Okay, Dr. Phils, it's my own fault. I rented Daylight so that I could investigate Sacha Stallone's acting. He's better than his dad, but the whole movie sucks serious ass. Of course, struggling writer Amy Brenneman is going to live in a grungy New York apartment with cockroaches. Of course, because she's poor, she's going to have long frizzy hair and wear floral dresses. Of course, she keeps getting rejection letters just as thugs hang out near her door, looking for a chance to B&E because she's a victim and secretly pretty. Thank goodness she has 5 locks on that door (but no bars on the windows). Hmmmm, as she drives toward the Lincoln Tunnel, ya think she's going to encounter adventure?
Then I went to a reading of my high school friend's fantastic book in the West Village. I even wore heels, a rarity since I like to be able to run away fast. I'm reading Pema Chodron and she encourages you to run toward the hairy dragon instead of away. A flock of us girls gabbed the night away--someone mentioned someone seeing Uma Thuman's actual breasts and we agreed they are magnificent--and reminisced about crazy days of yore.
After this, I had nowhere to do but down so I checked my TMZ, then my Facebook. Just once or twice. Holy bananas, Andy Williams passed away, then Johnny Lewis killed his landlady and then fell to his death. Two celebrities expire in 24 hours? The rate of death is speeding up, you wily Mayans. Now I *really* have to watch Sons of Anarchy in earnest before time itself stops.
Oh, and KD Lang is back on the market (I have a girl crush on her voice) and US Weekly is claiming that all is not well in the Jef Holm/Emily Maynard union. How is that possible?
I'll try to be good for the rest of the night, but FB narcissism persists. Someone posted a pic of last night's festivities and I have to see all the comments, tabulate them, giggle over the attention, and then fantasize about superstardom.
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