief flirtation with the sugarcubes in high school, but we can forget that. i certainly have-- the cd is scratched beyond recognition.

anyway, i became bored with the sugarcubes and then i was just lukewarm on the bjork question. then i saw dancer in the dark. jason rosen was heaving with sobs in the seat next to me throughout the film, but that did not prevent me from hearing the music. it did not sound good. bjork's problem is that she seems to be making the songs up as she goes along. her music reminds me of 11th grade history class where, in one ridiculous group project, we had to perform a semi-impromptu "opera" about the ottoman empire for teacher and prime Starting Over candidate, Miss A Taylor. We had, i think, one night to write it. i played a sultan, katie was a harem girl, and jamie was the rollerskating personification of the garden of allah. if it sounds like it was in poor taste, you're on the right track. anyway, the preparation comprised about five minutes of scribbling out notes, four hours putting costumes together, and a full evening of eating popsicles while rollerskating around my basement. the result was, i imagine, not that different from what Medulla sounds like. i don't know because i haven't heard it. But it was not that different from Dancer in the Dark. It might even have been better-- i wish i had a tape to compare.

We got a B- from Miss Anne Taylor, but our costumes were a lot better than Bjork's, even if jamie was embarassed to discover, post-performance, that he had a large hole in the seat of his floral stretch pants.

F for Bjork-a-pella.

By emily
GRADE: A

Bjork has always had a special place in my heart, ever since the time in 9th grade when I plagiarized one of her songs (Hyperballad, in case you care) in a short story and it won a prize. Also in 9th grade, I think, I choreographed a very floor-writhing-intensive dance to Isobel which won absolutely no prizes whatsoever. Then I stopped liking her as much circa Homogenic, and, later, I did not really understand what the deal was re: people liking or being moved by Dancer in the Dark.

Then last week I read the long New Yorker article about the making of Bjork’s new album, and my interest in her was resparked, for two reasons: 1. There is always something really fascinating to me about (seemingly) happy artist couples. My old fondness for Claire Fisher resurfaced momentarily when she described her crush as follows: “He’s, like, the Matthew Barney of LAC Arts . . . and I am SO not the Bjork of LAC Arts.” Imagining BG and MB’s domestic bliss is very intriguing. Like, what does their furniture look like? Is any of it covered with a thin film of Vaseline?

2. Speaking of artist couples . . . ha ha . . . um, my boyfriend is an ‘experimental noise musician,’ which means that most of the music he listens to or creates is kind of hard to take. Like, if our respective CD collections ever came to life, Fantasia-style, his CDs would tease and beat up my CDs, which would cower in the corner, moping. Recently I mentioned to him that we don’t have much in common, shared-interest-wise. He did not respond by reminding me that we both like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, because neither of us has ever seen it. Sorry if that song is stuck in your head now. Anyway, we resolved to find a mutual hobby or interest (besides, you know, the obvious things). I wondered if, by some miracle, we would both like Bjork’s new album.

I don’t know yet whether or not Henry likes Medulla. My guess is that he won’t, despite a track featuring Robert Wyatt sounding very Soft Machineish. Other than that, the album is not really loud or crazy enough for his tastes. But guess what: I like it.

On first listen, the lack of instrumentation was really noticeable, and I was reminded vaguely the a capella stylings of the Kenyon Kokosingers (I know, right?). Luckily there is no “bob sh’bop” or “mowmowmow” on this album. Bjork’s voice, as always, is crystalline and belty and growly, old-ladyish and little-girlish somehow at the same time. And the songs are more than just elegant settings for it – more than before, they’re meticulously realized soundscapes, layered and precise. I especially like the less noodly, more poppy ones, like Where is the Line. My favorite track is The Pleasure is All Mine with its slow, eerie, hypnotically lulling chorus of oooooooooooohs. It’s like stumbling through a creepy mansion that is haunted by the ghosts of a choir.

Uh, maybe you should just listen to it yourself. Anyway, way to go, Bjork. I like you again! Keep up the good work, and don’t tell Matthew that last year at the Guggenheim I used some of his art as lip balm.

By emily
GRADE: A

What an excellent book. There is probably nothing original left to be said about this Classic of Western Literature, so I’m not even going to try to literary-criticize it or say that it’s ‘about’ class warfare or feminism or, you know, blah blah. I will leave that stuff to people like the previous owner of my copy, whose marginal notes indicate a less-than-rigorous engagement with whatever class he read it for, as well as a deep-seated confusion about how to spell the word “bourgeois.” I didn’t read this for school, so my viewpoint is more on the level of: ‘Madame Bovary: better than Us Weekly if you’re looking to raise yourself in the esteem of your fellow subway riders.’

And of course, I do care whether my L-train buddies think I’m a brainless twerp who is fascinated by blueprints of the Olsens’ penthouse megadorm. I care because I’m shallow and obsessed with what the world thinks of me. I’m also materialistic and gluttonously demanding of creature comforts. Oh, and I often fantasize that I am the main character in a novel about my life. I love to live at emotional extremes – perfect misery or perfect happiness, with no allowance made for mediocrity, which I tend to see as failure. Historically, I’ve been irresistibly attracted to guys who are not merely wrong for me but are, in their own petty way, evil – and then I’ve become so involved with the passion and drama of being In Love that I’ve neglected to notice the evilness of the love-object. I’m also extremely self-centered (you can tell from the number of sentences I start with “I”). In short, Emma Bovary, c’est moi (and probably toi, aussi).

In modern-day publishing-industry parlance, she’s the most profoundly ‘relatable’ protagonist I’ve ever come across.

Everyone, including Flaubert, empathizes completely with this character. So the weird, fascinating thing about the book is how much pleasure he seems to take in describing Emma’s descent into ruin and (spoiler alert) death. His tone relentlessly mocks and condemns her, but then he turns around and lavishly praises her mass of dark hair, her pale skin, her dark eyes, her endlessly rustling dresses, her dainty footwear. So . . .WTF? (I’m basically quoting Harold Bloom here, I realize.) Is this about misogyny or self-hatred? About disguising the book as a moralistic tale? If anyone did learn this stuff in college, please share it with me, because I am too lazy to make up my own mind.

By B
Grade: A+

The other day a Jew For Jesus sat next to me on the subway. You can always know a Jew For Jesus because they tend to be dressed very wacky (for instance in a coat of many colors) and the first thing they tell you about is how they are an artist of some sort. Don't bother asking what kind of artist because next they will give you a real tarradiddle about how they started going to church because they love music. Jews for Jesus all love music; at least that is part of their sales pitch. The one that I recently spoke with was a rather saucy earth mother type who was obviously not ever Jewish in the first place-- maybe once a hippie but not a Jew. They are not the same despite what you might have observed at Emily's synagogue.

In general when someone tries to give me religion I tell her that she needn't bother; I am Catholic and I love Mary even better than I love God so save it. This time, however, I changed my tactic because i've discovered that no evangelical likes to hear about Mary. It just gets them going. They would rather that you worship the devil because at least Satan does not have a vagina as far as anyone knows.

Since I was drunk and feeling ponderous, I actually took the woman at face value. I gave religion some thought-- like maybe God would be a good idea although certainly not the Jew For Jesus type of God. Finally I decided that I don't need religion because i have sad love songs instead.

Continue reading "Sad Songs" »

By emily
Grade: ?

A jumper splatted onto the pavement outside my office building today. Seriously. I came out of the subway and saw the police tape, coroner’s van, and gaggle of onlookers and my first thought was that they were shooting an episode of Law and Order, but the dearth of telegenic cops and the suspiciously real vibe of horror tipped me off to the truth of the situation. This occurance struck me as highly creepy and surreal . . . sort of like last night’s episode of Six Feet Under.

Now I have to decide where to hang my “Most Callous Segue” award. Anyway, yes, did anyone else think that last night’s episode, in which David is kidnapped by a psychopath who, it is clear from the get-go, is going to almost but not quite kill him, sort of overstepped the bounds of the show? Especially the part where he was forced to smoke crack? I don’t know, I mean, I enjoyed it and was highly entertained (as my fellow audience members can attest; I was doing that annoying thing of giving high-decibel updates about the onscreen action, i.e.: “OH MY GOD! HE’S SMOKING CRACK!”) but I just feel like the show was kind of straining for an Event to hang its plots on. And also, is David the stupidest person in the world? He behaved as unintuitively as a character in a really bad horror movie. Um, David? Here are the rules of staying alive: we do not pick up hitchhikers, no matter how needy we feel. We are immediately and automatically suspicious of everyone who asks us for money. Especially if they mention a “grandmother.” David acted like a total retard and also missed a bunch of opportunities to run. Is this really in keeping with his character? I thought Nate was supposed to be the one with the death wish.

Ew, death.

By emily
Grade: C

Oh nooooo. Vh1 has caught up and is now eulogizing a decade during which I was fully pubertal. Fuck. Does this mean that I’m old? I feel kind of torn about watching this show. On the one hand, I do indeed love the 90s. If there were a 90s oldies station (just wait!), I would totally listen to it. Pearl Jam seems great compared to the MTV bands of today. Fuck, that’s exactly the kind of thing I promised myself I would never say as an unhip old person! I am a 22 year old geezer! “Turn down that terrible noise, you little whippersnappers!” What is going on here? Setting aside the question of ‘what is up with pop culture’s general nostalgia fixation?’ for the moment (the future seems so bleak that we are seeking refuge in the past, is my best guess), I just want to talk about the giant generation gap between me and today’s teenagers.

Recently, Lolapallooza was cancelled due to total lack of interest. Some speculated
that this was because the kind of people who are young and hardy enough to tolerate sustained exposure to porta-potties (teenagers) no longer listen to the kind of bands Lolapallooza organizers had booked (good ones). Today’s teenagers comprise a generation that is officially called the ‘Millenials’ and semi-fraudulent research seems to indicate that they are more conservative than my generation – a generation, by the way, that exists only in my opinion and which I would term ‘Gen X’s little sister who was always trying to tag along with her.’ Hmm, maybe I need a catchier name. Back to those Millennials, though -- William Strauss and Neil Howe, authors of Millennials Rising, call today’s young adults "America’s new conformists," observing that they "believe in security rather than radicalism, political order rather than social emancipation, collective responsibility rather than personal expression."

This may or may not be the case, but regardless, it seems probable (judging from TRL). So I'm just going to go with the assumption that everyone born after 1981 is generally brainwashed and sucky. During their formative music-tastes years, they were being assaulted by boy bands and Britney, which has somehow predisposed them towards Republicanism and overproduced faux-emo now. I have this horrible suspicion that they are watching Vh1 I love the 90s and making fun of how dumb the 90s were! And so am I, but they are not allowed to. It’s like how no one is allowed to call your mom a bitch but you.

Conclusion: I love the 90s so much that I wish we were still living in the 90s, back when Vh1 played bad music videos and not clip shows designed to make young people feel ancient and weary.

By emily

Grade: B+

This is embarrassing to admit, but I used to have a little bit of a crush on David Foster Wallace, in spite of his long, stringy hair and vague Shannon Hooniness. It wasn’t his looks that drew me to him (although, no offense to everyone I’ve ever dated, I do have a thing for ugly guys). No, I had a thing for his sensibility. I liked his obsessive need to tell me every single detail. Sure, the footnotes seemed gimmicky even before everyone else caught on and started using them to ‘postmodernify’ their bad writing workshop story (like, if we’re supposed to read something, put it in the body of the text! If it doesn’t add anything, then why is it there?) But appendices and endnotes aside, I was deeply in like with his prose stylee. An important caveat here is that I was bedridden with a terrible flu and attendant high fever the entire time that I was reading Infinite Jest, so I may have hallucinated entire chapters of it. But I remember genuinely and, insofar as this is possible, unpretentiously liking it. And him. I bet he has a big pack of patchouli-scented MFA ladies chasing him around at this very moment, so I’ll stop talking about my personal tender feelings and get back to talking about his new collection of short stories.

I think it sort of boils down to this: at this point, anyone can write a classic New Yorker short story. The steps are as follows: think of some clever, quippy one-liners and an underlying Theme. Take some (typically middle-aged) protagonists. Maybe they are trapped in an unhappy marriage, or are dealing with the death of a child, or are contemplating unfaithfulness or terminal illness. Throw in a sordidly depicted scene of sex, death, or something else gross. Write the story, making sure not to be overtly cheesy but at the same time not to stray too far from subject matter that’s immediately familiar to the typical NYer reader. Close with an image – something related to the Theme, but not too closely. Focus in detail on describing the image, making sure that no concrete resolution is implied. Some people do this very, very well, and I enjoy their work. But it’s nice once in a while to read a story that has almost nothing to do with these conventions but still manages to be entertaining, which is why I liked Oblivion.

Many of these stories are barely even stories – they’re just sort of piles of facts. Somehow this is appealing, maybe because life often lacks a plotline and is more like just a pile of facts. If oddball structures and page-long sentences make you impatient, I suggest you skip to the end of the book and read The Suffering Channel first. It’s full of all the things we’ve come to expect from fiction, such as characters and dialogue, but still has that wow-this-came-from-the-mind-of-a-deranged-genius quality. It’s about a Midwestern man who, as one of the characters puts it, “poops sculptures out of his butt.” But it is also about the office politics that take place at a fictional People-type magazine as it tries to figure out how to spin the story. The magazine’s offices are housed in 1 World Trade Center, and the story takes places in the summer of 2001. I know it’s hard to believe, but somehow this is all depicted subtly. This story alone revived the ardor that the author photo had dampened. DFW, I bet you are married or gay or a huge player, but I just wanted to say that if you are ever in the neighborhood, maybe we could have coffee or something.

By emily

BIG NEWS, everybody: Jennifer Aniston is in possession of some fallopian tubes! A source close to Aniston reports that she also has a uterus, a vagina, and ovaries, leading to speculation that SHE COULD BE PREGNANT! Recent photos show Aniston touching her stomach. Could her dreams of motherhood finally be coming true? “Jennifer wants kids more than anyone has ever wanted anything in this universe,” says a friend. “Now that Friends is over, she and Brad have being trying desperately to unite some of her ripe ova with Brad’s sperm!”

Jesus, sorry, I don’t know where that came from. Oh, wait, no, actually I do. It is because for the last couple of weeks I have read literally nothing except Us Weekly, In Touch, and Star. You know how, when you’re sick, all you want to eat are bland, easy-to-digest comfort foods like chicken soup and mashed potatoes? Well, these magazines are like a big bowl of warm buttered egg noodles for my brain. But even though they look exactly the same and contain basically the exact same articles, there are huge gulfs of difference that separate these three gossip rags. And if I was going to be stuck with one of them on a desert island, I would want it to be . . .

US Weekly: C+

Even with its higher price point, Us trumps the $1.29-cheaper In Touch nearly every week. It’s printed on slightly thicker paper, so you feel less like a trailer trash housewife while reading it. The photos are better, and the editorial tone is generally a little bit meaner. My main problem with all of these magazines is that they aren’t nearly mean enough. They seem to think that readers want nothing more than to revel in the stars’ WEDDED BLISS and BABY JOY. Um, no. We want close-ups of Britney’s ass acne.

I would read British tabloids for this reason, except that they’re full of people I’ve never heard of. But they really know how to be mean over there. All the articles start out like “FAT SLAG Victoria Beckham was spotted slapping a stranger’s child yesterday . . .” Anyway, Us wins the battle basically on the basis of paper shininess. Also, they have better ‘fashion mistakes’ reportage.

But coming in a close second is

In Touch: C

At $1.99, In Touch is undoubtedly the best buy at the newsstand. It’s a good thing to read on the subway, especially if you’re on your way to taking your spare change to the Commerce Bank because you’re broke. Also, I believe they originated the FACT OR FICTION feature, in which they reiterate a good rumor going around about a celebrity and then the celebrity’s publicist denies it, and we’re supposed to be like, ‘Oh, I guess it must not be true, then.’ This feature is really the most intellectually challenging part of any of these magazines. It makes me think deep thoughts such as, “Why doesn't Elijah Wood just admit that he’s gay, in this day and age? Can he possibly have a good reason? Does just he not want to be made into some sort of symbol? Weird.”

Other than that, it is just a sort of trashier Us Weekly with a just a soupcon more fertility obsession.

The clear loser, of course, is

Star: D-

This has by far the worst production values, and they never have anything you haven’t seen before. They do get a few points for having a feature called Knifestyles of the Rich and Famous. And I must say that their strong point is their coverage of ‘Now Look Who’s Fat.’ But for $3.49 I want more ‘Paris Hilton’s plumber crack’ photojournalism.

Certainly, we face a critical juncture in the history of Trashy News. In the weeks ahead, we can count on stories like ASHLEY PULLS A KAREN CARPENTER and J LO, SHOTGUN BRIDE to be the battleground upon which these formidable weeklies will fight. And maybe, someday, if we’re all lucky, we’ll get to read months and months of insipid headlines about the GODLIKE OFFSPRING OF THE PITTS.

Unless Jennifer is secretly a man.

By emily

Grade: A

UPDATE: If you would rather hear very similar sentiments from a famous feminist critic, go here. However, I am funnier than Katha Pollitt.

I know, I am tempted to go see the Nikki Kidman version too, but since it appears to be exactly the same movie except with different actors I encourage you to save $7 and rent the old one. It’s SO good, really funny and REALLY SCARY. It’s scary how scary it still is. It’s much more compelling than anything from the recent crop of ‘oh the horror of the suburbs’ movies. This is because the idea that a bunch of husbands, given the chance, would totally kill their wives and replace them with subservient sex’n’cleaning robots, still seems 100% probable. For women, watching this movie is still as scary as watching Jaws in a shark tank.

Housewifeliness has been a hotly contested topic lately, in my life and (ahem) the life of the culture. Last week in the reliably anxiety-making Sunday Styles section, there was an interview with the married authors of those his’n’hers essay collections about Marriage. The wife said something that haunted me for days, about how she used to resent her husband for not doing his share of the housework and childcare, but now she realizes that he’s just temperamentally better suited to working on “the more traditionally male things, cars, lawns, taking out the trash, renovating the bathroom.” She continues, “''I'm much calmer about all that now -- partly because all of our lives are much easier now, but also because I've come to realize that it's O.K. to do what I do best and care about most and let him do what he does.” I literally got the chills when I read this. I wondered if she’d come to this revelation after a long weekend away with her husband . . . dum dum DUM! (suspense theme from Stepford Wives) She didn’t mention anything about the joys of ironing, so maybe she hasn’t actually been Stepfordized. But still, I had to think long and hard about why I’d found her statement so disturbing. Could it be because I secretly sometimes have moments of feeling the same way? I live with two – um, for the sake of argument we are going to call them ‘men’- and it’s a generally acknowledged fact that if I want to live the kind of lifestyle I want (a lifestyle that entails not slipping in puddles of cat barf or accidentally drinking chunky milk), I am going to have to clean up after them as well as after myself, buy household supplies and groceries, and cook. And I guess after 30 years of feminism we/I should be over this fact, but the thing is, I am just better at all these things than they are (especially cooking), and also I . . . oh no . . . I enjoy doing these things!

I mean, I love grocery shopping! If I’m in the right mood, scrubbing the bathtub gives me moments of OCD satisfaction! And I find a joy in cooking -- the consciousness-free concentration that blocks out all other worries – that is usually only available to me in more destructive guises. Plus I like to eat the food that I cook. And to top it all off, there is nothing I’d like better than to NOT have to spend my days sitting in a cubicle. My fate seems clear. Bring on the apron! Turn on the daytime TV! Oh good, it’s Ellen! I FUCKING LOVE ELLEN!

Of course, there are a couple of obstacles to my domestic bliss. For starters, I have all of these ridiculous ambitions. Also, on a more practical note, I am not married to a rich guy, or indeed to anyone at all. I don’t know if I ever really would like to be. I have similar feelings of ambivalence about kids. While other people's kids are more than okay and are sometimes very cute and brilliant, and while I do want to spread my DNA around, I sometimes think that having a bunch of cats might ultimately be much more fulfilling and much less expensive.

So this is why The Stepford Wives retains its creepiness. The image of the elegantly dressed, stringently coiffed happy homemaker, reading an article in Woman’s Day while waiting for the brownies to come out of the oven, has not only stayed with us but has been expanded, updated. She’s become more Martha-ized, more competitive about cooking and baking and decorating and man-pleasing. Yeah, so women can have jobs now, can struggle and strive and ultimately rise to the top in a bunch of professions. But, as the media has obsessively chronicled, they then often opt to Stepford it up. Sometimes this is because they were doing something they didn’t really love, or that they used to love but have burnt out on, and so they jumped at the chance to give it up. But I would guess that more often it’s because a lot of us, both men and women, still have the underlying idea that being a domestic goddess is some sort of higher calling. I think I have to reexamine what I said a paragraph ago about being ‘better at’ housework and cooking than Henry or B. If, indeed, I am (well, let’s be real here, I clearly am) , it probably has less to do with some sort of biological predisposition and more to do with my and H and B's specific tastes and the ways that we were raised. In theory, of course, we have all been emancipated from the confines of the construct of gender and are now free to pursue any whim that strikes us. But I can’t help but suspect that I am not the only lady out there who occasionally feels shortchanged by her own desires.

By emily

GRADE: um, F?

I have a little bit of respect for JANE magazine, so I’m going to assume that they left this ‘article,’ in which Drew comes out as (gasp) PRO-VOTING, unedited on purpose. If this is the case I would like to thank them. It is the most hilariously retarded thing that anyone has ever written in the entire history of civilization, and that includes the movie 40 Days and 40 nights, which I am watching on cable right now. It stars Shannyn Sossamon, who in real life has a baby named Audio Science. Drew’s writing is even more retarded than that. REALLY.

Instead of trying to dissect why it is bad, I think I’ll just go ahead and let Drew speak for herself. I just have to say one thing beforehand, though: Drew, you are super wrong when you say, “I know that I am just an aspiring artist and that voicing all of this is a risk.” No, having sex with Fab is a risk. Being Pro Voting is about as controversial as being Anti Cute Puppy Killing. Now imagine this being read in slow, deliberate valley-girl Drewspeak:

“ I’m 29 years old. I have been asked to write an article for this periodical. I am so excited because I have always wanted to be a writer. I was in the bath tonight and I was thinking of what I would say. All these things started coming to mind . . . how I wanted to change the world, how I wanted to watch a sitcom on TiVo, how I was hungry . . . I thought about sexuality. I thought about water, any subject seemed to come easier than writing about politics. But the thing in the back of my mind right now is ELECTION TIME.”

Oh boy. But wait, that is nothing. After some digressions about the movie Election (“I look at her (Tracy Flick) and think, ‘What a great depiction of a person who has the most incredible drive.’ Then I go on obsessing in my own brain”), and other rambling, stoney-ass musings, Drew finally gets to the heart of the matter:

“Look at all the leaders that have bravely shared their philosophies to give us hope . . . Look at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the individuals who inspired that civil rights be on the frontal lobe of every politician, journalist, and lawmaker. Yet, isn’t it true that when we think of the beautiful people such as Gandhi, or the family that is surviving, the schoolteacher who is struggling to make their class pass, that they are all human? Like you and me.”

Except, actually, I don’t.

By B

Grade: Various

I have been remiss in my reviewing duties recently. Emily has been alternately cajoling, nagging, and bribing me to get it together. Anyway, here is the verdict on all the crap I’ve been consuming. I promise I’ll get back to the real meaty stuff soon.

Harry Potter #3
Grade: B+
Don’t go to see a midnight showing of this movie. It is really long and you will be about to pass out by the end, no matter how much you like Harry Potter. Even though it is sick, I think that Harry has gotten kind of sexy.

Stephanie Zacharek, Film Reviewer For Salon.com
Grade: F
I know this is an obscure thing to be reviewing, and that no one cares except me, which is why I am limiting myself to a capsule review only. I could write pages and pages, because Ms. Zacharek is my pet peeve. All of her bad reviews—and she mostly writes bad reviews—go something like this: “Although I enjoyed every aspect of this film, it was ultimately not enjoyable at all.”

All the movies that she really likes are pretentious, obscure and mediocre. Or they star Queen Latifah. She LOVES Queen Latifah. Sometimes I think she must have been in one of my Film History classes at Sarah Lawrence. Also I bet she has a really annoying friendster profile.

Napoleon Dynamite
Grade: B-
Laird says that this movie is getting all kinds of hype. Mostly undeserved, I’d say. It was funny, but not as funny as Welcome to the Dollhouse. And there was no story to speak of. I did, however, enjoy the silver screen rebirth of Tina Majorino. Remember when she was in Waterworld? Also there was a movie with a seal, or a sea lion, or something of that nature. And maybe a film with Whoopi. I might be imagining that last one. Anyway, now she is the new Heather Matarazzo. Bravo, Tina.

The Tonys
Grade: C
I did not watch the Tony Awards.

The Sopranos Finale
Grade: B
I didn’t watch this either, but I bet it was pretty boring unless Adriana returned to life. I will on-demand it next time I am home, unless Judge Joe Brown is on. In which case I’ll watch that instead.

Nancy Reagan
Grade: C+
Sorry, but unlike “Hip Conservative” Dorian Davis-- who, P.S., has removed comments from his odious blog because he obviously couldn’t take the heat-- you will not find me crying over the death of Ronnie. Still, I have to say that Nancy has gotten a little easier to stomach in the last ten years or so. You have to feel at least a little sympathy.

(My prediction for the celebrity deaths that will complete the trifecta: The Pope and Phyllis Schlafly.)

McDonald’s Premium Salads
Grade:C+
I got the (Crispy) Chicken and Bacon Ranch flavor. Don’t ask why; it was a total last resort. I can’t believe that these salads have revitalized the Mickey D’s brand. It is just a piece of rubbery McDonald’s chicken on a bed of iceberg lettuce, with dressing in a packet. Duh. Also, why are they allowed to call this variety of chicken CRISPY? It is actually quite soggy.

People at the Gym
Grade:D
Taking a nice, relaxing nap on the weight machines while people are waiting to use them is not going to help you lose weight. Grunting loudly while doing your nude calisthenics in the steam room might, but it is just gross.

Roll Roasters on 11th and 3rd
Grade: D
They really need to perfect the system here. Somebody stole my food before I could snag it. He got a stern talking to from the manager, and his ill-gotten burger was thrown in the trash, but I still blame the restaurant for being so lax in their ticket-checking. Thieves just hover around the counter waiting to take your food if you aren’t quick enough. I’m not joking. And when I finally did get my burger, it was undercooked.

addendum: i'm now obsessed with roll roasters and go every day. duh, you obviously get the ROAST BEEF here, not the burger. i don't know what my problem was. you still have to guard your food vigilantly but it is so worth it. certain people have a bone to pick with the ugly awning, however.

much, much later addendum: Roll N Roaster on 11th and 3rd is now closed. While my first experience with this restaurant was not good, its closing has been a real tragedy in my life. I only hope that my negative review so many years ago did not contribute to the failure of this business.

Low Budget Gay Romantic Comedies
Grade:D
Boring, way too long, and only occasionally funny.

Lesbian Comedo-Thrillers
Grade: F
Boring, way too long, and only funny to the people who are in them.

by emily

GRADE: for the episode, A

Okay guys, I KNOW that it’s borderline insane to mourn the death of someone who never existed in the first place, but I can’t help it. Oh, Ade. Why did you get in that car? You must have known. Why didn’t you just turn yourself in and spend the rest of your life in jail? I guess they probably would have found a way to kill you in jail anyway, and it’s sad to think of you without access to cosmetics or leopard-print accessories. So really you had no choice. But when did you know? Was it when Chrissy left for that highly questionable pack of cigarettes? Or were you astute enough to hear it in Tony’s voice on the phone (he’s such a bad liar!) Well, at least you didn’t attempt any of that bullshit dying-with-dignity stuff. I am glad you went to your grave whining and crying and begging for mercy because that’s exactly how I would have played it. Rage, rage against the dying of the light, Ade!

At first I was extra especially upset (even though, like most people who are aware of the existence of JOEY, I pretty much saw it coming) because, I reasoned, after the death of Adriana there is really no point in watching the Sopranos. But then I realized that the Sopranos is sort of like Days of Our Lives or The Bible in the sense that no one is ever really fully dead. It soothes my aching heart to imagine the many dream sequences and flashbacks that Adriana and her outfits will still be featured in. And plus now I have to watch in order to find out what happens to Christopher, that little shit. Nothing good, I’m guessing. God, that scene where Ade tells him that Danielle was an FBI agent! It’s almost like the words “Oh great now I have to kill her” are written in tiny letters inside his pupils.

Anyway, in the tradition of my previous poem about Ade and also the ancient Greeks, I have composed an Elegy.

Ode to Ade

No more mob, no more feds, no more IBS
Now you can rest
Safe in some sort of deceased-TV-character heaven with your dog Cosette
No more regret.

No more shame, no more pain, no one left to betray
No more trips to Bebe
No more hot pants and stiletto boots
No more platinum highlights and two-inch roots.

The world will seem empty without your lips, your hips
Your acrylic tips
Your eyes, your smile, your sandpaper-throated sass
Your phenomenal ass

Those left behind must take comfort, for we know
You’ve gone on to a better . . . ok, a more lucrative show
And that it’s just selfish of us to want you to remain in the HBO ghetto
But still, David C, why couldn’t you have whacked MEADOW????

By emily

GRADE: A

When I was in eighth grade they made us read this book called Time and Again. The book itself is kind of lame (I mean hello, the title?) but what’s cool about it is the method of TIME TRAVEL it espouses. No souped-up Delorean is necessary when you can go back in time just by convincing yourself that you have gone back in time! The main character simply rents an apartment in the Dakota overlooking Central Park, dresses in 1800s garb, and surrounds himself with 1800s newspapers and books and furniture. Then, he sits down and thinks really hard about the past. And it works! Suddenly he’s back in 18something, surrounded by House of Mirth extras, having adventures and maybe even solving some sort of mystery, I forget. But yeah, how cool is that? I don’t even have to tell you how many times I sat in class trying to think myself back to Olden Times. And now PBS has made a TV show that not only employs this conceit, but is also easily THE BEST REALITY SHOW EVER.

Colonial House is exactly what I wanted it to be: Real World meets Survivor meets COLONIAL. It features 26 strangers picked to live in four one-room wattle-and-daub cottages to find out what happens when people stop being polite . . . and start getting Historically Accurate. Although the cast isn’t exclusively trashily telegenic 20somethings, they do follow RW tradition by having The Gay One, The Sassy Ethnic Girl, The Beautiful Girl Who Only Loves Jesus, etc. No secret cutters yet but perhaps their tools are not sharp enough.

Continue reading "Colonial House" »

By bmad

Grade: B- for overall film (individual ratings to follow)

In a way, TROY is a lot like THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT. You know how in that movie, it is all about this very scary witch, but you never actually see her? Well TROY is all about Brad Pitt’s ass, but you never see it full on. It is omnipresent in the frame, but there is never a shot that includes full crack. Talk about suspenseful.

I was okay with the fact that the movie is not really about the Trojan War. I have heard that story like a thousand times and I think it is pretty unrealistic. (“Hey, let’s drag this enormous, hastily constructed wooden horse into our unbreachable city walls!”) Instead, here is the plot of the movie version of the story: There are a bunch of guys in leather miniskirts and little else. They run around. Brad Pitt shows his butt and other body parts but no crack. Everyone dies. I think there are some brief battle sequences as well, but I was playing my cell phone game during those parts and cannot comment. Don’t you love SNAKE? One time I stayed up playing SNAKE on my ancient Nokia for an entire night.

Anyway, here is the rundown on the important parts of Troy:

Continue reading "Troy" »

By B

Grade: C-

There is no greater Mag. Fields fan than I. Henry can attest to this because he has to listen to me playing “The Death of Ferdinand De Saussure” and “When You Were My Baby” over and over on the guitar into the wee hours of the night, every night. Unfortunately, as much as I have liked the previous efforts of Mr. Merritt and company, I think the new album really stinks. I don’t have a lot to say about it because I could barely bring myself to listen to it all the way through more than a few times. There are one or two great songs, and another one or two that are pretty good. The rest are really boring, pretentious, cold, and uncatchy. Where other MF albums have had themes-- Phil/Ronnie Spector, trains, love songs, etc.—this one just has a pointless, go-nowhere gimmick, which is that all of the songs begin with the letter I. I wonder if Stephin enjoys watching THE L WORD, where everything begins with the letter L? Lattes, lubrication, Lilliputians, lederhosen... Listen, this album sounds like what would happen if Emily and I sat down and decided to make an imitation of a Magnetic Fields album, but then didn’t have any synthesizers to use.

PS If you have tickets to see the Magnetic Fields on Friday and, for some reason, do not want to risk running into me, you should probably sell those tickets quickly.

By emily

GRADE: A

As the world’s leading expert Mean Girl par excellence summa cum laude forever, I have an expert opinion on this movie: it is good. I never laugh out loud at movies unless I am high, but this movie (which I was incredibly, incredibly sober for) made me giggle uncontrollably an average of once every five minutes. Awesome! I want to write Tina Fey a personal thank you note. In fact, maybe I will go ahead and do so:

Dear T.F.,
First off, I apologize for not recognizing you that time. In that red ski cap and without your glasses and makeup, you really looked kind of homeless. Um, sorry. Okay well clearly I am a member of the target audience for your new movie, Mean Girls. And, as such, I wanted to thank you for writing it. You really nailed a bunch of things about high school, about girls, and about meanness in general. But the only part of the movie that I wasn’t 100% down with was the preachy bit towards the end. I know from reading interviews with you that you are in favor of ladies gradually toning down their meanness as they age because what seems like charming sass at 25 makes you a bitter old cunt at 40. I really hope this is not true because I plan to be a bitter cunt forever, and I’ll explain why.

The thing about the movie is that it tries to have its cake and eat it too as far as the meanness issue is concerned. In Mean Girls, Lindsey Lohan winds up learning a valuable lesson about how bad it is to talk about people behind their backs. However, the cattiness and manipulative politicking that she engages in -- before realizing that it is Wrong and Bad to hurt people’s Feelings -- is absolutely the best and funniest thing about the movie. After LL figures out that niceness is better than meanness, she is clearly destined to have a boring rest of her entire life. So what do we really take away from the movie? Perhaps this is the real moral:

Meanness is funny and interesting.
Meanness keeps us interested in life. Without meanness, no one would really have any incentive to excel (because what use is success without someone’s face to shove it in?). Without meanness, no one would stay in boring jobs that are only made interesting by wild office politcs, and the economy would collapse. It’s not love or money that makes the world go round. It’s meanness, pure and simple. Meanness shouldn’t be quelled, it should be promoted. Let’s all strive to be a lot meaner.

Just not towards me, because I’m feeling really sensitive right now.

Love,
Emily

PS Lacey Chabert is fantastic. She has really expanded her range since Party of Five, not to mention her bosom size.

By emily

Grade: C?

I didn’t actually watch this, so if you’re looking for a biting, incisive play-by-play, you will have to look elsewhere. For all I know, the finale consisted of the Friends finally figuring out how to kill the voodoo priestess who cast the spell that makes the male Friends gain all the weight that the female Friends lose. However, I did catch the ongoing Friends postmortem this morning on the Today show, which now consists exclusively of ‘experts’ being asked questions about topics they are obviously WAY too biased to have valid opinions on (examples: former generals on the war in Iraq, US Weekly ed Janice Min on Jennifer Aniston’s career trajectory). Anyway, I learned from Matt and Katie that Ross and Rachel shocked the panties off America by ending up together. If only M and K would do the same. Sigh. As real as it may seem, it was only in my dream.

Now that we all have that song stuck in our head, I’ll get to the real meat (okay, more like Steakums) of the review. While Matt, Katie et al were watching Friends, I was watching famous actor/auteur/artiste Edgar Oliver scandalize the Astor Place Barnes and Noble by reading from his new book, THE MAN WHO LOVED PLANTS. Edgar is very hard to describe. I hope no one will be offended when I say that his accent is a mix of gay, Dracula, and Southern Belle. Edgar himself doesn’t worry about offending anybody, as evinced by his introduction: “I realized, when deciding which chapter to read, that this one reveals my desire to have a black mammy.” It was one of those moments where everyone looks around to see whether other people are going to laugh, then goes for it. The book itself is also impossible to describe, but it’s definitely not about a too-tightknit group of pals who live in improbably huge apartments. However, it will be there for you when the rain starts to fall.

By emily

GRADE: C-

I absolutely tried to think of something to write a positive review of, guys, I really did. I was going to write about such easy-to-love things as the soundtrack of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (featuring two different versions of ‘Come with the Gentle People’!), Thin Mints, Dr. Hauschka products, et cetera. But then I realized that all I have to say about things that I love is: “I love this thing. You should too.” And really, how boring is that? That’s not what you want from the Universal Review. You’re looking for in-depth, serious critiques of things that affect your life. Or sordid details about B's dirty, dirty sexual habits. One or the other. Anyway, I am incapable of fulfilling your needs without turning the laser-sharp beam of my Hate on something. And today that something is: THE DISARONNO AD.

You have seen this ad, of course. It’s the one where a thirtyish brunette WASPy chick –poor man’s Charlotte, basically – is at a generically posh bar with three of her most ethnically diverse friends. There is an Asian guy, a black lady, and a midget in a wheelchair. Well, not really but almost. Basically it’s like one of those fake ‘candid’ shots from the Small Expensive Private College viewbook, except all growed up. Anyway, the bartender – cheesily attractive in a daytime TV way -- is taking their drink orders. Improbably, they all order Disaronno beverages: a Disaronno martini, Disaronno sour. Sharlotte orders Disaronno on the rocks. The bartender raises his eyebrows and repeats her order in a sleazy tone of voice.

This has all been fairly heinous so far, but it’s about to get much worse. The bartender tries to remove Sharlotte’s empty tumbler, but she grabs it back and shakes her head like “Oh no you don’t!” then proceeds to raise an ice cube – dripping with delicious backwash-diluted Disaronno – to her lips, whereupon she pretends that the ice cube is a giant luscious bartender dick. The bartender looks at her like he’s impressed, perhaps by her subtlety. Then for some reason she and all her friends start cracking up. Ha ha ha! Wait, WHAT?

I think I speak for everyone who has ever worked in any capacity at a restaurant or bar when I say that WOMEN WHO TRY TO GRAB BACK THE GLASS THAT YOU ARE BUSSING BECAUSE THEY WANT TO SUCK ON THE ICE ARE THE MOST ANNOYING PEOPLE IN THE WORLD. They are often the same women who hem and haw their way through their order, changing their mind a dozen times while the poor beleagured waiter has to stand there pretending to be interested. Why do some people think that their waiters, bartenders etc. are actually their friends who are hanging out with them because they're so charming and cute? I file this under “Only Child Syndrome.”

Also, what the fuck is Disaronno?

By guest reviewer Rachel

Grade: C

Okay, let me start off by saying that Rocco is pretty. I mean, pretty. Like, if he asked me to kiss and then name each of his toes I just might do it. He's that kind of pretty. This explains why all manner of women come to see him at his restaurant. [Editor's note: Rachel, are you sure you don't mean pretty fat?]

It's this kind of romantic desperation that makes the show appealing. We all might sit at home and laugh at the pathetic Blind Daters and the hopeless women from Starting Over but can you imagine making reservations months and months in advance for an overpriced, gimmicky New York restaurant JUST to catch a glimpse of the hot chef/owner and possibly be a blip on the reality show that revolves around him? Now that's pathetic.

I feel qualified to rate this new season since I saw almost every episode of the first one. It was a magical time for me... I was embarking on a short-lived venture into the service industry and I felt that the show spoke volumes. If I had really been paying attention I could have skipped the whole painful journey. Well.

Continue reading "The Restaurant" »

By B
Grade: F, unless they are very sexy, in which case D-

i'm not trying to be the thought police, but what is with gay republicans and why do they think it's okay to talk to me? sorry but unless you are alex p keaton with your little white briefs around your ankles, i am not going to indulge you in your PEGGY NOONAN obsession.

or actually maybe i will. that is the fucked up part. i think the reason i encounter so many gay republicans is because i have a perversion that makes me think they are sort of hot. sort of. because they are so deluded and stubborn and contrary. i bet the sex is so great. unfortunately, i will never know.

in the lysistrata, which i've actually never read, and don't even know how to spell (jorge, help me out here), a bunch of greek ladies-- like a whole village i guess-- go on a sex boycott and refuse to do it with the men for some reason. I can't remember what that reason is, but i think it was a good one.

of course, why ancient greek husbands would care whether their wives are putting out or not, i don't know. because aren't they just doing it with young boys anyway? Maybe that is addressed in the play. I have no idea, but either way, in the end, i'm pretty sure, the sex boycott works, and the ladies get whatever they were wanting.

when dealing with gay republicans, i think it is important to keep these courageous ancient greek ladies in mind. if everyone refuses, on principle, to get down with them, maybe GR's will change their ways. or at least maybe they will stop trying to ply us with their evil charms. i don't think i'd be able to live with myself if i accidentally did it with a Republican, and yet i am always so tempted. (i have been thinking about this issue since long before i saw the curb your enthusiasm finale.)

I realize that i'm not expressing myself well, and I understand that i'm being a knee-jerk, dogmatic idiot. WHATEVER. i don't care. these people can feel free to think whatever they want. they just shouldn't be allowed to talk to me with impunity in bars or other public settings, because i get so flummoxed that i become completely inarticulate and it's rude to put me in that position. Really, what are you supposed to say when a deadsexy 22 year old homosexual tells you he "WORSHIPS THIS WRITER NAMED PEGGY NOONAN"? Personally, I say, "THAT'S GREAT; THIS MOVIE LADY NAMED LENI RIEFENSTAHL IS PRETTY AWESOME TOO." But whipping out the Leni gun is pretty cheap, even for me. It does not feel good.

Sex boycott now. (AP Keaton, if you're out there, i will make a one-time exception for you.)

By emily

GRADE: D

Sigh. I am tempted to just do a VICE style one word review. Does anyone read VICE anymore, incidentally? Or has New School Alum/ Prince of Pretentious Japanese-girlfriended Hipsterdom Matt Eberhart finally driven a stake through its coke-damaged heart? Must remember to find out. Shout-out to Matt!

Where was I? Oh, yes, the one word that sums up this latest exercise in supposed mindfuckery from the pen of Charlie Kaufman, who, as everyone with the least bit of exposure to the media knows, also wrote the movie Henry lovingly calls “Cradaptation,” as well as “Being John Malkovitch,” which Henry has been too busy to nickname but would probably call something along the lines of “Peeing on John Malkovbitch.” Both totally sucked. Sorry, hipsters, but if you have trouble wrapping your brains around the Big Ideas in those movies, you must be having an even harder time with the People magazine crossword puzzle (21 down: Catherine _____- Jones). Also, Cradaptation and Peeing on… were made by this rich asshole who has had his penis in Sofia Coppola and is thus tainted with her unique brand of horsemouthed evil. Personal to Marc Jacobs: I am much more talented at (talent tba) than Sofia and also am actually pretty. Can you send me over a trunk of free amazing clothes, stat? Thanx! This movie (Eternal Sunshine) was not directed by Adam Spiegel Catalogue and consequently sucks a bit less than the previous two CK horrors. But it still sucks, and here’s why (finally!):

It is SAPPY. Treacly, sugarfrosted, icky-poo, Valentine’s Day-brand sap is oozing from every frame. Have you ever been in love? Yeah, me too, but did you frolic around making snow-angels and laughing at kooky parades and having deeeeeeep conversations in scenic settings every single day of the love? If so, you should sue the people behind E.S.o.t.S.M., because they stole your story. This movie is secretly a Meg Ryan cutesypootsyfest posing as High Culture, and it’s about as successful as Ms. Ryan and her jello lips have been at reinventing themselves in down’n’out Dramatic roles.

I think the reason why people have been running out in droves to see this movie is because it’s thinky and the title is in iambic pentameter and it’s not a remake of a ‘classic’ ‘70s TV show. But just because it’s the best thing going does not make it GOOD! It wins, yeah, but it’s an empty victory, along the lines of being the skinniest girl at fat camp or the cutest straight guy at an NYC publishing house. Please, Charlie Kaufman, stop writing movies that are expressly designed to allow stupid people to congratulate themselves for Getting It. Personal to Marc again: I’m sorry about what I said about Sofia. Please make with the clothes. I promise to wear them only to very high-profile events, like leaving the house. XOXOXO, Emily.

By B

Grade: D+

If you hadn’t already noticed that MTV is scraping the bottom of the barrel with its "venerable" reality program of THE REAL WORLD, the fact that the latest installment is set in San Diego should tip you off. San Diego? I didn’t even realize that was a city. I’d always just assumed it was one of many satellites that comprise the sprawling LOS ANGELES monolith. After watching my first episode of The Real World: SD, I’m still not convinced that I was wrong—but it’s pretty impossible to tell, because it’s not like they ever ever leave their fancy beach house anyway. The next story of the Real World is supposedly going to be in DC, and Rachel says the apartment is right above MAGGIE MOOS in Adams Morgan, which means, of course, sparklefatty ice cream alert! I have to say, as but one floating dandelion seed of the Washingtonian Diaspora, that it is actually pretty sad for Our Nation’s Capital to be lower on the list of Real World destinations than sunny, anonymous S.D.

I guess this is all beside the point, because the advent of more exciting REALITY PROGRAMMING has made The Real World totally irrelevant anyway. Who wants to watch a show where no one gets voted off? Personally, I’ve barely paid the slightest attention to THE REAL WORLD since they had it in New Orleans. That was the one featuring the lovably bland DANNY, a generic-yet-impossibly-dreamy stud with a blurryfaced military boyfriend. (Another selling point of the New Orleans series was David, the R&B crooner with the memorable catch phrase of "Woo Woo.") Anyway, as you would expect, the San Diego version of the show is basically unwatchable, with ONE FANCY EXCEPTION. This installment features a secret cutter. Oh yes. That’s right. Everyone’s favorite type of lady.

Continue reading "The Real World San Diego" »

By emily

GRADE: B+

Judging from how many times B and I have pledged allegiance to our favorite Gold Dust Woman, you are probably thinking that this is a review of the Fleetwood Mac song that's so popular on Adult Contemporary Lite format radio. You know, the one where it seems that Stevie is singing “Didja ruh… I dinna nahh…” most of the time and the only comprehensible part is the chorus: “YOU SEE YOUR GYPSY . . . WILL REMAIN. AHHHHHHH!!!!” Well, just for the record, A++++ on that front. But actually, this is a review of Gypsy the classic Broadway musical.

I try really hard to pretend that I don’t like Broadway musicals, but actually I am a huge dork of them. If this makes me a mom from New Jersey, then so be it. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a cape person (if you need me to explain this term, please post a comment). I am very, very cool, as you would be able to tell immediately if B would just put up the About the Editors page already. I generally have excellent taste. But there’s something about watching someone famous standing 20 feet away from you and belting clever Sondheim lyrics such as:
“Have a dish
Have a fork
Have a fish
Have a pork!” that just gets me every time. Sometimes it even makes me cry!

Continue reading "Gypsy" »

by B

GRADE: A

Okay, this is just a little capsule review, because everything I have to say on the subject of the VH1 Classic channel is very straightforward. I am watching it right now and it is the best. Not only have they played some of my favorite old standbys (Love is a Battlefield, Summer of 69), but also even better stuff I've never seen on TV before... Jesus and Mary Chain, Camper Von Beethoven, etc. Now they are playing MY BLUE THUNDER by Galaxie 500, which made my jaw drop. I can't believe it. Wait, now it's over and they are playing Nick Cave and