Just Another Day in Divorce, Cancer and Adoption

Dish hasn't been taking her celebrity Metamucil, thus the irregularity. She apologizes for the hiatus to obsess about real people. The repeated discovery that real people are never so constant as the stars has returned her to life in the clouds. So here goes:

1. Poor Reese. Poor Ryan. But considering how pretentious his character was in Cruel Intentions, and how much he wanted to mount Joshua Jackson, are we surprised? The nail in the coffin is always the Oscar curse. What man can deal with his female partner getting an Oscar--Hello, Benjamin Bratt and Julia Roberts, Gwyneth Paltrow and Ben Affect, Halle Berry and Eric Benet. The sound of shrinking testicles can be heard across the land.

2. Kylie Minogue returns to tour after conquering breast cancer. Yes, please get back on tour, Kylie, before your copycat sister Dani takes over the music scene.

3. Where was Studio 60 on Sunset Strip on Monday? I was all ready to watch but it wasn't there. Need my fast-dialogue (and secretly, Matthew Perry) fix. Plus, I want to spend sixty minutes feeling sorry for the Harriet Hayes character. She's adorable, blonde, on television every week, told often how talented she is (when really she's kinda as good as I would be in sketch comedy), dates a hunky baseball player but is in love with the cute head writer on the show. Don't you feel bad for her?

4. So, Madonna adopted a baby and everyone condemns her. On October 26th, Andrea Peyser of The New York Post called Madonna, "the sluttish superstar." Isn't that nice? Especially to someone who's been married or in long-term relationships for the last twenty years--not that this means anything. Madonna just can't get away from that pointy breast bustier. Did Angelina get as much censure when she adopted Maddox while in a shaky marriage with Billy Bob and they carried around vials of blood around their necks? Then again, Angelina has those blazing eyes and pillowy lips. She's made out with her brother, gone public with her bisexuality and penchant for lovers rather than relationships, snatched Brad Pitt from the Aniston. She can expand her brood and we all stand back to watch with awe. Peyser also wrote--referring to Madonna and Oprah--"Don't trust these women with innocents."

Someone hasn't been taking her Metamucil.

Blythe Blythe

It was Thursday night (the day before Simon Le Bon's birthday, not that that has to do with anything) and I had my ticket in hand. Having packed my survival kit (water, knitting, sudoku, toothpicks, Altoids, eyedrops, a pencap--don't ask--and rubber bands), I prayed my nerves could stand the sight of Gale Harold so close. The play was Suddenly, Last Summer by Tennessee Williams.

As the usher pointed out my seat, I could see the universe was protecting me. Third row on the side, an aisle seat and a perfect path toward the exit. I relaxed, listened to Ray and Martha discuss a golf game, watched as the tallest man sat in front of me, played a sudoku puzzle. The lights dimmed and suddenly, in that second, Gale Harold and Blythe Danner were on stage. I didn't even have to squint to see their facial features.

Before I go any further, Blythe Danner must be added to the list below of worthy over-50 women to emulate. She and Carla Gugino stole the play. My beloved Gale was mostly a tall, thin prop in a seersucker suit. Noticed a few blond streaks in his hair and wondered if he liked them. Were they permanent streaks?

Blythe Danner was beautiful and lent a softness to the crazy mother caricature. She seemed so at ease on stage, even when her cane didn't fasten to her wheelchair properly, so she asked Gale to hold it for her. She faked breathlessness so well that I started to get breathless. As she did her opening monologue, I asked myself how much time it took for her to memorize the lines. Did she get nervous anymore?

Then Carla Gugino appeared and while recognizable from movies like Spy Kids and Sin City, she is a brilliant stage actress. She wore this white dress and heels I wish I could have pulled off. When she dashed up the steps, I hoped that she wouldn't trip. Then what would happen? Would they have to stop the play or would Carla just improvise, the blood from skinning her knee a sort of morbid mix with her white dress? See, this is why I don't see a lot of plays. Overthinking.
So, I pretty much forgot about Gale and was riveted by the two female leads. From time to time, I reminded myself that he was only thirty feet from me. And what would it be like if I just walked up on stage? But I didn't. And there was no hyperventilating. Just a nice evening and a so-so production with some great moments.

Harry Potter Haiku

Fame makes dating hard
I will use my magic wand
It's a real live girl

The accent makes me
For behold, I am Zygote
Brit, teen, oh so clean

Urban Rehab-se

Dear Keith Urban,

A lone tear crept down my cheek when I read the news about your going into rehab. I don't really listen to your music and only know you as Nicole Kidman's husband, but the sympathy is there. I know what it feels like to kick an addiction. You see, three years ago, I gave up caffeine and cigarettes. Starting at fourteen, I drank four caffeinated beverages a day and puffed a pack of any butts I could find--Marlboros, Parliaments, yes, even Capri menthols. Then, twenty-*&* years later, I gave up both. Oh sure, smoking air cigarettes helped me through those first few months of withdrawal, as did accidentally emailing ex-boyfriends from ten years ago, but I've found no substitute for the morning shakes after high-powered mud-coffee.

There's so much pressure to drink coffee. If you say you want decaf, the eye-rolling is constant and you might as well ask Coffeeman for warm pee. Then, you don't want to be associated with those who don't drink coffee (the ones who claim not to like the taste or be allergic), but inevitably, that's what happens. I'll admit, I want to slip some mojo in my joe, but then I remember the monster headache come early afternoon. And if I were a character on Lost, I'd go through withdrawal symptoms. Unless I could get into the hatch.

Keith, we applaud your acting on your own behalf before slobbering racial slurrs on policepeople or strategically timing your rehab to coincide with a movie debut. Dish is with you.

Gettin' It Post-50: Part II

Just saw The Queen and now have a girl-crush on Helen Mirren. She definitely belongs in the group of women over 50 who do it better than anyone. This movie and Helen provide a complex view (though my mum thinks it's romanticized) of Her Highness, especially during Diana's death. Helen acts her butt off and is subjected to the world's ugliest clothing. Did want to snatch those pearls off her neck, wear them and stomp on those large glasses. Somehow, Helen made it all look good.

Gettin' It Post-50

As this celebrity-aholic approaches 40, she feels she might as well be 50 or even 60, since life is pretty much going to be this way until the end--with some minor evolutions, multiple shocks and age-related rituals (colonoscopy). So, what else is there to look forward to?

That's where I had to look toward my elders, who are doing it better than anyone else:

1. In Cet-Amour La, Jeanne Moreau--I do a dead-on imitation of her, you can ask my brother--plays Marguerite Duras and bewitches an adoring, twenty-three-year-old writer. They don't show any skin, just some passionate pecks and Jeanne ordering him around, which looked like fun.

2. Diane Keaton gets to sleep with both Jack Nicholson and Keanu Reeves in Something's Gotta Give. I would have chosen Keanu, not only for the obvious reasons, but also so that I could quiz him in medical jargon since he played a doctor.

3. Charlotte Rampling in anything, but most recently, Vers le Sud, where she bumps and grinds with her dude in a swimming pool. And are we surprised she played a cameo role in Basic Instinct 2--okay, yes, given the movie was so heinous?

4. I always love Jacqueline Bisset, who is more sexy now than twenty years ago. I think there's a Lifetime movie where she falls in love with the son of some neighbor--no, wait, that's Lynda Carter...or Susan Lucci. Jacqueline is still amazing.

Just to name a few bodacious over-50 babes... And then there's always Barbra Streisand, mentioned below. Maybe there are a few things to look forward to.

Madge-ku

Wanna be my kid?
Gotta get that damn Jolie
Mommy's prettier

Always be faster
And better than damn Jolie
Check my Pilates

Suddenly, I Fell Asleep

I'm going to see Tennesse Williams's Suddenly, Last Summer off Broadway in a couple weeks and had to prepare myself for being disturbed by freaky elements (ex: like last year's The Pillowman. Did enjoy it even during my panic attack over children being tortured and murdered). I rented the movie, starring Katharine Hepburn, Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor. How I wanted to be dazzled since old moviestars and classics are supposed to dazzle and remind us of past eloquence. Unfortunately, I had the same reaction as with Hitchcock's Spellbound. ZZZZZZZZZZ. I realize I should be killed since Tennessee Williams is one of the untouchables.

My feeling is that the whole insanity, transference, exploration of the mind, shrink thing seems too self-indulgent and mundane given our world's constant need to analyze, explore and improve one's psychological mind-set. While potentially fascinating sixty years ago, psychoanalysis has been overmined in movies, television, pop culture since.

Will always love Katharine Hepburn but here she seemed too caricaturish to be frightening. As far as scary mothers go, Angela Lansbury of The Manchurian Candidate is more chilling. In my mind, Elizabeth Taylor delivered the best performance. She didn't have to pull her hair or cross her eyes to play a disturbed woman. And yet her last monologue via hypnosis--where she gushes about wearing the white bathing suit and how the people gobbled Sebastien up like animals--was more comical than cathartic. I hope someday to throw a big hissy and have Montgomery Clift there to comfort me at the end. At least, I won't throw it in the middle of a packed theater.