Monday, March 06, 2006


Oh, it’s a big day! There was the Oscar tragedy last night—quel horreur…Cintra Wilson at asks the question we are all asking ourselves on this fine and sunny morn:

“How … HOW did Jon Stewart suck so hard?”

Then she ponders this excellent thought:

I wonder if Chris Penn and Shelley Winters had to pass because there was no oxygen for their burning spirits in the airtight Hollywood terrarium this year. I hope Oscar decides to start breathing again soon. I hope America decides to be actually Free again, too, instead of just loudly congratulating itself for having freedom while slowly and sneakily cutting more and more small parts off of it.
I LOVE Cintra Wilson. She and Heather Havrilesky are what make it possible for me to get out of bed most days.

I could tell Jon had flopped within about the first five minutes. I mean, you just sat there like, um, Jon? Dude? Please? It’s time for a laugh now. But as Cintra says, it’s OK because Sasha Cohen taught us you can fall on your ass and still maintain your dignity.

Isn’t that funny? How we all relate everything to Olympic athletes? Like every two years we become this athletically philosophical creed toting mass that looks to SPORTS to inspire us through the deluge.

Why I thought of Olympic athletes only this morning as I struggled through a Kathy Smith exercise video—my elliptical is on the fritz. Why? Because I need it and that is the law of good intentions. Start exercising regularly and EVERYTHING will go wrong. Which is why I started in on my Wide World of Sports/Olympic philosophizing, like, injured skaters still TRAIN, they still GET OUT OF BED on cold frosty morns, NO MATTER WHAT, and they train in pain, in the rain, on the plane and without complain. Blab la bla.

In other news, I received a dispatch from my far flung correspondent Dash Riprock (a nom de plume to protect the innocent). He is in a Country That was in the Path of Bush’s Latest Meet ‘n Greet, so I wrote to ask him if he had a visitation with the Vile One, and this is what he wrote:

Yes, indeed I did get to see The Prez (or as I like to call him, Public Enemy #1) and have to admit that it was pretty exciting. His very pre-prepared speech was full of right-wing religious right drivel and I thought I would gag, but it is a rather once-in-a-lifetime sort of experience.
But here’s the money quote, what we are all REALLY WONDERING:

Laura Bush wears A TON of makeup, has bad liver spots on her hands, wears sensible shoes, and her hair is sort of weird, kind of like a wig or a bad coif from a Tashkent salon krasoti.
Ouch! Dash sure riprocked right into our favorite cat-like librarian goody two shoes! Everyone goes around saying this old tired piece of crap: Well, you might not Like George Bush, but EVERYONE likes Laura Bush. Right? Right?

I don’t like anyone I am “supposed” to like.

And that includes George Clooney. George Clooney nauseates me. Why? Because Tom Shales, one of my favorite journalists, said today in the Washington Post he always looks like the cat who swallowed the canary. To me he looks just looks like the asshole in high school who just got/is currently getting/or is about to get a BLOW JOB.

George Clooney is a walking advert for fellatio and that’s why men are always so “mad” at him for getting all the chicks. They know he doesn’t just “get” the chicks. They know that he is getting massively SUCKED and the women that are all goofball over him know it too. And he is the only man on earth they want to fellate without getting anything in return.

And that is not my kind of man.

Here’s another burning question: Why, WHY does Gil Cates keep inviting Salma Hayek to be a presenter? Why?

I also think I can answer why Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston—because a) she is not as pretty as he is, that’s a given, and b) maybe he got sick of hanging around a skinny weightless cipher who has the half-stoned charm of the nicest girl in high school but hardly the gravitas of our couch lipped, little mother, sex/earth/deity, Angelina.

Jen was on the red carpet and one of the wags shot her a real bruiser of a question like, “What movies did you like this year?” And she looked totally thrown, like that question wasn’t on her pre-approved list. I mean thank God he didn’t ask her where Ethiopia was or what Unicef stood for. Geez.

Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Philippe really give me cause for great, great alarm. They seem like John Travolta and Nancy Allen, the nasty teen shitbirds in De Palma’s Carrie. You know? Just kind of mean and devious and popular and tricky. I do not like them Sam I Am. They are having one over on us.

They are having one over on us. Mark my words.

I like Matt Dillon. Because he is cute and seems real and his eyebrows are very evocative. And he had the sense to kick Cameron Diaz to the curb so she could take up with That Thing.

I was dancing to a song last night. Guess who was singing the song? Snoop Dogg AND That Thing, Justin Timberlake.

I know, I get scared of myself sometimes too.

More importantly, Moira threw a SLAM BANG dinner party on Saturday night (with Jon, Sheila, Mary, Martin, Holly, Jeff and Suzanne), so we all got to have our buzz on, Hollywood be damned. We laughed and were smart asses and some people did shots of verrrrrrrdka and we slathered red caviar on crackers and supped on delectably marinated and roasted LAMB.

And it was lovely.

We talked about whether it’s racist to not want the fox, oh excuse me, the Arabs, to guard our henhouses and many other topics, like the Hot Dwarf, Peter Dinklage from The Station Agent, etc. FUN!

And we talked about That Sexy Brussels Lady—everyone likes your blog, hon, and if they didn’t know about it, we touted them on to it.


Cynicism is another word for reality

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