When I’m feeling down, I watch clips of the show, Lip Sync Battle, and it never fails to cheer me up. It’s just loads of fun, and it’s great to see the contestants go all out for the second performance. One thing I started to notice is that a lot of the guys like to do songs sung by women. I don’t know why that struck me, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about for some time, so I decided to do a thinkpiece about it because why the hell not?
I think it has something to do with it being a safe way to express their femininity. In addition, most of them are actors, so they’re probably more flexible in their ideas of gender fluidity–at least the ones who dressed up to some degree as the singer (or as a woman in general).
I consider myself a Lip Sync Battle connoisseur since I’ve watched so many clips (and repeatedly). It’s not a guilty pleasure because I feel no guilt at all while I’m singing along. There are several categories of men lip syncing to women singing, so I’m going to tackle them one by one with examples before presenting you my top five fave performances in this genre ever.
The first category is guys who don’t change their appearances at all, but simply lip sync to the song. Dwayne Johnson singing Shake It Off by Taylor Swift is one such example. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but the joy with which he bounces around and shakes his shoulders is infectious. In addition, there’s something sublimely silly about a musclebound man like ‘The Rock’ imitating a teenager’s giggle.
I’ve heard raves about RuPaul’s Drag Race but never watched it, mostly because I’m not into fashion at all. I’m the diametric opposite of a glamour girl; indeed, I don’t wear makeup at all. For whatever reason, I decided to watch it one day, and the earliest season available on Amazon Prime is Season 5. I was immediately annoyed by the whole Coco Montrese/Alyssa Edwards rivalry because it seemed so childish to me. I could see both sides, and I could see how both sides did wrong. And yet, each one wanted to play the victim. Hm. It’s a lot like Twitter fights, come to think of it. It’s why I don’t watch reality shows in general. I don’t like witnessing other people’s drama because it makes me tense while simultaneously boring me.
Then, the whole Rolaska Tox thing happened, and I started rolling my eyes. Hard. Roxxxy Andrews, Alaska Thunderfuck, and Detox Icunt (only called Detox on the show) bonded and quickly became a clique. They got it into their heads to hate Jinkx Monsoon and to get her off the show. Again, it was very mean girlish, and as Jinkx was my favorite (except Vivienne Pinay, but she was booted off rather early), watching the other three gang up on her was infuriating and curdled my stomach. To be fair, Alaska extracted herself from the group after giving a warning by Michelle (whom I hate, by the way, but I’ll get more to that later) that cliques can harm you. Alaska also seemed like the nicest of the three, and she wasn’t too mean to Jinkx except once throwing her under the bus along with the rest of Rolaska Tox.
I also felt like there was way too much filler in that season. They dragged out the finals for two weeks, which was not needed. I was so glad Jinkx made the final three, but it was hard to see Detox leave notes for the other two (Alaska and Roxxxy) when Detox was outed as the fourth girl left, and she didn’t leave one for Jinkx. I identified so strongly with Jinkx, being the weird one, the outsider, and not a glam girl at all. Watching her breakdown was hard, although I loved her mantra, “Water off a duck’s back.” I don’t know how she hung in there with so much hate flowing her way, but much props to her for sticking it out.
Let’s talk about Michelle Visage. I wish she wasn’t a judge on the show because she really drags it down, no pun intended. She’s a hanger-on and a RuPaul-wannabe, and you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take Jersey out of the girl. She’s so much a pageant girl, and she wants everyone to do glam all the time. Big hair, cinched waists (which is not good for your innards), heavy makeup, and glitter. She wants the prom look magnified, and it gets really fucking old. I liked Santino Rice even if he did kiss ass as well, but it was clear he and Michelle did not get along. There’s a clip of the two of them talking about something, and Michelle is saying brocade as if it rhymed with odd. Bro-COD. She says it a few times while Santino looks puzzled, then he says with contempt, “You mean brocade?” She looks furious and says it’s pronounced bro-COD in France. He says clearly, “It’s brocade.” #TeamSantino in the house. She is way too prominent in Season 5, and she tries so hard to be RuPaul, it is embarrassing. There is one time when she has to do the pep talk before a challenge because Ru was doing something else, and it is embarrassing to hear her deliver Ru’s signature, “Don’t fuck it up” line.
In the past week, I’ve been sucked into the talent show videos rabbit hole. It started–oh, hell. I don’t know how it started, but I began compulsively watching the best and worst auditions of Britain’s Got Talent, then it widened out to America’s Got Talent, X Factor, and whatever else I felt like watching. There’s something compelling about the best and the worst, duh, for respectively, the spine-chilling, ‘holy shit!’ factor and the, ‘I cannot believe what I’m seeing/hearing right now. This is a train wreck’ impulse.
I’ve learned a few things watching these audition shows (and followup clips when I really like an act). One, there are a lot of deluded people out there. I’m not talking about the people who are decent at what they do, but don’t quite have the ‘it’ thing, but people who have no talent whatsoever. There were a few I was convinced were doing it as a joke, but many were so sincere.
Side note: I started watching Season 8 of American Idol, and any time they would take a closer look at a contestant, I knew the person was either going to be terrific or terrible, usually the latter. Any time a singer said, “I know I’m going to win,” I knew they’d be awful, but I rarely was ready for how terrible they would be. Then, most of them would be shocked that they weren’t given a golden ticket, and some of them explosively so. I couldn’t help thinking, “Where are your friends? Your family? Isn’t there anyone to give you some tough love?” I know some of them probably just ignored their family (one guy explicitly said his mother told him he couldn’t sing) and friends, but others had family and friends with them that told them they were the best and shouldn’t give up! I understand wanting to support your loved one, but it’s cruel to give hope where there is none. It’s like telling me I could be a WNBA star if I just really tried hard enough. Or I’m going to be president. It’s. Not. Going. To. Happen, and my friends would be doing me a disservice if they encouraged me to pursue either of these activities.
Still feeling squidgy and squicky. Oh, sorry! I’ve been binge-watching the Great British Bake Off and just finished the first season, so I still have my British slang on. I really like the show for several reasons. One, I love baking shows. I used to bake now and again, and it’s much more pleasing to me than cooking is. Two, scrumptious desserts. Enough said. Three, there’s none of the American machismo and grandiosity of, “I’m going to win, shove it in your ear!!” Yes, it’s still a reality show and scripted in a way, but it’s more laid-back than American reality cooking shows. There’s no faux-ginning up of the tension or false bravado. In fact, it’s quite endearing that the competitors were all rooting each other on*, and they were genuinely distraught when it came time to cut a contestant. Also, none of the contestants will actually say they think they’ll win. The closest they’ll come is, “I quite think I might have a chance.” I had fun trying to figure out who would be cut at the end of each episode, and I was usually right. The tells aren’t as obvious as they are in, say, Chopped, but I’m catching on to the British way of doing things.
The one thing I really didn’t like, though, happened in the final episode. There are three contestants (seven have already gone home), and they have one round as a semifinals before one is cut. Paul Hollywood is a master baker and one of the judge. Mary Berry is a baker and a food writer–called the Queen of Cakes–is the other judge. In the final episode, Paul was very dismissive of one of the women for choosing cupcakes as her mini-cakes (for a special tea). He called it childish even before she made them. Then, when she presented her cupcakes, he was still adamant they weren’t for an adult tea, even though he admitted they tasted fantastic. He also didn’t like the decoration of the other woman’s mini-cakes, calling them too girly. It was very off-putting, and it was even worse when he and Mary were discussing who should be cut. It was very evident that he wanted to cut Miranda (cupcake woman), whereas it was equally obvious that Mary wanted to keep Miranda. The minute I heard Paul’s critique, I knew Miranda would be cut.** When she was, I was irritated. It’s not that I thought the other woman or the man should have been cut, but just that Paul’s bias was so clear and that I knew he would get his way in the end.
Anyway! It’s still an addictive show, and I find myself watching episode after episode while sipping my tea and resting my tired body. I’m frustrated that I can’t kick this flu or cold or whatever it is. It’s been almost a week, and I had hoped it’d be done by now. Here’s a video of Maru getting into things. I love this cat.
*At least in the first season. I’m on the first episode of the second season, and they’ve expanded the contestant pool, so we’ll see.
**It was between Miranda and the other woman. The man was clearly safe.
There’s one thing about me that people may not know–I love cooking shows. My family thinks this is hilarious because I don’t cook. What’s more, I don’t like to cook. I can cook, and I have cooked, but I much prefer having other people cook for me. So, I guess the fact that I get a kick out of watching cooking shows is amusing to my family. My rebuttal is that tons of people watch home reno shows and have no intention on doing it themselves, so what’s the difference? I don’t have cable, but it’s not necessary these days as many shows are online. I don’t remember why I looked up Chopped, but then I realized that the Food Network website had full episodes available. You only have to watch a fifteen second ad every now and then. No biggie. I can either suffer through it or mute when it comes on. What I didn’t realize, however, is that it’s the same ad every goddamn time. Marie Callender’s. I think they go back and forth between two different ads, but the one I remember most vividly–and, by the way, I hate that ads are louder than the actual show–has an oily sounding narrator crooning, “Marie starts her chicken pot pie with a crust made from scratch”, making me want to shout, “No you don’t, Marie! Don’t you lie to me.”
Ian and I had a game we used to play in which we’d watch Chopped together and tweet imaginary baskets because there’s always one heinous ingredient with three decent to great ones. So, I’d tweet something like, “Mustard greens, braised duck, garlic naan, and shoe polish.” Ian would add something amusing such as, “Chicken wings, beetroot ketchup, shoestring potatoes, and the tears of angel babies.” We’d hashtag it #ChoppedBaskets, and we’d get several people joining in. There was one basket in which every ingredient was disgusting, and I tweeted that it must be an April Fool’s Day joke.
A few things about the show itself. I think the structure of the show is genius. For those who have never seen it, the show starts with four chefs. They have twenty minutes to cook an appetizer with the ingredients from the mystery basket. Then, one of them gets chopped, and three chefs have thirty minutes to cook an entree. Rinse, lather, and repeat, and two chefs have thirty minutes to make a dessert. The winner get $10,000 and bragging rights. There is tension in every round because you know that one person is going home. It’s hokey, sure, but it works. There are three judges, all of them famous chefs. There are the regular judges, and then there are special judges when they do a themed show. Ted Allen is the host, and he can be sympathetic or acerbic depending on the situation. By the way, Michael Chernow, one of the co-owners of The Meatball Shop, was a guest judge on the meatball episode, and he’s insanely hot. Like, make me forget my own name hot. Like, I would shiv a perfect stranger to kiss him hot. Like, the things I would do to his meatball–ahem. Sorry.
When I finished binge-watching Poirot episodes, I struggled to find another crime series to watch. I gave a half dozen a try, but I didn’t like any of them. The gritty, realistic ones were trying to hard, and the quirky one was too twee for my taste. The latter wasn’t bad, and I might revisit it, but it didn’t really hold my interest. Before I went on the Poirot rampage, I had been watching Criminal Minds. I stopped during Season Four when I hit the ‘that darn internet’ episode, but out of desperation, I started watching it again from where I left off. Let me be clear. I think Criminal Minds is a mediocre-to-competent program. Production is slick, and the acting is competent for the most part, but it’s basically the fast food of TV shows. Comforting, deep-fried, and unthinkingly consumed. It’s especially noticeable when you binge-watch the show and see how same-y every episode is. Horrific crime shown in the first five minutes. Obvious suspect introduced within the next ten. The team flies out and is often greeted with hostility. The case touches one of them in a personal way, and they have conflict over how to deal with it. Then, after more gruesome scenes, they figure out who the real culprit is and arrest him/her. The suspect rarely escapes, unless it’s one of the nemesis enemies.
The episode that caused me to stop watching the show actually turned out to be OK. It wasn’t an indictment on the internet as much as it was an indictment on the twisted individual who was using the internet to wreak mayhem and destruction. I started watching again, and I plowed through the whole series.* I noticed that as the seasons progressed, they started running out of ideas. That’s not uncommon with a long-running series, and it’s even more apparent when you watch the episodes back-to-back-to-back in a fairly short amount of time. I would say that when Paget Brewster was written off the show was the time it went off the rails. She was never my favorite character because she was too good at everything, but the team chemistry did take a hit once she was gone.
“You must use the little grey cells, Hastings!” How often have I read that in a Poirot story? More times than I care to count. I’ve been entranced with Hercule Poirot since I was a kid, reading every novel and short story I could get my hands on. I devoured them, reading each at least ten times and some up to a hundred. I’ve read other books by Agatha Christie as well, but none have captured my imagination as much as that little Belgian fusspot with the magnificent mustaches and OCD traits.
I have loved detective stories since I first learned to read. Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, Encyclopedia Brown, to name a few. I wrote my first mystery when I was in fifth grade, and I illustrated it myself. It was atrocious, but there was a glimmer of the twisted, torturous mind that I would soon fully develop.
Back to Poirot. Many years ago, I started watching the Poirot movies, starting with the Peter Ustinov versions. I didn’t care for them much because I didn’t think Ustinov was the right actor for the role. I can’t exactly explain why, but he was too big, too bluff, and too…much. He was smug and condescending, and, yes, Poirot is both of these things, but not overtly so. I also watched the Albert Finney version of Poirot in Murder on the Orient Express (which was a cavalcade of top-tier stars). He was dreadful, though I read that Dame Christie said he was her favorite version. I think she was pulling everyone’s leg. She fairly hated Poirot by the end of her career (as evidenced by her writing the character Ariadne Oliver, a writer who’s fed up with her Finn detective), and she probably rued the day she created him.
I started watching the David Suchet series on PBS, and I was hooked. In the early days, they were fairly faithful to the books, though they had to make adjustments for cinematic purposes, of course. I thought the casting as pretty near perfect with Hugh Fraser as the bluff, hearty, auburn-haired woman-smitten, and dim but loyal Captain Hastings; Pauline Moran as the austere and efficient Miss Lemon, and Philip Jackson as the dour, sardonic, and dogged Inspector Japp. I do have a problem with the way they made Miss Lemon more warm and less like a human robot, but I still quite like Pauline Moran’s performance.
I am rabidly conflict-avoidant, and I’m always fearful. So, to see all the protests and people talking about resistance is very gratifying to me, but it also makes me feel ashamed.
I am always afraid. It’s a matter of extent, and it’s faded in time, but there’s always a nugget of fear in the back of my mind. I have to know the closest exit at all times, I will freak the fuck out if you touch me unexpectedly, and any time I’m in a tense situation, my PTSD kicks in.
I’ve heard more than one survivor of sexual assault talking about flashbacks and trigger warnings. Not about anything they read or see, but about the result of the election.
We talk about rape culture, and many people pooh-pooh that it exists. This is the clearest example that many people just don’t give a shit about sexual assault. Trump can be caught on tape saying he can grab any pussy he wants because he’s a star, and after the initial outrage, a collective yawn. “It’s just locker talk.” “He didn’t really mean it.” “All guys talk like that.” Continue Reading