12:30 pm. 18th Street, b/w 7th and 8th: Dish walked a whole avenue home from celebrating motherhood. In a green t-shirt and drinking a soda, Jack McBrayer stood outside an apartment building. We made eye contact and I could have caressed his baby smooth, sun-burnished skin. He reminds me a little of my childhood nemesis, so I feel both affection and violence toward him. Mostly, I want to touch his silky, flaxen hair. It's just so floppy, like tissue paper.Immediately after, I watched Sweeney Todd and was underwhelmed, though not too seriously. Great performances, visually stunning, but the second half sank like a wet cat fart. Maybe it was because I started ironing, therefore couldn't focus. I'll say now, I don't care how ancient Alan Rickman is, he's zexy.
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