Bad Advice

Damn it!

My latest make-believe TV boyfriend, Anthony Bourdain, is reading tomorrow night along with Bill Buford and Mario Batali (?!), and tickets are already sold out! Lucky you if you snagged one. Since initially being annoyed by the overly testicular Kitchen Confidential, I've grown quite fond of Mr. Bourdain and watch his show on the travel channel almost religiously (though not with as much creepy fervor as I viewed The L Word).

A week or two ago, my Large Greek turned to me during the show and said "You'd so do him." I mounted a half-hearted protest, but it made a certain amount of sense. Bourdain is tall, skinny, dorky and talks way too much—in other words, my type. Yet up until LG said that, I really hadn't given it much thought. But since then I've had two boyfriend dreams about Anthony Bourdain! Not sex dreams, mind you, but the kind of dreams where someone's just really nice and you do stuff together. Isn't that pathetic? If I'm going to cheat in my dreams, why does it include boring crap like going to the movies or strolling around? Can't a girl get a little hot monkey love in her sleep? So not fair.

Such High Hopes. . .

Ever since The L Word ended for the season, my TV-viewing habits have been a little irregular and a lot uninspired. Sure, there's always Blow Out on Tuesdays, but for the rest of the week, I'm now more of an occasional Law & Order or interchangeable home-design program kind of girl.

Which is why I was so elated when I saw previews for A&E's new God or the Girl series. The premise is, they get a couple seminary students and then try to tease them away with chicks! So these guys either pick a chaste life spent with god (and the other child molesters in the rectory) or go for some of that sweet pussy action. Angst, aching loins . . . it sounds like a no-brainer, right?

Well, wrong. GOTG was possibly the most boring show I've ever seen. Long (endless, really) talks with priests and moms and lots of yammering about "the calling." Yawn. I had thought it was going to be a little bit racy. Like maybe they'd pay hot hookers to sneak into the seminary and try and lure them away with blowjobs. But, no. Instead, the only bait are old girlfriends or women who exist only in theory. Snore. Anyway, I turned it off.

Blow Me!

I realize I've been remiss in my television coverage lately. Though with the L Word on hiatus, there's really not much out there. I'm bored of the Sopranos and have completely given up on Big Love. So if anyone wants to have easter dinner, my Sundays are free!

But one show remains on my must-see TV list . . . one pinnacle of greatness that cannot be missed. Of course I'm speaking of Jonathan Antin and his fantabulous Blow Out crew. Last night did not disappoint.

Fresh off the rigors of New York Fashion Week (thank you, Charles Nolan, you are a genius!) Jonathan had to jet off to Pennsylvania to appear on QVC. These episodes are always good, because the small-town peeps at QVC, just don't get Jonathan and so try to reign him in. Our heavily inked bad boy had this to say about their attempts at curbing his lingo: "I can call a dude a chick and a chick a dude and it doesn't  [expletive deleted!] matter!" True that!

In between events, J found time to wind down with a shrink visit. Jonathan's new therapist, a sort of comically robotic would-be actor with a PhD and an eye job, is a little disconcerting. As our boy sobs about every old thing under the sun, Mr. Shrinky Dink merely mirrors everything he says back at him.

For example, when Jonathan weeps about how much he loves his new baby, Mr. Shrink meeps back, "Your child is very important to you," with an unblinking stare. (Paraphrase, but you get my point.) A normal person would find this course of therapy excruciating—not to mention irrirating—but not our Jonathan. He likes it when people agree with him!

Not that therapy hasn't helped Our Hairness. In fact, he's become a bit of an amateur philosopher this season. I'll leave you with this little tidbit of wisdom: "You need to stay in the moment and for me, that moment is hair." Word.

Other snackbite-sized bits of profundity after the jump:

One, two, now step, step. . . .

A couple weeks ago I located my new favorite channel. It's called "Exercise on Demand." It's basically a collection of workout shows that you can pause stop, or rewind when you get tired or confused. So today I strapped on the sportsbra and started off with "Hip-Hop Cardio." It took me about a minute and a half to figure out that I would not be hipping or hopping. Those kids move so fast! Sure, the nice lady encouraged me to find my own "inner dancer," but I think my inner dancer was out having cocktails because I almost fell over. So I switched to an introductory Pilates abs class.

While this was much more my pace (exercise being the only time I welcome new age music), my stomach started to twitch in pain after seven minutes, so I swapped that for "Power Arms and Legs." Even though this instructor rivaled the hip-hop lady in the peppy department, I am proud to say that I made it through that entire lesson without crying. Now I am feeling very proud of myself and wondering what to have for lunch. Perhaps a grilled cheese?

"L" is for Lackadaisical

The season finale of The L Word was on last night and damn, talk about going out with a whimper. (Or wait, maybe that was just the sound of Tina mewling to her pussy wussy man.)

First we'll go over the rundown and, of course, I have a somewhat extensive list of complaints.

• Helena Peabody was a scheming evil ladystealer last season. Not only was she abducted by aliens over hiatus and turned into the kindly, benevolent rich lady, she's also lost her fucking mind. First she allows Mrs. Ellen to blackmail her, now she's handing over 10k to Shane's long lost loser dad, no questions asked? This is the biggest personality 180 since the Vicky/Nicky scenario featured on One Life to Live. No small wonder Peggy cut her ass off.
• As I mentioned, Shane's dad is back in the picture after how many years. Played by Eric Roberts, he's not a nice person. And because Shane's apparently been beat with the same dum-dum stick as Helena, she's also being a moron about the entire situation.

• Carmen, poor Carmen. . . it's not easy having your whole familia finally accept and then fly in for your girl-on-girl wedding, but then to be left at the altar? Ay caramba.

Blown Away!

Though I was wrong on a couple predictions, the season premiere of Blow Out, did not disappoint!

As usual, Jonathan is being pulled in a million different directions and the stress is really getting to him. Luckily, he has a new, more TV-friendly, therapist to help him through it. As an added bonus, it would appear that this shrink carries the Puffs Plus with lotion, just perfect for a big crybaby like JA.

As I did predict, there were tears within six minutes of start time. But, incredibly, all the staffers this season, were part of last season. Which tells me that people will put up with all kinds of abuse as long as they have the privilege of being abused and humiliated on national (albeit, cable) TV. There are one or two missing hairdressers, but nowhere near the body count I'd guessed.

The biggest change is that Jonathan is now a daddy. I didn't quite absorb the baby's name except to realize it was one of those nonsensical Hollywood names that the kid will be changing the second he's of legal age. Next week's episode looks even better, with the return of the graphic designer Jonathan almost beat up last season! Catfight!

The Countdown Begins. . . .

That's right. In just a little over 24 hours, my personal savior, Jonathan Antin makes his triumphant return to cable TV, with the third (count 'em!) season of Blow Out. I cannot even tell you how excited I am about this. I really don't have much of a taste for reality TV, but Blow Out is the exception to this (not to mention every other) rule.

My predictions for tomorrow night's premiere:

• The world's gayest allegedly straight man will cry. Repeatedly.
• I'm certain 90% of his old staff will have been replaced. Jonathan is a tempermental fella and doesn't take any guff from anyone. Nor does he care for any stylist who might get more press than him.
• His Pussycats Doll sister will have had even more plastic surgery. In fact, by this point, she may be entirely made up of latex and silicone parts.
• There will be a LOT of pouting. I believe Jonathan's ex-assistant, Kimberly, is history, and that's too bad because she was the queen of the Sulky Sue's.
• He will have come up with a new twist on his patented long layered cut.
• Jonathan's BFF Lisa Rinna will stop by only to have her visit thwarted because her giant collagen lips won't fit through the salon's remodeled front door.
• There will be a LOT of talk about Jonathan Product. For those of you who don't watch the show (sillies!), that's not another person, but the line of haircare products Antin tearfully produced last season. He, sniff, has, sob, a gasp, BAR CODE!!!!! Oh, that everyone's dreams were so easily fulfilled.

TV Party Tonite!

Urgh. Since The Sopranos started, followed by Big Love, I've had to push my L Word viewing back til 11:00 PM. Granny likes to get an early night, but in order to keep the peace, I stick to the three-hour plan. I'll just do a round-up of all three for those of you who don't have the 50 billion cable stations that come part and parcel when you move a man into your life.

The Sopranos: Tony got shot, so this week we were forced to sit through an actory-episode highlighting James Gandolfini's "chops." Snore. We're talking near-death hallucinations, what-would-my-life-be-like-if scenarios; the whole cheesball nine. I was so impatient waiting for the ladies that I peeled all the frosting off a cupcake and ate it even though I wasn't hungry. Then I got all hyper and stomach-achey.

Big Love: I'm calling this one Big Bore. Bruce Dern and Harry Dean Stanton playing characters we've seen them play a thousand times before, and though Bill Paxton plays a good everyman, an everyman character is not especially compelling (even if he does have three wives). I just don't care about anyone on this show. Hearing the Large Lazy Greek chuckle with appreciation as Bill Paxton gets waited on hand and foot by his bevy o' wives didn't help my mood.

And then—finally—tick-tock, it's boobie o'clock—

Dana Goes Bye-Bye!

Last night the L Word killed off Dana and I'm lady enough to admit I shed a tear. It was pretty obvious last week, during the preview, that she was a goner, but still. Dana? After the show was over, the producers did a little behind-the-scenes special to help us, the viewer, deal with the aftermath of her demise. (Um, even though I cried a little, even I realize Dana is a make-believe character and therefore I won't be needing any grief counseling, thanks!)

The producers used the after-show as an opportunity to educate viewers about breast cancer, which is nice, I suppose, but I'm betting that your average L Word user is quite up-to-date on such info. I know I am. Instead, they could've used the time to focus on real questions we need answered:

• Like how come yucky Tina goes out with a guy maybe twice and already he's acting like they're married? It is obvious that the writers have never ever dated a guy, because men just don't do this. Bette's been away for what—a week? And already Tina is having meet and greet's with this dude's closest friends? Yeah, right.
• Again, why Dana, why not Jenny? Once again Jenny proves that she is the most annoying character ever created in the history of television. Her nails-on-blackboard delivery makes Urkel's screech seem soothing. There is absolutely nothing appealing about this character and she should die.
• That Helena is being sued by the ex-Mrs. Ellen is a stupid plotline. No filmmaker would ever do this as in real life; the ex-Mrs. Ellen's director boyfriend would cheerfully sacrifice his girlfriend's cooter to get his film made, no questions asked. Suing only makes you look like a troublemaker. The barter system scenario would be way more likely.

What planet do these writers reside on? Certainly not one populated by heterosexual men and Hollywood bottom feeders.

Oh Happy Day!

My dreams have come true, my prayers have been answered: Blow Out is returning for a third season! I know where I'll be come March 21st—parked in front of my giant TV, Raisinets in one hand, a beer in the other. The Large Greek better not so much as look at the remote! This season looks to be a good one too—not only does Jonathan "tackle fatherhood with as much passion as he does his career," he gets a new therapist! (I'm guessing the big crybaby's tissue consumption made it too expensive for the last one to keep him on.) As much as I love my L-ladies, I heart Jonathan and his kast of kooks even more!