The other morning I woke up sobbing. The nightmare that inspired such waterworks: I dreamed I'd cheated on the Large Greek with Jenny Motherfucking Schecter. Thank christ the sex part of the dream had occurred off-screen as it were, and I only had to deal with the aftermath. If I'd actually done the deed with her (even if only in my head) I'd have no choice but to reach in and scoop the dream portion of my brain out. Two days later and I'm still suffering periodic shudders.
In other news, what was up with Philip Seymour Hoffman's hair last night? You're at the Oscars, bub. Run a comb through that mess and while you're at it, shampoo is your friend. From the back—which, unfortunately I couldn't find a picture of—it appeared as though he's starting a head full of unfortunate white-boy dreads. I feel sorry for whoever got stuck sitting next to him because you could practically smell the funk through the screen. Yuck. I know PSH is all-method, all-the-time, so I can only guess he's playing a homeless guy next.
Because of the aforementioned Scary Jenny Schecter dream, I'm skipping my L Word update this week. You can read the blow-by-blow (and there was tons of sex!) at afterellen.com.
On a completely out-of-left-field note, this Guardian story on the newly re-habbed Shaun Ryder is an excellent read. In case you're thinking it's going to be some sanctimonious I-Was-Bad-Now-I'm-Good rehab claptrap, know that Shaun attributes his semi-sobriety to an alien abduction. He's not kidding either.