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by Jessy Krupa

12 May 2010


Tonight’s episode opened with Amber waking up next to Steve in the country club gazebo. This would have been shocking if last week’s coming attractions didn’t already show it, so instead I was left wondering how a ritzy country club like that had such laxed security. Steve seemed slightly shocked when Amber pushed him away, shouting about how it was all a mistake and that he shouldn’t tell anyone. At home, Sarah didn’t catch on to Amber’s nervous behavior, believing that her daughter was sleeping over at a friend’s house.

Sarah had other things on her mind, however. Shocked by Camille’s announcement that she was going to clear out the family clutter in the attic, Sarah showed up at Adam’s office. She tearfully told him that “dad cheated on mom”, but his reaction was entirely different. He referred to his dad as “a son of a bitch” several times throughout the episode. They both agreed on not telling anyone else about it, but Adam still told Kristina.

by Jessy Krupa

10 May 2010


This week’s episode of Supernatural served as a part two to the last episode, resolving some of last week’s questions. Pestilence, still on the loose, is serving as a doctor in an Iowa hospital, in order to infect patients with a combination of viruses that kills within seconds and leaves contagious green vomit behind.

Meanwhile, Dean is enraged about Sam’s plan to accept the devil in order to kill him, calling it, “The stupidest idea ever.” Bobby, however, nonchalantly stays out of it, remarking, “This ain’t about me!” Just then, Dean gets a phone call from Castiel, who has been missing since his confrontation with unfriendly angels in “Point of No Return”. Castiel doesn’t know how he survived, just that he appeared from out of nowhere on a shrimp boat. Because he has lost his powers and seems to be human now, he’s in the hospital and it will be a while before he can get to them.

by Steve Leftridge

5 May 2010


For two straight weeks, I called for the ouster of Michael Lynche, the gargantuan daddy of melodramatic showtune-soul. Yet ever since his original near-exodus a few weeks back, when the judges conspired to save him, he’s hung around, flirting with the bottom three, but eventually finding a seat in the safety zone. As a sign of Big Mike’s polarizing effect on viewers, Vote For the Worst, that carnival of social retardation, called on their followers to put their support behind Mike this week, which probably guarantees his survival. After all, last week the Worsters, after losing Tim Urban, elected Siobhan Margus as their candidate, who was swiftly thrown overboard that very week.

Ah, Shobbie. The world was not ready for one as fantastically bizarre as you. With her obstreperous hair, gangly-hot physique, and circus-chic outfits, Margus was the oddest duck in Idol history. Even her father warned, “You have no idea how peculiar she is”, conjuring up nightmare fantasies of fan-hitting shit at the Margus house. She offered the show a steady stream of deviance—her wild-eyed hinterland friends in the audience, her cracked new-age soliloquies in response to the judges, her sheepish smile that suggested both innocence and homicide. And then there was her singing. With a stomach-turning lower register and a banshee scream that channeled Axl Rose, Shobian combined awful and awesome with spinning intensity, like Tim Burton directing a new mashup of Annie and The Exorcist.

by Jessy Krupa

5 May 2010


As advertised last week, Crosby spent the night with Jasmine, but snuck out through her bedroom window in the morning in order to avoid Jabbar. As hard as it is to believe, they were concerned about what their kid would think by seeing his parents in bed together. On another night, Jabbar saw Crosby in the hallway, but he just tried to convince the boy that he was dreaming. After seeing that, Jasmine vowed, “No more fooling around. Period”, but that offended Crosby, who thought they were something more serious. Despite the fact that it’s obvious that he cares more for her than she does for him, he eventually told her how he felt. Jasmine just replied, “Let’s just give it some time” before inviting him to “sleep over”.

Adam and Kristina continued to find some friends for Max, but in reality, they were looking for some friends for themselves as well. They first visited the Lessings, whose son, Noel, seems to be mentally behind Max. When Max wanted to leave, Adam and Kristina, put off by the bicycle-obsessed dad and the nervous mom, didn’t object. Max didn’t seem to be into the whole thing, questioning the reason why he needed to have friends. When Adam made plans to meet up with a family he knew from work, Max said, “You owe me a sticker for this.” This time, Adam and Kristina liked the parents, but their son showed no interest in Max. After they faked an illness to leave, Adam wondered if they were “relegated” to hanging out with the “short bus families”. I found that phrase surprisingly insensitive, but in the end, all of the Bravermans and the Lessings had a good time together.

by Terry Sawyer

3 May 2010


I come from a poor Midwestern family where my notions of the upper castes involved unnavigable place settings and the labyrinthian social order that I encountered in etiquette books. In college, I would read about people obsessed with the leisure class. Andy Warhol and Jann Wenner both seemed consumed with the perceived glamour of dilettantes, as if the money, power and exclusivity produced something even more magical than their other other lifetime fixation: fame. How far we’ve fallen from the ideals of these cultured, worldly elites cocooned in Victorian rituals of status. The villains of High Society have no class; they’re intellectual dead zones with charisma deficits whose tacky and shiftless lives breed the kind of collective contempt that used to get the peasants sharpening the guillotine blades. No one aspires to be Tinsley Mortimer and Paul Johnson Calderon, because there’s nothing here to aspire to:  no refinement, no worldliness, and no accomplishment. They are a Warhol film, stagnating in the gaze the camera, ostentatiously refusing to pick up a verb. They’d prefer to let the maid do it while swearing at her and throwing up on the rug. This is upper class living in 2010 and it is indistinguishable from the gutter.

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