Some Thoughts I Had As I Watched About 45 Seconds of Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader? While Waiting for The Office to Begin Last Night

The game-show style pioneered by Who Wants to Be a Millionaire hasn’t gotten any less irritating.

Are You Smarter Than a Redneck? would have been a much better show.

This guy has the worst fauxhawk ever:

Like the Sun Going Down on Me

There are a lot of reasons why I’ve never watched American Idol, my dangerously low tolerance for execrable pop ballads being the main one. Watching this clip from the season finale made me simultaneously wish that I could watch the show and confirmed my assumption that I simply cannot. On the one hand, it’s an unparalleled opportunity for rubbernecking. On the other hand, this so filled me with plaatsvervangende schaamte that I was not just cringing, but actually squirming.

Now, Paris Hilton humiliating herself: That I can watch all day.

[VIDEO LINKS VIA DEFAMER.]

My Favorite Paragraph on the Frey Fracas

Oprah is Embarrassed. Don’t Fuck With Oprah. A Novel Is Something Different Than A Memoir. I Have A Headache. If I were to write a Memoir of my Drug Addiction, it would be called, I Smoked Pot And Sent A Silly Email To My Ex-Girlfriend, And Then I Watched Futurama For A While.

Bless You, Neal Pollack, Very Famous Author with Whom I Have Eaten Sandwiches.

From “Brutally Honest” to Just Plain Brutal: James Frey Gets a Spanking from Oprah

I wasn’t planning to write anything about James Frey and A Million Little Pieces, but watching his second appearance on Oprah has kind of encouraged me to organize my thoughts. It was a riveting piece of TV, mostly because we have so few opportunities in this day and age to view a public flogging. When Oprah said, “I regret that phone call”—referring, of course, to the call she made to Larry King defending Frey—it was kind of like watching Bill Clinton apologize for lying about Monica Lewinsky. It was almost that uncomfortable. My unease, of course, was nothing compared to Frey’s. These were among her first words to the disgraced author: “It’s difficult for me to talk to you.” I mean, the woman talks for a living. She’s talked to wife-beaters and teen sluts. She’s talked to Dr. Phil, for heaven’s sake. Ouch.

Frey might have been a little more discomfited had he not maintained a near-sublime state of disconnection. When Oprah asked him about The Smoking Gun, he replied, “I think most of what they wrote was pretty accurate.” It was like he was talking about something utterly unrelated to himself.

His cool, kind of stupid—turns out he’s quite the mouth-breather—detachment was an interesting contrast to the tough customer named “James Frey” he created for his memoir (I haven’t read it, but I’ve, you know, read about it). Of course, this may be because Frey is now a successful author rather than a recovering addict; during the show, he explained that he found self-aggrandizement to be a useful coping mechanism during his darker days. I think most of us can relate—Lord knows, I cherish my anecdotes of alcohol poisoning—but most of us don’t publish memoirs in which, say, a failure to take out the trash when mom asked turns into matricide.

Mostly, this episode of Oprah was a chance for her to say she was wrong, and then make Frey pay for it by sending him through a journalist spanking machine. I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, but the show really didn’t address the more interesting facets of the situation.

At one point, Oprah asked him whether or not his successfully suicidal girlfriend really existed, and Frey affirmed that she did—she cut her wrists rather than hanging herself, though. This turned into a brief conversation about whether or not other individuals in the book were fabricated or misrepresented, and Frey tried to make a distinction between characters and real people. Oprah wasn’t buying it, but he kind of had a point. Speaking as someone who has written some autobiography—I’ve got a little something in an anthology coming out later this year—I can say that, in order to craft an effective memoir, one has to turn one’s friends, relations, and self into characters, and one has to turn one’s experiences into story. This transformation is an aesthetic necessity. I’m not talking about making shit up—I’m talking about writing. I guess I’m saying that the people—the real people—in the memoirist’s life might be surprised by the way they are portrayed, and that the memoirist might be a little surprised by what the process of writing reveals, too.

As part of their insanely exhaustive coverage of the Frey scandal, The New York Times ran an essay by Mary Karr. Not only do I feel like the hard-luck memoir maybe could have been retired after her The Liar’s Club—she so totally nailed the form—but I also think that Karr’s response was one of the more illuminating to come out of this sad episode. Here’s my favorite part

...I rejected the strong suggestion of one publishing executive that I include a touching goodbye scene with my mother. “But I don’t remember it,” I told him, and readers were left without what I’m sure would have been a narratively comforting farewell. Sometimes to forget an event may be the most radiantly true way of representing it.

Mr. Frey seems to have started with his perceived truth, and then manufactured events to support his vision of himself as a criminal. But how could a memoirist even begin to unearth his life’s truths with fake events? At one point, I wrote a goodbye scene to show how my hard-drinking, cowboy daddy had bailed out on me when I hit puberty.

When I actually searched for the teenage reminiscences to prove this, the facts told a different story: my daddy had continued to pick me up on time and make me breakfast, to invite me on hunting and fishing trips. I was the one who said no. I left him for Mexico and California with a posse of drug dealers, and then for college.

This was far sadder than the cartoonish self-portrait I’d started out with. If I’d hung on to my assumptions, believing my drama came from obstacles I’d never had to overcome—a portrait of myself as scrappy survivor of unearned cruelties—I wouldn’t have learned what really happened. Which is what I mean when I say God is in the truth.

Nan A. Talese, Frey’s publisher, tried to make a distinction between truth and authenticity that reminded me of a friend’s description of her senior thesis on the difference between history and heritage: History is a good-faith attempt to describe the past; heritage is what you get at Colonial Williamsburg. However, Talese was right when she said that “People do not remember the same way.” Oprah wasn’t interested in exploring this idea, but it’s an important one, I think. Throughout the show, Oprah kept emphasizing the value of truth, but at no point did she acknowledge that it’s not always easy to find. One doesn’t have to deny the existence of objective reality to argue that the truth is sometimes inaccessible, and that memory is subjective.

In any case, I think Oprah’s concern for the sanctity of the truth is not something she shares with all or most of her viewers, or all or most Americans. Rather, I don’t think people are disappointed to learn that Frey is a big, fat liar simply because we all cherish the truth as an absolute good. I think people are pissed because we all love a freakshow. We love stories filled with degradation and debasement, and we not only want writers to tell us these stories—we want them to be the story. The JT Leroy saga is good illustration of this phenomenon: Leroy’s books were bought and sold as fiction, but would they have been as successful—as beloved by hipsters and the literati—if people didn’t believe that these novels of a transgendered teen hustler weren’t written by a transgendered teen hustler? And, as we all know by now, Frey actually tried to market his manuscript as a novel, but he was only able to sell it as a true story. I don’t know what this says about us as a culture, but it can’t be anything good. As for Mr. Frey, I guess he’s got one thing going for him: At least he didn’t pretend to be Native American.

Adolescent Lust on Primetime TV

Goodness! What a relief to see Seth and Summer making out, if only for a moment. I was really starting to worry about those kids—Ryan and Marissa, too. They never seem to have sex anymore. I mean, they barely even touch each other. All they do is go on double dates and have hissy fits.

It’s not that I have a prurient interest in watching youngsters gettin’ it on. It’s just that their apparent abstinence this season was starting to feel either sad or bogus. I mean, when I was in high school, all my boyfriend and I did was mess around. Seriously. If his mom was at work, we would stay at his place. If his mom was at home, we’d take my Chevy Impala—big backseat—somewhere and park. Sure, we’d surface sometimes for a snack or, maybe, to go see a show or something, but sex was basically all we did.

I was contemplating this in a message to my pal Griffin, and it occurred to me that, with a couple of exceptions—Steve and Clare—the kids on 90210 were strangely sexless, too, unless sex was a plot point. Maybe it’s that the writers of teen dramas think that emotional Sturm und Drang and social intrigue is more compelling than hearty adolescent lust. Or maybe they’re too old to remember what it was like to be young and insatiable.

Dunno. But here’s what I do know: If Seth and Summer are going to forego the carnal free-for-all that is college, they really have got to start doin’ it again.

“Women in business don’t cry, my dear.”

I watched the first episode of The Apprentice: Martha Stewart because I heart Martha. (Judging from their opening-day outfits, I think that the show’s contestants heart her, too. If you were to cut a swatch from each seafoam green skirt and Wedgwood blue necktie, you would have the beginnings of a Living feature on decorating with color.) I watched the second episode on the chance that it might be more entertaining than the premiere. It wasn’t, really, but I’m not sure that it’s the show’s fault.

I could not be more bored with reality TV. In fact, it’s not even just that I’m bored with it; it’s also that I’ve grown to find it embarrassing. The connection between reality TV and reality as we know it was always tenuous, but now it’s like the genre has transcended any attempt at verisimilitude. At this point, everyone who participates in reality TV has—presumably—consumed a great deal of reality TV. Contestants have learned how to be a reality-TV character, how to act like one is not acting. It makes me feel both weary and uncomfortable.

Even so, this show intrigued me because I would like to be doing what these reality-show contestants are doing. I don’t want to marry a millionaire, I don’t want to undergo a bunch of endurance tests on a desert island, I don’t want to be an ultimate fighter, but working for Martha Stewart is kind of a dream job. What this show is making me realize, though, is that working for Martha Stewart means working with people, and people are a pain in the ass. This show is reminding me just how much I like working from my kitchen home office.

Primarius, the “corporate” team (like you couldn’t tell they were corporate from the painfully cheesy, “aspirational” name they invented for themselves), has, so far, done an admirable job with the assignments they’ve been given. I cringe when I hear such words as “focus group” and “outsourcing,” but those suits really have got their shit together. I still wouldn’t want to work with them, though—I really do cringe when people use business-speak, and business people don’t like that—and watching their efficient, organized operation makes for incredibly uninteresting television.

The “creative” team, Matchstick, is a bunch of crybabies and contrarians and prima donnas, which means, of course, that they producers give them at least twice as much airtime as the competition. I realize that conflict is the goal of reality TV, but conflict is only as entertaining as the people involved in it, and this is nothing more than a bunch of emotional toddlers having temper tantrums. Jim—this show’s Puck—isn’t intriguingly nefarious or delightfully wicked or even hilariously offensive: He’s just a tool.

It’s a shame the producers cast an idiotic, coked-up (OK, probably not, but he certainly does give one the impression) douchebag to sow discord, because they have access to someone many members of the viewing public already love to hate: la Martha herself. The show really only comes alive when she’s on screen, and I think we’d see some Dynasty-style melodrama if she interacted more with her would-be protégés. On last night’s episode, one loser tried to distance herself from the latest Matchstick fiasco by telling Martha that she was so ashamed by their performance that she wanted to cry. Ms. Stewart rewarded her with a positively icy look and smoothly replied, “Cry and you’re out of here. Women in business don’t cry, my dear.”

It was chilling. It was real. It was a very good thing.

“That's a pretty wild accusation coming from a giant leprechaun with gerbil wings.” Seth Sonderling interviews Tammi Littlenut

Bon vivant, man about town, elite Scorpio: My friend Seth is all these things—all these things and much, much more. He’s also a columnist over at the Used Wigs, and it’s in that capacity that he recently interviewed Maria Thayer, the actress who portrays Tammi Littlenut of Strangers with Candy, on screens both small and big. This is a must-read for SWC fans, folks with a redhead fetish, and anyone who enjoys eavesdropping on two clever conversationalists.

What You Can Watch Tonight Instead of the State of the Union Address

Connie’s Valentine’s Gift Picks on Home Shopping Network

Seinfeld reruns on TBS

The Holy Rosary With Mother Angelica and the Nuns of Our Lady of the Angels Monastery on Eternal Word Television Network

A Face to Kill For [starring Crystal Bernard!] on Lifetime

The Parkers and Girlfriends on BET

Greatest Myths: Rumors, Legends and Downright Lies on CMT

The second half of Easy Rider on AMC

Two episodes of Full House on Nick at Night

“Rock Star Kids” on The E! True Hollywood Story

Hot Girl-on-Girl Action on Primetime TV

Night after night, I sit in front of the television (Ted and I just traded in my 13-incher for a Jumbotron; Lord, it’s glorious) and ask myself, “Where is all the hot girl-on-girl action? Don’t they know everything is better with hot girl-on-girl action? I’d watch The King of Queens if I thought there was any hope of pretty ladies kissing.” Then I sigh, and watch another rerun of SVU.

Thank goodness, it looks like The O.C. is moving in the right direction. Us Weekly broke the story that Marissa would be smooching on saucy bartender Alex in their December 27 issue, and I thought that last night might finally be the night. It was not, but scenes from next week suggest that it’s imminent.

While I certainly—obviously—look forward to the actual consummation, I have to say that the closing moments of last night’s show were sweetly sexy. There’s nothing more delicious than adolescent anticipation of action—no doubt you can still remember it like it was yesterday—and, with same-sex coupling, there’s an extra frisson. Here’s the thing: When a boy and a girl are sitting on the sofa, watching a late-night horror movie and sharing a blanket, 9 times out of 10, making out is a foregone conclusion. It’s going to happen; it’s just a matter of when. But, when it’s two chicks, who knows?

I’m not much of a fan of Mischa Barton (or Marissa, for that matter), but she did a fantastic job of projecting confused arousal and arousing confusion. With nothing more than wide-open eyes and a tilt of the head, she suggested a feverish interior dialogue: “Oh my God! Is Alex puttin’ the moves on me? Oh my God! Do I want her to put the moves on me! She’s turning her head. Is she going to kiss me! Oh my God! I am totally going to kiss her back! Oh, she’s just smiling at me. OK, well, maybe if I slide over a little, and lean towards her…”

Well, it was all very adorable, and delightful. I hope that The O.C. lets this relationship play out for more than one or two shocking episodes, and I hope that other shows take note. All I’m saying is, I watched the first episode of Medium, and that show would benefit mightily from some hot girl-on-girl action.

Happy Festivus

If you just glanced at the article on Festivus in last Sunday’s New York Times, you probably thought it was just a cutesy little Styles piece on how real people are actually celebrating the holiday invented on “Seinfeld,” and you wouldn’t know that the actual origins of the holiday are far, far stranger and more wonderful than Frank Costanza’s tale of a pre-Christmas fistfight over a doll. Herewith, I reproduce the salient excerpts:

The actual inventor of Festivus is Dan O’Keefe, 76, whose son Daniel, a writer on “Seinfeld,” appropriated a family tradition for the episode. The elder Mr. O’Keefe was stunned to hear that the holiday, which he minted in 1966, is catching on…

“It was entirely more peculiar than on the show,” the younger Mr. O’Keefe said from the set of the sitcom “Listen Up,” where he is now a writer. There was never a pole, but there were airings of grievances into a tape recorder and wrestling matches between Daniel and his two brothers, among other rites.

“There was a clock in a bag,” said Mr. O’Keefe, 36, adding that he does not know what it symbolized.

“Most of the Festivi had a theme,” he said. “One was, `Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?’ Another was, `Too easily made glad?’”

His father, a former editor at Reader’s Digest, said the first Festivus took place in February 1966, before any of his children were born, as a celebration of the anniversary of his first date with his wife, Deborah. The word “Festivus” just popped into his head, he said from his home in Chappaqua, N.Y.

The holiday evolved during the 1970’s, when the elder Mr. O’Keefe began doing research for his book Stolen Lightning, a work of sociology that explores the ways people use cults, astrology and the paranormal as a defense against social pressures.

Festivus, with classic rituals like familial gatherings, totemic-but-mysterious objects and respect for ancestors, slouched forth from this milieu. “In the background was Durkheim’s Elementary Forms of Religious Life,” Mr. O’Keefe recalled, “saying that religion is the unconscious projection of the group. And then the American philosopher Josiah Royce: religion is the worship of the beloved community.”

I Wish I Had Watched Bell, Book, and Candle on Turner Classic Movies Instead

Yesterday, I was worried that the Sci-Fi Channel’s Earthsea movie would suck. Today, I know that it does.

Oh, it’s not the suckiest thing I’ve ever seen (that is—and, I hope, ever shall be—Airheads). It certainly looked lovely—cool costumes, gorgeous scenery, some nice effects—but, mostly, it fluctuated between boring and bad. The dialogue, in particular, was often cringe-inducing. It was full of jarring—well, “anachronisms” isn’t the right word, because the movie wasn’t set in the past but in a fantasy world—I don’t think there’s a word for what I’m trying to describe: All I’m saying is, hearing Isabella Rossellini, all dressed up in medieval-inspired priestess robes, tell a novitiate to come see her in her “office” was just odd. And the less said about the film’s attempts at humor, the better.

I know that movies are not the same thing as books, and I realize that language or imagery or action that works in one medium might not translate well to the other. I do feel, though, that if a filmmaker is going to work from a book, he should be faithful to that book, by which I mean not that he should reproduce it line-by-line, but that he should strive to reproduce whatever it is that makes that book great. Judging from comments they’ve made in interviews, the people who created this movie apparently did try to engage with Ursula K. Le Guin’s novels, but, while I am loath to suggest that someone else’s interpretation of a literary work is wrong, some of the things they said were just kind of nutty (the author herself reproduces some of her least favorite comments on her website). It’s also fairly easy for me to imagine that the whole project didn’t originate from love of the books so much as someone somewhere saying, “Hey! It’s Lord of the Rings meets Harry Potter—with dragons! We can’t lose!”

The Earthsea books are good, though, not because they happen to have a school for wizards and an epic quest, but because Le Guin retained the familiar power and poetry of mythology and infused it with an intense interiority, because she was able to turn a tale about magic and heroism into a compellingly realistic story about growing up. And these books are great because they are not—despite what the filmmakers seem to believe—about anything so unsubtle as a cosmic struggle between good and evil. They are, rather, about balance and responsibility. I think it would be almost—but not quite—impossible to translate all that to film, and I think it would be very easy to get all that up on the screen and produce a very boring movie. Nevertheless, I don’t think the answer to that challenge is to jazz up the story with a megalomaniacal king, a slutty priestess, and half-baked dualistic mysticism.

Archival Interview: Ursula K. Le Guin

Ursula K. Le Guin’s Earthsea books are some of my favorite books ever, and they have been since I was a kid. Learning that the first two volumes in the series—A Wizard of Earthsea and The Tombs of Atuan—had been turned into a TV movie filled me with a desperate hope that it wouldn’t suck and the dread awareness it almost certainly will. (Anybody remember the wretched Mists of Avalon miniseries? Anybody else horrified to learn that Tom Stoppard has been dropped from the His Dark Materials project and that God will not appear in the film? Am I the only one who detects a feel-good vibe in the commercials for A Series of Unfortunate Events?)

It seems that the author—who was not involved in this Sci-Fi Channel production—isn’t really looking forward to it, and, as she explains on her website, she’s found the experience of having Hollywood-types interpret her work and put words in her mouth rather trying. She was particularly cranky about the idea that her books are about any kind of duality. Apparently, though, she made some kind of peace with the folks at the Sci-Fi Channel, as they have an interview with her on their Earthsea website. Based on the clips they used to illustrate some of her points, however, I’m not entirely sure they understood what she was talking about.

I interviewed Le Guin a few years ago, when The Other Wind came out. We talked about some of the themes that run through all the Earthsea books—some of the same themes that appear to have mystified the Sci-Fi film’s creators—so now seems like a good time to pull that interview out of the archives.

Interview conducted in 2001

After reading The Other Wind, I read A Wizard of Earthsea for the first time in a long time. I was struck by how much you seemed to know, right from the beginning, about Ged’s future and the whole history of Earthsea.

Ursula K. Le Guin: If I knew it all, I didn’t know I knew it. I was not thinking of that story as the beginning of a series. It was the first book for young adults I ever wrote, and the first heroic fantasy that I had written. I thought I would write it and go back to other things, yet I built into it an obvious lead-in to the next book… My unconscious mind is much smarter than I am sometimes.

Your style has changed over time. Your voice changes from the slightly distant style of myth to something much more familiar.

UKL: The first three books are written in that traditional, epic style, which is the way the great fantasies were being written at the time, or had been written. With Tehanu, I stopped writing from the point of view of the people in power and started writing from the point of view of the people who are not in power. I couldn’t keep up that high style. I needed to get a little quieter, a little plainer.

What made you decide to go back to Earthsea?

UKL: Well, the big long gap was actually between The Farthest Shore and Tehanu… I always knew there needed to be a fourth book, but I couldn’t write it until… I guess I had to grow up. After Tehanu… I had called it "The Last Book of Earthsea," because I really thought that was where the story ended. That came out in 89… after a couple of years in the 90s, I realized things were going on in Earthsea, that I had to catch up with it. I began asking some questions about why things were the way they were. I was thinking about it’s history, and that led me to the various stories. And then, when the stories were done, I went straight to the Other Wind, because there was the rest of Ged and Tenar’s story to be told, all this stuff about who the dragons are…

One thing that struck me while reading The Other Wind—and as I re-read the other Earthsea books—was the way you talk about good and evil, which are not popular concepts outside of fantasy. Do you have any idea why fantasy is such a popular medium for discussing good and evil.

UKL: Well, I do think a lot of novels handle good and evil, but, of course, the more realistic they are, the more embedded those concepts are. In fantasy, they can come out clearer, because things are more transparent in fantasy. The world is an invented world, and therefore, it is not as thick and dense and confusingly rich as the real world.

I think a lot of people think that fantasy oversimplifies the battle between good and evil… These guys have white hats, and these guys have black hats, but they are equally violent, and neither of them is really better than the other, and that is just a cop-out to me.

My master here, of course, is Tolkien. His bad people are pretty bad, all right, but you understand how they got that way. And his good people have a lot of trouble staying good. They’re really human, and that’s much more interesting.

In my books, there really aren’t any villains. There are difficult choices and there are moral dilemmas. I’m not particularly interested in violence, which I guess is why evil to me is a failure to do something you ought to do, rather than a malicious act. Not doing what you know you ought to do… Evil comes into you and you go along. Big battles with good people and bad people—that oversimplifies life immensely.

I don’t write about good and evil so much as I write about balance, about the idea that acts have repercussions. As one of the old wizards explains, the more power you have, the less you can do. You can’t do just what you want, but only what you must.

Tolkien’s name often comes up when your books are discussed. I’ve read that he didn’t see himself as a writer of fantasy so much as someone who was writing a history of a real place that had been lost…

UKL: Earthsea—as far as I’m concerned, it’s there. I can’t make what happens there. I have to find it out. I have to wait for it to happen, and then I can tell it.

Shirley Hazzard Guest Stars on The O.C.

When it comes to men of The O.C., my heart belongs to Seth Cohen. This will come as a surprise to no one familiar with the assortment of eggheads and fanboys that makes up my dating history. It’s true, I’ve taken a bit of a shine to Summer’s new fella. He’s a total sweetie pie, and I luv his prematurely-deep voice. Also, he likes comics, which takes the edge off the fact that he looks like a J. Crew model.

While I understand the allure of the melancholic outsider—no woman who has read Wuthering Heights as often as I have could claim otherwise—Ryan has never really done it for me. But, as of last night, I feel I must reconsider this enigmatic young man. How many high-school boys, having just left the winter formal, having just been shot down—for the second time, no less—by his cute lab partner would choose to spend the evening reading the 2003 National Book Award-winner in fiction?

Yes, that’s right: Ryan was curled up in the poolhouse, soothing his wounded heart with Shirley Hazzard’s The Great Fire. I can’t help but wonder, what will this novel of forbidden love and impossible moral dilemmas set in postwar Hiroshima say to this brash, brooding, violence-prone adolescent? Will it cause him to put down his fists for good? Will it teach him how to open his heart to others? Will he decide to major in English, thereby damning himself to a life of perpetual under-employment? Will he be my new celebrity boyfriend?

Anything is possible. Such is the power of literature.

Suburban Apocalypse

Back in college, I took a course called “Comedy from Aristophanes to Woody Allen”. It was a great class—it’s the reason I know that “The Honeymooners” was Bertolt Brecht’s favorite piece of American theater.

Anyway, I had to write a paper for this class, and I distinctly remember trying to sell my professor on the idea of me writing a script for an episode of “The Donna Reed Show”. I don’t remember all the details, but I do remember the show ending with Donna turning to the camera and saying, “You know this isn’t real, don’t you?”

Professor Levitan was a man of refined sensibilities, so he understood instantly just how creepy this would be: It wouldn’t just deliver the vertiginous feeling one gets when a character unexpectedly breaks the fourth wall, but it would collapse the whole domestic/suburban fantasy world in which 50s sitcoms take place, a fantasy world that purports to be the real world. It would be apocalyptic.

I mention this because my reaction to last night’s episode of “Desperate Housewives” was quite similar to my reaction to that imaginary “Donna Reed”. When the beatific Mary Alice reaches out of her corona of white light to hand Lynette a gun, and Lynette puts the gun to her head, I got chills. There aren’t many shows where one can believe—for even a moment—that a central character might actually die, but “Desperate Housewives” has become one of them.

Last night was also the first time I really felt moved by the show—when Bree and Susan tell Lynette about their own motherhood traumas—which I guess is good for the show, artistically speaking, but I am ambivalent for myself, as one of the things I appreciate most about “Desperate Housewives” is that it is purely entertaining, or, as Virginia Heffernan put it in her very nice New York Times review yesterday, “The show has boldly flung off prime time’s imperative to topicality, and embraced an overtly literary mode.”

I wrote my own review of the show for Bitch, but it got cut due to space limitations. This is kind of a bummer, of course, but these things happen, and it means that instead of publishing it in a magazine, I can offer it here, to you, my loyal and beloved readers.

Consider the word “housewife”. It describes an individual—a woman—defined by her relationship to a man and by her place in the domestic sphere. For feminists of Betty Friedan’s generation, the universe implied by this term was grotesquely circumscribed. Housewives were confined to “comfortable concentration camps”, imprisoned by suburban family life and prevented from achieving their intellectual and professional potential.

Now, consider “Desperate Housewives”, the most talked-about television debut of the fall season. With its hyperbolic name, its ironically retro title graphics, and its fiendishly cheerful opening theme, the show begins by suggesting that the housewife has become a figure of fun, a phenomenon so decidedly passé that she has ceased to be a symbol of oppression and become a delicious camp artifact. The world of Desperate Housewives is informed by the experience of Friedan and her sisters, but it doesn’t take Second Wave philosophizing straight. Instead, it plays with mid-20th-century ideas of the housewife to create something new and rather compelling.

The unexplored suburban territory mapped by this dramedy is best delineated by two of its central characters, the two who seem—superficially, at least—to conform most closely to the housewifely ideal: they both have husbands and children, and neither works outside the home.

Lynette (Felicity Huffman) has three small boys and a baby girl. She has the frantic, untidy aura we’ve learned to recognize as that of the contemporary mom. She is living the infantilizing life of isolation and drudgery described by American feminists in the 50s and 60s, but with this vital difference: she had a career—a successful and satisfying one—that she gave up when her first child was born. And Lynette differs from contemporary depictions of women like herself in that she bitterly regrets her choice. She loves her children, but she’d rather be at the office.

There’s been much fuss in the media lately about career women missing out on their chance to be mothers, and women leaving the business world to discover that raising children is the most rewarding work there is. We seem to have forgotten the possibility that some women might actually be happier in the professional world than they are at home. Lynette reminds us of this reality, and it will be interesting to see how she and her family resolve her dilemma.

While Bree (Marcia Cross) inhabits the same type of domestic scene as her neighbor Lynette, she seems utterly fulfilled by the stay-at-home life. At first glance, Bree is a throwback. She is a woman who truly enjoys making a three-course meal for a weeknight supper, and every hair in her brilliant red flip moves in perfect accord with every other. She isn’t just a housewife: she is June Cleaver, Donna Stone, Samantha Stevens with a hot-glue gun instead of the witchcraft.

More than any other character on this show, Bree is problematic. Is she a woman who has considered the myriad options available to her and decided that the role of wife and mother suits her best, or is she a traitor to her sex? Is she truly happy, or is she horrifically deluded? Is she good or is she evil? If we, the viewers, are unable to answer these questions, it may be because the show isn’t sure about her, either. Bree is certainly the most ambiguous character on “Desperate Housewives”. Sometimes, she is portrayed in a sympathetic light. Sometimes, she seems to be clearly—if understandably—monstrous. Perhaps the show’s writers haven’t figured out what to do with a woman like Bree because, as a society, we haven’t figured it out, either.

My New Favorite Thing: Family Guy

As an invalid, my husband, Ted, currently has control of the remote. This is how I got to know Family Guy during a time when I am usually revisiting an episode of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit (my deepest, darkest, most shameful secret). Having now viewed two full episodes of Family Guy in their entirety, I have this to say: it’s fucking hilarious.

Seriously: I laughed uncontrollably—laughed until I cried—painful, wheezing, gasping-for-air laughter. Ted remarked that he had never seen me so doubled-over by mirth, and I suggested that, had he been there for the halcyon days of The Simpsons (remember the first time we saw the episode where Homer’s face is on a box of Japanese dishwasher detergent,Chappy?), he would have witnessed a similar incapacitation, but it is, indeed, rare.

Here’s the thing about Family Guy: it doesn’t move at the leisurely pace of most comedies—plot, set-up, gag; plot, set-up, gag; ad infinitum. Rather, it is gag, gag, gag, gag, gag, and most of the gags are entirely surprising. The final result is total, ridiculous helplessness.

Just in case the idea of being reduced to an infantile state doesn’t appeal to you, I offer the following information: one of the main characters is a baby with the personality of a fussy, middle-aged, sociopathic Englishman; and the family dog—his name is “Brian”, for crying out loud—has a drinking problem.

Also, there’s an evil monkey.

Watching Ashlee Simpson do her little hoedown dance makes me feel embarrassed to be human.

Once again, I wish that English had a word for when you feel humiliated on behalf of someone else. A friend once told me that there’s a word in Spanish that means “alien embarrassment”, but she couldn’t remember what it was and I have never been able to find it.

Of course, I mention this because I just finished watching the video of Ashlee Simpson from this past weekend’s Saturday Night Live. I have not watched the program in several years, so I am so very glad that this precious moment in musical history is preserved on the Interweb. It’s really, really funny—awful and excruciating, but funny. That little jig she does? Priceless.

If you’re looking to prolong your pleasure with bitchily thorough commentary, please visit Stereogum, The Media Drop, Defamer, and Gothamist (from which I swiped the photo).

Special Guest Stars I’ve Seen Since I Started Watching Murder, She Wrote Twice a Day

Erin Gray
Adrian Zmed
Bill Maher
Ned Beatty
Roddy McDowell
Dinah Shore
Mike Farrell
Barney Martin
Brian Keith
Bert Convy

Left Behind

Kirk Cameron says I'm going to hell. Are you? Is Alan Thicke? What about Tracey Gold?

[LINK VIA POPBITCH]

Lesbian Kung-Fu Porn

For, like, the past ten years, I have occasionally mused, "You know what would be the greatest? Lesbian kung-fu porn. Seriously, wouldn't that be the greatest?"

Now, at long last, it's here!

"LOS ANGELES (Hollywood Reporter)—Here! TV, a supplier of gay- and lesbian-oriented content to satellite customers via pay-per-view, is eyeing an Oct. 1 lauch for a round-the-clock programing service that will feature classic and original films and TV shows…

"The Here! TV original series include… "Weapons of Mass Destruction," a spy thriller starring Cynthia Rothrock as a lesbian action hero."

[QUOTATION FROM REUTERS]

The Worst Thing I Have Ever Seen on TV

I watched every episode of the first season of Joe Millionaire. As an amateur cultural critic, I felt compelled to document the show's popular misogyny. I also enjoyed the show: it was grotesque, sure, but entertainingly so.

When I first started seeing ads for The Swan, I thought that perhaps Fox had finally gone too far—too far for me, anyway, which is saying a lot. But the commercials kept on coming, and I found that my reaction was evolving from superficial disgust to serious, heart-sick dismay. Silently not watching wasn't enough. I felt compelled to bear witness.

The goal of the show is to turn an "ugly duckling" into a radically improved version of herself through dieting, therapy, hundreds of hours in the gym, and cosmetic surgery. I think I'm supposed to feel pleased when the contestants look at themselves in the mirror and don't recognize what they see. I think I'm supposed to melt into tears of astonishment and joy, just like they do. But I don't. When Rachel first gazed upon her improved reflection and said, "I don't look anything like that girl," I didn't feel excited and glad. I wondered, who was "that girl"? Was she the new self that Rachel couldn't recognize as her own, or was she the old self that Rachel hated so much that she had disassociated from her? As Nathalie Chica suggested in her own evisceration of the show, either answer is horrifying.

Having spent some time on the message boards at The Swan's official website, I know that there are women who would argue that I am being perversely political, that it's arrogant of me to judge the joy of the contestants. Honestly, I'm glad that these women are happy. I'm glad that they like themselves for what may be the first time ever in their lives. But their happiness just makes me more sad. I'm sad because they hate themselves so much. I'm sad that they had to undergo surgery and submit to someone else's vision of what they should be in order to feel this happy. I'm also sad because they don't look like people anymore. They look like porn stars. They're all arched eyebrows, pert noses, pillowy lips, and comic-book breasts: anything distinctive has been cut away or lifted or pumped full of collagen. I'm also sad because I wonder how long this happiness will last.

The Swan makes a profoundly half-assed attempt to be about something more than physical beauty. In addition to enduring the ministrations of a personal trainer and various surgeons, the contestants also get counseling. This aspect of the show, however, is to me the most unconscionable. I find the televised liposuction substantially less objectionable than the televised therapy sessions. I wish the show wouldn't even bother. Its conception of emotional wellness is, at best, dubious. In an interview, one of the show's producers, and its "life coach", said, "I wanted to show women that anyone can be beautiful with the right amount of money and (internal) work. Stop thinking that somebody out there is more special than you genetically. They're not." Why am I not relieved to learn this?

All of the contestants on the show so far have had, in addition to obvious issues with self-loathing, serious relationship problems. Listening in to Rachel as she tried to talk to her husband was harrowing. I can't think of a time when I was more uncomfortable watching something on TV. On last night's episode, Kristy said, "When I come home, looking like a real woman, my husband's going to regret not treating me better." This prompted the following from the show's host: "She still has 20 pounds to lose. Will revenge be enough to motivate her?" I'm finding it difficult to decide which part of that is most fucked up.

The "experts" on the show use the word "feminize" a lot. Is it worth explicating the ways in which this show defines femininity, or is it too self-evident to bother with? I will point out, just before the new Kristy was revealed, the hostess described her as "the self-proclaimed 'funny girl' desperate to become a woman". I wonder if future episodes will feature a "self-proclaimed 'smart girl'". (One thread on the official message board notes that there will be no "self-proclaimed 'black girl", not this season at least.)

I've taught several classes in which I've had to explain to my students that, until quite recently, women were regarded as not quite human. Once upon a time, women were malleable, ill-defined, unformed, imperfect. The students are always shocked by this revelation. They laugh: it's too ridiculous to take seriously, it's too far removed from their own understanding of what it means to be human—male or female.

Watching The Swan, watching as doctors treat women as raw material, as rude matter to be sculpted and cut and refined, I marvel that my students are surprised by, say, ancient Greek or medieval European conceptions of womanhood. I'm amazed and thankful that they value themselves, or their sisters and their girlfriends, as more than flesh—flesh that only has value so long as it can be shaped to fit rigid cultural ideals.

Heather Havrilesky, TV critic for Salon, expressed my own sentiments when she wrote, "I watch trashy TV every single day, but this show is making me queasy." Watching Joe Millionaire was horrifying, but it was also fun. There's nothing fun about watching The Swan. It's like watching an execution on TV. It's like watching someone die.

Sometimes transformation can be like death, and sometimes death can be transformative. Sometimes destruction has meaning. But the self-sacrifice these women are undergoing is senseless. It's wasteful and disheartening. Martyrdom requires a certain level of consciousness, a triumphant awareness of one's own power and agency. From the stands, it might have looked like the Christians who allowed themselves to be eaten by lions were participating in their own ignominy and annihilation. But the narrative they were living was different from the narrative the Romans wrote for them. These Christians didn't succumb to suffering: they turned suffering into liberation.

I wish I could say that the contestants on The Swan were performing a similar alchemy. I wish that they were turning the paradigm that created this show—that created their desire to be on this show—inside out. I wish I could say that they were entering this beauty contest only to transform what it means to be beautiful. I wish I could say that, but I can't. These women are entering this beauty contest to transform what it means to be themselves, and they're letting the Fox network and a team of plastic surgeons define that transformation.

[BOSTON GLOBE ARTICLE VIA CHICA.]

Either this guy is heterosexual...

…or he is the author of the greatest Freudian slip of all time. On the last episode of "Playing It Straight," he actually uttered the words, "We're all just spinning our wheels, trying to top each other." [emphasis added]

Sunnydale, 90210

First, watch Jason Priestley and Emma Caulfield in the made-for-TV movie I Want to Marry Ryan Banks on ABC Family at 8pm Friday, March 12 or 10pm Saturday, March 13.

Then go back to where it all began with "Must Be a Guy Thing"—the Beverly Hills 90210 episode where Emma and Jason first meet—on FX at 9am, Tuesday, March 16.

On March 25, at 8pm, Priestley makes his first appearance on Tru Calling, Fox's new (and, in my opinion, egregiously stupid) show starring Eliza Dushku.

Finally, get out your Buffy season four DVD and cue up "Doppelgängland", the first episode to feature both Emma and Eliza.

A Few New Rules for The OC Drinking Game

On the first few episodes of The OC, he was a tom-catting jock assbasket. After he saw his dad kissing another guy, he became Ryan's eager sidekick. Next, he starting romancing hot mom Julie Cooper. Now, he's a sensitive, guitar-strumming font of relationship advice. What can't this boy do? Raise your glass high and take a drink whenever the show reveals yet another facet of Luke Ward, Renaissance man.

One night will remind you how we touched and went our separate ways… Chino likes Journey? Anytime we get a clue to Ryan's musical tastes, that's a drink. If he ever cranks up "Lady", that's a three drink minimum. Ryan Atwood jammin' on the air guitar? Beer bong, obvs.

When Kaitlin, Marissa's make-believe sister and Julie Cooper's pretend daughter shows up? That's one drink for you. If a new child actress shows up in the role, take three. If the new child actress is conspicuously older or younger than the current child actress: shotgun a six-pack.

This is not so much a new rule as a personal vow: If Oliver Trask returns, I'm drinking all the liquor that's in my house at the time. Had it happened last night, that would have meant downing half a bottle of curacao, nearly a liter of apricot brandy, and a few ounces of triple sec. If grenadine counts, too, then Oliver's reappearance would equal the girliest girly girl drink of all time—and that seems just about right.

[COMPLETE AND UPDATED RULES TO THE OC DRINKING GAME CAN BE FOUND AT EDGE CITY CHRONICLE. MANY THANKS TO OLD HAG FOR INTRODUCING ME TO THE WORD "ASSBASKET".]

90210 Cast Member Makes a Guest Appearance? Kegstand!

Is it wrong to play drinking games alone, or just sad?

Hell, I don't care. All I know is, it's Wednesday night, I've got a pitcher of Rude Cosmopolitans, and Luke is gettin' it on with his ex-girlfriend's mom! How many drinks is that worth?

[PROPS TO THE REAL JANELLE FOR THE O.C. DRINKING GAME HOOK-UP.]

Speaking of Celebrities and Free Shit...

Tori Spelling's Wedding Registry at Tiffany & Co.

And, if you're not willing to drop $675 on a sterling silver carriage clock, you can always head over to Williams-Sonoma and pick up a nice springform pan for 40 bucks. Apparently, the future Mrs. Shanian likes to bake.

[PROPS TO CHIP'S SPY NOTEBOOK FOR THE TIFFANY LINK, ALTHOUGH I'M GUESSING THAT THE ORIGINAL SOURCE WAS GAWKER.]

Casting Call: The Simple Life 2

You know what totally pisses me off? All the free shit celebrities get just for showing up. I mean, I know the Golden Globes are kind of bullshit, but is going to Sundance really that awful? Is it necessary to bribe the a-list with a free facial at the Fred Segal Beauty Spa & Salon at the Village at The Lift in Park City (honest to god, that's what's it's called in a press release)? Seriously, the sight of Paris Hilton stuffing a bag full of Silk Groom and Ultra Facial Moisturizer at the Kiehl's Emporium made me want to puke. She's not just rich: She's famous for being rich. Arrggghhh!

Anyway, it appears that the hotel heiress/socialite is once again looking for free room and board. This time, she and Nicole are taking it on the road, traveling from town to town in search of minimum-wage jobs and rural hotties. If you'd like to invite these young ladies into your home and educate them in the ways of the non-wealthy, there's a casting call going on for The Simple Life 2.

[PROPS TO MY FIANCÉ, TED, FOR THE CASTING CALL TIP. HE DOESN'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THIS SORT OF THING HIMSELF, SO HE DOES IT ALL FOR LOVE.]

[PHOTO COPYRIGHT © 2003 BY ADAM HARRIS. PHOTO BY JEFF COLEY.]

Oliver Trask: Sneaky Fucker

While we await a new episode of The OC, I offer this for your consideration: Oliver Trask is a sneaky fucker. This is not a generic judgment about his propensity for prevarication; rather, it is a hypothesis about his place in the reproductive hierarchy of the show. "Sneaky fucker" is a phrase first used in this context by evolutionary biologist John Maynard Smith. He was describing males who, despite their subordinate status, manage to get some.

Ryan is, obviously, the alpha male in this teen drama. He's a taciturn young man—he doesn't bust out in raucous pant-hoots, nor does he engage in any ostentatious chest-pounding—but he has a commanding physical presence, and he's always a twitch away from punching somebody in the face. If he were an orangutan or a chimpanzee, he would have free and abundant access to the females of his troop.

While Oliver has status derived from wealth, the heir to a hotel fortune just doesn't emit the the hot, hot pheremones of a ripped working-class kid with a history of violence. Thus, in order to get access to the ladies, he must strategize. Ryan might lock horns with the simian Luke and win, but he cannot outwit the wily Oliver.

What is Oliver's primary weapon? Feminine pity. While Marissa trusts that Ryan can take care of himself, she believes that Oliver needs her sympathy and her care. It's an ignoble tactic, to be sure, but a powerful one. Oliver's greatest strength is, paradoxically, his willingness to appear utterly helpless. When Ryan finally hauls off and splits Oliver's lip, Marissa isn't impressed by the brute power of her man; she's horrified by the damage done to the frail Oliver.

In a recent posting, I passed along my pal Griffin's suggestion that Oliver is, in fact, a girl—and not just any girl, but a bad girl, a girl like 90210's magnificently evil Valerie. I still find this characterization compelling. By suggesting that Oliver is a sneaky fucker, I am not refuting this depiction; I am, instead, adding another layer.

Oliver Trask, certainly, occupies a space somewhere between the feminine and masculine ideals. Neither precisely male nor precisely female, he works both sides. In closing, I ask: Did you notice, in the scenes from the next episode, how small his gun is?

I'd Rather Marry Dylan McKay

"Why fall in love if you can't do it on TV?"

Is there anything I enjoy more than a made-for-TV movie featuring a "90210" cast member? Well, yes, there are a lot of things—kittens, grappa, my new Kenneth Cole boots, for instance—but I really do enjoy catching up with Tori, Jennie, and the rest of the West Beverly gang. Thus, last night found me on the sofa, watching a not-quite-crappy movie starring not one but two "90210" alums—Jason Priestley and Emma Caulfield—in an ABC Family joint, "I Want to Marry Ryan Banks".

Jason Priestley plays a hot actor on the verge of becoming B-list. In an effort to rescue his reputation from various tabloid debacles and save his imperiled career, his agent and some network execs come up with a reality show in which various young ladies compete for the hand of Ryan Banks. Emma Caulfield's character, Charlie, becomes a somewhat reluctant contestant when her sister surreptitiously tapes her and sends the video to the show's producers. In true romantic comedy fashion, there's a monkey wrench: Charlie totally hits it off with Todd, Ryan's manager and one of the show's producers, even though Todd tells her that, eventually, she'll fall for Ryan, because "everyone does." Yeah, right. Hasn't this guy ever seen a made-for-TV movie? The ending is a masterpiece of exposition, and nevertheless unbelievably unbelievable—unless you've ever seen a made-for-TV movie.

The plot is Mischa Barton-thin, and the writers—to their credit—do nothing to disguise the obvious. Like a love TelePrompTer (or Cyrano de Bergerac with a three-button suit and a headset), Todd feeds the emotionally retarded Ryan all his most endearing lines. Poor Todd. He's such a sweetie, and so very much cuter than the ostensible star. Seriously: Jason Priestley looks like hell. I guess all that drunk driving is catching up with him.

Priestley plays a tool quite convincingly. You've got to admire an actor who can run the gamut from California University student body president to celebrity asshole. You've also got to appreciate the pathos of Priestley playing an actor who is much more popular than he has ever been or is likely ever to be.

As for Charlie, she's a smart, attractive gal with a casually elegant style. She also has a boy's name, which means that she's spunky and down-to-earth. Finally, she's Anya. What's not to love?

Aside from the comfortably predictable story, "I Want to Marry Ryan Banks" offers some amusing commentary on entertainment in the age of synergy and corporate sponsorships. As someone who works in marketing, I get a little thrill every time I hear the word "signage" outside the office. It's nice to know that others speak my language.

The movie also has a surprisingly sharp take on reality TV. Other shows pitched to the network include "School Bully", "No Longer Homeless", and "Vegetable"—"Eight families, each of them with someone on life support…." Within minutes of their meeting, Charlie's roommate is talking about "alliances", succinctly illustrating everything that's gone wrong with reality shows pretty much since the second season of "Survivor": reality show participants now know what a "reality show" is. Thus, the reality show—which was from its inception only tenuously connected to reality as you and I know it—is now about as natural as Olestra, or a sonnet. It has its own proscribed narrative arc, its own rules and roles. In another gorgeously savvy moment, Charlie's roommate tries to explain that she understands her by announcing, "I'm an actress: I've played your character before."

The show's most poignantly honest moment comes not from the love story, but from Charlie's attempt to hide herself from the cameras while fixing a midnight snack. The idea that a girl can't eat a damn sandwich without fear of alienating the American viewing public was all too real.

Let's see, what else? I have a new favorite verb: black-bar. Getting ready to film a segment in a swimming pool, the show's producers ask Ryan if he has a pair of trunks, and he replies, "Nah. I'll just black-bar it." Nice. There's a third "90210"-er in a supporting role, the guy who played Joe, Donna's quarterback/virgin boyfriend (God, that kid was such a drip). And there's a montage of Charlie and Todd getting to know each other. Every movie should have a montage. And, oh my yes: the lady network exec leaves hand-in-hand with one of the rejected contestants. Is this the beginning of hot girl-on-girl action on ABC Family? We can only hope.

A quick search of Yahoo! TV reveals that "I Want to Marry Ryan Banks" will be showing again at 8pm tonight, which, of course, conflicts with "My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé" on Fox at 9. It will, however, be on again at 8pm and 10pm this Saturday. It's totally worth watching if you a.) still kind of miss "90210" or b.) have absolutely nothing else to do.

Oliver Trask: L'homme Fatale

The night before Thanksgiving, I was sitting in my parents' living room watching TV. During a commercial break, my celullar started ringing. I checked to see who was calling—it was my friend Griffin—and thought to myself, "Dude, don't you know that The OC is on?" Then I realized that Griffin totally knew that The OC was on because he was watching it, too, and that he was calling me because we had just witnessed two men totally making out in primetime. I picked up to hear Griffin ask, "Did you see that?"

We chatted for a moment, until I got a call from our mutual friend, Katherine, who also wanted to know if I had seen that. Then we all had to stop talking because the show was back on.

I mention this touching anecdote because it is part of an emerging pattern. The OC is shaping up to be the most subversive show on network television. Before the gay makeout, there was Summer's use of the word "pubes". Now, they have given us TV's first male femme fatale. I am speaking of Oliver, the poor little rich boy.

I cannot take credit for this observation (nor am I the originator of homme fatale: that would be my pal Seth Sonderling). My analysis of this character went no further than thinking he was a total pussy, totally not worth the romantic Sturm und Drang he's been provoking. But then yesterday, I got this message from Griff:

I am watching last night's OC (on tape) and realizing that Oliver may be the first male Val in teen TV drama. He is basically a girl, using girl tactics to break up a relationship. All the guys see how bad he is, but the girls can't see it.

Griffin is right on. I mean, only girls fake suicide attempts in order to win sympathy and, hopefully, love. And that girlfriend he's always talking about, but who never materializes? He is totally making her up, and that is a totally girl thing to do. He's working the crazy angle, and that is classic female relationship pathology. Griffin's canny observation has turned Oliver into a fascinating character. No longer just a lying, pretentious punk-ass bitch, he is now a gender-bending avatar of romantic chaos.

God bless The OC.

MORE Oliver Trask: Sneaky Fucker

An Open Letter to the Writers of The Simpsons

I know you're totally out of ideas—didn't Homer build a robot in episode 272, "Homer the Moe"?—but killing cats is not funny. I was still reeling from the untimely death of Snowball II—a character who has been with the show since the beginning—when Snowball III was unceremoniously dispatched from the Simpson family. Then Coltrane—a wee kitten!—was pitched out a second-storey window, ostensibly for laughs. Yes, the way in which you used the death of Lisa's cats as a satirical jab at the first law of the sitcom was almost funny, but this new disrespect for Simpson family pets is unseemly. It's like when they used to introduce a new kid on 90210, only to have him explode in a car crash or have her turn out to be crazy: This show (in its current incarnation, anyway) simply isn't good enough to justify bringing on new characters just to make them sacrificial plot points. Are you trying to make the show so reprehensible and devoid of laughs that no one will miss it when it goes off the air? If so, you are beyond totally out of ideas, and the writers responsible for the last couple seasons of Seinfeld should sue your unfunny asses for theft of intellectual property.

The OC Flowchart

I had to fight my way through many layers of office bureaucracy to get access to the color laser printer. I had to get forms signed. But, since I really do have legitimate business reasons for using it, I was ultimately triumphant.

How often have I used it for legitimate business purposes? Just once, but my presentation was so much more persuasive in mesmerizing color than it would have been in uninspired, uninspiring grayscale.

Mostly, I use the color printer for stuff like The OC Flowchart, a PDF oddity posted at The Black Table. It's a little out of date—it doesn't reflect the startling events of Thanksgiving and Chrismukkah—and I don't really have trouble remembering that Luke is Marissa's ex or that Anna is from Pittsburgh, but it's much more fun to look at than the marketing department org chart that used to hang in its place.

Are You Hot?

I teach a class called "The History of Gender" to high school students. Right now, we're slogging through ancient Greece. I find it all terribly interesting, but one of my students recently informed me that the class is "not as sexy" as he thought it would be, and I think he was speaking for his colleagues. So, this we week took a pop culture break to watch an episode of Joe Millionaire. We've devoted a lot of time to discussing the physical appearance of participants in the show. Is Zora fat or isn't she? Concensus is that she is not, but that she is fat for TV. Is Sarah a natural blonde? My students all agree that she is not. No one, it seems, finds Evan at all hot. I've tried to explain that, regardless of our individual opinions, Evan is supposed to be hot—in the universe of the show, he is hot. Clearly, I have not had a lot of success making this conceptual point, as the response tends to be, "But he is so not hot?"

I should point out that only the girls in the class are willing to voice an opinion on Evan's level of attractiveness, while the boys keep their views—if they have them—to themselves. I should also point out that the girls all think Evan is a doofus, and I believe this colors their feelings about his attractiveness. Their opinions about the attractiveness of the women on the show is similarly biased: They don't care if Zora dyes her hair, because she is nice; with Sarah, on the other hand, dark roots are the outward sign of her dark, greedy, duplicitous soul.

All of this, I believe, goes some way towards explaining why a show like Are You Hot cannot work. Somehow, I was unaware of this program's existence, but Heather Havrilesky offers a scary synopsis and analysis at Salon. While it's undeniably pleasant to look at hot people, it's even more pleasant when there's some sort of emotional connection. And, that connection has to be there in order for public humiliation to be entertaining. Would watching Mojo get the boot have been as much fun without the love poetry, without the sad, bizarre jigsaw puzzle? I think we can all agree that the answer is "no."

On a tangential note, while looking at gender roles on Joe Millionaire, my students and I discovered that Paul the butler is neither man nor woman. While he is certainly male, he has low status, no money, he has access to both Evan's quarters and the women's wing, he's a foreigner, and he's bitchy, all of which makes him suspiciously unmasculine.

This Is What Every Girl Dreams Of?

The ladies of Joe Millionaire use the phrase "fairy tale" a lot. This irritates me. In part, it's a cultural thing: I'm part of the ironic tribe, and I generally find expressions of wide-eyed sincerity or golly-gee naïveté slightly embarrassing. Still, even after adjusting for my cynical attitude, I remained disturbed. Trying to get to the bottom of my distaste, I thought, "Grown women just shouldn't…." It took me awhile to finish the sentence, but finally, I thought, "Grown women just shouldn't believe in fairy tales."

It almost felt heretical, just thinking it. It just seemed so cold and grumpy, so lacking in whimsy and childlike wonder. But, really, fairy tales are crap. (By "fairy tales," I am referring to the Disneyfied variety, because I assume this is what the ladies of Joe Millionaire mean. I don't think they're talking about the kind of fairy tale where, for instance, Little Red Riding Hood gets eaten by the wolf and that's that because disobedient girls deserve what they get. That kind of fairy tale is crap for different reasons.) While ending up with a prince instead of an ogre might have been an understandable aspiration for women who had no options besides marriage and no say over whom they married, snagging a prince is neither a particularly glorious achievement nor a laudable goal for contemporary American women.

I find myself bristling every time one of these women declares that "This is what every girl dreams of." What is the "this" to which they refer? The French chateau? The millionaire with hyacinth locks? Competing with several other women for the attentions of one man? Letting that one man call all the shots? Looking for love in the wholly artificial and always-sleazy setting of a Fox "reality" show? While I admit to daydreaming about the luxurious world-travel aspect of the show, I can't say that any other elements of the Joe Millionaire universe correspond to fantasies I've cherished and honed since childhood.

I suspect that "this" refers primarily to Evan's princely status as a (supposedly) wealthy hunk. One of the assumptions fundamental to the show—aside from the idea that women shouldn't mind being lied to—is that every woman wants a rich man. This is not quite the same as assuming that every woman wants to be rich; a woman might accomplish that on her own. No, the dream, according to Joe Millionaire, is scoring a rich man.

Of course, as Carina Chocano points out in this column for Salon, Joe Millionaire does deserve modest props for even acknowledging that there is such a thing as class in America, even if they do it in a sexist and ham-fisted way. (The last time I remember seeing income disparity depicted on TV was that episode of Friends where Joey, Phoebe, and waitress Rachel let their more lucratively employed pals know that they can't afford lavish entertainments like tickets to a Hootie and the Blowfish concert.) On the flipside, Joe Millionaire does, as Chocano explains, perpetuate the fantasy that class-jumping is as easy as putting on a designer dress that belongs to the guest staying in the hotel room you're cleaning. (The New York Times article Chocano references can be found here.)

"If a man is bad, he will be bad to you."

A couple of weeks ago, I was watching a Buffy rerun on FX. During a commercial break, there was a promo for the show, which featured an interview snippet with James Marsters, the actor who plays Spike. I turned the sound back on, and immediately wished that I hadn't.

I like Spike, by which I mean like-like. I find him hot—not Angel-hot, but hot. I found James Marsters not so much to my liking. It was disconcerting to be looking at Spike, the sinewy punk vampire, while hearing a slightly geeky American gushing about how wonderful his castmates are. I hit the mute button as fast as I could, but I remained concerned that my crush on Spike had been irreparably damaged.

After reading this profile of Marsters from The New York Times, though, I found myself rather taken with the actor and wondering, sheepishly