It's no secret that I like food. It's no secret that I like people, and watching them. It's also no secret that I like television. Apparently, it's also no secret that TiVo can see sense this no-longer-private mystery.
Given these preconditions, it's no secret that I am enjoying a ridiculous reality TV show called "The Next Food Network Star". This is a Survivoresque, kill-or-be-killed Lord of The Flies, crush your opponents, no more Mr Nice Guy, cutthroat battle to the death.
It dawned on me suddenly when it dawned on a contestant that this is so far from reality I can hardly believe it. She was in tears at The Judgement, where the Judges had spent the previous (edited) five minutes cutting and thrusting into the contestants. The lady in question was crying because she had realised that her private life was merging with her public life. Her tears were her, and the previously private persona (or, PPP) was now hanging out to dry, come rain or come shine.
I used to play with friends about how we'd all do if we were to compete on Survivor - either together or not. I was generally confident that either a) I'd be voted out early because I was A Threat, b) I'd be able to fly under the radar long enough that I'd get into the final three until Alpha Boy crushed me in a last inevitable throe of dominance, or bugger me c) I'd actually win the bastard.
Given that her lasagne was less than golden-crispy, and she was only then reflecting on the private/public dichotomy, I'm not confident.
That said, the ability to make a good garlic bread should not be underestimated.
Given these preconditions, it's no secret that I am enjoying a ridiculous reality TV show called "The Next Food Network Star". This is a Survivoresque, kill-or-be-killed Lord of The Flies, crush your opponents, no more Mr Nice Guy, cutthroat battle to the death.
It dawned on me suddenly when it dawned on a contestant that this is so far from reality I can hardly believe it. She was in tears at The Judgement, where the Judges had spent the previous (edited) five minutes cutting and thrusting into the contestants. The lady in question was crying because she had realised that her private life was merging with her public life. Her tears were her, and the previously private persona (or, PPP) was now hanging out to dry, come rain or come shine.
I used to play with friends about how we'd all do if we were to compete on Survivor - either together or not. I was generally confident that either a) I'd be voted out early because I was A Threat, b) I'd be able to fly under the radar long enough that I'd get into the final three until Alpha Boy crushed me in a last inevitable throe of dominance, or bugger me c) I'd actually win the bastard.
Given that her lasagne was less than golden-crispy, and she was only then reflecting on the private/public dichotomy, I'm not confident.
That said, the ability to make a good garlic bread should not be underestimated.