live-blogging top chef finale -- part 2

Shall we?

Quick recap: Carla, Fabio, Stefan and Hosea made it to the finale in New Orleans. Fabio is sleazy and European, Hosea is bald, and Stefan is European, bald, and sleazy. Carla is black.

It was nice that they had the finale in New Orleans. But for me, the social responsibility capital Bravo was trying to purchase was eroded somewhat by the fact that the first Quickfire Challenge took place on a slave plantation.

There, Top Chef served us up a big portion of Curve Ball with a side of Big Fucking Surprise. Three eliminated chefs -- Leah (fake sexual tension with Hosea), Jeff (hair of gold and a mind that races), and Jamie (token lesbian) emerged from reality TV fake-death to fight for a fifth spot, which ended up going to Jeff.

And...Jeff can remain on for the finale If and Only If he wins first place the evening's elimination round. And there are big car prizes and tension between the two bald guys and gumbo. Blah blah blah. The usual.

To sum, Carla won the elimination round (which made me really happy) and Fabio and Jeff were sent home.

Now it comes down to the two bald men, Hosea and Stefan -- and Carla, about whom they feel neutrally.

Here is the live-blog of the final round.

0:02: As usual, the show begins with the same fast-forward montage of New Orleans. I'm really beginning to think it's a bluescreen.

0:10: Oh great. Ten seconds in and Hosea has already started in with the tension-building platitudes: "If there ever is do or die in this competition, this is it." It's going to be a long night, folks.

1:23: The Chefs have an intimate breakfast on a boat.

1:39: Stefan gives his compelling reason as to why he should be Top Chef: "I'm ready to be Top Chef, man," while "Hosea is from a small town."

1:40: PS: "Hosea, get the fuck out of here."

1:46: Hosea thoughtfully remarks that the Top Chef competition had really made him realize "how many hungry people there are in the world." Where? At Whole Foods, or the Judge's Table?

2:55: They meet up with the judges. Padma name drops the phrase "Glad Family Products" about 9 times, as per her contractual agreement.

3:22: Here it comes! Padma's saucy/mysterious/totally predictable finale curve ball: "Of course, we've arranged for you to have some help..." (saucy wink).

3:49: The sous-chefs are emerging from the shadows....wait for it, wait for it -- aaaand they are rejects from previous Top Chef seasons! Richard, Casey and Marcel, i.e. a bunch of bitter runner-ups. The actual Village of the Damned.

4:03: Eva has a personal reflection on how Top Chef has crossed over from tradition to inbred, self-promoting echo chamber.

4:20: The chefs choose their sous-chefs, each with their own personality. There's Team Does Whatever They Do in a Big, Dramatic Way Before Their Star Inevitably Extinguishes at the Last Minute (Marcel and Stefan), Team Slow and Steady and Therefore Still Here (Richard and Hosea), and Team Can You Believe There's Still a Girl Here? (Carla and Casey).

4:56: Apparently, Marcel has dealt with the blow of not winning Top Chef Season 3 via wearing shades indoors.

11:55: Hosea and Stefan have a big fight over Fois Gras, possibly winning the contest for the gayest scene in Bravo history. And that includes the bitchfight between the three hot young realtors in Million Dollar Listing.

12:32: Stefan: "Whatever, Hosea!"

13:43: Hmm. Hosea and Carla both plan to win via "big flavors." Are they both mad geniuses, or is food always supposed to be about the fucking flavor?

15:43: Lots of little clips of Casey giving Carla suggestions and Carla listening. "I've never seen Carla cook meat that way before," says Hosea. Damn you, Carla!! Don't you realize that if the final episode is edited to include all of this, it's a sign that something bad is going to happen?

17:12: Tom comes in and throws another 'curve ball.' They each have to make an appetizer with a provided protein: crab, fish, or alligator. And whoever chooses first gets to stick their worst enemy with the alligator.

20:33: Hosea and Stefan are both extremely worried. Carla isn't. This is where not contributing to the show's dramatic tension actually pays off.

22:42: Hosea sics Stefan with the Alligator.

24:00: You are listening to Casey too much, Carla.

26:34: Carla, stop. Stop it, Carla. She's telling you not to make a pear tart. We all know you're great at pear tarts. Don't listen to her.

28:09: Carla, trust yourself! YOU ARE GREAT AT PEAR TARTS.

29:04: Carla is making a souffles instead. All is lost. All is lost.

32:23: The first course is served to the judges. So far, so good. Everything is delicious. Stefan turns the horrible alligator meat into something spectacular. Blah blah blah.

36:32: The judges cluelessly single Carla's dish out for not having soul -- 'cause, you know, she's black and all.

38:22: Oh, God. The souffles got burned. Just like you, Carla. Because you didn't trust yourself. Oh, Carla.....Oh.........Carla. Not good.

41:34: The judges, who have a Ph.D in Soullessly Noting Painful Ironies, comment on how if Carla had stuck to the desserts she knows best, she might have won.

42:23: Gail the judge notes that Stefan's dessert presentation was "so 1982!" Gail was a lonely, lonely little girl.

43:41: Padma notes, "Well, we have a lot to talk about. I'll see you all back at the judge's table!" and everyone else gives her a look like, "Yeah. We fucking know. It's only the season fucking finale, Padma."

44:03: Hosea says that no matter what happens, He "can walk into the judge's table with his head on high." Are we, like, watching the same footage on loop or something?

50:00: Fuck. They're giving Carla a really hard time. Maybe it's clever curveball editing?

52:29: Nope. Not clever curveball editing. They just really hated her food.

56:38: What do you know? Hosea wins. As usual, the interesting cook's food shone a little too brightly and the woman had no chance in Hell.

Darn. I totally just wasted 36 hours of my life on this.

assprints speak volumes

It's one thing for the Republicans to stay sitting when Obama bitches out their corporate sponsors for buying drapes and jets with taxpayer money.

And to stay sitting when Obama touts his health care plan for poor children? Okay, a little weird. Maybe they hate kids. They're not the first, right?

But to not clap for curing cancer? What are you, Satan?

The Republican assprint is a perfect metaphor for how freaky-out-of-touch they are. Trust me: if the American people don't understand why you voted against the stimulus package, they sure as hell don't understand why you refuse to stand up and applaud when Obama endorses reading to children.

Come on, people. I don't care how much you hate Obama. Being pro-reading to children is like being anti-murderous rampages or pro-puppies. It's so unrisky it's barely relevant.

The Republicans clearly aren't even thinking anymore. Like, if they don't watch themselves they might accidentally throw garbage at the pilot from Miracle on the Hudson.

I've got to say, though, that my heart goes out for those celebrities. First they were captive audience to Hugh Jackman's musical romp through the films of 2008. Now their upper-upper class tax cut is expiring.

Did anyone else have a terrifying moment when they thought that those kneepads were a prop for the Jackman's musical version of Milk?

Also, quick question: What executive order was signed which makes it so Beyonce is the only one who can do anything? Seriously. You see the First Couple dancing their first dance. Who's there singing it? Beyonce. Then you turn on the Oscars and who's the one other entertainer singing along with Hugh Jackman? Yeah. That would be Beyonce.


There is a Beyonce monopoly going on, people. On the order of AT&T. And she needs to be broken up before she gets appointed the next Junior Senator of Illinois. Do not tell me it won't happen.

But the Oscars was a good show. Heath Ledger won for Best Supporting Actor. I thought it was really cute how the other nominees pretended like they had a chance in hell.

The best part was the camera cuts to Jenifer Aniston whenever Brad Pitt or Angelina Jolie were singled out. You could tell she was whispering to John Meyer, "Quick, pretend like I said something funny! No, wait, act like I said something that was really funny but also really deep! No wait, kiss me, and then laugh!"

Or maybe she finally realized that Brad and Angelina were both nominated for best leading performances, and she whored herself out to He's Just Not That into You.

And that, Jenifer, is why you are banished to row three. I can't say I have any sympathy, though, for someone whose current biography includes "getting back at Brad Pitt via John Meyer."

live-blogging top chef finale -- part 1

I used to watch Top Chef but I stopped because I was trying to eat healthy, and every time I watched the show the chef inside me made me eat expired potato chips from the vending machine across the hall.

But I still love it. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's because it's the only show on television where the phrase "the celery was...... oversalted" is followed by suspensful music and the sound of a heart beating.

Or maybe it's because Padma is the master of red-tape, contrived transitions, i.e. "Well, this was fun, but we're in for a tough decision at the judge's table." or "It sure has been challenging, but I think we've reached a decision!"

Whatever it is, Top Chef rocks and satisfies my 'hunger' for 'deliciously good tv.' Here's a live blogging of part 1 of the season finale.

1:00: The finale is taking place in New Orleans. Bravo's attempt at showing they give a fuck.

2:21: Bald #1 and bald #2 still hate each other and are using masculine war imagery to demonstrate their dominance in the kitchen.

3:49: Is anyone else creeped out that the Quickfire Challenge takes place at a former slave plantation?

4:00: In reality show tradition, eliminated contestants = the undead. Leah, Jamie and Josh are back to compete for a spot in the finale. The chefs who actually deserve to be there are pissed.

4:21: Still awkward between Hosea and Leah. Maybe they regret being bribed by the producers into 'having romantic tension.'

7:00: Wow. For once the quickfire doesn't act as a contrived way to promote the sponsors. Usually they're one step away from making the chefs cook a chicken in Diet Dr. Pepper.

9:32: Of course, the pretty boy Jeff wins. Jamie and Leah slink away, never to be heard from again.

14:00: I love the spliced-in video diaries. This is how you know all the contestants hate each other despite acting civil.

15:00: Padma throws a curve ball! After explaining how indebted everyone should be to Glad Homeware, she saucily says, "Oh.....and you have one more incentive." A car! Everyone acts shocked. Yeah fucking right. No one saw the car? Really?

16:32: The challenge is to make authentic New Orleans food and everyone is making gumbo.

18:00: Stephen thinks his gumbo will be better than Hosea's gumbo. Hosea thinks the opposite.

20:00: Carla has to shuck her own oysters. I smell a tension builder!

24:51: Two of the bald men are talking to each other. The medium European one and the big one.

27:00: Carla is still shucking oysters.

28:11: Straw horse alert! Stefan is being confident about his cooking. No, not confident. Cocky. Could this be the downfall we've been waiting for?

31:00: Carla is worried about the oysters. Really worried. I'm worried, too, because I've been in the tank for her ever since she said, "Brotha's gotta cook!" in episode two.

34:00: I love Carla for not pairing her dish with an alcoholic beverage. But we all know that wet blankets eventually go home.

35:00: Carla is still shucking oysters.

36:00: This is the part where they all analyze their gumbo and talk shit about everyone else's gumbo.

40:35: Padma takes a stab at making an insightful comment. All the other judges nod along and look down her dress.

42:23: Gail says that Stephan's food was not 'soulful' enough. Gail is also a Long Island Jew.

43:24: Stefan takes the criticism and is clearly contemplating a violent gumbo rampage.

46:00: Gail used to be a mean judge, but she's nice now because she's finally married.

50:00: CARLA WINS. This means Jeff is kicked off. He hangs his head like a sad, blond, handsome dog.

50:33: Jeff tells the camera he can "walk out with head held high." Big fucking surprise.

51:49: Music goes from triumphant to respectful/pensive. Something is about to happen. Something sad.

53:21: Fabio has to 'pack his knives.' How about that -- the one who seemed safe via clever editing is actually the one being kicked off!

55:33: Fabio is actually waring shirt which says "Firenze." This is why he needs to be deported, Ellis Island circa 1901 style.

56:56: What do you know? The two contestants who hate each other the most are facing off in the finale!

I did not see that coming.

good luck f%^&

I am approaching that time of life when good, life-altering things are happening to my friends. I'm talking real good. The kind of good you get behind the special curtain in the video store. They're getting into graduate programs. They're selling their first novels. They discovered the mythical island of Atlantis (I'm not friends with Google Maps, but trust me, I want to be.)

My friends tell me good things. And if they apologize for gushing too much, I tell them not to. Am I supposed to be jealous? I would rather be homeless than get a PhD in the nation's best English Literature program. Though the two aren't exactly mutually exclusive.

My life goals are so different from those of people I know that I have almost no desire to sabotage them and co-opt their identity. That's what separates me from the animals.

I couldn't be prouder of them, and I do my part by putting their success in proper perspective with remarks such as, "Wow, that's great. Better than your formal suicidal tendencies, huh?" Or, "Remember when you had glasses and braces and how nobody would touch you?"

We all want our lives to be that linear, straight line toward progress, to weigh our prior fuck-ups against our current triumph and say "eh, it's a wash." I personally would love to write up that citation I got for underage drinking while dressed as the Dude from The Big Lebowski as some formative experience that kept me from being, like, hit by a bus.

Unfortunately, though, it doesn't work that way. As much as I want to justify my living directly above a Karaoke bar, or my grades, or my hair from the years 1997-2001 as some cosmic sacrifice to the universe, I have learned that future success does not justify prior disappointments. It just means that your life sucked until it didn't.

This has huge ramifications for celebrities. Just because Gweneth Paltrow won an Oscar doesn't mean she had to make Shallow Hal. Joaquin Phoenix doesn't have to act like a Generation X stoner while on Letterman to revive his career. Ann Coulter doesn't have to morph each night into a flying, fire-breathing bride of the Undead.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, you should live your life in the moment, not in sacrifice to some future accomplishment. And that I bet 90% of all investment bankers were fat kids.

i'm the mary....you're the rhoda!

"Mr President, would you care to comment on Nancy Pelosi's love of condoms?"

"Mr President, why did Joe Biden say that there's an 85% chance that we're throwing the economy down the sinkhole?"

"Mr President, is it true that Eric Holder went to a militant Black Panthers meeting, made some 'Kill Whitey' signs, and swore everlasting allegiance to Malcolm X?"

"And that Bill Ayers was there, too?"

Ever get the feeling that Obama is a Mary with, like, nine Rhodas?

He definitely has that whole comic foil thing down, what with his condom-lovin' Speaker, his Vice President whose remarks never fail to send chills up one's spine, his.... black Attorney General.

Needless to say, everyone is going crazy on Attorney General Eric Holder for calling us a "nation of cowards" when it comes to race. Us!

I know! Excuse me, Mr. Holder, but would a coward print this?

There are few brave men who are willing to print blatantly racist cartoons in a metropolitan New York newspaper. And there are even fewer brave men who are willing to print blatantly racist cartoons in a metropolitan New York paper and then give a half-assed apology. I can't put it any better than the Chronicle, who reported:

"The New York Post is apologizing for a cartoon that critics say links President Barack Obama to a raging chimpanzee shot dead by police in Connecticut. But the newspaper also says the image was exploited by its longtime antagonists."

Exploited by antagonists. Question: Who are these antagonists? Are they terrorists? Newspaper hating illiterates? Ryan Seacrest?

The Post also said that

"Media and public figures who have long-standing differences with the paper saw the cartoon 'as an opportunity for payback.'"

I see. This shadow syndicate of Post haters planted a racist cartoonist in the paper's ranks, drugged the water supply so his comic would slip through editing, got it to the presses, and then, in an act of mad genius, brainwashed the paper into giving the worst apology in the world.

And people say the Manchurian Candidate could never happen.

You guys think Hilary has the best pratt fall?

brother, can you spare a hamptons timeshare?

This story is why the New York Times's local section needs to not be combined into Metro/Sports/Obituaries, or whatever the hell it is they're doing that's going to end with some wine critic getting the shit beaten out of him at a Rangers game.

Today, Mayor Bloomberg announced a $45 million initiative. To do what, you ask? To train fired investment bankers to work in other industries.

The final seminar is pretty intensive. I think it's called "How not to fuck over the entire universe for your own selfish benefit."

I mean, does Bloomberg want to fill those restaurants or what? Not that I blame him. We're all hate that hollow clack your shoes make when you're a restaurant's only customer. The waiters who once glared at you when you split an appetizer smiling and saying, "Thank you, sir, may I have another?" Now, they wait to roll their eyes until they've started making the Shirley Temple with two maraschino cherries. If that doesn't get you a derisive smirk then we are in a recession, people.

But it is real nice that Bloomberg has offered to financially assist the marginalized and forgotten. I wouldn't expect anything less from a city which actually has a solid gold ice cream sundae industry (Come on, we all saw that episode of "My New BFF.")

We should give that man a key to the city!

Is it strange that I keep having this dream where Charles Dickens comes back to life, googles the term "Bernard Madoff house arrest," and hurls himself off a bridge?

what's the sound of one shark jumping?

Do you ever have one of those days where the first headline you read is "Pet Chimp Shot to Death After Mauling Woman?"

Then you check the Business section and see that Starbucks is now selling instant coffee.

Hey, I think I'm going to go to Le Circe for dinner. Do you think they have any of those awesome bologna sandwiches?

I love how the New York Times scolds Starbucks for compromising brand integrity. This is from the paper whose front page story literally includes the phrase "Ms. Herold told detectives that Travis [the Chimpanzee] was in a rambunctious mood Monday afternoon."

And I really don't need CNN cheerfully telling me how there "are good jobs out there!" and then proceed to give the exactly two examples of Fetch Pet Care and Aramark.

This speaks to the assumption on the part of all TV anchors that if I'm watching them during the day, I have no right to aim higher than the stadium hot dog industry.

All I can say is, thank God for Blagojevich.

No, not Former Governor Rod Blagojevich -- his evil twin brother, Rob.

Seriously. If this were telemundo, somebody would have gotten fired. Though for the record, no one has ever seen them together in the same room.

Anyway, "Rob" has been causing some trouble. You see, "Rob" called Roland Burris three times in November to try to fundraise for his brother. And even though Roland Burris was under oath, and asked to disclose his contact with all and any of Rod Blagojevich's associates, and specifically asked about Rob, Burris just kinda forgot.

But wait! It wasn't his fault! You see, the “fluid nature” of the questions and answers led him to be “unable to fully respond to several matters.” He really wanted to be honest, but the hearing was so gosh darn confusing, he just didn't get a chance to.

Hmm. Now why would anyone find that hard to believe? Maybe it's because -- and I'm grasping at straws here -- you were Illinois's fucking Attorney General?

During his news conference Roland Burris said, "I've always conducted myself with honor and integrity." Twice. Once before hid behind his massively tall lawyer like a scared bunny, and once after.

Honor and integrity are some pretty nice words. They’re the kind of words that sound especially good when they’re not coming out of your own mouth.

Though I guess we can't expect more from a man who named his children Roland and Rolanda.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch CNN's special report on "When Karaoke and Unemployment Collide." Lookin' good, America!

sorry, "progress:" he's just not that into you!

You know those studies where they prove the correlation between negative media images and academic achievement? When they show girls clips of, like, porn or Whitney Houston and then they all flunk the SATs because they hate themselves?

They should just show them He's Just Not That Into You.

No, seriously. You know how that guy from the Allstate commercials makes you believe that you're about to be hit by a bus? You are going to hunt down that bus so you can throw Ginnifer Goodwin in front of it.

I truly believe that HJNTIY came into existence because someone watched Love Actually and thought, "We should totally Americanize this!" and then wrote it all in one sitting. While high.

I know they were high because some parts of the movie are just pure hallucination. Sorry, guys -- women who look like Scarlett Johannson will never tell their male friends that they "have an amazing smile and an ass that makes me want to dry-hump."

And from my experience, that line never works in real life anyway.

But back to Baltimore. I'm not going to go into the fact that every resident of the city lives in a high-ceilinged loft with miles and miles of charming exposed brick. I'll cut the writers some slack there. Maybe every character won the lottery and doesn't talk about it.

And maybe HJNTIY's Baltimore has exactly two black residents, and all they do is "mmm-HMMM!" and eat ribs and ice cream. Though I do have this fantasy where the cast of The Wire storms into Justin Long's condo party and just beats the shit out of everybody.

But not all women sit on a couch waiting to ambush their boyfriend the second he walks through the door with desperate pleas for marriage. It happens sometimes. Just not every single time.

I'll be the first to admit that I totally deserve this, the way men who actually bought their girlfriend a pajama gram for Valentine's Day deserved that night on the couch. But it's tough, people! The road to the perfect "so bad it's good" movie is marred with roadblocks. Sometimes you stumble upon a Pootie Tang. But then you make a wrong turn and end up with Step Up 2: the Streets. It's what Robert Frost was talking about in that woods poem.

Also, if the movie was going to be so bad, did it have to be in February? At that time, you're either dreading the impending reality check or suffering from your tri-annual "I don't have a boyfriend" hangover (I thought I'd do you a favor and throw in Christmas and your birthday. You're welcome.)

At this vulnerable time, you really don't feel like seeing Justin Long singlehandedly crush 75 years of progress ("Oh, you women! You women love all that drama!") and Ginnifer Goodwin lap it up like a puppy. It's depressing. It's the stuff you're actually feeling when you cruelly mock Jennifer Aniston's perpetual frizz halo.

So, yeah, parts of the movie were bad. Not fun bad. Surf the web on your LG Dare bad. I guess this is what happens when a writer/comedian with a degree in Theater becomes a relationship therapist. The fluffy book becomes an even fluffier movie, until all you're left with is a 30 second closeup of Jennifer Aniston's patented "almost cry."

Sometimes, a book shouldn't be adapted into a mediocre starfest.

And besides, they didn't have a character personifying the diplomatic wisdom of co-writer Liz Tuccillo.

Of course I've read it.

how to lose a guy in ten days

President meets Congressman. President taps congressman for Cabinet. President tries to wrest control of census from Department of Commerce. Congressman withdraws his nomination and crushes the dreams of his successor.

And it all happened between February 2nd and February 12th.

So now everyone's angry at Judd, but honestly, guys, he was just writing an undercover article for Composure magazine! How was he supposed to know that he was going to fall for President Obama?

Also, let's play What Not to Wear with Prince Harry.

Okay. You're a prince and you're at a costume party. Do you
a. Dress up like a Nazi or
b. Wear any other costume?

That would be option (a).

Let's try another one. When you have a Pakistani friend, and are a prince who accidentally answered (b) for the last question, do you
a. Refer to your friend with a racial slur while on camera or
b. Not?
The answer is actually (b). I know. It's a bit of a curveball.

A prince who has to go through sensitivity training? That's almost as crazy as, say, a presidential candidate referring to a state with 31 electoral votes as 'Hymietown.' It's always better to not. Seriously. Just put it on a card and laminate it. Then put the card on your jewel-encrusted prince belt, or whatever the hell it is you wear when you're hanging out in your prince rumpus room eating your delicious prince takeout.

I guess life imitates art and vice versa. I just hope that Judd and Obama don't team up again for some sequel that no one asked for.

Sorry, Obama. If He's not running your Department of Commerce, he's just not that into you.

I think we're a loan now

Seeing Tiffany's music video was the first time I realized that a lot of time had passed since I was young.

Back in 1987 people probably looked at the video and thought, "Look! She's dancing at a beach and a mall! And now she's posing in front of a small airplane!"

But in 2007 it seemed primitive. And at time when music videos cost $2 million and consisted of Britney Spears watching herself hump a pole, it spoke of a whole different time.

Today, I had another one of those moments.

Trillion. Trillion.

The number trillion is an officially relevant part of the news. That's how much money Tim Geithner needs to make America a superpower again, times two. I think he's going to build a giant time machine or something.

And here I was still thinking that billion was the high number of note. I mean, the number of people in India is still measured in billions. And we all agree it's really, really big, right?

The universe is 13.7 billion years old. The freaking universe.

But now the word 'trillion' is in all the headlines and it's not a joke. Trillion is the new billion. Billion is little Oprah and trillion is new, bigger Oprah.

Or to put it another way, billion is the real Angelina Jolie, and trillion is the Angelina Jolie look-alike who gives TV interviews and has 14 kids.

Or to put it another way, billion is the old Peanuts:




and trillion is the new, post-salmonella Peanuts:


And get this: it's still not enough! The headlines:

"European Stocks in Decline, US Two Trillion Dollar Plan Disappoints."
"U.S offers $2 Trillion Dollar Plan but Stocks Slump."

People, people. You're not supposed to be disappointed! The "tr" was supposed to confuse you into investing all your family's money in toxic assets!

And never again will TV anchors say '..bil-lion' with an awe especially reserved for that word -- when they would pause and really pop that first syllable as if to say, "I am going to shock you with the following unfathomable number."

But that was back when billion was Kind of a Big Deal.

Now I understand what it's like to be Miley Cyrus, with that cute little Selena Gomez waiting to 'disappear' you and eat your family.

I do wonder, though: what does the future hold for billion? Maybe it will do a lecture circuit. Maybe it will write its memoirs. Or maybe it will just retire to some Regis-hosted game show.

I did find in my research, though, that every day around the world, two trillion text messages are sent.

So basically, this means the only thing we do in trillions -- besides spend money we don't have -- is send sideways winking faces to our friends during class.

I urge you to think: WWTD (What Would Tiffany Do)? Cause we all know that if she comes out of that time machine, she's going to be pissed.

the vermouth is out there

What a day. Our athletes are hepped up on goofballs. Tim Geithner sounds like he's going through puberty. Note: an adolescent voice-crack is not a good thing when you're trying to sell consumer confidence (Maureen Dowd made the same joke but I thought of it first). Meanwhile, Israel and deadly tornadoes are both jockeying for our attention.

And even when it is universally agreed that Obama did not come through on his promise to hold CEOs accountable, they rewarded him by selling off four percent of the DOW in one day. That's almost 400 points.

Because while they realize the party's over, they will not lend one dime until you pry it from their cold, dead hands. Even if it means destroying the economy.

It's no wonder that when I searched Craigslist for writing gigs, all I could find was "Be our Figure Skating Columnist!" "Sanskrit Translation Opportunities," "Calling All Sports Fans," and "Paranormal Bloggers Wanted!" The market is slim, people.

And the luxury lifestyle magazine that's looking for an unpaid intern is basically the biggest "fuck you" I can think of.

The New York Times has an article today about the decline of the Power Lunch. One woman, who was the wife of an executive, described how her husband and his friends used play "credit card lottery" to settle the bill when the check arrived:

"Each man, she explained, would take a credit card out of his wallet and toss it onto the table. Then someone — usually their server — would be asked to pick a card and bellow the owner’s name so everyone in the restaurant could hear. The 'winner' would pay the bill, which often tallied $1,000 or more.

'It was disgustingly awful,' she said. 'The waitress hated it. The wives were uncomfortable. It was a guy’s betting kind of thing, you know, ‘I’m a macho master of the universe.'"

Maybe these guys would like to write reviews of luxury cigars in exchange for a 'potential share in advertising revenue.' And hey! If they play their cards right, maybe they'll be the only ones who will ever smoke them!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have UFOs to observe.

"He used to hit my mom [...] He made me terrified all the time, terrified like I had to pee on myself. I remember one night he made her nose bleed. I was crying and thinking, 'I'm just gonna go crazy on him one day.' ... I hate him to this day." -Chris Brown on his stepfather, interview with Giant Magazine, April 2007

The news about Rihanna and Chris Brown makes me ill. How violence repeats itself.

I shouldn't dwell, though. Apparently domestic abuse is already ripe for snark.

That and having to stomach CNN bemoaning Chris Brown's lost Got Milk? endorsement makes for a pretty hard day.

Is it just me, or are media outlets all jockeying for the most tasteless coverage of this sad event?

For the record, though, I would like to give Allvoices.com the award for best wrap-up sentence: "It's all rain, no umbrella for Rihanna this time!"

and yet they won't leave me and my fake status symbols be...

When I worked at Starbucks in New York City, the best part of my shift was the end. That was when I clocked out, made myself a gratuitously decadent drink, and hightailed it out of there before someone realized that I had accidentally made a Frappuccino with eggnog base. It was nice to walk along Central Park with a beverage that screamed "status over quality."

But that iconic green and white cup in my hand would confuse people.

Inevitably, some judgmental young man would approach me and ask me to save a child, or buy a child, or whatever the 'thing' was that day. And I'd say my knee-jerk response:

"I'll sign any petition you have but I don't have any money to spare."

Then he'd say, "Come on, hear me out!" And I'd say:

"I'll sign any petition you have but I don't have any money to spare."

Then he'd say, "For the price of one of those (accusing gesture toward my latte) you could save a child's life."

At this point I would get angry, because I had probably been up since 3am, been chewed out by Lawrence Fishburne for not getting his green tea latte right, and was walking toward my other job which, while awesome and exciting, likely included going to Starbucks yet again as a 'fetcher.'

I wanted to say, "Sorry, but my religion teaches me that non-American kids are a waste of time!" But I would just say slightly more emphatically:

"I'll sign any petition you have but I don't have any money to spare."

Actually, I would sometimes donate $5 or $10 -- not because his implying I was a selfish bitch was an at all effective strategy, but because of the kinship: we both knew that trying to coax money from rich Upper West Side New Yorkers is the suckiest job in the world.

Flash forward one year and backward several hundred points on the DOW.


Despite the fact that living in Seattle makes me a voyeuristic, tiny speck of fashion-don't dust, I still read the Style section of the New York Times -- after William Saffire's "On Language" column, but before Maureen Dowd. Style acts as a primer to Dowd's New York inner-circle speak, so you can just jump right in.

But today I saw an article in Style that was so divorced from reality that I thought it had to be a joke. The article was entitled "You Try to Live on 500K in this Town!"

I thought it was some piece of populist satire a la "Slumdogs, Unite!"

But it wasn't. It was actually a plaintive cry for help on behalf of the ultra, ultra rich. The reporter passionately argued that New York is just too expensive for a salary cap. After all,

"Many top executives have cars and drivers. A chauffeur's pay is between $75,000 and $125,000 a year."

And of course, sometimes getting your child their god-ordained spot at an Ivy League can take a nudge or two.

"'You're not going to get through private school without tutoring a kid,'" said Sandy Bass, the editor of Private School Insider, a newsletter that covers private schools in the New York City area. One hour of tutoring once a week is $125. 'That's the low end,' she said. 'The higher end is 150, 175.' SAT tutors are about $250 an hour. Total cost for 30 weeks of regular tutoring: $3,750."

By now, your heart should be bleeding for the Yale double-legacy who just wants to be tapped by Skulls and Bones and "travel" after graduation. But in case you still aren't convinced,

"More? Restaurants. Dry cleaning. Each Brooks Brothers suit costs about $1,000. If you run a bank, you can’t look like a slob.

The total costs here, which do not include a lot of things, like kennels for the dog when the family is away, summer camp, spas and other grooming for the human members of the family, donations to charity, and frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity, are $790,750, which would require about a $1.6-million salary to compensate for taxes."

My question is: despite the fact that only a former trust fund baby could produce an article with a premise this flawed, did it ever occur to the reporter that they don't need this stuff?


If Congress and Rudy Guiliani insists on defending executive bankers' right to a multi-million dollar salary, that's fine. If the New York Times wants to argue that 3 gala balls a year, 'summering' in the Hamptons, and funneling children of middling intelligence to Harvard via a regiment of private tutoring and paper 'editors' is entitlement and necessity both, then that's their prerogative.

But if that's the line they're taking, then why -- when walking from one thankless low-wage job to another low-wage job -- can't I drink my triple tall vanilla soy semi dry cappuccino in peace?

That's what I want to know. But for now, I'm content to make fun of the only non-tourists who go Serendipity. That, they cannot take away from me.

it's a coffee shop.....but it's also a wine bar!

I love the Faire Gallery Cafe in Capitol Hill. There's something about a place that serves both wine and cappuccino that makes me feel so cool when I go there to "write" on my "computer" and "check my all-touch smart phone" for "good nearby sushi." Just kidding about the last part.

Or am I?

Seriously, this place is as pretentious as it gets. It's also an art gallery. I know. Too good.

But the problem with coffee/wine bar fusions is that while you get the best of both worlds, you also get the worst of both worlds. Like, the creepy customers who are unique to bars and the creepy customers who are unique to coffee shops. Together. Mixing it up.

Here are some archetypes I observed in this particular cafe. And they are all true.

Really aggressive but untalented sketch artist

He is aggressive. He taps on the window, beckons you in, and then shows you really bad stencils he drew of his mother and aunt.

But here's the thing: he's also really bad. And he glares at you when you tell him you don't have the money and then self-consciously take out your laptop.

Sad girl at the counter
It would be one thing if this were a coffee shop, because the baristas would be elbow deep in milk-steaming, shot-pulling, baby-kissing, and all the other things that make coffee shops more wholesome than bars.

And it would be one thing if this were a bar, because then the sad girl -- while sad -- would be expressing her sadness using harmless words, and most of them would be drowned out by Rihanna's "Please Don't Stop the Music" or its base-heavy equivalent.

But in a horrible fusion of bar and coffee shop, the sad girl at the counter also has a laptop. And instead of slurring about her boyfriend, she's typing him an angry letter in Microsoft Word. And she's using an online thesaurus and reading the changes she makes out loud.

This is exactly why people with laptops should not have the ability to drink wine in public.

Napping hipster boy
Seriously. Order something else or leave. An 8-ounce Americano does not make this cafe your fucking bedroom.

Annoying friend of bartender
This is pretty self-explanatory. In this case, she went to an Ivy League school like, 18 years ago and will not shut up about it.

Man who takes an informal poll on what to do with his partner on Valentine's Day
Again, self-explanatory. If I had any opinion worth sharing, I wouldn't be Sad Girl at the Bar.

Kidding.

Seriously, though -- mind your own goddamn business.

stuff that happened friday: obama envy

1. And he wasn't even on his teleprompter. Let's just watch this thing again in case you missed it. 'Cause it was really good.


2. On Obama envy: Judith Warner had a great article in the NY Times today about America's voyeuristic relationship with the first family. It's a little gender normative: women want Barack, men envy his success. But she does uncover some uniquely American rituals -- for example, that of a woman who wrote that when she couldn't sleep at night, she

"'lay in bed and thought about the Obama girls in their rooms at the White House. I thought about Marian Robinson up on the third floor. And about Barack and Michelle, a couple who clearly have a ‘thing’ for each other, spooning together in bed. It helped me relax.'”

Poignant, actually. But then there's the bitter divorced father..

“'They do seem to have it all together — a great marriage, beautiful children, a modern day Norman Rockwell family,' said a divorced Harvard grad with children in a top D.C. private school. 'Why them, not me?'"

the bratty kid who will make her mom's life hell...

"'Why won’t my kids be sleeping over at the White House? And as my daughter noted, why couldn’t she get to sit front and center and see the Jonas Brothers and Miley perform at the kids’ inaugural concert? If she went to Sidwell, then she might have these chances, she said …'"

Note to her daughter: the Obama girls would hate you. See my Spinspotter marker here.

And finally -- and you gotta respect the shamelessly opportunistic logic employed by this Sidwell Friends Mom:

“Will Michelle stay down to earth? She could prove it by joining our book club!"

I don't think Michelle Obama wants to discuss the Da Vinci Code with a bunch of PTA Moms, but I'm sure the mother's heart is in the right place.

3. He's Just not that Into You: The reviews are in, and from what I gather:

If you are a woman, you will hate it.
If you are a man, you will hate it.
If you are a gay man, you will hate it and be really offended.

But you know what? I don't care what they say. I don't care. Okay? I am still seeing He's Just Not That Into You. You can try and stop me with shitty review after shitty review. Or the unequivocal language of hatred employed by reviewer Mary Elizabeth Williams when she says that

"The trailer for the movie itself makes me want to jam a fork in my eyes repeatedly."

But I am still forking over $11.50, because dammit, this is my America. And if I want to see Jenifer Aniston in another mundane romantic comedy, than that is my prerogative.

4. Gossip Girl takes on Yale? Yale takes on Gossip Girl. I don't make a habit of reading undergraduate newspapers, but this offers both an interesting take on Gossip Girl and the Gilmore Girls and several pretentious, freshman-level references to Joan Didion. And that's rare.



5. Rihanna swings from a Gucci purse for five minutes...but don't worry, it's for charity. As my special editorial image correspondent Adam M said: "can I just say: how special is it when stars team up with Gucci to help Unicef?"
Very special. Very, very special. And if you don't believe me, you *must* see this video.

I'd say the Performative 'I care' Publicity/Actual Effectiveness ratio is about on par with donating your Facebook status to Gaza. Or, like, dodging a Salvation Army bell ringer on your way to Neiman Marcus. All are about the same level of admirable.

friday's award for most unintentional irony: the associated press

Any native Seattlite knows that E Olive Way offers an intimate cross-section of the city.

Starting at the western waterfront, the street winds through Seattle's downtown and towards Broadway, Seattle's hipster enclave on the hill, before ending at E 15th, a shop-lined street with some of the city's best coffee and tea houses. On the way up, you'll see a massive yellow wooden Starbucks, a celebrated little house made of bright pink stucco, and Seattle's Twice Sold Tails, a charming used bookstore whose owners treat their cats better than their customers.

You'll also see a garage painted over with the iconic Obama symbol of hope, which is based on the painting by street artist Shepard Fairey.

About 8 feet by 10 feet, the garage's owner lovingly recreated this image to share with the thousands of commuters, neighbors, and university students who drive or walk up E Olive every single day. It has also been said to catch the eye of a young twenty-something female walking to Montlake to vicariously look at mansions and snap pictures, as per her hobby dictates. I also take pictures of flowers.

Pretty, huh? Anyway, the Associated Press is now saying that because the painting is based on a picture snapped by one of its photographers in 2006, it is entitled to a hefty royalty.

Wow. Truly a new low for a non-profit organization which purportedly seeks truth.

Let me clarify. By no means am I saying that it isn't our right, nay, our duty! as Americans to shamelessly corporatise Obama's grassroots appeal.

When I left Union Station the day after Inauguration, I discovered that inspiration and joy could be sold by the dollar.

Dozens of vendors converged at the train station's entrance, desperately peddling "official" Obama merchandise to literally hundreds of tourists, convincing us that in this historic, amazing moment it was unpatriotic to come away without a commemorative t-shirt. It was a scene out of Newsies: "Hope heeyaaa! Getcha hope heeeyyaa! ... while it lasts ... which it won't!"

I totally bought it, along with a cheap pity mug which said "I was there!" and for all I know referred to some Pauley Shore movie premiere. Although I did pass on the several hundred large cartoons of Obama in boxer shorts punching out Senator McCain that some poor man had the misfortune of having to sell by day's end.

But here's the difference: while that was shameless opportunism, this AP thing is just shameful. I am sick of corporate branding, and of brands of soda co-opting hope and change when they stand for everything that hope and change isn't.

It is one thing to claim that there is an unprecedented political movement waiting to burst forth from every can of Pepsi, or that that wearing a genuine Urban Outfitters "Obama for your mama!" T-shirt will complement your prescriptionless, ironically large hipster eyeglasses quite nicely.

But just because someone used an old AP photo as the impetus for one of the most inspiring modern art movements of the last quarter century, it doesn't mean you own it and can start demanding royalties. If memory serves, Campbell's did not sue Andy Warhol for his abstract impressionist work based on their soup cans.

The AP does not own this piece of street art, or the movement it helped propel. It is beyond disgusting that the Associated Press is trying to claim it all in its name.

I guess that to corporations like Pepsi Co, hope and change are the most sought-after commodities of all. It's terrifying what lengths they will go to to brand it.

Here is what the AP is saying of the dispute:

"The Associated Press has determined that the photograph used in the poster is an AP photo and that its use required permission," AP spokesman Paul Colford said in a statement.

The AP wants compensation for the photo, and made this very clear through quotes fed to the AFP and -- surprise! -- the AP itself, because the painting was traced from a photo snapped by Mannie Garcia. Mannie Garcia, however, gave a separate interview through photobucket, and here's what he had to say:

I was a temporary hire, filling in for a staffer at the AP. It is my understanding that I was neither a freelancer nor a staffer, but rather a temporary hire. I have never been an AP staff employee, and no, I have never signed an AP contract.

And what does he want to happen with the picture?

"I would like very much to figure out a way that my signature on a photograph that I made of then Senator now President Obama, that maybe the monies - most of it - could be donated to the American Red Cross, children's cancer research, and women's breast cancer research. This is not about me making money off this, it's about recognition. I made the most iconic image of our time, and I'd like it to make a difference, not make me money. I'm a blue collar photographer - I am out there on the grind every day. I spend more energy looking for work than doing work. I just want Shepard Fairey to say 'alright, you're the guy. Thank you.'"

Case and point. That's the problem with filtering a message through a corporate source -- sometimes they leave the most important messages in the bottom of the Pepsi can.

stuff that happened thursday: satc & oote (obama on the economy)

1. Obama gives another orgasmically amazing speech on the economy. Yay for reframing the terms of debate! Yay for reclaiming and debunking the most damning objections!

And yay for what apparently was runner-up night for Last Comic Standing! The following are real, actual economic analyses from Obama's speech. And I'm telling you, they killed!

Setup: Regarding criticisms that the bill is a 'spending bill.'
Punchline: "What do you think a stimulus bill is? It’s spending — that's the whole point! Seriously!"

Setup: Regarding complaints that the current $800 deficit is far too big.
Punchline: "Hey...I found this when I showed up!"

Setup: Regarding complaints that the bill needs more time and more work.
Punchline: No one's perfect! "Trust me....Michelle reminds me of that everyday!"

Is this thing on?

2. Kelloggs is dumping Michael Phelps as a spokesperson after the....unpleasantness. Aka the 'bong incident.' I can't put this any better than Jezebel, who said, "Has any brand ever been more out of touch with its customers?"

3. Sex and the City sequel turns Eva into foaming-at-the-mouth rom com whore
Watching four gorgeous women wear things you could never wear, date men you will never meet, and do New York better than you ever could do?

Where do I sign?

Seriously. Sex and the City is my upper, upper, upper-class tax cut. You gotta support it because one day, it could be you!

Hannah Mon-bigot-tana

Okay, so, me and my friends totally decided to squint our eyes up like those Asian people. Well, everyone except for my one (apparently self-loathing) Asian friend. Then we posted it, which totally rocked.

But it's okay, because I have PR representatives who don't return calls from news outlets, leaving l'il ol me to put out the fire through statements such as this one:

"In NO way was I making fun of any ethnicity! [...] I feel like now that Britney is back on top of her game again, they need someone to pick on!"

And that's without a trace of irony. Crisis averted, y'all!

corruption? pshaw. daschle just has senioritis.

I can understand youthful opportunism.

An arrogant girl who was less than challenged at my public school, I reveled in the freedoms afforded a latchkey kid. I wouldn't begin my work until the morning it was due. I never left my house until after the bell rang. And when there was 'no more math' for the teacher to teach me and I was given a magazine to read instead, I stopped doing homework all together.

I had some dim understanding that far in the future, I would have to fill in some bubbles and do something roughly along the lines of "demonstrate leadership ability via pathetic service-oriented clubs," but I saw no point in starting now.

I also read far more than I interacted with other children, which planted the seeds for a lifelong tendency to mispronounce words (I thought people actually, phonetically pronounced "sigh!" when they were tired or frustrated, which no one bothered to correct for years).

Of course, that all changed when I went to high school and realized that my actions would 'determine my life path.' So I started a four-year manic program to distinguish myself (and later, at Swarthmore, be one of 1200 other former class presidents trying to rekindle their former glory.) I spent Saturdays at the library studying flash cards and taking practice SAT exams. I was head of the poetry magazine, took two years each of Biology, Chemistry and Physics, and spent my summers studying classic literature and etymology 'for fun.' "Well-rounded or bust!" was my motto. That's what she said.

I even got an op-ed published in the local newspaper. Ironically, the article was a criticism of opportunistic, grade-grubbing students. It was also my introduction to a career in post-ironic sarcasm.

Needless to say, by the time I started senior year I was an accomplished douchebag, and I intended to stay every bit as douchey through the end of high school. But when I got accepted to college, my base instincts took over.

That voice I never listened to -- the one that told me that I could get the gist of the metaphors of Lord of the Flies through Sparknotes, and that spending all-nighters making subtle changes to the prose of my essays didn't change an "A" to a "really especially good A" -- began to make sense. It told me that I immediately needed to drop AP Physics, half-ass my way through biology lab, and -- this was crucial -- make pretentious, abstract statements about To the Lighthouse in class despite having only skimmed the intro.

What could I do? It was that "fight or flight" stuff.

Now enter Tom Daschle. Daschle served in Congress from 1978-2004, serving the last ten years as Senate Minority and Senate Majority Leader for the Democratic party. Along the way he got an envelope with Anthrax in it and some awesome red tortoise-shell glasses.

So when South Dakota voted him out of office, he was probably like, "Fuck it! I'm going to lobby on K Street and get driven around all the fucking time and not pay taxes." He was through. He was in prom mode. Except that unlike me, he wouldn't spend the next four years listening to his peers pseudo-casually drop their SAT scores and claim that they "would have gotten into Harvard" if they hadn't applied early.

In this week's Gossip Girl, Blair Waldorf went from being accepted to Yale University to being thrown out of her grammar school because of Senioritis (well, that and a really creepy vendetta against her Shakespeare teacher.)

So I think we can all understand where Tom Dascle is coming from.

And yes, the point of this whole entry is that Blair Waldorf should be Secretary of Health and Human Services. xo xo.

this is how little i understand football.

When Santonio Holmes scored the winning touchdown, I thought to myself, "Why did the other team just gain points?" and figured I had just misread the moment.

When the Steelers won the Superbowl, I thought to myself, "Huh. They don't seem very happy!" and I chalked it up to some part of football culture I didn't understand.

When the closing ceremonies were about to begin and NBC kept showing extended victory shots of the Cardinals cheering and crying and showering each other with Gatorade, I thought to myself, "This seems highly counterintuitive." But hey, what did I know about losing the Superbowl?

It wasn't until this morning when I checked the newspaper that I realized I had the two teams mixed up.

I think I have my birds wrong. This is what happens when you tune in for the pop culture knowledge and end up watching the whole game.