Instead of opening to a buzzing chorus and a heat-seaking Slushie cruising down the hallway, we are introduced to Fabio, who will be the heavily-accented Virgil for our tour through this fresh hell. Apparently this episode is meant to show us what all of our favorite Glee club members are going to look like in 10 years. Apparently they have all become chefs and been on some sort of reality show, but not all at the same time. They have also given up singing and dancing, which is sad.

He starts bringing in all these people we don't even recognize. First is some chucklehead who must be Finn after getting married: bloated, haggard, but still walking around with that confidence that says he has the biggest dick in the locker room. Then in saunters Mercedes, the big girl with the big voice and plenty of sass to back it up. She's also pulled a Michael Jackson and lightened her skin a whole lot.

Then the Will Schuester arrives. He is going by Ilan these days, and he is still cute in a nerdy way and a little bit too earnest. Shortly after comes Puck, throwing about oblivious bravado just like he used to swings about his massive man guns, except now his mohawk has grown out into a nest of scary nettles. Babygay Kurt's has grown into chubby adolescent and screeches when he sees the sexy and kinda mean Quinn Fabray, who has dyed her hair brown and is wearing a very cute outfit that is nothing like a cheerleader's uniform. They are joined by some guy named Hung who was one of those silent Asians in the background of the Glee club who they trot out whenever they need someone to do break dance moves.

Next is Ken Tanaka, with a face that looks like it was attacked by a hive of bees and a haircut only a lesbian could love. Speaking of which, in saunters Sue Motherfucking Sylvester. Well, at least we thought so, until we realized that this dykey lady was about as funny as spending a night in county jail for public urination. What could have happened to ruin her spirit?

Finally the diva of the show arrives, but Rachel has gone from an awkward, strangely attractive and totally totally self absorbed bitch into an awkward, strangely attractive tall black woman with giant eyes. She's not nearly so full of herself though. Then we see that pot-dealing, Josh Groban-loving Sandy has gone back in the closet. What a sad day to see him without the protection of a sherbet colored sweater tied around his neck like he was pretending to drive to the country club.

Now that we've met the dramatis personae, we're ready for them to start talking about how they're going to put on the show. A little doo-wop and be-bop later, and we'll have ourselves a cheerleader-themed production number that will make every hair on your body stand on end for two whole minutes before falling off your body in exhaustion. It's like the television equivalent of a full-body wax, and it hurts so good. Well, they start talking...and talking and talking. We keep seeing flashbacks of them actually doing things—namely cooking and bitching at each other—but now that are not doing anything. It's like a third year high school reunion, where everyone is still far too familiar and the wounds are as fresh as newly-picked hemlock.

Fabio the Fabulous must be the director, because he's going around and talking to everyone and trying to find out about their character's motivations. We're ready for him to start blocking a scene or something, but instead he just seems to be practicing to host a reality show all his own. Finally, he starts to get things rolling by pulling out this crazy block with a bunch of knives sticking out of it. We get prepared for the massacre, as each gang of two (or three in the case of Babygay Kurt, Quinn, and nameless Asian) draws their weapon. But they're not fighting, they're just randomly assigning numbers. Somehow this translates into Rachel and Sandy having to make dessert, which is funny because Rachel would never eat dessert or else it would ruin her elliptical-based aerobic exercise regime and Sandy only eats dessert when he's stoned. Any situation this tedious would probably sober him up right quick.

Next thing you know, everyone is in the supermarket. This is like some kind of fever dream, when you expect to see Judy Garland dance with Mickey Rooney, and instead you get a Nicolas Cage chewing the scenery up and down a liquor store aisle as he fulls his cart full of the booze that he's going to use to kill himself. But instead of Nic's bad hair, you have a whole bunch of bad lesbian hair all competing for your attention. And it is dotted with all these wretched reminders of better days, when they were playing this awesome game that was judged by beautiful, wise, and witty people, including Parvati, the Hindu goddess of love. But these xenophobes keep mispronouncing her name and calling her Padma. God, Americans are so stupid. There is no mention of the evil goddess Kali, who once ruled the land, but was replaced by someone more charismatic and photogenic.

Then they go back and cook, but not in a way like they're actually trying to get something done (except for nameless Asian who is all high kicks and head spins around that kitchen like he's the third chorus boy in Barefoot Contessa: The Musical!) Rachel is talking about how stressful life is as a star. Sandy is walking around trying to prove how straight he is by hitting on all the lesbians. The lesbians are rolling their eyes, and Sue Motherfucking Sylvester doesn't even threaten one person except with her scowl, which could peel the hides off of a battered cardboard box of newborn puppies.

Director Fabio is making the rounds and asking everyone what they are doing, but we don't really care. We're just thinking that after this extravaganza of tedium that there has to be a great closing number with tap dancers, showgirls in headdresses, and stairs that light up when they are stepped on. Instead they all sit down to dinner. The only way this could be good is if Fabio puts on a corset and a curly wig gets Rachel in a maid's outfit and Finn as a bald butler to flank him for a rendition of "Eddie's Teddy" from Rocky Horror Picture Show, and at the end of the number he rips the table cloth off the table to reveal the body of dead goddess Kali below. But they don't, and we still don't know what happened to Kali Joel.

Instead, they sit around and talk about how hard it is to be on reality television and how no one understand them. Puck has it the worst, apparently, but it seems he deserves it because he behaves so appallingly that it makes it seem like he has some sort of personality disorder. In the middle of all this, Fabio gets all incensed for no reason. We think he's going to suddenly blow his top and scream "prostitution whore" and flip over a table, but instead he just makes some speech that we couldn't quite understand because the only Italian words we know are puttanesca and DiGiorno, which we think means delivery.

They're all eating and everyone likes most of the food, except everyone agrees that Babygay Kurt's pirogi thing is about as bad as that "Single Ladies" song the millionth time you've heard it. Then there are more memories, good and bad and more bitching. We have to check the calendar, because it seems like Thanksgiving came early this year, except we don't get to eat any of our mother's famous Indian Pudding (maybe Parvati stole it?) and we just get all the fighting. Finn tries to keep everything positive, but despite the swagger, no one listens to him anymore because he's fat now. Quinn and Rachel try to make nice and say that Rachel has forgiven Quinn for ruining her life, but we know she was kicking her under the table through the entire meal. She has very long legs now.

After more misty watercolor memories of everyone playing and getting drunk in some dirty room that must be Mercedes' basement where everyone goes to party after an especially tough rehearsal, the whole thing is over. Like sex with a bad hooker or a community theater production of Into the Woods, it ends with no climax, with no big final scene, and it took way too long to get there. We can't wait for next week when everything is back to normal, because this episode of Glee sucked.

And it's a bun! That's right. Padma Lakshmi, the gorgeous, allluring, beautiful, exotic, wonderful, slow-talking, beautiful, gorgeous host of Top Chef is with child. No one is saying who the father is, as of yet, and Padma is keeping a low profile, since her battle with endometriosis means its a high-risk pregnancy. We wonder if the cheftestants will have to cook extra in those Quickfire Challenges if she's eating for two.

In other good news, three of the channel's other reality stars—Real Housewives of New York's Bethenny Frankel, Top Chef's Fabio Viviani, and Project Runway's Christian Siriano—have been given shows of their own. Well, it appears that Bravo got custody of it's little gay stepchild during the divorce with Runway! Siriano will have a show about setting up his own business as a designer. This is going to be a must-watch, catch phrase-spewing machine.

Viviani will also have a show about his business, as he tries to take over California with his charm and accent. Frankel will just be saying bitchy things to the camera and getting in fights with Kelly Bensimon for an hour each week. We wish. Actually, we're going to have to watch her cook and try to make sweet, sweet love to the men of New York. I spotted her at a party the other night on the arm of a very handsome gentleman, indeed, so at least there will be some eye candy. Anyway, now that Bravo is spawning its own stars and giving them their own shows, just how long before it folds in on itself in a black hole of meta? Not sure, but I'll probably be watching when it happens.

[Image via Getty]

The night began next to a drunken Atlanta business man named David to whom the premise needed to be explained. He made a lot of jokes about his wife being in the bathroom giving birth. Later he showed me that he had texted her, "Watching Top Chef with a bunch of freaks at bar. Plot difficult 2 follow." For the practiced eye, however, it wasn't.

Like Spanish moss, victim politics swathed last night's episode. At this point the producers are courting it, like a Freudian psychologist eager to bring out the deeper issues of leaving the toilet seat up (anger at mother, fear of abandonment, etc). For the Quickfire, the chefs were challenged to produce a dish embodying the dichotomy between good and bad, or as Jung might say the anima and the shadow. Clearly someone in the producer's booth is a Manichean. Bryan Voltaggio did something smart, a play on darkness and light. Michael made salmon two ways. Kevin put down some fat bacon which turned guest judge Michelle Bernstein into an orchard of desire. But, all was for naught. You see, Robin Leventhal had lymphoma. Little Robin Leventhal had lymphoma and so let no lack of talent, no logorrhea nor the fruits of competition stand in her way. It's like she said, "My mother died," in the middle of a Snaps competition; it's an automatic win but a dirty one. For just as Yo' Mama jokes don't take literal aim at one's mother—Do you really think I think when your mother wears a Malcolm X t-shirt helicopters try to land on her? Do I have that low esteem of helicopter pilots? Have I even seen an X t-shirt for years? Why aren't any on eBay?—neither should the challenge have occasioned such a visceral and weighty response.

Eli's well-directed anger, as well as my own, I suppose, isn't so much because Robin had cancer, though we all hate cancer, but because she's profane enough to capitalize on it for an ultimately petty goal. It's really a matter of cynical and disproportionate use of force. It's just like Sabra and Shatila. See? I'm allowed to deploy that because I'm Jewish.

On to the elimination challenge—what a relief. Escaping that last graf was as hard as getting out of Treblinka!—to deconstruct a well-known dish. By the way, at this point the drunk business man David next to my wife and I were fully enthralled in the show, so much so that he spilled wine all over his penis area trying to unmute the television at the end of a commercial break.

Another great challenge, I'd say, for it truly is a technical one and useful for separating the wheat—the Voltaggio's, Jen Carroll, Kevin Gillespie—from the chaff. Chaff like gash mouth face fuck Isabella who didn't know what Eggs Florentine is. "They're Eggs Foreigntome," he says and feels real clever; Laurine, whose cachet briefly rose when she talked smack on RobinWon'tShutUpCancerTit, but royally fucked up making potato chips and Papa Ron didn't know what either paella or deconstruction meant. Ashley was poor growing up and didn't eat pot roast. ["That boy is pretty," said David.] On the wheatier side of things, Jennifer Carroll deconstructed meat lasagna though it was well beyond her ken but not of her ability. Kevin Gillespie from nearby Atlanta—in fact, during the show, one of the chefs from the Avia Hotel stopped by to tell us he had done his stage under Gillespie and that he had been a consummate intense and very talented chef under whom to work—was selected to (de)make Chicken Molé Negro, a task as difficult as unravelling a black belt Gordian knot made of X'chatik chilis, chocolate and bloodsugarsexmagic. Amazingly he did it which means Ron was finally voted off this island which means we no longer have to be made to feel uncomfortable by his hulking hapless presence and that, finally, we can discuss Toby Young.

Toby Young may be a friend of Gawker somehow but he is no friend of mine. As soon as he stops acting like a twat-for-forehead, beads-for-eyes, mulch-for-brains asshole, perhaps then we can found a truth and reconciliation committee. But until then, don't fucking mispronounce paella, per CC "pa-eya", as, per CC and linguistic British imperialism coupled with ignorance, "pay-ella." Furthermore, when Tom Colicchio, who actually is a chef, calls you out on it, hang your dickball head and silently assent to his superiority. Finally, learn about food. You knew you were coming back on the show which is still, in some small way, about food. Didn't your, "This fennel tastes like anise," comment humiliate you enough last season? Apparently not, for one must have pride before it can be wounded. Maybe if you had had cancer or if your balls were as big as Salman Rushdie's, you might know. Also, your mother is so fat when she wears a Malcolm X t-shirt, helicopters try to land on her and I mean that.

Video by Michael Byhoff.

His account follows:

"You're bringing a book?" This was Tom Colicchio's reaction on seeing the paperback in the pocket of my Tux. Had that been a mistake?

It was 1.30pm when I got into the limo with Tom outside our hotel and the Emmys weren't due to start until 5pm. Even factoring in a bit of red carpet action, that was a lot of down time.

Top Chef was nominated for six Emmys this year, including one for hosting and one for outstanding reality show. As a regular judge on the show, I had been flown in by Bravo to attend the ceremony. It felt strange heading over to the event in a limousine with Tom. Back in my days as a hard-drinking rogue journalist I had crashed plenty of award shows, but I'd never been invited to one before.

Gail Simmons was also in the car and we discussed whether to rush the stage if Top Chef won in the hosting category. Technically, the hosts of the show are Tom and Padma — they were the named nominees — but I did my best to convince Gail that if we grabbed the Emmys before them we'd probably be able to keep them.

One of my closest friend in Los Angeles is a television writer and the previous night he'd told me about a similar stunt pulled by a couple of writers on a show he'd worked on that won a Golden Globe. These two writers weren't the named nominees, but they'd rushed the stage, hoping to grab the statuettes, only to be apprehended by security. Afterward, an official of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association came and sat down at their table and told them that all the writers on the show, including my friend, were entitled to take home a Globe. "All you have to do is fill out these forms," he said, pulling a sheaf of documents out of his pocket. The only snag was that they'd have to cough up $750 a piece. "Back then, the Globes weren't as big a deal as they are today," my friend explained. "In retrospect, I wish I'd handed over the cash."

Tom revealed that, as a nominee, he'd had to fill out a long questionnaire sent to him by the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. "One of the questions said, ‘If you weren't an actor, what you be?'" revealed Tom. "I didn't know how to answer that one."

He'd also been sent an elaborate set of guidelines, telling him exactly how to behave if he won. If you were nominated as part of a group, only one member of the group was allowed to speak and if you went on for more than 40 seconds they would cue the orchestra to play you off. Tom didn't think this applied to the hosting category and if he and Padma won they were planning to speak for 15 seconds each.

"Who's going to speak first?" I asked.

"Padma."

"In that case, forget about it. She's just going to carry on talking until they cue the music."

In the event, this wasn't put to the test because the Emmy in question went to Jeff Probst for hosting Survivor. I had joked to Padma the night before that if she didn't win I was going to "do a Kanye", ie, storm the stage, grab the statuette and say, "This should have gone to Padma."

"Oh please, please, please do that," she said, her eyes sparking with mischief.

As anyone who watched the Emmys will know, good sense prevailed. One of the reasons I restrained myself is because I was convinced that Top Chef would win for outstanding reality show and that category was up next. I didn't want to tarnish what would be a proud moment for the show by behaving like a jackass. (There's quite enough of that in each episode.)

I carefully placed the book I'd brought under my chair. Gail and I really would be going up on stage if Top Chef won in this category — "We all go up," Tom explained — and I didn't want to be seen by 13 million people clutching a copy of Hold Tight by Harlan Coben.

Unfortunately, we didn't win for outstanding reality show either. For the third year running, Top Chef was beaten by The Amazing Race. A clip was shown in which a deaf contestant told the host that being in The Amazing Race meant the world to him because it proved that deaf people could achieve their dreams, too. This proved to be such an emotional moment that both the deaf man and the host broke down in tears. Cue rapturous applause in the Emmy auditorium. In the bar afterwards, I told Tom that if we wanted to stand a chance next year we'd have to get some contestants with disabilities.

"That's why we hired you Toby," he said.

Believe it or not, going home empty handed wasn't too much of a blow. We were up against 27 different reality shows in our category — that's how many official submissions there were — and to make it to the final shortlist of six was an achievement in itself. At least, that's what I kept telling myself as I headed off to the HBO party in my limo, reading Hold Tight. In any event, there's always next year …

Three things weigh heavily on my mind as August 19th draws closer. First of all, the familiar yet nearly forgotten bristle of joy and discomfort that accompanies hostess Padma Lakshmi's every appearance. Some things are simply too beautiful to behold. Thus Moses beholds the burning bush but not Yahweh and thus, from the same principle but less manifest, do we shiver when Lakshmi smiles or the camera tilts slowly down from her eyes to her torso, as if following an invisible bead of sweat. (Happily the potency of her beauty is somewhat dissipated by the lens of the camera and screen of the television.) Between last season and this, Lakshmi has signed to a NBC food-related sitcom called Single Serving, a show whose all but assured crappiness is all the more welcome since it may, in some small way, humanize Ms. Lakshmi. A goddess with a laugh track somehow seems a little more approachable.

Secondly, I've missed the small bitter ids of the Top Chef contestants, crouched in the corner of their mental kitchen like dibbuks, jealous, zealous, too rich in tactic and short on strategy, bent not on achievement but on sabotage. That shit is mad fun to watch. Top Chef Masters simply has too much bonhomie and competency. Messrs. Bayless, Keller, DuFresne and Ms. Lo are too good-natured, talented, and mature for real drama. Let's face it: Top Chef Masters was a bit of a snooze; it's good for the world but bad for Bravo (the same can be applied to all Bravo television programming.) On August 19th, a raft of try-hardy famewhores will beam into our living rooms, each one eager to establish him or herself, to appease the wrathful writhing ambitious worm inside them. They'll be put under intense stress in situations designed to confound and to sift out from their unprocessed ore, all that makes them human, leaving only the nasty golden nuggets, sandwiched between Glad Family Product advertisements and light molasses and lovely honey rich shots Padma Lakshmi. Unlike other lesser reality television shows, the cheftestants on Top Chef are nominally there to cook and it is through this filter that we see their Machiavellian jockeying. Unlike the newly neutered Project Runway, Bravo is under no obligation to soften the edges and make the show feel-goody. It's all cynical manipulation here, chef-against-chef, producer-against-viewer, chef-against-viewer. Like a john and a painted lady, we all dance the ritualized tango of coyness and submission, enacting roles written long before August 19th, before even the birth of Bravo and I can't wait.

Lastly, this is the the sixth season of Top Chef. Like the sixth season of the Real World (who can forget Genesis, Elka and Syrus!?) by this point the reality television industrial casting machine should have—in tandem, effected and effecting the fame-headed public—crafted the ultimate reality show cast. These are the people who the producers want. These are the people who want the fame and know exactly what they need to be successful. A quick look at this season's character bios is highly enlightening. First of all—in line with other Bravo reality shows—the amount of tattoos has increased noticeably. One guy, annoyingly, has a knife and form tattooed on his hand. He'll be out by the third episode, I think. There are two plus-sized heavily tattooed women (Jennifer and Jesse. One guy with a beard and an Austin Scarlett epigone named Mattin, for whom a beard would do no help. Following Bravo's half-hearted stab at inclusivity, there's the black guy, the latino and the asian too for good measure. There's also a guy in a bow tie named Ash Fulk (rhymes with Ass Fuck!) A finer cast of characters more ready to exploit and be exploited one couldn't ask for. Though we may know something about these chefs' bios, we would do well to forget them. For that was their civilian life. Now they are part of something larger than them, than the truth. They are part of theatre, glorious theatre, and the curtain rises Wednesday night.

Mad Men
Returns August 16 [AMC]
Yes, that means you only have six days to watch the DVDs of the first two seasons of the show that you've been telling everyone you already watch, even though you don't. You better get hip with Don Draper or else everyone is going to laugh at you.

Top Chef
Returns August 19 [Bravo]
Well, if Bravo can't have a whole show with hot skinny models in crazy dresses, at least they can have Padma Lakshmi when she returns with her cavalcade of chefs who will call each other names and cook up a bunch of shit that would taste better than the mac 'n' cheese from a box you eat while watching.

Project Runway
Returns August 20 [Lifetime]
With the switch in networks, this show is now officially for women (and gay men). The premiere kicks off with an all-star edition and then there is a show about the models directly afterward. After that, probably Golden Girls reruns or some shit.

Melrose Place
Starts September 8 [CW]
Just in time to make us feel old, the '90s are back—and so are Jo, Michael, Jane, and Syndey! Ashlee Simpson is sure to blow this place up. Literally! She'll probably be planting a bomb in the first episode. Oh Melrose, we missed you.

America's Next Top Model
Returns September 9 [CW]
Though Tyra insists on calling it a "cycle" she's back with a whole new batch of bitches. Even if you ignore the rest of the season, tune in for the premiere, just to see what sort of drag queen madness Tyraparades around in. It always looks like the world's biggest budget public access show.

Glee
Starts September 9 [Fox]
You saw the pilot way back in May and there are already new musical numbers. It's like this high-school-musical-theater-nerd dramedy has been here all along. This is either the next Cop Rock or the next My So-Called Life, so catch the early episodes.

Vampire Diaries
Starts September 10 [CW]
Ok, you have have to watch this because vampires are so hot right now and if you don't, 14 year-old girls will mock you. This is the CW show about teenagers who stay up all night because they're undead, not because they're coked up at Butter.

Gossip Girl
Returns September 14 [CW]
You'd think that now that everyone made it to college they'd change. But watch the new promo. Blair gets bitchy, Chuck gets laid, Serena gets naked, Dan gets clueless, Vanessa gets ignored. Some things never change.

The Office
Returns September 17 [NBC]
What's up with Jim and Pam? We gave up. We'd much rather just watch Steve Carell make an ass of himself.

30 Rock
Returns October 15 [NBC]
NBC is so mean! Why is they going to make us wait until October for new episodes? We would boycott if we could survive without Tina Fey and her tiny little glasses. You will not laugh at anything on television until then. Sorry.

Lost
Early 2010 [ABC]
What, they can't set a date? Does everything with this show have to be a fucking mystery?

The Good Stuff

The image associated with this post is best viewed using a browser.Weeds; June 8th, 10pm
Showtime's hit comedy, about Mary Louise Parker the suburban mommy pot dealer, regained any momentum it lost during the Albert Brooks period by shacking Nancy up with a deadly but lovable Mexican politician cum drug lord and deepening the stakes with a life-saving pregnancy plot twist at the very, very end of last season. Plus, Silas'll probably take his shirt off a lot more, and we might finally get to see where, if anywhere, the undeniable Nancy/Andy chemistry could lead. Almost as much summertime fun as just actually getting stoned.

Top Chef Masters; June 10th, 10pm
Basically the same thing as regular Top Chef, except with food world superstars rather than wannabes. You won't get the same disaster quotient you get on the o.g. version, but that's probably actually a good thing. Bravo's once proud (and dwindling) fleet of competition series have begun relying too heavily on wackadoo personalities rather than on talent, so maybe this is the ideal corrective. Sure they may have out-there, annoying personalities, but we're pretty much guaranteed they're all gonna be competent.

True Blood; June 14th, 9pm
HBO's kitschy vampire series started off wildly uneven last season, veering from scary-sexy to scary-stupid in the middle of episodes. But it eventually found its deep-fried Southern Gothic stride, with clever storytelling and ever-deepening characters gushing out of every orifice. And, yes, Anna Paquin is ungodly annoying, thus rendering the show's central relationship something of a bore, but she's more than made up for by the dangerously sexy Ryan Kwanten, the filthy-fascinating Nelsan Ellis, and the as-yet-unexplored-but-still-intriguing lesbodrone that is Michelle Forbes. As entertaining a show as one could want during the hot 'n sticky months. [See Ed. note below]

Mad Men; August sometime, 10pm
AMC has two of the best shows on television right now, and this is their flagship (the other is the fabulous Breaking Bad). When we last left the worried Don Draper, he was staring down dual abysses—his swiftly unknotting past, and the disappearing of everything the late 1950s promised the 60s would be. Poor Betty has problems of her own to deal with (oh dear, a baby), and of course there's that whole Pete/Peggy thing (oh dear, a baby), and the unsettling matter of Joan's rape. Not exactly light summer fare any of it, but compelling, beautifully detailed, oddly menacing capital a Art nonetheless.

The Maybes

The image associated with this post is best viewed using a browser.Nurse Jackie; June 8th, 10:30pm
The first episode Showtime's new Edie Falco vehicle is actually already on demand, and we gave it a watch last night. While Edie Falco (who plays the acidic-yet-warm, painkiller-addicted title nurse) could basically recite tax code and make us swoon, we're not so sure about everything around her. Medical shows are really hard to make original at this point, no matter how many gratuitous swear words and sex references you throw into the pot. Peter Facinelli's Dr. Asshole is basically a (slightly) grownup version of the Asshole he played so many years ago in Can't Hardly Wait and the good-lookin' Haaz Sleiman couldn't really find his way through the dense thicket of ooh-snap girlfriend gay stuff the writers gave him in the pilot. Points, though, go to theater goddess Eve Best and sadsack Merritt Wever for handling their barely sketched-out roles with aplomb. We'll keep watching for now, but we're cautious.

Hung; June 28th, 10pm
HBO's show about a man (The Sweetest Thing's vaguely annoying Thomas Jane) who has an enormous penis and becomes gigolo has a great supporting cast (including the underrated Anne Heche and the vastly underused Jane Adams), but that premise... If it's funny/sad, we're into it. If it's funny/gross, we didn't like Californication the first time, so why would we like it grosser?

10 Things I Hate About You; July 7th, 8pm
We love ABC Family for Greek, but hate it for The Secret Life of the American Teenager. So we're not really sure where the hell we fall on 10 Things. The movie on which it's based was a tart little surprise of a teen flick, but the small screen cast seems, frankly, nowhere near as attractive or interesting as a lineup of Heath Ledger, Joe Gordon-Levitt, Gabrielle Union, and Alex Mack. That Larry Miller stuck around to keep playing the overprotective dad of Kat and Bianca (yes, like in Taming of the Shrew) might indicate that there's some quality poking through the formula holes. We're curious to find out for sure.

For When Our Brains Are Mush

The image associated with this post is best viewed using a browser.NYC Prep; June 23rd, 10pm
The Bravo show is this. Just spoiled rich New York City kids—the real-life Gossip Girls. It'll probably make you want to drink, so good thing it's summer and that's when drinking is forgiven, even encouraged. So pour that wine into a big ol' tumbler full of ice and sip deep. Or shallow. You know.

The Real World: Cancun; June 24th 10pm
Yes, it's happening. MTV has decided to sacrifice seven not-at-all-virgins to appease vengeful Montezuma. They'll go wandering through the jungles of the urban Yucatan, figuring out what happens when people stop being polite and start vomiting body shots into each other's belly buttons. Bad boy rocker Joey (from fuckin' Lawrence, Mass kid) and contest-winner Ayiiia (yes, three i's) are stone fox boombalotties, plus there's lots of weeping in the trailer, so... sigh. We're stoked, dude.

Wipeout; Wednesdays at 8pm
People falling down was pretty funny last summer. We're hoping the charm hasn't worn off. Don't fail us, ABC.

OK, that's it. The Boston Globe has an easy list of everything else. So go! Watch TV and have fun and enjoy the silly summer pleasures. But also be sure to get outside once in a while and experience all that the sweltering season has to offer. Like, um... Drinking outside. Or drinking on the beach. Those are sort of the same things, huh?

Oh well.

Editor's note: True Blood, like other TV shows (even some mentioned in this very post!), is a Gawker advertiser. Their campaign, though, includes sponsored posts via Bloodcopy.com, which when it was introduced generated some discussion in the media about media. So here is the boring disclosure: Those Bloodcopy posts are written by the advertising department. Editorial posts are written independent of who advertises; we might endorse, trash or simply ignore TV shows that happen to advertise. And that's why you keep a bright line separating the editorial and advertising in the first place, kids.

Top pic via Getty

From People.com:

One constant criticism of your food was that there were too many components to each dish. Was that helpful or constructive?
It was a criticism that night. It’s something I thought about. [But] that dish is on my menu … [and I] served it to about 20 people today. They all loved it. I am not going to change that dish because Tom Colicchio said he didn’t like it. It’s a little shocking [that] I went home over that dish, but I’m not going to change the way I cook because of one person’s opinion. My opinion about Tom Colicchio’s food is that it’s extremely boring. I’ve been to his restaurant. His chicken dish on his menu is roasted chicken with roasted potatoes, thyme and olive oil. If I want that, I’d go to my grandmother’s house. That’s just not exciting to me. I don’t know who would go out and pay exorbitant amounts of money for that food. [...]

How do you think you’ll be remembered on the show? What impression did you leave?
I think the show used me as some kind of sex object. Every single show that I’ve ever seen, they have me with my shirt off in the beginning — which is kind of strange. I don’t run around the house naked half the time like they portrayed me. It seems like a camera was always following me around trying to find me whenever I’m taking my clothes off to change in the morning or at night.

Surely McGinnes won't win much sympathy from Chef fans for gallingly calling out Colicchio for crimes against cutting-edge chicken preparation, but it's his assertion that he was pigeonholed by producers as some kind of culinary-world Fabio that will leave the far more bitter aftertaste. If there's one thing we want from our Top Chef pretty-boys, it's at least the pretense of humility. The only pretty they should be preoccupied with is in the precise angle a lamb shank juts out of their carefully heaped mound of cauliflower puree, or the way kumquat juice squirts out of Padma Lakshmi's mouth when she bites into their winning dessert challenge.

[Screengrab: queerinmysoup.wordpress.com]

• Top Chef’s Jeff: The Show Used Me As a ‘Sex Object’ [People]

The surprising result put three of the most charismatic contestants on the chopping block: the endlessly charming Italiano Fabio, who had a rough time throughout the entire episode ("I slice-ad da meat! I put eet on top of da hot-ta cabbage...You kill-a my mama..."), and who we're still convinced will stun America by dropping all traces of his ridiculous accent upon elimination and reveal he's actually a guy named Douglas Hernandez from Fort Worth; vaguely European übervillain Stefan—hated by many but admired by us for various reasons, not the least being how he's rarely not smiling and relishes tormenting lesbian crush Jamie; and, lastly, pretty-boy Miami chef Jeff, whose face makes love to the camera but whose overachieving culinary ADD does not make love to the plate.

In the end, it was Jeff's time, and his exit interview—in which he predicts he won't get over the loss for a solid decade, before flagellating himself with a meat tenderizer—was more than a little heartbreaking. And we thought we were harsh self-critics. Goodbye, Jeff. Your photogenic passion will be missed. We salute you for taking the tough route, and not becoming a soap actor. [Top Chef]

Before making a cooking demonstration at the Festival of Arts on Sunday, Marcel Vigneron of Bravo's reality show "Top Chef" first stopped at the Laguna Beach jail on Saturday.

Vigneron was arrested on suspicion of drunken driving at 12:45 a.m. Saturday off of Pacific Coast Highway in Laguna Beach, according to Laguna Beach police records.

...Vigneron, who was initially stopped on suspicion of speeding, was taken into custody and his bail was set at $2,500.

What the Register leaves out is the sudden jailhouse appearance of Padma and Tom Colicchio (with special guest judge Andy Dick), who immediately engaged Vigneron in a Quickfire Challenge. Droned Padma, "Your ingredients for this challenge will include peppermints from the front desk, a frozen chorizo from the break room, and your own booze-soaked Van Heusen button-down. Contestants, ready!"

• 'Top Chef' runner-up arrested on suspicion of DUI [OC Register]

Project Runway
How It Is Now: The popular, zeitgeisty series, in which gay people and ladies compete to design the best fashions, has one more season on Bravo before it moves over to Lifetime, where it will (presumably) be their flagship program. The contestants run all over New York (well, it'll be in LA for Lifetime) and have lots and lots of challenges outside the confines of a "studio." Add big-name talent like Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn to the roster, and it's not exactly bargain basement.
The Cheapening: The LA move, done so Klum can be closer to family, will feature most of its workroom scenes filmed in the Bavarian model's mudroom. While it will look sadly low-budget, there will be the unexpected thrill of seeing Klum, fuzzy in the background, walking around in a commandant's uniform, brandishing a Luger, yelling "schnell! schnell!" to her terrified children, and making husband Seal bounce balls on his nose for fish. Also, Michael Kors will be replaced with a Teddy Ruxpin doll that's been dyed orange.

Top Chef
How It Is Now: The "drunken, horribly angry chefs compete for a vague prize" Bravo hit is all about on-location filming, from Miami to New York to Chicago. No "big" names like Project Runway, but zombie bite victim and series host Padma Lakshmi probably isn't that cheap anymore.
The Cheapening: Easy-Bake Ovens, mostly. Head judge Tom Colicchio will be swapped out for a cardboard cutout of Mr. Clean. Also, the already heavily product-placementy series will get further tie-ins, and contestants will be forced to cook with only the "Kraft family of products."

America's Next Top Model
How It Is Now: This strange, melting wax figurine of a competition series, one of The CW's biggest hits, flies their final contestants to far-flung locations like China, Thailand, and South Africa. They often employ many stylists and photographers. Plus, Tyra. She's making a mint off this thing.
The Cheapening: The new, cheaper "cycles" will last only three minutes. The first two will just be slo-mo footage of Tyra gyrating and posing for some unseen photographer while, in voiceover, she reads selections from her diary. In the final minute, Tyra will shriek some weird name like "Yahoo" or "Jasmenayaya" and a weird leggy thing will emerge from the shadows, weeping. She'll be handed the keys to a 1987 Datsun and then the lights will be shut off. Nothing will be lost in this new version.

The Hills
How It Is Now: Fancy camera work, increasingly popular stars, buzzy pop songs, constant on-location filming. While MTV is unlikely to make many changes to their hugely successful series, there are a few corners that could be cut.
The Cheapening: Each episode will simply feature soaring stock footage of Los Angeles while melancholic upbeat pop-emo songs play. In a little box in the corner of the screen, one cast member (to be changed every week) will make facial expressions. Sometimes they'll say things like "Brody" or "Le Deux" or "Baloney."

Only time will tell if these prognostications will come true. You can also probably look forward to new seasons of your favorite reality shows like Survivor: Parking Lot, The Just OK Race, and So You Think You Can Dance For Nickels. Maybe we'll finally see the genre killed off! Wouldn't that be something.

For now, though: Enjoy.

I guess there are a lot of rumblings in the blogosphere about me and Dale and some concerns about our different HIV status.

First I think its interesting that people just assume he is HIV negative-which he is. Just an observation. Anyway-I feel the need to address the issue since I am so open about my status. First of all safer sex is VERY easy to practice and doesn't detract from the experience in any way. Beyond that if you are educated about HIV then you know that there are a myriad of things that two people of different HIV status can do sexually with no risk. I'm not going to delve into our sexual proclivities but all is good on the Jack/Dale front. Furthermore my viral load is undetectable which means that when they do a blood test they are unable to find any virus in my blood. That low level of HIV is due to the medication I take and regularly monitoring my status. This combined with safer sex practices allows two people with different HIV status to have a full, healthy relationship. I would also like to add that in the past I had 2 boyfriends for two years each and both of them were and are still HIV negative. Thanks!

Hopefully Mackenroth's forthright addressing of the matter will put it to rest, allowing the pair to return to the exciting process of discovering each others' likes, dislikes, and bodies according to their own relaxed, "let's just see where this goes and try not think about the millions of busybodies liveblogging every blip of our budding romance" schedules.

• Me and Dale [blog.jackmackenroth.com via Project Rungay]

We picked up the phone and called Jack, who had this to say:

"It's very baby steps. I really like him a lot. And geography is a bit of an issue, but we'll see where it goes. I like him a lot. I assume he likes me a lot. Unless he's lying...(laughter)... He's adorable. I like keeping it incestuous, keep it in the Bravo family."

SO we immediately had to call Dale, who told us,

"Yeah, we randomly met over Myspace. And then we bumped into each other at the OUT100 party and clicked. He's hilarious. We're just gonna roll with it and see what happens. And he's cute as %&#@. We have the same sense of humor. We giggle a lot, and you know, anytime you end up going through the Bravo-reality-show...we just looked at each other and said, 'yeah...'"

As Bravo's executive yenta Andy Cohen kvells until his head explodes from all the cross-promotional love in the air this Chrismukkah, let's take a moment to remember the millions of single Gays (and lightly delusional hags), whose weekly rendezvous with either of the two Fantasy Boyfriend templates—Dale (bearishly Semitic with a touch-of-danger mohawk), and Jack (WASPy, gymtastic body, with a touch-of-danger elbow tattoo)—was the closest thing any of them had to an intimate relationship. Still, that photo is the cutest thing we've seen since injured baby hedgehogs, rendering us incapable of wishing the two anything but many happy years and Chinese girl babies together.

• Jack and Dale: Dating [blogs.outzonetv.com]

• Top Chef [BravoTV.com]

(Not actually reported in the article, but probably not far from the truth.) Predictably, Bravo corporate mouthpiece Andy Cohen rushed to the defense of his many equally adored reality show stepchildren, taking particular issue with the way New York's reporter scoffed at the network's policy of banning any contestant-on-contestant diddling:

I thought the article was pretty good and fair... Until I got to what I think is a slam regarding the fact that nobody on these Bravo competish shows are allowed to sex it up together.

Whaaaayt??

I THINK [New York writer Jennifer] Senior was dissing this??? Or was making a sly comment about it? I don't know, but I feel pretty great that under our watch, you ain't allowed to "do it" with another contestant. We're not the "Real World" and we're not checking for STD's and we're just not in that game. If Tabs gets herpes from another hairstylist that I helped cast, how am I gonna sleep at night!? Design all the dresses you want, but screw on your own clock.

We must commend Andy's attempts at preserving the virtue of his extended reality family. If, as he once hinted, he were to accidentally walk in on a gay Runway fourgy, or fail to prevent Shear Genius's Tabatha from taking a wrong turn onto Valtrex Blvd. after one red-wine-fueled night of sensual experimentation with Dr. Boogie, by his own admission, the guilt would keep him from sleeping. It's precisely the kind of high-stress scenario that might send a overtaxed reality exec running for the nearest bottle of Nuit Blanche.

* UPDATE: According to Reality Blurred, Jay McCarroll was just kidding when he claimed he was homeless.

• New York Magazine [Andy's Blog]