Bad Advice

F Train to Famousville!

Why looky who's sitting there on the F train—it's Will Janowitz, more commonly known as Finn, Meadow's boyfriend, in The Sopranos! My goofball boyfriend surreptitiously took a photo of him (at least I hope the poor guy didn't notice), but this one's a little less blurry. It's been quite a couple weeks for celebrity sightings—first Jude Law, now Will Janowitz (I didn't actually know his name, I had to look it up). I've always been really bad at spotting famous people, but maybe my skills are improving. I'm hoping Star Jones Reynolds is next. I'll be on the lookout.

Vacation!

Despite having the world's cheapest apartment, I'm still too broke to go anywhere this summer. So today, I'm cutting out of work early and heading out to Coney Island with a few friends. I plan on setting aside The Plan and having a hot dog and quite possibly some fries. I will definitely have a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles.

In other news, a friend's mom died last month and so yesterday she opened her mail and found that the funeral home had sent her a laminated bookmark to commemorate the occasion. The handy little item was decorated with an angel on one side and her mom's relevant dates on the other. It struck me as seriously funny at first, then I recalled that when my mom died, I didn't get shit! Okay, the people at my office gave me an ABC Carpet and Home gift certficate (which was kind, but kind of confusing—would they have gone for Barney's if I'd lost my dad?), but the funeral home didn't send dick. I would've at least enjoyed a "My Mom Died and All I Got was this Lousy T-Shirt" shirt!

What would you consider an appropriate mom-is-dead promotional item?

Rise Above!

Wasn't I amused when I read the following in the latest Popbitch:

Christina Aguilera has always had a diva attitude - arriving hours late for everything, big demands, feuds with everyone from Mariah to Kelly Osbourne.

Now with the release of her new album she's learned a new trick. During promo interviews she's refused to look at any journalist. Instead, the diva insists that the interview, for which she's usually two to four hours late, takes place in a dimly lit room, where she sits and stares in the other direction completely to the journalists while they ask, and she answers, questions.

I thought it was funny because when I interviewed alleged man-of-the-peeps, Henry Rollins, he pulled basically the same stunt. True, he wasn't late, nor did he demand the lights be turned down low, but the guy would not make eye contact; choosing instead to stare off into the distance. Do you have any idea how unnerving it is to try to talk to someone who won't look at you? Because I'm very shy, I always get nervous before interviews anyway. So at first, I got really insecure. Maybe he won't look at me because I'm ugly. Maybe he thinks I'm stupid.

But after a while, it started to piss me off. I'd been going to see Black Flag since I was around 17 or 18, including one memorable show at Great Gildersleeves where he was rocking a boner most of the night. I'd actually slogged through several of his books and for once was extremely well-prepared for an interview. Who did he think he was?!? I decided to force the issue.

We were sitting next to each other on a sofa and so I kept leaning up and around him, like some sort of goony freak, trying to make eye contact. Neither of us said anything, but he kept turning his head further the other way, valiently trying (and succeeding) to elude my gaze. At one point I was twisted around so far towards him that my ass started to slip off the couch. I caught myself from falling and then caught myself from caring. I ended the interview and wrote some crappy story for some crappy magazine. I hate doing celebrity profiles. Especially when it's with someone you used to admire. They inevitably (except for Joe Strummer!) disappoint.

Harumph!

I enjoy getting feedback from people kind enough to read my blog. As I know most of you anyway, it's always nice to catch-up. I was out with the lovely Kate Crane recently and she requested more photos of Mabel the Cat.  Here you go, Kate! My pleasure!

But not all the requests I receive are so kind. Ahem. Two (count 'em!) different friends called me today for the sole purpose of saying "enough with The L Word already! Apparently these two find my "obsession" (their word, not mine!) a little unsettling. Confusing, even. But have either of them ever watched the show?  No.

So for now I will ignore their cruel taunts and keep on keepin' on, irregardless (Ha! I know that's not a word, but I also know it'll drive one of my critics nuts!) of how they feel about my ladies.

Also, this is the cutest video ever. Follow the WOW instructions and get to minute three.

I Can Finally Justify Writing Off My Cable Bill!

My latest Seattle column is up. I hope the woman who wrote me isn't annoyed that I used The L Word as a metaphor for her relationship. It's not that I think all lesbians are like my TV friends; I just get so excited when I can reference my favorite show!

Next season—which, sadly, won't begin airing until January—will feature several new cast members. (Dana's tennies will be difficult to fill!) I can't say I'm exactly thrilled about this turn of events. Cybill Shepard will play Bette's married (to a man) boss who, two kids later, suddenly starts questioning her sexuality. Snore. This plot point reminds me of those irritating flashback sequences they run at the beginning of each episode, which doesn't bode well as far as keeping my interest goes. Though I suppose now that Tina's back to being a pole-smoker, it's only fair someone from the other side switches teams.

Marlee Matlin will appear as a "fiery artist" who I'm betting is Bette's new love interest. Maybe they're prison cellmates because it sure looks like Bette's heading for the big house after absconding with baby what's-its-face. In keeping with the show's questionable non-Latinas-playing-Latinas policy, relative unknown Janina Gavankar will play—what else—a "fiery latina" (is there any other kind?) named Papi. Yes. You read that correctly. Her character's name is Papi. Ay carmaba. With two fiery new additions, that's a whole lot of flamin' going on.

Gooooooooooooaaaallllll!!!!!!

I fully admit that I have yet to catch World Cup Fever. Yes, the players are way more attractive than baseball or football players, and the games are lots more manageable, timewise, than most American sports, but still. It's a sport. A bunch of grown men chasing a little ball around, making more money in a second than I'll make in my entire life.

But my boss loves it. He's British, so it makes sense. As we don't have cable, we watch it on the local Spanish language station. I am growing to love this channel, even though I hate sports and can only understand about five words of Español. ("Español," being one of the five).

Today we watched a beautiful, scantily clad Brazilian dancer get dryhumped by the obese host of "Gordo y Flaco" (guess which one he was), then there was this amazing soap opera called Rebelde where everyone looks like a whore! The young girl students wear slutty Catholic school skirts and seem to always be sucking on lollypops. With their badly bleached fauxhawks and pouty lips, their male counterparts look like they've been plucked from the pages of rentboy.com! And the broads I'm assuming play their mami's are even more whore-a-licious! It looks completely scandalous, but I can't understand a word. Perhaps, like most porn, it's just better that way.

NOT a Fair Trade-Off!

There are very few magazines I subscribe to anymore. Partly because I'm cheap, partly because it annoys me that I get them only after my crackhead mailman has thumbed through them. And my number-one freakass neurosis is that I hate when someone reads my magazine before I do—I'm talkin' to you, Cracky! I try to laugh this unbecoming nuttiness off, but seriously, it makes me crazy.

Like say, a friend will be over and nonchalantly pick up my new issue of Vanity Fair. I immediately tense up, but only on the inside, because how big a superspazz will I look like if I do what I want to do, which is to snatch the magazine out of their hands and clutch it to my chest, shrieking "MINE!!! MINE!!!! MINE!!!!!?" Instead, I usually try to force a grin and casually say something along the lines of "Oh, hey, I want to show you something from that fascinating Keira Knightley feature," and then grab it. Once it's in my clutches and I can quickly scan through the pages, making certain that I've seen all the photos first (if only for a split second); only then can I relax and can hand it back.

Anyway. I used to subscribe to Budget Living, but it went out of business. I loved Budget Living! It used to inspire me to do crafty projects I hardly ever finished and find cool stuff on the cheap. So when they quit publishing it, I figured my twelve bucks or whatever, was history. Apparently not. Instead, the publisher started sending me House Beautiful! WTF?!? What a crappy magazine! More to the point, it's everything Budget Living was against! Four-hundred dollar plates set out on $12,000 tables! And they're not even pretty plates and tables—they look like something your WASPy granny would covet. Yuck. Anyway, I wrote the publisher and gave them what-for. I don't particularly care if I lose my ten bucks, but I don't want that crap coming to my house. Because, being a freak, even though I hate it, I have to read it from cover to cover (before anyone else touches it; not that they'd want to!), and that's just weird.

Power Lunch!

My friend Lance was in town for the licensing show and so in-between her five-gazillion meetings, we decided to meet up for lunch. I thought the new Rosa Mexicana on 18th might be good, mostly because it's near all major subways and they have margaritas. Nothing like a midday drinky-poo to really pep a gal up.

So we sat down, and as soon as humanly possible, began stuffing our pieholes with guacamole. As we were fairly late lunchers, the place emptied out quickly. I was slurping down my pomegranate margarita when I noticed a slight guy with an ill-advised mohawk making his way to the can. Alan Cumming! I gave Lance—who lives in LA and sees celebs all the time—the head's up.

"I've seen his balls," she reported, nonchalantly. As I know he's a 'mo, I knew it wasn't due to any scandalous behavior on her part. Apparently Alan flies freebird and is fond of wearing loose-fitting shorts. Sadly, I have no scrotal sac sighting to report.

So anyway, I get over the giddiness of that star sighting when I happen to look over and see Jude Law sitting in the corner, eating lunch with a bulbous-headed man. Jude Law! I used to love him, back in the Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil days. Ever since Alfie and the divorce, I'm finding him kind of pukey, but still. Jude Law! So anyway, there's Jude Law and suddenly there's Sienna Miller too! Some sort of celebrity trifecta! He put on a fedora (um, because it's 100 degrees out and nothing keeps you cooler than a felt hat?) and she was wearing some ghastly sundress and a hair don't.

But the most important thing we learned during our big, celebrity-packed lunch was that Alan Cumming is an excellent tipper. Apparently he used to be a service professional and knows his way around a gratuity. In sharp contrast, Jude Law & Co. completely STIFFED the waitstaff!!!! Sure, they paid their bill, but didn't leave a cent for their waiter. I realize his career has been a little toilet-bound lately, but it's my belief that if you can't afford to tip, you should stay in your luxury hotel room and mine the mini-bar for sustenance.

(Oh, and I later tried to convince my boyfriend that Jude fingered me during lunch, but he didn't buy it.)

Open House!

Last night, for entertainment purposes only, myself and blogger Red Sauce, attended an open house for a new super-ugly development in Williamsburg, called "Roebling Square at North Eighth." Yikes. For almost a million bucks you too can live in a building more aesthetically suited to a small town in Maryland. True, the closets were large, but the bathrooms were kind of ugly and small. The deck on the penthouse was nice enough, but the Juliet balconies on some of the other places (755k!!!!) were a joke. Really, unless you're expecting Romeo to stumble out of K&M Bar on the corner, what's the point?

Astonishingly enough (to me, anyway), most of the units were sold. If the partygoers were any indicator, the majority of my new neighbors appear to be smug parents and their precious-wecious infants, who looked like they'd be better suited to small town Maryland themselves. And yes, I realize how snotty that sounds.

"Hey! Mr. President!"

My friend Jules is the white house reporter for the Houston Chronicle. Today, Media Bistro's Fishbowl had the fine, fine taste to interview her. Check it out—Jules is fuh-nee!

The interview is great, but I don't know why she gave them that boring, professional photo to use. It hardly reflects her fun-having, sassy side. If I were in charge, I would've sent them this one. . . the always professional gal reporter, freshening up her gloss on a marine-manned helicopter. Either that, or the hot cleavage shot I forced her to take back when she was scamming for dudes on Nerve. Mrow!