The episode was even more laugh-out-loud than usual, with Frank morphing into Liz, Jenna dubbing text messages "business sexts," and Tracy Jordan going to Whoopi Goldberg for advice on winning an EGOT (an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Tony), which is "a great goal for a crazy person."

While Alec Baldwin and Tracy Morgan often steal the show from star/writer Tina Fey, the episode's most hilarious moments came from her character Liz Lemon, who had a breakdown while filming the Dealbreakers pilot. Though Liz fantasized that as a TV star she'd be a glamorous blonde carrying on an affair with Astronaut Mike Dexter, in reality, she got a terrible makeover and her insecurities about acting made her so awkward that she forgot how to perform basic moves like waving and smiling. Jenna explained that "Regular Liz" had been transformed into "Performer Liz," and that Jack must then "lie to her, coddle her, protect her from the real world." Or as he put it, "Treat her like the New York Times treats its readers."

Although Anthony Lane criticized Fey's acting in The New Yorker's review of Baby Mama last year, saying, "she hasn't yet made up her mind how funny her body is meant to be," in the clip below, Fey shows off her physical comedy chops as Liz attempts to film the intro for Dealbreakers.

What really did Liz in wasn't her robotic performance or Jenna-like tantrums, but what her face looked like in high-def:

At least she didn't look as bad as Pete:

Once again, we saw that in his soul, Kenneth belongs on Sesame Street:

And of course, the only person who actually looked better in high-definition was Alec Baldwin:

The full episode is available on Hulu.

Switching Places [The New Yorker]
"Dealbreakers Talk Show #0001" [Hulu]

The story is filled with such divine specimens of shameless self-importance as "I just thought Rand was a hilariously bad writer, and past a certain point I couldn't hide my amusement," and "life-changing experiences are a tedious conversational topic at best" and "Manhattan dating is a highly competitive, ruthlessly selective sport," and "If there existed a more hackneyed, achingly obvious method of telegraphing one's education, literary standards and general intelligence, I couldn't imagine it" — that's in reference to carrying around Samuel Beckett's Proust.

I don't have a lot of books. I tend to leave them places, like my parents' attic, and what books I do have are usually an accident of some story I was writing. But the last time I had sex the guy happened to find Beckett's Three Novels in my room. This is perhaps the only highbrow book currently in my possession. Inspired by the Times story, I began reading The Unnamable at Starbucks. It pretty much immediately reminded me of the woman who sat on the toilet for two years. I started writing a story from her perspective, keeping myself amused by the absurdity, and the novelty — and imagining the slow process by which skin and toilet seat become one amid the whirring of the blenders — when suddenly I realized the man with the laptop next to me was watching porn. A white girl, blowing a black dick the width of my wrist. He watched for hours, motionless, chuckling softly to himself. Who watches porn without jerking off? Was he some sort of critic? Isn't it supposed to be "irredeemable"?

Okay, so the point is, there is no point. The rest of the stories in Sunday's Times are worth noting: the image on the front page was of a Zimbabwean man slipping underneath barbed wire in an attempt to escape the Mugabe regime for an incrementally-less miserable life in neighboring South Africa, story A6. To the right are two stories discussing the ramifications of colonialists inadvertently favoring elite ethnic minorities for positions of power over large and angry ethnic majorities. (War!) To the left, a story about the new regulations being proposed to prevent the greed and hubris of market arbitrageurs from again sending the economy hurtling toward destruction. To the bottom, a story filed from one of those lower-middle class towns (Florida) where said greed and hubris has resulted in everyone losing their houses; bottom right, Venezuela aiding FARC. Inside, Julia Allison moved into a small apartment.

But "It's Not You, It's Your Books" was, inexplicably, the Most Emailed. I blame the credit crunch. Soon, New Yorkers are going to need things, things that are not art or fashion or restaurant reservations or real estate, with which to differentiate ourselves from and inspire insecurity within others. So: books. Sadly, I had not read many of the books referenced — positively or negatively — mentioned in the piece. But in the spirit of self-improvement and mockery I am going to start. Over the next few days I'll try to sprinkle this blog with analysis of some of the great works of literature referenced within the piece. Should we start with Ada?

It's Not Me, It's Your Books [NY Times]