Thursday, December 20, 2007

Garnering Sightings

Long Overdue Sighting: December 7th, 11:10 p.m., Jennifer Garner after her performance of Cyrano. She signed autographs forever and was so nice to her admirers. She's just as friendly and cute-seeming as in movies. I still harbor fantasies that someone will catch her smoking crack...

Just finished Rosie O'Donnell's Celebrity Detox, a present from BF, and, to my surprise, it overlooks her final exit from The View. I don't get it since the blowup was super-dramatic. But I liked most of the book and wondered how much editing was done. I'm cynical that way. Parts are intoxicating, especially when she describes her painting. And I totally get her love for Barbra Streisand. There isn't as much of an "as told to" feel to her story as with other celebrity memoirs.

The View represents the dynamic of many female cliques. Usually, there's a hierarchy--the group goddess, the peacekeeper and follower, and the one who gets shat on. The first person to get dumped on was that twenty-something Debbie (Matenopolous?) and she was practically chased off by torch-wielding villagers. Though annoying to watch, Star Jones was clubbed to death in her last year on The View. Then, they went after Rosie, and you know Sherri (no idea of her last name) is next to go. I had thought Elisabeth would be fired, but she's hung in there. While I loathe her opinions, I admire her for surviving the wars. After Rosie left, the pattern seemed so obvious to me, I couldn't watch this show anymore. Though I love Whoopi.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Flying Sucks

Getting up for very early morning flights is not enjoyable and even worse when the same-day flight home is delated three hours. On the first flight, the plane banked through angry clouds and, finally, glided down the Toronto runway an hour later. This city has a clean, quiet airport and I was looking forward to explaning why I was in the country for the day. For inspiration during turbulence, I listened to Dolly Parton's "Better Get to Livin'." She might be what Jesus with boobs and gallons of plastic surgery. It got me through some turbulence. Does Dolly ever have a bad moment? A few, but I've only seen them in Straight Talk and Steel Magnolias.

Six hours later after alighting, I waited in the Toronto airport, hearing for the first time that my flight would be delayed. Staring into the green and black flecked carpet, I thought I might die of exhaustion. Maybe I'm not meant to leave my couch. But then Dolly has done a lot of traveling. She, too, probably battles malignant forces from time to time (those wigs much itch like mad). What's wrong with a little sleep deprivation, stress, and malnutrition for one day? Really, I'm totally spoiled.

Today, I'm watching In the Land of Women, mostly to see how fishy Meg Ryan's lips are. The characters don't make sense. A deeply charismatic Adam Brody plays a young soft-core porn screenwriter, like that's realistic. Somehow, he manages to date a celebrity long-term, but she dumps him for Colin Farrell. And Adam's an average guy living in L.A. When he finds out his grandmother is going downhill, he does his mother a favor by taking care of the crazy bat--played by Olympia Dukakas, of course--cause mothers can't be bothered, ya know. Out in the boondocks, he befriends Meg Ryan and they take long walks together, connecting instantly. In one hot moment, they make out in the rain after she tells him she has breast cancer. Then, he makes out with Meg's daughter, too. Conflict ensues. None of it is believable, though, despite the stigma of cutesiness, Meg has excellent moments. Her lips are way puffy, yet she acts around them. I love her again and hope she does more movies--and goes back to the short hair.

And now I'm thinking, maybe Dolly and Meg should make a movie together. Hmmmm.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Fire in My Stomach

Dish hates to travel, mostly because flying is a big pain in the butt. Along with some deep breathing and rubbing of knotted stomach, I watch Steven Seagal's Fire Down Below before I fly. Sometimes, I'll mix it up with The Glimmerman. The important thing to remember is that Steven Seagal would never be afraid of flying. Just one of those tips that makes life infinitely better (or worse, depending on how my planes go tomorrow).

Another thing that makes life better--Jennifer Love Hewitt. Photos of her big butt in a bikini surfaced today. I can hear the thought going through millions of female minds: That's what MY butt looks like. Or at least, that's what I'm thinking. So I love JLH for shaking the jiggle in a bikini.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Sex Becomes Her

Dish mainly watches Sex and the City for Kim Catrall. I don't care about the backstage squabbles between her and SJP (everyone should get more money whenever possible). My friend Langdon worked with her, said she was great fun and nice to the little people. So, she's even more my favorite. Mention of her in today's Page Six made me remember to give thanks to certain big people for lifting my spirits at 11:30 pm. And smart girl for dating a man who can cook.

I'm dating a man who can cook...and vaccuum and do dishes.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Shameless Advertising

Gordon Gekko would approve of me showing my homemade slippers (knit/felt), though he wouldn't be caught dead wearing such Holly Hobbie crafty comforty footwear. He did provide the entertainment as I took photographs. Though, Wall Street seems a little dated to me now, especially the Hal Holbrook character who keeps spouting mentorish cliches. Ah, Michael Douglas. Do I dare do a before/after photo? Of course!

He might have had work done. Regardless, I bet he looks hot in a bikini...

Male Scrutiny

Why should Hollywood's aging starlets be tabloid targets? Everyone looks like crap now and then. Even the boys. Look at Russell from L.A. Confidential, the quintessential glamour flick:

And now, he's looking a little puffier. I'd still let him throw a cell phone at me (After which, I'd sue):

Sweet John Cusack then:

And now:
I love him, but his cuteness is fading. Do we chortle about his needing Botox or lipo so he can fit into a bikini? I'm just saying...

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Sunday Gas

Dish adores the Sunday morning gasbags on Hardball, Meet the Press, and The McLaughlin Hour. It makes me feel so much smarter that I have these shows in the background as I shave the fuzz off newly felted slippers.

Today, while watching, I had this intense thought:

If Mary Matalin and James Carville can make their power-relationship work, there's hope for world peace.

I bet they have amazing fights...

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Ps. The Only Reason I Watched Grey's Anatomy

Thank Google! If it weren't for this massive force, I would have never known Gale Harold was on Grey's Anatomy, a popular show about doctors having sex. They even make out in the halls. GH plays a hot EMT who sports a swastika on his hot abdomen. He's very nice for a white supremacist and let's hope he survives his liver operation so he can show remorse for his wicked ways. Dish is just glad GH is working. But when is his new movie Falling for Grace (In the the trailer, the heroine actually falls, because heroines in real life are always falling, stumbling to show their adorable quirkiness to romantic prospects) coming to DVD?

Where were you?

When I heard Lindsay Lohan had shown up in NYC, baring her face among shopping hoards on Black Friday, I stopped what I was doing and noted this remarkable moment in history. Who cares about sending hand-made blankets to crack babies?

After shedding sweet tears over missing this event akin to the Beatles at Shea Stadium (or was it Giant), I turned to David Sedaris. Ten years after everyone started raving about him, I've finally picked up Naked. I wanted to hate what most readers loved, but I can't put it down. So, no celebs right now. I tried to watch The Anniversary Party again. The first viewing, I liked. This time, I didn't believe Alan Cumming and Jennifer Jason Leigh wanted to do each other (though I could see them all a-giggle about the prospect of acting like luvahs), so it was background noise while I scrubbed the bathtub. And watched my cat eat hair. Take that, Lohan.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Pre-Thanksgiving Afternoon Delight

As I crush Oreo cookies into a pie crust, I'm dying of excitement over season four of 24. Jack Bauer just escaped the evil terrorists with William Devane covering him, and it choked me up. Young and old working together, the old/cranky with the raspy-voiced/hot. How does William Devane relate to Dish, you ask? Turns out he went to high school with my dad! Because Father is oblivious to celebrities (except for Grace Kelly, Clint Eastwood and Richard Gere), he hasn't provided me with juicy details. This was a boarding school, so you know there had to be something dishy.

In other news, Duran Duran was on Ellen today and rocked the audience into euphoric spasms. Okay, that was just me. To further my viewing pleasure, I read the Julia Roberts article in Vanity Fair and had the idle thought: does The Julia like Duran Duran? That would be too much of a good thing--like looking at the sun.

Monday, November 19, 2007

Dish's Verdict on the AMAs (not the American Medical Association)

The American Music Award show last night was a treat. Except today, Dish is far too apathetic to emote--and too busy eating vanilla frosting from a can. Thus, here are abbreviated thoughts:

Jimmy Kimmel: Far too smug for Dish. Another bloated rich boy who probably got beaten up as a child. Who now wields power and influence.

Fergie: Usually, Dish is so over her, but she shined and wore the sparkles way better than Brits. And my bosoms heaved over her pairing with Love them both.

Avril Lavigne: Goodness she has a pointy nose.

Rihanna: So beautiful and talented that Dish didn't realize someone sang with her. What is she doing with Josh Harshnets? She will blow him away with her brilliance. Though, he's a good actor, too, just not as.

The Jonas Brothers: Can you say Hanson II?

Akon: Just accept your damn award. And do it quick since the alleged rape simulation in your concert makes Dish sick.

Maroon 5: I get it.

Beyonce with Sugarland: Overrated

Celine: Great pipes, boring song.

Lenny Kravitz: Makes me melt. He could eat Doritos in his underpants and I'd feel the same.

Chris Brown: Love the dancing, the show, but can't anyone dance AND sing anymore? I'm probably missing something.

Alicia Keys: Dish doesn't listen to her, but she's perfect. A fab performer and lovely voice.

Duran Duran: Simon sounded off key, but they can do no wrong. I love them madly forever.

Now back to scowling and hoping The Hills brings inspiration. Watching beautiful morons deal makes Dish feel better about life.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

"Wear it until you love it!"

It's the best line of The Man in the Iron Mask starring several iron men of stage and screen -- and they all had supermodel locks. Sweet Princess DiCaprio screams this dialogue at his twin brother whom he banishes to his iron face guard. Don't know if Louis XIV would have ever said this, but with a Titanic superstud in the mix, you gotta take liberties--lots of 'em. Dish watched the above mentioned film while elipticizing at the gym. It's the only thing that got me through, as craptacious it was. Funny how Malkie tries so hard to show emotion when his son dies. Hee hee. I love it when men fake cry in movies...

In other news, Dish continues a love affair with the memory of Gene Kelly in today's viewing of Xanadu. BF feels it's a travesty that this was Kelly's last movie. But was it so bad? The only thing that really merits a hand-full of peanut butter thrown at the screen is Michael Beck, though even his bad acting is fun to mock. Why does John Malkovich get such praise for his monotonous line delivery and Michael Beck such derision? A question for the ages. In the meantime, who can resist this smile?

Friday, November 16, 2007

Psycho Sightings

Dish is in a serial killer trance. After the lusciousness of last week's Duran Duran concert, I plunge myself into darkness, i.e. am awash in a pool of blood. Not really, just watching the first season of "Dexter". He's such a sweet killing machine and makes me want to examine blood spatter, eat blood oranges, and pick my scabs. The only problem is that now I suspect everyone of such happy treachery. An excellent castmember includes the feisty Jennifer Carpenter, who plays Dexter's sister. Dish loves how, though a youngster, she doesn't have that end-every-sentence-with-a-question-mark way of speaking. In addition, intelligent stuff comes out of her mouth. She reminds us of Elizabeth McGovern circa 1985. JC is a talent and we love her.

Oh, in less AB positive news, a star sighting occurred last night, 11/15. Newly shorn and blown out at 5:50 p.m. , I trounced down to 23rd and 7th and saw favorite dork-psycho-intelligent-all around weird person Adam Goldberg cross my path. He walked with two women, one pregnant and wearing something pink, and pointing uptown. What did I care? I had to watch Dexter kill someone and my hair looked terrific.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Yet Another Tom Cruise Dream

Maybe it was the excitement over Katie Holmes running the marathon, but Tom Cruise showed up again in my dreams. He won't leave me alone. If I'm supposed to experience a Jesus figure of phantasmagorical excellence, why couldn't it be someone more saintly and intemellectual, like Tim Robbins? It's as if Tom is using me to advertise his new movie, Lions for Lambs (which got suck-tastic reviews). In my nocturnal mind-flick, Cruise wouldn't let me go see BF because I had to receive some kind of instruction. Uh, hello, my naive/innocent days are over. I lived in Cleveland. While the lure of Cruise and his teachings were appealing, my heart was elsewhere. Awwwwwww.

The next night, I dreamt about Russell Crowe. We went to see American Gangster together (another celeb using me for shameless advertising). We had our arms around each other and watched the screen. It wasn't at all romantic, but just to make sure, I told him I was taken. He quipped that he was married with children. We continued watching the movie without incident. Who knew I was such a devoted person? This is the third screen heartthrob I've turned down in my subconscious. I'm ready for whoever comes next.

Spotted: The Back of Nick Rhodes's Head

It happens once in a lifetime. For Dish, the miracle occurred at 7:50 p.m. last night. Somehow, we managed to be at the Barrymore's stage door as Duran Duran dashed in. Had I been fourteen, I would have hurled at the opportunity to see real Duran Duran molecules up close. Going to concerts doesn't quite convince me that these are real people. For a second, I cursed BF's height since he cooly surveyed the orgasmic sighting while I had to keep hopping up. So easy for him, so hard for me who loves them. As I stood on my tiptoes, I saw someone with a big hat rush in (John Taylor?), then a tall, leggy blonde. Then the back of Nick Rhodes's head. I might have caught a glimpse of his nostrils, too. These nostrils, the back of his head, had movement, and no scratchy newsprint to stick to my freckles. Girlfriend had severe roots that needed attention, yet rock stardom forgives coloring outside the lines of hair care. I forgive the keyboardist and it charmingly validated my own inattention to follicle management. I clicked my camera and got nothing. And then it was over.

The concert was great fun--I left hoarse from singing and blind from their overuse of strobe lights. Best of all, BF didn't seem miserable (though the earplugs were in use). My only complaint was: Duran Duran's main fan base is women from 30-45. We may be craggy-faced, unhip with big hips, married breeders, saggy-breasted, and not in keeping with a more desirable Timberlake audience--but how many times do we have to see these skin-and-bone models (who I'm sure are nice women and who wouldn't want to be in a Duran Duran video?) playing with their thongs in the videos? While these mini-features attest to the band's sexual prowess in all areas of life--mental institutions, jungles, yachts, deserts, theaters, historical eras, unfurnished rooms, mudpits, and landmarks--Dish is tired of the super-obvious means of bait. It's so 1983. And we get the message: Duran Duran is ultra-hetero. Duran Duran is ultra-hetero. Duran Duran is ultra-hetero. Despite this, Red Carpet Massacre is my new favorite album of the decade. Well done.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Countdown Duran Duran!

Only an hour and a half till Duran Duran. And Dish is ovulating.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Duran Duran Mania on Broadway

Dish might be the only one calling it "mania" but in my world, twenty-five years of benign obsession constitutes mania of the best kind. Especially with my Duran Duran earrings and t-shirt ready to be worn (along with the huge L on my forehead) to Thursday's concert. If only I could unearth the 50-page Duran Duran term paper (along with the gentle warning from my teacher to find better hobbies) I wrote in high school, I'd be throwing it around in a confetti celebration of the band, whom I love as much--just not so hormonally--as I did when I was fourteen. This time, I'll hold back on the confetti since my beloved is going with me and it's a corny term paper anyway.

Dish doesn't care that they'll be playing new songs for the first hour--though the idea of not singing along bothers me. Also, I wish they'd mention more about their guitarist whom I've named "Sandy" for lack of knowledge of his real name. He's like the weird relative they don't want to include in the family album. After Duran Duran's musical chairs through the decades, I'm ready to accept a new clansman.

In any case, I'm thankful for my second row balcony seats. Twenty years ago, I was able to politely push my way up to the fourteenth row at a concert in Canandaigua, New York. I'll still be closer to them at the Barrymore Theater, though now I'm blind as a bat, so it doesn't matter.

Only here (and to my friend GF1 and BF) can I admit that aside from health and happiness of my loved ones, meeting Duran Duran is the highest wish on my Ellen DeGeneres life list (Isn't she the one who invented the life list?). Though I have the feeling it would make me faint for the very first time in my life. Faint and pee at the same time. In fact, the idea that I'll see them in concert again in under 48 hours is making me feel barfy. So, never mind. I'll put a repaired ozone at #2 on my life list.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Season Four of The L Word--so far

I love gay soap operas such as Queer As Folk and The L Word (not as engrossing, but equally glam cast and I can't stop watching). Logo is a favorite channel and I've logged too many hours watching movies like The Broken Hearts Club and Jeffrey. As the clouds turned, the rain came, I hunkered down to watch Season Four: Disc 1 of The L Word.

I'm a little disappointed by the start, yet the appearance of Cybill Shepherd brightens up a slightly dreary landscape of women making bad choices--though Dish loves Shane and her shenanigans, (except, Shane's stylist, her hair looks too much like a tepee. Please stop! I get it, she's SUPER gay and trendy). Particularly upsetting is the fact that, once again, the brainy fox that is Jennifer Beals makes ANOTHER bad decision--to have a fling with her TA (after kidnapping her child with Tina, then not suffering repercussions from this). I foresee sexual harrassment charges when she realizes her impulsiveness. As for Alice, she never wound up with the chef, as I'd prayed since I adored them as a couple. Impossibly petite Jenny is still a narcissist (who almost killed the President in Season Two of 24) but now a published author (zzzzzzzzzzzz). Oh how I was on the brink at the end of Season Three. So many possibilites for captivating storylines. So why haven't I given up on the show? Well, because Disc 2 arrives tomorrow. And maybe Cybill will get some.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

An Evening with Glenn Close

Last night, after pouring myself a glass of scotch and lighting an imaginary cigarette, I slipped Evening into my DVD player. Why did I want to watch this? Three reasons:

1. An abysmal failure (Gigli, Glitter) is fun for its trainwreck appeal.
2. Was there chemistry between Hugh Dancy and Claire Danes since she left Billy Crudup for him? Answer: Not so much. In fact, he looks like a less twinkly Billy Crudup--though his British accent, I'm sure, is what convinced Claire to drop trou. She totally went to Yale and is all smart.
3. With such a talented female cast, you know one of the ladies will go batshit.

After an hour and a half of languid storytelling, I finally got my wish. Who else does better batshit moments than Glenn Close? When her son dies, she writhes, yells, convulses, and finally falls down. Yes, I started laughing. Just as I did during her batshit moments in Dangerous Liaisons and Fatal Attraction. Like, she's having the time of her life being crazy. I recommend the movie because of this and the precious scene where Meryl Streep and Vanessa Redgrave (reteaming after Julia, centuries before) are in bed together. Two legends sharing a mattress and being all actressy. For one second, I was hoping they would make out. Surely, that would have helped things.

Lesson learned: a fit of hysterics always livens things up. Examples: Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, Mary Tyler Moore in a repressed twitch-tastic batshit moment via Ordinary People, Sally Field and Diane Keaton in everything, and Sigourney Weaver in Copycat.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Another Star Sighting--We Totally Forgot!

It's sometimes easy to forget soap-star sightings because these pancaked emoters are crawling the streets (especially from All My Children and One Life to Live--not that we watch these religiously). On October 5th at 4:20 p.m., I was on the 2/3 train and it had just stopped at Chambers Street. Consumed by a foul mood, I was about to scream when there, across the platform, was the original "Todd Manning." Yeah, the one who raped "Marty" and then they became friends afterwards (like Luke and Laura). In any case, seeing Todd made me smile. Several years ago, while watching my much older brother running the marathon, I espied Todd huffing and puffing toward the finish line. I instantly whipped out a Capri menthol. How dare he do that to Marty and then marry Blair, who'd been raped by Max (and I think they're a couple in real life).

Star Sighting and Massacre Countdown

'Twas a gloomy morn, 10/10/07, 10:15 a.m. as Dish stumbled to get coffee cheaper than that chez Le Pain Quotidien. Besides, deli has decaf hazelnut, which is far more delicious than LPQ's watery decaf (plus, I think someone gave me real caf there so I'm still pissed and a little shaky). The clouds parted as I crossed 19th and 7th Avenue. There, I noticed this shaggy-haired dude with a cigar hanging from his lips. Hmmmm. His swagger set off alarms. Why, it's G.E. Smith minus the Saturday Night Live band! He's shorter in person, especially without the camera god-shots, which add at least a foot. Okay, that was mean....

Tune in to the latest on Duran Duran's new album Red Carpet Massacre and their collaboration with Timbaland/Timberlake.

In these precious ten minutes, Nick Rhodes says the word, "Patience" (which sounds so much better with a British accent, like "Pieshints") and Simon Le Bon uses the phrase "harmonic structure." I swear, you'll feel electric sparks. In addition, their new single "Falling Down" is their best since...since...well, in my opinion, since "Rio." (Though I love all their songs equally, no preference whatsoever. I will pay for all of their college educations).

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Martha, Martha, Martha

BF and I don't disagree often, but when we do, it's usually about celebrities (Does the Oscar Curse exist--I say yes, he says no; Hugh Grant's career died after the prostitute bj--I say no, he says yes). The other day, on a street corner, we bickered about whether or not Martha Stewart was a good thing. She broke the law, she's mean, she makes people feel bad about their lack of housekeeping/cooking skills, contends BF. Who doesn't break the law (Dish once shoplifted four Duran Duran filled teen magazines by stuffing them down her pants) and she makes us aspire to beautify the little things, I assert. Lots of people are mean and "a good thing." Supposedly Bill Clinton flies into tantrums, yet is beloved. Barbra Streisand f*&ck-sh&ts her way through movie shoots and is revered for her brilliance. I don't want to be Martha, but I'm mesmerized by her gift. She inspired me to bake a coconut cream pie from scratch and I pride myself on knowing how to fold fitted sheets. Not sure I will glitterize Styrofoam skulls for Halloween, but I'll watch her do it.

And for an older broad, she's kind of hot. C'mon. You know you were thinking the same thing.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

The Guardian: The Movie Sucks But Actors Are Pleasing

What happens when Top Gun and An Officer and a Gentleman have sex? They give birth to The Guardian, no doubt the product of a group of writers/producers desperate for a hit--and hoping audiences are stoopid. And poor Ashton. The boy has talent but his character is utter snoresful--the fault of bad writing. He tried real hard by spouting his first line in a southern accent. But that went away and he fell back on the cadence used in Punked (highly enjoyable adolescent instigation). He's got such charm yet here wastes his energy being all stern and manlicious.

You can guess the plot: down-and-out Coast Guard rescuer, taking all kinds of pills because a mission went bad and his wife left him, has the chance to refresh while instructing other rescuers--hello, Bull Durham? Enter Ashton who's a youthful seemingly emotionless Costner. He's not a team player (gee, I wonder if he'll learn), but an excellent swimmer. Cos and Ash go against the grain, butt heads, flash each other testosterone-laden scowls. Eventually, they're buds. Then suddenly, there's a real test--oh crap! Dish isn't all the way through, but I know the drill. Maybe Costner will die, after all, the formula of screenwriting dictates the mentor's death. Maybe Ash will save him and they'll kiss. Sigh, maybe I'll watch Gossip Girl instead...

I believe in both actors. They just have to stop choosing mediocrity.

Monday, October 01, 2007

How a Tap Teacher Destroyed My Dreams (for now)

Since I was five, I've wanted to be Gene Kelly. While hanging in the French Alps, one of my father's students taught me basic tap on the floor of their classroom. Centuries later, in 2004, my brother and I went to a beginning tap class at Steps on Broadway--but it was for ADVANCED beginners. We sucked. Three years later, I was watching An American in Paris with BF. I had goosebumps during the "I Got Rhythm" song. So, I decided to try a remedial class at Steps on Broadway. I even checked with the front desk to make sure it was appropriate for someone who was, shall we say, not at all graceful.

I had high hopes. But then, I noticed the other students were twirling, stretching and tapping. They had marvelously toned bodies, like Gene--not like me! Was this truly a beginner's class? Ah, the teacher announced that it was. So it began. In the first five minutes, I was brilliant. The teacher even picked on another girl. Then my horror and humiliation began. For the next fifty minutes, this teacher singled me out on almost every move. Barked at me even when I did as she asked. This was like every bad teacher movie where the instructor is nasty because they know it'll toughen up the crappy student (who will then be grateful). In at least three instances, tears welled up in my eyes. I was only going there to have fun. She even asked me my name in front of the class, announced it, made fun of it, noticed my near-sobbing face and pointed out to everyone that they shouldn't feel overwhelmed. Thank you, dear lady, I will never take yours or any other %&$*&ing class at Steps again.

And if anyone who works there reads this, I already know it's probably a great place to take classes. Just not for me. I already went to public school in France where public humiliation (and corporeal punishment) was a daily part of their grading system. Yes, poor me. But at least I still have the goosebumps.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

Duran Duran = Xanax and Zoloft

Nothing perks Dish up like the mere mention of Duran Duran. Hear ye, all babes in their late thirties: they are on Broadway from November 1-12. I am so going and have started hyperventilating. Brave BF is going, too. I'm excited that this will be his first Duran Duran experience. He doesn't realize the ecstatic joy in which he's about to be enveloped.

In 1984, Dish expressed her love of Duran Duran by penning a fifty-page typed term paper on the band--I got an A+ and I went to a *tuff* high school. It's pure shame for me to read, but my love was pure. Well, in my teens it wasn't so pure, but now I see how they provided a healthy non-Rx cure to adolescent blues. At present, my love is pure. I no longer think about marrying one of the band members. I wouldn't want that life. The money, yes, that would be nice. I'll take that instead (no strings attached, and I want that in writing).

In other news, Frank Miller is in New Mexico directing The Spirit, which stars the great Samuel L. Jackson, Scarlet Johanssen, and Gabriel Macht. After his Sin City and 300 success, this one is sure to be HOT!

And lastly, best shows in the new fall lineup so far: Gossip Girl, The Office, Big Shots, and I like Mariska Hargitay's new short haircut on SVU. Dirty Sexy Money ain't bad either and Donald Sutherland is still a stud at 100 years old!

Monday, September 17, 2007

Star Sighting--Guess Who Walked Me to the Gym Tonight?

17th and 7th Avenue, 6:45 p.m.: Okay, so it wasn't an official escort as the title would suggest, but I did lurk behind Mario Van Peeples up until I reached the gym. The star from my adolescence (that's mean, Dish!) ambled with a babe whose arm went through his in a sort of old-fashioned way. Very cute and they both wore shorts--his were brown, hers olive. He carried a transparent bag with nifty orange shoes inside.

Dish's main observation: Mario Van Peeples hasn't aged in twenty years! It's very frustrating. Aside: How *bad* were the Emmys last night? Great dresses, lame hosting. Worst moment: Eva Longoria with the male cast of Entourage. Quel boring and tacky sexual innuendo.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Britney, Can You Hear Me?

Was she ever talented? Could she ever sing? Watching her lip-sync and stumble through her song, "Gimme More" last night pained me. The surest way to stay famous is to screw up repeatedly, be less-than-mediocre when you used to attract the likes of Madonna and Justin Timberlake. Not to mention the media has a severe case of schadenfreude (sp?) over Britney and it's really sad. They all ask for it, and I can feel superior while burying my face in a bag of Cheetos. Dish can't sing either, so Britney and I are equal. Except she's way richer.

On a positive note, because that's what The Secret preaches (imagine, Rhonda Byrne was inspired to write the bestseller thanks to a "hundred-year-old book" her daughter gave to her. I'm curious what hundred-year-old book it could possible be. There aren't that many to choose from!), Dish is over her long-time disdain for Ryan Philippe. He might be okay. Cruel Intentions was a black mark on his permanent record, along with an account or two of his stepping out on Reese (which is like taking out the garbage in Hollywood and France). But he redeems himself in Breach, where he's an agent hired to bring down his boss, Chris Cooper (who looks as if he has a three-pack-a-day habit and drinks hard). The acting was excellent.

And now, to scour the web to find Yentl, another supposed trainwreck that'll bring everything full circle.

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Yuma::Uma as Art::Cart

After The Insider, Dish went through a major Russell Crowe phase until an ex said he looked like my brother. There were reports of Russell's drunken brawls and excessive behavior. Following these discoveries, his award speeches became a little too self-righteous and sulky. In A Beautiful Mind, his performance seemed like that of every crazy person (and his being on screen with The Jennifer Connelly was far too much beauty for me). Soon after this, he threw a phone at someone. I acknowledge attempts to soften his public personality, like doing A Good Year, which was ninety minutes I'll never get back.

Despite all this drama, Dish will admit here, after many years of Russell Resentment, He Kicked Ass in 3:10 to Yuma. We are back on the Russell Bandwagon.

In this flick, he shoots people and draws pretty pictures. With one long green-eyed stare, he lures a mysterious barmaid into his bed. Somehow, he makes Christian Bale hideous when they are in the same shot (pun intended). And Russell is the only man I've ever seen who can wear turquoise successfully. This film is a must-see for lovers of action movies, Russell, Christian Bale, Westerns, and those skeptical that an Aussie and Welshman (or is it Scot) can aw-shucks their way through the 1860s American West. They do it all!

Speaking of doing it all, Roger Federer won the US Open. The match was so tense, I had to flip over to Along Came Polly (and caught the scene where Phillip Seymour Hoffmann gives his brilliant speech at the end), which I'm convinced helped Federer win. And to end my weekend, I'll attempt to watch the MTV Awards, though I have the feeling it's going to be a festival of stupid people.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

The Apple in Matt Damon's Eyes

There's no sense to the title of this post, but Dish finally saw The Bourne Ultimatum and went to the Apple Store downtown. Flick-wise: Adored the premise and acting. But within five minutes, anxiety had rejigged the electricity in my heart. Damn that editing, why was it so choppy? And the handheld camera really bothers me now since everyone uses it after the Blair Witch Project and Traffic. I get the symbolism. Oooooh, lots of frenetic action, so much going on, frantic, everyone going nuts! While I enjoyed seeing Damon kick some CIA/NSA ass, the technical aspects of the film made the experience less pleasurable. But it was nice to see BF all into it.

Life does offer sweet moments, i.e. eating marzipan, watching tennis, eating marzipan while watching tennis, but some Apple stores are sour. Last weekend, I walked to the Apple Store on Prince Street, hoping to replace the battery of my iPod. I entered and had a panic attack. Crowds, iPhone mania, bright lights. I walked out. Today at lunchtime, I walked down there again and was greeted by affable nerds. They told me to go upstairs where I encountered more nerds, one of whom said I needed to make a reservation to change my battery and the soonest would be in four hours. "Uh, I'm sorry but I have a job," I responded. It was like a doctor's office. You need to make an appointment and you NEED to get this fixed by these people otherwise things won't work properly. I cursed Steve Jobs on the way home. Lucky for me, the second nerd gave me an address near my home where I could get the battery replaced. The deed was done within ten minutes (this second place catering to poorer Apple users).

Monday, September 03, 2007

Belated Birthday Boy

Oh Keanu, we don't know how old you are anymore. It doesn't matter and when it does, ask Tom Cruise to freeze you so that you can return a clear in Scientology. Then, once I realize the absurdity of this suggestion, I'll run, I knock down cabs, buses and make sure you are safe. Well, maybe not, but Happy Birthday anyway. Hey, who do you think is cuter: Roger Federer of Rafael Nadal?

Whoring out your children -- The Dakota Fanning Method

Cranky Rant of the Night: Theft! Three ad adencies came up with the brilliant idea of having kids say smart, edumacated stuff about certain products -- kids who would probably rather make their poopies into boats in the toilet bowl. Companies doing these silly ads are, AIG, and Verizon. Yes, these robotic, money-obsessed children are our future. Either that or children are the new pets. And they grow up so fast...and get busted for DUI twice and driving high and without a license and do nothing for humanity.

Saturday, September 01, 2007

Overdue Identification of Star Sighting

Dish is never wrong when it comes to star sightings. I get a tingle that indicates I'm in the presence of someone who's been on TV and in film. Last night, BF and I were watching Inside Man and that's when I saw my mystery actory, Peter Frechette. He plays the guy who didn't cough up his cell phone, then got the crap beaten out of him by Clive Owen (though Clive is so pretty I'd act stupid for extra attention, too). Anyhow, PF is all over the hood--have seen him in Starbuck's and even exercised next to him at the gym. All these times, I got that tingle but no name came to mind.

Now, am obsessed with tennis. That McEnroe Amex commercial was cute the first time I saw it. By its 400th airing, I hate the man and the card. Have studies been done on the negative effects of seeing the same thing over and over again? Oh wait, that's why everyone now hates Britney, Paris, and Lindsay. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Friday, August 31, 2007

Goddess Bless Juliana Margulies

My father once said her character on ER reminded him of me (yeah, she attempts suicide in the first episode), but despite this, I have a soft spot for Juliana Margulies. She's survived some heinous TV and movie projects. Most recently, I had the misfortune of watching (skimming through) the cinematic sh*t-fest Snakes on a Plane, where she plays a well put together flight attendant. Somehow, she manages to keep her hair hot even when Samuel L. shoots out the windows of the plane as it's landing. Juliana was also the long-suffering mobster's girlfriend in Out for Justice, i.e. she shared air with Steven Seagal and his gay beret. In The Mists of Avalon, she dons an accent and has to share the screen with Angelica Huston and Joan Allen. There've been many other questionable choices, but Dish would gladly do shots with her (not that I have ever done a shot). JM would be a benign force on our lifeboat out of hell.

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Hot US Open Profile

I don't care that he's old enough to be my son, Rafael Nadal is the chocolate mousse with Oreo cookie crust of Tennis--so delicious I can barely stand it. Dish has supported him (not literally because I'm really not his mother--the genetics don't work out--and I don't have that kind of money) for a couple years now. Yesterday, he played for three hours with a sore knee, which was so like the time I had to walk home during the August 2003 blackout. Hours of grueling pain and fumbling in the dark. We're with you, Rafael. Bless you and your sweaty headband.

Dish loves Maria Sharapova, too, mostly because she seems like a diva and won tonight's match without blinking. She is so the girl who ignored me in high school (whom I secretly worshipped). What are the odds that she, like the Williams sisters, will become an actress?

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Haiku for Owen Wilson

Owey, sad and sick
Hugs, leis with palm-waving babes
That's all a boy needs

Put your star feet up
Talk dirty with Dr. Phil
Suck down some Zoloft

Everything will chill
No one else has your nose
Maybe find Jesus?

All is love, Owey
we say this under duress
Just get through today

And eat vitamins
Laugh at funny stupid folk
Does Vince Vaughn smell bad?

Monday, August 27, 2007

Over Hill and...Gale

With respect to celebs, I usually have Tom Cruise dreams (no idea why). Last night, I was blessed with my first Gale Harold dream. Of course, I did nothing for which I am ashamed, except dye my hair a hideous blond/orange. In this subconscious romp, I wore tight jeans and black t-shirt to a seedy bar where Gale slinging drinks. He was so tall I thought his head would poke through the ceiling. After ordering my beer (I usually drink scotch), I went to the ladies--because in this dream, I wasn't worried about skankies slipping me a rufee--and there was Gale eating cookie dough that also substituted for hair mousse. I told him how tall he was and he nodded and kept eating. Since I mostly know GH as Brian Kinney in Queer As Folk, he had that confident slinky essence. He left the cookie dough with me and went back to his job. Instead of following, I took the cookie dough and put it in my wretched hair. It was, after all, hair mousse.

All I could say when I woke up was: What the f*%&?

On to reality:

Missed Potential Star Sighting Right Now, 17th and 7th Avenue, 6 p.m: Papparrazzi, movie trailers abound, though didn't want to bother the Important People to ask what was being filmed. It forced me to consider that I've probably wasted the last twenty years of my life...And Brian Kinney would smirk yes at me. Whatever, he just ruined our sexy week pass (granted by BF as long as he gets Reese Witherspoon) with that cookie dough junk.

Thoughts and prayers to Owen Wilson. Again, we say, WTF. But even the famous/rich/ beautiful have troubles. Quel shocking.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

She was Mol-ed!

8/25/07, 8th Avenue between 14th and Greenwich Ave, 9:28 p.m.: BF and I were waddling from dinner and passed a gaggle of girls, one of whom was tres pregnified. It was Gretchen Mol, in a white sundress (like Jane Krakowski from previous post) and she was choking down ice cream. I was wishing for ice cream since Mother had just doused my chocolate cupcake in rum, thereby soaking my sober refined sugar. One day, I'll get my just dessert. For now, I'm just reporting a celebrity sighting. GM looks as cute in person as in movies and she's annoyingly non-fat while with child.

And the latest spurt of gossip--Sandra Bullock is loved by me (though can't take her sad-sack routine in While You Were Sleeping) but she owns land near my Texas relatives and according to them, SB's tenants are noisy a**h**s. Complaints were made, but nothing was done until recently when legal action was taken (let's hope). Not good, SB. I would be a far better person to watch over your land....

Thursday, August 16, 2007

A Week of 30 Rock

8/13/07, 10:55 am, 15th and 5th Avenue: Though dying of sinus ennui, I forced myself to walk in the sunshine and clear my head. As I rounded 15th street, I saw a blond with a pointy nose looking down the street (as if waiting to meet her clandestine lover for a tryst). She wore a flowing white sundress and I couldn't get over her pointy nose. Did I say it was pointy? Well, it was...and it belonged to Jane Krakowski!

8/16/07, 6:30 pm, Duane Reade at 19th and 7th Avenue: Slightly stalkerish, but I saw the familiar back of someone's head and I followed. My public excuse, I had to get cat food. The truth was I had to see if it was really Jack McBrayer from 30 Rock. I darted into the Duane Reade, hot on his heel. As I caught him at the end of an aisle, my search was rewarded. 'Twas he!

I don't even watch the show! Maybe now I will...Well, probably not.

Sunday, August 12, 2007

Starvation Central and Curtains!

Tuesday, August 7th, 6:40 p.m.: As I raced home to do some ten minute prepping for a date with BF, my sharp eye caught a diner at Merchants on 17th and 7th Avenue. My ire was peaked since it was Nina Katz (Nadia Dajani) who gave Carrie Bradshaw "the look" on Sex and the City. I mean, Carrie irritated the crap out of me for her wishiwashiness, but it's futile trying to convince a cat not to eat its own hair. Even though Nina was right to be annoyed, I'd never give anyone The Look for giving up the greatest guy in the world. Nadia sat with a companion, looking as perky and lovely as on the episode. And she's been in a gazillion indies. Of course, my greatest wish was for her to say, "I'm starvation central," one of her lines in the episode. Yes, it's scary Dish remembers this.

On Friday, while feigning exercise at the gym, I flipped on All My Children and was horrified to have stumbled on to its Shakespearean episode. The dialogue was stultifying, mostly due to the fact that after each statement said aloud, the character would then launch into a monologue about how he/she really felt. This allowed the actor to really dig into his/her acting chops, but it made me want to start smoking again (out of sheer boredom). Someone in the writing room was having too much fun emoting. Fun for the typer, snoresville for the viewer.

Friday night, we went to see Curtains. Because of mixed reviews, we expected to fall asleep during the performance but it was wildly entertaining. David Hyde Pierce is the first man to be invited to Dish's slumber Party (which includes Joyce DeWitt, Naomi Watts, Pamela Anderson, Helen Mirren, and Jennifer Connelly). We love him!

Monday, August 06, 2007

The Police Are Arresting at Giant Stadium

While I usually thought of The Police as the band whose videos appeared on MTV when Duran Duran's should have been playing, their concert sent a charge through my nostalgic heart yesterday at Giants Stadium. Suddenly, I was their biggest fan and had been all along.

At fourteen, I despised how Sting hogged the screen and my friend Diane never stopped talking about his hotness. He was like totally in a G-string in Dune and such an awesome actteeerrrr. And when The Police drifted apart, I was anti-Sting (I called him Stink). Not to mention, he's responsible for Madonna's faux British accent since he and his wife (who was excellent on that episode of "Friends") introduced her to Guy Ritchie. This means, Sting is responsible for the movie Swept Away, that suckfest remake starring Madge.

When The Police announced their tour earlier this year, I was ready to go, supporting the band and not the lead singer. I now admit he's an amazing performer. I may even buy his lute album. The most fun was watching BF nod along and sing with the music. In fact, the whole audience nodded along. This wasn't a dance-friendly concert, like say with other 80s bands, but by no means less joyous. They did the classic songs without pirouettes across the stage. They just played and sang, distracting the audience with some graphics and flashing lights. BF is contemplating getting his hair cut like Sting's. Something to look forward to. Once again, Sting may be responsible for a disaster (though BF goes to the barber once a month).

Oh, and The Police had two opening bands (prolonging the agony for die-hard fans--Sting probably needed those two hours to partake in tantric mash), one of which was Fiction Plane, fronted by his son. Can you imagine being Sting's son? He may be a good father, but I'm glad I'm a productive underachiever so that my children don't need to be traumatized by my brilliance. And I'll be cheaper to care for when I'm old. Then again, Sting has six children (helping along overpopulation, like Steven Seagal) and a castle, so he'll be fine. I won't be worried for him.

In any case, so The Police were hot and I just spent five dollars downloading their songs--the most I've spent aside from the fortune for concert tickets. Well worth the dough.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Dysfunctional Star Sighting

This may be premature, but we might have seen a fifty-something actor on an erectile dysfunction commercial. He was buzzing down 42nd and 7th, the perfect place to spice up your libido on a Saturday night. Not sure if it was he, but the second we see this commercial again, will confirm...

Baking the Dish

I was shopping for BF's birthday presents at J&R when I spotted the DVD for Waking the Dead, i.e. the movie where I first developed a girl-crush on Jennifer Connelly (okay, so maybe it was much earlier, like with Inventing the Abbotts). Faster than you can say Mary-Louise Parker, I bought the thing (got BF something too) and am now staring at the cover. The combination of Jennifer and Billy Crudup is almost too beautiful to bear. Not to mention their self-righteous dialogue pulls at my heartstrings (or at least, the heartstrings that care about politics). My only objection to this movie is the cliched vomit scene to prove that someone is 1) a drunk 2) pregnant 3) has just seen a dead body or something equally gross. Oh, and I sort of cringe when Jennifer puts on a southern accent in some parts. Those accents never take (except with Kyra Sedgewick in The Closer, which is on in ten minutes!). Otherwise, Billy makes us cry at the end and it's a testament to how strong love can be, even in death. So, if BF were to die because of his humanitarian efforts, I'm sure I'd see him everywhere and try to psychically channel him. This would be especially difficult considering he doesn't believe in that stuff. I once made a suitor watch Waking the Dead and his eyes rolled in the back of his head after ten minutes. He thought I meant to watch it for the love story. But really, it was sort of all about Jennifer.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Lindsay Doesn't Know the Secret

Poor so-overhyped-as-to-be-boring Lindsay Lohan. Dish thought she was going the way of Jodie Foster, what with her oh so cute Hayley Mills redo of The Parent Trap. Gosh, I could barely speak English at eleven much less do a British accent. And then, Lindsay went the obvious Loser route, choosing suckoid movies and crazy friends and now where is she? So not Jodie.

What does Lindsay need? She needs someone to tell her The Secret. That's right. The brilliant never-heard-of-before key to success unlocked just recently by Rhonda Byrne. No one knew before that thinking positive would drive a person toward success. Clues have existed all this time but it took a television writer and producer to figure it all out. Screw getting a Ph.D. If you just think about stuff in a good way, you'll be super-fabu.

So, Lindz, take that little nugget of advice and listen to the secret. If you follow the three steps, you can still stuff yourself in a bikini but also regale the masses with your portrayal of Eleanor Roosevelt. We're following The Secret too, therefore, rooting for you (no matter what we really think).