Bluntly Speaking

Da Vinci and Divine Dilusions

2006-05-19T17:16:00.000-07:00

Okay, I’m sure you’ve heard the buzz about The Da Vinci Code film’s release. Not only are some folks beside themselves – but some are (get this) protesting via a death strike. Literally killing themselves because they disagree with an idea ...

Um, ironic isn’t it that Darwinism is in play fighting a faith. What do I mean? Think about it Theologists' biggest nemesis the dreaded, “Survival of the Fittest,” is presently playing itself out over faith. Yep, the people stoo-pid enough to kill themselves over a film – that most I am sure have not even seen – a fictional tale that boohoohoo, disagrees with their beliefs. Misplaced martyrdom and pure Darwinism: themselves are weeding out the simpletons among the strong. Goons. And I mean that in the nicest way.

I have seen the film (full review at http://www.bluntreview.com) and it is first and foremost a thriller whodunit. But, yeah it’s kinda the anti-Passion of the Christ if you’re into the whole Jesus was a virgin born virgin died deal. But, I say why would a handsome Jewish fella be single in those days? AND what is the big deal if he was betrothed? Holy criminey – sex isn’t everything, and doesn’t the bible itself go on and on about the importance of union between a man and a woman. All others a sin? Hmm, seems to me it’s another case of reading want you want, taking what you want, and kind of pretending you don’t see what you don’t want to.

Truly isn’t it time we looked at this book – that pooped up after an emperor was loosing control of those pesky Christians - with an eye detached from mere faith and wonder a bit about its, our, origins? Please people. Faith is just that. Faith. The bible helps folks follow a faith, but in your heart is where the spirit lies.

Oops I’ve gone and perched upon my soapbox. But, right now as we read this or debate whether or not The Da Vinci Code is evil personified, every day – in the real non-fiction world - children and animals are abused beyond fathomable belief, woman traded like baseball cards, men are kidnapped to populate armies – sometimes to fight their own families in the name of “god.” This we can live with and pretend is not happening, but Ron Howard directs a film DARING to cover a best selling fictional BOOK’s deciphering of another best selling book (the Bible) and people are willing to kill themselves in protest? Stand up and fight for what they believe is unjust? What’s next Paris Hilton as Supreme Court Judge?

And speaking of decipher. Louis Cipher. Lucifer. FOX has been sending me alerts – press alerts – on that stoo-pid new OMEN film being released on 6- 6-06. Every day I get a fed ex’d postcard delivered at the crack of dawn at a cost of what? 15.00 per alert? The over perky Fed Ex guy shows at dawn (well 900am), and I assume (naturally) it’s my neighbor who has forgotten my “Not before 10:00am” Intrusion policy…I open the door in my blanket ala toga’d, sans make up, and hair in a twirly Tim Burton-esque grinched point. It’s not the “best” time of the day for me…the guy is mortified and dumps (stealthily) the poops for the press. Today he just snuck the package in the doorwell.

Oh, and ahem the date on the postcard warns that it is almost 6.6.06 Hahahah. Um, 2006 is not 666. Duh, It’s so dumb I cannot type one more character.

Wait? Did I just give the new Omen free PR?

DRAT.

Da Vinci Decoded at http://www.bluntreview.com

It Aint Angelina Jolie Lips She’s Sporting

2006-04-28T13:12:00.000-07:00

Okay. I have a friend in New York who likes to buy me beauty products. Expensive “finds” she discovers en route to the poor house.

She has been a friend since we were toddlers and knows, I am incapable of spending 40.00 for lip-gloss. I just wont do it. Call it the Scot’s blood that runs along side my Hungarian blood. The 5.99 stuff is the same in my eyes…and I have 34 bucks left over - burning a hole in my pocket - to frolic about with while sporting the reasonably priced version of the make-up. It just makes more sense.

So, she sends me some hoity celeb hawked lip-gloss in a swell cutesy bag – the fancy hand painted bag is used to blind the consumer of the high price tag for gelatin-based color… I place it upon my dresser and wait for a "special" eve to break out the good stuff.

Viola. About four days later I have this super fun event at the Egyptian Theater with coupla great guys: Eddie Muller and James Ellroy. We all just did the commentary for Warner Bros. CRIMEWAVE. I directed/produced and they spoke about the film – it’s gold and will be released within a Warner Bros. Home Video set …soon.

Well, Eddie Muller, who's considered the Czar of Noir, has a Film Noir Foundation he’s started. It’s a grassroots foundation developed to bring lost Noirs back to the public eye, and restore those films that time has abused. He and a group of cohorts also host a yearly Film Noir Festival in San Francisco. They were bringing it to Los Angeles for a weekend. I promoted it and got hundreds of emails from BluntReview.com readers that were excited to go. The opening night was sold out and Ellroy was to speak. Those of you, who know this cat, know that’s an event in itself. Muller was going to kind of reel the man in – KINDA.

The two were presenting CRIMEWAVE in all its glory on the big screen. Sterling Hayden 75 feet tall blazon upon a screen? I am there – even if I have seen the film ten times at this point. “You cannot get enough Sterling in a week,” is one of my mottos.

So, I get dolled up as depending on the evening perhaps we will venture out post viewing, grab a friend and head out – wearing the new fancy lip-gloss my friend sent atop some cool blood red Film Noiry plumper base.

I was not to see a mirror again till well past the witching hour as I am barely the female habit sort as it is…

Big mistake.

See, the new lip-gloss apparently has some sort of reaction with the bottom coat and creates a scary Lorre-esque clown-lip effect; I am swollen and have a ring-o-gloss circling my lips. Super creepy. I have no idea.

I also do not leave after the show – no – or it would be a story of escaped embarrassment – which never seems to be in the chess game Gad’s playin’ with my days. I have a “social” evening. I usually exit stage left and shimmy home in time for the hour of watching South Park re-runs strewn across the couch spoon-feeding bon bons to my elderly poodle.

Not tonight.

I waltz over to a few BluntReview.com readers to say hello, meet the PR rep I deal with at the theater and run down to say hello to Eddie and James – all the while video and cameras are flashing. I have no idea – and no one says a word – that I have this lip thing that looks like a five year old that’s eaten half a dozen red pops without looking at a napkin.

I notice about three hours after adding the lipstick – just enough time to be in full allergic reaction mode. I look, in a word, bizarre.

As this is Hollywood I suppose a few folks witnessing my lip faux pas figured it was botox gone bad. But, needless to say, I certainly made an impression with my readers – now many of their “caught-in-the-headlights” expressions become perfectly clear. I thought they were stoned or just strange. But, I may be safe from ridicule as I have MS – a disease no one gets till they get it – so many probably figured my lip protrusion was one of the many symptoms. Always look for the silver lining right? My horrific disease bought my a “get out of humiliation free” card. They probably thought, “Poor kid. Well, she does have a brain disease – guess she can’t quite get the lipstick between the lips, and on the actual lip part of her face. Poor thing. Don’t stare.”

I tossed the lip-gloss.

http://www.bluntreview.com

Just My Luck!

2006-04-06T15:48:00.000-07:00

Okay last week I had this wildly unique experience of being a part of an event that touched my heart. Director Julian Temple is making a documentary on Joe Strummer (who you may or may not know was very important to me). My gal pal was being interviewed for the piece and asked me to join her for a campfire chat/party. It was very special.

The “set” was peppered with Joe-style furniture; an oversized comfy-chair accented with cowboy pin striping, an eclectic collection of mod-meets-mexi thrift chairs, a ratskeller-esque couch and a few TVs with the fronts smashed out (I guess it’s punk and does not show the lighting).

Around this array of kitchi-kool hang-out furniture was Joe’s 1950’s Cadillac, a row of waving multi national flags, and a stunning shiny chrome Airstream camper. The centerpiece was a “roaring fire,” Hollywood style. That is, a propane gas fed psuedo campfire complete with faux woodlike logs set in a perfect circumfrence. where Joe’s family and friends laughed rememered and met for smile, as Temple taped and did selected one on one’s. This whole surreal serene spot was atop Griffith Park in a private heliport area (rentable to film crews) that overlooked the whole city of Los Angeles down to the ocean – a spectacular view I hadn’t even known existed.

This was a magical night. ‘Cept one snafu.

I am – and have always been - a sweet blooded buffet to the insects of the night. I’m the one you want in the group so the rest are safe from these parasites. As this was a protected area you could not drink, smoke or WEAR INSECT REPELENT. No eco-system finagling allowed. So, naturally I was being eaten alive once the sun set. And the sun had set itself fast, tucked in tight, and put a do-not-disturb sign across its dark horizon. I was getting miserable. I refused to give in to weeakness coming on from the depletion of vital fluids and sat trying to smile as if I had that extra quart-o blood still happily pumping through my chilled carcass. I was there for four hours…

So, shoot ahead a week…

I am at my new fancy Yoga class. It’s a non-schmoozy venue filled with really nice people – in other words…not the pseudo riche that speed through Yoga trying to suck in the peace and good karma like the class is a spiritual ATM and because they heard it’s very “in” to stretch and contort. Then post “ohms,” immediately reboot the cell phone, jump into the Hummer, and hook up the coffee IV. No. My place is truly relaxed, low key and not even a patchouli wearer in sight.

I wear big girl sweat pants and a Steven Segal sized tee. This paticular eve my hair was in my signature pre-shower Grinch twist and I skipped the mirror check en route to the front door figuring, “It’ll be the same middle-aged folks and me – I aint there to impress anyone.”

Now, my legs were bitten raw and welts had replaced mini-bites. The itching ceased, but my legs looked as if I had some sort of tropical rash or worse an S.T.D.. Getting the picture?

Naturally - what walks in the door of the place? A mansteak who looks as if he is some sort of experimental love child of Javier Bardem and Benicio del Toro from the Island of Dr. Moreau. And this slabo man heroin had the good sections of each. I immediately take notice. Then it, err, he speaks as expected – or wished for – in an Antonio Banderas-ish drawl. Oh no – the smit bug was hovering! This buck was the carbon-based definition of MY TYPE.

So I immediately ignore him and avoid eye contact of any kind while shuffling to the other side of the mat. These ploys are my signature way of showing I’m absolutely smitten.

He plops right next to me and says something like, "Hello" or "Hi," – I couldn’t hear through my heartbeat-in-the-brain that immediately started when he was within a foot of me.

I manage to some how seem semi-sane and get through the ordeal. But not before an embarrassment – topping the day my booby burst free exposing a breast LIVE at the 73rd Annual Oscars on the red carpet. I digress (cue cartoony memory waves and harp sounds)I bent over in my fancy schmancy gown, instantly broke the spaghetti string strap as one of the twins danced out doing a Jimmy Durante impersonation. Nervous PR reps wondered if I’d popped the boob out on purpose for publicity and began rushing their celebs from the paparazzo’s flashing frenzy. I didn’t, it was simply a bending in Gucci gone wrong.

Back to last week’s trauma and soon to be mental scarring.

I am feeling his eyes all over me. I was mixed with joy and shyness as the instructor asked us to, “Position 4,” our bodies. That is an ultra unflattering movement that involves hoisting your ass over your head and your legs up to the sky. As I do this, however, the big over size sweat pants I am sporting betray me and slide down toward my shins – uncovering my three-day-old mosquito welts. Welts that have aged to the point of puffy blistering syphilis-like craters. I just wanted to roll into position 12, “The Fetus,” and die.

By the end of the class some how the handsome chap had maneuvered to the front of the class, directly opposite of my area, and struck up a conversation with the mini-waisted big-breasted model with the cell phone clipped to her spandex. I couldn’t blame him.

“Why is god so cruel?” I begged silently towards the sky.

Then I heard it my answer – this man was asking the yogi master if he could LITERALLY sleep in the back as he was being evicted. Ah yes. Of course! This hunk was a Hoser. And I was saved and protected from myself by my guardian angel who has promised me NO MORE LOSERS - and looks like Nic Cage in my imagination. See, he was there because even though I know in my heart I always attract these creatins, and I obviously have not perfected my invention of sunglasses that probe into the inner-pre-scan-loser-spotting ray section of the brain, (aka The Dickhead Detectors - the prototype can be found in the BluntReview.com store), my clever the angel - who obviously has a sense of humor - chose a somewhat cruel, yet effective, turn of events to assure my safe escape from another doomed relationship, and provide a great Martini hour tale en route post experience. Brilliant actually.

I walked a little lighter towards my car. But just in case, still wary of my new found power-of-loser-resistance, I quickly switched the music in the car from a world beat mix to an anarchistic rebel yell of defiance via the “London Calling” cd.
This odd point was needed - beleive me. The seemingly unintentional musical switch was actually a proud salute to my Guardian Angel’s guiding protection, as I knew the wickedly handsome beau was right next to me – basically lurking – or perhaps perusing the alley for proper element coverage for the evening - and if he heard the world beat of the current musical selection he would have a perfect excuse to talk to me next week – I was not giving him that psychological edge. I am just not that strong…yet.

Self-sabotage or self-preservation?

Hmm.

http://www.bluntreview.com BluntReview.com

Bluntly Speaking: A Big Old Batch of Lemonade

2006-01-28T13:21:00.000-08:00

Bluntly Speaking

There are a few annoying - none the less true - verbal clichés in the world; the most notorious of these phrases involving the fact that life is sure of few things but you can count on death and taxes.

I ad to that conundrum of truths a special human phenomenon – if you will - Jon Brion.

It’s been a few months since I was able to sally forth to Largo – Brion’s Friday evening menagerie of mayhem. I asked for a four-top table for a few friends who were in from various parts of the world and doing the film festival/awards season.

See, I feel, a good-deed-for-the-day is done when one tunes in , or turns on , another person to a soulful slice of rarebit in this hectic, often homogenized, world.

This small gathering of mine for de jour was a nice group of what they call in LA ”creatives.” They were I a sort-of micro-social gathering of the cogs of a fine film's production.

We had the obligatory actor (– who caused people of the public to stop and look at him in that RCA dog pose, wondering where they’d seen him - gawking but not speaking). Though tonight, sadly, his handsome face was radiating no light comedy. He wore an O'Neill face of a harmed heart; he has recently lost his wife, best friend and lover of 18 years, and was trying to emerge slowly back into the fold of society. We promised him great music and booze. The other representation at the tisch was an indie director. His current film is in the festival farmlands looking for love and distribution. His new adventure will have him off to Hawaii to film a new feature among the beauty. Me, the dreaded writer. And, rounding–off bevy of talent, - who ordered her first drink as we entered the club (ahem)- is my sister friend who happens to dabble in cinematography when she’s not literally sailing around the world (film festival to festival) in her 1940’s yacht, to traffic the flow of films, from port to port like a Columbian overlord works heroin (though the films in question actually meet her via fed ex in the port-of-destination– no sea swells and scurvy tales of faring the triangles for these celluloid yarns).

For their audio and cerebral pleasure I offered up my style of personal heroin. Jon Brion. I had to do something with my guests. We started at my house. I had a great cd Henry Rollins had burned for me – French music circa 1964 café rue. I was sharing. Little did I know how apropos this musical treasure was going to prove to be mon cheri j'adore.

Hmm, what does one do with the Capote-esque crowd that culminates for two eves, once a year-ish? The entertainment gene in me felt the pressure. Plus, we were here within the city of phony baloneys, bimbo conversants, and the dreading landscape of stretch Hummers. Yech. Inside is safer. I for one was content (as usual) staying in sanctuary with a good cd and chatting about world subjects till dawn's light. But I was the hostess – and we were low on flavor enhancing aperitifs…they needed to vacate and mingle among the bees.

“Ah yes!” I thought, “Guaranteed, artistical refuge!” I shall take them to Largo.

I admit, I used a bit of clout to arrange the table. Hey, my name is still good for some things, and we all deserved a bit of special treatment...

It had been a tough year for me too. I lost my dog-son of seventeen years (and I had to “make the decision”). I have been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis after a horrific motorcycle accident’s MRI revealed many answers to odd questions I’d passed over as quirky flashbacks. And started a dream job that will change my $25.00 a week living habit. Till now, due to demand, I "held on to pennies like a prisoner" as they say in the bonnie scotts.

Oddly, a guy I don’t even know has pretty much been my only reliable constant in the past year. I knew what was lacking in this Brave New – unmapped - World of mine, was an up-to-date shot of pure uncut Jon Brion music; I can count on this lad for a dose of smiles and giggles - without any relationship drama; the perfect date...
Hahahahaha. I digress.

We got to Largo sat and pre-show chatted.

The place was unusually electric – something was in store for the intimate group of believers. Brion’s play friends are of the exquisite set. I try not to scope the room; it’s so tacky ya know. There's always a recent celeb-of-the-week in the rustic shadows.

But, even though I was trying not to scope-out-the place, I could have sworn I saw Michel Gondry. Nah. “Hey,” I thought, “Is that Kayne West (again)?” Nah. Okay I had to stop half-sleeping/hallucinating and calmly sip the tall Guinness before me (served with the straw for my Howard Hughesian phobia of germ contact with the rim of the glass…). Chill-out chick.

Mr. Brion – who I have not seen in six months - gets up and has a terrible cold – of course that doesn’t stop him. Contrary. I instantly know this means (because I was a Friday-night Largo barfly-of-sorts over the past year and a half), Jon will be doing a lot of those wonderful head tripping solo-y guitar riddled self-feeding pieces. Of course the man plays alone any way – but I mean he takes a song turns it inside out, reverses a bit of its structure throws in a twang of cultural hoopla – a riff from another land for those listening – and trips the light fantastic into Sudafed land.

As an audience member while he indulges his throbbing brain - and if you are remotely into letting your guard down – it’s a bit of a journey.

The table of four horsemen were positively just in the mood for this kind of excursion from Earth.

Brion whips up a set of musical magic (per usual) then invites MICHEL GONDRY jam. He also asked a great piano player to join in the dream – but as I was sick myself I missed the name of the talent…

Jon’s “real” audience knew and went beserk. I was happy a few near me didn’t recognize Gondry (so my musican faux pas was – could be - excused…)

Okay. Michel Gondry is my third favorite – living - director. I actually paid retail for his dvd collection (unheard of for me…). Those not in the know, know now – Gondry does all The White Strips videos, Bjork, my all-time favorite video of dissecting music via modern dance, and of course, likes to direct Charlie Kaufman scripts; a Renaissance man extraordinaire. Michel also plays drums …

HEAVEN.

Then the set-break. My guests, the director and actor depart in an almost post-coital fashion; beaming and all glowy, their steps (for a while) a tad lighter despite life's cruel jabs. My duty done.

But Alex and I stayed – determined to squash the sleep fairies that were parading in, slipping past Mike the door guy, trying to woo us back to out blankets and pillows.

We made it – barely. At about - I don't know 1:00am - Brion returns to the stage. Rips out a couple songs and decides it’s play time kids. He beckons Adam Levine to the stage. Adam dutifully wiggles through the expectant crowd. Next Kayne West. And as I dared to dream – yes – Michel Gondry joined the trio. They did a few West songs and odd a Chip and Dale cooing amongst the talents. As tired as I was, some how I still managed to drink in the spectacle. This was (believe it or not) the second time I’d caught West and Levine playing in the sandbox here.

When Gondry left the stage, and knowing he’s French, I amused myself by yelling as he passed, “ I love you man.” Like a girl-fan at a Lynard Skynard concert sans the lighter in hand waving.

Post concertette Gondry was hanging out in the corner – chatting. Flash bulbs were going off. Instead of departing with my dignity (an act I am incapable of here – as I continuing pull a Stan and practically throw up in Brion’s presence) I made the executive decision (for what ever reason) to be geek chic and coo at Mr. Gondry.

I stood in that dreadful “meet and great” line. When I was in his audience my mind betrayed me as (trying to be cool) I blurted out like a fandork, “ Thank you for everything you’ve ever done.” Hey, at least, I didn’t say the ever-confusing deal, “ Thanks for being.” Which, I personally think says it all, but folks tend to wait for - being what?

He was beside, Patricia Arquettetcroques (who was in Human Nature and is on Medium). Trying to be polite. And realizing another talent was before me. I said, (like an ass), “ Oh, and congratulations.” Her shows like number two or something. Then, as if the hole was not sinking swiftly enough, spotting Patricia’s guest, Liv Tyler, I said, “Oh, and you’re just stunning.” I felt like a rabbit from a Carroll play.

I tried to quickly back up into the dark comfort of the club, trying to shake off that morbidly shy realmscape I tend to go to amid extreme talent and dissipate into the evening with my friend, who just looked as if she understood I was actually tongue-tied, but had to say thank you to Mr. Gondry. Of course I’ve interviewed him. Though in truth, during the interview, (ala The Ladder 49 red carpet Robbie Robertson spotting and meltdown fiasco) I simply grinned like Id’ eaten one of Alice’s special brownies, and left hi thinking I must know someone high up to be here…

Folks, there are few folks that bring on this morphing schoolgirl persona in me: Brion, Burton, Gondry and Bardem.I need interaction therapy.

I slept with sugarplum notes and creshendoing backbeats wailing in my head; in other words, like a babe in a toy factory with a thousand dollar gift certificate during a 75% off sale.

Sure, there’s been a heaping helping of sucky mold infested lemon deals in my life this past year – but then this impish cusackmccartney styled man hits a few instruments and reminds you why you actually bother getting up everyday. Because, we lose a few we love, we trip through these sitcom like scenarios that convince you God’s playing a game of chess (for fun) with your life and then viola. You go to Largo; a womb like world of wonder – and Guinness on tap. Brion helps you make lemonade with life's sourest of lemons.

Go Buy Gondry stuff->

Emily Blunt's : Jon Brion CD Reviews/Interview and way more glee than should be legal->

Fear of Flour

2005-11-24T09:27:00.000-08:00

An Emily Blunt Rant

Fear of flour. Yep. It’s true. As we grow older and more comfortable with ourselves, we admit things. My fears and phobias are simple and not necessarily rational; are these things suppose to be?

My mom is to blame – as are most of our adult traumas of the psyche.

She loved to cook – as do I. She did however tend to maintain a kind of post-war attitude about foods. My brother and I noticed, while unpacking at a new home mom’d bought, this Morton’s Clam Juice Bottle.

I’d sworn I’ seen that bottle in Wakefield nearly three years prior. And, my brother, who has five years on me, recognized it from a small place we lived in Melrose ten years back. Gross. So old was this bottle of clam juice it had actually started to evaporate. Shudder.

When we asked our mother if we could finally throw it away she said, “ Vat, und vast da stuff? You tink da food grows on trees!” Up into the cabinet it went. I tore a smidge of the label as a way of "tracking it."

Our first reaction - or protective instinct - was to never eat her signature Clam Sauce with Linguine again, the second thought was, “How would you dispose of the bottle?” I mean really. By now there’s bacteria and so forth that Steven Hawkins would ponder over. If we dumped it down the sink it could harm the city’s water supply. If we threw it in the trash it could break and exude fumes, or seep into the city dump's soil and innocent little moles, while feasting upon the remains of some succulent Twinkie circa 1972, that had been "tainted" with a drop of my mother’s long-expired sea (<- the start of life as we know it claim many) product would morph into some kind of half clam half man carnivorous six-foot beings with death ray eyes and elongated fangs. Or the juice could sprout a new kind of mold that would - over eons – populate he Earth and claim our little planet as its own.

What ever. It sat on the shelf (though now I swear I saw a Jolly Roger in place of the corporate logo!). It's still with mom - it's now in Florida retired on the shelf - lurking.…

But, back to the flour.

So, you get the drift; my mom saved everything and tends to not waste food.

We always had bags and bags of cooking flour around. Somehow it fell upon me to get the flour while she was creating.

A sweat would break, my palms itch. What would I find in the flour! I must have been a pirate in my past life. I have an unnatural fear of scurvy, love the open seas, and despise flour.

Why? Read on...

See, there’s these…. these…. weevils or something that seem to appear – suddenly – even in fresh flour. WHY. They are like beetles or something. suits of armor and quick as a fan to the side of George Clooney.

My mom is also a Felix Unger personality; you can literally eat off her floors. This is not a dirty woman’s cupboard – yet there the beasts were. Scurrying. Trying to disappear into the sands of time. Yet, they seemed actually willing to be baked into the Swiss-apple pie de Jour. Was it some twisted master plan to invade our inner beings? Or were they really just dumb little bugs thinking if they can't see us, we can't see them; I lay awake at night...wondering.

When I’d complain about the brave new world thriving in the flour, my brother would advise, "It’s extra protein," and my mother would say, “Nonsense.” It was obvious they were lost to me. Their minds filled with weevils running the cogs and gears.
To this day, I am the only member of my family that does not eat, ask for, or covet, my mother's "apple pie."

I was convinced recently by a so-called friend to buy flour. I explained, “I’m not a big flour person. What would I use it for?” They went on about the glories of flour. I bought the stuff; man, it’s cheap.

Sure, ‘cause the “others” want you to hide them in your cupboard so they can spring to life from nowhere as SeaMonkeys do – their master plan.

I’d forgotten the flour. Made sure it was in the non-frequented area of the cabinets. Then one eve I was making Weiner Schnitzel. I remembered, “ That’s right, I have flour to dredge the meat through…”

Dear readers, I am still semi-catatonic. There they were; a thriving community of tiny creatures, in their powder-white metropolis with cavernous subways and northpole-ish skyscrapers. Oh sure they tried to rebury themselves – but it was too late. I was on to them. I swear I heard a low hum of morse code from the sack.

Dinner was ruined, naturally, and I threw the whole bag away. Wasted the whole bag. Double bagged it and slipped down to the trashcan a tad guilty about the other end’s new problem.

As I dry-heaved up the stairs, I swore, “I will never ever own flour again.”

Then my friend said, the weevils – or what ever they are – are actually in the cabinets and feed on flour PRODUCTS of all kinds – my brain scanned the ingredient lists present in the house as we drove. Then without a care in the world she says, “Why, they’re unavoidable,” smiling as if straight out of a scene from Pod People, as I recalled many a flour induced meal at her home; I felt ill and betrayed, alone and on guard.

I now live in a flour free home. Thank you. Today is Thanksgiving and I am en route to cook and serve, assist and devour at the very same friends' home - you know the smiling Judas of Breads…I shant be leaving her alone in the kitchen for a nanosecond. And, if she reaches for "the flour" I do not know what I am capable of.

-Em
http://www.bluntreview.com
BluntReview.com Movie Reviews, Celebrity Interviews, Music and Mayhem.

Just When Ya Start Feelin' All Bad For Yourself...

2005-09-27T12:05:00.000-07:00

Good things can come from the oddest of circumstances – truly. Okay, so I’m dating this tall older guy. Not “my type.” But, no one really seems to be (excluding apparently Oliver Stone…but that’s entirely another tale). Back tothe tail, er, tale at hand...so,"Super-Plus Tampon Man" is what you’d call fun and adventurous, and had a smart brain - so one forgives the other stuff - for a while... The downsides were manageable (especially since it was a light-no-frills to-do 'tween us). He had a few, shall we say, idiosyncrasies – a weird twitch, apparently one dress shirt to his name and an obsession with motorcycles (<- but swell fancy fast machines; the sexy kind...the evil sexy kind).

You always gain something even from the most mundane experiences or bad dating soirees and faux pas. Here I gained the knowledge that I adore driving really fast in the wind (motorcycles are really a kind of convertible heroin), and I was willing to giggle at truly bad jokes, and partake in lame conversation centering on sprokets, knowing - always - this tedium would have an end result; which was a road trip at 100 MPH in the backwoods of America.
*sigh*
In point? I dug the motorcycles – as in stayed past the point of even really liking the guy, just to ride with him - well, have him chaffuer me around at high speeds. Shallow I know - but guys do it all the time no? Did I mention he looked swell in skin-tight leather to boot. Now, who's shallow there you!

The good news is after we had “an accident,” as he kind of liked to drink and drive too (told ya before – bad taste in men is a gypsy curse in my family – see rants at bluntreview.com for that whole sad-story. The lighter-side of near-death is my new found ability to dump him guilt free – and without any real “excuse” development! He hadn't really done much to "upset" me - he just kind of "was." Breath was starting to grate on my nerves...But I was out scott-free! Well, less the permenant damage and all. Hey, it’s pretty hard to be the heal dumper after the guy cripples ya right? I’d found my silver lining in traction – who woulda thunk it. What's he gonna say, 'Sure kid . I crippled ya. But, look on the bright side...I drink too much, have luggage Vuitton wouldn't label, and I'm mediocre in bed. How could you leave me? HOW?" Tah.

Then they did a brain MRI post accident “just in case” that weird new leg numbness and eye twitch was something blood-on-brainy. Guess what? They found MS. Yep. Multiple Sclerosis. I was still okay with their words – NOT happy, natch. But, I remembered thinking, "At least it’s not a brain tumor.” Though later I would learn a tumor may have been better; they cut it out, you have some rehab and viola your back on a horse. Or your not.

So, I adapt. No more kickboxing. Period. And my mountain bike has an inch of dust. I then lost my dog – I know kick ya when your down right? So, I slid into “cheesecake mode.” There’s very little a cherry cheesecake fed ex’d from New York can’t help heal. It helped but alas left me fluffy. Yep. Twenty pounds in two months. Yech. The Dino was blasting, Darin was wailing and Rosemary tried to audibly help - all to no avail. I jhad the slumps. Bad.

Just as I was starting to get all dramatic about the woes of my life – my nephew – the semi-secret agent – pulls one of his calls and says, he’s out of Korea and en route to Iraq – sniper division. I am in a n MS meeting when I get the call...his message says, "Oh, and the cell phone number wont work in two hours – so call soon or perhaps it'll be a year." I'd gotten this call a few times… What is this an episode of 24? Well, yeah kinda actually. I ring him during the relaxation segment break; It’s true – he is leaving on a mission in the 0500am to “take care of some things…” That’s double talk obviously. So, I said, ‘Just promise me you’ll stay safe.” He says in the worst Bogart I’ve ever heard, "Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine.” Dear god this little boy I love is now some manly-man off to fight in this ass war. But, he choose to do this – he found his calling – and he’s an uber Democratic patriot; so he must feel the work’s important enough to get involved. I spared him any of my thoughts and reiterated how much I missed him and he has to come back so we can chat about film. He is (ironically) always blown away that I meet celebs. Too cute really. My hero thinks I’m a hero. So, I tell him quickly (as he's checking his equipment) about the George Clooney interview. he knows my mom is a HUGE George fan - he asks if I got his aurograph. Silly goose - no. Clooney's quite cool I tell him - a regular Joe under he looks and charm. Pishaw he insists. He wants me to interview Jessica Alba; and yes he got the Frank Miller hamdcuffs I'd sent to some "location." He's still a boy.
I have o get off the line - I am just gonna wail; and there isn't enough Jazz in the house for this call. So, as shopping is a viable distraction (and safer then cheesecake and valium), I head out today spend my birthday gift certificates at Trader Joe’s. Then it hits me. I may limp, and get tired easy, but you know what? I aint gonna die of MS - it's a new chapter; hard but acceptable. I was able to break free of an increasingly annoying relationship, and most important - for one's perspective on the truly bad parts of life's swirls - I am not on my way to some country to kill or be killed. And, I am not his mom. Or frankly, I’d probably be fit to be tied long ago with his shenanigans. Oddly he’s the spitting image of Jim Carrey- so how exactly does he “slip in” places? That always piqued my interest – but, I’ve probably already said too much. (que Mission Impossible Theme....)

This Friday starts GEORGE CLOONEY WEEK at BluntReview.com: Interview, Film review (good night, and go0od luck) and a few retro-dvd Clooney reviews, and his dear Aunt's early works cd gets a nod. FRIDAY http://www.bluntreview.com

over and out of it

Emily Blunt

Heard Em Sing...Heard Em Say ; Kinda

2005-09-11T09:25:00.000-07:00

Those who read Blunt Review (or my life-diary-bloggy-deal) know a few things about me; I am often very lucky, get rockstar (aka "Kojak" in-the-front) parking spots, tend to get real emotional at and about film, and presently (post Strummer death) dislike 95% of the music out there (hence the music reviewer at BluntReview.com aint me - soundtracks aside - it wouldn't be really fair to the music people who do seem to like the homogenized crapshit pushed on them...).

I also, socially, go to musical mecca Largo just about every Friday night to see Jon Brion. I'd say,"I have my own table," But, door guy Mike doesn't care who ya is- 1st come 1st serve - which I respect. But, I digress.

So, I reserved a hightop table (not an easy task mind you)last Friday eve. I wanted under a certain photo on the wall(Kurt Cobain's) - it's the table which has the best stage view - but I was placed at the first high-top table (tah). It's under Lennon's photo, so, who's complaining? My fellow Libra and demi GOD...probably a good-luck omen.

So, Jon Brion does his usual maniacal 1st set; tonight running about the whole mini-stage, using most of his "toys." JOY.

I'd brought a friend this eve who'd come, basically, to see what the h-e-double hockey sticks, I am constantly attending the "same guy's" show for; "Isn't it always the same set ala every other musician out there?" She thought aloud. Ah, two songs in - she got it. I knew our post-arrival deal (to get her to go) was to simply stay for the first set...not till the wee hours of the morn (my usual stint) - even though, it's the second set is when Jon's friends show and play...

Fair. I'll suffer half-a-fix if it means turning my pal onto audio nirvana.

Okay, today's tale: the table next to us, marked "reserved," suddenly has a "posse" sitting (ascending) upon it. The group is big, loud and done up in that hilarious P Diddyish Gucci wear with car-hood necklaces, except for one smart dressed chap. Also thrown into the mix is a slight-if-cute nebbish sort of guy in a Starsky and Hutch-style sweater. It's dark; and even if I could have full-light, unless Jon's secret guest(s) de jour is Elvis Costello or say Steve Tyler, I dunno who they are...

Here's the fun part (you knew it was coming...). I see this table of obvious VIPs using the cell phone DURING Jon's playing - which is tre taboo. I mean this is UNHEARD of at Largo. People have been tossed to the curb for even shutting the damned things down inside while the maestro plays, er, creates. Yet, Mike the door shark does nothing. The owner Flanagan - a Guy Ritchie mobby sort - does nothing..."Hmm," I thought - these guys are big - BUT WHO in the heck are they?

Break time.

I run out and ask Mike (who's usually mum). I don't really care who the star is (he knows that in me by now), but what was with him NOT jumping on them like a rabid Rhesus monkey about the Snoop Dogg-like cell phone messaging commercial going on?

He tells me, " That's Kayne West." I admit folks I semi-blank. Then I remember he's the guy who TOLD OFF PRESIDENT BUSH during a recent interview regarding the folks down south and the horror of our response from the government; wasted lives, blatant molasses-like dispatches and terror-end-of-world meelee; super power my ass...But, back to Kayne, I think he said (and this was LIVE on air - before they could edit for west coast so I am paraphrasing from friends' information)when asked what he felt President Bush was doing about Katrina, " He doesn't care about black people." Um, or poor white people, or elderly, or gays, or cats, or chi;dren (the U.S. is number 37 in health care benefits for families and "the common folk" people! # 37).

Plus, Jon Brion co-produced West's new cd (that nugget o'info I'd just read and stored in the "possible purchase item just because if Brion's involved it outta be good" area of the cranium).

I didn't ask who the second "guy" (the sweater hotty) was...

I go and tell me journalist friend - she explodes, "That's impossible, Kayne West is doing a marathon in New York how could he be here" blah blah blah. Maybe he flew? The telethon was delayed after his outburst on Bush...but I said nothing. I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I got the name wrong." It's not like I know any names post Who/Clash/Beatle references (at which point I am Trivial Pursuit good at the minutest of facts...).

Jon gets back o stage - beaming - He beams anyway, but this was a "cutey with a surprise gift for his friends" beam; that parent has a "Puppy in the box" for you smile...

Then after sipping his signature coffee chased with Guiness, Jon introduces, "The man who told off president Bush ladies and gentlemen - Kayne West (West comes on stage - handsome fella)and (continues Mr. Brion)...Mr. Adam Levine."

"Who the hell is that?," I thought. My friend knows and as well as 99.9% of the club - as they erupt in deafening applause! I find out later Adam's from Maroon 5. Blank.

Well dear readers, ya know how you always hear about Dylan's earlt pre-legend days, when The Band, and Janis would "stop by" in his local bar/play spot and do a song or two in the Village - just for shits and giggles? Or when rock-music clubs like Boston's "Tea-Party" would have surprise sets by the Who (Keith Moon era)? The Musical Urban Legends of our music loving fore-fathers?

That was this evening. The trio of oddly unified souls "freestyled" a coupla songs for the few witnesses... West did a impromtu rap on the Katrina disaster ( wildly beat poetic - that's what rap is right - 'cept perhaps a tad more urban and rough 'round the edges?) Then Adam did a rappy-Princy voiced Beatles' song, "Nobody Ever Done Me." while Brion, played on...

Just wild. Later, Brion tried to get the two back up by starting the back-beats of "Under Pressure" the rap version. Only to be advised West had left , to which he quipped, 'Yeah, they're probably over at the Mondrian with some prostitutes..." Adam leapt from his table, "I'm still here!' Jon, a tad read faced, but not skipping a beat (pardon the pun), invited Adam up to do the Bowie version of "Under Pressure" - all harmonies and musical creshendoes. And, as always when the "guest music celeb" forgets the words of the non-rehearsed song, Mr. Brion - who is "an encyclopedia of lyrical knowledge" assisted the rockstar while we in the audience chuckled at our leader. The claw is our master...

Go check out the Amazon cd of Jon and Kayne's . Adam Levine from the fab 5 is on the first song, 'Heard Em Say." Or go to BluntReview.com - read and know Brion and order his work (in the interviews section under Music Folks) - you're only helping yourselves...

Everything Happens for a Reason...or Does it?

2005-09-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

I'm one of those "always there" folks. If you look to the right of something in the photo - you see me. Usually cropped out - but like Zelig - I am present. I seem to see things others are oblivious to. Perhaps it's the writer in me; always observing.
I know strange things too. Like, where to get cheap eats (good cheap eats) in basically 80% of the world. Yet, it's not like I have a morbid fear of not being able to find food - I just "find" things.

My dear, now gone friend, for example. He was in rehab when we were teens. We had stopped for food in the cafeteria. I learned non-inmate hospital food is super cheap, very clean and extremely good- if you order right. Watch the interns...Average lunch w/ all the trimmings (enough to take home) PLUS all the napkins and single-serve packs you can shove into your pocketbook runs about $4.85 in today's world. I stopped at a hospital for lunch today(free parking), after I just didn't feel like preparing. I wanted a Cobb salad, and a real Coke. Hospitals ALWAYS have "gourmet" salads... and 19274534 napkins, mini-salt & Peppers, and about 50 mayonnaise packages (it's a holiday weekend and I wanna make potato salad.... I was in bargain hunter heaven - the bonus? Cute doctors running around in their scrubs talking about the patients they swore secrecy to. I heard strange and wonderful tales while I pretended to be enthralled with my "World News, rag I parlayed from the waiting area en route to the foodski. One guy was so cute I thought - for a moment - about faking a choking. But, that's just the wrong way to flirt...Don't you think?

I also discovered places like say, The Louvre, have "cateterias." Ha. They are like five-star joints in Fargo! There's even soft violin music pumped in! I still remember the 3.00 lunch; it came with some sort of cheese array and a dessert that would make Emeril request the recipe. Yum-o-rama. Even if they doubled the prices by now - the point is museums often hide great eateries.

I am boiling things for the picnics now, opening all the procured goods and slipping them into containers. I aint cheap- I am a creative. This means I am perpetually broke for my craft. I have links up for BluntReview.com into Amazon- you buy stuff through the links maybe I wouldn't have to supply myself with condiments...
New at the site: a film review of The Constant Gardener, Terry Gilliam Interview a new CONTEST and a link to the RED CROSS for Katrina assistance.

http://www.bluntreview.com

Do try to have a nice holiday

Vanilla Flavoring: The Good Kind

2005-08-27T09:25:00.000-07:00

I have spent the past few weeks incarnating a heavy noir dolloped scene from a Mitchum film. I wander aimlessly; catching a bazillion extra-happy people sorts in in tableaus I'll never share. You know, that general fellin' bad for myself stuff that comes with the loss of a loved one, and the series of flashbacks; guilts, joy, smiles, and tears the loss conjures up and into your soul.

Then it happens! I'm post- Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and half way into Eddie Izzard's Circle dvd when it hits me. I can not stand mushrooms anymore.

I don't mean druggie mushrooms - I mean the bobble headed run-of-the-mill sorts, the Asian sorts and the pickled spiced sorts. I leapt from the couch, wiped the crumbs off my carcass of gloom and decided ! Aha. I am back.

My mind was "wandering." I was sub-dividing my attention. I was thinking about shopping for "real" food again - while Mr. Izzard pointed out clever blatantly obvious facts for the hip-audience (the bible starts 65 million years post dinosaurs - yet...the Adam thing is the "beginning?" or the World Series which is only American). Still I went "elsewhere..." I am me again!

I have been surviving on flavored coffee and granola bars; okay and mini-pecan pie servings...

I believe this to be a sign. A lifting of the fog. The Carpenter-like dranatic fog I have been lost in...

I grabbed my confused poodle Taylor (named for Johnny Eager's Robert Taylor) and went for a walky woo-woo as we use to do. We went down "those streets." The new "only kid" seems to be okay too. The constant treat flow , and the bi-polarish rants of his psycho mother grabbing him in the middle of the night - just to be sure he's still breathing; and the quiet (ahem) weeping into a pillow probably made him a bit weary about his own future. His little doggy brain warning, "Hmm. Clyde pooped in the house...and now he's gone...This lady's finally snapped! Just smile, give doggie kisses and do the poodle-eye thing when she catches your eye....I'll be okay..." Or he just knows something we don't about death and realizes his brother's just ceased to be after a full and happy life.

We are going to the park today. It will be our first time since...I think he's ready. And I am so pleased I thought of the mushrooms and my new found guilt-free admission of disgust pre-purchase. Besides hating wasting food (a New Englander thing I think), I dare not watch the mushrooms declining stages.You ever see a mushroom that's rotting on the third shelf? They are ALREADY fungus - so they go to levels that make an MIT student tilt their head - trust me - it aint pretty. Well one stage is a bit cool - very Peter Max-ish, but it's followed by goo and a smell unequal (on this earth anyway).

New at my BLUNT REVIEW.com ? Terry Gilliam and The Brothers Grimm review-> http://www.bluntreview.com Plus SIN CITY is available through the Amazon clip- this is one you really must own. I pour the rich vanilla flavor syrup into the coffee and it's actually sweet again.

The Swell and the Swill of Life...

2005-08-03T00:26:00.000-07:00

My sister-friend (as best friend is a demeaning term to the other "close-ones" in your circle) lost her license in the projects of New York the other day. This set into motion a terrible stream of events: panic, police reports, anxiety about theft identity and so forth.

The precinct she went to wasn't filled with the post- 9/11 heroes we all read about - it had the back at the desk, "punished cops." The ones who take glee in the small inkling of power they have over the misbegotten that walk through their doors. Though NO one was around the clerk/copper made my friend and her posse wait about an hour - then jump through hoops like some evil David Spade-ish character; including an attempt to get her to go to another precinct deeper into the depths of despair within the "hood."

Meanwhile, my friend's like an unknown saint sort. She works now as a clinic nurse - one of those souls who does good in the "rough part of town" for people who have no insurance so - apparently - they don't count. But, they do to her and her co-workers. Enough that she makes 1/2 the pay she's worth, and schlepps across town to do the work. This kid was even at ground zero on 9/11 working for 72 hours - just doing what she could; and being told not to tell the press they were finding no "civilians." A special person is what I'm saying. One that deserved a heaping helping of "karma."

Well, she called today. A guy in the projects found her ID at the deli she stops in once-in-a-while. He mailed it back. See, good things do happen. Poor doesn't mean bad. People are nice (for the most part). It's an Ebay state of mind. It really kinda made me think. Smile for a minute. Some stranger went through the "trouble" of sending her ID back - with a note. She in turn responded, with thanks and some money for the guy to get dinner on her. Decent and right.

Me? Oh - well, I am presently on the other end of the happy chain gang. A film noir is playing in my neck of the woods - emotionally at least. In fact, I'm pullin' a Judy tonight; pills and booze - in a "don't care state of mind," Joe & The Mescaleros a-blasting.

My 17 and 1/2 year old dog is in full-fledged "end stages." In a mostly traditional family-style manner (the PEI and Gypsy union DNA in me) I am literally self-medicating the "pain" away. Trust me - it's best for all around me...With the help of a valium, a 1/2 a percecet and the chasing down with some swill beer called...Sam Adams Light (yech) - I am, functional. Barely. But, at least the self-pity heave-crying has ceased (my neighbors really think I'm mad as a hatter) .

As for the "swill?" I drink Guiness. Well, when I'm out-n-about. A friend left these behind after an outing at the cemetery films of Hollywood Forever last Saturday eve. It was that or Vodka chasers - and I'm depressed not suicidal.

I watched The King of Comedy - which I finally found on tape at Eddie Brandts haven for filmaholics. I'd been saving it for the right moment - like a special bottle of wine one finds. Then, I broke open the Murder by Death film; both STILL hilarious. And, as hoped, both films (and I imagine the pill combo) took a bit of the edge off tomorrow's dreaded phone call.

I must call in the vet. It's time. I promised my little guy I wouldn't make him stick it out for my sake; the old operations, induced life-support etc etc. He's sad, and weak and starting to lose "control." He deserves better and - because he's canine - has the right to die with his dignity. I called last week to see if they'd come to the house. Linda McCartney always said don't eat meat - she had said an animal's last glimpse of life was the slaughter house and their sense of smell ignites the fear which fills their last moments, and muscles (which we then eat) with the fear endorphins. I figure, if Clyde's last minutes are in the cold room of the vet - which he hates to the point of frothing at the mouth for a check-up - then I've failed him. It's only money after all- they will come here. I keep running some twisted Mastercard commercial in my head, "Monogram dog dish $14.00....New rhinestone collar that matches his eyes $25.00...Home euthanisia....priceless." Hey! It's how I cope.

He will lay on me and I will hold him as he goes. EASY? No way. RIGHT? Absolutely.

And my vet-like friend says they give him a kind of valium/sleeping pill....Then an injection which stops his heart. Dear god. I keep hoping he'll "just go." But, I have to be a big brave soldier. He's had THE greatest life a puppy snagged from the depths of hell (the pound a day-before his time) could have hoped for. Hell he stayed in The Elvis Suite of The Westward Ho in Las Vegas! Trekked the Everglades. Ran with wild horses in Kentucky. Hiked to the Hollywood sign, had two cat wives, a brother who always shared his chewie toys, and a "mother" who fed him sauteed garlic shrimp - just 'cause it's his favorite. He even learned to say "I love you" in dog/human. He was spoiled each day he spent as my friend - I saw to that. Even when i was SUPER broke - they ate and I hit the oatmeal.

He's sound asleep now - for the time being peaceful. Snoring away... His brother Taylor (the poodle) is by his side...Checking and rechecking stressed - apparently also aware something's goin on.. It's all quite weird - this death decision thing. Maybe He'll bounce back? He's done that three times in three months. But, ya know...ya really do.

Well, this was a fun chat huh? I think I'll go see Wedding Crashers http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/weddingcrashers.html again tomorrow night and cheer myself up. Unless they come to "get him" - then I plan on just unplugging the phone and disappearing a bit...

Psst! Hey Kid Wanna Buy 300 Cloves of Garlic? Cheap?

2005-06-27T10:41:00.000-07:00

I adore a deal. I always have. My mother use to actually take me trash picking in the rich neighborhoods (and we were not that bad off) on bulk trash day. We'd find treasures upon glorious treasure. She still has these all-silk floor to ceiling designer curtains in the living room we parlayed at about 100am from a swanky house where the new bride said, "Off with their heads." And curbside they went! We were waiting (<- mamamahahahay evil/maniacal laugh). I also later, on my own searches, found a pair of gaudy lamps which were signed and paid off half my college loan debt! True.

That same, "look at this!" feeling is had when I go to the 99 Cent store here in Los Angeles. Oddly, my friends never quite have the same experience. It is as if a walk through a different door and enter an enchanted world filled with goodies and special bits. I find Yoplait yogurt, Pedigree dog food (in Chicken-the only flavor their royals will eat), Freeman hair products, Knorr Swiss stuffs - even Clif bars! They are always remarkably low priced; at least 1/3 their "value" at the high falautin' joints.

So last week, in the refidge area, there's an industrial bag of peeled garlic - 99 cents. I mean like a six pound bag for a resturant. "So what," I think, "It'll make me cook."

Boy, truer words...I roasted, and toasted, and pureed - yesterday I PICKLED six jars worth - and i still have about 100 cloves! I have it stored in this cool actual Tupperware brand container <- so we shall see if their "no smell sticks" advertisement is true. So, here I am gettin all domestic. The poodle is by the feet waiting for dropping nums as he always is when I am by the stove creating. How disappointed he was. Do you have any idea what a hasle pickling is? Argh. You have to gather something like 4000 ancient ingredients (half of which you will use for NOTHING else), sterilized jars, and do mathmatical divisions to calculate a "large" batch, and spin three times in prayer to some Harvest God. And, the smell - oh-my-cricket! It's like sour socks after a football game (my brother was captain for six years - I know the smell when I smell it).

The Preserve Book, left over from the ex-husband called "chef," is a retro how-to book. It has a series of fun-to-do things (<- I kid). As I stir the foul mixture I read half-attentioned. You always learn sumthin' - I did not know ketchup is a word meaning a kind of chutney - swear.

Not that I ever gave it ANY thought mind you. But, you can make about 12 styles of ketchup without a tomato in the room. One was called "Oyster Ketchup," another, "Prince of Wales Ketchup."

They had a whole "meat" area which I shall be kind and not describe - but I really should take the photo of "how to peel the skin of the tongue" (<- they speak of beef)out to place on the fridge - it would make such a great diet tool. Even Tim Burton would wince at the horrific sight of the "peeling" I tell you. Imagine boiling, then physicaly peeling a tongue after carefully removing the bones in the severed section - the gal in the photo had no gloves on either! I'll stop...

Anyway, I shant be doing that, or any of the anal retentive fivehour preparations , some of these "preserves" requested - anytime soon (ever). Though, the jerky section was neat...I fell into sleep (after steeping myself in girly bath to scrape off the garlic/vinegar scent), so thankful there's a market these days that have "preserves" and "pickles." And I will never - ever - even for a dollar, buy an industrial sixed anything anywhere.

John Cusack Interview up at Blunt Review.com -> http://www.bluntreview.com

The Joy of Life Can Be Poo

2005-06-15T00:52:00.000-07:00

Life's strange...it's amazing what you'll do for someone you love. I always watched in horror as my brother gleefully changed my nephews icky diaper. I just didn't get it. Sure, I got the kid was cute and a joy, and the apple of the eye stuff...But poop is poop and I literally got sick when I was given the honor of "the diaper change" one afternoon - you try saying no! You look like Mommie Dearest or something...

But, I digress. Having decided long ago I wouldn't be a breeder type. I have two canine kids. I admit I use to marry a lot, now I don't. I enjoy the whole bed, and the toothpaste properly squeezed...and I managed these maritial shenanigans without reproducing!

But, I sure could use a hand about now - even if it was a (shudder) husband. See, one of my dogs - they are both 17 years old this year, Clyde is heading towards the grave. He's a chow/lab mix, and twenty-five pounds of pure love. When I adopted him I was told, 'You've got nine years with the lad." Well, it's been 17 glorious years of toy-toys, walkie wooos and general grandness. Now, my handsome boy, nicknamed Barrymore - 'cause he's as dramatic as John - has started to "pace." It's as if the Grimm reaper is following him with a cookie,"Come here little doggie...icecream, candy, lolipops.." and if Clyde stops the end will come.

Clyde doesn't want to go. He loves life. Who doesn't.

So, I bring him to the vet - scared to death mind you that they'll give me some malarky about him being "ready." I warned my friend I'd go Resevoir Dogs on them if they try to pull my boy from me...

I figure, he eats, walks, and poops - hence my joy of poop. If it poops it's okay. Poop is grand! It means things are all in working order. And the type of poop is important too. This is all stuff I now know.

Clyde's got the heartbeat of a five year old the vet tells me. He's thin due to age, but he's remarkably chipper for a Yoda dog. He not only tells me Clyde has perhaps a year left, but that he;s simply losing his mind. He has doggie dementia. That explains his "distance" sometimes.

Clyde's now on Zanex - a kind of "take the edge off" medicine. He's walkin' around like Keith Richards circa 1972, and every once in a while I swear I see him frolicking with "something."

I'm ready - well, not ready -- but not selfish. We have a deal. I agree to let him go...You know none of that 19 operations prolonging the inevitable and making him stay. He agrees (at least in my conversations with him) he will fall asleep one eve and cease to be - he will be an ex-parrot. But never ex-loved.

We're heading out for a quick walk now...I'm all excited to see him poop.

Bat Secret Information Leaked - Well, Figured Out...

2005-06-04T23:40:00.000-07:00

A friend - a high powered friend - rings me and says in their best Sam Spade, "You'll wanna find yourself down by the Groundlings theater by say 730pm on Thursday see." Okay, they didn't say "See" but it was that mysterious. "Just be there...there'll be a certain someone, who shall be un-named, you'll wanna be seein'" I said, "Oh, just tell me who it is?" CLICK. They went Ipswich clam on me.

See, every Thursday night the Groundling Theater does the Gas Show. It's a wildly entertaining Improv show riddled with themes and spontaneous brouhahas. And, the cast - like Mindy Sterling, Patrick Bristow, Tim Baggley, Jim Rash - and so forth call upon their "comedy friends" to step in and play...I've seen gaggle of guests that would make comedy hounds weep.

So, I had clues. I knew the friend knew that I wouldn't schlep over the hill for just anybody. It had to be Jim Carrey, Mike Myers or Will Farrell. Hmm. Jim's filming...Mike doesn't "feel" right. And Will Farrell is scheduled for all sorts of Press todos this weekend for Bewitched. Who - WHO could it be?

So, I am getting ready - contemplating on canceling - and I'm blasting the 'Edward Scissorhands' Score...when viola it hits me. Eddie Izzard.

Duh. He's my favorite "comedian." And after spending fifteen years in dank theaters with my stand-up comedian sister, he (and perhaps Emo Phillips)is the only "comedian" who still gets upon a stage - that any true friend of mine would dare assume I'd travel to see - let alone break "hush-hush" stoopid Hollywood no-tell trusts. Like I'm gonna send out an all-points bulletin- geesch!

I arrive a bit early so the friend and I can grab some chow. We get pizza. She's still all mute - mum as a Tut exhibit piece...

Poker faced, and sure of myself, I waited till she sipped her soda and said, 'It's Eddie Izzard." She choked as expected...looked shocked, and agreed. She said, 'How'd you know???!!! This is all super secret - no one knows he's coming.' I said, 'Deduction dear Watson. Jim is filming - and I interview him all the time, I love him, but it couldn't be him...Mike Myers seems anti-guest player type these days. Will, (though an ex-Groundling )has a busy PR week." and the I paused, and said, "Besides, Memorial Day when we were discussing the lending of Izzard dvds to one of soiree's guests, I was asked to do Izzard's "pear routine"...as the host quoted, 'he's her fave.'" My dinner friend said, "That's ridiculous - you couldn't know from that!" I says, "Well, you're super secret tone ment I was to be shocked not only at it being a "fave." But there had to be a lark behind the timing...Simple."

Eddie did the show and was, as expected, superb. They played with his British differences - to the glee of an audience. But, Izzard quickly caught on they were purposely using "Americanisms" to throw him off his game, and retorted with a bazillion accents, breaking the fourth wall, and diving in throwing back Britishism - while good heartedly allowing himself to be "the joke." He was not in "drag" but in sexy black boots (manly man low heeled)old blue jeans and a tight-side-ish purple and white striped shirt with a punky hair do. The shirt was all wrong- the talented lad really needs a stylist. But, again, I'm the one walkin' the dogs in my swanky neighborhood with the crusted tee-shirt from some bad movie inside out with my hair in a Tim Burton swirl - each mornin' - so who'm I to pass GQ Faux Pas-dom judgment?

Next Thursday he's at the Coronet I discovered with my bat Hollywood tuned hearing whilst ease dropping backstage. Being Ms. Blunt I was able to shimmy into to the show. Eddie's "Testing" material - so I am afraid, I can not review. He'll be on tour soon - then you'll all hear the scoop PDQ!

But, I am excited. I mean come on! It's like sitting in on a mental Mozart rehearsal for the Izzard convertees - like my self.

Know him? Well, here's a review of an Izzard "collection" deal at Amazon - I highly recommend the man. Super smart - while not talking over-your-head (Review-> http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/eddieizzard.html

Girly Girlin' Up For Da Stars....

2005-06-01T12:38:00.000-07:00

Okay, today I'm off to interview cast -n - crew of Shark Boy and Lava Girl - Robert Rodriguez's latest green-screen extravaganza for kids. I loved it...the mans such a creative genius.

So, I figure I'll bring the bring the "big" pocketbook (purse) as the swanky hotel I'm heading to has delightful toiletries...and I turn into a Film Noir dame pocketing the loot - see. I am, I confess, addicted to miniature smellie dohinkies for the bath. Small enough to explore, little enough to steal, and easy to trash if you hate them.

So, I head into the shower for my pretty-up stage and open the new sugar vanilla scrub. Okay, once again my girl gene and I have been scammed. I realized, for all my tough facade I am just a gurl. And a media snorting girly girl at that! I bought, for something like 10.00, sugar - SUGAR folks. HARD sugar. That kind they serve on sticks in fancy restaurants trying to be all French - ROCK CANDY swizzle shove into a fancy glass container with artful deign beckoning me. SUCKER.

I reach in and get a glob of rock and oil (now balancing the GLASS container so as not to have a scene from Psycho - accidently. Still, I precede. I rub (read: as if with sand paper) this pastry topping upon my leg. HA! Exfoliate...Exfoliate - ya sure 'cause it peels a layer of skin back towards the marrow! OUCH. Obviously, I didn't dare shave me legs...

But the painful accrument did smell quite nice - like cookies Christmas morn (literally). Then I threw on a bodywash of "Cotton Candy" - I am staying with the whole candy store theme today in honor of Shark Boy's kid stars ya know? I step out and my dog starts to sneeze in disgust. I have overdone the bakery body bath.

Now I must get dressed and pray wasps and bees leave me be en route to my car...I smell like a Charlie and the Chocolate Factory escapee, and a huge dollop of butterscotch. It's weird but kinda fun. Though the "sugar" scrub faux pas shall not be ventured into again. TRASHED it.

Gosh, I hope they have the verbena body wash at the hotel today...LOVE that stuff. And hey, if I'm schlepping over the hill to chat about their film - the least I should get is a nice self procured gift ensemble right?

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Alice Cooper and Stewart Copeland? Yeppo.

2005-05-25T16:43:00.000-07:00

There's a new documentary heading to theaters called Rock School - not to be confused with the Hollywood production: School of Rock - thank you very much. It's about an after school venue where young minds learn rock and roll music (review up next week at BluntReview.com).

So, last night my friend and I headed to the LA premiere...after the film everyone skadattled to the "after party" at The Knitting Factory. The Knitting Factory is a dive- circa 1983 cheapo rock hall- but it's cool when you're party "owns" the venue.

Tonight several of the talents in the documentary - and a kid name CJ who is simply a wiz/legend-in-the-making in particular - would be entertaining us with their lessons learned. It was - basically - a recital. BUT these kids don't learn 3 chord Beatle ballads at this school - they learn Black Sabbath, Metallica and when they reach a higher level - Zappa.

Okay - this is NOT my kinda music. Nadda interest. But, I do understand that as musicians it is the music (technically) that is harder to create and more soul herion(like Sashimi for a Sushi fan, or perhaps like Johnny Depp directed by Tim Burton - it puts them in a happier place mentally). And these Zappa songs especially, are truly fun for the player...not so much for the non-pharmaceutical popping listeners I am afraid (again -- I speak of ME). It just seems to be eight instruments playing four songs at two different beats to me. No offense to Zappa fans - I get it - truly - but don't dig it.

So, the rock school kids get up do a few pretty good standard metal covers - then Alice Cooper and Stewart Copeland join the youngsters on stage for 'School's Out For Summer." Alice looks EXACTLY the same...and Stewart looks like a cute Borders' Book employee all in khaki and those nerdy glasses and smart guy shag-cut (YUM). Then a weird thing happened though. As Alice turned the mic towards the group and begged the audience to sing the creepy lullaby chorus (..no more pencils ...no more teachers...) NO ONE sang! It was sad and hilarious at the very same time. I - of course - was waving and singing, nay bellowing, aloud in the back like my old 17 yr -old front row concert-going self.

After the song - we were done. The kids played on but my friend and I said, "You know this?"..."Me neither..." Meanwhile Zappa's Napoleon Murphy Brock was standing with us - he told us he "may be coaxed into playing...," but the PR folks just walked by him and the 20-something "White Stripes is the strangest "rock" they know" audience had no clue a legend walked among us - well for Zappa fans.

We'd had enough and exited stage left. I said to my friend, 'That was the lamest rock audience I have ever been in - they just STOOD there." He said, "Dear, it's Hollywood - no one wants to break out of the pose and show individuality - or godfabid sweat off their MAC make-up." Touche....touche.

I dropped him off and BLASTED true music (Streetcore by The Mescaleros & Joe Strummer - Review&Link) through the canyon on the way home.

And for those into '24'...did that ending ROCK or what. Though, didn't the CTU folks appear just a tad calm after the missile got hit in mid air -- basically over their heads? AND what was with the whole trying to kill Jack the hero deal? Argh. Well, as Keifer, err, Jack walked off into the sunset all I could hear was" everybody's talkin' at me...can't hear a word they're sayin'....just the echoes of my mind...."

We must now wait till January to revisit with the lad.

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Wretched Regency!

2005-05-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

Okay, I waited all week for the "climax" of PBS' Regency House (<- I already told ya all I am secretly a stay-at-home hermity geek when not schmoozing among the stars).

So, I stop for food at Handy Market - the BBQ I am now addicted to - with a spring in my step I get a round of treats for both of my hounds, and myself (calories do not count on Saturdays - did ya know that?).

I tell each group of friends I am afraid I can not go see so-and-so, catch a film at the cemetary (Cinespia.com), make a dinner party and so forth. I suffer through a bad BBC "Mystery", fighting off sleep from its odious elements of pure obviousness, all in the name of my addiction de jour.

Aha! Here it comes. 'Regency House.' I have questions: Will Capt. Glover get the chick? Are the other guy and the older lady gonna get together? And what about the head of the house? Man-o-manechvitz is he HOT. Will he bed anyone???

AN ASIDE: For those not alone on a Saturday eve, watching PBS (or who have cable and more than 3 stations that are actually visible), 'Regency House' is one of those "put the people of today back through time for a few weeks in a historical spot and tape them for jollies" shows. Yes, it is (I am afraid) a reality show - but, in my defense, with realistic historical elements as they all live as-they-would-have.

Pure historical bliss. In the show all these couples are "courting" as they would have in 1815. So, we learn all about the period, stuffy ettiqutes of the day - the gloriously snobby facts about social ranking and the set-up marriage plots they would have been put through! All while you're watching a catty sort of dating show....It is a sinful joy.

But, even though I had the house chilled perfectly, the BBQ buffet set, my super comfy (equals=terribly unsexy) robe upon my carcass - I was let down. It's as if they rushed the ending. BAH! How could they? Actually - it was well done (technically) as all the episodes were...but lacked in prying details one watches these sorts of shows for in the first place. Naturally, the head of the house and the Countess did schtupp---but were they planning on "hooking up" in our times? The sleazy 1960's looking Davy Jones meets Mr.Darcy pauper guy didn't get the rich chick- the handsome rich guy won after all. And he "won" after the woman basically ignored the man all eight weeks and made him cry (on camera no less) about ten times...Whadthefu? I once asked my ex-boyfriend to mow the lawn (literally- as he had no JOB, to you know "help out"), and he left me. This episode left me with hardly any ANSWERS. Maybe there will be a post show? A "what/where they are now" deal...I really need a boyfriend no? Eh-at least my Saturday eves are free again.

Next week there's a bunch of premieres. Cinderella Man on Monday and Rock School on Tuesday. Rock School is a documentary on a real Rock School - not the Jack Black flick. This is probably where that film came from. The cool part is after the film premeiere we all head over to The Knitting Factory to see CJ (a child guitar wiz) and secret guest (Alice Cooper) play a gig of Zappa music...I am missing the Anmerican Idol end - but it's Bo's gig anyway...and Alice Cooper doing Zappa? Um, how could I pass THAT up???? I shall be sporting a classic rock-chick ensemble and spiked hair circa 1983. My escort is a HUGE Cooper fan - I am a HUGE Zappa fan - so we shall be in for a unusual thrill. Sometimes my "job" is tre cool.

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John Lennon's Jukebox

2005-05-18T22:46:00.000-07:00

Okay, how many folks caught the PBS special on John Lennon's Juke box? I had just finished watching Immortal Beloved for the fiftieth time, and needed to decompress, as IB is a heavy and emotionally burrowing film.

Viola - a weird Beatle special...Just when you thought literally all there was to have (any micro-info on the fab four) had been had, here comes a comes a documentary on John Lennon's jukebox. It's almost like an SCTV sketch, "The Beatles Toothbrush." Okay, that's cruel - it was well done - but you get my drift.

It just - kind of - made me giggle. I mean, as an avid collector of music myself, how'd they know this box of 45s was actually handpicked by John, and not bought in one swell swoop at a local yard sale (I'd missed the beginning)? Or were these songs truly inspirations of a legend and his band mates? Or his musical loves?

The jukebox choices were all older rock and motown - and many seemed likely to be of John's interest (generically speaking)...but then, just as I started buying in to their "how cool is this" scenario, the filmmakers show the "traveling" un-ornate box in various places - in a warehouse being perused by Sting, on a lawn somewhere...The funniest tableau being its placement precariously upon a ledge in front of the infamous Chelsea Hotel sign in NYC. Maybe it was me...but I just started to laugh.

I positively tuned out, after the guy from the 'Lovin Spoonful' made some bizarre remark about music having nothing to do with our lives and politics...WHATTHEFU? Um, isn't music exactly what life is - a refracted reflection? An artful interpretation. Ass.

So, off the TV went and in popped the dvd. I decided to do my homework...

I am being interviewed for the new Fight Club DVD and its messages of the Gen X struggles with self worth and such next week - so I needed to remind myself of the funnier, and more brilliant scenes - I wouldn't want to come off like an uninformed fool.

Man, I forgot how much I loved that film. REVIEW:-> http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/fight.htm

In Fight Club, Edward Norton and Brad Pitt along with Helena Bonham Carter, under David Fincher's direction, really made a wildly unique and darkly humorous film that was way ahead of its time. AND it's not an independent film. Love it or hate it , Fight Club's a helluva film.

Tomorrow it's Star Wars and a restaurant opening - I have a new swanky get up to parade about in...so I should go and force sleep. I wonder if the evening's odd mixture of Gary Oldman as the vile van Beethoven, folded into a Lennon piece, with a touch of Brad Pitt's uber buff bod will induce any fun dreams...

Gosh, I do so hope.

Perhaps Bein' a Star aint so Shiny...

2005-05-16T17:52:00.000-07:00

I was interviewing Penelope Cruz last month and she - of course - really didn't want to talk about love and men. I mean everytime she skanoodles and gives the schnook the boot-adles it's on 'Entertainment Tonight'...she said she's like any girl looking for love, and she tries to find someone with a sense of humor (it's all in the Elle Canada interview)But, I made her laugh by telling her an edited version of my last marriage...believe me, Pen's glad this aint her story:

Five years ago I came home...la-de-da...and there it was: "I want a divorce. There's chicken in the fridge for you. Love Kev." A culmination of denials scribbled haphazardly upon a tiny yellow piece of stickup pad, that basically contained a Haiku of our last four years together.

There it was being defiant. Proudly, dutifully, and a tad wimpy, performing its communicative mission stuck on the side of the livingroom's centerpiece (by sheer girth), his high-holy obsession and hobby, the saltwater fish tank.

It was this quiet, tiny, blink-and-you'd-miss it, square yellow mini-tile, like blip of sea-trash on the beautiful waterscape - a fake waterscape, like our marriage. Its expensive fluorescent-like light purposely designed to exaggerate the scale colors of its kidnapped finned inhabitants from world's far off (like Hawaii, Polynesia, The Cayman Islands) and make the bewildered things not only look happy, but as if this ten foot existence was the end-all last-word in fish condo living - a Shangri-La of the fish world. I always found it cruel - yet beautiful.

Oddly apropos, the serene staged study in managed utopia, like our marriage, was a pretty lie.

Finally the final blow had been made - what now? Should I eat the chicken first? He was a lousy husband, but his cooking was exceptional. And, why can I even eat at "a time like this"? Oh, right - we both knew it was over, each waiting for the other to make the move; call checkmate, lower the boom, surrender to the obvious. It happens...

I couldn't actually be the boom-lower-er. I had one marriage (albeit a drunken accidental anarchist-young thingy faux pas) under my belt (so-to-speak). And, I was not facing my family with another amour defeat extraordinairebesides one had their pride.

I grabbed the plate of chicken cutlets, fed the fish, took a deep breath, and called my mom to gage the sympathy level.

There was none. "What did you do to him?" she shrieked into the phone. Of course, I was guiltyhe was her gardening friend, her son-she-always-wanted. What was I thinking? But, I reminded myself this was only a phone - she could not see I was less than distraught and dining on gourmet fare.

I explained it was fore coming, we would remain friends, we were not really the marriage sorts, and I am actually relieved.

Silence.

It was hard for her to understand there was no hate. Just a separation of the hearts and interests with interest.

Then she had an odd, almost, deranged (and certainly unexpected) epiphany. I was her daughter - and there's apparently some sort of maternal law, you must side with the blood relative if said kin is from your womb - she became almost maniacal in what I should do next. My own sweet little mother said I should grab the credit card and shop till I wanted nothing moreshe'd always wished she'd done something like that to my father. Her voice somehow unfamiliar at present...

I realized she was projecting her own evil resentments - of which I had none - and I certainly was not that kind of person.

I managed to placate her - in mid conniving - hang up, get a comfy blanket, gather on the couch with the dogs, a bottle of wine, some cheese and crackers (I would let the crumbs fly without his Felix-like mumbling and broom at my side), and pop in favorite "healing" dvds (Singin' in the Rain, then The Grinch (Carrey version-natch), followed by The Apartment). I also decided to enjoy the peace of a house without continual hammering, bad-guitar playing and perpetual whining about who did what to him that dayand I now had the whole king-size bed all to myselfand the toothpaste would be properly squeezed from it's bottom...this was not so bad after all. I keep hearing 'I'm Free' by The Who...is that a normal reaction?

Hmm. I am, I'm afraid, a bachelerette through and through.

I framed the stupid stickup note though - 'cause this stuff you just can't make up. Well, unless you're the Star or The Inquirer...they'd love to take this tableau and make it an A-lister's scenario no?

BluntReview.com - my sanctuary.

Friends Come in 31 Flavors Too...

2005-05-14T15:14:00.000-07:00

You always hear, "If you can count your real friends on one hand - you're a lucky person!"

I must be blessed. Oh, sure I am perpetually broke and need to shop at the 99 Cent store to make ends meet....but I am filthy-rich in friends.

Take today. The McLouds downstairs are moving. There's the usual banging and aggravation but today, I needed to be out and functioning a bit early - and I have an important appointment regarding my Red Carpet Segments ( http://www.bluntreview.com/reviews/inter.html ) being a part of a major motion picture's DVD extras. My interviews for their extras....this is big and a no brainer.

Ah, but nothing is this simple in my life...

FIRST, My printer poops - literally - in mid proposal print -out.

PANIC.

I think quick and call my friend - who's a computer gal. Solved. She'll print it up and meet me in front of the big-wig meeting spot -- no one will ever need know of the printer mishap...

PERFECT.

I doll-up. Kiss the dogs and fly down the stairs. I have "plenty of time."

Um - no. The ass McLoud family parks their SUV from hell one foot into the area of my garage door. ONE Foot --just enough so I can not open the door --- in an ALLEY that has 30127946 other spots to park, mind you.

I run to their door. The weirdo wife says in her bellowing, "My husband with the keys is no here" WHAT???? CALL HIM!!! NOW!I admit, I was not my usual well-balanced, diplomatic, self.

She does and he's en route back - should be half an hour with the traffic.

That leaves me - late for my very important date...oh I was getting as mad as a hatter.

SO, up to the apartment I go to call my friends, who themselves are now en route to the meeting-- there's a change in plot plans:Iadvise -- they need to get me, to get me, to the meeting. Sweetly - and without skipping a beat - they comply.

I am about to cry.

Meanwhile, I don't have my cell phone or wallet 'cause last night I got home very late and left them in the car (it's safer) Of course, never - not for an instant - thinking that the McLouds would be SO RUDE as to block ONLY my garage when there's oodles of room as far as the eye can see for their Gas Guzzling Gargantuan pig-car)

They call and tell me they are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic....of course they are. BUT, being natives, the jump off to do surface streets. It's now a half an hour to the appointment and 108 in my small dwellin. I am starting to sweat. I pick up the phone and call the meeting secretary to "feel the temperature" for tardiness. Ever-so-calmy I explain my neighbor is moving and has blocked me in (giggle) I may be a minute or two late...

Diverted disaster - and it was the truth after all.

They come and get me as we speed off onto the main road - WHAM - a annual Street Fair! I kid you not - I had forgot. The whole street is closed from where I am....to where I need to go. Hahahahahahaha. I basically have a melt down - careful not to smudge my mascara.

It was just too much ya know. So after a hearty laugh-n cry. I pulled myself together and by the door I was presentable and professional - and the scream-crying fit actually calmed my nerves. After all anything these very powerful producers had to say? Paled in comparison to the last hour of circumstantial brouhaha.

When we left the meeting - my friends hidden down the street "on the look out for me," decided we'd stop at Handy Market's BBQ pit - a tradition that's a Burbank legend. I was told about it by Mr. Clint Howard and always wanted to go. He did not fib - it was truly delectable. THEN we hunted icecream for an hour...it was a an exceptionally hot day and everyone seemed to be needing icecream...each place had lines out the door. Of course. I mean after all it was one-of-those days and I had dragged them right down into it with me:)

FINALLY, we found a Baskin Robbins without a bazillion folks in our way;)
Joy of Joys - except they put a Libra (me) in an icecream parlor with more than three choices. I finally got the pistasio...damn...I wanted the praline....argh.

Oh, so my point about friends? These two super angels, picked me up, drove me, didn't laugh when I cried from the remarkable sterss, waited an hour for me through my meeting, THEN treated me as I still had no pocketbook) to lunch and ice cream like a little kid....

That's what being a true friend is all about.

I am out the door now to go trim their dogs hair - Parker bites, but he and I have an understanding, and in a past life, I was a professional dog groomer...
My official site: BluntReview.com has all sorts of fun awaiting you... toodles

Debussy Lives...and he plays every Friday eve....

2005-05-14T02:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, I have already proven a tad addictive in these diary-like rants. So, my obsession - the real - one....the one friends now basically just sigh at: Jon Brion. Since Joe Strummer, whom I adored, died I was left without music (new music) that really touched my soul.

Then a PR guy says, "Hey, can you cover a score for 'I Heart Huckabees' and our client Jon Brion? You may like his music - it seems very you." I said, "Send it over - lemme see if I dig it."

I now have in my possession a treasure. It's Brion's "samples" for David O. Russell's masterpiece (that no one saw). It's about an hour and half of him "tinkering" - looking for the theme... I could not believe what I was hearing.

Brion's already converted fans would probably freak to even know I've got it- and that such a cd even is in the universe - let alone in my possession! ...but I digress.

So, I go to see the guy live - before our interview - I was with my then boyfriend. Well, a guy a was schtupping - he looked a tad like Count Chocula for my tastes but he was smart, and tall - so I kind of put-up-with-him. You know what I mean...

Meanwhile, I expected, a lame ass typical guitar snob. Figuring the cool music I had heard was just fandangled studio trickery - after all, no one can be that great...

But, I am wrong, and positively blown away by this Jon Brion guy. He plays all the instruments, and does a ton of songs (besides his own) with odd twists (Like Bob Dylan hues for Queen, or Cole Porter ala Metallica-style). Meanwhile, the beau de jour turns to me and says, " Do you think he's cute?" Okay, guys, never ask a chick you're dating if a Paul McCartney-like mega talent who is obviously making her toes curl ('cause he's so good) if she thinks the rock-star on the stage is cute. DUH.

They have to lie. Well, at least if they are in that state of nirvana brought on upon some rare soul that's upon a stage wielding music like a Debussy reincarnate or something - like this Jon Brion chap was. Ha. Mr. Insecure had to question me. So, what could I do? I smiled, and said, "15 years ago I would have." LIE. Jon Brion is ah-dorable.

But it's really his music that I am drawn to. Brion's music - which - because of his utter passion, just makes him glow. It's almost a sexual experience. And, I do NOT mean that in a sickly, or fan girl freak-way. Have you ever seen a true musician, the pouring from the pores type? It's like, if a time machine placed you at the hall as a young undiscovered Mozart started a show, and you knew "this is different - this is special"...and you were there...That's what I mean.

So, every Friday night I am at Largo, watching Jon. It's like a soul feeding - and I am NOT alone. Many of the faces there are always the same...for the second set at least.

Naturally 'cause I'm a girl, everyone assumes I am smitten with Jon. I am not. He's a musician - I know what that means...I've been there ya know? But I sit there all smiles diggin' the music and folks seem to figure I'm just a groupy. Me...a groupy - I love it.

The reason for my babbling on this particular day, is to tune you in. Go read the interview and / or the soundtrcak review (Eternal Sunsjine & I Heart Heart Huckabees) w/ Jon Brion and myself at BluntReview.com in the music section - discover folks. Discover. If you're the type that digs a Debussy piece, or even into an original genuine talent among the mishmash of homogeneous crap out there...know and love Jon Brion.

Okay - good deed of the day done - I must walk the dogs, and go to bed....

Hope you entered the Life Aquatic Contest at BluntReview.com ! Only a week left;)

72 hours , Through Canyons, Into 24

2005-05-10T10:50:00.000-07:00

Okay, I already admitted to being a crack-baby for Idol and House...did I mention my affection for 24? I have a life - I swear...

The heavy guy in the show, Edgar, eats at my sometimes-sushi place at the bar next to me. We sit together a lot - I said to him a few weeks ago, "Thanks for saving the world." I'm polite, I only watch the show so I can say I've seen his work - Ya, that's it, I watch it for his sake.

(Aside for fellow enthusiasts->) This past Monday I was so thrown when the missile went off. Um, why are there like 4 agents working on this end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it situation by-the-way? Is CTU the only branch of the Gov. in this TV world of theirs'. Plot faux pas aside, you know I was genuinely upset, like it's real (see - a goon am I at heart).

But Chloe will fix it -lips perpetually angry and brow furrowed - AND!!! HEY, was that a crush/love triangle angle emerging from the Frost Queen raising its brow towards Jack? She told him (and I quote), "They could talk" about his picking the terrorist with the info over what's-her-name's husband (thusly ge executed the character Paul in-a-way) any time Jack would like. She just wanted him to know, "IF HE NEEDED A FRIEND." The oldest girl-ploy in the book kids. Hmm.

Okay- so...

The weekend preceding 24 was stupendous and as grand as the word itself! It started with visiting friends from NYC and I dining at Le Petit Four on Sunset Strip - it's a great restaurant. We laughed for hours and I had (yes, I admit) steak tar tar. They each had a delectable dish as well; pasta with a decadent creme sauce, and a strange Willy-Wonka-ish salad with a slab-o-tuna atop. The place has mirrors all around on the walls above the diners - so you can people watch properly. I spied a handsome fella alone...he was waiting for someone and had that "dumped" look. We created a mini-biographic for him; straight (he was wearing a dirty Nike shirt), waiting on a blind date from LavaLife, his friends talked him into it, he liked Bob Dylan - but always said he was into Radiohead to seem cooler, and his dog, "Sasha" was his only true friend as he was a boss at a snooty PR firm down the street and everyone wanted his job...

Well, his very-tardy party showed and I was el wrong wrong wrong. He was indeed gay. Apparently retro trash sports shirts are "in," perhaps considered "manly?" His dinner companions made Nathan Lane look rugged, and he giggled like a periwinkle caught in a morning storm as the eve expanded, OH and the melange of bullet proof? He OPENLY adorned lip gloss as they had even just arrived and stood at the maitre d'. Hmm, I may have to give up my Sherlockian membership - though he was on-the-other-side of the restaurant, and I could only see the top half of him, and the wine had diluted my sleuthing skills.

Saturday I frolicked about in the house - trying to unclutter. But I just ended up sorting my 106243 soundtrack and musical cds in alphabetical order - high on a valium. I had no plans for the eve - I was awaiting Regency House (my Saturday night addiction), hanging with the hounds, Taylor and Clyde.

Sunday I was off to Malibu to visit. My NYC friend was staying in a bluff-side guest house. The owner - who swaps with her New York pad - is into Ganeesh and yoga. The house was serene and filled with that "happy soul" feeling. We went to Paradise Cove restaurant(forgetting it was mother's day - mine's been called, gifted and burped -- she's in Ft Lauderdale) for dinner...We had to sit on the beach dining area -- poor us. Aha- but the secret is BAD SERVICE out their among the rabid seagulls. As my friend was about to go New Yorker-style blunt on the waitress, our other friends called - they were down the street! So they met us.

By now the ocean breeze was an arctic wind. The 16 year old waitress (with the BMW) parked in back no-doubt, told us the heat lamps had no kerosene - never did. I said, "They're what, props?" She said, "Basically yeah - we have no place else to store them." OH, how we laughed at her adorable honesty!

Our friends really didn't want to stay in the cold - and I was already half-way to hypothermia. We finished our dinner and left to go to the next dinner at Marmalade Cafe about a mile down-the-road. On the way out we saw Bela Lugosi, err Martin Landau and his family cruisin' in a golf cart in the lot.

At Marmalade, celeb spotting: Garry Shandling looking like he was whining at his friend en route back to his car...

Once in the restaurant, we sat next to a literal Beach Boy-- though I am not sure who. We chatted and he's Swiss like me, so if that identifies him... The bread pudding at Marmalade is to-die-for good. It's just bread sugar, butter and apples - but MAN....

I left everyone about 1030pm and decided to take the canyon road back. I could blast a score cd and no one would be on-my-ass. chose Edward Scissorhands...it makes all around you simply magical. Like this past weekend....

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Argh - the traffic

2005-05-06T00:39:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know every comic from here to Baton Rouge has a schtick on traffic-and airline food. BUT I was tortured today...it's really my own fault. I drive a hippie vehicle- the Volkswagen Beetle. I always wanted a Beatle named John ;) But, the car seemed to hate the name - so we settled on Dudley. (aside: look at the beetle design - they have a d-u-d upside down-- like DuD short for Dudley...in this case, Dudley Moore - who was adorable, funny, and had that cool 1980's perpetual rocker hairdo...)

My point is no one is intimidated by a Beetle. They assume some patchouli smelling, macro-biotic, ELP fan is behind the wheel - and not the wild, Speed Racer fan, born with a lobster cracker in one hand and the old New England tradition of weilding (safely through traffic). I should be in a BMW for my autobaun-like facade and motoring abilities...but I digress.

Okay, I was supposed to see Kingdom of Heaven today...on the other side of town. BUT, I was also supposed to drop my friend at the airport- naturally on the other side of town. No prob. I equipped the car's cd changer with cruisin' tunes ala me and off I went at the ungodly time of 11am - showered mind ye.

So no prob at the Burbank airport. Well, except for the obligatory fat-evil drop-lane cop-nazi. I was trying to ask if I could drop off here - so I didn't get a 125.00 ticket. She mugs, "I can read lips!" Okay....calmly I rolled down the window --completely-- apparently the baggage in the front seat , the fact that I was in the drop-off lane, and the passenger oddly in the back seat gave her no clue. Ass.
So off I go merrily towards Kingdom of Heaven.

It's at the studio lot. Which, yeah, I know sounds cool...but their security is psychotic - especially at Fox. Who knows why. But, I usually avoid anything there...though I did see Huckabees there -with food and wine and oh-my:)

Okay, so logistically, it's at least a half an hour to get through their gaurds-from-hell and find parking...there are four hundred sound stages (one is the Simpsons house-y studio *smile)and 4 (I counted) guest spots in front of the Zanuck Theater. Though next to the guest spot some small penised fella has a sign in front of his spot (ala Swimming w/ Sharks) That says, "This is my spot - I earned it and you will be towed" the logo is a Jolly Rogaer- natch.

Okay, I can not walk right - I have MS on top of a motorcycle accident so I can not park in the front lot and hike - literally- to the other side of the eighteen block studio to the cool theater. Oh, and there's no carts for the "handi...er, physically challenged" - Asses.

So have to pee like a race horse after the airport. So, I just had to make a pit stop...after the obligatory half-a-roll of toilet paper toilet-seat sheilding I go and run back out to the car.

Back on the road I decide the murders on the highway seem to be in a circular pattern and the one I'd take is probably next. I'm not paranoid, but ya know for an extra five minutes? I'm doing the beautiful canyon - it goes better with my musical selections anyway.

BUT no. I hit every Frogger game-like scenario en route. Truly weird stuff- just everywhere! First it's a trash truck- on a one lane road, then a firtruck doin' ninety heading towards me (even though he had an ENTIRE OTHER LANE) , followed by a 20 mph jerk who slithered from a hidden drive, then an assault vehicle cuts me off (that black 1/2 truck half Hummer monstrosity) that comes whipping outta (I could see) positively nowhere. I'm in a cold sweat and I need a valium...but, the DeLovely soundtrack will suffice for now- 'cause I'm in sufferage city!

I look at the clock it's 15 minutes to "showtime" and I'm at least --- even with my inbred ways of traffic manipulation Boston style--- a half an hour away from fore mentioned security boobs who strip the car, and enjoy unleashing the small amount of power life's given them
I actually turned around...
So, I may run out in the a.m. and actually buy a ticket at this cool small old theater I love to go to, then review you. If I'm up to it!!!!

MEANWHILE. Saturday there's a new contest at www.bluntreview.com - The Life Aquatic DVDs. You can enter for a chance to win - the Hitchhiker's Guide Books will be selected tomorrow.

Happy Birthday

2005-05-02T01:37:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday - and I am not referencing the Maher Baba album by Pete Townsend - of which I own an original thank you very much ;). It's my father Russell's birthday.

He's been gone for years now... and it's an odd thing - I wait up every year till midnight, then look up and say happy birthday before diving into my cocoon of comfy blankets. Still painfully aware we won't be getting together to engulf a bucket of Ipswich clams, or giggle at his raving-cackling towards bad drivers by stringing together rich profanities disguised as Dr. Suess words (yes hanging out the window fist a blazin' as they speed past)- "You fucnickelbastarasswimpleturd," he'd bellow while we crawled along in his gallopy at a whopping 40 mph - on the highway. Or our adventure searches for crabs and creatures along the Revere shoreline. We hunted by turning over boulders and collecting and comparing - the winner (the one with the creepiest collection) got to rename them, scientifically "Wormalotlegscusatean", or with a snobby moniker like "McCrabalaster Becksworthington of Leopold Manor". It's memories like these that make the pain subside. We had so much fun - always. And it's not right to cry and be sad, when I was given this great gift of knowing him at all.

But, it's another odd tradition that started after his death that - quite without my involvement - occurs every year on the eve of his birthday that's really kinda cool. Without fail (so far) there's a Marx Brothers special, or film block on TV - and I don't have cable.

It's weird enough that I notice this - true - but it's even weirder as my dad use to take me to every Marx Brother festival the "vintage" Exeter Street Theater in Boston ever had...from the mind shaping age of, I don't know, 5 years old? He'd plop me down fifth row center and we'd watch hours of the brothers' mayhem - both just roaring and inhaling the tall-as-me barrel of popcorn. He, of course getting way more of the more adult stuff the troupe was between-the-lining, and me laughing at him laughing, and at Harpo's Lemonade stand and outrageous shenanigans (still do). I adored Chico's piano playing (still do) and Groucho's quick quips and wildly fast word play (still do) - I seem to recall actually getting his sarcastic humor by the second film. I still have many Yiddish and Marx-phrase words in my vocabulary, make odd vaudeville references and sing "Hooray for Captain Spaulding" (or at least hum it) when I'm in a nervous situation (IE: SAT Tests, DMV tests, Walking alone late at night, on a bad date, and so forth).

Is this some weird reaching out from the great beyond? Does my father's spirit program TV in the after world? Think Beetlejuice's vast waiting room. Maybe he got to be a guardian angel of a programmer? Or, maybe, it's one of the Marx brothers' birthdays so they dust off their classics? What ever the case - it's a weird coincidence that I basically just accept and embrace for the sweet memories it stirs up. I don't even check the TV Guide -don't have to. I just look around at 800pm and 900pm and viola there they are! Which tonight hurt - 'cause I wanted to see Family Guy, or Man with the evil baby thingy kid. But, it's my duty, and my heart, to remember all the laughter - so I don't cry all day next I suppose...

Lydia oh Lydia that encyclopedia - Lydia the Taaaatooooed lady! Hehehe. Happy Birthday Dad.

A Sizzling Saturday Eve

2005-05-01T10:15:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, folks think I'm out carousing the town in a faux mink vintage stole made by Edith Head...Okay, maybe they don't but certainly you wouldn't have me pegged as an Appointment TV gal. Yep. Mondays - I have become a fan of 24, Tuesdays, Idol & House. (unless there's a film I have to see/review).

Friday eves I usually go out to Largo and see Jon Brion till 200am...so, Saturday nights I stay in and chill.

Now, with this blissful ritual, I've discovered on Saturday nights PBS seems to break out the goods. None of the " Wallybees of North Umbria Mating Among the Captives" study-stufamagol. No. Last night on "Indie Lens" they had The Ramones End of the Century (Purchase ). Oh, I'd wanted to see this !!! The music reviewer at the site, Radio Bobo-K, totally lucked out by deciding to review for BluntReview.com RIGHT when this puppy came out on DVD (reviewed on bluntreview.com in music).

I adored The Ramones - they were after all the stepping stone to much of the cooler music of the late 70's and 80's. And they could be very very loud on my stellar system blending a state of other-plain glee and an odd reaction by one's soul; its trying to get into the another room for some peace and quiet...

Then, I grew bored with them - well the documentary (it is a tad long and no commercial breaks, or control buttons to pause). So I clicked to the other PBS station just as Mystery Theater was ending (whaaaa) - BUT this new show series called, 'Regency House' was just beginning! It's that whole "put folks in another era and see how they respond" deal. Human hamsters in Victorian England! I RAN to make a bowl of popcorn, brewed a tea, and settled in.

Okay, the show's premise: it's 1790- or 1801 or something, I've missed the part of the actual time-period (making the popcorn). They are all wearing the frilly corset ala Kate Winslet films, and the men have that cool Johnny Fingers hairdos and the form fitting manly man pants, and of course the once a week bathing scenario (eeeerrrrrryyyeeeccchhhh). They (the cast) are to spend a summer (8 weeks), courting as they would have 200-ish years ago. The have guardians - which are really pimps trying to match the wealthy-with wealthy. They have strict rules, which are really a way of keeping the women at bay while the boys play - as it was. Man, what a terrible time for women. AND they all talk openly about marrying for status - head NOT heart - as it was. Boswell's world revisited eh?

They've been selected from varying 21st century lives, some rich some poor, and placed in the house as their past rank counterpart. The rich in today's world are rich in the past-- and the priveledges are sickening. ONE girl, a lowly secretary in today's scheme, is not a servant (heaven forbid) but STILL can't even dine with anyone, or play in any of the reindeer games because she - financially & status-wise - has nothing to offer!!! Dear god I'd have just shot myself and been done with it-- but then again, the guns of the days missed 2716 of the times.

Anyway, I highly recommend both the purchase of the Ramones history ( Joe Strummer shows as one of the commenting mega-talents), and look up "Regency House" it's wild - and I am shocked that folks can't handle 8 weeks - some were freaking out in the first couple of days. If they were on a set of a period piece? Geeze- that's probably twice as gruelling - CATERED FOOD! Though- I didn't know this nasty habit the old-time folks had of putting the animal head with the roast-- to show freshness. YECH. So, here's this pheasant with a chopped head and it's feet at the other end of a bbq'd carcass. Go Veggie!

The Hidden Truth...

2005-04-27T22:48:00.000-07:00

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...

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Racism TAKE That!

2005-04-25T16:20:00.001-07:00

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

Bookworms Unite & Devil Doll Memories

2005-04-24T01:15:00.000-07:00

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!

Ya Know I've Moved For Less Than This!

2005-04-23T09:51:00.000-07:00

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.

The Walter Mitty-Life Revisited

2005-04-22T12:04:00.000-07:00

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?

Forever Tango....

2005-04-17T12:17:00.000-07:00

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.

Pool He Says...

2005-04-16T16:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Why is Melted Cheese so Much Better?

2005-04-13T14:03:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-13T14:02:00.000-07:00

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

2005-04-13T14:01:00.000-07:00

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!

2005-04-13T13:56:00.000-07:00

"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 footballno she's goofing aroundno 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 watermelonsI 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?

2005-04-13T13:22:00.000-07:00

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...