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.
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.
...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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
