Wednesday (With An Edge)

Lots of TV to tell you about, so let’s get to it, shall we?

First off, America’s Next Top Model was awesome “with an edge.” I’ve decided that “with an edge” is the new black and also how I’m going to describe everything from now on.

We at Pop Whore are all about picking favorites, so here are our top three:

Kim - Before the show even started, Nick and I appointed Kim the Pop Whore ambassador to America’s Next Top Model (with an edge) because she has the capacity to singlehandedly (no pun intended) corrupt every girl there. She’s also smart and plays along in a very tongue in cheek manner; or rather “tongue in Sarah’s mouth,” which, by the way, awesome! Kim is also crushing on Kyle, which we really can’t blame her for.

Kyle - Kyle is not only the prettiest girl there, but her name fucking rocks (with an edge.). She’s even prettier with the dark hair make-over. Dairy Queen! Who knew? Sorry, Parker Posey!

Sarah - We have to like Sarah because she made out with Kim (with an edge) and seems to be rather genuine. Sarah is also totally crushing on Kim, which as the preview for next week teased, will give us plenty of grainy night vision to decipher. Keep it up, Sarah.

And no, we’re not trying to somehow cosmically manipulate these three into a lurid ANTM love triangle (with an edge). What kind of sickos (albeitly, hotly inclined sickos) do you take us for?!!


The rest of the Wednesday night of TV went a little something like this:

Veronica Mars: I think our high pitched screaming (with an edge) and incessant high-fiving basically said it all. And since we only have really nice, non-sarcastic stuff to say (because the show fucking rocks), we won’t say anything at all.

Apprentice Martha Stewart - Gross. Um, ew! Gross. Nick and I both threw up into our own mouths (with an edge) in fifteen minute intervals. We have nothing nice to say, but we’ll just pass because, ew, and not worth the time.

Lost - I passed because I’m sort of over that show (with an edge). Nick said he’d watch over breakfast.

Waiting for next week is always the hardest part.

Serenity

Remember the X-Files movie? What if it hadn't been a letdown? There you go. Sadly, I have nothing snarky or otherwise sarcastic to say about this movie. It's awesome. Really, really awesome. I'm not going to say any more, because even by now you're most likely thinking "WTF is he going on about" or "Holy shit holy shit don't tell me anything else before I see it on Friday"; and statistically speaking, it's more likely the former. Anyway. It's awesome.

Hygienically Yours

So, like, last night, on (the) Laguna Beach, Casey was like totally spreading rumors that Alex M. had bad hygiene in her bathing suit area. Like, OMG! I KNOW!

Remember kids, Alex hooked up with Jason, who hooked up with Jessica, who hooked up with Dieter... and last week Alex M. got Jessica to admit she was a slut and it’s all very dramatic and twisted and gross.

Still, I don’t know if that warrants rumors of bad hygiene below the waist a la Angelina Jolie (not that that would actually stop anyone...for Angelina J., not Alex M.) but it’s still so awesome to watch.

Word, bitches! Word.

Morvern Callar

Heard of it? No? Here's the IMDB listing. Still nothing, eh? It's got Samantha Morton. You know? Samantha Morton? Cute bald chick in Minority Report who gets kidnapped by Tom Cruise so he can mess with her mind? No, not Kati-- yeah, I said bald chick. Except she's only bald in that one movie. Normally she has hair.

Anyway, I watched Morvern Callar over the weekend since I'd had it out from Netflix since about late July. (Yeah, I'm cancelling Netflix this month. Its spark kind of died down eventually.) Want to know what it's about? Are you going to see it? Of course not. You've never even heard of it. So here's what happens. Before the movie starts, Samantha's boyfriend kills himself by slitting his wrists. Then somehow he ends up face down on the living room floor next to the Christmas tree. Yeah, he left her a nice note on the computer explaining that it's not her fault and she shouldn't feel bad, but he wasn't quite considerate enough to do the deed in the bathtub. In the note, he mentions that there's some money in his bank account to pay for his funeral, and there's also a book manuscript on the computer that he wants her to try to get published for him. Following me so far?

In other movies, this little tableau might turn into a charming bittersweet tale about Samantha burying her tortured soul of a boyfriend, struggling to move on, taking comfort in her friends and family, and so forth. Like Garden State or Elizabethtown, something in that vein. Actually, mentioning Garden State is kind of helpful at this point. Because remember that first night when Zach Braff is home, and he goes to the party at Peter Sarsgaard's house and takes ecstasy and parties all night? And then remember how after doing that, he realizes that drugs and partying aren't going to take the place of living? Okay, let's pretend that epiphany never happens, and he just keeps partying and popping pills and having a great time. That's Morvern Callar. Except instead of Peter Sarsgaard's house, it's Spain. And instead of Peter Sarsgaard, it's this girl. (Yes, they look cute together, but this isn't Thirteen or Lost & Delirious or Mulholland Drive, so looking cute together is, unfortunately, the extent of it.)

Did I miss anything? Samantha also changes the name on her boyfriend's manuscript to her own, and the heads of a big publishing company fly out to Spain to offer her tons of money for it. The scene where she's sort of negotiating her fee with them, and pretending to be an actual writer, is the most you see her talk in the entire movie. Otherwise she's mostly dancing, flirting with random guys, taking more ecstasy, or staring quite meaningfully at the lighter her boyfriend gave her as a Christmas present. She also takes off her clothes fairly often, to have sex or take showers or baths and so forth, but this is a British movie and over there they show that kind of stuff during Teletubbies.

You know those movies where you're waiting for something to happen and nothing does? This isn't one of them. Because it's pretty obvious after the first five minutes that you'd be an idiot to expect anything whatsoever plot-wise. But if you're like me, you'll sit in front of it for the full 90 minutes just because you don't want to send an unwatched movie back to Netflix.

Episode 13: The TiVoCast

Believe the hype. The hype is true.

Download Episode 13: The TiVoCast right here.

Then use the comment link below to detail your plans for world domination, higher education, parking validation, reverse filtration, and summer vacation.

Premature Podcastulation

As I type and hype, Nick is putting the final editorial touches on our latest podcast! That’s right! Podcast 13: The TiVoCast, will be up in a few short less than twenty-four hours!

Join us as we come down from our TV overload and rationalize our picks for America’s Next Top Model, bitch and hate on Martha Stewart, make sweet verbal love to George and Carolyn, crash Flightplan, pretend to be scholarly and intellectual about “A Long Way Down” and much, much more.

By the way, is it wrong that I sort of have this fantasy about crawling into bed between George and Carolyn?

Pop Whore Recommends

Last week, your dear and faithful editors went to see “Just Like Heaven” (it was for hangout purposes only, so shut up). Amidst the many stupid movie previews, the one for “North Country” stuck out. Not so much because it featured Charlize Theron doing her best to look ugly again (sorry dear, it’s going to take more than a mullet and schmutz on your face), but because it featured a very cool song that neither Nick or I could put our finger on. It wasn’t like last week, when Nick tooooootally called that it was A Simple Plan playing during that stupid kids-on-a-road-trip-trying-to-change-the-world Coke commercial.

Of course, after getting home that night, I couldn’t remember which of the ten thousand previews the cool song was featured in. So last night before “Flightplan” (meh) started, they promo’d “North Country” again and I made it a point to write it down.

Turns out the song was “Part of the Queue” by Oasis. I guess we were thrown off by the fact that it’s Noel singing instead of Liam.

As Vicki the robot once said during the crucial anti-drug episode of Small Wonder: “Try it. You’ll like it.” Truer words were never spoken.

Mission To (Hype) Mars

I have to say, I’m very proud of myself. The season premiere of the second (and imminently awesome) season of Veronica Mars is less than a week away and I’m surprisingly spoiler free. Well, relatively spoiler free.

Yes, I’m a notorious spoiler whore. It’s not so much that I can’t wait or am a control freak or anything (!). I just like knowing things and seeing how they play out in the actual episodes. I did the same thing for X-Files, but it was more so for the Mulder/Scully sexual tension than the actual plots or the ridiculous alien crap. (Dear Black Oil/Aliens, I love and believe in you. I know you’re out there. I was just kidding about the part where I called you crap. It was just an artistic liberty meant specifically for dramatic effect. Please don’t hurt me or implant anything in my neck or drill holes in my teeth like Duane Barry. Much love, E.).

At any rate, I managed to stay spoiler free for the season finale of Veronica Mars last year and was pleasantly (and creepily) surprised. Although, if you go back to the sweeps podcast, I sort of called the killer pre-show. Big ups! Nevertheless, I guess the real reason I’m so spoiler free right now is because there are no real spoilers to be had. Is Rob Thomas really that good? Are his people that loyal? Have my spoiler sites gotten complacent?

Regardless, if there’s any show that I will let off the hook for a lack of spoilers, it’s Veronica Mars. Yes, it’s just that good. Complaining about the lack of spoilers would be like complaining that you can’t see a picture of Sawyer from Lost, knowing full well that you’re like guaranteed to be having really hot sex with him on a beach Blue Lagoon-style in less than a week.

But I regress.

The point is, there are only two kinds of Veronica Mars episodes: the ones that are awesome and the ones that are really awesome. Those of you who’ve seen it know what I’m talking about. Those of you who have never seen it, the power of awesomeness compels you.

Of course, this also means longer podcasts because Nick and I will no doubt need extra time to wax poetic on the sheer brilliance that is Veronica Mars.

Kids, it doesn’t get any better than this. Seriously.

Pulled From The Headlines

Halle Berry: No More Men

Personally, I am not a Halle Berry fan, so I dedicate this post to Nick as the Most Misleading(???) Headline He Hopes Is True.

Headline of the day that I most hope is misleading

Jennifer Aniston tells Oprah she's 'ready to date'

Emmy Wrap-up

This isn't Variety, so I'm not going to regurgitate a list of all the winners and what their numbers might mean for ratings/ad sales/blah blah blah, and it's not TVGasm, so I'm not going to give a detailed snark-filled account of the entire evening. This is, however, Pop Whore, and we would be remiss not to at least say a little something about the hallowed three-hour circle jerk that so thoroughly dominates the airwaves every September that the WB is forced to air Lord of the Rings on the assumption that the five people not watching the Emmys are probably the same five people who never saw LOTR on the big screen.

Anyway, one topic I think deserves some mention is the sadly one-sided relationship between the Emmys and the Oscars. In case you haven't noticed, the Oscar telecast is up for multiple Emmys pretty much every year, and usually it wins at least one of them. Then six months later, the 4-hour Oscar ceremony comes and goes with not even one mention of the word Emmy, or even the word television for that matter. To the Oscars, the Emmys are that pathetic friend who keeps inviting you out and offering to pick up dinner and drinks just because you were nice enough to hang out with him/her -- and if they even notice that you never call back to reciprocate, they keep quiet about it. The functional problem here, of course, is that the Oscars are a TV show, whereas the Emmys aren't a movie. In a few years, the TV Academy is going to pick up on that fact and, instead of relegating the ceremony to a Sunday evening on CBS, make the Emmycast into a $50 million Miramax epic directed by Anthony Minghella, with Jude Law as Conan O'Brien and Judi Dench as Whoopi Goldberg. (There won't be a dry eye in the house when Albert Finney as the cold-hearted Executive Producer tells Judi/Whoopi that she can't have her two extra minutes to do an edgy racial joke, as John Williams' haunting score plays in the background.)

Oh, and the actual awards? Well, it was nice that Lost won, even if co-showrunner Damon Lindelof appears to be about 15 years old. I'm not even going to mention snubbing Jennifer Garner for Best Actress in favor of Patricia freaking Arquette, because it will just make me too angry. Ditto for choosing Everybody Loves [the fact that] Raymond [is finally over] when Scrubs and Arrested Development were the only sensible (i.e., funny) options. And even if they're not ready to give her the statue, at least those crusty old Emmy voters were smart enough to nominate Kristen Bell for the stunning 22 episodes she turned in on Veronica Mars... uh, scratch that. But Gilmore Girls finally got some of the recognition it deser-- never mind. Clearly this stuff is a lot easier to tolerate if you're a pod person who watches exclusively bland big-network shows and HBO. So, in that spirit... hey, they nominated Will & Grace! What a consistently funny show that is, and isn't it amazing that it's lost none of its spunk and originality in all these years! And how lovely that Doris Roberts and Brad Garrett had their respectively brilliant work recognized yet again! Don't even get me started on The West Wing.... why, it's a show about the inner workings of our nation's highest office! How could it not be utterly fantastic? Who in their right mind would turn that off to watch a little blonde girl solving mysteries?

And with that taken care of, we return to our regularly scheduled blog. See you next September, Emmycast!

Episode 12: The WhateverCast

Join us, fair podcast listeners, as we spend a chunk of our Saturday evening rambling on about everything from 8 year old nose-picking girls to the Road Runner/Coyote aspects of Melrose Place. And, of course, the second installment of Pop Whore Theater.

Download Episode 12: The WhateverCast right here.

Then use the comment link to beam your snarky brainwaves right into our adorable skulls.

Most annoyingly misleading headline of the day

"Angelina channels Gia"

Yeah, so, free advice -- if you've seen Gia and you had certain expectations based on that line, please put them to rest. They're just talking about her taking up modeling. Granted, she'd be the first to admit that she's already done her fair share of channeling, but still. Shame on you, E! website people. I knew you were desperate for attention, but toying with the emotions of those of us who appreciate certain aspects of Angelina's career... that's just plain wrong. Thou shalt get no more clicks from the Pop Whore crew today.

Suffer The Children

As many of you know, an evening at the Sherman Oaks Galleria (formerly, or at least prior to the redevelopment, of Fast Times At Ridgemont High and Valley Girl fame) offers a vast (and terrifying) look at the youth of Los Angeles.

While attempting to eat dinner last Friday, I spent several hours trying not to throw up into my own mouth as I acerbically watched those little fuckers be as loud and obnoxious as they possibly could.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love children! They taste like chicken. But these kids were all, and I do mean all, decked out in stuff my laundry machine ate in the eighties. And I don’t think it was because they were inspired by the previous night’s premiere of “Reunion” either.

Yeah, we’re talking tight stonewashed jeans, Chuck Taylors, lacy skirts, neon polos with the collar up, ad nauseam, ad infinitum. Not that the whole Abercrombie & Fitch miniskirt and Uggs combo last year were a great trend set, but most of these kids were painfully off!

Jimmy said it best when he pointed to one girl and said, “she’s a sideways ponytail away from getting it right, but why the hell is she wearing flip flops?”

Hear ye’ little grommets of the nineties:

Do not attempt to recreate the eighties. It is something you know nothing about. That decade was ugly for a reason. Seriously. Everyone was on rock. (Yeah, even you, Whitney “crack cocaine is a ghetto drug” Houston!) You’ll never know what it’s like to legitimately rock the mullet, so don’t even try.

Seeing you prancing about in your off the shoulder sweaters and tight pants was like a slap in the face to all of us who suffered through the actual humiliation and now have entire photo albums that are so blindingly ugly, that they cannot be looked at sober.

Children, that’s holy ground you’re trying to walk on. It is a force more powerful than the heavens, and it will destroy you!

The eighties were ugly back then and they’re still fucking ugly now and until your generation can give us something better than the teeny bopper musical stylings of Hillary Duff and Aaron Carter to justify such displays of gaudiness, you shut up!

Why not bring back the roaring twenties? Who doesn’t want to don those flapper dresses and dance the Charleston?

Yeah, yeah, fine! Be quiet and go listen to our last podcast.

Episode 11: The ThursdayCast

Dissing Food Network shows, looking ahead to the OC and Reunion, and the premiere of 30 Second Pop Whore Theater -- all this and more! Come and get it...

Download Pop Whore Episode 11 right here!

Then use the comment link below to exorcise your personal demons or make dirty jokes, or both.

Prepping the hype machine

Did we record a podcast last night? You better believe we did, and it'll be available for download later tonight. At a little under 30 minutes, it's perfect for passing the time on your morning commute or while you're pretending to listen to your mom on the phone. So, keep your eyes peeled and your ears open (and maybe your shirt open too; we'll leave that to your discretion) and you'll have Pop Whore Episode 11: The ThursdayCast in your hot little hands before you know it.

File Under: Ew!

Public toilets have always been an issue for me.

I have one rule: Rule #1: #1 only.

At work, each floor has two gender-specific bathrooms and each bathroom has two stalls. Unfortunately, sometimes people have to use the bathroom the same time I do. Yeah, I know! What kind of bullshit is that?

Normally, I’ll go out of my way to avoid being in the bathroom with another person. For example, if I’m walking down the hall towards the bathroom and I see some other lady going in there, I’ll pretend like I forgot something, do a quick 360 and go right back to the office until I deem it’s safe to give it another try. Sometimes, this can take hours.

If I really need to go or just need to get some exercise, I’ll pop into the stairwell, walk up to the fourth floor and go about my business there. It’s taken me two years of scientific study, but I’ve now hypothesized that there are maybe two women who work on the fourth floor, hence making the bathroom up there the Mecca of peeing sanctuaries. And in the off chance that I do end up in the bathroom with a fourth floor worker, I know that they probably won’t remember me anyway and vice versa, since our meetings are so few and far between. (I thought bras fell into a strange subculture, but when the guys at work told me that the seventh floor bathrooms had marble floors and sinks, I knew I was dealing with something special.)

However, despite all my planning and plotting, there are occasions where I find myself in the bathroom with another lady. Different stalls, of course, but still, gross. In the case that I do find myself in such a predicament, I’ll normally just wait for the other person to finish their business and get out before I even attempt to begin mine. Or like last week, when me and a co-worker found ourselves walking down the hall towards the bathroom together, we agreed to leave the sink running as we went and neither of us uttered a single word. The way it should be!

But something really disturbing happened this Tuesday afternoon.

With the hallway clear, I unlocked the door and walked into the bathroom. Unfortunately, the good stall (the little one, not the cold and airy handicapped one) was taken by some lady with brown heels. From where I was standing, I could see that her pants were around her ankles and that she had clearly made herself comfortable.

In keeping with the status quo, I walked into the other stall and stood in the corner in an attempt to wait her out. But about a minute later, I heard a voice. I figured, better to hear a voice than other noises, but still.

The lady in the stall next to me with the brown heels was actually recording her fucking outgoing cell phone message! Ew!

The most bizzaro part of the experience was that she was so unhappy with her first message, that she actually re-recorded it again! And then a third time! And just when I thought it couldn’t get any weirder, she actually laughed; which of course made me want to laugh but in a “wow, you’re really fucked up” sort of way.

I really wanted to tell her, “Um, hey lady, when people hear your weird ass echo-y message, they’ll know EXACTLY where you were!” But I declined.

So if anyone out there ends up calling a Ms. Atkins, please note that she recorded her outgoing voice mail message while on the toilet of a third floor building in Sherman Oaks sitting a mere five feet away from yours truly. Good times.