give me the whip

I am positively giddy with anticipation today. Behold!

I'm going to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull at the storied Ziegfeld Theater tonight and I cannot wait. I'm practically pissing myself with excitement. Or maybe it's just the 20-ounce coffee I drank earlier kicking in... Either way, I'm so excited. Stay tuned for a review.

off with his head

For reasons I can't quite explain, I thought it would be a good idea to watch Halloween H20: 20 Years Later tonight... Alone in my apartment... In the middle of June. Just 'cause.

I adore the original and am completely pissed that a perfect story was dicked around with in a series of sequels, one more atrocious than the next. But I watched it anyway and yes, it completely sucked. However, I did have one moment of satisfaction during this monstrosity and I would like to share it with you.

Some background...

It's 20 years later and after yet another run-in with Michael Myers, Laurie Strode has had it up to HERE with his bullshit and decides to confront him once and for all.

You know, I'm not sure I understand her logic because he's survived coat hangers to the eyes, bullet wounds, several story falls, fire balls, suffocation, etc. I'm not sure why she suddenly thought she could magically do him in but, whatever, I was willing to suspend my disbelief.

Now, before heading off to face her psychotic brother, she had the good sense to grab an ax... conveniently located within arm's reach, of course. She searched high and low for Michael bellowing his name and then she finally found him as he was slowly descending from his perch on the ceiling.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

Anyhoo, before Laurie could swing around with ax in hand, I offered her a bit of advice: "DECAPITATE HIM! DECAPITATE HIM WITH THE AX!" My reasoning was as such: Obviously, Michael Myers is immune to straight-up causes of death but we haven't seen him really tackle dismemberment yet. Let's give it a whirl.

But did Laurie Strode listen to me? No! The best that dumbass could manage was a harsh chop to the sternum where the ax got stuck, which, of course, Michael easily extracted and flung on the floor. So weak.

Side note: I'm not sure why Michael didn't hold onto that weapon for added backup since he's had a history of being stabbed and poked by the ever-feisty Laurie. Clearly, common sense does not run in the Myers family.

Fast forward a few more stupid scenes and now Michael Myers is pinned between a coroner's van and a tree branch after he freed himself from a body bag in the aforementioned coroner's van being recklessly driven by his sister, Laurie Strode.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

Anyway, so here's Michael Myers in a position just ripe for decapitation, in my estimation, but I wasn't holding my breath because Laurie sorely disappointed me the first time with her hack hacking job.

But then she picked up the ax -- once again conveniently located within arm's reach -- and she sliced that motherfucker's head clean off, sending it rolling down the hill, William Shatner mask and all.

So there you have it... Evil was defeated. Personally, I like to think it's because of that bit of sage advice I offered Jamie Lee Curtis just a few scenes earlier.

Um, wait... what did I just type?

late night double feature picture show

Happy Belated Saint Patrick's Day! And since inquiring minds probably want to know, no, I was not out swilling green beer and puking in gutters and alleys. That was LAST weekend, thank you very much.

No really, I did not do a damn thing yesterday that even acknowledged my Irish heritage. Oh wait, I DVR'd The Field starring Richard Harris (to be viewed at a later date). Other than that, 'twas a paddy-free day for me.

See, I've been sort of run ragged these days and I got socked with a nasty sinus condition this week. I had that wonderful combination of nausea, aches, pains and fatigue kicking me arse but good. Even my teeth hurt. It, in a word, sucked. So I declined all social invites and set aside the weekend to convalesce.

After tromping home through the snow on Friday night, I put on my pajamas and then focused on one thing and one thing only: being a lazy fuck. I'm happy to report that I succeeded in the task.

Yesterday, I slept in, woke up, watched some TV, took a long nap and then engaged in a rather random movie marathon: A Cry in the Dark, Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead, A Farewell to Arms, The Departed and The Remains of the Day. Up next: The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Wow... baby-eating dingos, dead mobsters, war, Nazis, death, destruction... I just realized that I have a rather fucked-up notion of what constitutes a relaxing distraction.

with one look

On Saturday I enjoyed an overdue and much-needed day to myself. With the exception of a quick trip to the deli next door for the newspaper and some half-and-half, I didn't leave the toasty confines of my Tiny Wee Studio the entire rest of the day.

The day was thoroughly enjoyable... save for a dream I had during my mid-day nap involving me, the Idols Live! tour and forgotten song lyrics.

I have no idea. All I know is that I woke up in a panic trying to remember all the words to Cheap Trick's "Surrender" and that's just so bizarre because that's the last song I would sing under those circumstances. It's fine for karaoke, maybe, but not on a national tour, duh. In case you're wondering what I would sing, I'm going to go with "Blowin' Sky High" by Berlin for now, with the understanding and option that I can change my mind later.

But getting back to Saturday... I did a few chores but spent the rest of the day watching movies and getting caught up on my shows. If you're not watching HBO's Extras, you really need to be. That show makes me cackle. Not chuckle, not giggle... CACKLE. I won't elaborate further on that because Sheila addressed this very topic last week and I cannot possibly expand on her insightful take. All I can say is, "Ditto."

I also watched several movies: Mallrats, Summer of Sam and Layer Cake. The latter is well-spun yarn starring Daniel Craig as a drug dealer saddled with two complex tasks before he can retire from the business. The movie is violent and extremely graphic in its depiction of the gritty drug scene. Despite the blood and gore, I didn't find it nearly as disturbing at the former two films in my mini festival.

Mallrats? Disturbing? How come, you ask? Obvious Shannen Doherty references aside, there's some freaky shit in that film. For example, Priscilla Barnes, Terri from the later seasons of Three's Company, has a small role as a psychic in a dirt mall. A topless psychic, to be exact. Yes, she's an attractive woman but I just found it strange to see Terri Alden's boobies... with a third nip, no less!

While watching that scene, I made a mental note to Google "Priscilla Barnes" and "third nipple" to see if it was a genuine deformity and then, in answer to my question, there she was on the screen peeling off the nip and eating it (I can't believe I just typed that) so there was no Googling to be had. Gagging and eye rubbing, yes, but no Googling.

Later that day I watched Summer of Sam, Spike Lee's film about serial killer David Berkowitz's terrifying grip on New York City in the summer of 1977. John Leguizamo was good in the lead role. I'll watch him in anything. I saw his one-man-show Freak on Broadway a few years ago and he just blew me away. I wish I had an ounce of his energy. Actually, I'm sure I could inhale some of that "energy" up my nose quite easily, come to think of it...

The movie was decent and the cast was impressive -- Mira Sorvino, Anthony LaPaglia, Michael Imperioli, Adrien Brody, Ben Gazzara, Bebe Neuwirth and Patti LuPone, just to name a few. I didn't adore the film but it adequately entertained me for a few hours.

So there I was sprawled out on my couch, watching the movie and minding my own bees wax when, wait, what's this? Patti LuPone's bare boobs! Patti LuPone's bare boobs! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Yet another set of knockers I really did not need or want to see. Hello, Buenos Aires?!?! She's Evita! And Corky's mother, for fuck's sake! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. This is more disturbing than the time I thought Betty Buckley suffered from a parched vag. That was a false alarm, thank God. Patti's boobs, however, are forever burned into my brain and I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da...

on nauseating films, new frontiers and newark

How is it Monday already? HOW? Someone really needs to look into reversing the ratio of weekdays to weekend days. This 5:2 business blows big hairy... toes. Yes, toes. I'm trying not to be so vulgar. It's a stipulation in my taxi-cab contract, if you'll recall.

Did you have a good weekend? Mine was rather decent, I must say. On Friday, I saw Pan's Labyrinth with The Adorable Meg. I didn't know a whole lot about the story going in but I knew that the film was on a bunch of Top 10 lists and I wanted to see it. I was warned ahead of time by The Hot Russian that it was "brutal" but I assumed she meant that it was brutal in the "bring tissues" sense. But now that I think about it, The Hot Russian, while very Americanized, does not tend to color her vocabulary with alternate and additional meanings of words. She's all about the standard, primary definition. Although, she's a little less literal when she calls me things like "shit head" or "bitch." My head is not comprised of feces nor am I an actual female dog, you see...

I loved Pan's Labyrinth but sweet Jesus, it was gruesome! One moment, it was a visual feast for the eyes and imagination and the next... well, it was just gnarly. Meg was good enough to help me cover my eyes, you know, when she didn't have her face buried in my shoulder during some of the more horrifying scenes. This may sound like a bad review, but I swear, it's not! Go see it. Just don't go without a barf bag if you're the queasy sort.

On Saturday, I got a very cute cut and color. My hair is a rather sweet shade of red and I got an angular cut (shorter in the back, longer towards the front) that makes my curls all springy and bouncy. Later that night, I poured myself into a pair of ass pants, made up my face, applied a shiny pomade to the new coif and made my way into the West Village for a singles mixer. I told NO ONE that I was going because if it sucked, I didn't want to have to relive it in excruciating detail to enquiring minds. I also wanted to spare myself a lecture in case I decided to ditch at the last minute.

But I didn't ditch. I went and I didn't hate it. In fact, I got a couple of phone numbers. I'm very proud of myself. I won't go into too much detail because I've become rather superstitious about dating. It seems the minute I share details with a third party, something goes wrong and then I'm left shame-faced trying to explain what happened and most of the time, I have no idea why. Oh, I hate that! It makes me cranky. Fear not though, if something interesting occurs, you'll be the first ones to know. Until then, patience, my friends.

Last night, I went to Iberia in the Ironbound Section of Newark for dinner. Mmm... Portuguese food. I do believe the restaurant emptied out the Atlantic Ocean to provide the seafood on our table alone. Even better, the bill was $70 for three people and we were all packed to the gills. So awesome.

And yes, I went to Newark, NJ willingly. I grew up not far from there so I have a soft spot for the much-maligned mini metropolis. Shitting on the city of Newark is a well-worn punchline that is most often trotted out by people who've never been (and no, the airport does not count!)

Vitriol directed towards Newark is viral, just like making fun of films like Ishtar or Waterworld. I never even saw those movies but I know enough to cite them as examples of box-office bombs and critical failures. My opinion is based more on osmosis than experience.

I dare say the same goes for Newark's bad reputation. Granted, there are some of you who may have been and legitimately loathe the place but the general consensus seems to be based on hearsay. So, in a sense, Newark is the Howard the Duck of cities. It makes sense that I defend it because, after all, I not only saw Howard the Duck back in the day, I liked it.

Shut.up.

christmas wrap[-up]

I'm finally back from Jersey and savoring the last few days of my vacation here at home in beautiful Downtown Brooklyn. Here's hoping your Christmas (if applicable) was a good one.

As usual, my father picked me up at the ass crack of dawn on Christmas Eve. Each year, he drives in from NJ so that I don't have to schlep a bunch of bags on the Path train. While I appreciate the door-to-door chauffeur service, I really could do without the early wake-up call. It's about a 45-minute drive but judging by father's ridiculously early start time, you'd think he was driving out to Michigan to pick me up. But beggars can't be choosers, so I deal. Plus, my father was bringing me a special delivery so I woke up good and early to pave the way for the newest addition to my Tiny Wee Studio -- Nintendo. Old school Nintendo. None of that Wii or DS business.

I found the game in the basement when I was home for Thanksgiving and bagged it up but it was too heavy to carry so my father offered to bring it when he picked me up on Christmas Eve. And sure enough, he remembered. It was a quick exchange in front of my building. With the car illegally parked, he handed me the shopping bag with all the paddles, games and shit like that and I gave him my overnight bag. I ran back inside and reverently placed the bag o' Nintendo next to my television and then quickly gathered up the rest of my stuff and locked up the Tiny Wee Studio for my extended leave.

When I got home the other night, I barely had my coat off before I was hooking that shit up. It's amazing how I remember all the tricks and commands in that game. Actually, I covered this topic in the early days of my blog. I said, and I quote, "Ask me what I ate for dinner last night and I'm stumped. Hand me a Nintendo control and I can unearth every hidden coin bank and secret passageway in each level of Super Mario Bros."

And it's true! I gobbled up mushrooms, those fire power flower things and the invincibility stars without even having to think twice. I remembered how to stomp on the turtles and make the shell slide along to knock all the other bad guys out of the way. Mind you, I've had a Netflix movie sitting on my table waiting to be mailed for days because I keep forgetting to take it with me, yet, somehow, I can remember how to make Mario and Luigi capture the flag like it's second nature. Scary.

Heated Nintendo tournaments in the Tiny Wee Studio are most likely in store. I've already lined up The Lovely Jess, her Young Man, The Hot Russian and The Adorable Meg. I expect a lot of Paperboy- and Ice Hockey-related trash talk, in particular.

While at home, I got to spend a lot of time with the niece and nephew. On Christmas Day, I sat the one-year-old nephew on my lap and together we watched Christmas Eve on Sesame Street. He's usually fidgety and quite noisy but that boy sat still for a solid hour watching it. I was even able to put a red and white-striped stocking cap on his head without a fight. He had blocked all previous attempts, you see.

I love that he loved the show because really, I cannot let a Christmas go by without viewing it. It just doesn't feel right. If you haven't seen it, you're missing out. It was made in the 70s so a lot of the faces will no doubt be familiar to you -- Mr. Hooper, Bob, Linda the deaf chick, Gordon, Susan, Maria, David (I had a BIG crush on him back in the day). Actually, Sheila discussed the beloved special on her blog last year. The O'Malleys are as rabid about the program as the McDimples are. There's a reason we're friends.

Oh, and I also found out that the nephew also will stand at attention (and bust the occasional dance move) when the following movies are on: The Sound of Music and Annie. Hmmm...

Later in the day, my niece wanted to watch the movie I bought her for Christmas: Time Bandits. Each year, I try to pad her DVD library with favorites of mine. Last year she was treated to The Neverending Story, The Muppet Movie, The Great Muppet Caper and The Muppets Take Manhattan. This was the year she was exposed to her first Terry Gilliam movie. Since the plot involves time travel, I tried explaining some of the historical references to her. Turns out, it was unnecessary. The niece raised a dismissive hand and said, "I know who Napoleon is." Okay, then. Punk.

And of course, no Christmas at the McDimples would be complete unless these 10 things occur. Actually, though, I'm happy to report that number one on the list was not fulfilled... yet. After all, there's still New Year's Eve to contend with.

Hope you all had a merry one!

leftovers

I'm sort of lacking in blog inspiration these days. I thought maybe I'd write a holiday weekend recap but when I sat down in front of ye olde PC, I realized that not much happened out of the ordinary. But I'll take a crack at summarizing it anyway.

Suffer.

Let's see, there was the usual talk of turkey carcasses and then the subsequent simultaneous gagging/shushing of everyone who dared utter that word by moi, the lone vegetarian in the McDimple clan.

There was a James Bond marathon on cable and, of course, my father had it on all day. He simply cannot pass up a Bond movie, even though he thinks that any Bond other than Sean Connery is a right pussy. When I mentioned that Daniel Craig is getting favorable reviews, I was met with a haughty, "Ach! He canny even swim! Sean Connery did all his own stunts!" My father is rocking a serious boy crush on Sean in conjunction with his usual, "If it's not Scottish, it's CRRRRRAP!" mentality, you see.

On Friday, I watched Jaws with The Adorable Six-Year Old Niece. Lest you be concerned about her mental and emotional well-being after watching this scary film, you have nothing to fear. She's a hearty sort and not easily frightened. Actually, no, that's not true. She has a very specific set of fears but none of which involve a mechanical shark devouring Robert Shaw. However, don't go near her with this game. The face on that guy freaks her out. Between you and me, I was glad to see that toy get the heave-ho as I wasn't too keen on the idea of sticking my hand in the dude's cranial cavity. Ew, I said cavity.

Anyhoo, the niece got through the movie like a champ. Me? Not so much. My Equally Adorable One-Year-Old Nephew climbed up on me for a nap while we were watching it and during one scary scene, I totally jumped and nearly flung the boy clear across the room. And I've seen the movie countless times! The niece, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. Her reaction to the film? Anger. She was pissed that the shark (spoiler alert for anyone who's been living in a cave for the past 30 years) got bumped off at the end. Judging by her serious scowl, knit eyebrows and impassioned tone, she cares quite deeply for the species. I informed her that Jaws got his (her?) revenge several more times in a series of crappy sequels. Oh man, don't even get me started on Jaws 3-D...

The niece and I spent a good deal of time together drawing and coloring pictures. I went down to the basement to find some more crayons for her and I came across a beloved game from my childhood: Strolling Bowling.

Basically, you set up a little bowling alley and then you wind up the wee sneaker-clad ball and it hops down the lane in search of pins. Hours of fun, I tell you, particularly when you eschew the hopping part and just throw it like a real bowling ball. The niece squealed with delight whenever we broke the rules which was uh, all the time. If I may paraphrase Charles Barkley (because I'm too lazy and disinterested to Google the official quote), I never said I was a role model.

On Saturday, I put up my parents' Christmas tree. Yes, I know it's early but I don't feel like going back out there before Christmas to do it. December weekends are a precious commodity and I'm loathe to part with them. Now you might be asking yourself, "Why don't Curly's parents put up their own tree?" The answer is simple, really: My father is a decorating retard.

I love him but the man would be wise to step away from the tchatkes. Yet, despite his obvious inadequacy in this area, he is persistent in trying year after year. So, I've learned to relent and leave some of the trimming to his [in]discretion... often to comical results. Or, as I said a few years back, "When it comes to illuminated ceramics, the man knows no restraint."

So, as a favor to my mother, I assemble the very life-like fake tree and tastefully adorn it with beads, bows and Hallmark Keepsake Ornaments. The rest of the family has learned the painful way to just leave me be when I'm in decorating mode. I used to slap hands, tsk, sigh and eventually chase everyone out of the room because I felt like they were compromising the integrity of my design. Yeah, those movies and television shows that show happy families trimming the tree while singing carols and sipping eggnog? Complete and utter bullshit. If you want to portray the holiday rituals and traditions honestly, there needs to be impatience, frayed nerves and at least one person storming off in a huff. Otherwise, it's a complete sham.

Speaking of the holidays, I'm about to embark on a series of reviews/recaps of Christmas specials and movies. I'm telling you this now so that I don't slack off. I haven't exactly been motivated or consistent with updating the blog lately in case you haven't noticed. Anyhoo, if you'd like a somewhat relevant appetizer to tide you over, kindly check out The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project: Holiday Edition.

bruce willis throws like a boy

According to CNN, Bruce Willis is suing a photographer for $1 million. Something about defamation of character or some shit like that. While I have no issue with the former Moonlighting star being so litigious, I have to wonder why the leading man of tough-guy movies like Die Hard didn't sue the pants off the shutterbug who took this photo...

For further discussion of Bruce's piss-poor throwing skills, please click here.


Photo: New York Daily News

duh, baryshnikov

This is what happens when Mejack and I try to discuss the Cold War...

Mejack: Did you see the movie White Nights?

Yours Truly: I did... IN THE MOVIE THEATER!

Mejack: SO DID I... TWICE.

YT: It was just once in the theater for me but there have been repeated viewings on cable on Saturday afternoons or whatever.

Mejack: Oh, I watch it whenever I find it. It's a gem.

Mejack: "WE ARE LANDING IN RUSSIA!"

Mejack: I love how Baryshnikov tries to flush his passport down an AIRPLANE TOILET!

YT: Yeah, really. What's that about? How big can a septic tank possibly be on a jumbo jet? All the KGB would need to find it is a skimmer, some gloves and a mask maybe.

Mejack: "VELKIM HOME, NIKOLAI."

YT: Just eat it, dude. Share it with your fellow passengers. Ask everyone to take a page and chow down.

Mejack: I know. Eating it would have been a much better idea.

YT: And then hide the vinyl cover in a vomit bag. Simple.

:: thoughtful silence ::

YT: You know, it's reassuring to know that I'm prepared to protect myself the next time I'm forced to make an emergency landing in a communist country.

Mejack: Especially if you are an illegally defected renowned ballet dancer.

YT: Because I am, you know.

Mejack: I'm not surprised.

on new math and creepy-ass commercials

Because of the inclement weather, today's plans to scorch my skin alongside The Lovely Jess at Brighton Beach had to be scrapped.

So, did I take advantage of the indoor time to clean my apartment, shred some junk mail or tackle the towering pile of laundry bursting out of my hamper? Fuck no. I'm in the midst of full-blown lazy Saturday.

It's almost 6:30pm and I'm still in my Curious George capri-length pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. I am the picture of sloth. I've been lounging on my couch watching TV all day with no regrets whatsoever. In fact, I just watched Ice Princess. And I'm not the least bit ashamed. Well, I am a little bit. However, I adhere to the following formula:

Bad weather + weekend afternoon ÷ cheesy movie X 1 movie on IFC/Sundance² = Freedom from guilt

(In this equation, let Secrets & Lies represent the shame-saving variable.)

The only downside of prolonged TV viewing? I keep seeing that fucking commercial with the guy who has throat cancer and has a hole in his windpipe and talks through one of those... uh... what's the technical name for it? I only know the awful slang term for it: cancer kazoo. Terrible, I know. What's the right word for it? Please enlighten my sorry ass.

Anyways, the airwaves have been absolutely saturated with this ad. I can't even look at it. Gone are the days of "The Cigarette Mash," I guess.

But the campaign is totally working because I'll be damned if I ever touch another cigarette. Not that I'm much of a smoker anyway but what that man has to do with a Q-tip has scared me straight, yo.

I feel like I'm under assault lately with the gross ads. There's this one for squeezable mayonnaise that is just horrendous, what with all that jar-scraping and white slime squeezing. At the first sign of this advert, I peform the following in this order: 1) clasp my hand over my eyes; 2) blindly change the channel; 3) crawl into a fetal position; and 4) gag uncontrollably.

ACK! I'm so going to hurl right now. Say, I wonder if I have a strong enough case to sue Hellmann's for mental anguish?

Update: Which commercial do you think is really gnarly? Cast your vote!

customer service

I have lots to catch you up on but work is kicking my ass these days. Tales of TequilaCon await you. In the meantime, I thought I'd continue my efforts to be helpful and answer a question that brought a visitor here. Since your Google search couldn't quite help you, dear user, I will gladly put in the extra effort.

Q: Who sings "Shootin' at the Walls of Hearty [sic]"?

A: Scandal is the name of the band and the song is called "The Warrior." Oh and psst! The actual lyric is "Shootin' at the walls of heartache." Don't feel bad. I've got a post devoted to my lyrical fuck-ups. Hell, there's an entire book on the subject.

Ain't I helpful? Oh, and because I'm so sweet (and tres Rain Man-like with the pop culture references), I'll throw in a few freebies for you:

Scandal was fronted by the smoky-voiced Patty Smyth who is married to one John McEnroe, who, I'll have you know, was the inspiration for my Halloween costume two years ago. Anyhoo, the curly-haired-tantrum-throwing tennis player divorced Tatum O'Neal (daughter of Ryan and foe of Farrah) who became a big ol' druggie after winning an Oscar for Paper Moon at the ripe old age of 10 (I do believe).

Tatum also starred in one of my all-time favorite movies, The Bad News Bears. It was one of the few movies she made that I was actually allowed to watch unsupervised as a kid. Although, the line about Amanda being on The Pill was always a bit of a sore spot, come to think of it...

Little Darlings, on the other hand, was all sorts of forbidden in the McDimple household. However, that didn't stop us McDimple girls from secretly huddling around the small black-and-white TV in my oldest sister's room and watching the cleaned-up version on broadcast television.

Back in the day, Channel 9 was pretty good about showing movies like that on a Saturday afternoon, whereas Channel 11 aired shit like Clash of the Titans and Clint Eastwood movies. There was a glorious spell where you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a John Hughes movie but, alas, there were just as many airings of Commando and The Beastmaster to contend with. Thank God for digital cable.

But as I was saying, once holed up in my sister's room, we took turns guarding the door and listening for approaching footsteps. My oldest sister became VERY good at diving towards the television and changing the channel in one swift motion just before the parents entered the room. She'd always end up on her stomach in a pose that looked surprisingly relaxed and natural. It was quite remarkable.

Now, while she had the channel-changing technique down pat, her choice of station often left much to be desired. "Why are you girls watching bowling?" my father incredulously asked one day. But, in her defense, her Russian Roulette-like channel surfing landed on MASH quite a few times, which was a very believable ruse. We actually liked MASH. By the by, this sister was also highly skilled at hiding her trashy romance novels. She kept the tamer V.C. Andrews books on display but the more salacious ones could not be found. Trust me, I tried.

Ahem. So, um, in summary, Scandal is what you're looking for, errant Googler. You're most welcome. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to add Little Darlings to my Netflix queue. Oooh, while I'm there, I might as well tack on Porky's, Body Heat, Prizzi's Honor and all the other forbidden films of my youth. Foiled again, Mama McDimple. Foiled again!

courtney & tina: a theory

I recently watched Sid & Nancy. I loves me some Sex Pistols, rally I do. Anyhoo, I knew Courtney Love had a small part in the film but oh my God, when she first appeared on the screen, I had one question and one question only: "Um, are Courtney Love and Tina Yothers of Family Ties fame the same person?"

You decide:

Courtney

Tina

See what I mean? No? Take another look:

Tina?

Courtney?

Come to think of it, didn't Hole have a song called "Jennifer's Body"? Hmm... Jennifer as in Jennifer Keaton?!?! Consider this mystery solved. Sha, la, la, la...


Photo credits: Courtney: burnthiswitch.tripod.com; Tina: familyties-tv.com

oscar round-up

A couple of thoughts/questions from last night's telecast:

1. Okay, so I know I'm like gay and crap but whoo boy, I have to say that I dig the George Clooney. I mean, yes, he's got the whole ridiculously attractive thing going on and everybody loves him for that but really, that speech of his last night was just awwwwwww!-inspiring. That sent me over the edge into all-out Clooney love. He was articulate, classy and humble. And best of all, he was brief... which is more than I can say for the people who win the technical awards. Man those people can yammer.

2. The scene from Crash when Matt Dillon violates Thandie Newton was hard enough to take the first time I saw it. I really didn't need to see it re-enacted -- through interpretive dance! -- by a couple of look-alikes. Did I mention it was incorporated into a dance number?! What was the choreographer's notes for that, I wonder? I mean, what the hell?

3. Charlize Theron, why so glum?

4. I won $30 in an Oscar pool! I've come close before but this is the first time I ever won... albeit in a three-way tie for first place. But I don't care! Crash as Best Picture and "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" fucked us all up.

5. Speaking of fucked up... Uh, where did Dolly's ribcage go? And did she, in fact, slide the fat from her ass up into her breasts? The woman has no kiester whatsoever. Had a clip from 9 to 5 not been shown in one of the night's 52 montages, perhaps I wouldn't have noticed but the juxtaposition of the 80s-era Dolly with the current one looked like a before and after Trim-Spa ad.

And was she wearing boots or shoes? They looked a bit boxy and NASA-like to me. Now that I think about it, she sort of resembled a Lego action figure or something. Not a good look on anyone, really.

6. Thanks again for hosting a great party, JS and AD! I love you guys... and not just because you had chocolate cupcakes on hand.

Technorati Tags: Oscars, Academy Awards, Movies, Film, Awards, Crash, George Clooney, Thandie Newton, Matt Dillon, Charlize Theron, Dolly Parton

the alan alda sensitivity project: holiday edition

Here are a few lessons I gleaned from holiday specials during my impressionable youth and beyond. (Items 1-10 in this series can be found here. Number 11 is here.)

12) If a loved one is trapped under rubble and cannot be rescued by emergency personnel, start singing "O Come All Ye Faithful" and your family member will suddenly extricate him/herself from the wreckage and walk away from the accident scene with only a bump or two and some scratches. Note: All limbs and appendages will be intact. The victim will not have to free himself by say, sawing off his leg with a pocket knife or a rusty piece of shrapnel. Suddenly bursting into song will miraculously lift the heavy rubble thereby releasing said loved one sans paralysis. This knowledge comes courtesy of A Very Brady Christmas.

13) Santa was a bit of a dick in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. One minute he's ripping Rudloph a new one because of his funky nose and then when he realized the fog totally fucked him over, he was all up in Rudolph's stuff asking him to guide his sled. WTF?! I'm a bit disappointed that Rudolph didn't tell that user bitch to fuck off. I certainly would have.

14) Speaking of Rudolph... Hermey the Elf and Charlie in the Box? Totally gay for each other.

15) Even though he fails to get credit in the annals of dance history, Shermie (right) totally invented The Running Man in A Charlie Brown Christmas.

16) This is more of a question than an observation... How come nobody kicked the shit out of Albert in 'Twas the Night Before Christmas? Dude, if some asshole pissed off Santa by writing a letter on my behalf claiming Santa was a "fraudulent myth," I'd calculate the value of my Christmas list and then take it out of his ass. I don't care that he fixed the Santa clock. Albert was a total douche bag.

17) I would go hungry in Who-ville. Roast beast? Who-hash? Ew.

18) Someone who worked at Rankin-Bass was one ugly son of a bitch what with all the big ear/big nose plotlines (Rudolph, Nestor the Long-Eared Donkey, Baby New Year). Clearly, someone was using claymation to work out his/her issues.

As always, feel free to tack on your observations in the comments.

at the movies once again with curly mcdimple

Now that I've completely indulged my addiction to 24, my Netflix queue has returned to its normal film-heavy state. This weekend I watched Heavenly Creatures, starring a young Kate Winslet and directed by a pre-Lord of the Rings Peter Jackson.

I had a completely bipolar reaction while watching this film. I went from really liking it to completely loathing it.

For the uninitiated, Kate Winslet moves to New Zealand and becomes fast friends with a misfit girl. Their connection is intense, so much so that they can mentally escape together into a world of their own creation. Like, they independently zone out and reconvene in their shared imagination. Do you understand? THEY MEET UP THERE. It's freaky. Even freakier because this is based on a true story.

Naturally, their families don't fully understand their unusual friendship and give them all sorts of shit about it, which makes them retreat to that secret place even more.

This really spoke to me because it sums up the relationship between me and my first (and really, only) love (so far). Our friendship was of the "just add water" variety. Instant yet complete. What it lacked in history, it more than made up for in intensity. God, it was so much fun at the beginning before we had to go complicate things by getting involved romantically. But we had to take that step because the longing was suffocating us. It's taken me a long time to realize this but the pain of denial is far greater than the pain of loss.

Oh, but enough about me and my drama! So Kate Winslet and the other chick forge this incredible yet really fucked-up friendship. Before long, they're mutually adoring Mario Lanza whilst snogging and fiddling with one another. Eventually they declare that they positively cannot live without each other and ridiculous plans are made to run off together and start a new life, blah, blah, blah.

Okay, I hate to keep making this all about me but my God, talk about a parallel existence! This is precisely the sort of thing that happened between THE EX and myself. Well, except for the Mario Lanza stuff. Spooky.

Again, I digress... So, the movie takes a really dark turn and this, my friends, is where I jumped off the ride. As it was, I was barely hanging on by a thread. Jackson repeatedly took the audience to the aforementioned girls' made-up world where we saw the girls frolicking in the meadow, pointing at unicorns and, um, socializing with life-sized terra-cotta statues (don't ask). I found the plot to be strange and really disjointed. Like, I knew what was going on but I wasn't following, if that makes sense.

Normally I quite like imaginative flights of fancy and tales of distorted reality. Terry Gilliam movies, for example, tend to make me giddy. This movie? Just plain weird. It's got talking clay in it, for fuck's sake! Some of the clay even sings opera. There is a life-sized Mario Lanza cast in clay! What the fuck, Peter Jackson?!?! What.the.fuck?!?!

But I can't in good conscience crap all over the movie. The scenery is breathtaking (New Zealand is SO on my list of places to visit) and the performances are really good. It's especially interesting to watch Kate Winslet because she's a little over-the-top in certain parts. If you admire her work, as I do, it's satisfying to do a comparison to see how far she's come.

Speaking of which, have you seen Extras?!?! Winslet guest-starred in the first episode and stole the show, which is no small feat considering her costar is the brilliant Ricky Gervais (The Office). HILARIOUS. Even better, there's not a stitch of talking clay to be found in the program. Always a good thing in my opinion.

personal best

The much-adored Joe.My.God is once again doing something cool over on his blog. Inspired by the American Film Institute's 100 Years, 100 Movie Quotes program on Bravo, Joe has begun soliciting quotes from his readership. However, given his demographic, the list has been modified slightly. His compilation is entitled Gay Men's 100 All Time Favorite Movie Quotes. At last check, he's got 92 comments and still going strong!

I can't do a similar lesbian-flavored list on my site because well, a lot of lesbians aren't big on camp... unless it involves sleeping bags and tents and shit like that.

And unlike gay men, we don't have that many film icons. Let's see, there's Jodie Foster, Angelina Jolie, Gina Gershon, Miss Piggy... Who am I missing?

Yes, Jodie was in the highly-quotable Silence of the Lambs but that's not really a movie embraced by lesbians, per se. And, yes, it's easy to moan and speak nonsense like Nell, but really, that doesn't quite count, now does it?

Angelina, well, she's mostly known for her lips, not necessarily what comes out of them.

Gina, of course, was in the craptastic Showgirls but helloooooooooooooo?!? The gay boys have already claimed that one. And even if they didn't, I honestly would not fight them for the right to quote Nomi and Cristal.

Miss Piggy has her "HIIIIIIIIIIIII-YAHHHHHHHHHH!" I guess, but then again, she's a confirmed breeder so she cancels herself out.

In terms of movie selection, lesbians lack the "wink wink nudge nudge" gene. Gay boys dig fabulous schlock like Mommie Dearest while lesbos tend to throw their arms around the likes of Desert Hearts and Lost and Delirious. See my point?

Personally, I think most lesbian movies reek of self-importance and just plain suck. Hard. I can barely sit through them, much less quote them! So compiling a cinematic lesbo list is damn near-impossible for moi (you other dykes can feel free to have at it though).

Instead, I've made up my own list of movie quotes. There's no common element here. I don't care if the general public finds them memorable. I don't care if they come from garbage movies or classics. The point is not to list things like "I coulda been a contender" and "Are you talkin' to me?" and the rest of the usual suspects. We've heard them all before. Me? I like 'em random, quirky and unexpected. With that said...

1. "I want to be a woman. From now on, I want you all to call me 'Loretta.'"

-- Eric Idle as Stan in Life of Brian

2. "Felix, you were in the war, weren't you?... Did you jump out of a plane and land on your face?"

-- James Spader as Richards in Mannequin

3. "I don't patronize bunny rabbits!"

-- Veronica's Dad in Heathers

4. "Son, you got a panty on your head."

-- Truck driver in Raising Arizona

5. "I hate being Scottish. We're the lowest of the fucking low, the scum of the earth, the most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat into civilization. Some people hate the English, but I don't. They're just wankers. We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers. We can't even pick a decent culture to be colonized by. We are ruled by effete arseholes. It's a shite state of affairs and all the fresh air in the world will not make any fucking difference."

-- Ewan McGregor as Renton in Trainspotting

6. "Sometimes I dance around the house in my underwear. It doesn't make me Madonna. Never will."

-- Joan Cusack as Cyn in Working Girl

7. "Well, I see it still smells like pine needles in here."

-- Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life

8. "I want a divoooooooooooooooooorce!"

-- Michelle Pfeiffer as Angela de Marco in Married to the Mob

9. "Lard Ass! Lard Ass! Lard Ass! Lard Ass!..."

-- From a short story told by Gordie (Wil Wheaton) in Stand by Me

10. "My first show was Barefoot in the Park, which was an absolute smash, but my production on the stage of Backdraft was what really got them excited. This whole idea of 'In Your Face' theatre really affected them. The conceptualization, the whole abstraction, the obtuseness of this production to me was what was interesting. I wanted the audience to feel the heat from the fire, the fear, because people don't like fire, poked, poked in their noses... you know when you get a cinder from a barbeque right on the end of your nose and you kind of make that face, you know, that's not a good thing, and I wanted them to have the sense memory of that. So during the show I had someone burn newspapers and send it through the vents in the theatre. And well, they freaked out, and 'course the fire marshall came over and they shut us down for a couple of days."

-- Christopher Guest as Corky St. Clair in Waiting for Guffman

Feel free to add your own. Oh and extra credit to anyone who does find a lesbian thread in these 10 quotes! I will do my best to reward your creativity.

a rare movie review

... and by rare i mean it's not all smart-assy. So I just finished watching Mad Hot Ballroom and I'm still dabbing the tears from my eyes. OMG, I loved it. I can't recommend it enough.

You know, I've discovered I'm a real sucker for these documentaries about kids engaged in school competitions. For example, Spellbound... The movie is brilliant. It's got more suspense, intrigue and drama than most works of fiction. I was even able to identify villains in the film. I honestly hated some of those kids. I actually clapped when they spelled the word wrong. Um, I may have even yelled, "Take a seat, asshole!" and "Quit stalling! Admit you don't know it and sit down!" But the memory, she is fuzzy so I can't say for sure if such things came out of my mouth. I mean, it's very out of character for me to be so callous and impatient...

But Mad Hot Ballroom is structured a bit differently. It allows for multiple feel-good stories. I picked a favorite early on (namely Wilson from P.S. 115 -- LOVE HIM) but mostly, I was able to spread my support out over several different competing schools.

Now you may find this hard to believe but, well, I'm a bit of curmudgeon. I'll wait a few seconds for the smelling salts to kick in... Anyhoo, despite my sometimes grouchy demeanor, I smiled my way through this entire film. Well, except towards the end. That's when the crying started. I couldn't help it! The expressions on the parents' faces and their comments while they watched their children compete got me right here. I was, how you say, a puddle.

My favorite part of the documentary is the interviews interspersed between the dancing segments. The kids opine on a variety of subjects -- the opposite sex, drugs in their neighborhood, even gay marriage (briefly). While they're no more than 11-years-old, some of the kids have highly-evolved takes on these issues. Other kids really show their age but their opinions are no less refreshing and enlightening. If you haven't seen the film and plan on doing so, look out for the interviews nestled within the end credits. They are priceless.

Mad Hot Ballroom is available on DVD and Movies On Demand (on Time Warner Cable, at least). Watch it! And Spellbound too!

inside the actors studio with curly mcdimple

I have a love/hate relationship with Inside the Actors Studio. I'll tune in and watch even though I find James Lipton to be incredibly creepy. I find his creepiness to be most evident when he's planting a big verbal wet one on some actor's ass (which is, um, all the time). He looks out towards the audience but doesn't really make eye contact and then his eyes tend to glaze over with a distant, far-away look. The whole thing is disturbing. Maybe it's those saccharine-y compliments of his causing him to slip into a diabetic coma or something. I don't know.

At the same time, some of the questions in his towering stack of blue index cards are thoughtful and probing and make for really compelling interviews. For example, the episode with Sean Penn was brilliant. Ditto for the Meryl Streep and Paul Newman installments. In fact, when the show first started, the caliber of interviews on that show week after week was truly stellar.

In recent years, the roster of guests has become decidedly less impressive. Jennifer Lopez? James, you're joking, right? Billy Joel? WTF? WTF? WTF?!?! Recently, the show tumbled to an all-time low with its booking of one Rosie O'Donnell.

I actually used to like Rosie. I enjoyed her on Star Search and VH-1's Stand-Up Spotlight. I never really thought she was hilarious but she was likeable and earnest and gave it her all. It's those very same qualities that made her talk show succeed, particularly in the early seasons. Her show really worked well in the beginning because she was a huge fan of her guests. She was excited and giddy and asked the questions that most of us wanted to ask. Every member of her audience could relate.

And then stories started to surface about her backstage shenanigans. At the time, I worked for an industry publication where I was in contact with her show's production company. The list of staff changes they sent me week-to-week and month-to-month was astounding. Rosie's ratings were slipping and she cleaned house. What she failed to realize was that her appeal was waning not because of her associate producer but because she was now a bigger star than most of her guests. The novelty wore off. Gone was her wide-eyed admiration of her favorite celebs and in its place was plain old schmoozing.

Her public persona started to change too. Rosie was quoted as saying that people over a certain age who wanted an autograph "[needed] to get a life." In most cases, I would agree with this assessment but not when the advice is coming from the same woman who so famously fawned over Tom Cruise and bawled incessantly in the presence of Barbra Streisand. And didn't she love to tell everyone how, as a youngster, she would wait at the stage door after shows to meet the actors and get autographs? Rosie was getting a bit too big for her Lane Bryant britches, it seemed. The seed of distaste was planted within me.

It bloomed into full-blown dislike after Rosie's truly insufferable post-Columbine anti-gun crusade. I understood her emotional response to the tragedy but her subsequent rants were shrill, misinformed and completely misguided.

And then there was the Rosie magazine debacle. I particularly loved how she turned the bitch switch on full blast and cut her hair into an asymmetrical mess just as she confirmed to the world that she was a big ol' dyke. Nice, Rosie. Thank you.

But back to Inside the Actors Studio... She was recently on the show and I watched it. Dude, I set my DVR and recorded that bad boy so that I wouldn't miss a second and could rewind if need be.

Now you might be asking yourself why I even subjected myself to such a painful hour of television. Well, it's the same reason I watched Rosie in Riding the Bus With My Sister. I see the entertainment value in my own outrage and discomfort. Same logic applies to my viewings of Brown Bunny, Jersey Girl (the Jami Gertz version) and the Today show (fuck you, Al Roker!)

I watched the interview expecting to be amusingly annoyed by Rosie. Instead, I felt a little bad for her. As Lipton prattled through her anemic list of acting accomplishments and accolades, Rosie looked uncomfortable. With each passing second she realized she didn't belong there. And she didn't.

Yes, she's an entertainer in her own right but she's not equipped to teach graduate-level students about acting technique. If the New School were to unveil courses such as "How to Run a Beloved Magazine into the Ground," "The Finer Points of Drake's Cakes" or "When In Doubt, Decoupage!" then maybe Rosie could step in and give us a few pointers. Until then, it's best to leave the heavy theatrical lifting to the big guns.

You know, I have a few student films under my belt and I performed in Christmas and spring pageants from kindergarten through eighth grade. That puts my resume at about the same level as Rosie's, no? While it won't (and shouldn't) get me booked on Inside the Actors Studio, I do think it at least entitles me to answer those questions Lipton poses at the end of every interview. All agreed? Good. Take it away, James!

James Lipton: Curly McDimple began lip-syncing and singing off-key at a young age. She was bitten by the theater bug in high school and quickly won self-appointed critical acclaim with her rousing renditions of "Bui-Doi" from Miss Saigon and Hair's "Colored Spade."

McDimple's unique take on standards and showtunes often courted controversy. For example, her flat-yet-spirited retelling of Annie was censored by the McDimple Family. But the young McDimple thumbed her nose at the nay-sayers and continued honing her own unusual, some would say poor, brand of belting. Her efforts earned her a "For the Love of God, Please Shut Up!" nomination and several other citations.

Curly McDimple can next be seen perfoming selections from Stephen Sondheim's Company in her bathroom mirror in Downtown Brooklyn. But first, Curly will take part in the questionnaire created by the esteemed Bernard Pivot for Bouillon de Culture...

Curly, what is your favorite word?
Intensity.

[Ed Note: What I really want to say: Sassy]

What is your least favorite word?
I'm not too keen on the word "chinos" lately.

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
Equal parts humor and intellect.

What turns you off?
Dry, wit-free, overly literal types.

What is your favorite curse word?
"Fuck" for emphasis and/or flavor. "Dickhead" for a putdown. And "ass" always comes in handy.

[Ed Note: I HATE HATE HATE when the actors pretend like they're surprised by this question. Oh, fuck off with that mock surprise! You knew it was coming and you prepared for it so drop the charade.]

What sound or noise do you love?
My own laugh. It took me a long time to find it so I never ever take it granted.

What sound or noise do you hate?
"Hocccccccccccccccccchhhhhhhhhh-too!"

[Ed Note: The sound men make when they hoch a loogie and spit.]

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
I would love to create props and sets for movies. I remember seeing From Star Wars to Jedi when I was younger and I really wanted to work in the studio where all the puppets and models were made. I'm still intrigued by the behind-the-scenes movie magic.

What profession would you not like to do?
Proctologist. Seriously, how does one develop a passion for this line of work? Even if you're an ass man/woman, it's not like you're not doing anything fun back there. Call me overly fussy but I don't stick my finger in just anyone's butt... unless you buy me dinner first.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
"See? I told you not to believe those judgmental assholes who you said you weren't allowed in. Now let's you and Me go drop shit on their closed-minded heads."

[APPLAUSE]

Thank you.

someone is on your side

I am heartbroken over the news that Bernadette Peters' husband, Michael Wittenberg, was killed in a helicopter crash earlier this week. In a way, I take her loss personally.

I'm going to ramble a bit so please bear with me...

I know it sounds funny to some but I adore Bernadette Peters. In fact, my blog name, Curly McDimple, is lifted from a short-lived off-Broadway show Peters starred in many years ago. I take some ribbing about her sometimes but I'm unapologetic and devout in my belief that this woman is a brilliant force of nature.

I cannot even begin to adequately describe how much I idolized her when I was younger. She first knocked my socks off when I saw Into the Woods in high school. A few years later, she was back on Broadway in The Goodbye Girl and that's when my fascination with this woman really kicked in.

My appetite for information about her was voracious. But she was reticent to talk about herself. She spoke about her work but not herself necessarily. Her life was spent on the stage and that was the only part of herself she was really willing and prepared to share. Personal details were not easy to come by. I wanted to know everything about her but at the time, my resources were limited to scouring the pages of the Daily News and the New York Post every day trying to find her name in bold-faced print. Sometimes I got a tidbit but mostly I was left cursing the fact that I wasn't obsessed with someone a bit more palatable to the gossip pages. It was a tough fascination to foster.

I didn't have much to go on so I treasured my Into the Woods and Sunday in the Park with George cast albums. I listened to them daily and was continually floored by the nuance in her voice combined with the sheer brilliance of Stephen Sondheim's music and lyrics. Peters and Sondheim formed quite a formidable duo. There was a spell in the 1990s when you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a Sondheim tribute. I relished that because I knew Bernadette would be in attendance and PBS would be there capturing it for broadcast during annual pledge drives.

My favorite was Sondheim: A Celebration at Carnegie Hall. I sat impatiently through all the appeals for money and performances by Patti LuPone, Glenn Close, Daisy Egan, Karen Ziemba and scores of others. Bernadette didn't appear until the final hour of the broadcast but it was worth the wait. She stood on a darkened stage with that unmistakable hour-glass figure and those teeming curls in silhouette. The lights came up and the image was striking. She looked like she was poured into her long, black gown. Her pale skin practically glowed white in contrast to her scarlet lips and hair.

I held my breath. And then the camera moved in close and just stayed there throughout her interpretation of "Not a Day Goes By" from Merrily We Roll Along. The director rightfully called for a mix of close-ups, slow pans and dramatic fades to punctuate the magic on stage. She finished on a long, cascading note and was met with thunderous applause in Carnegie Hall and goose bumps in my bedroom.

I was on vacation in Florida about 11 or so years ago. I turned on the television in my hotel room to find this Sondheim tribute underway. I was happy to be on holiday but slightly homesick for New York and my beloved theater scene. So I plopped down on my bed and started watching. I changed the channel during one of the pledge breaks and when I flipped back a few minutes later, I was horrified to discover that the local PBS affiliate decided to yank the show in favor of Yanni: Live at the Acropolis. I think the switch was due to lack of interest or something but I can't be sure because my ranting speech about the "uncultured morons in Orlando" totally drowned out the station manager's explanation. Um, no offense, Orlando. It's just that Yanni and his puffy blouses tend to set me off, you see.

I was mostly pissed because they cut away right before Peters' performance. I wanted to see it again. She gets emotional every time she sings but when she tucks into a Sondheim song, she brings it to a whole new level. She contorts her face, throws her head back and rolls it from side to side, clenches her fists and swings her arms far and wide. Her entire body gets in on the act. Her curls rattle and often fall in her face. She sweeps them away but they inexplicably end up there again. She bellows and snarls one minute and then sweetly coos the next. More often than not, she tears up. The whole thing is most definitely theatric. Some think she overdoes it and I agree that it can seem over-the-top, but I don't think her performance is ever fake. She believes what she's singing and she feels it deeply each time.

The quality of her voice is debatable to some. I know several professionally-trained singers who complain that she sings "wrong." They prattle on about her breathing technique and how she loses her voice frequently. But I like that her voice can be hoarse and husky. I think the imperfections make it all the more interesting. I love that her voice gets ragged and coarse in between the soaring high notes. It adds texture.

At the risk of sounding like a total drama queen, Bernadette changed the course of my life. In a roundabout sort of way, she's the reason why I'm here working and writing on the internet. Back when I was foaming at the mouth for Bernadette-related info, I signed up for AOL so that I could access Playbill Online. I saw an ad in Playbill magazine promising active message boards, news, archives, and all the information a theater lover starved for information could possibly want. I can safely say that I was on that site every day chatting with people and exchanging information. I learned a lot about Bernadette -- her background, ex-boyfriends, rumors of ex-girlfriends (gasp!), lesser-known projects, pet causes and all that other fun stuff. I also gained knowledge of an array of plays, musicals, performers, composers, lyricists and playwrights. I was always well-versed in pop culture but through my exposure to Bernadette, I became more well-rounded. Theater was a gateway to dance, opera, avant-garde performance art, etc.

For a time, I was an education major in college. After I did some student teaching, I realized the mistake I was making. I was bored and disenchanted. It was a far cry from the passion I felt when discussing theater, movies, award shows, et al. I knew I could write and make a living at it so I changed my major to Communications/Journalism. As I filled out the necessary paperwork, I totally fancied myself an entertainment reporter specializing in the Broadway scene. Um, that's so NOT what I do now but I did actually work for an industry publication for a few years. However, I soon discovered that I enjoyed theater more as a fan rather than an industry insider so I quit. I bounced around in print for a bit before finding my way into the world of interactive media where I eventually met The Lovely Jess who encouraged me to start this blog. And there you have it.

Life-Changing Issue #2: While I can't attribute my being gay to Bernadette, I can say with confidence that she's somewhat responsible for my finally acknowledging it. I met THE EX through a shared love of her work. What started out as two straight girls with a mutual appreciation for Bernadette, eventually evolved into a passionate and intense romance. The relationship may have ended but that's where my new life began in a sense. I came out to people. I stopped hiding. I'm still secretive in many respects but I don't lie anymore. I reached a new level of understanding and connection with people, in particular the gay boys I had befriended through our mutual Broadway diva adoration. I would have accepted this truth about myself eventually but it was far more entertaining to get here via Bernadette.

Even though I don't technically know her, I'm still saddened by her loss. She gave me so much without realizing it. I've seen her numerous times in person but I can't adequately thank her... and I don't even try because, well, that would be weird and scary. The best I can do is wish her the strength and inspiration she helped me discover.

oh mandy

Dear Mandy Patinkin,

Does the pharmaceutical industry own your ass or something? The reason I ask is because every time I turn on my telly, there you are, informing me how one little pill will lower my cholesterol or ease the side effects of chemo.

It's honest work I guess but I'm just baffled is all. I mean, you're the man who tore Evita a new one! You hammed your way through Chicago Hope with aplomb! Um, I would cite your work in Yentyl as an example but I bailed on that movie after five minutes so I can't speak authoritatively on the subject.

BUT! You had the best line in one of my most favorite movies ever -- The Princess Bride. Say it with me now... "Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die!" And now you're reduced to saying things like "Side effects of Crestor may include diarrhea, nausea and vomiting...." That's sad.

Also, nothing on your recent resume seems to be suitable for people with liver problems, pregnant women or those who are nursing. While I don't have your official demographics handy, it seems to me that you're severely alienating your base.

So in summary, Mandy, kindly cease and desist with the pushing of pills with gruesome side effects. While your howling yelp may add some punch to even the most pedestrian Andrew Lloyd Webber tune, it doesn't quite wash in the commercial realm. I can't really explain it but something about the pitch and timbre of your voice makes diarrhea and edema seem even more vile than they already are.

Why don't you give old Steve Sondheim a call? I'm sure he can put your intense schmacting to better use.

Thank you in advance,

Curly McDimple

the alan alda sensitivity project or what i learned from TV

Here are a few lessons I gleaned from television during my impressionable youth and beyond. This is the first part in what might be a continuing series. Not sure yet though as I tend to have poor follow-through and limited interest in things after I start them. Feel free to pick up my slack and tack on your own observations in the comments.

1. Alan Alda is sensitive. It's not my opinion necessarily but it was a frequent punchline trotted out on more than one show. Does anyone really have proof of this? Hawkeye wasn't particularly sensitive as I recall. Like, didn't he make a woman suffocate her baby or something in one episode? Or was that a chicken? Or am I totally making this up? Regardless, if he was responsible for causing asphyxiation in either a baby or a chicken, that's not cool. And didn't he give Frank and Hot Lips a lot of shit too? Upon further review, Alan Alda is so NOT sensitive.

2. When a character makes an emphatic statement (usually complaining about a person), the resident dumb ass on the show will try to take it a step further but will merely echo the original sentiment by rephrasing it, usually with a one-syllable synonym. Example: Someone will say: "He's the tardiest person I know," and then the Resident Dumb Ass chimes in with: "Yeah, and he's always late too!"

Screech from Saved by the Bell and Potsie from Happy Days were the biggest culprits. Alice's Vera aka "Dingy Broad" was most likely guilty of this too.

3. Every walk-in refrigerator or store room door has an automatic locking feature. Two of the main characters -- usually enemies -- will get trapped and then, with death looming, will come to some sort of understanding that will be conveniently forgotten by the next episode in order to maintain the humor and conflict.**

4. People in movies/TV always have rolling liquor carts in their homes. No one ever reaches into the cabinet or freezer for the Stoli or scotch. It's always in a crystal decanter. And the ice bucket is always full and ready to serve.**

5. Dinner on any given weeknight must consist of a salad, a glass pitcher of milk, a basket of bread/rolls, mashed potatoes, some sort of meat with gravy and cut green beans. Everyone eats at the same time. No one ever has to reheat anything in the microwave. And it's totally okay for someone to load up his/her plate and either storm off or say, "I gotta jet and meet my friends" and leave their dinner uneaten. Unlike my experience, no one will lecture them about wasting food and make them sit until they finish it.**

** (Numbers 3, 4 and 5 were lifted from comments I left on Sheila's post about things that only happen in the movies. Her readers left a lot of really good ones! Go read them!)

6. Be wary of taking in stray kids, for if you do, you'll become attached and then when you try to adopt them, the kid's alcoholic father/mother will mosey back into the picture and slap you with a lawsuit. And then you'll be all sad and the court will try to rule against you because you're not blood relatives. Things will look grim until the kid in the middle of the tug-of-war suddenly stands up and makes an impassioned plea to the judge that you're his real family and no verdict can change that. And then the judge will agree and throw out the case and there won't be any appeals or red tape or anything like that. You'll always get legal custody of the kid, of course, but you'll have to wait until the last five minutes of a very special two-part episode.

7. If you want to suggest that someone is extremely unattractive, feel free to use Ernest Borgnine, Ethel Merman and Bea Arthur as examples.

8. If you want to meet a celebrity, just have your brother or sister call the celebrity's agent and tell them you're deathly sick or something. Or you could always brag to the whole school that you have a certain singer/band lined up to play at the prom before actually securing the booking. Then, when you're REALLY desperate because the band's agent told you to fuck off, the band members themselves will overhear and take pity and show up unexpectedly thereby making you the toast of the school. Those who have fallen for the I-only-have-two-months-to-live ruse and shown remarkable restraint when the truth was revealed include Muhammad Ali (Diff'rent Strokes) and Joe Namath (The Brady Bunch). The most notable compassionate prom crasher in my memory is Davy Jones (again with The Brady Bunch).

9. Little House on the Prairie's Charles Ingalls was omniscient. If a kid ran away beyond the borders of Walnut Grove, Charles knew exactly where to find him/her. He would leisurely stride up as the child (not always his own, mind you) sat whittling wood or throwing rocks in the creek out of frustration because of his/her stuttering problem and/or uneven legs. And, without fail, the combination of Charles' flowing locks, sage advice, soothing voice and horse-like laugh always lured the child out of his/her secret hiding place and back into town.

10. Charles Ingalls was a bit of a buttinsky.

* The title of this post is the result of a very funny conversation I had with The Lovely Jess awhile back. We were driving back from the beach and got to talking about television. Somehow I managed to work in my Alan Alda observation. The discussion took several delightful twists and turns thereafter and Jess, in a moment of brilliant inspiration, dubbed the entire exercise "The Alan Alda Sensitivity Project." I thought I was going to die laughing. Seriously. I was driving on the Garden State Parkway and my howling giggle fit made my steering a bit spotty. But, no matter, the weaving in and out of lanes made me fit right in with the rest of the retards on the road.

Updates:
:: alan alda sensitivity project: addendum
:: the alan alda sensitivity project: holiday edition

the lost boy

Can we discuss Corey Haim for a second? Truthfully, I had all but forgotten about the boy but I read a rather fascinating interview with him in the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly and I need to get a few things off my chest.

Now, I loved him in Lucas (one of my all-time favorite movies, by the by) and thought he was just dandy in The Lost Boys [thou shaaaall not kiiiiiiiillllllll!]. But after those films (and the insufferable License to Drive), he quickly faded from my memory.

Even so, I always found him to be the more tolerable of the two Coreys. Actually, I have to say that I quite liked Corey Feldman in Gremlins, Stand by Me and The Goonies but then he went all Michael Jackson on us in the late 80s (long after the Thriller hysteria had died down, I might add). After that, I really had no use for him. And I feel totally vindicated based on his behavior on the first season of The Surreal Life. The dude's a nut.

But back to Corey Haim... I really did forget the guy existed. But now, thanks to this EW article, his memory has completely infested my psyche and won't soon go away:

Q&A with License to Drive star Corey Haim
The former teen star tells EW about his trademark smirk and staying in touch with Corey Feldman
by Mandi Bierly

The Special Edition of "the Coreys" comedy License to Drive gave EW an excuse to call up the ever-earnest 33-year-old "Haimster" in his native Toronto

In his commentary, director Greg Beeman describes you as at the peak of your power. What was your power?
I'm assuming he means my adlibbing. It's one of my special things that I feel maybe I was just born with. I can turn a "Hey, nice to see you" into "Hey, what's up? What's goin' down, man? Good to see you" and kind of make it more real.

He also refers to you as "one of the best-driving actors I've ever worked with."
I've always had a knack for hitting the mark perfectly. Even when I'm walking or running, I'm very good at not having to look down. And I've done everything, including snowboarding [in 1996's Snowboard Academy]. That was the hardest to hit my mark on.

In your interview, you express some regret over your slack jaw.
I had a bad problem. At the premiere, Cloris Leachman came up to me and said, "You know, that smirk you have is cute, but sometimes it looks a little fake." And I'm like, "Well, hey, that's my smile, you know. Thanks." And she was like, "Well, I would definitely do something about the opening of the mouth. You can practice closing it a little more." That comment really helped me.

Do you still do it?
[Yells] Ma, do I keep my mouth open still? [She answers no.]

When was Corey Haim at his best?
I would say Lucas. I'm not one of these actors who, like, get Method on ya. But for me to turn into a nerd, who is much smarter than he should be and has a different way of looking at life, it was the most Method. That and Silver Bullet, where I'm a paraplegic.

What's the biggest misconception about Coreys Haim and Feldman?
People are actually mistaking me for him. I'm not sayin' I'm any better than him. But I just don't see how it's possible: He's got very dark hair and he's very much an American. I'm blond and very much a Canadian. How can there be a question of who's who? But I'm sure it happens to a lot of people with the same name.

Will the Coreys work together again?
If we do another movie one day, I just hope there won't be any competition, because there will be none coming from me. I love the kid. To this day, if I call him, he'll be like, "Who's this?" And I'll be like, "Haimster." He's like, "What's up?" "What's up, Feldog?" It's all good.

Oh, where to begin? Several things jump out at me immediately:

1) Corey Haim's misguided notion that he possesses anything remotely resembling good improv skills

2) How sad is it when even Corey Fucking Feldman says, "Who's this?"

3) Corey Haim not only lives with his mother at age 33 but he needs her to verify that he's a big boy who's learned to close his mouth

4) Which brings me to the Cloris Leachman comment... I'm not sure telling someone to stop catching flies can or should actually be considered valuable acting advice. OMG, can you imagine if Corey Haim ever won an award? His acceptance speech might go a little something like this:

"And to Cloris Leachman... I can't say enough about her. The day she said to me, 'You there! Stop that peeing in those bushes! And leave your nose alone! What? Are you digging for gold?' Well, that was just a turning point. Cloris, that was so valuable and inspirational and I have only you to thank for this Cable ACE Award. You are my mentor and the next wedgie I pick (discreetly, of course) will be in your honor!"

Um, this is starting to get into crazy Peppermint Patty territory. On that note, good night everybody!

on movies and molestation

Today's IM conversation with Jess...

Jess: Did you see Capturing the Friedmans?

Yours Truly: Yes

Jess: I watched it last night. I have to say, yes, I believe they were both pedophiles who did something, but those stories were beyond outlandish. What did you think?

YT: I think it's like the Michael Jackson case -- guilt + opportunism. Neither side is innocent

Jess: I found that one reporter's take on the mass hysteria angle really interesting. It made me think of The Crucible

YT: What really struck me was that it was supposed to be a documentary about a party clown and then the filmmaker realized the family history and focused on that instead

Jess: Oh, I didn't know that

YT: Yeah, that guy was like THE party clown of the NYC spoiled kids birthday party circuit

Jess: He looked like a pretty lame clown. No makeup, even

YT: I KNOW!!! He looked like Michael Musto but with bigger glasses

Jess: He was in serious denial about his family

YT: When I was watching it, I kept thinking of the original goal of the film. I didn't dwell on the whole pepdophilia thing. Instead, I got hung up on the question: "Who would in their right mind would want to do a documentary on clowns of all things?"

Jess: I thought it was really creepy how the son wanted to film everything. But at the same time, it was an interesting study into what happens to a family when something like that happens

YT: I need to see it again. I saw it when it first opened so some of the details are fuzzy

Jess: I didn't realize there was such a boom in false allegations in child sex abuse cases in the 80s. I would like to read a book about the phenomenon

YT: I blame it on all of those "very special episodes" of Diff'rent Strokes, Blossom, Growing Pains, etc. Once Dudley got felt up, that's when the dam burst and accusations started flying left and right. It can all be traced back to Dudley.

long before ben and liv stunk up the screen...

Jami Gertz and Dylan McDermott once starred in a film entitled Jersey Girl. I do believe it was one of those straight-to-video jobs... and with good reason. I discovered it at a video store years back and even though I knew it would be wretched, I rented it because sometimes I like to be enraged. And sure enough, it did the trick.

You know, I always liked Jami Gertz. I simply adore the scene in Sixteen Candles where she cuts Caroline's hair after it gets stuck in the door. It kills me. And hello, she was in Square Pegs!! That garners mucho props from me. I've even issued Tracy Nelson a lifetime free pass because she starred in that beloved short-lived sitcom. But despite Jami's impressive 80s pedigree, I still haven't quite forgiven her for this film.

In between loads of laundry and Swiffering my tiny wee studio, I plopped down on my couch to watch a bit of TV this afternoon. I stumbled upon Jersey Girl on WE and because I'm a masochist, I watched it through to the end. Hell, I even paused it when I had to retrieve my second load from the dryer. I figured that maybe this time around I'd find some redeeming quality or that I'd hate it less perhaps. Yeah, age has not mellowed my response to this piece of crap. It's horrid, absolutely horrid.

In a nutshell, Jami's character, Toby, is a cheeseball preschool teacher who lives in Bloomfield, NJ and has it bad for "classy" Sal (Dylan McDermott) from Manhattan. To Toby and, judging by the script, all residents of New Jersey, Sal is THE bastion of taste and refinement. He's the reason all Jerseyites should slouch and feel inadequate. Um, I should add that McDermott's character is a salesman originally from Queens. To those of you who haven't been, Queens is just like New Jersey but without all the tolls and with better Greek food. Let's not kid ourselves here.

Of course Toby has a pile of petrified hair atop her scalp, tawks like dis and is loathe to attach the letter "r" or the suffix "ing" to words requiring them. Can I just say that I grew up about 10-15 minutes east of Bloomfield (closer to NYC if you're doing the mental cartography) and while I exhibit a regional dialect, I DO NOT SOUND LIKE THAT!!!! Even worse, Jami Gertz's attempt at an accent sucked. It was all over the place with bits of stereotypical Jersey interspersed with something resembling a Midwestern accent. Sure enough, I just looked Jami up on IMDB and she's from Chicago. I knew it! The dialect coach and screenwriter on this project deserve to be taken out back and worked over. I'd give them both a tour of Jersey they wouldn't soon forget, let me tell you.

What REALLY pissed me off was the movie's recurring theme that everyone in NJ feels inferior to their New York neighbors. Um, do those of you outside the NY area know that Staten Island is part of New York City? Not just New York state -- NEW YORK CITY. It's a borough just like Manhattan and it smells, has garbage dumps, dirty beaches and loud people who wear pinky rings. The same can be said for parts of Brooklyn, the Bronx and Queens, while I'm at it.

Now granted, I had a bit of an inferiority complex when I lived in NJ and I've since moved to NYC but that's just me. Trust me when I tell you that there are residents of my home state who don't give a fuck what goes on in New York. In fact, they'd rather eat a steaming shit sandwich than cross the Hudson. And they're fine with it. They're not in awe of New York nor are they intimidated. They just don't care. It's not my way necessarily but more power to them, I say. As a matter of fact, I will gladly join them in giving the old Jersey Wave to anyone who disdainfully uses the term B&T (bridge and tunnel) to describe them. People like that can bite me. Hard.

Oooooooooh, look at me getting all pissy and protective of my homeland! I think I might just have to go get me some Coors Light to wash down my macaronis and gravy while I rock out to "Badlands." Dirty Jerzee REPRESENT!