Celebrity Interviews: http://www.bluntreview.com Blunterettes , I lead a truly strange life as film reviewer and celebrity interviewer Emily Blunt of BluntReview.com...this is true. In the a.m. it's off to interview a celeb, and by the afternoon, I am dining off The 99 Cent Store products, in the evening - it's gowns and petit fours among the "elite." Oh, this double-life that's mine. You wanna know what I'm up to? Sure, here you go.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

The Hidden Truth...

Yeah, I watch American Idol....so what? A hip, well read, Clash fan completely involved like some weird high-school gal screaming at the screen. I admit it.

It's not my fault really - this year (my first season) it's on before 'House' - that brilliant show with mega-talent Hugh Laurie.

Hugh and I worked together in another life, long ago. I was a comedy-writing tadpole and he a bigtime London comedy star hosting "Saturday Live." SL was a blatant rip of "Saturday Night Live " at the BBC in London. He was one week's host, and very very funny, extremely sweet and smart. I met a ton of really wonderful talents in those short weeks - Ade Edmondson, Jennifer Saunders, Dawn French, Rik Mayall, Stephen Fry, Ben Elton...and Rowan Atkinson, who was a bit of a butt, and I was pre-warned by a few of the cooler folks. Mr. Bean was The Black Adder at the time and a very big arse indeed.

Still, I don't remember too much about those hard days of an American in London, but I do remember the show's set had (oddly) a commercial airplane crashing through it's studio wall - I never found that terribly funny. The host would "emerge" from the wreck and do their monologue. It looked so fake the whole point of, "The talent's plane was in such a rush to get here, it smashed into the studio!" effect was just lost onme , and frankly, stoo-pid. I was starving - perpetually - because I hated British food (eeeerrrrr)That is until I discovered the varieties of Scottish Salmon the market kept. Insta-Nirvana. I kept my collection of cured and smoked treatskis on a string, hung out out my Kensington hotel-for-interns window (to refrigarate it). Oh, and Guiness. Yum...and a favorite to this day (drank w/ a straw...it gets you drunker faster;) )These are my memories...

But, back to my dark obsession. So, I confess to a childhood friend - my ultra-cool NY friend who is too cool for December, expecting some riffing about becoming homogenized, and she's suddenly warms like a spring morn, "What are you kidding? I tape it religiously! I can NOT miss it. What's with that McFatty Scott any way- he must have a lot of friends voting. He can't sing and he's repulsive." And off we go gossiping like two little old ladies at the local recreation hall, whispers and catty chatting...ripping the contestants apart one-by-one as if we could do any better- hehehehe.

I concurred that the Scott guy's really a Jabbywocky Jabba who continually seems to slither into the next round. Is it a bathroom-break deal? Folks don't hear him- is he like a dog whistle to the masses? I said, "So, what exactly is he anyway? Latino?' She laughs and says , "No he's plain old white homeboy and speaks with that urking street talk wannabe jargon so popular among the low pant wearin' kids these days - like an ass." I reminded her of Vince Vaughn in "Be Cool." ALMOST worth the $192.00 dollars it takes to see a film these dayz. Oh, how we laughed at oddly dull rotunda's expense. Hey, if he were actually talented we'd have been kind. PITCHY - the guy is just horrific on so very many levels. Ya he's PITCHY - like a weable. Hahahaha.

So, tonight they through off Constantine? Um, I am confused. Granted if I had to watch Connie smirk-pout through one more rock and roll circus I was going to lose my mind. The Queen interpretation he did a couple of weeks ago was very cool-- but that eye wink pouty thing - which my dog does when he wants a round-of-love with a close-at-hand pillow? That was growing wafer thin. Smarm and charm....now how'd he do that?

My vote? Vonzell and Bo. They'll both get a contract at this point anyway I suppose - but they are the American dream. Bo is just so sweet man. Von shows signs of a Diva in making. The whole "won't speak on Tuesdays" deal? Um , people that's a tad Whitney/Barbara-esque....BUT she's good and I suppose folks will over look that demon lurking just behind the beautiful mask...

**** New Contest at http://www.bluntreview.com ******** HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE Stuff

Monday, April 25, 2005

Racism TAKE That!

There's a new film BluntReview.com will be ALL over in the next few weeks - but I wanted to give you a heads up. The film's called Crash. It's several stories that all interwine in someway...now before you tune out start thinkin', "Been there, seen that." Crash may be the most important film of our time. A film as Powerful as Hotel Rwanda, yet even more "recognizable" to the every guy walkin' around facing these issues - everyday.

Let's face it - 35 years after 'All in The Family' aired trying to ease racial tensions by making us see (through laughter)the root ignorance in it, the subject still brews just beneath the surface - all around us - every day. Of course now no one ever talks about it - it's not p. c. - but it's there and the mask is a happy face.

Writer/director Paul Haggis (Million Dollar Baby fame) brings one helluva cast to show humanity, while exposing realism in this smaller intimate film. It's not a lecture, it's just a great film, real-life stories, that really peek into things; things that have a powerful and important message, parlayed by the likes of Sandra Bullock (being real - no snorting), Matt Dillon, DON CHEADLE, Terrence Howard, Thandy Newton and so on. Each plays a "stereotype" of their visual heritage - but that steriotype is eventually spun on it's ear in a unique and honest way.

Crash will rock your soul it's so telling, truthful and smart. And maybe, just maybe, it will make a small difference in the way we look at each other - not always, not all of us - but when we quickly scan a person and blanket them with our own "mini-biography" before they've even opened their mouths.
I interviewed the cast and the chats will be up soon (translation: when I can get a minute to transcribe them) in the meantime got down May 6th to go see CRASH- and take everyone you know

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Bookworms Unite & Devil Doll Memories

My friend turns to me and says, "You realize if a an attack of terrorism were to happen right here - right now - ninety percent of Los Angeles' intelligent peoples would be gone..." as she turned and gleefully skipped forward to get her Holly Claus book signed.

Hmm, could the LA Bookfair at UCLA really have this kind of patronage?
I actually started to notice the folks beside, infront, behind me - yep they sure was sum smart people. And, not just obvious by their bag-o-book purchases, or their larger cranium foreheads and such...but the whole air was less frenetic, less of that, "look at me - and please note my 2000.00 jacket,- I'll have a cafe latte skim soy with a dash of equal and a froth of half-fat creme" - crowd.

The children were polite, the families huddled in conversation about classics! I thought," Was that Dickens that small child and her friend were just DEBATING?" Sigh.

Oh, I was just smitten - and on top on the whole non-superficially feel - folks were genuinely smiling -aware no doubt- of the world that awaited them when they got their treasures home and snuggled up for a good read. I'd bet the electric intake was just a smidge lighter in the Los Angeles County area this evening; computers quiet, TVs off, radios resting.

Me? Well, I admit I have a large library bursting from every nook-and-cranny. But I ended up with a musical find; "Sacred Sounds of Santeria" a CD filled with Cuban drum bata ensembles and choral singers (I mean, really, who could resist?).

But, my big purchase was for my "big" brother - his birthday is not till July but he's tricky. He may be forty-something, BUT he's still my big brother who snuck me into see Fast Times at Ridgemont High, covered for me when I skipped to catch a Beatlefest in Harvard Sq., turned me on to Monty Python and yet always tortured me with his odd ever-pubescent potty-humor...boys and poop humor.

So year after year I try to get that twinkle in his eye gift(make "Mr. Dad" lose his suburbian cool)I try to win his hearty kid-like laugh buried beneath all the adult responsibilty-shenanigans he deals with. I take this gift selection VERY serious.

One year my gift was the absolute hands down winner of all time for "Creepiest Gift Ever Given In Our Ancestry" - a title that is coveted in this family beleive you-me. I was so proud.

What was it? Well, it was a kind of "doll couple" made of stuffed hosiery (think generic Cabbage Patch doll-at-home kit). They featured embossed via stitching noses, and mouths and evil button eyes, and real curly hair atop (which looked suspiciously like pubic). They were dressed in "home-made" his&her felt wedding attire - they were about eight inches - though we are not REALLY quite sure because...These hiddeous creations were crammed (shoved)into a jam jar and glued shut. I kid you not. A Holly Hobbie nightmare...The pair-in-a-jar were a thrift shop find - and obviously someone's grand idea of homecrafting folk art. YECH. Hehehehe - yet, they were the best 1.00 purchase I'd ever made.

That strange jarred-up couple went year to year, home to home, kin to kin, "surfacing" as the " gag gift" to-end-all gags. Each birthday and Christmas we knew one of us would get them -- and have to pass them on.

My mother hated the dreadful looking Carny-esque duo. After she got them, under the tree, in a swanky five foot box with oodles of bows and ornamental dohingies, they simply disappeared. The next family gift-giving event was a little sad. And Mommie Dearest's guilt was blazon like a scarlet letter - T (Trasher of the Trinket). BUT my niece actually found another of these crafty creeps - albeit a far less sinister doll is now among us. It is a baby (we think), as it's seems to be wearing a diaper-- it's got that same creepy hair attached atop it's head (shudder), and of course it's crammed into that same style jam jar--glued. Viola! The tradition continues!

So, what new treasure do I find for my brother among the Ray Bradbury's and the 1st edition Che Cookbooks, and volumes of mysteries Sherlock would peruse? A title, "Who Cut the Cheese? A Cultural History of the Fart." I shit you not (pun intended). The cover has all these Victorian dressed folks prim and proper in facial contortions! Hehehehe. Inside the Index is too funny- Like, " What did Jesus REALLY mean when he said onto the Devil, "Get Ye Behind Me Satan!"? The book is a serious (comical) historical "guide" to, perhaps , every fart reference ever made - Salvador Dali was very into farts, as was Mozart, even Twain! Who knew Larue? I bought it--immediately. My friends also went back and bought several copies - the tent now a flutter with the commotion - as we wept with laughter and threw money at the clerk - who looked as if he truly felt bad for us. Bah. It was a grand find. (AMAZON LINK to book)

I also got a 'theater on tape' with my demi-god Jason Robards, "Park the Car in Harvard Yard." Five U.S. Dollars...

A glorious day!

Saturday, April 23, 2005

Ya Know I've Moved For Less Than This!

It's early for me...yet I'm up. I stayed up late last night watching a special on C.S. Lewis - figuring I could nest like a turtledove among my 102864 blankets till noon if I wished, as I had no plans to speak of.

But, no. The McLouds downstairs (who I also accuse openly of laundry detergent theft) are bowling for midgets or something in their bedroom - which is directly below me! What on this great Earth could be making that sound? They don't have murphy beds! Hell, there's not even a real bed in there - I happen to know this, because they proudly shared their rooms with me (immediately after moving in- and I couldn't say, "No Tha..." fast enough and was looped into the tour-from-hell; though I do so love to see how other people live :) ), when I saw - & I shit you not - two twins or mini-twins beside each other - in that 1950's TV version of a couple ( folks that did not happen - it was the ratings folks that made poor Laura snuggle beside Rob with a bit-o-room 'tween them...). But here it/they is/are - live....now I have to question my very existence - but that's a different story altogther.

I threw a down (sound blocking-style) pillow over my head and pretend it's a bad dream...but Mr. McLoud, who has the bellowing decibels of a injured hippo- starts some kind of puking/gagging fit somewhere in the small dwelling (and it is shaking the walls) - and it'so loud I am again awakened from my slumber. Even my dog, Taylor, glances back at me with a , "What in the H -E - double hockeysticks is that guy doin'!" look. I coddle him while I hear the other dog arise-n-shake on the day from the couch. I knew now there would be no rest. Once Clyde awakens - it's a mad dash to the walkiwoowoo of the morn. We've known each other for 15 years. Each morning I beg him to let me at least have a cup-o-coffee and brush my hair. But, he cries and pouts until I am rushing out the door hair askew and shirt usually inside out and backwards.

Needless to say, the neighbor kids are none too keen on me. I've seen them do the "other side of the street for safety" routine. Admittedly I often don't even get a chance to look in a mirror before the walk- and after I myself think, "This broad looks nuts!" But, on the East Coast, no-one really minds if your "morning self" isn't quite your post shower self. Here in Los Angeles? My fellow dog servants look as if they've just been fed, burped and diapered by an Academy approved team of stylists before they saunter forth to pick up poo.

As I try to sneak back in Loudmouth Bill stops me, "Mornin' How are the doggies?" I resist a verbal assault and pretend I didn't hear him...like I do EVERY morning...take a hint fella.

I need a small guest house in Malibu with a private entrance in the quiet - quiet hills.

Friday, April 22, 2005

The Walter Mitty-Life Revisited

We all have odd little things happen in our lives...Living in the land of stars (Los Angeles) I find myself in odd situations nearly everyday. I know it's hard to believe, but one gets bored with star-sightings. And, really, what are ya gonna do? Run up and coo over every Meg Ryan and David Duchovny ya see? Let them come and coo over me I say.

Anyway...I was asked recently "What's your strangest celeb run in?" Wow - when I stopped and thought, I said to myself, "Geeze, it is kinda weird - if you dig this kind of thing." So, I shall avoid what friends and family call, "The Jim Carrey Time Line," a phenom I live with - and truly a strange lost-cousin deal - where he's everywhere I am, except he's the star so, I'd be "the circumstantial stalker."...and skim through some of the less fantastical fun snippets:

Okay, I'm at a swanky hotel for a press day - it's early and I'm half-caffeinated; not a friendly sort. I get into the elevator and spot David Carradine. He's standing in the corner of the lift, with two antique scary looking samurai swords crossing his chest in a dramatic pose (though it's probably because the things are worth like a bazillion dollars and they should NOT be "touching" anything 't-all and the scene looks as if he's in pre-battle chant-mode, not en route to plug his new film via a photo shoot)- He has literally no expression - and pretends he doesn't see me get in. I waltz in (coffee IV in tow). As the door shuts the Muzak starts...."The Girl From Impanema (sp)" I, naturally BURST into laughter. Here's Kill Bill's BILL in a silk frock poised in the corner - a slice right out of a Tarantino film...and he remains blank and emotionless. I arrive at my floor, as he stares ahead, I bow towards him (just 'cause he's got no sense of humor) and exit...
That little slice still makes me giggle in traffic.

Hmm, who shall I speak of next?

Sunday, April 17, 2005

Forever Tango....

It's was a bustling Saturday night and we were off for some hot tango. I have been a tango fan since Robert Duvall's pet film , Assassination Tango. Bob turned me on to the art , that till then had alluded me. Tango is like a super-classy soft porn set to gypsy music. Glorious.

We headed into the infamous Kodak theater - home of the Oscars - and took our box seats. Lover-ly. Box seats allow the viewer an exceptional view and privacy from chatty cathys and snorffing masses. I am - indeed - a snob at heart I am afraid.

The curtain rose and the extravaganza began...

Oh, how beautiful. The dancers all stern faced and limber limbed waltzed across the stage as an orchestra poured the music into the mind. How does the body manage to move like this? It's a dance phenomenon really. Elegant tantrums and the men...dear gawd. Latin and pouty. Ah, I drifted.

Being of Hungarian gypsy and Seafaring blood, I was in a state of nirvana.

Watching the spectacle is like theater; drama, story, and emotion all to music that the children of the night would have frolicked about to.

I couldn't help but think, "Geeze this stage is a lot smaller than the Oscar show would have you believe." It's not exactly huge- but on TV it seems endless. Now how'd they do that?

We stopped for a coffee - caramel shot included, and ventured home...our spirit a little lighter and our hearts soaring.

If you've not discovered tango? I highly recommend it - truly a unique talent set to exquisite music of the ages.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Pool He Says...

The two of us thought, "How fun it would be to stroll into a local poolhall - filled with characters - and shoot a few games...."

So, I'd spotted a properly neighborhood-esque establishment down the street from my humble abode - we would meet there.

I end up in the front of the place a bout thirty minutes early. Before I can take-a-peek through the windows to "check da joint out...an odd, non-souled style, frankly, frightening man, sallies forth into the place and I get a "whiff" of its inner workings; not only is this place so not hip and filled with Ratzo Rizzo-styled grifters (harmless unless you're loaded). But, it smells like a frat house bathroom - post hazing night and its clientel are decidedly dangerous sorts with a denture-set of teeth between them. It was properly Tarantino, and no place for a sweet gay male, and a little blonde...I'm no wimp. I been strolling into Iceman Cometh like bars since a wee lass with my sailor dad - but this place had none of that scallywag warmth...it was all cut throats and shifty fellas hell bent on trouble.

At least that's the feeling I got. And, I was so not going in there. Meanwhile it's also the high-holy day for me, Friday;Friday is the night I usually trek to a place on Fairfax called, Largo (Mecca) to see (Guru) Jon Brion - he's kinds my musical guru since Joe Strummer died.

My friend always poo-poos Largo. He wont go, saying, "They're snobs and you can't even get properly drunk!" Well, that's not exactly true. They have Guinness on tap for only 5.00 and they respectfully ask you don't chat during shows - it's not Boston Garden and voices carry...

But, I digress....So, here I ma on the wrong side of the hood, and I am starting to get nervous. My friend's called. He's around the corner. I tell him, " Pick me up and we can flee. I have already been approached twice for a sexual transaction and the cops have circled three times..." Naturally, I was dressed, shall we say, eclectically. I had seen a film before we were to meet, and rushed out so as not to be late....I was wearing no socks - flood pants (because I couldn't find another pair in the six foot pile), several very ornate miss-matched scarfs (I hate airconditioning) and of course one of my signature "loud" grily coats. I'm not one to coordinate and check a mirror before veturing forth! On the east coast walking your dogs with no make-up and your hair ala Grinch is normal...Here children flee from my path; they all take an hour to great the day, even if just to walk the poor dogs that have to pee.
So, in my haste, and knowing we were "just" going to a dive, I made no attempt to pretty-up. Which I can do.

Now I stood like a street urchin, in front of what I'd discovered was the sleaziest pool hall in all of LA - and NOT in a cool way.

Just as a third car was coming to see what my leisure fees were, my friend squeals into my view! Alas, I am free.

We ended up at Ernies - a Mexican place with lousy service and even lousier food - but after their huge marghritas.... it really didn't seem to matter.
He dropped me off after dinner, and I still had time to redress, slip over the hill and catch the second set at Largo.

The night was s saved, and brion and his motley crew help cleanse away the ickyschnitzel feeling of the hours before. Play pool indeed.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Why is Melted Cheese so Much Better?

Why is melted cheese so much better than cold or room temperature cheese? Fondue is where it's at…that was all I could think of as the man - and I use that term in its bitterest form - before me endlessly plugged himself. If he mentioned his art gallery one more time I was sticking the stainless steel butter knife into my head for quick relief…. I was…I was.

Okay, I guess you'd say the "date" wasn't going well. It's amazing we were even sitting here since technically he had made a date, once before, then just disappeared only to eventually called to apologize a day later and the day after that and the day after that.

See I'm nice. I still believe in romance…. kind of. Damn you Gene Kelly and your movies filled with great warm fallible men!

Again I did not trust my first instincts - the one that told me this guy was a narcissistic lying manpig - and I was being reprimanded by my subconscious as I sat there. Hmm, do they give a self-help course on "Listening to the Inner You - Avoiding Dreadful Dates" in the extension course catalog?

All this suffering could have been avoided because in truth I had actually decided then he was not for me when he unceremoniously "blew me off" on the first attempt. That and his big ego head that came over the phone line. But I decided to be a woman of the now - hip and string free. I was told this fellow was a playboy of sorts (which upon meeting him gave me a chuckle) tall (hilarious) , Italian and rugged. I need to remind my friend - the one responsible for this union - the actual definition of rugged. But this description had images of a Robert DeNiro shaped sugar plumed man dancing in my head - before I met him that is....so who could resist?

Besides I had no fear of relationship woes with him. He wouldn't be hanging around wanting babies or a doting dear. Yep, just some casual rabid Rhesus monkey sex between consenting adults. Just what I needed as I have come to the blunt realization that 1. I am cursed and 2. My knight is lying unconscious - perhaps dead- in a ditch somewhere and unable to get to me.

Why. Why did I give this guy a chance? He'd already started with the mind games on our first vocal encounter the other day on the phone. He had said " I'll call you when I get back from the gym and we can meet at my gallery [gallery reference 354 in our very first phone call no less]." I mean this schmuck actually screwed up on the pre date -to date -date.

About 930pm as the phone still sat silent and ring free, I figured out he just wasn't calling back. I took a delightful bubbly bath with oils and scents and forgot all about the silly boy.

But, yes he called. He called in a decidedly untimely manner the next day about 700pm…I figured after a gym visit, after a day at the gallery, after perhaps an audition and after a salt rub by a masseuse named Uma. After all these things little old me and our agreement to meet the night before, somehow popped into his mind.

I screen all calls because I'm a bitch and also because I live in the days of Quakers. No caller ID and a machine that insists on grabbing it for me by the second ring. Who can get to the line in two friggin' rings. Not me. So all who call have to deal with the machine. It's my gatekeeper.

He says to the gatekeeper that he had forgotten to take my number with him after he left the gallery [ref: 355] and ended up at his brothers and…and...and...and….whatever. Then he says maybe we could catch up tonight. It was 700pm. Hahahah. Odd, wait, yes, um, he's a liar to boot. See he had said he had plans tonight last night and that's why he insisted we meet last night and not tonight like I had preferred. This guy can't look like DeNiro - God's not that cruel.

I erased the message.

Next day about 630pm-700pm - I am starting to realize when this lad goes to the gym or gets ready for his evening of babes at least - he calls again. Okay he's obviously never seen Swingers and learned the etiquette of calling a chickbabe. He was making a big old faux pas with these continual calls. He's totally annoying me now.

I erase the message.

So why and how am I sitting telling you about the "date?" Why was I there being phony with him?

Simple, he tricked me in a moment of weakness. I am famous for it so he gets no points. He called a third time - with out spacing a day- this meant one of two things; he was either not use to not having his calls returned by people, or he was genuinely sorry.

I was told he was a part-time actor on top off it all so I kind of knew it was the first but the friend who said I should meet him used words like "rugged" and "Italian" when describing him. I am only human. When he himself threw in that he was " 6'2 "' I was a goner. I owed it to myself. Remember I am in a city (Los Angeles) where Al Pacino is considered a tad tall and finding a beau that can reach up to a counter without a booster seat is a keeper! I'll go. I'll go.

Cursed from the beginning, I called back and lamely explained I'd been busy and I couldn't call back by the time I'd gotten back in….blah…blah….blah. I tried to match each of his excuses from memory; it made my have a little laugh; he was oblivious of course. I recoiled as he got cocky and said "so, your blonde and blue eyed...we could meet at my gallery [ are you counting?] ...what do you weigh?" What? Huh? Why? Big Mistake Mountain exit up ahead...

Why was I here?

Still I was off to meet him. Call it morbid curiosity. Call it borderline masochism. Call it plain old stupid. Ho hum. I get to the rendezvous - not his gallery - and there's no parking. I mean NO parking. Being the Queen of Hollywood Traffic Court I was determined to get a safe spot. He can wait. I finally got one twenty minutes later and who's sneaking to his car…. well someone I figured was him from the dreaded "headshot" of him the friend shared with me. But wait! Date Man's not six foot two. How do you do! He's five foot seven - and that's being generous. What a dickhead. Did he think I wouldn't notice? I smiled and asked if he was he, and, he was he. Eek and argh and yech. Plus he has an uncanny resemblance to Roy Scheider the guy from Jaws! Well, before the nine thousand face-lifts...I'll give him that.

I am an academy award-winning actress - at least I should be. I smiled professionally and said sorry for the tardy arrival. Then I thought but regretfully didn't say, "perhaps I should just go…my rudely being late and all…. certainly you need to get to the gym, yoga class, chi cleaning, colon wash or something trendy, expensive and superficially LA, no?" Instead I followed him in for coffee.

Wasn't it Deepak Chopra that said "be true to yourself for positive karma" or was it " to thy own self be true and run away while you still can woman?"

We sat. I babbled like I do when I am on autopilot and uncomfortable. I pretended as did he, to care about the conversation but I was drifting. I was gone. I was thinking to myself as his mouth moved...all that laundry…. the auction on Ebay for a collection of mint 78's ends in half of an hour I hope I'm still top bidder...say I didn't know this place's ceiling tile were so artful - wow, would ya look at that - they are really autumn leaves on glass…never noticed before….

Then Date Man started celebrity name-dropping about his clientele in the gallery [reference: 357]. Oh no I had bored the man to point of the last desperate attempt to convince himself he's a superstar achiever by dragging in celebrity names? This is Hollywood we all deal with "them."

What happened next I really could have counted down to - one, two, three - in seconds I mean. There's one person that my friends and acquaintances know is verboten when it comes to attacks of the gossipy kind. I don't like that talk anyway but this one's got a special place in my heart. The fellow I most admire. Naturally Date Man went right for him. Of all the people.

He says, "[So-and-so] deals with me. Well my gallery [ref: 358] and he was a cheap guy." I stabbed the plastic cream cup by accident….

No- no please don't start the weird bad-mouthing-to-seem-cool ploy. Please. Of course I was able to decipher the truth through our mutual friend's description of Date Boy and his demeanor to that point. If the truth were told Date Boy's stuff is over trendy and over priced. I said, "Hmm. Perhaps, [so-and-so] didn't always have a lot of money…or maybe he doesn't like to be taken advantage of. You know being stupid and paying double for something may work for your run of the mill celeb that's flying high on the wealth gig but he's a smart Joe I hear. Probably just knew of its inflated value."

After he stopped mentally pounding my head against the table till it was bloody mush he said,
"Oh no, I like the guy. He ended up buying a whole slew of old New York photos from me - with a discount of course."

Why did I stick up for someone I don't even know? Ah, I always do. I'm a Libra. Plus I just knew this guy was F.O.S.. Truth? I disliked this goober so much I would have defended Madonna on a shopping spree. I was determined to be oil to his vinegar at this point. Entertain myself with a bit of verbal sparing. Then again it was late and there was that Ebay auction to think about…

The best part of this whole hideous night was the irony of his last few moments of erroneous behavior ...after I started to yawn openly - a subtle hint - we go to leave. I offer to pitch in on the bill and he takes three dollars from his wallet throws it on the table and says, "That will cover a tea a coffee and the tip." CHEAP? CHEAP? I'm sorry, Mr. Negative Nellie, weren't you just badmouthing somebody about their being cheap? I wanted so badly to reach into my pocketbook and throw a ten on the table. We had coffee, tea, and the waitress' time = ten bucks. But, as we have a mutual friend and trumping a "tip" is a social no no I decided to feel evil and just follow him out. I felt terrible and CHEAP.

So as if I didn't dislike this Dennis Farina voiced carp of a man enough…. he stops at the pastry counter orders a cheese Danish but has to throw in…"I usually don't eat these things…I watch what I eat. They're very fattening and unhealthy." I had to bite my tongue. Mr. Five Foot Seven Inches looked a tad anorexic for all his trips to the gym. He should have three Danish, maybe a ream of ruggala too. Guys that worry about Danish consumption are not my type. I eat what I want, exercise as I wish, drink what I will. I was brought up with hearty calorie fearless parents and a second mother from Sicily that insisted a bowl of pasta was just an appetizer. We ate. So if I had found him remotely attractive that alone would forbid me for every seeing him again. Can't you hear room service, " No sir we don't have no-sugar no-additive marmalade or Lo-carb flax seed toast I'm afraid." Wait this is LA they do.

Geeze I hope he calls…

TAH!

Jack Russell Terror

Oh, I wish I'd have said Jack Russell Terrier. Do you know what a Jack Rabbit is? I didn't either till recently when I had what my friend's call "a sexual intervention." After having way too many drinks I confided it has been a millennium since the clam's been dug, the flowers been pollinated, there's been a bear in the cave - since I had sex okay.

Shocked by my joke announcement that, "I may have to pay for sex." They went into action. I was so obviously kidding. But sex is extremely important to this lot and they neither found it funny nor, apparently, safe for my well-being.

Hey, I'm a sexual camel. When you are as picky as me…I get thousands times infinity squared to give up the gold but the guys I prefer to be asking for a horizontal tango are either dead, gay or otherwise unobtainable. This is the story of my life.

Back to the Jack Rabbit Terror. See while innocently sipping on a vodka martini at the forbidden Formosa a group of "friends" and I use that word in a tone read: "meddling kids" come in already half in the bag. Inevitably the subject goes immediately to sex, and in what can only be called nanoseconds, my lack of it. They said since I wont take any of their offerings of date material they stopped on the way and got my a special gift for Christmas…

A humongous vibrator called the Jack Rabbit. A vibrator? I laughed aloud. Jeeze, I hadn't actually felt alone till I looked at their beaming faces, joyous at their saving me from the meaningless nights of single abyssdom! I would have much preferred the new Austin Powers dvd I hinted to…

I faked appreciation then explained I am really not into "that." I'm no prude I just don't turn myself on. I enjoy the whole product - if you know what I mean - and I think that you do. They explained that's not the point. Then I was subjected to no less than ten self-gratification stories - from each. Oh, sure you think it sounds fun….but I assure you there are some stories friends just shouldn't share!

So this contraption is huge - that's fine. It is also the Mercedes SUV of phallic self-ticklers! It shimmies, thrusts, rotates, it has pearl-like beads in the center and it's florescent pink. I think it even streamed video...all in all very life like no? Quite frankly the damn thing doesn't need me! And I don't need it.

I gave it to the bartender. That's when they snapped! I guess it was expensive. They rustled it from him after about three more martinis and insisted I at least "give it a whirl!" Yech.

The drive home was creepy. I begged my driver to avoid collision…or at least if we were in a bad one let me throw the beast near her. If my mom ever saw this thing…

Thankfully I was unfolded at my door safe and sound - well safe. I ran inside avoiding eye contact with Pete my pesky neighbor - who is always "there." I practically catapulted myself into the elevator and kick boxed the floor button before he managed the foyer.

I ran down the hall like I had the only shipment of Ecstasy (no pun intended) at a palooza concert - now sweat formed on my brow. When I turned the key I remembered the dogs. Oh no. Bags this late meant human food treatski leftovers or "forgive me" toy-toys. Now our ritual was a dreadful dance of shame as I bulleted into the kitchen and managed to toss a few cookies into the bag to present as offerings to their royal heinesses. They were appeased and I slipped into the bedroom.

I drew the blinds and the drapes and lit a candle…I can do this. Jack was sitting erect on the end of the bed. Horror. The dogs slipped in, immediately noticed the toy on the bed and pounced. I laughed so hard I nearly puked. I grabbed my "date." And escaped to the bathroom.

I slammed the door and sat on the toilet to catch my breath. This was silly. Then I noticed the box. It wasn't in real English. Oh no. It had those classic Ameri-asian half sentences and looked as if the packaging were put together by a first season writer for Saturday Night Live. There was even a warranty! Hahaha. If the beast broke I would get a full refund or replacement or they would repair it. Choices! But they warned, " Be sure to send back the Jack Rabbet Vibraytor with out batteries and an explanation….err…explenahsion." I was laughing out loud. I couldn't do this. I decided to go microwave some popcorn and watch a film.

Jack? I threw him on the sill by the window - only to remember him days later as I walked by the building and noticed a shadow of a penis shaped object blaring from my bathroom window next to the shampoo collection. Pete must have had several hardy smirks before I noticed. Jack's now in a landfill somewhere terrorizing the seagulls.

Life.

Thai Addictions

Perhaps I should start at the beginning (<- insert a visual of one of those Brady Bunch/Gilligan's Island dream sequence spin-edits here for your mental pleasure…).

I was a kick boxing chickbabe when I first moved to Hollywood. But, alas, a bad car accident has found me with chronic pain and perpetually whining about the ten step walk-up I dwell in.

As I'm not really into pain killers. I needed to find something.

So, this chronic pain drove me to physical therapy. The lack of insurance, and the subsequent mega tab on a certificate-carrying therapist with fancy initials stitched on her pressed white scrubs, drove me downtown - literally - to a Thai massage parlor.

Turned on once by a friend - I now sneak down to a sullen, gray, part of town - alone - and weekly. You could say it's the bowels of Los Angeles. I prefer to say the place has a touch of cityscape tinged character - like a concrete and metal Travis Bickle, but less the murderous insanity gene. I do lower the music as I approach the avenue's dimly-lit exit. And, admittedly, the barometer seems to rise a bit.

I see my reflection in the rearview mirror - it is that of an addict.

My supplier's nest lay on a lonely street where the sky seems to end in murky goo. It sits on a slice of gutter Philip Marlowe would describe with fancy superlatives to give it a sexy noir accent. The only sound comes from distant car horns screaming in contempt, and a fury of swirling discarded soda cans, oddly like some kind of urban tumbleweeds, crackling in rhythm against the old cement faced stores where I park.

I always find a fine spot right in front of the parlor - no one comes down here anymore.

The place does say, "Massage" - half lit - on the marquee. But get dancing nymphs and the soft porno music right out of your head. There's nothing sexy or underhanded about this place - and the girls don't take any nonsense. If any of them were actually legally here you'd be paying triple for their expert ancient Thai massage techniques handed down by 'Chandu the Great' or someone…instead it's thirty bucks for an hour - with peppermint oil.

The waiting area hosts a grubby wounded little couch that puckers up on the left side where people seem to prefer to sit - out of the view of the quickly moving neighborhood passer bys - I assume. Underfoot there's a telltale dirty red industrial carpet that has that nauseating imbedded chemical smell from too many attempts at cleaning a cheap rug. And the wall-art consists of a Thai import company's product calendar - which is two years out of date and slightly tilted left. It's a no-frills kinda joint.

I thought of all I do to bring me here - secretly.

To fuel my addiction I've had to cancel cable, shop at the Dollar Store, and say farewell to the weekly sushi and sake soirees with friends. Oh, it is bad. I even started sneaking in the cheap gas into my faithful VW beetle Dudley, who I am sure knows of the switch and disapproves - as he now seems to be retaliating by hissing and cajunking through the Canyon roads.

Why all this self sacrifice? Oh dear reader, it is all so I can visit my den of hedonism and see the woman they call Ms. Moi, my Thai masseuse, and my addiction.

I thought to myself recently while being greeted by Ms. Moi, "Is it wrong for a hetro-sexual gal to feel "something" when the small Thai women crawls up her body? Or is it an explainable infatuation due to the euphoria I experience post-massage?" Hmm.

And know now Thai Massage is not for the wimpy. Know also I am a card-carrying member of the U.S. Wimp Club which makes this particular addiction all the stranger. Ms. Moi is patient with me. Hey, for the uninitiated Thai massage is like experiencing deep tissue massage by an aggressive Ukrainian wrestler that's having a bad day. The goal is to scare the muscles into lethargy I think.

I'm hooked. I lay in my cheesy fabric draped cubicle at Ms. Moi's mercy - not unlike a netted Tuna. I'm wearing nothing but an anti-flattering ensemble of really weird looking pajama-like pant bottoms that tie just below the boob area and a tube-top-like hair net - both in a sickly blue hue. I suppose an ounce of humiliation makes the soul a bit stronger? That having been said, I've learned how to "go to my happy place," where it's not Ms. Moi crawling up my body, viciously probing the nooks and crannies where the pain hides, no, it's a manly man, like say Benicio del Toro (of course with a dye job, as his Count Chocula©™ hair-do is so very unattractive), kneading my aching limbs while any number of musical memories are conjured up from my mind's catalog, all in an attempt to prevent permenant damage to my delicate pysche.

Sure my friends are talking - whispering. They are fearful I've gotten in with a strange crowd…err…a stranger crowd and could be heading towards financial destruction. But so long as I have this new spring in my step and something to pawn off on Ebay, to keep me in this lifestyle I have grown accustom to, I'm not worried about silly things like rent and food. Bah.

Though, it was a little weird last week at the close of our session when Ms. Moi quietly drew the curtain and said softly in broken English, 'When I slow can call you to come for massage?" Oh dear. She knows I'm an addict…she-devil with the healing hands!

Naturally, I scribbled her my cell number, pulled my baseball cap low, and slipped out to the street, hoping Dudley still had all his tires…

Hog Wild!

"You love that pig more than me!" he shrieked - accenting his drama with the obligatory door slamming exclamation mark. Technically he was right - obviously it wasn't always like that. But unlike the little pig, he'd stopped bathing, started making some odd snorfing sound when he ate, decided he was above the working sort, and had become a space invader. Cruel bitter words of a scorned ex housewife? No, just the end of a relationship - you know the signs; the telltale fights, and that blazoning distaste for his "unique" idiosyncrasies (after the initial rabid Rhesus monkey-sex stage). Now they grate upon your nerves like a Belgium on an un-tuned accordion - and visa versa.

But back to the pig - that's a way more interesting story…

I met the little pig, who was to become the apple of my eye, just as she was to become the main entree at a Fiesta-styled BBQ in a state park I frequented.

While the ex and I'd been foraging for all kinds of fruits and berries, I heard this hideous scream through the serene woodscape. Always the budinski, I went to see what could cause such a howl in broad daylight, on a Sunday in suburbia, while hundreds of families continued - obliviously - frolicking to bad FM music.

I couldn't believe what I saw. There were about twelve really drunk Latin-style men tossing a piglet back and forth (as it screamed in terror) in front of a roaring fire - one presumed a fire it was to be roasting over in a few moments. These beasts were wailing in glee each time the little animal squirmed and begged for them to relent.

I fought back all kinds of desires to start a full-scale lecture on animal rights after scanning the area and counting (at least) six cases worth of empty generic beer cans.

I had to do something. I mean for crimeny if you're going to bring a creature to your festival of ribs and brewskis, at least let it arrive de-lifed and with an apple in its mouth, or in non-guilt inducing non-descript shapes of flesh mounds - and if you come from that culture where it's got to be alive - PLEASE don't torture it.

My ex says, "Don't start. There's nothing you can do Ms. P.E.T.A." Even now, I can almost hear your mind clicking in acknowledgement we were ill matched from the get go. I asked him to get the truck and meet me on the service road just over the hill. He walked away like a bad cartoon character - slowly - and muttering something about bleeding hearts and, "Next it'll be vegetarianism" - like these were bad things.

Republican gnat.

So, I had to think quickly and assume the role of generic drunken picnic-goer. I knew I had to save that pig. She looked like she weighed about 15 pounds - tiny. Assimilating into the brood, I called to one of the drunkards to throw her to me. At this point they were trying to get a beer can to pop by placing it in her mouth. Still, they fell for it - and here came the pig. She did not weigh 15 pounds! She was at least 30 pounds and like a rock - err - boulder. After gathering up super hero strength of determination, I bolted up and over the hill like a deranged rugby player with a pinch of gazelle. The alcohol delayed their reactions just long enough to enable my get-a-way, "She's playing tag football…no she's goofing around…no she stole lunch!"

Meanwhile the ex had the truck in position. I leapt in with the still shrill-crying piglet and we sped away. No. We didn't speed away. Mr. "Can Never Bend the Law," said the speed limit in the park is fifteen miles an hour and he refused to get a ticket, or get stopped and have to explain this whole scene.

So, Braveheart is "speeding away" at mach 15 MPH as a loud, and very drunk, and progressively angry, group of men is gaining on the crawling vehicle - pig wailing away. The rearview mirror memory of this is so Ben Stiller meets Benny Hill it often still makes me have to pull over with laughter when I think of it.

Suffice to say, it was only as the running caused one of the Neanderthals to projectile puke, thusly causing a dominoes effect of venomous vomiting from the lot, that the marathon of carnivores instantly stopped - and we made our lethargic get-a-way! The pig was saved and hundreds of on-looking small children, their eyes now shaded by parental hands, would be seeking psychiatric care for years over what they'd just witnessed.

Meanwhile bizarre sitcom scene behind us, the pig literally screamed all the way home - people in cars beside us seemed to think we'd abducted someone - as the covered squiggling thing sounded not unlike a harmed child. It was a very very long ride home.

En route we passed a campy BBQ joint called "Dixie's BBQ." The ex said, "We can still get out of this…" Pointing to the restaurants ill-thought-out billboard of a robust smiling southern gal pig (complete with pigtails and the obligatory checkered apron) holding a fork and knife with her lips watering, apparently in anticipation of dining on her family members succulent parts.

I consoled the piglet from Mister Meany, and named her Dixie (admittedly this was half spite) on the spot.

Ironically, Dixie out-lasted "Husband Two" by over nine years. She had the greatest life a pig could have dreamed of. She had her own pet cat, a ritual of Saturday strawberry shampoo baths, and her own Christmas stocking. Dix grew to be an intimidating 165 pounds - she was a Scottish Hybrid (white with black dots - like a Dalmatian). She lived over 11 years, and each of those years we celebrated her "Liberation" with a "pig out" of pies and whole watermelons…I still get all teary when I think of Dixinheimer.

So, yeah, I guess ultimately I did love that pig more than him.

Where's the Life?

You know I work and work and work....Then suddenly the sun is done, and Malcolm in the Middle is back on. I say, "Ooopsie, now where'd that day gone and disappeared to." The phone rings - I ignore it as Reese is up to something devilish...When I move my carcass off the couch it's a message alert. Argh.

Some big celeb wants me to do a story on them- for exposure, the hurried publicize whispers. Um, sure - why not. It's not like I have a "life." Let me spend hours meeting, transcribing, and cooing over some billionaire. Hey, if we meet at The Mondrain I can stock up on those love-er-lee Agua samples they hoard in the maid closets. They are a blend of sandalwood and verbena (spelling?). Truly delightful.

I ring my niece, the plugged in teen, to see if this palooka is even hot. She is luke warm - rattling off his resume like an assistant at Bruckheimer films. But, she ads, he is, " HOT! A proper mansteak with actual talent." The apple does not fall far people...
I agree.

Now we start that odd power game the publicists here in the land of smoke-and-mirrors like to volley about. I hear that studied David Spade-voiced receptionist aka The Wall respond, "And you are? And I care because...?"

I explained - Your boss called me kid...
I will now wait the mandatory two or three days for response - the sweat factor. But, you see I don't sweat ...'cause I don't care, really. There is life after entertainment, and House is on tonight. There's a sparkle in the night's air...

Sour? No. Just plain old use-to-it. Call don't call...There's always another talent to talk to. This city is a strange place...