Why I Hate Hollywood

Reason #437:

Michelle Pfeiffer is set to appear in a remake of 'Grease'. The 'Stardust' actress, who starred in the 1982 sequel 'Grease 2', has been approached to join the cast for a new version of the original 1978 hit musical and has her heart set on playing an older character.

Michelle said: "It's a great idea and I hear they would like to get Jessica Simpson for the role of Sandy, she would be good."

Oh, come on! When will Hollywood (and by "Hollywood" here, I mean Jessica Simpson's dad) realize that Jessica Simpson is not a star? She is not an actress. Dukes of Hazard and Employee of the Month were not big hits and she wasn't even the main draw anyway. And don't get me started (don't even get me started!) on that supposed Working Girl remake, Blonde Ambition. Even more importantly, as a singer, she's never even had huge success. In eight years, she's had exactly one Top 10 hit. That's pathetic. Even LFO had two Top 10's. Yes, that LFO, of "Summer Girls" and "Girl On TV" fame. Yeah, the "she did a donut on my lawn" guys. They literally crapped out more hits than Jessica Simpson.

Please, please stop jamming this girl down our throats. We'd all be much happier, and I'm sure she would be, too, if she just laid low somewhere, eating her buffalo wings and chicken/tuna (chuna?), humming along to a karaoke machine in her living room.

Oh, and a remake of Grease? That would be Reason #438.

Source: All Headline News by way of Dlisted.

Terrible Twos

OK, so do you see this little blog post? And these two posts? The first is my 200th post, the others frame my 2-year blogging anniversary.

Yea.

I kind of let both milestones slip by for opposite reasons. The 2-year mark because I was super busy with other writing projects outside of blogging, the 200th post because I had a surge of inspiration for posts and didn't want to slow down just to toot my own horn.

But now, I guess I'm tooting.

This past year of blogging has felt so much more...inconsistent? haphazard?...than the first year. I don't know if I expanded my purpose for blogging or if I just lost focus. I think something happened around this post in December when I changed my blog's template for the 2nd time, which really wiped out a lot of its design (links, content, etc.) that I had to recreate. It became a Catch-22: I felt more disconnected from my readers and commenting slowed down, so I felt more disconnected from my readers. One's the chicken, one's the egg.

But for my first year, I really took the blog's title to heart. Focusing on pop culture, food, Chicago and myself, I really tried to find a balance and cover each subject equally. Then, I added "media" to the list and, separately, broadened my idea of what could be included.

Maybe I was getting bored as a writer. Maybe I realized there were more materials to use for writing than Showgirls and Paris Hilton. Maybe my new writing assignments on the side, while amazing and a direct result of this blog, were sapping my creative energies. I don't know.

But whatever - this is supposed to be a happy post! 2 years! 200 posts! Hooray! So, just because this post about tooting my own horn has come out as a pretty flat, atonal toot, I'm going to indulge myself a bit and list some of my favorite blogging moments from the past year (in no particular order):

Oysters and Mussels and Squid - Oh My! - In which I list the ways sea creatures required for cooking might attack me for trying to kill them. Also: British accents!

Kiwi, Tab and Turkey - In which I commemorate my favorite holiday - Thanksgiving - with two totally unrelated videos. Since Thanksgiving is yet again on the horizon, now might be a good time to revisit them: one's a hilarious vintage commercial for Tab, the other a beautiful, haunting, short animated movie. Also: "mind-stickers"!

Top Chef Check-In - In which I give Bravo some tips on how to spice up Season 3, which naturally include such ideas as making sure the judges make sense and showing off cute guys in tank tops. Also: brothy broths!

Of Booze and Political Statements - Besides my new writing gig, another new benefit of this blog is receiving promotional materials from PR companies to consider for review. One of the highlights was the documentary Small Town Gay Bar. So including this is more about the subject, not the writing itself. Also: homosexual hamburgers!

In Defense of Amy Winehouse - In which I take the local media to task for criticizing the idiosyncratic singer's bewitching flaws instead of appreciating them as quirks that make her stage presence that much more interesting. Also: singing vaginas!

So, that's it for now. Here's to another year!

(End tooting.)

Also check out: 1 Y.O. (Or, 26 is the New 1).

Got to Keep Your Head Up

If you live in an Alaskan town that experiences nighttime for one straight month, you basically want to be eaten alive by vampires. That was the main point I learned from 30 Days of Night, a new horror film based on a popular graphic novel.

The real-life town of Barrow, Alaska is the country's northernmost settlement and doesn't experience sunlight for two months straight. In the film, however, the writers mercifully cut it down to one month. Maybe the second month is being reserved for the sequel? I don't know.

Anyway, on the eve of the 30-day blackout, the majority of townspeople are smart enough to, you know, leave. Josh Hartnett plays squinty-eyed, and apparently not smart, Sheriff Eben (actually, any character Hartnett plays could be preceded by "squinty-eyed" - seriously, his eyes look like a baby's nostrils) who is investigating weird crimes like stolen cell phones and murdered sled dogs. Hmmm, I wonder if it has anything to do with the creepy stranger that just randomly popped into town that day? "The Stranger," as the movie creatively bills him, is played by Ben Foster. If Hartnett has cornered the market on squinty-eyed guys, then Foster owns the intense, male-authority-figure-worshipping, meth-faced creep. (See: "Six Feet Under," 3:10 to Yuma) It's apparently quite an in-demand niche.

Turns out The Stranger is just a seriously unhinged asshole who wants to become one of Them - the vampires that are staking out Barrow due to its constant darkness. With all communication systems destroyed, they launch their attack on the townspeople like The Matrix characters with fangs. They're leaping, flying and throwing people around, plus they're really pale and wear stylish long black coats and boots. Marlow, their ruler, waxes philosophically about his victims right before, during or after he crushes their heads or strangles them. Luckily, he's subtitled, because their vampire-language sounds literally like this: "Rowr maka laka. God? Maka laka rowr."

Eben alternately hides from and fights the vampires along with his estranged wife Stella (Rachel McAdams look-alike Melissa George, cornering the market on horror hotties - see: Turistas, The Amityville Horror), his, um, "sensitive" younger brother, Jake (sorry, pretty boy, the big, burly sweaters aren't fooling anyone - see you soon in the gayborhood!), and a group of racially- and age-diverse neighbors.

Despite the open fields around them, the town feels claustrophobic due to its 80-mile isolation from any other town. The dark sky and snow along with grainy cinematography lends the film a sometimes black-and-white look. Director David Slade has much more to work with than in his ridiculous Hard Candy, combing elements of horror, western and action films to create a vampire film that's actually scary and suspenseful. Unlike so many other ADD-afflicted horror films, this one takes it time setting up the characters and environment while still slicing in the occasional car crash or heated confrontation to ratchet up the tension. To appease the gore-fans, these vampires can only be killed by decapitation. Sometimes Slade cuts away when a noggin is hacked off (like when Jake is finally able to prove his manhood by attacking an infected little girl who terrorizes the group in a crazy grocery store scene), and sometimes he doesn't (mostly every other time).


However, the film frustrates with its inconsistencies. Sometimes the characters act the way real people would, i.e. most people would not only not know how to react to this situation, they would actually feel extreme grief when they come upon their friend's head mounted to a stake in a field. But sometimes the characters act like, well, characters in a movie. As powerful and numerous as the vampires are, they tend to just stand around as their victims run away. The survivors complain that bullets don't stop the vampires, yet a few scenes later we see the token crazy guy blowing them all away with a shotgun.

Sometimes it's predictable, sometimes not. Like, I wonder if that giant grinding machine in the town's utilidor introduced in the first act will somehow be used to kill someone later in the film? But, to the film's credit, a lot of my other predictions didn't come true. As the survivors spied on the town while hiding in an attic, I kept waiting for a vampire to appear right outside their window as Stella peeked out. It never happened.

For a good Halloween film, you could do a lot worse (let's just say I chose to see this over Saw 4, and not just because I haven't seen 2 or 3 and would therefore have no idea what was happening, right?). For a lesson in real estate, you could not do better: DO NOT MOVE TO A TOWN THAT HAS 30 DAYS OF NIGHT.*

* - Unless you want to get eaten by vampires, in which case, enjoy indulging your death wish, loser.

Also check out: What Hath Hilary Swank Wrought?
And: Boo.

Deep Thoughts from America's Next Top Model, part 6

Ambreal on Tyson Beckford's coaching skills: "Tyson bit my mango."

What the CW won't do for ratings these days.

Everyday Lies

Why, Giada, why? How could you have done this to me? I didn't think it was possible. I never saw it coming. I am beside myself.

Giada, I think you lied to me.

Okay, readers, on your behalf, I will back up. So I'm slooooooowly cooking my way through the Italian princess' debut cookbook (from 2005!). Right there, on the cover, it says "125 simple and delicious recipes." So I didn't think it would take me two years to get through 125 recipes. (I mean, Julie got through Julia's 400+ recipes in one year, but then again she had no life outside cooking poached eggs in gelatin.) But I've been counting down the recipes on this blog as I get closer to my goal. But I kind of lost track during one particularly long gap between recipes, so I started counting again. And then, to be sure, I counted the recipes I hadn't cooked yet. And it was not adding up. It wasn't making sense. I know I suck at math, but 125 isn't hard to add up to. It's not like 187. That number will kill you. Seriously, 187, what's your problem?

Anyway, I kept getting to 127. "127? 127! 127?" I was asking no one but the glossy pages in front of me, flipping them back and forth in desperation. "How? Why? When? Where? Who? Howzit? Whatzeday?" (Frenzied confusion = gibberish.) I knew there was a recipe for red wine vinaigrette buried in the lame "Everyday Leftovers" section, but even when I counted that it didn't work. So what other conclusion is there, except...?

Giada lied to me.

"So?" you may ask me. "Donny, there are other, more important things in this world right now," you might remind me. To which I say, nay, there are not. (That's right, you just got nayed.) It's the truth, and what's more important than the truth? "The truth shall set you free," right? Uh, no. The only thing it set free is my trust in the publishing world to advertise their products honestly and with integrity. Goodbye sweet, silly trust! And thanks, Clarkson Potter. It's like if Tyra Banks finally ripped off her wig, or Tim Gunn actually had 13 steps to style instead of 10 - you know your idol isn't perfect, but you just want to believe the shiny happy package TV presents to you.

Seriously, how hard would is it to say "Over 125 simple and delicious recipes"? One word could have made all the difference. Oh, and I now have to add two more dishes to my list of uncooked recipes. Just when I thought I was about to sauté my way out, they stir me back in.

Luckily, October in Chicago is finally acting like October and not August. (Seriously, October, what's your problem?) So it's perfect weather for turning on my oven, which I need to do for many of the recipes, including Roast Pork with Fig Sauce, Baked Rigatoni and two different lasagnas. Dessert, unsurprisingly, was the first chapter completely finished, and with one left each in Appetizers and Vegetables, those are almost behind me as well.

Still, Giada, you and I have some issues now. I don't know what you can do to make this up. I thought we had something together, you know? No matter how fleeting or fragile, it was there. And now, that bond has snapped like an overcooked spaghetti noodle. You better hope your Easy Osso Buco makes up for your big, fat, toothy lies.

Oh, Giada, Giada...

Also check out: Giada 3.0.
And: Like an After-School Special, With Liquor.

Okay, Go: Just Jack

I've noticed lately that I tend to do full-out reviews for female artists, yet just write these condensed, "Okay, Go" posts for male artists. Now why would that be? Is it some stereotypical tendency as a gay male to focus on strong-willed female icons? Or is it because, since I haven't liked a lot of the female artists' albums yet have liked the males', I find it easier to critique than to praise? I guess when it is something I'm enthusiastic about, I don't want to discuss it so much, since compliments all sound clichéd (thrilling, gorgeous, well-endowed, etc.). It's so much easier to just embed a YouTube clip and shout "Okay, go! Watch it! Love it?"

While I ponder this incredibly unimportant query, take a look at the latest male artist I like! (I'm questioning, I'm not changing.) Described as both a "stage musician" and a "British electronic music artist" on his Wiki pages, Just Jack (aka Jack Allsopp) is a sort of rapper/singer/DJ. Instead of typically hard, uber-machismo US hip-hop, however, Just Jack is more laid-back. He's a skinny white male rapper with a British accent and an alias, so it's easy to compare him to The Streets (aka Mike Skinner), and the comparison somewhat applies aesthetically, too, but Jack is more dance-oriented. But listening to "Life Stories" on JJ's new Overtones, I immediately thought of G. Love and Special Sauce's "This Ain't Livin'" from their 1994 debut. He can incorporate smooth beats with melancholy acoustic guitar chords and computerized blips, while balancing cynical observations with carefree appreciation for the small things.

Just Jack already has three (!) music videos to support Overtones, and while I could have embedded the cute "Glory Days" video where he changes t-shirts every 2 seconds and actually attempts choreography (check it out, anyway, it's really cute), I'm going with "Starz In Their Eyez." He somehow made a great pop song about how it can suck to be a pop star: "Since you became a V.I.Person, your problems have all worsened, your paranoia casts aspersions." Not only is the song fun and the lyrics sharp, it's modern culture commentary! He insightfully, if unintentionally, sums up MTV's motives behind Britney's recent VMA disaster ("And they'll just put you in a spotlight, and hope that you'll do all right. Or maybe not") and then chillingly predicts how our generation's Tiffany could find her career bottoming out full-circle ("Remember they said you'd show them all? Emphasize the rise and not the fall? And now you're playing the shopping mall"). He might not have had anyone specifically in mind, but with today's headlines, it's hard not to apply his lyrics to our current pop stars.

But what do I know? He might even have been talking to me directly when he says, "It's a long way to come from your private bedroom dance routines." Tell me about it! What else is there to like about him? Well, his influences range from Jack Johnson (who produced albums by G. Love and Special Sauce - small world!), Barry White and the Neptunes. And! He reads books! Like, even classic, Of Mice and Men-y type books. Yeah, he's cool.

So watch "Starz In Their Eyes" and tell me what you think. Okay, go!



Also check out: Okay, Go: Dance Duo Edition (Justice and Junior Senior).
And: Okay, Go: Scissor Sisters.

Gimme More, Britney. Please. I Beg You.

Even though it leaked early, the "official" video for Britney Spears' latest single, "Gimme More," debuted today on MTV's TRL. First of all, unlike what so many fans predicted/hoped/prayed, the official version is the same (read: just as bad) as the leaked version. Second, who the hell debuts their videos on TRL anymore? What is this, 1999?

In case you haven't heard, the video primarily consists of Britney in a long brunette wig and ripped fishnets circling around a stripper pole in a club for about 3 minutes. Her body, after having 2 kids? Amazing. She's not exactly the impossibly taut, ripped 19-year-old she used to be, and you know what? That's just fine. If one of our most-watched sex-symbols, just by adding a few pounds, expands our notion of what's physically acceptable for young women (even if she's one of the many female celebrities who perpetuated the unattainable female body to begin with), I'll take it. And that's the only "amazing" I'll use in a positive sense in this whole post.

Look, Britney is 25 years old. She's an adult. If she wants to fantasize about being a stripper, that's her choice. And this time, unlike her previous music video costumes, I have no doubt that this was her choice, not her record company's (whether or not they agreed to it is beside the point). Critics have always been saying that Britney needs to grow up with her audience. I'm not sure this is what they had in mind, but it seems inevitable after her carefully calculated Lolita routine eventually added pseudo-bondage lyrics ("I'm a Slave 4 U"), performances with phallic snakes wrapped around her (the 2001 MTV Music Video Awards) and songs about masturbation (2003's "Touch of My Hand").

So if she wants to be a stripper, that's her right. My only request is that she be a good stripper. Britney was always a dancer/performer instead of a singer, and other pop stars have made that work for much longer careers than Britney's so far (Madonna, Janet, etc.). So, if she can't belt it out, at least she can put her back into it. All she does in this video for three minutes is walk around the pole over and over, flipping her natty hair and occasionally dropping her butt to her heels and bouncing back up.

There's nothing wrong with going through a Bad Girl phase. Hey, Madonna had her Sex book/"Body of Evidence" movie/Erotica album phase. And kicking off her latest single with "It's Britney, bitch" was inspired. What's inexcusable is being a boring Bad Girl. If she wants to distract the public from her personal life, if even for 3 minutes at a time, then she should give us something else to look at/talk about, and crappy lip-syncing does not count. She should remind us that she at least used to know how to put on a show, from flashy music videos to pristinely executed awards show performances.

I know, I know. She's distracted, probably depressed, hitting the clubs and hyped up on coffee. But music and performing is what she supposedly loves, right? That's why she used to sing to no one in malls across the country just to get a record deal, right? So if she wants to be angry, sad, irritated, depressed, or rebellious? Fine! Then she should be like every other artist, including shiny pop idols like Madonna and Janet, and exploit her feelings for artistic expression! Then commit to that exploitation by creating a dizzily-edited music video which only peripherally relates to the song but distracts us with dazzling choreography. See? Easy.

It's too bad, really, because "Gimme More" is a surprisingly solid song (the remix with Lil' Mama, while fun, is not even necessary), and is well on its way to becoming her most successful since 1998's "...Baby One More Time." Like any pop star, she's at the mercy of her producers and her voice is often used as one easily-manipulated layer in well-crafted sonic nuggets. "Gimme More" is no exception, with wide swaths of synths overlapping plink-plunk bubbles in the background. Britney commits herself merely competently, but the song doesn't really soar until the bridge where a possessed-sounding male singer trills over minimal beats.

Unfortunately, 11 other new songs leaked today (and then were taken down after 24 hours!) and they don't come anywhere close to "Gimme More." Listening to the sloppy, uninspired productions makes 2003's "In the Zone" sound downright classic. Her voice is so weak and breathy, the producers have to layer it and manipulate it to the point of losing it all together. She might as well as not have shown up at all. She actually raps on "When You Gon' Pull It?", a song where she compliments her lover "getting pretty good with that thing." Is she singing to her Starbucks barista about the milk steamer? Probably not. The only song even close to a "highlight" is a simple, almost torchy piano ballad that caters to Britney's lower, stronger register. Just to add a curious element, there's something almost like a whirring fan throughout the whole song, as if they rolled a piano and mic into a Dairy Queen to record Britney's vocals between Blizzards. But, while nothing special in any other context, the stripped-down ballad actually works among the 10 other messes.

The title? "Let Go."

Also check out: This Roundtable Might Give Your Computer Herpes.
And: Does Hilary Duff Count?

Eat, Pray, Hype

"I haven't been this excited since Bono was here."

And so began Oprah's Eat, Pray, Love-fest. Friday's episode was all about Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir detailing her travels to Italy, India and Indonesia to rediscover herself. I have to say, as a writer, hearing anyone get that excited over an author is pretty exciting. Hearing it from Oprah freakin' Winfrey, who has talked to every author from Cormac McCarthy to Jane Hamilton, is pretty impressive.

Sure, Oprah gets excited for just about anything. (Ladies and gentlemen, today we're talking about hummuuuuuuuuus!!!) There's a fine line between enthusiastic and hyperbolic. Her fans see the former, her critics the latter. When talking about a relatively spiritual memoir like Gilbert's, it's hard to walk that line (it's somewhere between the pasta and the preciousness). But combining the overblown with the ethereal seems like an Oprah specialty, as opposed to, say, Tyra Banks, who eats overblown for breakfast. (Now with more fiber!)

So it was great to see Oprah dedicate a whole hour to an author not because Eat, Pay, Love is her new Book Club choice (that would be Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera) but because she was just so damn excited to talk about it. (Even if, strangely, they made no mention that it's being developed as a movie starring Julia Roberts.)

According to Oprah, "Women have been carrying it everywhere. I've seen it on planes, buses and trains." Buses? Yeah, I think I saw Oprah on the 49 Western yesterday with her Trader Joe's bags. But the book has already been incredibly successful. However, a lot of the reviews, even positive ones, were hesitant to rave. The New York Times observed how charming Gilbert's prose is while rightfully criticizing how easily her problems tend to get fixed (she asked the universe for a divorce and - poof! - her husband, until then stubborn, signed the papers). And Slate's Katie Roiphe couldn't rave about it before going on and on about how horrible the book sounds and how, of course, she would normally never read a book like that.

That, most likely I presume, being Chick Lit. The label is ridiculous in this case. Yes, it's a woman's memoir, and yes, there's some cutesy descriptions about how eating pizza is really empowering! (Which I happen to totally agree with.) But Gilbert is an incredibly charming, qualified writer, having been nominated for three National Magazine Awards, the PEN/Hemingway Award, the National Book Award and National Book Critic's Circle Award. If a man wrote this book, this whole paragraph wouldn't be necessary. God forbid a female author write something both spiritual and funny, profound and cute.

So, luckily, she was perfectly open, modest and down-to-earth with Oprah about her journey, her epiphanies and her success. She's the kind of person who can throw out phrases like "word salad" without coming off flaky and can discuss a journey devoted entirely to making herself feel better without sounding guilty or entitled. (For an example of how she explains - nay, make that celebrates, and kind of awesomely - her story's inherent selfishness, check out the E,P,L F.A.Q.)

One mistake I think Gilbert and Oprah both seemed to make was confusing someone relating to the book with someone experiencing the exact same thing Gilbert did. When talking about her late-night breakdowns in her bathroom, Gilbert looked at the audience and said, "Who among us has not met our bathroom floor tiles at 3 a.m.?" Um, me? I read your book and haven't met my tiles at 3 a.m. Do I count? Oh, wait, are we also including being drunk? No? Nevermind then.

But Gilbert flat-out admits that she didn't write this book for anyone else, and that's maybe the most "rock star" (Oprah's words) thing about her. Unlike so many reviews about the book and interviews with Gilbert, this was one whole hour without the author having to justify, defend or apologize for her lucky circumstances (such as affording the travel thanks to her publisher's advance). She might not be the literary equivalent of Bono. (Who is, then? Dave Eggars? Chuck Palahniuk?) She's not even a rock star. She's a really good writer. And that's just as exciting.

(Thanks to Oprah.com for the pics.)

Also check out: Cradle to Tears.
And: Update: Oprah Rips Frey a New One.

Curse you, Hung!

Since you are both a) the newly crowned Season Three winner of Top Chef and b) not from Chicago, you ruined the potential trinity of Chicago reality show winners. You narrowly defeated fellow Chicagoan Dale, who would have joined recent America's Next Top Model winner Jaslene (TM) (that's right, I added the TM because if you check out her MySpace profile you'll see that she trademarked her name) and Bravo sister show Top Design winner Matt Lorenz to become the third Chicago reality competition winner in a row. Now our all-powerful, world-crushing triumvirate will never be. And it's all because of two things: curry and cake.

You see, in last night's Top Chef finale, Dale and Hung were duking it out with Casey for the highly-esteemed title and prize money. Casey unfortunately buckled under all that altitude. (Seriously, Casey, you knew the finale was going to take place in Aspen, you know altitude affects cooking times and temperatures, do your research!) So, with four dishes per contestant to choose from, the judges decided that Hung and Dale each had two of the best dishes.

That's where the debate kicked in. Hung kind of missed with his first dish, which lacked acidity, and then underwhelmed again with his dessert, a clichéd chocolate lava cake that in no way fit in with the rest of his impressive Asian menu. Dale, on the other hand, served up a curried lobster dish with unforgivably heavy gnocchi and way too much curry. While Hung's cake was boring, at least it was edible. So the it came down to, is it better for a chef to make a safe choice that doesn't impress but doesn't repel, or should a Top Chef serve up a bold, risky dish even if it goes down in flames?

Earlier in the season, when Casey was winning multiple challenges in a row, it seemed like the finale would be between her soulful cuisine and Hung's technically-perfect food. We already had the Heart & Soul vs. Scientific Precision debate in Season Two, where Ilan's soulful heartiness (or is it hearty soulfulness?) flambéed Marcel's steely glares and fluffy foams. So I'm glad this season's finale was a little different. Would underdog Dale's rollercoaster dinner of robust highs and inedible lows trump front-runner Hung's smooth, analytical consistency?

Well, we know where the judges stand on this issue. You could frame it as, who's restaurant would you rather eat at? Hung's, where everything is perfect if sometimes safe and unsurprising? Or Dale's, where you might get a flawless, creative dish or one so inedible you have to send it back?

It's a trick question. Hung would probably never serve that chocolate lava cake at a restaurant. He's not a baker, he just memorized one cake recipe to pull out of his hat should the need arise. And Dale would never really serve the lobster dish, as chefs don't whip up dishes on the fly and send them out without tasting and testing, going through draft after draft until they get it right.

I'm sure a lot of people will use this finale as evidence that Casey only got as far as she did because Bravo wanted to keep around a cute woman for ratings (which makes no sense because, hi, Bravo is gayer than Logo and here! making out to Fall Out Boy). I can't believe how many comments I've seen on message boards claiming that the only reason she survived was because she's like Jennifer Aniston with bigger boobs, even though we saw episode after episode with Casey deservedly winning. And I also can't understand people bemoaning Hung's win just because he's arrogant and unlikable. To paraphrase ANTM's ever-brilliant, philosophical Jade, this isn't Top Best Friend. In the end, I could understand the decision going either way. As Dale would say, it was "100% 50/50."

The truly disappointing part isn't that Chicago doesn't get one more cubic zirconium jewel in its plastic reality-show crown. It's that, with Top Chef now over, I won't be able to use my brilliant joke that I have yet been able to work into converations:

Padma Lakshmi?

I like her, too.

Also check out: Deep Thoughts From America's Next Top Model, part 6.
And: Top Chef Check-In.