Keep picturing Clive Owen showing up with Scotch...

Well, that was odd. So, my last post mentioned both Eleven and D$M, right? Guess who has a huge banner over the club advertising her hosting their Saturday dance night? None other than Candis Cayne, the awesome transgendered actress from the show. I've yet to go, but still, seeing two random things come together in your mind and then in real life is...odd.

Which, further - as much as I hate Oprah and this "Secret" b.s. philosophy of "your thoughts control the world" sometimes it gets really weird. The latest Los Angeles magazine shows up in the mail on a Wednesday, complete with a huge coverline saying "Forget Earthquakes: You Should Be Worrying about Fires" and then an inside headline proclaiming that if fires coincided with the Santa Anas, it could be the worst disaster ever seen. Then, two days later, that's pretty much exactly what happens.

So I'm gonna try to keep thinking about awesome things. Like Clive Owen. Scotch. Shirtlessness. Then good, quick, clean & dirty, zipless fuck experience with Scotch, not the way too much and way, way too emotional one from Friday night.

Oh, and, while browsing thru Amoeba the other day (I had to kill time since a horrible, horrible waitress at Pete's made me "late" for an AFI screening), I found a Gay Zombie movie. The title? "Creatures from the Pink Lagoon." H___ & I decided it was a borderline pun, but I'm still renting it for further pun research purposes.

Trashy, addictive TV, part 2

Back in school, in my TV class, I wrote a paper on Nip/Tuck. The main point of it was that while subtlety is all well and good, melodrama has its place. And it's a fun place. Plus, playing things at a fever pitch sometimes means you can get away with more.

If you're not chasing the cocktail of Gossip Girl's NY porn + money + beautiful pampered people doing delicious things with a shot of Dirty Sexy Money, then you don't deserve to drink the melodrama Koolaid at all.

Why bother underplaying when you can use real live lions as a punchline? Why not go all the way with the Paris Hilton caricature? ODing, naughty priests and trannies (who are definitiely *not* hookers) in the pilot? BRING IT!

Everyone here knows they're ridiculous and they seem to be loving it.

Also, Peter Krause is possibly the least appreciated TV actor around. Not even a Globe for Sports Night or Six Feet Under.

Twintuition! Is Samaire awesome at playing vapid and limited because she is so vapid and limited herself? How on earth did fugly Bryce Dallas Howard snag hottie Seth Gabel?

As cheesily fun as the show is, it sometimes veers from melodrama to actual drama. With great actors like this, it can work. Donald Sutherland walked that razor's edge last week and Baldwin is balancing this week. [Jill Clayburgh is her usual awesome self.]

"I don't need twintuition to see you googling her ass!" "Don't you mean ogling?"

Complementary Bulgari watches as party favors? God, it's such a masturbatory aspirational fantasy and I love it.

It took me forever to place Karen's hubby Freddie as the villainous frat boy from Van Wilder. He looks different without dog semen in his mouth. Insert obvious horny comment here. I do love those All-American looks -- young, dumb and...well, you know.

That's the thing about GG and DSM - I went to a private high school, but in the South. A college with beautiful, wealthy people. But I'm not a scion or a junior. I wasn't in a frat.

So it all seems familiar yet completely foreign to me. Which is why I can't stop watching. I've been near there, but not there there. Sure, I've stayed at the Palace, but never went to Le Cirque 2000. Add some music, some flashy editing and a few bon mots that I don't forget that night in a drunken haze -- and turn the volume up. Almost as enjoyable to watch as it is to (nearly) live. Which I do enjoy. I'll just have to take detailed notes and turn it all into a fabulous roman a clef or soap later.

[Seriously, GG has convinced me that if I *had* been at more of the lakehouse parties in high school doing the observational writerly thing, I'd have such sellable material by now.]

On that note: assuming their kitchen staff gets "unexcused," Eleven is becoming my lounge of choice in WeHo. A fantastic decor - it's owned by either Sid or Marty Kroft - hot waiters that can make drinks as well as they can show off their abs. Plus, insanely good onion rings. Blue cheese dressing, greasy yet light and flaky. And possibly the most perfectly sweet/sour onions this side of Vidalia. I think I went there at least 3 times the week they opened to pig out on them (and booze + boys, duh.) They're having happy hour from 4-8 with 2 for 1 drinks and a cheapo bar menu. There's also the possibility of chatting up the crowd, since it's a nice atmosphere. A lounge is just for that. Who knows, you may just meet someone with a famous last name. Not that I did or anything. Or am wanting them to call me.

trashily addictive-y television

I threatened you on Facebook and, yeah, it's on. GG, episode 4, live-ish (at the ads) blog below. [And I said method liveblogging, so there was at least one Martini before the start]:

9:20 p.m. -- A Breakfast at Tiffany's dream sequence? Awesome. The wistfulness of Moon River gets me every time, but nice for it to be utilized for its darker underpinnings.

And yeah, we all saw S being incorporated into the photo shoot a mile away, but who cares. Plus, nearly 90% of the "inspiration" S gave was taken directly from ANTM.

I love how this show just drops you into the world ("It's NoLita, not Noshowers" "I hate Vera's models") and just expects you to catch up. Or feel totally like a lame outsider if you don't.

The outfits, the outfits, the outfits. So perfect -- the 40s inspired Waldorf designs? And then...weirdness. Like Chuck Bass dressed all Sean John. Huh? Or the fact that S is dressed hoochier than the rest of the supposedly refined and preppy characters half the time (denim cootershoots a few eps back!) and yet gets praised by B's mom for her taste.

9:33 PM -- Of all the ridiculous leaps of faith this show asks us to believe, the fact that the Humphrey's are "poor"-er (or inferior to) the UES-ers is the biggest one. Their kitchen alone costs more than my life. It's in Williamsburg! The trendiest place on earth. All the exposed brick! The pull-down garage door divider thing-y? Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. WANT.

Point being, if Williamsburg = Silverlake, if I *had* bought property in the West Coast equivalent 3-4 years ago? I'd be able to be brunching in the Palace right now.

"5 boroughs, 5000 chances to get laid?" I know he's a sleazeball, but I admire him for being true to his nature and honest about who he is.

The Easton Ellis comparison is easy, but you could cut the homoerotic tension between Nate and the hippie dropout with a 24-karat knife. It's probably because Nate really does resemble Ian Somerhandler. A lot.

9:45 - Catfight! I *do* wonder how long they can go back-and-forth between the poles of the frenemies spectrum, but it's enjoyable while it lasts. Plus, super bonus points for staging one showdown during a field hockey match.

I know it helps that she's staring down at me from every other billboard in town, but Blake Lively's hair is insanely good. It's like a mane or something. A full, well-conditioned mane.

9:59: Wow, this show really *is* NY porn. And, it goes without saying, but I'm saying it anyway -- everything is made more interesting with Kristen Bell narrating. Just imagine your - or my - life with KB overdubbing even the most mundane things.

"Spotted this a.m. - HG hitting the drive-thru at McD's for some Monopoly action. We know he loves to play games, but will the food go to his thighs or win him a valuable prize?"

I Like to Watch over at Salon has basically said it, but I will again - you have to love the characters being fully committed to the bitchiness. I mean, they stay at the Palace (hey, I've been there! And shamelessly threw myself at the concierge. To no avail, since I was staying with my mom), which was a Leona Helmsley property. And I can totally picture anyone on the show pulling a her and leaving all their money to their dog out of spite.

Okay, I'm open to suggestions/comments from my tens - dozens, even! - of readers. Especially if we can create a signature drink for the show. You know you love me. XOXO, - HG

the 'duh' in 'dui'

Seriously, Least. Surprising. DUI. Ever.

The whole thing can be summed up in the following story, which took place on my birthday.

MP: [Charming anecdote about her friend being harassed by a drunken guy in the bushes.] And guess who it was?
HA: Kiefer Sutherland?

H. said this in the most perfect deadpan, "oh, you know how that Kiefer is" voice, like we knew him.

I think the bushes incident was a Defamer sighting, but I'm not sure.

I, uhm, don't watch 24 but if it - a show renowned for its conservative political streak - is getting a lady president who likes the ladies off-screen [Cherry Jones], is that a sign of a shifting cultural climate?

Also, there was a semi-recent BI about a show trying to cram in a shitload of eps before the strike and how the lead was resorting to drugs to do round-the-clock filming. Does anyone know what I'm talking about and could find it? I kiss you in advance. Because I certainly don't know of any friends who spotting him snorting at the Standard in recent years, but...well, yeah, I do.

I can't act too high-and-mighty because who among us hasn't looked like this:

after a few?

[ROWR/Woof!/purr....and image shameless ganked from Cityrag.blogspot.com]

Speaking of rowr: dude walking past me at Sbucks + scrub pants + him in boxers (or, geez, commando!?) = holy mother of GOD, can I give *him* his physical instead? This dude's a tall drink of water, but wowza. And now I don't need coffee to perk me up.

further adventures in juxtaposition...

After CollegeHumor was actually, inadvertently funny for a change, banner ads prove hilariously stupid/stupidly hilarious once again:


The awesome cats at LOLgay macro-ed the heck out of Craig (submit yours today!). But then there's the weirdness of having a "3 conservative books for $1 each" ad next to it. Which, huh? I wonder if they bought the ad in hopes that LOLgay would attract right-wingers who want to laugh at the fairy's funny costumes and street fairs...and then are completely stoked for getting an awesome deal!

Because, you know, those conservatives have some really good points when they're not being total hypocrites. Or giving coke and pot to barely legal pages.

[Sidebar: free-flowing drugs, sex with older men in suits and the chance to live for years off the tell-all book deal money? Shit, I picked the wrong career.]

In further, further adventures of juxtaposition... MTV's ad breaks are going back and forth between spots for the VMAs, which are all "VEGAS! WOOT! LIVE! MADNESS! YEAH" and promos for Resident Evil:Extinction, which pitch the city as a dried-up, post-apocalyptic wasteland.

And if Britney really *does* perform, we're going with the latter. Because damn her to hell for answering the question "what's more of an earworm than -ella-ella-ella-ey" with the answer of repeating the words "gimme more" in no less than 27 protooled variations.

black velvet margarita

Something I just learned today -- Madonna born/Elvis died. Same day, different years.

There's a fantastic place on Cahuenga (ish?) called Velvet Margarita. You can stop in for a drink in the middle of the day and it feels like 1 a.m. when you walk through the door. Bring sunglasses, because when you walk back out, you'll be reacting like Spike on the Summer Solstice. Point being -- they *always* have some kitschy old Elvis movie playing on the gigantic plasmas over the bar. Always. Kick back, enjoy a frosty pina colada (they have many, many variations of the margarita, most of which are great) and have some laughs.

Meanwhile, Alannah Myles's purr tells us what it was all about.

[One of my favorite songs ever and I had to look her name up. One-hit wonder much?]

When I was clicking through the rest of the NY Post, I found that Bob Marley is now the number one object of black velvet paintings. Make of it what you will.

The odd thing is that his music doesn't have much emotional resonance to/for me. So I'm kinda befuddled as to the massive lines around Graceland and candlelight vigils to memorialize someone these people didn't even *know*. It seems so silly somehow and yet...doesn't.

But I suppose that's true of so many things in life.

mean girls, starring page six.

As I previously mentioned. I heart the blind items. I also love reading Gawker and the Post, even though NYC is driven by such different industries (publishing, fashion, etc.) than LA, so I have no idea who half the people mentioned *are.* In a weird way, that makes it more fun. They become these interesting creatures who I don't really know from movies/TV/whatever, but know all the gossip about. It's kinda like how I dig reading British mags like Tatler and British OK! (old-school version) at the doctor's office -- even though the former apparently has half the Parker-Bowlses on their writing staff.

All this is leading up to today's BIs from Page Six:

Just Asking
WHICH suave Latino actor has been tempting sociable cocktail waitresses to act out his sultry movie role scenes in the bathroom of a certain downtown hot spot? . . . WHICH "fauxcialite" has tongues wagging that her longtime boyfriend prefers men? She was overheard avoiding questions about their sex life at a Hamptons party, while he was spotted checking out guys.

The first one - probably Enrique Iglesias (Rico Suave...geddit?). I feel like the spouses of Marc Anthony and Antonio are too famous for a "don't tell his wife!" allusion not to be made. Or J. Lo is about to slit her fabulously-accessorized wrists. Whichever.

For the second - I'm thinking this Olivia Palermo person. I wanted it to be Tinsley Mortimer, because her hubby is cute in that blondish East Coast Preppy Way. And is named "Topper," which leads to all opportunities for puns. Plus, I'd get to call her "Ashley Winksdale," as Lily Allen did while schnockered.

But. She's a real socialite, whatever that means. And with a husband, not boyfriend.

Also, the first section of today's Page Six is all about how Olivia and Tinsley's massively bitchy bitchiness prevented them from helping out a Darfur benefit. [Complete with great headline: "Socialites' Snit Scars Benefit."] Not content to have one lady comment that these 'tards would cause the recently-deceased Brooke Astor to roll over in her grave, Page Six is totally gonna make us think your boyfriend's a homo. Good job, Palermo.

He does have some massive gayface going on in this picture, from her "fansite."

Fansite that she obviously runs herself. A quick glance at some previous Gawker stories reveals that she's like this insane pit of need for attention and self-promotion.

Hmm, reminds me of another "fauxcialite."

Now's probably the place where I should mention Darfur and genocide and caring, but Slate tells me that genocide is so over.

[No, really, they had an article on how we're pretty much immune to the word now.]

strike a juxtapose!

Okay, we've all seen examples of horribly ironic/inappropriate placement of ads on a webpage.

Now I give you the funniest thing ever posted on College "Humor," ever. And I don't think it was intentional. So, bros, dudes, and dudebros - Lauren wrote this totally awesome piece "Irrelevant Nostalgia at $25 bucks a pop!" It's about making fun of hipster pop-culture T-shirts.

Now guess who is one of CH.com's biggest advertisers and chose to place an ad next to said piece? Come on, take a guess ...


P3NED! & Shamed! It's like they're tea-bagging themselves, really.

[Actually, Wiki reveals that their parent company *owns* Busted Tees, so they really are tea-bagging themselves. And are displaying massive amounts of stupidity.]

Granted, it's not like I'm an expert on funny or have zillions of dollars from selling out to Barry Diller. But the site, on the whole, is painfully unfunny. Yeah, some of the pictures sent in are amusing and kinda LULZ-worthy. But that's content from users. Not CH's "created" content.

Case in point: "Guy Tries To Impress His Friends By Singing The Fast Part to Hook by Blues Traveler."

It's *exactly* what it sounds like. Just the lyrics, slightly f'ed-up.

That's not even a joke -- it's barely a concept for a joke.

Also, incoming college freshmen are apparently living in the early 90s.

technical difficulties

Sorry about the gankiness of the "read more" cuts. I *think* I followed the instructions properly when I changed the template. But it's seemingly screwed up. Ah, to be in high school and a minor tech geek again.

you can't spell 'meme'...

Without 'me.' And you can't spell 'procrastination' without 'contains airports.'

Way back around the 4th-ish of July, the lovely and talented Catherine Cantieri "tagged" me for this internet meme thing. So while I could make excuses, there really isn’t a good one. So without further adieu, let’s get into Eight Things You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Me but Were Afraid to Ask. But first –

THE RULES
1. All right, here are the rules.
2. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
3. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
4. People who are tagged write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
5. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Now, 8 Things About Me....

• I auditioned to host American Idol. Not sing for. Host. So it could be me frosting my tips and making out with Teri Hatcher. I’m still trying to wonder whether the massive pay would be worth it. But you know that I’d do a better job on the Oscar carpet.

• Naturally, I’ve never seen a (full) episode of the show. I’ve also never seen The Sopranos. Or read a Harry Potter book.

• I don’t need the show to embarrass myself. I sing in the car. Like, really sing – full out belting at the top of my lungs. I also try my best to “match” the singer’s voice and give a performance where I really “feel” the song, dawg.
  

• I can’t whistle or blow bubbles. I’ve tried my entire life and nope. Not happening. Feel free to insert your own joke about my tongue/mouth in other arenas.

• Even though I’m a semi-closeted Southerner, my favorite theme park is still Dollywood. I don’t care for country music too much, but their rides are fun and their funnel cake is heavenly. More importantly, it’s located in Pigeon Forge, which is like this massive explosion of tourist kitsch. Bungee-jumping! Rock-tumbling! Bumper cars! Pretty much any ridiculously cheesy thing you’ve always wanted to do? It’s there.

• I have a mild allergy to rich dark chocolate. It makes me sneezy. Horribly, I love rich dark chocolate and used to mock my sister for this same allergy when we were younger. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor, I developed it.

• I hate quizzes/multiple-choice “personality tests” in any way, shape or form. This is probably because my dad has a psych degree, so I was exposed to the concept at an early age. So I spend a lot of time reverse-engineering them to try to get the desired result and wondering what answers “they” want to get. Plus, I always want to answer “maybe” or in-between two answers. I draw the line at the Cosmo quiz.

• I have a problem with authority. I always think I know better. Wishy-washy types will tell you that it makes me an “indigo child.” But it kinda makes me a prick who doesn't like to play by the rules. Your call. I don’t even think I know eight people with (non-Myspace) blogs, so I’m making a list of as many as I can and tagging a few. As I said. Problem with authority. Not naming names, but one person flat-out refused when I asked him/her in person.
  

The Red Lipstick Lounge

The Summer Stix

Now Get Your Fuckin' Shinebox

Film & Food

Snarkastic

This. That. No other.

I know that's not eight. I iz bad at maths. And really need to embrace the blogging community more.

fast, cheap and out of control....

Too bad it's already taken, because that would be the perfect title for the Lindsay Lohan story. And I really like her on-screen -- I really do. But she is fucking out of control in a way that makes Neely O'Hara look tame.

We need her former co-star to deliver this speech to her.

It's enough to make me either cry or laugh, so let's laugh while trying to be compassionate to someone with serious issues.

A key part of going through the recovery process successfully is having a good sponsor. Since everyone agrees Lindsay needs better authority figures in her life, let's examine some potential celebrity sponsors:

ROBERT DOWNEY JR:
pros: The popular LiLo analogue online. No stranger to rampant bisexuality/promiscuity - yet currently stable enough for marriage. Can give advice on surviving prison. Secure enough to portray an alkie on-screen recently without being overly tragic about it.

cons: Allegedly a penis-lashed "human piñata" in jail [scroll down], so prison advice might not be too helpful. Had much more critical clout than Lindsay -- actual, not dreamed of, Oscar noms. Had to rely on Mel Gibson's help to get clean. - he's certainly the portrait of sobriety of late.

DREW BARRYMORE:
pros: Former child star who started using and abusing young. Crazy familial background. No stranger to bisexuality, either. Gone from a checkered past to being a true power-player as an actress/producer.

cons: Probably not 1000% sober, given the hanging-out with Courtney Love days. Making crazy decisions on impulse well into adulthood (Tom Green!). Ran too far from bad-galdom into cloying hippy-dippy persona.

CARRIE FISHER:
pros: Knows how to deal with a crazy, attention-grabbing mother. No stranger to turning persona trauma into “art” ala "Confessions of a Broken Heart." Open and honest about ongoing struggle with mental health and need for medication.

cons: On the Lot. Wrote foreword to Courtney Love’s memoir.

COLIN FARRELL:
pros: Already know each other. Massive intake of drugs rivaled, if not exceeded, Lindsay’s - his weekly intake was once "20 E's, four grams of coke, six of speed, half an ounce of hash, three bottles of Jack Daniel's, 12 bottles of red wine, 60 pints - and 40 fags [cigarettes] a day". No stranger to excessive hype exceeding career output. No stranger to same-sex make-outs with maximum tabloid appeal. No stranger to surviving disaster after Alexander and The New World.

cons: Having (allegedly) been inside of her might damage objectivity. Fatherhood was a big factor in getting clean - Nicole is one more pregnant celebutard than we need. His career is…where, exactly?

JAMES FREY:
pros: Lindsay’s a fan of his work. Compulsive liar, just like Lindsay.

cons: Compulsive liar, just like Lindsay. Oprah confrontation unlikely to be restaged with White Oprah.

JAMIE LEE CURTIS:
pros: Crazy family, with a father who also went through recovery. Beat painkiller addiction and serves on the board of CASA, which can use LiLo as a future case study. Or she could simply swap bodies with Lindsay and poof!, she's clean.

cons: Body-swapping technology not yet available in real life. Another annoying celebrity children's book author. Still in some degree of denial herself – or should I say his/herself?

Place your votes (or recommendations!) in the comments. Or tell me how to insert a quiz, people with mad online skillz.

Now a brief message-y moment: Katie Couric semi-defended Lindsay recently, saying, "This young woman's life is on the line. And that's not entertainment." And it's not - the rest of the nonsense, is. The fact that she is self-destructing as fast as she can, isn't. While this blow-out of increasingly insane proprtions is awesome in its splendor - and damn funny in sooo many ways, it's clear that, for Lindsay, this has gone way beyond typical stupid spoiled whore behavior of the Four Bimbos of the Famewhoracalypse. (I just had one margarita! Whatevs! No, look, I eat - see me eating this cheeseburger! Get a good shot, paps!)

Lindsay Morgan/Dee Lohan is a severely damaged young woman who needs help. Lots of it. Or she is going to die. I hope none of us want that.

Because who would keep us amused?

i love it when a blind item comes together...

I love blind items. LOVE them. It's all the fun of a trying to figure out a mystery, only with more celebs. Plus, I firmly believe that they're often the only "true" gossip since Us/Star/etc. collude regularly with publicists and celebs themselves.

The best part about solving them is that you then get to breathlessly exclaim "OMG, guess what I know about [blank] screwing/snorting/screaming [blank] in the [blankety-blank]" And you get to feel really superior and "in-the-know."

Entertainment Lawyer gives us this juicy tidbit:

• I'm not really one for royalty blind items because I don't know any, but I do know that recently there was some royalty that hit the OC hard. (you can take that however you want, but I don't think they were physically hanging out at Laguna Beach.)

With a quick search, we end up with this set of photos.

Our game of Clue thus concludes - Mischa Barton, with Prince Harry.

Darnnit - the photos are from one year ago. But they obviously met then and are now screwing. And since Prince Harry's nickname from his "girlfriend" is "Big Ginger," I can't blame her. Plus, total upgrade from Cisco, non?

Also, Renee Zellweger is pregnant, y'all!

(I'm collecting my thoughts on Lindsay, give me time)

for your consideration...

I meant to do this earlier, before the Emmys were nearly upon us.

The Good News? The series finale of Rome is in the Top 10 finalists list floating over at Gold Derby.

I've missed most of TV this spring -- like, the entire latter halves of Heroes, VM and BSG.

That being said, I swear to Xenu, I will hunt down and kill the entire nominating committee if Polly Walker isn't recognized for her work in Rome.

Team Atia, forever and ever.

they say it's your birthday....

The object of my inexplicable worship, Lindsay Morgan (Dee) Lohan is 21 today.

Too bad she can't celebrate like I imagined she would. I had a fantastic vision of hookers and eightballs everywhere, shirtless men writhing in cages, a Svendka vodka fountain...

Oh, well, she got sprung from Promises long enough to buy an Iphone, so I'm still jellus.

Do a shot or snort a line in her honor, dear readers. Or come up with a LOLhan Macro.

Meanwhile, I have to think of 8 interesting things about me. This may take a while.

K. and I came up with a tribute drink to her during a Deadwood marathon, so if you want to get completely schnockered, the "La Lohan" is the drink for you:

Start with a Red-Headed Slut:

• 1.5 ounces of Jagermeister
• 1 of Peach Schnapps
• A good splash of Cranberry juice.

Now to make it "La Lohan" -- which means more booze, please.

• Add some Whiskey. However much you're thinking of adding? It's not enough. Add more. It's not like you have a problem or anything. Really.
• All of the above should be going into a shaker with plenty of ice. Shake the fuck out of it and pour into a rocks/highball glass.
• Top it with a floater of Bacardi 151. If you're feeling really daring, why not ignite it? Add some fire for Miss Firecrotch!
  

Fair warning: 151 is very flammable and so the igniting might not be the best idea. But neither is getting behind the wheel. Or starring in Herbie:Fully Loaded. Drink at your own risk.

A paradox! An oxymoron! A paradoxymoron!

So all the old mainstays of rock are releasing new albums soon. Or touring while their drummer passive-agressively bitches about it via blog. Or transforming a formerly promising teen actress into a clone of his ex and then fucking her onscreen while blood spews everywhere.

Among those doing the album-releasing thing?

The Smashing Pumpkins.

I sorta had this information swirling in the back of my head. Then I saw a bus bench ad.

The album's title?

Zeitgeist.

Oh, that's fucking rich.


A brief swig of the dictionary tonic reveals Zeitgeist as "the general moral, intellectual, and cultural climate of an era."

I own a calendar. It's not the 90s, upcoming Spice Girls -- sorry, Spice "Women" -- reunion tour notwithstanding.

Which was the last time Smashing Pumpkins were within a 10-mile radius of the zeitgeist. Hell, it's the last time they were even in the same galaxy as our zeitgeist.

There was that one good song on the Lost Highway soundtrack and then a dozen abortive side-projects and "new" bands.

Also, Mellon Collie and the infinite double album that had the cool Georges Méliès-jacking (er, "homaging") video was one of those albums that I bought because I thought I had to to be cool and music-savvy. But I never really listened to it. Not really. Because double albums are usually filler, filler and more filler. The only recent exception I can think of is NIN's Fragile.

Plus, naming your album Zeitgeist is just a weeee bit hyperbolic and setting yourself up for failure. I mean if this record doesn't capture and define our time, then it looks like a failure.

The only 90s musicians I care about their pending comeback? Courtney Love (and her backing band, her misspelled personal demons). Seriously, get clean, get the record done and fucking make me 16 and angsty again and feeling like I heard "Doll Parts" for the first time.

VICTORY IN OUR TIME!

I guess dreams really DO come true...

She's back in jail! HUZZAH!

Okay, now I'm going to visualize a pony and winning the lotto.

i'm gonna be a celebrity....

That means someone everyone knows....

A few weeks ago, I decided that pretty much all I wanted for my birthday - besides Clive Owen and a bottle of Scotch - was for Paris to go to jail. And stay there.

I had other dreams, too, of course -- a rocking party, a fabulous life and Clive Owen. But I've been kinda in the doldrums and not that much in a "MY LIFE IS TOTALLY KICKASS! I ROCK! WOO! CELEBRATE ME!" mood.

But if there's one thing that I never tire of, it's taking pleasure in others' misfortune. (Didja know schadenfraude tastes like strawberries?)

Sadly, as you may have heard from now, Parisite is now free to walk among us.

Damn it. This is intolerable.

I know my Oscar post was about unironic celeb worship and them NOT having to be "just like us". But there are limits. And she crossed them. She keeps crossing them. Quite simply, she believes that the rules don't apply to her and the world keeps reinforcing that belief.

Sadly, I know too many people in town who have gotten DUIs. And they had to take their punishment accordingly. But not Paris. Never Paris. Because she is either made of 95% Teflon or Satan herself. Scandals that, in the past, would end careers (or at least shame a prominent family) - sextapes! drugs! herpes! -- seem to only make her stronger.

Alas, I am not (yet) a celebrity and have to deal with being treated like a normal human being sometimes. Most of the time, actually. I have to deal with astoundingly bad service at dinner at one of my favorite restaurants in town (Hungry Cat, FWIW).

At a place where I have been many, many times before and spent lots and lots of money. (Last summer, dinner and a movie meant Arclight and Hungry Cat). At a place where I've taken parents, tourists and lovers. A place where the burger and drinks are so goddamn good that I'm almost willing to forgive them for making little to no effort in providing us quality service for a birthday dinner.

I don't know if it was a bad table, the fact that we were young or not hip enough or what.

Or simply, I'm not important enough. Because I'm not a celebrity.

Paris, meanwhile, doesn't even bother to pay the bill. And I'm sure she'll keep getting invited back into the VIP room and landing the best tables.

So screw this plebian shit. It's time for me to be famous -- not just internet famous, but actual famous. Because, well, why shouldn't I be?

ask and ye shall receive....

Well, that was weird.

No less than 24 hours after having an insatiable curiousity about Gay Zombies, MySpace has a banner ad for this "mockumentary" [please, someone, banish that word] entitled American Zombie. The tagline?

"We're here. We're dead. Get used to it."

Stop INVADING MY BRAIN, universe! This hat is made of the *really good* tinfoil, okay?

Meanwhile, in non-Gay Zombie news -

Last week, I was depressed. The kind that needs industrial-sized Manhattans and impulse buying in grocery stores. I went to get Maraschino cherries and their sweet juices for said Manhattans. I ended up with a shit-load of nacho ingredients. Along the way, I spied this:
I hate to go all CopyRanter because he'd dissect this better than I, but I have to.

Vertigo is many, many things, such as:

• A side-effect of this blog, along with dry mouth and unquenchable bloodlust.
• One of Hitchcock's finest works.
• A so-so U2 song [even after the brilliant explanation by Jane Avril, the "uno, dos, tres, CATORCE!" *still* bugs. Said explanation is that the band went back to the same producer for their 14th album as they did for their 1st-3rd. It's a giant shout-out to Steve Lillywhite that annoys almost all who hear it. Plus, the video took place in a Target ad.]

But it is NOT - NOT a good name for a candy lollipop. Even one that tastes like a massively artificial chocolate-covered strawberry. I can picture some exec thinking that naming a candy "Vertigo!" is, like, totally rad and is an X-TREME candy or whatever. And then I hate them.

What remaining hate I have is directed toward ABC and their fucking new Jimmy Kimmel campaign smeared over seemingly every bus in Los Angeles.


The ad reads "Be A Good American. Jimmy 5 Nights a Week."

What. The. Fuck?

Besides having an ear-splitting radio ad that changes Franz Ferdiand's "Do You Wanna?" into "Do-Do-Do You-Do You Do You Jimmy?," ABC is under the belief that if you throw enough money into it, slang will come.

No. You can't just INVENT verbs from proper names!

And then USE them with disturbingly masturbatory over/undertones [i.e. "12:05 am - Time to Jimmy."]

And you especially can't do this with a word that is already a verb [i.e. "jimmy a lock."]

What the hell is WRONG with you?! I HAVE NEVER IN MY LIFE YELLED AT A NETWORK LIKE THIS!!

Seriously, I was indifferent to Mr. Kimmel beforehand. Now? Filled with white-hot hatred.

there are no small parts...

Only gay zombies?

So. A while back, certain people [namely me, Kay Rose, Holly Magnolia, Livia Harlowe] and I were talking about how there are no brief/funny puns involving gay zombies. And there aren't.

The sad thing is that I own this book [a gay spoof of the Choose Your Own Adventure Books from my/your childhood], which includes ZOMBIE DRAG QUEENS. But no humorous puns or cool slanguage.

I've seen this awesome YouTube video [entitled 'That Guy (of the Living Dead)'], which involves bears + gay zombies. Still no good puns are coming to mind.

Why is this important, you may ask?

Well, I helped out making a friend's film -a nifty little horror-comedy-totally Maegan Poland thing entitled "10 Signs Your Roommate is a Serial Killer." Anyways, I had to play dead.

So we took pictures of me made up and dead. I totally look like an awesome gay zombie.

And since things only matter when they're relevant to me, I now MUST resolve this burning question of "why are there no fantastically witty yet concise gay zombie puns?"

I probably am not as up on my horror knowledge as other people and therefore can't apply my fancy film school edumacation...

[I *still* somehow never managed to see any of the Romero stuff - I genuinely think the only "zombie" movie I've ever seen is 28 Days Later.]

But this is bugging the fracking HELL out of me.

So far, the only thing our friends have come up with is "Night of the Lisping Dead."

Which. Come on. We have to do better than that, don't we?

best. week in film. ever.

A long, long time ago, I went to a private, conservative high school.

In this place, a younger, no less wise huntergrayson wandered about, feeling alone and confused.

Then a mad hatter arrived to take over the theater program. Said mad hatter started offering film classes and, well, my life as I know it now sorta began then.

Keep in mind that this was before the DVD age reached full swing. So the mad hatter would show me mysterious bootleg VHS tapes that were burned from laserdiscs. [Yes, they really existed, look it up.]

Besides introducing me to the works of David Sedaris, that man is responsible for my first viewings of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls and On Her Majesty's Secret Service.

And the insane musical I just now discovered came out on DVD - Busby Berkeley's The Gang's All Here. There's a fruit hat, dancing bananas and a number that's a swooning psychedelic tribute to polka dots.

I can NOT WAIT to see this again. I can't...put it into words. It's just something you have to experience yourself.

Also, a brief review:
Running with Scissors - written/directed by Ryan Murphy:

For someone who balances so delicately on the razor's edge of camp every week on Nip/Tuck, it is surprising that he would make a movie so....dull. So inert. Bear in mind that I haven't read the memoir - my viewing companion had and is a HUGE Burroughs fan.

But the movie kinda sucks. It has no momentum, no "oopmh." It's a string of vignettes pieced together as a feature film- pearls through a necklace whose string gets more frayed as it goes along. The emotional modes are only two -- blankly delivered psychobabble talk about "feelings" and such or over-the-top screaming matches. And that's it. It's either one or the other rather than the rich and varied shades of melodrama that Murphy's TV show consistently delivers.

A more fitting title would've been, "Powerwalking, then Sprinting, with Scissors."

While the acting is decent enough across the board [look for Gabrielle Union to prove her dramatic chops in a "blink and you'll miss it" role] only two actors manage to seem like real people rather than cardboard characters. The first is Alec Baldwin, who earned Salon's Honorary Oscar in part for his turn here.

The other? Gwyneth Paltrow. Yes, her. I tend to stay away from her gossip threads because while she's probably an insufferable person, she has never ceased to remain a compelling screen presence in my eyes. Given how the entire film is barely distinguishable from a sad Tenenbaum retread, Fishstick must be commended for not doing Margot, part deux.

Evan Rachel Wood's faux-punk "fuck you" posturing sometimes makes her seem like early Avril Lavigne. Joseph Fiennes? Yet another screen role where "crazy" is little more than a collection of tics and business. Cross doesn't get much to do as Augusten, despite being the author of the memoir. Bening, is, of course, fantastic and startling. But none of them hold a candle to what the talented Miss Paltrow does here --

She makes you believe her. Oh, she's a nut. A spoiled brat and a space cadet rolled into one. But she is so deeply wrapped up in herself -- so uniquely on her own wavelength - that you can't take your eyes off her. You begin to believe her madness and start counting the seconds until she appears again.

At one point in the film, she claims that her cat is speaking to her and is begging her to keep her in a laundry basket-shaped prison.

And while the rational part of you says "Oh, that's terrible! Free kitty!" The other part of your brain starts to think, "well, maybe the cat *did* speak to her via its purrs."

Kudos, Fishstick. Kudos.

i'll sleep when I'm dead, again....

3/6/07 7:45:05 AM

I know how Billy Chenowith dies.

I have no idea how my grandfather will. Besides likely sooner rather than later.

Yeah, that’s a thought that will keep one awake even if they had all the Ambien in the world. I’m seriously considering drinking at sun-up just to turn my mind off.

I’ve been an insomniac since birth because, well, my head is a scary and busy and infinitely changing place that I spend most of my time in. But it won’t shut up. Ever.

Sigh. Almost five-o-clock somewhere, right?

Since my phone has a World Clock, the answer is Casablanca*.

Salud.

[Longtime readers will recall that the headline is a callback to my very first post. Have I come full-circle or simply shame spiraled back to the start? Only the fans can decide – and remember, if you don’t vote, then you don’t get to pick your next American Idle.]

* - another “romantic” film that leaves me cold inside.

wearing my geek badge with pride....

Okay. I know it's uncool in this day and age to be genuinely sentimental about anything. Especially - with all the blogs and the Defamer and the snark - about the Oscars.

But. Growing up? It was pretty much my favorite night of the year. Almost on par with Christmas. Not that I remember the winners or the moments - my memory is fuzzy at best and non-existent at worst - but the important things - the buildup, the dresses, the thrills? Are ingrained in me as long as I can remember. I remember my parents letting me stay as late as they lasted [on the East Coast no less!] I remember being so tired and frustrated the next day - frustrated because how many fifth graders can dish gossip and fabulousity in small-town suburbia?

But. But. I believe in the Oscars. What they represent and what they promise. Because, despite what anyone says, film is THE art form of the 21st century. And no matter how many times they get it wrong, no matter how many boring montages they put out?

Watching the canonization [or the attempt to canonize] of a medium as it's still evolving is....something that is so NOW, so thrillingly new and modern and exciting that...how can you not love it? And because cinema is so good at straddling the line between art and business, between the masses and the select few, between individual entertainment and community spectacle? That holds so much promise...so much potential - that to deny their power is to deny the trials and the triumphs that make us human.

Sure, I realize that for a shy, creative [i.e. 'gay'] desperately depressed boy from Tennessee who wanted so much to run away from anything ordinary that the glamour of Hollywood could appear to fill you/us/me to the brim with hope. It can offer an escape for all of us.

Allowing that - I don't subscribe to the US idea of 'celebrities - they're just like us!.' No. Screw that. As my teacher once said, 'movies are life as it should be.' Why not give us something to aspire to? Something to inspire us.

I don't want them to be 'just like us' I want them to be beautiful and terrifying that we can study yet never understand. I want them to wear things that are stunning or strange. I want them to have gigantic/excessive/'spontaneous' displays of emotion that play every emotion like a note on a piano until they reach places that make you mere humans seem totally dead inside [which means that, sorry haters, I adored Misses Berry and Paltrow.] Make you seem like old-school Cenurion model Cylons. I want them to carry themselves with such fucking confidence that they soak up the gaze of a billion fucking eyes worldwide and you can tell that they're thinking 'is that all you've got?' I wish them to flub, to fume, to fail spectacularly and then recover so well that all is forgiven, forgetten, and fantastic.

I know I'm not the first person to say this but, really, modern celebrities are our Greek Gods. And I'm okay with that. The Gods, if you know your mythology, felt free to come down from Olympus to mingle and mate with us mortals. But they're not us. They look like us, they play with us and they entertain us. But they're not just like us and they never will be.

Since I'm not exactly a religious person, cinema is as close as I get to God. Think about it. A gathering where you sit, surrender to a higher power and FEEL. Together.

It helps, of course, that I just saw 'Zodiac' with a huge group at the Arclight, in the Dome, in digital with seemingly all of this great, weird, disparate city of Los Angeles. [somehow I completely blanked that my friend I talked to 12 hours earlier was going to the same show...then Calliope brought her brother and his girl...and pretty much half of H'wood- an Office confab, the Best Week Ever crew and maybe Caroline Rhea, depending on how much work she's had done.]

I'm not exactly good with scary movies - especially one that, since it's unsolved, is way too real - and by 'not good,' I mean 'am a total fracking girl.' Seriously. I couldn't deal with the requisite nervous laughter [which, to be fair, was completely justified because the humor *was* weaved into the script.] Half the time I couldn't console the actual girl clutching my arm.

But all of us screaming, laughing, watching at the same moments? Breathing the same air, the same mood, the same dream [because cinema is nothing if but a shared dream...not that I can link to the requisite academic papers right now]?

That's fracking transcendent, right?

My one qualm? Robert Downey Jr. as a substance abuser? How much miscasting is that? :)

ETA: All men should be required to wear 70s slacks. Seriously, come Zodiac's DVD release, you'll be able to tell the religion of each of the cast's members.

down with love!*

Okay, several days late and many, many dollars short -

But apparently the Valentine's Day movie at the Arclight was Breakfast at Tiffany's.

I've said it before, I've said it again. Despite it's canonization, despite it being a cultural touchstone for zillions of women - there is *nothing* romantic about this movie. Nothing.

Sure, on the surface? It certainly seems romantic. It has Audrey Hepburn, after all! And diamonds! Who doesn't love diamonds!? You watch it with someone you love and it seems like a tale of love overcoming all odds.

But then. Then one night you decide to watch it in the middle of night, alone. And it cuts you deep. You realize that it's actually the tale of two horribly damaged people who are so self-destructive that the only chance they have for a semblance of "happiness" is to be with each other.

It's much, much more blatant in the novella - but Holly Golightly is basically a golddigger one step removed from prostitution. But she has such style, you say! But she perfected the Little Black Dress!. Uh huh. And Carrie's increasingly outlandish outfits on SATC were meant to be taken at face value. [a Salon article that I can't find right now points out that Holly was intended as satire of the elite or something].

This is a woman who runs as soon as the going gets tough - who pushes away people as soon as they manage to crack her tough exterior. She even ran as far as she could from her family because they knew the "real" her. The awkward redneck and not the ideal that she puts forth. And because she saves some cat after she threw it out in the rain, she's now capable of love? No. Sorry.

Paul/Fred is basically a closeted "kept man." Holly is a whore. And these are the people we're supposed to root for?

And it's not just that they're terrible people - because, hey, I'm a terrible person as well and believe that hopefully I can find love. It's just that there's not much poetry, not much romance in the film. It's become seized upon and re-marketed as someone's "idea" of romance - flowers, diamonds, pink and girly - without anyone bothering to note the film's all too painful and real emotional undercurrents.

Besides the fact that I've been man enough to chose Kate, when I think about romance, about love, about lust in the movies -

I think about the sweet longing in Katherine's voice as she says, "My, she was yar." I think about Barbara Stanwyck's legs, in both the Lady Eve and Double Indemnity. The purr in Clooney's butterscotch voice when he tells J. Lo, "it's not a game, it's nothing something you play." Eva Green in a beret, smoking...Eva Green in a shower, wet. I think of James Bond saying "Tracy" is the sweetiest, happiest tone imaginable as Diana Rigg skates up to him. Heck - I even think of Audrey Hepburn smoldering with Cary Grant in Charade as not even really, really obvious rear-projection ruins the moment.

But most of all? I think of a gas station, somewhere in France. Snowfall. Catherine Deneuve and a Michel Legrand score all begging us to remember when we were young and everything seemed possible.

The only moment of Breakfast at Tiffany's that sticks in my subconscious is "Moon River." But the song itself reduces me to tears almost everytime I hear it.

* - actually a good movie that proves that, despite Studio 60, Sarah Paulson is capable of being funny.

there are two colors in my head....

And they're, like, fuschia polka dots and neon orange.

So. My first hangover in MONTHS. And it's bad. Real bad.

Normally, I don't get hungover because I am the H2O police. Good rule of thumb to follow is for every two drinks, drink a pint glass of water. Honestly, that's some of the best advice my dad ever gave me.

But now, I want to DIE. I want the world to end in a firey blaze and take me with it.

Long story short - due to the soul-crushing task of packing up my apartment and the rage-inducing fact that Amoeba wouldn't take half the CDs I had just spent importing to Itunes, cleaning, finding the right cases for....I had to have "one drink" to calm my nerves.

One drink turned into several. And I hadn't eaten all day. Every cute guy had a boyfriend. Yet still flirted with me. Including one *right in front of his boyfriend* because they have "an open relationship." WTFever. Miss Kay Rose called and invited me to go eat. So I did. We ate at a bar. So more drinking. Then she made me MOVE HER FURNITURE. [Because I'm moving in with her soon.] I was fine driving because I did do the water-binge, plus about a kilo of caffeine. Came home, looked at FOOB, may or may not have posted something at CPMCoG.

Turned on the TiVo to watch...something.

PASSED OUT ON MY FUCKING COUCH.

I woke up less than 2-3 hours later and now can't get back to bed.

Because there is a RABID FUCKING DOG eating MY BRAIN.

Kill me now, kill me later, just kill me.