Yum-Oh

With my imminent move to NYC fast approaching, I’ve begun daily perusals of that twisted funhouse called Craigslist, trying to figure out what it is an aspiring writer/comedian/artiste does to make money while waiting around for that first invitation to be on Jimmy Kimmel Live and win the hearts and minds of America. It depresses me that I’m entering the world with a degree from an inarguably prestigious university and I feel just about as hopeless finding a job as I did the summer when I first turned 16, but hey, that’s what happens when you decide that expressing the random shit that runs through your head is more worthwhile than learning any kind of real, marketable skills. I will say, it disappointed me all year that nearly all of my professors seem to concur with this hopeless view on my future. I can’t even count the number of times during this last year that I, either in a class or during a one-on-one beat down, was told that I am entering a field with a near-impossible rate of success and that I should be prepared for lots and lots of hardships. This is what my teachers are telling me, the people that my parents are paying thousands and thousands of dollars to prepare me for the real world (sidenote: it’s funny that only now, out of college, have I come to the stunning realization that every teacher I’ve ever had since preschool was, technically speaking, working for me. Talk about a skewed employee-client relationship!).

In any case, I know they’re all just trying to be honest, and I know I chose this for myself, but for Christ’s sake, couldn’t we get a smidgen of inspiration along with all the cold, hard facts? I also heard, on multiple occasions, professors saying that they wish someone had told them how hard life would be straight out of school (the implication being, of course, that we should be grateful that we are being told this now, that we aren’t being spoon-fed the same bullshit as them). At this point, I never want to hear it again. Let me discover the struggles on my own! Let me be hopeful for just a little bit before the vicious backhand of reality slaps me across the face!

There is, however, one job I am planning to apply for that makes me very excited, and that is to be the Next Food Network Star. The reality show is now taking video submissions for it’s sixth season, and after mulling it over for the past few submission rounds, I am now one hundred percent going to get my shit together, film a 3-minute application tape, and set myself on the fast track to stardom. Trying to think of what my own cooking show would be like has, sadly, forced me think critically about my least favorite television personality of all time, and that is the incomparably awful Rachel Ray.

Note: If by some chance I actually advance to any kind of semi-finalist round in this Food Network thing, this entry will be immediately deleted, so enjoy while you can.

I hate Rachel Ray. I hate her more than anyone else on the planet that I’ve never met. I hate everything she represents, I hate her voice, I hate her face, I hate what she’s done to my beloved Food Network. Rachel Ray is a prostitute in every sense of the word (except, perhaps, the most literal). But you know what? I respect any street walking lady of the night a hundred times more than I respect Rachel Ray, with her waxed face and plastic smile and those empty, soulless eyes.

I hate her for what she has done to the Food Network. I have some authority to talk about this, as I used to be a moderate addict. My family moved across the country in middle school, the worst conceivable time for a big move, me being at my paunchiest and most awkward, my self-loathing at a fever pitch. I would frequently come home from my new school choking back tears, plop in front of the TV, turn on the Food Network and drift away for hours. I give this time in my life full credit for teaching me how to cook, and also for providing hours of escapist entertainment. The Food Network, you see, used to be for people who loved and were fascinated with food. It used to have lots of shows that dealt with foods from all over the globe, and lots of strange, interesting personalities. It had Mario Batali cooking veal livers and Alton Brown discussing the chemistry behind Eggplant Parmesean. It had, most of all, the original Japanese Iron Chef, still one of the funniest, most culturally fascinating shows in TV history.

Now, to put it plainly, the Food Network sucks a fat dick. Because of Rachel Ray, every single show is the same: plain, simple, cheap food that housewives can make at home, the recipes delivered by blandly attractive Ray spin-offs. This is all, I’m convinced, because of Rachel Ray and her freakish popularity. Nowadays I will never, ever catch myself watching a Rachel Ray program, but for a time my hatred of her manifested itself in a perverse, sadomasochistic fascination. So yes, I’ve seen her shows. In addition to the hideous 30 Minute Meals, rife with her bizarre abbreviations and forced perkiness, there are approximately seven different shows that feature her going to different restaurants around the country, taking a bite of food, and then exclaiming that it’s good. Her ability to describe food is abysmal. Her favorite descriptor is something along the lines of “whoa, lots of flavor there!”, which is what you might hear a preschooler say when you ask her if she’s enjoying her juice box.

And don’t even get me started on the Rachel Ray talk show, which I tuned into once and watched for about five minutes, mouth ajar, just as one watches a horrible, blood-soaked train wreck; watching her talk to a celebrity is like watching the most grating, obnoxious person you’ve ever known forcing herself on someone at a party. She is, in many ways, the entertainment industry equivalent to the Bush Presidency. Just as G.W. Bush managed to get himself elected twice because he just seemed like a regular guy, because he didn't seem any smarter than the average American Joe, Rachel Ray has somehow built an entertainment empire because she is in no way cleverer, smarter, funnier, or more interesting than the average American woman. In fact, she's much worse. The worst part of Rachel Ray may well be her voice, that crackling, scratchy voice, soaked with whiskey and smoke, sounding like a cartoon mouse in the worst Disney spin-off you’ve ever seen.

Wow. The only other person I've never met that provokes this much toxic disgust in me is Carson Daly, but at least it seems like he knows he’s a no-talent hack. Rachel Ray, meanwhile, has revolutionized (read: ruined) an entire network, built a multi-million dollar empire in the process, and I will never, ever forgive her. That being said, I can’t wait ‘til I get on The Next Food Network Star and have the chance to smile and kiss her ass. Maybe this whole theater training is applicable in the real world after all!