Star Sightings

Two sightings in one week. The stars in the heavens must be trying to release my negativity of the previous week. I'm even starting to believe Obama wouldn't be a bad president (though Dish is firmly on Team Hillary).

Sighting 1: Valentine's Day, 5:50 p.m. as I went to meet BF for VD dinner. That ultra-fem-pretentious designer (which one?) from Project Runway was walking down 6th Avenue and we crossed paths at 21st street. I don't even watch Project Runway! Do I care? Of course.

Sighting 2: 2/16, 4:10 p.m. I was meeting BF to see No Country for Old Men (I'll never think about blowing oxygen into someone's skull the same way again!). As I walked across 14th and 6th Avenue, there was Rhea Perlman, looking as hot and feisty as ever. Who knew that these people were real and moved outside of the television set!

Super Star Sighting...

5:18 p.m.: The snow came down, dusting my rust-colored locks and threatening a serious mascara smear. I'd just been accosted by those just-graduated activitists who stand on the street and ask you if you have time for children or gay rights. No, I don't and I've already given my money to Hillary. As I crossed 72nd and Broadway, I looked up and locked eyes with...Niles Crane. His nose was red from the cold. He even smiled at me. I think.

I love David Hyde Pierce in everything. As the cold but secretly warm repressed brother in Sleepless in Seattle, as the cold but secretly warm repressed brother on "Frasier," doing an admirable take on the Tony Randall character in Down With Love. More recently, I saw him in "Curtains" with BF and his parents. As long as he's in theater, TV or movies, all is right with the world...except with the children and gay rights. Maybe I should have forked over cash.

Steroids, Sally...Mommy?

Another night, another embarrassing dream. I'm lying on the beach with a puffy Roger Clemens and...gulp...we kiss. In waking life, I'm not traumatized by this strange reverie, nor do I feel unfaithful. The connection comes from a brief foray into sortofprofessional sports, not by me. My circle of friends included many athletes in pastel lycra. In this current season of daily mental fitness tests, maybe Clemens's appearance is meant to encourage me. In the sport I knew, doping happened, though I never saw it. I encountered intense personalities whose physical goals seemed insurmountable. Nine hours of training, you pee in your uniform, battle crazy egos and conquer painful hills with younger people chasing you down. I remember watching Roger Clemens pitch during a bout of the stomach flu. At my computer, or scurrying home to avoid the subway, or listening to voices without choking on my breath, I'm assaulted by what feels like unending panic. Clemens and my old friends would die laughing at this extravagance. [Notice coming segue]

As would Sally Field, which she makes people do in Punchline. In one scene, she and Tom Hanks make out, which seemed blasphemous to me. Why? Oh right. She plays his mother in Forrest Gump. I can't wait for Tom Hanks to do Viagra commercials to rival Sally's Osteoporosis commercials.

Speaking of nothing in particular, Dish may be stuck in the 80s but Morris Day and the Time singing "Jungle Love" on the last night's Grammy's made our heart happy. We even did the dance.

Why I Hate Peter Berg

In the vein of the previous post, I continue my hater ways. I want to be a good sister, therefore, I defend my brother against evil. Which is why we both hold a thirty-year grudge against Peter Berg. Our story begins and ends in the smoking room of a Connecticut boarding school where gorgeous, talented fifteen-year-old Patrick was an innocent deer in headlights as the malicious Peter Berg flicked a cigarette at him. We've hated PB ever since.

As a result of this grudge, I never saw The Rundown (though I try to avoid movies starring The Rock) and turned my head when he appeared on "Chicago Hope". After shredding the feature of him in our alumni bulletin, I tittered over the failure of Lions for Lambs. I may have enjoyed Friday Night Lights--all movies are improved by Billy Bob Thorton--but really, he'll always be the guy who flicked a butt in my brother's face. A poor man's Ethan Hawke...

And my brother's is far cuter, which is most important.

Nicer celebrities we've known include Yasmine Bleeth and Jon Tenney. LOVE THEM!

Hate

BF said I was a hater and it's true. There are people I hate. I see the bad in everything. In fact, most things turn to garbage, in my opinion. And I hate it when people try to act as if all is rosy. Or say hateful things in a rosy way. I hate that even more.

I hate how people hurt you, then ignore that they did it. I hate how the media focuses on Heath Ledger's personal life, his alleged substance abuse. I hate that I was curious about it, too. I hate watching the talent of amazing celebrities and realizing my shortcomings. I hate how much attention Britney Spears gets. I hate how The Secret is a compilation of ideas rehashed over centuries but marketed as a wild new discovery. And why didn't I think of that? I hate how some seem to achieve without effort, though what do I know. I hate my envy.

But I love the New York Giants...and Hillary Clinton.