I've Been Infected

I tried reading Twilight last summer but found it boring. Today, I watched the movie. It's beautifully shot but the dreadful acting gave me church giggles. The problem is: I can't stop thinking about the movie, the story. Yes, the vampire--a boy with greasy hair, seriously pale skin, Ronald McDonald lips, and a nose someone stepped on--bit me in the neck three times. I went to a friend and asked if I could borrow her copy a second time. I'm told this affliction is common among women my age.

Just finished Perez Hilton's book--very intelligent. I need to go hunt celebrities this weekend. Where to go? I see enough without trying (more than enough would require tranquilizers) but I never go out in search. Time to turn over a new leaf. What else am I going to do with my free time--read?

Doing Damage

Jeremy Irons was in a movie called Damage where he boinks his son's girlfriend, Juliette Binoche. This flick made me laugh because their lovemaking is so intense, they put their hands over each other eyes. Who does that? Especially when you're boinking Jeremy Irons, though his cigarette cough might grate on me. I'll take ear plugs but he's still pretty to look at (for an OMP). Or maybe he thought Juliette Binoche was hideous. Bottom line: Passion makes you act freaky. So anyway, Jeremy was in Reversal of Fortune with my favorite scenery chewer and grand actress Glenn Close, who is on a TV show called Damages, which I'm watching now. It's so juicy and throughout Glenn always looks and acts her best with her gray suits, striped shirts, sparkling earrings, perfectly feathered blond hair, and a work ethic to rival Hillary's. Today, Glenn is my life.

On this Earth Day, I'm eating several leaves of lettuce to celebrate the fruits of nature, planning to see that movie Earth--elated not to have another Morgan Freeman voiceover though James Girl Jones is #2 on my "list." Dish is also thanking the great cosmic goddess to be single again. Superman (Exbf18) might have been serial killer strange to the point where Dish dodged a bullet. From now on, I'll focus all adoration on my imaginary boyfriend, who does me no harm. I can turn him on and off with a flick of my remote.

Star Sighting

6:25pm, 15th and 7th Avenue: Clad in my fat-ass jeans, I ambled down 7th Avenue with my black raincoat flitting with the wind like a superhero cape. For fear of running into exes, I glared at the ground until my nerve endings came to life. I looked up and noticed a big familiar bear bounding toward me. He was super-tall, super-boyish in a tee-shirt and hoodie--none other than Nuke Laloosh (aka Tim Robbins)! I felt instantly better about humanity. After he passed, I whipped out my cell phone to make a note to self. As I spoke to myself ("Just saw T.R. and he totally has a belly and I heart him!"), I turned and he was right behind me. No doubt mesmerized by my strange beauty, Tim Robbins was following me. I let him pass and made sure he wasn't following me by following him two blocks until he pulled a sneaky move to go into Chase. My only disappointment was seeing the barely-there hippie ponytail held by a lowly rubber band. Considering the breadth of TR's work and talent, I can forgive.

Chariots of Fabulous!

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A Little Romance

I'm not sure why I watch The Wedding Date every time it's on TV. The premise makes no sense. An insecure mess, Debra Messing cashes out her 401K to hire a male whore who just happens to be Mr. Perfect (more like Mr. Syphillis). She's too crazed to attend her double-whorish-sister's wedding alone. Male-prostitute-on-stilts Dermot Mulroney swaggers and flashes dark, sexy looks, making Debra all quivery inside her fantastic wardrobe. She's clumsy, mussed up, awkward, ya know, like EVERY SINGLE ROMANTIC COMEDY HEROINE. Somehow, the key players around them are British, imbuing a little Four Weddings and a Funeral pretention but without the characterization. The goddess Holland Taylor is woefully underused and I can never take Debra seriously when she boinks someone (her garters and hose in A Walk in the Clouds sent me screeching) in the same way Julia Roberts rolling around in bed (Sleeping with the Enemy} renders me uncomfortable. Debra will always be Grace to me, which I'm sure she'd hate. Despite not finding anything realistic in this movie, I'm drawn to it. I know you're thinking I have become a little Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory.

In other news, I took a nap this afternoon and dreamt that I had an in-depth discussion about Brett Michaels as a celebrity. Not sure why I destroy more brain cells on that topic either.

Under the Wire

Almost midnight. Dish has been party central but never too busy to think about the stars. Today, I needed to iron so I watched The Love Guru, which stunk almost as hard as Glitter--though Mariah entertains me for the wrong reasons. Love when she has that sideways ponytail and thinks she's all hip. Dishmama used to do that to my hair when I was two and it worked for me. In The Love Guru, Mike Meyers stars as Austin Powers who acts as a Deepak Chopra knockoff (overstepping); Jessica Alba just smiled in a disposable role as the hot young love interest to a much older and unattractive man (typical!); Justin Timberlake played a character who had a big shlong (exciting); Ben Kingsley was kinda funny mostly because he was cross-eyed; Mini Me was mercilessly ridiculed with short jokes; and Stephen Colbert couldn't help but sparkle no matter what stupid words were given to him. Though I was mildly entertained in some areas, thank goodness I was ironing otherwise I would have turned it off.

So that's the weekend so far. I'm gazing at my homemade Gale Harold coaster, who has a little splotch of latte on his forehead, and counting the days until his return to Desperate Housewives. Can you tell I'm desperate?

Making My Brown Eyes Blue--And Not Just From Cataracts

You think Dish is all about TV, movies and stars. Well, I'm not. I'm an intellectual. My glasses are on, spine straight and I'm focused on Tina Brown's informative tome, The Diana Chronicles. It's important for me to know what Prince Charles likes when he orgasms (to be called "Arthur"). When I look at this pic, I think, "What was she thinking?" It's like Beauty and the Man-Who-Went-Through-a Pencil-Sharpener. Though I did have a little crush on Arthur when I was 11. Immediately after I finish this tacky tale, I'll launch into Perez Hilton's Red Carpet Suicide, which will enlighten me in a literary way about entertainment. My fluff reading is the Huffington Post's book about blogging, as if I need to know anything else.

So yes, I'm a great reader and certainly not playing Dateline (I miss Stone Phillips) in the background to learn about that Michigan woman who disappeared. Not even a little.

Boyle Me Over

I'll rehash what everyone is talking about: the marvel that is Susan Boyle. During Dish's bad week, I kept seeing this frizzy haired woman (who needed a huge eyebrow tweeze) on a Simon Cowell show. Then this morning, I succumbed to curiosity and played the snippet. Soon after she started singing, tears spilled down my cheeks (though this often happens when I'm sleep deprived). Not many people can make Simon Cowell smile like that. She was otherwordly, with the kind of confidence formed from spending a LOT of time in her own skin, pushing past the endless stream of crap, and just waiting for her moment. I hope the rest of her life is spent singing and in the spotlight (however she wants that to happen). My fear is that media scrutiny will pressure her into tweezing those eyebrows, getting a facelift and liposuction. Her luster would be lost if she changed anything. Okay, maybe just the eyebrow tweeze. She is just perfect. Brenda Blethyn or Shirley Valentine in the movie version? No wait, this is Hollywood. It would be Madonna.