Pre-Thanksgiving Afternoon Delight

As I crush Oreo cookies into a pie crust, I'm dying of excitement over season four of 24. Jack Bauer just escaped the evil terrorists with William Devane covering him, and it choked me up. Young and old working together, the old/cranky with the raspy-voiced/hot. How does William Devane relate to Dish, you ask? Turns out he went to high school with my dad! Because Father is oblivious to celebrities (except for Grace Kelly, Clint Eastwood and Richard Gere), he hasn't provided me with juicy details. This was a boarding school, so you know there had to be something dishy.

In other news, Duran Duran was on Ellen today and rocked the audience into euphoric spasms. Okay, that was just me. To further my viewing pleasure, I read the Julia Roberts article in Vanity Fair and had the idle thought: does The Julia like Duran Duran? That would be too much of a good thing--like looking at the sun.

Dish's Verdict on the AMAs (not the American Medical Association)

The American Music Award show last night was a treat. Except today, Dish is far too apathetic to emote--and too busy eating vanilla frosting from a can. Thus, here are abbreviated thoughts:

Jimmy Kimmel: Far too smug for Dish. Another bloated rich boy who probably got beaten up as a child. Who now wields power and influence.

Fergie: Usually, Dish is so over her, but she shined and wore the sparkles way better than Brits. And my bosoms heaved over her pairing with Will.i.am. Love them both.

Avril Lavigne: Goodness she has a pointy nose.

Rihanna: So beautiful and talented that Dish didn't realize someone sang with her. What is she doing with Josh Harshnets? She will blow him away with her brilliance. Though, he's a good actor, too, just not as.

The Jonas Brothers: Can you say Hanson II?

Akon: Just accept your damn award. And do it quick since the alleged rape simulation in your concert makes Dish sick.

Maroon 5: I get it.

Beyonce with Sugarland: Overrated

Celine: Great pipes, boring song.

Lenny Kravitz: Makes me melt. He could eat Doritos in his underpants and I'd feel the same.

Chris Brown: Love the dancing, the show, but can't anyone dance AND sing anymore? I'm probably missing something.

Alicia Keys: Dish doesn't listen to her, but she's perfect. A fab performer and lovely voice.

Duran Duran: Simon sounded off key, but they can do no wrong. I love them madly forever.

Now back to scowling and hoping The Hills brings inspiration. Watching beautiful morons deal makes Dish feel better about life.

"Wear it until you love it!"

It's the best line of The Man in the Iron Mask starring several iron men of stage and screen -- and they all had supermodel locks. Sweet Princess DiCaprio screams this dialogue at his twin brother whom he banishes to his iron face guard. Don't know if Louis XIV would have ever said this, but with a Titanic superstud in the mix, you gotta take liberties--lots of 'em. Dish watched the above mentioned film while elipticizing at the gym. It's the only thing that got me through, as craptacious it was. Funny how Malkie tries so hard to show emotion when his son dies. Hee hee. I love it when men fake cry in movies...

In other news, Dish continues a love affair with the memory of Gene Kelly in today's viewing of Xanadu. BF feels it's a travesty that this was Kelly's last movie. But was it so bad? The only thing that really merits a hand-full of peanut butter thrown at the screen is Michael Beck, though even his bad acting is fun to mock. Why does John Malkovich get such praise for his monotonous line delivery and Michael Beck such derision? A question for the ages. In the meantime, who can resist this smile?

Psycho Sightings

Dish is in a serial killer trance. After the lusciousness of last week's Duran Duran concert, I plunge myself into darkness, i.e. am awash in a pool of blood. Not really, just watching the first season of "Dexter". He's such a sweet killing machine and makes me want to examine blood spatter, eat blood oranges, and pick my scabs. The only problem is that now I suspect everyone of such happy treachery. An excellent castmember includes the feisty Jennifer Carpenter, who plays Dexter's sister. Dish loves how, though a youngster, she doesn't have that end-every-sentence-with-a-question-mark way of speaking. In addition, intelligent stuff comes out of her mouth. She reminds us of Elizabeth McGovern circa 1985. JC is a talent and we love her.

Oh, in less AB positive news, a star sighting occurred last night, 11/15. Newly shorn and blown out at 5:50 p.m. , I trounced down to 23rd and 7th and saw favorite dork-psycho-intelligent-all around weird person Adam Goldberg cross my path. He walked with two women, one pregnant and wearing something pink, and pointing uptown. What did I care? I had to watch Dexter kill someone and my hair looked terrific.

Yet Another Tom Cruise Dream

Maybe it was the excitement over Katie Holmes running the marathon, but Tom Cruise showed up again in my dreams. He won't leave me alone. If I'm supposed to experience a Jesus figure of phantasmagorical excellence, why couldn't it be someone more saintly and intemellectual, like Tim Robbins? It's as if Tom is using me to advertise his new movie, Lions for Lambs (which got suck-tastic reviews). In my nocturnal mind-flick, Cruise wouldn't let me go see BF because I had to receive some kind of instruction. Uh, hello, my naive/innocent days are over. I lived in Cleveland. While the lure of Cruise and his teachings were appealing, my heart was elsewhere. Awwwwwww.

The next night, I dreamt about Russell Crowe. We went to see American Gangster together (another celeb using me for shameless advertising). We had our arms around each other and watched the screen. It wasn't at all romantic, but just to make sure, I told him I was taken. He quipped that he was married with children. We continued watching the movie without incident. Who knew I was such a devoted person? This is the third screen heartthrob I've turned down in my subconscious. I'm ready for whoever comes next.

Spotted: The Back of Nick Rhodes's Head

It happens once in a lifetime. For Dish, the miracle occurred at 7:50 p.m. last night. Somehow, we managed to be at the Barrymore's stage door as Duran Duran dashed in. Had I been fourteen, I would have hurled at the opportunity to see real Duran Duran molecules up close. Going to concerts doesn't quite convince me that these are real people. For a second, I cursed BF's height since he cooly surveyed the orgasmic sighting while I had to keep hopping up. So easy for him, so hard for me who loves them. As I stood on my tiptoes, I saw someone with a big hat rush in (John Taylor?), then a tall, leggy blonde. Then the back of Nick Rhodes's head. I might have caught a glimpse of his nostrils, too. These nostrils, the back of his head, had movement, and no scratchy newsprint to stick to my freckles. Girlfriend had severe roots that needed attention, yet rock stardom forgives coloring outside the lines of hair care. I forgive the keyboardist and it charmingly validated my own inattention to follicle management. I clicked my camera and got nothing. And then it was over.

The concert was great fun--I left hoarse from singing and blind from their overuse of strobe lights. Best of all, BF didn't seem miserable (though the earplugs were in use). My only complaint was: Duran Duran's main fan base is women from 30-45. We may be craggy-faced, unhip with big hips, married breeders, saggy-breasted, and not in keeping with a more desirable Timberlake audience--but how many times do we have to see these skin-and-bone models (who I'm sure are nice women and who wouldn't want to be in a Duran Duran video?) playing with their thongs in the videos? While these mini-features attest to the band's sexual prowess in all areas of life--mental institutions, jungles, yachts, deserts, theaters, historical eras, unfurnished rooms, mudpits, and landmarks--Dish is tired of the super-obvious means of bait. It's so 1983. And we get the message: Duran Duran is ultra-hetero. Duran Duran is ultra-hetero. Duran Duran is ultra-hetero. Despite this, Red Carpet Massacre is my new favorite album of the decade. Well done.

Countdown Duran Duran!

Only an hour and a half till Duran Duran. And Dish is ovulating.

Duran Duran Mania on Broadway

Dish might be the only one calling it "mania" but in my world, twenty-five years of benign obsession constitutes mania of the best kind. Especially with my Duran Duran earrings and t-shirt ready to be worn (along with the huge L on my forehead) to Thursday's concert. If only I could unearth the 50-page Duran Duran term paper (along with the gentle warning from my teacher to find better hobbies) I wrote in high school, I'd be throwing it around in a confetti celebration of the band, whom I love as much--just not so hormonally--as I did when I was fourteen. This time, I'll hold back on the confetti since my beloved is going with me and it's a corny term paper anyway.

Dish doesn't care that they'll be playing new songs for the first hour--though the idea of not singing along bothers me. Also, I wish they'd mention more about their guitarist whom I've named "Sandy" for lack of knowledge of his real name. He's like the weird relative they don't want to include in the family album. After Duran Duran's musical chairs through the decades, I'm ready to accept a new clansman.

In any case, I'm thankful for my second row balcony seats. Twenty years ago, I was able to politely push my way up to the fourteenth row at a concert in Canandaigua, New York. I'll still be closer to them at the Barrymore Theater, though now I'm blind as a bat, so it doesn't matter.

Only here (and to my friend GF1 and BF) can I admit that aside from health and happiness of my loved ones, meeting Duran Duran is the highest wish on my Ellen DeGeneres life list (Isn't she the one who invented the life list?). Though I have the feeling it would make me faint for the very first time in my life. Faint and pee at the same time. In fact, the idea that I'll see them in concert again in under 48 hours is making me feel barfy. So, never mind. I'll put a repaired ozone at #2 on my life list.