TIME published their “epic” (more like epoch, because it’s so long and boring!) top ten list today. It runs the gamut from best movies to best public feuds and so on and so forth, continuing endlessly until we all go grey and die of heart disease. It’s literally the most boring list ever. More importantly, their list of the ten best albums of 2009 includes only two names I’ve heard before (Mastodon, Raekwon) and one I’ve heard about but never listened to (Grizzly Bear). Wait until they get a load of my top ten list. The people at TIME won’t know what hit ’em…because they’ll arrive at this site and be all like, “What the hell is this piece of shit?” Anyway, if you need to waste time at work today, here’s a link to their list.
I was going to write about The Frowning Prince Billy Corgan dating Jessica Simpson today, but every other music-related blog and website has already picked up on the story. Except for Pitchfork. I guess they are above relationship gossip (when doesn’t pertain to Ben Gibblets and Zoo-y What’s-her-name from the Will Ferrell Christmas movie). It’s a shame Billy-boy couldn’t find a chick to date who is actually relevant to pop culture, because God knows neither he nor his supposed girlfriend are worthy of our collective care. I bet she thinks Billy is really smart, too. Like, because, you know, he was on Bill Mahr’s show one time. So was Charles Barkley. So was John Mellencamp. So was Ben Affleck. Do you see where this is going? I also heard the first song of Billy’s new 44-song epic album. It’s called “A Song For A Son.” Yawn. You would think after 20 years Billy would take a voice lesson. He sounds like reversing your car over a cat. I don’t often throw around the word “unlistenable” (yes I do) but this one is.
Instead I’ll say a few words about the finale of Top Chef last night. First of all, I called it. Seriously, I hope that whoever edited that preview last week was fired. I can’t believe the people at Bravo! would be dumb enough to let that slip through. It took away almost all of the fun that comes while watching the season finale. There was a moment of hesitation when I thought Bryan might win (because, well, if you judged the dishes it seemed like he won two and Michael and Kevin both split one). This was enough for many fans of the show to cry foul, but leave it to head judge Tom Colicchio to assuage our fears on his own blog. According to him, “the ultimate outcome may not have been as close as you think.” On his scorecard, he claims that Michael’s squab was better than Bryan’s venison, and his menu was the most consistent from dish to dish. I didn’t really care who won; each of the finalists were in my mind equal to one another. The only reason I didn’t quite like Michael was because he came off like such a pompous ass. Odd, because I loved Marcel during season two. Then again, from what I’ve heard most professional chefs are arrogant. So be it. I can live with any of those three (or four if you count Jen) winning the title of top chef.
More importantly, fucking Gail Simmons covered her tits for last night’s episode. Padma raised the bar by exposing her swollen mommy-to-be tits, which looked like quite the appetizing four-course meal. Was I disappointed that Gail Simmons didn’t set her breasts on display or rip her stupid purple dress off in an attempt to put Padma and her mom boobs to shame? Nah. There’s always next season. Part of me wonders what it would be like to drop everything I’m doing with my life and become a chef so that I could audition for the show. Would I make it past the background check? Would I show up wearing a shirt that said “Gail Simmons’ tits?” Would I be arrested on site the moment she arrived on set? What if I won? Am I getting ahead of myself? I’ve really only cooked four meals in my entire life. It’s probably a bit too soon to start thinking about a congratulatory kiss from Gail Simmons after winning on Top Chef. But, hey…I’m sure stranger things have happened.
