Last night, Pee-wee Herman was the guest judge on Top Chef. And I don’t mean that “Paul Reubens, the actor who plays Pee-wee Herman” was a guest judge. No. I mean that Paul Reubens in character as Pee-wee Herman showed up for the Quickfire and opined on everyone’s pancakes. Then he told them they’d be riding bicycles to pick up ingredients around San Antonio before serving him lunch at the Alamo. You know, because Pee-wee’s Big Adventure revolves around a lost bicycle and the supposed basement of the Alamo. And that’s really relevant because that movie came out in August of 1985, making this… no kind of anniversary.

But look: I don’t even care about the speciousness of the theme. What bothers me is thatTop Chef degraded itself and its contestants (as well as Reubens) by having everyone pretend that Pee-wee Herman was a real person. Never once did they acknowledge he was playing a character, yet everyone’s pained eyes told us they were straining to act like they enjoyed the charade. Let me break it down like this:

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On today’s installment of the Extra Hot Great podcast, I recount how an episode of Roseanne sparked one of the most embarrassing things that has ever happened to me.

Along with the rest of the team, I also discuss Joyful Noise, Mark Wahlberg, and several other high-octane topics.

Do go listen… and enjoy my shame!

My week at NPR’s Monkey See blog continues with my secret wish for American Horror Story‘s second season. It doesn’t directly involve a scene where Dylan McDermott makes out with Zachary Quinto, but I’m not closing that door.

By Doug Strassler

I really didn’t think there was any reason to remake the Prime Suspect series, that near-perfect septet of episodes in which Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison (Helen Mirren, giving an ongoing performance that was an embarrassment of nuanced riches) fought criminals and colleagues alike.

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We need to talk about Revenge, the ABC drama that has quickly joined NBC’s Up All Night as my favorite new show of the season. The pilot is delicious: It’s got the soapy intrigue of Ringer, but with better acting, writing, and production design. It’s got a back-from-obscurity star turn from Madeleine Stowe that will inspire generations of drag queens, and just in case you want it, it’s got a fascinating perspective on America’s economic crisis.

(Watch the entire pilot here.)

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* Overall, I enjoyed the show. I love upset winners, and these awards provided plenty. It was especially great to see Melissa McCarthy step out from the beauty-pageant line of Best Comedy Actress nominees. She seemed genuinely delighted, and the whole gimmick of that category made all the other women seem like good sports. (Sidebar: Laura Linney’s got amazing legs. That dress was working for her.)

* Speaking of enthusiasm, I need the Kate Winslet haters to step the fuck off. I’ve seen various tweeters slamming her for an “arrogant” acceptance speech, but come ON. As with the Oscars, it seems like people are pissed at her for actually being excited to win a major acting award, but why shouldn’t she be? Just because you’re the frontrunner doesn’t mean you can’t be happy when you win. And besides, everyone who watches these shows—myself included—feeds into the cultural story that awards like the Emmy are a really big deal. It’s unfair to create the beast and the be made at someone for conquering it. And yeah, yeah… we can all nurse our pet crushes on cooler-than-cool winers like Helen Mirren and Emma Thompson, and I love them, too, but Kate Winslet isn’t required to be a Bitchin’ British Dame. It’s okay for her to have the enthusiasm of a Melissa McCarthy, even though she’s not the underdog. If everyone accepted awards with the same air of nonchalance, then the Emmys would be the Grammys, and NOBODY wants that. (Oh, also? Kate Winslet is a phenomenal actress. Phenomenal. So let’s all acknowledge that when she wins, she deserves to win.)

* I’m not sure we needed the show’s announcer to make snappy comments about every winner, especially when we had Jane Lynch hurling barbs the stage. The Emmys have been drifting toward the all-irony, all-the-time approach for years, and we’ve reached a point where the jokes are crashing into obvious slots. Here’s the “two presenters stage a fight” bit, and here’s the bit where we cut backstage and see someone acting like a crazy person. Here’s the Betty White joke, the unnecessary opening number where famous TV people dance and sing, and the bit where somebody slags on reality TV.

* That said, I really enjoyed seeing six television actors form an ad hoc singing group to announce each new section of the show. Add “looks good in a cummerbund” and “can carry a tune” to the reasons I will someday marry Joel McHale.

* It’s been said many times tonight, but it must be said again: Dry ice and “Hallelujah” and singers who really do resemble The Lonely Island are a bad combination for an In Memoriam tribute.

* Even in the half-second of her performance clip, it was clear that Margo Martindale deserved to win, and I don’t even watch that show. I love her. Weirdly, I also don’t watch The Big Bang Theory, Mike and Molly, Friday Night Lights, or The Good Wife. Yet I feel like I enjoy lots of quality programming all the same.

By Doug Strassler

This past July, I fully anticipated writing a laundry list of personally beloved – and meritorious – shows and performers that went without Emmy recognition. But when this year’s slate of nominees were announced, in addition the expected war horses (Mad Men, Boardwalk Empire, Mildred Pierce, Modern Family, Game of Thrones), I found a sizable number of my own favorites in the mix as well. Less sure things like Episodes, Friday Night Lights, Jusitified and Louie all saw some well-deserved love.

Which leaves me with only one omission to carp about, a performances so wonderful, so haunting, that it will still make this Sunday’s Emmys telecast feel slightly lacking: Irrfan Khan of HBO’s late In Treatment.

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If you’re wondering why I’ve spent the week vacillating between terror and joy, then I should remind you that the new TV season has begun. Every night brings a new companion to my home, and I never know if our dalliance will end with a passionate embrace or call to the local police.

So far, I’ve watched the pilots of 2 new series, and I’ve liked both of them enough to give them another try. One of those repeat visits will be utterly joyous, and the other will be marked with caution. Read on to find out which is which…

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Given all the neck popping and hand flailing and implied snapping, you might think this Tide commercial perpetuates the stereotype of the “sassy black woman.” But think again. It’s actually a subversive declaration about racial boundaries in America.

The ad is ostensibly about a black woman’s refusal to accept that white jeans go out of season. “I’ll rock white jeans whenever I want,” she declares, rising from a park bench to emphasize her point.

But think about it: She’s saying she’ll wear whiteness. “Not ‘whitish,’ not eggshell, not ecru.” White.

In other words, she will assume a white identity at her leisure. She’ll rock white genes whenever she wants.

For me, “wearing whiteness” means mastering the codes of white culture and performing them in order to access “white privilege.” To prove that privilege can be hers, the woman ends the commercial by saying the word “white” with exaggerated emphasis, hitting the “t” like a professional boxer. It’s like she’s conjuring whiteness, calling it forth from the ether.

And after she says “white,” the woman’s voice changes. Her final line—”That’s my Tide, what’s yours?”—has the chipper affect of a perky Greenwich wife, making her sound so stereotypically white that she could pass for Tipper Gore. In a subtly rebellious touch, she uses the “white voice” to deliver the brand’s tagline.

By flipping on whiteness like a switch, the woman says, “Be careful, white America. Equality’s on the way. The minorities in this country have learned your language and your ways, and we can infiltrate your ranks in ways you’ll never  notice.”

I mean… right? That has to be what Tide intended. Otherwise, this commercial would just be reductive and offensive, and no major brand would release an ad like that.

Welcome to Sucker Punch, the only blog post that ranks the gaudiest moments on this week’s episode of True Blood.

SPOILERS AHEAD

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Oh my God… it’s like this episode was delivered directly to my heart. It’s like Alan Ball and company looked at an X-ray of my desires and said, “Oh, okay. Let’s give Mark everything he wants for the end of the season.” And sure, that’s not what actually happened, but I love this episode no less, no less, no less.

“And When I Die” is a prophetic title since many characters do just that. I’ve been frustrated with the show for weeks because it keeps creating faux-dangerous situations for its lead characters, then rescuing them fifteen seconds later, with no one actually dying or (more importantly) changing. It’s been exhausting.

This week, however, real change visits everyone, and in at least a few cases, real death. I’m not saying I’ve been wanting characters to die, per se, but it’s nice to see the writers commit to the end of several arcs and then suggest how the survivors are going  move on. Rather than getting stuck in the rut of “I died, but then I drank your blood/inhabited your body,” we get some honest-to-god evolution.

Granted, I expect at least one of these deaths to be magically reversed next season, but since so many other changes have been set it motion, I’ll be fine with that. If any of these people survive, then they’ll be returning to a different world.

But let’s get back to the episode:

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