Now, I know there are worse films out there than Inland Empire (from what I've been told, I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With is one of them). But I very much doubt there's a film made with as much care, that took so long to craft and was anticipated so much but failed so miserably to become the amazing film the first forty minutes promise.

Usually I'd never consider a film with a great section this long to be a complete waste of time but, when it runs three hours long, those precious cohesive and entertaining moments feel further and further away and you almost resent for them being in the film at all since they only remind you of a movie you'd rather be watching.

I figured many would disagree with me, but I was shocked by just how many: “Dazzling and bewildering”; “Extraordinary, savagely uncompromised”; “David Lynch has never been more fearless or more fearsome”, the critics have exclaimed. Forgive me for saying so, but I wish sometimes Lynch would be constrained by conventions. His work always seems to make me happiest when it tells a story (see Mulholland Drive, the first season of Twin Peaks and Blue Velvet).

Inland Empire begins to tell a story, then veers into what felt like days of Laura Dern walking and running down halls doing this with her face. There are rabbit masks (so 2001) and a team of American Apparel girls who are meant to be creepy, but only made me feel like I had stumbled into a bad ladies night at The Charleston. Then there's the ending with the women singing about black power. What does it all mean? I didn't care.

For chunks of the film I simply closed my eyes, not falling asleep mind you, just choosing to relieve myself from one of the most frustrating experiences of my life.

You know, this song is actually about some normally cool stuff. It references a number of blues legends, Memphis hangouts, Carl Perkins, Elvis and even my beloved Bruce, but who would know it?

It might be called a “tribute”, but the horrific sounds are more like a huge f-you to the soul of the city.

Marc Cohn is way more Michael Bolton than W.C. Handy, and the song conjures images of all kinds of bad, bland, cringe-worthy things like Amy Grant and teal and maroon Patagonias. Yuck.

Brandon Davis, aka Greasy Bear, is perhaps one of the only people I can think of devoid of a single redeeming quality. He is a bloated, crass, spoiled, mean, racist wreck.

He represents the new rich and famous who are, frankly, no longer interesting and only were briefly, as passing freak shows.

Their only worth is as warnings against STDs. I seriously despise this man and find it unbelievable that some women (who, granted, barely register as humans) have dated him.

It's hard to keep a straight face when discussing the decline of reality television, as if it were a pure and dignified thing sullied by the powers that be. But, if you compare the first season of The Real World to The Flavor of Love, you can't help but wonder: what is happening to our real world? Julie would have never shat on the stairs.

The phrase I Love New York used to conjure up images of the famous logo by Milton Glaser; carriage rides in Central Park; Broadway; The Empire State Building… Now people just think of fake swollen breasts and a foul mouth.

You've heard of things that are so bad, they're good? Well Butterfingers are so good, they're bad.

I actually love Butterfingers, but they've got a terrible tag line. They should have never changed from the Shirley Bassey commercial to “I love an Extra Bite!” to “Nobody better lay a finger on my butter finger”.

It sounds like a phrase an ad agency would have come up with in the late seventies, followed by “proud sponsor of this movie theater” but it began in nineties when they commissioned Bart to eat his shorts on his skate board and sing the candy's praises.

No wonder I didn't watch The Simpsons as a kid, I had every right to assume it was way stupid with all the t-shirts as my reference point… Bartman, Rasta Bart, the phrase Cowabunga!, none of these conjured images of an adult animated series written by Ivy League grads. Still, even then, I had to agree with Bart.

I love butterfingers so much that I hid the bag in a drawer at my party and have gained what I call “my Butterfinger pounds” over the Halloween holiday, which is really the worst thing about them and why they are on this list.

I hadn't listened to FM radio since I worked in a warehouse in Queens. My office was next to an area we called the rape cage, the building was next door to a prison and I worked for horrible men… AND they pumped the top forty station throughout the halls which was the very worst part of all.

Radio has been obsolete for years, but someone forgot to tell the obnoxious men and women who still banter about the battle of the sexes in the mornings. I know of no one that still listens to it, which is crazy if you consider how huge a medium it is, and how important it's been to people in the past.

Bad DJ's, bad music, and Clear Channel Communications have ruined an industry that once mattered, and now people are finding new ways to listen to music, like itunes radio stations and satellite radio.

New Jersey gets a bad rep for a variety of reasons including the rock and roll and the ugly landscape. Anyone whose seen the lovely side of the Garden State can tell you that it doesn't deserve all the bad mouthing, but anyone whose driven through the industrial wasteland on the Jersey Turnpike (on their way to Secaucus perhaps), would have to resign themselves to that fact that this is a blight on the Earth.

Walt Whitman would weep, maybe not quite as intensely as he would when he found out his name is attached to a Mall and a Long Island route; a most typical ugly American roadway complete with tuxedo rental shops and discount tire palaces, all snuggled next to his dear old home.

That stretch of road, Old Walt Whitman, is a fairly common US phenomenon, every city has a street like it, and everybody has stopped to use the bathroom in one of its stores.

This grim area in New Jersey is not typical at all. It doesn't just stand as an example of ugly commercial America, it looks like a dangerous planet in a sci fi movie; a dump waste land of thriving and failed industry. There are acres of stalled trucks, oil refineries and miles of cranes.

Driving through there will put you in a foul mood for wherever you're going, no matter how gorgeous the destination.

I know an area like this is a necessary trade off in an industrialized country, but the worst thing about it is that it seems to confirm the negative jokes about New Jersey.

Critics and the few people that devotedly watch Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip may have loved it, or at least given it a “noble failure” disclaimer like Entertainment Weekly did last week. But I would have to call it a flat out failure.

Even though there is so much worth while on television, I can't argue that for the most part, it is a wasteland of junk, so the competition for this category was pretty steep.

I chose Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip over all of them though, not only because it was grating and pompous, but for the way it wallowed in a putrid sea of its own self satisfaction.

I'd sooner watch a depressing marathon of Laguna Beach. Though I wouldn't take that bet to watch Sunset Tan or the Kimora Lee show, which I am sure are worse than this pick, but I simply could never bring myself to watch at all.

This sauce was such a bad combination with the crab's natural flavor and so very overwhelming that the dish did a real disservice to me.

This recipe turned me off to soft shell crab if not for life, at least for a little while. If anyone has a good recipe for the decidedly odd delicacy, do let me know.