Saturday, October 28, 2006
Lovin' On The Cutting Board
This is from Mullins, not Brewster. Mullins can't seem to post, so all complaints should go to him. I'm just the messenger.
In six years of work at Scripps I’ve had the opportunity to see a lot of different “characters” muddle in obscurity and some of them shoot to the top of stardom. Though I’m not directly responsible for, or hardly connected to the 96% of those folks across HGTV, Food, DIY, Fine Living and GAC I still feel a bit connected to the process because without the little building I work in those people would not reach the rest of the world.
When I was working on The Best Of I first heard the name of what I then considered to be a sexy and fun little kitten named Rachel Ray. As things in life tend to do “we” (Rachel and I) have come to see things differently.
During a corporate meeting months before her first show hit the air I was introduced, via a 15ft television screen, to this vivacious, oddly sculpted and bubbly personality. What first attracted me to Ms. Ray at first is the same thing that has pulled in millions of viewers across the country many times during the week. That Polly Anna attitude, with nothing-much-to-see low cut blouses, and enrapturing giggle which slides through a perfectly supple mouth.
However, like old, slightly fractured eggs, week old warm milk, uncovered sun baked steak, something has spoiled. It’s been a slow process for me. One show was hardly enough, two was almost perfect. Two shows stripped out over the week was as awkward as the so-so girlfriend’s toiletries invading your space deodorant: fine, toothpaste & brush: fine, that poofy scrubby thing in the shower: too damn much! Three shows, the commitment is getting a bit claustrophobic, perhaps we need to see other people, is Wings on somewhere, please.
Then it happened… Each show on their prime-time slots began getting high numbers; the popularity wasn’t waning, in fact like a baker’s yeast it started to grow. Infectious giggles would wake me from my sleep, I realized that her ever so “Rubenesk” figure began to disappear, her nothing-much-to-see and Psalm inspired “declatee” was becoming something of the past. I had heard rumors about extended syndication and franchise opportunities, books, broadband, major sponsorship, product development and then perhaps one of the most male gut wrenching words ever “Oprah”.
The hippo of media conglomeration had taken a fancy for Rachel, not only had she taken a fancy but she saw potential. Having shat out and allowed to suckle the teat of success, Dr. Phil, her first prodigy was a dancing on the edge of super celebrity. Little did the world know my precious Rachel Ray was about to strap on the feed bag in Oprah’s troth and tap the ebony mammaries of an over saturated, super hyped, media monstrosity.
Last week as I pulled my wife’s first subscription issue of Everyday with Rachel Ray from the mailbox I felt a painfully electric twinge shoot through my body. Today, this very day, it hit me. After watching two and a half hours of Rachel Ray broadband clips, I hate Rachel Ray.
I can’t smell any sort of Cajun spice without hearing her tell me again and again in a dozen different ways that’s where her daddy is from. I like the way I prepare noodles and I don’t want her to tell me how it’s really done in Italy. Saying the word “arugula” doesn’t make me breakout into giggling fits, I don’t care what your favorite type of mushroom is and I sure as the world don’t want to have to hear it from your four hour block of programming on Food Network, every other pop up ad on-line and in the magazines that now seems to follow me from room to room in my own house. Unless you’re going to start playing Demi Moore’s part in the movie Ghost and get dirty with me at the spinning wheel quit shadowing me like an overly possessive, whiney, not nearly dead enough, Patrick Swayze.
I’m sorry Rachel, we had something special. It was beautiful and I will admit that I learned some kinky moves from you in the kitchen but I’ve had enough of you. If I smell something sweet in the air that I don’t recognize, I start to wonder if you’re stalking me in real life. If anyone giggles after slurping soup I begin to dry heave and convulse.
We’re finished, over, done, yes! We’re overdone, take me out because I have a feeling you’re going to consume me at the table of greasy, and grisly media super over saturation with a side of mid-western husk smoked corn on the cob, skin included because-who-has-the-time-to-peal-potatoes-these-days infused with garlic, and parmasion. Obviously the whole thing will be finished off with a light raspberry puree over a golden crepe filled with sugary sweet and walnut cream cheese. I’m sure you can fit me in before your first show at 2:30, maybe 6:00 or 6:30? If that doesn’t work perhaps I could be devoured around 9:00 or 9:30? Maybe after a busy day of media whoring a late night snack around 11:30 or midnight, just get it over with you over publicized giddy harpy, I’ll give you $40 for thirty minutes you ya saucy little tart.