Phenomenonally Lame Magic Show

Phenomenon airs its second episode tonight, likely reconfirming what its premiere proved:

1. Uri Geller looks ridiculous when he stares into the camera.

2. Criss Angel has the same haircut as every sorta hip soccer mom in Iowa named Sheila.

3. Every remotely interesting magician already has a gig in Vegas.

Last week, one contestant guessed a number out of the phone book while the other put his hand in a bear trap. Woo.

First Roy is attacked by one of his own beloved tigers. Then Copperfield is outed as straight when he is charged with rape. Now this show.

Has Criss Angel heralded the death of magic?

Happy Halloween

Love Should Not Skin You

When I saw the opportunity to receive five love letters from established authors, I took it thinking, wow, I'm really gonna start my days feeling good. Feeling connected. Feeling loved.

It's now 0 for 3, folks. And today's letter, while thankfully not as boring or pretentious as the last two, is so precious and inauthentic that it feels more like April Fools than Halloween.

Today's writer, Mandy Sayer, was named one of Australia’s Best Young Novelists in 1977. No recent announcements have been made about whether she is one of the best old writers.

Here's your daily dose of love, with a warning. It's a bummer:

Please please come soon miss starling. Where waiting for you. Its the grey house with the broke down truck out the front. The only one on ghost gum road. Come before dark before dad gets home he will get mad if he sees you hear. My mother now looks like a bad skinned rabbit and she is starting stink worst than before in the basement but please dont tell any one or else Im in big trouble.

Christ. See how it's so believable because of the spelling mistakes and poor grammar. Oh, and the totally fucking depressing and gruesome storyline?

If I was single, these letters would compel celibacy.

Whatch You Talkin' About, Willis?

It's with great regret I will be posting my weekly ANTM recap later than usual this week.

I have a Raptors game, the So You Think You Can Dance Live Tour, an inlaw visit, a one-year wedding anniversary and a bridal brunch to attend in the next five days. In other words, I seem to momentarily have found myself with a, uh, life.

We're Thinking Femme Fatale Meets Snoop Dog

The Canadian twin designers Dan and Dean Caten, who are behind the label Dsquared, have signed up to be the exclusive stylists for the cycle 10 promo campaign for America's Next Top Model.

Dean describes their chosen look as "Marlene Dietrich goes gangster gone wild; Bonnie, Bonnie, no Clyde."

Sounds appropriately awesome and insane.

Another Love Letter for the Recycling Bin

Today's love letter from The Times was written by Neil Gaiman. He's a British writer who according to his website, is listed in the Dictionary of Literary Biography as one of the "top ten living post-modern writers."

Since he writes comics, I imagined his love letter would be blood-and-guts chiaroscuro proclamations of self-flagellation and thwarted lust. I was looking forward to being implicated in other-worldly temptations or, at the very least, an interesting sentence or two.

But, like Atwood's letter of love yesterday, his piece appeared to have been written on the back of a semi-sogged napkin, between drink one and two (so not even humorous) while a greedy publisher sat across the table, rubbing her palms together and cackling at the absurd ease with which accomplished writers can get their 'work' published.

Here's a sample:

I love you, and it is my love for you that drives me to know all about you. The more I know, the closer I am to you. You were to come to my country with a young man, but he broke your heart, and still you came here to spite him, and still you smiled. I close my eyes and I can see you smiling. I close my eyes and I see you striding across the town square in a clatter of pigeons. The women of this country do not stride. They move diffidently, unless they are dancers. And when you sleep your eyelashes flutter. The way your cheek touches the pillow. The way you dream.

This is one of the passages where there is some attempt at poetry. But seriously? A "clatter of pigeons?" A clutter, perhaps. In fact, a clutter would reveal the confusion, the alarm, the self consumed. But clatter is a noise, and not one that any pigeon I've met has been capable of making unless he was strutting around with a garbage can lid and a baseball bat.

Three more love letters to go. And if it's not enough, you can always buy the book, Letter Word: New Love Letters, edited by Joshua Knelman and Rosalind Porter, published by Chatto & Windus, which is coming out next month.

White Anthems

When I was younger, I always fell for music boys because even if they were apolitical bad spellers with questionable senses of humour, when they spoke about music they spoke passionately. And they sounded smart. And a smart boy who can play is hot.

Or was hot. Get enough hand stamps, hangovers and broken hearts, and you realize band boys really are a fantasy better left unrealized. Instead, my admiration for smart music talk parlayed into an appreciation for the music critic.

What's weird is that I don't even know that much about music. In high school, I blasted Supertramp from the car speakers and thought that was classic rock. But when a guy writes or talks about music with authority, my reflexive thought is, Wow, you're cool.

So, it was with delight I learned of Sasha Frere-Jones' recent essay in The New Yorker and the ensuing debate. Seems Frere-Jones laments the whiteness of indie music and believes Arcade Fire is one of the whitest of the bunch.

Carl Wilson shot back against the essay, adding that class plays more of a dividing role in contemporary indie than race.

And now Win Butler of Arcade Fire has shot back, with an MP3 of snippets of their music that he says, "steal quite blatantly from black people’s music from all over the globe."

I may not know half the musical references dropped in the essays, but following the debate makes me feel like I've regained my backstage access.

Love Letter High on Pretense, Low on Love

The Times Online is currently offering to send subscribers a love letter written by a different author each day this week.

Since I love being loved, I was looking forward to receiving my first lettres d'amour. And this morning there it was, sitting in my inbox as neat and perfect as a little gold two-pack of truffles. And from Margaret Atwood, nonetheless!

Unfortunately, the 'roses are red' variety of love poem has more spirit, desire and promise in its lines than the prosaic roll-of-eyes offered by Atwood.

Here's a sample of the 'love':

You can usually spot me at the Bar Mercurio, an establishment I've singled out in tribute to my patron god, Mercury, alias Hermes. He's the ruler of communication and charm - you can see why I'd want those attributes - and also of trickery and lies, which can come in handy as well. My other patron is Aphrodite, goddess of Looove. That can be sticky, as the two of them don't get on very well. For Hermes, a roll in the hay is a roll in the hay, after which he's on his way with no tears shed. If he has to do a cunning imitation of being lost in love, he'll do it, but that's all it will be - a cunning imitation. Description, for him, is an end in itself: not for nothing has he been called the Dancing King of the Adjective.

It's like a textual antidote to Prozac.

The Hills Have Spies

Over the last few weeks I have debated the merits of posting on The Hills which, for those of you who read books instead of magazines, is a show on MTV that is basically saving the channel from total extinction.

I decided against writing about The Hills, mainly because it would necessitate watching it every week and that's sort of like committing to regular binge-drinking. Sure, you just might happen to drink 10 vodka sodas every Friday night, but if you actually planned it, well, that would make you an alcoholic.

Caveat aside, I AM doing a Hills posting today because I accidentally PVR'ed this week's episode (lie). In a nutshell: a bunch of pretty girls and boys in LA get followed by cameras that supposedly catch them in random moments living their real lives. This week, Gavin (a cute model) asks Lauren (the lead) out on a date and her friend-with-benefits Brody gets jealous.

See? Just writing that summary makes me feel dirty. Anyway, Gavin recently interviewed with an old chum about his experiences being on the show. And while it is not at all surprising to discover that all the scenes and storylines are set up by the producers, Gavin's interview reminded me why I hate Cultural Studies graduate students.

This quote appeared an article in the Globe and Mail last month:

"What I enjoy most about The Hills is seeing things represented on television that I have never before seen represented on television," writes Justin Wolfe, a recent English graduate from Florida State University, who keeps a blog about the show. "... I mean in the micro sense: the small gestures and body movements, the casual poses, the verbal tics, word repetitions and vocal inflections; all the things that colour the fabric of everyday existence. The Hills , by foregrounding what is unnoticed, defamiliarizes it. It makes what's completely normal feel strange."

If, as according to John Erksine, we have a moral obligation to be intelligent, do we not also have an obligation not to waste that intelligence on crap like The Hills? I mean, I am not opposed to people watching it, or gossiping about it, but when you apply theoretical language to an analysis of it, you are using your powers for evil instead of good.

You just know there are dozens of masters theses being scribed at this very moment, describing The Hills po-mo decentering of popular domestic representations. Ugh.

Give Me Curves With a Side of Smarts

Inherited a big ass from your mom?

Then chances are you can thank her for the big brain that came with it!

Turns out hour-glass-figured moms conceive smarter babies. Which basically guarantees my lineage into Mensa for the next 500 years.

Turns Out Jin-Soo Speaks Johnny Walker

Those of you who know me may be surprised to learn I am a huge fan of Lost. Rather, a huge fan of Season 3 of Lost.

And when Lost returns in February, there will be a noticeable improvement to my disposition, skyrocketing me up the scale from dark-cloud cynic to mildly cantankerous.

In the meantime, I will settle for random bits of Lost gossip. Such as another cast member being charged with DUI.

And here I was worried about what The Others were up to.

What About Heather?: The ANTM Epilogue

Okay, so I didn't really touch on Heather in last night's episode because there wasn't much to touch on.

Until I came across this.

If you take a look at the above link, you will discover the true ugly potential of our girl Heather after a failed battle with the colour orange. Ouch.

Mary J. you better stick to singing, girl.

Oh No She Didn't!

This week my theory of the-first-girl-who-speaks-on-camera-is-the-girl-going-home is put to the test. Ebony is shown first, complaining about the judges' criticism of her smile (I guess life-long gum insecurities don't just up and walk away). So I'm like, Ebony is going home.

But then we have a long shot of Ambreal crying to her daddy on the phone, being all like, pray for me, daddy and my ANTM senses start to tingle and I think, when they pull the pray card, girl for sure's going home.

Speaking of tingles, the doorbell announces the arrival of Tyson Beckford, all squinty-eyed and tatted up. Jennah's face when she answers the door is awesome. In fact, the breathless giggle-fest that ensues with all the girls is so contagious I found myself blushing.

Tyson asks the girls to be sexy and sell an object from the kitchen. (As if sex would sell a product. Duh.) So Ebony poses and asks the audience of girls to "buy this water heater-upper" which I guess is American for kettle.

Heather is told to make her wine glass pitch sexier, so she sidles up to Tyson and swoons, "This glass is fingerprint proof." Because nothing is hotter than thwarting those CSI dudes.

The nine girls are then whisked off to a studio where they are divided into three teams and asked to come up with a PSA for a charity whose current celebrity campaign is "I Am African." I love it. The first girl to run with the tag line is Sarah, who about three times proclaims proudly "I am African" to her teammates Ebony and Saleisha. I wish I had the balls to announce my African-ness to sisters.

The first team of Bianca, Chantal and Lisa can't remember their lines and Bianca's red make-up makes her look like a cannibal post-dinner. Heather, Jennah and Ambreal have placards that look like they belong to a homeless dude on the interstate. Team three, with Sarah, rocks its ad ("I AM African.") but misrepresent the purpose of the charity so team two wins and Heather--surprise--gets to be in a shoot art directed by Mary J. Blige (who was totally boring on camera, 'nuff said about that.)

Back at the house, the girls bake chicken fingers and pizza and cower together in the closet which is apparently the only warm room in the house. Having watched Law & Order: SVU the night before, I know that excessive air conditioning is used as a form of 'torture-lite' against suspected terrorists. Between that and the measly chicken finger each girl is allotted for dinner, I am starting to think the ANTM is a Guantanamo Bay for skinny chicks.

Not surprisingly, Ebony announces she wants to go home but no one seems to take her seriously. Even though they are nine adult women cowering in a closet sharing a total of 500 calories between them.

The next morning, the girls arrive at their shoot with Jay Manuel who lets them know they will each be representing a different recyclable material. The sets look pretty lame, pop cans strung up, or paper, or oil cans, but most of the girls, with the exception of Ambreal and Ebony (ahem) do fairly well.

Commercial break. The only thing that caught my attention this week is that ad for the new birth control pill that limits your period to no more than 3 days. The girl in the commercial goes, "What? You mean I could have gone to the beach?" Which still has me scratching my head. Why would having her period have prevented her from going to the beach? I mean, if she's progressive enough to take control of her fertility than I assume she doesn't presently squat over a dirt hole for 6 days to bleed. Thoughts?

Anyway, back at the house the girls go "Tyra Mail. Woo!" so half-heartedly that I can't help but recall Victoria's confessions last week that the girls are forced by the producers to squeal whenever Tyra is mentioned. It is time for the judging panel.

First we get a wickedly weird photo of Tyra with a water bottle (?) that says "Just Finish It." No idea.

But who cares? Nigel is looking tanned and extra-hot (even hotter than Tyson sitting next to him) and Miss J. is still fro-ing out. Tyra is dressed like she drove to the set in a Delorean and someone needs to brush Twiggy's hair for her. Tyra welcomes the girls to the "crazy judging room" but nothing crazy (at least from the judges) goes down.

Saleisha's photo with rubber looks totally hot, Jennah takes an awesome photo as always (said it before, she is going to take Heather down in the final two), Ambreal looks dead and Ebony has what is known in the industry as a "lip snarl."

Tyra tells the girls that after deliberation one of them will go "back" to the recycling bin. Which doesn't bode well for Tyra's understanding of where these girls came from.


The last two girls standing are, drum roll, Ebony and Ambreal. I am all like, Ebony is going to go, she was the first on camera. But then Tyra says her name and pulls her photo and immediately Ebony starts crying and says, "I don't want to be here."

Ewwww, girl. Tyra looks pissed! Seriously, if you pause on Tyra's expression you will see a portrait of pure, undistilled rage. In fact, does anyone know if Ebony is still actually alive? After quickly pulling herself together, Tyra spits out that there is nothing less attractive than a quitter. I swear this is a dig at Ebony's insecurities about her appearance and a last ditch attempt to completely crush her self-esteem. No wonder Ebony says she wants out of modelling.

Strangely, Tyra allows Ambreal, who she was just about to kick off, to stay, telling her it was Meant To Be, which is what you say to someone when you have nothing intelligent, insightful or original to say. Ugh.

Packing up at the house, Ebony confessed she just wants to go home and be happy again. "I don't want to feel like this anymore." There is something so honest and raw in her admission that my heart swells for her. Run, Ebony, run! We'll miss your skinny ass but you're right--a torture-free existence is more important than a shot at the cover of Seventeen Magazine.

Next week: Full-body reotards.

Old, Bold and Ready to Roll

Doris Lessing wins the Nobel Prize for Literature and reveals to the world why it is so great to be an old lady:
You can say whatever you want.

See, when you're younger, you're still worried about getting laid, staying employed and being admired by strangers. But when you're old, it's like, WTF. What do I care if my grandkids think I'm boring or salespeople hear me fart?

Age equals freedom. Maybe not from diapers or bed restraints, but at least from insecurity.

So let us all hail 88-year-old Doris Lessing, who has sent the world into a tailspin by calling Americans "naive" and then, yikes, taking on 9/11.

So much for the peace in the prize.

Gossip Girl + ANTM Winner = Fav Episode

So, I was going to skip Gossip Girl last night but then I remembered my lovah is gone for the week and the only comforts I have are leftover biryani and TV.

Never have I been so grateful for being a loser. This week's episode of Gossip Girl had it all: a masquerade ball, a hookah, two inappropriate kisses, and--wait for it--Caridee English, cycle 7 America's Next Top Model winner!

Now, Caridee is on the show for all of two seconds but who cares? Caridee is the only ANTM winner you could ever imagine being your BFF, even is she would be that BFF who is so hot no guy would ever notice you when the two of you go out together.

As for Gossip Girl, oh, there's scandal. Nate kisses Serena, but it's actually Jenny, who sneaks into the ball to avenge both Blair and Chuck. Serena's mother, Lily smooches a horrifically-suited Rufus. There's cocaine slipping out of books, parents doing naughty deeds, and at the end? Perogies!

New Reality Show Pronounces Death of Music

Okay, so this a photo of one of the 12 greatest unsigned bands living in America.

Watching Fox's Next Great American Band, I actually teared up.

Not because I was laughing (I was alone and working my way through a 40-ouncer of vodka hangover. Laughter was not physically possible.) but because the show was so bad it upset me.

I am not a music snob (see my Maroon 5 posting for confirmation). But, seriously.

This is as good as it gets? Sheila E., a dude from the Googoo Dolls, some other dude named Dicko (guess what his role as a judge is?) and kids with Hanson haircuts?

Ugh. Just writing about this god-awful show has brought back my hangover.
I hate you Fox.

With Such Bad Grooming, Who Would Have Thunk?

Dumbledore is gay.

Around the world, activists, homophobes and adults who care way too much about Harry Potter debate the merits of his man-loving, all the while forgetting he is not real.

Osmond Faints, America Confirmed as Evil

Dancing With The Stars is currently the top-rated show on American television.

I could not

understand this until last night's spectacle. Yes, Marie Osmond fainted on live television as a live television audience laughed.

Apparently it is shadenfreude that keeps this show on top. And here I thought it was the sparkly costumes and d-list celebs.

Heroes Takes on Daddy Dearest

Just when I was starting to give up on Heroes, I come home after cooking class last night (my chicken biryani was kick-ass, thanks for asking, props to Tim) and press 'play' on the PVR and find myself 30 minutes later gripping the edge of the sofa.

Highlight: No cheerleader. I didn't realize how little I cared about Claire until now. Without the world's salvation hinging on her survival, she does little to propel the action.

The biggest thrill of the night was meeting the Nightmare Man, Matt Parker's father. One of the previous generation of heroes (who are currently getting knocked off) he's a greasy deadbeat dad who can trap you in your worst nightmare.

Heroes is best when it concerns itself less with relationships and more with the dark side. If it can move on from teenaged angst or unrequited feudal Japanese love and throw itself back into the whole good versus evil battle royale, it might actually keep me watching.

Jeanette Winterson: Books Make Bad TV

Jeanette Winterson is an amazing writer. I love her fierce imagination, her relentless intelligence, her insane childhood which makes my own appear mundane.

But in her recent Times piece, she lamely points out that book shows currently make for boring TV.

That's sort of like grandly and earnestly announcing straight men like boobs.

Of course, Winterson uses graduate department dribble to fill out the piece, noting:

When we hear about books on television we are confronted by the strange disjuncture between what is being discussed and the setting and body language of those doing the discussing. Turn down the sound on a books TV programme and it could be about anything. I believe that such anodyne “anythingness” subliminally undermines the content of what is being said. Books are not boring, and book programmes are not boring, but they look very boring indeed, and I think this might be the problem.

This is exactly why by my last graduate course I was hissing the word "fuck" under my breath and glaring at anyone who noticed. If theoretical discourse makes someone as cool as Winterson sound like a dick, no one stands a chance.

Flesh-Eating Disease High-Fives Linebacker in Locker Room

So not only does the kid get called "zit face" at school, but then it turns out he might die.

This superbug is so cruel.

My New Favourite Model Cast-Off

This is so great. ANTM smarty-pants Victoria did an interview in which she reveals a scuffle with Tyra's body guards and Guantanamo Bay-style sleep deprivation tactics initiated by the show's producers to drive the models crazy.

All hail Victoria!

Ramsay: The Other White Meat

I can't believe I couldn't find a pic of Gordon Ramsay topless for this week's posting. The man makes a point of showing off his unshaped, blond-haired chest every episode, urgently addressing the camera sotto voce, as if he is so pressed for time he's willing to expose his nipples to air if that's what it takes to save another American restaurant.

But hey, the skin excites me. And it sort of worked for last nights' theme when we got to see the nips revealed in Tuckahoe, NY, home of the Olde Stone Mill. Like all establishments that put an unnecessary 'e' on its name, this one is only managing to attract senior citizens and lost tourists.

The owner Dean and the chef Mike look like the sibling love children of Billy Joel and Danny Bonaduce. Mike seems like a pretty good chef who cooks crappy food. Dean seems like maybe (maybe) he might have a slight anger management issue. But I probably would too if I'd sunk myself a half million dollars in debt for a restaurant in a place called Tuckahoe.

The hostess is yet again a bottle blond sextegenerian who should be swilling gin on a shuffleboard in Florida instead of waiting tables every day (would someone please give Americans health care so their grandmothers can retire for god's sake?). She says Mike "tries to presentate the food real well" which confirms it's been about 6 decades since the woman was in a schoolhouse. That said, you can tell she was a real looker.

Ramsay determines the Stone Mill's salvation lies in steak, which, seriously, is like where everyone's salvation lies. I mean, after a baseball steak and four Keg-sized glasses of house wine, who hasn't seen a little flash of heaven?

Dean, habituated in his raging ways, explodes at Gordon's suggestion, then a man-talk park-walk with Ramsay, and presto, the Olde Stone Mill is transformed and the meat-munching mayor is happy.

Sometimes It Pays to Leave the House Without Underwear On

So, if you will recall my posting last week, I pointed out that the first girl to get attention in an episode is the girl who's going home. Well, this week Janet is the lucky girl to get all the camera time up front, as she lectures the others on keeping a clean home.

Meanwhile, Asperger's Heather lounges on the back deck, explaining to her listeners exactly what is wrong with every girl in the house. Now, something has definitely changed about Heather. She seems...cattier. Am I discriminating against a disabled person for noticing Heather doesn't seem awkward-good so much as awkward-evil?

Just then Heather is interrupted when we learn that Howard University will accept anyone into its musical theatre program when Ambreal serenades the patio.

Tyra Mail! "Spring forward, fall back." No, it's not time to turn the clocks, it's time for Benny Ninja, posing expert and manorexic, to meet the girls at the gym for some precarious bouncing on a long skinny trampoline.

After limbs flail and knee cartilage snaps, it's back to the house for the season's requisite run-around-the-house-naked scene. There's so much ass blurring I can't even tell who the two nudie sprinters are, but hey! They're girls! They're naked! Weeee!

With the naked 'behind' us (hehe) we return to Benny Ninja who definitely does not have enough body fat to keep himself alive for longer than 5 minutes in the Ice-o-Plex. Here the girls find out they are going to be lifted in the air by a professional ice skater. Ha! This immediately reminds me of forcing the girls to wear high heels on a runway in a pool and I cannot believe Tyra does not show up for some serious sadistic voyeurism. Instead, Danielle from Cycle 6 arrives (the original bad accent winner who paved the way for Jaslene. Shout out, Atlanta!) along with Ann Shoket, the editor of Seventeen Magazine.

Okay, what's up with Ann? She's dressed like a homeless pimp, in an ill-fitted, no-fibre-crap-coloured leather jacket with a disco collar sharp enough to use as a shank when she's locked up for macking out hos. And the necklace? Seriously.

Turns out the girls aren't flipped around Blades of Glory style as I was hoping, but sort of lifted, except for Heather, whose body has a 'meltdown' on the ice (hehe) and so she just sort of glides with her knee up. Lisa wins, the girls all roll their eyes and Lisa is all like, wha? You girls aren't happy for me? But she grabs some girls and heads to a shoot for an advertorial for Akademiks, an apparently really classy fashion line for girls who like to spell things with k's.

At the house, Bianca disses Lisa on her return, Sarah (remember her? She's the plus-sized model who keeps losing weight so she really is just a size 6 model?) continues her bitchy streak and then it's a commercial break.

Yay, it's this week's Cover Girl fake commercial with Jaslene, who loves her "lik-wit eye line-ah." Me too!

Back in the house, Tyra Mail! "When you're on top, never look down." Who could have imagined this clue would lead us straight into the BEST quote of the season?

The girls are whisked to the rooftop of the Union Hotel, where Jay Alexander lets them know they are going to be..."SUPER-DUPER HIGH FASHION GARGOYLES!"

Pause.

Mass eruptions of laughter. Not from the girls (who all nod like that sequence of words makes total sense) but in my apartment and in apartments all over North America where we are not so calorically deprived that dressing like "high fashion" gargoyles makes sense. I think they must have waited for Victoria to leave to do this shoot.

Turns out high fashion gargoyles look alot like Elvira but with a wardrobe that's Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome meets Matrix. Janet gets all worked up about her white panties showing, which I sort of love, because I just assumed all American women under the age of 25 had forsaken underwear, especially the kind that moms give out at Christmas. Ebony rocks her shoot, looking like a Whitney Houston dominatrix, but I kept wondering, what about this makes these girls gargoyles? They're standing on a table on the roof of a new hotel in sunny L.A. Shouldn't they be gripping the side of an old building, say, the New York Public Library, while Sigourney Weaver gets all possessed by ghosts inside?

Anyway, at the judging panel we get another nasty Tyra photo (what up?) proving why we don't use actual models as gargoyles on our public buildings. Nigel and Tyra are looking sexy in conservative duds, Twiggy looks harried and Miss J. is fro-diculous. Oh and Benny Ninja is back, again, acting like people still actually give a shit about voguing. Dude, even Madonna's lost your number, okay?

The most enlightening moment of the panel comes when we finally learn why Ebony chews her cheeks and puckers her lips when supposedly smiling: it turns out she thinks she has big gums! As soon as she smiles we see she's just a crazy insecure girl with normal gums and she immediately becomes ten times prettier. Yay! Ebony smiles!

Janet is predictably attacked for wanting to hide her underwear from the camera on the rooftop. Of course it is only now that she learns they could have photoshopped the undies out (although they didn't) and Janet looks suitably crestfallen.

Lisa has finally straightened her curls, Jenah looks like trailer trash with a thyroid problem (the kind that makes your eyes bulge) but as usual, she takes an amazing picture. I announce it now--Jenah is going to win this competition.

Heather continues acting annoying. Her voice is high and saccharine as she chirps, "Hi guys!" to the judges and then "Thank you!" after their comments. Maybe she has been studying the other girls and this is her alien attempt at emulation, but regardless. It totally creeps me out.

After we see the girls' shots, Tyra notes there is "one gar-girl who is going to be sent home."

Guess who? Bye, Janet. Tyra consoles her with the parting words, "I hope you continue to try to model." Uh, yeah. Good luck with that trying. Let me know how trying works out for you, Janet baby. Maybe I will try to go for a run tonight, or like, try not to and instead try to watch 5 consecutive hours of television without getting blurry vision.

Next week: A boy visits the house. Ahhghghghghgh!

Born to be First

For those of you who rank first in your family's pecking order, good news!

You's the smartest!

For those of you who have one or more older
sibling(s), get over it.

Seriously.

You got way cooler gifts at Christmas, which totally makes up for the fact that you have a lower IQ and mom and pops never took pictures of you because by then the novelty of children had totally worn off.

Oh, The Glory of The Last Page!

For the last few weeks my lovah has come to bed, crawled under the covers, turned to me and said, "You're still reading that book?" And I have answered, with a roll of my eyes, "Yes. It goes on forever. The type is small. Have you seen how large these pages are?"

The endless tome we've been chatting about is Oh, The Glory of It All, by Sean Wilsey. Having finally finished it thanks to being bed-ridden the last three days, I feel a mixture of relief (thank god it's done), regret (why did I insist on reading it all), admiration (wow, Wilsey wrote a story so compelling it actually demanded a complete reading) and uncertainty (was this a compelling story?)

I bought the book because a recent New York Times book review made glowing reference to its non-stop humour and poignancy. Also, it was on sale at Indigo Books for $5.99.

At 496 pages and weighing in at over 1.6 lbs, Oh, The Glory of It All is the memoir of Dave Eggers / David Foster Wallace-contemporary Sean Wilsey. Wilsey's father, Al Wilsey, is a butter magnate millionaire. His mother, Pat Montaudon, is a larger-than-life narcissist who, after her husband leaves her for her best friend Deidre, asks her nine year old son to join her in a suicide pact.

After choosing life over death, Pat goes on a quest for the Nobel Peace Prize, leaving behind the society pages of San Franciso for dinners with Gorbachev and Indirah Ghandi. She uses children and peace messages as her props, leaving behind an increasingly troubled pre-teen Sean. Eventually Sean is sent by his father and evil-stepmother to various new-age behaviour modifying private schools where he learns to cry openly and turn away from his skateboarding, scooter-thieving ways. Of course, it takes about 400 pages for us to reach Sean's 20s.

The actual details of Sean's rebellions are typical of spoiled teenaged boys. The only significant difference is that most boys don't have fathers who fly their own helicopters or ship their misbehaving sons to an elite school in Italy.

And I think this is where Wilsey's memoir fails. While he is acutely aware of all the injustices done to him by his parents, he is seemingly oblivious to the obscene privilege he is born in to. Yes, he is denied access to most of the windfall thanks to his wicked stepmother, but in Wilsey's long-winded passages detailing his days away at school (many of those passages painstakingly dedicated to an ongoing, un-diagnosed case of crabs) he overlooks the most interesting and engaging elements of his upbringing--his over-the-top parental units.

In his descriptions of his parents and stepmother, Wilsey often resorts to quoting other sources (such as Home and Garden Magazine or the society pages of the San Francisco papers) as if by standing back he can wipe his hands clean of any accusations of exaggeration. This is pretty much the same transparent and quickly tired approach teenagers take when they are trying to defend their actions ("Dr. Phil said it's important for adolescents to earn their independence so I had to steal the car to get to the party.") It also halts the story's action and withdraws from the three-dimensional portraits of these people that Wilsey only occasionally allows himself.

Like this posting, Oh, The Glory of It All is in serious need of an editor. That said, I am sure we will see the movie adaptation any day now, with Annette Benning as the crazy mother, and Shia LaBeouf as Sean Wilsey, misbegotten rich kid turned literary darling. Until then, I'd recommend you read Augusten Burroughs' Running With Scissors,a memoir of a crazy childhood that did have a good editor.

Dirty Sexy on the Money

I am basically King Midas in reverse when it comes to a new TV show: if I like it, it will die.

Remember Invasion? Of course you don't. I was the only one who insisted on watching the Shaun Cassidy-penned drama every week, until it's insanely intense season finale where the very future of humanity was on the brink of extinction and then--

Nothing. The show disappeared. Cancelled. Now in my mind we are all only one episode away from total alien anihilation (and I wonder why I have problems sleeping).

So, it's with a heavy heart that I proclaim my love for the increasingly unloved Dirty Sexy Money. There are some amazing things working for this show. Donald Sutherland's rheumy blue eyes, for starters. Peter Krause's awesomely rectangular face. More Six Feet Under talent in the way of the show's creator and executive producer, Craig Wright.

There is also a Baldwin brother, a transgendered love interest, a mystery sub-plot and lots of high-falutin' New York settings that make me yearn for the upper East side. What else do you want, people? Sure, it's slightly smutty but isn't that the point of non-publicly funded television?

The show has lost nearly 2 million viewers since its premiere and so I am rallying the troops. At the very least, set your PVR this Wednesday at 10 so you can tell me why I am wrong.

Misery Loves Punching Company

The motivation for most of my postings is as noble and wretched as the central characters in Sweeney Todd and The Iliad.

Spicy Caesar = Hungover Geezer

It turns out I am not cool for craving spicy food.

I'm old.

Ramsay Arrives, Dicks Grow

This week Gordon Ramsay remained in New York state, where he took on the filth and apathy of the Seascape Inn in Islip, New York.

Faced with Irene, an overbearing, star stuck Greek mother, Peter, a psychically castrated son, and Doug, a chef who refused to even try a bite of Ramsay's food, Ramsay kept surprisingly cool. Of course he fired Doug and his equally disinterested sous chef, and took Peter into the boxing ring where Peter...burst into tears.

Four episodes into the American version of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, what has struck me most profoundly is how desperate the male restaurant owners are for patriarchal leadership. There was the beefy, red-faced Italian son in the first episode, the silent Indian owner in NYC, the passive husband chef in the third episode and now poor Peter who, while crying, explains how his father never supported him. It's as if Ramsay's mission in America is not to save restaurants, but to rescue the very existence of Man.

I am not sure if the strife experienced by American male restauranteurs is indicative of the stress inherent to the service industry or if it speaks to something larger. Perhaps we are looking at a generation of men so intellectually and emotionally divided from their fathers (especially first-generation Americans) that hyper-masculine interventions of the sort Ramsay provides are required in order for our men to reconnect to their deeper selves. Of course, this reminds me of Robert Bly's Iron John a book that when I originally read it led me to conclude that Bly was a forest floor-rolling, testicle-fetishizing misogynist.

Perhaps it's time for me to revisit my previous reading.

No One Likes a Smart Cactus

There are few guarantees in life but here is one of them: If an ANTM episode starts by giving camera-time to a slightly whiny contestant, that girl is a goner. I dare you to review the tapes. In every episode, the first or second girl interviewed ALWAYS falls in the bottom two that week.

So, spoiler be damned, it is Victoria who is our first interview this episode. If you didn't know already, Victoria is really smart. And we all know how well smart plays on reality TV.

So, back to the interesting stuff: makeovers! At the Ken Paves salon, Tyra makes what is this season turning out to be a rare appearance. I guess the allure of sobbing, bald models was too enticing to miss. This cycle, a morphing computer-generated image shows the girls what they will look like with new hair. Surprise! They all look...photo shopped.

Victoria, upon learning she will be receiving blond highlights, claims, "I'm going to be a smart blond." Bianca, seeing her Beyonce golden locks, complains (or brags?), "Blond on black? I'm gonna look like a street walker."

Unfortunately, Bianca's popsicle pink hair is so dead it needs to be shaved, making Bianca this cycle's make-over victim. At least Ken Paves is kind enough to give her a 'medical' wig. Miss J. laughs at Bianca's tears and all seems right in the ANTM universe.

Back at the house, the girls are confused by the Tyra Mail, which mentions something about going through a "back door." Chantal seems particularly nervous, leading me to believe she may know more about back doors than her innocent baby-blues suggest. Turns out the girls are being taken to Nigel and (screech of brakes) his wife, retired model and fashion photographer, Crissy.

Nigel tries to hold a smile while he whores Cover Girl products but he appears as comfortable as a cat in the spin cycle. I actually felt bad for him. Of course, minutes later he is peeking over the racks as the girls race to throw on their dresses, his lecherous glee at catching flashes of tiny tits momentarily relieving his discomfort with his scripted lines.

Sarah wins the make-up challenge for her risky "winged eyes" which is what every woman in her small town has been doing to their upper lids since 1952.

Cut to our weekly Jaslene fake Cover Girl commercial: This week Jaslene lends her support to fighting domestic violence, explaining she herself was a victim. Her admission makes me think she is even braver and cooler than I previously believed and it makes me long for the cycles when there were more interesting, adult women competing.

Back to the show. The photo challenge is all about flower power. Asperger's Heather gets creepy in weeds, Chantal looks like a sun burnt version of Baby Spice in Baby's Breath, Saleisha looks like Rihana if she held her breath for five minutes, and Victoria complains, "I just want to go to the library." (Read: I am really smart, for those of us who are not Victoria.) Chantal has a meltdown, which is exaggerated in comical fashion by her painted pink face and Tammy Faye lashes, and Heather rocks it.

The judging panel starts with a shot of bald Tyra, which is pretty much the ugliest pic I have ever seen of her and reminds me just how awesome her new bangs are. However, Tyra finally confirms what I predicted in my second post of the season: Miss J. is in fact growing his Afro an inch for every week of judging. It is like Miss J. and I share the same brilliant, Afroed brain.

Pretty much every one's photo sort of sucks, with the exception of Jenah, who is now two for two, and my prediction for the final three (along with Heather and ??) Ebony is dressed down by the panel for being too awkward (why pick on the awkward black girl but not the awkward white girl Heather?) Ebony is a self-admitted cheek-biter and as a cheek-biter myself let me tell you: it is just as much a disease as Asperger's. And if you smoke, it can lead to face cancer which, unlike Asperger's, doesn't bode well for a modelling career.
So back off, Tyra. Girl's got problems. 'Nuff said.

In the end, surprise!, it is "I am not a prickly pear" Victoria versus Saleisha for the final cut. Victoria, after a right proper dress down from the panel on her stinky behaviour (i.e., she talks back, does not except model truisms as facts, and corrects incorrect assumptions about herself without acute revelations of low self-esteem) is let go.

At the house she notes, "I'd rather go home than take some other girl's dream" and for the first time, I kind of like her. Of course, who needs modelling when you've got a B.A.? Seriously, models make what? $5,000 an hour? And undergrads can be like, coffee shop girls, or secretaries, or publishing assistants and they make, um, like $5 an hour. Oh, Victoria, you silly too smart for modelling school Yalie.

Next week: How to instill vertigo and abject terror into the hearts of beautiful young women.

Oprah Takes on Fertility

On Tuesday, Oprah had the ever-investigative Lisa Ling on the show to reveal how American couples are "renting" out Indian women's wombs as repositories for their fertilized eggs.

I tuned in because fertility issues are not commonly covered by mainstream media, unless it is to scare women with threats of biological clocks or to celebrate another drug-addicted anorexic pop star getting knocked up.

From the previews, I expected Lisa Ling to lay in hard to the white Americans using Indian women as human heat lamps. However, I was genuinely shocked to find LL and Oprah clapping and laughing and mewing over how wonderful it is that women across the world are helping each other out. American woman gets baby; Indian woman gets $6500 (which is apparently enough for a house and a decent kitchen in an Indian village).

One moment of particular horror came when they showed a photo of Kendall, the American dad-to-be, standing beside his Indian surrogate. He towered over her in a grotesque and unintentional display of hyper-masculinity and colonialism. Turns out the father of the fetus is 6"5. The Indian surrogate? 4"6.

The American couple laughed along with Oprah and Lisa Ling, who blurted, "Hello C-section!" (a joke Oprah would later repeat). Okay, since when are C-sections funny, painless and par for course?

I felt horrible for Jennifer, the American mom-to-be. There is a profound grief that is experienced when you are faced with infertility, and I really believe that, to a certain extent, a woman should be able to spend and attempt whatever it takes to accomplish her parenting goals.

But I also feel extremely sick at the idea of renting out an Indian womb like it was a cheap hostel with a decent view of the Taj Mahal. The fact that this extremely intense medical procedure was 'examined' by Oprah with such one-sided, pro-family, pro-America bias was horrifying to watch. I think this is the most pissed I've been with Oprah since the James Frey episode.

Gossip Girl--Episode 4 Highs and Lows

This week, the undisclosed gossip girl narrates us through another episode in the life of fabulously rich upper East Side teens.

Highlights: Serena looking totally glam in blue eyeshadow; the appearance of Margaret Colin (who plays Blair's mother and whose nose has more acting cred than any of the other actors playing parents on this show); Dan telling his father he is trying to figure out if Serena is "worth it."

Lowlights: Serena once again the innocent victim!; Serena once again upset and dewy-eyed with tears!; Chuck once again the unflappable evil nose-flaring villain!

Unforgiveable Lowlight: A C-story plotline involving the parental units and a piece of art. What self-respecting New York art buyer would purchase a painting for her client without knowing the artist's name and sales history? This oversight for the sake of ridiculous plot convenience actually made me turn off the episode before it was over.

Gogol Bordello Gypsy Punks

To redeem myself in the eyes of musical aficionados who read my blog about Maroon 5 and thought, "Man, you actually like their music?" I thought I would let you know that last night I was sweating and jumping wildly to the insanely charming Gogol Bordello Gypsy Punks.

The New York group has been around since 1999, and they supposedly stole the show at Glastonbury this year. Their live show last night was like stumbling into a bar in Romania and discovering the house band was a group of speed-freak good-timers with a rhythm that necessitates ass-shaking and fist-pumping.

My only gripe (because I always have one) is that the girl singers looked and acted like Gwen Stefani's Harajuku girls dressed up for a shift at Long John Silver's (which is to say they were as absurdly dressed but in cheaper duds). They were distracting in a flaky, sort of shoo-fly way. Otherwise, the band was a total party favour.

Eat, Pray, Heave

I think I must be an inherently bad person. At the very least, I am judgemental and sarcastic and often driven by fear and when I meet people who are really earnest and really content, I reflexively imagine hurling at their feet. See? Bad person.

So, last Friday, when I caught Elizabeth Gilbert on Oprah, I watched with a mixture of jealousy, admiration and disgust. Gilbert is the author of the much heralded Eat, Pray, Love, a memoir of her year-long travels through Italy, India and Indonesia. It's not surprising every country begins with 'I" since Gilbert unapologetically admits this journey was all about giving her wounded spirit the opportunity to experience pleasure (Italy), devotion (India) and a combination of the two (Bali). Gilbert is an intensely charming woman who has a flirty twinkle in her eye. She is soft-spoken but passionate and her book has been wildly successful.

Gilbert addressed her fear that a year of travel was too selfish by suggesting that through discovering her own happiness, she was doing a service to the world and everyone who encounters her. And it's true: I am sure people reading her book generally feel better about their lives than people who read this blog.

So, why did watching her on Oprah depress me? I know lots of people who have taken extended holidays. I guess I never heard of anyone being so richly rewarded for it. And while Gilbert argues that pleasure for the sake of pleasure is a lost value in North American society, I would argue that our culture is so fixated on the individual and creates such a false sense of entitlement that we are raising a generation that confuses excess with enjoyment, and luxury with reward.

Yes, That is Adam Levine on Stage Behind Me

Caught Maroon 5 last week. The opener was The Hives, who fell off the radar and have now returned like all Swedish fads seems to do. Great double bill and yes, Adam Levine is the sexiest man on earth, even if (as my sister pointed out) his orgasm face is rather embarrassing.

If you are wondering, I have no idea why I look so stoned in the concert pics. I think it was a combination of hormones and giant beers.

There Once Was a Poet From Nantucket

The debate over what constitutes "good" poetry continues. Well, not really. But everytime I mention poetry, I feel a little bit smarter.

He Wears Short Shorts

Am I the only one who finds the opening credits a little heavy handed on Ramsay's American version of Kitchen Nightmares? The voiceover claims Ramsay is "the most successful restauranteur in the world?" What does that even mean?

I have eaten at The London Bar, his NYC restaurant, and while it is better than most American food critics give him credit for (and the washrooms really ARE the greatest in the world) it certainly isn't the best food I have ever had (and it has one of the worst wine lists in Manhattan).

My beef aside (groan) this week Ramsay, the chef who would heat up any kitchen, takes on New York State again. He hits Bellmore, where he convinces the owners of The Mixing Bowl that branding themselves as a healthy food choice will set them above the crowd. His justification for the smart food choices? There are gyms and salons on the street, so clearly Bellmore residents want healthy options. Except that the salons are NAIL SALONS. The kind where you risk a fungal infection because the pedi is only 20 bucks.

I would not be at all surprised if The Mixing Bowl has already shut down. That said, the branding would still have been totally worth it, if only because it led to Ramsay hosting a local run, and so we get to see Ramsay strutting his stuff in running shorts. I can say this about very few men: Dude's got hot legs.

'Cause Tyra Loves It Crazy

The episode begins with catwalk practice and meow, the cat comes out in Bianca, when she advises Kimberly to make ridiculous faces while strutting her gams. Kimberly is all, Are you sure?
Bianca, using a long claw to slip back her purple bangs, is all like, Uh, huh. For sure.

Next the girls are gathered in bed, where Saleisha gets hissy for reasons I missed. I was too busy laughing at Bianca explaining, "I don't think you can teach a person how to walk." Um, yeah, Bianca. UNLESS THAT PERSON IS 2 YEARS OLD! (Which I am guessing is when kids learn to walk, I'm not really sure.)

The girls are then whisked off in the ANTM bio-bus to a scary abandoned hospital where there is a man wielding a chainsaw and Miss J. dressed up like Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Turns out the girls are going to have to get used to catwalking in straitjackets, because, you know, those Italians design ku-razy shit.

So the girls walk like, er, crazy, while all strapped in. Victoria mentions AGAIN how she is in university and yet, she finds walking hard. Janet works it, but looks surprisingly stocky in a straitjacket (I'm just saying).

Released from the mental ward, the girls head back to the house, where Bianca calls Saleisha (maybe a size 4?) a "borderline plus-model" which I imagine must be like the biggest diss you can give a wannabe model. Then Bianca starts referring to all the "biatches" in the house and refers to them as "biatches" about a dozen times and in a weird way, I am starting to find her charming. What can I say? The theme is crazy.

First commercial break: Two ads for Fisher-Price toys which makes me immediately (and I believe wisely) conclude the ANTM demographic is largely made up of moms. These ads are followed by one for crystal meth addiction, so I revise my hypothesis and have now determined the demo is meth-addicted moms, which means it is likely that at least 20 percent of my readers are high and have Cheerios stuck to their shirts.

Back to the show. Roy Campbell, last cycle's prom fashion show director, and designer, Colleen Quen, judge the girls' walks. In interview, Heather appears nervous about having to walk. "I have a hard time with my neck," she explains seriously. "It's hard to keep up." I can totally relate.

Now, despite my suspicions about Heather's autism (she again giggles and cries in this episode), I am definitely starting to see the 'tard in her. If you catch her in the background of group shots, her eyes are always sort of intensely staring at...nothing. She reminds me of this girl Lori-Ann who went to my middle school and who walked with a limp and always talked to herself without any self-consciousness. At the time, all the kids were like, Lori-Ann has cooties, but now, when I catch myself mumbling incoherently while standing in the dairy aisle, I think, Maybe we all have a little bit of Lori in us.

Anyhoo, Saleisha wins the catwalk competition and will get to go to Paris at some indeterminate time in the Future.

Second Commercial Break: Another fake Jaslene commercial! Yay! This time she is talking about hosting a fake show called "Cover Girl TV." As she explains, "Honust. Lee. I wus ner-vus."

More craziness ensues when the girls are told they will pose in haute couture while rock-climbing! Kur-azy! Victoria mentions for the fourth time this episode that she is a nerd (read: too smart for modelling). Ebony is looking Whitney Houston old, but otherwise the girls all do fairly well at the rope work.

Third Commercial Break: I checked my email.

The panel is back, as is Tyra's bad fashion choices for girls with boobs. I actually only like Pucci designs on girls so thin that you need the colourful swirls to distract from the bones. Otherwise, it just looks like psychedelic vomit to me.

It appears that Miss J.'s afro has grown an inch since last week, confirming my suspicion that each week he will add more hair until by the end he is a giant strutting 'fro. Heather is called up first, and we get to see her photo, which is sort of intense and creepy, and her art, which is definitely creepy. Tyra is all, wow, it's all about the eyes with you. And Heather stares at her intensely.

Sarah's photo is hot, Bianca's photo makes her look like a woman you would not want to encounter in a dark alley, and Nigel continues to be the hottest man on television. I'm sorry. I know he's a bad boy. He would be good in bed, but then he'd always be sleeping with models, and I would be heartbroken, but then he would kiss me, slowly, and I would catch the smell of his collar, a delicate mix of cedar and corduroy and sweat and then he would guide me towards... Sorry. I lost track and now we're into another commercial break.

Back at the elimination, Jenah is the first one called and she totally deserves it. Heather is next, and when she takes the photo from Tyra she smiles but she looks more like a leering pervert. Just like Lori-Ann did in grade 7 (we always said she has asthma, but maybe it was Asperger's!).

Kimberly is kicked off, so it looks like Bianca's early episode conniving may have paid off. This was another slightly dry episode--but next week should be good. It's MAKEOVER time!

Ploppy Poetry is Poop

The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography is claiming a new contender for the world's worst poem. The poem, aptly titled "The Tragedy" was written by Theophile Jules-Henri Marzials and published in The Gallery of Pigeons in 1873.

Theophile is responsible for penning this wicked opener: "Death! Plop./ The barges down in the river flop./ Flop, plop."

And this blog post is responsible for your next album being titled Gallery of Pigeons.

Gossip Girl--Episode 3 Highs and Lows

So, it is the third week in a row I have tuned into Gossip Girl and I have to say, it's starting to feel like a coke addiction. Not in the wow, it's so great, I am hooked way, but more in the oh, shit, why do I keep feeling obliged to do this, I wish I was a better person, a smarter person, a person who didn't indulge in this crap anymore sort of way.

Highlights: Blair's awesome Ivy League-appealing outfit that if it were a size 18 would have been worn by my Girl Guide leader in 1985; Blair eating crow when Eric shows her his wickedly unimpressive wrist slashing scar, Serena's tears (which kind of inspired my own).

Lowlights: The interaction between Eric and Jenny (save the PG for Saturday mornings, folks); the love-fest return to BFF status of Serena and Blair; the preview for next week's episode which reveals, surprise!, the girls' backs are arched again! Hissss!

Dirty, Sexy Money might have to replace my Gossip Girl highs and lows. I am not sure I can extend my interest in rich upper Eastsiders across three generations simultaneously.

Tyra Goes to Washington

Please let me know if ANY of you caught the Tyra Show on Monday when she interviewed Barack Obama. There are some short clips online for you to check out the insanity. In typical Tyra fashion, the interview was all about Tyra.

I don't even know if I can bear watching when she interviews Hillary Clinton in an upcoming episode.
And yet, can I resist?

New Writing Con(test)

Two new writing contests were announced today, including a competition for undiscovered writers with a manuscript gathering dust.

"The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award is an opportunity for our customers to have an exciting, significant voice in the process of discovering a new novelist,” said Russell Grandinetti, vice president of books for Amazon.com.

The winner of the contest, sponsored by Amazon.com, Penguin (USA) and Hewlett-Packard Co., will receive a $25,000 advance and a contract with Penguin. Oh, and an entertainment package that includes a 50" plasma TV (so the winner's first novel will ultimately be his last.) I mean, as any struggling (honest) writer will admit, having un-monitored access to daytime television is as good for productivity as meth.

Now, the winning manuscipt for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel will be determined by a few professionals and Amazon's leading customer reviewers. Wonder who these folks are? Here are some of their amazing insights on Ann Patchett's new novel, Run:

"Patchett's glistening prose reminds me of a jeweler studying a diamond with steely precision and a cool, clear radiance that reveals every facet and flaw."

"Ann Patchett has the ability of taking a simple plot and making it into something it is not."

"It is as if the only way Ms. Patchett knows how to create a character is by letting him or her think - not, on occasion, just observe or be part of something."

If you can decipher that last quote, and read the first quote out loud without vomitting in your mouth, I would highly encourage you to submit your manuscript.

He Can Cook For Me Anytime

It turns out the second episode of the American version of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares was just as satisfying as the first.

Fact: Gordon Ramsay is so manly he has three balls. The extra one just hangs there for the overflow of testosterone. Seriously.
Living in Canada, where you are trained to be so passive and self-deferential that you will say sorry to the guy who splashes his coffee on you on the streetcar, I adore Ramsay. And not only is he fearless, but he appears shirtless in every episode of his show. Thank you.

The added man-bonus in last week's episode (which took place at a really gross Indian restaurant in NYC) was our introduction to Vikas, a doe-eyed Indian chef/consultant who Ramsay brought in to fix the menu at Dillons (yeah, that was that name of the Indian restaurant). He was like Robin to Ramsay's Batman. Even the flies were buzzing.

Short Stories Should Be "Big, Hot"

For those of you who have never read an essay by Stephen King, you may be surprised to learn that he is not all genre, all the time. King is a passionate advocate of storytelling, and his book On Writing is a quick (if sometimes repetitive) read for any aspiring writer.

This weekend, The New York Times printed an excerpt of King's introduction to The Best American Short Stories 2007. His passionate diatribe against mediocre writing is a great reminder that writing is about impact, that point of contact between writer and reader. Everything else--the politics of publishing, the pedagogical trends of graduate writing programs-- is just gum under the shoe.

Talent can't help itself; it roars along in fair weather or foul, not sparing the fireworks. It gets emotional. It struts its stuff. If these stories have anything in common, it's that sense of emotional involvement, of flipped-out amazement. I look for stories that care about my feelings as well as my intellect, and when I find one that is all-out emotionally assaultive - - like "Sans Farine," by Jim Shepard -- I grab that baby and hold on tight. Do I want something that appeals to my critical nose? Maybe later (and, I admit it, maybe never). What I want to start with is something that comes at me full-bore, like a big, hot meteor screaming down from the Kansas sky. I want the ancient pleasure that probably goes back to the cave: to be blown clean out of myself for a while, as violently as a fighter pilot who pushes the eject button in his F-111. I certainly don't want some fraidy-cat's writing school imitation of Faulkner, or some stream-of-consciousness about what Bob Dylan once called "the true meaning of a pear."