To make up for my dissing, I heard an uplifting tidbit. My least favorite Duran Duran member--who defected in 2006--Andy Taylor is, apparently, a sweetheart. A friend of a friend has dealings with him and reports that he is absolutely charming.
Also...my West coast spotter met a source close to Jennifer Tilly, who confirms she is also super-nice.
I can safely assert that I, too, am nice. As are my mother, brother, aunts, uncles, and all my friends.
Last night, while watching SVU, I realized an important thing: Robin Williams kinda sucks. When I was younger, like even a week ago, I felt touched by his sensitive roles. Though zany and unpredictable, he could be softspoken, shy, telling you, "It's not your fault." Mork was part of my adolescence. We've seen him crazy, going off in interviews, then sweet and full of warmth. Sorry, but after Insomnia, One Hour Photo, Licensed to Wed, Crap Adams, that robot movie, then last night's performance, I just can't take it anymore. I don't care if he's bipolar therefore brilliant, a drunk but recovering. There's nothing that I've enjoyed of his for the last ten years and he's achieved OMP status with his recent divorce. There.
Then again, writing all this, and imagining someone writing these things about me makes me want to cry. My feelings would be hurt. So, I take it all back. Psych! Given my last week, I hope I'm forgiven by karma. Robin should stop phoning it in. For my benefit, studs like Gale Harold, who played a twisted fertility doctor years ago, should return. And if he can't show up, I'll gladly take Jacqueline Bissett, who is also fabulous. She keeps turning up in everything I watch these days. Is she my new guardian angel?
...is Dr. Christian Troy. I've stuck with him through three seasons of Nip/Tuck and just started the fourth, as I clean up cat puke from a backed-up hairball. I'd never date Christian, but might carry him around in my breast pocket for a spell. He'd give me good advice...and he'd call me "sweetheart." I can't decide if he's a little kinky, a little sadistic, a little good-guy-buried-under-evil, a little gay. Whatever the case, he surprises me. Just when I believe he's that guy I wanted in college then grew tired of post 35, he'll pull out the rug, on which my cat just puked. Blessings on the good doctor, who is my bright spark in this dark tunnel--that resembles my cat's esophagus.
Sometimes, it feels as if I'm just waiting to die. Only about thirty years to go if I'm lucky. As this thought flitters through my head, I look at from my concerned parental zone and see a famous person sitting at the bar. I'm not sure who he is. My mental rolodex comes up empty but he's someone. Who is he? I'm sure he was there for a reason, for me to think about stardom rather than misery or food. Breakups are fabulous because they make me skinny.
And they make me buy bad DVDs, like when I grabbed The Devil's Advocate at 8:30 a.m. in Duane Reade. I was horrified when Keanu Reeves sucked Connie Nielsen's toes. I'm sure it felt good. And Connie can say Keanu sucked her toes. Did he enjoy it? Had she washed her feet and did they smell anyway? I think my feet are stinky. Especially when I wear my favorite leather shoes.
Today is one of Dish's saddest days. BF is no longer in the picture, so like a good soldier, I will do as Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner, bury myself in work, friends, Scrabble, and eat TV dinners. When devastated from heartbreak, J. Lo gets plowed, which is how Dish will also spend this Ground Zero evening. Tomorrow, I will start from scratch and rebuild.
Jennifer Lopez in movies always makes me feel good. Oh hell, I might as well watch Maid in Manhattan, too, if only to see Ralph Fiennes's paleness and how hard he tries to have an American accent. Cheers to you, J. Lo.
It came up on my Netflix cue, just like that. Starring my old friend, the artist formerly known as Catherine Zeta-Jones. Where has she been? Ever since those T-Mobile commercials, I've wondered, is she the same person? Something around the mouth, nose. And on SNL last year, when she tap danced, I was frightened her legs would snap for kindling. Maybe she just looks different in every picture. Maybe it's hard to raise two kids and sleep with OMP* Douglas every night. I'll always love her, especially in America's Sweethearts.
No Reservations is trite (or shall I say trout?) fare--cold bitch, who can cook, inherits traumatized niece when her effervescent sister dies. Summoning a mother's love, cold bitch thaws, helped on by a rebel-rogue-pain-in-the-ass sous chef played by Aaron Eckhart, i.e. the hot guy from Erin Brockovich. Romance ensues, followed by a misunderstanding, child running away, pairing together to find the screwed-up kid, thawed ice queen fights for her pan and love ensues again. The two quirky chefs start their own bistro and break child labor laws by using niece as a waitress. But it was a feast for Dish at the end of a ghastly day.
The best part? Classic romance cliche: When Aaron and Catherine share his Tiramisu. She gets a dab in the corner of her mouth and he wipes it off. So romantic when a girl slobbers. I eats a hot dog slathered with French's mustard, and each time, I make sure to leave yellow goo in the corner of my lips. BF totally gets turned on.
And yet, this isn't the worst movie ever made. Abigail Breslin is freakishly good in a non-Dakota-Fanning way. I just hope she doesn't grow into the strange girl who sits in the back row of class and eats her hair.
In fact, Tom Cruise was brilliant...because he sort of played that persona he displays to the media. His jaw clench in the opening made my vegetarian sushi rise up into my throat, but I acknowledged this was the best thing he's done since Jerry Maguire. Well, he *looked* the best in Mi:2, which is almost as important.
Meryl Streep was her usual amazingness. Robert Redford's sequences weren't as polished in the writing department. Indeed, there was a cliched sappiness to soldier/Redford parts, though this is forgiveable given the general message. Yes, Peter Berg is in the movie. Did that stop me? He's pretty good, but definitely looks older and more weathered than my brother...in whose face PB flicked a cigarette in prep school.
By the way, the impulse to see the movie is thanks to my biannual visit to A Private Studio, where my stellar and impossibly handsome hairstylist John recommended it as the best movie ever (he speaks in hyperbole). He's usually not wrong (except with De-Lovely).
In other news, well, this is embarrassing but Dish had one of those dreams...about Julia Roberts. Completely un-asked for and I'm trying to forget. John said I was a little lesbionic when it came to Julia. Not really, I just want to be her best friend and knit with her.
Star Sighting: April 16th, 46th and 8th Avenue, 6:10 p.m.--Dish was going to a favorite bar before Mary Poppins when Edward Hibbert crossed the path. Most notable trait: he walks with his chest puffed out. How proud and confident he seemed, as if he owned restaurant row. We have him on our favorite persons list. Every time he appeared on "Frasier" and his role in Curtains, well, he made Dish melt with happiness.
Within the same week, I dreamed I was perusing one of those curbside tables full of books. A crowd swarmed around one table and it was...Kim Catrall's new sex book. Somehow, I wedged my way in and fingered a copy. Hot and sexy! A hush came over the crowd and Kim Catrall herself came through, telling us all how she approved of our literary tastes. I begged her to help me augment my own hotness. She might have called me the C word, but in a nice way.
How does this dream relate to Gale Harold? Kim and Gale play similar sluttish roles on respective hit TV serieses. Looking at them is like gazing into the sun.
Damn you, gods of music. You make infectious tunes that stick to my otherwise teflon brain. Since the Ray Davies concert, I've had The Kinks in my head nonstop. This is almost as painful as Fiction Plane's "Two Sisters," which played for a full week. Though it's still a pretty cool song.
It's official: All roads lead to Gale Harold. I've tried to deny it, though my dreams tell the truth. And in revisionist history, I will pretend devotion to others (i.e. Meryl Streep, Barbra Streisand, David Bowie, Pink, Duran Duran--though, like Zeus is to Jesus, DD is a precursor to GH) never existed. I am declaring myself "clear" since this religion has to have a perfect shepherd, or rather someone to write the bible and commandments. Tonight, I will commit my last non Born-aGale sins: eating carbs, picking off my chipped manicure, and dressing like a librarian. Tomorrow, on my first day as a Born-AGale, I will go see theater--okay, Mary Pooppins, but not my choice--and behave with a modicum of integrity. I will smirk, be skinny and absorbed in my art. I'll grow at least one foot and avoid all interviews or overtly commercial ventures.
For those who have followed Damonetics (the worship of Matt Damon), we don't encourage interfaith cavorting, though I'm sure we could have mixers and dance-offs. Just as long as the hair is perfect.
It's official: Dish is batsh*t crazy. Apologies to my boyfriend (aka BF) who has to endure middle-of-the-night wakings, the last dream being about Britney Spears shopping. Last night, I dreamt Billy Crudup and I were walking around some city--not New York--under French Connection type highways and bridges. He was consulting me on a name change. He wanted one that was more zippy and marketable than Crudup. I came up with Billy West or Billy Lane. He loved Billy West, especially since he was about to move to Los Angeles.
Switch to my throwing Pink a birthday party. I was sweeping up a large hall with a lame-ass broom that didn't pick up much. Stress over getting all the arrangements ready. Did I even know Pink? No, but I loves her anyway.
Suddenly, I am in a play, acting in the role of "Charlotte," a bridesmaid for a sweet young thing played by Blythe Danner. She's excellent, though up close, I can see she's over twenty-five. We are on a ship that wrecks in the ocean, landing on the shores of Japan. We are clothed in kimonos. Oh crap, I forget my lines and run to the script off stage. My line is "Hey!" and I miss it. Luckily, the more competent actors wash over my fugue amnesia.
BF has a man-crush on Dennis Quaid. He won't admit it, but when I see Frequency on his shelf and notice his mentionitis on DQ topics, I get the drill. Who wouldn't love Dennis? He's spanking hot and is an excellent actron in classics, bombs, and innovative roles (Far from Heaven--sllluuurrrpp). I'm sure BF's love will grow when he notices DQ is playing ugly in Smart People. I will secretly be pining over Thomas Hayden Church whose yelling line delivery tickles me. I respond well to authority.
In addition, I want the Sex and the City cast to succeed beyond the show. Garnier Nutrisse and Ice Princess are acceptable products, but please... So let's hope unsexy Sarah JP is excellent, busting through to receive hoards of remarkable scripts. I'm just happy to see her in a movie where she's not dressed for a circus.
In the German part of our program, Yahoo has a trailer for Tom Cruise's Valkyrie, where he takes on Hitler. I was hoping he'd do a German accent, but his eye-patch was enough to make me laugh. Not that eye-patches are funny, but...well...just on Tom, as he takes on Hitler while speaking full-on American. Warning: causes instant flatulence.
Does a great movie have to contain likeable characters? If not, you could watch Margot at the Wedding. It's deep, full of torment, hard core acting, flawed characters, somber lighting, victims, abusers, teenagers. By the end, not only did I hate everyone in the movie, but I wanted to crawl into a prescription bottle. When Jennifer Jason Leigh pooped her skirt, I shouted, "Oh come on!" I dunno. It was Stinky McStinkerson so I replaced an image from the movie with my cat, who is also stinky. I applaud filmmakers trying to do intelligent work, though.
To offset this disappointment, I will plunge into the cheesiest, inanest, predictablest, but good-lookingest movie possible: The Holiday where homebody Kate Winslet exchanges houses with career-diva Cameron Diaz (future naked pillow fight?) to get over their toxic mens. Cupid's Arrow hits hard when faintingly gorgeous Jude Law shows up for a bang-fest with Cameron and Jack Black charms Kate with his sensitivity and fatness rather than his hotness. Happy ending? I dare say, oui. I'm ovulating already.
The Secret says that if you put it out there, you'll get it. What are the chances that Duran Duran will show up to my 40th birthday party? 100% if I put it out to the universe and just believe. Why didn't I know this when I wanted to marry Keanu Reeves? BF asked me what would happen if one showed up? Would that Duran need to sing? No. My family might die. I would have to sit down. Someone might have to get me a pill. Maybe I exaggerate. I did endure a lunch with my favorite TV heartthrob a few years ago. I couldn't eat, but didn't hurl. And I'm going to be 40, after all. In truth, I'll be happy to have a nice cake. It's so much effort to put anything out into the universe. I'm too tired.
Since I'm almost 40, I can legitimately complain about health issues and have dated taste. For example: I have lower back pain and just discovered Nip/Tuck (and staring at Dr. Troy's odd sideburns)--a shiny new toy on my playground of entertainment.
ps. Happy 800th birthday to Steven Seagal. Since he's the reincarnation of a past lama, that's probably his real age. I bet he's tired, too.
4/8/08, Beacon Theater, 8: 45 pm. On our sixteen-month anniversary, BF and I had nosebleed seats, so all I saw were Ray Davies's chicken legs and bright thinning-in-the-front hair. The voice, though, is that of a triumphant bear with a slight cold, which I soaked in even though I always thought of The Kinks as the band that took away slightly from Duran Duran's airtime on MTV in the 80s. And he was Chrissy Hynde's luvah. The music holds up in any era and I relished seeing yet another oldie but goodie come back. Like a good straight boy, BF bobbed his head, swayed jerkily and sang. Throughout, we were treated to the smell of marijuana wafting to our section. After the concert, Dish sped home to read his bio and thought, omigod, he and I are so much alike--except for the age diff, nationality, stardom, music, children, marriage, gunshot wound--I came close once. I am now a fan of Ray Davies (even though he's a Gemini).
4/9/08: 18th and 7th Ave, 1:15 p.m. Dragging my nasty ass to the gym, I brush by Janel Moloney. Oh no you di'nt! I gasped out loud. Amber Frey. More importantly, that chicky on The West Wing! Looks exactement gorgeous like on TV but here had on a black coat and may have had shorter hair. Just in case you wanted minutia.
Run don't walk to order from Netflix After the Wedding, a Danish movie directed by Susanne Bier, where a family's sh*t hits the fan. It stars the enigmatic Mads Mikkelsen, also known as bloody cry-baby Le Chiffre in Casino Royale. Only here, MM is a do-gooder who returns home to find the product of his errant sperm. The movie explores themes such as fatherhood, fidelity, death, and lost love. Poignant, well acted, beautifully shot. Dish even cried at the end. This is the perfect antidote to Rush Hour 3 where the most ridiculous stunt ever concocted--using the French flag as a parachute from the Eiffel Tower to those reflecting pools--upset my chi. After the Wedding restored my faith.
It was last Saturday (3/29), 6:45 p.m. Fresh from a friend's wedding reception, BF and I were walking westward. I might have been slightly tanked from my thimble of scotch. While BF regaled me with sparkling anecdotes, I glanced back. Half a block away was this tall man with perfectly tousled hair, walking a dog. Same gait, features and all. Could it be...? Would Brian Kinney even own a dog? I only looked back twice because BF is always more important. After the potential star went into an apartment building, I gushed to BF and said I now knew where my super-fave-actor lived (though I respect privacy, I'd get too nauseous around any of these people, and as of now, I can't remember where it was). BF set me back on my wise course by asserting that GH probably didn't live there, it could have been someone else and why didn't I tell him sooner so he could see GH for himself (as if he cared)? It probably wasn't him only because I am blind as a bat...and more significant, my Spidey celebrity sixth sense didn't go off.