It's a Small, Small State of Rhode Island

 

I wouldn't give you even this much for 

your new legislation.

Here's a misnomer for ya: Rhode Island.  It's not an island.  It's also not a Rhode, but I won't split hairs. 

Something else that's misleading is the idea that civil unions achieve some sort of parity to marriage.  They don't.  Neither legally nor metaphorically are these things the same.  Plus, there's no getting around the fact that popping the question, "Will you unionize with me?" lacks a lot in eloquence and sense.  Unless you're Norma Rae Webster.

This past week the governing body of Rhode Island passed legislation to permit same-sex civil unions, piggybacking onto the historic New York state passage of same-sex marriage.  There are so many reasons why this is just a ridiculously poor effort that is also badly timed.  Even Rhode Island's governor, Lincoln Chafee, knew he was on the wrong side of the civil rights highway.  He bashed the bill even as he signed it into law.

Here's my feeling: From now to eternity there's a line in the sand, on one side is marriage, on the other institutionalized bigotry.  And all the rest is just chin music by bloviating, prevaricating politicians and their lackeys.

The state legislators of the little (in all senses) Rhode Island can take their piece of unions sop and shove it up their asses.

See what I mean about misnomers.  We're really not that civil.

Why is Tracy Morgan doing this to me?

Raise your hands if you're a bigot.

Aargh.  The webosphere is all aflutter about Tracy Morgan's bitterly homophobic rant during a stand-up performance in Nashville.  People are outraged.  People are virulent.  This is fine, but let me explain something to you all: Mr. Morgan is not behaving badly in order to hurt you.  He's doing this to hurt me, personally.

A few years ago Mr. Morgan was caught up in similar scandal.  That is, acting like a tool about gay folks.  I had a dark night of the soul where I considered no longer watching 30 Rock - then my very favoritest show.  But then came the apology.  It seemed sincere.  Or maybe I just wanted it to seem sincere.  Because I got to keep watching my beloved show, without any heavy guilt weighing down on me.

But it's deja vu-time.  (What's that famous George W. Bush proverb?  About the fool who can't get fooled again?)  I can't be that foolish, can I?  Because I still love you 30 Rock.  Admittedly not as much as I love Community or The Good Wife, but still oodles and oodles.

I guess I could compartmentalize.  I could rationalize.  Like when you watch Triumph of the Will, and think it's okay to acknowledge that this is superlative filmmaking.  I'm just responding to the aesthetics, not the message or the meaning is what you say, you know, at parties.  But I don't really want to do that here.  Sitcoms should be fun and easy, not demanding.  I really shouldn't have to work to suppress feelings of rage or anger.  That's why I won't watch anything called Two and a Half Ann Coulters.

Tina Fey, I bought your book in hardcover (something I do so rarely - because I'm nearly out of shelf space).  So you know I support you, but...

Here comes the classic break-up line:  I want to tell you Liz, Jack, Jenna, Kenneth, Frank, Pete, and Danny - It's not you, it's Tracy.

Single Female Director

One is the loneliest number

One of the least involving or distinguished Oscar ceremonies in memory is over.  And everyone is rushing to point out what was so very bad about every aspect of it.  Some of it's deserved criticism, some just catty and pointless.

But I must take issue with Television Without Pity's condemnation of Hilary Swank's intro, highlighting the sex of last year's Best Director: "Really? We're still singling Kathryn Bigelow out for being a female director? What year is it, again, Oscars?"

I'll answer that.  It's just one short year after a female director finally won that award.  After 82(!) straight years of men winning the damn thing.  So, why mention it?  Maybe to prevent such a staggering drought from happening again.

Better yet, to prod this year's Academy voters toward the realization that Winter's Bone and The Kids Are All Right didn't direct themselves into Best Picture Nominees.  In fact, for my money (a paltry sum to be sure), Lisa Cholodenko should have won.

A big hole in the doughnut revolution

Here's something that bothers me: When the zeitgeisters decide there's a revolution happening all over the world, that's really occurring within about a three to four block radius.

Over the past couple months I've been reading articles and seeing reports about the gourmet doughnut industry that's sweeping the nation.  That's right, the whole big nation.  Provided every state except New York and California has recently seceded from the U.S.

Because, as per usual, if you want the scrumptious, handmade, locally sourced, free-range, touched-by-angels, lumps of organic lard pictured above, you're going to have to live in New York City or Los Angeles.  Otherwise, you'll be enjoying the same overly processed, husks of sugar and fat that are available at the corporate donut emporiums on every street corner.

And doughnuts are a stand-in for everything.  Not just food (but, really, the food is better - compare the baked goods at Bouchon Bakery to anywhere else).  But also, more significantly, prosperity.  Wall Street and the big banks have returned to their natural fiscally overabundant state, while teachers in Wisconsin and Indiana are staging the fights of their lives so the government can't railroad their unions.  Los Angeles and San Francisco housing prices have come back to record levels, while the rest of the country has seen housing dip again.  In December, home prices were at their lowest since before the recession began.

The hole most Americans find themselves in now stretches from sea to shining Nevada.  That's too big.

So here's my plan: Let's all move.  Big cities are designed to accommodate millions - so what's a couple hundred million more?  Yes, it will be messy.  There will be a culture clash to end all others.   Closet space will overnight become the new gold standard.  But it will prove a point - that we're all tired and crazy.  That trendwatching is not a real job.  That "we the people" are a damn lot of people.

At the very least it will put the fear of God into our corporate overlords at Dunkin' Donuts.

Charlie Sheen does not have cancer

Now that CBS is considering dumping their eternal problem child, it appears the "Save Charlie" campaigns are about to commence in earnest.  The first salvo being fired by his father, actor Martin Sheen.  He told Sky News of his undying support, saying "If he had cancer, how would we treat him? The disease of addiction is a form of cancer..."

I like Martin Sheen as an actor and a person.  I think it's only right that he stand by a son in crisis.  But I think comparing his troubles to the ones facing persons with cancer is just egregious bollocks.

People choose to take drugs.  No one has ever chosen to have cancer.  Moreover, if the addiction is too strong for an individual, there are many facilities that will train you to be better.  There is no rehab for cancer patients painfully dying from disease.  Therefore this is the falsest of equivalencies.

Memo to CBS:  I hear you're worried about whether the show can continue without Mr. Sheen.  Trust me, if his exploits so far and the fact that the program has become awful and unfunny, have not turned away viewers - well, this thing is pretty much bulletproof.

Maybe look into the availability of Liz Lemon's soul-mate.  He's funny, and you wouldn't have to change the name on the parking space.

Support David Wojnarowicz, Stop the Smithsonian

Dear reader(s),

When I was in high school, I knew I was gay and never breathed a word of it.  Back then the motto of AIDS activists was "Silence = Death."  It could have wound up being my epitaph.  Because, during my moratorium of gay expression, I found myself growing ever more isolated and depressed.  I entertained thoughts of suicide.  One day while looking through an art exhibition article I discovered the image and text reproduced above: a work by David Wojnarowicz.

It changed my world.

The dark vacuum of my experience burst into a litter of stars.  All these points of sunlight that linked me to persons and ideas that came before, a constellation of freedoms denied and desired.  I knew I was not going to extinguish myself, because that was not the correct answer to any of the questionable punishments the world might try to inflict on me.  It's all made clear in Mr. Wojnarowicz's text, and I knew it was true in the heart inside my head.

After that I found Mr. Wojnarowicz's memoir, Close to the Knives.  Perhaps the most significant book I've ever read.  You will search and search for something as shimmeringly beautiful, heartbreakingly honest, and vigorously pitiless--and likely come up empty.  Everyone should read it.  In my opinion, everyone on planet Earth should read it.

When I found out that the Smithsonian was pulling the David Wojnarowicz work "A Fire in My Belly" from the National Portrait Gallery's landmark Hide/Seek exhibition, my heart sank.  Because it was possible that someone who needed very badly to learn from Mr. Wojnarowicz would not have that opportunity.  They would be stymied by uninformed Republican leaders and bigoted religious leaders, now, when a message of hope is ardently necessary for gay (and straight) youth.

If you can do something, please do it.  If you can help someone, help them now.  Don't follow the shameful example of the Smithsonian directors and detractors.  Censorship has never helped a single person in history.  But people die from what can't be found in sight every day.

Don't Call It a Closet

One thing that happened during the depression of the 1930's was that entertainments (films, plays, etc...) became more and more lavish.  The thinking being that people wanted to visit worlds that lifted them out of their burdensome existence and placed them someplace grand and rarefied--financial security being so very rare.  It was a sound principal, and many of these flicks made a profit because of it.

However, the unrich patrons were not being duped by anyone.  If you read some news-clippings from that period, the ticket-buyers were well aware of the placebo effect of a few hours spent admiring mansions bedecked with women in festive ball-gowns, all wondering how to get Cary Grant to kiss them before the big fade out.

Our own Great Recession has been a whole lot less egalitarian.  There are no cleverly crafted distractions, no attempts to massage the knotted minds of those who are struggling.  Of course, without a prevailing studio system that really can't happen now.  Instead, what has cropped up is a newfound favoring of the Arts & Leisure & Design & High Fashion crowd as entertainment.

There's just one problem: It's disgusting.

Because these endless articles and shows and websites seem to exist solely to delineate the impenetrable line between the having much and the having little.  And those persons connected to the super-wealthy (who may or may not be such themselves) don't want to be thought of as aspirational, merely exclusive.

Take a recent Home and Garden article in the NYTimes.  A woman who is known for her exclusive and expensive home-cleaning service is supposedly having her apartment profiled by the paper of record.  But instead of descriptions of her wainscoting, we get a description of the intensely comprehensive method her cleaners use for her famous clients.  She mentions how her people will actually take apart cabinets and dressers, simply to clean the runners.  This is nuts.  But she defends her insanity, saying some people have specially designed closets by, for example, Linda London, and these can cost as much as $20,000.

So far, so wasteful: but here's where it gets better.  Someone from the Times must have contacted Ms. London about her services being mentioned.  And she insisted on correcting these erroneous statements.  She does not design closets, but "dressing rooms."  Moreover, the cost for these rooms is typically far above $20,000.

Apparently the suggestion that she would create a storage space for only twenty grand would give the impression that she works for paupers.  I think the oxygen must be pretty thin way up on Ms. London's high horse, if she thinks such comments are appropriate in this economic climate.  Or, truly, anytime ever.

But her attitude is indicative of a whole culture gone flooey.  You're either a someone who's worried about the possible posting of an eviction notice, or someone whose fiefdom might as well be littered with signs that read, "No peasants allowed."  Certainly not in the dressing room.

Things Nobody is Telling You

 

Dear subscriber:  Please no questions.

I have decided to start a new informative feature on this here interblog.  These missives will attempt to explain (or simply demonstrate) how something that should be dandy is actually a minefield of problems.  That is, all the things you should know but wouldn't because nobody is making them explicit.

The first party up for review is the DVD/Online Media subscription service--Netflix.

Here are some things you should know: They still throttle.  A lot of people are under the impression that because of the class action suit, which they paid a lot of money to settle, the activity of throttling had ceased.  (By the by, throttling is when Netflix denies film titles that are in demand to customers that the company feels is using the service too frequently.  That is, getting a large number of DVDs per month.)  But all they did was re-word the service agreement to allow for throttling without impediment by law.  You see, what they mean when they say subscribers can have unlimited rentals is: Please limit yourself, or we will.

No. 2: You will not have access to new Warner Bros. and other studio titles until one month after they are released.  Netflix made a deal with WB to delay renting their latest films in exchange for making more of their back catalog (i.e. the films you've already seen or made the choice to avoid like plague) available for instant viewing.  WB feels this delayed gratification will cause subscribers to rush out and purchase their DVDs.  And while you're out you may as well get it on Blu ray, and come back in a couple months for the Special Edition, and a year after that for the Anniversary Edition...

The above is correlative to No. 3:  Instant viewing is mostly crappy.  By that I don't mean the titles, but rather the execution.  Whether watching on your home computer or HDTV, unless you have a connection that is Microsoft HQ-speedy and wholly free of glitches, the picture and sound are fuzzed and twitchy at best.  The fault of connection speeds cannot be laid at Netflix's door.  But I would rather they stick to their primary mandate--mailing your film choices quickly and seamlessly--than depreciate that service just to amplify the number of movies that you can watch stutter and pixelate on your new big screen TV.

(Feb. 2011 Update: Netflix's instant viewing is a lot better now, even with only a moderately speedy connection.  There are also many more HD titles that look pretty good.  If you're going to go with only an Instant subscription, I can't argue against it.)

No. 4:  Many Fox titles you receive will be stripped of their special features.  Fox, and its affiliate studios, have taken to removing the extras you typically find on DVD releases in exchange for bare-bones presentations.  In many cases, though, the Netflix pages for these films will still indicate that these special features are on the discs.  I know many people don't care about extra features, but these films also won't contain Director's Cuts or Extended versions of the films themselves--that is something customers might well choose over theatrical versions.  The reason behind this: Fox wants to sell (not rent) its wares.

No. 5:  Netflix's customer service is sorely (and surprisingly) lacking.  Sorely, because the reps you speak to either have no clue about which disc side is up, or are pretending to know nothing.  Either way, you're screwed.  Surprisingly, because there is no way to communicate with customer service via the Netflix website or by email.  This seems more than passing strange for an internet-based megalith.  But it does mean there's no electronic paper trail when a rep tells you over the phone that they have no knowledge of why Warner Bros. flicks aren't available, or what might be happening to the Fox films.  Both statements that have been interpolated to me.

So, caveat emptor.  But if you're looking for a sort of, kinda solution...  What I've done is drop my Netflix membership from three titles at a time to one.  And I've picked up the cheapest Blockbuster rental option.  This way I can get any WB films immediately, and Fox titles with their special features (though I get these on Blu ray--no extra charge on Blockbuster, four dollar surcharge on Netflix).  I now pay an extra two bucks per month, but I get the perks and avoid most of the headaches involved with these services.  Or you could just subsist on rabbit ears and YouTube.  That might be the most Zen choice of all

Team Conan Rules All

Oh, NBC.  Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Now is the time for all good men (and women) to come to the aid of this great host and our once-great talk-show institution.

P.S.  The fact that he declared that he would not want to screw over Jimmy Fallon and the Late Night franchise in order to keep a bowdlerized Tonight Show marks him as one helluva stand-up guy.  Just name the time and network, Mr. O'Brien.

This Man is Not an Island

Not interested

I really like travel magazines.  I subscribe to Condé Nast Traveler and Budget Travel.  I also regularly pick up other pubs at the news stand.  During the winter months these magazines all go bug-eyed for tropical locales.  Specifically islands.  And I don't get it.

I mean, I get why someone spending months in the tundra of, say, Minnesota would want to hie him or herself to a sunny beach.  (Though that's not a place I would ever go near.  I grew up in Florida, so I abhor the beach.)  But, why the fixation on islands?

Reading through a random article, here are some of the wonderfully fun things to do on your vacation: Spend a night in a thatched hut on the beach.  Cavort with gigantic robber crabs and other sea life.  Find a tree with coconuts, then knock one down, crack it open and enjoy the raw milk.

Why would I ever want to do these things?  I'd sooner make a list of ideas that represent a waste of vacation time--and put those three near the top.

Trust me, that thatched hut is not going to keep out wind, rain, or bugs.  Those crabs don't want you around, and they will claw your toes to prove that point.  I have tasted fresh coconut milk--it is not worth even half the effort that will go into trying to split that damn shell.

In the same article--I kid you not--the author describes tossing pebbles and watching them skim along the water in the shallow reefs.  So apparently the activity you did as a child when you were completely bored is, on an island, a greatly fun entertainment.

I guess those rocks are made all the more zippy when you realize this is something you get to "enjoy" not far from your $1,000-a-night island suite.

How suite that is?  I don't wanna know.

Polanski: Guilt Reproved, Innocence Undone

Here are the facts: Roman Polanski, at the age of 43, drugged and raped a 13 year-old girl at a Hollywood party.  He admitted to the crime.  A deal was worked out with the judge, prosecution, and defense.  The judge claimed to have second thoughts about this agreement before sentencing.  Mr. Polanski, fearful that he might spend more time in jail, fled the country.  For over thirty years since he has lived in comfort in France and traveled unhindered through Europe.

That free ride may be reaching its vanishing point.  Because he was recently apprehended in Switzerland and is awaiting extradition back to the United States.

And now all manner of hell has broken loose.

Celebrities, directors, and film-world-luminaries have banded together to sign a petition requesting Mr. Polanski's freedom.  These individuals--many of whom are prodigiously talented--represent the very zenith of privileged arrogance.

The commentary has been mind-boggling: Whoopi Goldberg, from her gilded perch on The View, attempted to school her audience on the difference between Mr. Polanski's actions and what she termed, "rape rape."  Ironically, by attempting to somehow vitiate his crime, Ms. Goldberg came up with an apt description of Mr. Polanski's transgression.  It was Rape Rape.  He committed rape by forcing a non-consensual sex act upon another person.  And he committed statutory rape by having sexual contact with a minor.  There is no sidestepping the truth of law in either case.

The famed French intellectual Bernard-Henri Levy has suggested that enough time has passed for we puritanical Americans to just let this one slide already.   He allowed that Mr. Polanski, "perhaps had committed a youthful error."  A youthful error at the ripe and dewy age of 43?  Comments like these bring to mind the Marquise de Merteuil's riposte in Dangerous Liasions: "Like most intellectuals, he is intensely stupid."

Do yourself a favor, take a look at the list of individuals carping for a convicted criminal's unearned freedom: here.  Or maybe you shouldn't.  Because no doubt it can be difficult to reconcile an admiration for a person's art with a disdain for their impecunious morality.

Filmmakers need conflict, trauma, misdeeds, even rape and murder.  No one wants to see a film where the world is pleasant and everyone is nice to each other for an hour and a half.  Audiences want to see this underbelly as well--in fiction and reality.  When tragedy occurs, we open our eyes and ears for every arduous detail.  But it never stops there.  We don't just want crime; we crave punishment.  There is something particular, even peculiar, in the American character that causes us to empathize with the victimized.  So we yearn for justice, desire it so deeply it goes beyond walls, living in the bloodsong beneath our flesh.

Maybe the judge was going to circumvent the deal to which he had agreed.  Maybe he was going to make an example of Mr. Polanski.  We'll never know.  What we do know is that a repulsive crime was committed.  A crime that demands--even unto the passage of decades--some true measure of justice.

Sore of Beauty: SOB

Okay, so I finally got around to watching the premiere of The Beautiful Life: TBL on The CW.  And, aside from some passably decent acting, there is little to recommend.  But that's hardly worth mentioning (especially since the same can be said of Melrose Place, 90210, One Tree Hill, Gossip Girl, etc...).  Rather it is worth mentioning that, in a show about the fashion world, there is exactly one gay character in the large cast--and he's the villain.

The talent scout (played by someone whose name I refuse to even bother looking up on IMDB) is a conniving, lecherous, petty tyrant who attempts to use his influence to extort sexual favors from male clients.  It wouldn't be so galling if there were an even slightly more positive representative of the fairier sex.  Because I'm not one of those folks who insist that gay people can never be evil.  However, for a show set inside this particular milieu to only offer up this bottom-feeding creep as its token sop, seems an egregious statement.

One of the problems with accusing any bit of culture of being homophobic is that the term is bandied about too frequently and without much accuracy.  In this case, though, it fits.  Because the narrative does its darndest to make its poor models--and, by extension, you the viewer--afraid of this gay fiend.

In a previous post I surmised that this show's exec producer, Ashton Kutcher, is likely a smart guy and also potentially homophobic.  While this program hardly attests to his intelligence, it does seem to crystallize the last part of that description.

This show may be someone's idea of a beautiful life, but so far it isn't pretty.

Update: As of today (Sept. 25th) the show has been cancelled.  So, good work sensible viewers for not-totally-wretched TV.  Feel free to continue ignoring The CW every night except Thursday.

A Design Star Dream Deferred (Mine)

Something went seriously off the rails during TV time last night.  I'm not referring to Kanye's ego finally obliterating what little was left of his mind.  Rather I mean the outcome of a less-watched but equally dubious manipulation of the medium: the reveal of HGTV's Design Star of the year.

From the start the competition seemed to be Dan Vickery's (pictured above) to lose.  But I doubt many would have guessed he'd actually lose.  Dear reader, he did.

I have watched all four seasons of Design Star, having found it to be one of the least annoying talent competition shows.  But one thing that disappointed me during the previous three seasons: I didn't care much about who won.  By the time the show had whittled its way to a final twosome, I had always found them both deserving and ably talented.  However, I also knew I would not be watching the winner's show.  None of the previous six finalists were able to break through the blandness that inevitably settled in as we spent more time with each.  Thus I liked the show, but didn't care about the outcome.

That changed this year.  Neither Dan nor his co-finalist, Antonio, were blah.  But, to my mind, only one was deserving of the crown.  Dan's design skill and know-how trumped his competitors' efforts week to week.  Antonio served up a big, disaffected personality alongside relatively minor innovation and ingenuity.  The choice was clear.  Until logic went on a ski vacation with reason and Antonio was named the victor.

The whole megillah would have been easier to take, frankly, if there existed some transparency per the judges' decision.  In fact, this has been a major flaw since the show's inception.  The deliberations of the judges are rendered coy and inscrutable through the use of fast-cutting and never allowing any comment to be directly addressed to any contestant.  It comes across as a bunch of random ideas that shed little to no light on the final decision.  With this year being the first that the judges, rather than the home audience, pick the winner--that flaw has been rendered fatal.

For comparison picture a Project Runway where the contestant who showcases an ill-fitting skirt with a raw, unfinished hem is named the winner without any accompanying explanation.  It would be irritating, and could you still have faith in Michael Kors' design instincts?

The HGTV site has been inundated with angry responders.  So many, in fact, that the first batch of comments has been mysteriously removed and replaced by a more even-keeled selection.  As usual it's still descending into chaos, with Dan supporters railing against Antonio by calling him dirty (because of his tattoos) and talentless.  And people on the other side suggesting that Antonio is a better choice because he's not "so feminine."  Way to take the high road, people.

It's disappointing when something so right goes all wrong.  I don't watch any other programs on the HGTV network, but I was going to make time to give Mr. Vickery's show my attention.  Now I regret that I won't be able to do that and likely won't be watching Design Star again either.  I imagine the higher-ups won't feel too bad about the loss of another viewer--they're certainly not bemoaning their whole channel's loss of integrity.

The HD Hegemony of DirecTV

I have been feeling dismayed by the new season of Project Runway. My dissatisfaction is not rooted in its recent network change or cross-country move to Los Angeles (not a fashion capital, but still adequately equipped with fabric and thread). Rather it's the picture. It's the picture that got, well, not small but fuzzy.

That's because Lifetime, its new network, is not offered in high-def (HD) on my satellite provider, DirecTV. It's a big problem because this is a show that features a lot of bright lighting with white backgrounds. Also, one that encourages a viewer to look closely at small details, such as a bit of trim on the cuff of a sleeve. After all, you need to know exactly why Nina Garcia is employing that certain frown, and not one of the many others in her arsenal.

But distinguishing much of anything is a challenge. Because the image is so soft and the color saturation is so poor. After an hour I've got a headache. And I can't understand why this problem persists. Why does a service that endlessly trumpets its myriad HD capability refuse to add many of the most longstanding basic cable stations?

I decided to investigate. By going to the DirecTV website, I took a gander at the HD channels it has added recently and what is and is not available in high definition. In the past year the overwhelming majority of new HD offerings have been sports channels and packages. In fact, of the 100-plus channels available in HD, more than 50 are sports-centered.

What's not available? Lifetime, Hallmark, WE (Women's Entertainment), Style, E!, Oxygen, Soap channel, etc... Is it me, or do most of these channels have something in common? Namely, they are programmed for and mostly watched by women. These customers don't seem to have the same value as baseball fans.

Another show I had to stop watching because it looked awful was Beautiful People on Logo--the only gay and lesbian-directed channel on the dial. It's certainly very lonely since the PTB at DirecTV banished all of HereTV's content without any sort of explanation. (Don't try to talk me into Bravo. It's gay cred defenestrated itself a while ago, and I refuse to accept that all those bitchy housewives annoy just one demographic.)

Still, is this an effort to disenfranchise non-straight, non-sports-loving, non-males, or is this just aimless whining on my part? Maybe no providers offer these particular channels, you may posit. Well, many do. DishTV, for example, the other major satellite provider, offers most of them in HD. It even has adjacent channels like the Lifetime Movie Network and Hallmark Movie Channel in high-def. Many cable services are also more friendly to women and gay folk, and so are A.T.&T's U-Verse and Verizon's Fios services.

I thought DirecTV really ought to be more accountable to the full range of its subscribers. So I wrote them a letter outlining many of the concerns mentioned above. The response I received from Joan M. was a dismissive, "We don't have any news about upcoming HD channels." But it was the P.S. tacked on to the email that was the real kicker:

P. S. -Football season is almost here! Catch up to 14 games every week this fall with NFL SUNDAY TICKET, now available at directv.com/nfl.

P. P. S. -Joan, you and your satellite company just don't get it. The ball I'm most interested in watching is the one you guys have dropped. Maybe you could pick it up soon.

Like reading, GOOP is fundamental

It seems we've reached a saturation point with celebrity controversy. Because now you really have to go looking for the ones that don't involve sex tapes or a combo of the phrases "Disney starlet" and "stripper pole." For example, I was researching some info about a literary agent and suddenly found myself knee-deep in a contretemps between Gwyneth Paltrow and the publishing world's bloggers.

It seems Ms. Paltrow's web-destination, GOOP, has been flagged for recommending books it oughta not be recommending. Ones that serve the self-interests of her friends.

Disclaimer: I am greatly fond of Ms. Paltrow's work as an actor. I wish she'd cut through some of the extraneous goop that surrounds her and find the gumption to make more movies.

But I disagree with the literati in their castigation of her website's summer reading list.

Some of it's just plain ridiculous. Halogen Life has a problem with the list's referral to a large number of works by Alan Furst. In response to this Christopher Roy Correa writes, "So, any book by this guy. That helps." Well, if you've never heard of the author, it is helpful. And it's not like Alan Furst is equivocal to Jackie Collins.

But it seems that's also the problem. Many bloggers are attacking the highbrow nature of the selections. Ms. Paltrow herself lists both The Count of Monte Cristo and As I Lay Dying. Apparently, more people wish the site would follow the dictates of mass media outlets and simply enumerate the same trashy, fun beach-reads.

But the one criticism every site alludes to, first originated on Jezebel in reference to agent Luke Janklow's picks:
"For starters, Janklow himself appears to represent Tilly Bagshawe, author of Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress Of The Game, and Jilliane Hoffman, author of Plea Of Insanity. Of Hoffman, Janklow said in a press release, “Jilliane made my job as her agent incredibly easy – she wrote a perfect book.” Three other authors on Janklow’s recommendations list — Alex Wellen, Gideon Defoe, and Rafael Yglesias, are represented by other agents at Janklow’s agency. Andrew Gottlieb is repped by somebody at Janklow & Nesbit, and thanks Luke Janklow in his acknowledgements. That means of the six authors on Janklow’s recommendations list, his agency represents… six."

Many of these sites now impeach Ms. Paltrow as a corporate shill, but at best she is friend to a corporate shill. Further, to my mind, even that is dubious. Why is it surprising that Mr. Janklow has had opportunity to read mostly his own agency's authors? As a lit agent his time is likely taken up reading unpublished work and the fiction that he and his friends are hoping to support. And it's not like the GOOP is trying to conceal his identity or job function.

At the end of the day it all seems fairly disingenuous for these writers and sites devoted to the book business and its readers to attack someone trying to help their bottom lines. After all, just because a woman falls in love with Shakespeare, it doesn't mean he's the only author she's allowed to cuddle up with in bed.

It's Okay to Be a Qwitter

My friends, I have come here to praise and also bury Ashton Kutcher. Praise because the full-time celebrity crier is actually surprisingly smart and witty. Bury because, though the picture above belies the fact, what he needs most is less coverage.

Everywhere I turn, he's there. Ashton talking about his new movie Spread. Ashton promoting the new series he's producing on The CW. Ashton leading the charge of Twitter Nation. So much twitterpation around Mr. Kutcher, and yet my interest level keeps dropping.

The problem is this: he needs to limit himself. Because it would be a shame if, just as we the people were deciding he's not a poor man's Topher Grace with a weird family set-up, his ubiquity made us not care a whit.

One appearance he should not eschew, though, is his panel presence on Real Time w/ Bill Maher. Here is where he shines most brightly, giving opinions that convey political acumen far beyond your typical Chad Michael Murray interview. He knows his stuff; he's well read and his memory for detail is near-eidetic. Moreover, he's capable of arguing a point with enough tact and good humor that he doesn't come off as self-serious.

Though I would caution him against letting his emotions sally too far ahead of his logic. His animosity toward Dan Savage last year (And I'm still not clear as to why.) came across as unwarranted and homophobic.

To sum up, Mr. Kutcher is proving himself to be an above-average actor, producer, and thinker. Yet he's still routinely placed in the company of mindless self-promoters like Paris or Lindsay. My advice is to stop telling so much and only show up when it's really worthwhile. Maybe then an Ashton appearance will be a welcome treat, not just one more silly tweet.

P.S. - In pointing out to my friend how I had grown tired of looking at Ashton Kutcher's crotch, I realized "Ashton Kutcher's crotch" is a fantastic tongue-twister. Go ahead, try to say it five times fast.

Say My Name- Or Better Yet, Spell It

I was recently considering the fortunes of poor Better Off Ted. Such a good show, yet it can't even seem to muster traction during the summer months while little of worth is being shown on network TV. And I pondered why. My conclusion was that Ted would be better off with a different name.

Here's my hypothesis: Cutesy or clever titles for shows do not make viewers propagate in Peoria. The same guy (Victor Fresco) who is responsible for Ted also created Andy Richter Controls the Universe. Another preciously labeled series that never found significant viewership. Like Ted, it was also a funny and surreal workplace comedy. So, what if it had simply been called The Office? Too late now, that name's taken (for several seasons so far).

Taking a gander at the various popular TV shows over the past twenty years or so, a pattern emerges--simple one word titles or official-sounding initials are best. The highest rated program of the 1990's: E.R. The most popular scripted show of the past decade: C.S.I. By far the most watched comedies of the same period: Friends and Seinfeld.

If you're a network looking for mass market love, short really is sweet. To this day I'm still shocked that a show as refined, urbane, and witty as Frasier was a big hit for so long. But then it wasn't called Frasier Crane: Nutty Radio Doctor.

Heroes' single moniker has somehow reprieved the show through two abysmal seasons. And the executives programming for the summer interim have certainly figured out the formula. What are the shows that are currently recurring again? Monk, and Psych, and Eureka, and Weeds, and Leverage, and (The) Closer are just a few.

Still, success is not exclusively limited by one word or initials. But if the name's longer, it should be bland or indistinct. Think Private Practice, not Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles. Something like Dirty Sexy Money was doomed from the start. The title made it clear that it was trying too hard--well, the title and every episode of the show.

The New Adventures of Old Christine is an interesting case. It's a show that's been on the bubble at the end of every season since it began. Now CBS seems anxious to rebrand it. In promos the show is only ever referred to as Old Christine or simply, Christine. On the same network, How I Met Your Mother (so cutesy) has endured a slow climb to moderate ratings.

Your title can't be too smart for the room. Pushing Daisies was cunning. The name was code for the occupation of the deceased, but also alluded to the Sisyphean task of loving something you can never touch. It was toast. The wordsmithery behind Arrested Development was better and more elaborate than any title for anything ever. In every episode the Bluth clan exhibited all kinds of infantile and regressive behavior while residing in the unfinished model home that symbolized their S.E.C.-seized real estate business. How this show managed to hang on for three seasons, I'll never know.

The exceptions: a name can be moderately clever if it immediately and succintly explains your show's raison d'etre (minus any double entendre). For example, Desperate Housewives or Ghost Whisperer. Or a name can sound clever but actually be nonsensical: Two and a Half Men.

The name game functions for reality TV, too. In my opinion So You Think You Can Dance is a product superior to American Idol. But the latter's audience dwarfs the former. Why? Well, American Idol sounds iconic, even nationalistic. So You Think You Can Dance sounds like some kids' variety program you would have found on Nickelodeon in 1989.

Let me be clear and say that I'm not endorsing all of this uncomplicated banality. CSI: NY, NCIS: LA, Bones, House, etc... These names are so pointlessly enigmatic that some dullard will very soon suggest a film where Nic Cage searches for treasure using clues from the weekly TV schedule.

Looking ahead to the fall, based on my scientific research, some of the shows that will do well include Trauma, Glee, Modern Family, The Good Wife, and Eastwick. Programs with less happy prospects are Accidentally on Purpose and FlashForward. Also, unfortunately, Cougar Town falls onto its own double-sided petard, by being a show featuring Cougars (a high school football team) and cougars (ladies a little too interested in the high school football team). I hope I'm wrong, as I love me some Courtney Cox (forever the most unfairly under-celebrated Friend). Community is either too twee or just perfect, only time will tell.

The biggest question mark is NBC's five nights a week show merely called Jay Leno. The name means nothing to me, but let's see if he's any better off than Ted.

The Ugly Truth: The Fairer is Not the Fainter.

There is nothing egalitarian about the interweb. The people who most often and most ardently speak their minds on its various sites are not prone to fairness or restraint. As a race they seem impetuous and cavalier, not interested in reflection or proofreading. And that would explain the rampant disuse of grammar rules; the sheer number of comment posts that misspell every word including "and" and "the."

One celebrity currently facing vicious and unintelligible attacks by net denizens is Katherine Heigl. The Grey's Anatomy actor has recently had the temerity to complain about something on a chat show. A seventeen-hour workday, to be precise. This caused Lucy on EW.com to angrily respond, "seriously there are ppl out of work that would love a 17 hour day of hard labor, let alone a cushy acting job."

This remark is representative of many others floating in the ether, and wow, is it ever stupid. Because it ignores the context of Ms. Heigl's comment--she was being flippant, not aggreived. Moreover, Ms. Heigl, while surely all-powerful, did not create our situation of vast unemployment. And, though I agree that many people would like to find a job, I don't know of anyone who would "love" an extremely long day of hard labor.

Piling on top of the public's newfound distaste for Ms. Heigl, two of her former co-workers, Judd Apatow and Seth Rogen, publicly unveiled their own contemptuous opinions this week. About a year or two ago, Ms. Heigl responded to a direct question asked by a Vanity Fair reporter. In her answer she admitted that Knocked Up (directed by Apatow, co-starring Rogen) was "a little sexist." Now, Mr. Apatow claims he is still miffed because her comment wasn't followed by an apologetic call to him.

If I were Mr. Apatow, I would call Ms. Heigl and apologize for expecting an apology. Not just because he's too smart not to realize that the actor was hedging her bets by not calling the film exorbitantly sexist (to women and men). But also because, in his three films so far, only she has come close to embodying a woman with a fulsome personality. In fact, he might want to use the phone call to inquire about her availability for his next picture.

Mr. Rogen was much less diplomatic. "I've got to say it's not like we're the only people she said some batsh-- crazy things about," he told Howard Stern. "That's kind of her bag now."

Putting aside the fact that I generally enjoy Apatow and Rogen's output, it amazes me that these two men are apparently so thin-skinned. Anyone who has worked in or around the Hollywood culture knows that this is a place where even so-called friendly colleagues will tender vile and unrepeatable opinions at point-blank range. I can only guess that Mr. Rogen's success has insulated him too well, because how else to explain his still nursing hurt feelings (over a mild, offhand remark) that he needs to share with a nation.

In any event, plenty of hostiles on various sites agree with him, choosing to affirm his venom and diagnosing his co-star as "insane" and "bipolar." I have no doubt that these commentors received their psychiatric degrees from fine institutions, but let's examine Ms. Heigl's craziness a bit.

Who has she attacked? Really, just Isaiah Washington. And that was in response to his making cruel and bigoted statements about her friend. Who has she offended? The writers at Grey's Anatomy (maybe). She said her storylines for a particular season were not deserving of an Emmy. As someone who watched that entire season, I would have to say she was very right.

So really, what crimes has Katherine Heigl committed? Well, she's answered questions honestly. She's stood up against gay-bashing. And she's been considerate enough to step aside so as to insure that another actor will deservedly reap a reward.

These things may not make her popular with the haters, but they sure do make her egalitarian.

The Moral of Kings: No Queens Allowed

The series finale of Kings aired last night. If you have episodes taking up valuable DVR space--or are dutifully waiting for a DVD release--beware spoilers below.

For the handful of us who persevered to the bitter end, it was most bitter for the viewer whose sympathies were engaged by Sebastian Stan's Jack. It would seem that all of the other major characters were granted some measure of redemption, some chance at future happiness. Not so, poor Jack.

Some background: Jack is the king's son, heir to the throne of Shiloh. He is a soldier, respected by his company of men. He is petty, blithe, venal, rageful, jealous, and gay.

Guess which one of those attributes is a problem for father and country? The king makes it clear that Jack can not be what he is and be his son or future king. Interestingly, there is no codifying his nature as something transient or correctable. His father never suggests Jack will need to get over his gayness, just that he will have to deny it forever.

This slim distinction actually represents a kind of quantum leap. Usually in these morality plays the heteronormative character is rather adamant about denying or pathologizing any queer proclivities. The fact that both his parents know and accept his true desires and glibly expect their son to repress himself always is, to my mind, more chilling than simple denial. They are consciously unkind.

But wait, there's more. After Jack has the temerity to stand up to his father, to believe he can lead as himself and not as a fraudulent clone of his dad, that dancing ledge is also made to crumble. When his rebellion is quashed, Jack is isolated from all, save one.

The series concludes with him in captivity with his fake fiancée. It is his evil father's order that he will produce an heir that is less disappointing than himself.

Boy, kinda makes you long for the days when the two guys on Thirtysomething just couldn't touch each other in bed.

Kings was a sometimes nifty, mostly turgid and pretentious show where nobody got off easy. Sort of a modern feudal Sopranos. But no character suffered as much as Jack, and no one deserved some meager serving of grace as much either. The fact that none will ever be offered may not be due to homophobia on the part of its creators, but it might be indicative of something more unfortunate, still.

Because while the show's fictional characters may have been the ones to treat Jack's homosexuality as a crime, it was their real-life writers who meted out his (now everlasting) punishment. In a show full of portentous messages and allegories, the one we divine from Jack's depiction is this: If you're gay, your country might let you fight, but you'll always lose the war.

Citizenship Overboard

I'm worried about us. Something in our collective psyche is coming off the hinges. It's happening in a gradual and indistinct fashion, so we may not be fully aware, but there is an erosion occurring, nonetheless. As Melville once posited, "Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and orange tint begins? So with sanity and insanity."

And everything about this latest brouhaha involving the question of Barack Obama's true origins is located on the insane side of the rainbow. It is an issue that went away months ago, only to resurface everywhere at once. All of the 24-hour news stations have been harping about it, and it was discussed at length on at least two of the evening network newscasts last night.

The fact that there are loads of facts that confirm he was born in Hawaii (and played basketball there, see above) seems not to matter. Also, Lou Dobbs won't admit exactly what precarious harm is imminent if America is being run by a foreigner. Rather, this supposition is some sort of MacGuffin--wholly unimportant to the current plot--that's meant to make viewers wonder if the person who tugs at their economy, military, and health care strings is really some great dissembler.

Except the true charlatans are the broadcasters who refuse to believe their own research departments and let this story die. Plus, I don't think rational people have any investment in this fallacy. These various news outlets keep running the same footage of a few bughouse nutsy ladies shouting in town halls and public forums. Who are these women? Where did they get the notion that the incorrectly recorded longitude and latitude of someone's birthplace somehow equals the apocalypse?

The nature of fire is to consume fuel from any source. So too fear. People are worried. Even the fortunate, with relatively secure jobs and/or fallback resources, live with the notion that unstable means unstable. The next earthquake is not going to spare you because your company reported a quarterly profit; the next round of disease is not going to skip the orphans in Darfur because they've suffered enough.

However, even knowing there is no absolute safety, we citizens need to calm down. To that end: don't plan your staycation around the next few town meetings. Don't treat the news channels like an I.V. drip. (In fact, can't congress do something productive and mandate an hour or two where Fox and CNN show Mister Ed reruns, so their staffs can go get some oxygen. Even a Denny's has to close sometimes.)

Finally, don't worry so much about the actual parchment that denotes our president's state of birth. Just assume it was melted in the same pot that burned away the full names, folk customs, and regional accents of all our immigrant grandparents.