Season 3

Last week, Arrested Development, the funniest show on television, was given a third season. The show has performed moderately in the ratings, but is a favorite among critics and award groups. Let's face facts, Fox currently has the best comedies (Arrested Development and Family Guy) and the best thrillers (24). In terms of entertainment, I don't see how any other network can touch Fox.

I don't know if I've ever extolled the virtues of Arrested Development, but in order to compel you to watch season 3 and maybe buy the DVDs, I would be remiss if I didn't do it now. In terms of casting, this show has hit it on the head. Every single character is matched with an actor who imbues the character with ease and subtlety. Michael Cera as George Michael is perhaps the epitome of awkward teenager, and Will Arnett's GOB struts about with wholly misplaced bravado. In terms of the style of comedy, it plays mostly off the members of the Bluth family's complete inability to think of anyone but themselves and their pathetic attempts at preserving the status they no longer have. They are plagued by envy, greed, rivalry, vanity, and a healthy dose of incest, but best of all don't realize any of it. Except for Jason Bateman's Michael Bluth, the entire family is deeply flawed. If you don't watch the show, you must not have eyes, ears, or that part of your brain that controls enjoyment.

Fox is airing reruns this summer. I implore you, nay I beseech you, do yourself a favor--watch the show and get arrested.

My weekend in luxury

This weekend I went to a party at my cousin's house in Maryland. Actually, house is something of an understatement. This place was enormous--about 20,000 square feet. It had twice as many bedrooms as people, and even more bathrooms. It was a replica of an Italian villa; from the red tile roof, to the balcony, to the twisting marble staircases. There are flat screen TVs everywhere--in fact, I was watching Cribs on MTV, and as I saw Omarion show off his LA pad, I felt vastly superior as I sat in a house much better than the one I saw on television. The best part, however, was the shower.
As I stepped into a bathroom the size of an airport hangar, I saw a glass door for the bathroom. Inside, there were a half dozen nozzles at different heights embedded in the wall. Trying my luck, I turned on the faucets, on opposite walls naturally, and was greeted with the most sensational shower I've ever imagined. Water rushing on me from the front at the right shoulder and thigh AND from the back on my left shoulder and thigh, not to mention water flowing from the side and above. It was Shangri-La with granite floors. Going back to my shower with a mere one nozzle is a rude awakening.

My first house is going to have a massive and complicated shower with water flowing from 20 directions, and nothing else. I am fine with the prospect of living in a huge shower. Just get me a flat screen plasma TV.

Who cares about Paula Abdul?

While doing some research for my final paper, I have been reading through various newspapers and online magazines to find some information about Putin. You can see by the links on the left what kind of newspapers I read, and for the most part, they are relatively serious. Not that I don't like to check up on sports and how Brad and Angelina are doing (and they are doing great--spending a lot of time in Malibu, but wouldn't you?), but for actual "news" I like to go to "news" websites. The past few days, however, I cannot read anything on the internet without being confronted with a major American scandal--the likes of which have not been seen since Teapot Dome in the Harding Administration.

Paula Abdul had an affair with a contestant on American Idol.

Truth be told, I used to be interested in American Idol. It seemed like an interesting concept, and by and large is a meritocracy. I also like watching talentless hacks be told that they are talentless hacks in a pleasing British accent. Yes, I watched American Idol, for about two weeks. After that, my taste for schadenfreude and pathos fully satiated, I went about doing normal things. I haven't really watched it since, but since I read about this story, I have to ask why people even care if Paula Abdul, a 42 year old has-been, had a relationship with some alleged "singer" two years ago? Aside from being deeply intrusive, it's wholly irrelevant. While I first imagined American Idol to be a merit based system, it is also a hugely popular television show that needs ratings. To that end, factors other than talent are probably frequently considered. I can't even conceive the number of levels on which I don't care about this story.

Perhaps the even more interesting question to ask is: even with this affair, why didn't our young hero win and become our Idol? Either that says something about his talent, or the heat in this liason. In any case, it doesn't say much for him.

Television values

This post is more of a complaint that a long joke, but I think it's important.

The past few days, I've been watching a lot of "Coupling." Aside from the show being very funny, I've also noticed how much more leeway British shows are granted. Cursing seems to be completely in bounds, and I applaud it. This comes on the heels of new technology being rolled out for parents to combat the amount of "filth" they are seeing on television. To be fair, there is a lot of stuff on network TV at 9 PM that wasn't there 10 years ago, but I always thought that is part of the reason parents are there--to parent. If you give an 11 year old his own room and a TV, you are giving him the power of choice--to watch Wild On when it airs at midnight. If you don't want your kid watching shows you don't approve of, make it harder for him to watch them. Trying to alter the content on television hurts people like me, who (probably) don't have kids and want to watch programming with some edge to it.

I don't know who told you to have a kid anyway.

My Birthday

Today is my birthday, and for no related reason, I am awake very early. I had lunch with my parents and sister yesterday in the Upper West Side, at a Mexican restaurant named Gabriella's. I enjoyed it very much, but even more than that, I managed to become an official New Yorker. Yes, I got an Ipod (mini.) So far, I've loaded all my music on it, and it sits in my bag right now. I have never before been so excited to walk somewhere, as I can now do it to a soundtrack.

I always really enjoy my birthday, but I'm not sure why. The whole premise of celebrating birthdays is kind of silly--what exactly are you rejoicing for, not dying? Why do you get gifts on your birthday? It seems strangely divorced from logic.

In fact, I think you should be buying me presents all the time

Pompous Weekly

It seems that there is some sort of publication for any activity a human chooses to engage in. There are magazines for fishing enthusiasts, car enthusiasts, gun enthusiasts, pompous conservatives (The National Review and The Weekly Standard), pompous liberals (The Nation and Mother Jones), pompous music scholars (any magazine that mentions Conor Oberst and "genius" four times in one page), and pompous assholes (Cigar Aficionado). Clearly this is telling America that the pompous have a voice and they need to be heard. I say, shout it out, oh Emperor of the patronizing tone, and let the peons and philistines hear you condescend to their sadly humble level. Take up the pompous man's burden.

[Editor's note: I grossly overused the words "enthusiast" and "pompous" because I like they way they look. The decision was purely aesthetic.]

Astor Place

Astor Place is a fine example of a commericalized yet funky street here in New York. I am not sure about the nomenclature, but I think it qualifies as being part of the East Village. From where it starts between Waverly and 8th Street on Broadway, the first few shops you see are:

1. A Vitamin Store
2. Astor Place barbershop (a pretty famous place where famous people get famous haircuts)
3. Coldstone
4. Barnes and Noble

If that isn't an effective cross-section of American life, I don't know what is. All I do know is that I easily get lost on Astor Place in a hazy, consumerist euphoria of discount books and expensive ice cream. Today, as I walked past the Gap (oh yeah, there is a Gap right by Astor Place, but those are sort of everywhere) on 8th Street, I saw two yuppies prattling on about yuppy #1's newest cell phone. I'd like to pretend that I heard them purely by accident, but I was trying to listen to them in a cheap effort to amuse myself. Mission accomplished, and now I will use it to amuse you.

Yuppy 1: Dude, this phone stores over 500 phone numbers.
Yuppy 2: Dude, you don't even know 500 people.
Yuppy 1: Yeah, but with a phone like this, people will be dying to be friends with me.

And he's right. I almost became friends with him on the spot.