Posts filed under 'I’m Sick of Your Shit'

Gossip Girl: Doom. Catastrophe. Everybody dies!

This week on Gossip Girl: Everyone went broke because all their money was in Lehman and Merrill Lynch. Chuck hocks everything in the Palace Hotel and hops a container ship to Venezuela, because we don’t have an extradition treaty with Venezuela. Nate gets sent to Oz in his father’s place and becomes Ryan O’Reily’s bitch. Dan learns what it’s like to actually be middle class and has to go to SUNY. Jenny’s turning tricks at the Holland Tunnel. Blair and Serena get jobs at the Qdoba opening across the street from my apartment. Rufus’s lame-ass gallery goes under and he takes a job as a fact-checker at Rolling Stone. Bart and Lily learn where Target is and, faced with the ugly reality of generic breakfast cereal, Eric begins acting out by tagging the 7 train. Vanessa carries on with two-for-one lesbian taco night in Queens. Even Gossip Girl suffers—her cell service gets turned off and she’s reduced to Xeroxing a ‘zine in the finest tradition of up-by-the-bootstraps individualism.

Click to continue reading “Gossip Girl: Doom. Catastrophe. Everybody dies!”

September 23rd, 2008

I’m Sick of Your Shit: The Daily Show

I have to admit, I made this post an “I’m Sick of Your Shit” primarily for the shock value. I love Jon Stewart endlessly, of course, but I have a bone to pick with The Daily Show and why not resurrect the series?

It’s a weird, unpleasant feeling — I must say — having to raise a beef with one of our favorites. But no show is perfect and even the teacher’s pet has to get a B+ every once in a while to keep him on his toes.

Here’s what has been on my mind for a while now…

I don’t watch The Daily Show consistently, but I watch it enough to notice that they have a certain kind of gag I find cheap and not constructive. Often when they are discussing media coverage, they’ll do segments where the splice together lots of anchors and reporters asking the same question in different ways. For instance, on a big primary night recently they had a montage of network anchors describing the colors they used on the different maps. There’s a shot of Wolf Blitzer calling a certain color code “cranberry” and then Chris Matthews calling something “umber.” Etc., etc., etc.

That’s a silly example, but they often tackle more substantive issues and you’re supposed to make inferences based on the clip compilations. Because everyone is asking whether Barack Obama’s speech on race did the job, then there must be something wrong with that.

What gets me about this phenomenon is this: it’s an easy trick that can fill up a good twenty to thirty seconds and you don’t have to write an actual joke. I’m not trying to say the media should be let off easy (far from it) or that the 24 hour news networks aren’t ridiculous much of the time (they are), but often these clip compilations don’t have a real point. Just because a lot of people are asking the same question and it seems silly in the reel, doesn’t mean it’s not valid. I feel like when you’re in the game of political satire, when you make fun of something there should be a lesson to glean from it.

Not that everything comes back to Project Runway (well, it kind of does in my world, but whatever), but they do the same thing on the Project Runway reunion shows. They often to montages of all the times a certain event happened on the past season — like Ricky crying, Christian saying “fierce,” Tim Gunn saying “make it work.”

When you take them all at once, it’s funny to see. But it doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

March 21st, 2008

I’m Sick of Your Shit: David Chase


Listen, David Chase. I don’t know who you think you are.

A few months ago we all stopped thinking about The Sopranos. Or at least I did. I thought the ending was a bust, an anti-climax and a huge “eff you” to everyone who had waited on pins and needles (for months and years!) for the finale and for some resolution to the six-season saga.

The famous blackout was a bad idea. A really bad one. But, the one thing that I could say to David Chase as a compliment would be that he stuck to his guns. This is what he said right after the finale aired:

“I have no interest in explaining, defending, reinterpreting, or adding to what is there. No one was trying to be audacious, honest to God. We did what we thought we had to do. No one was trying to blow people’s minds, or thinking, ‘Wow, this’ll (tick) them off.’ People get the impression that you’re trying to (mess) with them and it’s not true. You’re trying to entertain them.” He added: “Anybody who wants to watch it, it’s all there.”

And now he’s got a book to hawk, so he’s talking about it again — giving an interview where he acts so exasperated and disappointed at the viewing public. Click that link up there and read the whole AP article — it’s pretty maddening. I want to find things to quote that would best synthesize what irks me so much, but I want to quote the whole thing.

Here’s a starter:

Breaking his silence months after the HBO mob drama ended its run, he is offering a belated explanation for that blackout at the restaurant. He strongly suggests that, no, Tony Soprano didn’t get whacked moments later as he munched onion rings with his family at Holsten’s. And mostly Chase wonders why so many viewers got so worked up over the series’ non-finish.
“There WAS a war going on that week, and attempted terror attacks in London,” says Chase. “But these people were talking about onion rings.”

First of all, if David Chase is so concerned about the war, what is he doing making TV mob shows?

Second of all, as far as the Tony revelation goes, I wish he would have at least kept his silence. Permanent cliffhangers can go one of two ways — you can keep your silence forever about what actually happened or do the “everyone’s individual interpretation is valid” thing. But Chase chose the former and couldn’t keep up his end of the deal.

The worst part of the interview is here:

“There are no esoteric clues in there. No `Da Vinci Code,'” he declares.
He says it’s “just great” if fans tried to find a deeper meaning, but “most of them, most of us, should have done this kind of thing in high school English class and didn’t.”

I don’t know who he’s trying to impress by condescending to everyone who devoted more time to analyzing the finale than, apparently, anyone ever should have. I guess if all that stuff is best left in English class, what’s the point of watching The Sopranos from anything other than an entertainment perspective. I can’t imagine that’s what the makers wanted. Second of all, what about “anybody who wants to watch it, it’s all there”? Was that an invitation for a wild metaphorical/symbolic/literary/cultural goose chase?

Here’s more:

He defends the bleak, seemingly inconclusive ending as appropriate — and even a little hopeful.
A.J. will “probably be a low-level movie producer. But he’s not going to be a killer like his father, is he? Meadow may not become a pediatrician or even a lawyer … but she’ll learn to operate in the world in ways that Carmela never did.
“It’s not ideal. It’s not what the parents dreamed of. But it’s better than it was,” Chase says.

If that’s the case, then why Mr. Members Only who may or may not have a gun? Why the parallel parking drama? Why the very deliberate staging and pacing of that final scene? If it was supposed to end on a such mundane note then why not let it end on a mundane note?

I’m pretty sure he’s trying to fuck with us.

In the end, this whole thing just reeks of a gross attempt to drum up book sales. To that, I urge the TiFaux readership to heed the following: if you liked The Sopranos, buy the DVD — but don’t buy his book.

4 comments October 24th, 2007

I’m Sick of Your Shit: Tom Colicchio

Welcome back to “I’m Sick of Your Shit.” It’s been a while since one of us got good and angry at a television personality. Sure, I want to push Pradeep on The Pick-Up Artist into traffic, but he’s so annoying he’s almost compelling. It’s too easy to rag on Pradeep. After all, he’s competing in VH1’s The Pick-Up Artist. No, I’ve got a bigger target in mind.
tomcolicchio.jpgThis may be my first season watching Top Chef, but I have a world of resentment built up already over head judge/co-host/meddler Tom Colicchio.

It’s probably blatantly obvious to those of you who’ve had several seasons to grow to despise Chef Colicchio’s irritating place in the Top Chef proceedings, but it seems clear that he demanded a more “important” role to the detriment of the way the show is run. Chef Colicchio rolls in on the chefs when they’re in the thick of their prep, silently judging them. Because, you see, unlike lovable Tim Gunn, Tom is not a mentor — he’s a judge (as he never lets anyone forget). He’s not there to give constructive advice. He’s just there to get in the way and undermine people’s confidence. He then takes his snide observations and brings them to the judge’s table, where he basically just stirs shit and gossips.

Here is the point in the post where I would normally say “I’m sure he’s a great chef and all,” but I don’t need to say that, because I have actually eaten in his flagship New York restaurant, Craft. The food was delicious. Simple dishes, mostly, and not a lot of flair in the presentation, but very good. My problem with the place was that it had the worst, most confusing menu I have ever seen in a restaurant (let alone a very fancy one). How many dishes should one person order? Which categories are you supposed to choose from? When do the sides come? How many people will each dish serve? None of these questions were answered satisfactorily and we ended up with way, way, way too much food. Best puree potatoes ever, but still.

God, now I want some puree potatoes. Where was I?

Oh right. It really bugs me how Tom can turn anything he sees in the kitchen — people getting along, people fighting, people in a hurry, people finishing early — into a flaw. Often, when we cut to his talking head after he’s done his kitchen rampage, he’s basically already decided who he thinks should win and who should lose. To see people making mistakes and to not offer a single word of advice? He wants them to embarrass themselves, to make him look better in comparison.

It’s like the confusing menu in his restaurant. It’s purposely obtuse, because if you can’t figure it out, you probably don’t deserve the delicious food in the first place. Everything has to be more difficult, because he’s not there to hold your hand. And I’m sick of it.

4 comments September 6th, 2007

I’m Sick Of Your Shit (Already): Age Of Love

I will take anything the reality tv community throws at me. I will take Paris and Nicole at summer camp, even though I know that their supporting “counselors” are hired actors. I will take MTV’s brutally agendized portrayal of sorority life, and I will take their starry eyed belief that one day P Diddy will put together a band that people will actually want to listen to. I will take culinary competitions even though you can’t taste food through your tv screen. I will follow the day by day lives of playboy bunnies, little people, professional skateboarders and their oversized best friends; I will root wholeheartedly for people I’ve never met as they follow their dreams of becoming models or fashion designers or pirate masters or backup singers or teenage interns at Seventeen magazine. What I won’t take is any show that makes me want to carve out my ovaries with a rusty spoon (this also applies to the movie Because I Said So, but that’s an issue for another day). I don’t watch reality shows because I need to hate myself for being female, I watch them because I want to see people who have worse lives than I do and feel better about myself as the result of it. I should be able to get that without considering spending the requisite year living as a man before applying to one of the three major sexual reassignment centers in the country.

I feel like this is a subtle, but important distinction—these shows should allow, or even encourage, you to hate specific women. Cami on Laguna Beach, that heinous bitch from the first Apprentice that played the race card at every available opportunity, Janice Dickinson, take your pick. They should not, however, encourage you to hate women en masse. And that’s all that Age of Love does. It picks at the insecurities of women that already have more than enough to go around when it comes to dating, and it turns them into catty, ridiculous, desperate people that you don’t want to meet in a back ally. Show premise here, trying to put it into words is giving me rage. They’re calling the women in their 40s “cougars” and the ones in their 20s “kittens.” That should be enough to get you on my side.

Now’s probably a bad time to make a joke about hot flashes, eh?

Aside from the fact that this preys on every single insecurity that women have, and that they’re relying on an Aussie to decide, ONCE AND FOR ALL, what men really want (without giving him the option of Anonymous Sex, SportsCenter, and Reheated Pasta, so I don’t have a chance to prove the theory I’ve been carefully crafting since freshman year), my main issue with this is the basic helplessness of half the contestants. *If* tectonic plates shift and the planets align and birds start flying backwards and he picks a 40 year old, the women in their 20s can console themselves by saying that they will, someday, be 40, so it’s just a matter of time before they have what men want. But if the sun rises tomorrow and Saturday follows Friday and death and taxes persist and he picks a 20 year old, what do the 40 year olds get to tell themselves? That The Men of the universe have spoken?

We keep our 20 year olds in boxes- they stay fresher that way.

I was wary when Ashton Kutcher coined the reality show term “social experiment,” but he went on to give me Beauty & The Geek and I forgave him. I don’t forgive you, NBC, for this social experiment that can bring no good into the world. Please return me to a steady diet of The Biggest Loser (Puns! The 10 o’clock show is completely different from the 8 o’clock one!) and 30 Rock.


6 comments June 25th, 2007

I’m Sick of Your Shit: Marc Horowitz

The whole idea behind this blog is that we have the DVR technology that allows us to skip over those pesky commercials. But sometimes you just can't wait through three minutes of silence to watch Veronica Mars, or everything on your List is old and the only thing on is a Friends repeat on TBS.

That's when you're going to run into one Marc Horowitz. That's the Nissan corporate site. He also has "blog," which is apparently supposed to be "not corporate."


First of all, there is no Marc Horowitz. I think we can all agree on this, yes? Marc Horowitz is played by an actor hired by Nissan to pretend to make a very stupid movie about how he lives in his car for a week. The fact that they expect us to believe in him is insulting. If he does exist, he clearly has no soul, so all the mean things I'm about to say about him are okay.  

Marc's existence or lack thereof aside, I'm still incredibly sick of his shit.

His chipper grin. The adorably quirky ways he deals with the limitations of living in a car. The casual way he addresses us, like we're all just stumbling upon him on youtube. Those flipflops. That ridiculous sprinkler he uses to shower.

I'm just going to go ahead and say it: Marc Horowitz is a douchebag.

There is nothing funny or interesting about these ads. Every time I hear Marc cheerfully introducing himself ("hey, it's me, Marc Horowitz… it's the fifth day of me living in my Sentra…") I want to impale myself on something. I start to hope that maybe a Sentra will crash into my apartment and put me in a coma. Or that Marc's car will get mad at him and start pumping CO2 through his air conditioner while he's sleeping.

I remind you that it's okay for me to say that, because he doesn't exist and/or is soulless.

So. Stop please, fake Marc. And in conclusion: DO NOT buy a Nissan Sentra.



3 comments December 7th, 2006

I’m sick of your shit: John Mellencamp

John, hi. Long time listener, first time writer. Right off the bat, let me say I celebrate your entire catalogue. Granted, I was forced to when my college boyfriend did the whole "hey I got you tickets to a concert that I really want to see for your birthday!" thing to celebrate my graceful entry to my twenties, but that is neither here nor there. I accept your ridiculous name changing and your acquiring and dismissing of jungle cat monikers, and that you are Indiana's answer to Bon Jovi. What I do not accept, however, is your new Chevy commercial.

  Take that pirate shirt off right now, John. That, you have to earn.

You know the one I speak of, right? You're singing that little tune "Our Country" and when you do the line "from the east coast/ to the west coast" you do a series of hand motions that exactly replicate the ones my 3rd grade class did when we hit the "from california/ to the new york island" line in "This Land Is Your Land." Did you get to see the final cut of this before they put it on the air? I'm guessing that Chevy would send a copy of it over as a courtesy, but just in case it got lost among the mounds of denim shirts and cowboy hats at your casa, I transcribed the scenes for you.

People waving hats –> cars driving –> an auto factory–> vinyl records –> beach party –> hula-hooping –> You, John, tastefully shot playing the acoustic guitar –> Rosa Parks –> babies on the beach –> suburban bike riding –> Muhammad Ali –> Vietnam –> hippies –> march on washington –> Martin Luther Kind Jr –> More hippies –> Nixon –> a cowboy –> Chevy logo –> you playing more guitar –> a forest fire –> Nascar    –> a hurricane blowing the roof of a house off –> New Orleans post-Katrina –> houses for poor people –>   a caravan of Chevy trucks –> a house raising –> pillars of light from Ground Zero –> Red Rock –> firemen   –> cowboys –> babies –> wheat –> Chevy logo –> cowboy

Quite the little lineup of images they have playing over your song there, John. I don't recall Bob Seger agreeing to any of this emotionally manipulative shit when Chevy was still using "Like a Rock." How did this happen? Were you the third choice after the theme song from "Team America: World Police" and that Toby Keith "We'll put a boot in your ass/ it's the american way" song? Even though I was born in a Small Town filled with Little Pink Houses where Jack & Diane live, I still know how to R.O.C.K in the USA, John, and this commercial does NOT make me want to do so. It doesn't even Hurt So Good, friend, it just Hurts.

Maybe next time you could make sure the contract guarantees your songs to be used along with photos of kids with cancer, abused puppies, and the coffins of soldiers being returned from Iraq coupled with shots of amber waves of grain, baseball, and republicans soliciting twelve year olds on the internet, because I think that would really drive home Chevy's point about what it means to be American. Thanks for listening, John.



3 comments November 16th, 2006

I’m Sick of Your Shit: Aaron Sorkin

Aaron, I know you think I'm just an ugly person sitting at my computer talking to no one, but I just want you to know that I get it. I really do. You are much, much smarter than me. You are much, much smarter than pretty much everyone, including (but not limited to): people who watch TV, other TV writers, people who work in non-creative fields, midwesterners, bloggers, people who read blogs, people who drink at parties, and people who don't know what commedia dell'arte is. That would be all well and good, because every genius has his quirks, but on top of that, you really don't know a damn thing about sketch comedy, and your show-within-a-show is painfully unfunny, making all the characters who work on that show (not to mention the show-within-a-show's fictional viewers) look like total boobs for taking it so seriously.

aaronsorkin.jpgSuffice to say, I'm sick of your shit. I'm rooting for you to pull out of it, but I'm not holding my breath.

Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip is officially troubled. The pilot was lovely. I like the Big Three dynamic, I love Matthew Perry, and behind-the-scenes stuff is inherently fun (hello, Noises Off). The second episode, I had concerns. There was the ripping on the internet and the deadly Gilbert and Sullivan thing. But the third episode, aired this past Monday, is where we really get to see the kind of mess this show really is.

Science Shmience? Really?

The problem is, you seem to want to elevate television, to write for an intelligent, thoughtful audience. But when you continually insult your audience by expecting them to believe that Science Shmience is a hilarious laff riot, and call your biggest supporters — those on the internet that care enough to write about your work — lonely, sad, talentless nobodies, you're creating a show for one. You. Only you.    

I know I'm not the only one saying this. All of us plebes on the internet are expressing pretty much the same thing. Which will only serve to fuel your rage, I'm sure. 

The only bright side to all this is that when 30 Rock, Tina Fey's version of your show, finally airs, I predict people will embrace it as a cynical, angst-free, actually funny alternative, and it will end up the surprise winner. 

3 comments October 6th, 2006

I’m Sick of Your Shit: All You Fools on Grey’s Anatomy

Listen up.  All of you.  Yes, even you McDreamy.  Stop nuzzling Meredith's hair and eyes up here.

I'm sick of all your shit. 


For as much education as all of you have, for all your magical life-saving abilities, I've never seen a more infantile brood of emotional cripples.  Now, I'm going to go down the line and I want you all to pay close attention.  I'm only saying this once.

I'm starting with you Meredith.  You are the show's title character, after all, even though you are probably the most widely disliked.  We've had a talk like this before, remember?  In that little conversation I advised you to, ahem, "bang George, because he deserves it."  I suppose its my error for not stipulating that you shouldn't begin to weep hysterically mid-coitus.  I'll make that concession.  However, I also advised you to "start whoring it up around the hospital to make McDreamy uncomfortable and help you get your confidence back."  And what kind of whoring have you done?  None.  That is, unless you count the painful George episode or the most disgusting triage tryst I could ever have imagined.  And one more thing.  Don't be all proud of yourself by saying to McDreamy and Chris O'Donnell that you want to actually date them — because that's what regular people do.  Not this smolder/tryst/heartache/smolder/tryst/heartache cycle that you seem to be so fond of.

Christina.  We know you're headstrong. And feisty.  And Asian.  And three foot eleven.  And that's why we love you.  But you're wearing us down with your constant outrage.  I like it when you have those conversations with Meredith in surgery stadium where you both complain about your problems but never actually respond to what the other is saying.  I mean, it's funny to watch, but completely indicative of why you're always spinning your emotional wheels — you only see things from one side.

McDreamy.  Stop checking yourself out in the mirror.  Your hair is just fine.  Your 5 o'clock shadow is impeccable.  Now stop giving yourself boners from looking in the mirror.

Addison.  Get it together, woman.  Your marriage has been over forever — you knew that all along, right?  The whole reconciliation thing was noble and all, but you knew it was a dead end.  Or, at least, we did.  Good for you for getting it on with McSteamy.  And thank whoever was responsible for having him give that "yes, I'm really naked" flash of hip while he was getting out of the shower last Thursday.

Izzie.  I'm not saying this to you, I'm saying this to the folks that write you.  Guys, who acts like that?  I mean, people react to trauma in different ways, but the madcap baking?  The laying down in your prom dress for days, all catatonic?  And Izzie totally killed a dude, but you're going to "work it out" at the hospital?  Highly suspect.

Doc Webber.  I don't really even know what to say to you.  Does it make sense to ask you to "stop being crotchety?"  That's not meant to sound dirty. 

Doc Baily.  I'm really too scared to cop an attitude with you.  As you were. 

Alex.  Remember last episode when you rocked that blonde cancer patient's world in the bar bathroom?  Yeah, that was disgusting.  Plus, if you start something with Izzie, now you're just going to have a track record of cancer patients and pseudo-widows.  Not that impressive.

George.  To borrow a phrase from Cristin, grow a pair.  But carry on with your mannish girlfriend, as it kind of has promise.

Burke.  Ditto. 

Now, I know this annoying behavior won't stop.  It's pretty much set that these characters will continue to act like jerks for the rest of their tenure and I will continue to watch this show because I'm a 49-year-old woman.  But just know that you're always treading on thin ice with me.  I'd always be surprised if someone decided to act in a reasonable manner.

23 comments October 4th, 2006

I’m Sick of Your Shit: Susan Mayer

I’m happy for you, Teri Hatcher. I really am. You’ve managed to claw your way out of Radio Shack endorsement purgatory and back into a juicy Sunday night dramedy. It’s not easy to do, just ask Daisy Fuentes.

And I’m even willing to look past this recent unfortunate fling (publicity stunt? dare?) with Ryan Seacrest. Seriously, what was that? I saw you interviewed on Access Hollywood or one of those shows and I could just see the mix of bemusement and embarassment on your face as that dipshit Billy Bush probed you about it. Seriously, Teri, why? (side note: I never really thought Ryan Seacrest was gay until this episode. And I think everyone is gay. Now, I don’t think that he could possibly be straight.)

That said, I’m not talking to you when I say this. I’m talking to your character, the loveable basketcase Susan Mayer on Desperate Housewives.


Susan, you’re a plum, but I’m sick of your shit.

Let’s just see if I’ve got this cycle straight, mkay? You fall crazy-ass in love with some dude. The relationship sours. You fall crazy-ass in love with some other dude, but you still think you love Dude #1. So when your relationship with Dude #2 reaches a high point, you end up telling some sort of lie to prevent Dude #2 from finding out about Dude #1. This all comes to a head in a screwball fashion, in some sort of public place or at a dinner party. And it’s hilarious or something.

I guess your schtick is that we’re supposed to empathize with your various madcap situations. And we toss our hands in the air and say “Oh Susan. You’re incorrigible!”

But, no! Stop it! You’ve been boning some grade-a Hollywood beefcake and you’ve single-handedly botched every single one.  That doctor was a piece of ass, you know.

And poor Julie, your long-suffering daughter! I know the whole dynamic of your relationship is supposed to be give-and-take with the maternal advice, given that she’s wise beyond her years and you haven’t yet reached your emotional bat mitzvah. But she really shouldn’t have to deal with her mom kicking her Dad out of the house (in his skivvies!) while she munches her Cocoa Puffs. Lucky for you she’s a good egg, because if she wasn’t, she’d be Charlize Theron in “Monster.”

And one more thing, what exactly do you do for a living? I know the cover story is children’s book author, but I kind of think that’s an excuse to have you sitting around the house all day swooning like a schoolgirl and thinking of new ways to sabotage your life.  Believe me, I have friends who are high up in the world of children’s publishing — I’m pretty certain they wouldn’t stand for your flightiness.

So, my advice, not that you asked.  You seem to have a pretty steady flow of hotness coming your way.  Grab one, spill your guts, get every loveable skeleton out of that walk-in closet and then chain him to your bed.

Love you,


1 comment April 18th, 2006

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