Showing posts with label bad tv. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad tv. Show all posts

Friday, February 8, 2013

Snowicane 2013

As the entire world prepares for Snowicane 2013 ("GET IN YOUR PURPLE BENTLEYS AND GO HOME TO YOUR SHARKS!". Oh, 30 Rock. How I miss you already), I am busy trying to wipe the shit-eating grin off my face, because as we all know, I love blizzards. As my coworkers all discussed exit strategies and VPN connections and then left promptly at 5pm to go hoard bread and water, I hightailed it to pick up the one item no "major weather event" is complete without:



Priorities. I got 'em in spades.

Adequate amounts of chardonnay and malbec safely procured, I was free to go about my planned evening of self-indulgence. Andrew had plans with his marginally competitive drinking softball team last night, which meant I had the rare opportunity to do whatever I wanted. While I love that we have been cohabitating for the past two years, those of you who have been there know what I mean. Rare are the times that I get to prowl around my 1- bedroom apartment in a turby-twist and my brother's sweatpants while foraging for snacks, belting Britney at the top of my lungs and getting all teary over "my programs" sans judgment. When the opportunity presents itself, it is my civic duty to seize it with gusto.

Naturally, my evening included a glass of chard in the shower, a plate of cheese and turkey pepperoni for dinner and a television event that I have been dreading for weeks: the series finale of Gossip Girl.

I'm not going to get into my thoughts on the finale today because I need more time to process it. I know I had already shed tears by the 15-minute mark, and that Andrew came home to find me sobbing into my pillow because 1) I accidentally knocked my Nook off my bedside table and now it looks like an Etch-a-Sketch and 2) some things just need to be wailed about ad nauseum ("BUT XYZ IS GOSSIP GIIIRRRLLL!"). Suffice to say I haven't mourned the end of a show that was already off the air so much since Veronica Mars.

This morning, I got up, got dressed and headed to the office, because apparently science is like the US Postal Service of the STEM sector and doesn't believe in inclement weather. Since I walked to work (because cardio, duh!), I made sure to forgo my usual Michelle Obama-worthy peacoat and went with my trusty Columbia -- it might be almost ten years old, but that baby blue beast and I have been through a lot together (see: tubing, accident while) and I have yet to find another article of clothing that can keep me warm in single-digit windchill.

But I digress.

To all of my friends and readers in the Northeast -- may you be blessed with the essentials (warm shelter, electricity, food, water and no significant damage to your property/home) and the comforts (wine, cable, netflix, wine, board games, books, wine) that make for a positive blizzard experience. Batten down those hatches and stay warm!

Monday, September 10, 2012

Dawson’s Creek 1:1

So, another year is upon us. And by that I mean simply that, “football season is back!” While we all know that I enjoy the whole Sunday ritual of donning various Pats paraphernalia, tossing chili on the stove and engaging in some serious smacktalk on Twitter, by the 8 o'clock game I'm usually done. Don't even get me started on Thursday and Monday Night Football. Unfortunately, the networks LOVE the Pats, and as such, we get saddled with an ungodly amount of night/national games this year. In the midst of this insanity, I have struck a deal with Andrew, whereby as long as the Pats aren't playing, I get to control the remote. What does this all mean? A marathon re-viewing of the standard for young adult television, Dawson's Creek, of course. (A lady has to have her happy place, y'know?).

I started two weeks ago. Coincidentally, I was about ten minutes into the premiere (and halfway into a glass of wine) when I felt the need to text Steph about how I never noticed how hot Dawson's dad is. This set off about ten minutes of running commentary from me. Right around the time I finished that glass of wine, I had the bright idea to record my analysis in perpetuity, rather than relegating it to 160 character texts. After a short marathon viewing session at my house on Thursday night, Steph convinced me to post my Dawson's Creek Premiere Recap here. It's really long because I don't have time to fully edit it, but it appears as though a lot of other bloggers are on the DC bandwagon lately, so here we go. Enjoy!

Dawson's Creek, Season 1, Episode 1
We open, of course, with fifteen year old Dawson Leery and his trusty femininely-challenged galpal, Joey Potter, watching a movie. Because when I was fifteen, I was obviously allowed to have boys not only in my room, but in my bed. For the love of all that is holy, I basically had Amy Poehler’s character from “Mean Girls” for a mother when I was fifteen and even she didn’t ok that right away. But I digress.

After musing over the injustice that is E.T. losing the Oscar to Ghandi, we find out why Dawson’s mom seems to have no issues with her hormonally-ravaged son hanging unchaparoned with the cute little thang next door: she has made a career of sporting ghastly 90s hair while delivering the nightly news and giggling flirtatiously at her over-coiffed co-anchor.

Dawson is mystified that Joey won’t sleep over, since, you know, he is blind to her unrequited love-crush and doesn’t understand that she has been ogling him awkwardly this entire time. Going with the whole early 00s theme of, “we really need to just talk everything to death,” she informs him that they can’t sleep together anymore because of their burgeoning adulthood and lusty natures. Katie Holmes is already so good at delivering the obvious with just the right amount of self-righteous indignity. “I have breasts! And you have genitalia!” Look, Jo, if we’re really being honest here, you should probably mention that unfortunate mop bucket on top of Dawson’s head. Get a haircut, you bum!

“I just think our emerging hormones are destined to ruin our relationship and I am trying to limit the fallout.” I credit lines like this for the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend until my sixteenth birthday. Thanks a lot, Kevin Williamson. Dawson uses Joey’s tomboyish reputation to lure her into bed by threatening to call her Josephine. Oh, the horror! Our heroine falls (make that jumps) straight into the trap, in a not-sexual-at-all tickle match on top of the comforter. Take that, Dawson!

We cut to the original, weird opening theme song. This is not the legendary Paula Cole. I do NOT like this. I don’t like it one bit.

More weird song with same footage as classic theme. This is so bizarre. I got all amped up for my, “I DUN WANNA WAIT!” and it never appeared. I hate everything.

After what I remember being a long commercial break advertising Tamagochis or Jenga or JNCOs or some other awesome thing I wasn’t allowed to have, the show returns. Joey lounges on the dock while Dawson films Pacey, in full seamonster regalia, prematurely pulling Joey into the water. Dawson goes apeshit. “It’s a three count you gotta wait for!” he shrieks. What a pretentious douche.

One of my favorite Pacey lines ever, his very first of the series, as Joey climbs out of the creek:
Joey: “You did it again! You grabbed my ass!”
Pacey: “Like you even have one.”

At this point, mysterious new girl Jen arrives in a yellow cab and just nonchalantly strolls up to this motley crew of strangers, one of whom is dressed as a dripping seamonster. Nice. The boys act like pubescent assholes, Pacey making moderate sexual innuendos and Dawson forgetting how to speak, mumbling about God knows what. Meanwhile, Joey McKayla Maroney’s the situation and when Dawson says Jen’s changed, rolls her eyes and mutters, “puberty.” ZING!

P&D head to casa de leery and catch the parents en flagrante. Pacey makes a not so subtle attempt at flirting with Gail Leery, which I think is supposed to indicate some kind of foreshadowing. I’m not really sure because I've been too busy ogling Dawson’s hot dad. Pacey drools on the floor and Gail calls Mr. Leery “Mr. Manmeat,” to which I readily concur.

Because we need to establish some kind of backstory for the rough-around-the-edges heroine, we next see Joey arriving home. Her sister’s African American, living-in-sin boyfriend, Bode, walks out to let her taste some pasta sauce. Racial diversity alert!! A very pregnant Bessie then emerges from the house, bringing about our very first glimpse into what the producers of this forward-thinking show have deemed, “unsavory people.” Also the first time “orgasmic” is used as a totally unneccesary adjective. A true turning point in American culture, for sure.

Dawson and Pacey both work at the local video store. Awww, remember when we actually had to go to separate stores to rent stuff, rather than just streaming old episodes of decades-old shows directly to our wireless-enabled tvs? So quaint!

OMG the first Tamara scene. Here we have Pacey making a complete ass of himself as he attempts to flirt with this mature, sexual “older woman.” On first glance, I would probably peg her for 38, but then again, that’s about as old as the Leery parents look, so what do I know. The cheesy 80s saxophone music is killing me. The seductive voice, the barely there dress, the reference to “The Graduate.” These writers! So subtle!

Oh Charlie Conway, how far you have come (nice vest, btw).

After work, Dawson rounds the corner of his house, a stack of videos in his hand, to a picturesque view of the new girl, aka Michelle Williams when she was first pretty, before her awkward duck stage. Dawson goes into some douchey spiel about classic movies, blah blah blah, and I continue to serenade my wine glass with the stellar music from this show. “As I lay me, down toooo sleep. Yes I pray. That you will hold me dear...”

Ever the suave operator, Douchebag Dawson drops a casual, “Hey, wanna see my studio?” into the conversation. DMoney, you dog! Although on second thought, if some guy invited me to hang out and then had a shrine to Steven Spielberg on his walls, I think I’d cut my losses and invest in a cat.

After hearing her name bellowed from next door, we find out that Jen has to hide the fact she’s hanging out with Dawson from her Grams. How totally not suspicious at all; I’m sure it is just a freak coincidence and has nothing to do with her backstory at all. Meanwhile, Joey, window climber extraordinaire, appears crestfallen as she pauses outside the window in her too-short shorts and overhears Dawson and Jen having a very intimate moment, aka discussing something totally innocuous like Dawson’s only passion in life. Because obviously, a guy with a shrine to Spielberg never talks to anyone about movies but you, Joey.

After Jen leaves and Joey has assumed the usual position on the bed, Dawson observes that his mother uses “soft Bs” when talking to her co-anchor, and is therefore obviously having an affair. “Back to you, Bob!” he mimicks. Now I’m going to be on the lookout for soft B’s everywhere and assuming the speaker wants to get in my pants. “Bring the bagels?” That’s sexual harassment and I DON’T have to take it! (thank you, 90s commercials).

Back to Jen, who is having a tender moment with her incapacitated Gramps. Grams squashes that shit right quick, telling Jen she needs to eat or else she’ll be late for school. Over eggs, Jen interrogates Grams about Dawson and Joey, both of whom the elder refers to as “the wrong element,” pointing out that Joey’s been climbing into Dawson’s window at all hours for years. Wait, an adult that makes sense? What is this, the Waltons?!

Jen diverts Grams’ attention by declaring that she hates church and doesn’t believe in Jesus or God. Apparently she has either never invoked the wrath of religiously-oriented Grandma guilt or she’s just plain crazy, because no sane person would ever want to bring that upon themselves a second time. On a related note, remember how revolutionary it was to have an ATHEIST on tv?!

God-fearing Grams aside, Jen starts school wearing a white skirt and a button down double-breasted, very short sweater. Very Catholic schoolgirl, indeed, as demonstrated by Jen’s statement to school huss Nelly Olsen that she “likes to have a good time, drug free.” Give me a break, Jen.

Thank God for Chumbawumba. My life doesn’t have enough of it.

The kids all take their seats, and Tamara, aka “Ms. Jacobs” strolls into English class and Pacey figures out that he’s been keeping his teacher in the spank bank. Oh God, this is so much better than Aria and Ezra. Pretty Little Liars basically wouldn’t exist without this show. Gold. Standard. Television.

Pretentious Asshat, aka Dawson, is all mopey and emo because he was denied admittance to a class he isn’t eligible to get into because he’s an underclassmen. He spouts of some extra douchery by insulting the school’s only film teacher, accusing him of “denying students their education”. I bet his parents gave him a trophy for peeing in the potty as a toddler. Assholes.

Out in the hallway, Jen asks Joey if she and Douchson are a couple. Cue Joey and her sneer and a sob story. Nice way to slip in that your dad is a jailbird, Potter. “Oh, conspiracy to traffic marijauna in excess of 10,000 pounds”. AND her sister is having her black boyfriend’s baby. THAT should intimidate the girl from New York, alright.If someone hasn’t made a meme out of Katie Holmes’ faces from this show, they should. Comic gold.

Meanwhile, Pacey is hard at work seducing his English teacher. WHY IS IT ALWAYS THE ENGLISH TEACHER?! After trying to coerce Dawson into crashing Tamara’s date, Pacey informs him that Cosmo says older women are just itching to bang high school boys. “I have three menstrually diverse sisters. I get Cosmo, ok?” Dawson, ever the wordsmith, tells him to go home and walk his dog because it’s never going to happen.

On the way home from school, Dawson rides up to Joey, sporting a backwards, ADJUSTABLE Yankees hat, might I add, and begs her to act as a fifth wheel on his date/Pacey’s stalking mission. This brings about yet another eye roll, both from Ms. Potter and from me.

So as it turns out, despite all “unsavoriness” in Capeside, Grams is willing to let Jen out in public as long as she goes to Church on Sunday morning. Christ will cure your rebellious nature, Jen! She promises to go to Church when Grams say the word ‘penis.’ BAM!

Not to be rude or anything, but Grams needs some root touch-ups, stat.

Here’s hot Mr. Leery again, talking about condoms and foreplay. Meanwhile, the fifteen year old asks why sex is so important and uses the fact that Spielberg has never had a sex scene in his movies as proof that it’s lame. Holy fuck, Dawson, just stfu and let your dad keep talking about stuff that grown ups do.

I am old. So, so old.

Bessie, in a move meant to indicate that she fears Joey is going to grow up and die alone with her cat collection, grabs Joey and smears some lipstick on her omnipresent pout. Now that her crooked smirk is all accentuated and stuff, Joey can go crash Dawson’s date. GO AND CATCH YO’ MAN! RAAAAR!

This might be one of the best scenes in television history.
Jen: “Hey Joey, I love your lipstick, what color is it?”
Joey: “Wicked red. I love your hair color, what number is that? By the way, are you a virgin?”
Jen: “Yes…. and you?”
Joey: “Please. Years ago. Trucker named Bubba.” I had that quote hanging on my wall for like five years in junior high. I wish I were kidding. I am not.

WHO WEARS SHORTSLEEVE BUTTON DOWNS, PACEY?! Ugh. Just... ugh.

Slick Dawson keeps trying to grab Jen’s hand during the cartoon before the movie. Whoa there, tiger! Joey, mature as ever, interrupts the moment to continue interrogating Jen, asking her if she’s a size queen and if she “noticed the long fingers.” To the guys of my 8th grade class, this is why we all asked you to hold out your hands. Now you know. God, it feels good to get that off my chest.

Dawson, apparently not amused by his bffl’s antics, pulls Joey out into the lobby to engage in the kind of dramatic screaming match known only to sexually-charged middle school friends of the opposite sex. I can say that because I had this exact fight with my own unrequited teen love, coincidentally referred to as “Dawson” in notes from that era, approximately 3209 times.  “OMG YOU IGNORE ME WHENEVER SHE’S AROUND AND YOU CAN’T EVEN SEE WHAT’S RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU!” Joey storms off, and I feel so much second-hand embarrassment for my thirteen year old self.

HAHA Jen shuts Dawson DOWN as he leans in for a goodnight kiss. And yes, D, if anyone wasn’t already convinced, making the L on your forehead just REINFORCES that you are, in fact, a loser. Nice sweater, you clown.

Pacey sulks past Tamara at the marina after getting socked in the eye by her date. He calls her out on her unbridled, middle-aged desire. “I’m the best sex you’ll never have!” says fifteen year old Pacey. I remember that line being way less hilarious as a teenager, but I have to pause the tv to stop laughing and pour myself more wine. AND THE BEST PART IS, SHE FALLS FOR IT! The two share a passionate-by-cable-standards embrace. WOOHOO, it’s gettin’ HOT up in HERE!

On the other side of the creek, Dawson comes home to find Joey lurking on the floor of his closet. Normal. Realizing that he was kind of a jerk, he apologizes for being such an insensitive male and says he remembers thinking she looked pretty with her lipstick at the movie theater. Joey admits becoming jealous of the hand-holding Olympics, saying that she didn’t want to be the one holding his hand, but just didn’t want Jen to, either. Dawson just accepts that explanation, despite Joey’s wounded puppy eyes and the fact that it MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER.

In yet another attempt to show Dawson that they can no longer be friends like, I dunno, mature adults, Joey dares him to tell her about his masturbation habits. This is the second reference to “walking the dog” in twenty minutes. Haaaaahaha. Awesome.

After being blown off in a fit of awkward laughter, Joey leaves through the window, her relationship with her best friend in shambles. Ohhhh, why you look so saaaaaaad? The tears are in your eeeyes, come on and come to meeeee now. Doooon’t, be ashamed to cuh-ryyyyyyyy!

Appearing in his backlit window, Dawson saves the moment by yelling, “usually in the morning, to Katie Couric.” Joey, apparently not making the obvious mommy issues connection, laughs as she rows away... just in time to see Gail making out with her co-anchor.

Well, that’s that. I know this recap isn’t the best, but I figure it’s a start while I get back into the ol’ reviewing groove. I hope you’ll come back and check on my progress as I feel my way around this little universe.

In the meantime, I’ll stand by YOU, Creekers.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Cult Classics and the BetrAyal

I think I've already made it pretty clear that I'm a perpetual 14-year old trapped in a late 20s body.

Despite its ubiquity, "Call Me, Maybe" still brings a grin to my face. I'm not ashamed to be caught rapping the Ludacris solo during "Baby" or any other Bieber song-of-the-moment on the treadmill. One recent inquiry to The Google included, "Is there a rivalry between Big Time Rush fans and One Direction fans?" (I need to stay on the up and up for when I next run into Andrew's 17-year old cousin) and I routinely disarm people with a cool, "I'm Chuck Bass" whenever someone gives me the side eye (like... now).

So while my friend and I were discussing developments from last week's episode of Pretty Little Liars (actually, "developments" is a bit of a stretch; nothing ever happens on that show but I just can't give up all the pretty hair and clothes), she mentioned that Entertainment Weekly recently ran an article on the top 26 cult shows of all time. Naturally, Buffy was #1, but I was pretty happy to see a few of my other all-time favorites on the list:

Veronica Mars: I've already intimated my love of VM many times, so no need to rehash it all here. Team Logan 4 Life!

Firefly: Part Star Wars, part John Wayne, Andrew and I went through every episode of this totally underrated and too-short series in about two weeks. Throw in the cache of Nathan Fillion, Joss Whedon and Jewel Staite (who is once again lost in space, to my delight), and I couldn't turn it off. Also, after sending in a few Mars bars to save VM, I appreciate the tenacity of the Browncoats who managed to get Serenity into theaters to give the series the ending it deserved.

The Wire: Hands down the best tv show I've ever seen, and I've watched every episode of The Sopranos and Six Feet Under, and all but this past season of Dexter. I've heard a solid case can be made for Breaking Bad, but after the first season, I'm not yet convinced. The Wire, however, is pure drama at its finest.

It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia: Unlike the rest of this list, I have not seen every episode of Always Sunny. In fact, I took a staunch opposition to the show in the beginning, when Andrew and his goofy roommates would devote hours of their day towards it. I refused to watch, calling The Gang "stupid" and "not funny" for months...only to have my carefully erected wall disintegrate into dust when forced to play the part of "cool girlfriend" and watch the episode about kitten mittens. I now regularly find myself caught up in marathon DVD-viewing on Saturday afternoons. Well played, Danny DeVito. Well played.

Roo
Someone might have used Mac as his inspiration for an 80s party.
I've also seen every episode of Gilmore Girls, Castle, New Girl, The Sopranos, Six Feet Under and all but the second half of last season of Gossip Girl.* Then there are the shows that I formerly obsessed over, but finally gave up on because the plot started to weaken and the character flaws became magnified to the Nth degree. Dawson's Creek, Felicity, Fringe, Grey's Anatomy, The Office, Dexter -- I'm specifically looking at you. I intend to remedy the first three during my winter hibernation (Netflix Instant for the win), in part because I want to re-live the awkwardness of my teen years...

...but mostly because no one should ever be denied the chance to stare at Josh Jackson or Scott Speedman, both of whom I believe have only gotten better with age.

diane-kruger-joshua-jackson-sunday-brunch-with-niece-04
[Source]
Edited to Add: I wrote this post yesterday, before the PLL Summer Finale, aka "The BetrAyal" aired. WHAT. THE. F--K?! I refuse to believe that that.... person.... is what they made him/her out to be there at the end! If anyone wants to discuss, feel free to comment with a spoiler alert OR just email (caitieexperiment [at] gmail [dot] com) or tweet me. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who didn't get to watch, but that shit was CRAZY! 

*This list is by no means exhaustive; obviously if I included all of the classics from my adolescent years, we would be here for days. Boy Meets World (x2 at the very least), Saved By the Bell and Full House are but a small sampling.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Letters from a Mid-20s Blogger to the Universe at Large

WTF?! Letters of the Day:

To the World:
WHY didn't anyone tell me that Pretty Little Liars is like Gossip Girl on steroids?! I spent all summer with a severe lack of pretty, entitled teens getting hammered, boning inappropriate people and stabbing each other in the back. Jersey Shore doesn't count because they're too old.
WTF?!
Team Alison,
C

To the Creepy Man on the B Line Giggling to Himself:
WHAT WAS YOUR DEAL?! I don't know what was so funny, but hiding your face in your hands and laughing hysterically at random intervals makes you a prime candidate for "Serial Killer of the Day". I'll keep an eye out for you on next week's installment of To Catch a Predator.
WTF?!
I don't want to end up in your basement,
C

To My Right Contact Lens:
Did the barometric pressure eff around with the pH balance in your little chamber last night? Stabbing me in the eye repeatedly throughout the morning is not the best way to get my attention. Or maybe it is, since I'm writing a note to an inanimate object currently resting on my eyeball.
Still, WTF?!
Only Jen Lancaster and I are allowed to feel stabby,
C

To The Literate Universe:
It's SUPPOSED to, not suppose to; it's USED to, not use to; it's 'TIL not till; it's OF COURSE, not course; it's COULDN'T CARE LESS, not could care less, and for the love of holy oatmeal (yes, I went there), figure out when to use "and I" and "and me".
Again, I ask you: WTF?!
An ED isn't bad when it's tacked on the end of a verb,
C

To Self:
White sweater + White tank - Coat + Torrential downpour =
WTF?!
Transparently Yours,
C

To All the Bloggers Whining About Positivity:
If you all harnessed the energy being devoted to writing about how the h8ers gon' h8, you could probably fuel a wind turbine or some other eco-friendly device. Just sayin'.
WTF?!
It's my blog and I'll bitch if I want to,
C

To the Jorts-Wearing Hipster on the Bus:
No. Just.... no.
For the last time, WTF?!
You'll thank me later,
C

And now some Love Letters:

To Steph:
Thank you so much for the shout-out on your blog yesterday! That was seriously one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about my writing/this blog. I can't wait for pumpkin beer!
No WTF,
C

To All My Readers:
Not be confused with All My Children. Thanks for being awesome. You all rock.
No WTF,
C

And none for Gretchen Wieners.