Dancing Brave

Aw, Fritzie

Watching The Closer last night, I was so thrilled to see a GOOD Brenda-and-Fritz episode. Last season and in this one's premiere, it had gotten to the point where she almost seemed bitchy and careless with the way she treated him and stepped all over him. Loving someone, foibles and all, and finding them cute even when they're aggravating is great. But it had gotten to the point where I couldn't figure out why Fritz was still sticking with her. It's like they overwrote her neuroses and made her cruel with him. So thank GOD we got to see a bit more of a solid relationship where she actually cares for him and worries about him, and where they have fun and it's not all him rolling his eyes and holding his head in his hands.

I also find it very interesting that, suddenly, we're seeing a lot more of Brenda's body. It's like someone at TNT was like, "Okay, listen. Kyra Sedgwick has boobs and a six-pack. If we can't show them when she's working then we'd damn well better get to see her in her skivvies at home." Two episodes in and we've seen her in a bra and panties, and jumping on the bed in a tiny tank top and hot pants.

Not that I don't understand. Hey, if I had it, I'd flaunt it, too. But I bet Lt. Flynn would pass out if he knew Brenda's Talbots sweaters concealed rock-hard abs that could grate cheese. I wonder when we're supposed to think she does all those situps.

Farmer Wants A Pregnant Cow

The Great Egg-White Shock of 2008 distracted me from writing this entry yesterday, but I will press onward, because I can't NOT share this: For a variety of reasons, largely ennui, I turned on the last half of The CW's country-fried Bachelor knockoff, Farmer Wants A Wife, and it immediately made me wish I'd been at those pre-production meetings, because OH MY GOD.

In the interests of full disclosure, I am confessing that Kevin and I turned on an episode a few weeks ago at about the same halfway point, just in time to see an elimination ceremony -- why they don't do those last, I can't understand -- in which the farmer gave each girl a jug of moonshine and had them each pour it out into a cup; one of the glasses would not overflow, and that girl would have to leave. It was pretty stupid, but we guessed it was a product of them wanting to do a different type of elimination each week. Then we forgot about it.

So, on Wednesday night, they TOTALLY upped the ante. In a cracked-out way.

One girl was immune, so she stood by and watched as the other four were told the drill: There were four cows in the barn, and they needed to give them pregnancy tests.

"Do they have to pee on a stick?" one girl asked hopefully.

The farmer totally started to crack up but he composed himself long enough to say that, no, there would be no First Response today. Instead, he told them to put on a glove and lube up, because they'd be REACHING INTO THE COW'S ASS to see if they could feel a calf. And he knew which cows were pregnant, so whichever girl found out the hard way -- the ANUS-PENETRATING WAY -- that her cow was not knocked up would have to go home.

Reaching. Up the cow's ass. "This is something a farmer's wife is going to have to do all the time," Mr. Farmer said. This was followed by these ridiculous shots of the girls putting on plastic gloves that come all the way up to their shoulders, and the farmer squeezing an entire tube of lube (and not, it should be noted, freakin' egg-whites) on their arms before positioning them behind each cow's ass. There were a bunch of withered old farm hands there to help out, who patiently and sort of amusedly explained to the girls how they should hold their hands and move their arms. "This is done all the time, I promise, this IS normal," the dudes kept repeating, because you could just tell some of these girls didn't understand why you COULDN'T just stick a Fact Plus in their urine and suspected they made this up for the show. Meanwhile the immune girl was practically peeing herself with amusement.

So, in they arm-dive, and they're either choking on laughter or freaking out that they think the cow is shitting on their arms, and then suddenly one girl goes, "I can feel a THING in there," and she yanks out her turd-encrusted arm and waves it over her head and shouts, "I'M PREGNANT!" And one of the other girls shoots her a look like, "Yeah, that's great, I AM TOUCHING A COW'S CERVIX."

And the capper was the girl who realized hers wasn't. Once she got an inkling, she looked completely repulsed AND peeved that she'd had to go through this at all, and yet still sort of hopeful she was wrong. So she goes, "Um, I don't think my cow is pregnant...?" And the ancient old cowherd hilariously leans over the fence and says to her very seriously -- with the utmost compassion and sincerity on his face -- "I'm sorry, but your cow is not pregnant." And like five seconds later, she was OUTTA there. The music turned all Sad Piano Of Your Cow Not Being Pregnant, and the farmer gave her a hug, and that was it. No formal dismissal line other than, "I'm sorry, but your cow is not pregnant."

I don't know why more shows aren't built around the phrase, "I'm sorry, but your cow is not pregnant." It was easily the most surreal thing I've seen on TV in a while - and that includes the episode of Tila Tequila's show in which she told a guy, "You can be kind of a douchebag, but you still have a shot at love if you're interested," and then promptly cut a guy thusly: "Every time I turn around, you're always, like, LOOKING at me, and it creeps me out."

Yes, it's been a banner month for quality TV in my household.

Weeds

Now that most of the shows are done for the summer and we're all finished with The Wire, Kevin and I decided to start watching Weeds. I'd heard a lot about it, but don't want to pay for Showtime, so last night when we popped in the Season One DVDs it was my first exposure to the show, and it was... interesting.

Actually, I did like it. Parts of it are really funny. They go a really long way to set up jokes sometimes, but often those jokes are worth it when they come, and the acting is generally great. Mary-Louise Parker, for instance, is a surprise -- I usually can't stand her. Seriously, when everyone was crowing about her triumphant performances on The West Wing, I was moaning about her grating monotone delivery and flat acting. In short, I'm not a fan. But she's very vulnerable and funny and expressive and open on Weeds, and I can now totally see why she's won some statuettes for her trouble. It's weird -- I went from liking her personally (who wouldn't, after she brought out The Boobs when Billy Crudup dumped her and she had the baby alone and then won an award not that long after) and disliking her work to really enjoying her work and not caring for her personally, now that I've heard loads of rumors about how unpleasant she is on set, and in general. Anyway, color me surprised. She's great on the show.

But watching all the episodes in a row sometimes makes me feel like we must have accidentally skipped one, or that they randomly forgot to put one on the DVD. The storytelling is very unusual. I mean, there was one entire show where Elizabeth Perkins didn't have a single line, and then at the end a case of Coke gets dropped through her roof randomly and she immediately announces out of the blue -- after having drawn a face on her mirror in lipstick -- that she has cancer. Then in the next episode, everyone else knows, and she only mentions in passing later that half-hour (or even possibly in the next one) what kind of cancer it is. While I totally appreciate not giving cancer the usual three-hanky treatment, it's also not as affecting as when Samantha Jones had it on Sex and the City, and frankly, it's almost too breezy for me to care. Maybe I'm not supposed to, since Celia is such a cow, but I DO like Elizabeth Perkins so I WANT to care even when she's being evil.

Still, we're going through the episodes pretty fast. Half-hour morsels make it easier. As does Romany Malco. Oh, and the prospect of a Mary-Kate appearance when we get to season three. I haven't watched an Olsen act since... okay, FINE, since New York Minute. DON'T JUDGE ME.

9021ugh

All the rumors about Jennie Garth joining the cast of the 90210 spinoff are starting to perturb me, for one very specific reason: They all have her teaching fashion design at the high school. Which is great, except for how DONNA was the one who designed clothes, and Kelly Taylor was the one who did Donna's P.R. for a brief time and worked at random free clinics and judged gay couples for wanting to adopt children.

If they had a class on Giving Disdainful Looks with a minor in using them on people you are judging after a 10-second encounter, Kelly could teach it. If the school offers a seminar on getting sucked into a college cult, or choosing yourself, or overcoming a series of bad haircuts, then I'd fully support Kelly Taylor taking on the role of instructor. But fashion design was NEVER what she did. It makes no sense. Hopefully Jennie Garth is pointing that out to them now, rather than snapping up the job and figuring they'll fix it all later.

Also, you can't bring her Kelly without Dylan. They were supposed to end up together, per the series finale, and I just don't want to deal with some cockamamie fake story about their breakup unless it involves the return of Brenda and one final -- or, better, first-of-many-new-ones -- catfight.

Clearly what they need to do is have Andrea Zuckerman be the new Gil Meyers -- the cool English teacher who supervises the Blaze and befriends a few students and generally blurs the lines of propriety a little before ending up Their Faculty Buddy. Or she could be the new Mrs. Teasley, although given their disciplinary history, I think Steve Sanders returning to take on that job would be way funnier.

To Be (Limp, and Live) Or Not To Be

I consider it my duty to let you know what they're doing on Passions in the waning months of its life -- and if you thought the stuff they've done before was insane, well, hang onto your pants. It seems the latest serial killer in Harmony, who has been murdering her older sister's lovers, recently CASTRATED Julian Crane. And they called in Dr. Eve to sew it back on, and it backfired that she's the only doctor in town because she was hammered but she did it anyway... and REATTACHED IT BACKWARDS.

Now, I'm not sure what that means. But Dr. Eve just told him, "You can be limp and live, or you can have one last erection... AND DIE," so I can vividly imagine what it MIGHT be.

You know what? Let me just transcribe the entire scene I just watched.

JULIAN, a crotchety 50-something, lies in a hospital bed chewing on his blanket in a wide-eyed infantile panic. DR. EVE, his hot physician, stands over the bed while a scantily clad ESME, his bit-of-stuff, watches.

EVE: All right, Julian. I mean it! I don't want you to do or think anything that might arouse you.

JULIAN (trembling): What am I supposed to do? Lapse into a coma?

EVE: Just think pure thoughts.

JULIAN: First time for everything, I suppose.

EVE: Read a book!

JULIAN: Oh, yes. I could begin with Thomas Jefferson's biography, especially the part [growls] where he GETS IT ON with Sally Hemings.

EVE:OK, Julian, then just watch TV.

JULIAN: Yes, there's the Weather Channel and its talk of HEAT lightning and storm SURGES.

[ESME shivers excitedly]

EVE: Meditation, then Julian, okay? Just don't think about sex or women or anything titllilating.

JULIAN: You had to use the word 'TIT'tillating?

[Eve hands him a stack of "safe" magazines]

JULIAN: Global Business, Field and Forest. Why not a National Geographic? Then I could look at pictures of those top-heavy indigenous women dancing themselves into ORGIASTIC ECSTASY.

EVE: There is nothing sexual in either of those magazines.

JULIAN: Or INTERESTING.

EVE: Okay, so you'll have to be dull for a little while longer!

JULIAN: No matter how brief the time before my next surgery, it'll seem like an eternity if I'm relegated to reading this tripe.

EVE: Okay, well then, I guess there's a choice. You can be limp and live, or you can have one last erection and DIE. Doesn't seem like a very difficult decision to me.

JULIAN: WELL PERHAPS NOT FOR YOU.

[JULIAN opens Field and Forest to a page with a large swordfish on it]

JULIAN: God, look how BIG that is... [puts it aside in anguish] Oh, dammit, that's what they used to say about ME.

We then get a fantasy in which he's in his hospital gown, fishing off his bed with a long fishing pole between his legs. Rebecca -- one of his former cavorting pals on the show -- appears dressed as a mermaid and purrs that she loves a man with a big rod, and then Eve and Esme show up dressed as fishermen and we get lines like "Hold her down while I get ready to pierce her with my harpoon!" and "Surf's up. SO TO SPEAK." But, brilliantly, when the fantasy ends the music cue is all, "Waaaaah," like a comical going-limp noise, and Julian frets, "It's going to be harder than I thought not to be... HARD."

Then LATER, he surfs the channels to find stuff that will calm him down and comes upon a war documentary and goes, "That is the biggest cannon I've ever seen. Can you imagine the size of its... PAYLOAD?"

I mean... tell me this show isn't totally brilliant. You can't! It's deranged GLORY.

The Gospel According To Awesome People

"To be part of Girlicious, you can't be TOMBOYlicious. It's GIRLicious."

Brilliant.

I'm Just Not Girlicious Enough

On the way up the 405 today, a car whizzed past me with the personalized license plate, "POPO ZOW." I can't decide whether I think it's amazing that somebody paid actual money to put that on their vehicle, or tragic, or pathetic that they did it and didn't get it on there the way K-Fed spelled it.

So of course, I came home and watched The Pussycat Dolls Present: Girlicious, which is the most brilliant show with the stupidest name in the universe. Of course, the episode description reads, "The girls learn a lesson about confidence," which is about the only way they can think of to describe what Robin Antin is making them do without using the word "ho." And right now I'm at the point in the show where a girl calls home and cries, so I assume this means she's getting cut in 20 minutes. But it's brilliant to watch a show where J.C. Chasez drops by for a visit and then one of the girls later whines in her interview, "J.C. told us that you CAN'T ACHIEVE GREATNESS without TAKING A RISK," like he's some kind of prophet who's opened her eyes to a new way of thinking.

Unfortunately they're doing something where the girls are split up and challenged to sing the national anthem, with the goal of performing it at a baseball game. So I'm forced to listen to them rehearse, and every single girl butchers the bejeesus out of every line -- major melisma all over the place, sliding up and down and all around every note in an attempt to sound like Mariah or something, and drawing out every line. This is one of my huge pet peeves; it's our NATIONAL ANTHEM. Sing it the way it was written. A flourish here and there is fine, but turning the entire thing into practically a different song altogether is just aggravating. Did anyone see that sketch on Saturday Night Live where Maya Rudolph poked fun at how much people abuse the anthem? She'd draw out one line as long as possible and then whisper the second one, then massacre the third again... it went on and on and was really kind of an apt parody. That's what this segment felt like. Oh, God, I thought my ears were going to bleed. I know one reason they do all the note-sliding is because it's easier to do that than to hold one high note strong and true, but dude, don't sing the national anthem if you can't hit and hold the notes. It's so much more affecting when it's sung straight and clean.

Oh my GOD, why is Ron Fair from Interscope dressed like a member of the Rat Pack, if they were hanging out in Miami? And man, these girls are not talented. "Hit Me Baby... One More Time" is not a tremendously hard song to sing, and yet these girls can't hit a single note, especially not while they are in motion (or doing squats, which is the only movement this one blonde is even attempting). I can't wait until this group totally flops, and season three of the show is just called The Pussycat Dolls Present: Yow, because that's the only name that will accurately describe the experience of listening to them. Lil' Kim is reduced to saying things like, "I just wanted to see that Madonna alluringness." I hope next week's show is described thusly: "The girls receive a lesson in Madonna alluringness."

Also, I was totally right. SPOILER: The girl who was on the phone crying just got cut. And they say watching TV never teaches anyone anything.

But the best part? A girl in the teaser for next week just said, "Everyone knows Alicia's not going to make it into Girlicious. She's just not... girlicious enough." Doesn't get any more brilliant than that, people.

Dipstick Jungle

Lipstick Jungle is terrible -- it's not particularly fun or clever, or consistently soapy, and it should be -- but last night all I could think was, has Lorraine Bracco ALWAYS been a total drag queen? It's seriously the only thing I remember about the entire episode.

Well, that and the idea that Lorraine Bracco would leave both her crimson lipstick and her fur-trimmed white coat OUTSIDE a bathroom stall, right where her enemy stood, and not expect shenanigans. Honey, you dump your stuff on a table and walk away like that while derision is pouring out your sasshole, and it's your own damn fault if Brooke Shields decides to scrawl "BITCH" on your clothes. I'm not saying it's right, just that drag queens aren't that stupid. Maybe she ISN'T one after all.

I Don't Care If He Went To Freaking Jared

So, as usual, the holidays have brought with them a tremendously aggravating series of jewelry commercials that make me want to scream.

Chief among them is the lunacy of the "He went to Jared!" campaign -- the worst of which has to be the one where the girl cuts off her fiance's engagement announcement by thrusting out her hand, sending a chorus of that slogan around the restaurant and finally to a French-sounding waiter, who flips his shit and flaps his hands around with excitement and then somehow sets himself on fire. All because one guy went to a jewelry store that looks from the pictures like it's in an outlet mall.

Or there's the Kay commercial where the guy gives his lady some sort of sparkly something while they're out Christmas-tree shopping. In the cold. In her head I'm sure she was thinking, "You know, thanks for the thought, but could we not have done this while we were inside TRIMMING the tree, where it's warm and I can have alcohol?" My sister's only two conditions to her now-husband were that he not propose to her anywhere that involved nature, and that he make sure a bottle of champagne was nearby. I think that was quite sensible of her.

My current least-favorite, though, is the Zales commercial in which a man arrives home from Christmas shopping, only to be ambushed by his wife and children in a surprise snowball fight. See if you can figure out what he does:

a) Runs inside laughing to hide his purchases;

b) Rolls with it, dropping his bags and getting his precious little hands dirty by rolling some snowballs of his own; or

c) Flees behind a nearby tree and tries to stop the DEADLY ASSAULT by dangling a Zales bag in the direction of his wife, counting on the fact that she is so desperate for jewelry that she will call off the dogs and not even yell at him for ruining his Christmas surprise because he's such a freaking cowardly, boring wuss.

You probably correctly guessed option C. I would be so mad if I were his wife. Sure, it's the thought that counts, but let's look at the ad universe for a second: If all it takes is a little wet pellet to make him give up his big Christmas surprise, then he quite frankly sucks and he'd better have something better up his sleeve. Like a car. With one of the giant bows on it. Is nothing sacred? Did he REALLY have to bone it like that over a few powdery white missiles?

And if the theory is that this man is concerned that his wife and children might have rolled pebbles or shards of glass into their snowballs, then I could see taking that tactic -- but if that is this man's life, then perhaps he should have gone out shopping and never come back, because something is horribly wrong there.

Love The Devil

Although I liked the pilot a lot, my affinity for Reaper has declined as the season's gone on -- in part because I don't care about the romantic B-story AND I still can't get over my fascination with what a mouth-breather Bret Harrison is.

But mostly, I want his character to quit his damn whining. For AGES it felt like all he did was complain about working for the devil. And while I get that it's not exactly a job he applied for or wanted, I never understood why it took him so long to figure out that, GUESS WHAT, you're not going to finagle your way out of it because Satan is many things, but stupid is not among them.

Also... what's your beef, buddy? It's not like the devil has you running around town claiming the lives of innocents for his fiery misuse. Seriously, the Sam character goes around making sure rotten creatures get sent back down to the pits of Hell, and really, that's kind of an important gig.

What's more, and this is key, the devil is TOTALLY FUN. If I worked for him, I feel like I'd spend most of the time being like, "Oh, Devil, you SCAMP." Ray Wise is always popping up and making amusing mischief, cracking wise, and smiling that smooth, whitened smile while he does it. As bosses who are the master of all evil go, he's a pretty good one to have, and he's nice to Sam, with the possible exception of sticking him with a dinner bill every now and again -- and even that would probably leave me shaking my head and chuckling over what a card he is. And just last night he said, "You know what I could go for? A Bloomin' Onion. You in?" Yes, Satan, sir, I am.

So LIGHTEN UP, Sam. Would you rather he whipped you with his forked tail?