In honor of today, March 3, 2010, otherwise known as the day Nip/Tuck died, I’ve pasted below, in its (almost) entirety, the whole of N/T character Matt McNamara’s Wikipedia page. I’ll be the first to admit that the last two seasons of the show have been rather lackluster, though I feel this was to be expected from a program that in Season 1 brought up drug cartels and self-circumcision, obese people stuck to their couches and wanton disregard for safe sex. Either way, it’s recaps like this that remind us why we all started watching, and just couldn’t bring ourselves to stop.

Farewell Nip/Tuck; I’ll miss you.

Matt McNamara
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Matthew McNamara

First appearance: Pilot (episode 1.01)
Created by: Ryan Murphy
Portrayed by: John Hensley
INFORMATION:

Aliases: Matt, Matty
Gender: Male
Age: approx. 22
Occupation: Student, Mime, Armed Robber
Family: Unnamed rapist (biological paternal grandfather)
Spouse(s): Kimber Henry (ex-wife)
Children: Jenna McNamara (daughter, with Kimber)
Relatives:

Christian Troy (biological father)
Julia McNamara (mother)
Sean McNamara (legal father)
Emme Lowell (paternal half-sister)
Annie McNamara (maternal half-sister)
Conor McNamara (maternal half-brother)
Gail Pollack (biological paternal grandmother)
Erica Noughton(maternal grandmother)
Thomas McNamara (paternal grandfather)
Colleen McNamara (paternal grandmother)
Max Pollack (biological paternal half-uncle; same age as Matt)
Sarah Pollack (biological paternal half-aunt)
Kimber Henry Troy (step-mother)
Matthew “Matt” McNamara is a fictional character on the American television series Nip/Tuck, portrayed by John Hensley.

Matthew “Matt” McNamara, was raised as the son of Julia and Sean McNamara, although his biological father is Christian Troy, a man he regards as an uncle. Matt has two half-sisters, Annie (whose father is Sean and mother is Julia) and Emme Lowell (daughter of Christian with a woman named Darlene Lowell) and a younger half-brother, Conor (son of Sean and Julia). He is approximately 16 years of age at the beginning of the show’s first season. Although he isn’t as much as a ruffian in the beginning, it is implied that he was a delinquent in his early years, as Sean says to Christian, “I spent 17 years trying to corral your bad genetics”.

Season One
Matt tells his parents that he wants to be circumcised, as he doesn’t want to gross out his girlfriend Vanessa, whom he wants to have sex with. Sean declines to perform the operation, telling Matt there is nothing wrong with being uncircumcised. But when Vanessa is turned off, Matt decides to circumcise himself after reading a how-to guide on the internet. The circumcision unsurprisingly goes wrong, and Sean and Christian are forced to perform the operation. After the surgery, Matt discovers that Vanessa is a lesbian and having an affair with a popular cheerleader, Ridley. When Ridley shows signs of wanting to end their affair, Vanessa asks Matt to have a threesome with them to keep Ridley interested. The threesomes continue, until Sean and Julia find out and have a family intervention with Ridley and Vanessa’s parents. Weeks later, Matt and his friend Henry commit a hit and run while under the influence of marijuana. Both cover up their involvement, but both grow attached to the victim, an outsider whose strict Christian Scientist mother won’t allow her to have the necessary surgery to repair her injuries.

Season Two
Henry is arrested and charged for the hit and run, and Matt testifies against him in court, claiming he wasn’t in the car at the time of the accident. Meanwhile, Sean and Julia worry about his attitude and ask him to visit life coach Ava Moore. As part of a trust exercise, Ava asks Matt to take a naked photograph of her, and later offers him sexual intercourse in return for good grades. Matt and Ava sleep together, and Matt discovers that she has a teenage son, Adrian. Meanwhile, Sean, Julia and Christian all discover Ava’s duplicitous, dangerous nature, and Christian takes it upon himself (due to recently discovering he is Matt’s biological father) to try and keep Matt away from her after he is arrested for masturbating outside of her window. Matt eventually discovers the truth about his paternity, shattering his relationship with Sean. Adrian begins to display disturbing behavior (stemming from his incestuous relationship with Ava) and runs away from home, while Matt wants to run away with Ava to Paris, France. Sean, Julia and Christian discover that Ava is a MTF transsexual and in return for enhanced vaginal surgery, Ava promises to leave Matt. As she packs, Adrian shows up and kills himself in front of Ava, who leaves his body and flees to Paris.

Season Three
Matt discovers Adrian’s body and discovers that Ava used to be a man, pushing him to the edge. He visits a transsexual bar and picks up a woman named Cherry Peck. When he discovers that she is a pre-op transsexual, he physically attacks her. In revenge, Cherry and her friends chase after Matt and urinate on him. After the incident, Matt shaves his head and taunts Sean. Sean punches Matt, so he files a restraining order against his father. The court order is later dropped, but Sean and Matt continue to be on bad terms. Matt starts dating Ariel Alderman who, along with the rest of her family, are Neo-Nazis. Matt watches as Ariel bleaches her skin and listens to her racist beliefs. Meanwhile, Cherry comes to McNamara/Troy and asks them to fix her botched plastic surgery for free, as Matt beat her up. Sean is against it, as Cherry and her friends attacked him too. Having an epiphany, Matt encourages Sean to operate on Cherry and he befriends her. Things spiral out of control when the Alderman’s spot Matt and Cherry together and kidnap them. Mr Alderman forces Matt to either cut off his penis, or Cherry’s. Cherry tells Matt that it’s okay, and Matt presumably cuts it off. Mr Alderman then drives Matt and Cherry to wasteland outside Miami and forces Matt to bury Cherry alive. But Matt stands up to Mr Alderman at gunpoint and Cherry hits Mr Alderman from behind with a shovel, then shoots him.

Season Four
After the traumatic events of last season, Matt is having a hard time coping and turns to exercise as an outlet. Matt runs into Kimber Henry at the gym, and learns about her religion of Scientology. Hoping that the religion will help him deal with his guilt, he joins - but it soon becomes more of an excuse to see Kimber. Kimber encourages Matt to move out of the McNamara home due to it being “toxic”, and ends up cleaning roadsides as part of his religious training. After being rejected by Christian, Kimber tries to get back at him by sleeping with Matt. Several weeks later, Matt and Kimber tell Sean and Christian that they are married and expecting a baby. The couple move in together and Matt films a porn movie with her in an effort to spice up their sex life. Matt confesses to Sean that he knows Kimber only married him to get back at Christian, but he really does love her.

Season Five
Matt shows up in Los Angeles with newborn baby Jenna. He claims that he is now poor as Kimber gave all their money to Scientology, and that he has left her. In truth, this is nothing but a ruse to get money to pay for his and Kimber’s spiraling addiction to crystal meth. Kimber tries to return to the porn industry, but is shot down by producer Ram Peters due to her habit. He does, however, want Matt in a gay porn movie after seeing the size of his penis in the homemade porn movie they made last year. Matt is willing to do the movie, until Kimber stops him. After quitting drugs through Scientology, Kimber agrees to dump Matt in return for surgery on her meth-ravaged face and teeth. Kimber tells Matt that she never loved him and moves in with Ram, taking Jenna with her. Devastated, Matt turns to meth and accidentally blows up the motel he is staying in, inflicting severe burns on his body. While resting in hospital, Matt bonds with his burns counselor, Rachel Ben Natan, who was left horrifically scarred when a terrorist in her native Israel blew up right next to her. Matt and Rachel start dating, until Rachel ends things as she cannot see a future with him. Matt yells at her for daring to be “picky”, and that she should consider herself lucky to be with him. Matt meets one of Christian’s patients, Southern girl Emme Lowell, and sleeps with her. Matt and Emme feel a connection like none they’ve ever felt before. This is explained when Emme reveals that she came to Los Angeles to find her biological father: Christian Troy. Matt and Emme come clean to their parents about their love, and are told to end things immediately. Emme plans to return home, but despite his feelings Matt makes the right decision and lets her go. While helping Sean with his physical therapy, Matt revealed that he wanted to go into medicine, and that he was taking pre-med courses at a local community college. A few episodes later, Matt realizes he only wants to play a doctor on television, and goes into acting.

Season Six
In the season six premiere, Matt tells Sean and Christian that he has been taking miming classes and plans to perform as a mime as a living. Christian openly derides Matt for this and tells him to get a real job. After a horrific day in which he is both robbed of the little money he has earned and his stereo — Matt reaches his breaking point when he attempts to purchase coffee from a coffee shop employee and pulls out a fake handgun which terrifies the employee, and she hands over all the money in the register. Matt then decides to use this disguise to rob other places; he is eventually known as “The Mime” after robbing several stores. After being released from a line-up by the police (the witness failed to identify Matt) and interrogated by his fathers who have become suspicious of his newfound wealth, Matt is severely wounded attempting to hold up a convenience store when the clerk pulls out a shotgun and fires it at him. He makes it to Christian’s place and collapses on the floor; he removes his jacket and shows that he is severely wounded. After treating Matt’s wounds, Julia, Sean and Christian come to the realization that despite all their attempts, Matt is just a bad person (with Christian seeming to take it the worst, blaming his rapist father for passing those genes on) and that he should be turned in to the police. Matt, who heard Julia and Christian talking, leaves soon after and breaks into Kimber’s home to see his daughter. Kimber catches him, and after learning that he is leaving for Mexico begs to go with him. However at a truck stop, Matt encounters Christian who tells him that Kimber helped slow him down long enough for Christan to find him and pleads with him to turn himself in. Matt pulls out a handgun and fires it at Christian to get him out (the round shatters the driver side window). Matt leaves but ruptures his stitches and calls Sean, who comes to help him. After stitching his son up, Matt leaves and finds the police and Christian waiting outside. Matt is handcuffed and read his Miranda Rights as he is led to a squad car. At the urging of his grandmother Erica, Matt decides to be a witness in regards to Sean and Julia being unfit parents after Erica decides to petition for custody of Annie and Connor after Sean’s suicide attempt. She also urges Matt to become a “prison bitch” to survive inside, as she believes he will not survive otherwise. When Christian goes to the prison to visit Matt, he is greeted instead by Matt’s cellmate who plans on turning Matt into his “bitch” in exchange for his protection and that Matt has agreed to get breast implants. A shocked Christian leaves, and makes an arrangement with the warden to have Matt transferred to another cell (selling his beloved boat to raise enough cash), however Matt’s former cellmate is transferred as well and savagely beats Matt. Visiting Matt in the prison hospital, Christian refuses to perform the surgery on Matt but instead offers him another option; drugging his cellmate’s food with drugs used for chemical castration (thus making it impossible for him to rape Matt). This works for a time until Matt accidentally drops the bottle (which was hidden in a hollowed-out book) and his cellmate realizes what has been happening to him. He attacks Matt, who fights back by kicking him in the testicles and then strangling him with the lingere that his cellmate bought for him. In the season finale, in exchange for performing liposuction surgery on an overweight death row inmate, Wesley Clovis, (to ensure that the execution is successful), Sean and Christian make a deal that Matt is to be released from prison early. As the execution draws near, another inmate confronts Matt, who reveals that Clovis is in fact innocent, being wrongly blamed for the murder. As Matt is released in preparation for the execution, he begins to tell Sean and Christian about Clovis’ innocence. However, realizing that this revelation will cost him his freedom, Matt quickly changes his mind, instead saying that he thinks Clovis is sick, disturbed, has no chance at rehabilitation, and that executing him is the right thing to do.

(My addition): In the latest episode, Ava’s unexpected return, leper-baby in tow, starts that whole plot line up again. After re-wooing Matt (who knows she used to be a man but doesn’t seem to care and really, at this point why would he?) Ava tells him to go through with his random-ass marriage to Boring McWhatsername, who is either part of some massive reveal tonight or served absolutely no purpose on the show. But then, whilst on the altar, Matt receives a mysterious text message. Without speaking, he walks out of the ceremony and into a limo, where Ava is waiting for him.  Credits.

[Wikipedia]

FOD is unquestionably sophomoric, so there were times I felt disadvantaged by my lack of a 14 to 25-year-old penis, but overall the show had enough gems to make it more than worth it. This is one of them:

This stuff never really gets old. Also, he’s French!

Were “Hailey’s Song,” in all its experimental glory, an entire album – it would be Lil Wayne’s Rebirth: daring, bold, endearing, and not entirely …good.

As a preface, I should say I’ve been listening to an illegally downloaded ultimate version of Rebirth, which includes all of the tracks officially released this week, as well as a few that had been leaked months ago and were later pulled from the CD. In all, after more than few delayed releases, Weezy popped out nearly two-dozen songs for Rebirth, which was marketed as (and is) the rapper’s attempt to merge his own hip-hop style with rock influences. I don’t have the energy to figure out which songs were part of the final release and which weren’t—moreover, all of the songs were arguably intended for inclusion on a professional album—but I figure having a few extra ones to go off of just means Wayne gets a more comprehensive chance at impressing me.

In some ways, Rebirth is impressive, and if any mainstream rapper were to attempt the integration of rock and rap, I would argue Lil Wayne is definitely up to the task. His style of rap, especially on Tha Carter III, is fairly unique already, in that many of his songs have kooky hooks, or no hooks, and he isn’t afraid of alternating the speed or tenor of his rapping, even in the course of one song. In short, Wayne never really followed rules, so ignoring them entirely doesn’t seem a stretch. Indeed, some of the songs on Rebirth—“American Star” and “One Way Trip” among them—could have easily been songs on Tha Carter III. And others, like “Prom Queen,” “Knockout” and “Hot Revolver” are pretty inspired mixes of rap and rock.

Further, and without getting all wishy-washy, there’s something to be said for the fact that he even tried. Though music has become nothing if not more egalitarian over the last decade, the line between rap and rock is still pretty solid. Both make it into Top 40, but in a sort of mutually exclusive way, much as Z100 manages to follow Taylor Swift with Linkin Park. For Wayne, who after the wild success of Carter III could have easily coasted with another solid rap album, to even attempt something as brave as Rebirth is, in my book, admirable. It shows a respect for music as a whole that not enough artists even bother faking.

But all ass-kissing aside, Rebirth still feels like something of a missed opportunity, and for several reasons. The first is that despite altering the backgrounds, hooks and rhythms of his songs, Wayne does little to alter his voice. In fact, he seems to go further in the other direction, employing Autotune with a fervor only paralleled by T-Pain himself. I’m not a huge fan of Autotune to begin with, in rap or pop music, but while it’s mildly bearable in the context of a bass beat and other studio enhancements, as a part of rock songs it’s woefully inappropriate …sort of like a guitar’s distortion pedal, but for your voice. The fact that Wayne’s idea of “singing” is to simply shout while rapping only makes matters worse.

But what bothers me more than the Autotune—which, let’s face it, is too ubiquitous to condemn at this point (unless you’re Jay-Z)—is that virtually no members of the rock community are featured on Rebirth. This is particularly surprising considering Lil Wayne’s long history of cameos on songs from rap, rock and pop artists. Blink 182’s Travis Barker plays drums for one song on Rebirth, but frankly I would have expected more from Weezy, who is arguably the feature-slut of the music world. Having contributions from bands like Fall Out Boy, Modest Mouse or The White Stripes would have done a lot for the credibility of the album, and I dare say having their pop/punk/rock influence would have probably helped make the songs more accessible. Instead, songs like “Get a Life” and “The Price is Wrong” sound like Wayne just read “Rock Songs for Dummies.”

Ultimately I like Rebirth – it’s refreshing, especially after Jay-Z’s The Blueprint 3, which though awesome, is very much a straight rap album. Further, Rebirth adds to the perception I have of Lil Wayne as someone who’s more concerned with besting himself than anyone else. Unfortunately, Rebirth doesn’t best Tha Carter III, or even Tha Carter II. Instead, it seems more like a prolonged and experimental jam session with a truly gifted rapped but not-so-stellar rocker.

But oh well, he tried.

Alright, let me preface this (undoubtedly-going-to-be-long) post by saying I don’t watch political commercials. In fact, I watch very few commercials at all, thanks in large part to the magnificent invention of DVR, which is in my eyes on par with creations like electricity and microwavable breakfast sandwiches. But when I do catch political ads—the loud voice-overs, the poorly done slideshows, the requisite pull-quotes—I find myself actually less inclined to vote for whoever is being promoted, simply because I’d prefer my elected leaders know better than to annoy the shit out of me.

That said, I understand that not everyone is quite so attentive. Rather, for some, the mere mention of a political candidate might be enough to sink the moniker in their psyche so irreversibly that come election day they vote without thinking, without realizing the John Smith whose box they just checked actually denies the Holocaust, hates black people and kills puppies in his spare time.

So I imagine it is with these people in mind that outrage has erupted over the Supreme Court’s decision this week to strike down decades-old limits on corporate political expenditures, thereby permitting businesses and unions to spend freely on commercials for or against political candidates.

Some companies and union leaders have already said they will take advantage of the new freedom to participate more directly in this year’s congressional campaign, while others are perhaps waiting for the hubbub to die down before admitting their own undeniable special interests. I have no doubt that America’s largest corporations, along with its largest unions, are thrilled to be able to put their mountains of cash to use pushing candidates whose interests and policies align with their own. Even if said companies are still restricted from direct contributions to candidates (as they have been for more than a century), and even if any political messages created by corporations or unions must be disclosed as such. Undeniably, this is a big week for the idea of money as power.

But here’s my issue, and bear with me. Wal-Mart (for example) by virtue of being Wal-Mart, can advertise approximately 900 billion more times a day than, say, John’s Feed Store. In fact, one is bombarded on a daily basis with advertisements from major companies meant to make us forget that there are indeed other companies, with the same products/services/capabilities, out there. I see more commercials for Citigroup than Banco Popular, McDonald’s than Five Guys and Meow Mix than Krasdale-brand generic cat food. Such is the nature of capitalism.

When it comes to your average commercial—designed to sell a consumer something the advertiser wants them to pay for—consumers are in a tug of war between knowing that what they’re seeing is biased, and being compelled by that message anyway. In the Mad Men era, this tug of war was less pronounced: ads were a novelty in and of themselves, and wowing Americans with the first-ever lawn mower, toaster oven or car was as easily done as said. These days, with the proliferation of advertising, and consumers’ ever-increasing awareness of their own role in this dynamic, it has become more difficult to maintain this wall, to get past Americans’ knowledge and subsequent resistance to being convinced. The “bandwagon” and “testimonial” advertising approaches have been replaced with “wink” ads, which  give a subtle yet significant nod to the fact that people know they’re being sold to, or even more bizarre campaigns that rely as much on viral popularity as actually mentioning or showing anything intended for purchase (oh how I loved those Quizno’s hamsters).

In other words, regardless of how the relationship between advertiser and consumer has played out over the last few decades, there is a tacit understanding that Americans are expected to make educated decisions on what to buy and from whom, regardless of any disparity in the frequency of ads from Wal-Mart versus John’s Feed Store. Furthermore, if the Wal-Mart next door to the John’s Feed Store sells exactly the same products but commands seven times the business, John is free to gripe about the unfairness of competing with a major player with major dollars, but has absolutely no recourse to argue that Wal-Mart shouldn’t be allowed to advertise as much as it does, or should be forced to advertise on a playing field commensurate with even its smallest competitors.

So where do political candidates fit in? Despite the fact that a 20-pound bag of fertilizer isn’t the same as, say, the governorship of New York, I feel that the same principle applies. The onus, with respect to advertising, is not on the company to ensure that their commercials are received in a fair and balanced way; the onus is on the American people to absorb what they’re seeing, put it in context and make educated decisions. In other words, if I can see eight commercials for Pizza Hut in a week and then, come Saturday, walk across the street and buy a slice from my local pizzeria, it’s because I’ve decided to enjoy the culinary genius that is pizza and have therefore done the research necessary to make a decision that will best please all facets of my pizza-eating self, namely taste buds and wallet. Similarly, if I see eight commercials for a political candidate and then, come election day, decide to vote for someone else, it should be because I’ve decided to enjoy the democratic genius that is voting and have therefore done the research necessary to make a decision that will best please all facets of my American self.

There are some who would argue, and with good reason, that Americans are too stupid to be trusted to think this way. Indeed, there is plenty of evidence to suggest that educated decision-making is not this country’s forte. I certainly understand this point, and I don’t necessarily doubt that a good many Americans would and do vote for political office based on the candidates that have best managed to insert themselves in the media fray, the same way millions of Americans contribute to Wal-Mart’s status as one of the largest companies in the world. We are, in many scenarios, sheep.

But when you begin making laws for the explicit purpose of coddling people, you are on a slippery slope. Under the new rules, commercials’ backers are still required to disclose their backing. In other words, at the end of any advertisement for gubernatorial candidate Joe Blow will be a “This message was brought to you by Wal-Mart.” If this isn’t enough for people to comprehend the inherent bias behind said advertisement, then I am far more concerned about the intelligence of our population than I am about the corrupting influence of unions or large corporations. In my eyes, the unwillingness of the average American to educate him or herself on political candidates and their views before voting—to say nothing of the fact that most Americans don’t even vote—is a far greater threat to democracy than the implications of this week’s Supreme Court ruling. If people can’t discern that a commercial for a political candidate, spliced in between ads for life insurance and Taco Bell’s “Fourthmeal,” should be taken with a grain of salt, then America is in a lot of trouble.

I would much rather exorcise our frustration with the political system by addressing this apathy on the part of the general public than lambaste Wal-Mart, or whomever, for doing exactly what a large company in a capitalist country is supposed to do—look out for its own interests.

There are other caveats worth touching on: the old rules, where corporations and unions were restricted in their ability to advertise on behalf of candidates, exempted companies like News Corp. or Cablevision, who own newspapers and are free to endorse or slam candidates in their respective publications, if not on television. Even the incident that sparked the Supreme Court case—where a corporate-funded “documentary” disparaging then-candidate Hillary Clinton wasn’t allowed to air near election time—seems questionable. Had Michael Moore made the same movie, I suspect he would have had little trouble getting it on the air, because he is a wealthy individual with biases as opposed to a wealthy company with special interests.

None of this is to say that I don’t understand people’s concerns. After all, this is America in 2010, when advertisements are increasingly difficult to distinguish from otherwise editorial content. Though we often assume we can tell the difference, I found myself during a recent episode of 30 Rock wondering whether a passing reference to Subway was paid for or not. The line is already blurry, and throwing the door open to extend that blurriness into the political sphere is indeed dangerous territory.

But so is allowing the government to tell Americans what they can and can’t hear, read, see or watch. If Wal-Mart can’t sponsor the publication of a book condemning Barack Obama simply because an election is 30 days away, how long is it before a person can’t? And what’s the difference? The government is already, in my opinion, on a slippery slope: New York City, in particular, with its recent attention to trans fats, calorie counts, salt content and even beverage choice, is on a fast track to becoming a nanny state. Our status as a world power, and a country of intelligent and educated people, is contingent on our willingness to better ourselves by seeking out information whenever we can, by taking advantage of the many and ever-growing sources of knowledge available to us.

In the end, I too am worried about what this new ruling means, and not only because I’m upset by the threat of even more annoying political commercials. But I’m more worried about what the decision, and the backlash against it, suggest about America, or Americans. If even the most important of our judgments are based on the frequency with which we are bombarded by certain images, words or names, then there’s even less hope for this country than I thought.

I don’t know why it took me so long to get around to TWBB; perhaps because all anyone ever said about the film was “Daniel Day Lewis is so good in that,” or “I drink your milkshake!” The former is certainly encouraging - but a singular stellar performance does not always a great movie make (see: everything Jim Carrey has ever made). The latter is what some might consider the film’s signature line (naturally, Daniel Day Lewis doesn’t say it until the last 10 minutes), and all manner of ironic T-shirts have been fashioned in its honor. But even combined, these two impressions hadn’t been enough and so here I am, months behind the curve, finally getting the joke.

Everything people said was right: Daniel Day Lewis IS amazing in the movie, in the way anyone is amazing who can make you forget they’re acting. The fact that Lewis is a rather selective actor only helps: unlike Will Smith’s flip-floppery between “I’m a real actor” and “I’m a superhero malcontent,” Lewis appears so sparingly in pop culture cinema that I found it easy to become immersed in his character. Good thing, too - since he’s on screen more or less the entire movie, and communicates via facial expression or prolonged silence as much as actual dialogue. And the milkshake line - well, it lives up to the hype.

But outside of Lewis’ stellar performance, and a similarly (I thought) awesome job by Paul Dano (of “color-blind son with the weirdly shaped face from Little Miss Sunshine” fame) TWBB is mostly just…strange. Strange in the way slow, quiet and ultimately uneventful movies can be. Strange because I continued to feel like I was missing something - namely the rising and falling action. Strange because I found myself enjoying the film, even while I absentmindedly wondered if anything might, you know, happen anytime soon, or contemplated whether I had any eggs left in my refrigerator. Frankly, it’s the kind of film I’m glad I watched at home. In a theater, with the frontier setting projected 20 feet high, and Dano’s weird chin at approximately a billion times its normal size, I’m not sure if I would have enjoyed TWBB the same way. To be honest, I’m not confident I wouldn’t have fallen asleep. But at home, with a normal-sized screen and unmitigated ability to rewind or pause (for the making of said eggs), watching the movie was sort of like reading literature. I appreciated it, even if I couldn’t necessarily love it.

It’s ironic, in retrospect, that TWBB came out around the same time as fellow Oscar favorite No Country for Old Men (and that both are based on equally bleak books). At the time, these movies were more or less the same for me — gritty Western-style films with stoic leading men and limited plot development. Having now seen both, I have to say I continue to feel that way (and am therefore rather pleased at having spaced out the viewing). But if Clint Eastwood has taught us anything, it’s that these types of movies have a sort of staying power. They’re not riveting, they’re not fast-paced, but they are sophisticated. And they are timeless. And so I get the hype.

And I drink your milkshake.

I know, I know, I’m weeks late in commenting on the work of sheer genius that is Jersey Shore, but it took a few episodes’ worth of contemplation to really nail down what it is about JS that’s so damn appealing. It’s not just the fights, or the inane commentary, or the inability of men on this show not to use the word “fresh” at least once an episode. I mean, it is all of those things (as well as the fact that JS has become so pop-culture relevant that even die-hard haters of reality TV wonder if they’re missing out) but also many more. Here, in three points, is my defense of Jersey Shore.

1. “When it’s time to party, we will party hard.”
One of MTV’s biggest mistakes when it came to every season of The Real World after San Diego was the show’s slow trajectory away from bar fights and towards passive-aggressive work arguments, or utterly boring in-house pranks. Although Real World was always a forum for (ahem) real-world issues—homosexuality, religion, war—those issues were, and still are, best brought up in a loud club, after a lot of alcohol. At least for television purposes. While several of the more recent Real World seasons (Brooklyn and now-airing D.C. being the most flagrant examples) have devolved into mind-numbing self-righteous and too often sober discussions of political and social qualms, I have yet to hear anyone on the Jersey Shore discuss something other than clothes, hair, drinking, clubbing or sex. The vast majority of the show’s footage is of the roommates at bars (to the point that I’ve learned the names of said bars) or on their own roof deck, wooing unsuspecting (or totally suspecting) young ladies into their altogether normal hot tub. This is the stuff of great television.

2. “Watch the lioness, as she contemplates her next victim.”
Though MTV has always been a master of stereotypes—in a truly meta moment, one of the cast members of Real World D.C. correctly predicted that the last arriving housemate would be “the gorgeous black man” and lamented the lack of a “gay guy”—putting a group of the same stereotype in one house and watching them exist together is nothing short of genius. While much of reality television is founded on the notion of different people coming together and interacting, JS joins people that could have very easily become friends anyway. Indeed, to watch the crew interact is akin to some anthropological study: the ease with which they communicate in their unique language, the guido rituals (gym, tanning, laundry, in that order) to which most of them subscribe, the almost immediate tribe-like bond they form with one another. Though plenty of attention has been paid to the negative connotation of “guido” and the show’s supposed affirmation of this stereotype, I personally find the culture more interesting than laughable.

3. “Won’t you be my neighbor?”
This, above all, is the reason I watch Jersey Shore: Despite their questionable fashion choices, limited vocabulary and utter devotion to hooking up, the cast of JS is, for the most part, kind of likeable. The show’s most annoying roommates–the much-maligned Situation, whose desperation when it comes to lady-hunting is downright cringeworthy; and Sammi “Sweetheart,” whose “I’m the sweetest bitch you’ll ever meet” opening-credits line pretty much says it all–are still in my view a rung above even the least annoying people on The Real World. More importantly, they actually seem real. Perhaps by virtue of becoming part of a 20+ year institution, MTV has created something of a monster when it comes to Real World casting: the 20-somethings who ultimately make the cut appear on air with such a sense of self-worth (having made it through umpteen rounds of auditions) that they seem to assume their lives are interesting. By contrast, the Jersey Shore group always seem mildly baffled by their own fame: they’re in it for the sex, free booze and VIP club seating, not to be a part of pop culture history. This is something I can respect.

It should come as no surprise that I’m a fairly big Jersey Shore fan – it’s like the orange-juice concentrate of live-in-a-house-together reality programming, with more hooking up and fighting in one episode than other shows manage in a season. But I think Jersey Shore is a little something extra: it doesn’t create characters by putting otherwise mundane people in a tricked-out house and parading them through overpriced bars and faux careers. Instead, MTV found actual characters, put them in a rather mundane house, and let them handle all the parading. To me, that’s pretty—for lack of a better word—fresh.

As it turns out, J&J wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. Which isn’t to say it got bad reviews; most critics seemed wowed enough by Meryl Streep as Julia Child that they overlooked the movie’s rather tedious length and borderline endless discussion of actual cooking. In fact, in some deep-seated female part of my being, I guess the movie did make me want to cook a little – only because Amy Adams/Julie made cooking seem like such a respectable alternative to sitting around in your apartment and watching TV. It seems downright productive.

No, this is what really annoys me about Julie & Julia, and movies like it. Shit like that doesn’t really happen. Not to normal people, not often enough that watching it happen isn’t in actuality just as infuriating and depressing as anything else. People don’t dash off to France and magically overcome historical prejudice so they can go on to be one of the most famous chefs of all time. They don’t just happen to have husbands with government jobs that afford them plenty of leisure time to pursue a completely (at least at the time) absurd hobby, or pen pals who just so happen to know major book editors who just so happen to be interested in not only reading, but testing out, cookbooks from otherwise unknown authors.

And back in New York, in 2002, government employees don’t just decide to start a blog and then within a year not only have mastered cooking but also gotten numerous book deal offers, to say nothing of a movie starring, oh, Meryl Streep. People who live in dipshit apartments above pizza places in Long Island City are supposed to CONTINUE living in dipshit apartments above pizza places, or Chinese places, or butcher shops, to make the rest of us (read: me) feel like it’s totally OK to continue living in Brooklyn next to a car wash with a neon sign that sometimes blinks through our window the entire night.

So, in conclusion, fuck you Julia Child, and Julie Powell, for your uncommon success and its alleged ability to inspire (rather than depress) those of us who are forced to sit through a movie about your lives on Christmas Eve. This isn’t even a tale of hope, or of overcoming hardship. This is a story about two relatively happy people who became even happier through a series of fortunate and lucky events. And those stories, like Santa, aren’t real.

Also:

THE BAD

Here are some suggested titles; feel free to contribute your own:

-Pervster

-Creepster

-Diddler

-Scumbook

-MyPlace …Tonight

-Don’tLetThemSeeYourFace…Book

-Kidder

-Toddler

-Boinker

-RapeSpace

-FaceRape

-Craigslist