Double Zs

It’s Ziyi Zhang’s birthday today which may mean absolutely nothing to you, but for me, it’s a momentous occasion that recalls the time, many moons ago, when I was working in a Beverly Hills boutique and wondering why 2 Bachelors degrees were only earning me the price-of-a-latte more an hour than minimum wage. Just as I was about to slice the underside of my forearm with a boxcutter to escape having to hear Annie Lennox’s Walking in a Winter Wonderland again, in walks dear Ziyi – head slightly larger than cinema might have you believe, if I recall accurately – with her immaculately coiffed mommy and equally refined entourage of aunties. Sooner than later I’m ringing her up for an emerald green cashmere sweater while she and her mother graciously thank me. And as I tell her the total she takes out her credit card, places it gently in my palm and softly, demurely, adorably says: “My cod looks so smor in yo hanz” thus making me a fan for life.

Just for Hymn

Yesterday I had the esteemed pleasure of attending an exquisitely performed classical guitar concert (http://giacomolavita.com/) outside of Manhattan – and if you’ve never heard classical guitar, it’s like taking every element of classical music, whittling it down to perfection, and making you feel like you have the luckiest ears on the planet. The concert took place in a church and, while waiting for the concert to commence, I decided to keep my mind preoccupied not with tedious Facebook status updates pertaining to my current location and humorous queries as to whether lighting would strike, but with a little game taught to me by my dear, dear grandmother.

From an early age, I found that church rapidly transformed from being a place that made you feel so guilty that the PR girls in heaven just might have you on their list, to a place where the greatest challenge was to not let your I’m-in-a-place-where-it-is-socially-unacceptable-to-laugh-so-I-HAVE-to-laugh giggles become too audible. This challenge was made greater for my sisters and I by my grandmother who thought it useful to teach her grandchildren to thumb through the hymn book and add “Beneath the Sheets” after each song title so as to muss up the stuffy, sterile sanctity we were enduring. Having been absent from church since I can’t remember, I was eager to play “Beneath the Sheets” - and the results were far too delightful to keep to myself.

You Are My Hiding Place Beneath the Sheets (this one is slightly creepy and I can totally see Robert Deniro saying it in some freaky movie before he does something gruesome)

How Great Thou Art Beneath the Sheets (I should have this made into a t-shirt for how many times it’s been said to me)

Look and Learn Beneath the Sheets (this is when you’ve bedded that really annoying know-it-all friend of a friend you met drunk at a party and all you want to do is forget your mistake and go to sleep so you’re halfway coherent for Saturday’s Spin class)

You, Lord, Are Both Lamb and Shepherd Beneath the Sheets (for that domineering partner who cries after the throes of passion have come to completion)

Ask, See and Knock Beneath the Sheets (you just know Jim Carrey has said this before)

Now the Feast and Celebration Beneath the Sheets (sushi, anyone?)

And my personal favorite:

Let Us Talents and Tongues Employ Beneath the Sheets

I’m thinking of playing B.T.S. when I have to do an employee evaluation next time.

“Works well with others [beneath the sheets.]”

"Shows great leadership skills [beneath the sheets.]"

"Attendance is excellent [beneath the sheets."]...

Ho-leigh Crap

It's wonderful to wake up, have a lovely long walk in empty 6:30 AM Manhattan, come home for some coffee and see that it's Jennifer Jason Leigh's birthday. Then you realize it's J J Leigh's 48th brithday. 48TH. 4. 8. As in almost 50. As in you remember her being a kid practically in The Big Picture. Then you wonder if you should opt for vodka instead of coffee to calm yourself. Or just invest in stronger eye cream. Then you go for a second walk along the Hudson while Debbie Gibson's "Foolish Beat" plays on the soundtrack until a 17 year old asks his mom who the hell is singing that crappy pop song.

I'm just saying...

CONNIE STEVENS

VS

CARRIE UNDERWOOD

Shore Thing

The Jersey Shore, as far as I’m concerned, has single-handedly breathed attention-whoring life into an otherwise dusty creature lacking the social significance it once had in the 90s - read: MTV. The show not only introduced us to tanned creatures rarely seen outside of Joe Pesci films, SNL skits, and the Hot Topics of malls lining the Garden State Parkway, but also infused our daily vernacular with a fleet of unforgettable nicknames, catch-phrases, noises, and words sometimes only understood with the help of subtitles.

One such nickname that quickly became a household name was The Situation. Jersey Shore character, Michael Sorrentino, dubbed himself The Situation based solely on the fact that his ridiculously and unnaturally ripped abdominals [meant to draw attention away from his chubby face and bulbous nose] weren’t so much a physical attribute as “a situation” in which ladies often thrillingly found themselves. And now, wisely, Sorrentino has decided he’d like to trademark the name The Situation so that he can bank while the banking’s good by selling paraphernalia (underwear, tennis wear, bathing suits, etc.) featuring his now well-known nickname. My initial thought was unstoppable laughter . This evolved into a hardy “ewwww” which eventually became thoughts of whether or not Sorrentino would also venture to emblazon his name on Ed Hardy hats, half football jerseys, steroid vials, fake tan enhancement spray bottles, and Olive Garden gift certificates. But, you know, if he’s going to do this, why don’t the other housemates cash in, too? I’ve taken the liberty of making a few suggestions for them:

J-Woww – I see a line of bras that aid in the appearance of gravity-defying breasts. Awww, hell. Let’s call an ace and ace and create a line of implants called “Extra W.” You don’t need ‘em, but she didn’t need that extra “W” in Woww and look how well it’s worked for her on The Shore.

Snooki – The possibilities are endless. Namely, I see a convergence of the Snuggie and Snooki, a sort of ridiculous housecoat that not only promises to keep you warm, but also aids in displaying buoyant cleavage and a design that won’t prohibit you from snatch flashing everyone after a couple of tequila shots in front of the fire.

DJ Pauly D – Hair product promotion would be too predicatable, too gauche. So I think he should work the quasi-homonym angle and pitch a cooking show with Paula Dean and Pauly D, calling it Two Ps In a Pod. They’ll do such things as prepare a ham hocks stuffed with butter and bacon and show how the egg whites and butter you’ll later use to prepare the deep-fried chocolate pecan torte for dessert number 3 can also be used to create self standing hairstyles right on par with J-Woww’s breasts in terms of gravity defiance.

I wonder if the others are remorseful for not hopping on the nickname bandwagon. Vinny seems too level-headed for such nonsense (he admittedly despises the daily guido routine his housemates follow of GTL – Gym, Tan, Laundry), but hot-headed Ronnie could have easily been Bruiser or Napole[on], and Sam with her lovely aura of bland, vapid, brattiness, could totally have been known as Twitter…or Spaniel-ina…or Sausage Sam. Just a thought.

Well Wishes, Willow

Warwick Davis celebrates his birthday today. If you don’t know who that is, you either 1) Have avoided the Harry Potter films like the plague 2) didn’t see The Leprechaun or 3) didn’t pay close enough attention to the credits of the film, Willow. And if you have no idea what Willow is, then clearly you are not part of the elite group of students who were made fun of in school for their peculiar interests in fantasy films that helped them forget how uncomfortable it was to walk across the cafeteria in junior high, convinced that everyone was probably staring at them and wondering why they were such a loser wearing Gap Jeans instead of glamorous Z Cavariccis.

What the Oscar is Going On?

Regarding the Oscar Nominations announced this morning amidst the hubbub of Punxsutawney Phil's annual shadow chasing, I'm gonna need to catch my breath at the fact that A Single Man didn't receive a nomination for Cinematography, Art Direction, or Costuming. Seriously. It's a visual orgasm. Who the hell is the Academy? I don't get it. I just. Don't. Get. It. At least darling Colin Firth is recognized, I guess.

And now I bring you Exhibit A of the ignorant idiocy of an only fleetingly well-spoken Academy: the trailer for A Single Man:

Lady Grammy

At the 52nd Annual Grammy Awards last night the…wait. Oops. I have no idea because I didn’t watch it. I was in a post champagne brunch swirl of frivolity, dabbling at drawing a scene from the French Revolution as re-enacted by cats, listening to my niece sing The Carpenters over the phone, and finishing a made for SyFy TV movie about miniature tornadoes destroying Manhattan. Luckily I DVR’d the whole glittery awards hurrah so I can soberly partake in the plethora of sartorial milestones in Gaga’s wardrobe tonight. Oh, and in Beyonce’s record-breaking number of awards or whatever she’s noted as doing now.

Brazilian Gags

Nine months after sort-of-douchey, sort-of-super-hot NE Patriots Quarterback, Tom Brady, knocked her up, modelicious glamazon Gisele Bundchen gave birth…in a bathtub, thus successfully ruining the ability of any straight man to have any sort of decent fantasy excluding floating afterbirth about her ever ever ever EVER again.

Mother Trucker

A truck driver in Lowell, Massachusetts, has just reportedly choked on some value menu Wendy’s chili, passed out, and crashed into a home. The driver, luckily wasn’t injured but might receive a citation for eating while driving because of the incident. This doesn’t sound like a newsworthy story to me so much as a Saturday night out in rural Texas. And I’m supposing the report doesn’t tell us how he was eating the chili to sober up after the 7 whiskeys he guzzled when Myrlene Juggs, the red-headed exotic dancer and bartender at Bo Bob’s Gentleman’s Club and BBQ Buffet off Country Road 10, refused a date with him for the 35th time on account of she’s still technically married to Deputy Clem Watkins and he’s a real jealous type.

It's My...BIRTH-DAYYYYYYY!

The Oprah's birthday is today. This serves as a reminder to offer a sacrificial animal to remain in her good graces so that your crops may grow, book clubs may survive her wrath, and she may bewstow gifts upon you as sponsored by Crabtree & Evelyn and Ralph Lauren.

The Queen

Apart from her remarkable, lesbian groundbreaking stint on Roseanne, I've never much thought of Sandra Bernhard as much of a film actress. However, after seeing her performance in Scorsese's The King of Comedy as an independently wealthy, whacked out nutjob psycho fan of fictional comedian Jerry Langford (as played by Jerry Lewis), I have newfound respect for her talents. Trust me...every minute of this clip is worth seeing, and the movie itself is too, if only for her portrayal of obsession (and how this scene plays out).

Kick It

Because we all need a little spice to fool us into thinking that our winter blues are melting away (unless you're on the other side of the world or live close to the equator in which case, the eastern seaboard hates you right now), here's one of the many brilliant trailers* for Kick Ass, a movie about a bunch of people who decide to become superheros even though they have no stereotypical superpowers.

This particular clip is maybe NSFW because of violence, language, and a little girl with purple hair perfectly executing the use of the C-word and the F-Word. Word?

Birthday Triptych

On this hallowed day, celebrating birthdays are Bridget Fonda, Alan Cumming, and Mimi Rogers. Why is this trio of significance?

Exhibit A: I've been told I look like Bridget Fonda (bear in mind that I have also been told I resemble Sharon Stone, Chloe Sevigny and Juliana Hatfield...and I have a penis)

Exhibit B: I've come in contact with Alan Cumming twice in my life - once, while drunkenly posing a la Parker Posey circa Party Girl at a grimy little bar in Los Feliz in front of him, and once more on an evening at Eastern Bloc in the East Village when my boyfriend brilliantly let Cumming apply chapstick on him. Ewwww.

Exhibit C: At an unfortunate retail job in Beverly Hills ages ago, I rang up Mimi as she purchased clothing for a man 20 years her junior who vaguely resembled a nutjob Scientology convert she used to be married to.

Tranny Spotting

Having a pet is fulfilling. Having a new dog is fulfilling and eventful. Having a new puppy is fulfilling and eventful and challenging. Having a new puppy in a 3rd floor walk-up in Manhattan in January is – however heavy it may be on the fulfilling part - all of these things plus extremely tiring. The tiring aspect of course comes from a poor little creature with fear of cold and rain who gives the most heart-breaking whimpers at being forced to go kiki (we refuse to say poo poo, pee pee, or potty so have opted for the more aurally reasonable kiki) out of the comfort of warmth and HDTV. But the fatigue also comes from the mental weariness in having to hear everyone give their 2 cents on how to properly train the new member of your pack.

“No soft foods! He’ll get diarrhea!” “Take him where there's dirt to go poop.” “Your dog looks really cold!” Then there are the unmindful morons who bend down to pet him or make kissy noises or brilliantly proclaim, “There’s a puppy!” right at the moment when he’s finally decided to kiki and you have to start the waiting game all over again (Remember? It’s January in New York.). Mind you, these are complete strangers on the street who would never have thought they should utter a word to me until they saw at the end of a red nylon leash an adorable little opportunity to tell me what I was doing wrong. For every one of these schmucks, there’s at least five others who are sweet, calm, collected and reasonably coo at my puppy, telling me how cute he is and wishing us many years of enjoyment. These are the people I love. One person not in this category, was a character from this weekend who upon sight of said puppy, went into a tirade of how to properly raise a dog.

Picture it: it’s damp and chilly at 2:00 AM on Sunday morning following liberal helpings of vodka and liberating moments of karaoke at a bar down the street. You come home, scoop up your dog, lead the poor yawning and bewildered little beast outside for one last go at doing his business before bed, when, lo and behold, a vision in black stops to ask directions. This vision turns out to be a glamorously attired six-foot transsexual in elegant black slacks, a shaggy black fur coat that Josephine Baker would have LOVED, a black veiled hat, and immaculately applied cosmetics. After she spots the puppy and begins her lesson in dog training, your opinion of her shifts from glamorous to unending, unwarranted gregariousness.


“Oh, honey!” she said as a South American Soap Star might say. “Oh, honey! Do you leave your dog in those cages? No! You have to leave them een the bathroom with a – what are those? – a leetle fence blocking the door.” Bathroom? Oh. Okay. No natural light. Years of bleach and other cleaners all over the floor. Loose tiles waiting to be eaten or further destroyed. Brilliant. “And you can’t put a collar in heem! No nononononononono! He needs to wear a harness thingy. Those collars are [wags finger unapprovingly while shaking head and making tsk tsk tsk noise].” Is that so? I prefer harnesses, too. But he’s too young for one according to multiple sources. Thanks, though. Anything else? “And for treats? Cheese. They loooooooooove love love love cheese. I have four Pomeranians – yays! Four!!! – and they loooove the cheese. Don’t listen to what people say. Dogs are not lactose intolerant.” Oh. Okay. I’ll just discard those organic puppy treats he seems to love and give him some gouda. That should make for some lovely excrement.

My impatience wore thin rather quickly due to the cold and her lack of good advice so when she offered pet-sitting services, it was all I could do to not snort with laughter and say “No thanks, Auntie Mame. I think we got it covered.”

I love New York.