News Update, corrected

So I may have been a little hasty in my last posting. Eliot Spitzer (who, among other character flaws, doesn't believe in the wonders of extraneous first-name consonants) may ruin a hell of a lot of things: people's faith in elected officials, his marriage, Lauren Bell's personal time with Alex Trebec, etc. etc., BUT a single man, no matter how rich or powerful or stupid cannot possibly ruin everything. That would be ridiculous. It would take at least 5 of ESpitz and a smattering of other people with similarly ridiculous nicknames (Speidi anyone?) to truly bring about the end of civilization as we know it. 

There are, however, some other unsavory characters vying for the title of "everything-ruiner" -- much to the collective relief of the four horsemen of the apocalypse (let's face it, the waiting game must be getting pretty old for them by now).

One of these responsible and hard-working souls is someone with whom you may be familiar. His name is Chef Bobby Flay. I believe he had the "Chef" legally added as insurance after Rachel Ray beat him on an Iron Chef showdown (thank you, Wikipedia, for that priceless nugget). There's nothing more damaging to your chef reputation that being shown up by the Triscuit Queen.

Everything about this man rubs me the wrong way. And, as if offending me by his very being weren't enough, he manages to smear his personal brand of horrendousness on approximately 19 different Food Network shows, thus making himself inescapable to those of you who, like me, insist on watching only the FN if Jeopardy is not on. 

An illustrative example: "Throw Down."

Are you aware of this atrocity? "Throw Down" is a television program in which Flay, bored with annoying just me, tricks people -- tricks them -- into thinking they are being showcased on the FN (yeah, I'm going to keep calling it that) for their personal recipes: Edna's Texas Chili, etc.

Then, he sits around in the Food Network test kitchen and demands that his soulless minions concoct a better recipe of the same ilk. He shows up to a party full of poor, unsuspecting Edna's family and friends and tells her, "No, I'm not here to honor you. I'm here to potentially humiliate you...THROW DOWN!" He might also say things like "BOO-YAH" and "Oh SNAP" -- he's that awful.

The minions, bearing the specially-prepared recipe, descend upon Edna's party like a plague of locusts. Snooty guest judges sweep in from secret side doors. Giant Mao-esque banners featuring Flay's all-mocking mug unfurl across the kitchen.

Bobby Flay (which I first typed as "Booby Fly." And then I laughed. Because I'm nine years old.), trying to figure out why you do this every week makes my head hurt. Edna has been making her Texas Chili for 97 years, and everyone has already agreed that it is the best. Why must you rob her of her hard-earned mantle of good-cookery? Is it because Rachel Ray stole yours?

Well, I don't care, Flay. What you're doing is just wrong. Write Rachel a nice letter asking for your mantle back. Release your minions from their miserable bondage and stop surprising people. Please, start putting your time towards something productive, and not encouraging the destruction of all goodness. You are upsetting me. You are upsetting Edna. And somehow, I'm sure, Trebek has heard about this and is shedding a single, phoenix-like tear. 

News Update: Eliot Spitzer Ruins Everything

So Eliot Spitzer, governor of New York, was busted today for taking part in a "high-class" prostitution ring. 

Note #1: Honey, just because they're actually women and you pay them a lot doesn't make them classy. Nice try there, though. Imagine if he had been busted for taking part in a "skanky-ass, chlamydia-ridden, reality-TV-ready prostitution ring." Someone give his press people a bonus. 

Note #2: When I first saw the headline for this story, I read it to mean that Eliot Spitzer was a high-class prostitute. (insert hackneyed 'politics is full of prostitutes' joke...[wait for it]...here). Wasn't he once known as the Sheriff of Wall Street or some such boondoggle? God, what a great stripper theme -- money and assless chaps. I can see where he would be tempted to try it.

And #3, the real tragedy: Because I am an ignorant, apolitical fool, I didn't really care about his little shenanigans (especially when I could no longer picture our once-esteemed governor showing up at someone's hotel room wearing something sassy). 

What I did care about was coming home from my horrible job and winding down with some Jeopardy at 7:00. I fed my fish, removed my shoes and plopped down, only to find Eliot Spitzer's face where Alex Trebek's should be! Coverage of that philandering phool (Spitzer, not Trebek) had superseded all my Daily Doubles and questions posed as answers! Yelling at the face of a stupid politician on TV is simply not as soothing as yelling out answers to esoteric questions. Watching Spitzer apologize for getting caught doesn't make me feel smug -- I still don't know if I am smarter than him, and I certainly haven't won more money -- it just makes me feel shocked a disappointed. 

Minor note, 3a: The worst part about the "breaking news" that totally destroyed my evening: it was mostly the News Team talking to "New York Voters" out on the street. The problem: all of their men on the street were people grabbed straight from Times Square. At 7 at night. How many of those people do you think are from New York at all? I don't need to hear that some Ohio tourist is surprised to hear the news about our governor (and no shit you won't vote for him, lady -- we all know you are here to see Spamalot). What I need to hear right now is the name of the second-highest mountain range in the 27th latitude. 

Moral: Spitzer ruins lives. 

Club Famous

I saw Paul Giamatti on my morning commute the other day. Or maybe it was just some guy who had the misfortune of looking just like Mr. G (only without that very handsome sheen of fame and the flattering glow of cash money lighting up his face), but that's not nearly as exciting, so I'm sticking with the famous-guy story.

New Yorkers want everyone to think that they run into celebrities so often that it's more of a nuisance than an event: "Of course!" they heartily guffaw at all you silly, midwestern rubes. "They all live here! They're practically swarming the streets! Gosh, sometimes I wish all these kooky celebrities would just go somewhere else and leave me alone, you know?"

These aggressive exclamations are nothing but bald-faced lies. Seeing famous people is still really freaking exciting, no matter where you live. Being a cool New Yorker just means you're very much aware (and afraid) that you'll look like a tool if you talk to them. New Yorkers, in my observations, often skip the chance to touch the famous in favor of quietly judging them as they pass by.

That doesn't mean it's not totally rad to see someone recognizable.

I live in Park Slope, a neighborhood with a celebrity-to-boring-person ratio of approximately 1.37:2.5 (babies, who are only kinda people but a large segment of the population here, make for some weird numbers). Sure, some of these so-called "famous" are not entirely recognizable -- a lot of writers, for instance -- but, according to all the reports, they are here.

HOWEVER, in nearly a year spent wandering our lovely, stroller-filled streets, I have managed only once to see anyone of note in the area. Granted, that one glorious vision of stardom was John Hodgman, and, when you love NPR as much as I do, a Hodgman sighting is rather like the average person catching a glimpse of, I don't know, John Stamos (sorry, he [as Uncle Jesse, no less] was just the first person to pop into my head -- but do you see what I was going for?). It was kind of amazing.

The reason why movie star/model/really rich person-spotting still manages to send our little hearts a pitter-pattering -- even in the big fancy city (or the big...Brooklyn-y...Brooklyn) -- is that famous people may be our neighbors, but they are certainly not "just like us" -- no matter what those lying minxes over at US Weekly are trying to tell you .

The most stunning difference between the famous and people who are just like us is not the swimming pools full of money or the all-night orgies or the secret stables full of flying unicorns. No, no. It's that they manage to have exciting, decadent, must-watch lives while never leaving their houses.
It's true.

Aside from The Hodg (and wouldn't it be awesomely douchebaggy if he actually called himself that?), I have never seen even the shadow of fame peeking from one of the Slope's brownstone fortresses. I imagine that this is because the "talent" sticks together, going to other famous houses for famous people dinners, playing famous softball in the Prospect Park Famous-Only Softball League, building famous forts with large "NO NON-FAMOUS ALLOWED" signs nailed to the outside.

I mean, really, where ARE these people? What do I have to do to score some face-time with Paul Auster? Sure, Buscemi (of the Steve variety. He's supposed to live a few blocks down from me) may have a great pitching arm, but, really, can we not share the famous? Maybe I want him on my softball team for once. Dammit, Auster, let Buscemi do his own thing!

Confession: I don't really have a conclusion for this post. I mostly just wanted to say, "Hey, famous people, why don't you show yourselves to your resident pretty pretty princess?" I can keep a secret, and I'm really fun at underground hot tub/unicorn/gold outfits parties.

SO, famous people -- those of you with faces that I may have seen on the gossip blogs or on your books -- come to me. Because you're not really famous until I mistakenly identify a random, ugly dude on my morning train as your golden, blessed famous self.