Oh, God, I'm in a college town and everyone wants me to play beer pong

‘It’s not a game.  It’s not something you play.’ - George Clooney as Jack Foley in Out of Sight 

Beer pong.  Quarters.  Flip cup.

Amateur hour.  Totally gauche.  Dude, seriously?

Do you know what my favorite drinking game is, kids?

DRINKING.

Of all the aphorisms we could apply - and we live in a world of easy slogans and ready aphorisms and jaunty rhymes - beer before liquor, liquor before beer.  One in the pink.  Two in the stink.  Cooking is an art, baking a science.  Spielberg’s WW2 film is prose, Malick’s poetry.  Truth is stranger than friction.  At night all cats are fifty shades of gray - and so forth and et cetera.

Of all of them, the answer to the riddle that is ‘what is drinking?’  - by which, it must be noted, we refer to proper cocktail culture.  Artisan alcoholism.  Learned lushness - the answer to that riddle. my friends, is simple.

Drinking is alchemy.  A cocktail worthy of being dubbed, as Don Draper once put it, simple but significant?  It’s fucking alchemy.  (And any worthy cocktail should first and foremost meet those two qualities before any others.)

The transformation of earth into gold.  Fire into air.  As the strict dictionary definition puts it, a psuedoscience.  But it still has the word ‘science’ in it and, despite what a large portion of the country would have you believe, the word ‘science’ means it FUCKING WORKS.  Even if some of the finer details remain a mystery, it’s still fucking science, Mr. White, and therefore can be intelligently designed.

Let’s go with one of the most classic of classic cocktails, the Little Black Dress of things served stiffly and up - a Manhattan.  

Now, every bartender, every bar, every region, every state will have its variations.  But there is still a fundamental original recipe we must refer to.  As Julie Andrews once put it, let’s start at the beginning, for it is, a very good place to start.

In the beginning, man created whiskey.  And it was good.  And from whiskey’s rib was borne forth bourbon.  And it was good.  Some would even say better.  

The bourbon is the base.  The pillar.  

And, lo, from a land shaped like a boot came to us vermouth.  Varied.  The variety in this case is sweet.

Those two basic ingredients.  Strong.  Sweet.  Less of the latter than the former.  Then a bit of bitters.  Ice.  Stir, strain.  A cherry.  That’s it.

So simple.  Becoming something so significant.  

I can explain it.  Give ounces.  Brands.  Numbers.  Labels.  Exact stirring times - a minute at minimum to maximize the magic - but because this is alchemy, a pseudoscience, there is still something mysterious and divine and unknown as to how those pithy parts creating something so much greater than their sum.

Go ahead.  Play your quarters.  I’ll be over here practicing alchemy.

And, kids, when you want to experience one of the true pleasures in life - and, like any true pleasure - eating, fucking, verbally jousting - the most important thing is to do it with passion and with abandon because it will all be over in an instant, not an Instagram - have a sip of her - of my Manhattan.  On me.

As someone smarter than me once put it, ‘a thing of beauty is a joy forever.’

And as those shills at Stella put it to sell you, ‘she is a thing of beauty.’

Ain’t she?

the tipsy televisualist: The (Hanni)Blooming Rose

So...in case you haven't heard me talk non-stop of late about how Hannibal is the best show on television, let me say it once again: Hannibal is the best show on television.  To the point where I attempted to throw a brunch/viewing/pool party - which, I know, you're thinking Hannibal + food = EW!, but trust me - that sadly had to be delayed.  However, my neighbors ended up coming over the next day for a GoT-viewing fest that got, well, a bit cray. So, in the spirit of #honoreverypart , I decided to make use of the leftover fruit and wine.  While dicing up strawberries and sloppily pouring wine, I found that my kitchen was beginning to resemble a crime scene.  Which led to one of those flashes of inspiration - hey, why not create a Hannibal-themed cocktail, esp. because 'The Bee's Knees' factored into Cleo's 'Takiawase' recap?

So. I give you, The Blooming Rose.  Or the (Hanni)Blooming Rose, if you prefer.  Which, while I don't necessarily approve of #hannibloom , I do certainly understand why it is happening. Alana has her reasons.  

[I can't quite figure out how to do accent marks on this new macbook yet, but one is supposed to be there. As in, rose, the wine between red and white.] 

You will need the following:

• A large carafe, that holds between 2 and 3 liters of liquid.
• 2 cartons - usually one pound per carton - of Strawberries.
• 1.5 L of red wine. So, two normal bottles. Or a magnum/large bottle/box.
• Sugar Cubes. 
• Peychaud's Bitters.
• Orange Bitters. [I used Fee's Bros., though there's a variety available.]
• Ginger Ale.
• Adorable Fox Basket from Target. [Optional.]

Let's take a look at our set-up, shall we?:

Some notes before we get to step one:

First, a note on the wine.  While Dr. Lecter would probably devour me for using BOXED wine, it makes absolutely NO SENSE to break one's budget for any wine that one is using for Sangria-ish purposes. Think about it - are you really going to make a Mimosa by cutting Dom with OJ?  Of course not.  I went with Target's Vitner's Red (a) there's a Target within stumbling distance of my house, so 'hey, let's go get wine!!!' after [SPOILER EVENT] on GoT seemed like a good idea at the time and (b) I think the Target-brand wine is pretty decent, for what it costs.  If you want to be apropos and break out a Chianti, do so. And you could make this incredible fava bean-containing braised chicken dish.

Next, sugar cubes are a MUST for cocktail crafting.  I always have some in the bar. Some recipes may call for a (tea)spoonful of sugar , but it's a HELL of a lot easier to just rely on cubes.  Plus, it's more fun to watch cubes dissolve. 

Finally, if you do not already have bitters on-hand, you might as well pick up Angostura bitters along with the Peychaud's and the orange.  Those three bitters are used in an infinite variety of cocktails, so they're handy.

Now, to the actual recipe part:

• Dice and de-stem your strawberries and place them in the carafe.
• Pour the wine in the carafe, completely covering the strawberries.  Not enough?  ADD MOAR WINE.
• Soak a sugar cube in Peychaud's. Soak another in the orange bitters. Toss them both into the carafe and shake until they dissolve.
• Place the carafe of the boozy strawberry mixture in the fridge and leave it there overnight, if possible.  At least let them soak for a good 6-8 hours.

NEXT STEP:

[Since Fuller did 'Mockingbird Lane' and we're crafting a pop-culture-themed cocktail, I thought displaying @TimFederle 's awesome book would be apt.]

Grab a champagne flute and toss a Peychaud's-soaked sugar cube into it. Muddle it, pour a dash of Ginger Ale to dissolve it or simply leave as is. Fill the flute up halfway with the strawberry-infused wine. Top off with Ginger Ale. Garnish with boozy berries, as desired.

[Sidenote: I initially decided to go with Ginger Ale rather than topping with champagne or citrus-y sparkling water simply because it is the secret ingredient in one of my favorite sangria recipes. Since, I've tried it with Lemon Perrier instead, which makes a delicious yet significantly lighter variation.]

VOILA!: We have a beverage that, like Hannibloom itself, is complex.

A Peychaud's-soaked sugar cube may look pretty in pink or simple and sweet.

But, like Alana and Hannibal coming together, what happens when pink meets blood-red results in the sum of the parts being far more intriguing.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.

coincidence...

OR PURE EVIL!?

A requiem in three parts:

• While filming License to Wed earlier this year in a certain building belonging to a certain BFF, Robin Williams is milling about downtown. Besides the two of us starting the only interesting (i.e. completely false) rumor ever to exist about Mandy Moore, I stumble into this hilarious idea, which I consistently joke about with aforementioned BFF: "Hey, since the only time Robin Williams was agreed to be super funny was the 70s - which was when he was really coked out - wouldn't it be absolutely hysterically awesome if we invite him back to your place to drink and do some lines? Yeah, I don't know where we're going to get blow, but come on, it would be so funny! And then he could be awesome in the movie and be funny again! I mean, he'd have to go back to rehab after filming, but we'd be doing the world a favor by making Robin Williams funny!" Uh. Prophecy Much?
  

• I was watching bits and pieces of On Her Majesty's Secret Service the other day and kept thinking how sorta hot George Lazenby was. Then I remembered that Lazenby was Australian, and mused on how based on the experiences of me and selected friends, they tend to be both (a)pretty hot, as a people. And (b)absolutely awesome in bed. [whereas the Brits have the cute accents but couldn't shag to save their lives. This is probably why Fleming actually wrote Bond as a Scot]. I was thinking how nice and hot it would be to, well, BAD PUN AHEAD, "go down under." Lo and behold, later that night? Exactly that scenario happens!
  
  
  
• Less conclusive is the fact that Miss Kay Rose (aforementioned BFF) bought me an much-needed umbrella the other day when it was raining and now I'm going to see her again and it's raining again. But still. COINCIDENCE?.....or evil?

Superduper irony alert:I love how my very first post was slagging Broadway Bar and now I'm looking for a place downtown preferably within walking distance of it, Miss Rose and Miss Magnolia. Bizarre to the max. Massive hugs to the cool bartenders who enable us so. Just, uh, try to get a pair of indie rock glasses, J. Miss Rose would like it so. And by "her," I mean "me." And by "a pair of indie rock glasses," I mean, "assless chaps." Doesn't everyone?

a vague glimmer of hope...

Can it possibly be true?

Page Six is reporting that LiLo is flirting...

...no, not with a new man, but sobriety.

Good luck, honey. No, seriously, good luck.

[We need both a sarcasm and anti-sarcasm/sincerity font/symbol/etc. Our society demands it. Holly? Irony asterisk?]

That said, isn't the second word in AA anonymous?

It's pretty shitty for someone to go to an AA meeting and then call up Page Six. I mean, don't get me wrong, I would've probably done the same thing. But I would expect LiLo to retaliate by calling up my (hypothetical) boss and tell them about my (not so hypothetical) drinking problem.

This does help explain the mysterious "90 Days" Button she was sporting a while back.

You know, there's Narconon, Nicotine Anon and so on and so forth. And yet we lack the one thing that is most needed in LA for people like Lindsay - famewhorers anonymous.

I find it pretty amusing that I'm considering using the 12 Steps as a jumping off structure for my "favorites/best of/year in review" wrapup, which contains two LiLo movies.

No, Just My Luck is decidedly not one of them. Sorry, extremely hot guy who sometimes wore Krystal-baiting indie rock glasses.

However, if aforementioned movie is re-released on DVD with a LiLo commentary ("I hated this film...I hated this...seriously, I think I walked off set and did 20 lines in my trailer after this scene") and a special all-shirtless Chris Pine viewing option, well, that's another story.

Oh, man, they're so gosh darn cute together. Suits are *so* my kryptonite, though. And a semi-fresh faced and redheaded Lindsay makes me all misty and nostalgic. My, how times have changed. (that's Donna Karen, btw. And it's been less than a year between the two faces of LiLo).

So, LiLo, before you get good and sober, for real this time, have a "La Lohan" on me and Krystal (it's basically a redheaded slut, with a ton more booze) and know that I've got your crazy, cooch-flashing, potentially bisexual and/or lesbian, possibly self-mutilating back.

But while you're making life changes, you may want to consider getting some learning of some kind. We all read your Altman "tribute," and while your heart was in the right place, it wasn't helped by your mind being at the bottom of the Jack Daniels bottle (or you thinking it's acceptable to compose an eulogy on a BLACKBERRY!). So get yourself some schooling to undo having the last 6-7 years of your life be a haze-filled haze. BE ADEQUITE!

Besides the good news in the land of Lohan, that Page Six reports that 50 Cent put Oprah on blast. I hate the word Oreo and its implications, but his words ("[she]has been catering to middle-aged white American women for so long that she's become one herself") have the faint ring of truthiness about them, no? Disagree? One word: Hermes.

In yet another "Borat ruins lives!" tale, Page Six and ONTD report that a private screening of the movie may have been partially behind the Pamela Anderson/Kid Rock split. Frat boys are one thing, but Pamela's happiness? You have gone too far, sir!

She's better off, though. Also, Mommy Rock/Ritchie may have worn fur to one of the four weddings of her son to a super noted animal activist. So that might've been a factor.

ETA: Gosh darn it! I post this and then Defamer takes it on and does it so much better and funnier than I.

COBRA. third act and denoue-something.

SUPERDUPER RETCON DISCLAIMER:
These postings were written while I hadn't had a good night's sleep in DAYS. Lack of sleep makes me, well, punch-drunk (despite what H----- told you on her blog on lies, I was not ACTUALLY DRUNK while writing these entries). But, yeah, no sleep makes for a slightly manic, incoherent me. Oh, and I know nothing about football, but, man, that TV Class sure did a number when it came to analyzing advertizing and tropes and shit?

Proceed at your own risk. You may probably be offended if you're a person who knows or cares about Football, Trojans, letting quarterbacks and Joe Scarborough *not* be sexually harassed online by me, etc.
-----------------------------------------

So I recorded the last five minutes of King Cobra during halftime and will catch up on it later. Here's the psuedoliveblog wrapup:

-----

I love the word “rout.”

11/25/06 7:20:55 PM

PIZZA. FINALLY. And a drink. Finally.

Now the liveblog/recap will become even less coherent.

But more entertaining!

11/25/06 7:27:59 PM

Alls I know is that we scored while I was away.

And commentatorbot3000 says that Brady Quinn is pissed. I could always “comfort” him later. Sleeping with the enemy makes the sex SO MUCH HOTTER! (That’s why my embarrassing crush Joe Scarborough and I are gonna have bed-breaking action. Imagine all that hate and yelling channeled into more, uh, productive arenas).

COMMENTATOR: “We’ve seen [Brady] come back after taking a hard sack!”

THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!

Wait, that makes no sense.

The coaches’ nicknames are Little Tuna and Big Tuna? Are we sure I’m not accidentally watching the Office? (and Ed Helms’s brilliant turn?)

Okay, now the commentator just said “penetrating front.”

I have only had a sip of my drink. So dirty, right?

Oh, now he’s breaking out big words like “infallible.”

So…is the line “infallible” or not? I can’t tell.

INCOMPLETE! One of my favorite words. Except in a school context. Then it was bad because I had too many.

How can one take a phone call on the field? Why is it an old corded phone? Wouldn’t a cell be easier? Plus, hello, easy, breezy, beautiful product placement. The Cingular Cylon Blackjack: The Official Phone of Bradyquinn when he’s pissed.

Wow. Another incomplete. But for us. Boo.

Man, I love movie ads and their fuzzy math. I mean, yes, Bond 21 is technically the number one movie in THE WORLD. But I remember when The Breakup was like “number one comedy in the country” for weeks after it dropped from the box-office.

My TiVo is about to change to the CW (pronounced Cwah, per someone smarter than me) to record the Gilmores and Miss Mars (it was preempted on Tuesday for Clippers/Lakers).


COMMETATORBOT3K: “Long enough and he’s got it!” DIRTY!

31 USC/ 17 ND. Still no comment to prevent jinxing.

Per H-----’s question: Anyone know anything about “The Terrace” in Pasadena? There’s a band we need to see on the 8th and want details.

vignettes are the new black....

disclaimer: this post was written under the influence of several whiskey sours. keep that in mind:

The scene: The day before my final(s) frantically typing a late paper, outside Leavey Library.

So there I am, by the gorgeous reflecting pool, chugging Rock Star (oh, 'SC, remember RedBull? I do. And fondly. Wha happened?) and pounding away on my laptop like Colin Farrell with a sorority girl. A blandly beautiful, vaguely familiar looking girl passes and waves to me.

So I look up and kinda, sorta acknowledge her prescence - because I have taken a leave of abscence (or two) in my time and could have easily blanked on recognizing a former classmate/acquaintance/whatever.

Unfortunately, my semi-acknowledgment of her existence leads to this: A too-sweet like saccharine smile and "Just remember, Jesus loves you."

A beat. No real response on my end. I half-glance at my laptop again and dread the work I have to do.

"Well, I'm praying for you!"

Again, a beat, no movement on my part. I have basically 20ish pages to type in the next 24 hours, so that's where my priorities are. She walks away and delivers the parting shot - "You're a very self-absorbed person, you know that?"

Oh. Dear. Fuck. You. Bitch.

I don't say that of course, just sit sorta stunned and nonplussed. Okay, yes, I am. I never denied that. I know I can be shallow and self-absorbed, but it's a defense mechanism and an ironic choice. And my self-absorption has NOTHING to do with the fact that I won't join your Jesus Brigade considering I am obviously working on something for finals and don't want to be interrupted by people who act like they know me but are just trying to win the Conversion Toaster. Seriously, who does that? Yes, it's a campus. But it is still one in a major city. Learn some boundaries, fool. Or else some crazed homeless person is gonna stab you because you didn't just keep walking and chose to listen to their sob story about the car breaking down and do you have 40 dollars or a cigarette or some crystal meth? No, well, enjoy this knife in your stomach.

SPEAKING OF...

The scene: Post-graduation, mom in town highlights.

Is it (a): Fully stopping, holding up the rest of the group walking in front of her, while she proceeds to listen intensely to said crazed homeless woman's need for a Triple A card due to the car breakage. Mom, if you can't understand what they're saying due to a faulty grasp of English or teh crazy, that doesn't mean you should try to decipher it. My mom isn't good with the accents -- evidenced when she tried to convince us that a waiter's misunderstanding at a fantastically upscale restaurant was due to the fact that they can't speak English as opposed to the gesture being vague.

(b) Being a fucking split Nazi, once again. Granted, it is mother's day brunch, but just ORDER YOUR OWN DAMN FOOD! She does this at every meal. Rather than order what she wants and live with the consequences, she FORCES us to split things with her so that she won't deal with the failure/responsibility if she doesn't like it. I chose Hungry Cat specifically because I wanted the burger, with blue cheese. Mom. doesn't. like. blue. cheese.

At first, she opts for the "oh, i'll just scrape it off option." Then it becomes blue cheese on the side. Even though the melty goodness is the whole point. I don't get it. Order your own. That way, you can control your order like the insane control freak that you are rather than having everyone else compromise to please you. I think my favorite was when she said that we shouldn't order the shrimp (though I was asking Krystal if she wanted some shrimp) because her stomach was upset and she's trying to save money. Okay, well, I don't understand why the rest of the table can't have shrimp because your stomach's off. (Which it is apparently ALL THE DAMN TIME). Don't talk to me about money when you spent the entire two days before my graduation buying expensive things at Nordstrom's, Fred Segal and god knows where else rather than asking what I - the graduate, remember? the reason you came to LA? -- wanted to do while my family was here. (Hint: not watch you and Mollie shop for 6 days straight).

Needless to say, she ate the shrimp and proclaimed it a good choice.

(c) The reason for all this anger? Hmm, while at her friends in Sherman Oaks, she debates whether their mutual friend loves her daughter or son more. Mom says that the son is going through a tough time or something so it's "easier to love" the daughter. I make some comment, not too snarky. Without prompting, this causes the conversation to turn to me - namely, mom telling me to my face that "Mollie (my sister) is easy to love. You're not easy to love." And somehow, when I get pissed off and sulky at this, she has the audacity to act as though she did nothing wrong and I'm crazy to be offended all how dare you! not take this insult with a smile.

No, Mom, it's great. That's just the perfect thing to say to someone who believes that they don't deserve love, will never find love and are going to die alone. Thanks a lot, love you too.

Well, there goes my non-innocence...

Thanks to StickyKeys, I checked out ohnotheydidn't this very early morning (late night, whatever, semantics) and feel so bummed out:





[image ganked from Getty, obviously]

Hell to the nah.

Let's all be greatful he's still hung like a horse, okay? To think that Owen is the one with the stallion-based nickname. If anyone would like to send evidence, reports, him to my house to confirm this rumor, that'd be great.

Because it helps to focus on a happy place. Other than the fact that I need to gain (yet more) weight so that I can wear that incredible suit. It's so gorgeous that I wouldn't even want him to step out of it -- which may be good, considering the girth Vince is displaying, and not the fun girth either.

In completely unrelated news, I bring you two recent items of note from some celeb boards:

From the BI Thread, from 7/31's NYDN:

Which actor, shooting a film opposite a certain tabloid-fodder actress, is popular on the set, even though he needs a break between each take to accommodate his monster cocaine habit?

We also happened to discuss "coke bloat" on the "Everything You Wanted to Know About" thread. If anyone else has more info or scientific theories, that'd be awesome. For research purposes, of course.

To quote Brittany Murphy: "I've never even seen cocaine."

Dear Hollywood -- Look at how Trendsetting I am!

It's become obvious to me that my friends and I have some brilliant, trend-setting taste -- essentially, we're trendy and rich and famous without having the benefits of money or power or whatnot.

Case in point: The Broadway Bar. It's right by the Orpheum (or is partly inside it?) and is from the creators of the old, reliable Golden Gopher. The interior is gorgeously dark and oak-y, with black-and-gold brocaded wallpaper, an indie-heavy jukebox, et cetera. The first time I went there with Krystal, about three and a half weeks ago, it was notable for two things.

1) A bad, bad bartender lady. How bad? She served Krystal a Salty Dog straight-up in a martini glass. And granted, she did ask Krystal, who wasn't paying attention enough to answer but still. Even worse? She asked a guy what was in an Irish Car Bomb. How incompetent can you be? It's really unfair and troubling because I see people like this gainfully employed in the bartending arena yet I am not. And I would be the best bartender ever -- in part because I'm flirty and partly because I'm a lush.

2) The complete and utter lack of people. Maybe fifteen people in the entire bar, including bartenders. It was a barren, post-apocalyptic wasteland, with booze.

The next time? Still barren, only with a cameo from Frodo himself. Good god, Elijah Wood is both extremely short and possibly heterosexual. He was there with a cute-ish girl. Krystal harassed him using the "you look familiar - did we go to school together" bit?

This past Saturday, it was packed. Brim-filled with hot hipsters and tarts. Alas, Krystal was too tired to mingle. I did finally get to see the upstairs, though, and I highly recommend the couch. Balcony is kind of lacking, view-wise, unless a dilapadated board-up building counts as scenic.

Many moons ago, Mitzye and I wished to visit the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel. In part due to the ghosts of Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift -- man, what sad, depressing, drunk/pill-popping ghosts those must be. But now Mitzye can't even get it because there's a list and Lohan is all sunbathing at the pool. Defamer claims that the renovator/promoter lady says that she wants "really great, interesting people"

Umm, hello? We're right here. Sigh. If I am going to be a trend-setter, I want the trappings (money, power, influence, groupies) that come with that. I'm tired of just giving it away for free. So would all restauranteurs, club-owners, hotel moguls and such please be advised that if you want success, you have to court me first.