Jay Effing Pegs

Oh, authors, do you have a sec? I know you think you're doing everyone a huge favor by saving that image with the "smallest file" setting, but all you're really doing is making me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon.

Go and open one of those files, Jackson. I'll wait.

See how your image looks like crap now? Mmhm. See all those dots? Yeah... see the thing about the JPEG format is that it uses lossy compression. If you're trying to make it look like Seurat took that picture, then well done. But if you're shooting for a quality level that says "respected scientific journal" rather than "elementary school book report", you have failed.

Let's go back to that word "lossy", because it's important. It means that when the JPEG fairy squishes your file, she tosses out all of the stuffing, and by "stuffing" I mean "the bits that make your picture not look terrible". And then she burns them with napalm and salts the earth behind her as she flies away laughing, and I can't get those bits back to make your picture look not terrible again.

If we start having a shortage of ones and zeros, then by all means, compress the hell out of those files. Until then, nimrod, storage is dirt cheap. How about if you let a professional decide how small your file needs to be?

Hey. Look over there in my coffee cup...

It's a spoon.

Top Chef Recap

Hey! This is a repeat.

I changed the channel. I forget what I watched.

Oops. It's Friday Already?

We need a word like "guy" that applies to gir... uh... wome... err... you know, babes. We need one that isn't age specific and doesn't make you sound like you're on your way to a hoedown if you use it in polite conversation (e.g., "gal").

Imagine this conversation:

"Where's the post office?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask that _____?"

If they're pointing at a male, "guy" will fill in the blank in pretty much every situation. If the pointee is female, there is no obvious choice without more information.

If you're born a guy, you're a guy 'til you die... barring expensive surgical options or duct tape and denial. That's just not true for women. After thousands of years, how can we not have come up with a similar word for the female of the species?

I'm Deadspot, and how can heaven hold a place for me when a... Crap. And I just got that song out of my head.

I'm Deadspot and I support this message.

Phil Collins Might Not Be Satan

I wanted to wallow, big time, deeply, and with the least amount of perspective possible.
-- Starlee Kine

I just listened to the most recent podcast from This American Life. It had a story that, in addition to having the best quote about breakups, ever, in the entire history of breakups, contained a bit where the narrator sort of serendipitously got a chance to talk to Phil Collins about how to write a breakup song.

While I listened, I realized something. While Phil Collins does write mediocre, treacley pop music, he probably isn't a horrible guy; he's just not Peter Gabriel. If he hadn't gotten a divorce at just the wrong time, he'd probably be a jazz drummer somewhere getting free drinks from aging Genesis fans, and we'd all have been spared decades of cheese. I blame his ex-wife.

The weird thing is, I actually think I dislike him less now. Don't get me wrong, his music still sucks, but I enjoyed the fact that he looks down upon the music of Michael Bolton, and I liked the way he said "ugh, nice..." in a sort of exasperated way when he heard about a jerky thing her boyfriend had done. He was a strangely realistic simulacrum of a human being when he was talking to a stranger on the phone. I'm willing to entertain the possibility that he is not actually evil.

Marketplace Is Not the News

An open letter to the folks at Marketplace:

Hi, guys. My local NPR station just swung a little farther to the right by picking up your program and I couldn't be more happy that I stopped contributing after their pathetic cheerleading in the run up to the invasion of Iraq. At least they aren't pissing away any of my money on your show. Your cheesy production values and poorly-disguised business PR fluff pieces run as legitimate news stories are a disgrace to the once proud institution of public radio.

Please pass these notes along to your "correspondents" regarding this morning's broadcast:

Hey, Elizabeth Wynne Johnson, on nationally-syndicated radio this morning, you used the phrase "Cloak of Inflammability" to describe the application of fire retardant to the homes of the ultra wealthy in fire-threatened areas...

a) That word doesn't mean what you think it means.

b) I know you love Harry Potter, but wizard please...

c) The real story here isn't that the insurance companies are protecting the homes of the ultra wealthy, but that if you aren't ultra wealthy, they're perfectly willing to let your stuff burn. Because they hate you.

d) You're not very smart.

Hey, Jeremy Hobson, the middle class is not shrinking because they are all getting richer, dumbass. Somebody kick him in the balls for me.

Maybe Helen Palmer could do it, since she did a story on how middle class Americans have to fly to Cuba to afford health care... if the story hadn't been a thinly-veiled scare piece threatening them with fines and jail time if they try to evade the clutches of Big Medicine. I hope you enjoyed that check from the HMO industry. Don't spend it all in one place. You may need it if something was to... 'appen to you.

And finally, can you jackasses stop talking about the sub-prime lending crisis as if it is a bad thing? Look, they were lending money that they didn't have, for less than it cost them to borrow, to people that couldn't pay them back. The only way they could make money off this deal is by bankrupting the poor bastards that took their loans and seizing their assets. These lenders deserve to lose money in a big way. And for all of the assholes who tried to make a quick buck off these predators, and the banks that supported them and benefited from these Shylocks? Caveat emptor, caniculae.

God Makes You Bulletproof

According to rabbi Ovadia Yosef, soldiers who "believe and pray" don't get killed. Good to know. He seems to be willing to take this on faith. I like science, so I propose an experiment: he believes and prays while someone shoots him in the head. Let's see what happens, shall we?

I bet there's a family member or two of these fallen soldiers who would volunteer right about now.

Ovadia also blames their deaths on the fact that they don't put on their magic prayer boxes every day. Hmmm... That sounds strangely familiar, but far be it from me to draw parallels between superstitious aborigines following a discredited system of belief and superstitious practitioners of a not-yet-discredited system of belief... especially when they have thermonuclear weapons.

Coulda Been A Contendah...

wow. Just wow. ...but I'm getting ahead of myself.

We have a quick montage to recap last week's episode, which you no doubt have already read about, and then we go to the Quickfire challenge, which is mercifully product placement free.

It seems wrong somehow.

I Could be Manager in Two Years. King. God.
It's the Mise en Place Race. Those of us who just read Kitchen Confidential know what the Meez is, and nod knowingly, but Raddichio explains for the viewers at home. The winning team gets a sommelier and extra wine money. I go out on a limb. Could it possibly be Top Sommelier?

The prep consists of shucking oysters, dicing some onions, cutting up whole chickens, and separating eggs and whipping the whites until they'll stay in an upside-down bowl. One person has to do each step, and they have to finish before the next person can start. Gee, I wonder which Overdog will take on the seafood. Radicchio toots his bosun's whistle, and they're off. It's Tiny Bald Howie vs. The Talking Dog. Sweaty has no chance. He's only 2/3 done when the Dog steps aside.

BattaBatta tells us that dicing onions isn't exactly "brain science", but I think the phrase she's looking for is "rocket surgery". Holy crap. They need a time lapse camera to make this watchable. It's like Casey saw a diagram of how to dice an onion once, but has not actually done it before. As soon as Tiny Slow Howie steps aside, Second Sara has become Shiva, the destroyer of onions. There is a bowl of onions, and then some flashing blurry stuff happens, and then there's a pile of diced onion. Second Sara just made everyone her bitches. She's got so many bitches, they're gonna have to call her "Bitches". (...and if you've never watched Boondocks, you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. It's OK. I get that a lot.)

Hung goes after those those chickens like they killed his mom, and everybody counts their fingers afterward... you know, just to be sure.

Casey finally finishes dicing onions. Tre starts on the chickens, but Team Overdog is so far in the weeds, they're hearing banjo music. Mohawk cruises to a finish, and in the end Tre just watches him.

Speed of Lightning, Sound of Thunder, Hold the Vanilla.
Both restaurants have to open again, and this time, they have to have two options for each course. Major menu changes are the order of the day. But first they are going to redesign their restaurants and ditch the stinky candles.

Oh look. It's Obnoxious Douchebag from last week. He's a designer... not a very good one, but he's Madonna's brother so he still gets work. I think it's because people hope that Madonna will show up... the hot one... from the early 80s. If this were Clue, it would be Mohawk with a candlestick in the dining room, but it's not, so Mohawk pretends not to remember Douchey Ciccone. Team Underdog renames their restaurant "Quatre". Douchey doesn't like it, but they tell him he can lump it.

Back at the house, Tre spies on Team Underdog's menu meeting. Hey, Tre, it's Top Chef, not Top Weasel. Tre's big scoop on the rabbit course will turn out to be wrong, so he's acting like a tool on national TV for nothing. Fresh Market only has 2 bunnnies, so the Underdogs will have to scrap the rabbit idea.

They're off to shop. Oh, look, it is Top Sommelier.

When they get back to the kitchen the menus are as follows.
Restaurant Overdog: last week's scallops or some kind of salmon-pesto-grapefruit thing / cold carrot soup or lobster salad with cauliflower / last week's Beef and Butts or monkfish with mascarpone mashed potatoes / and to finish, bread pudding, which Tre assures us he can make in his sleep.
The Underdog Four: Hung's Tuna Tartare Nicoise from last week or Mohawk's poussin with mint gnocchi and some kind of orange drool / halibut with grapes and leeks or lamb with white and green beans / and for dessert, Hung makes panna cotta with berries for anyone foolish enough not to try last week's killer crepes.

Radicchio is going to hang out in the kitchen. According to her blog, Lee Ann had to bust the chefs' chops after the show last week for letting their dishes and shit pile up until it became a safety hazard. They tried to give her some shit, so he's going to ride herd and eat with the help. They should keep this for future episodes. If they are going to judge chefs on leadership, it seems like a good idea to see if they are leading, as opposed to hoping someone gets thrown over the bus.

Second Sara takes control of her kitchen. Every once in a while she goes over the top, like when Mohawk comes back and tells everyone that table 7 is VIPs as a segue into telling everyone that Sara and Joey are in the house (Hung is confused, "Who are Sara and Joey?") and she tromps all over Mohawk's news by interrupting with "They're all VIPs". But most of the time, she just demands that they send out good food, like when she tells Tiny Decaf Howie that his shit is not, in fact, going to get better if he "lets it rest" and to do it over. He slams an oven door, but astonishingly, does not revert into bulldog mode.

I can't believe that the snappiest thing I can think of to say about Hung is "Your monkey could forget his housemates' names." That's so weak. C'mon, Hung, give me something to work with.

There are only a few misses in the Underdining room, and they don't seem that bad. The guest judge has been hanging out down at the VFF and tells us that everyone serves tuna tartare. Frankly, he's so boring I'm not even going to make fun of him. Joey Bagadonuts tries to impress Sara by picking out Tiny Mancrush Howie's dishes, and dissing on them: they're underdone.

Midway through the service, Mohawk tells Top Sommelier not to "overserve", which is a polite way of saying "Less talky, more poury, monkeyboy."

Team Overdog wins in the former contestant challenge. They get Camille Who and Sassy Lia. We miss you, Lia, come back. Take Casey's place. She bores me. They also pulled Meltdown Dog back to the kitchen and put Casey At The Front. Aside from that, things go straight to hell. Ted says that Tre's salmon and grapefruit is terrible and has to wash the taste out of his mouth. Lurch's lobster is too salty. Tre's Beef and Butts, even if not oversmoked this time, is just not good. BattaBatta's monkfish isn't seared, it's overdone. To finish, it looks like Tre did make the bread pudding in his sleep.

Much Ado About Something
The judges can't believe it. Team Underdog is called in to be told that they won. Everyone gets praise. They liked Mohawk's lil chickies, so I guess losing the bunnies worked out just fine. Second Sara takes the win for her stunning victory over Team Overdog. I hope Rocco DiPlasticHair feels like a dumbass for saying she was the wrong choice to lead the kitchen. I wish I'd told him he was wrong. Oh wait, I did. Check me out... first post. Go me. If she actually won something, I missed it. That would suck, hunh? Opening a bag of frozen pasta gets you a trip to Italy, opening a fucking restaurant gets you a pat on the back. I don't get it.

The judges take Team Overdog to task. It sounds like they wish they could send a couple of them home. At commercial, I predict that they are looking for a loophole to send Lurch home instead of Tre. In a huge surprise upset, they follow their precedents and Tre has to pack his knives. He was the team leader, even if Lurch abdicated that position to him, and he turned out the worst of their dishes.

After the show, Lurch sidles over to Tre with the producers' Ambien: I Could Cook That In My Sleep Immunity. "Dude, I think you dropped this."