a migration for the axis. but it is still eva.

Gang, follower/conformist that I am, I now post mostly over at my new tumblr: 
http://lackadaisywag.tumblr.com.
my twitter remains axisofEva.
Anyway, I've been posting again and I'd love for y'alls to come over there, make me aware of your presence already over there, or just say 'hey.' Warm regards, Eves

We, we, we so excited for 2012

The best way to explain my return to the web is through Rebecca Black's "Friday."

To refresh your memory, it's this.

To refresh your memory further, I turn to the my fellow Internet trolls, who described her as:

"3 minutes and 48 seconds of pure, unadulterated ear-bleeding." (Manila Standard Today)

"An unremarkable, cheap, flash-in-the-pan pop song for kids who take High School Musical at face value." (NME)

"The cancer of pop music.....if lampooning 'Whip My Hair' was shooting fish in a barrel, 'Friday' is dropping a tactical nuke on a  goldfish in a pop can." Radio Rant

The Week marveled at the "blotto-tuned gawkiness" her "pleading robot voice."

To sum, in the words of New York Fruit Stand, Ark Music Factory gave us

"The worst song in the history of songs.  Gregorian chants have more merit in society...than this creepy synthetic girl and her song about Friday."

And don't get me started on the song's author, the Ark Music Factory --   "Narcisissm, inc." being one of the friendlier nicknames, "8.6 on the Creepy Fuck scale" being one of the more vitriolic.  Cracked commented that while "Ark Music Factory is probably not as bad as a sweatshop .... the end result is far, far more degrading and dehumanizing."

 Which brings me to my real reason for returning to my blog, or rather three reasons: Lana Del Ray. 

Lana Del Ray. You might know her as 2012's newest Internet sensation. You might know her by her birth name of Lizzy Grant.  Hell, you might know her as a "self-styled, Gangsta Nancy Sinatra" -- but only if you've been talking solely to Lana Del Ray.

Lana Del Ray has inspired a similar level of delightfully erudite, searingly Dorothy Parker-esque Internet analysis.  A quick review:

"Delivered in an Off-Broadway lisp that someone somewhere mistakenly regarded as erotic. She sounds like Napoleon Dynamite's brother." Spin Magazine

"Born to Die's wild swings between unqualified stunners and bizarre miscues provide no real answers...Is Lana the real deal, or the result of a misguided attempt to build the perfect femme fatale out of Nico's leather jacket and Nicki Minaj's wig?"  EW.com

"...Half-rapped, half-sullen-pill-popped diva drones."  Grimy Gods

"The album equivalent of a faked orgasm." Pitchfork.com

“A meandering, off-the-wall blitzkrieg. It’s her 'Friday': abhorrent but tuneful; a parasite awaiting your aural host."  UWIRE


"Bad standup poetry, with enough plodding rhyme schemes to make Shakespeare roll over." Grimy Gods

"The product of unscrupulous corporate marketing, a rich brat swathed in Anthropologie, a gilded Rebecca Black, a phony-hipster Wicked Witch to be doused with bucketfuls of righteous indignation."  Pretty Much Amazing

"The approximate vocal style here is Crushed-Out Schizo Coquette."  Spin Magazine


 So there you have it.  Herman Cain couldn't bring me back to the web.   Justin Beiber's Baby Daddy controversy couldn't bring me back to the web.  Only the righteous indignation of Internet critics could inspire me to re-establish my own pathetic, navel-gazing presence. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, check out this amazing literature review of SATC critiques). 

Like a modern-day moon landing, horrible Internet songs unite us around our computer screens. Sort of like Princess Di's wedding if it was universally hailed to be a "mind numbing trainwreck" "straight out of auto-tune hell." 

Thank you Rebecca Black and Lana Del Ray.  I have high hopes for 2012.

the music you claim to hate but actually listen to: 2010 definitive year-end list

In 2010, the way I consume pop culture was forever altered.  Not because of technology. Not because of Zuckerberg, both real and Jesse, but because I got my driver's license.  

This meant that -- for the first time in my life -- I had total control over the music.  I no longer had to call "shotgun." I was the shotgun, shooting not bullets but snippets of Justin Beiber's "One Time." 

The second thing that happened was I learned that my car has a button on the wheel which allows me to switch between radio stations without moving my hands. Ergo, I have heard -- mostly in 3-second segments -- every single song from 2010 that a 7th grader would find meaningful.  (I had 5 memory settings. I'm not going to waste that on, like, Classical).  And so, I present:

The 2010 definitive list of  music you claim to hate but would save from a burning building over Bach (Come on. You would save Ke$ha over Bach)  

Most number of totally -- and I mean totally -- forgettable #1 hits: Rihanna

Rapper who thinks he's Oliver Twist but isn't: B.o.B

I know it sucks to no longer work at Subway.  But next time you pretend that the "airplanes/ in the night sky/ are like shooting stars," you might want to mention that you own them.

Angstier than a Plain White T at his first dance: Bruno Mars

I find you to have severe emotional problems.  Do you even know the girl you're singing about in "Grenade?" Or are you just "awaiting friend confirmation?"

Most unintentionally ironic: Sara Bereille

I mean....she did write us a love song.  No?

Artist whose songs are clearly written while on "E" for the purpose of listening to while at a black light party and on "E:" Black Eyed Peas

Teenager who takes laser tag way too seriously and looks like a woman: Justin Bieber

Teenager whose life is most negatively affected by the existence of Bret Michaels Miley Cyrus

 (Runner up: everyone).  

Teenager who -- oh, wait. She's not going to be one for, like, 90 years: Willow Smith

Female artist I should find empowering but actually hate: Pink

Pink is that girl who claims to be a tomboy but buys her cutoff denim shorts at Jessica McLintock.  Do you always have to be *so* shit-kickingly irreverent? It's getting old.

Female artist I should hate but actually find empowering: Katy Perry

Yes, most of the time Katy Perry is about as enlightened as The Tourist.  But she writes her own music and some of her songs are actually really funny ("Peacock" is awesome). And that music video for "Firework?"  The one where she saves at-risk kids by pointing her exploding breasts at them, which are actually fireworks? I'm pretty sure it's a metaphor. 

Bromance we can all celebrate and enjoy: Timberland and Justin Timberlake

"Carry Out"features such clever lyrics as "Now is it full of myself/to want you full of me?" and "Baby get my order right/ no errahs/ Imma touch you in all the right areas."  And technically, the music video is "really, really offensive."  But they're just so darn likable.  Not Oscar likable. But likable.

Music video that's just ... hideous. Miley Cyrus, "Can't be Tamed."

Worst song ever.  How about if we just tame your desire to do anything in front of a camera?

Song you thought kind of already made the rounds but apparently didn't: Beyonce, "Halo"

I know you love Beyonce and want her to sit in the front row so you can pan to her whenever the person onstage is ugly, but "Halo" won Vocal Performance of the Year last year.  Honestly, at this point you might as well just drop all pretext and nominate Beyonce for "Best Comedy" along with The Tourist.

Worst lyrics ever including all songs written by Lindsay Lohan: Keri Hilson, "Pretty Girl Rock"

"My name's Keri/ 

I'm so very/ 

fly oh my it's a little bit scary..."

I had high hopes for former 'hook girl' extraordinaire Keri Hilson, whose sentiments rarely veer from "Sometimes love comes around! And it knocks you down,/ Just get back up when it knocks you down!"   Unfortunately, "Pretty Girl Rock" is a Remedial Improvised Rhyming 001 reject. Come on, Keri.  For former hook girls everywhere -- raise the bar a little, huh?

Most awesome use of the sound "Ay:" Lady Gaga

Lady Gaga puts the "Ay" in Lady Gaga.  Gotta love "Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh/stop telephonin' meh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh."  Obvious-lay. 


Song that was written solely to make pre-teens feel indie while rocking out at sleepovers:  Orianthi, "According to You"

Song that -- while you understand on an intellectual level that it's a bunch of white 'gangsta' toolbags -- you always, always listen to all the way through: Far East Movement, "G6"

and, finally........

the most talented artist of the year: This parrot.  Enjoy. And let me know if I left anything out.

"Digital Life Sacrifice:" Khloe Kardashian is NOT tweeting! For AIDS!

Being a celebrity is sort of like being rich. Rich people think that -- in addition to owning the whole world and an iPad -- they should run it, too.  And we all agree in the hopes that maybe someday we'll scratch something luckier than ourselves in two places.

Similarly, celebrities appear to think that, because they're celebrities, they are indisputably the most broken up about horrible tragedies. Because -- unlike us -- when they're crying, they usually show their good side.

Ergo, as they are sadder, richer, and have sexier "I'm Dead" casket photos, celebrities are automatically insanely helpful.   

2010 was a red letter year for this phenomena. Like Night of the Useless Red Ribbons, aka Golden Globes 2010 (which I posted about here.)  At that time, I didn't think it could get worse than Nicole Kidman's fake blubbering about the orphans of Haiti as her bling caught the light.

Next is Ke$ha's recent "honoring of teen suicide victims" with a song which was probably written in 2004 by a hundred monkeys at a hundred typewriters: For the record, "We R Who We R" was recorded weeks before news of these horrible tragedies even hit.  It's a pretty subtle metaphor, as the song appears to be about girls who get "sexy-fied," totally wasted and then spend the rest of the song imploring the DJ to "turn it up."  (By "Turn it up," they mean tolerance and respect for gay teen youth, I'm sure.)

In her defense, Kesha is doing great things, as demonstrated by recent headline: "Kesha Calls Halt to Nazi Dancewear."  It's nice that you're dialing down your pro-Halocaust message, Kesha, but "We R who we R" has nothing to do with Suicide.

But then -- oh, then -- there was yesterday's "Digital Life Sacrifice."

Yes, "Sacrifice." Because -- like Nicole Kidman wearing a red ribbon that didn't color coordinate with her sapphires -- this is a sacrifice.

So, what are celebrities doing this time?  They are ending their "digital lives" by signing off from all social networking platforms, including Facebook and Twitter.  In solidarity with those in India and Africa affected by HIV/AIDS.  And they won't come back online till $1 million has been raised. 

So, to sum, for celebrities:

Not tweeting what you had for lunch = dying of AIDS.

I really encourage you to check out the eulogies for yourself. They are, quite simply, amazing.  But here's a little sample:

Kim Kardashian, who can be summed up in one sentence.  The sentence: "It's true, I'm a little obsessed with Twitter ... but I'm even more obsessed with fighting AIDS!"  Moving on. 

Then there's Khloe, who, as usual, looks not so much sad about AIDS as confused, like she's been doing a math problem while squinting into the sun. This explains a lot, as -- judging from her weirdly suggestive reading -- Khloe appears to think AIDS is a low-budget adult entertainment phone service. 

Next is Justin Timberlake, looking rather dapper in a schoolboy cap and fake hornrimmed glasses.  He has a leg up on many of the others in that he appears to know that AIDS is bad and wants it to end. Almost as much as he wants an Oscar. Not as much, but close.

In addition to the comically insane narcissism of sexy casket photos and not tweeting, you also have to wonder what they were thinking when they chose which celebrities' "absence from social media" is supposed to panic people into giving money to AIDS.

Kim Kardashian?  Threatening to not be online?  And Khloe?  Throw in the third one and AIDS might actually become a problem.

You want to help people with AIDS?  How about sacrificing your Vikadin?  Or .... I don't know...a million dollars?

Listen, celebrities.  I know your publicist's heart-shaped giant empty hole is in the right place.  But in the website of life, you are not a dot org. You are a dot com. 

Having launched your own purse line does not make you Mother Teresa. So next time you flip through a fashion magazine and chew gum, please....don't do it in the name of Genocide. (Have your assistant look it up on Wikipedia.)

By the way, two days into the "Sacrifice" of "Digital Life," fans have donated about $161,000.  Calling into question who thinks not getting a TwitPic from SwizzBeats is the actual sacrifice.  (Hint: it's SwizzBeats.)

But AIDS is a big problem.  As urgently explained by Khloe Kardashian:

 “Buy my life back now...... because the sooner you do, the sooner I can tweet again. Which would be great, ‘cause I’m not very good at being quiet!”

"Sarah Palin's Alaska" -- family, work ethic and fish. mostly fish.

I watch Reality TV for many reasons.  First and most obvious, the reality.  Second, to keep up with my friends from the mythical island of White Trash, New Jersey.  Sort of like a Narnia, only you settle all your arguments by punching people in the face.

But really, I watch it for the same reason everyone else does: to see insanely un-self-aware people pontificate their crazy-ass world view.

These people vary widely in their backgrounds and romantic ties to Miley Cyrus's mom.  But if I had to come with one most crucial quality Tila Tequila, Snookie, and Amarosa all share, it's that -- for all the crazy, incoherent, dogmatic psycho and the general lack of basic life skills -- they know, deep down, that they will never be President.

Therein lies the basic flaw of "Sarah Palin's Alaska."


The TLC show centers around former Vice Presidential Candidate Sarah Palin, whose hobbies include family, Alaska, drawing passionate analogies between her love for her family and her love of Alaska, an inhuman enthusiasm for everything and, of course, Alaska. And family.  And "work ethic." And Alaska. 


Bristol Palin isn't there so much.  Possibly because she is fox-trotting with one of the original New Kids, we cannot be sure. 

Highlights include:
The Palin family rowing a boat up to a bunch of scary wild bears, fresh from the TLC prop department
Sarah scaling a giant ice cravasse and saying, "That's a deep dark crack down there!"
Sarah complaining about her lack of privacy to the 50 cameras shoved in her face. 

Really, though, "Sarah Palin's Alaska" gives us a new appreciation for the Palin family, which tirelessly pretends that Sarah is not talking to 90,000 people at all times.  Examples:
(upon seeing a brown bear, cheerfully): "I love bears. They've got a nature human kind can learn from!"
(upon completing a task, cheerfully): "It's so worth it to put forth the effort!"
(upon visiting a Native American fish compound, cheerfully): "I'm excited to see this beautiful native village!"

Speaking of which, "Sarah Palin's Alaska" has a lot more to do with gutting and processing fish than one might have hoped.  Like Willow Palin's Sweet 16, which -- like all Sweet 16s -- was celebrated by gutting and processing fish.  And "Track" Palin, Sarah Palin's 21-year-old son, who proved he was a man to his father via gutting and processing fish.  Sort of Northern Exposure meets meets Finding Nemo, if -- instead of being found -- Nemo were gutted and processed by Sarah's youngest daughter, Piper.

So in the end, "Sarah Palin's Alaska" is a cheerful, weirdly pro-fish television show starring a woman who looks like Tina Fey and is nervous.  Probably because she owes money to the Fish Mafia, who -- unless she talks about fish at all times -- will break her arms and legs.

As for us, we should all bow down and give thanks to the batshit crazy people who selflessly sacrifice any future dignity for the sake of slightly alleviating our boredom. Because real reality TV -- like apple pie or Amy Adams's slightly uglier best friend -- is an American Institution.

Though I did enjoy the episode where the family went fishing in Bristol Bay.  That's how babies are made!

I whip my hair back and forth. I whip my hair back and forth. I whip my hair back and forth.

 Okay. Can we talk about how Willow Smith is a prophet?

Here's why:
1. She's nine years old.
2.  She doesn't let "haters" get her off "her grind."
3.  She whips her hair.

I was thinking about Willow Smith because I'm starting to compile my Annual List of People I May have Trashed when I Knew Literally Nothing about Them.

To clarify, this has nothing to do with most people about whom I make immediate, cruel snap judgments.  Because frankly, I'm always right. And if I'm wrong I simply don't have time to hear about it.  That's their loss. And reputation. 

But more about Willow Smith.

1.  Willow Smith is named Willow Smith so people know she's related to her father, Will Smith.
2.  Speaking of Will Smith: Will is actually short for "Willard."
3. Also, he actually is "West Philadelphia born and raised."
4.  I'm on Wikipedia because I don't actually know anything about Willow Smith. 

But I think we can surmise things about her beyond her mortifying older brother.  That's an example of me trashing someone I don't know.  What's his name? Eh, who cares.

My main point is: Willow Smith whips her hair around.  But not like some poser.  She whips it back and forth.

This is crucially important, people.  She is making a point.  Because nine-year-olds can make points.  Like "Hi," and "I'm hungry," and "I'm in fourth grade."  And other things that qualify her to be a youth ambassador to Project Zambia along with her older brother.  See? I do know something about him. 

Yes, a nine-year-old is launching her career before you even though you're 25 and had nothing to do with the movie "Wild Wild West."   And your dad didn't star in "Hitch" as Alex "Hitch" Hitchens.  But let's not hold it against her because honestly, the song is kind of cool and the music video makes her a little "L'il" Mama.  And features one of those awesome dance circles where a baby is trapped between 20 people frantically whipping their hair and no one calls child services.

And a teacher has, like, a seizure.  What is up with that?  Is that because of the hair whipping?

So in sum, if I were to say one thing -- and also were President of the United States -- I would say this:
"Hop up out the bed turn my swag on/
Pay no attention to them haters/
Because we whip em off/
And we ain’t doin nothin wrong."

Okay. I'm going to go whip my hair.  You do the same.

Tuesday's HUGE election night!

 

Tuesday night was a big night!

Huge!

With ramifications on the highest of orders!

Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid won!  Which is a huge, huge win!....

….But it’s a towering, ginormous, big-scary-dinosaur-sized loss, too!

As you can probably tell, I did a little channel surfing Election night.  

Mostly between CNN, MSNBC and the Fox Network.  Where I learned that every giant rejection!  was also -- depending on how you looked at it -- a frothing at the mouth endorsement!

Also, Randy Quaid and his wife are Hollywood refugees!

(Sorry, Joy Behar was interviewing them.  Was there something more important going on?)

By far, the award for Most Helpful Political Analysis goes to Wolf Blitzer, who -- as usual -- used Election Night to debut a shiny new toy designed specially by modern science to be shiny and toy-like.  We will never forget the holograms of 2008, which was groundbreaking in that it allowed CNN correspondents to pretend they were on Star Trek.  

This year, it was "What If?" - a feature which allowed Blitzer to demonstrate exactly what the red/blue breakdown of the country would look like if -- for some reason -- people had decided to vote differently than they did. Which they did not.  

Blitzer was also particularly adept at -- before making a projection -- pausing for the special Projection Music. 

For many reasons, CNN was where it was at. Not just because of their "Decision Desk" featured people with names like Joe Johns and Erik Erikson.  I'm definitely buying what they're selling. But also because they had a secret weapon: Elliot Spitzer smiling like a jackass.  

There was much talk of the marijuana initiative on the ballots in California.  Like many people, I was extremely disappointed that no one picked up on the potentially hilarious wordplay of “high user turnout.”

I'm not sure why I like CNN.  Maybe it's Blitzer's tendency to refer to all the new Representatives as "attractive young men." Maybe it's the terrifying reminder of over-population that only 45 publicity starved pundits shoved around one giant desk and interrupting one another can truly provide. 
Maybe it's that the whole thing was un-ironically sponsored by our good friends at Exxon-Mobile. 

Whatever the case, I know this. Something happened Tuesday night.  I don't know exactly what it was.  But it was really fucking big.  


Ps -- lots more to say on the Election, but I'm saving it for my next post, a reflection on what it was like to be on the National Mall for Inauguration tentatively entitled, "I saved my pee for this?"

Last Crazy Psycho Gubernatorial Candidate Standing

As you all know, I have always been fascinated by Reality TV's ability to assemble the most batshit crazy people on the planet.

Many of these shows feature a disgraced politician trying to rebuild the country’s trust in him – usually via ballroom dancing or helping Sinbad and Bret Michaels sell cupcakes on the corner of 50^th & Madison. If that doesn’t prove Blago is fit to lead, nothing will. 

But not all politicians are disgraced – or even on the country’s radar enough to be disgraced.  What to do then? Well, there’s always running for Governor of New York.

The Governorship of New York has had a rather “colorful” past few years (sorry, Patterson).  Elliot Spitzer’s hobby of using government money to fund lavish trysts with prostitutes cost him his job – and probably a few friendships, as he also had a hobby of using the names of his close friends, like that of his pal and longtime donor George Fox.  George Fox reported being “disappointed and distressed” when he found out – probably because his name was having way more fun than he was and, really, Elliot Spitzer is an asshole. 

Then there was Patterson, who distinguished himself by immediately disclosing that he had cheated on his wife “many, many times.”  Yes, we were in good hands. 

So the seven Crazies who lined up on the stage at Hofstra University on Monday night really had their work cut out for them. 

The debate began with “Doug Geed” welcoming us and inviting viewers to record their reactions on Long Island’s Facebook page.  It was all downhill from there.  

Like all other open debates, there were The Two People Who Had a Shot in Hell and Everyone Else.  Conveniently, the Two People who had a Shot in Hell were dressed identically down to their red ties and navy suits,  hammering home their campaigns’ best argument of It Could Be Worse.

'Doug Geed' started things off with Palladino a.k.a. I Commit Political Suicide All Day, Every Day.  They say they drew straws, but I think Doug chose Palladino because Doug, too, was wearing a bright red tie.

Palladino -- who noted that California’s Medicaid is “100% lower than us” (can you think of a few things wrong with that statement?), said we needed to cut the program immediately.  Unfortunately, he frequently switched between the words “Medicare” and “Medicaide,” so if his goal was to scare as many old people and poor people as possible, he succeeded.

The questions were themselves a circus.  One appeared to be a video montage of Sensible Black Women shaking their heads and tsking.  Not that it mattered, because, as we later discovered, not one candidate ever actually answered the question they were asked. 

One of the night's many standouts was a very agitated Jimmy McCillon of the Rent is Too Damn High Party.  Whenever his statements -- which, like every other candidate, never answered the question asked and went way over time – were cut off by the moderator, you would hear a faint muttered "the rent is too damn high!" But perhaps it was only an echo.  

By far, the best thing about Jimmy McCillon was his stylin' black ski gloves he insisted on keeping on. 

I lied. The best thing about Jimmy McMillan is his website which features him rapping the rent is too damn high!  And whose list of campaign categories include one called, "Damn is the word of god," which -- on closer inspection -- appears to be a bible verse and a very long etymology of the word "damn."

One of my other favorites was the very dry Warren Redlich from the libertarian party.  Warren -- whose quiet monotone implied either shyness or barely suppressed unibomber rage -- liked to tell long stories about his friend Frank.  Frank is writing a book called You Gotta Be Kidding Me.  Warren then told another story whose rather anti-climactic point was that the Head of the New York Library System is overpaid.  It wasn’t entirely clear why he told this little anecdote, but it did end with Frank saying, “You gotta be kidding me!”

Next was Kristin Smith, aka Manhattan Madame, aka The Escort Empress, aka That Lady Who Slept with Elliot Spitzer and Now Wants His Job, representing for Anti-Prohibition -- which, like her joke timing, seems just a little late.  Though we all had a laugh when she said she'd lower taxes faster than a Palladino running out of a gay bar. 

There were two other candidates who were a little more normal – “Freedom’s” Charles Barrow and a Green Party Candidate whose name of “Howie” and folksy twang made him an intriguing, strange anomaly. 

But really, it was just Cuomo looking as thrilled and mortified as anyone who has a bunch of psycho crazies for his “peer group” and will win because of it.

So I guess we learned that -- even in 2010 -- if you're crazy and pretend to want to be Governor, you can still get time on National TV.  

As Frank would say, “You Gotta Be Kidding Me!”

"30 Rock" Live! featuring the amazing "Flashback Liz"

Happy Pink Ribbon Month, y’all! aka the month Yoplait so obsessively gets in my face about breast cancer that I’m starting to believe they cause it. 

I like to use my blog as a positive space – a ‘no spin zone,’ if you will – for TV comedy.  Why?  Because I’m not stupid enough to alienate potential future bosses.  Here’s to hoping Taylor Momson never becomes a showrunner. 

 

But also, I just really like sitcoms.  I like highbrow drawing-room farces like Frasier, the complexity and perverse wordplay of Arrested Development, and the post-modern amorals of Seinfeld and It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia.

Needless to say, I am a big fan of 30 Rock.  Mostly because of lines like these:

Liz: You’re a beautiful woman, but you can’t play prom queens and murdered runaways forever.

Jenna: But those were my two majors at the Royal Tampa Academy of Dramatic Tricks!

So when 30 Rock announced that they were doing a live episode, I was excited to see what they would do with it.  Could 30 Rock – the ultimate Twitter comedy whose pop-culture one-liners come at the speed of crack – re-tool to the rhythms of Two and a Half Men?  Were they going to be hip and ultra meta?  Or plunge whole hog into the cheed-out, pause-for-laughter world of live laughter?  

As it turns out, it was a little of both.

The live episode began with Liz and Jack sitting in the "three-camera" version of Jack's office, where Jack observed that the decor looked like it's from a "Mexican Soap Opera" and that he could see every line and pore on Liz's face.  

To my surprise, Liz started to set up for a cutaway: "Remember when I gave up refined sugars?"  

This is when I knew the live version of 30 Rock was going to be as ambitious and self-referential as ever. Because -- instead of pre-recorded footage -- they cut to amazing “Flashback Liz!"  a.k.a. Julia Louis-Dreyfus.  Which prompted the very cute:

Jack: How come you're better looking in your memory?

Liz: Because my memory has Seinfeld money.

The episode was a classic sitcom storyline with a 30 Rock spin.  It was Liz Lemon’s 40^th birthday and nobody remembered it. Meanwhile, Jack was trying to give up drinking by taking up the art of magic, and Tracy, having just watched the "non-porn" version of Carol Burnett for the first time, decided it would be funny to break character during every one of his skits.  Which made Jenna so angry that she threatened to "slip a nip."  You know, the usual.

Despite inhabiting the world of the 3-camera sitcom -- which involves everyone being within a five-foot radius of everyone else for no particular reason -- cast members, probably by sheer force of habit --often ended up standing perfectly still and shouting in each other's faces.  At this point, Alec Baldwin would do a magic trick like pulling a ten-foot streamer out of Tina Fey's mouth.

Needless to say, it was awesome. But -- as usual -- several handfuls of annoying bloggers totally, totally missed the point.

TVOverMind observed, “I mean, imagine if It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia or Arrested Development had audience laughter.  Pass!” 

And Slate called it a stunt which “offered little to gratify … its production was competent. Its humor was merely competent. Cleverness about liveness was no substitute for the show's usual liveliness.”

What is this, Gosford Park? 

30 Rock’s live episode should be judged for what it was – a joyful and dorky celebration of sitcoms past and present.  And how can you judge a joyful and dorky celebration? I would never judge your birthday.  

Thursday’s live 30 Rock was a reminder that no matter how cynical TV gets – no matter how special-effectsy, cutaway, meta-pop-culture reference-y – it will always respect its roots.   

And honestly, if you fancy yourself to be Dorothy Parker, then don’t watch a show where Jon Hamm does a cameo as a dim-witted, one-armed man whose transplanted fingers have a “thing” for him.  

The Social Network: the man who mistook his movie for an episode of gossip girl

 I'm going to jump right in with The Facebook Movie a.k.a the four-way mirror from Hell.  It gives me a headache to think about it, sort of like when I wonder how it would feel to Like your own Like.

To disclaim, I really enjoyed the film and have much more posting to do, you lucky dogs!  But I flipped a coin and decided to start with the bad.

Fine, there was no coin. I'm just an asshole.

No doubt, The Social Network is the hottest piece of Facebook-related Facebook movie ever to grace the pages of Facebook. Debates are being raging about everything from how accurate The Social Network was to whether or not that even matters, to whether poor Jesse Eisenberg is, in fact, the "smug asshole version of Michael Cera."  (Actually, that last one appears to be the two sides' only common ground).  

Fact? Fiction? VHI biopic?  No matter.  Because whether The Social Network was meant as a fly on the walls of history or a delicious allegory of the sins of youth,  I got kind of screwed on both.

The Social Network is sort of like a Katy Perry song in that it's so obliviously misogynistic that it makes you want to cry.

I am amazed that a movie which spends so much time "calling out" Mark Zuckerberg on his objectifying of women spends so much time glorying in it.

At the outset, we as audience members are thrown our bone in the form of a "very smart girl." Smart Girl sees through Mark Zuckerberg and makes him angry toward women.

From there, The Social Network writes itself into a conveniently trailer-friendly corner.  Mark Zuckerberg is a twisted, sex-starved troll who wants to be cool.  As much as it pains us, this crucial center of conflict can only be shown via Incredibly Dated Hot Co-ed Montage.

As a result, despite being nothing like the actual Ivy League (Sorry, Facebook movie. I did way, way too much research on schools I was eventually too afraid to apply to for fear of rejection to accept your version of Harvard), The Social Network is forced to populate its movie with sexy, silly groupies who drop their pants at the first hint of "power." 

In their defense, it really can't be helped.  Yes, in real life Mark Zuckerberg has had the same girlfriend since Sophomore year of college, an Asian-American woman who's in medical school and wants to be a teacher.  But don't you think a Victoria's Secret model throwing him a coy look advances the story more?  

Of course, Zuckerberg is no Leslie Gore's "You Don't Own Me."  He did invent Facemash, a website rating Harvard women in order of their hotness. 

For that, The Social Network really takes him to task -- because that's when we meet the really angry ugly girls! They're angry! And ugly! And furious at Mark Zuckerberg for exposing this!

Honestly, ladies -- if you don't want to be ridiculed on Facemash, don't be the only girl in the movie who looks like an actual college student.

Sometimes, when Smart Girl is in danger of becoming a memory, she re-appears for four seconds in time for Mark to make a Character Decision (based on Anger Over Rejection) -- and then spring into action as crisp and clean as a page of Sports Night dialogue.  

Most of the time, though, the The Social Network's take on youth culture is like watching a stodgy, condescending version of Gossip Girl.  Which I'd actually prefer, because on Gossip Girl there are at least two women who are sassy and complicated, as opposed to gullible and admiring. (Neither of these women are Taylor Momson).

I guess Zuckerberg's real-life girlfriend fell victim to that old Hollywood axiom: "Why have one Asian woman when you can have many?"

Really, The Social Network empowers women in the way that Carrie Bradshaw's puns do. Mark Zuckerberg may have had groupies, but he never made me sit through a lacy co-ed bra montage.

I'm not saying The Social Network isn't a good film.  But if it is, it's definitely the "smug, asshole version."

Obama to struggling Americans: "BUH bye!"

You know that SNL sketch where David Spade and Helen Hunt are flight attendants who absolutely refuse to acknowledge any question their passengers have beyond saying"BUH bye"?

That's basically what it's like to watch President Obama talk about the economy.

For those of you who didn't see his town hall on CNBC last week, the meeting basically went like this:

A veteran who is struggling to make ends meet begs President Obama to tell her if this is "her new reality."
Obama: You're the bedrock of America!

A young law school graduate who can't afford to pay the interest on his loans, get a house mortgage, or even start a family asks Obama if the American Dream is dead for him.
Obama: You're the bedrock of America!

To be fair, he did say more. For example, he told the struggling veteran that "times are tough for everyone."  And the law school graduate who said he couldn't afford marriage?  "I'm not going to comment on that!" joked Obama.

The whole thing was basically a chance for Obama to reassure Americans that things are just fine. Calmly and repeatedly. 

In short, it appears we have elected the presidential equivalent of Total Bastard Airlines.  

In comedy, I learned that if you say something and people don't laugh, it's not funny.  (Actually, it is funny. Very funny. And someday they will all know.)

I know that comedy is a matter of taste, but if an American feels unemployed, then they probably are. 
I can't say I have patience for the argument that the economy has been headed toward disaster for a long time and that it's tough to undo.  That's an argument you and I can make because we're lazy and we aren't President.  


People who are President are, like, supposed to try.   It isn't trying to release a statement saying you are "enormously pleased" with Larry Sumners for his "experience, brilliance and judgment." 

It also isn't helpful to hold a series of agonizingly staged publicity stunts (visiting homes of real Americans!)

According to the New York Times, Obama first went to the backyard of Paul and Frances Brayshaw of Falls Church, VA, where

"Half the guests were neighbors of the Brayshaws; the other half — who, along with the president, did all the talking — were handpicked by the administration and came from around the country to share exactly the kind of stories the White House wants to tell, personal tales of how the bill had improved their lives."

Knocking on people's doors so you can explain how helpful you are.  That's not a solution. That's the world's most useless Publisher's Clearinghouse. 

As Paul Krugman said last month, Administration officials insist that

"The economy is continuing to recover, albeit more slowly than they would like. Unfortunately, that’s not true: this isn’t a recovery, in any sense that matters. And policy makers should be doing everything they can to change that fact."

Maybe McCain would have been worse, but who cares? Since when does being a safer bet than that old guy and that scary lady who sees Russia from her house make you good?

 There is more to helping people than repeating the same infuriating platitudes, over and over again.  But in the meantime, thank you for voting the blue skies of Total Bastard.

2010 VMAs: no, we still don't know what the "M" stands for.

As it turns out, if you have an awards show devoted to honoring music videos, it helps to have played some of them.  


Since the 1990s, The VMAs have been the People's Choice Awards of Music. Except that last time I checked, people still exist, while on MTV, music does not.   

As a result, despite the coked-up DJs screaming into the mike that this was the most exciting, fresh, in-your-face night of the year, there was something sort of off about the whole thing.  

First, there was the Red Carpet, during which MTV "DJs" (I'm putting this in quotes because DJs usually do something distantly related to music) yelled that the crowd behind them was losing their minds as the biggest stars in the world arrived.  Unfortunately, saying something does not make it true, and the girls behind her seemed much happier texting than hearing Snookie talk about her spray-tan.  

Another DJ yelled about how happy she was the the fans had taken a vote to decide her Red Carpet outfit, which appeared to be a shapeless potato sack with glitter-nipples, so I'm thinking the fans pulled a fast one.  


Despite being the Dementor of artistic integrity, MTV still manages to unite music lovers.  That is because -- whether you are a rocker or rapper -- performers of every stripe can agree that sharing the red carpet with the cast of Jersey Shore makes you feel worthless.

Needless to say, many of the stars looked uncomfortable.  At least as uncomfortable as anyone with standards looks when appearing on the same network as the new reality show "Bret Michaels: Life as I Know It."

To present the awards, MTV booked cool stars like Ellen who -- like all stars who don't exist solely to sell Proactive -- fell into that "I'm not here" monotone celebrities use when it hits them that they're onstage at an awards show that nominated Ke$ha. 

The tension was alleviated slightly by host Chelsea Handler, who -- while she was not able to conceal how desperately she wanted to not be there -- won the crowd over by swearing up and down that the cast of Jersey Shore had herpes.  It got awkward when it was clear she wasn't kidding. And that she followed up by accusing Justin Beiber of being a 28-year-old lesbian. 

So nothing that interesting happened unless you count the fact that -- sometime between now and 1986, the year she was born -- Lindsay Lohan has managed to turn 80.  

Lady Gaga, as always, was very gracious about the awards she won.  One of them she shared with her fans, saying "looks like we're winners!" Though, last time I checked, spending $80 on a T-shirt that says "Haus of Gaga" on it doesn't make you a winner.

In the end, the VMAs was a bizarre collection of celebrities grimacing their way through feigned excitement.  And while we may not know what the 'M' in MTV stands for, it may just stand for 'boring.'  At least until they come up with a category for Snookie's spray-tan.

'Going the Distance' aka 'Yes, Drew Barrymore is a Journalist. Again.'

As we all know, the best part of seeing a movie is not the movie itself, but rather the part afterward where you pretend you could have done better via bitchy, self-righteous blogging.

Last weekend, I saw Going the Distance, starring Drew "I'm indie because I wear baggy pants" Barrymore and Justin "cute and Jewish with bangs" Long. 

Going the Distance is the inspiring story of Erin and Garrett, two people who fall madly in love but  -- while they don't appear to have any real obligations or debt -- would sort of rather stay in their respective cities.  A doomed romance on the order of Love Story. Or, like, Gigli.

The film starts with Justin Long making out with the dark-haired girl from Gossip Girl.  Creepy, but not as creepy as Michael Douglas making out with a girl who was born in 1989 (Solitary Man deadens you to everything).

Garrett can't commit, as proven by his two wacky best friends who spend five minutes saying things along the lines of, "Oh, Garrett! You can't commit!" But, like, wackier.

Enter Erin.  Like every Drew Barrymore character in the universe, Erin is funky, independent, and rocks outfits that would make anyone else look like a lesbian from the 80s.

Also like every Drew Barrymore character in the universe, Erin wants to be a writer.  Why?  Because when Drew Barrymore was a small child, someone held a gun to her head told her that playing a writer is the height of being funky and independent.

Erin and Garrett meet a dive-bar, where Garrett falls for Erin's funky-independent-ness and Erin falls for Justin Long's ability to sort of look like Ross from Friends.  

After an edgy night of beer, Pac Man and trivia, Erin and Garrett go back to Garrett's apartment, where we learn that Garrett is a quirky guy because he has a poster of Lenny Bruce hanging above his bed.

Despite the edgy, quirky funkiness, Going the Distance did have a few of the familiar Rom Com conventions, such as:

Ruthlessly efficient falling-in-love montage
Coming up with a meaningful way to demonstrate deepening love can be so darn hard.  That's why God invented the split-screen montage! That's when they're not only falling in love via Coney Island, they're also falling in love via Top of the Rock.  The Cure is playing too loudly for you to hear what they're saying, but you can tell by Garrett and Erin's carefree ocean frolicking that they're meant to be. 

Neurotic best friend with slightly bigger gums
The lead girl must have a slightly uglier sidekick.  Which is why they turned the stunning Christina Applegate into a shrill, obsessive-compulsive harpy who hates sex.

Cast of people who are supposed to be "quirky" but are actually so annoying you feel like you're being abused.  
Just your usual stoner waiter who thinks 2010 jug wine is the best thing ever.  And the best friend of the neurotic best friend?  Barely human. 

"Mumblecore" Dialogue
The kind of banter that when you overhear it at a restaurant, you think, "That could totally be in a movie!", but when you're paying $12.50, you realize it really, really can't.  Too good to be true, not interesting enough to be fake. Sort of like Juno.  Though at least Juno didn't wear a sexy, post-ironic bow tie.

Alternate universe where whatever problem the main couple is going through is the worst problem in the world
What's that you say, reader? Family and friends tend to not really care if you're in a long-distance relationship?  Not so in Going the Distance a.k.a. Crazy Angry Anti-Long-Distance Relationship World where in order of badness, it goes long distance relationship, holocaust, oil spill.
Needless to say, there was a lot of people saying, "Wait, you're in a long-distance relationship?" the way most people would say, "You buried that body in the yard? aren't you worried the police will find you?"  That's the way they roll in Crazy Angry Anti-Long-Distance Relationship World.

Metaphorical Asian
If there's one hard lesson I learned growing up, it's that not all Asians are metaphors. Luckily, they are in the movies. So when Garrett is playing Pac Man at the dive bar where he met his now ex-girlfriend Erin, he of course meets an Asian who tells him the errors of his ways coded in a discussion about Erin's impressive Pac Man scores.  "That's a hard one to beat," the Asian said meaningfully.  Needless to say, it resonated with Garrett on many levels.

So Garrett and Erin spend a long time figuring out what to do, but neither of them want to move because it's just sort of inconvenient, y'know?

In the end, they do manage to solve the problem in the least satisfying way possible.  Which makes you regret the 90 minutes you spent trying to convince yourself that Drew Barrymore went to Stanford Journalism School.

So Going the Distance. Not the best movie in the world.

It could be worse, though. Drew Barrymore could actually be writing.

Facebook, your love is my drug.

Since I decided to temporarily reduce my consumption of Facebook, my life has been better. Naturally, the only way to communicate this is to post about it on Facebook.

You know how Ke$ha wakes up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy? When I wake up in the morning, I feel like checking my Facebook.

The real problem with Facebook is that it's impossible to rationalize.  It's not even like I'm doing anything productive. I'm just finding out useless things about people I hate.  

Oh, I still love it.  If someone had offered me a choice yesterday between having all my wildest dreams come true and checking Facebook, I'd be commenting on a thoughtful New York Times Op-Ed faster than you can say "mobile upload."

Facebook is its own coming-of-age story.  Before last year, it had never occurred to me that the pictures I had posted of me throwing my arm around a person next to me and mouthing the words "Whooo-HOOOO!" with a red plastic cup in my hand were not totally bitchin'.  That was a tough birthday.

Facebook is also a great way to re-connect with old friends for the sole purpose of displaying how awesome you look.  Or, barring that, that you know how to upload old Polaroids of yourself as an 8-year-old.

Of course, there's the total lack of accountability.   I'm not just talking about "Facebook hackers." That's when you drunk post and pretend it wasn't you. 

Basically, Facebook is that term paper you put off for so long that all you have time to do is just write what you think as it comes to you.  (Not to brag, but I've written papers where I literally had to keep my hands moving on the keyboard typing any and all words I could think of to finish on time).  No one really knows what they're posting or why, except that, like bacon at a restaurant, it doesn't really count. 

The exception, of course, are the top secret parties where the only people who know about it are the 10 people you want to show up and the 3000 people you don't.  Proving the age-old theory that while we love to socialize with our friends, the real point of having a party is to not invite people.

Generally, though, I think Facebook is good for relationships.  I haven't tested this theory, but I truly believe that if you update your status to "Engaged" before the guy is ready, nine times out of ten he'll go along with it. 

Maybe I'm not lost on the irony of expressing all this by writing a blog and posting it to your Newsfeed.  Maybe I'm still an obsessive lurker who knows all but "likes" nothing.  But at the end of the day, I feel much more productive ranting about Facebook then refreshing it.

Oh, and don't even judge me. I know where you found this.

Why Steven Slater Rules (not really. I barely mention him).

 Like all guilty white liberals, I am nicer to people in the service industry than I am to my own family.

Why? Because it's a proven fact that if you act really, really apologetic when you ask for more barbecue sauce, you will get into heaven.  

Ask yourself honestly if any of these sound familiar:

Waitress: I think we just serve Pepsi.
You: Would it be at all possible for you to check to see if you have Coke? Thank you so much.  (Stage whisper to friend) She should be in college!

Waitress: Here's your food!
You: Thank you.  I can't even believe I'm eating out.  You are so good. You did such a good job.  You are a rare gem. 

Why do you do this? So you and your friend feel better about the fact that there's an 11% unemployment rate and you're eating organic sushi.  It's an extension of that game people play in college where they try to make their penthouse apartment seem as much like The Projects as possible.

But then you have to ask yourself: When are you at your worst?  Under what circumstances do you regress to your most primitive state a la Lord of the Flies?

For me, that circumstance was my half-umbrella.

You see, I was supposed to be writing, so I decided to become obsessed with this half-umbrella.  The half-umbrella was going to provide shade for me, thus changing my life as implied by the picture on Amazon.com of people smiling under a half-umbrella.

I was so excited when the half-umbrella came in the mail.  Actually, I was really excited about the word "half-umbrella," which I enjoyed saying to family and friends alike.   

But there was a problem. The half-umbrella came without an umbrella base, which is needed to hold the half-umbrella up.

This made me very angry, so I called customer service.  It was there I discovered that, due to a combination of my own cheapness and several other people buying into the fantasy of the half-umbrella, there was no way to obtain the missing part.  The woman calmly explained this to me, didn't sugar coat it, and said there was nothing she could do.  She wasn't going to jump through hoops to get me my base. She was going to leave me half-umbrella-less.

"Fine.  Thanks for your help." I said sarcastically, "And thanks for sounding so sorry about it."  And slammed down the phone.  (Actually, I just hit the "end" button.  But, like, really emphatically.) 

Later that day, I tried to come to terms with my primal rage. How could I, the world's nicest condiment-asker, have gotten so annoyed at this woman? 

I then realized that despite my obssession with the half-umbrella, what really bothered me was that the woman had not conveyed to me that a problem totally beyond her control was not the worst thing that had ever happened to her.

It was wrong. It was primitive.  But somewhere inside all of us is a very angry child who wants their half-umbrella.  (Sometimes you have to dig deep, but it's always there. And it's always a half-umbrella).

Now, in light of the actions of Jet Blue Employee Steven Slater, I also understand that this is the kind of thing that happens when you aren't trying to impress your friends.  The most thankless jobs.

The most thankless jobs are the ones where every single person you're talking to is anonymous, i.e the phone. They don't have to look at you. They don't have their friends nearby.  They're not trying to feel better about their $14 salad.  They're at their worst and they have no accountability for their behavior.

This also includes airports because 99% of all people in an airport feel inconvenienced and anonymous.  Add that to the claustrophobia of a plane and you literally reach the rock bottom standards of human behavior.

When I was promoted to Shift Manager, my Starbucks manual taught me how to deal with difficult people.  But "deal with" actually meant how to make the person feel like they were right at all times -- preferably in a way that didn't interrupt the customer flow.  Customer service was a giant apology.  The last thing anyone is trained to do is defend themselves, or their own dignity. 

Sometimes things get out of hand, and a customer throws hot coffee on the counter because they're double parked and it's somehow your fault.  Then the manager steps in and pretends it's the worst thing that ever happened to her.  Problem solved.  But that doesn't undo what the barista had to go through before the situation was "handled."

When a woman stood up before the airplane had even taxied into the terminal, tried to get her bag, and then struck Steven Slater in the face, Slater was probably supposed to defer to the training he received that -- while protecting the company from any hint of a lawsuit -- basically makes him feel like crap.

I'm not condoning his response, per se.  But maybe customer service should extend beyond learning how to make assholes feel good about themselves. 

If you are going to dramatically lower the emergency slide, grab a beer, and ride off into the sunset -- hopefully with covered containers -- you definitely have my respect. But for those people working in customer service who don't have access to such an awesome, awesome exit, it'd be nice for once to not have to earn it.

Unless, of course, you fucked up my half-umbrella.

God, why do rich people say stupid things?

Screw bad things happening to good people.  Tony Hayward's recent remarks honestly make me wonder if he's gone swimming in the Gulf.

Two weeks ago, he referred to the oil spill "relatively tiny" in reference to the "big, big ocean" -- then recently topped himself with his recent lament, "I just want my life back!"  So ... animals coated with your oil are struggling to survive, but what really sucks is that you missed the series finale of Lost. 

Today The New York Times described the bp C.E.O as "gaffe-prone."  Is it just me, or is calling Tony Hayward's comments "gaffes" akin to calling the Halocaust an "unfortunate situation?"  Gaffes should be reserved for things like racist penises, not spilling half a million barrels of oil into our water every day and not caring.

I think he needs to take the money earmarked Basic Human Values and stop spending it on his hair.

Thank God President Obama went on Larry King Live last night.  Because if there's something desperately important going on, the solution is to sit and chat with a guy who once spent 30 minutes of his show eating hamburgers with Snoop Dogg.

In the interview, Obama commented that he was "furious at this entire situation because this is an example where somebody didn't think through the consequences of their actions."  

Thank you, President Obama.  Thank you for canceling your trip to Guam.  If he gets really mad, he may even consider canceling a trip to Canada!  Not stop issuing oil permits, though.  That would just be psycho, foaming-at-the-mouth road rage.  

I still wonder: why do we give BP the rights -- but not liability -- of real people when the people at the top can't even convincingly pretend to the have real people's values?

Tony, take some acting lessons.  In the meantime, if you're going to do terrible things to innocent people, then please -- stop sounding so stupid.

Happy Quote Ke$ha Month!!!!

Happy May Day, everyone!

As we all know, every month has its thing.  October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  February is Black History Month (not to be confused with April, which is Confederate History Month).

And so -- this morning the first of May -- I asked myself: what should I celebrate?  And where was I going to stash all my Confederate flags? 

It was at that moment I realized that I felt *exactly* like P. Diddy.

And that's when I knew that May -- in addition to being BBQ Month and Creative New Beginnings Month -- was going to be National Quote Ke$ha Month.

I urge you all to join me in celebrating this prophet of our time.  Remember, a little Ke$ha can go a long way towards world peace.

Thank you for your time and don't forget "the way boyz/ are."

Sincereley,
Eva "No Cares but Plenty of Beer" Holman

Celebrity Apprentice episode three live blog: Celebs fight for charity and ID Theft ad campaigns!

I’m a big fan of Reality TV.  It's not that I’m shallow.  It's just that it gives me the high highs and low lows real life can't possibly provide.

Last night was the third episode of Celebrity Apprentice.  Or as I like to call it, “Helping corporations! For charity! Kind of!” 

Highlights from week 2:

-Blago greeting people on the street:

Blago: Hi. How are you?

Person #1: You’re a disgrace.

Blago: Nice to meet you!

Person #2: Enjoy prison, asshole.

-Maria putting Sharon Osborne in charge of handing out water and cupcakes when she was really sick and Sharon Osborne coughing all over the water and the cupcakes.

 -Maria and Holly eating popcicles. I didn't consider that a highlight per se, but the footage was extensive. 

Also, Cindy Lauper appears to have dementia.  

Onward!

Celebrity Apprentice, week 3:

0:01: This week began with a little “controversy,” when Brent confronted Michael Johnson about what happened in the boardroom.  Bret’s a little volitle, a quality you wouldn’t expect from someone who did three seasons of Rock of Love.

1:04: Also, this season the celebrities actually seem to care about their charities.  Not necessarily a good or bad thing. Just kind of there.

6:45: Unironic cut from Maria embracing a dying boy from Make a Wish Foundation to Donald Trump explaining this week's task: “We all know there are huge problems in the world, and one of those biggest problems is…identity theft!”

10:22: Camera cuts to Summer Saunders for the first time in the history of Celebrity Apprentice. I’m guessing she’s going to be group leader.

11:55: Summer is group leader!  

17:21: Sharon Osborne: “Cyndi Lauper is just fabulously insane.”

24:10: All hail Michael Johnson, king of the Angry Deadpan Look!

38:44: Huh. Didn’t know they made purple muscle sweaters that tight, Curtis.

45:09: Summer treats Cindi like she’s a child.  You know what, Summer? She may be crazy, but at least we’ve heard of her. 

59:33: Blago: “I believe I was a great governor.  Health care for all children under 6, seniors get free public transportation….but that’s not what’s happening here.”  I’m pretty sure this was in response to a question along the lines of, “What task did Michael just ask you to do?”

1:01:32: So there are a bunch of tense “eyes darting back and forth” close-ups among the women but I missed why.  Sorry.

1:06:44: Sharon Osborne: “F**k off, Misses, you're as ambitious as the rest of us.  Get off your high f**king horse and shut the f**k up, basically.  Did I really just say that?”  I know, Sharon. It’s hard to remember that far back. 

1:14:22: I would love to just have a show of Michael staring.

1:16:56: Michael earnestly ponders how on earth Blago was elected Governor:  “I mean …you don't just fall up there.”

1:19:08: 

Blago to camera: “There's a whole bunch of technology that's passed me by.  When you're Governor, you have 60,000 people working for you.” 

Michael to camera: “My nine year old can type.”

1:27:38: “I'm not a creepy guy. I'm not a creeper.” Yes, Bret, it’s always the non-creepy people who volunteer that.  

1:32:44: Summer throws Cindi under the bus!  Bad move, Summer!  Don't you know you're supposed to pretend to like your teammates until you lose and then turn on them suddenly at the last moment?

1:36:43: And you won, too. Stupid, stupid Summer.  I don't understand how someone named Summer can be so stupid. 

1:45:19: Summer donates her money to a charity that “brings sports to children of countries affected by war.”  I guess that means you’re still in the refugee camp, but you can play scooterball.

1:46:58: Cindi and Summer have it out.  That sounds way sexier than it actually is.

1:53:20:

Bret: As a graphic designer, here's my suggestion…

Trump: Are you a graphic designer?

Bret: (Very long pause) No.  No, I'm not.

1:56:26: Twist! Daryl Strawberry decides to quit!  Wow.  With people like that fighting so tirelessly on its behalf, it's a wonder autism still exists. If only it were as big a problem as identity theft.