Admitting the truth is a sign of healing...

Ask me how much I love cigarettes and I could go on for hours...especially now that I don't smoke and talking takes the place of my depleted tar levels. So, I'll confess my vice: I love Dr. Phil. Sure, the opening to his show reveals him as kind of an egotistical warrior psych-jock, on the move to heal people, the go-to superhero when your teenage babygirl is flying to the Middle East to meet a man from MySpace. Dr. Phil is obsessed with T.D. Jakes now, so much so that I'm waiting for them to kiss. The cheese, hype, sometimes fast-food answers to complicated problems, and repetitive phrases ("Someone in this family needs to step up and be a hero..." and "What were you thinking?") cannot be denied. Sometimes, I get bored and turn off the TV. But today, I cried as he gave a victim a little can of whoop-ass, along with a little love. To the many blogs that bitch about him, I say he's doing more good than harm. (Of course, like everyone, he could be hiring $5,500 prostitutes). How many can say that?

Going After Good Guys

How brilliant that a girl could become famous by sleeping with someone reputed to be good. Now, Spitzer’s former escort will have a singing career. Sure, no one will admire her for her brains, survival instincts, or grit, but she’ll be rich and noteworthy. People will ogle her at parties, want to meet the girl who contributed to ES’s downfall. I cringed at today’s Post, but sheesh, what an overnight sensation!

Watch out, Jimmy Carter. I’m coming after you. Wink wink.

Le Stinky French Comedy

Daniel Auteuil. How il me dazzle avec his annual portrayal of a cold, repressed homme who finds his inner warm fuzzy. And there's that fabulous nose of his that runs on a severe diagonal. J'enjoy that he's famous sans adhering to les boring standards of beauty. Not to mention he was married to the formerly chaude Manon of the Spring, Emanuelle Beart, who filled her lips with Michelin tires to do Mission: Impossible. It's like beauty and the beast, only he's beauty now. With my petit naivete streak avec le scandal Spitzer, how can I believe le Daniel hasn't had chirurgie plastique lui-meme?

But, Daniel, pourquoi does he make the trite movie Mon Meilleur Ami? My French upbringing forces me into viewings of le cinema francais and sometimes, je fais le mauvais choix. What is Mon Meilleur Ami? Oh, le cold Frenchman, he has no amis. For some spontaneous reason, his colleagues challenge him to trouver un friend. All his choices reject him, except for the quirky taxi driver. Cold Frenchman screws over Monsieur Taxi, but says he's desolay at the end. Somehow, ils reconcile! Quel surprise! Dish will always profess amour for the Auteuil and now chantes the praises of Dany Boon, whose on-screen panic is tres realistique. Bonnes performances, but scenario merdique.

Duran Duran to Come to NYC AGAIN!

Maybe the universe wants us to be happy again. That's why Duran Duran is returning. They're like my favorite kind of stomach flu. Everytime they're near, I feel happy...and sick. The trauma of our governor's hooker-hobby will fade to my subconscious, where no doubt, he'll appear in a bunny costume and tango with Tom Cruise. At least that's how my dreams usually play out.

I'm thankful for this guilty pleasure even though it carries with it some adolescent pangs. My first love looked like John Taylor and he broke my heart, ate it, puked it up, spat on it, then set in on fire. Is it wrong that I love their latest album so much? That "The Valley" gets me on the treadmill? Or that "She's Too Much" bolsters my confidence in fatherhood? I'll be naive for a while, believe that Simon Le Bon is the perfect, loving father to three girls, that Nick Rhodes really is as genius as Einstein, that not everyone leads a secret life, and that my cat, for one night, won't pull my tablecloth and spill my coffee all over my books. Who knew Duran Duran could stay in my life for a solid six months (okay, it's really been twenty-five years), having so recently graced Broadway.

Hooker who?

Dolly Parton for Governor

Update: My bad. I thought our governor was a pimp but he's Just Another Cheating Spouse. Luckily, BF confirms I'm the only one he would hang out with in a D.C. hotel room. This makes Dish's day.

If only our elected officials could have happy hooker experiences without the onus of the pesky law. Makes me think of recently-released-from-prison Al Pacino in Frankie and Johnny when he hires a working girl to spoon him. Or in Living Out Loud when Holly Hunter hires Eric Somethingwithazinit to give her a "massage." Only in these two instances is prostitution understandable...well, except in Nevada.

Oh, and there's The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas--which Dish's pious Baptist grandparents took me to see. It was totally their idea, too. That Dolly Parton can do anything. There, ending on a positive note.

Isn't It Romantic?

Just when you thought you could trust someone...The truth is: Daddy is getting hookers for potential supporters of a potential future campaign. I'm just guessing. But wait, Dish, these high end call-girls are getting top dollar. Two pervy politician visits a month would be a decent living for a girl, maybe a key to Pretty Woman status. Maybe not. I mean, did anyone see what happened to the prostitute in Heat? This is more fuel for those cynics out there, soon to be me. I'm just waiting for the reality show...and for Hillary to reveal she tortures rodents for fun.

In other news: the Matt Damon franchise is pregnant. Maybe he owns a factory overseas where he employs children to work twelve-hour shifts.

24 Hours of Hillary and Hugh

Dish hasn't been inspired. What is there to say? It's all about the election. Wa wa wa wa wa. My momentum is slowing down, as is my passion for the next President. I still want Hillary in office but CNN no longer holds my attention. I'm sickened by the coverage, in general. In other news, Angelina is pregnant--contributing to worthy causes while encouraging overpopulation (blasphemy, Dish!), no one cares about Britney, "rehab" did nothing for Amy Winehouse, Jon Stewart fared better at this year's Oscars, the writer's strike is over, J. Lo gave birth, and poor, desperate Jennifer Aniston still has no mans so she might have gotten her eggs frozen.

The good news? A friend of Dish met a nice guy while on vacation. This should give hope to even the ever-suffering Jennifer Aniston. Moviewise, Dish might have figured out the bad apple in the well cast chick flicks Evening and The Jane Austen Club. It could be the unending angst (which is mostly just ennui). And yet both films contain Hugh Dancy. Coincidence? Not sure. He's a lovely actor and I wonder if he regrets his choices.

Star Sightings

Two sightings in one week. The stars in the heavens must be trying to release my negativity of the previous week. I'm even starting to believe Obama wouldn't be a bad president (though Dish is firmly on Team Hillary).

Sighting 1: Valentine's Day, 5:50 p.m. as I went to meet BF for VD dinner. That ultra-fem-pretentious designer (which one?) from Project Runway was walking down 6th Avenue and we crossed paths at 21st street. I don't even watch Project Runway! Do I care? Of course.

Sighting 2: 2/16, 4:10 p.m. I was meeting BF to see No Country for Old Men (I'll never think about blowing oxygen into someone's skull the same way again!). As I walked across 14th and 6th Avenue, there was Rhea Perlman, looking as hot and feisty as ever. Who knew that these people were real and moved outside of the television set!