L&O SVU--Like Clockwork...

Love how the big guest star is always the villain. Tonight it's Eric McCormack who will always be Will Truman. The only time he wasn't Will to me was when he had a mullet in that Lifetime movie with Roma Downey. She has that Irish lilt. It's so Touched by an Angel. Love Christine Lahti as the bitchy DA.

Big Noos!

Tim to selebrat w/ sum beer! Justine Timbalcake iz splitzvil w/ his gerlfreh ov 3 yrs. Jussica Bile! Dishcat strappin n the sneekies & runin' to LA! But NOT 4 Jussica Bile! I wan Justine. Wile Dish iz sleepin im gonna be N SYNC with heem!

Prostesting Too Much

Allow Dish to put on her shrink cap. The mind of Mel Gibson fascinates me. Take Braveheart. The long tousled hair, the skirts, the makeup, the orgasmic violence. Sex with two deserving, wholesome women--but hidden in the middle of the woods. William really wanted to fight with his porky ginger boys as the girly son of King Longshanks gets thrown out for being such a limpwrist. In his personal life, Mel keeps getting that wife pregnant, proving his sperm is as vital as his box-office testosterone. Put him in manly movies, estrogen comedies and he delivers.

Chaos ensues, Mel gets older, photographed drinking with the skankiest, wet-T-shirt bunnies he could find. The booze makes the Sugar Tit Jews Taking Over the World Nightmares go away.

The Passion of the Christ: If he loves Jesus, he can't be gay. Except Jesus had passion, all right, as his muscles bunched from those beatings, blood rushing through those pulsing veins, his face twisted in erotic agony. Apocalypto: a band of men in loin clothes kill a tapir and make fun of one of the warriors, making him eat the testicles. Hmmmmm. When you begin with a man eating animal balls, isn't something wrong? There are fabulous ass shots, a constant in this Mayan epic. A few years later, Mel leaves his wife, impregnating another woman. Trying so hard. There's only one diagnosis, ladies. I sort of feel bad for him. Until I think of Sugar Tits.

This will probably get me killed. Bear in mind, I love Mel in anything except the films he directs. I'll even watch What Women Want--especially love when he puts on hose and waxes his legs, but in a manly way.

DH and B&S Spoiler--Not a Gale in Sight

Maybe I'm prejudiced in that I feel Gale Harold should be on TV at all times, preferably without his shirt on. While I was in denial through his absence from the Desperate Housewives credits, by 10pm it was clear: Gale is gone. Teri Crapper married Boring Mike again, turning Dana Delaney all crazy-pants. DO YOU BLAME HER? Why would she be friends with that skitzy wh*re after she stole her husband? How could these two fight over one super-soporific dead clunker of a man? My favorite moment was when Felicity Huffman claimed her abs were ruined from having four children, but then you see her rock-hard perfect belly during the ultra-sound on her twins. Brothers & Sisters was a precious spat-fest between Patricia and Sally, who seemed to have misinserted their tampons. Patricia and Ken Olin will do anything to get in the same frame and recreate their Thirty Something cutesiness. Kitty's swollen nodes on her neck: it always starts out with someone having an endless flu and thinking it's nothing. Remember Terms of Endearment--Yeah, IT'S BEEN DONE, WRITERS. Hope Sally will have a screaming Shirley MacLaine sh*tfit to get Kitty her PIILLLLLSSSSS! Why can't one of the male characters get cancer? It's always so the women can wear their beautiful long headscarves, be pale and maybe get nominated for an Emmy. Thank goodness, his Royal Godliness Julian McMahon got breast cancer on Nip/Tuck. Someone on these shows needs to get ball cancer. Or...go gay. Equal treatment, please.

That was more of a rant than I expected. Dish is really feeling the love, planning her wedding and picking out Godiva truffles and large martini glasses in case the groom never shows. A girl is always prepared and just fine as she is.

Polanski's Real Crime...

...was not raping a thirteen-year-old girl but for giving us the crap-on-a-stick movie The Ninth Gate. Basically, he raped our minds with some deadly pretentious flicks (some fabulous, too). Have to say I'm glad he got arrested finally and I wonder if on some level he's relieved. I don't know much about this case as it seems so typical in big business--exploitation of innocence. When I was thirteen, I would have welcomed sex with a powerful director. I also was in love with Donny Osmond and had stuffed animals. At 13, your brain isn't fully formed. I've learned since then and my proclivities are more mature (making bday cards for Simon Le Bon and Julia Roberts--a month early).

Crush of the week: Senator Evan Bayh. Saw him on one of the Sunday gasbag shows. HOT!

Did You Ever Know That You're My Doormat?

Dish rewatched Beaches since girls are supposed to love this story of friendship. I think it's the story of a mouthy, scenery-hogging cow who sh*ts all over her quiet, pretty friend and makes her die. Even at the end when Bette inherits the kid, she doesn't know if she'd be a good mom. Step up to the plate, Frizzy. I hate this classic about as much as The Way We Were, which I've retitled: The Way She Thinks It Was. Bottom line: Hubble Telescope never loved Barbra to begin with. When she started straightening her hair for him, she fried her brains in the process.

So, I'm off for a night of dancing. After maybe 5 hours of sleep for the past two nights, I'm running on fumes. We'll see how long I last. Make no mistake, though, I look amazing.

MAJOR STAR SIGHTING!!! Mr. Beer Sweat Himself, Gerard Butler

6:40 pm, 22nd and 7th: You can't imagine. Dish was sneezing, wheezing, eyes watering all over the neighborhood on the epic walk (did 1 mile) when, shiver me timbers and scottish shortbread cookies, Gerard Butler bounded by me, a slight grin on his fresh face. He wore a baseball cap and his pants were cinched with a belt. Of course, I whipped my head around to check out his behind: very perfect. In fact, he was so cute my gaydar went off. The best part: he didn't look at all greasy. I could have totally made out with him sans Purrell.

The Passion of the Dish

Oatmeal for breakfast, which Dish choked down just barely. Felt sick as a result so of course the most logical thing: chili for dinner. Onto my overexercising regime. I'm about to walk 5 miles. Right now. Yep. Gonna do it. But maybe after I watch Apocalypto, the Mel Gibson flick where a bunch of heathens run around in straw undies and war paint. Cannot wait. Just my thing. Someone I respect said it was genius so I'm giving drunk old Sugar T*ts another shot. It will help distract me from my international infatuation, which will no doubt end in tears: mine.

Best news yet: a new Brothers & Sisters and Desperate Housewives this Sunday. Some juiciness: Callista's whiny character might have cancer. Does this mean we get to see another female main character wear a scarf on her head (hello, Felicity and K. Heigl)? Fetching and def. in line for Emmy nod. Cancer acting is the best.

Just Your Average Horny Devil

I'll admit to being slightly turned on by Eastwick and the Jack Nicholson lookalike, Paul Gross (though he needs to get rid of the mullet--it's ruining the Dish fantasy). Rebecca Romijn's boobs are enormous, spilling out of her bra in every frame. I enjoy the power of the three women and a sexy devil so I might keep watching. It's not rocket science, it's not Charmed or Bewitched, but as far as witchiness goes, beggers can't be choosers.

So far, though, my butt could have written this fall season. Here's what I'd call my pilot: Buttsville. In one part of suburbia lives a quirky blended family called the Schitz. Clay Schitz is the quirky pervy patriarch, Amber Schitz has a quirky drug problem while loving her children and superficial social network. Their son John Schitz is having a secret tryst with arch Schitz nemesis, Aria Phartwagon. Dish is so sick of the hey-how-ya-doin' dialogue, the characters who care, the little habits that make them unique. Three nurse shows, too many Grey's Anatomy knockoffs, CSI-NCIs had hot animal sex and produced octoplets. It's stale!

Hee hee

Dish's grandfather had sickle cell anemia, ergo, Dish is black. To tame my unruly mane, I searched out special hair products with "sistah" in the title and EUREKA! A brilliant straightening cream.

So now my hair is ready for tonight's juicy lineup: a new Law & Order: SVU and I'm guessing it's about rape. Which brings me to MacKenzie Phillips, that poor girl. She needs the fast track to Fantasy Island where someone can give her massages and feed her chocolate for the rest of her life. Some souls have gone through too much suffering. Back to main point, which is the premiere of Eastwick-- could be sh*t-tastic--at 10pm. Dish loves wicca so I'm there with my pentacle necklace, black cape and Egyptian musk incense.

What else in the news: that damn Kadafi and his tent on The Combover Donald's land. Since no one wants a terrorist in our country (because the U.S. has never terrorized any other nation and W. was so not a terrorist himself), maybe Kadafi needs to rent airspace, three feet above land. I can see him floating around on a Jetson's fuel pack.

Courtney Cox is in Cougartown tonight where she plays a 40-year-old. I won't smirk. Really I won't. Dish is 32! Okay, back to severe exercise regime since I totally failed on my Tori Spelling diet. Cannot resist the pumpkin scones at Starbucks. Must live now. That goes for the rest of you.

NCIS--Los Angeles

Just watched first three minutes of NCIS-Los Angeles and it is the gayest thing I've ever seen, starring LL Cool Gay and Chris O'Bottom. Please, please let them kiss.

Le Fall Time Television Est Back!

Rejoice! C'est le time to regarder le boobie toobie pendant l'automne saison. Ce soir, je watch The Good Wife, starring Julianna Margulies, qui n'est pas tres exciting comme actress mais j'aime beaucoup l'idea de ripper from the headlines le Spitzer scandale! Plus, Dish a un petit crush sur Chris Noth. Il est hot pour un old fattie-cake.

Great Nouvelles: Il est rumorer que Heather Locklear returns sur le merdique remake de Melrose Place. Peut-etre je watch le shittay show pour l'excellence qui est Heather. Heather est fantastique despite her coucher-ing avec l'uggo supreme David Spade et ses mental problemes. Je suis crazy aussi.

Finalement et tres boringment, Khloe Kardashian va marrier son boyfriend qu'elle a known seulement one month! Je pense qu'elle a take-ay another stupide pill. Ma seule question: Quand est le Desperate Housewives? Dish est desperate pour Mr. Gorgeois Gale Harold!

Down the Hatch!

Child abuse runs rampant in Hollywood. Take David Hasselhof who was just hospitalized for alcohol poisoning -- oh wait, no, it was a bad reaction allergy medication or other meds. His teenage daughter is the one who keeps tearfully calling the ambulance. Dry him out, prop him up and put him back in front of America. Dish got wise at nineteen when Exbf2 drank too much, barfed off the porch and then stayed at the party to drink more--and I still went home with him. Gross much? There are people falling apart everywhere. I don't care. Just don't do it around your children.

Oh, and if you have secret children, it's always nice to acknowledge them. John Edwards supposed love child is going to read about her father one day. Wouldn't it be nice to get this crap all out in the open, make amends, move on and do good again?

So...the Emmys are always more important. Neil Patrick Harris was a delight and he didn't disappoint me. I love his airy froth, his sweet humor. Lots of upsets in the awards, but no surprises. I was moved to tears that Cherry Jones won for her excellent performance on 24. Other than that, no big whoop. Maybe Dish is tired of stars winning awards. At least they're all drunk at the Golden Globes. I need to see someone's boob pop out or something.

Maybe my priorities are skewed. Why is Dish thinking about children, parenting, and being virtuous? Of course, it's testosterone poisoning. The International Suitor has returned, wooing from afar and he's really, really smart. I have to keep up and it's good for me to read books again. We'll see how long my enchantment lasts. I might be right behind David Hasselhoff, wolfing down a burger after a bottle of Wild Turkey.

It's Emmy Time!

Dish was reading Proust’s Swann’s Way this morning and came across this passage: And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, on some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die. When I look at Gale Harold, I see the shimmering past of 2005 when I discovered Queer As Folk for the first time. I moved into a new apartment building, gained ten pounds because I no longer had to climb six flights of stairs. Brian Kinney became my god, gave me confidence, went with me to see Duran Duran at MSG, made me excited to work my ass off, to date three douchebags in a row and come out of the experience with my heart intact. He is always beautiful, strong, and doesn’t give a damn.

And now, time to watch the excellence of Neil Patrick Harris on the Emmys.

I Look Hot, Therefore I Am

Dish has been dieting for two weeks. I'm trying to get that hourglass figure back by shedding five pounds--just five. I haven't had much sugar these last two weeks and, by magic, I have abs again--without doing a single situp. Okay, less weight talk, more juice.

Who will be scandalous at tomorrow's Emmys? Will you be watching? Desperate Housewives will return at some point. Most important question of all time: Is our beloved Gale Harold coming back as Jackson?

My fame whores for the week: Kanye, Jay Leno (puke and double puke television screen hog), Taylor Swift (she couldn't help herself), Oprah in the Park, and Oprah with her short stories. The best clip all week was the Ernie Anastos and his "Keep f*cking that chicken" remark on the news. Brilliant! I will keep "plucking" that chicken, Ernie. Oh, the fowl images in my brain...

Dish got some shiny maroon flats and huge chunky heels for fall. Tomorrow, I go skirt shopping--all in an effort to reform my image from tomboy to pretty woman of a certain age. Gotta glam up, especially if my marriage happens (1/2 kidding). Happy Autumn Equinox, Everyone!

I Love Carrie Fisher

Of course, at 19 in Star Wars, she was so lovely. Still is. I wish I'd looked like her when *I* was 19 with that copper bikini and kissing Harrison Ford (who was way hotter than Puke Skywalker). When I rewatched those movies, I wasn't crazy about her acting until the second movie when Han Solo gets frozen. I felt her despair as my own. She was my favorite character in When Harry Met Sally..., I knew her kind so well in Hannah and Her Sisters, and Postcards from the Edge is my life (except for the drug abuse, overbearing mother, and hot affair with Dennis Quaid). What I love most about Carrie is how she reinvented herself after Star Wars--a daunting task. She is a writer. Sure, she may have all kinds of mental illnesses (who doesn't--life makes me ill every day) and eccentricities (I can't eat egg salad sandwiches in moving cars). When women age, a hair out of place gets categorized as hysterical and uncast-able. Carrie has a brain, she writes, she lets it all hang out in the uphill, always fascist Hollywood vaccuum. Recently on her blog, www.carriefisher.com, she responded to allegations that she looked like Elton John and signed off: I'd like to take this opportunity to offer this quasi poignant explanation & to say to those of you I’ve visually offended…… from the bottom of my heart encased in fat——-BLOW MY BIG BOVINE tiny dancer COCK!

How could anyone not love her???

Lady Madonna

I am entranced by Lady GaGa. "Just Dance" was in my head all night and now I can't get "Poker Face" out either. Her songs are so similar, club music and not crazy-brilliant. But she's definitely an artist, quite sassy with her genius costuming and satirical performances. With our two-second attention spans, how long will the US tolerate someone with an above average brain, who claims that all she wants in a man is "a big d*ck?" Madonna had "like a virgin," which is tepid compared to GaGa. The Lady practically shows us her waxing and prances around in patent leather undies. I enjoy her bold and easy handling of audiences. No one will have her completely. Strong iconic women tend to blow everyone else away (as it should be). She must stay in Europe as long as possible since they tend to appreciate edginess more than we do (exception: David Hasselhoff and Jerry Lewis).

A difference (this might get me killed) is that Lady GaGa already knows how to sing. She's got pipes and balls from Day #1. Madonna learned on the job and unleashed her full fury with Evita. After the VMAs, a photo was snapped of the two divas. I hope they collaborate as that would be the most powerful pairing. May Lady GaGa last as long as Madonna and may they both live happily ever after.

Dish Dizziness

When seasons change, Dish gets a touch of vertigo on one day. Not the U2 kind but the I-need-to-lie-still kind. Today was such a pleasure. Well, it was since I got my first marriage proposal in YEARS! Dramas are unfolding though I'm sure it's all due to Mercury in Retrograde. Never accept terms of a partnership in Retrograde. I blame it all on Saturn and Uranus. And Mercury. Hell, I'll blame the entire solar system.

Call me dizzy, but I rather enjoyed The Perfect Stranger starring a very sexy twosome: Halle Berry and Bruce Willis (officially OMP since marrying super-young wife). I don't usually find either attractive but in this crappy flick, which twists and turns like my large and small intestines, Halle and Bruce smoke up the screen. Giovanni Rabisi also stars and you can count on him to be a freak. Not worth a rent but not offensive. There's a huge mind-f*ck at the end.

Tonight, I shall grab the walls to hold myself steady...and perhaps take stock in The Beautiful Life on CW. Something about "train wreck" and "Mischa Barton" makes me want to watch.

He's Like the Wind

Watched a little of The Biggest Loser and those fatties are such crybabies. I mean, if you're fat, you can always lose the fat. Dish did (a little high school anorexia goes a long way). If there existed a show called The Ugliest Losers, I might feel sad. Cry me a river about something else...

...like losing Patrick Swayze. Sure, he was adorable in Ghost ("Ditto" made it so that I never have to say "I love you" ever again) but mostly, I worship Patrick for his fun-loving performances, like in To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything and his Chippendales skit on Saturday Night Live. What a rare treasure--charismatic, athletic, graceful, nice, and married to the same woman for 34 years. Blessings on his coming and going. I hope he and Chris Farley are dirty dancing up in heaven.

Queen of Mean

Kanye West seems hell-bent on another public fiasco, this time humiliating two women(Taylor Swift AND Beyonce)at the VMAs and keeping himself in the headlines. So much aggression, so much in-your-face publicity for himself. All these outlandish antics scream one thing to me: Darling atonal boy, that closet isn't big enough. It's time to come out. Stop making your girlfriend wear a strap-on. You've used up your asshole coupons.

Read a Book

I adore my gender. We're smarter, prettier, more sensitive and mostly classier (I'm fine with crazier). Then I see huge examples of dumbness and I want to scream. Not to say I wouldn't take celeb money or do my own fame-whoring. I make silly mistakes but why be nasty, stupid and redundant?

First Serena Williams, who is always a bad sport unless she wins, spews venom when someone has the audacity to foot-fault her. Aren't refs supposed to obey the rules of the game? Maybe meanness and brattiness make her a "character" but it makes me not root for her, even if she were playing against a one-legged chipmunk from Mars. Go Venus!

SNL was a repeat last night but the "musical" guest Ciara (Sp?), Puff Daddy Diddy's protegee/girlfriend, sang about "magic" and "sex" and made her sexy body contort into all sorts of sexy moves, ending with a huge spread-eagle on stage. Hmmm, I wondered. What is she selling? And is this J.Lo clone really singing? Does she read? At least Coldplay references French history (though Wikipedia could have been a primary source). Aren't we tired of magic sex and slithery lip-synching female "singers?"

Lastly, there's the hot mess that is Megan Fox and her controversial remarks regarding Michael Bay. First lesson in stardom: don't burn bridges with powerful men, especially when you're young, highly replaceable and look like everyone around you. Be nice. When you're older/wiser, go ahead and unleash hell. You'll get another reputation. I don't blame any woman for being a hard-core bitch but you have to be smart about it. When you're dumb, talent-challenged and ungrateful, it gets old. If Megan wants to be the new Angelina, the least she could do is turn her neuroses onto herself by cutting herself, carrying vials of blood around her neck and, for fun, going lez.

Pre-stardom in 2005, I saw Megan in person at Lombardi's. She's this tiny, beautiful waif who ate pizza the way Jennifer Beals ate lobster in Flashdance. I was with exbf15 and could have cared less about Megan since I stared at stubbly-but-still-cute 90s has-been Brian Austin Green. Later, I Googled her and saw how perfect she looked, how primed for stardom (Dish is a genius and a psychic), but that she would need to move on to a better, more high profile boyfriend. Or learn to stand on her own two feet without a BF and a movie icon. Wouldn't that be unusual?

Rain Delay

Viewing episodes of Dexter is an antidote for feelings of failure. The rain doesn't help. I could have been born a serial killer and what baggage that would be. As is, I carry enough on my back: hair and nail maintenance, work, body regimen, social niceties and secret ambitions. Imagine the checklist for a killer. My hunger for Cheetos and chocolate mousse pie would be replaced by an appetite to sever carotid arteries. By 41, I suppose I'd be used to it. It might feel like home.

Root for the underdog is a rare motto for me as I like winners. But as I see Rafael Nadal slug through this US Open, I realize he is the underdog right now. Even with his abdominal and knee pain, I want to see an all guts match against Federer. I might have peaked in my twenties but everyone loves a comeback. Go Rafa!

So Happy...

My wish has come true. I've been waiting ions for Hugh Hefner (Senor Turkey Gizzard) to get a divorce. I too want to play in the Playboy Mansion (The House of Yeast Infection). Hef and I could read Proust (Mad Libs) together and I could listen to his sweet tales of woe (about his prostate), how hard it is to be so handsome (hard) at 110, the difficulties in caring for (owning) so many women. You'd think Dish would want to roast smores with the soon-to-be-ex Mrs. Hef and stir the cauldron of bitterness. Not this time. Mrs. Ex Hef no longer has a house cause she pissed it away (he sold it out from under her). The $$$ isn't pouring in for her years of marital neglect (suffering Grampa Gray Pubes and the Boobie Balloons). I want to go to the source, no matter how much Purrell I need to use down there.

Dish is strapping on her running shoes and headed to Cali. Another high profile man is available and he's MINE!

Of Course I Remember

Is it a crime for me not to expound on my grief over 9/11 today? The barrage of 9/11 Status Updates on Facebook makes me want to hurl though I understand everyone mourns in their own way and publically. I probably made a poor choice of joyful outbursts about the pumpkin scones at Starbucks. Don't judge: I spend eight hours of most weekdays two blocks from Ground Zero. The tourists are everywhere all year round, especially today. In a minimum of 50% of conversations (5 years ago it would have been 100%), 9/11 is mentioned. My firestation is a block away and I often wonder what they went through on that day. Every year I feel a heavy energy on this day though my direct contact with the falling towers was from 60 blocks away. Unlike many, I survived easily--aside from crippling insomnia which I still have--and all year round, I think of the people who died, who have to go on with unimaginable pain. I don't want to discuss the horrible things I saw from my office window but that doesn't mean I don't remember.

So, I'll be quiet now and just mention that the Le Bons are in the news once again with Simon Le Bon doing an excellent photo spread for James magazine. He's looking mighty skinny and I'd almost venture that he's veering toward the Posh Spice side of things. Eat a Twinkie, Simon. Or at least, a 9/11 commemorative cookie. With all due respect.

RIP to victims and courage to all survivors.

Not Much News But Good Advice Forthwidth

Just when you thought the Le Bons were underachieving--Good ol' Yasmin LeBon is designing les garments! Trust me, you have to buy her creations. Whenever anyone photographs her, she is gorgeously clothed, displaying exquisite taste. She did have the good sense to get knocked up and marry a Duran, after all. Seriously, I saw Yasmin rockin' out in person last May 2008 and she is more beautiful now than 25 years ago. I have the feeling it's natural, too.

It's post-Labor Day and already Dish has had 2 resurfacers: (1 is famous so totally excused). The key to resurfacer survival is not to become a resurfacer yourself. Don't knock on any Unrequited Love Interest or exbf's door, don't Friend them, don't "Like" their Status Update, or casually send them a forward (and claim it was a mistake). This goes for all vampiric acquaintances. Just bear down, keep working and look up only if showered with gifts. Otherwise, it's always better to press that delete button when they write: So...how are you? Living without me? I hope not. But whatever. Can I talk about my new squeeze and borrow some money for the subway? This kind of resurfacing is common over the holidays and resembles a stomach virus: spreads fast, makes you barfy and feverish.

I only write this because I'm terrible at taking my own advice. It's a good reminder for us all. We will get through this together. Delete, delete, delete.

Ellen on American Idol???

So maybe Dish will watch even though losing Paula Abdul is a deep wound. Ellen DeGeneres is a beacon of hope. Everything she touches turns to gold. She was the fabulous choice to represent Cover Girl (brilliant because she's adorable!) and she's funny without using four-letter words. I would love to see her waltz with Simon Cowell. Those two will make it seem as if the other bland-as-my-cooking judges don't exist--though Kara and Randy are excellent reps for the music biz, just zzzzzz. Ellen will spice things up. I couldn't live on Simon alone, though I do find him perversely attractive.

Wear Red More Often

To seem more intelligent, I'm watching Obama's health care speech and I have some deep thoughts:

He's got cojones to take on this issue with media and Repubs lazily kicking and screaming the whole way through. Change is scary, you bloated elephants. Well, hello, change is what's needed! (will get off political soapbox--it's giving me a massive wedgie!) Dish doesn't want to pay 200$ for a pap smear.

Hillary looks fab in red, like a big bowl of cherries. I wish I could hear her speak for she is music to my ears with her straight talking manner and informed content. I enjoy that her huge Red Light District suit makes her stand out in the audience. She can chuck the blue. Pelosi is also wearing red, the little vixen. By contrast, Michelle sports Legally Blond pink. Political fashions are excellent.

I'm getting a lot out of this speech. Rah rah, public option! Where are my snacks? Oh right, Tori Spelling Diet...

Why I Love Rafael Nadal

Not only will he remove his shirt during matches, but when a crazed fan rushes over to give him a hug and kiss, what does Rafa do? He doesn't throw a hissy or brush off the adoration. He smiles. Then he tells the police not to hassle his drooling devotee. This gives Dish hope. If I were to do the same thing, Rafa might have a similar reaction (and I have breasts, though this might not matter?). My corazon wishes for Rafa to win the US Open, yet he's struggling with each match. My brain says Federer. So hard when the heart and mind don't mesh.

Dish is all prettied up again, thanks to JJ and on Day #2 of the new Tori Spelling diet. Dishbrother and I want to be so thin, people think we're ill. Watch Dishmama throw a kniption.

Disclaimer: Don't get the wrong idea about my love for Nadal. I think of him the way a mother does a son. (Yeah, I don't believe it either!)

Serious Question

One of Dish's viewers wonders why Jason Bateman has never pursued nudity of any kind, with preference for full frontal?

Here's what Dish thinks: It's not a priority to see a funny person's wang. A hot person's wang is more vital. Jason Segel is an exception but he carries a bat in his pants. Why wouldn't he flash it as much as possible, which he does in Forgetting Sarah Marshall? When you write the script and star, you can order people to put a camera in your underwear. It means you will always have a girlfriend (or a boyfriend).

We didn't start out wanting to see JB naked. On Silver Spoon (he was, like, 12), it would have been illegal. But then JB got hot, so it's understandable to go from indifference to violent desire. By now, JB's image has already been established. For many, it would be like a naked Santa Claus. Exception, of course, with Julie Andrews. She unveiled her boobays in S.O.B.. There's hope that JB could drop trow in another remake of Lolita, the way Frank Langella did. We saw Frank's frank and beans flopping every which way as he ran after that little girl.

For a man, everything south of the border is big deal, even if it's not a *big* deal. Hollywood takes the wang very seriously and covers it with gold and holds it in highest esteem. Only when the codes are given, retinas scanned and i's dotted can that lightning rod makes its appearance. By contrast, girl patches are everywhere in film. I guess the answer is: I don't have an answer.

Jason Bateman is funny, a family man. Not every person thinks about him naked--but some of us do. We can only keep his potential public nudity in our prayers.

Julie & Julia (but not THAT Julia)

The above movie is very worth seeing, though it made me apoplectically sad at the end. What can I say, Meryl is spectacular. I now appreciate Julia Child so much more. Amy Adams is Nora Ephron's new Meg Ryan. The food will make you hungry. If you already love France, you'll love it more. Julie & Julia is a sweet message to all husbands who love their spouses. The marriages in the movie seemed so complex and nurturing.

As if.

New in Crap

I’d been wanting to catch up with our little Renee Zellwinky who’s squiring (or another verb that’s dirty) around with that animal-torturer Bradley Cooper. Had no interest in that 50s George Hamilton piece where she plays a crappy mom so I picked out New In Town, that adorable innovative romantic comedy where a career-oriented city chick goes to freezing and heavily accented Minnesota, wearing high heels while pushing tons of luggage. Whaddya know, hijinks ensue and she goes from sleek and nipply to dumpy and frumpy. Whenever I go to Minnesota, I instantly pack my Yellowstone sweatshirt, turtlenecks, and leave the hair straightener and bold colors at home. I hate to say it, but I will: Renee's character is just an unlikeable bitch until the last ten minutes. If I'd ever behaved the way she does, I'd hope someone would smack me in front of a crowd. Because it's a rom com and bitchiness gets you love (Notting Hill) Renee meets gruff but soft-underbellied (psycho in real life?) Harry Connick Jr. and more hijinks ensue. Bottom line: My butt could have written a better screenplay. In fact, it did.

So, back to tennis, Dish watched 10 hours and predicted the two upsets: Oudin and Isner who played marvelously and never gave up. Oudin is the girl I hated in high school: the adorable eager beaver jock who got whatever she wanted. Love her now that I'm 101. Isner reminded me so much of ExBF18 because of his gentle giant nature and violent fist pump after each point. Such a cute boy.

Pregnancy + Duran Duran = Dish Confusion!

It's 3 am when my eyes drift shut. I'm transported to the "flower room" of my parents' house. "Simon Le Bon and Roger Taylor are here for you," Dishmama tells me. I invite Simon and Roger upstairs to watch television because that's what you do when you entertain Duran Duran. Roger is positively lovely--kind, complex and gentlemanly. I relay that I'm five months pregnant and he congratulates me on the blessed event. Simon gets all eye-rolly because he's bored with baby talk. Once again, I'm not sure who the father is or if I'm "giving birth" to some other BS. I feel desperate to entertain Rog and Simes and keep fetching them refreshing drinks. Not sure how the dream ends, possibly with me realizing I had a stomach ache, which is usually the cause of pregnancy dreams.

This weekend, I'm all about tennis and work and trying to avoid being the third or fifth wheel. Dish had a Friday night out with a fellow single friend, which was highly enjoyable. No talk of relationships and babies (not that I don't love this, but am overly sensitive these days).

Ps. Dish prayers out to the universe for my celeb friend who might be in the hospital. :-(

Star Sighting: Courtney Love

In front of Barney's Coop, 3:10: Freshly disgusting from the gym, Dish walked by this darling blond woman in black who was close-talking with a male friend. She had large blue eyes and, though teenagerish, seemed worn out by life. I will take her hard-partying vibe with me as I go out to my local watering hole where I will drink maybe a tablespoon of scotch.

(I'm sure Courtney will stab me in my sleep now)

Three Rivers of Thought

My girl crush Katherine Moennig is in a new show starting October 4th, Three Rivers. From online vids, she still seems to be in L Word mode but she was brilliant as that tranny on L&O. I know she will excel in whatever she does. The show itself looks like a crap sandwich--Grey's Anatomy wannabe with Hot White Guy, Sexy Smart Girl, Hot Asian-American Guy, Cute Flamer, Hot African-American. I'm hoping there's at least one Latino/a nurse, which will ensure political correctness. If KM is on, I will watch.

Other deep feelings:

The disco-red trim on Roger Federer's black shirt offended me last night in his match against Greul. Anna Wintour needs to get the ef off his clothes and back in Vogue where she belongs. (I realize I'll now be killed)

I wish Jay Leno would let the TV world go on without him. It will.

Dish made a hair appointment and is scared JJ will smack her into next Tuesday for her frivolity, taste in entertainment and overall non-fabulousness. The C word will be used often.

Believe?

My world is crumbling. I read the most disturbing headline on www.perezhilton.com, which he got from Star so it has to be true. Is Tori and Dean's marriage a sham? This season, Dean seemed dissatisfied sexually. She acted as if he were repugnant. Dish kept thinking, hmmmm, a young marriage with no sex, that can't last long. I was moved to tears when Dean's filming kept him away from Tori and the kids. The separation seemed as torturous as if it were my own experience. How many times did Tori burst into tears last season--about a hundred. Tori gives hope that even interesting-looking girls can get the guy (well, having a fantastically rich daddy who casts you in his hit show helps). A dream come true, except for Dean's loud farts. I hope rumors of disharmony are false.

On a happier note, my favorite blond babe, Diane Sawyer, is moving into the Katie Couric stratosphere by anchoring at night! I'm waiting for the first female mud-wrestling joke.

A State of Emergency!

Dish needs some amoxicillin, STAT! I have a little crush on Michael Bolton since Sunday. It's spreading like a bad rash from my yearning heart to the depths of my tortured soul. You have to hear the song that Lady GaGa wrote for him, Murder My Heart. It's a lovely tune, and he sounds so tormented as every good man should be. Can I cry a river of sweet damsel tears? That's when I must look at a picture of him and wish for white horses galloping across the sand. I am Diane Lane to his Richard Gere except Michael doesn't die in a freakish landslide as in Nights at Rodanthe. Poor Michael Bolton went through Hades with that Nicolette Sheridan, twice. I would be so much better for him. Wait...he's 56. He could be my father, sorta kinda. Do I have daddy issues (of course, but not *that* bad--exception: Donald Sutherland and Anthony Hopkins if I've had a few drinks)?

Oh Michael, your darling voice and song touches me. Thank you, Lady GaGa.

(I am very very ill)