Bom dia a todos. Eu sou Joshua David Stein. The world's worst hour of television aired yesterday. It was called Top Chef and it's an hour I wish never happened. Now let's relive it.

Hey you Bravo loving fools! It's JDS. In a mere eightish hours, the finale of the fifth season of Top Chef will descend like a pestilence. Meanwhile, enjoy this photograph which reveals the following:

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein. The penultimate episode of Bravo's Top Chef aired last night. Let's discuss.

Hello, my name is Joshua David Stein. Please, open your hymnals to Matthew 26:17 wherein is discussed Bravo's reality television show Top Chef.

Hello. From 10pm to 11pm last night, the developed world watched Bravo's Top Chef. I'm Joshua David Stein reporting live from Bushwick. Stay with us as BBC World Report returns.

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein. Thank you for joining this discussion on Tractatus Topico-Cheficus, a weekly Bravo treatise in its fifth season. [Update: Padma Superbowl Video by popular demand, after the jump.]

Hello, my name is Joshua David Stein. There is much to discuss about last night's episode of Top Chef. So let's get down to it.

My name is Joshua David Stein. I write a hugely influential weekly column for Gawker.com about the television show Top Chef.

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein. I'm an avid Top Chef fan and am here to discuss with you that show.

It's JDS. It's Top Chef time. Both AIDS and Christmas came to town during last night's episode.

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein and I am here to recruit you in a quest to find Padma Lakshmi's true love. Stay tuned for your regular Top Chef recap.

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein and I am here to recruit you in a quest to find Padma Lakshmi's true love.

Good morning and welcome. My name is Joshua David Stein. I'd like to get at you for a mo' about Top Chef, the Gossip Girl of culinary cinema verité programming.

Hello, My name is Joshua David Stein. The subject of this morning's discussion is Bravo's television show Top Chef, specifically the events of the third episode of the Fifth Season. I'm in Albuquerque, NM right now, where my Mom lives and where, due to the large Native American population (mostly Navajo and Pueblo), the very premise of Thanksgiving is deeply offensive. (I always hated the holiday because I had to see my family but they hate it for much better reasons.) Anyway, all this means is I watched this episode of Top Chef with my mom who has never seen it before against a backdrop of anti-Thanksgivingism. Many questions were raised including: Who the fuck is Dave Grohl? Who cares? Wait, is this a commercial? These questions were annoying but, upon reflection, valid. Last night's episode was all about Thanksgiving®. Contestants had to make a Thanksgiving Dinner for the Foo Fighters, a mediocre pop band headed by ex-Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl. "We rarely get to have Thanksgiving with our families," Grohl says (I"m paraphrasing/making this up), "so it's really important to have a good dinner." Great, except this was in fucking late July that they filmed the episode! There were teams. There was failure. There was success. Cougar/Jackie O/inept Jersey housewife Aryan succeeded in making a passable turkey breast which, due to the wildly low Palinesque expectations for her, was recorded as a success. Eugene, the tattooed scrappy guy from Hawaii, jerry-rigged a Hibachi grill out of coal and tinfoil and made a great pork loin. Dave Grohl was torn between ruining his credibility as a rock star with cogent commentary and ruining his credibility as a epicure with numskull nonsense. Hechose the latter. The creepy gay teddy bear/idiot Richard was sent home. Thankfully, we'll no longer be forced to witness his weird vulgar fetishization of Tom Colicchio. He can now do that from home. My mother who I love, somewhat annoyingly kept on screaming "Ai! Ai! Ai! Who cares about this?" Well, it's a fair question. I do. I love Top Chef. And here's why: Beneath all the cynical product placement (SWANSON!!!! BUTTERBALL!!! GLAD!! SAD!!! TITS!!! SPLENDOR!!!) and narrative manipulation, an American tale is told, American values are reaffirmed and the dramas we all face—saddled with different names and different faces—are played out. Is it more noble to strive and fail (like Ken-doll Jeff or bygone Marcel) or to contain your ambition and execute a modest idea well (Hosea's fruit thing)? Do effort, personality and ethnicity have any place in the judicial decisions to stay or to go or should these decisions be based solely on the matter and material on the plate? Do those factors deserve consideration in the court of public opinion? Does Padma Lakshmi have a thing for Fabio, and if so, how do they make love? Slowly? Frantically? Desperately? Clandestinely? What might she exclaim? How about he? But more importantly, in watching Top Chef, in empathizing and despising the sad-faced bat people who compete on the show, we discover ourselves. Am I the mean talented lesbian who makes fun of the fat ridiculous guy with a bad beard or am I the fat man? Does mean lesbian's insecurity excuse her cruelty? Do my insecurities excuse mine? Am I clingy like Leah, pompous like Stefan, hardscrabble like Eugene? Is it better to be loved or feared? What is Padma doing for Thanksgiving? What are you doing reading this? What am I doing writing this? It's Thanksgiving and my mother is waiting. Goodbye.

Good morning. My name is Joshua David Stein. Please join me in a discussion of the most important (reality television competitive culinary) show of our time (between 10 and 11 pm on Wednesdays), Bravo's Top Chef Like a bunch of drunken bums we've stumbled into Week Two of Season Five, full of giddy apprehension, eager to feel and having to pee. What would await us? What could possibly surprise us? Why is Padma still single? Has Tom lost weight? Why does Gail Simmons looks like a train wreck? Soon enough, the annoying shhhhhSHHHHHP knife sound signaled that all our questions would be answered. From the outset, the episode looked pretty good. The quickfire challenge was hot dogs. I, who at this point was actually quite drunk, had just eaten the Chang Dog and the Wylie Dog at PDT (the former, a bacon-wrapped hot dog with kimchi, the latter a "deep-fried Crif Dog wiener nestled against a baton of WD-50 deep-fried mayo with tomato molasses and freeze-dried onions") so was already juiced for wieners. Instead of pimping out the quickfire like some James Lipton-like mac to Oscar Mayer, the segment featured Angelina D'Angelo, an independent Queens hot dog cart purveyor. The hot dogs were okay. Fake Italian Fabio I think won? (Maybe it was the little tattooed blonde lesbian.) Lex Luthor made a stab at a world dog that fell flat. You like that, Thomas Friedman, you jealous ignoble Ionic fifth columnist? [OH! Before I forget: Did anyone catch that weird mini-segment hidden inside a commercial break where Leah, the lady from Centro, clearly wants to hump Hoseah "Far Side" Rosenberg? She says something like, "I am into relationships. I'm boy-crazy!" and then she is cuddling with him on the sofa and being coquettish? "I want to sit here!" she says. The moment lasted all of thirty seconds then went straight back to some Housewives commercial. Transmission screw up or uncanny foreshadowing of love to come?] Anyway, ever onwards. Those sadistic and cynical Top Chef producers are, let's admit it, sometimes genius. Their ability to milk, nourish and capture human misery rivals Dante's formulations of contrapasso in the Inferno. In this week's episode, the contestants had to cook for the 50 failed contestant/chefs, the people who didn't even make it on to Top Chef. Needless to say, they were all—save one or two—vindictive anal worms. It was like when corrupt cops go to jail. One upside: The chefs worked out of the restaurant Craft which Chef Tom Colicchio owns so the man was in the kitchen, expediting. It is always a pleasure to see actual cheffery happening on the show. He's no-nonsense, exacting and demanding and at the same time level-headed, doesn't yell and is well-organized. So dishes and mistakes were made by the dozen. At the end of the day, Gail Simmons looked bad but made up for it by calling Jersey housewife Arianne Aryan. Aryan, for her part, totally blew it with her "cherry surprise" (Trust me, I've had a lot better cherry surprises—some courtesy of James Lipton!). It was so sweet even Padma (as seen above) expectorated the sweet load from her mouth into her napkin. It takes a lot to laugh, a train to cry, and one overly-sweet bite to make Padma spit. Strangely, it wasn't Aryan who went back to Jerz but rather it was the female Stephen Malkmus who was sent packing back to B-more [(Do you want to see her in a bikini? Click here) Maybe there'll be a sixth season of the Wire and it'll be about illegal kitchens and she can have a second career. Here's to hoping.] To sum up: I'm really excited for this season. I think it'll be great. It is already pretty wonderful. It's true, I despise Toby Young who replaces Ted Allen as judge and everything that he does. He'll be cruel and witty because that's what he does and he'll do it for the camera and without the slightest thought that what he says actually has consequences for the contestants, so deep is his narcissism. But Padma will be there to be drunk and cute and slurry and Tom is always there to slice through the bullshit with his limpid eyes. As far as the contestants go, Emile from Ratatouille, the guy with the horrendous facial hair, might actually be sweet. Fabio and Stefan actually seem to be in love. Urkel—though to be fair, she more closely resembles Where's Waldo?—is crazy town and God Bless Her for it. And shorty-wanna-hump Leah is so clingy that one wonders if she was brought to us by the makers of Glad. All in all, the ingredients are there for a well seasoned season. Let's just hope Bravo doesn't fuck it up too much.

Good morning. My name is Joshua David Stein. Today we will be discussing Season Five of Bravo's Top Chef. The premiere of that show aired last night.
The minutes before 10pm could not tick away fast enough. After a taxing season of Project Runway, Top Chef was back and with it the possibility that true villainy, true genius, and perhaps Padma Lakshmi's boob slipping out of her dress and, looking to shore up their breeder ratings, Bravo would keep the nip slip in. The first episode of a season is always like Day One at camp: you figure out your bunk bed (are you a top or a bottom?), you make first stabs at alliances, you wear a t-shirt you think is really clever that you've picked out months before that has writing on it that you think will make you beloved by all. Writing like, for instance, "Beer Pong" or "Diablo" or "Trust Me. I'm Perfect." Mostly though, you meet your bunkmates. Let's.There were, what, seventeen cheftestants? Obviously our sticky emotional strands will only Glaad Cling Wrap® to a few. But for the sake of simplicity and because the work has been done for us, let's break them up into teams. On one side, Team Rainbow (LGBT), on the other, the Europeans, on another the Obamas (rascally and inspiring minority report), on the other The Palins (the scary, the sad, the unfit). These four teams form the inward facing phalanx of Top Chef combat.

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein. Today we will be discussing Project Runway, Harvey Weinstein's ailing reality television show that has to do with fashion and the human heart. Last night was that show's finale.
The fifth has been a brutal bruising hurricane season of Project Runway, full of tempests and tulle. Wednesday nights have ended typically in disgust and the nausea of knowing you've partaken in something unclean. For me and many of you—-you too, Joe the Plumber—the finale was a relief, not just because the winner deserved the honor of victory but because finally this sad vessel of Saturn and spite has finally found port and won't trouble our waters any longer.Gloom aside, though the season offered the most meager of heroes and the most grating of personalities, the runway collections, I think, were some of the best of all the seasons. Kenley's collection was full of color and ruffles and managed to cull from her the best of her personality (color and ruffles) and not the worst (underminery cheesefaced bitch!) Korto's collection, as MIchael Kors correctly pointed out, managed to incorporate her ethnicity whilst not avoiding the costumey. The rich deciduous green Korto used for her signature look, a spin on a classic halter top, was arresting yet not jarring. And Leanne. I'm no petal pusher or concept slut. But her Wave Collection effortlessly wed a clear, concise and fertile concept with aesthetic beauty and wearability. It is only fitting that Leanne won. Her collection embodied the craft of Korto while adding the intellectual rigor of Comme Des Garcons, Rick Owens, Martin Margiela and other successful avant garde houses. It was only Kenley's collection that, upon closer inspection, fails in terms of ideas (there were none), craftmanship (capable but not outstanding) and originality (Balenciaga Spring 2008, Ready To Wear). Leanne deserved to win not only for her collection but for her response to Heidi's query, "Why do you deserve to win?" Korto reverted to tautology. "I deserve to win," she seemed to say, "because I am worthy of winning." Useless. She did cry. Kenley, who also cried and whose voice warbled like the black-throated green warbler she is, said something (I think though again this is just a guess) about how she has personality and came to New York with personality and that she is capable of doing much more than what she did. She basically admitted that though what she has done thus far doesn't warrant victory, what she might do in the future does. It is no surprise that the judges decided not to award her a current trophy for something she has yet to accomplish. Only Leanne answered the question forthrightly with rock solid reasons and aplomb. "I'm innovative," she said, which is true. "Half of my fabrics are sustainable." Nailed it. She fucking nailed it. Never having to hear Kenley's voice again gives one the same sense of relief after having moved from a fifth floor walk up for two years into an elevator building. (A supposition. I'm still in the walkup.) Yet seeing her father in this final episode gives one a peek into perhaps why Kenley is annoying as she is. Her father, the tugboat captain, never smiled and looked, on the whole, as if he'd rather be on the deck of a ship somewhere. It's very unlikely that he noticed the rope details with which Kenley sought to bind herself and her work to him. No wonder she acts out for attention. When shall we see Project Runway again? The future of the show is murky and doubtful, buffeted about by the superegos of Harvey and Lifetime. If and when the next season airs, we'll be asked to throw our emotional lot in with another group of eager contestants. We'll go through the motions of being depressed, outraged, confused and engaged. But just as surely as seasons change, leaves fall and Michael Kors grows cattier every day, so too does the utility and relevance of Project Runway diminish. We may see you all on the runway again but the real question is if we'll care. Before I leave, I'd like to thank Mister Hippity, Richard Lawson and all those who have journeyed with us this season. It has been a pleasure and an honor to work beside and amongst you. Your dedication and perseverance in the face of a season with little to commend it is impressive, a boon to me, to our readers and to all who value a vital and honest exchange of ideas. And with that, auf Wiedersehen, I'm out.

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein. Today I shall be writing about Bravo's Project Runway, much like Mister Hippity did hier. There are only five episodes left in the fifth season. Let's get started. Last night's episode the most interesting episode in Project Runway history. Well, from an ethnomusicology perspective and also from a rear perspective. Let's discard with pretense. Korto has a big ole butt and the many shots of it were among the most satisfying elements of this entire hohum season. Sadly it also smacked of end of the road desperation. Pick something from column A mix with column B and you have a challenge. It's like the The Great Automatic Grammatizator of reality television. This episode's challenge was two fold: the remaining five contestants were forced to design outfits for each other but also use a musical genre (or gnnnra, as Mr. Gunn pronounced it) as inspiration. All this had the veneer of a stochastic process but in fact must have been calculated to bring shame and dishonor on the house of Kenley. Not that she has a problem bringing it on herself. Laxative for the soul Kenley was forced to design a hip hop outfit for the whitest kid u know Leanne Marshall whilst being dolled up as Britney Spears by Jor-El. Leanne meanwhile dressed Korto up in Kountry while Korto shoehorned Suede in a punk outfit and Suede dressed Jor-El in a rock-inspired outfit. Jor-El made Kenley look like Britney Spears. The points of obvious glee were premised on two things: black people don't play or like country music so it was innately funny to see Korto dressed up as Dolly Parton and try to line dance. Also Kenley, as a cipher for whiteys everywhere, has no idea what hip hop is. Unfortunately, or fortunately, neither is true. It's also irrelevant structurally that Korto doesn't like country music. She only had to pull off the outfit as a model and Jesuslordchristonacross, she did that with elan. Her ass is like a big oak fireplace mantle and I love it. It's like a funhouse mirror in the best way possible. When she walked down that runway, all the real world exigencies faded to background noise. There was no economic crises anymore, just Korto and her lovely behind. MOVING ON!!! I think it should suffice to say that Kenley is truly a bad and mean thing. She's disrespectful to Tim which is simply inacceptable. I'm happy he called her out on it. She whines. She's all up in Leanne's bidness and still can't get her jeans in order. She's defensive and dismissive of hip hop and hip hop style. She's hubristic and at the same time provincial. Flowers aren't graffiti, you asshole. You aren't Jesus, hip hop is not oversized and do not—DO NOT—try to argue with LL Cool J because he will knock you out! Poor Suede, sent home and all dolled up like Chris Gaines at a rave. He didn't deserve to be sent home this episode. It shoulda been Kenley obvi. The vision of rock n' roll that the judges have—-and punk for that matter—is dated and specific. People who dress like how they want rockers to look make bad music. Their names are Scott Weiland. Suede's look was only middling but compared to Kenley's automatic hip-enhancing shitpile of an outfit, it was revolutionary. Although he's gone, at least Suede can console himself that he's off what has become the Waiting for Guffman of fashion television. He'll go on to be slightly less ridiculous and certainly less debased in the real world and we wish him the best. In Suede's ridiculous 3rd person disassociation, his occasional/frequent bad choices, his faux-hawk and his pasty jowls, there is at least humanity. We all have a face that we hide away forever. Some are silk, some are satin, some are Suede and some are leather. They're the faces of the stranger but we love to try them on. Below, I've compiled some relevant musical clips. Except the last one which is just one of my favorite songs. A Musical Selection "Texas Medley" Charley Pride and Johnny Cash

The headline of Joshua David Stein's dispatch from the shallower ends of New York life, "Hot Fuzz: Why Full Beards Are In," is a little misleading. Yes, he tells us that lots of hipsters—Taavo Somer, Dash Snow, Devendra Banhart, his good self—have been sporting overgrown whiskers, but he doesn't actually tell us why. Is it the economy? An epidemic of testosterone excess? A mysterious outbreak of razorphobia? Inquiring minds want to know. [NYP]

Hello. My name is Joshua David Stein. I used to work here now I just drop in biweekly to discuss Bravo's reality show, Project Runway. Yesterday was the ninth episode of the fashion competition's fifth season. Soooo, um, totes out of character for me, I got pretty blitzed on Tocai before watching yesterday's episode.* Usually I keep my shit together but last night I was, as a little man we both once knew might say, a red hot tranny mess. So last night's episode kind of passed before me as an undifferentiated murmuring light show. Some narrative nuggets though were so bleak however as to pierce through my inebriation. They follow.PROJECT RUNWAY CANNIBALIZES SELF: I've been watching the show intermittently and whatever plot there was I lost a long time ago.** But it can't be a good vital sign when instead of reaching beyond the borders of the show, the producers decide to resurrect contestants of seasons past and, like so many bony mares, and force them back through the grinder. They do this twice in this episode. Once when they force this season's contestants to pair up with already executed ones (like Lame-o Jerry! Weenie fuck Dan! Gossip Girl Wesley! Angry Mormon Keith!) and again when they are confronted with another batch of zombie designers from season's past at the natural history museum. THIS IS WHY MUSEUM'S AREN'T FUN!*** Then they throw in Zodiac signs? Come on, you lazy reprobates! You can do better. Zodiac signs are only good for picking up high school girls in the Barnes and Noble cafe.**** TERRI IS SAD EX-MORMON HATER Keith is annoying, fine. I'm glad he's gone. But SRSLY! Terri, you are a skunky bitch. Keith doesn't like you. You don't like him. But at least he put aside his pride and put himself at your disposal. That's the challenge. Instead of making do, you were acerbic, defensive and bitchy. You once made us like you because you wondered what Suede was packing (in his pants). You asked whether it was a vajayjay (vagina) or balls (balls). But you squandered our good will when you let your bitchiness really injure those around you. Keith was already vulnerable in last night's situation. Imagine how difficult it was for him to be there. That you got sent home is not only a direct consequence of your inability to work with others but just retribution for your callous cruelty. I shan't be sad to see you leave. My only regret is that you didn't leave sooner. BLAYNE, I NEVER THOUGHT I'D SAY THIS BUT.... We've mocked Blayne in the past. He is still the same twerpy tangy troll. His design last night was also hideous. But, well, I'm getting choked up.***** Blayne, I'm sorry to see you leave. You left with a strange and bizarre grace. CONFIDENTIAL TO KENLEY You have a nice rack and a pretty face. Stop being so overpoweringly annoying. PLEASE! I want to like you but you are making it next to impossible. You don't look at collections? Come on! You have one week to comply with our request to stop being shitty. At that point, we shall have no other choice than to move you from Column A (Things We Actually Like) to Column B (Things We'd Like To Shut Up) * As if! It was really two glasses of Friuliano. 2007 was the last year one could call Tocai Tocai. According to a recent EU decision, the Italian grape from the Friuli-Venezia region is known as Friuliano after losing out on naming rights to the Hungarian varietal Tokaji, pronounced, confusingly, Tocai. Oh well, Klonopin is still Klonopin! **Memo to Mr. Hippity: I read your comments the other day (Nice job liveblogging yesterday. Always a pleasure to read.) One of the reasons that I'm here every other week is because the wonderful Mr. Lawson loves/hates/watches the show as much as I do. By alternating weeks, we ensure a plurality of viewpoints are voiced as well as gaining biweekly Wednesday night parole. ***I know, I know. Museums are fun. ****They're reading the Utne Reader. You're reading The Changing Light at Sandover. She's drinking an Iced Latte. You, an Earl Grey tea. You ask if she's a Virgo. She says, "Yes....born in 1990. Back off, creep!" You reply, "Oooh, Virgos are feisty." 1, 2, 3, 4, slowly walking to the door... *****OMG, did anyone watch Jerry McGuire before Project Runway? Tom Cruise is sooo good in that. Also, Zellweger wasn't as hideous as she has since become. You got me at Hello! AWWWWW! I choked up. (I get sentimental when I get pissy drunk, off the Henny and skunk.)