Super Star Sighting...

5:18 p.m.: The snow came down, dusting my rust-colored locks and threatening a serious mascara smear. I'd just been accosted by those just-graduated activitists who stand on the street and ask you if you have time for children or gay rights. No, I don't and I've already given my money to Hillary. As I crossed 72nd and Broadway, I looked up and locked eyes with...Niles Crane. His nose was red from the cold. He even smiled at me. I think.

I love David Hyde Pierce in everything. As the cold but secretly warm repressed brother in Sleepless in Seattle, as the cold but secretly warm repressed brother on "Frasier," doing an admirable take on the Tony Randall character in Down With Love. More recently, I saw him in "Curtains" with BF and his parents. As long as he's in theater, TV or movies, all is right with the world...except with the children and gay rights. Maybe I should have forked over cash.

Steroids, Sally...Mommy?

Another night, another embarrassing dream. I'm lying on the beach with a puffy Roger Clemens and...gulp...we kiss. In waking life, I'm not traumatized by this strange reverie, nor do I feel unfaithful. The connection comes from a brief foray into sortofprofessional sports, not by me. My circle of friends included many athletes in pastel lycra. In this current season of daily mental fitness tests, maybe Clemens's appearance is meant to encourage me. In the sport I knew, doping happened, though I never saw it. I encountered intense personalities whose physical goals seemed insurmountable. Nine hours of training, you pee in your uniform, battle crazy egos and conquer painful hills with younger people chasing you down. I remember watching Roger Clemens pitch during a bout of the stomach flu. At my computer, or scurrying home to avoid the subway, or listening to voices without choking on my breath, I'm assaulted by what feels like unending panic. Clemens and my old friends would die laughing at this extravagance. [Notice coming segue]

As would Sally Field, which she makes people do in Punchline. In one scene, she and Tom Hanks make out, which seemed blasphemous to me. Why? Oh right. She plays his mother in Forrest Gump. I can't wait for Tom Hanks to do Viagra commercials to rival Sally's Osteoporosis commercials.

Speaking of nothing in particular, Dish may be stuck in the 80s but Morris Day and the Time singing "Jungle Love" on the last night's Grammy's made our heart happy. We even did the dance.

Why I Hate Peter Berg

In the vein of the previous post, I continue my hater ways. I want to be a good sister, therefore, I defend my brother against evil. Which is why we both hold a thirty-year grudge against Peter Berg. Our story begins and ends in the smoking room of a Connecticut boarding school where gorgeous, talented fifteen-year-old Patrick was an innocent deer in headlights as the malicious Peter Berg flicked a cigarette at him. We've hated PB ever since.

As a result of this grudge, I never saw The Rundown (though I try to avoid movies starring The Rock) and turned my head when he appeared on "Chicago Hope". After shredding the feature of him in our alumni bulletin, I tittered over the failure of Lions for Lambs. I may have enjoyed Friday Night Lights--all movies are improved by Billy Bob Thorton--but really, he'll always be the guy who flicked a butt in my brother's face. A poor man's Ethan Hawke...

And my brother's is far cuter, which is most important.

Nicer celebrities we've known include Yasmine Bleeth and Jon Tenney. LOVE THEM!

Hate

BF said I was a hater and it's true. There are people I hate. I see the bad in everything. In fact, most things turn to garbage, in my opinion. And I hate it when people try to act as if all is rosy. Or say hateful things in a rosy way. I hate that even more.

I hate how people hurt you, then ignore that they did it. I hate how the media focuses on Heath Ledger's personal life, his alleged substance abuse. I hate that I was curious about it, too. I hate watching the talent of amazing celebrities and realizing my shortcomings. I hate how much attention Britney Spears gets. I hate how The Secret is a compilation of ideas rehashed over centuries but marketed as a wild new discovery. And why didn't I think of that? I hate how some seem to achieve without effort, though what do I know. I hate my envy.

But I love the New York Giants...and Hillary Clinton.

First Hillary Dream of 2008

My subconscious is working overtime. Lucky for all of us, I'm not dreaming about Britney. I'm sick to death of her so no more words devoted to that topic. After hours of CNN coverage of the New Hampshire primaries, I unclenched my jaw to celebrate Hillary's surprise victory last night. I don't care what tactics she needs to use (tears, groans, stomach clutching, boob-flashing) to win, I want her in office. When the sh*t goes down, I know she has the hairy steel cojones to take care of the little people (i.e. me). I like Obama, too, just not as much as Hill.

Here's the dream.

I mistakently flew to Los Angeles six months too early. I checked into my hotel, got ready for my business meeting, then realized I made a huge error. Not fun since we all know it takes a crowbar and strong threats to get me onto a plane. I wondered if BF would join me, but of course, he wouldn't. I was too early. I made the mental preparations to jet home.

Switch to: City Hall in New York City. It's night, the stars are out and I'm wearing the rare formal business suit. I look very Hillary in that sense. Just as I'm about to walk home, I see Hillary walking near me, unguarded, alone. I approach her and praise her work. She smiles and we start a conversation. I wind up walking her to her next function. Of course, I do some butt-kissing because she might be president and I see the human side of her. Are you barfing yet? I know it's a total wish fulfillment dream. It was nice while it lasted. The point is: Hillary and I bonded. I woke up feeling slightly lesbionic, though Hill could have represented my mother, to whom I am close.

Reading Gloria Steinem's Op Ed piece in the New York Times today only affirmed that I'm moving in the right political direction for me. Maybe Gloria will appear in tonight's dream to feed me a magic potion, taking away all stress.

First Tom Cruise Dream of 2008

It's officially the start of a new year since my subconscious has delivered another Tom Cruise message. Again, I don't ask for these dreams. This one came circa 6 a.m. In it, I was waiting in a coffee shop for *someone*. No sooner do I chug my half mocha cara-latte than Katie Holmes wafts over to my table. She's laughing, she's tall, she's the person everyone wants to befriend. There is no Suri, no Tom (though it's really Tom by marriage)--just two girls chatting over coffee. Was this my official welcome? Is she implying that Jesus will appear later? Who knows. The dream was so benign I fell back to sleep, which is usually a hardship for me. Thank you, Katie. Sniff.

Celebrity Resolutions 2008

This year, Dish will do the following:

1. Stop feeding into negative publicity about celebrities (Already cackling over Pamela Anderson's impending divorce and Lohan's leap off the wagon into drunk make-out land).

2. Read inspirational news and ignore Britney (Checked Perezhilton.com five times in the last hour).

3. Avoid sugar (except for that piece of See's candy lingering on desk, more appetizing than month-old, frozen over dulce de leche ice cream).

4. Run even when dead tired (Done--except tonight felt gassy by the third mile so retreated from jungle of treadmills. Mistakenly ate garlic at lunch).

5. Support stars who support causes (meditated tonight and thought of Richard Gere, which totally screwed up my trance).

6. Stop watching movies dominated by a cast of craggy white men (exception: Space Cowbows).

7. Don't be shocked and bitter when you hear of stars who've had plastic surgery (i.e. Shirley MacLaine, whom Dish loves).

8. Be nicer to cat who could be Laurence Olivier reincarnated (he's sitting in the corner eating his butt).

Garnering Sightings

Long Overdue Sighting: December 7th, 11:10 p.m., Jennifer Garner after her performance of Cyrano. She signed autographs forever and was so nice to her admirers. She's just as friendly and cute-seeming as in movies. I still harbor fantasies that someone will catch her smoking crack...

Just finished Rosie O'Donnell's Celebrity Detox, a present from BF, and, to my surprise, it overlooks her final exit from The View. I don't get it since the blowup was super-dramatic. But I liked most of the book and wondered how much editing was done. I'm cynical that way. Parts are intoxicating, especially when she describes her painting. And I totally get her love for Barbra Streisand. There isn't as much of an "as told to" feel to her story as with other celebrity memoirs.

The View represents the dynamic of many female cliques. Usually, there's a hierarchy--the group goddess, the peacekeeper and follower, and the one who gets shat on. The first person to get dumped on was that twenty-something Debbie (Matenopolous?) and she was practically chased off by torch-wielding villagers. Though annoying to watch, Star Jones was clubbed to death in her last year on The View. Then, they went after Rosie, and you know Sherri (no idea of her last name) is next to go. I had thought Elisabeth would be fired, but she's hung in there. While I loathe her opinions, I admire her for surviving the wars. After Rosie left, the pattern seemed so obvious to me, I couldn't watch this show anymore. Though I love Whoopi.