Thursday, August 22, 2019

Social media has destroyed my love of celebrities. Or age has caught up with me. When I began this blog, I was 30. And by 30, I mean 38. Because of my advanced age and important responsibilities, I don't have time for this nonsense anymore.

So let's start with Miley. She and Liam got engaged when they were in their mothers' wombs. She did Hannah Montana, a show my husband adores, and he still doesn't understand sexified Miley. Wait till I tell him she's fluid! So yes, fluid is now in my vocabulary, though once you get to this crap age, fluid is the last thing you are. I won't go into details, Mom.

So, Miley and Liam broke up for a while because we don't care. She blurred lines with Alan Thicke's son, whose name I don't remember. Alan died of a heart attack on the ice by the way, so that's freaky as hell. I miss his insurance commercials, but at least Dennis Quaid, Mayhem (Carrie's weakness on SATC), and Dennis Haysbert are keeping me financially aware of what could happen with if a pole falls onto my non-existent car on my non-existent child's wedding day. And that damn Robert Wagner whom I still don't trust.

Back to the story, being true to the tenets of youth, Miley did a lot of twerking and sticking out her tongue--how tantalizing! She rode a wrecking ball naked, showing the world what we all do in our living rooms, let's face it. Right now, Mike Pence and Mother are naked-riding a wrecking ball through a gay bakery, demolishing all penis cakes, like those traveling nuns who hammered off junk on nude man statues. What they don't know is that most everything is phallic so yeah, essentially gay--fluid!

Eventually, Miley and Liam reunited, got married and then who knows, "grew apart and decided to focus on their careers." Sadly, when you post a very public picture of yourself making out on a yacht with a Jenner ex, the day after announcing a divorce, it is a big middle finger at your ex. Then you have to apologize for following those primal, youthful instincts and "being authentic." Twenty years ago, we just did this shit behind each other's backs.

In the end, I only care about Miley's tremendous talent. Her song Malibu sometimes makes me cry. When I start to pay more attention to her personal life, I just watch this. You have to wish these kids well through every up and down. Tomorrow, I want to talk about botox vs. cool sculpting. It has nothing to do with Rodin.

Tuesday, June 05, 2018

Catching up with Stool Loosening Billions

Of course I admire the eyeliner work on Rachel Maddow and the manly way both Chris Matthews and Younger Chris scream on MSNBC. Lawrence's cake makeup and Ciceronian bitchfest opening, aaaah. Sometimes, though, you have to put your foot down with TV politics.

It's not glamorous, and Dish's brain has been slowly rotting the past three years. My tradition of following presidential campaigns went awry, picking up on a longer, seemingly endless thread. I lost my celebrity gaze, but the past two weekends, it came back.

I caught up on my Billions, where Paul Giamatti emotes, drawing out those syllables like he's Ella, about to sing a bluesy tune in a sweaty nightclub. He's into S&M! How cool is that--and quirky (innovation). Enter the nemesis, Ginger Manchurian Terrorist from Homeland who runs something big and financial, and is somehow smarter than everyone, which means he did not fail Economics in college the way Dish did. Everyone reveres him and Dish wonders where he got his smarts. Did he study? When did he have time to get smart AND know how to work the streets like a good old-fashioned Hell's Kitchen hooker? Perhaps I know this person from the time I befriended a Gordon Gekko wannabe. Genius is coke for the greedy. I for one am transfixed by Taylor whose work ethic is inspiring. I will admit, someone in the cast, who is named, went to college with me. I won't say who it is. But he's in three shows now, at least three.

Last reason to watch Billions: John Malkovich doing Russian accent.

The pleasure of this and a full day of Hallmark movies, well, you can say that it's akin to flushing out toxins.

Now, most importantly, The Bachelorette. Dish has given up on this season after 1 and 1/2 episodes due to a strong whiff of racism from one of the Nazi youth. It seemed so obvious to me that I turned off the TV--plus I read a spoiler, which doubly ruined everything for me. Screw you, Arie!

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Starspotted: Andrew Sullivan!!!

12:38pm, today. After worshipping at the gods of Sephora in Union Square, purchasing a lovely Smashbox palette from "Emily," Dish moseyed home and was dazzled to see controversial political pundit/journalist/blogger Andrew Sullivan crossing the street. Dish has seen Mr. Buff Scoop before at Dishgym and on Bill Maher. Never mind Sullivan's brain, people. He's in excellent physical shape though suffers from typical buff male affliction: chicken legs. I thought you should know.

Southern Charm has been on my mind. The male cast members are on separate downward spirals. With a steady supply of barbecue, cornbread, and collared green, I could easily advise them. Austin, unemployed and doesn't have a plan for his booze company (an excuse to drink, hello I'm starting a chocolate factory). Craig is whining and sewing pillows instead of using his law degree (I get it). The yelling married guy, separated. Shep, affable but an inert gas. And Thomas. Oh, Thomas. Where do I begin? DishfriendinCharleston knows a lot about Thomas. I have Ted Talks ready for his viewing.

By contrast, the women of Southern Charm are interesting, except for Naomi's jealousy, which is a character unto itself. Deep inside, Dish understands her psycho-ex behavior, but you need to tamp down the crazy until you develop a duodenal ulcer. It plays better on TV. In the meantime, I recommend Mylanta shots, no vegetables on an empty stomach, and Immodium.

Real Housewives of New York, you need to step up your game. Except for Bethenney and her work for Puerto Rico. 

In the meantime, Let's all keep trucking.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Royal Wedding and So Much Love

Dish is swimming in a pool of fascinators, scones, and GORGEOUS GOSPEL SINGING AT WINDSOR PALACE. So many celebs! That hateful Amal with her spectacular AS USUAL choice of color (yellow). Did not see Goddess Oprah, but the cast of Suits--who were all whispering, "We're not even Scandal..."--dazzled me just the same. Gabriel Macht was, like, hey, fuckers, I do this every day. Posh and Becks have done this so many times, one of them should take a dump on the lawn to SPICE things up. It was five in the morning, so my thoughts are unharnessed. Maybe in the corner of my eye, I see Megan's beagle humping the Queen's unspayed corgi. It's British royal tradition (very white like Dish's ancestry except for a hint of something else on my grandfather's side) meets the diverse part of America that did not vote for the Orange Criminal Infestation we have in our Not-United States.

If you watched the coverage, you witnessed rare enthusiasm and joy on the part of journalists.  It brought a lightness we haven't seen in a couple years. As Dish sipped her English Breakfast, Anderson Cooper giggled, Richard Quest's voice rose even more than it does when he details plane crashes. Stephanie Ruhle and Katie Tur needed cheerleading pom poms and Joy Reid, well, she was exuberant divinity itself. You could feel the love.

Dish remembers well the wedding of Charles and Di, me wearing an elastic legging around my left leg because I'd slipped down a flight of stairs and ripped flesh, right before a flight home from France. It almost made DishMom yak her croissants. Thirty years later, Wills and Kate got married right after I did and I slept on the floor during the coverage while my beloved paid no attention to the pageantry. Kate's Alexander McQueen dress knocked my socks off. The wedding was sweet, formal with everyone saying this brought a new era to the monarchy.

Harry took that up a notch, as he always does. We gingers are used to that. I've always had a soft spot for Harry since the photo of him sticking his tongue out at photogs. For a brief period, I wrote him off when he wore the swastika to a party. But then his military service and his Vegas debauchery wore me down again. Also, Meghan is a luminous choice in brides. When she smiles, I think Julia is reborn, which might lead to our becoming best friends, though since I'm close to 50, I might be a better big sis. Or mother figure...This time, TG watched with me and, dare I say, I saw tears streaming down his face.

Did Dish cry, too? Only once, when Charles picked her up halfway down the aisle. Like me, Meghan didn't have her father at her wedding but an ever-present mom and stand-in escort down the aisle (Dishbrother) can be fabulous.

Congrats to the lovely couple. It's midnight in England. I'm totally not thinking at all about what they're doing on their wedding night.

Monday, April 16, 2018

Billy Crudup and The ACM Awards...

...have nothing in common. But such was Dish's Ides of April!

After reading forty verses of Virgil (NY Post Super Sudoku), I took hubby to see Billy Crudup in Harry Clarke, a play by David Cale. I know a few things: Paris is amazing, never take Calculus II, beets are inedible, and always see Billy Crudup on stage. TG and I watch so much crap, we had to indulge in something brain enriching. In a nutshell, BC does 19 characters in 90 minutes, which resembles Dish's unraveling during work deadlines. This show is a must see for anyone who loves to see crazy talent and hear a layered story. We emerged from the theater feelings like Gen X!

On the other end of the spectrum, TG and I watch most award shows. He pretends he knows who everyone is and cries when hard-working people win (Tissues needed for Chopped and Cupcake Wars). I wallow in my melancholy over being an ordinary girl. It's my Maupassant's "The Necklace" moment, but you know, no regrets. Seriously, I watched the ACM (CMA?) Awards to witness the flaming desire between Gwen Stefani and Blake Shelton. Her wearing fishnets at 48 gives me hope that -2 years ago, I could do the same! The goo goo love eyes are priceless.

And now...back to the ugliness and scandal of the real world.

(We watched the Comey interview. It's funny, I practiced the exact same exchange with George Stephanopolous in the mirror last week).

Thursday, April 12, 2018

The Clouds Part and a Kardashian Emerges

Someone who used to resemble Khloe Kardashian (my fave of the clan) got contractions in Cleveland, aka the last place a girl should walk the streets, and gave birth to a girl. Surgeons found a way to give the baby butt implants and waist cinching in utero so thank Jebus she is perfect. Her name is Cumulus--and will love playing with her cousin Stormi.

Small potatoes to child-bearing, Babydaddy I guess was caught cheating, but Dish finds this insignificant since Someone Who Used to Resemble Khloe knows that athletes tend to run toward the "massage" van.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Star-spotted: Katie Finneran, Broadway Show Thief

3:12 pm: As I carried my groceries from Pamper Ur Pets, I passed Katie Finneran, aka great actress of stage, screen, and Netflix.

Katie and I go way back. We admired her first as the lesbian nanny who steals the wife from Dabney Coleman who is Tom Hanks's father in You've Got Mail. Nanny Maureen! The one who says All Men Lie, wisdom x infinity.

The Groom and I then went to see Sean Hayes and "Chenoweth" (as TG calls her) in Promises, Promises on Broadway. Katie stole the show even though we are drooling fans of SH and C. Katie just made a small scene huge.

Then came Bloodline, which Dish discovered during her Blue Period, plus I wanted to keep my bond with Friday Night Lights. Katie plays a long-suffering ex-wife.

Around this time, TG went to a funeral where he talked to this nice woman who seemed familiar. He said her name and I reminded him of our long history with her and how much we love her.

Isn't this, like, a novel? And it doesn't end there.

We went to see an Edward Albee play, in which she starred with Robert Sean Leonard (a godlike creature). I won't reveal the median age of the audience (83) or the Miss Havisham perfume wafting every which way. Long story long, despite being sophisticated and loving both actors, the play was just too depressing for us and we left at intermission. We figured that Katie and Sean unraveled their messed up marriage, went to places that seemed unfixable, but then made each other breakfast like always. Right?

And today I saw her again, looking like a well-put-together person and remarked on my own disheveled self. It's okay since we are best friends now and I'm a good enough person to let her be the glamorous one.

Moral of the story: Always go see her if she's in a play or movie. Worth it.

Tuesday, January 09, 2018

Crazy Dish Crush

I will only confess it here, because out loud, it sounds crazy. Dish is having transference issues! Remember Freud and how all his patients were in love with him because of his mastery over their sexual problems? It's not that Freud was sexy himself (he so was. I mean LOOK). Dish is having similar transference issues over...


It makes no sense. You'd think I'd be gaga over the politician we see every day. Who's in your face, speaking to the 5th grade educated masses, measuring his buttons (his is bigger), squeezing his hand-enhancers, smearing that Neutrogena tanner all over his delectable McDonald's body*.

No, I'm pining over the one behind closed doors, he with the long jaw and solemn look of my grandfather (also supergorgeous). Does he pose for the cameras as he walks from the car to the building? No, torturous no! Does he show us how to do better--by actually working hard? A thousand times yes!

Me miseram, RM! You keep your perfect nose to the grindstone, down your Metamucil (fiber is important when you get to a certain age), indict the bad guys, and tacitly make the Orange Slob inhale his Happy Meals and shart in his golf shorts. Who does that more effectively than the real Most Powerful Man on Earth? RM, I was never a Marine. I can barely do a lady push-up. But I salute you. Please save us, you shiver-inducing animus of love!

*threw up a little