Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Aside from being engrossing and masterful, Good Night, and Good Luck is absolutely gorgeous, a visually sensual delight. Hopefully there will be nominations for cinematography (Robert Elswit) and art direction (Christa Munro) to go with all of Clooney’s deserved accolades.

One of Clooney’s greatest directorial accomplishments in this movie is Cigarette Continuity. There is nothing peskier than keeping the lengths of a burning cigarette consistent during take after take of a scene, and it’s the easiest blooper to spot in a film. Good Night, and Good Luck has about a thousand smokes per frame a-blazin’, yet I spotted only one overt inconsistency (when Murrow and Friendly are being admonished in Paley’s office). I’m guessing that all the group scenes were shot as continuous takes with multiple cameras, which means this troupe had to rehearse that screenplay to within an inch of daylight before a single frame was shot. All because this film borders on cigarette pornography.

Speaking of:
I spent most of the evening contemplating the film, and also worrying that maybe Clooney spends too much time glorifying the past, and longing for the past is a psychological sign of regret.

With all of these sugarplums dancing in my head, I wound up dreaming about having sex with George Clooney.
Thumbs Up!
This dream also featured the very first time I ever flew. That’s a common dream theme, but I’d yet to do so until last night’s casual float through the nighttime sky. I’m not sure if the two R.E.M. events were related, but I did remember a curious fact.

The very first MELT entry was about how George Clooney watched over me while recovering from traumatically painful surgery. Now, he returns to “relieve stress” during this abominable holiday lunacy.

Odd...Clooney has become the Saint Bernard with the tiny barrel of whiskey under his neck, bounding across the tundra to rescue me. Now, I'm not certain that the barrel would be full... he's been known to have a nip or 3 or 7. And if he's looking to have kids, he can't bark up my tree.
But I do wish him good night, good luck, and sweet dreams.

All I Want For Christmas

Starring in an upcoming movie together, Matt and Owen hit the town last night.
It's exactly this type of thing that has me howling at the moon. In a parallel universe, Matt is my ideal husband, while Owen is runner up. And then the universe conspires to bring them together

If fate has gone through this much trouble just for me, shouldn't I be there with them? Am I letting the Powers That Be down by remaining immobile in the face of this divine intervention?
Probably.

If I weren't so freaked out by this Hormonal Convergence, I would have been at that party with them last night...

We would have arrived fashionably late, eyes all a-twinkle from fruity Smirnoff drinks during the drive over. Once there, we'd have a few rounds of scotch on the rocks before carousing with guests. Twisting here, rolls of the dice there, often laughing so hard we snort like Chrissie Snow. We'd sneak outside for illicit smokes, come inside to whoopee cushion Maria Shriver, and rank on Johnny Knoxville for gettin' busy with that Jessica Simpson transvestite.

After an hour of this merriment, We 3 leave to satisy our munchies with a round of Moon Pies and Yohoos from the nearby 7-11. After procurring some Schlitz from the QT, we do beer bongs while driving up to the Hollywood sign. Once there, with headlights shining, Matt climbs atop the "D" and bellows into the night: "I'm A Golden Globe God!"

Yes, congratulations to Matt Dillon for that well-earned Best Supporting Actor Golden Globe nomination. Many an actor would have killed for that part in Crash, especially the pivotal scene which surely earned him the nomination. But it's all Matt's; no one could have done it better. Fingers crossed that he gets the award!

Marilyn Monroe Returns

On December 3rd, I got an e-mail from "abba-dabba," a business partner of the Marilyn Shrine artist Kabbaz.

I thought that art book had slammed shut, but with one small message, I knew more chapters were being written. Turns out "they" have heard of my interest in the work, gave me a link to the updated Kabbaz website, and wrote that if I liked what was done in the past, I'm really going to like what's coming up.

I was simply thrilled that they had made contact, and knew how much I loved the silent art gallery. But then with the promise of something new to come? Is this a holiday miracle?

Today, I drove by the store front and SHE'S BACK! And in fitting tribute to coming back from the dead, it's a replica of her LIFE magazine cover! Some faux marble painting was done to the display window, and when peeking in the front door, there's another painting! At the entrance there appears to be a mural of a squatting Marilyn from the remaining footage of her last (aborted) movie, Something's Got To Give.

Will it be a Marilyn Shrine Coffee House in competition with the Starbucks across the street? A restaurant? A full-blown art gallery for an artist-in-residence?
I'll wait patiently for the answer. I'm just grateful that Kabbaz and Marilyn are back. Santa came to town a little early this year.

A Hickey From Kenicke

The big news about the Long Island bat mitzvah this past weekend is not the "let them eat cake" cake angle. And, oddly enough, it's not that Stevie Nicks is no longer all that fat while Don Henley is. The biggest news is that Steven Tyler & Joe Perry have both recently had some major plastic surgery, and now look like (above, left & right) Melissa Rivers and Maria Shriver!

But that's nothing compared to:

Aside from the thought of Matt Dillon and Owen Wilson frolicking together on the beach, what truly keeps me going from day to day is landing upon news like this.

First off, it includes a child of Cher chastising someone for being a stoned jackass. She had Greg ("Disneyland on acid") Allman as a stepfather, so don't go all "prescription Benadryl" to her face.

Secondly, the D-list star melting into a quivering pile of candied yams is Olivia Newton-John's ex-brother-in-law, Jeff "f**king" Conaway!!!

Summer of 1978, Grease was most certainly the word when you were a 13-year old girl, and I loved me some Conaway. He was "hickey from" Kenicke, with fluffy, feathered-back hair. Even as I slapped up the pin-ups, I knew it was slightly inappropriate for someone that old to be in the teeny bopper magazines. Even though I adored seeing him weekly on Taxi, I knew his diet consisted of chewed scenery and hammy sandwiches.

After a putrid album (which I bought...and still own) and his divorce from Rona Newton-John, he went onto to star in the best TV movie ever, as "a bitter, emotionally crippled and washed up fellow model." He then began an illustrious career as King of B-Grade soft porn movies, then confessed his coke-whore ways before becoming a born-again Christian, then starred in a crappy syndicated sci-fi series. This is what D-list Dreams are made of!

As it stood, his resume was impressively flawless. But much like a Porsche as it winds into a dangerously sexy curve, or a swan gently gliding onto a crystal blue lake, Mr. Conaway is now perfection and grace personified.

I am now feverishly learning how to needlepoint, so I can inscribe the following onto a series of pillows:

A square, sage green velvet pillow: "I did a show called TAXI - one of the biggest shows ever!"

An oblong, lemon yellow pillow: "I supported a f**king family from the time I was 10-years-old. I went through a paedophile at seven-years-old. At three-years-old I slit my f**king wrist, so keep your f**king mouth shut."

A round, white linen pillow with sky blue tassles: "If they don't want me to be Jeff Conaway then go f**king find somebody else. I've walked off shows before and I will walk off shows again."

Walk on, Master Jeff, walk off.

The Walls Have Ears

This past Monday, after a 2-week recess, the Supreme Court re-opened for business. Just after a group of citizens made it inside to get seats for the show, a large chunk of marble fell off the building and crashed onto the stairs.

The full details of the incident are here. But what I love the most is AP's dry commentary in this paragraph:
"The piece that fell was over the figure of Authority, near the peak of the building's pediment, and to the right of the figure of Liberty, who has the scales of justice on her lap."

While the building stood relatively empty for 2 weeks, the administration faced implosion and shame. Talking heads to the left and the right filled up media space, going berserk over troubling lies and/or lame attempts to cover them up.

But nothing speaks louder than the "thud, thud" of fine Vermont marble long-bombing down onto concrete. There is something quite dramatic about that particular dentil in that exact position disengaging itself from the building at that precise moment.

This building felt it necessary to speak up, but was it commentary or prophecy? Either way, don a hard hat and listen up.

Truth Floats Away

Early Thanksgiving afternoon, I pick up a friend who tells me about seeing one of the floats crash into a light pole during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. We then riffed on how everyone is secretly waiting for something to go awry... In the very early 1970s, I remember watching the Underdog float fly headfirst into the side of a building. It both frightened and excited little kid me. I also remember waiting for more crashes in subsequent years, and being bored when all went as planned.

At Thanksgiving dinner, my mother brings up the wayward float that crashed into a light pole, and how 2 sisters broke the fall of the light fixture.

Early this Saturday morning, I learn the story of NBC not covering the biggest news at the very parade their network sponsors. That even though Couric, Lauer and Roker knew something was up when the M&M float didn't cross the finish line, they bantered over 2004 M&M float footage. "There was no further comment on air at that point in time because we did not have further information," said Cameron Blanchard, a spokeswoman for NBC's entertainment division, which is responsible for the parade broadcast.

These people are globally wired within an inch of the universe, yet can't convey information taking place within a quarter mile of where they were stationed? They have satellites in space but not a walkie-talkie?! Did they not have cell phones?

Richard Huff, of the New York Daily News writes:
"If it was possible for NBC's cable network, MSNBC, to report the accident - before NBC's own parade coverage ended - then someone should have gotten a word to Lauer and Couric."

Turns out my friend and my mother knew about the incident before Lauer and Couric did, and the friend doesn't even have cable TV.

This Parade Coverup reminds me of the White House somehow not knowing about the on-coming threat of Katrina, or the immediate devastation in its wake, while everyone else in America who even walked past a media outlet knew about it all in full detail. Yes, the White House is so primitive that they still have dial-up speed internet and an antennae on the roof that sometimes lets them pick up PBS...

The White House is currently inhabitated by a batch of unconcerned liars, so I'll just let go of my incredulity over their "Katrina? What Katrina?" response. But NBC?

Our American media is far too technologically advanced to ever play the dumb card. They are too deep into too many things that aren't their business to ever pretend they don't know about something that is their business. And trying to squirm out of this by implying that NBC's entertainment division just didn't think the injury-inducing incident was worth mentioning is a really bad move. It confirms that the tail is wagging the dog, that the line between news and entertainment has been utterly erased.

These types of lies reveal the truth, and when NBC - and the White House - don't even bother to pretend to be upset about it, the truth has horrifying consequences.

Happy Thanksgiving

Maybe the reason Americans don’t heavily decorate for Thanksgiving is because it’s people-based. Inflatable pilgrims in the front yard would be creepy, inflatable Indians would be politically incorrect.

Plus, it’s a holiday about being grateful, giving thanks for what we have, what we cherish. As far as decorating for that, the 58-year old banking executive certainly can’t pose his 22-year old trophy wife in a spotlight on the front lawn. Similarly, the trophy wife can’t staple gun the deed to the Aspen ski house to the front door, or hang the fur coat from the birch tree.

Thanksgiving is not attuned to decorations and ornaments because it’s a personal holiday. As you commune with family and friends, and before passing out from too much turkey and wine, make a mental list of the things you’re grateful for.

WHAT I’M THANKFUL FOR
Matt Dillon & Owen Wilson are starring in a movie together?! Sometimes the universe conspires just to please me.

The new (yes, all new) Dramarama album is not only better than it has a right to be, but it’s genuinely great. Or as a friend (and long-time fan) said after hearing the song “Physical Poetry” for the first time: “John Easdale is my new best friend.”

Possessing an out-of-print copy of Cher’s diet & exercise book Forever Fit. I can pig out mightily for the next month knowing that, when the smoke clears, she has my back, as always.

I’m thankful for all my family, family-of-choice and friends; they make for an adventure-filled, worthwhile life. May we all have a gluttonous and grateful day.

Goodbye, Norma Jean

On Tuesday, October 18th, Billy Idol disappeared from the window, and excitement brewed when I saw signs of renovation (above). I saw lamp shades; will Kabbaz add lighting to the Marilyn Gallery? I looked forward to the revamped unveiling of a new Marilyn.

Signs say the candle burned out long before the legend ever did...
This afternoon, the black curtain backdrop has fallen to reveal freshly painted red walls, light fixtures, tables, chairs and a man busy on a ladder. Someone has taken over the storefront.
That's not surprising. With major new retail across the street, these old storefronts are now desirable property. If I could sit in the Starbucks' drive-thru and stare at Marilyn paintings, it would make sense for a business to take advantage of that kind of visability.

I should have knocked on the door and peppered the Ladder Man with questions, but I was too sad and too shocked to do so. I walked away with a funeral dirge in my head and a heavy heart.
So was Billy Idol's rebel yell Kabbaz's comment on being evicted?
He didn't even have time to place one final Marilyn?
Will a new shrine/gallery spot be found?
How do I mend my broken heart?

Cosmopolitan & Me: 40 Years Old

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Marilyn's Rebel Yell?

Present political problems and dire future trends for our country had me in a dour mood as I drove to work. Usually, a quick glance at the MM Gallery is good for a brief respite. But not on this parituclar morning...
...the sound of a needle dragging violently across the vinyl...
It's bloody Billy Idol in the Marilyn window?!?!?!

Previously, Kabbaz has put another in the sacred window shrine: Maria Callas.
And I know he paints portraits of other artists that mean something deep to him.
Maria Callas, Janis Joplin, Billy Idol...
To quote Sesame Street, "one of these things is not like the other/one of these things just doesn't belong..."

Not that I have anything against Billy Idol. He's always been GQ Punk, and I truly think there's a need for that. Plus, his guitarist Steve Stevens was always an entertaining glam pop guitar shredder. But what deeper meaning does he have for an artist like Kabbaz?
Is the sneer a social or political comentary (as it was for me that particular morning)?
But when a sneer is someone's trademark schtick, does it count?
Kabbaz has pulled me ever-deeper into his mystery.

D'Ya Think I'm Sexy?

A fictional imagining about THE decisive moment in the downturn of Rod Stewart’s career.

Early Summer 1978, a Los Angeles recording studio
Most of the band Rod Stewart had assembled for last year’s album and tour – Footloose & Fancy Free – is tuning and picking, awaiting the arrival of drummer Carmine Appice, and Rod himself.

The new album they’re working on, Blondes Have More Fun, is about 80% done, with Rod writing all the original tunes in partnership with either of his guitarists, Jim Cregan or Gary Grainger. Earlier in the week, Rod called all of them to say there was a brand new song to add to the list. They are now gathered for the purpose of hearing and learning the new song.

There are cheerful hellos as Rod and Carmine stroll in.
“So, what have you been up to this week?” bassist Phillip Chen asks Rod.
As he fiddles with a reel-to-reel tape, Rod says, “Well, we did the photo shoot for the album cover. Got Claude Mougin for the session, a Playboy photographer…”
“How’d you manage that?” asks guitarist Billy Peek, a little too excited.
Rod cues the tape and answers offhandedly, “Oh, Alana knows him. She set up the shoot, was one of the models.”

Grainger, Cregan and Chen exchange quick looks of concern. George Hamilton’s ex-wife, Alana, is Rod’s new “steady” gal. The fallout from his Britt Ekland years still dogs Rod, and while Britt was movie star glamour, Alana Stewart is garden variety Hollywood excess. While she was a good choice for social climbing in Beverly Hills, including her in musical doings was not a good idea.

Thinking of Ekland’s flawed palimony suit against Rod, Grainger clears his throat before cracking, “Putting a girlfriend on your record was kinda messy in the past.”
Rod crushes the empty Styrofoam cup in his hand and shoots back, “Yeah, well ‘Tonight’s the Night’ was Number bloody One for 8 fuckin’ weeks! Famous birds sell records, mate!”
He walks away to the engineering board in a slight snit, saying over his shoulder, “Plus, I’m only putting Alana on the cover. She’s not singing, you know. Think I’m mad or something?”

Rod fiddles with some knobs, and walks back to the band with an expectant smile on his face. He flings his arm about the shoulders of Appice and says, “OK, boys, we’ve got a new song. Carmine and me wrote it.”

There’s no hiding the spontaneous shock of this news. Appice had never written a song in his entire life! He's a drummer for hire, for chrissake. While Rod beams at Appice, everyone else stares at the drummer with their mouths agape.

Rod chuckles. “OK, boys, your eager anticipation is noted. Without further ado….”
And he clicks on the demo tape. A throbbing bass with a simple drum machine (what?) beat comes over the studio speakers.

“It sounds like the Stones ‘Miss You,’” says Cregan, 8 bars in.
“That’s exactly what I want,” says a beaming Stewart.
A keyboard swirl repeats twice, and Chen notes, “Wait. That’s the riff from ‘Taj Mahal!’ The Brazilian soul man’s song.”
Appice tries to hide his pride in having stolen such a cool riff. Songwriting is really fun.
Then comes Stewart’s scratch vocal, words sounding close to a typical Rod Stewart Story Song:
“She sits alone waiting for suggestions
He's so nervous avoiding all the questions
His lips are dry, her heart is gently pounding
Don't you just know exactly what they're thinking”

THEN comes the chorus.
Even though not a one of them is drinking any kind of beverage, Chen, Cregan, Grainger & Peek erupt into a spit take.

The rest of the demo plays out, punctuated by intermittent chuckles and head shakes. The last cheesy keyboard riff fades into the studio abyss. The silence is broken with a quick pick of the chorus to “I Was Only Joking,” on Grainger’s guitar.

Yes, it’s Grainger’s editorial comment on what they just heard, but it also happens to be a song he and Rod wrote together, a huge hit song currently in heavy rotation across the country, probably playing on the radio of cars passing by the studio, right now, at this moment.

Laughing heartily, Cregan points to Appice, “You wrote a disco tune? Hilarious “I Was Only Joking,” for sure!” Rod notes Carmine’s feeble attempt at hiding his hurt. He also notes the band’s failure to grasp the seriousness of the issue.
“OK, boys, there is sly commentary on disco life in there. A slight joke. But in the main, it’s the song we’re learning today, and if all goes as well as expected, it’ll be the first single.”

“But it’s a disco song!” blurts out guitarist Billy Peek.
Now, Peek is most grateful for the gravy train that is his gig with Rod, and would never say anything to rock the gravy boat. But this new song? It could be fine as a one-off joke album track, but a single?! The stink eye from Rod makes him instantly regret his outburst.

The plastic cup holding Rod’s gin & tonic is thrown across the room, and in a voice straining to conceal anger he says, “Everyone’s doing it – The Stones, Cher, Diana Ross, KISS. Know why they’re doin’ it? Because disco sells. Know why I’m doin’ it? Because disco sells. This song is going to move copies of the album, and when I sell albums, I make money. When I make money, you all make money, too. Right? And disco sells.”

Since he'd already tossed it across the room, Rod can’t take a pull off his drink, so he starts yanking at his rooster hair (which, the band curiously noted, had just been bleached full-on bombshell blonde). Chastened, the members of the band who aren’t Appice quickly try to make amends.
“So, what’s the song’s title?” asks Chen.
In unison, Stewart & Appice answer, “D’Ya Think I’m Sexy?”
Cregan averts any negative cracks with, “Well, if you’re looking for that ‘Miss You’ vibe, we can do that. Easy. It’s just gonna be a fine line to walk, ‘cos if it gets too cheesy, man, the music press will eat you alive.”

With an angry sigh and the tossing of his scarf, Rod says, “The music press, bah! They’ve been doggin’ me since Smiler. And the more they hate me records, the more my records sell. Why should I spend quality time writing tunes that please only rock writers and the people who read them? My bank manager pointed out something known as a financial glass ceiling, and if I bust my balls to try and come up with material that Woody would approve of, then there won’t be a pay raise.”

Just as the album’s producer, Tom Dowd, walks in the door, Rod finishes with, “I want butts in seats that buy records, and if playing to the cheap seats is how to make the monthly mansion house note, then that’s what I do. I’ve been poor, and I will not ever do that again. I’ll sing bloody Gershwin, if it comes to that!”

Rod stomps away to greet the man who has produced all of Rod’s albums since Atlantic Crossing. Dowd was now listening to the “Sexy” demo.
All members of the band stare at the floor, uncomfortable in the tirade’s aftermath.
Chen, Cregan and Granger listen in silent disgust as Dowd and Rod discuss the song’s arrangement… keyboards and congas and strings…
Peek wonders if there will be any guitars on the track.
Appice wonders if he just unwittingly sold his soul to the devil.

Aftermath
On Christmas Eve 1978, “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy” was released, and by late January 1979 was #1 for 4 weeks. The album sold 15 million copies worldwide.
Even before the album came out, Rod’s gal Alana was pregnant with his child, so they got married. Regular readers of People know how his career as a Hollywood Husband plays out.
Chen, Peek & Grainger recorded one more Stewart album, Foolish Behaviour. During that album’s tour, a disgruntled Rod fired all 3 of them at one time.
In the 21st century, he financially resorts to singing 4 volumes of “The Great American Songbook.” He doesn't do near as much Gershwin as you’d think, because it’s got a lot of sophisticated notes that require some effort to sing.

How Much Is That Marilyn in the Window?

The new Marilyn in the window is here! An ode to swimming pool weather, a still from Marilyn's last (uncompleted) film which also serves as commentary to the St. Louis heat wave: Something's Gotta Give.
The backstory is here.
The Marilyn previous to the above is here.

An extraordinarily gifted photographer friend of mine has been enthusiastically following the Marilyn Shrine since being introduced to it. Upon seeing this latest exhibit, she wondered how the artist could stand to work in such anonymity and solitude, for artists thrive on the experience of others viewing their work, commenting on it, and (hopefully) buying some of it.

While I do wish Kabbaz would come forward and answer a dozen questions, I'm in awe of the seeming integrity of his mystery. His love for Marilyn is shared in a consistent and heart-felt way, and because of the very public nature of his solitary art gallery, he has a potentially bigger audience than most any fine artist. His work is in a high traffic area, but it sits back quietly, waiting for the true believers to find it, ponder it, keep an eye out. All of this goes on without the artist ever knowing or caring. It's merely his expression of adoration, unsullied by any modern standards of artistic commerce and publicity. While alive, Marilyn let herself be bought and sold, but these paintings of her are not for sale because love is priceless.

Heroic Diane Lane

My mother and I went to see the movie Must Love Dogs, which is very well-written and well-played (though John Cusack could stand to lose a few pounds). Afterwards, my mother says, “Between the previews and the movie, we sure saw a lot of actresses letting their age show.” This was not said as a slam. It was actually refreshing.

We’re both rather sensitive about celebrity plastic surgery – who’s had it and who’s brave enough not to. A preview for Rumor Has It reveals slight lines on Jennifer Aniston’s (36) forehead and that Shirley McClaine (71) has had barely anything done all these decades on. A preview for In Her Shoes lets Toni Collette (32) look her age (but Cameron Diaz – who’s only a scootch older than Collette - really needs some work, or at least a healthier lifestyle) while the Prime preview finds Meryl Streep (56) made to look even slightly older than she is. Co-starring in the feature presentation is the relatively untouched Stockard Channing (61), and she has always been defiantly comfortable with her looks, no matter her age (think playing teenage Rizzo while in her early 30's).

But the biggest revelation was Diane Lane (40), all glowing and serene on the big screen, her wrinkles and slightly loosening skin not detracting from her fabulousness in any way. In fact, it was odd to see a woman so naturally beautiful, her features mobile and able to express the slightest nuance. But it was also odd to see Elizabeth Perkins (44) playing Lane’s older sister with the smoother face. While Miss Perkins couldn’t make nearly as many nuanced faces as Lane, she did have some deadly funny lines that completely halted my imaginings of Perkins trying to convince Lane to see her Botox Artist as they ate yogurt together at the craft service table.

With every extreme close-up, I mentally high-fived Diane for aging so naturally, so gracefully….and then it hit me:
She’s The Same Age As Me. Dammit!
Even though she’s stunning, I guess I shouldn’t fixate on her looking so "good for her age" because that’s what 40 looks like in the real world. OK, so Miss Lane – an actress since 13 – only lives in the real world part-time, but still, follow along with me.

What other actresses are 40-ish?
Brooke Shields has had some work done. Very tasteful, but still altered.
Sandra Bullock looks pretty darn good. It seems she lives a hearty lifestyle, but (unlike Diaz) she still looks fresh and lovely. So has she had some tasteful maintenance work done?
Courtney Cox has probably had some minor work done, because she seems the self-conscious sort.
Teri Hatcher has certainly been worked on, but like Miss Shields, it looks natural.
Rosie Perez appears to be untouched and still cute as a bug.

I can’t come up with any more actresses born between 1964 – 65; statistically, those were the years the post-WW2 baby boom came to a screeching halt, so the numbers are a little low. But of that group, they all look relatively – or completely – natural from top to bottom, which makes me proud. My female peers in Hollywood are not a bunch of plastic surgery junkie whores, and that helps me wrap my head around turning 40. If Miss Lane can proudly face the brutal honesty of the close-up lens, then I won’t max out my credit cards with a birthday Botox bash and brow lift. Thank you, Diane.

SIDE BAR
Diane Lane finally teams with John Cusack, and she's been in 3 movies with Matt Dillon, which leads to the obvious: Hollywood needs to cast Dillon & Cusack in a movie. Same age, same era, endless possibilities. In this era of Hollywood lacking original ideas, they could shortcut it by teaming them for a remake of Tequila Sunrise, and put Lane in the Michelle Pfeiffer role. To the casting agent smart enough to mull over this thought, consider the first ticket already bought.

Scott Weiland & Courtney Love

Scott Weiland is one of the finest rock singers we've got and he looks amazing. He’s going to turn 38 this year, and he’s now even thinner than when he was a junkie.

Courtney Love is sober, too. A judge ruled she’s been straight for a year, surely based solely on the evidence of how enormous she is. That’s what happens to most folks after kicking a full-time narcotics habit – food becomes a substitute, and they become huge.

A mystical moment of Rock Chick Pharmacology took place in 1997, as Courtney Love became a Sister of the Moon when she brilliantly interviewed Stevie Nicks, a conversation that always circled back to cocaine. Miss Nicks kicked coke in 1986 and then got so fat that it made her miserable (I saw her on the Street Angel tour in 1994, and she’s correct in noting that it was her saddest, lowest point). Currently, Stevie is sober and fabulous, while Courtney is sober and fat, and if there’s any baton a gal should hand off, it’s that Big As A House one.

But I’m glad Courtney is so obviously clean. She now has a real chance to make better decisions and stay focused for minutes at a time. Considering how well things are going for Weiland, being heroine-free must be working for him, too. But how does he stay so enviably skinny?


Keith Richards is going to be 62 this year, and he’s still as skinny as Whitney Houston. Now, Keef only stopped shooting smack. He still does everything else, which is probably why he stays so thin (yeah, so’s Jagger, but he’s disciplined and works out). I’m not suggesting Scott is still “using” - just like Courtney, a judge determined he’s smack-free. What I am suggesting is that, between bouts with the Pamela Stairmaster, Courtney could get in on on some of Scott's dieting and lifestyle habits.

Angelina Dearest

The moment after Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman adopted their two children, the Crawford Prop Kids cracks began. But considering that modern-day Cruise is fully willing to splay himself open for publicity, it’s quite the testament to Cruise and Kidman as parents that those children have never been used for PR’s sake, much less photographed for public consumption.

Turns out that Angelina Jolie is the heir apparent to Joan Crawford’s maternal instincts, with Maddox as Christina Crawford, and the newly acquired Zahara as Christopher Crawford. What brings me to this cynical conclusion is the timing of the formerly bat-shit crazy Jolie turning Uber Mommy just as her Hollywood ship was heading for the Titanic.

In a January 1940 issue of Modern Screen magazine, an article titled “The New Joan Crawford” covers the trials of Miss Crawford trying to shake off being labeled “Box Office Poison.” Writer Ida Zeitlin notes:
“With her eyes on the stars, she forged ahead with but a single goal in view, dropping with regret, but with finality, whatever has threatened to keep her from her goal. She is married to the movies, her philosophy is the movies.”

What Joan got rid of was her 2nd husband, Franchot Tone, and when she “voluntarily stepped from the ranks of the Glamour Girls to try to recoup her former cinematic standing,” that meant changing her image from a man-eating Crystal Allen to an Oscar-winning Mildred Pierce, and that meant instantly becoming a single mother of 2, then a (thrice) married mother of 3, then once again a single mother of 4 (between 1940 and 1947, she adopted 6 children, but only got to keep 4 of them... her own - ahem - Rainbow Coalition, as it were).

The potential for Angelina Jolie’s Mommie Dearest began when she gave up the title of Hollywood’s #1 Nut by becaming an adoptive mother, and with a quick divorce from her 2nd husband, a single mother.
For about a year, she stayed low on the public's radar until she and Brad Pitt humped their way into breaking Jennifer Aniston’s heart and potentially collapsing a huge-budget major motion picture. Before the press could get a good whiff of the damage, "Adoring Mother Jolie" was constantly photographed carrying the adorable Maddox on her hip. Then the press finally got a large bump of Brangelina, and Angelina and Maddox made cute and cuddly for the magazines, the studio and Aniston's lawyers.

Then, The Unconfirmed Brad & Angie have confirmed animal sex once Mr. & Mrs. Smith does not bomb - whew. Aniston then vanquishes her public depression by confessing she wants babies – has always wanted babies. While her divorce lawyers prepare to roast The Heartless Self-Centered Philandering Heel, Brad accompanies his Unconfirmed Girlfriend to the adoption of her second child, then lands in the hospital with the vapors while Angelina effortlessly transitions her image from Sexiest Woman Ever to Mother of the Year in about 4 PR steps. Is she making this huge effort for the love of Brad Pitt, or for the love of her career?

Here’s hoping that Zahara takes as well to the camera as Maddox has, for in Brangelina’s very near future is this: