Sandy Concert, Golden Globe Snubbing, I Love Boy Bands!

Golden Globs (I wrote that on purpose): Outrage #1, to snub Sons of Anarchy. Are you crazy, Hollywood Foreign Press? Outrage #2, American Horror Story also got the diss but at least my Jessica Lange got a nom. Outrage #3, that Ricky isn't hosting. I can let go everything else.

TG and I watched a little of last night's Sandy concert. Though weary of the Bon Jovi, Paul McCartney and Bruce telethon trifecta, I hope they raised gazillions. Then we watched Barbara Walters, whose eyes are growing ever closer together*. Hmmmm. She interviewed One Direction, and the group reminded me of early Duran Duran, though their songs sound like Katy Perry. Never mind, I love these little tykes, dear reader. I'm one of 297 million viewers of this video.

Screw you, Homeland, for killing off my favorite character aside from Claire Danes, who is the face of the goddess herself. A mark of a good show--you kill your angels. Didn't Hemingway say that?

Men in Black III (or is it IV) is terrible. Saving grace is that Josh Brolin does an excellent Tommy Lee Jones. Joshipoo is very underrated and one of the finest actors around. And who doesn't love Emma I almost wrote Heather Thompson? Another actress I could watch cutting her toenails and be enthralled.

*And she made a grammatical error.

Please Make the Phone Ring!

A celebrity's "people" called me today! We're playing phone tag, but this could be the little boost Dish needs after this month of no-holds-barred hell. Thank goodness I have the daily healing of TG, but celebrity opportunity is truly awesome, too. And to think, 24 hours ago, I was in the throes of a mild panic attack, the kind where I thought I was dying, needed to go into another room to watch Sons of Anarchy and read Runner's World just to calm down. Dishreaders, if I do wind up on TV again, I will require immediate hair rejuvenation. This red straw hasn't seen business-scissors in, oh, 6 months...

In star news: Elmo's voice/handler allegedly had been accused of having a relationship with an underage boy but today the accuser says never mind. I smell $$$$$$. I should have been way more crafty as a 16 y.o. I could have been rich! Sure, I would have sold my soul but what does that mean anymore if you can buy out Anthropologie?

Praying for calm waters tonight. Listening to Enya, watch a little Jack Black and Shirl in Bernie, some post-election-musings on CNN, break into the Edgar Cayce's book on angels. Or the article on exercises to develop a stronger lower back. Perhaps the bio on Catherine de Medici instead? This Sybil brain needs a little of everything.

Crazy Blond

Due to subway claustrophobia, I walked home. As I reached Houston, I saw this pretty, young blond woman walking at a good clip up ahead of me. Her hair was pulled back. She wore black leggings and striped top, bag slung over her shoulder--nicely put together overall. Stopping at a restaurant table, she snapped a picture of diners. It was hard not to notice her high-pitched voice as she rambled about "changing energies, both sexual and material." Oh hell, I thought. Is everyone crazy? I pushed on past, hoping she'd get absorbed in her bananas and ignore me. Of course, she didn't. She matched my pace, seemed to get closer to the point where I decided to pause and let her go by. She never stopped her one-sided-conversation. In a frightening moment, with me stalled at the curb, she looked back. We locked eyes. There was no blurry, muddy expression on her face, which unnerved me even more. I know my meth and heroin face, the boozy stumble, the pot stare. Blondie surged ahead and kept talking, and so did I but from a distance. When she was half-a-block away, she stopped, turned toward the traffic and unleashed this terrifying rage, killer rage, like I-could-easily-no-problem-stab-you-in-your-sleep rage. Size doesn't matter.

General Petraeus might just be a big horndog, which I blame entirely on the pressure of politics, the limelight, the media and show biz--intersecting professions if not identical. Poor shmoopie. Not only is there one other woman, but possibly two. His wife is allegedly furious. Ya think??? This is such a lame story, I can't bear it.

Saw the trailer for Les Miserables and I'm filled with despair when I confess a desire to see it. Damn you, Anne Hathaway.

Exercise and sin journal: Ran 4 miles. Walked 3 miles. Ate 1/3 Snickers bar and practically nothing else--maybe mac and cheese.

Sons of Anarchy watchers: Did EVERYONE from The Shield migrate to this show? No complaints here. I like to see good actors employed. Plus, Dish never turns down the chance to see epic geezer sex between Katey Sagal and Jimmy Smits.

Justin Bieber: Making Love Real

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Just Call Me Algernon!!!

My fast couldn't last forever, right? For 72 hours, Dish was coherent, going back to her brainiac and 50s housewife ways with ironing, reading heady literature and grooving on the To Do list. I blame Sylvester Stallone!

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.

Can We Be Quiet About Tom Cruise for Three Seconds?

Maybe not. There are new rumors about his Scientology wife recruiting so let's add more rumors to the wackadoo mill: He loves, loves marzipan and sticks it up his ass along with the dozen gerbils he borrowed from Richard Gere. Yeah, and Tom adores cooking, especially whisking up omelets for friends who drop over, which is every second because he's Tom. He's freakier than anything we could imagine. Men, women, cans of soda and CRAYONS. Tom spends his nights in a cooler, which is why he looks so fresh. They say that when he acts, he really gets into the role, like practices and works hard to memorize his lines. That's just how Tom is.

I'm so tired of rumors and speculation about Tom Cruise that I no longer care about his personal life, which is pretty hard core if you know me at all.

None of these people reveals themselves to us little people. I think the humidity is getting to me. Luckily, my afro is thoroughly gelled down with Bedhead. There is no moving these branches.

Can you tell nothing is happening? TG, Dishmama, and Dishstepfather are all snoring their faces off. It's not even 10pm. Time for Sons of Anarchy...