Stay Tuned #6: Reality and the Recall Button
As I begin writing this, we are a hair's breadth (or is it a hare's breath? I could never figure that one out by hearing it) past the 7,000 pageview mark. Slither and A Little Bit of Heaven still rule the #1 and #2 spots respectively (and carry roughly 4% of the traffic all by their lonesome), but it would also seem that you guys like to read, as my largest posts (Spider-Man, Burn Notice, Resident Evil, and Bring Back the Soundtrack's Mashup Issue) are also drawing in 40-70 readers each. So to oblige my surprisingly large fan-base, Stay Tuned is featuring it's own mega-sized tribute to the world of reality TV.
As for that whole "Recall Button" thing, it refers to the button on your remote that allows you to swap back and forth between the channel you are watching and the channel you were previously watching. But since we're talking about reality today (and in reality, time moves forward, not back), let's begin with some TV-related posts I wrote prior to this year's inception of Stay Tuned, and work our way up to the present.
This first selection may not start things off on a realistic note (or finish that way, for that matter) given the subjects (Angel and Smallville), but it's worth the trip back to June 15, 2004 (SW@ Ticket #5.5: The WB's F-Moments): This special edition of SW@ Ticket deals with how the WB Fucked up and Finished off its best shows.
First is the series finale of Angel. If you were freakish enough (as I was) to actually watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, you know that Angel was Buffy's on-again-off-again love interest until sex made him lose his soul, get killed by Buffy, and go to hell at least half a dozen times.
Looking to save Buffy from his dark side, Angel moves to LA where he runs across Cordelia (the High School Biotch), who is looking to hopelessly jump-start an acting career. Cordelia starts getting visions that help Angel save the damsels in distress. An unsuccessful relationship with a female cop sends the show into the toilet, so some new blood gets sucked in (no pun) on the way: Wesley and Faith (the rival watcher/slayer duo from the Buffy series), Spike (Angel's old blood-drinking buddy), Lorin (a demon who runs a nightclub and can read the futures of his performers), Charlie Gunn (a badass ghetto demon slayer), Connor (Angel and Cordelia's emotionally unstable son), and 'Fred (a timid but sexy nerd with knowledge of interdimensional travel). Following several well-concocted apocalypses, the team finds themselves in charge of an evil law firm and trying in vain to bring it down from the inside. In the final show, only Angel, Spike, Gunn, and 'Fred are left standing against THE apocalypse, which they have no hope of beating. A cool series in need of a two hour epic finale gets sucked dry by the vampires running the WB.
D+
I'm omitting the Smallville review here because I had planned at some point to do an update (maybe I'll make it coincide with the theater release of Man of Steel?) and after ten seasons of the novelty slowly wearing off, I had forgotten what happened in the seven seasons that followed what I originally wrote in this spot. So let's save it for later and step back to reality.
Finally, I come to the worst of the worst: The WB's Superstar USA. Hating the carbon-copy pop market, The WB endeavored to stretch out the American Idol auditions and make a "reality show" out of it, in which they search for America's worst singer. To make it as much of an AI ripoff as possible, Tone Loc was given the Randy Jackson slot, Vitamin C filled in for Paula Abdul, some no-name ego called Briggs played Simon Cowell minus the "cool" British accent, and--to get as close in name and appearance to Ryan Seacrest--hired Bryan McFayden as the overpaid host with bad hair. In a pathetic decision, The WB pays no attention to the Will Hung story and tells the no-talent talents that they are perfect singers, then humiliate them by dragging them through weeks of national TV mud and telling them in front of millions that they have no talent. And in John Kerry fashion, The WB cannot decide if they are looking for the absolute worst singer in America or someone who can sing, but not very well. I am not sure if I am repulsed or relieved by their decision to choose a girl who forgets the words over an underage punk who sounds like a live rat being sent through the tenderizer by the local butcher (rock god my ass. Anyone who sings Aerosmith that badly needs a heavy dose of SmackDown). On the bright side, the girl (who now has $100,020 to her name instead of just $20. Whoopie!) accepted her humiliation and decided to continue her career with real advice. It's so sad that she expects to be doing a duet with Britney Spears in the next week, but determination is a great thing to have. In short, Superstar USA was a great idea in theory that was butchered worse than many of the featured songs, was a waste of at least $130K, and is undeserving of a second season. I would rather enter the contest than be compelled to watch another microsecond.
F- (and wish granted)
Remember when I said there would be a joke for my classic TV fans in an upcoming issue? Well, here it is, straight FROM August 5, 2004 (SW@ Ticket #12: Smashmania and Reviews): Shazaam, shazaam, shazaam fellow GOM'ers. SWAT here to Pile on another USMC-style portion of the movie world. Shazaam, Gomer Pile, USMC. Anyone besides me get that one? Thank you. This will all be over soon.
Anyway, so sorry to have missed SmashMania this weekend. With no real competition, I could have gone far. Maybe even won a T-shirt or a sheet of stickers. No cash sucks! The good news is that with my first Ralphs paycheck, I'm finally gonna be getting on the Smash Bandwagon with a copy of 101. Not the high caliber game that Melee is, but a good start. When's the next tourney?
Speaking of good starts, I finally got out of my post-Spidey slump. No Hellboy or Whole Ten Yards reviews as of yet, but something promising. For the past eight weeks or so, a quality reality show has been in the running. Next Action Star began with the customary thousands of amateur stuntpeople, actors, models, and fighters, narrowed the field to the customary sixteen, and put them in a mansion where they could be filmed killing each other. The welcome twist was that there were no twists or alliances. Just awesome stunts and screen tests, expert training, and a movie career on the line. Even though they screwed up the mood in multiple scenes, had poor chemistry, and were obviously horrible at staged fighting, the team of Sean the actor and Corrinne the boxer won it all last week to my dismay. But that didn't stop me from seeing the resulting movie last night.
Bet Your Life stars Sean as an ex-football star with a seven figure gambling debt and Corrinne as the bounty hunter assigned to bring him in. When a casino owner (Billy Zane) offers him $2.4 million to survive being hunted for one day, he reluctantly signs up and starts running for his life. The two new action stars do a much better job than I thought they would, but it was Billy Zane as the crazy casino boss that really made the film good. Predictable plot, bland ending, but a lot of personality, explosions, good fighting, and appropriate camerawork in the meantime.
Series: A+
Finale: D
Movie: C
"Thank you" jokes and related material are (C) & (R) 2004 by Jay London.
Next Action Star and Bet Your Life are (C) & (R) 2004 by NBC and Joel Silver Productions
FROM August 21, 2004 (SW@ Ticket 14.5: Corrections & Comedy): Last issue, I made the mistake of saying that Blue Collar TV was on Fridays at 9:30pm. But if you're into I Believe, Here's Your Sign, and Tater Salad, and you're ready to Git-r-done, the actual time is Thursdays at 8:00pm.
Blue Collar TV is a Saturday Night Live-style sketch comedy show starring Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, and Larry the Cable Guy. The other (much funnier) member of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour, Ron White, only appears as a guest from time to time. But with skits such as "The Real Bachelor" (Larry the Cable Guy being his obnoxious self until all the women jump out the window), "Hick Eye for the Queer Guy" (Jeff, Bill, and Larry turning a gay guy's million dollar hotel room into a redneck whoopie den to get him laid by "the ugliest woman we've ever seen"), and "Hug You or Hit You" (where Ron is a gameshow host, and contestants have to guess how their drunk relatives will react to what they say--the title says it all, and the response is usually of the Hit You variety), who could complain? Similar to "Deep Thoughts With Jack Handey," BCTV has the "Redneck Dictionary" with words like Mayonnaise (Mayonnaise a lot of people here tonight!), Witchadija (You didn't bring your truck witchadija?), and Fascinate (I got nine buttons on this shirt but I can only fascinate). They also close the show by sharing little bits of wisdom about tax-deductible lap dances, seeing women nekkid, and other important stuff. It gets me down that they recycle most of their material, but what little they have gives out big laughs. Also check out the Blue Collar Comedy Tour at your local video store.
A-
I missed the conclusion of Last Comic Standing during a late night at Ralphs, but thanks to the Internet, I saw the results and was very disappointed. John Heffron, a comedian who calls everyone Dude, complains that cell phones do everything except function as phones, and jumps around on stage like a constipated monkey, was voted by America as the Last Comic Standing. I guess no one could make up their minds between the two best comics left (Alonso Boden--who beat Heffron in Star Search's Adult Comic category by 8 stars or so and who has been fond of saying that having a woman friend is like having $19 in your bank account and looking at your ATM card; completely useless--and Gary Gulman--who won two head-to-heads in a row and who asked why sportscasters ask such stupid questions: "Mr Tyson, you were knocked out in the second round. What happened?" "Well, this other gentleman across from me was punching me in the face." "And what went through your head just then?" "I think I was thinking 'stop punching me in the face!'") so they just picked the worst comic instead. It was bad enough to find out that my caveman Jay London ("My wife had crabs so I bought her fishnet stockings. Thank you. Let me move over here. It was mental health month last month, but I asked for an extension. Thank you. This will all be over soon, ma'am.") was eliminated, but this guy? Come on America! You made a better decision on a show where Arsenio Hall was grabbing women's breasts, but I guess that doesn't say much about this fine country. I hope you enjoyed your rise to fame, Mr. Heffron. I didn't. Thank you.
F
My foot is (C) & (R) by John Heffron's candyass.
My right to keep it up there reserved.
Here comes a slight change of pace: The following review is not a critique of any movie, book, album, or TV show that I have experienced. But being a fan of the Gordon Ramsay Trifecta (Hell's Kitchen, MasterChef, Kitchen Nightmares) and most any other food-related reality show, I fancy myself a bit of a smell-o-vision expert, and as such, believe I am qualified to offer criticism on local food. So after a particularly bad waste of money, I felt compelled to write this note FROM May 16, 2011 (Gordon Ramsay, Tequila's Needs You!) on my Facebook wall:
My parents and I went to the relocated Tequila's restaurant in Ephrata, WA this week. It was a Kitchen Nightmare in the making.
My dad's order was the Chicken Mole enchilada: A chicken enchilada buried under a sweet cinnamon sauce. I like cinnamon as much as the next person, and will not turn down anything sweet if I can help it. But when I tried the mole sauce, I tasted a flavor progression that began with over-sweetness and too-old cinnamon, and ended with an indescribable nausea as the snot-like consistency coated the inside of my mouth.
My mom ordered the Chico Combination Plate, which allows you to choose one item, accompanied by rice and beans which I will (clearing throat) address later. Attempting to lift the taco from among its sloppily arranged sides, my mother came up with a soggy mush that she declined to eat.
I ordered the Chile Verde lunch, which is billed as "Pork chunks marinated in a green chile sauce", and is likewise served with rice and beans. The pork was more like the bland mush you'd encounter while purchasing canned meat or wet dog food. The sauce was green, but tasted more of vinegar than green peppers.
The beans were overly salty and dominated by an unsightly, nigh invincible crust of cheese. The rice, which should have been marinated in red sauce with tomatoes and peppers, was instead merely red in color, with no vegetables in sight.
The takeaway menu was too complex (a possible cause of the poor food quality) and had the wrong phone number on the front. I even saw a dish listed that proclaimed beef and chicken to be on the same plate. Don't know what's going on in the kitchen, but that says cross-contamination to me.
Finally, the receptionist and waitstaff were cold, impatient, and uncaring toward us (racially-motivated?). One visit to Tequila's was enough, and enough is too much. :(
Stay Tuned Update (November 4, 2012): I was recently informed by a Safeway co-worker that Tequila's (and its pathetic attempt at covering up how awful their food is, the El Agave restaurant--yes, I know el is Spanish for "the;" I'm not that stupid) have no stall dividers in their bathrooms; just a row of "here I am!" toilets and a sink. Further reason to either boycott their establishments or burn them to the ground. Oh, wait.... They tried that already when an employee "accidentally left a pan on" a few weeks ago.
I don't want to be an American Idiot, do you? To close out this journey through ghosts of reality shows past, I'm heading over to Piece Offerings for a two-part expose' on the horrible decisions made on this last season of American Idol (and don't forget the upcoming horrible decision who goes by the name Nicki Minaj).
It all began April 13, 2012 (American Idiot OR How I Stopped Living and Learned to Hate Idol): Why does American Idol insist on fooling us with "America's Vote?"
Take last night's results show for instance. On what turned out to be the safe side of the stage, we have Colton Dixon, whose sister was practically forced to the back burner by J-Lo and her orgasmic accolades during audition week. With Colton are Phillip Phillips, who rings soundly of Dave Matthews and Rob Thomas with a hint of Marvin the Martian thrown in, but gradually won me over through the course of the show despite his lack of vocal skills, and Hollie Cavanagh, whose unique and powerful voice fails to impress the judges week after week as she suffers disproportionately for the occasional bum note and a "lack of feeling."
In the bottom three, indie rocker Elise Testone (who I have dubbed "Sound Check" on account of her last name) stands with tinny-voiced Joshua Ledet and wannaBeyonce Jessica Sanchez (A.K.A. "BB-Chez"; gag me with a fork), the latter two of whom have been the cause of many an unnecessarily creamed undergarment at the judging table despite their annoying vocal acrobatics and boring song choices.
Safe in the middle, expected to throw half of her fellow contestants under the bus, is lovable Southern tomboy Skylar Lane, the only worthwhile, interesting, maturing, entertaining performer on the show thus far. Point of fact: She has been my choice to win the show ever since her first audition.
I tend to shun Colton due to the circumstances surrounding his inclusion in the show, in addition to finding his voice monotonous and his diction reminiscent of a stuffy nose, but I rather enjoyed his performance of "Love the Way You Lie" this week. Phillip made a mistake by not choosing a more well-known Maroon 5 song, and seemed to stagnate. Hollie did a wonderful job with Pink's "Perfect," but the judges acted like someone had slipped opiates into their Coke cups, saying her performance was "not perfect" even though she never missed a note. What the hell were you idiot judges watching?
I was for once entertained by Joshua's take on Bruno Mars' "Runaway Baby," perhaps because the pace of the song didn't allow room for him to shriek any notes from his ugly-cry face like he pretty much always does otherwise. Elise failed once again (in my eyes, anyway) to live up to her Led Zeppelin performance two weeks ago, choosing a lackluster, slightly pitchy take on Lady Gaga's "You and I."
Which leaves, with the lowest percentage of the so-called "nationwide vote," Jessica Barf-Barf-Chez, proving conclusively that no one in America wants to hear a song about stuttering in which the singer (and ultimately the songwriter) thinks it is appealing to actually stutter.
Of course, the judges use their save on this copycat waste of airtime. And of course the show ends with Jennifer Lopez, experiencing her twenty-ninth lesbian orgasm of the season as she runs up on stage and yanks the microphone out of Jessica's hand to give the good news before the weaksauce performer has the opportunity to burst into tears and murder ten consecutive notes of her Save-Me Song.
And if you haven't been able to tell by now, I am of course in complete disagreement with the week's results. There are better things I could be doing besides expressing disappointment in carbon-copy pop stars-to-be who will most likely be forced into a box and release unremarkable freshman records when they win.
I need a job.
And now, FROM May 4, 2012 (American Idiot Reunion), here's part two:
I can't believe how stupid America has been again this week! I swear, American Idol is fixed somehow. I mean, I like Phillip Phillips (A.K.A. Pee-Pee, Junior) as much as the next guy, assuming the next guy is completely ambivalent, but if you're going to pick a song like the Zombies' "Time of the Season," at least sing it on-key, you semi-talentless Dave Matthews/Rob Thomas wannabe (which, if you mash it up, you get Dave Thomas, the guy who used to be a spokesman for Wendy's back in the 90's)! Sure, he can take any song and make it his own by completely destroying its original identity, but He Can't Sing! And yet the American Idiots saved him.
Joshua Ledet has a great voice, but he sings everything the same. He starts out singing with a low quiver until he hits the big note of the song, which he screeches, and then continues to screech for the remainder of the song because he likes the sound of dying cats so much. He's safe, too.
You know from the last issue how much I love Jessica "Barf-Barf-Chez" Sanchez. She picked a song last night that was too iconic and big for her ("Rollin'" by Tina Turner, which when performed with Barf's wannaBeyonce voice, reminded me that two years ago on the Grammy Awards, Beyonce and Tina Turner performed the song together), and it showed. But of course Steven "Over the Top" Tyler, Jennifer "Goosies" Lopez, and Randy "She's Gotta Have It, Ryan!" Jackson creamed their respective jeans over her second song, which I can't even remember what it was, other than predictable and forgettable. And guess what? Yeah, she's in the Top Three also.
So we're left with a bottom 2 that consists of Skylar Lane (my pick to win) and Hollie Cavanagh, who picked the right time in the competition to blossom with her performances of "River Deep, Mountain High" and "Bleeding Love."
Unfortunately, America screwed up from the get-go and sent my girl Skylar home. Hollie looked as if she was about to collapse to the floor in a weeping pile of skin and bones at the slightest puff of bad news for anyone. When Chez-Mix was saved by the judges a few weeks ago, she would have lost composure and butchered her Save Me song if not for the premature ejaculator that is Jennifer Lopez. But my girl Skylar held her head high, took her emotions, and used them to kick the ever-lovin' crap out of "Gunpowder and Lead." Skylar Lane makes me want to like country, and she showed everyone participating in the counter-Democratic clusterfuck that is American Idol what it means to lose professionally.
To Skylar: Good luck and get working on that record!
To the American Idiots: You better not fuck this up again.
Now that Idol is over, I've hit the Recall Button and things have opened up for new seasons of The Voice and Simon Cowell's newest English Import, The X-Factor.
Let's begin with The X-Factor. SyCo TV (a cool way of letting us know that The X-Factor, like America's Got Talent, is Cowell's baby all the way) made a decision, like Idol before it--and after it--to re-cast the show. Gone are Brit-bot Steve Jones, the always indecisive, weepy Nicole Scherzinger, and the always drugged, weepy Paula Abdul. In their places are Mario Lopez and Khloe Kardashian (a name that convinces me ad nauseum that I have phlegm in my throat every time I say it) as co-hosts, and at the judging table, we have the surprisingly knowledgeable Demi Lovato (of fifteen minutes of "Skyscraper" fame) filling the weepy nice girl slot, and the surprisingly blunt Britney Spears, who may have replaced Simon as the meanest person on the panel. Simon has been relegated to uttering such anthropomorphic, zoological impossibilities as "you sing like a candle" and "you sing like a dog trying to lay an egg." Thank you, Mr. Cowell; I didn't know a constipated kangaroo could swallow an entire watermelon while dancing with a frog. Dig around in Britney's purse and see if you can get your testicles back! Meanwhile, Lovato and Spears engage in paint-dryingly uncomfortable small talk backstage about contestants, their favorite flavor of Pepsi, and how they're going to dress their new shi tzoodles. At the open of Judges' Homes Week, incumbent judge LA Reid all but destroys his phone in an ill-veiled expression of displeasure that he's "stuck" coaching the oldest contestants. Ergo, another reality show going about its usual cliche'd, faux dramatic business.
Enter the live shows. If you thought last season was over-produced because of the excess of backup dancers, pyrotechnics, and fog machines, this season is worse. True, singers are no longer required to look like pop stars, Roman candles, or Michael Jackson on the set of Thriller, but now the stage itself is the source of, um, upstaging. The concert-sized runway is backlit by four 20' flatscreens that alternate between showing the judges' heads at actual ego size and inducing seizures and blindness with constantly moving multi-colored lights. Thus far, the only person to not get swallowed by the afterglow is a man who isn't as versatile a singer as his competition, but is so likable and flamboyantly gay that his personality is enough to put him on par with the environment he's thrown into, and as such, to elevate him above his superiors (if that makes any sense). I may watch the show because it's on (and because I am sometimes distracted by shiny things), but I won't try very hard to watch anything that is trying this hard to please me.
D-
On to a show that isn't trying as hard to please: The Voice. Former MTV V-Jay Carson Daly is still hosting, and Cee-Lo, X-Tina, Blake, and Adam are still coaching from their Star Trek captains' chairs. Carson still says "Cee-Lo Green" like he's the gayest snake on Earth, Cee-Lo still brings weird pets to the show and is still hard to understand, Christina still finds every decision to be the most difficult one she's ever made and has very little to contribute to the coaching process, Adam is still funny, hyper, and driven, and Blake still points at his own head in that infamous "pick me!" gesture. If a formula works, why mess with it?
OK, so a few things have changed.... Cee-Lo (who looked so much like a Bond villain last season, thanks to the fluffy white cat he was always petting) now has a cockatoo who raises his crest on cue and dances like Stevie Wonder. The Button has been extended into the Battle Rounds, where the coaches now have the opportunity to steal up to two battle casualties from each other, and the Button-free incarnation of the Battle Rounds have been transformed into a one-on-one tag-team (it makes sense if you've seen it) speed round called The Knockouts.
So far, the coaches and I have mostly been like-minded in our choice of victor (what were you thinking, Cee-Lo?). But I have yet to see any kind of independence or creativity that matches up to last season's Lindsey Pavao, Moses Stone, RaeLynn, etc. (too many good performers last season to name them all). My hopes are set high for punk rocker Michaela Paige, the silky, whispery Melanie Martinez, and the Scottish throwback Terry McDermott (who lets you know how badly he wants it without saying a word). Perhaps a double win for Team Blake? We'll see.
The only really negative thing I have to say about The Voice is that saying phrases like "Team Blake" makes me feel like a Twihard (I just wrote the word "Twihard." Someone kill me).
B+
It's election day, folks! And in tribute to the Democratic process that reality shows and we idiotic Demos have made so horribly crappic, next issue will be a special Ticket Stubs dedicated to the Bush election and Michael Moore's Farenheit 9/11.
Following that, I will also pay homage to Superstorm Sandy with a Ticket Stubs edition of The Day After Tomorrow.
First is the series finale of Angel. If you were freakish enough (as I was) to actually watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, you know that Angel was Buffy's on-again-off-again love interest until sex made him lose his soul, get killed by Buffy, and go to hell at least half a dozen times.
Looking to save Buffy from his dark side, Angel moves to LA where he runs across Cordelia (the High School Biotch), who is looking to hopelessly jump-start an acting career. Cordelia starts getting visions that help Angel save the damsels in distress. An unsuccessful relationship with a female cop sends the show into the toilet, so some new blood gets sucked in (no pun) on the way: Wesley and Faith (the rival watcher/slayer duo from the Buffy series), Spike (Angel's old blood-drinking buddy), Lorin (a demon who runs a nightclub and can read the futures of his performers), Charlie Gunn (a badass ghetto demon slayer), Connor (Angel and Cordelia's emotionally unstable son), and 'Fred (a timid but sexy nerd with knowledge of interdimensional travel). Following several well-concocted apocalypses, the team finds themselves in charge of an evil law firm and trying in vain to bring it down from the inside. In the final show, only Angel, Spike, Gunn, and 'Fred are left standing against THE apocalypse, which they have no hope of beating. A cool series in need of a two hour epic finale gets sucked dry by the vampires running the WB.
D+
I'm omitting the Smallville review here because I had planned at some point to do an update (maybe I'll make it coincide with the theater release of Man of Steel?) and after ten seasons of the novelty slowly wearing off, I had forgotten what happened in the seven seasons that followed what I originally wrote in this spot. So let's save it for later and step back to reality.
Finally, I come to the worst of the worst: The WB's Superstar USA. Hating the carbon-copy pop market, The WB endeavored to stretch out the American Idol auditions and make a "reality show" out of it, in which they search for America's worst singer. To make it as much of an AI ripoff as possible, Tone Loc was given the Randy Jackson slot, Vitamin C filled in for Paula Abdul, some no-name ego called Briggs played Simon Cowell minus the "cool" British accent, and--to get as close in name and appearance to Ryan Seacrest--hired Bryan McFayden as the overpaid host with bad hair. In a pathetic decision, The WB pays no attention to the Will Hung story and tells the no-talent talents that they are perfect singers, then humiliate them by dragging them through weeks of national TV mud and telling them in front of millions that they have no talent. And in John Kerry fashion, The WB cannot decide if they are looking for the absolute worst singer in America or someone who can sing, but not very well. I am not sure if I am repulsed or relieved by their decision to choose a girl who forgets the words over an underage punk who sounds like a live rat being sent through the tenderizer by the local butcher (rock god my ass. Anyone who sings Aerosmith that badly needs a heavy dose of SmackDown). On the bright side, the girl (who now has $100,020 to her name instead of just $20. Whoopie!) accepted her humiliation and decided to continue her career with real advice. It's so sad that she expects to be doing a duet with Britney Spears in the next week, but determination is a great thing to have. In short, Superstar USA was a great idea in theory that was butchered worse than many of the featured songs, was a waste of at least $130K, and is undeserving of a second season. I would rather enter the contest than be compelled to watch another microsecond.
F- (and wish granted)
Remember when I said there would be a joke for my classic TV fans in an upcoming issue? Well, here it is, straight FROM August 5, 2004 (SW@ Ticket #12: Smashmania and Reviews): Shazaam, shazaam, shazaam fellow GOM'ers. SWAT here to Pile on another USMC-style portion of the movie world. Shazaam, Gomer Pile, USMC. Anyone besides me get that one? Thank you. This will all be over soon.
Anyway, so sorry to have missed SmashMania this weekend. With no real competition, I could have gone far. Maybe even won a T-shirt or a sheet of stickers. No cash sucks! The good news is that with my first Ralphs paycheck, I'm finally gonna be getting on the Smash Bandwagon with a copy of 101. Not the high caliber game that Melee is, but a good start. When's the next tourney?
Speaking of good starts, I finally got out of my post-Spidey slump. No Hellboy or Whole Ten Yards reviews as of yet, but something promising. For the past eight weeks or so, a quality reality show has been in the running. Next Action Star began with the customary thousands of amateur stuntpeople, actors, models, and fighters, narrowed the field to the customary sixteen, and put them in a mansion where they could be filmed killing each other. The welcome twist was that there were no twists or alliances. Just awesome stunts and screen tests, expert training, and a movie career on the line. Even though they screwed up the mood in multiple scenes, had poor chemistry, and were obviously horrible at staged fighting, the team of Sean the actor and Corrinne the boxer won it all last week to my dismay. But that didn't stop me from seeing the resulting movie last night.Bet Your Life stars Sean as an ex-football star with a seven figure gambling debt and Corrinne as the bounty hunter assigned to bring him in. When a casino owner (Billy Zane) offers him $2.4 million to survive being hunted for one day, he reluctantly signs up and starts running for his life. The two new action stars do a much better job than I thought they would, but it was Billy Zane as the crazy casino boss that really made the film good. Predictable plot, bland ending, but a lot of personality, explosions, good fighting, and appropriate camerawork in the meantime.
Series: A+
Finale: D
Movie: C
"Thank you" jokes and related material are (C) & (R) 2004 by Jay London.
Next Action Star and Bet Your Life are (C) & (R) 2004 by NBC and Joel Silver Productions
FROM August 21, 2004 (SW@ Ticket 14.5: Corrections & Comedy): Last issue, I made the mistake of saying that Blue Collar TV was on Fridays at 9:30pm. But if you're into I Believe, Here's Your Sign, and Tater Salad, and you're ready to Git-r-done, the actual time is Thursdays at 8:00pm.
Blue Collar TV is a Saturday Night Live-style sketch comedy show starring Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, and Larry the Cable Guy. The other (much funnier) member of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour, Ron White, only appears as a guest from time to time. But with skits such as "The Real Bachelor" (Larry the Cable Guy being his obnoxious self until all the women jump out the window), "Hick Eye for the Queer Guy" (Jeff, Bill, and Larry turning a gay guy's million dollar hotel room into a redneck whoopie den to get him laid by "the ugliest woman we've ever seen"), and "Hug You or Hit You" (where Ron is a gameshow host, and contestants have to guess how their drunk relatives will react to what they say--the title says it all, and the response is usually of the Hit You variety), who could complain? Similar to "Deep Thoughts With Jack Handey," BCTV has the "Redneck Dictionary" with words like Mayonnaise (Mayonnaise a lot of people here tonight!), Witchadija (You didn't bring your truck witchadija?), and Fascinate (I got nine buttons on this shirt but I can only fascinate). They also close the show by sharing little bits of wisdom about tax-deductible lap dances, seeing women nekkid, and other important stuff. It gets me down that they recycle most of their material, but what little they have gives out big laughs. Also check out the Blue Collar Comedy Tour at your local video store.
A-
I missed the conclusion of Last Comic Standing during a late night at Ralphs, but thanks to the Internet, I saw the results and was very disappointed. John Heffron, a comedian who calls everyone Dude, complains that cell phones do everything except function as phones, and jumps around on stage like a constipated monkey, was voted by America as the Last Comic Standing. I guess no one could make up their minds between the two best comics left (Alonso Boden--who beat Heffron in Star Search's Adult Comic category by 8 stars or so and who has been fond of saying that having a woman friend is like having $19 in your bank account and looking at your ATM card; completely useless--and Gary Gulman--who won two head-to-heads in a row and who asked why sportscasters ask such stupid questions: "Mr Tyson, you were knocked out in the second round. What happened?" "Well, this other gentleman across from me was punching me in the face." "And what went through your head just then?" "I think I was thinking 'stop punching me in the face!'") so they just picked the worst comic instead. It was bad enough to find out that my caveman Jay London ("My wife had crabs so I bought her fishnet stockings. Thank you. Let me move over here. It was mental health month last month, but I asked for an extension. Thank you. This will all be over soon, ma'am.") was eliminated, but this guy? Come on America! You made a better decision on a show where Arsenio Hall was grabbing women's breasts, but I guess that doesn't say much about this fine country. I hope you enjoyed your rise to fame, Mr. Heffron. I didn't. Thank you.
F
My foot is (C) & (R) by John Heffron's candyass.
My right to keep it up there reserved.
Here comes a slight change of pace: The following review is not a critique of any movie, book, album, or TV show that I have experienced. But being a fan of the Gordon Ramsay Trifecta (Hell's Kitchen, MasterChef, Kitchen Nightmares) and most any other food-related reality show, I fancy myself a bit of a smell-o-vision expert, and as such, believe I am qualified to offer criticism on local food. So after a particularly bad waste of money, I felt compelled to write this note FROM May 16, 2011 (Gordon Ramsay, Tequila's Needs You!) on my Facebook wall:
My parents and I went to the relocated Tequila's restaurant in Ephrata, WA this week. It was a Kitchen Nightmare in the making.
My dad's order was the Chicken Mole enchilada: A chicken enchilada buried under a sweet cinnamon sauce. I like cinnamon as much as the next person, and will not turn down anything sweet if I can help it. But when I tried the mole sauce, I tasted a flavor progression that began with over-sweetness and too-old cinnamon, and ended with an indescribable nausea as the snot-like consistency coated the inside of my mouth.
My mom ordered the Chico Combination Plate, which allows you to choose one item, accompanied by rice and beans which I will (clearing throat) address later. Attempting to lift the taco from among its sloppily arranged sides, my mother came up with a soggy mush that she declined to eat.
I ordered the Chile Verde lunch, which is billed as "Pork chunks marinated in a green chile sauce", and is likewise served with rice and beans. The pork was more like the bland mush you'd encounter while purchasing canned meat or wet dog food. The sauce was green, but tasted more of vinegar than green peppers.
The beans were overly salty and dominated by an unsightly, nigh invincible crust of cheese. The rice, which should have been marinated in red sauce with tomatoes and peppers, was instead merely red in color, with no vegetables in sight.
The takeaway menu was too complex (a possible cause of the poor food quality) and had the wrong phone number on the front. I even saw a dish listed that proclaimed beef and chicken to be on the same plate. Don't know what's going on in the kitchen, but that says cross-contamination to me.
Finally, the receptionist and waitstaff were cold, impatient, and uncaring toward us (racially-motivated?). One visit to Tequila's was enough, and enough is too much. :(
Stay Tuned Update (November 4, 2012): I was recently informed by a Safeway co-worker that Tequila's (and its pathetic attempt at covering up how awful their food is, the El Agave restaurant--yes, I know el is Spanish for "the;" I'm not that stupid) have no stall dividers in their bathrooms; just a row of "here I am!" toilets and a sink. Further reason to either boycott their establishments or burn them to the ground. Oh, wait.... They tried that already when an employee "accidentally left a pan on" a few weeks ago.
I don't want to be an American Idiot, do you? To close out this journey through ghosts of reality shows past, I'm heading over to Piece Offerings for a two-part expose' on the horrible decisions made on this last season of American Idol (and don't forget the upcoming horrible decision who goes by the name Nicki Minaj).
It all began April 13, 2012 (American Idiot OR How I Stopped Living and Learned to Hate Idol): Why does American Idol insist on fooling us with "America's Vote?"
Take last night's results show for instance. On what turned out to be the safe side of the stage, we have Colton Dixon, whose sister was practically forced to the back burner by J-Lo and her orgasmic accolades during audition week. With Colton are Phillip Phillips, who rings soundly of Dave Matthews and Rob Thomas with a hint of Marvin the Martian thrown in, but gradually won me over through the course of the show despite his lack of vocal skills, and Hollie Cavanagh, whose unique and powerful voice fails to impress the judges week after week as she suffers disproportionately for the occasional bum note and a "lack of feeling."
In the bottom three, indie rocker Elise Testone (who I have dubbed "Sound Check" on account of her last name) stands with tinny-voiced Joshua Ledet and wannaBeyonce Jessica Sanchez (A.K.A. "BB-Chez"; gag me with a fork), the latter two of whom have been the cause of many an unnecessarily creamed undergarment at the judging table despite their annoying vocal acrobatics and boring song choices.
Safe in the middle, expected to throw half of her fellow contestants under the bus, is lovable Southern tomboy Skylar Lane, the only worthwhile, interesting, maturing, entertaining performer on the show thus far. Point of fact: She has been my choice to win the show ever since her first audition.
I tend to shun Colton due to the circumstances surrounding his inclusion in the show, in addition to finding his voice monotonous and his diction reminiscent of a stuffy nose, but I rather enjoyed his performance of "Love the Way You Lie" this week. Phillip made a mistake by not choosing a more well-known Maroon 5 song, and seemed to stagnate. Hollie did a wonderful job with Pink's "Perfect," but the judges acted like someone had slipped opiates into their Coke cups, saying her performance was "not perfect" even though she never missed a note. What the hell were you idiot judges watching?
I was for once entertained by Joshua's take on Bruno Mars' "Runaway Baby," perhaps because the pace of the song didn't allow room for him to shriek any notes from his ugly-cry face like he pretty much always does otherwise. Elise failed once again (in my eyes, anyway) to live up to her Led Zeppelin performance two weeks ago, choosing a lackluster, slightly pitchy take on Lady Gaga's "You and I."
Which leaves, with the lowest percentage of the so-called "nationwide vote," Jessica Barf-Barf-Chez, proving conclusively that no one in America wants to hear a song about stuttering in which the singer (and ultimately the songwriter) thinks it is appealing to actually stutter.
Of course, the judges use their save on this copycat waste of airtime. And of course the show ends with Jennifer Lopez, experiencing her twenty-ninth lesbian orgasm of the season as she runs up on stage and yanks the microphone out of Jessica's hand to give the good news before the weaksauce performer has the opportunity to burst into tears and murder ten consecutive notes of her Save-Me Song.
And if you haven't been able to tell by now, I am of course in complete disagreement with the week's results. There are better things I could be doing besides expressing disappointment in carbon-copy pop stars-to-be who will most likely be forced into a box and release unremarkable freshman records when they win.
I need a job.
And now, FROM May 4, 2012 (American Idiot Reunion), here's part two:
Joshua Ledet has a great voice, but he sings everything the same. He starts out singing with a low quiver until he hits the big note of the song, which he screeches, and then continues to screech for the remainder of the song because he likes the sound of dying cats so much. He's safe, too.
You know from the last issue how much I love Jessica "Barf-Barf-Chez" Sanchez. She picked a song last night that was too iconic and big for her ("Rollin'" by Tina Turner, which when performed with Barf's wannaBeyonce voice, reminded me that two years ago on the Grammy Awards, Beyonce and Tina Turner performed the song together), and it showed. But of course Steven "Over the Top" Tyler, Jennifer "Goosies" Lopez, and Randy "She's Gotta Have It, Ryan!" Jackson creamed their respective jeans over her second song, which I can't even remember what it was, other than predictable and forgettable. And guess what? Yeah, she's in the Top Three also.
So we're left with a bottom 2 that consists of Skylar Lane (my pick to win) and Hollie Cavanagh, who picked the right time in the competition to blossom with her performances of "River Deep, Mountain High" and "Bleeding Love."
Unfortunately, America screwed up from the get-go and sent my girl Skylar home. Hollie looked as if she was about to collapse to the floor in a weeping pile of skin and bones at the slightest puff of bad news for anyone. When Chez-Mix was saved by the judges a few weeks ago, she would have lost composure and butchered her Save Me song if not for the premature ejaculator that is Jennifer Lopez. But my girl Skylar held her head high, took her emotions, and used them to kick the ever-lovin' crap out of "Gunpowder and Lead." Skylar Lane makes me want to like country, and she showed everyone participating in the counter-Democratic clusterfuck that is American Idol what it means to lose professionally.
To Skylar: Good luck and get working on that record!
To the American Idiots: You better not fuck this up again.
Now that Idol is over, I've hit the Recall Button and things have opened up for new seasons of The Voice and Simon Cowell's newest English Import, The X-Factor.
Let's begin with The X-Factor. SyCo TV (a cool way of letting us know that The X-Factor, like America's Got Talent, is Cowell's baby all the way) made a decision, like Idol before it--and after it--to re-cast the show. Gone are Brit-bot Steve Jones, the always indecisive, weepy Nicole Scherzinger, and the always drugged, weepy Paula Abdul. In their places are Mario Lopez and Khloe Kardashian (a name that convinces me ad nauseum that I have phlegm in my throat every time I say it) as co-hosts, and at the judging table, we have the surprisingly knowledgeable Demi Lovato (of fifteen minutes of "Skyscraper" fame) filling the weepy nice girl slot, and the surprisingly blunt Britney Spears, who may have replaced Simon as the meanest person on the panel. Simon has been relegated to uttering such anthropomorphic, zoological impossibilities as "you sing like a candle" and "you sing like a dog trying to lay an egg." Thank you, Mr. Cowell; I didn't know a constipated kangaroo could swallow an entire watermelon while dancing with a frog. Dig around in Britney's purse and see if you can get your testicles back! Meanwhile, Lovato and Spears engage in paint-dryingly uncomfortable small talk backstage about contestants, their favorite flavor of Pepsi, and how they're going to dress their new shi tzoodles. At the open of Judges' Homes Week, incumbent judge LA Reid all but destroys his phone in an ill-veiled expression of displeasure that he's "stuck" coaching the oldest contestants. Ergo, another reality show going about its usual cliche'd, faux dramatic business.
Enter the live shows. If you thought last season was over-produced because of the excess of backup dancers, pyrotechnics, and fog machines, this season is worse. True, singers are no longer required to look like pop stars, Roman candles, or Michael Jackson on the set of Thriller, but now the stage itself is the source of, um, upstaging. The concert-sized runway is backlit by four 20' flatscreens that alternate between showing the judges' heads at actual ego size and inducing seizures and blindness with constantly moving multi-colored lights. Thus far, the only person to not get swallowed by the afterglow is a man who isn't as versatile a singer as his competition, but is so likable and flamboyantly gay that his personality is enough to put him on par with the environment he's thrown into, and as such, to elevate him above his superiors (if that makes any sense). I may watch the show because it's on (and because I am sometimes distracted by shiny things), but I won't try very hard to watch anything that is trying this hard to please me.
D-
On to a show that isn't trying as hard to please: The Voice. Former MTV V-Jay Carson Daly is still hosting, and Cee-Lo, X-Tina, Blake, and Adam are still coaching from their Star Trek captains' chairs. Carson still says "Cee-Lo Green" like he's the gayest snake on Earth, Cee-Lo still brings weird pets to the show and is still hard to understand, Christina still finds every decision to be the most difficult one she's ever made and has very little to contribute to the coaching process, Adam is still funny, hyper, and driven, and Blake still points at his own head in that infamous "pick me!" gesture. If a formula works, why mess with it?
OK, so a few things have changed.... Cee-Lo (who looked so much like a Bond villain last season, thanks to the fluffy white cat he was always petting) now has a cockatoo who raises his crest on cue and dances like Stevie Wonder. The Button has been extended into the Battle Rounds, where the coaches now have the opportunity to steal up to two battle casualties from each other, and the Button-free incarnation of the Battle Rounds have been transformed into a one-on-one tag-team (it makes sense if you've seen it) speed round called The Knockouts.
So far, the coaches and I have mostly been like-minded in our choice of victor (what were you thinking, Cee-Lo?). But I have yet to see any kind of independence or creativity that matches up to last season's Lindsey Pavao, Moses Stone, RaeLynn, etc. (too many good performers last season to name them all). My hopes are set high for punk rocker Michaela Paige, the silky, whispery Melanie Martinez, and the Scottish throwback Terry McDermott (who lets you know how badly he wants it without saying a word). Perhaps a double win for Team Blake? We'll see.
The only really negative thing I have to say about The Voice is that saying phrases like "Team Blake" makes me feel like a Twihard (I just wrote the word "Twihard." Someone kill me).
B+
It's election day, folks! And in tribute to the Democratic process that reality shows and we idiotic Demos have made so horribly crappic, next issue will be a special Ticket Stubs dedicated to the Bush election and Michael Moore's Farenheit 9/11.
Following that, I will also pay homage to Superstorm Sandy with a Ticket Stubs edition of The Day After Tomorrow.
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