Joan and John

Dish was on the subway last night and heard the following (paraphrasing only minimally):

"How's Joan doing?"
"She's on the beach with her 25 y.o. concubine. You know, standard for Hollywood."
"I bet she's paying him."
"Now, he paying HER!"

The two boys looked around and became super-conscious of people listening so I knew it was someone big. My celebrity senses had kicked in at "Joan."

Hmmmm. Which Joan... JOAN COLLINS, of course! Love her forever! I would totally let her bitchslap me.

In Duran Duran news, the object of my teenage (and adult) fantasies, John Taylor will guest star on Samantha Who on January 12th. Dish has marked her calendar. I always meant to watch the show because Christina Applegate is hysterically funny and underused in Hollywood. Now watch, the characters are going to flail, tap dance, and screech around him and he's going to stand there like a piece of wood. Then again, I'd take a wooden John Taylor over nothing. He's a natural in front of the camera. Thought he was great in Sugartown even though the movie was so-so.

As for 2008, GOOD RIDDANCE!!! Dish wishes you all the loveliest of New Year's.

Oops! Pod-en Me...

It's not every day I dream about Liev Schreiber. Usually, they are purposeful daydreams where I pretend Naomi Watts never happened. But why do Liev and I have to be living Invasion of the Body Snatchers together? For once, he plays a supporting role and I am the star:

I'm on the beach with my three children (?). Liev bounds up, wearing gray swimming trunks. I still have a crush but am bitter. "So, how many kids have YOU got?" he asks, as if not seeing evidence of my debauchery. "Three," I respond. His shoulders droop as he says, "Oh. I only have two." He turns away, satisfaction reigns. Suddenly I am transported (without kids, thank Gawd) to a large Prep school. I see a preacher type, someone trying to convince me that this new "existence" is Utopia. An old short-haired lady stands next to me and I know I have to protect her. We run. As people turn into pods and squeal their way into freakdom, I keep running. Just as I'm about to be caught by the preacher, my alarm goes off.

WTF???

What to do?

If you get bored this holiday season, make yourself a Gale Harold coaster! Somehow, I received a set of personalized coasters and what better way to toast my adoration than to place a big, fat drink on my beloved. It's fab, it's fresh, it's...maybe a little crazy.

Speaking of crazy, I had TWO star sightings yesterday within five minutes of each other. I smell a conspiracy.

12:25, 21st and 7th: Dish comes out of store that gave her a new watch battery. I wondered why the guy took so long and now I know. If he hadn't I would have MISSED Jonathan Cake grumpily hailing a cab with a woman who might have been his mother. He wore glasses. Not his best look, but I know how gorgeous he really is. The holidays always ruffle feathers.

12:28, 19th and 7th: Dish then walks into a deli to get a sandwich, waddles out and spots Mo Rocca wearing a J.Lo-ish warm-up suit and slurping some drink from a straw. We see Mo all the time. Might live in our neighborhood.

Since I have no TV right now, I'm desperate for stimulation. Superman seems to out fighting crime (gambling like Omar Shariff in Funny Girl, which is why I'm glad we're not married) and I'm not sure I can take reading more books or having live conversations. What else but to go star-gazing (and make retarded coasters of my favorite celebrities)?

Singing a Bad Tune?

Dish watched SNL the week Kanye West sang and thought, "Wow, he sounds like me in the shower," as in atonal. Our world supports mediocrity as long as it looks good, so I dismissed my criticism as irrelevant. Plus, Kanye's stinky voice that night gives me hope that I too can be a rock star. Put me in glow-in-the-dark sunglasses and I'm so there.

Flash forward to last night: Superman and I were dining to celebrate the holidays. He discussed tuners and brought up Kanye West's appearance and how people were frustrated that his tuner (the thing that makes singers sound good) was not working. So maybe I can tell if someone stinks. Then came on my doorstep Steven Seagal's On Deadly Ground. Which was on my Christmas wish list. Among several turd-tastic flicks.

So, never mind.

But I don't wanna see Daddy naked...

Now that he's President, this kind of picture (which I'm totally bringing more attention to) disturbs me, though the one on the cover of today's Post was the culprit. As I paid my 50 cents, I had to avert my eyes (maybe I peeked a little). Obama isn't supposed to have a naked body, much less defined pecs and abs. It seems so...I dunno...raunchy. I'm sure some peen pics will surface at some point. Watch where you wizz, Obama!

Dish's Annual Jesus's Birthday Newsletter

Dear Readers,

Gosh, where has the time gone? I hope your year has been as festive as mine, filled with accomplishments, rejuvenating events and, most importantly, warm hearts. While Dish can't relay fun tidbits about little Dishette's ballet recital (dance + meds = hilariousness!) or Disher's finally making the soccer team (even with his earth-shaking weight problem), I can offer happy thoughts as the year winds up.

Not only did I give myself a record number of facials, manicures and pedicures this year, but I bought a new purple rug, which my cat has only vomited on three times. I ran long distances, played epic Scramble matches on Facebook, ironed baskets of clothes, attempted to infuse wheat germ into my diet, kicked my Cheetos addiction, and bought too many lipsticks at Sephora. I avoided all coverage on the pregnant man and lapped up new shows on Lifetime (and smoked two cigarettes). In addition to emptying two whole bottles of scotch (okay, that's not a lot), I found a ridge on my nose that Nicole Kidman also has. Dish bought a record number of what-was-I-thinking DVDs (Music & Lyrics, Flatliners) during Breakup Aftermath, but travelled physically to New Mexico and San Francisco, skiied in Lake Placid and, more recently, dodged black ice in Chelsea. The biggest feat was turning 40, which, thanks to my family and friends, was luscious and I can stomach being lumped into the Demi Moore (barren) age bracket and called a "cougar." Dish is fierce!

My star sightings ranged far and wide, from Cheyenne Jackson going to Viceroy to Yasmine LeBon grooving at her husband's concert in Central Park. Through all of it, Dish almost yakked from the excitement...and loved every second. Yes, 2008 has been quite a year.

So as we celebrate the birth of Jesus (Season of Shopping), let's take a second to appreciate the celebrities, who are the new Jesus.

There, that's enough blasphemy for one day...

Love, Dish!

Little Girl Lost: Ellen

No, not that one. Dish watches Fatal Attraction regularly (Glenn Close revs us up) and the daughter Ellen always disturbs me. Is she really a girl? Her name could be Alan (bleck!). I spend the duration wondering how screwed up this kid'll turn out with the boiled rabbit, the sex-addicted father (oh wait, that's just Michael Douglas), and especially the boy haircut. Though, is gender identity important at eight? At any age? Maybe Ellen would have been better off with Glenn Close. At least she makes crazy into a weekend of fun.

Best line of the movie: "I woke up, you weren't there, I hate that."

Gale Is Up and About!

Today's theme song: "Peacekeeper" by Fleetwood Mac

My Christmas wish has been granted: Gale Harold was spotted up and about in LA. My short-term memory has vanished like Dharma's father's in Dharma & Greg and lethargy keeps me from rediscovering the specifics. Just know: He's alive! If I were him, I'd be so sick of watching Dr. Phil, lying in bed, and reading mags. I'd want to jump back into life. We Galeisourcrackaholics are thankful. Dish is watching Particles of Truth to celebrate!

Overdue star sighting: Tuesday 12/16/08, 7 pm. While finding ingredients for my grandmother's lemon bars at the West Side Market, Dennis Miller whooshed by me saying, "excuse me, pardon me." I felt instant revulsion only because Superman hates him. I have no problem with Dennis, though I'm still at that beginning point in the relationship where I can't think for myself. The official term for this is: Testosterone Poisoning. Then again, it might not have been Dennis Miller at all.

Back to frantic shopping!

Hiding the Bah Humbug

I'm not sure about this season's entertainment selections. Already saw The Spirit, which was fun. Might go see Valkyrie to laugh my fanny off at Tom's intensity/the eyepatch/the swelling music. That said, I don't think eyepatches are funny (just funny on Tom!) and losing an eye is serious business. On with rant: The Tale of Despereaux smells like Ratatouille, The Yes Man kinda like Liar Liar thougn Jim Carrey contortions make me pee a little. Seven Pounds is another Will Smith Oscar vehicle (more swelling music). I'm not curious about The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (assinine alliteration) because I already saw the aging backwards conundrum on Mork & Mindy thirty years ago. I'm sure the flick will win the Oscar for Best Makeup (prosthetics always win) and if we go by Oscar trends, pretty wins, so Brad could take Best Actor as his seventh child. While I want to see Revolution Road, it's such a downer and another Oscar vehicle for Leo and Kate. I already see suburban marital discord between beautiful people on Mad Men.

Give me fun holiday entertainment without a gimmick or desperate attempt to seize an award. Something that is most likely a big pile of crap but wants to uplift a gloomy recession-suffering audience. Give me the new Emma Thompson/Dustin Hoffmann romantical-potentially-sucktastic Last Chance Harvey (Dishmama and Dishstepfather, WE'RE GOING!). Plus, Dish loves geezer sex--in sweet romantic comedies only! Bonus points for not putting Emma in a ditch to make Dustin look taller, except in the movie poster.

Update: Screw Last Chance Harvey, Dish is picking Marley and Me!

Must. Lie. Down.

Holidays. Insane. Dying. Cat barfed on bedwear. Hurt shoulder due to excessive knitting. A Good Woman with Helen Hunt and Scarjo--recommend. Story goes: whores with a heart of gold can get the man as long as he's old. Tom Wilkinson, old yet hubba hubba in everything. Oscar Wilde writes loveable chicks. That's it--Dish is cooked!

When Superman Met Frank Miller...

Star Sightings on 12/15/08, 6:30 pm, Tribeca Grand: Dan Lauria, "Winnie" from The Wonder Years, and Frank Miller, along with his beautiful girlfriend Kimberly, assistant Mark and others involved with The Spirit. Picture it: Dish screaming directions at Superman upon reaching the Tribeca Grand. I see Him: the tall stooped behatted artist clad in black, puffing away on a butt. Mid-sentence, I hang up on Superman and run up to hug Frank Miller. That happens often. I forget everything when in the presence of greatness. Superman finally finds me and is pleasantly surprised to meet FM. We go into the event and gorge on hors d'oeuvres, sizing up outfits and snacks. Superman accosts the cater-waiters instead of waiting for them. He grabs two boxes of popcorn, a Snickers, and a Twix. We're both on diets. For starters, my starstruckedness is such that I spill my entire drink on Superman's crotch as the movie begins. I apologize for this and for hanging up on him. I warn him it might happen again and he's all-accepting. For Miller and Eisner fans, The Spirit is wildly fun with many luscious moments. Less violence than Sin City, no less fabulous cast, more comedy. Samuel L. Jackson and Scarlet Johannssen steal the show. I'm curious to see what mainstream viewers think. The world definitely needs a hero--I'd take Gabriel Macht any day!

Getting Into The Spirit

My biggest care in movie watching is running time. The Spirit is 103 minutes. Over 120 and I get super-fidgetty (Shakespeare and Wagner are OUT). Remember when movies were at least two hours? My attention span has waned with the times. Now, I get my array of coping tools to deal with running time agita. Flavored toothpicks, pen caps, paper clips, Tic Tacs, a quarter, knitting, water, and the cure-all: Altoids. In ten minutes, I'll walk .6 miles to my destination where I'll meet Superman. Can you tell I'm nervous? The last time I went to a Frank Miller movie screening, Matthew Modine stood ahead of me in line. The best part, he had to tell the ticket person who he was. I plan to act outraged when the list-master asks for my name. Don't you know who I am? It's Dish, B*tch!

Holiday Puffy

Dish put in Kramer vs. Kramer to feel nostalgia, but I ain't feeling it! I don't care anymore. Give me The Sound of Music, where family, love, hiding from Nazis, meddling nuns, Julia Andrews's helmet hair, and bursting into song are the norm. The only thing I'm enjoying in the former is JoBeth Williams's huge glasses.

Tomorrow, I see The Spirit, Frank Miller's new movie. Can't wait!
ps. Significance of title? Dish is getting FAT!

Made of What's in My Cat's Litter Box

In Made of Honor, someone took a big dump on a 90-page script, then hired Patrick Dempsey who is the new Clooney-from-ER-10-Years-Ago-Sort-Of (cute in the 80s but both became heartstopping as middle-aged actors on medical shows). The producers then transferred PD into a cutesy romantic comedy riddled with plot holes (sorta like One Fine Day) and tried to serve the steaming pile to a seemingly gullible public. Not even for the delightful resurgeance of Kadeem Hardison is this rentable. Not even if your dog needs a place to pee is it worth the pain of Netflix queue placement. The greatest offense is that Michelle Monaghan (maybe I'm totally misunderstanding) is supposed to be almost 30. She and Pattycake were in the same dorm ten years ago and became best friends since then. Using the Associative Property from Algebra I, Michelle and Pat are the same age. Sorry, but Patty ain't no pushing 30. I love him since the 1980s, but that trying-to-go-younger thing is an insult to us geriatrics. It was age that refined Dempsey into the fine wine of today. He didn't need so much concealer under his eyes in that museum scene (though the lights were bright and Dish enjoys dimmer bulbs, too). Sorry to be so harsh, but I expect more from the fine actors in this film.

Semantics

Today's Post claimed to show Jennifer Aniston naked. Of course, that's the reason why I bought the paper (along with their sudoku). As I turned the pages, I realized I'd been HAD! She's covering her more pertinent areas and they call that naked? Last I checked, naked meant removing all clothing. Dish would even demonstrate if offered enough money (like a million and a wide angle lens to put entire butt in frame). I know what you're thinking: Why does Dish want to see naked pics of Jennifer anyway? Why not? Another use for the Post is that it's throwing a Duran Duran sweepstakes which I entered. Fingers crossed!

Status of bruised leg: Turning yellow
Celebrity sightings: 0 and getting worried. Might redeem at special screening of The Spirit next week
Superman Status: Priceless, has introduced Dish to fluke (a kind of fish) and octopus
Fantasies of smoking cigs again: 20,000
When will Dish watch last night's ep of DSM: Right now!

Intolerance of Ugly

The news these days--sheesh. That Illinois governor should resign on the basis of being unattractive, as well as corrupt. All hail Obama for his call that Gov. Uggo resign (Uggo and Spitzer could grease up in a nice jacuzzi). Does Obama have actual power yet or are his "calls" just strong suggestions? I'm sure he could have me killed. Am intrigued by Patterson's appointment for Hill's replacement. I have strong opinions--please, let someone who is crazily experienced and not just eager get the job. As Michael Douglas says in The American President, "We've got serious problems and we need serious people to solve them..."

Speaking of serious problems, it's raining and Dish's hair is in full frizz. Superman is coming over. How to stop this monstrosity before it ruins my life? Maybe I could be governor...

ps. Desperate Housewives is a little stinky without Gale, though I'm enjoying Dana Delany getting some action.

Indiana's Crystal Crap

Sadly, Dish suffers from one of the following (too soon after falling in the subway gap at 149th Street Grand Concourse):

1. food poisoning from bad chicken at Whole Foods salad bar
2. a cute appendicitis (never an ugly one)
3. self-indulgent holiday blues while others are starving in Third World countries

Whatever the ailment, it's worse that Dishmama is France-bound for the next two weeks. To ease my pain, I slip in the latest Indiana Jones. After an hour, I have to interrupt to write how suck-tastic it is. Not only is Shia LeSmurf stinking up the screen as he gets whacked in the nuts by jungle flora, but Cate Blanchett's appalling caricature makes my stomach turn even more. I love Cate so I'm sure I'm just the wrong audience. The soothing metaphorical Tums comes in the form of Karen Allen who is always a joy to behold. How I will get through the last hour, I'm not sure, but I must. I'll do it for Karen who is also a knitter.

Flirting with Dish...

...who burnt the end of her middle finger while ironing shirts. Now on CSI and Law & Order, they won't be able to find my criminal record in a database. After my weekend in Albany visiting Superman's natural habitat and meeting Jor-el (who bounces his knee spastically the same way Superman does), Dish is finally settled in for a peaceful week. Funny tidbit--in Bridget Jones fashion, I watched Superman sleep on the train (he always seems to fall asleep in moving vehicles). I took it a step further and snapped pictures of the superhero snoring and drooling all through the Hudson Valley. I was tempted to draw on a mustache just as Ross did to Rachel on Friends when they were flying to Vegas.

The real news: I saw Flirting with Forty and had a terrible time reconciling Heather's real age with that of her heroine. I love Heather but it might have been more interesting to have her be 50. The surfer-dude leading man was hunky and nice, but just not great enough for Heather. What's the message? That older women can snag younger men, too? Or that older women can settle, too? Or that we can have fun even while on the brink of death? I wasn't quite sure. And I resented that poor Heather had to do all the traveling to tryst with Mr. Abs-of-Steel. I don't recommend it (but will secretly watch again).

Tonight and the rest of the week--am catching up with Mad Men and falling more deeply in love with Jon Hamm.

4 Minutes to Save the World

Dish has seconds to post. I'm at Superman's and he's busy doing something OCD (cleaning with bathroom tile Q-Tip). My news: Do we really believe A-Rod and Madonna are just friends? Everyone is just friends. Isn't it nice to have a friend? I'd like to befriend all sorts of people.

Major monkey wrench is Dish's plans to see Heather Locklear in Flirting with Forty. I wonder if they'll play it endlessly on Lifetime?

Star Sighting

Spotted at Viceroy this afternoon: Mr. Twinkles here getting fluffed and powdered for a photoshoot. Love it when commentators go glam and fake introspective. Gotta look stunning and young when you're smart (Hello, intemellectual Samantha chick who posed for Vogue and called Hillary a monster). Course, I don't fill my empty head with Mike Barnicle's commentaries. I am above all just a silly girl with no ambition.
Who needs MSNBC when you've got the blinding sun of Keanu Reeves and Jennifer Connelly in a movie together? I thought I would die of beauty-overload when Jennifer and Russell Crowe shared the spotlight in A Beautiful Mind. No, this is far worse. I have my shades ready for The Day the Earth Stood Still. Could be a Matrix-stealing sh*t sandwich, but I'm so there with my sunglasses. Question is: Which one would I marry first--Jennifer or Keanu?

Oops

Just ignore when Dish gets maudlin (see below). It's really that I'm fearful of new places. Tonight's discovery: The Bronx is FABULOUS! What helped: Channeling Jenny from the Block. Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got... But if you've got rocks, def go to Roberto's on Crescent Avenue. Excellent Italian food (and hot waiters that belong on the cover of romance novels). All bad thoughts forgotten (red wine helps).

Flirting with 100

If Dish makes it out of the Bronx alive tonight, Heather Locklear's new Lifetime movie Flirting with Forty will be a source of delight on Saturday. Not only to see her cheek implants and/or Botox, but because Dish loves Heather and supports her through this rough period. Suffice it to say, especially now, I understand the feeling that nothing ever works out--everyone else moves on and drifts away. Wouldn't it be nice if we sad remainders could take a vacation and have a good-looking zygote flirt with us? It's a white How Stella Got Her Groove Back and I can't wait (again, if I get home in one piece). The one good thing about dying in the Bronx would be missing my informal "closure" event this coming Monday (scotch would be involved) where I would say goodbye to a chapter in Dish history. Heather would understand--everyone else would be ashamed.

Mad Men, Dexter, and Corn Chips

The above is Dish's evening. I'm on disk 2 of Mad Men, which is making me want to smoke again--sneak a little rolled up ciggie filled with Bali Shag. Or one of those thin Cafe Creme cigars, the kind you can inhale and it scalds your throat deliciously. I just want one. Which might lead to five and then we're back to puffing Parliaments outside my work building along with the other leather faces. I heart you, tobacco, even though you're bad for me.

Speaking of smokers, let's all Save a Prayer for Duran Duran keyboardist Nick Rhodes, who is suffering a massive ear infection, which has hindered his ability to play in San Antonio (there's a joke in there, but I don't want to receive Hate Mail!).

Hall of Justice

Just watched Obama's announcement of his cabinet. It sort of reminded me of an episode of ancient cartoon, The Superfriends. Remember? Can't you see them all meeting over a problem, flying to their respective quarters, and having a good laugh once the villain is defeated?

Burning of Slick Candle at Both Ends

Dish can boast the same work ethic as Harvey Levin. Harv is the god of TMZ as well as the crowd pleaser outside of The People's Court (starring the fair and feisty Marilyn Milian--Dish is a huge fan). However you may feel about super-invasive gossip-mongers, you gotta admire someone who works like a dog (I would note Ryan Seacrest but he's not really on Dish's radar). I notice Harv's always sipping a drink on TMZ as he listens to his peons sputter dirt. If I were Harvey, that big cup would be filled with scotch. It doesn't take that much to perch over a divider and listen (might as well be hammered). Sometimes, he goes to the whiteboard to write down star-facts (Brenda Johnson also does this on The Closer), making the gossip that much more important. Not to be too PC since Dish loves dirt, but one wonders what Harvey could do for those in need rather than the super-privileged.

Desperate Holidays

I'm twenty minutes through Desperate Housewives and having Gale-Harold-withdrawal shakes. He's "getting stitches" which is code for we-have-no-idea-when-he'll-be-back. How will I endure the long months until his return? My holiday wishes have been answered in that he'll recover. His health is more important than the show (but why is he on Earth if not to entertain me?).

Thanksgiving is over and Dish will arm herself for the next two hurdles--Christmas and New Year's Eve. Holidays are a trifecta of madness. The pretending everything is perfect, just the way you planned, the toasty hearth/home celebrations, overeating, and someone usually has an uncomfortable public moment (okay, that's me). After so many years, I am getting used to the roller coaster. I love my family, I enjoy egg nog, and Superman keeps talking about a present for me. That is close enough to perfect.

Love in the Time of Ego Waffles

Dish is so proud to have spent yesterday watching literary movies. The message of Elizabeth: The Golden Age: being a virgin queen sucks so bad they had to make two movies about her. You can survive spinstertown if you have a good career, fake wings, and white makeup. The message of Love in the Time of Cholera: If you wait for a woman for 53 years, 11 months and 7 days--even after she makes you cry and vomit, then ditches you for the less sexy Benjamin Bratt--you need a hobby. Also, I learned that Liev Schreiber can do everything—except a Spanish accent.

Time to fly. Superman is taking me to the oh-so glamorous Foxwoods where I can totally be like Eva Green to his James Bond while he plays poker. I had to do some Black Friday shopping in my desperate efforts to be prettier than Superman. This is a relationship of substance and maturity.

Ps. A reliable Dish source reports that opera goddess Marilyn Horne is in town.

Dish: The Golden Age

Instead of cholera, I tuned in to Elizabeth: The Golden Age. Some drunk person once told me I had the potential to resemble Cate Blanchett if I tried really hard to lose 100 pounds, go through years of vocal training, then minor plastic surgery. Poor Virgin Queen (yeah, me too). Clive Owen always appears to eff up those celibacy vows. Elizabeth was like: Don't sail away, I forbid you. And Clive was like: I belong on the water and not untying your untried corsette (though I'll totally bonk your lady-in-waiting). Elizabeth got piiisssseeedddd and threw herself even more at Clive (who was just not that into her). That's the problem with Clive. He could have easily gotten a 2-for-1 deal, receiving even more barf-wagons for the high seas and twice the sex. Even if you are queen, you have to play by The Rules (or find someone much younger). Okay, there was a bit more to this movie, but as Virgin Queen of my universe, I fear my memory is selective.

In other news: Duran Duran had to cancel show dates because Nick Rhodes has an ear infection. Flying would rupture our little lamby's ear drum. Stars always provide good lessons for the little people. I am so developing an ear infection the next time I have to fly.

Madonna and A-Rod

2gether 4ever? I don't think so. Madonna still hasn't met her match in terms of superstardom (though Sean Penn was oh-so-close). Now if Jesus were alive... Because M's divorcing, this fling with a mortal is understandable. After bad breakups, you need someone really good-looking to reinflate the ego and tell you you're pretty (Thank you, Superman). So, everyone should ignore the secret meetings between Mad-Rod. Not True Blue.

Covert Thanksgiving Posting

Dish just snuck out of dinner to post. Dishmama, Dishbrother, and Dishbrotherfriend are toiling in the kitchen and I'm here being sneaky. Tee hee! Dish not helping! Despite minor avoidance of family, I am thankful for mine. They make all the difference.

Did everyone watch the Barbara Walters Obama interview last night? I heart Michelle and am looking forward to wearing fun bright dresses to emulate her style. Thought Barbara's showing of her dog Chacha made her seem a little insane. But some people are crazy when it comes to their pets. I made mine wear a bra once.

Tonight, it's all about Lifetime or Love in the Time of Cholera -- an uplifting feel-good epic that tugs at the heartstrings (or rather Javier Bardem is a candidate for sexiest creepy guy alive). I hear Javier and Penelope might be on shaky ground.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Imagine...

It's too exciting. SVU is full of squeaky voices tonight with Brenda Blethyn and Didi Conn as guest stars. Throw in Captain Honeycutt from M*A*S*H and I'm on Cloud Nine (Major Frank Burns was my fave, tho). Tonight's television more than meets my escapist needs.

In the vein of discovering things way after the fact (Dexter, The Bedazzler, Pearl Jam), I just started watching Mad Men and I'm hooked. My fave is Don Draper's wife, January Jones, who's been cool since Love Actually where she played an easy American ho--a role most of us have played on visits to Europe. While the show is so sexist as to be progressive, the female roles are excellent. We know what Dish is doing with her Thanksgiving week -- wearing scarves and pointy bras (drinking in the afternoon)!

People's Sexiest Man Alive is...

FAAAAAAAABULOUS! Dish endorses Hugh Jackman as King of the Universe. I won't admit it publicly but I bought my mother Kate & Leopold (which lives on my bookshelf). It involves history, another reason I love Hugh. For his smarts (he wears too much clothing). He cherishes the past and has done several period pieces. Not only can he wear Regency clothing, he sings on Broadway. Is there anyone more suited (campaign for GH begins now)?

Life can't get any better. Can it? It CAN! Steven Seagal is doing a reality show about being a cop in New Orleans. I'm so running down to Bourbon Street to break a window and steal me some pastries. I want to get collared by Steven Seagal!!!!

Despite all attempts to eff up my holidays, I'm giddy. Superman is taking me away on our first mini-break. We all know how that helped Bridget and Hugh Grant, but Dish will wear long scarf that flaps out window as Superman whisks us across buccolic Connecticut. V. romantic.

Twilight

I'm trying to sport a middle-aged maternal/inappropriate crush on the teen vampire in Twilight but I kinda think someone stepped on his face. Unlike everyone, I couldn't get into the book (or any of the Harry Potters) but I smell mania. Maybe I'll pretend I'm into it! Dish will do anything to be hip. Okay, that's not true.

Meow Again!

It cracks me up how celebrities issue statements about their breakups (Paris Hilton and Benji Madden). This is almost as monotonous as status updates on Facebook (though I can't help obsessively reading everyone's and updating mine every two seconds with something clever that has little to do with my real life). For once, I'd like a celebrity to issue a less glamorous statement: like to say she just farted a big mushroom cloud, or broke a nail recleaning her toilet because of OCD, or just that she is sitting quietly screaming in a dark corner for fun. So much more entertaining than news about revolving door relationships.

Meow

You know that shoplifting actress (as if that's a novelty anymore)? Supposedly she ODed on Xanax while on a plane to London. The little boy's scared of flying. I can relate on that score and only blame her for being less than amazing in movies since Heathers. Haven't we all shoplifted and ODed? Well, I shoplifted four magazines once because I had no funds and Duran Duran was on the cover. At least I did excellent work during my periods of vice--except for the D in Physics. I don't blame the Britneys and the Winehouses for being batsh*t crazy as long as they're producing genius in tandem. If not, go take up oxygen on your own planet. How I long for the real Winona to re-emerge and steal some scenes back from Angelina, for Britney to bust some moves (as well as her sequined bikini) in concert, for Winehouse to fill that much-needed role as an original.

It's time to grow up.

Resurfacers and Religion

Every holiday season, old flames reappear. They say hello, test the waters, hint at underlying loneliness. One must either humor them or press delete. Since October, Dish has had seven resurfacers and the holidays haven't even started. It's a little like Amy Irving in Crossing Delancey except I don't let the Resurfacers into my house during this season--and none resembles the pickleman. By January 2nd, the Resurfacers retreat until spring, the second highest outbreak of "checking in to see who still loves me."

In a random subject change, a woman talked about God on the subway tonight. Shouted, more like. Passed out a pamphlet. It seemed criminal and I turned up Coldplay's "Lost." The other night, as Superman and I embarked on a marathon of Law & Order, I realized all the witnesses had to put their hands on the bible to swear in. How is this legal? I don't remember such outrageousness when I was a witness. Was I given options other than Jesus? If I had to do it all over again, I would swear upon a tin of Altoids. That is my god.

ps. Though Dish adores George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord."

Caught Up and Desperate

Just finished watching last night's Desperate Housewives. Clutched a handkerchief in case my Gale got burnt to a crisp. I'm thinking this might be his last episode and if they write him off the show, I will cry bitter tears forever. My Sunday night ruined (since Brothers & Sisters is not floating my boat this season) because of Gale's mean motorcycle. Maybe Gale's character should have gone up in flames because it would symbolize that he's too hot for that show. Bring on more Broadway shows, indie movies, and dare I say, QAF: Season Six?

Quantum of Hotness

There I was. Daniel Craig in front of me. Superman beside me. Some cute gay boy on my other side. Life couldn't get more perfect. Well, except Superman chewed on straws, ate all the popcorn, raisinettes, and my drink and his own faster than a speeding bullet. Funny coincidence: these days, the movies are about superheroes. What's the difference with James Bond? Nothing. They all have secret lives. So, my brain is collecting facts. I don't want to be like Lois Lane, pregnant and abandoned by a man with covert missions. Despite my mounting skepticism, Quantum of Solace was fabulous and DC is my fave Bond ever. I could have done without the shaky Bourne Supremacy editing style.

Post-movie celebrity sighting: Mo Rocca. 10:20 pm, coming out of Elmo's on 7th and 19th. He flipped his hood but not before I saw him and alerted Superman (who had no idea who he was). I hissed after Rocca: You celebrities think you can hide, but I always see you!
Maybe I'm excessive. This weekend, I heard a Simon Le Bon story that highlighted my faulty logic in trying to meet The Ones I Love the Most. A husband and a wife were in a bar. The husband loved Duran Duran, the wife not so much. Simon Le Bon entered the bar, the husband plotzed, the wife not so much. Simon became more and more intrigued by the wife, even when she told him, "Not so much. I don't really care about you guys." So, basically, the wife played by The Rules and Simon was enchanted.

I will report the following:

*Duran Duran has never been on my radar.
*I so did not write a fifty-page term paper on Duran Duran in high school.
*If I did like Duran Duran, I would have liked John way more than Simon.
*No mullet graced my head, nor did I wear a felt fedora and sportjacket.
*I definitely did not buy coral lipstick because that's what Nick wore to his wedding.
*And I never, ever named my diaries after each member of the band.
*When I accidentally happened upon a Duran Duran concert last May, I did not almost barf chocolate cookie chunks when I saw Simon enter his trailer.
*I always liked Culture Club and Spandau Ballet instead!!!

Just Because It's Friday

[it's like looking at the sun]

A Wild and Crazy Guy

Interested parties should read Steve Martin's autobiography Born Standing Up. The contrast between his funniness and sobriety intrigues me. The ridiculously funny are often deadly serious off stage (Bill Murray?). Shopgirl seemed true to his life and I'd been skeptical that yet another performer could write a weighty book. Now there are two.

Dish is going dark for a few days. My one question: will Obama put a woman in his cabinet? He should put the most qualified, of course. Women get too emotional about things anyway. Speaking of which...Brenda Johnson's doctor just told her she might have early menopause, which induced Fritz's proposal of marriage. Gotta start bringing boyfriends to my doctor appointments because they love hearing about female biology. I'm now fantasizing about fear of Hillary asking for a spare tampon during an Obama cabinet meeting.

Maybe Dish needs to stop watching reruns of The Closer...

No Rhyme or Reason

Jennifer Aniston on 30 Rock: Overrated or a cool comeback? Hope it's the latter. Will find out in seconds.

Can't figure out why I love Jonathan Rhys Meyer so much. He seems a little crazy, but so intense. Velvet Goldmine, The Tudors, Match Point. Love him like a sister. Especially enjoy his new Hugo commercial. He's such a renaissance actor.

I'm continuing my affair with the provocative show Tell Me You Love Me and hope Ally Walker gets hers.

Time for TV!

Wednesday's Whine

Life is generally good--new Prez, new First Lady fashions, exercising obsessively, not eating as much junk food, and burying myself in productivity during a strange, mostly awful year. Not to mention Dish made a command decision. Duran Duran is playing in three cities nearby this December. I am dying to go. I *could* go, but I've spent enough on them this year. Three times would be frivolous and foolish (yet fantastic). Other concerts will come along.

On the brighter side, finally saw Deadwood: Season 3 disk 3 where Dish's imaginary BF Gale Harold plays lawman Wyatt Earp. My indifference to the show might have tainted my enjoyment of Gale, though it could be the offensive mustache. Facial hair hasn't turned me on since Burt Reynolds in Cannonball Run--what can I say, I was a zygote. With utter objectivity (ha!), I can say GH rocked the part, as he did last Sunday as Jackson, the sensitive artiste.

One of the nice things about aging: simple pleasures.

Yes, We Caniston

Supposedly, Jennifer Aniston called out Angelina in the new issue of Vogue. She was like, that's not cool what the Jolie said. Meanwhile, Ange (angel) is threatening to push out more babies, Brad is loving her all over Oprah. I'm like, I wish life were this fun: brushing against equally glittering people, endless clothing, toxic beauty, gorgeous people around (though Dish confesses to having this already), and piles of money so that I could hang out in Target all day long and buy crap.

Okay, I have it pretty good. Plus, as I pop Edy's Dibs (mini ice-cream sandwiches), I get to watch Law & Order: SVU where a homeless man gets his family jewels cut off. Good times!

Okay, I'll Wait in Line

Dish hates standing in line. The track lighting beats down, exposing me to all kinds of scrutiny. What happens if I leave the line? Then I don't get what I want. If I stay, I might choke on my own air. Once the cashier scans my stuff, I'm stuck until he/she's done. When I stand in line, I become Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory, only instead of Catcher in the Rye, I tend to buy stuffed elephants on impulse (Duane Reade has an excellent supply). I see them, I have to have them. While I don't have tapioca pudding in a padlocked fridge, I keep a steady supply of Altoids, which remind me minty freshness removes all obstacles. And so does Ganesh the great elephant god. (This sounds a little crazy, doesn't it?) When Superman saw my array of trunk-happy creatures, I told him I was planning on giving them to sick children. Which made me feel super-bad (because I'm going to keep them!). Long story short, I'm getting Tivo. Given my social life, I need to watch my stories at my convenience.
Okay...now I have to figure out how to get TIVO or DVR, which might take another couple years. I'm told the process of upgrading my technology involves waiting in the line from hell. Nothing was worse than my eight-hour wait to renew my student Visa in Paris.

Random Thoughts as I Procrastinate

At the end of this long and gratifying week, I feel the following:

This election was very special. During this post-9/11 age and Bush era, it's nice to think good things can happen again. As a glass-half-empty person, I reserve some skepticism, but I'm ready to accept positivity.

Dirty Sexy Money is the best thing on television. This week's episode was intense. Especially enjoyed seeing Donald Sutherland in his pajamas. Bring on the geezer sex!

Speaking of geezer sex, I've become addicted to Tell Me You Love Me. Jane Alexander is a hot white-haired crone who counsels couples and one would expect she gets down and dirty at least once. She does! My favorite is Ally Walker, who seems like she would have sharp claws in real life, but she lights up a screen. Love her forever!

If you want to see a dark comedy, rent You Kill Me, starring the mercurial Ben Kingsley and goddess Tea Leoni. It was a little male fantasy-ish in that no way in hell would a nice girl like Tea fall for a drunk OMP killer like Ben--unless she were still brain damaged to think she could change her man. But they are excellent actors and I was able to suspend my disbelief (just as I did in all of Woody Allen's movies where he gets with mega-babes out of his league).

And now, I'm counting the seconds before I can see my imaginary boyfriend on Desperate Housewives. Last week, That Woman Who's Ruined My Life Twice (Hatcher) tried to make up with him but found him with another girl (ha ha!). What excellent shirt will he wear tonight?

Bloodshot Rhinoceros Eyes

My obsession with sleep embarrasses me. When people mention slumber, my ears perk up. How much sleep did you get? Because I only got 5 or maybe 5.2 hours. Is that enough? What do you take? Oh that? It never worked for me. Then around my bedtime, which careens toward me as I type, I get a second wind and want to stay up forever. I become enraged as closeby people snore the second the head hits the pillow. For five days in a row, I've barely slept and am reaching crazytown fast. Reminds me of that Warren Beatty movie Bullroar or Bullwinkle or some such (Warren found a legitimate way to do Halle Berry) where the character operates on no sleep. I've been channeling Obama and McCain, who probably haven't slept in two years and make my schedule look like pie (though it probably is like pie). How did they get through the campaign without buckets of drugs?

For this fuzzy day, I chose comfort instead of common sense in Rhinoceros Eyes, a freaky quirky flick with screwed up people doing weird things and something to do with magic props and "seeing." It has a fantastic cast including my imaginary boyfriend Gale Harold (I wondered if he was able to vote), Paige Turco, and Michael Pitt (the new Leonardo who might actually be better than Leo). I enjoyed Pitt's floppy hair, Paige's sparkling face and GH's usual ability to make me forget that my iron is on while I burn a shirt. My brain could only take so much.

And dare I forget--how great that Obama is our new Prez? I blubbered quietly and unexpectedly (a little was sleep deprivation) at that miraculous moment. We've waited a long time.

What else but the election?

Dish voted immediately upon awakening, i.e. 7:50 am, this election being such an emotional journey for two years. My choice wasn't easy. It was an uphill battle, made worse by the media, overall mysogyny, fellow Dems and the expectation that I could regurgitate "Yes we can" and believe it. My excitement for Obama to be prezzie wouldn't mean as much if it weren't for the turmoil.

Deep thought: One must embrace beauty whenever possible. Superman is my new beautiful drug of choice and Obama is far hotter lookswise than McCain. As a shallow celeb-aholic, I will finally enjoy having an attractive president after eight years of ugliness.

NBC is lactating

Estrogen has boosted NBC's SNL ratings big-time. No one really excelled at recreating Obama, Hillary or McCain, but then Tina Fey lookalike Palin was chosen and now people are excited about SNL again--and Fey is dead-on (though she always was). NBC has tacked on hours of campaign sketches. Let's hope the funniness continues after the campaign ends. Ben Affleck did a genius Keith Olbermann. I can't wait to get a kitty and name her Prescious Perfect.

Why Won't Tom Leave Me Alone?

Tom Cruise visited my dreams again last night. How many times does this make and why? I was at a party, so was he. We had one of those sightings across a crowded room. We met in the middle and hugged, not romantically but just like Thank God someone is here for me in this lame party. It felt good to be hugged by Tom Cruise. I told him how much I enjoyed him in Lions for Lambs. He hugged me harder. I guess he's not used to praise.

Now...if only someone could tell me WTF Tom stands for in my life.