Well, it's been a banner week. Hyperbole Isabel rolled through with nary a power outage or downed tree (perhaps because Southwest has no trees). In fact, the finest entertainment offered was the neighbors who did not bring their patio furniture in. Watching lawn chairs race one another down the block was wonderful for the spirit.
In other news, my beloved temp agency has been unable to furnish me with work. Also, I pulled a muscle in my neck last night, rendering me completely unable of moving my head. I’ve spent most of the day lying very, very still and popping Advil. All of this brings us to an interesting question: Have you ever watched daytime television while physically incapable of shaking your head in disbelief? “I wish Sharon Osbourne would just shut…YOWCH!”
Speaking of pain, here’s the 7th Heaven rundown:
“An Early Fall, Part II”, Airdate Sept. 21, 2003
Last night, we paid a visit to Bizarro Glenoak, where Mary’s still an idiot, but Lucy is likable, people actually think things over before marrying each other, and someone feeds the Poddlers.
Mary’s big secret is revealed: she’s married to Carlos, the Homeless Hispanic, and she finally gets up the balls to tell her parents. However, Carlos finds out that she’d planned on annulling the marriage at first and mumbles in Spanish. Apparently Hispanics do that when they’re angry. I half expected Mary to hand him little household trinkets to break, like they did on “I Love Lucy”. Carlos refers to her as “loco”, which is of course grammatically incorrect (she’s a she, and therefore “loca”). What annoys me further is that Mary assumes “loco” means “chicken”, because of the Pollo Loco chicken chain. So, not only is she abysmally stupid, she also thinks “Livin’ La Vida Loca” was about chickens. Which, by the way, would have been awesome.
The whole family babbles about that rebellious Mary, who toilet-papered the school gym three years ago, which is like the worse thing EVER. Except not: does anyone really care? (Considering that entire plotline was punishment for Jessica Biel’s booby photos in Gear, I especially don’t care. Viva Boobies Libre!) Mary’s also pregnant, so prepare yourselves for the inevitable “will the baby be Protestant or Catholic?” episode. Because the infallibility of the Pope shows up in ultrasounds.
In other Camden-rific news, Ruthie still creeps me out, Lucy and Kevin decide against having a baby, and the Poddlers say that elopement is the worst thing ever (clearly they haven’t seen the photos of my kickass Elvis Wedding). Woefully Miscast Rachel Blanchard and Chandler break up, because she’s not ready to be a preacher’s wife. I notice for the first time that Chandler has a bit more junk in his trunk than at the beginning of the summer. He looks positively bloaty. Speaking of bloat, there are now 14 people in the credits (including Happy the dog and 7 non-Camdens). Indeed, the non-Camdens have credit-conquered the Camdens. There’s cast bloat, and then there’s a cast that’s so bloated it has to be removed from its house with a crane.
Finally, the family reassures Simon over and over that he’s not responsible for the Blood on the Highway incident. Simon’s not so sure, and he wants to “test out” of high school.
Sadly, this episode lacked much snark potential, as it wasn’t mind-bendingly dreadful.
However, here’s a snarky poll to amuse you:
Intentional humor: 7 Unintentional humor: 3 Preachiness: 6 Histrionics: 9 Items thrown at television: 3 Emotional Trauma: 4
Tuesday, September 23, 2003
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Your long and arduous wait is finally over! Last night’s 7th Heaven premiere was everything it should have been: terrible, squicky and confusing.
But first, time for personal announcements. Howdies and hosannas to Roxanne, Rowena, Stephanie, Tricia, Amy, Emily, and Jen. The eight of us spent Saturday night in Atlantic City for Roxanne’s bachelorette festivities. Highlights included a Donald Trump sighting (dude needs a haircut), and my first experience with going to nightclubs as the Married Chick. I have a new Favorite Thing That Was Ever Said to Me: “Is that an engagement ring? It’s very nice…I find you very attractive. Can I buy you a drink?” That is just too cool for words, and no, I did not accept the drink.
“An Early Fall, Part I”, Airdate 9.15.03
Remember all the way back in May, after Deacon Lou and Detective Michaels showed up on the Camden porch for a cliffhanger ending? My exact words: “If prior 7th Heaven cliffhangers are any indication, we’ll find out that a tertiary character no one cares about has died.” I was wrong. A tertiary character no one has even HEARD OF died, in an all-new low for chicken-hearted writing.
We open with a Camden summer vacation, which primarily consists of frolicking on the beach fully clothed. While there isn’t a single Camden I’d want to see in a swimsuit, that’s just odd. Various Camdens and Peter (why anyone would bring the random neighbor kid on vacation is beyond me) play Go Fish and gossip about “the accident.” And in a new level of Poddler neglect, the twins are left sleeping on kitchen chairs for over four hours before anyone takes them to bed.
Apparently Simon hit a motorcyclist named Paul with his car, killing him and spreading brain matter across the roadway. All of this has made Simon very broody, which is quite sexy. He should kill people more often. David Gallagher acts the hell out of his scenes, because, as long-time readers remember, he is the only member of the cast who bothers to act anymore. Poor David Gallagher.
Over the course of the episode, Simon dumps Cecilia (hooray!), broods (sexy!) and wanders around on the beach. When the vacation ends, the Reverend and Annie get in a hilarious kitchen battle. Annie says it’s time they got in a fight about the accident, and the Reverend delivers a soliloquy about how he should have been the one driving. Annie turns away from him to face the camera and look pained as he talks, creating one of those tableaus only seen in dinner theater and Lifetime “Mommy May I Sleep With Danger?” movies. At the end, Annie says, “I just wanted to say, I wish his parents had told him to wear a helmet!” Huh? As Mike pointed out, it’s not like the Reverend would have argued AGAINST the wearing of helmets. So why did she want to fight?
Over the course of the episode, we also learn that Simon is going to go to trial for the accident, and that Paul’s brother Justin has been stalking Simon and vandalizing the church. Simon also runs away to New York to see Matt and Sarah, and Annie tries to order the Reverend to go get him. How does this family afford all of these last-minute flights to New York? At 8:53, Paul’s parents show up at the Camden residence and tell the Reverend that they are dropping the case. It turns out Paul was on the drugs, thereby completely absolving Simon and chickening out of a remotely interesting plot. However, they don’t specify what the drugs were. Was it the ganja, the cocaine, the crack rocks or the high-powered cough syrup?
However, the episode wasn’t completely Simon-focused, because there are 28 people in the credits now and at least half of them need something to do. Chandler and Woefully Miscast Rachel Blanchard bicker and smooch (fully clothed, on the beach), and Chandler threatens to dump her if they don’t get married. Who in hell issues and engagement ultimatum six months into the relationship? The Reverend also asks Chandler if he and Roxanne are doing the funky monkey. What kind of boss can ask that of his assistant and NOT get his pants sued off?
Lucy and Kevin, who are slightly likable so far this season, decide they need to do something “life-affirming”, like have a baby. Because being a newlywed simply isn’t affirming enough. In a new gross-out moment, Lucy tells the Reverend that they are going to skip church in favor of said affirmations. So, Lucy basically announced, “Daddy, we’re going to go upstairs and have unprotected sex!”
We also discover Mary’s mystery from the season finale when Carlos shows up on the front door. Carlos is another Camden Pet Minority Character, this time in a sassy Hispanic flavor. Camden tertiary characters are frequently racial minorities whose lives are improved merely by the Camden aura. They met Carlos a few seasons ago, when the show wasn’t completely terrible. He was homeless, and the Camdens gave him a plane ticket home to his family. Well, it turns out he’s Mary’s husband now. And Coincidence completes its metamorphosis into Contrivance.
Intentional humor: 2 Unintentional humor: 4 Preachiness: 9 Histrionics: 7 Items thrown at television: 5 Emotional Trauma: 7
And, a poll in honor of Carlos:
But first, time for personal announcements. Howdies and hosannas to Roxanne, Rowena, Stephanie, Tricia, Amy, Emily, and Jen. The eight of us spent Saturday night in Atlantic City for Roxanne’s bachelorette festivities. Highlights included a Donald Trump sighting (dude needs a haircut), and my first experience with going to nightclubs as the Married Chick. I have a new Favorite Thing That Was Ever Said to Me: “Is that an engagement ring? It’s very nice…I find you very attractive. Can I buy you a drink?” That is just too cool for words, and no, I did not accept the drink.
“An Early Fall, Part I”, Airdate 9.15.03
Remember all the way back in May, after Deacon Lou and Detective Michaels showed up on the Camden porch for a cliffhanger ending? My exact words: “If prior 7th Heaven cliffhangers are any indication, we’ll find out that a tertiary character no one cares about has died.” I was wrong. A tertiary character no one has even HEARD OF died, in an all-new low for chicken-hearted writing.
We open with a Camden summer vacation, which primarily consists of frolicking on the beach fully clothed. While there isn’t a single Camden I’d want to see in a swimsuit, that’s just odd. Various Camdens and Peter (why anyone would bring the random neighbor kid on vacation is beyond me) play Go Fish and gossip about “the accident.” And in a new level of Poddler neglect, the twins are left sleeping on kitchen chairs for over four hours before anyone takes them to bed.
Apparently Simon hit a motorcyclist named Paul with his car, killing him and spreading brain matter across the roadway. All of this has made Simon very broody, which is quite sexy. He should kill people more often. David Gallagher acts the hell out of his scenes, because, as long-time readers remember, he is the only member of the cast who bothers to act anymore. Poor David Gallagher.
Over the course of the episode, Simon dumps Cecilia (hooray!), broods (sexy!) and wanders around on the beach. When the vacation ends, the Reverend and Annie get in a hilarious kitchen battle. Annie says it’s time they got in a fight about the accident, and the Reverend delivers a soliloquy about how he should have been the one driving. Annie turns away from him to face the camera and look pained as he talks, creating one of those tableaus only seen in dinner theater and Lifetime “Mommy May I Sleep With Danger?” movies. At the end, Annie says, “I just wanted to say, I wish his parents had told him to wear a helmet!” Huh? As Mike pointed out, it’s not like the Reverend would have argued AGAINST the wearing of helmets. So why did she want to fight?
Over the course of the episode, we also learn that Simon is going to go to trial for the accident, and that Paul’s brother Justin has been stalking Simon and vandalizing the church. Simon also runs away to New York to see Matt and Sarah, and Annie tries to order the Reverend to go get him. How does this family afford all of these last-minute flights to New York? At 8:53, Paul’s parents show up at the Camden residence and tell the Reverend that they are dropping the case. It turns out Paul was on the drugs, thereby completely absolving Simon and chickening out of a remotely interesting plot. However, they don’t specify what the drugs were. Was it the ganja, the cocaine, the crack rocks or the high-powered cough syrup?
However, the episode wasn’t completely Simon-focused, because there are 28 people in the credits now and at least half of them need something to do. Chandler and Woefully Miscast Rachel Blanchard bicker and smooch (fully clothed, on the beach), and Chandler threatens to dump her if they don’t get married. Who in hell issues and engagement ultimatum six months into the relationship? The Reverend also asks Chandler if he and Roxanne are doing the funky monkey. What kind of boss can ask that of his assistant and NOT get his pants sued off?
Lucy and Kevin, who are slightly likable so far this season, decide they need to do something “life-affirming”, like have a baby. Because being a newlywed simply isn’t affirming enough. In a new gross-out moment, Lucy tells the Reverend that they are going to skip church in favor of said affirmations. So, Lucy basically announced, “Daddy, we’re going to go upstairs and have unprotected sex!”
We also discover Mary’s mystery from the season finale when Carlos shows up on the front door. Carlos is another Camden Pet Minority Character, this time in a sassy Hispanic flavor. Camden tertiary characters are frequently racial minorities whose lives are improved merely by the Camden aura. They met Carlos a few seasons ago, when the show wasn’t completely terrible. He was homeless, and the Camdens gave him a plane ticket home to his family. Well, it turns out he’s Mary’s husband now. And Coincidence completes its metamorphosis into Contrivance.
Intentional humor: 2 Unintentional humor: 4 Preachiness: 9 Histrionics: 7 Items thrown at television: 5 Emotional Trauma: 7
And, a poll in honor of Carlos:
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
So, OK, it happened. I’m married. AS of Labor Day weekend. You can see pictures here.
Now I’m back in Washington, temping at a company that is secretly ruled by leprechauns (that’s the only explanation I can come up with for why the tables and chairs in the breakroom are so tiny).
Here’s the full rundown:
I flew to L.A. on a Thursday on America West, which may be the worst airline in the world. The movies suck (Holes and Daddy Day Care), there’s no food, and they always seat you next to the screaming kids. However, for $300 round trip, they can stuff me in the cargo hold for all I care. I'm cheap. (Everyone who went to college with me: shut up).
Matt and Merrill (one of his oldest friends) picked me up at the airport. We picked up food from a restaurant that carried tacos, burgers AND chili cheese fries. Matt and I stayed at the Hotel Merrill, where he not only relinquished his room to us, but allowed us to watch all the Cartoon Network we could stand. After watching an outrageously sexual Japanese cartoon, we met up with Skye and J.B. for drinks. Emphasis on the multiple drinks.
Also, Matt gave me a pretty, shiny emerald engagement ring that I absolutely love. I use it to mesmerize fish and small children. Ooh, shiny. Though, in retrospect, pretending to bite it to test its authenticity may have been mean.
Friday, Skye picked Matt and me up to eat at the In-N-Out Burger. Fun fact: it’s even more Christian than Chick-Fil-A, and the bottom of the soda cups say John 3:16. Afterwards, we shopped for wedding bands at the mall. We just wanted sterling bands, since we’ll get nice ones later when we do the church wedding. Virtually every store tried to guilt us into buying platinum (“You must not really love each other if you just want silver!”). However, Fox Jewelers offered to make the rings on the spot. The best part was their slogan: “Home of Bling-Bling.”
Friday night was Merrill’s 30th birthday party/the rehearsal kegger. Skye brought 40s for the wedding party, Matt and Merrill performed some songs together, I kept the snacks refreshed and alphabetized, and Skye’s friend wanted to adopt me and take me home in her purse.
Saturday Matt and Merrill hunkered down in front of some wings and an Alabama game, so I begged Skye to come rescue me. I can go to football games and have a great time, but sports on television make me want to scream. Skye picked me up and drove me to the Grove, where we had brunch and shopped. Skye bought pants. She was very excited about the pants. On the way, we saw Flynt Publications. Porn is housed in a building that looks just like the Death Star.
Saturday night a group of us went out for a steak dinner for Merrill’s birthday. On the way, we saw a sign for “Korean Disconunt Underwear,” which may be the most awesome sign ever. I had no idea that Korea had specialized underwear, or that Nunts could disco.
Sunday Matt, Merrill, Skye and I got into Merrill’s Toyota Matrix (the Cool Dude’s Minivan) and drove to Vegas. Ever spent five hours crossing the desert? I’m an East Coast girl, and that much nothingness weirded me out. We had a great time listening to Will Shatner sing “Mr. Tambourine Man”. Until you’ve heard the Shat, you simply haven’t lived. We also saw the Definition of Optimism: a truck towing two Jet Skis across the desert.
We arrived in Vegas and went straight to the courthouse. Let me tell you, getting a marriage license may have been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I had to show more I.D. for my Safeway Club Card. The place was German in its efficiency and 60s fortress in its architecture. Best of all, when we got back in the car, “White Wedding” was on the radio. Omen!
We drove to our digs for the evening, the Westward Ho! hotel and casino. I highly recommend staying anywhere with an exclamation point in the title. Our room wasn’t ready, so I only had about 40 minutes to get ready for the wedding. I chucked Matt out of the room, dove into the shower, and assigned Skye tasks such as untangling my necklace, smoothing my veil, and finding a way to attach a large Icelandic coin to a flip-flop (answer: hairpins).
To prepare, Matt and Merrill watched football on TV.
The limo picked us up at 4:30 and took us to the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel for our 5:00 service. Advice to anyone who’s getting married: go easy on yourself. Chuck the detailed wedding plans, the worry, and the fuss. Not because your wedding will be beautiful anyway, but because you won’t remember any of it. I do remember Elvis singing “Can’t Help Falling In Love”, during which time Matt and I were supposed to stare into each other’s eyes. No matter how much you love someone, that can get a little dull after the fourth chorus. We said our vows, or at least, we think we did. We couldn’t understand what Elvis was saying, so we just said “I Do” every time he paused. So, instead of getting married, it’s entirely possible we bought swampland in Florida. Then Elvis launched into “Viva Las Vegas”, which we incorrectly assumed was the recessional. The four of us paired up and strolled out, and were shooed back into the chapel by a minister to dance. Fortunately, it looks somewhat intentional on the video. We completed the service with a Rockettes line. Afterwards, we took pictures, I threw the bouquet (caught by Skye), and we got back in the limo. The time? 5:12. Awesome.
We had 6:30 dinner reservations at the Hilton, so we killed an hour in the Star Trek Experience theme bar. A very nice couple purchased our Klingon Blood Wines (aka rotgut Merlot), and we gawked at the geeks. Afterwards, Skye and Merrill treated us to dinner at a lovely Northern Italian restaurant and then we went gambling. Matt and I lost money right and left, while Skye and Merrill came out ahead and went out for steaks at 2 am. Matt and I had long since turned in. It was fun being in the only city in America where no one looks at you funny if you play the slots while wearing a white dress and a veil.
Monday we got up, went out for breakfast, and drove back to L.A. We celebrated Talk Like a Pirate Day early by making up stupid pirate jokes in the car. We also stopped in Baker to buy Slim Jims and see the World’s Tallest Thermometer, which was digital and not even turned on. What a scam.
We got back to L.A., watched T.V., went out for Thai, and stared at one another aimlessly. I flew back on Tuesday, where I changed planes in Vegas. McCarran International Airport is nasty, smells weird, has really unlucky slots, and only has Taco Bell to eat. Yuck.
So, I’m home now and getting organized to move to Bogota. The uniquely solipsist State Department has decided on several occasions that I do not exist, and I’m temping for leprechauns. Needless to say, I'm ready to go.
To keep yourselves amused until the 7th Heaven premiere (September 15), please feel free to vote on my name:
Now I’m back in Washington, temping at a company that is secretly ruled by leprechauns (that’s the only explanation I can come up with for why the tables and chairs in the breakroom are so tiny).
Here’s the full rundown:
I flew to L.A. on a Thursday on America West, which may be the worst airline in the world. The movies suck (Holes and Daddy Day Care), there’s no food, and they always seat you next to the screaming kids. However, for $300 round trip, they can stuff me in the cargo hold for all I care. I'm cheap. (Everyone who went to college with me: shut up).
Matt and Merrill (one of his oldest friends) picked me up at the airport. We picked up food from a restaurant that carried tacos, burgers AND chili cheese fries. Matt and I stayed at the Hotel Merrill, where he not only relinquished his room to us, but allowed us to watch all the Cartoon Network we could stand. After watching an outrageously sexual Japanese cartoon, we met up with Skye and J.B. for drinks. Emphasis on the multiple drinks.
Also, Matt gave me a pretty, shiny emerald engagement ring that I absolutely love. I use it to mesmerize fish and small children. Ooh, shiny. Though, in retrospect, pretending to bite it to test its authenticity may have been mean.
Friday, Skye picked Matt and me up to eat at the In-N-Out Burger. Fun fact: it’s even more Christian than Chick-Fil-A, and the bottom of the soda cups say John 3:16. Afterwards, we shopped for wedding bands at the mall. We just wanted sterling bands, since we’ll get nice ones later when we do the church wedding. Virtually every store tried to guilt us into buying platinum (“You must not really love each other if you just want silver!”). However, Fox Jewelers offered to make the rings on the spot. The best part was their slogan: “Home of Bling-Bling.”
Friday night was Merrill’s 30th birthday party/the rehearsal kegger. Skye brought 40s for the wedding party, Matt and Merrill performed some songs together, I kept the snacks refreshed and alphabetized, and Skye’s friend wanted to adopt me and take me home in her purse.
Saturday Matt and Merrill hunkered down in front of some wings and an Alabama game, so I begged Skye to come rescue me. I can go to football games and have a great time, but sports on television make me want to scream. Skye picked me up and drove me to the Grove, where we had brunch and shopped. Skye bought pants. She was very excited about the pants. On the way, we saw Flynt Publications. Porn is housed in a building that looks just like the Death Star.
Saturday night a group of us went out for a steak dinner for Merrill’s birthday. On the way, we saw a sign for “Korean Disconunt Underwear,” which may be the most awesome sign ever. I had no idea that Korea had specialized underwear, or that Nunts could disco.
Sunday Matt, Merrill, Skye and I got into Merrill’s Toyota Matrix (the Cool Dude’s Minivan) and drove to Vegas. Ever spent five hours crossing the desert? I’m an East Coast girl, and that much nothingness weirded me out. We had a great time listening to Will Shatner sing “Mr. Tambourine Man”. Until you’ve heard the Shat, you simply haven’t lived. We also saw the Definition of Optimism: a truck towing two Jet Skis across the desert.
We arrived in Vegas and went straight to the courthouse. Let me tell you, getting a marriage license may have been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I had to show more I.D. for my Safeway Club Card. The place was German in its efficiency and 60s fortress in its architecture. Best of all, when we got back in the car, “White Wedding” was on the radio. Omen!
We drove to our digs for the evening, the Westward Ho! hotel and casino. I highly recommend staying anywhere with an exclamation point in the title. Our room wasn’t ready, so I only had about 40 minutes to get ready for the wedding. I chucked Matt out of the room, dove into the shower, and assigned Skye tasks such as untangling my necklace, smoothing my veil, and finding a way to attach a large Icelandic coin to a flip-flop (answer: hairpins).
To prepare, Matt and Merrill watched football on TV.
The limo picked us up at 4:30 and took us to the Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel for our 5:00 service. Advice to anyone who’s getting married: go easy on yourself. Chuck the detailed wedding plans, the worry, and the fuss. Not because your wedding will be beautiful anyway, but because you won’t remember any of it. I do remember Elvis singing “Can’t Help Falling In Love”, during which time Matt and I were supposed to stare into each other’s eyes. No matter how much you love someone, that can get a little dull after the fourth chorus. We said our vows, or at least, we think we did. We couldn’t understand what Elvis was saying, so we just said “I Do” every time he paused. So, instead of getting married, it’s entirely possible we bought swampland in Florida. Then Elvis launched into “Viva Las Vegas”, which we incorrectly assumed was the recessional. The four of us paired up and strolled out, and were shooed back into the chapel by a minister to dance. Fortunately, it looks somewhat intentional on the video. We completed the service with a Rockettes line. Afterwards, we took pictures, I threw the bouquet (caught by Skye), and we got back in the limo. The time? 5:12. Awesome.
We had 6:30 dinner reservations at the Hilton, so we killed an hour in the Star Trek Experience theme bar. A very nice couple purchased our Klingon Blood Wines (aka rotgut Merlot), and we gawked at the geeks. Afterwards, Skye and Merrill treated us to dinner at a lovely Northern Italian restaurant and then we went gambling. Matt and I lost money right and left, while Skye and Merrill came out ahead and went out for steaks at 2 am. Matt and I had long since turned in. It was fun being in the only city in America where no one looks at you funny if you play the slots while wearing a white dress and a veil.
Monday we got up, went out for breakfast, and drove back to L.A. We celebrated Talk Like a Pirate Day early by making up stupid pirate jokes in the car. We also stopped in Baker to buy Slim Jims and see the World’s Tallest Thermometer, which was digital and not even turned on. What a scam.
We got back to L.A., watched T.V., went out for Thai, and stared at one another aimlessly. I flew back on Tuesday, where I changed planes in Vegas. McCarran International Airport is nasty, smells weird, has really unlucky slots, and only has Taco Bell to eat. Yuck.
So, I’m home now and getting organized to move to Bogota. The uniquely solipsist State Department has decided on several occasions that I do not exist, and I’m temping for leprechauns. Needless to say, I'm ready to go.
To keep yourselves amused until the 7th Heaven premiere (September 15), please feel free to vote on my name:
Monday, August 04, 2003
Well, here's all the latest from Wedding World:
Thanks to the logistical wonderfulness of the State Department, and my own infectious impatience, Matt and I have changed our plans. We'd decided to get married in December, but instead we're going to do it over Labor Day weekend. It'll be a small, intimate, dignified ceremony, featuring...Elvis. My mother is so proud.
That's right, due to Skye's mad planning skills, Matt and I will be married at the Viva Las Vegas Chapel in Las Vegas, Nevada. Elvis will perform the ceremony, along with two songs of our choice. Skye will serve as maid of honor in a beer hat, Merrill will be best man, and J.B. will give me away like I'm a free sample of cube cheese at the supermarket. Afterwards, we will dine at a restaurant that hopefully contains neither go go dancers nor salmonella. The bridal party will stay at the Westward Ho! casino and hotel, home of 99 cent Heinekens and wood-paneled walls. Hey, if logistics prevent a nice wedding, you may as well go whole-hog awful.
We'll be married at about 5:30 pm PST on August 31. The Viva Las Vegas Chapel may provide free webcasting, in which case I encourage all of you to tune in. If not, please raise a Heineken at 8:30 pm EST in honor of the happy couple. Also, Skye has offered to film the event, so I will hold a screening party when the film is available in a few months.
I highly recommend running to Vegas: the marriage license application can be downloaded on the Internet, and is shorter than most video club membership forms. This also means the State Department can process me sooner and I can get to Colombia in October or November.
Instead of a poll, here are some stats:
Number of men who checked my hand for a ring: 12
Number of women who checked my hand for a ring: 5
Number of people who asked about a ring: 3 (all men)
Number of people who believe this is an elaborate practical joke: 3
Number of bridal magazines in my apartment: 8
Weight of bridal magazines: 37 pounds
Chances I'll have a big foofy wedding and not fall on my ass at any point: Slim to none
Thanks to the logistical wonderfulness of the State Department, and my own infectious impatience, Matt and I have changed our plans. We'd decided to get married in December, but instead we're going to do it over Labor Day weekend. It'll be a small, intimate, dignified ceremony, featuring...Elvis. My mother is so proud.
That's right, due to Skye's mad planning skills, Matt and I will be married at the Viva Las Vegas Chapel in Las Vegas, Nevada. Elvis will perform the ceremony, along with two songs of our choice. Skye will serve as maid of honor in a beer hat, Merrill will be best man, and J.B. will give me away like I'm a free sample of cube cheese at the supermarket. Afterwards, we will dine at a restaurant that hopefully contains neither go go dancers nor salmonella. The bridal party will stay at the Westward Ho! casino and hotel, home of 99 cent Heinekens and wood-paneled walls. Hey, if logistics prevent a nice wedding, you may as well go whole-hog awful.
We'll be married at about 5:30 pm PST on August 31. The Viva Las Vegas Chapel may provide free webcasting, in which case I encourage all of you to tune in. If not, please raise a Heineken at 8:30 pm EST in honor of the happy couple. Also, Skye has offered to film the event, so I will hold a screening party when the film is available in a few months.
I highly recommend running to Vegas: the marriage license application can be downloaded on the Internet, and is shorter than most video club membership forms. This also means the State Department can process me sooner and I can get to Colombia in October or November.
Instead of a poll, here are some stats:
Number of men who checked my hand for a ring: 12
Number of women who checked my hand for a ring: 5
Number of people who asked about a ring: 3 (all men)
Number of people who believe this is an elaborate practical joke: 3
Number of bridal magazines in my apartment: 8
Weight of bridal magazines: 37 pounds
Chances I'll have a big foofy wedding and not fall on my ass at any point: Slim to none
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
I’m ENGAGED!!!!!!
As many of you know, Matt and I were seeing each other last year while he was in Washington for Foreign Service Officer training. He'd prove his love by sitting through 7th Heaven episodes with me.
He left for his post in Bogota, Colombia, in February, and we tried to take time apart. I dated some good guys and a few dinks, but none of them were anything like Matt. He dated a few bimbos that I am forever going to giggle about. We talked things over when he arrived on Wednesday, and we officially got engaged on Friday, July 18.
Because of Matt’s career, the entire thing is going to be untraditional and out-of-order. That’s the fun part. He’s back in Bogota, and will give me a ring next time we see each other (we all know how picky I am, so points for Matt for getting my input first). That'll be Labor Day weekend, in Los Angeles. We’ll have a courthouse wedding, most likely in Washington at the end of the year. The State Department will need a a month or so to process me once we have a marriage license. Then I pack for Bogota, most likely in February. Our honeymoon will be the Galapagos Islands in the spring. (In honor of Darwin, we’re going to push the weaker passengers off the boat.) We’ll be in Bogota for a year, where I will either work for the Embassy or attempt to pick up some freelance work. We don’t know yet where we’ll live after Bogota. We return to the U.S. in February 2005 for a small church celebration in Alabama. So, engagement then ring then marriage then moving in together then honeymoon, and last of all, the wedding. Awesome.
So, since the TV season hasn't started up yet, I'll regale y'all with marriage polls.
Lots of love to you all,
Shannon
PS - I chose "freaks"
As many of you know, Matt and I were seeing each other last year while he was in Washington for Foreign Service Officer training. He'd prove his love by sitting through 7th Heaven episodes with me.
He left for his post in Bogota, Colombia, in February, and we tried to take time apart. I dated some good guys and a few dinks, but none of them were anything like Matt. He dated a few bimbos that I am forever going to giggle about. We talked things over when he arrived on Wednesday, and we officially got engaged on Friday, July 18.
Because of Matt’s career, the entire thing is going to be untraditional and out-of-order. That’s the fun part. He’s back in Bogota, and will give me a ring next time we see each other (we all know how picky I am, so points for Matt for getting my input first). That'll be Labor Day weekend, in Los Angeles. We’ll have a courthouse wedding, most likely in Washington at the end of the year. The State Department will need a a month or so to process me once we have a marriage license. Then I pack for Bogota, most likely in February. Our honeymoon will be the Galapagos Islands in the spring. (In honor of Darwin, we’re going to push the weaker passengers off the boat.) We’ll be in Bogota for a year, where I will either work for the Embassy or attempt to pick up some freelance work. We don’t know yet where we’ll live after Bogota. We return to the U.S. in February 2005 for a small church celebration in Alabama. So, engagement then ring then marriage then moving in together then honeymoon, and last of all, the wedding. Awesome.
So, since the TV season hasn't started up yet, I'll regale y'all with marriage polls.
Lots of love to you all,
Shannon
PS - I chose "freaks"
Monday, July 07, 2003
The Laws of Deception
After weeks of only slightly bad offerings from the WB Weekend Cinema, our local affiliate came up with two doozies in one weekend. First, For Love Alone, which is sort of a biography of Ivana Trump and mainly an excuse for Rev. Camden (Stephen Collins) to get naked with the Ivana-be Astar. However, repeated Reverend Camden quivering-lip sex scenes at 11 on a Sunday morning just wasn’t going to happen. So, instead, I will review the fine film The Laws of Deception, which aired Saturday afternoon.
The Laws of Deception is the greatest trash film ever: It supposedly takes place over about 25 years, but no one ages and fashion doesn’t change in the least. The cast includes 80’s washout C. Thomas Howell, 90210’s Brian Austin Green (who unfortunately did NOT play keyboards or dance in this film), and Amber Smith, whose IMDB listing gives her bra size as 36D and whose other credits include "Hot Redhead" in Tomcats. The “law school” scenes were blatantly filmed at a junior high school (the "law school library" is smaller than my apartment). Also, C. Thomas Howell always addresses the camera rather than the person he’s supposedly talking to. I kept expecting someone to break character and yell, “Hey! I’m over here!” Best of all, C. Thomas Howell (Evan) and Brian Austin Green (Cal) have a tight, fiercely homoerotic friendship. I counted 3 top of head kisses, twelve full hugs and 13 arms draped over shoulders. It's almost as sexy as Smallville.
Random question: what do C. Thomas Howell’s friends call him? C? Thomas? Or Howell? I also wonder what L. Ron Hubbard was called by his friends.
The film begins at Christmas, with Evan at age 5 (which is supposedly 25 years in the past, but the clothing and technology in the house are entirely modern – someone even got a DVD for Christmas). Evan’s entire family is murdered in the living room as pseudo-opera plays. You can always count on a mob film for pseudo-opera.
Cut to twenty years later, as Evan and best pal Cal are studying in the shockingly miniscule law library. They have a boring conversation about how justice is Evan’s only love, and then a hot chick named Elise starts looking at Evan. You know, if I saw Brian Austin Green and C. Thomas Howell at the same table, I’d stare too, but only because I’d be wondering if Corey Haim was going to join them. Elise asks Evan out on a date, and shows up at the restaurant in a see-through mesh outfit. She’s HOTT.
So, Elise and Evan prance in their 1998 fashions, although it’s supposed to be 1988. A love montage begins: sitting on a blanket together, having sex while making French toast, and more sex. This movie has enough C. Thomas Howell sex to last a lifetime. Elise and Evan snuggle in bed together and drink eggnog from champagne glasses. Mmm, mucus. Evan’s dial-a-quirk is that he drinks eggnog and listens to Christmas music year-round. I can’t get behind that at all: Christmas music annoys the crap out of me even in December. Do I really need to hear 19 versions of “Come All Ye Faithful”, two of which are performed by kittens?
Evan tells Elise that he is obsessed with Christmas because his parents were murdered, and that he was raised by his Mafia uncle. Elise responds by saying, “So, what’s Cal going to do after graduation?” Which, when you think about it, isn't a very nice thing to say when your boyfriend starts talking about his murdered parents. Also, although I can’t claim a lot of dating prowess, “Mafia uncle”, “murdered parents” and “obsessed with Christmas” would all set off alarm bells in my head. We’re also treated to an extraneous scene of a Western-theme bar owner’s hand being “tenderized” by thugs, and a recipe for chicken-fried steak. This whole movie is like a CD player set on “shuffle” – and I also get the feeling that the script was handed to the actors 3 minutes before filming so none of them could say, “What the hell is this?” They never look at each other, which implies to me there's a Teleprompter or cue cards off to one side.
Of course, Everything Falls Apart: Elise is caught going through Evan’s things, Elise turns out to be a stripper, and Evan gets beat up by her mob boss/strip bar owner boss, Carlucci. Evan recognizes Carlucci as the man that murdered his parents (although, I must mention, Carlucci hasn’t aged a bit in the last 20 years). However, he doesn’t do a damn thing about it. Elise and Evan break up.
Cut to 10 years later (although, again, fashion and technology haven’t changed a bit). Evan is now a hotshot attorney, and in the B-movie world, that means he slicks his hair back and smarms a good bit. Elise comes to Evan’s office and says that she has been accused of murdering her husband, Carlucci. The movie devolves (as if that had been possible) into a pseudo-noir whodunit with many twists and turns, all of which involve Elise’s 36D boobs. Here we go: Evan destroys three rental cars in a bizarre attempt at comic relief, Cal returns to say that Elise is trouble, Elise and Evan make the beast with two backs, Elise says that Cal is stalking her, Evan encounters a private detective who says that Elise is into S&M, and a sheriff with the fakest Texan accent ever insults Evan. All of that took an hour, thanks to loads of generous shots of Evan and Elise looking at each other, Evan driving very slowly down empty streets, aerial shots of Miami freeways (Lord knows, freeways are novel and exciting!).
The film’s climax (if we can call it that) involves a motel room. Evan meets Cal, who waves a gun at him and says that Elise ruined his life. Then why doesn’t he wave a gun at Elise, instead? Oh, whatever. Cal says that Elise was paid by Carlucci to date Evan. That must be the real reason the Mafia is in decline: mobsters are stupid. Carlucci spent 30 years of his life supervising Evan. Why not just put a bullet in Evan’s head and be done with it? I think someone needs lessons in Total Quality Management. Cal shoots himself in the head and blood spatters everywhere. Cal-Gone, take me away!
Evan turns on Elise because she's done him wrong, and Elise is convicted of murder as Evan sits in the courtroom and smarms. However, because every bad film has its twist (and every rose has its thorn, and every cowboy sings a sad, sad song), the final scene clues us in that Evan actually murdered Carlucci and framed Elise for it.
Scorecard: Intentional humor: 2 Unintentional humor: 9
Subtle, Confusing or Sledgehammer of a Plot? Confusing. So, the bar owner's hand got tenderized because he borrowed Evan's hair gel? Do the whuh how?
Damage to My Liver: Minor. Every time I'd take a drink, something stupid would happen and everything would shoot out of my nose.
After weeks of only slightly bad offerings from the WB Weekend Cinema, our local affiliate came up with two doozies in one weekend. First, For Love Alone, which is sort of a biography of Ivana Trump and mainly an excuse for Rev. Camden (Stephen Collins) to get naked with the Ivana-be Astar. However, repeated Reverend Camden quivering-lip sex scenes at 11 on a Sunday morning just wasn’t going to happen. So, instead, I will review the fine film The Laws of Deception, which aired Saturday afternoon.
The Laws of Deception is the greatest trash film ever: It supposedly takes place over about 25 years, but no one ages and fashion doesn’t change in the least. The cast includes 80’s washout C. Thomas Howell, 90210’s Brian Austin Green (who unfortunately did NOT play keyboards or dance in this film), and Amber Smith, whose IMDB listing gives her bra size as 36D and whose other credits include "Hot Redhead" in Tomcats. The “law school” scenes were blatantly filmed at a junior high school (the "law school library" is smaller than my apartment). Also, C. Thomas Howell always addresses the camera rather than the person he’s supposedly talking to. I kept expecting someone to break character and yell, “Hey! I’m over here!” Best of all, C. Thomas Howell (Evan) and Brian Austin Green (Cal) have a tight, fiercely homoerotic friendship. I counted 3 top of head kisses, twelve full hugs and 13 arms draped over shoulders. It's almost as sexy as Smallville.
Random question: what do C. Thomas Howell’s friends call him? C? Thomas? Or Howell? I also wonder what L. Ron Hubbard was called by his friends.
The film begins at Christmas, with Evan at age 5 (which is supposedly 25 years in the past, but the clothing and technology in the house are entirely modern – someone even got a DVD for Christmas). Evan’s entire family is murdered in the living room as pseudo-opera plays. You can always count on a mob film for pseudo-opera.
Cut to twenty years later, as Evan and best pal Cal are studying in the shockingly miniscule law library. They have a boring conversation about how justice is Evan’s only love, and then a hot chick named Elise starts looking at Evan. You know, if I saw Brian Austin Green and C. Thomas Howell at the same table, I’d stare too, but only because I’d be wondering if Corey Haim was going to join them. Elise asks Evan out on a date, and shows up at the restaurant in a see-through mesh outfit. She’s HOTT.
So, Elise and Evan prance in their 1998 fashions, although it’s supposed to be 1988. A love montage begins: sitting on a blanket together, having sex while making French toast, and more sex. This movie has enough C. Thomas Howell sex to last a lifetime. Elise and Evan snuggle in bed together and drink eggnog from champagne glasses. Mmm, mucus. Evan’s dial-a-quirk is that he drinks eggnog and listens to Christmas music year-round. I can’t get behind that at all: Christmas music annoys the crap out of me even in December. Do I really need to hear 19 versions of “Come All Ye Faithful”, two of which are performed by kittens?
Evan tells Elise that he is obsessed with Christmas because his parents were murdered, and that he was raised by his Mafia uncle. Elise responds by saying, “So, what’s Cal going to do after graduation?” Which, when you think about it, isn't a very nice thing to say when your boyfriend starts talking about his murdered parents. Also, although I can’t claim a lot of dating prowess, “Mafia uncle”, “murdered parents” and “obsessed with Christmas” would all set off alarm bells in my head. We’re also treated to an extraneous scene of a Western-theme bar owner’s hand being “tenderized” by thugs, and a recipe for chicken-fried steak. This whole movie is like a CD player set on “shuffle” – and I also get the feeling that the script was handed to the actors 3 minutes before filming so none of them could say, “What the hell is this?” They never look at each other, which implies to me there's a Teleprompter or cue cards off to one side.
Of course, Everything Falls Apart: Elise is caught going through Evan’s things, Elise turns out to be a stripper, and Evan gets beat up by her mob boss/strip bar owner boss, Carlucci. Evan recognizes Carlucci as the man that murdered his parents (although, I must mention, Carlucci hasn’t aged a bit in the last 20 years). However, he doesn’t do a damn thing about it. Elise and Evan break up.
Cut to 10 years later (although, again, fashion and technology haven’t changed a bit). Evan is now a hotshot attorney, and in the B-movie world, that means he slicks his hair back and smarms a good bit. Elise comes to Evan’s office and says that she has been accused of murdering her husband, Carlucci. The movie devolves (as if that had been possible) into a pseudo-noir whodunit with many twists and turns, all of which involve Elise’s 36D boobs. Here we go: Evan destroys three rental cars in a bizarre attempt at comic relief, Cal returns to say that Elise is trouble, Elise and Evan make the beast with two backs, Elise says that Cal is stalking her, Evan encounters a private detective who says that Elise is into S&M, and a sheriff with the fakest Texan accent ever insults Evan. All of that took an hour, thanks to loads of generous shots of Evan and Elise looking at each other, Evan driving very slowly down empty streets, aerial shots of Miami freeways (Lord knows, freeways are novel and exciting!).
The film’s climax (if we can call it that) involves a motel room. Evan meets Cal, who waves a gun at him and says that Elise ruined his life. Then why doesn’t he wave a gun at Elise, instead? Oh, whatever. Cal says that Elise was paid by Carlucci to date Evan. That must be the real reason the Mafia is in decline: mobsters are stupid. Carlucci spent 30 years of his life supervising Evan. Why not just put a bullet in Evan’s head and be done with it? I think someone needs lessons in Total Quality Management. Cal shoots himself in the head and blood spatters everywhere. Cal-Gone, take me away!
Evan turns on Elise because she's done him wrong, and Elise is convicted of murder as Evan sits in the courtroom and smarms. However, because every bad film has its twist (and every rose has its thorn, and every cowboy sings a sad, sad song), the final scene clues us in that Evan actually murdered Carlucci and framed Elise for it.
Scorecard: Intentional humor: 2 Unintentional humor: 9
Subtle, Confusing or Sledgehammer of a Plot? Confusing. So, the bar owner's hand got tenderized because he borrowed Evan's hair gel? Do the whuh how?
Damage to My Liver: Minor. Every time I'd take a drink, something stupid would happen and everything would shoot out of my nose.
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Fame: Beyond Thunderdome
For those of you missing my television recaps, I’ve done a wonderful thing: suffered through an hour of summer “original programming.” Unfortunately, NBC’s reality version of Fame chucks originality and plunges headlong into the bizarre.
The charming hosts are Debbie “Please take ‘In The House’ OFF my resume” Allen and Joey “I was in Rent! Please forget N’Sync” Fatone. The “celebrity experts” include producer Johnny “BritneySpearsPDiddyNameDrop” Wright, Carnie “Stomach Stapling” Wilson, and JoJo Stupidhair, a DJ I had never heard of and never want to hear from again.
Not only is this a very weird show, it’s also very cruel. All of the kids are lined up on the stage, and told one by one if they’re advancing. If you advance, you have to perform then and there, so two kids every week prepare a whole performance just to be sent home.
First performer to advance: Allyson Arena. Allyson has curly red hair, and whenever she straightens it I forget who she is entirely. She has a high, twangy, vibrato-laden voice, that’s great for Broadway but doesn’t make a damn bit of sense on this show. And I was a big Clay Aiken fan. Allyson showcases her talent by picking the worst songs possible. Last week? “Material Girl” This week? “We Are Family”, which sounds positively idiotic when you’re up on the stage by yourself. “I’ve got all my sisters with me,” my ass. Allyson wears the first fur vest Mad Max getup of the evening. The funniest part of the performance is when they show her friends…all three of them. I guarantee that if my friends had the chance to be on national TV, they’d come running. And at least one of them would show up in just underwear to guarantee more camera time (my guesses are Heath, J.B. or Mike W.). Debbie cackles and swings her boobs onto the stage (they visibly swing when she walks), Joey says it was a fantastic performance, a celebrity judge blows sunshine, and Allyson thanks God. All of them do that every time. I should really hope that God has better things to do than call in votes on a bargain-basement, low rated reality program.
The next performer to move forward is Justin Jacoby, and Joey announces that he is “going to perform an original rap.” Justin is an obnoxious teenager who can’t sing, can’t dance, and can’t even rap to a beat. His raps include original lines like, “If all dogs go to heaven, when’s my chance to bark?” What? Seriously. Out of curiousity, and due to my abiding hatred of America, I voted for Justin at the end of the show. His personal message is a rap, including an attempt to rhyme “dope” and “vote.”
Next up is Serena Henry, who settles into a chair and performs the talent-show staple “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Serena is one of those singers that has to perform vocal loop-the-loops, whether they fit the song or not. “Look at me! I’m talented! No, really!” She also shakes her chin around and chicken-flaps her elbows so America knows how talented she really is. The judges eat it all up, because they’re imbeciles.
After Serena performs, all the kids do a group performance of “America” in honor of the Fourth, with cane-dancing lifted directly from Nickelodeon’s Roundhouse. Everyone wears red-white-and-blue skimpy outfits, which I’m sure does our Founding Fathers proud. Some of the performers are less coordinated than others, so several smack into each other or hit their neighbor with a cane. After the performance, Debbie tells the audience they’ll be right back, so “Get your chicken wing.” Debbie says these things all the time, and I don’t know whether she’s trying to be chatty, or if she’s sending coded messages to the Trilateral Commission.
After the break, Alex Boyd is told he made the cut. Alex Boyd is blandly cute, over-gelled, and from McLean, Virginia: Where Real Estate Value is King. Alex wears the second Mad Max vest of the evening, which is totally wrong for performing Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke”. Alex, as a NOVA native, can’t enunciate worth a damn and even stumbles over the spoken jazz musician shout-outs. So he recovers by giving McLean a shout-out in his interview segment. He also says that his performance “is all for God.” God snorts, shuffles a bit on his cloud, and hurls down a lightning bolt. Not really, but that would have been awesome.
The next contestant to advance is single-name Moy. She’s got a blond pixie cut, tats, a gap in her teeth, and perennially high heels. Because I’m a reality ho, I know who she is straight off: I’ve seen her on both Popstars and American Idol. She’s made a career of being a reality show runner-up. Her real name is Petagay, which is the funniest name ever. Right now, in your offices, I want all of you to yell “Petagay” and see how many people stare at you or laugh. Moy sings “Let’s Stay Together”, and it isn’t good, it isn’t bad, it isn’t even interesting. The judges practically hump her leg when she’s done, however.
Harlemm Lee is up next, and he’s just awesome. Sure, he can sing, but the best part is just looking at him. He’s tiny, he’s bald, he’s 37, and his eyebrows move independently of one another. He’s not human. Harlemm sings “Greatest Love of All”, because he had to out-pageant Serena Henry. There’s lots of dramatic lighting and arm-tossing so we know he's Really Singing.
Once it’s down to the final four, the kids are split into pairs. One is told they’re advancing, the other gets an Assboot. First pair: Shannon Bex advances, Raymond Lee (who really, really couldn’t sing anyway) get the boot. Shannon is a leggy blond “virgin until marriage” (which is none of my business anyway) who wears the third Mad Max vest of the night. She sings some Christina Aguilera tune that even I haven’t heard of, flops about, and shakes what her mama gave her. I get eerie flashbacks of Britney Spears pole-dancing at the VMAs. Afterwards, Shannon thanks God, then thanks the troops. Meanwhile, all the other contestants smack themselves on the forehead and say, “Dammit! Why was I thanking God when I could have thanked the troops? Bitch!”
The next pair: Brandon O’Neal, a skinny cornrowed teenager, advances. Jamisen Tiangko, who erroneously sexed up every song from “Black Cat” to “God Bless the Child,” gets the boot. Brandon performs “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone,” and it’s good, and I really don’t care because I tune in for the awful and the surreal.
Fortunately, Debbie Allen serves up the surreal by introducing Tyse something-or-other, the “spoiler” contestant. Tyse was chosen by NBC to “shake up” the show, as in “maybe NOW someone besides that sarcastic bitch in DC will watch.” Tyse really dishes up the surreal. He runs down the line of contestants like he’s on The Price is Right, and bounces up and down between Joey and Debbie. He yells something about a shout-out to Brooklyn, twitches uncontrollably, sweats, yells about Brooklyn again, says he’s ready to compete, and sweats again. The other contestants glare at him in mute horror. Debbie reminds all of us to vote, then tells us that Tyse will perform next week. I can’t wait.
For those of you missing my television recaps, I’ve done a wonderful thing: suffered through an hour of summer “original programming.” Unfortunately, NBC’s reality version of Fame chucks originality and plunges headlong into the bizarre.
The charming hosts are Debbie “Please take ‘In The House’ OFF my resume” Allen and Joey “I was in Rent! Please forget N’Sync” Fatone. The “celebrity experts” include producer Johnny “BritneySpearsPDiddyNameDrop” Wright, Carnie “Stomach Stapling” Wilson, and JoJo Stupidhair, a DJ I had never heard of and never want to hear from again.
Not only is this a very weird show, it’s also very cruel. All of the kids are lined up on the stage, and told one by one if they’re advancing. If you advance, you have to perform then and there, so two kids every week prepare a whole performance just to be sent home.
First performer to advance: Allyson Arena. Allyson has curly red hair, and whenever she straightens it I forget who she is entirely. She has a high, twangy, vibrato-laden voice, that’s great for Broadway but doesn’t make a damn bit of sense on this show. And I was a big Clay Aiken fan. Allyson showcases her talent by picking the worst songs possible. Last week? “Material Girl” This week? “We Are Family”, which sounds positively idiotic when you’re up on the stage by yourself. “I’ve got all my sisters with me,” my ass. Allyson wears the first fur vest Mad Max getup of the evening. The funniest part of the performance is when they show her friends…all three of them. I guarantee that if my friends had the chance to be on national TV, they’d come running. And at least one of them would show up in just underwear to guarantee more camera time (my guesses are Heath, J.B. or Mike W.). Debbie cackles and swings her boobs onto the stage (they visibly swing when she walks), Joey says it was a fantastic performance, a celebrity judge blows sunshine, and Allyson thanks God. All of them do that every time. I should really hope that God has better things to do than call in votes on a bargain-basement, low rated reality program.
The next performer to move forward is Justin Jacoby, and Joey announces that he is “going to perform an original rap.” Justin is an obnoxious teenager who can’t sing, can’t dance, and can’t even rap to a beat. His raps include original lines like, “If all dogs go to heaven, when’s my chance to bark?” What? Seriously. Out of curiousity, and due to my abiding hatred of America, I voted for Justin at the end of the show. His personal message is a rap, including an attempt to rhyme “dope” and “vote.”
Next up is Serena Henry, who settles into a chair and performs the talent-show staple “Wind Beneath My Wings.” Serena is one of those singers that has to perform vocal loop-the-loops, whether they fit the song or not. “Look at me! I’m talented! No, really!” She also shakes her chin around and chicken-flaps her elbows so America knows how talented she really is. The judges eat it all up, because they’re imbeciles.
After Serena performs, all the kids do a group performance of “America” in honor of the Fourth, with cane-dancing lifted directly from Nickelodeon’s Roundhouse. Everyone wears red-white-and-blue skimpy outfits, which I’m sure does our Founding Fathers proud. Some of the performers are less coordinated than others, so several smack into each other or hit their neighbor with a cane. After the performance, Debbie tells the audience they’ll be right back, so “Get your chicken wing.” Debbie says these things all the time, and I don’t know whether she’s trying to be chatty, or if she’s sending coded messages to the Trilateral Commission.
After the break, Alex Boyd is told he made the cut. Alex Boyd is blandly cute, over-gelled, and from McLean, Virginia: Where Real Estate Value is King. Alex wears the second Mad Max vest of the evening, which is totally wrong for performing Stevie Wonder’s “Sir Duke”. Alex, as a NOVA native, can’t enunciate worth a damn and even stumbles over the spoken jazz musician shout-outs. So he recovers by giving McLean a shout-out in his interview segment. He also says that his performance “is all for God.” God snorts, shuffles a bit on his cloud, and hurls down a lightning bolt. Not really, but that would have been awesome.
The next contestant to advance is single-name Moy. She’s got a blond pixie cut, tats, a gap in her teeth, and perennially high heels. Because I’m a reality ho, I know who she is straight off: I’ve seen her on both Popstars and American Idol. She’s made a career of being a reality show runner-up. Her real name is Petagay, which is the funniest name ever. Right now, in your offices, I want all of you to yell “Petagay” and see how many people stare at you or laugh. Moy sings “Let’s Stay Together”, and it isn’t good, it isn’t bad, it isn’t even interesting. The judges practically hump her leg when she’s done, however.
Harlemm Lee is up next, and he’s just awesome. Sure, he can sing, but the best part is just looking at him. He’s tiny, he’s bald, he’s 37, and his eyebrows move independently of one another. He’s not human. Harlemm sings “Greatest Love of All”, because he had to out-pageant Serena Henry. There’s lots of dramatic lighting and arm-tossing so we know he's Really Singing.
Once it’s down to the final four, the kids are split into pairs. One is told they’re advancing, the other gets an Assboot. First pair: Shannon Bex advances, Raymond Lee (who really, really couldn’t sing anyway) get the boot. Shannon is a leggy blond “virgin until marriage” (which is none of my business anyway) who wears the third Mad Max vest of the night. She sings some Christina Aguilera tune that even I haven’t heard of, flops about, and shakes what her mama gave her. I get eerie flashbacks of Britney Spears pole-dancing at the VMAs. Afterwards, Shannon thanks God, then thanks the troops. Meanwhile, all the other contestants smack themselves on the forehead and say, “Dammit! Why was I thanking God when I could have thanked the troops? Bitch!”
The next pair: Brandon O’Neal, a skinny cornrowed teenager, advances. Jamisen Tiangko, who erroneously sexed up every song from “Black Cat” to “God Bless the Child,” gets the boot. Brandon performs “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone,” and it’s good, and I really don’t care because I tune in for the awful and the surreal.
Fortunately, Debbie Allen serves up the surreal by introducing Tyse something-or-other, the “spoiler” contestant. Tyse was chosen by NBC to “shake up” the show, as in “maybe NOW someone besides that sarcastic bitch in DC will watch.” Tyse really dishes up the surreal. He runs down the line of contestants like he’s on The Price is Right, and bounces up and down between Joey and Debbie. He yells something about a shout-out to Brooklyn, twitches uncontrollably, sweats, yells about Brooklyn again, says he’s ready to compete, and sweats again. The other contestants glare at him in mute horror. Debbie reminds all of us to vote, then tells us that Tyse will perform next week. I can’t wait.
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