They're Off and Meowing!

Oh, Search for the Next Doll, how art thou like America's Next Top Model? Let me count the ways:

1. Both shows are like watching porn movies. You really just want to see the photo shoots and performances so you sit through the rest until you get to the good parts. And with the Pussycat Dolls, when you get to the performances, it actually is kinda like porn, so this analogy really works, with all due respect to the porn industry.

2. Both shows are hosted by icons of their industries. I might debate Robin Antin's iconic status but as Next Doll is trying to make us believe that the Pussycat Dolls are some enormously influential cultural force (I believe Mark McGrath referred to them as "the biggest girl group of all time" with which I might beg to differ), we'll let them run with that. However, Robin's understated and downright chilly demeanor is no match for Tyra's faked orgasms of interest in her models. Robin lacks Tyra's narcissism, but she also lacks the joy that goes along with it. Crack a smile, woman! Tyra may only be smiling because she sees herself in all of her girls, but at least she looks happy in her own reflection!

3. As second-in-commands, Top Model has a snarky, platinum blond creative director in Jay and Next Doll has a snarky, bald choreographer in Mikey. Mirroring their commanders, Jay seems like a warm snuggly puppy compared to Mikey's cold, wet, and dead-fish personality.

4. On both shows, the contestants must share a lavishly decorated home (and by lavish, I mean abundant furniture and decor from IKEA) and scream wildly upon first sight of every pillow, faucet, and doorknob. Extra points for the Next Doll's house: no pictures of Tyra AND they have a dance studio. Score!!

5. Both shows give instructions as to next tasks via mail. Top Model has the now legendary Tyra Mail while Next Doll just has generic Mail. However, Next Doll smartly anticipated the potential low I.Q. of their girls and their mail is actually a video with someone spelling out the details of the coming activities as opposed to Top Model's producers still having yet to understand that their girls just cannot decipher any code or riddle.

6. In this particular season, both shows have a young mother who has weepily left behind her toddler so she can spend the entire season crying about how she's pursuing the dream of being a (fashion) model or (sex) dancer/singer for the benefit of her child. I think we all know how I feel about this.

7. Both shows attempt to teach their girls something concrete (walking!) or conceptual (confidence!) and then put them up to a challenge that reflects all they have learned from the day's hard work. Both shows declare a winner of said challenge, but ah, Next Doll has gone all Project Runway on us and declared that the winner of the challenge will be "safe" from that week's elimination.

8. Both shows take great pains to introduce their judges and offer some biographical data. Mercifully, Next Doll only has three to get through. And no judge on Top Model has ever had as much plastic surgery as Lil' Kim. No prizes for Next Doll to announce (we all seem to be clear on the one), but that means no waiting for Tyra to announce what we've already heard one million times while we watch the models react as if they're hearing them for the first time, every single time.

9. Of course, both shows have judges' deliberations! And of course, both shows will have mine. So for this week's dolls:

Melissa R.: Not as strong as I might have liked, but I still think she's got what they're looking for.

Brittany: A fine nuance and distinction, to be sure, but I do agree that her sexy dancing was actually LESS classy than the Dolls. Plus her attempting that solo vocal run kinda blew. You're outta there!

Asia: This chick is a Knicks girl!? Screw the Pussycat Dolls--the Knicks City Dancers, baby!!

Sisely: I know this girl can sing and maybe last night's song wasn't the best for her voice and maybe she's not the best dancer, but there's something about her that makes me think she's gonna KICK IT. Soon.

Anastasia: I'm just gonna start calling her the Towering Inferno cuz she is so damn tall and hot. She could use a little more chutzpah on stage, but with some work, she could be a burning building of a force to be reckoned with.

Mariela: She's the fab ballet dancer I adore for no other reason than that's she the fab ballet dancer I adore. Oooh--circular logic!

Chelsea: Surprisingly good singer. Not surprisingly bad dancer.

Melissa S. Eh. That's all I want to say about her. So I'll say it again. Eh.

Jamie: There is something about this girl that I lovelovelove. She's just cute and kicky and I want her to win. And yeah, she's pretty good at the dancing and the singing, but really, one should win just for kickiness, shouldn't one?

10. Both shows dramatically call out the names of those who get to remain on the show for at least one more week. Models get their photos handed to them. Dolls, don't forget those boas! Models hear "You are still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model." Dolls hear "Congratulations." Someone's getting the short end of the stick here.

11. Both shows make a ginormous deal of pointing out the flaws and mistakes of the last two girls to be called, one of whom is getting the high-heeled boot. I like to call the last two girls "bottom feeders."

12. And finally, we come to the ceremonial closing of each week's episodes. When a Top Model has to hit the road, she is directed to "pack up her belongings and go home." A rejected Doll is told she "will not be the next Pussycat Doll. Please hang up your boa." Hugs all around for both models and dolls alike. Can you feel the love tonight?

At the end of a Top Model post, I always tell readers that until next week, they are still in the running towards becoming the next top model! I believe it is time for what will be my weekly Doll closing, in honor of my love for the song Buttons as well as my burgeoning obsession with the boas:

Until next week, loosen up those buttons and fling those pink boas, baby!

From Rags to Riches, Bel Air to Brooklyn, en Route to Miami

The Malloys go from traveling bandits to gated-community residents in The Riches.

This post is voyage of sorts—a journey of the mind and the soul and of the remote control. It is not, however, a journey of the body, unless you consider the flight of my ass cheeks from one side of the couch to the other, possibly the result of early onset rheumatoid arthritis in my hip joints.

The journey began at 10PM last night when I sat down to watch the much anticipated premiere of The Riches. I was in a rather chipper mood, despite my STILL being sick and having spent my third day in a row in the apartment. I was still hacking green things out of what felt like my left lung, but I was looking forward to a new television show, a good night’s sleep, and at very least, a day where I might make contact with the outside world.

Sadly, as of 1:25PM the following day, none of the above has yet to occur. Firstly, I did not enjoy The Riches and the only reason I can come up with is that I’m just not much for the crime genre. I can’t get into any of the Crime Scene Investigation Shows, Missing People Shows, or Sexy Coroners Solving Crime Shows (except for Quincy M.E. cuz that show was awesome, way better than Diagnosis Murder because as much as I adore Dick Van Dyke, can you really top Jack Klugman when it comes to sexy, surly crime solving?). It seems the only crime related shows I’ve had brief fixations with are Homicide and Law and Order, which if left to Dostoevsky, would imply that I was far more interested in punishment than crime.

So while, I thought The Riches was an excellent production with a compelling script and great performances, I didn’t take to it. But of course, I wanted to write about it. But I just couldn’t figure out what to write. At 11PM, I took some cough suppressant, thought I’d hit the hay, sleep on it, and come up with something on my way to work in the morning. Unfortunately, I never slept. I believe there must have been some stimulants in that cough suppressant that touted “non-drowsy” as a selling point. Usually I steer clear of such things with my heightened sensitivity to all things caffeine-like, but I had taken it mid-day and napped rather nicely. Although, now that I think of it, that was probably due to a drug combination issue, Nyquil having remained in my system from the night before. So, despite exhaustion, sleep was no where to be found and I lay on our guest room futon from midnight to 5AM, cough fully suppressed, thoughts racing and churning, worrying about what to write about The Riches.

Come 5AM, I finally felt sufficiently sleepy enough to join Stu in our bed. Needless to say, the moment I placed my head upon my pillow, the itch in my chest began, the mucus started moving, and all coughing hell broke loose. I popped out of bed, Stu asking me if I was okay. I burst into tears.

I relegated myself back to the guest room futon, sitting at its edge, refusing to lie back down on that brick of a mattress, coughing, crying, and cursing simultaneously. I sent Stu back to sleep and did the only logical thing. I went downstairs to watch TV.


After viewing several minutes of a few of my favorite infomercials (The Magic Bullet, Hip Hop Abs, and Proactiv Solution), I settled in on, yes folks, a very special episode of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I know the joke is to say that every episode of The Fresh Prince is a special one, but this one really was. It was the one in which Will, exhausted by the demands of school, work, sports, and romance, is offered some speed by a classmate. Unwilling to take the drugs himself, he puts the bottle in his locker. During the senior prom, an unsuspecting Carlton ingests the pills, believing them to be Vitamin E tablets that will reduce the size of a rather sizeable pimple. A bout of unconsciousness and stomach pumping ensues and we all learn a very valuable lesson about the dangers of drugs (and of doing the Running Man at high speed to I Will Always Love You).

While everyone loves The Fresh Prince, special episode or not, it is particularly special to me because when I first moved to Seattle in 1995 with my dear friend L, and we got our first apartment together in our new city of residence, we made dinner together every night and sat down to watch a 7PM rerun of The Fresh Prince. We also watched a lot of other TV and we didn’t realize how that would be frowned upon in the holier-than-thou-we-don’t-own-televisions Northwest. We were so berated for our TV viewing habits that we started telling everyone we were a Nielson family, forced to watch hours of TV out of civic duty. Imagine my thrill when one day I actually was asked to be a Nielsen watcher and received $1 for filling out that weekly journal. Don’t ever say that dreams don’t come true.


Next up at 6AM, The Cosby Show! Say what you will about Bill, the man will always be a comedic idol and aside from my own love of his stand-up, I will always have fond memories of watching The Cosby Show with my father. My dad thought this show was genius—and it was, for a time—and would actually allow me to watch it with him, despite its time slot of Thursday nights at 8PM, clearly a TV-on-a-school-night violation. Unfortunately what I caught at 6AM this morning was one of the episodes from that final season in which Rudy is too old to be the cute one so she’s been replaced by Raven Symone. In this episode, Denise throws a birthday party for the ridiculously adorable Olivia. She has several friends come to the Huxtable residence and you can tell it’s that phase in which Bill Cosby has become completely enamored of any child’s innate comedic abilities. Sure, a five-year-old in a bow tie singing Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger is funny, but it’s contrived and obvious. But with Bill in the room, it doesn’t matter cuz that man’s reaction to anything is always hilarious. It was one of the worst episodes I’d ever seen and I hated that Bill had that Kids Say the Darndest Things show, but I laughed my ass off at his every facial expression anyway.


And, rounding out my wee hours of the morning viewing--you know I love it--back to back episodes of The Golden Girls on Lifetime! You know what? This show is still funny. But this morning I realized why I love it so much. Yes, I love Dorothy’s caustic wit, Rose’s heartwarming stupidity, Blanche’s insatiable lust, and Sophia’s kicky wisdom. But most of all, I love their cake. These women are old and care not about their midsections and I love them for that. They eat cake in every episode, any time, night or day. In the first episode, they had cake at midnight. In the second episode, they ate what looked like the last episode’s remaining cheesecake at noon. Later that same day, they had a brand new cake for a dinner party, and you know the leftovers were coming out for a late night kitchen conversation. Sigh. It’s never too early or too late for cake with your best girlfriends.

By the time the cake revelation occurred, it was just about 7AM and I was finally getting sleepy again and the lung hacking seemed to have subsided. I switched over the Today Show, thinking I’d get some shut eye and some news at the same time.

You know it’s a sad day when you’re falling asleep to the Today Show rather than waking up to it and you’ve already watched two hours of television. I opened my eyes at 8:30AM and called my boss to let her know I was couch-bound for another day.

There's No Place Like Run's House

Today I turn thirty-seven (Happy Birthday to me!). Am I too old to petition for Rev Run to adopt me? I'm fairly photogenic--it's not like I'd muck up the family portrait. Sure, I'm a pasty, white, Jewish girl, but it could be like Diff'rent Strokes, new-millennium style (I'd even consider converting! It's not like I was ever bat mitzvahed...).

About three months ago, I was, as usual, on my ass watching TV. It was a Friday night and Stu was out and I was home alone when I stumbled upon my first episode of Run's House. MTV was running a mini-marathon (Is there anything better than the mini-marathon? They turn shows into Lays potato chips. You can never watch just one.) and at first I rolled my eyes, exasperated by another show jumping on the bandwagon of family reality programming. But I quickly realized this was the best family show EVER. It even made me reconsider my life long dream of being a Brady. I kid you not.

That night I watched about six episodes in a row and spent the next week asking everyone I knew if they'd seen this masterpiece. Not a single soul had been to Run's House. Every time I turned on the television, I desperately searched for an airing. I checked the TIVO for upcoming episodes. Nothing. No one had seen it and it was apparently never to be seen again. The heaven of the Rev's house seemed to exist only in my imagination.

But then today, of all days, my birthday, on which I have been quite ill, bedridden since Friday night, so I gotta tell ya it hasn't been the best birthday weekend, the Rev returned to me! Yes, they were all back on my screen: Rev Run, Justine, Vanessa, Angela, JoJo, Diggie and Russy. And it wasn't just one episode. No, the programming gods smiled down upon me and for my birthday they gave me FIVE HOURS of Run's House as the most glorious present ever. Clear out the pool house, Simmonses (which they did in one episode, The Rev demanding that Justine ditch all of her saved issues of Oprah Magazine, insisting that she didn't need to keep them since the same photo appeared on the cover of each one), I'm moving in!

In one of the thousand episodes I watched today, Angela begins an internship at Baby Phat (owned by her aunt, Kimora Lee Simmons, causing Vanessa to earnestly shout out, "hey, nepotism is alive and well!"). She has a rough first day, as all interns do, and when she returns to her lush suburban home, dad senses her disappointment. He says to her, "If that were me, I would have outworked every intern there. I would have walked in an intern and walked out the owner."

Yes, he would have. And come to think of it, so would have my father. Whenever my dad dropped me off at school, he used to say, "knock 'em dead and give 'em hell!" It was his battle cry and he gave a lot of hell to a lot of people. Clearly, so does Rev Run. Perhaps that's why I want to be his adoptive daughter. Not only would I get the much-missed motivational nudge I used to get from my father, but more than that, The Rev would probably fill the spiritual void I have in my life due to the lack of a religious upbringing. I told you I was never batmitzvahed, and MAN, I am a sucker for the Blackberry mini-sermons The Rev gives from his bubble bath every morning. If you've never seen the show and have no idea what I'm talking about, well, you've got to see it to believe it and to be moved to live the most fulfilling life you possibly can cuz that's what the Rev's preaching and I am in the front row of the choir!

And, with all the rap and hip-hop, can you imagine how much dancing I would do? My dad could cut a rug, but he never quite made it past the bossa nova.

Rev, get the lawyers and the adoption papers ready! I'm coming home...to RUN'S HOUSE!

Changing Demographics: Happy Birthday to Me

If you’ve noted this blog’s tagline and acknowledged the reference to Carol in my profile, it will come as no surprise when I admit to being a Brady Bunch fanatic (click here to read about my Brady obsession and my chance encounter with Florence Henderson). When my passion for watching Brady Bunch reruns whenever humanly possible began, I was about the same age as Cindy in the earliest episodes and it seemed to me that there was not only no one cooler than Greg and Marcia Brady, but no one older. Sure, Carol and Mike were far advanced in their years, but they were parents. I couldn’t relate to them at all. But Marcia and Greg, at sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen, they were something to which I could aspire. It seemed like it would take a lifetime to get there, but I knew I could and would be as old as they were. Someday, I promised myself, I would be just like them: private room in the attic, cheerleading captain, dates with football players (even though my school had no football team) and all.


When I was a bit older and settled into the routine of secret Mary Tyler Moore Show episodes after school, I realized that as far as idolatry was concerned, Greg and Marcia would only take me through late adolescence. That was still a long way off and I could still barely imagine making it to eighteen, but I knew there was more. When my age hit the double-digits, I knew I wanted something other than groovy prom dates in my future. I knew I wanted a career. I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I do remember my make-believe games involved rushing around the house with folders rather than baby dolls in my arms, imagining I was routing very important information between very high level offices. With her typing, phone answering, and rushing to and from Mr. Grant’s office, Mary Richards seemed to have exactly what I thought I would want in my future as an independent woman. She worked in television as a glorified secretary under the guise of an associate producer and she got to hang out with some really cool guys (yes, I refer here to Lou, Murray, and Ted). Thus, my new hero was selected.

More than a decade later, when I had my first job after graduating from college and my own apartment to go with it, I walked home after work every evening feeling just like my childhood idol. It felt like I was gonna make it after all!

Flipping through the channels one weekend afternoon in my beloved studio, I came upon a Brady Bunch rerun. Needless to say, channel flipping ended immediately as I’ve never bypassed a Brady episode in my life. At the time, I was about twenty-four and I watched the show not only with nostalgia but also with amazement. It suddenly dawned on me that I was six years older than Greg Brady at his oldest. I had thought that for sure, the minute I had turned eighteen, I would have made a mental note of having finally achieved the milestone which I had always been waiting so long for. But no, I had let the moment pass me by and I had surpassed the eldest Brady without realizing it at all. Oddly though, Greg and Marcia still seemed older than I was, stuck in their own syndicated time zone so that whenever I saw them, I was six years old no matter what my true chronological age. The realization that so many years had gone by was slightly shocking, but no matter, I thought. I’d still never be as old as Mary Richards, my true working-woman hero.


At twenty-five, I became an avid Friends watcher. Not only did Monica Geller and I share extreme Type A personality traits, but I was exactly her age and Monica, Ross, Rachel, Chandler, Phoebe, and Joey’s trials and tribulations mirrored my and all of my friends' issues: constant angst regarding relationships, careers, parents, relationships…The Friends were living our lives, only with better dialog. It was nice to see my own age depicted up there on the small screen rather than constantly imagining what I would one day become. The Friends seemed to be exactly what I already was.




Eventually, twenty eight rolled around. I had been waiting to be twenty-eight for what felt like eons. Twenty-eight was the age, I had one day decided, that some of my favorite kick ass heroines, Kelly Garrett of Charlie’s Angels and Diana Prince of Wonder Woman, surely were at the height of my adoration for them back in the day. I had yet to kick anyone’s ass since I was neither private detective nor super hero, but I had a job that I adored and I was cohabitating with a man whom I adored and who proposed to me that year, so things felt on track. It felt okay that at twenty-eight I was what I once thought of as pretty darn old, cuz, well, so far, so good.

Eventually thirty came and went and I embraced my early thirties wholeheartedly, determining that thirty-something was better than twenty-something any day. And that was true on most days.

Until this one day.

A familiar scenario: me on my ass in front of the television, thumb mindlessly depressing the remote control. I stumbled upon a Mary Tyler Moore Show rerun. Ahhhh. I thought about my age, perhaps thirty-two or thirty-three at this point. I was positive that the one character’s age I would never surpass was Mary Richards’. So mature, so wise, so with it—there was no way I could ever be at her level.

The episode I watched that day involved Mary’s birthday and the revelation that she had moved into another television research demographic. She burst into tears when she realized she no longer belonged in the eighteen to twenty-four year-old bracket. She had just turned twenty-five.

EXCUSE ME?

The remote fell to the floor with the thwack of plastic hitting hard wood. I blinked several times. I looked around for someone to confirm the information I had just gleaned or at least to come to my medical rescue once I fell into an epileptic seizure, the result of the major shock and trauma that had just befallen me.

TWENTY FIVE?

Mary Richards, associate producer at WJM-TV was TWENTY-FIVE? Sure, it was one of the earlier episodes, but the show was only on for seven years which means at the very end of it she was still only THIRTY-TWO. My entire world instantly shattered as I realized that I had surpassed the age of the Mary Richards in that episode ALMOST TEN YEARS AGO.


Five years have since passed and I have come to terms with many things about my age. This weekend I turn thirty-seven and I have a tendency to walk around telling people that I’m pushing forty. I find this ridiculously hard to believe. I find myself wishing I’d paid closer attention when my mother watched Thirtysomething in the 1980s. Surely there were some valuable lessons I had missed that would be helpful as I screech towards a new decade. But to this day, whatever Hope, Nancy, Melissa, Gary, Elliot, and Michael went through still seems impossibly adult: adultery, divorce, illness, mid-career transitions, child bearing and rearing. But now, I stop and realize: I have friends who have gotten divorced, who have dealt with major health issues, who have ended fifteen-year career trajectories, who have children, multiple children...

So now, who is there left to look up to? Whose age can I use to comfort myself knowing that their issues are still decades in the future, nowhere near my own concerns? Who can I be not as old as…yet?


Thank you for being a friend…and for being a lot older than thirty-seven!

The Dog Ate My Homework

As long as Jaslene keeps kicking it, I'm gonna keep posting her pics. OR, as long as Jaslene keeps annoying the crap outta Renee, I'm gonna keep posting Jaslene's pics, because hopefully, by the transitive property (which surely, I learned about in high school), I would then be annoying the crap outta Renee, who is annoying the crap outta me.

Those of you who know me know this, and those of you who don’t, I suggest taking note: there is very little that irritates, aggravates, and infuriates me MORE than EXCUSES. So after tonight’s episode, I need to get something out of my system..

AAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Obviously, that had Renee’s name all over it.

If you will permit me, a tale: once upon a time, I worked at an advertising agency. One day, in this fair agency, I purchased an ad in The New York Times Book Review. Several days later, it had come to light that while I had bought the ad space, actually having the ad produced had completely slipped my mind. Now, bear in mind that it was 1994—slow computers, no internet, no email, and no digital images. At this point, we still marveled at the thermal paper fax machine. With the deadline mere hours away, the non-existent ad had to be designed, sent to a printer, produced on velox paper, and messengered over to the Times. Before the chaos of emergency ad production began, my boss looked at me from behind her enormous wooden desk and inquired as to why I had failed to create a work order and pass it on to a designer. “There is no reason,” I replied, “I forgot and I apologize.”

Come to think of it, a similar thing happened at work today, thirteen years later, when a sales rep called me on behalf of a bookstore who had not received an order placed a month ago. Turns out, I never forwarded the email order on to anyone. Just sent it right to my trash. Oops. I said the same thing to the rep that I had said to my former boss, “I forgot and I apologize.”

So clearly, this points to either my admirable integrity or my horrendous memory. On the other hand, I can tell you who played the ad agency boss on Bosom Buddies (Holland Taylor, thank you very much—and no, I didn’t just look that up. My friend once tried to stump me on TV knowledge with that one and she’s never gotten over the shock of realizing that I carry this information around with me all the time.), so perhaps this merely indicates my lack of interest in my day jobs.

In any event, I’m sure by now, you see what I’m driving at. I HATE EXCUSES. Needless to say, I hated Jade from cycle six, a terrific excuse maker, but she barely lived on the same planet as the rest of us, so at least there was entertainment value. Renee, on the other hand, is causing me to hyperventilate and there is potential for loss of consciousness should I have to hear her whine one more excuse for why she might have done badly during her class clown photo shoot.

I repeat: AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!
“Wah—I wanna be the ho!” No comment.
“Wah—Jaslene always gets the good things!” Oh yes, always, since there’s only been one other photo shoot.
“Wah—I was the only girl out of her element!” Because I’m sure Jaslene was totally alternative in high school.

I’m so riled up, I can’t even talk about anything else that happened in the episode. Oh but I will say (Who am I kidding? When can I never think of anything to talk about?) that I thought the walking wasn’t too bad, on the whole, but for the LOVE OF GOD…choreography, people!! It wasn’t that hard.

On to deliberations!

Brittany: She rocks it again! Challenge winner and class valedictorian on many levels. She could be the silent killer. She doesn’t stir up much controversy or draw much attention, but she’ll end up being one of the last two standing without anyone having ever noticed…

Cassandra: Eh. Low hanging fruit. She’ll be one of the earlier ones to go. How could you possibly make cheerleading look that boring?

Diana: Lovely face, good pose, a touch of the dead eye though (for those of you who remember my favorite Tyra lesson from the first cycle: “live eye v. dead eye.”)

Dionne: She barely said a word this episode (what, no jalapeño peppers?) but her bad girl pose said it all.

Felicia: Quite nice. Again.

Tyra: I have to pause from our regularly scheduled deliberations and talk about Tyra for a second. Is she on prozac this cycle? Aside from the oddness of her wearing a head scarf for the second time, she’s so subdued. Her monologue regarding Felicia’s not looking like her (yes Tyra, we know it’s all about you) was fairly engaging and humorous. And even her pretending to stab Nigel in the back, which usually would have come off as nothing but embarrassing was utterly tolerable. And with her newfound restraint, I’m finding that I’m riveted to her modeling advice. Without the din of her self-importance as a distraction it’s far more interesting and instructive. How refreshing!

Jael: I gotta give props to Jael. She absolutely nailed her photo. However, if she acts shocked whenever someone compliments her work one more time, I’m going to kick her self-deprecating ass. There’s a difference between humility and a grating lack of self-confidence. Perhaps Jael can figure out the difference in one of those books.

Jaslene: Okay, so she was abysmal on the runway, but the photo, my god the photo. Spectacular, especially since, contrary to Renee’s belief, I’m quite certain Jaslene was not in her element as the weird girl.

Natasha: Where’s the vodka I told you I was going to drink large amounts of as a result of Natasha’s driving me insane? Please don’t ever let her read the Tyra Mail again, and please, send her home. Preferably not via mail order…

Renee: I’ve probably said enough already, but let’s point out how her photo was more or less fine after all of her pissing and moaning. Even more reason for her to SHUT UP.

Samantha: Still stunning, but you kinda knew she was a goner the minute she uttered the words, “I’m never gonna forget who I am.” That doesn’t ever bode well. At least we also got to hear her say, “I’m a lesbian! No, I’m a ho!” Good stuff.

Sarah: There’s just something about her—even her conversing with the make-up artist about eye shadow was irritating. She’s evidently watched one too many cycles and thought it wise to attempt to work product into her conversation. Save it for My Life as a Cover Girl, which I’m quite certain she’ll never have the opportunity to do (btw—Caridee is excellent in those ridiculous ads!). The photo was coy enough, but there was something pedestrian about her interpretation of flirting.

Herbal Essences: Speaking of corporate sponsors and massive product placement, let’s welcome Clairol’s Herbal Essences to the show! Bottle colors looked good and they seemed to make good use of their coloring, angles, and lighting, but I’d like to see a little more emotion from them next time.

Whitney: Some times the smart girls can’t quite cut it cuz there’s too much going on in their minds and not enough happening in their faces and with their bodies. There’s still potential though.

Next week is episode #3 and we all know what that means, don’t we?! Haircuts and tears galore! It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Until then, you are still in the running towards becoming America’s Next Top Model!

What's New Pussycat? (I couldn't resist)

Don't cha wish...

Before I watched the premiere of The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the New Doll , Stu had read The New York Times’ damning review of the show. While he didn't watch, he was curious enough to inquire, "So how was it?”
“Well, it’s a horrible show…” I replied, unable to finish my sentence, afraid to acknowledge the inevitable.
“But you're gonna keep watching it... because you love 'the dance.'”
“ I do. I love 'the dance.'”

Oh, I do love the dance. I love all dancing. Actually, I’m not so keen on Riverdance, but hell, I’ll watch Michael Flatley, Lord o’ the Riverdance for a little while just to marvel at the fancy footwork.

My mother plunked me in my first ballet class when I was four, followed by years of the requisite tap, jazz, modern, even theater dance, and eventually hip-hop. Perhaps, if it weren’t for my short, round, polish-shtetl DNA, I coulda been a contender. Alas, however, as I always knew it would, the professional dance world turns without me and my dancing life is one of random classes at various studios and gyms. But like the girls who lined up to audition to become the next Pussycat Doll, the passion still burns within and god help anyone who’s watching TV with me when the channel surfing glides by anything having anything to do with dancing. Eyes transfixed, remote immobile, I will watch every last pirouette.

So as the hopeful Dolls lined up across the stage like some new-millennium, sexed-up cast of A Chorus Line, waiting for their names to be called, I was sunk. I fold. I’m going to watch every last minute of this horrible show.

Despite my Barnard degree, which surely will be revoked once word gets out that I’m a proponent of the mere existence of a search for another Pussycat Doll (Do the Pussycat Dolls actually need another member? Are they like some Logan’s Run Menudo with an ever evolving line-up, members discarded as soon as they reach a certain age and are potentially no longer worthy of loosening up their buttons?), it’s not the conflict between inherent sexism and claims of female empowerment that make this show horrible. From Simone de Beauvoir to Madonna we’ve been debating the definition of feminism and the manifestation of feminine strength for an eternity. I frankly don’t care if you’re Melissa Etheridge in a tux or a Pussycat Doll in panties, be whatever the hell kind of woman you’d like (I’m so getting kicked out of the Seven Sisters club for that.). For me, the show’s hideousness has nothing to do with the objectification of women or the strength of female sexuality.

It has to do with the machinations of the production. Of course, we’re not reality programming novices here. We know what to expect; we understand that producers and editors and even script writers (usually dubbed “story editors” in the world of reality TV) will be twirling knobs, pushing buttons, and cranking levers behind a big curtain in the hopes of conning us into believing that the wizardry of reality show contestants is actually real. But expectations and comprehensions aside, a little subtlety would go a long way. By comparison, The Search for the New Doll makes America’s Next Top Model look like an Oscar-winning documentary, capturing the gritty underbelly of fashion modeling with the utmost of candor and sincerity.

One would think the casting call for the Doll search might have read: “Wanted: dancers and singers for an all female pop group.” But I'm quite certain it must have gone something like this: “Wanted: adversity over-comers (singing and dancing a plus)!” I know Tyra is a sucker for a good Triumph of the Human Spirit story, but the roll call for last night’s contestants was an emptied box of Puffs Plus with Lotion just waiting to happen:

Teen Mother? Here!
Lost parents and sibling in a plane crash? Here!
Fat kid reinvented? Here!
Lived in a car? Here!
Doctor parents disapprove of daughter dancing in lingerie? Here!

And that only pussycat-claw scratches at the surface. It’s not even worth going into the rest, although I must point out that the girl who lived in a car, in an all out attempt to prove wrong everyone that had ever thought her untalented and unworthy, hubris-nemesised herself right into miserable failure, as did the girl who passed on a virus, thereby starting an all-out vomit fest (Talk about gritty underbelly—I don’t think I’ve ever seen that much puke in one hour of television programming.). She wanted the judges to take her illness (but hopefully not the poor health of the other ten girls she infected) into consideration during her final performance. But of course, it was announced that the show must go on, all illnesses, vomiting, muscle aches, and fever aside. Tyra actually made a similar announcement last week, but she didn’t take it so far as to have stage-side medics with IV’s and makeshift beds. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget the sight of wanna be Pussycat Dolls shivering under plaid wool, needles in their arms, stilettos and half-shirts at the ready for the big audition. Triumph of the Human Spirit indeed!

But all of that aside, there are actually some talented girls on the show. Some can dance and some can sing and I’m going to watch them parade around in hot pants and high-heeled boots every week, so help me god. So far, the front runners seem to be: Anastasia, the Amazonian beauty; Sisely, the punk rocker who likes to get a full night’s sleep (amen, sister!); Jamie, the kicky blonde chick (pictured above); Melissa R. who seems to possess every attribute one could possibly want in a potential Pussycat Doll; and some ballet dancer who has a gorgeous extension whose name I can’t remember for the life of me (FYI--the CWTV site SUCKS and I can’t get to the cast list).

Starting next week, the judges (Lil' Kim--aw yeah!) will be eliminating girls one big ass pink boa at a time. Rest assured, I will be deliberating, doll by pussycat doll, right along with them. You know, for the love of the dance.

How I’m Gonna “Carry On” and “Make it Work”

You’re probably expecting me to launch into a commentary on the genius of Tim Gunn right about now, hence your confusion over my selected image of Bill Murray and Carol Kane. Well, there will be no Tim Gunn discussion this evening (oh, but wait until he comes to Seattle in April on his book tour—there will be discussion indeed!). No, tonight is about concept, about procedure, and about the importance of television. And it is, by way of reference, a little bit about Scrooged, the world’s most underrated Christmas movie EVER.

Just shy of its two week birthday, TV ON A SCHOOL NIGHT is in its nascent stages, finding its way into the world, post by post, baby step by baby step (for those of you who are really with me on the Bill Murray thing). Despite not having written since last week’s Top Model episode, I have absorbed plenty of television, but a question has been plaguing me: how to broach it all? How to convey that I do watch TV every single day, come hell or high water, even if what I’m watching isn’t current or new? I’ve been in a quandary, wondering exactly what approach to take with this blog. Do I commit myself to every episode of Dancing with the Stars merely because it’s premiering next week (which would cause husband Stu no small amount of pain, misery, heartache, and anguish)? Or, as I’ve been thinking for the past couple of hours since Stu and I had a tiff regarding my possibly watching hours heaped on top of hours of reality programming merely to have material for witty commentary, do I continue my TV watching life as I always have: a Friends rerun here, an E! True Hollywood Story there, here an Oprah, there a Firefly, everywhere a Project Runway.

Here’s where we come to the Scrooged part. Like Bill Murray’s Frank Cross, sad as it may seem to others although bringing nothing but great joy to me, if I think back, many of my favorite memories are founded in reminiscences of television shows: entire chunks of my life gauged by what series I watched religiously, the progression of my life based on what characters I thought I most wanted to be like. Unlike Frank Cross, I need no ghosts to smack me around, tickle me silly, or drive me recklessly through my past to show me how wonderful the life I haven’t paid attention to is and how much I’ve missed. I haven’t missed a single beat. But, every beat has a TV series, movie of the week, breaking news brief, or special Sunday night presentation to go along with it.

I realized the magnitude of this the other day when I was pondering television’s role in my life. This is where I bring the room down for a moment: my father passed away when I was twenty-two and while now, fourteen years later, much of my memory of the days surrounding his death are a bit blurry, one thing is not. On the day of his funeral, devastated as I was (and make no mistake, I was devastated) I still thought to myself that it was a Wednesday and I wished that everyone would leave our house in time for me to watch Beverly Hills 90210. When no one had left by 8pm, Eastern Standard Time, I hid myself away in my parents’ bedroom to spend some time with the Walshes. Was I so shallow and callous and unfeeling that television was more important than mourning my father’s death? No, but my need for it ran deeper than anything else I was feeling by the end of that day. I didn’t want to be with anyone but Brandon, Brenda, Kelly, Dylan, Donna and David (I’d mention Andrea, but did anyone really want to be with her?). Sometimes watching television feels to me like the relief a cutter must feel when the blade finally penetrates the skin. There’s a rush of relief, a calm that only certain things can bring. For some, it's a knife, or heroin, or a pint of Ben & Jerry’s (yeah, that one’s pretty good too).

For me, it’s TV. I need it every day. I don’t care if it’s a morning talk show; I don’t care if it’s a drama on a DVD that just arrived from Netflix; I don’t care if it’s a ten day old sitcom episode in danger of being deleted by TIVO; I don't care if it's a show I'm watching cuz I can't find anything else to watch. I have to watch something every day and I have to watch television all week long and what I’m trying to say here is that I don’t necessarily watch the same thing on the same day at the same time. It’s a bit random, and until I decide that doesn’t work, that’s how this blog will work. I’m gonna watch something every day, and I’m gonna write about it almost every day, cuz as my sister asked recently after she read the last of my rather lengthy posts, “don’t you have a day job?” Yeah, I do, and I’m gonna attempt not to get fired from it.

But I’m also gonna try to write about as much television as possible.