Joan and John

Dish was on the subway last night and heard the following (paraphrasing only minimally):

"How's Joan doing?"
"She's on the beach with her 25 y.o. concubine. You know, standard for Hollywood."
"I bet she's paying him."
"Now, he paying HER!"

The two boys looked around and became super-conscious of people listening so I knew it was someone big. My celebrity senses had kicked in at "Joan."

Hmmmm. Which Joan... JOAN COLLINS, of course! Love her forever! I would totally let her bitchslap me.

In Duran Duran news, the object of my teenage (and adult) fantasies, John Taylor will guest star on Samantha Who on January 12th. Dish has marked her calendar. I always meant to watch the show because Christina Applegate is hysterically funny and underused in Hollywood. Now watch, the characters are going to flail, tap dance, and screech around him and he's going to stand there like a piece of wood. Then again, I'd take a wooden John Taylor over nothing. He's a natural in front of the camera. Thought he was great in Sugartown even though the movie was so-so.

As for 2008, GOOD RIDDANCE!!! Dish wishes you all the loveliest of New Year's.

Oops! Pod-en Me...

It's not every day I dream about Liev Schreiber. Usually, they are purposeful daydreams where I pretend Naomi Watts never happened. But why do Liev and I have to be living Invasion of the Body Snatchers together? For once, he plays a supporting role and I am the star:

I'm on the beach with my three children (?). Liev bounds up, wearing gray swimming trunks. I still have a crush but am bitter. "So, how many kids have YOU got?" he asks, as if not seeing evidence of my debauchery. "Three," I respond. His shoulders droop as he says, "Oh. I only have two." He turns away, satisfaction reigns. Suddenly I am transported (without kids, thank Gawd) to a large Prep school. I see a preacher type, someone trying to convince me that this new "existence" is Utopia. An old short-haired lady stands next to me and I know I have to protect her. We run. As people turn into pods and squeal their way into freakdom, I keep running. Just as I'm about to be caught by the preacher, my alarm goes off.

WTF???

What to do?

If you get bored this holiday season, make yourself a Gale Harold coaster! Somehow, I received a set of personalized coasters and what better way to toast my adoration than to place a big, fat drink on my beloved. It's fab, it's fresh, it's...maybe a little crazy.

Speaking of crazy, I had TWO star sightings yesterday within five minutes of each other. I smell a conspiracy.

12:25, 21st and 7th: Dish comes out of store that gave her a new watch battery. I wondered why the guy took so long and now I know. If he hadn't I would have MISSED Jonathan Cake grumpily hailing a cab with a woman who might have been his mother. He wore glasses. Not his best look, but I know how gorgeous he really is. The holidays always ruffle feathers.

12:28, 19th and 7th: Dish then walks into a deli to get a sandwich, waddles out and spots Mo Rocca wearing a J.Lo-ish warm-up suit and slurping some drink from a straw. We see Mo all the time. Might live in our neighborhood.

Since I have no TV right now, I'm desperate for stimulation. Superman seems to out fighting crime (gambling like Omar Shariff in Funny Girl, which is why I'm glad we're not married) and I'm not sure I can take reading more books or having live conversations. What else but to go star-gazing (and make retarded coasters of my favorite celebrities)?

Singing a Bad Tune?

Dish watched SNL the week Kanye West sang and thought, "Wow, he sounds like me in the shower," as in atonal. Our world supports mediocrity as long as it looks good, so I dismissed my criticism as irrelevant. Plus, Kanye's stinky voice that night gives me hope that I too can be a rock star. Put me in glow-in-the-dark sunglasses and I'm so there.

Flash forward to last night: Superman and I were dining to celebrate the holidays. He discussed tuners and brought up Kanye West's appearance and how people were frustrated that his tuner (the thing that makes singers sound good) was not working. So maybe I can tell if someone stinks. Then came on my doorstep Steven Seagal's On Deadly Ground. Which was on my Christmas wish list. Among several turd-tastic flicks.

So, never mind.

But I don't wanna see Daddy naked...

Now that he's President, this kind of picture (which I'm totally bringing more attention to) disturbs me, though the one on the cover of today's Post was the culprit. As I paid my 50 cents, I had to avert my eyes (maybe I peeked a little). Obama isn't supposed to have a naked body, much less defined pecs and abs. It seems so...I dunno...raunchy. I'm sure some peen pics will surface at some point. Watch where you wizz, Obama!

Dish's Annual Jesus's Birthday Newsletter

Dear Readers,

Gosh, where has the time gone? I hope your year has been as festive as mine, filled with accomplishments, rejuvenating events and, most importantly, warm hearts. While Dish can't relay fun tidbits about little Dishette's ballet recital (dance + meds = hilariousness!) or Disher's finally making the soccer team (even with his earth-shaking weight problem), I can offer happy thoughts as the year winds up.

Not only did I give myself a record number of facials, manicures and pedicures this year, but I bought a new purple rug, which my cat has only vomited on three times. I ran long distances, played epic Scramble matches on Facebook, ironed baskets of clothes, attempted to infuse wheat germ into my diet, kicked my Cheetos addiction, and bought too many lipsticks at Sephora. I avoided all coverage on the pregnant man and lapped up new shows on Lifetime (and smoked two cigarettes). In addition to emptying two whole bottles of scotch (okay, that's not a lot), I found a ridge on my nose that Nicole Kidman also has. Dish bought a record number of what-was-I-thinking DVDs (Music & Lyrics, Flatliners) during Breakup Aftermath, but travelled physically to New Mexico and San Francisco, skiied in Lake Placid and, more recently, dodged black ice in Chelsea. The biggest feat was turning 40, which, thanks to my family and friends, was luscious and I can stomach being lumped into the Demi Moore (barren) age bracket and called a "cougar." Dish is fierce!

My star sightings ranged far and wide, from Cheyenne Jackson going to Viceroy to Yasmine LeBon grooving at her husband's concert in Central Park. Through all of it, Dish almost yakked from the excitement...and loved every second. Yes, 2008 has been quite a year.

So as we celebrate the birth of Jesus (Season of Shopping), let's take a second to appreciate the celebrities, who are the new Jesus.

There, that's enough blasphemy for one day...

Love, Dish!

Little Girl Lost: Ellen

No, not that one. Dish watches Fatal Attraction regularly (Glenn Close revs us up) and the daughter Ellen always disturbs me. Is she really a girl? Her name could be Alan (bleck!). I spend the duration wondering how screwed up this kid'll turn out with the boiled rabbit, the sex-addicted father (oh wait, that's just Michael Douglas), and especially the boy haircut. Though, is gender identity important at eight? At any age? Maybe Ellen would have been better off with Glenn Close. At least she makes crazy into a weekend of fun.

Best line of the movie: "I woke up, you weren't there, I hate that."

Gale Is Up and About!

Today's theme song: "Peacekeeper" by Fleetwood Mac

My Christmas wish has been granted: Gale Harold was spotted up and about in LA. My short-term memory has vanished like Dharma's father's in Dharma & Greg and lethargy keeps me from rediscovering the specifics. Just know: He's alive! If I were him, I'd be so sick of watching Dr. Phil, lying in bed, and reading mags. I'd want to jump back into life. We Galeisourcrackaholics are thankful. Dish is watching Particles of Truth to celebrate!

Overdue star sighting: Tuesday 12/16/08, 7 pm. While finding ingredients for my grandmother's lemon bars at the West Side Market, Dennis Miller whooshed by me saying, "excuse me, pardon me." I felt instant revulsion only because Superman hates him. I have no problem with Dennis, though I'm still at that beginning point in the relationship where I can't think for myself. The official term for this is: Testosterone Poisoning. Then again, it might not have been Dennis Miller at all.

Back to frantic shopping!

Hiding the Bah Humbug

I'm not sure about this season's entertainment selections. Already saw The Spirit, which was fun. Might go see Valkyrie to laugh my fanny off at Tom's intensity/the eyepatch/the swelling music. That said, I don't think eyepatches are funny (just funny on Tom!) and losing an eye is serious business. On with rant: The Tale of Despereaux smells like Ratatouille, The Yes Man kinda like Liar Liar thougn Jim Carrey contortions make me pee a little. Seven Pounds is another Will Smith Oscar vehicle (more swelling music). I'm not curious about The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (assinine alliteration) because I already saw the aging backwards conundrum on Mork & Mindy thirty years ago. I'm sure the flick will win the Oscar for Best Makeup (prosthetics always win) and if we go by Oscar trends, pretty wins, so Brad could take Best Actor as his seventh child. While I want to see Revolution Road, it's such a downer and another Oscar vehicle for Leo and Kate. I already see suburban marital discord between beautiful people on Mad Men.

Give me fun holiday entertainment without a gimmick or desperate attempt to seize an award. Something that is most likely a big pile of crap but wants to uplift a gloomy recession-suffering audience. Give me the new Emma Thompson/Dustin Hoffmann romantical-potentially-sucktastic Last Chance Harvey (Dishmama and Dishstepfather, WE'RE GOING!). Plus, Dish loves geezer sex--in sweet romantic comedies only! Bonus points for not putting Emma in a ditch to make Dustin look taller, except in the movie poster.

Update: Screw Last Chance Harvey, Dish is picking Marley and Me!

Must. Lie. Down.

Holidays. Insane. Dying. Cat barfed on bedwear. Hurt shoulder due to excessive knitting. A Good Woman with Helen Hunt and Scarjo--recommend. Story goes: whores with a heart of gold can get the man as long as he's old. Tom Wilkinson, old yet hubba hubba in everything. Oscar Wilde writes loveable chicks. That's it--Dish is cooked!

When Superman Met Frank Miller...

Star Sightings on 12/15/08, 6:30 pm, Tribeca Grand: Dan Lauria, "Winnie" from The Wonder Years, and Frank Miller, along with his beautiful girlfriend Kimberly, assistant Mark and others involved with The Spirit. Picture it: Dish screaming directions at Superman upon reaching the Tribeca Grand. I see Him: the tall stooped behatted artist clad in black, puffing away on a butt. Mid-sentence, I hang up on Superman and run up to hug Frank Miller. That happens often. I forget everything when in the presence of greatness. Superman finally finds me and is pleasantly surprised to meet FM. We go into the event and gorge on hors d'oeuvres, sizing up outfits and snacks. Superman accosts the cater-waiters instead of waiting for them. He grabs two boxes of popcorn, a Snickers, and a Twix. We're both on diets. For starters, my starstruckedness is such that I spill my entire drink on Superman's crotch as the movie begins. I apologize for this and for hanging up on him. I warn him it might happen again and he's all-accepting. For Miller and Eisner fans, The Spirit is wildly fun with many luscious moments. Less violence than Sin City, no less fabulous cast, more comedy. Samuel L. Jackson and Scarlet Johannssen steal the show. I'm curious to see what mainstream viewers think. The world definitely needs a hero--I'd take Gabriel Macht any day!

Getting Into The Spirit

My biggest care in movie watching is running time. The Spirit is 103 minutes. Over 120 and I get super-fidgetty (Shakespeare and Wagner are OUT). Remember when movies were at least two hours? My attention span has waned with the times. Now, I get my array of coping tools to deal with running time agita. Flavored toothpicks, pen caps, paper clips, Tic Tacs, a quarter, knitting, water, and the cure-all: Altoids. In ten minutes, I'll walk .6 miles to my destination where I'll meet Superman. Can you tell I'm nervous? The last time I went to a Frank Miller movie screening, Matthew Modine stood ahead of me in line. The best part, he had to tell the ticket person who he was. I plan to act outraged when the list-master asks for my name. Don't you know who I am? It's Dish, B*tch!

Holiday Puffy

Dish put in Kramer vs. Kramer to feel nostalgia, but I ain't feeling it! I don't care anymore. Give me The Sound of Music, where family, love, hiding from Nazis, meddling nuns, Julia Andrews's helmet hair, and bursting into song are the norm. The only thing I'm enjoying in the former is JoBeth Williams's huge glasses.

Tomorrow, I see The Spirit, Frank Miller's new movie. Can't wait!
ps. Significance of title? Dish is getting FAT!

Made of What's in My Cat's Litter Box

In Made of Honor, someone took a big dump on a 90-page script, then hired Patrick Dempsey who is the new Clooney-from-ER-10-Years-Ago-Sort-Of (cute in the 80s but both became heartstopping as middle-aged actors on medical shows). The producers then transferred PD into a cutesy romantic comedy riddled with plot holes (sorta like One Fine Day) and tried to serve the steaming pile to a seemingly gullible public. Not even for the delightful resurgeance of Kadeem Hardison is this rentable. Not even if your dog needs a place to pee is it worth the pain of Netflix queue placement. The greatest offense is that Michelle Monaghan (maybe I'm totally misunderstanding) is supposed to be almost 30. She and Pattycake were in the same dorm ten years ago and became best friends since then. Using the Associative Property from Algebra I, Michelle and Pat are the same age. Sorry, but Patty ain't no pushing 30. I love him since the 1980s, but that trying-to-go-younger thing is an insult to us geriatrics. It was age that refined Dempsey into the fine wine of today. He didn't need so much concealer under his eyes in that museum scene (though the lights were bright and Dish enjoys dimmer bulbs, too). Sorry to be so harsh, but I expect more from the fine actors in this film.

Semantics

Today's Post claimed to show Jennifer Aniston naked. Of course, that's the reason why I bought the paper (along with their sudoku). As I turned the pages, I realized I'd been HAD! She's covering her more pertinent areas and they call that naked? Last I checked, naked meant removing all clothing. Dish would even demonstrate if offered enough money (like a million and a wide angle lens to put entire butt in frame). I know what you're thinking: Why does Dish want to see naked pics of Jennifer anyway? Why not? Another use for the Post is that it's throwing a Duran Duran sweepstakes which I entered. Fingers crossed!

Status of bruised leg: Turning yellow
Celebrity sightings: 0 and getting worried. Might redeem at special screening of The Spirit next week
Superman Status: Priceless, has introduced Dish to fluke (a kind of fish) and octopus
Fantasies of smoking cigs again: 20,000
When will Dish watch last night's ep of DSM: Right now!

Intolerance of Ugly

The news these days--sheesh. That Illinois governor should resign on the basis of being unattractive, as well as corrupt. All hail Obama for his call that Gov. Uggo resign (Uggo and Spitzer could grease up in a nice jacuzzi). Does Obama have actual power yet or are his "calls" just strong suggestions? I'm sure he could have me killed. Am intrigued by Patterson's appointment for Hill's replacement. I have strong opinions--please, let someone who is crazily experienced and not just eager get the job. As Michael Douglas says in The American President, "We've got serious problems and we need serious people to solve them..."

Speaking of serious problems, it's raining and Dish's hair is in full frizz. Superman is coming over. How to stop this monstrosity before it ruins my life? Maybe I could be governor...

ps. Desperate Housewives is a little stinky without Gale, though I'm enjoying Dana Delany getting some action.

Indiana's Crystal Crap

Sadly, Dish suffers from one of the following (too soon after falling in the subway gap at 149th Street Grand Concourse):

1. food poisoning from bad chicken at Whole Foods salad bar
2. a cute appendicitis (never an ugly one)
3. self-indulgent holiday blues while others are starving in Third World countries

Whatever the ailment, it's worse that Dishmama is France-bound for the next two weeks. To ease my pain, I slip in the latest Indiana Jones. After an hour, I have to interrupt to write how suck-tastic it is. Not only is Shia LeSmurf stinking up the screen as he gets whacked in the nuts by jungle flora, but Cate Blanchett's appalling caricature makes my stomach turn even more. I love Cate so I'm sure I'm just the wrong audience. The soothing metaphorical Tums comes in the form of Karen Allen who is always a joy to behold. How I will get through the last hour, I'm not sure, but I must. I'll do it for Karen who is also a knitter.

Flirting with Dish...

...who burnt the end of her middle finger while ironing shirts. Now on CSI and Law & Order, they won't be able to find my criminal record in a database. After my weekend in Albany visiting Superman's natural habitat and meeting Jor-el (who bounces his knee spastically the same way Superman does), Dish is finally settled in for a peaceful week. Funny tidbit--in Bridget Jones fashion, I watched Superman sleep on the train (he always seems to fall asleep in moving vehicles). I took it a step further and snapped pictures of the superhero snoring and drooling all through the Hudson Valley. I was tempted to draw on a mustache just as Ross did to Rachel on Friends when they were flying to Vegas.

The real news: I saw Flirting with Forty and had a terrible time reconciling Heather's real age with that of her heroine. I love Heather but it might have been more interesting to have her be 50. The surfer-dude leading man was hunky and nice, but just not great enough for Heather. What's the message? That older women can snag younger men, too? Or that older women can settle, too? Or that we can have fun even while on the brink of death? I wasn't quite sure. And I resented that poor Heather had to do all the traveling to tryst with Mr. Abs-of-Steel. I don't recommend it (but will secretly watch again).

Tonight and the rest of the week--am catching up with Mad Men and falling more deeply in love with Jon Hamm.

4 Minutes to Save the World

Dish has seconds to post. I'm at Superman's and he's busy doing something OCD (cleaning with bathroom tile Q-Tip). My news: Do we really believe A-Rod and Madonna are just friends? Everyone is just friends. Isn't it nice to have a friend? I'd like to befriend all sorts of people.

Major monkey wrench is Dish's plans to see Heather Locklear in Flirting with Forty. I wonder if they'll play it endlessly on Lifetime?

Star Sighting

Spotted at Viceroy this afternoon: Mr. Twinkles here getting fluffed and powdered for a photoshoot. Love it when commentators go glam and fake introspective. Gotta look stunning and young when you're smart (Hello, intemellectual Samantha chick who posed for Vogue and called Hillary a monster). Course, I don't fill my empty head with Mike Barnicle's commentaries. I am above all just a silly girl with no ambition.
Who needs MSNBC when you've got the blinding sun of Keanu Reeves and Jennifer Connelly in a movie together? I thought I would die of beauty-overload when Jennifer and Russell Crowe shared the spotlight in A Beautiful Mind. No, this is far worse. I have my shades ready for The Day the Earth Stood Still. Could be a Matrix-stealing sh*t sandwich, but I'm so there with my sunglasses. Question is: Which one would I marry first--Jennifer or Keanu?

Oops

Just ignore when Dish gets maudlin (see below). It's really that I'm fearful of new places. Tonight's discovery: The Bronx is FABULOUS! What helped: Channeling Jenny from the Block. Don't be fooled by the rocks that I got... But if you've got rocks, def go to Roberto's on Crescent Avenue. Excellent Italian food (and hot waiters that belong on the cover of romance novels). All bad thoughts forgotten (red wine helps).

Flirting with 100

If Dish makes it out of the Bronx alive tonight, Heather Locklear's new Lifetime movie Flirting with Forty will be a source of delight on Saturday. Not only to see her cheek implants and/or Botox, but because Dish loves Heather and supports her through this rough period. Suffice it to say, especially now, I understand the feeling that nothing ever works out--everyone else moves on and drifts away. Wouldn't it be nice if we sad remainders could take a vacation and have a good-looking zygote flirt with us? It's a white How Stella Got Her Groove Back and I can't wait (again, if I get home in one piece). The one good thing about dying in the Bronx would be missing my informal "closure" event this coming Monday (scotch would be involved) where I would say goodbye to a chapter in Dish history. Heather would understand--everyone else would be ashamed.

Mad Men, Dexter, and Corn Chips

The above is Dish's evening. I'm on disk 2 of Mad Men, which is making me want to smoke again--sneak a little rolled up ciggie filled with Bali Shag. Or one of those thin Cafe Creme cigars, the kind you can inhale and it scalds your throat deliciously. I just want one. Which might lead to five and then we're back to puffing Parliaments outside my work building along with the other leather faces. I heart you, tobacco, even though you're bad for me.

Speaking of smokers, let's all Save a Prayer for Duran Duran keyboardist Nick Rhodes, who is suffering a massive ear infection, which has hindered his ability to play in San Antonio (there's a joke in there, but I don't want to receive Hate Mail!).

Hall of Justice

Just watched Obama's announcement of his cabinet. It sort of reminded me of an episode of ancient cartoon, The Superfriends. Remember? Can't you see them all meeting over a problem, flying to their respective quarters, and having a good laugh once the villain is defeated?

Burning of Slick Candle at Both Ends

Dish can boast the same work ethic as Harvey Levin. Harv is the god of TMZ as well as the crowd pleaser outside of The People's Court (starring the fair and feisty Marilyn Milian--Dish is a huge fan). However you may feel about super-invasive gossip-mongers, you gotta admire someone who works like a dog (I would note Ryan Seacrest but he's not really on Dish's radar). I notice Harv's always sipping a drink on TMZ as he listens to his peons sputter dirt. If I were Harvey, that big cup would be filled with scotch. It doesn't take that much to perch over a divider and listen (might as well be hammered). Sometimes, he goes to the whiteboard to write down star-facts (Brenda Johnson also does this on The Closer), making the gossip that much more important. Not to be too PC since Dish loves dirt, but one wonders what Harvey could do for those in need rather than the super-privileged.