So You Think You Can Dress

Aside from the sundeck at my gym and frozen yogurt from the Plaza Hotel, one of my favorite guilty pleasures of summer is So You Think You Can Dance, and by that I mean the weekly fashion disaster that is Cat Deeley.  With fly away hair and garish makeup, Cat has never met an ill-fitting sparkly dress she didn't like, and I fucking love her!  The producers should seriously just get rid of the dancers and that screaming lunatic Mary Murphy and give me weekly Cat Deeley and her starter kit starlet glamor until my head explodes or the kids go back to school, whichever comes first.  My friend Rick and I managed to catch up with Cat at Rockefeller Center, looking so uncharacteristically low key we almost didn't recognize her, and she couldn't have been nicer, posing for photos, signing his Poloroid (www.portroids.com) and even saying 'judges' for me, and if you watch the show you get why that put a smile on my face and if you don't then shame on you!  For more of Cat and her proud-mother-at-the-quinceañera finest, tune in to the season premiere of So You Think You Can Dance, tonight at 8 on Fox.

Celebrity Kitchen Sink

When I was a kid my grandparents used to take my brother and I to Aunt Janet's, which despite the name was not the house of a shut in relative (we had those, just not named Janet) but an old fashioned ice cream parlor where waitresses in Little House on the Prairie hoop skirts and bonnets served ice cream sundaes in those metal stands and fake crystal plates you don't see anymore because we're all in such a damn hurry to take our frozen yogurt home to watch American Idol rather than having a civilized social experience in public.  Aunt Janet's had this sundae called the kitchen sink, which was six scoops of ice cream, hot fudge, caramel, nuts, sprinkles, bananas, whipped cream, cherries and anything else in the kitchen that was about to go bad, which sounded ominous and fascinating to my adolescent mind (A sundae in a sink!  Wow!) but was really just foreplay to a lifetime battle with diabetes and 45 minutes on the treadmill every day for the rest of your life.  This post is that sundae - a little bit of everything before it all goes bad.

First up is Allison Janney, who won some awards back in the day for some TV show I never watched but was fabulous as Loretta in Drop Dead Gorgeous, and if you've never seen that movie shame on you!  Add it to your Netflix queue immediately!  You'll thank me later.

Minnie Driver was in town to promote something I don't care about (seriously, I don't care) and I'm not sure what it is, but something about her annoys me.  I think it's the hair.

I don't know what Marlon Wayans was promoting, but he wrote White Chicks and all those Scary Movie movies so I'm sure it's very deep.

Janelle Monae is some singer who clearly didn't get the message that wearing black gloves strictly for fashion purposes is only okay if you're going to pull them off one finger at a time while singing a torch song in a giant martini glass, which she did not do

while Zooey Deschanel extended her bullshit hipster hustle with a Tommy Hilfiger capsule collection, officially jumping the shark from quirky to annoying right there in Times Square.  I'll never understand why actors need to sing and singers need to act and anyone who wears clothes feels qualified to design them when they should all just stick to whatever made them famous in the first place and stop being such greedy motherfuckers!

But I give mad respect to Adrien Brody, who looks a little like a cartoon sketch you get drawn of you at the fair and was so excited to accept his Oscar that he basically assaulted Halle Berry on national television, although after Catwoman someone needed to.

Wish You Were Here (Not Really)!

OMG you guys!  Sorry to neglect you for so long but it's been a crazy week!  I just got back from Kim and Kanye's wedding, and what a fucking circus that was!  First I had to fly all the way to Paris for lunch with Valentino (artichoke hearts salad and poached eggs, baked sea bass and a sugar free cake with 'Kim & Kanye' decorated with arrows and hearts - not tacky at all!) and I don't even wear Valentino!  Then there was the rehearsal dinner at Versailles (Bitch, it's your third wedding!  What do you need to rehearse? ) before we were all herded on a plane to Florence for the charade pre-divorce ceremony.  Kim wore white, ignoring the first two marriages and the sex tape that made her famous, and that baby of hers was nowhere to be found, but don't worry they'll Photoshop her into the pictures later.  Speaking of pictures, Kris Jenner showed her strong pimp hand, banning cameras and cell phones, so you'll all just have to watch the staged happiness and pure tackiness unfold on Throwing Up with the Kardashians next season.

After my nausea subsided I called a friend with a private jet to pick me up and take me to Molly Sims's party in the Hamptons.  Guy Fieri did the food, there was plenty of Ramona pinot grigio, and nobody took my camera away.

Happy Memorial Day.

"You're Heather Graham!"

Remember that episode of Sex and the City when Carrie stopped obsessing over shoes long enough to obsess over Nina Katz, that bitch who dated Aidan after they broke up?  Remember when she and Stanford ran into Nina and Heather Graham at the farmer's market and Stanford had to take Heather for a hot pretzel so Carrie and Nina could talk, and then Stanford came back five minutes later when he and Heather ran out of things to talk about?  Well, that was me the other night, but without the pretzel.

Presented Without Comment, Angelina Jolie

Because there are no words....

80's Music Monday

There are certain songs that get into your DNA, transporting you to another time or place whenever you hear them.  I can't hear Stand Back without flashing back to a cracked out after hours party in the ballroom of the Renaissance Hotel Palm Springs, my friend Andy and I twirling around the room on ecstasy in ecstasy while Stevie Nicks assured us it was all right, all right.  And the guitar opening of Sweet Child O' Mine puts me back at my friend Mike's house on Chautauqua Lake just before high school graduation, a group of friends drinking our first beers and certain we'd always be friends while dreaming of what college was like.

Every time I hear Take My Breath Away I'm in the movie theater in Batavia, New York watching Top Gun with my cousins Gina and Christopher, who weren't really my cousins at all but my mom's cousin Jackie's kids, which I guess makes them my second cousins or something like that, making it okay for us to get married and have kids that weren't mongoloids if we were so inclined and I wasn't gay and hated kids.  Which is really just a long way to say here's Terri Nunn from Berlin.

And then there are the songs that get stuck in your head for whatever reason and just keep playing over and over and over again like some kind of musical Groundhog Day until you're willing to deal with a lifetime of drooling and eating your meals through a straw to have the lobotomy that will get a piece of shit like Jessie's Girl out of your head for good.

March of the Gingers

I recently took one of those 'Which Sex & the City Girl Are You?' quizzes that a former friend of mine posted on facebook, and after answering about a million random questions that had nothing to do with Sex & the City or my personality (What do you think Katy Perry's farts smell like?  My answer: cotton candy and chiclets.) it was determined that I'm Miranda, the cynical, career minded, least fashionable, unlucky in love girl who gets knocked up by her on again-off again boyfriend with one testicle.  Of course I am!  Who needs a quiz to tell me that?  Anyway, here I am with my alter ego outside the Today Show

where I was patiently waiting for Gillian Anderson, who probably hasn't had a peaceful bowel movement in months and was a lot less pleasant than at NY Comic-Con, where she happily posed for photos with fans willing to cough up $70 because being squeezed for money by someone whose work you admire isn't disillusioning at all!

Another ginger with a lot more soul is Connie Britton, who stole my heart in the first season of American Horror Story by giving birth to Satan's baby after having sex with a man in a gimp suit who silently wandered into her bedroom, assuming it was her husband.  C'mon!  We've all made THAT mistake!

So good in The Help (and so pointless in Crazy, Stupid Love, which should have been an hour and a half of Ryan Gosling naked with a soundtrack), Emma Stone was in town this week to promote The Amazing Spiderman 2, while somewhere in the VIP section of an afterhours club in the meatpacking district, Lindsay Lohan was sticking pins in a voodoo doll while mumbling "It should be me...it should be me" softly to herself.

Now if only Prince Harry were in town.....