Thursday, May 29, 2008

Anthony Bourdain is very mean.

He is also very funny.

He guests blogs about the state of the Food Network and kills. My favorite line is about my personal BĂȘte noire, Sandra Lee:

"This frightening Hell Spawn of Kathie Lee and Betty Crocker seems on a mission to kill her fans, one meal at a time."

Pretty much sums it up, right? Read the rest here.


Monday, May 26, 2008

The Things You Find on the Internets...

Cruising IMDB I found a link to watch the full length version of this new movie (albeit in a postage stamp sized window) based upon the book about the murder of socialite Barbara Baekeland at the hand of her disturbed son, Tony.  Savage Grace was also a book, which I read back in the day.  Having read it I cannot think how they were going to make it into a movie: without giving too much away Tony and Barbara have a relationship that Tennessee Williams would blanch at, and the movie doesn't shy away from any of it.  Julianne Moore is, as ever, wonderful, bringing grace and compassion to this tragic woman.  When it comes out I will go see it since it's a gorgeous looking movie, but much like the book, I will want to dry-clean my brain after.

Oh, and Julianne, two words: Light Comedy.  Now, before you become the female Jeremy Irons...

Monday, May 19, 2008

And yet another whinge..

(albeit a short one)

There is a fast food chain out here (Koo Koo Ro0, a "healthy" chicken place that's one of my favorites) that insists upon calling it's customers "guests".  As in, the bored teenager who opens a register to take your order listlessly calls out "Next guest, please"

I know that some MBA out there most likely made it to VP with this bright idea, but you know what?  I am not your guest.  I am paying you.  Were I a guest I would not do that, and I certainly would not ask you to put my dressing on the side.  I am your customer.  As your guest, I hope for your hospitality and culinary skills and are willing to pay for it with lively conversation and not sharing the information that I had chicken for lunch.  As your customer I am paying you in cold hard filthy lucre, and am willing to be vocal in my demands.  Both deserve respect, and deserve restaurant chains that know the difference...

Thursday, May 15, 2008

My dear Marina has a second blog, a post on which reminded me of a story...

Back in the 80's I worked in food service, first at Dean & Deluca and then after my return from the Olympics at a shop on the Upper East Side near Bloomingdales.  That unseasonably sultry Thanksgiving  long holiday weekend they were of course going to close and were getting rid of a bunch of caviar that would not be fresh enough for sale after three days.  Well, I or course manfully thrust myself between this bounty of free Beluga,  bought a cold one of DP (god love them, they gave it to me wholesale) and headed off to my hovel in the East Village.  To find that my roommates had hightailed it out of town because the power had gone out in the neighborhood.  Leaving me with three kinds of soon-to-be-botox caviar and a bottle of soon-to-be-warm Dom.

Did you need to ask that I ate what I could, drank the DP and slept the sleep of the righteous, knowing the neighborhood kitties were being given the best Thanksgiving possible?

Image: Petrossian

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Madonna is very defined

I wish my arms were that defined. I wish my stomach was that flat.

Is that a bodyguard behind her? What for? She looks like she could pummel you for hours and not break a sweat! I think I'd rather tangle with him.

I'm going to log off now and join a Pilates class

Image: The internets

Never send a straight man in to do a gay mans job...

Even a quick trip to IMDB would tell you that it's spelled "Mommie"

Joan would be furious! Although I think more at the placement; Joan never allowed second-best...

image: Los Angeles Times

Sunday, May 04, 2008

Writing a new post on Marina's perfume blog, I was reminded of one of the star sightings I had years ago.

It was a sweltering hot day in Beverly Hills: that pounding heat that we rarely get with just enough humidity to make one want to die.  At the time I still was piloting the Pansymobile: a 1988 Chrysler leBaron convertible with no AC.  Usually that wasn't really a problem in LA, this week it was.  It was too hot to put the top down and have the sun on me yet driving a black car was almost worse.

In any case, despite the fact that I was broiling (like the unfortunate guy in the Susan Lucci clip below) I did stay stopped at the stop sign at Canon and Clifton to let the woman at the corner cross the street.  In this sweltering heat she was dressed in a bottle green suit that couldn't have shouted "Chanel Couture" louder if it had the customs form stapled to it: lustrous green with lavender piping, perfectly fitted to accent her still-lovely figure, matching pumps and bag with quilting and those Chanel tassels, perfectly done cocktails-at-five makeup and short black hair blown out large enough to conceal the small Carrier AC unit I was convinced she must have concealed in there to actually wear hose on a day like this and not just spontaneously combust.

Giving me a charming smile to acknowledge my stop, she minced across the street as well as her high heels and and fitted skirt would allow her.  Her head was held high with an expression on her face of expectation of something nice to come; her eyebrows were slightly raised and lips were slightly pursed as if to form a delighted "oh!" of glee at whatever wonderful little surprise was awaiting her around the corner.

It was Joan Collins.  More to the point it was Old Hollywood.  It was last bastion of the ethos Joan Crawford lived by, where a star looks like a star, no matter what.  "If you want to see the girl next door, go next door"  It was wonderful.

There were two beleaguered looking tourists, large of thigh wearing leggings and sweat-stained oversized t-shirts, who perhaps not knowing who she was since she had her back to them watched the metronome progress of her raw-silk clad hips across Canon Drive with disdain.  They crossed Clifton with one arm raised as if they were holding their own Chanel bag, imitating her walk as well as their meaty thighs would allow.

I wanted to run them over.

Friday, May 02, 2008

Apologies to Safari users

I'm sorry if you cannot see the deathless prose from my own blog entry in Safari on the last entry with the YouTube clip.  At least I can't see it.  Complain to Apple and use FireFox, say I.

This is the opening of a true howler: "Invitation to Hell"; an 80's shocker from Wes Craven before he hit it big with " A Nightmare on Elm Street". A mish-mash of "The Stepford Wives" and "Rosemary's Baby", this features Robert Urich and Joanna Cassidy as a couple who move into the the house seen previously in "Poltergeist" with their two kids so he can work on a new space suit that will be used by NASA to visit the superheated surface of Venus. It can also shoot lasers and has a built in flame-thrower, as well as detect non-human life forms. For those of you who have never seen a movie before this is called "foreshadowing". But the real star is Susan Lucci as the Devil herself. This Devil doesn't wear Prada: she wears big-shouldered jumpsuits she stole from the set of "V" and hair bigger than a Chrysler. As this clip shows, you don't go mow down La Lucci with your craptastic K-car wagon and live to tell the tale....

Yes, it's available at Netflix and I recommend it. The scene where the newly-evil Miss Cassidy mauls Urich is laugh-out-loud funny (he mewls like a starlet on the casting couch as she grinds him as much as is acceptable for "family night" and visibly blanches at her intentions), and is capped by him playing the next morning scene exactly like Mia Farrow in the Polanski movie. One half expects Miss Cassidy to remark that she didn't want to miss "baby night" and Ruth Gordon to pop in with his blender drink.

Go rent this right now!

Thanks to Robin at NowSmellThis for pointing it out..