Joan and John

Dish was on the subway last night and heard the following (paraphrasing only minimally):

"How's Joan doing?"
"She's on the beach with her 25 y.o. concubine. You know, standard for Hollywood."
"I bet she's paying him."
"Now, he paying HER!"

The two boys looked around and became super-conscious of people listening so I knew it was someone big. My celebrity senses had kicked in at "Joan."

Hmmmm. Which Joan... JOAN COLLINS, of course! Love her forever! I would totally let her bitchslap me.

In Duran Duran news, the object of my teenage (and adult) fantasies, John Taylor will guest star on Samantha Who on January 12th. Dish has marked her calendar. I always meant to watch the show because Christina Applegate is hysterically funny and underused in Hollywood. Now watch, the characters are going to flail, tap dance, and screech around him and he's going to stand there like a piece of wood. Then again, I'd take a wooden John Taylor over nothing. He's a natural in front of the camera. Thought he was great in Sugartown even though the movie was so-so.

As for 2008, GOOD RIDDANCE!!! Dish wishes you all the loveliest of New Year's.

Oops! Pod-en Me...

It's not every day I dream about Liev Schreiber. Usually, they are purposeful daydreams where I pretend Naomi Watts never happened. But why do Liev and I have to be living Invasion of the Body Snatchers together? For once, he plays a supporting role and I am the star:

I'm on the beach with my three children (?). Liev bounds up, wearing gray swimming trunks. I still have a crush but am bitter. "So, how many kids have YOU got?" he asks, as if not seeing evidence of my debauchery. "Three," I respond. His shoulders droop as he says, "Oh. I only have two." He turns away, satisfaction reigns. Suddenly I am transported (without kids, thank Gawd) to a large Prep school. I see a preacher type, someone trying to convince me that this new "existence" is Utopia. An old short-haired lady stands next to me and I know I have to protect her. We run. As people turn into pods and squeal their way into freakdom, I keep running. Just as I'm about to be caught by the preacher, my alarm goes off.

WTF???

What to do?

If you get bored this holiday season, make yourself a Gale Harold coaster! Somehow, I received a set of personalized coasters and what better way to toast my adoration than to place a big, fat drink on my beloved. It's fab, it's fresh, it's...maybe a little crazy.

Speaking of crazy, I had TWO star sightings yesterday within five minutes of each other. I smell a conspiracy.

12:25, 21st and 7th: Dish comes out of store that gave her a new watch battery. I wondered why the guy took so long and now I know. If he hadn't I would have MISSED Jonathan Cake grumpily hailing a cab with a woman who might have been his mother. He wore glasses. Not his best look, but I know how gorgeous he really is. The holidays always ruffle feathers.

12:28, 19th and 7th: Dish then walks into a deli to get a sandwich, waddles out and spots Mo Rocca wearing a J.Lo-ish warm-up suit and slurping some drink from a straw. We see Mo all the time. Might live in our neighborhood.

Since I have no TV right now, I'm desperate for stimulation. Superman seems to out fighting crime (gambling like Omar Shariff in Funny Girl, which is why I'm glad we're not married) and I'm not sure I can take reading more books or having live conversations. What else but to go star-gazing (and make retarded coasters of my favorite celebrities)?

Singing a Bad Tune?

Dish watched SNL the week Kanye West sang and thought, "Wow, he sounds like me in the shower," as in atonal. Our world supports mediocrity as long as it looks good, so I dismissed my criticism as irrelevant. Plus, Kanye's stinky voice that night gives me hope that I too can be a rock star. Put me in glow-in-the-dark sunglasses and I'm so there.

Flash forward to last night: Superman and I were dining to celebrate the holidays. He discussed tuners and brought up Kanye West's appearance and how people were frustrated that his tuner (the thing that makes singers sound good) was not working. So maybe I can tell if someone stinks. Then came on my doorstep Steven Seagal's On Deadly Ground. Which was on my Christmas wish list. Among several turd-tastic flicks.

So, never mind.

But I don't wanna see Daddy naked...

Now that he's President, this kind of picture (which I'm totally bringing more attention to) disturbs me, though the one on the cover of today's Post was the culprit. As I paid my 50 cents, I had to avert my eyes (maybe I peeked a little). Obama isn't supposed to have a naked body, much less defined pecs and abs. It seems so...I dunno...raunchy. I'm sure some peen pics will surface at some point. Watch where you wizz, Obama!

Dish's Annual Jesus's Birthday Newsletter

Dear Readers,

Gosh, where has the time gone? I hope your year has been as festive as mine, filled with accomplishments, rejuvenating events and, most importantly, warm hearts. While Dish can't relay fun tidbits about little Dishette's ballet recital (dance + meds = hilariousness!) or Disher's finally making the soccer team (even with his earth-shaking weight problem), I can offer happy thoughts as the year winds up.

Not only did I give myself a record number of facials, manicures and pedicures this year, but I bought a new purple rug, which my cat has only vomited on three times. I ran long distances, played epic Scramble matches on Facebook, ironed baskets of clothes, attempted to infuse wheat germ into my diet, kicked my Cheetos addiction, and bought too many lipsticks at Sephora. I avoided all coverage on the pregnant man and lapped up new shows on Lifetime (and smoked two cigarettes). In addition to emptying two whole bottles of scotch (okay, that's not a lot), I found a ridge on my nose that Nicole Kidman also has. Dish bought a record number of what-was-I-thinking DVDs (Music & Lyrics, Flatliners) during Breakup Aftermath, but travelled physically to New Mexico and San Francisco, skiied in Lake Placid and, more recently, dodged black ice in Chelsea. The biggest feat was turning 40, which, thanks to my family and friends, was luscious and I can stomach being lumped into the Demi Moore (barren) age bracket and called a "cougar." Dish is fierce!

My star sightings ranged far and wide, from Cheyenne Jackson going to Viceroy to Yasmine LeBon grooving at her husband's concert in Central Park. Through all of it, Dish almost yakked from the excitement...and loved every second. Yes, 2008 has been quite a year.

So as we celebrate the birth of Jesus (Season of Shopping), let's take a second to appreciate the celebrities, who are the new Jesus.

There, that's enough blasphemy for one day...

Love, Dish!

Little Girl Lost: Ellen

No, not that one. Dish watches Fatal Attraction regularly (Glenn Close revs us up) and the daughter Ellen always disturbs me. Is she really a girl? Her name could be Alan (bleck!). I spend the duration wondering how screwed up this kid'll turn out with the boiled rabbit, the sex-addicted father (oh wait, that's just Michael Douglas), and especially the boy haircut. Though, is gender identity important at eight? At any age? Maybe Ellen would have been better off with Glenn Close. At least she makes crazy into a weekend of fun.

Best line of the movie: "I woke up, you weren't there, I hate that."

Gale Is Up and About!

Today's theme song: "Peacekeeper" by Fleetwood Mac

My Christmas wish has been granted: Gale Harold was spotted up and about in LA. My short-term memory has vanished like Dharma's father's in Dharma & Greg and lethargy keeps me from rediscovering the specifics. Just know: He's alive! If I were him, I'd be so sick of watching Dr. Phil, lying in bed, and reading mags. I'd want to jump back into life. We Galeisourcrackaholics are thankful. Dish is watching Particles of Truth to celebrate!

Overdue star sighting: Tuesday 12/16/08, 7 pm. While finding ingredients for my grandmother's lemon bars at the West Side Market, Dennis Miller whooshed by me saying, "excuse me, pardon me." I felt instant revulsion only because Superman hates him. I have no problem with Dennis, though I'm still at that beginning point in the relationship where I can't think for myself. The official term for this is: Testosterone Poisoning. Then again, it might not have been Dennis Miller at all.

Back to frantic shopping!